Four middle-aged wholesale jewelry salesmen have survived the nuclear winter, holed up in the stripmall's cellar, sustaining themselves on Funyuns and recycled urine. They emerge from their filthy lair and scavenge women's clothing from "Maury Goldstein's Warehouse For Douchbags." As we join them, they approach the flaming carcass of the city. It is here, in this blackened, multi-racial haven for poodle-haired strippers, that they hope to glut themselves on pussy, dairy products, and rock 'n' roll... The moment at :56 has been immortalized here.
September 09, 2007
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment