Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; Truck Turner isn’t just what we call Brian when Tacos-On-Wheels runs out of Baja sauce. Welcome back suckas, to the Internet’s freshest bad movie column; this month featuring a funky twist. This is Blaxploitation History Month: Sequel Edition. Every week in February, we’ll be rolling out another super bad blaxploitation sequel that’s so whack we can’t help but dig it. We’ll lay down some cold-blooded mockery on said film, going upside its head with its own numerous faults, but then will jump back, kiss ourselves, and get hip to all the reasons we think these movies are dy-no-mite. To top it off, we’ll serve you with a badass, and bad for you, snack food item themed to the movie. Today’s jive turkey: The Human Tornado.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; the jiveness of our turkey is a byproduct of its being deep-vat chocolate-fried. Welcome friends, to the mean streets of Schlocksburgh. Every week, we pick on some fast-talking, upstart bad movie out to make a name for himself, roughing him up with sucka punches of merciless mockery. But then, just when we think we’ve won, that movie kicks in the doors of our gentlemen’s club, The Cynical Shit Heel, and proceeds to blow us away with two well-aimed barrels of undeniable amiability. Then, in acknowledgment that this brash movie from the block now unquestionably owns our territory (and our hearts), we humbly offer a tribute in the form of a funky, themed snack food item. It’s finally February again…is a sentence few people are wont to utter. But here at Junkfood Cinema, February means one thing and one thing only: Blaxploitation History Month. That’s right, it’s a grand tradition that, to this day, has somehow failed to get us banned from the Internet forever. Some might charge that our adoration for this controversial subgenre reeks of poor taste. I for one resent the implication that we here at JFC have any taste whatsoever. I won’t go into the sociopolitical critiques of blaxploitation because, well frankly it’s boring. But I can tell you that I legitimately love these films and I am so grateful for the actors and characters to which they’ve introduced me. Given that this is our third annual celebration of blaxploitation, I’d say [Due to Content Scraping and Theft, we have been forced to try abbreviated feeds. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause and woud very much appreciate you clicking through to view the full article on FilmSchoolRejects.com]

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; if it wasn’t for bad luck, we’d have won that chicken-fried cake eating contest. You have walked under the ladder of decent web content, smashing a few mirrors on your way, and have crossed paths with the black cat of bad movie columns. Every week we step on the cracks of a schlocky film, breaking its back and spilling salt into its wounds. But then, as we’re spinning around three times like boozed-up dreidels, we offer the film the better part of a wishbone with our genuine love and affection. To put a fourth leaf on this clover, we will suggest a themed snack food item that is sure to hex your digestive track as badly as the movie hexes your IQ. This week’s unlucky charm: Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan.

When we at Junkfood Cinema heard that we had somehow again avoided outright cancellation, clearly an oversight on the part of hectically busy and woefully unobservant management, we decided to celebrate with another installment of the Junkfood Cinema Awards, affectionately known (read “irresponsibly abbreviated”) as The Junkies. Since this was our sophomore effort, we really wanted to flaunt our year-long incompetence with plenty of pomp and circumstance. We therefore hired a big time Hollywood director, one who had similarly proven his commitment to terrible films, to produce a garish, way-too-expensive, online awards ceremony. But then we had to fire him over some incredibly unsavory comments he made; something about rehearsals being for fatties. So instead, we’re just going to do the exact same crap we did last year. Enjoy.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; our reindeer games are Reindeer Games. Twas the night before Christmas, and here at JFC, we’re administering cinematic pain with despicable glee. These holiday movies are awful, fraught with despair. And at first we treat them with an appropriate lack of care. But then we reverse, like our heads we did wound, seeing to it that with love these turds are festooned. To top it all off, ‘ere we roll out of sight, we pair the film with a snack to make your Crisco-mas bright. And now we present, before this stops being funny, a disaster called Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; home of the fried food advent calendar. As December marches on, here at JFC it’s beginning to look a lot like Type-II diabetes.  We are back yet again to roast a particularly horrible cinematic chestnut on the open fire of relentless mockery as you struggle to keep the terrifying Jack Frost from trying to bite pieces of your face off; seriously, how scary is that song? But then, I will sugarcoat that same chestnut (plum? bag of mixed metaphors?) with genuine adoration until you are confronted with the unconquerable desire to take me off your Christmas card list and add me to the one enigmatically marked “People to Letter Bomb.” To make your season especially bright, in much the same fashion that nuclear blasts are quite luminous, I will then pair the film with a festively tasty, disgustingly decadent snack food item. Today’s figgy pudding of shame: Elves.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; slippery when festive. You and your intrepid team of reindeer, who may or may not be aerial yaks, have flown your sleigh past the mountains of good taste and crash-landed here on the island of misfit movies. Each week I will crank out one of these Charlie-in-the-boxes, pointing at its flaws and laughing like the meanest little bastard on the naughty list. But then, realizing how dangerously close I am to not getting any presents this year, due to the aforementioned bastardness, I will make a sappy speech in front of a glowing Christmas tree professing how much I loved this movie from the start. That cheap gesture should secure me that Chocolate-Covered French Fry Maker I’ve had my eye on. To put a bow on this whole affair, I will offer up a sugar-laden snack food item paired to the film that will constrict your arteries like Santa climbing down a cramped chimney. This week’s flimsy gingerbread house: Home Alone 2.

Welcome back to Junkfood cinema; nature is lethal, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the McRib. Welcome to the feast of intellectual famine! For our first course, we will be serving skewered schlock seared over a hot flame of merciless ridicule. We will follow this with a round of genuine affection sweetened with just a suçon of my completely indiscriminate, and therefore dubious, taste. For dessert we will be serving an actual food, of the junk variety, paired thematically to the film. Hey, yesterday was Thanksgiving wasn’t it? It’s hard to tell here at JFC because we feast like manic depressive sea cows on a weekly basis. But now that you’ve had ample time to digest, and now that you’ve again worked up an appetite by spending all day hip-checking soccer moms to obtain $3 seasons of Cagney & Lacey on DVD, we horribly humbly submit another feeding frenzy for your destruction consideration. Today’s Reheated Nugget: Deep Blue Sea.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; we don’t know what a barbie is either so just throw the shrimp into our mouths. You have just gone walkabout and stumbled upon the Internet’s 87th most prestigious bad movie column. Every week, I spear a wildly schlocky movie as it goes hopping by with a veritable pouch full of shortcomings. But then my opinion of the film boomerangs back to the pure adoration I’ve been harboring all along. To cap the occasion, I offer a disgustingly delicious snack food item certain to prove only slightly less hazardous than any of the innumerable poisonous Australian fauna. This week’s didgeri-don’t: BMX Bandits. 

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; now get off our lawn. This is the weekly internet bad movie column that gets winded as you scroll up and down the page. Every Friday I assault your senses with whatever terrible movie I happen to being using a coaster that week. I will pummel and pistol whip the movie with its own flaws–and a pistol apparently–until it can barely stand, but then I will congratulate the movie on its acceptance into the gang and lavish it with praise. I will then buy a beer and a disgustingly awesome snack food for the film as we stand as friends at the bar singing our gang’s…theme song (?). This week’s punk: Never Too Young to Die

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; we’re so metal we can’t get through airport security. Every week during the month of October we will be showcasing the shockingly schlocky, the horrifyingly horrible, and the most terrifyingly terrible horror films we can get our claws on. We will drive a lampooning stake through the film’s heart and laugh maniacally as it takes longer to die than Paul Reubens in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But then, because we learned nothing from The Evil Dead, we will resurrect the film by reciting passages from the necronomicon of pure adoration. To complete the blood ritual, we will pair the film with a insidiously delicious snack food item in the hopes that we can create for you a completely interactive horror film experience by actually shortening your life. This Week’s Beast: Black Roses The basic story here, and I do mean basic, is that a very popular rock band called The Black Roses has decided to begin their world tour in Mill Basin, Ontario, Canada USA. The kids in town are all super psyched, but the parent groups seem to have their collective undergarments in various stages of entanglement. They feel that The Black Roses is a group that promotes evil and the corruption of youth. Eventually, the parents see the error of their ways and let the band play all four (?) of its consecutive shows. Turns out they were right because much evilness and corruptitude ensues.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; now incapable of discerning tricks from treats. In case you’ve been binge drinking for the last week and chucked your wall calendar, cell phone, and computer–in which case how are you reading this–onto the lawn in a fit of rage, October has arrived. As such, it is time for Junkfood Cinema to set its beady little eyes upon the campiest, the cheesiest, the frighteningly schlockiest titles that the horror genre has to offer. Every week from here until we reach glorious Samhain, I will carve up a Samheinous horror film like a helpless jack-o-lantern. But then I will set a candle of pure adoration inside its hallowed out carcass so that it shines like a beautiful goblin. To top it off, I will prescribe a  tasty treat themed to the film that will haunt your waistline in the same fashion that the film haunts your sense of better judgment. This week’s ghoul: Dead Heat

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; 100% medically accurate. Because Salisbury has staked the reputation of his chubby little column on my abilities to pen something that will be even in the same neighborhood as his consistently hilarious musings on bad movies and bad food, I will honor him in the only way I know how – by writing about a romantic comedy that centers on a lady in a coma and the dude who loves her. You’re regretting your decision now, aren’t you, Briguy? TOO LATE. I’ve hijacked your precious little column and we’re going straight to the most glorious reaches of heaven above (with a wee detour along the way). What’s the plan? Well, it’s the usual plan. I’m going to roast a terrible film over the coals of a hellfire, gently turning it on a devil-approved spit, and dance around all that horrific burning while the screams stretch up through eight other levels of Hell, said bad film begging for mercy and forgiveness. Then, we’re just totally going to skip Purgatory, because it’s super-boring, but then and only then will I shower the film with love, tickling it gently with little white feathers, with a brief pause to run through a sunlit meadow while a blonde lady plays a harp nearby. Then we’re all going to eat cake. Please open the pearly gates for Just Like Heaven.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; already too old for this shit. If you are reading this, you are probably doing the internet wrong. This is the weekly movie column that has maintained a hearty resilience to quality since 2009. Every Friday I fricassee a truly bad film, skewering it upon its own ineptitude. But then, just before it’s burned past the point of being palatable, I glaze it with a BBQ sauce of unabashed love and shove it directly down your throat. If you find you aren’t dead from internal bleeding, you are welcome to then enjoy the snack food item I pair with each film. Because honestly, name one person obesity ever killed, right? This week’s heart-clogger? Ernest Goes to Camp.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; got a back-up weapon? Yes kids, after last week’s ridiculous invasion of your local multiplex, your favorite film column’s favorite film column is back where it belongs, digging into the vast catalog of older films searching for diamonds in the rough. This week we reach all the way back to 1998. As per usual, I’ll start off by listing all the reasons to avoid this film like the swamp lands of Kentucky, but I’ll finish up by lovingly wrapping it in one of those emergency blankets that look like aluminum foil. I’ll also recommend a tasty if health challenged treat to warm your cholesterol-laden insides. So what are we waiting for? This week’s cinematic indulgence is…drum roll…U.S. Marshals!

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; constantly in need of a bigger boat. Remember when Junkfood Cinema only covered crusty old cheese that you didn’t care about or crappy movies out of theaters just long enough to have completely vanished from your consciousness forever? Those were good times, simpler times. You were safe from it as long as you stayed in the boat and didn’t venture into my usual feeding grounds. But now, like some God-awful 3D gimmick, I am bursting through your computer screen and invading your local movie theater to take a massive bite out of a brand new movie. I will chomp apart all of this film’s many, many faults and drag it down to a watery grave. But then, like Matt Hooper, my love for this movie refuses to stay submerged and comes bubbling to the surface. I’ll wrap it up by chumming the waters with a tasty snack food themed to the film. Today’s Catch: Shark Night 3D It is a true rarity that brand new movies, in those fancy shmancy multiplexes with their hoity toity 3Ds, XDs, and D-students, perfectly exemplify the core values of Junkfood Cinema. But in the case of Shark Night 3D, the confines of a traditional review would simply do no justice to the complex, near-paradoxical experience of seeing this terrible/amazing film in a theater and, despite all its best efforts, loving it so much that you unironically hope it wins an Oscar so that a hundred more movies just like [Due to Content Scraping and Theft, we have been forced to try abbreviated feeds. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause and woud very much appreciate you clicking through to view the full article on FilmSchoolRejects.com]

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; your check is almost certainly in the mail. Yes my unfortunate dupes, you’ve stumbled upon the weekly bad movie column that seriously calls into question the acronym TGIF; unless you reassign the letters to mean Tell God I Forfeit. Every Friday, right before you shuffle off for the weekend, I slap you upside the face with a film that fell well short of greatness long ago and is now selling insurance and renting a double-wide in a little town called Schlocksburgh. My job is to walk the dirt roads of Schlocksburgh under cover of night and hurl rocks of mockery at said double-wide until somebody calls the internet police. But then, just as I’m about to be booked for a hate crime, I tear off my shirt and reveal a crudely drawn homemade tattoo across my chest professing my undying love for said film. I then offer a disgustingly tasty themed snack as an act of contrition, and in the hopes of avoiding a bothersome restraining order. This Week’s Target: Blackjack

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; fatter than Jesus. This is the weekly column that celebrates the myriad ways a film can fail. Every Friday I take you for a ride on the SchlockCoaster; careening through each of the movie’s wild faults. I then level things off and explain how I still love the film despite those faults. Then, after your confidence in my tastes plummets at thrilling speed, we exit the ride and I treat you to a gooey, sticky snack food that is sure to unsettle your stomach. With today’s inexplicable release of yet another Final Destination movie, I believe it’s called FIVEnal Destination Goes West, I thought it would be fun to look back at the only entry in the franchise that I find enjoyable. This week’s snack: Final Destination 3

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; lords of the gridiron…or at least the waffle iron. Strap on your helmet and conceal any benefits you received from agents during college because you have just been drafted to the NFL; the Nefarious Film Lovers…League. Ok, so it’s the NFLL, shut up! Every week we tackle a bad movie to the roaring delight of over eight people. And we don’t just tackle the movie, we tackle it like we’re Ray Lewis with a playoff game on the line and the ref’s just been stricken with blindness. But then, just before the internet starts throwing penalty flags at us, we enter free agency, join up with the film, and use our unabashed love for it to help this underdog win a championship of warped film appreciation. Finally, after months of heated debate that ultimately muddied the issue and pushed us closer to the edge of complete anarchy…the NFL lockout is over. We can finally stop troubling ourselves with petty nuisances like defaulting on our national debts and get back to what really matters: overpaid sweaty guys knocking the snot out of each other. In honor of this jubilant occasion, I decided to run an all-out blitz on a film from  2000 whose premise eerily mirrors recent events. This week’s play: The Replacements

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; the home of the brave. Here at JFC, we are one nation united under our love for schlock. Every week we salute the standard-bearers of terrible films. First we savagely thrash at the film’s faults; clawing at it like a bald eagle startled into rage by a thunderous fireworks display. But then, once we’ve knocked the stars and stripes out of it, we dust it off and slowly raise it back up with our unabashed adoration like Old Glory at Iwojima. We sing its praises like we’re Toby Keith in September and prove that yes we can…unironically appreciate crappy films. To punctuate this, our other national pastime, we will pair the film with a patriotically delicious junkfood item to storm the beaches of your intestinal fortitude much in the same fashion that the film declares war on your brain cells. This week’s treat: Captain America.