Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell! (1990ish, probably hell)
Welcome to the flaming fever swamp of Troma’s more unhinged corners, where satire, sleaze, and surrealism make love in a parking lot behind a shuttered Arby’s. Fertilize the Blaspheming Bombshell! is less a film and more a bootleg VHS possessed by the spirit of a deranged grindhouse preacher and a mall glam band on angel dust.
The poster promises a “cross-country ride to hell,” but what you actually get is a demented, genre-busting road movie filtered through a fog of Reagan-era rage, horny absurdity, and enough sweat to drown a moose. Our heroine? A shrieking, chain-bound Brooklyn bombshell in purple lamé. Our villain? A roided-up man-beast in furry horns and bondage gear, presumably raised by Charles Manson and a copy of Flex magazine.
What follows is a gonzo mishmash of sexploitation, satanic panic parody, and post-apocalyptic biker opera—think Faster, Pussycat! meets Heavy Metal magazine drawn by a caveman with a grudge. Dialogue is screamed, logic is pulverized, and the special effects budget appears to have been spent entirely on fake blood and fog machines.
Is it offensive? Almost certainly. Is it coherent? Not even a little. But is it fun? If your definition of “fun” includes chain-wielding scream queens, flaming lava pits, and a synth score that sounds like a possessed Speak & Spell—then absolutely yes.
Final Verdict:
Down the Tubis Score: 4 out of 5 sacrilegious cleavage demons
Best enjoyed while wearing torn fishnets, sipping gas station wine, and whispering “Lloyd Kaufman is my co-pilot” to the abyss.
Massacre in Dinosaur Valley (1985)
Strap in, bloodhounds of bad taste—this one’s got everything: dinosaurs (sort of), cannibals (definitely), and a hero so sweaty he could grease a jet engine with his chest hair alone. Massacre in Dinosaur Valley is like if Romancing the Stone, Cannibal Holocaust, and an AC/DC concert got lost in the jungle, got real horny, and forgot how to spell “nuance.”
Our protagonist is a leather-vested, shirtless adventurer/anthropologist/gigolo named Kevin Hall, whose main academic credentials seem to be smirking and roundhouse-kicking his way through pulp-novel levels of danger. After a plane crash strands a ragtag crew—including a sadistic Vietnam vet, two fashion models, and a lecherous professor—in the green inferno, all hell breaks loose: wild beasts, tribal stereotypes, quicksand, and the kind of jungle justice that only Italian exploitation cinema can deliver.
Despite the title, actual dinosaurs are limited to a quick stock-footage cameo (blink and you’ll miss ‘em). But that’s fine—because Massacre in Dinosaur Valley doesn’t need realism. It needs more crocodile-wrestling, topless peril, and jungle cannibal chaos—and baby, it delivers.
The gore’s goopy, the dialogue’s dubbed from a different galaxy, and the plot has the structural integrity of a wet loincloth. But like all good Tubi treasure, it’s the kind of disreputable, sunbaked sleaze that feels like an uncovered VHS from a haunted 1987 video store dumpster.
Final Verdict:
Down the Tubis Score: 4.5 out of 5 blood-spattered loincloths
Best paired with stale popcorn, a Mai Tai in a skull mug, and absolutely zero expectations.
A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell (1990)
If you've ever asked yourself what it would look like if a heavy metal album cover, a VHS-era fever dream, and a middle schooler’s sketchbook collided in post-apocalyptic prehistoric chaos, look no further than A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell. Yes, that’s the real title. No, you’re not hallucinating.
Released by Troma and directed by Brett Piper, this film is a lo-fi smorgasbord of stop-motion dinosaurs, matte-painted wastelands, and plotlines thinner than a loincloth in July. It tells the story—using the loosest definition—of a young woman surviving in a world where mutants, lizards, and barely-motivated cavemen fight over the scraps of civilization. There are occasional attempts at pathos, but more often you’ll find yourself wondering how much of this was storyboarded and how much was just filmed after a long night of malt liquor and Conan reruns.
Let’s be clear: this is not a good movie by any traditional metric. But that’s not why you’re watching Tubi at 1:47 AM on a Tuesday, is it? The charm here is all in the analog grit: Ray Harryhausen-lite creature effects, synth stabs that sound like someone left a Casio in a cave, and editing choices that suggest someone was editing with a machete.
Despite the salacious title, it’s surprisingly tame—more Saturday morning He-Man than midnight Skinemax. What it lacks in coherence, it makes up for in sheer apocalyptic absurdity. This isn’t just a film; it’s a relic of VHS culture, a hazy window into the beautiful nonsense that once lined the shelves of forgotten video stores.
Final Verdict:
Down the Tubis Score: 3 out of 5 mutated iguanas
Best enjoyed with stale popcorn, a cheap beer, and a friend who swears they “remember this from cable.”
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