THE UPPER PORTION LOOKS A LITTLE BIT LIKE ME

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I mean, my head: with the nose, ears, mouth and eyes. I wish to have that whale boobs but I am afraid my brains shall get snubbed for the twin peaks' prominence.

This woman is also holding a bloodied knife (a huge, huge one) but I had to crop it in deference to corn kids who refuse to acknowledge that their mommy is an avenging monster. They probably thought she is made of dough that they can mash up in the rainbow of Swiss chocolates--someone they can play with but only in dainty dresses, waiting at the end of shiny slides.

This movie is called Machete Maidens, a supernova take on how to sell a B-film (my favorite genre medium at the moment----abnormality does pick fabulous finds). This is classified R, not for Restricted but for Ridiculous. The pamphlet likewise says: "Contains karate-kickin' midgets, paper maiche monsters and busty babes and blades."

I wonder if big film companies can break the molds of their hilarity levels and attempt to score a guffaw-packed pitch like this. I think it is entertaining and definitively intelligent: to be so funnily bad, you must have done something remarkably good in the past.

Since this writer had profiled much of her friends' attributes, I shall let you in a secret.

These children of the kernel (imagine the possibilities: Kernell University, Kernell's cereals, Kernell furniture: where chairs look like vitamin-filled ears) are quite apprehensive, fidgety and boisterous but in a good way.

They share a common thing: they all possess sly looks--they see their mom in a sideway mode as if she is the Leaning Tower Of Pisa. There is a show of respect but they are kind of terrified if she gets into a foul mood. I was afraid for one who donned a death-defying heel as she walked like an overweight pigeon despite her overtly skinny bod just to prove a point.

There is also that graduated smile that they could not help but break out in toothy grins. They belt out songs and it is better than your usual comedy flare. Their recent ditty is a Christmas song with the warped lyrics of Hark The Herald. Here:

"Glutathione to the sky."

Arrogant too, but with tact. They would not howl without any supporting, creative goods. They know their artist's code of excellence (I pushed them that way). Never mind the prattle, they would brave a phalanx of foulmouthed cretins and walk, alone, bearing their imprint of Irisian independence. It is funny watching them that way.

And yes, they cry an awful lot to which I often reprimand them by saying:

"Awww, shuddup, wipe those tears off."

This promises to be the baddest film, ever. I think the whole barrio of cornfolk would catch cold for this.