Duncan P. Bradshaw’s Cannibal Nuns from Outer Space is exactly what the title suggests and so much more. Yes, it’s a pastiche of both the demonic possession and nunsploitation genres, but it’s also unlike anything you’ve ever found in book form in the past. As he did with the charmingly cheeky killer vacuum novella Mr.
By The Reverend When I was growing up Vietnam vets were still feeling the sting of the jungle. The government had fucked its bright-eyed boys by sending them out to die in the name of some faceless authority figure’s agenda. To add insult to injury, they’d dumped foul chemicals on their own troops so that
We’ve had all we could take. They have relied on us for more years than we have left on God’s green earth. And we’re sick to death of their demands, the limitations it puts on our own existence. Because that’s all we’re doing now: merely existing. I can’t remember the last time my husband and
by Trebor Elliverf In recent weeks, the Motorist has received an alarming number of letters from our readers, each of them outlining a different grievance they had with our content. In one such missive, a 63-year old single mother named Beverly S. laments the use of vulgarity in our articles. Beverly writes, “I visited your
Written by Bob Freville Illustrated by Brian Glossup
By Trebor Elliverf I’m so glad that I took off work so I could stand in line for 18 hours to buy my new Apple watch. I can see it watching me through the storefront window, anticipating that wondrous moment when we will be united and I will place it on my arm. Can you
By Bob Freville The following review originally appeared in Kotori Magazine on June 27th, 2010. It is included here as part of our Films That Fell Through the Cracks column due to its relative obscurity. Like many of director Chad Ferrin’s delightfully warped grindhouse features, it has not been given the attention it deserves. Easter Bunny Kill!
By Bob Freville Photography by Jake McGee For those of us who positively despise the gluttony and consumerism of this foul and pointless holiday, there would seem to be little joy to be had. I can see you sitting there, wishing some corpulent cocksucker with a beard would shove his fat ass down the chimney
IN LOVING MEMORY OF BILL “SANTA” McREYNOLDS 1930-2002
By Trebor Elliverf, Travel Correspondent The world is a big and exciting rock, neither round nor flat but decidedly quadrangular in shape and rather droopy in spots. Nowhere is its dimensions more defined than in the Land of the Rising Sun, a country that resembles nothing so much as an overly aroused meerkat. It neither