Even though I might lose credibility, I liked the 1990s comedy team of the Jerky Boys. Crafting a whole mythology that seduced young men with their Howard Stern-era humor, the duo (Johnny B. and Kamal, to the educated) and their prank calls were actually pretty funny when my younger brother played their tapes for me on the way to school.

Complete with their “Hey, jerky!” salutation, we amateurishly taped our own calls from friends’ bedrooms, dialing in to a momentary glimpse of cult stardom we thought we could have, too.

I recall our enthusiasm at the promo screening for The Jerky Boys movie at Oklahoma City’s Penn Square 8 in 1995, where copies of the soundtrack CD (featuring Collective Soul’s minor alt-radio hit “Gel”) were handed out.

But the movie was, in a word, terrible. I realized the Boys’ careers were done, and so was my fandom. These jerks had no more yuks to give. I gave my brother the soundtrack.

Yet 30 years later, my Amazon Prime menu has practically begged me to stream The Jerky Boys, pleading on its scabby knees. After a month, I could no longer resist.

Now, while it’s not the worst cinema of the ’90s as many claim, The Jerky Boys is definitely one of the laziest comedies I’ve ever seen. It even makes hemorrhoids jokes in the first few frames. Johnny B. and Kamal play two unemployed good-for-nothings in Queens. As you might have guessed, they make prank phone calls that are truly scatological in tone and volume.

While trying to look for a job, they create the character of Frank Rizzo, a mob enforcer who fucks with half of the cast of The Sopranos, to great comedic effect. Of course, this gets them in trouble with real mafioso Alan Arkin — let that settle a bit — who orders a hit on them.

In the 81-minute running time, the boys mimic anal sex in a public bathroom, Tom Jones performs “Are You Gonna Go My Way,” Paul Bartel discusses “piss clams” with Kamal’s “Egyptian Magician,” and Ozzy Osbourne manages alt-rockers Helmet. As you probably expected, the climax finds the boys pranking President Bill Clinton.

Oh, to be alive again!

In the hands of The Stoned Age (another of my brother’s favorite films) director James Melkonian, The Jerky Boys was too much, too soon, and he never directed again. Did he kill himself?

While I’ll always snort when I hear the phrases “silly ass,” “milky licker” and “lamby nipple chops,” the movie is so episodic that, if it were made today, it’d be a prestige-format limited series on Netflix and get canceled halfway though, prompting a re-evaluation on TikTok, leading a renaissance of prank calls.

Or maybe The Jerky Boys will be lost to time. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

With Revenge of the Nerds IV: Nerds in Love, the question is less “Who would marry Booger?” and more “Why was this made for the Fox network?” After all, this is a sequel to an ’80s teen comedy that’s so notoriously raunchy, it’s now seen as problematic.

But no worries, Nielsen families: The Lambda Lambda Lambda frat brothers are adults now; their days of panty raids, video voyeurism and cosplay rape long behind them! Lead nerd Lewis (Robert Carradine) and victim wife Betty (Julia Montgomery) are expecting a baby. Booger (Curtis Armstrong) even has replaced his “WHO FARTED?” T-shirt with the more mature, ready-for-prime-time “WHO POOTED?”

Plus, as spoiled two paragraphs above, he’s engaged! The lucky (?) lady is the appropriately geeky Jeanie (Corinne Bohrer, Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol). Booger botches meeting the parents by immediately molesting Jeanie upon arrival, then slapping her mom (Christina Pickles, Masters of the Universe) on the face with a slab o’ meat. (No, a raw steak. What on earth did you think I meant?)

Jeanie’s sickeningly wealthy father, Mr. Humphrey (Joseph Bologna, Blame It on Rio), harbors political aspirations that Booger surely would tank, so he charges his sycophantic son-in-law, Chip (Stephen Davies, 1988’s The Nest), with preventing the union. To do so, Chip enacts several ceremony-killing schemes, one of which involves hiring strippers with calculators and pencil protectors covering their breasts. Another, at a buffet restaurant whose logo is a fork stuck in a cow’s ass, ends unintentionally with a pie atop Mr. Humphrey’s head.

Elsewhere, former mean jock Stan (Ted McGinley) spends the entire movie in bed stricken with chickenpox. Ogre (Donald Gibb) swills beer from Pyrex. Lewis’ “unborn fetal son” already speaks from within Betty’s womb: “Pickles and ice cream! Pickles and ice cream!” And returning screenwriters Jeff Buhai and Steve Zacharias prove their comedy fingers are anything but tight on the pulse of what’s hot by serving up parodies of The Waltons and 2001.

With Bernie Casey, Jessica Tuck, James Karen, Robert Picardo and James Cromwell amid the supporting players, Nerds in Love bursts with talent, but not things for them to do. Worse, Bohrer’s role requires her to do several things I’m sure she wishes she hadn’t, like imitating a cow with a full-volume, head-extended moo so loud and proud, it’d merit a fine for disturbing the peace. Rarely have I felt more embarrassed for an actress. And I’m including her fully nude scene with Randy Quaid in Dead Solid Perfect.

Although Revenge of the IV: Nerds in Love culminates with a Valentine’s Day wedding (oh, shit, spoiler), it premiered in summer sweeps week. A brand-new sequel watered down from the hit original wasn’t enough of a draw, so Fox broadcast it in 3-D with select scenes in scratch-and-sniff, as if you couldn’t already tell it stinks. Hey, at least I laughed once (“What will he lie about next? You saw The Crying Game!”), which is more than I can say for Revenge of the Nerds III: The Next Generation. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

While you await the next Scream sequel, you could try to sate your Ghostface jones with The Premiere, a mockumentary about the making of a Scream musical. But I doubt it’ll do the trick.

Made in the Hamptons (with every bit of insularity as that sounds), this improvised comedy follows the cart-before-the-horse theatrical ambitions of Sam (Sam Pezzullo) as he attempts to stage the show — and fails spectacularly. As you’ve already guessed, he’s incompetent, oblivious, passive-aggressive, narcissistic and as questionably talented as he is underfunded.

Any comparisons to Christopher Guest’s Corky St. Clair of Waiting for Guffman are entirely merited and, one assumes, invited with ornate calligraphy and burgundy wax seals. The glaring difference is here, I found nothing funny. Sam yammers incessantly, as if doing so increases the chances something will hit a target. It comes off not as a matter of calculation, but desperation, overestimating his audience appeal by a magnificent mile. Other characters you want to see more of get short-shrifted.

The Premiere is spotted with germs of good ideas, like one of the leads having no knowledge of the Scream franchise, or the only rejected actor from auditions protesting the production, yet none are properly mined to yield laughs. (To that end, you could add its premise to the list.) I did smile at one bit, when Sam gasps at breaking news of Queen Elizabeth’s passing, not out of empathy, but the threat he believes the event poses to his press release.

In addition to starring, Pezzullo shares writing, directing and producing duties with Christopher Bouckoms. But only Pezzullo is credited as editor, which may be the root cause of an avoidable problem: He’s too close to the material, with Exhibit A being the pic nearly running an oxygen-sucking two hours. (Ironically, in his everyday career, Pezzullo excels in the short form, being behind some of your YouTube feed’s favorite viral marketing stunts in recent years.)

Look, I’m not saying The Premiere is an ego project; I’ll let the closing credits’ red-carpet photos of him and him and him and his friends and him do all the talking there. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Comedically prescient as all get out, Eat the Rich is all about class warfare, rampant snobbery, low-class politics and, of course, the most sarcastic form of cannibalistic fine dining.

And I would have known about all these stiff-upper-lipped British themes, discussions and subtle comedy before now, if only my VCR worked the way it was supposed to in the early ’90s. Those were the days, when KOBC Channel 34, Oklahoma City’s UHF television station, broadcast religious programming in the morning, Western reruns in the afternoon and low-rent syndicated shows during prime time. When normal broadcasting went bye-bye around 11 p.m., KOBC became the best non-cable station around.

From Z-grade horror and UK sex comedies to rarely seen campy treasures from all around the world, you never knew what you were in for, and I was here for it … but it was past my bedtime. So I used my parents’ VCR to tape dozens of films off KOBC, with 1-900 sexy singles’ lines ads, Time-Life’s Mysteries of the Unexplained shills and Channel 34’s own sad weather reports.

Eat the Rich was one of those tapes, except the VCR only recorded the first five minutes before skipping to the 6 a.m. farm report. Never were cattle futures so sad! Even in the era of Blu-ray special editions, this British satire was impossible to locate until I found it on Amazon Prime. Even better, it was only $3.99 to rent. God save the Queen and her fascist regime!

Featuring bit-part players of England’s alt-comedy faction the Comic Strip and, even better, music from Motörhead, it’s off to a ripping start, well past the originally allotted five minutes. In the posh restaurant Bastards, the abusive patrons dine on cheetahs, koala and pandas.

After a row with a blowhard patron, put-upon waiter Alex (Lanah Pellay) is having not anymore, shouting, “Oi! Where’s my fuckin’ tip?” He’s thrown out by staff and, through a series of blows to his ego and his superego, becomes a leader of a group of nonmilitary anarchists who want to, undoubtably, eat the rich.

Concurrently, former boxer Nosher Powell is a faux politician, a lager-swilling lout who gets all the racist football fans in his corner because he brokers deals with his ill temper and his uncompromising fists. (Sounds like the politicians in Oklahoma — right, Markwayne?) As you can imagine, all these punked-up parties and fucked-up parts end up riotously dead, with arms dealer Lemmy coming out top. And why wouldn’t he?

Though the film was a massive flop on a grand scale, it’s still a Comic Strip Presents movie, giving the well-to-do British society two fingers way up. It’s directed by Peter Richardson, with alternative-comedy regulars such as Nigel Planer, Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson in brash cameos. But Eat the Rich is comedian and cabaret singer Pellay’s show as Alex, with every line dripping in sarcastic wherewithal and venomous barbs that made me guffaw in all-knowing titters. Pellay is a true revelation, 30 years too late.

It took me three decades to find, watch and embrace this, but Eat the Rich is a properly digested and classically disposed comedy that needs to be rewatched, reassessed and, true to the movie, regurgitated. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

I’m all for supporting one’s children in their endeavors. I wonder if Hollywood feels the same. Like, when the likable Chris Lemmon found himself starring in several unlikable B movies throughout the ’80s (like C.O.D.), did his famous father — Jack Lemmon, legend — watch those? Specifically, the aggressively stupid military comedy Weekend Warriors.

And if so, what did he say? “Well, Son, I was not expecting the plane to go loop-de-loop when the pilot got a beej from the showgirl.”

Anyway, Weekend Warriors, also known as Hollywood Air Force. Unofficially, it’s Police Academy on a Military Base. Whatever you choose to call it, one thing’s for sure: Bert Convy never directed anything better. To be fair, the perennial game show host and Cannonball Run second-stringer never directed anything else, so there’s that.

From The Movie Store — purveyor of fellow low-rent titty flicks Ski School, Meatballs III, Meatballs 4 and Basic Training, which this most resembles — the film takes place in the summer of 1961. To avoid the draft, a number of horny ne’er-do-wells spend drill weekends in the Air National Guard, where they pull pranks on authority figures — namely, their oblivious colonel (Lloyd Bridges, in what amounts to a Hot Shots audition) and strict sergeant (Vic Tayback, Mansion of the Doomed), whose bald head they top with whipped cream and a cherry after drugging him. (Convy, you card!)

Serving as the Steve Guttenberg fill-in, Lemmon leads the ragtag assemblage, which includes a nerdy mortician, a bisexual gossip columnist, an entire doo-wop group and a muscleman meathead with an Elmer Fudd speech impediment Convy leverages from start to finish. Among the actors sinking their teeth into these challenging roles are Matt McCoy and Tom Villard, thereby marking the We Got It Made reunion no one wanted.

When the boys embarrass visiting Congressman Balljoy (Graham Jarvis, Mr. Mom), they’re in danger of being sent overseas to face real danger, lest they pull off an upcoming inspection. If you think a missile gets knocked askew, a sexual assault is played for laughs, a puking contest is held and a massive fart becomes an actual story point … well, you’re wrong. But only because there’s no puking contest.

Weekend Warriors isn’t funny. (Disagree? Dude, you were probably 12.) It’s also amazing the degree to which its third act misjudges what its target audience wants from such a film. An elaborate tarmac show of military hardware sure ain’t it — with or without little person Deep Roy (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) disguised as a little girl. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.