Chatterbox wastes no time with its setup, so neither shall I. This infamous comedy begins when pretty Penny (Candice Rialson, Hollywood Boulevard) discovers she has a talking, singing vagina.

Its first words come right after Penny has had sex with her boyfriend, Ted (Perry Bullington), about whose bedroom performance the vagina complains. Ted’s immediate reaction is anger, prompting the vagina to chide, “Can’t you handle a little wisecrack?”

I could not.

While Virginia — as the speech-imbued genitals are dubbed — goes from medical discovery to the talk-show circuit, the viewer is assaulted with essentially the same joke told dozens of times. Worse, while the movie moves fast from scene to scene, the proceedings are slow. The material might make a great sketch, but as a full feature, it feels interminably humorless. When the end arrives, it does so with a threat of a gender-flipped companion piece, eventually carried out by 1988’s equally patience-taxing Me and Him.

Director Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls) should thank his lucky stars the radiant Rialson agreed to star in such drivel — nonpornographic, it should be noted — as the put-upon salon employee whose parts interfere with her customer service, but who knows what he was thinking by casting comedian Rip Taylor as her boss. Putting Rip Taylor in a movie about a vagina (no matter its skills) is like adding bacon bits to a bowl of Froot Loops. —Rod Lott

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Albert Zugsmith’s The Phantom Gunslinger should exist as an animated film. It employs sound effects from a button presumably marked “ZANY.” It has opening narration that comparatively makes Elmer Fudd a great debater. Its scenes run sped-up more often than not; if that’s not quite true, it sure appears to be.

Plus, it puts former teen idol Troy Donahue (Seizure) on spring-loaded shoes.

Donahue plays Bill, mild-mannered seminarian-cum-sheriff of Tucca Flats, a Hollywood backlot of an Old West town. It’s a peaceful place until a group of Mexican bandits rides in, calling itself The Terrible Seven; one of its members is a little person who hangs with a duck and licks an Eggo-waffle lollipop. There’s no story to it — just slapstick fight after slapstick fight after slapstick fight, either with bullets or buffets. Of course pies are thrown.

All frying pans and feathers and “Frère Jacques,” The Phantom Gunslinger makes joking references to The Magnificent Seven, Mae West and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., but really, it’s not so much a spoof of anything in particular beyond itself. Zugsmith (Sex Kittens Go to College) thinks this stuff is hysterical, but the humor is patience-trying, with just-because non-gags that range from a bank manager who strongly resembles Adolf Hitler to a saloon girl who drinks milk from a baby bottle. In the process — and in no particular order — he mildly insults Indians, Mexicans and your intelligence. —Rod Lott

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Whether inherent or learned, every bit of my being should revolt against something like Microwave Massacre, but refuses to do so. Oh, it’s a terrible, terrible, terrible movie, but among all the flicks the general public would find unwatchable, it’s one of the most watchable. Consider its opening scene: An incredibly stacked blonde (Marla Simon) risks nipple splinters by sticking her generous breasts through the conveniently tits-shaped hole in a construction site’s fence.

Why? Two logical reasons: First, because boobs. Second, it introduces us to Donald (Borscht belt comedian Jackie Vernon), our slobbish, hard-hat hero forever henpecked by May (Claire Ginsberg), his harpy of a wife who hasn’t had sex with him since 1962. She’s just bought a huge microwave oven, which she hopes will refine “my Q-zine”; Donald dismisses it as a “deranged toaster.” (That put-down is as witty as the movie gets, unless this tickles your funny bone: “I’m so hungry, I could eat a whore!”)

May’s cooking remains terrible, however, and during an argument over it, Donald bludgeons her with a pepper grinder. He then cuts her body into pieces, places them in the deep freezer and later, while hungry, accidentally gnaws on his dead wife’s arm and discovers her meat is oh-so-sweet. In order to feed his frenzy, he continuously must lure ladies over to his house to kill them. This proves to be no trouble at all, because suddenly, attractive women flock to the slovenly, unkempt, late-’50s lard bucket like flies to feces. If that analogy strikes you as disgusting, wait until you see Vernon’s hammy mitts allowed near naked, nubile flesh.

Aside from its opening and abrupt end, 1983’s Microwave Massacre has next to nothing to do with microwaves, just then becoming “a thing” in the commercial appliance world, just as made-for-VHS no-budgeters like this were in the realm of home entertainment. For this infamous gore-comedy opus à la H.G. Lewis and The Little Shop of Horrors, director Wayne Berwick (The Naked Monster) eschews rhyme and reason in favor of jokes — to be fair, semblances of jokes — about STDs, hemorrhoids and other things Vernon can deliver with a modicum of investment in the material.

Is “material” too strong a word for a dream sequence in which a nude woman is slathered head-to-toe in mayonnaise? Or a scene that has a sexy neighbor gardening with a vibrating dildo? I know the answer to both is “yes,” and yet you know I cannot wait to watch them again. —Rod Lott

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I have warned my kids that whatever pieces of popular culture they like today, they’re bound to wonder what they were thinking, 20 years from now. I speak from experience, having revisited Super Fuzz, the Italian superhero spoof I saw in theaters for David Huckabay’s 10th birthday party. There wasn’t a kid among our fourth-grade group who didn’t find it hysterical, both then and multiple HBO and VHS viewings later.

Fresh from the police academy, Officer Dave Speed (Terence Hill, My Name Is Nobody) gets his first solo assignment of tracking down a parking violator, but accidentally explodes an experimental rocket with one bullet while trying to frighten an alligator. (Don’t ask.)

On the plus side, he gains super powers from the fallout to which he’s exposed. Dave can see through walls, run really fast, walk on water, move things with his mind, catch speeding bullets in his teeth, make a stadium disappear — basically anything and everything, as long as he doesn’t see the color red. These feats of strength irk his tubby partner (Ernest Borgnine, Escape from New York) to no end. Why? Comedy, I guess.

While Hill remains affable as ever, Super Fuzz is no longer funny, assuming it ever truly was. As slapsticky as a Three Stooges marathon in the middle of a Keystone Kops retrospective, the movie suffers from an overall shoddiness of belabored gags, bad dubbing and a theme song that burrows into your being like a tapeworm. It’s disorienting to think that Sergio Corbucci, the director responsible for Django and other violent spaghetti Westerns, is also responsible for a movie that ends with a hero chewing enough gum to make a giant bubble on which he can float away. Where’s a badass gunslinger to shoot such a thing down when you need him? —Rod Lott

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I get why Showgirls 2 exists. What I don’t get is why it has to run for an utterly unbearable two and a half hours. Full of sequins and glitter and fake tits, the movie is so intentionally camp, prepare to be asked to write your name in your underwear.

An unofficial sequel to Paul Verhoeven’s notorious 1995 flop, Showgirls 2: Penny’s from Heaven focuses on the minor Showgirls character of Penny Slot (get it?), played by Rena Riffel, who also serves as writer, director, producer and editor of this mess. Just because it is in on its own joke doesn’t mean its creative chaos can be overlooked.

After a testy exchange will a fellow dancer/stripper (“You stole my customer!” “You stole my G-string!”), Penny flees Vegas for Hollywood to chase her dream of being the gooey center of the Star Dance television show. But first, she has to pour hot sauce on her bare chest, become an escort, learn ballet, have a lesbian relationship, consider taking part in a snuff film, and so on and so on.

I’m guessing that maybe the underfunded but overstuffed movie plays better for those who have turned the original Showgirls into a contemporary cult classic, since I don’t remember Riffel even being in Showgirls. (She wrangled three other actors into reprising their roles; I remember only one.) Nonetheless, when it comes to matching the original’s atrocious dialogue, Riffel strikes the right chord. Example: “I don’t know what’s worse: your dancing or your camel toe.” Another: “You know, there’s an art to a good wiener.”

See, Showgirls 2 doesn’t even try to be a glitzy melodrama as Verhoeven did and failed; instead, Riffel goes straight for the self-aware comedy. In Penny, Riffle has the ditzy-sex-bomb thing down pat, and for the movie’s first several minutes — 15, 20 at the most, maybe? — I laughed along with her as she brushed her teeth with cocaine or tried to think of how she old she is. But even the best joke gets old when you keep telling it, and that’s what Riffel does, ultimately dooming its prospects. Something like this should be 75 minutes, tops, especially for projects with porno production values. —Rod Lott

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