Do you find shit funny? What about farts? Vomit? Disintegrating bloody corpses? If you answered “yes” to any of those questions, Monsturd is right up your alley, because it’s about a walking, talking, murdering turd-man. He comes up through your toilet, kills you while you’re pooping and then writes clever one-liners with smeared fecal material on your walls. Don’t get caught with your pants down, indeed!

Monsturd opens with an escaped murderer on the loose (Brad Dosland, Retardead). He comes into contact with some toxic wasted that has been dumped by some evil scientists. The toxic waste cause his DNA to be fused with the feces in the sewer and thus is born … Monsturd! Since Monsturd does his murderous business while people are taking a crap, his killing spree threatens to shut down the town’s beloved Chili Festival. Something must be done!

For the most part, this horror spoof is played completely straight with lots of great deadpan dialogue. A lot of the humor does revolve around the deuce — and one excessively great vomit sequence — but also great writing. Creators Dan West and Rick Popko steal scene after scene in their roles as bumbling sheriff’s deputies.

West and Popko have done an excellent job of creating a high-quality and highly watchable flick on a shoestring budget. Don’t let the fact that it’s shot on video scare you away, because the production values are high all-around. There is also some gore that is plenty gruesome, but at the same time, cartoony enough to be fun.

If Monsturd has a flaw, it’s that there is almost too much going on. The movie never really slows down to give you time to associate with a central character. It opens with lots of people running around with great urgency and they pretty much keep running for the movie’s 80-minute running time.

There is nothing that is all that original about it, either. You’ve seen the toxic monster, the mad scientists, the bumbling deputies and the H.G. Lewis-style gore in plenty of other movies. But the film has a goofy enthusiasm and manic energy that helps to pack all these traditional elements into a fresh loaf. —Ed Donovan

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The deservedly obscure broad ’n’ bawdy comedy Toga Party begins not at a toga party, but on a farm, where Purvis, an easygoing guy with a ‘fro, spends his days strumming the guitar, boning Betty Jo in the barn and dreaming of becoming a singer. One day, he up and decides to go to New York in search of stardom, so he does.

Upon arrival, he roams the streets, not in search of a toga party, but a club that’ll let him play. No one will. On a chance meeting, he is discovered by a sleazy, two-bit agent named Suzy Starmonger. She books him not at a toga party, but at an obnoxious bar where a pie fight is liable to break out at the drop of someone’s pants.

Now redubbed “Pelvis” because of his vocal likening to the King and because of his large penis, Purvis becomes a minor star singing hits like “Nazi Girl,” “I Know a Man Who Screwed a Chicken,” “Suck My Way to the Top” and “Maria, My Little Wetback.” He also gets mixed up in hard drugs and loose woman, but nary a toga party.

Other than a spoof of the infamous crying-Native American litter PSA, there’s nothing really funny about Toga Party, but it’s fairly painless. In case you hadn’t figured it out by now, at no time does anyone go to (or even talk about) a toga party. —Rod Lott

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This goofy-as-hell cannibal comedy leads with a lamb to slaughter — namely, comely Sally Lamb — an innocent blonde murdered by the titular undertaker and his two pals, while the expression on her boyfriend’s nearby photo changes from smiling to horrified.

It’s just the latest in a string of senseless murders carried out by Shady Rest Funeral Parlor head Mr. Mort, who specializes in the $144.98 funeral, complete with Green Stamps, and shares half of each corpse with his friends who run the Greasy Spoon Café, where the day’s special is fresh from the kill — like, for instance, the “leg of Lamb.”

Looking for subtlety? It’s hiding somewhere with cleverness. So when clean-cut playboy detective Harry Glass stops by for a bite with curvy secretary Ms. Poultry … well, you just know tomorrow’s special will be breast of chicken.

And, of course, it is. The Undertaker and His Pals is very much an imitation of Herschell Gordon Lewis, and while it’s no work of art, neither is Lewis’ stuff. Nope, like the work of that Godfather of Gore, this even-lower-budget effort is just a fun mix of a little blood, a lot of bosomy dames and painful slapstick. At 63 minutes, it simply doesn’t have time to be dull. —Rod Lott

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I figure any movie that begins with a Pixies song can’t be all that bad. And Stuck on You isn’t. It’s another funny, sweet and politically uncorrect (but never demeaning) film from the Farrelly brothers, still best known for hanging semen from Ben Stiller’s ear in There’s Something About Mary.

The joke is that brothers Bob and Walt Tenor (Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear) are Siamese twins. They seem fairly well-adjusted and are popular around Martha’s Vineyard, where they make a living flipping burgers. But Walt is a budding thespian, currently putting on a one-man show about Truman Capote. When the acting bug bites hard — despite Bob’s penchant for on-stage panic attacks — the boys move to Hollywood so that Walt can chase his dream.

Unfortunately, the market for conjoined twins is limited in Tinseltown, and they’re the laughingstock of every agency they set their four feet in. Through luck and sneaky circumstances, Walt lands the male lead in a new detective series opposite Cher (playing herself), and although the director has difficulty keeping Bob out of frame, the series becomes a hit. Success has a price, however, taking a toll on Bob’s relationship with his Asian Internet girlfriend while limiting Walt’s acting opportunities. Eventually, Bob and Walt wonder if separation is the answer to their problems or just another problem to add to the list.

The Farrellys know how to mix outrageous humor with an endearing sweetness. Whereas most comedies just play mean, they can generate big laughs that often originate in the heart. They have a genuine love for their characters, whether they be conjoined twins, mentally handicapped busboys, sleazy Hollywood managers or — most frightening of all — Cher.

Damon is good, but Kinnear is terrific, with a semi-smarmy presence and expert comic timing. He’s really underrated as a comic actor. In the eye-candy role, Eva Mendes shows a real flair for playing a hot, dumb babe with a bosom with mesmeric powers. Seymour Cassell does an amusing turn as Walt’s two-bit agent, who lives in a retirement home, rides around on a motorized scooter and sports one of the lamest toupées ever seen onscreen. —Rod Lott

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In Club Dread, the once-promising comedy troupe Broken Lizard’s follow-up to the stoner-beloved Super Troopers, an island paradise turns into a blood-soaked nightmare when a machete-wielding killer interrupts a vacation of sun, sex and suds.

A game Bill Paxton stars as Coconut Pete, a drug-addled Jimmy Buffet-like singer who runs the getaway spot, with the unmemorable members of Broken Lizard serving as his staff, including a tennis pro, a DJ, the “fun police” and a fat masseuse who can give women orgasms just by touching a certain spot above their upper lip. One by one, members of the staff meet gruesome deaths at the hands (which hold a very sharp blade) of the unknown murderer.

It’s a spoof of splatter films, but by the second act, it threatens to become the very thing it parodies. By the third, it does. As with the overrated Super Troopers, it’s on-and-off fun, but highly flawed. A couple of the jokes are brilliant, while many more are absolutely infantile. There’s the same problem with flow and tone, but here, at least they try to make up for it by throwing in the bare breasts of Cabin Fever babe Jordan Ladd. There’s also a monkey. —Rod Lott

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