Unless you’re an Uschi Digard completist (and if that’s the case, I salute you), I can’t much recommend Coed Dorm, an ultra-obscure campus comedy in the throbbing vein of Animal House, the National Lampoon classic that looks positively academic by comparison.

The only other picture directed by The Severed Arm’s Thomas S. Alderman, the sexploitationer takes place on the grounds of Farouk University — oft referred to as “Farouk U,” geddit? — where “world-famous gynecologist” Dr. Maurice de Sade (Ray Dannis, The Undertaker and His Pals) teaches sexuality classes, offering to assist all the female students himself with hands-on instruction. One new student (Diane Patton) is a virgin, and she’s named Virgie — geddit?

Her house mother gets naked and gets busy with several men throughout the film, including a fat guy dressed as Kentucky Fried Chicken founder Col. Sanders. At an alumni dinner, guests are shocked — shocked, I tell you! — by the topless girls’ choir (of which Digard’s “Miss Melons” is a member) and by Dr. de Sade treating them all to his dance rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Oh, and Virgie dies when she falls from a hospital window. Now that’s comedy!

More boring than titillating, Coed Dorm is such a rarity that Something Weird Video’s print doesn’t even have credits. To make up for it, they include their usual generous helping of nudie-cutie shorts, one of which — Double Trouble, in which a guy mixes up twin sisters — has more plot than the feature. —Ed Donovan

Get it at Something Weird Video.

Nowadays, just about every blockbuster of note gets a simultaneous X-rated “parody.” Remember when your favorite ABC sitcoms of the 1970s got similar treatment? No? Well, it happened to Barney Miller, Happy Days and Welcome Back, Kotter, poor things — all three sword-skewered in one crappy softcore comedy called Hey! There’s Naked Bodies on My TV! Whether it should have happened is debatable. I think it’s obscure for good reason.

Because every good (and bad) anthology requires something to tie them all together, a janitor stops sweeping floors to watch some television. Not to spoil anything, but his presumably favorite shows all have sex on the brain. Checking out the boob tube throws the man for such a loop, he literally — and worriedly — looks to the camera and yells this movie’s title. But of course he keeps watching.

In the first show, Happy Daze, cool dude The Bonz introduces Putzie and pals to easy women who will take their virginity. In the second, Don’t Come Back Kotler, cool teacher Mr. Kotler introduces Vinnie Malatestes and pals to easy women who will take their virginity. The third and final segment, Bernie Milner, shakes things up by having the cops not be virgins, but easy women (including Flesh Gordon’s Candy Samples) are part of the formula. (Old, dirty cartoons in rickety shape play in between.)

As if you needed telling, jokes are sub-Catskills at best. That writer/director Mack Campbell (probably a pseudonym) uses the same laugh track as the actual series is a creative choice that goes from amusing to unsettling lickety-split. With the primary purpose of Hey! being to ogle female flesh, it plays like the pages of a Tijuana bible come to life, but written by kids on the playground. Those kids missed a good pun by not having the fake shows be produced by “Norman Leer,” but at least they didn’t miss the opportunity to give proper context to the Fonz’s trademark “Sit on it!” —Ed Donovan

Get it at Amazon.

Sketchy in all definitions of the word, Up Your Ladder plays like a filmed adaptation of a dirty joke book, but with all the finesse and professionalism of middle schoolers who got hold of Dad’s camcorder while he was out of town. Its floss-thin excuse of a framework for its phalanx of gags is a talking apartment building — no, really! With 138 units, the Villa Elaine has many stories to tell, and the movie’s host is Elaine herself, personified in transparent overlay miniature by Cindy Morgan (in her feature debut, one year before her breakout role as Caddyshack seductress Lacey Underall), whose suspenders-centered outfit greatly diminishes her considerable sex appeal.

Elaine introduces viewers to various tenants past and present (as well as people elsewhere, meaning Up Your Ladder is not even competent enough to stick to its own stupid concept). Then we see their naughty, below-the-Borscht Belt bits play out — many times for no more than one minute, since it doesn’t take that long to reach a punch line. As good an example as any: Inside apartment 319, a bachelor (Rick Dillon, Female Chauvinists) is about to get busy with a hot-to-trot date (Tallie Cochrane, The Centerfold Girls) until she expresses fear she’s been exposed to either VD or TB, but cannot remember which. So naturally, the horny guy places an urgent call to his doctor (Thomas Newman, The Munsters’ Revenge), who advises, “Tell her to run around the room a few times. If she coughs, fuck her.” Hang up, lights out, slide whistle.

I know, I know: Groan. And that’s just the first sketch!

If you choose to subject yourself to Up Yours (its alternate title), grit your molars and steel yourself for a prudish woman (Joe Dante regular Belinda Balaski, Amazon Women on the Moon) harangued by obscene phone calls; for a bedridden old man (Michael Pataki, The Bat People) who, thinking himself a vampire, bites butts; for a busty manicurist (Ilsa herself, Dyanne Thorne) applying for a barbershop job; for a nude tap dancer (Odette Wyler, aka The Boob Tube’s Becky Sharpe) who, uh, tap dances nude; for a chesty medical patient afraid to undress (Jill Jacobson, Nurse Sherri); for a compulsive masturbator (didn’t catch his name — does it matter?); and for a very hungry husband (Chuck McCann, Hamburger: The Motion Picture) whose wife forgot to buy groceries, so he eats a can of dog food out of desperation.

Wondering where the sex might be in that last setup? It’s in McCann’s character fatally attempting to lick his own testicles — blessedly offscreen, and for that, we are thankful. Too bad that doesn’t extend to the rest of this atrocity, so unfunny it’s an enemy of comedy. —Ed Donovan

Get it at Amazon.

Zoltan G. Spencer was nothing if not efficient. His softcore Sisters in Leather ends up running a curly hair over an hour, and the plot is set in motion before the opening credits. It helps, of course, that said plot is as twisty as a Popsicle stick. As white-bread, white-collar, whiny-ass Joe (utterly amateur Dick Osmun, A Sweet Sickness) marvels at the hottie he’s just picked up in his convertible before they mack their way toward third base, “I’ve heard of free love, and here it was, sitting in my car!”

Ah, but just as there’s no such thing as a free lunch, this supposedly “free” love comes at a price: $2,000, to be exact. That’s because the all-too-eager passenger, Dolly (Karen Thomas, The Secret Sex Lives of Romeo and Juliet), is underage, and their nude shenanigans have been photographed for blackmail. If he doesn’t cough up the dough, Dolly’s fellow girl bikers — aka the Sisters in Leather — threaten to send prints to his lovely, lonely wife, Mary (Kathy Williams, Love Camp 7).

Anxious to find out more about these “hungry hellcats,” Joe spots the girls’ emblem on a male biker and follows him to a bar (where $1.50 would score you a “PICHTER” of beer, per the sign). What he should be doing instead is keeping an eye on the wife he ignores, because Dolly and her gang rat Joe out to Mary in an effort to “recruit” the square, suburban spouse into their lascivious lifestyle of lesbianism … and it works! At a rather unconventional ladies-only picnic, clothes become optional and the Sisters in Leather become the Sisters on Leather for a nude ride. I’m no biker, but I imagine that can’t be good on the seats.

Sisters marks a step up from Spencer’s The Satanist the year before, in that this has recorded sound — all the better to hear Joe complain, “They have my wife and they’re doing a pretty good job of turning her into a dyke!” The moral to this shady, skinflint skin flick? Zoltan should be thankful Twitter didn’t exist in ’69. —Ed Donovan

Get it at Amazon.

Who’s got the tricks to make a sex machine of all the chicks? Satan! The proof is in The Satanist, as writer/director Zoltan G. Spencer (Terror at Orgy Castle) plops a succubus into suburbia to see what happens. Fornicating, that’s what.

After experiencing a nervous breakdown, a novelist named John (who haltingly narrates the dialogue-free picture) is ordered to temporarily escape city life for a little R&R, yet finds only T&A. Typewriter in tow, John would like to write, but his wife, Mary, feeling frisky in a second-honeymoon way, disrobes and coaxes him to do the same. He does; unfortunately, the reveal of his shaggy back rudely hurls the film into horror territory.

Later, on a leisurely postcoital drive, the couple meets the shapely Shondra (Pat Barrington, Orgy of the Dead), a neighbor who fancies herself a “student of the occult.” She loans a book on ancient sorcery to John, whose perusal of its pages causes him to have erotic dreams of making it with a bosomy blonde while Mary, undisturbed by the mattress motions, sleeps soundly.

Awake, John turns Peeping Tom and watches Shondra rub a Vaseline-like ointment all over a woman’s breasts; Mary witnesses a satanic rite being performed using her hubby’s glasses. Sufficiently weirded out, the spouses agree it’s time to end their friendship with that witchy woman Shondra, but awww, dammit, they promised to attend her party on Sunday! While it seems like an excuse to watch a hoochie-coochie dance and listen to sitar-flavored jazz, the real reason for the soirée is unveiled after the couple unknowingly downs drugged drinks: John is tied up and forced to watch as each male guest takes a turn donning a mask of fertility and, well, spreading his fertilizer. (While supposed to represent a goat, the headgear looks more like a goat with fake eyelashes and Cinnabon pastries on each ear.) The moral of this story: Following the etiquette rules of Emily Post will earn you conscription as the devil’s concubine.

It is important to note what this one-hour wonder is not: porn. All the couplings — and there are many, even before the climactic party resembling a community-theater adaptation of Eyes Wide Shut — are practically chaste by today’s standards, featuring maximum toplessness and a minimum of rolling around. Fabulously sexy as always, Barrington adds color to this black-and-white cheapie. As you might have theorized based upon all of the above — or likely just from the name Zoltan — The Satanist feels like the kind of sexploitation obscurity that served as Something Weird Video’s bread and butter, but oh, my Lord, that’s not butter! —Ed Donovan

Get it at Amazon.