Why doesn’t this turd have the words National Lampoon in its title? What sort of incriminating photos did the producers have of Cuba Gooding Jr.? Can the Academy for Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rescind the awarding of Oscars? And most importantly, why did I have to see if this really as bad as everyone says it is? Because it’s worse.

Any movie in which a character lip-synchs and dances to James Brown’s “I Feel Good” should be thrown in cinematic jail for life, but Boat Trip keeps piling on offenses, like doing a Chariots of Fire parody (those ceased being funny in 1983), giving Saturday Night Live’s Horatio Sanz a starring role, having Cuba dry-hump a porthole until he jizzes on a guy’s face, and having Roger Moore suggestively lick weenies, among other things.

The story (with apologies to the word “story”) has Gooding brokenhearted after his girlfriend (Vivica A. Fox) dumps him when he barfs on her cleavage and proposes marriage. To cheer him up, his ultra-horny janitor pal Sanz convinces him to accompany him on a cruise to engage in lots of promiscuous sex with loose women. But unbeknownst to them, a vengeful travel agent (Will Ferrell, whose cameo is the film’s only saving grace, outside of Victoria Silvstedt’s purple panties) books them on an all-male, all-gay ship. Let the homophobia ensue!

The initially disgusted Sanz thinks the trip might be okay after all when he accidentally shoots down a Swedish bikini team’s helicopter with a flare gun and they must board, enabling them to suntan and do jumping jacks topless. Gooding, meanwhile, falls for the ship’s dance instructor, Rush Hour 2 hottie Roselyn Sanchez — who does things to a banana here that presumably killed her career — but he can’t reveal to her that he’s not a homosexual.

Despite all the cheap shots, the film actually does carry a “being gay is just fine” message, but I doubt very many could make it that far. Its humor is absolutely infantile, and the look suggests a cheap, made-for-cable comedy that wouldn’t get watched without gratuitous nudity. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Video Wars is so obscure that, 27 years after its release — in a rented room at the Holiday Inn, I’m guessing — it didn’t even exist, according to its absence from the Internet Movie Database. Trust me: It was for the best.

The globe is being brainwashed by one Prince Radolpho … Rapemonger? Rightmonger? (The audio is horrible, so I can’t tell what the fat villain’s last name is.) Anyway, his aim is to control the destiny of anyone anywhere in the world, and requires a trillion-dollar annual allowance from America. To combat this scourge, the U.S. government has a plan that’s “too secret, too sensitive, too everything … we’ll have to field a special team.”

That’s comprised mostly of one guy (George Diamond) who looks like Joe Mantegna’s second cousin. He’s trained in “subversive activities” and must find Prince Radolpho’s computer terminal. To do this, he’s given some gadgets that look assembled from various cast-off parts in Radio Shack’s bargain bin. This film’s Q rattles them off: “a rotational axis with combined sensor … and last but not least, your acid pen.” Replies our hero, “I hope it doesn’t leak in my pocket!”

This leads to a gaggle of Russian female agents, many of whom are real hatchet-faces; multiple aerobics sequences; a snowman with spy-camera eyes; a chase on snowmobiles; and the can’t-miss pick-up line “You like chicken, baby? Well grab a wing.” Take none of this as a recommendation. This no-budget spy comedy is worse than an eye stab.

The whole video game element is pure gimmick, having very little to do with the actual movie. Early on, there’s a scene in which a room full of businessmen are playing a game, and they’re taking to the joysticks as if they’re masturbating. And toward the end, there’s an arcade contest where, judging by the screens shown, the object is to look at 8-bit patterns of random-size squares. That’s about it. Do not insert coin to continue. —Rod Lott