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Movie: Terror From The Year 5000:
Craggy jarhead and former High School football coach Doctor
Robert "Bob" Hedges receives a gift in the mail from an his old
friend Dr. Earling which turns out to be highly radioactive.
Meanwhile, in the fetid swamps of Northern Florida, doddering
Dr. Earling, his daughter Claire, and her excessively oily
fiancé Victor have created a time machine which can bring
knickknacks back from the future. Leathery "Bob" arrives and
questions the veracity of their experiment, which causes Victor
to secrete unguents at an alarming rate. Oh, "Bob" immediately
hits on Clair, which for some reason causes tension between him
and Victor.
This goes on for a while, and somehow several of the characters
strip down to swimsuits, baring their milky translucent flesh,
and go romp and play in the nearby reeking backwater. The
increasingly whiny and oleaginous Victor manages to use his time
machine to summon a human from the year 5000, the above-named
Terror, who in a gesture of good will rips the face off an
unsuspecting nurse and hits on Victor, accidentally irradiating
the poor dope. Saponaceous, stupefied Victor, buttery emollients
now streaming freely from his every pore, agrees to go into the
future with this murderous woman and sire her children. The
whole mess ends quickly when the time machine goes ker-flooey
and Victor and his new found love go up in a smoky grease fire.
I guess they tampered in God's domain er sumphin'.
The leering caretaker Angelo rounds out the cast.
— Kevin Murphy
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Prologue:
Having recently acquired a parka, and taking his cue from winter
garment catalogues, Tom Servo combs the Satellite looking for
things to "comfort-rate:" a basketball, bologna, you get the
picture. Turns out he's not very good at it, and he cries.
Segment 1:
The Observers are fed up with Pearl and Bobo, and decide to
dissect them. But first, in true Star Trek fashion, they force
the two to do battle, apparently to the death. Pearl is armed
with a deadly double-bladed karanku, and Bobo with a sea snail.
Segment 2:
The Observers send the Satellite samples of their highly evolved
food, which comes in the form of pills. Of course, you don't eat
one, you have to eat bowl-full after heaping bowl-full, so
really what is the point, I mean if you're going to have pills
and all, it's kinda stupid to... you know... have to... eat...
lots. Anyway, Mike manages to make a gourmet delight by crushing
them and making them into patties, in another hilariously
food-based comedy gem, from us to you.
Segment 3:
Crow volunteers to hop in Mike's freshly built time machine and
go back to tell Mike's family that he's all right. Crow does go
back in time, and spends eleven wonderful years with Mike's
family before he returns, but he had such a darn good time that
he plum forgot to tell them about Mike. And he hits on Mike's
old girlfriend, Ginger, whom Crow calls "Ginger Sa-NAP!"
Segment 4:
The Observers, intent on demonstrating their musical prowess,
favor us with an old chestnut titled: "When
I Held Your Brain In My Arms." It's a delightful little
ditty, although when they sing, the Observers sound a helluva
lot like Servo covering the Ink Spots.
Segment 5:
To teach the rascally libidinous Crow a lesson, Mike sets his
time machine to summon the radioactive and deadly Terror from
the Year 5000! To be Crow's blind date, and everyone has a good
laugh and learns an important lesson.
Stinger:
Observers holding up their brains.
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I really like the Observers a lot. How
often do you get to write for Characters who talk like Jeremy
Irons, sing like the Ink Spots and carry their brains, unguarded
and vulnerable, in bowls? One of my heroes, Arthur C. Clarke,
has often contended that a culture of sufficiently advanced
technology would seem to us indistinguishable from magic. If
this is true, then perhaps Galileo, upon seeing our modern age,
would think of us all as wizards. The only thing Mr. Clarke
doesn't take into account is how incredibly stupid any creature
might be, no matter how advanced. We try in our own humble way
to offer this alternate perspective. I hope some day that Mr.
Clarke might watch our little puppet show, have a good laugh and
perhaps, quoting Puck, cry "Shall we their fond pageant see? /
Lord what fools these mortals be!"
Hell, who am I kidding?
— Kevin Murphy
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