Amarillo Sam's Drive-In Round Up
Sunday, July 12th, 1981
Well, I knew it would happen: ole Sam got some real dogged hate mail this week -- and not for the reasons you may think. No, folks weren’t bloating the Woodpecker mailbox with angry letters screaming “SAM’S A COMMIE! HIM AND THAT OTHER COMMIE DING STILTZ AT THE DRIVE-IN ARE PLOTTING TO OVERTHROW DEMOCRACY BY BLOWING IT UP, ONE CHEVY ASTRO-VAN AT A TIME!” No, sir -- this time, I’ve got the ladies’ groups after me: the garden clubs and bridge clubs; the Daughters of the American Revolution; the female Lions Club is trying to bribe my editor to fire me, using all the money their husbands gave them to invest in an ownership stake in the Chicken-on-a-Stick stand at the Sinkwood mall. Heck, even these limousine liberal ladies out of Los Angeles got a whiff of what I said in last week’s column and are calling in favors to make sure I do my reporting from here on out on some military base in Alaska where there are no drive-ins.
And what did I say again? Oh, yeah -- that Juanita Tubbs gets kinked out by Kermit the Frog, and I take advantage of that.
Now I’m willing to bet that none of you ladies have ever met Juanita Tubbs, unless you’ve been to Dollar Wings and Jell-o Fight Night down at Gus’s Roadhouse with two dollars and a bottle of Jose Cuervo in your pocket, but take it from me: she doesn’t need you saving her from sexual squalor.
This seems to be a real theme these days: the modern woman is very independent until one of you goes and does something different -- like express to a man that you have a delicate taste for a frog with a hand up his keister who likes to play the banjo. You say to the offending lady, “How could you? You know he’s just going to go and tell it on the mountaintop that the easiest way into your pants is by showing you the puppet in his!” You see what I mean? There’s a real Faye Dunaway from “Chinatown” syndrome in this new modern sisterhood, in that the sister is really the mother, and the mother is really the sister -- and whenever you have this kind of incest within a movement, the offspring ends up like Kermit the Frog byway of “Deliverance”, playing the banjo on the front porch of some podunk town about to be flooded with water to make room for some newer, more progressive civilization. I hope I made my point.
And speaking about the “Day of the Woman”, that’s the original title for the flick I saw this weekend at the Safari; fortunately they decided to go with the more feminist moniker, “I Spit on Your Grave”. It reminded me of Wes Craven’s “Last House on the Left” without a conscience. Let’s take a look:
--Camille Keaton as a hot-shot New York writer who moves to the country to “get away
from it all” and finish her new book; a few deranged hillbillies who will do anything to squash an arrogant urbanite’s “Green Acres” view of the country -- and do it multiple times; and an endless parade of flesh being sliced, wedged, hooked, gouged, and chainsawed.
Sam says check it out, and please stop writing your letters. Juanita can’t read anyway.