Terror At Blood Fart Lake

 

Sometimes when I add a movie to my list to be reviewed for the year, I do it kind of the old school, video store way-by way of the cover art or the title. I added Terror At Blood Fart Lake to my list for this year of 2023 because my brother Mike and I randomly ran across it awhile ago on Tubi, and the title made us both laugh. The cover art looks painfully stupid, but the actual film itself has to be better than what's portrayed up front, right? Yeah, umm.... yeah. I'm going to give myself a minute to rub the anger and tension out of my eyes before I can even begin to figure out where I'm going to start with this allergen-induced cancer because I truly don't know where to even acknowledge that I heard the track gun pull from. Here's how low we're going with Terror At Blood Fart Lake-okay, are you ready? Anytime during the runtime of this hot pile of rhino snot that my body or mind found a distraction from, I just went for it. I had to take a dump with about thirty minutes left of this half-witted bowl of vomit soup, so I just let the movie play while I relieved myself. I didn't miss a damn thing in those 5-10 minutes. My mind also wandered into watching random clips of Lucy Hale in various videos on YouTube, which led me to also missing another 5-10 minutes because I ended up pulling the pud to my celeb crush with this fucking bullshit still playing in the background. You see where I'm going with this? Terror At Blood Fart Lake made me kind of wish that I actually was physically able to fart blood because that would have been a much more enjoyable proceed to deal with than sitting through this stream of mental illness ever again. I would put this on the grand pedestal of the absolute champions of shit shows I've already endured in the past, such as Greetings, Blown, Most Likely To Die, and the almighty human waste stain in the center of my underwear known as Curse On Blanchard Hill. Fuck all of those throat disease mouth pieces, and fuck Terror On Blood Fart Lake as well. You wanted the best, you got the best.

All I can muster about whatever you want to call a plot here is a bunch of the ugliest motherfuckers I've ever seen decide to drive to some cabin along the river bank of Blood Fart Lake. The entire movie keeps teasing you about this assclown named "Hambone" that you only see at the very beginning when this tirade opens, he's talking on the phone about getting pussy or having some girls come to his cabin or whatever the fuck, and he talks in the third person about how "Hambone is never going to die" and "Hambone gets all the bitches" and stupid shit like that. After that though, you never see this douchebag again, and everyone for the rest of this crap-circus keeps talking about him like he's going to show up at some point, and maybe he did and was killed by the scarecrow killer when I was taking a sweet dump or pleasuring myself to said celeb videos when I wasn't even watching this thing-and to be completely honest, I don't fucking care. I hate this goddamn movie. In between all of that non-sense, some fruity guy (who isn't gay somehow) is already at the cabin with a flamingo on a stick named Caspian, and he is the absolute worst. The level of annoyance and stupidity from this character was beyond where my maxed out needle could ever reach for me wanting to stab someone in the face, and if I could have jumped into my 4k television to flesh out such an act, I most certainly would have. The absolute only saving grace for Terror At Blood Fart Lake is the kind of sexy Ashley Sawyer. And that's really not saying much here. My God is this year over yet-nope. Not even half way. 

You're as square as a rhombus if your nickname is "Hambone".

Stop talking in third person, "Hamdick".

How are you only going to put $5 worth of gas in the car when you know you're going to be driving through a gigantic forest.

At least there's a Bad Taste decal in the window of their car.

"Do you know the dark arts and listen to Evanescence?"

I wish I had a power mullet and a trucker hat that said "sugar daddy" on it.

Man, Fright Rags must have really went downhill if this is the guy that owns them.

"If you think you're dark, I poop from my dick tip."

Ashley Sawyer is pretty damn attractive.

What the hell happened to this Hambone loser? Is he ever going to show up?

The scarecrow killer is finally here to do some killing and blood farting.

I'd let Ashley Sawyer in my room while I'm whacking it too.

 As you can see zits and zombies, Terror At Blood Fart Lake is fucking abysmal. This is the grade that I know I'll run into at some point whether I like it or not. I hated every second of it and basically after the first couple of minutes when Hambone's stupid ass is finally off the screen, I knew then what I know now-so far, this is at the top of my worst of the year list. I'm calling it right here and right now that this is going to be number one, but you never know-something else on my list for the year may shine even duller and shittier than this thing did, and I have been surprised before. I really wanted to sit through the entire thing with no breaks or shifts in concentration because that's what I do to get as much out of the experience as I can before I sit here and write something, and even with all of the film endurance I've built up over the years with the likes of the dung beetles I mentioned earlier, Terror At Blood Fart Lake still managed to get me to partake in other distractions that I usually put off until the appropriate times. This entry is chock full of the worst music and horror movie references that are so poorly timed along with the fact that there's just way to many of them that I honestly don't even recall any of them. Just steer clear of this one, friends-and release a nice, bloody fart under the covers while your other half is sleeping. Instead of a "Dutch Oven" what would that be called? "Cherry Pie in the Oven"? I don't know. You think of something.