Five Random Horror Movies from the Paramount Vault

A quick and dirty overview of five horror movies you can watch for free (and totally legally!) on YouTube right freaking now...

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@Jimbo__X

Every year, we here at The Internet Is In America has gleefully directed readers towards a handful of Halloween-tinged genre offerings they could watch on the YouTubes, both for free and without having to worry about violating any D.M.C.A. regulations. Rather interestingly, Paramount over the last year has made the super-awesome decision to stream dozens of their less-heralded films on the website totally gratis, and of course, that includes quite a few horror flicks of note. 

While you would expect the quality of the films posted online to be, well, rather suspect, at best, Paramount actually did us a kindness and threw up some genre flicks that, rather surprisingly, are actually half way worth a damn. Granted, you won't be seeing any of the real heavy hitters from the Paramount archives streaming for free (so that means no freebie Friday the 13th flicks, unfortunately) but you nonetheless get a pretty solid mixture of old school horror, 1980s high-end exploitation and a ton of post-George W. neo-gore-a-thons. Although a paltry 10 selections, the Paramount Vault horror cavalcade (which, at one point, included Jacob's Ladder, which appears to have been yanked from the free-to-view rotation for some indeterminable reason) nonetheless features more good than bad, including quite a few hidden gems that all dyed-in-the-wool genre loyalists should probably take a gander at. So without further adieu, let's hop head first into some extremely cost-efficient Halloween viewin', why don't we? 

Shanks (1974)
Director: William Castle

William Castle was the undisputed king of gimmick movies. While everybody remembers him for his cockamamie in-theater ploys (i.e., the special glasses that allowed you to see "invisible" beings in 13 Ghosts and the infamous The Tingler contraption that literally shocked moviegoers throughout the feature presentation), a lot of people, unfortunately, discount the legitimate greatness of his work. Lest we forget, this was the same man who gave us genuinely great genre films like House on Haunted Hill and Macabre, in addition to more scintillating, sensational fare a'la Homicidal and Mr. Sardonicus. Shanks was the last film Castle helmed before his death in 1977, and I'd consider it a pretty solid, middle-of-the-road entry in his filmography. Eschewing any formal theatrical tomfoolery, the film is a rather vanilla narrative starring the iconic French mime Marcel Marceau as puppeteer who accidentally uncovers a mad scientist's scheme to re-animate the dead using some sort of weird looking jelly and an Atari 2600 control pad. Of course, it's only a matter of time until Marceau starts using the contraption to exact revenge on all the people in town who make fun of him, but for the most part, we're dealing with fairly innocuous, slapstick hi-jinks, like a scene where Marceau takes his living dead puppets into a grocery store to pick up some picnic supplies. The film ultimately dives into traditional horror territory in the third act, when a bunch of no-good bikers decide to break into Marcel's mansion and rip shit up - with results that, well, should be pretty obvious from several hundred miles away. As far as content, it's a fairly subdued film (just overlook the profanity and exposed female flesh towards the end of the flick), with most of the violence limited to goofy physical comedy. It's never really played as a straight horror flick, so there isn't much atmosphere, even when it comes time for the bikers to receive their comeuppance. The cinematography, however, is very nice, and it's certainly a nice change of pace from your usual supernatural hokum and paint-by-number slasher opus. Your mileage may vary, but overall, I thought this was a fairly fun little diversion.

The Sender (1982)
Director: Roger Christian

Now here's a film that I'd definitely consider a diamond in the rough. OK, so The Sender is not a great movie. Hell, it's probably not even a great genre movie, for that matter. Nonetheless, I found it to be an extremely entertaining little supernatural romp, which probably deserves designation as overachieving-mini-horror-guilty-pleasure-almost-cult-classic alongside other WAY better than they had any right to be '80s gems like Bloody Birthday and Night of the Demons. The plot concerns this one dude who looks just like that guy who shot up the church in South Carolina who tries to kill himself in a lake. Well, he wakes up in a mental institution (his compatriots include this one black dude that thinks Vietnam is still going on and a dude deathly afraid his head's going to roll of his shoulders) and slowly but surely he convinces the head shrink that maybe - just maybe - he really does have some sort of weird telekinetic power (which, for some reason, he can only harness while he's sleeping or knocked out or anesthetized.) This being one of those "twist ending" flicks, I really can't tell you too much about the rest of the plot, but rest assured this one has some downright fantastic scenes, including a part where a dude gets his noggin slapped clean off his neck and a downright beautiful sequence in which the doctors try to electro-shock the titular character and he makes everybody levitate in the air in slow-motion before throwing them around the room and through plate-glass windows like in that old Xbox game Psi-Ops. Great cinema, this may not be, but something tells me hardcore horror purists nonetheless ought to get a kick out of this one. Oh, and for the record? The same guy who directed this film would later go on to direct the epitome of the Hollywood cinematic disaster, 2000's much, much-maligned Battlefield Earth. 

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986)

Director: Tobe Hooper

Even 30 years down the road, this remains a very polarizing movie. Released 13 years after the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (which, to me, seemed like a pretty closed book), TCM 2 does that typical horror movie sequel thing where it doesn't directly follow the incidents that transpired in the first movie (so, that means no Marilyn Burns, no Gunnar Hansen and really, nobody that starred in the first movie reprising any of their roles.) Indeed, the iconic Sawyer clan is sort of a remix of the family in the first film, with everyone's personalities totally different (for example, the hippie dude that lit a photograph on fire in the first flick has been retconned into a Vietnam vet with a steel plate in his skull, while Leatherface has been turned into a less murderous retard that apparently has quite the libido.) Plot-wise, it's a pretty straight forward movie; these two yuppies on their way to a college football game piss off Leatherface and pals, and their grisly deaths are recorded live by a local radio station. Naturally, this piques the interest of rogue cop Dennis Hopper, who has been trying to track down the Lone Star State cannibals for at least a decade. This leads to the cannibal clan kidnapping the local radio DJ, with live-action Bowser himself coming in at the last minute to save her from having her skull bashed in by a dude who is at least 90 years old (but, uh, not before Hopper can run around an underground catacomb, swinging a chainsaw of his own like a madman for 20 minutes while singing "Bringing in the Sheep.") Needless to say, the film doesn't exactly have the guerrilla film-making, no-budget charm of the original, and the mixture of grisly, exploitation guts and gore with almost Eating Raoul-esque black comedy is uneasy at best. And at an hour and forty minutes, it does feel a bit overlong, and some fairly pointless scenes (like Dennis Hopper rummaging through the Sawyer's subterranean lair) just drag on forever (oh, and if you hate Southern accents, my god, will the voice of the "final girl" piss you off to high heavens.) Still, it has some pretty entertaining bits, the blood and gunk effects are very well done and although the flick stumbles here and there, it never becomes truly uninteresting or laborious. Like fellow unnecessary sequels Hellraiser II and Child's Play 3, you really can't call TCM 2 a "good movie," by any stretch. But considering all of the crazy shit going on, there's something else you definitely cannot call this flick, either - and that's "boring." 

Rumpelstiltskin (1995)
Director: Mark Jones

The popularity of Freddy Krueger inspired a good 15 years' worth of imitators, and pun-spouting monster movie wannabes were a dime a dozen throughout the 1990s. I mean, who could ever forget such failed ventures as Sleepstalker: The Sandman's Last Rites, The Fear and my personal favorite, Jack Frost (the non-Michael Keaton one, obviously)? As far as Freddy rip-offs go, Rumpelstiltskin is certainly one of the better forays. Directed by the same guy who gave the world the gift that keeps on giving in the form of The Leprechaun franchise, Rumpelstiltskin concerns a woman whose husband is killed in the line of duty, who at her friend's request, waltzes on in to an antique shop and buys herself a jade gargoyle statue, because that's the best way to get over your husband's death sometimes. Of course, it's an evil statue, and she awakens the titular creature by weeping on it and making a wish simultaneously (somehow, this was a product defect the woman who runs the antique shop failed to mention.) For the next hour, the woman runs around trying to avoid the hunchbacked menace, who desperately wants to eat her baby because it will give him eternal life or super speed or some other bullshit. Along the way, however, she encounters a Morton Downey, Jr. analogue, who becomes the unexpected hero of the flick by engaging in go-kart versus semi-truck demolition derbies with Rumpy himself. Yeah, it's a bit predictable and some of the "catch as catch can" sequences drag on forever, but by and large, I rather enjoyed this one. It's got a lot of great gross-out effects, some hilarious cringe-worthy dialogue and even a scene were Rumpelstiltskin (played, by of all people, fucking Rom from Deep Space Nine) kills a biker and commands a hog to the tune of the absolute shittiest sounding knockoff of Sympathy for the Devil you've ever heard. Maybe I'm just getting soft in my old age or I'm really feeling the pangs of mid-90s trash culture nostalgia, but begrudgingly, I found this flick to be - oh, oh so shamefully - an absolute hoot and a half to trudge through. 

In Dreams (1999) 
Director: Neil Jordan

1999 was a pretty important year for Hollywood cinema. The Matrix, Fight Club, The Blair Witch Project, The Sixth Sense, Being John Malkovich and Magnolia were among the highly influential flicks released that year, which - in many ways - are still shaping mainstream moviemaking to this day. Alas, In Dreams definitely isn't one of those industry-shifting seminal works - indeed, it's a very forgettable psychological drama with one of the most difficult to follow plots you'll ever see from a big budget, monolithic studio production. OK, so way back in the day, there was this town that was flooded. Got it? Good. So, Annette Benning starts having dreams about this local girl that's gone missing, but she also starts having hallucinations about the aforementioned flooded town, and then shit starts getting really out there, with her garbage disposal puking up 300 gallons of muddy water. Oh, and her husband is an airline pilot that's cheating on her. This causes her a lot of stress, so she spends about 20 minutes of the movie just sitting outside, smoking Marlboro after Marlboro. Now things are about to get migraine-inducing; as it turns out, the girl she keeps having dreams about isn't the girl who mysteriously vanished, it's her own daughter, who apparently, has been kidnapped and killed by ... somebody. Well, as it turns out, her killer was ROBERT DOWNEY, JR., back when he was still on drugs (probably), and he has a sweet mullet going on. So Benning starts experiencing Downey's dreams, which kind of gives her clues as to who he is going to kill next and when, but after she tells the police they say "this bitch is crazy" and throw her into a mental institution but apparently she can astral-project herself into other people's bodies so she takes over the body of this one nurse who wears a lot of red lipstick so she can seduce a fat cop and steal his squad car at a diner and then ... well, let's just say it ends with a million billion police everywhere and Iron Man threatening to gorilla press slam Kevin Spacey's wife in American Beauty off a bridge. This is pretty much the kind of movie that comes on TNT at 3:30 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon ... needless to say, you ain't missing much at all if you decide to skip this one. 

Talk about getting ... ahead ... of yourself! (Get it, because it's a severed head, you see.)

So there you have it kids - five totally free horror flicks, spanning three, almost four decades - you can hit up on the Interwebs at this very moment. Really, as long as you have diverse tastes as a horror aficionado, you really can't go wrong with either of the five freebies above (well, except for In Dreams ... that one sucks, no matter what your genre bread and butter may be.) Anyhoo, I just wanted to commend Paramount for having the foresight and decency to put up some horror flicks people actually would want to watch online for free. Of course, I'd love to see them open up their vaults and post more flicks, and hell, why aren't other big name studios like Warner Bros. and 20th Century Fox doing the same thing? If there is anything running a semi-popular website for half a decade has taught me, it's that people will consume just about anything as long as you don't ask them to pay for it. And with that in mind, I conclude with a polite suggestion for film studios, across the globe: you want hits, and you want advertising revenue? Keep giving us free movies, and - counter-intuitively, I know - the money will roll right in, I promise you. 

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Revisiting the 1991 Royal Rumble!

It's a nostalgic look back at the WWF at the height of its early '90s glory ... and holy hell, are there are a lot of dead wrestlers in this one. 

By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@Jimbo__X

NOTE: This article is dedicated to the late, great Harry Simon, whose retro-tastic recaps of pro wrestling follies remain some of the most entertaining stuff you'll ever find on the Intrawebs. Thanks for the memories, Captain Clusterschmazz. - THX, MGMT. 

Even though I haven't watched a full pro wrestling event since George W. Bush was in office, a little piece of my heart - the same piece that enjoys eating raw cookie dough and furtively playing Flash-based Sega Genesis games at work - still professes a great interest and admiration of the Theatre of the American Proletariat. As I've said many times before, professional wrestling is pretty much the best stupid thing out there; whereas literally everything else in American society tries to reinforce its own self-importance, 'rasslin is pretty much the only cultural institution I can think of that actually revels in its own asininity and incredulity. In a world cluttered with pretentious bullshit, pro wrestling stands out as the complete antithesis, taking excessive pride in being totally ridiculous and utterly needless nonsense. 

While pro wrestling can rightly be considered weird form of performance art - indeed, I'd consider some of the high-end puroresu and lucha libre contests to border on ballet-caliber beauty - sometimes, even the violent grace of a Kawada/Misawa masterpiece is a bit too intellectual. And when even barbed-wire, exploding ring swimming pool death matches fail to get your retard juices flowing, there's only one resource to turn to ... the Royal fuckin' Rumble. 

Oh yes, that beloved annual rite, the Rumble. Forget the unheralded artistry and kinesthetic brilliance of performers like Ric Flair and Ricky Steamboat, this is pro 'rasslin in its purest, rawest essence. The epic showcases have sometimes featured as many as 40 grapplers going at it in a survival-pool battle royale where pinfalls and submissions don't mean shit and the only way to prove your superiority is to pick up your opponents by their ballsacks and throw 'em over the top rope like yesterday's garbage. Although the contests largely comprise of huge, indistinguishable masses of flab and steroids vibrating in the four corners of the ring for an hour and half, it's nonetheless about as exciting and engaging as pro wrestling gets. Nonfans will never grasp the inherent greatness of a Shinsuke Nakamura/Hiroshi Tanahashi battle, but by golly, everybody can enjoy the simple pleasures of watching fat and muscular people trying to throw each other to the floor. 

While modern Rumbles have taken on a new-found storyline significance (from 1993 onward, the victor of the contest is automatically awarded a championship match-up at WrestleMania), the older events were about nothing more than pride and honor, to see which wrestlers had the most stamina and longevity and ability to point at the ring ropes and raise their hands in the air, pantomiming dropping some lard-o on his tuckus (which probably  explains why Hulk Hogan won so many of them back in the day.) 

While wrestling purists (read: virgins) tend to cite the 1992 Rumble as the best of 'em all, I'd probably go with the 1991 iteration as my all-time favorite. Back when video stores still existed, I used to rent the VHS copy at least once every couple of months. To this day, I really have no idea why I liked it so much; none of the matches were really that great and the Rumble itself was fairly uneventful. Still, it had that aura, that sense of time and place being absolutely perfect. It was Hogan, Warrior, Savage, Sgt. Slaughter and The Million Dollar Man in their prime, with soon-to-be legends like Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels and The Undertaker slowly coming into their own. You could get better matches a few years down the road, but as far as general atmosphere, this was about as good as the WWF really got in the 1990s. 

But 25 years later, does the George H.W. Bush Era magic still linger? Only one way to find out, folks: time to fire up that VCR, hit play, and let the good times roll...

Before we get into the main card, we have ourselves a 30-minute long pre-show hard sell for the PPV, featuring Sean Mooney - who looks and sounds just like conservative gas-bag Sean Hannity - on the mic. He explains the Royal Rumble rules and runs down the Warrior vs. Sgt. Slaughter Championship bout. Eh, I guess I need to give you some background, no? The Ultimate Warrior - who was supposed to be the successor to Hulk Hogan - had been champion for about a year. Alas, he was never the draw Hogan was, and the WWF decided to pull the plug on his championship reign. Instead of having him drop the belt directly to Hogan, however, it was decided that Warrior would lose the title to Sgt. Slaughter - who had been recast as a Saddam Hussein sympathizer, right at the height of the first Gulf War - who, of course, would go on to have his ass kicked by the All-American (and black person hatin') Hulkster at that year's WrestleMania. 

Mooney reads a statement from WWF President Jack Tunney, who says Slaughter's views on the Gulf War do not represent the company, or even Arab people in general ... which is immediately followed by previously recorded footage of the Iron Sheik saying a bunch of menacing-sounding Arabic shit on Brother Love's talk show. 

The Ultimate Warrior - canonically, I think he was supposed to be some kind of intergalactic Indian - responds with a completely indecipherable promo, prompting Mooney to respond with the deadpan remark "some very emotional comments from the title holder." 

After some more hard-selling for the PPV WHICH IS STARTING IN JUST 20 MINUTES YA'LL, Mooney recaps the Rhodes family/Ted Dibiase rivalry. Apparently, it stems from the Million Dollar Man trying to buy Dustin Rhodes' ringside seat on an episode of Saturday Night's Main Event, which by proxy cost Dusty Rhodes a countout loss against Randy Savage. More footage reveals Dibiase referring to Texans as the lowest form of life imaginable, except for his man-servant Virgil. Who is black. 

Sean Mooney, ladies and gentleman. THE Sean Mooney. 

From there, we get a nice overview of the Barbarian/Big Bossman feud, which was spurred by Bobby Heenan's nonstop insults directed towards the Big Bossmom. We get five solid minutes of Heenan riffing on Bossman's mom, calling her the stat of "Godzilla Eats Cobb County" and the consumer of 90 percent of the nation's beans, which, yeah, is pretty much the best thing ever. Oh, and there is some shit in there about the Rockers and the Orient Express, but really, who has time for that kind of stuff? 

The next ten minutes, we get a rundown of all 30 participants in the Rumble, with a few extended shit-talking segments from the likes of Hogan, Mr. Perfect, Jake the Snake and Earthquake, who is about as intelligible as Don Vito from Viva La Bam. And now? It's time for the pay-per-view portions of the evening, fellas and, uh, fellarettes? 

Oh, and because we are morbid-ass people, I'm going to keep a running tally of all the people featured on the PPV who, as of January 2016, have since passed on to the great canvas in the sky. Think we can accumulate enough after-the-fact corpses to fill up an all-deceased Royal Rumble? 

The show proper begins with a still shot of a waving American flag. Cue the National Anthem, as an instrumental, accompanied by tons of shots of kids in the arena sporting dumb haircuts. 

We get a quick highlight video name checking this year's Rumble participants, who include such illustrious wrestlers as Hulk Hogan, Bret "Hitman" Hart, The Tugboat and Saba goddamn Simba, which even by pro wrestling's lenient standards, is still racist as fuck.

We are coming to you LIVE from the Miami Arena in southern Florida/northern Cuba, as Roddy Piper (CORPSE COUNT: One) cuts a slobbery promo about the first Gulf War. Calling the action alongside him is Gorilla Monsoon (CORPSE COUNT: Two) in a bright red blazer, which he apparently got on loan from Richard Pryor.  

Howard Finkel introduces the New Orient Express, comprised of Pat Tanaka and Kato (who would later go on to portray the WWF's first wrestler citing the Moon as his hometown) and managed by Mr. Fuji (who unbelievably, is still alive.) Their opponents? The Rockers, Marty Jannetty and Shawn Michaels, sporting puke blue, purple and gold britches with confetti-looking streamers glued all over them. 

Fittingly enough, the Express tries to Pearl Harbor the Rockers, but they shake them off. Jannetty ties up with Kato to begin the bout, and secures a traditional headlock takedown. Roddy tells us that's not a submission move, per se; rather, it is meant to apply pressure to your opponents lungs and wear them out. Kato gets an armdrag, and Marty fires back with a scissors roll and a bridging nearfall. Tanaka gets the tag, and in comes Shawn, who immediately goes to town on his foe's arm. Tanka hits Shawn with a flying forearm smash, and its time for an extended chinlock sequence. Gorilla reminds us the winner of this bout gets a tag team title shot against the Hart Foundation. Shawn bangs the Express' heads together, and he follows it up with another chinlock. Cue a "We Will Rock You Chant" from the crowd, which is weird, but still not as weird as hearing the fans shout "Whoomp! There It Is" over and over again at mid-'90s WCW shows. 

Shawn applies a sleeperhold. While the ref's back is turned, Kato sneaks in a cheap shot. Tanaka responds with a nice leg sweep, and Roddy reminds us about the WWF's policy on open-handed punches only. Shawn hits a moonsault - remember, this was back when NOBODY did any twisty-looking shit - and it is time for a good old fashioned, four-man donnybrook. In a great sequence, the Rockers hit stereo dropkicks and follow them up with dual suicide slides to the outside. For early 1990s WWF, this is actually some fairly intense stuff. 

So Kato crawls back in and Michaels almost gets a near-fall. Jannetty gets the tag, and we default to a lengthy headlock sequence. Shawn goes back in, hits a high suplex, and the Orient double teams him. Shawn is dropped throat first on the top rope, and Mr. Fuji uses the downtime to whack 'em once with his cane. And remember, that's one of those Japanese canes, and God only knows what kind of super-hard wood they make their shit out of. 

Tanaka with more throat chops. USA chant. More chopping from Tanka, and one of of those weird leapfrog jumping attack thingies on Shawn's kidneys. Jannetty breaks up the pin attempt. Tanaka still working the throat. There is an extended nerve pinch sequence, which prompts Piper to ironically state "there's no gas shortage here." 

Kato gets the tag. Gorilla talks about how well the Express is cutting the ring in half (proverbially, not physically.) Tanaka crescent kicks Michaels. Double clothesline nets a two-count for Tanaka. It's a classic "Memphis-style" tag bout now, with one of the good guys getting the dogshit beat out of him be them evil foreigners, desperately in need of the hot, redemptive tag from his hyper eager-partner. Of course, Marty gets the tag and cleans house with a million billion scoop slams and dropkicks, but he only gets a two-count on a Kato power slam. 

Michaels and Tanaka brawl on the outside. Jannetty gets a backslide pin, but Kato reverses, but who gives a fuck, because he only gets a two-count. Michaels trips up Kato, Jannetty gets another near-fall. Double kick from the Rockers. Michaels goes up top but Tanaka kicks him off. A slingshot from Kato allows Tanaka to brain chop Marty. But Shawn comes in at the last second, allowing Jannetty to secure a sunset flip pin out of nowhere. It's pretty rudimentary stuff by today's standards, but for the time, that was actually some pretty hot shit, especially considering the slow as molasses stuff that comprised 85 percent of most WWF matches. 

Mooney is in the back with the Macho Man (CORPSE COUNT: Three), who said Sgt. Slaughter will give him a title shot if he wins the championship tonight. As insurance, he's hired the Sensational Sherri (CORPSE COUNT: Four) to go out and "bait" the Ultimate Warrior (CORPSE COUNT: Five) into giving him the same guarantee. 

So Sherri is on an interviewing platform with Mean Gene, with a picture-in-picture in the bottom corner of the screen showing Savage watching intensely. She challenges the Ultimate Warrior to give the Macho Man a title shot, labeling him "yellow" from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. Sure enough, this prompts the champion to come out, rocking some super patriotic regalia - including  red white and blue tighty-whities and a Chuck Norris-caliber red and black leather jacket. 

Ahh ... were would the wrestling world be without pandering to the lowest common denominator?

All right, I guess I should've mentioned the historical context of this way earlier. You see, this PPV aired right before Operation: Desert Shield kicked off in Saudi Arabia, which was the predicate for Operation: Desert Storm (aka, that time George H.W. kicked the dogshit out of Saddam Hussein, but for some reason, never finished him off.) As such, the hyper-patriotic pro-wrestling fan base was stirred up into a militaristic tizzy, and the WWF was totally stoked to keep the pro-USA/killing brown foreigners sentiments a-raging. As anyone who recalls my recap of WCW's "Dixie Dynamite" card would remember, the fake-fighting business was more than eager to keep the jingoism rolling, even though the actual fighting was more or less over and done with by March '91.

So back to Sherri - who looks like Cher, if Cher did a lot of heroin - as she attempts to seduce the Warrior by touching his chest, rubbing his "big, wide back" and complimenting his "wonderful hair." After he rebuffs a smooch, she gets down on her knees and begs him for a title shot ... not at all looking like she's about to give him a BJ or anything. 

So, Warrior hocks a loogie on the floor, starts shaking like Michael J. Fox getting electrocuted and screams "NO!" much to the crowd's delight. After he pounds his chest and leaves, Savage goes BERSERK in the locker room, breaking all kinds of shit and threatening to kick the champion's ass right then and there. 

Up next, we've got the Barbarian - some sort of steroid-addled, time-displaced Viking warrior who wears antlers and a fur pelt - taking on the Big Boss Man (CORPSE COUNT: Six), whose canonical day job is jailing' sum bitches in Cobb County, Georgia. Oh, and the whole reason they are scuffling is because the Barbarian's handler, Bobby Heenan, won't stop saying hilariously mean things about Boss Man's mama. 

A lock-up to begin. Boss Man gets the best of an early exchange. Barbarian takes a tumble to the outside and gets a good eye-rake in, which he follows with an ax handle smash. Boss Man (we will just call him "Boss" to save bandwidth from hereon out) catches him and tosses him over the top rope (which, as we all know, would've gotten him disqualified had he done such in rival company WCW at that point in time.)

Piper says these are among the two best athletes he's ever seen, meaning Piper in his storied career has seen at least two wrestlers before. Barb gets a suplex. Boss is down, but not out. A roundhouse right sends Boss reeling to the outside, and oh snap, he gets his leg tied up in the bottom two ropes, allowing Barb to tee off on him. Barb untangles Boss and slams into a metal ring post, back first. He wails on the canvas, and Heenan gets a few free kicks in while the ref is distracted. 

Boss rolls back in and Barb continues to stomp him. Boss sells a backbreaker like his back really is broken. Cue an extended bear hug sequence, with Boss slowly starting to fight back. And check this dude in the front row with an air-brushed denim Warrior jacket and a sweet mullet (hell, he might even be a young Eddie Guerrero, for all I know.) More elbow drops from Barb, but they only net a two-count. More bear-huggery. Piper says Boss needs to try to leverage out of the hold by doing something to Barb's crotch. He instead headbutts him and takes a chunk out of forehead. Rather dirty tactics for an alleged "face" and law-keeper, eh, Boss Man?

So Boss gets an enziguri and a near fall. Now Boss is totally on the offensive. Barb with a two count on a roll-up attempt. A slingshot, uh, shot, sends Barb to the ropes, with a two-count on the follow through. A double knockdown following a clothesline-thingy. Barb lands a top-rope clothesline, but Boss gets his foot on the bottom rope to interrupt the pinfall. Boss retaliates with a sidewalk slam, and Barb ripostes with an eye poke and weird piledriver-looking thing. He goes up top again, but Boss reverse the cross body on the mat and picks up a three count out of nowhere. 

We go to the back, where Sean Mooney is interviewing that dastardly turncoat Sgt. Slaughter and the Iron Shiek, who cuts a promo in what I assume to be Farsi. (Which, as it turns out, is the language of Iran and NOT Saddam's Iraq, but hey, who's counting?) Slaughter calls his adversary the "Ultimate Puke" and promises that his winning the title will cause "turmoil like you've never seen before," and that Warrior's weeks, days and hours have ceased being numbered. This leads to a Mean Gene interview with the Warrior, he says he only takes orders and doesn't give them. Then he says something about a grain of sat and a foxhole leading to defeat and that only demented people would follow Slaughter. 

So, Slaughter saunters to the ring with Sheik waving the Iraqi flag. Piper uses the time to discuss the merits of the First Amendment and that while he doesn't like Slaughter's politics, he certainly believes he has the right to express his unpopular opinion. A kid holds a sign that reads "Gomer is a traitor," which makes me ponder how the hell a six-year-old circa 1991 knew who Gomer Pyle was. Dudebros pump fists for the Warrior when he comes out, with kids throwing their little wrestling buddy dolls in the air like they just don't care. 

As expected, Warrior comes out swinging, clotheslining everybody for AMERICA, dammit. He breaks the Iraqi flag pole over his knees and rips the flag itself in half, much to the crowd's jubilant, jingoistic, delight. 

Warrior beats Sgt. with the flag remnants, choking him with the fabric and shoving the cloth in his mouth. The match begins proper, with Warrior whupping that ass with clotheslines every which-a-way. Out comes Sherri, whom Warrior chases to the back, only to get Pearl Harbored by Macho Man, who pummels him with a guard rail and sneaks off back to the locker room. 

Warrior stumbles towards the ring, as the fans chant "USA." Sgt keeps breaking up the count-out so he can win the belt (titles can't change hands, per wrestling convention, unless its by pin fall or submission.) Warrior starts to slowly "Warrior Up" - you know, all that shaking the ropes and "raising the roof" retarded shit he does. It's a short comeback though, as Sgt. goes back to working the back with elbow drops and stomps. WHICH MEANS IT IS CAMEL CLUTCH TIME, MOTHERFUCKERS. But Warrior's feet are dangling outside the mat, so the ref waves it off. Warrior starts dancing around like a possessed Injun and clotheslines Sgt. a million billion times before finishing him off with a flying shoulder tackle. But dabnabit, here comes that wicked Sherri, whom Warrior gorilla press slams to the outside onto Macho Man. 

That allows Sgt. to attack Warrior from behind. Macho whacks Warrior with a scepter, which allows Sgt. to pick up the easy three count. A loud "bullshit" chant ensues once Sgt. is announced as the new World Champ. Warrior storms back to the locker room to chase down Maho Man, while Sgt. celebrates his title win with the Iron Sheik. Without hyperbole, this is a greater travesty than the Holocaust. 

Presumably, Gorilla's shades give him the same enlightening worldview Piper experienced in They Live. 

Up next, we've got a throwaway bout between Koko B. Ware and The Mountie (accompanied by Jimmy Hart, of course.) Piper throws a shoutout to Michael Nelson for "kicking butt" in the Middle East, and promises to buy the returning troops a big glass of "skim milk, and maybe something else." 

Monsoon said the Mountie uses "mounted police submission tactics," which apparently includes the art of holding the back of one's head and pressing down on their nose like a ketchup dispenser. He slams Koko's head into the ring post and starts goose-steeping. Piper says "damn it," but quickly amends himself to "dog gone it." Yeah, not much more to say about this one - The Mountie wins, in case you were wondering. And you don't.

Sean Mooney is backstage with Macho Man, with Warrior trying to break the door down. At the announce desk, Piper and Gorilla recap the Warrior/Savage feud, and what the ultimate outcome of Slaughter's victory means for the WWF. 

Mean Gene is in the back with Slaughter and Sheik, the latter of whom is probably high on cocaine. Unlike other military leaders, Sgt. says he has no boundaries, and that as maggots, we are all summarily dismissed from the interview. This is followed by a lengthy pre-taped segment, featuring fans outside the arena talking about how much they support the troops.

Now it's time for a million-trillion Royal Rumble promos. Hogan said he is going to military bases all over the U.S. to encourage the troops, because the D.O.D. shot down his proposal to tour the Middle East so he could presumably Atomic Leg Drop the Republican Guard.  To recap the hype videos: Jake the Snake hates Rick Martel, Earthquake is all jumpy and hates Hogan, Greg Valentine want to use his "hammer" to crash down on 29 other people and Jim Duggan is literally retarded. 

More hard-selling from Piper and Monsoon. Piper talks about having dinner with Virgil, which once again involves discussion of "skim milk." Backstage, Mooney interviews "The Million Dollar Man" Ted Dibiase and his tag team partner, Virgil, who is literally his slave. And yes, Virgil just so happens to be an African-American. In the year 1991. 

Anyway, they are taking on the father and son combo of Dusty (CORPSE COUNT:Seven) and Dustin Rhodes, who would find greater success in the ring portraying a homosexual, anthropomorphic awards statue.  There's a lot of animosity between Virgil and Dibiase, with the abusive Dibiase perhaps pushing his man-servant a bit too hard as of late. Regardless, they begin the contest by attacking the Rhodes' from behind, with Dustin landing a sweet drop kick on Virgil, who is immediately chided by his "master." Ted gets the tag and proceeds to beat the dog shit out of Dustin, until Dusty gets the tag and locks the Million Dollar Man in a sleeperhold - which is promptly broken up by Virgil. 

Dustin gets back in and a dropkick finds its mark on Ted. Virgil breaks it up, and Piper - in defense of the American prole - said he enjoys riding a jet ski more than he does a yacht. Dibiase slams Dustins' leg against the ring post, and Virgil unintentionally strikes Ted. Dibiase responds be beating the holy hell out of his own partner. Dusty comes in and starts wailing on Dibiase, but Ted is nonetheless able to weather the storm and secure a flash roll-up pin out of nowhere for the victory. 

Post-match, Dibiase criticizes Virgil, telling him to go get his Million Dollar belt - canonically, Dibiase is so rich he had his own damn belt made just for him - and wrap it around his waist like a good pickaninny. Virgil, instead, throws it to the mat. Dibiase tells him to think of his poor ass family and mama. And Virgil smashes him in the face with the strap, as "the capacity crowd" goes wild. 

And we have one last round of hype videos before the Royal Rumble proper kicks off. Hulk dedicates the Rumble to the troops, mispronounces the word "firepower," and can't remember who Saddam Hussein is. Yeah, you need to YouTube this shit. 

Having a black wrestler come out carrying a spear and wearing a loincloth. Yep, nothing insensitive about that whatsoever!

For those of you requiring an overview of how the Royal Rumble works, it's pretty simple. Two men start scuffling in the ring, and every two minutes, another entrant enters the fray. The only way to win is to toss your opponent over the top rope to the mat below, and the last man standing once all 30 men have entered is the winner. 

Entrant number one is Bret Hart. Entrant number two is Dino Bravo (CORPSE COUNT: Eight), so it's basically an all Canadian jamboree to get things rolling. 

Greg "The Hammer Valentine" draws slot three. He eliminated Dino Bravo and beats up Jimmy Hart for good measure. Entrant no. 4 is Paul Roma, a.k.a. the shittiest Horseman ever, alongside his manager Slick, who I totally forgot was still employed by the WWF that late into the 1990s. 

Bret headbutts Valentine's ass for no reason. No. 5 is the Texas Tornado, Kerry Von Erich (CORPSE COUNT: Nine), back when he still had a leg. And, uh, was all alive and stuff. No. 6 is Rick "The Model" Martel, and No. 7 is none other than SABA fucking SIMBA, who is bodybuilder Tony Atlas literally portraying a spear-chucking bushman from the African jungle. 

Tornado puts "The Claw" to Roma. No. 8 is Bushwhacker Butch, and Martel eliminates Simba. 

No. 9 is Jake the Snake, who makes a beeline for Martel. Jake gets a huge ovation when he beats the fuck out of the French Canadian model with short-arm clotheslines. No. 10 is Hercules (CORPSE COUNT: 10), who teams up with Power and Glory partner Roma to pound on the Butch. 

No. 11 is Tito Santana. Roma is eliminated trying to send Jake over the top rope. No. 12 is The Undertaker ... accompanied by Brother Love and not Paul Bearer ... who immediately eliminates Bret. No. 13 is murder suspect Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka. Taker eliminates Butch. 

No. 14 is the British Bulldog (CORPSE COUNT: 11), who allegedly drugged his wife's OJ so he could anally terrorize her. No. 15 is Smash from Demolition. Martel eliminates Jake. 

No. 16 is Hawk (CORPSE COUNT: 12) from the Legion of Doom. Half the ring gangs up on him. No. 17 is Shane Douglas, rocking the Tampa Bay Buccaneers Creamsicle orange underwear. Superfly and the Texas Tornado are eliminated.

No. 18 is ... nobody. Well, that's some shit. No. 9 is Animal from L.O.D., who rescues his tag team partner from the Taker. Monsoon lets us know whoever had the 18th spot has officially forfeit his spot in the Rumble. A double L.O.D. clotheslines eliminates the Taker, but Hawk gets dumped immediately afterwards. 

No. 20 is Crush (CORPSE COUNT: 13) of Demolition. He helps Smash double team the Bulldog. No. 21 is Jim Duggan. Piper tells us the Rumble requires a lot of strategy, and that if he were in that motherfucker, he'd be going after the guys who have been in the match the longest. No. 2 is Earthquake (CORPSE COUNT: 14), who immediately eliminates Animal.

No. 23 is Mr. Perfect (CORPSE COUNT: 14). Brilliantly, he takes his sweet time ambling to the ring. Although he is assailed by Duggan as soon as he steps through the ropes, he manages to eliminate Hacksaw in no time. 

No. 24 is Hulk Hogan, who gets a huge ovation because its a good 25 years before we all knew he was a racist. He eliminates Smash and tangles up with Earthquake, who teams up with Hercules to pound the Hulkster.

No. 25 is Haku, rocking some awesome rainbow britches. Valentine is eliminated after 44 minutes in the bout. Martel chokes Hulk with his tattered shirt.

No. 26 is Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart, who for some reason, never tag-teamed alongside Gred "The Hammer" Valentine. Quake tosses Santana, and Perfect tries to eliminate Hulk. Quake ass smashes Douglas, and I laugh a hearty laugh. 

No. 27 is Bushwhacker Luke, who is instantly eliminated by Earthquake. No. 28 is Nasty Boy Brian Knobbs, who once lost the physical tag team belt while smoking weed with Willie Nelson. Hercules is eliminated. No. 29 is Warlord, who was basically Goldberg before Goldberg was Goldberg. Hulk eliminates Crush, then drops Warlord. 

And the final man in? Tugboat. Apparently, Savage was supposed to be No. 18, but he got scared Warrior would come after him and kick his anus. And with all of our contestants in, it is time for things to get really rocking.

Douglas is eliminated. You know, the whole bout, Monsoon kept putting him over, talking about him being a hot up and comer. I wonder what went wrong there?

Down to the final ten. I think. Quake steps on Perfect, and Piper apologizes for saying "living hell." Hulk eliminates Tugboat and Perfect gets dumped by the Bulldog. 

Martel eliminates Anvil and Bulldog gets rid of Haku. Our final five? Hulk, Quake, Bulldog, Martel and Knobbs. Bulldog eliminates Martel, who was in the contest for 53 minutes. Quake and Knobbs eliminate the Bulldog and double team Hulk.

Following some ass splashes from Quake and a few elbow drops from Knobbs, Hulk HULKS UP and double clothelines both of those motherfuckers. He boots Knobbs clean out of the ring and Hulk starts unloading on Quake ... for the troops. 

Hulk punches out Jimmy Hart and Quake reverses a body slam attempt by the Hulkster. Quake retaliates with another elbow drop onslaught. The fans chant for Hogan, and he HULKS UP again. He no sells Quake's punches and hits the big boot and a body slam. Then he dumps him to officially win the 1991 Royal Rumble.

Cure "Real American," as the Hulkster does his iconic poses and shows off some of the fans' posters, including one that reads "Peace in the Middle East" and another stating that Saddam and Slaughter will both surrender. Piper screams "God Bless America," Hulk waves Old Glory, says his prayers to the man upstairs and this one is all over, folks. 

Relevant then, and relevant now, brother. 

Well, that was some stuff, wasn't it? As little more than a set-up for WrestleMania VII, it wasn't a half-bad PPV, especially considering the timeframe. For those wondering where we went from there, the Hulkster did indeed whoop Slaughter's ass and take back the World Heavyweight Championship, and Warrior exacted his revenge against the Macho Man in a now-classic "loser-most-retire" match (in which Savage stayed retired for all of eight months.) While Virgil didn't win his independence from Dibiase, he did earn himself some new-found self-respect, and with it, the eternal friendship of one Rowdy Roddy Piper. And oh yeah, Jake the Snake and Rick Martel fought each other with burlap sacks over their heads in a match that more or less consisted of them running into the ring posts and stretching their arms out like Frankenstein for ten minutes. All in all, it very well may have been the best $39.99 you could have spent on anything in the year 1991. 

While nothing on this card was Ric Flair/Ricky Steamboat in their prime-quality 'rasslin, overall, it was a pretty entertaining little show, with a way better than average for the company tag team opener and a satisfying, all-star clobber-a-thon featuring all sorts of grappling giants and titans of the squared circle, many of whom have since gone on to that great wrestling ring in the sky. Yes, it is antiquated and outmoded and and corny and cheesy and sometimes groan-inducing, but this Rumble maintains a sense of temporal quaintness, serving as a time capsule for not just early 1990s U.S. pro wrestling, but really, early 1990s American popular culture in general. 

As a cultural relic, I'm not sure what kind of relevancy this two and a half-decade old PPV has, but certainly, it has some sort of vintage value. It's dumb and it's semi-offensive and you can't help but scoff at how lame parts of it are, but as a whole? It's hard to not walk away from this show with a big, dopey grin on your face. And in the end, isn't that the whole point of 'rasslin - and really, the entire entertainment industry - to begin with? 

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Robocop: The Animated Series - The Pilot Episode!

Because why not turn one of the goriest, anti-capitalist screeds of the 1980s into a cartoon for the kiddo consumers?

By: Jimbo X

JimboXAmerican@gmail.com

@Jimbo__X

The 1980s were a strange, strange time in American consumer culture, especially in terms of kid-targeted marketing. On one end - and keep in mind, this was well before the Disney-Marvel-Star Wars pop cultural Wehrmacht came to exist - you had stuff that was pretty straight-forward, kid-baiting capitalist claptrap, sans any real subtext, intentional or unintentional - your Smurfs, your Super Marios, your Care Bears and so on and so forth. This being the Reagan Era, of course there was a lot of pseudo-political stuff being repackaged as preteen entertainment, as well; it's no coincidence that G.I. Joe suddenly came back into vogue right around the same time America was transitioning from its post-Vietnam non-interventionist stance to today's always-battle-ready global protectorates (David Sirota's entertaining 2011 tome Back to our Future is a great read for anyone looking to see how jingoistic media in the ALF years helped create a culture of militarism in the U.S. that is still reverberating today.) 

But on the other side of the toy store aisle - across the way from all of the Glo-Worms and My Little Pony dolls and Pound Puppies - you had stuff that seemed, well, just a wee bit outside the domain of juvenalia. Right next to Atari 2600 cartridges based on properties like E.T. and The Empire Strikes Back, there were video games inspired by ultra-violent splatter films like The Evil Dead and raunchy sex comedies like Porky's. Side by side with the hula hoops and Slinkies were startlingly realistic replicas of the machine guns used by Rambo and the A-Team, with some "playsets" more closely resembling the contents of Timothy McVeigh's tool shed than an elementary schooler's toychest. Wedged in between The Karate Kid action figures and plastic WWF pro wrestlers, one could find licensed playthings celebrating everything from a cybernetic assassin cop-killer to a horribly-disfigured, mass murdering child predator. And if you think that's a little age-inappropriate, just wait until you flip on the slate of Saturday morning television programming!

From the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s, there were, at various points in time, kid-centered cartoons based on all of the following, adult-themed licenses: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, Police Academy, Dumb and Dumber, Ace Ventura, Highlander, Conan the Barbarian, Little Shop of Horrors and, god help us, even The Toxic Avenger. Granted, these programs couldn't replicate the gross-out humor, sexual innuendos, and occasional disembowelings of their parent I.P., but they did what they could to soften up and reserve the properties (almost always with a corresponding toyline and video games out the wazoo) to America's consumption-hungry adolescent masses ... which, naturally, makes the existence of the 1988 Robocop cartoon series all the more ironic. 

It may have taken some major liberties with
the source material, but at least they kept in
the part where Eric Foreman's dad shoots
Murphy 40-bazillion times at point blank range.

My adulation for all things Robocop is no secret. Shit, I'll even go as far as to cite Paul Verhoeven's original 1987 film as the single greatest anti-consumerist satire in history, and probably the most palatable cinematic interpretation of Das Kapital that will -- or can ever -- exist. But even if you look beyond Robocop's less kid-friendly components - the dudes being melted by toxic waste, Red Foreman having his trachea ripped open with a metal spike, "bitches, leave," etc. - the central message of the film is that brain dead consumer culture is the root of all societal evil, and that mass marketed anything just stands to make us less happy and less intellectual citizens. So why the hell not repackage that thematic into a TV program for the booger-eater set?

The first Robocop cartoon series - a joint Marvel Productions/AKOM Productions venture - ran for one season in 1988. While the general gist of the Robocop mythos was left intact - the program even began with a toned-down re-imagining of Alex Murphy's execution! - the show made quite a few tweaks here and there, primarily, to expand the toy line ... I mean, in-show universe. While the program certainly didn't live up to the lofty precedent set by its source material, for what it's worth, it wasn't that bad of a little cartoon, and a few of its ideas actually bordered on ingenious. The execution - in more ways than one - may have been flawed, but you at least have to give the writers some points for trying; all in all, had the basic storyline of the show been used as the general basis for the Robo-sequels, Parts 2 and 3 probably would've turned out as way more entertaining movies. 

The pilot episode, titled "Crime Wave," introduces us the series' primary antagonists, a gaggle of criminal mischief-makers named the Vandals who share more than a passing resemblance to the Cretins from the Class of Nuke 'Em High franchise. Their shenanigans begin with a heist of the OCP-branded blood bank - why plasma in Future Detroit is so guldarn valuable, however, the episode never tells us. Carrying laser weapons, the scoundrels tell the po-po to kiss their "big toes" and threaten to blow the building sky high. They set an I.E.D. to go off in 12 minutes (not real time, of course), and here comes Robocop and his sidekick Officer Lewis to shoot the guns out of the bad guys' hands and prevent a few of them from making a getaway in a stereotypical 1980s rape-wagon. Robocop, with eleven seconds to spare, decides to get rid of the explosives by throwing them really high in the air, where the contents safely explode overhead and totally don't send shrapnel raining down on innocent citizens below.

Believe it or not, it does look like the cartoon included the
full frontal female nudity of the source material, though.

After a still exterior jump-cut which appears to feature a poster of a topless woman lets us know we're back at the precinct, Robocop recounts his "prime directives," which irritates the station sergeant who believes OCP never should have made cyborg cops to begin with and that those no-good ruffians wouldn't have even set off the damn dynamite had that walking refrigerator powered by Peter Weller guts not intervened. From there, we hop to an OCP boardroom meeting, where the metal-fisted (literally) Dr. McNamara says that Robocop is causing too much collateral damage and it's time to bring out the old enforcement drones as replacements. Cue the all new ED-260 traffic control guards, which are basically the ED-209 sentries from the first movie, albeit with red and green lights welded onto them. As you'd expect, the unit tends to overreact when people make illegal U-turns, and before long, its rampaging down the streets of the Motor City, machine gunning people for not using their blinkers. 

Following the embarrassing incident, Dr. McNamara comes up with a pretty creative way to save face. Traveling to the local arcade - complete with coin-ops titled Rambo and Cobra - he throws down a briefcase full of cash before the Vandals (it's never explained how they got out of jail for the blood bank heist, however, nor why the fuck they have a robotic wiener dog in their gang) and tells them he'll supply them with all of the high-tech weaponry they need to embark upon a rampage across Detroit. The idea, essentially, is to convince his Omni Consumer Products higher-ups that the crime level in town is so out-of-control that Robocop alone can't handle the volume, thus necessitating the roll-out of those aforementioned ED-260 bots. 

This being a children's cartoon, their mayhem is limited to pretty PG-stuff, like driving dune buggies through department stores and setting teddy bears and Voltron action figures on fire. Still, it's more than enough tomfoolery to rouse the ire of the stereotypical black police chief, who speaks almost entirely in sports metaphors. After inquiring to the whereabouts of Robocop, we learn he is downstairs, having an "upgrade" installed by technician Dr. Tyler, who gets into a brief argument with Lewis, who accuses her firmware patches of wiping the "humanity" out of Robo's brain. 

You know what's sorely missing from today's cartoons? Sociopaths with chainsaws.

The Vandals - now equipped with all sorts of high-end weapons, including electro-shock gloves, chainsaws and even a pair of boots that can cause mini-earthquakes - are causing a ruckus at a shopping mall, and the local police are no match for their, uh, bowling balls. Thankfully, Robocop shows up and uses his expert marksmanship to shoot down a pile of twisted metal to create a makeshift kennel for a cyborg dachshund (no, really), but LOLOOPS! He ends up getting crushed under a pile of rubble, complete with his arm popping off. 

We see that damn exterior department matte painting bumper (the third time this episode!) and Dr. Tyler says Robocop may have to go offline for good. This causes Lewis to kvetch about being responsible for Murphy's second demise. For like, two seconds. 

At an OCP meeting, McNamara (boy, I wonder where that name came from?) shows the suits news clips of the Vandals royally fucking up the mall. Apparently, they've acquired jet-boosted vehicles, which kind of begs the question - couldn't the OCP auditors easily trace all of the money used to fund the crime spree back to McNamara, or is he pulling some Superman III/Office Space secret account shit on us?

Using God knows how much money from God knows what funding streams, the hoodlums have managed to build a giant bulldozer-type weapon, which they use to break into the Federal Reserve and steal gold bars. Interestingly enough, they don't encounter the mysterious oil-drum headed mastermind from The American Dream, which alone makes this cartoon a far more realistic take on central banking and fiat capital. 

A half-powered Robocop shows up, and he's immediately knocked out by a steel beam. Lewis makes the save by tossing a smoke grenade in the bulldozer, which additionally gives Robo some time to recharge his batteries. Assailed by thugs, Robocop is mercilessly set ablaze and chainsawed - which, yeah, isn't exactly something you saw happening to the protagonists in that many other late 1980s cartoons. Eventually, though, he powers up to full capacity and starts tossing thugs around like lawn darts. Using one of those handy, dandy steel beams just lying all over the place, he manages to send the bulldozer operator off-course, retrieve his handgun and with his impeccable sharpshooting skills, make the heavy machinery's gas tank explode. And in true 1980s cartoon fashion, despite all of the wanton carnage going on, not only does no one get killed, no one is even seriously injured. 

With the crime wave officially halted, OCP reneges on its plans to introduce the new ED-260 models, with a distraught McNamara vowing revenge and to expose Robocop as nothing more than a pile of "nuts and bolts." Back at the office, the shouty Afro-American chief keeps using sports analogies and Dr. Tyler chides Robocop for going back out into battle knowing he could have been damaged beyond repair. She orders him to hit the electro-charger chair thingy ASAP. "You can't keep a good man down," Lewis states, to which Tyler responds "or a good machine." Cue a somewhat out-of-character smirk from Robocop, and this one is all over. 

And Alex Murphy gives that sweet scientist ass his thumbs-up of approval...

All in all, the Robocop cartoon series - which lasted just one season - was somewhere between better than average and almost great. The show was certainly prone to all of the late 1980s cartoon tropes and thematic devices - with hyena-laughing villains knocking off cookie factories and slapstick humor replacing all of the psychopathic bad guys butchering police officers and satirical gore of the first flick - but it nonetheless had its moments of brilliance. Beating I, Robot to the punch by about 15 years, one episode dealt with rampant anti-robot discrimination sweeping Detroit, complete with the appearance of a hooded, cyborg-hating sect that acted, and looked, just like the Ku Klux Klan, while another dealt with Robocop going rogue to take down some politically-untouchable corporate polluters (which, as fate would have it, predicted the mass contamination of Flint, Michigan's water resources almost 30 years in advance.) The series finale even threw one of the biggest curve balls in animated TV history, when it was revealed that the leader of the Vandals was none other than Clarence goddamn Boddicker himself, who, somehow, had managed to survive having his trachea ripped out with a data spike at the tail end of the first Robo-picture. 

Granted, the short-lived 'toon was really nothing more than a shameless excuse to market tie-in action figures, but to be fair, those action figures were pretty bitchin'. I mean, those motherfuckers doubled as cap pistols, and one of the toys sported a Hitler mustache ... sigh, if only I knew where I could've bought those little translucent blocks that were in EVERY toy commercial in the 1980s, I would have been in elementary school heaven. The Robo-mania would die down for awhile, but there was no corresponding toy line or animated revival by the time the somewhat-under-appreciated Robocop 2 hit theaters in 1990. Looking back on it, the '88 series definitely would have lent itself to an awesome - if not impossibly expensive - live-action Robocop sequel. I mean, who WOULDN'T have paid good money to watch Buckaroo Banzai wearing a refrigerator shoot it out with OCP-hired techno-goons with chainsaws and electro-death gloves welded to their hands? That's right, nobody who isn't a goddamn communist, that's who.

Following the box office disaster that was Robocop 3, Alex Murphy and pals were relegated to a crappy, no-budget live-action syndicated series that was redeemed ONLY by the fact that it featured Roddy Piper played a recurring vigilante superhero. The character got a second shot at animated stardom with 1998's Robocop: Alpha Command, which lasted about 40 episodes. Alas, I've never seen any of them and good God, will my girlfriend probably leave me if I told her I needed to invest a full weekend to binge-watching something intended for latchkey children at the beginning of the dotcom boom. 

The fate of this particular Robo-toon? Well, the Wikipedia says it got a limited video release in the early, early '90s, but due to the restrictive nature of the media format, it only included three episodes. The original cartoon ultimately did get a DVD release in the mid-2000s, but it appears it was limited to the U.K. 

So - unless you were one of those rare souls that had the original-syndicated television shows taped on VHS - it was pretty much impossible for us Yanks to watch the program for a good twenty years. Alas, the same way technology saved Alex Murphy from the icy sepulcher, the Intrawebs brought this antiquated bundle of nostalgia back from the dead. Thanks to the miracle of streaming video and Google's relaxed enforcement of copyright law, you can now watch every episode of Robo '88 online for free, anytime you want...

... you know, if you are a criminal and shit. And we all know how Robocop feels about criminals, don't we?

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