Overview: The tagline reads: "Will Stacey and the gang escape the slaughterhouse and the legend of Marty Sickle?" Like most movies where the tagline is a question, the answer is, of course, a resounding "who the fuck cares?"
Directed By: Paul Gagne, 2005
The Case For: "Marty Sickle."
The Case Against: "Marty Sickle."
Let's just jump right into this one like a big old boiling electrified chicken-slaughtering bathtub, shall we?
Oh yeah, uh, spoiler alert: that was the ending. Normally we'd probably mention that before showing the video, but under the circumstances you should thank us for trying our best to discourage you from actually watching the pile of putrid sunkissed hobo shit that is The Slaughterhouse Massacre all the way to its agonizingly retarded finale. Also, this movie has less of a plot than even the laziest softcore pornos ever made, so who the hell cares anyway. Seriously, you're not missing anything, because literally every noteworthy feature of the excruciating 97-minute is captured perfectly by that ending you just watched, features including:
To be fair, that's only a perfect description of most of the movie. For about the first twenty minutes, we were pretty sure this was actually just a straight-up softcore porno that Trojan-horsed its way onto Netflix in the guise of a crappy coed horror romp. As you all know, most of the movies we watch aren't above sneaking in some brazenly random titty vittles, butt cleavage, and/or the always tasteful extreme areola close-ups in the first ~2-5 minutes to lure in the more desperate/pathetic viewers who haven't figured out how to find actual internet porn yet with their feeble, Dad-like brains. But Slaughterhouse Massacre ups the ante, serving up a seemingly endless combo of uncomfortable full frontal, awkward lesbian groping, and moist, clunky fuck scenes underneath menageries of severed pig heads like platters of scrapple at a redneck buffet.
When you've got a girl who looks like she just knocked off every Hot Topic in the tri-state area and just sort of randomly dressed herself by throwing on whatever she grabbed while driving from one mall to the next without even looking at it graphically fingerbanging herself with extreme prejudice at the idea of chickens getting butchered before the 3:00 mark, you know you're in trouble. Frankly we're just kinda curious what she does every time she passes the Butterball case at the grocery store. We can't help but thinking that maybe if they'd stuck with that whole softcore motif, gone for a Skinemax distribution deal, and called it The Slutterhouse Massacre, this would have just been another really mediocre porno and we wouldn't be here right now. Sadly, Paul Gagne appears to be suffering from a terminal case of directorial ADD, so the porn-abortion intro gives way to a quarter-assed attempt at turning into some kind of cheesy found footage cliche, and then finally just abandons that too and settles back into a black, lifeless void of unfathomable suckitude from which no plot can escape that lasts right up until that ending.
And no, before you ask, we can't explain why every 34-year-old college student in town has such a deep and mysterious hardon for the abandoned slaughterhouse in the middle of nowhere either, but hey, here's a random community college scene that has literally not one single connection to anything anywhere in the movie and no discernable reason to exist in the first place, starring Professor Hans Moleman and the doe-eyed students of Remedial Toilet Repair 101:
We can say this much about old P. Gagme - if you decided to bust out the Wheel-O'-Shitty-Horror-Tropes and give it a good hearty spin right about now, you can bet it'd land on a few of the classics:
Too bad they're all so poorly executed you'll probably be either laughing or yelling at the screen by the time you've spotted them - like the cartoonish atomic skank bomb cliche creepily shoe-horned into the front row of Prof. Moleman's class who totally likes going to school every day wearing nothing but her most expensive/tightest fitting lingerie (and who never appears in the movie before or again, by the way), or the beautiful audacity of not only ganking The Terminator's theme song nearly note for note for their soundtrack, but biting from its ending so hard they're basically just LARPing by that point. Hell, even the killer's "backstory" seems to involve some dizzyingly nonsensical horseshit about him living alone in a giant slaughterhouse in an industrial park somewhere slaughtering chickens to the Star Spangled Banner all day before a lynch mob of teenagers came to get him or something.
They at least could've done us all the courtesy of inserting a few of the usual obligatory hilariously bad and wacky surprise kills, like body-slamming someone into a giant novelty-sized meatgrinder, or castrating them with a live pelican and then suffocating them to death with his buttcheeks, or tricking them into watching a really convincing fake PSA about how eating raw chicken is actually way healthier for you only for them to die of salmonella years later just as he bursts into their house so they can watch him tear their kids in half.
They did, however, give us this one:
And, oh yes, let's not forget about this guy, who we felt was the real star of this movie (and quite possibly the world's greatest backup dancer):
You know, if you just sit there and watch those over and over and skip the other 80 minutes of fucking nothing that is The Slaughterhouse Massacre, this movie actually starts to look pretty good. Well, if anyone needs us, that's what we'll be doing until next time.
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 And if you think that video was bad, that was the version we edited the shit out of for dead air.
 We'd say the director et al. were probably tokeing the 420 a little too hard when they made this too, but since that guy also smokes about 37 joints on-screen by himself over the course of a couple hours, we're pretty sure they have no idea how drugs work.
We might find we have more in common than we think if we just stop fighting long enough to combine our bodies into a singular organism.
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