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Sometimes I like to ask for particularly colorful titles by name: "Excuse me, but do you carry Bloodsucking Freaks? No? Hmm... how about Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama? Rape of plump teens the Vampire? Fatty Drives the Bus? Darn. What about Baby's Day Out?" My friends tease me mercilessly about my foraging trips, and I admit that many times I end up renting what turns out to be absolute garbage: enticed by the illustration of plump teens a killer cat screaming in frenzy, I rent Blood Feast and am treated to 45 minutes of plump teens an Italian in a helicopter flying onto women's patios and waving. Convinced that no one could possibly mess up a movie about a woman with a singing vagina, I rent Chatterbox and have to drink myself to sleep after. This is a crapshoot, folks -- this is gambling in the truest sense of the word. It's not just my $1.50 that is at stake here -- it's a good chunk of my time, and more than that, my expectations and faith in the possibility that somewhere out there lurks an undiscovered or underappreciated gem that just begs to be unearthed and shared with others, that reeks with the stench of years of sitting, untouched, on the same shelf (I have a friend who insists that all video stores smell like carpeting that has had juice spilled on it), without even receiving
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