The Proverbial “Blaze of Glory”
By: Chug Monky
Hello TTAD readers. I’m here today to discuss something that has been near and dear to my heart for the past seven years. That is, of course, the ending to one of the most magnificent cinematic works of the modern era – the last scene of Rob Zombie’s breathtaking The Devil’s Rejects. Like many of you I presume, this masterpiece was unbeknownst to me for quite some time. The only thing I knew about Rob Zombie was what the normal, everyday person you meet at the Laundromat knew about him: He’s one bad dude with an awesome beard, smoking hot girlfriend, killer tattoos, he worships the devil and it’s a shame that I’m not his illegitimate son.
Then I found out he was doing a remake of one of my favorite movies of all time – John Carpenter’s Halloween. Well, I don’t need to tell you that when I realized that this sick puppy was going to get his mitts on this material, both of my thumbs (and my weener) shot straight up. I decided I needed to delve a little deeper into Mr. Zombie’s filmography. So, one beautiful, sunny Sunday morn, Bunny and I choose to honor our Lord’s holy day by buying a cold case of easy-drinking Busch Lights and watching House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects in my parents’ basement. Two Zombie classics.
It’s safe to say that when the final scene of 1000 Corpses faded to black and the words “Written and Directed by Rob Zombie” appeared onscreen, we were less than impressed. In fact, I was dumbfounded. I looked like a mystified Tom Sizemore trying to make sense of his exorbitant hooker tab. Did I really just sit though 88 mindless minutes of piss-poor acting, scalpings, rapes, pedophile clowns, burn victims, doll fetishes, and people being skinned alive just to see Dwight from The Office be mutilated and, for no reason whatsoever, transformed into fishboy? It’s odd because typically the more bullshit that’s packed in a movie, the more I’m likely to recommend it. This had me rethinking my whole philosophy of film. I needed to take a walk. I strolled down to CVS on West Chester Pike, picked up a bag of Sour Patch Kids and sat down next to the dumpster to contemplate Mr. Zombie’s directorial skills. The bum to my right recognized a man in deep thought and offered me his brown-bagged bottle. I was more confused than he. I accepted. Took a sip. Just as I suspected – piss. Today was not my day.
Then I found out he was doing a remake of one of my favorite movies of all time – John Carpenter’s Halloween. Well, I don’t need to tell you that when I realized that this sick puppy was going to get his mitts on this material, both of my thumbs (and my weener) shot straight up. I decided I needed to delve a little deeper into Mr. Zombie’s filmography. So, one beautiful, sunny Sunday morn, Bunny and I choose to honor our Lord’s holy day by buying a cold case of easy-drinking Busch Lights and watching House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects in my parents’ basement. Two Zombie classics.
It’s safe to say that when the final scene of 1000 Corpses faded to black and the words “Written and Directed by Rob Zombie” appeared onscreen, we were less than impressed. In fact, I was dumbfounded. I looked like a mystified Tom Sizemore trying to make sense of his exorbitant hooker tab. Did I really just sit though 88 mindless minutes of piss-poor acting, scalpings, rapes, pedophile clowns, burn victims, doll fetishes, and people being skinned alive just to see Dwight from The Office be mutilated and, for no reason whatsoever, transformed into fishboy? It’s odd because typically the more bullshit that’s packed in a movie, the more I’m likely to recommend it. This had me rethinking my whole philosophy of film. I needed to take a walk. I strolled down to CVS on West Chester Pike, picked up a bag of Sour Patch Kids and sat down next to the dumpster to contemplate Mr. Zombie’s directorial skills. The bum to my right recognized a man in deep thought and offered me his brown-bagged bottle. I was more confused than he. I accepted. Took a sip. Just as I suspected – piss. Today was not my day.
After a few Bud Diesels at the Manoa Tavern I figured, “What the hell?” and decided that I was drunk enough at that point to give The Devil’s Rejects a try. So I made my way back down to the basement - only this time I was alone. I didn’t want to subject Bunny to any more horseshit jabberwocky than he needed to be. I did some stretching and some lunges to prepare myself, popped in the DVD, and cautiously covered my balls.
While I will not review the entire movie (just the ending) I will comment on a few things. Rejects is the direct sequel to 1000 Corpses, so to be fair, it could only go up from there. From the word “go” I was knocked on my ass by this movie. The opening scene starts with a gunfight between some Texas lawmen and a gang of no-good motherfuckers. I smiled. Then we get a montage of two of our anti-heroes on the run and killing bystanders all set to The Allman Brother’s Midnight Rider. I frantically started looking for a bottle of my Dad’s whiskey. Sprinkle in some racial humor, elaborate deaths, and a scene at a strip club that involves weed, cocaine, hookers, and fried chicken, and you have yourself a 5 star flick… and quite possibly an Oscar nod. Anyway, against his track record, Mr. Zombie’s Rejects gets the Monky stamp of approval.
I’m going to go on a bit of a tangent here, but stay with me. Everyone needs a Plan B (not the emergency pill) - some course of action that you can rely on when things go terribly wrong. And when I say “terribly wrong,” I don’t mean: “I lost my job,” or “I got a DUI,” or even “Shit – the Plan B pill didn’t take!” By “terribly wrong,” I mean: “I got mad at Sue for not buying me the right kind of sunflower seeds and now I need you to help me dump her in the river,” or “Things got out of hand last night and I blacked-in to me throwing a Molotov cocktail through the front window of a nursery.” That’s the level of “terribly wrong” I’m talking about. Every Delconian should have a Plan B, because every Delconian knows that the odds are usually stacked against them having a “normal life.” My Plan B is fairly simple but, I would hope, quite effective. When things go south for this cowboy and the heat starts to creep up, I’m heading west. By “west” I don’t mean some metaphorical, magical place. I mean I’m getting in my car and driving to Ohio. Once my troubles catch up with me in Cleveland, I’m going to Illinois. And when Illinois isn’t safe anymore, you can find me in Montana. Then I’ll be surfing the waves of SoCal. And when the US Marshals are after my ass, I’ll be working at a Wishy Washy in Tokyo.
Well, this is basically the whole concept of Rejects which probably explains why I relate to it so strongly. It’s something we, as Delconians, should all relate to. Just a group of folks that took a few too many on the chin and now they’re living on the lam. Quite a simple concept, but one that I sadly – and confidently - feel that I will live out one day.
Spoilers for The Devil’s Rejects to follow.
So, over the course of 109 minutes, we go on an outlaw journey that brings us from whorehouse to whorehouse, gunfight to gunfight, standoff to standoff, until finally, just when it looks like it’s curtains for our protagonists, they escape certain doom, end up murdering their main captor, and hitting the road again. That’s when Zombie hits us with it – The most purely Delconian movie scene ever. Check out its majesty below… and then you might feel like giving me a hell yeah.
Jesus Mary and Joseph. Now if that doesn’t strike a nerve in you, then you should head over to www.bigsausagepizza.com because this site just isn’t for you. (To be fair, bigsausagepizza.com is a great site. In fact, once I’m done writing this, I might go check out what’s happening over there.) Talk about going out in a blaze of glory. I was speechless after watching that. I don’t know what it is but those 5 minutes are seeping with Delco deliciousness. I’m the kind of guy who appreciates a good exit.
How boring is to be lying in a bed dying of prostate cancer? Terrible. I want to be out on a fishing boat with my grandkids when suddenly Lil’ Chug reels in a hammerhead and as they’re all running amok on deck, Grandpa Chug comes in and wrestles the beast with his bare hands until finally, it bites my head off. Or maybe when I’m living in Tokyo (see above) I stumble into a Japanese nightclub and spill my drink onto a family of ninjas and instead of apologizing, I kick one of them in the beans and then get hacked into 100 pieces. A private funeral in Catholic Church – no thanks. Give me a Hunter S Thompson way out any day. The Blaze of Glory. Is anything cooler? Is there any better way to go out on top? This son of a bitch thinks not.
Ummm… As I sit here thinking of a way to wrap this up, I’m getting a call from an unknown number. It’s weird because back in the day, I never used to answer a call from an unknown number. In college, an unknown number most certainly was from either Judicial Affairs, the police, a place of potential employment, or somebody looking to beat my ass. What the hell, though? I don’t have to worry about RAs anymore. I have a decent job so this wouldn’t be a company responding to an inquiry I made about an opening. The cops and/or a mystery stranger looking for a piece of me… well, I suspect I’ll be worrying about those possibilities until I’m well into my 60s (but I’ll most likely be on a fishing boat by that point and I’ll have much bigger problems). Oh, look at that. They hung up. No voicemail. No nothing. I’m in the clear.
So, when it comes down to it, I look at Rob Zombie as more of a spiritual advisor to me than a director when concerning The Devil’s… awww c’mon man – the unknown number is calling again. This could be important. Someone could be in trouble. Time to man-up, Chug. You got to grow up sometime. Hold on a second TTAD readers, your gracious narrator has decided to grow a set and answer a mystery number….
(Editor’s Note: This article was submitted anonymously on August 2nd. Since then, Chug Monky was last spotted driving 112mph on Interstate 76 headed West towards Pittsburgh in a grey ’97 Chevrolet Monte Carlo wearing a bulletproof vest and with a shotgun in the passenger seat. )
How boring is to be lying in a bed dying of prostate cancer? Terrible. I want to be out on a fishing boat with my grandkids when suddenly Lil’ Chug reels in a hammerhead and as they’re all running amok on deck, Grandpa Chug comes in and wrestles the beast with his bare hands until finally, it bites my head off. Or maybe when I’m living in Tokyo (see above) I stumble into a Japanese nightclub and spill my drink onto a family of ninjas and instead of apologizing, I kick one of them in the beans and then get hacked into 100 pieces. A private funeral in Catholic Church – no thanks. Give me a Hunter S Thompson way out any day. The Blaze of Glory. Is anything cooler? Is there any better way to go out on top? This son of a bitch thinks not.
Ummm… As I sit here thinking of a way to wrap this up, I’m getting a call from an unknown number. It’s weird because back in the day, I never used to answer a call from an unknown number. In college, an unknown number most certainly was from either Judicial Affairs, the police, a place of potential employment, or somebody looking to beat my ass. What the hell, though? I don’t have to worry about RAs anymore. I have a decent job so this wouldn’t be a company responding to an inquiry I made about an opening. The cops and/or a mystery stranger looking for a piece of me… well, I suspect I’ll be worrying about those possibilities until I’m well into my 60s (but I’ll most likely be on a fishing boat by that point and I’ll have much bigger problems). Oh, look at that. They hung up. No voicemail. No nothing. I’m in the clear.
So, when it comes down to it, I look at Rob Zombie as more of a spiritual advisor to me than a director when concerning The Devil’s… awww c’mon man – the unknown number is calling again. This could be important. Someone could be in trouble. Time to man-up, Chug. You got to grow up sometime. Hold on a second TTAD readers, your gracious narrator has decided to grow a set and answer a mystery number….
(Editor’s Note: This article was submitted anonymously on August 2nd. Since then, Chug Monky was last spotted driving 112mph on Interstate 76 headed West towards Pittsburgh in a grey ’97 Chevrolet Monte Carlo wearing a bulletproof vest and with a shotgun in the passenger seat. )