Mangia! Mangia (Brains)!

Hallo, Ween! Horrors! For the first time in several years, I actually have a number of holiday parties from which to choose. In a tragic fall from hedonistic abandon (note: premeditated hedonism is lame), I am now theatrically limping through the only night of the year during which I must be prepared to sprint from the undead at a moment�s notice. This will not deter me from premeditated decadence.

However, if I were not to be such a social creature on this creepy night, I would most definitely be gathered at the hearth with my ghoulfriends and boydeads watching �Sometimes My Aunt Martha Does Terrible Things" (a fabu kitschy horror flick that I cannot find anything about online, but too bad because I own my copy), or this, or this, or this, or this, or this.

Perhaps you detect a trend? Yes, it is a shame we are a culture so adept at reducing other cultures to nothing more than their cuisine offerings. Italian horror films of the 60�s and 70�s drip and ooze better than any greasy pizza and will pack on the pounds quicker than a couple of bowls of fettuccine as you cling white-knuckled to your futon frame, afraid to move an inch. The gore of these films is as tasteful as a boiling pot of blood-red marinara, and the terror is as classy as an $8.99 bottle of Chianti. So pull up a chair and tuck your napkin in at your throat. This is horror Italian style.