School Girl vs Wolfman. Stunning on a number of levels. God bless that Japanese inscrutability!

One thing missing from the Dread Central article is a link to an import site where one could purchase this amazing artifact, which I suppose is just as well – as epic as this cover is, the movie inside is still just a Fright Night rehash. But hey, Kevin Sorbo!

via Dread Central

The nominees are:

1. Kelsey ‘Boobs’ Bornstein (in ‘Boobs’ by Suzy McKee Charnas)
2. Sergeant Angua (in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series)
3. ‘Wolfgirl’ (in The Company of Wolves)
4. Nina (in Being Human)
5. Kitty Norville (in Carrie Vaughn’s Kitty Norville books)
6. Brigitte Fitzgerald (in Ginger Snaps: Unleashed)
7. White Fell (in Clemence Housman’s The Were-Wolf)
8. Leah Clearwater (in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series)

I nominated Brigitte Fitzgerald, but she’s up against some pretty tough company. Read through each contributor’s analysis and post your vote (or write in your own) on the She-Wolf blog, then come back here and defend your choice (unless you picked Brigitte).

I’m moving house at the moment, and as we all know, the first thing you’re supposed to do after hauling a couch to its new home is sit on it, drink a beer and stare at all the cardboard boxes your stuff is in. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but if someone gave me a bottle (or a case) of Newcastle Werewolf “Blood Red” Ale I would know just what to do.

I would drink it.

From its Facebook page:

Named for the mythical wolf-like creature said to roam the English countryside, Werewolf offers hopheads a beer that shares some characteristics of Newcastle Brown, but remains distinctive enough to stand up on its own.

APPEARANCE: The highly carbonated liquid pours a bright sanguine color with a stark white head that retains its form through the life of the beer. Nice lacing as well.

AROMA: Strong malt and rye bread fragrance with a hint of berries and slight metal.

PALATE: Sweet malt flavor hits the front of the tongue with subtle berry, grass and wine notes joining in at the midpalate. The liquid momentarily clings to the insides of the mouth before surrendering to a crisp, pleasantly bitter finish.

There are a lot of things that people in America and England enjoy that never make it to Canada, and despite being a Heineken domestic, I’m afraid this ale is going to be one of them. I was able to enjoy it vicariously through this CHUD review, though, and if any Werewolf News readers have a chance to try it, let us know what you think. I’m going to go back to putting my stuff in boxes now.

Edit: The gents at TheBEERSgoneBAD have posted an entertaining video review of Newcastle Werewolf – check it out!

hat tip: Berserker
photo credit: Uncrate.com

• Andronica is a three-thousand-year-old female werewolf who has had a number of incarnations and encounters over the years, many of them as or involving significant figures from history.
• She is the current leader of the Sisterhood of the Wolf, the social order under which all female werewolves are united with the goal of preserving the “natural balance” of the world.
• That balance is under constant threat from the Apostates, the violent, ruthless, all-male order of werewolves who serve the Egyptian god Set. They are responsible for most of the world’s wars (battlefields make wonderful banquets).
• Andronica has started blogging in order to increase her profile, making it easier for her to locate (or be located by) her protégé and companion Lysandra, who disappeared during the firebombing of Dresden in 1945.
• Andronica loves The L Word and is the fucking bomb at playing the harpsichord.

In all seriousness, I have no idea who’s writing this blog or where it’s going, but it’s well-researched, well-written (especially the latest post, A Roman Werewolf at Maria Theresia’s Court) and the writer is doing some serious world-building. Take some time to read it through, check out her equally well-crafted Facebook page and follow her on Twitter (if that’s your thing [and it should be]) at @LadyAndronica.

Werewolf News reader Komodo recently brought this delightful project to my attention, saying it was interesting but maybe not worth its own post. I think it has just the right amount of esoteric 80′s monster movie kitsch for a Monday morning. I’ve added a few links to Komodo’s text to help those who are, like me, unfamiliar with the world of the daikaijū.

In the mid eighties, when Toho was gearing up to release its first Godzilla film after a decades-long hiatus, the Godzilla fandom received a massive boost in activity. Part of this was the release of fan films, most of which are sadly forgotten and unavailable. One of these films was a little movie called Legend of the Superbeasts: The Wolfman Versus Godzilla.

Considering this was a fan film made in the eighties, the suits are very high quality in my honest opinion. The Godzilla suit was based on the 1962 Kingugoji, infamous as being the version of Godzilla who fought King Kong. The werewolf suit is a bit cheaper looking but I can easily imagine it being something that Eiji Tsuburaya would create were he asked to create a werewolf suit.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate anything more about the film and it remains lost to history. It’s pretty old news among the Godzilla fandom, but I think it’s rather unknown among werewolf fans.

It’s not even 9:00 yet and my day is complete. Thank you, Komodo! If anyone out there has anything more on Legend of the Superbeasts: The Wolfman Versus Godzilla, do the right thing: share it with us!

Images from Toho Kingdom Forums.

When I was little, I wanted to be a bad-ass werewolf more than anything. I saw Jon Talbain the same way that black people saw Barak Obama on the night of his election. I dreamed of prowling through endless woodlands, my howl a primal and symbolic middle finger resounding over all the stupid cities that teh hyumans were trying to imprison me in. However, I soon realized how monumentally retarded I was being. In a juvenile epiphany that seemed to me like some rare, Shaolin moment of insight attained after years of training, I stopped being a selfish and self-pitying prick for a few minutes, embraced my humanity, and took pity on the difficult conditions of all creatures. Ironically I realized that I had actually been a sexy beast all along, and this liberating irony gave me a super-power: I realized that I had the ability to verbally rip new assholes into shitty werewolf novels and book covers.

You may say that such a super power is equivalent to Aquaman’s heroic capability to summon fish and surf on them. That is not so. You see, there’s a war going on out there – an unseen war between real lycanthrope fans and lycanthrope exploiters who just don’t fucking get it. Long ago I threw in my lot the former, and I invite you to share in this noble fight by reading my exposé of more werewolf stories that are dumb by virtue of their covers alone.

His She-Wolf Warrior by Marisa Chenery

Not to sound sexist or anything, but women* suck at writing werewolf novels. I even have empirical evidence to prove this. Every time I open one of these books, they’re always a dedication that runs something like “I dedicated this labor of love to Pickles, the best (and cutest!) golden retriever there ever was!” or “This book is for my mixed breed, Antoinette. Jeff and I got her at the animal shelter last year, and she’s just the best of all worlds! Thank you for being my furry shoulder to lean on as I finished this book, Antoinette!” But that’s not all. These books also always have a first sentence that doubles as the first paragraph, and they always run like this:

The pack leader’s vision came true with alacrity – the harvest moon shown not with the fond goldenness of autumn grain, but of dried blood.

Or…

Rebecca felt her blood quicken in her veins as her world-ancient curse stirred in the depths of her soul – the hunters were after her.

Or…

For three months he had watched her – or rather protected her not only from the humans she thought she was part of, but from herself as well, for Jessica was what his pack would call One Belonging to The Untamed.

If you managed to read through those examples without slitting your wrists, then please check if your last name isn’t Bronson, because I’d love to have a drink with Charles, your grandfather. Anyway, let’s go back to the actual book cover, since analyzing the actual text is unsound scholarship in a review of this nature. Here we have a fresh-from-the-hairdresser woman wielding a sword while the pendulous globes of her earrings dangle on long chains. In spite of the jacked guy Photoshopped in the background, I bet those are the only balls that ever slap her face, OH SNAP! And please, Marisa, make up your fucking mind if you want to be a ninja or a wild shewolf free of all oppressive, patriarchal ties. You can try being both, but then your retardedness may reach critical mass, and that may actually melt the faces of even Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer themselves.

* Angela Carter doesn’t count because she’s a literary goddess and I beat off to every word she writes and I can be her pet whenever she wants so FUCK YOU if you don’t understand our love lol!!!1!!!!!

When the Moon is Full by Stacia Ilyana St. Peter

Fifty bucks says the girl on the cover is St. Peter herself. I say that because the only constants in life are death, taxes, and authorial narcissism… and because the book description on Amazon reads thus:

Cara has been teased and tormented her whole life for being the fat girl in school. But when a new student arrives in her small Montana town, things begin to change. Hunter has more than just good looks going for him and every girl in school wants to be his girlfriend. But Hunter only has eyes for Cara… coming to her defense, he shows her that she can be beautiful without being skinny.

There are certain immutable laws of nature, and one of them is that you can’t write shit like this on the internet and get away without being trolled. I personally wouldn’t do this, since we are progressing as a tolerant society that does not judge by appearances. So of course it would be wrong of me to say that yeah, when the moon is full, I can’t see it because Cara’s ass is in the way, or that Hunter is the type of werewolf who likes the human thighs he devours to have a chunky and buttery texture, or that Hunter only has eyes for Cara because he can’t see around her, or that he can’t possibly leave her because her sheer mass has created a gravitational vortex that he can’t escape, or that Hunter is only after her because he lost a bet to his packmates that had something to do with spending an entire mating season trying to mount 5,000 lbs. of butter somehow, or that Hunter has only come to her defense because butter as a whole should not be shunned, or that Hunter has come to her defense becomes he comes from an ancient, esoteric pack of werewolves who have all taken some ancient runic oath to guard cows.

The thing is, whether lycanthrope-fan readers belong to the insensitive AntiLard Darkclaw Pack or not, they’re going to see When the Moon is Full for the self-aggrandizing literary horseshit it is. And while I haven’t eaten enough Twinkies, donut holes, and Peanutbutter Cups to understand the secret logic of fatties*, I don’t need to eat a single pound of Entenmann’s to know that Hunter is going to get damn tired of Fatticia McFatterson after her fifth hour of watching Power Puff Girls and eating Funyuns.

* For all of you who think I’m some patriarchal oppressor, let me buffer this whole review by saying that Scooby Doo’s Velma (and those like her) doesn’t fall into this category. Who cares if she doesn’t look like a Calvin Klein model? Seriously, look at her. She has delectable wolf prey written all over her, and if she was the main character in When the Moon is Full, I wouldn’t be having this gripe to begin with.

Sarah Palin: Werewolf Hunter by Andy Raines

Holy shit, where do I start?

In previous Worst Werewolf Book Covers installments, I’ve explained how it’s possible for something to be so stupid that it becomes awesome. I haven’t totally figured out how this phenomenon works, but perhaps it’s related to paradoxical concepts beyond man’s scientific understanding, like black holes becoming so dense that they’re actually not holes at all but rather portals to other worlds, graspable only by a dimensional understanding that our minds were perhaps never meant to attain. The awesome retardedness of Sarah Palin: Werewolf Hunter is simply too awesome for the human mind to understand as well.

First of all, is it just me, or is the thought of Sarah Palin as a werewolf hunter the most erotic thing ever? I say this because Palin’s idiocy is a lot like the afore-mentioned paradox of the black hole: it’s so concentrated that there comes a point where it’s not idiocy at all, but rather sheer genius. Sure, she tells the story of Paul Revere’s midnight ride like she’d tell the story of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, but when that political crusader becomes a fucking werewolf hunter, her storytelling incisively strikes the spirit of truth harder than any ancient Hindu text ever. Liberals are too self-absorbed to give credence to this concept, and conservatives are staunchly oblivious to the existence of things like this in the first place.

Palin is seriously like the guy from Get Smart, who fucks up so unbelievably hard that he actually catches the criminals and saves America. However, Palin doesn’t do so in a doofy, Three Stooges way. This woman is actually smart in spite of herself, and perhaps it’s within that aspect of the unsolvable Palin-equation that the hotness resides. I would seriously pay big money to read about the most bad-ass werewolf guy ever getting out-witted, trapped, and ridden into blissful transcendent torture by Sarah Palin the Werewolf Hunter. But here’s the extra charm: the porno that this cover implies could actually run the other way as well. Palin could engage in some type of Bond vs. Bond Villain battle with the werewolf guy, only to have the werewolf guy win and then sexually destroy her. However, the plot twist is that this was their plan all along… and that this sort of thing has happened between them before! In fact, this is the ritual they enact weekly to maintain harmony between werewolf and human civilizations! Think of the thematic, multifaceted quality of that whole gig! Wow, I know that I have a special talent for literature, but I seriously blew my mind just now. Time to re-write this novel so I can win myself a Pulitzer, and by “Pulitzer” I mean Sarah Palin: Werewolf Hunter’s sweet little lacy dog-bone adorned panties.

Seduced by a Cajun Werewolf by Selena Blake

It’s funny just to see shitty werewolf novels exist, but it’s especially funny to see them strain for new ways to fit “wolf” or “werewolf” into their titles. Take this crazy shit, for instance. Stop reading this and say “Seduced by a Cajun Werewolf” out loud. Go ahead, do it a few times. Done? Ok, you should either be laughing your ass off, feeling immensely retarded, or both.

Such titles are usually invented when authors who do internet searches for what they think are clever titles, like “Wolfsbane Rising” or “The Romulus Factor.” I think that lycanthropy writers dimly realized that the words “wolf” and “werewolf” are all but worn out, but when they try to solve the title problem, their wit catapults them into realms of uncharted stupidity.

Think critically about all of this. What must it be like to be seduced by a Cajun werewolf, anyway? Do you go into a bar, enjoy the dim lighting and boppin’ Zydeco music, order shrimp gumbo, and then Remy LeBeau introduces you to a dashing Louisiana werewolf? Or do you have to drive through Louisiana on a business meeting, after which your car breaks down by the woods, and only the rustically wise Cajun werewolf mechanic can restore your car? But at that point… do you truly want to leave, and are you not “home” already?

Please. The story of Seduced by a Cajun Werewolf has already been told in Wooed by a Misunderstood Wyoming Lycanthrope, Claimed by an Indonesian Were-Leopard Billiard Champion, and Dominated Hardcore by a Dashing, Funny, Bristle-Tuft-Tailed, African Werehyena Jiu-Jitsu Artist and Writer of Werewolf Book Cover Reviews and There’s No Way Anything Else Could Ever Compare, Ever. With the exception of the last title, Blake’s Cajunness and the other stories in its vein are just more of what readers could do without.

Bad Wolf by Tim McGregor

I’m in an interesting situation here. Mr. McGregor personally asked for his book to be featured in the next installment of Bad Werewolf Book Covers. As the writer of these features, I have conceded, although I really don’t think that putting your werewolf book in my hands is the smartest publicity tactic. In fact, it reminds me of a time when Howard Stern asked a hardcore Fiona Apple supporter: “If it would assure the release of Fiona’s new album, would you let someone throw feces at your face?”

Seriously though, Tim, aside from the fact that your wolf looks like he’s wearing a fucking pair of underwear on his head, I can’t think of anything wrong with your cover here. Your cover features no swooning women who missed the cut to be in Victoria’s Secret catalogs, no conflicted Hot Topic employees, no perpetually snarling bipedal wolves, no Sarah Palin (sigh, fap fap fap), and on top of all that, it looks like you had an actual graphic artist design the cover instead of your little nephew who’s pretty good with MS Paint. So props to you, Tim. Good luck!

The Canuck Werewolf by Marissa Chenery

Marissa Chenery’s writing is the equivalent of a gigantic retarded person plopping down on your lap and shitting through his pants onto your thighs and breathing into your face a breath that smells of dead fish, tarnished silver, and Sour Patch Kids. I can honestly say that it has been a spiritual struggle to even so much as research her books and formulate opinions on their covers alone.

But enough of the actual content of this book. The title is The Canuck Werewolf, but it doesn’t feature a cardboard-cutout type of werewolf with a flapping head and beady little eyes. I’m visiting Canada right now as I write this, and from my culturally educated standpoint, I am disappointed at the lack of hockey, flapping heads, farting, wacky transparent paper money, and more hockey on this cover. Canada is basically the world’s last bastion of maple syrup and Native American wilderness (except the Canadian version of that), and while there are like millions of howling wolves in its mountains, they shouldn’t be exploited for the cheap thrills offered in books like The Canuck Werewolf. This country is basically the floating mountains of Pandora that hover ethereally over America, but it is people like Chenery who want to ruthlessly strip it of its lycanthropic unobtanium. It’s taken me a long time to climb my way over the pain-in-the-ass golden arches and baseball stadiums that compose 99% of the American surface, and I’ll be damned if anyone’s going exploit Canada while I’m here. And if you think that’s hardcore, you should see actual Vancouverites. When the Canucks hockey team recently lost the Stanley Cup, this whole city basically went Super Saiyan on its own ass. The Rodney King riots were patty-cake compared to this event in which Canadian citizens, like noble samurai warriors committing ritual seppuku, sought to systematically destroy Vancouver in a blaze of Maple-colored glory. The only thing that saved the whole country was an elite strikeforce of Mounties who romped and stomped shit like the Canadian version of both Paul Revere and Norman Schwarzkopf. In fact I owe my time in Canada to these patriotic men and women who did what it took to temper Canada’s power and honorably save it from itself. Also, Vancouverites are so hardcore that only flashbang grenades to the crotch can stop them.

Anyway, my point is that The Canuck Werewolf doesn’t embody any of the awesomeness described above. It just features a huge jacked guy with a background featuring the lanky wolf that we’re supposed to believe that he can turn into. Using this formula, Chenery could write endless cultural exploitation and misunderstanding and get away with it. So if you see someone in the book store about to pick up The Canuck / Indonesian / Yugoslavian / West Paterson / Sri Lankan / Turkish Werewolf, you’re now intellectually equipped to stop them from supporting cultural misrepresentation.

South Park – style werewolf illustration by Tandemonium

The regular price is $48.00 US, but as of this post the bikini set is on sale for $30.00, and sizes run from XS to 2XL. If you are a lady of any shape or size and you are reading this web site, I have a suggestion: buy this bikini, get in touch with others who have done the same, and form an official opposition to the Swedish Bikini Werewolf Destruction Unit.

Today’s showdown features a quote from a movie that was among my favourites when I was growing up: The Monster Squad! If you’re too young to know that The Monster Squad is fucking awesome, consider this: the guy who played Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite is a werewolf (awesome), and Dracula calls a six-year-old girl a “bitch” (stay classy, Dracs).

Oh yeah, Scott did another one with a werewolf in it, too. Go check him out, he’s the best.

Put together by a good friend of mine, Jeremy Leaird-Koch, also known as fledglyng, he’s also produced some pretty great video work under his real name on Vimeo. He also introduced me to Jon Macy, author/artist of Fearful Hunter (kinda NSFW-ish), “a Queer graphic novel with Druids and werewolves”, which I’ll be featuring on the site just as soon as I get out from this mountain of other comics. (Seriously. Send help. Maybe a sherpa.)

To quote Jeremy’s description of the video:

I like werewolves, not vampires, so I made a video edit of the only parts of Twilight : New Moon worth watching.

To be fair, though, they aren’t real werewolves. But it’s a pretty sweet video nonetheless.

One of the worst English papers I’ve ever graded stated that “technoligy makes people smarter.” I shit you not: That same paper went on to become a letter to President Obama, asking him to invent a device that would revolutionize the recycling process of cardboard and plastic. I know that Obama can MacGyverize anything, but this retardedness alone is a great argument to smash your laptop and become Robinson Caruso. However, even if Bill Gates himself had the self-analysis to blow up his HAL computer and churn Amish butter for the rest of his life, not even that would be enough to stop the inevitable tide of collective stupidity brought about by convenience-based technology. Sure, people don’t need technology to be stupid, but when shit like Kindle comes on the scene, I’d be naïve to think that people would use it to become less stupid and less pinky-raising pseudo-European. I don’t look at the Kindle phenomenon and think that it’ll cause a revival in reading. That would be like looking at a giant cucumber with cooking oil on the float of a gay pride parade, but saying “huh, I wonder what vegetarian recipe they’re advertising?” But what does this mean for shitty werewolf book covers? It means that Kindle is a technological Pandora’s Box that has ushered in a new era of shittiness for literary lycanthropy. That is because Kindle, not being dependent on traditional manufacturing demands, allows more stuff to be published, thus allowing more idiots to shit all over the English language. Lycanthropic literature has therefore become more Michael Bay than ever before.

The following are the most prominent pinnacles of lycanthropic literary retardedness that Kindle has unleashed on the world. And while Obama’s Macgyverness can’t alchemize these turds into gold, mine can.

Mated to a Wolf by Marisa Chernery

If by mated to a “wolf” you mean mated to a Facebook asshole, then yeah, Chernery, you nailed it. Let’s say that I was a conflicted and misunderstood Rastafarian with a propeller growing out of my head, and that I was in competition with a regular Rastafarian to win the heart of a beautiful woman. How the hell would I be more complex, mysterious and sexy than this other guy? If I was an emo asshole who could turn into a wolf, how would that sexify me more than being a regular old amaretto-sipping blogger who plays bass guitar and gets perfect grades while being 2 cool 4 school?

I’m not sure how to solve such mysteries, but I do know that contemporary readers of romances that involve supernatural creatures don’t even ask them. I’m also not sure why contemporary monster-makers have to make their monsters conform to everything that makes contemporary humanity worth yawning at. After all, I thought one of the reasons you’d have your heroine bang a monster to begin with would be to escape the suck-ass reality that readers ironically revel in. Hell, we’ve already seen this happen in Twilight (at least those of us who actually read some of the book or sat through the movie). I was able to make it through the book’s first fifty or so pages, and I regard that as more of an accomplishment than beating The Legend of Zelda without whoring myself out to the Nintendo Power strategy guide.

Janna’s Werewolf by Fawn Lowery

I think that one of my deepest character flaws is my inability to resist arousal when the thing that’s trying to turn me on is hot yet unintentionally retarded. I mean, the hot foreground characters here are basically lifted from a Victoria’s Secret catalog, but what’s up with the mummy with Warcraft-nerd hair? I can’t help but giggle while feeling a bit uncomfortable in my pants, especially after my third glass of sake. However, I doubt that was what Lowery intended my reaction to be as a reader.

And then there’s another problem. The book’s synopsis from amazon.com runs thus: “Janna Marlow doesn’t know anything about tennis-but she knows about men. And werewolves. She’s one. And tennis great Rick Sawyer has scented her. He’s a werewolf too. She wants an interview. He wants sex. They trade.”

I’ve never met an actual werewolf, but I think that if a werewolf ever became a tennis pro, then he would be a cross between Hannibal Lechter and John MacInroe. Not a computer-generated image of a dehydrated Rob Zombie lost in Ethiopia. Not a jacked Calvin Klein model that’s a cross between Timothy Dalton and Vanilla Ice. To prove this, I’ll re-write some of the book myself.

Janna’s Werewolf by Mike Roukas

“Through the mesh of the court’s net, Rick Sawyer eyed his opponent with feral concentration. The dark hair on his calf bristled as he tensed, and time slowed as his opponent (prey?) launched the shimmering green orb skyward and blasted it with a powerful serve. Fight or flight? No, Rick had never run from anything in his life, and damned if he would now.

“Like the tide dancing its war dance against its ancient Lunar master, Sawyer growled. He and his opponent smashed the ball back and forth across the net, Sawyer eyeing the verdant sphere like he eyed a far more important ball: the moon, every month when it waxed full . . . when he became his true self, when the beast within became the beast without, and then . . . . Rick could not contain himself any longer. With a feral cry he backhanded the green orb, smashing it over the net.

“The human on the other side, the pitiful human had lost touch with its primal roots; its reflexes could not catch the ball in time, and Sawyer joined the crowd’s roar with his own howl of victory that drowned out the announcer’s ‘15-0!’ that resounded throughout the stadium like the cry of an eagle.”

There. If you were able to actually read through that without cringing, then you have my congratulations, Jerry Bruckheimer.

Moonburn by Alisa Sheckley

“Hey Irwin, do you have any sunblock?”

“Why’s that, Simon?”

“I have to go outside for a while. My interwebs are running low, and I need to run to RadioShack to recharge them so I can get back on Warcraft.”

“Ok, but it’s nighttime out. Sunblock?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to get moonburn!”

Moon Illusion by Amy O’Connor

Taking a break from his busy schedule of building killer bike ramps in the woods and playing apple-baseball (basically, where you play baseball using apples instead of a baseball), 16 year-old Trevor Greco of Highland Lakes, New Jersey has agreed to write this book-cover review.

Lol you see how the guy’s pec looks like a mini-boob? LOL!!! Lol nice I realy want to be a werewolf more then a vampire now because werewolves look like plastic dolls and the guy has a boob. People say I look like Edward a bit at least in some light, like an Italian Edward maybe (my familys Italian). At least Twilight vampire didn’t have that (the Boob Illusion I mean, lol), and its like you couldn’t hire actors to do this and had to use your computer? Lol yeah Ive seen turds with more life, like im so turned on. I mean I jacked it to Mistique in XMen and she’s animated by computer but that dosent count. Take THAT if you thought I was gay from the pic’s pink background. So if you thought I was gay cuz the pink background than FUCK YOU, I had that pic taken for my gf. She wanted it taken so she could see me when I rang on her iPhone so I had it done for her. Anyway these people on the cover SUCK, and like oh the author just slapped a wolf in the corner, it’s like when everything fails just google images search for national geographic wolfs and oh I’ll swoon like that girl YEAH RIGHT. And theres a lot more celtic-gay wrong with this pic, but the microwave went off and my Salisbury steak is rdy so i’ll write more about it in a bit.

Black Werewolf by Doctor T

Well my name be Dr. T, I’m not a licensed practitioner
But I’ll write lycanthropic hotness like shampoo vs. conditioner;
One cleans the hair, one makes it silky and smooth,
And like Young MC and Billy Madison I’m gonna bust a move so CHECK IT:

Werewolves always getting’ bit, howlin’ and talkin’ shit,
But this brotha’s silver lyrics always get my shorty WORKIN’ IT WORKIN’ IT,
Oh snap son, looks like it’s ova fo da full moon,
And yo shaggy-ass hair need some Vidal Sassoon,

So come get served on tha mic, you ain’t no Peter Stumpp,
You just an east-side relic and a flea-bitten chump,
No more European east son, yo’ ass be in Detroit,
And when I cap yo furry ass, like Steve Irwin I say “roit!”

I said a Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn,
If yo’ werewolf’s actin’, up, then you bring his friends!

I’m a fan of werewolves, and I’m also a pretty open-minded person, but this bugs the shit out of me and I can’t quite articulate why. Maybe it’s the way the site uses the werewolf as a method of making miserable teenagers feel empowered through escapism (“Have you ever felt that modern morals and ethics are anything but moral and ethical in relation to nature and how it really is?”). Maybe it’s the continued espousal of grab-bag magical thinking and faux-spirituality– a tiresome offshoot of werewolf fandom that’s still popular with people who are also fans of hippy-dippy bullshit. Or maybe it’s just the cult-like promise of enlightenment and inclusion in exchange for a modest payment. Or maybe it’s all of the above.

The Werewolf Cathedral is a large site with a lot of content– an obvious labour of love. But a love for what? Werewolves? Spiritual truth? Or power?

Here’s a gallery of Baker and Elsey doing the work they were nominated for: transforming Benicio del Toro into the eponymous lycanthrope.

Viacom is going around DMCAing this trailer wherever it pops up, so if this embedded version doesn’t work, sorry. Or… you’re welcome?

Special shout-out to the special effects crew who worked on this: thanks for the effort. Your work (what little I could see of it in this trailer) looks like the one redeeming feature of this abomination.

Hat tip: manny

After that, I hope that cop didn’t write the guy a ticket for the burned-out headlight.

The last line of dialog in this clip from The Howling III is making the rounds today as a candidate for “the worst line ever” in a movie. I… I might agree with that. It’s definitely one of the lowest points in an already cringeworthy movie. But coincidentally, there’s a short exchange in The Howling II that never fails to make me chuckle with genuine glee:  Jenny, What’d He Say? [mp3]. So absurd! Ben, you skeptical fool!