Hey, thanks for meeting with me again. I really appreciate it. Just need a few minutes, don’t need to waste your whole afternoon. I’ve got some pretty sure-fire hits on my hands, hope you’ll agree. Nice pinkie ring, by the way, is that a sapphire? Cool.

Okay, first off. Picture it: a group of nubile co-eds heads off to summer camp, all baby T’s and cut-off jean shorts. But on the way, they stop to buy back-up cut-off jean shorts. “Just in case these ones get splattered with blood,” reasons one of the teens, Plucky LaBrue. “Good thinking, Plucky,” says the narrator, who, it turns out 80 minutes later, is also the serial killer—the goddamn narrator. Meta!

Too meta? Sure, sure. This one’s similar, but better. Driving around, looking to score some H, some nubile co-eds hit a mysterious stranger with their car, killing him instantly. He’s really, really dead, with like his brains hanging out of his stomach and everything, but instead of calling a clean-up crew they just abandon the body by the side of the road. Over the years, the co-eds die off one by one under suspicious circumstances, though it’s really their guilt that kills them—except this one girl, who in her late-50s develops pre-senile dementia and can’t even remember the name of her own daughter, never mind some stupid accident that happened when she was just a kid. So instead of being plagued by remorse, this batty old coot lives out her final days in a sort of slack-jawed, joyful wonder. I’m seeing Faye Dunaway here, probably, as the lead.

Okay, this one’s still pretty vague but basically it goes: intro, suspense, topless nubile co-ed, suspense, comic relief, suspense, suspense, suspense, comic relief, suspense, suspense, suspense, topless nubile co-ed, murder, suspense, suspense, sex scene/comic relief, suspense, murder, suspense, sex scene/murder, suspense, suspense, comic suspense, suspense, murder, suspense, murder, murder, murder, suspense, suspense, suspense, suspense, suspense, suspense, topless murder, the end.

No? Wait, I think you’ll like this one. Something is living inside the TV… Something not quite human… Something evil… And then it’s like, oh shit, it’s Elizabeth fucking Hasselbeck. Ha ha. Topless murder?

Right, no, I know, The View is a great show. So how about this: a family moves from the big city into this big old gothic mansion on a hill overlooking a town of inbred rednecks. “Movin’ into the old McGilligan-Strothmire place, are’s y’all?” wonders the local service station attendant as he pumps their gas, and one of his eyes is all milky from cataracts or whatever that shit is, it happened to my stepdad’s dog, ew, ew, totally gross. Okay, so the father, hearing this, just sighs and goes, “Blah blah blah,” totally bored by the whole thing. And then the whole family gets into it, chanting from inside their Volvo: “Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah!” Then: lightning! And: pus! Out of the old guy’s eyeball. Tons of pus, just gushing all over everything.

How about a Japanese horror movie, then? Do you know any Japanese people?

Okay, maybe a nubile co-ed picture tickles your fancy? So, sure: a nubile co-ed falls asleep and, taking off her baby-T, confronts a serial killer in her dreams. Except it’s a lucid dream, so she decides to have topless murder-sex with the killer… and the sex is, wait for it: amazing. The heavens open up and together as they climax they feel their faces caressed by God, and they don’t even end up killing each other. “What now,” says the killer, after. “Our love is a forbidden love,” suggests the young woman, gently caressing the killer’s mutant ox penis—wait, hold on, that’s not it, don’t leave!

Hear me out, just one or two more.

A mummy, a werewolf, the headless ghost of an alien and a skeleton on horseback are at Bigfoot’s house, planning the stag party for this guy they know, I forget who. And Bigfoot lives on this island in the middle of a lake where a guy in a hockey mask was drowned by his mother many years before under suspicious circumstances. And the mother is still roaming the woods, where she’s trained a flock of birds to do her bidding, such as peck people’s eyes out, and then she uses the eyes in these sculptures of the next person who’s going to die or have their eyes pecked out—because, wait, the people with their eyes pecked out are still roaming the woods, and it’s actually them that are the birds, because the murderer woman, a former nubile co-ed, has fashioned them wings out of birch bark and leaves… Wait, what? What do you mean, am I making this stuff up as I go along? Does it seem that way?

Zombies, then. So a virus infects the zombie population of a local shopping mall, turning them into regular consumers, and business goes up—way up! RadioShack’s never been so busy and, wow, who would have guessed how much a reformed zombie loves a delectable, ice-cold Orange Julius? So there’s that, tons of product placement—and, of course, tons of killing too. Nothing’s changed on that front. The zombies still kill pretty much everyone, tearing open their throats in line at Pottery Barn and feasting on the frothing gore…

You’re right, zombies are out. How about this, then: you’ve got your castle, your thunder and lightning, your nubile co-eds lured into the woods by a beautiful talking wolf. Whatever. And so they end up staying at this castle, and their host is this mysterious guy who sleeps all day. The nubile co-eds assume he’s just depressed, right, so they crack some Xanax into his wine—only that’s when they realize it’s not wine, but human blood. And one of the nubile co-eds gets blood all over her baby-T, so obviously she has to take it off—and then it’s like, whoa, where did this Twister game come from? And then—yeah, vampires. It’s a vampire movie. With homoerotic undertones, sure, if that’s what you want. Yes. Absolutely. However you want to do it, I’m in.