THE BEYOND: Not Another THE BEYOND Review!

THE BEYOND
Starring Catriona MacColl, David Warbeck, Al Cliver
Directed by Lucio Fulci
Grindhouse Releasing
Review by Louis Fowler

It seems that, since just about everyone in the world of horror is so well aware of THE BEYOND, and, even more appropriately for me, everyone in the world of horror has already written their own opinions about it, that to add mine just seems, well, totally redundant. You might as well title this “Not Another THE BEYOND Review”.

Keeping that in mind and having just watched Grindhouse Releasing's reissue, once again it strikes me just how—I need to capitalize this—TOTALLY FUCKING SCARY this movie actually is. I am a thirty-two year old man and it's one in the morning and I wish I could go sleep in my parents' bed. With the hall light on. With the night-lite on. With a gun, just in case.

Go ahead and laugh. I know that I'm supposed to be jaded and I know that, for most people, there's been scarier stuff released before and since, but, you know, serial killers and slashers and the like have never scared me. No—it's Hell that scares me. A Hell on earth; demons breaking through to our world, slaughtering us on an unholy rampage. Maybe it's the Catholic in me, but Satan, Hell, whatever, is really the only thing in film that truly terrifies me.

But you just can't throw the Devil on the screen and expect me to be scared, otherwise THE DEVIL AND MAX DEVLIN would have made me urinating my shorts. Again. No, a truly scary, truly demonic film needs to have an aura, an atmosphere of evil, a sense of unholy dread, surrounding it to accomplish that. An otherworldly feel that has ideas and sequences that give off the impression that you are watching something wholly diabolical unfold on-screen, something that wasn't meant for human eyes. A feeling of ominousness and pure fear that shadows the room when you watch it, causing you to turn the lights on half-way through and jump to any sound your house might make.

THE BEYOND is such a film. This is not some Italian cheese-fest; this isn't a Spaghetti joke. The images that Fulci puts on screen are nightmares—and I'm not talking about the gore. Gore is nothing special. It's the lovingly perverse way that he uses that gore, expelling all hope for the characters embroiled in it, that makes it all work. THE BEYOND is an extraordinarily hopeless film. It's a film that takes place in a world without God's mercy. It's a world that has forgotten God, allowing Hell to encroach and take root.

This loneliness from God and his salvation is pounded home in the final image when our main characters are left alone in a barren eternal wasteland, that I think is supposed to be Hell. It's the most shocking scene in the film and it doesn't have a drop of blood in it. It's the ultimate downer ending: the good guys have not only lost the battle but their souls as well and, because of their failure, have allowed Hell to claim the Earth. Cue credits.

I think the thing that really scares me is the way that Fulci, before I had even seen this film, had accurately captured so many images from my own nightmares in this film. The desolate road with water on both sides and no land on the horizon; the way that even though there's light outside the inside of the house is very dark; eyes with no pigment; and a Hell that isn't made up of flame, but dust. Are these common dream images? I've had these images in my head for as long as I can remember; I dreamt them when I was as young as five. To me, this makes the film all the more foreboding.

This is part of Fulci's “Gates of Hell” trilogy, which included THE HOUSE BY THE CEMETERY and CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD. All three are so totally different than anything Fulci had really done, filled with such a sacrilegious fervor that you get the feeling that something must have had possessed him to create this trilogy, these pitch-perfect visions of Hell that capture damnation so perfectly. Were these the films of a demonic madman with a warning, or merely a vessel of dark visions, like say, a Hieronymus Bosch woodcut put to celluloid? Or, even worse, was it just the work of a guy trying to collect a paycheck?

In the end, we'll probably never know what made Fulci tick. We'll probably never know what was going on in his head to make his celluloid nightmares so potent. But, maybe the more we use them to interpret our own fears, the closer we'll get to an answer. Either way, it's probably time to get my ass to church.

(This review originally appeared in a slightly altered version at Dan Taylor's seminal website Exploitation Retrospect.)

FROM MEXICO WITH LOVE: El ojo del tigre!

FROM MEXICO WITH LOVE
Starring Kuno Becker, Steven Bauer, Stephen Lang
Directed by Jimmy Nickerson
Lionsgate
Review by Louis Fowler

I don't like sports. Never have, probably never will. Everytime I've ever been in the bleachers at, say, a football game, I always feel like it's one step away from a Nuremberg Rally, only these Nazis are far more simplistic degenerates, entire bodies mindlessly painted in orange and blue. I don't see how “rooting” for a bunch of shaved apes chasing a ball around in a homoerotic contest of wills is entertaining. Sorry. I'm a fat jerk, I know. Here's my underwear, I'm ready for my wedgie.

But, given that info, I gotta admit that I love sports movies. That's kinda weird, right? For example, I hate high school football, but will watch FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS over and over again. I have never even seen a boxing match, but the ROCKY flicks will always be in my all-time top 25. And don't even get me started with my obsessive love of STROKER ACE, just know that I'll “stand on it” everytime.

That being said, FROM MEXICO WITH LOVE is my new second favorite Latino boxing movie—the first is still THE PRICE OF GLORY, starring Jimmy Smits—but second place ain't so bad, right? It's how you play the game, right guys?

While, as a Mexican myself, I'd rather see a movie about a Hispanic migrant worker going to school and making something of himself, becoming a doctor, maybe, we have to take what we can get and just be happy that, for once, we're not relegated to the side-role of a sassy cleaning-lady or bald multi-tatted gang-banger. FROM MEXICO is a, thankfully, positive film about Hector, a scrappy migrant farm-worker who wants to become a prizefighter, but can't really ever commit due to his sick mother and her constant need for expensive medicines. He's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder and this doesn't help when, after a run-in with the snotty white land-owners, lands him back across the border. Mom dies, freeing up his sched, allowing for him to train full-time to take on, I'll be darned, the snotty white land-owner's frat-boy date-rapist son! Viva la Raza and vaya con Dios!

Is FROM MEXICO WITH LOVE predicable? Of course, and that's why I loved it so much. You know that Hector is gonna win the big match, but, still, that sense of fear that he might lose wells through you because you so desperately want him to win. He deserves to win. Far too many times in sports movies these days they have the guys that you've sided with for two hours lose the big game, usually to make some sort of point about the “beauty of the game”. Fuck that! I want my team to win! I want my guys to kick the asses of the other guys! Where's that orange and blue body-paint???

So, I guess the big question is this: why can I root for fictional athletes but so easily spit on real-life ones? I think it's because I get to see the complete journey of the character, the underdog making good. He's a real hero, someone with virtue that plays fair, fights to the finish and everything else in a Survivor song. That doesn't happen in real-life. Real athletes are spoiled imbeciles snorting coke off a stripper's pubic mound while just waiting to get capped in the parking lot of a night-club. You can't “believe” in real people anymore. Wasn't it a “real” athlete who proudly boasted that he's no role model a few years back? Isn't that the new rallying cry of these overpaid assholes?

Sports heroes? Only in fiction, hombre. Only in fiction...

DUE DATE: Cinematic hair of the dog!

DUE DATE
Starring Robert Downey Jr., Zach Galifianakis, Michelle Monaghan
Directed by Todd Phillips
Warner Bros. Pictures
Review by Louis Fowler

Having spent the past few weeks reading consistently middling reviews of Todd Phillips' latest bro-com DUE DATE, I went into it with pretty low expectations, thinking I was going to get a few laughs here and there, all the while testing my newly-imagined tolerance for a reaching-Jack-Black-over-saturation Zach Galifianakis. The critics, whom all seem to believe that THE HANGOVER was a second coming of comedy for the most part, have been thoroughly disappointed by DUE DATE, giving solid C+'s all around, with the phrases “forced”, “maudlin” and “tedious” being thrown around a bit.

Were we watching the same movie, guys?

Here's a news flash: THE HANGOVER? That huge comedy hit from a year or so ago? Eh, well, it's not really holding up so well. It really shows it's cracks upon each successive viewing and, while it definitely has some high-points, it's still basically a remake of Phillip's earlier road trip movie ROAD TRIP, but with overgrown frat-boys instead of college kids and, of course, Galifianakis instead of Tom Green. Phillips has a formula and, for each place and time in our history, he updates it and it works, but it doesn't age the way you'd like a comedy to. In retrospect, THE HANGOVER isn't really a “funny”movie as much as it is a “fun” movie, but the wires get crossed and we just don't know any better.

I feel like DUE DATE changes that because, while he's still keeping the same damned ROAD TRIP formula, he's finally allowing for some better fleshed out characters to move the jokes along, casting naturally funny adult actors instead of cool young dudes. Think of when John Hughes ditched the proto-emo teen-angst BS and hit two out of the park with SHE'S HAVING A BABY and PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES—both of which, here, Phillips nobly and maturely injects into the proceedings.

The plot is as basic as it gets: a straight-laced architect, a no-censor-button buffoon and a masturbating dog have to road trip across country to make it in time for the birth of the architect’s baby. You've seen it a million times. Probably this year alone. And all directed by Todd Phillips.

Why DUE DATE works is all because of the aforementioned casting: Bradley Cooper might be the good-looking GQ flavor of the month, but he in no way has the gravitas of Robert Downey Jr., who, even at his most dickish, is still a guy you want to root for. You just plain like Downey and, you can relate to him and his everyman character's idiosyncrasies and foibles. You could give a fuck as to whether Bradley succeeds or not—that guy's gonna get laid whether he makes it or not. And, really, how is that funny unless you're Bradley Cooper?

And, you know, the more I think about it, I'm not tired of Galifianakis. Not at all. Why did I start to feel like I was? With the exception of a scene-stealing Danny McBride cameo that had me coughing blood, Galifianakis earns every single laugh in every single scene for a constant self-humiliating fearlessness that is completely uncontrived. He's so unnaturally natural in his character—which is obviously not too far at all from his one in THE HANGOVER, let's be honest—that it never gets old or feels like he's putting on a show. Ahem, Tom Green.

(Speaking of the actors, however, I am getting sick and tired of Hollywood's insistence on pushing the brutally shrill (and probably hungry) Michelle Monaghan on us at every possible turn. Enough, I say! America has spoken loudly and they reject her as an actress. Can't we just move on to the next doe-eyed waif on the list already?)

DUE DATE is a hilarious autumnal programmer that will more than likely have a healthier life on DVD where, knowing me, I'll probably start finding things wrong with it and complaining about that too the next time I review another Todd Phillips flick. This is probably why I can't ever have nice things. Sigh.

42ND STREET FOREVER VOL. 5: ALAMO DRAFTHOUSE CINEMA: Remember the Alamo!

42ND STREET FOREVER VOL. 5: ALAMO DRAFTHOUSE CINEMA
Synapse Films
Review by Louis Fowler

Sure, I may be a little late in getting to the most recent installment of Synapse's stellar 42ND STREET FOREVER line—sorry, I had things to do—but don't think that it hasn't been there, in the back of my mind all this time. Because it has. I've kept it on my desk, looking at it at least once day and gently telling myself “Someday...someday...”, with one lone tear streaming down my cheek.

And when I finally did get a chance to sit down and actually watch it? Like a woman you've been corresponding with online in hopes of starting a long-term, mutually beneficial, sexually-positive relationship, it was well worth the wait! Teaming up with my fellow Texans down at Austin's Alamo Drafthouse, volume five is the best yet, packed with two-minute slices of genre heaven, an overabundance of cinematic riches ranging from martial arts and kids' movies to sexploitation and counterculture satires. Here's some of the highlights:

● Kids' movies in Asia will always be better than ours because, well, they just don't give a rip about stupid things like the welfare or safety of their child actors. Good for them, I say! I truly wish that more film industries—I'm looking at you, America!—would take all that wasted money spent on on-set teachers and harnesses and the like and put it to bigger, badder, more dangerous stunts and explosions, all involving kids. It's a change that might actually make movies like DUNSTON CHECKS IN the bad-ass romps you knew they always could be! The makers of LUCKY SEVEN agree with me, featuring seven adorable tweens, all decked out like the various superstars of Hong Kong cinema past, getting their asses routinely handed to them via kicks in the most important of developing areas such as the kidneys, the heart and the skull. Starring Little Chilli, Little Fatty, Bumpkin, Little Elf and everyone's favorite, Rocky!

● Yes, there was once a time where a full-on, completely authoritative documentary like BIRDS DO IT, BEES DO IT, would not only be green-lit by a major studio, but also released to a theater near you. Because who doesn't want to see a movie with wall-to-wall animal intercourse? The trailer encourages us to see it with your kids, but, sorry, David L. Wolper: in my house sex will be taught as something that is dirty and shameful and should only be learned about through dangerous third-party information found only in the streets. The way I learned it.

● Directed by stunt-master Hal Needham and co-starring a then-foxy Persis Khambatta, 1982's MEGAFORCE had everything going for it: motorcycles, missiles and Henry Silva. But, then, Barry Bostwick, apparently fresh off the set of Olivia Newton-John's “Physical” music video, had to go and show up on time and, sorry, but it's pretty hard to have an undying patriotic belief in a top-secret underground government organization that allows it's well-trained agents to ride around on bulky super-charged motorcycles while dressed in power-blue jumpsuits and proudly displaying feathered hair. Even the Navy wouldn't allow that shit.

● Speaking of sexual shame, here's LET'S DO IT!, advertised as the “one sex comedy that let's you be the juggs”, whatever that means. All-American protagonist Freddy is obsessed with breasts—female breasts, if you must know. That's pretty normal, I guess. What's not normal, however, is that his stacked-n-steady girlfriend wants to go all the way with him, constantly begging to be entered vaginally and he keeps pushing her away, saying in firm and calm voice, “No!”. Is he trying to hold on to his virginity? Waiting for marriage? Have too much respect for the poor girl? Nope! Turns out he just wants to get in some extra practice with a few local slatterns so that, when the big day finally does come, he'll be able to give her the best three minutes of her life. In the 80s, this was actually considered quite respectful! Directed by Bert I. Gordon, because who knew tits better than the director of EMPIRE OF THE ANTS?

● Ever notice how movies with talking penises never really capture the public's imagination? Yet, every few years, someone always gets the bright idea to make another one and, every few years, another comes crashing and burning head-first into obscurity. Maybe they're aiming a little too high and to the left, what with half the country owning vaginas and whatnot. I say go back to the source material and remake the original talking junk flick, CHATTERBOX. You know, for the ladies. Co-starring, as you'd hope it would, Rip Taylor and Prof. Irwin Corey, 'BOX finds Candice Rialson's lower-lips doing most of the talking, launching a singing career and becoming a national sensation in the process. Not available on DVD yet, mostly because of socialism.

● Italy finally(?) has their own super-spy and, true to form, they must've spent a good five, maybe ten, minutes coming up with him. Tont, JAMES TONT, is his name and being derivatively greasy is his game! Tont cruises around in his fine Italian sports-car, fighting off an Odd-Job-like henchman and a bevy of gun-toting buxom broads, all to the tune of “Gold Singer”, who is the man, the man with the “golden voice”. This might be a spy-spoof, but, knowing the Italians, it's probably completely for real. I'm actually surprised a small rodent wasn't butchered on-screen.

● In NORMAN, IS THAT YOU?, Redd Foxx tries to deal with having a gay son in an interracial relationship, which, from the looks of this trailer, is actually not as bad as the time that Puerto Rican dude with the goat moved in across the street from the junkyard. And who hasn't wanted to see Fred Sanford meet Waylon Flowers and Madam? It's been a recurring dream I've had since childhood and am actually surprised it never happened before this. Also, Tamara Dobson shows up as a hooker, and then so does my erection.

● And, finally, the award for the lamest kid's movie of all time goes to THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS TREE. Looking like a clandestine 50s porn loop shot by Abraham Zapruder in his backyard, TREE has a lonely kid befriending a magical, talking Christmas tree. He just stands there and talks to a tree that makes Charlie Brown's look pumped and primed for Rockefeller Center. The last known footage of Santa Claus also makes it's way into the proceedings, as does a perfectly seasonal “happy witch”, a festive “greedy giant” and, perhaps the most Christmasy thing I can think of, a “runaway lawnmower”. Happy birthday, Jesus! (Followed by the little-known sequel THE MAGIC EASTER BUCKET, which is basically the same kid talking to a rusty pail for 70-minutes. Special appearance by Cosmo, the Easter Turtle!)

42ND STREET FOREVER VOL. 3 review!
42ND STREET FOREVER VOL. 4 review!
GRINDHOUSE UNIVERSE review!

DISORDERLIES: Filmed in 3-D, only the "D" stands for “diabetes”.

DISORDERLIES
Starring The Fat Boys, Ralph Bellamy, Anthony Geary
Directed by Michael Schultz
Warner Bros. Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

As someone who is doing his damnedest to lose over three decades of weight gain, it has taken years of self-inflicted embarrassment to fully realize that “all-you-can-eat” isn't a challenge, it's a curse. And while I know that most of it is entirely my fault, I also like to take comfort in the fully-liberal idea that I was doomed from the get-go: blame a depression-era father who forced me to clean my plate though shame and guilt, blame a public school free-lunch system that taught gravy as a side-dish, blame cable television for being so much better than going outside to play. But, most of all, blame old-school hip-hoppers the Fat Boys for having the time of their lives, getting laid while getting paid and making fat look, well, phat.

And their hit “All You Can Eat”? For far too long that was a personal anthem. Just ask that manager of Golden Corral who asked me to leave once.

Seriously, though: what is the deal with America's long-time obsession with portly rappers? It's an odd musical fetish that, with the exception of John Popper and maybe the dude from Crowbar, you never really see in any other genre. Hip-hop has always had a home for MCs with weight problems, from that guy in the Sugarhill Gang who called Superman a “fairy” to Heavy D, Chunky A, Big Pun, and, may he rest in piece of pie, Notorious BIG, who recently even had a big-time biopic made about his life which, crazily enough, didn't end with him having a coronary on the toilet.

When it comes down to it, however, none of those rotund rappers really made a cultural, mainstream impact the way the Fat Boys did. Comprised of Prince Markie Dee, Kool Rock Ski, and the late Human Beat-Box Buff Love, this tubby trio were all about the good times, with the NIGHTMARE ON ELM ST.-inspired “Are You Ready for Freddy?” being about as hardcore street as they got. They were three, confident, enterprising young men who wouldn't let something like a couple of pounds get in the way of their domination of the charts...until you look into their bloodshot eyes, that is.

Take a good look at any random promotional still: behind all the laughs, behind all those good times, I suspect there had to have been massive amounts of sadness, depression and self-loathing. When the concert was over, when the groupies were gone and there you are, lying on the floor, chili in your hair, using a Big Mac wrapper as a blanket, struggling to breathe...you kinda realize that the only way out of this prison of lard is with a handful of pills, the same ones you use to dull the pain. But sadly, those aren't pills, they're SweeTarts and you just end up substituting this want and need to die and finally be at peace with another fucking calzone, another fucking Thirstbuster Pepsi and another fucking faceful of streaming tears. It's the story of my life and I'm willing to bet it's the story of theirs. Cue strings.

But, hey: at least they gotta a movie out of it, right? That's something! A comedic documentation of their sorrows for all the world to enjoy! Clowns gotta eat too, you know...

The Titans of Thickness (I just made that nickname up—I should write for WORD-UP! magazine.) basically play very unsubtle versions of themselves: three grossly obese inner-city ne'er-do-wells who share not only a common, downright dangerous, obsession with mass-gorging, but also an interest in late-term elder-care. It's just too bad that this obvious love is overshadowed by the fact they are the worst orderlies in the history of medicine—that's actually how they are described in the film, by the way.

Now before I go any further, I can't help but wonder: how did these guys actually get through the schooling necessary in order to get jobs in such a specialized medical industry? They not only show a total lack of medical knowledge, but also a lack of the attention and seriousness that you would need to even get to class on time, let alone pass the tests required to become a health-care professional. But, still, for the sake of enjoying the film, in order to help create a nice bit of suspension of disbelief to help me move forward, I mentally fabricated a little back-story that they made it through school with a mixture of pulling multiple pranks on an over-worked scheming stodgy professor who just wanted them and their offbeat ways kicked off campus and, probably more than the latter, a little good ol' affirmative action. (Those early years in college would actually be a great idea for a straight-to-video prequel: DISORDERLIES: THE FIRST COURSE!)

That being said, the Fat Boys are hired by scheming villain Anthony Geary—who desperately wants to be Rene Auberjonois—to take care of his ailing millionaire uncle (Ralph Bellamy) because, as any rational thinking human could easily see, a few hours in the care of these bulging buffoons and that poor old man's heart-rate would be flatter than the week-old Meatlover's Pizza in the backseat of my car. But, miraculously, after a trip to a roller-rink where, after a skate-train and a barely-dressed chanteuse sings a song called, I think, “Work Me Down There”, the gruff old-timer gets a total boner (complete with a”boing!” sound effect) and his joie de vivre returns. He doesn't want to die. He refuses to die. He wants to live life to it's fullest and do all the things that have been passing him by! It's like THE BUCKET LIST, only this bucket is filled with original recipe. And boners.

This, as you would guess, complicates the sniveling Geary's plan, which, of course, was to have his then-feeble uncle die and then leave him his entire fortune, all of which would be used to cover his mounting gambling debts. Plots are foiled, schemes brought to light and the Miami elite drop their collective monocles into champagne glasses while exclaiming in unison “I never!” as Uncle Gramps and his corpulent crew turn the upper-crust into the stuffed-crust, showing those starched shirts how to get fresh and/or def. It's the snobs vs. the blobs and there is never any doubt what the outcome would be, besides diabetes and heart disease, of course.

DISORDERLIES is essentially one 90-minute long fat joke, but it's a funny 90-minute long fat joke. Directed by Michael Schultz, the guy behind KRUSH GROOVE, THE LAST DRAGON and SGT. PEPPER'S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND, and, like those films, as entertaining as they are, there's absolutely no artistic style present and, most times, just seems like it was made up on the fly. For example: in a scene where two of the Fat Boys dress up like cops to commandeer a car, their hit song “Wipeout”, which featured the bastardized Beach Boys, is playing in the background. Now, when they stop the car and pull out the driver, you know there's gonna be a cameo. Probably Mike Love or Al Jardine, right? Nope! It's Rick Nielsen of Cheap Trick fame. Was he just there on the set and they threw him on camera? (To be fair though, the Beach Boys do make a cameo at the very end. As does Helen Reddy. Why? I don't know.) But, really, when you think about it, with an already thread-bare premise, maybe making it up on the fly was really the only way to go to make a more entertaining flick? Either way, it worked.

And, please, let's not forget the music: the centerpiece is a fantastic rap cover of the Beatles' “Baby You're a Rich Man” that, sure, misses the entire point of the original song but, still, manages to be funky as fuck-all. Listening to the fun, frivolous music of the Fat Boys is both uplifting and disheartening: uplifting because it's a positive, fun, simple good time and disheartening because they may never get the respect they so richly deserve. Let's come out and admit it right now: how many of us were turned on to hip-hop because of these guys? Yeah, you can be cool and say it was Public Enemy or something equally pretentious, but that cassette tape of CRUSHIN' you've got stored in the closet will tell a different story. The truth shall set you free, son.

Almost 25 years later(!), DISORDERLIES is a total relic of it's time, one that would—could—never be duplicated today. The fat rappers of today are all Puerto Rican and sullen and have to really up the macho facade in order to blanket their serious self-esteem issues. Am I right, Fat Joe? Just once I'd like that dude to spit out a tune about how many tacos he can eat in one sitting. I'm betting at least twelve.

So, with no one willing to reclaim that mantle, I guess it's really a job left to the original Fat Boys, isn't it? I know that Buff Love (RIP) has sadly passed away, but how about a search for the newest Fat Boy? A reality show maybe? Like CELEBRITY FIT CLUB, only, you know, the opposite! And how about a comeback album produced by Diddy? I've even got a song call “Strokin' It” that would be great for you guys! C'mon, Fat Boys...this country needs you more than ever!

Let's talk it out over lunch. You're buying.

Louis Con Huevos!: Grab a copy of THE BREAKFAST TACO BOOK! For FREE! Right NOW!

It was only a matter of time until my legendary obsession with all things "taco" would be immortalized in print. Or, more specifically, e-print! The absolutely enchanting Hilah Johnson, host of the Austin-based cooking show HILAH COOKING!, had the wherewithal to ask me my opinion about the largely misunderstood and mainly maligned art of the Breakfast Taco. From the official press release...

We are excited to announce the first Hilah Cooking e-Book is now available. We decided to put together this book because so many of our friends live in places where breakfast tacos are not readily available. Even worse: some of them didn’t know the difference between a breakfast taco and a breakfast burrito! Something had to be done. So we decided to publish a book about it. And it’s totally FREE! We need you to help us spread the gospel of breakfast tacos all over the world.

THE BREAKFAST TACO BOOK by Hilah Johnson is 50-pages packed with everything you need to know about breakfast tacos – including how to make them at home. Some highlights include:

* Hilah goes on a Breakfast Taco tour of Austin and eats WAY too many tacos.
* Hard-hitting investigative journalism reveals that Breakfast Tacos were actually invented by… COWBOYS?
* How to make all kinds of “taco guts” – even the kind with cactus!
* Why you should never mix breakfast tacos with handjobs!

And there are tons of pictures for those of you who don’t have time for the written word. So, it’s awesome and it’s free and you don’t even have to kill any trees to read it. It’s an eBook. Just download and read it at your job when you’re supposed to be working. Or you can easily throw it on your iPad and take it with you to spread the Breakfast Taco gospel from coffeehouses, streetcorners or wherever else you like to go. Just enter your information here and get your FREE copy of THE BREAKFAST TACO BOOK!