Preface
Directile Disfunction
Explosive diarrhea. Perhaps not the most unglamorous phrase in the English language (“scrotal ringworm” is at least within spitting distance), but certainly not words befitting a major-league independent film director. But we're talking about me here, and I'd just spent a long day on the set of Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead (the latest Troma blockbuster) wallowing in bucket-loads of excrement spewed forth from the substantial bowels of Joe Fleishaker.1 In fact, I had been in Buffalo for a total of three weeks now, living in a rented church alongside 80 of my hard-working cast and crew, sharing one bathroom and a total of eight beds. The shit smeared across my suit was fake, of course. I'm all for saving ...
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