Channel Rabbithole
The Monkees are back on TV, but the credits sequence is confusing me. Davy Jones is laying on a bed made of vaginas, and it's being pulled by a squadron of midgets in leather lederhosen who are very clearly physically excited by the exercise. "Here we come/Walking down the street" go the vocals, but I don't think it's the Monkees that are singing it. It's sort of like a descant duet between Ian Curtis and Diamanda Galas. "We get the funniest looks from/Everyone we meet/uuuuuuuaaaaaaa/eee/eee/uh/uh/aiaiaiaiaiai." Which isn't how I remember the song going. And the bed's being pulled past the White House, where Micky Dolenz is dressed as a US Army General and skullfucking quadriplegic "specialty" porn starlets dressed as ayatollahs. Under the keylights, grey, blood-flecked semen sparkles in their false beards, and their hysterical tears of terror glisten like diamonds cast in a river.

"Hey, hey, we're the Monkees. You never know where we'll be found."

It's spoken, now. Possibly by Orson Welles. Mike Nesmith is cavorting with zombies in Hell, naked but for his knit cap. He grins like the clever, cheerful teenager he once was while the leprous corpse of Richard Nixon vigorously fists his straining anus. Which is fleetingly captured in Sixties fisheye lens. In the background we see Peter Tork, with a flamethrower and a child's legbone through his glans, putting the torch to forty years' worth of boy-bands.

"So you'd better get ready. We may be coming to your town."

I wouldn't have expected this to be a Jerry Bruckheimer production.