As any devotee of late-night Cinemax can attest, the low-budget movies with the most awesome names tend to suck the hardest. As far as titles go, Zombie Strippers isn't quite as evocative as, say, A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell, or even Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, but its rampant turdishness in all other aspects more than makes up for it. How this got a theatrical release is one of the great mysteries of our time.

To his dubious credit, writer-director Jay Lee does get the plot swiftly out of the way: Within the first 10 minutes, a soldier suffering the effects of a zomboid virus developed during the fourth term of W's administration (an idea that might have actually been considered clever if the movie didn't come to a dead stop for laughs every time it's mentioned) shambles into a strip club and bites the star performer (Jenna Jameson, she of the unfortunate surgical Daffy Duck lips), and you can probably tell where it goes from there.

For viewers prone to cinematic spelunking, all the elements of quality trash cinema are ostensibly here: Balsa-quality actors, a veteran genre star looking embarrassed (here a preening, prancing Robert Englund, who I really hope was high), and plenty of Joe Bob Briggs's holy trinity of blood, beasts, and breasts. And, yet, somehow, it's just not any fun at all. Unlike those movies that really work to leave a greasy skidmark in the watcher's brain, this just sits there with the winking, exasperating air of something already convinced of its own cult immortality. Of the many damning sins it commits against acceptably skeezy exploitation filmmaking, perhaps the cardinal one is this: The two most attractive women in the cast never even take their tops off. That faint thumping noise you hear is Russ Meyer doing donuts in his grave.