Tuesdays are rough in the weekly newspaper business. They usually involve writing a story or two from the previous evening — two and a half hours’ worth of deep thoughts on wastewater treatment and the economic potential of Spandex-clad bicyclists this time — and proofreading, arguments about words, incessant food-related questions from Ye Editor, thinking up stories for next week, and an enduring headache.

The problem with The She Creature (1956) is the creature, frankly.

Look at the dark-haired girl who is being regressed by the evil Dr. Lombardi, back to the primeval ooze.

Now look at the She Creature, which is the eighty bazillion year old version of the same girl.

And now look at them together, and tell me something good about evolution.

So there’s this tycoon and he has a daughter who has dumped her drunk fiance and is making a play for the serious Dr. Erickson, played in earnest Eraserhead style by Lance Fuller. Meanwhile Dr. Lombardi (Chester Morris) is regressing the crap out of the beautiful Andrea (Marla English) and causing the She Creature to come out of the ocean and kill people who have nothing to do with anything.

Most of this movie has nothing to do with anything, but it doesn’t matter, because once the She Creature gets moving and the body count mounts the flick moves right along.

One too many hypnosis scenes. Galloping pocket squares. Eraserhead hairstyle on Lance. Bulging bodices. Monster breasts, modestly covered with what appear to be scales. Eight bodies. Sinister smoke. Past life regression, with bizarre Cockney commentary.

Idiotic. Mildly amusing. On a two-fer DVD with The Day the World Ended. Two coils.

It was 3:15 p.m. and I’d stopped in at the library. On a table were DVDs and a sign — “All DVDs and CDs $1.”

I grabbed some spaghetti westerns, some Italian mob flicks — and a box set of “Dragnet 1967.”

The first episode, about LSD, was a real historical artifact. Sgt. Friday and Officer Gannon couldn’t arrest this kid “Blue Boy” because LSD wasn’t illegal — yet.

So when they found him with his face painted half blue, half yellow, with his head in an anthill, all they could do was take him home to his unappreciative parents.

Some months later they get some action from the legislature, and they go after Blue Boy. Alas, he’s gone on The Last Trip.

That’s just the beginning…

SEE! Jack Webb’s curious gait, in which he walks without moving his UPPER BODY!

THRILL! To Harry Morgan’s high roll three-button sack suit — with TWIN VENTS!

GASP! At the tripster with his head stuck — in an ACTUAL ANTHILL!

WONDER! At Sgt. Friday wearing the same grey jacket for weeks on end — even to a NEO-NAZI’S SECRET LAIR!

This is tremendous stuff. Robbers who only hold up candy stores, a rich lady who tries to defraud the insurance company when her “imperial jade” is stolen, criminals in sports jackets.

Four unabashed coils.

But Allegro’s “Mafia Kingpin Collection,” at least the first disc, is major fermented curd.

In “Mister Scarface,” Jack Palance plays Mister Scarface, so-called because he has a — yep, you guessed it — scar on his personal face.

He gets ripped off by a young punk from a rival gang. Another punk from Mister Scarface’s gang helps, as does the local fat middle-aged gay gangster.

This wacky trio takes us on a wild ride in an orange dune buggy around little narrow Italian streets and to an abandoned slaughterhouse and so on.

It is all very exciting and makes a certain amount of sense, which detracts from the overall experience.

There might have been a breast but I don’t think so. Some decent badly-dubbed kung fu, though, and the usual overdone sound effects — especially that curious insistence bad filmmakers have on making sure the sound of leather shoes on polished floors is in every scene — even if someone in ballet slippers is tip-toeing across a velvet field that’s just been sprayed with silicone.

The cop in blue jeans is greasy and excitingly underexposed

The shoe sound is also a prevalent part of “The Cop in Blue Jeans,” in which Jack Palance plays Richard Russo, who is not a semi-famous novelist and does not have a scar on his face. He is chiefly distinguishable from Mister Scarface by the fact he does not use a holder for his cigarettes.

A greasy unwashed detective wants to catch fences, so he goes to a soccer game and shoves a guy’s head in the toilet. Then he dons a greasy, multi-colored knit cap and rides a motorcycle around in circles.

There is a sex scene, mercifully truncated and displaying nothing more alarming than the greasy man in his red briefs — which makes this a horror film (although not as horrible as it would have been if the shorts came down).

To make some sort of point, the greasy man is shown in front of a giant poster for “Serpico.” He also has a small white rodent named “Serpico.”

This film has two excruciating disco scenes, the last featuring the worst exhibition of White Man Dancing since I last took the floor, at Denison University, 1984, doing my thang to Luther “Guitar Jr.” Johnson and The Magic Rockers.

It also has recurring soft-core porno music with someone pretending to be Ornette Coleman squonking over it.

And “The Cop in Blue Jeans” makes no sense. I mean none at all. Zero. No plot to get in the way of the story, and no story, either.

It’s flicks like these that make me regret giving up drugs.

Unless you are either intoxicated, bored beyond belief or insane, there is no reason to watch either one of these films — especially not now, since I have done so for you.

One coil, and that’s a gift.

A lot of this.

And this.

And this, which was marginally more interesting.

“Stoned,” Stephen Woolley’s bio-pic of Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones, was worth the buck I paid for it at the Douglas Library in North Canaan, Conn. I’m not sure it is worth the space to keep it on the shelf, though, and I’m not going to watch it again to find out.

Maybe to avoid lawsuits, the film treats the other Stones as bit players, which leaves Jones, flunky and villain Frank Thorogood, some other guy as the manager and a bunch of girls, in various states of undress.

Despite the abundant nekkidity, the film is curiously sterile. It’s tedious. It’s boring.

Maybe that’s because addicts are, ultimately, boring.

One coil, for the 18 breasts.

The quicksand scene, with breasts

Byron Mabe shoulders the blame for this 1968 epic, with Carlo Monson handling the screenplay.

I hope Byron didn’t pay Carlo much, because this film has no screenplay. It barely has a story, and certainly no plot to get in the way of anything.

After some uniquely bad “I’m gonna tune out/ Ain’t gonna work for the Man no more/Twang twang/Plink screech thud” music the guys and gals head out on their motorcycles to go take LSD, make out, paint each other, kill passing motorists and find the giant white temple of acid.

Got that?

Many strange and wonderful things happen during the trip. They hang around this little hut next to a pretty crummy-looking pond, the girls take their tops off, and they paint each other. Then they make out.

Later a couple are making out and one girl gets mad at another one and chases her into quicksand, thus presenting Carlo with an opportunity to write some dialogue. Alas, Carlo’s characters can only say things like “I’ve never seen quicksand before.” The girl dies, and everybody makes out.

The girl winds up in Hell, where an Indian chief and an old guy in galluses are playing checkers next to a ladder. Seriously.

Then the gang rides elsewhere. Artie, played with near-autistic exuberance by the immortal Buck Kartalian, has no girl now, so he jumps up and down on these big pipes for a while until he meets the Indian chief, who gets the quicksand girl back for him, while he takes a cold shower under a tree.

Meanwhile, a well-dressed couple are having a strange post-coital conversation under a pile of hay, and everybody makes out.

Then they all kill a passing motorist to get reefer money. This is the most exciting moment in the film.

And finally we arrive at the “acid pyramid,” which is really a ziggurat, and a pretty cheap-looking one at that. Naturally, the girls immediately take off their tops and everybody climbs on the ziggurat to make out.

And inside Arnie, dressed like the Devil, urges people to take a bite of the LSD tablet, a big thing that looks like styrofoam. And checks are cancelled, bourbon and 7-Up is poured, and long, arbitrary street scenes with jump cuts are provided. Plus an outraged citizen’s face and the couple on the field. And a girl in a rowboat. Wait, that was at the beginning. Anyway, they all make out.

We’re talking a near-constant parade of the same four sets of breasts: one large and starting to droop a bit; one large and defying gravity for the moment; one medium firm; one small and droopy, an unfortunate combination. Rear end assessment is more speculative — the production is quite profoundly mammarial.

Breast set number one

And then the girls take their shirts off and everybody makes out.

At 62 minutes, just bearable. Two coils, for the amount of nudity and sheer incomprehensibility.

This might be creepy if the flick wasn’t so stupid

David Carradine is Louis Dehoven, a cross between Fox Mulder and the Exorcist, and he has a good time being weird and sticking stakes in corpses.

See, there’s a serial killer loose in a small Texas town. He cuts off his victims heads, adds postage, and sticks them in the mailbox. Why? Because, hey, he works for the Postal Service!

Ahahaha.

The flick is part mockumentary, part warped procedural, and mostly tedious. All the bits have promise, and all of them fail due to the “Saturday Night Live” effect (i.e. not knowing when enough is enough).

It’s the latest $1 item from my new source of bad cinema, the Douglas Library in North Canaan, Conn.

No breasts (automatic one coil deduction). A pint of blood, maybe. Scenery chewing. Flagellating. Quick demon scenes. At best, mildly amusing.

One coil.

This is highly symbolic.

A while back I got interested in Japanese gangster films and discovered the work of Seijun Suzuki, who is a flippin’ genius of sorts.

Stray Cat is the No. 3 assassin in the Guild. For some reason she’s supposed to take out No. 1, Hundred Eyes.

That’s about it for the plot. If it’s a story you want, go buy a set of Dickens.

Stray Cat goes about her bidness, which involves masturbation, death in a swimming pool, a little girl with a lantern, sitting on a love seat in a driveway with another equally bizarre lady, dancing around with little guys in diapers, and other important hired killer activities.

Stray Cat, interrupted by the Diaper Guys.

Occasionally an extremely irritating solo trumpet on the soundtrack interrupts the flow of strangeness.

This flick makes no sense, so don’t try. Just sit back and let it happen.

Two breasts, briefly. Hot assassin. Oddball with cane. Gunfight in the Bamboo Grotto. Japanese opera. Toy guns. Little dudes in diapers. Gratuitous artsy-fartsiness (see below) that works.

Three and a half coils. (Half off for the trumpet.) Check it out.

Which is about 37 cents too much.

Here goes. Scene, Pacific Northwest. Archaeologists are looking at Indian artifacts. Guy dressed up as Guy Fawkes bursts in, kills dorky scientist and chases hottish middle aged science babe down the street to the power substation, where killing her is more fun. Then the killer tries to make a “Hey hey, ho ho, (fill in the blank) has got to go” chant work but “archaeology” just doesn’t scan.

Then the mayor of New York sends in the Navy SEALS and they kill Oliver Cromwell. Afterwards everyone eats organic buckwheat pancakes and resists the urge to smoke.

The killer Tweets all through this, and is featured the next evening on MSNBC, where Ed Schultz calls him “an authentic voice for justice and democracy.”

Wait, I’m getting things mixed up here. Sorry.

Scene, Pacific Northwest. Archaeologists are looking at Indian artifacts. Guy dressed up in hooded cape and unconvincing skull mask bursts in, kills dorky scientist and chases hottish middle aged science babe down the street to the power substation, where killing her is more fun.

Cut to Army dudes in woods getting chased by Skeleton Man. I can’t help but interject that if these guys spent as much time on cardio as they do on their biceps they would be better able to run away from supernatural skeleton men on horseback. Just sayin’.

Later, Army Capt. Doofus and his team search for the missing people. They do this by blundering around in the woods with day packs and a lot of electronic stuff that never works at the best of times and really isn’t worth a rip when deployed in an area of Ancient Evil.

The team consists of four men, all meatheads, and four babes who had wardrobe adjust their nylon cargo pants just right before the cameras rolled.

Eventually only Doofus and Lt. Ta-Ta (the blonde with the semi-big nose) are left for the exciting showdown at the chemical factory.

No breasts (automatic one coil deduction). Painful dialogue. Nice butts on the ladies in the team, especially the demolitions expert. Surprisingly little blood for a film littered with corpses. Decapitation. Suggested brain-eating. (No, wait, I’m getting mixed up with Occupy Portland again.)

In a word, it sucks. Avoid.