“The Wild Women of Wongo” (1958) is the film that answers the question “What if there were two tribes living on two islands and the men on the island of Wongo were ugly brutes but their women were comely, and the men of the island of Goona were all Adonises but the women looked like Boris Yeltsin with bosoms?”

That’s the set-up. Add a dragon cult, a third tribe of ape men, and a parrot, and you’re ready for some alliterative fun.

We’re talking high priestess with her very own temple. Men of Wongo, looking like today’s hipsters. Men of Goona, looking like they are waiting for Bruce and Geoff to get back with the amyl nitrate poppers. Women of Goona, looking like the staff at a Grand Union in upstate New York.

And the Wild Women of Wongo, the leader of whom looks like she might be Honeysuckle Weeks’ mother.

Parrot as Greek chorus. Stock footage of alligator, as god. Girl wrestling alligator. Worship of rubber alligator on a stick. Ape men, looking like Goona men with mud smeared on their faces. Spears. The worst example of white people dancing ever captured on film. Bewildering. Two and a half coils.

Wait for a nasty October day — raining, about 45 degrees all day, and be sure to wake up at 5:30 a.m. with the window open, a puddle on the floor, and the covers kicked off.

If you can meet these or similar conditions, you are ready to make beef stew.

Get up, shower, shave carefully, and dress properly because you have to go interview people while the stew is, er, stewing.

Obtain a couple of pounds of stew meat, a bag of carrots, a big onion, a 32 ounce thing of vegetable stock, and six red potatoes.

Back at the ranch, take your jacket off, roll up your sleeves, light a cigar (optional), and get a skillet hot.

Put some oil in the s., and some chopped up onion, and let it rip for a moment. Meanwhile you can peel and chop the carrots and don’t peel and chop the spuds.

Stick the meat in and brown it. That means cook it a little but not too much. Dump it in the crock pot, along with the chopped up stuff. Put in all the drippings. Add the stock, some garlic, and whatever spices you want.

Now here is the crucial thing: put the crock pot on the lowest cooking setting. Not the highest. Not the “keep warm” setting either, if your gizmo has one.

You are not going to touch the thing until you get home, several hours later.

This method is foolproof.

The Scary Nun. She is onscreen for five seconds.

I finally got around to watching “The Devil Inside,” a “Blair Witch” type of “found footage” flick that has been declared the Worst Movie of All Time by the kind of mouth-breathers who worry about what Kanye tweeted about Taylor.

The film is a supposed documentary that follows a young woman to Rome, where her mother is being treated for either demonic possession or serious whack-a-doodleness, take your pick.

As with any such setup, there are long stretches of boredom as the actors utter dramatic lines such as “We have to talk” and “Are you all right?”

But the actual demon stuff is pretty good, even if the demon uses all the lines that were cut out of “The Exorcist.”

Some demon action 

Two things enraged the couch critics:

A deus ex machina ending, in which everybody probably dies in a car crash

And a title at the end advising viewers, if they want to get the final low-down, to go to a website that is — surprise — a marketing tool.

Why these strategies bother people so much is a mystery to me. The car crash is no stupider than the rest of the flick, so why, all of a sudden, has the willing suspension of disbelief gone out the window? Hell, a car is a machine. How about props for being true to ancient Greek theater tradition?

And as for the website that turns out to be a marketing entity…what exactly were people expecting? Golly, a website used to sell things you don’t need or want. What an intrusion. Like the biggest rock band in the world getting slammed for giving away an album of new material — and clogging up everybody’s iPhone, making it difficult to follow what Taylor tweeted about Kanye.

Worst Movie of All Time? Are you nuts? “The Devil Inside” is a half-decent thriller that requires extensive use of the fast-forward button to get through the “acting.”

“Are you all right?” “Wait, I say that.” “Say what?” “Are you all right?” “Wait, I say that.”

It is no “Manos: Hands of Fate,” shot in the dark outside El Paso with a limping star who can’t speak and whose pants are falling down.

It is no “Bloodsucking Freaks,” with an Italian cop movie grafted onto a hideous tale of a real-life Theatre of the Macabre, creating an extended non-sequitur.

And it is certainly no “Deathstalker II,” in which a frat boy in a furry loincloth takes on a wizard who was cut by the Village People for being too gay.

Love it or, as is far more likely, hate it, but don’t try to elevate “The Devil Inside” into the Pantheon of Poop. It is not nearly bad enough.

You can see strikes — and my slow reactions. I got better after I warmed up a bit.

Sage’s Ravine — water very low, with stretches of dry streambed. Kept going — the water was running downstream so it’s coming from somewhere, right? Got this brookie from what appeared to be dead pool. Caught a bunch in here a month ago.

Upstream, the water was running again. Low, but running. Must be a lot of underground springs and seeps and whatnot. This brook trout came out of this pool, and a bitch of a cast it was, too, if I do say so. I was squatting like a baseball catcher, which at age 53 is not as easy as it once was.

Meanwhile, along the banks of the mighty Housatonic, it is smallmouth season. I still don’t know much about smallmouth bass, but I am improving. This one took the brown Wooly Bugger I put on in lieu of a crayfish pattern.

The blaxploitation film “Jive Turkey” has a few things going for it — suits made from carpet remnants, a transvestite who kills with her high heels — and a very curious problem with time.

Even though the soundtrack is 1970s, and the mannerisms, and the costumes, characters keep saying “Hey — it’s 1956!”

And the cars are from the 50s. We know this not just from the tail fins, but the repeated shots of license plates that clearly read “1956.”

I don’t know why this is. No clue.

Without this strange disturbance in the time/space continuum, “Jive Turkey” is a lightweight tale of an Italian mob guy trying to take over the numbers from Pasha, the local black kingpin.

Many people die, and it is occasionally relevant to the story.

Many people wear extraordinarily bad clothes, even for 1974, or 1956, or whatever.

We’re talking opium den, killer transvestite, hair goop, and what has to be improvised dialogue.

And let us not forget the toe-tapping anthem “Nigger Rich,” which would cause the Internet to explode if it were released today. Hell, it still might.

My copy is grainy and fizzy and blurry, as befits one of those “50 Horrible Flicks for $15” box sets.

Not much to recommend here, except as a historical curiosity.

Two coils.

Yoko, as “Eva.” There is nothing else to say.

The more I see of his works, the more I realize that Jean Rollin is the worst director in the world, Zombie Lake notwithstanding.

Sidewalks of Bangkok popped up on the Netflix streaming service, so I watched it. Later I discovered it was streaming for free on Amazon Prime.

I wish I had watched it there. Free is better than the 38 cents or whatever I was charged.

In the flick, some French secret agent has a tube with a deadly chemical weapon in it. He gives it to an exotic dancer named Eva. Eva is played by a woman named Yoko. She is very fit and writhes around a lot.

Then some bad people show up and they want the tube too.

Then there are some scenes of ships and streets and airplanes and exotic dancers and people having cocktails.

Keeping the pulse throbbing throughout is some real toe-tappin 1980s lounge music.

This film is a real piece of crap — even for Rollin.

WHat amazes me is that anyone ever gave the man any money to make movies. He must have been quite the Svengali. Or maybe he was an extortionist.

Anyhoo, don’t waste your time on this turkey. It doesn’t even rate half a coil.

I loathe Comcast. Their service is expensive, chock full of crap no sentient human being could possibly endure for more than two minutes, and their politics odious. I think cable TV monopolies are ripe for some serious reform, and I confidently expect that absolutely nothing will happen on that front. Television as such is on the way out anyway, or so they tell me.

With that out of the way, I recently asked Comcast to send me a new cable box because the old one was ten years old and acting up. Also I saw my mother’s new one, and it was nice and small.

So I called and got a very nice lady who got it right away and said the new gizmo would arrive in a plain wrapper in three or four days. And it did.

I got it plugged in, and it didn’t work right. I logged into the website, which is confusing because the company can’t decide if it is Comcast or Xfinity or what. I tried a troubleshooting thing and that didn’t work either.

So I went fishing.

When I got back I dialed up the live chat, figuring that would be better than trying to talk on the phone while squinting at the box, trying to read the serial number.

The enthusiastic Kerwin was on the other end! He likes exclamation points!

He also got it sorted in about five minutes.

So although I will not concede a fraction of an iota of an inch on my disdain for Comcast, they do hire good service people.Crappy old box

Exciting and vibrant new box

When I lived in New Mexico I became addicted to chile with an “e” — not the jumped-up spaghetti sauce with beans in it that calls itself chili with an “i.”

Green chile and chicken is a particularly good combination. In Connecticut, there is no shortage of chicken, but green chile is a rare commodity. The stuff can be sent, frozen, from Albuquerque, at hideous expense. I have not been willing to incur this expense.

So that’s been that.

Until now. This line of “cooking sauces” recently appeared at LaBonne’s in Salisbury. I tried the barbeque one for ground beef, and the green chile for chicken.

The beef one produced Sloppy Joes that were perfectly edible. The chicken version, however, gets as close to being in the Land of Enchantment as possible.

It’s very simple to use. Rub spices on chicken, shove in slow cooker, add packet of cooking sauce, wait several hours. Shred chicken with fork, add packet of “finishing sauce,” wait some more.

I highly recommend it.

Of course, the depiction of “Stubbs” is racist and evil. The fact he is wearing a cowboy hat indicates he is, at best, the cook, and probably a slave. So if you want to try this you’d better hurry because my next move is to have this product banned.

Meanwhile, on the trout torturing front…whoops

Meanwhile, I cleverly broke the tip of my Orvis “Trout Bum” rod, a slow action, four piece seven foot four weight that is one of my favorites for creeping around small streams. I broke it by rolling the tip up in car window because I was lazy and and did not break the rod down and put it away properly.

Orvis has a 25 year warranty. If you break it, however stupidly, they will repair or replace it. They do nick you for $30 to cover shipping, however.

So I sent it off back in April. The first thing they did was offer me an upgrade to the super-super version, for a mere $375. I passed on that, and silence intervened until yesterday, when the UPS man — whoops

— when the UPS delivery person of indeterminate gender and sexual orientation (not that it matters anyway) delivered a brand spanking new version of the same rod. Why it took two months to figure out they couldn’t fix the old one I don’t know.

But I am not complaining. I just tested it out with a double taper line and it is just what the doctor ordered.

I would prefer the nylon-covered tube, because when you are backpacking to a high mountain lake in northern New Mexico you really don’t want a lightning rid strapped to your pack.