It’s
the holidays and we’re feeling it even here in the Sewer. This year
we’re taking stock of the many gifts we’ve gotten from the movies over
the years and celebrating them in the form of a Christmas carol. In our
own special way.

While the traditional 12 Days of Christmas
counts up from one, we think it’s more fun to count down between now
and the big day (and yeah, we built in some slack for ourselves). So
sit back and get ready for some great moments from some great CHUD
favorites, and some possible holiday gift ideas while we’re at it.

On the sixth day til Christmas my true CHUD sent to me…

Six Screaming Non-Nunziatas

Can you do a Southern accent? You’re clearly one of the best auditions we’ve ever had but the script calls for this character to be a kid from the South.


- Casting Agent, Six Pack (paraphrased)

It may have been smoke up a 9 year-old’s ass [HOT!], but those words were uttered to me shortly after moving South from the icy expanse of New York City after I auditioned for a role in a then untitled feature film to be shot in Atlanta starring local legend Sir Kenneth McSteady-Greenheart Rogers III, esq.

My work was phenomenal since my scrawny Macchio-esque physique and hair was pulsating with vigor and love of artistic expression and my vocabulary was advanced enough to stymie the microscopic intellects of the local fauna such as mechanics, farmers, and transistor radio repairpersons. I was a child with promise and skill, and should I be able to pull off a Southern accent I could be the next goddamn Adam Rich and bestow the Nunziata surname with riches, fame, and an early grave thanks to complications from drugtaste.

Since I’d never heard a Southern accent, I was absolute shit. It was not meant to be.

The film became Six Pack and it went on to gross dozens of dollars. One Kenny and Six little assholes apparently was not the elixir for the fickle beast known as the Boxofficeasaurus. My life continued as a non-actor, a streak I keep alive to this day.

Most of you already are way ahead of me and plan to enjoy a six-pack every day of the year, but here’s your head’s up for a film that could have made yours truly a person with one degree of separation from Diane Lane and thusly extremely too close to where Lambert semen once splashed.

Actually if this article was the 250,000 spilled gentlemen of CHUDmas I’d dedicate an entry to the load I’d have surely gushed due to proximity to the insanely inviting slamholes of then-young Erin Gray and Ms. Lane.

Avoid buying Six-Pack here.