If DeTroit didn't flaunt his utter lack of competence like some sort of training video for mentally challenged pimps, it might be easier to write off this hopelessly inadequate series as a twentieth-generation Dirty Debs variation. But unlike Ed Powers (who at least lets a bit of the wind out of his pro-am sails with some self-deprecating humor), DeTroit seems to revel in a special kind of grim narcissism formerly restricted to the likes of Ed Wood and Steven Seagal (and at least those guys hired cameramen who knew what "focus" was).

Like some sort of industrial disaster, the awfulness of the Swollen Joints series (to which these four titles belong) is strip mined to its very core without regard to the consequences. First and foremost, the series is not about eroticism at all, but rather how many times Detroit can pay for his own pathetic orgasm and profit by foisting it upon the unsuspecting consumer. (DeTroit appears to be particularly fond of a Bronze Mermaid who soaps up his hairy ass and proceeds to plunge his colon with a dildo.) Yet even said consumer may think twice when they see the boxcover talent, who run the gamut of physical extremes from death camp-thin to pork-rind addict.

While the girls desperately cling to their plastic wigs, DeTroit runs back and forth from camera to pussy in an attempt to capture something resembling human sexuality on tape, but mostly it looks like an air traffic collision with discount lingerie. When DeTroit leaves the videography to his pals, the results are even worse, as the camera drifts off the scene, misses pop shots, and seems to hover in a state of perpetual boredom. Give yourself an early birthday gift and avoid this series like the anthrax virus.