Reviewing Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead is like critiquing a belch.

Or any other bodily function best appreciated by a 12-year-old boy.

It all comes down to taste.

Or, in the case of Poultrygeist, a lack thereof.

This isn't a complaint, mind you -- I'll take a film that is cheerfully and purposefully offensive over one that is merely creatively so (Good Luck Chuck, anyone?). But your taste barometer is critical to, er, your enjoyment of this fowl and foul return to form for the Troma trademark (the infamous folks behind The Toxic Avenger and Tromeo and Juliet).

Sensitive filmgoers, though -- or those with less-than iron-clad constitutions -- had best beware: This one makes Borat look like The Sound of Music.

Gag-reflex gore? Check. Breasts galore? Of course. Scatological humour? Was there ever any doubt? Jokes about races and sexual persuasions? Are there any other kind?

Even those who rail against political correctness will find their mettle for the obscene tested by the volume of vulgarity.

The setup is pure B-grade horror movie schlock: Arbie (Jason Yachanin) and Wendy (Kate Graham) are high school sweethearts who, while having sex at a cemetery, seemingly disturb ancient, sinister Native American spirits.

Cut to a year later when Arbie discovers Wendy -- the fact the protagonists are named for certain franchise eateries is no coincidence -- protesting outside The American Chicken Bunker, a military-themed fried chicken chain.

Now in college, she's become a "lipstick lesbian" and member of the militant College Lesbians Against Mega-Conglomerates.

Angered by her newfound lust for the opposite sex, Arbie strikes back by getting a job at the fast-food outlet before all hell -- and beak -- clucks loose.

Did I mention it's also a musical -- and a fairly accomplished one at that?

Indeed, for those who go in properly braced, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead boasts its very guilty and gross pleasures. Even if, by the end, you're sure to have had your fill.
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