Dismemberment Entree, Heaping Side of Screams
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âSaw IVâ is bloody proof that Jigsaw may be dead, but his well of corporeal abuses has yet to run dry.
650950
Sick or sweet? Body parts, insects and other ghoulish confections make for a very scary holiday.
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The photographs on the bulletin boards outside the Yan Yao Buddhist temple make for a gruesome display. Hundreds and hundreds of bloated, disfigured and decomposed corpses stare out blankly.
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Watching contestants eat dead rats  on NBC's gross-out stunt show "Fear Factor" so disgusted a  Cleveland man that he has sued NBC for $2.5 million, saying he  could not stomach what he saw.
48876
Flaming skulls, cheesy acting, satanic motorcycles -- what's not to like? In Table of Malcontents.
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Hold the roast beef, pass the cocktail wieners on toothpicks. Eat off paper plates (napkins are even better), and don't dare sit down.
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Oh my goodness! The shrieks, the howls, the derision, the guffaws! How many spleens have been vented in the last week on something that hasn&#39;t happened and might not happen?
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On Saturday, it is 100 days since Georges Malbrunot was taken hostage, and I still feel the rage I felt on the first day. The pain of Georges&#39; parents and brother is impossible to measure, the suffering of his fiancÃ©e unimaginable.
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When the last breath was squeezed out of New Zealand just after lunch yesterday, with it went an appalling test series on virtually all counts.
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The sound sets teeth on edge, makes skin crawl and sends a shiver down the spine. Just thinking about it gives some people the heebie-jeebies. But what is it about the sound of fingernails scratching on a blackboard that elicits such a universal reaction? Randolph Blake and two colleagues think they know &#151; the sound's frequency level.
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They kneel before the camera. They are rigid with fear. Or they are crying, clearly unhinged, begging for their lives. They are hostages, flanked by masked men who carry swords or AK-47s -- the grim reapers of this age of televised terror.
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Tycho:  The memories of those who came of age in the eighties have become a kind of ghastly rummage sale, a tilled up cemetery where icons lay tilted over bones draped in ancient finery.  Pork caught a preview of Transformers on Monday, and he claims that it is not, in fact, heresy - but I don't know how calibrated our respective tastes are.  I was going to make a statement about how any constantly shifting image could entertain him, enthrall him, command him, until I realized that this viewing was late at night, in the twilight period we call Pork After Hours, when his medication wanes and his blood is frenzied by some dark moon.  For him to have focused on anything at any time after nine o'clock is actually high praise.
5533
Chandrasekhar Yeleti's latest, Okkadunnadu, is marred by too much blood and gore.
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Here's the painful story of someone who did.
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There is nary a shriek, of either humor or horror, in this musicalâs drably earnest two hours of throaty sturm und drang.
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The tears and the blame mix uneasily in âReservation Road,â a grim, mechanistic thriller about death and suffering, life and healing among the civilized.
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GROTESQUELY muscled men. Tainted records. Suspicions of drug use. Sounds like professional wrestling - or is it Major League Baseball?