I worked as an atmosphere person on this film while it was shooting on the back lot in Wilmington, North Carolina. I was a drunken cowboy, a customer in the whorehouse parlor whose pocket was being picked by a scantily dressed employee, who was in fact a well brought up Southern Baptist girl who giggled nervously as I nuzzled her belly. My son Josh, an adopted Korean who was about eight at the time, was also an atmosphere person, playing one of the children in a kind of day care center in the whorehouse, genuinely startled when the door burst open because the move hadn't been announced. Now, as an insider on this project, I agree with other reviewers that this is one of the rottenest filthiest and altogether most execrable movies ever committed to film, the absolute nadir. I disagree with one reviewer's comment, however. The funniest gag is not the credit card decals on the whorehouse door. It is the scene in which Robert Davi (a competent actor, reserved guy, and stone opera fan) releases an inhuman amount of intestinal gas inside a closed vehicle while laughing hysterically, then lights a cigar, during which feckless act the car blows up. That's the funniest gag.