Alright, folks, gather ’round the ol’ campfire of cinematic oddities, ’cause today we’re divin’ headlong into the bewildering, befuddling, and downright bizarre world of a horror franchise that’s as consistent as a politician’s promises: “The Howling” series. Joe Bob and the gang over at “Hack the Movies” chewed the fat about this peculiar set of flicks, and let me tell you, it was like tryin’ to nail Jell-O to the ceiling.

Now, it’s been a hot minute — four years, to be exact-o — since Joe Bob last moseyed on over to their underground bunker, which, by the way, is cleverly disguised as a 90’s strip mall video store. They got to yappin’ about all things howlin’, growlin’, and prowlin’, specifically that critter of a movie, “Howling VII: New Moon Rising.” Directed, written by, and starring the man, the myth, the enigma — Clive Turner. Now, if you’re askin’ yourself, “Who in the Sam Hill is Clive Turner?” Well, join the club, ’cause we’re all scratchin’ our heads on that one.

The Howling saga is a mixed bag of werewolf kibble, startin’ off strong with Joe Dante’s 1981 classic, then veerin’ off into territories unknown with sequels that got about as much in common as cats and dogs. From werewolf nuns in “Howling II” to the marsupial madness of “Howling III,” each installment takes a wilder detour than the last.

But let’s zero in on “Howling VII,” the pièce de résistance of franchise fuckery, filmed in the bustling metropolis of Pioneer Town, California, with a cast comprised mainly of folks who were probably just wanderin’ by and thought, “Sure, I’ll be in your picture show.” Set in a honky-tonk bar where the beer flows like water and the line dancin’ is about as coordinated as a three-legged horse, this movie’s got more country twang than a Willie Nelson concert.

Clive Turner, bless his heart, tried to stitch this Frankenstein’s monster of a franchise together, makin’ connections that are about as sturdy and well thought out as a straw shithouse in a hurricane. The result? A werewolf tale that’s more confusin’ than tryin’ to read War and Peace translated from the original Russian into Pig Latin and then back again.

Joe Bob and company also gabbed about the plight of indie horror filmmakers, strugglin’ to get their flicks in front of eyeballs in a world where the big streaming giants keep shufflin’ the same deck of cards. It’s a tough racket, but as they always say, there’s gold in them thar hills—you just gotta know where to dig.

In the end, the jawin’ about The Howling wasn’t just about pokin’ fun at a series that’s seen better days; it was a tip of the hat to the wild, wacky world of horror cinema. It’s a land where the unexpected is the only expectation, and even the strangest tales can find a place to howl at the moon. So here’s to those cinematic explorers, those pioneers of the peculiar, who keep the spirit of B-movie madness alive and kickin’. Keep howlin’, you beautiful weirdos, keep howlin’.