American cinema’s ongoing obsession with female sex organs and what goes in and is pushed out of them continues. Dawn (Weixler), an impassioned spokeswoman for her local teenage-abstinence movement, learns that her vajayjay has choppers. A trail of bloody sausages is left in her wake—a gag that’s funny for about as long as the jokes about Lorena Bobbitt were in 1993. “There’s something inside me that’s lethal,” Dawn tells a group of sex-spurning teens. Lichtenstein assumes the role of profeminist provocateur, but his satire is so lazy (how many shots of nuclear towers spewing black smoke are needed?) that any attempt to say something intelligent about the power of adolescent-girl sexuality simply goes down the hole.