You might not get the American adaptation of Rhinocéros, that mid-century French play about the absurdity of life and how conformity contributes to the horror of fascism. The plebes at IMDb sure didn’t, giving it an abysmal 4.3 out of 10 rating, showing, sadly, that the critic on the streets would rather blushingly waterboard himself with

energy drink than praise a low-brow opera of blood starring porn star Jenna Jameson. This even though it might be the only movie that addresses the quandary of the country’s “live nude girls” neon signs. Is it possible, this movie asks, to have nude girls who are not live? And, can we answer this question using a naked girl who is using ping pong and billiard balls in a naughty way?

In the gleeful trash universe of “Zombie Strippers,” we’re living in a kind of deliciously cheesy, adorable Bill and Ted future where George W. Bush has been elected to a bellicose fourth term in office, and the country is operating under a sort of Crawford, Texas-style Sharia law, a sort of Mystery Security Theater 3000 in which the government solves a troop shortage by inventing a way to reanimate flesh. (Honestly, after reading about the CIA’s slapstick efforts at trying to use LSD as spy aid in the 60s, in “Acid Dreams,” I’m not surprised.)

So anyway, this zombie virus has gotten out, leading those infected to be “fearless and uninhibited,” which leads to (Old Spice man voice) sexy results and scenes of phony soldiers (fit, beautiful American specimens who charge down a hall with their high-powered weaponry, uh, well, pointed at the back of each other’s heads), one of whom stumbles into an exclusive strip club that seems to forget it’s in a Nebraska town that shares the same name as a French existentialist. (Deep, huh?) He is injured, and when he finally arises, his affliction manifests in equal parts 5 Hour Energy and Antarctica-chapped skin. Once he finally infects Kat (Jameson, who is surprisingly three-dimensional, and, uh, not in THAT way), the campy fun finally begins. (Seriously, this movie is too long by about 50 percent, which makes it all the more impressive that it manages to hold one’s attention with

silliness and frequently jarring political commentary, like the part where clinical trials are explained by the fact that there are plenty of desperate people, like the middle class, to volunteer. Did Dennis Miller come back from the comedy grave and lend his talents, uncredited, to this?)

This movie is like if, instead of Tyra Banks, “America’s Next Top Model” were hosted by John Waters. Yes, there are stripping scenes, but they’re no more gratuitously sexy than your average prime-time television show about nubile young Beverly Hills vampires or whatever. The whole thing has the rather surprising environment of a giggly, de-sexed middle school comedy. One character is an over-the-top goth stripper. Their manager is a cross between Dracula and Natasha, from the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and she carries a foot-long cigarette holder. The club janitor starts out as a slapdash Mexican stereotype, and ends up an obvious joke upon everyone, heading into battle with his donkey and sombrero, saying goodbye to a photo of his wife and daughters (all named Maria) and naming his revolver bullets after Pancho Villa and guacamole. Because

“Zombie Strippers” knows how ridiculous it is, it is more fun, bloody horror than your average bad, pale, blood-spattered seduction (I’m looking at you, “Twilight”). Nietzsche is a frequent theme (Jameson is convincing when she tells us “All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity,” and I’m serious.) Another girl quotes Plutarch. Another of the girls is insulted by being called a Trotskyite. And Jameson’s ultimate transformation into a zombie stacks up to the maudlin spectacle of “Black Swan” any day, with anemic feathers sticking from her hips and bustier, a sucking wound in her neck, and the dry sound of her hands scraping down the stripper pole as she dances her best dance ever, in front of a crowd of men stunned into statues.

By all accounts, this movie should be wildly popular. I don’t see how Americans can disparage “Zombie Strippers” when we spent $6.8 billion a year on Halloween, a holiday that is primarily built around cute children’s characters adapted into the form of costumes that would be appropriate at the most flammable gentleman’s club.

This movie is as surprising as it gets, for something that advertises blood and tits as its primary draws: the girls are both hot and not idiots. The men are, by default, not studs. As for the language, Shakespeare would have been well within his habit using the line “graveless gutter sluts.” As far as whether it’s good or not, that’s subjective. It’s as good as a movie called “Zombie Strippers” can be. But, in my book, that means it’s pretty damned good, and even better than I thought. I’m just glad there’s a movie about zombie strippers to begin with.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in the theater anymore.