By Noah Robischon
Updated July 21, 2000 at 04:00 AM EDT

Pointlessly depraved? Like watching a Russ Meyer flick while thumbing through Maxim and spraying Cheez Whiz down your throat. Profanity? Lots of it, and the soundtrack will have you one-clicking a copy of Enon’s only album just to hear the song ”Rubber Car” again. Bikini Bandits (, a monthly series about a gang of babelicious, two-piece-wearing killers who lure drooling men only to blow them away with the heavy armor tucked inside their Lycra, is as tawdry as a late-night Cinemax guilty pleasure — but with less nudity, fancier editing, and one set of rotten teeth. The plots are, intellectually, pure marshmallow fluff — MTV videos have more substance — but guerrilla advertiser-turned-director Steven Grasse wants it that way. He’s even opened a real G-Mart in Philadelphia and online ( just like the convenience store the Bikini Bandits keep holding up — so you’ll never be without Golden Fluffy Brawny Oat Flakes again. B-