Ice Pirates

A few months ago I purchased a movie that I remembered loving when I was a child.  The plot: In the future water has become the most valuable commodity, space pirates drift around the universe getting into comedic hijinks. They get kidnapped and then sold to a Princess who then recruits them to track down her missing father.  Add in a battle with space herpes, how could you lose?
So I dialed up a popular stuff buying website and bought the DVD for $3 (I'm a buyer, not a renter). It seemed like weeks as I sat at the window, waiting with anticipation for the mailman to deliver this masterpiece.  Finally it arrives.  I rip the package open, leaving a manila and plastic wake from the mailbox to the DVD player.  I dim the lights and sit back as Robert Urich's gigantic, Mike Brady-looking head appears on the start menu.  Special Features, I think you can wait until the space swashbuckling and infantile penis jokes have entertained every ounce of my being.

Ten minutes in I turned the DVD off, went into my room, and cried. Ok, I didn't actually cry.  Could it be true? Could one of my greatest childhood memories of cinematic achievement be that skewed? If so, what other memories that I hold so near and dear to my heart may have happened differently in reality?  Is it only my warped, fictional childhood nostalgia that maintains the charade?

Dear Ice Pirates (Stuart Raffill, 1984), you ruined my life.