This plot could only have been conceived by a madman, and that too on what must
have been a particularly bad day! The credits were conveniently skipped, presumably
for the safety of those who first dreamed up this bizarre plot, and then dared
to go ahead and make a movie out of it.
A spaceship from outer-space crashes onto Earth, carrying in its tow three bimbos, whose dresses (whatever little managed to stay on) came out of lesser cloth than required to make an average kerchief. Well, it seems they have chosen to crashland into some weird private island, owned by an even more weird James C Wilbur II. This character is a hackneyed version of a space warlord, with a getup that looks so funny that no self-respecting clown would agree to be fitted into.
This joke of a villain, complete with a hunchback sidekick, has created this island to be the ultimate sex paradise for a paying customer - with zombie blondes, who react only when music is played, and hunks in loincloth, who look as if they have just stepped out of a body-building manual. What ensues is a mindless sequence, to describe which would be an insult to your intelligence. Anyway, these hunks fall for the space-beauties, and they escape into space, leaving just in time as the complete island detonates like an oversized firecracker.
Anything remotely close to sex, be it as chaste as a kiss, is conspicuous by its absence (that courtesy the local censors). The acting is corny, the dialogues punctuated with double-entendres, the direction shabby, editing miscued, and why am I still going on...?!
So if you want to take it out on somebody get him to watch this flick. As for you... don't even think about it!