The few words I've found to describe the experience of watching Gummo are as follows:
It's akin to having all the blood in your body drained and replaced with Old Milwaukee while being forced to drink your brain through a foam dome apparatus for 88 minutes straight. After this proceedure, you get your blood transfused back, but there's still bad, evil, nasty, foul-smelling beer in your marrow, and you find yourself wanting to beat the holy hell out of a kitchen table while laughing at anything. Anything.
While watching this movie, I was filled with a drunken sense of extroverted loathing and detached amusement. This movie is like LSD in the sense that it will never leave your body. The few redeeming factors include an arm wrestling midget and a kid with a bunny costume hat, but even Chloë Sevigny didn't make this film something I wanted to watch. It's important to see if you know anyone in danger of becoming trailer trash, but, overall, it just left me wondering what I had done to the person who recommended it to me and, more importantly, where I put my beer.
The strange thing is I now look back on the cheep beer buzz feeling one gets while watching Gummo with a disconnected sort of longing. It's like now that I've seen the movie, I can appreciate the dark art that it is. I still plot unholy acts against its director, but now that I'm in the clear and never have to watch it again, I can laugh about its more ludicrous (and eerily beautiful) parts.