This post, and several others to appear in due course, are generously sponsored by a gentleman-scholar from County San Francisco, supportive of the production and assessment of nasty novels, dealing familiarly with gamblers, misandrists and flashy reprobates.  I went through a period in my tweens in which I watched the 1991 The Mummy at least once a week. Sometimes more often than that. I knew most of it by heart, including all of its…