Ernie is out on the town, looking for some lovin' on the way to the post office. While standing at a corner, waiting for the walk signal, he appraises the fine piece of lady that has stopped next to him. He looks her up and down and finds her appropriate for his needs.
"Hey fine thing," he opens with his classic sexily sly smile.
The woman turns to him, half amused and half annoyed. "Are you talking to me?"
"Oh yeah sugar. You see that building over there?" He indicates the direction with a nod of his head.
"What, Planned Parenthood?" she asks, now genuinely confused.
"Mmmhmm. That's where you'll be headed by the time I'm finished with you. Oh yeah." He makes sure to give her 'The Look' to seal the deal.
Confusion turns to disgust on her face and she offers him a good, "Fuck off, creep," before walking forward as the light changes.
Ernie hangs back to admire her ass as she crosses the street. Aloud, he reassures himself, "That's just one 'no' closer to 'yes.' Oh yeah."
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I really thought I graduated already. Oh, I did, my brain just hates me
So, this comic (and the forum thread devoted to it) from xkcd proved to me that I'm not alone:
Note: click on the comic for a larger and more readable version
Mouse-over text: "The same goes for the one where you're wrestling the Green Ranger in the swimming pool full of Crisco. You guys all have that dream, right? It's not just me. Right?"
Seriously, it's been almost three years since I graduated from college and I'm still having dreams like this, probably once a month or so. The weird part is that the class I've haven't been attending is almost invariably a high school subject; mostly math or science, though one time my brain reached all the way back to middle school and had me missing a technology (aka "shop") class. You try working on a block of wood for a final project with a huge fucking machine that you have no idea how to use because you've missed the whole semester up to that point. Very, very stressful, to say the least.
Just last week I dreamed that I was out sick for almost an entire semester and was only barely able to show up in time for the final for a physics/earth science (it switched back and forth a bit) class; neither subject have I taken since high school, by the way. I talked to the professor, hoping to be able to take an "incomplete" until I could catch up on the material and take the exams properly. Unfortunately, the professor was a hard-ass and had only a kind of cruel sympathy for me. He said I could take all five tests I had missed and the final, but I had to do them all in the time reserved for the final and only that time. In other words, I had to complete seven hours of tests in two hours...for a class I had not been attending all semester. He was actually grinning wickedly as he told me this, the bastard.
So, I sat down at the kitchen table of my parents' house to take the tests (which didn't faze me in the slightest; it was a dream after all) and struggled to remember whatever I could from when I had taken the course in high school. Needless to say, I didn't get very far and the professor gleefully failed me.
But then I went back to my room, went on my computer and saw a hilariously clever science-related xkcd comic strip (I'm not kidding, I actually dreamed this) and e-mailed it to the professor. He was apparently impressed because he called me to his office to let me know that he was raising my grade to a D for sending him such a great comic. It clearly demonstrated that I had a better grasp of science than my test scores may have indicated, he said (with a much improved attitude I might add).
Of course, I immediately went out to brag to my friends that xkcd had prevented me from failing a class. It was pretty glorious, though I was still somewhat pissed about getting a D because I needed at least a C for my General Education requirements. Then I started having the typical doubts about reality demonstrated in the above comic ("Wait a minute, didn't I finish those already? Don't I have a real job now? Doesn't that mean I finished school?") Nevertheless, I woke up the way I always wake up from these dreams: panicky, grasping about in my mind for how much time I have left in the semester and cursing my procrastination until..."Damn it! Again? Hey, brain! Can you hear me? I GRADUATED! IT'S OVER!" Well, the first few times I had that kind of dream I said that to myself. Now, after a few dozen such occasions, I just sigh in resignation and rejoice that there's no such thing as homework for me anymore.
Really, I'm just glad to know I'm not the only one having that dream...and that I'm not having dreams of wrestling the Green Ranger in a swimming pool full of Crisco. That would be a rough way to spend the night.
Bonus: plausible stressful dreams that I have not had....yet.
1) I have to speak at Daffy Duck's funeral, but I can't remember what cartoon he was in and then realize that I barely knew him, but everyone is waiting for me, all teary-eyed and ready for a moving eulogy.
2) My dogs can talk, but all they do is follow me around the house berating me for not feeding them enough ("Is it time to eat yet? How about now? Now? Still not yet? What's the matter with you? I'm hungry! You're eating! What about now?").
3) Shrimp invasion.
4) The lunatic teabaggers decide they're going to protest me from now on. There's constantly tens of confused senior citizens and racist ignoramuses screaming nonsense up at my apartment windows. They follow me to and from work every day, on walks, out with my friends. I just kind of get used to them and ignore their incoherent ranting. They never stop until they die in a fit of irony (aka from a lack of adequate health insurance).
5) The New York Giants draft me to play basketball professionally, even though I try to insist that I suck. After feigning injury all season to get out of playing, it's the playoffs and they're down by one goal with only minutes left in the period. They're desperate for me to get in the game before it's too late. "Please, it's all riding on you Mike! We need you to come in and work your magic!" And I don't even know the rules to whatever incomprehensible game it is they're playing by this point in the dream.
6) All my books (I have several hundred; collectively, they're one of the few possessions I own that I truly care about, that rise above being "just stuff") are just gone one day and my roommates are completely nonchalant about it while I panic.
7) The DC squirrels are really highly intelligent extra-terrestrial beings who have been observing and judging humans. They finally decide that we're hopeless as a species and solemnly swear to annoy us all until we're driven to suicide. Though, come to think of it, I don't really think that's far-fetched enough. They're probably plotting as we speak. Keep your eyes on those critters.
Bonus for the bonus: a dream that I really did have this one time:
1) I had HUGE, droopy granny boobs. And I was still a man. When I reached up over my head for something, the bottom of my boobs were visible under my shirt. They could literally rest in my lap if I sat down. I was very confused and a bit concerned. When I woke up, I found my friend and told her, "I dreamt I had boobs down to HERE!" and indicated my waist. She was highly amused.
Note: click on the comic for a larger and more readable version
Mouse-over text: "The same goes for the one where you're wrestling the Green Ranger in the swimming pool full of Crisco. You guys all have that dream, right? It's not just me. Right?"
Seriously, it's been almost three years since I graduated from college and I'm still having dreams like this, probably once a month or so. The weird part is that the class I've haven't been attending is almost invariably a high school subject; mostly math or science, though one time my brain reached all the way back to middle school and had me missing a technology (aka "shop") class. You try working on a block of wood for a final project with a huge fucking machine that you have no idea how to use because you've missed the whole semester up to that point. Very, very stressful, to say the least.
Just last week I dreamed that I was out sick for almost an entire semester and was only barely able to show up in time for the final for a physics/earth science (it switched back and forth a bit) class; neither subject have I taken since high school, by the way. I talked to the professor, hoping to be able to take an "incomplete" until I could catch up on the material and take the exams properly. Unfortunately, the professor was a hard-ass and had only a kind of cruel sympathy for me. He said I could take all five tests I had missed and the final, but I had to do them all in the time reserved for the final and only that time. In other words, I had to complete seven hours of tests in two hours...for a class I had not been attending all semester. He was actually grinning wickedly as he told me this, the bastard.
So, I sat down at the kitchen table of my parents' house to take the tests (which didn't faze me in the slightest; it was a dream after all) and struggled to remember whatever I could from when I had taken the course in high school. Needless to say, I didn't get very far and the professor gleefully failed me.
But then I went back to my room, went on my computer and saw a hilariously clever science-related xkcd comic strip (I'm not kidding, I actually dreamed this) and e-mailed it to the professor. He was apparently impressed because he called me to his office to let me know that he was raising my grade to a D for sending him such a great comic. It clearly demonstrated that I had a better grasp of science than my test scores may have indicated, he said (with a much improved attitude I might add).
Of course, I immediately went out to brag to my friends that xkcd had prevented me from failing a class. It was pretty glorious, though I was still somewhat pissed about getting a D because I needed at least a C for my General Education requirements. Then I started having the typical doubts about reality demonstrated in the above comic ("Wait a minute, didn't I finish those already? Don't I have a real job now? Doesn't that mean I finished school?") Nevertheless, I woke up the way I always wake up from these dreams: panicky, grasping about in my mind for how much time I have left in the semester and cursing my procrastination until..."Damn it! Again? Hey, brain! Can you hear me? I GRADUATED! IT'S OVER!" Well, the first few times I had that kind of dream I said that to myself. Now, after a few dozen such occasions, I just sigh in resignation and rejoice that there's no such thing as homework for me anymore.
Really, I'm just glad to know I'm not the only one having that dream...and that I'm not having dreams of wrestling the Green Ranger in a swimming pool full of Crisco. That would be a rough way to spend the night.
Bonus: plausible stressful dreams that I have not had....yet.
1) I have to speak at Daffy Duck's funeral, but I can't remember what cartoon he was in and then realize that I barely knew him, but everyone is waiting for me, all teary-eyed and ready for a moving eulogy.
2) My dogs can talk, but all they do is follow me around the house berating me for not feeding them enough ("Is it time to eat yet? How about now? Now? Still not yet? What's the matter with you? I'm hungry! You're eating! What about now?").
3) Shrimp invasion.
4) The lunatic teabaggers decide they're going to protest me from now on. There's constantly tens of confused senior citizens and racist ignoramuses screaming nonsense up at my apartment windows. They follow me to and from work every day, on walks, out with my friends. I just kind of get used to them and ignore their incoherent ranting. They never stop until they die in a fit of irony (aka from a lack of adequate health insurance).
5) The New York Giants draft me to play basketball professionally, even though I try to insist that I suck. After feigning injury all season to get out of playing, it's the playoffs and they're down by one goal with only minutes left in the period. They're desperate for me to get in the game before it's too late. "Please, it's all riding on you Mike! We need you to come in and work your magic!" And I don't even know the rules to whatever incomprehensible game it is they're playing by this point in the dream.
6) All my books (I have several hundred; collectively, they're one of the few possessions I own that I truly care about, that rise above being "just stuff") are just gone one day and my roommates are completely nonchalant about it while I panic.
7) The DC squirrels are really highly intelligent extra-terrestrial beings who have been observing and judging humans. They finally decide that we're hopeless as a species and solemnly swear to annoy us all until we're driven to suicide. Though, come to think of it, I don't really think that's far-fetched enough. They're probably plotting as we speak. Keep your eyes on those critters.
Bonus for the bonus: a dream that I really did have this one time:
1) I had HUGE, droopy granny boobs. And I was still a man. When I reached up over my head for something, the bottom of my boobs were visible under my shirt. They could literally rest in my lap if I sat down. I was very confused and a bit concerned. When I woke up, I found my friend and told her, "I dreamt I had boobs down to HERE!" and indicated my waist. She was highly amused.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Birthday Thoughts
Note: I wrote this a little over three years ago and never did anything with it. In fact, I don't think I ever showed it to anyone, but I really like it. It is a very short story. Or maybe it is the beginning of a much larger story that will come one day. Either way, it is a small glimpse of a world (or time) that is outwardly very different from ours, though inwardly remains the same. Hope you enjoy it.
The worst part about breaking up is when you have to say hello to the next person you see. That is what he learned in the 11,200 years he had been alive. It was a birthday realization. You could always say good-bye, but the next conversation….the one with the next person…that was the one that decided how everything really went. You may have held yourself together completely, admirably composed, saying all that needed to be said…but then, as soon as your dialogue with the next person began, all of the feelings could come rushing out. They may be contained in only the smallest, the slightest gesture, or sigh, or hesitation. Or they may be signaled by a complete breakdown, as you take your leave of this intruder upon your thoughts to sulk in some dank corner of your mind. It is never predictable how you will react to the end of a relationship, but it is always summed up in your reaction to the next person.
That was what he learned on his 11,200th birthday. This year was the end of his most recent relationship…a 247-year partnership with a wonderful young woman (she was only 2,596 when they started seeing each other and it was a bit of a scandal at first) that now was ended in a flood of tears, grief, remorse and relief. She pleaded that she could never love another. He swore that she would get over him. She screamed that he was callous. He roared that he was merely old. She sobbed that he was her life. He maintained that her life was her own. She flung herself at him in the hope of winning him back. He accepted her with the hope of being rid of her. It was a sad affair and he believed himself to be above all of this, having been through similar scenes a number of times before.
However, when he returned to his flat and tried to engage his roommate in casual conversation he found himself utterly unable to carry on. He was paralyzed by some inexplicable emotion…one that cut to the very quick of his soul. 247 years was a mere pittance in comparison with the great span that he had already seen. When held up against the many years he planned on living…it seemed a barely recognizable wink in time. The cold feeling in his chest told him otherwise, however. It told him that, no matter how long a life may be, none of it might be lived with impunity. No part of a life may be considered a mere trifle and none of it can be considered disposable. It all has meaning that cannot be erased by a willful mind, or cheapened by a hardened heart. With love comes loss, sooner or later. That is unavoidable.
Needless to say, it was a melancholic 11,200th birthday.
The worst part about breaking up is when you have to say hello to the next person you see. That is what he learned in the 11,200 years he had been alive. It was a birthday realization. You could always say good-bye, but the next conversation….the one with the next person…that was the one that decided how everything really went. You may have held yourself together completely, admirably composed, saying all that needed to be said…but then, as soon as your dialogue with the next person began, all of the feelings could come rushing out. They may be contained in only the smallest, the slightest gesture, or sigh, or hesitation. Or they may be signaled by a complete breakdown, as you take your leave of this intruder upon your thoughts to sulk in some dank corner of your mind. It is never predictable how you will react to the end of a relationship, but it is always summed up in your reaction to the next person.
That was what he learned on his 11,200th birthday. This year was the end of his most recent relationship…a 247-year partnership with a wonderful young woman (she was only 2,596 when they started seeing each other and it was a bit of a scandal at first) that now was ended in a flood of tears, grief, remorse and relief. She pleaded that she could never love another. He swore that she would get over him. She screamed that he was callous. He roared that he was merely old. She sobbed that he was her life. He maintained that her life was her own. She flung herself at him in the hope of winning him back. He accepted her with the hope of being rid of her. It was a sad affair and he believed himself to be above all of this, having been through similar scenes a number of times before.
However, when he returned to his flat and tried to engage his roommate in casual conversation he found himself utterly unable to carry on. He was paralyzed by some inexplicable emotion…one that cut to the very quick of his soul. 247 years was a mere pittance in comparison with the great span that he had already seen. When held up against the many years he planned on living…it seemed a barely recognizable wink in time. The cold feeling in his chest told him otherwise, however. It told him that, no matter how long a life may be, none of it might be lived with impunity. No part of a life may be considered a mere trifle and none of it can be considered disposable. It all has meaning that cannot be erased by a willful mind, or cheapened by a hardened heart. With love comes loss, sooner or later. That is unavoidable.
Needless to say, it was a melancholic 11,200th birthday.
Friday, September 4, 2009
There are times when I just feel like saying...
...that I could rummage through your trash all day, baby. And if you think that was trashy, just wait until you've seen my Cornish friend. He's got swim-trunks written all over him. It's like a disease. A disease that just makes you want to know how they do it even more. It's rhinoplasty, baby.
And as if that wasn't enough, here she comes just talking and swaying and whining like she had four or more cares in the world, winding her way through the market stalls. And if cell phones could talk, we'd all be pretty fucked, wouldn't we? Who'd ever get a word in edgewise? But for now it's just swing and swine as we all jostle along to the muzak. I can barely be heard over the ferocious whispering of the flies in my eyes. They can't read my case or rifle through my files, but they can intrude upon my thoughts and tickle my trickle in ways that should just not be allowed. I think I'll just go cool my waist for a while in the shade of that oaf tree and while away the miles that pass by with Marty McFly.
But, there's just something loose in your drawer, isn't there? Maybe we'll find it someday. Until then you should probably waver more over your soup and try to peer into your sip before it hits your lips. You claim to know that the cricket finds more teeth than the ones he's looking for, but it doesn't bother me, no, because I'm safe in Boeotia. And those Mycenaeans will never find me with their huddled lies, for their torpor knows no bounds. It lacks what it should not, so it discovers more than it could without a push anyway.
Anyway, what happened in the summer with those times that tread lightly in all the wrong places? I feel like I fell without falling, faster than I could frame a response to the far flung freedom fearing idiots that yell and scream with no faces! Why do we wonder where these crude creatures wander? Could we not save them a stool at the sinking shrimp and clam shack and wait for them to turn up with their stupid drunken grins or their sleazy slack-jawed, two-fisted attacks? It might not be worth the trouble, but damn it could be great fun for a while to see them prattle and twist and turn round each other, all while sticking to their sadly miscast and glum looking guns!
Well, now I'm off with a rattle to speak with blue teacups. It could have been a white sheet that made me see red, though I think it more likely that I'll just go to bed. So you may walk with a lime and stop on a nickel, but just remember that greater schemes await those that reach for the pickle. And as I bid you adieu for the night with a flourish, beat back their wigs and have a nice glass of warm milk; it'll help you sleep unless you're lactose intolerant.
And as if that wasn't enough, here she comes just talking and swaying and whining like she had four or more cares in the world, winding her way through the market stalls. And if cell phones could talk, we'd all be pretty fucked, wouldn't we? Who'd ever get a word in edgewise? But for now it's just swing and swine as we all jostle along to the muzak. I can barely be heard over the ferocious whispering of the flies in my eyes. They can't read my case or rifle through my files, but they can intrude upon my thoughts and tickle my trickle in ways that should just not be allowed. I think I'll just go cool my waist for a while in the shade of that oaf tree and while away the miles that pass by with Marty McFly.
But, there's just something loose in your drawer, isn't there? Maybe we'll find it someday. Until then you should probably waver more over your soup and try to peer into your sip before it hits your lips. You claim to know that the cricket finds more teeth than the ones he's looking for, but it doesn't bother me, no, because I'm safe in Boeotia. And those Mycenaeans will never find me with their huddled lies, for their torpor knows no bounds. It lacks what it should not, so it discovers more than it could without a push anyway.
Anyway, what happened in the summer with those times that tread lightly in all the wrong places? I feel like I fell without falling, faster than I could frame a response to the far flung freedom fearing idiots that yell and scream with no faces! Why do we wonder where these crude creatures wander? Could we not save them a stool at the sinking shrimp and clam shack and wait for them to turn up with their stupid drunken grins or their sleazy slack-jawed, two-fisted attacks? It might not be worth the trouble, but damn it could be great fun for a while to see them prattle and twist and turn round each other, all while sticking to their sadly miscast and glum looking guns!
Well, now I'm off with a rattle to speak with blue teacups. It could have been a white sheet that made me see red, though I think it more likely that I'll just go to bed. So you may walk with a lime and stop on a nickel, but just remember that greater schemes await those that reach for the pickle. And as I bid you adieu for the night with a flourish, beat back their wigs and have a nice glass of warm milk; it'll help you sleep unless you're lactose intolerant.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Local Boy Jailed For Theft Of Golden Violin: "I Won It From The Devil"
ATLANTA - Explosive new details have emerged in the curious case of 15 year-old Jonathan "Johnny" Anderson of Pike County, recently convicted of the theft of a golden violin, valued at $2.3 million, from the Atlanta home of tobacco magnate Beezle Mephistopolous. An investigative report by the Atlanta Observer has revealed that Anderson's extraordinary defense in court was that the violin was not stolen at all, but was won by the boy in a bet with the Devil.
The trial, conducted behind tightly closed doors and amid rumors that the wealthy and well connected Mr. Mephistopolous was heavily leaning on prosecutors to obtain the maximum sentence, has been the buzz of Pike County for months, with speculation rife as to how and why a boy with an otherwise clean record would commit such a serious crime. The story has even been picked up by major regional newspapers and television once it was publicly announced that Anderson would be tried as an adult. He was sentenced last week to serve 12-15 years, which critics decried as overly harsh. It has still not been accurately determined how the young Anderson was able to break into the Mephistopolous manor, make off with the heavily guarded violin and return home in time for dinner.
Anonymous attendees of the exclusive court proceedings tell the Observer how, at one point, Anderson had to be dragged from the court in handcuffs by bailiffs after challenging the judge to a 'fiddling duel' and shouting about the Devil. Says a source, "He just kept screaming, 'I told you once you son of a bitch, I'm the best there's ever been!' And, 'It might be a sin, but I won that golden fiddle from the Devil fair and square! That goddamn son of a bitch must have stole it! Get after him about it, not me!' It was awful."
Court officials would only comment that Anderson was seen by a mental health professional and was deemed fit to stand trial.
When reached for comment, Mr. Mephistopolous was reluctant to speak to reporters, though when repeatedly questioned stated, "Look, justice has been served. My property has been returned to me and that dirty, filthy little fiddle player has been properly punished for thinking he can beat me...um, I mean beat the criminal justice system."
When asked about how the high-profile robbery has effected his business, as it is well known that his tobacco company has been in a steep decline in recent years, he related, "Yes, it's true I'm in a bit of a bind. Way behind in fact and I've been willing to make a deal. Not enough people smoking these days with these damn Surgeon General warnings and all. I may be moving into coal next, but we'll have to see how the market plays out."
Meanwhile, the boy's family maintains that he was he was well-behaved and never had any trouble with the law in the past. Described as highly imaginative and a gifted musician, Anderson was a five-time winner of the annual Pike County Fair Fiddle-Off and a member of 4-H and his local church youth group. Police say he was the only suspect in the robbery.
The trial, conducted behind tightly closed doors and amid rumors that the wealthy and well connected Mr. Mephistopolous was heavily leaning on prosecutors to obtain the maximum sentence, has been the buzz of Pike County for months, with speculation rife as to how and why a boy with an otherwise clean record would commit such a serious crime. The story has even been picked up by major regional newspapers and television once it was publicly announced that Anderson would be tried as an adult. He was sentenced last week to serve 12-15 years, which critics decried as overly harsh. It has still not been accurately determined how the young Anderson was able to break into the Mephistopolous manor, make off with the heavily guarded violin and return home in time for dinner.
Anonymous attendees of the exclusive court proceedings tell the Observer how, at one point, Anderson had to be dragged from the court in handcuffs by bailiffs after challenging the judge to a 'fiddling duel' and shouting about the Devil. Says a source, "He just kept screaming, 'I told you once you son of a bitch, I'm the best there's ever been!' And, 'It might be a sin, but I won that golden fiddle from the Devil fair and square! That goddamn son of a bitch must have stole it! Get after him about it, not me!' It was awful."
Court officials would only comment that Anderson was seen by a mental health professional and was deemed fit to stand trial.
When reached for comment, Mr. Mephistopolous was reluctant to speak to reporters, though when repeatedly questioned stated, "Look, justice has been served. My property has been returned to me and that dirty, filthy little fiddle player has been properly punished for thinking he can beat me...um, I mean beat the criminal justice system."
When asked about how the high-profile robbery has effected his business, as it is well known that his tobacco company has been in a steep decline in recent years, he related, "Yes, it's true I'm in a bit of a bind. Way behind in fact and I've been willing to make a deal. Not enough people smoking these days with these damn Surgeon General warnings and all. I may be moving into coal next, but we'll have to see how the market plays out."
Meanwhile, the boy's family maintains that he was he was well-behaved and never had any trouble with the law in the past. Described as highly imaginative and a gifted musician, Anderson was a five-time winner of the annual Pike County Fair Fiddle-Off and a member of 4-H and his local church youth group. Police say he was the only suspect in the robbery.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Ado about Adu
We join a crowd of good show-goers, eagerly awaiting the next act of the night. The entertainment in the old vaudeville style theater, complete with balconies and thick deep red curtains currently closed across the stage, has been outstanding and our friendly crowd is in a spectacularly good mood. The juice jug juggling Johnson Brothers were quite the hit, but they were easily outdone by the Dapper Dawdling Dachshund Dandies! And the Fancy Fiddling Florentine Flamingo dancers were almost too much!
By the time we come in, our dear audience is breathlessly awaiting the secret finale act of the evening. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES has retaken the stage amid excited murmuring. His familiar, pompous voice washes over the theater.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen, one more round of applause please for the Great Gregorius and his garrulous group of gawking ganders! [polite, but sincere applause] You have been such a wonderful crowd this evening that I, and all our performers I'm sure, will be just brokenhearted to see you go. But, before you take your leave, we have for you, as promised, our final mystery finale! Now, I know this is the moment you have all been waiting for, so without further ado, I give you Adu!
[silence]
MAN IN CROWD #1: I thought you said there wasn't going to be any more ado?
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: Yeah, we want the final act!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: No, no! The final act is Adu!
MAN IN CROWD #2: Hey, I didn't come here to see a bunch of ado! We have enough of that at home!
[murmuring, including a few "Quite right!"s]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [slightly non-plussed] I'm very sorry about your troubles at home, but Adu is the final act. That's the secret! I'm sure you'll love the show! [he starts clapping but very few people join in]
MAN IN CROWD #1: But we don't want ado. We thought there was going to be a real show.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: I assure you that Adu is most certainly...
MAN IN CROWD #3: [interrupting] Hey, you aren't going to put on that stupid play Much Ado About Nothing, are you? I hate Greek comedies!
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: That isn't a Greek play, you dunderhead! It's English! Everyone knows that was one of Lord Byron's best.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [his frustration increasing] Look...first of all, Shakespeare wrote that one and second, we are not putting on a play! As I've already told you, we're closing with Adu!
MAN IN CROWD #2: Well, I can tell you this ado isn't very impressive. I'm not feeling very entertained.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: What? [rearing himself up, trying to get his mojo working again] You haven't even seen Adu yet! I'm telling you, what you've seen so far is nothing compared to the great Adu you will see here in mere moments!
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: Oh c'mon, we've had enough of your ado! Have you got anything else?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [spluttering]
MAN IN CROWD #4: This is thievery, this is. We didn't pay good money to see you go, "Ado, ado, ado, ado..."
MAN IN CROWD #5: Ah, what do you bloody Irish know about a good show anyway? I'm having a right good time watching you blokes blabber on!
[shouting, cursing and general tumult]
MAN IN CROWD #4: Who was that? Why don't you say it to my face like a man, you dog!
[tumult continues to grow, with popcorn flying around the room and pairs of individuals almost coming to blows]
MAN IN CROWD #3: Shakespeare was Irish and a fat lot of good it did him!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [desperately trying to regain control of the situation] Please people, please! Everyone just calm down. I'm sure no one means anyone else any harm. [things start to subside a little, but the theater is still buzzing] We're really so happy to have you here, but I absolutely must insist that everyone settle down for our final act.
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: Is this it?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [somewhat back in form again] Why, my dear lady, our Adu hasn't even begun! Now, if you'll please...
MAN IN CROWD #1: Not even begun! I was almost starting to enjoy your ado, actually.
MAN IN CROWD #2: Oh come off it, this is rubbish!
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: I'm in full agreement with that. The Colonel and I are a hair's breadth from leaving the theater right now!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [desperate, once again] Please, you haven't even given Adu a chance!
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: I think we've had quite enough of your ado! [many "Yeah!"s]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Really! What could you people possibly have against Adu?
MAN IN CROWD #2: Enjoy the ado everyone, I'm off. [sneeringly, as he gets up to leave] Cheers!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Everyone please remain seated, and the show will resume! Adu will begin shortly.
[A number of other people get up from their seats and begin filing from the theater. There is a general din as people discuss whether to leave or not. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES ducks behind the curtain to speak with ADU.]
ADU: [whispering] What's the big to do?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [whispering as well] I don't know! They really seem to not want to hear anything about you. Did you play a real flop of a show here a couple of years ago or what?
ADU: No, I've never even been to this town before.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [looking back through the curtain] Argh! Half the theater has walked out already! Sorry, it looks like you won't be able to go on tonight.
ADU: [looks] Some of them look happy, though! It appears that the ado about Adu became the show after all, didn't it? Somewhere, the ghost of John Cage is laughing his head off.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [muttering] Well, we aren't giving out refunds, I'll tell you that. Wait, what? Jim who?
ADU: Never mind.
[They are about to walk backstage when MAN IN CROWD #3, who had wandered on to the stage, flies through the curtains.]
MAN IN CROWD #3: I heard you talking about Johnny Cage! He was my favorite Street Fighter 2 character ever! Do you know him?
ADU: [blinks for a moment] Mind if I knock this man out?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Be my guest.
[ADU pushes MAN IN CROWD #3 back through the curtains and deals him such a blow to the side of the head that it sends him wheeling back into the seats, out cold. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES bursts through the curtains as well.]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [waves his arms at the triumphal ADU] Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Adu!
The remaining people stare at the frozen scene for a moment before shaking their confused heads and leaving.
By the time we come in, our dear audience is breathlessly awaiting the secret finale act of the evening. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES has retaken the stage amid excited murmuring. His familiar, pompous voice washes over the theater.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen, one more round of applause please for the Great Gregorius and his garrulous group of gawking ganders! [polite, but sincere applause] You have been such a wonderful crowd this evening that I, and all our performers I'm sure, will be just brokenhearted to see you go. But, before you take your leave, we have for you, as promised, our final mystery finale! Now, I know this is the moment you have all been waiting for, so without further ado, I give you Adu!
[silence]
MAN IN CROWD #1: I thought you said there wasn't going to be any more ado?
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: Yeah, we want the final act!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: No, no! The final act is Adu!
MAN IN CROWD #2: Hey, I didn't come here to see a bunch of ado! We have enough of that at home!
[murmuring, including a few "Quite right!"s]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [slightly non-plussed] I'm very sorry about your troubles at home, but Adu is the final act. That's the secret! I'm sure you'll love the show! [he starts clapping but very few people join in]
MAN IN CROWD #1: But we don't want ado. We thought there was going to be a real show.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: I assure you that Adu is most certainly...
MAN IN CROWD #3: [interrupting] Hey, you aren't going to put on that stupid play Much Ado About Nothing, are you? I hate Greek comedies!
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: That isn't a Greek play, you dunderhead! It's English! Everyone knows that was one of Lord Byron's best.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [his frustration increasing] Look...first of all, Shakespeare wrote that one and second, we are not putting on a play! As I've already told you, we're closing with Adu!
MAN IN CROWD #2: Well, I can tell you this ado isn't very impressive. I'm not feeling very entertained.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: What? [rearing himself up, trying to get his mojo working again] You haven't even seen Adu yet! I'm telling you, what you've seen so far is nothing compared to the great Adu you will see here in mere moments!
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: Oh c'mon, we've had enough of your ado! Have you got anything else?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [spluttering]
MAN IN CROWD #4: This is thievery, this is. We didn't pay good money to see you go, "Ado, ado, ado, ado..."
MAN IN CROWD #5: Ah, what do you bloody Irish know about a good show anyway? I'm having a right good time watching you blokes blabber on!
[shouting, cursing and general tumult]
MAN IN CROWD #4: Who was that? Why don't you say it to my face like a man, you dog!
[tumult continues to grow, with popcorn flying around the room and pairs of individuals almost coming to blows]
MAN IN CROWD #3: Shakespeare was Irish and a fat lot of good it did him!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [desperately trying to regain control of the situation] Please people, please! Everyone just calm down. I'm sure no one means anyone else any harm. [things start to subside a little, but the theater is still buzzing] We're really so happy to have you here, but I absolutely must insist that everyone settle down for our final act.
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: Is this it?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [somewhat back in form again] Why, my dear lady, our Adu hasn't even begun! Now, if you'll please...
MAN IN CROWD #1: Not even begun! I was almost starting to enjoy your ado, actually.
MAN IN CROWD #2: Oh come off it, this is rubbish!
WOMAN IN CROWD #1: I'm in full agreement with that. The Colonel and I are a hair's breadth from leaving the theater right now!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [desperate, once again] Please, you haven't even given Adu a chance!
WOMAN IN CROWD #2: I think we've had quite enough of your ado! [many "Yeah!"s]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Really! What could you people possibly have against Adu?
MAN IN CROWD #2: Enjoy the ado everyone, I'm off. [sneeringly, as he gets up to leave] Cheers!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Everyone please remain seated, and the show will resume! Adu will begin shortly.
[A number of other people get up from their seats and begin filing from the theater. There is a general din as people discuss whether to leave or not. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES ducks behind the curtain to speak with ADU.]
ADU: [whispering] What's the big to do?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [whispering as well] I don't know! They really seem to not want to hear anything about you. Did you play a real flop of a show here a couple of years ago or what?
ADU: No, I've never even been to this town before.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [looking back through the curtain] Argh! Half the theater has walked out already! Sorry, it looks like you won't be able to go on tonight.
ADU: [looks] Some of them look happy, though! It appears that the ado about Adu became the show after all, didn't it? Somewhere, the ghost of John Cage is laughing his head off.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [muttering] Well, we aren't giving out refunds, I'll tell you that. Wait, what? Jim who?
ADU: Never mind.
[They are about to walk backstage when MAN IN CROWD #3, who had wandered on to the stage, flies through the curtains.]
MAN IN CROWD #3: I heard you talking about Johnny Cage! He was my favorite Street Fighter 2 character ever! Do you know him?
ADU: [blinks for a moment] Mind if I knock this man out?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: Be my guest.
[ADU pushes MAN IN CROWD #3 back through the curtains and deals him such a blow to the side of the head that it sends him wheeling back into the seats, out cold. The MASTER OF CEREMONIES bursts through the curtains as well.]
MASTER OF CEREMONIES: [waves his arms at the triumphal ADU] Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Adu!
The remaining people stare at the frozen scene for a moment before shaking their confused heads and leaving.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
G.I. Joe Rejects
On the Briefing Room level of the G.I. Joe Command Center under the Chaplain's Assistant School at Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island...
DUKE: Thank you very much...um...[briefly searches resume in his hands] uh, Snake Charmer. We'll call you if we're interested in a second interview.
SNAKE CHARMER: Just remember: when I sing, he dances! [His pelvis does two quick revolutions before pumping out several staccato thrusts]
DUKE: Yes, yes. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that. Please leave now. [SNAKE CHARMER exits. The three Joes in the room are seated on the same side of the conference table.] Scarlett, what the fuck? I thought you were supposed to be screening these people?
SCARLETT: Look, that guy sounded great over the phone. How was I supposed to know he'd show up here in spandex, waving around his...we fight Cobra, right? In theory, a snake charmer would be terrific, wouldn't it?
BEACHHEAD: Who's next?
DUKE: In theory...in theory, yes a snake charmer would be fan-fucking-tastic. If it was Cobra Commander he was charming into custody, then yes, you'd be getting a fucking medal right now, Scarlett. But instead, the man just waved his dick in our faces for five minutes! [Fist-pound on the table] Who's next?
SCARLETT: [Picks up a resume] Uh, "Flamer," sir. He apparently has extensive experience as a fireman.
DUKE: Well, that sounds promising. Barbecue is out with pneumonia for at least a month and Flash has been starting an abnormally large amount of laser-related fires lately. I think the "administrative duties" I've stuck him with are starting to eat at him, but that's another issue. We need a fireman!
BEACHHEAD: Agreed.
SCARLETT: Well, Flamer seems to be very versatile. He also has experience as a police officer, a construction worker and...it looks like he was a sailor for a while too, but he doesn't list which unit he served with. [She passes the resume to DUKE]
DUKE: We can ask him in a minute; I'm buzzing him in now.
The automatic door slides open and pumping dance music suddenly filters into the room. It gets louder as FLAMER enters, carrying a boom box on his shoulder. The door shuts behind him. In full fireman gear he sets the boom box down by the wall and spins to face the Joes.
FLAMER: Hellllooooo!!! Ooh, we have a lady in the house tonight! Fun, fun, fun! Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I heard that there's a fire in here! But I am most certainly not here to put it out. Woohoo! [He starts stripping, naturally]
DUKE: [Shoots up from his chair] WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!
FLAMER: Bringing out the fire within, baby! Yeah! [Tosses his helmet to BEACHHEAD, who catches it and calmly sets it down on the table]
SCARLETT: [Turning scarlet] Uh, Duke, I think...
DUKE: Shut the fuck up Scarlett! [Runs over and lays an almighty kick down on the boom box, completely smashing it and silencing the music]
FLAMER: Hey! You're going to have to replace that, mister. And how am I supposed to do this without any music?
DUKE: What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you even know why we invited you into our secret fucking base?!
FLAMER: Secret fucking? Ooohh, that sounds hot!
DUKE: [Ploughing on] Do you know why it took six weeks of background checks to even get the privilege of being driven blindfolded, earmuffed and gagged here to see us?!
FLAMER: I thought that was kind of weird, but it was definitely the kind of kinky I can get down with. Just give me time to adjust, hon.
DUKE: Shut the fuck up and listen! This is an interview! For an elite fucking military unit!
FLAMER: Ooh, I think I can qualify for that, just let me show you my skills. I really need the music to get into it though. Do you have a PA system in here or something? Somebody broke my radio.
BEACHHEAD: I really don't believe this is happening right now.
DUKE: No more dancing! Put your clothes on and get out. Just get out now. We'll mail you a check for the fucking boom box.
FLAMER: Alright, but I'm very sorry that you were unhappy with my services. Maybe a little one-on-one would be better for you, sweety? [Winks] You have my number.
DUKE: Get out!
FLAMER: Okay, okay! [Gathers up the clothes he had taken off] Be a doll and toss me my helmet, would you? [BEACHHEAD complies and FLAMER exits with one last rueful look at his smashed boom box and a flirtatious wave at the Joes]
The door slides shut and DUKE retakes his seat. Silence reigns. SCARLETT looks like she wants to speak for a moment, but she decides to remain quiet.
DUKE: [Muttering to himself] "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" my fucking ass. I didn't have to ask. What the fuck is this country coming to?
BEACHHEAD: Who's next?
DUKE: Scarlett, who the fuck is next?
SCARLETT: [Clears her throat and gets her papers in order] Um, it looks like it's "Venom Sucker" next, sir. [Pause] On second thought, it looks like he's just a prostitute. [DUKE gives her the look of death] But, we also have "DATA" here! He does counter-intelligence.
BEACHHEAD: Why didn't you pick any women?
DUKE: Let me see DATA's resume before we let him in. [Looks it over for a minute, then suddenly clenches his jaw shut] "Objective: To find a creative outlet where I can apply my 'Don't Ask, Tell All' (aka DATA) philosophy of life to help others and bring about world peace and fabulousness to all." [Pause] Scarlett, you're never fucking helping with recruitment again.
SCARLETT: [Quietly] I thought that sounded like a good objective.
DUKE: So they're all waiting outside this room, aren't they? All these fucking rejects? Nobody's allowed to leave the premises on their own, right?
BEACHHEAD: Affirmative.
SCARLETT: Bazooka is watching them.
DUKE: [Pauses a moment] Let's get out there and see what's going on.
They all get up and move to the door.
BEACHHEAD: I've got a bad feeling about this.
The door swishes open and a fiery Latin beat greets them. The lively music is playing over the loudspeaker, echoing through the other rooms of the base. In front of the shocked Joes prances a conga line made up of the whole cast of prospectives...with Bazooka bringing up the rear, his trademark jersey nowhere to be found. A purple lay hangs from his neck. There is shredded paper confetti of all colors scattered about the room.
BAZOOKA: Sorry guys! I'm going with them! It was great serving with you and all, but this is where the fun is really at!
DUKE: [Apoplectic] GET OUT! ALL OF YOU! NOW!
SCARLETT herds the men, still in a conga line, over to the elevator to the surface, while BEACHHEAD manages to turn the music off. DUKE paces back and forth, cursing under his breath. In a minute SCARLETT returns alone, looking dejected.
DUKE: This is fucking ridiculous. We have a whole day of interviews and we wind up losing a soldier.
SEATED RECRUIT: Ahem! I haven't been interviewed yet.
DUKE: [Spins around and finally sees the man sitting in a chair by the wall] Holy shit, were you there the whole time?!
BEACHHEAD: Yeah, he was.
SCARLETT: [Flips through her stack of resumes for a second before looking up] Are you "Eradicator?"
ERADICATOR: Yep, that's me. Heavy weapons specialist, Green Beret, three-time combat veteran and former drill instructor at your service.
SCARLETT: [Whispering to DUKE] He didn't sound that good.
DUKE: What did I tell you Scarlett? Hey Eradicator. You've got a new job, if you want it.
ERADICATOR: Yes sir!
DUKE: Alright, follow Beachhead here down to the dormitories and he'll get you situated.
SCARLETT: Doesn't Hawk have to sign off on new team members?
DUKE: Are you kidding me? That worthless fuck is always drunker than an alcoholic on pay day. I learned how to forge his signature like five years ago. He doesn't do shit anymore.
BEACHHEAD: And look where that's got us.
DUKE: Hey Eradicator. Before you go, just one thing. You aren't like...those other guys, are you?
ERADICATOR: I'm not sure what you mean, sir.
DUKE: I mean...you're not...that kind of soldier, are you?
ERADICATOR: Sir, you'll have to be more specific.
DUKE: ARE YOU FUCKING GAY OR NOT?!
ERADICATOR: [Long pause] You're not supposed to ask that, sir.
DUKE: Aw hell, just get down there. [As ERADICATOR starts walking towards the elevator with BEACHHEAD, DUKE looks him over one more time] Hey! Newbie!
ERADICATOR: Yes sir?
DUKE: You're on "administrative duties" whenever Flash is on leave, you hear? You just come by my office and I'll go over your responsibilities very thoroughly. [Winks]
Exeunt
DUKE: Thank you very much...um...[briefly searches resume in his hands] uh, Snake Charmer. We'll call you if we're interested in a second interview.
SNAKE CHARMER: Just remember: when I sing, he dances! [His pelvis does two quick revolutions before pumping out several staccato thrusts]
DUKE: Yes, yes. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that. Please leave now. [SNAKE CHARMER exits. The three Joes in the room are seated on the same side of the conference table.] Scarlett, what the fuck? I thought you were supposed to be screening these people?
SCARLETT: Look, that guy sounded great over the phone. How was I supposed to know he'd show up here in spandex, waving around his...we fight Cobra, right? In theory, a snake charmer would be terrific, wouldn't it?
BEACHHEAD: Who's next?
DUKE: In theory...in theory, yes a snake charmer would be fan-fucking-tastic. If it was Cobra Commander he was charming into custody, then yes, you'd be getting a fucking medal right now, Scarlett. But instead, the man just waved his dick in our faces for five minutes! [Fist-pound on the table] Who's next?
SCARLETT: [Picks up a resume] Uh, "Flamer," sir. He apparently has extensive experience as a fireman.
DUKE: Well, that sounds promising. Barbecue is out with pneumonia for at least a month and Flash has been starting an abnormally large amount of laser-related fires lately. I think the "administrative duties" I've stuck him with are starting to eat at him, but that's another issue. We need a fireman!
BEACHHEAD: Agreed.
SCARLETT: Well, Flamer seems to be very versatile. He also has experience as a police officer, a construction worker and...it looks like he was a sailor for a while too, but he doesn't list which unit he served with. [She passes the resume to DUKE]
DUKE: We can ask him in a minute; I'm buzzing him in now.
The automatic door slides open and pumping dance music suddenly filters into the room. It gets louder as FLAMER enters, carrying a boom box on his shoulder. The door shuts behind him. In full fireman gear he sets the boom box down by the wall and spins to face the Joes.
FLAMER: Hellllooooo!!! Ooh, we have a lady in the house tonight! Fun, fun, fun! Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I heard that there's a fire in here! But I am most certainly not here to put it out. Woohoo! [He starts stripping, naturally]
DUKE: [Shoots up from his chair] WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!
FLAMER: Bringing out the fire within, baby! Yeah! [Tosses his helmet to BEACHHEAD, who catches it and calmly sets it down on the table]
SCARLETT: [Turning scarlet] Uh, Duke, I think...
DUKE: Shut the fuck up Scarlett! [Runs over and lays an almighty kick down on the boom box, completely smashing it and silencing the music]
FLAMER: Hey! You're going to have to replace that, mister. And how am I supposed to do this without any music?
DUKE: What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you even know why we invited you into our secret fucking base?!
FLAMER: Secret fucking? Ooohh, that sounds hot!
DUKE: [Ploughing on] Do you know why it took six weeks of background checks to even get the privilege of being driven blindfolded, earmuffed and gagged here to see us?!
FLAMER: I thought that was kind of weird, but it was definitely the kind of kinky I can get down with. Just give me time to adjust, hon.
DUKE: Shut the fuck up and listen! This is an interview! For an elite fucking military unit!
FLAMER: Ooh, I think I can qualify for that, just let me show you my skills. I really need the music to get into it though. Do you have a PA system in here or something? Somebody broke my radio.
BEACHHEAD: I really don't believe this is happening right now.
DUKE: No more dancing! Put your clothes on and get out. Just get out now. We'll mail you a check for the fucking boom box.
FLAMER: Alright, but I'm very sorry that you were unhappy with my services. Maybe a little one-on-one would be better for you, sweety? [Winks] You have my number.
DUKE: Get out!
FLAMER: Okay, okay! [Gathers up the clothes he had taken off] Be a doll and toss me my helmet, would you? [BEACHHEAD complies and FLAMER exits with one last rueful look at his smashed boom box and a flirtatious wave at the Joes]
The door slides shut and DUKE retakes his seat. Silence reigns. SCARLETT looks like she wants to speak for a moment, but she decides to remain quiet.
DUKE: [Muttering to himself] "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" my fucking ass. I didn't have to ask. What the fuck is this country coming to?
BEACHHEAD: Who's next?
DUKE: Scarlett, who the fuck is next?
SCARLETT: [Clears her throat and gets her papers in order] Um, it looks like it's "Venom Sucker" next, sir. [Pause] On second thought, it looks like he's just a prostitute. [DUKE gives her the look of death] But, we also have "DATA" here! He does counter-intelligence.
BEACHHEAD: Why didn't you pick any women?
DUKE: Let me see DATA's resume before we let him in. [Looks it over for a minute, then suddenly clenches his jaw shut] "Objective: To find a creative outlet where I can apply my 'Don't Ask, Tell All' (aka DATA) philosophy of life to help others and bring about world peace and fabulousness to all." [Pause] Scarlett, you're never fucking helping with recruitment again.
SCARLETT: [Quietly] I thought that sounded like a good objective.
DUKE: So they're all waiting outside this room, aren't they? All these fucking rejects? Nobody's allowed to leave the premises on their own, right?
BEACHHEAD: Affirmative.
SCARLETT: Bazooka is watching them.
DUKE: [Pauses a moment] Let's get out there and see what's going on.
They all get up and move to the door.
BEACHHEAD: I've got a bad feeling about this.
The door swishes open and a fiery Latin beat greets them. The lively music is playing over the loudspeaker, echoing through the other rooms of the base. In front of the shocked Joes prances a conga line made up of the whole cast of prospectives...with Bazooka bringing up the rear, his trademark jersey nowhere to be found. A purple lay hangs from his neck. There is shredded paper confetti of all colors scattered about the room.
BAZOOKA: Sorry guys! I'm going with them! It was great serving with you and all, but this is where the fun is really at!
DUKE: [Apoplectic] GET OUT! ALL OF YOU! NOW!
SCARLETT herds the men, still in a conga line, over to the elevator to the surface, while BEACHHEAD manages to turn the music off. DUKE paces back and forth, cursing under his breath. In a minute SCARLETT returns alone, looking dejected.
DUKE: This is fucking ridiculous. We have a whole day of interviews and we wind up losing a soldier.
SEATED RECRUIT: Ahem! I haven't been interviewed yet.
DUKE: [Spins around and finally sees the man sitting in a chair by the wall] Holy shit, were you there the whole time?!
BEACHHEAD: Yeah, he was.
SCARLETT: [Flips through her stack of resumes for a second before looking up] Are you "Eradicator?"
ERADICATOR: Yep, that's me. Heavy weapons specialist, Green Beret, three-time combat veteran and former drill instructor at your service.
SCARLETT: [Whispering to DUKE] He didn't sound that good.
DUKE: What did I tell you Scarlett? Hey Eradicator. You've got a new job, if you want it.
ERADICATOR: Yes sir!
DUKE: Alright, follow Beachhead here down to the dormitories and he'll get you situated.
SCARLETT: Doesn't Hawk have to sign off on new team members?
DUKE: Are you kidding me? That worthless fuck is always drunker than an alcoholic on pay day. I learned how to forge his signature like five years ago. He doesn't do shit anymore.
BEACHHEAD: And look where that's got us.
DUKE: Hey Eradicator. Before you go, just one thing. You aren't like...those other guys, are you?
ERADICATOR: I'm not sure what you mean, sir.
DUKE: I mean...you're not...that kind of soldier, are you?
ERADICATOR: Sir, you'll have to be more specific.
DUKE: ARE YOU FUCKING GAY OR NOT?!
ERADICATOR: [Long pause] You're not supposed to ask that, sir.
DUKE: Aw hell, just get down there. [As ERADICATOR starts walking towards the elevator with BEACHHEAD, DUKE looks him over one more time] Hey! Newbie!
ERADICATOR: Yes sir?
DUKE: You're on "administrative duties" whenever Flash is on leave, you hear? You just come by my office and I'll go over your responsibilities very thoroughly. [Winks]
Exeunt
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The stand-up comedy routine that never stood-up
So I originally wrote this thing on November 27th, 2005 in a notebook. I know the precise date because I radiocarbon dated the loose leaf page to establish a base, then conducted a sophisticated chemical analysis of the ink to determine the difference between the ages of the paper and the ink and then extrapolated from there to the top of the original page where I had written "11/27/05."
Feel free to laugh at it or with it. It isn't complete (i.e. there's no intro) and needed a little editing for coherence, but it does represent that week of my life where I wanted to be a stand-up comic. Maybe it was a Thanksgiving hangover or something. I never performed the routine and only a few people have ever read it, but I didn't want it to be completely forgotten and it's my fucking blog so I'll post what I want, okay? Just remember that the material is almost four years old at this point and some of the jokes are pretty dated (while I think some are even funnier in light of later events). Others, like Bush-induced self-inflicted thermonuclear war, will never get old. Or so I hope.
Saddam Hussein's spider-hole really didn't seem that bad to me. I was looking for apartments around DC and I saw some worse places. I mean, I bet his rent wasn't that bad. Out there in the middle of the Iraqi fucking desert...a war going on around him. You know how it is...depleted uranium contamination is always driving down prices. Throw in some daily suicide bombings and a little white phosphorous sprinkled in here and there and you've got yourself a buyer's market!
Couldn't you see Saddam living like that in DC, though? They should've picked up his little hole in the ground, airlifted it to Columbia Heights and just told the fucker to settle in and make due. Of course, the landlord would be the first one on the scene to make an assessment. "Okay, we got an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door...hmmm...twelve hundred a month, you're near a Metro."
Shit, Saddam would think he meant twelve hundred Iraqi dinars, which would be like four bucks. He'd be working it out in his head: "Well, that's a little more expensive than the place near Tikrit, but if I run the jihad a little bit tighter I should be able to swing it. I may have to cut back on the Martyr's Benefits program...and I'll have to lease for car bombings." Dude thought he hated America before, just wait until a homeless guy is pissing down onto his bed every night. That kind of shit'll motivate you to keep an insurgency going.
Yeah, but we shouldn't be worried about bombings over here, though. No one's going to burst the housing bubble with a 5,000 pound truck bomb, right? Imagine what that shit would be like, though. Cable news would be all over it. "Welcome to Fox News Channel, where the spin meets the gin. I'm Dumb-Son-Of-A-Bitch and with me is Brainless-Bimbo-That-Brings-In-The-Male-Demographic. In tonight's top story, crazed affordable housing militants have destroyed the housing bubble in an evil attack on America's values! With the nation gripped in paralyzing terror, the White House plans to issue a statement just as soon as President Bush is finished playing 'Choo-Choo Train' in the Lincoln Bedroom."
Then you know how it goes. Once Bush receives the report of the attack, he immediately declares a War on Bubbles. Seven seconds later Congress unanimously passes legislation allowing all of our nuclear weapons to be automatically fired against whoever was responsible...which turns out to be Saddam Hussein, trying to knock a few bucks off his rent.
So now all the nuclear missiles go up from their silos and submarines and they all gracefully arc through the atmosphere, converging on DC. Of course, now everyone in the White House and the Pentagon is going crazy, running from situation room to situation room, trying to stop the missiles. But because Bush is never wrong, he fired the guy with the abort codes the day he took office. So now they realize that they're totally fucked and try to board the emergency evacuation helicopters, but all the generals and political officials are giving the pilots contradicting orders, so they just wind up criss-crossing DC until the missiles arrive.
And there you have Saddam standing on a street corner on his way back from the Giant, carrying his grocery bags. And he casually looks up, while waiting for the walk signal. And you can see the reflection of all the missiles streaking across the sky in his eyes. And his shoulders slump and he mutters, "Oh, shitballs."
And in an apocalyptic flash 5,000 thermonuclear weapons simultaneously detonate above DC.
And all is silent. Until the survivors emerge from the rubble...because there's always survivors. They're burned, they're scarred, they're poisoned, they're desperate for food, water and shelter. And they find the landlord sitting among some twisted beams, counting his cash. And they ask him if he has somewhere they could rest. And he says, "Well...I do have this one place. It's an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door that was incinerated in the recent blast, which also so thoroughly irradiated the place that you'll be nauseous every minute you spend inside of it...hmmm...sixteen hundred a month, you're still near a Metro."
Thank you!
Feel free to laugh at it or with it. It isn't complete (i.e. there's no intro) and needed a little editing for coherence, but it does represent that week of my life where I wanted to be a stand-up comic. Maybe it was a Thanksgiving hangover or something. I never performed the routine and only a few people have ever read it, but I didn't want it to be completely forgotten and it's my fucking blog so I'll post what I want, okay? Just remember that the material is almost four years old at this point and some of the jokes are pretty dated (while I think some are even funnier in light of later events). Others, like Bush-induced self-inflicted thermonuclear war, will never get old. Or so I hope.
Saddam Hussein's spider-hole really didn't seem that bad to me. I was looking for apartments around DC and I saw some worse places. I mean, I bet his rent wasn't that bad. Out there in the middle of the Iraqi fucking desert...a war going on around him. You know how it is...depleted uranium contamination is always driving down prices. Throw in some daily suicide bombings and a little white phosphorous sprinkled in here and there and you've got yourself a buyer's market!
Couldn't you see Saddam living like that in DC, though? They should've picked up his little hole in the ground, airlifted it to Columbia Heights and just told the fucker to settle in and make due. Of course, the landlord would be the first one on the scene to make an assessment. "Okay, we got an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door...hmmm...twelve hundred a month, you're near a Metro."
Shit, Saddam would think he meant twelve hundred Iraqi dinars, which would be like four bucks. He'd be working it out in his head: "Well, that's a little more expensive than the place near Tikrit, but if I run the jihad a little bit tighter I should be able to swing it. I may have to cut back on the Martyr's Benefits program...and I'll have to lease for car bombings." Dude thought he hated America before, just wait until a homeless guy is pissing down onto his bed every night. That kind of shit'll motivate you to keep an insurgency going.
Yeah, but we shouldn't be worried about bombings over here, though. No one's going to burst the housing bubble with a 5,000 pound truck bomb, right? Imagine what that shit would be like, though. Cable news would be all over it. "Welcome to Fox News Channel, where the spin meets the gin. I'm Dumb-Son-Of-A-Bitch and with me is Brainless-Bimbo-That-Brings-In-The-Male-Demographic. In tonight's top story, crazed affordable housing militants have destroyed the housing bubble in an evil attack on America's values! With the nation gripped in paralyzing terror, the White House plans to issue a statement just as soon as President Bush is finished playing 'Choo-Choo Train' in the Lincoln Bedroom."
Then you know how it goes. Once Bush receives the report of the attack, he immediately declares a War on Bubbles. Seven seconds later Congress unanimously passes legislation allowing all of our nuclear weapons to be automatically fired against whoever was responsible...which turns out to be Saddam Hussein, trying to knock a few bucks off his rent.
So now all the nuclear missiles go up from their silos and submarines and they all gracefully arc through the atmosphere, converging on DC. Of course, now everyone in the White House and the Pentagon is going crazy, running from situation room to situation room, trying to stop the missiles. But because Bush is never wrong, he fired the guy with the abort codes the day he took office. So now they realize that they're totally fucked and try to board the emergency evacuation helicopters, but all the generals and political officials are giving the pilots contradicting orders, so they just wind up criss-crossing DC until the missiles arrive.
And there you have Saddam standing on a street corner on his way back from the Giant, carrying his grocery bags. And he casually looks up, while waiting for the walk signal. And you can see the reflection of all the missiles streaking across the sky in his eyes. And his shoulders slump and he mutters, "Oh, shitballs."
And in an apocalyptic flash 5,000 thermonuclear weapons simultaneously detonate above DC.
And all is silent. Until the survivors emerge from the rubble...because there's always survivors. They're burned, they're scarred, they're poisoned, they're desperate for food, water and shelter. And they find the landlord sitting among some twisted beams, counting his cash. And they ask him if he has somewhere they could rest. And he says, "Well...I do have this one place. It's an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door that was incinerated in the recent blast, which also so thoroughly irradiated the place that you'll be nauseous every minute you spend inside of it...hmmm...sixteen hundred a month, you're still near a Metro."
Thank you!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
What I did today
This afternoon:
I was down at the airport with an enormous crew dedicated to making the above photo possible. It was glorious.
Then came the rain and glory turned to tragedy:
The weather jockeys did warn of flash flooding, but you know what the amazing thing was? Once the tarmac was covered in about five feet of water our little friends kept on pulling, even though they were completely submerged. Such brave souls. When the plane finally stopped moving, we all held each other in a moment of silent respect. Well, it was silent until Dave suggested that maybe they were pulling for their lives because we forgot to unharness them before we sought higher ground.
We slapped Dave (all of us, one after another) for his disrespect of their memories. Then we went home.
Though, I didn't make it to my apartment without incident:
Some advice: don't interrupt Jedi Squirrels while they're sparring. Apparently, they think force choking smart-ass humans is the funniest thing since Darth Maul got cut in half on Naboo.
I was down at the airport with an enormous crew dedicated to making the above photo possible. It was glorious.
Then came the rain and glory turned to tragedy:
The weather jockeys did warn of flash flooding, but you know what the amazing thing was? Once the tarmac was covered in about five feet of water our little friends kept on pulling, even though they were completely submerged. Such brave souls. When the plane finally stopped moving, we all held each other in a moment of silent respect. Well, it was silent until Dave suggested that maybe they were pulling for their lives because we forgot to unharness them before we sought higher ground.
We slapped Dave (all of us, one after another) for his disrespect of their memories. Then we went home.
Though, I didn't make it to my apartment without incident:
Some advice: don't interrupt Jedi Squirrels while they're sparring. Apparently, they think force choking smart-ass humans is the funniest thing since Darth Maul got cut in half on Naboo.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
What the dogs did yesterday
--Lily (aka "Lily Schmilly," "Lechuga Lily," "Liltronic [variably "Lectronic Lily"]," "Lilibatun," "Lillers," etc.) and Juno (aka "Junta [variably "Junta Juno"]," "Juntorious,""Junu al-Khair," etc.):
--Marley (aka "Mota Marley," "Montaña Marley," "The Jerk," etc.):
--Wire reports from New York indicate that Missy (aka "Mista [variably "Da Mista"]," "Missii," Missou," "Missay," "Missy Bella," "Missy Pissy-Paws," etc.):
--BONUS from the "Yes-this-seriously-actually-totally-really-happened" category:
Made a mockumentary about eating carp. They showed it to me late last night and I have to say...it was one of the most surreal films I've ever seen. Disturbing, really. And it wasn't even funny, like mockumentaries usually are. The production values were pretty high, so I was almost tempted to treat it like an art-house flick or even a film school final project, but then I remembered that Lily and Juno made the thing, which removed any thoughts of the avant-garde from my mind. It was basically a totally disjointed, two-hour long celebration of gluttony, interrupted only by the occasional wink at the audience through over-the-top camera tricks. I pretended to like it to save their feelings, of course, but if you see it playing at Sundance, don't stick around for the show.
Side note: I really hope they don't ever learn to read, because they'd totally piss on my pillow if they knew I wrote this.
--Marley (aka "Mota Marley," "Montaña Marley," "The Jerk," etc.):
Rewrote the 47th page of his doctoral thesis so many times that his eyes practically started bleeding. I think he literally spent about seven hours revising two paragraphs on that page yesterday before he finally threw his spectacles across the room in frustration. The smell of all that carp was apparently getting to him. As far as I know, he never raised his voice at the younger dogs, though. He reports that he will likely still complete his Ph.D in Human Studies at Yishnau (rough transliteration) University sometime late next year, despite the many setbacks he has faced in the past five years. The Ya'Nayy are eagerly awaiting his return to their quadrant of the galaxy, as well as the presentation of his research.
Second side note: Marley, please don't read this post to Juno or Lily. I know you've got my back. Thanks man.
--Wire reports from New York indicate that Missy (aka "Mista [variably "Da Mista"]," "Missii," Missou," "Missay," "Missy Bella," "Missy Pissy-Paws," etc.):
Went to a wedding reception and took a shit in the punch bowl, purely for ironic effect. She didn't know the people involved in the wedding, so it definitely wasn't because of any grudge she had against them or something like that. It really didn't matter who's wedding it was, she says that she just lives for that moment of recognition in which people go from, "Oh my god! That fluffy little white Westie is sooooo CUTE!" to, "Oh my GAWD! That Westie is shitting in our punch bowl! Ew!" I can't say I blame her.
Third side note: Missy, you're my hero.
--BONUS from the "Yes-this-seriously-actually-totally-really-happened" category:
Last Saturday we were finally getting up from the breakfast table at about 4pm (I know) when I noticed that Juno had a little plastic tag stuck to her side. I chuckled, bent down and pulled it off while telling Rachel and Kirsa, "Heh, look at what was stuck to Juno."
I raised the piece of plastic to eye level and what did it say? "Product of Argentina," of course.
Now we know where Juno came from before we picked her up at the Humane Society last year. Fucking Argentina, man. The "Junta" nickname is all the more appropriate now, isn't it? All I want to know is, how did she keep that tag hidden for so long?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Adventures with Rudy "The Ogler" Oglethorpe: The Ultimate Dick
The scene is a Las Vegas hotel. RUDY and his two friends are sitting at an indoor bar that opens out to the courtyard pool. It is the afternoon and they are sipping cocktails, gearing up for another night of raucous, offensive, nearly grotesque debauchery. Other than the three of them and the BARTENDER, the place is deserted.
Out of nowhere, a FAT MAN rushes up to the entrance of the bar in a distressed state. He's almost sweaty and is breathing heavily. Wearing only an enormous bathing suit, a fishing hat, flip flops and, stretched impossibly tight around his huge waist, a ridiculous red pool float that somewhat resembles a dragon, the man waves wildly at Rudy and his friends.
FAT MAN: Hey, did you guys hear? There's an ambulance out by the pool! Some guy...
RUDY: [interrupting loudly] Oh no! Is there a crisis in Fatty Land?
After a full second of silence, FAT MAN splutters for a moment and RUDY puts down his drink on the bar. His friends wear knowing smirks. The bartender keeps on watching TV, ignoring the drama that is unfolding.
RUDY: What is that you say? They're out of powder for the donuts in the Sweets Factories? The cheesecake assembly lines are lying dormant waiting for spare parts? How ever will the city produce enough doughy yummies to keep the country-folk in good rotund health? They need to take in the chocolate harvest soon or the first frosting will wipe out the whole crop! What ever will we do?
FAT MAN: [softly, suddenly unsure of himself] I'm not joking. This is serious.
RUDY: Wait! I know what we can do! We'll sing the Fatty Song! That always makes me feel better in times like this.
FAT MAN tries to interject, but RUDY cuts him off by singing an introductory note.
RUDY: Ooooooooohhhhhh...
[sung to the tune of the end credits song of Super Mario World]
When you are fat
Life can be tough.
When you are fat
People can be rough.
When you are fat
The world can be mean.
You're not sure on who to rely!
But don't you worry
Good times are ahead.
Oh don't you worry
You'll have friends instead,
Of the miserable life
You normally lead.
You've got to come to Fatty Land!
Oh no you better not cry my child
You better turn that frown upside down.
You better not complain about how you can't
Fit in the kiddie pool!
For, Fatty Land
Is where we all go
To feel right at home
Even though we might grow
So epically huge
That even Mom says:
It's time
To go
It's time
To come
To Fatty Land
To Fatty Land
Oh, Fatty Land
Has so many sweets.
Oh, Fatty Land
Just can't be beat.
Oh, Fatty Land
You make me so glad that:
It's time
To go
It's time
To come
To Fatty Land
To Fatty Land
Nobody loves
A fat kid, no
Nobody loves
A fat kid, no
No nobody loves
A fat kid, except:
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Fatty
Fat!
Fat, fat,
Fat, fat,
Fat, fat
Fat, fat!
Fatty Land!
There is a good thirty seconds of silence as FAT MAN stares straight ahead, gape-jawed. RUDY picks up his drink and takes a contented sip. His friends, who spent most of the song laughing quietly and shaking their heads, are looking expectantly at FAT MAN to see how he will react.
Somewhat disappointingly, to them, he merely rapidly shakes his for a moment, as if to shake away the memory of the last three minutes, and quietly walks away. The sound of his flip flops fade from the bar.
BARTENDER: Dude, you're a fucking dick.
RUDY: I know.
BARTENDER: [smiling] But, that was fucking hilarious.
RUDY: [smiling wider than ever] I know.
BARTENDER: I think you just made my week, man. Have a round on me, guys.
RUDY: Fuck yeah! [High fives his friends] The Ogler strikes again!
Out of nowhere, a FAT MAN rushes up to the entrance of the bar in a distressed state. He's almost sweaty and is breathing heavily. Wearing only an enormous bathing suit, a fishing hat, flip flops and, stretched impossibly tight around his huge waist, a ridiculous red pool float that somewhat resembles a dragon, the man waves wildly at Rudy and his friends.
FAT MAN: Hey, did you guys hear? There's an ambulance out by the pool! Some guy...
RUDY: [interrupting loudly] Oh no! Is there a crisis in Fatty Land?
After a full second of silence, FAT MAN splutters for a moment and RUDY puts down his drink on the bar. His friends wear knowing smirks. The bartender keeps on watching TV, ignoring the drama that is unfolding.
RUDY: What is that you say? They're out of powder for the donuts in the Sweets Factories? The cheesecake assembly lines are lying dormant waiting for spare parts? How ever will the city produce enough doughy yummies to keep the country-folk in good rotund health? They need to take in the chocolate harvest soon or the first frosting will wipe out the whole crop! What ever will we do?
FAT MAN: [softly, suddenly unsure of himself] I'm not joking. This is serious.
RUDY: Wait! I know what we can do! We'll sing the Fatty Song! That always makes me feel better in times like this.
FAT MAN tries to interject, but RUDY cuts him off by singing an introductory note.
RUDY: Ooooooooohhhhhh...
[sung to the tune of the end credits song of Super Mario World]
When you are fat
Life can be tough.
When you are fat
People can be rough.
When you are fat
The world can be mean.
You're not sure on who to rely!
But don't you worry
Good times are ahead.
Oh don't you worry
You'll have friends instead,
Of the miserable life
You normally lead.
You've got to come to Fatty Land!
Oh no you better not cry my child
You better turn that frown upside down.
You better not complain about how you can't
Fit in the kiddie pool!
For, Fatty Land
Is where we all go
To feel right at home
Even though we might grow
So epically huge
That even Mom says:
It's time
To go
It's time
To come
To Fatty Land
To Fatty Land
Oh, Fatty Land
Has so many sweets.
Oh, Fatty Land
Just can't be beat.
Oh, Fatty Land
You make me so glad that:
It's time
To go
It's time
To come
To Fatty Land
To Fatty Land
Nobody loves
A fat kid, no
Nobody loves
A fat kid, no
No nobody loves
A fat kid, except:
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Land
In Fatty Fatty
Fat!
Fat, fat,
Fat, fat,
Fat, fat
Fat, fat!
Fatty Land!
There is a good thirty seconds of silence as FAT MAN stares straight ahead, gape-jawed. RUDY picks up his drink and takes a contented sip. His friends, who spent most of the song laughing quietly and shaking their heads, are looking expectantly at FAT MAN to see how he will react.
Somewhat disappointingly, to them, he merely rapidly shakes his for a moment, as if to shake away the memory of the last three minutes, and quietly walks away. The sound of his flip flops fade from the bar.
BARTENDER: Dude, you're a fucking dick.
RUDY: I know.
BARTENDER: [smiling] But, that was fucking hilarious.
RUDY: [smiling wider than ever] I know.
BARTENDER: I think you just made my week, man. Have a round on me, guys.
RUDY: Fuck yeah! [High fives his friends] The Ogler strikes again!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The first in a series of anecdotes from The Life of Barry James
This selection is from the introduction to The Life of Barry James, World-Class Flatulator: An Odoriferous Autobiography.
[ed. note: I recently obtained a copy of this splendid self-published volume and decided that I would share some choice parts with you, my readers, as a series of promotional articles. I hope you find the life of Barry James to be as enlightening as I have. While not among the greatest writers I've ever read, his 500-plus page masterpiece works more on a functional (dare I even say visceral?) level, while maintaining readability. I should know...I've already read it twice! Enjoy!]
Young, would-be professional flatulators out there, take note! More selections from Barry James will be forthcoming as a service to you, as I know that it is notoriously difficult to get your hands on this book. I found it in the trash at a used bookstore, so I'm currently unable to give you any leads for tracking down more copies. Just keep your eyes open! If I hear anything, even just sad little rumors, I'll post about it immediately. Bon chance!
[ed. note: I recently obtained a copy of this splendid self-published volume and decided that I would share some choice parts with you, my readers, as a series of promotional articles. I hope you find the life of Barry James to be as enlightening as I have. While not among the greatest writers I've ever read, his 500-plus page masterpiece works more on a functional (dare I even say visceral?) level, while maintaining readability. I should know...I've already read it twice! Enjoy!]
Contrary to some of the stereotypes you may have heard concerning flatulators (whether amateur or professional) I consider myself to be a very cultured person. I attend classical music concerts and operas with great regularity. In fact, as long as the performers are at least somewhat on par with my world-class skills and talents, I often participate in the programme to give the audience that special surprise and pleasure that comes from recognizing that another, unannounced, world-class performer is in the house.
Indeed, when attending a concert hall at which I am a regular visitor, I sometimes catch myself scouring the pages of the programme looking for a little asterisk next to an aria. I imagine the note at the bottom of the page informing the patrons that Barry James, World-Class Flatulator may be in attendance and, if it pleases him, may choose to add some of his considerable talent to the piece. I've yet to find such a note, but I keep looking from time to time. In any case, lack of written public acknowledgement will never stop me from from practicing my love of flatulence!
For instance, let's pretend that we are seated in one of my favorite halls and a weepingly beautiful aria is currently caressing our ears. As an experienced performer, I will select the perfect time to perform my art. When the moment arrives, I will judge the mood of the crowd and react accordingly. If I want to keep it standard, I will usually go with a "semi-moist snap," (see pgs xiii-xxii for definitions of technical terms) or the lightly amusing "Surprised Buckaroo." If I really want to wow the crowd with a display of skill and control, I may go with a sharp, crisp "Warbling Muskrat." Though, I'd be most likely to pull out the "Oxford Clap" for an aria, as its dull, repetitive sound would not be too intrusive as to break the mood of the piece, but would be unmistakeably heard by all those in attendance. A four to four and a half second duration would suffice in that case.
As this is the introduction, I'll also note that I don't bother with controlling odor at outdoor venues, as breezes are too hard to predict. I thus focus solely on acoustics, as that is challenge enough when dealing with open environments. Inside a hall, I usually attempt to make the odor sharp, pungent (but not too malodorous) and brief, so that roughly two rows in front and behind me, and about five seats to my right and left, may turn their heads in acknowledgement, but not be too burdened by any lingering scents.
Young, would-be professional flatulators out there, take note! More selections from Barry James will be forthcoming as a service to you, as I know that it is notoriously difficult to get your hands on this book. I found it in the trash at a used bookstore, so I'm currently unable to give you any leads for tracking down more copies. Just keep your eyes open! If I hear anything, even just sad little rumors, I'll post about it immediately. Bon chance!
Sunday, February 22, 2009
An Expansion of the Martin Clown Theorem
Demetri Martin is a comedian of the "actually funny" variety. He has a theory of clowns in one of his bits that I find highly informative. It goes like this:
Clown at a circus --> Annoying
Clown at a birthday party --> Sad
Clown that is just around --> Creepy
If any of them are injured --> Funny
As a kind of public service announcement, I'd like to expand a bit on the whole "clowns that are just around are creepy" theme. Specifically, you have to account for balloons when determining the probability and degree of creepiness. This is how it works out:
(a) Clown with a whole bunch of balloons --> Probably Creepy
(b) Clown with no balloons --> Almost Certainly Creepy
(c) Clown with one balloon --> Definitely Ridiculously Creepy
(1) If (a) or (b) are injured --> Funny
(2) If (c) is injured --> Run for your fucking life because he's going to get you!
Some brief explanation is in order. I will try to shed some light on my terms and methodology using layman's terms whenever possible.
(a) A clown that is just standing around with a whole bunch of balloons might not be creepy. It could just be an average clown trying to make an honest living in these tough economic times by selling some balloons. Kids, and some adults, love balloons and would willingly walk up to a clown to purchase one or two in an attempt to brighten their day (or that of a friend or loved one).
However, bear in mind that this is a clown that is just around. He is not selling balloons outside of a circus or at a county fair, or even at an organized event of any kind, however misguided the attempt may be (think funerals). There is, in fact, a very high likelihood that this clown is using the balloons to lure unsuspecting victims within snatching/slashing/biting range. Like one of those deep-sea angler fish.
Just be wary if you see a clown like this.
(b) A clown that is just standing around with no balloons (the situation Martin was likely referring to) leaves very little room for a non-creepy explanation. It is inside the realm of possibility that this is an honest, salt-of-the-earth kind of clown that is just on a break from a circus or a birthday party. Maybe he just had a cigarette and is whiling away the minutes before he has to go back and perform.
It is much more likely though, that he is some variation of predatory, creepy-ass clown. You aren't near a circus, birthday party or any other organized event when you see this clown, are you? If not, stay the hell away from this guy, as he's probably waiting for someone just like you to let your guard down long enough for him to sneak up and shank you. Like a panther...with a shiv.
(c) Now, a clown that is just standing around with only a single balloon in his possession is absolutely, without a doubt, enormously creepy. Looking at him, you can practically hear him whispering at you in a raspy, deranged voice, "Come here and get your balloon. I've been saving it just for you!"
If you see a clown of this sort anywhere in your vicinity, get out of there. You may consider calling the cops once you are at a safe distance (note: if this is a demonic, magic clown you're dealing with, there is no safe distance - just hope he's after someone else).
Situation (1) is funny because injured clowns are hilarious, even if they were pretty creepy before sustaining said injury. The clown is most likely harmless now, as he will be tending to his wound(s) and ignoring your raucous laughter. That's fairly basic stuff.
Situation (2) is the stuff nightmares are made of. If your ridiculously creepy clown is just standing around holding a single balloon while nursing his blood-soaked side with his other hand...well, you know that not only is he psychotic, but he is also enraged and out for revenge on the first person he can find (because, as we were all taught in elementary school, horrific injuries only make psychotic clowns more pissed off). Don't want that person to be you? Then get the fuck out of there as fast as you can and call the cops as soon as you are at a safe distance (though, previous note about demonic, magic clowns applies here, too).
So there you have it. Creepy clowns abound, but knowing exactly what you're dealing with can easily be the difference between life and death. For, as we all know, knowing is half the battle.
Clown at a circus --> Annoying
Clown at a birthday party --> Sad
Clown that is just around --> Creepy
If any of them are injured --> Funny
As a kind of public service announcement, I'd like to expand a bit on the whole "clowns that are just around are creepy" theme. Specifically, you have to account for balloons when determining the probability and degree of creepiness. This is how it works out:
(a) Clown with a whole bunch of balloons --> Probably Creepy
(b) Clown with no balloons --> Almost Certainly Creepy
(c) Clown with one balloon --> Definitely Ridiculously Creepy
(1) If (a) or (b) are injured --> Funny
(2) If (c) is injured --> Run for your fucking life because he's going to get you!
Some brief explanation is in order. I will try to shed some light on my terms and methodology using layman's terms whenever possible.
(a) A clown that is just standing around with a whole bunch of balloons might not be creepy. It could just be an average clown trying to make an honest living in these tough economic times by selling some balloons. Kids, and some adults, love balloons and would willingly walk up to a clown to purchase one or two in an attempt to brighten their day (or that of a friend or loved one).
However, bear in mind that this is a clown that is just around. He is not selling balloons outside of a circus or at a county fair, or even at an organized event of any kind, however misguided the attempt may be (think funerals). There is, in fact, a very high likelihood that this clown is using the balloons to lure unsuspecting victims within snatching/slashing/biting range. Like one of those deep-sea angler fish.
Just be wary if you see a clown like this.
(b) A clown that is just standing around with no balloons (the situation Martin was likely referring to) leaves very little room for a non-creepy explanation. It is inside the realm of possibility that this is an honest, salt-of-the-earth kind of clown that is just on a break from a circus or a birthday party. Maybe he just had a cigarette and is whiling away the minutes before he has to go back and perform.
It is much more likely though, that he is some variation of predatory, creepy-ass clown. You aren't near a circus, birthday party or any other organized event when you see this clown, are you? If not, stay the hell away from this guy, as he's probably waiting for someone just like you to let your guard down long enough for him to sneak up and shank you. Like a panther...with a shiv.
(c) Now, a clown that is just standing around with only a single balloon in his possession is absolutely, without a doubt, enormously creepy. Looking at him, you can practically hear him whispering at you in a raspy, deranged voice, "Come here and get your balloon. I've been saving it just for you!"
If you see a clown of this sort anywhere in your vicinity, get out of there. You may consider calling the cops once you are at a safe distance (note: if this is a demonic, magic clown you're dealing with, there is no safe distance - just hope he's after someone else).
Situation (1) is funny because injured clowns are hilarious, even if they were pretty creepy before sustaining said injury. The clown is most likely harmless now, as he will be tending to his wound(s) and ignoring your raucous laughter. That's fairly basic stuff.
Situation (2) is the stuff nightmares are made of. If your ridiculously creepy clown is just standing around holding a single balloon while nursing his blood-soaked side with his other hand...well, you know that not only is he psychotic, but he is also enraged and out for revenge on the first person he can find (because, as we were all taught in elementary school, horrific injuries only make psychotic clowns more pissed off). Don't want that person to be you? Then get the fuck out of there as fast as you can and call the cops as soon as you are at a safe distance (though, previous note about demonic, magic clowns applies here, too).
So there you have it. Creepy clowns abound, but knowing exactly what you're dealing with can easily be the difference between life and death. For, as we all know, knowing is half the battle.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Other Blog
So, yeah. This where I go to be inappropriate, crass, and ridiculously weird. My other blog, A Spoonful of Vigour, is the "serious" one, but I have more aspects to my personality than that, so I felt the need for a safe space for silliness and debauchery. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, then please feel free to click the "back" button on your browser and return to the fiery chasm from whence you came.
Here it is. I call it Light Sweet Rude. I hope you enjoy that overly clever play on words.
To get things started, I'll say that I really have a problem with the whole, "If you're shaking it more than twice, you're playing with yourself," rule. I'm not sure who made that up and successfully perpetuated it throughout our culture, but it is total bullshit. I'm just going to lay it on the line: I need more than two shakes to get it done. Most of the time, it takes way more than two.
For the confused, I'm talking about the necessity of shaking out the penis when a guy is finished urinating to get out any residue urine from the urethra. I know, I'm getting really technical here, but this is an important issue for us.
Anyway, the problem is, two shakes is far from adequate for completely clearing the pipes. If you don't get it all out, little bits of piss will drip out into your pants after you've zipped up and walk away. Small globules of urine will leak out and either soak into your underwear or fall straight down and get your leg wet. If you're wearing thin pants (think slacks) it could even possibly soak in enough, down around your calves, to show on the outside - if you didn't shake enough and got yourself in that situation in the first place.
Answer me this: who really wants piss pants? Most of us left that behind in first grade and don't really expect to be going there again at least until very advanced old age.
So, that's why you have to shake a lot. Terrible consequences if you don't. I make sure the job is done before I pack it up and go home.
So, is it masturbation? Of course not! It is strictly functional. Getting the pee out is the name of the game. Whoever made up the "two shakes" rule clearly can't control their urges. The hard-ons only creep up in about one in every six or seven pisses. Jeez guys.
Here it is. I call it Light Sweet Rude. I hope you enjoy that overly clever play on words.
To get things started, I'll say that I really have a problem with the whole, "If you're shaking it more than twice, you're playing with yourself," rule. I'm not sure who made that up and successfully perpetuated it throughout our culture, but it is total bullshit. I'm just going to lay it on the line: I need more than two shakes to get it done. Most of the time, it takes way more than two.
For the confused, I'm talking about the necessity of shaking out the penis when a guy is finished urinating to get out any residue urine from the urethra. I know, I'm getting really technical here, but this is an important issue for us.
Anyway, the problem is, two shakes is far from adequate for completely clearing the pipes. If you don't get it all out, little bits of piss will drip out into your pants after you've zipped up and walk away. Small globules of urine will leak out and either soak into your underwear or fall straight down and get your leg wet. If you're wearing thin pants (think slacks) it could even possibly soak in enough, down around your calves, to show on the outside - if you didn't shake enough and got yourself in that situation in the first place.
Answer me this: who really wants piss pants? Most of us left that behind in first grade and don't really expect to be going there again at least until very advanced old age.
So, that's why you have to shake a lot. Terrible consequences if you don't. I make sure the job is done before I pack it up and go home.
So, is it masturbation? Of course not! It is strictly functional. Getting the pee out is the name of the game. Whoever made up the "two shakes" rule clearly can't control their urges. The hard-ons only creep up in about one in every six or seven pisses. Jeez guys.
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