Friday, November 5, 2010

The hobo Chronicles

A common misconception is that to become homeless you have to suffer some horrible tragedy; war, mental illness, or financial ruin. That’s not true: it turns out that all it takes is accidentally tipping this month’s rent while trying to pick up the waitress at a hoagie place. In my defense, she was pretty hot, a period and a comma look exactly the same after 2 margaritas, and no I didn’t get her number.

But as they always say, when god closes a door he opens a window. I don’t really know what god opens when he takes your fucking apartment, but I’m hoping it’s nicer than an overpass. I’ve decided to make lemonade (don’t ask what kind) and record my exploits as a recent member of the homeless people so that future generations can…. Learn from it I guess.

Day 1:

Okay, I kinda meant for this to start couple weeks from now when I actually got evicted, or at least after I told my landlord. But none of my douchebag friends will give me a ride home, I guess this “Tony Luke’s Cheese steaks” parking lot is my home now.

But you know what? I’m going to remain annoyingly optimistic about all this. This’ll just help my report. I’m not gonna be the pussy hipster kinda homeless guy that lives in his car and couch surfs. I’m gonna be the all American hobo. Knapsacks tied to sticks, beans eaten out of cans, and a series of secret codes to tell other ho-folks which houses don’t lock their doors at night. I’ve got an overpass to sleep under, a dumpster that is either full of or barely contains food depending on my standards that day, and a hooker that may or may not be alive. I’m feeling good about this.

Day 2:

Okay, being homeless has a bit of a learning curve. And I mean in the sense where the school is really competitive and one of the honors students stabs you in the shoulder while guarding a half eaten ham.

Turns out life isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting, and the hobo code doesn’t actually exist. I guess there’s no honor among people tripping on meth who think that you’re the ghost of their dead grandmother. Who’da thunk it.

On a slightly brighter note, I’m really starting to get used to my new living situation. I shimmied up one of the overpass support beams to escape a pack of surly prostitutes, and found a rich buffet of unsuspecting pigeons, fat, happy, and unsuspecting, like some kind of mystical sky Wisconsin. They were delicious. I’m really starting to like my new place. I stole a dog bed to sleep in, and wrote “stay away” all over the parking lot in some of my knife blood. The bathroom, or lack thereof, was kind of an issue at first, but I solved that eventually. It turns out people are actually pretty okay with you using their cars, if you use a very loose definition of “okay”. Also, the excitement of a car alarm going off actually helps get things moving.

Lets chalk it up: I’ve got shelter, a steady food, a place to shit, and a makeshift security system. It’s what, day two? And I’ve already got a better living situation than most people in New York. Suck it.

Day 4:

Today I declared war on a small fleet of stray cats. For too long, they have encroached on my territory and stolen my women. Emboldened by their fierce leader, who I have named “Snowball”, their attacks have grown increasingly vicious. Also he smelled my anus and reacted poorly when I returned the favor. The time for negotiations has ended. Blood has been drawn (cat blood, though some of mine was in there too) and I the time has come to unleash the cats of war.

I have gathered a military composed of family, co-workers, and people who used to be okay with being referred to as my friends. Their loyalty was bought by a bag of salvaged donuts and a few well placed abductions. Tommorow, we attack their encampment behind the Denny’s on Oregon st. To War!

Day 5:

The attack was a disaster. We suffered massive casualties. Side note: I do not know how to work a Molotov cocktail; Don was totally right about that. God, I’m going to miss the half of him that I didn’t burn off.

But life goes on. Kinda. I have discovered two friends that will remain with me for the rest of my life. The first is a family of raccoons that was attracted by the fish smell emanating from my knife wound. It’s a modest family, but they have adopted me into it almost immediately after I suckled at the mothers’ teat. The father is like the one I never had, his son is like the brother I had but he stopped returning my calls. Their friendship has melted my cold heart and taught me the meaning of love. The second is crack cocaine. I think I like that friend better.

Also Day 5:

Hihowyadoin? I- what? Hey! HEY! That’s not yours Franky! FRANKY! I SWEAR TO- huh? Oh yeah, I ate the raccoons. Why?

Day 6:

Fucking…. Cracks gone. There’s…. none left. Also, Franky took my jeans. I don’t…. I don’t want to do this anymore…… I don’t want to not do crack anymore.

Day 8:

Dan Ludwig! Bouncing back! Technically off drugs! Still homeless! Yeah!

Okay, status update; I had to burn down my hobo cave. Which I guess means I burned down an overpass, bus who’s keeping track. The point is, I’m free! Wind at my back! Testicles blatantly hanging out!

Snowball and his gang had finally moved into my parking lot, forming some sort of biker gang. They’d been getting in my face a little bit, especially after I started moving in on Snowballs woman. So now it’s time to move on. I’m going to wander the streets of Philadelphia! Drink in the culture! This is the city of brotherly love- I shouldn’t be cowering in a overpass; I should be out among the people enjoying the shared human experience. I think I’m gonna swing by the middle school and try to use my rugged hobo charm to get some action.

Day 9:

What did I say? City of brotherly love! At first, yeah I’ll admit it, things weren’t looking so hot. The women (if you squint a little) of the middle school were somewhat off put by my knife would, which had scabbed over and festered into a horrific shoulder vagina, and the school’s health services promptly opened fire on me.

Luckily, in my flight, I encountered a large black man who I can only assume was a doctor because he gave me a fistful of pills. Or not so much a fistful as a clump, or even more accurately, a wad. He was wearing this awesome fuzzy tophat, and had this really sick cane with the handle carved into the shape of a tit. I can only assume that this is how doctors dress when they are also black people. God, that race gets all the fun. He assured me that the pills would help with my wound, and I didn’t question him because he was giving me free pills. He didn’t say what they were called, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that its 3 milligrams of fucking magic.

13 pages of illegible handwriting, most of which seems to be doodles of giraffes and penisis.

Day 15:

All in all, mediocre day. My new friend Otis told me to show people on the subway my penis, but they did not react as favorably as he’d led me to believe. I wouldn’t listen to him, but he is extremely persuasive, as least as far as talking dogs go. Also new development: My grandpas apparently decided to visit Philly. My enthusiasm for his visit somewhat declined when I realized that he now had the face of a clown and insistently masturbated wherever we went. Also, I’m fair certain my grampas been dead for like, seven years. I’m fairly certain he is a Nazi.

Still possessed by the devil by the way. Not sure how many more of these pills I have to take before that crap stops.

Day Infinity:

They say home is where the heart is. Does that count if you stole the heart from a hospital?

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

If I was There: Ferris Bueller's Day Off

After being convinced to steal his crazy dads prized Ferrari by his best friend, Cameron freaks out and kicks it out of their garage, which is inexplicably both made of glass and hanging off a cliff. It plunges off a cliff and is utterly destroyed.

Ferris: Oh my god Cameron… Ok, Ok, I’ll take the blame for this, alright? I’ll stay here, and tell your dad what happened. I’ll get in trouble, but-

Cameron: No Ferris.

Ferris: Cameron, you don’t want this kind of heat.

Cameron: No, I did. If I hadn’t wanted this heat, I wouldn’t have let you take the car out.

Ferris looks incredulous, but impressed.

Cameron: I could have stopped you-it is possible to stop the great Ferris Bueller. My whole life, my father’s loved that car more than me. He’s raised me like a museum exhibit, and because of him I can’t relate to people or deal with stress. When he gets back (smiling) my dad and I will just have a little “chat”.

Ferris and Sloan smile, and leave with the feeling that Cameron’s going to be alright.

Ferris: Sloan, I’m going to marry-

Me: You realize that by “chat”, he means “murder”, right? He’s going to murder his dad.

Ferris: (Pause) I don’t-

Me: He is blatantly unstable right now. You watched him flip out at the New York stock exchange. He pretended to drown ten seconds ago. He convinced you that he was in a coma so he could watch your girlfriend undress. He just kicked a car out a window right in front of you. You just watch a kid reenact that whole "mother lifts a car to save her child" scenario, only instead of love, he's motivated by rage and childhood neglect. His dad is going to come home, and Cameron is going to stab his face off.

Sloan: Hey, listen-

Me: Then he's going to have sex with it.

Ferris: I….

Me: But by all means, focus on proposing to your slutty high school girlfriend. That scenario always works out great.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Damage Control: a How to Guide

As a man being digested by a death-spiral of alcoholism and poor life choices, I’ve woken up to some bizarre circumstances, often with little to no memory of how I arrived at them. And they’re not always pleasant- for every time I’ve awoken to find a prepaid masseuse or a certificate naming me a justice of the peace, there have been several where I’ve discovered myself a Jehovah witness or my dick firmly lodged in a magic 8 ball.

Years of dealing with these bizarre situations have made me something of an expert. Do you know how to get a kidnapped rabbi out of your home without him telling on you to his vengeful Jew-god? I do. And now I’m here to help. Here are a few of the most common hangover companions I’ve had to deal with, and not only will I tell you solutions to them, I’m going to teach you how to turn them to your advantage.

Number One: Orphans.

Whenever I go out people always say to me “Dan, I got really drunk last night and adopted 3 orphaned children in an ill advised attempt to impress women. What should I do?”After I finish wondering how these people keep finding me, I always tell them the same thing: the problem isn’t that you have too many orphans, it’s that you don’t have enough. If anything, you should march back to that orphanage and adopt seven more of the little buggers. Try to get British ones if you can- they are the Cadillac of forsaken children.

For each orphan you own, the government pays you a hundred dollars a week- they’re like little walking piggy banks (only not really. Do not turn your orphan upside down and try to shake money out of his back. That is largely frowned upon.) The only obstacle in your way is that orphans require food, clothing, and love- a common misconception that brings down most orphan owners. Your orphans can be clothed with little more than an old t- shirt and a plastic bag (not the see through kind- you don’t want to get arrested), and require shockingly small amounts of love. Their monthly affection minimum can be achieved by a bi-weekly march through the stuffed animal section of a Toys R Us. And did you know that the average orphan can go weeks-if not months-without food? You probably didn’t because I made that up, but it sounds true, right? Just tell them that- maybe the placebo effect works on starvation.

When it does eventually come time to feed your orphans, you can help them build character by making them work for it. If Oliver Twist taught us anything, it’s that orphan’s make adorable little pickpockets. They can be trained to steal anything: money, jewelry, food, and if they get caught, a pair of dead parents makes an excellent get out of jail free card. And when your little child slaves finish earning their keep and you’ve properly skimmed off the top, they have yet another practical application: warfare!

The average orphan is a treasure trove of unexploited combat potential. Their tiny stature makes them ideal for infiltration and quick maneuvering, and the average orphan hand is one of mankind’s most underused weapons. Their long, unkempt, disease riddled finger nails are ideal for gouging an enemies eyes out, and years of desperately seeking parental approval and fearing nuns has given them a vicious pack mentality. When orphans attack in numbers, there’s nary a foe they can’t topple. With just a megaphone, some light military training, and the attitude of an oppressive totalitarian dictatorship, you can shape your adopted family into a tiny strike force to be reckoned with, then turn them against your enemies.

I myself have an entire regiment off tiny assassins stored in my basement for the sole purpose of defeating my next door neighbor Gary Sanderson, who’s apparently doing sooooo great at law school- well you know who else is doing great Gary? ME, BECAUSE I’M NOT HAVING MY EYES GOUGED OUT BY LITTLE ORPHAN CLAWS! MAYBE YOU CAN USE THAT LAW DEGREE TO SUE ME- OH WAIT, YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU’RE BLIND AND YOUR DEGREE’S IN COPYRIGHT LAW! MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE FILED A PATENT ON NOT BEING A DISFIGURED FREAK!

And remember, when you’re done with your orphan, recycle them properly- the planet is all of our responsibility.

Number two: Dead Body

Death happens. It’s one of the little poetries of the universe that one of life’s most important moments in when life has ceased to exist, and it’s something that everybody has to deal with in their own way. In just so happens that you have to deal with it immediately, because death is lying face down in your living room in a pool of what you pray to god is just vomit.

The first step is to calm down and evaluate your new post mortality companion (aka rotting meat friend). Is this a family member? A colleague or lover? A hooker? It’s a hooker, isn’t it? It totally is.

That’s okay; I’m not going to judge. The modern hookin’ industry simply does not build streetwalkers like they used to, and as a result, today’s call girl is rather lacking in terms of durability. All it takes is a single strike to the head or the most meager of O.D.s for you to find yourself the evening companion of particularly poorly dressed corpse.

Okay, gameplan- have you ever seen Weekend at Bernies? Yeah, that doesn’t work. Turns out people are really good at spotting dead bodies even if you put on sunglasses. Conventional knowledge would suggest chopping them up or dissolving them in acid, but those things are difficult and expensive. Something as simple as a dead body shouldn’t mean you have to be uncomfortable.

Okay, how do you feel about cannibal- no? You sure? I mean, that would be a good way to save on grocery bills- jesus, fine, I’ll drop it! You’re not making this easy though. Alright, I guess if you’re not willing to get down off you’re “I don’t eat people” pedestal, there are other ways to do this.

Do you hate your neighbors? Of course you do: neighbors suck. Constantly investigating, “smells”, and “odors”, and “horrible, gut wrenching stenches, the likes of which still rouse me from my bed in a cold sweat begging for mercy”. Fuck them. Maybe if they hadn’t created such an atmosphere of suspicion and hostility, Saphire or Crystale or whatever your hooker was named would still be alive! This is as much their dead hooker as it is yours!(Don’t actually think about this, just get pissed off).

In fact, why isn’t this dead body in their apartment? I can’t think of a good reason, and assuming you’re trying as little as I am, neither can you! Lets correct that.

When transporting your dead body, respect is key. This isn’t just any dead body- this is whats her face: a proud, Puerto Rican-ish lady of the night! Use only the absolute finest of burlap sacks in transporting her. While your planting the body, get creative. Smear some of her blood, vomit and inevitable feces around the cellar you dump her in. Don’t just smear a pentagram or write “murder” in big garish letters; you want the people finding this body to believe one of their loved ones is a horrific serial killer- subtlety is the key here. Maybe write a poem in bodily fluids, or arrange the body like it’s in the middle of a romantic dinner. Really, y’know, sell it. Hell, with enough time and hookers, you might even be able to convince them the house is haunted.

Number Three: Japanese man in the fridge

I honestly don’t know how this keeps happening. Maybe it’s some weird drunken misfire between being hungry for Chinese food and missing my grandfather, but for whatever reason, I keep waking up to an elderly Japanese man stuffed in between the milk and my crisper. I can only naturally assume that this is a common occurrence for everyone else as well.

Now, while the Japanese are a very patient, polite people, that inherent kindness has a statue of limitations, and there’s a fairly strong chance that they’ll have a pair of nun chucks on them. Therefore, it’s your first duty to calm this man down and explain to him what exactly is going on in a manner that he can clearly understand- tell him he’s on a game show.

The Japanese love game shows, almost as they love sushi, overpopulation, and hypothetical pedophilia: to the point of being kinda scary. And the terms of these contests are so bizarre and without logic that literally any scenario you could possibly dream up would be not only be readily accepted, but considered fairly dull. The typical Japanese primetime show involves self mutilation, graphic nudity, at least 2 comodo dragons, and will go on for anywhere between 3 hours and 6 days.

Now that your wrinkled far eastern friend believes he’s on camera and is properly afraid of dishonoring his ancestors, you can get him do to anything you want as long as you tell him it could win him 10,000 yen in the lightning round (10,000 yen figures out to something around 20 bucks, so you should be fine). Want him to clean your apartment? Not only will he do it, he’ll do so pretending he’s a school bus. He will drive you to work while singing the entire plot of the 1986 action movie Face Off. He will hold up a liquor store for you while dressed as both Sonny and Cher simultaneously. He’ll even cook you a delicious plate of Lo-mien using only noodles, sesame oil, and your dickweed neighbors missing cat; all you have to do is hold up a stop watch and scream gibberish at him.

Number Four: New Jersey

Listen, I’m not a miracle worker. If you wake up in New Jersey, you’re most likely already dead or insane. If you do keep yourself intact long enough to get your bearings, the rules to survive are the same as those for a zombie apocalypse: avoid major population centers, stay off the main roads, be constantly wary of those around you, and run until you don’t smell rotting flesh anymore. God help you.

Monday, August 23, 2010


In my youth, I was trained in the martial arts. Through karate, my tiny doughy body was transformed into an engine of angsty destruction, and my ADD riddled mind was honed into a harmonious aura of calm and understanding (that was riddled with ADD). Or at least it would have been, had I gone to a real karate instructor. Sadly, I went to what’s known as a “Mcdojo”, or more accurately known as “a studio run by a fucking white guy”. So while all my friends were dodging ninja stars, doing bicycle kicks and beating the shit out of Ralph Machio, I was learning how to punch and block. A lot. In various orders and patterns. For 5 goddamn years.

At the time, I thought I was a living weapon; in retrospect, I could have gotten my ass kicked by a dead cat. In fact, there’s only one scenario in which my training would have been even remotely useful:

Bully #1: Alright, today’s the day we attack that kid.

Bully #2: Awesome. I can’t wait to punch the crap out of that kids face.

Bully #1: I know! There’s only one problem- I am horrifically ill. A combination of asthma and muscular dystrophy has ravaged my young body. If this boy resists our attacks with so much as a single well choreographed punch, I would shatter me.

Bully #2: That is horrific timing, because I just came down with polio. I can’t manage anything but the slowest of movements.

Bully #1: Luckily, I don’t expect this guy to fight back at all. Not even a little. And even if he does, I’ve convinced four other bullies to help us.

Other Bullies: Hey.

Bully #2: That is awesome! And they’re all strong, right?

Bully #1: Not really. Three of them have fetal alcohol syndrome; it’s as if their bodies were comprised of pipe cleaners and Elmers glue. The fourth is okay, but he has a crippling phobia of people who go “Yaaa” when they punch. And two of them have OCD, so they insist me mount our attack in a single file fashion, only assaulting him one at a time. They were very insistent on that.

Bully #2: That sound pretty horrible, but I’m nonetheless optimistic! What’s our strategy?

Bully #1: first, we attack from the front, then stop within arm’s length, and take the proper amount of time to get our fists ready to punch him. If he survives that, then you approach him from the left and grab him by the wrists.

Bully #2: but what if he’s able to turn left? And then break my hold with some sort of mystical spinning of the arm?

Bully #1: Impossible! No man can turn left and escape the grabbing of the wrist! It’s been proven by science! And even if he does, he’ll never expect me to attack from his right!

Bully #2: (Gasps) My god, you’re like a tiny Napoleon wrapped in a Digimon t-shirt!

Bully #1: And even if he does manage to foresee my attack and discover my secret weak spot-

Bully #2: -You mean your entire torso?

Bully #1: -Yes, my weak, gnarled torso- then I’ve brought this to shield myself with: a sheet of balsa wood!

Bully #2: Brilliant! Let us begin our attack! (Begins walking) But what if he has learned some sort of martial art that allows him to punch through your balsa wood?

Bully #1: then god help us all.

Other Bullies: why are we doing this again?

Bully #1: I’m not sure. I think it’s that stupid “Gi” he always wears. I fucking hate that thing.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Taking a moral inventory

Jim: Hey Bill?

Bill: Yeah? What’s up?

Jim: Well, we’ve all been talking and we’ve kinda come to the conclusion that-

Karen: We think you’re a bad person Bill.

Bill: Oh……. Is this because I’m producing a Porno about Dr. Martin Luther King?

Off in the distance: -And I say that you will not discriminate on it, not based on its size or its girth, or even its color…….. for it will rock your world just the same!

Jim: That…. May have been a factor.

Martin Luther Fking: Yes, I have a dream- a dream about busting all over those-

Bill: Okay, you guys may have a point.

Thursday, June 10, 2010


An avid reader of this half-assed excuse for a blog (which is really just a half assed excuse for a website in the first place, essentially making me a quarter assed excuse for a writer) might have noticed that that posts have been a little scarce as of late. although if this thing actually has readers at all, let alone avid ones, they're probably too preoccupied chasing pigeons and aggressively stalking local political officials to notice much of anything. Anyway, the reason for this recent drought of mirth has two reasons:
1. I'm lazy, and my house has tivo.
2. It's summer, and writing is a lot more difficult when you don't have the added motivation of really not wanting to write a term paper.
Anyway, to hold you pathetic bastards over until I can write something to finally get me back on that FBI watch list, here's a film review a wrote a while back for my friends (visit that shit, the poor bastard desperately needs the traffic).

The Death of sci-fi (kicks so much ass it’s not even funny)

You may not have heard about it, but the French recently won cinema. Yup, we had a good run, but it’s time to pack up our shit, call it a day, and give whatever the French equivalent to Hollywood is all of the money. Because while we were working our asses off trying to make good movies, the French were biding their time, concentrating their entire creative landscape around creating Immortal, a film so retarded that it makes Sarah Palin’s kid look like a neurosurgeon. This film is so stupid, so balls out crazy, so goddamn full of itself, that it’s singlehandedly more beautiful than every Oscar winning film we’ve churned out in the last decade combined. It turns stupid into an art form, albeit one that you wouldn’t really pay a lot of money to hang up in your house. This movie takes the definition of a movie so bad that it becomes awesome, slaps a wig on it, and makes it its’ bitch.

For a good reference of this film that director Enki Bilal (Jesus, is it even legal to name your kid something like that?) has proudly shit into our DVD players, you should understand French cinema. When they’re not making black and white short films about depressed clowns smoking cigarettes, the French like their movies trippy and horrifying. I’m talking about stuff that makes Charlie Kaufman films look like romantic comedies. They film things like City of Lost Children. If you really want to understand Immortal, just picture City of Lost Children, and then rip out your fucking brainstem and replace it with a solid block of every hallucinogen known to man, because Immortal does not give a fuck by European standards.

As I said before, the film is balls out crazy. At one point, an eagle murders a hammerhead shark man with heat vision to save a woman with electric nipples. It just took me thirty seven minutes to type that sentence because I kept having to clean the semen off my keyboard. And don’t think that the scene makes any more sense in context because motherfucker, it makes even less sense in context. This movie takes sense and skullfucks the shit out of it. I would recommend seeing it high, but I don’t want to be held responsible when potheads (all four that will read this) rip out their own brains in sheer confusion. I actually had to watch it three times just to make sure I wasn’t having some sort of stroke.

This is a movie with the philosophy that every scene can be improved by the addition of laser eagles, and if it already has laser eagles then it needs more laser eagles, and you’re an idiot for not already adding a demon shark. This director looks at every moment of his films and asks how he can fit lighting into it, and god help the poor coffee boy who tells him that he’s wandered onto the set of Spiderman 2 and Aunt May doesn’t shoot lighting out of her hands because Enki Bilal will lightning the shit out of him, because physics does not apply to this man.

First of all, the plot is like having a 12 year old explain Blade Runner to you while he’s tripping balls on LSD. It takes place in a vaguely 1984-ish totalitarian future where corporations control everything and genetic modification has become the norm- you know, the fresh original setting that every Sci-Fi movie ever takes place in. Oh yeah, and there’s also a giant pyramid floating over the city. Like, a big, ancient pyramid hovering away in central park. It can’t be very important though, because nobody really seems to give crap. Seriously , if the ancient Egyptians parked one of their monuments over my goddamn city, I think I would fire a few missiles at it, or at least write it a ticket for being double parked.

So Horus comes down from the Pyramid, and I shit you not, the film centers around him trying to get laid. He just sort of wanders around the city trying get somebody pregnant, then possess the body of some Russian dude and starts raping a lady with blue hair. If any of that made sense to you, then call your doctor because your medication has stopped working. And the blue chick isn’t even that pissed about it! She’s just sorta like “did you rape me last night?” and the dudes just like “yeah my bad” and she just shrugs and shows her boobs that have blue nipples for some reason. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure that’s the exact opposite of feminism. It’s like the director was trying to lash out at his abusive mother by teaching the men of the world that’s it’s okay to commit rape as long as you think you’re possessed by an Egyptian god. Then the bad guy, an evil red half man- half hammerhead shark (half man- half hammerhead shark! How have you not bought this movie already?) shows up, and shit gets crazy…-ier.

And let’s not forget the CGI. The CGI happens in this movie so randomly that it’s like 1994 computer game threw up into film reel as they were editing it. Random characters are CGI- and not like gods or aliens or anything, just people. All the extras are CGI. Somehow, this movie’s producer couldn’t find enough actors to cast his movie without resorting to generating them out a computer. Do you know how impossible that is? Go outside right now and ask the first person you see if they want to act in your movie. They will say yes.

And the CGi is bad- really fucking bad. It looks like Shrek got Finding Nemo pregnant, but right before the delivery somebody jammed an eggbeater into the womb. This movie looks like George Lucas had an abortion. I could animate better characters on an N64. And they try to make it look less shitty by dressing the live action characters like their CGI so it looks like really lifelike animation. It’s an idea so blindingly retarded that it works for half the movie. I spent the first 30 minutes thinking I was watching the greatest animation of all time before my brain started trying to force its way out of my eyes to escape how fucking stupid I am.

What really makes this movie awesome is that it takes every crazy idea that nerds thought up while masturbating to Linux in their parents’ basement but were never used because they made little to no sense, and uses the hell out of them. You want a future where people get around in cars hanging from a series of cables? Done. You want 15 minutes of a lady with electric hair eating live eels? Done. You want to see random characters explode for little to no reason? So fucking done. You want to see weird Asian prostitute lady? They have three. You want a main character with a magical robotic leg? They did that 20 minutes ago, and they’re a little hurt you even had to ask.

The whole movie is just a giant dogpile of gloriously stupid ideas. This is the ultimate geeky fantasy put onto film, the movie that they’ve been longing for. And you know what? It kinda justifies how shitty you guys were treated in high school.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

200 deaf boys- because apparently catholicism is going for some sort of record

You may have heard that a while ago, it was discovered that over two hundred deaf boys were molested by a priest of the Catholic Church (Really, at this point it’s starting to seem like the only difference between the Vatican and the Nazi party is that the people running the Nazi party had cooler uniforms). I like to think that when that news broke, somewhere in the world this happened:

Secretary: (answering the phone) Mark Pinkerton’s office, trial lawyer specializing in sign language- “He speaks for you, even if you can’t hear him”.

Mark: Yeah Carol, it’s me, you can skip the jingle. I’m in on my way to the office now, and I want you to clear my schedule!

Secretary: Okay, it is…. Already clear. You don’t have any appointments for today- or this week. We don’t have any clients for a while actually. Why exactly are you coming in?

Mark: Carol, have you seen the news?

Secretary: I don’t-


Secretary: Does ”E news” count?

Mark: Unless E news is talking about how a bejillion deaf boys just got diddled by a member of the fucking Vatican, I don’t think it does Carol!

Secretary: So, I should-

Mark: What you should do, Carol, is call my yatch guy and tell him I’m about to make it rain. But before that, you should get me a yatch guy. And then I want you to call up my father, my brother, my old boss, the loan agents at citizens’ bank, and every other asshole who told me that a law firm specially targeted at the hard of hearing was a poor business model, and I want you to tell them to suck it! Can you do that Carol?

Secretary: I think so? Honestly, I’m not really used to doing work at this job- I didn’t even know the phones worked until two seconds ago. Are you really sure we’re going to make that much money?

Mark: Carol, there are at least two hundred of these little Helen Keller mother fuckers, and each one just learned the sign for “bad touch” from a member of a church who built an entire city out of gold for Jesus. There could not possibly be a more profitable court case if Donald Trump and Rupert Murdoch got together to violently gang rape Michael J. Fox and his entire family. We are going to be so rich that you’re going to be able to buy a pair of tits that don’t look some sort of horrific tumor collection was duck taped to you chest. God bless those kids, and each one of their silent, ruined assholes!

Secretary: Well okay, I’ll start making some calls. But for the record, I don’t think you should talk like that when the deaf boys show up.

Mark: Oh what are they gonna do- hear me?

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

An Open letter to my Last Date

Dear Veronica,

I feel like our date last weekend went really well, and that we had some good chemistry. I’ve tried to call you a few times over the last week, but the fact that the number you gave me is six digits too long is leading me to suspect that you might have given me some sort of fax number by accident. That, or you typed out “metallica rulez” onto the keypad of my phone in between trying to steal it. I really hope it was the fax thing.

Given, our whirlwind romance does not have what could be called the “strongest foundation”. I too, was hesitant to look past our less than romantic meeting, namely me drunkenly answering craigslist ad in which you inexplicably managed to misspell more words than were technically in the request. A chance meeting in cooking class, that is not. But, in my drunken 3 am desperation and your being “tootally Hrny’ I like to think we found a crude yet beautiful connection- for a moment, I was the Richard Gere to your Julia Roberts, the John Cusack to your whoever-the-hell- he-was-in-a-romantic -comedy with, if they were both significantly less attractive and smelled of gin, vomit, and failure.

Yes, I was hesitant when you demanded I meet you in the bathroom of a Wendy’s on the edge of town- not even the Wendy’s itself-just the urine soaked, vaguely rapey bathroom that smelled suspiciously of meth. And yes you were late, by exactly 6 hours and 43 minutes, but I stayed in that poor man’s crack den because I felt that we had shares something special- that and I was still a little drunk and really wanted to see some boobs. But when you showed up, you redeemed all that the moment you walked in- specifically by taking out your vagina. Like, right away. That was awesome- almost awesome enough to warrant overlooking that you had brought your kid. I mean, he seemed nice at everything, but when things got hot and heavy, that wide eyed, cool aid stained face of his became a tad distracting. Though the issue was cleared up slightly when you clarified that he was your designated driver. And as the fluorescent lights of that bathroom glinted of a vagina that I can only describe as “grumpy”, I got the irrefutable feeling that fate, in its mysterious splendor, had brought us together for some deeper reason- beside your stated one of “shutting up and getting all up inside you”.

Where I really felt like we connected was sexually- mostly because that’s really the only thing we did. True, you did start vomiting up what looked strangely like cat hair before we could do the deed, but we did manage to squeeze in 6-9 minutes of hardcore, world class finger banging. Although I don’t think I can legally call it fingering, and it barely fits under the parameters of fisting. I think what you had me do to you was less foreplay, and more me using you as hand puppet. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, I’m just saying that if I’d really tried, I probably could’ve worked you mouth to sing while I drank a glass of water. And I like to think that I did a pretty good job; I ‘stopped being such a pussy” about you clawing at my neck with your long, bobcat like nails, and I even powered through your sons frequently questioning of “why are you hurting mommy” and “are you two going to play the pay the landlord game”-no small task. It was so heartbreaking I almost felt bad hitting him (I figured that if we were about to begin a relationship, I should begin filling the role of father figure to him as soon as possible). Why, I even overlooked the fact that when I removed my arm its skin was stained a deep, charred black- as if the very skins cells themselves had committed suicide.

And then Veronica, you were off into the lingering shadows of dawn, your child driving you home on what I can only assume is a stolen golf cart. You left me only with a kiss, a knife wound, and the vague feeling that your name isn’t Veronica- mostly because your child called you Janet while the two of you were robbing me. But you know, Veronica, I’m not perfect either. I’m young and foolish, prone to pretension and the sins of my generation, and have been told by many that my head is shaped eerily like a 1984 Honda Buick. And I know that if you can look past all that, well then Veronica, I can look past the fact that no matter how many times you say you’re twenty six on a craigslist ad, it doesn’t change the fact that you have 4 fucking cesarean scars and a face that looks like one of the Golden Girls on a crack cocaine binge.

So please, Veronica, call me. Partly because I’d like to see you again, but mostly because I think I might’ve lost my watch in you, and it was a gift from my grandma.

Monday, April 26, 2010

People Should Really Stop Making Deals with the Devil

"... something happened a long time ago in Haiti, and people might not want to talk about it, they were under the heel of the French, uh, you know, Napoleon the third and whatever, and they got together and swore a pact to the devil, they said, we will serve you, if you get us free from the French, true story. And so the devil said, 'OK, it's a deal.' And they kicked the French out, the Haitians revolted and got themselves free, and ever since they have been cursed by one thing after the other, desperately poor."

-Pat Robertson, man who is inexplicably allowed on TV on a regular basis, on the 2010 Earthquake in Haiti

The Devil: Gentlemen, thank you for meeting me, sorry for the wait, it’s just been a really crazy week. Europe has just been blowinup lately, and well, I have been downright swamped taking care of those crazy bastards, am I right?

The Haitians: Um, it’s no problem.

The Devil: Alright, let’s get down to brass tax, shall we? [Flipping through folders] Lesse, this is the…. Haitians?

The Haitians: Yes sir.

The Devil: Like, the whole Country of Haiti? All of the Haitians?

The Haitians: Yes.

The Devil: Like, not the Haiti Liberation Army, or the Society for the Advancement of Haiti? Just, all the people in your entire country?

The Haitians: Yes sir.

Roul: Well, except for Craig.

Emile: But fuck that guy.

The Devil: And your request is that you want to “get rid of the French”. Oh man, like The French? I totally know those guys! What did they do this time?

The Haitians: They brutally colonized and dominated our entire country, and now refuse us the basic human dignity of sovereignty.

The Devil: Oh man, really? That is totally like them, but you know they stole everything they got from the British, and don’t even get me started on Belgium.

Jean: We want them out of our Country. We’ve had enough of their oppression, and we need your help to finally win our freedom. It is time for a Haiti free of the French.

Emile: To hell with the French swine!

The Devil: Alright, sounds good to me. I have here a standard “Revolution/Armed conflict Assurance” form, just fill it out really quick, and sign here- and here, agree to a few minor conditions and we can start killing some snail eaters!

The Haitians: Huzza!

[Begins filling out the form]

The Haitians: What’s the date?

The Devil: It’s the fourth.

The Haitians: Great and…. Oh.

The Devil: Is there a problem?

Jean: Roul? We don’t have a problem do we?

Roul: It’s no big deal, it’s just, um, this list of “conditions” pretty extensive. Like, 3 pages extensive.

The Devil: Oh all that? That’s just the pull to your take, the yang to this little yang you are requesting. I suppose you could look at it as the price to our little exchange.

Jean: Well what are they?

Roul: Well this first one here is “crippling poverty and economic oppression.”

Jean: Well, that doesn’t sound good.

The Devil: Oh, it’s not. Really, your entire country is going to spend the next few decades poorer than a dyslexic in Vegas, with every major first world country stealing your lunch money whenever they feel like it.

Jean: Oh, well that’s… How poor?

The Devil: I’m talking philosophy major poor.

Roul: Okay, I’m going to come out and say it now: that is going to be a problem.

Jean: Well what’s the next thing?

Roul: let’s see, well there’s “rampant child slavery”, “foreign assassination of our democratically elected leader”, constant tsunami and other disasters, and- what’s this about an earthquake?

The Devil: Oh that? Well in early 2010 your country is going to get hit with this giant ass earthquake, I mean a real doosey, and I’m not going to lie, it’ll pretty much level your entire society.

Roul: That’s horrible!

The Devil: Yeah, a bunch of people die. And then a bunch of celebrities will fly to your country and hand out soup to try to revitalize their ailing careers by looking like they still give a shit about poor people, and a bunch of American politicians are going to try to politicize the whole thing to further their shortsighted agendas, which between you and me are all moot anyway cuz the whole Country nukes itself to shit before the end of 2011.

Jean: Does anybody even help us?

The Devil: Well sorta. All the major religions send missionaries with aid, but they’re really douchey about it, y’know? Like they show up, and instead of handing out food, they start giving out bibles, and they make really snide comments about how “miserable” you people are. And a bunch of musicians that nobody cares about and actors with DUI’s get together to sing a really sad song about the whole thing. So, I guess you could say people “helped” in the loosest possible definition of the word.

Jean: Okay, well that’s (exhales) that’s pretty damn awful. But I mean, at least the French are in the same boat right? They get screwed over pretty hard, right?

Emile: Those goddamn French!

The Devil: Uh, not really, they actually do pretty well for themselves. I mean, you’ll get them out of the country, sure, but after that I think keep going strong from a couple of centuries. I’m actually pretty sure they’re one of those countries exploiting you.

Jean: Seriously?

The Devil: Yeah.

Roul: Is there anything, and I mean anything, else that we should know about before signing this.

The Devil: No nothing really. I mean besides the teensy tiny detail of John Travolta coming to your Country to preach Scientology.

Roul: Alright, you know what? I’m going on the record as being against signing this. We are signing a deal with the devil, and this contract is horrible by those already incredibly low standards, and come to think of it, we probably should’ve brought a lawyer! Why did we not do that?

The Haitians: [uncomfortable silence]

Roul: Does our Country seriously not have a single lawyer?

One of the Haitians: I practice environmental law!

Roul: Oh, go fuck yourself.

Jean: You know, Mr. Devil, I’m going to have to go with Roul- I don’t think I’m really comfortable with the language in this document. Could we do some rewrites or-

[Emile quickly snatches up the pen and signs the contract]

Roul: Emile, did you just sign that?

Emile: Yeah.

Roul: Why?!?

Emile: Because fuck the French, that’s why.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Last year: child wizards. This year: vampire dry humping: next year: zombie coke and sex parties

There’s been a lot of commotion lately about the book series Twilight. I didn’t actually know what the hell this was (frankly, until recently I thought Twilight was a brand of menstrual pad), but I recently just lost a film deal because my script about werewolf fisting was called unoriginal, so I delved into the internets to discover who the hell had beat me to the supernatural boning punch. Now there seems to be a lot of accusations flying around about this series: that it ruins vampires, has shitty writing, and is raising a generation of women with incredibly specific and bizarre sexual expectations (I hope a lot of the men reading this are unusually pale, perpetually speak in monotone, and are capable of poorly animated flight, because if not you are fucked). But these arguments ignore a critical point about twilight: it illuminates some critical points about gender roles in sexual awakening, because brother, there is no way that shit could have worked with the genders reversed.

Two teenage lovers, played by two actors clearly in their mid twenties, convene out in the woods. Don’t ask me why they’re in the woods, but they go there a lot so you should probably get used to it. Jake is young and handsome and in love. Or, I guess not so much in love as really horny. Really, I would categorize his emotional status as “a teenage boy in the presence of boobs”. Arviella is attractive, and pale, and rarely ventures out into the sunlight, which Jake really should have picked up on in the first place.

Arviella: Jake….

Jake: Arva- Arveo…. You.

Arviella: I love you so much it hurts me- as the moon loves the earth, the day loves the night, as the vampire loves blood. I am in ruin without you, for you are in my very Soul.

Jake: Yeah, y’know, ditto.

Arviella: The time has come to take our relationship to the next level.

Jake: Oh, fuck yes. [Begins rapidly taking off his pants]

Arviella: I’m going to reveal to you my deepest, darkest secret.

Jake: What, your vagina? You can stop selling it, already. I am good to go.

Arviella: Jake, do you ever wonder why my skin is cool to the touch and paper white?

Jake: Nope.

Arviella: Or why I move with the grace and power of a lioness, and the ferocity of a demon?

Jake: Not even a little.

Arviella: Or why I have fangs?

[Jake has ceased paying attention and begun putting on one of the many condoms stashed on his person]

Arviella: Jake, I am…. a vampire.

Jake: …….

Arviella: I know this must be difficult-

Jake: You still have lady parts though, right?

Arviella: Yes, for though the blood may be still in my veins, it is still the blood of a human, the blood of a woman.

Jake: Cool.

Arviella: You take this well for a mortal.

Jake: What, the vampire thing? I mean, you were already emo, so it was either this or you turn out to be cutting yourself. At least with this I get to bang a ten thousand year old chick. That’s like boning a teacher, but multiplied by Metallica.

Arviella: But Jake, we cannot be as one yet.

Jake: [looks up from penis] say what now?

Arviella: We cannot lay together, for it against the ways of my people.

Jake: What, vampires? You guys drink humans like friggin Capri-suns but you draw the line at porking?

Arviella: No, not vampires- Mormons. I have been saved by the Church of Latter Day saints, and so we may not know each other until we have been wed. But I know that we can last, for our love is-Jake?

[Jake is already half a mile away, storming angrily through the woods while reapplying his pants]

Jake: Man, I got to find myself some werewolf bitches. Now they’d be down to fuck.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Board Games Suck

For some reason, whenever I play Guess Who, something like this happens.

Me: Does your person have red hair?

Max: Nope.

Me: crap. [Flips down a few tiles}

Max: Does your person have glasses?

Me: Uh, yeah.

Max: nice. [Flips down more tiles]

Me: Alright, let’s see…. Would you have sex with your person?

Max: I don’t know- would they be good?

Me: So-so, but you’ve been drinking so it’s pretty much moot.

Max: So it’s like a one night stand thing?

Me: Well yeah, but you should at least call them the next day. That’s just etiquette.

Max: So I have to give them that whole talk about how I like them, but I just got out of a long term relationship and this isn’t going to work, and besides I’m really focusing on my career right now?

Me: Pretty much. And it’s pretty awkward.

Max: Right, right….. I’m going to say yes.

Me: Okay….. [Flips down a few tiles] is your person Richard?

Max: Yeah.

[Uncomfortable silence]

Me: I think we need to have a talk.

Max: See, this is why I wanted to play fucking Risk.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

A Conversation between God and some Hippy

In the bible, it’s said that before he was crucified, Jesus went off into the hills alone to have a word with god. There’s been a great deal of debate as to what was actually said between the two; some say that Jesus plead for his life, that he is offers himself up for the sins of mankind, and even that the whole conversation was a series of violent anti-Semitic rhetoric (although Mel Gibson’s really the only one pushing this theory). Well now thanks to modern science we’re able to reconstruct the conversation, using that thing they do on TV where they play a piece of pottery like a record (or I got really hammered and watched Passion of the Christ. Whatever).

GOD: Hey Jesus how’s it going?

JESUS: Um, good.

GOD: Great, great. Listen, can we have a little talk, just father and son?

JESUS: Yeah sure Dad.

GOD: Great (sits down)So, I was being omniscient in your hut the other day, you know, cleaning-

JESUS: Oh shit.

GOD: And I couldn’t help but notice that you had some, well, some pretty provocative pictured stashed under your bed shaped wad of lamb flesh.

JESUS: Oh fuck me.

GOD: Who’s this Mary Magdalene?

JESUS: Nobody, just a friend.

GOD: Christ….

JESUS: A lady.

GOD: ….

JESUS: (a prostitute)

GOD: A prostitute.

JESUS: yes.

GOD: (sighs) Now Jesus, I’m not mad….

JESUS: son of a bitch.

GOD: Were you at least smart? Did you…

JESUS: What, use birth control?

GOD: Don’t make this uncomfortable Jesus, I just want to know if you did what they taught you in sex-ed and hit her in the stomach with a rock afterwards!

JESUS: Yes, god dammit!

GOD: Hey, don’t you take my name in vein young man!

JESUS: Oh come on, this is bullshit! You wouldn’t be giving Abraham this talk!

GOD: What are you saying?

JESUS: You let him fuck his way across the goddamn holy land! How come I can’t get away with shit?

GOD: Yeah, and I also made him hack off the end of his penis, so you should think about that before you start getting all uppity with me!

JESUS: God, you’ve been such a tight-ass since you started dating Sharon!

GOD: You leave her out of this!

SHARON: Is everything okay in here? I heard my name.

GOD: (shouting) Sharon, get back in the fucking den! I told you I’ll deal with this!

JESUS: Why are you even with her? She’s like twenty!

GOD: Hey you-

JESUS: You’ve got a good ten thousand years on her! If that’s not pedophilia than it least breaks the dating creepiness rule!

GOD: When did you start talking this way? Have you been hanging out with that Judas boy?

JESUS: Hey, Judas is cool!

GOD: He’s a bad influence! He drinks and he smokes and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him hanging out with those delinquent Romans! Why can’t you be friends with that nice John the Baptist like you used to?!

JESUS: Because he’s a fucking pussy!

GOD: Hey! I will not have you speaking that way as long as you live under my roof/holy land!

JESUS: Well you don’t have to! I’m going to go live with mom!

GOD: You stay away from that goddamn whore!

[Jesus leaves]

GOD: (sighs) Sharon!

SHARON: yes?

GOD: Get me my old crucifix out of the closet; it’s time for some tough love.

SHARON: Maybe you don’t have to-


[Sharon leaves, and god begins slowly pouring himself a scotch]

GOD: This, right here, this is why I drink.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Why I'm Not allowed to Babysit Anymore

Father: [Opening door] Dan! Thanks for coming over.

Me: Oh, it was no problem- I’m just happy to help a neighbor in need.

Mother: Well that’s very sweet of you.

Me: Isn’t it though?

Mother: uh, yeah. Yes it is.

Father: Well, we’d better get going if we’re going to make the movie. Tucker! Billy!

Kids: [From other room] Yeah Dad?

Father: We’re going, be good for Dan, Ok?

Kids: Okay.

Father: If you want to watch TV Tucker can show you how to use the remote, and help your self to anything in the fridge. Our cell number’s on the counter.

Mother: Bye kids!

Kids: Bye Mom!

[The parents leave, and the kids enter.]

Tucker: Hey Dan, what are we- what are those?

Me: What are whats?

Billy: those jars. What are in the jars; you have like, fifty of them.

Me: Oh, these? This is moonshine; it’s what grown up’s use to drown out the numbness and repress memories! And if you kids are good, you might just get some mixed in with your chocolate milk for what we call “nap time”.

Tucker: Why do you-

Me: [Smashing a recently emptied moonshine jar on the wall] So is your Mom seeing anybody or what?

20 minutes later

Stupid kid #1: Hey Dan, I know we weren’t supposed to interrupt you while you were watching Xena Warrior Princess unless we “grew a pair of tits”-

Stupid kid #2: which you still haven’t told us how to do.

Stupid Kid #1: But that fire you started in the bathroom is starting to get a little bit out of hand. Could we call the fire department?

Me: the fire department? Man, fuck those guys! They’re always like “stop putting gasoline on your sister” and “seven people died because you filled the fire hydrants with cherry Jell-o mix”. Am I right?

Stupid kid #1: Well, Ok. I guess, do you want to play Boggle or something?

Stupid kid #2: we’d play video games, but you sold our GameCube.

Me: Well I had to pay that prostitute somehow, didn’t I, you little smartass?”

Stupid kid #1: Risk- how about risk?

Me: That’s stupid. We’re not doing that.

Stupid kid #1: Well… Okay. What are we doing instead then?

Stupid kid #2: I don’t want to play catch the knife again.

Me: [sigh} I have an idea. You kids ever seen the movie Gladiator?

Stupid kid #1: Not really. Are we going to watch it?

Me: Mother Fucker, you’re going to live it!

A few hours later

Douchebag father: Hey everybody, we’re hooooooh my god is that broadsword?

Me: Oh hey, you’re home!

The one with the tits: Is….. That an arena? Did you turn my living room into a gladiatorial arena?

Me: Yes, yes I did. Why, are you turned on by that?

The one with the tits: What?

Douchebag father: You’re drunk!

Me: Hey, you know you’re not one who should be getting all judgmental Mr. my-children-are-tripping-balls-on-ether!

Douchebag father: They’re what-ing on what now?

One of the stupid, stupid kids: Dad? I think Billy needs to go to the hospital. He’s bleeding a lot.

Me: Oh man, you should have seen it- he took a trident right to the torso. Little bastard went down hard, didn’t you pussy?

The thing that wouldn’t shut up: Dan said to walk it off.

Me: Damn right I told you to walk it off! And did you?

The thing that wouldn’t shut up: No.

Me: No you did not, and that’s why you’re never going to make it as gladiator!

Douchebag father: Jesus Christ!

Me: I gave the little fucker a sponge for the bleeding, but he just keeps whining.

The one with the Tits: Oh my god, call an ambulance!

Me: Hey, c’mon, let’s all just sit down and have some moonshine! We’re just about to release the tigers for round 3!

Douchebag father: We have to- wait, you got tigers?

Me: Well, I got a tiger. For the other two I had to duct tape some knives to your cats.

Douchebag father: Alright, you need to get the fuck out of here before I call the police.

Me: Oh, they don’t respond to calls about me anymore. Besides, I’ve got to take something out of the oven in a few minutes. I’ll give you a hint: its crack!

Douchebag father: GET OUT!

Me: Fine, fine. Oh, and by the way, I broke your TV.

[The dickwad father acts like he’s shoving me out the front door and slamming it in my face, but he’s totally trying to feel me up, the pervert.]

Me: [yelling through the window] Am I getting paid or what?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Conversations between Me and my Brain

It’s fairly common for a person to have an inner monologue- that mental voice through which we come about our decisions and form coherent, reasonable thought. I have one of those, and it thinks I’m a fucking idiot.


Me: Hey John?

John: Yeah?

Me: You’re taking care of your niece this weekend, right?

John: Yeah , Suzy- I got to watch her while her mom’s in Vegas; Little brat driving me nuts. Why?

Me: Well, I was thinking maybe I could take care of her for you for a little while- I’m good with kids. I could give you a break.

John: [holding out Suzy] Oh man, that would be aweso- wait. You’re an asshole.

Me: Ok, that’s kinda mean. I mean, here I am offering to take care of this kid for you and-

John: No I mean you never do shit like this. Why are you offering to take care of Suzy for me?

My Brain: Ok, you got this- just lie.

Me: I’m thirty feet tall and I don’t get an erection from the movie Shrek.

John: What?

My Brain: No, god dammit; lie about the kid. Just look him in the eye, and whatever you do, don’t say the words “Baby Cannon”.

Me: I am….

My Brain: Good, keep going.

Me: Building ….

My Brain: Wait, no, stop!

Me: a…..

My Brain: Don’t you say baby cannon, you son of a bitch. We’ve worked too hard for you to fuck this up now!

Me: Baby…

My Brain: Don’t you dare.

Me: Catapult.

My: Great. Good job; no, really, that was an awesome save.

John: [pulls Suzy away] No. and you’re not allowed near our house anymore.

Me: Dammit!

My Brain: alright, be cool. You can talk your way out of this. Now, you’ve called this guy black, and to the best of your knowledge he is black, but for some reason he seems pissed about it. It’s okay. Just, say something to calm him down.

Me: I really like Morgan Freeman.

Black guy: [cold, unwavering silence]

My Brain: Well that didn’t work.

Me: And I’ve seen “Malcolm X” like, 30 times.

My Brain: is it not okay for white people to say “Black” anymore? I thought that was okay now. Are we supposed to say African American again? I thought that was only old people who had to say that. Maybe its colored- that could be it.

Me: I don’t think colored is okay. I’m pretty sure that’s horribly offensive still.

Black guy: The fuck did you just say?

My Brain: oh shit, did you say that out loud? Fuck, you have to do something. Quick compliment him- shit, he looks like he’s about to hit you. He’s flexing and everything. Oh man, he looks strong; he probably lifts, like, two hundred pounds at a time. You could compliment him on that! Or his clothes- that a really nice shirt! What is that, cotton? Do they still make cotton shirts, or did that end in colonial times? Wait, are you still not talking? Fucking say something man!

Me: You….. look like…. You could lift…. A lot of.. cotton... back in colonial times.

Black guy: [The same silence, only now with a little more “murder” in it]


My Brain: Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.

Me: I uh, really like your tattoo. Did you get it in prison?

My Brain: alright, I’m leaving before the concussion. When he hits you, try to go fetal.

Me: Okay thanks.

[I am thoroughly beaten]

My Brain: alright, Dan?

Me: yeah?

My Brain: I want you to stop for a second- can you do that? Just, put down the lighter.

Me: Okay. What’s up?

My Brain: What the hell are you doing?

Me: I’m, uh….

My Brain: Here, I’ll give you a hint; you’re in roller skates, standing at the top of a slide. At the bottom of that slide is a plastic ramp that your mom gave you when you were 9 and she thought you were going to learn how to skateboard or do something else cool like that, and after that is an old slip and slide that you’ve somehow transformed into a crude loop-de-loop. After that is what looks like a couch covered in tanks of gasoline. You’re holding a lighter, and you’ve doused yourself with lighter fluid. Is this ringing any bells Dan?

Me: um, yeah. Yeah, it is.

My Brain: Alright, good. Next question; what the fuck are you trying to accomplish?

Me: I’m pretty sure I’m doing this to impress women.

My Brain: okay, that kind of makes sense, in a retarded sort of way. Only problem is that there aren’t any women here. This is an elementary school playground.

Me: I was kinda hoping that some would see from the road or something. Do you think some of the elementary school girls will be impressed?

My Brain: Maybe, but that’s really not anything you can work with without going to prison. You realize you’re about to die in, like, 40 different ways, right?

Me: I think I’ll be okay.

My Brain: You don’t even know how to roller skate, and as far as I know, you’re not flame retardant, although that honestly wouldn’t surprise me with the amount of asbestos you eat.

Me: I stopped paying attention half way through that sentence and started thinking about Crepes'.

My Brain: Of course you did.

Me: We should-

My Brain: Shut up,we're not getting fucking crepes' after this. Why aren’t you afraid right now?

Me: Huh?

My Brain: you know, Fear; that bad feeling that’s kept you from accomplishing anything with your life or getting within 500 feet of a midget.

Me: oh that. I huffed a lot of paint before doing this.

My Brain: I figured. But I need you to pay extra special attention. Okay?

Me: Whatever.

My Brain: now, I’m not going to lie; I’ve tried to kill you a few times in the past. I thought it was the noble thing to do, seeing as I’m pretty sure you’re going to be responsible for the end of the world.

Me: of course.

My Brain: But that was before we discovered deep fried Twinkies. Now I have reason to live. I’d let you do this, shit I’d record you doing this, but were both in here. So I need you to take off the roller skates, and slowly back away from the slide.

Me: yeah, I’m not doing that. I don’t want to look like a pussy.

My Brain: In front of who? There’s no one here!
Me: Too late.

I then promptly descend my flaming one man roller coaster. I miraculously survive, but in the process set a large group of orphans on fire. Technically, no one is harmed because orphans aren’t real people.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

On getting Women

Fact: Vaginas are awesome. Also Fact: the best place to get contact with a vagina is on a woman (vaginas can also be found on cats, blow up dolls, and some men. Unfortunately, these vaginas are vastly inferior in quality.) Therefore, you must convince a woman to let you fuck her. But how is this done? Women are repulsed by your pot belly and that thing growing on your neck; how can you motivate them to take their pants off in front of you?
Fear not; your libido will soon be satisfied. It’s simply a matter of knowing the things that get a woman’s motor running (by motor I mean lady parts. Don’t worry, women don’t have engines- at least not yet).
#1: puppies.
Puppies are annoying, hyperactive little sacks of drool, piss and shit; but for some reason women go completely ape shit for them. They’re drawn to the little bastards, as if they’re some sort of uterus tractor beams. Getting yourself a cute, soft, little puppy is the first step on doing yourself a horizontal ho-down. Most people would tell you to buy a puppy from a pet store; however, as with apples, puppies are better fresh picked. Go to the park, and begin your harvest. Just find a small child walking their pet; the more they seem to love it, the better. Simply walk up, push the kid down, and take the puppy. The kid may cry, but it’s ok. I’m fairly certain children don’t have souls. Begin walking around with the little fur ball; women will be drawn to you like homeless men to a passed out teenage girl. Women love puppies, almost as much as they love:
#2: tragedy.
Have you ever been to a ski resort (skiing is for pussies, but the resorts have orgasmic bars) and seen a bunch of hot women fawning over the ugly guy in the full body cast from a horrible bobsled accident? Do you know why that happens? Because nothing tugs at the old thong-strings like tragedy.
Women love misfortune. Nothing fulfills that motherly, nurturing instinct better than fucking some guy who just got evicted.
And so, you must become tragic. Not in the way you’re already tragic (you’re a raging alcoholic, you’re unemployable, and you cry whenever sober), but in a cool way that’s not your fault. A broken or dismembered limb always works, but that would require you to suffer bodily harm.
This is where the puppy comes in handy yet again.
I’m not going to lie: breaking puppy’s legs is hard. The little fucker will struggle like you wouldn’t believe, and people keep intervening and calling you a monster. Luckily he’ll give up after the second leg, and people lose interest faster than you’d think.
If you’re worrying about a woman seeing you shattering the little pup, don’t. it would only benefit you, cementing you image as…
#3: a bad boy.
This is probably the one time that your stint in prison is going to actually benefit you. See, the only thing women love more than tragedy is danger. They’re drawn to dangerous men, lusting after that leather clad, tattoo covered motorcyclist who’ll steal their wallet and knife their parents. This is because of movies like “grease”, which promises that all rebels have a heart made of solid gold, as opposed to the much more likely heart made of solid rape.
There are many ways to capitalize on this, the best being to get a motorcycle. If you can’t afford that (you can’t) then there are several other options. The easiest is to get a tattoo. The tattoo should be something dangerous, really dangerous, and it should be in a place where people should see it at all times. I would recommend getting either a tattoo of Hitler’s face on your face or the aids virus on your torso. That’ll get the message across. Another great way is arson. Nothing’s more dangerous than arson. Just start setting things on fire (warning: do not set the puppy on fire! Despite how badass and tragic a flaming puppy might seem, it is a decided turn off for women.)
By now you’re pretty damn attractive. Theirs only one thing more that you can add to the equation:
#4: cheesecake.
Women fucking love cheesecake; more than Barbra Streisand and Sex and the City marathons combined. So, the best way to attract them is to hand it out. Be careful though; handing out baked goods will undermine you bad boy image (also your broken puppy makes walking around kinda hard). The solution is simple: throw the cheesecake at them, preferable while screaming badass things.
Let’s say, however, that against all odds, the women aren’t drawn to your heavily tattooed guy with a puppy that has broken legs that regularly sets things on fire and throws cheesecake while screaming profanity routine. This is a strong possibility; after all, you are a registered sex offender.
Luckily, I have a plan B:
Get a friend (preferably one you don't really want to keep). By putting your hands together in just the right way, you can make yourself an artificial vagina.
Now, fuck it. Really just go to town. Its going to require a little more flexibility than most sex, but on the plus side you don't have to wear a condom. Just be careful not to get it pregnant.