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?

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.

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.

Karate!

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.

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.

Laziness

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 website-calamity.weebly.com/ (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.

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-

Mark: HAVE YOU SEEN IT CAROL?

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?