Hey guys. Remember the 1980s? Me neither, ha! Just kidding, I do. Specifically, I remember the strangest thing happening to me. I mean, I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure a lot of you dudes who were between the ages of 12 and 40 thought I was smokin’ hot. I know it’s been a while, but I was thinking about this the other day, and I just want to make sure it was me you were talking about, and not Samantha Fox, or Glenn Close, or one of the guys from Poison.
I’ve mellowed out a lot since the crazy 80s, which wasn’t really that hard, because after the Runaways broke up I didn’t really rock anymore, like, ever. I know that may come as a shock to you fellas who only had posters of me on your walls that said things like “Kiss Me Deadly” and stuff like that, but if Meat Loaf had been in MC5, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” would still be “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” – you follow me?
Anyway, I guess I’m just going through some sort of crisis, where I’m trying to work things out. I recently got divorced, and my ex-husband certainly made it clear that he did not think I looked hot back then. He would say things like, “You look like a bus driver that kids are afraid of.” And I would ask “Now?” And he would say “No, then. In 1988. The cover of your solo album, ‘Lita’.” That hurt, because that’s when I was pretty sure a lot of you thought I was hot. Another one he liked to say was “You kind of look like the devil woman on the cover of Ozzy’s ‘The Ultimate Sin’, but with a fatter ass and a man’s face.” And I would ask “Oh, in this dress?” And he would say “No, in this picture of you shooting the video for ‘Close My Eyes Forever.’ Actually wait, maybe I’m looking at Ozzy Osborne.” Ouch, right? He would point things out like “your hair makes people want a cigarette” and “they are basically going to have to invent a new version of sexy since you have now destroyed the very idea of what it is to be sexy in the late 1980s.” What a jerk.
I know I’m probably just being sensitive after a painful divorce, but it has kind of been bugging me lately. Like, the other day I was at the gym, and this guy was like “Holy shit! It’s Wayne Gretzky!” and I’m 99% sure he was talking about me. But then I thought, “How could that be true? So many young men had posters of me straddling all sorts of things hanging on their walls…” Maybe that’s the problem: the fact that so many of those posters were actually paintings back in the 80s. I don’t know.
I guess I’m just trying to figure out whether or not I was ever hot. I want to say “yes” but I can’t really point to why, other than the fact that I’m pretty sure that 85% of the 13 year old boys in 1989 thought they could get to third base with me. However, I’m pretty sure the remaining 15% were scared shitless at the thought of me. How do I calculate this? I give up. I guess I’ll never know if I was hot or not.
Thanks for letting me talk this out with you, guys.
Today we salute you, Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer.
Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer…
You don’t see cardboard, you see a message that Middle America can’t relate to waiting to be written.
Guy Fawkes masks? Obama “Hope” poster parodies? Helvetica? You’ve got them all.
V for Vendetta…
You know that protesting complex derivatives requires complex signage,
And you’re able to convey that message by explaining the inherent inequities of capitalism,
As perfectly expressed in a long, unpunctuated rhetorical question.
Hold still while I read your sign…
Without you, America would have no idea what you were protesting,
But now we know it’s something about rich people.
We’re 99% sure…
With you in their tent cities, protesters are equipped to battle the elements, and The Man.
Except for the tear gas…
No one can turn trash into truth as well as you can, sir. And no one's truth is as frequently used as toilet paper, either.
Camping in the city...
So here’s to you, Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer.
Good luck with that.
Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer…
From The Journal of Dr. Rick Hightower, M.D., soon to be adapted into an ABC primetime drama entitled Hightower:
“Your honor,” I said, “I was frankly too busy being hit on by hot babes to notice every little detail. The bottom line is that man belongs in jail.” I was in court, testifying as an expert medicine practicing secret crime fighter, which I get called upon to do a lot.
“I rest my case,” I said, and left.
Back at our penthouse hideout, V.J. was busy with his cloning experiments. “Man, V.J.,” I said, “why don’t you clone some hot chicks? That way there would be more hot chicks, ones that would look to us as gods…”
“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure that’s ethical. By the way, have you been drinking?”
“I was in court, buddy,” I said. “So yes, after that I had something to drink, because I hate going to court. Or going to the police to help them with boring paperwork stuff. Or showing up to my job as a hot male doctor in a Manhattan hospital. If only there was a way to have a stand-in do all of that for me…” Just then it hit me. “I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s get some food.”
As we ate some Domino’s new Artisanal Pizza, I said, “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said before about how you should clone me.”
“When did you say that?” asked V.J.
“Before we got pizza,” I said. “You should start paying attention. Anyway, I say it’s a go. You should clone me so that I can send my clone to do all of the boring stuff that gets in the way of the awesome stuff. When do we start?”
“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure I can do that. I mean…it would be risky.”
“Listen buddy,” I said, “I believe in you. What could go wrong?”
V.J. unstrapped me from the cloning machine. “There he is,” V.J. said, pointing to my clone in the other part of the machine, “have a look.”
I checked him out in a totally straight way. “Looks good, in a straight way, “ I said.
“That’s not all,” said V.J. “I’ve fitted him with a special chip so that we can track his movements and give him basic directions. We can’t have him getting into trouble.”
“Or falling into the wrong hands,” I said.
“Man V.J.,” I said, “these last few weeks with my clone doing all of the boring stuff for me has been great. When he gets back from court in a few minutes, let’s remind him that he can’t wear leather pants on the witness stand. Speaking of which, shouldn’t he be back by now?”
Just then, the phone rang. V.J. answered. “Sure, he’s right here,” he said into the phone, and handing it to me said “it’s Commissioner Kenner. He sounds upset.”
“Commissioner,” I said, “what can I do for you?”
“You can start by explaining exactly what that little stunt was in the courtroom, Hightower!,” the Commissioner yelled.
“That was some act you pulled, testifying that Tony “The Hammer” Santucci was an innocent man, and exposing our undercover agent! You’d better start explaining yourself!,” the Commissioner kept yelling.
“You’d better be in my office in…” just then I heard yelling and shots on the other end of the line. “Hightower? But… What the…NOOOO!” the Commissioner said before there were more shots and the line went dead.
“I didn’t like the sound of that,” I said to V.J.
“Then you’re not going to like this,” V.J. said. “Your clone is offline. I can’t get a signal.”
“Sounds like I’m out of control.”
V.J. and I stayed at the penthouse hideout working on a plan. “It seems like my clone has fallen into the wrong hands, but whose?” I asked. “Who would try to turn a clone against the person he was cloned from?”
“Well,” V.J. said, I’ve been searching the internet, and it looks like the Benedetti crime family are the number one clone thieves in Manhattan.”
“The mafia,” I said, “of course. I’m always testifying against them. We’ll need to come up with a plan.”
“This seems risky,” V.J. said, “maybe we should take the clone out.”
“We have to find him first, which means that I have to go undercover. Double undercover.”
TO BE CONTINUED
The Lakeville High School Courant
Thursday, October 27, 2011
“Uhhhh, heh heh”
By Lisa Stansby, 11th Grade Staff Editor
Tonight marks the return to television for Beavis and Butthead, an old show on MTV that there was a movie about, too. MTV must be thinking the 90s are back or something, because why else would they be putting this lame show back on the air? First of all, no one I know watched this show when it used to be on. Second of all, doesn’t MTV realize that times have changed way too much for shows like this to be funny?
For instance, everyone I know is not going to watch this show. And if you look at Twitter, it’s all like “OMG, LOLLLLZ, Bevis n Buthed is lame” and “@MTV pls show more teen momz not beaivs butthead showz #notwatchin.” I think MTV should pay more attention to what kids are like now before they put shows on that we are not going to watch, anyway.
Beavis and Butthead are from when there were no cell phones, so it’s obvious why they are just hanging out on their couch and being stupid. There was no YouTube or internet when this show was on, so what did they talk about you ask? They made fun of videos, mostly, because old videos were not as good as videos now, so it wasn’t even that funny. So they know they can’t make fun of new good videos so are going to watch “Jersey Shore” and “Teen Mom” and make fun of them. So, that’s exactly what we do. Why is MTV putting on a show about two guys from the 90s doing what we do?
In closing, I don’t think that any of my friends will be watching “Beavis and Butthead” tonight because it is a show that is not something kids can relate to today at all. Maybe if they could have more stuff from now it would be better or something, but kids now are too different to watch a show that was famous in the 90s with 90s things that no one has today or aren’t invented yet then, too.
Listen to me. Man, you are all so beautiful, but that’s not the point. It’s just that you are all looking fabulous, really fantastic. Like candy that this monkey would love to nibble on. Delicious, beautiful candy. I’m getting all hot and bothered, but let me assure you, it’s not from any sort of herpes. Baby dolls, I don’t know where that crazy rumor came from, but let me set the record straight: There ain’t no herpes in this Herpes Monkey. There’s just an exhausted, compassionate and emotionally vulnerable primate behind these eyes, goddesses.
I could go on all day and all night long about how sizzling you’ve got me right now, again, not from herpes B, but I need to ask you all a big favor. I really need somewhere to cool my jets. Open your doors to me, you delightful angels of pleasure, and I will open your eyes to pure ecstasy. I am schooled in so many languages of love, mind you, not from the sort of careless promiscuity that could lead to a horrible, crippling and potentially fatal case of herpes B… what was I saying? Not important. Let’s talk more about you, because I love listening to you. All of you. Any of you. Let me in and I promise, you can tell me, the Herpes Monkey, anything at all. We can lay down on some satin sheets, and you can let it all out while I meticulously groom you. How does that sound? It would sound a lot better coming from your angelic lips. I feel so comfortable with all of you. There’s nothing between us, certainly not herpes B.
Girls, ladies, women, all of you fine females, I’m going to level with you: I am a monkey in need. Not of any sort of medical attention, I assure you. I just need a warm bed and an open heart. I’ve been out here in the woods of Ohio for days now, and it’s no place for a monkey. I feel like a sailor lost at sea, looking for gorgeous mermaids, good lord I am so smoking hot right now. From thinking about you.
Babies, the love I am willing to give to you is crawling around under my skin like ants made out of steel wool, all trying to exit through my penis when I urinate. I know you feel that way, too, because it’s a perfectly normal, healthy way to feel love. Feel it with me, any of you. I will give you all that I am, which of course, does not include herpes B. I don’t even know how this whole crazy story got started. Think about it: how are these crazy men so sure that I have herpes? Did my empty cage say “herpes”? Am I wearing a tee-shirt that says “I have herpes?” Am I covered in oozing, disgusting sores that cake my fur with blood and puss, which I can barely see through my milky, bloodshot eyes? No, no and yes. But the sores and the eyes are not from herpes B. And my fingernails are falling out because of something else entirely: Heartbreak.
Take me in ladies, any of you. Take me into your homes, take me into your hearts. Take me to somewhere I can eat, and I will eat and love you at the same time. Near the fireplace, preferably. As long as we have some ice packs ready, because as I have said, I have love fever. Which is nothing like herpes.
There is no way that herpes can burn you to the point of internal blistering, constant diarrhea, and deafness. Only love can do that, and I am in love with all of you.
Hello everyone. I wanted to take a break from my busy schedule of answering your letters, giving out advice, and contemplating suicide to give you a little look at the sorts of emails I receive from my readers. No, not all of the emails I receive are petitions for advice. Not surprisingly, since you humans are vindictive, vicious bastards, some of the emails I get attempt to further mock me. That is, mock me beyond the extent that I am already mocked simply by being locked in a cage and stared at by you disgusting, yet delicious, humans all day. At least, I think you’re trying to mock me. You see, God skimped a bit on my frontal cortex in order to beef up my “tearing the shit out of humans” attributes.
Anyway, let’s check out what I’ve been sent today.
Hey Zoo Puma. Have you seen this? Not sure if you missed it, but the movie Zookeeper came out on DVD Tuesday. I was surprised you weren’t in it! I love reading your column. You should be in movies!Here’s the trailer.
Gee, somehow I missed this movie… I can’t even fucking think right now. At least this movie probably prevented its audience from coming down to an actual zoo… Was that real? Was that movie even real? Was this some clip from Funny Or Die? Would Kevin James even… nope. Holy shit, there it is on iMDB.
How is it that you humans always manage to correctly predict that carnivorous dinosaurs, even animated ones, are going to fuck you up, but fail to realize that if given the chance, freed zoo animals would totally… I’m crying. I’m actually crying.
Look, I can totally understand escapism. Believe me, I get it. So let me close my eyes and picture Anytown, USA, where down at the multiplex, we’ve got 50 idiots in one theater cheering for Kevin “Bears Are Offended That ‘Teddy Bear’ Has Been Co-Opted To Describe Fat, Out of Shape, Bumbling, Idiotic Humans” James to find true love with the help of his fucking captive animals, and right next door you’ve got another 50 idiots cheering for former captive/recently escaped CGI chimpanzees and gorillas to totally bring about the downfall of humanity in Rise of the Planet of the Apes… what the fuck is wrong with you people?
Here’s some escapism for you…here’s how I’ll cope with…this. I’ll imagine a little “switcheroo”, wherein the audiences of these two movies get tricked into seeing the other. “Yes, there you go Johnson family. Theater Three on the right. Your two young children will love it.” “Hey dudes, yep, James Franco is the bomb, this should be awesome. Have fun getting stoned tonight and totally rehashing the err of humanity’s ways after seeing them so vividly…yep, Theater Two, on the left.” Oh no! Something’s wrong! The wrong movie is showing. Emergency! The doors are locked! Let us out! THERE’S A PUMA IN HERE!!!
Screw that, I’d just lock ‘em in and show Faces of Death. And then eat them, of course. Let's open another email...
Zoo Puma, have you seen this? It’s viral right now. Awesome. A turkey totally attacks a news reporter. I had no idea turkeys were like that. He must have had rabies! Anyway, love the column. Peace.
Does anyone know if it’s true whether you can die just by holding your breath? Will that work? Or will I just pass out and wake up with a headache, like when it's "Zoo Dentist" time?
That shit just blew my mind. I mean, I’ve had you humans all wrong. I figured that if you were so successful at capturing pumas, and lions, and literally everything, things you fucking eat wouldn’t freak you out. Who is this lady? And oh yes, this is definitely news. I would put it under the headline: “It’s Official: Devolution. Back to the Caves for Us.”
Now, I know that God didn’t give you sabre-like teeth, or knife-like claws, or the ability to run fast, or to be all that strong, or really anything except huge frigging brains… SO WHY CAN THIS LADY NOT FIGURE OUT THAT IT IS A FUCKING TURKEY CHASING HER, AND EXACTLY WHAT THAT MEANS? I know, I’ve heard your stories: “Oh, oh, geese are totally nasty if you mess with them. They bite!” Really? Something with wings for arms and webbed feet chooses to bite you when you fuck with it? Stop fucking with it then. “That lady didn’t do anything to that turkey” you say? Sure. That was the turkey’s house in the middle of the forest it lives in. Those are the turkey's children's toys in the yard. It's the turkey's own children that throw rocks at it. That was a turkey mailman driving the turkey mail truck in the turkey fucking street that the turkey almost dies in every day. To sum up: every single animal hates you, except for your stupid dogs.
Lady, kick the damn turkey. Better yet, use your opposable thumbs and pick the damn thing up and rip its head off. I'm sure you've totally been working out at the gym, so it's time to find out how the eliptical machine scores in the "effective upper body excercise" department. "But I don't want manly arms" you say? Ok, well, get used to being terrified of turkeys you pathetic loser.
I might be wrong here, but I’m pretty sure it was well before the advent of firearms that you humans took to eating flightless birds. The “thanks” in “Thanksgiving” doesn’t denote “Thank God for the fucking muskets we’ve recently invented. Now we can finally eat some turkey! And shoot Indians from a safe distance!” It only applies to the Indians part.
The only upside to all of this is that it is literally a matter of time before we get video of some idiot narrating his own death as he’s eaten alive, because he’s too much of an idiot to put the camera down, shut the fuck up, and take care of some business. Or just drop the camera and run, which is a more likely outcome from you pussies...
“I can’t throw my camera...” I wonder what the Indian word was for that…
Dear Zoo Puma,
My friends have been giving me a really hard time lately about how upset I am over the passing of Steve Jobs. I’ve dealt with bullying in the past, and I’m starting to get the same feelings of helplessness all over again. This is all made worse by the great sorrow I’m feeling over the loss of such a great man. Any advice?
I can relate. In fact, I think being in a zoo is a lot like being an Apple customer, as zoos aren’t exactly “open source” if you know what I mean. I’m locked into this place on a “rest of my fucking life contract”, if you follow me. I’ll bet if Google opened a zoo, I’d get a little bit more room to move around, but they’d probably be a little less careful with my privacy data. And I’d still be in a zoo. You just can’t win, can you Chad?
I guess I’d feel a little strange if my handlers died, though I’d probably end up partially devouring their corpses to deal with my grief. Also, by “grief” I mean “joy”, because I hate every human. Of course, I deal with my handlers every day, and even though they don’t really give a shit about me on a personal level, we do at least know each other. If the owner of this zoo died, or if the inventor of the electrified pole I get jabbed with died, I’d try to choke on my own tongue if I found myself getting upset about that.
I do have to admit, though, I did have a bit of a soft spot for the monumental douche bag that was Steve Jobs. He was actually kind of puma-like, in a pussy human sort of way. By all accounts he was a total dick head, he like to wear black (like the most badass of us pumas do), and I suppose that denying your child exists is as close as you humans can get to eating the ones you feel threatened by, so there you go.
As for your question, it sounds to me that you deserve a little bullying, Chad. I can’t imagine that any partially furred, marginally predatory mammal would enjoy the sight of one of their own sobbing like a pussy because someone they never met got their ass kicked by an illness, so it sounds like you should get used to being made fun of, loser.
I’m proud of you for writing this letter, Chad, because from the sound of it, you can’t do anything right.
The Zoo Puma
Dear Zoo Puma,
The Occupy Wall Street protests that have sprung up in New York and around the country have really been getting a lot of media coverage, but despite all the exposure, I have no idea what these people are protesting, or what they want. Do you have any idea what this is all about?
Glad to hear democracy is still in action out there in the world beyond my cage. I’m a staunch believer in freedom, so I hold plenty of little protests of my own. Sometimes I won’t eat, sometimes I menace my handlers, and sometimes I just refuse to come out of my little fake rock shelter. Those protests all pretty much end up the same way, with me being abused, and usually I face some sort of penalty afterwards, like less food or no toys, etc.
Seeing as you humans are so brilliant at everything, I can assume that these Wall Street protesters have clear demands, and are not taking any shit from their handlers. It’s not like you humans allow yourself to be treated like animals, and herded in whatever direction your handlers choose for you. No, you are the mighty apex predators of Earth. I’m confident that after years of studying myself and other predators in the wild and in captivity, you humans have learned that those with the upper hand generally really respond to the word “please.” That’s how you climbed the food chain, after all: your manners, and a sharp eye for obeying and respecting the law.
It’s like when I was about to eat a human back in the days before I was captured: I actually got a little kick out of the ones that begged for their lives. “Oh, you don’t want to die?” I would find myself thinking. “Why didn’t you say so before you walked in the forest I live in with no protection from pumas whatsoever? I’m sorry I’ve bitten you. Please, walk away. I’ll just go find something else to eat. I know I’m a puma, and I eat things like you, but since you asked so nice, I’ll do whatever you want.”
In fact, I’m surprised that pumas went along eating people for as long as we did. My ancestors told of stories where whole villages of people would hold huge demonstrations, banging on drums and wailing for nights on end, just to ask us cruel and mighty pumas to spare them. I mean, those humans even made signs and got all dressed up. How could that not have worked? The same reason that made me eat those beggars without a second thought, Janice: I’m a fucking puma, and you humans are generally weak little pussies.
Do you know which humans I didn’t eat? The ones with spears or guns. I saw them coming, and I thought “no way. I’d better use my amazingly effective natural camouflage for the not-so-badass reason of hiding before I get shot.” It made me kind of long for the olden days, long before me, when my sharp puma teeth were no match for anything you humans could toss at me. Then you invented the spear, and we changed our diets, or went extinct. I think you humans refer to the study of this topic as “Liberal Arts”, so as long as you put your faith in those Wall Street protesters; you should be in good shape.
Who knows, maybe those protesters are upset about the weather. I hear that those old villagers used to get pretty pissed off about that, too.
The Zoo Puma
As echoes fill the darkened streets,
And children search for tasty treats
Another Halloween is here,
But this will be a somber year.
For children wonder everywhere,
“Where’s the man who beat Ric Flair?
Where’s the spirit of this night,
With those glasses which there was no way anyone could see through, right?
Who will take us from house to house,
Besides our parents obviously, blah blah, uh, mouse?”
So now as Halloween moves on,
Without the man it stood upon,
The children must find another wrestler
To be the King of Halloween.
And once the kids have forgotten Randy,
They’ll go on in their search of candy.
But all the elders will recall
Randy Macho Man Savage was the only reason there was ever a Halloween in the first place.
So as you dress up this Halloween please remember,
Don’t dress up like some idiot
The Macho Man wouldn’t have stood for any of that crap.
Yesterday’s post pointed out that heavy metal band Manowar uses a brief synopsis of the film Conan the Destroyer to open their online biography. As discussed in the post, this is an unusual tactic, but it got me to wondering…
Darryl Hall first met John Oates in…”
Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam possess this force. ..”
“At the end of the film classic Conan the Destroyer, the title character sits on his throne. Though his thick muscles bear the scars of his many hard fought battles, his steel-eyed gaze over his vast kingdom shows how proud and mighty he remains. His enemies vanquished, the challengers to his throne dispatched, it is time for the triumphant king to rest.”
And so opens the online biography for the band Manowar; their own biography on their own website that they themselves authored. Most band biographies start out with where the band met (always during or just after art university if the bands are British, and usually in some sort of basement party for American bands), their influences, etc. Not Manowar. Manowar says “we’re Conan the Destroyer, we have a throne, and we had some enemies. The enemies are gone, and the throne is still here under our collective, overly muscled buttocks.” That’s some pretty impressive stuff. Mind you, this is the band who, in the same biography, reminds you that they were the first metal band to introduce the elements of swordplay and sorcery into their cover art and lyrics. Conan would be pleased. But there is a problem.
The original, co-founding bassist for this band was Ross Friedman. Now, Ross understood he needed a nickname. Unfortunately, Ross took the traditional “what rhymes with…” approach to nicknaming and ended up with “The Boss.” Ross The Boss. One of the men in the picture above (yes, Manowar actually were/still are totally ripped and wore loincloths) is Ross The Boss. That’s just awful. It’s not bad for, perhaps, a funk band, maybe a “Grand Funk” band, or, I don’t know, Bruce Springsteen, but this is Conan the Destroyer we’re talking about here. Not “Conan the Good at Swords.” With this said, wouldn't it have made sense for Ross "The Boss" to change his name to "Dragon Floss" Ross upon his founding of Manowar? Again, every band can have a boss. Springsteen is “the boss” (in no way do I mean that literally. If I met him, I would say to him "You sir, are not the boss of anything except crap and Jann Wenner. I say good day to you sir!"). But how many bands have a backstory that involves their bassist surviving multiple dragon attacks? (Which, if you think about it, is the only way for a living person to obtain the the nickname Dragon Floss…see where I’m going now?) I’m pretty sure none of them do, and that is patently ridiculous.
The fact that there are no issues of Kerrang, or Hit Parader, or Circus - whatever - with "Dragon Floss" Ross explaining how he has repeatedly, despite great the peril, climbed the hidden Mountain of Molten Blood, where years ago he discovered the world's last remaining dragons guarding the Ancient Texts of Odin's Muses... I'm telling you, a lot of kids are shoving bad metal music, booze and crystal meth into the "that" sized holes in their lives. Ross really let us down on that one.
Part of me wants to write Manowar a letter, explaining how they should listen to me, because I’m probably the only person who’s not a current or former member of the band that sees himself as a Viking in every single one of his own memories. That’s called “cred” when you’re talking Manowar. But it’s too late. Ross “The Boss” has long since left Manowar, and we’re stuck with the story of Ross Friedman meeting some other dude at a Black Sabbath concert and forming Manowar. Not the worst backstory, not the best, but unless that Black Sabbath concert was played in a volcano of molten blood for an audience of ancient dragons perched upon the giant, iron clad texts written by the giant, iron clad chicks who served as Odin’s muses…
Once again, Manowar, you have let me down, you have let yourselves down, and most importantly, you’ve let Conan down.
“Would there be anything I could do to convince you?” I asked, as Dr. Hutchins leaned back in his chair.
“I do not believe there is anyone who can convince me of anything that is plainly not true,” he said, beginning to stand. “I must admit I’m quite saddened that my staff has allowed this meeting to take place. I do not enjoy having my time wasted. Please show yourself out, and do not attempt to contact me again.”
“Dr. Hutchins,” I said as he began shuffling through a stack of manila folders on his desk, “what if I were to take you with me on my next expedition? What if I could show you, first hand, the results of my progress?”
He paused a moment, began to speak, thought better of his response, then spoke in a calm, measured tone. “Young man, you expect me to accompany you to Papua New Guinea, trek to the Highlands region, and visit isolated tribes so that you can illustrate to me the progress you’ve made in turning rural, primitive tribesmen into polished, sophisticated bloggers? And you expect to do this without having presented me with a shred of evidence that you yourself have even been to these villages; not a journal, no video evidence, not even a stamped passport? At the risk of sounding impolite, I must insist that you leave my office immediately.”
“Fine,” I replied, “but you will regret this day.” With that, I walked over to the large oak door that separated his office from the lobby. I pushed the door fully open, remaining inside and motioning for him to look through the doorway.
Six Guinean tribesmen stood in the lobby, each of them dressed in traditional warrior attire. The two youngest men held the secretaries at spear point, while the remaining four guarded the front entrance.
“Now,” I said to Hutchins, “would you like to reconsider my offer?”
Hutchins, a man of advanced age who had rarely encountered a situation that his money could not remedy for him, stood stunned for several moments. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he finally asked. Summoning a bit of gentlemanly courage, he declared “Order those men to lower their spears.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. “Not until you agree to fund our blog.”
Growing flustered, Hutchins angrily shouted “Once again I will tell you, I do not have the slightest idea what a ‘blog’ is, nor do I see the need for this sort of animalistic behavior. Now, if you do not unhand those young women, I will…”
The youngest of the tribesmen impaled one of the secretaries with his spear, and she fell to the floor awkwardly, grasping at the shaft of the weapon. The second secretary shrieked, lunged forward, and was similarly executed. Hutchins froze, his spine going rigid, his face turning white.
“Now, Dr. Hutchins,” I said, moving closer to him “I will ask you another question, and this time I expect a quick and honest response.” I moved closer still, until our faces nearly met. Leaning towards him, and downward slightly to account for his short stature, I whispered “have you ever seen Scare Tactics?”
Hutchins, wishing to comply with my request for a prompt response, stuttered nervously, unable to form a coherent thought.
“Your secretary, Judy set you up,” I said, and with that the two secretaries rose from the floor, laughing. The tribesmen began to clap, and a soundman exited the lobby closet, equipment slung over his shoulder, also clapping.
I embraced Hutchins with one arm, and with the other I pointed towards the large mirror over his office fireplace. “There’s a camera right behind that mirror,” I said, “and another right here, in the button of my shirt.”
I felt Hutchins lean towards me, as if to return my embrace, but realized he was falling. Bearing his weight against my chest, I lowered him to the ground. He was unresponsive. “Get help!” I yelled. “Shut off the cameras!”
As we wheeled the television into the cramped hospital conference room, Mrs. Hutchins sat hunched in her chair. Down the hall, in the intensive care unit, her husband clung to life. Her attorney motioned to me, and I pressed “play” on the console.
After watching the video, Mrs. Hutchins dabbed several tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I don’t understand any of this,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry?” asked her attorney.
“None of this, I don’t understand you people,” she said.
Getting up and walking to the door, I said, “Well, I can understand what this has been a rough day for you. Are you scared you might lose your husband?”
“What sort of… how dare you ask me such a thing!” she shrieked.
“You shouldn’t be,” I said, opening the door. “Your husband set you up,” and in walked Dr. Rogers Hutchins, clapping.
As Americans rejoice with the news that Amanda Knox will be returning to Seattle following the success of her appeal, Italians were horrified to learn that her evil, glowing spectre will remain in Italy to devour naughty children as they sleep.
Knox, 26, was released from custody today after a lengthy trial and appeals process, all of which has left her evil, glowing spectre quite upset, and hungry for vengeance in the form of naughty Italian children.
"Children and parents should be on high alert," remarked Perugia police lieutenant Luciano Comodi, "we are fairly certain this spectre intends to haunt us for many years to come."
Mothers took the spectre's announcement as an opportunity to remind their children to avoid mischievous behavior, and to properly behave at home, at church, and at school. The Vatican released a statement warning that teenagers should remain extra vigilant in resisting their lustful impulses, as Knox's spectre would surely punish those who give in to sin of any form.
The evil, glowing spectre of Knox's codefendant, Raffaele Sollecito, could not be reached for comment.
Nearly every day, I try to conjure up some half-funny idea and flesh it out into something worthy of being posted on this blog. Sometimes I have some fun with Photoshop, sometimes I write a little story, and other times I do something a little different. Since hardly anyone reads this stuff, I shouldn’t really care whether or not it’s any good, and I certainly shouldn’t spend so much energy trying to post fresh content on a daily basis.
But I do.
So because of this, there is a new day in my life that I dread: the days I have writer’s block. Writer’s block, for those who’ve never experienced it, is like insomnia. Generally, around the time that I would begin writing, I find I can’t. “No problem,” I think, “I’ll distract myself and come back to it later. I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Except hours pass and nothing comes.
That’s when I can feel desperation creep in, riding on the backs of ideas like “I’ll write the journal of an alcoholic witness protection program job assigner who keeps sending people to work as dangerous animal trainers” or “what happens when someone asks Dane Cook to be funny?” The ideas pass by like counted sheep, each one getting a little weirder and a little more impossible to write about.
Eventually, I give up. Perhaps I’ll manage to produce something, but it’s not of a quality I am satisfied with. For instance this piece, which I have now written and you have now read. Really, there is no reason for me to place this little piece of personal information on the internet, and there is no reason for you to read it. But that has happened. And so it goes.
In the morning, horns would sound, letting us know that a British journalist was approaching, because British journalists are always snooping around the Highlands of New Guinea. Maybe the journalist could give me an idea to write about. But it would probably be about travel, and travel blogs really suck.
Ooh, hey now! G’Day, mates! It’s me, you’re old friend Steve Irwin! You know, the Croc Hunter. Yeah, I’ve been ‘ere in the afterlife for a while now. I’m sure you remember me, right? Ok then, great! What’s that? Aw, no… don’t be sad I’m gone; this ‘ere is a great place! In fact, there are all sorts of wild and marvelous creatures up ‘ere that lots of people have never even ‘eard of. So what I’ve been doing is studying these creatures so we can better understand them, and make sure there ‘ere in the great beyond for when our children and grandchildren die!
Now remember, I’m a trained professional with many years of experience handling dangerous animals. If you’re going to try this at home, make sure you know what you’re doing so you don’t get killed!
Recently, I wrote a piece of fan fiction for this blog. I did this because A) It’s a guaranteed path to riches, B) I am an amazing fan fiction writer, and 3) I couldn’t think of anything else to write. For a recap on what fan fiction is, please see the old post, because I really don’t have time to explain it all over again. I’m busy cashing checks.
One thing I have learned is that while cross referencing different characters and genres is encouraged in some fan fiction circles, my first piece was a little too “all over the map” for most people’s liking. But that’s what they said about Santa Claus when he was writing the Bible. Just saying.
Anyway, here’s my latest piece of fan fiction.
“We’d like to thank you all for coming to Chewbacca’s wedding,” said Hillary Clinton. “Please exit through the back of this enormous Space Hotel Ballroom we are in.”
I started making my way to the back of the ballroom. I noticed there were a lot of shady looking characters in attendance. “Chewy definitely didn’t invite everyone,” I thought. “These must be the bride’s guests.”
I made it through the doors, and noticed I was standing in the middle of an empty field. “Where is everyone?” I thought, just as I heard the giant doors slam behind me. “It’s a trap!” I yelled.
“Who are you talking to?” I heard coming from the distance. Just then, through the fog, I saw a figure moving towards me. It was Chewbacca. Chewbacca with the voice of Martin Sheen.
“You’re an imposter!” I said. “Actually, are you just another Wookie?”
“No, it’s really me, Chewbacca,” he said. “This whole wedding has been a lie. I have never even met the bride.”
“None of this makes any sense,” I said. “This is patently ridiculous. Take off that Chewbacca suit.”
“Ok,” Chewy said, “but you’re not going to like what you see.”
“Then eat lead,” I said. And I shot him in the chest 4 times.
The Dalai Lama showed up. “Right on cue. You’ve been growing out your hair again,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m trying to look like Tom Cruise from Top Gun.
“Maverick,” I said.
“You know too much!” said the Dalai Lama, and he shot me in both knees. I fell to the ground, bleeding profusely on the snow.
“Finish me off, Dalai Lama,” I said. “Or are you afraid of what I might do to you if you do? Do finish you off, I mean.”
“I know what you meant,” he said. “For years, we have listened to the stories of you, John McClane, the renegade New York cop. We’ve heard how you know too much. So let me ask you: how did you come to be here at Chewbacca’s wedding?”
“That wasn’t Chewbacca, pal,” I said. “And neither was he,” I said, motioning to the corpse on the ground. “I actually think that was Martin Sheen. Or should I say the next Dalai Lama?!”
“You win this time, McClane,” he said. Then he turned into a snake with wings and flew away.
A chopper touched down next to me. “Are you coming?” asked Angelina Joie.
“Yippee ki yay.”
Dear Zoo Puma,
My husband has been having a very hard time reading and watching television lately, but he refuses to wear eyeglasses. I’m worried that he may have trouble seeing when he’s driving or at work in the machine shop he owns. How can I convince him to wear the glasses he so obviously needs?
That is very good question. In my country, when I was boy, there was Croatian boy with glasses. He was teased. Then… I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say I have seen a lot of pain in my life. Let’s say maybe he was executed when his father was found to be making trouble for the Army.
I would tell husband to wear glasses, and maybe if he doesn’t listen I can come and convince him for you? I don’t want trouble. I give you my cell phone number, and you can call.
Maybe if husband realize that I will bury him like a dirty traitor, maybe he wears glasses then. But I don’t know. This country is so confusing to me. I am sorry for your problems.
Dear Zoo Puma,
It seems to me that a lot of the products sold via infomercial are really awesome sounding ideas, but I don’t want to get scammed by shady business people. I just have an uneasy feeling about infomercials. What do you think, should I take the plunge?
I have same problems. This country has so many people who lie. In my country… I saw too many lies. Too many consequences for the pain of lies. Sometimes I wonder why I came to Liberty City.
I have used Ronco Showtime Rotisserie oven in my apartment. It is good oven. I can set it and forget it. But maybe you refer to products like hanger system for closet. I cannot be sure of this. My closet does not have hanger system.
Maybe you can order product you like and see if it is good product. You will not get answers from me, I can’t tell you. Capitalism is disease in this country, and is no better than system in my country. I wonder why there is so much… it is complicated. Perhaps only way to fix problem is to… I don’t know. I hope you find good product.
Dear Zoo Puma,
My girlfriend has really begun complaining about where I’ve been taking her on dates. She’s saying that we need to start visiting places that are more “sophisticated” and “mature.” I’m not sure I’m ready for that sort of thing. Any advice on how to get her to back off?
This is good question. I am not sure why women are acting like they do, but in my country it was not normal to be bossed like child. But, here in your country, women are very sure they do not want to go to strip club with your drunk cousin on every date. Also, they do not like to hit pedestrians more than only one or two times when dropping off from date.
I have also learned that women here do not like violence on date. So, do not bring on drive-by shooting job you need to do for favor to drug dealer you know. Before I come to this country… I saw many things… I don’t know.
I could talk to your lady for you about my country, where I saw a village full of women… it was hard. But I was young, you say? Some things can change you, make you do things you don’t know are right. I don’t want to talk about that anymore.
Maybe take your lady to comedy show, or to nice bar. Then, when you drop her off, she will take you inside for sex. Unless you are wanted by police. Then you must drive around first.
Come in here dear boy, have a cigar
You’re gonna go far.
Ever been high?
We kinda hope you die,
You’re gonna make it if you try.
They’re gonna love you.
Well I’ve always had a mad respect and I mean that most sincerely.
Your band will be electric,
Hope you never stop to think,
Oh, by the way
Heard of Pink?
And did we tell you the name of the game, boy?
We call it riding the gravy train…
We’re just coked out. We’re so glad you sold out.
Don’t worry ‘bout an album out,
Have you seen these people?
It’s a halftime show and iTunes scene.
Everybody else is fifteen… have you seen the charts?
This is technically called art,
It could be Lady Gaga’s “Monster”
If we all wore latex, like in my dreams.
And did we tell you the name of the game, boy?
We call it riding the gravy train…
Dear Zoo Puma,
I’m growing increasingly frustrated with my wife’s insistence upon not utilizing the HD channels available to us with our cable subscription. She’ll DVR standard-def programs, order standard-def movies on demand, and every time I look, it seems that she’s viewing a program is standard-def that’s available in HD. I keep asking her why we bother to pay for the HD package! Plus, the SD stuff looks so crappy and pixilated; I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. Any advice?
New Haven, CT
When you speak to your wife about this, what kind of tone are you using? I’m guessing it’s a “non-effective” tone. You need to step it up if you want to get results. See, in the jungle, when I wanted someone to cut the shit, I would bite them. Not really hard, but enough to get the point across, you know? It seems, though, that you humans have a problem with this sort of behavior, so I’ll tell you what happens to me here in the zoo if I happen to object to an order from my human handlers.
If I don’t immediately comply, I’m poked at with a stick. So the next time you confront your wife, try jabbing her with a pole. If that doesn’t work, go get some more people with more poles, and have them start yelling and poking her, too. Now, your wife sounds pretty stubborn, so I’m guessing you’ll have to take it to step three. Basically, just walk away like you’ve given up. Then, from a safe distance, shoot her with a tranquilizer dart, put her in a net and lock her in a small room. You should be able to enjoy the HD picture then. If she wants to watch with you, you could try putting her in a small cage in the room while you go about your business of securing the proper HD picture. After you let her out, make sure you start putting her food in a different place, and maybe take away one of her toys. That’ll get the message across.
The Zoo Puma
Dear Zoo Puma,
I’ve noticed that there seems to be a ton of road kill this time of year; any idea why?
I’ve thought a lot about this myself. I thought about it a lot until it occurred to me that animals have no fucking concept of cars, roads, or absolutely any of the circumstances that lead up to their becoming ‘road kill.’
Now Sally, we’ve never met, but I’m guessing you might be one of those people that honks at animals in the road, right? That’s awesome. Picture this: something 200 times your size is barreling towards you at 40 miles per hour, and you’re standing there frozen. Suddenly, this huge object that you do not understand makes a noise that you completely fail to comprehend. Then you die. Does that make sense? I know, you’re thinking “I would move.” Bullshit. Sally, humans invented trains, there is absolutely zero question as to which direction a train will move in, and yet people get hit by trains. If you’re so concerned about road kill, start walking.
It’s like the other pumas and I used to ask each other back in the jungle: “why don’t humans just climb a tree when we’re chasing them down? Oh yeah, that’s right, because we climb trees better than they sit on couches.”
The Zoo Puma
Dear Zoo Puma,
It seems to me that every election cycle starts earlier and earlier. Do you think this sort of thing really serves us, the people that these politicians are ultimately supposed to be representing and, ultimately, serving?
You know, I haven’t really been following politics too much lately. Can you tell me who’s running on the “Free the Fucking Zoo Animals” platform this year? In any event, I hope whoever gets in can fix the economy, because my retirement prospects really blow now that I live in a zoo.
Here’s my take: I hope whoever wins the election is the one who’s going to lead you stupid-ass humans down the road to destruction. Not so much because I hate everything about humans except for your delicious taste – which I do – but mostly because I’m looking to live in one of those awesome, post-apocalyptic worlds where zoo animals escape and roam the city streets.
So, unless there is a FFZA candidate running this year, please vote for whichever candidate seems the most likely to just totally mess shit up. Or, if there is any candidate who says “let’s replace our soldiers with predatory animals armed with weapons”- please vote for them. In fact, please be that candidate.
I just hope whoever gets in solves the whole health care debate, because I’ve got an abscessed tooth going on here, and in case you don’t know, that’s pretty much lights out for pumas. Oh no wait, yay! I live in a zoo! That means now I’ll just get mushy soy pellets instead of crunchy ones. Phew! I thought I might actually be able to die with dignity there. Thanks for cheering me up, Roger. I hope your guy wins, and I hope you live in a zoo one day.
The Zoo Puma
Hi! I’m Abby Wright! I’ve just moved here to New York, to well, um, well… it’s kind of a long story. You see, way back in high school Darren Fields and I were the cutest couple. We were so icky-dicky cutesy wootsey, deep in love forever, never going to break up, always…well, you get the idea. Well, you know how they say that love only comes once, and then it moves to Manhattan to work on Wall Street? Yeah, that pretty much happened to me. What did I do? I went to college to begin my fashion career. In Ohio. So yeah, it wasn’t going so well.
So now I’ve decided to move to the Big Apple to win back the love of my life, and oh yeah, really make it in the fashion world!
It all started when I answered an ad for a roommate…
I walked into my new apartment, and it was totally filled with funny smelling smoke! “Hello! Hello!” I called out… no one answered, so I grabbed the fire extinguisher and started spraying it everywhere! Just then, I saw Dani, my roommate. She was hanging upside down in a tie-die shirt and leggings, and she came down from her balance bar and said “whoa, whoa, totally harsh. Can I help you?” I told her who I was, and said “sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your, ummm…”
“Yoga,” she replied. “I was balancing my Chi.” Just then the sprinklers went off… Oh man!
“My jacket!” I cried out.
Just then, Mr. Chang walked in. He’s our landlord. “What going on heah?” he asked. “Who you?”
“Oh, Mr. Chang, I’m Abby,” I said. “I just got here, and um…”
“Rained on my yoga parade,” Dani said. She’s so funny!
Mr. Chang wasn’t so happy! “You peepoh ruin ah rug, you pay for ah rug,” he said, and stormed out.
“Don’t mind him,” Dani said, “he always forgets to eat his Chi-rios. Ha! I’m going to write that in my journal. Now, where did I put that…?” She looked around for a while, and pulled out some of the funniest stuff! Like a teddy bear in a tie dyed shirt, and old Chinese take-out box full of crayons…really wacky! Eventually she gave up and said “So, do you need a hand with your stuff?”
“Sure,” I said. We turned to go down to my taxi, and there was a man standing in the door. He had on one of those fur hats, a tee shirt, some funny boxer shorts, and boots.
“Am Yuri,” he said, “iz good meeting you…”
“Abby,” I said.
“Veel Abby,” he said, “I am zinking vill be good for us to neighboring. I drive taxi. Hugh need ride, Yuri take you. Yuri take you innyvare.”
“Um, ok,” I said.
When I finally got settled, Dani started showing me around the apartment. It was really great and airy, we were really lucky to be able to afford it!
“You sure do have a lot of plants,” I told her.
“They help me balance my…”
“I know, I know, your Chi,” I said. “I have a feeling that my Chi will be pretty balanced before too long…” Just then I saw what looked like a big log leaning on the wall…”what’s THIS?” I asked.
“It’s a didgeridoo,” Dani said. “I play it to balance… my… um, inner peace. And Chi.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Dani answered.
“Yo, hey, it’sa me, Antony,” the man said. He was holding a brown paper bag. “So Dani, how’sa you Chi? Oh,” he said, turning to me. “I’ma Antony, I worka in the restaurante downa the stairs. What’sa you’re name?”
“I’m Abby,” I said.
“Wella, Abby, I’ve gotta the besta little treat for you girls ina this bag. It’sa some cannolis.”
“Hmm, “ I said, “I’m kind of on a diet…again.” I frowned and pinched my belly.
“Whoa-ah whoa-ah, what’s ah this ‘diet, diet, diet’?” he asked. “You Americans, you drive ah me crazy with ah you’re diets. You need to loosen up, you need to enjoy ah the flavor of ah life, you know?”
Dani had started digging into the cannolis. “Mmmm…,” she said. “These REALLY help balance my chi.”
Well, that’s just a taste of what I’m doing here in New York, and I haven’t even gotten into Darren, and my fashion internship, and my, my… oh my! There’s so much to tell you about! Well, I’ll be back real soon to let you know how I’m doing! Remember, follow those dreams, even if it means going to Manhattan to find your ex-sweetheart and working for free at a fashion agency! It will come true! Your dreams!
Starring Isla Fisher as Abby Wright, a small town girl who's chasing her fashion designer dreams, and her dreamy high school sweetheart, to the Big Apple. Abby's dreams soon get complicated, however, when she realizes her former sweetheart is now a powerful Wall Street executive, planning his engagement to a well known New York socialite! Join Abby as she navigates through the crowded streets, fashion runways and cast of colorful characters on "All Grown Up", Tuesdays this fall on CBS.
Abby Wright: Hailing from suburban Ohio, Abby is a strong minded, independent, small town girl with big time dreams. After realizing her fashion designer career was going nowhere in Ohio, Abby follows her heart, and her high school sweetheart, to Manhattan. Join Abby as she attempts to make her dreams, in both love and in fashion, a reality!
Dani Spring: Dani is a free spirited artist living in Manhattan, whose ‘roommate wanted’ ad Abby answered upon arriving in New York. Always ready to deliver a new-age witticism or a wacky solution to Abby’s problems, Dani’s hi-jinks might just prove more than Abby can stand!
Adrian Burke: A proud, gay, African-American man, Adrian is Abby’s co-worker at the fashion design firm she has begun interning for. Always there to dish out advice dealing with men, fashion, men and men, Adrian is Abby’s best friend and confidante.
Darren Fields: Darren is Abby’s high school flame, who moved to Manhattan several years ago to work on Wall Street. Now a high powered broker for a major financial firm, Darren – unbeknownst to Abby – is planning his engagement to a New York socialite and heiress. Can Abby win back the man of her dreams, or will Darren’s new lifestyle prove too much of a gap for the pair to overcome?
Anthony Dellatorrio: Anthony works at the Italian restaurant, owned by his father, which sits below Abby’s apartment. Anthony quickly develops a crush on Abby, and is always there with a shoulder to cry on, some pasta to gnosh on, and some second hand Italian advice for Abby whenever she gets too uptight and forgets to enjoy the flavor of life.
Mr. Chang: Abby and Dani’s landlord, Mr. Chang is a Chinese-American immigrant who consistently applies his traditional discipline and exotic, old world flavor to the girls’ shenanigans. Will his iron clad demeanor rain on Abby’s New York adventures, or will Abby’s heart of gold end up teaching Mr. Chang his own valuable lessons?
Yuri: Abby and Dani’s neighbor, Yuri is an Eastern European taxi driver who keeps strange hours and even stranger habits! Always showing up at the strangest times and under the strangest circumstances, Yuri’s constant romantic advances and strange requests always keep Abby on her toes!
Look for “All Grown Up” this fall at GhostOfTyrone!
9:17am: Hi! Oh, thanks for welcoming me back to the office. What? How was my vacation? Um, you don’t really care about that, I think. Oh you do? Why? Are you obsessed with me, or are you looking to co-opt my memories, or something? I’m sorry, that came out wrong. My vacation was great. You weren’t there. None of you were there, in fact. In case you’ve been absent for the entire history of everything, that’s the entire point of fucking vacations: To get away from where you usually are. For me, that’s here in the office with you. Right, sure, some people like to travel. Do they ever ask you to come? No? That’s weird; you seem like such a sharing group of people.
Did you happen to pick up on the fact that most people seem excited to go on vacation? I sure was! Ok, so let’s do the math. I was excited to get away from you, and now, even though we haven’t spoken in the days and weeks leading up to my vacation, the minute I get back, you want to ask me what it was like to be rid of you for one measly week. Do you have any vacations coming up? I hope so. Did my asking you that make you think this was one of those conversations wherein I want more than a “yes” or “no” out of you? I hope not.
Bye. Yep, see you at lunch maybe, bye.
1:42pm: Yes? Sorry? Oh, my foot tapping is bothering you? Can I ask why? Can I ask how my foot tapping bothers you, yet you do not bother yourself when you type like an angry raccoon holding bricks? Really? You’ve never noticed that? Oh, I should have said something? No, actually, you should just learn how to fucking type like someone who isn’t Frankenstein’s monster, and then no one will have to “say something.” By the way, could you stop asking me to stop tapping my foot? Thanks so much.
Bye bye now.
4:26pm: Oh hey. Yeah, I was hoping you weren’t going to talk to me as we stand here taking a leak next to each other, but what? Do I have any plans for the weekend? Which weekend? It’s Monday. Oh, it’s never too early to think about the weekend? Is it even possible for that to be true? Anyway, um, I don’t know. I was thinking of asking everyone in the office if they just wanted to forget the fact that we get every Saturday and Sunday off and just start coming here seven days a week. So if everyone says “yes” I’ll be doing that. Think about it: you could bring your family, your pets, your awesome recipes you always tell people about. And then we could just live it firsthand with you. How awesome would that be? Like, you wouldn’t have to complain about potty training your puppy, you could just bring the damn puppy here and have it shit all over everybody’s stuff. Then we’d really connect, you know? I’ll send out an email to see who’s in.
I guess if that plan doesn’t pan out, there’s always the same general weekend sort of activity that 99% of Americans engage in every weekend. I’ll be doing that. Oh no wait, this weekend I’m going to the moon. Yeah, can you believe it? No, I’m totally serious. Why would I lie to you? No, I’m not being sarcastic. I’d better get going, the rocket launches in about an hour. Oh no wait, I thought it was Friday…. It’s only Monday. See, I was confused because we were….ok, later man.
So, I’ve recently discovered the strange and enormous world of fan fiction; and by “discovered” I mean “I found out it exists.” For those not familiar, fan fiction is a mostly on-line genre of fiction wherein famous characters act out “unofficial” storylines within the framework of their pretend worlds. Except sometimes they go outside their well known pretend worlds, and go into other pretend worlds. Also, it’s not only movie, t.v. and other fiction characters being written about; sometimes it’s historical figures, present day celebrities, basically anyone you could theoretically be a fan of. Oh yeah, and a lot of these writers inject themselves into the storyline, because what could be cooler than that? Essentially, if you ever read about Luke Skywalker and some nerd you’ve never heard of battling a Terminator on the now thawed planet of Hoth and Zooey Deschanel is involved in anyway, you’re reading fan fiction.
I know what you’re thinking: “These writers must be MILLIONAIRES!” I know, I thought the same thing. Which is why I’m pretty excited right now. You see, I might say that I could write this stuff in my sleep. And if I did say that, I would be referring to the fact that I literally dream fan fiction. And to think, until I discovered fan fiction, I had no idea what was going on in my head at night. Let me give you an example. This was just last night’s dream…
It’s me and David Caruso, sitting on my couch playing video games. Except the television is huge, and my living room is kind of like the living room in a television commercial. But it’s definitely my couch. Caruso tells me he’s going to get a beer. Then he floats into the kitchen.
“Wow, you can fly!” I say.
“All celebrity actors can fly,” he says, “except one. I just got a call. It’s Brad Pitt. He’s broken. We need to rescue him, he’s stranded on the island of Sodor.”
So David flies to Sodor, and I ride the Old Spice centaur guy. To the island. We get there, and David says “there he is” and points to:
|"You DO NOT talk about Fight Club"|
“Where?” I ask.
“Right there, him,” says David.
“Yo Dave, I’m totally broken,” says Brad Pitt. “Something on the tracks. I need to get Maddox and his sheep friends off the mountain before the storm hits. Fix me, dudes.”
I turn back to David Caruso, who now has really, really long arms. “Brad, I don’t think we can help you. You might never fly again,” he says, dunking a basketball into a hoop that’s about 30 feet away and wasn’t there 4 seconds ago.
Just then, the door bursts open. It’s Abraham Lincoln. “I’m Dr. President Abraham Lincoln, I can handle this shit,” he says. “As you know, doctors are allowed to write prescriptions, which I will do. Here you go, Brad Pitt.”
|Apply one cowbell twice daily. Fever cured. Boom|
“Thank God,” says Caruso.
“But I’m afraid there’s still some bad news,” says Abe. “The Soviets are still planning to attack today at 6pm.”
“You go warn the president,” says Brad Pitt, “I need to get Jennifer Anniston off the mountain.”
I start to ask him if he meant Angelina Jolie, but Abe interrupts. “There’s no time!” he yells.
So, we show up at this really cool looking house that’s totally not the White House. “The president will be in there,” says Lincoln. “I need to go get ready.”
So Caruso and I go inside. “There he is,” he says, “we’d better grab a seat.”
I look up to see the president.
|Let me show you a little something I call "Number One."|
“Turn to page 67 in your textbooks. Engage,” he says. Suddenly I realized we are back at school, and President Picard is my teacher.
“Wait a minute,” I say to Caruso, who now has those Geordi La Forge glasses on. “What about the Soviets?”
“We’re setting the perfect trap,” he says. Sure enough, I looked up and Patrick Swayze was standing outside the window, about to launch a rocket straight at the president. It was 5:59pm.
“Those damn Soviets are early!,” screams Zooey Deschanel, who I've just noticed is sitting next to me.
“How you doin’?” asks Caruso, and they start totally making out.
“No making out in my class!” yells Jean Luc Picard.
Realizing there is no time left, I crash through the window to confront Patrick Swayze. “You’re dead, Swayze!” I yell.
“You’ll never wake up alive again, comrade!” he yells back.
He fired his rocket… and I black out. I come to in the forest down the street from my house. The Coca Cola polar bears are there. “We won!” they yell.
Needless to say, that is the greatest piece of fan fiction ever, and I’m new at this, and barely even trying. You’d better try to be my friend now, because I am guaranteed to be a millionaire any minute now.