A Blogger's Blog

Film Class Writings

2009-06-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

My Year in Film Class
While not technically a part of the 2008-2009 school year, the first film studied in class was Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, a grueling three hour marathon painting a dystopian picture of the future conveyed through dramatic eyebrow raising. I think it is safe to say that after watching the hour and a half of the film that my consciousness allowed me to observe, I immediately understood the value of the eyebrow in terms of dramatic acting. For weeks I was imbued with an irrepressible case of Metropolis Syndrome, in which every time I see a camera I stare directly into it, arch my eyebrow and imagine a symphonic score swelling in the background.
Once school had actually started and we had been given the necessary three month rehabilitation of summer to survive the Metropolis ordeal, we began the year with Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times (I will not be using italics throughout this paper for any movie titles; it isn’t lazy, it’s postmodern avant garde grammatical experimentation) , a film that both exemplified the birth of Hollywood filmmaking and a timeless comedy that shows no signs of age even after seventy years of Charlie Chaplin appearing at every Halloween party ever. Somehow his act remains fresh.
Next was Citizen Kane, widely regarded by cinephiles as, based more on Platonic than Aristotelian criterion, to be the greatest film ever made. I had already seen Citizen Kane twice, so this experience honestly wasn’t anything new to me, besides the fact that the first two times I saw it there weren’t twenty five people texting, giggling through quotes from their favorite Youtube videos, and just generally defecating on the art of film and our generation. The Citizen Kane commentary track followed, in which the most voracious gobbler of movie magic in the history of man, Roger Ebert, explains exactly why Citizen Kane is the Citizen Kane of movies. I took his word for it, though he did give a similarly sterling review to Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I’ll have to wait for his commentary track to decide if Blart is the second best movie ever made.
The next seminal event was the Comedy Sportz auditions (the Z is for “zany,” it sets the mood). I thought I did very well and was generally impressed with my performance, though I did not expect to make the team due to age discrimination. I didn’t take my rejection personally . . .or did I? (Metropolis score rises, I arch eyebrow dramatically).
After nursing my wounds, tending to my ego, and taking a blood test to reveal that the reason my lymph nodes were the size of melons was because I had a raging case of mono, we went to Paramount Studios to gain a little insight into the movie making process. Unfortunately, I don’t think our tour guide had ever seen a movie before, and turned the entire tour into a gigantic advertisement for the madcap shenanigans of Everybody Hates Chris, which I then vowed never to watch unless subjected to torture, and even then I still wouldn’t laugh. Oh, and did I mention that I had mono? Yeah, I had mono. After leaving Paramount, we hopped aboard the Laff Wagon to go see The New Adventures of Old Christine, aka Elaine From Seinfeld Only With A Twerp Kid and Terrible Writers. While it did get a little tedious taking a course in hammy acting a hack writing, I do feel as though I got some sort of endorphin high from fake laughing at the same joke several thousand times, and fully understood how clowns become evil. In general, the field was fun just as a change of scenery and a chance to interact with my classmates in a semi-social fashion. It was interesting and comical, and one of the better experiences of the year. The Old Christine writing staff couldn’t have written it any better. No really, they sucked. Oh, and I had mono.
The film noir unit provided us with the opportunity to watch Double Indemnity and the Maltese Falcon, both highly entertaining and written with the kind of crackling dialogue and general aura of suave mystery that Hollywood has strived for in it’s blockbusters since, and mostly failed two attain. It was around this time that I decided that I was going to be a detective when I grew up, not an astronaut or a firefighter.
We then watched Casablanca, and great film starring Bugs Bunny as the owner of a tavern during some kind of Cartoon War. That Bugs gets me every time.
The Hitchcock unit consisted of Rope, Rear Window and the Birds. Hitchcock is a revered, legendary director and through this unit I learned the art of suspense, the value of a good story and the magic that editing can create. While I don’t see these films as either Hitchcock’s best work nor the greatest suspense thrillers of all time, it’s obvious that Hitchcock was in a league of his own. Hopefully that league wasn’t the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, because in that case he would have died broke and considered a massive flop.
The Sony Field trip was our sequel to the Paramount excursion (notice my use of the word “sequel.” That’s a movie term. Layers!), and by all accounts it was a massive improvement of the Everybody Hates Chris Magic Team. We were given tours of past and present movie sets, educating about the intricacies of the moviemaking process, and just generally had a rip roaring good time. Oh, and we also got to stand in front of the green screen where they filmed all of Godzilla. And all this time I thought that was a real gigantic lizard. I hate reality.
Much of the focus early in the year was on screenwriting, an ultimately fruitless undertaking considering the general amounts of garbage spewed out by the class. I was seventy five pages into my epic screenplay in the summer, called Missing the Point, when my computer crashed, causing me to lose the script, all of my notes on the script, and everything remotely associated with it. I decided to start a new script entirely instead of trying to recreate Missing the Point. Missing the Point was a story of four stagnant friends who develop a six step plan to fulfill themselves and live their lives to the fullest, only to find that their plan destroys most of their relationships with one another as they become obsessed with themselves and neglect their fragile, transient bonds that kept them sane in the first place. The script was to end with one of the friends, the most rational of the bunch, dying in a car accident, with each of the friends providing a monologue giving their different perspectives on the death while agreeing that everything had changed irreparably. While Cinema Night ended up being a raging success with no true failures or flops, I still believe that if more than five people in the class cared about what they wrote, the year could have been astonishing instead or merely “good with a hint of great.” Writing is the obvious Achilles Heel of the film class, as terrible acting can be concealed with good editing, while poor writing can sabotage an entire movie. I felt like I had wasted my time writing a screenplay that I cared about while everybody in the class with the exception of Matt, Trevor, Nikki Adams, Vikki Hogan, Vikki Lopez and I were just sloppy, lazy, and expected someone else to write them a great role instead of creating one for themselves. It was disappointing reading these half-baked bastard children of scripts when the class was so generally talented.
In early November we had our screenwriting meetings, in which I unveiled my second screenplay, A Classic Masterpiece of Cinema, a satire of independent filmmaking, the idiocy of pop culture ephemera, art criticism, teenagers, and pretty much the entire world. Not to boast (okay I’ll boast), but it was pretty damn good. Unfortunately, it was also pretty damn long, so I wasn’t able to film it, leaving it to reside with the Dead Sea Scrolls and most of the Library of Alexandria as lost classics.
From there we began our foreign films unit, which included The Bicycle Thief, Jules and Jim, and Breathless. The Bicycle Thief was a simply beautiful story about the fragile, doomed relationship between a man and his bike . . .or his son. I can’t remember, just that at some point they ate pizza together. Jules and Jim involved a ménage a trois, and was so discouraging that I immediately went home after the film and told the two lesbian nymphos living in my room to pack up their things immediately before someone drives my 2006 Corolla off of a bridge. Breathless was just a how-to course in French New Wave cool, which was impressive considering it was released hot on the heels of the French’s performance in World War II, one of the least cool things in recorded human history.
Towards the end of November we sorted out who would be directing, what they would be directing, and who would be cast. Having been told that A Classic Masterpiece was out of the question, I was able to write another thirty page script, my third of the year, in only two days. The original draft was erroneous and under developed, but it had potential and I had time, so I was willing to gamble on it. Frank, Cole and Maren were cast as my three leads, after a devastatingly difficult casting meeting that had little to do with me. I was satisfied, and the joy of seeing the thinly veiled reactions on people’s faces as the roles were announced was a priceless mine of unintentional comedy that I will never forget, at least for another month.
Once those ugly foreigners and their artsy films were out of the way, we moved on to those extremely handsome Americans and their artsy films, as we lost ourselves in the 1950’s with George Clooney’s excellent Good Night and Good Luck, featuring one of the most captivating acting performances we had seen all year.
Some Like It Hot was innovative, original and hilarious. At this point, the Wayans Brothers have pretty much made it impossible for cross dressing and homosexuality to be funny, but Some Like It Hot showed that good writing can actually complement taboo ideas, not just be completely ignored in aiming for shock comedy.
Fistful of Dollars caused another dramatic change in my future career plans, as I decided to switch my major from Detective Work and Cool Slang to Squinting and Dead Eye Shooting in the Wild West. I can’t wait for college.
Related to the Western unity but in actuality existing on a transcendent plane of film greatness was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, my personal favorite of the films we watched this year and an undeniable classic.
Before Christmas Break, we went on a field trip to go see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in Los Angeles. I honestly can’t remember anything interesting happening on this field trip, so it must have been a simple, controversy free good time.
We watched 2001: A Space Odyssey on the first Tuesday of the break, and it was obviously a monumental undertaking in thought and understanding, but a generally stimulating experience. It obviously is incomparable to much of the lighter, more enjoyable fare from earlier in the year, but has its own merits as the grandiose opus of an auteur and a bold defiance of Hollywood rules.
Over Christmas Break, I scouted locations for my film, tried to plan some shots and shopped for ridiculous T shirts for Frank to wear to ensure the physical comedy that the general populace seems find giggle-worthy. The pre-production phase of film making was one of the most exasperating and trying facets, however it would pay off in the long run, I was told.
Looking back at my original shooting schedule, my early ambition seems almost comical. According to the schedule, shooting was supposed to have wrapped on January 27. The last shot of the film was taken on May 13th, two days before Cinema Night. The early stages of shooting were fun and carefree. Neither Frank nor I really knew what we were doing, but we had tons of time, the stress hadn’t set in, and the whole process just seemed exciting, new and fresh. Unfortunately, almost all of the footage from January to March was horrible, and we essentially had to reshoot the entire film in a two week span in April. It was around this time that I realized what the returning directors had said about how easy the process was once you had learned the ropes. Once I had my tactics down, we made amazing progress, shooting several tapes worth of solid film and doing so in half the time we had originally. Having realized the nuances of the shooting processes, I began to regret not entering the program a year earlier, as I felt that my next film could be astounding, while Realistic was bound to be riddled with the errors of a novice.
Oh, and during April I appeared as the Grim Reaper in a One Act. It wasn’t that important, but I thought I would mention it.
Very little editing was done until April, because my computer was a Stone Age relic and the new NASA Supercomputers hadn’t arrived from Apple yet. Once they did, they made the editing process expedient and simple, allowing me to piece together fifty five minutes of footage in only a week of editing. Without these computers, editing Realistic would have been a monumental challenge in only a month.
The last month or so of editing and composing Realistic was a blur of stress and repetition, with a to-do list that seemed to extend ad infinitum. Because of this, when Cinema Night finally came it didn’t feel like a celebratory culmination, but rather just another step on the list. The feeling of emptiness that followed the completion of the movie and the idea of being actually finished with the long gestating work was one that seemed surreal and intangible. Being constantly occupied for months and then being faced with the prospect of having to choose your own ways to fill the voids in your free time can throw any man into a crisis. I have since begun job hunting in order to find another way to productively structure my time, though I anticipate no amount of shelf-stocking can compare to the novelty and joy of movie making, but I suppose all good things must have their end, even when it feels like the best parts have just begun.

Why Dylan Niles Should Direct: A Letter of Recommendation From One of Ancient Greece’s Finest Thinkers

The problem with life, besides the fact that it’s brief, fleeting, a constant cycle of ebullient hope and excruciating pain, and that it’s as tedious as a twice told tale spoken in Ben Stein’s monotone vexing the ear of a drowsy man that accidentally drank an entire bottle of Nyquil when mistaking it for cherry soda, is that it is full of asinine rhetorical questions. If there’s one thing I hate in life, it’s the poaching of white rhinos in West Africa. But I’m also not too fond of rhetorical questions. Why did the chicken cross the road? Irrelevant! If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Inconsequential! What is the sound of one hand clapping? Frivolous! Luckily, the existential dilemma of “Why Dylan Thomas Niles Should Direct A Student Film To Be Displayed At Cinema Night In the 2008-2009 School Year” is not even remotely rhetorical. Aristotle spent his entire life working on the whole “what is the nature of time?” thing, but he could have this thing wrapped up in a solid three minutes. So, rather than have me, a clearly biased, self-obsessed, highly subjective observer write a paper about why I should direct, I’ll just have Aristotle cover this one for you, in florid, philosophical persuasive prose. Look, I know what you’re thinking: “Impossible! Aristotle has been dead since 322 BC! He can’t possibly write an essay describing the respective merits of Dylan Niles! This is just an excuse for Dylan to praise himself and flaunt his massive ego while speaking in third person, the primary signifier of a sociopath!” To this, I recommend that you do whenever I do when someone asks me to do something morally vague, or with potential criminal repercussions: Don’t ask questions, just go with it.

Dear Mr. Sautner,

Salutations. It’s me, Aristotle, student of Plato, teacher of Alexander the Great, and a huge fan of Dylan Niles’ blog. After years of studious observational practices, I can conclude with utmost conviction that Dylan Niles should be given ultimate dictatorial power of the Free World. However, if that cannot be arraigned, allowing him to direct is probably the next best thing. I have arrived at this conclusion for a number of reasons. First and foremost, Dylan Niles is a man of vision. Not physically, of course. He has 20/80 vision, and a minor case of astigmatism. I am referring more to his fundamental ambitions, his copious quantities of creative juices, his poet’s eye, his musician’s heart, his philosopher’s brain, and his Popeye biceps. He is a dreamer, a romantic, a man yearning to express himself in any way possible, though typically through yelling. Dylan Niles has goals that can only be attained through one means: By allowing him to operate a functioning video camera and record a story so heart wrenchingly beautiful it will fuse laughter and sorrow into a brand new hybrid emotion inexpressible through words. Only through pictures. And Dylan Niles is just the man to take those pictures.

Secondly, Dylan Niles is a neurotic, obsessive, egomaniac. While these traits to not translate well to other facets of life (like social interactions) they are the characteristic of a truly great director. I considered for a moment some of the finest film makers in history: Kubrick, Orson Welles, Hitchcock, Coppola. All of them regarded as neurotic, obsessive, eccentric egomaniacs. Is it possible that I am spin doctoring Dylan Niles’ inherent character flaws to portray him not as, in colloquial terms, ‘ a total jerk’ but rather as a stereotypical ‘gifted but troubled artiste?’ Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing. But I also compiled the earliest recorded study of formal logic, so you have no right to question my opinion.

Thirdly, and most importantly: Dylan Niles looks terrible on camera, and should not be allowed anywhere in front of one. From his reliance on hand gestures to his gratingly obnoxious voice to his disgusting facial expressions to the fact that he cuts his own hair, the very last thing that a paying customer wants to see on cinema night is Dylan Niles. The magic of movies lies in the escapist virtues of watching beautiful people doing amazing things, not watching awkward people like Dylan Niles brush his uneven bangs out of his eyes while he humiliatingly attempts to portray affection in some half-baked romantic comedy. Making Dylan Niles a director, and keeping him and his grotesque, irritating voice and mannerisms away from the ill-prepared eyes of the students of Trabuco Hills High School is a public service and an act of charity.

My next point is that Dylan Niles loves to wear berets. However, whenever he wears a beret in public, he is mocked, berated, and often has inanimate objects tossed at him by unruly teen heathens. But all true artists wear berets, ask any notable Frenchmen. Were Dylan Niles given the chance to direct, whenever he was faced with opposition or had a milkshake tossed at him in the drive through of an In-N-Out, he can simply explain: “It’s okay. I’m a director.” And they will undoubtedly understand, giving Dylan Niles the peace of mind he deserves.

My observation of Dylan Niles has also led me to the conclusion that he has far too much free time on his hands. From looking up old Nickelodeon shows on Wikipedia to playing the same level of Halo 3 all day, the man really needs a life, a hobby of some kind. It’s only a matter of time before he takes up stamp collecting and slowly evolves into Norman Bates.

Finally, in the twilight of his high school career, Dylan Niles has been thrust into that realm occupied by many in this phase of their lives: One of doubt, reflection, fear of the future, high school nostalgia, and occasional remorse. Dylan Niles is well aware that the next seven months, his last in the bubble of comfort and stability that is high school, will vanish before he even has time to appreciate them, no matter what he is doing. This crisis has convinced Dylan that he wants to devote the his remaining time in high school not to the menial pursuit of the same basic teenage activities that he has experienced so repetitively throughout the past four years, but rather devote himself entirely to a film making project, to pour himself wholly into the creation of something lasting, something that he will remember for the rest of his life. Life is, as I have said, rather brief in duration. Very few people have the chance to make something that can capture a moment, an epoch in their youth that has the chance to be eternal. Dylan Niles has that opportunity. All he has left to do is seize it.

Sincerely,

Aristotle

xoxoxoxoxo

Worst Sequel Ever: A Million Dollars of Baby Geniuses

2009-06-01T17:04:00.001-07:00

I am sickened. Disgusted. Appalled. Once again, Hollywood has taken a beautiful masterpiece of a movie and tainted with the stain of a filthy, obscene failure of a sequel. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Baby Geniuses 1. I mean, what could possibly be funnier than a baby talking? I’ll tell you what: A baby talking while disco dancing in John Travolta’s white suit from Saturday Night Fever! One of my favorite scenes in the history of the picture shows. It even coined one of the best catchphrases of all time: Diaper gravy! I had never really thought of describing diarrhea by likening it to a food of similar composition and complexion. Now that’s great writing! Baby Geniuses was one of the most original, thought provoking, all around hilarious movies of the 90’s. A laugh riot! So you can imagine my disgust when I saw the sequel, Clint Eastwood’s 2004 flop, Million Dollar Babies.
Where do I even begin with this festering piece of pop culture garbage? Let’s start with the plot. It had absolutely nothing to do with the first movie! Baby Geniuses 1 ended with Sly, the smartest of all the Baby Geniuses, and his twin brother Whit going on a lighthearted romp to escape from Cathleen Turner and Christopher Lloyd, two evil scientists attempting to steal the secrets of the universe, which the babies were born with and could only convey through baby talk. Now that’s the kind of old fashioned family comedy that I can support! That’s what I want to see on a fun day at the movies! For this diaper gravy of a sequel, they went in a new, disgusting direction. First of all, there were no babies! You’d think, since the first movie was 92 minutes of highly intelligent babies talking, pooping, and hitting grown men in the testicles, they would at least have the decency to explain why, in this “A Million Dollar Baby Geniuses” there was not a single baby genius to be found! Why would Clint Eastwood, one of the most respected directors in Hollywood, do such a thing? You don’t mess with perfection! I’m all for a little change in the sequel, but replacing the two main characters from the first movie, the adorable, 3 year old Fitzgerald brothers, with some black guy named Milligan Freeman and Hilary Swank? Ridiculous! Were the babies grown up? Why was the entire film about boxing? Where was Christopher Lloyd? Did it take place in the future? This was the most confusing sequel since I saw that Lord of the Flies trilogy from Peter Jackson, which was nothing like the book.
Not to mention that this movie was completely inappropriate for a family audience. In fact, this was an R rated movie, completely alienating the younger fans of the first one, which was rated PG for potty humor. Where the first Baby Geniuses movie only made use of silly, lighthearted insults like diaper face and pee brains, the sequel used the s word, the f word, even the p word. I almost cried when I heard this foul language. Clint Eastwood, you are sick! I was nine years old when I saw Baby Geniuses 1, and 14 when I saw the sequel, and even I was sickened to my very core by the foul language in this film. The nerve of that man!
Not to mention the disturbing, perverse subplot that involved Hilary Swank, the Million Dollar Baby Genius, going into a coma! Horrific! What kind of twisted, depraved man would include the controversial subject of euthanasia in a children’s movie! This is a strict violation of my Christian values! Every life is precious, every child is a beautiful creation of God, especially baby geniuses. The very idea that Clint Eastwood’s character would think it was acceptable to pull the plug on a baby genius caused me to cross myself and say three Our Fathers right there in the theater just to save my soul from this Satanic propaganda. What would Rick Warren think of this? Imagine the poor mothers having to explain to their children how a life support machine works, or who Teri Schiavo was, when all they wanted to do was sit back, enjoy some popcorn and laugh at another classic diaper change scene involving a poop fight.
Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who felt this way. Roger Ebert gave the film four stars, and it was nominated for seven Oscars, including a win for Best Picture! Best Picture? Meanwhile, Baby Geniuses 1 is ranked #66 on IMDB’s worst movies of all time list. Am I the only sane person in the world? I have lost all respect for Clint Eastwood after this bastardization of the Baby Genius franchise. I will never see a Clint Eastwood movie again. Actually I do hear that he is coming out with one that is an adaptation of the popular video game Grand Theft Auto, so I might see that one. Until then, I am still steaming over the worst sequel of all time, A Million Dollars of Babies.

Someday I'm Going to Leave This Womb

2008-07-27T18:18:00.000-07:00

By An Introspective Little Fetus

Ahh, another wonderful morning! Or is it night? Or is it afternoon? I don't know, I tend to lose sense of time in here. Am I even really awake, or am I in some kind of weird half conscious state? Jeez, I can barely form a coherent thought besides "I'm hungry" or "I'm frustrated, maybe I should start violently kicking and see if that calms me down" or "Hey look, a thick, squishy pile of uterine tissue! Awesome!" and I'm already starting to get senile. Next thing you know, I'll end up like my mentally deranged Grandpa Burt and start calling the fire department every time I lose the remote. It's hard in here for a fetus.

Gosh, I miserable in here! Doesn't my mother know that we are basically sharing meals? I'm like a gigantic nine pound tapeworm in here! Doesn't she understand that every time she starts getting all "Oooh! I'm a big hungry preggo monster!" and decides that she feels like sampling every combination of beans and rice on the Taco Bell menu, that stuff goes straight to me? Is she trying to kill me of a Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap overdose? If she wanted a crack baby, she should have been a lot more direct about it and just started snorting lines twice a day instead of rolling into a drive thru in full fledged Godzilla on Tokyo hunger mode. Oh no . . .I'm sorry mother, I didn't mean that. I'm just under a lot of stress here. The time I've spent in this womb has been the best eight months of my life. Well actually, it's been the only eight months of my life, unless you count the whole "embryo" phase. But I mostly try and pretend that never happened. I thought I was so cool, just sitting there being a zygote without even being old enough to multiply by mitosis. It seems really embarrassing now.

However, the best moments I've ever had have taken place in this cozy little fertilized sack of a uterus. Who could forget when I was just 30 millimeters long with no hands, legs, feet, or brain, splashing around in amniotic fluid without a care in the world? Oh, those were the days . . .well, those were the 11 weeks, to be exact. Or how about when my eyes began opening for the first time? Oh, that was magical. Sure, there wasn't much to look at, but still, the idea behind it was exciting. And what about the time I grew my first lanugo, those tiny little hairs that kept me warm because of my lack of body fat? Oh man, and speaking of body fat, I've really ballooned up lately. Ever since the 26th week, I've been putting on pounds like Marlon Brando in 1972. If I'm not careful, I may just get so bloated that I bust out of cramped little womb early. I need to start watching what kind of nutrients I absorb from this placenta.

Yeah, it's been a great time in here, I just feel like I'm ready to move .. all, my major structures are fully formed, my brain and heart are functioning, and I'm slowly learning to express emotions through this thing called "crying." Wait, let me practice: (Crying) "WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!" Oh man, this is going to be a really effective means of getting what I want once I'm out of this place.

But I'll be the first to admit, I'm kind of nervous. My bones are about as soft as Play-doh. And even though I haven't actually seen Play-doh yet, I'm probably going to be obsessed with that stuff sooner or later. What if my mom drops me on my head and I end up thinking I'm a dog or something? I can't eat dog food! You know what they put in that? And what if nobody loves me once I'm a baby? I am a pretty sexy fetus, but who knows how I'll look when I'm prancing around in a diaper with a Lego in one hand and a slobbered-on pacifier in another? Why don't I have hair? Am I balding? What if I end up looking like an alien or something, with no hair and two gigantic bug eyes? Are my toes webbed? Goodness, I think they are! Am I a mutant? If I am, I'm not even one of those cool mutants that get recruited by the X-Men Academy to battle Magneto! I'm just weird!

But I suppose I have no choice, really. I'm only in here for about two more weeks. My mom's already complaining about contractions, and I'm about to break this water myself if she doesn't just hurry up and push me out of this thing. I guess we all have to move on eventually.

Wow. I could really go for a Burrito Supreme right now. Where are obnoxious pregnant cravings when you need them? (Crying) WAHHH! WAHHH!

The Unintentional Comedy Showdown of the Century

2008-07-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, it is happening! Oh my god . . .I always knew this would happen, and now its happening! It is luck, fortune, an extensive branch of James Gleick's chaos theory, a variation the Butterfly Effect (not the "Ashton Kutcher is all grown up now with the fat guy from Boy Meets World movie, the actual entitiy itself) the workings of the steady hands of a divine force, the manipulation of intergalactical humanoids micromanaging the human population like an eight year old with an ant farm, or is it pure HAPPENstance? You must be postively brimming with the tingly sensation that curiousity (not to be confused with dental drugs) brings at this point and wondering, in a spastic fit of curiousity potent enough to kill not only one cat but the entire feline sector of the Animal Kingdom, what exactly is happening? What's happening, as signified by the yearly passage of the boom-or-bust early May superhero action extravaganza (Iron Man, by the way was a boom, on the passage of the 1 year anniversary of the bust to climactically end all busts, Spider Man 3 "How's the pie?" Really fucking terrible, actually), is that the summer movie season, aka The Time When Literally Everything We Have The Privelege Of Fixating Our Eyes Upon Is the MOVIE EVENT OF THE SUMMER, is upon us. And it feels good. Too good, maybe. I'm starting to get that funny sensation that I haven't gotten since Cloverfield came out. And I mean that in a good way, compared with the mental chlamydia that I got from seeing Transformers last year. This year, I will be avidly chronicling the summer movie phenomenon with the zest and passion of . . .a guy with absolutely nothing better to with his spare time. These chronicles will come not in the form of a talking lion and a pubescent prince, but in the form of a series of Showdowns that will determine the Ultimate Winner of the summer.
With much futher ado about nothing:
Showdown 1: The Unintentional Comedy Duel

The question is: What exactly is happening in "The Happening?"
Well, though I know that M. Night Shaymalan is a crafty guy, I think I've been able to pinpoint the happenings in this modern day horror classic to be:
-Poor career moves: Marky Mark Wahlberg . . .why? You were on a roll! You dazzled us with your Lee Harvey Oswald level sniping skills in "Shooter," you came out as king of the hill and basically killed the last living main character in "The Departed," you brought us to tears in "Invicible" . . .and now this? Really? What kind of state of mind were you in where you thought that doing anything with M. Night Shaymalan was a good idea? Are you short on cash? Did you make a bet with Bruce Willis? Do you really have three nipples? Either way, let's hope you are really good in Max Payne later this year, or a lot of embarrassment will be Happening over the next few months.
-Furrowed eyebrows: "What's going on?! You can't just leave us here!" (Furrows eyebrows) "Sir . . .we've lost connection." (Furrows eyebrows) "With who?" (Furrows eyebrows) "Everyone . . ."(Furrows eyebrows.) Apparently, in M. Night Shaymalan's alternate reality of magical movie prowess, acting=eyebrow movements. Based on this small, two minute and fifteen sample clip, at least 10,500 creased foreheads and 21,000 eyebrows will pop up during the movies super-intense scenes of distress and confusion. Which is every scene, by the way. M. Night Shaymalan never takes his foot off the gas of the Horrormobile.
-An event: As stated from the trailer, itself, "There appears to be an event happening." Well, even that's a step up from "The Village."
-Loss of speech, physical disorientation, DEATH!: Wait, is this the deadly airborne disease waging war against Marky Mark and the Eyebrows of Profound Emotion, or are these symptoms of spending more than 5 minutes watching "Lady In the Water"? I'm confused . . .(Furrowd eyebrows).
-Strange whoosing noises: Nothing says "fear, shock, abject terror!" more than amplified sounds of sweatpants flapping in the breeze.
-A twist: Would we expect anything less for old M. Night? Ever since raging success of the whole "Bruce Willis was dead all along" thing, M.'s got in his head that the formula for a classic horror movie is "Get them thinking one thing for an incredibly boring hour and a half, then bring in a space vampire in the last five minutes and all of the sudden its genius." I think I may be a step ahead this time, though. An inside source tells me (SPOILER ALERT!) . . .nah, that would just be too cruel. But I'll give you a hint: IT ISN'T WHAT YOU THINK!
-Lots of unintentional comedy: The more seriously you take yourself, M. Night, the more we laugh at you, not with you. So please, step down from your high horse in Cinematic Geniusland and just take a good hard look at yourself. You might like what you seen . . .or you might find out that YOU WERE A WEREWOLF ALL ALONG! OH CRAP!

Let's look beyond the fact that "Bangkok Dangerous" sounds like a suitable title for the single most graphic Asian gay pornography of all time (not that I would know anything about that.) That, in all likelihood, is intentional comedy. We really needn't look any further than the fact that the Wicker Man himself, Nicholas Cage, the be all and end all of unintentional comedy in the form of epic failure, is headlining this thing. Honestly, what more do we need to know other than the fact that it involves Nicholas Cage engaging in a number of unintentionally hilarious acts, such as;
1. Sniping people from rooftops
2. Speaking in a weirdly accurate Asian tongue
3. Going to Asian boxing matches and strip clubs
4. Riding a motorcycle for the first time since Ghostrider (the worst superhero movie other than Catwoman, which I think may have been written and directed by a masturbating 12 year old boy)
5. Making ominous threats such as "If I see your people again, I'll kill you."
6. Flashing that winning smile after gut-busting one liners such as "What is your work? Banking."
7. Just existing. Honestly Nicholas Cage, that is all we ask of you. It's like Gordo wrote in Lizzie's yearbook on the season finale of Lizzie McGuire circa 2002: "Never change. I mean that." Never change, Nicholas Cage. Never change.
The winner obviously, cannot yet be declared. All that be guaranteed is that at some point in this year, you will grimace, you will furrow your eyebrows, you will have your capacity to think blown to shrapnel by M. Night Shaymalan's genius, you will fear Nicholas Cage and the spooky sounds of a heavy gust of wind . . .and you will laugh.

Levels of Degradation: How to React When Reducing Someone to A Sniveling Ball of Misery

2008-07-27T18:16:00.000-07:00

As far as old maxim's go, credibility tends to be elusive. A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush? What kind of birds are we talking about here? An "Oscar the Naked Cockatoo" in the hand is, by no grand stretch of the imagination, equivalent to two California Condors in the bush. A fool and his money are soon parted? I'm sorry, but obviously you are not familiar with the Forbes ranking of Robin Williams. However, there is evidence lent to the claim that the best things in life are free. Just consider it: Sunsets, rainbows, true love, Taiwanese prostitutes. Oh, and of course the simplest of simple pleasures: That tingling little feeling that you get inside, like a giddy little sugar rush of sadism and self-satisfaction, that comes from the delivery of a truly degrading insult. There's just something in that fluid flow of razor sharp verbiage, whether malicious or friendly, that lends the mind a kind of euphoria available only through black market means via viable sums of money. However, there is more to a great insult than simply spouting off whatever cold hearted venom seeps onto your tongue from the depths of your twisted little mind. Insults, much like the animal kingdom, must be properly labeled.

(Playtpus=Ornithorhynchus anatinus).

Photobucket

Ladies and gentlemen, here lies the deceased folly of mislabeling types of degrading verbiage. Rest in peace, ignorance.

Levels of Degradation:

Level 1: The Insult

Level one is simple, straightforward, basic, probably bearing some semblance of truth but not enough to weigh on a person's psyche for more than the brief flash of semi-indignation experienced within the first 0.453 seconds of its expulsion from the mouth of the Insulter. Ultimately, you're not offended. In fact, you scoff at the very idea that such elementary school level pish-posh could possibly phase you.

Example:

Billy: You are stupid.

Bobby: Oh . . .how rude.

Level 2: The Diss

The diss is a minor step on the evolutionary chain of degradation, much like the Neanderthal was just a little better than the Cro Magnon, but it was enough to make a difference. (Well, in the end there really was no difference. They both had weirdly shaped skulls, grunted a lot, and couldn't harness fire. Homo sapiens are awesome!) The main difference between the two is that the diss, while maintaining the similarly basic properties of the insult, typically comes in the form of a comeback, therefore making the person who was an innocent victim in Level 1: The Insult become the vulnerable fool who attempted to assert his dominance and then failed miserably, like a Chihuahua attempting to mount a pitbull (Youtube, anyone?).

Example:

Bobby: Whoa there Billy, nice STAIN on your shirt!

Billy: Well, at least I'm not stupid.

Bobby: Ouch. That's embarrassing. I'm mildly perturbed by your one-upsmanship of me.

Level 3: The Burn

If the Insult is a schizophrenic, delusional hobo begging for sardines by the train tracks and the Diss is a respectable suburban man working in an accounting firm and raising two delightful children, then the Burn is one of those high-rolling corporate lawyers who sues the tobacco companies and lives in a penthouse with mirrors on the ceiling. The Burn doesn't just scratch at the surface of the weak superfluity of the Diss, and grabs itself a power drill from Home Depot and drills right on through the skin until blood is splattered all over the victim like the walls of the shower at the Bates motel. The burn doesn't just dish out an unflattering moniker, it ELABORATES, leaving the person feeling as though the contents of their fragile little heart have just been put on display and mercilessly laughed at in a public museum. These ones leave a mark on the soul for at least a few hours, lingering in the conscience like a Floridian mosquito with a craving for human sweat and blood.

Example:

Billy: Bobby, I need to tell you something.

Bobby: Yes?

Billy: You are stupid. But you're not just stupid. You are pathetically deluding yourself into thinking that you aren't stupid, when everyone thinks of you as a complete, total moron. You are basically the dumbest kid in our school.

Bobby: That isn't true! (Hides face in shame)

Level 4: The Zinger

The Zinger maintains the deeply personal, revelatory facets of the Burn, only compresses them into concise, one liner format, striking out of nowhere like the meteor from "Deep Impact," and with equal amounts of devastation. The Zinger is delivered as a joke; however its biting levels of truth leave the victim feeling as though he has just been sharply sliced by construction paper and is being bled dry of his dignity.

Example:

Bobby: Hey Billy! I've got some great news! I just a Wii!

Billy: Yeah, but the bad news is, you're still completely retarded!

Level 5: The Assassination

By the time one has reached the level of the Assassination, all semblances of jocularity have been eradicated like a colony roaches being doused in Raid. The Assassination doesn't just point out the fairly obvious flaws of a man, noticed by all, noted occasionally, but widely acknowledged as harmless. By this point, the Degrader has attacked every minute aspect of the Degradee's personality: Their hopes, dreams, ambitions, fears, any and all blackmail regarding the Degradee, every little flaws preventing the Degradee from achieving a humanely perfection that, thus far in history, has proven unattainable. The Assassination usually comes in the form of a rather long winded rant, often in the midst of an argument heated to volcanic proportions, and leaves the victim often reduced to tears and doubting everything that makes them who they are.

Example:

Bobby: Hey Billy, want to come over today?

Billy: Jeez, well I would, but then again look at you: You're stupid. Most people look at you and mistake you for a crack baby, that is if people even notice you at all. You're entire existence is completely pointless. You could vanish from the face of the Earth today and even I, your best friend, would not care. If people were actually valued in monetary terms, you would be worth absolutely nothing. Oh, and that obsession you had with that chick in your Math class was the most pathetic attempt at love I've ever seen. No women want to go near you, even the blind, deaf and dumb girl that always stumbles into you at lunch. She thinks you smell horrible. Oh, and I lied when I said you had a good singing voice. Your singing makes me want to vomit, and I think your breath smells like a rotting corpse in a trash bag.

Level 6: The Nuclear Holocaust

The only possible level of devastation higher than the Assassination, the Nuclear Holocaust takes no prisoners. Essentially, the term Nuclear Holocaust evokes an image of a colossal mushroom cloud consuming and eviscerating everything in its path. With a Nuclear Holocaust of degradation, the focus expands from the single person presently receiving the degradation to everything and everyone that person loves: Friends, family, their favorite TV shows, role models, etc. Everything and anything associated with said person is treated with equal contempt. A Nuclear Holocaust, in most cases, results in the victim being instituted in an insane asylum or committing suicide.

Example:

Bobby: Billy, you are my best friend!

Billy: Best friend? Impossible, Bobby. All of your friends are total and complete losers, much like yourself. John secretly hates you, he talks about how boring and awkward you are all of the time. He thinks your new slang words suck. "Cool dip" will never work as a catch phrase. It's stupid . . .just like you. Oh, and your mother is ridiculously ugly. Not that this came as a shock to me. The only way someone as disgustingly deformed as you could have come into the world is through an equally hideous woman. Your brother told me he wishes you were never born, which is funny because I used to think he was retarded too, until I agreed with him on that. "Three's Company" is a horrible show. It's shameful that you laugh at that crap, like I laugh at you. Oh, and I'm glad your Grandpa died. He looked like a grape that's been out in the sun too long.

In conclusion, keep this is mind next time you feel like degrading someone. Don't just toss out celebratory phrases like "Diss!" and "Burn!" without genuinely taking a moment to consider where on the Levels of Degradation it truly resides. The best things in life are free. And the best insults . . .those are priceless.

I Need to Stop Hanging Out On Planes

2008-07-27T18:15:00.002-07:00

By A Burmese Python

That's it! I've had it with the process of being a motherfucking snake on this motherfucking plane! I mean honestly, there is no more misunderstood demographic than snakes on planes. It's not like we as elongated reptiles don't have it tough enough already. It's not like I, as a Burmese Python, don't already find myself eternally poisoned by the noxious snake-tonic of racial discrimination. I can't even drink from the same swampy badlands as my reptilian brothers, and for what reason? Oh, just my locomotion, limblessness, horny scales, and the fact that I move by muscular contraction? Do my loosely jointed and extremely flexible jaws make me any less of a member of the Reptilia kingdom? And have you heard what they do to the Black Mambas in Africa? They mutilate their hoods as a rite of passage into snakehood. And the Australian asp? I hear they skin them and wear their hides as some kind of disgusting boot-wearing ritual. And this is OFF of planes!

And what exactly is it about the presence of a particular pair of pernicious predatory pythons on planes that just causes such uproar? Why is it that I become so much more despicable when I'm flopping around on the floor of a Boeing 747 filled with Japanese tourists? There are plenty of locales in which being a Burmese python would cause even the most open minded and virtuous of FBI superagents played by Samuel L. Jackson to frown with contempt. For example: The rodent section of Petco. I'll concede, even as a respectable member of the slender slithering species of the python, that I would have a hard time resisting a hamster and mouse massacre in those circumstances. Also, at a children's picnic. I tend to become aggressive when frightened, and there is nothing that activates my reptilian bloodlust more than the high pitched screams of the young. But planes? I'm perfectly at ease flying business class of Southwest Airlines to some exotic hot spot in the Caribbean . You never hear charismatic black men condemning the presence of alligators in a waterpark, sharks on a pool deck, or Siberian Tigers in a Las Vegas magic show populated by flamboyantly gay Europeans.

There really is only one person to blame for this shocking tidal wave of hatred and anti-snake sentiment: A certain Samuel L. Jackson. I have no doubt that if Tom Cruise were jumping in the pilot's seat and yelling "I strongly disapprove of these darn snakes on this aircraft!" then all of this never would have happened. But if Mace Windu tells the American people that an anaconda can't rest peacefully in the luggage compartment, they just can't resist the hate.

A lesson to all reptiles out there, especially those of the Phylum chordata. If you ever feel the need to travel, just hitch a ride in the back of some guy's pickup. Because, or so I've heard, they've had it with snakes on planes.

Action Heroes Speak Louder Than Words

2008-07-27T18:15:00.001-07:00

By Steven Seagal

In the Buddhist faith, we often like to take a break from all of the daily chatter and just go on down to the riverbank, and rest amongst the dandelions, daffodils, lilacs, tulips and all other kinds of pretty flowers. We don't speak, we just sit and meditate, reflecting on our day. But occasionally someone will interrupt my peaceful thoughts and say something like "Whoa there Steven Seagal, don't achieve nirvana and find refuge in the Three Jewels without me" and I'll get a little perturbed. I'll wonder why someone would choose to disrupt me when I'm trying to achieve spiritual liberation through the teachings of Siddhartha Guatama. And, for just a fleeting little second, I'll think about maybe chastising them a little bit, or offering up some harsh, yet constructive criticism. But then I remember: I'm Steven Seagal. And action heroes speak louder than words.

It's like that time I broke Sean Connery's wrist back in 1983. That was right around the time "Never Say Never Again" came out. He wanted some martial arts advice from the martial arts master himself, Steven Seagal. Yeah, that's me. So we're in the dojo, I'm demonstrating the reverse scissor kick head grab, and he tries to stop my kick with his puny little Hollywood handsies. I snapped his wrist in half like a bamboo stick in the jungles of Taiwan. He starts complaining and threatening to sue me. For a second there I thought "Dang, I really need to explain that this was all an accident to protect myself legally and financially." But then I realized: I'm Steven Freaking Seagal. So I said "Alright, Connery, you washed up British bloodhound. I'll take you to the bank . . .the BLOOD BANK" and I beat his ass to a pulp . . .shaken, not stirred.

These days, I don't really feel the need to justify anything I do with words, because a flying roundhouse kick to the face pretty much says it all. It's like this one time, when I was walking through LA in the afternoon, looking for some cheap, greasy Indian food to stuff my face with. And then I see this hobo sitting in a pile of trash bags. He looks me, Steven Seagal, right in the eyes and says "Could you spare a quarter? Maybe a can of soup, sir?" I said "No, but I got giant can of whoopass right here." Pow! Steven Seagal headbutt! Bam! Karate chop to the neck! I looked him right in the eye and said "Veni vidi vici, big boy." That'll teach anyone to ask Steven Seagal for charity.

It really is a great luxury not having to speak at all. Let's face it, when you are an action hero like Steven Seagal, your broad shoulders, toned abs and chiseled thighs speak volumes. One time, at this restaurant that I find quite delightful, I order my usual, the vegetable soup with a side of fondu. The waiter goes "Oh yeah, Steven Seagal, I forgot you are a vegetarian." I stopped for a moment and considered explaining that I find the eating of animals to be a vile and contemptible practice. But I didn't feel like wasting my breath on this punk, so I pulled a carrot out of my back pocket and shoved it in his eyeball. He starts screaming and I said "Less crying, more dying, babycakes."

Sure, I've been accused of making rash decisions. And yeah, my manager says that my lack of communication skills will hinder my professional career. But there are only two people in this world that I need to communicate with: Mr. Right and Mr. Left. Anybody out there got A carefully worded, well thought out problem with that? I didn't think so.

The Root of Taco Bell's Evil: Exposed!

2008-04-19T13:06:00.001-07:00

"This is my dissertation,
Homie this shit is basic,
Welcome to graduation."
-Kanye West
If within the gleaming nugget of everyday life there lies a lesson to be learned, stashed into the breast pocket of a recently ironed dress shirt for later use, and then bandied about and wielded at every given opportunity to flaunt our newfound wisdom, then April 17, 2008 taught me that there is no better man to supply a countless parade of aphoristic maxims for epigraph application than the inimitable Kanye West.
However, this has nothing to do with any of that.
What you are about to find your eager, scandal-starved iris nourished by are the refreshing Visine drops of clarity. Not since Upton Sinclair made Austrian immigrants feel that their peculiar habit if urinating in steaming vats of ground beef seem justified has the fast food industry been stripped down and revealed for the sick sham that it is. While I plan on using this earth-shattering research project/exposee for my eventual Ph.D thesis paper, I feel as though the "blog reading demographic," which is actually completely identical to the "Taco Bell customer demographic" should know before it is too late.
My suspicions of tom-foolery amongst the Taco Bell marketing staff began a year ago, when, in mid April 2007, I sprinted from my sixth period classroom to the nearest Taco Bell like a giddy little schoolboy, salivating at the prospect of sampling the new 7-Layer Crunchwrap Supreme. I hadn't been this excited since August of 1998, when my neighbor told me that he would trade me one of his two Charizards for a holographic Scyther. Alas, that Charizard turned out to be a counterfeit lizard-imitator with glitter sprinkled on it. From that day onward, I vowed never to allow myself to be so vulnerable again. Until that fateful day. And, essentially, the much-hyped 7-Layer Crunchwrap, which was being hailed by critics (and the guy on the Taco Bell commercials) as the single greatest thing since oxygen itself, was also a counterfeit lizard imitator covered in glitter. Basically, it was just like the other crunchwrap, the original that we had so blissfully loaned our hearts to . . .except it had no ground beef whatsoever, and a fat surplus of sour cream, therefore it sucked.
However, from the ashes devastating tragedy rose a phoenix of revelation. From the Ground Zero of this terrorist attack rose a gigantic bump in the bumper sticker sales of motivation. Yes, these similes are outlandish, but I'm making a point here. Basically I realized, in an epiphany rivaling that of Muhammed's encounter with God in that desert cave, this: EVERY SINGLE TACO BELL ITEM IS THE EXACT SAME THING, ONLY ARRANGED IN A DIFFERENT WAY AND GIVEN SOME CRAZY SPANISH SOUNDING NAME!
Still, I new that my claims would be met with protests and outrage from the Gordita-guzzling Taco Bell sycophants of the world. So I chose to take the route of the true scientist, and break it all down mathematically.
Basically, the formula to Taco Bell's deception consists of:
These 14 ingredients: Beef, chicken, beans, rice, lettuce, tomato, sour cream, steak, tortilla, tortilla chips, thin, stringy cheese, or runny, melted cheese.
These 7 prefixes used to affix the latest combination with a name seeming authentically Mexican: gor, bur, crunch, chal, ques, nacho, taco.
These 5 suffixes used in fusion with aforementioned prefixes: ito, upa, dilla, supreme, dita.
These 5 adjectives used to make the highlight the allegedly new characteristics of the latest birth of the Taco Bell kitchen: Cheesy, crunchy, melty, grande, spicy.
Using these elements, Taco Bell continues to churn out their supposedly innovative, limited time offers for delicious, greasy substances, fooling and beguiling us into purchasing something that we believe is fresh, fantastic, and fleeting while actually just recycling the elements of the original burrito. Brilliant marketing scheme or contemptible trickery? I choose the latter.
When, you must be wondering, will the jig be up for taco bell? According to my calculations (I've always wanted to say that) not any time soon.
You see, one can calculate the possible food combinations of Taco Bell by multiplying the number of potential ingredient combinations: 14 x 13 x 12 x 11 x 10 x 9 x 8 x 7 x 6 x 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1=8.71782912 x 10 to the 1oth power, or 87,178,291,200 combinations, or 87 billion possible menu items.
However, this is not entirely accurate, because Taco Bell has a finite number of ways to describe these items and maintain the illusion. There are 7 prefixes, 5 suffixes, and 5 adjectives available for them. Under these restrictions, there are 245x245 possible means of describing their latest concoctions, which equals 60, 025 different names for Taco Bell menu items, ranging from the minimalist Spicy Chaldita Supreme, which is just tortilla chips slathered in sour cream, to the eventual juggernaut "The Spicy Cheesy Crunchy Melty Grande Nachodita," which would contain beef, chicken, beans, rice, lettuce, tomato, sour cream, steak, tortilla, tortilla chips, thin, stringy cheese, and runny, melted cheese in a disgusting, water-heated orgy of decadence.
This disgusting, morally corrupt cycle of deception will rake in untold billions of dollars for Taco Bell Inc. over the next several millenia. Assuming that they release two new items a year, this despicable circus of cheesy gordita evil will continue for the next 30,012.5 years. Mankind itself isn't even expected to survive that long.
I urge you, Crunchwrapped, masses, unite and rise up against the tyrant! Free yourselves from the bounding chains of your ignorance and curse the skies for your blindness! Descend upon the Taco Bell Headquarters bearing pitchfork and torch, preparing the corporate bastards running this scheme for their ultimate damnation.
Until then, however, I'm a little hungry. I think I going to grab a Grilled Stuft Burrito. That new chicken and steak one looks delicious.

I Was Communist Before It Was Fashionable

2008-03-19T19:37:00.000-07:00

The Ghost of Vladimir Lenin
Guest Columnist

Это - произвол! Or, as you may say in English, “this is an outrage!” There’s nothing I dislike in this cruel, conformist society more than bandwagoners, besides of course that despicable wretch of a man, Tsar Alexander III. Oh, if only my forlorn brother had been successful in his ultimately futile attempt to sever that man’s head and parade through the streets of Kokushinko with that horrific tsarist mug on a pike. But I’m not here to rant upon the ills of an evil capitalist society founded by contemptible fools and run by pigs. Frankly, I’m ashamed of my own people. These days, I can’t float around Moscow in my supernatural, undead state without seeing the Hammer and Sickle flag flying around. Being communist is basically the “охладите новую вещь,” or “cool new thing that everyone seems to be doing these days.” But the fact of the matter is, I was communist way before it was fashionable.
Look, I’m not trying to claim that I invented communism or something crazy like that. Up until my father’s untimely death of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1886, I was just as ignorant and feeble-minded as the subhuman American plebians that I would grow to despise with the strength of 1,000 Siberian wind storms. As a teenager, I could barely tell the difference between a totalitarian system of government in which a single authoritarian party controls state-owned means of production, a final stage of society in Marxist theory in which the state has withered away and economic goods are distributed equitably, and my mother’s favorite yak, Olga! But soon I familiarized myself with the teachings of Marx, turned Das Kapital into my own personal Bible, and took up my new hobby of preaching the values of communism to the oppressed working class and spreading propaganda for the Marxist party like butter on a delicious dish of Moscow Ponchiki. Meanwhile, while the подобный свинье, царь, любящий дураков, or “swine-like, tsar-loving fools” that made up my graduating class were busy immersing themselves in the pointless exercises of the incompetent like having icicle fights and pursuing luscious Russian woman, I was jotting down ideas in my notebook involving the brutal, violent overthrow of the royal family and the creation of a utopian society in which I ruled over all. Nobody believed in my except myself and several thousand violent proletariats that chose to take up arms with me.
I mean, who else has the intestinal fortitude to undergo and period of exile in Switzerland out of their sheer love for the communist party? Nobody. Just me. I was writing State and Revolution and detailing my plans for a new form of government based on workers’ councils elected and revocable at all moments by the workers while that airheaded Trotsky and his ludicrous Bolsheviks were prancing around in Petrograd like a bunch of fools. Communism was so unpopular at the time that people like Fanya Kaplan of the Socialist Revolutionary Party were trying to kill me solely for the reason that I was the head of the Soviet state!
Well, from my body’s current position in the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow, I’ve seen a lot of supposedly loyal communists come by and visit. All of the прохладные дети, or “cool kids” are parading around in their bright red attire and worshiping Stalin like a god. There’s really nothing dangerous or controversial about that. They are just sheep, and I am the forgotten shepherd. I suppose I always was a bit of a trendsetter.

The Tides of Love

2008-03-15T16:05:00.000-07:00

As many of you out there in the wide world of interwebs may have heard through the grapevine (a grapevine that now undoubtedly extends through most of the seven continents, to the point where penguins in the South Pole are giggling with shock and disbelief at human folly), a certain Michael D. Rex has been unjustly accused of violating the gaping orifice of a sea anemone in a lusty and contemptible manner. Presented below is the actual account of what happened, proving that it was not the story of a man's brain being lodged into his now polka-dotted, rash infested penile canal but actually a deeply moving tribute to interspecies love. This movie "The Tides of Love" essentially proves that the omnipotent forces of love are not restricted to humans, but can extend to all forms of life. I can attest: I once engaged in a steamy, sordid love affair with an amoebic cell cluster in a package of six month old cottage cheese.
The bittersweet affair, presented below in all of its unabashed, shameless beauty.

Declaration of Cannibalhood

2007-12-12T20:42:00.001-08:00

After years of waiting to exploit my alleged persecution and bitch about a greater authority striving to bring me down, I've finally become a minority. A minority even more minor than the many minorities that complain about how minor they are and have festive celebrations to demonstrate their pride while moaning about aforementioned minor status. I am a cannibal.
Now, before you find your panties firmly lodged into a Windsor Triple Knot, allow me to issue this disclaimer to expunge your suspicions that I may one day impale you with a giant salad fork and drink your blood from that goblet that I bought from TJ Maxx: I haven't actually ingested human flesh yet. Well, I haven't INTENTIONALLY ingested human flesh yet. Finding a solitary thumb lodged in my Wendy's Dollar Menu Baked Potato and gobbling it with the voracity of a famished vulture does not make me a perverse, psychotic man-eater (Nelly Furtado is also a cannibal). I makes me an opportunist, who, when presented with a freshly cooked human thumb packed with a delicious cartridge of cartilage, merely took what he was granted by what had to have been none other than a benevolent Cannibal God.
When it comes to being misunderstood and shunned by society, cannibals blow every other minority out of the water, and then marinate their flesh and serve it on a golden platter at the Annual Cannibal's Ball. Sure, blacks have slavery and segregation when they need a crutch to justify their propensity for Supermanning Hos, and the Jews feel the need to bring up the Holocaust every time I mention that I wouldn't mind sticking them in an oven. But here's the thing: The Nazi's cooked Jews merely for the simple pleasure that Jew-cooking brings, not as part of an elaborate barbeque in which no body parts were wasted and weenis was considered the equivalent of Jello. Cannibals have never gotten the pity points that are so profusely bestowed upon other persecuted minorities. What kind of universe do we leave in when Hannibal Lecter is considered to be a villain? He's a HERO, people. He doesn't waste a fresh carcass on some desolate graveyard destined to be looted by the real criminals. What makes Jeffery Dahmer and Albert Fish "serial killers?" They're just opportunists, much like myself and the entire cannibal community.
Look, before you go making snap judgments about cannibalism, consider this:
-Human flesh, much like Gatorade, restores electrolytes and replenishes the body. So next time you are feeling tired during your soccer game, don't bother with a fruity energy drink. Just find a pudgy mom in the stands and take a bite out of her arm.
-In many cultures, to have your skin consumed at the Village Feast was considered a higher form of flattery than imitation.
If one day you find yourself the victim of a terrible avalanche and as a result are mired in a cave with four other people and little hope for escape, maybe you too will understand the simple pleasures of feasting on the bodies of humans, alive or dead.
Amongst oppressed minorities, they say that gay is the black. Then what does that make 'cannibal'? Something like a Jew, Mexican, Black, Gay, Retarded, Elderly Paraplegic all rolled into one. It's hard out here for a cannibal.
I urge you, people: Save the cannibals.

The Weekly Editorial

2007-11-24T12:05:00.001-08:00

Is This Bible Edible?

By Mudama of Kenya
Dear God: Are you there? It's me, Mudama. I'm so . . .hungry. My stomach is the size of a pinto bean, and if I eat more than one grain of rice a day, my mom says that there is a chance that I might explode like Masika. Everywhere I look, people are dying and suffering, except the town glutton, Wimbo, who had the nerve to stuff his face with five grains of rice yesterday while his wife was forced to eat the mud off the riverbank.
After all, gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, right? It says right here, in the Bible that Bono paid for with his charity concert. It's an interesting read, most definitely. However, when I heard that a group of missionaries had come to save us from our devastating plight of famine and misery, I assumed that they would be bringing food. But when they got here, all that they had were bibles.
At first, me and my fellow tribesman rejoiced, when we discovered that we could, in fact, tear the pages from the Bible and eat them, but the rough paper wouldn't go down smoothly, and after Omosede died from choking on Matthew5:38-40, we realized that, despite our lack of education of education and 90% illiteracy rate, we were expected to READ these mysterious documents. Luckily, I am the only child in the village who knows the English alphabet, so I was able to understand this "Bible." I found it very enlightening. I learned many interesting things about the fallacies of human nature and the devastating consequences of sin. I learned to be a more spiritual person, and to maintain my faith in a greater God. However, I did not learn how to draw water from the poisonous Makato bush, which would be a great service, for my weekly ration of water has run out, and we were forced to kill a buffalo and drink from its intestines to survive.
I wish some of the other villagers had bibles. For example, Matthew 5:7 reads "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy." Perhaps if Okomeke knew that, he wouldn't have killed his entire family over a donut that was left behind by the missionaries. Murder is not encouraged in the bible.
I don't want to sound ungrateful, God, but please, next time at least send a snack along with the new set of Bibles.
Sincerely,
Mudama

All the World Needs Is More Amusing T-shirts.

2007-11-22T18:16:00.001-08:00

There is a moment, say the great intellectuals, (I don't actually know any great intellectuals, but I read their blogs), when one finds themselves thrust unexpectedly into the presence of genius so staggeringly massive that it serves to reduce every other humble plebian inhabiting the world of creativity to a tightly rolled ball of helplessness, tautly contorted into the fetal position and questioning their worth in this cruel world. That's exactly how I felt when I went on Busted Tee's.com (YOUR NUMBER ONE SOURCE FOR IRONIC T-SHIRTS!!!) and I happened to find this:

In a word: Brilliance.
In 56 words: There are few things more difficult than making a legitimately funny t-shirt. (An illegitimately funny t-shirt is a funny t-shirt that has been bastardized, so nobody wants to wear it.) And by golly Busted Tees, you have scaled the summit of the Ironic T-Shirt Rushmore and boldly engraved your snarky glibness into its pyrite walls.
And I would know: Tragically unfunny tees are like my kryponite. Every time I see some kid wielding a trombone and wearing a Napoleon Dynamite "give me your tots" shirt, a little part of me shrivels up and dies like a snail that has just been doused in salt by a curious, slightly sadistic eight year old (I had to try it once.)
Some shirts are just harsh. There's no greater wound to your ego seeing some kid whose shirt is adorned with some curiously nondescript font, only to find that his shirt says something along the lines of "Kill yourself, dipshit." That's just mean. I don't even see where the funny comes in. That's fine, though. I always get the last laugh in those situations by running to the Sarcastic Tees section of Kohl's and urinating all over the "Sister For Sale" section. Hah! Just wait until you unwittingly prance around school coated in my dried urine, Ironic Shirt Guy!
That's why I propose a more direct approach to T-shirt making. Like, a company called Degrading Tees, Inc. that pumps out fabrics with such gems as "You are a retard" printed across the chest. That would really clear up any confusion. One day I plan on founding Conversation Starter Tees, a company that produces clothing designed for no other purpose other than to start discussions. C'mon, if you saw somebody walking around in a shirt that said "Ask About My Crippling Illness," you are going to ask about that illness. I could make a shirt that says "Jesus WAS My Homeboy," just to score pity points with people asking what Jesus did to me to produce a falling-out so epic I felt like advertising it.
Really, I feel like great t-shirts are a true rarity in this world. Amusing T-shirts are the key to world peace. Just imagine if President Bush showed up to spearhead discussions with a North Korean diplomat wearing this work of art:

Someday, someone should change that. I would, but I'm still getting free Showtime (Weeds! Californication! The best shows you don't feel like watching!) and Cinemax (Witches of Breastwick) for three more weeks. The revolution will have to wait.

From the Author of "Killer Shampoo Bottle" Comes .. . .

2007-11-12T20:20:00.001-08:00

(Please Cujo, spare me your slobbery puppy kisses of doom!)
Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if there is anything that Stephen King hasn't made evil yet. . . or made the subject of a 900 page novel WITH A TWIST! I would never accuse the mastermind behind the penning of the Shawshank Redemption and the Shining of being a hack, but he's made a solid case for himself with his transparently desperate mission to systematically transform every inanimate object into the subject of some child's darkest nightmare.
I imagine that somewhere, framed along with a lifetime's worth of accumulated prestige that feeds off of briefly sustained bursts of focus that contain the vivacity of a sea monkey with the common cold, there lies a checklist of every single appliance, personality type, location or creature with which Stephen King has ever come into contact. 75% of the list is adjacent to a inkspot signifying the accomplished transformation of said object to the dark side.
-Saint Bernards: Check
-Cars: Check.
-Struggling writers: Check.
-Clowns: Check.
-Giant spiders: Check.
-Psychic black men with uncanny healing powers: Check.
-High school girls: Check.
-Small town sheriffs: Check.
-Vending machines: Check.
-Ass weasels from outer space: Check.
I can only imagine what will next emerge from the fertile capaciousness of Stephen King's increasingly less terrifying realm of thought.
Coming in 2008: -A blender that doesn't just convert fruit into a delicious smoothie . . .IT CONVERTS SOULS IN SATAN'S SERVANTS!!!
-A stinkbomb that transforms into the shape of the victims most haunting affliction. .. .its The Smell of Fear!
-A pillow that feeds on nightmares!
R.I.P, horror writing genre. You had a decent run.

I'm Not Your Average Stapler

2007-11-11T16:45:00.001-08:00

By The OfficeMax 2250

Look, I know what you are thinking. It's probably something along the lines of "Ohh, look a stapler. What a convenient tool for me to bind my papers together with." Or maybe you're thinking "Hmmm . .. why is that stapler out? I have absolutely no use for a common stapler right now." But before you go jumping to conclusions, let me just stop you right there! Baby, I am not your average stapler.
I mean, technically I am a tool that that combines together sheets of paper or other materials by driving a thin metal staple through the sheets and folding over the ends to secure the paper. And yes, I am commonly found in offices, schools, and various other locations that need me to restore order and prevent a chaotic paper-anarchy in which essays, reports, or even children's love notes drift aimlessly about with no restrictions whatsoever. But I swear, I am not like those other staplers. While some staplers might require an excessively difficult application of pressure to effectively bind a document, I, the OfficeMax 2250, require only a gentle squeeze to give you the paper-connecting power that you need.
And I think we both know that you can't trust those other staplers in the long term. Sure, they seem strong and formidable at first, and you may think that they are the perfect stapler for you, but they're just going to fall apart eventually. Just when you think that you have found the perfect apparatus to permanently fasten your work, those staples will crumble apart, and you're just going to have another mess on your hands. But me? I'm not just here for a quick fix. I'm here to make a commitment in a way that other staplers just can't.
Look, I know I've failed you in the past. Who could possibly forget that time that I ran out of paper-containing pins just when you needed me most, when you had to turn in that vocabulary assignment by fourth period. But I swear I've changed. With my new booklet-stapling capabilities, I can rotate up to 90 degrees for vertical or horizontal stapling. I would have never been capable of such things in the past. And now, with my new OfficeMax upgrade, I contain up to 200 more staples, so I'll always be there when you need me most.
I'm just going to give it to you straight right now. I've seen the way you look at the new Thumb Activated Electric Stapler. I know that the OfficeMax 2130 Long Reach Stapler can reach places that I can't. But no matter what, I am the stapler for you.

What's This? By Golly, It's An Introduction!

2007-11-11T11:28:00.001-08:00

I was going to write an elaborate introduction detailing the fruitlessness of entering the deadly blogosphere (I like to imagine the blogosphere as a virtual war zone, with snarky comments and wry pop culture observations replacing car bombs and the resulting severed limbs, and people wearing sweats and gobbling Cheetohs replacing minorities and high school dropouts as the virtual warriors), but I came down with a crippling case of writers block, and an even more crippling case of syphillis, so I quit.
Basically, this blog will consist of recurring segements, as most blogs do. Most of these segments will be titled "blank" of the day. . .but they won't really be daily. I'm just wacky in that way. I also wear vibrant colors and buy whoopie cushions. There may be a Word of the Day one day, or an Observation of the Day, or an Innovative Porno of the Day. Okay, maybe not an innovative porno of the day, but thats just because clowns are scary .. . and even scarier when involved in a nine-person orgy involving a horse.
Either way, this blog will consist of things happening on days and being labeled accordingly. What more could a person ask for? Human interaction is overrated. I've entered the blogosphere now .. . .and its a jungle in here.