A Writing Primer

This is what makes for good writing.  Detailed details and documenting the character's thoughts in italics.  Readers appreciate the insight.  Note how this story comes to life!
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Stephen took the previously frozen pizza out of the oven.

This pizza used to be in the fucking freezer.

He managed to escape third degree burns on his right hand (his preferred hand) by using an oven mitt.

I'm glad I'm not some left-handed fuck.  Fucking puffy oven mitt.

The oven mitt was black and made from a puffy fabric. Stephen assumed the oven mitt had certain flame retardant properties. He thought about the oven mitt's flame retardant properties as he stuck his hand into the oven to retrieve his previously frozen pizza.

This fucking thing better protect my fucking hand.  I'd better not get third-degree burns, motherfucker.

The directions on the backside of the pizza box indicated that the pizza should be baked for eighteen to twenty-one minutes at a temperature of four-hundred degrees.

Fucking eighteen to twenty-one fucking minutes.  Figures.  I don't have eighteen to twenty-one fucking minutes.

The pizza had approximately fifteen pepperoni looking things sitting on top.

Fifteen Pepperoni looking things.  You fuckers.

Stephen assumed these were, in fact, pepperonis. This could have been an elaborate ruse by the Nestle corporation to deceive him. He thought about the possibilities of this conspiracy as he cut the pizza into eight equal slices with his pizza cutter.

I bet these aren't actual pepperonis.  Nestle fuckers.  Just like the World Trade Center towers weren't actually hit with actual planes.  Muslim fuckers.

He bought this particular pizza cutter at a local grocery store. The grocery store has since gone out of business and the contents were liquidated at a sheriff's auction.

Fucking sheriff and his fucking auction.  Fuck him and the horse he rode.  Fuck horses too.

Motor City Masters

This show is doomed. It's called 'Motor City Masters,' so naturally it takes place in Los Angeles - affectionally dubbed, 'The Motor City.'  The show has some guy, some lady in a fucked-up hat, and that chick from the 'Dog Eat Dog' gameshow that nobody watched.  'Motor City Masters' follows the same format as every reality competition show you've ever seen in your entire life, so there's no point in complaining about each thing that bothers me

Here's a short list of things that bother me:

1) A different contestant leaves each week thanks to judges nobody has ever heard of based on criteria that nobody understands.

2) Then there's the private interviews. They're just like MasterChef, but without Gordon Ramsey and blurry fruits and vegetables in the background. They usually tell you how badly they want to win.

"I want to win so bad that I can [taste/feel/touch/smell/annoy/aggravate/murder/lick] it.  Incidentally, is it bad or badly?"

"I want to win so bad that I'm experiencing chest discomfort and am having problems with shortness of breath.  Oh wait, never mind, it's a heart attack."

"Your wheels look like shit." says the lady with the fucked-up hat.

Sometimes they tell you what just happened five seconds ago, which is very helpful.

"That lady with the fucked-up hat told me the car's wheels looked like shit.  My wheels don't look like shit!  Maybe a rocks glass full of vomit, but not shit.  Oh, by the way, can you get the medic?"

But the show is not without merit - next week we get to see that lady wear a different fucked up hat. This may be the first show where I actually look forward to the GEICO commercials.

The Cult - A YouTube Retrospective

Our first history lesson begins here.  From 1985.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCOSPtyZAPA

Here, the record company bought everybody lunch in order to keep costs low during the production of this one. Some pizzas for the crew and a salad for Ian Astbury, who does his best Steven Tyler impersonation.

This is especially impressive because it would be years before Steven Tyler became Steven Tyler.  Incidentally, Tyler traded his last $20 bill for what turned out to be a small bag of baking powder, and finally, his last $1 bill for a hot dog at a Providence Chevron station.  Aerosmith was in ruins, the hot dog was stale - it was probably spinning for hours, and Joe Perry was busy being a stay-at-home dad changing Katy's diaper. Meanwhile, Tyler was swapping blow-jobs for drugs in bathroom stalls of dirty nightclubs across New England.

And, today's second lesson.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RD5b_0QB0wI

Aside from Astbury, who looks like a zombie authority figure, or, a zombie policeman about to write a parking ticket, the rest of the band comes out of filming a Bananarama video.  Fresh off the success of the previous video, the record company spent an extra $50 and hired some dancing transvestites.  They are featured prominently in this video.  They steal the show with their interpretive 60s dance, "A fly is dive-bombing my head - just a second."  They also have really long arms, like Bigfoot does in that famous video.

Promised Land - a movie review

This one has a lot of, uh, promise.  Yeah, that's the word I was looking for.  So let's jump in!

It stars Matt Damon as some guy who works for an evil corporation run by bald men.  Ben Affleck has been killed by Minnie Driver and she's in a women's prison serving 20 years to life.  After a lesbian, pillow fight scene that is completely incongruent, we jump to an expensive restaurant in a decadent big city.  Matt has lunch with a bald man from the evil corporation, Global something or other.  Global Amalgamated Diversified Holdings - a Textron ® company.

He explains much of the backstory, and orders a Lobster salad.  It seems he's good at talking to these country fucks because of years of therapy from Robin Williams, among other things.

The taxi driver takes Matt to the corner of 3rd street and Indiana avenue, whereupon he meets a hooker, and we have another uncomfortable sex scene.  It's very graphic, with Matt pulling a ball gag out of his carry-on, and the hooker beating Matt like the proverbial red headed step child.  That's all I'm going to say.

Next, we meet the Frances McDormand character.  She's in town investigating some malfeasance.  She rented a 1990 Ford Explorer from some guy named Eddie.  This part almost entirely killed my suspension of disbelief.  I mean, these stopped being rentals, like, a hundred years ago.  Like the Clint Eastwood character driving a 1965 Mustang Convertible in 'Trouble With the Curve.'  More like, 'Trouble With Incontinence.'

Then we're introduced to the Titus Welliver character, who runs a sex shop.  Matt attempts to pay for a dido with his corporate Amex card, Titus mumbles something about Deadwood, and angrily grabs the card.

Matt explains to this hayseed that Global will buy his family six months worth of frozen pizza dinners in exchange for his twenty acres.  The hayseed agrees to the deal.

Matt then has lunch with another bald man.  This man is particularly corrupt.  He sells out for a years worth of Snickers bars.

Matt gets drunk and picks up this chick.  Another weird sex scene follows.  Let's just say the audience was mortified.

 

Next we get the sanctimonious Hal Holbrook character.  He explains that he's a high school teacher.  Yeah sure, geriatric teachers.  That's it for me.  I stopped watching after that little gem.

I turned to Univision.  I don't understand Spanish, and that's fine by me.  It looked like they were having a Karaoke competition.

9/14/03

Once upon a time there was a boy named John.  He lived in a tree.  It was cold sometimes and sometimes it was hot.  This was okay with John because he had long underwear, a cell phone, and liquid nitrogen.  Sometimes he got hungry.  So, he ate birds and worms.  Catching worms was difficult because he never once came down from his tree.  So, he would poke a stick into the ground.  At some point years later he accidentally poked a youth in the eye.  The youth shot and killed John.

THE END

You're Going to Fucking Die Today

The flight attendant is explaining how to fasten a seatbelt when it occurs to me that we're not going to make it.  Despite our properly fastened seat belts.

We're going to fucking die.

And I vaguely look like the guy in 8A.  And the coroner will confuse us, my body will get sent to the wrong place, and a grieving child will say, "Dad doesn't look so good, Mommy.  Why does Daddy look so frightened?"

This causes me to laugh, which I cover up with my hand.

We're going to fucking die this afternoon!

"... if you are physically unable to wind a large rubber band please change seats with someone who can."

I laugh some more.  I cover it up harder.

"Blah.  Blah.  Blah."

The safety presentation continues.

"A group of small boys will twist the plane's rubber band and throw us into the air.  Please turn off all electronic devices during this procedure."

I reach into my back pocket to grab my phone and turn it off.

A plane just like ours sits next to us.  I stare out the window watching the captain make his pre-flight inspection.  He kicks a tire.  He spins one of the propellers.  It didn't fall off so I guess it passed.  He pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a big drink.  It must be almost empty since he's looking up at the clouds with the flask turned end over end.  He shakes it.  It's empty.

"... your seat can be used as a flotation device."

Good to know, but I'll be too busy screaming and drowning.

"Because this is a short flight, meals will not be served.  And the extra weight of the food may upset the plane's delicate balance and it could crash in a glorious fireball.  Of course you'll be dead by then so it won't matter."

Oh, God.  Glad I skipped breakfast.  The NTSB will thank my dead body.

I look around at the cabin.  This plane is about 100 years old.  This brass plaque on the flight deck door indicates that this plane was flown by the Wright brothers on their famous flight at Kitty Hawk.  I notice some duct tape on the inside of the fuselage.  I begin nervously picking at it.

"Sir, please stop that.  Otherwise we may crash.  And it will be your fault."

"Sorry."

 A few minutes pass.  Ginger begins her routine, once the plane levels out, above the first layer of clouds.  The Pacific ocean is to my right.  I've always wanted to crash into it.  Another bucket list item completed!

"Vodka?  Cigarette?"  the flight attendant asks.

"Both please."  I respond,

She hands me a clear plastic cup filled with vodka and uses tongs to drop an ice cube into the cup.  She hands me a cigarette, lights it, and asks the next passenger, "Vodka?  Cigarette?"

He responds, "No," and grabs his knees with a tight grip.

The fool!  You know, this is how you die.

I dump the Vodka in my mouth and swallow it.  I ask Ginger, who's still next to me, to top off my drink.  She obliges.

"Can I have another cigarette too?"

"Sure." says Ginger, as she flips the pack toward me.  A cigarette comes out and I take it.

She looks at me with an assuring smile and says, "You probably won't die today."

"Thanks."

Burgers and Funerals

I've reached an existential crossroads. Atheism just isn't doing it these days, Agnosticism is like a guy shrugging his shoulders when asked for directions, and all the major religions are clearly laughable.

So, I'm left with worshipping the Sun, a glass of water, or maybe this Hamburger from McDonald's. My opinion is that God killed himself a long time ago, which would explain his absence. He was a miserable guy anyway. Or, the alternate explanation is that he cares deeply, and, aside from dropping by to alter the outcomes of sporting events, he really doesn't intervene all that much. He lets somebody else take all the blame for a child getting cancer and instead takes all the credit if the kid recovers. This makes me think of the firefighter who sets the very blazes he later puts out in order to become a hero. The McDonald's Hamburger is looking pretty good.

So, we've eliminated all the major religions. I assume there's a minor religion that takes care of this little rogue-deity problem. Oh wait, we can blame Satan. Only Satan would give kids cancer and send Hurricanes into major population centers. Wait again. We never blame Satan for the weather. Instead we blame Mother Nature. Let that bitch take the rap.

Atheism has very little to say on just about every subject.

An Atheist's Eulogy

“Oh, let us pray for little Timmy. Actually, never mind. Little Timmy is in a better place. Forget that one too. I got nothing for ya. Little Timmy is dead now. Like that fern you stuck in the corner and kept forgetting to water. Except the fern is obviously going to Heaven. We can't say the same for Timmy.”

An Agnostic's Eulogy

“Oh, let us pray for little Timmy. An un-named deity gave him Cancer. If I was a betting man I'd say that little Timmy is in a better place now, but we'll never know for sure. All we can really say for sure is that we won't hear anymore screaming.”

So, I guess we had to invent religion in order to fill up all the extra air-time at funerals. So, when you see me bringing McDonald's Hamburgers to a funeral, please understand that I'm paying my respects the best way I know how.