Mr. Tiddles claimed a brush gave him the closest shave, but his friends all thought it was just an affectation.
Friday, March 30, 2007
I've Been Sick
I've had some sort of deathcold this last week, so I haven't been posting anything. But in the meantime, to keep you occupied, here's a picture of a cat shaving.
Mr. Tiddles claimed a brush gave him the closest shave, but his friends all thought it was just an affectation.
Mr. Tiddles claimed a brush gave him the closest shave, but his friends all thought it was just an affectation.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Hey, I'm on Gawker!
No, I wasn't spotted in a heated argument with Milo Ventimiglia outside of DaSilvano or canoodling with Martha Stewart in the secret bottle-service back room of a Duane Reade (bet you didn't know they had them, did you?).
Actually, I wrote something for Gawker's regular Looking at the Look Book feature. Here's the bit (my friend Jack Kukoda also wrote something for this installment). And here's the original New York Magazine Look Book (you might want to read that first).
Thanks to the ever-awesome Ritch Duncan for referring me.
Actually, I wrote something for Gawker's regular Looking at the Look Book feature. Here's the bit (my friend Jack Kukoda also wrote something for this installment). And here's the original New York Magazine Look Book (you might want to read that first).
Thanks to the ever-awesome Ritch Duncan for referring me.
Recycling Center: Jest Edition
Way back during the last gasp of Jest Magazine (at that point, Jest.com) I wrote three installments of what was intended to be a weekly column, called "Dan McCoy's Can't Miss Movie Pitch."
Well, Jest died soon thereafter, but when I was sifting through the archives this morning (because I'm too lazy to write something new) I found this fourth, previously unpublished piece. It's honestly not that great, but for any Jest completists out there-- and I know they don't exist-- it's gold!
--
Well, Jest died soon thereafter, but when I was sifting through the archives this morning (because I'm too lazy to write something new) I found this fourth, previously unpublished piece. It's honestly not that great, but for any Jest completists out there-- and I know they don't exist-- it's gold!
--
MEMO
To: Big Hollywood Studio Guys
From: Dan McCoy
RE: Beetle Bailey: The Movie
The enormous success of Garfield: The Movie illustrates that newspaper comic properties can mean big bucks, even if said comics were only really popular twenty years ago (or more). With that in mind, I've acquired the rights to Mort Walker’s Beetle Bailey, the lighthearted tale of a congenitally lazy army private, and his criminally abusive superior officer.
I believe that a Beetle Bailey movie could provide even better returns than Garfield, for two reasons:
- In light of the current conflict in Iraq, more and more Americans are asking themselves, “Hey. What’s Beetle Bailey doing these days?”
- As all of the major characters are human, there is no need for the sort of expensive CGI used to bring Garfield to life. Maybe for Miss Buxley’s breasts.
Our story: As we open, the gang is mourning the death of Lt. Flap, Camp Swampy’s only black soldier, who was first to be sent to Iraq. But their grief is cut short, as the rest of the unit is soon ordered to follow. Each reacts to this development in unique and hilarious ways.
- Plato, who only joined the army to finance his Masters in Philosophy from William and Mary, writes a series of passionate editorials decrying army recruitment techniques, which end up getting cut down to a two-line joke for “Humor in Uniform.”
- Killer, the ladies man, is detained by the Iraqi police, for trying to peek under a burqa.
- Country boy Zero loses his faith in both God and men.
- Lieutenant Peachfuzz, the comical by-the-book suck-up, is fragged by his subordinates.
Meanwhile, back stateside, Miss Buxley takes a lot of showers for no reason.
One thing becomes clear, after nearly sixty years off active duty at Camp Swampy, the gang is woefully unprepared for combat. In a dramatic montage—scored either to Buffalo Springfield’s “For What it’s Worth” or Rick Dees’s “Disco Duck (I haven’t decided)—Beetle is cut down in a hail of gunfire, a human insect crushed for all our sins.
Once home, Sergeant Snorkel falls into alcoholism, tortured by thoughts that his time would’ve been better spent teaching Beetle to operate an automatic weapon, rather than beating him for failing to dig ditches. Beetle’s mother (who, in a surprise reveal, is Mary Worth) stations herself outside General Halftrack’s Texas ranch, refusing to leave until he takes responsibility for the death of her son. In a touching rapprochement, the General embraces Ms. Worth, and—after divorcing his shrewish wife, Martha—the two of them are married, in a symbolic joining of the military and the peace movement.
That is, until General Halftrack gropes Miss Buxley, and the marriage is annulled.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
In Which I Blow the Lid Off a Cartoon Industry Secret
In certain rare cases, cartoon children and teens can grow up into human celebrities. For instance, did you know that she...
...became her?
Likewise, this burger enthusiast...
...grew up to be this gentleman:
Last, and perhaps most shockingly, this...
...became this:
IT'S A FACT!
...became her?
Likewise, this burger enthusiast...
...grew up to be this gentleman:
Last, and perhaps most shockingly, this...
...became this:
IT'S A FACT!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
Jokes may come and go, but rejection is eternal...
In an interview, Naomi Campbell says that yoga and anger management classes have helped her calm down, saying, “It’s amazing how calming it can be, to stretch and twist the body of my assistant.”
This year's MTV Movie Awards will feature a new category called "Best Movie Spoof," which will award the best original movie parody by fans, and prove there’s no limit to the things America can put snakes on.
The University of Illinois voted to retire their Indian mascot Chief Illiniwek. His retirement will be spent in a series of ever-smaller closets, until school expansion forces him to be donated to a local casino.
Attorney General Alberto Gonzales on Tuesday admitted, "mistakes were made," in the firings of eight top prosecutors, while Democrats threatened to subpoena whomever the passive voice referred to.
The Senate voted 89 to 9 Wednesday to begin its first formal debate on the Iraq war since Democrats took control of Congress in January. And whoever wins gets to go to the national debate team finals in… Washington D.C.? What a rip.
It was reported that Scarlett Johansson may play the lead role in a stage revival of South Pacific, leading thousands of men to volunteer to be washed right out of her hair.
Court TV has announced that it will change its name in January since most of its line-up has little to do with the courtroom. So next year, keep an eye out for its new name, “Reruns of ‘Cops’ TV.”
A man in Montana told police that he was not to blame for crashing his truck into a light post, since a unicorn was driving at the time. The unicorn became distracted after passing motorists encouraged the truck driver to honk his horn.
Angelina Jolie arrived in Vietnam on Wednesday where she is expected to adopt a 3 year-old boy, or, possibly, three one-year-old boys.
France's highest court annulled the country's only same-sex marriage this week, ruling that "under French law, marriage is a union between a man and a woman." Because if anyone’s for protecting the sanctity of marriage, it’s the French.
In an interview, Naomi Campbell says that yoga and anger management classes have helped her calm down, saying, “It’s amazing how calming it can be, to stretch and twist the body of my assistant.”
This year's MTV Movie Awards will feature a new category called "Best Movie Spoof," which will award the best original movie parody by fans, and prove there’s no limit to the things America can put snakes on.
The University of Illinois voted to retire their Indian mascot Chief Illiniwek. His retirement will be spent in a series of ever-smaller closets, until school expansion forces him to be donated to a local casino.
Attorney General Alberto Gonzales on Tuesday admitted, "mistakes were made," in the firings of eight top prosecutors, while Democrats threatened to subpoena whomever the passive voice referred to.
The Senate voted 89 to 9 Wednesday to begin its first formal debate on the Iraq war since Democrats took control of Congress in January. And whoever wins gets to go to the national debate team finals in… Washington D.C.? What a rip.
It was reported that Scarlett Johansson may play the lead role in a stage revival of South Pacific, leading thousands of men to volunteer to be washed right out of her hair.
Court TV has announced that it will change its name in January since most of its line-up has little to do with the courtroom. So next year, keep an eye out for its new name, “Reruns of ‘Cops’ TV.”
A man in Montana told police that he was not to blame for crashing his truck into a light post, since a unicorn was driving at the time. The unicorn became distracted after passing motorists encouraged the truck driver to honk his horn.
Angelina Jolie arrived in Vietnam on Wednesday where she is expected to adopt a 3 year-old boy, or, possibly, three one-year-old boys.
France's highest court annulled the country's only same-sex marriage this week, ruling that "under French law, marriage is a union between a man and a woman." Because if anyone’s for protecting the sanctity of marriage, it’s the French.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Of Death, Breasts, and Court TV
So, speaking of bad movies, I host a semi-regular bad movie night for friends. Last year, on Kentucky Derby day (don't look for a reason for the scheduling, because there is none), I screened Hard Ticket to Hawaii, which turned out to be a great favorite of the regular attendees.
Flash forward to this week, when I learned some tragic news. Here's an excerpt from the email I sent to friends:
"I'm sad to inform you all that Andy Sidaris, auteur behind past movie night favorite Hard Ticket to Hawaii, died yesterday at the age of 76. One can only hope that he passed away peacefully, surrounded by busty former Playboy models (brandishing bazookas), and perhaps a giant rubber snake."
Anyway, the news inspired my friend Ritch Duncan, former editor of Jest Magazine and current funny stand-up, to write this piece for the Court TV blog.*
R.I.P. Andy Sidaris. May flights of nipples sing thee to thy rest.
*Raising the obvious question, "Court TV has a blog?"
Flash forward to this week, when I learned some tragic news. Here's an excerpt from the email I sent to friends:
"I'm sad to inform you all that Andy Sidaris, auteur behind past movie night favorite Hard Ticket to Hawaii, died yesterday at the age of 76. One can only hope that he passed away peacefully, surrounded by busty former Playboy models (brandishing bazookas), and perhaps a giant rubber snake."
Anyway, the news inspired my friend Ritch Duncan, former editor of Jest Magazine and current funny stand-up, to write this piece for the Court TV blog.*
R.I.P. Andy Sidaris. May flights of nipples sing thee to thy rest.
*Raising the obvious question, "Court TV has a blog?"
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
In Which I Reimagine a Motion Picture Ad Campaign
Last night I was having a drink with friends, after going to see the excellent Korean monster movie The Host. Talk turned (as it usually does, with me) to bad movies. My buddy Simon mentioned that he hated the tag line to the recent non-smash-hit Hannibal Rising. The poster is reproduced below (letters enlarged for readability).
He pointed out that, by definition, something can't start with revenge. So I suggested an alternate tag line:
Or, if they wanted to inject a little bit of comics page whimsy, how about a word balloon:
Then again, with the mask on, it would probably sound more like:
In the end, we decided on brutal honesty:
Oh, with deft Photoshopping skills like this, it's a wonder that I'm still a low-paid temp.
He pointed out that, by definition, something can't start with revenge. So I suggested an alternate tag line:
Or, if they wanted to inject a little bit of comics page whimsy, how about a word balloon:
Then again, with the mask on, it would probably sound more like:
In the end, we decided on brutal honesty:
Oh, with deft Photoshopping skills like this, it's a wonder that I'm still a low-paid temp.
Friday, March 09, 2007
I Respond to a Blog Challenge
So, for the very first time, I have been issued a blog challenge. The lovely Fuse#8, Newbery Medal panelist and children's librarian extraordinare, has tasked me to re-write this (go read) and make it funny.
Oy. I try and limit my bad-mouthing of people to no more than 126 times a month, and Paul Rudnick and I have tangled before (well, insomuch as me attacking him via a one-sided blog post, while he's busy taking a limousine to his second limousine which takes him to his limousine-encrusted mansion, all the while being unaware of my existence counts as "tussling"). However, this seems to me to be a particularly egregious Shouts and Murmurs for two reasons.
1.) It's of that S&M family wherein a writer stumbles upon some soft news item in the back of Newsweek, takes 10 seconds to get the gist of it, then writes 500 completely un-trenchant words on the subject, while giving the impression that we should be grateful that he deigns to focus his Olympian wit on this wrongheaded nook of modern life. Oh the foibles! THE FOIBLES!
2.) He's making the same smutty joke over and over. (a) Find children's book (b) insert dirty word (c) repeat. In effect, he's simply playing the old porn movie title game-- hey everyone! Saving Private Ryan is now Saving Ryan's Privates! Ha Ha! Rudnick is dabbling in the job that hardworking porn screenwriters do everyday, without mainstream respectability or New Yorker cachet. They're the true heroes.
Anyway, considering that this is clearly a one-joke premise, the best strategy is to get in and get out. No point in using 500 words, when brevity is the s of w. With that in mind, I've re-written the piece, focusing only on the titles. Sure that turns my version into a simple list, and lists are the lowest form of comedy writing (although I've certainly done my share). But at least it doesn't belabor things.
Is it funnier? I don't know. I honestly didn't want to spend more than 10 minutes on it. But it's better than Marci X.
* * *
The Barenstein Bares Go to Nudist Camp
The Little Snatch Girl
This One's Pretty Much Porn for Teens, by Judy Blume
Dear Mr. Henshaw 2: Mom Said I Shouldn't Write to Adults on MySpace, but...
Johnny Tremendouscrotum
The Monster at the End of My Pants
Blueballs for Sal
Amelia Bedelia Misunderstands What it Means to "Butter the Muffin"
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
* * *
Okay. I feel dirty now. I promise not to work blue for a year.
Oy. I try and limit my bad-mouthing of people to no more than 126 times a month, and Paul Rudnick and I have tangled before (well, insomuch as me attacking him via a one-sided blog post, while he's busy taking a limousine to his second limousine which takes him to his limousine-encrusted mansion, all the while being unaware of my existence counts as "tussling"). However, this seems to me to be a particularly egregious Shouts and Murmurs for two reasons.
1.) It's of that S&M family wherein a writer stumbles upon some soft news item in the back of Newsweek, takes 10 seconds to get the gist of it, then writes 500 completely un-trenchant words on the subject, while giving the impression that we should be grateful that he deigns to focus his Olympian wit on this wrongheaded nook of modern life. Oh the foibles! THE FOIBLES!
2.) He's making the same smutty joke over and over. (a) Find children's book (b) insert dirty word (c) repeat. In effect, he's simply playing the old porn movie title game-- hey everyone! Saving Private Ryan is now Saving Ryan's Privates! Ha Ha! Rudnick is dabbling in the job that hardworking porn screenwriters do everyday, without mainstream respectability or New Yorker cachet. They're the true heroes.
Anyway, considering that this is clearly a one-joke premise, the best strategy is to get in and get out. No point in using 500 words, when brevity is the s of w. With that in mind, I've re-written the piece, focusing only on the titles. Sure that turns my version into a simple list, and lists are the lowest form of comedy writing (although I've certainly done my share). But at least it doesn't belabor things.
Is it funnier? I don't know. I honestly didn't want to spend more than 10 minutes on it. But it's better than Marci X.
* * *
The Barenstein Bares Go to Nudist Camp
The Little Snatch Girl
This One's Pretty Much Porn for Teens, by Judy Blume
Dear Mr. Henshaw 2: Mom Said I Shouldn't Write to Adults on MySpace, but...
Johnny Tremendouscrotum
The Monster at the End of My Pants
Blueballs for Sal
Amelia Bedelia Misunderstands What it Means to "Butter the Muffin"
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
* * *
Okay. I feel dirty now. I promise not to work blue for a year.
I Was on the Internets Radios Last Night
If you missed my appearance on Fist City last night, never fear. You can catch up by subscribing to the podcast. Do it! It's easy! I promise you! Just copy the xml link into iTunes, or your podcasting software of choice.
I appear in the last five minutes of the show. Unfortunately, due to the ever-loose start and end times of East Village Radio shows, and the ever-exact start and end times of their auto-podcasting set up, the last 30 seconds or so of my 4-5 minute appearance gets cut off. Mid-joke, actually.
So if you listen, and you want to hear what you missed, here it is.
(ahem. >spoilers<) * * *
* * *
And if you didn't listen to the show, if the former paragraph isn't intriguing, I don't know what is.
I appear in the last five minutes of the show. Unfortunately, due to the ever-loose start and end times of East Village Radio shows, and the ever-exact start and end times of their auto-podcasting set up, the last 30 seconds or so of my 4-5 minute appearance gets cut off. Mid-joke, actually.
So if you listen, and you want to hear what you missed, here it is.
(ahem. >spoilers<) * * *
"...because then Muppet land developers come in, and then they wanna build walls all over it, and suddenly Miss Piggy's in a bikini, which is tragic. Personally, I feel this makes Muppets into second-class citizens, but what do I know? Anyway, to sum up, my screenplay for Ghost Rider 2: Wild Hogs Can’t be Broken is finished and ready to be bid on, big-time movie studios. I’ve sent a copy in the mail. I didn’t know the address, so I just wrote Hollywood on the envelope, but I’m sure it’ll get to you. Thanks."
* * *
And if you didn't listen to the show, if the former paragraph isn't intriguing, I don't know what is.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Dan Returns to Fist City TONIGHT
I've not done a lot of live comedy for a long while, as I've been working on a sure-to-be-unseen and unpurchased screenplay, but I'll be making an appearance on popular Internets radios series Fist City tonight, as the "guest essayist." What hijinx will result? Listen to East Village Radio tonight at nine and find out. Or subscribe to the podcast.
Who Wants to See a Video When You Can Hear a Sketch?
Here's something a little different. To celebrate the 131st-and-one-month anniversary of the patenting of the telephone, I present this audio sketch, written/edited/mixed by me (listen to it with headphones, for the full stereo effect), and featuring the vocal talents of Fed Hatoum and myself.
Profiles in History: The First Phone Call (Quicktime file)
Thanks to Fed for hosting the sketch on the Captains in Space site.
Profiles in History: The First Phone Call (Quicktime file)
Thanks to Fed for hosting the sketch on the Captains in Space site.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
In Which I Address the Board of Directors of My Snack Food Company
Gentlemen, I know that we here at Amalgamated Snack Items, Inc. have had a tough year. I, as your CEO, bear some responsibility for that. Primarily, I apologize for greenlighting Dr. Sodium's Pretzel Twistz, "With the Great Taste of Pure Sodium." I had hoped we could take on Nabisco's hugely popular "Mr. Salty Pretzels," but I failed to take into account that pure chemical sodium is a highly reactive alkali metal-- one which explodes when it comes in contact with water.
Again, I am sorry. The most cursory Internet search could have yielded that information, but I suppose I was caught up in the fever of getting the product to market, before Keebler's "Sgt. Potassium's Carb Bitz." Mea culpa.
However, before the board votes to oust me, I would like to unveil some of the delicious snack items that are in the planning stages for 2007. I feel confident that, once you hear my ideas, the precipitous stock plunge brought on by countless wrongful death suits will be a distant memory. Or, at least, it would be if I hadn't reminded you of it just now.
Ahem.
How many potato chips rehash the same tired flavors? Sour cream and onion. Barbecue. Salt and vinegar. Lately snackmakers have tried to jazz up the humble chip with spicy jalepeno, or buffalo wing flavors. But what about a truly new taste experience-- and I'm not talking a green tea chip for our Japantown franchises. What about a chip that makes you know what it's like to be a single mom trying to "make it" in New York City? It's the toughest job you'll ever love, gentlemen, and now it's the most rewarding chip you'll ever eat-- Ms. Potato'z Unmarried Starch-ums.
I'll let you digest that one for a bit, gentlemen-- although the chips themselves will be loaded with undigestable husband-snagging olestra-- and move on to the next treat.
Corn chips come in all a manner of shapes, from scoops to cones to puffy little footballs. Well, I suggest that the physical qualities of our chips take a quantum leap forward. Literally. And by literally, I mean that our chips will be made entirely of fried corn particles suspended in superposition. Gentlemen, I give you Schrödinger's Phyziks Chipz! The very existence of which are in flux until you open the bag. Are the chips there? Or is the bag empty? Think of the manufacturing savings if the bag is empty! Especially if we don't bother making any, and just claim the very act of having a snack attack caused the consumer to observe the chips, making them disappear.
I can see that the last snack idea might be a little highbrow for you. So what about this one-- Fried Manta Ray Rindz. Now, hear me out. Pork rinds are just flash-fried pork skin, but the skin is a tiny part of the pig's total mass, making for a low ratio of return. However, Manta Rays are almost ALL surface area-- meaning that they're practically made of skin. Thus we can fry a whole manta ray, and feed an entire tailgating party on one lousy marine creature!
So what say you, gentlemen? Do I keep my job here at ASI?
Gentlemen?
Hmn. How odd that twelve fully-grown men would be able to leave this conference room without me noticing, even though I've been facing them, and speaking to them directly, the entire time.
Oh well, more manta rinds for me!
Again, I am sorry. The most cursory Internet search could have yielded that information, but I suppose I was caught up in the fever of getting the product to market, before Keebler's "Sgt. Potassium's Carb Bitz." Mea culpa.
However, before the board votes to oust me, I would like to unveil some of the delicious snack items that are in the planning stages for 2007. I feel confident that, once you hear my ideas, the precipitous stock plunge brought on by countless wrongful death suits will be a distant memory. Or, at least, it would be if I hadn't reminded you of it just now.
Ahem.
How many potato chips rehash the same tired flavors? Sour cream and onion. Barbecue. Salt and vinegar. Lately snackmakers have tried to jazz up the humble chip with spicy jalepeno, or buffalo wing flavors. But what about a truly new taste experience-- and I'm not talking a green tea chip for our Japantown franchises. What about a chip that makes you know what it's like to be a single mom trying to "make it" in New York City? It's the toughest job you'll ever love, gentlemen, and now it's the most rewarding chip you'll ever eat-- Ms. Potato'z Unmarried Starch-ums.I'll let you digest that one for a bit, gentlemen-- although the chips themselves will be loaded with undigestable husband-snagging olestra-- and move on to the next treat.
Corn chips come in all a manner of shapes, from scoops to cones to puffy little footballs. Well, I suggest that the physical qualities of our chips take a quantum leap forward. Literally. And by literally, I mean that our chips will be made entirely of fried corn particles suspended in superposition. Gentlemen, I give you Schrödinger's Phyziks Chipz! The very existence of which are in flux until you open the bag. Are the chips there? Or is the bag empty? Think of the manufacturing savings if the bag is empty! Especially if we don't bother making any, and just claim the very act of having a snack attack caused the consumer to observe the chips, making them disappear.
I can see that the last snack idea might be a little highbrow for you. So what about this one-- Fried Manta Ray Rindz. Now, hear me out. Pork rinds are just flash-fried pork skin, but the skin is a tiny part of the pig's total mass, making for a low ratio of return. However, Manta Rays are almost ALL surface area-- meaning that they're practically made of skin. Thus we can fry a whole manta ray, and feed an entire tailgating party on one lousy marine creature!
So what say you, gentlemen? Do I keep my job here at ASI?
Gentlemen?
Hmn. How odd that twelve fully-grown men would be able to leave this conference room without me noticing, even though I've been facing them, and speaking to them directly, the entire time.
Oh well, more manta rinds for me!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
In Which I Clarify Our Organization's Dress Code
Many of you have come to me with questions about our company's dress policy. Rather than spend any more time detailing it to individuals, I thought I would send a general memo, detailing appropriate dress for the following month, day-by-day. Please direct any further queries to Katherine (bowl of Twizzlers, near the restroom).
March:
Business Casual Monday
Business Casual Tuesday
Business Casual Wednesday
Business Casual Thursday
Casual Friday
Dressed-up Monday
Ratty Robe Tuesday (telecommuters)
Ratty Sweatshirt Wednesday (laundry day)
Lucky Socks Thursday
Lingere Friday (mandatory)
Dress Like Alan Thicke Monday
Only Sweater-Vests Tuesday
Fu-Manchu Wednesday
Uncle Scrooge Spats Thursday
Pashmina Diaper Friday
Toblerone Earmuffs Monday
Mitten-on-Feet, Sock-on-Hands Tuesday
19th Century Circus Strongman Wednesday
Visible Hernia Thursday
Creature of Energy and Light Friday
And, as always, though we do not work on the weekends, all employees are expected to remain nude, but for a plush shark suit, between the hours of 1:00 am Friday and 6:00 am Monday, and during all sexual intercourse.
Thank you.
March:
Business Casual Monday
Business Casual Tuesday
Business Casual Wednesday
Business Casual Thursday
Casual Friday
Dressed-up Monday
Ratty Robe Tuesday (telecommuters)
Ratty Sweatshirt Wednesday (laundry day)
Lucky Socks Thursday
Lingere Friday (mandatory)
Dress Like Alan Thicke Monday
Only Sweater-Vests Tuesday
Fu-Manchu Wednesday
Uncle Scrooge Spats Thursday
Pashmina Diaper Friday
Toblerone Earmuffs Monday
Mitten-on-Feet, Sock-on-Hands Tuesday
19th Century Circus Strongman Wednesday
Visible Hernia Thursday
Creature of Energy and Light Friday
And, as always, though we do not work on the weekends, all employees are expected to remain nude, but for a plush shark suit, between the hours of 1:00 am Friday and 6:00 am Monday, and during all sexual intercourse.
Thank you.
Pure Filler
Once again, I was a finalist over at Daniel Radosh's New Yorker Anti-Caption Contest. Someday, I will take the top prize, and will finally ascend to my rightful place as Secretary General of Making Fun of the New Yorker.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
Zango!...
Israel's chief rabbi said in a religious ruling Tuesday that Jews must not wear fur skinned from live animals in order to prevent cruelty to animals. As a replacement, they suggested a stylish “foreskin coat.”
Prime Minister Tony Blair announced Wednesday that he will start pulling British troops out of Iraq next month, or, to put it in terms they understand, a “fortnight.”
Gambia's President Yahya Jammeh is claiming that his concoction of green herbal paste and bananas can cure AIDS, although you don’t want to know where you put the bananas.
It was reported that Britney Spears shaved her head after a fight with Kevin Federline, in which he threatened to have her hair tested to find out what drugs she has been using, proving once again that there’s nothing more entertaining than watching these two outsmart each-other.
Archeologists unveiled the tombs Tuesday of a Pharaonic butler and a scribe that have been buried for more than 3000 years. A preliminary autopsy on the scribe indicates the butler did it.
A man who was fired by IBM for visiting an adult chat room at work is suing the company for 5 million dollars, claiming he is an Internet addict who deserves treatment and sympathy rather than dismissal, especially since he’s supporting a wife and three women who spell Cindi with an “I.”
Australian officials plan to restrict and eventually ban the sale of incandescent light bulbs in an effort to cut greenhouse gas emissions by 4 million tons by 2012, reduce household power bills by up to 66 percent, and dramatically limit the number of Australians required to screw in a lightbulb.
Bill Gates said this week that he limits the amount of time his 10 year-old daughter can spend on the computer to 45 minutes a day for games, and 2 hours for removing spyware
Friday, February 23, 2007
In Which I Hold Forth on Matters Cinematical
My Oscar Predictions:
The Academy Awards will occur. Probably sometime on Sunday, February 25th. I'm thinking evening-ish.
Some awards will be given to actors. Others will be given to technicians. Most of the technical awards won't be televised, but the tech nerds will be thrown a bone by having their Oscars hosted by some hot actress.
People will dress up. People will talk about people being dressed up. At least two of those people will be named Rivers. Unfortunately, neither will be Rivers Cuomo. Someday, Mr. Spectacles. Someday.
--
In other movie-related news, this weekend, The Number 23 will finally dramatize the horror of seeing the same number lots of places.
I dunno why more movies don't have a number as their antagonist. Don't you remember the thrills, when James Bond faced off against that menacing bunch of negative integers?
In other 23-related news, I clearly put approximately 23 seconds of thought into this post.
TERRIFYING!
The Academy Awards will occur. Probably sometime on Sunday, February 25th. I'm thinking evening-ish.
Some awards will be given to actors. Others will be given to technicians. Most of the technical awards won't be televised, but the tech nerds will be thrown a bone by having their Oscars hosted by some hot actress.
People will dress up. People will talk about people being dressed up. At least two of those people will be named Rivers. Unfortunately, neither will be Rivers Cuomo. Someday, Mr. Spectacles. Someday.
--
In other movie-related news, this weekend, The Number 23 will finally dramatize the horror of seeing the same number lots of places.
I dunno why more movies don't have a number as their antagonist. Don't you remember the thrills, when James Bond faced off against that menacing bunch of negative integers?
In other 23-related news, I clearly put approximately 23 seconds of thought into this post.
TERRIFYING!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
In Which I Publish an Excerpt From My Literary Correspondence
Dear School-Chum,
Here is that introduction you requested. Hope the rigors of the literary circuit aren't getting you down, Ha-ha. Best Wishes, D.M.
October 8, 2002 – Tuesday
When my dear old friend Sir Pelham Grenville "Matt" (Matty) Bartmes asked me to write the introduction to the revised edition of his classic novel I Strode Thusly, I was thrilled. Not as thrilled as I would have been if he had requested that I write the introduction to the first edition, but that honor went to Salman Rushdie. I know that Mr. Rushdie is more of a "draw" in the literary world than I, but one cannot help feeling a twinge of pique. Perhaps if the ties of friendship ran deeper than the allure of a juicy quote from some flash-in-the-pan, fatwa-inspiring bearded wonder, the world would be a better place. Perhaps not. I am no literary agent, nor have I been able to get one, but I understand that Mr. Rushdie's benediction may have increased sales of I.S.T.—or "Istrothus" as the critics have taken to calling it—up to 50%. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
Quibbles aside, I feel I am in the position to provide special insight into the work of my old school chum Matty (or Beany as we used to call him, for reasons that elude me at present). He and I shared lodgings through much of our time at university, and I was the inspiration for the character of Reginald in his seminal work Clytemnestra's Weal as well as appearing as a minor character, under my own name, in his latest work Sturm and Drang. (Though I protest the monstrous harelip he provided Reginald in the former, and the portrait of me as a fey, mincing vaudeville entertainer in the latter.) Besides his frequent house calls and our collaboration on a failed modernization of The Great Gatsby, West Egg Blues, he and I have been in semi-weekly correspondence since our commencement, although he insists on sending our communiqués via telegram. Although this leads to a certain terseness of tone, his sterling prose is still very much in evidence. I quote from his latest missive:
HEY. MINCING. LIP-FACE. STOP
HOW. ABOUT. PISSING. OUT. AN. INTRO? STOP
SIR. M.. STOP
P.S. HOWS. THE. GOUT?
He is my best friend in the world, dear reader. And the gout is fine.
* * * *
Beany and I first came to be acquainted in my level one literature class. I, of course, had noticed him before, as he cut a distinctive figure striding across campus in full evening wear, impeccably tailored, smoking a cheroot or occasionally a calabash pipe. Yet it was in his natural habitat, the English department of blessed Old Haverford U. (tucked away in a cozy nook of Lord Sigfried-Tonszon the Third [Esq.] Honorary Mess Hall) where he was impossible to ignore. I was drawn to him instantly, when on the very first day of class he engaged the professor in a heated argument regarding the authorship Shakespeare's plays. The professor believed the dramatist was actually Sir. Francis Bacon, while Beany maintained it was a four-year-old girl from Kent named "Althea." Although Beany's assertion was a marriage of surmise with the sheerest conjecture, I was impressed not only by the intellectual rigor of his argument, but by his shrill, piercing voice. From that moment on we were inseparable.
From the start, I was convinced of Beany's greatness. Certain that the intellectual development of this towering figure would be of great value to future generations, I pledged myself to be Boswell to his Dr. Johnson. Throughout my tenure at university, I kept a journal detailing my experiences with Sir B. Although he would occasionally feign displeasure with my assiduous documentation ("Get out from behind those bushes with that damned notebook" he would screech at me, in his marvelous, joking way), I knew that deep down he appreciated my diligence. I ask that the reader indulge me as I present some of my favorite moments from these memoirs. Perhaps the following anecdotes may help illuminate the machinations of his elegant mind.
ME: Matty, what did you think of the school's production of As You Like It?
SIR MATT: It could hardly have been LONGER though it was quite WIDE enough.
Sir Matt B. and I were strolling through the quad, when we were nearly run over by a cabal of cyclists. Keeping his presence of mind about him, Sir. Matt was at no loss for a droll rejoinder.
SIR MATT: Get a HORSE!
When I asked his opinion regarding Kant's postulate of the categorical imperative:
SIR MATT: It is IMPERATIVE that you remove your SLEEVE from my SOUP, right NOW.
I provided him a first draft of my novella, "Christmas Morn, 1903" for his appraisal, in preparation for my Q-Level exams. In true illustration of his generous spirit, he agreed to sit down and critique it with me.
ME: What do you think?
SIR MATT: My dear boy, you will never be a first-rate writer until you learn SHORTHAND.
ME: Is that a euphemism?
SIR MATT: I would be EUPH-ORIC if it was.
ME: I don't understand.
SIR MATT: You don't STAND at ALL.
ME: You didn't read it, did you?
SIR MATT: Not as SUCH.
When I tried to engage him on a point of logic one evening while drinking at the pub:
SIR MATT: BLEEECH (various vomiting noises)
Pour over these remarks, my dears, and all the secret songs of the angels will be revealed to you.
* * * *
As to the novel itself, what more can I say? It is what it is. For better or for worse, since it's publication in 1979, "Istrothus" has forever changed the face of American writing. It is a work of fierce originality, except for the first eight chapters, which are cribbed (more or less word-for-word) from Mellville's Moby Dick, and for great portions of the concluding chapter, which are lifted from Tom Brown's School Days with a lot of unnecessary sex scenes added. Thankfully, these portions of the novel are more or less ancillary to the main narrative, which is set in 18th Century France and is the story of a young man's discovery of the world, following his rejection of a well-paying position in his family's petticoat concern.
I Strode Thusly straddles the divide between Sir Matt's early "immature" work, (including his books Lamb of Plenty, Call to Me; Sunday's the Day for Dyeing; Knavery in the Nave, and the Dickensian serial My Horrid Childhood as well as his play, Lost: One Pound of Flesh) and his later "even more immature" work (such as his towering five-volume epistolary novel, The Irrational History of Wuzwardish M. Gort and his collection of short stories, A Change of Clothes).
It is a coming-of-age tale in the truest sense, the literal one. The novel concludes with Francois coming of the age 18 and inheriting the whole of his family's petticoat monies, wrapped in a lace model HJ5-8.9 (The Parisian Fluffer), in an ironic commentary about the futility of trying to escape the past. I hope I haven't spoiled the ending for anyone. If so, they still have all that pornographic Tom Brown stuff to wade through.
I have not had an opportunity to peruse the revised edition, as Beany's publisher still has it under lock and key, but I certainly hope Sir. Matt has taken this opportunity to omit some of the more "writerly" flourishes that I believe marred the first edition—for one, the overuse of footnotes, ranging from the sublime ("It was on that very thoroughfare that, one summer's morn in late October, the russet-colored wind had swept around me, collecting in limpid pools at my feet, spurring me, once and for all, to entreat absolution from Jessica for the death of her cat.") to the ridiculous ("My bologna has a first name; it's O-S-C-A-R"). If you'll pardon the expression, why should the reader give a good G—damn if the author's luncheon meat has a first name or not (a claim vis-à-vis I have my doubts)? And why footnote it? Especially in a passage concerned, as it is, with the tragic death of one of the main characters. I feel it is a sore miscalculation that I hope he has taken the occasion to correct.
In a like manner, I believe chapters 17-38 to be an abomination before all mankind. In the course of these 234 pages, Beany seems to have decided to open up his Dictionary of Literary Terms and choose one stylistic device to over-use, per each page. For instance, on page 129, apropos of nothing, he practically beats us over the head with alliteration: "Gustave's gustatory gusto was guarded as his guests gulped the gumbo, gurgling with gumption." What purpose could this possibly serve? Likewise, page 177 is dripping with the pathetic fallacy: "Marcel's pants gazed at him from across the room, challenging him to put them on. He threw open the boisterous curtains and gazed down on the lusty road below. The sun shrieked "Get on with it, Marcie!" as the timorous moon set in the north. He looked wistfully back at his angst-ridden bed." I am willing to accept the conceit that pants challenge you to put them on, but how can a road be lusty? And the moon set in the north?!
Also, we can only hope that every occurrence of the adjective "horny" has been stricken from this volume.
Dearest reader, I hope with all my heart that these problems have been addressed, yet I fear the changes focus less on form than on content. Allow me to explain: As the original novel was primarily a work of historical fiction, Beany opened himself up to an unprecedented number of attacks concerning the veracity of the period depicted, and I suspect this latest edition is a futile attempt to correct these inaccuracies.
Some errors:
pg. 3 "He walked into the Guggenheim Museum." The Guggenheim is in New York. Also it did not exist in the 1700s.
Pg. 49 "He licked her eye, as was the custom." It was not the custom.
Pg. 99 "Frenchy Crepes was dancing, while Frenchy Parlez-Vous watched silently from the back." No people by those names ever existed. Ever. Also, French people aren't all named "Frenchy."
And so on. Also, the whole subplot about manufacturing digital watches, which occupies a good part of the latter half of the book is, of course, approximately 200 years premature.
* * * *
What's ahead for Sir Matt? Perhaps we can allow our old friend to rest on his literary laurels for a while, now that he's acquired the knighthood he diligently (some might say "desperately") campaigned for all his life. Originally, Beany was set to be knighted posthumously; but, as our Queen so memorably said, "The little bugger won't die." (Indeed, Your Highness, indeed.) Since his knighthood was eventually bestowed while he still had the vigor to use it to full advantage, he has chosen to do so. In the months since his knighting, he has been using his influence to campaign for the inclusion of land mines in several third world countries. Also he has returned to the stage for a series of one-man shows, titled, I am told, Sir Sing-a-lot! He seems to be enjoying his semi-retirement. Yet when I receive telegrams from the man himself, he wistfully speaks of his one yet-unfinished project, the much-discussed Phantasmeroneroticon (although one must read between the lines to detect any actual mention of the book).
So, dear reader, all that remains is the book itself. If you have read it before, prepare to be delighted all over again. If you've never read it, prepare for rough waters ahead.
Warmly,
Professor Dan (iel) K. McCoy, Esq. Q.C., Ph.D. M.D., B.B.C., Literary Hanger-on
Here is that introduction you requested. Hope the rigors of the literary circuit aren't getting you down, Ha-ha. Best Wishes, D.M.
October 8, 2002 – Tuesday
When my dear old friend Sir Pelham Grenville "Matt" (Matty) Bartmes asked me to write the introduction to the revised edition of his classic novel I Strode Thusly, I was thrilled. Not as thrilled as I would have been if he had requested that I write the introduction to the first edition, but that honor went to Salman Rushdie. I know that Mr. Rushdie is more of a "draw" in the literary world than I, but one cannot help feeling a twinge of pique. Perhaps if the ties of friendship ran deeper than the allure of a juicy quote from some flash-in-the-pan, fatwa-inspiring bearded wonder, the world would be a better place. Perhaps not. I am no literary agent, nor have I been able to get one, but I understand that Mr. Rushdie's benediction may have increased sales of I.S.T.—or "Istrothus" as the critics have taken to calling it—up to 50%. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
Quibbles aside, I feel I am in the position to provide special insight into the work of my old school chum Matty (or Beany as we used to call him, for reasons that elude me at present). He and I shared lodgings through much of our time at university, and I was the inspiration for the character of Reginald in his seminal work Clytemnestra's Weal as well as appearing as a minor character, under my own name, in his latest work Sturm and Drang. (Though I protest the monstrous harelip he provided Reginald in the former, and the portrait of me as a fey, mincing vaudeville entertainer in the latter.) Besides his frequent house calls and our collaboration on a failed modernization of The Great Gatsby, West Egg Blues, he and I have been in semi-weekly correspondence since our commencement, although he insists on sending our communiqués via telegram. Although this leads to a certain terseness of tone, his sterling prose is still very much in evidence. I quote from his latest missive:
HEY. MINCING. LIP-FACE. STOP
HOW. ABOUT. PISSING. OUT. AN. INTRO? STOP
SIR. M.. STOP
P.S. HOWS. THE. GOUT?
He is my best friend in the world, dear reader. And the gout is fine.
* * * *
Beany and I first came to be acquainted in my level one literature class. I, of course, had noticed him before, as he cut a distinctive figure striding across campus in full evening wear, impeccably tailored, smoking a cheroot or occasionally a calabash pipe. Yet it was in his natural habitat, the English department of blessed Old Haverford U. (tucked away in a cozy nook of Lord Sigfried-Tonszon the Third [Esq.] Honorary Mess Hall) where he was impossible to ignore. I was drawn to him instantly, when on the very first day of class he engaged the professor in a heated argument regarding the authorship Shakespeare's plays. The professor believed the dramatist was actually Sir. Francis Bacon, while Beany maintained it was a four-year-old girl from Kent named "Althea." Although Beany's assertion was a marriage of surmise with the sheerest conjecture, I was impressed not only by the intellectual rigor of his argument, but by his shrill, piercing voice. From that moment on we were inseparable.
From the start, I was convinced of Beany's greatness. Certain that the intellectual development of this towering figure would be of great value to future generations, I pledged myself to be Boswell to his Dr. Johnson. Throughout my tenure at university, I kept a journal detailing my experiences with Sir B. Although he would occasionally feign displeasure with my assiduous documentation ("Get out from behind those bushes with that damned notebook" he would screech at me, in his marvelous, joking way), I knew that deep down he appreciated my diligence. I ask that the reader indulge me as I present some of my favorite moments from these memoirs. Perhaps the following anecdotes may help illuminate the machinations of his elegant mind.
ME: Matty, what did you think of the school's production of As You Like It?
SIR MATT: It could hardly have been LONGER though it was quite WIDE enough.
Sir Matt B. and I were strolling through the quad, when we were nearly run over by a cabal of cyclists. Keeping his presence of mind about him, Sir. Matt was at no loss for a droll rejoinder.
SIR MATT: Get a HORSE!
When I asked his opinion regarding Kant's postulate of the categorical imperative:
SIR MATT: It is IMPERATIVE that you remove your SLEEVE from my SOUP, right NOW.
I provided him a first draft of my novella, "Christmas Morn, 1903" for his appraisal, in preparation for my Q-Level exams. In true illustration of his generous spirit, he agreed to sit down and critique it with me.
ME: What do you think?
SIR MATT: My dear boy, you will never be a first-rate writer until you learn SHORTHAND.
ME: Is that a euphemism?
SIR MATT: I would be EUPH-ORIC if it was.
ME: I don't understand.
SIR MATT: You don't STAND at ALL.
ME: You didn't read it, did you?
SIR MATT: Not as SUCH.
When I tried to engage him on a point of logic one evening while drinking at the pub:
SIR MATT: BLEEECH (various vomiting noises)
Pour over these remarks, my dears, and all the secret songs of the angels will be revealed to you.
* * * *
As to the novel itself, what more can I say? It is what it is. For better or for worse, since it's publication in 1979, "Istrothus" has forever changed the face of American writing. It is a work of fierce originality, except for the first eight chapters, which are cribbed (more or less word-for-word) from Mellville's Moby Dick, and for great portions of the concluding chapter, which are lifted from Tom Brown's School Days with a lot of unnecessary sex scenes added. Thankfully, these portions of the novel are more or less ancillary to the main narrative, which is set in 18th Century France and is the story of a young man's discovery of the world, following his rejection of a well-paying position in his family's petticoat concern.
I Strode Thusly straddles the divide between Sir Matt's early "immature" work, (including his books Lamb of Plenty, Call to Me; Sunday's the Day for Dyeing; Knavery in the Nave, and the Dickensian serial My Horrid Childhood as well as his play, Lost: One Pound of Flesh) and his later "even more immature" work (such as his towering five-volume epistolary novel, The Irrational History of Wuzwardish M. Gort and his collection of short stories, A Change of Clothes).
It is a coming-of-age tale in the truest sense, the literal one. The novel concludes with Francois coming of the age 18 and inheriting the whole of his family's petticoat monies, wrapped in a lace model HJ5-8.9 (The Parisian Fluffer), in an ironic commentary about the futility of trying to escape the past. I hope I haven't spoiled the ending for anyone. If so, they still have all that pornographic Tom Brown stuff to wade through.
I have not had an opportunity to peruse the revised edition, as Beany's publisher still has it under lock and key, but I certainly hope Sir. Matt has taken this opportunity to omit some of the more "writerly" flourishes that I believe marred the first edition—for one, the overuse of footnotes, ranging from the sublime ("It was on that very thoroughfare that, one summer's morn in late October, the russet-colored wind had swept around me, collecting in limpid pools at my feet, spurring me, once and for all, to entreat absolution from Jessica for the death of her cat.") to the ridiculous ("My bologna has a first name; it's O-S-C-A-R"). If you'll pardon the expression, why should the reader give a good G—damn if the author's luncheon meat has a first name or not (a claim vis-à-vis I have my doubts)? And why footnote it? Especially in a passage concerned, as it is, with the tragic death of one of the main characters. I feel it is a sore miscalculation that I hope he has taken the occasion to correct.
In a like manner, I believe chapters 17-38 to be an abomination before all mankind. In the course of these 234 pages, Beany seems to have decided to open up his Dictionary of Literary Terms and choose one stylistic device to over-use, per each page. For instance, on page 129, apropos of nothing, he practically beats us over the head with alliteration: "Gustave's gustatory gusto was guarded as his guests gulped the gumbo, gurgling with gumption." What purpose could this possibly serve? Likewise, page 177 is dripping with the pathetic fallacy: "Marcel's pants gazed at him from across the room, challenging him to put them on. He threw open the boisterous curtains and gazed down on the lusty road below. The sun shrieked "Get on with it, Marcie!" as the timorous moon set in the north. He looked wistfully back at his angst-ridden bed." I am willing to accept the conceit that pants challenge you to put them on, but how can a road be lusty? And the moon set in the north?!
Also, we can only hope that every occurrence of the adjective "horny" has been stricken from this volume.
Dearest reader, I hope with all my heart that these problems have been addressed, yet I fear the changes focus less on form than on content. Allow me to explain: As the original novel was primarily a work of historical fiction, Beany opened himself up to an unprecedented number of attacks concerning the veracity of the period depicted, and I suspect this latest edition is a futile attempt to correct these inaccuracies.
Some errors:
pg. 3 "He walked into the Guggenheim Museum." The Guggenheim is in New York. Also it did not exist in the 1700s.
Pg. 49 "He licked her eye, as was the custom." It was not the custom.
Pg. 99 "Frenchy Crepes was dancing, while Frenchy Parlez-Vous watched silently from the back." No people by those names ever existed. Ever. Also, French people aren't all named "Frenchy."
And so on. Also, the whole subplot about manufacturing digital watches, which occupies a good part of the latter half of the book is, of course, approximately 200 years premature.
* * * *
What's ahead for Sir Matt? Perhaps we can allow our old friend to rest on his literary laurels for a while, now that he's acquired the knighthood he diligently (some might say "desperately") campaigned for all his life. Originally, Beany was set to be knighted posthumously; but, as our Queen so memorably said, "The little bugger won't die." (Indeed, Your Highness, indeed.) Since his knighthood was eventually bestowed while he still had the vigor to use it to full advantage, he has chosen to do so. In the months since his knighting, he has been using his influence to campaign for the inclusion of land mines in several third world countries. Also he has returned to the stage for a series of one-man shows, titled, I am told, Sir Sing-a-lot! He seems to be enjoying his semi-retirement. Yet when I receive telegrams from the man himself, he wistfully speaks of his one yet-unfinished project, the much-discussed Phantasmeroneroticon (although one must read between the lines to detect any actual mention of the book).
So, dear reader, all that remains is the book itself. If you have read it before, prepare to be delighted all over again. If you've never read it, prepare for rough waters ahead.
Warmly,
Professor Dan (iel) K. McCoy, Esq. Q.C., Ph.D. M.D., B.B.C., Literary Hanger-on
Thursday, February 15, 2007
In Which I Publish Excerpts From My Future Collected Works
Like most creative, goal-oriented people, I want to have written a book, or several books, but have no interest in putting in the actual "writing" (what the French call "écriture") time needed to do so. Usually, around page ten-- at approximately the point when the second major character is introduced; the inciting event has ceased to be inciting anymore; or when Fifi puts her maid's outfit back on-- I hit the wall of my television-addled attention span and stop, usually to see what's on TV.
This habit may keep me up-to-date on the ever-growing field of ride-pimpery, but in has left me with multiple false starts. Rather than slap a hasty denouement on these aborted literary works and call them "novellas," I have decided to be optimistic, and look upon them as the first flowering of a varied and successful literary career. Anticipating the day when they will all be finished and collected in a handsome Modern Library edition (available in pre-order from me, now, for the price of $34.85) I present you these excerpts from my collected works. Think of it as a glance INTO THE FUTURE!
From Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom, the collegiate coming-of-age tale/ horror thriller. McSkinny's Press. Est. pub. date: February 2008.
My advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
"So, what do you want out of college?" she asked, settling back onto her bed.
"Oh, you know. I want to fall in love for the first time. Have sex. Be betrayed. Be forced to make a difficult decision. Realize that the woman I was in love with I wasn't really in love with. Betray a friend. Make up with the friend. Do stupid drunken things and have fun. Do stupid drunken things that have tragic consequences. Meet people different from myself. Fall in love for real. Emerge from the other side sadder but wiser. You know, the usual coming-of-age crap."
"Interesting... and how do you feel about meat cleavers?" she asked, reaching for a bloody meat cleaver, on her bedside table.
"I don't really have strong feelings about... AAAAGH!"
From The Mystery of the Guy Kevin Who Kills People, one of the 'baby's first murder mystery' series. Viper Children's. Est. pub. date: May 2010.
Inspector Balustrade delicately made his way around the crime scene. Although the body had been removed, a chalk "K" remained on the floor, a cold reminder of the corpse's unusual body alignment. An odd assortment of items were arranged ritualistically, encircling the K. These included a copy of the film "Clerks," a subway map of Brooklyn with the Nevins Street stop enlarged and the "N" blocked out, a signed poster of "Dances With Wolves," and Kevin Kline's actual Oscar for "A Fish Called Wanda," which had been reported stolen earlier that week.
Sidling over to a sergeant, the Inspector inquired, "Any idea who did this, Kevin?"
From How To Sit On a Flagpole: The Retro Guide For the Modern 1920's Hipster, the novelty how-to cash-in. Faddish Books. Est. pub. date: October 2013.
It is vitally important to wear pants.
From Get Your Rocks Off, Quick, the pornographic smash hit. Originally published in Quim Magazine, republished in The Least Embarrassing American Erotica 2015. Est. pub. date: January 2015.
As she withdrew his knish of pulchritude from her burning vermilion canyon, she felt strangely turned on, as if she'd just had sex or something.
"I'm going to clean out your pipes so hard," he whispered into her ear, managing (this time) to not drench her in saliva, in the process. "But first," he said, putting down the plumbing equipment, "Let's do it."
She breathlessly nodded her assent. Then she breathily nodded her assent. Then, she decided to nod her assent without giving much thought to her breathing at all. Finally, in case there had been any confusion, she combined a little vocal chord action with her breathiness.
"Yes. Take me five ways from Tuesday."
Taking no time to wonder why she chose Tuesday as her day of choice for him to take her five ways from, Victor yanked at his silken shirt. Buttons flew everywhere.
"Fuck. I paid sixty dollars for this shir...." He was interrupted mid-shirt by her probing tongue, probing his mouth canal like the most determined Mars probe. Her two love-moons burst from her chest-holster, in a flurry of ill-chosen imagery.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Fifi put her maid's outfit back on, thinking to herself, "Well, that was totally unfulfilling."
From My Memories of Memoirs, the memoir, taken from memoirs previously written but lost in a mysterious memoir-shredding incident, combined with unused material from Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom. Sedaris Knock-Off Library. Est. pub. date: June 2020.
And then, I remember, there was something really, really funny that I wrote about the way my dad combed his mustache. God, I wish I could remember it. I just know I couldn't do it justice if I tried to reproduce it here. Plus, my mom... oh, my mom, what a character! I wrote some stuff in my diary about her, I'll tell you what! Unfortunately, that diary is at home, and I can't get my mom to FedEx it to me. Well, I can, but she wants me to pay the shipping costs.
Anyway, when I went to college, my advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
From How I Lived So Amazingly Long, the true-life, tell-all. Originally published in Geria-tricks. Est. pub. date: August 3013.
Lots of cranberry juice, every day.
This habit may keep me up-to-date on the ever-growing field of ride-pimpery, but in has left me with multiple false starts. Rather than slap a hasty denouement on these aborted literary works and call them "novellas," I have decided to be optimistic, and look upon them as the first flowering of a varied and successful literary career. Anticipating the day when they will all be finished and collected in a handsome Modern Library edition (available in pre-order from me, now, for the price of $34.85) I present you these excerpts from my collected works. Think of it as a glance INTO THE FUTURE!
From Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom, the collegiate coming-of-age tale/ horror thriller. McSkinny's Press. Est. pub. date: February 2008.
My advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
"So, what do you want out of college?" she asked, settling back onto her bed.
"Oh, you know. I want to fall in love for the first time. Have sex. Be betrayed. Be forced to make a difficult decision. Realize that the woman I was in love with I wasn't really in love with. Betray a friend. Make up with the friend. Do stupid drunken things and have fun. Do stupid drunken things that have tragic consequences. Meet people different from myself. Fall in love for real. Emerge from the other side sadder but wiser. You know, the usual coming-of-age crap."
"Interesting... and how do you feel about meat cleavers?" she asked, reaching for a bloody meat cleaver, on her bedside table.
"I don't really have strong feelings about... AAAAGH!"
From The Mystery of the Guy Kevin Who Kills People, one of the 'baby's first murder mystery' series. Viper Children's. Est. pub. date: May 2010.
Inspector Balustrade delicately made his way around the crime scene. Although the body had been removed, a chalk "K" remained on the floor, a cold reminder of the corpse's unusual body alignment. An odd assortment of items were arranged ritualistically, encircling the K. These included a copy of the film "Clerks," a subway map of Brooklyn with the Nevins Street stop enlarged and the "N" blocked out, a signed poster of "Dances With Wolves," and Kevin Kline's actual Oscar for "A Fish Called Wanda," which had been reported stolen earlier that week.
Sidling over to a sergeant, the Inspector inquired, "Any idea who did this, Kevin?"
From How To Sit On a Flagpole: The Retro Guide For the Modern 1920's Hipster, the novelty how-to cash-in. Faddish Books. Est. pub. date: October 2013.
It is vitally important to wear pants.
From Get Your Rocks Off, Quick, the pornographic smash hit. Originally published in Quim Magazine, republished in The Least Embarrassing American Erotica 2015. Est. pub. date: January 2015.
As she withdrew his knish of pulchritude from her burning vermilion canyon, she felt strangely turned on, as if she'd just had sex or something.
"I'm going to clean out your pipes so hard," he whispered into her ear, managing (this time) to not drench her in saliva, in the process. "But first," he said, putting down the plumbing equipment, "Let's do it."
She breathlessly nodded her assent. Then she breathily nodded her assent. Then, she decided to nod her assent without giving much thought to her breathing at all. Finally, in case there had been any confusion, she combined a little vocal chord action with her breathiness.
"Yes. Take me five ways from Tuesday."
Taking no time to wonder why she chose Tuesday as her day of choice for him to take her five ways from, Victor yanked at his silken shirt. Buttons flew everywhere.
"Fuck. I paid sixty dollars for this shir...." He was interrupted mid-shirt by her probing tongue, probing his mouth canal like the most determined Mars probe. Her two love-moons burst from her chest-holster, in a flurry of ill-chosen imagery.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Fifi put her maid's outfit back on, thinking to herself, "Well, that was totally unfulfilling."
From My Memories of Memoirs, the memoir, taken from memoirs previously written but lost in a mysterious memoir-shredding incident, combined with unused material from Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom. Sedaris Knock-Off Library. Est. pub. date: June 2020.
And then, I remember, there was something really, really funny that I wrote about the way my dad combed his mustache. God, I wish I could remember it. I just know I couldn't do it justice if I tried to reproduce it here. Plus, my mom... oh, my mom, what a character! I wrote some stuff in my diary about her, I'll tell you what! Unfortunately, that diary is at home, and I can't get my mom to FedEx it to me. Well, I can, but she wants me to pay the shipping costs.
Anyway, when I went to college, my advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
From How I Lived So Amazingly Long, the true-life, tell-all. Originally published in Geria-tricks. Est. pub. date: August 3013.
Lots of cranberry juice, every day.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Friend Plug Corner: Valentine's Video Cavalcade
I did a sketch show with a bunch of folks for Halloween, back around... Halloween. Many of the same folks put together a Valentine's Day sketch show that ran this last weekend. I've been busy working on some other things, so I wasn't involved. However, I did go as an audience member and greatly enjoyed myself.
Anyway, I'm posting about this, because nearly the entire show is now up on YouTube, so if you're having a boring Monday, I urge you to watch and enjoy. I recommend Kate and Theodore (2 parts), The Florist, and The Gondola.
Anyway, I'm posting about this, because nearly the entire show is now up on YouTube, so if you're having a boring Monday, I urge you to watch and enjoy. I recommend Kate and Theodore (2 parts), The Florist, and The Gondola.
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
Even better than the real thing...
Astronaut Lisa Nowak, who has been accused of attempted murder and kidnapping in a love triangle involving a fellow astronaut, was released on bail Tuesday but ordered to wear a monitoring device, and to not leave the planet.
While appearing on the Ellen DeGeneres show, Christina Aguilera revealed that she and her husband have "Naked Sundays," where they do everything naked, including cooking, followed by “Oil Burn Mondays.”
A 76 year-old woman from Malaysia, has been reunited with her family 25 years after she got on the wrong bus. Worse yet, the bus had no restrooms.
Archaeologists in Italy have discovered a couple buried 6000 years ago, still hugging each other. Their discovery will be reported in “Things Goths Find Romantic Magazine.”
A woman in China has launched a company where she hires herself out as a professional bridesmaid to help smooth over problems during weddings. It’s called “Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Bride – I Mean That in the Literal Sense, and Also You Owe Me $500.”
A new study shows that children who do not get enough sleep are more likely to be overweight than those who get more sleep. And those who sleep all the time are more likely to be comatose.
A Florida theater changed the name of "The Vagina Monologues" to "The Hoohaa Monologues" after a woman complained that her niece asked her what a vagina was. The theater regrets that it caused a girl to learn about a part of her body.
Nashville's city council has voted to adopt English as its official language, y’all.
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