WANT

            Land…land…LAND!!!

            It had been five days so far. Five days since the combination of a very brutal sea storm and the captain’s drunken inexperience at the helm led to Duncan’s abandonment on a life raft and the death of a few dozen of his band mates. Since then it had been five days of pure agony and loneliness in the apathetic embrace of the neon orange life raft.

            Five whole days, which can be translated into 120 hours, or 7,200 minutes, or 432,000 seconds. An eternity. Hours upon endless hours of being tossed around by the sea, bouncing from wave crest to wave crest.  Whether it was under the blistering, energy-sapping gaze of the sun, or the cold, darkness of the moon, Duncan had no protection, no way of alleviating the harsh conditions of the Pacific Ocean.

            Including the three weeks spent aboard Her Majesty’s Rose, it had been almost a whole month since Duncan had set foot on land, and he didn’t like it. The endless rocking back and forth had left him very ill and uncomfortable. He had lost count of the hours he spent with his head over the gunwale of the raft, where the salty spray of the sea kept his forehead cool and wet his brown hair until it was plastered to his face.

The worse part was that he had run out of stomach contents to vomit up days ago. Now, whenever the need to vomit occurred all it did was bring stinging stomach acid up into his throat, the bitter taste of his own bile reminding him of how little he’d eaten since the quick bite before his last show, that fateful night. A couple of small, unidentifiable (at least to Duncan, who had no idea what the names of different fish were) fish and what was either a piece of wood floating by, or a petrified sea snake. Duncan didn’t know and he didn’t care.

             He was hungry, he was thirsty, he stank and his skin was peeling from the brutal force of the sun. All Duncan wanted was land. As far as he was concerned once he put his feet on the ground everything else would be fine. Getting to land was the cornerstone of a good survival plan. After all, he’d spent his whole life on land, he was familiar with its moods and how it worked. There was little to no fear of the ground suddenly buckling and gyrating enough to make him sick. Absolutely no chance of a grass and moss-covered hill appearing out of nowhere to crash down on him like so many waves had done.

            Land was his biggest desire and main concern. Nothing else mattered.

Land...

You’d think that with this being the 21^st century and all, that cruise ships would have the proper equipment to detect all types of nautical problems, including storms at sea. And oddly enough, Her Majesty’s Rose did have first-rate weather tracking equipment, including state-of-the-art computer relays which interfaced with GOES-11, a geostationary meteorological weather satellite positioned over the Pacific Ocean. And in case of trouble there was the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, which would let people back on land know where the ship was positioned if it ever went down. Yet, all the equipment and machines in the world aren’t worth a damn if the captain doesn’t know what he’s doing. From what Duncan could tell, Capt. Able was the epitome of nautical incompetence.

                                                            ***

            Duncan had only met the captain twice. The first time was when Duncan first set foot aboard the Rose. Able stood at the top of the gangplank with his second-in-command Mr. Esten. Able grabbed the hand of each crew member as they stood in front of him and shook it vigorously as he welcomed everybody aboard. His starched, white uniform looked impeccably clean and had crisp edges and pleats. Duncan supposed that the cleanliness of the uniform was Able’s way of making up for how squat and ugly he was. As if hiding his gut and jowls was possible.

            As Able grabbed Duncan’s fingers between his two meaty hands and began pumping up and down while smiling a little too enthusiastically, Duncan could see bits of food lodged in between the captain’s teeth and it made him shudder.

            “Welcome aboard Her Majesty’s Rose, young man!” the captain said. “What’s yout name and what do you do?”

            “My name is Duncan Hills and I’m the alto saxophonist for the ship’s band.”

            “Ahh, a member of Mr. Brooks and The Floating Troubadours, eh? Excellent. I hope your music adds the right touch to this summer’s cruises. Thank you for coming aboard. Mr. Esten will tell you your birthing arrangement,” Able said.

            Duncan switched his attention to the man standing next to the captain to find out where he would be sleeping for the next three months. Mr. Esten was a tall, swarthy man, very angular in appearance, with a nose that looked down-right aerodynamical. He had small, shifty eyes that made him look like an evil cartoon villain. Because Esten was aware of how he looked to others, he tried his best to get along with everybody. He really wanted to overcome the effect his appearance had on others.

            “Hello Mr. Hills, you will be on the third deck, room four, birth eight. Follow this ensign next to me and he’ll take you and your bags to your new room. There will be a crew meeting and then dinner in the main galley at seven thirty. This is where the captain will introduce you all to each other and begin this year’s cruise season with a motivational speech. See you then.”

            Duncan and the ensign made their way down three decks to find his room. Along the way he got a good look at some parts of the ship and he decided that he was going to enjoy his summer. Her Majesty’s Rose had three restaurants for the guests, two movie theaters, two casinos, a smattering of gyms and workout areas, three pools and even a sauna. Of course, as an employee of Royal Star cruise lines Duncan wouldn’t be able to go to a lot of those places, at least, not during the times when the female guests would be there. And he knew that he’d only get to see the restaurants while performing. The galley would be where Duncan would eat.

But even with a bit of segregation between the guests and employees, Duncan felt that it would be a great summer. It was his first time on a boat, but he wasn’t too nervous. Royal Star cruise ships had an excellent record of safety. Sinking was the furthest thought from his mind.    

Let's Take a Vote

I recently came across a few 84 Glydes that I wrote seven years ago that I never finished. (You'd be surprised how often stuff like this happens.) For whatever reason, I started but didn't finish (TWSS). So I am presenting to you three almost-entries and I want you to pick which one I actually finish. 

And I mean YOU.

1. Aslan

A week or so ago, my sister and I were watching one of those 18-hour-long Narnia movies featuring mythical CGI creatures and snaggly-toothed Brits, and we got to thinking.

            In case you’re not familiar, about three trillion years ago, a science fiction writer by the name of C.S. Lewis, wrote a series of books about a legendary country called Narnia, where fauns and centaurs hang out with talking beavers and mice with knives. It’s all very wholesome and up-lifting for the kiddies. It’s a wonderful book series for children to get lost in and imagine. This is because Lewis was a swinging-dick Christian and he wove layers of religion into his books, surreptitiously exposing kids to Christian themes and ideals. The jerk!

            A main character in the series (and the only one to appear in all seven books) is a Lion called Aslan. Aslan serves as a Deus Ex Machina in that he shows up whenever the protagonists need saving, (which is about every ten pages). He magically shows up and says a few cryptic, Yoda-like koans, then gives a knowing wink, takes a crap and disappears as mysteriously as he arrived, leaving everybody a little wiser in the process. Though Lewis tries to disputes it, Aslan is clearly an allegory for everybody’s favorite messiah: Jesus H. Christ.

            So it got us to thinking, what the hell does Aslan do when he’s not creating new lands, or being killed and then resurrected? How does he spend his time? What does an omnipotent, god-like, fictitious, Jesus-allegory lion do in his spare time?

           

Jesus-allegory Lion, P.I.

            I like to imagine Aslan as a hard-boiled 1930s private detective. He sits in his old, poorly-maintained office, the street lights coming through his blinds in lines, his beat up fedora on a coat rack by the door and a table fan

2. SHAW INTRO

            Whitney Houston may not be singing any power ballads about him, but for those in the know (and with the money), Elija Shaw, C.E.O. of Icon Services, is the first name in elite body-guarding and protection services.

            With almost two decades of experience, Shaw has created a powerful company, providing protection to celebrities like Usher, 50 Cent and Naomi Campbell, as well as various corporate executives.

            Shaw grew up on the mean streets of the Windy City. In order to pay his way through film school, he started working as security at a Chicago nightclub. One thing led to another (as these things often do) and after discovering a real aptitude for security services, Shaw was able to parlay his part-time job into a small empire with 46 employees, working all over the globe.

            Not bad for a guy who never went to business school.

            Based out of Minneapolis, Minn., Shaw began Icon Services in 1998 and has been providing celebrity and executive security ever since. But don’t bother asking for any celebrity gossip; the man’s seen a lot, but he’s professional enough to keep his lips sealed.

3. These Things Happen

            When Travis was 15, he grew a tail.

            It wasn’t a cool tail, like a monkey’s. It wasn’t furry or shaggy like a dog’s. It wasn’t short and stupid, like a pig’s and it wasn’t beautiful and functional like a peacock’s. If anything, it was like a cat’s or some kind of feline. It was about two feet long and covered with yellow hair, with a small tuft of hair at the end.

And it grew overnight. Travis went to bed one night a normal teen and woke up a be-tailed freak.

A person’s natural reaction to waking up to a mutated, Kafka-esque nightmare, would be to scream, and freak out, and Travis was no exception. Upon the discovery, in the mirror, of his tail, he screamed for about ten seconds before he passed out on the floor in front of his bed.

Waking ten minutes later, Travis felt recovered enough to take a shower and get dressed. He discovered that he had enough control over his tail to wrap it around his leg a few times and as long as his pants were baggy enough, he wouldn’t look like John Holmes on steroids.

Walking proved to be a bit difficult and sitting even more so. He had to spend a good fifteen minutes walking in a circle around his room before he felt comfortable enough to go out into the world. He wasn’t too sure what a day of sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable desks would feel like, but he figured he’d learn soon enough.

At breakfast, his mother didn’t notice his fidgeting as he downed his regular breakfast of a bacon, egg and pop tart sandwich. She was too caught up in her own universe where the only things that mattered were stocks, quotas, portfolios and some guy named Dow. Her eyes were glued to the financial section of the paper and her ears were deaf to anything but her own thoughts of trends, investments and money.

Likewise, on the bus, it didn’t seem like anybody else noticed him shift from one cheek to the other as they headed to school. At least, that’s what he thought, until he noticed Hana, across the aisle starring at him from the corner of her eye.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What’re you talking about,” Travis responded.

“It looks like you’ve got hemorrhoids or something! Why do you keep moving like that?”

Travis knew Hana was one of the biggest gossips in the school. Entire reputations had been built and destroyed simply by one casually thrown-away statement into the right (or wrong) ear. If he didn’t want to end up a social pariah, not to mention an act in some early 20^th century carnival sideshow (Travis had an active imagination), he would have to play this off carefully. Throw her off the scent and lead her to think something else. The best way to do that would be to tell her something slightly embarrassing, but not as bad as the truth.

“Yeah, how’d you know? I usually have one of those donut cushions, but I had to let my grandpa borrow it today,” he said.

“Ewwww! You need to keep that info to yourself!” she said, with obvious disgust before returning to her conversation with a girl in the seat in front of her.

A few giggles and surreptitious glances from Hana and her friend let Travis know that the rumor had been spread. Luckily, she accepted her story, so his secret was safe. On the other hand, all 1,400 students at Rocky Mount High School would soon be making fun of him for having hemorrhoids. Embarrassing, but not as bad as it could be.

Travis found that as long as he didn’t think too hard about the fact that he had a tail, he was able to get through the day with a semblance of normality. He may have looked awkward while sitting through the eight periods of the school day, but he didn’t attract too much gawking.

When he got home after school, he was able to concentrate on his homework, enjoy dinner and watch tv until it was time for bed. He rarely thought about his new appendage.

The next morning, Travis discovered that he didn’t even care that he had a tail. It was starting to feel natural, a part of his body.

After a week, he felt like he’d always had a tail, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not have one.

After a month he even forgot he had a tail.

That’s probably why he got careless about hiding it, and how his brother, Mark, was able to discover Travis’ secret.

          

So, by comment, or text, or whatever. Lemme know which I should finish. I gotta say, I was going in some interesting directions with these. So it should be interesting to see where any of them lead. 

The Pool

*tweeeeeeeeeeet*

The whistle sounds weird underwater. It has an odd kind of resonance from the soundwaves meeting actual waves.

I reflexively open my eyes to the noise and instantly regret it. I really need to invest in a pair of goggles. It’s just that I still haven’t mastered the trick of diving while wearing them without the goggles ending up around my neck, or in my mouth like some kind of ball gag.

I raise my head out of the water and through blurry, red eyes, I see a sad sight: all the kids, myself included, have been drummed out of the water. Forced to exit its refreshing embrace against our wills.

For it is now ADULT SWIM.

How I hate those two words! They cause such rage and fury in all children’s’ hearts. Just like DENTIST APPOINTMENT or YOU’RE ADOPTED. Even as I seethe, I see the bloated, pale bodies of the adults arise from their deck chairs and amble to the pool’s edge before awkwardly lowering themselves in the water. Like beached walruses headed to the ocean after sunning their bellies.

I guess I could always go to the kiddie pool. But nah, I’m not that desperate and pools are meant to be cool and refreshing, not unnaturally warm. Guess I’ll just go back to my chair and continue reading Jurassic Park. The movie is coming out next month. I wanna be ready.

Before settling down, I hear a gurgle in my tummy. I rustle around my shorts’ pockets and discover 75 cents. Yes! It’s Italian Ice time! I make my way up the hill to the snack shop and get myself a watermelon-flavored Italian Ice. These damn wooden spoons are weird, but strangely effective at their task.

*Tweeeeeeeeeeeeet*

Excellent! Just in time!

The stampede of kids into the water is amazing to watch. From all corners of the area they come: dropping from the trees they were climbing, abandoning their games of HORSE letting their basketballs bounce into bushes to be rediscovered in 45 minutes, running out of the bathrooms, emerging from bushes they were exploring. Like the ringing of church bells, the lifeguard’s whistle summons us all to come worship at the altar of “The Pool”.

Since nobody is currently using the diving board, a group of us get together and decide to play a game of Red Rover in the deep end. It’s our chance to show our prowess, how deep we can go and how long we can hold our breath.

I always enjoy the pool when I’m there for pleasure instead of business. Nothing sucks more than swim team practice at 6 am. The day hasn’t yet warmed up, the water is still cool from the moon’s light. Steam rises from the water as an early morning fog and you’re barely awake enough to get through the 200-meter freestyle laps you have to do.

But in the afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, blasting its heat upon your body, the pool is the only way to cool down and get in some exercise. You can play with your friends, catch up on your reading, (or if you have a CD player, you can enjoy some tunes) and just relax and enjoy the summer.

I hate leaving the pool, but I always love going.

*Tweeeeeeeeeeeet*

Shit!

The Guts Stop Here

I can tell that I’m getting older. It’s not just my Jason Statham hairline, (not his muscles or anything, just his hairline) or my gray pubes or my intense dislike of current music trends. It’s the fact that I’m easily grossed out these days.

I know you probably don’t believe me. Sure, you’ve read all my blog entries,* and my seductive way with words does have the ability to paint very realistic and graphic pictures. For example, when I say stuff like:

“I look down and see three things: the hilt of the knife peeking through her fingers, which are clenched in a fist so tight her knuckles are white; the place in my chest where the handle protrudes, like a morbid after-factory modification; and the blossoming pool of blood on my chest with lines of blood going down my stomach, like red rivulets of rain on a window. But more gross.”

Or:

“Decades of drunken college use had left a four-inch layer of puke and shit all over every surface. Just walking into the bathroom was like dealing with a HAZMAT environment. You have to hold your breath starting from ten feet away from the bathroom”

Or:

“His head was a mass of cuts, shards of glass from the window were embedded in the skin of his face. Parts of his scalp hung loosely from the top of his head in flaps. The bone from his right arm jutted gruesomely from the soft pulpy flesh of his forearm. His legs lay in unnatural positions, one behind his head, one in front of his face. Had he the ability to move his body, he could have kissed his own shin. By the way he was sitting I knew that most, if not all, of his ribs were broken.”

Or even:

“With their tongues entwined, the two hot, young teenage girls spent hours engaging in every sexual act they could imagine. The Crippled Olympian, the 23 Skidoo, the Whirling Dervish, the Interrupted Transmission; nothing was beyond their burning desires. Giblets were strubbed, lymph nodes were whitewashed and banders were snatched frumiously.”

You can clearly see all of these scenarios in your mind’s eye, as if they are happening right in front of you. But of course, this is just creative license. Just as Stephen King doesn’t know what it’s really like to be a demonic creature from Hell, James Patterson doesn’t know what it’s like to be a black man in Washington D.C. and E.L. James doesn’t know what the consensual touch of a man feels like, I’m not actually into most of the over the top stuff I write about.

Of course, things were different when I was younger. Like most ill-behaving, wannabe cool boys in their pre-teen and teenaged years, I was totally into viscerally gross stuff. Anything with special effects by Tom Savini, anything by Troma Entertainment, Carrot Top. The grosser the better. If I could handle it, that meant I was totes a manly adult and ready to start my 401(k).

As a kid, I could watch The Toxic Avenger over the weekend and walk into school on Monday with my chest out, humbling my peers with my knowledge of seeing a person’s hands deep-fried at a fast food restaurant. Truly I was a god among boys.

I used to even be really into horror movie make up as a youngster. One day in seventh grade, I gave myself and some of my friends bullet wounds in our foreheads and we went around school that day doing our best impressions of JFK.

But the older I got, the more squeamish I became. Seeing videos and pics online of people after they jump out of windows, or blow their brains out, get their throats slit, or hit by cars isn’t enticing anymore.** It’s not cool or edgy, it’s all just gross and unnecessary. Any “torture porn” movie is definitely right out. I got as far as halfway through Saw III, and just turned the movie off.

Maybe it’s because after being into all the fictional grossness when I was younger, I got to see what it looked like in reality when I was in Iraq and I just don’t have the stomach for that stuff anymore. I dunno. All I know is when given the choice between Disembowelinator 2: The Disemboweling, or Spongebob Squarpants, I’ll choose the latter. 

*You do read them all, right? RIGHT?! Oh please God, say somebody reads these nonsensical ramblings!

**2 Girls 1 Cup on the other hand…

'Till Walmart Do We Part

I recently read an article online, (okay, I actually skimmed most of the headline and every fourth word of the first three paragraphs, but I got the gist) about a couple from Pennsylvania who decided to hold their wedding at the place where they met and fell in blessed love: Walmart.

They got married there (at a 24-hour Walmart no less) because they wanted their coworkers to be able to attend. I guess Walmart is owned by Ebenezer Scrooge?

Bob Cratchett: Please sir? May I go to hospital?*

Scrooge: Whatever for man?

Cratchett: I was just attacked by a dog foaming at the mouth and me arm’s fallen off.

Scrooge: You’ve still got another arm. Get back to work Cratchett!

Now, as far as weird ass weddings go, I’ve heard of crazier. Hell, I’ve written about crazier ones. There was the time a man in his 80’s and a woman in her 70s decided to get married and live in separate houses, (remember that? Genius!) Or the lady who had a full-on ceremony to marry the Eiffel Tower. But this is still bonkers.

I get that people want marriages that stand out and are special and memorable, but sometimes people sacrifice taste for flare. Then again, who am I to say anything? In an 84 Glyde I wrote back in 2006, I said I wanted my wedding to be on the moon and presided over by a Kung Fu Buddhist Monk. So whatever makes people happy, they can be free to do. Just know that I reserve the right to judge and make fun of you if I so deem it.

*Brits don’t ever say “The Hospital,” or “The University.” Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why they name their food “Bubble and Squeak” either. I leave them to their own devices.   

It’s a Living (Or, Traps Don’t Set Themselves)

Let me lay out the scene for you: you’re Henry “Indiana” Jones, Jr. You’ve just killed and/or maimed dozens of Nazis. You’ve traveled three continents and a half-dozen countries. You’ve discovered ancient tombs, flew on a passenger dirigible (why is that no longer a mode of transportation anymore?) and punched a tank off a cliff. While you were at it, you got Hitler’s autograph and you and your father ran a train on a hawt blonde chick. How do you cap it all off?

You find and quaff from the Holy Grail, of course.

However, it’s not as easy at it sounds. You’ve got to traipse through tunnels, avoid traps that have killed those who came before you, and pray to Jebus. All of a sudden, you encounter some kind of weird hopscotch diagram on the rocky ground, covered with strange letters from an ancient language. If you don’t tread on the proper squares, you will plummet to a spiky doom. After a few suspenseful missteps, causing portions of the floor to fall, you arrive safely on the other end and continue your quest. Never to think about that hopscotch court again.

 But hold up. Let’s rewind a little here. We’re not entirely sure who created these traps. Maybe they were ancient aliens, or time-travelers or Omni Consumer Products. There’s no way to know. But the real question is:  who maintains the upkeep on these damn traps? Clearly somebody has to hang around the secret resting place of the Holy Grail to rebuild the ground every time somebody messes up and takes a swan dive into the abyss. Some unlucky soul has to oil the decapitating saw blades and rearrange the dead bodies into positions that induce dread in the next person who tries their luck overcoming the traps. And what about the “Leap of Faith”?*

Does this guy, (let’s call him Bob) does Bob live in the cave, or nearby? How’d he get this job?

Ancient Art Vandelay: Hey Bob, we’re almost done building this huge temple made entirely out of heavy ass rocks over a bunch of bottomless pits, (not sure how we managed that one) but we need your help to finish the project. We have two tasks, are you up for it?

Ancient Bob: Sure. What do I have to do?

Ancient Art Vandelay: Firstly, we need you to go out and find about two hundred random ass cups. I’m talking all sizes and shapes. Ordinate and hella cheap. Any material: wood, glass, clay, plastic. Doesn’t matter. Then bring those cups back and set them all over the damn place in this one cavern here. The more random and meaningless the spots, the better.

Ancient Bob: Umm, okay. I don’t understand it, but anything for the cause, I guess. What’s the second task?

Ancient Art Vandelay: It’s no biggie, trust me, it’s not. But you’d be doing us a big favor. I’m gonna need to make you immortal and kinda have you sweep up around here for the rest of eternity. Ok?

Ancient Bob:…

Ancient Art Vandelay: It’ll look really good on your next employee review. Believe me.

That’d be ghastly! But it doesn’t just end there. Over the course of three and a half movies, Indy encounters a large assortment of one-time-use traps, riddles, mazes and thingamajigs. Imagine the army of poor chumps who have to constantly reset these things. Not only is that completely round boulder in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” a masterpiece of engineering, so is whatever method they use to push the damn thing back up the ramp each time some jerk comes bumbling through the place. Same goes for the room with all the poisonous needles, (that poison doesn’t reapply itself every few weeks) and the part of the cave where the ground literally separates. And that’s just for a ten-minute sequence. Throw in the rest of the movies and you’ve got an entire Union of Trap Workers (Local 249). God knows what would happen if they all went on strike!

Which brings me to my last point/pointless question. Why did these civilizations who had the ability to build devices centuries before anybody else, even die out in the first place? Forget the fact that all these groups of people came up with the same idea of building stupid ruses, pitfalls, gambits and artifices (I got tired of writing trap) independently of each other, why did none of them focus on stuff like medicine or agriculture? If you were electing a new pharaoh or Grand Pubbah, would you vote for the guy who promises to devote more time into developing this new “wheel” thingy, or the guy with spittle flying from his mouth promising to commit all resources, including turning you into a slave, to bury the “wheel” in a cave two miles deep, guarded by scorpions and rotating saw blades until the end of time, because it is clearly the work of the devil and should belong to nobody?

I believe UTW Local 249 already knows the answer to that.

 

*This is a total sidebar, but think about it. It’s the only trap where the single way to fail is to not be suicidal. What would stop somebody who has already beaten the first two traps from leaving and coming back with equipment to make a bridge across the chasm that leads directly to the grail?

Try, Try Again

“Okay Gus, it’s Friday night, we got a bottle of whiskey, a Tony Montana-sized-amount of coke and a laptop. Let’s come up with some reboot ideas!”

“Beautiful Stan. What cha got?”

“Alright, hmmmm. People liked Dinosaurs, right? That was a popular show in the 90s. Let’s bring them back.”

“Umm, I’m pretty sure they all died in the last episode Stan. Killed by a sudden ice age brought about by environmental pollution or some shit.”

“Who cares G-Dawg? Easy fix. They find a time machine and travel to our present time and try to live like normal dinosaurs in the modern world, trying to go to school and hold down jobs whilst wearing shirts but no pants. They have a stone house and animal appliances. Wait, was that them or The Flintstones with animal slave labor? Who cares, we can still make it work!”

“Alright Stan, I’ll put that in the ‘maybe pile. What’s next?”

“Okay, okay. Let’s see….Ooh! How about we reboot ALF? Everybody loves that little scamp and his acerbic sense of humor!”

“Well, in the last episode, he was captured by the government and it was implied that he was going to be experimented on and dissected.”

“Really? Wow, that’s some heavy stuff for a kids’ show about a small, fuzzy, adorable alien. That was the thing that drew everybody into that show! Tell you what, let’s say the government does experiment on him, but they turn him into a full-sized adult male? That way, we bring the nostalgic fans in with what they think they want, but instead we give them what they don’t want, there by telling them what they really wanted all along!”

“That doesn’t make any sense Stan.”

“Yeah it does! And as an adult male, he works as a P.I. using his knowledge of Melmac and what cats taste like, to solve murders! We’ll call it Gordon Shumway, PI!”

“Who’s Gordon Shumway?”

“Duh G-Man, that’s ALF’s real name.”

“So why do they call him ALF?”

“Sigh, it stands for Alien Life Form. You think ET’s name was ET? Nope, his name was Barry Schwartzberg. Get with it man.”

“Anyway, enough about ALF. But you do seem to be really stuck on rebooting tv shows with puppets.”

“Puppets! Yes! Brilliant! We’ll bring back Today’s Special? But make it edgier!”

“…Stan, only you and maybe five Canadians in their late 30s remember that bullshit show.”

“Exactly. This is the 21^st Century G-Wheezy, the age of the Millennials. The more obscure and pointless shit they know, the cooler they are in the eyes of their shiftless brethren. We could make it a web-only show. All of the puppets will be addicted to opioids, (so topical! “Ripped from today’s headlines!”) the mannequin guy is a gigolo, but only for men who are into stiff pieces of wood (get it?)  and the black chick is an inept hitman. We’ll make that shit viral!”

“These ideas are insane Stan. I love them! But tell me, why are we doing reboots of previously existing properties? Are the legends true? Has the prophesy come to pass? Is Hollywood out of original, creative ideas?”

“Of course not! Why just look at Jupiter Ascending. That was very original and creat…actually, forget that one. Rebooting previous franchises means we already have a built-in audience for whatever it is. Plus, there’s always the nostalgia factor. No matter how garbagy something was when people were kids, they only remember it with fondness. That, combined with bringing in a new audience and pushing merchandise is why you’ve got Michael Bay rebooting Transformers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Oh, that seems kind of soulless and manipulative. Don’t you think? Aren’t we here to create fresh, innovate and entertaining works of art for people to enjoy? Or are we here to just make easy money and take sexual advantage of naive, innocent young women looking for their big break in ‘Tinsel town’?”

“Wait. Who hired you again?”