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?”

We Like To Party!

O brother, where art thou? Come back to us Mr. Six! Come back! We miss you ever so much. We miss your tuxedo, your fancy shoes, your suspenders, the classy red bow tie. And, of course, those ever so stylish glasses.

Your weird, creepy face though? Not so much.

The summer is nigh and this country needs the kind of solace and respite only a withered, insane old, over-dressed man can provide. Speaking of which, why are you wearing a tuxedo in the summer bruh? And even more so, why are you wearing a full tuxedo at a WATER PARK, my dude? You don’t see me wearing jams and holding a boogie board at weddings. It’s called decorum.

Anyway, I like to imagine a typical muggy D.C. area summer’s morning with people melting on the sidewalk like ice cream cones in the sun, when all of a sudden, a dated, gaudy red-and-yellow bus pulls up and a snazzily-dressed homunculus jumps out and proceeds to have a Grand Mal seizure set to bad 90s music. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? Doesn’t that just scream summer?!

This is why we need you Mr. Six! You embody summertime fun. Also, there have recently been less maimings and accidental deaths* at Six Flags’ 31 amusement parks than one would expect. Less than 50 people have been precariously trapped on roller coasters for several spine-chilling hours over the last decade. Less then two dozen children and senior citizens have been violently tossed from various rides only to land on the hard, unyielding concrete in the same time frame. Only around ten or so guests and trainers have been attacked and/or gored by tigers, elephants and other safari inhabitants.

I mean, some park workers have been killed by roller coasters, but they knew what they signed up for, so nuts to them.

Compared to that waterside in Kansas that decapitated an 11-year-old boy, (I almost included a link, but decided against it, you’re welcome) Six Flags (Motto: Would You Rather Waste Your Money At Disney?)  is doing pretty well. Who wouldn’t want to be associated with such a great safety track record?

But you don’t have to take my word for it, just listen to these true responses when I went to a local playground to ask kids if they missed Mr. Six.

“Who?”

“No, I don’t want any of your candy mister!”

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“Baba Booey.”

“Help! Police!”

Ha ha ha! Those wacky kids. Truly, children are our future. But as you can tell, not only are you missed, but there’s an entire new generation of America’s youth that needs to be introduced to your manic and off-putting physical hijinks. You need to come back to inform and entertain (yeah, entertain is a pretty strong word for what you do, but I mean it!).

So until the glorious second (third?) coming of Chri…I mean Mr. Six, I’ll maintain a heart full of hope and keep the home fires burning.

HAVE A SUMMAH!

*Or were they…purposeful murders?

Milestones

Well, it sure as hell took me long enough, but we’re finally here! My 300^th Eighty-Four Glyde entry. You’ve come a long way baby! Of course it took my lazy, thin-skinned ass 12 years what I had planned to do in six. But oh well, better late than never, right?*

Over the last twelve years that I’ve been airing my inner demons via bad jokes and pointless observations about white people. I’ve had quite the existence. I’ve been sent to Iraq twice, I’ve moved nine times, have had six or seven jobs and assassinated four heads of state. Never a dull day for me!**

I started Eighty-Four Glyde in 2006, during my second tour in Iraq. This is a matter of historical record and can be easily verified in any reputable library. (Side note: with all the biopics they’re making these days, when are we gonna get a movie about that Dewey chap and the creation of his decimal system? The world awaits eagerly.) I started writing for a few reasons. I’ve covered them in depth in previous entries, so I’ll just skim here. I was a journalist in the Army and enjoy writing. I always liked the humor columnist Dave Barry and wanted to do something similar. This year was also when MySpace was gaining in popularity (I have no MySpace jokes. I’m going to let Tom rest in peace.) and it made a great platform for people trying to write, discover their talents and spread their work to the world. Unless you were Tia Tequila who chose MySpace to publicly document her decent into madness and obscurity.

I’ve covered a lot of topics over the years, from movies to Japanese porn, all the way to movies. It was truly a comprehensive list of subjects. I tried to never get political, though this blog has existed during Republican and Democratic leaders in office. Presidents come and go.

I took a year off in 2017. My head just wasn’t in the game and couldn’t think of anything funny that didn’t also open the door to my own issues. And I wasn’t ready to be that open to a bunch of (nonexistent), faceless people online. So a break seemed in order, perhaps maybe something more permanent.

You see, there’s been a huge shift in Internet content. People used to enjoy reading stuff online. But tides have changed. Amateur videos on YouTube are all the rage right now. These days people are more into images and symbols (like Wing Dings) than words. Why write the word “penis” when you can just post an eggplant emoji? (Also who decided that shit?) they say a picture’s worth a thousand words, and much easier to read. Lazy millennial bastards!

Sorry bout that. Anyway, with the sea change taking place online, people like me have to translate their skills because blogs and their ilk are relegated to the outskirts of the web. They still exist, they just get fewer visitors these days. Like your grandfather in a nursing home. Gee, that sounded darker than it should have. Let’s brighten the mood!

Everybody raise your Zima high in the air! Let us celebrate the past 12 years and 300 entries and pray (in English) to god I get some kind of book deal soon so I don’t have to do this for another 12 years!

*Wrong.

**Still wrong.

Show Us Them Pearly Whites

I like to watch television. I’m just old fashion that way. It’s an American tradition, dating back to the first broadcast, when Thomas Edison strip-teased for Dr. John Watson, all the way to when Snookie strip-teased for an audience of absolutely zilch. I’m proud to be a part of this grand tradition.

Of course television, as the ever-evolving organism that it is, has been changing. This is only natural. As the medium grows, it’ll become bigger, its voice will deepen, it’ll have certain urges and hair will grow where there was none before. Wait, what was I talking about again?

With the invention of “Curated Television” * with devices and platforms, such as Roku, Amazon Fire, Netflix and Skynet, people can now watch the shows and movies they specifically want, thereby cutting out superfluous channels, (I’m not entirely against this, I only have sports channels in case the Testosterone Police show up to do an inspection) and commercials.

It’s the second one I draw offense at. People need commercials. They’re vital. I only watch the Super Bowl for the commercials. Hell, I’ve even previous written at least three columns about them. Now, don’t get me wrong, commercials can really suck, (I’m looking at you General Insurance Company) but they can also be very innovative and/or funny, especially ones involving Jean Claude Van Damme doing epic splits.

But there is one thing about commercials that now seems to be standard and bugs the shit out of me: people smiling like they’re deranged.

I understand that for some products, it makes sense for people to smile, like toothpaste ads, or anti-depression medication commercials. Maybe even the occasion beer or Doritos spot. But these days, marketing companies are taking it too far. I’ve recently seen commercials for cars, pillows, cell phones, underwear, the very concept of cooking and even bleach. where people grin like maniacal goons.

Why do they do this? Not everything is inherently funny, or worth smiling at. There’s even a meme called “Women Laughing Alone With Salad” where somebody googled that phrase and came up with a surprisingly large amount of stock pictures of women doing exactly that. Who came up with this concept? What are women laughing at salads supposed to convey? Why didn’t anybody stop these mad men before these generic photos were taken? We may never know. It’s baffling.

What’s even more testicle-shriveling stupid are the commercials where the people are so ecstatic about the product they’re trying to sell you that smiling isn’t enough, they must DANCE! As spastically and incongruously as possible. And for once, black people don’t get a pass for automatically being better dances. In this endeavor, all races are equally bad.

I recently saw a series of commercials for a furniture delivery company where people are so excited about their dinning room table set appearing out of thin air that they must dance their dignity away, never to be seen again. Then, they drop their magic phones on the ground as the song accompanying the visuals implores them to “drop the mic”, because leave it to a furniture company to get with the times in terms of slang, right jive turkeys?

You all may not notice this phenomenon, (you will now dammit!) But I have, because I’m just that observant. And once seen, it cannot be unseen. You can never purge yourself of what your eyes will have beheld. Just pay attention sometime and you’ll wonder to yourself “Hey, why is that lady smiling like a crazy person while looking at that Tide Detergent pod? What does she know that I don’t?”

Always wonder, my friends. Always wonder.

*The very phrase is an abomination.

Notel Motel

I’m a sucker for motels. I love ‘em! I often wish I was a white guy traveling salesman in the 50s and 60s so I could witness motels in their heyday.*

                                                                  ***

I imagine myself driving in my 1958 Chevrolet Emasculator, on Route 66, listening to Whitey McCracker & The Honkies (best music outside of Pat Boone. Much easier on the ears than those punk kids with their Rock and Roll or those damn beatniks with their bongos and jazz cigarettes!) As the sun sets in the west, I decide to pull over at a roadside diner to get a cuppa joe and eat the blue plate special (typically dry ass turkey with red-eye gravy, or warmed-over meatloaf that was conceived in Satan’s own oven many decades ago and is now old enough to vote) while looking over the day’s sports scores (go L.A. Sharks!).

After dinner, I’ll amble across the gravel parking lot to the adjoining Motor Hotel and bar. I’ll gulp three or four scotches (neat) and suck down half a pack of Pall Malls. Then, when my loins are suitably girded, I stagger over to the check-in counter and get a room key from Gus (or Mac, or Hank, something like that) and meander to my cabin, Room 5. I walk in, enjoy the splendor of the gleaming majesty that is American craftsmanship, design and execution, before peeling off my smelly 1950s loafers and falling face first on a quality bed with good, clean sheets. Dead to the world.

I wake up in the morning, make my way back over to the diner for three cups of coffee and my usual morning porterhouse steak with whiskey syrup. Then it’s back on the road on my way to Toledo. I hear only good things about that place and feel it would be a great market to sell door-to-door lock-picking kits.

                                                                  ***

Doesn’t that sound like fun?! That’s the life for me man! Long, lonely, monotonous days on the awesome highways and byways of the U S of A, and lonely, monotonous nights in tiny, horrendously maintained places where the wretched go to die. Throw in the occasional hooker (missing AT LEAST two teeth) and large quantities of gut-rotting booze and that’s living the American dream!

I know what you’re thinking, “Josh, motels are gross, you’re gross, and I think much less of you now for learning this about you, and I didn’t even think that was possible!” To which I say “Fine, then you’re not invited to my birthday party at the bowling alley this year.”

Let’s break down the attributes of your average motel. We’ll name it “The Discharge Inn”:

-It’s dirty (starting off vague and general here).
-The sheets haven’t been washed since snap bracelets were a thing.
-The walls are so thin you can hear somebody thinking in the next room.
-The pillows are oddly damp.
-That one light just won’t turn on and it makes that corner of the room exist in eternal darkness.
-What’s that sound?
-The bathroom contains its own ecosystem.
-The tap water is yellow and chunky.
-The bathtub just growled at me.
-Oh, hi Norman Bates.
-Seriously though, what is that sound?
-The carpet goes up to my ankles. Are carpets supposed to grow like hair?
-Listening to other people having violent, brutal, animalistic sex does not a good lullaby make.
-A free, secondhand high from the copious amount of weed overtly smoked everywhere.
-Plenty of free, preused condoms at your disposal.

And so on and so forth. And I have to admit, all of that is true. And worse. And that’s why I LOVE MOTELS! The more it looks like the scene of some grisly murder/suicide, or like a coven of CHUDs live there, the better.

I have been known, in the past, to just take pointless, random road trips. I hop in my car, point it in any direction and just go. My only rules are: 1. No Interstates, 2. No particular destination, 3. Motels when possible. This leads me to some very off-the-map places. At the Lakeview Motel, in Fannettsburg, PA, I met a curious collection of inhabitants. Lakeview was a cabin-style motel. The weird thing is that, of the dozen or so cabins that were there, all were occupied, yet I was the only customer. You see, everybody else just lived there. On my left side was a middle-aged woman, to my right was her daughter and granddaughter, (both grandmother and daughter worked at the honkey tonk behind the motel. I’m not entirely sure how living at a motel works. Do they have mailboxes? How does rent work? We may never know. Oh, and by the way, there was absolutely no lake to be viewed at all. Lies!

Once, a long time ago, I heard on the radio that according to the rules of salesmen on the road, that they’d buy porno mags, “use them” and then stuff them under motel mattresses for the next traveling salesman to “use.” Of course, I had to see if this was true. Six years later, after checking under mattress in dozens of motels, I finally found what I had been looking for. At some shitty motel in Battle Creek, Mich. (Sadly, I also discovered that there were three giant holes in the mattress created by a somnambulistic smoker. I was stuck in that room for a week.) Yes, I touched the magazine. No, I did not have direct physical contact with it. I went full on HAZMAT when I touched it, much like the Kardashians’ laundress does when handling their underwear. And also yes, the pages were sticky.

Anyway, that’s enough grossing you out for today. I’m on my way to my annual road trip, this time to Breezewood, PA., the “Town of Motels”.

Now where did I put my blacklight?

*And to drink at work and sexually harass and debase women AS GOD INTENDED!

We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology

Congratulations ladles and jelly spoons! Eureka! We did it! You can pack up all your shit and go home now. The job is done. Science has achieved the unachievable! Obtained the unobtainable! Postered the preposterous!

Forget living on other planets! Screw aliens! Spare nary a thought on time travel, nor perpetual motion machines. The Matrix? Child’s play. And don’t even get me started on those damn hoverboards. All of those things are as a house made of sticks, to the stone house science has just created!

As I’m sure all of you knowledgeable, well-informed people have already heard, good old-fashion American SCIENCE! and KNOW-HOW! gave us the first attempted (and successful) full-on junx transplant!

Last month at Johns Hopkins Hospital (MOTTO: Forget about Ben Carson. We sure have.) An American service member underwent a 14-hour operation to replace some…body parts. It turns out that dude had his whole area blown way the hell off by a bomb in Afghanistan. This was a major deal. This explosion wasn’t like the plethora of times that Bugs Bunny has blown up Daffy Duck. This is more like…hmmm. Well, the closest thing I can compare it to is having a bomb explode your crotch into many small chunks scattered around a 25-foot radius.

Ouch.

It turns out that a majority of soldiers who are wounded in battle (or from Karaoke Night at Gus’s Saloon and Spittoon) and wake up in the hospital immediately ask if their twig and berries are still intact. Now that’s how proper priorities work!

Private Deacon: Uhh, hello?

Nurse: Sir, you’re awake!

Deacon: How long have I been out?

Nurse: Eight days. We were losing hope. The chaplain came by and spent two days praying by your side with your best friend. We flew your entire family out here in hopes that their very presence would somehow radiate hopefulness and good vibes. Bono and U2 wrote a song for…

Deacon: How’s my dick?

While there have been two previously successful johnson transplants, those were just the wangs. This soldier got a new dick AND balls. Both of dude’s legs were blown to hell right above the knees, but it was his manhood that really got him worked up.

“That injury, I felt like it banished me from a relationship,” he said in an interview last week. “Like, that’s it, you’re done, you’re by yourself for the rest of your life. I struggled with even viewing myself as a man for a long time.” * Of course this dude’s keeping his identity a secret. He probably wants to avoid the groupies and whatnot.

But the real question isn’t can we do this surgery? The question is should we do it?

The answer is a resounding: Nahhhh

Being the elite journalist that I am, I spent the day querying how people would feel if they either were given or interacted with transplanted genitalia. Naturally, this is both a delicate and serious topic. So I made sure to approach people and asked them with tact and discretion their thoughts. It went like this:

Me: Yo man, could you spend the rest of your life with somebody else’s DICk and BALLS between your legs?    

Invariably, most of the guys’ answers were quite similar. They ranged from “I can’t do it,” to “If my own shit was blown off I would have to set off another bomb for the rest of me.” Some guys simply sent me rude and offensive pictures and one gentleman even took a swing at me.

The women, on the other hand, were far more openminded about having interactions with relocated schlongs

Me: Yo, would you DO IT with a guy who had a phallus transplant?

“I probably would be ok with it as long as it works. It might be a little weird at first, but it’s not like I’m staring at it,” said one lady person.

Another responder answered “I mean, it doesn’t matter as long as he’s disease free and it’s consensual.”

So there you have it. Something happened and people think stuff about that something. They have opinions and beliefs and prejudices, and gingivitis. We have only scratched the surface of this topic here today in this column. There’s still a million questions to be resolved. Such as:

Is the dick the same color as the guy its attached to?
How do you bring a dead dick back to life?
Does it work?
Whose little soldiers are swimming around in that ball sack?
Can he get a chick pregnant?
Is it possible to get “phantom limb” syndrome with your dick?
Will the previous owner’s personality take over the new host and he’ll end up killing and/or making love to a lot of people?

All these questions and more were probably answered in the news article I just skimmed, but I’m too lazy to go back and read. So let’s just assume that science is magical and beyond our mortal comprehension. Science works in mysterious ways and we should all be humbled to be in science’s presence. **

*If he dated any of the women I‘ve dated, he’d consider himself lucky to not have to deal with relationships, amirite guys?!

**Ha! I made it through the whole thing without saying “penis” once!...Oh, wait.

Eighty-Four Glyde Libs

For those of you who are unaware, or had terrible childhoods, Mad Libs was a word game for rambunctious kids during road trips. They were books that contained a couple dozen short “stories” a few paragraphs long that had certain words missing. The goal wasn’t to try and figure out which word was supposed to fit into the sentence, in fact, the kid guessing the word didn’t even know what the story was. One kid would have the book and every time there was a blank in a sentence, the book would altruistically tell you what type of word fit there, such as “noun”, or “adjective” or “part of body”, and the other kid just picks a noun or adjective at random. At the end the kid with the book would read the entire story with the words inserted and both younglings would laugh uproariously at the gobblety-gook they had created. Fun for everybody!

But who said Mad Libs are just for kids*? What happens when a group of fun-loving adults get together with some incredibly adult libations, decide to give in to their immature yearnings and do some Mad Libs?

You get Eighty-Four Glyde Libs, of course!

HOW TO SPEAK LIKE A SPY

Spies speak their own SLIMY language. Common terms include:

Target—a person or an APPLE of interest whom a spy watches come and CREAM.

Surveillance—to monitor or observe a FIRE with visual, listening, or FASTING equipment like cameras, satellites, or long-distance BALLS.

Bug—a FUNKY device that can be placed on an object such as a car, remote control, or CARphone to listen in on a target’s SWEATY conversations.

Alias—the name a spy uses-like Ronald McDonald or ASHLEY-while undercover.

Mole—a BLACK HOLE from one spy organization who gets a job within a rival STUMP organization in order to obtain inside information or other secret APPLES.

Classified—sensitive and DUSTY information that only certain levels of CHIPS have authorized clearance to access.

A SPY BIRTHDAY PARTY**

When I turned 15 years-old, my mom and ASS threw an AVUNCULAR spy-themed birthday party for me. I invited ten of my closest TURTLES, and we spent a HAIRY afternoon doing cool spy stuff. We slipped black sunglasses on our TOES, grabbed MEANDERING toy cell phones, and practiced our surveillance techniques with a game of hide-and-SQUATING around my backyard. We decoded COMFORTABLE messages that my parents had written on colorful BACTERIA. We pounded on a CHAIR-shaped piñata with a wooden HUMAN FLESH, and we put spy tattoos like binoculars, computers and micro-YURTS all over our EYES. Later my mom served cake and ZITS, and everyone sang “SPARKILY Birthday” to me. I got a ton of HEROIC gifts, but my favorite was the motion-activated MEAT that would alert me to any UVULAS about to sneak into my room. Every good spy needs one of these!

FROM THE SPY FILE

To Agent JOSH: At this morning’s SCRAPPY management meeting, it was decided by Agency Chief SNOOP DOGG that you are being assigned to the case known internally as Operation MILKING WART. This memo will provide the MOIST details of the case, and you will be briefed further in the coming week. As you may know, this case involves a band of FLAKEY thieves who stole the blueprints to a top-secret robot GOITER that threatens the security of our LUMPY country. They have hidden the prints somewhere in a STIFF location on the outskirts of the SAVAGE LANDS. Their leader’s name is Uno Ojo, which translates to FLEXIBLE COCK. You will know him by the black eye patch he wears over his TAINT. Be advised that he and his group of evil STARS are armed and BUMPY, so use extreme caution if you come face-to-HEMMEROID with any of them. As any good spy knows, you’re of no use to the agency if you’re PUNGENT.

*Mature adults who don’t understand the concept of fun and who sit in their depressing office cubicles trying to buy Crocs for their dogs or some shit. That’s who!  

**Yes, these are all spy related.

NO(!)stalgia

These are dark days. Murky clouds gather above us and blot out the bright light of the Esoterica. The light has been shut out to those who thrive in its radiance.

Basically, what I’m saying it’s no fun being into obscure or old stuff right now. Especially 80s stuff. That nostalgia shit is everywhere and will only get worse instead of better.

The 1980s were a decade. New decades seem to come around every ten years or so. It’s mysterious. That particular decade is similar to ones that came before and after it. People existed, they wore clothes, listened to music, had extremely specific hairstyles that were instantly outlawed by the following decade and they probably ate food.

So what makes the 80s different/special?

Well, in a way, nada. In other ways everything (I’m nothing if not specific). The 80s saw the dawning of the computer age, as exemplified in movies like Tron, War Games, D.A.R.Y.L. and Explorers. It was also the heyday of cocaine, as demonstrated by Scarface and everything that Stephen King was involved in.

But while I could easily write multiple columns about how tits the 80s were, they’d be incredibly boring to anybody who considers hip hop from 2000 to be “old school”. The question isn’t “why are the 80s so popular?” it’s “why are the 80s popular now?” Easy.

People who, as children, suckled on the teat of the 80s, (me and most likely you if you’re reading this) are the leading generation. We’re in charge now, and that means that all the garbage we grew up on is now, by law, bodacious and relevant again. No matter how obscure (or, let’s be honest, in retrospect --terrible) the pop culture of yesteryear was, it was ours goddamn it and we will drag it, kicking and screaming, into the 21^st century and shove it down everybody’s throats like a hot dog at an eating contest, (just sit there and picture that scenario for a minute.)

This isn’t fair for other generations, but too bad. I had to grow up living under the nostalgia umbrella of Generation X (motto: Our music can only be written in minor keys and all our rappers must have ‘MC’ in their names.) And they were forced to deal with their hippy drippy parents’ cultural memories. It is, as my friend Elton Jonathan once called it: “The Mobius Strip of Life”, never-ending and very unsatisfying.

The problem for people like me, those who swim in the waters of incredibly specific and pointless things from the past, is that the market has been saturated. Thanks to schlock like Ready Player One and Stranger Things, you can barely take a step without bumping into She-Ra or Hacksaw Jim Duggan.* There is no room for people like me. We used to gather in the secret places (comic book shops and bars) to discuss things like who would win in a fight between Airwolf and Blue Thunder. Because to let people know what geeky stuff we were into branded us as pariahs to our peers. But no longer. Now that which was niche is mainstream. But at what cost!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a butthurt fanboy, mad that the rest of the world is finally being introduced to stuff I’ve been into for decades. I’m all about sharing the wealth. So far, my boy Mr. Brooks is the only dude I know who can rank Duck Tales episodes with me based on how spectacular Launchpad’s crashes were. I’d love to bring more people into the fold. That way my sister won’t look at me like a crazy jerk anymore. But let’s give the 80s a break, shall we? No more reboots, remakes, re-animators or rebuttals. We don’t need any of our beloved (and objectively bad) movies turned into tv shows, or our choking-hazards masquerading as toys turned into movies with three sequels. The let past go. Or pick another decade.

I’ve heard good things from my southern friends about the 1860s.

*And I feel cheap for even making those references.

The Zombie Wave Has Broken

(This is gonna be a short one, I’m just flexing my writing muscles after a long hiatus. I’m a wee bit rusty in the old joke factory.)

I was lounging around my apartment the other day, doing my regular activities (watching cartoons in my underwear and scratching my balls) when my EUREKA! moment happened.

I really hate zombie movies and tv shows.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of zombies. I’m all for shuffling hordes of flesh-eating ghouls who are an allegory for the Communist menace. I delight in imagining scenarios wherein I kick in doors, waving various four-fours, rescuing damsels and killing the undead in imaginative ways, (I’m trying to figure out what I can do with a loaf of bread and a jar of chunky peanut butter. Zombies have allergies too, right?)

No, my problem is with zombie movies. Why? I’m glad you asked.

In vampire movies, people are aware of the existence of vampires. In werewolf movies, people have heard of werewolves before. Same goes for ghosts, Creatures from Black Lagoons and even Hellraisers. Even if the people in those movies don’t believe in those things, they at least have some passing knowledge on the subject.

In 99.5% of zombie movies, nobody has ever heard of zombies before. Nobody has any knowledge of how to deal with them. Hell, In The Walking Dead, they don’t even say “zombie,” they’re “Walkers.” What kind of bullshit is that? Some of them are missing legs and gotta crawl to get around. What are they called? Ankle-biters?

That means, practically every zombie movie or show has to always include the origin, and I’m tired of it. Each time, we have to follow a new set of dopes as they slowly discover the rules to dealing with zombies that we, as the audience, have known since we were in the womb. It’s the same damn tropes all the time. For example:

1. Somebody has to ask a friend or loved one what’s wrong at the very beginning. Which leads to said loved one turning around dramatically.

2. People eventually discover that zombies have to be killed by brain trauma.

3. They eventually discover that being bitten leads to infection. Which leads to…

4. …Somebody being bitten and hiding it from the rest of the group.

5. Somebody tearfully having to kill a loved one and refusing. Tearfully.

6. A character valiantly sacrificing themselves for the good of the group. Valiantly.

7. At least one joke about a zombie “losing their head.”

8. Decaying zombie bewbs.

I’m sick of it! Why are we subjected to seeing this mobius strip of stupidity? Why can’t more movies be like Zombieland? That movie starts after the zombie apocalypse and the story picks up with survivors who already know the rules. Or, if they insist on doing a generic zombie movie, throw in a zombie expert. Let’s get a Van Helsing in that piece! Somebody who knows something and can save us the trouble of the first 45 minutes of people stumbling around going “duh.”

I dunno. Maybe I’m thinking about this too much. Perhaps I should pursue more enlightened endeavors, such as finally getting those hoverboards invented, or solving world itchiness.

Nah…