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?”

Come See The Amazing Drunken Arguers

    

        

(Originally written in 2008)

There’s nothing like a loud, awkward argument in public.

           
Fun, don’t cha think?

           

I enjoy the screeching and yelling. It always brings a smile to my face.

           

If you enjoy public brawls then I personally invite you to my Fourth of July party next year (it’d be this year but I have a previous engagement to sweat my ass off in Iraq. And it’s a big ass, so I’ll be here for awhile).

           

But next year…..Ahhhh next year. Here’s what you can expect as entertainment at my party:

           

Got a new lady, her name’s Jaynie. Those who know me know that I dig on the whole Mrs. Robinson vibe, so she’s a little older (and sexy!). I love her and all, but sadly, she’s a little feisty. We talk online but we tend to argue from time to time, (something to do with my being here and her being free to enjoy the company of other men.) So, we’ve decided to take our act public.

           

At next year’s party (which will have delicious, non-human-based grilled foods and plenty of libations) I invite you to witness the drunken entertainment that will be me and Jaynie, as we “talk about our relationship.” Here’s how I’m sure it’ll go down.

           

First, we’ll start things off with a violently whispered conversation, much like the dozens of couples’ arguments that you’ve heard before. They’re kind of quiet, but at the same time drunkenly loud. With people trying to rein in big, sweeping gestures and shifting their eyes back and forth like Snidely Whiplash.

           

Next will be the decisive walk-away by one of us, (depends on who’s winning the argument.) The walk-away is always preceded by the dramatic chair-fall. And, of course, the spin-around with the last word. I love the last word because so often it makes no sense: “And you can tell her to fluffer your nutter!”

           

After the walk-away comes the “storming back in,” because sometimes the last word just isn’t enough. The storming is the introduction to act two.

           

Act two is fun because it’s audience participation. You won’t be able to pretend that you don’t hear the argument anymore. You’ll have to sit back and watch. Especially when one of us decides to single out an audience member with the line “but blank agrees with me. Right blank?!” That’s how you know it’s your turn to join in the fun! (Providing your name is Blank, I guess.)

           

When act two commences all pretences will be dropped. No more pretending to keep it civil. There will be YELLING!! And SHOUTING INCOHERENTLY! The interesting thing for the audience will be trying to decode what we’re talking about as we reference conversations and situations that are at least a year old. Relationships are great!

           

Act three will be when the threats are thrown around like one-dollar bills at a strip club (yes, dollar bills. I don’t frequent the classy establishments.) Feelings will be hurt and tempers will rise. Everything will build to a very loud and fascinating crescendo, culminating in a glass of water (or a cup of beer) being thrown in my face! Don’t miss the exciting end to the day’s entertainment!

           

Once Jaynie’s thrown liquid at me feel free to depart with whatever food you can carry, because that’ll be the end of the show and I’ll be kicking everybody out anyway.

           

So please, please come to my Fourth of July party next year. It’ll be a blast.

Talk about fireworks!*

*Get the joke I made there? There’ll be fireworks because we’ll be arguing! It’s a play on words! I’m hilarious.