First Look: Harry Potter And The Cursed Child

Here is a review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Spoilers? Sure.

Now, from what I gather, sometime during the original series, Voldemort managed to impregnate Draco Malfoy, and is the true father of Scorpius. Due to the fact that Harry Potter was somewhat telepathically connected to Voldemort at that time, he’s kind of the dad too.

It is now the year 3030. Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Severus, Harry’s other son, are dating. And not just casually—they’ve both thought about who would be their groomsmen. Meanwhile, another one of Harry’s sons, James Sirius, is battling a pretty heavy heroin addiction. It is hinted that this has caused Ginny, Harry’s alcoholic wife, to elope with Dudley Dursley.

Then, in a breaking of the fourth wall, all of the characters suddenly realize that they are in a play, which itself has been novelized by two dudes who did not create the series which was the basis for the play that was turned into this book.

I Like To Keep My Personal Opinions And Beliefs Off Of The Internet

*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.

We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.

Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.

When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?

Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.

This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.

So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.

And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.

True Detective Season Two Preview—You Won’t Believe Who Plays Vince Vaughn

The speculation surrounding season two of the HBO series True Detective ends here. As a northern midwestern Hollywood insider, I’ve got the juicy, succulent details.

The cast:

Vince Vaughn plays Matthew McConaughey (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), a detective who drives a Lincoln while revealing his thoughts on what it’s like to drive a Lincoln.

Colin Farrell portrays Vince Vaughn (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), an alcoholic police officer trying to dry out. At one point, Vaughn, the character, believes he is the brother of Santa Claus, but then comes to his senses and starts a fraternity.

Series creator Nic Pizzolatto makes an appearance as police chief Woody Harrelson (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), while wearing a pregnancy vest and carrying on an affair with a busty paralegal.

Matthew McConaughey (the real person) is absent from the cast, for he is believed to be isolated somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, rubbing his fingers together, writing dialogue for the next run of Lincoln commercials.

The plot:

Matthew McConaughey, the detective, discovers a disfigured body along the Pacific Coast Highway, believed to be corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson. The corpse presents a multitude of esoteric knife carvings along his perineum—this obviously wasn’t the killer’s first rodeo. Naturally, Vince Vaughn’s character, Matthew McConaughey, wants to get to the bottom of things, so he calls in Vince Vaughn, played by Colin Farrell, a choice that chief Woody Harrelson (Nic Pizzolatto) has a major objection with.

Of course, the whole time, we’re wondering if the actual Matthew McConaughey will hop in his Lincoln and descend from the mythical Sierra Nevada peaks in order to help out with the investigation. After a few episodes, the actual McConaughey does come down out of the mountains, and is entangled in an impromptu metaphysical ‘act-off’ with Vince Vaughn’s fictional character named Matthew McConaughey that is not actually based on the real human Matthew McConaughey, in order to define the true meaning of Matthew McConaughey.

Matthew McConaughey, the actor, produces a notebook and begins to read: The laws of physics state that Matthew McConaughey, whether in liquid, gas, solid, or plasma form, cannot be defined by two separate bodies, for Matthew McConaughey exists everywhere, in everything. He is inside you. He is inside me. He is inside a Lincoln. He is the universe. Matthew McConaughey got himself pregnant and gave birth to God.

Security roughly escorts McConaughey, the actor, who drops his notebook, from the set, while McConaughey, the character, goes back to performing the scripted material. He picks up the notebook.

The cover reads, in childish handwriting, Matt’s Journal of Hopes and Dreams.

In the pages of Matt’s journal, the actor McConaughey’s plot to murder corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson, is revealed.

McConaughey, the detective played by Vince Vaughn, chases down the security guards that carried out McConaughey, the actor.

The head guard looks confused and claims that he did not escort McConaughey, the actor, from the premises. Detective McConaughey closes his eyes for a moment to think. When he opens them, the guard is gone and an empty Lincoln MKC sits before him. The car drives off.

The face of Matthew McConaughey, the actor, is superimposed over the final scene before everything fades to black.

Film Review—Atlas Shrugged, Part One

All the good directors and actors must have been on strike while this film was being made. It’s bad.

Here’s a List of the Books I Read in 2013

Adams, Douglas—Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency (1987)

Boortz, Neal & Linder, John—The FairTax Book (2005)

Brown, Dan—Angels & Demons (2000)

Burroughs, William S.—The Ticket That Exploded (1962)

Cameron, Julia—The Artist’s Way (1992)

Colum, Padraic—Nordic Gods and Heroes (1920)

DeLillo, Don—White Noise (1985), Mao II (1991)

Dick, Philip K.—The Divine Invasion (1981)

Gallwey, W. Timothy—The Inner Game of Tennis (1974)

Geary, Rick—The Lives of Sacco and Vanzetti (2011)

Gerrold, David—Worlds of Wonder: How to Write Science Fiction & Fantasy (2001)

Gray, Frank—Scoremanship (1969)

Hawking, Stephen—The Theory of Everything (1996)

Hodgkinson, Tom—How to be Idle: A Loafer’s Manifesto (2005)

Hughes, Jonnie—On The Origin Of Tepees: The Evolution Of Ideas (And Ourselves) (2011)

Karnazes, Dean—Run! (2011)

Macdonald, Ross—The Moving Target (1949)

Marx, Karl (and Friedrich Engels)—The Communist Manifesto (1848)

Mieville, China—Embassytown (2011)

Moore, Alan—The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (1999)

O’Brien, Flann—At Swim-Two-Birds (1939)

Palast, Greg—The Best Democracy Money Can Buy (2002)

Pynchon, Thomas—V. (1963), Slow Learner (1984), Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

Rand, Ayn—The Virtue of Selfishness (1964)

Vonnegut, Kurt—The Sirens of Titan (1959), Cat’s Cradle (1963)

Watts, Alan—Tao: The Watercourse Way (1975)

Watts, Peter—Starfish (1999), Maelstrom (2001)

Wells, Dan—I Am Not a Serial Killer (2010)

Wendig, Chuck—Blackbirds (2012)

Wilson, Robert Anton—Cosmic Trigger: The Final Secret of the Illuminati (1977)

Horror Movie Script

A pair of twins, reeling from the death of their parents, use their insurance money to buy an old mansion. The day comes when they move into their new digs. For an old house, it’s got a lot of modern amenities—track lighting, full gym, and a supply of creatine that almost seems to breed overnight. But then strange things begin to happen: shirts are found shrunken to a perfect ‘athletic fit,’ and disintegrate after more than one use. Any full-bodied beer placed in the refrigerator is mysteriously Miller 64 by morning. Sugar and salt transform into protein powder.

The house develops a new center of gravity, directly in front of the bathroom mirror. Once positioned in that spot, the twins find it nearly impossible to look away. Coupons for local tanning salons appear on the breakfast bar. The walls bleed hair gel at night, and in the morning, instead of fog, a choking mist of Axe body spray lingers over the property.

The strange occurrences escalate. At the apex of the ‘frightenings’, one of the twins wakes up and finds a rotting, yet well-coiffed zombie lingering near the bed, ready with a pointed weapon. The apparition points, and shoots. The boy screams, but is not harmed. It turns out it was a bottle of Febreeze; the walking dead man thought the stagnant scent in the room would ‘scare off tail.’ Episodes like this continue, until the twins find that the house has a deep, dark secret: it is haunted by ghost zombie metrosexual meat-head douchebags.

An epic battle ensues—the twins put up an effort to disgustify their house—laundry is put off, Tucker Max novels are burned, Spike TV is blocked. Inevitably, the house proves to be too powerful with its telekinetic powers.

The twins eventually find themselves dressing in tight shirts and downing protein shakes with their ‘brahs’ without even realizing what happened. The back patio, which they had originally planned to use for a laid-back bonfire area, is suddenly populated by loud hordes of women with low self esteem.

Facing defeat, the twins attempt a last act of defiance: they try to vomit up the extreme amount of protein that has been wreaking havoc on their digestive systems, but the metrosexual spirits suppress the urge, causing the twins to choke and die.

Fin

“Dark World” Will Probably Leave Out Thor’s Cross-Dressing Escapades

True (mythological) story:

Thor once lost his hammer to the giant Thrym, who wanted the goddess Freyja as payment for it. In order to get the hammer back, Thor and Loki travelled to the land of the giants disguised as bride and bridesmaid. Things happen, and he eventually regains his weapon. Read all about it here and here.

We’ll see if the movie includes that juicy nugget.

 

Happy Birthday To My Mother

Well, today is the birthday of my Mother. She taught me a great deal about frugality, which is why I’ve been using the same sandwich bag for over five months now, and haven’t flushed my toilet in three. She’s on vacation Brazil at the moment, but this is the conversation we will have when she gets back in a week or so.
Me: I got you flowers on your birthday, but they got old and I had to throw them out.
Mother: You shouldn’t have!
Me: Oh good, ‘cuz I didn’t.
Lesser mothers would be disappointed, maybe even insulted. Mine however, will be happy that I thought about getting her flowers. Then, she will be even more happy when she realizes that I was able to brighten her day without spending any money at all. Happy birthday Mom!

The Literary Lounge–Jay Gatsby: Great, Or Giant Loser?

It’s been a few years since I read The Great Gatsby, which was recently converted to the silver screen. If memory serves, wasn’t Jay Gatsby just some guy who let a bunch of strangers party at his house while he called them “old sport,” then somebody shot him and nobody showed up to the funeral?

Discuss.

Kmart Commercial

I think that Kmart commercial would have been a lot funnier if everyone, instead of saying they just shipped their pants, said they had just shit their pants. There’s nothing funny about pants being loaded into a truck and delivered somewhere. And if they used my suggestion, there could be some kind of tie-in campaign with cleaning supplies and laundry detergent.