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A Very Short Story

A man is in a situation where another man produces a smooth object.

Man #1: “That’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man #2: “What.”

Man 1: “That object you handed me is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man 2: “How could you possibly know how smooth a baby’s bottom is.”

Man 1: “I…….just do.”

Man 2: “You shouldn’t know what a baby’s ass feels like. You don’t have kids.”

Man 1: “So?”

Man 2: “Yet you know what the buttocks of an infant feels like.”

Man 1: “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Man 2: (Producing a badge) “Freeze, buttwipe. I’m an undercover constable. You’re under arrest.”

Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.

Movie Script Idea

December 10, 2015 4 comments

Some jerk, played by Jack Black, or whoever, somehow gains the ability to see the true inner self of people he encounters. Maybe we could get Tony Robbins or Doctor Oz to hypnotize him to make this possible. Hell, he could just get struck by lightning instead. That would be a lot easier, plus I feel like Doctor Oz would show up on set with quinoa salad to share with everyone, and then give some pitch about a new weight loss drug he just invested in. It would set back the schedule. I run a tight set. I’m also the director now. Writer-director.

Back on track. And by the way, the main guy doesn’t have to be Jack Black, maybe Neil Patrick Harris would be interested, or we could bring back some broke television star from the ’80’s that probably hasn’t tasted hot food in a while. So, this main character meets a really hot chick that doesn’t seem to understand why our main man is interested in her.

We fill in the middle with enough low grade bathroom humor to get the running time up to 90 minutes, then at the end, the Shyamalanian twist comes: the hot chick was the person’s inner self, remember, and when Jack Black or Michael Newman comes out of his altered state, we find that the person he was attracted to was a flamboyant junior high kid. Don’t worry, they didn’t get it on or anything. The other people in the film notice that the guy is acting really creepy around this kid, so they call the police.

The guy goes to jail, I’m thinking Michael Newman is my main choice now, because I’m the producer too. Writing, directing, producing. I do a lot of stuff. While in prison, the guy somehow becomes hypnotized again, and finds true love, this time with a legal adult, maybe a morbidly obese Hawaiian man, or whatever juxtaposition would be funny in this scenario. Who would look funny as Michael Newman’s boyfriend? I’ll have to look through some headshots. Or maybe I’ll just play the main guy, because I also act. I’m an actor that writes and directs and produces. And then the guy I fall in love with in prison is actually me, because by this point I play everyone in the movie.

The thing is, I don’t really want to get involved in the whole Hollywood-Industrial complex, so in order to get this thing made, it’s all going to have to take place in my spare bedroom, with no cameras, because I don’t like seeing videos of myself. Actually, I’ll probably just sit on the couch and imagine all this happening, then the second Shyamalanian twist will flop out: I find out that I am actually M. Night Shyamalan, or he is me. Haven’t thought that out yet.

I’m going to end this post now.

 

Toilet Paper Buying Anecdote

We all love buying toilet paper. Here’s an interaction I had while purchasing some.

Counter guy: ~looks at what I’m buying then up at me~ “You know what they say, a job is never complete until all the paperwork is done.”

Me: “Yep.”

Counter guy: “That’ll be /whatever the price was/ for the paper.”

Me: “Here.”

Counter guy: ~as I’m already walking away~ “Well, looks like you’ve got a lot of paperwork to do!”

Things I learned:

1/ That guy was really obsessed with me wiping my ass.

2/ Never go there again.

3/ Get a bidet. It makes more sense. If you step in dog poop, you don’t wipe your foot off with a paper towel and call it good.

Horror Movie Script

HORRORA 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

Crime Scene Investigation—Cub Foods

Me: “I’m no expert, and I didn’t witness the crime, but, if I had to guess, and keep in mind that I was nowhere near the scene when this monstrosity happened, I would say that the culprit is some sort of fetishist. That’s just me, I don’t know. I didn’t do it, so I can never be 100% positive of this monster’s motives.”

Cub Employee: “None of that matters. Do you realize that I have to clean this up?”

Me: “That’s what you’re worried about right now? The clean up? Think about the people who were in the line of fire. The parents that have to explain this to their children?”

C.E.: “Well, we’ve got a business to run here.”

Me: “All you corporate butt-puppets are the same. We are at a crime scene investigation, sir. Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing? If I had it my way, this store would be closed down, and every employee would be interrogated. Then, and only then, should it be pressure washed from top to bottom, not because I have personal knowledge of just how deep the contamination goes, but because it really is disgusting in here. I mean, look at these markings. Something big was dragged through here.”

C.E.: “So what do you think happened?”

Me: “I thought you’d never ask. This is pure speculation here, but if I were to make a guess, I would say that the culprit ate a starchy, protein-rich meal the night before the incident.”

C.E.: “How can you tell?”

Me: “Silence! I’m not done. Then, immediately after, he, and I’m positive it was a he, because this is a men’s bathroom after all, probably went out and had a few beers, to, you know, ‘take the edge off’ before committing the act.”

C.E.: “That’s very specific.”

Me: “Of course it is.”

C.E.: “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were the one that clogged this toilet.”

Me: “Are you implying that the night before this happened, I had time to go down to Hubert’s in Minneapolis, eat a healthy portion of buffalo chicken pizza, then just stroll over to Target Field, because I have time for that, and then, because I’m not busy enough already, take down a few Surly Benders? Totally logical. And if that wasn’t enough, I topped it all off with a couple more Summit EPAs. Riiiight. Are you insane? Then, the entire next day, I could feel a low, deep rumble in my bowels, for some reason beckoning me to come here, to this public bathroom, not my own, because I could tell beforehand that it would most likely clog my personal toilet, all in order to avoid using a plunger, and a possible overflow? Because that makes a whole lot of goddam sense. Yes, I have that much time on my hands that I can just go out of my way to crap in a public toilet, knowing that there won’t be any consequences, no names exchanged, all the dirty work passed off to some low-level employee whose face I will never see. You honestly believe that I started plotting this out in the early afternoon, specifically singling out this actual bathroom that we are now standing in, because of the anonymity it would provide? And that I never in my wildest dreams would have planned that a maintenance employee would enter, just seconds after I attempted to flush, and flush again, realizing that the plight was fruitless, then go to a urinal, pretending to have just finished there, and wash my hands, acting like nothing had happened? Because that seems like a stretch.”

C.E.: “Our security camera shows you entering the restroom right around the time this was reported.”

Me: “You can Photoshop anything these days.”

C.E.: “Don’t ever come here again.”

Me: “I don’t want to. It’s disgusting in here.”

The Gay Astronaut And The College Professor

This is the first Google Image result for “Gay Astronaut”

This all began at Chuck Wendig’s blog. This post in particular. You go to the website http://www.theyfightcrime.org/, it gives you a pair of characters, followed by the phrase “They fight crime!” Then you write a 1,000 word story about it. This was the duo that was dealt to me:

He’s a sword-wielding gay astronaut looking for a cure to the poison coursing through his veins. She’s a mistrustful belly dancing college professor living on borrowed time. They fight crime!

Here goes:

The gay astronaut held his sword to the college professor’s neck as her belly gyrated.

“Give me the antidote,” he said.

“I don’t trust you,” she said.

“Can you let me go now?” the tied-up criminal called from the floor.

“NO!” the spaceman and scholar said in unison.

How did it come to this?

FLASHBACK: The man walked across the stage and took his diploma from the dean. As of now, he was a graduate of astronaut school. Walking down the steps, back towards his peers, he thought to himself, “There are a lot of hot men here.” Later that night, as he was chopping up onions and parsnips with the sword his grandfather had given him, two realizations surfaced. The first—he was officially an astronaut. The second—he was officially gay. He was a gay astronaut. With a sword. He didn’t know he would one day fight crime.

FLASHBACK, WHICH OCCURS AT THE SAME TIME AS THE FIRST ONE: She walked across the stage and took money from whoever was giving it out. As of seven hours ago, she was a graduate of college professor school. As she walked down the thin strip, and back up, she moved her belly in rhythmic motions, side to side, up and down, and all around. She thought to herself, “I’m good at making my belly dance.” Two realizations surfaced. The first—she was officially a college professor. The second—she could officially belly dance. She was a belly dancing college professor. Without trust in anyone. She didn’t know she would one day fight crime.

ANOTHER FLASHBACK, FURTHER FORWARD IN TIME THAN THE PREVIOUS TWO: He was at a bar. She was at a bar. They both went up for a drink at the same time. It was busy, they weren’t being served. He made a witty remark to her: “Who’s leg do you gotta hump to get a drink around here?”

She looked disgusted. He added, “It’s okay, I can say stuff like that, I’m gay.”

“That’s cool. I can belly dance,” she said.

“I’m also an astronaut.”

“I’m also a college professor.”

They would have made out right then and there, but you have to remember, the astronaut was gay. Making out with a woman was gross to him.

They did stay up talking that night, though. Almost till dawn. They talked about some of the things covered in the first two flashbacks, and also things that didn’t have to do with being gay, belly dancing, sword fighting, mistrusting people, going into space, or achieving tenure at a small, but respectable state university.

When it was almost dawn, a bottle crashed through the window. The gay astronaut looked down at the street, and saw an intoxicated man throwing bottles at buildings and publically urinating.

Public intoxication. Vandalism. Public urination. A king-hell triumvirate of crimes.

He said, “College professor, I know you don’t trust me, but would you like to fight some crime right now?”

“I really shouldn’t, being that I’ve only known you for a few hours and you’re a gay astronaut wielding an extremely sharp and dangerous weapon, but why the hell not?”

They hatched a scheme.

On the street, the drunk man noticed a woman walk out of the alley. Her naked belly was shaking and moving, rippling like Jell-O. Real Jell-O, not the generic kind. He stopped throwing bottles to watch. The pause was long enough for the gay astronaut to run up behind him and slice his head off.

With nothing but a churning abdomen and an extremely sharp metal edge, a criminal was handed his comeuppance.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to the university,” the college professor said.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” said the gay astronaut.

FLASHBACK, A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY: She was in the lab at the university, mixing chemicals together. He walked in. “How did you find me?” she asked.

“You told me you worked here,” he said.

Turns out the mistrustful belly dancing college professor couldn’t even trust herself to keep her beak shut.

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” she said. “It’s the middle of finals week.” She bent down to grab a vial out of the cabinet.

The gay astronaut grabbed one of the chemical mixtures. “What is this, Mountain Dew?” he asked as he took a sip.

“No, it’s poison, don’t drink–”

“Uh-oh,” he said, in a very gay way.

FLASHBACK, A DAY BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY: They were sitting in the college professor’s lab.

“You know, you’re lucky that was a special delayed-reaction poison, and not a kill-you-instantly poison,” she said.

“What do you want from me? I’m a gay astronaut, not a college professor!”

“Well, hurry up and drink that antidote. I’m living on borrowed time here.”

As the gay astronaut put the cup to his lips, a crazed student burst in through the door, grabbed the cup, and ran out.

“Egads! More crime to fight!” the spaceman shrieked.

“How are we going to find him?” asked the belly dancing college professor.

Before he could reply, the gay astronaut noticed something: short, thin lines of liquid leading out the door. Almost as if the liquid had dripped out of a container that was being carried at a rapid rate. They followed the trail and found the student in the basement of the library.

ONE MORE FLASHBACK, TO THE PART OF THE STORY BEFORE ALL THE FLASHBACKS: Reread the first six lines of this story, and then proceed, for here on out, the flashbacks are over. Everything is happening NOW.

NOW: The gay astronaut cut off the college professor’s head. He drank the antidote. The antidote was really just more poison. Kill-you-instantly poison. The gay astronaut dropped dead. The student, tied up on the floor, starved to death in the basement of the library. The end.

The Chicken Ticker

Years ago, my roommate and I were sitting at a bar. At one point, I convinced him that I had a chicken ticker running at all times on my computer. He then wanted to know what a chicken ticker was. So I told him.

A chicken ticker is exactly the same thing as a stock market ticker, only it constantly informs you of the current price of chicken in your area. It crowed when the market opened, and all day there was a quiet, constant buck, buck, bucking in the background as the prices crept by.

Even I knew I had drank too much at that point.

 

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