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Editor’s Notes. Again.

Excerpt from the editor’s email, Sunday Morning Mood Killer/Everyone is a Critic/This Really Goes Against the Whole ‘First Day of Spring’ Deal edition:
“I have taken the liberty of once again removing the line: ‘Having only been recently exposed to the English language makes his appointment to United States Poet Laureate (Southwestern Limerick Division) all the more impressive’ from your ‘biography,’ as documentation of the alleged appointment appears to be little more than you responding that the ‘burden of proof is on your ass for questioning such an accomplishment in the first place,’ and that if I would like to ‘continue enjoying the lavish lifestyle that the retainer fee provides, along with the gift subscription to Cat Fancy Magazine‘ that I would ‘recognize my place in the universe’ as being ‘little more than some chubby girl whose poetry is so bad that she has to eek a living by proofreading the work of others’ would probably not stand under close scrutiny.

Also note that the twenty-seven page footnote regarding an ‘asparagus-like pee with no recollection of having eaten the vegetable in the previous day or two’ and it’s apparently ‘having something to do with the old lady that sneezed near me’ and your subsequent reference to yet ANOTHER footnote describing some psychological disorder which ‘the olfactory-borne memories of mothballs, boiled cabbage and Lemon-Scented Pledge, along with the visual of doilies’ has left you with (and that you are “currently self-medicating as a remedy for” using the “remainder of the Enzyte free samples crushed into a fine powder and mixed with flat Coca-Cola to form a paste” which you then explain – in excruciating detail over the course of sixty pages – the process of “spreading the paste over your mid-section, paying close attention to the belly button region” because, and I quote, “that’s where the little bastards put the probes to avoid detection, and the resulting wound provides a faster path to the bloodstream,” which I can only assume is a reference to Chapter 7.4086.3.6.1 – which many may point out appears PRIOR TO CHAPTER TWO – ‘Abs of the Space Gods,’ in which you have drawn a diagram of your penis with the notation ‘Belly button actually appears slightly higher, but was too difficult to draw in detail considering the pushy nature of the Editor and her alleged ‘schedules’ and ‘other such bullshit’ so you drew it ‘hidden ever-so artistically just behind the head, which almost makes it look as though it has an afro’) has absolutely NO basis in scientific fact nor merit. We have been over this numerous times, and the publisher will not accept your “Belch That Tasted Like Bologna Even Though You Haven’t Eaten Any” conspiracy theory — used in a prior revision to support the previously noted ‘asparagus pee footnote,’ and now again here, even after our assumed agreement that it be stricken from the final copy as mere conjecture — as proof of it being a “natural phenomena that some hack like Bill Nye could explore in his down-time between flights to hippie conventions with that other sack of shit,” as it will surely lead to some legal action from his people (although I do agree that they may be, as you so eloquently pointed out in the elevator in which we stood but inches behind them, “moderately-functioning brain donors, and if not that then some inbreeding experiment gone both wrong AND right in some respects”). You are a difficult man to dislike, and for that reason I will continue to read and attempt to edit your work here. Please renew the subscription to Cat Fancy. And also, why not consider a nice gift box of chocolates for this chubby girl to enjoy while she crafts more bad poetry?”

Touche’, Editor Lady. Touche’.

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Overdub-a-dub-a-dub

Mid-Week Motion Picture Blockbuster Idea Time!
 
In today’s pitch, we examine an alternate dimension/time travel story which may work even better as a YouTube channel, as the Copyright issues are more inexpensively solved by simply shutting it down, versus paying a lot of royalties and licensing fees; not to mention saving time in meetings and all of that crap. That said, I present to you another of my “BILLION-DOLLAR FLASHES OF BRILLIANCE.”
 
In this concept, we have a film studio mogul, Fred Lerner, who is on his last dime, and desperate to help not only his studio, but that of his adopted, half-twin brother Marjeesh, whose Bollywood studio is about a half-century ahead of its time.
 
In the grand tradition of colorizing classic cinema, Lerner has this idea to concentrate on the sound of films, namely Westerns and Cowboy films, by overdubbing the Native American voices with those of actual Indians (from India). Imagine films like Stagecoach being adapted not only for profit, but to ease College kids from their safe spaces by replacing the threat of an Apache attack with something far more pedestrian:
[insert wavy filter, a-la a “Brady Bunch” dream sequence]
 
Cavalry scout: These calls are full of Windows 10 help desk scams. They’ve called every number in town.
 
[referring to Indian scout]
 
Cavalry scout: He had a brush with them last night. Says they’re being stirred up by Dave in Houston.
 
Capt. Sickel: Dave in Houston? How do we know he isn’t lying?
 
Cavalry scout: No, he’s a white guy. They hate telemarketers worse than we do.
 
…or watching Two Chicken Vindaloo for Sister Sarah, or even more modern films like Cowboys and Undocumented/Questionable Visa Status Workers, or Brokeback Call Center. That last one will be a triumph in OUR film, as Fred Lerner will call upon the talents of his colleague Jorge Dukas to assist in digitally remastering and adding a CGI sidekick, Jayjit Chirkut for comedic relief. The seventeen prequels will introduce a host of action figures and mini mall play sets.
 
In any event, the films are a success (that is, the films within OUR film… That’s not to say that they wouldn’t be better than the shit that Hollywood – or Bollywood, for that matter – crank out now), and Lerner actually jump-starts the entire Bollywood thing, which, as it turns out, was all a dream in the secondary subconscious dream world of Marjeesh, having accidentally ingested too much curry while bathing in the Ganges. It’s like “Inception” but with more poo.
 
Next time we’ll explore the fertile and as-yet unspoiled genre, the “Documentary about the Making-of Documentary Disguised as an Expose’ Wrapped in a Tribute and Served as a Converastionalist-Style Monologue Between the Multiple Personalities of a Movie Blogger Who Only Watches Sci-Fi Trailers on a Sketchy-at-Best Airline Wi-Fi Connection.”

Fan Fiction Friday

Fan Fiction Friday, Amazon Reviews Edition:
 
Probably not what they were looking for, but then again, they seemed awfully eager to know what I had thought of the book I had just received, and not yet had the time to read… So I did what I could:
 
“PRO: I have spent many an hour pleasuring myself to the photograph of the author on the sleeve.
 
CONS: While this has been (for the most part) enjoyable, I would suggest renaming the outer cover from ‘sleeve’ to something more descriptive, like ‘crinkly, sharp-edged, glans-destroying, hard-to-clean fantasy accessory.’ Don’t get me wrong, it was much better than the cheese grater-like effect of, say, a V.C. Andrews die-cut job… And while I can certainly attribute SOME of the discomfort to technique, perhaps a warning regarding the dangers of a laceration (or MULTIPLE, perhaps) during periods of furious enjoyment would be helpful to some readers in the future.
 
Also, please suggest to the author that the photo on her next dust jacket not include her extended family, as it required some very crafty folding on my part to eliminate the effect of what can only be described as a very condescending facial expression on whom I perceive to be her pet cat, or perhaps a strangely small dog or misshapen troll creature.”

Titanic Number Two: The Remnant

Oscars on your mind? Me neither, because I work for a living. But that didn’t stop me from crafting a little Movie mash-up for you. I’m a giver, after all. That said, enjoy this blended mash of Titanic and The Revenant. I call my treatment Titanic Number Two: The Remnant.

All I ask is that you sticklers suspend your “timeline” and “historical facts” bullshit for this overview. This is a movie. They’re meant to entertain. We have books and whatnot for “facts” and “historical preservation.” Go read one.

A Gilbert Grape-era Leo is in steerage aboard the Titanic, which is transporting French carnival animals to the US, because the American ones don’t smell enough to be taken seriously (also, Chris Rock needed a paycheck, and his reprising of the whole Zebra voice-over role really adds a Jar-Jar Binks quality that many dramatic films seems to miss lout on). While a stowaway, Jack Grape befriends a bear, and the bear shares his food, and Jack draws pictures of it in fecal matter (whose, exactly is never discussed) on the walls as dramatic music is played. Stanley Kubrick can guest-direct this scene as an homage to his own work, that self-important hack. Eventually, a bored First-Class passenger wanders to the lower decks in search of adventure and trendy bohemian-looking trinkets to steal from the dying, or to trade items from the cheese cart with the near-dying. Leo meets this girl, and they do it in front of the bear. Sex back then wasn’t all that romantic. Hell, these two do it right there, and Jack even draws a picture of it using fecal matter, the source of which is known this time.

The Titanic is taken hostage by a group of Russian paramilitary types, and their poorly-drawn map (stolen from a Dora the Explorer activity set) guides them straight into an iceberg, placed into the script so that the Liberal director can voice his opinion on global warming by killing eleven hundred penguins (again, suspend your geographical knowledge). As the boat sinks, Jack chooses the girl over the bear as sex with her proved slightly less painful. However, the bear survives, making its way South through Canada (in the two movies it takes to cast many, many cameo appearances) to find Jack, where it wreaks a revenge similar to Misery, but all Smaug the Dragon-like, assuming that he were breathing poo instead of fire.

Leo gets help from three penguins who survived the original wreck by latching onto his nipples (to explained in the Director’s Cut), all voiced by Liam Neeson, and they capture the bear, and skin it for a rug in their new home.

Credits.

In the alternate ending, we learn that the whole thing was a dream, taking place in the subconscious of Jack’s alternate personality.

More credits.

Pulitzer Polonophobia

Help me to understand:

Self-important celebrities are boycotting the Oscars due to some inequality in the nominations based upon race, correct? That’s nearly, but not quite as weird as Bruce Jenner being nominated for AND WINNING a “Woman of” award. I would like a Pulitzer Prize for Commentary based solely upon the criteria of there not being a winner with a Polish surname in the history of the award. That is Polonophobia, pure and simple.

It’s a fucked-up world when it’s acceptable for someone to make jokes about my people, but NOT reward my people for writing jokes. I’d totally express my anger if I could get a few friends over to help me change the light bulb (I don’t want to strain my eyes writing in the dark).

That said, I am going to submit an article outlining just why I deserve the award based upon my heritage and that alone, and when nominated (and I win), the circle of utter ridiculousness will be complete. All of known reality will implode upon itself, my having done something to highlight my deserving something for nothing being the prime mover, of course. It’s very complex, this something-for-nothing stuff.

Back to the Welles in a Hearst

My Jeopardy dreams are recorded in front of a live studio audience. I know this because I scanned every one of their stolid eyes. Even the ones with one eye, of which there were four.
 
Alex: “After his gat explodes and he switches his mind back to freak mode, both Nate Dogg and his buddy Warren G were in need of something else.”
 
Me: “What are ‘Dames that is sexy as hell?'”
 
Alex: “You’re tweaking into a whole new era, Brian.”
 
Me: “If the questions are a buster, I’ll regulate, Alex.”
 
Alex: “Save it, motherfucker.”
 
And then he shot me. As I lay there in a slowly expanding pool of the blood which was pumping from the wound on my neck, I couldn’t help but think “to be honest, I don’t think that Sajak would have been nearly as violent.” Then Bud Collyer stepped on my hand and whispered “to tell the truth, pal, he’d have been the least of your worries.” As he mashed my knuckles into the polished marble floor, he added “and my real name is Clayton. How do you like THEM apples?”
 
“That was sort of my hope,” I managed to say over the sound of snapping bone and tearing sinew. “Also, considering the blood loss here, it may not be MY time to beat the clock, you know?”
 
“Save it for the BONUS ROUND!!!”
 
As the crowd erupted into a frenzy, Collyer mouthed something but all I heard was what sounded like a thunderclap, and was thrust into consciousness and the feeling of my butt cheeks vibrating to the largest fart I’ve released in months. Having regained a sense of the moment, but one mysterious word was left ringing in my ear… “Dotto.”

Two Lives Separated by Mere Letters

It’s not merely the spelling of their last names which provided for an incredibly diverse life for two gentlemen, but the careers of Smokey Yunick and Smokey Eunuch couldn’t have been any more different if they had planned them.

Story Idea Wednesday

In keeping with my mission to be a giver, I’m starting a fresh series today, which should appear each Wednesday for my writer friends. What I’m seeking to do is have you, should the mood strike, write a few lines for the story in the comments (following the theme laid out), with each subsequent reply picking up and carrying froth from that. By the end, we should have a grand little tale. What we do with them after this, well… I’ll leave that for discussion. Maybe we can self-publish as an e-book and split anything generated between those who played a part.

In this first run, I’d like to propose a short story about a writer who creates stories for his own entertainment, but after a few years he finds that he’s bored because he already knows what he wrote, so he enlists the help of his wife to bash him over the head upon completion of each tale, causing just enough short-term memory loss for him to enjoy the stories.

However, this causes severe damage over time and he begins to grow a tumor but this tumor pushes on just the right the part of his brain to increase his creativity… In fact, It increases this so exponentially that he does not believe that he is the one writing the stories and kills his wife thinking that she was cheating on him with another writer.

The options here are plenty, as we could dive deeply into his fractured psyche, his paranoia and plotting against his wife, or even into each tale, which could all have clues that either support or question his fears. So much potential indeed.

Bruce’s Man Cave

It’s time for another of our “Billion-Dollar TV Show Ideas”, kids!

With the popularity of home improvement-style shows continuing from the last decade, it seemed only fitting that we throw an additional celebrity element at one, and that too has worked marvelously. Consider such greats as Vanilla Ice and now even Mr. T having shows. Yet, there’s a missing puzzle piece, and that piece is a celebrity with current tabloid exposure. This isn’t simply about mindless voyeurism or celebrity deification; it’s about revolutionizing reality and home improvement TV in one sweep using some dude’s junk.

The pitch:
People want to see a celebrity in day-to-day life. People enjoy seeing these celebrities engage in projects. Those same people like watching home improvements happen (and we’re betting that they’re not so engaging on their own). And consider that your average voter thinks that “change” can mean something in even the most inept of hands. What if we brought all of that together with a celebrity home improvement show that REALLY makes a change? Think Trading Spaces meets Bathroom/Backyard/Kitchen Crashers meets Man Caves meets What Not to Wear meets The Science of…, with a “Hey, I didn’t want to know THAT!” twist. And while I am plenty aware that our friend already has a show, I simply can’t imagine that it’s working to its full potential. And being a giver, well, I see a need and try to fill it. You can learn a lot from the movie Robots.

You may wish to sit down, as you’ll probably collapse under the weight of a “why in the fuck didn’t I think of this?!” moment of realization.

We follow a former Olympian (and current celebrity/reality TV star) as he trades his man cave for a scrap-booking room. We’ll follow along as a team of decorators and contractors help him “make the switch” in this ten-episode (oooh, a decathlon reference – see how thought-out this is?) mini-series. Plenty of room for guest appearances, and consider the genius of being able to switch demographics, bringing in fresh advertising through a season? I know. It’s that good. Guest spots from decorators, designers and handymen, as well as RuPaul, Dr. Ruth, (bonuses for the writing team if they work with me to bring in the Ghost Hunters guys – or John Edward OR even better: The Long Island Medium lady – to channel the spirit of Dr. Joyce Brothers in a… wait for it… cross-over episode) and assorted stereotypical men and women. We’ll be teaching not only design and construction, but learning all about society and gender roles, and then throwing that out of the window, should ratings dictate such a thing. This will grab awards like someone is just throwing them at it.

TLC, are you listening? Bruce’s Man Cave can be all yours… for a price, naturally.

…and of course, assuming that we can pay him enough to go along with it. Including my $1.81 found around the desk, that gives us exactly nineteen cents less than $2.00, still well-shy of even the most meager of lunchtime meetings. But it’s not about where we are, it’s about the place that we identify with as being… So long as it buys a beach house or three.

Discovering the beauty of typographical errors:

There are no re-writes, just magical redirections.

Consider the possibilities just waiting within a horror fiction series based entirely on the premise of one misspelled or mistyped word or name.

“That guy sure got his in the ned” isn’t just some transposition of letters… It becomes a terrifying third-person objective account of a nymphomaniac-necropheliac proctologist-gone-mad’s victim. Poor Ned.

 (Heck, switch some more letters around and he could play the nymphomanica, which might be a harmonica-like instrument crafted from an old marital aid. Bonus points if you pictured that. Triple-bonus if you manage to sleep tonight.*)
________

*All of this begs the question: How long do you hang on to something like a dildo? I mean ownership-wise. That other way, I’m certain falls to preference and technique and what have you… And upon further reflection, could you take something like that into a Things Remembered to have it engraved? This is a mighty can of worms, because now I’m wondering just what you’d have engraved on it? So many questions…
Ooh, that’s a good one right there:
“So Many Questions. Love Always, The Marketing Dept.” That, in a nice Papyrus font just says “timeless”. And that little abbreviation adds a layer to the joke. Bonus points for those of you who can come up with a great double entendre to have engraved instead.
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