My TiVo Has Lost Its Fucking Mind

My TiVo and I have a very special relationship. It just knows what I like. I love to come home from work, ease into the couch, start downloading a snuff film, and let the good times roll. The first thing I check is my recorded TiVo suggestions. It's always filled with such gooey goodness as The Simpsons, Family Guy, CSI, and if I'm lucky an episode of Small Wonder. Oh, and of course tons of the greatest show ever, Saved By The Bell. Yes, the original. No, not the College Years. But something horrific has begun, and I fear there may be no way to stop the coming horde. Two episodes of Laguna Beach appeared in what was once a happy playground, leaving a trail of ashes and destruction in its path. Not being one to stand idly by, I went straight to the source. Just like CSI's Gil Grissom would do, I went to MTV to scan its programming to try and find some sort of a clue as to why it would believe I liked this shit. Not having watched this channel for several years, I was stunned to find my once great bastion of youth and originality to now be filled with whiny bitches and future jizz moppers who believe themselves to be The Coolest Mother Fucker In The Room. And no, not just one show, but all shows! All shows on MTV are reality and they are on at all hours. MTV has now sold itself out to idiocy and societal defacement. That's when it hit me, like Ike Turner in a room full of co-dependant women. MTV is Zack Morris. Not just any Zack Morris, but Zack Morris from the episode Rockumentary. This is the fantastic episode where the Zack Attack is practicing in the garage. Yes, they all play instruments. Who knew? Not me. Anyway, they get discovered and start to tour, playing the rockingest song on television, Friends Forever. But Zack starts his dark slide to hell, being seduced by woman who convinces him he doesn't need his friends and makes him into a Vanilla Ice Ripoff joke that everyone loves. This is MTV. Someone told them they were really cool and new and hip and counter-culture and they listened. They became a sellout more in love with themselves and their image than doing something cool and edgy. Now that I reread this I realize I've given MTV too much of my time already. Fuck this, I'm going to check out VH1. They used to play videos..........................Hey, what the Fuck is Breaking Bonaduce???!!!

Convalescing In Spain

I love the fall. Autumn to you homosexuals out there. It is such a peaceful time. The air gets cooler, the colors change, and I get to break out my Poison Jean Jacket. This time of year is very special to me. It's the time of year I finally kicked heroin. I was dating a girl named Julianne, she helped get me off of heroin, then I caught her fucking my best friend Steve in a bedroom at an Arbor Day party. Not long after that, Steve was found shot dead on the South Side of Chicago in what appeared to be drug deal gone bad. They never did find out who did it. Anyway, I started back up on the Horse and thank God I did because my mom died in a car accident with a gasoline tanker truck. They were able to tell it was her because they found some teeth at the scene, everything else was burned away. My dad went into catatonic shock after this, so I put him in an assisted living home and left the States for Pamplona, Spain. I remember being greeted by a man who would become my friend, Javier. He was a drug runner and as gay as the day is long. I didn't really mind, I liked him for his honesty and his ability to get drugs. Together we would drop acid, smoke Opium, and lose ourselves for days on some terrific cocaine benders. Having full control of the family fortune, I was able to just sort of live, and I use that term losely, without working in a nice villa. I would spend the days sitting outside in a cafe at the Plaza del Castillo drinking and smoking, then the nights I would spend with Javier. We would walk the city, especially around San Fermín, the Running of the Bulls and heckle Americans. We even got into a fight with five douchebags from Berkley. We destroyed them in about three minutes, then spent another fifteen minutes running from the policia. I tried kicking my habit by using other drugs liberally, and it was slowly working. Sure, the first few days were like placing your testacles inside a vice and squeezing until you are begging for death or an Alanis Morisette CD on repeat, but it got easier. Cocaine and weed made it a little easier, and drinking all day didn't hurt either. I guess it all culminated when Javier got in trouble and needed money bad. I wouldn't give it to him, so he beat the shit out of me. I think he tried to put a little shit back in though, because when I regained consciousness my asshole felt like a weekend in Calcutta. But I got off the drugs, and I spent the fall making love to Spanish hookers for cheap and drinking until I passed out. Fall is a beautiful, beautiful time of year.

Thorazine Dreams

I know it’s been a while since I gave my last shout out, but I have been busy!  Last week, I checked myself back into my voluntary half way house for a little mental R&R.  Needed to recharge my batteries, know what I’m saying?  This place is a wonderful facility.  Dirty rooms, people wandering the halls muttering, and me, sitting in a corner of my cot huddled like a baby and singing “Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’, mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread”.  Let me break down an average day for you.

MORNING: Wake up around 8 AM, trudge to the “dining hall”, pause to see if that pain in my leg is a blood clot shooting straight for my heart.  Not yet, so it’s eggy time!  Steal extra toast from Typhoid Mary, the crazy lady who picks scabs all over herself.  Check toast 5 times for lost scabs.  Clean and eat toast.

MID-MORNING: Walk through beautiful garden.  Feel dizzy from the smells, almost faint, run to Medicine, and ask for Ativan.  Get Ativan.  Listen to headphones playing Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on repeat until lunch.

AFTERNOON: Play with myself in my bathroom before lunch.  Can’t ejaculate from meds.  Wonder if the loss of feeling goes beyond just my junk.  Decide to test all my reflexes.  Hear someone calling for me to stop or I’ll go blind.  Check outside but no one’s there.  Go to Medicine for my Thorazine and Wellbutrin.  

MIDAFTERNOON:  Start to feel tired.  Look around to see if the thing in the corner of my eye is real.  It is.  It’s just a unicorn.  Unicorn tells me “to just fucking die already!”  Try to avoid Unicorn and panic by playing solitaire for four hours.

DINNER: Eat some food, then vomit it up because the mashed potatoes taste like strychnine.  Leave hall and go to my room.  Read Watership Down but can’t focus for fear of the pain in my left arm.  Wait for stroke.  No stroke.  Punch the wall and cry myself to sleep.  Wake up at two AM and laugh for 40 minutes at how pathetic I was, then fall back asleep.  

Day one of seven.  I don’t want to sound like it is all bad!  There were some hilarious moments and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the Dream Team.  Crazy is funny.  Later I’ll recount the schizos versus the Bipolars kickball tourney.  Things get out of hand when Big Bruce and I go on a panty raid!

The Greatest B Story Ever Told

This is going to be jumbled, and it’s going to be long. Having been inspired by Spinning Girl, I’ve decided to tell a little story, review a movie, and in turn maybe reveal a little bit of myself in the process. I’ve been a writer, or at least that’s what I call myself, for many, many years, but one thing in particular spurred me to really want to write. I was about nineteen, failed out of college, figuring out what my next step was going to be, when a movie came along and changed my life. That movie? Independence Day. Yes, for months it had been hyped and built up to a deafening roar of promotional doo-doo until the day came this masterpiece was released. My friend Potters and I witnessed this debacle of a film and decided right then and there to write a screenplay. Never in my life had I witnessed a movie with such a ridiculous plot, such vomit-inducing dialogue, such a determination to take it self seriously when all common sense screamed “No! Don’t do it!” This boiling piece of crap was to be my Muse.
And we did it. We wrote a screenplay. 162 pages of amateur fluff. But it had some good dialogue, and it was believable, and it was angst-ridden. Call it The Breakfast Club with teeth…and less humor. But Potters and I pressed on, determined to get to the Land of Glory. Long story short, we gave up. I wrote another screenplay and lost it on a laptop hard drive clearly possessed by my mother, determined to force me into reality and a real job one way or another. Dejected, I folded up my creativity and stored it in the attic, to collect dust until it would be found as a relic or tossed to the curb as junk.
During this period of embarrasingly garish self-pity, Potters crafted another gem. Remember, this work is copy-written. So if you like this idea and want to steal it, prepare to get your ass sued. And if you don’t like it, everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Yours is just clearly a fucking stupid one. Ready for the idea? True Review.
Yes, something like Ebert & Roeper, but geared towards the silly, a Comedy Central show par example. Together we crafted several great ideas for the show like a True Review, an honest review of a movie that pulls no punches. The Short Film Review, to be guest reviewed by Gary Coleman or Vern Troyer, etc., etc. And each week would end with what I like to call the Golden Paxton Award, a tribute to the worst actor in a movie each week named after Bill Paxton. You may say “Captain, he is a fine actor. Why would you name a Rotten Tomato after him?” Well, have you seen Twister? It’s one example of many, but have you seen it? If you have, watch it again. If you haven’t, try. I defy you to return here and tell me he’s good.
Point? I let my pity and my affinity for projects started never to end get the better of me. I pulled out, still not ready to face the world with what I was sure would be another failed venture.
But I am reborn! Like a phoenix bursting forth from the ashes, like John Travolta after The Experts, Like Willie Ames in Charles In Charge, I return. And so my dear friend Potters, in honor of you I now begin the first

TRUE REVIEW: SKI SCHOOL

1991 Technicolor Film.

This is the greatest, yes the GREATEST, B movie ever made. Filled with more jokes than a Pualie Shore movie, more terrible songs than The Gambler, and a performance by Dean Cameron that I believe to be Oscar-worthy.
PLOT: Johnny is a great skier. The problem? No one has ever seen him. He comes to Whistler Mountain to join the cream of the crop, First Section, but is laughed out the room and punished for his brash claims of greatness by being sent to Section 8, the goofballs. Lead by what appears to be a former great skier, Dave Marshak, and followed by Fritz and Ed, this team is set up to fail. Will they triumph? You must watch to find out.

SUBSTANCE: The middle of this story is your typical Animal House rip-off, but filled with pranks and joviality beyond belief. With such quotable lines as “It’s not how far you go, it’s how go you far” and “Welcome to my kingdom! I shall bed you all before the night is done!” and the funniest pranks this side of a Yale frat house circa 1967.

DENOUMENT: Of course the heroes prevail, winning the big race and control of the mountain thanks to former Playboy Playmate Ava Fabian, who buys the mountain and renames it Party Mountain.

If you have never seen this tour-de-farce, run out today and pick it up. To my knowledge it is not available on DVD, but a petition is being started. Do yourself a favor this weekend. Skip going to see The Man, grab your significant other, ‘wave up some Pop Secret, and revel in the brilliance of Ski School.

Happy Birthday Potters! And don’t think I forgot the Golden Paxton! I give it this week to none other than Keanu Reeves in Constantine. I think this guy couldn’t act concerned if someone had a gun pointed at his mother’s head. Saw five minutes of this boiling turd and knew right away who would win.

Swearing Pays Off

That's right! When you think Mother Fucker, think the Captain!

Fred Barnes, Mort Kondracke, and Bill O'Reilly

All suck. And have nothing to do with this post. Like Bill Maher, I am trying to attract Conservatives to my blog who search these names so I can increase my hits and ridicule them. I'm working, but wanted to give myself a quick tag.
Tag! What are 5 things you are doing right now?

1) Looking at naked photos of myself
2) Typing with one hand (WINK)
3) Continuing to work on my screenplay for "Breakin' 3: Ozone and Turbo In Space!"
4) Picturing Michelle Malkin in a SCAT film (Thanks Cassy)
5) Killing a hobo

"If you ain't true to yourself, you ain't true to nobody!"

-Rob Van Winkle A.K.A. Vanilla Ice from the film "Cool As Ice"

Fignuts!