something clever

iPood

2010-03-19T14:35:00.003-11:00

I recently bought an iPod home for the back of my toilet, so that now I can listen to music while I take showers. Then, the other day while defecating, I had a great idea. Before I go into it though, I want to patent my other great idea, the toilet app for the iphone, so that I can sue Apple when they inevitably create it.

But my first idea has nothing to do with that. I thought: Wouldn't it be cool if I installed a motion sensor on the inside of my toilet so that every time I go to the bathroom I'll get theme music? The answer is yes, it would be very cool. So I started thinking about what music it should play. My first thought was that it should be something epic, like the soundtrack to 300, that way I would feel really accomplished every time I used the toilet. Then I thought, what about John Mayer, mostly because his name is John, but also because I like the idea of my toilet telling me that my body is a wonderland. But wait, maybe defecation theme music is a way to finally get some use out of that Creed CD I bought when I was 12! Yeah, and I could autotune a beat onto it so it would be Creed-rap... or Crap. I finally settled on not-settling and decided that I would go with 'shuffle.' That way, every time would be a surprise, like when you forget that you had a blue slurpie for breakfast.

So, soundtrack decided, I started to consider the technical specifications of my toilet music. Of course, I couldn't have it only play when there was movement, or I would get an irritating stutter-step of song that would sound like Lady Gaga's 'telephone' every time I dropped a sheet of TP into the bowl. No, it would have to start on motion and then play continuously, but for how long? It would be horribly disappointing if the music ended and I was still on number 1 of 2. I suppose I would have to find some way to connect the flush to the stop mechanism. And perhaps I would add some violin music to fade-out. So it would be like the orchestra that flushes away Mo'nique when her speech runs too long at the Academy Awards.

Of course the worst case scenario would be this. I go to a party and, to buffer myself against a barrage of heavy electronic music, I get completely wasted on Vodka and Cranberry. Later, I find myself somehow at home and realize that I need to return liquids to the Earth from whence they came. I double over the toilet, expel the alcohol, and BAM, heavy electronic music. Nothing to drink this time. Except...

Je Suis Jean Penn

2010-03-16T23:27:00.002-11:00

First conversation: Stranger's camera is not operational.

Stranger: Hi Sean Penn.

Me: I've gotten that before.

Stranger: ?

Stranger: I saw you on Bill Maher last night. You looked pissed.

Me: Long day.

Stranger has disconnected.

Second conversation: Stranger is a teenage (looking) girl.

Stranger: Are you French

Me: No. Just the haircut.

Stranger has disconnected.

Really?! Would you have stayed if I was French?

Third conversation: Stranger's camera features his dick. He is masturbating. Note: This was not the first dick I saw on chatroulette, but generally they flashed by quickly to avoid being reported. This one lingered, so I struck up a conversation with it.

Me: So, what'd you think of Avatar

Stranger (reaching over with one hand): What?

Me: It was really good. Do you think it should have gotten Best Picture?

Stranger (dropping dick for two hand type): WTF? That's fucked up!

Stranger has disconnected.

You're masturbating online and you call me asking you about a popular movie fucked up. Wow, the internet.

20 or so guys 'next' their way past me.

Fourth Conversation: A girl

Stranger: Hi.

Me: Hey! Congratulations on not being a guy's dick!

Stranger: Thank you.

Stranger: Are you from France?

Me: No. Florida. It's the haircut.

Stranger: Oh.

Stranger has disconnected.

What the hell? Is there a find the frenchman scavenger hunt going on unbeknownst.

A couple penises, several white guys with guitars, and several asian guys wearing headphones later.

Fifth Conversation: A Guy

Stranger: Hey!

Me: Hi?

Stranger: I loved you in Fast Times at Ridgemont High!

Me: What?

Me: Oh, you think I'm Sean Penn.

Stranger has disconnected.

Damn.

Sixth Conversation: Another Girl

Me: Hey

Stranger: You mean bonjour?

I have disconnected.

So, in conclusion, my exploits on chatroulette have led me to believe that in order to enjoy the site, you must be a girl, naked, French, and/or Sean Penn.

Definitely a site geared towards liberals.

Chatcraps

2010-03-13T17:27:00.002-11:00

I decided the other day that it might be a good idea to experiment with popular internet fad, chatroulette. I had already drank a bottle of Draino and peed on a cop car, so an uncensored, anonymous, video-chat site seemed like the next logical step.

For those of you who are unacquainted with this crowning capstone of technology, let me brief you on how, chatroulette works. You log in and click 'New Game' because, like Monopoly, Parcheesi, and Shoplifting, roulette is indeed a game. The program then accesses your computer's camera and automatically trades your video feed with some other user's somewhere else in the world.

Roughly ten percent of people you will meet are dicks, literally. They come in two forms, erect and in use, or flaccid and veiled behind some form of fabric. Most of the dick showers (I use this word to mean 'one who shows' not 'a rain of...' although that is in a sense what the site is) flash by your screen quickly. Why? Because there is a 'report' button which a dickee can use to report a dicker to the site. The penalty for being reported? Banishment from the site... for ten whole minutes! An erection could die in that time frame! So these people click next before you can click the penalty button or determine their religion.

80 percent of the people on the site are not naked, but are instead men flipping through person after person in the hopes that one of said persons will be a naked woman. They won't be. Contrary to popular internet sensibilities, naked women on chatroulette are few and far between. For one thing, there are probably four of them on the planet compared with over 20,000 chatroulette users, and on another note, when they do find someone to talk to, the person they find will never let them go. So anyway, most of the guys on this site are people willing to sit through lots of dicks, and even more other boring guys in the hopes of finding a topless chick. Basically, its the lottery.

So basically, I determined that this site is offensive and an enormous waste of time. And so I wasted five hours of my time offending myself on it. Stories to come tomorrow.

Liebrary Fines

2010-02-26T18:31:00.002-11:00

My good deed for the day was finally returning my long overdue library books (on tape: what kind of a schmuck reads these days?). Then, I raised my karmic credit account still higher by engaging in the gift of giving, specifically giving to the OCLS (Orange County Library Something) an ungodly amount of money. This was primarily due to the fact that I have had The Host by Stephanie Meyers for roughly 34 years and was secondarily caused by the libarian's (not a typo; she pronounced it wrong) refusal to except my low tolerance for crap as an excuse for the extended check out. So I tried a few other excuses.

I showed her my library card, with account number completely walleted away, and explained that I had spent the past several months trying every possible permutation of letters and numbers on the online sign-in so that I could renew my books that way. Excuse rejected. I argued that I was trying to improve literacy in Orlando by preventing unsuspecting kids from engaging in the gateway drug that leads inevitably to Twilight. Rejected. I made some kind of strange argument how because I am unemployed and now in debt, the government should bail out my fine. Fail. I tried the truth, that my CD burner was really slow, and burning a twenty disc book can take several months. She threatened to contact Interpol, until I lied and said that I was lying.

Finally I tried another lie, and it worked. I told her that I had gotten the books to listen to on the ride back to Louisiana and that there had been a family emergency. I didn't explain the specifics, but if pressed, I would have told her that my parents discovered that their only literate son had become addicted to Stephanie Meyers and that they had immediately enrolled him in rehab. She sighed apologetically and waived half of my fine.

This wasn't completely fine with me, but it was halfway there, so I paid it. And thus did the public library on Alafaya become the single most profitable government subsidiary this week.

Once Upon a Crime

2010-02-25T18:27:00.004-11:00

Today, while driving around Orlando, I encountered a store called 'Once Upon a Child.' I thought about stopping to check it out but then thought better of it because I didn't want to get arrested for supporting Child Pornography. Now, before I get sued, I don't think the store actually sells child porn, but the tripod, camera, turkey baster, and bag of candy in the back of my minivan would surely had made me look a bit suspicious to any passing police officers with strict legal mores and X-Ray vision.

Still, 'Once Upon a Child' does seem like a terrible name for anything, condoms and lingerie especially, but stores as well. Basically, any phrase that sounds dirty when used as an answer to the following questions should be prohibited from use in public: 'Where was the best place you ever went on vacation?' 'How do you go to Cleveland?' or 'What should we title our new fairy tale film about Prince Michael of Jackson?'

Also, the store's proximity to Party City makes it even more suspicious considering that the strip mall that contains them is in Orlando, a city with several colleges and more than enough elementary schools to go around. Also note that according to the internet, Orlando has 2,601 registered sex offenders in that shopping plaza and neighboring rooftops alone.

My point is, owners of 'Once Upon a Child,' maybe you should have thought a bit more before titling your store as you did. Perhaps consider changing it to something tamer like: 'To Love a Child' or 'Toys-n-Us' or 'TGIU12.' Just a few thoughts.

Twenty Twenty

2010-02-02T06:19:00.002-11:00

Here is, in the form of 20 facts essentially everything I did during my twentieth year. I consider this sufficiently productive. I’ll see if I can’t one up every one of these statistics in my 21^st despite the sure to be increased influence of alcohol.

Watched 292 movies, 264 of which I had never seen before.

-Top 3: Rio Bravo, Man on Wire, Short Cuts

Read 22 novels, including 5 by Ian Fleming.

-Top 3: Shutter Island, How I Paid for College, JPOD

Completed the first draft of my first novel, Dynasty

Completed my eighth feature screenplay, Catalyst

Filmed four short films: Attempted Plagiarism, Stranger Stories, 6.0, and MAD vengeance

Worked on 30 short film sets, primarily in the capacities of Script Supervisor or First AD

-Top 3: Five Stages, Surf Dracula, The Forever Room

Worked as Script Supervisor for the feature film, A Beautiful Belly

Wrote or co-wrote 15 short films that have been or are being produced

-Top 3: Five Stages, Pleasing Pablo, Surface Issues

Wrote 25 original short film screenplays

Wrote 12 entries for my blog, Something Clever

Created the blog, Fifty Word Films, and wrote 33 reviews for it.

-Top 3: Star Trek, State of Play, Public Enemies

Added 119 songs to my itunes library

-Top 3: Wise Up by Aimie Mann, Get Back by Ludacris, The Fear by Lily Allen

Completed 14 original acrylic paintings

-Top 3: In Film, Spectrum, Mail Flower

In Film

Spectrum

and obviously:

Mail Flower

The Hand Froster

2010-01-15T21:42:00.001-11:00

I saw The Hurt Locker the other day and discovered that, not only is it not about a method of high school torture, but it is in fact a powerful and exciting movie. What amazed me the most about the subject matter was the way that these men kept their heads about them in situations where the exact opposite was likely to happen. I wondered if I would be able to keep my cool while carefully defusing bombs in the trunk of a car, never aware of whether or not the bomber was watching me do it. Well today, I learned the answer to that question.

For those of you who aren’t Brazilian, a king cake is in essence a giant colorful cinnamon role eaten in February to honor the birth of the cannibal king Mangebebe, a monarch best remembered for his habit of baking children. Well, these cakes are popular in Baton Rouge and when Sexy (remember her?) most recently returned from said city, her mother brought with them said cake. The cake was wrapped in the sort of plastic bag that you might use to contain a hand once you had detached it from a corpse if you didn’t want to get your car bloody on the way to wetlands. Of course, this bag presented a threat.

After getting a knife and untwisting the tie-twist, I opened the bag and found to my chagrin that the inside was coated in colorful frosting. Now, I was wearing an incredibly expensive albeit bought on sale thermal long-sleeve shirt, and immediately realized the challenge. I would have to hold the bag open with one hand while sliding the other hand perfectly down the center, Operation style, without touching the edges lest I frost my shirt. Then I would need to cut off an adequate piece, and should I fail to use a surgeon’s accuracy, a small child might lose a limb.

I’m proud to say that I kept my head about me (as did the baby) and cut a piece off (of the cake). I then used a long pair of tongs to extract the cake, and was soon eating it peacefully nearby. I never once worried about whether a cannibal or baker might be watching me from a nearby tower (though now I’m a bit nervous about it), and it seems to me that, hotheaded though I may have been, the mission was a complete success.

So, explosive deactivation in combat situations can’t really be that difficult, can it? Right?

C.C. Starbuck and the Fifty Word Films

2010-01-14T11:41:00.001-11:00

As stated in my last entry, I am contractually obligated to make every possible effort to ‘one up’ everything that Nick does. I also explained that I was rekindling this blog in response to his creation of Nick at a Loss which, I urge you to check out; makes my stuff look amazing. Anyway, no sooner had I published my last entry, when I received a call from my legal counsel informing me that technically, according to Florida State law, in order to fulfill my end of the contract I needed to create a new blog. So I grumbled audibly and then did just that.

My new blog operates on an entirely different premise than does this one. Whereas something Clever is in essence an egomaniacal site devoted primarily to me, Fifty Word Films has yet to contain any mention of its author. Instead, the concept of the blog is that I write reviews of films that I have seen recently and that these reviews meet the following requirements. They must be snarky, honest, informative, and exactly 50 words long. Of course, whereas this blog will be updated sporadically (probably once or twice a week), FWF will be updated as quickly as I am able to crank out reviews. So, if you get the chance, swing by Fifty Word Films and check it out. But, don’t let it distract you too much from Nick at a Loss, because if that one days, I may have to shut down one of mine (I suspect my superiority contract has a clause somewhere about ‘two upping’ though I will have to check).

In other news, I believe that last night I finally settled on a title and plot for the seminal film of my film school career. The title is… ‘C.C.Starbuck and the Espresso Pods from Planet Excellent.’ Don’t worry. The film won’t be anywhere near as long or as serious as its title. Here is a brief synopsis in, of course, exactly fifty words.

‘Renowned but retired cocoa expert, C.C.Starbuck, is called upon by the Orlando police department to help stop the spread of hostile alien parasites who, when consumed, take over their hosts and imbue them with the ability to spit inky squid-like clouds, but make their eyes disappear completely when they laugh.’

Working on the script now.

Lossless!

2010-01-11T13:24:00.003-11:00

And so I am again drawn back to this blog, this time out of a sense of competition. You see, my roommate Nick, better known to you as (321)745-7224 (though anonymity now serves no purpose) has recently fallen into a bit of an arctic tundra rut and I jokingly suggested ‘Why don’t you blog about it?’ And, for the first time in my entire life, someone misinterpreted my sarcasm as a serious suggestion and thus ‘Nick at a Loss’ was born.

Nick gave me his first entry to proofread before publishing it. I corrected a few errors, told him it was a piece of bull-malarkey, and learned two things: A) Nick is not the happiest of people and I should probably stop making fun of his hulk arms, and B) He’s a pretty damn eloquent pessimist despite a few typos (which in all likelihood were caused by the aforementioned hulk arms) and definitely qualifies as competition.

Now, years ago, Nick and I signed a contract stating that I am obligated to make a genuine effort to one up everything he does, and whether that means walking out of the bathroom in a towel every time he has a girl over, or eating twice as many hot dogs, or just finding a taller chair than his at any restaurant we go to, I have up until this point fulfilled my end of the bargain. I worry now that I will not be able to do so. Though he lacks my height, charm, and dashing good looks he more than makes up for it with his mastery of the English language, his incredible Christmas light collection, and his mental thesaurus of words that mean ‘cold.’ I may have met my match.

So I will, for the third-thousandth time resume maintenance of Something Clever. I will do as Nick is doing and simply type sporadic musings about what I am doing and/or thinking at any given time and we’ll see if I can’t maintain a sufficient level of cheer to offset the frigid icy chill of Nicholas Ian Lougheed’s blizzard of frosty horse crap.

Because I, dear sir, am not at a loss!

Love is

2009-10-06T15:20:00.001-11:00

Actually not copyright infringement. All the images I used were marked for reuse with modification.

Pope Art

2009-09-18T16:41:00.002-11:00

Hehheh.

Bush Ts 3

2009-08-27T13:58:00.003-11:00

Again about the copyright thing...

Bush Ts 2

2009-08-20T07:56:00.004-11:00

If you know what copyright infringement is, don't scroll down.

Bush Ts 1

2009-08-19T10:01:00.002-11:00

Today's post is a couple of T-shirt ideas that I came up with yesterday. I'll be posting a few more tomorrow, but I have a warning. There may be some copyright infringement involved in the sense that I will be using trademarked logos without permission. So... if you're the sort of legal beagle to report me, do me a favor and don't read this tomorrow.

And by the way, meeting with The D went well. She liked the Dynasty a lot and gave me plenty of useful criticism.

The Shirts (Note the second s -- shirts, plural, not the same shirt)

New Novel

2009-08-18T01:15:00.001-11:00

(It's redundant.)

I suppose it makes some sense that I pick this blog back up again at this point in time. After all, I only gave it up so that I could dedicate myself to writing a novel, and as of a few weeks back said novel was successfully completed. For the record, it does bother me just a little bit that the woman who’s blathering prompted me to blog again in doing so inadvertently proved her point but, I’m sure I get over it, at least until I hear about a tsunami that struck China.

I’ve become sidetracked. But yes, I finished the first draft of my novel and I’m not entirely sure what I think of it. I certainly plan to extensively revise it, but I’m not sure where I will go from there. Though I have read tons of books that are better than mine, I have certainly read some that are worse cough Atlas Shrugged cough. That said, even if I do deem it ‘good enough’ I don’t know if I will attempt to get it published. I kind of feel like this book is not a particularly good representation of my writing style or any kind of thesis on a message I believe in.

In just a few hours I will be meeting with an ex-girlfriend of mine. I will call her The D for the sake of her anonymity, not because she asked me to, but because I certainly wouldn’t want something as embarrassing as dating me published online for the world to see. The D relates to this topic because she had the honor of being the first person to read my book in its entirety and I am curious to see what she has to say about it. Regardless, I have no idea when I will begin the editorial process, and again, as of now, I have no plans after that.

That said, despite the new task of resurrecting Something Clever, and the job of editing Dynasty (The book), and the synonym for task of doing several other small writing projects that I have been neglecting, I have already begun research for my next book, which will definitely epitomize my writing style and a message that I feel is important. I don’t want to reveal to much about it, because I am fairly proud of the originality of my subject, but I will give you a hint in the form of a request that will further my research.

If anyone knows of any good books immediately about the days immediately preceding and following the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, please let me know.

I hope you’re curious.

Justifiction

2009-08-17T13:32:00.003-11:00

I’m sitting in Starbucks (I put this online sometime in the future) and I am completely incapable of ignoring the conversation of the two women sitting two tables in front of me. I’ve been unclear. The conversation is actually occurring between one woman while another watches with, what I can only assume from the back of her head and the enthusiasm of the speaker, is mock interest.

So anyway, the woman, who sports a fake ‘Coach’ purse is explaining that everything happens for a reason and that God has a master plan for all of us. She then clarifies that the pathetic state of the economy has prevented her son from being able to stay in an apartment that they are mutually funding but that, with the money she is saving, she will be able to afford a new car, which is great because it will make her ex husband (Alf, I think) jealous.

So, if I understand correctly, the God of the Israelites etc. etc. has orchestrated the ruin of her marriage, the downfall of the American economy, and the homelessness of her son as part of an agenda which will soon culminate in a fantastic moment of vengeful victory. It sort of makes me wished I believed more fervently in God so that he might cause international strife on my behalf. Maybe a tsunami hitting China would cause Starbucks to bring back the Toffee Frappuccino. Oh well, damn Agnosticism but alas, I digress. The point of all this is, to those of you who have been blaming President Hussein for your financial difficulties, you are pointing your finger in the wrong direction. The actual culprit is a southern woman, roughly fifty years of age, with frosted hair, and some sort of divine justification for her fake designer bag… oh, and God.

By the way, a new development, while I was writing that last bit, I got a text message and the apostle women thought it was hers and bent to pull her phone out of her purse. She was disappointed when she realized that she wasn’t popular, but she did prove her point because, her duck was timed so perfectly that the bullet of the sniper I had just phoned in missed completely. Thanks God.

Apple Twitters

2009-04-29T00:29:00.002-11:00

News: I just got an iMac and I just got a twitter account. These facts are both true and facilitate my title pun. So now, in lieu of writing long blog entries while enjoying the ease of use of a PC, I am now 'mini-blogging' in between my attempts to disable 'spaces.' So, find me, follow me, I don't know how that works, but hopefully you do.

Oh, and if you got referred here by my twitter profile, fear not; rather than entering into an endless back and forth temporal loop, feel free to catch up on the back issues or, if you're not a chiropractor, peruse my old blog posts.

Oh, and thank you to the Canadian girl (or woman) who sent money to the EDiBLe F. I promise that there's a young man somehere who greatly appreciates your donation.

Some Movie Stuff

2009-02-17T13:10:00.002-11:00

So, I haven't posted in a while because I've been busy. Here's some proof: Attempted Plagiarism

Except that it isn't proof because we shot it in two days and edited it in one. By the way, the front of the DVDs are legible in the HD format but hurrah for youtube and it's inadequate specs. If you had trouble following the film, ask me in a comment and I'll tell you what the DVDs were.

Oh, and before I desert you again, let me address a popular subject.

The Oscars are coming up and the people are divided. Some think Benjamin Button should take home Best Picture and others think Slumdog Millionaire should get it. Who is right and who is wrong? Is it really that simple?

I equate the Button v. Millionaire argument to the debate over which is better, black olives or green olives, which is to say that the first group is clearly right and the latter need to go back to school. (This is fact, not opinion.

Comeback to the Future

2008-12-31T21:28:00.002-11:00

Today was (and I am able to refer to ‘today’ in the past tense because of a weird inaccuracy in my time-code on this blog) the longest day in the history of the world; not just because it involved Frisbee, shopping, moving furniture, and going to parties, but also because the Earth is slowing gradually and today Timex sought to compensate. Incidentally, these geological occurrences prompted me to write a script which was later stolen by Fox titled The Day the Earth Revolved Slightly Slower (I am not pressing charges because I do not want my name to be applied to anything involving Keanu). But on a lighter note, today, coupled with February 29^th, have contributed to making 2008 the longest year in the history of history, and have given me ample time to piddle away so that I ended up writing a best of 2008 list until early 2009. For now, I write a list that I think proves that 2008 is the year of comebacks.

ROBERT DOWNEY JR. The man has finally outgrown his early years of driving naked down Mulholland Dr. throwing invisible rats out of his car window (I love it when I don’t have to make up jokes) and has returned to the acting world. Sure, 2005’s Kiss Kiss Bang Bang was amazing, but nobody saw it. This year he forced himself into the public eye by showcasing his diversity; by playing a black man in Tropic Thunder and a rich man in Iron Man, RDJ proved that he could take a wide range of characters. That’s right, RDJ went from former glory, through a monumental crash and has now emerged bigger and badder than ever. Now if only the economy will take the hint.

BRITNEY SPEARS First she sucked and people loved her. Then she kept sucking and people stopped loving her. Now people love her again, thus constituting a comeback, but at least we have the cultural stability of knowing that she still sucks. That said, she has cemented her musical return by making major contributions to the lyrical world. For example, she successfully rhymed every line of the eight line chorus of a song with the veritably unrhymable title, “Womanizer.” Given, every line starts and ends with the word ‘womanizer,’ but this is a comeback, so we have to tolerate baby steps.

MICHAEL PHELPS Sure, technically he came back to the Olympics. Also, though I do not torture myself by watching swimming, I’m sure he pulled into the lead from behind in at least one of his 35 medal winning races, and yes he set a world record. Also, he looks like an orangutan. So who gives a damn?

SOMETHING CLEVER Ok, so it really only arrived for the first time in 2008, but perhaps you remember that month where all you did was lie in bed and mourn while periodically checking this url on your iphone to see if it was backup. Perhaps you were too dehydrated to remember what that month was about or how it ended, but that was the month that my blog was in the shop. And now it has come back with renewed fervor. Again, I cannot stress this enough; the New York Stock Exchange would do well to follow.

BARACK OBAMA I know what you’re thinking, “this isn’t a comeback.” It is. Sure, I hear all this crap about him being the first black president, and I know that being the first of something makes it not a comeback. Also I know that he’s never held any sort of political office before, so we can’t give him comeback credit on that front. But, on the flip side, America has not had a secret Muslim president since LBJ (I always suspected it anyhow), and I feel like the return of a closet turban (incidentally a closet is the place where most turbans can be found in American households, albeit in the form of neatly folded towels) to the white house certainly qualifies as a comeback.

Welcome to 2009.

Amazoned Out

2008-12-30T10:55:00.000-11:00

So, my most recent idea for a moneymaking endeavor was buying movies cheap from various sources and then selling them slightly less cheap on Amazon.com. In theory this seemed like a good idea because from certain vendors I found that I could easily get movies cheap enough that I could scoop the lowest seller’s price on Amazon and still make a profit. It turns out that Amazon has rules in place to carefully prevent anyone from benefiting fiscally from their services. I will explain.

Amazon.com is named after a dark and foreboding jungle that is known for its winding and exceedingly difficult to navigate river. I should therefore not have been surprised when the signup procedures for a seller’s account proved to be ludicrously complicated. First I entered my information and read the rules. It turns out that there are hidden areas of the sight that warn you of extra fees you must pay for each item you sell. Exploring the registration page was like an electronic Easter egg hunt, except instead of finding eggs you find wallet-raping regulations.

Based on my readings on the sight, I determined the following. Let’s say I buy a DVD for 5 dollars. I scoop the 10 dollar lowest used price by 1 dollar so I am asking for 9 now. (The estimations I am about to make are very rough) I am then charged a listing fee of 15%. I am also charged a special fixed 1.50 media fee for selling DVDs. Assuming I successfully sell the product, I am charged another fee called a closing fee. This is all in addition to a 39.99 monthly membership charge. So, in the final analysis, if I managed to get over a hundred DVDs at 5$ and resell them for ten, I would make less than I would if I were being paid minimum wage to right this single blog post (This should be obvious considering that the minimum wage amount would not be preceded by a ‘-‘ sign). But then, maybe I was reading these rules wrong.

So I called the tech support. First I listened to a five minute automated message explaining that I could probably avoid wasting their time and just find the thing online. I wanted to yell at the robochick but it was telling me to press or say four for questions about taxes, and I didn’t want my expletive to be misinterpreted as a numeral that reroute me to their legal division. So I waited, and eventually I was transferred to a woman who I suspect was either a South American warrior woman or an underpaid tech support person in Dubai. I think I’ll pull a Columbus and call her ‘Indian’ just to be safe.

The Indian woman asks me for my account info or email address. I explain that I do not yet have an account and that the acquisition thereof is what my question pertains to. She wants to know what the question is and I begin a long pre-scripted query about fees etc. She cuts me off midway right as I am reaching the crescendo and informs me that she will transfer me to the Brutal Molestation Division, which is more capable of handling questions such as these.

Apparently the BMD were very busy because by the time they answered, I had figured out how to play the tones of their hold music using only my cell phone keypad. By the way, the music they play when you are on hold is called elevator music because of the way it elevates the wrath of the holdee. Anyway, after being sufficiently elevated, the BMD finally answers and reveals to me that it is indeed a robot. It offers me two options. In order to posit a question I must first enter my seller account information. Or, I can get angry, hang up, go to Half.com, and discover just how vastly superior it is. I chose the latter.

And this tale, my friends, combined with my stereotypical American ignorance of foreign geography is why I support a troop surge and/or extensive firebombing in Iraq.

Cnsrsh*p

2008-12-29T12:16:00.000-11:00

In case you were wondering, I asterisked out the vowels in the title so that people who are morally opposed to idiocy would have absolutely no idea what word it was. After all, if you can’t find it with ‘control f’ it must not be meaningful. Maybe that’s why it’s control ‘f.’

That said, my opinion on censorship is as follows: In most instances it is stupid, and in the other instances it is applied poorly. What made me think of this was a song that I heard on the radio. Perhaps you are familiar with the song “Addicted” by Saving Abel. One of the lines of this song is “You’re going down on me in between the sheets.” In Baton Rouge, the radio stations play a modified version of the song in which the line is altered to play “you roll around with me in between the sheets.” Ignoring the fact that the new line makes more sense, and the irony of a band with a biblical name singing about oral sex addiction, I have a serious qualm with the censors who deemed ‘rolling around’ more appropriate than ‘going down.’

My major beef (am I still allowed to say that) with this new child-friendly version is that it preaches unsafe sexual euphemisms. Anyone who’s seen The 40-Year-Old Virgin knows that for young adults, outercourse (not be confused with extracurricular activities, or detours depending on the circumstances) is preferable to intercourse (also a word for a high school hallway). Why in the word is the FCC sending the message that rolling around is preferable to going down to the target audience of this song? Because they are the FCC.

This seamlessly segues into a belief that I have held for a long time. Government censorship boards are fairly seriously confused. Let’s discuss the MPAA. In a PG TV show I can clearly one man shooting innocent bystanders with automatic weapons, no problem. As soon as I show one image of a cranial splatter, I land a TV-MA rating. Why? Because the bloody image is traumatizing for young people. Good! It should be. However, it defeats the point if we completely separate the violence of the should-be traumatizing consequences. If we’re gonna go by these standards, let’s censor Driver’s Ed videos to show people drinking a lot but not crashing? After all, mangled metal and severed limbs could be traumatic.

Oh, and the sex thing. In Europe, full frontal nudity is fine but it’s easy to land an NC-17 for violence. In America the reverse is true. We watch people get torn to shreds, but a glimpse of a penis, god forbid, we get an NC-17, and no theatres show us. I think this system could theoretically make a lot of sense if America was facing a population problem and the only way to solve it was to teach children that killing people is more admirable than engaging in something more reproductive.

To be fair though, I think the MPAA is not slacking off. They are paying very close attention to what the people really need. Which is why, to combat the environmental crisis and the energy shortage, they required the director’s of Saw to make lighting changes before granting them an R (rather than NC-17) rating. Way to look out for us MP**.

Anyway, I’d love to continue ranting about this topic but I have to hurry away to catch a Baton Rouge broadcast of another show that likes to satirize censorship, Southpark. I want to see if the theme song has been changed to “So roll around with Southpark and meet some friends of mine.”

Content Orangutan Pilot Episode (cope)

2008-12-27T11:09:00.000-11:00

This is my rough treatment for the pilot episode of my animated TV show, Content Orangutan Tooth Platoon (see ADD Post Mandolin). Let blank lines equal commercial breaks, probably for Scope, Listerine, Colgate, Crest, and PETA.

Because this is the first episode, the first five minutes will explain the origins of the COTP. So, we start in an underground laboratory in the Bronx because that seems like a sufficiently ominous place. In this dungeon of a basement we see a corrupt Dentist testing various drills on four (there have to be four) young orangutans. Plaques on the bottom of their cages reveal that these primates are named after the Dentist’s four favorite people. The plaques read ‘Kevorkian,’ ‘Dahmer,’ ‘Gacy,’ and ‘Winehouse.’ When the dentist leaves the room to get some more matches, he carelessly leaves a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats (which, according to the box, increase attentiveness by 18%) within reach of Kevorkian’s cage. Kevorkian snags the breakfast cereal, and gulp some of it down before passing it on to the other apes. By the time Winehouse gets the box, all that is left is that nasty white Mini-Wheats powder. She eats this anyway, and so is never quite as content as the other orangutans. Then, using their newfound attentiveness, the Orangutan’s pick the locks on their cages and break out. They accost their master and torture him by installing a Herpst device to uncorrect his wonderbite. Then they run out into the street where they are promptly mistaken for hairy homeless men and drafted to fight in Vietnam, for it is in the 70s that we set our scene. Roll opening credits with theme song: “They’re the Content Orangutan Tooth Platoon, running through the bush, running through the bush, running through the bush to kill the gooks.” (After all, who says kids TV shows have to be politically correct?)

We return from the break to find that our protagonists have inexplicably been assigned to their own four monkey platoon, the COTP. They are all decked out in full camo, but can be distinguished by their different colored headbands, and the name-plaques that hang from chains around their necks (at some point a witty pun on the word plaque is used). Also, Winehouse has cut her uniform into a sexy pair of camouflage undercoverwear; Gacy wears his headband over a bright red clown wig, and Dahmer is always chewing on a North Vietnamese hand with a culturally identifying tattoo. Oh, and they can talk now, which allows for a few lines of dialogue to clarify that their commander has recently been killed. They decide that they are going to roam the jungles of Vietnam, seeking enemy VC and friendlies in need of dental care. They soon locate a camp of VC and decide to wait until nightfall to listen in.

The COTP break into the camp. They round up all of the VC, and mark them by putting permanent retainers on their teeth. These retainers make the Vietcong (who all speak English) speak with lisps, and thus render them easily identifiable. Then, while Gacy and Dahmer, free the South Vietnamese prisoners and fill their cavities, Winehouse eats a palm tree and Kevorkian interrogates the VC leader by applying and then tightening a powerchain on his teeth. The leader eventually reveals that there is a larger camp nearby that houses political prisoners. After lecturing everyone on proper dental hygiene, Dahmer cuts off the VC leader’s hand as a snack for the road, and the group depart contentedly on their next mission.

A series of guards are inconspicuously dragged out of sight by hairy arms before the COTP are able to get close enough to peer through the window of a bamboo hut. Inside they see John McCain being forced to play Russian roulette with Christopher Walken. Wasting no time, the COTP decide to break through the window to save the two national heroes. This fails because the window is plexiglass, so they break through the bamboo wall instead. They easily defeat the surrounding VC with large doses of novocaine and John McCain and Christopher Walken are both very grateful. McCain promises to be the group’s new leader, and produces a two way radio from his back pocket. Walken says that he wishes he could help but he needs to hurry home to start on his presidential campaign. Dahmer eats John McCain’s shoulder muscles, and the group heads contentedly back into the woods. Meanwhile, McCain and Walken begin the long swim up the Unpronounceable River back to safety.

As the end credits begin to roll, the COTP get their first real mission via radio from John McCain. It says, “My friends, I have a mission for you of grave importance. American film actor, Marlon Brando has gained 200 pounds and fled into the jungles of Laos, where we believe he has raised an army of the undead. Please find him and recover the Shankara stones which we believe can be found within his belly. My friends, we are counting on you. McCain out.”

And the theme song plays again.

Merry Christ-Mass

2008-12-26T08:42:00.000-11:00

I did not publish a post yesterday, because my entire day was spent accompanying Sexy (my girlfriend) to her various family abodes to engage in the celebration of Christmas. For those of you who are not Christian I will explain to you what this holiday is, based solely upon my day of yuletide education.

Christmas is apparently a holiday dedicated to celebrate the mass of the Christian lord and savior Jesus (debated middle initial) Christ. Common estimates have it that, based upon his holiness but generally poor nutrition, the messiah’s (pre-crucifixion) mass was roughly 55 kilograms, so that is how many presents each celebrant of Christmas gets. You may also have heard of various images affiliated with Christmas including a jolly red fat man, bountiful reindeer, a pointy tree, and shiny lights, but these should be disregarded, as they are really just a PR campaign targeting a child-demographic to make the holiday more aesthetically appealing (Because say what you will about the conception, but a virgin birth into a pile cow-tainted straw was definitely not immaculate).

Anyway, I have digressed… So anyway, according to Jesus’ body fat and estimated height, I found myself sitting around with Sexy’s family opening a seemingly endless pile of presents. OK, I realized that I just damned myself with that last sentence considering that the bulk of what I want to discuss in this post takes place at the end of the seemingly endless pile, so before you proceed to the next paragraph, please wait for a seemingly endless moment to better simulate the experience.

Well that came quicker than expected. Anyway, we’re at the bottom of the pile and I’m about to open my last present. It’s some strange box with a hole cut in the wrapping paper for a handle to protrude through. I suspect that the box contains either a bocce set, a tool kit, mineralogists tool kit, but I am mistaken. I open the box to discover that it contains an Iron Jim, a clever contraption which, according to the infomercials, succeeds at molding a ripped new body onto the user’s frame while simultaneously ripping the molding off the user’s doorframe. It’s a very impressive modeling/remodeling tool. To some extent, I jest. In actuality, unlike almost everything else you see on TV, the Iron Jim actually works. I assembled it last night and it turned out to be very effective, so effective in fact that though I had to hoist my sore limp arms onto the table to type this, I suspect that I will beat (321) 745-7224 (my roommate) in a bicep having contest.

That said, let’s get cynical. This year, for Christmas, Sexy gave me the Iron Jim, a paddle ball set, and a Frisbee, but not a standard ultimate Frisbee, a Frisbee that says ‘Heavyweight’ on it and features a picture of a Sumo wrestler. So, is Sexy trying to say something? She claims that she doesn’t think I need to work out more. She says she likes my body just the way it is. So what’s the problem? I think I’ve found the answer: In her blog she, in response to me renaming her ‘Sexy,’ has anonymously titled me ‘Good Looking.’ I think her generous donation of numerous workout apparati to the EDiBLe F is an attempt on Sexy’s part to end accusations by her readers that she over-exaggerates and to thus restore her credibility. Well don’t worry babe; I’ll be Good Looking soon enough!

Oh by the way, the repeated misspelling of the product discussed in this post is a reference to a misunderstanding and affiliated series of thoughts that I had when I first heard, but did not see, an infomercial for Iron Gym. I won’t explain in great detail, but I will say the movie trailer I thought I was hearing involved Jim Caviezel reviving his Passion-ate role of Christ and donning the armor and heavy-artillery provided to him by God and the time traveling representatives of Stark Industries to become the messiah and save man-kind.

Jollyday Eve Eve

2008-12-24T09:20:00.000-11:00

Frankly it’s a miracle that I am lucid enough to even compose a single sentence today. The hangover I could theoretically be suffering has reduced me to a Blagojevich level of cognition. So why was I irresponsible enough to theoretically engage in actions that could have yielded such an incredibly corrupt hangover? Because I was celebrating the revered holiday of Christmas Eve Eve.

Perhaps you have not heard of Christmas Eve Eve, so let me give you a brief history lesson that could (again, theoretically) heighten your intellect and increase your chances of avoiding eternal damnation. Ok, here goes…

Once upon a time, sometime before now, stuff used to happen. Jesus was born (twice incidentally), a lamp burned for eight days, some Roman guy had to chisel a new year onto a stone calendar somewhere, etc. etc. etc. and the people rejoiced. Then, the year after all of this stuff occurred, people were sad. They said, “Yo Caesar, we need an excuse to get wasted again this year,” and Caesar decreed that henceforth there would be jollydays. These ‘jollydays’ necessitated that people rejoice (the first time it was just joicing) on arbitrary boring days and justify their debauchery by recalling the party-worthy events of previous years. This sated the workers’ guilds, made the children happy, and sufficiently stimulated the economy. But not forever.

For a couple hundred years the jollydays stimulated the peoples’ need for religious experiences, and God hibernated peacefully. After a while, the people developed a tolerance to jollydays and insisted that God give them more. They prodded God with a long spiritual stick but God simply rolled over and went back to sleep. So the people mourned and began crusades and equally nonsensical thingamajigs, until one day a savior arrived who delivered the people into the land of happiness.

His name was, I believe, Fibonacci, and he created a clever mathematic variable that could effectively double the potency of any jollyday. He named this variable Eve, after the first woman, because of the variable's ability to increase mankind’s joy exponentially. Then, he began dropping eves all over the calendar until the people were again satisfied (highly intoxicated). It should be noted that Easter does not have an eve because there is a divine statute forbidding an excess of three celebrations in honor of one person.

Hundreds of years passed, Alexander the great created his empire, the USSR rose and fell, and J.K. Rowling began writing books, and over time people wanted more than just one eve per holiday (also during this time, the word ‘jollyday’ was modified to facilitate Spanish speaking countries). And then, along came another savior. His name was Barack Obama and he decreed that the joy could be spread thinner. This great man, recalling the wisdom of Fibonacci, created a new event for the calendar's holiday arsenal and named it after the singer he had recently contracted to rewrite the national anthem, rapper, Eve. Thus was born the Eve Eve, and thus was this post nearly damned to the abyss.

And, my friends, if you think this is excessive, bear in mind that according to the eve’s creator, Fibonacci, the next time the people demand more justifications for debauchery, we will end up celebrating five nights for each holiday rather than three.

Ground Re-Opening

2008-12-23T09:59:00.001-11:00

Hello, and welcome back to Something Clever. I am aware that in my last post I promised that this thing would be back online in three weeks, and I apologize for the delay, however, my rationale is as follows. When a baby is born too early, or prematurely, as it is colloquially known, they suffer from serious mental defects and end up with very limited career prospects (fast food, urban planning, politics). So I employed deductive reasoning and thus decided to delay the re-opening of my blog to ensure it’s mental superiority. So now, because something clever is ‘postmature’ its career possibilities include Reality TV Host, victim of the man, and Subway ad rep (from whence would be born the $12 5-foot-long).

Anywho, now that I have gotten defensive, let me introduce you to my new plans for the blog. Firstly, you will note the new background. Though it may seem relatively simple, creating it was extremely difficult. I have to thank my roommate, Papa K-Dawg and my friend, Mel for the programming necessary to add this photo. Though to me the difference between XML and HTML is only two letters, Papa K-Dawg assures me that using both is exceedingly difficult. I therefore believe that this new layout is Mel’s best work since Braveheart.

Despite our best efforts to do so in various languages (including HTML, Java, and inaccurate ancient Aramaic) we were unable to create a second scrolling sidebar on the left side of the screen that would have showcased my various recent movie roles and would be updated with new ones in the future. Instead, I will incorporate these movie ads into the right hand sidebar. I should let you know that I have come up with a new word for these pseudo-posters: Tractors (short for Attractors). Perhaps if Mel and Papa K can help me out more in the future, we will be able to ad pseudo-previews as well. Then the two can mate into a hybrid genre; the Tractor-Trailer.

Oh, and speaking of Braveheart, I would like you to take a long hard look at the qualified experts that showed up in the banner above to represent the intelligence and general good taste of my blog. I’d like to mention that the guy on the far right did not actually give his permission to be shown here, but I’m sure he would have had he not recently been hung by the neck until dead. After all, he’s seen worse. Also, I want to propose a challenge. I’ll give five bucks to the first person who can name, in order from left to right, the 6 qualified critics featured above. Good luck with that first guy (he really is famous though).

Now (or rather here, I suppose) I will elaborate on my plans for this blog in the coming months. I intend to continue updating it daily, but this may become difficult in a few months when I begin undertaking directorial efforts. Still, I will try. Also, my entries will henceforth fall into a few different categories. These categories will include, Things I did today or recently or not so recently, my opinion on issues, fake news stories (i.e. Communist canine spy captured: Clifford to stand trial next month), and other stuff such as my upcoming treatment for the pilot episode of my innovative new TV show, The Content Orangutan Tooth Platoon. Additionally, I will maintain various clever traditions, such as the monthly montage edition, and the extremely arbitrary (go figure) ADD Posts.

So, all in all, this page should be a tad more exciting than it was for the last four months. I will of course accept (adamantly argue against) any criticism that you would like to offer, so feel free to comment here or to send me an email at djbush89@gmail.com. If you choose to do the latter, I would suggest that you include the phrase ‘hot girls’ in the subject line so that I will not disregard your email as spam.

P.S. Calling this a “Ground Re-opening” was not a typo. I wanted to replace the extremely inferior syllable ‘Rand,’ which having lost the affiliated essay contest, I define as ‘evil incarnate,’ with the more aesthetically pleasing syllable ‘round,’ which can be applied to numerous things that are all more pleasant than objectivism including a soccer ball, an education, and a booty.

A Fond Faregood

2008-11-12T16:28:00.000-11:00

So, it’s finally here; post 101. You may not have known this, but in order to find the inspiration for each of the posts that I write, I drink the blood of a baby Dalmation. Obviously, after today I will be out of puppies and thus completely uninspired. The good news is, that I have a pregnant Dalmation who was genetically engineered to birth hundreds of super-special hulk puppies that will give me even more literary ability than the previous pooches did.

So, in roughly twenty days, or in exactly three weeks, my new canines will have grown to an adequately consumable size, and I will restart this blog. But it will be new and improved! There should be a super-cool background, and a variety of exciting posters/pictures on the side. Also, I’ll be reformatting some stuff (possibly your hard-drive). Because I am about as computer literate as the bad guys in action movies that have to hold a gun to the head of someone who is very computer literate in order to get any computer-related stuff done, I have no idea what you will find at this URL while the site is in construction. Hopefully nothing… or maybe the same thing you see today, in which case, you can take this opportunity to memorize the last 100 posts.

Anywho, to entice you and ensure that you will still be interested when I return, I am including a sneak preview here, now, at the end of this post. Expect lots of pictures like these in the new Something Clever in three weeks. Until then, happy Thanksgiving. After then, even happier thanks-giving.

Nay Marriage

2008-11-11T18:30:00.000-11:00

This is my last real post before the sneak preview tomorrow that will mark the beginning of a brief hiatus. That said, I would hate to get political and thus potentially alienate half of my readers, but I would also hate to live in a country that maintains moronic and discriminatory laws, so what the hell.

What prompted me to bring this up and thus postpone my temporary farewell entry another day, is the realization that I had in the shower today. You see, I was scrubbing when I realized that Florida and California have a lot in common. Not only did they both impose/re-impose anti-gay marriage legislation in the past week or so, but, ironically, they are also the two most phallic states in the nation (unless you have elephantitis, in which case Alaska could qualify).

I am just as opposed to Florida’s penisular shape just as much as I am opposed to Gay marriage, and for the same reason. Neither, in any way influences my way of live. Living in a state with genitally suggestive borders doesn’t affect me at all. Neither does my neighbors’ legal status. I have heard ample opposition to this issue though, and though I understand none of it, I will explain it here.

“Marriage is a religious term.” This is frequently true. In fact, in the new testament, it clearly states that though each man should dedicate himself wholly to god, he may be unable to do so and may therefore take a wife. Tragically, the bible does not go on to elaborate on the gender of said ‘wife,’ nor is there a glossary at the end to define it for me. Also, though the bible apparently permits heterosexual marriage, I was unable to find a part expressly forbidding homosexual marriage. You could make the case that the bible forbids homosexuality altogether (I disagree), but that is a whole different story. The bible forbids murder as well. Should murderers be banned from marrying on the same premise. By the way, feel free to do your own research to support what I have said, but be careful, because ‘confirmation’ can be a religious term too, and it would suck if you messed up that one.

“But marriage is a tradition.” So was crucifixion in the ancient Roman world. I hate tradition passionately. It seems to me that the word ‘tradition’ was invented simply to justify senseless avoidance of change of any kind. So it’s a tradition; straight people get married. Cool, keep that tradition up. Gay marriage doesn’t stop it.

“But that justifies and encourages gay sex and gay sex is icky.” OK, if you see a gay person having sex with their gay husband on your previously straight bus-stop bench, here’s what you do: Call the police and report them for indecent exposure. Same goes for straight people coupling in public. If it really bothers you… it’s your fault for thinking about it. It seems to me, that the majority of people who are opposed to the legality of gay marriage, feel as they do on account of a stick up their asses. Ironic, eh?

Today, in the shower, I came up with the most rational objection to gay marriage that I have ever heard of or conceived. Presumably the rationale behind the government giving benefits to married couples was originally to encourage the production of legitimate children to bolster the country’s population without contributing to the New York street urchin surplus. A gay couple cannot produce children and thus does not deserve these benefits. Perhaps this argument that marriage incentives are meant for the children could hold some water, but it is now full of holes. The population is well-bolstered. Many gay couples are eager to adopt, but the same people opposing marriage are opposing adoption. Many straight couples don’t have kids.

Now, let me clarify something that may have been murky in the previous paragraphs. I DO NOT SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE. I oppose it. Of course, I should mention that I oppose all marriage. If calling the union marriage offends people, fine, don’t call it that. But maybe calling to straight people married is offensive to. Let’s drop that word. In all seriousness, I think that marriage should be a strictly religious term. The legal equivalent should be called a ‘civil union’ whether it applies to a heterosexual or homosexual couple. So when a couple seek to be joined, they can go to an accepting church and get married, and then legally solidify the contract by getting civilly unified. What a civil idea.

So, to anyone who voted against gay marriage, or should I say (at least in Florida), voted for the amendment ‘protecting’ the word marriage from getting homosexed, get over it! If you want to fight about abortion, go ahead. That’s a real issue. Taxes, war, social security… Fine. You have something to lose on every single one of those issues.

But opposing gay marriage is silly. Here’s my new, equivalent law. Non-Jewish Americans should not be allowed to be legally ‘bankrupt,’ because the use of the word ‘bank’ referred primarily to Jewish owned establishments in the biblical days. Don’t believe me? It’s in the bible. Don’t care? Why not; It’s incredibly important.

43.5

2008-11-10T19:14:00.000-11:00

President George W. Bush and President Elect Barack Obama met, I believe today, in the oval office to discuss the next four years. Their conversation has not been publicized. My last name is ‘Bush.’ This qualifies me to invent a discussion that I believe they could have had and pass it off as legitimate. With no further ado, I present to you, verbatim, a conversation between presidents whose average is grey.

Baby Bush: Welcome to the oval office. It’s not ovalish. That got me on my first day.
Hussein: It will be. You see, I plan to spackle the corners into a rounded shape. Understand sir, I believe in change.
Baby Bush: Ahhh, I see. I should have thought of that before Dick went into Iraq. Then maybe uncle John would have won. But then I never would have heard this idea from you. Well, this is what we back in Texas call a colander. But that’s besides the point. The point is: We wouldn’t have a negro coming into office.
Hussein: Excuse me? That term is very offensive.
Baby Bush: Hehheh. I know… coming.
Hussein: No, I was referring to you calling me a ‘negro.’ That word is terribly outdated and very personally painful.
Baby Bush: Yeah, well, they call me ‘dubya.’ You think that doesn’t hurt. Just repeat after me: Sticks and stones can break my bones but…
Hussein: I’m not a child sir. I’m 47 years old.
Baby Bush: I’m jealous. I mean, shucks, I was 55 before I got into the white house. But daddy was older than that. I guess we both got him beat, huh?
Hussein: I suppose so. Could we talk about the issues?
Baby Bush: Sure. I have ten.
Hussein: Excuse me? Global warming, the economy, terrorism, gas dependency…
Baby Bush: No, you misunderstanded me. Ten… Tennis shues… See, on my feet. They’re Reeboks. You wear tennis shoes?
Hussein: Ummm… No, but…
Baby Bush: Is it because of the flag logo on the side? Or is it because they are whi… Caucasian American?
Hussein: No sir. Could we maybe discuss the issues please.
Baby Bush: I’m sorry, but I have been adviced not to do that. I’m inclined to wait to verify the credibility of my intelligence.
Hussein: The source that told you what the issues are you mean?
Baby Bush: I can’t answer that.
Hussein: Well maybe we could bring about some change…
Baby Bush: lalalalalalala
Hussein: Don’t make me get out my bag of pretzels!

And the country was saved.
End.

P.S. And typos in this post were probably intentional.

Essay What?

2008-11-09T17:11:00.000-11:00

I haven’t complained about essays in a quite a while for two reasons: A) I haven’t written a post in the past three days and B) I haven’t had Ms. Information’s class in the past three months. The latter fact has not changed. But now, I have a class with a man named Lapin (Lazy and Pretentious, Ignorant Nincompoop) and his TA (Tyrannical *sswipe) named MD (Moronic Dungheep). To visualize PHD, just recall to mind Anton Ego from Ratatouille. Now add gray hair… PHD. To visualize MD, stab yourself in the eye with scissors (Not the rounded Fiskar kind).

So here is how PHD grades: he doesn’t. The class grade is based on two papers. He does not read this papers, but rather gives them to MD to read on his behalf. There are no other grades, and optional classtime consists of watching a new wave French film and then listening to PHD pleasure himself orally for one hour.

I wrote my paper and turned it in on time. A few weeks later, PHD announces to every single class that he teaches that he was dissatisfied with the grading that the TA(s) w(ere)as doing, so he fired the(hi)m. He then gave everyone who had below an ‘A’ according to the TA a blanket grade of ‘B.’ I am quite displeased. Here is why.

The rubric for the paper had six categories: Quality of ideas, Use of supporting evidence, Argument and structure, Expression, Presentation, and Footnotes & Bibliography. MD gave me a ‘C’ in every single category and then justified the grades with the following comments on the paper:

“Citizen Kane brought Orson Welles a lasting period of Hollywood notoriety.” MD underlines ‘notoriety’ and writes Americans didn’t like wells. No sh*t you paper-mache puke-bucket. That’s what ‘notoriety’ means. Considering that PHD screens Notorious in some of his other classes, you damn well ought to know this. “…so he cuts off leads as they ripen in the much the same way Athabze kills each…” He underlined this. No idea why.

On the next page, he meticulously underlined an entire paragraph and wrote ‘very good’ next to it. I suppose I lost points for this. Other than that, he made only one comment. He said that I relied too heavily on citations and that he needed to hear MY opinion more often. My opinion, is that he is an incompetent fool. I find his opinion moronic because, when I wrote the paper, I was not aware that we needed citations. I went back and added them in after the fact. So, my reliance on them was negative sir.

So it appears that PHD made a good decision by firing MD, who I now assume is off working at McDonald’s or fighting in Iraq (oops, John Kerryism). My objections are as follows. If the idiot grader had given me an ‘A,’ I would have gotten an ‘A,’ but because the idiot did not give me an ‘A,’ I did not get an ‘A.’ If the TA was fired for being inadequate, than my paper should be regarded by someone adequate. Also, this professor gets paid. He does one hour of work per week per class and does know grading. That’s pathetic.

I would go to the dean, but then they might somehow detect the fictional nature of my citations. Rat Fart!

A Month Goes Fourth

2008-11-06T16:49:00.000-11:00

So another celebration rolls around. Hurrah. I’m enthusiastic. In case you were wondering about the title for this month’s nostalgia-thon, I stole it from the incessant Shrek franchise. You’ll understand in two years. However, they stole it from the very cessant Blackadder series. And in case you’re wondering why Shrek (and affiliated Puss in Boots) movies keep getting made, I have no idea. Whose idea it was to put the sexiest man alive (Antonio Banderas (No this observation does not make me gay (Just because you drive standard doesn’t mean you can’t look a stick-shift from time to time))) in solely animated films, I do not know, but I have digressed. Let’s reminisce.

So, the little counter at the bottom of the screen has totally failed to stop working as my ratings go down which is unfortunate. I would post the number of views that I got in the past month, but the idea that a blog such as this is declining in popularity, that the MPAA would surely censor it out, and well they should. I suspect that this drop in ratings may be due to (321)745-7224’s inability to view the site on account of the fact that he was recently detained by the FBI after his biceps were deemed Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Is it always at this point in the month that I reconsider how I am going to get famous. I have failed to do so… to reconsider I mean (I am epically famous if you hang with the right crowds). I am working on a novel, and will in fact be taking a brief break from something clever to write something profitable. This break will occur slightly later this month, after I publish the 100^th post. But fret not. When something clever returns, after my Thanksgiving Break, it will be bigger and badder than ever, will sorts of amusing pictures and a new format (which will beat the everloving poo-drug out of facebook’s revamp). In fact, I think my 100^th post may be a sneak preview of the grandeur that is to come.

But let’s have us a montage, for very recent time’s sake. Amongst the beautifully painted images in Something Clever: The Not-a-Blog Edition you will find the following images: The androgenous airplane blob and my protruding feet, me moderating Sidney and Hussein’s epically disappointing battle, my lawyers raping Trey Parker and Matt Stone, Quasimorpheus, Oytkast, the ultimate presidential candidate (a blank page), a car painter carpenter, a crap-dealer, an anti-cheek-stroking PSA, a flock of fairy devils and affiliated condom ad, the Content Orangutan Tooth Platoon, (321)745-7224 dressed as the Hindenberg, Un, and the stall wall Chagall.

Let those thoughts stew in your head for awhile. I regret to inform you that in a few days, you will no new content to work over. But fear not, those few of you who still read this, within a month from today, I will throw so much stuff at you that I can almost assure a sensory overload.

Oh, and my email is djbush89@gmail.com. If you have advice, send it. If you already did and I didn’t respond I apologize. I probably mistook your email as another accolade from poetry.com. Don’t go there. They eat your soul.

Pie in the Facebook

2008-11-05T15:22:00.000-11:00

I don’t know who invented facebook so I will hold Al Gore accountable, but recently it has been really pissing me off.

The reason I initially liked facebook is that it had some fun bells and whistles but was practical enough that it could not be considered a childish, flowery, woefully inefficient, piece of angsty crap (or myspace as it is commonly known). Then, the ever-wise people who change functional things in the same way that kids poke ant piles with sticks decided to introduce the dreaded ‘application.

I have to be honest, at first I liked it. The movies application allowed me to feel superior to people everywhere. Then, the compare people application proved that I was superior to people everywhere. No, really, I am. I am the 8^th best roommate with 10 out of 13 votes. Incidentally the three people who voted against me were Antoine, (321)745-7224, and K-Dawg, but that’s beside the point. Then it got ridiculous. I started getting turkeys thrown at me, and, in order to maintain my feelings of superiority, I had to throw something bigger back, prompting my search for the Ted Kennedy application.

And then there’s the statuses, which, yesterday became a great way to let everyone know how you stand politically by coming up with a witty and woefully over-exaggerated red or blue message such as: Bill is thanking God that this reign of tyranny is over or Bill is moving to Canada. Needless to say, these were different Bills, neither of whom were Clinton. And speaking of Bill Clinton, what about ‘is.’ When facebook chopped ‘is’ out of its status line there were veritable riots in the streets. Why would we teenagers need any verb other than ‘is?’ After all, we never do anything active. And God forbid I have to spend my hard-earned World of Warcraft time typing an extra two hours. Fortunately the facebook folk properly assessed their target audiences ease of adaptation to change, and promptly redesigned everything.

I have yet to figure out how to view anything on the new facebook, so all I can do is update my status again and again and again. Oh, and I can stare at the message at the top of the page which reads “New Facebook is now the only Facebook.” Isn’t that great? I appreciate being constantly reminded of the familiar system that was arbitrarily abandoned. I only wish a similar sign could be found just outside of the northeastern United States: “New England is not the only England.” American Idol was a good first step.

And I totally dig (with one ‘g’) the groups section. It allows me to create havens for intelligent people who really want to discuss the issues. For example, last year I created a group called the ‘Protection Union for Battered Emus’ (seriously, look it up) to spread the word about the atrocities being committed every day in flightless bird culture, an issue with the presidential candidates totally neglected to touch on. I’m seriously considering making another, more accessible group that will address a problem that I think most people suffer from. Soon, assuming I care enough to create it, people with an overactive cumulonimbus imagination (everyone) will be able to join my new group, titled ‘I See Phallic Clouds.’

I want to conclude this rant with a shout out to Al Gore, or whoever is responsible for that now chaotic networking mess. Please, do not change facebook again. I am starting to try to begin to attempt to understand the way it is now, but I am hesitant because I know that as soon as I do you will model it after Macintosh. Don’t

And now, some post rant comments:

In the news today, famed science fiction author, Michael Crichton died after a long private battle with cancer. This tragic story has a silver lining, as by ceasing to live, he saved himself from having to move to Canada.

In other news, California has re-un-allowed gay marriage. This is infinitely more tragic than Crichton’s demise, as it necessitates a reworking of my plans for next year’s spring break.

My Vote Goes To...

2008-11-04T16:03:00.000-11:00

You may be aware that the election is today. I will discuss it momentarily, and at the end of this post, I will reveal who I would have voted for had I not been disenfranchised. First, I would like to bring some exciting news: Sexy is writing again!!!!! Here is an actual excerpt from her most recent post (Oh, and ‘Good Looking’ is me): “I lay on Good Looking’s roommate’s bed, clinching his pillows and sheets in my hands.” This excerpt was by no means printed with the permission of Sexy, but she’ll forgive me. To read the rest of the post, visit http://muchtosayaboutnothing.wordpress.com/.

Now, on to the election. I am not looking forward to tomorrow. I’m not concerned that my preferred candidate will lose, because I don’t care if he does. What bothers me is that tomorrow half of my campus is going to be complaining. What aggravates me about America (or maybe 97% of it anyhow) right now is that everyone is blowing this whole election out of proportion.

I keep hearing people rant about how America will end if the wrong person is elected. One of my professors claims that she “won’t know how to go on living if Obama loses,” and the most genetically similar person to myself alive created a facebook group announcing that he will “skip school on Nov. 5^th in a terrorist is elected president… [he] will be busy mourning the death of America.” I hate to sound preachy but people need to grow up. We’re safe.

If Obama was an unpatriotic, terrorist-sympathizing, cocaine snorting robber, and he was elected president, the American standard of living would still be enormously higher than the vast majority of the globe (Switzerland excluded). Neither of the candidates is a savior. Neither of the candidates will destroy this country (or less importantly, the world). It aggravates the hell out of me that so many people are turning this election into the crucial judgment day of the planet.

I am further annoyed by the moronic one-sidedness of most people. The groupings of beliefs that constitute the republican or democratic party lines is not sensible. Yet I find that most people I know picked a side (or had a side picked for them by their parents) and have spent the bulk of their time since finding ways to justify that side’s beliefs by their own moral codes, or worse yet, shaping their moral codes to fit their parties. It’s stupid. Personally, I really do feel that the lower the voter turnout, the better. I think there should be a test that everyone must take before entering the voting booth; not a quiz about intelligence, but about knowledge of the issues.

I like to think that I do not fall into either party. I am pro-choice pending further research, and I support stem-cell research. I supported going into Iraq and support a troop surge now. I whole-heartedly support gay marriage (or the complete obliteration of the word ‘marriage,’ whether gay or straight, as a legal term). Economically, I believe in minimal taxation and general free-trade. In foreign policy I am primarily heartless and non-humanitarian. I support the death penalty. I think universal coverage is a great idea but would be too difficult to implement to be practical. I support research into global warming, but not to the direct detriment of business.

I am in the middle. I think the country will survive regardless of who the next president is. I think our system is slightly flawed, but I don’t think either candidate would destroy it. So, if I could vote, it would have been for the candidate that would, in my mind, do the most interesting things in office. This is a simplified version of my full rationale, but, if I had gone out to vote today, I would have cast my ballot for Barack Obama.

Poop Art

2008-11-03T17:23:00.000-11:00

So today I saw something I have never seen before: a virgin bathroom stall wall! There were no crude drawings on it, no political messages, no sexual solicitations, nothing. Given, this bathroom stall was at a well preserved, carefully maintained historical landmark house that was built in 1889, but hey, it still counts.

It actually doesn’t strike me as odd that bathroom walls are such a frequently used scribbling spot. After all, I have many of my great post ideas in the bathroom (which is why half of them involve poop in one form or another). What frequently surprises me is what people choose to write/draw.

A few months ago, I was in a bathroom on campus, and while I shat I read a solicitation on the wall recommending homosexual oral servicing. The solicitation preceded to state a day and time. It was only after I’d finished wiping that I realized I was only one hour late for the appointment. I immediately regretted not using a seat cover.

I vastly prefer when people decide to demonstrate their artistic capabilities using the writing implements that they just happened to have on them at the time. The other day, at our student union, I got to see a particularly masterful beauty. The art work depicted a figure that was reminiscent of Gumby but with punk hair that was hanging via manacles from a crossbeam and that was identified with a label as John McCain. This figure was in possession of a disproportionately large phallus which was being fellated by a one legged gorilla with no facial features, identified via label as Oboma. Very interesting no? Good thing the youth are turning out to vote in such record-breaking numbers.

Sometimes these pictures and numbers are carved into the wall. I understand neither how nor why this is done. Firstly, the act would take far longer than the average defecation, and if it’s that difficult to push out, maybe you shouldn’t be concentrating on your art. Number two (get it?) what is the point of carving your message into the wall… unless it’s in Braille, which, thinking about it now, is actually a really funny idea.

Sometimes people write (or carve) witty rhymes. Sometimes they botch the meter horrendously. The most common poem, which honestly, I have seen in at least 10 or 11 bathrooms in multiple states is:

Here I sit
Broken hearted
Tried to sh*t
But only farted.

But I have also the less flowing but more potentially politically inclined:

Here I sit
*ss a-flexin’
Just sh*t out
Another Texan.

So, as a reaction to these poems, I have written my own, similarly structured poem to express my opinions on the perpetrators of bathroom graffiti as a whole. Enjoy.

Here I sit
Broken hearted
Tried to rhyme
But I’m stupid.

Un Forgiving

2008-11-02T18:07:00.000-11:00

I had an incredibly long and difficult day that involved lots of driving and working and now my pants are covered in blood and dirt. But instead of explaining why, I’d rather talk about something else.

Today is (would be) my third anniversary with a girl that I dated… well… about three years ago. If my current girlfriend is named Sexy, we’ll just call this ex ‘Un.’ Anyway, as you may have deduced, the relationship ended on unfriendly terms. Of course, I would never do anything vindictive (like write a degrading blog about her) because I am far too mature and because by this point I have more than gotten over the whole mess. That, and I have a much better idea.

As a potential future filmmaker I have enormous power to subtly influence people. Now, I could use this power to suffuse my movies in tones of love and compassion to make people like each other, or with insights into racism to make Barack Obama win the election, or something more useful like momentary flashes of carbonated products to make you by coke, but I’m not going to. I want to do something more personal and powerful… like immortalize my enemies’ names by naming obnoxious characters after them.

So here is how a potential scene could play out. Let’s say that Un’s last name is ‘Faithful.’ In the movie, I will cast an obese, slobbering, pimpled woman as Un Faithful. Of course, this woman’s character will necessitate the prop department silk screening her full name in big letters onto every garment of her clothing. And the character will be a necrophiliac who sleeps in her own waste. Also, she will speak with a severe speech impediment, and every third were would be her full name. Oh, I haven’t really discussed the scene yet. Let’s just say it involves a squirrel.

Now, cut to: Real life. Scene – One of real life Un’s coworkers at the new job she just got (hopefully far less glamorous than my job) walks up and asks Un, “What’s your name?” “Faithful, Un Faithful” (Similar to the chronology of the relationship) “Really that’s strange… isn’t there a crap-covered, pimple-popping raccoon rapist named that in that phenomenal box office hit Academy Award winning movie (Something Clever: The Not-a-Blog-or-Book Edition) that came out last year?” “Yes there was… I’ll never get a boyfriend with this name now.”

Anyway, that last scene was a little bit exaggerated. Un is not nearly honest enough to admit that the movie really existed, but the point is, the outcome on her social scene would be the same regardless. And I could theoretically do this anyone. So, unless you want to find out what the real life Osborne Cox felt like (and potentially get more blood on my pants)… don’t leave negative comments.

Buenos Noches.

Shalloween

2008-10-31T16:59:00.000-11:00

Happy Halloween peeps and peepettes, and may I please say that’s it’s a real pity that you aren’t sold single-wrapped so that you could be handed out readily without being suspect as potential razor concealers. But ahh… who cares. It’s a day of happiness, the only day when all the rules of common sense get tossed out the window, the day when getting called ugly is a compliment, the day when it’s ok to take candy from strangers, and the day when wearing thicking-rimmed glasses and a Harry Potter robe and pretending it’s a costume will increase your chances of getting laid.

But this year, I’m a little disappointed. Why? Costume unoriginality, and it’s not just that half the mail population had the same bright idea and dressed up as me as the Joker. Just, in general, for the most part, everything has seemed very unoriginal. One person who surprised me with a bright idea, was my roommate, (321)745-7224. He told me that he was going to get a blonde wig, some pop-culture teenage girl clothes, and a face muzzle, and be Hannibal Montana. Pretty clever, I know. I think it even beats out my idea for (321)745-7224. I thought that he should paint each of his biceps to look like half of the Hindenberg and then light his torso on fire.

I’ve had a couple of other pretty clever ideas as well. Here are a few: Paint yourself completely brown and wear all brown clothes, and stick fake orange and black flies to yourself. What are you? An All Hallow’s Eve’s Dropping. OK, kind of lame. Here’s a less punic idea. I call this costume ‘The Human Bear Trap.’ In each hand carry a huge Michael Meyers style butcher knife, and then coat your entire body in peanut butter and honey. What I like about this costume is that in addition to smelling delicious, it’s practical. When would people be more prone to a bear attack than on a night when seeing a bear on the street wouldn’t be surprising?

So far, these ideas have been pretty gender neutral, but here’s an incredibly original idea for a girl’s costume. Now, I know that this is going to sound ridiculous, but give it a chance. It’s never been tried before, but I think as a costume, it might succeed. So, here goes… the most incredibly unexpected costume of the year is… anything not slutty. That’s right. With the exception of girls with severe physical deformities, morbid obesity, or highly visible excema, it seems that every single female on a college campus dresses as slutty _____ _______. I swear, I have seen everything from slutty mummy (should theoretically be impossible) to slutty female inmate (OK, we’ve all thought about it) to slutty Vice Presidential candidate (both previous parentheticals apply). Oh, I almost forgot to mention; the kicker is, I meant Biden.

What infuriates me even more than hot girls in slutty costumes (aside from just about everything else on the planet) is people dressing as mundane things. I don’t mean ‘a vampire.’ That’s unoriginal but not mundane. What I mean is, I went to a party not too long ago where a girl was dressed as a Starbucks barista. Wearing a costume that could easily be mistaken for your job uniform is not acceptable, unless your job happens to be a football mascot or a stage actor (or slutty police woman). I mean, come one, did you just not have time to change before the party? (Ironically, I got the same question in my Joker getup)

So what this all comes down to is that I am boycotting Halloween. It’s not that I have to wake up in the morning at six A.M. to be on set. It’s not that I don’t want to shave off the facial hair that makes me look post-pubescent. It’s not that I don’t want to go bird watching in the city-wide aviary of slutty-women and Jokers. It is for strictly political reasons that I am staying at home writing a blog entry instead of going out and partying. I have values. And I hope you’re ashamed of yourelves (assuming you went with the ‘slutty Arwen’ costume).

ADD Post Mandolin

2008-10-30T15:14:00.000-11:00

That’s right, another ADD post. I hope the frequency of their appearances doesn’t piss you off, but if it does… speaking of things that piss people off, check this out:

Every night, after I write my post and publish it on this site, I make a quick swing by facebook to update my status and keep everyone both in- -formed and –furiated. I am very good at this. But every time I update my status, I am reminded of a topic that I have been meaning to discuss, and every time it is just barely too late. Tonight, however, I remember. Now, when I want to update my status, facebook makes me answer this damn question (if you consider two severely photoshop doctored words that you must then translate, to be a question). The idea is to prevent someone from setting up a computer to auto-update their status periodically and make them seem more important. The result is that from some sort of typographically Rorschach test I am supposed to discern the words “alley Garrett.” Last night I actually got the words “free Britain.” I refreshed the page rather than type those words because they disagree strongly with my foreign policy. And hell, maybe the words were really “fire Brian” and I wouldn’t want that to happen (Brian the electrician (Friend of Joe’s)).

And speaking of arbitrarily associated words, I’d to bring up two extremely popular through chronologically diverse TV shows, and you’ll see how this relates in a moment. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and, more recently, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Why does this relate? Because apparently some TV writer, out of ideas, flipped through a dictionary, picked four arbitrary words and said ‘Aha, a show.’ (This is an entirely different thing from Mind of Mencia, where they picked four random words out of a fourth grade speller and said ‘Aha, a script.’) Anyway, I believe that I am qualified to do this job because, unlike most Americans, I own a dictionary. So… here we go…Content Orangutan Tooth Platoon. I promise that I did that legitimately. To tell the truth, I was a little worried about the word ‘content’ (that which is contained) until I realized that it could also mean ‘satisfied.’ So anyway, now I have the premise for a show, set in the seventies, about a band of super-intelligent well-fed monkeys that patrol the jungles of Vietnam is search of molars. Exciting, eh? I’d watch it if I lacked a brain.

But well we’re on the topic of unbelievably easy TV writing jobs, I’d like to speak to the people who come up with slogans for products and programs. I would like to tell these people that they should go into hiding lest they be tortured for defrauding their employers of millions of dollars for simple thoughts. “Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” “It just keeps going and going and going.” “Are you in good hands?” Those were all decent slogans (for condoms incidentally). Following are some examples of bad slogans. “I’m loving it.” “TBS: Very Funny” and “CBS: Very Good News.” OK, we’re writing a line for CBS. They make News… a lot… how about just “News.” “Very funny jackass.” “Ahha! I got it! Feed me a banana and throw me a she-ape.” That, by the way, was my written dramatization of the ad agency that works for CBS. There is one slogan that I am iffy about: “Got Milk?” Great only for its simplicity and affiliated mustache campaign. Destroyed by the millions of copycats that applied this simple slogan to every product on the planet. My new bumper sticker: “Got Originality?”

While we’re on the topic of a bumper with a phrase starting with ‘got’ on it, let’s move to a very loosely related topic. I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said, “Got Jesus?” I found this offensive. Go ahead, self-important other driver and rub your possession of God’s son in my face. I don’t mind. And there is no way they could possibly justify this sticker as a public service because no one is going to look at it and say, “No, but maybe I should.” This brings to mind similar bumper stickers like… “Car empty in event of rapture.” I assume this is because you’re so damn humble. If you’d like, my pious friend, I will ensure that your unmanned vehicle does not hit anyone by running it off the road immediately. “My child is an honors student.” Great you pompous shell of parent, now he’s about to be an orphan.

And speaking of orphan, they have as many parents as I have ideas to write about at the moment.

Arctic Antics

2008-10-29T16:42:00.000-11:00

“So right now I am sitting in the back of my car on the roof of a parking garage. Though the timecode does not show it, it is one in the morning right now. Though I am in Florida, it is 40 degrees outside, and though it is my car, I am in the back seat because two actors are in the front seat. The shoot that I am on, which was scheduled to wrap at midnight has gone horrendously over and we are still far from finished."

I may be called out at any time to help supervise the script, but right now I am waiting. Our”

That was the beginning of a post that I wrote last night, intending to satisfy any readers that may happen by today, despite the ordeal I was suffering. Here is what happened:

Last night was the final shoot day of the film that I have been working on. The crew call was at 4 PM and the intended wrap time was midnight. I called the producer and asked if I could be an hour late, considering that my job is not necessary for set-up and considering that shooting call wasn’t till 7. She said that was fine. When I showed up, I found that only the director and producer were there. They proceeded to leave me alone on the freezing cold parking garage roof while they went to the soundstage to get the equipment for the night.

This equipment included a number of sizeable lights and a generator which would, ideally, power them. I helped set up and start the generator and the lights, and we eventually started shooting around eight, about an hour late. We filmed for a few hours and then took a ‘lunch’ break at about 10:00. We turned off the generator to while we ate.

During the break, I drove home to get my laptop (so I could write a post on set), and some hot chocolate for the cast and crew. On the way back to the set, I very nearly got in a wreck with an idiot who for some reason unbeknownst to me felt the honors parking garage would make a good place to practice speeding. Unusual, I know, because this person is clearly not in honors. Anyway, this accident would have been doubly bad because, not only would my car be ruined, but also, because we were using it as a prop in the film, my role as script/continuity supervisor would have been ruined.

Anyway, I got back safely, and everyone loved me extra for providing the chocolat chaud, but then something bad happened. I went downstairs to restart the generator and discovered that it was surrounded by a pool of gasoline. Another member of the crew suggested that we restarted but I postponed this restart for long enough to allow me to discover the problem and avert the destruction of the planet. Thank me later.

Then, I continued to freeze until 3:30 in the morning. So, I hope that you’ll understand why I didn’t post last night and promptly forgive. Expect an enjoyable non-set-related post tomorrow. Hurrah!

101 Damnations

2008-10-27T17:24:00.000-11:00

Today was my day off and was consequently extraordinarily uneventful. Furthermore, I made every effort to abstain from thinking and thus aptly avoided any interesting thoughts that I might otherwise have had. So, instead of writing something new and clever tonight, I will instead disclose a brief but true anecdote from about a month ago and then tack on some photos of me as the Joker, as referenced two nights back.

I went on a lunch date with a girl to discuss some film ideas. As we left campus, via vehicle, headed for Moe’s I remembered the contents of my wallet. I had in my pockets, only lint, knives, and a hundred dollar bill and a single one dollar bill. Now, I assumed that Moe’s would not accept a 100, and I suspected that one dollar would not cover my meal.

So, I told the girl that we needed to stop at Publix real quick to ‘pick up some groceries.’ We walked into the store and I grabbed the first three items I saw: a jar of peanuts, a bag of chips, and some Special K cereal. Why three items? Because A) I wanted to maintain the illusion of groceries, and B) I didn’t want to look like a counterfeiter. So, we went to the check out counter and I paid with my one hundred, garnering strange looks from both the Pubix (oops) clerk and my lunch date.

I know, not a very exciting story, but check out these sweet Halloween pics.

Fairy Unfortunate

2008-10-26T18:23:00.000-11:00

A guy stands in a field surrounded by a flock of screaming pre-teen girls running around and pushing each other while wearing ballroom dresses. Totally exasperated, he tries to keep them from stabbing each other in the eyes with sticks or falling off the small cliff into the creek only a few feet away. Periodically they approach him and tattle on each other for crimes such as ‘being mean.’

While this may sound like a contraceptive commercial, and a good one at that, it was actually a fairly accurate retelling of my day… or should I say, a fairy accurate retelling? Today we shot on location for a scene in the script that took place in a “fantastic fairytale world.” Where does one find a fantastic fairytale world? In the backwoods of Central Florida.

And the trip to the backwoods does not just involve crossing over a river, but also necessitates bitter feuds with elderly homeowners, the sort you only find in Florida. First one must convince said homeowner hag termagent that you have permission to shoot in the woods about 500 yards behind her house. Note: This shoot and location would in no way bother or effect the evil wench in any way, but still she calls the police. Then one must show the police that one does indeed have permission, at which point the officer will laugh at the old lady and make everyone happy.

Next one must carry the necessary filming equipment the aforementioned 500 yards, necessitating at least five or six trips. Another note: This trek involves dodging doggy doo doo… lots of it. Anywho, next one must set up the equipment and wait roughly four hours while the 700 or so extras use the restroom.

Then, one must attempt to direct the extras, using only childspeak, to run around and play very controlled tag, and do very precise ballet, and just generally act like fairies do when they are alone in a fantastical fairy world. Needless to say, this is all quite tiresome, as is the hot summer (October) sun.

Additionally, at one point, a very country-esque man wanders barefoot out of the woods. The front of his shirt is streaked heavily with dirt (or doggy doo doo) and he plays with a pair of needle nose pliers that he apparently carries around just in case he has to pluck someone’s eye out or something. He speaks, proving how dumb he is, and one has no choice but to talk to him to prevent him from harassing the girls on set. Then, one must stay with the guy for 40 minutes because to walk away would be to leave him alone with the female director and two young female leads… and each of them have a pair of very tempting eyes.

And in addition to contending with angry paranoid homeowners, hyperactive pushy fairy children, a giant glowing ball of fire in the sky, and an incredibly creepy woodland mechanic, I also had to endure the severe embarrassment of looking like a drag queen because my make-up from last night’s Joker foray still hadn’t washed off fully.

And now, if there are no objections, I will away to bed.

The Joke's Me

2008-10-25T18:12:00.000-11:00

I felt obligated, based on Heath Ledger’s phenomenal performance in this year’s most successful movie, and based on the suitable length of my hair, to postpone my plan of being a Spartan for Halloween this year, and decided instead to be the Joker. The question immediately became; how should I assemble the costume.

First, I waited until a week before the first Halloween party of the season (tonight). Then I discovered just how pathetic the pre-packaged Joker costumes are. They fluorescent purple and green and in all ways negate the use of the word ‘dark’ in the title of the movie to which they allude. Furthermore, they come with a mask of the joker. Is a mask really necessary to complete the costume of a character who’s face looks totally normal except that it is smeared with poorly applied make up. I thought not.

So I went to a thrift store, and quickly found (in the women’s department) a purple overcoat of suitable color and length. I found pants just as easily and was pleased to see that they fit well. I found a few vests, but they were all too light, so I ended up buying a woman’s shirt and cutting the sleeves off. Finding an adequate shirt was difficult, but I ended up settling on a passable blue one. The tie to match was easily located (not in the women’s department). Then I went to the shoe area, where I found a pair of decent black dressy shoes that happened to fit perfectly.

At home I made a series of interesting discoveries. A swing by the interweb revealed that Heath wore very strange green, purple, and gold checkered socks, not black ones as I had assumed. I would have to find these somewhere. Easier to correct were the shoes, which I discovered were supposed to be very crapped up and ugly. So Sexy and I beat the shoes (which believe it or not, turned out to be tap shoes) against the concrete and rubbed them in the dirt, resulting in shoes that looked like they had been bought in a thrift store.

The next day, I went out and bought white, red, and black makeup from Wal-mart, and green hair spray from a Halloween store that allegedly carried the Joker scar prosthetics but assuredly did not. I decided to ditch the prosthetics idea and settle for my face. The socks were a harder story. Neither the Halloween store nor Wal-Mart carries brightly colored socks of any design. I eventually found some striped green and yellow socks at target. Sexy and I colored one of the white stripes with a highlighter so that it was purple. The marker job was unnoticeable, but the socks as a whole were far too bright. So, to darken them, I cut a black gel pen in half, poured the ink into a Frisbee full of water, and used the solution to dye the socks. It worked fantastically. I also bought a pair of black gloves. Not the leather ones, but rather the faux leather ones which cost 1/10^th as much.

My hair became an issue of its own. When I don’t shower for a few days, my hair looks a hell of a lot like Heath’s in The Dark Knight, but today it was just too fluffy. So I made my roommate, K-Dawg, play Frisbee with me for a while to get me sweaty. I got gross, but the hair wasn’t greasy enough. So I turned our bathroom into a sauna and stewed for a while. The hair looked great… but then I sprayed it with the green stuff and it poofed out again. Oh well, good enough.

There were two other things that I considered doing but eventually passed on. The first involves some set up. Here ‘tis. Sexy dressed as Sarah Palin for this party. She pulled off the accent and the costume perfectly. She and I discussed beforehand the possibility of buying a fake AK-47, but then we couldn’t decide who would be more justified carrying it, the girl that flies around and shoots animals, or the guy that shoots things that fly around? Also, I considered ensuring that people knew that I was playing only the Ledger Joker, and elevating the costume from a joke to a bad joke, but carrying in my pockets, in addition to lint and knives, a vial of pills. I decided against it.

So I went to the party, and the costume was a big hit. I got lots of compliments, and that really put a smile on my face. Oh, and I scared the crap out of some of the drivers of cars next to us on the road. It was fun. But then I got home and the time came to wash it all off. The hair stuff came out great. The white face makeup… a breeze. The red stained my skin, so I now have something of a phantom smile across my face. The black came off well but stained my eyelashes, so it looks like I have mascara on. So now, I look like a wet-haired jackass with feminine makeup and the friendliest chin acne ever.

Not laughing yet? Well, I ask you; why so serious? (Sorry, had to do it)

Porno or No?

2008-10-23T15:53:00.001-11:00

So today I witnessed one of the most awkward and uncomfortable molestation I have ever seen, and consequently the only molestation I have ever seen, except that I am not quite sure that what I saw qualifies as a molestation. So I will let you be the judge.

In some of my writing courses we have an agreement that anything said in the classroom stays in the classroom. I am not sure whether this policy applies to the class in which the possible molestation occurred, but because it was not a writing class, I will assume that it does not. So here is what happened.

We had a guest speaker who makes his living teaching people how to act and how to direct actors. We will call him Jake for the sake of anonymity and we will note that he was a somewhat strange guy. Anywho, a girl, who we will call Michelle, for the same reason, asked a question about how one should direct an actor to do a scene that they are hesitant to do. So Jake pounced on the opportunity to give an example.

He called Maggie and another student who volunteered (We will call him Heath because that was his name) to the front of the room. Jake explained that he would play a timid actor who was hesitant to play an awkward scene with Heath. He told Maggie to direct the scene. Then he explained the scenario. Heath is playing a gay actor playing a gay character who has always been gay. Jake is playing a straight actor playing a character who just discovered that he is guy. The lines are… Heath: I’ve always known. Jake: How could you have known? Then Jake is supposed to stroke Heath’s face. Needless to say, this is all Jake’s idea and Heath doesn’t seem to thrilled, so when Jake poorly acts the scene the first time through, Heath makes stupid rodeo jokes to cut the tension. I don’t remember the specifics but they involved the phrase “doing it like a clown.”

Anyway, then Jake tries to get Maggie to get Jake to act the scene better. He explains that he stroked Heath’s cheek very poorly and that Maggie should stroke his cheek so that he can learn to do it properly. Maggie is extremely resistant because she is “at that point in her life where you just don’t like touching people.” We all know that point. But Jake stays professional by… insisting for twenty minutes before eventually backing Maggie into a corner and petting her hair until eventually she caves and strokes his cheek. Yay! Very emotional.

Then, inspired by Maggie petting his cheek, Jake pets Heath’s cheek with tender care in an award worthy performance. Heath comments that Jake moisturizes. This is a funny joke. Next Jake insists that Maggie should try petting Heath’s cheek… just to see what it’s like. After considerable hesitation she does, but tragically does not nail it on the first take, so she does it at least five more times at Jake’s request. At the end of the orgy, the class cheers for their fellow students’ bravery and silently prays that they will never have to do this themselves.

So now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you know the facts… so I ask you, is it clean or dirty? A rip off of Y Tu Mama Tambien? A deplorable travesty? Porno or no?

An Act of Defecation

2008-10-21T06:10:00.000-11:00

Yesterday I learned about a new drug craze that is sweeping the youth of today with all the fervor of a new drug craze. I guess I should have seen it coming. Each generation has a new drug, and I’m nearly twenty, so I guess I should have known something new would come out soon, but I could never have expected something this gross. And I’m not exaggerating. It’s very gross. If you saw About Schmidt, remember when Kathy Bates is in the hot tub naked? It’s grosser than that. If you saw Planet Terror, remember when Quentin Tarantino’s genitalia melt off? It’s grosser than that. If you saw Zwartboek, remember when the lead actress gets drenched in liquid feces? OK, it’s not quite that gross.

The drug craze of which I speak involves the following. You will need a jar, with sealable lid, bodily orifices, and probably a hefty meal. Here’s how it works. First, open the jar and drop trou. Then, urinate and/or defecate into said jar. Wipe if necessary. Seal jar and wait one to two weeks for human waste to ferment. Inhale fumes to achieve high. Side effects may include additional brain damage, foul breath, and social ostracism.

Now, I ask you; how in God’s name did somebody come up with this? Did someone see wine being made and think, ‘Hmmm… what if I tried that with poop?’ And once they perfected the art of smelling their own waste, they must have told a friend about it, or else how would the practice have been perpetuated? When I was in high school, I had trouble telling my parents that I got a B; I can’t imagine announcing that I was a crap-sniffer.

But on the flip side, this is kind of genius, because: How can this possibly be prevented? It involves only the most common and easily attainable of chemicals, crap. There is no way to stop kids from having poop. You can’t ban it in schools. I can just imagine bathrooms with signs on the doors that say “We I.D.” Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not 21 yet? I guess you’ll have to hold it.

And aside from advertizing the obvious negatives of having to smell your own feces, I can’t figure out a good way to discourage this act. There could be slogans like “Crap kills!” and “Don’t poo drugs!” and “Urine trouble!” Furthermore, this act will give new meaning to the phrase ‘Party Pooper.’ Hell, it could become a good thing.

Can you imagine walking up to a drug dealer in downtown L.A. and asking, “hey man, what kind of sh*t you selling?” And him responding, “chunky.” I can't, because I suspect that any encounter between myself and a drug dealer would result in me being so scared that I would piss myself. Which now means that I could immediately roll over and be a drug dealer as well.

So, I started to wonder, and I think this is pretty funny, 'What if this doesn't really get you high? What if this is just some brilliant hoax that someone came up with?" If so I will never know, but I am jealous regardless. I want to start a new drug fad... Did you know that each time you cut off one of your toes it will produce a euphoric high? Seriously, try it.

Anyway, I’m glad that this new drug has shown up, no matter how crappy it is, because it cements my position as a drug-free person. And if you don’t believe me, just check my Mason Jars. They’re as clean as I am.

Oh, and for all you out there who do like those silly little adages and quaint phrases, then I am obligated to remind you not be a hypocrite when it comes to this new drug and "Don't knock it till you've tried it."

In ESPN Old, Poor Favre

2008-10-20T06:10:00.000-11:00

Although Google analytic has failed myself miserably, I have come to my attention that a decent percentage of my readers you regulate does not live in the United States. Now, the barrier of the language does not place a problem in the way that you perhaps be chirped that does because blogger includes an automatic capacity of translation. This permits me to read the blogs of people in China without having that to learn its language caligráfica. These posts still clearly are not writings in America (at least not in North worship the East) because the program of translation is distant of perfect and the grammar is thus completely atrocious. So I ask me, what is that foreign readers leaving really of my blog, they are they capable of understanding all my jokes and the ingenious puns, or to do they read it to obtain some penetration in the life an American stupid and illiterate.

So I decided to do an experiment. Perhaps you have notified that in this post I have done some more grammatical errors than usual (Yes, I know, my work is often a Rusty small). I assure that I have not lost the judgment completely. Here it is what I did. I covered the entrance of today in a device in line of translation to create the Spanish version. Then, so I would be able him to understand again, I copies-hit the Spanish version in an English Spanish translator and I returned him to the native tongue. That is what you see here, so this, I assume, I am what readers of Hispanic leave really of my post. I assume that any you read is at this time quite funny (although I have not translated it still), because if they were not would have abandoned this idea, but I promise that I have by no means I treated the text in all. Once I put it in the translator, I did not make changes additional neither I edit.

At any rate, I expect that this post be funny or intuitive. I will not know, because once I type it, I never read it again (I have better things to do with my time that read some blog chungo loaded of misprints) so I do not have the smaller idea if or not this thing is worth while in any way. If it is although, I expect that I will cause understands why is important that all in the planet they learn to how speak American.

And now: A joke of the in-theme that expect will translate very badly. A carpenter and a painter of the car are very different things. This is unfortunate if you have an accent Hispanic fort, unless of course you desire decals of flame in its coffee table.

Set In Motion

2008-10-19T16:21:00.000-11:00

Last night, after my day on set, I went to bed at 9:00, and accordingly set my alarm clock for 5:00 AM this morning. The idea was that eight hours is more sleep than I usually get and would certainly be plenty. I slept through the alarm, and woke after a whopping eleven hours of Zs. I would need it for the day that was about to begin.

Again, the hardest part of the day was not on set, but rather getting there. Yesterday, Sexy telephoned the director and told him that she and I would be late because she needed to pick up a prescription from Walgreens today, and Walgreens’ hours were contained within our shooting hours. So we left our building roughly 15 minutes after crew call, even though the drive to the set takes a half hour.

Then we began encountering problems. We got to her car, which fortunately was arachnid free, but were then prevented from exiting either of the garages two exits by traffic cones and a swarm of people milling about. Sexy determined that it was Game Day (by far, hands down, the most important thing for a college campus… ever, easily worthy of capitalization) and that we therefore could not enter or leave the lot. So she left me with the car while she went to find a police officer with the authority to let us through.

While she was searching for a cop (who are always hard to find when you need one), I made an elite observation. All of the ‘football fans’ had numbers on sheets of paper pasted to their torsos. I determined that one of two things were going on. Either the extremely secretive UCF School of Robotics Engineering (SORE) had unleashed androids 1-2000, or there was a marathon of some kind going on. Sexy soon returned and informed me that a police officer had informed her that the latter was true.

The police officer followed suit, but apparently he was not college educated, so instead of moving the cones to let us through, he reinforced the line of cones and crowd of people by parking his car in front of Sexy’s and thus completely eliminating the possibility that we would commit vehicular mass homicide in order to get to the set on time. We didn’t. Instead we went back to the other end of the lot where the cones had been moved during Sexy’s interaction with the cop. Had we left 5 minutes later that morning we would have gone to that exit after it was clear and gotten out 4 minutes sooner. Oh well.

Next we had to go to a gas station. Gas (the regular kind, not the kind Sexy uses, and definitely not the natural kind, or the bean kind for that matter) was only 2.95. According to expert economic sources (my mother), this is a sign of a depression; ironic really, because it made me quite happy. So we filled up and went to Walgreens to fill Sexy’s prescription (that which comes before the thing that is above a subscription). The medicine getting trip was easy, alarming so in fact. The doctor required, as proof of Sexy’s identity, that she say her home address. The only easier question he could possibly have asked was… “You say your name is Super Sexy… but can you spell that? OK, here are your drugs.”

Post-prescription, we headed to the set, where Sexy and I assumed our jobs of doing absolutely nothing. We were PAs, which allegedly stands for Production Assistant, but actually means Pretty Apathetic. I was technically the First Assistant to Camera B, but of course Camera B did no shooting today, so my job actually entailed cuing, and for those of you that are non-film majors, what that means is playing pool with the child actors and making sure they didn’t steal any stuff from the increasingly irritated home-owner. This may sound fun, but over the course of ten hours, it grows exceedingly old.

Eventually it ended because even the sun got tired and refused to light the set any more. But Sexy and my day of mishaps was not quite complete. We decided to eat out a restaurant, but Sexy’s GPS (who I will call Lying Jerk for the sake of anonymity), directed us to an Olive Garden that was located either on or next to an interstate on-ramp and was shrouded with an invisibility cloak, rendering it impossible to dine in. So we ended up eating a dead raccoon… and that was the highlight of our day!

Beside Her

2008-10-18T13:09:00.000-11:00

This post will tell a narrative story of sorts, and a true one at that. It will not, however be in chronological order. It will rather play out like Memento in that it is step ladders its way from present to past, or like 21 Grams in the sense that someone wrote the story down, threw it up in the air, shot it with a shotgun, and then constructed the narrative from the pieces of confetti that fell to the ground.

I spent my day on set of a student film and am therefore exhausted (this, in my mind justifies the brevity of this post). As we left the set, Sexy saw something on her car that she believed to be a scratch. Fortunately it was not a scratch. Unfortunately it was a reminder of something much worse that had happened this morning. You see for me, the low point of the day may have been getting forced to pantomime poker with myself for two hours because I made the mistake of sitting in the background of a shot, or perhaps it was trying to control ten kids running around a pool. Maybe, it was spending ten hours on a set, but no matter which it was, for Sexy, it was something much worse.

This morning when we were leaving, at some ungodly hour, Sexy saw something on the side of her car that made her scream. I got out of the passenger side and worked my way around the vehicle to see that a medium size (somewhere between Shelob and a decimal point) spider had constructed a small web on her driver’s side door. She asked that I kill it, but not wanting to dent her door, I suggested that she just get in and that it would fall off while we drove.

She agreed, but was noticeably concerned by the possibly that the spider could perhaps puncture the driver’s side window while we were driving. I was glad that she didn’t brush up against some palm trees to scrape off the eight-legged intruder in Raiders of the Lost Ark fashion. Anyway, I was right and the spider was gone when we got to the set. Still, ten hours later, it’s tangled web had survived to torment Sexy once more by pretending to be as scratch.

As you probably know, I hate the standard sayings and phrases, bedtime stories, lullabies, and periodically poems as well. Well, this situation has inspired me to rewrite one.

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her
And Ms. Muffet said AHHHHHHHHH until Mr. Muffet came and smashed the spider with his shoe.

Electile Dysfunction

2008-10-17T12:34:00.000-11:00

For weeks now (and the preceding eternity), I have told no one, not even my parents, who I was planning to vote for. The idea was that this would allow me to argue points from either side without being prematurely shot down by stupid people to the far left and far right. Well, it turns out that it’s a good thing I didn’t because, my friends, I have been disenfranchised.

So why has my right as an older-than-18 American been snatched away so unfairly? Because of jackasses that abuse the system. You see, there is this policy in Louisiana that when someone registers to vote, they must vote for the first time in person. I was not aware of this when I needlessly bothered myself with mailing in my registration from out of state. Now, unless I want to fly myself to LA to vote on something tiny and useless before the presidential election comes around, I don’t get to vote. Now, this makes me quite angry, but I suppose that the rule does make some rational sense. The idea is to prevent people from registering as dead people, fast food companies, or the starting Dallas Cowboys lineup and then voting absentee as someone who they aren’t. Tragically, this is detrimental to me, and consequently the country as a whole.

I suddenly empathize with all of the black people, women, immigrants, recidivists, and ex-cons, who for so long were (or in the case of ex-cons, are) denied their rights to speak. I feel so much internal pain thinking about the fact that my opinion now matters even less than it didn’t before. I mean, where as previously I had my choice of two relatively one-sided political states where I could cast a ballot declaring my opinion among millions of other people doing the same thing so that we could mutually be ignored by the supremely wise electoral college. Now I am denied this right, and to be honest, I feel like I am no longer human.

So how can I express myself now? Well, first off, I can now tell you who I am voting for: no one. I know that this hardly makes sense, because No One is more inexperienced than Barack Obama, and No One is less compelling than John McCain. No One plans to do less for our economy than John McCain does, and No One has more idealistic plans for social reform than Obama does. So overall, No One seems like a less practical choice than these two candidates.

Also, I would like to take back something I said a while ago. I once argued that you shouldn’t vote because by not voting you make my vote count for more. Clearly, this is no longer an issue. Now I want you to vote, and I will tell you who to vote for on my behalf. But don’t about No One. He’ll be fine, the current candidates and I care so much about No One that the rest of you don’t have to.

Oy Vey!

2008-10-15T08:39:00.001-11:00

Not too terribly long ago, I mentioned a lulav, and made fun of a lot of people for not knowing what it is or how to properly shake it. Now I realize that this is unfair, and that perhaps you just didn’t have an opportunity to participate in Jewish culture. It can be a bit daunting. So I have written a song, in the popular style, that I think sheds some light on the holiday of Sukkot, which, by the way, was two days ago. I’ll let you figure out the tune.

My rabbi don’t mess around
Because he loves to pray
And I mean every daaaaay..
But where will he get the Etrog
Cuz it’s time for Sukkot
So let’s celebraaate..

Please help to build the Sukkah
Cuz this branch alone is killing me right nooww..
Uh, thank god for mom and dad
For helping put this think up
Cuz I don’t know how.

[Chorus:]
Ooooyyy… Veyyyyyy.. Ooyy Veyyyyyy..
Ooooyyy… Veyyyyyy.. Ooyy Veyyyyyy..
Ooooyyy… Veyyyyyy.. Ooyy Veyyyyyy..
Ooooyyy… Veyyyyyy.. Ooyy Veyyyyyy..

You think you’ve got it
Ohh, you think you’ve got it
But no you didn’t get it
Cuz the stores are sold
OoooooooooOOOOOOOOooooooUUUUUUuuuuuuutttttt..
We look for etrogs
Oy, we look for etrogs
But the goyim, they don’t know what we are talking AbooooooooOOOOOOOOooooooooUUUUUUUUuuuuuutttt..
If what they say “It's a yellow citrus”
Then what makes, then what makes,
Then what makes, then what makes
LEMMMOOONNs so different.
So why-o why-o
Why-o why-o why-o are we so in denial
When we know that they’re the same fruuuuiiiiiitttt….
Y’all don’t what to hear me, you just want to kvetch

[Chorus with]
Don’t you want to take look-a? Oy Oy
I just want in my Sukkah Oy Oy
Will you help me hang a mango? Oy Oy
Do the high holy day tango Oy Oy
I’m Oy Oy I’m Oy Oy I’m just being Righteous
Oy Oy, I’m just being Righteous

Hey now, sheket
Bevakasha (Shhhh!)
Now what’s after the holy days? (SUKKOT!)
I can’t hear ya’ I say what’s after the holy days? (SUKKOT!)
Whoooo…. Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey
Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey
Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey, Oy vey
Oy vey now ladies, (Yeah!)
Now we gonna break this thing down in just a few weeks
Now don’t make me break this thang down any sooner
Now I wanna see you on high holy behavior
Lend me your lulav, I am you neighbor
Ahhhh here we go! Shake it, shake, shake it, shake it (OY OY)
Shake it, shake, shake it, shake, shake it(OY OY)
Shake it, shake it like it’s a leafy lulav, shake it, shake it
Shhh you got shake it, shhh shake it, shake it, got to shake it
Shake it like it’s a leafy lulav

[Shake it continues in background]
Now all Ephraim’s and Avrahams
And yeledim, now praise the lord
You know how to pray…
You how to pray…
You how to pray!

[Chorus till fade out]

Quest for Wire(less)

2008-10-13T11:48:00.000-11:00

It’s the morning of my Aunt and Uncle’s 25^th anniversary renewal of vows ceremony and my grandparents remind me that they want some sort of renewal certificate to document the event. So I log onto my computer to make such a certificate using Microsoft Word 2007, completely forgetting that Microsoft Word 2007 is the worst program on the face of the planet. The program informs me that instead of storing templates in the program, like normal, sensible programs do, it stores them in a place called ‘online.’ Of course, ‘online’ is nowhere near my grandparents’ house, and I am unable to access it.

I try downloading the templates on my grandfather’s computer but this fails on account of an extremely well timed virus that prevents me from being able to get to ‘online’ via a land line either. So I set out on my quest. I know that Starbucks and Barnes and Noble charge for wireless, a crime which I equate to owning a restaurant where you make customers pay for their use of your air. So I don’t go to either of those places. Of course, this story is set in Boca, so there are no other study type places that provide wireless for free. What will I do.

I remember hearing that McDonald’s has free wireless and so I start driving in increasingly large concentric circles around Boca in an effort to find a McDonald’s. I eventually discover one, but lo and behold, wireless is free there… for half an hour… with purchase of a meal. And as luck would have it, I had no money on me.

So I start driving in increasingly large concentric circles around Boca in an effort to find a Suntrust bank. I eventually locate one in a shopping center between three hair salons and four Publix supermarkets. I withdraw twenty dollars from the ATM and then go back to driving in circles until I relocate the McDonald’s. I wait in line for a few minutes and then order cinnamon melts and a McMuffin. I sit down at a booth and start trying to log onto the internet which proves to be mildly impossible. Meanwhile an elderly hunchback in a black leather jacket and shades eyes me suspiciously, giving me the uneasy feeling that I am in the McMatrix.

Eventually, I go up to the counter and ask how to access the internet. This, by the way, is the first time I have ever asked a fast food employee for technical support. The manager is called over and she asks me to prove that I made a purchase. While I search for my receipt in my pockets I seriously consider breathing in her face and saying, “See, fake egg.” I recover the receipt and show it to her. She analyzes it, confirms the date and time, and then hands me a certificate which she explains by saying, “Here, I have no idea how to use this.”

I go back to my booth and figure it out while Quasimorpheus mutters something to himself or perhaps to the secret cell-phone disguised as a hearing aide. Eventually I get the internet working and begin downloading templates for certificates from the Microsoft website. 28 minutes later (prequel to a not-quite-zombie flick) I finish my cinnamon melt and my downloading, and the creepy chap finishes reciting the complete works of Shakespeare. I fold my laptop and get up to leave.

This story has somewhat of an anti-climactic ending with regards to the fact that old leather Igor does not follow me home and for the most part, everything else goes well. I will say that complications arose (as they always do) when it came time to print the fricking thing. This however, would qualify as entirely different and woefully uninteresting story, and unlike the Wachowski Brothers, I don’t plan to go that route.

A Novel Ideal

2008-10-12T17:41:00.000-11:00

This post, though dealing heavily with literature, with involve lots of math, the most displeasing of subjects, and one which in this circumstance will be almost entirely to my detriment.

I recently began work on a second novel. I was having trouble with my novelization of Divine Invention because I feel like the third person style restricts the author’s ability to be stylistically comedic. So I had an idea. Why not write a first person novel, based primarily on my personal experiences, and do so in a comedic fashion similar to the way I write this blog. And thus did I begin Tunica.

Tunica is the semi-autobiographical story of my adventures in Tunica, Mississippi. My protagonist is a witty but sexist and heavily prejudiced version of me, and the supporting characters are severely distorted variations of many of my friends from Baton Rouge. Within four days of spawning this idea, I have written roughly 8,000 words, and I don’t feel like I’ll be slowing down any time soon. Hopefully, I will finish this book relatively quickly, it will become an instant NY Times best seller and I will become quite rich. Now this may sound very impressive, but here’s where the math comes in.

Novelists don’t get paid. At all. It’s sad but true. I have written 8,000 words in 4 days. The average novel is between 70,000 and 90,000 words, so I am roughly 1/10 of the way in. At this rate, I will be done in 40 days. Novelists are paid as follows. They receive an advance on their book that they keep regardless of sales. They are also generally given a percentage royalty. Once they have sold enough copies that their royalties equal their advance, they beginning earning royalties on top of the advance. The average advance is roughly 5,000 dollars. The average royalty percentage is 7.5%, or $1.50 on a twenty dollar book. Most books don’t sell more than 5000 copies, so frequently the advance is all the author gets.

Assuming that my book sells as well as this blog does, I will be earning 5000 dollars for 40 days of work. That’s pretty bad, especially when you consider all of the time that will go into editing and trying to get someone to publish it. Consider the following: I recently applied for the Atlas Shrugged essay contest, which, by the way, is the only reason anyone should ever read past page 800 of Atlas Shrugged. Anyway, the prize for that contest is 10,000 dollars, and the word count was roughly 1,000 words. So, for 1/80^th of the effort, I could potentially receive twice as much money from that contest as I hopefully will for my new book.

Considering these statistics, it’s not surprising that so many writers die broke. I won’t let this inevitable economic failure deter me, and I will be sure to let you know as soon as Tunica hits shelves.

And to all of the novelist who reads this blog, wow, I had no idea.

Inferior Designer

2008-10-11T09:19:00.000-11:00

I’m spending the weekend at my grandparents’ house and I feel like I have gone back in time to the dark ages. It’s not that there isn’t running water; there is I think. The major difference is that, like the poor people of 13^th century England, I have to get out of bed when I want a cold drink of water from the fridges. I understand that there are a few flaws in this comparison. Among other things, the people of 13^th century England had neither beds nor fridges nor water, and chances are good that during the summer seasons the word cold fell completely out of everyday use. Regardless, I feel as though I am there.

You see, my dorm-room was meticulously designed to facilitate maximum laziness. My computer is hooked up to a 32 inch TV screen so that I can see the internet from my bed if I like. This setup is connected to a stereo so that I can also hear the internet from my bed. To allow for long distance use, I attached a Bluetooth mouse to the thing so that I can control what I am hearing and seeing without lifting my head from my pillow.

And speaking of pillows, the four I had, along with the cushioned headboard I made and the memory-foam mattress I sleep on just weren’t doing it for me anymore, so I purchased a new pillow to provide increased back support. You have probably seen a pillow like this before. It has a roughly triangle and very thick back area and then two arm rest type protrusions to increase my comfort. I have heard these pillows referred to as ‘husband pillows,’ but I prefer to call it a ‘stocky friend with benefits pillow’ so that it is gender neutral and does not prompt questions about my sexuality, and because it is somewhat thicker than an ideal friend with benefits.

In the realm of lighting, I have a hanging Starbucksian lamp over my desk that suffuses my work area with a soft pink glow. I rigged this lamp out of a standing torch lamp like the one at the foot of my bed. Additionally, I have a touch-lamp that sits on the refrigerator that serves as my night-table and provides me immediate access to cold water or cookie dough. I also have a fan on the dresser across the room. Now it would be awfully inconvenient to have to get up and turn my fan and two lamps on and off whenever I change my mind about what I want to see or feel, so I have rigged them up to remote control.

The remote is relatively simple. Three buttons determine which of the aforementioned appliances get power and which don’t. The problem with this is that it broke. Now, in order to turn the fan on or off, one must play a strange game that involves shaking the remote in all directions like a lulav (to everyone who got that joke, happy late Yom Kippur; to those that didn’t, it will be a long time before I forgive you), and the desk light turns itself arbitrarily on and off. I attempted to fix the remote by getting angry at it, and when this failed I emailed the manufacturer. These people kindly emailed me back and informed me that with a proof of purchase, they will replace my remote. Good thing, because I, like everyone else, save the packaging from every item I buy for at least two years.

So the whole remote thing upset me pretty badly. My room was so perfect; with a coffee pot, a bunch of movie posters, and a toaster oven I could hardly ask for anything more. But then my room took a page out of Amityville’s book, when epileptic are started rudely awakening me. Only now do I realize how good I had it.

Here, if I get rudely awakened in the middle of the night by an insensitive appliance, I have to get up to quench my thirst. Ludicrous, I know. Also, this is the first time in ages I have had to touch my actual computer. Weird, huh?

Sidney v. Hussein Vol.2

2008-10-10T15:46:00.000-11:00

After an unbelievably rude and potentially litigious interruption from the boys over at Comedy Central, who, without requesting my permission, stole an important image from my personal religion (Spielberg raping Indiana Jones) and visually recreated it in an offensive manner, we are now able to return to a slightly less important event: the presidential debate.

Me: OK, now gentlemen, I’d like to remind you that when we left off, I promised not to ask any questions at all relevant to the issues, so on that note, let’s kick this off with the following query: What will you do about the economy? Senator Hussein?

Hussein: I’m glad you asked that question, me, because I think this is something that I can rake John McCain over the coals with. I believe that what we need is change… and lot’s of it. If everyone in the country had just four thousand more quarters, we would be… well, significantly richer, and we would jingle when we walked. So how do I plan to seriously implement this rejinglification? I am extremely confident in the knowledge that I have absolutely no idea. My gut instinct is to take the economy as it is now, with money and stocks and bonds and all that stuff, and just start over. You’ll see.

Sidney: Well my friends, That One… is a tough question. I say this because it doesn’t actually pertain to reality. I don’t think there is a problem with the economy. I mean sure, our dollar has lost its value, homes are being foreclosed on, and the stock market can barely stand, but look, neither can I and I’m doing fine. And about the property values… if a few of my homes have to be foreclosed on, so be it; I’m willing to make that sacrifice and so can you. I would like to point out that Mr. Obama has no record of understanding anything, and so, my friends, you should vote for me.

Me: Interesting. 1000 points to you Mr. Sidney. Now the next game we’re going to play is called scenes from a hat. I’ll give you a situation and you flesh it out for me. OK, the scene is: You created an utterly genius scenario involving a famous director and the main character from a famous trilogy he created. Then some producers from Colorado used your idea to guarantee the success of their show. What do you do? Mr. Hussein, you first.

Hussein: During my time in office, which was plenty, I have had lots of experience with this sort of thing. Very few people know this, but I coined the word, ‘audacity.’ Now it’s been thrown all over the place by people with lots of, dare I say it, Audacity. Ironic? I know. I’m funny. Like me. But John McCain is not. He will bring you anywhere from one day to four years of the same thing, and that is not what this country needs. It’s not what I need. And it’s not change. And that is what I would do about it.

Sidney: What Mr. Obama would do about it is write a book. My friends, I have heard of many heinous deeds in my time, which is a long time, but That One… That One is unforgiveable. If I got ahold of those nay-sayers, I would break their shoulders and torture them for as long as I felt was necessary, maybe five years, maybe as long as their show’s been on, hell, maybe one hundred years if it came down to it. This may sound extreme, but though we may be law-abiding Americans, these people are not… my friends.

Breaking News Trash

2008-10-09T17:57:00.000-11:00

OK, SOOOOooooo (the proper ratio of capital to lowercase ‘o’s), I watched the highly anticipated, presumably controversial, banned in Russia, premiere episode of the 96^th (give or take) season of South Park last night. And I must say right off the bat that I was very impressed, not with the story or the dialogue or the social commentary, all of which blew chunks; what really impressed me was there choice of source to steal from. I can’t exactly pinpoint it, but I know it must have been something clever.

Now, I wasn’t bothered by these coccyges’ (the actual plural of coccyx’s aka tailbone’s) mildly skewed rendition of the Chinese Olympics, a display stylistically reminiscent of what I did in my post titled, Olympic Meddling. What pissed me off was that they graphically showed George Lucas (complete with detachable neckpouch) and Steven Spielberg raping Indiana Jones.

This does not offend me in any way. I thought that the portrayal very accurately mirrored the feeling that I felt while watching that infernal Crystal Crapathon. It was like being Amir in The Kite Runner and watching George Lucas rape Hassan. By the way, if I may digress for the moment, I always sided with some of the kids in my English class. Amir could have helped Hassan, despite the entire Lucasfilm team being on the other side. He should have said, “Here, Assef Lucas, take the kite and give me my friend, and here is a sheep I found to help you with that boner.” This would have made for a better story than that miserably lame episode of South Park I watched last night.

Anyway, let’s get to the point. Read this opening paragraph from a post that I published a few months back titled Aches and Puns.

“I suddenly understand why Steven Spielberg felt the need to rip the top off the coffin of a peacefully dormant saga and publicly crystal skull-f*ck its sacred corpse. I too find myself Jones-ing for more material.”

That’s right! I said it and I said it better! Sure, I left out Lucas who is probably the primary culprit I think that this is an irrelevant detail that does nothing to lessen the fact that they stole my joke. I should point out that the above excerpt was the first and only time that I have ever used the infamous ‘f-word’ in my blog, and really that is probably how Trey Parker and Matt Please-Stone-Me-To-Death found it. They were Jones-ing for some material and did a google search on that word that I never use, assuming that whatever they found would be good enough material to outdo their last season. Head and Shoulders did the same exact thing, but just because everyone’s doing it doesn’t make it right. Leave my crap alone unless you plan to royally compensate me for it. Oh, and to MS. TP (Aforementioned South Park creators and also a name for a feminine roll of Huggies), in response to you taking advantage of the one f-bomb I have dropped thus far, I have one thing to say: Fuck you.

Anyway, this is totally unacceptable, far more unacceptable in fact than cutting off my debate coverage to bring you this incredibly tragic news flash. I intend to bring you the rest of that tomorrow. Who knows; maybe Sidney will start stealing my junk too and will get a bump in the polls? Well, a Bush can hope, can’t he?

Sidney v. Hussein Vol.1

2008-10-08T11:24:00.000-11:00

I only caught about ten minutes of the presidential debate last night, which is unfortunate because I was planning to write about it today. Of course, I’m not the type of person to throw in the towel over some minor technicality like knowing nothing about the topic I want to talk about, so what I am going to do is this. Based on the ten minutes of the debate that I saw, I am going to extrapolate the rest, and give you a transcript of the pseudo-debate within my head to you as a commentary on the debate as a whole. One more side note: I have no idea who the moderator was or why he asked such tedious questions, so I will replace him with myself.

Me: Well gentlemen, it’s good to see that neither of you was assassinated on the way here tonight. I want to stress the importance of this debate for the American people. Also, I need to remind you both that this whole thing is really all about the ratings, so I’d like to ask that you both try to avoid discussing the issues if at all possible. So, with that in mind, here is the first question. Standing vs. Sitting: Where do you… stand? Mr. Sidney?

Sidney: My friends, I would first like to thank you all for this opportunity to remind you that America is strong country, a bold country, a country that could either make or keep peace if we wanted to. Today is a day of opportunity my friends, a day on which we should seek a change, a change my friends, from wanting change to being satisfied with the way things are, as my father did when he fought for our country. Also, I like the standing thing because it allows me to limp, after all, I was wounded in Vietnam my friends. On the flip side, it makes me look old. And Barack Obama is not the man to lead our country in the uncertain days to come. Thank you my friends.

Hussein: Senator McCain has said that I am not the man to lead our country in the uncertain days to come, and he is right… because if I am elected there will not be uncertain days. And on another note, I prefer to stand, like I do for the national anthem, the same way I stand for the rights of the poor, the downtrodden and the weak. To call myself a savior may sound like a stretch, but I tell you that it is the truth and that I will stand by it.

Me: Wow. How about Iraq? I heard people are dying over there. Is this true? Hussein?

Hussein: People are certainly dying in Iraq, and not just people… poor people. How can we, as Americans permit this to happen. My research team tells me that over the course of all time, over six billion people have died. Can we allow this to continue? The question was rhetorical, but regardless, the answer is No. We cannot. What compounds the issue is that we went into Iraq knowing full well that it had absolutely no connection to Bin Laden, Al Quesadilla, and Afghanistan. I mean, look at a map, they don’t even share a border. Not to mention, anyone who has ever personally spoken to Saddam knows that he is pretty much a nice guy with a cool last name. This war was a misguided disaster, and I pray (to a god that loves white people just as much as black people) that George Bush hurries up and withdraws so that we will be defeated under his command rather than under mine.

Sidney: My friends, Barack Obama has repeatedly made claims about countries that are not us my friends, but what he does not tell you is that he does not have any experience with these alleged other countries. Rather than telling you all of his shortcomings, what Barack has done is promise you things. What he should do is go out and learn something. Take me for example. My friends, I have spent my entire life serving my country, and so did my father. Look at my limp. That’s sacrifice. That’s experience. So take my word for it, no one is dying in Iraq. That misconception is a lie perpetuated by our liberal media. If anyone does die during our engagement in Iraq it will be one hundred years from now, of old age. My friends.

Me: What about America? I live there. Which of you hates it more? Old man?

Sidney: My friends, I think it is abundantly clear that this young infidel sitting over there hates America passionately. Not only might he be a Muslim, but he has no experience. He would destroy our economy. Furthermore I have video evidence that like the communists in China, Barack Obama does not put his hand over his heart during our national anthem. In addition, he refused to wear a flag pin. What kind of dirt bag does that, my friends?

Hussein: I refused to wear a flag pin out of respect for the millions of poor Americans who can’t even afford to buy both of my books much less a flag pin. I wear one now, only because I found one made of recycled soda cans, and because people like you made me feel like a jackass about the whole thing. Now, I would like to turn the tables and point out that you, John McCain, who supported the killing of billions in Iraq, have not expressed your patriotism as fully as I have. How can Americans vote for a man like you, a man so unpatriotic that he won’t even shave a star onto the back of his head? You clearly hate America sir.

Me: Oh, there is a star on the back of your head. I thought I was imagining it. Anyway, we have to go to a 24 hour commercial break, but come back to tomorrow when I give the candidates even less relevant questions to answer.

Pain in the pAssenger

2008-10-07T11:21:00.000-11:00

I don’t like planes. My objection is not that at any moment the engines could fail and I could plummet towards the Earth, protected only by a relatively thin fuselage and some particularly buoyant seat cushions. What upsets me is my forced proximity to my often unconsenting seatmate.

On the way to the beach this weekend, Sexy gave me the window seat. I appreciated this because my stomach was particularly rumbly and I was not up for the embarrassment of having a complete stranger glance at me every few seconds on account of my, for all they know, auditory leprosy. So I got to enjoy two views of the wing while Sexy was treated to an aisle on one flight and an extremely sleepy old man on the next. The agreement was, in order to be fair, that on the way back to Orlando, she would get the window seat and would thus be able to close the window and take a nap.

On the flight to flight from Pensacola to Atlanta (Yes, we were flying from Florida to Florida via Georgia) Sexy sat down by the window, I sat down next to her, and then, a few minutes later, a sexually ambiguous creature sat down, partially next to me and partially atop me. It didn’t speak to me the entire flight, but periodically glanced at the spot where our collective thigh had consumed the armrest and were awkwardly touching. For the record, I completely support charging heavier people for two seats. Sure, it’s embarrassing, but it’s a simply a practical matter. And really, I would have been fine if my non-Sexy seat-buddy had just paid me the cost of half of my seat to make up for the discomfort of having to fly next to/in it. Of course, this situation was made all the more awkward by the glances I kept throwing at the creature against me in an attempt to determine its gender. After spending 45 minutes trying to figure out a way to ask, I eventually came up with a relatively diplomatic query. So I asked it, “Do those produce milk?”

On the next flight, I was not so fortunate as to have to guess anything about my new seat buddy. He was so exceedingly talkative that he singlehandedly justified the existence of the words loquacious, bombastic, and exceedingly talkative. This man greeted Sexy and I by welcoming us to ‘his plane’ and saying that we could stay if we were ‘in a good mood.’ We were. Not for long though. All I could do was listen and munch on my complementary pretzels in the hopes that they would kill me the way the nearly killed someone else with my last name. The man proceeded to tell me about his professions and education, and I will now reassemble his life story as best I can. I promise you that none of the next paragraph is fictional.

He attended college and then medical school. Afterwards he got job working as a paramedic for roughly twenty years, during which time he also served as a firefighter. He then moved on to work at Baytown with Exxon. Eventually he stepped up to working with Boeing and Lockheed-Martin for another twenty years. He worked on the campaign of George H.W. Bush and at the 1992 Republican National Convention he met Chuck Norris. He now works with a multi-business something something something and is doing filming work at Harvard and Princeton, which, he informed me, are schools in the North. Of course during this illustrious career, he found time to travel the world, regularly helping out with medical difficulties on airplanes, including performing a tracheotomy over Madrid. He has also been to Italy and like Florence better than Venice. He is now working with an 18-year-old student to develop a biogenetic company that will function primarily on the internet.

After reciting his biography, he gave me a brief quiz which I did quite well on. He then offered me a job working for his new company and told me to tell my father that he had ‘raised a good son.’ I very much appreciated the compliment (although in retrospect he had probably simply expended every other possible thing he could have said by that point), but still what I really wanted to do was stab him in the neck with a rusty nail, give him tetanus aka lockjaw, and then throw away the key. Tragically, I was unable to do so because my weathered construction equipment was seized by security in Pensacola.

Since this experience I have constructed a new theory. I believe that some of the major airlines will give you a discount if you can demonstrate that you are sufficiently irritating. The idea behind this is that these plant passengers will serve as an adequate incentive to make other passenger spend the extra dough on first class tickets. What does this mean for me? It means that next time I’m going to have a pre-flight meal of carbonated soda and cheese, and we’ll see if my stomach can’t talk my neighbor into upgrading to business.

Another Month Too Soon

2008-10-06T08:27:00.000-11:00

Fly the flags, wave the banners, because today is the day! What day? The three month anniversary of something clever. I have, since last month reinstated the delusion that you, my dear readers, do throw parties in honor of my blog, but I feel that it is necessary to briefly interrupt your festivities to let the birthday blog say a few words on this here merry monthiversary.

Of course, I will begin with an update on the bottom of the page counter that lets us all know just ow successful I am. And so with no further ado (except for a self-negating establishing clause and a parenthetical explanation) I present to you the stats for the past month. In September and the very beginning of October, something clever was viewed 1,655 times. This is a new monthly record, especially considering that this month had the fewest posts of any yet. It is noteworthy that on one suspicious date I got over two hundred views. The suspiciousness of this occurrence is compounded by the fact that I did not post on that day. (321) 745-7224 swears that he had nothing to do with it, and I believe him because at the time he was free-lifting my Honda civic and was therefore too distracted to lie.

Now let’s talk about the aforementioned lack of posts in the past month. During the past five days, in which I posted only once, I came up with a good excuse for not posting. It is very simple. I was too busy thinking of an excuse to be able to write a decent post. I promise that next month I will be better about keeping this loveable publication updated daily. On a side note, my rival blog seems to have shut down. That’s right, Sexy’s blog, located at http://muchtosayaboutnothing.wordpress.com has not been updated in the past two weeks. I want you, my amicable blog-scrollers to go to her blog and comment. In your comments, I want you to explain why you cannot live with nothing. Hopefully this will rejuvenate my opponent and the competition will drive our ratings through the roof.

Now let’s talk about my ongoing quest for fame, and let’s ignore my repetitive opening clauses of paragraphs. I stated three months ago that the purpose of this blog is to elevate me to superstardom. I realize now that I did not define the parameters of this fame. Like Michelangelo and Vladimir Putin, I am already famous enough that Microsoft Word acknowledges my last name as a properly spelled word, but I want more. I have decided that like Kafka, I want an esque. I would like the sort of semi-witty segues that make you chuckle while slapping your forehead to be defined as Bush-esque. So, peeps out there with wikipedia.com and urbandictionary.com knowhow, hop on it. Satisfy me so that I can guarantee you a spot on my potential coattails.

And now for the obligatory monthly scene montage. Amidst the pages of Something Clever: The Not-A-Blog Edition you will find illustrations of a melted stirrer and some waxy eggs, dormant Volcano’s, the browlf, the planet Quar, a diagram of the evolution of communication, a map of the dangerous cafighteria, a four year old unrefrigerated piece of string cheese, Hussein dressed like a woman for his Satanic mothers, Sidney bombing the world in an ugly tie, dandruff on the beach, Paul Newman ascending to heaven, Julia Johannson-Reynolds-Bush, DRAINAGE, the Barackade, our candycane colored compadres, the electric rays, and of course me kicking the following people in their collective throat: Steven Soderbergh, Jon Avnet, and Burnya Cock (also probably Michael Moore).

Of course, you’ll probably want to skip over the illustrations lest they damage the images you’ve created in your head and dreamt about for the past month. Don’t worry, I won’t be offended (but my illustrator might be).

In case you’re wondering, my neverending quest for celebrity status has not ended (go figure). If you have found someone who can guarantee my success in anyone of a number of creative industries, than I would be happy to hear about it. Also, if you happen to be Mr. Soderbergh, than I hope you understand that I was for the most part kidding and that if you buy a screenplay from me, I will take back my threat of kicking you in the trachea. The same offer is not extended to Mr. Avnet. I’m sorry Jon, but Righteous Kill was unforgiveable.

With that, I’ll let you go back to your celebratory engagements. Feel free to send me comments or criticism at djbush89@gmail.com, and please keep (start) commenting, as it really does make me feel good about myself. I hope you enjoy month four of something clever.

P.S. Alternative titles for this post could have included My New Planniversarthree, Sobered in October, and How in the World can I Incorporate ‘Three’ into this Title?

Burning Sexy's Back

2008-10-05T03:05:00.000-11:00

Get it? OK, good. But I’m talking about the sun. You see, Sexy and I have spent the past couple days at the beach and I have thus been unable to post. Also, I’m, lazy.

Perhaps you recall the last time I posted from the beach. I was stung by a jellyfish that hurt more than Miley Cyrus’ voice. This time was far more enjoyable. We were here with about half of Sexy’s family, or 200-250 people, and the only thing that got stung, was Sexy, and the culprit was the big ball of fire in the sky. Who knew she could get any hotter?

However, jellyfish did play a role in this weekend’s endeavors. When we first got to Perdido (which means ‘lost’ though we were not), there were no jellyfish in sight, but hours later as we left the waters, I saw one. I instantly knew that this was my opportunity for revenge. So I jogged back up to base camp, grabbed a net on a long pole and then hurried back to the water’s edge, fully prepared to hunt down my gelatinous adversary.

But he was gone. In his place, there was a bigger creepier fish. This was satisfactory. So I s-s-snagged him and brought him up to the beach. I set him on the ground as the Sexy clan (all of whom are equally sexy) oohed and ahhed. Then I went back to the water’s edge. By the end of the day, I had captured about twenty of the things and brought them ashore. So Sexy’s cousins dug a giant hole (Sexy’s family is Italian). We shoveled in the jellyfish (possibly still living but how can you tell?) and said goodbye as were unwilling inhumed.

And the next day we were greeted with the clearest, most jellyfish free waters I have ever seen. Most satisfactory. We went out swimming and Sexy got st-st-stung again. This time it was an electric ray. The net provided and handy tool, and soon we had three of them netted. Imagine a pancake with a kite tail and edges that shock you cut them with your fork. A local boy on the beach informed us that these things were called dogfish and repeatedly handled one and played with it like a dog. Later internet researched confirmed that this boy was completely wrong and that the only reason he wasn’t shocked by the fish was that his rubberized brain was somehow grounding him.

Anyway, the pseudo-dogfish suffered a fate very similar to that of the jellyfish, and to be frank I disagreed with this aquatic mafia hit. I suppose my objection was that these animals were nearly human in the sense that they were visible. Call me a racist, but I only hate clear animals, Like jellyfish, windows, and Ben Stein.

We also saw dolphins, another opaque animal that I am quite fond of, which provided a fairly exciting experience. And I am thoroughly displeased to report that my only other aquatic animal encounter involved some very poor judgment on Sexy’s part. You see, Sexy opposed me swimming out to a sandbar because she was afraid a shark might bite my legs off. On the flip side, she said absolutely nothing as a sizeable crab scuttled between my legs.

This, I believe, was thoroughly unacceptable. So you know what? Thank you Sun. Because Sexy totally deserved it. Now maybe you’re thinking that nearly getting castrated and having your back mildly singed are totally different and unequal forms of torture. Well my back did nearly get cut off… but the funny thing about my back is… (OK, that joke was super bad)

Absurd Search

2008-10-01T16:44:00.001-11:00

Today is a heroic day for two reasons. The first is that today is the second time I have used pictures on this blog. The second is what I will explain to you using pictures on this blog. It is crucially important to the storyline of this blog that you view these pictures in order and do not get ahead of yourself and skip ahead.

So as I'm walking back from class today, I hear a huge crowd of people cheering. As I get nearer I realize that what appears to be a mob is outside of the building where I live. A friend asks whats going on. I says I dont know. She asks why I'm not punctuating properly I dont answer. I guess that it must be someone political. We see Obama shirts and suspect that Mr. Hussein might be on campus. We get closer and she-friend says Nope Its a White Guy. Could it be Biden? I don't know what Biden sounds like. Then I recognize it.

There is a guy on Comedy Central (and is thus my enemy) who's entire routine is called "My Time With Bill Clinton" or something like that. It is very lame and involves Christopher Walken. My time with Bill Clinton was very different. I realized it was him from the voice. I worked my way through the crowd till I could see him with his bright red face and white white hair. I listened briefly. The jist of it: Biden is God. Obama is also God. I like Biden better.

Then I ran upstairs, got my camera, hurried back down, and found that he had stopped speaking and was now mingling with crowd. So I got to the closest place I could and snapped off a few quick shots of Bill, the best of which I have included here.

I assume that you were able to spot Mr. Clinton pretty easily. If not, before scrolling down, I challenge you to click on this picture and see if you can find him. I promise you that he is visible. If you have trouble spotting him, I'll give you a hint: He is one of only two people in the crowd who is colored completely red and white. If you're an epic failure, don't worry. I'll include close-ups of our candy cane colored compadres at the bottom of this post.

But before I do, there is a conclusion to my story. I got back upstairs and told Sexy that Big Bill was downstairs. She was nonplussed and informed me, in all seriousness, that she shook his hand once, but it was while he was president, so it's not like it counts or anything. My thoughts on the topic: I wonder what parts of Monica I have indirectly touched.

OK, here are the head shots in order of most to least sneaky.

And who could be sneakier than the back of Bill Clinton's head?

ADD Post Limestone

2008-09-30T06:29:00.000-11:00

I feel like ever since I put up the last ADD Post, my posts have been for more cohesive and for the most part, a heck of a lot less angry, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it again. After all, if you stop taking the pain killers when the pain goes away, how can you be absolutely sure it won’t come back. And so I commence on yet another string of loosely related thoughts connected by mediocre segues.

And speaking of mediocre, let’s take a look at immigration policy. I don’t know what it is, because I’m too lazy to do the research, but if I wanted to find out, I’d make sure it was an American I hired to look it up for me. Personally I think the best way to prevent immigration across the Rio is by declaring martial law along a one mile wide strip of Texas bordering Mexico. If there is one thing that a Mexican (or anyone else) should fear, it’s an angry Texan with a gun. The best thing about this plan is that it makes just building a wall sound like a very friendly and democratic proposal. Our next pres could do it and call it a Barackade.

While we’re on the topic of Democratic presidential candidates, I would like to say that I am sorely disappointed in America for not electing John Kerry 4 years ago. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like him at all, and I probably would have voted for Bush if I could have (my last name: we stick by our own), but that doesn’t mean I can’t complain now. My rationale for wishing we were one nation under Kerry is that it would make everything else seem more interesting. Hell, even Michael Clayton would probably have been an enthralling film by comparison to C-Span under Kerry. That, and I would expect Mrs. Kerry to produce a line of red, white, and blue ketchups, reminiscent of the green and purple they did a while back, but more threatening to terrorists.

And speaking of condiments, have you ever noticed that the opaque red ketchup bottles at restaurants have fine print on the label that reads: Not for home use. This irritates me because I would love nothing more than to steal one of these bottles, take it home, and perpetually trick myself into thinking that I have more ketchup than I actually do. I assume that, like most strange label sayings, the Heinz bottles were thus labeled because of a lawsuit, only I can’t help but wonder what that suit was? “I broke into their house and shot their dog because I saw through the window what appeared to be a full bottle of ketchup and I just had to properly dress my hotdog. Needless to say, it was a restaurant bottle, and now I would like the Heinz Co. to reimburse me the cost of the bullet I wasted on that Pekingese.”

And while we’re on the topic of frivolous litigation, check out this nugget of American legal mastery. A couple years back, a group of families sued McDonald’s on the grounds that Happy Meal toys had enticed their children into eating unhealthy food, and that McDonald’s was thus responsible for the medical builds associated with their children’s obesity. I don’t know who won, but I will assume based on the legal system that the parents did. This case seems idiotic to me, as if the parents were not in a position to prevent their children from eating the food. So here is my new lawsuit. I am going to sue Wal-Mart. Here’s why. They have made their products so cheap and appealing, that I feel veritably entrapped into buying them. I am therefore suing Wal-Mart for compensation for the pain and anguish that I have felt as a result of being broke, as a result of spending my money on their products.

Of course, a close analogy to spending lots of valuable money on useless products is spending lots of time (time=money (especially where Ashley Alexandra Dupre is concerned)) on useless websites. Just be clear, I am fervently not referring to this one, but rather, less focused ones, like www.google.com, www.ebay.com, and your email, I mean, come on… you can’t find something more coherent to look at?

Straw Man

2008-09-29T07:04:00.001-11:00

This is the first post I have ever published containing a picture, but I felt that this warranted it.

This picture clearly shows me teaching my roommate, (321) 745-7224, about the concept of drainage. I explained, using a milkshake and straw analogy that what drainage is, is when I attach a really long oil rig to a crane and swing it over your land and suck up your oil without you noticing because you are too busy reading a J.C. Penney circular.

It is worth noting that the straw that reached across the room was technically successful, not only at transferring milkshake to the mouth of the drinker, but also at making a line of milkshake drippings all the way across the apartment floor so that if someone, say Hansel or Gretel, were lost, they could hypothetically follow the trail from (321) 745-7224 to me or vice versa.

Obviously, I have blurred (321) 745-7224’s face to maintain his anonymity, but in order to prove that it is him, I have included a photo from another angle which makes his distinctive beast biceps fully visible. So, if you doubted that he was actually involved in this, or that my comments about his guns was real, then just check out those monumental man cannons built into his upper arms. On a related note, I would like to advise those who might be considering it. Don’t drink his milkshake, unless your leg muscles are strong and quick.

Leviathons, eh?

The Third

2008-09-28T10:08:00.000-11:00

You’ve probably heard that bad things always come in threes. Well, in my opinion, the guy that first said that can go to hell, get raped by a demon, and then have a chat with my fist. Why? Because it would contradict what he said, as happening to such an irritatingly accurate pessimist, all of those occurrences would be good. Why am so upset with this half-empty glass man? Because today I had the third.

The first two are obvious. First, I learned that Head and Shoulders stole a flake of wit from one my earlier posts and used it to make infinitely more profit than I ever have. Secondly I learned that screen legend and veritable deity Paul Newman died unexpectedly at the young age of 93. Now that we’ve rehashed that, and torn open the wound(s) anew, let’s talk about this third incident.

So I went to imdb.com to see if Paul Newman had risen yet (after all, the last time a man of his caliber died, he came back in only three days), but lo and behold, I learned something worse. There was a certain very famous girl who, I explained to Sexy, makes up the entire list of exceptions to my fidelity rule. Of course, I assumed that this girl was way out of my league, so my backup plan was to reconsider my sexuality, and then consummate the change in preferences with a certain very famous guy (with abs bigger than the sky… each). So what happened that was so tragic this weekend? They married each other!

That’s right, Scarlett Johannson and Ryan Reynolds got married yesterday. They had a quiet ceremony (presumably to prevent everyone on the planet from protesting), and now they are both off limits. Drat. However, I am not a pessimist like Mr. 3-times up top there, so I’m going to look for a half full glass of silver lining… and here it is:

Presumably, these two incredibly attractive individuals will be engaging in some deed-doing someday soon, and eventually, this hankity-pankity will probably produce some progeny. Around the time this happens, I will (hopefully) have sold Something Clever: The Not-A-Blog Edition and then had a string of successful script eventually landing me in a position of such tremendous public power that I can have a Jamie Lynn Spears style encounter with the sexiest little (legal but barely) kidlets alive. Woody Allen, I know you like Scarlett. Well I’m younger than you, so I call her spawn.

Oh well, a guy can dream. Or maybe I can just direct an NC-17 Gigli film for the couple. Whatever. Anyway, I’m not too terribly concerned right now, because my three bad things have already passed. And even if that nay-sayer was wrong and the three thing is a myth, what could possibly happen that would be worse than what has transpired so far this week?

Here’s to a happier tomorrow and the hope that Miley Cyrus never wins an Emmy.

P.S. Any errors in this post, I attribute to the fact that I have not slept in the past 30 hours, an error that I attribute to my mourning the death of Paul Newman and my unrelated fantasy celebrity sex life, errors which I attribute to God taking the week off.

Tribute to a New Man

2008-09-27T14:44:00.000-11:00

I just finished writing a post for today, and you can believe me that it was hilarious, but then I learned some information that carried such a great sting that I don’t feel a comedic approach is appropriate. I have always told Sexy that she is roughly my third favorite person after Gandhi, who has been dead ever since Ben Kingsley’s acceptance of a role in Bloodrayne, and one other man. That other man died today, and our salads will never be the same again.

There is no question about it: Paul Newman was/is the man. This Cat on a Hot Tin Roof scored 10 Oscar nominations! That’s seven more than Titanic should have won. Not only this, but the man retired in 2007. Hud stated that he felt he could no longer give the sort of performance he felt films deserved and backed out of the game before he could get washed up (cough cough De Niro cough). But more important than all of this is the aspect of his life that elevates him to a status above Gandhi.

One night at a restaurant, dissatisfied with the salad dressing that the waiter gave him, Paul Newman requested a list of ingredients and made his own salad dressing at the table. Newman’s Own then left his table and spread across the nation, gracing it with stylistic images of Cool Hand Luke himself wearing all sorts of different cultural hats. But his cranial versatility is not the most amazing part of this story. The Hustler donated all of the proceeds of his dressing line to charity, reducing his own personal means to the small pittance he could garner from acting roles.

And so today, Butch Cassidy, Harry Frigg, Judge Roy Bean, and countless others died, and the world became 30% less generous. At this point I would like to send a message to the Catholic Church. If you canonize Paul Newman, which I assume you will, I will convert, and will henceforth use this blog to promote the teachings of Jesus Christ (as you see them, not the wrong way that everyone else interprets them). If you do not follow through on this simple request, I will devote my time to making pedophilia jokes and believe me, I would go so far as to crucify the second coming just to spite you, except that I can’t because he died of cancer this morning. I am sure that you will make the proper decision, as there is absolutely no way that this great man is on the road to perdition.

And now, a moment of blank space in honor of Paul Newman (In order to do this properly you must drag your eyes back and forth across the white space as if you were reading words).

OK, you may proceed to imdb.com to read his trivia.

P.S. If the first thing you think of when you hear the word “Newman” is the fat guy on Seinfeld, then I hope a dinosaur eats your face.

Heard and Shudders

2008-09-26T14:11:00.000-11:00

Yes, the title is an exceedingly lame pun making fun an immoral company that I hear is run by communists, but why spend my time thinking of a good pun when it will probably just get plagiarized later on! (Especially when I have to worry about all this cranial snow plugging up my think-pores)

So, about a week ago I published a (not so very) Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors. Part one of this not-quite-as-epic-as-the-Shreveport-Trilogy-saga began without a warning, letting readers know that the information contained within the posts was my intellectual property and that any theft thereof would result in a mild remonstrance followed by a brutal ass-kicking. Well apparently I waited a little bit too long to put up a disclaimer, because I recently discovered that someone ripped an idea from one of my earlier posts.

Yes, you’re right. This is tragic. Here’s what happened. I’m watching TV, and I see a commercial that is built off a joke straight out of my post titled Reverse Physiology. If you don’t remember this post, it’s probably because you didn’t read it. Not your fault though; Reverse Physiology was published in July, back when something clever was still less popular than Comedy Central. But, if you will kindly take a moment to rewind back and read that article, you will be able to understand what I am about to rant about.

No, they didn’t market a product called Not Pockets. Nor did they rename coffee. Here’s what the commercial said, and I paraphrase: “What are trans fats? Nothing contains them. Everything has zero percent trans fats. I should make up a substance and then sell a product that contains none of it. I’m gonna sell tires that contain zero percent death crystals.” WHAT?! WHAT!!!!! This sounds remarkably similar to Not Pockets. I said this in Reverse Physiology. Not Pockets contain zero percent conglomerated fats (and I know this because conglomerated fats are fictional) and this is a good thing because 100% of people who consume conglomerated fats suffer from severe hemorrhaging later in life.

OK, sure, Death Crystals does sound a bit cooler than conglomerated fats, but far less realistic. And the idea is clearly identical. Now, what was this commercial for? Maybe their product justifies their theft of my idea. Was it a health product attempting to satirize faux-health foods? Was it even a food company? No. A tire company? No. Head and Shoulders! And this hair-care company’s lame way of connecting this brilliant joke to their product: “Once you don’t have to worry about dandruff you’ll be amazed how much time you’ll have to think about other things.” But apparently the marketing company doesn’t use the product, because they didn’t even have time to think of an original joke!

So here is what I speculate happened. I think my girlfriend, Sexy, who’s blog has been my biggest competitor (aside from Comedy Central) realized that she needed a way to shoot something clever out of the sky, so she called up Head and Shoulders and said, “Hey. I’m Sexy. I don’t have dandruff, but there’s a way you can help me.” So they felt compelled by her Sexy voice, took my joke, tossed in a substance that sounds like a drug from Star Wars, and threw the new ad up on Comedy Central, my biggest adversary.

So, Head and Shoulders executives, next time you can’t find a good idea (perhaps because you’ve been scratching your heads so hard that the dander has buried your sketchpads), feel free to come back. Here is your next commercial. I look forward to seeing who you cast.

A guy and a girl sit on a Florida beach in the sun (probably because the girl prefers sunbathing to doing any of the plethora of fun things to be done on a beach). Anyway, their trip is spoiled when it starts to snow. Sad, they pack up and leave. They get to the parking lot and realize it isn’t snowing. Cut back to a life guard on the beach shaking his head on the stand. Voiceover: Don’t let your dandruff ruin the mood. Go to Shreveport instead.”

Sidney

2008-09-23T05:26:00.000-11:00

You probably didn’t even know that Sidney was McCain’s middle name, but your typical conservative ignorance won’t help protect America from the simple ugly truth. What it comes down to is this: When the Australian’s hear that we have elected a president with the middle name ‘Sidney,’ they will know that they have won this war.

And while we’re on the topic of his name, let’s talk about John. Multiple sources (Robin Hood: Men in Tights, and http://urbandictionary.com) tell us that the name ‘John’ means a toilet. What does this mean? It means that Mr. Sidney was named after a urine receptacle and will in all likelihood flush the American economy to oblivion. So, in this case, the answer to the famous question, “what’s in a name?” is: a load of crap.

But you don’t base your vote entirely on nomenclature, then allow me to present you with this quote from John Sidney McCain: “An act of heroism, of extraordinary courage, the grandeur of it, won't easily inspire us to act in imitation, but it can inspire us to emulate its author. For that, we should learn what we can of the whole experience of the subject, the hero's life, as it was before and after, and believe that trying to emulate the character it reveals is one tried way to prepare for the tests that might await us and gain hope that our courage will not be wanting in the moment.”

If you have no idea what the hell that meant, then fret not. Neither did I… for the first hour. But now, I have prepared an everyday translation for you. What Mr. Sidney was saying was: “The resurrection of Christ was woefully unimpressive, and so instead, I will play God. I will teach you why I am superior to Jesus and will do so by testing nuclear weapons in the Midwest so that when it comes time to bomb the rest of the world, we won’t get crucified.”

I hope that you all understood the hidden meaning in the new meaning of whatever it was Mr. Sidney meant. What? That’s right! He’s a secret polytheist in the Greco-Roman tradition. He is clearly attempting to recreate the pre-Christian Roman empire only in the new world. He believes that by eliminating the poor people of the Midwest he will ascend to divinity. By the way, if anyone would like to claim that McCain is not a secret Pagan, I will require proof before believing your ludicrous accusation.

But let’s talk about some artistic qualities, like value and shade. Shade: McCain is pasty, pasty white. This may not sound bad, but consider the following: In the past, White Presidents have ordered the bay of pigs, ignored the supreme court and slaughtered the Seminole people, sent troops to Vietnam, and covered up theft to ensure re-election. Do we really want this trend to continue? Now, values: McCain admits that he cheated on his first wife. You must understand that this is by far the most important issue in this election. I’m not referring to the undeniable fact that if elected, he will sleep with your wife too. What I’m alluding to the following question: How can we possibly trust a president who admits that kind of indiscretion. A man who just runs around admitting mistakes could do terrible things to American morale. How’s the war effort Sid? Disaster.

But McCain’s pretty old. He’ll die soon and we can work on finding something better. Not True! Though he may hail from the Cretaceous period, he has a death defying advantage: George Bush’s support. Like everything else that Baby Bush has stood behind, John Sidney McCain will likely fail at everything he attempts, but will fail valiantly at it for a really, really long time. A hundred years maybe.

Need more reasons why voting for McCain is like voting for syphilis? Well the only thing I can come up with is that he has terrible taste in ties. See this obscenely long link: http://images.townnews.com/lodinews.com/content/articles/2008/05/23/news/1_mccain_080523.jpg

Hussein

2008-09-22T05:17:00.000-11:00

I saw a video the other day that attacked Barack Obama on the grounds that in one of his campaign offices, a poster of Che Guevara was displayed on the wall. This propagandizing piece of youtube equated Obama to the Cuban mass murderer on these grounds. Needless to say, I bought this line of reasoning hook line and sinker, and have thus added the following to the American threat list: 1 in 5 college students, Steven Soderbergh, and Geico (They recently published an ad of one of their cavemen looking like Che. I call this cavemen Oongapacha Guevara, and note that he was a prehistoric murderer whose body count was second only to that of the meteor.).

So, inspired by my newfound hatred for Obambi (The nickname I perpetuate in the hopes that it will inspire Cheney to shoot him), I have written my own piece of Right-Wing propaganda, guaranteed to change the mind of anyone with a modicum of sense (however, more than a modicum will likely render you immune to this drivel).

First off, let’s look at how (un)patriotic Mr. Hussein (his most important name) is. If you go to this obscenely long URL, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/photo/2007/10/01/PH2007100100969.jpg, you will see a picture of Mr. Hussein apparently teaching a line dance to a group of women at a “Women for Obama” fundraiser. This in itself is not a problem. I can Cha Cha Slide with the best of them. What bothers me is the bottom third of the picture. If you look carefully, you will strain your eyes, but hopefully not before noticing that everyone in the picture is wearing a dress or skirt… except Mr. Hussein. Now, clearly this occasion necessitated formal effeminate attire, and by refusing to make this simple wardrobe concession, Mr. Hussein is expressing his complete lack of respect for America’s dress-making industry (and women), a facet of our culture that is just as important as apple pie and everything else that we took from Europe.

Much of Hussein’s campaign has been aimed at accentuating his grass-roots appeal. He has only one house, so he must be a nice guy. I have only one dorm room… vote for me. He claims that he is more accessible because of his background, a background which he accentuates in two books. I rebut your claim to accessibility. As proof, I posit that you have written two books. Do you know how few Americans are capable of that. You clearly are too full of yourself… or talent. I mean, come on Hussein, what will you do next? Fix the country?

Furthermore, by watching video evidence, it can be conclusively proven that Mr. Hussein was not in attendance at the opening of the Choctaw Scleroderma Foundation. This proves that he does not care about numerous things that I should care about. Additionally, it is believed that Barack Obama watches American Idol occasionally, and if he has in fact listened to this program, than he has inevitably been influenced by it and will surely besiege America with bad song when elected.

Not convinced? Well let us look at this actual quote from Barack Hussein Obama, “My parents shared not only an improbable love, they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. They would give me an African name, Barack, or blessed, believing that in a tolerant America your name is no barrier to success.” Now, I will translate this into layman’s terms. “My parents were lesbians, bent on destroying American morals, who were only able to birth me after being artificially inseminated by Satan. Also, they were devoted to making America a communist country. They named me an African name, Barack, not just to rhyme with Shellack, but also to ensure that I played the race card every time I introduced myself.” You see! Do you see! The man stinks so much that his initials should be B.O.

Oh, and he might be a secret scientologist. But, my liberal friends (who have clearly hid it very well), fear not: Tomorrow I will shed some light on the Gods that McCain secretly believes in.

Easy Being Bad

2008-09-21T07:02:00.000-11:00

OK, I’m a little bogged down with work, so I’m doing a pretty cheap thing that I’ve done a few times before. Here is material that was not written for this blog, but rather for another online thingamajig. I wrote these nuggets of literary genius for the “Worst sentence of the year contest” by Bulwer-Lytton, and I reprint them here with permission of the author, who is a pretentious douchebag (and very busy).

She entered the hospital as she had done every day since two years ago except for twice last year, once on account of rectal hemorrhaging, and once on account of an unspeakably unpleasant medical condition.

Doctor Pritchett was so exceedingly disgusting, unpleasant, revolting, and oddly luminescent that all those who had the misfortune of coming into contact with him, as patients or in some other capacity, henceforth referred to him as “that disgusting, unpleasant, revolting, and oddly luminescent guy in the white coat.”

It was not until Zarod fell to the ground that he realized that donating his feet to the pseudo-human alliance was probably an ill-advised decision.

What would otherwise have been a perfectly enjoyable one night stand was ruined by Karen’s inability to excise from her mind the image of her lover’s manhood, long and hard like a piece of string-cheese that has sat unrefrigerated in a closet for four years.

As his assistant entered the room, John Hamnet P.I. inhaled deeply from his pipe in a show of wisdom, coughed wisely and hacked globules of wise yellow phlegm onto his ink blotter.

Sand blew through the doorway of the saloon in exactly the same way it blew through the doorways of every other building of the small town, thus rendering the saloon totally unexceptional, and also irritatingly sandy.

Jared had been killing people since that time he killed an orphan when he was eight, except that he didn’t actually kill the orphan, but rather had watched him die, and that he had not killed anyone since.

David Jackson leapt from the rooftop to that of the neighboring house, rolling and looking back to see that his pursuers were still pursuing leaving him no choice but to leap to the next rooftop and roll again.

(See, the stuff I usually write is Shakespeare compared to what I could be doing to you.)

Cafighteria

2008-09-20T06:52:00.000-11:00

Disclaimer: All of the dialogue that I attribute to myself in this post is entirely fictional. To better understand this post, assume that the words “I said” mean “What I should have said was.”

For the most part, my recent blog posts have been written at the cafeteria across the street from the building where I live. At the start of the year, I purchased a 50 meal plan, fully expecting to not use all of it. I later discovered that thanks to the cafeteria’s proximity, it’s unlimited amount of tea, and the absence of any rule requiring that customers leave at a certain time, the cafeteria was an ideal place to sit and do all of my daily writing.

This plan worked out great until recently. In the past two days, the employees and attendees of Knightro’s cafeteria have grown increasingly rude. I will explain.

According to a sign on the door, Knightro’s closes between 2:30 and 4:00 in the afternoon to clean up and prepare for dinner (though the food served is the same). Anyway, logically what this closure means is that no new customers may enter during this time frame, and that new food will not be put out during this period. After all, it would not make sense to kick out customers who had been allowed in five minutes before without giving them time to eat. And so I abuse this logic. In fact, I have sat in my booth many times at 3:00 and watched uninformed individuals approach the door, guffaw when it doesn’t automatically open, and then slap their heads when they see the sign saying that they have to wait an additional hour. Never have I been asked to leave… until yesterday.

Yesterday, Sexy and I were sitting at my regular booth when an elderly member of the Knightro’s staff approached and asked us to leave. I engaged in a warm discussion with the woman and asked why we had to go. She explained that though she didn’t ‘know the rules,’ closed usually means people have to leave. I said, “Well, you can come back and asked me to leave when you learn the rules.” She explained that if we were eating, we would not be kicked out. Mental note: Always have half a slice of pizza on the table between the hours of 2 and 4. Anyway, we left.

And so today, I find myself sitting at my booth again. This time, instead of having sexy for company, I have 2/3 of a ham sandwich (which I’m not touching). For some reason the cafeteria is unusually crowded. People stand in long lines for food, but as far as I know, there was never a shortage of chairs.

So anyway, it’s 1:00 and I’ve been sitting here for about 2 hours when this older man approaches and taps me on the shoulder. I turn and smile amicably. Conversation ensues.

He asks me, “You know you’ve been sitting here while thousands of people walked through.” Well no! I hadn’t noticed. I thought I was alone. I laughed, again amicably, and said “yes, I know.” You see, I did not recognize this man’s malicious intent. I assumed he was one of those folks that likes to say something witty to people he doesn’t know, like the guy who saw me digging a hole at the beach and said “you know it would’ve been quicker to buy a ticket to the Olympics?” Anyway, cafeteria guy says, “You know you shouldn’t do that?” So I say “and you shouldn’t wear a tank top.” I have no idea what this guy means at this point. My guess is that he means sitting around for hours is unhealthy. Anyway, here’s the death blow. He says, “yeah, well I’m gonna go talk to that guy about it, and he won’t let you do it again!” So I say , “Go rape a reptile!” except that he quickly walks away before I can retort.

I realize that this guy, who I’ve never seen in my three weeks of sitting here, is criticizing me for taking up a seat, and he’s threatening to tell on me. He doesn’t work here. He doesn’t go here, and I’m just gonna take a wild guess that like the employee woman, he doesn’t know the rules. So what the hell does he care? Anyway, a minute later I see the man leaving the building, looking ungruntled. As to the that guy to whom he referred, I have no idea, as he has yet to let me not do that again. In fact, I hope my amicable friend reads this and realizes that an hour later, I’m writing this while sitting in the same seat.

The Interthreat

2008-09-18T11:10:00.001-11:00

There is nothing more mind-bogglingly infuriating to me than when I cannot connect to the internet except perhaps when I am already connected and the computer or network or God decides to kick me off. I heard once that the computer was a machine whose purpose it is to expedite errors, and if this statement holds true, then I believe that my lifespan could be considered one such error.

Sexy will probably tell you (assuming she wakes up for long enough to do so), that the only times she ever hears me curse out loud in anger are when I am grappling with my rambunctious computer. I get so unbelievable angry and I think I know why: I do not understand why my computer is prohibiting me from searching the internet, so I assume that it’s some kind of personal reason. Like my motherboard is disapproving of the sites I look at. I feel like a child at the beach who doesn’t understand that a red flag means probable aquatic smashery and consequent death, and so believes that his parents are evil incarnate.

What amuses me the most about this whole thing is how ludicrous it is from a long-time perspective. You see, I have done some research and discovered that the internet has not always been around. Many years ago people had to use, on an almost daily basis, a now archaic invention known as paper. When they wanted to find a piece of information, they resorted to books, and when they didn’t have the right books, they had to physically move themselves to a library. When they wanted to talk to people, they had to either speak with them, or write letters on paper and tie them to the backs of well-trained pigeons. If women wanted a recipe (whatever that is), they had to send a letter to a cooking company and request that said company mailed them the recipe.

So consider today’s world in comparison to the barbarous time I have just illuminated for you. Now actions that once took days now take minutes at most. I can communicate with anyone, anywhere, at almost any time. Not to mention (but I will), think of all the pigeons that have been liberated. My point is, it seems exceedingly ridiculous that a delay of five minutes should bother me when I’m using a device that saves me days.

I think I can partially attribute this anger to a feeling of embarrassment, like that feeling you get when you call your best friend and you have a really great story to tell them and you know exactly how you are going to start it and the phone rings and you get the answering machine. That sucks. It always catches me off guard. I was going to say “hey man, what’s up?” or something equally banal, but now I can’t say that without sounding like a jackass. I hate the people that ask questions to answering machines. But what do I do now? I don’t know. It’s embarrassing. Same thing goes for the internet. This is why, when Sexy is around, I curse to express my frustration, and to prove that despite my technological inadequacies, I am still masculine. But seriously, what do I do with that ten minutes of waiting for my IP address to refresh (whatever the hell that means)?

The answer is simple: write a blog entry.

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 3

2008-09-18T11:10:00.000-11:00

Public Domain Demon

So I didn’t think of a better title.

I have always liked the idea of making a regularly published periodical piece of rubbish that everyone could read. My first attempt to do this manifested itself in the form of a strangely comedic document called Fudgesicle. Fudgesicle was in a fact a middle school algebra notebook that I periodically circulated throughout the class. I went through the notebook again and again adding all sorts of weird writings and pictures. The idea was to publish Fudgesicle eventually. My 7^th grade English teacher (not Snape) informed me that this was an awful idea and thus did the idea die.

Freshman year of high school I returned to the effort. I wrote about 40 articles for a comedic untitled magazine which I fully intended to publish. For the most part these articles were strange little anecdotes with titles like “Assassination Attempt on Man in Moon” and “Bigfoot spotted in the Rockies.” For the most part, each story built up to some kind of PUNchline (get it?). Anyway, the only publication these stories ever saw was when I pasted them in a book and showed them to people. I will mention that I brought the book to a writing camp the following year and was veritably worshipped by some of the youngerlings who could not believe that I had written it.

Sophomore year I found xanga, which I basically used just something clever. I wrote strange stories which may very well end up getting reprinted here if I ever run out of blog ideas. If that ever happens, I extend my sincere apologies to the eight people who read my old Xanga, which was, by the way, titled Captain Bush’t.

Junior year, I did something I had never done before. I joined a paper that I had not started. It was, by sheer coincidence, also the first successful endeavor I was involved in. Campus Currents was my high school paper. Junior year I worked as a staff writer, providing my most notable contributions to the April Fool’s issue. Senior year I received a slight promotion to the position of Editor-in-Chief, and was afforded my own Editor’s column, Bush’s Breakdown. It was extremely strange, in much the manner that this blog is, and it provided a rare streak of comedy to the paper.

But I was distracted senior year by a variety of other projects. Among them were Timestyle, Freesay, and the Daily Dime V. Timestyle is the fictional name that I am using to identify a project that was started my junior year by my then girlfriend and her friends. The goal of this project was to combine an ezine with ebay, an art gallery, and a social networking program. In essence, we were going to consolidate the entire internet into one site. I eventually got into a disagreement with the self-appointed CEO of Timestyle, who for anonymities sake we will refer to as Burnya Cock. Burnya gave me control of the ezine section, but stipulated that it had to follow the trend of the rest of the site, which she controlled. This trend I believe was based on inefficiency and nonexistence. Anyway, Burnya felt we should run an ads free site funded solely by the proceeds of art sold in our gallery section. I on the other hand felt that we should abide by the laws of supply and demand (We had no way to supply anything that anyone would possibly demand). The disagreement led to my resignation. When I left I took what created for the magazine and considered publishing it as a site called Freesay. This idea failed as a result of my laziness. Coincidentally, the Timestyle ezine came out without my help two months later. It was poorly received and was gone within two months.

I moved on to work on a project called on Daily Dime V. This idea, whose title is an anagram of my partner’s name and mine was intended to be a daily paper to run counter to Campus Currents, on which my partner was Managing Editor. I wrote literally hundreds of prompts for Daily Dime V stories and developed about thirty of them into short stories. Tragically, economics worked against us and Daily Dime V never saw the light of day.

Then, two years later, I started something clever and…

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 2

2008-09-17T04:37:00.000-11:00

An Unproduced David Bush Project

We’re going to have to rewind the clock a bit to the early days of story writing in order to fully encapsulate the story of my unsold (and often unwritten) film scripts. So, skip back to a little before the 2008 Olympics and a little after Aristotle and there we find third grade David sitting in a friend’s tree-house, finishing up page three of his first screenplay, Browlf. As indicated by the title, this ill-fated film would have documented a small country town’s sheriff waging war against a half-bear half-wolf creature, if third grade David had not abandoned the effort in favor of playing soccer.

The next time I approached screenwriting was roughly the time I gave up story writing. In seventh grade I started writing an epic paintball saga based loosely on Lord of Flies. The film was tentatively titled All Ball Down (best pun I could muster at the time), and told the story of a paintball game gone mildly wrong. Rather than write this movie in the conventional English language, I depicted it in a series of complex diagrams drawn in a sketchbook. One of the few details I remember is that in order to get a realistic reaction from one of my friends, who we will call Anus (because he thinks my blog is ‘retarded’), we were going to actually shoot him, without warning him in advance. Anyway, production fell through, which I suppose works out for the better. Nobody wants an enflamed Anus.

Years passed until my sophomore year in high school, when I found myself writing a high school comedy called The Regulars. The 60 page script told the story of Shane and Andrew, two high school seniors who decide to go through an entire year without taking one test honestly. The script was decent, fairly funny, and utterly innovative in the realm of ways to cheat. Tragically, the world was not ready for The Regulars, and the project was shelved. Next came 8-Ball (and now we’re getting into the realm of stories you shouldn’t steal), an 80 page crime comedy about a day in the life of a drug dealer. The film was ludicrously vulgar, relatively complex, and overall, not as crappy as The Regulars. Fate however, was not on my side. The family that lived in the house in which it was to be shot was forced to move, and now 8-Ball finds itself awaiting revisions.

Then I graduated. One night I found myself watching a Swedish movie called Saraband and drinking coffee in the middle of the night, and all I could think about was a script I wanted to write. As soon as the movie ended, I installed some professional script writing software on my computer and secluded myself for three days. The result was a script which eventually got the title Divine Invention. I currently consider this script to be my most marketable. It is a dark comedy that satirizes the world of religion while it follows Brian Jay, a man who accidentally creates a religion which quickly becomes a cult and spirals wildly out of control. This was my first feature-length script, wrapping at 120 pages, my first script with a solid, structured plot, and the first script which I could not possibly film.

After Divine Invention I went crazy. I immediately started work on American Action, a comedy about two guys who apply their action movie knowledge to a nasty situation they get themselves involved in. I finished American Action a few months later, and within days of completing it, I finished another project I had been working on, an experimental film called My Name is Bill. My Name is Bill subtly followed a day in the life of a dollar bill as it is passed through seven people who represent the deadly sins. Both scripts ended up at 90 pages. After that I took a break before working with Sexy on a psychological thriller about people trapped in an elevator called High Tension. A friend who read High Tension and was unimpressed commented that better title would have been Mild Inconvenience. Immediately after that, I went back to Divine Invention style and cranked out a script in a few days. Next of Kin was a creepy horror flick about a group of people bent on killing each other off to win an inheritance. I’d like to emphasize again that if you are Steven Soderbergh, that post a few days back was a joke, and you should buy some of these screenplays off of me.

Anyway, despite still working on three scripts, I recently started writing a novelization of Divine Invention, my thought process being that a novel is easier to pitch and sell than a screenplay, but if anyone wants to look at and buy the script version, let me know. My novelization attempt is ongoing, and I am currently around page 40, the farthest I’ve ever made it in a non-script.

Of course, the going is slow because I am devoting a substantial chunk of my time to working on my blog, which is by no means the first of my forays into the public domain.

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 1

2008-09-16T04:17:00.000-11:00

The Story Days

I need to preface this post(s) by saying that all of the creative ideas expressed herein are my intellectual property and that reproducing them without providing me satisfactory compensation will result in your prosecution and untimely demise. Furthermore, this post may be inaccessible to some readers, as it is strays from the usual angry rant and inane babble. The purpose of this history is to make any readers, who may have been blinded by the high quality of something clever, aware of the fact that this did not come easily to me. That said, let the festivities begin.

I first started writing in utero. Early sonograms depict me holding my umbilical cord in the shape of the cursive word ‘etc.’ My creative urges were quickly stopped when I was from my mother’s womb untimely ripped (a phrase which could never be associated with any sort of literary genius).

Years later, I recovered from the shock and started writing again. In elementary school I wrote episodic journal entries like The Smartest Boy Alive, The Other World, and its sequel, Another Other World. My first attempt to do something bigger than this pulp was in roughly fourth grade when I started my first novel. Escape from Planet Quar was intended to be a science fiction epic. The original work has been lost, but if I recall correctly, it involved a group of astronauts attempting to escape from a planet called Quar. I gave up on this endeavor around page 8, by which point I had already killed off most of my main characters.

Other story attempts from the early days included a fantasy flick called Dioranee, Resher’s Traitor, a story which, I believe, was just as inane as the title that preceded it. I eventually gave up on my attempts to write novels, as I clearly lacked the patience to do so. I had spent a good eleven years on the planet and had made no career progress. At that point, my internal agent suggested politely that I move on to another medium.

And thus did I begin writing poetry. I was a big fan of rhyme and hated free verse, but within due time I was coerced. Though the format I hated, I could not escape… from the teacher who graded. We’ll call her Ms. Snape (for the sake of anonymity). Anywho, one of the assignments in Snape’s course was to compile a poetry anthology. I believe I was contractually obligated to provide forty poems, but there was a benefits clause that guaranteed an additional bonus point of overtime for each poem I provided in excess of forty. And thus did I set the record for highest grade ever received on the poetry anthology. Epic success. Tragedy: My brother’s girlfriend (We’ll call her Crow), beat me the following year (but does she have a blog now?!).

Anyway, with the news of my defeat in the poetic realm, I promptly retired my quill, ink, and tuberculosis (all required possessions of any great poet) and began the quest to find a more suitable medium. And that’s when I found the screenplay.

[Yes that’s right, this is another trilogy! This is the first one since the award-nominated Shreveport trilogy and is thus an occasion so momentous that it necessitates brackets. Please come back tomorrow for Part II: An Unproduced David Bush Project, and the following day for Part III: Public Domain Demon (or better title if I think of one). Brackets!]

Far From Righteous

2008-09-15T04:09:00.000-11:00

So why didn’t I post yesterday? Because only two days ago I established the concept that I do not post on days following late night movie viewings, and because I would hate to leave my theories with the average life expectancy of a mayfly. The movies that prevented me from publishing part one of a new trilogy yesterday were Traitor (Don Cheadle, Guy Pearce) and Righteous Kill (Mucho De Niro, Alpa Chino). Of these movies I have good news and bad news.

Good news first: Traitor was not as bad as it could have been.

Bad news second: Righteous Kill could not have been as bad as it was.

Allow me to define the title for you: Righteous Kill: n. modified by adj. Act of justifiable homicide to be executed upon woefully untalented director, Jon Avnet. If that doesn’t convey my opinion clearly enough, than perhaps I should share my belief that the only thing worse than this film’s surfer title was everything else about it. In fact, to prevent any of you from furthering Avnet’s career, I will ruin the ending of the movie right now. Everyone dies, and by everyone I mean everyone… in the theatre.

That’s right, the poor dialogue and exceedingly lame plot twists are more than enough to prompt any sane person to go swimming with lightning. In fact, the only people who derive any form of pleasure from this film are various masochists across the country and Jack Kavorkian’s accountant. This film’s story was so fraught with mediocrity that the cinematographer (whose name I do not and never will know) apparently felt compelled to quit, and the job of shooting the picture was clearly left in the capable (of shaking and leaping about) hands of Mr. Pacino. The result is a jumpy, split-screeniful (real word) mess that makes viewers without epilepsy wish that they had it, so that they could have a seizure and mercifully die.

What makes this whole mess so tragic is that Pacino and De Niro were once so great. Despite both starring (and receiving award nominations) for Godfather: Part II, these two Italian titans have never been on screen together… with one exception: Heat. Both this film and Heat used the pairing of these actors as a selling point. In this movie’s case, the rationale was apparently that there were no other selling points. I was praying during the previews that this film would live up to the standards of Heat. What I got was quite the reverse, a film so pathetically cold that if a dog in heat were forced to watch it, she would be instantly psychologically spayed.

I should explain the circumstances that caused me to end up in this theatre at this time watching this catastrophe unfold. A couple weeks ago, Bestbuy had a deal whereby you could get a free ticket (worth up to 10.50) to see either Traitor or Righteous Kill with the purchase of any DVD. A concurrent deal rendered a collection of 10 dollar DVDs discounted to 4 dollars each. And so I bought two DVDs for $8 total and received my two free tickets. Let us consider the price I paid. Normally the DVDs would have been 10 each, plus 10.50 each for the tickets. I got $41 worth of value for $8 plus tax. Another way of looking at it would say that the tickets were free and I saved $6 each on the movies so really, the tickets were -$6. If this is the case, then on Traitor I got my money’s worth. As for the latter film… I was not paid nearly enough to justify wasting my time and sanity, on that monumentally abysmal embarrassment for two previously respectable actors.

I should’ve known though. With young Vito and Michael Corleone getting together, how could I have failed to anticipate the imminent danger?

Morning Story

2008-09-13T02:57:00.000-11:00

I feel compelled to tell the tale of my epic quest to publish this post. So here ‘tis.

As you may know, I have failed to post anything for the past two days. I attribute this to a variety of things, including my workload and my laziness, but I have found another interesting parallel to use an excuse. When I went to the midnight showing of Dark Knight I skipped posting, and then again when I went to a late showing of Tropic Thunder. On Thursday, I went to the midnight showing of Burn After Reading and therefore, for obvious reasons, was unable to post.

So anyway, last night, I headed to bed with a plan in my head. I figured I would set my alarm for a nice early 8:30. My intention was to get up at this time, and promptly publish my post to please you people. Epic failure on all counts. I had a dream that I was hit in the stomach with a water balloon, and I immediately woke myself up to make sure I hadn’t wet my bed. It’s been awhile since that happened (at least 3 weeks) but still, better safe than sorry. So I wake up and realize that it is light out. I can tell because I see a line of light beside my blacked out window. Still, something seems wrong.

After a moment’s severe consternation, I realize that my fan is off. Anyone who knows me (has slept with me) knows that my fan is never off, and that when the blades cease to spin, I go into severe anaphylactic shock. So once I recover, I set to trying to restart the fan. I press the button on the remote that sits on my fridge/night table. Nothing happens. This is not unusual. About a month ago, the fan button (button #1) on my remote threatened to quit, and has since become exceedingly temperamental. So I wave the remote in the air (that sometimes does the trick). (This time it does not). (That was the shortest sentence ever, and consequently one of the longest parentheses rumba lines I have ever seen). Anywho, I decide that maybe button 1 has finally retired. I press button 2 and the affiliated lamp does not turn on. Maybe my remote has died. Has it? No. My room has. I get up and venture out into the living to discover that while my room has lost power, the entire rest of the country (except parts of Baton Rouge I suppose) are still fully functional.

‘Awwww shucks,’ I think. I guess I’ll just get up and write that damn post. Of course, as always is the case in such situations, I had let the battery power on my computer run down yesterday, and now, with no way to charge it, my writing abilities were again impeded. So I went downstairs to the RA station, which I discovered is quintessentially useless when unmanned. I hang my head and look pitiable for a moment before having a revelation. I need some caffeine anyway.

I go back upstairs to my room and get my computer. Then I come back downstairs to the Starbucks right outside my building. I chat briefly with the employees, who have accidentally locked themselves out of the building. They are friendly, but not important enough to justify delaying this post, so I depart, en route to Volcano’s, another coffee joint across the street. Volcano’s lies totally dormant. Another failure. I figure ‘why stop know when I can experience yet another failure?’ I go to the mailroom (next door to Volcano’s). I suspect that if I have a package, the mailroom will be unmanned at this early weekend hour, and thus unable to hand it to me. I believe that it was this negative attitude that caused me to fail… at failing. A package had been painstakingly shoved into my minute PO box. And thus did I get my Two Disc Special Edition copy of Goodfellas.

My lesson learned, I headed back to Starbucks, thoroughly convinced that it would still be closed and that my morning would be ruined. It was… but I waited twenty minutes and my friendly friends within opened the door and fed me caffeine, so here we are!

The Tea

2008-09-10T06:50:00.000-11:00

By the way, in the title, the word ‘The’ is not a definite article, but rather an unaccented French word. And thus was my title a witty pun and redundant.

So I’ve imprisoned myself in a wooden box so that I can better contemplate what musings I want to subject you poor people to today (and no, I didn’t mean anything by ‘you poor people’). So, I’m sippity sipping on some hot tea, and by hot I mean scorching. I empirically tested the scorchiness of the tea by attempting to stir it with… a stirrer. Tragically, the tea melted the stirrer. Now, was it a good idea to manufacture tea stirrers with lower melting points than the tea which they are intended to stir? In retrospect, no, probably not. An equivalent would be manufacturing spatulas made of wax. You end up with waxy eggs (sounds like a medical condition “I can’t have kids because I have waxy eggs.”). By the same token, I am now drinking tea which, in all likelihood contains little flecks of melted stirrer swimming around with nothing to do and nowhere to go (like sperm around waxy eggs). But anyway, this got me thinking about tea.

Aside from the inherent temperature problem, tea has a variety of other negatives including, among other things, its taste and the terrible stigma associated with drinking it. I will address each separately. The taste: I can’t decide whether I love it or hate it, and that in itself is a problem. Half of me believes that tea is a tasty beverage, but the other half of me thinks that it is sour water. Tragically my brain is in the first half and my mouth is… well, not.

Now, about that stigma, just because I drink tea does not mean that I enjoy scones (I do). You see, it is important to consider that despite the fact that the british drink it, Tea is actually an extremely masculine drink. In fact, tea is almost a requirement for being really manly. The two are almost always associated. You know you’ve heard it before True-Man Cup-O-Tea.

Oh that was a lame joke! I hope it didn’t prompt you to kill me in cold blood. But it was a good segue none the less. On the topic of names, who the hell is responsible for naming tea. Black tea is less black in pigmentation than black people are. I think crayola ought to release a crayon edition in honor of tea. The box will include ten crayons in various shades of brown, and they will all be called ‘Black.’ Oh, and I don’t even want to talk about Earl Grey. But I will. You might think that Grey tea is derived from adding white sugar to black tea. This is not the case.

Anyway, that said, the biggest problem with T is that it rewinds you 4 letters and makes you P. So now, this post will end by necessity the way most of my posts do, with me scurrying off to the bathroom (where I will use the TP if I do more than just TP) for the fifth time this hour.

USA Yesterday

2008-09-09T04:31:00.000-11:00

As part of a statewide effort to perpetuate the illusion of student awareness while preventing the development of socially relevant ideas, the public Universities in Florida (or maybe just UCF) have begun providing students with free copies of USA Today. Well, yesterday I felt compelled to grab a copy of McPaper. Just reading the headlines left me comatose and it took me a day to recover. Now I want to talk about them. We’ll start from the top left and work our way down, chopping off headlines as we go.

Johnson wins 2^nd in a row: ing contest? I think this one is pretty clear actually. Clearly someone named Johnson, a very rare last name, won something again. Cool. I will know what to expect when I go to page 8C. Michael Johnson won another track meet. Weird, because I thought he had retired. Maybe Dwayne The Rock Johnson took home another Academy Award nomination. Seems improbable, but who knows. The point is, this title is about as lucid as they come. Next.

Ike latest threat to Florida and the Gulf: and Tina Turner. I punctuated this headline here just as they did on the front page. That’s right, apparently Ike is not only threatening the coast, but grammar as well, as it blows commas right off the page with its category 3 winds. Perhaps we should erect some levees to protect our appositives.

As Pentagon tribute opens, others remain years away: First off, I object to USA Today jumping the gun and hitting the 9/11 issue three days before other papers get the chance. Secondly, I don’t think an entire line of valuable headline space should be wasted telling the reader what is not happening. Here are other headlines that I would expect to read in a paper that runs this line on the front page: “Burn After Reading opens in theatres while other movies do not,” “Ike threatens Gulf and other storms may later,” and “Newspaper sales rise while literacy does not.”

McCain, GOP get a bounce in poll: vaulting competition. The good news is that hurricane Ike couldn’t swing far enough to punch the commas out of Washington, and USA Today’s Susan Page was thus able to misuse one to mean ‘and.’ Furthermore, this headline caters two people who know what the GOP is but do not know that McCain is affiliated with it. Now, don’t let the hip lingo of this headline mislead you into thinking the story is important. I haven’t read the article yet, but I will share what I assume it must be about. Apparently John McCain and a Group Of Prostitutes were forcibly removed from a strip club after McCain got unruly and performed an offensive impromptu dance routine.

Feds take over mortgage giants: OK, I don’t know what to do with this one. It does sound pretty exciting. Here’s the way I think the story should read. Based on information from a source identified only as ‘Jack,’ FBI agents broke into the cloud city under the pretense of investigating some form of mortgage fraud (is that a real thing) and seized all of the golden eggs, which were not accounted for in the giant’s tax returns.

OK, I covered that last headline very weakly, but can you really expect my cynicism and rhetorical abilities to survive the reading of an entire page of USA Today?

Leavin' Soderbergh

2008-09-08T04:20:00.000-11:00

For those of you who don’t keep track of celebrity news, Steven Soderbergh was born in 1963 and has, I believe, been directing movies ever since. He hails from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, a city known for the disproportionate number of extraordinarily talented individuals that it produces. Soderbergh’s rise to stardom with the creation of Sex, Lies, and Videotape (the first independent film that did not suck the proverbial cinematic nutsack), was the second most important Baton Rouge event of the late 80s. Ever since, Soderbergh has bounced around between conventional Hollywood and independent film, directing movies like Erin Brockovich and Ocean’s Eleven, and then Solaris and The Good German. He even managed to impress a critical SOB like me, for which he garnered an academy award.

Then, this weekend I saw Ocean’s Twelve and Bubble. I will address them separately. Ocean’s Twelve sucks. There is no excuse for it. Even Sexy hated it, and though I may be male, it seems to me that making any woman hate a movie with Clooney, Pitt, and Damon is an impressive feat. The problem, I believe, is that the director was suffering from SRS (Sam Raimi Syndrome). Soderbergh was attempting to see how bad he could make a movie before an audience gave up on him. How else could he possibly justify the moronic gag of having Julia Roberts break into a museum under the guise of being Julia Roberts. You see, in my opinion, the world of a movie must assume that the movie itself and all the components thereof do not exist. Otherwise guards would logically have been walking up to Julia Roberts saying things like “have you noticed that your bodyguard looks just like Matt Damon?” and they would constantly be commenting to each other that “Wow Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan look a lot like George Clooney and Bradley Pitt!” This gag alone, combined with small other elements like the plot and poor editing style, made this movie an epic sh*tstorm whose only saving grace is that it is not Bubble.

Apparently, in production of Bubble, Stevey S fell under the popular film major belief that if no one has done something before, than to do it will be innovative and cool. Note that this directly contradicts the popular everyone else belief that if no one has done something before, than there is probably a good reason. So, what Papa Bergh did, was hire improv actors to perform a script… except that instead of a script, all he had was a plot summary, and instead of actors, he hired KFC workers from West Virginia. The good news: This poorly acted, weak-storied, monstrosity of a movie is only 73 minutes long. Also, the leading lady sounds like Travolta in Hairspray, which is amusing. The bad news: In the special features (Yes, I watched them hoping that Soderbergh would apologize for directing this disaster) Soderbergh announced that this is the first of six movies he will be directing with a similar style. Well, at least we can rest assured that Resident Evil will have some competition when it comes time to award the Worst Sexilogy of the Decade Award (a golden statuette of a six pronged pitchfork which is later inserted into the winning executive producer).

On a closing note, I would like to emphasize to Mr. Soderbergh if he is reading this blog that none of this is true. In fact I thought that Ocean’s Twelve made the series and redefined the genre of heist movies, and that Bubble was an innovative masterpiece, the likes of which have not been seen since Werner Herzog directed Heart of Glass. Furthermore, I would like to point out to you, Mr. S, that I have a couple of scripts which I would be thrilled to have you read. I can’t promise they’ll live up to the epic success that was Bubble, but I’m sure they can top your lesser work… like, I don’t know, Traffic.

Commentaria 51

2008-09-07T08:06:00.000-11:00

I would like to start this unconventional post by explaining just how many puns could come from that title. This post is about comments that have been left on my blog. These comments are very strange, and Area 51 is a place where strange things are stored. This is the 51^st post. In Spanish, the suffix ‘ria’ means ‘a place where you can get something, and here you can easily access the comments. A commentary on DVDs is a director’s thoughts on the work and in opera, an aria is an expressive solo, and here I am expressing my personal response to all of your comments. Now, onward.

It should be noted that bulk of the best comments have been fairly recent (in the past 15 posts or so), so I won’t be going all the way back to the beginning.

When I explained in The Day Before Tomorrow that I had driven through a hurricane, some anonymous person posted “I regret to say that intelligence may not be hereditary after all.” I have suspected this for a while mom, and as a result of this suspicion, I have been trying to figure out where I did get it from.

In response to Easy Being Green, which contained an essay I wrote for a scholarship, one of my most frequent commenters asked, “Did you get the scholarship? I would have given it to you.” Well, I did not. But I do appreciate your consideration, and if you’d like, I will be happy to accept a 500 dollar scholarship from you instead.

When I talked about hurricane Gustav in Topical Depression, I got a variety of interesting responses. One of my Baton Rouge friends commented “Yea..while you cozy up in Florida....” Well, my dear friend, or should I say, ex-girlfriend, if you are attempting to imply that I have snuck off to Florida to avoid Hurricanes, than I really must introduce you to a few of my friends. Their names are Fay, Ike, and Josephine, and they are extremely friendly. Of the same post, fellow blogger, Marc Acito commented “Before you bash the French too badly, remember that if it wasn't for their help, America would still be a British colony.” You, Marc, are absolutely right. Furthermore, I realized after publishing my bash of France that they are also responsible for countless other contributions to America aside from Independence. These include but are not limited to vanilla, kissing, fries, bread, toast, and of course a tickler (whatever that is). So pardon me, French.

Perhaps some of the most interesting posts come from my Aunt who lives in Sweden. Of Topical Depression she notified me that in Sweden, Gustav is the name given to the American comic cat named Garfield. Other interesting international insights include that ‘To hold one’s thumbs” is equivalent to crossing one’s fingers in America, and that the quest for soft toilet paper is a worldwide humanitarian effort. I’m glad to find out that I retro-actively spearheaded that effort.

When I posted Terribly Painful TP, a post which addressed a serious societal problem, Marc Acito posted “So I'm noticing a bit of a trend--some might say an obsession--with toilet habits. One you haven't addressed yet is: What do you do when you go into a public toilet and all of the urinals are taken? Naturally, you go into the stall to pee but do you close and lock the door behind you or do you leave it open as if you're at a urinal?” This comment makes a very good point and has prompted me to look for work as an advice columnist on the topic of excretions. In answer to the query, I have always closed and locked the door. I would suggest though that you stand with your feet close together lest the poopers on either side of you realize that you’re only taking a number 1 and kick you out of their club.

Two days ago, when I sarcastically ripped apart Sarah Palin in Paler Satan, I got a few extremely amusing comments. “I forget who said it, but "Sarah Palin looks like every librarian in every porn flick ever".” Not that I have ever seen a porn librarian, but that is so ridiculously accurate! In fact, that comment made me completely re-evaluate my view of Sarah Palin. Think of all the political satire porn that the next 8 years could bring! Old man, young milf librarian, maybe toss in a troop surge. On a cleaner not, my Aunt asked “Sarah Palin? Don't you mean Daniella Quayle?” I don’t know. Do they have potahtoes in Alaska?

Anyway, that concludes Commentaria 51. I will cook up another pun and put up another similar post as soon as I get enough new amusing comments to warrant it. If you’d like to be featured in the next edition, feel free to leave amusing anecdotes, and if you think that you might not be as amusing as you think you are, then do it anonymously and save yourself the shame.

And Not a Month Two Soon

2008-09-06T03:55:00.000-11:00

That’s right folks, today is the first two month anniversary of Something Clever. By this point I have eradicated my delusion that you would arrange a party in honor of my baby’s second birthday, but I really must express my gratitude that you’re still keeping up with her (how could a guy be something clever?). So now, for tradition’s sake, I will reflect on month numero dos of this merry masterpiece (term coined by me to describe that which is or resembles Something Clever).

Second off (because one month ago I said ‘First off’ and never followed it up), according to the counter at the bottom of the page, excluding the very first day, this blog has been viewed 1,318 times in the past month. This may sound like it’s worse than last month, but I have become aware that most (3) people check this thing once a week and read all the posts, so I think it’s safe to multiply my counter by 7 to get an accurate estimate. Also, you must consider that my roommate, anonymously named (321) 745-7224, did not add 500 views this month. I’m fairly sure that he meant to, but his biceps have now swelled to such monstrous proportions that it makes even simple actions like using a computer very difficult for him. In fact, his tree trunk arms have begun to burden him so much that he is beginning to have back problems, problems which limit his methods of transportation to being carried around on a gurney by four men who by necessity also have very big biceps. Speaking of transportation, have you ever ridden on a Segway?

And speaking of Segway’s, are you aware that they were named by a clever engineer who should have been an English major, and that their name is derived from the word ‘segue’ meaning ‘to glide smoothly from one topic to the next,’ and speaking of topics, here’s one. Very little has changed about Something Clever in the past month. I’m working hard to keep you guys supplied with a steady stream of corny crap. The focus of the articles have shifted slightly towards more serious issues lately, issues like the upcoming election, gender inequalities, hurricanes, racial injustice, and low-quality toilet paper. I hope that everyone is aware that the tone of these articles is so severely sarcastic, that my tongue has actually been grafted to the inside of my cheek.

And now, for the complementary montage paragraph: (For those of you who don’t know, this is a list of illustrations that I will provide for chapter 2 of the book, Something Clever: The Not a Blog Edition) Athletes competing in the sport of Olympic Parking, a diagram of the proper pooping stance, a screenshot of the blog about unconventional uses for salmon, a picture of Sparky sodomizing poor kitten, the table at my museum of puns and a pastry sex diagram, the evolution of suppositories diagram, Mama’s crappy gifts, Sam the ipod, a map of under my thumb, a full copy of the Defecation of Indigestion, an ad for the McFlurryCane, John McCain’s Satanic Christmas party, and of course, a picture of Sexy’s look of surprise when she realized that this thing lasted two whole months.

By the way, if any of the images in the preceding paragraph sounded unfamiliar to you than you have not been doing your homework, and you need to do the opposite of getting a life (not losing a life) and read my blog more often. If on, the other hand those images were more familiar to you than your mothers face, well in that case, I’m not going to give you anything, but at least you have the joy of knowing that your priorities are straight (badly out of whack in a way that benefits me).

Aside from that, I am still on the lookout for coattails, so if you give me some and the affiliated fame, I will allow you to ride them for as long as you like. I hope that you keep reading past this second monthiversary, and if you have any suggestions or politely phrased, non-emotionally-damaging criticism, feel free to comment or email me at djbush89@gmail.com.

P.S. Alternative titles for this post could have included My Two Planniversary, Remembered in September, and Oh My God, When Will This End?

Paler Satan

2008-09-05T04:39:00.000-11:00

So as you should be aware (based on the fact that you clearly have an internet connection) Sarah Palin has recently been chosen as the Republican Vice Presidential nominee. This is an interesting choice for a variety of reasons. She’s a woman (ooo how novel!). She’s Catholic-ish (Take that Biden). She’s a lifetime member of the NRA (She can maintain the Vice Presidential tradition of shooting people in the face). She has five kids, one of whom has Down’s Syndrome (she has plenty of free time to devote to the office). She has two years executive experience as governor of Alaska (the state that is most likely to suffer a nuclear attack (when we aim wrong and miss Russia)). Also, I think she could pass for Catwoman, which means that she and Cheney could get together for a remake of Batman Returns.

So why don’t I like Sarah Palin? Well, the answer is simple: She has her negatives as well. First off, she turned down the famous Alaskan bridge to nowhere! As you know, I hate adages of all kinds, and her quintessentially useless suspended street would have wreaked havoc on ‘All roads lead to Rome.’ But that’s not my only qualm. Here’s another issue: She sucks at naming kids. In order, from oldest to youngest, her children are named Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig. I’m sure I’m not the only one that thinks that if she had 4 more, they could contend with Rudolph’s crew for steering privileges of Santa’s sleigh. Also, I wonder why she abandoned the forest theme when she named the youngest one, prenatally diagnosed with DS, Trig, the name of a math that he will likely never learn. Furthermore, I object to Palin because her oldest son is now on active duty in Iraq. How is she supposed to influence foolish military decisions if she knows that someone important might actually die?

So clearly, Sarah Palin has her fair share of negatives, but I have yet to point out the biggest one. The newspapers have recently been circulating the story that Sarah’s daughter, Bristol, recently got herself a love child. I’m sure some of you are thinking, “But why does her personal life matter this much?” or “Who cares about her daughter’s mistakes? It’s the issues that matter?” Well, here’s why? If you’ve ever asked the question, “Who would do someone named after a seaport city in West England?” then you will be happy to know that I’ve found the answer. The papers are calling him Levi, but check this out: re-arrange the letters and you get… EVIL!!!!

That’s right! Sarah Palin’s daughter is Satan’s mistress! I know. Who cares? Well think about this. They’re to be wed. Sarah Palin is about to be the mother in law of the Devil. Karl Rove was bad enough. Do we really want Beelzebub attending El Presidente’s Christmas dinners? I mean, if a pretzel nearly took down the young, robust GW, think what a demonic fruitcake could do to McCain.

Furthermore, I suspect that Palin may be a secret Muslim (and as you know, all Muslim’s are to be feared). Why do I think this? Because if you rearrange the letters in the Sarah Palin, you get Al Rash Pain, which as everyone knows, is Arabic for The Rash Pain. What does this mean? It means that she is a literal biological weapon who was, in all likelihood illegally immigrated into Alaska via the Bering ice bridge from Russia after she was planted there by Afghanistan (a country that is on excellent terms with Russia and always has been).

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you vote for McCain and his smallpox excreting, Satan loving cohort, then you are trying to destroy America. And speaking of destroying America, if you believed anything I said in the last 643 words, then I am succeeding in doing just that.

Terribly Painful TP

2008-09-02T06:19:00.001-11:00

I want to know who it was that collected the management of every major public attraction together and persuaded them into believing that tissue paper and toilet paper are synonymous. It never fails to damage my morale when I sit in a stall on campus or at a theme park and think to myself that if I only had sand paper I’d be able to wipe my crack far more effectively.

I understand the economic reasons for buying the crappiest (pre-use) toilet paper known to man. When you factor in the thousands of people who defecate at Pleasure Island on a daily basis, a difference of a quarter per roll amounts to a net loss of hundreds of dollars per hour. Not to mention, who really thinks about TP quality when debating whether or not to choose one park over another. It just doesn’t seem like a justifiable use of money.

I have done two very interesting things in the past fifteen minutes. 1) I have started 3 consecutive paragraphs with the same word. 2) I have constructed a business plan for improving the American economy, theme park attendance, and the happiness of my gluteus. Now, right now I assume that you are wondering why I did this. And here it is:

I like myself so much that I feel every paragraph should start with me. Furthermore, I like myself enough to think I should not have to shower confetti out of my butt when I get home. And so, here is the plan. Charge per square. That’s right theme parks, I want you to buy multi-ply sheets of butt tissue and then make your customers pay to use them. Charge one penny per square. This will have numerous positive impacts.

(I) First of all, it eliminates the need for “Customer’s Only” signs, because by dumping in your pot they become a customer. Secondly, a large roll of toilet paper will more than pay for itself. Thirdly, the government is trying to get rid of pennies anyhow, so what you (themeparks and my campus) can do is cut a deal with the feds to trade the pennies in to them for a slight markup.

I like this. But what about people who don’t carry pennies on them. More profit! Install a machine in the bathroom that gives people 20 pennies for a quarter or 90 cents for a dollar. What are they gonna do? They have no choice. Besides 20 squares should be more than enough for any person. I just realized that this will also encourage toilet paper and thus tree conservation as well, but anyway… I suppose that there is still one fundamental problem: What about people who really don’t have any cash on them… well, let’s just hope they have socks on.

I would also like to suggest that you print this entry. ‘Why?’ you might ask, and I would likely answer: Just in case you take an unexpected trip to Universal today. ‘Why?’ you might ask again, and I would not answer but would simply say: “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

I is the loneliest letter. Well, that’s enough of that. By that of course, I mean sitting. On account of last night’s trip to Disney, my cheeks don’t enjoy being pressed together by, I don’t know… a chair, right now. So I’m off to lie on my belly for a bit, and if anyone knows where I can pick up a cheap bidet, please let me (and Disney) know.

something clever

iPood

Je Suis Jean Penn

Chatcraps

Liebrary Fines

Once Upon a Crime

Twenty Twenty

The Hand Froster

C.C. Starbuck and the Fifty Word Films

Lossless!

Love is

Pope Art

Bush Ts 3

Bush Ts 2

Bush Ts 1

New Novel

Justifiction

Apple Twitters

Some Movie Stuff

Comeback to the Future

Amazoned Out

C*ns*rsh*p

Content Orangutan Pilot Episode (cope)

Merry Christ-Mass

Jollyday Eve Eve

Ground Re-Opening

A Fond Faregood

Nay Marriage

43.5

Essay What?

A Month Goes Fourth

Pie in the Facebook

My Vote Goes To...

Poop Art

Un Forgiving

Shalloween

ADD Post Mandolin

Arctic Antics

101 Damnations

Fairy Unfortunate

The Joke's Me

Porno or No?

An Act of Defecation

In ESPN Old, Poor Favre

Set In Motion

Beside Her

Electile Dysfunction

Oy Vey!

Quest for Wire(less)

A Novel Ideal

Inferior Designer

Sidney v. Hussein Vol.2

Breaking News Trash

Sidney v. Hussein Vol.1

Pain in the pAssenger

Another Month Too Soon

Burning Sexy's Back

Absurd Search

ADD Post Limestone

Straw Man

The Third

Tribute to a New Man

Heard and Shudders

Sidney

Hussein

Easy Being Bad

Cafighteria

The Interthreat

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 3

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 2

A Brief History of My Failed Creative Endeavors: Part 1

Far From Righteous

Morning Story

The Tea

USA Yesterday

Leavin' Soderbergh

Commentaria 51

And Not a Month Two Soon

Paler Satan

Terribly Painful TP

Cnsrsh*p