Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Best of 2014 — Sunshine

This section is for the funny and satirical things I wrote or filmed this year. I call it “Sunshine” because, like sunshine, these works can brighten your day or compel you to squint in discomfort. Also, because I had a blurry picture I took of the sun shrouded in a red evening sky and not much else to use.
Avoid a man if:

• He doesn’t have a beard. That means he can’t protect you against the bears. Indeed, you should look for primal, Darwinian characteristics in every aspect of his life. Is he muscular? Does he drive a 4x4? Can he chop down sequoia trees with a dull butter knife? Does he own 15 varieties of firearms? How’s his night vision? Is he undertaking advanced specialized training for the zombie apocalypse? You need all of these things to survive the desolate, frozen tundrascape that is 2014 America.

I see you were an apathetic and terrible basketball coach at Beacontown High whose only winning season was due to a werewolf. So I’m hiring you to coach that werewolf’s skinny, intellectual cousin — who we don’t know to be a werewolf — in boxing at the collegiate level, which he doesn’t yet know he’s going to do because this is all a wacky misunderstanding that apparently can’t be fixed. Not that this would make any more sense if they had recast Michael J. Fox like they clearly meant to.

This setup makes negative sense, but I don’t care, so I’m on board.

Oh, it only gets worse from here.

Other NFL divisions (11/24)
NFC More Butts
Winner of the “Fan names a division” contest on Twitter.
AFC Extra Crispy
It’s only a matter of time before the league gets this corporate.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles (2014) (12/8)
NEAL PAGE sees an AVAILABLE TAXI, which apparently only he and KEVIN BACON see. They RACE for it. NEAL WINS, but TRIPS over a BIG TRUNK. KEVIN gives a SARCASTIC SALUTE to NEAL and TRIES TO GET IN.

Sorry, Bacon, someone booked this cab with an app.


You're messing with the right guy. (ENTERS CAB)

BACON then tries to buy another cab ride from a stranger.

I don’t have a good nature. Excuse me.

Tuesday Morning Football
Watch What Just Happened Live Earlier

Sad toys (2/8)
Easy Head in the Oven

Dog Movies (7/29)
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Panting
Scootch Pilgrim vs. the World

Ice Suns of the Moon

#RuinADessert (10/15)
Chocolate chips on your shoulder
Chocolate Sudaffle

#HipHopBooks (10/15)
The Hitchhiker's Guide to Digable Planets
2 Live Crew of Dunces
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Gat

Sentence: Car insurance commercials. Forever.
Black Friday. You're the doors.
Buried alive. Oxygen. Cellphone. Busey.

For National Novel Writing Month in November, I began work on Capitalist Letters, a novel told in a series of short stories, news and magazine articles and from the points of view of inanimate objects. I only reached 21,843 words (the goal is 50,000), but I like it so far. Below are some excerpts:

All Lisa knew was, she wanted this to be done with already. Vomit dread, she called it, where the anticipation is worse than the action. She remembered a similar feelng of dread from her schooling, when the nuns would come down on her hard with the ruler, or sometimes not at all. Either way, it was a terrifying punishment for (usually) not praying in the correct posture. To this day, it was part of her spiritual OCD, even if she didn't believe anymore. God may or may not be a fluid concept of dubious reality, but the punishment authority figures could inflict was very, very real.

"Look at this fast-food restaurant. You know how much business we get from it? A ton. Literally. Tons and tons of people. They kill themselves eating here. They kill themselves working here. And for what? To keep a roof over their heads. So they can stay alive another day to go keep working at Big Burger Picnic. And to take care of their kids, whose chances are so shot from the outset that they'll be lucky in 15 years to go work at Big Burger Picnic. That's a good life? You think that's what a good life is?"

Lisa didn't know what to say. Whatever assertiveness she'd found in the car with Truman Echeverria had apparently died in it as well.

"That's not my life," she replied meekly.

Pressure cooker: (Yawn) "Good morning, all."
Abdominator: "Hey."
Best of Neil Diamond: "Mornin'."
Leisure suit: "TGIF!"
Pressure cooker: "Oh, is it Friday?"
Leisure suit: "I don't know. I lost track in 1983."

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