Hard lessons from the tunnel of history

September 10, 2013
By

Taking tiny steps in Atlantic City. The ocean’s made of popsicle sticks and if you touch it, you get hepatitis. I stumbled over the sarcophagus of Alexander Hamilton’s drug dealer outside the Apple store. You know that dork was in an abysmal K-hole when he shot Aaron Paul? I learned a lot in history class when I wasn’t drowning in the linoleum. I learned that in season 18 of Dexter the entire state of Florida discovers his secret but doesn’t tell anyone because

There was a big yellow sponge I used to wash the blackboard with every Tuesday. I don’t know where it went during the rest of the week, and I DON’T CARE. We took tiny steps. We didn’t inquire into the secret lives of sponges.

I learned that William McKinley was assassinated because the assassin, Lenny Shoegaze, was convinced McKinley was personally responsible for the Sega Channel’s nonexistence. Of course, in reality it was Rockefeller’s doing, but what can you do? The tunnel of history stinks because it’s filled with dead trout, as the saying goes.

If you’re exploring the tunnel of history, remember the five rules: 1) Don’t kick the rats, 2) Don’t forget to bring a red lantern, 3) Don’t trust anyone named Girard.

Stay out of the history tunnel. You don’t have any business being in there and you know it. One moment you’ll be innocently eating a handful of hexagonal cheese crackers, and the next, Vietnam is at the bottom of the ocean. Don’t think it can’t happen. Why do you suppose we only have one moon now? Because of someone’s big dumb clowny steps.

Don’t make waves. Don’t stir a tornado on the moon (any of them). Don’t disturb the men in expensive bowler hats standing so patiently in line at the buffet at Arby’s. Don’t wilt the lettuce.

I dropped my marble in that tunnel one night. It rolled away in a direction I wasn’t expecting, and when I chased after it, it led me down a hidden offshoot with embarrassing diamond patterns on the walls. Around a blind turn, there was a rusty turnstile which, naturally, I jumped. I tucked, I rolled, I found myself in an awful, misshapen cathedral that would have made Saint Peter puke. At the far end was Mary Todd Lincoln, shitfaced on communion wine, extolling via stutters into a spit-caked bullhorn the virtues of dolphin-safe gelatin desserts to a congregation of cobwebbed crash test dummies. The dusty ultraviolet rays streaming from the ridiculous gothic windows were thrashing about like tentacles. In the right-hand corner, where you might expect a pipe organ to be, there was a pipe organ, at which sat the esteemed “Dude, you’re getting a Dell” gentleman, repeatedly pounding on middle C with his bloody stump as if he expected it to eventually moo. Behind him, in the shadows, I could barely make out what appeared to be John Lennon and J. D. Salinger engaged in a heated argument. John was holding a chihuahua and jamming a stubby finger into J. D.’s chest.

Hanging high above the pulpit, a string of shiny green party letters spelled “COME ONE COME ALL,” but as I began to notice the heads of the dummies twisting around to face me with eyeless stares (a few popping off and bouncing down the aisle like coconuts, ha ha), it quickly became obvious that the welcome didn’t extend to me or my marble.

Things get funny that way when you get too close to the core of the Brahma’s infinite jawbreaker. The flavors of time bleed into each other, and if you’re not careful, you might find yourself drifting into pineapple territory while dragging a pomegranate behind you on a thousand-year chain.

I backed rhythmlessly down the hall (tiny steps), pausing for a quick Instagram selfie, then hopped on the next camel out of that dump. Along the way I kept sniffing for cherries, but there were only fish and a lumpy old headache. My ride dropped me off at the smoking ruins of the Taj Mahal and I paid him in solid stock tips. I grabbed my transistor radio and my ham sandwich and staggered off through the blueberry fields in search of a room with a view. At what passes for dusk I stopped to gnaw on that sandwich and realized after three hearty bites that it was not a ham sandwich at all. It was a big yellow sponge. No, no, no, no! I didn’t want to know! It’s only Sunday, for crying out loud!

Spit spit spit cough spit cough

I lifted the moon like a manhole cover, crawled out and flipped it over. “Sorry, dropped my pencil again,” I muttered, and skittered back across the dirty floor to my desk. The classroom smelled squarely and correctly of cinnamon. I lucked out this time.

Remember, silver and hairless readers, while education and calcium are the pillars of a lithe and meaningful existence, you must stay out of the tunnel of history. The orange cones are there for a reason! And don’t even look at the algebra ziggurat, good god

In memory of RoboCop (1933-2007)

September 9, 2013
By

Someone spilled iced tea on RoboCop and broke him. The funeral is next Wednesday at 3:07 a.m., at the San Luis Obispo VFW. Do you think you could whip up some of your famous Jamaican Moebius lasagna? Whatever you do, wear comfortable shoes, and be ready to chuckle.

—Recipe—

What You’ll Need:

1 gallon 2% milk (warm)
16.3 medium brown eggs
2 medium brown tomatoes
5,226 grains Cypriot sea salt
The darkness
4 unused desktop icons
1 lb. angry tofu
Fuck it, a lemon
3 liters feta grease
12 basil leaves, dried, stolen
1 celery stalk, extra smooth
36 gallons Grand Marnier
1 package Red Vines
Kevin Costner’s telephone number

Directions:

It’s your fault, you know. “Oh, yeah, let’s put a vending machine in the break room!” Fucking idiot. Go get a frying pan, idiot. Put it on the stove.

You’re nine years old, you have a fever of 106, and you’re trying to pry the Ms. Pac-Man sex tape from the VCR while your dad is fighting an eagle in the front yard. Add salt. Not too fast. Not too slow. Faster. Stop.

Simmer for eight days.

Did you really know RoboCop? Did anyone? I keyed his car once, but I was young and naïve. I did it again and he vaporized my children. I did it again last month and he just cried. Would I do it again? I’m doing it right now. Add pepper.

If you don’t mind, I’m going to play a few bars of “Famous Blue Raincoat” on this here harpsichord. Oh? That’s not a harpsichord? That’s Cathy? Hello, Cathy.

Do you have any fresh garlic handy? Good. Throw it out. All of it. RoboCop hated garlic. While you’re doing this, add the dark chocolate shavings to the double boiler and do not look at me.

Now remove the Cornish game hens from the oven. Place them on the floor. Step on them. Crush them. You’re free to join in, Cathy. Destroy these wretched things once and for all.

This is my kitchen. MY kitchen. You are just guests in my kitchen, you and “Cathy.” If RoboCop were here, well… hey, has anyone ever told you you look just like a severely dehydrated Brian Dennehy? MY kitchen.

Stir in the margarine now. You’re terrible at this. Why did you do it, anyway? What did RoboCop ever do to you? You make me sick. Crumble the bacon into the small pan.

I’m sorry I called you a harpsichord, Cathy. I love you. Let’s leave this recipe and go to Lansing together to start a new life. Right now. The plane is already on the tarmac. The pilot is named Carl.

Goodbye, Brian Dennehy. May your future culinary endeavors be more successful. There are some Cool Ranch corn chips in the cupboard if you want them. They expired in 1998 but should still be digestible. Please burn this place down before you leave.

(Serves 4)

Willy Wonka

September 5, 2013
By

Willy Wonka was standing by the exit at Disneyland, selling cheap balloons and slightly melted Velvet Underground vinyls. I saw him from one of the lesser-used corners of my eye, bathed in late morning tracers, and I sent a fax to my extremities to get a closer look.

At about ten yards I could count the threads in his leisure suit and gauge the rollercoaster-like contours of his skull. He smelled like health food. I adjusted my belt, spat my gum and took three more steps. He looked straight at me, blinked, and spelled the word “COCKSUCKER” in perfect sign language (I didn’t learn this little detail until many years later).

“How much are the Velvet Underground records?” I inquired. He stared at me like I was a moron, and finally, after about thirty minutes, he replied, “Eight Disney dollars, except for this copy of White Light/White Heat, which is fourteen thousand Disney dollars.”

“Why does that one cost fourteen thousand Disney dollars?”

“Because it doesn’t work.”

“How much for a balloon?”

When I was a kid, I used to be fascinated by Willy Wonka’s glass elevator that could go sideways and diagonally and up the Pope’s ass and every other direction you can think of. I wondered how angry he would have been if Charlie Bucket had broken it. I mean, elevators break all the time. I broke three of them this morning.

Has Willy Wonka ever seen the inside of a discotheque?

“The balloons are not for sale.”

What if the elevator never stopped? What if it just kept going faster and faster, spinning out of control, the inside becoming ever more streaked and spattered with candy colored vomit?

I shoved him right in the thorax. His eyes disengaged and he fell over backwards, followed by a herd of afterimages. The records were all rolling and wobbling across the parking lot like hubcaps and the stupid balloons were halfway to heaven.

Is there music playing inside the elevator? I can only imagine what it must be like to have your flapjacks of terror drizzled with the Pet Shop Boys.

Now, I need to get “real” with you nice people for a second. My lawyer has instructed me to make it clear that I know essentially nothing about the Pet Shop Boys, so therefore I cannot quantify to any exact degree the amount by which the trauma of being hurtled to my inevitable death in Willy Wonka’s flying glass coffin would be exacerbated by any one of their songs.

My lawyer is now eating a large quantity of hot fudge.

An oompa loompa, identified by his name tag as Doug, had been observing the scene from a comfortable distance. I looked over at him and he quickly darted his eyes in a different direction.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I yelled.

“You know why there’s a crack in the Liberty Bell?” he asked me, still looking away. “You know why there are thunder clouds?” He turned to look at me. “Because of jerks like you.”

Doug took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked it at Disneyland, and waddled away.

I offered Mr. Wonka a ride back to his house at the bottom of the Caspian Sea. On the way, he told me about a boat he used to own, and I pretended to believe him. Then he started to talk about Doug.

“Don’t you think Doug looks like the singer from the Pet Shop Boys?” asked Mr. Wonka.

I stomped on the brake of the stolen BMW and turned to glare at him. There were theta waves oozing from his nose and mouth. He smiled feebly.

“I’m an old man,” he said.

“Listen to this,” I retorted. “I don’t know Thing One about the Pet Shop Boys. Do not mention them again, or–”

“Or what?”

I never wanted one of those balloons anyway. Fuck it, I’ll walk.

Post-summer blues

September 4, 2013
By

The world’s most powerful sports fan is dying on his couch after being shot in the lung by the most interesting man in the world (known to his slightly less interesting contemporaries as Randy). Randy grabs a massive fistful of trail mix and sits cross-legged on the burgundy carpet.

“I once gave Jerry Mathers a tongue bath,” Randy announces to the sportschildren as he reaches for the remote control with his mind. He pours the trail mix down his gullet and changes the channel.

It’s that damned Moses movie again. You know, the one with Björk parting the sea of pistachio ice cream with a stale baguette. That silly RoboPharaoh rap montage. They always show this crap this time of year, just like the lady at Falafel City always fucks up your order. The smell of overdue library books and decaying school buses so thick and stringy in the air you can twirl it on a fork like spaghetti.

Old World Style sauce spiced with imitation oregano and memories of sitting on my great-great-granddaughter’s crooked gravestone in the shade of a giant yarn tree, sharing a strawberry-scented joint with my high school gym coach and discussing our favorite aspects of sand dunes in hushed tones.

“Sandsurfing in the Emerald Desert will really blow your top,” squeaks the coach before exhaling a perfect cube of milky smoke. The cube floats effortlessly over the wet grass, and the top twists off and dissipates in the breeze. A soft blue light emanates from within the box.

“Go on, take a look,” says the coach, and a grin spreads like a stain under his thick beard.

I peer over the edge slowly. It’s a dollhouse, or more like a doll living room, and a lousy one at that. A Ken doll lies on a cardboard couch, with dried barbecue sauce smeared across its chest. A nude Barbie with the sneering head of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sits on the floor, its legs broken and folded, facing a cardboard TV set. A few Lego men are glued haphazardly to the floor.

“Why?” I ask, but I know before I turn around that he’s already gone. See, there he goes, that old coach, receding into the pixelated yonder. He left behind one of his ratty flip-flops. “You always hated me,” I call out to him.

“You know why,” comes the distant reply, and he disappears forever. He’s right, of course. I turn back and gaze down into the impossible box.

Randy laughs at the TV as Björk throws down the Ten Commandments. “Classic!” he hisses through chocolate-smudged teeth. The sportschildren are huddled in the corner, praying for any nearby deity to intervene. At last, a great light beams down from above, a great voice booms, “Which Ninja Turtle is this anyway?” and a great blue hand with obsidian fingernails descends into the room.

“But the pizza isn’t–”

Those were Randy’s final words, ladies and gentlemen. “But the pizza isn’t.” Now there’s something to chew on next time the desert calls out to you. Here are some other notable last words:

“WaveRace 64″ -Ulysses S. Grant

“I said curly fries” -Pope John Paul II

“Jello Biafra is a dick” -Lee Harvey Oswald

“Cabbage patch” -Jim Morrison

“Time is but a window, death is but a door; I’ll be back” -Bob Dylan

#funfacts

Be active in your community!

September 3, 2013
By

That’s a sweet paper hat.

Oh, thank you! It’s Dolce & Gabbana. See, there’s the logo, over… uh… there, behind my ear.

Nice.

It cost a LOT of money. This is 100 percent genuine Italian newspaper.

Nice.

Yeah. I’m pretty great.

I’m going to set your face on fire.

No, I wouldn’t enjoy that!

It’s okay, relax. These are matches I stole from Karl Lagerfeld’s bathroom.

Oh! I stand corrected. Proceed.

——–

Please print and complete the following form, then mail to your elected Congressional representative (if applicable) along with a sample of your feces.

1. My name is _________________________.

2. I wish my name were ________.

3. I was born because ________________________________.

4. My favorite episode of “Coach” is the one where Dauber __________________________________________________.

5. Someday I will kill God with a ______________________.

6. My nipples are often compared to ___________________.

10. I frequently wake up at 2:37 a.m. drenched in cold sweat and with the taste of _______________ in my mouth.

11. Fucking _______________________________________________________________________________________________.

18. I bought this shirt at Target, I was drunk, I didn’t notice it had this douchey dragon design on the back

19, Oh sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to talk about ___________________, YOUR MAJESTY.

36. If there were a Game Genie code to make the pain go away, it would be ________-________.

37. Please

39. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

40. I saw you standing out in the hallway last night. You were wearing that ugly blue satin suit, and you were chewing on a nasty old taquito. You didn’t see me because I was one with the ice machine. What were you thinking? You can’t keep doing this. And those boots… I just wish you’d _________________, is that seriously too much to ask?

41. Please

42. We’re all fucked

43. We’re all fucked

44. We’re all fucked

45. We’re all fucked

46. We’re all fucked

47. We’re all fucked

48. We’re all fucked

49. My favorite vegetable is

A blog post that posits that the existence of Dave Chappelle is subjective

August 30, 2013
By

If someone were to make a Venn diagram with one circle representing people who think it’s perfectly acceptable to yell out “I’m Rick James, bitch” at a Dave Chappelle show and the other representing people who are excited over the prospect of McDonald’s selling chicken wings, there would just be one circle. A total solar eclipse of stupidity. And there would be Pink Floyd music playing, of course, but it would be one of their shitty songs like “Not Now John.”

Dave Chappelle casually drops the microphone onto the dusty floor and it makes no sound. It begins to melt like butter in a frying pan. Chappelle is a 747, and a fat kid in an Avenged Sevenfold has pointed a laser pointer into the cockpit of his brain. With one faint glance back at the front row, he winks out of existence.

A white hole opens up over Nashville and spews forth one (1) pair of vocal cords. They streak magnificently across the sky, down to the town, wrap around a few light poles, and they never stop vibrating the words “I’m Rick James, bitch,” although around lunch time they switch over to Latin. Eventually they burrow into the rich soil in the backyard of the [REDACTED] family.

The mood is a somber one at this household. They had planned to watch the Major Sporting Event on the high-definition television set, but Dad [REDACTED], on his way back home from his journey to McDonald’s(R) to procure a great quantity of McDonald’s(R) Mighty Wings(TM), collided his sport utility vehicle into a protruding woolly mammoth tusk that had somehow gone unnoticed for the last few millennia or so. He would have survived if he had been able to delay his gratification, but the meticulously calculated aroma wafting from the bag in the passenger seat proved to be too much… well, long story short, he has a McDonald’s(R) Mighty Wing(TM) firmly lodged in his not-so-mighty cerebral cortex. Ba-da ba ba baaa… sorry, kids.

New flowers burst forth from the ground, ugly pink ones, spraying violent truths such as “CHARLES IS NO LONGER IN CHARGE” and “JOANIE DESPISES CHACHI.” The earth is shriveling like a prune, but nobody cares. They’re all holding greasy hands and singing “I’m Rick James, bitch.” The Moron Tabernacle Choir. The microphone is charred and bubbling like tar. Smoke is in the eyes of the beholders.

Dad [REDACTED] is in Heaven, urinating rainbows on an ivory cloud and muttering “so what?” to himself over and over. That stupid chicken wing is still sticking out of his left eye, and some smartass gave it its own little halo.

Hi, this is Jeff from IT. Looks like you’re having a little issue with your reality here. If you’ll just hang on a quick sec, I’m gonna go ahead and merge this reality with the previous one. You saved your work, right? Okay, just one… second… there… we…. g

Backstage at the Wilco concert. Can’t breathe. You seem like a nice fella. Nice teeth. Can you help me hide in this utility closet? Please, I’m… oh, and could you give this message to my wife? It’s so important… Please… come a little closer… tell her…

I’M RICK JAMES, BITCH!

[applause.wav]

Rummy

August 29, 2013
By

Donald Rumsfeld was in front of me in the checkout line at the grocery store. Swear to God. He had long red hair but I know it was him. He was buying a tall can of Tecate, a Hostess cherry pie, and a box of powdered latex gloves. He was wearing a corduroy history teacher jacket with those oval suede patches on the elbows. Each patch had a mouth, and the left one seemed to be trying to teach the right one Spanish. “Carrot.” “Zanahoria.” I don’t think the right mouth was really into it, though. I reached out to give it a little touch and it licked my finger. I giggled a bit (not too loud).

Donald Rumsfeld paid for his purchase by punching the sales clerk in the mouth. Van Halen’s “Panama” was playing and the golden fist drifted past like a sailboat. I waved at the grouchy captain but he was too busy breaking his iPhone to notice. Or maybe he was just pretending not to notice. You can’t be sure in this day and age. But the breeze was cool and refreshing.

Blood went everywhere. There was blood on the Juicy Fruit, blood on the 5-Hour Energy, and Justin Theroux on the cover of Whatever now had a sloppy red Hitler ‘stache as Jennifer Aniston kissed his ear. The cashier, GLENN, fell backwards onto the cigarettes.

“Ticket.” “Boleto.”

The store manager emerged from his office and held up a score card. 7. Come on, seriously? That was at least an 8. Booooooo.

I followed Donald Rumsfeld out to the parking lot. A Pomeranian locked in a Prius was barking hysterically at him, and he was barking right back, in between swigs of warm cerveza.

“Can you fucking believe this shit?” I said to the Girl Scouts selling cookies by the store entrance. None of them answered, but that’s okay. It was a rhetorical question. There was a large, hairy-armed man in a crocodile shirt standing behind them, and I couldn’t help but notice that he was staring at me. I glanced over at him, looked back at Donald Rumsfeld and the dog for a few seconds, then to the hairy man. He looked like Dennis Quaid after eating another Dennis Quaid, and damn it, he was still staring a hole through me. I lifted my eyebrows and my shoulders in the universal gesture for “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Are you supposed to be eating that?” he grumbled.

I looked down at my right hand. Empty. Hmm. Left hand. Freshly peeled tangerine. Ahh. Well, can you blame me? Even the word is delicious.

I returned my eyes to Mr. Hairy Starey Quaidbeast over there, then shifted them down to the Girl Scouts, who were also staring at me, mouths hanging open. I was beginning to sweat as I swiveled my head to look back at Donald Rumsfeld, and of course he was staring too. Even that damn dog had stopped yapping and was looking at me like I was about to open a bag of Snausages.

GLENN had emerged from the air conditioning, but he was too preoccupied to care about the unfolding fruit situation. His face was creased like the back page of an old Mad Magazine. He was smoking a Swisher Sweet and playing a slot machine game on his phone, crying.

The tangerine in my hand was throbbing, getting heavier by the second. I wished it would turn into a black hole and eat all these bastards. Juice began to trickle up my arm. Why did I pick today to wear this white tuxedo? Fruit flies were dancing in a conga line, oblivious to my state of mind.

The sliding glass whooshed open and I heard the opening drum beat from Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice.” My hand suddenly and involuntarily slammed the soggy tangerine into my unexpecting facehole. The initial pang of horror was quickly rinsed away by fantastic, stuttering waves of citric joy. I imagined an audience of Depression-era theatergoers sighing with relief. A pink grand piano skipping across a frozen pond. The authoritative voice of Robert Mitchum reading an outdated Chinese restaurant menu bouncing off the mesas. A wounded Civil War soldier trying to delete his Facebook profile before Death can–

I swallowed what was left of the blasted tangerine before that train of thought could deliver its cargo. Hoping that the situation was now satisfactorily resolved, I checked in with my audience, only to discover that they were long gone. A crushed box of Thin Mints was all that was left of the Girl Scouts. A goat was sleeping where GLENN was weeping.

“I hope, God I hope I never run into Condoleezza Rice,” I said to the goat.

“Go home,” whispered the sun.

The David Lynch experience

August 27, 2013
By

I got to meet one of my favorite artists, David Lynch, this past weekend. Not because I’m so special or important or any of that bullshit; I just showed up and waited in a line with a bunch of other schmucks for an hour (getting an amazing sunburn on my neck in the process). He was at the Whole Foods store in West Hollywood to promote his coffee which they are now selling, and also his new album, I guess. My entire encounter with him lasted maybe thirty seconds, during which I awkwardly attempted to thank him for picking my entry as runner-up in his music video contest a couple years back. Of course, as is normally the case when I make the tragic mistake of attempting to talk to people, I came off sounding like something between Charlie Brown’s teacher and Ralphie asking Santa for a Red Rider BB gun in A Christmas Story. After I was finished saying things in what I imagined at the time to be intelligible English as David Lynch scribbled all over my newly purchased bag of David Lynch organic coffee, he extended his hand, which I took in my own clammy, sweaty appendage and shook for just slightly longer than is considered socially acceptable, and I was on my merry way.

I don’t mean to say it was a bad experience. There are certainly worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. But due to the way my brain works, I’m unable to fully enjoy the experience of meeting one of my heroes without also acknowledging the reality that the pleasure is entirely on my end; to them, I’m just some tall, lanky weirdo with all the charm and eloquence of Rain Man.

I have to say, though, the coffee is pretty fucking good.

Ben Affleck

August 23, 2013
By

So I’m sitting here thinking about Ben Affleck. I mean, even more than usual. Specifically, the news that’s more or less been universally accepted as this decade’s 9/11: Ben Affleck will be playing Batman, and they haven’t even had time to get that Christian Bale smell out of the batsuit yet.

My reaction to this announcement, after realizing that it wasn’t a joke, was a general feeling of malaise with a twist of nausea. I’m not a comic book fan, so I didn’t quite reach the level of apoplectic rage that some Kevin Smith man-child types undoubtedly have. But any headline that begins with “Ben Affleck” and doesn’t end with “Perishes In Fiery Blimp Accident” is bound to bum me out a little.

Thing is, I was actually starting to warm up to him a bit as a director. I think I saw The Town and didn’t hate it all that much, and the Jesse James movie was pretty good (although the Nick Cave cameo is mostly all I remember at this point). And Argo was actually quite enjoyable despite Ben Affleck’s stupid hair and beard and face. I even started to feel a little bad for drawing the picture of him that you see here. I thought “Hey, maybe he’s not such a bad guy. He’s not entirely talentless. Why do you have to be so mean all the time, Meathead? Come on, open up your heart and let poor Ben Affleck in.”

Then this Batman shit came out and I snapped right back like a rubber band into “Fuck Ben Affleck” mode. And let me tell you, it’s great to be back. But you know, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I don’t care. Like I said, I’m not really into comics or superheroes or cosplay or virginity, and while I’ll go see a movie about superhero bullshit if it looks entertaining enough, I’m not going to be stomping out of the theater bitching about how Superman’s codpiece was the wrong color or whatever. And to be honest, I’m getting tired of this “let’s cram as many characters into this shitshow as humanly possible” mentality (looking at you too, The Expendables). If anything, maybe the Superman/Batman film crashing and burning might be a good thing. Fuck it, I mean Bale’s out, and obviously Warner Bros. doesn’t care at this point, so why should we? Why stop at Ben Affleck? Let’s get one of the Kardashians (whoever picks up the phone first) and throw her in as Catwoman! Ashton Kutcher as Spider-Man! Dane Cook as the Joker! Is Pokemon still a thing? Put some of those in too. I mean, if you’re going to make it shitty, why half-ass it?

But that’s Hollywood for you. They can’t even make a movie suck right anymore. You want a shitty Batman movie? I can make a shitty Batman movie. I’ll make fucking Batman & Robin look like Lawrence of Arabia. Enough screwing around, Warner Bros. Give me a call, let’s do this.

Lean forward

August 21, 2013
By

CHRIS: How’s my hair?

HAIR & MAKEUP: It looks fine, Chris.

CHRIS: It’s not supposed to look ‘fine’, it’s supposed to look shitty! Who the hell are you, anyway?

HAIR & MAKEUP: My name’s Jenny.

CHRIS: Where’s the other girl? What’s her name? Atum… Atoomwa? Atumwea? Hey Marty, what’s the hair and makeup girl’s name?

MARTY: Jenny.

CHRIS: No, you asshole! The other one, the girl that did my hair yesterday! It was something weird. Ah-toom-ewa

MARTY: Deb.

CHRIS: Yeah! Deb! Where the hell is Deb?

MARTY: …

CHRIS: Marty? Where’s Deb?

MARTY: She’s dead, Chris. We’ve been over this.

CHRIS: Dead? What happened?

MARTY: It was an accident. Just like with Maryann, and Stacey, and Robbie. They were terrible… accidents. Two minutes, Chris.

CHRIS: Well, can you tell… uh…

HAIR & MAKEUP: Jenny

CHRIS: Can you tell Jenny that my hair needs to look shitty? It’s my trademark! Without it I’m nothing! You don’t want me to be nothing, do you Jenny?

HAIR & MAKEUP: Uh… no…

MARTY: Just do what he says, Jenny.

CHRIS: Where’s my cruller?

MARTY: Pretty sure you already ate it, Chris.

CHRIS: Really? Are you sure?

MARTY: Yeah… I definitely saw you eating it.

CHRIS: Well, I want another one. I’m starving.

MARTY: Can’t it wait? You’re on in one minute.

CHRIS: I want my god damn cruller! Fuck you!

MARTY: Ugh. God. Would someone get Chris another cruller! Hurry, 45 seconds!

CHRIS: Who’s on today anyway?

MARTY: Jonathan Capehart, Steve Schmidt, and Carrot Top.

CHRIS: Again? Jesus. Can’t we get anyone else?

MARTY: Thirty seconds.

CHRIS: Marty?

MARTY: …

CHRIS: Marty?

MARTY: …

CHRIS: Marty? Where’s Deb?

MARTY: Ten seconds.

CHRIS: Marty?

MARTY: 5… 4… 3…

CHRIS: Are the Republicans trying to break into my Lexus? What does Obamacare taste like? Will Sarah Palin? I’m Chris Matthews and you’re playing Hardball! I mean, let’s play Hardball! Fuck!

[theme music]

CHRIS: Jonathan Capehart! Will Hillary run in 2100?

JONATHAN: Um… don’t you mean 2016?

CHRIS: Steve Schmidt! Jonathan Capehart says no, what do you think? Hillary Clinton, first Latino president?

STEVE: Well, Chris, at the end of the day, I think you’ll find the devil is in the details.

CHRIS: Think she has what it takes to beat Obama?

STEVE: …

CHRIS: Jonathan? Hillary?

JONATHAN: I… guess? Okay?

INTERN: Here’s your cruller, Mr. Matthews.

CHRIS: About damn time! What’s your name?

INTERN: My name’s Wayne, sir.

CHRIS: Wayne, huh? That’s funny, I knew a guy named Wayne once. Anyway, you’re fired. Get out of here.

INTERN: Yes sir.

CHRIS: Mmm. This one has a lot of cinnamon on it.

CARROT TOP: If you ask me, I think she

CHRIS: Nobody asked you. Shut up. Mmm mmm. Yummy.

[theme music]

CHRIS: TURN THAT SHIT OFF. Steve Schmidt! Obamacare! Go!

STEVE: Well, Chris, at the end of the day, devil’s in the details.

CHRIS: HA!

JONATHAN: What does that even mean?

CHRIS: You don’t believe Obamacare?

JONATHAN: Obamacare what? What are you talking about?

CARROT TOP: Obamacare sucks!

CHRIS: Shut the fuck up! Marty, cut off that guy’s mic. Get him out of here. Steve Schmidt! Tell me I’m sexy.

STEVE: Well, Chris, at the end of the day…

CHRIS: HA!

JONATHAN: What am I doing with my life?

STEVE: The devil is in the details. At the end of the day.

CHRIS: Republicans! Jonathan!

JONATHAN: What?

CHRIS: Republicans!

JONATHAN: …

CHRIS: Jonathan!

JONATHAN: What?! What are you asking me?

CHRIS: Hillary Clinton!

STEVE: At the end of the day.

JONATHAN: I’m going to go kill myself.

CHRIS: Jonathan!

CHRIS: Jonathan!

JONATHAN: Why do I keep letting myself get talked into– hey, can somebody help me take this stupid thing off?

CHRIS: Jonathan! Jonathan Capehart!

JONATHAN: Jesus! What?!

CHRIS: Republicans!

JONATHAN: Fuck you, Chris. Fuck all of you.

STEVE: Devil in the details.

CHRIS: HA!

[theme music]

MARTY: We’re clear.

CHRIS: Where’d Capehart go?

MARTY: To go kill himself, I guess.

CHRIS: Eh, oh well. Where’s that prissy British guy we always have on here? Get him.

MARTY: He’ll be on after the break.

CHRIS: Hey, Marty?

MARTY: Yes?

CHRIS: Where’s Deb?