Haiku Friday

May 31, 2013

Poor Amanda Bynes.
Police slapped her vagina.
Rodney King again.

Try as I might to avoid the toxic black sludge of tabloid celebrity pseudo-news, it’s like going to Silverlake and trying to avoid guys with beards. (For those of you not in the area, Silverlake is a suburb of Los Angeles where all men are required to grow beards, wear fedoras and date Asian women.) Apparently the latest batch of squeaky-clean Disney kids have discovered the joys of drugs, and we as good, upstanding Christian soldiers are supposed to go through the motions of being shocked at the tragic loss of innocence when Amanda Bynes defenestrates a bong and Justin Bieber gets stoned and hits things with his god damned Ferrari.

While I genuinely don’t care about the well-being of any of these idiots in the slightest, if I were pressed to offer a suggestion regarding how to nip this rebellious adolescent behavior in the bud, it would be this: On [NAME OF CHILD STAR]‘s fifteenth birthday, put them on a helicopter, feed them a sheet of LSD-25, and drop them off in the middle of the Alaska wilderness with a tracking bracelet on their ankle. Leave them there for 48 hours or so, then come back. First of all, they’ll probably get eaten by bears before you can say “Timothy Treadwell” in which case, hey, problem solved. But if the little fucker taps some hidden survival instinct and is still alive when you return, I guarantee they’ll have an entirely new perspective on life. They sure as shit won’t be trying to arbitrarily pick fights on Twitter for attention.

I’d be a great dad. Well, I mean, I’d be terrible, but you know. I wouldn’t give my kid a stupid name like “Blue Ivy” or “Apple,” and when I load him or her up on incredibly potent psychedelic drugs and abandon him or her in the wild for two days, I’d at least give little Meathead Jr. a hunting knife or something. I’m not a monster.

Kidding, of course. I have yellow eyes and scales and I’m going to destroy Tokyo after lunch. But at least I’m not Will Smith.

Kidding. I am Will Smith. Please go see my new movie, After Earth, in theaters everywhere now. Please. I haven’t eaten in weeks. I need food.

Thank you.

No more lycopene B4 bed

May 30, 2013


Blue and green ducks sitting motionless on a scummy Canadian pond. Suspended three feet over the water is an old couch upholstered in burgundy crushed velvet. Oprah Winfrey is sitting cross-legged on the couch, choking on her own tongue. Every few seconds, a duck dips its head into the water. A windowless black van rolls up to the edge of the water. Three men in back t-shirts and khaki cargo shorts jump out and begin placing lily pads on the surface of the pond. A voice squawks from a walkie-talkie: “Scott, what’s your twenty?” Two of the men scurry back to the van while the third lights a cigarette and stares thoughtfully at the placement of the lily pads. After a moment of consideration, he stretches a leg over the water and nudges one of the lily pads a few inches to the left. The other two men return shortly, one carrying an exceedingly large bullfrog and the other a Burger King crown. Without wasting any time, they gently drop the frog on the largest lily pad and set the paper crown, lopsided, on its head. The frog glares at Oprah– daggers, grenades, photon torpedos, you name it. 100 percent pure spite. The men hop back into the van, the doors slam and they’re gone. Tonight one of them will die of a massive heart attack.


A red and white ice cream truck, painted on either side with horribly-rendered depictions of giraffes and tigers inside fluorescent teardrops, lurches spastically along a shady suburban street. From the mouth of a grotesquely contorted zebra’s head mounted on the roof bellows a chipmunked version of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Proud Mary.” A group of children, ranging in age from five to forty-seven, sprints along behind the truck, but each time they are about to catch up, it accelerates for a hundred yards or so then sputters back down. This goes on for a nearly a half hour, until an errant telephone pole puts the ice cream truck out of commission for good. When the kids approach the window, demanding cold treats in a cavophony of dead languages, the grandfatherly old man inside (think Richard Farnsworth except covered from head to toe in gang tattoos) smiles warmly and hands each one a popsicle shaped just like the corpse of King Richard III. The children giggle and run away without paying. The ice cream man sighs, walks home and spends the night playing Mortal Kombat, imagining that he is Sub-Zero and Sonya is his mother.


A scorched burgundy sofa sits by the Highway 60 onramp as uncaring travelers zip past in their slick little cars. A curious vagrant parks his shopping cart and inspects the trashed piece of furniture. Doesn’t look too bad, I suppose. The back and sides are mostly unharmed; mainly just the cushions are burnt. Reckon you could just flip ‘em over… And that’s when the sofa kicks, bulges, fabric ripping, holy shit something’s inside trying to get out. A hoof pierces the upholstery, a leg pushes itself out. Then another. The thing thrashes and squirms through the crude vaginal opening and within moments it is free: a headless zebra, its legs trembling, tail twitching violently. It takes a couple of steps, pauses, then lunges forward into the street, emits an agonal, gurgling groan from its neck hole before being slammed by an eighteen-wheeler. A cloud of butterflies and rainbows. Back to business.

“I get bored as I get older,” smirks the grandfatherly old man. He squints under the bright studio lights.

“Well, it’s a beautiful story,” replies Oprah.

Audience cheers, claps. Arteries harden.

“When we return, I’ll tell you all some blatant lies about blueberries! Stay right there, America!”

Cut to commercial. Loud buzzer. Oprah points at the old man, who is promptly escorted off the premises by security. He is beaten up in the parking lot. Show business!

Heretics eat free at Shoney’s

May 29, 2013

No more songs about the moon, please. You’ve got it all whipped up. Do you have any idea how long it took to get it to sleep? As of this moment, all songs will be sloppy covers of “Alphabet Street” until further notice.

Prince is locked inside a cozy little bathroom of a bed & breakfast in a remote Vermont village. The walls are adorned with Thomas Kincade prints. The combined aromas of cinnamon and defecation permeate the stuffy air. The singer/songwriter is frantically searching for a way to unclog the toilet.

What does he do?


He can’t go anywhere until the toilet is unclogged!


Who is he talking to?


That doesn’t seem to work.


Sorry, his religion prohibits that for some reason.


The only door is facing north.


Prince presses the gold handle. Cloudy brown water fills the toilet bowl, overflowing onto the carpet until the entire bathroom is submerged beneath a half-inch of the Purple One’s fetid waste. Good job!


This might not be the best time for that.


Jesus Christ. There’s NO DOOR THERE.


I don’t think you fully appreciate the gravity of this situation.


God Mode is ON. You sexy motherfucker.


Prince’s nipples are now fully functioning machine guns.


Prince unleashes a fiery hail of bullets from his glorious nipples. The toilet is naught but a pile of shattered porcelain and twisted metal. The owners are calling the police.


You won the game, congratulations, blah blah blah, etc. Two frightened-looking young women in bikinis enter through the bay doors carrying what looks suspiciously like the trophy from Super Mario Kart. Do you like that? Is that what you wanted? There’s some leftover sushi in the commissary. Get your stuff cleared out of here by 4:45.


A waterlogged fleur-de-lis deals 10 pts damage to Judas’ hard drive

May 28, 2013

I looked up from my book that I couldn’t read and saw two dairy cows in the river, following our paddleboat. I never knew they could swim, much less that fast. They were quickly gaining, and within moments they were right behind us. It became obvious that they weren’t interested in us; we were only in their way. I reached out to touch the nearest one as it glided by, and it didn’t seem to mind. I don’t even know if it noticed. They appeared to be in a hurry; urgent cow business, I guess. Or was it a hurry to get away from something? Come on, it’s my day off, I don’t need to think about that kind of dark shit.

[REDACTED] pointed to a small rectangular pond on the other side of the boat. It was crowded with fat pink salmon swimming around in pointless little circles. At the bottom of the pond I noticed there were several dead, deformed fish. Kind of fetal-looking. Seemed weird that they’d be at the bottom instead of floating, but also that none of the other fish seemed to be bothered. Then again, maybe they were, I don’t know. They’re fish. Dinner. Looks like someone lost their car keys…

Neither [REDACTED] nor [REDACTED] seemed to care much about the cows or the fish situation. Perhaps I didn’t present my case well enough. Or perhaps I was just overreacting.

I was wearing a brown corduroy three-piece suit that I borrowed from my past self on the condition that I wouldn’t get it wet, so naturally it started to rain. Then again, it didn’t really matter as the damn suit was already soaked in–

It’s my day off. But it was never authenticated.

I’m in the backseat of a speeding Lincoln town car on some ridiculously long suspension bridge. The sunlight is incredible. The driver is a fish smoking a cigar. A tiny, elderly Armenian woman is sitting on my lap, screaming hysterically, something that sounds like “CONSISTENCY OF JELL-O!” God, shut up.

Her eyeless husband is sitting across from us, staring a hole through me. At first I think he is angry, but then he grins broadly underneath that terrible mustache and I feel a little sick.

“You like plankton, boy?”

I don’t like plankton. Matter of fact, I fucking hate the stuff. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“I used to know Jerry Garcia. We’d binge on plankton for an entire week at a time. You know he used to have baleen instead of teeth back before the Dead got big.”

I’m only in this stupid car because Mr. Laser Mouth broke my Wii, and now I’m running late to my own funeral. The bible that’s rapidly dissolving in my coat pocket was a special Deluxe Edition with bonus books written by celebrities like Gary Busey and Tim Conway.

Two dairy cows drift silently by my window, riding on the dotted outline of a tandem motorcycle. One of them reaches out to touch me with its slimy cloven hoof. It feels like this should be a religious experience, but I just roll my eyes. And that’s when I notice the sharks forming ovoid vapor trails overhead.

“Better watch out,” warns the plankton-loving son of a bitch, “they want to tie a knot around the sun and make that one hot rhombus.”

The cows are still staring. The phone is ringing. Inter-office memorandi. Jesus Christ, this is my day off and I’m being served a jumbo plate of asbestos lasagna.

The stupid fish driver swerves into a line of velvet road cones. My train of thought derails, boxcars of emotions accordion into one another, shiny red wheels bounce comically down the hillside and splash into the river.

The little woman stops screaming. She swivels her head around, opens a hatch in her face, and withdraws a rubber stamp from the recesses of her memory.


I looked up from my book that I couldn’t read and saw two dead dairy cows in the river. An open blister, runny egg sunset. I turned to see what was in the pond.

Haiku Friday

May 24, 2013

Fast and Furious
Vin Diesel kisses The Rock
A million bros weep
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson stands alone, shirtless, on the beach, silhouetted by the rising sun. He is holding a pineapple. He bites into the pineapple. We zoom in closer to his mouth as he chews a mouthful of pineapple. Chunks of pineapple are lodged between his massive, not gay teeth. Juice (from the pineapple) flows freely down his veiny chin and veiny neck. We zoom in on his salivary glands, breaking down the nutrients of the pineapple (high in vitamin C). The latest hit song by Canadian heavy metal band Nickelback plays extremely loudly in the background, except slowed down 10x for dramatic effect.

We cut to a POV of the masticated wad of fruit (and possibly some small-to-medium insects that got sucked into his mouth) as it courses violently through Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s muscly intestines. (Note to Sound Dept: Add some cool DJ-style record scratches if possible; those test well with focus groups)

We cut to the interior of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s stomach. Paul Walker is drinking an ice-cold, refreshing MGD and making out with a hot chick who is popular (see if Kim Basinger is available?) who is wearing a bikini and sweaty. Suddenly the mushy blob of half-digested pineapple BURSTS into the stomach (3-D)! Paul Walker punches the hot chick (Mary Lynn Rajskub?) in the face, puts on sunglasses, and rides the pineapple into–

We’re now following Paul Walker riding a turd like a motorcycle through Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s colon, followed by police also riding on turds. The police are slowly gaining on him as he nears the rectum. It looks as though they just might get him, when–

We cut to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson sitting on a toilet, shirtless, and reading a hot rod magazine because he is not gay. Michelle Rodriguez gyrates sensually next to him. “Funky Cold Medina” by Tone Loc plays extremely loudly in the background, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson flips the pages to the beat of the music. Close-up of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s veiny face as he grunts masculinely.

Cut to a wide shot of the exterior of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s anus as it slowly opens. The opening stretches wider and wider until–

Paul Walker ZOOMS out from inside Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s anus. He is covered in fecal matter. The anus immediately closes behind him, which causes the pursuing police officers to perish, leaving behind wives and children.

SMASH CUT to the officers’ funeral. Michelle Rodriguez gyrates sensually next to the coffins as Sammy Haggar’s “I Can’t Drive 55″ plays extremely loudly in the background.

Vin Diesel enters, carrying five large boxes of delicious Papa John’s pizza. He opens the top box, and we zoom in on that golden, crispy crust and mouthwatering cheese and toppings. He places the pizzas on one of the coffins, displaying his washboard abs and enormous biceps. Everyone grabs a slice.

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson bursts into the room (3-D) and yells “Do I smell Papa John’s?” Then he sees that there is no more delicious Papa John’s pizza left, so he becomes overwhelmed with grief and shoots himself in the head. Paul Walker and Vin Diesel chest bump for some reason.


Dear Hollywood: Please PayPal me one million dollars USD to this address for the rights to this story, thank you


May 23, 2013

1. Timmy fell into the well.

2. Timmy is climbing a palm tree.

3. Timmy cheated at fisticuffs with Harrison Ford.

4. Timmy wants butterscotch.

5. What Timmy wants, Timmy gets.

6. Timmy and I once followed an emerald green slinky into the catacombs underneath the Sunoco station. It smelled like burnt hot dogs down there. We found a yellow manila folder full of early technical specs for the Nintendo 64.

7. Timmy’s mother was having an affair with Juan, the music store salesman (played by William H. Macy). While they’d be off in the storage room “discussing extended trombone warranties,” Timmy would tinker with the Hammond organ, eventually teaching himself to play all the hits by N.W.A. He was getting pretty darn good too, until he got shot by that nun.

8. Timmy could swallow an entire jarful of aphids in one gulp.

9. Bugs Bunny cartoons always made Timmy cry. I never understood why until Christmas Eve, 1988. Now I cry, too.

10. Timmy’s last words were “I know I’ll never die.” His first words were “I was never born.” In between was mostly a string of blasphemies and incorrect Game Genie codes.

11. Timmy… was a virus. He couldn’t even answer the phone without mutating. A long-distance call from France that would have changed the family’s lives forever went unanswered.

12. Tonight, in Timmy’s honor, there will be a gathering at Dan’s Auto Parts & Waffles on Chrysanthemum St. There will be individually wrapped refreshments, and a Dishwalla cover band will stand silently on the stage for precisely one hour and fifteen minutes. You are not invited. Timmy would have wanted it that way.

13. Timmy is the well.

14. Christ, I hate Timmy.

Mulholland’s Lament

May 22, 2013

Date: May 17, 2013
To: Rhthra Building Tenants
From: Building Management Office
Re: Water Fountains
In light of the recent water leak due to a running water fountain in the building that caused flooding over a weekend, management will be shutting off the water fountains on all floors.

In addition, please do not pour liquids down the water fountain drains. This includes:

• Hot coffee
• Cold coffee
• Lukewarm coffee
• Arabica coffee
• Kona coffee
• David Lynch coffee
• Tea
• Ayahuasca
• Blood (animal, human or Christ’s)
• Urine
• Tears
• Liquid nitrogen (this includes YOU, Daryl)
• Fudge
• Crude oil
• Kerosene
• Whiskey (blended or single malt)
• Tartar sauce
• Magma
• Eggnog
• Ink
• Venom
• Maple syrup
• Semen (your own or someone else’s)
• Ranch dressing
• Crystal Pepsi
• Pace Thick & Chunky Salsa
• Clam chowder (red or white)
• Bacon grease
• Santorum
• Any potions given to you by a fairy or witch living in a cave or hut in the woods
• Tab
• Mayonnaise

To those employees who are presently in their molting phase: please DO NOT dispose of your shedded skin casings by attempting to stuff them down the water fountain drains. The specially marked green bins located on the 4th and 6th floors are there for your convenience.

We’ve received numerous complaints from the Almighty God’s office in Fresno that some employees on the 10th floor have begun worshipping and praying to their water fountain. Please be advised that there is only one true God, and further adoration of false idols will not be tolerated. Any damage to the building as a result of His infernal wrath will be the tenant’s responsibility.

In the event of an emergency, such as a fire, earthquake or surprise Justin Bieber concert across the street, please leave the water fountains behind when exiting the building. Your own life is far too important to risk just for a dumb old water fountain, much less one that doesn’t even work right thanks to some asswad dumping their vile, caustic fluids into it because they were too fucking lazy to use the sink that is literally five feet away.

To whoever placed the “No Jews Allowed” sign next to the 2nd floor water fountain: this behavior is unacceptable. Please return the sign to the 4th floor where it belongs.

Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated. Remember, access to clean, drinkable water is a privilege, not a right.

-The Management

P.S. Fuck the Lakers

Titus Andronicus: Status Asthmaticus

May 21, 2013

In the original ending of Home Alone, Kevin’s horribly mutilated corpse is found behind the shed in the McAllisters’ backyard. However, a last-minute rewrite was deemed necessary after mostly negative reactions from test audiences. #strangebuttrue

“That’th a lie! You’re all nothing but thick, lying thwine!”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is a closed-door meeting. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Gladys pulled back her famous gums and belched a seismic puff of sticky gold smoke. “THWIIIINE!!!” she hollered feebly.

The auxiliary grandmother of fourteen wasn’t always this way. She used to go to church, played pinochle with the gals at the moon base, and collected pennies on which she believed Lincoln looked constipated. But time does its thing, and some of us don’t bake like normal bread when the dial’s turned up. I guess you could say she was more of a quiche.

My entire seventh birthday was spent at her nightclub, The Cramped Camel. I was told it would only be for an hour, but really, is anything only for an hour? There were sliding glass doors that led to more sliding glass doors that led to huddled whispers and pats on the back and little plastic bags of opiates. I took a wrong turn and found myself in the alley out back. A broken down stretch limousine was billowing black smoke as a small group of sobbing women in glittery miniskirts looked on. I thought I heard someone say that the limo belonged to Phil Collins, but then someone else said the Smothers brothers.

“What color are strawberries supposed to be on the inside?”

A lithe, hairy arm snaked its way through the growing crowd, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and flung me like a gym sock into–

By now the stenographer was typing so fast her fingers appeared to be still. The chairman’s beet-red face was bubbling with rage, but there was nothing he could do. Gladys was forty-five minutes into her recitation of the Home Alone script in Latin, and the entire audience was captivated. They’d rip him limb from limb if he tried to intervene.

It all started to unravel when Gladys bought those Aramaic cookbooks from the Salvation Army. The recipes all seemed harmless at first glance, but the measurements were all weird and some of them called for insects that don’t exist anymore. We tried to burn the books one day while she was at Whole Foods but none of us could move our limbs. When she came stomping through the front door like General MacArthur on mescaline, carrying enough Kalamata olives to smother a college football player’s dreams, we knew it was over. That’s when I landed in my eighth birthday.

Simply put: Strawberries don’t have an inside. They’re outside the whole way through. This is one of the Seven Bruising Truths that will be explained in painstaking detail on tonight’s episode of Plunging Headfirst Into The Exhilarating Freedom of Madness With The Stars, only on CBS! Don’t look at me.

Westvleteren dropouts, choking on a vine leaf

May 20, 2013

Some people wake up and think they’re in heaven, but they’re just shuffling in circles inside a dusty labyrinth wallpapered with their smudged memories. What nobody tells you is that they’re constantly shitting, like nervous caterpillars looking for a way off your arm. All these dumb, sloppy souls leaving pencil-thin trails of shit on the linoleum that would linger there forever if it weren’t for the vigilant (pointless) efforts of the others, perpetually twenty yards behind with their sick little vacuum mouths. Who are they? Oh, they’re the ones who think they’re in hell.

“You want another beer?”

Gordon’s gray face rippled sadly in the stale breeze from the fan as it oscillated toward him, then away again. He turned his head slowly until his eyes found the source of the mouth-sounds.

“Agggagahhgaahggag,” intoned Gordon.

“Do. You. Want. Another. Beer.” The bartender was looking at Gordon the same way a talk show host might look at George Clooney upon realizing it was actually a garbage bag overflowing with thumbs and used cotton swabs.

“Give him an iced tea,” commanded the squeaky voice from behind the curtain. “Give him a refreshing iced tea. Everyone likes iced tea on a hot night like tonight.”

It’s a shame no one was listening, because Gordon really would have enjoyed the hell out of that iced tea. But he was given a Tecate Lite instead. The voice trailed off uselessly into the humid atmosphere, twisting and flanging and bouncing off the wings of every firefly it could reach before being absorbed into the Great Cosmic Sponge. Maybe it’ll be reborn, regurgitated into a bright winter morning as a hungry cat’s meow or a slightly off-key Judge Judy theme song leaking out of a dead man’s brand new 67-inch TV. Or maybe it’s just gone. Do they even serve iced tea?

As Gordon dragged his leathery tongue around the edge of the beer can, his mind floated effortlessly along the soft Nebraska shoreline, leading a backlit caravan of candy-colored ambulances to some spiritual barbecue to which none of them were invited. A baby drops his toy helicopter out the window and it bounces into the black ocean. Baby cries, no one cares. Babies cry.

“Does that beer make you a man?” demanded the bartender over the ever-increasing din of the fan.

Gordon’s synapses crackled as he fell back into himself. The edges of the frame were visibly frayed by now. He was amazed no one else could see it, much less try to tug at the corners.

“Are you the Top Dog? The manager says you’re Top Dog,” the bartender continued. She was grinning, exposing rows upon rows of teeth that looked like steaming Raisinets. Baby giggles.

It was no use. He wouldn’t talk. It was the same routine at every Applebee’s. Same questions, same stench of syrup, same lady in the parking lot screaming things about guardian angels and someone named Jim. He once thought he’d found the answer in Minneapolis, but it was only the high-pitched whine of an overcooked fajita platter. No Top Dog here.

Gordon bit into the can, spraying a fine mist of blood and foam all over the greasy counter. The aluminum squeaked and sparked between his chompers. It could have been a pulled pork sandwich, but you’ll never know. It’s purely subjective.

Normally, this is where the floor would open up, causing numerous families of four and their respective cheeseburgers to tumble into an infinite abyss of ice-cold nothingness, after which an enormous spiral staircase made from mother-of-pearl would push its way up through the mist and… yada yada yada, you get the drift. But this time Gordon was only interested in the corporate discount. He finished his can, dabbed the corners of his jagged mouth with his napkin, and rose from the stool that would never be used again.

“You all are doin’ a fine job here,” he declared to anyone who would listen. “I’m Gordon Hajirfjdg, the CEO of Applebee’s. As a result of your satisfactory service, I will spare all of you from the agonal fates you so richly deserve.”

[canned laughter]

The dead man blinks, baby is sleeping. The universe sighs and sheds another layer of its onion skin.

Brushing the Dorito crumbs from his grotesquely distorted football jersey, he fumbles for the remote control.

“I thought I was watchin’ Judge Judy.”

Go back to sleep, Jim.

Haiku Friday

May 17, 2013

Sorry, starving kids
This million is set aside
for nude Bea Arthur

I’m having a little trouble catching “Friday Fever” or “Friday Hepatic Encephalopathy” or whatever those asshole kids call it these days. Maybe I’m just bummed out because I didn’t win the auction for that naked Bea Arthur painting. It would have looked so fucking classy next to my nude Polaroid of Robert Zemekis.

Some might say, “What kind of submental jackass would blow seven figures on an ironic painting of Maude’s tits?” Granted, there is an argument to be made there. But I would then have to retort, “At least I didn’t donate money to the son of a bitch that made Garden State so he could make a follow-up.”

I confess, I saw that piece of shit. I’m not entirely without blame. I went of my own volition, handing over real, actual money to sit in a darkened room and watch Zach Braff stand there making that Zach Braff face in front of a wallpaper with the same ugly pattern as his ugly shirt, and I accept whatever unimaginable agony awaits me as punishment in the next life. But for what it’s worth, man I sure hated the hell out of that movie. It was kind of a “creeper hate.” I left the theater with a sense of unease, but I wasn’t yet ready to admit I’d wasted my seven bucks (or however much tickets costback in those olden times). I just attributed that rotten feeling in my gut to a bad batch of Sno-Caps. I’d write the Sno-Caps Corporation a stern letter when I got home, then sit back and reflect on the wonderfully poignant work of art I’d– aw hell, that movie fucking sucked a mile of cock. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Angry at every person involved in every stage of creating that godawful pile of self-indulgent tripe, but also at myself for being suckered into sitting through it. I mean, the wallpaper bit was in the trailer, for fuck’s sake!

I can honestly say, however, that of all the thoughts that passed through my wounded mind during those traumatic post-Garden State days, not one was “More of that, please!” Tragically, the same cannot be said for the rest of this doomed society, as evidenced by the fact that Braffhole successfully passed the hat around on Kickstarter for two million dollars to fund his next unbearably twee project whose title is so damn stupid I can’t bring myself to include it here. Of course, it later turned out that he didn’t technically “need” the two mil ha ha but thanks for being such awesome fans anyway ha ha luv Zach. Ain’t he a stinker?

So, I guess when you think about it, there are dumber things to waste a couple million dollars on than a tasteful nude portrait of the third-hottest Golden Girl. Yeah, that just cheers me right the fuck up.