Pete Rose Haircut

Line #20

2009-01-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/
And my ass was well-tasked to make daily bread/
Promised silver, paid in lead/
[Shotgun blast x2], shotgun blast/
No sound effect, I just shot your ass/
Hid your corpse beneath the underpass/
Then back to school in time for history class/
Speaking of history, let's think back/
To when white was white and black was black/
And Hawaii was a place where the Japs attacked/
When Ike took a hike, gave the reins to Jack/
A child was born, of a certain ilk/
not black as pitch, nor white as milk/
And not two scores and seven years later/
He'll swear on the bible, then say to the haters:/
"Hope has arrived, let's stop all that illin'/
Gitmo needs closin', windmills need buildin'/
So I promise to you, on my first day in office/
I'll put lipstick on my dipstick and call it fiscal stimulus/
[Shotgun blast x2]

Line #19

2009-01-19T23:18:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/
And my ass was well-tasked to make daily bread/
Promised silver, paid in lead/
[Sound effect of two shotgun blasts], shotgun blast/
No sound effect, I just shot your ass/
Hid your corpse beneath the underpass/
Then back to school in time for history class/
Speaking of history, let's think back/
To when white was white and black was black/
And Hawaii was a place where the Japs attacked/
When Ike took a hike, gave the reins to Jack/
A child was born, of a certain ilk/
not black as pitch, nor white as milk/
And not two scores and seven years later/
He'll swear on the bible, then say to the haters:/
"Hope has arrived, so stop all that illin'/
Gitmo needs closin', windmills need buildin'/
And I promise to you, on my first day in office/

Line #18

2009-01-18T23:17:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/
And my ass was well-tasked to make daily bread/
Promised silver, paid in lead/
[Sound effect of two shotgun blasts], shotgun blast/
No sound effect, I just shot your ass/
Hid your corpse beneath the underpass/
Then back to school in time for history class/
Speaking of history, let's think back/
To when white was white and black was black/
And Hawaii was a place where the Japs attacked/
When Ike took a hike, gave the reins to Jack/
A child was born, of a certain ilk/
not black as pitch, nor white as milk/
And not two scores and seven years later/
He'll swear on the bible, then say to the haters/
"Hope has arrived, so stop all that illin'/
Gitmo needs closing, windmills need buildin'/

Line #17

2009-01-17T23:13:00.000-08:00

Line #16

2009-01-16T22:44:00.000-08:00

Line #15

2009-01-15T22:36:00.000-08:00

Line #14

2009-01-14T22:34:00.000-08:00

Line #13

2009-01-14T22:27:00.000-08:00

Line #12

2009-01-13T22:12:00.000-08:00

Line #11

2009-01-12T22:09:00.000-08:00

Line #10

2009-01-11T22:07:00.000-08:00

Line #9

2009-01-10T22:03:00.000-08:00

Line #8

2009-01-09T22:00:00.000-08:00

Line #7

2009-01-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

Line #6

2009-01-07T18:54:00.000-08:00

Line #5

2009-01-06T18:52:00.000-08:00

Line #4

2009-01-05T18:48:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/
And my ass was well-tasked to make daily bread/
Promised silver, paid in lead/

Line #3

2009-01-04T14:22:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/
And my ass was well-tasked to produce daily bread/

Line #2

2009-01-03T14:21:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when the streets ran red/
With the blood of the white, the blue, the well-bred/

Line #1

2009-01-02T17:11:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time when the streets ran red/

This Post Is Not What You Think It Is

2009-01-01T21:57:00.000-08:00

It is not the first step toward fulfilling a New Years resolution of blogging more. I did not, prior to typing this post, resolve to blog more, or everyday, or once a month or even ever again. Going forward, posts on this blog shall remain half-baked, sporadic and of questionable merit. That, my friends, is a promise.

This post is something else. This post is the beginning of a rap verse.

You've all heard of rap music, I presume? Good. Here comes some.

One verse, to be exact. One verse, five stanzas, four lines each. Within each stanza, each of the lines will rhyme.

Why this structure? Simple. Because for every day of this month, January, 2009, I will compose one line of the verse. One line per day for twenty days. Starting tonight.

That means on January 20th, 2009, the night of the inauguration of our 44th President of the United States of America, Barack Obama, the verse will be complete.

Upon its completion, I'll begin the process of seeking out a "DJ" to "lay down" a "sick beat" to accompagny said verse. Then I will rap the verse. Then I will post that recording here.

And just to confound you even further, I will not end this post with the first line of the verse. No no, the first line of the verse will come tomorrow. Tonight, I'll post the last line of the verse. Why? That I can't answer. That, as our President-Elect would say, is "above my pay grade."

So, in summation:

Over the next twenty days, I will compose a rap verse commemorating the inauguration of our new President.

And that verse will conclude thusly:

/I'll put lipstick on my dipstick and call it fiscal stimulus

When the World Gives You Nothing, Make Laughter-Ade

2008-05-05T21:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I sit down to write and nothing comes. Normally when this happens, my next step is to think, “what did you see today that was funny?” But sometimes, like right now for instance, nothing comes to mind. I believe I had a completely unfunny day. I saw nothing remotely chuckle-worthy. No clowns. No one falling and looking around with embarrassment. No weird juxtapositions, like a Hasidim on a skateboard, or a hooker buying stamps. Is that too much to ask, comedy lords?

I know what you’re thinking: Jimmy, you live in Hollywood. You didn’t see someone dressed like Iron Man waving a flag made of thousand dollar bills while tickling a homeless man with a large feather? If I did, my friends, believe me you’d know.

I didn’t even hear anything funny. No burps, no farts, nothing. No mangy street artists singing “Islands in the Stream” to a bunch of disinterested Goth kids. I guess if I really wanted to hear that, I could have gone down to the Promenade. But judging by the rest of my day, I’m guessing nothing like that would have been happened.

Where were you, goofy bus ad featuring that mustachioed personal injury lawyer smiling behind a giant “Accidentes?”

And you, municipal worker guy who can’t get the fire hydrant to stop spraying water on your pants no matter how many times you turn the wrench? Took a day off, did you?

No one felt like pressing their bare ass to the laundromat window today? Really?

Starbucks, you let me down. When’s the last time you let a lama prepare someone’s mocha latte? Never?

Exactly my point. Today was as good a time as ever.

Salami car? Occurred to no one, apparently.

Police arresting a palm tree? File that under “too much to ask.”

Ninja grandma rapping in the car wash? Maybe… if this were Fantasy Land.

I know what your else you’re thinking: Hey, Jimmy, what were you doing today to bring laughter to this world? Instead of bitching and moaning, maybe you could have sat on a cactus, or mugged a squirrel? You’ve got a baseball glove, why not put in a baby carriage and push it around Whole Foods?

You know what? You’re right. Life is not a one way street. We get what we give, and so on. I can say with confidence, right now, that tomorrow will be way funnier than today. I’m gonna make damn sure of it. As we speak, I’m laying out my clothes. Shorts. T-shirt. Pineapple bra. Yogurt socks. Toilet paper belt. Checkbook hat. Doorknob.

Hey, World. Knock-knock.

Who’s there?

Your funnybone. Remember me?

An Appeal To Me From My Old Leather Pants

2008-04-30T23:14:00.000-07:00

Hey, long time no see. So funny that you reached for me just now, because I was just thinking about you! Crazy, right?

I like what you’ve done with the room. Very tasteful.

Hey, wait a second. What’s missing? Did you take down the “Viva Hate” poster? You sold it? Oh. That’s uh…no, that’s cool. Bet you got a nice, hefty sum for that on eBay, am I right? What? Hell yes, I’ve heard of eBay. Dude, it hasn’t been that long. Don’t you remember? Halloween, ’03? It was Shelly Ferguson’s party, you went as Harley Davidson, and your buddy Paul was The Marlboro Man. Come on, it was genius! That’s not true, a lot of people got it. Dude, that movie’s a cult classic! Whatever, you looked good, that’s what matters. Well, I can see we’ve made major improvements in the self-esteem area…

So else what have you been up to? “Not much?” Yeah, I figured. I mean, you’ve haven’t put me on in over a year, so that means one thing is certain: you haven’t been rocking your balls off!

Sorry, that sounded bitter, didn’t it? I’m not bitter, really. I like the closet. I know that’s weird, pants like me usually love the road, you know. The wide open spaces. Motorcycles. Bars. Rock concerts. But, you know, when a college student from Ohio buys you during his one semester sojourn in New York City, you know to manage your expectations.

Hey, what’s with all the clothes piled up on the bed? Are you cleaning out the closet? That’s good, man, ‘cause it’s crowded in there, let me tell you. Some sorting is long overdue, I think. Wheat from the chaff.

Yeah, see, you don’t have to say it. I can see it your eyes. I’m going, too, aren’t I?

You’re ashamed. Don’t be. I mean, it hasn’t been the same for us in a long time. I can admit that. Just because I’m sequined doesn’t mean I’m immature. If it’s time to move on, then c’est la vie, you know? No regrets.

But, can I ask you a question, though? We had fun, right? I didn’t just imagine that?

Just promise me I won’t go to Goodwill. Give me Melrose. You’ll get a good amount, I promise you. And if not there, I know a place in the Palisades.

Do right by me, brother. I ain’t done rocking, even if you are.

Robert Altman Could Write Better Cover Letters

2006-11-25T13:41:00.000-08:00

May 22, 2003

Michael LePlae
Human Resources
Stehman\Diddle\McMickey
7436 Tacoma Dr.
Santa Barbara, CA 92323

Dear Michael:

I am writing in response to your listing on monster.com for an account services assistant.

As you can see from my resume, I have no prior experience in advertising. Unfortunately, my schedule over the past two decades—I have written, produced and directed several feature films—left little time for me to explore other interests. However, filmmaking is an organic process. You’re constantly picking things up along the way. I think I have picked up several things along the way which I think could make excellent antecedents to a career in advertising.

For instance, I once took a typing class, as preparation for my cameo role in “The Player.” I played a stenographer in the scene where Tim Robbins takes his pants off for Peter Gallagher (totally improvised, by the way). We ended up cutting the scene. I had second thoughts about appearing in the picture. We went a little “cameo crazy” on that one, as I’m sure you remember.

Incidentally, it was my cinematographer Tak Fujimoto who recommended me to Stehman\Diddle\McMickey. I understand he shot several Nissan spots for you last August. While working on my last film, Gosford Park, he couldn’t stop talking about what a great experience he’d had working in commercials. He suggested I contact you about entry-level opportunities. At first I pretended like I wasn’t interested. Why I can’t say. Maybe to save face? I may have made some comment about maintaining artistic integrity, to which Tak just smiled. Then, two takes later, he turned and said, “Hey, Altman. Head down to the corner store. See if your glowing Pauline Kael reviews can buy us a good cup of coffee.” Tak has a brilliant sense of humor. So versatile, too, as a DP. A real collaborator. Anyway, point was taken.

You’ll have to excuse me. I have never been good at writing cover letters. My agent (Lou Ackerman? At CAA?) is constantly hounding me about this. “Too colloquial” is what it usually comes down to. He tore up the last one I showed him, called it “sh*t.” “This will never sell anybody,” he screamed. “Where is your contact information? How can they give you a job if they can’t f**king find you, you vagabond hippy sh*tbag. And what’s with all these contractions! I’ve told you a million times, no f**king contractions in a cover letter!” I hadn’t seen him that mad since I gave Paramount that 4 hour cut of The Gingerbread Man.

Anyway, S\D\M seems to me to be a great opportunity, a chance to be a part of something big, fun and different, and I know I have a lot to offer as a candidate. I hope you can ignore the commercial failure of many of my projects, and accept my interest in the job as a genuine desire to learn and grow.

Thanks for your consideration. Let me say again, I think I would make an excellent assistant. Should you need to contact me, please call Janeé, my assistant, at 818-555-7856.

Sincerely,

Robert Altman
Enclosure (1)

The Rumsfeld Sex Tape: Real or Fake?

2006-11-25T09:33:00.000-08:00

dupont77: It's the glasses that give it away.
internforever46: What? He's not wearing glasses.
dupont77: They're on the night stand. Go to 3:23.
dupont77: See them?
internforever46: I think.
dupont77: Look by the lava lamp.
internforever46: Okay, sure.
internforever46: Dunno.
internforever46: Still not convinced it's him.
internforever46: This guy looks like he's really in shape.
dupont77: It has to be him. The timing is just too perfect.
internforever46: Because he resigned?
dupont77: He didn't resign, he was pushed out. Bush fucked him.
dupont77: Really fucked him.
dupont77: Said it wasn't even a question before the midterms, Rumsfeld is staying.
dupont77: Then as soon as they lost the House and Senate, boom.
dupont77: Gone.
dupont77: Humiliating.
dupont77: One week later...
internforever46: Sex Tape.
dupont77: Sex. Motherfucking. Tape.
internforever46: Makes sense.
internforever46: What's the tattoo say?
dupont77: On him or her?
internforever46: Him.
dupont77: Best shot of it is at 20:23.
internforever46: Going there, hold on.
dupont77: I think it's a scarecrow.
internforever46: Maybe. What's it holding in its right hand?
dupont77: Zooming in.
dupont77: It's a bottle of Captains Morgan.
internforever46: A bottle of rum?
dupont77: Booyah, Rumsfeld! Confirmed!
internforever46: That is really creepy.
internforever46: Here's a question. Who's filming?
dupont77: Oh, yeah...really good question.
dupont77: Cheney.
dupont77: Gotta be.
internforever46: You're so right.
dupont77: Those guys go back.
internforever46: Way back.
dupont77: Bet the whole thing was his idea.
dupont77: Cheney's behind everything these guys do.
dupont77: The war was his baby.
dupont77: Warrantless wiretaps.
dupont77: Extraordinary renditions.
internforever46: Speaking of...
internforever46: Listen to her moan...
dupont77: Rumsfeld-- still got it.
dupont77: Like the '80s never ended.
dupont77: This is not your father's Rumsfeld.
internforever46: Come on, you don't think she's faking?
dupont77: Honestly.
dupont77: No.
internforever46: Dude, come on.
internforever46: The Bush Administration supplies you with a sex tape, and you take them on their word that the orgasm is real?
dupont77: I'm just going off what I'm seeing.
dupont77: I see a woman having an orgasm.
dupont77: She looks really flushed.
dupont77: Her brow, look at it.
dupont77: Her grip on that window curtain.
dupont77: You can't fake that kind of ecstasy.
internforever46: Whatever, Colin Powell.
dupont77:?
internforever46: Her furrowed brow is your mobile weapons lab.
dupont77: Ah, I get it.
internforever46: You're gonna have to go before the UN, stake your credibility on this orgasm.
dupont77: Fine.
dupont77: I'm ready. I'm confident. Most of all, I'm loyal to my President.
internforever46: Your funeral.
internforever46: You're gonna be on Barbara Walters in a few weeks, saying the orgasm is a "blot" on your career.
dupont77: Yeah.
dupont77: Hottest. Blot. Ever.
dupont77: Oh shit, did you see that?
internforever46: What?
dupont77: In the mirror above the bed?
internforever46: Where?
dupont77: Go to 45:32.
dupont77: See that?
internforever46: Oh. My. God.
dupont77: Do you see who I see?
internforever46: McCain.
dupont77: McCain!
internforever46: McCain is holding the boom mic. Sweet jesus.
dupont77: Courting favor with the extreme right.
internforever46: The extremely hot right.
dupont77: Making his bones.
internforever46: The Straight Talk Express.
dupont77: Unbelievable.
internforever46: He looks ashamed.
dupont77: He should be.
internforever46: Did you notice? This whole thing's being filmed on a camera phone.
dupont77: Typical Rummy.

I Really Want My Mechanic To Like Me

2006-06-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

What’s what? Oh, that clicking sound? God, is it really that bad? I guess I’ve just gotten used to it. What is it? I don’t know, I think it’s the wheel well. Or something. Get it checked out? God, if it were only that simple.

Yes, I have a mechanic. I bought the car from him actually. Why not take it in? Well, it’s a long story. Normally I would take it in, but. See I got in this little fender bender, took out a headlight, damaged the frame, too. My mechanic said he didn’t feel comfortable trying to fix it. He said he couldn’t accept money to do what I wanted to do. Said he couldn’t guarantee it would be safe. God, he has such integrity. Anyway, I paid some body shop guy to replace the headlight, that’s it. All I could the afford. Since then the car’s been drivable, except for that noise. But you see why I can’t take it in, right? I disobeyed my mechanic. I went over his head. No, I can’t go to someone else. I wouldn’t trust them. I trust this guy. I know, but this is about more than the car. I really want my mechanic to like me.

You don’t understand. He’s such an amazing guy. He gave me a great deal on the car, was very upfront about its history, its previous owner. I liked him right away. He gave off this aura of honesty. He wasn’t a salesman. He loved my car, but it was a tough love. Rugged. Frontier love. Or the kind of love that exists on the battlefield, between a sergeant and a private. He could tell when I hadn’t taken it in for an oil change. He’d give me this look, quietly scolding. I want to please him, I can’t help it. I want to learn to be a better owner of our car. I mean my car.

It’s not just that I disobeyed him, either. See, he’s really into classical music. Last time I went to the garage he had some beautiful music playing, conducting with one hand while he changed my air filter with the other. I stood in the garage opening for fifteen minutes before I could bring myself to interrupt. When I did, I felt obligated to ask what the music was. He said some long German name-- of course I forgot it right away. “Isn’t it wonderful,” he asked. “Simple. Yet devastating.” I had no idea what he meant, but of course I nodded right along. Like an idiot! Before I could stop myself, I asked that he write down the name for me. Now I can’t go back until I’ve listened to it a bunch. I have to be able to understand what he meant when he said “devastating.” But he already thinks I’m incurious. Because one time he offered to explain to me how a sparkplug works, and I said, “oh come on, that’s what I pay you for.” The look he gave me-- well, I just can’t have him look at me that way again.

It’s not stupid. He’s just…one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. First-generation immigrant. Born in Hamburg. Came over when he was five years old. On a freighter. Got a job working the ports at Long Beach. Taught himself English and Spanish. How do I know all this? I read it in the program for this play he wrote. Yeah, it’s been running at the Gracie for the past four weeks. See, that’s another thing. I can’t take the car in until I’ve seen the play a few more times.

How many times have I seen it already? Just a couple. It’s very dense. Or maybe I’m dense, what can I say? When? Last Thursday, why? What! That’s not true, is it? I thought your opening was this week! Oh, god, I am so sorry. How was it? High turnout? You don’t want to tell me. You know what, don’t tell me, you’re right. I should be punished. I’m such an selfish jerk.

God, I feel sick to my stomach. Yes, I can drive just fine. I just want you to know I feel terrible.

You know, maybe you shouldn’t do my taxes this year. Maybe it’s for the best. I know it’s your livelihood, but maybe it’s not worth the suffering? Filing an 1040 for the world’s biggest ingrate?

Zacarias Moussaoui Has Some Thoughts on the "United 93" Trailer

2006-04-04T15:28:00.000-07:00

People keep asking, "is it too soon to make a movie about 9/11?" I think that's the wrong question. The real question is, "will it ever be the right time to make this movie?" I mean, let's be honest, this is a suspense movie. It's not about understanding the motives for the attacks, or putting them into any kind of political or historical context, or tracing the changes within America society since they occured. The whole thing takes place on a plane. It's simply about scaring people, then ultimately entertaining them with a movie whose excesses and contrivances will be forgiven because it's intended to be a story of heroism. I mean, of course the families of the flight 93 passengers support the movie-- it turns all their dead relatives into big-screen heroes. Little Bobby gets turned into John McClane. Hooray! He didn't die in vain! This is about exploiting a horrific, terrifying event in history in order to make money, and whether or not you think that's right doesn't have anything to do with how soon it gets released.

That said, of course I'm gonna see the movie. I mean, Christ, I was supposed to be there.

"Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car," An Early Draft

2006-04-03T16:56:00.000-07:00

I'll be your non-stop lover/
Get it while you can/
Your non-stop miracle/
I'm your man/

Chorus:

Get outta my dreams/
Get into my car/
Extract your image and concurrent repositories of sexual desire from my subconscious mind/
Get into my car

Jeffrey Dahmer Has Some Thoughts on Arctic Monkeys

2006-03-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

Is all the hype justified? Are they really that good? I don't know. I think they're good at one certain thing. The single, "I Bet You Good on the Dancefloor," is that thing. Great single. Catchy as all get out. A powerhouse performed live. But seeing them live and hearing their catalog in totality, their youth and their one-dimensionality become plainly obvious. That said, still not the worst show I've ever seen. I danced. I howled. I got my money's worth.

Wanna know something funny? Whenever the singer says "I'll bet you look good on the dancefloor" in that song, I hear, "I'll bet you look good on the refridgerator shelf." Is that hilarious? Must be the accent.

Abraham Lincoln Has Some Thoughts on "Crash."

2006-03-07T13:04:00.000-08:00

Didn't love it. Too contrived. Seriously, what's the chance that some racist cop is gonna end up responding to a car wreck involving the very same black woman that he molested on a traffic stop earlier that day? I mean, of course he's gonna try and pull her from the wreckage. That's his job. Know what I mean? It's like writing a movie where Mother Theresa has a chance to go back in time to kill Hitler as a child. Of course she's gonna do it. So, congratulations, you've proven that under certain circumstances, Mother Theresa could be compelled to commit murder. Here's your Oscar.

Then again, the acting was pretty good. Black people can star in movies, huh? I mean, no, that's cool. Just kind of took me by surprise. I'm just saying, like, why not get a white actor who's gonna be better and put him in black face? Is it a budget thing, because it's an independant film? Just curious.

"Hot In Here," An Early Draft

2006-03-06T14:26:00.000-08:00

It's getting hot in here/
So take off all your clothes/
I am/
indeed feeling the rise in temperature/
I plan to disrobe, accordingly

Alec Baldwin Addresses the Talent at Cash Money Records.

2006-01-24T20:19:00.000-08:00

Baldwin: Let me have your attention for a moment! So you're talking about what? You're talking about...(puts out his cigarette)...bitching about that rhyme you dropped, somebody that doesn't want to hush that fuss, some hoe you're trying to freak and so forth. Let's talk about something important. Are they all here?

Slim Williams: All but one.

Baldwin: Well, I'm going anyway. Let's talk about something important! (to L’il Wayne) Put that forty down!! Forty’s are for closers only. (L’il Wayne scoffs) Do you think I'm fucking with you? I am not fucking with you. I'm here from downtown. I'm here from Mitch and Murray. And I'm here on a mission of mercy. Your name's L’il Wayne?

L’il Wayne: Yeah.

Baldwin: You call yourself a thug, you son of a bitch?

Juvenile: I don't have to listen to this shit.

Baldwin: You certainly don't pal. 'Cause the good news is -- you're fired. The bad news is you've got, all you got, just one week to earn back your props, starting tonight. Starting with tonights show. Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. 'Cause we're adding a little something to tonight’s battle. As you all know, first prize is a stretch Hummer limo with custom rims. Anyone want to see second prize? Second prize's a case of Mickey’s. Third prize is you're fired. You get the picture? You're laughing now? You got beats. Mitch and Murray paid good money. Write the rhymes to slay them! You can't slay the beats you're given, you can't slay shit, you ARE shit, mash that trash pal 'cause I'm a bet, hot enough to make the concrete sweat, fuck with me the wrong way and know you'll never forget!

L’il Wayne: The beats are weak.

Baldwin: 'The beats are weak.' Fucking beats are weak? You're weak. I've been in this business fifteen years.

Juvenile: What's your name?

Baldwin: FUCK YOU, that's my name!! You know why, Mister? 'Cause you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight, I drove a eighty thousand dollar BMW. That's my name!! (to L’il Wayne) And your name is "you're wanting." And you can't rhyme in time? You can't get your shine on. (at a near whisper) And you go home and tell your biatch your troubles. (to everyone again) Because only one thing counts in this life! Get that trunk to crunk to the bunk! You hear me, you fucking faggots?

(Baldwin flips over a blackboard which has two sets of letters on it: ABC, and AIDA.)

Baldwin: A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-crunking. Always be crunking! Always be crunking!! A-I-D-A. Attention, interest, decision, action. Attention – can I get a what-what? Interest -- are you down with this? I know you are because it's slump or bump. You crunk or you flunk the hunk! Decision -- have you lunk the wunk?!! And action. A-I-D-A; now get bunk!! You got the DJ spinnin’; you think they came in to get out of the rain? Guy doesn't walk in da club unless he wants to bump thumps. Sitting out there waiting to give you their money! Are you gonna take it? Are you man enough to take it? (to Juvenile) What's the problem pal? You. Juvenile.

Juvenile: You're such a hero, you're so fly. Why you coming down here and waste your time on a bunch of suckas?

(Baldwin sits and takes off his gold watch)

Baldwin: You see this bling-bling?

Juvenile: Yeah.

Baldwin: That bling cost more than your car. I made $970,000 last year. How much you rakin? You see, pal, that's who I am. And you're nothing. TRU nigga? I don't give a shit. Pussy slaya? Fuck you -- go home and play with your kids!! (to everyone) You wanna work here? Crunk!! (to Birdman) You think this is abuse? You think this is abuse, you cocksucker? You can't take this -- how can you gonna fling rhymes make the trains run on time?! You don't like it -- step. I can go out there tonight with the materials you got, make the crowd say “Hey Hey, have my babey!” On and on! To the break of dawn! Can you? Can you? Go and do likewise! A-I-D-A!! Get Bunk! You sons of bitches! Get Bunk!! You know what it takes to crunk?

(He pulls something out of his briefcase)

Baldwin: It takes brass balls.

(He's holding two brass balls on string, over the appropriate "area"--he puts them away after a pause)

Baldwin: Go and do likewise, suckas. The money's out there, you pick it up, it's yours. You don't--I have no sympathy for you. You wanna go out on that stage tonight and crunk, it's yours. If not you're going to be slicking my trick. Bunch of suckas sitting around a BBQ. (in a mocking weak voice) "Oh yeah, I used to be a playa, it's a tough racket." (he takes out a CD) These are the new beats. These are the Glengarry beats. And to you, they're gold. And you don't get them. Because to give them to you is just throwing them away. (he hands the stack to Williams) They're for crunkers.
I'd wish you good luck but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it. (to Juvenile as he puts on his watch again) And to answer your question, pal: why am I here? I came here because Mitch and Murray asked me to, they asked me for a favor. I said, the real favor, follow my advice and fling that bling because a bitch is a bitch. Word.

Yes, My Tusk Is Actually A Sensory Organ. I’d Still Trade It For Legs, Or An Ipod

2005-12-13T12:10:00.000-08:00

Everyone’s so excited because some dentist from Harvard finally discovered that my tusk is actually a giant thermometer. Whoop-di-do, I’d still lop it off in a heartbeat. Everybody thinks a nine-foot long tusk is so fucking cool, until they grow one themselves.

What’s that? I’m the only mammal with a nine-foot long tusk? My point exactly.

Sure it’s unique. Sure it’s baffled scientists for centuries. Sure it was rumored to possess magical powers. God, if only. If it was magic, I’d have already turned my fins into legs, grown lungs, and transformed the tusk into a pair of Bose QuietComfort headphones.

I don’t want to talk about what the tusk is really for. Barometric pressure, temperature changes-- I mean I’m depressed already. I liked it when you thought it was a mating device, or a weapon. At least that had mystique. I used to be like a God, a God of the sea. Mysterious. Elusive. My bones had medicinal powers, they could cure diseases, change lives. People didn't know if I was a friend or not. They wanted to know, but they were also afraid. Afraid of my power. Afraid of what my tusk and I might do.

Now everyone knows it’s all bullshit, and all I can think about is how I’ll never drive a BMW.

Let’s face it, all this cooing and ogling from the scientific community, a profile in The New York Times, none of it changes the fact that I’m freakishly ugly. Do you know what the word “narwhal” means in old Norse? “Corpse whale.” A whale that looks like a corpse. Wonderful. You know what I think about that? I think it’s an insult to corpses. At least they don’t look like they’ve been poked in the eye with a giant waffle cone.

So, seriously, think about that the next time you talk about how “wonderful” it is that my task has “sensory abilities.” Your feet also have sensory abilities, except they’re wearing the new Nike Air Flight Banger TB’s. Must be nice.

Highlights from the Upcoming Episode of "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy" Featuring Karl Rove

2005-12-13T10:52:00.000-08:00

- Reading through his profile in the car, Jay reminds everyone that Rove was the chief architect behind the president’s proposed Federal Marriage Amendment. Says Carson, “Wait till he meets me, suddenly he’ll be all about gay marriage.”

- Carson takes one look at Karl’s closet, recoils in horror. “I’m declaring this the new front in the war on terror.”

- Thom finds a 3-week old donut under Karl’s futon cushion, deems it “Couch-gate.”

- Kyan jokingly asks how Karl could ever let his mother see his bathroom like this. Karl replies that his mother committed suicide when he was 30. Jay shouts, “Awkward!”

- In preparation for a speech that evening before the American Enterprise Institute, Carson suggests Karl tie a Ralph Lauren sweater around his neck. “You want to say you’re about war, but you’re not ALL about war. Know what I mean?”

- Ted and Karl agree that in politics and food, simplicity and presentation are everything. “You think tax cuts, I think lemon-grilled fish in banana leaf wrap.”

- Thom implores Karl to only buy 600 thread count sheets from now on. “You’re the Deputy Chief of Staff in charge of policy, you’re worth it.”

- Karl cries joyful tears after Kyan convinces him to wax his back hair, saying, “I’ve always been so afraid.”

- Before going back to testify before a grand jury about the outing of a undercover CIA officer, Jay and Karl talk about what music to play in the car. They settle on Spoon’s “Don’t Let It Get You Down.”

Author Terry McMillan's Interior Decorator is Gay, And She Is Not Happy About It

2005-11-14T19:15:00.000-08:00

You're what? You're gay? Gay? You? You like men, that's what you're telling me right now? Hold on, hold on. That is fucked up. That is-- Oh, oh no. No, get away from me. No, I don't need help. I just need to sit down.

So, let me get this straight. You like men. Men. With dicks. Hairy chests. Men. You look at a naked woman, you feel nothing? Nothing?! Oh my Lord, I have never.

Have long have you known this? Was it before I hired you? Since you were 15?! 15, are you joking? And you've fucked a man, that's safe to assume? How many? Just tell me how many, I deserve to know how many!

Where the fuck do you get off not telling me a thing like that? It never occurred to you?! It never occurred? Motherfucker that should have the first thing you said when you walked through that door for your interview. When I called your ass to make the appointment, your answer should have been, "I like men, what time?"

What do you mean I should have known? Don’t you dare, don’t you dare try and make this my fault. Oh I see, so a man walks into my house with drape samples and a book of carpet swatches talking about awnings and accents and negative space, I should immediately assume he likes men! Well, I stand corrected.

Hints? What hints? I didn’t hear no hints. I heard you say you had a wife, that’s what I heard. Andy can be a woman’s name, I know plenty of Andies. You still said wife. Oh, that was just an expression. Well, in my world, wife don’t mean a man. In my reality, wife is an expression that means “lady in a white dress with a pussy.”

What’s that? Do you act masculine? Why the fuck are you asking me that? Answer the question? Fine, I’ll answer the question. No. No, you don’t act particularly masculine, but that ain’t exactly a red flag. What is a red flag? I don’t know, it’s—what? Is clapping your hands when you laugh a red flag? Shit, I know plenty of men who do that, you’re trying to tell me they’re all gay? Little Ricky down at the florists, you’re trying to tell me he likes men. What? Bullshit. Bull. Shit. How you know that? You did what? Oh my lord in heaven, soon as I’m done with you Ricky and I gonna have a little chat. About what? About honesty, motherfucker, heard of it!

Why am I so upset? I’ll tell you why. Because not two days ago, you were in that living room taking measurements, I walked past you in nothing but a Julianne Ray see-through chemise, and when you turned your head to admire my backside I felt reborn. Little do I know when you looked at my ass you were thinking of Denzel Washington. What? My ass looks better than Denzel’s? See, now you’re fucking with me, trying to get on my good side. Uh-uh, it ain’t that easy.

Wait a second, how the fuck would you know what Denzel’s ass looks like. Bullshit you have! Motherfucker, that is not funny. No you did not, you are lying. Oh my fucking god, I’m calling Oprah.

Harriet Miers Indeed Has A Paper Trail

2005-10-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

From The New York Times:

When he was asked if he had ever talked to Ms. Miers about her views on abortion, the president did not answer directly at first. "I have no litmus test," he said. A moment later, he said, "In my interviews with any judge, I never ask their personal opinion on the subject of abortion." To the best of his recollection, Mr. Bush said, he had never discussed abortion with Ms. Miers.

Mr. Bush also sent a clear signal that he would resist, on grounds of executive privilege, providing senators documents related to Ms. Miers's work in the White House. At least some Democrats are likely to seek such records, especially since Ms. Miers, who has never been a judge, has no "paper trail" of opinions.

"I just can't tell you how important it is for us to guard executive privilege in order for there to be crisp decision-making in the White House," Mr. Bush said.

EXCERPTS FROM THE OFFICIAL TRANSCIPT - U.S. SENATE JUDICIARY COMMITTEE - HEARING ON THE NOMINATION OF HARRIET MIERS TO JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT - OCTOBER 15, 2005:

U.S. SENATOR ARLEN SPECTER (R-PA) CHAIRMAN:…thus, I yield to my colleague, Senator Leahy.

U.S. SENATOR PATRICK J. LEAHY (D-VT) RANKING MEMBER: Thank you Mr. Chairman...Mrs. Miers, I hold in my hand a document, a receipt, in fact, from a purchase you made several weeks ago from the Blockbuster Video location at 1639 P Street NW. You rented a film that night. Several films. You purchased a box of Hot Tamales. You used a coupon. None of this is of interest to me. What does interest me is that you also paid lates fees. Late fees totaling twenty-five dollars and twenty-three cents, for the rental of film entitled “Phenomenon,” starring John Travolta and Kyra Sedgwick…running time of one hour, twenty-three minutes, yet it sat in your VCR for over three weeks, a gulf in time that I find, frankly, staggering…how are we to understand your sustained interest in this movie? How are the American people to interpret your… fascination with Mr. Travolta’s situation, your deep and abiding identification…I ask you simply: what, in your opinion, is the source of Mr. Travolta’s super-intelligence? Was it random…was he chosen…does the notion that Mr. Travolta, a lowly mechanic, would be able to master the Portugese language in just under twenty minutes seem plausible to you? Does that then make him qualified to teach a class in Portugese, despite having no previous experience, no discernable public record…

U.S. SENATOR HERBERT KOHL (D-WI): …perhaps a useful porthole…toward better understanding your relationship with President. Which of you is the Travolta in your dynamic, and which of you is the Forest Whitaker?

LEAHY: … Are you Mr. Travolta, Mrs. Miers? Did the President strike you with a bolt of lightning?

U.S. SENATOR ORRIN G. HATCH (R-UT): …the good senator attentions are misplaced…versus other choices on her account warranting much closer scrutiny…”Fast Times at Ridgmont High”…with reference to the Jennifer Jason Leigh character’s abortion…a significant plot point portrayed, I would say, quite sympathetically…

U.S. SENATOR JON KYL (R-AZ): …with all due respect to my colleague from Utah…widely regarded as a comedy classic…keystone of the genre…launched the careers of Sean Penn, Pheobe Cates, Judge Reinhold…hardly a litmus test…there are plenty of other reasons to recommend it.

U.S. SENATOR CHARLES E. GRASSLEY (R-IA):… a Jeff Spicolli in our midst? “Aloha, Mr. Bush?” Is that what we are to expect over the next three years?

U.S. SENATOR JOSEPH R. BIDEN JR. (D-DE): …my concerns are much more fundamental, which I'm sure comes as no suprise…I’ll ask you point blank, Mrs. Miers: how can one claim to have properly understood “Matrix: Revolutions” having never viewed “Reloaded?”

U.S. SENATOR HERBERT KOHL (D-WI): …Mrs. Miers, you honestly expect this committee to believe that in your ten years as White House Counsel you never once discussed with the President the ending to “The Sixth Sense?” He never asked? And you gave no indication? Not even a hint?…

LEAHY:…Travolta to Kyra Sedgwick in “Phenomenon," Sedgwick to Kevin Bacon in “Murder in the First.”

U.S. SENATOR MIKE DEWINE (R-OH): ...“Grumpy Old Men”…was that indeed your recommendation?…

U.S. SENATOR JEFF SESSIONS (R-AL): …and why not “Two Weeks Notice?”

SPECTER …if we could just take a step back for the moment, I’d like to remind my colleagues of my intent as chairman going in…it was my hope that these proceedings would remain cordial, that we would band together as Senators to conduct a fair and thorough hearing, one that the American people desire, and deserve… devoid of rancor, devoid of posturing…most of all, devoid of spoilers…

A Christmas Greeting from the Foners

2005-10-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

Happy Holidays, Foner friends and family! Hope our little missive finds you healthy, wealthy and sufficiently bundled up (10 degrees here in Aurora. California we hate you!). It’s been quite a year here at the Chateau Foner (pronounced Fo-nare). We have so much to share, it was a real chore fitting it all into one letter!

Mark just put the finishing touches on another banner year as plant manager at PIP Industries. Quarterly earnings were up 10% from the same time last December. His annual goal of 6% productivity was quickly met, leaving ample time and resources to execute a much-needed inventory at the Joliet storehouse. This might sound like bragging. Or it might sound like you’re reading the cover page of the PIP internal newsletter for the greater North Eest, because guess who scored the “Model Manager” profile for the fourth time in five years (third consecutively)?!

And as if that weren’t enough, Mark also managed to shoot the best 9 holes of golf in his life! A 45 at Sweetwater Links! For the skeptical among you, a copy of the actual scorecard is enclosed. Cindy was there, too, she’ll be happy to verify.

What’s that? “Who’s Cindy?” You know, Cindy. Mark’s wife. Erin, Brian and Sarah’s mother. Don’t tell us you forgot about Cindy just because she doesn’t bother to write or call. We all agree communication was never her strong suit. Now, if we could just convince her!

Seriously though, Cindy’s doing fine. She’s bounced back from her firing at the hospital, for the most part. And now that the malpractice suit is settled, she’s free to talk about it, which our therapist is encouraging as part of her anger-management program. But whatever you do, don’t bring up the gift basket home business venture. Or the South Beach diet. Both have gone the way of the graduate nursing degree. Anyway, Cindy wants all of you to know her resolution this coming year is to be a better correspondent. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed.

Speaking of “fingers,” Brian has a new nickname on his baseball team. I don’t want to just come right out and say it, but I will give you a clue: it starts with a certain dairy product that tastes good spread on toast. Eric put forth a really great effort this year, but I think it’s clear to all of us in the family that he just doesn’t have a knack for athletics, or competition in general. Feel free to write Eric back with suggestions for career paths that don’t require leadership skills, endurance, cooperation or strategic thinking. We’re all stumped here!

Erin has applied to law school and painted her first chapel mural. Just kidding, this is Erin we’re talking about! She was accepted early admission to IU and already knows what sorority she wants to join. Here’s a milestone for you: 450. That’s either Erin’s height in centimeters or her SAT Math score. See if you can you guess which one.

Remember Sarah, that innocent little towhead who slept with her thumb in her mouth and loved dolphins? Well, believe it or not, she just turned 16 (33 if you go by her wardrobe). She scored a “lead role” in the school theatre production of Into The Woods (Daddy’s not allowed to say “understudy”), and her dancing has gone in some…interesting directions. Next month she’s going for her driver’s license. Wish her luck! Remind her gas prices are well over $3/gallon!

This past September Brian, Erin, Sarah and Mark took an exciting trip up to Niagara Falls. Highlights included the Maid of the Mist ride and Brian’s all-night battle with a plate of bad seafood. Sarah met a nice Canadian boy who I’m sure will threaten to come visit us, and Erin and I found a bag of marijuana that someone must have secretly stuffed into her purse! Can you imagine?

Anyway, that’s the 411 on the Foner clan. Until next time, have a relaxing holiday and an exciting and productive new year. Quick suggestion from Mark: try and do something fun and impulsive every once and a while, something none of us would expect. No offense, it’s that just some of your Christmas notes are starting to read like form letters!

Okay now!

Mark, Sarah, Erin and Brian

(Cindy’s name removed by request)

"Fight For Your Right," An Early Draft

2005-09-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

You got to fight!/

For your right!/

To celebrate youth and flaunt your carefree attitude toward the world!/

"OPP," An Early Draft

2005-09-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

/You down with OPP?

/Yes! You are familiar with my personal preferences as they pertain to sexual encounters outside of a monogomous relationship!

The Bush Administration Has A Softball Team.

2005-09-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

Alright, who we playing today? Brookings? Oh, Jesus. Unbelievable they’re still allowed in this league. I mean, are we the only team in this town that isn’t stocked with cheaters?

Who’s pitching? Probably that Reynolds asshole, right? Great. Another fucking POW war hero. Every time I step up to bat I’ll be worried he’ll mistake me for Victor Charlie and slit my throat. I’m telling you the guy is mentally unstable. Remind me to talk to the umpire about that.

Who’s umping anyway? Are you kidding me?! Schumacher?! I’m sorry, there’s no fucking way I’m gonna let him ump this game. What do you have Alzheimer’s, he fucked us all through last year’s playoffs! Every fucking call went to Treasury. Strike zone the size of your grandmother’s vagina. Fuck that. He’s not umping this game. Forget it.

You want a reason? I’ll give you a reason. Meghan’s Law, how’s that for a reason? What do I mean? I don’t mean anything. But let me ask you this: does it bother you that a convicted sex offender can hang around in a public park where mothers bring their children? Yes or no? Yes or no?

Wait a minute, who said he was a child molester? Did I say that? But did I use those words? No, no, did I use those words? That’s right, I didn’t. I simply asked a question.

Let me see the lineup.

This is all wrong. Totally ass backwards. No, shut up. If you knew what you were doing, I wouldn’t have to be here half a fuckin hour before the game starts every week, holding your hand and changing your diaper and making sure the umpire isn’t a mentally-unstable liberal pederast.

Did I say that? Did I say that?

Get your pen out, here’s the real lineup. You ready? Pritchard leads off. Then Miller, then Monkey Cock. Put Anal Wart fourth. Then me, then Taint, then Butt Munch, then Brownie, Pus Boy, Scooter and Dingleberry. Got it?

Scooter’s out? Since when? Well who do we got for a sub? Condi! Have you lost your fucking mind! Goddamnit, how did she even know we were looking for somebody? Was it you? I swear to Christ if I find out it was you, they’re gonna be playing croquet with your nuts down at Gitmo.

Well, of course she wants to be included. When does she not want to be included. Story of her fucking life. But you know what? She can’t play for shit, and this isn’t the University of Michigan. If I wanted cunts in the lineup, I’d call Lynne Cheney.

Do me a favor, call Bolton. Tell him Turd Blossom wants him to call Condi, have her meet him in New York. He can tell her it was my idea. In fact, have him tell her I’ll be there too. No, he doesn’t have to fucking go, don’t be an idiot.

In fact, ask him if he’s got a glove.

FEMA Director Michael Brown Has A Wife

2005-09-07T21:11:00.000-07:00

Is something wrong? You're goddamn right something is wrong. Oh no, don’t you dare pull that “I’ve got a job to do” shit with me now. Not after what I’ve been through these past two years. You know sometimes I think that’s why you took this job. “Uh-oh, Sheryl’s on a rampage. Thank God for that landslide in Ventura.”

Yes, thank you, I realize New Orleans is underwater. But you know what? I don’t care. Senators are calling for your head on national television? Big deal. I’m talking about what’s going on here, in this house, right under your nose. This week has been a Category 4 natural disaster for this family, Michael. And I, for one, am not satisfied with your response.

What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Your son Frederick turned in a plagiarized microeconomics paper and was promptly expelled. When did I find this out? When I went in to meet with his guidance counselor this afternoon, by myself. You’ll be interested to know the counselor asked if Freddy’s father was aware of his disciplinary issues. I said no, but that shouldn’t be a surprise, since his father just announced on CNN that he was unaware of the thousands of refugees stranded at the New Orleans Convention Center.

What’s that? The President says you’re doing a good job? Well then, mission accomplished! A pat on the back from Joe Integrity himself. Wow, congratulations. Next stop, medal of freedom.

Oh, he appreciates you. Well isn’t that sweet. Maybe you ought to divorce me and marry him then. Kids, come inside! Meet the new first lady!

Hey, didn’t I hear someone leaked a memo saying you waited until the day of the storm to request help from Homeland Security? Any thoughts on where that came from? Nah, couldn’t be The White House. They never leak. Valerie Plame, who's that? Hey, by the way, Stevie Wonder called. He wants his eyesight back.

I have no idea what I’m talking about? Oh, you don’t want to have a conversation about qualifications right now, Mr. Arabian Horse Show Association. No you do not.

Yeah, well, when your parents turn on the TV and hear Scott McClennan say you’ve “decided to spend more time with your family,” you better hope no one is pointing a camera at me. Because they'll see me at the beach house, changing the fucking locks.

And The Winner Is...

2005-08-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

Oh, wow. Give me a second. Just let me... Oh, God. I need...water. Please. And could someone raise this mic stand just a little bit? Appreciate it.

Well, then.

This is truly amazing. They say there are only two certainties in life: death, and taxes. Well, now I know there is a third: winning this award. At least in my case.

[Laughter, applause].

Many of you are probably wondering why I've chosen to actually accept the award this year, after declining it for the past ten. The answer is simple: my children. They wanted it. They were tired of waiting.

[Applause].

I tried to explain to them that once I accept the award, no one else will want it, ever again. There'd be no honor in it. No value, really. Who wants an award after it's been given to yours truly? But you know these kids: in one ear, out the other. Want, want, want. Gimme, gimme, gimme. They're great kids. They deserve it.

[Awwws, laughter].

So, yes, I accept. Hear that, Sadie? Raphael? Ying Dong Zhen? Daddy's bringing home a big present! What do you say to Daddy? You say, "thank you." Well, you're welcome.

And let me just extend that to the rest of you out there. You're so very, very welcome.

[Laughter, applause].

If I could just single out a few people here. Julia Morton. Hey, sweetie. I know you had your doubts. Now they're regrets. Live with them.

Bobby Wasco. My best friend. You've been with me since the beginning. How blessed are you, huh?

My brother couldn't be here tonight. If he was he'd be very jealous. Trust me. He lives in Wisconsin. Some small town, you've never heard of it. Spokane. He's a lawyer. Not a great one. I talked to his bosses, they told me that. "Long way from partner." That's a quote. Sometimes he plays guitar. Alone. In his garage. At night. It's pretty sad. He'd love to be here. He'd love to be me.

[Laughter, awwws]

I'd like to dedicate this award to my wife, Cynthia. What a woman. Intelligent. Honest. Funny. So lovely, so supportive. Exotic. Fashionable. Thin. Really, she's the best thing any of you could hope for.

I love what I do. That's the simple truth. Is it difficult? Is it a struggle? No, really, I'm asking. I have no idea. Because it comes pretty easy to me.

You're all probably wondering what's next for me. That's a good question. Luckily, I don't have to ask it. I don't have to think too far ahead. I have nothing to prove. Right now, I just want to think about tonight. So, what's everybody doing later? I'm totally free. Text me, seriously. Let me know where it's at. 310-555-9678.

Cool.

[Music plays]

Go-To Guys (TM)

2005-08-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

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“Hang these curtains and reset my shoulder.”

“Cancel my subscriptions and forge this Vermeer.”

“Prepare my tax return and deliver Ohio.”

“Clear those gutters and drive my herd to Montana.”

“Spay my boxer and check the accuracy of this Clippership model.”

“Change the air filter and find my daughter a proper suitor.”

“Organize my collection of vinyl records, first by release date, then by relevance.”

“Title my installation.”

“Freak this and, upon completion, peep that.”

“Unclog that drain and build me an exit strategy for invading an oil-producing nation with a history of entrenched tribal conflict.”

“Make reservations for four at Spago, under the name “Camille,” and bring me the head of Diego Santa La Joya.”

“Gather quotes on this shelving job and restore honor to my father’s name.”

“Clip my hedges and reveal to me my deepest insecurities."

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“Translate Oslo Accord into Mandarin.”

“Scout the top power-forward in the upper NorthEast region.”

“Restore my Faberge Egg.”

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Call now for a consultation. All major credit cards accepted. This is not an escort service.

Bruce Wayne Kept a Shame Journal

2005-08-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

My name is Bruce Wayne. I’m eleven years old. I’m sick of my Mom and Dad. I wish they would die.

I’m sick of Gotham City. Everyone thinks it’s so great. I can’t wait to leave.

I hate everyone at school. I wish they would all die. I read in the newspaper about a girl who got kidnapped and thrown in a cellar. She was a cheerleader. I thought, “good.”

I dream about my death. Everyone who was mean to me would have to come to the funeral. They’d look at my grave and feel sad and ashamed of themselves.

If I could live anywhere, it’d be a big cave. I’d fake my own death and move to the cave, then watch my funeral with hidden cameras. I’d see all those jerks crying and I’d smile. You know why you’re sad, Trent Baker? Because I’m dead, and it might as well be your fault.

I don’t know what I’ll be when I grow up. I just know while everyone else is studying to be a doctor or a banker, I’m gonna practice ninja fighting until I’m unbeatable. Every year on the anniversary of my fake death, I’ll appear at night to save one of my asshole classmate’s lives. They’ll be in an alley getting mugged, and I’ll come out of the dark and kick the mugger’s ass. They’ll be so scared of how quick and deadly I am that they won’t even be able to say “thank you.” So I’ll say it for them. I’ll say “you’re welcome.” Or I’ll say, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘your welcome.’” They’ll feel even worse because they killed Bruce Wayne and now his ninja ghost just saved their life. They won’t know what to think.

This is awesome. I’ll save Mark Schulte first. Twenty bucks says he shits his pants.

After my third or fourth rescue someone will call the police. Too bad the police will be on my side. At least the chief of police will be. He won’t try too hard to catch me because secretly he likes nothing better then pulling up to a crime scene and finding Nick Hammand sucking on his thumb like a two-year old.

When I save Annie Bates, she’ll go crazy. She’ll fall in love with me and never be able to sleep until she finds me. They’ll put her in a padded room up at Arkham with a bunch of stuffed animals and the doctors will shrug their shoulders. Then, on the night of the big dance, I’ll bust her out and take her as my date. We’ll walk in and Greg O’Donnell will punch the wall and Mark Schulte will shit his pants again without even thinking about it. Annie will smile for the first time in years, her dream finally come true. Then she’ll turn around and I’ll be gone and they’ll have to put her in restraints.

I know what my parents will say when they find out I’m a ninja. They’ll say what they always say. “For a boy who has everything, you’re awfully selfish.”

Fuck them. Ninjas save lives. They’re just not wimps about it.

Yes, I’m An Astronaut.

2005-08-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have degrees in both aerospace engineering and physics. No, I can’t afford to be absent-minded. Yes, I’m aware the world is watching. Yes, I know I left my razor behind at the International Space Station.

Yes, I’m aware I left my journal, too. Yes, I heard it read aloud by the Russians on their daily transmissions yesterday. Yes, I heard the giggles. Yes, I wrote the phrase “a kagillion stars.” Yes, I’m aware there is no such word as “kagillion.”

Yes, thermal protection is my specialty. Yes, I want another launch in September. Yes, I was alarmed by the foam loss. Yes, I have ideas on how to reduce its size. Yes, they’re in my journal. Yes, I see your point.

Yes, I like Harry Potter. Yes, that’s my “Half-Blood Prince” in the crew quarters. No, I didn’t finish it before we returned. Yes, I will have to buy another copy now that we are back. No, I didn’t know Dumbledore died. Thank you very much for telling me.

Yes, I take my job seriously. Yes, I think what we do is important. Yes, I believe in the mission. No, I didn’t say NASA was a “clown show.” Yes, I did write that Colonel Reed reminds me of Fatty Arbuckle. Yes, I think there is a distinction.

Yes, I like my job. Yes, I want more shuttle missions. No, I don’t think we should abandon the space station. Yes, I want to fly the successor spacecraft. No, I don’t think it should be named after me. Yes, I realize that wasn’t a serious question.

Yes, I’m currently single. Yes, I live alone. Yes, as of a few weeks ago that was not the case. Yes, I wrote that the infinite black of space is only slightly lonelier than my apartment. No, I have nothing to add to that.

Yes, I know there were reporters camped out at my mother’s. Yes, I heard she talked to them. Yes, I know what she said. No, I didn’t call her when I landed. Yes, I haven’t called her in months. Yes, I forgot her birthday. No, I don’t want the press and public thinking we send degenerates into space. Yes, but you’re assuming that she’s ever been supportive about anything I’ve ever done in my entire life ever, which she has not. Yes, I suppose giving birth to me is something. No, you’re right, I wouldn’t have walked on the moon if it weren’t for her, but we can’t exactly give out medals for getting knocked up by the factory foreman, now can we?

Yes, I realize you’re the one asking the questions. No, I have nothing further. Yes, I plan to shave tomorrow.

No, thank you.

We Call This The Pete Rose Haircut

2005-08-15T19:03:00.000-07:00

Short in the back. Combed forward in the front. Bangs cut even.

Thanks, Sheila. School's fine. I'm working at Blockbuster for the summer.