16 posts tagged popular

By Andy Sandford

The Color Purple Rain: Prince leads slaves to freedom on his motorcycle, thus beginning a journey to the purifying waters of Lake Minnetonka

The Green Mile High Club: Death row inmates are granted one conjugal plane ride in this Conair sequel

2001 A Space Honda Odyssey: A wacky suburban family finds out that their 2001 Honda Odyssey is a spaceship. Now it’s up to them to save Earth

10 Things I hate about Jews: Schindler’s List as seen from the other side. Also titled, Himmler’s List

The Lion King’s Speech: Phil Collins spends hours trying to teach a Lion to talk

Venus De Milo & Otis: Story of a pug dragging an ancient sculpture up mount Olympus

Ted Turner & Hooch: Billionaire has annoying slobbery dog put down

Yo La Tengo & Cash: Kurt Russel hangs out with a less-than-relevant band

Men In Blackface: Horribly offensive romp where racist vaudevillians save the planet

Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil Dead 2: A local millionaire is murdered by a dismembered, possessed hand in this campy thriller crime drama

Citizen Kano: Australian born Kano gets his citizenship and has a brush with materialism in this 1941 Mortal Kombat offshoot

The Deer Hunter S. Thompson: Hunter S. Thompson plays Russian Roulette for 3 hours

No Country For Old Men At Work: 2 garbage men spy on their neighbors with a telescope and find some dead bodies, a stash of heroin and more than $2 million in cash

There Will Be Blood In, Blood Out: A story about family, greed, religion, and oil, centered around a turn-of-the-century prospector in the early days of East L.A. Latino gangs.

Gone With The Windtalkers: Scarlett O’hara learns the Navajo code for 7 hours

A Street Car Named “Desiree:” Marlon Brando stars twice in this film about Napoleon Bonaparte tormenting a disturbed Blanche Dubois in New Orleans

Fargo Baby Gone: Two Boston area detectives investigate a little girl’s kidnapping in Minnesota

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless, Dangerous Minds: Michelle Pfeiffer teaches ghetto children to forget all about their baby daddies

A League of Extraordinary Gentleman of Their Own: Gena Davis and Tank Girl play baseball as men in an alternate Victorian age world

By wearemostaliveindreams

The holiday season is upon us once again. Well, I guess that is a bit of a lie.

The holiday season has been upon us since before Halloween and because Congress is currently in deliberation over instating one mandatory Black Friday a month starting in May of 2012, I have compiled a list of 5 things you can do to preserve your sanity and become the best consumer in your neighborhood.

1. Eliminate the Competition. Your first order of business will be to find the other families in the neighborhood that will rival your own in terms of consumer prowess. Eliminate these families by breaking into their homes and changing all of their clocks the night before each Black Friday. Imagine having a two hour head start on your competition. The morale boost alone is well worth the risk. Bonus Tips: After changing the clocks, poison the family pet. Before making your way back home, use the cover of darkness to flatten the tires on all of their vehicles. I suggest using a 10” Bowie Knife.
2. Feign Illness. Every store you enter has the potential to be a zoo. If you encounter a particular aisle that has a limited amount of items that you wish to purchase, clear the aisle with well placed projectile vomit. I suggest Chinese food and egg nog. The smell alone will send those with weak stomachs to the nearest bathroom. Bonus Tips: Other useful combos include Limburger cheese and soda, spaghetti and milk, tacos and whiskey, and my personal favorite but hardest to pull off, 15 cans of sardines topped off with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
3. Drive Fast. Don’t be afraid of the police. If you drive fast enough and reckless enough, they will eventually give up and resort to doing some shopping of their own. Do your research by watching movies like Ronin, Death Race 2000, anything directed by Michael Bay or Jerry Bruckheimer and Cannonball Run II. Bonus Tip: Grow a mustache and buy some slick aviator glasses. If done correctly, other drivers will be so focused on your Burt Reynolds disguise that they will crash, giving you free reign of the road.
4. Methamphetamine. Nothing can touch the energy boost of meth. It’s like drinking a case of Red Bull and then lighting yourself on fire. Cheap to make and effective, this holiday kick-starter will be sure to keep you going for days on end. Bonus Tips: Mix with Angel Dust to give yourself that “Hulk Rage” edge. You will be more prone to violence, but if the bullets start flying, you won’t feel a thing and will be able to continue shopping once your adversaries have been slaughtered. I suggest administering this potentially lethal concoction before driving anywhere. It will erase your inhibitions towards driving like a fucking maniac.
5. Arm Yourself. Guns are fine and knives can offer hand to hand protection, but nothing says you mean business like a starving grizzly bear complete with titanium chain mail. Come spring time, go out into the wild and lasso yourself the biggest grizzly you can find. I suggest a female because they tend to be much larger than males and far more aggressive. Not only can you use this beast to clear annoying check-out lines but keep the bear outside your home to protect against would-be thieves. Bonus Tip: Carry a Super Soaker filled with warm animal blood. If you feel as though other patrons might try anything sneaky, hose them down and watch your grizzly go into a vicious tirade, tearing your competition to bits, leaving you to peruse wherever you please.

Keep in mind that this is a basic list. Feel free to combine any of these to solidify your choke hold on holiday cheer.

Happy Holidays and best of luck to those of you willing to break enough laws to land you on death row this upcoming year.

By Carly Yansak

“What does she have that I don’t?!”  

I’m watching fictional characters plead with each other on T.V., and when the question is blurted I want to step into their non-reality and ask: “does it matter?” 

A problematic characteristic of people is we always want to understand why. We never accept something just for what it is - we need to decipher it next. It’s the fault of our higher brain functioning - we know all too well there are motives and psyches and subconscious’s coming into play during our decisions; it’s human nature. Where we go wrong is wanting to grasp those elements when they are outside of ourselves. 

I’m a terrible example. I constantly have friends tell me: “Carly, you’re thinking too much,” which is why I’m taking a different approach. I call it The Bottom Line Theory. 

Similar to my Bare Bones Theory, where you whittle down your best stories into a quantified sentence, you take the situation and you put it to the bottom line. 

For example: You date someone. You think things are going great. Man, are you a lucky one to have found them. Suddenly, you’re hearing from them less and less. A small and awkward slow dance around each other proceeds until one day, it’s dropped. You’re confused, right? What happened? You two had such great chemistry. You wonder your pretty little head off over things such as: was I too available? Was there someone else? What was it about me that wasn’t good enough?

But fuck that. The Bottom Line is: it’s over. 

The reasoning won’t change this or make it any different. In fact, it will probably make it worse. Imagine if someone were to actually answer the question: “what does she have that I don’t?” 

“Well, if you’d really like to know… her legs are skinnier, her sense of humor is more on my level and all around, she’s just more interesting.”  

Let me know how long it would take your ego to recover from that shot. 

It just doesn’t matter. What matters after any puzzling event is how you’re going to proceed - not what led up to the procession. Your life will achieve homeostasis again, and much quicker if you leave out those time consuming questions which leave you bat in hand, over top the dead carcass you can’t seem to beat any more blood out of. It’s a very simple concept, and while some may be skeptical to apply it to complex situations, I’d urge those to take a look into their past. Think of something you thought was monumental, changing, the most important thing to happen yet! And while yes, you may have came out a different person, how much does it really matter now? 

This is another thing to understand about the theory - whatever has happened will change you. But that’s just another bottom line: you will be altered. 

When put in such blatant terms, this can sound intimidating. Really, it’s the best part. The alteration only makes you more rounded out, more experienced, and just a tad bit the wiser. It also makes it so when the next whatthefuck situation crashes around your corner you can go: yeah, I’ve got this. 

By Bill Dixon

I received a text message from someone who must have accidentally saved a contact number wrong so I thought I would have some fun.

The person never wrote back. They must have figured out how to operate their proton pack effectively. That, or they accidentally crossed the streams. Regardless, I think a “Thank you” would have been nice.

By Bill Dixon

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Levitt,

Long time no talk! I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me again! In case you have forgotten, I am the young lady who babysat your son Kaleb and daughter Kara last weekend while you went away for a couple’s counseling retreat in Temecula (I know you told me you were visiting your wife’s sister but I stumbled upon the reservation receipt in your wife’s underwear drawer). There are a few things that I did that could easily be misconstrued by you as inappropriate and I just wanted to clear them up so there is no animosity between us.

First, I would like to acknowledge that I understand that leaving a person alone in your home with your children requires a great deal of trust. It was a massive responsibility and I am honored that you trusted me enough to leave me with your son and daughter. They are both truly wonderful children.

That being said, I still don’t fully understand why you insisted on getting the police involved for - what I consider - a few fairly harmless indiscretions.

In retrospect, I would not let Kaleb give the dog, Bruno, an unsupervised haircut with a pair of scissors. But I think that the issue is not that scissors are dangerous tools but rather, an angry and dangerous boy should not have a pair of scissors. I think that instinctively blaming the babysitter is a reactionary move and maybe you should take some time to sit down with Kaleb and explore some of his anger issues. Instead of working on a failing marriage in Temecula for a long weekend, you should be spending more time saying, “I love you” to Kaleb. I think he is a very angry 4-year-old.

However, I will apologize for not taking the dog to the veterinarian’s office immediately after it happened. I was under the impression that dog ears grew back. I later came to find out that this only applies to lizard tails. But I am not a scientist; I’m just a babysitter. That was my mistake and if there is anything I can do in the future - financially - to help relieve Bruno’s unfortunate mutilation, please take it out of the pay I have not yet received for the weekend I babysat (another can of worms I do not wish to open.)

I would also like to apologize for letting Kara make breakfast for her brother and I. When she tried to pour the milk into the cereal, she dropped the milk jug on the kitchen floor and became very upset, as a 9-year-old girls tend to do. I hardly thought that this was a valid reason to involve law enforcement.

My attorney has informed me that apparently the bigger issue was when I let Kara take the keys to the minivan so she could run to the grocery store and pick up some more milk. But technically, she is the one who crashed the car into the garage door, the mailbox, the neighbor’s mailbox, and the neighbor’s foyer. I didn’t ask her to go to the store. She volunteered with great enthusiasm! Why would someone of sound mind ask to drive a car if they don’t know how to drive! This seems like common sense stuff to me so I just don’t understand where all this finger-pointing is coming from.

Again, I would compel you to explore the possibility that maybe this isn’t a “negligent babysitter” issue as much as it is a “mom and dad are maybe a little too self-concerned and need to spend a little more time with their angry boy, mentally unstable daughter, and horribly mangled dog” issue.

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I’ve been seeing you on the news lately and that Dateline NBC piece they did on the whole event was very lopsided in its reporting but that’s all water under the bridge.

I guess I am just writing to apologize for my end of things. I know in my heart you are feeling guilty about your end as well, particularly about not paying the person who, while you were trying to repair your crumbling marriage, babysat your kids for almost a full day before the cops showed up.

My lawyer and psychiatrist told me not to write this letter but I needed to get this out of my system in the spirit of reconciliation.

You can send the check (preferably for the entire weekend, as that’s the amount of time I was promised) to the North Star Rehabilitation Facility C.O. Dr. Yang.

Also, once this whole thing is straightened out, I would love to see the kids again and babysit when needed. They are truly adorable!

Praying for Bruno,

Samantha

Dear Ms. Johnson,

I am writing you this letter to cordially thank you for meeting with me on the 2nd of December and allowing me to interview for the In-Home Caretaker position at the North Star Retirement Cottages. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me and look forward to working with you in the future and again thank you for the opportunity.

I would also like to take this time to apologize for a few things I didn’t, at the time, realize were in bad taste. I have just relocated to Chicago from Philadelphia and there are a few regional colloquialisms that may have made parts of our interview uncomfortable. In the spirit of maturity and professionalism, I thought I would address these issues in this letter so that we might be able to put them behind us and move forward with no friction if we choose to work together in a professional environment.

First, I would like to apologize if my behavior was, interpreted by you or your staff as, “inappropriate.” As we know now from the court-ordered blood test, I was in fact slightly intoxicated (some might say 4x above the legal limit, but I’m not a scientist and only God can judge me) at the time of the interview. Job interviews make me nervous so I had a few drinks to unwind beforehand. I know now what my limits are in regards to drinking and will never again drink Grey Goose and Gatorade out of a milk jug before an interview. Some people can pull it off; I can’t. I know this now.

I also apologize for vomiting in your desk drawer. I was just feeling sick from all the pushups. And yes, you were right about that as well, showing you how many pushups I could do was not relevant to the job or relevant to anything besides a pushup contest. Once again, I was nervous, intoxicated, and eager to impress you.

Second, I have to tell you that I did not mean those things I said about people of Hispanic heritage. I am from Philadelphia and the word “spic” is part of the vernacular there. In my neighborhood, the word spic is just like the word man or dude. But again, you were right, looking back now I realize the word was irrelevant given the context of the statement.

“Well there ain’t no way I’m touchin’ one of them nasty wetback dudes, goin’ home every night smelling like tamales. I hate dudes so much!” So I get your point. I did not mean for it to come across in a disparaging way. Again, I have to blame my anxiety and intoxication.

I would also like to apologize for bringing a handgun to the interview—I realize now that this was in poor taste. But you have to understand, I am from Philadelphia and everyone has a gun there. In fact, in large spans of the country, it’s considered patriotic to be generally armed in a professional atmosphere. However, I make no excuses for brandishing the weapon in an attempt to intimidate the others who were in the waiting room waiting to interview that day; that was simply uncalled for. I also apologize for pointing the gun at you. In truth, however, it was only a .22 caliber, hardly powerful enough to kill a person (this, of course, excluding a headshot).

Again let me say it, I’m sorry. And I want you to know that this is a sincere apology. Even though this letter is court-ordered, I want you to know I mean every word in it and I really hope we can get a chance to work together in the future, hopefully between 18 and 24 months depending on behavior.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

William Dixon
Inmate No: 45781B
Cook County Correctional Institution
Chicago IL, 60622

“Billy, mommy is very sick. She has some substance abuse issues and is going away to a nice place to make her all better.”

This is the euphemistically plentiful line I would hear from law enforcement officials as a child, seated on their knee in the yard of whatever house we were currently renting as a gurney rolls out of the house with my drunk mother securely fastened, lifting her hand to wave at me, as they lift her into the ambulance.

“I think she is waving at me.”

“Now Billy, she’s just sick and needs to go away to get better.”

“Did you know ambulances can go as fast as they want?”

“Yes, Billy, They’ll go as fast as they need to go so they can get your mom to a hospital so she can get better.”

I thought it was unfair she was rewarded with an ambulance ride, speeding around turns, rolling through stoplights, sirens roaring.

One morning there were no more ambulances. No more cushioned talk about getting better, no more hurried sirens or flashing light. No, She’d have one more opportunity to neglect red lights but this time she would be leading a caravan of cars and minivans with hazard lights blinking violently out of chorus except for a few moments where the line of cars would blink in unison for one moment before falling out of sync again. If you are looking from the right perspective and have the patience to watch the flashing chaos long enough, you might be rewarded with that single brilliant moment where the individual amber bursts collect and fire in one great harmonic blaze, a collective moment of together in an otherwise isolating experience. Then, the great flashing fire is swiftly snuffed out like a collection of birthday candles and then, they resumes their self-centered, confused, blinking.

***

I don’t think the undertaker was careless with my mother; I just think she looked like they may have applied foundation with a paintball gun. I suppose in a job as thankless as human-taxidermist, there needs to be the occasional valve decompression in the form of superficial human graffiti. In retrospect, I bet my mother was probably buried with gang signs scribbled across her ass in the fashion of a handicapped toilet stall of a Denny’s, “Wez Side Motha Fuckaz” cleverly hidden under her burial dress. It’s neither here nor there, I suppose. Mother always fancied herself Thug Life.

I was 12-years-old when my step-father and the mortician took me into a small room at the funeral home to allow me to view my mothers “remains.” I didn’t like that word, remains. Remains, to me, felt like whatever was left over at a yard sale. Like I was being taken to a view a casket half full with a bent sand wedge, Kool Aid stained beanbag chair and a single size-13 ski boot. I was weary of euphemistic language. It was this same defanged talk that was spoon fed to me when explaining my mother’s “condition”, countless trips to rehab, and ultimately her demise.

“Your mom was sick, she really wanted to get better but this is God’s will and she’s in a better place.”

I lean over the open casket and look inside.

“Her boobs look a little…flat.” I say.

I remember mom being curvy, and that’s how I want to remember her. Chesticles in life as they shall be in death, asses to asses, bust to bust…through Christ our Lord, Amen.

I don’t remember what the mortician said in response to this wildly bizarre accusation of de-boobing mom, but I do remember the words he used were with the same cadence and temperament of a person who’s trying to explain to someone that they have spinach in their teeth.  Very polite, hushed tones, “She’s in a better place and you may want to just make a quick trip to the bathroom because…right there, yeah, no go like this. There you go.”

I ultimately gave my approval, it’s not like sending a hamburger back at a restaurant, “I’m sorry, I asked for this corpse well-done and clearly I can still see pink in the middle…and please don’t just put it in the microwave and please don’t spit on it, thank you.” 

I reached out and touched her one more time, like ringing a doorbell. No one was home. I thought that maybe I would cry. I didn’t. I had lost that connection to her when I was much younger. Not intentionally, there’s just only so much you can take before the brain decides that it’s going to be too difficult to continually invest in this person emotionally only to lose your investment a short time later. The market was turbulent so my heart made safer investments in Bugs Bunny and Ninja Turtles; they were on once a week like clockwork. They were the good investment.

What was hardest was not that she was gone but that I never had a chance to trust her and love her like a mother instead of a maintaining a dark comic detachment that I maintain to this day. i.e., “No, Ms. Marshall, I don’t know why my mom didn’t pick me up from school and no, trust me, she’s not ‘probably stuck in traffic’ unless there is beer truck toppled over on 95. I suggest we call my grandma because something tells me mother dearest shall be ‘stuck in traffic’ for 6-12 weeks until she shows up in an ER in Philly drunk on rubbing alcohol looking for a Percocet prescription for her tennis elbow.”

What was hardest was not that she was gone but that we spent so many years blinking in the same house. She would blink on the couch, drunk, alone, broken. I would blink alone in my room with the covers pulled over my head. It wasn’t until she was gone that I wanted to glisten with her, in unison, in a temporary and beautiful chorus, if only for one glorious amber burst and then blink into darkness—together.