» Posts in Parody
February 15, 2012
You gotta be careful in here, kid. You may be wearin’ your stripes, but you ain’t earned your stripes. Go it alone and you’ll make mistakes. You’ll hitch yourself to the wrong post, get saddled up and sold to the highest bidder. Stick by me and you might stand half a chance, but you’re gonna hafta listen.
…
What’s that?
…
Oh, that’d be on Tuesdays. Not a bad spread. Pickles. Onions. Standard. You’ll learn the menu. More important is this here yard. How you carry yourself. Who you trust. Take that fella at the bench press for example, the one with the dark beard and forearms thick as your chest. Name’s Bluto. Doin’ a dime for kidnappin’ a woman. That’s right, a sailor man’s wife. Threw her over his shoulder and took her down to the docks. Oh, he’ll rough you up right, but keep a can of spinach in your hip pocket and he’ll think twice. I don’t understand the science, but that there is the formula. Spinach.
…
Agreed, kid. Coupla sizzlin’ patties will beat a can o’ the green any yesterday or tomorrow, but that’s not what we’re talkin’. We’re talkin’ today and today is about the disco and the disco is about stayin’ alive. Have a look here. Skinny character sporting the lime suit? Question mark on his chest? That don’t mean he’s the information booth. No sir. Say a word to that crafty SOB and he’ll come at you like the Sphinx, all riddles ‘n giggles. Next thing you know you’ll be chummin’ around with a psycho circus clown and runnin’ from some pointy-eared, gravelly voiced vigilante. No. Thank. You. Best to steer clear of that riddler entirely.
…
Beats me! I wouldn’t know if his riddles are about ground beef or ground cinnamon for that matter, because I don’t talk to the man! Aren’t you listenin’? Better be. Your eyes ain’t gonna tell you what my twenty-seven years behind this barbed wire knows to be true. Another example. You probably look over at that strung-out orange beaky guy and think, “well that’s just some ol’ cuckoo junkie.” You’d be right about that. But that ol’ cuckoo junkie goes by the name of Sonny, and Sonny knows where to score the sweet stuff, if you catch my meaning. Sonny is just cuckoo for it, smuggles it past the guards in cereal boxes. You want a taste, that’s your bird.
…
I guess he could get you some, but why not wait till Tuesday? Like I said, they fire up that flame-broiler on Tuesdays. Sonny’s got no time to bother with no fast-food. Wisen up, boy, or you’ll end up runnin’ with them Hanna Barberas and let me tell you, that gang’s no Laff-a-Lympics. Sure, some of them hustlas may talk a soft game, soundin’ like Casey Casem or Paul Lynde, but they will be quick to shank a new fish if they even suspect you’re conspirin’ with the ascotted and far-sighted and snack-gobblin’ brand o’ meddlin’ teenagers. Dig? Of course you don’t. I’m not spellin’ it out in ketchup. These are the type of gangstas that dress as ghosts and swamp thangs and go hauntin’ just so they can shut down orphanages! That enough to scare you? Oh and don’t get me started on the Orphans! That’s another gang. A more Dickensian band of bandits you have not seen. If it ain’t your porridge they’re after, it’s your inheritance. You work the chimney sweep detail and you’ll be pits-deep in those mangy lads, singing show-tunes while they pick your pocket. You’re better off bustin’ rocks with that crotchety old moneybags from Atlantic City. He’s in here for tax evasion, and on the outside he’s a genuine issue, bone-fide mogul, owns both Boardwalk and Park Place. If he rolls his dice right, he’ll be out soon. Maybe toss a pal a get-out-of-jail-free card. But only if you stick with me. Because he owes me a favor. I gave that man a railroad, son.
…
Again with quarter-pounders! What does that hafta do with the price of tea in China! What’s your story again, kid? What you in here for?
…
Whatburgling? That don’t make a licka sense. From who? Who fingered ya?
…
Who in the sam heck elected a fool named McCheese? And what in the what is a Grimace?
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Parody, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
December 14, 2011
INT. FACEBOOK CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY
Dustin Moskovitz and Chris Hughes sit at a conference table, surrounded by piles of file folders, binders, etc. Mark Zuckerberg paces around the room.
ZUCKERBERG
Moving on. Who do we have next?
Moskovitz opens a file folder.
MOSKOVITZ
We have a…Jenny Richardson.
ZUCKERBERG
What do we know about Jenny?
MOSKOVITZ
Let’s see. Says here she’s from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
HUGHES
That’s Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Zuck.
ZUCKERBERG
Nice catch, Hughesy. Okay, so she’s an Amish then, right? Good. Somewhere to start. We wanna get those Amish fingers a-clickin’. So tell me, boys. What’s ad-sales pulling in on the horse-and-buggy front?
Moskovitz checks the ledger.
MOSKOVITZ
Nada.
ZUCKERBERG
Damn. Strike one. No big whoop. Homerun idea is…oats! Pretty sure these people love the oats.
HUGHES
That’s the Quakers, Zuck.
ZUCKERBERG
Is it? What’s the difference?
MOSKOVITZ
I think…the hats?
HUGHES
Zippers, actually.
ZUCKERBERG
Zippers? Fascinating. How so?
HUGHES
Don’t like ‘em. Don’t want ‘em. Got no need for ‘em.
ZUCKERBERG
Who? Amish or Quakers? Know what? Doesn’t matter. Skip any zipper ads for Jenny. That includes Ziploc and all subsidiaries. Don’t want to take chances. Focus on oats. I know it’s a Quaker thing, but I’m betting every horse-loving Pennsylvanian needs quality oats. Now make me a happy man, Mister M. Tell me we got some badass oats accounts on the books?
Moskovitz checks the ledger.
MOSKOVITZ
Best I can do is Hall & Oates. Reunion tour at the Starland Ballroom in Sayreville, New…
(flips page)
…Jersey.
ZUCKERBERG
Good. We can work with that. How far is Sayreville from Lancaster? Is it doable for Jenny?
Hughes pulls out an atlas, flips through the pages until he finds an overview map of the Northeast. He measures the distance with his fingers, checks the scale on the key.
HUGHES
Looks doable, Zuck.
ZUCKERBERG
Horse-and-buggy doable?
HUGHES
I can’t claim to be an expert, but I think it’s horse-and-buggy doable. A full day on the buggy but, you know, it’s a reunion tour. I heard they’re doing Maneater.
ZUCKERBERG
Good point. Jenny will make the trip for Maneater.
(beat)
Okay, so Jenny’s going to a concert. What else can we sell her? I need the deets, Mighty Moskovitz. Hit me up. What sorta books does she dig?
MOSKOVITZ
Says here she reads “just about anything good…except for sci-fi. Ack!”
ZUCKERBERG
Ack? What’s ack?
MOSKOVITZ
I think she’s just saying ack. Like…gross. Ack!
HUGHES
Cathy says ack.
ZUCKERBERG
Cathy in the SEO department? Peanut-allergy Cathy? I swear, sometimes I would fire that woman just so I could have a godforsaken Pay-Day bar every once in a tomorrow!
HUGHES
Different Cathy, Zuck. Sorry, should have been more specific. Cathy the comic strip.
ZUCKERBERG
Got it. I know that one. They still running those?
HUGHES
Not sure.
ZUCKERBERG
Know what? Think I saw some funny papers in the eighth floor bathroom. Third stall in. Right up on the tank.
HUGHES
So…? Want me to…check?
ZUCKERBERG
Of course I want you to check! Jesus, Hughesy, we aren’t LinkedIn over here, where they don’t know their Cathy from their Sally Forth! We go public in a few months, this is the sorta minutia people are gonna expect.
HUGHES
Sorry, Zuck. I’m on it.
Hughes dashes out.
MOSKOVITZ
We still talking about Jenny?
ZUCKERBERG
(grinding his teeth)
Right. Jenny. Likes books. Good ones. Read anything good lately?
MOSKOVITZ
I really liked The Night Circus.
ZUCKERBERG
What’s that about?
MOSKOVITZ
A circus…at night.
ZUCKERBERG
Not a sci-fi circus at night? Jenny doesn’t care for sci-fi.
MOSKOVITZ
Um…no. Not sci-fi. Maybe fantasy? It’s kinda tough to peg down.
ZUCKERBERG
But you liked it? People like it?
MOSKOVITZ
It’s pretty friggin’ magical.
ZUCKERBERG
Good. Good. So I’m guessing Jenny read it too, cause she’s not gonna pass up something so magical. And she’s probably itching to see a night circus in person. Which begs the question…
Moskovitz nods and grabs the yellow pages. He flips through.
MOSKOVITZ
Sorry. No listings for night circuses in Lancaster, Sayreville or anywhere in between.
ZUCKERBERG
Day circuses?
Moskovitz shakes his head.
ZUCKERBERG
Mother-fudger! Gimme something!
MOSKOVITZ
How about circus peanuts? You know, the candy?
ZUCKERBERG
Really? That stuff is vile.
MOSKOVITZ
Maybe, but they have a big ad budget. Someone must enjoy the stuff.
ZUCKERBERG
And maybe that someone is Jenny. Or if that someone isn’t Jenny, maybe it will be Jenny because she’s all giddied up on the night circus pony. I like your thinking Dusty M. And besides, Jenny will be hungry at Hall & Oates. Oh-oh here she comes, watch out circus peanuts she’ll chew you up….
MOSKOVITZ
Nicely done.
ZUCKERBERG
Bush-league, but thank you. Just getting started. So we’ve sold stuff to Jenny. Now let’s sell Jenny. I’m sure there are companies interested in hearing more about her. What’s her relationship status?
MOSKOVITZ
It’s complicated.
ZUCKERBERG
Dammit! We should’ve never made that an option.
MOSKOVITZ
Not what I meant. It says quite clearly that she’s interested in men. But then I’ve got all these photos of her playing softball.
Moskovitz spreads some photographs out on the table. Zuckerberg has a look.
ZUCKERBERG
Bit of a stretch, don’t you think?
MOSKOVITZ
She lists Boys on the Side as one of her favorite movies.
ZUCKERBERG
Doesn’t prove anything. McConaughey is in that picture. Which status updates does she “like?”
Moskovitz searches through some papers.
MOSKOVITZ
Her friend Gina’s toddler said something funny about how rain is God “going pee-pee” and she liked that.
ZUCKERBERG
Okay.
MOSKOVITZ
She liked that Ken Dyer was “gonna get his drink on tonight with all the L-Town hotteez!”
ZUCKERBERG
Why wouldn’t she? Sounds like a good time. How about some things she doesn’t like?
MOSKOVITZ
Um…I thought we weren’t adding that button?
ZUCKERBERG
(sighing)
We aren’t. But the data. The data should still reveal what she doesn’t like.
Moskovitz searches through the papers.
MOSKOVITZ
Mondays. It appears she doesn’t like Mondays.
ZUCKERBERG
Hmmm.
(beat)
So she’s a lesbian. I’m guessing Subaru would be interested in knowing that.
MOSKOVITZ
Err…horse-and-buggy.
ZUCKERBERG
Crap-balls!
The door flies open. Hughes tumbles in.
HUGHES
(breathlessly)
No…sign…of Cathy. But Sally….Forth…still going…strong.
ZUCKERBERG
Bingo! You’re back, Hughesy!
HUGHES
Thanks…Zuck.
ZUCKERBERG
Snoop Mousy Moskovitz! Get whoever draws, writes, and publishes Sally Forth on the horn and tell them we’ve got the 411 on a sugared-up Amish lesbian Hall & Oates aficionado named Jenny Richardson and ask them flat out how many dimes they’re willing to drop to know how she’s doing at Farmville.
(catches his breath)
Moving on.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under BEST OF, Internet, Parody | Bookmark or Share
December 12, 2011
From: Darius Pogue
To: ”Office List”
Sent: Monday, December 12, 2011 8:39 AM
Subject: Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Hey gang,
Sigh in relief. This isn’t another email about security software updates. Trust your humble one-man IT department when I assure you that the Yorktown Pennysaver is now a veritable Fortress of Solitude, and that this email blast is of a decidedly more personal nature. It’s sure to be the talk of the office until the steam whistle blows.
“Out with it!” you say? Fair enough. Guess who’s going to see Gwar this Saturday at Hogan’s Hideaway? That’s right. The very same fella who tells you, “don’t panic!” when you’ve got a kernel panic, who converts your JPEGs to PDFs and is a BMF besides. Me! And I’ve got an extra ticket.
So who wants in?
Now I realize some of you will probably have questions before committing. It’s natural. Seeing Gwar ain’t exactly like popping by the Cineplex for some Pixar. It’s an event, one that will quite possibly define your life. So I’ll try to walk any Gwar-dolescents (as I like to call the newbies) through the basics.
First question is obvious: What time? Well, doors are at 8 PM, but you should probably stop by my place around 11 AM so we can prep.
I can hear our favorite Mary Kay spokesperson/administrative assistant Deidre right now. “Prep? Like makeup and stuff?” Little different than that, D. But it’s all par for the Gwar course. We’ll be pouring latex molds for our festering neck boils. Doing a little mace polishing. The requisite codpiece fitting.
I know. I know. The boys in sales love a good codpiece joke, but I assure you, the codpieces are an absolute necessity. You gotta be prepared should you find yourself on the business end of a flail some goblined-up tweaker is swinging willy-nilly. Learned that the hard way during the Scumdogs of the Universe Tour.
Haley, I know you’re hip to all the new bands (I’m gonna get that Atari Fire album you keep raving about), but do you have “Scumdogs of the Universe” on vinyl? I’m betting you don’t. Let me tell you, “Sexecutioner” sounds so much warmer, and with all the lovely crackles and pops laying some ambiance down on “Slaughterama,” you can practically feel the Nazi decapitation.
But as great as those songs sound from the turntable, they sound infinitely better live, when your ears are soaked with blood. Judging from Mike’s fainting spell at last year’s blood drive, I’m guessing I lost him right there. But hold on, Mike. Weren’t you the one who told me The Blue Man Group was “the best show in Vegas?” Didn’t you forward that Gallagher video around? Gwar’s a lot like Gallagher, but instead of washing watermelon juice out of your hair the next morning, it’ll be blood…possibly pus.
Notice I said possibly pus. I stress the possibly. Gwar makes no guarantees in the pus department. They are very clear about this. My apologies if the inclusion of pus, or lack there-of, is a deal-breaker for some. Not much I can do about that.
Now I don’t doubt that Carmen, the consummate copy editor in our bunch, has printed this email out and has the old red pen poised. She’s probably thinking practicalities. I can just picture her note in the margin:
“With all the blood (and possibly pus) flying around, can we expect an adequate coat check?”
It’s a valid concern. And I’m gonna say, yes. Yes there is a coat check at Hogan’s Hideaway. But I must also provide the following caveat. Adherence to standard bathroom practices is rare when you’re talking Gwar gigs. Hard to tell a stack of coats from a compost pile by second encore.
Yep, there’s no way around it, Carmen. You’re gonna get a few stains on your clothes and codpiece. Let’s still focus on the practical, though. I have two words for you (or one hyphenated word, to be exact, Lil Miss Stunky White). Oxy-Clean. The stuff just works.
Finally, I’m reminded of one of Mitch’s daily quotes he wrote on the whiteboard. It was from Flaubert, who’s a Frenchie from back in the day. He said, “Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.”
Flaubert might as well have been named Nostradamus. Cause the man saw the future. He basically predicted Gwar. The monster part, in any case. He certainly wasn’t talking about those poseurs from Green Jelly.
So there it is, folks. An irresistible invitation. Now all that’s left is for you to throw your hats (or, shall I say, helmets!) into the ring. Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Regards,
Darius Pogue
IT Administrator
Yorktown Pennysaver
dariusp@yorkpenny.com
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Music, Parody, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
September 9, 2011
I should have known better. When I received a mysterious email with a link to an unnamed video, I should have trashed the thing. It didn’t look like SPAM, but hackers are becoming more sophisticated these days and can transmit a virus quicker than a kindergarten class after a field trip to the consumption ward. Actually, I would have been lucky if it was just a virus. The link led to something far more insidious than that. It led to…
Well, let me start by reminding you that about a year ago I had a run-in with two of the most ruthless book critics on the circuit. You can read about it here. I have since recovered from the incident, but the video below has resurrected all those feelings: the fear, the shame, the hunger to eat a jar of peanut butter and a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. The only thing I have done in the last 17 hours is sit by a window, sighing and watching the rain trickle down the glass. After watching this, you may be tempted to the same:
5 Comments | Posted by Aaron under Books, Parody, The Only Ones | Bookmark or Share
June 24, 2011
©Johnny Ryan
I play a weekly game of spoons with Don DeLillo, Marilynne Robinson and the guy who wrote volumes 3, 4 and 9 of Truly Tasteless Jokes (he’s told us his name a million times, but we still just call him Skippy, an homage of sorts to the gangly neighbor on Family Ties). They’re fierce contests, these games of spoons, draped in cigar smoke and filthy language. A grand time is almost always had.
And almost always, talk turns to wordsmanship and literature or, as Skippy likes to say, the biz. A few years back, I made the bold statement that “any old schmuck can publish a novel for young people” and Marilynne, half in the bag from peppermint schnapps, called me on my bluff. “Well then friggin’ do it you namby-pamby pissant,” she slurred.
Well, I did her one better. I published two. DWEEB, a madcap little adventure of escape and camaraderie among the weak and wedgied, came out in 2009 and appeals to what’s known as the “middle-grade” set. The Only Ones, a dark but funny apocalyptic fable, comes out in a couple months and speaks to a slightly older crowd, the young “adults,” if you’re willing to call them that. Marilynne has conceded that I more than met the challenge, but I see no reason to boast. Because what I did was the easiest thing in the world. You can do it too, if you remember the following things:
1. Kids are stupid. Plain and simple. Look at all the paste eaters in the world. Majority are kids. Nose pickers? 60% are below the age of 16. Ask a third grader his thoughts on Baudelaire and I guarantee the response will be some non sequitur along the lines of “I can make poo poo in the potty.” Teens are even worse. Let’s run through some notable examples. Bobby Fischer? His use of the Poisoned Pawn Variation was overrated at best. King Tut? That joke of a pharaoh died of a broken leg. Joan of Arc? French. Exceedingly French. I could go on, but why bother. Just invite the cast of Degrassi over someday for some edamame and count how many of those googly-eyed Canucks eat the pods.
2. Stupid is as stupid reads. Since these numbskulls like garbage, give them garbage. Name your main character Star. Or Astralique. Or Luminicitus. Something stellar and nonsensical. Start the book with a line like, “Third period Math suckz!” because z’s are perfectly acceptable s’s for this “smartphone generation” and just about everything “suckz!” Speaking of which, pepper the manuscript with plenty of sex, preferably between a southern debutante and some sort of centuries-old man-beast. Thanks to MTV, teenage pregnancy is totally rock-and-roll. These days, every girl aspires to be either Bristol Palin or one of those ancient Greeks gals that Zeus knocked up with a demigod.
3. Make sure to include a heavy-handed message. Read a couple middle-grade or YA novels so you can get the formula down. All middle-grade novels essentially follow the same template: Nerdy boy/girl moves down south to live with a crotchety aunt/uncle, befriends a local cripple, opens a lemonade stand, accidentally knocks a baby into a well, hits puberty, joins a junior spy league, and learns that Pol Pot wasn’t so cool after all. Get a fart in there somewhere. There’s always a fart or two. As for YA, make sure your main character is raised by a methed-up hillbilly and a preening former beauty queen who may or may not be a pagan, but certainly messes about on ouija boards. There should be at least 15 gay characters. Kids weaned on Glee will expect no less. The climactic scene should always take place at prom, because teenagers have no foresight beyond prom—most of them have entered suicide pacts that kick in during the second verse of “Oh What a Night.” The prom scene should always have a twist. Either a chubby kid should be voted prom king, or the prom queen should turn out to be a reptilian space demon here to disembowel us all. The message should be it’s who you are on the inside that counts. Include as many insides as possible. Entrails. Spleens. It should be like an autopsy on CSI.
4. Establish a platform. Start a Facebook community page. Digg! Your audience and your fellow authors have little ability to communicate without emoticons and buttons that let them, with one simple mouse click, tell the world that they think UCLA’s Huey Lewis lip-dub is Shizzalicious! A Tumblr account is a great way to share pictures of the Gossip Girl cast eating cheeseburgers and quotes from Mark Twain that you can attribute to James Frey because who wants to hear from some grey-haired dead guy when we’ve got a dude who smoked crack a couple times to school us all on life, art and commerce. If you use Twitter, your tweets should be along the lines of Hav ya eva stolen a shorty from yur bestie? or OMG. LOL. JK! Epic Fail. PWNED. WKRP in Cincinnati! I haven’t the first clue what any of that means, but trust me. It’s gold.
5. Plan a 19 novel arc. This will keep you in the Krug for at least 3 years and fund your “real” writing. The only respect a writer can ever expect to receive is in the form of an endorsement from Nobel laureate Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio and a serialized novella in The Medulla Review. All books for kids are utter drivel, obviously. Literature, true literature, is written for adults, and must have a philosophically resonant plot that doesn’t pander and rely on cheap tricks. There is absolutely no place for tales of mystical children born at the stroke of midnight, or hauntings by antebellum ghost babies, or nerdy magicians and artists inspired by comic books to stand up for themselves and to the Nazis, or squads of stinky goons in punk rock bands, or fathers and sons on weepy, post-apocalyptic road-trips that might as well be “Cat’s in the Cradle Part II”…with zombies. Save that swill for the kiddy table.
The next round of spoons is scheduled for Sunday. And I have a counter-challenge for my friend Marilynne that will be even harder than writing kidlit. “Drink a gallon of milk in an hour without vomiting,” I’ll say. And Skippy will slap a jug of 2% on the table, and DeLillo will laugh and proclaim, “what a slouchy funk of bovine mealiocrity!” and I’ll call shenanigans with a, “Can it Don, mealiocrity isn’t a word,” and he’ll reply, “Sure it is – I just made it up!” and Marilynn will crack open the milk and rip a few pages out of Lois Lowry’s The Giver so she can have something to wipe her mouth with once she gets down to serious business.
4 Comments | Posted by Aaron under BEST OF, Books, Parody | Bookmark or Share
