» Posts in Parody
June 17, 2011
Here we are. Here we go. Twitter. Curious, curious indeed. Start with a profile name. My own name should suffice. No need to be facetious. Clean, clear, unencumbered by accoutrements. Oscar. Wilde.
Rats. Taken. Chap looks quite a bit like me as well. No worries. No worries. You are a writer, my friend. Should be able to find a suitable alternative. WildeAtHeart? Too obvious. WildeChild?…come on now Oscar, aim higher. Pithy, to the point. You have got this!
Hmm….
Truth be told, Oscar, you have not, in fact, “got this.” No matter. OscarWilde1874 will have to suffice for now. Will aid the Trinity rascals in locating me. Can always adjust it later should the need arise.
And. We. Are. On. Curtains are up. An audience, however, is required, is it not? Perhaps I should “follow” some fellow luminaries and they will return the favor. Follow? More like lead! Jesting, of course! Let me see, let me see. Dickens. Nasty little bugger, but why not? Twain. Most certainly. I enjoy a homespun julep-inspired screed just as much as much as any filthy Yank. Followed!
Well, well, well. Lookie here. QueenVicki. Her majesty tweets? Goodness. Who knew? I must see this.
“1st rule of club sandwichez iz you dont talk bout club sandwichez. LOL! #gettinmybaconon”
What ever does that mean? One assumes it is a reference to the eponymous Earl and his mutton and bread proclivities. Yet it does not excuse it from making barely a farthing’s worth of sense. The bird is batty. We all know this. Her profile photograph is evidence. You cannot even discern her royal countenance. It is entirely lace and bosom and…
Good lord, I must click away. Prince Albert, I pity you not your death, but your life with this ample lump of monarch. Moving on.
What’s happening?
I suppose that is an invitation to share my adventures. Let me see, let me see. I did have a splendid sausage for breakfast. Perhaps I should…No, no. The world is not interested in my digestions. An advertisement, perhaps? An Ideal Husband is premiering at the Pawtucket Playhouse this weekend, after all. If there were a manner in which I could mention it without appearing boastful. Self deprecation may work. For example, “It may not be an ideal way to spend a Saturday, however–”
Hold the wireless, what do we have here? My first follower! FeliCiaXRj3480. Utter gibberish, but should she retweet my musings then I shall forgive her all her typesetting offenses. Hmm…appears she is interested in handbags and bloated genitals. Aren’t we all! I shall file her in a list titled DelightfullyDevilish and examine her enticements later.
For now, it might be helpful to study these Trends. #terribletheatre. That’s easy. Anything by George Bernard Shaw! I tease, Bernie, because I adore you. All naughtiness aside, clicking #terribletheatre and seeing what the masses proclaim would seem to be in order.
The Importance of Being Slam Dunk Ernest? The Real Housewives of Windsor? Oh I see! Puns. I can have a play at this. How about a raspberry directed at one of the classics? Sophocles could stand for some ribbing. Oedipus the Queen, anyone? No, that won’t do. Tyrannosaurs Rex? Will readers even get that?
You know what? If the public is having a go at me, I will best them by having a go at myself! How about Salamí by Oscar Wilde? A ribald reference to the cured Italian meat, while maintaining the accent mark over the vowel. Subtle and delicious! Before submitting, it might behoove me to check if anyone else has written an identically crafted tweet. Not at all likely, but the Westminter dandies are sure to howl plagiarism should this be the case.
Fifteen people! That is sobering indeed. It appears I am late for the gala on this one. Best to move on. Here is an idea. What about recycling one of my finer quips? A reminder to the plebes of what raised me to my current stature. Precisely. That will inspire both retweets and followings. Let me see, let me see. A joke fits the occasion, flavored of course with a wee bit of contrarianism.
“People who count their chickens before they are hatched, act very wisely, because chickens run about so absurdly that it is impossible to co…”
Blasted character limit! Brevity is the soul of wit, but you could at least grant a fellow 160 characters! Heavens. This tweeting is exhausting. Maybe it is best to just share the contents of my breakfast. Or complain about the clammy weather and rancid absinthe in this sad excuse for a cabaret. No, no, wait. I have it. Yes! I have the most wonderfully perfect gem.
“Anyone have a cure for a serious case of the Mondays? #canwejustskiprighttofridayalready?”
Genius! Now all I have to do is press Tweet and the world will bask in–
A whale? Carried by sparrows? Ridiculous. The time approaches to be through with this nonsense. Methinks my examinations are better spent on the bottom of a whisky glass. LOL.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Internet, Parody | Bookmark or Share
April 1, 2011
A lot of people stop by this site because they’re curious to learn what it takes to not only write a children’s book, but to write a successful one. Some authors appear at workshops where they charge hundreds of dollars to dispense such insider tips. Not me. Today, I’m giving the good stuff out for free. I only ask that you thank me in your acknowledgements and cut me in on any foreign rights. It’s a fair trade for this invaluable wisdom. Let’s get down to it.
First off, the old advice is often the best advice. Write what you know. Do you know a puppy that’s a bit poky? How about some teenagers who hunt each other for sport? Connecting with children is about connecting with the world around you. A few monkeys don’t hurt either. That’s right. Forget wizards, vampires and zombies. Monkeys are what distinguish great children’s books. Try to imagine The Secret Garden without Jose Fuzzbuttons, the wisecracking capuchin whose indelible catchphrase “Aye-yaye-yaye, Mami, hands off the yucca!” is still bandied about schoolyards today? I don’t think you can.
Of course, the magic that is artistic inspiration must find its way in there. So how do you grab hold of it? Christopher Paolini swears by peyote-fueled pilgrimages to the Atacama Desert. I’m more of a traditionalist. A pint of gin and a round of Russian Roulette with Maurice Sendak always gets my creative juices flowing. Have fun. Experiment. Handguns and hallucinogens need not be involved. Though I see no reason to rule them out. Find what works for you.
Now, you’ll inevitably face a little writer’s block. There are two words that cure this problem and cure it quick. Public Domain. Dust off some literary dud and add spice to it. Kids dig this stuff. For instance, you could take some Edith Wharton and inject it with flatulence. The Age of Innocence and Farts. Done. Easy. Bestseller.
I give this last bit of advice with a caveat. Resist the temptation to write unauthorized sequels to beloved classics. I speak from experience. My manuscripts for You Heard What I Said Dog, Get Your Arse Outta Here! and God? Margaret Again…I’m Late have seen the bottom of more editors’ trash cans than I care to mention. Newbery bait? Sure. Immune to the unwritten rules of the biz? Hardly.
Okay, let’s jump forward. So now you’ve got your masterpiece, but how the heck are you going to sell the thing? Truth be told, you’re going to need an advanced degree first. As anyone will inform you, kid lit authors without PhDs or MFAs are rarely taken seriously. If you can’t work Derrida or Foucault into a pitch letter, then you certainly can’t survive a 30-minute writing workshop with Mrs. Sumner’s 5th period reading class. So invest 60-100K and 3-6 years of your life. Then let the bidding war begin.
In the off chance that your book isn’t going to sell for six figures, try blackmail. Sounds harsh, but the children’s book industry runs almost exclusively on hush money and broken kneecaps. I mean, Beverly Cleary doesn’t even own a car. So why is she always carrying a tire iron?
Money is now under the mattress and the editorial process begins. Don’t worry at all about this. Editors won’t even read your book. They’ll simply call in Quentin Blake for some illustrations and then run the whole thing through a binding machine they keep in the back of the office. Should be in the front display case at Barnes and Noble by the end of the week.
As for marketing and PR, you can expect the standard twelve-city tour, a Today Show spot, and probably an interview in the Paris Review. After that, it’s up to you. Publishers know that the best marketers are the authors themselves, especially bookish introverts with a penchant for self-deprecation. So go after it. Blog. Tweet. And don’t underestimate the power of guerilla marketing. Shel Silverstein once clearcut a hundred acres of redwoods just to make his advance back for The Giving Tree. What’s your gimmick?
I hate to say it, but you’re bound to get a bad review or two along the way. My advice is to take the high road, ignore the naysayers, and solider on. Your best revenge will be your golden trophies and your framed New York Times Bestseller lists. Still, if you’re dead set on getting back at a grouchy librarian or two, go with kidnapping. It’s a mainstay plot device in YA potboilers and is bound to lead to either hi-jinks or some meaningful rite-of-passage. Be sure to keep notes, because your follow-up book is already in the works! Like I said, write what you know.
There you have it. A step-by-step manual to penning an award-worthy, blockbuster children’s book. As you can see, it’s not very hard. And it’s really the only way to do it. Well…there is one other way, but it feels a bit like cheating. Are you John Lithgow?
8 Comments | Posted by Aaron under BEST OF, Books, Monkeys, Parody | Bookmark or Share
December 15, 2010
If you’re coming here for my top 10 movies of the year or my 50 favorite disco singles, I’m afraid I’m aiming to disappoint. Those lists are fun and everything, but I really can’t find it in myself to declare Furry Vengence the 9th finest cinematic experience of 2010, even though after doing all the calculations and checking the denominators and all that jazz, it appears to be true. Instead, I leave you with a miscellany of highlights from this “year we made contact.”
MY FAVORITE QUOTE: While sharing a cab one morning with a woman she didn’t know (you’d have to live in Hoboken, NJ to understand that’s just how things usually work out), my wife heard the quote of the year. It doesn’t really stand on its own like some Oscar Wilde quip, but there’s a certain magic to it. Looking out of the window of the cab, the woman sighed, motioned to a city worker who was emptying a trash can, and said, “That guy must have such an easy life.” Now there’s a chance that this woman had some insider information about the fellow, like she knew he’d recently hit the Powerball or scored the role of the villain in the The Dark Knight Rises or some such, but my wife didn’t catch that vibe. No, this woman had more of a “poor me, sitting in a cab, trying not to be late for a morning webinar with Tony from PR to discuss the importance of Twitter in the pet insurance industry, while this simpleton empties trash cans and whistles his day away before returning to his filthy hovel for a can of Spam and a hearty round of laughs compliments of America’s Funniest Home Videos,” sort of stink about her. Grass is always greener, indeed. I don’t know who this woman was, but my hat goes off to her and her wholly insular view of the world. My second favorite quote comes from a stranger who randomly asked me and friend the following: “Hey, you guys happen to be T-shirt enthusiasts?” Our response: “We wear T-shirts.” His follow-up: “Well, I’m a T-shirt enthusiast.” End of conversation.
THE HARSHEST CELEBRITY BRUSH-OFF: Celebrities don’t care much for me. I present, as proof, my following dust-ups with some high wattage stars. The comedian Dave Attell once blew me off when I approached him in a falafel restaurant and politely gave him unsolicited advice on how to make his TV show infinitely better. Bobcat Goldthwait, the MVP of many a Police Academy film, gave me the stink-eye when I nearly ran my shopping cart into his one snowy Christmas Eve in an empty suburban grocery store. And now, just a few days ago, I was rebuffed by a certain actor who was standing at a bar after a concert, patiently waiting for the barkeep to tender him a drink. He plays an iconic television character, so I tried to be smooth in my attempt to chat him up. “Let us get you a drink ____” I told him, using his actual first name, rather than his character’s name, which I’m sure he hears more often than not. He glanced at me and my wife, pivoted around on his heel, and walked away without saying a word. I keep his identity a secret for the purposes of guessing games and anonymity, because I assume he was just shy and it wasn’t because I reeked of, I don’t know, seaweed and cheese or anything.
THE FINEST STRETCH OF ROADKILL When traveling through New Zealand a few years back, my then-girlfriend-now-wife and I played a game of our own creation called Stoat/Possum. The country is just lousy with stoats (a relative of the weasel) and possums (not this kind, but this kind) and they make up the majority of the roadkill (aside from the hobbits). So when you’re driving along and see a lump of fur on the pavement, the fun thing to do is to yell out either “STOAT!” or “POSSUM!” in a booming Orson Welles voice. No need to keep score. It’s simply good times for the whole family. Driving to see relatives this year, I came across a fair bit of roadkill. The standard raccoons and deer, the occasional skunk or groundhog. A mattress. But on one trip, I scored an amazing quadrella. I’ll break it down for you in order of impressiveness. #1. A coyote, which isn’t all that rare. #2. A fox. That’s right, the proverbial sly fox. Sure, you don’t write home about a fox being roadkill, but then, what sicko writes home about any roadkill? Take it from me. It’s a bit rare. #3. A porcupine. Now you’re getting interested. You’re imagining what it might be like to roll into a Firestone Auto Center with a porcupine sticking out of your rear tire. This is becoming quite an impressive checklist. Add to that: #4. A bear. That’s right. A big old black bear. I don’t believe I’d ever seen a bear as roadkill before that day, and certainly not on the same stretch of road as a coyote, a fox, and a porcupine. I was lucky indeed. It was like some A.A. Milne novel had gotten way out of hand, and I was there for the glorious and gory catharsis.
THE MOST POPULAR PAGE ON MY WEBSITE: By far, it’s a little blog entry I did titled “Five Animals that are Uglier than Zac Efron.” It probably accounts for 90% of this site’s search engine traffic and I’m sure it leaves plenty of girls shaking their fists in anger. Even a few have left comments, including my favorite: “he is hotter than everyone who posted this website.” Everyone who posted this website is just me, Lauren, and I resent what you’ve said. After all, have you even seen me in a pink bunny suit? I’m not sure what Efron has done in the last year other than comb his hair a lot, but his fanbase is going strong, and according to my site stats, they’re entering things like, “animals, not zac efron,” “zac efron is pregnet” and “zac efron clever?” into Google, then stopping in here for a visit. Jeff Kay, who runs the fantastic West Virginia Surf Report linked to the Efron piece and brought in boatloads of traffic as well. In the spirit of the season, I feel I should return the favor. His site is a daily read for me, and should be for you. My favorite of his writings might not be his most celebrated, but heck, it gets me every time, and it’s about something as universal as Scandinavian healthcare. It’s an old gem titled “Sleep is Creepy.” Read it, and rest easy tonight, folks.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Movies, Nature, Parody, Television, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
November 5, 2010
Bubble Girl is famous on the internet for getting herself into some dodgy situations. But, bless her, she always manages to turn the motor on and hightail it away from danger. Here’s a recent photo from her trip to Yellowstone. Grizzly bears don’t take kindly to folks stealing their honey. Mark that down as another lesson learned, Bubble Girl.
1 Comment | Posted by Aaron under Internet, Nature, Parody | Bookmark or Share
November 4, 2010
A lot of people come to this blog with the same question.
“Aaron,” they ask, “what should I do if I get attacked by a shark?”
Now I’ve seen most of the TV edit of Deep Blue Sea on TBS, and while I’ve only caught the beginning of Jaws: The Revenge, I’m generally a fan of Mario Van Peebles, so I think I know how that one turns out (Peebles: 1, Shark: 0). In short, I’m just as qualified as anyone in teaching the art of shark survival. Yes, I am aware that National Geographic claims they’ve got a corner on this market, but these are also the bums who haven’t sent you a wicked cool holographic skull cover in more than 20 years. With cinema like Saw 3-D out there, a National Geographic might as well be an issue of Highlights, without all those gnarly hidden picture games. It’s certainly not the periodical to pull out when a hammerhead is getting all gory on your metatarsal. For that, you come to me. But first we have to establish a couple things.
Is the shark biting you right now? If you answered yes, then my suggestion is that you move your smart phone or laptop to your weak hand, freeing the dominant one up for some Three Stooge moves. While doing this, you might be able to distract the shark by asking it if it would like to check its email. Chances are the shark doesn’t have an email account, and even if it does, it’s probably a compuserve one that it hasn’t checked in forever, but you’ll catch the old gill-breather off guard for a second while it considers the fact that banking online really does free up more minutes in your day.
How long have you known the shark? I ask you this because they often pose a similar question on Cops and it’s a good way to determine the nature of domestic relationships. If you answered “my whole life,” then I know there are gonna be a few emotional issues here, especially if things get to the point where I have to suggest that you stab the shark in its reproductive organs. Then again, if you answer “we just met at a coral reef a few minutes ago,” then I’m going be wondering if I’m getting the whole story. I mean, what type of coral reef are we talking about? Are there any jelly fish at this reef I should be aware of? Do I have to tip the guy that drives the boat for the snorkeling trip? What about the kid that hands out the masks? I mean, he’s just a kid and he’s not really doing anything. Questions can be like dominoes.
Now that we’ve assessed the situation, I’m going to run through the steps of surviving a shark attack:
- Don’t play dead. Besides drowning, you’ll run the risk of having some hillbilly shark putting you on stick and then chasing his friends around and saying stupid things like, “I’ma smear some Roger on ya!” This is especially true for people named Roger.
- If you usually tell neighborhood bullies that you know martial arts, now would be a good time to admit that you don’t. Bruce Lee yowls and board chopping will only serve to embolden a shark. And sharks have devised an effective strategy to combat roundhouse kicks. It’s called biting your leg off.
- However, fans of roundhouse kicks shouldn’t be shy about working Road House into the conversation. Sharks loooove Road House and while they’re amusing themselves with lines like “Pain don’t hurt!” and “I want you to be nice until it’s time to not be nice,” you can focus on your escape.
- Well planned, poetic escapes are unquestionably awesome, but you probably don’t have the time to work some Shawshank or Count of Monte Crisco-style revenge into yours. Just start swimming. Years down the line you can toss some plastic soda rings and motor oil into the ocean if that makes you feel any better.
- Don’t swim the butterfly. It’s too hard. And it’s pretentious.
- During the initial scuffle, you might have lost your bathing suit. Now this goes against traditional wisdom, but I recommend that you go back for it. Assuming you’ve got a shot with one of the cute lifeguards ashore, you definitely don’t want to walk out of the water giving a full body advertisement of the goods. There’s desperation and then there’s desperation. Emily Post would agree with me on this one.
- Swimsuit back on, now is the time to start making a bunch of noise. Yes, this will pull the shark out of its Swayze-induced hypnosis, but you’ll want all the camcorders on the beach pointing your way. Youtube was made for stuff like this, and who doesn’t aspire to become the next “keyboard cat.”
- A one liner would help at this point. Especially if you want this video to be auto-tuned. Try: “It’s eating all my limbs up in here.”
- If Danny Boyle happens to be on the beach now might be the ideal moment to throw him your business card. That limey loves to direct human interest stories filled with blood and guts and he might even convince Ewan McGregor to play you and Cillian Murphy to play the shark. Speaking of guts, it’s bad form to give anyone a business card with guts on it. So dip that bad boy in the surf before flicking it Danny’s way.
- Live. That’s the final step. Just live. When they cart you to the local hospital, don’t go dying on us. Cause you know who lives? Heroes. And you know who dies? Cowards. Well, Abraham Lincoln wasn’t a coward, but he’s the exception to the rule. And, besides, Abraham Lincoln was never stupid enough to go swimming off the coast of South Africa. Smooth move Ex-Lax.
That’s it. Hope you were taking notes, or at least staving off the bleeding long enough to get this far. Next week, I’ll teach you how to survive being shot in the head by John Wilkes Booth. Until then…
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Death, Nature, Parody | Bookmark or Share
