By Josh Gad
I am a Studio Head. I head one of the major motion picture studios that make motion pictures…“movie magic” as it’s often referred to. It is my understanding that the public perspective is that the Writers are the heroes and the Studio Heads the villains. But, I would like to tell you a story.
I was once in a market in Cairo with my family and our servant, Tabitha. From the inside of my luxury 12 seat Ferrari Hovercraft, (there are only three in the universe), I looked out and saw the back of a boy, between the age of 2 and 14 who was screaming. So I threw a wad of cash (ten thousand dollars in ones) at the back of his head, to get his attention of course. When he turned around, I saw it for the first time. Shock corralled through my inner being. I immediately withdrew my index and middle finger from Samantha, (my wife’s), vagina and held my head out the window to ensure that what I was seeing was but a lie. It could not, however, have been any more real. The chilling image sent me into a nausiatic rage. I had my driver cup his hands to allow my vomit to fill his fists. My three kids, (three of which are illegitimate), were immediately told to go to their room and wait for further instructions…(there are three rooms in this car…there are only three of these cars in the universe.)
Next, my wife, me, and fifteen bodyguards exited the car and approached the savage. What I am about to tell you has not been exaggerated, nor has it been embellished, nor flowered with any demonstrative words to make it grander than it is. This small little boy was holding in his hand a knife. On the edges of this sharp knife was a stream of blood, red and thick, like blood. In his other hand was the victim of some petty crime, no doubt. I will never forget the image of its lifeless body hanging there like it was dead, which indeed it was. For no reason that I can discern seeing that every town has a McDonald’s; every small village, a Palm’s restaurant; and every alleyway a nifty themed diner owned by Wolfgang Puck; this sick rageful thing had slaughtered a CHICKEN!
With a “Hunt for Red October” sort of vengeance boiling inside of me, I withdrew from my pocket a pistol once used in battle by the French dilettante, Napoleon Bonaparte, and I held it up to the boy’s temple. Before I could pull the trigger, however, my translator, translated the boy’s English back to me. He said, “Sir, if I have offended you, I apologize, but here we do not have the luxury of dining out. Here if my family is to eat, I must bring them their food. This is our way of life.” And for the first time in my life, I understood desperation. This poor boy and his family lived like dogs. I would rather eat caviar left out for twenty-two minutes then live for one day in this boy’s skin. So, I took Damir back to his home and after touring his small modest two floor shack, I had my men put the beautiful boy and his family out of their misery. To see their dead bodies laid out, finally at peace, brought such joy to my heart that that very night, I bought the rights to “Sahara” and attached Matthew McConaughey.
So when the writers of the WGA, with their food and their homes, tell me that they don’t have enough money, I want to rape their mothers. I want to cave in and let my demons allow me to blow up their cars and hire assassins to kill them. I have seen desperation. These men are not desperate. The dirtiest word that I can think of is “Fucking Cunt Snatch Piggy Dick deathbed.” Yet, three little letters are worse than any words I could possibly utter: WGA.
Rest tonight, for tomorrow you die.
WE WENT THERE, SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO
Friday, November 16, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Complexes of Mr. Hide
By Ida Darvish
Mr. Hide has complexes… lots of them… all of them… the way he walks, the way he eats, his voice, his fingernails, his hair, cheeks, profile, the shape of his head and face, his height, his smell, his breath, his complexion, his hairy chest, his hairy back, his hairy butt, his feet, and of course, last but not least, the size of his penis.
There are no mirrors in his bathroom. That way HE can’t even see himself naked when he gets out of the shower, and he always has his clothes ready in there so that he doesn’t have to go to his closet where there’s a full-length mirror that would reflect to him the mounds of hair on his body.
He leaves his house to go meet his friend, Mr. Bold, and of course he wears his oversized sombrero to hide the shape of his head, a scarf around his face to hide how square his face is, and as he realizes he lost one of his gloves, he clutches the gloveless hand to hide his fingernails. Even though it’s 100 degrees outside he made sure to wear his boots in order to cover his toes, which help him walk very quickly so as to hopefully hide how he normally walks. It takes him a while to get to the restaurant where he’s meeting Mr. Bold because as others walk by he stops and lets them pass so that they will surely not notice his strange manner of walking, all the while checking his armpits to make sure they don’t smell.
As he walks into the restaurant, he whispers hello, that way no one, not even Mr. Bold, will have the opportunity to make fun of his actual voice, and he whispers to the waiter to seat them at a table for 6 so that he can sit far enough away from Mr. Bold, so that his friend won’t notice his complexion or the smell of his breath. He also made sure to have a table that sits in a nook where there will be no guests sitting at a table next to them, that way nobody will be looking at his profile. As they order their food Mr. Bold jokes with the waiter and laughs loudly at his own jokes, he then takes his shirt off because it’s too hot, and slides out of his sandals in order to make himself comfortable. Mr. Hide admires how easy it is for Mr. Bold to talk to people and how confident he is with his body. When the food arrives Mr. Bold eats everything on his plate while telling his stories, as Mr. Hide takes small bites when no one is looking, that way they won’t talk about his strange way of chewing.
In the midst of their meal, a mutual friend of theirs walks up to their table and asks them if they would like to have a gay threesome… well wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Hide whispers excitedly, “Of course, I’d love to,” while Mr. Bold shakes his head and says, “No way, I’m not that bold." Ten hours later Mr. Bold found himself in a sick motel room in Yugoslavia, with nothing on but an earring and a hickey. In the shadows, laughing softly, are Mr. Hide and the raunchy friend. The moral of this morose tale…BOLD as you may be, you can never HIDE from raunchy forceful gay sex. Later that night Bold died.
Mr. Hide has complexes… lots of them… all of them… the way he walks, the way he eats, his voice, his fingernails, his hair, cheeks, profile, the shape of his head and face, his height, his smell, his breath, his complexion, his hairy chest, his hairy back, his hairy butt, his feet, and of course, last but not least, the size of his penis.
There are no mirrors in his bathroom. That way HE can’t even see himself naked when he gets out of the shower, and he always has his clothes ready in there so that he doesn’t have to go to his closet where there’s a full-length mirror that would reflect to him the mounds of hair on his body.
He leaves his house to go meet his friend, Mr. Bold, and of course he wears his oversized sombrero to hide the shape of his head, a scarf around his face to hide how square his face is, and as he realizes he lost one of his gloves, he clutches the gloveless hand to hide his fingernails. Even though it’s 100 degrees outside he made sure to wear his boots in order to cover his toes, which help him walk very quickly so as to hopefully hide how he normally walks. It takes him a while to get to the restaurant where he’s meeting Mr. Bold because as others walk by he stops and lets them pass so that they will surely not notice his strange manner of walking, all the while checking his armpits to make sure they don’t smell.
As he walks into the restaurant, he whispers hello, that way no one, not even Mr. Bold, will have the opportunity to make fun of his actual voice, and he whispers to the waiter to seat them at a table for 6 so that he can sit far enough away from Mr. Bold, so that his friend won’t notice his complexion or the smell of his breath. He also made sure to have a table that sits in a nook where there will be no guests sitting at a table next to them, that way nobody will be looking at his profile. As they order their food Mr. Bold jokes with the waiter and laughs loudly at his own jokes, he then takes his shirt off because it’s too hot, and slides out of his sandals in order to make himself comfortable. Mr. Hide admires how easy it is for Mr. Bold to talk to people and how confident he is with his body. When the food arrives Mr. Bold eats everything on his plate while telling his stories, as Mr. Hide takes small bites when no one is looking, that way they won’t talk about his strange way of chewing.
In the midst of their meal, a mutual friend of theirs walks up to their table and asks them if they would like to have a gay threesome… well wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Hide whispers excitedly, “Of course, I’d love to,” while Mr. Bold shakes his head and says, “No way, I’m not that bold." Ten hours later Mr. Bold found himself in a sick motel room in Yugoslavia, with nothing on but an earring and a hickey. In the shadows, laughing softly, are Mr. Hide and the raunchy friend. The moral of this morose tale…BOLD as you may be, you can never HIDE from raunchy forceful gay sex. Later that night Bold died.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Love On The Rocks
By Tyler Moore
There comes a time in some relationships when you realize that you should have just moved on a long time ago. Dangling from a rock face thirty feet above a jagged reef in nothing but your boxer shorts, I believe is one of those. But, hey, that’s just me. At this point somebody else might still hang onto the idea of true love and the idea that forgiveness is the corner stone of any loving relationship, but right now I kind of have my hands full, literally.
There were so many red flags. I should have seen it coming. She ate in bed, she left wet towels on the floor, she drugged me and left me for dead in the middle of the jungle. Minor things, really. But they all add up. It’s funny how running for your life half naked through dense foliage can bring about clarity. Personally, I would rather have just seen a shrink or read a self-help book, but hey, better to find out now than ten years from now. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? I’ll have to thank her for that once I get off this cliff and wring her neck.
In all fairness, we did have some good times. I mean, before the whole drugging thing, and being dragged behind a jeep at a high rate of speed and being left sans pants in an abandoned guerilla detention center. So it wasn’t a complete loss. I guess I’m maturing. Before, I would have blamed her for everything, cut all of my ties with her, and bad-mouthed her in front of our mutual friends. Basically I would not have taken any responsibility for my actions and deflected all of the issues that I had onto her. But now I feel that I can truly own my faults. I know where I have gone wrong. I know where I could have been a better friend and companion. I still don’t think that having my passport torn up and drugs planted on me before attempting to cross the border into Panama was a fair response to me forgetting to pack her hair dryer, but some people just handle things differently. Who am I to judge? In her defense she did take the bullets out of the gun so that when they found me, and I had to make a run for it, I couldn’t hurt anybody. I still don’t know how she got a gun, we were only in Colombia a week, but hey, she always was resourceful.
What am I thinking? I need to start thinking about the bad stuff, like the leeches she planted in our hotel bathtub, or the glaring fact that my forearms are getting tired and I have the police hunting me for supposedly robbing a church for the blind.
Still, I think back to when we first met. She was beautiful. We were at a cocktail party, a political fundraiser for The Tundric Newt. I bought her a Mojito and as I handed it to her I intentionally pronounced it Mo-gy-to. That was the extent of my ability to be clever at that point. Apparently it had worked. During the senator’s speech we snuck away and made sweet romantic love in the handicaped stall of the men’s room at the Biltmore. Later that night she went home with one of the busboys, but she called me a week later. I remember the phone call. She thought I was the “guy from the elevator.” She had been cleaning out her purse and found my phone number. I set up a date for coffee and the rest is history.
We had come to Colombia to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I had wanted to go to Hawaii or Fiji, but she had insisted on Bogota. Another red flag. I think that when it comes to compatibility in relationships where you want to spend your vacations should say a lot. For example, do you want to go someplace where you can scuba dive and drink Mai Tai’s? Or would you rather go someplace where kidnapping is a government sanctioned sport? On the same token, would you rather buy papayas and coconuts from flower laden street vendors, or dodge rocks and beer bottles from ether sniffing street urchins? To me it just makes sense. But hey, she is strong willed and I respect her for that. I want you to know I have nothing against Bogota or the people of Colombia. Colombia is a beautiful country, as I can attest from running through it all night, and it may seem like a relatively safe place to a guy from, let’s say, Calcutta, India. It’s just not the safest place for a guy from Calcutta, Ohio. But I have to say that Bogota and my hometown do share some similarities that have made it a little easier to adjust. For example, Colombia has over 400 different species of poisonous snakes. Ohio has three. Colombia exports about 550 metric tons of cocaine to the US a year. I’ve seen cocaine. Colombia is the home of FARC-EP, the Revolutionary Armed forces of Colombia, a Marxist-Leninist guerilla organization which employees such tactics as bombings, assassination, extortion, and hijacking to intimidate the Colombian government. Last year our volunteer fire department beat the chamber of commerce in a charity softball tournament. So as you can see, we are not all that different.
It’s funny, one time she drove a bus for the Special Olympics, and I thought, “wow” this girl is perfect. But then I found out she had been drinking Robitussin and popping Quaaludes for the past four days and had kicked the blind shot-puter off the bus and made him hitchhike to the venue. Not appropriate, right? That’s what I thought, but…in her defense it was St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t get a little rowdy on the “Mighty 17th?” I mean she is Ukrainian, but everybody is Irish on that day. I know I’m Mexican on Cinco de Mayo.
Anyway, she had left me in a Papillion-esque cell in the middle of the jungle. So, meanwhile, I had made friends with a tarantula named “Action” and a pack of noncommittal roaches, “The Sharks,” who seemed to respond whenever I whistled or snapped. I messed with my duct tapped wrists and I got free. I was hungry but my plate of Medellin dung beetles made me puke on my feet. I didn’t think about the cushy sensation between my toes as I jumped for the bars overhead that offered the only light into my cell. They gave way like a guilt ridden Hassid against a blond haired Shiksa. I used my anti-posturepedic bed to launch myself up into the windowsill and worm my way out.
Jungle. Love it! Wet, open, free…snake, to my left. I held still. It passed. I made a mental note to jot this moment down in my journal so I could be cool for my kids if I had them. Then gun shots. As if I hadn’t had enough. I thought about my love. I thought about blankets on sandy beaches close to civilization, I thought about ice cream cones and late night movies. Then I thought about Garl Tannon, the tight end, and my girlfriend, (well not technically, because at the time we had only been seeing each other for four months) running “plays” in the back seat of her father’s Peugeot. So I ran.
A one-eyed jeep fixed it’s high beam on me, so I dove into a patch of mud. That’s when I thought about ditching the undies. The rain came down in wet brail. I Shawshanked it. I ran where the path lead me, like Jack T. Colton, without a machete. That’s when I slipped, grabbed with my left arm and simultaneously saved my life.
Now, I wish I had gone with Cindy Lausdenburg, the girl from middle school that had braces and a lame hip, but who ended up a reality television supermodel. I’ll bet her boyfriend hasn’t ended up on a cliff in a third world country.
The last blood that I have in my body is being diverted to my forearms and fingertips. I’m thinking right now that I might be able to pull a Greg Lougains/cliff diver maneuver and miss the rocks. I wish I had love. Love could save me. That or Pink Floyd’s flying pig.
A rope drops down next to me. I can’t look up, but I recognize the voice that comes with it. It’s the leach dropping, jeep dragging, in front of the family emasculating, Colombian sympathizing, “Goonies” hating, looks good in a dress, kisses me like I’m her king, cooks me dinner, massages my feet, does my taxes, searches out movie nights, and has the plane tickets girl.
I test the rope. It holds. I wrap it around my elbows and wrists and find footholds. I get to the top. We kiss. We embrace as if we were the only two people in the world. I take her hand in mine. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… and then I throw her off the cliff. I'll find my own way home.
There comes a time in some relationships when you realize that you should have just moved on a long time ago. Dangling from a rock face thirty feet above a jagged reef in nothing but your boxer shorts, I believe is one of those. But, hey, that’s just me. At this point somebody else might still hang onto the idea of true love and the idea that forgiveness is the corner stone of any loving relationship, but right now I kind of have my hands full, literally.
There were so many red flags. I should have seen it coming. She ate in bed, she left wet towels on the floor, she drugged me and left me for dead in the middle of the jungle. Minor things, really. But they all add up. It’s funny how running for your life half naked through dense foliage can bring about clarity. Personally, I would rather have just seen a shrink or read a self-help book, but hey, better to find out now than ten years from now. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? I’ll have to thank her for that once I get off this cliff and wring her neck.
In all fairness, we did have some good times. I mean, before the whole drugging thing, and being dragged behind a jeep at a high rate of speed and being left sans pants in an abandoned guerilla detention center. So it wasn’t a complete loss. I guess I’m maturing. Before, I would have blamed her for everything, cut all of my ties with her, and bad-mouthed her in front of our mutual friends. Basically I would not have taken any responsibility for my actions and deflected all of the issues that I had onto her. But now I feel that I can truly own my faults. I know where I have gone wrong. I know where I could have been a better friend and companion. I still don’t think that having my passport torn up and drugs planted on me before attempting to cross the border into Panama was a fair response to me forgetting to pack her hair dryer, but some people just handle things differently. Who am I to judge? In her defense she did take the bullets out of the gun so that when they found me, and I had to make a run for it, I couldn’t hurt anybody. I still don’t know how she got a gun, we were only in Colombia a week, but hey, she always was resourceful.
What am I thinking? I need to start thinking about the bad stuff, like the leeches she planted in our hotel bathtub, or the glaring fact that my forearms are getting tired and I have the police hunting me for supposedly robbing a church for the blind.
Still, I think back to when we first met. She was beautiful. We were at a cocktail party, a political fundraiser for The Tundric Newt. I bought her a Mojito and as I handed it to her I intentionally pronounced it Mo-gy-to. That was the extent of my ability to be clever at that point. Apparently it had worked. During the senator’s speech we snuck away and made sweet romantic love in the handicaped stall of the men’s room at the Biltmore. Later that night she went home with one of the busboys, but she called me a week later. I remember the phone call. She thought I was the “guy from the elevator.” She had been cleaning out her purse and found my phone number. I set up a date for coffee and the rest is history.
We had come to Colombia to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I had wanted to go to Hawaii or Fiji, but she had insisted on Bogota. Another red flag. I think that when it comes to compatibility in relationships where you want to spend your vacations should say a lot. For example, do you want to go someplace where you can scuba dive and drink Mai Tai’s? Or would you rather go someplace where kidnapping is a government sanctioned sport? On the same token, would you rather buy papayas and coconuts from flower laden street vendors, or dodge rocks and beer bottles from ether sniffing street urchins? To me it just makes sense. But hey, she is strong willed and I respect her for that. I want you to know I have nothing against Bogota or the people of Colombia. Colombia is a beautiful country, as I can attest from running through it all night, and it may seem like a relatively safe place to a guy from, let’s say, Calcutta, India. It’s just not the safest place for a guy from Calcutta, Ohio. But I have to say that Bogota and my hometown do share some similarities that have made it a little easier to adjust. For example, Colombia has over 400 different species of poisonous snakes. Ohio has three. Colombia exports about 550 metric tons of cocaine to the US a year. I’ve seen cocaine. Colombia is the home of FARC-EP, the Revolutionary Armed forces of Colombia, a Marxist-Leninist guerilla organization which employees such tactics as bombings, assassination, extortion, and hijacking to intimidate the Colombian government. Last year our volunteer fire department beat the chamber of commerce in a charity softball tournament. So as you can see, we are not all that different.
It’s funny, one time she drove a bus for the Special Olympics, and I thought, “wow” this girl is perfect. But then I found out she had been drinking Robitussin and popping Quaaludes for the past four days and had kicked the blind shot-puter off the bus and made him hitchhike to the venue. Not appropriate, right? That’s what I thought, but…in her defense it was St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t get a little rowdy on the “Mighty 17th?” I mean she is Ukrainian, but everybody is Irish on that day. I know I’m Mexican on Cinco de Mayo.
Anyway, she had left me in a Papillion-esque cell in the middle of the jungle. So, meanwhile, I had made friends with a tarantula named “Action” and a pack of noncommittal roaches, “The Sharks,” who seemed to respond whenever I whistled or snapped. I messed with my duct tapped wrists and I got free. I was hungry but my plate of Medellin dung beetles made me puke on my feet. I didn’t think about the cushy sensation between my toes as I jumped for the bars overhead that offered the only light into my cell. They gave way like a guilt ridden Hassid against a blond haired Shiksa. I used my anti-posturepedic bed to launch myself up into the windowsill and worm my way out.
Jungle. Love it! Wet, open, free…snake, to my left. I held still. It passed. I made a mental note to jot this moment down in my journal so I could be cool for my kids if I had them. Then gun shots. As if I hadn’t had enough. I thought about my love. I thought about blankets on sandy beaches close to civilization, I thought about ice cream cones and late night movies. Then I thought about Garl Tannon, the tight end, and my girlfriend, (well not technically, because at the time we had only been seeing each other for four months) running “plays” in the back seat of her father’s Peugeot. So I ran.
A one-eyed jeep fixed it’s high beam on me, so I dove into a patch of mud. That’s when I thought about ditching the undies. The rain came down in wet brail. I Shawshanked it. I ran where the path lead me, like Jack T. Colton, without a machete. That’s when I slipped, grabbed with my left arm and simultaneously saved my life.
Now, I wish I had gone with Cindy Lausdenburg, the girl from middle school that had braces and a lame hip, but who ended up a reality television supermodel. I’ll bet her boyfriend hasn’t ended up on a cliff in a third world country.
The last blood that I have in my body is being diverted to my forearms and fingertips. I’m thinking right now that I might be able to pull a Greg Lougains/cliff diver maneuver and miss the rocks. I wish I had love. Love could save me. That or Pink Floyd’s flying pig.
A rope drops down next to me. I can’t look up, but I recognize the voice that comes with it. It’s the leach dropping, jeep dragging, in front of the family emasculating, Colombian sympathizing, “Goonies” hating, looks good in a dress, kisses me like I’m her king, cooks me dinner, massages my feet, does my taxes, searches out movie nights, and has the plane tickets girl.
I test the rope. It holds. I wrap it around my elbows and wrists and find footholds. I get to the top. We kiss. We embrace as if we were the only two people in the world. I take her hand in mine. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… and then I throw her off the cliff. I'll find my own way home.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Boy, Interrupted
By Tyler Moore
There once was a senator named Larry
Who didn’t believe gays should marry
One day in St. Paul
In a bathroom stall
He proved himself quite a fairy.
There once was a senator named Larry
Who didn’t believe gays should marry
One day in St. Paul
In a bathroom stall
He proved himself quite a fairy.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A Liberal Lush's Limerick
By Ty Clancey
Three cheers for the fears held near
Our might making plight and jeer
But Megalomania
In Mesopotamia
Just makes me piss ano'er beer
Three cheers for the fears held near
Our might making plight and jeer
But Megalomania
In Mesopotamia
Just makes me piss ano'er beer
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