Texts from Lake Wobegon.

JOE
Do you ever listen to a Prairie Home Companion? I just discovered it and I fucking love it. I want Garrison Keillor's disembodied voice to narrate my life.

IAN
I'm fascinated by it, because I can't retain a word of it and don't find it funny...but somehow I also cherish it and understand that it's a comedy.

JOE
It's bizarre. I listen in the car and find myself singing along to songs I've never heard before, literally trying to say the words as I'm hearing them.

IAN
Are you saying it's like a primal scream, but sponsored by "Be-Bop-a-Re-Bop Rhubarb Pie?"

JOE
Yeah, pretty much. When the lyrics are like, "Are you from Ohio?/Could you look up and smile?/You remind me of someone I know," I contemplate driving my car into a lake because I don't understand that feeling of familiarity, depression, happiness, and self-hatred.

IAN
Don't do that! Garrison feeds on the souls who do that!

Eggcorn, ahoy!

Oh, wow, the expression is apparently "bated breath," not "baited breath." I am now insecure for past mistakes and excited for future pedantry!

- My friend, Andrew.

Sixteen days after No-Shave November.

I didn't even realize it was December.

When you're unemployed, every month is No-Shave November!

One last one.

A family walks into a talent agent's office.

The father says, "We've got an act for you."

The family acts like they have superior education, finances, ability, and social prestige.

The agent asks, "What do you call that?"

The family replies, "'The Aristocrats!'"

A family walks into a talent agent's office.

The father says, "We've got an act for you."

The family tells a filthy shaggy dog joke.

The agent asks, "What do you call that?"

The family replies, "'The Aristocrats!'"

The family replies, "'The Aristocrats!'"

The agent asks, "What do you call that?"

The family travels through time.

The father says, "We've got an act for you."

A family walks into a talent agent's office.

I lust after awful women.

I spend an unattractive amount of time thinking about attractive women who I'd hate to spend time with.

Jennifer was one such woman. Jennifer was awful.

Picture her, always in Easter clothes. No matter when the Second Coming occurred, she would be dressed to impress.

Over the years, she changed from natural blonde to compassionate conservative to bleached blonde to neo-con to highlit blonde to tea-bagger.

She was charitable when frat boys wanted to grope her in public, but frugal when posting swimsuit pictures on Facebook.

Mrowrl.

Anyway. In a recent fantasy, I decided to spice things up and get caught while putting the "Oi!" in "coitus." So I let Jennifer walk in on her sorority sister and I.

Spicy, it was. It was so spicy that my subconscious took the reigns, and damned me to a life of shame and depravity.

The other problem of evil.

Christians love convincing themselves that predestination and free will can coexist.

I know this because they dominated every discussion in every lit class I've ever taken. We never once talked about bathos or mortality or "the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads"...just the symbiosis of predestination and free will.

Back then, I thought the Christians were arguing for square pegs and round holes, but now I've learned they're right.

God sets a destiny for each and every person...but it's the person's responsibility to fulfill their destiny.

Unfortunately, everyone has the same destiny: kill Adolf Hitler.

And Adolf Hitler is the only person who's done that.

So Adolf Hitler is the only person in Heaven.

Thanks, Christians!

Hand-written five years ago.

As I write this, I'm on a highway, driving 80 MPH.

Ink is flowing from my pen 80 MPH faster than it would normally flow. Imagine what Jackson Pollack could've done with ink traveling this fast!

Is it dangerous that half of my attention is focused on writing in the margins?

Maybe.

But it'd be more dangerous to let this sheet of paper fly out the window, into an adjacent neighborhood, and give some poor schlub a paper-cut at 80 MPH.

You're welcome.

How I became a snob.

In September of 1990, I was five, and my grandma was babysitting me.

To fill the time, we went to see a movie called the Witches. According to the newspaper, it was a children's movie, and it starred Anjelica Huston. These facts made it an ideal choice for the both of us.

What a cute movie!

In the first minute of the film, a witch kidnaps a little girl and traps her in a painting in her parents' house. The little girl spends the rest of her life in the painting, unable to move or speak, and then she dies.

So I walked out.

Moohoowahaha.

Dear Chase Bank,

That roll of nickels was a coin short of two dollars.

Sincerely,
the Phantom of Account 224031964.

Too proud.

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo orange you glad I didn't say "Buffalo?" Wait. I think I did that wrong.

- My cousin, Andrew.

My ex's boyfriend.

Part One.

One drunken night, I texted my favorite people on the planet. The text read, "You are one of my favorite people on the planet, and I love you."

Sadie was pissed.

"I meant it platonically," I clarified, and it was true...but that wasn't her problem.

"My boyfriend and I haven't said 'I love you' yet," she explained, "because we don't want to say it until we mean it," her voice hovered between shame and pride, "and it's not fair for you to say 'I love you' before my boyfriend does."

They're living together now. They still haven't said "I love you." Sadie insists that this is ideal, because they're taking it slowly.

It makes sense. Her turd of a boyfriend has commitment issues. Before getting with Sadie, he was engaged for eight years. And he's only thirteen years old.

Sadie has commitment issues, too. We were all-but-married, and then I cheated on her and moved across the country.

A problem.

Twenty-seven days into No-Shave November.

Through natural means, I have achieved something that twelve-time world heavyweight champion Hollywood Hogan could not.

That's right, brother: I've grown a blonde moustache and a dark beard.

Also, I didn't have to shrink my balls to get my arms so large.

Tonight at Thanksgiving...

...a family entered my grandparents' house, hugged everyone, and then realized they were in the wrong house.

A new word.

Squidface, n., A talented actor in an insulting role.

v., A talented actor's portrayal of an insulting role.

adj., Having the property of a squidface.

Ex., "Maggie Smith was squidfaced in Sister Act II: Back in the Habit."

The word is derived from the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels, who thought Bill Nighy would evoke more pathos if he had a fucking squid on his face.



John Hurt is a commonly squidfaced actor. Consider his roles in films like...

Hellboy (a mentor who's killed before he can impart any wisdom),

V for Vendetta (a yelling face on a wall),

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (a lobotomized plot device),

and the Harry Potter series (a dude who gets a line sometimes).

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One is significant, as it squidfaces both Bill Nighy (a grumbly dude who's killed offscreen) and John Hurt (a dude who gets throttled in a flashback, and then gets one line).

Some more mass grave jokes.

Some polite places for a mass grave:

helping to complete a quorum,
raked in with the autumn leaves,
separated from the plastics and the aluminums.

Some puckish places for a mass grave:

inside a spring-loaded can of peanuts,
balanced atop a door that's been left slightly ajar for the next person who walks in,
up the rectum of a man who's expecting a gerbil.

Some upsetting places for a mass grave:

in your soup,
hogging the only restroom in a Mexican restaurant,
not at the movies (even though they said they'd meet you).

Eighteen days into No-Shave November.

God Himself keeps my moustache separate from my beard.

If ever my facial hairs should meet, it will mean the End of Days.

"Heeeere's Waldo!"

Comedy by Numbers.

I hate that I have to say this. I mean, I love being sanctimonious, but I wish the subject matter was a little less obvious.

Just because your comedy...

1. is lit like a comedy,
2. features actors who deliver your tedious script as if it was funny, and
3. alludes to pop culture where it should have jokes

...doesn't mean it's a comedy.

Your comedy is a comedy if...

1. it's funny.

Jokes are the most surefire way to be funny.

Another way to be funny is by acting silly. It's important to recognize that "acting silly" is not the same as "making a joke."

Acting silly is easier than making a joke, because acting silly...

1. takes no effort, and
2. cashes in on a cheap "You Had to Be There" laugh.

If your comedy is only funny because it features a bunch of people acting silly, it will age like ground beef.

So let's leave acting silly, and discuss jokes.

Jokes are either...

1. an exaggeration or
2. a denial

...of a true statement.

Furthermore, jokes have the same structure. The parts of a joke are...

1. a set-up,
2. an escalation, and
3. a twist.

Any of these parts may be...

1. implied or
2. repeated

...within the same joke, but they're always present.

There. Now you can write jokes.

If your comedy doesn't have jokes, it will age like an anal gerbil.

I hope you're listening, Hollywood. I care too much to watch you struggle with this any longer.

It's time to start taking comedy seriously.

The legacy of Captain EO.

Once upon a time, there was an R&B artist named Michael Jackson.

Michael was so popular that the Walt Disney Company cast him in a short film called Captain EO. They showed the film in their theme parks all around the world.

The film was incoherent and shitty, but Michael was so popular that no one seemed to care.

This was both, the poster and the screenplay.

One day, Michael bought the Elephant Man's skeleton and used it to sodomize little boys. The Walt Disney Company didn’t want this sort of stigma in their theme parks. They replaced Captain EO with another short film, Honey, I Shrunk the Audience.

Honey was an improvement, because it was coherent and shitty.

Meanwhile, Michael spent a few years being a punch-line, and then he died, and then everyone pretended that they cared.

This was exactly the sort of stigma that the Walt Disney Company wanted in their theme parks. Nostalgia sells! They would restore Captain EO to their theme parks all around the world.

Of course, they knew that this was a sensitive matter. They were exploiting the death of a human being, after all.

That's why they waited a whole nine months to do it.

While that's a long time for morality, it's nothing to the Walt Disney Company. They usually wait years before updating an attractiong...but not with Captain EO. They capitalized on Michael Jackson's death before a single maggot could say, "I can't eat this. Whatever it is, it's definitely not flesh."

Indeed, the punctuality was remarkable. Many subjects have inspired attractions, like fantasy, oceanography, futurism...even Californian history, if you'll believe it! But the restoration of Captain EO was the first attraction inspired by a recent tragedy.

What a juicy subject! Imagine the new attractions that could spawn from recent tragedies! Plus, we live in an awful universe, so recent tragedies are a renewable resource!

But they did have to be recent tragedies. No one would care if they installed an animatronic John Wilkes Booth into Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln, because Lincoln was assassinated in, like, the Cretaceous period.

So the Walt Disney Company had their best Imagineers design attractions based on recent tragedies. Here are their top contenders.

A recent fetish.

I fantasize about my usual cadre of women...

...only I fantasize about them in their pajamas.

They're not wearing babydolls or chemises or even nightgowns. Just traditional two-piece pajamas.

Usually the top has a notch collar, and the pants have a tie waist (kept untied). Flannel tends to compliment femininity without upstaging it. I'm permissive about designs, but definitely prefer pastel colors.

I'd have to be fucking desperate to fantasize about women in bold colored pajamas.

George Lucas has never seen the Empire Strikes Back, Part Two.

The Empire Strikes Back is the most important sequel since the New Testament. Everyone thinks it's the best Star Wars film. Everyone, that is, except George Lucas, who dismisses it as "the worst one."

This is because he's never seen it.

He didn't write it. He didn't direct it. He's never seen it.

Looking back, it makes sense. There are parts of Return of the Jedi and the prequel trilogy that ignore, parody, and even contradict the events in Empire. Some of them are so egregious, you start to wonder if you know the film better than the film-maker.

Well, if you've seen the Empire Strikes Back once, congratulations: you know the film better than the film-maker.

Here are the first two pieces of evidence in my ongoing research:

1. The protagonist's character arc is resolved off-screen.

2. George Lucas thinks Yoda speaks like a Yoda impersonator.

We must raze Tomorrowland before God does.

This is the menu of the Lunching Pad, a restaurant in the Magic Kingdom.



That's right.

They squirt sandwich goop on a hot dog.

Here are the findings of my scrupulous research and analysis:

The Reuben's corned beef is only allowed to touch the bread through a hole in the frank.

The most appetizing hot dog in Tomorrowland is the one that Stitch eats and then breathes on you in Stitch's Great Escape.

In the future, sandwiches will be served open-faced, with an intervening wiener! And that's not all! Hot dogs will be inexorable! They'll replace butter crocks! Magicians will pull endless strings of sausages from audience members' ears! Men will use casing instead of condoms!

Nine days into No-Shave November.

I shaped my beard into a beard shape to make it look like a beard!

Sure, it actually looks like 'beard-ish patches of sour cream and onion seasoning,' but the month is early!

We celebrated my grandpa's birthday.

His birthdays have been way less fun since he got Alzheimer's and moved into a house full of people who are too old to heckle Muppets.

But I vowed to improve things this year. If anyone deserves a fun birthday, it's (what's left of) my grandpa! I mean, I (used to) love the guy!

So, yes, I put trick candles on his birthday cake. And yes, he spent an hour blowing them out. And yes, he only quit because he cracked a rib and blacked out.

In my defense, his condition has stabilized. And at fifty blows per minute, he made three thousand wishes...or more likely, 'one wish, three thousand times.'

"One wish, three thousand times!" The only way it won't come true is if he wished for his quality of life to improve!

Don't you worry about him. There's no way he's prescient enough to wish that--especially now that he's got a tube through his wishing muscles.

My doctor refused to see me.

A nurse dourly explained that my doctor was a pediatrician, and pediatricians only see children, and I am twenty-five years old, and twenty-five-year-olds are rarely children, because when a twenty-five-year-old tries to play a children's game like kickball, their feet get tangled in their ivy-like curtain of pubic hair.

"That's profiling!" I said, crossing my legs.

The nurse didn't care. She said that my doctor only sees patients who are younger than twenty-one, and I'm twenty-five, which is four years older than twenty-one, and--

"I mean, yes, I'm twenty-five," I conceded, "but I've been told that I can pass for a 'haggard twenty-three!'" I raised an eyebrow and smoldered at her.

The nurse didn't care. "Pediatricians specialize in pediatrics, which is a branch of medicine dedicated to young human beings, which is--"

"I get it!" I stomped my feet. "I know the derivation of 'pediatrics!' I have a Master's degree!"

"Exactly," she said, and left me at the counter; alone, flustered, and closer to death than almost everyone in the waiting room.

Mom consoled me with a juice box.

I wanted to impress a girl...

...so I got a tattoo of someone else's DNA. Actual size.

It looked so good, I got 4,599,999,999,999,999 more.

Now she doesn't recognize me.

Still another word we need.

Airlation, n., The relief an airplane passenger feels when no one sits in the seat beside them.

My first hater!

Some vapid guy disliked my Toy Story (Midway) Mania! editorial, and then he said vapid things, and then he implied that I'm a murderer.

I replied:

Hi, Bob!

I'm the Ian Kay in question, and no, I haven't killed anyone in a Woolworth's. One time, I under-tipped a waitress who was really curt about whether she'd given us our complimentary pickles, but that's as far as it went.

I didn't mean to be so anonymous; blame my (1) Blogger illiteracy, and (2) not wanting to belabor points in the comments section. The article is polarizing, and both sides are stubborn. From my end, I've made peace with 'instigating a shouting session' instead of 'provoking a discussion.'

And I appreciate your thoughts on the ride, though I (obviously) disagree. And...um...I dunno. Can I help you with something? Were you looking to speak with me?

Or were you simply using my article as an effigy against Re-Imagineering? If that's the case, let me be clear: I was a guest writer. I have as much editorial control over that blog as you. If my opinions reflect the other writers', I don't know it.

If you'd like to get in touch with the blog's owners, I suggest leaving a comment. They approve all comments before posting them. It's how I submitted my article, and I imagine that if you wrote a rebuttal, there's a chance that they'd feature that, too.

Sincerely,
(the Not Good but Certainly Well-Intentioned) Ian Kay.

Elsewhere on the internets, the editorial was quoted! And this writer goes on to suggest improvements that are much better than that shitty, shitty ride deserves!

I am proud to be featured on your blog, Grumpyfan.

I love crossing things off of my 'To Do' list.

I'll include obvious things, like "showering" and "brushing my teeth," just so I'll have more to cross off.

But I get carried away, and my 'To Do' list gets very, very long. Like, toilet paper-length. Granted, it includes things like "blinking" and "existing," but the length can get so overwhelming that I can't deal with it, and I have a melt-down.

For months, my 'To Do' list either increased my productivity, or reduced me to nihilistic despair.

And then, one day, I included "have a melt-down" on my 'To Do' list. Now that I work it into my schedule, I always feel productive!

...except on the days when I feel wonderful and don't have a melt-down. Those are really depressing.

George Lucas has never seen the Empire Strikes Back, Part One.

The Empire Strikes Back is the most important sequel since the New Testament. Everyone thinks it's the best Star Wars film. Everyone, that is, except George Lucas, who dismisses it as "the worst one."

This is because he's never seen it.

He didn't write it. He didn't direct it. He's never seen it.

Looking back, it makes sense. There are parts of Return of the Jedi and the prequel trilogy that ignore, parody, and even contradict the events in Empire. Some of them are so egregious, you start to wonder if you know the film better than the film-maker.

Well, if you've seen the Empire Strikes Back once, congratulations: you know the film better than the film-maker.

Here is the first piece of evidence in my ongoing research:

1. The protagonist's character arc is resolved off-screen.

My cover letter for an internship at io9.

I was fourteen when I rejected Judaism. It wasn't easy. The religion meant a lot to me, and I felt so betrayed that I chopped off its legs and left it to die on a lava planet--all while lamenting, "You were the chosen ones!"

In Judaism's place, there was a gaping, God-shaped hole. To fill it, I sought out worlds which I knew were designed. Enter: science fiction. Yes, some of these worlds were designed more intelligently than others ("I don't care if they kidnapped an ape, Daniel Quinn; continue your essay on sociopolitics!"), but at least there was someone to take responsibility when things went wrong.

It wasn't long before my God-shaped hole got hungry again. It wanted a house of worship; a forum, where like-minded individuals could grok themselves, each other, life, the universe, and everything.

Ideally, this forum would be funny, literate, comprehensive, and chic. It would have a unified authorial voice, despite its many contributors and vast subject matter. It would have a stylish purple logo.

Yeah, right. Like that could exist.

In the mean time, I bored family, friends, and classmates with my short stories, films, and comics. I earned a Master's degree in Screenwriting from the University of Southern California. I blogged for six years.

When I wasn't writing, drawing, or filming, I was researching anything that could inspire a new idea: books, films, even science articles (especially if they had simple words and colorful pictures).

My God-shaped hole was nourished, but not sated. Fine; I could preach on behalf of science fiction--but I was still missing a house of worship. Suddenly, and without warning, there was an internship position at io9.

(Admittedly, I fudged the timeline to strengthen my narrative, here. I've been reading io9 since 2008. But that only makes the opportunity to intern for you more exciting.)

One way or another, I intend to worship science fiction. I truly hope you'll give me the opportunity to do so. After all, I live in Los Angeles, and it would be easy to fall in with those insistent folks who are battling the influence of Xenu and his Galactic Confederacy.

God made a Divine Plan.

If God changes the Divine Plan, then He's fallible.

If God can't change the Divine Plan, then He's subordinate.

If God and the Divine Plan are synonymous, then every time you pray for something that doesn't happen, you've insulted God.

Either stop praying, or acknowledge that God sucks.

The etymology of "Fantasmic."

Fantasmic is a show at Disneyland where Mickey Mouse battles a bunch of villains, and there's fireworks and lasers and mist screen projections and things. It's basically a live, opulent DVD commercial.
This is ALMOST as exciting as experiencing a whole
new way of watching movies--on Disney Blu-ray™!!
But what's the derivation of the word "Fantasmic?" Clearly it's a portmanteau, and the first half is "fantasy," but what's the second half?

...um.
...surely it's not "orgasmic?"

I mean, "orgasmic" is appropriate, since the show is a rush of sensation and pleasure. But it's inappropriate, since--as far as I know--it's never made its young audience ejaculate. So if "Fantasmic" is a portmanteau of "fantasy" and "orgasmic," it's false advertising.

Fortunately, "orgasmic" isn't the only option. The internet was kind enough to compile a list of words that end with "-asmic." Here are the most compelling.

How cosmopolite!

"'Ramadan,' huh? Is that where you wait for Jesus to come out and, if he sees his shadow, we get a few more weeks of winter?"

- My cousin, Matt.

I've missed most of the things that he's said in his life, but I'm sure none of them were better than this.

Putting the 'Oy!' in 'unemployed.'

I found out I didn't get a job as a library assistant...

...when I walked into the library, and saw new assistants.

I've been a patron for two years, I have a Master's degree, and I even floss every day--and I couldn't get an interview for a part-time job as a library assistant.


To make matters worse, the assistant who helped me was condescending, the way your newly-divorced mother's boyfriend would be.

LIBRARY ASSISTANT
Hey, buddy! What sort of dinosaur do you have on your shirt? Is it a brontosaurus?

ME
No, it's a velociraptor. He's riding a penny-farthing.

LIBRARY ASSISTANT
Wowee! You sure know your dinosaurs!

He ended the interaction by giving me a high five...

...and encore'd with a fist bump.

I was so upset, I threw a tantrum, and demanded that he buy me ice cream.

Barbicidal intent!

I said, "Buzz everything, but leave me some bangs."

My barber heard, "Slant-headed Karloff."

When he revealed this masterpiece, he asked, "Whaddya think?!" and his eyes were so vulnerable that I said, "Great job!!"

Those eyes...Christ...he could've scalped me, and I'd've still said, "Great job!!"

If only he'd given me his eyes, instead of this hair-cut...

A thirteen-word summary.

They whirl you around, and you play Duck Hunt, and that's the ride.

- Andrew's first impression of Toy Story (Midway) Mania!

BAAAAnter.

IAN
California Pizza Kitchen's menu over-stimulates me. If I ordered a pizza with, y'know, pizza toppings, I'd be an asshole--but their other pizzas are like those jelly beans from Harry Potter. "Tapioca and urine and sour cream! It turns crimson under a blacklight!"

JOAN
I just like the one with the goat cheese. I'll eat 'goat cheese and snot,' as long as there's goat cheese on the sucker. I honestly can't tell you what else is on that particular pizza. Peppers, maybe...

IAN
Y'know, I can't remember if I've ever had goat cheese. How would you describe it?

JOAN
Like a mouth orgasm. But less vicious.

IAN
I returned to Judaism this summer, so if that's accurate, I'll have to eat the goat cheese through a hole in a sheet. Will this hinder my experience?

JOAN
Just make it a big hole.

These people make me want to fly a plane into them.

I was debating the "Ground Zero mosque" with some Islamophobes on Facebook--when someone commented:

I think it's cool that we can have conversations like these openly and freely; that is what makes America great.

Well said!

We're great because we spend our time debating whether to restrict the rights of innocent people!

U-S-A!
U-S-A!
U-S-A!

I've found a nice process!

I'm re-writing my first screenplay (the one about the rats who are trying to evolve into birds).

Every day, I:

print out the script,

re-re-re-write the existing scenes,

write new scenes,

plan for later sequences,

type it all up,

sleep,

and repeat.

I'll be immodest and say that the first eleven pages are tighter than a virgin's doughnut. They're among the best work I've ever done.

It's amazing how much confidence this instills in my work...

...and even more amazing that every single professor at USC discouraged us from re-visiting old scenes. They would have lynched me for following this process.

You'd think that a writing program would emphasize 'finding a writing process that suits you,' instead of 'loathing your work and yourself.'

But I guess that's important...they probably have a lot of screenwriting students who are too well-balanced.

A wrestling comic.

World Wrestling Entertainment spent three months promoting Bryan Danielson as an up-and-coming star...

...and then they fired him.

Danielson’s crime? He choked a guy.

Yes, a professional wrestler was fired for choking a guy on a professional wrestling show.

Fans have been perplexed since June--but I’ve investigated the case thoroughly, and believe that my findings will clarify WWE’s actions.

I'm proud to present...

Click to enlarge.

Indiana Jones and the Cave of Wonders Secret of the Stone Tiger.

To promote Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, Disneyland added a live Indy show.

Here's the video, which I only include for completion's sake. Spare yourself: it's bad...featuring lame fight choreography, stultifying stretches of audience participation, and an Inception's worth of exposition (signifying nothing).

What's important: Rachel the archeologist is our protagonist for most of the show. She's boring, but nice, and she actually bothered to show up on time for Indiana Jones and the Secret of the Stone Tiger...unlike Indiana Jones.

After seven hours, Indy stumbles in, unapologetic, and hands Rachel an idol which turns her evil. I think she's possessed by a tiger ghost or something.

So Indiana Jones beats up a boring, nice, small, punctual girl.

And then--instead of trying to exorcise whatever's possessing the boring, nice, small, punctual girl--Indiana Jones lets her die a fiery death, and quips, "Well...I can't say I didn't warn her!"

And then the show ends.

Awesome.

NBC's logo is a horny peacock.

Look at him; trolling for peapussy.

But he turns fifty-five next year, and he's thinking about hanging up the ol' plumage (which will likely be pinned on a gypsy's turban, and his body will be ground up and mixed into hot dogs).

Here are the front-running mascots to replace NBC's horny peacock. (Be grateful I haven't illustrated 'em.)

A bull with swollen, rainbow-colored testicles.

A fish jizzing on a cluster of rainbow-colored eggs.

A deer squirting rainbow-colored musk.

A snail stabbing rainbow-colored sex-holes into its mate.

A duck flashing its multiple rainbow-colored vaginal passages.

A face-hugger, laying rainbow-colored eggs into John Hurt's chest.

A slut bent over, her rainbow-colored thong whale-tailing.

A pederast in a van, offering rainbow-colored candy.

FURY.

I've been asking my editor for the size limits on my pro wrestling comic since April, and on Monday he replied, "Microscopic." At that size, I'd have to re-draw everything to make it visible...and it took a month to make the comic...

...and our site launches this Sunday.

To make matters worse, today I got access to post on the site...and it doesn't recognize the HTML for displaying images...and it doesn't host images.

So even if I had a microscopic comic, I wouldn't be able to display it, and I'd have to upload the image to, like, LiveJournal, or some other third party website.

I busted my ass to make a decent comic for their debut--and it took a solid month of work--which I did for free. They've known I would be contributing comics since April, and they haven't done a single thing to prepare for it.

I'm waaaay close to burning the bridge and offering my services to an established website.

I love Dreamworks Animation so much, I might marry it.

A friend posted this short on Facebook, commenting, "This is pretty funny...and accurate." Because I'm a well-balanced individual, it aggravated my boobs into a knot.

Fine, Pixar's never had a flop, financially speaking, but creatively, Cars is an abortion--and it's guilty of MANY of the accusations that this short makes against Dreamworks.

I'm tired of hearing about "Pixar's undefeated streak" when one of their protagonists exclaims, "Holy Porsche!" and then makes a joke about tramp-stamps. If Shrek were about anthropomorphic vehicles instead of fairy tales, it would be Cars.

Also, this short avoids praising (the excellent) How to Train Your Dragon by predicting that Dreamworks will cheapen it with a sequel--MEANWHILE, Toy Story 3 is ONLY effective when it's resting on the laurels of its predecessors.

And the fact that Pixar got sloppy with Toy Story 3 doesn't bode well for the truck-load of sequels that they're now planning. If they couldn't put some effort into their flagship franchise, what're the odds that they'll do anything decent with Cars or Monsters Inc.?

And since I'm already being a bitch, I'll throw this out there: Chicken Run and Wallace and Gromit: the Curse of the Were-Rabbit are PHENOMENAL...

...Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas out-classes every adventure movie Disney's attempted in the last twenty years...

...and if Disney or Pixar had produced the Prince of Egypt, the film would be considered a modern animation classic.

All Dreamworks Animation.


After I posted this, my friend replied:

I disagree with you entirely... but then, you're also the guy who thinks that Toy Story (Midway) Mania! is a PoS, so it's kind of expected. lol. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I do give you kudos though, because although you might not have the most popular opinions around, you at least back your views up with facts. That is something rarely seen these days.

I like how he managed to be condescending, "disagree with me entirely," AND prove that "people don't back their views up with facts these days" by not using facts to back up his views--in one short paragraph.

Ethics in advertising.

After I tweeted this...

My depression's measured by the size of the vehicle I'd like to put my head under. Last night was 'pogo stick.' Tonight is 'space shuttle.'

...@PogoBrian, who advertises the Vurtego Pogo Stick (the finest high-performance pogo stick every made), started following me.

Which either means that...

(1) he's encouraging me to commit suicide using his brand of pogo stick, or...

(2) he didn't read my tweet.

I can't decide which is more hurtful.

Pocahontas dark ride notes.

At the beginning of the summer, my sister and I brain-stormed a Pocahontas dark ride. Tonight, my friend Tim (who will either run Imagineering or build bombs that kill brown people) and I discussed it further. Here are our notes.


The loading dock is themed like a colonial London dock. We’re setting sail with the Virginia Company, and spend the ride (as / with) John Smith. The ride vehicles are modeled after the Discovery, the Susan Constant, and the Godspeed.


Our first room emulates the tumultuous, hellish, gray time at sea...leading up to a reveal of the new world--serene, verdant. Tonally, picture the reveal of Neverland in Peter Pan’s Flight.


The settlers do the “Mine, Mine, Mine” scene; excavating, cutting down, and generally molesting this natural setting. This will be one of few scenes where the focus is placed upon animatronic characters--by and large, this is a ride about the splendor of an undeveloped land.


We enter the bulk of the ride, greeted by an animatronic Pocahontas, and launch into a “Colors of the Wind” exhibition. Impressionistic colors and images would be projected upon a series of (mist / smoke) screens.

These screens might replace walls, separating rooms.

Perhaps, if we have a number of angled (mist / smoke) screens, we can create some sort of multi-plane effect.


The “Colors of the Wind” sequence is not just a series of movies. Physical effects will be incorporated in with the (mist / smoke) screens. For instance, during the lyrics “How high does the sycamore grow?” wall panels shaped like sycamore trees could scroll up from the floor, like the buildings in the ‘falling’ scene in the Amazing Adventures of Spider-Man. If the ride vehicle moved a certain way, the guests could feel like they were flying.

Using the same effect, but in the reverse, perhaps the ride vehicle could fall down a waterfall.

Perhaps there are other uses for animatronic landscapes. It’s a notion that’s been hinted at, but not really explored. The scrolling wall panels in Spider-Man, the occasional door that’s painted like a landscape, the trees that close in on guests in Snow White’s Scary Adventures. In theory, a ride about 'the splendor of this new world' should emphasize its landscape--and if the landscape were animatronic, it could emulate camera movements and enhance forced perspectives.

Tim swears he’ll think further about current technologies that would support this.


We have a running debate about the necessity of synopsizing the ride.

TIM’S SIDE: it would be awesome to represent the whole of the film. The Fantasyland dark rides have a precedent of synopsizing their respective films.

Guests boarding a Pocahontas ride would expect a proper ‘native vs. settler’ showdown, capitalized by Pocahontas’ noble stand to save John Smith’s life--and since the first part of the ride is pretty faithful to the early film, it may be jarring to hit them with that, and then kick them out without fulfilling their expectations.

Physically, there would be a dichotomy: the natives’ side is misty and colorful, while the settlers are characterized by fire and smoke. At the culmination, they would either switch, or maybe be indistinguishable from one another, showing that their hatred has made them indistinguishable from one another. Also, it would have a smell similar to Pirates of the Caribbean.

IAN’S SIDE: there are two major themes in Pocahontas--‘appreciating natural beauty,’ and ‘the dangers of xenophobia.’ “Colors of the Wind” is firmly about the former. We wouldn’t be able to do ‘the effects of xenophobia’ justice in such a small space, and if we tried, it would only detract from our “Colors of the Wind” centerpiece.

It may not be important to synopsize a story that guests already know. What’s important is a unique ride experience, and since it’s Fantasyland, it makes sense to link that into a story. But the ride should take priority, not the synopsis.

THIS COMPLICATES THINGS WAY TOO MUCH, but one way to address the ‘xenophobia’ plot is to have two separate dark rides that join in the middle, in the vein of Dueling Dragons. Guests could choose whether they wanted to start from the natives’ ride, or from the settlers’. The scenes would be phrased around their respective side’s perspective.

THE ANSWER MAY LIE in Peter Pan’s Flight, which spends most of its time exploring innovations with miniatures beneath a suspended ride vehicle, and then tacks on a few rote synopsis scenes.


Either way, the last room sees an animatronic Pocahontas waving to us, as we sail away from the new world...and return to our colonial London loading dock.


Ideally, this would be located on the border between Fantasyland and Liberty Square--where the Skyway queue used to be. The attraction, itself, would segue between the lands of "storybook Disney films" and "colonial America."

A quote from Nat.

I got 999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,
999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999 problems, and a googol ain't one.

The Creation of the Pyramid.

A new sketch!

My wrestling comic's done.

It features twenty-two panels (including the title), which employ a total of twenty-one different figures, and two backgrounds.

I watched five seasons of the American Office while making it.

It took twenty-six days to complete, and used one eraser exactly. The last rub erased the last pencil-mark off the last figure, and then the rubber went flat.

I made it for a pro wrestling website, which launches on August fifteenth. Once the website's up, I'll post it here.

But it's done, it came out well, and I'm proud as a peacock raised by lions.

A discussion from June.

Say, Ian--what's a good summer project that'll appeal to a broad audience and land us a creative job?

I've got just the thing! Let's make a comic strip that parodies professional wrestling!

A hole in one, by Jove! But let's restrict the comic to four panels, so that it won't take the entire summer.

That's a good ground rule, but twenty-one panels would make you really cool.

Really? Oh, I'd quite like to be cool!

Twenty-one panels of a professional wrestling comic strip will magnetize vaginas. Labias rushing to your face, like piglets to a nursing sow.

Like a beard of vaginas?

Draw a twenty-one panel pro wrestling comic, and you'll be shaving a beard of vaginas.

Fuck Inception.

"Hey, if I have 'rules' instead of 'plot,' 'characters,' 'theme,' or 'anything resembling the human experience,' can I make sixty-three million dollars, opening weekend?"

Yes, yes, you can.

"Don't worry; it may sound like shitty writing, but actually, it's excused by the rules. (Or is it? (What is 'real,' anyway?))"

Seriously. Every single scene is either 'world-building exposition' or 'boring, incoherent action.' The Last Airbender is guilty of the same crimes, but most intelligent audiences understood that it was a punch-line...at the time.

Is it still a 'twist ending' if it's the most clichéd, parodied twist in the book? The twist is that they actually used that ending.

Without spoiling anything that the film doesn't spoil by existing, in the first place--I can state that by the end, nothing means anything. The film would be 'masturbatory,' but it doesn't give the impression that anyone had a nice time doing it.

Fuck Inception.

Broken Freezer.

A new sketch!

A Reason for Fingers.

Without our fingers,
it would be harder to count
haiku syllables.

Another word we need.

Vapt, n., The distance between a theme park guest and their lap-bar; exactly wide enough to make the guest feel both, 'unsafe' and 'fat.'

Fuckin' rock stars...

In the Rock 'n' Roller Coaster Starring Aerosmith, the eponymous band is late for a concert. They drive off in a limousine, and beckon us to follow them in a limo of our own.

So there are two tensions in the story:

Will Aerosmith make it to their concert on time?

...and...

Will we see them perform in concert?

We veer through LA's highways--which are deserted. No sign of Aerosmith's limo, but we can hear their music. And then we arrive backstage...and walk into a gift shop...

...and walk out of the attraction.

We don't see a concert. We don't even see Aerosmith again.

So to answer the second tension:

Will we see Aerosmith perform in concert?

No.

What about the first tension?

Will Aerosmith make it to their concert on time?

We never find out.

It's weird that Imagineering would set up such a specific tension and not bother answering it. It's like telling a joke without ever giving a punch-line.

IMAGINEERS
Why did Aerosmith buy a chicken for Thanksgiving?

GUESTS
I don't know; why?

The Imagineers walk away.

That can't be it. Imagineers are professionals. They may make the sorcerer's hat (a symbol of hubris) the icon of a theme park, but they understand that a story is comprised of 'a beginning,' 'a middle,' and 'an ending.' Surely I'm missing something.

Let's think back to the last time we saw Aerosmith. Well, it was in the pre-show room. But that wasn't our last encounter with them, was it?

We heard them--that is, "their music"--while we were driving. And when we arrive backstage, the music ends. That was our last encounter with them.

...did Aerosmith fucking play their concert without us?

An eventful day.

My meeting with my professor went well...

...and I've applied to teach English at two LA community colleges...

...and it's hot enough to fry a slab of sidewalk on the sidewalk...

...and I'm spending the rest of the night 'being really sick,' 'listening to musicals,' and 'reading comics.'

A word we need.

Lobweek, n., A week where you coincidentally run out of everything--detergent, shampoo, frozen dinners, and so on--resulting in a ruinously expensive trip to the grocery store.

One of the dumbest conversations I've ever had.

The context: my friend and I belong to a pro wrestling message board. On the board, there’s a series of articles called “the Hall of Shame.” These articles profile the dysfunctional lives of professional wrestlers.

Two “Hall of Shame” articles are mentioned in this conversation.

The first profile was on Davey Boy Smith, who allegedly drugged his wife, and then proceeded to rape her.

The second profile was on Jim Neidhart, who adopted Tyson Kidd when he was ten years old. Now Tyson Kidd and Nattie Neidhart (Jim Neidhart’s birth-daughter / Tyson Kidd’s adopted sister) have been dating for nine years.

Don't worry--the conversation's about 'incest,' and not really about 'pro wrestling.'

Without further ado...

Work update.

I have (arguably too) many coals in the fire.

In an effort to appeal to a broad audience, I've started a web-comic that makes inside jokes about professional wrestling. It even has a snappy title: "a Wrestling Comic." If this doesn't earn me a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, nothing will!

The (long novella / short novel) was on halt, because writing is hard, and re-writing is harder. But today I broke the block, and the second chapter is 3,600 words strong. Alas, they're only strong in numbers...

I have a scene about juggling clowns, and I've started breaking it down into a shot-list so's I can storyboard it.

Also, I'm applying to teach English at an LA community college. But if ever there was a time to have one bitchingly grammatical cover letter, it's now--and the current draft is only 'kvetchingly grammatical.'

Oh, and sometime this week, I'm going to pitch sketch shows to one of my favorite professors.

So things are afoot, dear blog, and I have not forsaken you. I just don't want to spend much time with you, is all. Nothing personal; it's me. You're great.

"...and me."

Tonight I karaoke'd "the Rainbow Connection" in my Kermit voice. They shut off the music, and I led the room in an a capella rendition.

Life-goal: realized.

Toy Story 3 flopped in Russia.

I liked Toy Story 3, but I think it's one of Pixar's weakest offerings. Most of its successful humor and pathos derives from call-backs to the first two films.

"Hey, remember that time that Andy was playing, and Woody stopped One-Eyed Bart (portrayed by Mr. Potato Head), and he had an attack dog, with a built-in force field? Well, this is what it looked like in Andy's imagination!"

"Hey, remember that time Jessie had to deal with being abandoned by Emily? Well, she'll face the same fears with Andy!"

"Hey, remember when Andy was little kid, Molly was a baby, and Buster was a puppy? They're all much older now!"

"Hey, remember when we met the little green aliens in a claw machine? They won't really do anything in this movie, but if we make a call-back to the claw machine, you won't mind a deus ex machina!"

Again: I was moved by all of this. I love the series dearly. But it was the cheapest way of evoking emotion, and unlike Toy Story 2, I don't think that Toy Story 3 can stand on its own.

This article supports my suspicion. An audience who doesn't know the previous films is utterly disinterested. And I'd argue that that's a sign that Pixar hasn't so much "made a third movie" as "made a tribute movie."

Which is fine. But surely anyone could have come up with a touching scene where Andy gives his toys away. What makes Pixar great is that it tries not to rest on its laurels (except in the theme parks--grrr), and it's disappointing to see this encouraged in the Toy Story 3 reviews.

Andrew's idea for a movie I (could / would / should) write.

It's like "the Frog Prince," but instead of being turned into a frog, the prince is turned into a virus. He infects the heroine, who must come to truly love her disease in order to set him free.

But then the twist is, since he's a virus, when "he" is turned back into a prince, it's actually millions of identical princes who come bursting forth out of the heroine's cells, thereby tearing her body to shreds.

The Muppets Go Home!

Tonight I outlined a speculative Muppet movie. Broadly:

On the same day that Kermit gets fired from his cubicle job, a producer lambasts his independent film. Left without dreams or finances, all Kermit wants to do is move back to the swamp, but Los Angeles won't let him go that easily...

I'm too fucking excited to write this. And I want to make it. It should be shot on mini-DV, and apart from the cost of puppets and performers, the budget shouldn't exceed 'six dollars.'

'May Goes Away,' Chapter One, First Draft.

You can find it below!

I spent the night writing 'mass grave' jokes.

It started in the shower, when I realized that I'd rather find a time capsule than a mass grave...which suggests that 'material possessions' are better than 'people.'

That got me thinking about the real estate of mass graves. "Location, location, location," right?

Here are some fun places for a mass grave:

in a magician's top hat,
beneath a Christmas tree,
and delicately balanced atop the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Here are some crafty places for a mass grave:

beneath a traditional cemetery,
beneath a bounce house,
and beneath the Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Here are some tasteful places for a mass grave:

in the foreground of a film directed by Werner Herzog and starring Klaus Kinski,
in the Bodies Exhibition,
and in thirty years' worth of jerky.

Here are some unverifiable places for a mass grave:

atop Eyjafjallajökull,
with Sarah Palin's 'to read' pile,
and in the Disney Vault.

Here are some disappointing places for a mass grave:

at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box,
in your high school crush's panties,
and in a hole you were digging for a new mass grave.

Here are some anti-climactic places for a mass grave:

inside the Trojan Horse,
inside a clown car,
and at a pro-life rally.

(I don't ask for these thoughts. I am a vessel; a Stradivarius forced to play a Beyonce song.)

Chapter ONE of TWELVE!

'May Goes Away,' the (long novella/short novel) I'm writing, has a first chapter. It's unfit for human consumption, and I probably wouldn't have the heart to feed it to the murderous abomination that I'm dog-sitting, either.

While the narrative voice is third person, omniscient, it will sometimes get so wrapped up with a character's point of view that it becomes first person, limited. I find this very funny, when done properly.

But I'm learning that you can only do that with one character at a time. If multiple characters "corrupt" the third person, omniscient narrator in a single scene, then the reader needs a degree in quantum mechanics to understand what's going on. To alleviate this, every sentence must begin with a tag, like "Fred thought..." which becomes clunky, tedious, and terrible.

And I'm hoping to make this (long novella/short novel) clunky, tedious, and middling.

Nevertheless, the first of twelve chapters is written. There are five thousand, one hundred, and ninety-four words in this draft.

When it's readable, I'll post it.

The Effects of Caffeine on Sperm.

If you Google “the effects of caffeine on sperm,” you’ll find gentlemen performing lewd acts with cappuccino-makers. Delicious, yes, but arguably illegal, and certainly not informative. As far as I know, I have conducted the only major scholastic study on the effects that caffeine has on sperm.

If I may, I’d like to share my findings with you.

The context: I drink sixteen ounces of the caffeinated soda, Red Bull, every day. I hate condoms. And my girlfriend, at the time, was on birth control. That is, she’s no longer my girlfriend. I dunno if she’s still on birth control. But she was at the time, which is why I wasn’t bothered when I came in her.

And I mean “came.” And saw. And conquered. I apologized, and I even kind’ve meant it, and we forgot the matter until...six weeks later.

...uh-oh.

That’s right: she started vomiting. We were worried, but she peed on that stick thing, and it tested ‘negative,’ and we were relieved, and we forgot the matter until...one week later.

She called me into the bedroom, I asked what was wrong, and she put my hand on her stomach.

...uh-oh.

That’s right: I felt a kick. Two kicks. Many, many kicks. But remember, it had been seven weeks, and a fetus doesn’t start fidgeting until the thirteenth week. We got an ultrasound, which confirmed that there was nothing growing in her womb, it was just an anomaly, and she kind’ve got used to the pain, and we kind’ve forgot about it until...one week later.

She started doing that baboon breathing; “Hee-hee-HOO! Hee-hee-HOO!”

...uh-oh.

That’s right: she was eleven centimeters dilated. There was no time to get her to the hospital; whatever was coming was coming NOW. I laid her on the coffee table, because it was old and already smelled funky, and she couldn’t make it much worse.

And I waited...and waited...and she screamed...and screamed...and...call me “insensitive,” but I got bored.

I peeked inside to see what the hold-up was. It was hard to find the right angle, and eventually I had to use a flash-light, but at long last, I saw what was causing trouble in her womb.

It was a coliseum.

Small, by Roman standards, but large, for my then-girlfriend's birth canal. One of her eggs hung above the coliseum, and to her credit, it was one large, good-lookin’ egg. And in the coliseum: two of the largest fucking sperms I’ve ever seen.

Imagine two slugs, with toned muscles. They were white, but veering towards the pale mint color of Red Bull. And they were each perched atop a pile of sperm corpses.

They turned to me, bowed, and chanted, “WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE SALUTE YOU.”

Apparently I was just in time to watch the finals. And they did me proud, even though they fought dirty. They had so much testosterone, you see, that they had grown their own testicles...so they were just wailing on each other’s nuts...slithering around...constricting one another.

At last the greener of the two throttled his opponent. My then-girlfriend’s egg was his for the taking. He reached up and grabbed it with his flagellum, and he looked at it...

...and he looked at me, and he said, “Eggs is for bitches!” and he crushed it!

Then he rockets into the ovaries, popping eggs as if they were bubbles at a company picnic. My then-girlfriend howled in pain, so I reached in to try and grab that fucking sperm, but he was so fast that I accidentally punched a whole cluster of her eggs.

Meanwhile, the sperm decided that “X chromosomes is for bitches,” too, so while I grabbed for him, he ran through her DNA and yanked one leg off as many X chromosomes as he could grab.

My then-girlfriend shrieked and grew a beard and lost her breasts (not that there was much to lose, in the first place). Finally I grabbed the fucker and pulled him out just as she closed up and sprouted a dick.

And while that was tragic, at least I had caught the sperm, and could now exact revenge. He was in the palm of my hand, at my mercy...I could bake him, pry him apart, or vivisect him. Do you know what I did?

I got punched out.

The sperm uppercut me. I blacked out. When I awoke, I realized that he’d pulled one leg off every last X chromosome in my body.

You are reading the words of a being comprised entirely of Y chromosomes. Those of you who know me know that I am the most masculine specimen in the history of organic life, and this is why.

So in conclusion: if you drink enough Red Bull, it will make you date a guy, and quadruple the size of your penis.

I thank you for your time.

The prude in every movie makes out with their own hand.

I'm similarly repressed at the moment--and I'm sorry to do this to you, Blogspot, but tonight, you're my hand.

I love you.

I love your posture, your garden path stories, your laugh. And I'll say it publicly, and awkwardly, and address it to you anonymously. I love you.

I'm writing a novel called 'May Goes Away.' Here's the beginning.

May alphabetized the spice rack instead of doing her algebra homework.

There was no reason to do her algebra homework until the spice rack was alphabetized. If she tried now, the equations would read “x - 3 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK,” and “x + 4 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK.” That would mean that “x - 3 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK = x + 4.” And that would then mean that “x - 3 = x + 4.” And that would mean the universe was unfair, and May needed to lie down.

But there was no time to lie down! The jar of basil was set after the jar of cumin! Mustard was the last jar on the rack!

Mustard!

Who would disorganize the spice rack? No one else in the house cooked.

But apparently someone had cooked, and they’d flavored their meal with every spice on the rack. And they’d put everything back wrong. And they’d probably put the dirty dishware in the washing machine, and not the dish-washer, and they might as well light the house on fire, for all they cared.

“Now calm down,” May commanded herself, shaken by the thought of her freshly-ironed bath towels catching fire.

Maybe the spice bottles weren’t put away wrong. Maybe they were put away with another system. So they weren’t alphabetized! So what? Maybe they were put away according to how much was left in the jar!

...except mustard was beside pepper, and there was tons of mustard, but barely a teaspoon’s worth of pepper.

May tried to find a color pattern--wrong. A grain-size pattern--nope. A taste-bud pattern...maybe the bitter spices were grouped together, ranging from ‘least bitter’ to ‘most bitter’ and transitioning into ‘salty.’ That would be a sensible, intuitive pattern. That would be a lovely pattern!

But unless mint was more bitter than crushed red pepper, that wasn’t it.

It was just chaos. Dumb, meaningless chaos that was still somehow creative enough to keep May guessing. She should just re-organize them.

...but what if there was a pattern that she wasn’t seeing? What if she were destroying a better--no--the best spice rack pattern in the history of spice rack patterns?

And what if she chose to believe that and didn’t re-organize? Whether it was right or wrong, the spice rack would stay like this--a hostage of an agnostic pattern--until the end of time!

No! May used this spice rack, and she wouldn’t stand for it!

On the other hand...

I didn't like Blogspot's layout.

But LiveJournal has started projecting advertisements over its posts.

And Tumblr's not really good for posts that have, y'know, content. So...

Hi, Blogspot! Glad to be back!