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.