Why won’t you be in my movie?
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What?!
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How can you not like vampire movies?
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So?! I’m not even making a vampire movie.
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Well, no, I mean, I’m not making a movie that outright denies the possibility of transformation from human into bloodthirsty nightwalker. But does that fact alone make it a vampire movie?
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Yeah, well… I’m only calling it “Vampire Frenzy” because Cameron Crowe already exhausted every other viable film title. Anyway, we’re only really marketing the frenzy aspect of it. I’m making a frenzy movie.
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Uh-huh.
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Well, I mean, it’s more of a subgenre. Frenzy movies sort of fit under the umbrella of shenanigan films.
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Shenanigan films. Like “Jaws: The Revenge.” Or “Straw Dogs.”
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Hold on, hold on. I don’t think we’re coming at this from the same direction.
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No, see, you need to start thinking of the film’s universe as a universe of absolute free will, where people can make whatever choices they wish: love or loneliness; food or something that isn’t food; to not turn into a vampire or, perhaps, to turn into a vampire.
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No duh the characters all make the same choice. They wouldn’t have been assigned to the same hovercraft crew if they didn’t have similar and compatible personality profiles.
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Uh-huh.
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I think you’re taking the whole vampirism thing a bit too literally. It’s intended as a metaphor
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What do you mean, “For what?” For freedom. For passion. For bravery in the face of civil unrest.
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I guess it’s more of a shifting metaphor. Like those flowers in that movie about Thora Birch’s boobs.
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Oh, oh, hold the horse, Wednesday! Not all the vampires can transform into dinosaurs. Just King Okthor, the king of the vampires. King Okthor, king of bravery in the face of civil unrest, if you will.
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Wait, the script says the vampires have a what?
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Shit, that’s an early draft. Tell you what – which word appears more: “king” or “kritocracy”?
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Okay, find and replace “King” with “Judge.” What was I saying before?
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Right. Metaphor. The vampires are metaphors.
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They’re not magic, they’re pyrokinetic. It means they can control electricity.
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It means what? I mean, yeah. I know. Electricity is nature’s metaphor for fire.
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Jesus Christ! Where was all this inquisitive argumentation when you made Bless the Child?
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Oh.
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Well, I’m sorry he hit you.
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Listen, lemme do one more draft. How would you feel if instead of becoming a vampire, your character accidentally plugs her brain into the hovercraft’s mainframe computer, thereby, fusing her consciousness with the hard drive so that for the rest of the movie the hovercraft is all wisecracking and sassy.
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Like someone could spill a soda on the deck and then it’d be all “Oh no you di’int!”
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Chris? Christina? Hello?
Monthly Archives: May 2009
Reader, take heed: Though the “if” in this piece’s name may lead you
to believe that the below account represents a blindly hypothetical
postulation of the titular event, there is nothing hypothetical about
it. A better title might have been “When Matt Finley Gave a Real Pig a
Real Pancake.” This, however, is hypothetical. There is no way to know
with any degree of certainty whether the proposed possibly better
title would have, in actuality, been any more effective. That having
been said, I still kind of feel that it would have been.
With that out of the way, I will tell you what happens if you give a
real pig a real pancake: chaos. And not the kind of hyperbolic chaos
that one might refer to in describing a two-hour mattress sale, film
opening or gas-bombed race riot. I mean actual throat-slitting,
blood-soaked chaos, with all of the ball lightening, raining viscera
and billowing diesel smoke that the word has come to denote. I hope
that by explaining this as concisely and as gruesomely as possible, I
can convince those among you who are prone to boat-rocking mischief
and/or shenanigans that there are some boats best left unrocked.
I feel that it would be beneficial, in lieu of creating the monstrous
new words necessary to describe in full the anarchy catalyzed by the
giving of said pancake to said pig, to lay out the three mistakes I
made in both my planning and methodology. This way, even the most
careless miscreants among you, who choose to turn a deaf ear to the
facts and prepare a hot, delicious pancake and present it to a pig,
will have a rudimentary understanding of the most crucial things to
avoid. Do not be fooled into believing that these were the only times
when I erred. These are just the times when I erred the hardest.
Mistake #1: The basic ideation.
Give a pancake to a pig? Yes. For I believed with all my heart that
the pig would enjoy it 100%. If only I had reminded myself that 100%
is a mere 1% shy of far, far too much. Mathematics is a fowl,
loathsome beast indeed. I underestimated by 900%.
Mistake #2: I prepared only one pancake.
If perhaps I had made three, or maybe even just two, I would be
writing a delightful, pithy bon mot entitled “If You Give a Pig
Pancakes.” And you, dear reader, could sit back in your chair,
enjoying the tale with your spouse or a friend, warmed through by the
logs on the fire and the smoked gamey mirth in the air. Instead,
everything is awful. Ugh. I am vomiting.
Mistake #3: I gave the pancake to a pig.
This was a terrible, terrible decision. Just awful.
In the wake of the event, my reactions were rash and sloppy, drunk as
I was on the sweet nectar of my own generosity. I faced down something
nameless and primal that day, as I tried to reach out into the ether
of dreams and, with spry, eager fingers, tickle the feet of God. I
stood amidst a universal force so engorged with an ancient, malevolent
intelligence, that it seemed larger than all pigs and all pancakes.
Whoever thinks to give a pig a pancake should be careful not to, for
if you stare long enough into the abyss, the abyss stares also into
you.
[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever
IV
The next morning, Beth left the house without even saying goodbye to her father, who was hallucinating in a bathtub full of homemade corn whiskey that he brewed himself to keep his alcoholic nun seduction expenditures down. Tiger King snorted to attention with a blast of exhaust so thick, Beth felt sure that they alone could take on the entire Arctic Circle if they had to. But when she blasted into the school parking lot and spun skidding sideways into an empty spot while a guitar solo wailed, her depression returned. She climbed out of her truck and looked up at the sky. A deep gray pall had spread out over the town and thunder sounded off in the distance, rumbling soft and deep in the air, as if God had eaten a bad quesadilla. The usual rabble of dipshits and fucktards were feeding each other, self-conscious and bumbling, into the school’s gaping brick and steel maw. Beth felt more alone than Haley Joel Osment did when he was in the submarine underwater at the fake ending of A.I.
Suddenly, a mini-van piloted by a fugly redhead who was trying to drive and eat potato bisque at the same time came swerving into the lot and spun out of control. The van was skidding and smoking, going at least 200 miles per hour, catching on fire and about to hit Beth. Reacting purely on instinct, coaxing neural signals up out of the most basic, primordial fragments of a raveling double helix that for millennia has fought against the zero half of the universal binary by stacking rung after rung of genetic prerogative atop the sacred altar of self-preservation, she curled up into a ball and waited for death.
But, oh-ho! Death never came. Instead there was a bang and a screech and then some more banging and someone screaming and then lots of excited talking and then another bang that sounded way far away and was probably unrelated. Beth looked up and saw Matt Finley standing in front of her with his hand all crunched into the side of the van and his smoldering stare burning deep into her cervix.
“We can go to class and talk about cell biology or we can go hump at the top of tree.” he said in a smoky contralto that made her think about liberally spreading melting butter up and down a corn cob in a manner both methodical and erotic.
“Are we in love now?” she asked, trembling.
“No.” He replied.
“How about now?”
“No.”
“Now?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“I can never speak the reason.”
“Can you say it if guess it first?”
“Yeah. That would probably be okay.”
Before she could take another breath, Matt grabbed her around her entire body and they zoomed into the woods at four times the speed of taste. 2 seconds later, they arrived in a beautiful green clearing full of trees and moss and brilliant shafts of light that tore through the foliage like rice through an overstuffed tortilla. The entire forest was smiling down upon them. Matt’s strong hands grabbed Beth’s weak girly arms and he stared down at her so intensely, he gave her a CAT scan.
“Your brain looks healthy.” he whispered into her supple, feminine ear. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. “Here, how do you like this apple?” Beth took it from him without breaking contact with his smoldery, smoldery eyes. “How do you like these apples?” she asked, pointing to her chest. “I mean, I guess I like them just fine.” Matt said. “Now, eat your apple.”
Just then, some hikers walked by. Beth and Matt separated and tried to look like they were just hanging out. The hikers were so slow. They looked at a tree. They listened to a bird. They even looked at a fucking rock. After, like, 20 minutes, they finally moved on. Beth ate the apple.
“What are you?” Beth asked Matt, staring at him so hard she accidentally gave him an MRI. “I mean, besides a guy who doesn’t have cancer.”
“You’re supposed to guess. Remember?”
“Are you Spiderman?”
“No. He’s a virgin”
“Are you kryptonite?”
“Uh…no. That’s a fictional transuranic element.”
“Oh my God! This is fun!” Beth said, squealing.
At that moment, Matt backed up into one of the shafts of light and his entire sexy body lit up like a fiber optic dollar store Jesus picture. Shocked at the sudden revelation of his true glittery nature, Matt spun and ducked trying to cover himself. Instead, his sleeve caught on a branch and ripped all of his clothes off, except his underwear. Coincidentally, he had chosen that day to wear his sparkly underwear.
“Oh, of course! You’re a vampire.” Beth realized.
“Yes. I have suffered for many millennia.” Matt replied.
“Now are we in love?”
“Yes. Now we are in love.”
“Fuck me!”
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“I cannot speak the reason.”
“Can I guess?”
“Yeah. That would probably be fine.”
“Is it because you’re impotent?”
“No. And I can prove it.” Matt made a noise like he was trying to poop something the size of the rhinoceros he had consumed in Beth’s vision. “Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” The veins in his neck swelled and popped out, almost to the point where they looked like how veins normally look on the back of an old woman’s hands. His face turned Pantone 199. “ERRRRRRRRRR!”
His shoulders slumped and relaxed.
“Okay. I can’t prove it. But, like, trust me.”
“Is it because you’re a vampire?”
“Yes. My vampire penis would kill you instantly. It bears the same horrible curse that I do. The curse of the night.”
Beth thought about the last vampire movie she saw. It was Vampire in Brooklyn starring Eddie Murphy.
“Are you going to drink my blood?” she asked
“Not right now.” Matt answered.
His vampire hands grabbed her human boobs and the alien fleet that was in orbit high above them, about to implode the Earth, was instantly destroyed.
The End
[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever
III
By the time Beth found the science room, class was just about to start. She hurried in and looked around for a vacant seat. Then she saw him. Still wicked sexy. Still wicked pale. Still licking his lips. Around and around. He was like a machine. Matt Finley.
A Timbaland beat kicked up inside Beth’s pussy and she had to bite her lip to keep from having an orgasm right then and there.
She sat down on the stool beside him and turned to introduce herself. “Hi.” she said, remembering to talk with her mouth, but emote with her jugs.
But what’s this?
Matt “sex blaster” Finley looked at her with a frozen smolder of sheer nauseated disdain. It was the look that the Pope would give to his hypothetical protestant equivalent. It was the look her dad gave the staff at Chili’s that time that the waiter accidentally brought him a virgin Margarita. It was the look that NBC Dateline’s Chris Hansen gives to caught predators.
The Timbaland beat stumbled and halted. It was immediately replaced by the song the guy with bad credit sings in the seafood restaurant in the freecreditreport.com commercial. Her loins deflated.
Matt’s entire smooth, chiseled body was vibrating with the force of his revulsion. He looked like he might puke. And then puke again. And then again. And then just keep puking and puking until people were screaming and jostling each other and trying to get out of the room but they can’t because they’re waist deep in puke and then someone one pulls the fire alarm and someone else gets so freaked they pee their pants so now there’s pee in the puke and everyone’s like “stay away from the warm spots!” but every spot’s warm. Until the room fills up and everyone drowns and finally the windows shatter and the puke bursts out and pours down into the parking lot, making room for the additional puke that Matt’s still puking.
“What’s wrong?” Beth asked with her cans
“I’m gonna puke.” Matt intoned in a voice that could sublimate lead, before dashing out of the room and jumping, like, 200 feet in the nearest sequoia redwood and puking onto a baby bear.
Needless to say, Beth was totally bummed. She felt like a caught predator feels after being looked at by Chris Hansen.
After the heart mushing disappointment of Cock Ranger Matt Finley’s abrupt, barfy departure, the day dragged on like an aging transvestite (rimshot). All Beth could think about was how horrible she must smell, reasoning that a person who smelled good wouldn’t turn a hot guy into a hurl machine just by sitting next to him. Unless said good smelling person had tiny, inexpressive hooters, which Beth certainly did not. Shaking her rack for reassurance, Beth drove home with a dark emotional cloud over her mind and an even darker emotional cloud over her heart and still even darker actual meteorological clouds in the sky above her and above them, Space. Which is blacker than Don Cheadle driving a black Honda Civic into a black hole. Totally, completely black.
When Beth got back to her dad’s house, she ran straight up to her room and texted sad faces and NLOLs to her mom. Then she cried into her webcam and charged middle-aged men with depression fetishes $50 a piece to watch her on video iChat. And some of them were like, “Oh yeah, baby. Sob. mmm. Did your dog die, baby? Did you just get back from your grandma’s funeral? Ugh!” and others were like, “Ugh. Ugh. Yeah. ohhh. Did you get a D on a math test. Ugh.” But none of them understood that her pain was her own, while her tears belonged to a man. And that man’s screen name was Weep4Me365 and he paid $200 for them.
At 6 o’clock, her dad shouted for her to come down for dinner. “I made you my favorite!” he coughed.
Dinner was beer in a pie tin with eight strips of beef jerky and some croutons. “There’s fork food, there’s spoon food, and then there’s this!” her father choked out joyfully as he slurped down the crapulent amalgam.
“This food looks how I smell.” Beth said, folding her arms across her chest and pouting.
“It kinda sounds like you, too.” her dad belched, sucking a stray tendon of meat into his mouth and then wiping his fingers off in his hair.
“I hate it here.” Beth whined, upping her pout to level 13, just two clicks shy of maximum power.
Her dad countered with a level 14 fart and grunted. “Yeah. Sometimes I wish my whole body was just a giant mouth with a huge beer in it.”
“Whatever!” Beth said, her pout now burying the needle into the red zone on the gauge, causing the glass cover on the indicator to shatter and pressurized steam to come shrieking out of the valves.
She left the kitchen and went back up to her room to nurture her snit. She pictured her pain as a rhinoceros and her life as a silo full of rhinoceros food, and she wept as the rhinoceros ate more and more food, getting fatter and fatter until even its horn was fat. then she pictured Matt Finley surfing down on a rainbow and eating the rhinoceros in three horrific, gory bites, except, instead of his whole body getting fat, all of the weight went into his dick and they fucked liked cheetahs, locked in mortal combat, each one desperately slashing and clawing, trying to remove the other’s soul through its skin.
[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever
II
When Beth pulled into the school parking lot, she carefully maneuvered the Tiger King around all the cool shiny douchemobiles, automocunts, Ass Utility Vehicles and Jettas. After she pulled into a parking space, she turned off the truck and gazed out across the lot at all the kids making their way into the school. Three jocks were high fiving and pointing at girls’ butts and doing touchdown dances. Their Adidas windbreakers rustled in the wind as they fist bumped and tweaked the skewed positions of their hats. Some creamy-skinned blondes in coochie pants adjusted their boobs and made faces at fat girls. Two awesome bros with skateboards under their arms and studded dog collars traded disaffected glares and flipped off the American dream. Skinny nerds (and one big, tubby dweeb) cringed beneath the weight of their backpacks and Urkle-laughed about a new Romulan curse word. One black kid walked by really fast, but not so fast that he wasn’t noticeable. Two completely non-descript assholes in solid-colored t-shirts talked about homework and television.
“I’ll be friends with them,” thought Beth, as she debarked Tiger King and slowly made her way towards her new school.
The school building was a sprawling, single-story prison that looked like the bastard love child of a mental hospital and a strip mall. Once inside it, a ton of boring stuff happened. There were some math problems, Beth peed in a toilet, someone (maybe one of the jocks from outside) pointed at her and said “look at the new girl.” Beth tripped and almost fell down the stairs but didn’t. Beth answered a question right during social studies and mean kids looked at her. Then: Lunch.
Beth walked into the cafeteria and looked around until she saw the two boring assholes from the parking lot. She walked over to the table and waited for a break in the brain-rapingly banal jabber-jawing. When it finally came (after, like, three minutes of yak yak yak Jack Bauer this and yup uh-huh fruit smoothie that), she pointed to an empt0y seat and asked “is this seat taken?”
Holy lord Satan on Christmas! You would’ve thought that someone put Adam Noble on a CSPAN panel with Nancy Grace and a Nicholas Sparks audiobook. One simple question was answered with an endless aural string composed of pleasantry after asinine pleasantry, all piled up on a soapbox and hung droning in space like an infectious airborne lobotomy. As the monotonous volley of inanity propelled itself into a perpetual loop, echoing its irrelevance around the infinite landscape of forever, Beth took the seat and got out her lunch. A look in the bag revealed a Tupperware cylinder full of flat beer and lunchmeat ham. “Urgh. I wish I had an apple.” Beth said to herself.
Back at her dad’s house, her father, locked in a boozy, unshaven prison of his own construction, winked at you, the reader.
Just as Beth realized that the conversation between the two assholes had finally shed its last remaining vestiges of substance, turned into a verbal blackhole and collapsed in upon itself, a gaggle of the palest, sexiest and oldest high school students ever strutted into the cafeteria and sat down at a table together. Beth looked at them and immediately saw that one burned way hotter than all the rest. Whereas she merely gawked and the others simply stared, he smoldered. He slowly stuck out his tongue and ran it teasingly around his pouty, sensual lips as if to say, “mmmm. Yeahhhh. OOOOOOOOHHHHH. Look at me. MMMMMMM.” Beth thrust her bosom forward and tried to shake it at him as nonchalantly as possible.
“Who’s that?” Beth asked, giving one more twitch of her breasts before turning back towards her insufferable table mates.
“Oh, those are the Finleys. The really cute one is Matt, the others are…” blah blah blah. off they went again, boring horses beating dusty trails across an interminable desert of meaningless sounds.
“Okay.” Beth said, doing her best not to make eye contact with the two complete fucking assholes as she stood up from the table. “I’m going to science class.” As she walked out of the cafeteria, she could still hear the assholes talking, their conversation persisting indifferent to her absence…indifferent to the time and place…indifferent to existence as a whole…the empty words fading into the white noise of a world that existed indifferent to them.
[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever
I
Beth sighed as she peered glumly out of her frost-streaked bedroom window into the sleety, fog-draped world beyond. Past the half-frozen glass, the wind howled out in high gusting sighs that sounded through the thin walls of her father’s small house. All she could think about was how much she longed for the disgusting sun-baked dirt of Arizona.
“It’s almost time for your first day of school!” her dad called up from downstairs. “You don’t want to be late!”
Beth rolled her eyes and picked up her school bag, making sure to check out her rocking hot bod and quirky-but-totally-not-poseur-quirky clothes in the mirror before heading downstairs.
“Rocking. Check. Hot. Check. And my clothes belie my quirkiness while still firmly asserting that it’s a completely unique chain boutique quirky rather than a calculated teenybopper mall store quirky.” She thought, enjoying the confidence engendered by each successive bounce of her tits as she made her way, step by step, jiggle by jiggle, into her father’s kitchen.
“There she is!” her dad croaked out through the boozy chrysalis of a half-formed bender that he was still shaping and feeding into a thick-winged gray-and-brown-patterned hangover. “I ripped up a hoagie roll and poured some beer over it for you. It’ll dock the ears right off those first-day jitters.”
Beth stared at the cold, hop-infused bread stew sitting on the kitchen table. The stew stared back, its snotty meniscus quivering with lachrymal despair.
In her chest, just behind her luscious, heaving girl bags, anger-lava breached the outer casing of a PMS hydrogen bomb, causing a mushroom cloud of rage to blossom inside of her.
“I hate you!” she screamed, blanketing the kitchen with a leveling shockwave of grrl power-radiation, “I wish I were back in Phoenix with all the booty shorts and desert stuff and fat people with skin cancer! And mom! And I wish there were hot sparkly vampires that would jump into trees with me and subdue my horny angst!”
Her dad burped to himself and then coughed into his armpit. “I guess I’m supposed to make her breakfast AND microwave it.” he grumbled under his 120 proof breath.
Beth turned to complete her pissy teenaged storm-out, but was stopped halfway to the front door by her dad’s guttural, choking baritone.
“Wait up, cheesecake! I won you a present.”
Beth shook her head without even turning around and seethed out the front door. Her dad lurched up in a staggering stumble and followed her outside.
He found his daughter standing on the front walkway, leering at the hulking red rusted-out pick-up truck that was parked sideways across the lawn.
“Now, listen Beth, that’s the finest truck in Washington state that you can win in a spontaneous game of Russian Roulette that starts in the handicapped bathroom at the bowling alley and then finds its way out into the street.”
Beth turned to look at her father. In her chest, just behind her ripe, bountiful gazongas, a happy-quake dissembled the structural integrity of her YAY! dam, causing rushing torrents of joy to level and drown the small town that ire had built in her heart just moments prior.
“For me?” she smiled, flooding the yard with glad water. “Now I don’t have to hitchhike to school with an anti-rape knife concealed in my snatch! I wish I could replace it with vegetarian vampire cock!”
“You bitches and your vampires!” her dad chuckled, turning to wink at you, the reader.
Beth climbed up into the front seat of her new ancient heap of oxidized sun damage. The interior smelled like an outhouse ash tray.
“How’s she feel?” her dad asked, handing her the key through the window.
“The seats are a bit lumpy.”
“Yeah. The guy I won it from was a drug mule. The upholstery is pretty well stuffed with street-cut heroin and counterfeit reais. But trust me, ice cream, the blood Swiffered right out and the engine purs like Tiger King, king of the tigers.”
“Thanks, Daddy!”
“Sure, kiddo. Just don’t get pulled over or near any black lights.”
Beth started the truck, which gagged and shuttered and farted a smell like a recently cauterized wound, then backed out into the street and towards HER DESTINY!
Yeah. I’m blogging. What’s fat, unemployed and prone to bonering over movie scenes where prostitutes get dismembered by animal robots?
Stay tuned to this blog and you’ll find out!
I’ll give you hint: It isn’t me.
I’ll give you another hint: If I say, “It isn’t me,” within the context of my own blog, you need to consider that I have a strong bias towards NOT revealing my own proclivity towards movie scenes where prostitutes get dismembered by animal robots.
I’ll give you yet another hint: movie scenes where prostitutes get dismembered by animal robots give me boners.
Monster Autopsy Scene 