Coloured Plastics

After a dry spell of creativity, mostly due to scraping jissom from a plate in a Scandinavian prison -- the prison guards are the one you have to look out for; the prisoners are mostly heroin-addicted professors who are more focused on uploading their lesson plans to the University of Phoenix online so their TA's while have something to work off of during the videoconference classes. After doing these "pet tricks" for a little over a year, I was released on my own reconnaissance, provided I track down Urlof's wife in the Wal-Mart she was supposedly helping open in N.E. Siberia and put a bullet in her skull. He paid me upfront (the fool), so I skipped town, hopped the first bullet train to Little Tokyo (any one will do), and beat feet for the nearest In-ternet cafe. In my time in the pen, I only managed to dole out one transmission, a negative review of the David Cronenberg film "Eastern Promises". We screened it during "free night" when a transmission of a European Basketball Association game accidentally went on the fritz. Unfortunately for me, I was looking forward to seeing the Green Circles play the Ice Cream (somebody needs to fire that Anglo-to-Euro team name translator). Luckily, the one jail guard who wasn't in the business of making me eat men's sperm off of various Ikea dishware (I swear, a few of those devils used to order one of each item from the homeware section). Side note to my secretary -- remind me to write a letter to the president of Ikea and reprimand him for publishing a completely new catalog each month with over sixty new dishware items in each issue. Good for your product-hungry consumers, bad for your work-a-day prisoner who is forced to lick "come" off of them for the amusement of European perverts with too much time on their hands. What's that you say? You're not my secretary? Well, what the devil are you then? A barista? I'll be damned if that's a real word.

Anyways folks, I balked for a second there, but I can go all night if you want me to ;) Eastern Promises was hastily loaded into the Playstation 2 we were still forced to use as a DVD player, and we all snuggled into our Lacks to watch Gandolf from Two Towers take on a gang of Russian mobsters for the chance to win a baby's hand in pre-cognitive appreciation (Maria Bello swore he'd remember when he was 'round six). I had traded a carton of Gitanes and my last pair of "used" Levi's for a pen and paper around the fifteen minute mark so I could jot down a devastating review and mail it to the director's agent (some Hollywood hack, no doubt), thereby ensuring that she would fire M. Cronenberg and hire me to direct some magical Hollywood science fiction claptrap. What's that? My coffee-boy is talking to me in English. Don DeLillo you say? Well, do tell me it's Ratner's Star. Hmmm...that'll probably be a pass for me then. My good man, do tell me how I can access America Online here and how much that will run me? OK, great, yes. Username is PerotRollerblader33. Yes, the ending number IS a euphemism for butt-fucking. You're a smart little Nip aren't you? You don't like to be called that anymore? Since when? World War 2.0 you say? Fair enough, I recant that last derogation, but do be a dear for me: look up the URL h-t-t-p, that's Heather-Thomas-Teardrop-Palestine followed by colon forward mark, forward mark. World-wide-web unicron, how it was that we met-dot-blogspot and then a dot and a com. Yes, I'm looking for the review I wrote of the David Cronenberg movie "Eastern Promises." I paid a German mechanic to transcribe it in the King's English and upload it to this site. He was a boy no more than fourteen, but he managed to transfer all of the toilets in our gang shower to the Sloan waterfree system. Brilliant lad. What's that you, say? There's no review of "Eastern Promises" on my website? Well, what's in its place? A review of something called Jersey Shore? Why would anyone know or care what that is? And you mean to tell me that's the last thing posted on this site for over a year? I thought I gave my password out to two of my most trusted writer-friends. Harumph. Well, be a dear young Japanese boy and tell me how many hits my site has received since I've been away. I bet the publicity we've gotten by listing our website in Hotbot and Lycos has driven the traffic to upwards of a million hits per day. Well, go ahead, I'm waiting for the results. Don't be shy now.

Oh...

Jersey Shore

Technically, we're currently in the second half of J-Shore Season 2, but this edition refers to the excellent Miami series. While S1 and the Miami episodes show progression between the roommates, it is the return to Jersey Shore that will be written about by whatever constitutes a television historian. As important and profound a series as MASH, Seinfeld or the Americanized version of The Office, the return to Jersey Shore shows a group of previously unknown strangers coalesced (congealed?) into a sort of tribal band of gypsies whose closest antecedent should be cited as Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters. Fortunately, we don't need Tom Wolfe's superlatariat prose to describe what we can see each week on cable for a nominal fee: seven postmodern versions of celebrity/rock 'n' roll star that drain a specific strand of New Jersey of its alcohol, electricity, gym equipment, laundry detergent and physical expressions of love. The most important of these castmates is Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino, the de facto leader, decision maker and trend setter of the group. Like Charles Manson before him, he withholds the appropriate amount of affection and psychologically forces the rest of the cast to "come together" like a proper family. Alcohol, drugs and sex are used as currency to drive the castmates' biological families and hometown relationships away, resulting in an incestuous pool of potential romantic partners, each of whom share similar interests. Should these partners happen to fall outside of the core group of cast, they would likely be excommunicated from the Shore House upon completion of coitus (or, in several instances, heavy petting), and left to wander dazedly down the Boardwalk to a specific t-shirt shop to purchase souvenir merchandise emblazoned with various catchphrases, usually uttered from the mouth of The Situation. The owner, a sort of millennial "Colonel" Tom Parker, sits on the sidelines, admonishing the cast while surely collecting a greatly exaggerated income due to the use of "Jersey Shore"-branded t-shirts. To sum it all up, this is the closest mankind has come to recapturing the fondly remembered strain of the mid-to-late 60's that we now refer to as "The Hippie Era." As opposed to failed shows like "The Real World", The Jersey Shore smartly culls similar personalities, encases them in a glass house, and lets a justifiably egomaniacal "adult" to guide them into a tribal love musical/Age of Aquarius, that by anyone's guess will continue to run until their faces are corroded by overexposure to artificial sunlight.

First Date Jitters

Barry had me at hello. It might've been goodbye. We were in Hawaii at a luau. You do the math. He was a pilot for Valu-Jet; hadn't worked in 13 years. "Are you angry with me?" I kept asking. He hadn't said a word to me all night, preferring to express his emotions through an endless game of Hangman that he drew on our table with a felt pan and had designs on our neighbors'. They were a young couple, "doing it". Parents must've paid for the vacation. Eyes were black and sweet like Ben's from "Leaving Las Vegas". Drunk and stupid, we were too, but nearing blackout. I think Sting was playing on the bandstand but it might've been our server, I can't remember. His voice sounds like everyone else; like a Werther's Original.

Barry took me back to a motel in Honolulu; some nice joint. We soaked in the hot tub. I did all the things to him that I always wished every couple did on "Blind Date". He had a devilish grin drawn on his face with my lipstick when we woke up. He demanded eggs but settled for cereal. I was just bored. I called my Mom after seeing her three missed calls. Decided to drive my rented Tercel into a snorkeling party off the reef of "Quiksilver-Roxy Island". Made it to a Korean BBQ shack before I cut the engine off. Spent the rest of the trip pigging out and getting pregnant by a land-boy named Tigershark. Tattoo read "Winona Forever", the way it was supposed to.

Xoxo,

Good News Bear

Paul Simon Tourin', I'm In

Met bad bitches at the small fade
Down at the mall, ballin' on gallants all day
Pick me up at the bar, my only car
Stoned and on bricks like Rian Johnson at a movie bar
Like the Alamo Drafthouse
Pour half out and fill the rest with the shit you laugh bout
I'm high off fumes, dusted on a red balloon
These goons will make cartoons
In alliterative rhyme schemes like MF Doom
Too soon?
I gave a joke about 9/11
To a Desert Storm luncheon
And took headshots in '97
A glamor puss
Working at the front counter
Her crooked nose buried in books
I said, "excuse me, Miss"
"Do you like to dine"
"And if I brought by a bottle of wine
Would you consider joining me in the lunch line?"
She smiled, put her hands together, they stayed stuck there
Courted her for 3 years
We were bound and fucked fair
And square
Like my Chinese sirens
Siamese twins breathing through four tubes
In these environs
To get any higher
Would be like Byron
And his dual heroes
We spit rhymes, still De Niro
No more, like Converge said
Bought a gun, pack of detergent and a verb thread

Easier

After Regine left, I did a bit of a solo flight through Mexico City in an attempt to relearn my high school-grade Spanish, sample some of their fantastic cuisine and, if I was truly lucky, be murdered by a drug gang simply for farting too strongly or blinking in the wrong direction. I blew a wad of cash staying at a trendy hotel and took cars and cabs to the hottest discos in an attempt to comingle before my life ended. It was at Los Vertiges, a bawdy techno club, that I met Cassarotto, a beautiful half-Italian, half-Latin fashion model with a penchant for fast cars and uncut cocaine. We spent our nights making love in my hotel room. Before you start moving your hand down to your crotch to unzip, wit: this was no ordinary lovemaking session. We spent our private time recreating her first sexual awakening: horseback riding through the Oaxacan countryside. This meant leather and horsehair legs and arm shields for me, and a horsehair gobbler over my diamond mine that could only be teased out with a diamond-studded riding crop. She wore a horse head we had to first kill and then gut in my bathtub. Lugging it upstairs was the hardest part, and I ruined a perfectly good Gucci bowling ball bag hiding it in there.

Fortunately, Cass' fantasies were meant to be a moving tableau and our second week together, I got to be Luigi from the Super Mario Brothers video game series while she dressed smartly in a frilly pink Princess Peach costume. I'm looking forward to the next phase of our sexual relationship. We've put the hotel room on retainer, turning it into a modern swingers' palace with mirrors over everything, especially the toilets. I can only hope that Cassarotto's next phase related to a bloodflow in the loins caused by Peter Weller's RoboCop and possibly Miguel Ferrer's breath.

Raindrops

In 1990, I wrote a videogame that revolutionized the Christian cartridge industry. It was originally a pornographic 8-bitzer game for the Nintendo Entertainment System entitled "Leathercock: The Quest for Delicious". I was working as a programmer for CarlCo, Carl Cornwalis' XXX manga imprint and coding in my spare time. While my prg'ing was mostly mods for Super Mario Bros that turned Luigi into either Chevy Chase or Jackie Mason (Caddyshackerz), I was given some divine inspiration by our receptionist, Deborah Lee Fensler. Deb and I had a protracted courtship that consisted of driving to the Westwood Chili's and necking like mad in the parking lot before gorging ourselves on chicky popperz and Miller tall boyz. When I was putting the finish touches on a Leathercock's last level -- a crudely drawn homage to Caligula where, due to the technology of the time, most of the orgy participants looked like Kid Icarus, Deb peaked her doughy head over my shoulder and screamed.

"That's the last half of Luke 3:21!" I looked at her incredulously, my fists balling up in rage. I took a breath and repeated my anger management codeword, "Cookies", to calm me down. Taking a second look at my erotic creation, I noticed that this dumb bitch might actually be onto something. We printed up 10,000 copies of Leathercock that night, slapping a logo that said "Spiritual Warfare" on it, and prayed to Satan that purchasers would confuse the milky cumshotz I included with Zeus' lightning bolts. Luckily, Christians love to see Jesus on a waffle, so they did. We sold out of that first caseload in two weeks, and at $35 a pop, I broke up with Deborah Lee and took off to Italy via time machine with a young Amanda Knox on the promise that we would be able to engage in real games that would fulfill my wildest fantasies.

Give 'Em Their Own Show

Starchild here. As a workaday reality producer, I have the opportunity to provide precious wealth and celebrity to people that have a pre-ordained contract with Satan: Evan Marriott, Sarah Kozer, Paul Hogan (butler), etc. After witnessing the miracle that was "Balloon Boy", I came up with the idea to do a reality show about reality show contestants: find 5 families and tell them that they are in competition with 4 other would be "reality families" and the most "compelling" family wins. We'll watch the families try and top each other's zany antics and the most outrageous family will be tabulated by the amount of tweeting, blog posting, "fizzing", etc. Maybe in season 2, the family that actually does "win" for being the most obnoxious, fattest, "realitiest" family will be featured on national TV in a series that will make "Jon & Kate Plus 8" look like "7th Heaven". If there's any god in the Earth's crust, the people that win will be millionaires and be able to start their own line of salad dressings, cookbooks, wines, or graphic tees for babiez.

In other news, I got an email from an old co-anchor of mine, Suzy Salmon. She had just left her husband, a professional "footballer" for the Premier League's Chelsea. He was apparently verbally abusive and used to call her "Tiger Woods" in bed. I invited her out for a drink to celebrate her newfound freedom. I've been single my whole life, with only one illegitimate child and a Pearl Jam "10 Guy" tattoo in the piss bucket. We went to an Olive Garden and got drunk on bread and olive oil. Not wanting to drive home in my condition, we stopped at local Motel 5 where I rented a room under the same "Surf Ari". Suzy lit up a roach she had clipped with a butterfly knife. I coughed out a couple of hits and went in for the kill on her, but she told me she was re-virginized and we could kiss a little bit if I needed to, but she was saving herself for marriage. I ripped a fart of disgust and spent the rest of the night getting spooned by her and watching the Simpsons Movie for the umpteenth time. I don't even laff at Spiderpig anymore. Suck it.

--Bobby Cocks