I like it.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Barrel of a Barrel
Listening to mediocre alt rock today, and I'm wondering: does every shitty WeWishWeWereFallOutBoy (WWWWFAIL for short) band HAVE to make a "barrel of a gun" metaphor in one of their songs? Is it a requirement? Is there an Overused Symbolism Gestapo that keeps these bands from making original comparisons? I'd at least like to hear that they're at the end of some kind of original projectile weapon- a crossbow, a harpoon, a missile launcher maybe? If your life is the barrel of a missile launcher, I'm going to take you a lot more seriously. This is why we don't let bassist write songs, guys.
Final question: Is there ANYTHING cooler than a harpoon?
Final question: Is there ANYTHING cooler than a harpoon?
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday Is Grilled Cheese Day, Part I
Sorry about the not-posts this past month. Honestly, I just haven't written anything funny. And no one should be subjected to unfunny screaming. That's called congress. Anyway, the following is part I of a short story I'm going to serialize on this blog, Dickens-style. Hopefully there will be more original posts more frequently. Sorry again guys, and enjoy:
TUESDAY IS GRILLED CHEESE DAY
The battleaxe cleaved deep into the velociraptor’s skull. Screeching, the creature fell heavily and skidded on its side, careening into a giant pine tree and snapping it in two. The Viking bellowed a thunderous victory cry an instant before another raptor tore by, deftly sinking its multitude of fangs through the Viking’s outstretched arm. He howled and flailed his axe wildly. In vain. Four more raptors quickly descended upon him, hissing and gnashing their jaws. Just before losing consciousness, the Viking heard the terrible moaning begin to rise up from the quickly fading forest…
“Mom, where’s the tomato soup?”
“We don’t have any, dear.”
“GODDAMNIT WHY THE HELL NOT.”
This is not the quickly fading forest from the earlier flashback. This is a suburban, middle-class kitchen with no characteristics worth mentioning. A teenage boy with hair he should cut and pants he should wash sifts through an anonymous pantry cabinet, fruitlessly seeking soup. He slams the nondescript door and runs his fingers over his weekend-old five o’clock shadow. His hair is black, like his mood.
“Because I didn’t buy any, dear.”
“Lady. You can’t have grilled cheese without tomato soup. And I want grilled cheese.”
“You could always eat something else, dear.”
“Like what?”
“Pasta, dear.”
No. No no no. Don’t try and talk me out of this! I know what you’re up to woman! I want some damn grilled cheese. And to have grilled cheese, I need tomato soup. WHICH WE DO NOT HAVE. I’m going to Pause and Shop. Love you, mother!”
This is Travis. Travis has very strong opinions about grilled cheese. And a white t-shirt. And a green sedan made in 1986, which he is driving down Shmayhern Boulevard in order to reach Pause and Shop. Travis leaves his house in a rush, so he doesn’t hear his mother’s warning:
“Bye, dear! Good luck on your quest, try not to encounter any extended metaphors or underlying themes of self-discovery!”
But it is too late.
“All the single ladies! All the single ladies. All the single ladies!” This is Travis’ jam. He is rocking out in his car. In fact, he is so distracted by his favorite song that he misses a few turns on the way to Pause and Shop. But it is such a good song. It is not until the hood of his sedan becomes intimate with a giant pine tree does Travis realize that his day just took a cataclysmically sharp turn for the worse.
TUESDAY IS GRILLED CHEESE DAY
The battleaxe cleaved deep into the velociraptor’s skull. Screeching, the creature fell heavily and skidded on its side, careening into a giant pine tree and snapping it in two. The Viking bellowed a thunderous victory cry an instant before another raptor tore by, deftly sinking its multitude of fangs through the Viking’s outstretched arm. He howled and flailed his axe wildly. In vain. Four more raptors quickly descended upon him, hissing and gnashing their jaws. Just before losing consciousness, the Viking heard the terrible moaning begin to rise up from the quickly fading forest…
“Mom, where’s the tomato soup?”
“We don’t have any, dear.”
“GODDAMNIT WHY THE HELL NOT.”
This is not the quickly fading forest from the earlier flashback. This is a suburban, middle-class kitchen with no characteristics worth mentioning. A teenage boy with hair he should cut and pants he should wash sifts through an anonymous pantry cabinet, fruitlessly seeking soup. He slams the nondescript door and runs his fingers over his weekend-old five o’clock shadow. His hair is black, like his mood.
“Because I didn’t buy any, dear.”
“Lady. You can’t have grilled cheese without tomato soup. And I want grilled cheese.”
“You could always eat something else, dear.”
“Like what?”
“Pasta, dear.”
No. No no no. Don’t try and talk me out of this! I know what you’re up to woman! I want some damn grilled cheese. And to have grilled cheese, I need tomato soup. WHICH WE DO NOT HAVE. I’m going to Pause and Shop. Love you, mother!”
This is Travis. Travis has very strong opinions about grilled cheese. And a white t-shirt. And a green sedan made in 1986, which he is driving down Shmayhern Boulevard in order to reach Pause and Shop. Travis leaves his house in a rush, so he doesn’t hear his mother’s warning:
“Bye, dear! Good luck on your quest, try not to encounter any extended metaphors or underlying themes of self-discovery!”
But it is too late.
“All the single ladies! All the single ladies. All the single ladies!” This is Travis’ jam. He is rocking out in his car. In fact, he is so distracted by his favorite song that he misses a few turns on the way to Pause and Shop. But it is such a good song. It is not until the hood of his sedan becomes intimate with a giant pine tree does Travis realize that his day just took a cataclysmically sharp turn for the worse.
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