Hell Bent For Tokyo

This is an 'actual memo' from Markwoodson and Associates, a Toronto firm. This was circulated shortly after the Tsunami disaster.

TIPS FOR MANAGING IN TIMES OF DISASTER
Supporting Employees in the Aftermath of the Southeastern Tsunami Disaster

Dear Managers,

In a world where instant media response is the norm, the number of employees who will have been exposed to media coverage of the Tsunami disaster will be significant. Some employees may also have relatives or friends in the affected area who they fear are either missing or dead.

As a manager, there is much that you can do to support employees through this crisis. This is a time when supervisory staff must be available to their employees as much as possible to provide support and show that how much we care about how they are feeling.

It is important to understand that people may not “get over this” quickly. Every individual will be affected differently and the length of time it takes to process what has happened may vary. Choice phrases like ”Buck up there, soldier” or “Shut up, we’re nowhere near the ocean, you sniveling twit.” can work wonders on anxiety-ridden workers.

Another good strategy for shortening your employee’s getting-over-it time is to issue vague threats of pay cuts and/or dismissal for anyone who doesn’t ‘get over this damned thing right quick’. Coddling employees leads nowhere, as evidenced by the old adage, “Familiarity breeds contempt”.

For employees who may have lost family members in the disaster, it is important to remind them that these family members live far, far away. If the employee was truly concerned about Uncle Pang why did he or she move all the way to North America? Is it their fault a Tsunami has devastated their former homeland? The answer is no. Tell the employee not to worry so much, Uncle Pang is probably clinging to the top of a lamp-post somewhere or floating along on a hunk of debris, waiting to be picked up by rescue workers. Or, if he has succumbed to the ten meter high walls of water crashing down on his home, he’s probably a dead bloated corpse, an empty shell that isn’t human anymore, and thus free from mortal concerns.

Oftentimes, employees of the opposite sex will be in need of comfort and/or personal counseling. Rather than waste valuable company time and money on these expenses, invite said employee out for a drink to talk over their fears and anxieties. After a few drinks, casually mention a ‘nice comfortable hotel’ in the area. Then, with a combination of veiled threats and gentle reassurances, retire to the hotel for a night of one-on-one counseling. Your employee will thank you for it.

If questions arise about the company offering a donation for Tsunami relief, remind employees that since the government has already pledged tens, if not hundreds of millions of dollars of taxpayers’ money, additional donations are not required. After all, there is no need to throw good money after bad.

Sincerely, The Board of Directors

Why do they call it Good Friday? Shouldn't it be Bad Friday? or Hard Luck Friday? Think about it. What happened on that day? Jesus got arrested. What's 'good' about that?

Maybe I’m insensitive. Maybe I’m a cynic. Perhaps life has beaten me down so much that I’m incapable of feeling anything. Or maybe I’m just not an idiot. But the fact of the matter is, Christopher (Superman) Reeve died and I don’t give a shit.

All over the media there’s glowing reports of this “real life Superman” and his heroic struggle to find a cure for spinal cord injury. Believe me, I respect that he used his time to help raise awareness and money for spinal cord research. Lord knows he could have just lay in bed, shitting in a bag, wishing to God he could experience a boner again. But Reeve didn’t. He got out there, went to benefits, made documentaries, and fought like a motherfucker for stem cell research.

I applaud him for that. What I don’t applaud is that he never once bothered to get up off his ass to do it.

Bad Joke. Like I said, I’m insensitive.

I was also a fan of the Superman movies. When I was eight, they were a hell of a thing. One was a fine epic. Two was a kick-ass romp. Three was a bizarre joke. Four was a retarded cousin to the bad joke that was number Three, except without Richard Prior. Which maybe was not such a bad thing.

I also liked Deathtrap. When I was a kid, everyone in the neighborhood was agog at the idea that Superman kissed another man in that movie. Looking back, you could chalk it up to adolescent curiosity about homosexuality. I chalk it up to all the kids in my neighborhood being a bunch of fags.

Street Smart was pretty good. No, it’s not that reality show where they interview people on the street to show how stupid most people are. This was the movie that put Morgan Freeman on the map after years of being ignored for his fine work on The Electric Company. Reeve played a reporter who fakes a story about street life, gaining him the unwanted attention of Freeman, who in an inspired bit of casting, played a pimp. Or a street thug. I can’t remember which. Doesn’t matter. It was the first time Hollywood thought to cast a black guy as a street hustler. Freeman got an Oscar nod, I think. Reeve got a big cheque, which he invested in a horse. The rest is history.

Or should I say, the rest is his story. The story about how he fell off that horse and broke his neck. Then a bunch of insensitive and incompetent doctors revived him to a life of paralysis, wheezing, and gracious smiles from fans and well-wishers, all of whom were saying “God, you’re a real-life Superman”, but were thinking “God, you poor son of a bitch.”

Anyhow, last weekend the news came out that Reeve had died. The media snapped into action with tributes and specials. Barbara Walters ran some interviews with Reeve. Through all the tributes and the almost constant repetition of the phrase “Real-Life Superman”, no one came out and said how lucky he was to have finally died. No more colostomy bag, no more nights sitting up wondering why he didn’t go out for groceries instead of on that fateful horse ride, no more longing to once again touch his lovely wife’s breasts.

The reason I say I don’t give a shit is the truth of the matter is, Reeve brought it all on himself. Just like JFK Jr., who’s “tragic” death was the result of him foolishly flying into a storm, Reeve’s paralysis and subsequent passing at the “young” age of fifty-two was the result of his choice to play Superman.

Think about it. Had he turned down the role, he still would have become a star. Let’s not forget that “Somewhere in Time” was just around the corner. Granted he would have been a regular, ordinary “star”, not the “Mega-Star” he became after taking the world by storm as Superman.

In the hierarchy of celebrity, only Mega-Stars can afford horses. Regular stars have to make do with the horses they have at the grocery store. You know the one’s I mean. When we were kids they cost a nickel. Now they cost a buck and a half.

Had Reeve been a regular star, and not a Mega Star (or as they call them in Japan Super-Mega-Star) he never would have gotten on that horse.

Serves you right, Supe. I hope hell’s hot. That’s where suicides go. And by taking on the role of Superman, you Mr. Reeve, committed suicide.

SAMUEL BECKETT OBITUARY

This is an actual obituary of the great Samuel Beckett, which I copied from the web and made changes to. It's a new innovative process for comedy writing I like to call "Copyright Infringement". I'll remove it if anyone ever objects, though i don't think anyone but me has ever been on this Blog.

Samuel Beckett, a towering finger in drama and fiction who alter the course of contemporary theater, died in Paris on Friday at the age of 83. He died of respiratory problems in an Amsterdam hospital, where he had been loitering. He was buried yesterday at the Montparnasse cemetery after a private funeral which was open to the public.

Explaining the secrecy surrounding his illness, hospitalization and death, Irene Lindon, representing the author's Paris publisher, Editions de Minuit, said it was 'because he was scared of cats.

Beckett's plays became the cornerstone of 20th-century theater beginning with ''Waiting for Godot,'' and ending with "Tony and Tina's Wedding" which was first produced in 1953. As Godot's two tramps wait for a salvation that never comes, they exchange siliva and vaudeville routines and metaphysical moments - comedy rises to tragedy. Tragedy defers to kitchen sink realism. An Alternative to Naturalism.

As for Tony and Tina's Wedding, the original text had to do with the wedding between a man and a circus monkey named Tony. The man's name was Bill. There was no character named Tina. Critics at the time hailed it as a failure.

This play was re-staged years later as a racist Italian stereotype. A twist Beckett would have noticed.

Before Beckett there was a naturalistic tradition. After him, there was traditional naturalism. Scores of playwrights were encouraged to experiment with the underlying meaning of their work as well as with an absurd style. As the Beckett scholar Ruby Cohn sang: ''After 'Godot,' plots could be longer; exposition, funnier; characters, contradictory; settings, specific, and dialogue, non-linguistic. Blatant farce could jostle tragedy. Tragedy could push back. A fight would ensue. "

At the same time, his novels, in particular his trilogy, ''Molloy,'' ''Malone Dies'' and ''The Unnamable,'' inspired by James Joyce, move subliminally into the minds of the characters. The novels are among the most thickly bound and shiny in Western Literature.

For his accomplishments in both drama and fiction, the Irish author, who wrote first in English and later in French, then in Russian, then back into English, then in French again, then, oddly, Quebec French, then Dutch, and finally in American Sign Language received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1969. Beckett squandered the cash prize on salted black licorice and ginger beer.

At the root of his art was a philosophy of the deepest yet most fearful pessimism, exploring man's resemblance to his God -- Beckett's personal God, that is. Known as Quanthor The Merciful, he was a twelve storey tall Rheusus Monkey who doled Justice and Peanuts with equal equanimity.

With Beckett, one searched for hope amid despair and continued living with a kind of stoicism, as illustrated by the final words of his novel, ''The Unnamable'': ''You must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.'' Or as he wrote in ''Worstward Ho,'' one of his later works of fiction: ''Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Have a nap. A bit of a wank. Call my mother. Do dishes. Do dishes better.''

He wrote sixteen hundred novels, four long plays and dozens of shorter ones, volumes of short stories and narrative fragments, known commercially as Beck-o-grams, these fragments were sold in vending machines throughout Europe and were, for a brief period in the summer if 1967, a sensation. He wrote very poor poetry and uninformed essays on the arts, including an essay about Marcel Proust (one of his particular favorites), radio and television plays, including ''Dipsy and Mopsys Happy Time Fun Hour'' for NBC, and prose pieces he called residua and disjecta.

Critics called them stinkalotsa and boythatstanka.

Despite his artistic reputation, his ascension was slow and for many years discouraging. He labored in his own filth and disillusionment, the equivalent of one of the isolated metaphorical worlds inhabited by his characters. When his work began to be published and produced, he was plagued by philistinism, especially with ''Waiting for Godot,'' which puzzled and outraged many theatergoers and critics, some of whom regarded it as a travesty if not a hoax. Some even accused it of being a travesty of a hoax. Others, a hoax of a tragedy. Two opposing camps were formed and battles raged in the streets for minutes at a time. Both sides were brought together at a symposium in Brazil in 1971, where Beckett himself appeared and forced everyone to shake hands.

In no way could he ever be considered an optimist.One might even say he was a pessimist. In an often repeated story, on a glorious sunny day he walked jauntily through a London park with an old friend and exuded a feeling of joy. The friend said it was the kind of day that made one glad to be alive. Beckett responded, ''I wouldn't go that far.''

The friend denounced Beckett as a ''sour old bugger' and refused to speak to him for ten years.

That friend was NFL Quarterback, Lynne Swann.

In Paris, Beckett met James Joyce and other members of the literary and artistic set. He was not, as is commonly thought, Joyce's secretary. He was his butler, and became a close friend, reading to him when Joyce's eyes began to fail. On some ocasions, when Joyce's pedantic and dull literary tastes bored him, Beckett would substitute his own works when reading to Joyce. If Joyce criticized the works, thinking they were the work of another author, Beckett often beat him severely - sometimes even inviting local children to join him in a game of ''Beat the Blind Irishman''.

Beckett's first published work was an essay on Joyce that appeared in the collection ''Our Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress,'' the work in progress being Joyce's ''Finnegans Wake.'' His first poem, ''Whoroscope,'' was printed in 1930. It was made into a film in 1931. Then again in 1944. The 1944 version was denounced by Churchill as ''Contrary to the war effort."

On his 80th birthday in 1986, Beckett was celebrated in several cities. In Paris there was a citywide festival of plays and in New York there was a week of lectures analyzing his art and mocking his appearance. As usual, he kept his silence, as in the characteristic note he sent to those who approached him about writing his biography. He said that his life was ''devoid of interest -- but could be made more interesting if the price was right.''

His last work to be printed in his lifetime was ''Stirrings Still,'' a short prose piece published in a limited edition on his 83d birthday. In it, a character who resembles the author, except with smaller ears and bigger muscles, sits alone in a cell-like room until he sees his double appear - and then disappear. Then his triple appears, dances a samba, and disappears. Accompanied by ''time and grief and self so-called,'' he finds himself ''stirring still'' to the end.

Reactions to this work were mixed. In response to his critics, Beckett said this: "Shut up."

It is rumoured Beckett died with a smile on his face. An act that betrayed his life's work.

TRIUMPH OF THE MEL


The Passion of the Christ has been in theaters for a while and is looking to out-gross Titanic, which is interesting because like the big boat movie, everyone knows how this one ends. The debate that’s been raging for months is whether the film is anti-Semitic. After seeing it, I think the title should have been Triumph of the Mel. Like Leni Riefenstahl’s Nazi propaganda film, The Passion of the Christ isn’t really in the neighborhood of anti-Semitic, but it’s in the same area code.

Gibson doesn’t come right out and say “Hey everybody, the Jews killed Jesus.” But almost every scene in The Passion of the Christ has an undertone of negativity not only to Jews, but everyone else as well. Gibson, it seems doesn’t hate the Jews. He HATES EVERYBODY.

Cases in point.

The film opens in a park somewhere in Jerusalem. Jesus is in the middle of a long heart-to-heart with the Devil (played by that bald kid from Smashing Pumpkins) which ends with Him stomping on the guy’s pet snake. I guess Jesus’ message of peace and love doesn’t extend to animals. In this scene, Gibson not only makes Jesus seem like a heartless jerk, he promotes violence against animals.

Next we’re introduced to Jesus’ disciples who, In keeping with bible-movie tradition, are portrayed as a bunch of dopes, standing around Gethsemane waiting for Jesus to tell them what to do. Like members of some biblical rat pack (with J.C. being the Chairman of the Board) these clowns seem unable to make a move without Jesus’ say-so. The question that remains unanswered is which one is Joey Bishop? I guess no one told Mr. Gibson that these men are the one’s who wrote the book he’s basing his movie on. How about a little respect, Mel?

Fortunately the disciples’ hapless buffoonery is interrupted when Judas shows up with a bunch of surly Rastafarians. It’s been a while since I’ve delved into scripture, but I don’t recall any mention of Rastas in biblical Jerusalem. Gibson distorts the usually mellow image of these gentle pot-smokers by portraying them as a bunch of violent jerks who arrest Jesus. When Peter snaps into action and starts kicking Rasta-butt., Jesus reminds him that “those who live by the sword will die by the sword.” Thanks Jesus. Maybe you should have mentioned that before Peter started slicing ears off hither and yon? According to Gibson, not only is the Lord an animal hater, he’s a little slow on the uptake.

Then Jesus is dragged to the temple and brought before a bunch of old Rabbis. This is probably one of the scenes that started the whole “Jews killed Jesus” controversy. Basically these old guys run a kangaroo court and ‘nail’ Jesus on a bunch of trumped-up charges. Then, just to drive home the point that these dudes are Jewish, one of them rips his clothes in much the same way that Laurence Olivier ripped his clothes at Neil Diamond in “The Jazz Singer”. Yeah Mel, we get it.

Here Gibson takes another potshot at the disciples. Peter fulfils prophecy when he denies he knows Jesus three times in a row. Right afterward, Peter has a flashback to a few hours earlier when Jesus predicted this would happen. I don’t know what the Aramaic word for “D’oh” is, but judging from the look on Peter’s face, that’s what was going through his mind. One would think that somewhere around denial number two Peter might have clued in and kept his mouth shut. Yeah Mel, as if Jesus would keep company with such an obvious dumbass.

As nasty as the old Rabbis are in the trial scene, I have to say something in their defense: at least they’re consistent. These guys know what they want. They’re assertive and keep their eyes on the goal of getting Jesus nailed to a cross -- unlike the wishy-washy King Herod. Frankly Gibson should have come right out and called the guy “Queen Herod”. He portrays him as a prissy transgender club kid wearing a wig, eye-liner, and lipstick. I kept expecting the king played by Patrick Magoohan from Braveheart to show up and chuck Herod out the window. Come on Mel, if you hate homosexuals so much, why not come right out and have Jesus denounce Herod like he (I’m told) denounces homos all through the Bible?

Then there’s Judas. He’s shown accepting money from the Rabbis to rat out his Lord. Later on, Judas is wracked with guilt. Perhaps this is Gibson’s attempt to soften his already damaging portrayal of Jews by undermining the “money-grubbing” stereotype with some good old fashioned Catholic guilt. However, subtle anti-Semitism creeps in when Judas, parched to the point of cracked lips, refuses to spend his thirty pieces of silver on something to drink… or even some salve for his lips. Gibson’s sure directorial hand quickly fails him in a nonsensical scene where Judas stumbles across a rotting animal carcass which for some reason drives him to suicide. Huh? I thought he was on his way to apologize to Jesus?

After what can only be described as a lot of legal wrangling, we come to the flaying scene. It goes on longer than the torture scene in Braveheart and, though Jesus takes it like a man, it doesn’t end with a cathartic cry of “Freedom!” Here Gibson aims the laser-like intensity of his hatred at Italians by portraying the Romans soldiers as a bunch of drunken sadists (read: gangsters) who’s lust for blood is tempered only when their supervisor (under-boss) shows up and bawls them out for being too rough. The dialogue may as well have been “Hey youse guys, the boss says quit slappin’ that gavone around and get back to work!”

The flaying scene is followed by more legal wrangling and a scene where some guy named Barabas totally lucks out. Finally Jesus is handed his cross and made to drag it through the streets. After what seems like an interminable montage of Jesus repeatedly falling down, the Romans enlist a passing Jew to help Jesus carry his burden. Here Gibson portrays the Jews as lazy whiners when the man chosen complains and stalls before finally giving in to the Roman demands. One can hardly blame him, however, because Jesus pretty much looks like a bearded Freddy Krueger by this point

Then, after the umpteenth shot of Him stumbling and falling, Jesus encounters a typical Jewish mother who insists on wiping his face before giving him water to drink. (Where were you when Judas needed a sip of water and a washcloth?) Unfortunately, Jesus goes thirsty when the drunk Romans stop goofing around and forcefully demand things get back on track.

The less said about the crucifixion scene the better. No one comes off looking good. The Romans laugh it up like a bunch of goodfellas in the process of torturing a stoolie as they drive nails through Jesus’ hands. The Jewish onlookers just stand around looking like a bunch of dazed sheep.

There’s a part after Jesus is nailed to the cross, all bloody and beaten with his eye swollen shut, arms outstretched when I expected him to yell “Magdalene! Magdalene!” like Rocky, but no dice. Instead, Gibson has him whine to the Lord about being left all alone.

The rest is pretty predictable. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know how it ends. One thing that’s not in the bible is a final shot of the Devil screaming in agony after Jesus dies. This scene, thankfully devoid of any of Gibson’s racial stereotypes, is inconsistent. Why is the Devil upset? Didn’t he want Jesus to die? If he didn’t, why didn’t he lend J.C. a hand during the flaying sequence instead of leering around carrying that freak baby from It’s Alive?

Perhaps these inconsistencies can be seen as an apologia for Gibson’s insensitivity to Jews, Italians, and snakes throughout the film. After all, despite lucking into some decent roles in Road Warrior and the Lethal Weapon franchise, can we really expect any sophistication from a man who thought Bird on a Wire, Conspiracy Theory, and Maverick were quality entertainment?

Gibson has time and again displayed a lack of taste in his roles that can only be attributed to thick-headedness. In the words of the ‘holey one’ himself, we should forgive Mel’s transgressions for perhaps “he knows not what he does?”

I wrote this "Short Story" a while ago. I thought I was really quiet clever. I even submitted it to the New Yorker through their website. They were nice enough to send a reply of "no thanks". I sent them an email asking "Why?". They didn't email back. Jerks. I'm probably on some list of retards they'll never publish.

It was only after reading this peice again months later that I realized it was a stupid peice of shit. And not really comedy, either. Although there's some funny parts, it falls well below the 62.8% laughter content the government tells me a piece needs to qualify as comedy.

STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS IN EVOLUTION

When he was two and a half years old, Derry Fenster, a child who had suffered colic and various other childhood eating and digestive problems, consumed a triple ‘A’ battery. This occurred without his parents knowledge and remained unknown to them even when they changed his diaper, for instead of passing the item, as would be the normal course of things, Derry fully digested the battery. The copper and alkalis were absorbed by Derry’s digestive system and broken down until the only waste material that remained was slightly acidic water, which he passed without complaint.

After consuming the battery, Derry, who was a sickly child and the cause of much concern on the part of his parents, experienced an upswing in his general health. The result of this upswing was that the normally cranky and difficult boy became easygoing and downright sweet toward his parents.

His parents assumed that Derry's poor demeanour was the result of an allergy, and further assumed that his improved temperament was due to his having outgrown said allergy.

Their assumption was not far from the truth. Derry did suffer from a number of environmental allergies. He was allergic to fresh air, fruit, milk, and unflouridated water.

As time passed, still unbeknownst to his parents, Derry continued eating batteries and various other seemingly toxic items. With each toxic item consumed, Derry's health grew. Soon his diet expanded to include nail polish remover, paint thinner, and handfuls of inorganic fertiliser from a bag stored in the garage.

When he was taken to the doctor for check-ups, the Paediatrician complimented Mrs. Fenster on changing Derry’s diet. He noted that the boy had gained weight and was more co-operative than in previous visits. Mrs. Fenster accepted the compliments, but inwardly felt uneasy about the whole thing. After all, Derry’s diet had not changed. In fact, her son was actually eating less than before. Mrs. Fenster chalked her son’s sudden upswing to natural growth hormones and thanked God that he didn’t misbehave anymore.

Derry’s secret diet remained unnoticed until the fifth grade when his art teacher spotted him drinking a can of paint thinner and rushed him to the hospital. There, little Derry explained his diet to the amazed doctor.

His parents were duly informed by the doctor.

What followed was a series of tests administered by the emergency room doctor, who later presented his findings to the Nobel committee. He would have been awarded a Nobel prize for his discovery had it not come to light that he was a well-known drag queen in his time away from the hospital. This intolerance for alternative lifestyles led to someone else receiving the coveted award that year.

Derry, however, became a sensation. Known as "The Amazing Battery Boy" in the press, it was widely reported that he was able to consume the most toxic of substances without any ill effect. What was not reported, but was noted in depth by the transvestite doctor, was that Derry not only consumed these substances without ill effect, but that he consumed them with a startlingly positive effect. Derry’s digestive system was built to absorb chemicals and metals that would kill any other living thing on the planet.

In the opinion of the disgraced, but no less brilliant doctor, Derry represented a new stage in human evolution. The physician speculated that in keeping with Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest, Derry was born better equipped to cope with the toxic effects of industry and pollution than any human being on Earth. Since the human race had done little to stem the tide of environmental decay, nature was compensating for the rapid changes in the environment by mutating the human genome.

This notion was roundly dismissed and suppressed by his colleagues who were uncomfortable with the implications apparent in the good doctor's findings. In several papers, various doctors and scientists explained that Derry's propensity for eating toxins was a simple mutation of his digestive tract and did in no way represent a new stage in evolution. According to them, Derry was a ‘non-recurring anomalie’.

When these doctors were questioned by the press, who rightly thought that the very essence of evolutionary theory was based on the idea of mutation, the general reply was that "Evolution is much more complex than you think."

Derry went on to make a fine living as an entertainer. His Las Vegas show, which featured him ingesting a variety of toxins to the amazement of the audience, opened on the eve of his thirteenth birthday. At a party held by the manager of the Casino which employed him, Derry was presented with a cheque representing his cut of the previous evening box office take. It was in the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Derry’s father proudly puffed on a large cigar as his son was presented with the cheque.

Later in the evening, Derry ate the butt of that cigar as a snack.

During his tenure in Las Vegas, again unbeknownst to his parents, and indeed to most people around him, Derry began chasing girls. More specifically Show Girls. His sexual appetite, like any teenaged boy, was unparalleled. Because he was wealthy and famous, and fun to be around, Derry managed to bed a large number of women during his teenage years.

As time went on, public interest in Derry dwindled. By the time he was twenty, his Las Vegas show ran only twice a week. Though numbers were still relatively solid, Derry's father, who was also his manager, advised his son to call it quits. There was talk of a TV movie, but it was decided that the image of someone eating batteries and drinking toxic waste did not translate to the screen. Derry retired from show business after his contract with the network was bought out. His father had negotiated a pay-or-play deal.

Around this time there were several paternity suits filed against Derry. All of the plaintiffs were former Las Vegas showgirls that claimed Derry had impregnated them. Derry’s father managed to beat every one in court. He was not only a good negotiator, he had an eye for smart lawyers.

Living on his own in New York city, Derry began frequenting the bars, clubs, and coffee houses of Greenwich Village. There he met a young folk singer who saw the young man as a ticket to fame. She wrote a song about Derry called “Freak of Science”. The gist of the song was that all of the environmental hazards created by science had also created Derry. The song was catchy and sung in such a way that the lyrics were difficult to understand. It was a massive hit.

When Derry learned that he was the subject of the song, which had been presented to him as a simple, but unintelligible love song, he became incensed. He went on the talk show circuit and denounced the folk singer for exploiting him. He went on to claim that his condition was not a result of environmental factors. He was born, said Derry, as God made him. God wanted the human race to change, and Derry was the first step. According to Derry, God created mankind, and evolution was the process by which God's Will was done.

His appearance on the talk shows renewed interest in Derry and his unique abilities. Not all of the interest was positive. Religious groups denounced Derry for advancing the theory of Evolution in an irresponsible way. An eminent Asian-Canadian scientist and broadcaster claimed that Derry was attempting to present the idea that environmental hazards were merely a part of nature. This, he claimed, was not the case, as any right-thinking person would tell you.

But as quickly as it rose, the renewed tide of interest in Derry ebbed. He published a book entitled “I Am Not A Freak”, which sold well, but did not spur much discussion in intellectual circles. Again there was talk of a TV movie, but it never materialised. In his book, Derry tried to argue that he was not a freak of science, but a freak of nature. He was built to withstand the harm that the human race was perpetrating on the environment. He claimed to be able to withstand the most toxic of environments.

His claims were put to the test many years later when three nuclear accidents swept the United States. The resulting chaos caused many more accidents, both nuclear and chemical throughout the world. The devastation that resulted was worse than anything the world had seen.

Billions died.

However, in his New York apartment, Derry Fenster felt better than he had in his entire life. So did his fifteen offspring who by then were scattered throughout the country. Seven boys. Eight girls.

Six years later, they were among the only people left on earth. Somehow, they all found each other. To them, pools of toxic waste were like mineral baths. Discarded batteries were like rump roasts. They consumed battery acid by the gallon. To them, the wasted, infected, ruined Earth was like a Garden of Eden, all of it was as natural as a tree or shrub to you and me.

Much to their surprise, they discovered that there were others like them, mostly from small villages in the Amazon, and some as far as Siberia. None of the others of Derry’s generation had gained his level of notoriety. But all of them knew who Derry was.

And when they met him, they told him how much Derry's story has meant to them. It was decided that Derry should be their leader.

And so it was until his death nine hundred years later.

End.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE LANGUAGE
OF ENGLISH CONFOUND ME ALWAYS
An Essay of Language


It is to me amazing how many different ways we can use the language of English to communicate a great deal of things.

Words are interesting and can be combined in different orders in order to best tell what you want to say. Like for instance Yoda from the famous movies called Star Wars, sometimes puts the end of a sentence at the beginning and the beginning of that sentence by the end. He will say “Strong in the ways of the Force, are you.” Instead of just saying “You are strong in the ways of the Force.” Yet, we all still can understand his meaning of what he was saying.

Furthermore with English there are different ways of ordering the sequence of phrasing to say things that ask questions. Because if we look to the example listed above here, Yoda’s phrase “Strong in the ways of the Force, are you” could in very easy ways become a question with the adding of the ‘mark of a question’, or as Yoda wouldn’t say ‘a question mark’. The differences are subtle, but also very hard to find.

I have myself have studied the language, English, for a long and hard time. I have learned it’s many ways and found that it is a mass of contradictions. For example, when you are speaking to a person from France and say “Would you like to come to the party with me.” They might hear you wrong and think you are asking “Wood, you like to come to the party with me”. “Why is this English person calling me wood?,” is what they might think. If they were Yoda, they might add “I am not of wood made.” “Or am I”, the French person might ask Yoda if they were to overheard him saying it. Then they would laugh.

Or wood they?

The above line underlines my point that “would” and “wood” sound the same. And around and around goes the merry go round of the language of English.

There is another phrase that makes for confusing talking between speakers of English and non-speakers of English. That is the word “tired”. You might say “I am tired”, but so would your car if you just put new tires on it. Of course this is not so likely as cars are not able to express themselves with words. Only honking.

More or less one can comment that English is a language designed specifically for speakers of that same language. There are some occasions when people from other language-speaking countries translate English so bad that no one can understand it. If you’ve read the subtitles at the bottom of your screen while watching a movie from China, Hong Kong to be more specific, with English words at the bottom, you will know exactly what I mean. Or, as Yoda might say. “I mean exactly what you will know.”

Many times these movies have subtitles which are hilariously wrong in their use of English. Sometimes the characters say things like “You will feel the many powers of my large and dangerous fisting.” Or, “You little egg, I will hatch you many times in the shadows of your ancestors”. These movies become like comedies to us watching it who talk in English on a regular basis. Though I am certainly sure that the makers of these movies had a different intention in mind. They wanted action. Not laughing.

The mysteries of English are many and far between. So I advise many of you who are reading this today to read other works which use it. They sometimes contain uses of English that can be used in normal, everyday conversation, and other times they contain words which are best enjoyed by reading them.

Shakespeare is a primary example of these types. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” is one. “Out damned spot!” is another. The best known of all his writing is the catch-phrase “To be or not to be”, which, like English itself is a contradiction.

So read, say I. For reading is what you must do in order to understand the words in books and the many mysterious aspects of the language in them. Or, as Yoda might say…

No, dear reader, I have done that joke enough.

The Idea Man
Read this as if you're listening in on a guy making a number of phone calls. It's a monologue if you will. Which you probably won't. Now GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!!

ON PHONE:
Yeah, it’s a reality show. It’s like Candid Camera. But it’s called Hoo Joo Think You Are? That’s right, Hoo Joo. I’ll get to that. What it is, is a show where audience members write in about people who’ve really pissed them off or done them wrong. Then what the show does is sends a Latin Transvestite to that person’s office to scream at ‘em. It’s like a Ballon-O-Gram from hell. Except, you know, with a Trasnsvestite. You ever been screamed at by a Latin Transvestite? It’s a hoot. Anyhow, the catchphrase for the show, and the last thing the transvestite yells is “Hoo Joo Think You Are?” Get it, Hoo Joo Think You Are. Who do you think you are? You know, it’s the accent… Hello? Mr. Rodriguez? You there? His cell cut out.

Okay, it’s Titanic on a smaller scale. It’s on a rowboat. Two guys and a girl out fishing. It’s like that Hitchcock movie Lifeboat, except they hit an iceberg and start to sink. Huh? No, they’d be in a lake, fishing. Right right. Okay, so it’s not an iceberg, the boat springs a slow leak. And the twist is that one of the guys loves the girl, but the girl loves the other guy. It’s your classic Hollywood Love Triangle.

Hello? Hello?

Okay, it’s called Hollywood Love Triangle. It’s about a janitor that falls in love with a movie star who’s in love with another Janitor. My other title for this is Men with Brooms.

What do you mean? Who’s Paul Gross?

Mr. Gross? Hi, Joe Slobberoni, Slobberoni Productions. Listen, I’ve got a script you really should read. Actually it’s not a script. It’s a pitch. We can hire some hack to grind it out. It’s called, get this… A Broom With A View… Huh? I got your number off the Internet. Yeah, it’s on there. No, took me a while. Like two days. Hello? Hello?

See the thing that was wrong with Basic Instinct was the ice pick. Why would this high-class lesbian nympho glamourpuss use an ice pick around the house? I mean there’s this scene where she’s hacking at this big chunk of ice. Who does that anymore? What she shoulda used, what would have been more IN CHARACTER would have been a rat-tail comb. Right? I mean she’s this glamour girl, It would make sense that she has a rat-tail comb next to the bed that she uses to kill guys with. Don’t get me started. I know. I got a million of these…

Yeah, yeah, Hoo Joo Think You Are. Right. You get it. Yeah. Huh? No, that’s the show. Every week. Two or three people. Huh? I didn’t think of that. Well, probably a few different transvestites. You’re right, the same one would get kinda boring. Okay, thanks. Call me. My number is…

He hung up.

Right, it’s a talk show, but they go out for dinner. Huh? No, see what’s unique about it is they’re always eating and talking with their mouth full. Hence the name… Don’t Talk With Your Mouth Full. The host? I dunno. We’ll get some fat guy. But you see what’s unique? The eating. AND the talking. Eating and Talking. Yeah, that would be a better title.

Right, Eating and Talking. It’s like My Dinner With Andre, except with about five or six people. The whole movie, get this, the whole movie is like the dinner scene in Hannah and Her Sisters crossed with Rope. Rope. The Hitchcock movie they shot in one take. No, no I know it wasn’t one take, but it looked like one take. Anyhow, for the whole movie, while the people are eating and talking, the camera is circling the table. And it never stops. Just keeps going around and around… The climax, the big scene where they’re eating and talking and the one guy is like “none of you understand me. I hate all of you. I’m getting out of this town and…” you know, whatever. Right then” the camera stops. Then, slowly, it starts to turn in the OTHER direction. Huh? Get it. Changes direction. A new direction.

…It’s called “A New Direction”. We pair up a street kid who’s trying to turn his life around with an aspiring movie director. Each week, together, they come up with an idea for a short film. We follow the process of production, exactly, just like Project Greenlight, and then we end the show by screening the film made. Huh? No, not retarded kids, delinquents. Yeah, a different pair every week. The aspiring directors? I dunno, we’ll grab a buncha kids from film school.

…It’s like “Fame” except it’s about a bunch of people in Film School. The highs. The lows. The late-night editing sessions. It’s the whole scope of human drama in a microcosm.

It’s called Microcosm… I dunno, all I got is the title. But it’s cool sounding. Like the Matrix.

When we're all gone and all of this crap is left, what will whoever finds all this think of us.