Jeremy Feist writes stuff

(I enrolled in the Writing Course at The Second City Training Centre here in Toronto. I like to think that I’m a decent writer, but I also like to think that I’m a shameless nitpicker. The idea of fine-tuning my writing and building contacts with other stage and screen writers just sounds like a good one to me.

Tonight, Paul Bellini subbed in for our actual teacher, and he had us do a 20-minute writer’s sprint. Basically, we write non-stop for twenty minutes. It doesn’t matter what you write, you just sit down and fucking write. I figured I might as well put it here. This is what happens when someone puts the figurative gun to my head and tells me to be funny. I like to think that I’m a decent writer, but I’m sure the internet will tell me otherwise.)

Well shit.

This is awkward.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck so maybe if I just keep writing I’ll remember something interesting that happened today. Any minute now. Any. Minute. Now. Nope, still nothing. Jesus Fuck, this is way more difficult than I thought.

All right, fuck it. I’m gonna look around the room and hopefully the first thing I see will squeeze something out of me. There’s a … I’m gonna call it a photograph, but I know there’s a proper term for this. There’s a photograph to my right of a woman in monochromatic who’s giving herself bunny ears. At least I think they’re bunny ears. Maybe they’re an antenna. Anyway, bunny ears.

I had a pet rabbit once. My boyfriend has never had a pet rabbit. He grew up on a rabbit farm where they would take the fattest, juiciest rabbit and snap the poor little fucker’s neck and then serve it in a pie. So that’s one way we differ. Apparently, they’re very good but a part of me feels like that would be like serving cat roast.

Actually, on the subject of pies: Never been a fan. I don’t know why, but I just don’t like pie. I used to write for a website with a woman who didn’t like pies either, but then it turned out she was pulling some kind of weird Catfish thing and then she randomly disappeared into the ether of the internet, never to be seen again.

I am not a catfish.

I mean, I’ve lied on the internet. Sometimes I’ll say I’m 5’10 when I’m really 5’8. 5’8 and a half really. For some reason, whenever I measure myself it goes back and forth between 5’8 and 5’9. I remember reading an interview with Matthew McConaughey where he talked about having a bathrobe with his exact height (5’11.5) embroidered on it. No, I’m not sure why either. If I had to guess, it’s probably because he’s dim and he needs to be reminded of how tall he is on a daily basis.

Actually, on the subject of Matthew McConaughey, did anyone else see Magic Mike? Not nearly enough penis. And I mean really, how do you get Mike Manganiello (sp?) in a role where his name is Big Dick Richie and then not show his penis? The prosthetic they used doesn’t count. Neither does the one Mark Wahlberg used. Oh who am I kidding, I’d probably do him. I mean, he seems like the type who’d be super clingy and would end up having some sort of religious-based breakdown after sex, but he also has three nipples.

I wish I had three nipples.

Can you pierce a third nipple? No, right? I mean, I’ve seen guys pierce their back even though there really isn’t anything to pierce there but HOLY SHIT I JUST REMEMBERED A REALLY COOL STORY I’LL GET BACK TO THE PIERCING THING IN A BIT. (Edit: No I don’t. - JF)

So a couple years ago at the Northbound Leather fashion show, they decided to cap it off with something super sick and twisted. Why? Because it’s cool to watch. Anyway, that year they decided to crucify a guy live on stage. Back then, I thought they were just going to mime it, but no. They did it for real and my dumb ass watched the whole thing because I wasn’t smart enough to stop looking. I remember they laid the bottom down on the cross as the top readied the spike.

“Wow, this is really realistic,” I thought.

The top raised the hammer all the way up.

“How theatrical!” I thought.

The top swung the hammer down. All I could think of in the split second between when the hammer came down and the nail was driven through the bottom’s hand and into the cross was, “Oh. So this is real then.”

The nail went clean through the guy’s palm. And this wasn’t a small little pin either. This thing was roughly as thick as your middle finger. I remember the entire crowd being weirdly cool about the whole thing while I started hyperventilating.

For the record, the bottom was totally okay afterwards. It turns out it’s something he does pretty regularly, which is weird because that’s gotta fuck with your hand mobility, right? Or maybe it doesn’t, who knows? When that dude was up there on the cross, he was totally cool with it. Conversely, I will rundown every variation on the word “fuck” if I get a paper cut. I feel like a total wuss in that comparison, but that dude drives nails into his hands for shits and giggles. That’s hardcore.

Speaking of sore hands, I’ve been writing for over ten minutes now. This can’t be great for my wrists.

I’m gonna come up with a list of drag names I would use if I ever did drag. Which I can’t, because Paul won’t let me. (Edit: Not Paul Bellini. Paul my boyfriend. They are different Pauls. - JF)

Minah Savage.

Sandy Vajayjay

Helena BonBon Cartier

DeeMo’Nique

Miss Anthropy

I’m suddenly aware of the fact that all my hypothetical drag names make me sound like a complete bitch.

I guess I am a bitch, but I’m not a mean bitch, right?

Yesterday, I made a fat-joke on Twitter and a good follow of mine, @IAmUhura (whom you should follow, because that bitch is funny and hell and whipsmart) called me out on it, saying that the joke was offensive and crossed a line. So I apologized for it, and then we had a discussion about our intentions, thoughts and opinions until we came to a mutually agreeable conclusion: She agreed that I probably didn’t mean to be intentionally offensive, and I agreed that a line was passed and that I should think more carefully about certain things. In short, we had an actual debate on something and we both ended up on common ground. We both walked away feeling good about ourselves.

This is not the rule of the internet; this is once-in-a-lifetime exception. The internet is not a place where you go to exchange ideas with people of differing opinions until you both better understand each other. It’s where you go to scream into an endless pit filled with other people’s screaming. 

A couple days ago, The Good Men Project read a little personal blog I wrote a year ago and liked it enough that they asked me if they could reprint. After I gave them the go-ahead, XO Jane saw it and liked it enough to republish it on their site too, so I gave them the okay as well. It was an article I had written about my boyfriend’s cat after I had lived with it for two years, and I had called it “Cats are Bitchy and Fartish and I Hate Them.” Yes, I used the word “fartish” in a title. That right there should have clued you in that it was a jokey cats vs. dogs article. Believe me, I know it’s nothing new or profound, but you have to remember, I wrote it for myself, and when it was reprinted on GMP and XO Jane, I gave it to them for free. That’s right: They found it and wanted to run it, and I got paid $0.00 for it because, once again, it’s just fucking cat jokes. Why would anyone get paid money for cat jokes?

So that was that, right? The internet would welcome in more cat-based humour and someone would hopefully chuckle about it over coffee and nothing else would happen. Yeah, about that… Remember my description of the internet as a bottomless pit of screaming? People got pissed and accused me of promoting animal cruelty, because I made jokes about owning a cat. Sort of like how parents who make jokes about parenting are promoting child abuse. Why no one has ever called the cops on the producers of Married … With Children is a mystery.

The smartest thing I did in all of this was to completely avoid reading the comments. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about writing for the internet after four years, it’s that an article can get 1,000 views, and the one comment left for it will be from someone who hated everything about it. Unfortunately, that didn’t block out Twitter, where an animal rights advocate decided to tell me how my cat jokes are the reason why everything bad ever happens to cats.

Say hello to someone I will call… Adrian. Adrian works, right? I’m by no means a fan of this person, but I also don’t want to publicly shame someone in a public forum wherein they can’t defend themselves, so I’m going to hide her name. Although if I may interject: You may notice her picture is her riding a horse. How many horses do you think die every year from equestrianism as opposed to how many cats die every year from internet jokes?

“Adrian’s” problem with me was that I was making jokes about my two months of owning a cat, and since some cats are abused, I shouldn’t make jokes about them. Granted, if you refused to make jokes about anyone because something bad once happened to them, you’d be left with no one. Well, that’s the gist of it anyway. I had to read between the lines extra hard, since the lines were about how making cat jokes were on par with making homophobic or HIV/AIDS jokes.

But regardless, I decided the best course of action was to lay my cards on the table, try and clarify my intentions, and start off fresh. This is her response:

So that was eloquent and fair. I tried to reach a middle ground and her reaction was “WATCH ME ACT LIKE A SARCASTIC ASSHOLE!” But reflecting that back at her wasn’t going to solve nothing. So I tried again to apologize for a cat joke and try to make amends. And then I ran into a wall of stupid:

Gee, the LGBT community has been treated poorly? Thanks for informing me, heterosexual rich white lady! I never would have known that! I tried, I really did, but it’s hard to debate someone when they’re actively refusing to say not crazy things.

Look, regardless of what you think, if you’re offended by something and you want to talk about it, most writers and comedians are fully willing to sit down and discuss things rationally. That being said, we care about your feelings only to a reasonable degree; If you’re going to try and angrily shame someone until they adopt your viewpoint, instead of honestly and rationally discussing your opinion while taking into consideration their side, you’re going to get tuned out. It’s the difference between saying please and thank you, and falling to the floor and screaming until you get your way. No one is going to validate or enable your petulant, illogical rage just because you want them too. We’re not your parents, okay? We’re not the reason you are socially ruined as a person.

It’s great that you want to prevent animal abuse, it really is. Animals should be treated humanely and encouraging that is great. WhatI disagree with is how she expressed these points. Fact is, 99.99 times out of 100, screaming, irrational, directionless outrage is a front for having absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. If you honestly think that civil rights for cats is the same as gay civil rights, or that joking about something on the internet is the same thing as advocating its abuse, I’m kinda wont to believe you have no idea what you’re talking about and that you’re getting outraged for the sake of being outraged.

The honest to God truth is that many of the people we vilify aren’t bad people. Yes, there are plenty of actual terrible people out there: people who oppress others for political gain, people who think women get raped because “they deserve it,” Chris Brown… The list is endless. I don’t think Adrian is a bad person, so much as hopelessly misguided and in desperate need of some sense of validation of her opinion. The average person is a good person, but we also want to feel the need that we’re doing good, that we’re always right, and that we’re actively fighting bad people. But there are, in actuality, far fewer bad people out there then there are good people. The internet is full of warriors and crusaders in desperate need of demonized opponents.

So we project villains, monsters and nebulous motives onto average people and go after them. We gather into echo chambers and separate ourselves from anyone of dissenting opinion because we can never allow ourselves to be wrong. And if anyone doesn’t have the same opinions at us, it’s socially acceptable to publicly shame them because fuck that guy, you’re right and they’re wrong. You are always right, so no one else is allowed to be right too.

But that’s not all bad, right? Being personally invested in an issue makes you passionate, and even if you don’t actually do anything, you’re still raising awareness and making other people passionate, right?

No.

Being aware of something and actually doing something are not the same thing. It’s like saying you ran a marathon because you made it to the starting line. Passion without action is basically just an unearned sense of self-satisfaction. And like it or not, you’re not always right and you don’t always know best. Raising awareness for things that don’t matter — like cat jokes on the internet. — raises zero actual awareness. In fact, it raises less than zero awareness. If anything, it pulls focus from things that actually matter so that you can redirect it your own personal vendetta. You’re actively pulling focus away from real issues because it’s easier for you to be offended and angered by everything than it is for you to think about one thing. I know the common saying is “if you’re not offended, you’re not paying attention,” but believe me, it’s entirely possible to do both.

Once again, I don’t think Adrian is a bad person, and I don’t necessarily disagree with her: Animal abuse is bad. I just think that blaming cat jokes for cat abuse is fucking stupid, and her total refusal to take into consideration anyone else’s opinion other than her own doesn’t help her cause. Offence without open-mindedness or an intent to find a common resolution isn’t social change: it’s misplaced, impotent rage. Like screaming into a bottomless pit filled with screams.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering how the cat feels about all this: Well, since I wrote the article a year ago, she’s still evil, but we have reached a mutual respect and affection for each other.

Yeah, look how much we hate each other.

(Note: I’ve been sitting on this one for a while, so my apologies if it seems dated by now, but I really needed to float this theory out there.)

You guys saw that episode of American Horror Story by now, right? The one where Jessica Lange just starts randomly singing The Name Game for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and it absolutely shouldn’t ever work but somehow it does? Well, that got me thinking… The way they launched into that musical number is the exact same way they break into song on Glee. And since both shows are produced by Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, there’s only one possible explanation here:

Glee takes place entirely within the mind of an insane asylum patient.

Here’s how the theory breaks down:

#1: The entire Glee universe takes place within Will Shuester’s mind.

Right off the bat, we need to figure out within whose tortured psyche Glee exists. To answer this question, ask yourself: Where does all of the crazy and neuroses in Glee stem from? Who runs the show? Will Shuester. Out of everyone there, Will’s clearly the most separated from the bounds of the lawful good, and at best, resides squarely in the realm of chaotic neutral.

Furthermore, Will is a hopelessly incompetent educator, and by now, should have lost his job. Except he hasn’t. So we have to accept the fact that McKinley High School neither exists nor operates in reality. Which brings me to my next point:

#2: McKinley High School is actually The McKinley Insane Asylum

If we’re to assume McKinley exists entirely within Shue’s mind, we also have to assume that his fantasy world is made up of the disassembled and reassembled pieces of Shue’s reality. McKinley isn’t a high school, but rather, the name of the insane asylum Will has been committed to. Don’t believe me? Look at Shue’s past relationships.

Every woman Shue has dated or has expressed an interest in is, in fact, crazy. Terri pretended to be pregnant, April is an alcoholic kleptomaniac, Holly is incapable of accepting personal responsibility or committing to anything serious, and Emma has a pathological fixation with cleanliness manifested as severe OCD. Shue is drawn to these women because, comparatively speaking, they make him look sane, and because they all live in the sane asylum as him. But where do the kids fit into all of this?

#3: Shue actually murdered his students, and the manifestation of them in high school represents his unfulfilled dreams.

We’ve already mashed together two shows, but here comes a third: we’re going to borrow some of the continuity from Community.

In Regional Holiday Music, a nearly identical replication of Shue tricks the study group into joining his Glee club. At the end of the episode, it’s revealed that he actually murdered his previous Glee club in a bus crash and made it look like an incident. Granted, that’s from another show, so that can’t fit into this universe, can it?

It can. Think about it: The show takes place in high school, yet everyone looks like they’re in their twenties. This would encourage the theory that Shue’s students were in Community college when Shue murdered them, and it would provide a reason as to why Shue was committed in the first place. It also provides the basis for Shue’s delusion: He peaked in high school, so his fantasy takes place entirely within his old haunting grounds. Not only that, but it would also explain why the kids unanimously rally around Shue, despite his incompetence.

As for the students, have you noticed how the rest of the students all but disappear once they’re out of McKinley? And their replacements look and act remarkably similar to the departed counterparts? That’s because the students have to leave to keep Shue’s reality from coming apart, so Shue’s mind accomodates this by replacing them with doppelgangers. Marley looks and acts and sounds exactly like Rachel, Unique is Mercedes, yadda yadda yadda. This would also explain why the completely original new characters get zero lines: They’re place-fillers created by Shue’s mind to get the required 12 members.

Except there’s one loophole in this theory. Rachel and Kurt’s storyline in New York City. So how to rectify this? Well…

#4: The New York storyline represents what Shue wishes his life had been.

Did you notice how Rachel moves to New York City and immediately gets everything she wants without actually holding down a job? And the fact that Kurt Hummel moved up through the ranks of Vogue almost overnight before getting into his own dream school? That has to be impossible. And it is. That’s because this is exactly how Shue wanted his life to be. However, when it didn’t, he ended up becoming the Glee coach at Greendale Community College. Eventually, the disappointment leads to his breakdown, he kills the kids… And we’re back to square one again.

But here comes another wrench: Shue recently left behind everything to work in Washington for a brief spell, leaving behind Finn to take the reigns. What does that represent?

#5: Finn represents Shue’s desire to redo his life, and his acknowledgement that he is doomed to failure.

Out of all the students in Shue’s classes, Finn has always been the one closest to him. He also looks and acts like Shue, and serves as Shue’s replacement when he takes a leave of absence. So what does that mean?

Finn is meant to be Shue’s way of trying to retcon his past. It’s Shue’s second shot at actually making something of his life. However, the moment that Shue steps out and Finn takes over, the Glee club goes to shit, they lose sectionals, and the club is disbanded for the rest of the year. This is meant to serve as Shue’s own self-awareness that it’s simply not meant to be. Finn, and Shue, are resigned to failure.

To close off this fan theory, here are a few other points that would kinda lend credence to all this stupid bullshit I came up with:

• When we first meet Blaine, he’s a year older than Kurt. When he transfers to McKinley a year later, he’s suddenly a year younger than Kurt. Either Blaine pulled some Benjamin Buttons shit, or reality broke a little.
• Remember that time the Glee club built a million-dollar irrigation system in their auditorium to sing Rihanna’s Umbrella, and then never used it again or even mentioned it? Actually, seriously, what the fuck was up with that? That was weird.
• That guy in all black who plays the piano? The angel of death. Possibly. Actually, I’m not sure what he is, but he is clearly not of this realm.
• Speaking of things not of this realm, I realize I’ve been neglecting to mention Sue Sylvester here. Sue is Shue’s Id, as exemplified by her resentment of Will’s more high-society pursuits, like music and proper styling.
• I don’t actually have a fifth point here, but Tina needs more storylines. Seriously, her brief glimpses of diva-bitch-attitude are just wonderful, and she is really just underutilized as a character. Also, Joe? What’s the deal with him? You guys painted yourselves into a corner with him, didn’t you?
• Of course, there’s a distinct possibility this is all just total bullshit and I just wanted to have some fun connecting parallels between America Horror Story and Glee. If that’s the case, my apologies for making you read this far. Hopefully, you were at least vaguely interested the whole time.

Sure, Canada may have universal healthcare, gay marriage, laws that prevent people from lying on the news, and reasonable gun control laws, but you know what we don’t have?

Celebrities.

Sure, if I fall and break my arm, I can go to the hospital and get it fixed for nothing, but I’ll never see Chloë Sevigny walking down Yonge street. I’ll never walk into Starbucks and spot Matt Damon working on a screenplay, and did you ever hear about the time Jay-Z and Beyonce were spotted eating at a restaurant in Queen street west? No, because that will never fucking happen. Because all the famous people are in L.A., waiting for the day tectonic plates shun them all off into the middle of the Pacific.

So I only have one story that involves running into a celebrity out and about. For my nineteenth birthday, my cousin Lyndsey convinced me to join her on a trip to New York City. Just putting this out there, but if you’re turning nineteen and your first choice is to travel six hours to a place where you can’t drink, you are legally too stupid to live in a house that isn’t covered in bubble wrap.

But I went down with her anyway. We stayed in a hotel across the street from Penn Station and got to spend most of my time following my cousin and her friends through Chinatown, watching them buy knock-off purses. If you ever wanted to know the definition of monotony, watch a twenty-something blonde girl haggle over the price of a fake handbag with an elderly Asian woman who only knows three-and-a-half words of English.

Thankfully, there was Times Square. If you’re a tourist in NYC, there is absolutely no reason you should go anywhere other than Times Square. Sorry hipsters. I’m sure the adult kickball league you participate in at McCarren Park is super interesting, but you know what Times Square has that you don’t? Light up stairs. Also: Everything else.

Lyndsey and I had just spent half-an-hour in The M&M’s store, which is exactly what it sounds like, when the two of us saw our first celebrity: Lil Wayne, walking down Times Square with bags of groceries that were roughly bigger than he was. We both had to do a double-take just to make sure we weren’t hallucinating from a green M&M overdose. Yes, it was indeed Lil Wayne.

And he was terrifying.

Allow me to explain this the best way I can… In preschool, I had a friend named Mary who used to carry around a Cabbage Patch doll wherever she went. She had this adorable little black girl doll, with overalls and pig-tails of yarn, and everywhere she went, the doll went. It didn’t matter that it was nothing more than three pounds of recycled Korean plastic and horse pubes, Mary loved this thing.

One day, Mary left her doll inside her house while we went outside to play Lion King on the big rock in her backyard. The basic gist of Lion King was that we’d take turns standing on the big rock, holding her cat up in the air like Rafiki while screaming “CIRCLE OF LIFE! CIRCLE OF LIFE! CIRCLE OF LIFE!” until our arms got tired or the cat peed itself.

While we systematically tortured a cat to the lyrics of Elton John, Mary’s brother and his friend snuck inside the house and stole her Cabbage Patch doll, doodled on it with a rainbow of Sharpies, brought it outside, and set fire to it in a garbage can. By the time we noticed the smoke and ran to see what was burning, it was too late: The Cabbage Patch Doll was a blazing inferno. Mary started bawling hysterically as her brother and his friend ran inside.

To this day, I still remember that little Doll burning to death. Her pigtails were the first thing to go, followed by her dress. Anyone who says Cabbage Patch Dolls can’t feel pain is a liar, because as the fire melted its plastic body, its face contorted into a twisted canvas of agony, confusion, and rage. Its mouth split open into a silent scream, like something out of a Harlan Ellison story.

By the time Mary’s parents had put out the fire and rescued the doll from the inferno, the doll had transmogrified into a charred husk, covered in multi-coloured ink and fried pigtails. It’s face looked like a rotten jack-o-lantern, and I swear this is true, the one button eye it had left followed me wherever I went. I don’t know how, but somehow the doll knew it wouldn’t have met oblivion if we had stayed inside instead of playing Lion King. As Mary’s parents unceremoniously threw it into the trash, I swear I heard it hiss, “Ve… Vengeanccccccccceeeeeeee…”

That’s what Lil Wayne looked like: A tiny, disfigured doll seeking revenge.

When I saw Lil Wayne walking down Times Square, the only thing that was running through my mind was: URINE. Oh, sorry, urine was running down my leg, not through my mind. The only thing I could think was, “So… she has returned. So be it, doomed toy. I await your righteous vengeance.”

Except Lil Wayne kept walking and I finally realized who he was. Lyndsey turned to me and asked, “You think we should go back to check and see if that’s really him?”

To which I responded, “No thanks, I’m good.”

If I had to pinpoint the moment in my life when I realized my abnormally large book collection was… Well, abnormal, it was probably back in my old apartment. My bookcase hadn’t made its way from Montreal to Toronto yet, so our living room featured a miniature mountain of books piled on the floor, up against the wall.

When my roommate’s Dad came to deliver some furniture, he too one look at the pile of books, and simply muttered, “That’s a lotta books.” It should be noted, he said the word “books” as if it were synonymous with the phrase “cum-sloppy assholes.” The amount of contempt he had for books made me think that his mother had been viciously assaulted by a copy of John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces when he was a kid.

Regardless, I still maintain a growing collection of books, and every Christmas, I invariably get a gift card for a book store. It’s nice to know they care enough about me to know I can read, but not quite enough to just take a stab in the dark themselves.

When I finally got around to actually cashing in this year’s card, something weird happened: Somewhere between the mystery section and the oddly well-populated erotica ghetto, it dawned on me that I would or could never read every single book in the store. Granted, it’s not like I ever wanted to, but there’s something just inherently depressing about knowing you’ll never be able to do something.

Just picture it for a second: A two story compound, filled to the brim with words and knowledge, each book written with care and love on the off-chance that someone will pick it up, and instead, millions of people read 50 Shades of Grey. It’s like when you go to the pound to adopt a puppy, and you want to adopt them all. I mean sure, you go home with a lovely little labrador, but you just know they’re going to end up putting down the ones no one wants. 

And then the guilt set in: Who the fuck was I to pass judgment on other peoples’ work and effort? Who the fuck was I to let someone’s work languish on the wayside just because of my own chickenshit taste? Surely there was a diamond in the rough somewhere in the-

Oh Jesus fuck, someone gave Kris Jenner a book deal? For what, failing at motherhood six times? That squawking silicone monstrosity would fuck an entire barnyard if she thought it would get her name in The Farmer’s Almanac, and they let her mash her cloven hooves against a keyboard and call it a book like she was people? Fuck this reality.

Meh, whatever. One book may have been total shit, but there was still an entire store left to pick from. Hell, what are the odds that one of these seemingly random, inconsequential books had talked someone down off the ledge? If you refuse to see beauty in odd places, then you’re just never going to find it, are you? And furthermore-

Fuck, all right, hold on a second here. The Sister Wives have a book? I didn’t even know they had names. I swear to shit, look it up; It’s called, “Becoming Sister Wives: The Story of an Unconventional Marriage.” Do we really need a play-by-play as to how four desperate, chinless women all jumped onto the same doughy mormon? Spoiler alert: They have a collective IQ of negative nineteen, and all their kids were born with flippers.

Okay, fine, so not every author can be Foucault or Bukowski, but on the upside, not every author can be Ayn Rand, so things kinda balance themselves out here. Most of these authors are just people with nothing but a story and a keyboard. Surely they deserved the opportunity to share their lessons and dreams with the world, right?

Oh shit in my own ass… You know the fat kid from Modern Family? He has a book. I’m not even joking on this one, he has his own goddamn book. The Asian baby has better lines than him, and somehow he managed to parlay adorable fatness into a bookdeal. It’s called “Reel Life Lessons… So Far”, and it’s just… Why is this? He’s fourteen-years-old and plays a bit part on one TV show, and he has a book anyway. Your English degree just commit suicide.

You know what? I don’t mind the fact that I won’t read every book in the world any more. Yes, most books are written by random people who are committed to sharing great stories and fantastic tales with the world, but for every word Jonathan Franzen has ever written, there are now fifty billion books about the dump Kim Kardashian just took.

(EXT: The woodsy, rustic splendor of Seattle. The sky is Misery Grey. The flora wilting into nothingness, knowing full well that its body will simply decompose into soil from which new plants will grow into a bleak and unforgiving landscape. Nearby, a rabbit voluntarily overdoses on lithium. Enter BELLA SWAN, who’s physical appearance is never actually described in the book because Stephenie Meyer needs someone as bland and ill-defined as the impressionable woman that will transplant themselves onto her protagonist.)

BELLA: My life is so awful and dreary. I’ve only been at school for a day, but already every one wants to be my friend and all the boys have asked me to the girl’s choice Sadie Hawkins dance. I’m going to stare blankly into the distance and hope that I find something approaching a personality.

(BELLA stares off into the distance. From out of the fog emerges EDWARD CULLEN, who’s all pasty and broody.)

BELLA: Oh my God, the one person in this entire book that doesn’t immediately dive in my ass to go bobbing for horse apples. I’m immediately enamoured with your pathological need to not be anywhere near me.

EDWARD: I hate you and I hope you die.

BELLA: Oh my God, if Mormons knew what an orgasm was, I’d be having one right now.

EDWARD: I can’t stay away from you. I love you so passionately. But I’m a vampire, so we cannot be. Now watch me glitter shirtlessly in the sunlight.

(EDWARD takes off his shirt, and sparkles like the lips of a drag queen pressed against a go-go boy’s taint.)

BELLA: My God… You’re an adonis. You’re a Greek god. Your chestnut hair framing your perfectly square cheekbones, the sunken eyes burning with passion. Your perfectly-shaped pecs compliment your rippling abdomen. Every muscle and sinew and muscle in your arms strain against each other like steel chains. There are four freckles on your left oblique muscle that form a rhombus. There are exactly 526 hairs on your torso, ranging from thick to wispy. It’s in no way weird that thus far the only description of me has been my name and gender.

EDWARD: Hold onto me as I use my vampire strength to travel through the trees. Because that’s what vampires do. Jump through trees.

(All of a sudden, JACOB appears.)

JACOB: Not so fast, Edward! I’m also in love with Bella! Because she has such a vivid personality and clear characteristics!

EDWARD: Such as…

JACOB: … Herrrrrrrrrr naaaaaaaaaame?

EDWARD: Nice try.

BELLA: Yeah, I don’t care about you.

JACOB: Did I mention I’m a werewolf?

(JACOB turns into a wolf in the middle of the day, once again proving that Stephenie Meyer skimmed the first five words of a Wikipedia article on werewolves and called it a day.)

BELLA: Oh my God, I have feeling for you know. You are a Roman god. You are a Hercules mixed with My Dog Skip mixed with the Pets.com dog puppet. Allow me to express my intrigue by biting my lower lip.

(BELLA bites her lower lip.)

SEXY MUMMY: Wait, Bella, no! I’m a sexy mummy! I come from Sao Paolo, Brazil, and I’m covered head-to-toe in Froot-By-The-Foot.

BELLA: Oh my God, I love you now too. You’re like an Olympic athlete covered in Bengay and you make my lady parts clap on the downbeat like an awkward white father listening to rap. I must bite my lower lip.

(BELLA bites her lower lip until it starts bleeding a lot.)

SEXY FRANKENSTEIN: But Bella, I need to confess my undying love for you! I was once a normal boy who died and was put back together by mad scientists using nothing but Silly Bandz and car batteries.

BELLA: You are a Lego man made of sex and gods. If you ever left me I would immediately buy a motorcycle and jump off a cliff. You are a perfect mix of pectoral muscles and a God of War and love.

(BELLA chews off the entire bottom half of her face.)

SEXY ZOMBIE: Bella, I love you and I have always loved you. My heart cannot go on without you, probably because I’m dead. Our love lovey love so much love and also I’m dead sort of but not in a gross way.

BELLA: Oh my God, my lady parts are going crazy right now. You are God and I want to nail you to the cross and make you rise in three days.

(BELLA finds a complete stranger and begins chewing on their lower lip.)

EDWARD: But Bella, you must be with me. I’ll marry you and then fulfil your ultimate desire to be a vampire.

BELLA: I don’t know, you were cute at first, but there are so many other men who also happen to be monsters…

EDWARD: But… Love…

BELLA: Are you kidding? My only romantic options are a vampire and a werewolf. All I’m doing is fetishizing what you are instead of who you are, in a shallow attempt to glaze over my complete lack of a definable personality by adopting everything that you are as my own. That’s what happens when a sexually repressed adult woman tries to write novels for teenage girls who have no concept of how to balance romance with the realities of love.

EDWARD: But we can have a baby together!

BELLA: Can we call it a totally ridiculous, made-up name that sounds like it was written by eating a can of alphabet soup and wiping my ass with a birth certificate?

EDWARD: Our baby’s name will become synonymous with shameless pandering.

BELLA: Okay, I love you then.

JACOB: Can I still fuck your baby?

BELLA: Okay.

(Before anyone says it: Yes, I know The Editing Room has been doing this forever, but since getting a script on that site is a borderline sisyphean task, I’m just going to post it here, because honestly, what else am I going to put here? Thoughts and opinions? HA!)

(EXT: Massive enchanted kingdom.)

KING: Man, it totally sucks that my wife died. And that my kingdom is being attacked by knights who are made entirely out of dominoes. Seriously, those are dominoes, right?

(The KING and his men attack the knights, who basically just stand perfectly still as the KING and his army wreck their shit. As the last of the human-domino-conglomerates falls, the KING checks a remaining wagon and discovers CHARLIZE THERON.)

KING: Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my kingdom, so marry me maybe?

CHARLIZE THERON: ‘Kay.

(INT: CASTLE. The KING and CHARLIZE THERON immediately get married and start fucking.)

CHARLIZE: I hope you don’t mind, but now that we’re married, I’m just going to start telling you about how I married a bunch of other kings, murdered them, and stole their kingdoms.

KING: What’s that? I was too busy putting my face between your boobs and making motorboat noises. Red-flag away. *PBBBBBBBBBBT*.

CHARLIZE: Wow, thanks for making this regicide so much easier.

KING: *PBBBBBBBBBBT*. Sorry, you’re going to have to speak up, I can’t hear anything over the sound of your boo- (CHARLIZE stabs him.) Fuck.

(The KING DIES, and his daughter KRISTEN STEWART sees the whole thing. CHARLIZE THERON immediately locks her away in the castle because apparently she takes Feng Shui advice from Damocles.)

(INT: CASTLE, YEARS LATER. KRISTEN STEWART is now legal and CHARLIZE THERON is still ruling the kingdom by sucking the youth out of young girls. She consults her magic mirror to fish for compliments.)

CHARLIZE: Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?

(THE MIRROR melts and turns into a shiny cloaked human being.)

CHARLIZE: BAD ASS.

THE MIRROR: SO BAD ASS.

CHARLIZE: Anyway, tell me I’m the prettiest.

THE MIRROR: Sorry, but now that Kristen Stewart is old enough to fuck without it being illegal, she’s now the prettiest.

CHARLIZE: Wait, seriously? Look, Kristen is an attractive young woman and all, but Jesus… I’m Charlize Theron. There is no way Kristen Stewart is prettier than I am.

THE MIRROR: Well, she-

CHARLIZE: This better not be some bullshit about how she’s pretty on the inside.

THE MIRROR: She has a wonderful heart.

CHARLIZE: That’s what girls tell boys to try and make them bang their less pretty friends.

THE MIRROR: Well, if you eat her heart, you’ll stay young forever.

CHARLIZE: Why didn’t you just say so? GUARDS!

(INT: KRISTEN’S CELL. Kristen is visited by a bunch of adorable little birds.)

KRISTEN: Oh fantastic, woodland creatures. What are you going to do, sing me out of this jail cell?

BIRDS: Actually, we brought you this prison shiv.

KRISTEN: SO FUCKING SWEET.

(KRISTEN uses the prison shiv to stab an ALBINO RAPIST and escape into the forest, where she immediately stumbles into LSD MUSHROOMS and TOTALLY TRIPS BALLS.)

(INT: CASTLE. CHARLIZE THERON yells at her brother, the ALBINO RAPIST.)

CHARLIZE: Goddammit you suck. Seriously, Kristen Stewart was locked in a cell for six years and was fed nothing but air and spiders. How in the hell did she kick your ass?

ALBINO RAPIST: She was armed with tiny birds and slightly-bent nails! She’s a menace!

CHARLIZE: Well, you’re useless. We might as well get someone who can take the cock out of their mouths for long enough to not get beat by a little girl.

(EXT: Courtyard. CHRIS HEMSWORTH is shit-faced drunk and fighting.)

CHRIS: Hey, remember how awesome I was in Thor? Get ready to watch me completely blow that all away in about thirty seconds.

(CHRIS HEMSWORTH gets his ass kicked in a bar fight that ends when he — I swear to God — punches a horse in the asshole and it kicks him into a manger. CHARLIZE THERON brings him to the CASTLE.)

CHARLIZE: Wow, I haven’t seen someone drunkenly squander their reputation that fast since Lindsay Lohan hit a baby with her car. Anyway, since you’re the only person who survived the LSD woods, we need you to find Kristen Stewart.

CHRIS: And if I do?

CHARLIZE: I don’t know, I’ll bring your wife back from the dead I guess. Honestly, I’m dressed head-to-toe in raven feathers and hatred. There’s no way in hell I won’t try and kill you.

CHRIS: Normally, I’d pick up on this, but I’m drunk and sad, so I’ll do it.

(EXT: WOODS. KRISTEN STEWART is still TOTALLY TRIPPING BALLS, so CHRIS HEMSWORTH and ALBINO RAPIST find her in all of thirty seconds.)

CHRIS: All right, there she is. Give me my wife now.

ALBINO RAPIST: HA! Holy shit, you believed that? I look like the ghost of a sex crime and my sister eats the souls of little girls, what made you think we’d hold up our end of the deal?

CHRIS: And what made you think telling me all that when I have Kristen Stewart was a good idea?

ALBINO: Shit.

(CHRIS shoves ALBINO RAPIST into the LSD MUSHROOMS and he runs off with KRISTEN STEWART.)

KRISTEN: Sooooo… The evil queen wants us dead, and we really do not have any sort of game plan here. Now what, Thor?

CHRIS: I don’t know, I kinda figured if we wandered around, eventually a plot device would show up.

(All of a sudden, a GIANT TROLL appears.)

CHRIS: That’ll do.

(The GIANT TROLL kicks CHRIS’ ass, until KRISTEN eye-fucks it and it goes away for the rest of the movie.)

CHRIS: Remember kids: If something is trying to kill you, shooting it bedroom eyes is your best defense.

KRISTEN: BOOM! Strong female protagonist. Now, since that didn’t further the plot in any way, let’s just stumble around a little more until we find something that isn’t just computer generated filler.

(KRISTEN and CHRIS awkwardly stumble through about THREE MORE RED HERRINGS before they meet the SEVEN DWARVES, none of whom are actually played by little people.)

LITTLE PEOPLE OF AMERICA: No, we’re totally cool with this. Why rob the movie of the star power that is BOB HOSKINS?

KRISTEN: Oh, sweet, characters who from the actual fairy tale. Want to team up to help us fight CHARLIZE THERON?

BOB: Sure. Want to jarringly shift tones from gritty realism to adorable pixie wonderland?

CHRIS: Sure thing.

(The SEVEN DWARVES join KRISTEN and CHRIS and escape CHARLIZE THERON’s army by jumping into…)

(EXT: THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA.)

KRISTEN: Oh, well this isn’t so bad. I mean yes, most of what we’ve seen so far was only tenuously connected to the plot, but at least it’s been fun to watch.

CHRIS: Speaking of, I think it’s about time you went and touched DEER GOD for no real discernible reason.

(SHE DOES. It doesn’t have any real bearing on the plot, but EVERYONE PRETENDS IT DOES until someone shoots DEER GOD for no reason other than someone thought it would be totally cool to watch a deer turn into a million butterflies. THEY WERE RIGHT.)

KRISTEN: Well that sucked. Let’s never discuss this again.

(All of a sudden, KRISTEN’s childhood friend shows up and CHRIS kills ALBINO RAPIST by impaling him on a broken tree. This is so awesome that CHARLIZE THERON has a violent orgasm.)

AUDIENCE: FINALLY.

SAM CLAFLIN: That was kinda cool, but not as cool as me trying to reconnect with KRISTEN STEWART, my long-lost childhood friend!

KRISTEN: Wait, shit, are you kidding me? Did the writers of this movie just awkwardly shoehorn in another male character for the sake of creating some bullshit love-triangle? Fuck this. Do you think Harry Potter was trying to choose between two girls while he was fighting Voldemort? Was Luke Skywalker debating between fucking his sister or the only other woman in Star Wars? NO. Because the protagonist has more important things to deal with than petty high school crushes. Like not having my heart ripped out and eaten by CHARLIZE THERON.

CHARLIZE (Disguised as SAM): Hey, that’s great. Eat his apple.

KRISTEN: Well, I am a little tired after that soap box. (Eats the apple.) Oh, wait, wasn’t Snow White poisoned by one of these? Crap. (DIES.)

CHARLIZE: Serves you right for not reading the source material.

(CHRIS and SAM find KRISTEN dead.)

SAM: Well, there goes one of the title characters. Quick! Let’s kill CHARLIZE.

(CHRIS and SAM try to stab CHARLIZE THERON to death, but she turns into A THOUSAND RAVENS and it’s fucking sweet.)

CHRIS: (Stabbing birds.) I’M CUMMING IN MY PANTS.

SAM: (Stabbing birds.) ME TOO.

(Most of the birds escape, and the dog from DUCK HUNT laughs at them.)

SAM: Man, I’m so sad that Kristen is dead that I’m just going to make out with her a bit. That’s not weird at all. (SAM kisses KRISTEN’s lifeless body and nothing happens.) Well, I tried. (Leaves.)

CHRIS: Since it seems you’re really dead, I’m going to sob exposition at you about my dead wife and kiss you too. Is anyone else weirded out by the fact that the only time Kristen Stewart gets any action in her movies is when either she or her partner are dead? (Kisses KRISTEN STEWART and suddenly she wakes up.)

KRISTEN: Oh look, I’m not dead anymore. I’m assuming that love triangle just resolved itself?

CHRIS: Yup.

KRISTEN: Fantastic. Well, let’s go fight a massive war.

(INT/EXT: CASTLE. KRISTEN STEWART suits up in a full-suit of armor which, despite what video games say, does not require her to show off her boobs. CHARLIZE THERON meanwhile replenishes her beauty by sucking the souls out of every other female character in the movie, because apparently she’s never heard the term “point of diminishing returns” before. Guess which one of them is going to die?)

CHARLIZE: Totally worth it.

(EXT: CASTLE. KRISTEN, CHRIS and SAM as well as VARIOUS OTHER PEOPLE WE’VE NEVER MET BEFORE storm the castle. Arrows are shot and bombs go off and people die and it’s GODDAMN CRAZY.)

KRISTEN: Fuck, this is so boss.

(Eventually, Kristen and her troops make it up to CHARLIZE’s room. KRISTEN and CHARLIZE fight while beings made of tiny black daggers KILL FUCKING EVERYTHING.)

RANDOM SOLDIER: I know I’m dying and all, but honestly, this is so sweet. If I had to be violently slaughtered, I’m glad it was like this.

KRISTEN: Is everyone and everything in this movie just made of thousands of tiny things? Seriously, we had deers made of butterflies, guards made of knives and dominoes, CHARLIZE THERON is made out of birds… Am I actually three disinterested babies in a people-suit?

CHARLIZE: No, I don’t think that’s how it works. Now hold still while I bitch-slap you around the room.

KRISTEN: No thanks. (STABS CHARLIZE IN THE HEART.)

CHARLIZE: No! My magic is being undone by someone of pure blood! Or something. Honestly, the scene about how I gained my powers and how I could lose them was sort of glazed over really quickly, so this whole denouement didn’t really make that much sense.

KRISTEN: But at least it was fun to look at.

CHARLIZE: You’re right, it was. Anyway, I’m dead now. (CHARLIZE ages into dust.)

(INT: Throne room. KRISTEN is named the new Queen of the Kingdom and CHRIS gets jackshit.)

CHRIS: Seriously, not even a muffin basket? My love for you saved your life, and by proxy, the kingdom!

KRISTEN: Well, considering that the last time the ruler of this kingdom got quickie-married he was brutally stabbed mid-coitus, I think I’ll pass. I’ll fuck you during the end-credits though.

CHRIS: Yeah, I’ll take it.

(HE DOES. THE END.)

It’s a tumblr where I write short bits to keep myself on my toes. Because as everyone knows, the pen is mightier than the sword. But only if it’s really big and sharp and maybe it fires bullets and acid and is also a gun. So actually, pens are useless. Use a sword to write.

Can we ask you questions?

I don’t know, can you?

You know what we mean, you fucking douche.

Yes, you can ask me questions. And I will answer some of them. If you’re one of those people who asks me what my ass looks like, I will ignore you. Basically, any question that can be answered by a cursory Google search I’ll ignore.

What will you write about?

Basically, short stories, bits, and all the shit that isn’t completely personal will go here. And also, maybe cookie recipes, because hipsters love to play homemaker. Woo! Feminism!

What about naked pictures?

No, that’s what Twitter is for.