Advent of Angst #5: Too Soon?

Christmas is coming. At least that's what the radio has been telling me for the past two weeks. And here I am thinking Halloween was the next holiday!

When I was younger, I remember scoffing whenever people told me Christmas was getting earlier and earlier. I was all like, "hey, man, it's almost Thanksgiving! Don't be such a Scrooge!" I should also probably mention that when I was a kid, I started my Christmas list some time around the Fourth of July. This year, I didn't start until late September, and only because the radio station at work kept dropping hints by playing "Welcome, Christmas" from How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Fine, I'll take your word for it. Christmas is coming. What does that mean to me? It's Utah and it's not even snowing yet. I can start feeling Christmas-y after the first snowfall (which, to be honest, is usually right after Halloween in Utah).You want me to feel jolly? I don't know that I've been a particularly good boy this year. But don't rule anything out yet. Here's what we do; kidnap Santa Claus. We can hold him hostage until our demands our met. It's called "strategy."

Either that, or you can contribute to the "Please Don't Hurt Santy Claus Fund" by donating one of the following;

CHRISTMAS LIST

PLEASE DON'T HURT SANTY CLAUS FUND

1) Communist Paraphernalia

Let me clarify; I am not now, nor will I ever be, a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. I am a  registered Republican, which is about as far from Communism as one can be. That being said, I am mildly obsessed with it. The Soviet Union, the Cold War, McCarthyism. Get me whatever; shirts, hats, books (fictional is acceptable, but I prefer historical). If you can get me a picture of Fidel Castro wearing a Che shirt (signed by Fidel himself), that would be the best Christmas present ever. Screw your Christmas shoes.

(Stalin; the Jesus of Russia)

2) Really Bad Horror/Sci-Fi Movies

I love 'em. I already own the Leprechaun series, the Critters series, the Tremors series, and both Troll movies, but I want more. You can never have a complete collection of bad movies when more and more are coming out every year (Age of Hobbits, anyone? yes, it sounds as though somebody's capitalizing on the upcoming Hobbit film, and God bless capitalism!). I'm hoping to add the Robocop series, the Highlander series, some Japanese monster movies, and maybe some Rob Zombie and Ed Wood films to my collection.

(if you send me Howard the Duck or The Adventures of Pluto Nash, I will send them back, and I can't promise Santa won't be harmed)

3) An Xbox 360 and Dark Souls
Dark Souls is supposed to be one of the hardest and addictive games ever. Like a creepier, more difficult Skyrim. And I must have it.

(you get to fight monsters like WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?)

I'm sure there's more, but I don't want to list all of them. Be creative. I asked for the T-Mobile girl for my birthday last year, and I never got her. That would be just as good as the aforementioned "Castro wearing Che" picture.

(in all her Canadian glory)

Naughty. Nice. You make the list, big fella. But think of your own well-being.

And that, kids, is called extortion. And now you know.

The Master Debator

The story so far: the GOP has pitted drab millionaire Mitt Romney against the well-spoken, poorly-advised incumbent President Barack Obama. Either side seems convinced that they will lose, and have thus resorted to good ol' fashioned smear tactics. Yes, because the way you get things done in this country by finger-pointing and name-calling. Maybe I would be more excited if I believed a word either of them said.

You how to make people interested in the Presidential debates? Get somebody who knows what he's doing; the ultimate orator, the Ultimate Warrior!

For those of you who don't know or otherwise don't care, the Ultimate Warrior was professional wrestler whose popularity rivaled that of Hulk Hogan in the early '90s. We're talking about a man so dedicated to his character, he ended up changing his name to Warrior. The face-painted, muscular madman was known to be crazy in the ring, and kind of a douche outside the ring. But one cannot argue that the man has wicked awesome speeches (just watch, it has to be seen to be understood).

Yeah! Unify the Hulkamaniacs with the little Warriors! Or, to apply it to modern times, we must set aside our differences, whether we somehow still manage to defend Obamanomics or if we are the bugnutty Tea Party loyalists. I think the speeches would be so much better if the candidates had to yell their answers instead of talk their way out of them.

And, at the end of each debate, we'll play something epic, letting people know, "yeah, it's the end of the world. So what? You can either blame it on other people or embrace it."

Warrior has also been on CSPAN. Yes, he is a bit of a conservative jerk. But he also paints! No truly evil man can also make art, can they? With the exception, of course, of John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, and Adolf Hitler.

(no truly evil man could be so inspirational, either!)

You know you want to see it as badly I do. When it comes to the debates, there would be none better. The man, the myth, the legend; the Ultimate Warrior.

Apologies to H.G. Wells

Untrue Life Stories: Exaggerated Accounts from Unreal Situations, part two

Brent was feeling nauseous as he exited his 1992 Subaru Legacy, lovingly referred as his "Shatmobile." Perhaps it was was the drive over - he'd gotten lost in Salt Lake City, the air conditioner wasn't working, and he discovered he had twice past his destination, plus the fact that he didn't really like driving to begin with. Or perhaps it was the homemade eggnog he brought from home (which may or may not have been laced with vodka to calm his nerves). In either case, after he untactfully vomited in the bushes, he felt a bit better.

He was in Salt Lake to visit his friend and former high school history teacher, Stan Andrus. Stan was lovingly referred to as "Satan" by students. Perhaps it was his facial hair and "proud apostate" attitude. In either case, he was well-liked by his students, and if you weren't an idiot, he tended to like you, too.

Stan opened the door. "Watering the plants?"

Brent wiped the remaining bile from his uncouth face and put a piece of gum in his mouth. "Sorry, man. I hate Salt Lake. That is to say, I'd like it a lot more if I had a GPS in the old Shatmobile."

"It's fine," said Stan, taking a pipe out of his coat sleeve. "But you're a little early."

"How the hell did I manage that?" Brent asked, looking at his cellphone. "Wasn't it supposed to start twenty minutes ago?"

"We had to reschedule for later on," Stan explained. "I was just making some last-minute... preparations."

Stan had invited a group of friends and colleagues over for a "special announcement." Brent figured he'd use this as a chance to improve his guerrilla filmmaking. Why he felt he needed to improve on holding a camera and pointing it at stuff, I don't quite understand.

"Ah, shit, dude. I'm sorry. I can come back later?" Brent apologized.

Stan puffed his pipe and set it on the windowsill. "No, it's alright. I can give you a sneak preview."

Brent followed Stan inside. "So, where's Annie? And how early am I?"

Stan motioned for Brent to enter a room. "Annie's picking up some party supplies. You're a little under an hour early."

There in the room was what looked like an bike.

"Dude, is this your way of telling me I need to lose weight?" Brent asked. "I get it. I'm chubby."

Stan shot Brent the look of Satan, smiling slightly. "This isn't a bicycle. This is a time machine." Stan went on to say that he had discovered the secret to time travel while reading The God Delusion.

"But I don't get it," Brent sighed. "What does Richard Dawkins know about time travel?"

"It's not what he says," said Stan. "It's what he doesn't say."

Brent shook his head in agitated contemplation. "Next you're going to tell me the equation that inspired this revelation was 2 + 2 = 4."

Stan cocked his head, confused. "What?"

Again, Brent shook his head. "Never mind. Just tell me how it works."

After ten minutes of explanation, Brent still didn't understand, but pretended as though he did.

"Riveting," Brent said, stroking his chin. "Have you tried it out?"

"Just briefly," Stan said. "I didn't work up the gumption to go too far, but I did see the pioneers entering the Utah valley, and let me just say; it was kind of disappointing."

"I'll bet," said Brent. "So... you gonna let me give this a shot?"

Stan stroked his goatee in contemplation. "Well," he began, "I wasn't going to let anybody attempt this until after the presentation. But I suppose we've got time."

"Nothing but!" exclaimed Brent. "So, how does it work?"

Stan just looked at Brent. "Were you not paying attention this whole time?"

Brent shifted in his seat. "I kind of zonked out. I did it a lot in class, too."

Stan sighed. "Just get on and pedal until you get where you want to go. The odometer measure the time. You pedal forward to go forward, back to go back. Pretty simple."

"Is that seriously what you said the first time?" Brent asked. "Man, I really need to work on my attention span."

Brent sat in the seat a moment. "I must confess, I never took the time to learn how to ride a bike. Do I need to go outside or something?"

Stan smiled. "You won't need roads where you're going."

Brent started backpedaling. "Oh. I see. It's a stationary bike. Also, nice Back to the Future reference. But really, I thought an H.G. Wells reference would be more appropriate. Like The Island of Dr. Moreau."

When Brent looked up, he saw that he was moving backwards in time.

A moment passed, and Brent was back in the room with Stan.

After a moment, Brent spoke. "Before tonight I had the theory that if time travel were possible, we would know about it in the past, my logic being that if people in the future made an attempt to come back to the past, it would alter their past, and therefor our future. That was theory number one. However," Brent paused for dramatic effect, "I inadvertently put my other theory into effect tonight. I rationalized that if one could hypothetically change the past - stop the Kennedy assassination, convince Hitler's mom to get an abortion, whatever - that the past has already been changed, and we can do nothing to change that. Meaning; if I was the one stood in the grassy knoll and assassinated him myself, then it has become part of history. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Stan looked at Brent, his eyes widened. "What did you do?"

Brent sighed. "I may have accidentally convinced Mitt Romney to run for President."

Brent went on to say that he went back in time to the 2002 Winter Olympics ("just to see what the big deal was all about"). He said that he had a brief run-in with pre-Governor Romney and spoke of his admiration for him.

"You have to understand," Brent cried. "This was before the Tea Party. All Romney had to do at this point was convince people that Mormons weren't technically a cult. He was still pretty gay-friendly, pro-choice-friendly, all-around user-friendly. And in my brief conversation with him, I may have said something about him making a good President. I suppose I should be happy that I forgot my camera here. Now nobody knows who  to blame."

Stan somberly bowed his head. "What have I created?"

Brent scratched his head. "Well, you know... nobody needs to know."

"What do you mean?" Stan asked. "I told everybody to meet at my house for a special presentation."

"I thought of this," said Brent. "I didn't want to risk the paradox of running into myself at the Salt Lake Olympics, that whole paradox. So, I went further back in time and..."

Brent pulled a video tape from his pocket.

"What is that?" Stan asked. "I thought you said you left your camera."

"I did," Brent replied. "But I went back to 1978 and got this; a bootleg copy of The Star Wars Holiday Special."

Stan smiled. "Now that - is a special presentation!"

Brent smiled back. "You got a VCR? I'll record everybody's reaction!"

Not Another Jimmy Eat World Song

I'm admittedly a bit of a pessimist. So what? I've already explained my feelings on the subject before, so I shouldn't have to do it again. But pessimist or not, you've gotta admit harsh reality seems more beneficial than the self-indulgent, self-aware optimism of Jimmy Eat World's 2001 song, "The Middle." Just listen to the overly-upbeat lyrics;

Hey, don't write yourself off yet

It's only in your head you feel left out/Or looked down on

Just try your best/Try everything you can

And don't you worry what they tell themselves/When you're away

On top of being sickeningly optimistic, it's also incredibly assumptive. "Don't you worry what they tell themselves when you're away." Wait, what are they saying about me? Is it something bad? Oh God, I knew it was something bad! I'm gonna go home and scream into my pillow and threaten to cut myself (I'll never actually do it because I don't like pain and the sight of blood makes me nauseous, but I'll threaten to do it, gosh darn it!). Jimmy Eat World is the happiest emo band ever.

(they look so nice, and that is their ultimate downfall. bands should look cooler than that)

Do we have anything to counter that super-sweet crap? Something a little bitter just to get that awful taste out of our mouths?

Ah, there it is.

The 2007 horror film The Mist is just about the most awesomely depressing movie ever. It starts out with a man and his boy going to the grocery store the morning after a violent thunderstorm. As they're shopping, a man rushes into the store with a bloody nose, warning the people of creatures in the mist. The mist encases them, and they are attacked by Lovecraftian monsters, some of which look like this;

Or this;

This one unlikable religious lady believes this is the sign of the Armageddon and slowly turns the grocery store into her own theocratic militarism. Meanwhile, this kid dies;

(no, that is not Malachai from Children of the Corn)

Poor boy just wanted to be hero by running out into the mist and turning the backup generators on.

So, under this religious zealot's rule (kind of like sharia law, only a little more strict), things become very uneasy. They "sacrifice" a soldier they hold responsible for the catastrophe. You see, the local military base was experimenting with looking into other dimensions, but somehow the scientists opened another dimension (I'm assuming the one containing the Cthulhu mythos). So clearly, the young private was to blame.

After a grocery store clerk finally kills the Jesus freak (hey, you'd have wanted her dead too, if you'd ever seen the movie), they make a break for it, and five survivors make it to the car; the man and his son, an attractive teacher (and potential love interest, assuming things didn't work out with their respective spouses, or if they were eaten), and an elderly couple. They drive and drive and drive until they run out of gas. SPOILER ALERT. The man decides, rather than the inevitable death by starvation or eventual attack of one of the mist monsters, to kill themselves. But there are five survivors and only four bullets. So, ever the hero, he uses the bullets on the others and awaits his impending doom. He exits the car, sobbing and mourning the death of his son and friends, firing empty rounds into his mouth.

Just then, the mist clears and the military arrives.

End film.

(that is the face of a man who knows how badly he's screwed up)

Bahahahaha!

You know, as sad as the end of that movie is, it's got me thinking about my own impending doom. No, I'm talking about the Rapture; that was supposed to have already happened (three or four times now, isn't it?). And I mean no disrespect to Mr. Harold Camping. The man is in his 90's, he's allowed to be wrong. He probably thinks Ronald Reagan is still in office. But who's to say he's wrong? If anything, this just proves what I thought all along; none of us made God's cut.

No, what I'm talking about is the Decepticons' invasion of Earth. So I'd like to take a moment to make a proposition for Megatron.

(noticeably missing from the 2012 Republican National Convention)

Look, buddy. I understand your distaste for human life. I share it with you. But not all of us are so bad. I would like to make a bargain to spare the life of my friends and family. In exchange for the safety and protection of myself and my family and friends, I will give you the names of five people for your five primary attacks, that if you hunt them down first, you will be greeted as a hero.

1) Glenn Beck

Glenn Beck is a conservative libertarian...

(oh, I'm sorry - conservative "libertarian")

Anyways, he's a political commentator and doomsayer whose predictions of the Apocalypse rival those of Harold Camping. He's the self-proclaimed voice of the people, and who dislikes people more than you? You know what must be done.

2) Mitt Romney

Mitt Romney lacks a backbone. I know you must hate that. He panders to each and every audience, so expect him to try and pander to you. But don't be fooled.

3) Fred Phelps

Pastor Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church hates everybody, too. But he claims that God loves him. Well, you're his god now! Make an example of him.

(but please, go easy on him - I don't think he even knows where he is most of the time)

4) Michael Bay

You've already got a bone to pick with Mr. Bay. He already destroyed your Transformers series and is about to destroy another beloved '80s franchise, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, by making the ninja turtles an alien race! You cannot let this happen.

("what's it matter? you guys are just gonna pay to see my crap anyways.")

5) Chad Kroeger

The frontman of the Canadian "rock" group Nickelback, the Dane Cook of rock bands. In fact, I'm pretty sure Dane Cook and Chad Kroeger are the same person.

You'd better kill them both just to be safe.

I'll be waiting, Megatron.

The One Where I Talk About Religion

I admit it; in past posts, I've tried to avoid talking a whole lot about religion. Politics, movies, and the absurdity of life and the human experience are all fair game. But what in life is more absurd than religion?

Allow me to clarify.

I've been raised a Mormon from birth. I was baptized at age eight, and when I turned nineteen, I served an LDS mission in Brazil. It wasn't until after my mission that I started thinking "maybe not..?" You see, with the Mormon church, it's not uncommon for teenagers to rebel and question their faith. The problem is I didn't start asking the questions I should have until after my mission. So I just entered the "rebellious youth" in my early- to mid-twenties.

I hold no grudge against the church. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to have served in Belém. I have made friends for life. But at this point, I'm not sure what I truly believe.

When people ask me my favorite hymn, I like to say "Spirit in the Sky." People don't usually realize I'm talking about the the 1969 psychedelic gospel song written by Norman Greenbaum (who, although he wrote it about Jesus, is actually Jewish).

(coincidentally, Jesus was also Jewish)

It's hard to pinpoint just when my feelings on religion changed, but this is pretty much the evolution of my own theological beliefs;

-age 9: "My parents seem to know what's what. I'll just go with it."

-age 13: "I live in Utah. Like, 99% of everybody is Mormon. The rest are wrong."

-age 17: "Wait, what? You mean to tell me not everyone is a Mormon Republican?"

-age 20: "Well, I don't really know what I'm teaching, but what am I learning? Also, I think I'm starting to see some cracks in conservatism."

-now: "I'm a student of philosophy (why not?). But when it comes to God and religion, I guess my question isn't 'why?' or 'why not?' but 'really?'."

So there you have it. In just 24 years I've gone from assuming God is real to assuming God is fake. And that assumption bothers a lot of my friends, theist and atheist alike.

I am well-aware of Richard Dawkins' assertion that there is no God. On a scale from 1-7, 1 being absolutely certain there is no God and 7 being absolutely certain there is a God, he placed himself at a 1.5, but only because you can't prove there is no God. On his atheism, he has said "I contend that we are all atheists. I just believe in one less god." Meaning that although you believe in God, you probably don't believe in Zeus or Odin or Lord Cthulhu. Bill Maher claims to be an atheist but we all know he believes himself to be God.

(until your face appears in a grilled cheese sandwich, you're nothing)

George Carlin put it this way;

"You know who I pray to? Joe Pesci. Two reasons: First of all, I think he's a good actor, okay? To me, that counts. Second, he looks like a guy who can get things done. Joe Pesci doesn't (mess) around. In fact, Joe Pesci came through on a couple of things that God was having trouble with.

 

"For years I asked God to do something about my noisy neighbor with the barking dog, Joe Pesci straightened that ____ out with one visit. It's amazing what you can accomplish with a simple baseball bat.

 

"So I've been praying to Joe for about a year now. And I noticed something. I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same 50% rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don't. Same as God, 50-50. Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe, the wishing well and the rabbit's foot, same as the Mojo Man, same as the Voodoo Lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat's testicles, it's all the same: 50-50. So just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself."

(robbing from an eight-year-old aside, Joe Pesci can usually get things done)

And when I try to reconcile with God, I remember a group of people who won't let me do that. They're just too loud and pushy. The creationists.

As bad as people claim Richard Dawkins is (I actually like him, and I found The God Delusion to be a fair argument for atheism. still, to call it "the atheist bible" is to miss the point entirely), nobody pits God against science quite like creationists. We're talking about a group of people who (some quite literally) believe that the earth was made in six days. And on the seventh day, God rested. And when Adam became bored, God made him Eve out of one of Adam's ribs.

Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up. That's so much easier than believing in adaptation and Darwinian evolution. 'Cause that would just render The Old Testament, ergo The Holy Bible, ergo religion in general invalid. And if I'm not going to Heaven, then where am I going?

It's not hard to understand why people believe in heaven. When I look to the skies, I am in awe of its natural beauty and remember just how insignificant I really am. But to me, space, the stars, the clouds in the sky; those are all more beautiful than any concept of God. And when I contemplate the vastness of the universe, pantheism kind of makes sense. But to claim it as "just another of God's creations" seems to belittle it.

There are reasons to believe in God just as there are reasons not to. There are health-related reasons not to drink and smoke or engage in unprotected sexual acts with multiple partners. There are aesthetic and pragmatic reasons not to get tattoos or piercings. But your reason should never be "because God said so." To me, regardless of your dogma or theological beliefs, that is an unacceptable answer. The Bible has been around for thousands of years, and with the times, so have the interpretations changed. The Bible bans tattoos and homosexuality. It also bans shellfish and letting women speak in church. And I know that's  the Old Testament, and the Old Testament has never made any sense to me. The point is, how do you pick and choose?

The Old Testament vs. the New Testament is an old argument. The God of the Old Testament is so angry and jealous. The God of the New Testament is so peaceful and serene. So what happened in between the two books being written to mellow Him out so much? Maybe, as Lewis Black claims, the birth of His son settled Him down. I think of it more as The Big Lebowski. The God of the Old Testament is like Walter Sobchak (which is only fitting since he's a Jewish convert), a Vietnam veteran with anger management issues. The God of the New Testament is Jeff "The Dude" Lebowski, a relaxed California pacifist. Despite their differences, the two remain good friends. How has no Christian ever used that defense before?

(The Dude abides. Amen.)

That's pretty much where I stand right now. I'm sorry if you're still not clear; neither am I. But it's better to commit to confusion than put on the facade of conviction.

(I don't care how sexy you are, S.E. Cupp - and you most definitely are - you can't be  conservative and atheist. now that's confusing)

Man's Best Friend

I was planning on posting live! from the Democratic National Convention today. There was an unscheduled, highly unexpected appearance by the ghost of John F. Kennedy (and his friend, hologram 2pac), as well as Hillary Clinton's "shocking" announcement that she plans on running for President in 2016 (Bill Clinton: "Do we really want another Clinton in the White House?"), but something bigger happened today, and by the time I get to the DNC next week, The Daily Show will already be there and doing a much better job than I possibly can. Today, a friend died. A good friend. A good girl. Yes, good girl.

My friend Tony's dog, Penny, passed away today.

Tony and Jill got the dog from Tony's stepsister, who in turn had gotten her from a pound, so not a lot is known about her past. What is known is that Penny was about seven years old when Tony's sister explained that she had gotten an apartment that didn't allow dogs and asked him to hold onto Penny for awhile. Tony was apprehensive to do this, but agreed to do his sister a favor. Two years and a lot of emotional attachment later, Tony's sister came by to ask for the dog back. Tony said no. As his sister started tearing up saying what a good girl Penny was, he explained that "if I found an apartment that didn't allow dogs, you're damn sure I'd find other living arrangements." For around six years of their lives, Penny was part of the family.

Penny, in her younger years, was quite clever. More clever than a dog should be. He told me about how at one point, he and his friend were mildly inebriated and ran out of smokes. His friend held up the empty pack of cigarettes and half-jokingly asked Penny to grab another pack. Ten minutes later, she came out of the house with the cigarettes held gently in her mouth.

She also would have made a heck of a magician's assistant. She would grab coins in her mouth and spit it into your hand - which ever side you wanted, heads or tails.

I never knew the younger Penny. I just knew her as my "good old, arthritic girl." She was a sweet soul who was gentle with Tony and Jill's daughter Lily. I often play with Mooche, Tony's younger, more spry dog out on the front lawn. It broke my heart to see her try and play fetch. I will sometimes throw some scraps Mooche's way, but I always took time to hand-feed Penny.

So here's to you, Penny. We don't know your exact birthday, but we know you were around 13 or 14 years old (that's around 91 or 98 dog years). You lived a full life, but I only knew you for a couple of them. Hopefully you're gazing down at us from dog heaven, where the world is your fire hydrant. Lift up a leg and pour some out for a very good girl.

(Mooche is the one on the left; Penny is the more feeble-looking one on the right)

Live! from the 2012 Republican National Convention

(as the opening ceremony comes to a close, John Boehner approaches the mic)

Boehner: How about that, ladies and gentlemen! Let's hear it for The Dancing Palins and their lovely choreographer, Marcus Bachmann!

Mr. Bachmann: (waving and blowing kisses to the crowd) Thank you! I love you all!

Boehner: Now join me in welcoming the Republican Party's black friend, Herman Cain!

(Herman Cain approaches the mic as "99 Problems (But a Bitch Ain't One)" by Jay-Z plays)

Cain: Brothers and sisters, welcome... to the 2012 Republican National Convention!

(applause)

Cain: They said a black man couldn't be President. But they also said a black man can't vote Republican!

(more applause)

Cain: The Democrats are a party of guilt and entitlement. They are the party of "white guilt." Well, I for one have never experienced any "white guilt"!

(the audience now is more quiet, with the exception of Ted Nugent who is applauding raucously. Colin Powell is seen in the audience, shaking his head solemnly with his face in the palm of his hand)

Cain: The Democrats are the party of entitlement. Where they say "yes, yes," I say "Nine! Nine! Nine!"

(the audience is now completely silent. Even Ted Nugent has a look of confusion on his face)

(as Herman Cain is escorted off stage, Donald Trump enters, strutting up to the microphone. There is little, apprehensive applause, which The Donald greets as a warm welcome)

Trump: Barack Obama is a Nigerian...

(this is all Trump has time to say before security rushes to forcibly remove Trump from the stage)

Trump: (yelling) You're fired, Barack! You're fired! I'll fire ya! I'll fire ya from a cannon, I don't care!

(sensing trouble, John Boehner makes a bold, desperate move)

Boehner: L-ladies and g-g-gentlemen! Former Vice President, Dick Cheney!

(for some reason, there is applause. Maybe it's because of his most recent heart surgery, or maybe they actually really like him, but their is applause. But as he approaches the microphone, Dick Cheney appears to be less a feeble, old man, and more of a Sith Lord. He approaches the stage clad in a dark, hooded robe. The hood is up, so as to obscure the features of his face)

Lord Cheney: (looks over the audience) I've been called evil.

(the audience boos. Dick Cheney lifts a hand, and the audience's boos die down)

Lord Cheney: I have been called evil. I've been called a liar. A hypocrite. A warmonger. Evil.

(Cheney raises his hands and shoots electricity from his fingertips, killing a row of attendees. Incredibly, the audience applauds)

Lord Cheney: Am I evil? Would a truly evil man come bearing a gift?

(more applause)

Lord Cheney: Look! Behold with your own eyes, the gift which I have brought to you!

(even more applause)

Lord Cheney: Reagan... rise!

(the applause now is deafening as a figure rises from a trick door in the stage. Clad in an entirely black robotic suit, but wearing a striped American flag necktie, the masked figure approaches the mic, breathing heavily, as though in severe pain, or severely asthmatic. The audience quiets down so as to allow the cloaked, masked figure to speak)

Darth Reagan: ...Jellybeans.

(the audience howls with approval)

Lord Cheney: My gift... to you.

(the audience is professing their undying love to their undying prophet, Dick Cheney. Dick Cheney raises a finger to silence the crowd)

Lord Cheney: And that is not the only friend from the '80s I've brought back to you. I now call forward the League of Villains.

(Skeletor, Shredder, and Cobra Commander come through the curtain. They carry in their hands a copy of The Necronomicon)

Cobra Commander: Join usssss, minionsssssss! Join ussssss now in a mossssssssst sssssssssacred prayer; Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Klaatu verata nicto!

(there is a moment's silence, as the beastly deity Cthulhu crashes through the ceiling. The creature shrieks an awful shriek and Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan take the stage)

Romney: What a night! And what a heartwarming prayer, Commander. You know, I'm a religious man myself....

(I turn away to leave, and run into Ron Paul and Jon Huntsman)

Huntsman: This is too much.

Paul: Ya know, I'm pretty popular with libertarians, maybe I'll run as a Libertarian as a running mate to Gary Johnson...

Me: Nah, the Republicans ruined libertarianism for me.

Huntsman: I figured I'll just ride it out. In four years, maybe they'll be ready for somebody different. How bad can things really get?

(there is a scream heard from the stage followed by horrified screams of thousands of registered Republicans. We look at the stage and see Cthulhu eating Dick Cheney)

Me: Looks like things are getting better already.

Admiral Ackbar's Bogus Journey

Untrue Life Stories: Exaggerated Accounts from Unreal Situations, part one

This series will focus on the exploits and the day-to-day life of Brent Orgill (who responds to different names in different audiences), a cinephile with male-pattern baldness and an eating disorder. Brent decided to quit his minimum wage job at a well-known fast food restaurant and become a guerrilla filmmaker - that is to say, he walks around with a cheap video camera and bothers his friends. On his first outing (that is to say, out of his parents' house and past the couple of blocks on the street where he lives), Brent decided to videotape his trip to Arizona to visit his friend, Dane Sears.

Orgill referred to Dane as "The Atheist Pope." Dane was a student physicist, mathematician, and militantly anti-theist. Upon their first meeting, he and Dane became fast friends, despite the fact (or perhaps because of) they were admittedly hard to get along with. In his short time in Rexburg, Orgill had never met anyone quite like him; an atheist.

Brent was expecting a visit full of warmer climate and nostalgia. The Pope had other plans.

When Brent arrived at the address in the taxicab he had acquired at the airport (Orgill doesn't like driving), he wasn't quite sure he was at the right place. It appeared to be an abandoned elementary school. The lawn was dead and yellow; the roof looked as though it could collapse at the faintest of wind; used condoms and needles littered the walkway.

"You sure this is the place?" asked the cabby in a thick Hispanic accent.

"No," Brent smiled. "But I got the feeling it is."

"Place ought to be condemned..." the cabby muttered as he accepted his fare.

Camera in hand, Brent knocked the door. There was no response. So he knocked again. Again, there was no response. Beginning to worry that he looked like a creep standing in front of an abandoned school, he opened the door and waved the cabby off. As he entered, he could hear something stirring in the back. Probably Dane, he thought. Or possibly a homicidal crack whore. Either way.

As Brent approached the cafeteria of the abandoned school, he could smell faint odors of dried vomit and Pine-Sol. Suddenly he heard it; the unexpected, but unmistakable mutterings of an ape. It seemed content, but it made Brent feel decidedly discontent. He called out hopefully, "Dane..?"

Dane popped his head out of the cafeteria. "Brent? Good, you made it!"

Dane looked to Brent like the standard, stereotypical Aryan - "the master race" they so often joked about. His eyes were blue, his head was shaven, giving him an "Anton Goeth meets Anton LaVey" look. Dane took him into the room, and there on a table in a dog kennel was a chimp.

"A bonobo chimp, actually." Dane explained.

"You mean those hyper-sexual chimps?" Brent asked excitedly. "The ones that use sex to express themselves?"

"Yeah, but it's not the one I asked for." Dane said impatiently.

"Wait, so why did you need a chimp?" Brent asked.

"Why do you need to videotape this?" Dane countered.

As they sat at the table, Orgill explained that he was taking up guerrilla filmmaking, and that he intended to film everything. His camera was old (old to the point where it seemed comically oversized), but he got a decent deal for it at a pawn shop - the camera and about two dozen tapes with which to film. Dane, in turn, explained that he was making a very secret, very private experiment to prove evolution once and for all.

Dane, in his time off from school (and between shifts of pizza delivery), had built what he called an "evolution chamber," a capsule which accelerated the evolutionary process.

"But," Brent replied, "how does it work?"

"The answer came to me in a dream," Dane answered. "I know it sounds cliche, but that's how it happened. I was spending my nights mostly playing Dead Space and wondering how I could finally disprove the creationist theory once and for all."

"Hasn't it already been pretty much disproven?" Brent asked. "I mean, I don't necessarily believe evolution disproves the existence of God, but regardless of your theological beliefs, I was under the impression that evolution was pretty much indisputable."

Dane sighed. "The theist's idiocy knows no bounds, Brent. I wanted to take hard evidence and shove in their fat, stupid faces. And the answer has been there all along. Everyone knows it. It's so simple. 2 + 2 = 4."

Brent stood in silence for a minute. "I understand completely," he jested.

Dane smiled. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. But the evidence is there. And it always has been."

"Okay, I'll go along with this, but only because I acknowledge that you're smarter than me," Brent said. "But how do you know this will work?"

Dane smiled and looked at Orgill for a moment before laughing, "This isn't the first time I've conducted this experiment, merely the most elaborate."

Brent sat forward. "When?"

Dane laughed again. "You're not going to believe me."

"Tell me." Brent demanded. "Who was the guinea pig?"

"It actually was a Guinea pig..." Dane answered.

"I see what you did there. Very clever. But dude, just tell me!" Orgill pleaded.

Dane sat back, amused. "You know him as 'Muffinman.'"

Brent sat in silence. Then he stood up and walked around the room, as though in contemplation. Then, he started laughing. "Muffinman," he laughed. "That idiot is an actual Guinea pig. I can totally see it. I knew there was no one dumb enough to call themselves 'Muffinman.'"

"No, you don't understand," Dane laughed. "I named him Kevin. He named himself 'Muffinman.'"

They laughed hysterically.

Orgill wiped away a tear. "Okay, then. What's this fella's name?"

"So far?" Dane answered. "Just 'Experiment Number Two.'"

"What? That's an awful name, man!" Brent exclaimed.

"Well, that's all I got," Dane said. "What else should I do when my last experiment changed his name?"

"Well name him something." Brent shrugged. "How about Admiral Ackbar?"

"Why Admiral Ackbar?" Dane asked.

"Well, why not?" Brent responded. "It's what I suggest everybody name their pets. It's what I suggested my friend Sebastian name his fish, until it was pummeled to death by Boba Fett."

"Fine." Dane replied. "But you're part of this experiment now, so now you're gonna have to help."

Apprehensive, Brent agreed. Dane explained that he had done his best to maintain a natural environment for the bonobo, going so far as to bribe a zookeeper to take care of it for a few days. But there were problems when the other chimpanzees didn't get along with him, forcing the .

"What's considered problem-solving to one chimp is considered rape to another," Brent mused.

"So goes life," joked Dane.

As Brent and Dane strapped a tranquil Admiral Ackbar into the capsule, Dane offered a word of caution.

"Muffinman was a fluke. There was no controlled environment, no natural habitat. Kevin was born in and sold from a pet shop. Admiral Ackbar has been in Arizona fresh out of the Congo for five days. The most time he's spent in a cage is for about 3 hours today. He goes in a bonobo, but we have no certainty of what he comes out as."

They set the dials and sealed the capsule. Dane pulled a lever, and six minutes later, out of the capsule emerged a short, bipedal creature. His cranium was considerably large in proportion to the rest of his body, with a heavy brow. He appeared as a troglodytic dwarf, but with a slender body. Finally, he spoke.

"Out of the jungle... for this? So-called civilization that rejects science and embraces monogamy?"

Brent smiled. "Well, Pope. I think you may have found a friend for life."

Dane smiled back. "So, what are you going to do with the footage?"

Brent shrugged. "I dunno. I never really intended to be the cameraman for the Discovery channel. I guess I'll just wait till something better comes along. Can we go out and do something boring now, like get something to eat and maybe catch a movie? That's what I was under the impression I was going to film."

Untrue Life Stories

It has occurred to me that most of my posts are political or cinematic in nature. As such, I think it's time for something different. Therefor, I have decided to dedicate one post per month to writing a short story.

I am a cinephile and would like to make a living in "the pictures" someday, writing and directing movies. However, I also quite enjoy writing short stories. Indeed, this is one reason I excelled in English classes (and by "excelled," I mean "got higher than a C+"). But even so, I think I'd like to try something a little different.

"Fan fiction," as defined by Wikipedia, is a broadly defined term for fan labor regarding stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than the creator. In other words, it is original plagiarism written by obsessed fans. Some popular settings are Harry Potter, the Twilight series, or even Pride & Prejudice. Personally, I've never been a big enough fan of any given book or movie to base my own stories on them (except for once in the sixth or seventh grade with Harry Potter, but that hardly counts). I am, however, a big fan of my friends, and have often thought of putting them in my stories. As such, these may be considered "friend fiction." They will be stories about me and some real-life friends in unreal-life situations. You can take solace in knowing that I won't be writing "erotic friend fiction" (usually).

(if you have not yet seen Bob's Burgers, watch it now. if you have seen it and do not like it, throw yourself into an oncoming bus)

I've chosen to call these stories Untrue Life Stories: Exaggerated Accounts from Unreal Situations by yours truly. It follow me as I travel around with a video camera, pursuing a career as a "guerrilla filmmaker," recording day-to-day life, including, but not limited to; time travel, pseudo science, magic, playing God, evolution, Satan's personal hygiene and dietary preferences, alien life forms, the zombie apocalypse, super  powers, or animals that look cute until they are wet.

(wet koala; be afraid)

I plan on starting next week. I would start today, but I am so far unsure which story to start with and am looking for further input. And I dare not start it any later, because of the approaching Republican and Democratic National Conventions.

(the Republican National Convention; be very afraid)

Democracy Now, Apocalypse Later

Ah, the Presidential race. Like a twisted game of Wheel of Fortune, it can really end any number of ways. Mitt Romney is a two-faced, flip-flopping villain with too much hair gel and not enough determination. Not to be outdone, Barack Obama has proven to be just as indecisive and deprived of integrity as Romney (as proven by his hesitancy to support gay marriage), which is sad, 'cause I want to like the guy; after all, he's the freakin' President, and probably will be for another four years. Quit telling me Obama has helped the economy - he's inherited a shitstorm and has only contributed to it. Quit telling me Romney will do better - based on his track record, I have no reason to believe he will. Ron Paul has a strong libertarian following, but as I've come to learn, he truly is unelectable, based on the fact that no one will elect him. I like Jon Huntsman and only hope there is still a United States when he runs for President in 2016.

I say this, but I have yet to vote for the President. Yes, my first year of age to contribute to the democratic process, I was out of the country, and was unable (and unwilling) to vote, due to my gross misinformation about the candidates. All I knew was it was a black guy against a white chick (because let's face it, Sarah Palin was really the determining factor in 2008). Should I have voted, it probably would have been for Obama, because Brazilians were strongly in favor of "the black guy." And I don't think anybody who doesn't do their share for democracy is at liberty to criticize the government. So who will I vote for come November?

Cue the spotlight.

That's right, I'm announcing my bid for President. I'm registered as a Republican (due mainly to the fact that I live in Utah, and registering as anything but Republican outside of Salt Lake City is pretty much futile). You see, I wanted to contribute to the democratic process, but nobody told me democracy is dead. Seriously, the way they do primaries is laughable. So although I'm currently registered as a Republican, I will be re-registering as an Independent. But if I may be so bold, I will be running under the The Rent is Too Damn High ticket. I would like to offer Jimmy McMillan the position for Chief of Staff. I would further like to appoint Herman Cain as the Secretary of Treasury, Jon Huntsman as Secretary of State (if no one else is going to give him the job he deserves, I'll give him one), and Vince Vaughn as Vice President (he's the only logical choice). I'm not married, so I'd like to extend an open tryout for my First Lady (I'll admit it; it's a personal choice).

So.. what do I have to offer?

As President, I promise you this;

First, I will finally hold those MMA-style fights pitting Bill O'Reilly against Bill Maher, Rush Limbaugh against Michael Moore, and Glenn Beck against... who is the Glenn Beck of the left? Is there anyone that idiotic on any side but his own? The matches will be announced by Vince Vaughn and myself, with Stephen Colbert as our ring announcer. All money made from the event will be contributed to the economy.

(I doubt they'd turn down the offer to fight)

Would anybody miss the Dakotas? North or South? Including those who live there? 'Cause we're gonna sell them to China! We gotta pay off that deficit somehow, and really, who's gonna miss it? We can use Mt. Rushmore as our U.S. Embassy for China. And this way you could tell people you've been to another country! What fun!

(renovations will need to be made)

Know how to stop the illegal immigrant problem at its source? Give the U.S. and Mexico what they both want; make Mexico a state. Mexicans then will receive the same benefits of an American citizen, and the U.S. will get another taxable, profitable state!

(now, now - there'll be no need for that)

Do I have any other good ideas? I might...

And finally, if you vote for me, I will make all of your wildest dreams come true.

(I realize it's an old reference, but it's still a good one)

How Can I Compete with a Machete Sequel?

I want to be a screenwriter. I want to be a director. I want to make Alfred Hitchcockesque appearances in my films (not like the self-indulgent appearances by M. Night Shyamalan - I swear, his roles get so much bigger with every new movie, I was surprised that he wasn't the main character in The Last Airbender). In short, I want to be the next Orson Welles (pre-depression-and-alcoholism). I think a lot of crap is getting made, and moviegoers deserve better. I believe I can give them something better. With an incredible (and increasingly so) lack of originality in Hollywood, I think I can give the people something original (with the exception of a C.H.U.D. remake). I frequently brainstorm and write out ideas I have for movies I want to make. Some of them are bigger than I can afford, so the idea is to start out small. Having spent my days with amateur filmmakers has taught me to keep it within budget - and realistically achievable.

(achievability must be realistic, which says nothing of the special effects)

But then I found out about Machete Kills.

How the hell can I compete with that? How can anyone compete with that?

(wait! we're getting to that!)

I'm not being condescending (not really, anyway). As much crap as I like to give Hollywood, I sincerely take solace in movies like Machete and The Expendables. I struggle to eloquently describe the hope they give me, but basically, it's this - Hollywood has become self-aware, and in recent years, this has presented a problem, producing movies such as Scary Movie (or any of those other awful Scary Movie movies, like Date Movie or Epic Movie), and as bad as those all are, it gave birth to the self-aware non-parody.

The Expendables is the same thing you've seen before and injected with steroids and heroin. Basically, they made an action movie before they had a chance to make the Scary Movie/Action Movie. They took all the action heroes from days past and put them all in one movie. Sylvester Stallone, Jason Statham, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, Mickey Rourke, and Terry Crews, with appearances by Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger. The Expendables 2 adds Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris to the mix. I can smell the napalm and cheese already. Lay it on me! 

(I assume the tagline is "I think that's all of 'em.")

Machete is a neo-exploitation film that stars Danny Trejo as the lead character (and with Danny freakin' Trejo in the lead, you can rest assured it's gonna be awesome - he's been in like 100 movies, usually as the bad guy or a henchmen - even if you don't know him, you've seen him in something). Also featured in the cast were Lindsay Lohan (probably the best role she's had in years, all things considered), Cheech Marin (yes, Cheech of Cheech & Chong fame), Steven Seagal (the man needs work, and he's not above taking a role), and Robert De Niro (!) as a corrupt Texas State Senator with Jessica Alba and Michelle Rodriguez supplying the eye candy. Not to be outdone by The Expendables 2, Machete Kills is gonna up the ante with Amber Heard (the winner of the very first Random Examiner Man of the Year Award - "The Randy"), Vanessa Hudgens (apparently, she's taking roles to distance herself from the child-friendly High School Musical movies, but I gotta say... if you've got nude pics of yourself online, I think you've got all the distance you need from Disney), Charlie Sheen (yeah, as the President), and Mel Gibson (!) as a billionaire arms dealer with Ms. Alba and Ms. Rodriguez reprising their sexy roles.

(and just as in all of his sitcoms to date, I assume his character will also be named Charlie)

So maybe in a few years, Hollywood will be ready for something fresh. When I'm ready, they'll be ready. Good things are coming. The best is yet to come.