spatch: (Default)
I've accumulated a whole bunch of stuff I made over the past 7 years and for some of them, I've completely forgotten the context. So I shall regularly post some random bit of flotsam. You'll have to just come up with some context yourself.

spatch: (Rocket Man!)
LISA NOWAK GOES TO WAL-MART
By R. Noyes, age 32

INT. WAL-MART CHECKOUT COUNTER - DAY

(LISA NOWAK dumps the contents of her shopping basket on the checkout conveyor belt in front of the BORED TEENAGED CASHIER.)

TEENAGED CASHIER
(mumbling to himself as he scans each item)
Lessee... one wig... paira sunglasses... pepper spray... trench coat... steel mallet... 4-foot length of rubber tubing... Camper's Choice 4-inch folding knife... Lil' Oswald BB pistol... box of 30-gallon garbage bags... and one pack of Depends.

(The TEENAGED CASHIER finishes the order, looks over the items, and then stares dully at LISA NOWAK. There is an AWKWARD PAUSE.)

LISA NOWAK
(nervously glancing around)
Is there something wrong?

(The TEENAGED CASHIER sighs.)

LISA NOWAK
What?!

TEENAGED CASHIER
(perfunctorily)
Would-you-like-to-make-a-$1-donation-to-the-Helping-Hearts-Children's-Fund?

LISA NOWAK
(quickly)
No! No.

TEENAGED CASHIER
Then the total is $389.32.

(LISA NOWAK hands TEENAGED CASHIER a credit card. TEENAGED CASHIER stares dully at the credit card, then back at LISA NOWAK. There is another AWKWARD PAUSE as his eyes meet hers.)

LISA NOWAK
Oh god, now what?!

(The TEENAGED CASHIER sighs again.)

TEENAGED CASHIER
Credit or debit?

LISA NOWAK
Debit.


fin
spatch: (Default)
Here it is, folks, your Moment of Denouement.
Music, Maestro? *ahem*

You and I in our little workshop
Making LED lights from the money we got
Hanging glowies before dawn
Til one by one, they're all done
Three weeks later, MBTA subway
Worker sees one, he goes "Oh hey,
Better call the bomb squad by
Cause ninety-nine Mooninites have arrived"

Ninety-nine Mooninites
Hanging from the overpass
With their middle fingers high
As if to say "Hub, kiss my ass"
Here's Ignignokt, that one's Err
But Boston does not know for sure
The Aqua Teens are advertised
By ninety-nine Mooninites in the sky

Ninety-nine cops on the scene
Can't believe what they've just seen
There's batteries and wires, too
And no one knows just what to do
They look explosive, clench your fists
They must be from terrorists!
We better blast them to the sky
Cause ninety-nine Mooninites must die

Ninety-nine white vans arrive
All with TV crews inside
Everyone's a news reporter
Everyone's a Chet or Nat
Breathlessly they cause a panic
Are these bombs or just Satanic?
Suddenly the bloggers cry
"Wait a minute, those are Mooninites!"

Ninety-nine lulz we have had
And all because of Pete and Sean
It's all over, but Menino's mumbling
Words like "hoax" to hide his bumbling
Folks are selling souvenirs
To commemorate our Day of Fear
And here is a Mooninite
I check eBay and make my bid...
spatch: (Venture Bros - Henchman)
The WWE (formerly the WWF until the other WWF sued 'em) is reporting that wrassler Scott "Bam Bam" Bigelow is dead at the age of 45. Bigelow was a classic heel, a mustachioed bad guy whose bald head was covered in tattoos. He was often accompanied by one of the scariest wrasslin' ladies this side of Sensational Sherri.

But Bam Bam Bigelow was one of the few wrestlers I ever marked out for, and all because of one drunken couple.

For those not familiar with wrestling terminology, a "mark" is one who believes wholly in the 'sport' of professional wrestling; one who takes in the whole spectacle hook, line and sinker, and who doesn't believe (or doesn't care -- or want -- to believe) that the outcomes are pre-determined and storylines plotted out months in advance. In other words, a sucker.

And to "mark out" is, well, to behave like a mark. To throw yourself headlong into the match and support your favorite as if you are the one whose cheers and screams really matter. I haven't followed professional wrestling for a long time now; the WWF of the 1980s was camp, fun kid's stuff and accordingly, as a kid I ate it right up, but nowadays I see this "soap opera for men" and its overblown innuendo and every type of stereotype-bashing and I realize who they're playing to now, and it's not me.

But good old fashioned pro wrestling, with Mean Gene Oakerlund, Hulk Hogan, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Jake "The Snake" Roberts, Bret "Hitman" Hart and Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart, Superfly Jimmy Snuka, "The Birdman" Koko B. Ware, Mr. Perfect, Leapin' Lanny Poffo (Randy Savage's brother who would later become "The Genius"), and good old Barry Horowitz, the professional self-backpatting jobber who could always be counted on to throw a match to help bring a new name up... those were the guys my brothers and I grew up on.

This, then, brings us to Bam Bam Bigelow and the Great Mark-Out. It must have been I think the fall of 1993; it was my little brother's birthday and I'd given him floor seats to the WWF show when it came to our neck of the woods. We went along with my other little brother. I honestly can't remember any of the matches on the card except for a particularly tiresome Doink the Clown match with midget Doinks coming out from under the ring -- I always hated Doink's angle -- and Bam Bam's, because that's when this couple next to us got real excited. They must've saved up for months to make it to this match (I know I did, and I was a broke college student) and it became readily clear they'd only come to see Bam Bam do his thing.

The woman had crammed herself into a pair of fancy goin-out spandex pants and a halter top which had been stretched to the point of obscenity. She smelled like she'd been dipped in booze, I mean literally picked up with a giant pair of tweezers and dropped in a giant vat of Jack Daniels in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Her companion was this tall skinny drink of water with an Adam's apple three times the size of his throat and a pencil thin mustache he must've been working on for months now. The woman first endeared herself to us when she loudly proclaimed early on "I smell PATCHOULI around here! D'you know the ONLY PEOPLE who wear PATCHOULI are? They're the ones SMOKE THE WEED!!" Sure, perhaps she was right, but "I smell patchouli around here!" became a long-lasting catch-phrase between me and my brothers, ranking right up there with "Hey guess what? They have comigs, and cheetahs run fast." (Don't ask.)

The skinny guy didn't say much until Bam Bam Bigelow came out. Bam Bam was a real heel at the time; he'd probably just done something nasty to a fan favorite on a recent TV broadcast and was getting a lot of heat (fan attention) for it. His entrance was heralded with a lot of booing and object-throwing whatnot; his no-name jobber opponent was already in the ring, just counting the seconds until he could fall for a 3-count. As soon as the tall guy saw the bald, tattooed head approaching ringside, he just exploded in a mark-out the likes of which I'd never seen before and probably won't see again. He shot up like a rocket and started punching the air with a gangly fist, knocking his black mesh cap off in the process. Then he started hollerin like you wouldn't believe. It was religious, if your religion involves cussin like a sumbitch.

"YEAH, BAM BAM!! BAM BAM!! MOTHERFUCKIN BAM BAM!! KICK HIS ASS, BAM BAM! KICK HIS FUCKIN ASS!!"

The lady started providing similar encouragement to Bam Bam, who of course didn't need any of it but received it anyway. It was at this point my brothers and I looked at each other and shrugged. What else could we do? We joined in as well.

"YEAH! KICK HIS FUCKIN ASS, BAM BAM! DO IT, BAM BAM! YEAAAAH! INTO THE FUCKIN TURBUCKLE, BAM BAM!! THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT! FUCK YEAH! KICK THE CRAP OUT OF HIM, BAM BAM! OH, WHAT'D HE DO? DON'T TAKE THAT SHIT FROM HIM, BAM BAM! YOU GOT HIM NOW, BAM BAM! AHAHAHAHAHA! FUCKIN TAKE THAT! ONE! TWO! THREE! YEAAAAAAAAH! YOU'RE THE MAN, BAM BAM BIGELOW, YOU'RE THE FUCKIN MAN!"

We let ourselves get caught up in the fan emotion and gleefully helped this crazy couple cheer on their favorite. We probably were the only five people in the place who, right then and there, actually cared for the big, mean, evil guy who was going to win anyway. But as far as we were concerned, this was the best thing we'd ever done at a match since we'd run to ringside in the late 80s and rubbed the Bushwhackers' sweaty Aussie heads for good luck.

Rest well, Bam Bam Bigelow. I'm gonna miss that guy. One of God's own prototypes.
spatch: (Abbie onna Table)
Ask anyone who knows me, I'm an easygoing cat
I'm all about the chilling out, I've got the cool down pat
Don't really ask for nothing much, life's all good on the whole
But tonight there ain't no cat food in my bowl.

I've endured a few indignities in my time upon this earth
From jokes about my fuzziness to cracks about my girth
With patience I have borne these barbs that'd try another's soul--
But I'm offended there's no cat food in my bowl.

I didn't mind the time you gave me bows to make me pretty
Or rolled me in a blanket just to play Burrito Kitty
Or wrapped me 'round your shoulders and said "Hey, check out my fur stole!"
But I mind that there's no cat food in my bowl.

Now if I had my way, of course, I'd rule with iron paw
My merest whim a grand command, my meow would be the law
But my job here's to be the cat; provider is your role
So provide me with some cat food in my bowl.

All right, you've had your slumber, and your dreams of god-knows-what
But it's time that you addressed this pressing problem that I've got
Cause I'm a screamin' hungry cuss who's 'bout to lose control
...well hey look now, there's some cat food in my bowl.

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