If you’ve ever said “Nothing ruins a movie more than a screaming baby,” you should look at the headlines coming out of Colorado this morning.
That’s right: someone brought a 3-month-old baby to a midnight showing of the final movie in the Batman trilogy.
Don’t you hate it when that happens?
It totally ruins the movie.
And if you call the ushers in on them, you end up looking like an asshole.
“We can’t find a babysitter this late at night!” they whine.
Why are they bringing a baby to a midnight showing in the first place?
That’s just sick.
Tag: commentary
Toot
I’ve often been accused of tooting my own horn too much.
This is an outrage!
Unlike others, who do it out in public, I have the decency to reserve a rehearsal room for my tooting sessions.
The more I practice, the better I get.
Or, are they accusing me of not letting others toot my horn?
Why would I let them do that? I paid for it, It’s mine. Mine!
And just the thought of your lips on my mouthpiece. Ewwwwww! Grosssss!
Toot your own damn horn! Leave mine alone!
Now I have to boil the damn thing, you bastards!
People Are Stupid
Most people are stupid.
Despite the fact that most people are stupid, a tiny few are smart, and they come up with the things that keep the stupid ones from screwing it all up.
It only takes a few smart ones to invent things. And even smarter ones to dumb that stuff down so the stupid ones stop falling off cliffs or getting eaten by bears.
The extremely smart people want to let the bears eat the dumb ones and live in stupidity-free peace.
Which, I suppose, proves that the smart people aren’t as smart as they think they are.
In The Dead Of Night
The tooth fairies exchange money for teeth.
Then, the sandmen grind them up into dream dust.
Overprotective dogs aren’t a problem with a face full of dream dust, but motion-sensing alarms can be.
Then there’s the sandmen and fairies who think the whole racket is stupid, so they steal jewelry, credit cards, and MacBooks.
Don’t get me started with the bootleg videos of hot celebrities and models sleeping. The Council can barely deal with the Lindbergh baby incident, let alone Internet paparazzi stalker porn. Technology’s like magic to them.
We’ll pay for Lady Gaga’s dentures and a new laptop, okay?
The Search
The producer for NPR’s Fresh Air says that every time they listen to an interesting interview, they want to quit their job and do whatever the guest is doing.
This is the ultimate irony, because the more they love their job, the more they want to quit it and do something else.
They said the next interview is with a guest searching for extraterrestrial life.
Endless years of scanning radio waves for signals.
Boring!
I believe in being so interesting and unusual, extraterrestrial life seeks ME out.
And if we never find it, well, at least we had fun, right?
Chicken Soup
My mother always said that chicken soup cures all ills.
When I got older, I had the temerity to question this.
“Yes. Every one of them,” she said.
“What about crazy people?” I asked.
“Hit them in the head with the can until they shut up,” she said.
That night on the news, the Supreme Court was debating legality of chemical castration of a rapist.
“I bet chicken soup couldn’t cure him,” I said.
“Mine would,” said my mother.
And she poured the hot soup in my lap.
She handed me the phone. “Feel like calling your shiksa girlfriend now?”
Writing Cap
Sometimes, I get too busy to write during the day, and my notepad is blank.
So, as I’m stumbling off to bed, I put on my Writing Cap, drink a glass of Creative Juices, and go to sleep.
The Writing Cap is supposed to pick up my brainwaves, translate them into stories, and feed them to my cell phone via Bluetooth.
Instead, it irritates my scalp and makes my hair fall out quicker.
The Creative Juices cause gut-wrenchingly awful constipation.
I call that writer’s block in the worst possible way.
(At least it’s wireless. No more strangling on the cords.)
Bloomberg
The elevator groaned under the weight of the morbidly obese passengers inside.
*BING*
The doors opened, and the mayor, pinned to the wall, squeezed his way out into the hallway.
He sighed, dashed out a quick note, and headed to the press room.
Dozens of fat reporters, tossing questions at him.
“SHUT UP!” he shouted. “SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Everyone went silent.
“AS OF NOW, NO MORE SUPER SIZED SUGAR BEVERAGES! SMALLER PORTION SIZES IN RESTAURANTS! WE’RE GONNA GET FUCKIN’ HEALTHY!”
The mayor’s decree took effect, and people just got fatter.
Because they order two of the smaller portions now.
The Temple
There are 100 steps up the hill to get to The Temple Of The Golden Monkey.
At each step, acolytes are challenged by the monks to tell a story 100 words long.
“You have a week to come up with one!” shouts the temple priest.
Upon hearing the acolyte’s story, the monks invite that student to take a step up.
But if an acolyte fails to tell a story, they are sent back down the hill to return to their village.
Or try again.
It takes almost two years to ascend the steps and become a monk.
Ready?
Then begin!
There’s an app for that
I write most of my stories on my smartphone, tapping them out with an app called Draftpad.
It’s a simple notepad program that puts a wordcount on the top of the screen.
This is very handy for writing stories exactly 100 words long. The standard notes app doesn’t do wordcounts.
Even though it can back itself up to the iCloud, it also lets you email a story to yourself. And I can send it to WordPress and Google Plus for publishing.
What it doesn’t do is make my phone waterproof.
That’s the last time I write stories in the tub.