Tuesday, June 10, 2008

M. Nightwatch

The Happening's been screened for critics and the results are said to be horrific. But the question remains: is it horrific enough to be fun to go and jeer at, like Lady in the Water (a.k.a. That of Which We Do Not Speak), or just horrificly boring, like The Village (a.k.a. That Other One of Which We Do Not Speak)?

My theory is that plants, in an act of revenge for us destroying the environment, are releasing a gas that forces M. Night Shyamalan to make movies. A sequel, It Happened, will concentrate on the unfortunate moviegoers who go to see the original Happening. Afterwards they all leave the theater and methodically commit suicide in a variety of gruesome ways. Plus there'll be a full on frontal scene of Marky Mark, so studios can bill it as Shyamalan's first NC-17 picture.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Entirely Mostly True

Things happen for a reason. For instance, I never buy new clothes, because I look good in everything. Still I probably should buy new clothes now and then--but it's always easier to just wash the same old thing.

However, last time I put my whites through the wash, they came out speckled with marks of blue. Ink. Looking through my drawers, I found ink on all sorts of clothing, formal clothing, business casual, bright colors, workout clothes. Obviously there was a bit of ink somewhere in my wardrobe, and one washing spread it to others, and the next washing spread it to another load, until we had an epidemic on our hands.

So I picked through all my shelves and closets looking for infected bits of clothing. Blacks had to go as a rule--ink wouldn't show up on them anyway. Casualties were high.

Finally, I found a pair of shorts with a big puddle of ink on one of the pockets. Aha! thought I. So I opened up the pocket, and KERSPLOOSH! a squid leapt out and wrapped itself around my face. So I'm blind, dancing around the apartment, muffled cries for help coming out, with a squid enveloping my head like a big wet turban, and my roommate Bob comes in, sees me and my squid-bonnet and starts yelling hysterically: "Oh my God! It's Squidman! I knew this wasn't over!" So now I'm trying to pop a half a dozen tentacles from round my neck while trying to convince Bob to put the shotgun down. Eventually we managed to cram the thing into the garbage disposal.

Now I've got to buy new clothes and lock my door when I sleep, because I don't know who the hell Squidman is and I don't want to find out.