It's just one of those days, you know? The PILLS HERE are all over you, and half the Discordians have found uniforms for themselves and the weather's lousy and you didn't want to get out of bed this morning...Not because you were still tired, but because there just didn't seem to be much sense in getting out of bed.
Plant's broke. Plant's always broke...And I grow weary of playing Mr Scott, at least when the Enterprise's bridge is loaded with half-retarded people who can't see the reality of the situation. I grow weary of The City, with its collection of meth-addled po'buckers and the pay'buckers who tell them what to think for themselves. It seems the Church of the Subgenius was right about one thing...You will PAY to know what you really think.
The humor of the situation is there, still, but it's turned to repetitive slapstick. It's Stan Laurel beating Oliver Hardy to death with the ladder, instead of just "accidentally" whacking it with him when he turns around. Stan's mad, you see, because when he explained to Oliver what kind of mess Oliver got him into THIS time, Oliver lost his shit and told him to take responsibility for his own actions. Stan didn't like that much.
The whole country is Stan. I'm pretty sure there's loads of Stan in England, too...And I imagine he has a bone or two to pick with the English Oliver, just like this blood-spattered Stan over on this side of the pond.
"A FINE MESS YOU'VE GOTTEN ME INTO THIS TIME!", he screams, ramming the ladder's feet down over and over again. Then he gazes out to us, through the screen, and says, "What are YOU looking at? YOU want some of this, too?"
The audience does not. The audience in fact was wondering when he'd finally get around to doing that, because Laurel is not a particularly good American. He has that little smile that says he understands everything about Stan, but hangs out with him anyway, because anyone else he found to hang out with is ALSO Stan. The audience knows this, too. They don't like to have it demonstrated to them, so they watch Stan kill Oliver, and they positively bay for blood while the fat guy shows that skinny hippie what's what.
Oliver's also facing the screen, on the ground, and he looks like Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky IV, all puffed up and bruised. He's trying to tell the audience something, some last punch line, one last gag on the way off stage, but all that comes out is "eeeeeeeeeee....", and then he's gone.
Stan puts his hat on. He looks down at Laurel, spits on him, gives him one last kick, and then wanders off into the distance while the old-timey black circle closes in on him.
Don't be freaked out or disgusted...It's only slapstick for the new millenium. There's an allegory lurking in there somewhere, but it's best not to question this sort of thing. At least not til you're alone someplace, where the Stans can't figure out what you're up to, anyway.
Or Kill Me
Off in the wings, Alice sobs, shaking, crouched in a corner. Ralph lies sprawled over the kitchen table, a carving knife jutting out of his back...
...across town, DHS cops burst through the door with assault rifles, smashing Ricky's face in, demanding to see his papers while Fred and Ethel smirk to themselves...
...Daisy locks her bedroom door at night these days, in case Uncle Jesse gets in one of his "moods" and does that to her again...
...Oh Andy, won't you please come home?
I was in an outlet mall one day, not too long ago. Or maybe it was months ago, but for the sake of conversation and the Law of Economy we will concede to describe it thusly: 'not too long ago'. This outlet mall was the type which sits on desolate highways, long ago abandoned for 4-lane super freeways... the type of highway which might sport fruit stands run by Amish, or flower stands run by failed pyramid-scheme salespeople. Outlet malls where the extras from Dawn of the Dead still roam, searching for that escalator. If they can find it, they will allow themselves a Double Down at the nearest KFC... and if they can't find it, well, there's gotta be an elevator somewhere.
I don't have the heart to mention to them that there is no second floor.
This is all there is.
I shouldn't be too flip, how can I squint down my considerable nose at them? I was wandering around in that shitbox too. No idea why, though, I always hate those places. Full of almost empty stores selling oil paintings of glacial lakes and wolves pissed off about something. Perfume stores which reek like that aunt who always wanted hugs just a little too desperately. Game shops which only seem to carry jigsaw puzzles, and stores which sell only belts. How does a store survive selling only belts?
At any rate, down in a rarely used corner I stumbled across a costume outlet store. The type which specializes in arrows through the head and plastic boobs. This was a little more my speed, so I wandered in... but was dismayed to find all the masks were round bloated eldritch faces sporting tiny hitler mustaches. In fact, the only stock on any of the shelves was this same mocking face. "Might I help you, Stan?" a wry voice asked from behind. I turned, staring into that globular mask. I tumbled backwards, knocking over some shelves. "A fine mess..." he gurgled, moving toward me with a long leather strap in hand. Or was it a slapstick?
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on July 06, 2012, 02:43:04 PM
Off in the wings, Alice sobs, shaking, crouched in a corner. Ralph lies sprawled over the kitchen table, a carving knife jutting out of his back...
...across town, DHS cops burst through the door with assault rifles, smashing Ricky's face in, demanding to see his papers while Fred and Ethel smirk to themselves...
...Daisy locks her bedroom door at night these days, in case Uncle Jesse gets in one of his "moods" and does that to her again...
...Oh Andy, won't you please come home?
Things are looking bad,
I know that you'd be mad,
To see your favorite men,
Prevail upon the land you love.
America's wondering
How we got here
Andy all we get is lies
We're gettin' safer cars
Rocket ships to mars
From men who'd sell us out
To get themselves a piece of power
We'd love to hear you speak your mind
In plain and simple ways
Call it like it was
Just like you did back in the days
You would counsel Opie
Each mornin' walk a mile
Speak of what was goin' down
In that downhome, folksy style.
Quote from: Hoopla on July 06, 2012, 02:51:37 PM
I was in an outlet mall one day, not too long ago. Or maybe it was months ago, but for the sake of conversation and the Law of Economy we will concede to describe it thusly: 'not too long ago'. This outlet mall was the type which sits on desolate highways, long ago abandoned for 4-lane super freeways... the type of highway which might sport fruit stands run by Amish, or flower stands run by failed pyramid-scheme salespeople. Outlet malls where the extras from Dawn of the Dead still roam, searching for that escalator. If they can find it, they will allow themselves a Double Down at the nearest KFC... and if they can't find it, well, there's gotta be an elevator somewhere.
I don't have the heart to mention to them that there is no second floor.
This is all there is.
I shouldn't be too flip, how can I squint down my considerable nose at them? I was wandering around in that shitbox too. No idea why, though, I always hate those places. Full of almost empty stores selling oil paintings of glacial lakes and wolves pissed off about something. Perfume stores which reek like that aunt who always wanted hugs just a little too desperately. Game shops which only seem to carry jigsaw puzzles, and stores which sell only belts. How does a store survive selling only belts?
At any rate, down in a rarely used corner I stumbled across a costume outlet store. The type which specializes in arrows through the head and plastic boobs. This was a little more my speed, so I wandered in... but was dismayed to find all the masks were round bloated eldritch faces sporting tiny hitler mustaches. In fact, the only stock on any of the shelves was this same mocking face. "Might I help you, Stan?" a wry voice asked from behind. I turned, staring into that globular mask. I tumbled backwards, knocking over some shelves. "A fine mess..." he gurgled, moving toward me with a long leather strap in hand. Or was it a slapstick?
Life would be more interesting, if we in America had that kind of Stan. We don't. It's not horror film violence, it's just another curb-stomping of all the Olivers they can catch. It's the banality of evil, spread out across our TV screens.
You can do something about that, can't you? Retouch the scene a little. Maybe just once, Oliver gets away, and maybe Stan is too busy chasing him to bother with pepper-spraying 83 year old grandmothers in Seattle.
We can dream, oh we can dream...
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on July 06, 2012, 02:43:04 PM
Off in the wings, Alice sobs, shaking, crouched in a corner. Ralph lies sprawled over the kitchen table, a carving knife jutting out of his back...
...across town, DHS cops burst through the door with assault rifles, smashing Ricky's face in, demanding to see his papers while Fred and Ethel smirk to themselves...
...Daisy locks her bedroom door at night these days, in case Uncle Jesse gets in one of his "moods" and does that to her again...
...Oh Andy, won't you please come home?
Gilligan kicks the mortal shit out of the professor. That smug
bastard. "NO COPS HERE, MR SMARTYPANTS! HAW HAW HAW!"...
Jack Tripper is beaten to a pulp by 220 pound homophobes, who aren't buying his story about keeping the landlord happy with his roommate situation...
Dust and acrid smoke rise from the M*A*S*H* unit, because it turns out that the North Koreans don't really have much respect for the big white & red crosses on their tents...
...And Charley Chaplin does his little dance on rollerskates, to the delight of moviegoers everywhere.
The Beav comes home from school one day, to find a silent house and a note in the kitchen that says, simply, "I can't fake it anymore. I'm sorry. Never forget that I love you. - Mom"
They find June three weeks later, on the beach in Santa Monica in a cute little rental convertible filled with empty liquor bottles, condom wrappers and cigarette boxes; the autopsy reveals that the cause of death is Valium overdose. The note in the glove box says something different this time, but that information is never released to the public.
Roger comes onscreen, lurching to his desk with a big Goddamn stone on his shoulders. He's obviously hopped up on PILLS HERE, and moves like he's walking through molasses. Sitting down at the computer, he looks at all the emergency tickets that have piled up in the whole 9 hours he was away from work.
"eeeeeeeeeee" he says, fumbling for his coffee mug. The stone gets a little bigger. <laughtrack>
Time to start the day. Meetings to attend, committees to chair, parts to scramble for. The daily business of keeping the machines going to make the feedstock for the plasma screens and iPods that make this great country what it is.
But wow, that stone got a whole lot bigger.
:cluephone:
Shit shit shit. 10 minutes to deal with 50 emails. 5 more minutes to deal with the inevitable employee issues of the day. 30 seconds to piss.
:cluephone:
Roger blearily looks at the camera, and fumbles his tagline. Something like "another day in paradise" or some such shit. But it doesn't come out that way. <loud laughtrack>
:cluephone:
Phone's ringing, Roger.
Gonna do something with this.
Ought to. Looks good! I'll see if I can come up with something for it.
It's always a good time, here in the land of SUN and FUN, FUN, FUN. It seems to be a rule that if you can get a job in Arizona, it must be inhumanly stressful. I bet Big Gay Cowboys never have days like this. No, for them it's all riding off into the sunset after saving polio victims from komodo dragons, and getting a big kiss from the horse.
I wish I had a job like that.
Instead, I deal with a refinery that is constantly on the edge of self-destruction, staffed by under-trained operators who are themselves led by lunatics and the mentally retarded. THIS IS NOT HOW I PICTURED THE FUTURE, BACK WHEN I WAS JUST A LITTLE GIRL.
In Portland, they have art gallery openings. In Arizona, we have excess radiation and toxic dumps called "landfills" that they build housing developments on/around. 25 years later, the ground starts to crack open and smoke comes out, AND NOBODY FUCKING NOTICES. It's just ANOTHER DAY.
Maybe it's just me and my bad attitude. Maybe this is the way things are supposed to be. Maybe the REAL future is out there somewhere in an alternate universe where people occasionally LEARN if you whack 'em hard enough in the right spot. Maybe over there, they learned from WWII and maybe they learned that supply-side economics doesn't work, and maybe they learned that after a certain level of wealth it's just gluttony, especially in a world full of hungry people.
And it occurs to me that in that world, Big Gay Cowboys wouldn't HAVE to save polio kids from gigantic fucking lizards, because polio would be wiped out and the lizards would be kept for eating congressmen.
LMNO walks onscreen, holding a bloody flensing knife.
Mrs LMNO: "Rough day, dear?"
LMNO: "It was that bastard Ray, from accounting. He'll never do THAT again."
*laughtrack*
*Noise from neigboring apartment*
Mrs LMNO: "Oh, it's that rotten neighbor. He's been beating his wife again."
LMNO grabs shotgun from closet, blows hole in wall. Noise stops. Mrs LMNO laughs.
LMNO: "What's so funny?"
Mrs LMNO: "I was only joking. That was the neighbor's kid, bumping the wall with his Bigwheel."
*laughtrack*
LMNO: "Oh, honey, you're SUCH a kidder!"
*laughtrack, fade out, theme music*
"Show me on Mrs. Beasley where Uncle Bill touched you."
*Fade in to Hoops sitting behind his desk at work talking on phone*
Hoops: "Hey, Johnny, come in here for a minute, will you?"
*Hoops hangs up. A moment later, Johnny walks in*
Johnny: "You wanted to see me, boss?"
Hoops: "Yes, yes. Sit down. I gather your mother has cancer?"
*Johnny sits down*
Johnny: "Actually, it's my wife, sir."
Hoops: "Well, that explains your recent absenteeism, then. Taking her to chemo, are you?"
Johnny: "Yes, sir. And then I have to help her with just about everything for the rest of the day."
Hoops: "Sounds rough."
Johnny: "We'll manage, sir."
Hoops: "Well, that's good to hear. Because a policy is a policy, and you've missed too much time. You're fired."
*raucous laugh track*
Johnny: "But...But...I'm your SON IN LAW. My wife is YOUR daughter!"
*laugh track*
Hoops: "Well, she's YOUR wife now, Johnny. I'm sure the Free Market™ will provide a solution."
*laugh track, fade out, theme music*
Damn....
HOLY, HOLY, HOLY.
The first page is all horror. :horror:
And nobody's even gotten to Andy Griffith, Bonanza or The Partridge Family yet. :lol:
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on September 20, 2012, 03:10:15 PM
And nobody's even gotten to Andy Griffith, Bonanza or The Partridge Family yet. :lol:
The Waltons are next, in honor of the approaching 100th anniversary of the beginning of WWI.