For about a year or so, I was part of a collaborative blog called The Comedy Patio. It was a really nice project that brought together a lot of very funny people who had hung out and riffed on various subjects at The Atlantic's Post/Reposte board before it went to a pay for play model . Our crowning achievement was a roast we held for Bill Maher with various writers taking the roles of people he was piublicly associated with on Politically Incorrect. I played his dogs, Blackie and Odie. As time went on, we got pretty scattered. I would post, but it seemed like no one else was and it was making me feel like an ugly special-ed kid at a middle school dance. Since the contact simply isn't there and I don't know where anybody is, it seems like the best thing to do is preserve my stuff as best as I can and move on. Somewhere in the ether, I hope they're hanging out together and I wish all of them well. Shine on, you crazy diamonds!
from: Your Guide to Plane Drunks
The Bride of Big O Jesus
This is someone who is usually older, female and large. They may or may not have flown before and may or may not have consumed alcohol before. Pre-flight preparation is always nerve-wracking for The Bride. They will mutter, pray and sometimes sing softly to themsleves. There will be a brief crescendo of "Oh, Jesus, oh, Law!"s that will die down once we are airborne. However, after much agonizing over whether to take a drink to soothe her nerves, The Bride will soon be smacking stewardesses on the ass with the bottom of her cup and demanding more vodka. This is punctuated by loud exclamations of "Oh Jesus! Oh, LAW have MERCY! LAW!" every time we hit some turbulence. The net result is a first class section full of spanking new Atheists and a coach class section full of passengers who are smugly thinking what mooks those first class passengers must be to pay that much more money just to watch "When Harry Met Sally".
from: Bad Taste Movie Theater
To: Duncan McBlain
From: Hargus Langerfeld
re: untitled for proposed disaster pic for late 2006
First off, let me say that I want to see more of this and sooner! Right now we still have crying orphans and widows all over the news. Lets get this in the can while the topic is hot but not so soon that it looks like we're money-grubbing ghouls.
Here are some changes that I want to see:
1. The title. It just isn't grabbing my tits. Lose "Tsunami: Tide of Terror" and go for something shorter, catchier and for God's sake, American like "Big Wave".
2. Speaking of making it accessable to the flyover people, lets change the location. Nobody in Wichita is going to give two hoots what happens to a fried conch vendor in Phucket. I'm also having problems with the name Phucket. How is that pronounced? Could it get us an automatic R? Maybe we need to leave it in, only have it be a resort off the Virginia Coast or something.
3. Change the age and casting suggestions for the leading lady. Helen Mirren isn't going to cut it. I can't take her seriously as a seismologist. Make it Brittany Murphy. Here's the deal: if she wears khaki shorts three sizes too big, a Texas A&M jersey, short hair pulled back and glasses, she'll look serious and hot. That's how I picture seismologists.
4. We need a dog or a kitten to wander out on the beach when the water retreats. Then we need Brittany Murphy's orangutan sidekick (see next note) to run out and save the kitten, running just ahead of the wall of water.
5.Replace Jeff Daniels. I don't want to see him assisting Brittany Murphy. Give her a pet orangutan with a cute name. Lucas? Walt? Darwin? Clyde?
6. We need a scene where she eats a Twix bar. I'll explain later.
7. The ending is a real downer, don't you think? Instead, lets have her drive a nuclear warhead out to the beach. As the tide approaches, she puts the truck into gear, jumps out and runs inland as the vehicle rams into the wave and detonates, causing it to become a warm rain falling all over the Virginia Coast.
I'll have more notes after I've actually read the script.
Ciao for now!
copyright 2006 Jas Faulkner
Monday, April 03, 2006
Your Body is a Taco Stand (from The Comedy Patio)
Your Body is a Taco Stand
For the record, even during those dry spells when I knew a really extravagant VDay would consist of a card from my mother and being ignored by the dog, I've never really minded Valentine's Day. Its the sheer suckitude of friends predicating their self-worth on whether they happen to be attached or not on February 14th that makes me want to take a bottle of white-out to the second page of the calandar. Its a day that just screams for really bad poetry. So here goes...
Free Verse to My Secret Love, Mark Watson , 427 Lee's Passing Court, Hernando, Mississippi, 601-798-2340
My dog and my mother hate your guts
My girlfriends and best gay boyfriend
Think I'm nuts
I think they're just jealous
of our true love
And the box with they intercepted?
The one with the nipple clamps and Bush Stickers?
A setup.
Haiku to DJ Ito
standing on my lawn
with a John Mayer CD
closed the taco stand
Another Haiku to DJ Ito
intense look on face
boombox turgid with love
you're still no Cusack
To Joe Bob
Roses are red,
So is my neck.
I'm sorry I pulled your rear window rifle rack loose
During our last date.
copyright 2006 Jas Faulkner
For the record, even during those dry spells when I knew a really extravagant VDay would consist of a card from my mother and being ignored by the dog, I've never really minded Valentine's Day. Its the sheer suckitude of friends predicating their self-worth on whether they happen to be attached or not on February 14th that makes me want to take a bottle of white-out to the second page of the calandar. Its a day that just screams for really bad poetry. So here goes...
Free Verse to My Secret Love, Mark Watson , 427 Lee's Passing Court, Hernando, Mississippi, 601-798-2340
My dog and my mother hate your guts
My girlfriends and best gay boyfriend
Think I'm nuts
I think they're just jealous
of our true love
And the box with they intercepted?
The one with the nipple clamps and Bush Stickers?
A setup.
Haiku to DJ Ito
standing on my lawn
with a John Mayer CD
closed the taco stand
Another Haiku to DJ Ito
intense look on face
boombox turgid with love
you're still no Cusack
To Joe Bob
Roses are red,
So is my neck.
I'm sorry I pulled your rear window rifle rack loose
During our last date.
copyright 2006 Jas Faulkner
Four People You Meet in Nashville (from The Comedy Patio)
Four People You Meet in Nashville
Last week I spent some time talking to a woman who had never been to the American South before. She was coming down to help with the post-hurricane clean up and had decided to forego the Red Cross's offer to fly her back home in favor of renting a car and driving through Beulah Land.
Her idea of what we're like is something along the lines of everyone being like Andy n' Opie n' Thelma Lou n' Aint Bea n' Goober n' Gomer. It was kind of cute, really. The truth is we don't have very many Mayberry types here. There are a few lawyers who really do make you want to run after them yelling, "Atticus! Atticus!" Years ago we had a mayor with the unfortuante surname of "Boner" who promptly lost his mind and traded his wife in for a country-music hanger-on who told Oprah and everybody more about either of them than anybody wanted to know. He imploded so spectacularly that I figured Robert Altman was off somewhere trying to figure out who he needed to write to explain that he was just kidding. They were all entertaining, but are they the people my new buddy is likely to meet on her visit? Nope. Lets take a look at who she could encounter:
Scary Mary Fangear They are everywhere and they're not limited to any particular form of entertainment or affiliation with any group. My friends still like to talk about the woman who wanted to strip to the waist and fight me in Centennial Park because she overheard me saying that I thought Vince Gill looked like Andy Kaufman.
My favorite, though, was the woman I saw at a stoplight next to the Juvenile Justice Center one afternoon. She was first in line, then there was a man in a Lexus and then me. The light turned green and I guess the woman in her Suzuki Samaurai didn't pull away fast enough to suit Mister Lexus. He hit his horn with three rapid blasts and gunned his engine. The Samaurai began to shake as this very, very large -as in blot out the sun large- woman in a Steve McNair jersey and an impossible Titans blue and red weave began to shuck herself out of the driver's side door of her little car. I heard the whirrrrr of the Lexus windows rolling up as she approached the car.
She banged on the window and bellowed, "Do you know me? Hey! Do you know me? Are you a friend of mine? Were you trying to get my attention? Hey! Hey! I'm talking to you! Are you my friend?"
I guess he didn't want to be her friend because she sauntered back to the Samaurai, squeezed in, turned back to the Lexus and said "Honk at me again, fool!" and then slammed the door shut, causing it to rock back and forth at least three times before it stopped. She sat through the next light. He just sat there. I didn't go because I wanted to see what would happen next. Unfortunately, she got bored and pulled off the next time it turned green.
Cletus the Fetus Poor Cletus swims through life in downtown Nashville in his own amniotic fog, pooping where he will and occasionally demanding money and/or canoodling from any paralegal who makes eye contact. My only line of defense against Cletus was a stamped leather purse in the shape of a fish. He approached me one morning and asked me if I wanted a Walnetto and then mentioned there was a fish on my hip.
Me: A fish?
Cletus: Yeah! That bag looks like a fish! You got a fish on your arm!
Me: No, I don't. It's a plain old black canvas purse from Dillards. You think it looks like a fish? I don't get it.
Cletus: Yeah! Its a fish! You want a Walnetto? (Okay, he didn't really offer me a Walnetto, but you get the idea.)
Me: There's no fish here. Its got two little ducks on the flap, see?
I held up the fish shaped purse and pointed to two little duck appliques that weren't there.
Cletus: Aw, lady! I'm seeing a fish. I gotta go.
Beetleskeeze Beetleskeeze stands on Broad and seems to be waiting for someone to say his name three times so he can escape whatever dimension he's living on. Sometimes he feels magnanimous and will help visitors find their way around the city.
Beetleskeeze: Woooooooooooooooooooooooo! Wooooooooooooooooooo! Hi, pretty girls! Are you lost? I'll help ya!
Girl in Car Who Completely Lacks Gavin DeBecker's Gift of Fear and Rolls Down Her Window (GiCWCLGDeBGoF): Yeah! We're looking for the Hard Rock Cafe. You know where that is?
Beetleskeeze: You're looking for a hard rock? Why?GiCWCLGDeBGoF: The Hard Rock Cafe. We're going to to a party there. You know where it is?
Beetleskeeze: A Hard Rock party? Its in my pants! Woooooooooooo! Hey! Where are you going?
Spliff Daddy Spliff Daddy is a youngish man who is on a constant quest to find the perfect place to hone his craft as an old school rapper. Sometimes its the bandshell-like perfection of recessed doorways. Other times its the overhang at the Tennessee Perfoming Arts Centre. My favorite place to catch Spliffy is on the corner of Fifth and Union. It is there that Spliff actually sings with a partner. The life-sized statue of Chet Atkins sits patiently as Spliff holds forth about the weather, MNPD Chief Ronal Surpas and Big Macs. Since he's all about sharing, Spliff always gives his cornermate a chance to shine, pausing mid-rap to shout "Take it away, Chet!"
Of course she could float through town and never meet any of these people. That would leave the tourists, the Baptists and the odd, embittered native who remembers what the place was like back in the day. But where's the fun in that?
copyright 2006 Jas Faulkner
Last week I spent some time talking to a woman who had never been to the American South before. She was coming down to help with the post-hurricane clean up and had decided to forego the Red Cross's offer to fly her back home in favor of renting a car and driving through Beulah Land.
Her idea of what we're like is something along the lines of everyone being like Andy n' Opie n' Thelma Lou n' Aint Bea n' Goober n' Gomer. It was kind of cute, really. The truth is we don't have very many Mayberry types here. There are a few lawyers who really do make you want to run after them yelling, "Atticus! Atticus!" Years ago we had a mayor with the unfortuante surname of "Boner" who promptly lost his mind and traded his wife in for a country-music hanger-on who told Oprah and everybody more about either of them than anybody wanted to know. He imploded so spectacularly that I figured Robert Altman was off somewhere trying to figure out who he needed to write to explain that he was just kidding. They were all entertaining, but are they the people my new buddy is likely to meet on her visit? Nope. Lets take a look at who she could encounter:
Scary Mary Fangear They are everywhere and they're not limited to any particular form of entertainment or affiliation with any group. My friends still like to talk about the woman who wanted to strip to the waist and fight me in Centennial Park because she overheard me saying that I thought Vince Gill looked like Andy Kaufman.
My favorite, though, was the woman I saw at a stoplight next to the Juvenile Justice Center one afternoon. She was first in line, then there was a man in a Lexus and then me. The light turned green and I guess the woman in her Suzuki Samaurai didn't pull away fast enough to suit Mister Lexus. He hit his horn with three rapid blasts and gunned his engine. The Samaurai began to shake as this very, very large -as in blot out the sun large- woman in a Steve McNair jersey and an impossible Titans blue and red weave began to shuck herself out of the driver's side door of her little car. I heard the whirrrrr of the Lexus windows rolling up as she approached the car.
She banged on the window and bellowed, "Do you know me? Hey! Do you know me? Are you a friend of mine? Were you trying to get my attention? Hey! Hey! I'm talking to you! Are you my friend?"
I guess he didn't want to be her friend because she sauntered back to the Samaurai, squeezed in, turned back to the Lexus and said "Honk at me again, fool!" and then slammed the door shut, causing it to rock back and forth at least three times before it stopped. She sat through the next light. He just sat there. I didn't go because I wanted to see what would happen next. Unfortunately, she got bored and pulled off the next time it turned green.
Cletus the Fetus Poor Cletus swims through life in downtown Nashville in his own amniotic fog, pooping where he will and occasionally demanding money and/or canoodling from any paralegal who makes eye contact. My only line of defense against Cletus was a stamped leather purse in the shape of a fish. He approached me one morning and asked me if I wanted a Walnetto and then mentioned there was a fish on my hip.
Me: A fish?
Cletus: Yeah! That bag looks like a fish! You got a fish on your arm!
Me: No, I don't. It's a plain old black canvas purse from Dillards. You think it looks like a fish? I don't get it.
Cletus: Yeah! Its a fish! You want a Walnetto? (Okay, he didn't really offer me a Walnetto, but you get the idea.)
Me: There's no fish here. Its got two little ducks on the flap, see?
I held up the fish shaped purse and pointed to two little duck appliques that weren't there.
Cletus: Aw, lady! I'm seeing a fish. I gotta go.
Beetleskeeze Beetleskeeze stands on Broad and seems to be waiting for someone to say his name three times so he can escape whatever dimension he's living on. Sometimes he feels magnanimous and will help visitors find their way around the city.
Beetleskeeze: Woooooooooooooooooooooooo! Wooooooooooooooooooo! Hi, pretty girls! Are you lost? I'll help ya!
Girl in Car Who Completely Lacks Gavin DeBecker's Gift of Fear and Rolls Down Her Window (GiCWCLGDeBGoF): Yeah! We're looking for the Hard Rock Cafe. You know where that is?
Beetleskeeze: You're looking for a hard rock? Why?GiCWCLGDeBGoF: The Hard Rock Cafe. We're going to to a party there. You know where it is?
Beetleskeeze: A Hard Rock party? Its in my pants! Woooooooooooo! Hey! Where are you going?
Spliff Daddy Spliff Daddy is a youngish man who is on a constant quest to find the perfect place to hone his craft as an old school rapper. Sometimes its the bandshell-like perfection of recessed doorways. Other times its the overhang at the Tennessee Perfoming Arts Centre. My favorite place to catch Spliffy is on the corner of Fifth and Union. It is there that Spliff actually sings with a partner. The life-sized statue of Chet Atkins sits patiently as Spliff holds forth about the weather, MNPD Chief Ronal Surpas and Big Macs. Since he's all about sharing, Spliff always gives his cornermate a chance to shine, pausing mid-rap to shout "Take it away, Chet!"
Of course she could float through town and never meet any of these people. That would leave the tourists, the Baptists and the odd, embittered native who remembers what the place was like back in the day. But where's the fun in that?
copyright 2006 Jas Faulkner
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