Thursday, February 17, 2011

A Timeless Display of Gelatin Manslaughter (in 1945)

A 4:30am wake-up call means Spanky let me sleep in this morning.  There's nothing more enjoyable than getting up a half hour before going to bed and spending the day in a ditch full of stagnant, rancid water, blackened by the contents of a backed up, broken pipe. I love when shows get canceled and this is my rockstar replacement. However, out of the ashes rise beauty. These last 4 days of constructional glory paved the way to an absolutely timeless dream that God alone allowed to posses my thoughts during the angel induced sleep on the 3 hour drive home...It all began on the highway...*mental images go blurry and the sound of harps begin as we segway into the dream portion of the story*...there I was, riding shotgun in the truck just as I was in real life, when to the left of the road I saw, what appeared to be, a group of 19th century, bearded mariners. There were six or seven of them just standing there, holding umbrellas, large trunks and giant mugs of steaming hot tea. As we got closer, more of them began to appear; men, women and children, all dressed as ancient sailors; complete with beards, umbrellas and over-sized steins of tea. We turned the corner and my seat shot through the roof of the truck and sent me flying into the air; giving me a visual perspective of the surrounding area. While I took in the panoramic view, I noticed that these sea-faring creatures lined the road for hundreds of miles. Apparently I ran out of helium, because after a minute or so, I fell at a million miles per hour and landed back inside the truck. When I did so, a giant rocket shot from the muffler and propelled us through the street at what I'm sure was a highly illegal speed. The road started winding incredibly and hills appeared out of nowhere. Judging by the speedometer, we had cleared 900mph now and were getting faster. The people on the side of the road were simply a blurry mass of bearded fishermen and women until the radio came on and started playing I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers. Apparently the vehicle didn't like that song and stopped short instantly; sending me flying through the windshield. Rather than breaking through a sheet of glass as expected, it turns out that windshields are apparently made out of cauliflower (which is far less injury inducing than shattered glass) and I wasn't injured at all. I soared through the air for a moment or two before landing in an enormous field of gummybears; clutching a large piece of cauliflower about the size of a tennis racquet. I sat up and realized that the gummy bears were all alive and were rather upset by the fact that I had brought a vegetable into their sugary gummy patch. They told me I had to get rid of the cauliflower if I wanted to become "The Warrior" and, since I had no earthly clue what they meant by that, I convinced one of the bearded sailor women (turns out all of the mariners on the roadside were women. Go figure) to trade a harpoon for my cauliflower and I returned to the gummy patch. I made friends with this gummybear (who talked extremely fast and only spoke French) and he explained to me that the bears had been held captive by the beauty of a wonderful woman they had captured, but that because they were all in love with her, they needed someone immune to her beauty to kill her so they could go about tending the coal mines in the area without distraction. As it turns out, the gummybears were responsible for distributing coal to the local communities and since they spent all their time arguing over who was going to marry the girl, the people were starving to death because they had nothing to burn in their charcoal grills and were too afraid to eat raw steak. Despite the monstrous amount of capturing and community romance that seemed to be going on, I agreed to kill her. I picked up my harpoon and followed them to where they had her imprisoned. Finally, after walking for miles, we arrived at what appeared to be an enormous strawberry. As the fruit began to crack, the gummybears scattered like mice at a kitten factory and hid in the surrounding trees. The berry broke open with a flash of light and a good friend of mine (who, to avoid any kind of awkward conversation in the future, will remain nameless) stepped from the fruit shaped prison and began walking my way. As I've known her for a good while, I decided it best not to thrust my harpoon through her chest without discussing it with her first. However, before a word was said on the subject of my slaughtering her with a whaling spear, she smiled softly, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me for what seemed an eternity. I was dumbfounded. Without a word, she took my hand and led me through a heavily wooded area and into an enormous car dealership. As we walked through the dealership, I looked over my shoulder to see the tiny eyes of the gummybear army peering through the trees of our recently departed forest. My beautiful friend told me that if I ever wanted to become their leader, I'd need a new truck. Somehow she talked the dealer into giving me a free truck with helicopter blades on top and we hit the road for God knows where. I guess some time between me freeing ______ from the strawberry prison and getting this awesome truck, a huge war had broken out between the gummybears and the sourpatch kids because by the time we got back to I-4 the two armies had lined up and were prepared to attack each other. They didn't have any weapons and, because they were all gummy creatures, they didn't really look that angry, but for some reason we knew that if they started fighting, the whole world was going to end. Looking into the passenger seat, my companion had somehow changed clothes into this amazing, Zelda looking outfit and had an enormous machine gun in her lap. Not too sure how I got there, but the next thing I remember is flying my truck into battle along side a monstrous army of, now sword/spear/giant fork wielding gummybears with _______ hanging out the window blowing the living crap out of the sourpatch kids with her beastly gun. I think it goes without saying, but for the sake of the story I'll throw in the fact that she looked amazing while doing joke...anyway, we fought for hours until we eventually ended up in a 1940's era military airfield. Because our helicopter truck was on fire and had sourpatch limbs stuck to the undercarriage and hood, we jumped from the cab as the truck fell from the sky into a giant pile of gasoline-filled barrels laying next to an ammunition hanger. Needless to say there was a huge explosion, the whole place went up in flames and we (of course) wound up flying a B29 bomber flying over metropolitan Japan. As it turns out, it really was the 1940s. August 6th, 1945 to be exact and we were on the Enola Gay; the plane that dropped the "Little Boy" atomic bomb and utterly destroyed Hiroshima. There was a lot of noise and screaming that eventually led to my waking up to Spanky's profane cry of profane profanity at some foreign broad who cut him off in I looked down at the half-empty bag of gummybears laying in my lap, all I could do was smile. : )

Friday, February 11, 2011

Blue Eyes Beneath Grey Skies

by Jordan and Jeremy Eastman

She stares toward the horizon a lot lately.  The sound of crashing waves she once found comforting, today leave her feeling helpless, vulnerable and afraid. Even the distant laughter of children playing in the sand serves as little consolation and echoes through her emptiness, heightening her awareness of her life threatening circumstances.  As the somber waves draw closer with the rising tide, she feels as if she will be swept to sea and drowned in their fatal embrace.  Slowly looking back toward the joyful children, she watches them smile as they construct tiny castles of sand and wishes she could hide beneath the security of their sandy fortress and escape the tragic reality that surrounds her.
          The sudden screech of a seagull in search of his next meal forces her to realize how powerless her traumatic accident has left her. She now finds fear in even the most common occurrences and even the birds she once chased boldly, now leave her trembling in terror and longing to run from them. Looking down to where her legs once were, she trembles. Despite the familiarity of her surroundings, her brokenness allows an increasingly familiar fear to consume her; every wave seems like a funeral, and every screaming bird strikes horror in her heart.
          Without warning, she is torn form the ground and thrown violently through the air. She lands in the treacherous waves, only to be pulled once more into the blindingly sunlit sky. As her body is consumed by the ravening birds, she hears the distant cries of her now-captivated youthful audience as they exclaim in excitement, “Mom! Mom! Did you see that seagull eat that crab?”

Monday, February 7, 2011

The Breast of Times/The Worst of Times

I'm pretty sure I just watched a trailer for the worst cinematic homicide since the television premiere of Roadhouse. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about any film staring Nicholas Cage that makes me want to dress as an indian, swallow rat poison, slit my wrists, tie a plastic bag over my head and hang myself in a room full of burning dynamite above trap doors that drop me into a river of alligators causing the steel shoes I'm wearing to pull me beneath the waves so that if the poison doesn't kill me, I don't bleed to death from my self inflicted wounds, the asphyxiating bag doesn't suffocate me, my neck doesn't break, the dynamite is somehow extinguished and I don't drown in the violent river, the raging gators will eat me alive for appearing as an avid supporter of Florida State University. With the rapid influx of commercials, I've come to realize, and after sitting through an absolutely fantastic Superbowl XLV my realization has become a sort of solidified belief, that the primary marketing tactic employed by major corporations looking to sell ANY product whatsoever is, in fact, boobs. Honestly. (Follow along): Worried about your next root canal? Well here's a large breasted blonde in a soaking wet bikini to convince you that you should come to our dentist's office! Example II (that's 2, not eleven): Breast cancer is plaguing the world and millions of women's lives are in danger and have been dramatically altered by this horrific disease. However, as if my double J cup breasts don't obviously imply that I am not a victim of breast cancer, we'll do a strategic zoom out so you can see my entire, perfectly toned body in this ridiculously skimpy outfit that accentuates my curves like latex paint as I try to convince you to donate $1.00. In all honesty, the pitiful display of half-naked American salesmanship makes me wonder how far business will bend over to sell a product...then I saw a commercial staring some Olympic gymnasts doing back bends and thought to myself, "oh, that's how far they'll bend over." In all seriousness though, international marketing's perpetual run on sex appeal makes me wonder how absurd the televised commercials in third world countries where clothing is 100% optional would be if only they had television. Hey there hut-dwelling, fully naked, morbidly skeletal Aboriginals, want to trade your starving chickens and bone necklaces for a quality, hand made, partially used spear soaked in dingo blood?! If not, here's a fully clothed fat woman sitting inside a comfortable home to draw you from reality and convince you to buy (trade, haggle or barter) out of a sheer, unquenchable lust for the unobtainable rather than logic or necessity. In short, and what could have saved you the reading of this entire verbal slaughter I call a blog post, the fact that we see nothing wrong with perpetually complaining about the travesty we call an economy while a simple draw from reality dramatically increases a products ability to sell is sickening. Snap out of the illusion that a half naked woman holding an over sized head of broccoli means that you too like broccoli and help repair a lost society in a tragically wounded world. Thank you.