Friday, November 30, 2012

2 DUDES AND THE CHEF AT THE BAR

CHEF:"Cornhole, dude! You throw the little beanbag through the hole."

DUDE 1: "Oh, yeah yeah yeah."

DUDE 2: "Dude, you're from Oklahoma. Isn't that like chess for you guys?"

DUDE 1: "Oh, man, we would just have Mom get on her hands and knees, naked, and try to get it in her butthole."

CHEF: "Um, okay."

DUDE 2: "Hmmm. Good one, bro."

DUDE 1: "Shit (haha). I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just fuckin' bombin' left and right today... So, hey, where's this bar again?"

DUDE 2: "Chicago, bro."

CHEF: "Yeah, it's right there on Fulton Street."

DUDE 1: "Do they even make much money there?"

CHEF: "Are you kidding? They're probably the best bartenders in the world. Each bartender works their own drink station. They break up all the drinks so each station's designated to certain cocktails. Everything's right there within reach. They don't have to take a step. They have something like 40 different kinds of ice. They're basically chefs really."

DUDE 2: "Molly was in Chicago last weekend. I told her to go but she said there was like a 3 hour wait. She said the line went like all the way down the block."

CHEF: "Hey, I'd wait it that line."

DUDE 1: "How much are the drinks?"

CHEF: "They start around $15. So $15 to say, $40."

DUDE 2: "Hey, what was that bar in Japan you posted yesterday? I looked at the time and it was like over 5 minutes or something."

DUDE 1: "Oh yeah. That just was for 2 drinks!"

CHEF: "Oh that's nothing. Some drinks at the Avery take them like 8 to 10 minutes to make. But, you know, you've gotta like that sort of thing. You don't go in there to hang out with your friends. And the bartenders don't even take your orders."

DUDE 1: "What, they just get a ticket?"

CHEF: "Yeah, they won't even talk to you. They can't."

DUDE 2: "Hey, I get it. I can appreciate the molecular side of things."

CHEF: "Yeah, I like the science behind it. I like to break things down that way. It forces you to learn the reasons why you're doing something. Most cooks have no idea. They were just taught to do something a certain way but they don't really know why."

DUDE 1: "Yeah, I don't see how they make much money there. Hey, what if you went in there drunk and like ordered a Jager Bomb or something (haha)?"

CHEF: "No, they won't even make a cosmo. I don't even think they have beer. Just what's on the cocktail menu. They don't allow any substitutions."

DUDE 1: "Yeah, but that would be pretty fuckin' funny though (haha), you walk in there all drunk and shit, you know..."

CHEF: "I heard they're hiring."

DUDE 1: "Shit."

CHEF: "Hey, listen, I gotta go. I still gotta get all my orders in."

DUDE 2: "Yeah, you go, get those orders in."

CHEF: "Okay, see you, gentlemen."

DUDE 1: "See ya, brother."

DUDE 2: "Take it easy... So dude, where did you see this picture again?"

DUDE 1: "Oh, man. You don't wanna see it. No one should see it. But all you gotta do is Google headless girl in Syria. It's fucking horrific. She's in this little dress with white stalkings. It must've happened on a day of worship or something. It's weird. There's not much blood on her dress. Just a few little drops here and there."

DUDE 2: "So what, it's like a can of beans up there."

DUDE 1: "Oh, man, it's like an open jar of jelly or something. But you gotta look at her hands. These perfect little hands. She's probably only like 3 or 4 years old. Her father's holding her up. I can hardly talk about it without crying. I don't know, it's almost beautiful, ya know. I can't stop looking at it. I've been looking at it almost every day."

DUDE 2: "What's the expression on her father's face? Like is he like?..."

DUDE 1: "Dude, it's just... I don't know, man. I looked at it again just before I left the house."

DUDE 2: "Why do you do that to yourself?"

DUDE 2: "I don't know."


Thursday, November 29, 2012

The Pilot

A well groomed airline pilot (Captain, distinguished looking, late 50s, thick mustache) in a stall in the bathroom. His black rolling suitcase is on the floor beside him, his hat resting upon it. He is leaning against the wall with a hand up over his brow, wincing in anguish.


CAPTION: "I'm just so goddamn fuckin' fucked up!"

UPS MAN

A UPS man (rather handsome, mid 40s, sandy blonde hair, fit, wiry, muscly forearms) driving his big brown truck through an L.A. neighborhood. He's speeding around a corner, shifting gears, leaning into the turn with a half smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

CAPTION: "Yeah, ya know, I just couldn't take it anymore. Remember in Jaws where they keep shooting the shark with those barrels? That's exactly what it felt like. Here I was trying to dive down deep and they just kept harpooning me with these goddamn barrels. Trying to raise a family, ya know, trying to do the right thing while you're trying to be a writer... It's pretty much impossible. I guess I just wasn't enough of a shark. Anyway, I was pretty lucky to get this job. I don't even think about writing anymore."

Monday, November 26, 2012

OLD BEARDED MAN

An old bearded man in loose, matching, soft fiber cotton shirt and pants walking leisurely through a well maintained garden or park. Lots of healthy birds and squirrels, puffy white clouds in an otherwise perfect blue sky. He's wearing sandals and walks with his hands clasped behind his back, a gentle modern monk fully embracing the golden years of his life.

CAPTION: "In all my years living on this planet, I have cultivated only two talents. First of all, from say around my mid twenties on, upon first sight of a woman, I can predict with absolute certainty not only what her pussy looks like but what she herself looks and sounds like if and when she becomes angry. I'm sure you could imagine the value of this. Then I also have this incredible ability to sniff out a fraudulent moment. But then over time I've come to realize that it's really not all that helpful as there are always too many unknowable factors to consider when it comes to people. You just never know what's working upon them at any given time. Yeah, when it's all said and done, I'd say people are simply animals. If you can accept this, there's really nothing more to it."  

Saturday, November 24, 2012

HIPSTER DUDES

Two sets of full on hipster dudes, late 20s/early 30s, all 4 men equally ridiculous and obvious in their carefully considered attempts to define themselves through grooming and attire. We are on a sidewalk at dusk in Brooklyn. Two of the men (Set One) are standing outside the door of a dive bar, rolling cigarettes, while the other set (Set Two) has just walked by them, deeply engrossed in conversation.

SET TWO (Either man): "Exactly, dude! It's just like religion. There's no place for truth in anything unless there's discussion and argument,... dissent!"

SET ONE (Either man): "I fuckin' hate hipsters."

Monday, November 19, 2012

SKEET 11/18/12


‎"Well, that's the genius of modern life, it's no longer possible to exist within its parameters of function and still be able to do your job as an artist. The machine is too advanced. I mean, sure, ya know, you can pull off a career in the arts, that's never been easier, but to be a true artist, shit, you'd've had better luck as a baby Jew left on Hitler's doorstep. And lucky you, huh? I mean, come on, there's no artist more naked and vulnerable than the writer. I mean, what do you wanna do anyway, tell stories? What's another story gonna do? Stories are dead. You want a story, go to the fuckin' movies or read a goddamn comic book or something. Hey, I got a story for ya- there is no fucking story. And THAT, my friend, is what's needed. We've studied the specimen, we've investigated its behavior, but you know as well as I do it's time for something else. So unless you're playing for keeps, unless you've committed yourself to that noose, don't even fuckin' bother because it's never gonna happen. It's like trying to strike a match in the rain." -Skeet Giddens, 11/18/12

Sunday, November 18, 2012

AN EXAMPLE OF ONE OF THE COUNTLESS CARTOONS I WOULD BE SUBMITTING TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR MAYBE HUSTLER IF ONLY MY PARENTS WOULD'VE CARED ENOUGH TO ENCOURAGE MY DRAWING AND I WASN'T SO AFRAID OF HOW MY WIFE WOULD REACT IF SHE FOUND OUT I WAS SPENDING MY TIME CREATING CARTOONS TO SUBMIT TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR HUSTLER EVEN IF MY PARENTS HAD ENCOURAGED MY DRAWING:

1. Frumpy, middled aged man jerking off naked on his back (underwear pulled down around his ankles), sideways across the bed as his wife squats (standing beside the bed) her big white pimply ass down upon his face. The man's face is completely buried in her butt. She's picking at a fingernail, bored and disgusted. Her purse and keys are on the floor beside her and her skirt is simply pulled down to her knees. She still has her jacket and scarf on as she is clearly doing this out of some sort of last minute manipulation or pity.

CAPTION (Woman): Hurry up, Frank! I'm meeting Nancy and Kelly for coffee!



 

Friday, November 16, 2012

PETER

     The day of the funeral Peter was still nowhere to be found. It was cold and the ground was wet from the heavy rain the night before. Every person from both sides of the family were there. And so many friends from so many chapters of their lives. Peter's brother had flown in from Iraq. He stood clenching his jaw in his Army fatigues and beret behind Peter's wife, Sue, who sat hunched over, rocking, holding her pregnant belly. It was a strange low moan which she made, the same sound she had made when she went into labor with her boy. Her mother put her arm around her and took Sue's hand. Sue slumped into her mother and her mother kissed the top of her head through her veil and rested her cheek upon it, squinting hard against the pain. Sue's father looked over and saw their two white hands clasped together upon Sue's lap. "How could they ever let go?" he thought. He had been sitting erect and motionless, his eyes darting here and there toward any movement, a falling leaf, a squirrel, a bird, anything. The preacher was tall and thin, an Irishman with watery eyes and dry, painful looking skin. He reached up with his long crooked fingers and brushed a few strands of hair across his bald head. He then bit his lip as he stepped forward with his bible beside the small black casket. It was Peter's mother who saw him first. "Petie!" she yelled. Everyone's head turned in unison. Peter's mother shot out of her chair and ran towards her son down the hill through the graves. The preacher clutched the bible to his chest, looking on. Peter was still shirtless and barefoot just as he was when he had heard the news. His skin was bright red and his feet were caked with mud. He was still dragging his little boy's bike behind him, like a hunter with a kill through the cold wet leaves. He stopped when his mother reached him but he gave no response to her embrace. She reached up and grabbed his face. "Look at me!" she said, "Peter, look at me!" He closed his eyes and turned his head as he pushed her away. He put a foot out in front of him and then another one and he continued on. His mother staggered behind him, weeping with a hand cupped over her mouth. "Peter," said Peter's father. "God!" said someone else. Peter approached the coffin. He stopped, his cold body swaying to some sort of rhythm working inside him. The bike finally fell from his hand. Tears streamed down his soldier bother's face. "Peter," said the preacher. Peter stared at the coffin, breathing, shivering, wobbling upon his feet. His breathing got heavier, his hairy chest rising and falling, his flabby belly quivering. "Peter please!" cried Sue, "please!" Peter's father and Sue's father both moved in towards him. "Son," said Sue's father as he reached for Peter's shoulder. Peter turned his head and looked at them. "Peter," said his father.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

TWO 40 SOMETHING YEAR OLD MARRIED DUDES WITH KIDS AT A BAR, WAITING FOR A YOUNGER SINGLE DUDE TO SHOW UP BEFORE THEY GO TO ANOTHER BAR

"HAHA! Dude, that is some funny fuckin' shit right there!"
"Hey, man, you know, that's like one of the biggest reasons why I knew I could trust my wife. She was like the only chick who was ever totally honest about my penis size."
"Dude, your girl's a fuckin' riot, man! Suzy fuckin' loves her!"
"Thanks, man... Yeah, it's pretty cool how they've started hanging out."
"Yeah, man. It's hard up here... Dude, there was this chick I used to fuck back in college who used to call my dick the 'bulldozer'."
"Haha. What?"
"I mean, it was like so fucking stupid. Like, you know, I'm just an average guy with an average sized penis. And it's like she even knew I knew some of the other guys who had fucked her. I had this friend, Rick, from high school; I knew for sure he had fucked her. And Rick was like this fuckin' six foot four, two hundred and thirty pound fuckin' monster. We wrestled together. He was like heavyweight state champion and shit."
"You wrestled? Dude, I wrestled too! 157. I mean, this was Connecticut not Iowa."
"Yeah, you almost had to wrestle where I was from. God, I hated that fuckin' shit."
"Oh, man, me too."
"I mean like I fucking HATED it! Anyway, I mean, like no joke, this dude's dick was like... I don't know, like I swear to God it was like as big around as this glass."
"Haha. Damn... Hey, where is this fuckin' asshole anyway? It's like almost 9:00. Like he invites us out and then..."
"Yeah, I don't know about him anymore. It's like he never fucking listens to anything I say. It's always about him and all his acting bullshit. I mean, dude, I used to do commercials. Like I'm still signed with Innovative... At least I think I am. But I mean that's how we bought our fucking house and shit!"
"Yeah, I know, man, but he's just young, you know. I mean, I'm sure we were both fuckin' douche-bags too at that age."
"Yeah, I don't know. I guess he can be pretty fuckin' funny sometimes, I'll give him that. I wish him well, you know, but..."
"Hey, man, don't you ever wish you could go back in time like, you know, like be sort of like a ghost or something you know, like be able to watch your wife the way she was before you guys even met and like listen to her talk to her girlfriends and interact with dudes and shit?"
"Fuck that shit, I'd want to watch her get pounded by like each and every one of her fucking boyfriends! I mean, just to see what that looks like, you know. Fuck man, I think about that shit all the time."
"Oh man, me too! I mean, what is that shit? What the hell's wrong with us?"
"I don't know, man, but I'm like all hung up on all sorts of shit like that. Like my mother's friends, you know, from back when I was a kid. Oh, man, there was this one friend of my mother's, this chick she worked with. She was SO FUCKING HOT! Reba, or wait, maybe it was Reva? Anyway, oh man, she was like, uh, she was like this fucking smokin' hot like Latino-ish fuckin'... FUCK, MAN! I mean, she had these big fuckin' heavy fuckin' titties and this great big ass! Awe, man, women were like, I don't know, they were just fuckin' WOMEN back then, you know? There's just something about it. I don't know, I just, you know, it's like it was all just so fuckin' MMM!"
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. Things were just, I don't know. Things are different now. Maybe it's just us, you know, gettin' older?"
"I don't know. I see beautiful woman all the time in the city, but something's just different, something's missing."
"Maybe it's just internet porn? You know, like maybe we've just seen too much shit? Maybe we're all just too desensitized?"
"Yeah, that's probably true."
"Hey, have you seen the new Frontline, the one about like the disparity of wealth and shit?"
"No, I haven't. Is it good?"
"Oh, man, it's fucking awesome. It's called Park Avenue... something. A lot of it's about this one building on Park Avenue where all these billionaires live. It's supposedly like the highest concentration of personal wealth in America."
"I'll check it out. Hey, what are you guys doing for thanksgiving?"
"Uh, we're driving down to her folks."
"How long is that drive, like four or five hours?"
"No, man, it's like seven or eight."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. What about you guys?"
"Looks like we're just staying here."
"Dude, that's awesome!"
"I know... Hey, where do you want to go, the Hop? This place fuckin' sucks."
"The Hop closes at like nine or some shit."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, I think on weekdays they do. I was thinking we would go the Roundhouse. That Phil dude's usually working."
"Hey, what's up with that guy?"
"He's cool."
"Did he really used to be a model?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"I don't get it, like what's he doin'?"
"I guess he's a writer."
"What does he write?"
"I don't know."
"You want another beer? Oh, wait, here he is. Haha, look at that fucker."
"Hey, brother!"
"Hey, man."
"How you guys doin'?"

    

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

FREDDIE FUNKLE

     For as long as he could remember, whenever the mood would strike, Freddie Funkle had always found it both comforting and exhilarating to sing the same song to himself in the mirror after showering. Freddie would wipe the fog away and swoon as he serenaded the absurd image of his naked self staring back. It was an old Diana Ross song which went: "Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Do you know? Do you know?" He would go on for some time, singing those same words over and over again. There were certainly more words to the song but Freddie did not know them nor did he care, for the words he sang were all that were needed to bring him back to his childhood when his older brother would follow him around the house, teasing him with the song. But for some reason, the singing of this song was absolutely intolerable to Freddie's wife who would actually become angry. "You sound like a fag!" she would say. Freddie once tried to explain to her that it was his bother's voice not Diana's which he was trying to replicate, but other than that, he was unable to explain or defend his desire to sing it any further. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until the two of them happened upon an infomercial late one night which was selling a collection of CDs called Songs Of The 70s that his wife believed that it was really an actual Diana Ross song and not just another thing he had simply made up. You see, he and his wife had a few failings with what they found humorous. For instance, his wife simply stared at him at the dinner table after hearing his recent idea for a comic strip called The Adventures Of Eunice The Eunuch. "You don't think that's funny?" he asked.
     "No," she said, "I don't."
     "But it's not really supposed to be funny, I mean, not like you're thinking. That's sort of the whole point! I mean, that's what's funny. Nothing happens to him. He eats, he poops, he goes to bed. He fills his car up with gas. He goes to work. He doesn't even realize he hates his work. His expression never changes. You do one of him just going to the post office. That's it, that's all that happens. It's like Seinfeld. You love Seinfeld! Only really, I mean nothing at all happens. You never even use an adjective ever! But really, it wouldn't even be about him, it would be about the world, the world that just sort of goes on around him which he's just totally oblivious to. Come on, you don't think that's funny?" His wife just went back to feeding their little boy who was being a little asshole about the pizza they had just sat down to eat, the very pizza he had said he wanted. "But it's too spicy!" screamed the boy.
     "Sweetheart," said his wife, "it's not spicy, I promise. It's pizza, you eat it all the time!"
     "I DON'T WANT IT!" cried his boy, kicking his highchair, "I DON'T LIKE THAT PIZZA! IT'S TOO SPICY!"
     "Stop that!" Freddie chimed in. "It's NOT spicy! You're the one that wanted pizza!"
     The boy covered his face and began to sob. "Okay, okay," said his wife. "That's not helping." At that moment, Freddie felt a wave of anxiety come over him. He was in his 40s now. He missed his brother and he missed himself, a self which more and more seemed only willing to surface on such seemingly insignificant occasions. Like when he sang the song or when he came up with the idea of Eunice The Eunuch. He knew it was a great idea, but he also knew he would never do anything with it. He felt hopeless, old and hopeless. He took a deep breath, folded the tip of his piece of pizza over, and bit into it. His boy was right, it WAS spicy, much more spicy than usual.