Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Your Kissy Face Isn't Hot And/Or Sexy

Fucking quit.

Friday, December 15, 2006

"How was it?" "Fucking sucked."

New, semi-satirical/semi-me five-words-or-less movie review site. Check that shit.


Thursday, November 16, 2006

What I Learned from Killa Season...

I have seen the worst movie of all time. And I learned a few things.

-- Inner-city kids always turn to drug-dealing when they miss game-winning shots.
-- A drug dealer who won't hesitate to split a nigga's wig with a "street-sweeper" in broad daylight will hire urban youths to cover the sound of gunfire with firecrackers in the privacy of a high rise.
-- If you take your niece to Papa John's because she gets good grades, she will be shot.
-- Getting your chain snatched is ten times worse than having your niece shot.
-- Papa John's doesn't care if you sell drugs or split wigs in front of the store.
-- Homicide detectives knock on random black people's doors to investigate disturbances.
-- Drug dealers don't sing at funerals. They rap.
-- All it takes to curb a serious drug addiction is a few classes at the local community college.
-- Drug dealers smoke blunts inside of government buildings.
-- Drive-bys are done on mountain bikes.
-- Black people carry dice on them at all times.
-- If you want to test your "shit", give it to a junkie in the middle of a grocery store and let him snort it.
-- Uncles are bad influences.
-- Weed is a Hyundai and Coke is a Ferrari.
-- A wifey is not a shorty but shorties can be wifeys.
-- Word is bond. Until that nigga fucks your shorty.
-- When shit gets tough, you can always charter a jet to fly you to an Atlanta strip club and subsequently film an impromptu rap video.
-- Junkies can buy a bag of coke, walk away, snort it all, and buy another one in less than eight seconds.
-- If you leave your block for moe than eight seconds, it will be taken over.
-- Taking over blocks consists of standing on the block with your fist in your hand and saying, "Let's take over the block."
-- Police chiefs are easily outwitted by drug dealers who commit crimes during the day every day in the same spots.
-- Every inner-city drug dealer will eventually become a professional rapper.
-- I need to fucking elevate my "fur game".

Monday, October 16, 2006

For those who missed it...

Since I'm too lazy to properly update, here's one of my first posts from last year. Probably my favorite one. The "Be Safe" Phenomenon.


Three years ago you could go to the grocery store and people couldn't give two shits whether or not you survived the drive there. Sadly, those days are no more. Now everybody is suddenly concerned that you may not make it. Pretty soon you'll be wearing a neon-orange vest to take a shit. Housekeepers will be paid an extra twenty-two cents to taste-test Girl Scout Cookies and Pepsi One for poison. Due to the rising demand, helmets will sell for hundreds of dollars and quality blowjobs. Soccer moms will wear bullet proof vests during their afternoon pussy-licking sessions with the other neighborhood wives whose husbands work too much. Everybody will be strapped. And we'll all have this little phrase to thank: "Be safe."

"Be safe" has sidled its way into our goodbyes and I'm afraid that it's here to stay. What bothers me is, unlike media violence, I doubt this is something I will ever become desensitized to. That means it will be joining the likes of Mormons, people who get offended too easily, and Joey Gladstone on my list of shit I should make an effort to tolerate. Should make an effort to tolerate. That's like saying I should try to make less jokes about those fat bitches that putter around Wal-Mart on the courtesy motorcarts, stinking up the whole damn ride with their old Tweety Bird shirts and aqua-green sweatpants.

It won't fucking happen.

No. "Be safe" has to be stopped. Safety has never been cool. I don't care what McGruff and Smokey and signs at amusement parks and neighborhood swimming pools have to say; safety is a hassle and it makes you look like a bitch. Remember when you were little and learning how to ride a bike and your parents bought you all those pointless neon-colored pads and that huge fucking helmet? What did that helmet do for you? Did you fall head first against a mailbox? No, you didn't (if you did then stop reading. You're hurting my argument). I bet that helmet is sitting in some box in your garage right now. It would cry if it could, but it can't. It's a fucking bike helmet. "But Jeff, what about motorcycle safety?" When your pink Huffy with the tassles on the handlebars can do speeds upwards of 100 mph then a helmet is acceptable, but that's only so you don't get a mouthful of insects. Insects don't splatter on your face when you're chasing down the Good Humor man at 5 mph. Especially if you still use training wheels. Especially if those training wheels have My Little Ponies painted on them.

But I'm not just talking about bike safety; I'm talking about safety in general. Next time somebody asks to borrow your pair of scissors, hand it to him blade first. Don't double-knot your shoes. Frequently change the radio station when you're on the freeway during rush hour. Jump in an elevator (that shit is scary). Sit too close to the TV. Play Goonies II on Nintendo until you develop blisters and then play Super Mario Bros 2. Cross the street without looking EITHER way. Try to pet a mean-looking dog. Drink household products in the cabinet with the Mr. Yukmouth sticker on it. Refer to a black person as your "nigga." Share needles. Skin your knee and don't show your mother. Drop in on a half-pipe with no skateboarding experience. Watch the movie Twister. Don't have an adult check your Halloween candy before you eat it. Have unprotected anal sex with someone who coughs a lot and gets jealous when you mention your high T-cell count. Forget to wear your raincoat.

Be UNsafe. Do it for spite. The next time somebody tells you to "Be safe", tell that person, "No. You can't tell me how to act." They're not your parents, so why do they think they're the boss of you?

You especially need to watch out for the people who try to sound cool when they tell you to "Be safe." Sometimes these people wear their hats backwards, sometimes they don't. Maybe they'll offer you a candy cigarette. In that case, use the broken record method. These people want to be your friends, but they want to be your friends for the wrong reason. They want to be your friends so they can say "Be safe" and sound cool. How will they do this? By attaching the words bro, buddy, pal, or man to the end: Be safe, bro... Be safe, buddy... Be safe, pal... Be safe, man... Tricky, aren't they?

Make it known that you're a fan of horseplay and swimming in the deep end without your floaties (or milk jugs if you happen to be from a poor family). Don't be bullied by people who are concerned with your well-being.

But what are you supposed to do if they don't stop bothering you? Endanger others, preferably a little brother or sister or the neighborhood kid with shit and piss running down his legs like the Jamaican track team. This is by far the quickest way to get somebody off your back. I recommend pushing the stinky kid really high on a swing. So high that he starts to cry because he realizes that the situation he's in is no longer safe. Your front deltoids (those are shoulder muscles) may get tired, but it's important that you keep pushing until a concerned adult comes along to save the day and yell at you. This is when you tell that adult to go fuck himself. Pull out a comb and run it through your hair if you really want to get your point across.

The more you practice, the better you'll get. Pretty soon people won't even want to say bye to you. But no goodbyes means no "Be safe's." That's a victory in my book. Now go take a shit and leave your neon-orange vest in the closet. A pussy may need to use it.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

I'm Here

Still alive, still writing. Having some trouble with a current script of mine. I'm about 42 (good) pages in and stuck at the moment.

But fuck it. What's killing me is I've got two solid scripts right now and I don't know what to do with them. I want to send out query letters, but to who? Who do I contact? WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?

I live in constant fear that somebody with connections, somebody established, is going to uncover some dark, fucked-up corner of their mind -- the corner I eat, sleep, shit, and play in -- and produce something similar to what I've written. And then get it optioned or sold. I know I'm giving myself way too much credit here, but I'm completely shut-out from "the biz" at the moment.

I'm waiting for the new Hollywood Representation Directory to come out so I can scoop that up and start shooting out query letters like girls named Tammy shoot out fucked-up looking children.


What's new? Just got a job at Costco so I'm going to be getting some money together while I decompose at my keyboard. I was looking at the movie theater for a minute, but they wanted to pay me $7.50 for a managerial position.

Fuck that.

Besides, I think I'd rather be stocking extra large boxes of extra large maxi pads than pretending not to loathe unibrowed D&D all-stars who burn through a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew at every meal. Those fucking film-school flunkies who all share the same "unique" vision and pretentious cinematic taste ("Commando just wasn't transcendental enough for me").

I don't know when I start. Soon, I guess. So, other than that shit, nothing's new. I eat Arby's way too much and I occasionally park in a nearby neighborhood to steal wireless internet.

New albums I've been listening to:

The Killers - Sam's Town (disappointing)
Ludacris - Release Therapy (eh)
Lloyd Banks - Rotten Apple (raw shit... then again, I just got it yesterday)

Any recommendations?

Thursday, September 14, 2006

The Agony of Not Winning

I've always been that guy with the Honorable Mention.

Never quite good enough to place. Never quite sucky enough to not give a shit about not placing.

That was an awkward sentence.

Here are the numbers:

This is arguably one of the top 5 major national competitions.
There were over 2000 scripts submitted.
10 places.
5 honorable mentions.
With an admittedly flawed script that I'm going to start rewriting today, I still managed to be 1 of those honorable mentions.

So I finished in the top 15. Top 1.5%.

For a young nigga who's fresh in the game (and to the craft), I'd say that's quite an achievement. Especially since the real value is not measured in placings, but exposure and whoever might request your script once the information is posted on the website for the industry to see.

Can you tell I'm trying to make myself feel good?

Getting this far and coming up short is kind of like being told, out of nowhere, that the prettiest girl in school has a crush on you. By her best friend.

You go to bed thinking about the girl. You wake up thinking about her. You're not sure what's going to happen, but you feel special. After all, who the fuck are you?

And then, on the day you muster up enough courage to ask her out, her best friend tells you she likes someone else and you get that punch-in-the-gut feeling and then the only thing you've been thinking about for the past two weeks -- the thing that's been driving you crazy and making you excited -- is gone. In a fucking flash.

And you wish you never felt it in the first place.

But do you really?

Nah. :)

Wish me luck on my rewrite. And maybe, hopefully, I'll get a few interested parties dropping me a line.

Friday, September 08, 2006


No fucking way. Even I can't believe this.

I'm in the top 45 out of over 2000 something.

I may crack the top 10.

Keep your fingers crossed.
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