Charlton: Thank you and welcome back to the Antisocial Olympics. I'm Charlton O'HannahMontannaHan and inside me is my co-announcer Mike Grabowski.
Mike: I think you mean "alongside", Charlton.
Charlton: Haha, just some wishful thinking, Mike. Anyway, we've had some bloody outstanding competition thus far and I think we're in for some more today.
Mike: Yes sir, there have been hermits, shut-ins, cat ladies, recluses, loners, introverts, pariahs, trolls, lone wolfs, misanthropes and the occasional jilted Elijah Wood. And boy, have they been antisocial!
Charlton: Indeed, but two challengers in particular have really stood above the rest. I'm speaking of course about Chad Bagwell of America and Ivanna Licanus of Belarus.
Mike: You betcha, Charlton. Ivanna was the consensus favorite going in and she has really proven her ability to alienate herself throughout this competition. She really outdid herself when she started singing Kate Bush while plucking her bush hairs during the Food Ordering Challenge. I got flashes of the 85 Bears when she did that.
Charlton: A truly remarkable feat! But let us not forget Chad Bagwell, who came into this contest as a relative unknown. He started slow, but really distinguished himself during the Crowded Bus event when he cocooned himself in a blanket and was miraculously able to wedge himself behind the brake pedal of the bus, thereby endangering the lives of all aboard.
Mike: Sometimes you have to kill people if you want to be alone.
Both: Hahahahahaha!
Charlton: Right you are, Mike.
Mike: Anywhooo, I think we off to our fan favorite competition: the Loner Free for All.
Charlton: This an historic event. 20 contestants from 20 countries all in one room, all not talking with one another and interacting as little as humanly possible. It can be rather savage, don't you think?
Mike: Ohhh sure, it's gonna be as unsocial as eating a deep dish pizza alone on a Saturday night with no toppings and no beer either. This is the true proving ground for loners. We've had some memorable matches over the years, eh Charlton?
Charlton: Mike, if you only knew how I...
Mike: Like remember that time Klaus Brieman paid people to kidnap him and lock him in a room? All so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone?
Charlton: (cough)...(throat clear)...of course...He would have won the gold that year, but he hasn't been seen since.
Mike: Well, looks like they're ready to get things going down there.
Charlton: Yes, the contestants are all taking their positions now. Each person staring away from one another in a circle. When the referee blows his whistle un-sociability will be the name of the game.....And they're off!
Mike: Looky here at Brian of Canada. He's running to the corner, getting into the fetal position, and sucking his thumb! An old school tactic and one that is sure to creep out just about everyone.
Chartlon: Too true, Mike. Unfortunately I think we're going to need to see a bit more creativity from him if he really hopes to make some headway in this event. Ahh, but look here! Kefilwe of South Africa, she is pulling out something from her pockets. Bloody hell! It's lye! She's blinding herself!
Mike: What technique! What grace! And the judges are loving it!
Charlton: Wait a minute...Ohh dear, it seems that Daiki of Japan is going over to her! He's asking her if she is okay! This is truly a terrible turn of events.
Mike: You hate to see human compassion get in the way of glory, Charlton.
Charlton: I very much doubt they will be able to overcome the huge point deficit incurred.
Mike: Now look at this, Pierre of France is getting naked. And boy does he have an erection!
Charlton: Monsieur throbbing member is true to form, Mike. Wait, what's this?! He is pulling out some kind of bottle. Great Scot! It's Viagra and he's taking the whole bottle!
Mike: That's about as much Viagra as it took for me to have sex with my ex-wife.
Both: Hahahahaha!
Charlton: (Puts hand to ear piece) I'm being contacted by one of our analysts. According to her, Pierre took roughly 45 pills which calculates to approximately a 22.5 hour erection. That's well beyond the purview of this event. I know what I'll be doing after all this is over...
Mike: I'm not exactly sure what you're talking about, but that's okay, Charlton. Wait, it seems like Ivanna is making her move. She's pulling out something from her fanny pack. Ohh dear, it's a knife! She's making her way over to Pierre and, oh my god, she is cutting his dick off! What quick thinking! Ivanna sure is something special.
Charlton: Deranged, misanthropic, and eastern European, Ivanna has all the trappings of a champion. The event is not over yet, though, and things are getting rather chippy out there, wouldn't you say?
Mike: Well, Ivanna is waving around the vivisected dick of another competitor, so yes I would say it is definitely chippy out there. Goy of Bolivia is adding to the tension by screaming about how all DJs are fascist and how computer companies make viruses so people will buy more computers.
Charlton: A shrewd competitor indeed, Mike. Nobody wants to hear his boring rants, even if he does have a point about that last one.
Mike: We have yet to see anything out of Chad Bagwell of America, Charlton. He is running out of time; if he is going to make a move it had better be soon.
Charlton: I think you may have spoken too soon, you sweet piece of man. It appears as if Chad is pulling out his smart phone. He's doing something with it. He's holding it up. Can we get a close up of the phone?
Mike: Ohh gosh, Chad seems to have hacked Facebook! He's shutting it down! Ohh the humanity! How the fuck am I going to share Mike Ditka quotes with the world now?!
Charlton: Truly remarkable. Chad is so antisocial that he would prevent other people from interacting with one another, let alone himself. An historic play by the young upstart.
Mike: And that's the game. We go now to the judges.
Charlton: Looks like there is some serious deliberation going on. A regular row, innit?
Mike: I have no idea what that means.
Charlton: And we have a consensus! Ivanna takes the gold, Chad takes the silver, and Pierre the bronze.
Mike: Ohh boy, what an event! Up next are the heats for the 500 meter human neglect sprint. Stay tuned!
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Ancient Comedian: Part One -
It was a dull and pathetic crowd that greeted Sarah that night. If greeted is the right word, more like undulated. The collective dumpiness of the onlookers seemed to form a solitary mass, unified in it's torpor. Still, she took the mic with as much grace as she could. "I think we need to come up with some more imaginary characters for kids to believe in" she began. "You know, like Santa or the Tooth Fairy. Not because children should have a more magical childhood, but because children deserve more opportunities to have their dreams shit on in front of them when they find out what they believe in isn't real." Nothing. Not even the usual scoff of disapproval from Brenda, the old Jewish lady who came down to the club just to discourage people from doing comedy after her husband left her for a VHS copy of Jeff Dunham's stand up special.
"I think this character should be the Tampon Goblin" she continued. "Now hear me out. The Tampon Goblin is a hideous, snaggletoothed, cave dwelling pervert that once a month comes out of his cave seeking used tampons. Now you tell your kids about the Tampon Goblin and let them know that if they leave their bloody tampon in their shoe at night, the tampon goblin will come and take the tampon and leave a shrimp cocktail as a treat. Cause all kids love shrimp cocktails! Anyway, after years of shrimp cocktails one morning your kids wake up to find nothing but a bloody tampon in their shoes. When they inevitably come running down the stairs,their eyes filled with tears and their mouths unfilled with shrimp, you simply laugh and say the Tampon Goblin never existed. The whole time you have just been selling their bloody tampons to Japanese business men to buy weed! and you laugh as they walk to school in bloody shoes."
This time the crowd reacted but not with a laugh. Sarah dropped the mic, aghast as the crowd slurped and shook in unison, like some kind of giant frat boy abomination taking a huge beer bong. She ran backstage. Hoping to speak with one of her fellow comedians about what the fuck was happening, Sarah was confronted by a new horror. All the comedians that had gone up that night were now stricken with some unknown illness. Deathly pale and thin, her peers sat on couches or lay crumbled up on the floor. Some kind of black ooze seeped from their orifices. Sarah thought to make a poop joke, but was arrested when one of the comic's eyes exploded. She ran over to Mike, the obese, John Belushi-esque gross out comic. "MIKE!" she screamed shaking him. Mike lifted his head for a moment and looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but immediately began puking black ooze all over himself, primarily on his own dick, before slumping back down.
Sarah began to yell for help, but the only reply was the farting noises made by the puss-filled comics. She thought to go back out on stage to see if there was anyone left that might help her. As she approached the stage from the back, a flesh-colored blob parted the curtain. No doubt some hideous extension of the frumpy aberration, Sarah stepped back. The chubby tentacle seemed to sniff the air, then slowly began to reach out toward Sarah. She screamed and ran for the backdoor.
Throwing the door open, Sarah found herself in the filthy alley where she and the other comedians used to smoke weed and make fun of one another for having fewer collective sex partners than the amount of websites you can access in North Korea. Just then a car pulled up to the end of the alley and rolled down its window. An unknown figure from within called to her, "Get in!" The passenger side door of the car opened. Sarah approached slowly, but kept her distance. "Who are you?" she queried. "Quicky, there isn't much
time" he bellowed in return. Sarah hesitated, she then turned to go the other way. Just then the fleshy mass broke through the backdoor and spilled out into the alley. Seeking her, the blob began to crawl creating a seemingly infinite number of fat rolls as it turned. Sarah turned back and ran to the car. The mysterious strange drove off with her by his side.
"Okay, what the fuck was that thing and who the fuck are you?" Sarah demanded. The strange man looked at her, put on a pair of sun glasses, and kept driving. Almost immediately after putting the sun glasses on the man side-swiped a parked car. He took off the sun glasses. "Sorry, I guess the world isn't prepared for me to be that cool yet." He looked at her again and grinned. "My name is Trevin Dunder and that thing you just saw might be the end of the world." "Wait a second," Sarah replied "your name is Trevin Dunder? That's awful. It honestly may be the worst name I have ever heard." Trevin shook his head. "Yeah, I know. Both of my parents were fucking comedians."
"Anyway, what the hell was that giant Guy Fieri lookalike back there and what does it have to do with this whole 'end of the world' thing you're talking about." Trevin stared ahead, paying her no attention. Putting his foot on the gas, he accelerated past the speed limit. "Trevin? Trevin! Answer me," Sarah demanded. Trevin picked up the sunglasses again, moving them up towards his head in one swift motion. Sarah slapped them out of his hand. "Okay, okay" Trevin said staring back at her, "what you just witnessed was the work of reptoids." "Reptoids?"Sarah replied incredulously. "Yes," Trevin said "and not the sexy kind either."
"These are a trans-dimensional race of lizard people bent on conquering our world. The Marlon Brando blob you saw was merely the beginning of the invasion. They have clearly invented some kind of mutagen that turns people into hideous Michael Moore type entities." Sarah laughed. "Okay, enough with the fat jokes. Why weren't I or the the other comedians infected?" Trevin slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to full hault. "Don't you see! It's comedy! The reptoids can't stand it, it's like water to those aliens in Signs but much more plausible! Clearly they were unable to infect you because you were doing your set." Trevin put his foot on the gas again and resumed driving. Sarah stroked her chin and thought to herself, "I knew that Tampon Goblin joke was gold!"
Trevin and Sarah drove in silence for sometime. Eventually, Sarah's natural inquisitiveness returned. "But why did you rescue me?" Trevin replied, "I was told to." "By who?" Sarah shot back. All of the sudden Trevin stopped the car and parked it by the side of the road. He looked at Sarah and then pointed to an isolated mansion in the distance. "All you questions will be answered when we get inside. Follow me." Trevin threw the car door open and began walking with a swift pace toward the place. Sarah followed.
Trevin and Sarah stopped outside doors of the mansion. Sarah marveled at the intricate engravings set into the door. Life like portraits of 80's and 90's comedic actors stared back at her. Pressing her hand to the door, Sarah sought out the contours of Adam Sandler's smirking face and the corpulent girth of Chris Farley's belly. Trevin knocked twice and a lispy, yet cherubic voice issued from the other side of the door. "Whooo is it??" Trevin replied, "Alllllllrighty then!" The doors opened.
Following Trevin in, Sarah found herself surrounded by six figures, each hooded and draped in tie-dye robes. The doors closed abruptly and Sarah turned to Trevin. "I swear if you have pulled my into some Eyes Wide Shut shit I'm going to rip your dick off!" One of the persons stepped forward toward Sarah and removed his hood. "Welcome, Sarah Brickenhause. Before you stands the Guardians of Comedy and this is our sanctuary." He gestured to the other members of the group who de-hooded themselves in succession. "My name is Quincey Krakrecwele and I have brought you here because the fate of comedy...and the world depends on you."
Sarah began to laugh, "You can't be serious?" Quincey stared right into her eyes, "I'm deadly serious!" All the other Guardians began to laugh maniacally. "Silence!" Quincey shouted at them. They all stopped laughing but for the fat girl in the back whose laugh turned into a deep and painful cough. Quincey turned around, "Goddammit, Diana! You really need to chill out on the weed smoking!" Diana doubled over and covered her mouth, muffling her coughs. "Sarah," Quincey continued "you are the final piece, the key to awakening the ancient one and saving the planet."
"The Ancient One?" Sarah questioned irrelevantly "Yes," Quincey replied "the very first comedian and the only one funny enough to defeat the reptoid threat." Quincey threw his hand out and then swung it forward, gesturing for one of the Guardians to step forward. Bearing a large tome, the Guardian walked toward Sarah and opened the book. "And lo, at their darkest hour, they shall find a New York comedian of little talent who shall have maybe one or two decent jokes, but certainly not enough for an entire set. Yet it shall be she who completes the circle, she who shall unite the Guardians of Comedy and restore the Ancient One." The Guardian closed the book and stepped back. Quincey looked to Sarah once again, "And so it is written! Now come, we must begin the ritual; there is little time!" The Guardians began to file towards the back of the room where a staircase spiraled down to a lower level of the mansion. Sarah did not follow and turned to Trevin. Sounding plaintive she spoke, "This is all too much. It feels as if I'm stuck between a science fiction novel and a cult." Trevin shrugged "Go with cult; better uniforms." Trevin headed toward the stairs and Sarah proceeded after him.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase was a room ordained with nothing but a large central sarcophagus. The Guardians of Comedy stood arrayed around the tomb. Watching as they descended, Quincey addressed them "Come take your place within the octagon." Sarah and Trevin placed themselves in the formation. Quincey continued, "Now, if we are to awaken the Ancient One, we must first speak the sacred jokes in succession. Each of you will be given a specific and venerable joke domain according to which you must wisecrack." Quincey pulled several sheets of paper and began handing them around.
"FUCK!" One of the Guardians called out. "I get stuck with fart jokes again!" Quincey snapped back at him, "If you do not wish to tell the jokes then you may simply fart a lot." The aggrieved Guardian nodded. Quincey continued handing out the joke domains. One Guardian jumped for joy "YES! Zingers!" Another kvetched, "Knock-Knock Jokes, are you serious?!" Eventually he made his way to Sarah. Quincey presented her with the paper and she took it unwillingly. Unfolding the piece of paper, Sarah was confronted with one word "PUNS."
Quincey took his position again within the octagon with the sepulcher at the center. "Now, on my signal, I want you all to begin reciting jokes in line with your specific joke domain. Do not worry about them being good or stolen. Remember, the Ancient One hasn't had a laugh in over 4,000 years. I'm pretty sure Carlos Mencia could make him shit his pants at this point." Quincey then lifted up his arms and the assembled host began to crack wise. Sarah was at first stunned by the cacophony of scatological humor, bad slapstick routines, poor setups, and failed punch-lines. Yet, she regained her composure and initiated a pun cascade.
Why are lawyers like cats?
They like to get their clause in everything!
Atheism is a non for prophet institution!
You're punbelievable!
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
Who's the newest actor/instrument tearing up Hollywood?
Tuba Gooding Jr.
Sarah began to wince from the puns, reeling from their stupidity. She dropped to one knee and held her chest. Quincey yelled, "Keep going!" After mustering up her strength, Sarah continued with the pun avalanche. Just then the room began to glow an iridescent red. A bone-chilling cackle arose from the tomb and the lid began to shift. The Guardians of Comedy gasped together as a chubby hand emerged from the sepulcher.
"I think this character should be the Tampon Goblin" she continued. "Now hear me out. The Tampon Goblin is a hideous, snaggletoothed, cave dwelling pervert that once a month comes out of his cave seeking used tampons. Now you tell your kids about the Tampon Goblin and let them know that if they leave their bloody tampon in their shoe at night, the tampon goblin will come and take the tampon and leave a shrimp cocktail as a treat. Cause all kids love shrimp cocktails! Anyway, after years of shrimp cocktails one morning your kids wake up to find nothing but a bloody tampon in their shoes. When they inevitably come running down the stairs,their eyes filled with tears and their mouths unfilled with shrimp, you simply laugh and say the Tampon Goblin never existed. The whole time you have just been selling their bloody tampons to Japanese business men to buy weed! and you laugh as they walk to school in bloody shoes."
This time the crowd reacted but not with a laugh. Sarah dropped the mic, aghast as the crowd slurped and shook in unison, like some kind of giant frat boy abomination taking a huge beer bong. She ran backstage. Hoping to speak with one of her fellow comedians about what the fuck was happening, Sarah was confronted by a new horror. All the comedians that had gone up that night were now stricken with some unknown illness. Deathly pale and thin, her peers sat on couches or lay crumbled up on the floor. Some kind of black ooze seeped from their orifices. Sarah thought to make a poop joke, but was arrested when one of the comic's eyes exploded. She ran over to Mike, the obese, John Belushi-esque gross out comic. "MIKE!" she screamed shaking him. Mike lifted his head for a moment and looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but immediately began puking black ooze all over himself, primarily on his own dick, before slumping back down.
Sarah began to yell for help, but the only reply was the farting noises made by the puss-filled comics. She thought to go back out on stage to see if there was anyone left that might help her. As she approached the stage from the back, a flesh-colored blob parted the curtain. No doubt some hideous extension of the frumpy aberration, Sarah stepped back. The chubby tentacle seemed to sniff the air, then slowly began to reach out toward Sarah. She screamed and ran for the backdoor.
Throwing the door open, Sarah found herself in the filthy alley where she and the other comedians used to smoke weed and make fun of one another for having fewer collective sex partners than the amount of websites you can access in North Korea. Just then a car pulled up to the end of the alley and rolled down its window. An unknown figure from within called to her, "Get in!" The passenger side door of the car opened. Sarah approached slowly, but kept her distance. "Who are you?" she queried. "Quicky, there isn't much
time" he bellowed in return. Sarah hesitated, she then turned to go the other way. Just then the fleshy mass broke through the backdoor and spilled out into the alley. Seeking her, the blob began to crawl creating a seemingly infinite number of fat rolls as it turned. Sarah turned back and ran to the car. The mysterious strange drove off with her by his side.
"Okay, what the fuck was that thing and who the fuck are you?" Sarah demanded. The strange man looked at her, put on a pair of sun glasses, and kept driving. Almost immediately after putting the sun glasses on the man side-swiped a parked car. He took off the sun glasses. "Sorry, I guess the world isn't prepared for me to be that cool yet." He looked at her again and grinned. "My name is Trevin Dunder and that thing you just saw might be the end of the world." "Wait a second," Sarah replied "your name is Trevin Dunder? That's awful. It honestly may be the worst name I have ever heard." Trevin shook his head. "Yeah, I know. Both of my parents were fucking comedians."
"Anyway, what the hell was that giant Guy Fieri lookalike back there and what does it have to do with this whole 'end of the world' thing you're talking about." Trevin stared ahead, paying her no attention. Putting his foot on the gas, he accelerated past the speed limit. "Trevin? Trevin! Answer me," Sarah demanded. Trevin picked up the sunglasses again, moving them up towards his head in one swift motion. Sarah slapped them out of his hand. "Okay, okay" Trevin said staring back at her, "what you just witnessed was the work of reptoids." "Reptoids?"Sarah replied incredulously. "Yes," Trevin said "and not the sexy kind either."
"These are a trans-dimensional race of lizard people bent on conquering our world. The Marlon Brando blob you saw was merely the beginning of the invasion. They have clearly invented some kind of mutagen that turns people into hideous Michael Moore type entities." Sarah laughed. "Okay, enough with the fat jokes. Why weren't I or the the other comedians infected?" Trevin slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to full hault. "Don't you see! It's comedy! The reptoids can't stand it, it's like water to those aliens in Signs but much more plausible! Clearly they were unable to infect you because you were doing your set." Trevin put his foot on the gas again and resumed driving. Sarah stroked her chin and thought to herself, "I knew that Tampon Goblin joke was gold!"
Trevin and Sarah drove in silence for sometime. Eventually, Sarah's natural inquisitiveness returned. "But why did you rescue me?" Trevin replied, "I was told to." "By who?" Sarah shot back. All of the sudden Trevin stopped the car and parked it by the side of the road. He looked at Sarah and then pointed to an isolated mansion in the distance. "All you questions will be answered when we get inside. Follow me." Trevin threw the car door open and began walking with a swift pace toward the place. Sarah followed.
Trevin and Sarah stopped outside doors of the mansion. Sarah marveled at the intricate engravings set into the door. Life like portraits of 80's and 90's comedic actors stared back at her. Pressing her hand to the door, Sarah sought out the contours of Adam Sandler's smirking face and the corpulent girth of Chris Farley's belly. Trevin knocked twice and a lispy, yet cherubic voice issued from the other side of the door. "Whooo is it??" Trevin replied, "Alllllllrighty then!" The doors opened.
Following Trevin in, Sarah found herself surrounded by six figures, each hooded and draped in tie-dye robes. The doors closed abruptly and Sarah turned to Trevin. "I swear if you have pulled my into some Eyes Wide Shut shit I'm going to rip your dick off!" One of the persons stepped forward toward Sarah and removed his hood. "Welcome, Sarah Brickenhause. Before you stands the Guardians of Comedy and this is our sanctuary." He gestured to the other members of the group who de-hooded themselves in succession. "My name is Quincey Krakrecwele and I have brought you here because the fate of comedy...and the world depends on you."
Sarah began to laugh, "You can't be serious?" Quincey stared right into her eyes, "I'm deadly serious!" All the other Guardians began to laugh maniacally. "Silence!" Quincey shouted at them. They all stopped laughing but for the fat girl in the back whose laugh turned into a deep and painful cough. Quincey turned around, "Goddammit, Diana! You really need to chill out on the weed smoking!" Diana doubled over and covered her mouth, muffling her coughs. "Sarah," Quincey continued "you are the final piece, the key to awakening the ancient one and saving the planet."
"The Ancient One?" Sarah questioned irrelevantly "Yes," Quincey replied "the very first comedian and the only one funny enough to defeat the reptoid threat." Quincey threw his hand out and then swung it forward, gesturing for one of the Guardians to step forward. Bearing a large tome, the Guardian walked toward Sarah and opened the book. "And lo, at their darkest hour, they shall find a New York comedian of little talent who shall have maybe one or two decent jokes, but certainly not enough for an entire set. Yet it shall be she who completes the circle, she who shall unite the Guardians of Comedy and restore the Ancient One." The Guardian closed the book and stepped back. Quincey looked to Sarah once again, "And so it is written! Now come, we must begin the ritual; there is little time!" The Guardians began to file towards the back of the room where a staircase spiraled down to a lower level of the mansion. Sarah did not follow and turned to Trevin. Sounding plaintive she spoke, "This is all too much. It feels as if I'm stuck between a science fiction novel and a cult." Trevin shrugged "Go with cult; better uniforms." Trevin headed toward the stairs and Sarah proceeded after him.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase was a room ordained with nothing but a large central sarcophagus. The Guardians of Comedy stood arrayed around the tomb. Watching as they descended, Quincey addressed them "Come take your place within the octagon." Sarah and Trevin placed themselves in the formation. Quincey continued, "Now, if we are to awaken the Ancient One, we must first speak the sacred jokes in succession. Each of you will be given a specific and venerable joke domain according to which you must wisecrack." Quincey pulled several sheets of paper and began handing them around.
"FUCK!" One of the Guardians called out. "I get stuck with fart jokes again!" Quincey snapped back at him, "If you do not wish to tell the jokes then you may simply fart a lot." The aggrieved Guardian nodded. Quincey continued handing out the joke domains. One Guardian jumped for joy "YES! Zingers!" Another kvetched, "Knock-Knock Jokes, are you serious?!" Eventually he made his way to Sarah. Quincey presented her with the paper and she took it unwillingly. Unfolding the piece of paper, Sarah was confronted with one word "PUNS."
Quincey took his position again within the octagon with the sepulcher at the center. "Now, on my signal, I want you all to begin reciting jokes in line with your specific joke domain. Do not worry about them being good or stolen. Remember, the Ancient One hasn't had a laugh in over 4,000 years. I'm pretty sure Carlos Mencia could make him shit his pants at this point." Quincey then lifted up his arms and the assembled host began to crack wise. Sarah was at first stunned by the cacophony of scatological humor, bad slapstick routines, poor setups, and failed punch-lines. Yet, she regained her composure and initiated a pun cascade.
Why are lawyers like cats?
They like to get their clause in everything!
Atheism is a non for prophet institution!
You're punbelievable!
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
Who's the newest actor/instrument tearing up Hollywood?
Tuba Gooding Jr.
Sarah began to wince from the puns, reeling from their stupidity. She dropped to one knee and held her chest. Quincey yelled, "Keep going!" After mustering up her strength, Sarah continued with the pun avalanche. Just then the room began to glow an iridescent red. A bone-chilling cackle arose from the tomb and the lid began to shift. The Guardians of Comedy gasped together as a chubby hand emerged from the sepulcher.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Killin' the Academy
In the year 2015, a terrorist attack was staged at the Academy Awards, killing 90% of the A-List actors, 83% of the B-List actors, and 100% of the C-List actors who were all attempting to sneak in. Now, in this post-apocalyptic America, millions upon millions have taken up acting in order to try and fill the void of our once beloved stars.
Industry and agriculture have all but ceased. Power has degenerated, leaving local warlords and petty acting coaches to fight gangland style over territory. Para-military improv troupes patrol the towns, accosting passersby and forcing them to shout out ideas for their next skit. Community theaters, once regarded as the dregs of the acting world, now function as seats of theatrical justice. The accused watch as the community theater actors perform cheap and histrionic reenactments of their crimes, generally followed by steam-punk renditions of Oklahoma. Those persons with constitutions strong enough to endure these trials(most commit suicide during intermission), face one of two sentences: death or forced labor making sets and costumes for the community theater.
The landscape is further marred by paparazzi who wander aimlessly, abjuring food and sleep in the hopes of finding the next big star. Inexorable and seemingly immortal packs of paparazzi swarm their victims, feasting upon their acting talents with camera lenses. Only the quick and those able to mask their acting talents survive.
The almighty dollar no longer holds sway in these lands. Many forms of currency now proliferate, including acting lessons, scripts, a role in a movie that somebody's cousin is directing, and props. The most coveted of all, however, is celebrity gossip. Tidbits and rumors are traded on street corners like drugs and in huge forums like stocks on Wall Street. Rappers interested in "makin' it rain" recite a litany of celebrity news. The prevalence of so-called "blood gossip" is rampant as people kill one another for factoids as mundane as a celebrities' true taint length or knowledge of which Harry Potter book they found most erotic.
Not even human conversation is an escape in this bleak land of performance. Dialogue has been replaced by soliloquy and aside to a nonexistent audiences. Often, people approach one another, staring longingly into one another's eyes and tacitly begging for human interaction. Yet, as if addicted or perhaps possessed, these lonely souls take the opportunity to launch into grand monologues about the nature of death or about how the 90's were far and away the best decade.
Even the family, the backbone of America society, has collapsed. Mothers watch as their children starve while they conserve all their breast milk for that "one big role." Fathers prostitute their sons, waving all their rights just for a chance to be featured in the next Salo remake. Children murder their parents while they sleep on the off chance that the mental trauma caused by the experience may unlock some innate acting ability within them.
The Holy Church of Method Acting is all that remains of organized religion. It's members are often so dedicated to the Church's creed that they never come out of character.
Industry and agriculture have all but ceased. Power has degenerated, leaving local warlords and petty acting coaches to fight gangland style over territory. Para-military improv troupes patrol the towns, accosting passersby and forcing them to shout out ideas for their next skit. Community theaters, once regarded as the dregs of the acting world, now function as seats of theatrical justice. The accused watch as the community theater actors perform cheap and histrionic reenactments of their crimes, generally followed by steam-punk renditions of Oklahoma. Those persons with constitutions strong enough to endure these trials(most commit suicide during intermission), face one of two sentences: death or forced labor making sets and costumes for the community theater.
The landscape is further marred by paparazzi who wander aimlessly, abjuring food and sleep in the hopes of finding the next big star. Inexorable and seemingly immortal packs of paparazzi swarm their victims, feasting upon their acting talents with camera lenses. Only the quick and those able to mask their acting talents survive.
The almighty dollar no longer holds sway in these lands. Many forms of currency now proliferate, including acting lessons, scripts, a role in a movie that somebody's cousin is directing, and props. The most coveted of all, however, is celebrity gossip. Tidbits and rumors are traded on street corners like drugs and in huge forums like stocks on Wall Street. Rappers interested in "makin' it rain" recite a litany of celebrity news. The prevalence of so-called "blood gossip" is rampant as people kill one another for factoids as mundane as a celebrities' true taint length or knowledge of which Harry Potter book they found most erotic.
Not even human conversation is an escape in this bleak land of performance. Dialogue has been replaced by soliloquy and aside to a nonexistent audiences. Often, people approach one another, staring longingly into one another's eyes and tacitly begging for human interaction. Yet, as if addicted or perhaps possessed, these lonely souls take the opportunity to launch into grand monologues about the nature of death or about how the 90's were far and away the best decade.
Even the family, the backbone of America society, has collapsed. Mothers watch as their children starve while they conserve all their breast milk for that "one big role." Fathers prostitute their sons, waving all their rights just for a chance to be featured in the next Salo remake. Children murder their parents while they sleep on the off chance that the mental trauma caused by the experience may unlock some innate acting ability within them.
The Holy Church of Method Acting is all that remains of organized religion. It's members are often so dedicated to the Church's creed that they never come out of character.
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