Downey's "Classics" Presents: Dodging A Bullet

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is my reaction to...well, just read it. Enjoy.

"Dodging A Bullet"
by John Downey

I've discussed some of Facebook's applications in the past as part of my ever-increasing list of "Things That Piss Me Off", but one application that (a) works and (b) serves a useful purpose is the Honesty Box. Sure, it's kind of "sketchy" (ie, somewhat creepy), but it's a lot more useful than that LOLCats thingy. For those of you unfamiliar with Honesty Box, it lets you send people anonymous messages, as well as receive them. It's a good way to tell someone why you hate them, while also getting constructive criticism yourself, without having to worry about the consequences. Or you could just send someone 900 messages saying that they suck, which, come to think of it, sounds like a pretty fun way to kill a couple of hours.

A while back, though--months, actually--I received a message that was so horrifying, so revolting, so disgusting, that I actually contemplated running away from my home, since I was convinced that someone was watching my every move, even though they had their eyes elsewhere. This tops the "I'm convinced you have a large penis" comment that Sean Tatum sent me. Hell, this tops EVERYTHING.

Now, I'm about to show you what the message is. But before I do, you might want to sit down. While you're at it, put on your analytical glasses, too, because this might take a while.

Ready? You SURE? Alright, here goes:

"You seem pretty cool."

That's it. That's the entire message, sent to me on June 14th of last year, by a girl (you're often told the gender of the person sending you the message). Four words, 17 letters. Who could have thought that such a small combination of consonants and vowels could create such terror?

"But John," you say, "what's so wrong with this message? It's just a small little compliment! It's not like they threatened to kill you or anything."

First of all, I only wish that they had threatened to kill me; I'd have a slight chance at getting a restraining order in that case, as opposed to the "no chance in hell" odds without an outright threat. Second of all, there's no compliment in that statement at all. Shit, there's no STATEMENT in that statement. Imagine if someone walked up to you and told you that you seem pretty cool. What would happen? Well, either they would follow that up by saying "...but on the inside, you're a piece of shit" or they would stand there and wait for you to ask them to dinner so that you can get to know each other better. That's a pretty big gap between intended messages.

Still, though, I can't freak out because some dumb bitch sucks at using the English language, right? In most cases, yes, but this is fucking Honesty Box. You're supposed to say what you mean, not offer up somebody's interest with half an idea. What kind of a person would send such a message?

There are two. The first is easy: a moron. Reading over that message, I'm so tempted to read it in a Valley Girl voice. "Like, OMIGOD, you seem PRETTY KEWL (annoying giggle)! Let's, like, go driving to LOVER'S LAYNE!" Thing is, though, that my female friends with Honesty Box are the kind of people who know how to clearly make their intended message heard. On top of that, the message had no errors in capitalization or punctuation, meaning that she wanted her muddled message to be received clearly.

Which means that the second possibility is more likely: she's a closet psychopath. Think about this: she's anonymous. She thinks enough of me to send me a message. And yet, she's still so insecure about herself that, EVEN THOUGH I WILL NEVER KNOW WHO SHE IS UNLESS SHE WANTS ME TO KNOW, she can't even tell me that she likes me (which was the likely intent, let's not kid ourselves). Imagine a female version of Milton from "Office Space".

Come to think of it, actually, due to my lack of response (aka, I took her stapler), she's probably had months to stew this over, and is actually getting ready to kill me!

But don't worry, kids. If there's one person who can dissolve a potentially dangerous situation, it's John Downey. So I'll send her a response. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I will first tell my dozen readers what my response is.

"Dear Crazy Ho,

Thank you for taking interest in my penis. However, as of this time, there is no USB-to-Cock converter currently on the market, so I cannot, as of yet, virtually fuck you through the Internet. Besides, I prefer women with enough self-confidence to, you know, talk to me in public, as opposed to hitting on me through Facebook. BUT HEY, I'm sure you'll find someone sweet. Why don't you go hit on a nerd? They're sure to go crazy with a woman who can talk nerdy to them! Also, due to their lack of anyone giving a shit about them, nothing bad will happen to you if you happen to slit one of their throats! Hell, take a bath in their blood! If tomato juice can get rid of a skunk's smell, then the smell of nerd cum should be no match for the powers of human blood!

Happy Hunting,
Downey"

Downey's "Classics" Presents: I Need Legal Advice

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a satirical reaction to a strange situation--someone claimed that they were going to sue their doctor because of an irrelevant offhand comment he made. Enjoy.

"I Need Legal Advice"
by John Downey

I couldn't get my car out of the parking spot today because there was too much snow on the ground, so I had to walk to school today. On the way there, somebody tried to mug me, but I was able to break his arm and make a clean getaway. I got coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, but I spilled it all over somebody's baby by accident. The kid's mom yelled at me for being clumsy, so I called her a judgmental bitch who didn't understand the tough life I had. The bitch's fiance, who I have a math class with, stopped me on the way to school and asked for an explanation. I ran him through with my pencil, "Assassin's Creed"-style. A dog walked up to me, so I tried to bite its nose off. I got most of it before the owner yanked his dog away and said something that I missed because I was too busy not giving a fuck because I'm John Downey bitch, so I knocked him out, raped his father, and then took a shit on his sleeping mother. I slit the throat of the guy who was going to find the cure for cancer. I snitched on a couple of drug dealers, then I stole all of their porn and video games. I cast an early vote for John McCain. Right as I got to school, I was arrested by a couple of cops for various counts of assault, rape, attempted murder, murder, and resisting arrest (they interpreted my request to suck my balls as a refusal to be arrested, for some reason).

I plan on suing the snow for causing emotional duress that resulted in the events of the past day. I'm not responsible for today's mess; the snow is, and if you think differently, you should be put on an island and that island should be bombed.

What I need to know is, how do I send Mother Nature a subpoena? Any help in answering that question, as well as money to pay for legal fees/hospital bills/Fallout 3, would be much appreciated.

Downey's "Classics" Presents: Snow White

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is possibly the strangest story he's ever told--and that covers a lot of ground. Enjoy, if you can.

"Snow White"
by John Downey

Robbie looked it over. She looked nice. Her body hadn’t really started to deteriorate yet, though the makeup had already worn off.
“Well?” said the dwarf.
Robbie thought it over. She was beautiful; why were they selling her so cheap? He inquired about that.
“She didn’t pay rent. Bitch forced herself on us. A few of us starved; that’s how we lost Hokey, Pacey, and Sparticus.”
She wasn’t well loved. She wasn’t considerate towards other people’s feelings. She wouldn’t be missed, in short. She did look nice, though, and Robbie couldn’t afford to be picky with his fetishes.
“300, then?” he asked.
“750. We still need to fix the door frames that she smashed with her huge ass.”
Robbie didn’t think that she had a huge ass. He thought her ass was perfect. Maybe not 750 perfect, but close enough. He paid Grumpy his asking price.
“Just make sure that you do your business with the drapes down,” was Grumpy’s parting words as Robbie carted her away.

The moral of the story:
If you don’t want to be taken advantage of by a necrophiliac, treat dwarves the same way you want to be treated.

Downey's "Classics" Presents: I Really Need To Talk About This

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a Facebook note from a few years ago that accomplished exactly what it needed to. Forgive the formatting--it was necessary for the big joke. Enjoy.

"I Really Need To Talk About This"
by John Downey

There's a reason why I don't talk about my personal life on Facebook all that often, and that's because I'm not sure how to interpret the events of my own life. My family has a history of not seeing things as they should, and with my Asperger's further complicating the way I see the world, I feel as though discussing my private life in such a public setting (hey, if cops can use Facebook to catch underage drinkers, then it's public) would only make things worse. If I talk about good things, then I end up jinxing them. If I talk about bad things, well, just reread that long "fuck you" note I made about a year ago. (I don't regret feeling angry, but I do regret taking that issue public.) To read my notes, you would never know that I dated two girls within the past 14 months (at separate times, of course), or that I have 3 nieces that I haven't seen in years. Unlike certain people (I'm not referring to any of my Facebook friends), I know that talking about my entire life on Facebook brings more problems than solutions.
That said, I feel the need to talk about this issue in a very public setting. It's been a constant problem of mine for a while that recently manifested itself in a very disheartening, and somewhat humiliating, matter. Talking about it with my friends got me lots of responses, all of them being "do your best to put it out of your mind". I was told the problem was going to be better in the morning. It wasn't. This has been weighing on me for a while, and I feel as though I will die if I don't get this off of my chest. I don't care how many friends I lose because of this, even though I'm pretty sure some of them will never talk to me again because of what I'm going to talk about. I am, obviously, referring to the shit that Max took a couple of weeks ago.
Folks, the toilet that 4 of the 6 men in my townhouse use on a regular basis has been through a lot. Not long ago, in one phantom s(h)itting, it housed an exhibition of scat that eclipsed my most glorious constellation funk several times over. On another occasion, it somehow found itself carrying only 2 teaspoons of water to catch our waste. On yet another occasion, Karl read a newspaper while sitting on it. That doesn't sound bad to me either, but Ron and Max acted as though this was the same as seeing Rosanne naked, and seeing as how they have a better sense of normal than I do, I'm willing to take their word on this one.
The shit that Max took a couple of weeks ago (which shall forever be known as "IT") left one of the most disgusting smells I have ever smelt. I would like to jokingly say that my eyes were burning because of IT, but in all honesty, my eyes became physically irritated by the stench. Despite being flushed away almost immediately, the stench managed to make its way from the bowels of the downstairs area into the moonlit kitchen/living room, killing any insects in its wake. If we had lit a match in the 6 hours after IT was born, I am convinced that there would be a gigantic crater in the ground where the Berkshires used to be. (Whether that would be considered a tragedy or a favor to the world, I will leave to personal interpretation.)
Max, you owe me. To make things better, you must allow me to take a shit in your bed. If you don't let me do that, we can't be friends. Actually, I'm just kidding; I could never stay angry at that cutely chiseled face of yours, especially with his new haircut that would really want me to pinch his cheeks if I were gay. Wait, no, fuck that, man; you made the shitdemon from "Dogma" rape the innocence of your roommates, and that requires restitution. Well, that would require restitution if your computer was less awesome than it is. A computer that you used to show us penis mutilation.
...
WAUGH!
Now I know how it feels to be raped by God. On the one hand, my ass hurts; on the other hand, God chose ME, of all the 10 million people in the world, to rape, so I should feel lucky. Sort of.
Okay, Max, here's the deal: there are 80 or so townhouses on campus, including one right above ours. Next time you have to take a shit like that, do it in one of THOSE townhouses, not ours.
Please?

Downey's "Classics" Presents: Thanks, Buck

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this rarely-updated-but-not-bad blog is trying to get back into the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Hell, he's been tired all week. OR HE'S BEEN WEAK ALL WEEK HA HA HA HA HA. Below is a short story that he wrote 4 years ago that has aged better than he thought it would, considering that it received a negative reaction in the creative writing class he shared it in. Enjoy.

"Thanks, Buck"
by John Downey


Negative. That’s the word you were looking for. “The night looked like its negative”—“it” being the day. You weren’t so much talking to yourself as you were grasping for an apt way of describing the night. It wasn’t a bad night, though. You were still underdressed for the conditions, and you had to look out for black ice, but compared to the past week’s negative temperatures with 30 mph winds, it was a good time to be outside. Negative, though, was still appropriate. At 1:00 in the afternoon, the ground was dark and the skies were bright grey. Now, with the snow still coming down and the sun setting, the ground was bright and the sky was dark. If it weren’t for a few coffee shops and night shift fast-food places, the picture would have been complete.

Maybe you were right when you decided that you were in no condition to drive. Nobody drives themselves hours removed from the death of an 8-month relationship. She didn’t end it; you did, by accident. She suggested a break, and maybe she was right, but you argued that breaks often turn into breakups, so “Why not just speed the process up?” (You’re an idiot.) She called your bluff. She still had your copy of “Perks”, but you were in no rush to get it back.

You did tell yourself, though, that you would start cramming for that World Civ test at 10:00. You started your walk at 12:30 without opening your notebook. You got good at not keeping promises; that’s probably why she wanted a break.

Maybe you were right when you said that you were in no condition to drive. How you decided that walking around downtown, alone, after midnight, then, was a bit of a stretch. In the end, you figured that this would be a good opportunity to form an opinion on T. Brooks, a rapper from Canada that the blogosphere had declared its new king. A friend of yours had given you an advance copy of his first official album. Illegally, but you promised yourself that if it was really good, you would buy yourself a copy when it came out.

Brooks had talent, that much was apparent. He wasn’t the problem. Your issue with his album had to do with his producers. A few songs had producer and performer meshing perfectly. Most songs had a beat that was technically good, but didn’t really suit Brooks’s flow. Then there were the tracks that sounded bad because the producer came up with a complete turd and Brooks was too inexperienced to salvage them. “A sensitive song shouldn’t have a ‘pretty’ piano arrangement undermining the song’s purpose,” you heard yourself mutter, “and sampling anything recorded after 1985 is lazy. The album’s not that bad, but the backlash from the hipster crowd is going to kill him.”

“Pulp Fiction” came on at 2:00 on Showtime, and you wanted to stay up for it. You examined your surroundings, taking in the big lights that signaled which eating establishment you would be landing in. Burger King let you walk through the drive-in, and Dunkin Donuts had a nice something-chino with your name on it. You decided on Denny’s, though, due to its proximity to your dorm. Your knees weren’t what they used to be.

Walking in, sitting down and ordering (milk, two sugars) were all autopilot by this point. You weren’t the only person eating there. Just a table away, a group of kids, high-schooled age, were chatting about things that you didn’t particularly care about. You suspected that they had started talking about you—something about “the guy with the hair”—so you put your head down, pretending to study the kiddy crossword puzzle that had already been started by a spelling savant. Apparently, G-E-W-S was a word.

You were about to start looking for Arthur—in a “Where’s Waldo?” type of puzzle—when you heard something crashing into the seat in front of you. The sound didn’t match the sight, though. You were expecting to see an elephant looking back at you. Instead, all you saw was a girl, maybe 17 years old, with her hair bound in a side ponytail and her smile set to ear-to-ear mode.

“I said, hey!” She knew how to be polite.

You said hey back, expecting her to return to her seat after winning a talk-to-the-freak bet. Instead, she said, “You know who you look like?”

You thought you were ready. You weren’t.

“MARCO FROM DEGRASSI!”

You didn’t know what a Degrassi was, so you didn’t see the humor in her declaration.

“You’ve got the hair, the soul patch, the eyes…wait, are you gay?”

Her friends bursted out laughing. The girl showed you a screenshot from the television program “Degrassi: The Next Generation” that she had on her iPod, or her phone, or some other complicated contraption that you couldn't immediately place. You did share a resemblance with the character, though he had much better fashion sense and was Hispanic.

“Marco is Italian; he’s not Hispanic!”

Well, then. You asked for the name of the actor who portrayed Marco. She smiled. “Adamo Ruggiero.” For once, you were wrong.

You happened to hear one of her friends say something about “claps from “Think””. You asked for him to repeat what he said.

“Well, we were just on an inspirational early morning breakfast binge. I just spent the last hour or so messing around with some drums I got from my parents’ records.”

You asked what kind of drum machine he used. “SP 1200. What else?”

You were blown away. You weren’t on the up and up as far as drum machines went, but you knew what the SP 1200 was capable of. Any drum transferred from vinyl onto the 1200 would sound so crisp, you could almost bite into it. You asked the guy if he did any rhyming.

“I’m a behind-the-boards kinda guy. What about you?” You simply said that you were an English major. “Well, then, you wanna make some music, Mr. Del Rossi?”

You thought about your World Civ test. Then you remembered that it was at 4:30 the following afternoon. You had time.

As you got out of your seat to sit with them, you almost fell over. The girl sitting across from you helped you regain your balance. “Bethany.” She smiled again. So did you.

Downey's "Classics" Presents: Max, Francine, And The Monkey

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this rarely-updated-but-not-bad blog is trying to get back into the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a short screenplay written for a class, typed up in the 2 hours before it was due. Enjoy.








Max, Francine, and The Monkey

By John Downey


BLACK

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
I mean, it’s not as though I think that we can’t, you know, conceive, it’s just that…

MAX
(V.O.)
Well, we haven’t really tried, have we, honey.

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
Max, please don’t interrupt me.

MAX
(V.O.)
Doctor, it’s not as though my cannons aren’t ready to fire—but not at will, mind you.

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
We use protection every time.

MAX
(V.O.)
EVERY time.
SMASH CUT TO:
INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE – DAY

Max is sitting to the left of Francine (on Francine’s right). Max is not an ugly man, but not gifted in the looks department, either. Francine is taller than Max is, even while sitting down, but has no other remarkable features. Both look to be in their early 30’s. They are facing the camera head-on.

FRANCINE
Max, I don’t think the doctor is interested in our sex life.

MAX
She might be.

FRANCINE
Max, don’t be ridiculous.

MAX
We’re here to get advice on having a baby. Sex makes babies, ergo, our sex life is very relevant, probably.

FRANCINE
I think she can be the judge of what she needs to know or not know.

MAX
Well, doctor?

ANGLE ON: Doctor Moore, an organized-looking woman in her 40’s.

DR. MOORE
So, the concern isn’t so much on making the baby as wondering if you have the capacity to take care of the baby?

Max and Francine agree.

DR. MOORE
Well, there are ways of determining if you are ready to have a child, though they certainly aren’t conventional. The most common technique we use is to give a special doll to teenagers to take care of for a week.

MAX
That could work.

DR. MOORE
I have a better solution, though.

FRANCINE
What’s that?

Dr. Moore claps her hands twice. Pierre, a monkey, walks in and jumps on Dr. Moore’s desk.

DR. MOORE
The best baby simulation, ever.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR DRIVING DOWN ROAD – DAY

Max is driving, Francine is reading from a piece of paper, and Pierre, dressed in snazzy diapers, is strapped into a child seat in the back. We see them through the windshield.

FRANCINE
(reading from paper) “Your monkey will not only simulate how your child will act during his—or her!—first year of life, but also give you glimpses into what to expect from his—or her!—teenage years!”

MAX
Get to the part where it says how much we’re being billed for this chimp.

FRANCINE
Max, c’mon. (continues reading) “Your monkey has been trained to communicate through a variety of techniques, including grunts—”

MAX
(grunts in disapproval)

FRANCINE
“Sign language—”

MAX
(while rubbing the side of his nose with his middle finger) Go on.

FRANCINE
Don’t think that I don’t see that. “…and he—or she!—can even talk to you through his—or her!—writing.”

MAX
What? You’re kidding me.

FRANCINE
No, it says so right here.

MAX
I have to see this. Do you have a pen and something to write on?

Francine takes a notepad and pen out of her purse and hands it to Pierre, who grabs it eagerly. Pierre writes something down, then hands it back to Francine.

MAX
Well? What does it say?

ANGLE ON: The notepad. There is a circle drawn on it.

FRANCINE
It says “oh”.

MAX
Honey, I think that’s a circle, not a letter.

ANGLE ON: Windshield shot.

FRANCINE
Oh.

MAX
Why would a monkey draw a circle?

FRANCINE
Maybe it means something to him, but we haven’t figured it out yet?

MAX
Yeah, right. What could the monkey be trying to tell us?

A few seconds pass. Suddenly, both of them start making gagging sounds and clutching their noses.

FRANCINE
(through coughs) Open the windows!

Max starts pounding on the “window open” buttons while Francine holds a handkerchief over her face. Pierre starts laughing maniacally.

CUT TO:
INT. HOUSE, KITCHEN – DAY

Max places Pierre on the kitchen table.

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
Remember, anywhere but the table! I don’t want him near where we eat!

Max lifts Pierre up.
MAX
(while placing Pierre on the kitchen counter) Do you think I’m completely stupid, honey?

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
I’m just making sure!

Francine walks in. She is wearing oversized rubber gloves, safety goggles, a dust mask, and a pair of raggedy, beaten-up jeans.

FRANCINE
Open it.

MAX
No, YOU open it while I hide in the basement.

FRANCINE
Open it, Max.

MAX
Honey, just thinking about “2 Girls 1 Cup” makes me feel dizzy, and if I throw up, that’s one more mess you have to clean up—

FRANCINE
FOR CHRISSAKES, OPEN IT, MAN!

Max takes a deep breath in and undoes Pierre’s diaper with a pair of metal cooking tongs.

ANGLE ON: between Pierre’s legs, facing Francine and Max. Max’s head briefly props into frame before he faints; a comically exaggerated sound effect should accompany Max hitting the floor.

FRANCINE
Let’s go, monkey boy.

Francine leans over Pierre, casting a shadow over him until the screen fades to black.

CUT TO:
INT. HOUSE, LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Max is writing in a diary while an extended montage is playing. His words are spoken aloud to accompany each scene. First, it shows him writing on a poker table.

MAX
(V.O.)
Dear diary, it is now Day 7 of Operation French Monkey, and we can see light at the end of the tunnel.

CUT TO:
Max and Francine trying to get Pierre off of the top of their kitchen cabinet.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
The little bastard has showed us how difficult it is to raise a baby. Babies, it seems, are capable of getting anywhere.

CUT TO:
The refridgerator bursts open. Pierre jumps out holding two ketchup bottles, screaming with delight.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
They are also smarter than I used to give them credit for.

CUT TO:

Pierre is jumping up and down in front of Max, crying for something. Max gives him a notepad and a pen. Pierre writes down a “B” and starts pointing at his stomach. Max gives a “what the hell are you talking about” look, then Francine throws a banana to Pierre, who catches it and starts peeling it.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
My wife is a warrior. I have a newfound respect for her ability to keep her head in dangerous situations.

CUT TO:

Francine walks into the bathroom and finds all of her cosmetics in the bathtub, where Pierre is bathing while testing out Francine’s lipstick.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
I wasn’t there for the day that Pierre went through his transgender phase, but she told me it was one of the hardest experiences she has ever worked through. I’m sure she’s exaggerating, though.

CUT TO:

Pierre, wearing a dress with sunflowers on it and carrying a rolling pin, chases Francine, dressed in plain clothes, in a hallway, from the right side of the screen to the left side offscreen. A second passes, then Pierre, naked and bare-armed, runs from the left side of the screen to the right side, being chased by Francine, who is wearing a football helmet and holding a golf club.

CUT TO:
MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
I think she’s actually kind of sad that we’re going to have to give the monkey back tomorrow.

CUT TO:

Pierre jumps up and down on Francine’s back while she is sleeping. She checks the clock, which says 4:13 A.M., and then looks at Pierre. He gives her the middle finger, blows raspberries, and then runs out of the room.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
That’s not to say that I haven’t pulled some weight, though.

CUT TO:
Max and Pierre are on the couch watching wrestling.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
I would want my son to grow up to be a cultured adult, so I showed Pierre some of the most graceful and powerful ballet in the world.

At this point, we see a shot on the TV of a man flexing his biceps while sitting on another man’s face. Max and Pierre both start laughing at the sight.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
I just hope he takes something away from what I showed him.

CUT TO:

Pierre sits on Francine while she is sleeping, flexing his muscles like the man on the TV. Francine quickly wakes up, at which point he gives her the finger again. Francine wakes Max up. Max gives Pierre a high-five, then Pierre blows raspberries in Francine’s face and runs out of the room. Max passes out again before Francine can say anything.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
Sometimes, he acts so much like a human that I forget that he’s a monkey.

CUT TO:

Max enters the bathroom and finds Pierre on the toilet, reading an old issue of Penthouse. Max covers his eyes and quickly exits.

MAX
(V.O. CONT.)
Tomorrow, we’ll learn for sure if Francine and I are ready to have a real child. Until then, I’m going to make Pierre’s last night at home a memorable one.

CUT TO:

Max finishes writing in his diary, then picks up a few cards.

MAX
You ready to ante up, kid?

ANGLE ON: Pierre, who is sitting right beside him, holding some cards.

MAX
Good, because we need to win my pants back this round. There’s a draft in here.

Max looks at his hand and smiles.

FADE TO BLACK

MAX
(V.O.)
It was a pleasure to take care of Pierre for a week, even though he made us lose a game of strip Rummy to Francine and her sister.

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
Oh, like that was the worst thing that happened this week. Remember when he got the runs on Monday and the bathroom smelt like rotten banana for the rest of the day?

MAX
(V.O.)
Well, he was healthy enough at the end of the day to watch some cultural programming that night, so all’s well that ends well.

FRANCINE
(V.O.)
He got into everything we didn’t hatch down! The fridge, my makeup, the top of the cabinet—

MAX
(V.O.)
All learning experiences, Francine.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. DR. MOORE’S OFFICE – DAY
Shot of Max and Francine. Francine is holding Pierre in her lap. Pierre is sucking on his thumb. This shot should look like the same shot at the beginning.

FRANCINE
He managed to completely unplug the toilet from the floor. I didn’t even know you could do that.

MAX
Well, now you know.

FRANCINE
It wouldn’t have killed you to not leave on Wednesday?

MAX
I had business to attend to, it was planned out months in advance, I’M SORRY, and it sounded like you got through it easily enough.

FRANCINE
(grunts in displeasure)

MAX
So, Doctor Moore, what do you think?

ANGLE ON: Dr. Moore. She claps her hands two times, and Pierre jumps on top of her desk. She starts examining Pierre.

DR. MOORE
Well, the wind viscosity of the triangular bistro shows abnormal, but acceptable, variations in the western hemisphere of Jimmy Buffett’s eyebrow.

ANGLE ON: Max and Francine. They look confused.

MAX
Okay…

ANGLE ON: Dr. Moore. She continues examining Pierre.

DR. MOORE
There is a surgical hemoglobin within the 5th triceratops that looks very raccoon to me. It could be water buffalo, but it looks raccoon to me. I won’t be able to tell for sure without a thorough schenectady.

ANGLE ON: Max and Francine.

FRANCINE
(whispering) What the hell is she talking about?

MAX
(whispering) She hasn’t said “no” yet, which is a good thing for now.

ANGLE ON: Dr. Moore continues examining Pierre.

DR. MOORE
Let’s check the 19th floor…good, no 19th floor OR Miss Zarves. Common parenting mistake. Glacier boxing pillowcase nerfherder cartwheel Zimbabwe. Bibbity bobbity boo, your mom lives in a zoo. Umbrella!

ANGLE ON: Door flies open. Two bald men in black suits walk in.

BALDIE #1
Rachel Karen Beadeaux, aka Dr. Alaska Rosemary Moore, you are under arrest for impersonating a licensed medical physician, bringing an illegal monkey into this country, and being out of your fucking mind.

DR. MOORE
Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm down. I can explain everything.

Dr. Moore jumps out of an open window. All rush to the window and look down.

ANGLE ON: Dr. Moore fell two feet onto soft grass face-first.

ANGLE ON: All step away from the window.

MAX
Okay, that simultaneously explained everything and made no sense at all.

BALDIE #2
That’s what crazy people do, sir.

Baldie #1 walks outside to put Dr. Moore in handcuffs.

FRANCINCE
So, what’s going to happen to Pierre?

BALDIE #2
He’s going to have to undergo some testing. If it turns out that he’s rabid, we’ll have to kill him. If he isn’t, we’ll put him in the best facility we can offer, where he can fulfill all of his monkey desires. He’s been through a lot.

MAX
Can we keep him?

BALDIE #2
Sure, if you have a couple thousand dollars to spare.

MAX
I’ll talk with my wife about it.

FRANCINE
So how are we supposed to know if we’re ready to have a baby or not?

BALDIE #2
That’s easy.

Long pause.

MAX
…Well?

BALDIE #2
What, are you waiting for me to tell you?

MAX
YES!

BALDIE #2
Well, I can’t. The only two people who know if they’re ready to have a baby or not are the prospective parents. They can feel it in their gut.

MAX
Can you feel it, babe?

FRANCINE
No…wait, yes, I do! I thought it was indigestion.

BALDIE #2
Then there you go.

Max and Francine walk to the door.

MAX
Why didn’t we think to trust our gut in the first place?

FRANCINE
Because your gut almost got you married to Bertha Wainwright, remember?

They leave. Baldie #2 walks over to Pierre.

BALDIE #2
So, what’s your name?

Pierre blows raspberries in his face and gives him the finger. Baldie #2 wipes the spit off of his face.

BALDIE #2
Ah, kids.




THE END

Extended Review of “A Lion’s Tale: Around The World In Spandex”

(Book by Chris Jericho, Review by John Downey)

My worries about this book being a ghostwritten autobiography, due to the presence of a second author, were addressed right away in Peter Thomas Fornatale’s foreword: “First, I want to say that this book is not an “as told to” autobiography. My role was to brainstorm ideas and help with organization and structure. The voice is 100% Chris Jericho.” That’s certainly one way to cut to the chase, though the next 500 pages make that foreword seem redundant. Chris Jericho has a vibrant, distinct personality, has wrestled over the world, won gold in the 3 largest wrestling organizations in North America, and has probably forgotten more about the business than most people will ever know (and still knows quite a bit, as his recent ladder match with Shawn Michaels was named Match Of The Year by Wrestling Observer). The only way that the story of Chris Jericho’s life could be boring would be if there was a concentrated effort to bore the audience. As it is, this is the best autobiography of a wrestler I have ever read, and I’ve read most of them.

Jericho (born Chris Irvine, son of a noteworthy hockey player named Ted Irvine) was drawn to wrestling as a child, first from attending American Wrestling Association (AWA) events in Winnipeg. Jericho found a connection with the smaller wrestlers who would have to do something extra to stand out in what is usually an art for the “big boys”. The man who made Jericho consider becoming a wrestler, though, was Owen Hart, who was Jericho’s size (if Jericho made a concentrated effort to get in shape), lived in a town not far from where Jericho lived (Calgary), and was quickly becoming one of the biggest names in Stampede Wrestling (whose best talent eventually ended up in the WWF). Seeing Owen Hart become successful convinced Jericho that he could be successful, too.

Jericho trained in the Hart Brothers Camp in Calgary, though Jericho makes sure to point out that training to be a wrestler is nowhere close to the experience that he thought it would be. For instance, though there were several successful wrestling Harts, only Keith Hart showed up for a few sessions, and those were usually marked by him torturing students who had the gall to stand out in their class. Also, there was only one other student in Jericho’s class who seemed to stand a chance at making a career out of wrestling, Lance Storm (who went on to become a respected name in the business in his own right). Jericho was under the impression that he would be working with like-minded individuals, but he ended up sharing class time with hillbillies and freaks. Even the training itself was incomplete. Jericho and his classmates were taught how to take falls and perform impressive athletic feats, but he wasn’t taught how to put them together into a logical wrestling match, which is something that, as I understand it, goes hand in hand with learning how to fall properly in most wrestling schools today.

After he gained a lot of experience wrestling in high school gyms, armories, and birthday parties (seriously), Jericho gained employment in Mexico. After being taught for months how to take convincing falls and draw people into a match, Jericho found that most of what he learned didn’t apply in Mexico, where lucha libre was the popular wrestling dish. Whereas Jericho was taught how to absorb high-impact moves, lucha libre involved wrestlers taking lots of rolls, flipping each other using one hand, and wrestlers dancing around for no reason to the delight of the fans. It wasn’t uncommon for matches to have multiple falls to a finish, or multiple referees, or for matches to end when a wrestler did an eye-catching dive onto another wrestler located outside of the ring—which is a rule that doesn’t apply to any other wrestling organization that I’ve ever heard of. Jericho, taking the name Corazon de Leon, became a sex symbol through his good looks and natural charisma, which upset a wrestler named Vampiro, who was easily the most popular wrestler in Mexico at the time whose position as such was never in any danger. Vampiro gave Jericho intentionally bad advice (none of which Jericho listened to), told Jericho’s employer that Jericho was unhappy with his pay and working conditions, and often lied about how he broke into the business. (This isn’t the first time that I’ve read about wrestlers having a problem with Vampiro. In fact, so much word of his misdeeds has gotten around that he has essentially been blackballed from most wrestling organizations in North America, with the only ones that use him being desperate for talent.) Jericho talks about how he enjoyed being the bad guy, as it was easier to make people hate him than to make people like him. He was so good at pissing off crowds that in the course of one match not only did somebody throw a bottle filled with fresh piss at him, but another person also pulled a gun. In most cities in Mexico, though, Jericho was well-liked, and became a solid performer, good enough to hold the NWA Middleweight Championship for 11 months.

Jericho met two close friends in Mexico, Art Barr and Eddie Guerrero, though both gave him a cold reception at first. Jericho broke the ice with Art Barr by accident, when they happened to see two people have comically absurd and disgusting sex. They had a lot in common, including missing their families more than most of “the boys” and having similar tastes in music. Barr was at the top of his game, on track to possibly become one of the most popular wrestlers in the world, when he suddenly died in his sleep. Jericho was staying in Barr’s room (at Barr’s insistence) when he heard of Barr’s death, and Jericho’s description of the minutes after hearing the news are heart-wrenching. Not long after Barr’s death, the peso crashed, and Jericho, who found himself working for a third of his usual salary in a place that reminded him of his dead best friend, sought employment elsewhere.

Jericho ended up working in Germany, where a style of wrestling called “catch” had caught on. It’s a style of wrestling that I wasn’t familiar with, and Jericho doesn’t do the best job of explaining it. (As I understand it, German fans were conditioned to accept matches that actually looked real. To this end, matches usually featured a lot of jockeying for position and attempts at submissions. Moves off of the top rope and other theatrics didn’t fit in this style.) Jericho’s first match in Germany sets off a habit that he calls “The Jericho Curse”: his first match in any promotion will suck. Jericho’s problem was that he tried to make himself look good in the match, as opposed to working to making the match better. When he figured this out, he started having great matches, though he doesn’t go into detail on any of them. He expresses gratitude for the opportunity he received in Germany, but when he got a chance to work for a bigger paycheck in front of larger audiences, he jumped at it.

Jericho was brought in to Smoky Mountain Wrestling, a southern wrestling promotion, by its owner, Jim Cornette, who had also made a career out of being a wrestling manager. Jericho’s first face-to-face conversation with Cornette let Jericho know that, even though he was working in North America again, Smoky Mountain was going to be just as strange as working in Mexico and Germany, as it took several moments for Jericho to figure out what Cornette was saying. (Cornette’s literal words: “Jeet yet?” Translation: “Did you eat yet?”) Fortunately, Jericho was working for one of the smartest men in the wrestling business, so, for once, Jericho didn’t have to worry about trying to find the midpoint between “what the booker is saying should happen” and “what I should do to make myself look good”, as they were often the same thing.

Cornette put Jericho in a tag team with his Hart Brothers training buddy, Lance Storm, and dubbed the duo the Thrillseekers. They were introduced through vignettes that made them look wild and cool, though Jericho mocks them as he describes them, and were immediately put into a feud with Well Dunn, who needed a good excuse to be kicked out of SMW, as they were going to be joining the WWF’s roster soon. (Though Jericho never explicitly states this, Cornette’s decision to have Jericho and Storm team up said a lot about Cornette’s faith in them, as Cornette had managed some of the greatest tag teams in wrestling history, including the Midnight Express. I gather that the only reason why the Thrillseekers didn’t win the SMW Tag Team Championship was because they didn’t need the titles in order to become popular.) Jericho was put off by the way that SMW engaged wrestlers with the fans. During intermission, wrestlers would work the concession stands, signing autographs and hawking merchandise. Jericho saw this as being beneath him, as wrestlers are supposed to have a mystique about them, and that mystique was destroyed when you sold bandanas and promotional pictures of yourself directly to the fans. In the book, though Jericho acknowledges that this was a terrible attitude to have, since he and Lance were the highest paid workers on SMW’s roster and should have just done as they were told in order to show their gratitude. Jericho also says that this was something that SMW’s audience liked, as they preferred their wrestlers to be accessible figures rather than children of Olympus, and that if Jericho had simply done his job, the Thrillseekers might have replaced the Rock And Roll Express as the most popular tag team in the south.

Cornette was pleased with Jericho’s work, and told him that the WWF was interested in hiring him. When he learned of the details of the job, though (basically, he was to be a colorful character who lost most of his matches), Jericho, along with Lance, took a job in Frontier Martial-Arts Wrestling in Japan instead. By now, Jericho was used to expecting the unexpected, but he still wasn’t ready for what Japan had to offer. Wrestling match results were published in Baseball Magazine. He found a sports drink called Pocari Sweat. Most toilets in wrestling arenas were little more than holes in the ground.

FMW was strange, too. It employed boxers, men willing to set themselves on fire, and men in panda suits. It employed wrestlers, too, but they seemed to be the exception rather than the rule. Jericho’s stint with FMW was a bust, as he found himself waiting for future bookings and not getting them. When FMW did a tour (series of wrestling shows) based around tag team matches, they didn’t call Jericho. Eventually, FMW called and requested his services, but Jericho had already found a new home in Wrestle and Romance, a rival Japanese organization. (That name doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense to me. The only possible explanation I have for it is that the “Romance” half is in reference to the splintering politics and fantastic fighting techniques as described in “Romance Of The Three Kingdoms”. If that’s the case, though, why name a Japanese wrestling organization after a piece of classic Chinese literature? Even worse, the organization later changed its name to Wrestle Association R, which makes even less sense.)

Jericho had a much easier time making his name in WAR once he got accustomed to the Japanese style of wrestling, where gaining respect was based more on how hard a match was fought than if you actually won the match. For example, when Jericho wrestled an imposing man named Haku, Jericho threw punches and kicks that were much stiffer than most wrestlers would be willing to throw or take. It made sense in the context of the match, though, since Haku had a well-earned reputation of being a tough guy (indeed, several of his peers have told of his tendency to fend off half a dozen drunkards in a bar without breaking a sweat), and in order for Jericho to look like he had a chance in the match, he would need to go the extra mile. Jericho was also allowed to kick out of Haku’s finishing move, the powerbomb (which resembles a piledriver, but instead of planting the opponent on his head, the “attacking” wrestler throws his opponent onto the ground backfirst), which elevated Jericho’s profile despite losing the match soon after taking the move.

After becoming a star in Japan, Jericho worked for Extreme Championship Wrestling, an exceptionally well-booked Philadelphia-based promotion. ECW, even at its peak, rarely drew over 1,000 fans to its events, and its owner, Paul Heyman, was known for giving checks that bounced more often than not, but ECW’s influence was felt throughout the business, as its best ideas were used by larger wrestling promotions (ECW’s Sandman, for instance, was very similar to the WWF’s later Stone Cold Steve Austin), its best workers usually found themselves working for big money elsewhere, and its fan base were a creative, angry, and loyal bunch of individuals—the same people could be seen in the same seats at every ECW event (no matter where they held shows), providing weapons to the wrestlers, and delivering thoughtful chants, such as “She’s a crack whore!” (to a dastardly female), “You suck dick!”, and “Do the job, Dean, do the job!” (towards Shane Douglas, who, as Dean Douglas in the WWF, was told to lose matches in situations that made no storyline sense whatsoever). In short, getting over in ECW would get you far.

In the wrestling business, Paul Heyman was a strange figure. He would often book the shows while they were in progress (Jericho informed Heyman that Mikey Whipwreck couldn’t be in the 3rd match of the night because he was in the match that was going on right now), use grievance fares to fly in talent for cheap, and never edited out any mistakes that his performers made in a match before it aired on TV. He would be the first man that any wrestler saw when they came back from the ring, and he would always give his employees compliments, which was a big no-no in the business, since wrestlers usually were full of themselves already. His instincts for the business were on par with Cornette’s. The only difference is that Cornette got an opportunity to exhibit it, while Heyman, through ECW, made his impact from scratch. Everyone on an ECW show had their place, even the worst performers. For example, Heyman brought in a guy named 911. He was a big guy with natural charisma, but he couldn’t, you know, “wrestle,” not even in the WWF sense of the word. To work around this, Heyman would have 911 walk out during deliberately-juvenile happenings (a Santa Claus appearance, for instance) and chokeslam everyone in sight. Through a steady stream of use, 911 became one of the most popular guys on the roster, despite rarely actually competing in a match.

Heyman’s ideas for Jericho were equally genius. First, Heyman promoted Jericho through a series of vignettes on the ECW TV show, constantly referring to him as the “Last Survivor of Stu Hart’s Dungeon”. Then, in one of his first matches in ECW, Jericho was allowed to suplex Taz, who rarely ever left his feet, let alone get suplexed. (Taz is another example of Heyman’s booking genius, as Taz was booked to be the most dominating man in the world despite standing at only 5’9’’ and being towered over by most of the fans.) Jericho wasn’t allowed to beat Taz, though, as Taz gave Jericho a suplex that was so vicious, it “knocked him out”, making Jericho look good in defeat while making Taz look like a killer.

It didn’t take long for other wrestling organization to take notice of Jericho, as WCW’s Eric Bischoff quickly offered Jericho employment in his company (though, to be fair, Bischoff was making that offer to anybody with a pair of boots, as he wanted to lock up as much talent as he could before Vince McMahon did). Jericho agreed, and said he would start working for Bischoff as soon as he was done with his scheduled ECW dates. When Jericho told Heyman that he was going to work for WCW, though, Heyman told Jericho that he wanted Jericho to win the ECW World Television Championship before he left. Seeing as how Jericho was being paid for each show, and had no contract with Heyman, there was nothing legally stopping Jericho from leaving ECW with the belt around his waist, but Jericho agreed to Heyman’s plan, winning the title and then losing it shortly afterwards. (Jericho expresses confusion over this turn of events, wondering why Heyman did him this favor. It should be noted, though, that Paul Heyman hated WCW, and constantly took potshots at its bookers and performers. Heyman had done some great work for the promotion for chump change, and Bill Watts, who was running WCW at the time, treated Heyman and his friends like crap. On WWE’s “Bloodsport: ECW’s Most Violent Matches” DVD, Heyman gleefully states (I’m paraphrasing here, as I don’t have my copy with me), “Eric Bischoff did NOT ‘discover’ Chris Jericho. In fact, the VERY FIRST TITLE that he ever held in the United States was the ECW World Television Championship.” I’m guessing that Heyman arranged for Jericho to win the belt in case Jericho became a star in WCW, just so he could say, “I got there first.”)

The first time he called WCW’s offices to try to work out a long-term contract, Jericho was told that he would have to have a tryout match. This, despite already being told that he had a job. Welcome to WCW.

Jericho’s time spent working for WCW did more to kill his interest in wrestling than anything else in his career. His colleagues would get hostile if Jericho did something as unforgivable as introduce himself or (gasp!) give a compliment. His first match on TV ended in a double count-out when his opponent missed a dive on the outside and Jericho checked on his health rather than take advantage, which was meant to make him look noble but (and Jericho predicted this the second he was told of the finish) it actually made him look like a moron. The head booker, Kevin Sullivan, told Jericho to stop caring so much about his work (Ric Flair, upon hearing this, told Jericho to do the exact opposite). The only bright spot in Jericho’s early tenure was that WCW had a working relationship with New Japan Pro Wrestling, one of the largest wrestling organizations in Japan, and with no plans for Jericho, WCW sent him to Japan. New Japan was so pleased with his work that tentative plans were made to put the IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship, one of the most prestigious belts in the world, on Jericho when WCW put the kibosh on those plans and made him return to America.

It wasn’t until Jericho was allowed to be a bad guy that Jericho found success in WCW. While the NWO group had made the idea of a cool bad guy seem fashionable, Jericho decided to be a chickenshit asshole instead. He called his opponents by incorrect name (he once referred to Booker T as “Tooker B”), he cut lengthy inane promos in which he gave himself countless nicknames, and he would exaggerate his Canadian accent. He became popular enough to win the WCW Cruiserweight Championship, though that isn’t as big of a deal as it may sound, as the belt didn’t mean much.

Jericho also engaged in a feud with Bill Goldberg, who had been on a long winning streak at the time. Jericho would call out Goldberg, only to easily defeat a midget dressed to look like him. When Goldberg didn’t show up to the arena, Jericho would challenge him to a match, have the referee count to 10, and claimed that he won by count-out. Fans (including myself) enjoyed the feud, since Jericho was entertaining in his role, and there seemed to be a lot of money to be had in seeing Goldberg beat the snot out of Jericho. Goldberg vs. Jericho never happened, though, since they couldn’t agree on the terms. Bischoff, Goldberg, and Hulk Hogan thought that Jericho should lose to Goldberg on free TV. Jericho argued that Goldberg vs. Jericho should have been put on PPV. (Hogan later told Jericho that he admired Jericho for standing up for himself, because Jericho was right. I can’t recall any other instance in which Hogan admitted that he was wrong, so props there, I guess.) After several weeks of build, the feud was ended without a proper showdown (though they did have a disappointing match in WWE), which is when Jericho started looking for employment in the WWF.

The book ends right before Jericho debuts for the WWF, leaving enough material for a second book, since Jericho’s best days happened in the WWF. With the book being 500+ pages long, I had to omit Jericho’s descriptions of bowling while taking sleeping pills, getting high on GHB at one of the most prestigious Japanese wrestling events, and his first sexual experience, among other lovely stories. I’ve learned more about the wrestling business from reading this book than from Mick Foley’s 3 autobiographies or Freddie Blassie’s book (which is saying a lot, since I think the world of those books). It’s also funny throughout, which makes it easy to read. Between the plain facts of Jericho’s career, the strange stories that he brings up (Cornette ends up threatening some Dairy Queen employees), and Jericho’s running commentary, I have to recommend this book. Even people who hate wrestling will like it.