An Archaeologist
Oh hey, kid--what? Archaeologist? Oh right, that Indiana Jones marathon was on this weekend, wasn't it? Okay--first of all, you'll be confused. If you're in the states, they'll spell your job without the middle "a"--so you've got to decide if you'll spell it British and look pretentious in the U.S., or spell it American, and look ignorant in the U.K.--depends which foundations you're sucking up to for grant money--I'd go with pretentious.
So, the whole "saving the world by stealing the ark from the nazis" thing isn't your standard archaeologist's day's work. Neither is having coed's write messages on their eyelashes to you--though I must admit--that was cool...
Anyway--you'll travel to dusty, out of the way places which are either too damn hot, too cold, or just too dangerous--either filled with every tropical disease known to man, overrun with poisonous insects and reptiles, or simply governed by evil, corrupt military juntas who see archaeologists as useful only as bribe providers. If you end up in a fundamentalist Islamic regime, you'll likely be one of the kidnap victims pleading for your life on video.
But if you avoid that, it's just the mind-numbing drudgery of picking through inch after inch of clay, dust or rock--what's that? an arrowhead? No, it's only another damned rock. At night you'll drink whatever cheap hooch you scrounged at the little supply store 50 miles away. You get a real shower about once a month when you head back for supplies and the occasional drinking binge.
You form short-term relationships with idealistic archaeology students on work terms, only to feel empty and alone when they go back to their ivy league colleges. Of course, there's always more sifting through dust to distract you from the heartbreak.
There's no pension in your pay picture--the grant money is not reliable--and you spend as much time writing grant requests as you do searching for your little arrowheads. After a while, you get tired of living off the good will of foundations and research councils, and you take a spot at a university.
Then of course--people disdain you because you don't work "in the field" much anymore...
You retire a sellout--but at least you have a pension...
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Bartender
"School of Mixology"--that's rich kid. Yeah, and podiatrists are "doctors"--oh sorry, didn't mean to poke you in the eye with my air quotes. Well, your bartending career will go pretty much like this:
You'll go to the bartending institute and learn the difference between shaken and stirred, a bunch of different drinks, how to do the flaming ones without burning yourself, and then you're off to find your $12 per hour job--if you're lucky. You start as the bartender at a chain restaurant, where the manager--same age as you but with a pissy attitude--rides your ass day in and day out that you're putting too much actual booze in the drinks--truth is, you're "comping" your buddies on staff and some of the cuter waitresses.
Eventually, you decide to leave before you say something to lose your reference, and you go to work at a nightclub. It's way more fun--energetic and social--problem is, the few cute women who chat you up at the bar end up leaving with other guys because you don't get off work until 2 a.m.--plus, everything begins to look sad as you see the same people getting hammered, week in and week out. Soon you're an invaluable resource to the players of the club--you warn them which prospects have herpes, crazy ex's or three kids. They take care of you with good tips, but you don't get enough of those, and the waitresses don't share theirs like they should.
You begin drinking after work more and more, and eventually get an impaired charge. In the court-mandated alcohol counselling you meet a girl and the two of you get serious quickly and decide to get married. Problem is--she IS an alcoholic, and your only marketable skill is pouring booze. You're out late nights, and you worry that home alone, or out with her friends, she'll start drinking again.
She does, and when she does, she starts accusing you of messing around with the girls you work with--soon you're volunteering for extra shifts and doing weddings on the side just to stay away. She eventually leaves, but then dries out and comes back and you agree to work on things. This cycle continues for the next seven years of your marriage, during which time you add two kids to the mess.
The club you work at decides to go for the "coyote ugly" girls thing, and you're unemployed. At this point, you're not really young enough to get hired on at any more dance clubs, so you go to work for a low-key, lower paying neighborhood pub. The staff is fine, there's decent food at your breaks, and you get home earlier. Of course, you see the same sad old drunks night in and night out, and the three karaoke nights per week are your own small embodiment of hell. You finally pull the pin on bartending at age 45, and work in one of those horrible moneymart places until a holdup man kills you when you're 52.
What's the matter kid? Are you okay? Come back...
"School of Mixology"--that's rich kid. Yeah, and podiatrists are "doctors"--oh sorry, didn't mean to poke you in the eye with my air quotes. Well, your bartending career will go pretty much like this:
You'll go to the bartending institute and learn the difference between shaken and stirred, a bunch of different drinks, how to do the flaming ones without burning yourself, and then you're off to find your $12 per hour job--if you're lucky. You start as the bartender at a chain restaurant, where the manager--same age as you but with a pissy attitude--rides your ass day in and day out that you're putting too much actual booze in the drinks--truth is, you're "comping" your buddies on staff and some of the cuter waitresses.
Eventually, you decide to leave before you say something to lose your reference, and you go to work at a nightclub. It's way more fun--energetic and social--problem is, the few cute women who chat you up at the bar end up leaving with other guys because you don't get off work until 2 a.m.--plus, everything begins to look sad as you see the same people getting hammered, week in and week out. Soon you're an invaluable resource to the players of the club--you warn them which prospects have herpes, crazy ex's or three kids. They take care of you with good tips, but you don't get enough of those, and the waitresses don't share theirs like they should.
You begin drinking after work more and more, and eventually get an impaired charge. In the court-mandated alcohol counselling you meet a girl and the two of you get serious quickly and decide to get married. Problem is--she IS an alcoholic, and your only marketable skill is pouring booze. You're out late nights, and you worry that home alone, or out with her friends, she'll start drinking again.
She does, and when she does, she starts accusing you of messing around with the girls you work with--soon you're volunteering for extra shifts and doing weddings on the side just to stay away. She eventually leaves, but then dries out and comes back and you agree to work on things. This cycle continues for the next seven years of your marriage, during which time you add two kids to the mess.
The club you work at decides to go for the "coyote ugly" girls thing, and you're unemployed. At this point, you're not really young enough to get hired on at any more dance clubs, so you go to work for a low-key, lower paying neighborhood pub. The staff is fine, there's decent food at your breaks, and you get home earlier. Of course, you see the same sad old drunks night in and night out, and the three karaoke nights per week are your own small embodiment of hell. You finally pull the pin on bartending at age 45, and work in one of those horrible moneymart places until a holdup man kills you when you're 52.
What's the matter kid? Are you okay? Come back...
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Othello
So there's this Othello dude, and he's like, an English African-American or something so that so Shakespeare can say "yeah I'm no racist so forget about Shylock" and stuff and Othello tells a bunch of stories to this chick Desdemona and they run away and her dad's all pissy about the Vegas wedding and they have this court thing but too bad for Desdemona's dad cause the wedding stands.
Anyway, this talking parrot named Iago hates this Cassio guy (not the lean and hungry guy from JC) and he figures out a plan to diss Casssio to Othello by saying that Desdemona's having a little Cassio-roll on the side, if you get my meaning. He also tells him they were making "the beast with two backs", which mighta been that "pushme-pullyou" thing, but I think it had two fronts--or maybe one of them freaky-ass siamese twin turtle things--whatever it was, it got Othello all jealous and stuff.
Then Iago steals this handkerchief, uses to rub some magic lamp, and there's this genie and then Othello says "where's the handkerchief, yo" and then he tells her the handkerchief was all magic, but it was really the lamp, and Iago says she gave it to Cassio, so Othello decides to off her and at the end he finds out it was all Iago so he offs the parrot and then himself and Cassio kills Jafar and they live happily ever.
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If you want more insights from The Kid Who Sits Behind You, go here.
So there's this Othello dude, and he's like, an English African-American or something so that so Shakespeare can say "yeah I'm no racist so forget about Shylock" and stuff and Othello tells a bunch of stories to this chick Desdemona and they run away and her dad's all pissy about the Vegas wedding and they have this court thing but too bad for Desdemona's dad cause the wedding stands.
Anyway, this talking parrot named Iago hates this Cassio guy (not the lean and hungry guy from JC) and he figures out a plan to diss Casssio to Othello by saying that Desdemona's having a little Cassio-roll on the side, if you get my meaning. He also tells him they were making "the beast with two backs", which mighta been that "pushme-pullyou" thing, but I think it had two fronts--or maybe one of them freaky-ass siamese twin turtle things--whatever it was, it got Othello all jealous and stuff.
Then Iago steals this handkerchief, uses to rub some magic lamp, and there's this genie and then Othello says "where's the handkerchief, yo" and then he tells her the handkerchief was all magic, but it was really the lamp, and Iago says she gave it to Cassio, so Othello decides to off her and at the end he finds out it was all Iago so he offs the parrot and then himself and Cassio kills Jafar and they live happily ever.
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If you want more insights from The Kid Who Sits Behind You, go here.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Corporate Lawyer
Hi--good to see you--don't mind the mess, let me move that... this office is so small, here, let me open a window, it's kind of stale in here...I shouldn't had chili for lunch, if you know...oh, okay. So you wanna be what? A corporate lawyer--really? A pretty girl like you? You could be like a model or something... okay. Here goes:
You'll do an undergraduate degree in Political Science, or Economics--actually, you look like an honours English girl--maybe with a minor in the classics. Your profs--the ones who aren't gay--will hit on you, and you'll get good grades because you're smart and you don't mind who knows it. You'll write the LSAT in 3rd year, but your boyfriend will have broken up with you the night before and you'll bomb--so you'll pay to do it again later.
This time you do well, and combined with your grades and some killer references from your profs, you get offered a chance to go to some of the top law schools in the country. Eventually you choose Queens--it's in Ontario, and that's where you want to eventually practice.
You have no life in law school, and when you do have any spare time you have to do volunteer work at a legal aid clinic telling drunks how to get off impaired charges and worse--you hate them all, and discover the hard way that you need to get an unlisted phone number. Eventually the hellish grind pays off and you're offered a position articling at a top Bay Street firm. You get invited on more lunches with partners than most articling students, but you convince yourself it's not because of how you look. One balding, paunchy would-be Romeo after another invites you along to weekend legal conferences, or to go interview witnesses with him an Atlanta, or New Orleans... eventually, after tiring of fending off the advances of these creeps who think their money and power make them desirable, you quite accepting trips and start coming in early to avoid running into them.
The stress of the job, the pace and the harassment begins to take its toll. You develop a variety of minor ailments, and start taking diet pills to keep yourself alert. Eventually you finish the year and are offered an entry position at the firm. You take it. Your fellow articling students are convinced you slept your way into the position, and don't make a secret of it.
Three years later you marry a guy who works as a graphic designer--you tell yourself you don't care if he earns 1/3 of what you do. Two years later, just as you're about to be offered an associate's position, you get pregnant. Artist boy is just "breaking through" to a new level with his career, so you agree to take mat. leave. It destroys your chance of a promotion, and your staff begin calling you "mommy", and other lawyer's eyes glaze over when you talk about your kid and show them baby pictures and you can't find a good babysitter for the times you have to work late to rebuild your career...
Your husband resents the time you're devoting to work and starts teaching an evening art class where he meets a 19 year old who dotes on his every word... In divorce court the colleague you trusted to protect your interests blows it, reminding you on the way out of the court you once turned down his offer of a weekend conference--the result is that 1/2 your income is going to your deadbeat ex husband, who gets primary custody of your child because you are "excessively devoted to your job".
You begin having anxiety attacks and one day one of the partners finds you in a break room weeping... They send you to a shrink the company has on retainer, and quietly arrange to have you transferred to Calgary, where you finish your career representing various cattlemen and land developers in their petty battles over property rights that involve the smell of manure devaluing prime real estate developments. Your child thinks you cold and unfeeling, but manages to call you everytime a cash handout is needed. You never remarry, but drift through a series of unsatisfying relationships.
So, if you come back tomorrow I could get you some brochures about law schools. No? okay--do you need a ride home?
Hi--good to see you--don't mind the mess, let me move that... this office is so small, here, let me open a window, it's kind of stale in here...I shouldn't had chili for lunch, if you know...oh, okay. So you wanna be what? A corporate lawyer--really? A pretty girl like you? You could be like a model or something... okay. Here goes:
You'll do an undergraduate degree in Political Science, or Economics--actually, you look like an honours English girl--maybe with a minor in the classics. Your profs--the ones who aren't gay--will hit on you, and you'll get good grades because you're smart and you don't mind who knows it. You'll write the LSAT in 3rd year, but your boyfriend will have broken up with you the night before and you'll bomb--so you'll pay to do it again later.
This time you do well, and combined with your grades and some killer references from your profs, you get offered a chance to go to some of the top law schools in the country. Eventually you choose Queens--it's in Ontario, and that's where you want to eventually practice.
You have no life in law school, and when you do have any spare time you have to do volunteer work at a legal aid clinic telling drunks how to get off impaired charges and worse--you hate them all, and discover the hard way that you need to get an unlisted phone number. Eventually the hellish grind pays off and you're offered a position articling at a top Bay Street firm. You get invited on more lunches with partners than most articling students, but you convince yourself it's not because of how you look. One balding, paunchy would-be Romeo after another invites you along to weekend legal conferences, or to go interview witnesses with him an Atlanta, or New Orleans... eventually, after tiring of fending off the advances of these creeps who think their money and power make them desirable, you quite accepting trips and start coming in early to avoid running into them.
The stress of the job, the pace and the harassment begins to take its toll. You develop a variety of minor ailments, and start taking diet pills to keep yourself alert. Eventually you finish the year and are offered an entry position at the firm. You take it. Your fellow articling students are convinced you slept your way into the position, and don't make a secret of it.
Three years later you marry a guy who works as a graphic designer--you tell yourself you don't care if he earns 1/3 of what you do. Two years later, just as you're about to be offered an associate's position, you get pregnant. Artist boy is just "breaking through" to a new level with his career, so you agree to take mat. leave. It destroys your chance of a promotion, and your staff begin calling you "mommy", and other lawyer's eyes glaze over when you talk about your kid and show them baby pictures and you can't find a good babysitter for the times you have to work late to rebuild your career...
Your husband resents the time you're devoting to work and starts teaching an evening art class where he meets a 19 year old who dotes on his every word... In divorce court the colleague you trusted to protect your interests blows it, reminding you on the way out of the court you once turned down his offer of a weekend conference--the result is that 1/2 your income is going to your deadbeat ex husband, who gets primary custody of your child because you are "excessively devoted to your job".
You begin having anxiety attacks and one day one of the partners finds you in a break room weeping... They send you to a shrink the company has on retainer, and quietly arrange to have you transferred to Calgary, where you finish your career representing various cattlemen and land developers in their petty battles over property rights that involve the smell of manure devaluing prime real estate developments. Your child thinks you cold and unfeeling, but manages to call you everytime a cash handout is needed. You never remarry, but drift through a series of unsatisfying relationships.
So, if you come back tomorrow I could get you some brochures about law schools. No? okay--do you need a ride home?
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The French Revolution
So the French government was like all "go America--kick British butt" in 1776 but then their people wanted bread and Mary Antonio said Let em eat cake but everybody wanted french bread but who ever heard of French cake? I like Black Forest cake, but that's in Germany. Anyway, the French rich people were all "look at our fruity wigs" and "we don't bathe 'cause we spray toilet water on ourselves" (which is, to be frenchified "trey grosse") and the pheasants all were revolting and some dude named Rob Spierre set up a big cutty thing called a Gillotine and he chopped off everybody's head and burned the fruity wigs and then there was a Rain of Terror for a while until Napoleon showed up and they only chopped off his hand so he kept it in his coat but everybody thought he was reaching for a gat, so they were all "don't shoot anybody, dude, we'll let you be emperor". So he married this Josephine chick and won a bunch of wars then they put him on an island and said don't come back and somebody poisoned him real slow and then they dug him up after he croaked to look for arsenic or old lace or something.
Oh, and they sent the Statute of Libertines to America.
So the French government was like all "go America--kick British butt" in 1776 but then their people wanted bread and Mary Antonio said Let em eat cake but everybody wanted french bread but who ever heard of French cake? I like Black Forest cake, but that's in Germany. Anyway, the French rich people were all "look at our fruity wigs" and "we don't bathe 'cause we spray toilet water on ourselves" (which is, to be frenchified "trey grosse") and the pheasants all were revolting and some dude named Rob Spierre set up a big cutty thing called a Gillotine and he chopped off everybody's head and burned the fruity wigs and then there was a Rain of Terror for a while until Napoleon showed up and they only chopped off his hand so he kept it in his coat but everybody thought he was reaching for a gat, so they were all "don't shoot anybody, dude, we'll let you be emperor". So he married this Josephine chick and won a bunch of wars then they put him on an island and said don't come back and somebody poisoned him real slow and then they dug him up after he croaked to look for arsenic or old lace or something.
Oh, and they sent the Statute of Libertines to America.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Moby Dick
So there's this Ishmael dude and he's all like "I need to find my fortune" and he ends up going whale hunting with this weird Ahab dude who's all racist against non-white whales and has this grudge against this one whale named Moby Dick but like how he knew its name is kinda weird. Anyway, there's this headhunter dude who throws bones around and then a storm and stuff and then the whale kills everyone cause it hated Ahab like that shark in Jaws and then Ishmael is in the water and the whale swallows him and he wishes he had stayed at home with Gipetto, and then he lights a fire and the whale spits him out and he goes home and becomes a real boy and writes this hella long book that our teacher honestly thought we would all read.
So there's this Ishmael dude and he's all like "I need to find my fortune" and he ends up going whale hunting with this weird Ahab dude who's all racist against non-white whales and has this grudge against this one whale named Moby Dick but like how he knew its name is kinda weird. Anyway, there's this headhunter dude who throws bones around and then a storm and stuff and then the whale kills everyone cause it hated Ahab like that shark in Jaws and then Ishmael is in the water and the whale swallows him and he wishes he had stayed at home with Gipetto, and then he lights a fire and the whale spits him out and he goes home and becomes a real boy and writes this hella long book that our teacher honestly thought we would all read.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Take me to your Tractor Pull...
We're weak, tired and vulnerable to bad television. Case in point--Fox TV's "Unexplained Mysteries". Came to one inescapable conclusion: Aliens like mullets. Everybody who sees the unexplained lights, or hears the noises that no one else does is pretty much a poster child for "when brothers and sisters interbreed". Hmmm...
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Real Estate Agent
Really kid--I thought you were smarter than... Never mind. Let's see--if you become a real estate agent you'll have to take some classes and you'll have to go a year without any other job besides real estate to get your license. Problem is, it will be you and a bunch of middle aged housewives who are doing it because they're bored. Your friends are kids your age--they don't have houses to sell, and they don't have money to buy houses. The middle aged housewives will go to tea with their friends and listings will fall into their fat, overprivileged laps.
First you'll work for some dick of a boss who'll make sure you get all the crappiest listings in the bad part of town. Eventually, when you get a little better at it, you'll start to schmooze with all the professionals--you'll join the golf club you can't afford, and buy a car beyond your budget. Your wife will want designer clothes and a new SUV and to send your kids to private school. You'll start playing golf more during the day and drinking three martinis with lunch. You'll hang around the golf clubhouse with doctors and lawyers, and pretend they think you're a professional just like they are. They don't--notice they don't invite you to parties at their houses.
Soon there's a cute young thing training in your agency--you agree to share listings with her, and to make sure you keep working to help her succeed, she flirts with you and before you know it, you're having an affair--it's easy because nobody knows where you're supposed to be at any time of the day. Your wife finds out, and divorces you--suing you so she can live in the custom she's used to--but you never could afford. Soon you're living in a trailer because all your commissions are being eaten up by alimony and you're drinking way too much and you have a heart attack because of stress and the young cute agent has a pile of her listings she's keeps getting because her picture on the ads looks way more appealing than yours.
Your kids are embarassed by you and your drunkard's face and your pathetic trailer. They avoid you. Eventually you start messing up deals and lose your license and desperate for cash, you start schilling for shady Mexican timeshare deals. You either die of a heart attack or put a gun in your mouth by the time you're 55.
By the way, did I ever tell you I tried my hand at real estate when I was younger...?
Really kid--I thought you were smarter than... Never mind. Let's see--if you become a real estate agent you'll have to take some classes and you'll have to go a year without any other job besides real estate to get your license. Problem is, it will be you and a bunch of middle aged housewives who are doing it because they're bored. Your friends are kids your age--they don't have houses to sell, and they don't have money to buy houses. The middle aged housewives will go to tea with their friends and listings will fall into their fat, overprivileged laps.
First you'll work for some dick of a boss who'll make sure you get all the crappiest listings in the bad part of town. Eventually, when you get a little better at it, you'll start to schmooze with all the professionals--you'll join the golf club you can't afford, and buy a car beyond your budget. Your wife will want designer clothes and a new SUV and to send your kids to private school. You'll start playing golf more during the day and drinking three martinis with lunch. You'll hang around the golf clubhouse with doctors and lawyers, and pretend they think you're a professional just like they are. They don't--notice they don't invite you to parties at their houses.
Soon there's a cute young thing training in your agency--you agree to share listings with her, and to make sure you keep working to help her succeed, she flirts with you and before you know it, you're having an affair--it's easy because nobody knows where you're supposed to be at any time of the day. Your wife finds out, and divorces you--suing you so she can live in the custom she's used to--but you never could afford. Soon you're living in a trailer because all your commissions are being eaten up by alimony and you're drinking way too much and you have a heart attack because of stress and the young cute agent has a pile of her listings she's keeps getting because her picture on the ads looks way more appealing than yours.
Your kids are embarassed by you and your drunkard's face and your pathetic trailer. They avoid you. Eventually you start messing up deals and lose your license and desperate for cash, you start schilling for shady Mexican timeshare deals. You either die of a heart attack or put a gun in your mouth by the time you're 55.
By the way, did I ever tell you I tried my hand at real estate when I was younger...?
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Medical Lab Technician
You wanna do what? Oh, sure kid. Two years at BCIT and you get to work in a little room with samples. Pass me that lighter, will ya? So, it's like this: in the real world if somebody if some stranger puts some baby batter in a cup and gives it to you, you call the police. If somebody pisses in a jar or saves their feces to give you, it's police or psych ward--your call. But no--you see, you'll give the guy the little cup and he'll go off and after a quick date with Mr. Hand you get to take the deposit. Is this what you want to go to college for? Is shaking up a test tube with somebody's crap in it a daily routine you want to take part in? If you get on the bus and some loser is pulling off a bandage to expose oozing pus, most people move as far away as possible--but not you--you get to collect that pus--what fun. And don't give me the "urine is sterile" garbage either--not the stuff from the infected scuzzballs whose pee you'll be playing with, I guarantee it. But hey--it's adventurous--think of the eve-present possibility of exposing yourself to some life-threatening disease. Oops, sorry--I should clean out that damn ashtray.
You wanna do what? Oh, sure kid. Two years at BCIT and you get to work in a little room with samples. Pass me that lighter, will ya? So, it's like this: in the real world if somebody if some stranger puts some baby batter in a cup and gives it to you, you call the police. If somebody pisses in a jar or saves their feces to give you, it's police or psych ward--your call. But no--you see, you'll give the guy the little cup and he'll go off and after a quick date with Mr. Hand you get to take the deposit. Is this what you want to go to college for? Is shaking up a test tube with somebody's crap in it a daily routine you want to take part in? If you get on the bus and some loser is pulling off a bandage to expose oozing pus, most people move as far away as possible--but not you--you get to collect that pus--what fun. And don't give me the "urine is sterile" garbage either--not the stuff from the infected scuzzballs whose pee you'll be playing with, I guarantee it. But hey--it's adventurous--think of the eve-present possibility of exposing yourself to some life-threatening disease. Oops, sorry--I should clean out that damn ashtray.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Julius Caesar
So there's this general named Caesar and he's all "I conquered the Gauls--go me" and the senators get all panicky, especially Cassius, 'cause he's all lean and hungry and he gets Brutus all paranoid that Caesar's gonna be king so they decide to off Caesar at the office and Caesar's wife is all "I had a bad dream and you should stay home" and Caesar's all "yeah, okay" and then some senators come and say "Is you whipped? You're stayin' home on account a what some chick said?" and Caesar's all "Damn woman--where's my robe--I'm outta here" and then it's all stabby stabby and then they decide to have a funeral cause people are like, way pissed at the senators.
So they let Marc Anthony (not THAT guy--a Roman dude) talk at the funeral, and it's all like he's Puff Daddy/P. Diddy and Caesar was all Notorious B.I.G./Biggy Small and the funeral speech is all "Every Breath You Take"/"Friends, Romans Countrymen Lend Me Your Ears" and just like P. Diddy it was the best career move Marc Anthony ever made--and he got to be co-king with Lepidoptera and Octopussy Caesar and then he went to Egypt, got it on with Cleopatra, and lost a war. Oh, and Brutus and Cassius offed themselves and Brutus's wife Porche swallowed barbecue coals after she stabbed herself in the thigh cause she was kinda into pain, if you know what I mean.
So there's this general named Caesar and he's all "I conquered the Gauls--go me" and the senators get all panicky, especially Cassius, 'cause he's all lean and hungry and he gets Brutus all paranoid that Caesar's gonna be king so they decide to off Caesar at the office and Caesar's wife is all "I had a bad dream and you should stay home" and Caesar's all "yeah, okay" and then some senators come and say "Is you whipped? You're stayin' home on account a what some chick said?" and Caesar's all "Damn woman--where's my robe--I'm outta here" and then it's all stabby stabby and then they decide to have a funeral cause people are like, way pissed at the senators.
So they let Marc Anthony (not THAT guy--a Roman dude) talk at the funeral, and it's all like he's Puff Daddy/P. Diddy and Caesar was all Notorious B.I.G./Biggy Small and the funeral speech is all "Every Breath You Take"/"Friends, Romans Countrymen Lend Me Your Ears" and just like P. Diddy it was the best career move Marc Anthony ever made--and he got to be co-king with Lepidoptera and Octopussy Caesar and then he went to Egypt, got it on with Cleopatra, and lost a war. Oh, and Brutus and Cassius offed themselves and Brutus's wife Porche swallowed barbecue coals after she stabbed herself in the thigh cause she was kinda into pain, if you know what I mean.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Another day, another genre
So, following the rules established below (see my previous post)
I offer this next installment.
Genre: Existential Drama
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I've heard it before...
JULIA: Yes.
NED: Perhaps there's some... purpose.
JULIA: To the sound?
NED: To... everything.
JULIA: You bore me. Living bores me.
NED: I hate you. I hate me more.
JULIA: Can we leave now?
NED: If only I cared enough... to leave. (pause) There's that sound again.
JULIA: Perhaps it's... despair?
NED: Yes. We must embrace it. (stands. shoots her. lights a cigarette. shoots self.)
(BLACKOUT)
Yes, I suppose it crosses the line from existentialism to absurdism or even nihilism, but until any of you self-righteous bastards shows one little spark of creativity you can't mock my foibles. I'll be in my trailer if anyone wants me...
I offer this next installment.
Genre: Existential Drama
NED: What was that sound?
JULIA: I'm not sure...
NED: I've heard it before...
JULIA: Yes.
NED: Perhaps there's some... purpose.
JULIA: To the sound?
NED: To... everything.
JULIA: You bore me. Living bores me.
NED: I hate you. I hate me more.
JULIA: Can we leave now?
NED: If only I cared enough... to leave. (pause) There's that sound again.
JULIA: Perhaps it's... despair?
NED: Yes. We must embrace it. (stands. shoots her. lights a cigarette. shoots self.)
(BLACKOUT)
Yes, I suppose it crosses the line from existentialism to absurdism or even nihilism, but until any of you self-righteous bastards shows one little spark of creativity you can't mock my foibles. I'll be in my trailer if anyone wants me...
Sunday, October 03, 2004
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Hamlet
So Hamlet was this Danish prince--unlike the prince of danishes, which is this bakery I once saw, and he's off studying in some place in Germany and his uncle offs his dad, also named Hamlet, so you have to call him Old Hamlet--kinda like Archie and Little Archie except they're not the same guy--and so Hamlet gets home and his mom's all like "your dad died so I married your uncle" and he's all "mom you whore" and then he starts gettin' it on with Ophelia. Ophelia is this chick whose dad is a stupid know-it-all like my friend Brad's dad except Brad's dad got hit in the head with a two by four at work, so Hamlet starts messin' with everybody's mind and he's pretending to be nuts but maybe he really is. Then his old buddies Rosenstall and Guildenhutz try to get him offed in England but he fools them and then Ophelia is all "have some flowers and herbs" cause she was probly knocked up and then she drowns herself and then Hamlet fights her brother after he killed her dad and then the queen dies and so does the king and so does Hamlet. Then the Norweyans come--they're kinda like Norwegians--and take over cause on account of these Danish people are all f'ed up in the head.
So Hamlet was this Danish prince--unlike the prince of danishes, which is this bakery I once saw, and he's off studying in some place in Germany and his uncle offs his dad, also named Hamlet, so you have to call him Old Hamlet--kinda like Archie and Little Archie except they're not the same guy--and so Hamlet gets home and his mom's all like "your dad died so I married your uncle" and he's all "mom you whore" and then he starts gettin' it on with Ophelia. Ophelia is this chick whose dad is a stupid know-it-all like my friend Brad's dad except Brad's dad got hit in the head with a two by four at work, so Hamlet starts messin' with everybody's mind and he's pretending to be nuts but maybe he really is. Then his old buddies Rosenstall and Guildenhutz try to get him offed in England but he fools them and then Ophelia is all "have some flowers and herbs" cause she was probly knocked up and then she drowns herself and then Hamlet fights her brother after he killed her dad and then the queen dies and so does the king and so does Hamlet. Then the Norweyans come--they're kinda like Norwegians--and take over cause on account of these Danish people are all f'ed up in the head.
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