All Dogs Go To Hill Valley

If you're like me....and for your sake, I hope that you are...

Then you're plagued by the thought that maybe dogs dream the future.

Why not? Would we really know one way or the other if they did?

"You're gonna die up there."

No, we'd be fucking clueless.

You know that Chihuahua that trembles terribly every time you pick him up?

Well now you know why. The poor thing dreamt about the pick-up truck that is going fall off the overpass and crush you in your mini-cooper in a couple weeks.
All he wants to do is warn you. But he can't. Because he's a FUCKING DOG.

They shake themselves because they're trying to wipe the vision of their loyal master being paralyzed in that elevator accident three years from now clean from their minds.

Canines are out there left and right, just getting prescient temporal visions of their masters futures...


...and we're up here walking around on two feet like we own the world, when our fates and destinies are being played out by an animal that given the choice, would eat it's own defecation.

Though who knows? Maybe they're on to something. If they're smart enough to see into our futures, who am I to resist?

So next time you're lying in bed and your dog comes up to the side, sits down, tongue dangling out of the side of his mouth, what he's probably thinking is, "I KNOWZ HOW YOU GONNA DIE!"

Bag It & Tag it

Cashier: Do you want a bag?
Me: Do you want a punch in the face?

Look at how much shit I just bought?
No, I don't want a bag. I'm a fucking traveling circus performer and prefer to live my craft by juggling these 13 items the three-mile walk back to my house.

Look, I'm a big Ringo fan too.


But we don't live in the fucking Octopus's Garden.

I only have 2 arms. I know your remedial math class through high school was basically just watching reruns of Sesame Street.

But I think the Cookie Monster would spit masticated, partially digested Oreos into your face if you asked him such nonsense.

Just give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'll want a bag. If I was only buying one god damn tube of toothpaste, maybe I'll live dangerously and say I don't need a bag.

Or maybe you can just go back to whatever bridge it is you live under thinking up riddles and go fuck yourself.
And no Rite Aid, no I will not be taking the online survey you pointed out the number for on my receipt.

INVICTUS!

Spare Some Change For an Old Altar Boy, Fad'r

You ever notice how the palm one of one's hand can be formed into a perfect little cup?

And that when you're counting out my change and I hold that chalice beneath your face, I'm miming that "this is where my change goes."

Now, I understand that since you're working behind a register, those Master classes at Harvard Business School you're taking haven't gotten to the important curriculum yet.

However, unless your depth-perception has been fucked with by the asbestos in the walls of this needs-to-be condemned building, you see the cup I'm holding out to you.

So then why the FUCK do you drop the change all over the counter instead??

Now It's sliding all over the god damn place; that dime just fell on the floor; a nickel's rolled beneath the counter. I need this?

And look, your empty apology to me...just don't bother. I know you're not sorry. I can tell by the look on that Stars Wars mask you wear as a face.

It's bad enough I had to listen to you give me your sales pitch on the CVS card I should get with all the oratory eloquence of Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot....

You know, the void in the art of raconteuring by the death of Spalding Grey may just have been filled. My spidey senses are tingling that there's a career change in your future!!

Just put my pack of Camel Lights and box of condoms in the plastic bag and let me be on my day, Morlock.

Congrats on your role in Precious, by the way.

Food for Thought

Chubby Whole Foods Cashier: And would you like to donate a dollar or more to Feed Africa Now.

Me: Look at my face. This is the face of a man who will not be donating a dollar to Feed Africa Now.

Okay Whole Foods, let's cut the shit.


If I wanted to give money to African kids, I'd rewatch movies taped off commercial TV in 1986 and wait for that Sally Struthers infomercial to play every five god damn minutes.


For starter's, don't blindside me like that. It's bad enough I've got the homeless guy with a skin disorder barking at me for change by the carts outside the entrance.


Now you're trying to make me out to be an asshole b/c I don't want to fork over a buck even though I already have to deal with spending half my paycheck on your organic Paul Newman's Own Pretzel Crisps?


And at least tell your cashiers HOW to beg for money. I'm not about to fork over another dollar when the woman at the register, who looks like she eats only non-organic cheetos for three meals a day and speaks with about as much eloquence and coordination as the Elephant Man is the one wheeling and dealing here.


It also doesn't entice me to donate money when the incentive is explained as "you can sign your name on this paper cut out int he shape of Africa and it'll be put up around the store."

FUCK YOU.

You think I want my ex-girlfriend to see that shit? That i donated one fucking dollar?? Have the balls to ask me for some real money.

You won't get it.

But you'll get my respect.

Now where the fuck are the god damn mini brie in filo bread brunch appetizers??


I'm starving!!!

Straight to the Dome

There's a lot of people out there that deserve nothing more than a delicious punch to the face.

It was the one dish that I would have went to see Julie and Julia if they'd shown it being served.

I would do this but there are several things holding me back:
1. Cowardice

2. Imminent Awkward Situation (IAS): Most of my life is about avoiding choices that will somehow lead to an awkward situation between myself and another. My life is guided by doing anything possible to reach as few of these as possible. Needless to say, frequent facial punches will probably start to draw me into a long string of IAS's.

This will be an ongoing entry that I continue to update with more and more people who could a learn a thing or two about the world by getting kicked in the gut by a man with elephantitis.

#1. The "IF IT WAS SO IMPORTANT YOU WOULDN'T HAVE FORGOTTEN" Guy.

You know what? Fuck you.

Maybe it was important. Who said it wasn't? Maybe I've got a lot on my mind and whatever it was I had to tell you just isn't my top priority. Doesn't meant it was something menial and irrelevant.

It slipped my mind as well that you've never forgotten anything in your entire life. You're biography is just like that animal that never forgets...the name now escapes me.

People forget important things all the time.
Like your mother and birth control.

I really just can't remember. Back the fuck off.

Or you're really tempting fate for an unforgettable affair between a fist and that pock-marked mess you call a face.

Fly the Friendly w/ Benefits Skies

So I've got an 90 minute layover in the Phoenix airport and grow bored standing in front of the CPK ASAP, pondering just how hungry I am and if 18 dollars for a 4-inch diameter microwaved "lactose-based italian themed bread disc" is worth it...


When I decide to just hang out in one of the stores that sells magazines and books and trinkets with cool tourist spots in Phoenix silk-screened on them, such as...


So anyway, I grow tired of reading the backs of the three new John Grisham thrillers out, or their Christian-themed counterparts...


Who knew International intrique in Morocco is really a metaphor for the quest we all must venture on to find God within ourselves?

When I hit the magazines: GQ, Esquire, Details, Maxim, Penthouse, Black Beauty, Hustler..

Ehhhh, what?


Is this really proper reading material at an airport? It's bad enough I have to sit next to the smelly indian dude with dandruff using up both armrests b/c of his expansive laptop. Now I have to worry about him rubbing one out next to me?


This is a bad combination. There's already women whipping out breasts to milk their babies.

No, seriously, that happened to me. There ARE bathrooms on planes you know? I think you can drop the whole "This is what mothers DO" bullshit and just take it inside.


So i got a woman with an exposed boob on one side, and some dude who's now aroused enough to whip out the copy of Rear Entry he picked up at the terminal store on the other and start pounding his meat.


And thanks, I'm sure the majority of ADULTS on this flight really wants to watch Hotels for Dogs as their in-flight movie.


I'm WALKING!

Trailer Trash

Fact: Unless ELO is playing in the trailer for your movie, it is NOT a quirky, indie fantasy film.

Eternal Sunshine

Stranger Than Fiction


The Invention of Lying


Can we not figure out the genre or tone of your film without Jeff Lynne singing a song so saccharine it could kill a diabetic?


There are songs with more adult lyrics and themes being sung by puppets on Sesame Street.


Don't get me wrong- ELO is one of my favorite bands of all time, and this song is amazing. how could you NOT love this face?


However, what is it about a song that's basically only a hair or two more mature than "Rain, rain, go away, come back again some other day" that makes it the only song possible to get the filmmaker's point across that, "Okay guys, this film is quirky, annnnd it's also sort of low-budget, oh, and it also kind of bends genres into sci-fi, but just a bit."


Oh, and Under Pressure- yeah, we get it, this is that 'tough' end of act 2 point in your life, when everything is getting you down and thinks just aren't going your way.


But we know you'll rally back to come out on top. Why? Well, because Walking on Sunshine just started playing over the trailer.


Gimme a break.