Mike on Scenic Anemia

Scenic Anemia, an awesome-rad humor site, has a vintage Swaim article as their front page today! Check it out, give them some comments, and dig through the archives. There's a lot of quality time-wasting material to be found.

Sonnets, Y'all

Though none of us canst 'scape that black-draped cart
That slowly draws us towards our dying bed,
Alack, poor Will, of timeless skill and art
Has kept his wits but lost his very head!

Upon his severed baldpate dully gleams,
Reflected twixt his rooted tufts of hair,
A scene of child-like monsters held by seams;
Felt hands that grasp, glass eyes to weep and stare.

Of these young babes, who 'mongst us could have thought
That they wouldst have the hearts to maim and kill?
While Nanny worked to wash out some damned spot,
These tiny tyrants, creeping, had their Will!

Animal, thy daisy-petaled bonnet,
Hides not thy sin, nor stifles it this sonnet.

How To Get Free Money

If you're like me, then you'd like some free money! Well, all you have to do is follow my example and turn current troubling financial events into a positive. Also you have to have parents. Sorry orphans; you lose again. Check it! Digg it!

I Write Other Stuff! Please Read It!

I'll warn you right up front, aside from my use of the phrase "crab teats" in the first sentence, this post isn't that funny.

Why? Because long ago, in the misty years known as 1998-2006, I actually had time to write stuff other than sketches and comedy articles. Yes, believe it or not, this clown's got some tears to shed. And while the success of Muskets (thank you very much) has resulted in me not writing any straight fiction for about six months now, I do hope to get back to it someday.

In the meantime, and after collecting my fill of rejection letters from friendly magazine publishers, I've decided to put all my fiction stuff online at WeBook.

WeBook's the kind of place where you only get feedback if you give someone else feedback, and then it's usually just a copy and paste of whatever you wrote them. So, as ever, I turn to you, my trusted Musketeers.

Go. Peruse. There's a healthy dose of Sci-Fi in there, a bunch of shitty poetry, and even some straight fiction. Let me know what's up. Light up my WeBook profile. I want to see what you guys think, and hopefully when I go back to that stuff in a few months, I'll have had enough people shit on it that I'll have some ideas about revision.

Enjoy the read! Or don't. But either way, let me know.

My Final Yankee Pot Roast Article

For a number of perplexing and dramatic reasons, I'm not going to be doing too much comedy writing on the net outside of the Cracked Blog and Muskets projects. So, you should probably print out this, my final and greatest Yankee Pot Roast article, about my harrowing trip to the Congolese jungle, and frame it somewhere prominent in the house.

On your wife, perhaps.

Jack Thompson Discovers a "Deadly" Threat to Our Children

Cracked decided to front page a piece I wrote about the video game-hating, ignorance-spewing Jack Thompson, so I in turn decided to let you guys know about that, which now I have done.

Read!

Digg!

Be merry!

Mitch Gavelneck Rides Again

Yankee Pot Roast has got another piece of mine up, and they made what is possibly the nerdiest and at the same time most awesome image ever associated with my work. Check it.

Lord Bellingham Returns

One of my favorite pieces ever has gone up over at Yankee Pot Roast. I'd be ever so pleased if you were to absorb the information it contains by scanning your eyes across it.

A Dated Piece of Miscellania From Your Favorite Humorista!

I've gone and gotten another article up at Yankee Pot Roast, one of the densest repositories of funny on the web. Check it here, and be sure to delve deeper into their archives. You won't be disappointed.

Mike on McSweeney's!

I am officially indier than you. After numerous attempts, I've finally gotten a piece of my writing up at known hipster enclave McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Check it out on the front page today, and the archives forever and ever until the universe implodes.

Video Blogging: One of the Three Things I Have in Common with Queen Elizabeth II

In a stubborn, lagging acquiescence to the ceaseless tide of technology, the British Royal Family has officially acquired a Youtube channel and begun releasing videos, including the Queen’s annual “Christmas Address.”

Naturally, this transition to a new medium was not without complications, but as you can see from the compiled clips below, the old gal seems to be adapting quite well. Long Blog the Queen!

P.S. Still haven't bought that microphone.

The Thoughts of a Ten-Year-Old, as Imagined by the Producers of Alvin and the Chipmunks

Right off the bat, let me say this: Underdog was fantastic. No one's disputing that. But those halcyon days are quickly fading from my juvenile memory, and I find myself--and I think I speak for my whole demographic here--yearning for something new. Something fresh, yet familiar. Something with Jason Lee.

And I'm not talking sequel or tie-in here. I need something completely and totally original, something so unique and young that it positively screams out to my age bracket. I'm talking franchise rebranding. And as a conscientious ten-year-old viewer, I will accept no less.

But what franchise? What long-discarded premise can be plucked from the dust of antiquity, polished and refashioned into something I, an adorable tyke, will want to see again and again? One thing's for certain: it will need some references to hip-hop culture. You know, to speak to my generation.

By the very Gods, I've got it! Alvin and the Chipmunks! What better franchise to turn into a movie than an irrelevant 80's cartoon sitcom that I've neither seen nor have any understanding of?! Much like the brilliant masterworks Inspector Gadget and Shaggy Dog, it's got the perfect mix of dated characters and plot with the opportunity for garish computer enhancement. By God, it's enough to make me wet my ten-year-old pants.

But there are a few elements missing from the original show. If they're going to make it right, make it "now," they're going to need to jazz it up a bit. And by jazz, I mean a nice gloss of fubu, some 70's funk references to go right over my head, and a healthy dose of x-treme attitude. We're talking Sonic the Hedgehog, Bart Simpson, and other characters I have only a vague understanding of. Yeah, something like that would really get me throwing desperate tantrums.

Oh, and a scene where someone eats poop! As a child, there's nothing I find funnier than fecal play. And upping the ante from a mud pie to animal waste really lets me know that this isn't my grandpa's kids movie. It's a whole new paradigm, one that's not afraid to “go there” and be “in my face.”

Naturally, the parents will need something to keep them in the seats. I can't tell you how often I've had a wonderful film experience ruined when I realized my Mom wasn't having any fun. I'm just empathetic like that, you know? So for her sake, they'd better cast an obscure underground comedian, known almost exclusively for filthy, controversial humor. Did someone say David Cross? I don't know who that is, but I'm sure Mom will find his gentrified, whitewashed bit part extremely satisfying.

So what have we got? Fubu'd out CG animals with whiny, high-pitched voices: check. There's your relatability right there. After all, I'm nothing if not a fan of black culture, and even I have to admit my voice can get a little nasally around nap time.

Next? A single-parent familial relationship that encourages unhealthy acting out and the eating of waste: check. Hell, I'm so suggestible I might just try it myself! Or better yet, I could get Mom to buy me an Alvin and the Chipmunks poop-eating playset! If they don't market something like that, they're going to be missing out on a lot of merch revenue, I can tell you that much.

And finally? A soundtrack evenly divided between classic rock and funk songs with no nostalgic significance for me and sly snippets from sexually suggestive contemporary hip-hop that I won't hear for four more years: check.

Yes, a film like that would easily be the most successful kid's movie of the year; I'd bet all of the old Mighty Max toys I inherited from my older brother on it. At least, as long as they handled the advertising properly, with plenty of trailers that make it look like an action movie and reference Beatlemania, another historical phenomenon of which I have no knowledge, but am sure would really pique my interest.

With any luck, the movie will spawn a retooled version of the old cartoon show. Then I can rock out to the a stiffly-animated Alvin and company five afternoons a week, and purchase whatever no-doubt captivating products are advertised between the eight-minute blocks of bright color and screeching.

It's certainly an exciting time to be ten years old in America. Now where's my Superfriends sippy cup?

Worst Case Scenario: T-Rex Edition

The overwhelming response to my recent post on the CRACKED blog regarding the Nigersaurus, "cow of the Mesozoic," made it painfully clear to me how ill-equipped the average human is to survive a dinosaur attack. There was talk of shooting Japanese gowns with BB-guns, a children's television show starring a lizard, and other nonsense that would be equally useless should a T-Rex drop in and fuck up your shit.

And because I care so much about my readership, I've scoured the net for the answer to the question mankind has been asking itself since the first caveman rubbed two stones together and was instantly devoured by a wandering Tyrannosaur: How the hell do you kill one?!

Below, three scenarios you may not find so unlikely…when they happen to YOU.

Feasible T-Rex Death Scenario 1

You’re minding your own business, tagging a herd of African elephants for an ecological conservation program, when out of nowhere a prize Tyrannosaurus Rex bursts from the herd and makes straight for you. All you have on you is a pocket knife, a mylar bag of tagging equipment, and a Barret M82A3 loaded up with depleted uranium or tungsten-cored rounds.

Your best bet: Cut a small strip of mylar from the bag with the knife, and use it as a makeshift blindfold on the Rex. Tyrannosaurus Rex’s follow their prey by sensing movement, and if they are unable to see you, they will wander off, bored.

More Than Plausible T-Rex Death Scenario 2

You and the family are out enjoying a day at the beach, when out of nowhere a Great White Shark leaps from the waves towards your precocious son Max who has been playing at the shoreline. Just before it swallows the tyke whole, an aquatic T-Rex snaps it out of the air like so much appetizer, then aims for the main course: you.

Your best bet: A Tyrannosaurus skull is as think as a phalanx infantryman’s shield, so you’re not going to be able to tackle this thing head on. As it charges, roll to the side, simultaneously pulling your umbrella out of the sand. Hurl it, javelin-like, at the spot just behind the right shoulder. This will down the Rex instantly.

Almost a Certainty T-Rex Death Scenario 3

The drug deal has gone south. Guillermo opens fire with his AK and bullets are flying everywhere. Oh, did I forget to mention? Guillermo is a fucking T-REX.

Your best bet: One word. Helicopter.

If you fear other types of T-Rex encounter, feel free to post a brief description below. Myself or a member of the community will be happy to let you know how to best protect yourself against nature's walking abattoir.

Eight Things Not to Tell Your Son When He Asks What You and Mommy Were Just Doing in the Other Room

1. “Fighting. Well, in a manner of speaking. It’s more like our genitals were fighting.”
2. “Discussing sex taxes. I mean taxes.”
3. “Head on in and ask your mother; I think she’s still wiping up.”
4. “Something you’ll now imagine thirty times a day for the rest of your life.”
5. “Poundin’ that poon like it owed me money! Am I right?!” Then go for the high-five.
6. “Do you know what a Cowgirl is? Like that, but reversed.”
7. “It’s kind of a delicate process there tiger. How should I explain this? You see, when mommy and daddy get certain feelings…you know what? I’ll just show you.”
8. “Making you about ten million little brothers and sisters. Only they’re all dead now.”

Why I Love Balls, by Samus Aran

Of all of the powers imparted to me by my battle suit, I’d have to say my favorite is the one where I turn into a tiny ball and roll around. Don’t ask me how it works; I got the suit from this guy at a party, and I didn’t really ask that many questions.

For a while, I didn’t even know I could turn into a ball. I mostly just shot stuff in my backyard with my plasma cannon. By the way, plasma cannon? Sounds cool, until you realize it's only about as powerful as a machine gun, and machine guns still let you use your fucking hand.

Anyway, one day I was trying to override some PAL thing so I could watch an import of Amelie my friend sent me, and I must have hit a switch or something, because all of a sudden I was the size of a small pumpkin, scuttling around my apartment not knowing what the fuck. Then I couldn’t figure out how to turn back!

It took me three days of rolling around eating food I’d left on the floor before I figured out I could drop one of those plasma bombs and hop up onto the kitchen counter. Ruined the hardwood flooring I'd just installed. And let me tell you: the inside of that ball was plastered with vomit in those days.

Yeah, it’s pretty disorienting having your bones and organs feng shui’d into a small sphere. But, you know, you get used to it. And now I love that damn ball. Anytime I’m getting my tight, toned ass handed to me by a space pirate or awkwardly bump into an ex on the street…ball and bomb, baby. Takes care of everything. I’ve left more than a few of my exes, mouth agape, with third degree plasma burns over the front half of their bodies while I roll happily away.

Also, thanks to being forced into that position all the time, I can go down on myself now. So if you’re ever at a party and a mysterious drifter offers you a battle suit for forty bucks and a lap dance, my advice would be to take him up on it. I did, and I couldn’t be happier. I still haven’t seen Amelie, though.

Mom, if You’re Reading This, the Washing Machine Finished

This is what I look like now.
Thanks for the neglect.
Hey Mom! Remember when you came by my house before? I think it was on a Wednesday. Whenever it was, Abe and I were drinking Jager and playing Mario Strikers on the Wii (that’s the soccer one). I know that doesn’t narrow it down much, but anyway, you were there, and you made dinner and put some of my clothes in the wash. But it’s been about a week, and I think the washer’s done.

It keeps buzzing, like, every ten minutes or so. Could you come by maybe and move whatever you put in there to the drier? I’d do it myself, but I don’t want to mess anything up. You know how I am with gadgets. I already tried throwing tennis balls at it, yelling at it, and putting in ear plugs. That helped with the noise, but I checked my closet later and there still weren’t any clean clothes there.

Abe tried to hack the washer with his laptop, but I guess our washer doesn’t have T3 or something, because he kept saying his appletalk wasn’t networking right. So I’d really appreciate it if you could come and get the clothes from the one machine to the other.

And, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d also really appreciate it if you didn’t put me in this kind of predicament next time you visit. Remember what you always used to tell us: if you’re going to start something, make sure you something something. I usually zoned out at that point, but you get what I'm saying.

Also, could you bring some more of that tuna salad? We already ate through all of what you brought last time. It’s pretty good, I guess. Maybe use fresher tuna this time? You can get Ahi-grade for a pretty good price at the Japanese market on Convoy.

If Convoy’s too far, you can borrow my car when you get here; I can store your bike in our garage. Oh, also, thanks for the car! Although sometimes the side mirrors get dirty if I park outside. Maybe it’s defective?

Hope you read the blog soon! My last pair of underwear is getting pretty unbearable. I’d call, but my cell phone died and it won’t charge anymore, even though I put it in the drawer next to the charger for like a week.

Love,

Your son.

The Sado-Masochistic Fisherman

Howdy, you worthless worms! Welcome to another installment of the Sado-Masochistic Fisherman, the only syndicated late-night fishing program that hurts so good! Today, we’re fishing in desolate Pyramid Lake, California, a barren waste of a place with nothing but highway and desert in every direction. They say the only fish you can catch here are sour-tasting, miserable bastards made hard by their hellish existence, and that’s just what we’re looking for!

Today I’ve chosen as my craft a small, aluminum dinghy I found behind a warehouse. It’s about six feet from bow to stern, and the only seat is a splintered strip of what I believe is house siding. It’s about a hundred and four degrees out today, so the metal’s heating up nicely. As always, I’ve got my black leather assless chaps on, so I’m getting a pretty intense burning sensation in the old rump. Mmm, yeah, that’s nice. Really grind those metal shavings in there.

As you can see, I’ve modified the self-flagellation whip from our craft section to serve as my pole today. All I did was I took the bits of glass and leather strips from the end of the whip and attached them to the grip with some hot glue. Then I simply ran a line through the hooks we used to hang ourselves from the ceiling for our “Waterless Scuba Dive” last week. Now this pole here doesn’t have a reel, but I prefer to just wrap the line around my forearm; that way it digs in a bit when the fish pull.

Now of course you could go buy something like this in a store, but I think there’s a lot of fun to be had making your own pole, and all you really need is some time, patience, some barbed wire to punish yourself if you make a mistake, and a big tube of bactine. And then, look, you’ve got this beauty sinking it’s lovely teeth into my palm as I grip and cast. Oh god yes. Do it pole. More. Mmmm.

Alright, so while we’re waiting for a bite, let me just tell you a bit about the hooks and lures we’ll be using today. The hook is a special-made German rotary blade, first used by Nazi forces in World War Two to extract information from prisoners. Of course this is a much smaller version of that, but the fourteen rusty spring-loaded blades work much the same way. As an added feature, they’re all carefully positioned to avoid fatally wounding the victim, or, in our case, the small mouth bass.

For bait today I’m using just some nightcrawlers I had nailed to the wall a few feet away from a mound of moist soil in my garden shed. I’ve kept them alive, since the wriggling helps attract the fish, but I’ve soaked them in bitters overnight. You can usually get bitters from your local liquor store, and I’ll tell you, the fish just hate it. To mask that, I’ve got some store-bought fish lure on there, which I’ve spiked with a powerful laxative.

Ooh, looks like we’ve got a bite! Boy howdy, he’s a rascal! That’s right, you little maggot, pull! Pull! Oh, god, yes. Oh, you like that? You like that, you little fish piece of crap? Mmm, yeah, gimme more. That’s it. Make it hurt...All right! Well, that was a tough bout there, but it looks like we won the day. And see, you can tell by the grimacing expression on the fish’s face, he didn’t like those bitters at all. And see the blades there, all popping out at different angles? It’s amazing, but this little guy can live for up to six hours with those blades in. So, let’s watch, shall we?

That’s right, flop. Just flop away boy. Mmm. As you can see, I’ve done a little set dressing here around the fish. I’ve just put up some framed photos of other fish, possible family members, what have you, and some glasses of lake water. The trick is to put everything just out of reach, so you get the most vigorous flopping out of your bass. Oops! There goes the laxative! Well, he’s flopping pretty good now, so I’m going to manually pleasure myself. Join us next week, when we convince a Marlin that his wife has been killed by a Carbon Monoxide leak!

Author Mashup 1: John Grisham Writes a Fantasy Novel

Mitch Gavelneck sank deeper into the lacquered wood of his seat. How had he, son of Roland Districtattorney and star litigator for the firm of Warlock, Liebniz and Shambling Wight, come to this? He shot a quick glance to his right, hoping his client was behaving himself.

In the seat next to him, Grimwald had his leg up to his face and was picking his overstuffed feet with one of his sharp front teeth. Mitch grimaced and pulled his Giorgio Armani pinstripe cloak tighter about himself.

A goblin, for Baal's sake. And an all-dwarf jury, too. Their beady eyes gleamed at him like coal across the dusky air of the courtroom. Each one spotted Grimwald in turn, invariably fluffing their beards in disgust.

“Must you do that?” Mitch said to his client in broken Goblish. Unfortunately, he only knew what little of the language he'd picked up on the streets of Ta'Kalaaan'Shaaz as a thieving orphan, and what he actually said amounted to an offer of boiled prunes and manual release. In any case, Grimwald payed no heed, and instead applied himself vigorously to the other foot.

“GAVELNECK!”

The booming voice of Judge Hill Giant snapped Mitch out of his self-pity. He shot upright in his seat and spoke in a tone of practiced deference.

“Yes, your honor?”

Hill Giant pointed the business end of his enormous gavel at Mitch. “Me eat you!”

“Are you saying you want to hear closing statements, your honor?”

“GAVELNECK!” He shouted again, the force of his voice sending the entire room into a tremble. He dropped his gavel. “EAT! GAVEL...EAT?” He scooped the gavel up with a meaty paw and stuffed it into his mouth.

The old bastard wasn't going to cut him any slack, Mitch thought bitterly.

“Of course, Sir,” he said, “I'll limit my statements.”

Sighing, Mitch took to his weary feet. If he was going to pull this out, he had to make some magic happen, and it he had to do it now. He turned to address the jury, all of whom looked grim and several of whom were giving him the finger in ways he assumed they thought subtle.

“Dwarves and Dwarvettes of the jury. May I say your beards are looking very fine today? I'd just like to say that right out of the gate.”

Mitch steepled his slender fingers and grinned in the way that had never failed to attract the interest of a lusty tavern wench at the local Inn. He plowed on.

“I'll be brief. My client Grimwald, like all of us, exists at the behest of the Ancient and All-Knowing Elder Gods. And I believe it was Gairan, God of the plains, who put it best when at the dawn of time he spoke forth the word of law. And that holy writ, as we now interpret it in the form of Ta'Kalaaan'Shaaz City Zoning Statute J9-A, maintains that no one, not even a filthy, horrible goblin, can be forced from their rightful property due to malignancy, foul odor, or enchanted night-howls without due financial compensation from the Council of Lords. And, considering the immense emotional hardship Grimwald has undergone, he is entitled to no less that three hundred silver pieces in punitive damages.”

The room was as silent as if someone had cast a Ward of Darkness enchantment. Tension filled the air. Had he persuaded them? The Dwarves looked at one another, psychically communicating, their hive mind buzzing with argument and conclusion. Even Judge Hill Giant's gavel chewing seemed somehow thoughtful.

A minute of tense silence passed. Mitch fumbled in his robe pocket for his magic, jury-reading amulet. He couldn't wait for the verdict; he had to know. He stole a glance at the talisman's faceted face: blue. Guilty.

“Uh,” he stammered quickly, “also, may I remind the jury that this is not a criminal trial, and so cannot end in a 'guilty' verdict.”

A ripple of grunts swept over the jury, and the amulet flashed from blue to pink.

Damn. They were going to screw him. Grimwald would get nothing, and Mitch would likely lose his choice job at the firm. As the jury foredwarf rose from his seat, heightening him a full two inches, Mitch rapidly pondered his options. Before the stocky dwarf could open his mouth to render the verdict, Mitch had acted.

Arm raised, he spoke an incantation, and a massive sphere of roiling flame sprouted from his fingers. It grew as it tumbled towards the jury, their shocked faces now bathed in orange light. A few seconds later, and the jury box had become little more than a used tinderbox, filled with twelve perfect dwarf skeletons, each knee-deep in the ash of its late owner.

Judge Hill Giant spit his splintered gavel out in shock, spraying Grimwald and Mitch with bits of soggy wood.

In the dying glow of his own fireball, Mitch smiled.

“The defense rests.”

Notes to Matt Groening from FOX Censors Regarding The Simpsons Movie

Matt—

Wanted to check in and let you know we all really love the directions you’ve taken the Simpsons in for their first film (of many…remember your contract!), and while we appreciate you stretching your wings a bit in the transition, we do still want to nab that PG-13 rating. With that in mind, please look over the below list of some of the studio’s thoughts about the current cut.

• Marge’s hair is a bit phallic for our tastes. Maybe for the movie she could get a nice bob or shoulder-length cut? Or, and we don’t want to interfere here, but maybe her hair is burned off in a chemical fire in the first act? In any case, we’re just not comfortable with one of the main characters’ hair being shaped like an erect blue penis. It invites the audience to imagine a giant blue vagina into which it might fit, and that’s going to hurt our opening weekend box office.



• This isn’t a ratings concern so much, but one of our interns pointed out that the skin swatches you sent to the animators all came out pretty yellow. It’s hard to notice at first, but take a look at Homer and Bart especially. Good thing we caught that one! That’s the benefit of working with a studio that pays attention to the shows it produces.



• You may not have noticed this yourself, but Mr. Burns’ evil plan to gain control of Springfield is startlingly similar to the September 11th attacks. In fact, it’s pretty much identical.



• Most of us thought the sequence where Bart goes full frontal is hilarious, but there’s a few folks on the board who worry it might encourage pedophiles to attend the film. But between you and me: their money’s as good as anyone’s, right? I say leave it in. In fact, I have some sketches I did of Cherri and Terri naked if you’re looking to add any scenes to counterbalance Bart’s. No pressure, but it could really play for the pervert demographic.



• We really think it’s best to stick with the show’s formula of “Bart crank calls Moe, Moe threatens to gruesomely murder him, but gets sidetracked or outsmarted before he can follow through.” The joke kind of loses its levity when Moe is able to track Bart down, keep him in an underground torture room for three weeks, and finally strangle him with his own intestines. And the scenes of Homer and Marge in tears at their son’s grave really didn’t do much for us either.



• Again, try and maintain a sense of cartoonish disconnect when dealing with violent sequences like the Itchy and Scratchy short at the beginning. Pasting Itchy and Scratchy’s faces onto footage of US soldiers gunning down Vietnamese POW’s isn’t just lazy animation, it’s downright haunting.



• We’re pretty sure Maggie has only spoken once in the course of the series, so we were wondering what the thought process was behind having her curse like a sailor every time she appears onscreen.



• Your character notes say that Homer is thirty-eight, and that he impregnated Marge right out of High School, yet his oldest son is only ten years old. We still want you to account for the missing decade, but honestly, we think you can come up with something better than the rather convoluted forced alien insemination storyboard sequence you sent over. Although we did like the S&M Kang and Kodos designs. Possible toy line?



• We like most of the funny signs you’ve got in the backgrounds of shots. We were only concerned with the one in the Church of Springfield establishing shot that reads “Woman was God’s second mistake…Nietzsche.” We’ve already got the NOW broads on our nuts enough of the time; do we have to give them another reason to get on the rag?



• We understand that Smither’s homosexuality has always been a running joke on the show, but we appreciated the subtlety and subdued nature with which it was handled in the past. Please, consider eliminating the Otto/Smithers/Moleman daisy chain sequence.



• In one sequence, Lenny clearly refers to Carl as a “spade.”



• We notice that at the end of the movie, things seem pretty resolved. The kids have come to terms with Homer’s death due to a failed liver, Marge and Moe have worked through most of their major problems, and Bart’s drug problem is more or less on the wane. We’re worried you’ve painted yourself into a corner in terms of sequel potential. We don’t want The Simpsons to go the Harry Potter route and only get seven movies out of the franchise. We’re looking at more of a James Bond film dynasty here, with Homer voiced by various actors as time goes on. In light of that, and of course without sacrificing the integrity of the ending you have now, try and make sure everything ends in exactly the same state as it began. If it’ll help, we can probably get Nicole Richie to do a guest voice.

There’s Nothing Funny About a Rusty Trombone

I’ve been hearing a lot of sniggering during practice lately about a so-called “rusty trombone,” and I tell you, I won’t have that kind of talk in my rehearsal hall!

Now I don’t know which one of you little miscreants decided the idea of a rusty trombone was something to laugh about, but instruments of any kind, especially the brass, falling into disuse and disrepair is a cause for mourning and somber reflection, not for the giggling and winking I’ve been seeing in the back rows.

Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. Winterbottom! You think I don’t see you, mocking a poor, undeserving trombone, but I do, Mr. Winterbottom, I do! And tell me, Mr. Winterbottom, if you would like to have a rusty trombone?

I assume from your grimace that you would not. I thought as much.

Children, stop laughing! You still think it’s funny? Imagine Mr. Winterbottom then, frowny-faced, receiving a rusty trombone for Christmas. We wouldn’t be too happy then, would we, having our mother or father give us a rusty trombone?

Dammit, I said stop laughing!

Have any of you little brats ever tried to manage a rusty trombone?! I tell you, it’s a horror show! Pressing your dry lips against the browned, rough opening, moistening it with your tongue, all the while tasting the sour taste of a neglected and unhygienic mouthpiece.

And then, to place your hand on the front knob and begin to manipulate the sliding apparatus! All, only to have the worst kind of filth issue forth from the erect horn, despite your fervent blowing and sliding…it’s…well, quite frankly, it’s something I hope all of you get a chance to try! Maybe that will teach you the proper respect for a musical instrument!

Yes, that’s what I will do! Next rehearsal I’ll arrange it so that each of you gets a rusty trombone! I doubt there will be any laughter then, after I have personally given each and every one of you your very own rusty trombone!

Is that what we want, class?! Is it?! Because if this behavior doesn’t stop, I tell you I’ll go get a rusty trombone from Mr. Woodruff right now! And he knows how to make them very rusty.

Fine, you know what? Keep laughing. I give up. But I’ll tell you this much: it won’t be so damned funny when you’re all penniless, incompetent musicians, scrounging up loose change so you can buy a rusty trombone off of a street person!

Then you will wish you had taken my advice. I, who am a proud and competent tromboner! Why, I bet I could perform a rusty trombone better than the lot of you combined! That’s the kind of skill you can only get through years and years of practice, children!

Dammit, I said STOP LAUGHING!