"In the end, the emperor gave every man, much as was worth eleven or twelve ducats a year, namely, myself, the captain, and mariners all alike." -Will Adams
The Captain. El Capitan. Il Yachtsmanado. Stephen Gregory Yzerman. Senor Crunch.______& Tennille.
The wind had ceased while the sun tucked b'hind the friendless encumberance that were vapor and dew, whilst the gears in every mechanical convenience ground themselves into atramentous talc, haulting the strident thud of the busy stroll. Then, out of the ether, a calamitous fuss born of turbulence and economy thundered over the esker. 'Twas he, that same ghoulish blackgaurd who's name rarely was spake in an unhushed manner. The Captain. In a conversion van. From the uncontested master of horror, Stephen King, comes a new defintion of terror. The Captain's Chair.
OK, dick-dusters, I know that Stephen King can't write sentences as well as I can, but for crissakes(Stephen King is the uncontested master of PG spelling- see sonofabitch and goddammit) can that bitchass please stop making money off of the same pieceofshit 10 books he wrote in 1979? And for fucksake, quit playing in that special-needs band you started with Dave Barry- BTW, does the job Humor Columnist still even exist? I think I could do it. I would be edgier, though, because I would drink and swear and make fun of the Polish. I'd also call ladies "dames" and listen to swing music, but more about me later.
Dave Barry would be a Dane Cook to my Redd Foxx. Anyway, I was just chillin at the crib, suckin' don some Michelob Awesome(TM)'s- they now contain Hoodia and tiger penis!- watching a preview for the latest Stephen King adaptation of an adaptation of a poem called The Mist. In case you weren't down, it's about a mist that invades a town and scares the shit out of people and kills them and then there's a bunch of rubber insects and it's all fucking foggy. I know, it's been done before. By John Carpenter, the master of fog. It was called The Fog. Except it didn't have rubber insects and it had Adrianne Barbeau whippin her potatoes all over the place. Before the blanket re-usage of 70's writing, King managed to get someone to make a made-for-TV version of The Shining. Steven Weber (from the acclaimed situational comedy, Wings) laid Nicholson's Jack Torrance to waste. Sidenote: If you play the soundtrack to the Wizard of Oz with the made-for-TV Shining, it will make you wish you were watching Maximum Overdrive instead. Estavez. I can't believe that guy is having so much success selling guitars on QVC. Carrie and Salem's Lot were remade for television as well- and if you ever see Salem's Lot (the 1979 Mini-series event), it's like thank you, Jesus.
I can't believe I was such a pussy when I was eight and thought that was actually scary. It was more like what the fuck is Hutch doing in this gay vampire movie? Where's Starsky? And why am I loving James Mason so much, I'm only eight. So anyway, Stephen King has the horror sweepstakes down: pick something that kind of creeps you out kinda and make it creepier. Case in point: 1408. Hotels are creepy or whatever (again, not to overuse an idea, The Shining). Add some bad laser animation and voila! 70 million domestic, off a novella. Nice picture of a ship coming to life! I haven't seen shit like that since Weird Science when Gary's grandparents start 1-finger-pointing-up dancing in that weird and wild picture. What the fuck is a novella anyway?
Why don't they call it a short novel? They fucked-over the short story. Why not Storyella? Anyway, as per device to fiction writing, there is conflict, be it external or internal: Man vs. Man, Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Society, Man vs. Bear Grylls, Man 2 Man (Saugatuck chapter), Bi-curious Man vs. Randy "Macho Man" Savage and the stunning Elizabeth, Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever, Leiber vs. Stoller, Wolfman vs. the Creature from the Black Lagoon, Coke vs. New Coke, Spinks vs. Holmes,et. al. Recently,in the spirit of the master of horror, some other pole-smokers figured out that otherwise benign parking structures are kind of creepy if some psycho killer locks you in one and tries to psycho-kill the shit out of you 'til you die. It's called P2. And after about a half hour of that bullshit, i had to pee, too. And barf. Whatever. Anyhow, I'm trying to write a screenplay based on me being frightened of Frankenmuth, MI. It's like always Christmas there. Always. Including Christmas even. Despite it having some super B&B's, it's creeped-out 365 days of the year.Enough of that. What ever happened to A tribe Called Quest?
