Jurassic Park (The Movie) Fan Fiction
Vol. 1, Issue #1

“Dinosaur Eyes”

Dr. Grant fumbeld around in his bag looking for the address. No, he thought to himself in his head. No, this is stupid. Turn around Alan. You’re a famous palentologist. You should be digging up dinosaurs, not digging up old memories… The voice of his conscience in his head tried to stop him but Dr. Grant had made up his mind. He kept his eyes on the road, the rainy road, while he searched through his palentology bag looking for the scrap of paper with the address. The adress… of Dr. Ellie Sadler.

Ellie was cooking soup in the kitchen on the stove. The rain tapped on the window like a pack of Compsognathus running sideways up a building. The chicken soup bubbled. She was alone in the house with only her thoughts to keep her company and eat dinner with her. She thought about the old days when she was working on prehistoric digs in Montana, when she was studying ancient plants. The plants were dead, but they had made her feel alive. Now taht teh funding had been lost and the digs had stopped, Ellie Sadler felt like a plant on its way to extinction. Then there was a knock at the door. The soup continued to bubble.

Who could that be? Ellie asked herself. Who could be knocking on my door at this hour in this rain storm? Perhaps it was a neighbor asking to borrow some salt. Or maye it was the mailman, late that day, delivering bills. Ellie wondered about these things as she walked towards the front door. Or could it be… No, it couldn’t be him. Ellie peeked through the peep hole but it was fogged up. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was him. “Hello, Ellie,” said Dr. Grant. “It’s been a long time.” It had been. Ellie hadn’t spoken to Alan since he returned from site B. She had called the Army to save Alan and the others from the spinosaurus. She knew she had done the right thing, but she always wondered why Alan had waited so long to get in touch with her. Then there was the matter of the baby…

“Please come in, Alan,” she said as formally as possible. She wouldn’t let her emotions show. Her face was beautiful but frozen, like a fossil. Fossils, however, were Dr. Grant’s specialty. He stepped inside and wiped his shoes on the mat. “I couldn’t remember the address,” he said.

Ellie got right to the point. “What are you doing here, Alan?” “I’m just… Looking for answers.” “You know, you don’t always have to wait until you’re attacked by a Spinosaurus to contact me. Or is that what it takes for you to call?” The soup bubbled over the pot and sizzled on Ellie’s electric stovetop. She excused herself to the kitchen to take care of it. Alan wandered around the living room, feeling like a brontosaurus looking at its own museum. Alan was doing better now but he occasionally had flashbacks from the Park incidents. Malcolm chose to suppress his memories with booze. Alan couldn’t do taht anymore. He needed closure that didn’t come from a bottle. Dr. Grant walked into the kitchen. Ellie was scrubbing the stovetop with steel wool. And crying softly. “It’s not your baby, Alan,” she said.

“How do you know,” asked Dr. Grant. “Because,” Ellie said. “Because of the eyes. You always had a dinosaur’s eyes.”

Peter Say:

Death Race the Sun: James Belushi and Halle Berry play schoolteachers in Hawaii who force their students to compete in a bloodsport race-to-the-death in cars the students shabbily build themselves.

National Lampoon’s Cranksgiving Vacation: Badass Chev Chelios (Statham) is injected with a Estonian Eggnog, a toxin that will kill him if he doesn’t keep his Christmas cheer levels as high as possible. With nowhere else to turn, Chev visits the home of his godfather, Chevy Chase Chelios W. Griswold, Jr. (Chevy Chase). Chev’s in luck because Chevy and the fam are prepping for the best Christmas vacation ever! Will the Griswolds make it to Christmas Days at WallyWorld? Will Cousin Eddie spoil the fun? Will Chev Chelios stay jolly enough to keep his brain from exploding? Find out Christmas 2012!

Alien 5: Must Love Aliens: So far unlucky in love, Ripley signs up for an online dating service. After a serious of hilariously awful dates, she meets the man-thing of her dreams, a witty and hairy little fellow named Alf. The hilarity continues mercilessly when Ripley brings Alf home to meet her stuffy parents (played by Chris Cooper and Meryl Streep), who don’t approve of Ripley’s dating an alien. efb wehjf ehvkrweg y8tc7enguerhgui ergbabslxfkl

Mike Say:

Alien Versus Versusman: Having defeated every Predator, Hunter, and derivative cosmic bad guy, the Aliens are bored. So they hire Michael Bay and the conservative think tank, The Project for a New American Century, to create the ultimate foe. Standing three hundred feet tall, powered by a 100,000HP “clean coal Hemi,” and wielding the special constitutional power of ultimus corpus (the right to blow shit up without your consent), “Versusman” is an unstoppable powerhouse of neoliberal ambition.

Clerks 3: Jay and Silent Bob Chase a Mallrat Named Amy Through Jersey and Make a Porno. In this 300 minute long romantic comedy, Seth Rogan and Mira Sorvino star as washed up Jewish-Italian porn stars who work at a convenience store in a mall in Newark, where they make a porno and chase their friend Amy’s dog, Dogma.

Uno: In this direct to video release, Rosie Perez replaces the adorable Ellen Page as an awkwardly endearing teen caught in an unsympathetic grown-up world. Pushing the boundaries of motion capture technology and cosmetic enhancement, director Rob Reiner has his work cut out for him as he struggles to make the forty-four year old Perez look seventeen and not disgusting.

I hate to disrupt the joy of the holiday season with a belated review of this summer’s The X-Files: I Want to Believe, but it’s gotta happen now. I watched this movie almost a month ago and haven’t had time to give it the attention it deserves. I just got back from my nightly poker game at the YMCA and I’ve got a ten minute window here before I’m off to work the graveyard shift unloading cargo freighters at the docks, so while I’ve got the time let’s take care of this thing.

First of all, why am I utilizing LOLmetrics to make fun of a movie that already makes fun of itself just by existing? Easy-I’m following the example of attempting to capitalize on something popular long after anybody gives a shit. I love The X-Files the TV show. Well, let me clarify: I love just about every other episode. I don’t have the attention span to follow the whole alien conspiracy booshit. Oily eyes don’t interest me. I’m not intrigued by little aliens in mason jars. Smoking man? Smoke outside please. I prefer the company of Eugene Tooms, Pusher, and Clyde Bruckman. This is why I never saw the first X-Files movie, which I understand deals mainly with the alien storyline. But when I heard about a new film, my ears perked up because the rumor was that the movie would be a stand-alone story, a feature-length “monster-of-the-week” episode. Okay, I’m listening… But it turns out my first instinct was right: It’s too late, people. The X-Files is over. It was great while it lasted, and it lasted a very long time. So let it be.

The fact that this movie got made is an x-file. I understand how the show’s enduring popularity could muster up some buzz for another outing, but the movie that emerged is a crash course in clusterfuckery. The most upsetting part is that early on, a picture from the set leaked online implying that a werewolf would figure into the plot somehow:

The photo turned out to be a fake, purposely leaked by the producers to throw hardcore fans off the trail as to the film’s plot. Spreading false information is a smart tactic in these wiki-times, but this might be the first time ever that the fake material leaked about a movie is far more interesting than anything in the movie itself.

As I endured I Want To Believe, I did want to believe… in werewolves. Oh how I prayed for werewolves. The closest I got was a two-headed Rottweiler. What is this movie about? You tell me. Even if you haven’t seen the movie, or any trailers or commercials or even heard of The X-Files, you could probably give a better plot summary than I could. Basically the film takes whatever closure the series had provided regarding the main characters’ long time issues and throws it in the trash compactor, re-opening old bloody wounds with a salt stick. Mulder’s sister? Yeah he’s still obsessed with finding her even though I’m pretty sure they more or less closed the book on that before Duchovny left the TV series. And even if they didn’t, they should have because they’ve taken that as far as it can go. Same goes for Scully’s conflict with her faith. As I Want To Believe (GET IT!?!???!?) opens, we learn that Scully is working as a surgeon in a Catholic hospital. The best work environment for a lapse Catholic monster hunter, when you think about it.

And where’s our good buddy Mulder? Oh Scully tells a team of feds that she doesn’t know where he is and hasn’t heard from him in months. Cut to: Scully visiting Mulder in a secluded house (his? hers? Like most things in the film, it’s not clear). Cut to: Scully and Mulder in bed. That’s right. They’re fucking. Did I miss something here? Last I remember, the two agents were spooning on a motel room bed mourning the passing of their good friend cigarette smoking man (who died when his cave was hit by a missile) and coming to grips with the fact that the Mayans were right, the world will end in 2012. For a duo whose whole appeal was built on an obnoxious eight-year marathon of sexual tension, these two managed to seal the deal with surprisingly little fanfare.

I’m rambling. The point is that this movie doesn’t make any sense. Billy Connolly plays a pedophilic priest who the movie, in an appalling lack of judgement, actually asks the audience to root for. Xzibit is an FBI agent and the results are disappointing in that he’s one of the least objectionable elements of the movie. Xzibit actually seems to be trying, which makes him stick out like a sore thumb. What about the plot? It’s not important. All you need to know is that there are no monsters, not even any aliens. Just a Russian scientist sewing heads and other body parts where they don’t belong. It’s basically a rejected Law and Order: SVU story that Chris Meloni spit some chewing tobacco into, crumbled up and tossed out the window. X-Files creator (and writer/director of I Want to Believe) Chris Carter was walking by, wondering how he’d come up with a new X-Files movie by 5pm. The ball of paper hit him in the head and eureka! Replace Stabler and Benson with Mulder and Scully, crowbar in some religious conflict and a two-headed dog, microwave and serve with creamed corn and a room-temperature PBR.

Not a single minute of this movie is engrossing in the way it should be, but the moment that did me in was when Scully, who’s been trying to cure a little boy of his brain tumor, tells the boy’s parents about a radical treatment that could save their son. From there begins a montage in which Scully, a renowned DOCTOR, types the words “stem cell research” into Google. This takes her to a website with the same three words in giant font at the top of the page. I know I’m supposed to suspend disbelief for The X-Files. I can deal with mutants, ghosts and assorted phenomena. But I draw the line at a genius doctor Googling stem cells. The filmmakers should have just gone for broke and had Scully join the Facebook group “Cute Doctors Stumped by Weird Brain Tumor Shit.” Later, Skinner shows up (fuck yeah) and asks Scully where Mulder is being held captive. “Do you have the address?” He asks as he pulls out his internet-capable phone. “I can Google it.” Actual line from the movie. If Google has become the go-to information source for the FBI, I think we’re all fucked.

If this review isn’t up to my usual standard, then I apologize. Writing it wasn’t fun. But I felt compelled to do this, if only to warn you that if you do decide to take a chance on this disaster, do yourself a favor and rent the DVD and really dive into the special features. Go big or go home. Watch the gag reel. I thought that feature would just replay the movie, but it’s actually a real set of bloopers, proving that at least the cast and crew had some fun. That’s more than I can say. Also check out Xzibit’s music video, which on the DVD is just a slideshow of images from the movie set to his song Dying 2 Live. Last but certainly not least, if you make it this far make sure you stick with the film through the end credits. Overhead shot of a rowboat in a tropical ocean: Inside, Mulder and Scully (she in a bikini), just chillin. I am not kidding. No close-ups, no dialogue. But it’s easy to image what they’re saying: “I can’t believe these saps sat through the whole movie.” Neither can I. Neither can I.

I’ve accepted the fact that one day I will be gone. These are my last wishes.

When ordinary functions become too difficult, I want Cate Blanchett and Zooey Deschanel in fitted satin gowns to strap me into a plush medical bed specially designed by Sealy Posturepedic. I want this bed to recline at a comfortable angle so I can watch Sci-Fi Original movies nonstop without straining my neck.

At my bedside I want the Koran, the Bible, the Origin of Species, and an autographed edition of Tucker Max’s I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. The holy books are there to ease my passage into the void. Darwin’s there so I remember that death is natural and that I am returning to the primeval muck from whence I spawned. Tucker Max is a useful reminder of how there are worse things than extinction.

As I am failing, I want all of my friends to simultaneously receive a mass text that is automatically programmed to go out when my blood pressure drops below eighty over ninety: “ThankyouFuckYouI’mDyingYou’reGreat.”

As I am still coherent, but flagging, an austere doctor played by George Clooney will attach four intravenous drips to my body. One will contain vital blood plasma. The other, Red Bull energy drink. Jameson Irish Whiskey will pump steadily from the third, while the fourth vigorously cleans out my wrecked body with a solution of Rockstar, Tabasco, and Liquid Plumber.

Getting my second wind, I will then turn on the desktop computer that’s been idly whirring in the corner. I will activate a facebook event to which everyone on the FSU and Chicago networks is invited: “Mike’s Death Party! R.S.V.P. ’cause he’s R.I.P. :)”

As I await the torrent of “not-attending” responses, my nervous and endocrine systems will become overloaded by the chemical onslaught of the energy drinks and drain cleaner. The body is surprisingly resilient, and, as I’ve already hired a professional anesthesiologist who moonlights as a bartender, the mix is precisely dialed in to prolong pleasure and dull pain.

Do not confuse my reaction to these fluids with that of a cheap over the counter fix. In “non-dying life,” popping the vicoden your friend got from her dentist may be the closest you can come to a true Whiskey Rockstar Death Bomb. And it should be.

When the alcohol stirs in your bloodstream, dehydrating yet unlocking creative potentials and wistful memories, the Rockstar kicks in to re-hydrate and supercharge your nostalgia. A quiet moment spent in bed on a winter morn with your loved one turns into you and Mrs. You riding matching his and hers Harley Davidsons to Reno for your honeymoon. A simple look received through frosted panes becomes a descent into the Marquis de Sade’s world of hyperreal debauchy. In 4-D.

When I cannot take the extended terror dream any longer, I will press a smooth red panic button on the table next to me. In seconds, two clowns and none of my friends will rush into the room with a giant birthday card for me, even though it’s not my birthday and I am dying. In a rage of blurred confusion I will cry out that I have been forsaken, but the clowns will just keep squeezing their fake clown noses and holding up my big fake card.

When life becomes too miserable, when even the last cheap thrill of an incredible sensory overload grows dull and lifeless, I will pull the shiny lever under my bed and will be ejected at terminal velocity into the reinforced steel roof of my room, crushing my fragile body, granting me repose.

Disclaimer: Michael LeFlem is alive and loves life.

Now that Mike has so eloquently outlined the fundamental flaw of America and provided some insight into the problematic, ever-devolving state of intellectualism in this great country (and it is a great country, see Petey’s post on Idiocracy), I thought maybe I’d use the undoubtedly influential platform of MANpants to officially endorse Christmas*.

It’s a Wonderful Life. Miracle on 34th Street. The Muppet Christmas Carol.

These three films have one thing in common: they all won ESPYs. It wasn’t because of the quality of the film, either. It was on account of the Christmas in them! And as you all know, the War on Christmas means we’re not allowed to say “Merry Christmas” like we could back when these movies first came out. Now we have to say “Happy Holidays” or the kid from The Polar Express stabs Santa.  This.  Is.  War.

From the depths of our hearts, which pump red and green blood, we’d like to nominate the feature-length telefilm The Family Holiday for an award of some sort. It stars the infamous Dave Coulier, who you might remember as Uncle Joey, but you’d be wrong because he’s not an uncle at all, only Jesse was an uncle, but didn’t they call him “Uncle Joey” every once and a while? This is Mr. Coulier’s first live action film since he starred in the fourth Cheech & Chong movie, in which he played Man with Tongue in Restaurant. That was 26 years ago and well before Michelle ever spilled her milk.

Here are three reasons why this movie should be played at ballgames before the first pitch:

1. The Family Holiday is a mutt of a movie. As American as you can get. It’s a mixture between the plot of Home Alone 4, the screenwriting of Dracula 3000, and the acting of Backdoor Sluts 9. How any producer could be brilliant enough to see the potential of combining genres like that, I will never know. In the end, it works. Fade out with a smile on everyone’s face.  Including yours.

2. Joey Gladstone plays himself/a con artist who kidnaps runaway orphans and passes them off as his own to prove to his dead uncle that he’s a family man who deserves an inheritance. Get this: to show he’s really a man, he pretends to work. In a novelty gift store! Rubber chickens! Get it? Oh man. I can’t stop laughing even thinking about rubber chickens. Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I’ll stop. Rubber chickens. Oh, oh. The tears are a-comin’.

3. The story itself is really sad/nonsensical, and the dialogue is rotten. Besides the fact that it focuses on Christmas and the Christmas spirit (characters use the words “God” and “Santa” interchangeably), it’s actually not a good movie. Unfortunately for you, none of this matters. There are 25 days of Christmas on ABC Family (even more if you consider the “Countdown to the 25 days of Christmas”).  That means nonstop Christmas until the Big Day, and they’d show a live feed of a third-rate mall Santa’s changing room if it would kill a few hours…or days.

So, you need to sit your Christmas-hating butt down and watch this movie. And you need to pray to Santa.

Please write letters to your congressman that this movie should get all the awards a Christmas movie deserves!

If you don’t love The Family Holiday, then you’re against MANpantsia and everything that we stand for as a country. George Washington would have loved this movie. You don’t hate George Washington, do you?

*MANpants does not own Christmas™, Xmas™, Bill O’Reilly™, or any of its related LLCs.

Historians claim we are living in a postmodern age. From the onset of existential anxiety to the radical movements of the sixties, we have inherited a fragmented world where disillusionment replaces security, where despair displaces hope.

But postmodernity alone cannot account for the persistence of a few phenomena we here at ManPants have noted. LolCat revisions of history (i.e. posters of Hitler asking Neville Chamberlain, “I Can Has Sudetenland?) “Apeshitless” meta posts on Hipinion, and Saw VI, are among the many issues existing discourse is incapable of addressing.

Let’s be honest. We don’t live in a postmodern world. We don’t even live in a post-postmodern world. From the time that term was widely adopted about thirty years ago to now, so many incredibly weird changes have occured at the pop culture level that even your trusted friends at ManPants can barely hold back the tide of too-cool one liners, the endless stream of incoherent lol-speak mumbling that passes for entertainment these days.

I draw the line at a critical juncture of stupid: the Joe Rogan/Carlos Mencia cred battle.

While our parents’ generation could come home from an antiwar protest and watch Noam Chomsky debate Michel Foucault on network television, all we’ve got to look forward to is the host of Fear Factor in a “College” t-shirt screaming at an equally worthless comedian who is trying desperately to hide his non-Mexican roots. Why are they fighting? No one cares. That’s not important. What’s important is that two obnoxious tv personalities are yelling and someone’s filming it for YouTube.

It doesn’t take much to see how John McCain came dangerously close to winning the presidential election. With YouTube and the Blogosphere and FaceBook mini apps and Digimon emulators playing the roles of the great equalizer, your opinion’s just as good as Joe Sixpack’s. In fact, you can’t really have an opinion because anything you say will become the subject of Lolcat ridicule on at least one lonely blogger’s forum.

Even President Elect Obama’s not above Post-LolBinx ridicule. But what about the daughters? They can stay, wink wink YEAAAAAH. I’ve got to be honest, in some guilty way I love it. There are times when I sit around for hours perusing the backlogs of ICanHasCheezeburger.com, desperately trying to get my own Lolcat posted to feel validated.

In an age where the average highschooler can’t tell you what dramatic irony is, but can recite word for word the hotkeys to all the taunts for Call of Duty 4, you have to resign with a quiet sigh of desperation and just accept the fact that the world’s taken a turn for the stupid.

Yes, you adorable little guy, you can bring your teddy.

Here at Mandy Panties, we often talk about bad movies. That’s sort of our thing. I woke up this morning all ready to comment on Swayze’s awesome hot bod in Road House when I read over an article that made me steam from the ears. Now I can’t even rant on the brilliance that is Sam Elliot’s ponytail because I have something else stoking the fire in my brain.

Scott Brown, of Wired Magazine, you’re going down.

Earlier today, I was flipping through my favorite technology rag when I came across this piece by cultured humorist-turned-Man Pants enemy Scott Brown.

Hey, bud, you should stick to what you’re good at: being smart and crap. Leave the M. Nate Llamashamalan bashing to us! Your little commentary on Hollywood idiocy makes me want to walk over to where you’re no doubt eating lunch by yourself and bullishly take a bite out of your Nutraloaf. That’s right, Scott. All of Hollywood, including Keanu Reeves, is OUR doe-eyed bitch.

(Image credited to Wired Magazine.)

All fussing aside, I found Mr. Brown’s article to be comical and well-informed. I didn’t really get the point, though. Cinematic eco-disasters can’t be overtly green because then people won’t buy tickets to see them? Or something? Whatever. If you’re going to talk about movies in which frogs are covering aged Oscar winners, you’re stepping on the toes of all us here at MANpants. Dude, I have 14 hungry mouths to feed at home. 15 if you count my 850-pound baby mama. Next time you start typing away about the “the poseur spawn of Towering Inferno-style disaster matinee,” think about all of my crying children who are hungry because all the cash that used to pay for their McRibs is now lining the pockets of big shot Scott Brown and his big city Wired cronies.

Tune in next week when I review Road House 2: Last Call, starring Johnathon “Too many H’s” Schaech.

Some actors age like fine Doric columns, bearing the winds of time with grace and fortitude. Others fall apart like overripe fruit. Here are their stories.

Problems
Case file #110: Mickey Rourke

Before: A classy heartthrop from eighties romances; a swinger whose charms were irresistible, whose casual wit and sly smile Kim Basinger could not refuse.

After: A lumbering sunburnt scumbag fueled by power bars and Red Bull whose former grace is replaced by juicer’s rage and meth-induced hallucinations. “Rourke Plus” is the living embodiment of Mickey Rourke’s character from Spun, who, incidentally, was a meth cowboy.

Distinguished Gentlemen

Case File #23: Harrison Ford

Before: Han Solo

After: Sixty five and still sporting a sixpack. Hats off, sir.

Moral: You don’t have to become what you play, especially if that character is a disgusting Reno drug dealer bent on turning Jason Schwartzman into his meth-slave. You can age with courage and dignity and still get it up, like Harrison Ford in Firewall.

Be very careful what you wish for. Because you just might get it.

For almost fifteen years we’d been poking fun at Axl Rose for not delivering his legendary followup to 1991’s Use Your Illusion. We’d heard the stories of the drama with Slash and the coke and the sex and blah blah, but were unsympathetic because that’s what rockstars do. It’s called, Welcome to the Jungle; if you can’t deal with it, you gonna die.

Then after we’d run all the Vh1 Behind the Musics we could, we patiently took him aside and had that awkward moment where you tell junior that some people just aren’t smart enough to be garbagemen, but that’s ok because you love him and he tried so hard, and go upstairs and be quiet. Then we quickly forgot him.

Well junior got mad. And he didn’t forget. In fact, he got so mad that he went into hiding for fourteen years, spent untold millions of dirty L.A. money from the 80’s on studio time and mercenary guitarists, and has finally unveiled his over-budget Frankenstein monster, Chinese Democracy. We’d gotten a sleazy, corn-rowed preview of Comeback Rose at the 2004 MTV Music Awards, but this is far more dangerous.

Now he’s back for good, with a tour bus with his name on it, an album that’s the exclusive property of Best Buy, and plans to make this just the tip of a disgustingly self-important comeback trilogy spanning three presidential terms. What’s worse, the good people at AllMusic.com have thrown in their two cents, giving Chinese Democracy four stars and a review that’s longer than reviews of other, real albums.

Stephen Thomas Erlewine, Esq., whose characteristic hipster pretensions often belie a formidable intelligence and considerable musical knowledge, is so far off the mark that either Axl and Buckethead showed up at his house at 4am with shotguns, or everything I held dear in the world is gone.

Erlewine claims that “Axl turned into rock’s Charles Foster Kane, a genius in self-imposed exile spending millions to make his own Xanadu, Chinese Democracy. Like Xanadu, Chinese Democracy is a monument to man’s might, but where Kane sought to bring the world underneath his roof, Axl labored to create an ideal version of his inner world, working endlessly on a set of songs about his heartbreak, persecution, and paranoia.” Hermann Melville could have written this review and it would still be complete shit.

Chinese Democracy. I still don’t get it. Are you saying that the chances of your album not being completely worthless are as good as the chances of China going democratic? Or are you saying that they need democracy in China as much as we need this awful new release? Though I’d never question your grasp of geopolitics, it’s still not clear that you understand your own album.

Also, the CEO of Dr. Pepper was so sure Chinese Democracy was still an illusion that he promised the world a free Dr. Pepper if it ever came out. He has come to regret this reckless taunt, as millions of obese, unemployed Americans clamor outside their offices for sweet carbonated release.

I’m as guilty as the next guy. I’d made Hollywood style bets against friends who assured me the album was on the way; I’d based my decision to take a year off from grad school around its not being released; I’d told my little dog Maude I would buy her a grizzly bear to play with only when Chinese Democracy came out. Because it was not coming out. It couldn’t come out. It was so fucking stupid that even if it came out it would only be released in a format that no longer existed, like Betamax or Atari Jaguar; that if forces beyond my control deemed it necessary for cosmic integrity that Chinese Democracy be released, it would be available only through a mail in rebate from a box of Hydrox Cookies that had been sitting on the shelf of a Los Angeles Rite-Aid since 1994.

Now I’m out of school, out of cash, and fending off Maude’s big brother, Claude, who’s ripping a sockeye salmon in half and shitting all over the apartment. This is what it’s come to. This is what we deserve.

Listen. This is my rusting 1979 Corolla parked outside of my apartment in the winter of my discontent. I’m thousands in the hole, I work three dead end jobs to pay off student loans and back taxes, and if I eat another god damned can of Ole! pinto beans I’m gonna throw up all over myself. Bottom line: I need my ride pimped.

By pimped I mean working. Here’s how you can help: spare gaskets, fuses, cans of 10-W30, and spare rope are all appreciated to keep Mammy running and classes on time. Cash money is also good. If you can’t send either, you can give Mike a faint glimmer of hope by virtually pimping his ride and sending your creation to this address for judgment: manpantsblog@gmail.com