Wiki Contribution

I added a suggestion for a contribution to the collabrative writing page found at http://www.adjute.com/comedy.php

At this stage Fritters is looking through his returned book. Following the line: "What was that... he flicked back... what the hell?! " I submitted:

"The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall. The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall." Each page repeated the same handwritten text. Was the now lifeless parrot an intergalactic traveller?

My Visit to Sacred Heart Hospital

INT. DAY
Sacred Heart Hospital. Staff Rec Room.

J.D. and TURK are sprawled on the couch. An episode of Sesame Street is on the TV. J.D is holding the remote.

J.D: I don’t know. I want to spend time with Elliot but I need a little J.D time too. I come home from work and she’s there. I come into the hospital and she’s there. We have sex and she’s there…

TURK: Sounds to me like you need some time to think man. Look at things from a different angle.

J.D: I think you’re right chocolate bear. (Looks to the TV) Do you think the other Muppets know that Grover and Super Grover are the same person?

TURK: Nah of course not bro. Super Grover wears a cape and a helmet. Muppets aren’t as smart as they look.

J.D: Surely Big Bird would know..?

TURK: (shakes head sadly)

J.D is devastated. LUKE appears in the doorway

LUKE: ‘Scuse guys where can I find… hey cool, Super Grover.

Luke enters and sits on the couch with J.D and Turk

LUKE: I love it when he flies.

TURK: Flying is the shiz.

LUKE: The shiz niz!

J.D: Amen playa!

J.D and Luke simultaneously attempt a high five and handshake movements that results in an awkward display of uncoordinated movements. Turk shakes his head in mock disgust.

LUKE (diverting attention): I wish I was Super Grover. I could fly anywhere I wanted. Anywhere at all!

J.D looks up and begins to daydream.

EXT. Day
J.D imagines himself flying through the sky with a cape and helmet a la Super Grover. He flies over mountains and salutes to waving mountain climbers. He zooms past a jet and smiles at the impressed passengers. He flies over Sacred Heart and sees Elliot on the roof waving. He flies closer and lands next to her, sweeping her up in a kiss and taking her into the sky.

INT. Day
J.D is sitting on the couch, remote in hand, arms up in a superman flight style, lips pursed into a kiss, body wiggling emulating flight.

TURK: Yo J.D!

J.D realises where he is and sits back sheepishly.

TURK (looks at his watch): Nine minutes. Dude, new daydream record!

J.D: Nice!

Turk and J.D high five. COX storms into the room

COX: Pricilla!

J.D: Doctor Cox!?

COX: Heeerrre’s the deal newbie. Mrs Stevens was just wheeled into the operating room. You know that sweet little old lady who for some reason thinks you’re just about the cutest thing she’s seen since she played dress ups with her daughter and while I’m sure you remind her of a small girl dressed up in a gay sailor costume, for some reason you found it necessary to pro-ho-mise you would be at her bedside before she went into surgery today, which was precisely (looks at watch) oh ten minutes ago, so while you were in here spending time with your better half and your new friend here, I had to listen to your patient cry, “oh where is that sweet little boy? Why isn’t he here? He promised me he’d be here!” All I could say was how much I dislike you, which only made her more upset. So if she sees a tunnel of white light today, chances are she’ll run straight towards it because you ended what little faith she had left in the human race. And now Christina you’re on night shifts for the next two months.

J.D: But Doctor Cox…!

COX (exiting with hand up): Save it newbie. Two months!

J.D (turns to Luke): Damn you and your awesome dreams of flying.

J.D melodramatically turns to leave. Attempts to throw down the TV remote but it stays stuck to his hand. He realises it is glued on.

J.D: Janitor!

J.D exits in a sissy huff clutching the remote.

TURK: (shakes head sadly and looks to the TV) Ooh Elmo!

LUKE: Nice. Now here’s a monster who knows how to deal with the ladies…

TURK: Tell me about it dude.

Make It Happen: Commence Boredom.

Does anyone else feel that Hollywood execs thrive on the joy of peddling out the lamest movie possible? I know for a fact that there is a boardroom in the heart of Hollywood used for show-and-tell sessions where middle-aged white guys spend entire meetings giggling over their new candidate for the crappiest movie of all time and boasting about how many people they can dupe into seeing it. There must be. How else would a movie like Make It Happen make it to the cinemas?

Sure Hollywood has belted out some train wrecks (Speed Racer, Son of the Mask, anything starring Steven Seagal except Under Siege) but this recent onslaught of believe-in-yourself-and-conquer-the-world-through-dance films seems as subtle as a phonebook to the face.

Anyone who has seen Step Up, Step Up 2: The Streets, Honey, Save the Last Dance or pretty much any dance movie ever made has pretty much already seen Make It Happen. It recycles all the usual elements:

• Girl endures hard times (usually a white girl inexplicably a leader/popular member of a poverty stricken black neighbourhood)


• Girl has irrepressible passion for dancing


• Girl irresponsibly risks everything to dance professionally


• Girl becomes champion of the universe and more popular than Paris Hilton and wins the heart of the cute single guy who is a dancer or DJ (and definitely isn’t gay) who simultaneously achieves his greatest dream and they have the best life together ever and all because she wasn’t afraid to dance

And I got all this from watching the trailer for the movie.

"But Make It Happen is totally different to Step Up. It’s not about street dancing, it’s about burlesque dancing! "
- The hordes of misguided teenagers watching this movie

Yeah good point. It’s a slightly different style of dance, so it must be a completely different sort of movie right? Wrong. That’s what they said when they brought out Teen Wolf Too. Hollywood is particularly savvy at this practice. It’s called marketing. Why write a new movie when you can just alter an old one? Change the actors, change the setting and hey bingo you have a brand new movie with a fraction of the effort or skill required of the original.



Also notice how in these dance movies the main actors are white and nearly everyone else is black. This is another marketing strategy from our white friends in the Hollywood boardroom. You’re in the cinema and you say to yourself “this movie feels really edgy” and “hey I can relate to these white characters even though they’re way cooler than me!” but you don’t know why. It’s because they’re surrounded by black people. Hollywood has been doing it for years. Rigid white guys become cooler after spending time with black people. This is textbook Hollywood. White characters leach the cool factor from their black co-stars and make it seem as if they were the cool one all along. See virtually any Eddie Murphy buddy-cop movie for proof.

Q: But why not just have an entirely black cast in dance movies and amp up the cool factor?
A: Because then you wouldn’t get white middle class America/Australia buying oversized tracksuits and getting hooked on So You Think You Can Dance?


Not only are dance movies a blatant marketing exercise, they’re just plain irresponsible. There are some major flaws with promoting dance as a saviour of the downtrodden:

• No one gives you props for breaking into dance in the street


• Dancing will not afford you a ticket on the Hot Tamale Train*


• Not all of life’s hurdles can be overcome with a well-executed pirouette. Try dancing your way out of tax evasion smart ass.
  
  *The Hot Tamale Train is not an actual train. Mary Murphy is a liar.
  

How to be a Superhero in Real Life - Part Two

Advice on How to Become a Superhero in Real Life.

Pad your clothing.
Muscles give the impression of strength. Plus everyone likes checking out a muscular bod.

Once completed, engage in a feat of strength.


Feats of strength

Break Things
Make common household items out of cardboard or plywood and routinely break them in front of others, clumsily explaining you don’t know your own strength.

Lift a car or a school bus.
Nothing says power like holding a heavy object over your head. See Superman. Find a crowded car park (shopping centres are a good choice) and scout out a suitable vehicle. If lifting a vehicle proves difficult attempt to push one forward. If you are unable to do so, crouch behind a car and wait until the shopper returns. When the driver releases the handbrake push the car into forward motion and celebrate your victory in front of impressed onlookers. Note: Watch for reversing lights when crouched in the push position.

Alternatively you can spread positive rumours about your superhero-ness through the use of a civilian identity (see below).


Heroic Activities

Run down the street with someone unconscious in your arms.
If you can’t find anyone unconscious, someone sleeping will do but you will have to move quickly so as not to wake them in front of witnesses. If they do wake, claim they have amnesia from the accident you just rescued them from. Practice deploying a sleeper hold for unruly ‘victims’.

Make public declarations
Stand amongst a crowd and stare wistfully into the horizon. Proclaim a little too loudly “the city is safe again…but for how long?” Narrow your eyes as if you are thinking really hard.


Achieve Flight
Nothing says cool like flipping gravity the bird. Employ the following techniques to demonstrate flight.

• Make sure people see you 'land'. Jump out of trees to achieve this effect.
• Hang off of buildings.
• Adjust your tie as you exit alleyways.
• Always enter a building through a window. The higher the floor, the more dramatic the entrance.
• Wear a cape

Civilian Identity
A civilian identity is the perfect way to learn information in an undercover fashion or just get a bit of down time from the stresses of hero-ing. A neat pair of glasses or parting your hair on the other side can work a treat. For those more inclined towards precociousness, hiding in plain sight is also a novel means of diverting attention away from your heroics.

Keep an air of mystery about you civilian identity with the following conversation tactics:

• Always arrive a little late and blame it on there being a “disturbance”.
• React as if an alarm bell has gone off in your ear. Run away mid-conversation while yelling “something’s come up!”
• Accidentally on-purpose mention your homeworld.

Tackle a Villain
A superhero is only as good as the villain he defeats. However unless you are a trained fighter it is not advisable to attempt to pick a fight with a burly opponent. Instead, let your intelligence be a weapon. Tackle the elderly or very young. Explain to witnesses that your villain has the ability to change shape and is actually as powerful as an elephant. This will no doubt impress, as not only have you conveyed strength, but a keen sense of perception.

How to be a Superhero in Real Life - Part One

It is clear that the idea of the superhero not only thrives within society but also serves to benefit it.

We are currently seeing a proliferation of superhero stories at the box office. Comic book heroes are a virtual goldmine for money hungry movie studios – Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, The Dark Knight to name only a few. A well-crafted superhero story draws flocks of nerds out of the shadows and allows them to bask in the glow of mainstream society. For even a brief moment, long held claims that “Batman is cool” are validated by people other than a nerd’s comic book dealer. Thus the nerd is given the opportunity to make a connection with a non-nerd. Furthermore, through the superhero’s explosive infiltration of the public consciousness, the nerd finds himself (fact: 97% of nerd are male) with a sudden wealth of cultural cache. The hours of comic book reading and Internet scouring now function as well executed research to be deployed into intelligent conversation. Knowledge of a superhero is considered cool because it allows people the sensation of feeling closer to the superhero. Therefore we can conclude that the superhero proves to be a cultural unifier.

So why not skip the hard work and transform yourself into the source of cultural coolness? Read the following information for advice on how to become a superhero in real life...

Who I am

Who Am I?

I’m Spiderman
I am Jack’s raging bile duct
I am the Walrus

I am a bricolage of pop cultural references. Mostly lame ones. And they burst out of me at inappropriate moments. Like singing to my boss that he’s killing me softly with this workload. Not that there ever really is ever an appropriate moment to do that.

But I honestly get uneasy that I know Paris Hilton has created a new superhero with Stan Lee. I get more concerned that this knowledge sits in the forefront of my mind, ready to spring into conversation; a dirty secret that may unleash itself, like when the person next to you on the bus sees you queuing up Britney Spears on your iPod. And yet for some reason I can’t help but angle the conversation towards a Paris Hilton related topic... which really isn’t too hard these days.


******

I am a product of my parents…
…unfortunately this means I am destined to become as hairy as a wolverine. Thanks Dad. I mean the guy has hair sprouting out from under his collar even when wearing a turtleneck. No doubt I’ll wake up sometime in the next few years to find my teenage years were leading to a seminal teen-wolf moment. And while I still struggle to grow a fashionable beard, I’ll sport a full body pelt the envy of any game hunter. This does not bode well for me in modern society. I mean it was Ok in Dad’s generation. Sean Connery would light a cigarette and the latest Bond girl would twirl his chest hair. Probably even weave some design into it for a sexual thrill. Women would swoon at this. Men would rub their chests with hair-grow lotion. That was cool then.

Daniel Craig doesn’t have chest hair. You see my problem.

In the shower today I noticed burgeoning shoulder hair. I also realised that no one can tell if you’ve been crying in the shower.

Not to worry, I’ll most likely be shot before I reach fifty. Some Good Samaritan will heroically take out the hairy beast-man allegedly mauling some hapless older suburbanite when in reality I was just offering to help an old lady carry her groceries.

*******

But internal anxieties are not all who I am. In fact I’m more so my external anxieties. This is basically defined by the shoes I wear. I own three pairs, each rated from one to three on a scale of casualness to classiness. Most often I wear the pair rated number two – retro Adidas kicks that can be worn to uni and most restaurants, but not nightclubs or weddings (definitely not weddings my Mum has confirmed). This is comfortable mediocrity with neat jeans and shirt to match. In this state, I am expected to be relaxed yet social, approachable and affable; the kind of guy who stops for a conversations and impresses upon others a strong sense of direction in his life. He’s the kind of guy who will one day wear only number three shoes. This puts a lot of pressure on me as I have no real sense of direction and no real interest in full commitment to number three shoes. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to wear number one shoes but then I remember they have holes in them and my feet would get wet if it rained and no one likes wet feet.

Concrete Dialogues

The Applecross Dome Coffee Shop

11:53am. Having rolled out of bed only ten minutes ago, I’ve timed my breakfast escapade perfectly. A civilised sleep-in for a cold morning and access to the best seat in the wood-panelled café; an armchair nestled by the doorway, its leather warmed by the sunlight seeping in through the window. A sullen jazz singer broods over the speakers as a crabby teenager plonks a latte on my table. I sit alone. All my friends have been at their desk since 9am, ticking off their objectives: a job, a house, a wife, a boat. But I don’t regret my late start to the day because these are the waking hours.

Twelve o’clock ticks by. The doors of outside buildings open with increasing regularity as people stumble onto the sidewalks. Risely Street is swollen with more pedestrians than cars and the short skirts bobbing along with the tide to distract me from a now cold drink.

I am a one-man welcome party for the lunch crowd. Business suits and gaggles of Mums steering prams are eager to share a smile. They all pause on the creaky floorboards to scout a table or spot a friend. Customers rise in waves to attract and greet their friends and draw them in with a flurry of handshakes and polite kisses. The air becomes laden with coffee and the growl of the coffee grinder. Conversation bounces off the walls at fever pitch. And I realise someone has changed the music to an excitable flamenco guitarist as heads seemingly bob along with the music. Each table is an island of matching work uniforms or family resemblance. Middle-aged women become immersed in frumpy armed conversation. The suits raise eyebrows over frothy contemplations. An elderly couple study a shared menu. And the crabby teenager spends her lunch break in the corner glued to her mobile phone. I lean into the pool of light flooding my table and the armchair wraps around me.

When I look up again the tables are strewn with the skeletal remains of salads and burgers. The coffee grinder has dulled to a drone. The elderly couple pick over scraps on their plate and there are more cars than people on the street. The teenager closes her phone and switches the music back to the wounded singer. I assume she’s grumpy because she just slept through the waking hours.

New Territory!

Excellent. So I'm online now. Maybe that drawer full of random ideas I have on scraps of paper can now become random ideas in digital bytes.