March 5, 2012 · 11:05 am

MONKEYS ON A BOAT 2012

I recently returned from being a performer on JoCoCruiseCrazy II–a big floating music/comedy cruise.

In contrast to my musings and predictions here, I now believe the boat is powered by slightly drunk people having fun. Luckily, all the Sea Monkeys (this is the name the JoCo Cruise-Goers have given themselves) were having fun constantly and even managed to have fun backwards when the ship needed to reverse out of a port.

What follows is a collection of words, images, and sometimes links to moving images about my experiences on Drunk-Fun-Cruise 2012. Some statements are true, some are blatant lies.

THE ENTERTAINMENT

All of the performers on the boat were talented and lovely people–with the exception of John Hodgman who spent the entire cruise swilling his “youth serum” (full pitchers of an unholy rum-malort cocktail) and screaming at the staff that they weren’t doing enough to defend the virtue of the Oxford Comma.

We had a formal night. People wore fake mustaches and little fezzes. All this boat-moving fun was in honor of Paul F.Tompkins–a kind and funny man, yes, but also a man who has accused me of being a murderer on more than one occasion. However as the old adage goes–“the smart phone camera does not lie!” It’s clear from the photo below which giant blurry head is a-plottin’ to kill some people.

MURDER

I did a performance of my geek comedy stand-up/storytelling show Joseph Scrimshaw and The Comedy of Doom. I wrote an audience interactive bit called Star Trek: Oregon Trail. To my delight and surprise, my totally unplanned audience volunteer was Wil Wheaton. What followed was funny, but also surprisingly sexy. Do you choose to go on an away mission from this blog and watch the video?

Star Trek: Oregon Trail with Joseph Scrimshaw and Wil Wheaton

A link to the full video of my show is at the bottom of this post. As you can tell, the majority of Sea Monkeys are cyborgs who have cameras embedded in their foreheads and can upload stuff to youtube by touching a computer thing on the side of their head like they were Lobot from The Empire Strikes Back. (Google image Lobot if you have to, then laugh and laugh.)

I was also honored to play the role of Ed McMahon to Paul and Storm’s two-headed Johnny Carson in this podcast recorded with a live (at least 25% hungover) audience during JoCoCruiseCrazy.

THE CRUISE ITSELF

Being on a cruise is pretty awesome. As you can see from this photo, it’s like spending a week trapped in a generic desktop theme.

That said, cruises are weird. They remind me of the old commercials for Grey Poupon.

Yes, you’re classy. BUT COME ON, YOU’RE MUSTARD AND WE ALL KNOW IT. STOP TRYING SO HARD!

The cruise ship staff does odd and sometimes terrifying things as if to constantly remind you, “this ain’t just mustard, son, this is motherfucking Grey Poupon floating on the sea!”

For example, the stewards make what they claim to be “animal sculptures” out of your towels. As you can see from the photo below, this is not an animal. This is a disturbing baby thing the stewards made after getting high and watching David Lynch’s Eraserhead seventeen times in a row.

THE HORROR

In an effort to make sure the whole ship doesn’t get sick at once and pile into the infirmary like it was Groucho’s stateroom, little Purell hand sanitizer squirting units are set up along the walls roughly every inch or so.

Because these stations are everywhere, you constantly see people rubbing their hands together as though everyone is a super villain planning to hijack the boat and sail it to their volcano fortress.

THE OTHERS

There were around 550 Sea Monkeys on the cruise and another 1000 or so normal cruise-goers. While many of the normal cruise-goers were perfectly nice and charming people, at least half of them seemed to be on the cruise to meet a stereotype quota. Basically, they were angry old people who forced me to reconsider my preconceived notion that “douchebag” is a word only used to describe young people.

Here are a few of my favorite overheard quotes:

“I’ll tell you this right now: if water gets in here, we’re going to sink.”

“I need a colonoscopy.”

“It’s about respect. Let’s go get some ashes for Ash Wednesday. They got ’em at the piano bar.”

“Cheeseburger! Cheeseburger! Cheeseburger! Cheeseburger!”

This last quote was said by the window on the Lido Deck that serves cheeseburgers and hot dogs to old men who feel the taco bar is too ethnic. There had been a back up in service because my commie pink-o wife ordered a veggie burger. All of the old men behind us were greatly agitated by this. As we walked away, as if to assert their manliness, four or five them began shouting “cheeseburger!”  It was like they were doing a thoroughly American reenactment of the Monty Python Spam sketch.

SHORE DAYS

I got off the boat when we stopped at Aruba and Curacao. Both interesting exotic places. For example, when you get off the boat in Aruba one of the first things you see is a Dunkin’ Donuts and a Little Caesar’s Pizza RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER.

I have honestly never seen that in real America.

To be fair, there are many interesting excursions to be had by cruise-goers who, you know, plan. (One friend went to an ostrich farm and learned the secret dance of the angry and/or horny ostrich.) But no matter how exotic these cruise destinations are, when you get off the boat you are usually presented with a “Little America” shopping district full of gifts for the whole family. Like this:

On Aruba, there was a movie theater playing The Phantom Menace in 3D. My wife and I debated going to see it. We thought it would be a fun way to drive geeks mad.

“What did you do with the precious few hours you had on a beautiful island off the coast of South America?”

“We sat in a dark theater for two hours watching Episode One in 3D.”

Unfortunately, as we approached the box office window we saw it was roped off with police tape. I decided to simply believe that Episode One was against the law in Aruba and we sat on a beach drinking beer instead.

SEA MONKEYS

The attendees of JoCoCruiseCrazy are supportive intelligent audiences and very fun people. They took it upon themselves to set up random “unofficial” events. I was invited to join an impromptu drawing circle.

My useless liberal arts degree is actually in the useless field of visual art, so it was great fun to sit under the stars and uselessly sketch the Sea Monkeys. Here’s a sketch of the gentleman who filmed me making filthy Star Trek jokes with Wil Wheaton:

THE MORAL OF THE CRUISE

Everyone involved with the cruise–performers, Sea Monkeys, the terrifying towel twisting stewards–are all truly wonderful. The event is special. As in, it is actually NOT NORMAL. It’s part cruise, part concert, part floating geek convention, part ukulele heavy band camp, and all awesome. If you actually read through this entire blog and enjoyed it even slightly, you would enjoy this cruise and you should go here to sign up for announcements about JoCoCruiseCrazy 2013.

If you didn’t have to Google image Lobot, you should sign up twice. If you didn’t have to Google image Lobot OR look up the Groucho’s stateroom reference, you’re probably the kind of person who would enjoy spending a little under an hour of your life watching a video of me saying jokes into a microphone. You will also be rewarded with a special appearance by the very funny Paul and Storm playing Dumbledore and Tom Bombadil if you make it through the whole thing!

Joseph Scrimshaw and The Comedy of Doom performed on JoCoCruiseCrazy II

Cheers, friends.

 

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February 13, 2012 · 4:31 pm

STAND BY ME: Obsessed Ep 1

The first episode features Joseph’s obsession with SQUIRRELS and guest Virginia Corbett’s obsession with the film STAND BY ME. Plus, eating noises.

AWOOGA! Obsessed is now a part of Feral Audio! Go to Feral now to listen to this episode and subscribe for new ones! 

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

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Subscribe to OBSESSED on iTunes.

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· 10:38 am

Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven

I wanted to write a new romantic story for Valentine’s Day. Instead, I just spent some time poking around on the internet. And I found something incredible: an unpublished Jane Austen erotica story called “Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Really, this was not written by me. It was written by Jane Austen. Which is odd, because there are a ton of f-bombs. Enjoy.

SENSE and SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN by JANE AUSTEN

MINUTE ONE:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man locked in a closet with a single woman must attempt to engage in pre-marital fornication. However little known the feelings or views of such a man on first entering the closet, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of single women, that should the suggestion of wanton ribaldry not be made, a single woman is disposed to consider it an insult.

These truths were not lost on Miss Margaret Lucy Anne Cockingwood of Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire.

Maggie, as she was known to her closest friends, was currently locked in a rather small closet with a legendarily dour gentleman named Mr. Frith Banbury Fannycock Cardington.

Mr. Cardington had protested greatly when the spinning bottle of port came to a definitive stop while clearly pointing in his direction with all the firmness and rigidity of a scolding Dowager’s jutting digit.

“I am ever so afraid, I must decline,” whined Mr. Cardington. “I do suffer from allergies so.”

But Maggie and the other dinner party guests had forced him into the closet as he bleated like a sheep about the dire risk of an apocalyptic sneezing fit.

And so, Maggie and Mr. Cardington stared at one another’s dimly lit silhouettes as the precious seconds ticked away and Mr. Cardington fumbled about for something interesting to say.

“I say,”  he said redundantly. “This small, tight space is rather damp isn’t it?”

“Not yet,” responded Maggie with an equal mixture of annoyance and lascivious intent.

MINUTE TWO:

Mr. Cardington was baffled by this blatant innuendo. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “come again?”

“At this rate, there shan’t be time for that,” grumbled Maggie.

“What?” retorted Mr. Cardington as though he hadn’t just been bashed about the head with a rather obvious reference to multiple orgasms.

“Honestly, Mr. Cardington,” Maggie huffed, “have you no sense of social decorum? We are in this closet for a most singular purpose. Do you know what it is?”

“No!” Mr. Cardington whisper-yelled.

“There are no end of euphemisms for it,” Maggie protested. “Roasting the beef. Ringing for the butler. Braiding the wick. Visiting the stable. Polishing the soup spoon. It works with virtually any verb and noun, for heaven’s sake!”

Mr. Cardington’s ignorance was palpable. Indeed his confusion was as large as the British Empire itself, but ironically it appeared as though the sun would never rise on it.

“Mr. Cardington,” Maggie blurted, “I simply wish to fuck you!”

MINUTE THREE

Sadly for Maggie, the only part of Mr. Cardington that stiffened was his upper lip.

“Miss Cockingwood,” he lectured, “as a gentleman, I’m afraid that I cannot bring myself to even mention aloud, much less agree to, such an illicit act.”

Maggie took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy speech about pride and pagan rituals and the hubris of British culture daring to impede the basic carnal knowledge to which flesh is heir, about sense and bi-sexuality, and the hideous damage sexual repression can do to the psyche of a nation. However, the thesis of her strident and eloquent argument could have easily been communicated with this compelling universal truth:

“There is nothing sadder than a single man who will not put out.”

MINUTE FOUR

The next 30 seconds passed in silence.

Time dragged forward with all the speed and warmth of a melting iceberg.

Finally, Mr. Cardington’s defiant posture slumped in defeat as he mumbled, “Oh, bugger me, fine.”

“We shall have to make haste,” Maggie admonished. “We only have three minutes left.”

Mr. Cardington cocked his left eyebrow and said, “That shan’t be a problem.”

Maggie kissed him furiously and the unlikely couple engaged in an awkward ballet of inelegant button popping and lace removing that was as hideous as it was exciting.

MINUTE FIVE

They fucked.

MINUTE SIX

They continued fucking. The couple stumbled and wrestled, kicking up dust, causing Mr. Cardington to sneeze repeatedly. The closet became a symphony of bizarre human sounds.

Sneezing, moaning, copulating, perhaps flatulating?

Who could tell?

And who cared?

What with all the fucking.

MINUTE SEVEN

Still fucking!

Maggie reached for Mr. Cardington’s fob. It was not a euphemism.

She reached into his waistcoat and popped open the watch. She was able to make out the time as Mr. Cardington’s naked white ass was so bright it actually gave off a glow—a dim romantic light like a big, tight kerosene lamp.

“We’re almost of time,” Maggie moaned.

Mr. Cardington, ever the gentlemen, informed Miss Cockingwood he was simply waiting for her.

There was a polite round of offers from both parties to allow the other to climax first.

Mr. Cardington stated rather firmly that he would hear nothing of it. He argued that he had already violated his own sense of gentlemanly conduct by agreeing to fuck Miss Cockingwood in the first place and should he allow himself to climax prematurely he feared he would not be able to live with the shame.

What would they say in London?

Maggie began to rebuke Mr. Cardington for his baroque attitude towards orgasm etiquette when fate intervened.

At the exact same moment, five things happened.

Maggie climaxed.

Mr. Cardington climaxed.

The closet door fell open.

Mr. Cardington sneezed.

The rest of the dinner party guests stared in shock.

Luckily, they were all quiet high on opium. They were also blinded by the sudden brightness of Mr. Cardington’s luminous white ass, so no one was precisely sure of what they saw that night.

Later, Maggie and Mr. Cardington would agree that three out of the seven minutes they spent in that tight, damp closet in Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire were, indeed, heaven.

THE END.

A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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February 8, 2012 · 4:31 pm

MURDER CRUISE 2012

On February 19th, 2012, a boat will leave Fort Lauderdale and sail out into the Caribbean Sea carrying with it the attendees of MURDER CRUISE 2012.

There are several inaccuracies in that sentence, so I will preemptively push my glasses up and correct myself.

Technically, it’s not a boat. It’s a ship. But come on, boat sounds more romantic. Also, it doesn’t sail. It moves under some other power than blowing. Nuclear reactors? Coal shoveling? Perhaps a flux-capacitor? I think it might be a combination of turbines and will power. It’s unknowable without looking it up on wikipedia.

And, no, it’s not actually called MURDER CRUISE 2012. That was a joke started by Paul F. Tompkins on the twitters. It’s actually called JoCoCruiseCrazy II. It’s a big floating geek concert/comedy festival hosted by Jonathan Coulton.

If you’re not sure who Jonathan Coulton is, it’s possible this is the first page you’ve looked at on the internets since 2003. All you really need to know is this: Jonathan Coulton is a nice man who sings songs and makes money doing it. After singing songs and making money on land for a while, he looked around and said, “What if I sang songs and made money in the middle of the Caribbean Sea?” And he did and it worked out, so now he’s doing it again.

The cruise is packed with talented entertainers and I’m honored to be doing a performance on this will-and-turbine-powered geek boat.

Right here and right now, I’m going to make seven predictions about what will happen on JoCoMurderCrazyCruise II and we’ll see how accurate they are.

PREDICTION NUMBER ONE:

There will be a MURDER. Not a sad real life murder involving consequences and human feelings, but a light, festive, Agatha Christie murder where some jackass no one likes gets drowned in a chocolate fountain when the lights go out on the Lido Deck and a bunch of colorful suspects with easy-to-remember names happen to be in the same room.

PREDICTION NUMBER TWO:

We will not sink. Though we will be attacked by a Kraken.

The Kraken will be easily defeated. A Kraken is basically a bully who lives in the sea. We will confront the Kraken about what is missing in his life that he has to attack a boat. He’ll say, “It’s not a boat, it’s a ship.” And we’ll say, “Don’t be pedantic, Kraken.” And we’ll make some quick and funny “It Gets Better, Kraken” parody videos and he’ll go away.

PREDICTION NUMBER THREE:

There is a possibility the owners of the cruise line will charge me extra if I look at the sea too often.

PREDICTION NUMBER FOUR:

I will probably get full-on old man cranky about the use of the word “squee.”

There will be a lot of excitement on the boat and people will want a short, emphatic word to express that emotion. I’m all for that. The emotion, the expression. Just not the word choice.

When I hear the word “squee,” I picture a panel from a Star Wars comic book in which R2-D2 is farting. Big, block letters shooting from the little astromech droid’s backside.

So while I might enjoy the comedy of John Hodgman or the music of Paul and Storm or the stories of Wil Wheaton or the reasonably priced rum drinks at a pirate ship bar on a small island in the Bahamas, I can’t squee.

For me, it’s a matter of respect. I can’t bring myself to say, “I’m enjoying John Roderick’s song. I think I’ll use my mouth to fart like a robot.”

Perhaps this opinion will lead me to be the man that is drowned in the chocolate fountain.

PREDICTION NUMBER FIVE:

I will foolishly attempt to define geek culture to an old woman from Arkansas.

The people on the cruise who are there for Jonathan Coulton and friends call themselves Sea Monkeys. Sea Monkeys are a fun, friendly, and inviting group of people.

There will be many people on the boat who are not Sea Monkeys. They will be confused and alarmed by all the excited people running around singing songs and saying “squee.”

They won’t even know that “squee” sounds like you’re imitating a Star Wars robot farting in a comic book. They think comic books still cost a dime and mostly feature Superman beating up nazis.

At least one of these people will gaze at me across the gaping cultural chasm and say, “Hey, you want to leap across the gorge and explain this to me?”

And I will try. And I will fail.

I will say words like “twitter” and “ukulele” and “bonhomie” and phrases like “no, we don’t all wear glasses, some of us have contacts” and “no, nerd isn’t really a negative term as we’ve made an effort to culturally appropriate the word and celebrate its positive aspects.”

And the perfectly nice woman from across the chasm will say things like “what?” and “huh?” and “so you’re all just getting together to sing songs about the Star Tracks?”

And I’ll use the word “filk” and she’ll think I’m swearing at her.

And I will go drown myself in the chocolate fountain.

PREDICTION NUMBER SIX

Even though my name is Scrimshaw, I will fail to hunt and kill a whale, then carve a picture into its bones. I will drown my sorrows in whiskey and this will make my ancestors proud.

PREDICTION NUMBER SEVEN

The cruise will be awesome. I will grossly overuse the word “awesome” and it will make me seem like a big hypocrite about the farting robot word.

After the cruise, I’ll do my best to let you know exactly how inaccurate my predictions were. Until then, I’m off to pack some shorts that I will not wear for fear of blinding my fellow Sea Monkeys with the pale white glow sticks that are my legs.

Cheers!

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January 26, 2012 · 12:39 pm

IT’S OVER, SNOW

Before I lived in Los Angeles, I lived in Minnesota for many years. As the difficulty of winter increased for me I struggled to describe to friends how I felt about snow. I realized the best analogy for my relationship with snow was this: It’s like dating a crazy person. The following is my attempt to  break up with snow. It will probably get ugly.

Snow.

You and I have to talk.

We’ve been seeing each other on and off for more years than I like to think about and—no, no—Snow—I don’t want to play. No, I don’t want to throw you at my friends or roll you into balls and make you a man. That’s just weird.

Snow. This is serious.

It’s not you, it’s me, but I think we need to break up.

No, no, Snow, don’t lose your shit. I don’t deny we’ve had some really good times together. Usually in December.

You’ve been away for a while and when you first come back I’m excited to see you. You look fresh and pretty. And, honestly, it’s really nice to have you around for the holidays. I sit by a warm fire and I could just stare at you all night.

But then January 1st hits and I am so fucking done with you.

Why? Because I know you’re going to spend months making ridiculous demands of me.

How many times have I made plans with friends that I have had to cancel because of your bullshit?

I’m sick of the embarrassment of calling my friends and family and saying, “Sorry, I can’t make it to dinner or the show or the family reunion because Snow showed up in the middle of the night and fucked up my car.”

You don’t care what’s going on in my life. You show up whenever you want with all your needs and your issues. Shovel me! Scrape me! Blow me!

Not to mention my favorite passive aggressive game—pour kitty litter on me or I will knock you on your ass. That’s just deviant.

And then you try to play it off  like it’s cute. You’re all like, “Oh, come on, stay home from work, lie down inside me, and let’s make an angel together.”

It’s cute in December, Snow, but by February, it’s just pathetic.

And that’s another thing. By February, you’re not exactly pretty anymore. Thousands of different people and machines have trampled through you, you’re full of mud and filth, you keep melting and refreezing, melting and refreezing. By March we finally start to see the truth: you are a messy, dangerous bi-polar pile of crazy mush.

No, no, I am not being overly harsh. Remember when I said it wasn’t you, it was me? I was lying.

It is totally you. You’re insane. You dictate where I can park my car!

By the end of March, you are downright sociopathic. I’m not playing with you enough, so you start a big melt to try to get my attention back. The second I start to feel a little sad that you’re leaving, you pound me with another ten inches.

That’s it.  That’s the end of the story. Can we just be friendly about it?

Can I have my stuff back?

What stuff?  All the stuff I’ve lost inside you over the years. Hats, mittens, keys, glasses.

No, you do not give them back every year. I wait while you slowly melt to find the stuff I dropped. Somehow, my class ring never reappears but you manage to retain every single piece of dog shit you’ve collected for the last six months.

See? I can’t do this anymore. You drive me into a frenzy of anger and whining. I can’t even complain about you to my friends because they’re sick of hearing it.

All they say is, “If you hate this relationship so much, why don’t you just move on?”

And the answer is: I don’t know.

Maybe I  like to complain. Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m afraid to try a different relationship.

What the hell is out there for me, anyway? I don’t want to date fog. I don’t want to build a life with dry heat. I know you’ll just follow me to the mountains.

I need to be strong. I need to break the cycle. I need to do something crazy like hook up with a fault line.

Until then, you and I are stuck with one another, Snow.

But from now on, we are just friends. And barely that. I’m sure I’ll see you at parties. Whether you’re invited or not.

I’ll do my best to be civil and if I can’t look at you without screaming, I’ll just hide in my house. But if you pile up on my roof and try to break into my house—I will get a restraining order.

Have a good life, Snow, have a good life.

This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!

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January 10, 2012 · 12:15 pm

Preparing (Emotionally) for the Zombie Apocalypse

If wishing makes it so, there is little doubt we will soon face the horror of a zombie apocalypse.

Many people consider themselves well prepared. We all have our preferred zombie hunting weapons: shotguns, cricket bats, golf clubs, longbows, a replica of a broadsword from any one of the Highlander films or television series. Basically, anything that is long and hard and/or fires a projectile. That’s normal and healthy. More on that later.

We all know where we would hole up to make our stand against the undead horde: Wal-Mart, K-Mart, The Big K, Target, Super Target, CostCo. Basically, any place that has a lot of food and would also be a depressing place to die. That’s just common sense. More on that later.

We all know who we would try to rescue and/or protect: our spouses, significant others, our children, quiet neighbors who keep to themselves because they probably have a lot of weapons in their basement. Basically, all of the important people in our lives who are still mobile or have tactical value. Grandparents are pretty much out of luck. That’s just good strategy. More on that later.

Say what you will about the lazy human beings of the 21st Century, we are physically prepared for the zombie apocalypse. But at the risk of sounding unmanly, what about our feelings?

Are we, as a people, EMOTIONALLY PREPARED for a zombie apocalypse?

Let’s start by reconsidering some of our cold, cruel, and emotionally distant physical preparations.

Do we have to slaughter zombies with phallic objects? What if we imagine hitting them with something soft and beautiful? A tulip? A handwritten letter? An unframed Monet print from a college dorm room? Would that be effective? Probably not. Does it make you sad that beauty is useless against zombies?

What if we didn’t make our final stand in a soulless big box store? What if we went to a happy place? A used bookstore? A locally owned homeopathic day spa? A patch of shade under our favorite tree? Would these be good fortresses? Probably not. Does it upset you to know your happy places make for great zombie feeding grounds?

What if we didn’t just rescue helpful people we love? What if we went out of our way to help a stranger? Or someone we know to be a jerk? What if we raced to a nursing home to protect the older generation from certain doom? Would a cranky wizened old man with a catheter and a penchant for racist slurs be a cheerful and valiant comrade for our desperate final stand? Of course not. Does it agitate you to think zombies might force you to die in the company of annoying people?

Zombies limit our options, don’t they? And it makes us angry. It makes us want to kill them viciously in a large well-lit retail environment.

Picture it: A reanimated heathen monstrosity shambles through Super Target. It’s Doug. Doug from that yellow house down the street. He gives out full size Snickers bars on Halloween, not just the misleadingly named fun-size. Doug is following you down the cleaning supplies aisle. His grisly arms outstretched as if asking for a reassuring hug. You savagely beat him about the head with a metal toilet plunger designed by Michael Graves until his skull caves in like a rotten melon.

Achievement Unlocked! You just killed (or re-killed) Doug, the full sized Snickers man, from down the street.

How do you feel about murdering Doug? He made you do it, right? But, still.

Those are Doug’s brains you splattered on the floor. You’ll be thinking about that when you get out that pole with the tennis ball on the end to rub the streaks off the cold unforgiving tile. And as you stare at your reflection in the Super Target floor, the horrifying truth wrestles its way into your conscious mind: ZOMBIES ARE US.

On some level, we are the undead and the undead are us.

And so we have to ask, “Why are we hitting ourselves? Why are we hitting ourselves? Why are we hitting ourselves in a Super Target with a metal toilet plunger designed by Michael Graves?”

Yes, the zombies make us do it. Yes, it’s us or them. Yes, zombies are murderous mockeries of our former selves–mindless, unreasonable symbols of death and decay. But they do have one thing going for them:

Zombies are goal oriented.

Zombies want to eat the brains of the living and that is all. No excuses, no bullshit.

Zombies don’t stand around at cocktail parties claiming they’re going to eat brains after they go back to school and get their MFA in theoretical brain eating.

Zombies don’t DVR episodes of The View to get step by step brain eating tips from a panel of experts.

Zombies don’t drop everything and move across the country because they think they’ll have better luck eating brains in Portland, Oregon.

Zombies don’t start arguments on the internet about whether or not they are eating brains ironically.

They just fucking eat brains.

And maybe that’s why we fantasize about killing them so much.  The shambling bastards make us feel lazy.

Perhaps we should stop thinking about how successful we will be in slaughtering our reanimated friends and neighbors in the inevitable zombie apocalypse and spend more time with ourselves.

What if we all focused on our own inner zombies? What if we pursued our life passions with the indomitable ferocity of a zombie who wants to eat brains?

What is your eating brains? Is it climbing a mountain? Playing the tuba? Becoming fluent in modern conversational French?

Set your sights on your goal and let your inner zombie go! Stumble-walk as fast as you can! Smash through the glass! Rattle the fence until it falls over! If someone chops your legs off with a heavily discounted wood axe from Wal-Mart, then dig your fingers into the very ground and drag, drag, drag your chomping unyielding jaws to victory!

Because the only way to truly EMOTIONALLY PREPARE for the zombie apocalypse is to lead a life that is worth fighting to keep.

When you have achieved this goal, you can happily look forward to the zombie apocalypse–fully prepared to bash the heads of the undead with a toilet plunger in your hand and a bounce in your step!

But until that happy day, all you can do is get out there in our pre-apocalypse world and chase down your dreams.

Now, go, my friends, go out there and eat the metaphorical hell out of some jerk’s brains–like only you can.

A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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December 27, 2011 · 2:12 pm

THE BEST (PROBABLY) FAKE STUFF OF 2011

I wanted to surprise people with my best of list so I decided to applaud stuff that is not real. At least, I assume this stuff is not real. Anything is possible, because the internet.

BEST BACON THING

The Bacon Bowl Hat.

It’s just like the old school beer hat but with bacon. You put this bowl hat on your head, then put a bunch of chopped up bacon bits in the bowl, then suck them through the attached straw until your heart hurts. Yes, it’s dangerous to suck chunks of bacon through straws, but really you should only wear The Bacon Bowl Hat at parties. And at any party where The Bacon Bowl Hat is welcome there will be at least one jackass who thinks he knows the Heimlich Maneuver.

BEST SEXUALLY EXPLICIT POP SONG

Errybody Be Tired (From F*ckin’)

It’s a wonder it took someone this long to come up with a good post party anthem, but singer/songwriter LaJohnson really knocked this one out of the park. And his partner, MC Proper, did an amazing job with the family friendly radio edit Errybody Be Tired (Of Auto Tunin’).  All the power of the original in half the time.

BEST NEW TV SHOW

Going Postal.

In this riveting murder/post office procedural, brilliant but misanthropic Post Officer, Kenny Hammer, discovers a body part in the mail. This leads him to team up with sexy but smart FBI agent, Amber Bradley, who is also a world champion kickboxer. After they solve that first case in record time, the government assigns the unlikely couple to work together on ALL Post Office related murders. Tensions rise as Hammer and Bradley begin to flirt, investigate the decades old unsolved postal related murder of Bradley’s favorite uncle, and break all the rules by going out of their jurisdiction to investigate a Fed Ex related serial killer. A gripping show with plots ripped straight out of the headlines and not a bad advertisement for the endangered USPS.

BEST SNL SKETCH

Ren Fest Talkie Guy.

He’s at his office job, dressed normally, but he’s still yelling really loud like he was doing his shtick out at the Renaissance Festival. It is hilarious. I could go on and on about this bit for twenty minutes and I still couldn’t go on about it for as long as the sketch lasted.

BEST NEGATIVE WORD CO-OPTED TO MEAN SOMETHING POSITIVE

Used.

As in “that shit is used!” If something’s really sick or tight you can go the extra mile and say, “that shit is gently used.”

BEST POLITICAL SEX SCANDAL

Senator Bob Sanderson accidentally masturbating during the Republican debate on PBS.

This was a groundbreaking twist on the inevitable revelation of inappropriate sexual conduct and the inspiration for the most politically damaging animated gif ever. While the strange display did give him a brief jump in the polls, the revelation of the underlying psychological condition ultimately tanked his candidacy. One prominent political analyst said, “America is looking for a team player.” Personally, I saw the candidate Republicans claim they want: a no-nonsense guy who takes what he wants.

BEST MYERS-BRIGGS TYPE

INFJ

BEST NEW GOOGLE PRODUCT

GoogleYourMom.

This innovative program scans your e-mails, g-chats,  Google+ status updates, etc. for trigger words or phrases like stress, alcohol, chocolate, in-laws, and CGI additions to original Star Wars trilogy. When a danger level is detected, GoogleYourMom checks in with you to make sure you’re okay and that you’re not fucking up your life. Messages include–“Are you hungry? Should we order a pizza?”, “Do you feel safe? Should we call a cab?”, “Do you want me to look on ebay for the unaltered 2006 DVDs?” Under particularly harsh circumstances you will get this message: “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.” Having received that message more than once, let me tell you, it is effective. When something that exists on the internet is disappointed in you, that is a wake up call.

BEST VIRAL VIDEO

British Man Alarmed By Cat.

“Oh, bugger me, a pussy!” will be in our cultural lexicon for some time to come.

BEST ZOMBIE FILM

Zombie of the Zombies.

In this brilliant meta mash-up, a group of attractive young twentysomethings are infected with a mysterious zombie plague while locked in a movie theater watching a marathon of zombie movies. The massive variety of types of zombies, I mean, like, there’s both fast and slow, makes this film totally used.

BEST OFFENSIVE MEME

The AIDS Dolphin.

Is AIDS Dolphin tasteless? Oh my, yes. Is there a possibility that the omnipresence of this promiscuous marine mammal is helping to raise awareness of a horrible disease? You bet.

BEST NEW SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM

KeepIt2Yourself.com.

This exciting new site allows you to post all the angry, bitter, ugly things you don’t want to share on all your public accounts. KeepIt2Yourself.com features an intricate connection system in which all friendship requests are auto blocked giving you the satisfaction of saying no without all the social risk. Warning: This one is a real time suck. Almost more than TymeSuckr.com.

BEST NEW FAST FOOD PRODUCT

The Salad Burger.

The Jiffy Burger franchise’s game changing idea of constructing an entire heart healthy salad (with lettuce, ham, cheese, jerk chicken, and Low Fat BBQ Chipotle Honey Mustard Dressing) then serving it between two massive quarter pound Angus Beef Burgers on a Butter Injected Bun was only missing one thing: bacon. Luckily, the company recognized this embarrassing gaffe, called a press conference, made a public apology, and immediately released The Salad Burger 2.0: Bacon Harder.

BEST META JOKE IN A BEST OF LIST

This one.

And that’s 2011! I look forward to writing my Best of 2012 which should include only one item: Best Apocalypse.

If you feel I missed any really, really great things that didn’t happen in 2011, feel free to add yours to the comments section.

Happy New Year and all the best (real or fake) in 2012!

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December 21, 2011 · 12:05 pm

A Death Star To Guide Me

The following is the letter I should have sent to Santa Claus when I was a young boy.

Dear Mr. Claus,

My name is Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw. The adults in my family call me Joey. I hate that. I tell them my name is Joseph. They laugh and call me cute. I tell them their reaction is condescending and pejorative. At this point, most adults leave the room.

Their loss.

But back to subject matter that is more germane to this missive. In regards to my Christmas present this year–it is my deepest desire to be the first child on my block to own a Death Star Space Station play set inspired by the major motion picture event, Star Wars.

Now, Santa, I realize you are probably not a fan of this recently released sci fi/fantasy epic since you are of the older generation and probably prefer more adult fare such as Annie Hall, ABBA:The Movie, or Exorcist II:The Heretic.

Suffice it to say, like yourself, Star Wars is rooted in ancient mythologies. Its timeless narrative allows young people to vicariously live a life of noble heroism through the main character, Luke Skywalker.

The film reminds us that we all have exciting destinies. As soon as a fascist regime brutally murders our parents or guardians, oh, the adventures we will have!

At the end of the film (after his second parental figure, Obi Wan Kenobi, has also been murdered) Luke Skywalker deals a terrible blow to the Galactic Empire by destroying the aforementioned space station, The Death Star.

The film’s phenomenal box office success has generated an unprecedented wave of merchandise. There are Star Wars glasses, posters, cereals, pillow cases, ornaments, etc. In Germany, you can even get Star Wars toilet paper.

Wiping your ass with an image of C-3PO seems like an odd way to express your interest in the film. But then, it’s Germany. I don’t need to tell Kris Kringle how weird the Germans can be.

(As a side note: I am so completely surrounded by the oeuvre of Star Wars, I often wonder if it will warp my mind and lead me to an adult life in which I obsessively quote the film and pretend any long cylindrical item I see is a lightsaber. So it goes.)

The most popular tie-in product is the Kenner toy company’s line of action figures. Action figures are like dolls that don’t threaten your masculinity. As much. The Death Star is a play set for these action figures. Sort of like Barbie’s Mansion, but evil.

And speaking of evil, I realize the irony of celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ by receiving something called The Death Star. I could argue that there is a STAR connection to the story of Jesus’ birth, but I think we both know I would be equivocating.

I ask you to judge the Death Star not by the blatantly evil name (in fact, one wonders how the Empire got this name past the steering committee. Perhaps The Force was used?) or the rather inflated suggested retail price of $49.95, but rather judge it by the joy it would bring to me–young Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw. An intelligent, sensitive young man trapped in the barren wastes of the frozen tundra that is Northern Minnesota.

(Another side note: Northern Minnesota is much like the North Pole if most of the elves were alcoholics and Mrs. Claus had never heard of contraceptive devices. That is to say: it is lacking in magic.)

Rest assured, Santa, that I have exhausted every other possibility for acquiring the Death Star. I have asked my 26-year-old hippie parents to buy it for me. They answered a firm “no,” shaking their needlessly long hippie hair.

Even both of my Grandmothers put together to form a sort of financial Mecha-Grandmother could not afford the Death Star. I find this hard to believe as I have personally witnessed my maternal Grandmother smoke at least $60 worth of Virginia Slims cigarettes in one sitting.

And so, Santa, as holographic Princess Leia said to Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are my only hope. I risk no hyperbole when I say my entire world view for the rest of my life hangs in the balance.

I realize the Death Star is merely a collection of cheap plastic (and orange foam used to clumsily symbolize the garbage in the trash compactor), however, what magic has been fused into the plastic? Is it really an overly priced commercial tie-in? Or is it like a star itself? Both a muse to sentimental poets and a very real giver of light, warmth, and life?

If I receive the Death Star, I will be justified in my current belief that the world is a bright and happy place in which one can always make one’s dream a reality.

OR these fragile beliefs could be ruthlessly shattered by YOU. And I will be sentenced to a long and hollow life devoid of joy, compassion, and love. Suddenly, $49.95 doesn’t sound that expensive, does it?

Yours with much affection,

Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw

 

P.S. I must warn you in advance, I will not be able to leave out any cookies for you. As I mentioned earlier, my mother is a hippie, so I hope you will enjoy her seasonal collection of dried fruits and unsalted nuts.

Merry Christmas and May the Force Be with You.

A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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December 13, 2011 · 2:05 pm

Condom Plus One

A wise friend once shared this pearl of wisdom about the early stages of a romantic relationship:

“Never buy a large box of condoms. This is hubris and you will pay.”

He told me this on a Friday. On Saturday, I bought the largest box of condoms I could find. The only way it could have been larger is if I bought it in bulk at Costco. On Sunday, with no actual knowledge of the hideously large box of condoms, the woman I was dating broke up with me.

I developed a paranoid habit of purchasing condoms one at a time. Unfortunately, I thought it was too odd to just buy one condom by itself, so I often bought one other thing. You know, to make it less weird.

Please, allow me to assure you:

There is no single item that when purchased with a single condom does not make the single condom even more bizarre.

As a Public Service Announcement for the socially awkward dating community, here’s a list of seven items one could purchase along with a single condom. Some of these are purchases that I have actually made. Some are not. Feel free to contact me with your guesses. If you are correct, I will buy you one condom and nothing else.

A condom and a Star Wars action figure.

This seems like it should be the ultimate statement of confidence: yes, I purchase Star Wars toys as an adult and plan on copulating. And yet, it’s not. There’s really no individual Star Wars character that doesn’t imply some disturbing fetish–Darth Vader equals auto-erotic asphyxiation; Force Spin-Action Yoda equals tantric masturbation; Princess Leia in Hoth Gear equals a deep and abiding love of cold repressed women. If you attempt to buy a condom and a Star Wars action figure, the checkout person will ask the same question about both products: “So, you’re not going to be taking this out of the package, are you?”

A condom and a Snickers bar.

This may seem like a safe, casual purchase. After all, everyone needs a mid-day snack and wants to avoid pregnancy and STDs. I would, however, advise against such a phallic shaped treat as a Snickers bar. You don’t want people to think you’re using the condom ON the Snickers bar. You will increase the odds of this interpretation if you purchase a magnum condom and a king-sized Snickers. Actually, any food product is a bad idea. An apple and a condom suggests you’re planning some sort of dubious Garden of Eden cosplay. And that’s not going to help anyone.

A condom and a day planner.

This tells a simple and sad story. You will be having sex exactly once this year. You just need to pick the date and write it in your sad little calendar, you sad anal-retentive sex planner.

A condom and a thumb drive.

This is almost acceptable. Perhaps you are a spy. All spies should have a condom and a thumb drive. Unless you’re also purchasing a wristwatch that shoots ninja throwing stars, you will just come off as someone who needs more digital room to store all the episodes of “My Little Pony” you’re pirating online.

A condom and a hoodie.

When you buy something that goes on the upper half of your body and something that goes on the lower half of your body, it implies you’re putting together an ensemble. A condom and a hoodie! It’s a new fashion statement! EXTREME casual! Look for photos in Vogue! Upsetting!

A condom and a Mother’s Day card.

I feel no need to elaborate on this one.

A condom and…another condom.

Yes, you’re tempting fate by purchasing two condoms together. However, this might be the most elegant solution to this thorny condom problem that plagues tens of neurotic shoppers every other day.

If you buy two single condoms together, there’s no other product to inform the awkwardness of the single condom. Perhaps you’re just too broke to buy a WHOLE box. And while two condoms doesn’t suggest you will be having sex often, it does create a sense of hope.

Even if you never use those condoms, they will have one another. Two condoms, together in their loneliness. Like so many things in life, it’s kind of beautiful if you just stop and take the time to obsessively over think it.

Happy condom buying, everyone, happy condom buying.

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November 30, 2011 · 11:12 am

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A DEAD MAN

Last Halloween, I was challenged to write a scary story. So I wrote about the most horrible thing I could imagine. It’s not “creatures popping out of the dark, make you scream, run, and twist your ankle” scary. It’s horrible explicit gore. But not physical gore. It’s emotional, existential gore. It’s like a pompous French film version of Saw. It’s a story about fear. Please try to enjoy “A Portrait of the Artist as a Dead Man.”

John Ludd died accidentally on October 18th, 2011.  He is survived by his parents and some friends. I guess. When reached for comment, his parents simply sighed. John Ludd had no spouse or partner to contact. He also had no children. He didn’t even have pets.

I guess it’s safe to say John Ludd is survived,  begrudgingly, by his parents and the not insubstantial amount of mold growing in his kitchen.

And, of course, his friends. If you could combine the hundreds of people John knew, taking bits and pieces of all them, they would form one or two actual close friends. I, myself, am writing this obituary because you can only play hot potato for so long before that tuber starts to cool down and you have no choice but to say yes.

Don’t get me wrong, John was a nice, fun guy. He was interesting to observe in exactly the same way a black hole is: from far enough away that you don’t risk getting sucked into the void.

But here I go.

John Ludd was a novelist. He was cooking up a great American novel in his head. But there seemed to be an unfortunate blockage between his head and his fingers because, to my knowledge, not a single word of that novel exists in the corporeal world.

John spent his final days on his smartphone playing a game called Words With Friends. Words With Friends should be called A Barely Legal Rip-Off Of Scrabble With Strangers From The Internet. Of course, that’s not quite as appealing. But then honesty never is.

John held a string of crappy office jobs. He would immerse himself in petty office politics—who got to take a longer break, whose key card allowed them to swipe into the slightly nicer bathroom, how come someone threw out his week old frozen pizza leftovers after only giving him three written warnings but no verbal warnings, and on and on.

It was almost as if he needed to cram pointless crap in his head to make sure the great novel simmering in there never had a chance to come to a full boil.

Still, John was not without his accomplishments. He once scored over 120 points in Words With Friends. Even more impressively, he did this by spelling the word “Jazz.” It must be noted, the game only provides one “Z.” So John, in a display of patience and planning rarely seen in his life, had to hold on to the high point letters of “J” and “Z” until a blank tile came up that he could transform into a second “Z.” Luckily, John immediately took a screen capture of the game or this momentous achievement in his life would be lost to the mists of time.

I knew John, as almost everyone did, as that mildly entertaining guy who hung out at the kind of depressing bar that had a really good happy hour deal on Miller High Life. I would call John a bar fly, but comparing him to a weaving darting creature like a fly would not communicate the anchor like weight with which he sat at the bar. John was a bar hippo.

John had an uncanny ability to know exactly how other people should fix their lives with absolutely no ability to apply the same ideas to his own. He would dole out advice like “remember to keep things in perspective” and “just be the best you you can be,” not to mention rhetorical winners like, “Are you afraid to be fearless?”

Sometimes, after a particularly long rant, listeners would comment, “You should write that down, you could use it for your novel.” To which John would reply, “You’re right. Another pitcher sounds like a great idea,”  and launch into yet another cheap beer infused tirade about the mysteries of the universe.

Alas, in my humble opinion, life is like a “life is like” analogy made at a bar late at night. It only makes sense to people who are drunk.

John always said he wanted to die in an interesting, flamboyant manner.  And, well, there’s no way to sugar coat it, he failed at that, too.

John died as he lived. Just fucking sitting there. There was a slow but deadly carbon monoxide leak in his apartment building. Everyone else got out as their alarms alerted them to a problem. Not only had John removed the batteries from his alarm, he had earbuds in and his iPod set to maximum volume. As far as we can tell, the last thing he heard or experienced was Led Zeppelin III. Which isn’t even a particularly good album.

John did not believe in the afterlife. Which should be a comfort to his atheist friends, I guess. And god knows, atheists could use some comfort. After all, atheists are, by definition, cheated out of the opportunity to gloat. When you die and stop existing there’s really no opportunity to say, “I told you so.”

To be perfectly honest, I used to be an atheist.  But after John died, I just can’t. I mean, the man did nothing. It’s frankly amazing that I have so much to say about someone who did so little. I want there to be an afterlife, so John can DO SOMETHING.

Screw the great American novel! Write a cookbook, a haiku, carve a dirty limerick on the back of whatever tablets god’s cooking up for us in the next century. Just make a fucking impression.

In conclusion, John Ludd was a novelist.

He had a great novel.

In his head.

He once tried to shotgun a beer out of a glass bottle.

There will probably be a small, informal memorial service at the bar during happy hour. Maybe we’ll scratch his name on his favorite stool. And we’ll share memories.

One last memory before I go. John often talked about what he would do after his novel was published and he made a bunch of money. He described this moment as “when his ship comes in.” It always struck me as a pretty depressing turn of phrase for someone who lives in the middle of the land-locked Midwest. But in all fairness, I think a lot of us are waiting for our ships to come in.

Allow me to close by sharing my new personal motto. A motto that is, at the very least, co-written with John Ludd.

If all I intend to do with my life is wait for my ship to come in, the least I can do is move a little closer to the fucking ocean.

Thank you.

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