Future Televisions and the Dirty Blood Credits
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Wandering into an electronics store and buying an expensive television off the wall, on a whim, is like stuffing a cooked ham into a tube sock and referring to it by a woman’s name—that is to say, the activity completely baffles me. White haired fifty something’s with popped windbreaker collars and spotless internet shoes seem to just stroll into the Best Buy, start pointing at things, and fifteen minutes later they’ve got a new 60” high definition television fit for the garage, apparently so their old lawnmower and unopened boxes of deer jerky have something to watch. I don’t understand these people. Whether the notion of financial whimsy came to them later in life, or perhaps the result of never having to balance a checkbook, damn near everyone needs some sort of accounting in order keep walking among the thick and the clothed. Maybe they just know the score, or maybe they’re on pills, or maybe both. I have questions.
And the Horsemen Came, And They Feared the Man Nathan Fillion
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In my years on this planet I’ve arrived at two infallible truths: Ranch dressing has no discernible equal, and Nathan Fillion needs to star in a goddamn blockbuster movie already. I’ve had enough of the Twitter campaigns, blog posts, speculation, want, lust, need, and all manner of gripping your knees in a cold shower and throwing empty vodka bottles at the toilet like a wild beast, some hungry and hurt thing, finally huffing its mauled flesh off into a ditch to die alone. What 30-story bronze leviathan must rise from the ocean and set its grip around a movie studio to make this happen? What biblical acts must the world conjure to get this space captain a new vessel? The clouds will swirl wildly, thunder and the commanding boom of a sky breaking at the spine and thrashing about, some enormous bearded face formed of grey angry clouds leaning into the windows of Columbia Pictures, all while stuttering executives unleash their bowels in terror. The behemoth cloud-face-thing leans in with a frown, lightning arcing everywhere, and with a mighty echoing voice, it commands that Nathan Fillion is to star in the Uncharted movie franchise. Right before they die, the executives sputter out one sentence, mouths full of blood and their words empty of resolve: “I think we can tap Mark Wahlberg for that project, he tests well for the demographic.” California is then eaten by the sea.
When We First Learned of Lust: The Nintendo Christmas
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Much like ranch dressing, Thriller, and the Sears catalog—The Nintendo Entertainment System shaped my life in ways that were both very important and wildly confusing. When the thing first arrived on our shores, it cost about ten-kerbillion American dollars, so for most of the lower middle class, we had to wait a few years for it to come to the “I can live this kind of debt,” prices. Advertising for the super rockstar console was relentless, every Saturday morning cartoon blasting bright imagery and loud pixels into children already blitzed on sugary breakfast cereal. These ads tore you apart at the seams, the poison was just too much. For us, it was our first taste of pure and ravenous lust, little high-calorie wolves set for a sinister kill. We’d do anything to play video games of this new caliber in our own living rooms, the thoughts screaming in every dream, bouncing across every decision, little boys awaking in the mornings already in full-fit rage. We’d gnash our teeth and see blood everywhere, tiny fists tearing footy pajamas off, itching all over, anything just to get ahold of a Nintendo. These were violent times in our biology, our first realizations that we could love something so much, we’d take things to dark and horrible places just to let it know. “Yes, I will drown Garfield and I will do this while Odie watches in horror, eyes taped open and strapped to a steel bathtub, numb to his whines. As long as there’s a copy of Kid Icarus waiting for me when that last bubble of red-flecked air pukes to the top of the toilet, I will be your assassin.”
