Joseph attempts to EXPLAIN MINNESOTA and actor/comedian Clarence Wethern shares his obsession with PETER GABRIEL. Plus, a unique snack food based version of Shakespeare’s Othello.
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The Avengers’ Guide To Girls
Moviefone kicked up some controversy with its alleged satire article “A Girl’s Guide To The Avengers.” I thought the article was sort of masterful in the way it was tone deaf to both comic book fans and people whose perceptions of gender have evolved since 1972. I posted on twitter that I would be more interested in reading “The Avengers’ Guide To Girls.” So I wrote that.
IRON MAN:
“Look, uh, I like ladies. Kind of a lot. I’ve got this sort of casual, humorous, slightly alcoholic thing going and ladies seem to really like that. I mean, it’s hard to be casual when you wear a giant suit of metal, but I manage to pull it off. I’m a bad boy with a heart of gold that is kept beating by the power of a small arc reactor. So, if you want to have good luck with the ladies, you should follow that age old wisdom: just pretend to be yourself. And pretend yourself is me, Tony Stark. I mean, Iron Man. Whatever. And if anything goes wrong just make a joke. If that doesn’t work, suddenly put on a suit of armor and fly away.”
CAPTAIN AMERICA:
“Um, my last date was during Word War II. I don’t have a lot of really good advice for dating in modern times. I guess, if you have a lady you’re sweet on and your parents are okay with it, take her down to Walgreen’s and buy her a malted at the soda fountain. Also, you should probably purchase a condom. Tony tells me they sell those in Walgreen’s now. Right out in the open. And if you don’t know what a condom is, well, you know how I use my shield to reflect bullets? I’m uncomfortable now. I guess the point is I would rather have Nazis shooting at me than continue this conversation. Do you still have War Bonds? Go buy those and leave me alone please.”
HAWKEYE:
“I don’t even know why I’m in this article.”
THOR:
“In my time on the mortal plane, I have learned that it is quite normal for young men to declare, ‘I’m a god.’ I understand these men are part of a sub-species of human males called ‘douche bags’ and sometimes even ‘douche canoes.’ I do not know if there is a difference between the bags and the canoes. Well, I am not one of these douche things. I am a Norse God. Here are a few things that are important to the ladies both in Asgard and here on Earth: Respect. Honor. Large Mystical Hammers. The ability to summon romantic storms and stuff. They also like clear direct communication. I, Thor, son of Odin, master of Mjolnir, have no problem with clearly and repeatedly saying exactly what I mean in a very loud voice. I really mean that. Thank you for your time. My name is Thor and I am a God. Not a Douche God. An actual God.”
BLACK WIDOW:
“I am a woman. I can’t speak for all women. As a woman, I like to kick people in needlessly complex ways then land in a cool pose. I have to go try to be a spy while hanging out with incredibly loud men who wear bright costumes now.”
NICK FURY:
“It’s all about the foot rub. I got my technique down and everything.”
THE HULK:
“HULK LOVES LADIES! LADIES LOVE HULK! HULK TURN-OFFS! BEING SHOT! TANKS! ATTACKED! DOGS! CONNECTING WORDS!
HULK TURN-ONS! LONG JUMPS THROUGH DESERT! AT NIGHT! SPECIAL SOMEONE! MOVIES! TENDERNESS! HULK LOVE TENDERNESS! TRY LITTLE!
OTHER STUFF HULK LIKE! TREATING PEOPLE LIKE PEOPLE! NOT EVERYTHING ABOUT GENDER! HULK LIKE SMASHING! PLENTY LADIES LIKE SMASHING! HULK SMASH BOX OFFICE DEMOGRAPHICS!
IN CONCLUSION! HULK LIKE LADIES! NO DOGS! TENDERNESS! PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE! HULK LOVE SMASH! THE ACTION! NOT THE SHOW!
THANKS FOR TIME! PEACE OUT!”
There. I hope that helps people in their relationships. If nothing else, I’m super glad to get it out of my system. Thanks for reading.
Filed under Comedy Review
OBSESSED (with Joseph Scrimshaw) Episode Four: Ari Hoptman
Joseph discusses his obsession with WHISKEY and actor/comedian Ari Hoptman shares his obsession with PRESIDENTIAL TRIVIA. You will never hear another podcast that mentions Grover Cleveland this many times. Enjoy!
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Blink Blink Blank
The first Kurt Vonnegut novel I read was Breakfast of Champions when I was in 8th grade. After I read it, I developed this opinion: if you accept that the world is a stupid illogical place, then the world suddenly makes a lot more sense. This has always given me a strange comfort. I wrote this story for a group I perform with in the Twin Cities called The Rockstar Storytellers. Our assignment was to write in the style of our favorite author. Thanks, Mr. Vonnegut. Poo-tee-twoot?
Here is what I know:
Algernon Grimshank was a human being on the planet earth. Like most human beings on the planet earth he had the following problem:
He was very smart and yet most of the time he behaved like an absolute idiot. He knew for a fact that most people behaved like idiots, too, and he suspected most of them were smart enough to know he behaved like an idiot. And yet, he tried to pretend he didn’t, which was of course a very idiotic thing to do.
Algernon Grimshank’s personal idiocy manifested itself like this:
He told people he was a writer.
He would go to cocktail parties and high school reunions and say things like:
“Yes, writing is who I am!”
“Yes, writing isn’t about deadlines!”
“Yes, writing is about truth!”
“Yes, yes!”
Here was the truth:
On any given moment, on any given day Algernon would have vastly preferred to sit on his couch, eat pizza, and stare at a television than lift one finger to do anything even remotely productive.
Many of the idiots on planet earth felt this way. But they all thought it was very important to lie to one another about it.
And so Algernon Grimshank spent a ridiculous amount of his short life staring at things that were blank: pieces of paper, his computer screen, his friends’ faces when he told them his story ideas.
Blink blink blank.
Over the years, older wiser idiots had taught Algernon many glib, cliché catchphrases that would help him become a truthful writer.
One of those phrases was this:
Write what you know.
Here is what Algernon Grimshank knew:
Laziness. Horrible soul-crushing sloth. So, one day he decided to write about that. He did research on his subject by looking up sloth on a website called wikipedia.org.
Wikipedia was an online encyclopedia that any yahoo could edit. Many well-educated idiots doubted its truthfulness when compared to a real encyclopedia that could only be edited by a handful of highly trained yahoos.
This is what the ambiguously educated collective of yahoos knew about sloth:
It is a cardinal sin. Like murder, it merits damnation in hell without the possibility of forgiveness. Algernon found it odd that if you plan on killing another human being but don’t really get around to it—you are just as likely to go to hell as if you actually slit someone’s throat.
Blink blink blank.
Next the website told him sloth was sometimes associated with goats and the color light blue. He noted that a citation was needed.
Then the website told Algernon something so idiotic he doubted its truthfulness.
It said:
Each of the seven sins is paired with a patron demon. The patron demon of Sloth was Belphegor. A demon who was sent from Hell by Lucifer to find out if there really was such a thing on earth as married happiness.
The website also told Algernon that Belphegor was Hell’s ambassador to France.
Furthermore, the website told him that Belphegor tempted humans to be slothful by creating ingenious bits of technology which would waste their time.
Like all demons, Belphegor could only be summoned to earth by throwing a sacrifice of some kind on the floor of your home. The sacrifice required by Belphegor was this: shit.
This caused the following sentence to pop into Algernon’s brain against his will:
The mystical portal between Hell and France is poop.
Finally, the website told Algernon that Belphegor was traditionally pictured as an old man sitting on a toilet. Algernon Grimshank never knew that traditional Judeo-Christian demonological iconography could be this low-brow.
He was curious. He looked around his home for something akin to a big piece of shit.
He picked up a copy of his latest half-finished story and threw it on the floor.
POOF! A puff of acrid smoke filled the room and Algernon found himself in the company of an old man on a toilet.
The toilet-man said:
“Hey Buddy! I’m Belephegor! What can Belphegor get for you? Don’t just stare at Belphegor! Belpehgor is here to help you. You got any questions for Belphegor?”
Algernon threw open the wardrobe of his mind and desperately searched for a few words that might go well together. He said:
“Why are you sitting on a toilet?”
Belephegor responded: “It’s like sitting on the truth!”
Blink blink blank.
“Look, Belphegor made something for you, buddy!”
The demon reached a wrinkled hand into the toilet and threw something to Algernon.
It was this:
A light blue Nintendo 3DS portable video game system. Belpehgor pulled one out for himself. The game loaded in both devices was Tetris. They both began to play.
This is how you play Tetris:
You stare at a blank screen. Eventually different geometric shapes fall from the sky. You use your thumbs to jostle buttons so you can make the shapes connect with one another. Once the connected shapes form a complete line they disappear.
You can’t win at Tetris. It’s just a question of how long until you fail.
Hours passed. Belphegor yelled out things like:
“Yes, I just flipped the l-shape!”
“Yes, I just made six hundred and sixty-six lines disappear!”
“Yes! Yes!”
Algernon was enjoying himself. His eyes burned and his thumbs ached. Pieces of half-digested pizza fell in his gut, piling up into a mass of twisted geometric spires. He felt like an idiot. He should be writing, creating. He wanted to make all his words connect and form lines so he could win his next high school reunion.
He was all conflict and no resolution. His story really should end there. Instead, I am going to do something glib and cliché. I am going to insert myself, as the author, into the story. It’s a lousy trick that reeks of post-modernism.
Here is what I know about post-modernism:
It’s an ambiguous term that educated idiots like to bicker about at cocktails parties. We are currently trying to look smart by debating whether or not post-modernism is dead. It’s difficult to decide since none of us can agree on what post-modern meant in the first place. Personally, I think it means to have the creator comment in a knowing way on his or her own narrative.
So with a poof of light blue smoke I enter the room with Algernon Grimshank and say this:
“Hey buddy, I’m your creator! How can I help you? What can I get for you? I’d like to resolve your problems as neatly and quickly as possible.”
Algernon stares. Blink blink blank.
Belphegor tries to throw me my very own Nintendo 3DS, but I’m ready for him. Wikipedia told me the secret to defeat the demon sloth: zeal.
Each of the seven deadly sins is opposed by one of the seven virtues: chastity, moderation, generosity, charity, humility, meekness, and zeal. Putting them all together, they don’t make a lot of sense. I would not want to be in a room with a generous, humble moderate zealot meekly offering to give their chastity to charity.
Eager to save my protagonist from himself, I launch into a zealous tirade! I say things like:
“Yes, you’ve got to write for yourself, not for anyone else!”
“Yes! Writing is like a fire in your soul and you must release it or you will get burned!”
“Yes! Writing isn’t about coming up with answers it’s about asking questions!”
“Yes! Yes! YES!”
A huge flushing sound fills the room and Belpehgor swirls into thin air–sucked back to Hell. Or France. Yes, let’s go with France. Yes.
Finally, Algernon and I are alone together.
He asks the question we idiots rarely ask one another.
He says:
“Did you mean all that or did you just say that because you thought it would impress me?”
Eventually, these words fall out of my mouth and form lines:
“I want to say whatever I have to to win this story.”
Algernon asks:
“But why?”
I answer:
“So I can tell myself that I’ve done something today. Once I’ve done something I can go home. I can sit on my couch, drink whiskey, and watch hours of television while complaining about how shitty the writing is.”
Algernon asks:
“Will that really make you happy?”
I do my best to answer him truthfully.
I say:
Here is what I know.
Here is what I know.
Here is what I know.
Filed under Comedy Story
OBSESSED (with Joseph Scrimshaw) Episode Three: Brach Twizzler
Joseph discusses his obsession with WATCHING HIS WIFE KNIT and lawyer/activist/random audience volunteer Paul (also known as Brach Twizzler) shares his obsession with REMOVING ILLEGAL SIGNS FROM RIGHTS OF WAY. Many martinis died to bring you this podcast. Enjoy!
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JOHN CARTER of MEH-ARS: An Ignorant Review
There’s a lot of controversy swirling around the internet about the quality of the recently released film, JOHN CARTER.
Personally, I feel like I’m in a great place to help solve this dispute, because I haven’t seen the film.
I’m like that unemployed friend you run into at the bar when you’re in the middle of a complex and sensitive debate with a close friend. I’m going to plop myself down uninvited (probably sitting on the seat backwards in an annoyingly casual manner) and spew my easy solutions. Brace yourself for an unpleasant barrage that reeks of Leinenkugel’s HoneyWeiss, clove cigarettes, and well-intentioned ignorance.
JOHN CARTER is a movie about a guy named John Carter. He’s played by that guy who played Tim Riggins in FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS. So this film is basically TIM RIGGINS IN SPACE WITHOUT HIS SHIRT ON. I’m pretty sure he also wears one of those skirts you see Romans wear in gladiator, chariot race, or Easter movies.
A lot of people are mad that they dropped “OF MARS” from the title of the film which leads me to believe most of this movie happens on MARS.
Here’s the thing about MARS: You gotta handle that shit carefully. People make so many associations with MARS. The candy bar, the God of War, not to mention the planet itself. You put MARS in the title and people would be like, “is this just going to be a movie about a War God eating candy bars that is narrated by Carl Sagan?”
No one wants that.
So I bet this movie is grounded in something we can all relate to–like working retail. I bet JOHN CARTER works at Trader Joe’s. There’s a lady cashier he likes but he doesn’t date her because he’s got a little brother to take care of after their parents died. I also heard he’s maybe from Civil War time. So maybe his parents died in the Civil War, but right before they sacrificed themselves to end injustice, they put TIM RIGGINS and his cute orphan brother in this passageway that looked like the underground railroad but was actually a time corridor. Tap that sweet Doctor Who demographic.
So after we spend about 20 minutes setting up all the human emotion stuff, something computer generated happens at Trader Joe’s. There’s probably like a close up of a big rack of Three Buck Chuck shaking, then it explodes and the bottles come flying at you (because I know the movie’s got a lot of 3D showings) and a monster probably comes out of a space portal.
Odds are the monster is a SPIDER FROM MARS. Like David Bowie’s band except they don’t play glam rock, they’re less bi-sexual, and they’re actual spiders. So, Spiders are killing people on MARS and it’s like the CIVIL WAR all over again. TIM RIGGINS’ orphan brother and almost girlfriend were probably killed by the exploding wine racks, so he’s like, “Screw it. I have to go to MARS to fight injustice.”
BIG FIGHT when he first gets to MARS. Really slows down the plot, but there are a lot of cool shots where a half-naked TIM RIGGINS is jumping through the air swinging sharp things. Then–BAM–jump cut to an extreme close up of his sensitive yet steely eyes.
We can tell he is resolved:
HE’S GOING TO MAKE SURE THIS MOVIE GOES ON FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER 90 MINUTES.
I’ve also heard that the book the movie is based on had PRINCESS in the title. So, either it’s like a funny thing where MARS culture is different and they name their new hero PRINCESS or he meets a new girl who is the actual mf’ing PRINCESS of MARS.
(You would think that MARS would have a president or an emperor or something because MARS is a planet in SPACE, and most movies that happen in SPACE are futuristic. But for some reason, the people on MARS are still rocking a monarch based government system. So it’s like someone stripped the plot and drama from GAME of THRONES and put it in space. Which is bold, but dangerous. Because you could end up with like an army of geeks pushing their glasses up and fighting about whether it’s “SCI FI” or “FANTASY.” Two genres they like, but sometimes when you put them together, geeks get really mad and say hurtful things to each other on the internet.)
Anyway, the PRINCESS is probably like, “it has been foretold only you, TIM RIGGINS of THE CIVIL WAR and TRADER JOE’S, can protect us from the SPIDERS of MARS and lead our savage race.” (I’m assuming there’s an insulting thing about their pre-industrial culture because people keep comparing this movie to AVATAR. And AVATAR was just DANCES WITH WOLVES in SPACE. So, on a political level, this movie should be called TIM RIGGINS DANCES WITH DAMAGING SOCIO-CULTURAL STEREOTYPES ON MARS.)
Now admittedly, I don’t know a lot about the actual character of this new MARTIAN PRINCESS love interest, but to be fair, I bet the screenwriters and director don’t either. I can tell you one important thing: she’s not played by Lindsay Lohan. Because everybody would be making a big deal out of that. I can also tell you she’s attractive, scantily clad, and odds are she’s written pretty poorly but does some cool fighting to try to cover up the blatant sexism.
Any-hoo, then we have at least 20 minutes of TIM RIGGINS getting used to MARS. This is a mixture of humor, weight training montages, and a scene where he is taught to use an exotic new weapon. Perhaps a whip with a knife and/or electricity on the tip. He’ll also fall in love with the PRINCESS and maybe find another young orphan boy to mentor. Also, the evil people will be plotting to basically cause a MARTIAN CIVIL WAR so we can build the stakes to the BIG FIGHT AT THE END.
But before the end, I understand we have like a dream team of HBO TV stars. We’ve got McNulty from THE WIRE. We’ve got Walter White from BREAKING BAD. We’ve probably got the SISTER FROM DEXTER. Hell, maybe she’s even the PRINCESS. That would blow my mind.
Now, if you have McNulty, Walter White, and Tim Riggins in a movie and they don’t do a drug deal, that’s just a waste of American culture. That’s an insult to high quality drama. Like you just walked up to the podium on OSCARS night and slapped the greek drama mask right in the face.
So, I’m going to say McNulty is a war-torn savage who wants to change the monarchy system, but can’t. And I’m going to say Walter White is the main villain. Maybe the PRINCESS’ dad who turned evil, and used the RED METH ROCKS FROM THE CRYSTAL CAVE to become THE SPIDER KING.
Anyway, there’s a bunch of plot convolutions, but then there’s a BIG FIGHT. Walter White gets his stupid hat whipped off his head by TIM RIGGINS and all the audience can think about is COACH ERIC TAYLOR BEAMING WITH PRIDE and mumbling, “Good job, son, good job.”
Here are some of the things that come flying at the screen in 3D during the fight: SPIDER PARTS, MARS ROCKS, ARMOR, BRAS, EXPLOSIONS, RED METH.
Walter White is killed. This happens on like a hill or a castle. So a bloodied but victorious TIM RIGGINS can be higher than everybody else just like Hitler in every single shot in Leni Riefenstahl’s THE TRIUMPH OF THE WILL.
The war torn savages, even bitter drunk McNulty, scream and applaud like they just saw a really great stand-up act. TIM RIGGINS makes eye contact with NOT LINDSAY LOHAN and allows himself one brief smirk. Camera zooms into his eye and exciting, modern music that doesn’t make you think of science fiction in any way blasts over the credits.
Then, there’s a post credits sequence where TIM RIGGINS is training his new orphan brother to use the lazer-knife whip, and we see something in the distance–what is it?
It’s TONY FUCKING SOPRANO RIDING A SPACE ELEPHANT.
This means war, this means sequel, this means the next movie will be called JOHN CARTER 2, but everybody will call it JOHN CARTER, ALSO just to be smart-asses.
Okay, so that’s probably what happens, but is the movie any good?
Well, beyond certain objective structural and technical elements, movies are SUBJECTIVE.
Personally, I enjoyed imagining parts of this film and other things I pulled out of my ass really pissed me off and made me glad I haven’t seen it yet.
Bottom line–if you like fantasy, if you like space, if you have a high threshold for stereotypes, and/or you just want to see a topless TIM RIGGINS wearing a Roman Skirt, then this is a great way to spend two hours of your life that you will never get back.
All in all, I give JOHN CARTER, ASS KICKER OF MARS two thumbs. Thumbs don’t always need to be up or down. Sometimes they can just be. Hanging out, chill and cool, like TIM RIGGINS.
Tim Riggins forever, man, Tim Riggins forever.
Thanks for reading or whatever.
Filed under Comedy Review
OBSESSED (with Joseph Scrimshaw) Episode Two: Andy Kraft
Joseph explains his obsession with MAN-EXPLAINERS and actor/puppeteer Andy Kraft discusses his obsession with PUPPETS such as Super Grover, Tad Firebush, and The Amazing Cow-Boat. There were some technical difficulties in the recording, but we left them in because it’s more human (funnier) that way.
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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.
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.
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.
Filed under Comedy Trip
OBSESSED (with Joseph Scrimshaw) Episode One: Virginia Corbett
Welcome to the first episode of OBSESSED (with Joseph Scrimshaw) – a comedy podcast about liking things a little too much. Our first episode features Joseph’s obsession with SQUIRRELS and guest Virginia Corbett’s obsession with the film STAND BY ME. Listen, enjoy, share. Probably easiest to do it in that order, but you should do what you feel is right.
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Subscribe to OBSESSED on iTunes.
OBSESSED is recorded live in Minneapolis at the Bryant Lake Bowl, a combination restaurant, bar, cabaret theater, and bowling alley. So besides the normal audience noises (laughter, breathing, longing sighs) you may hear any of the following as well: dishes, beer glasses, the ghosts of actors who may have died in the theater, or a gutterball. When you hear Joseph pause, he is drinking beer.
The next live performance of OBSESSED is on Friday, March 2nd at 10 PM. Tickets are available now.
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.
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