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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: July 6th

THE YEAR?!:2010

2nd place winner of The Alamo Drafthouse’s Dismember The Alamo film festival which took place in Austin Texas, Necropolis Reborn is an action/horror which was made by the father and sons team ‘hudsonpro,’ who are responsible for the bulk of the production including directing, editing, writing and more.

Necropolis Reborn is a sequel of sorts to Necropolis Awakened, which was featured in such publications as Fangoria, Rue Morgue, Film Threat and Creature Corner and gained great reviews – most commenting on the ambitious nature of the movie and the amount which was accomplished given the very limited budget.

Rue Morgue called it ” Pulp Fiction meets Day Of The Dead. ”

Fangoria said ” This combination postapocalyptic car-chase flick/zombie shocker has an overall energy and professionalism that make it stand out in the indie field. The Whites achievement is even more remarkable given that they handled practically all the production chores (as well as most of the lead roles) themselves. ”

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: June 2nd

THE YEAR?!:2010

Four months in the world of Commercial Driving loosely interpreted using characters from the 1987 classic ‘Over The Top.’

Part I: Over the Top

and Into the Ditch

“How much longer do we have to go on like this, sir?”

Your eyes, against your will’s better judgment of prolonged sleep, confront the morning rays pouring into the truck’s cab head on. There is no equal playing field here. That searing yellow ball – nature’s unforgiving alarm clock – comes charging forward towards unadjusted eyes with little mercy.

Like a rusty bear trap the lids rip open, tearing through the crust and tears. They’ve finished their shift – the bastards were blessed with the easy one – and now made way for the day crew: Two pupils screaming like newborn babies “Put us back in!”

Everything’s coming into focus now; a television channel you can’t seem to switch. This Is Your Life – airing seven days a week and available for viewing whenever conscious. The channel had been shut off for the past six hours and the dog squirming for release made keeping the show at bay for even a few more hours impossible.

A spirited Basset Hound was our third traveling cohort in this submarine on wheels and a dear friend to my father. Won in an arm wrestling match seven years ago while traveling near Chugwater, Wyoming, this constant companion acted as the anchor to this ship’s operation. The loud mouthed, ever present canine prevented this whole gig from flying off its heated wheels and heading out into the atmosphere like a flaming bullet.

If the sun wasn’t enough, his cohort in sleep thieving antics was readily available every morning at five a.m. to help finish the job. That dependable yellow orb in the sky had set up the dominos and it was the basset’s whine which began knocking them all down.

“He’s going to wake Lincoln up, dear god please, not this early.”

Father and canine resided in the sleeper, another amenity obtained from a late night arm wrestling match; somewhere near Alamogordo, New Mexico, I think. It had doubled the Freightliner’s living space and expanded it into the area of six by six feet. Three people living for months at a time in an area comprised of thirty six square feet; my place being sprawled out in the front cab resting atop the driver’s seat, an old ice cooler and a converted doggy lair which had at one time been the passenger’s place of residence.

“Lincoln’s up. The sun and the dog strike again. Sorry boys, the day shift is inevitable.”

I picked the dog hair from my mouth and dusted off my shirt for nothing more than my own sense of sanity. These hairs weren’t going to come off, hell, far as I was concerned they were permanently ingrained, but that didn’t stop me from continuing to try. Every morning I tried to look presentable before heading into the truck stop. Why? God knows. A cast of characters assembled from ‘The Garbage Pail Kids’ movie no doubt waited to great me upon arrival yet I still wished to look like something that hadn’t been scraped off the side of the road in a bloated heap. More for myself than them, I guess. I couldn’t dwell on it but who was I kidding? The same sweat stained clothes plastered upon my body for days at a time, hair which looked like it had been attacked by a ravenous pack of Flowbee’s and drool coated across my cheeks. From a visual standpoint, getting rid of the dog hair off of my t-shirt was like attempting to dust off a turd.

Part II: Piss Jugs and Puny

Arms

“I’m thirsty, I’ll have a drink from this bottle – no! Remember, that’s the stinky juice.”

Feast your eyes upon an innocent bottle of Gatorade. Silhouetted, many claim the brand’s 32 oz. plastic container resembles the tip of a male reproductive organ. While filling a bottle which used to hold your Lemonade flavor with a liquid very similar to the one you just drank, you can’t help but to think the silhouette legend is actually subversive advertising at its finest. They claim their drink to be the ultimate thirst quencher; what you’ll never know is their bottle also acts as the ultimate bodily fluid reliever. Stout, durable and with a leak proof twist on cap, your Gatorade is more than happy to become the mini urinal on the go. A word of advice: draining the dink while in motion is an act better performed by the seasoned few. The battle scarred roads of I-5 on your way to Los Angeles are liable to make even the sturdiest handed bottle filler spray his contents throughout the cab with little remorse. The trucking life is a cruel mistress and she shows no mercy for your suffering bladder; you learn the Gatorade filling ropes or you strap yourself into a fancy pair of adult diapers.

“I step inside the truck stop and the crowd sizes me up, arm wrestling me with their enthusiastic eyes.”

I had covered up my untidy bundle of disheveled hair with a baseball cap before heading in, never stopping to realize it was the hat’s logo stopping them in their tracks to point, gawk and stare. Lincoln Hawke Trucking, LLC. My lineage had become my curse and wearing my namesake like a crown hammered the nail of inescapability further into my fragile brain.

Blazing a white hot trail of success all throughout the mid to late 1980’s in the form of arm wrestling competition, my father had forearm flexed his way into the hearts and minds of truck stop denizens all throughout the North American territories, in the process branding me with a namesake I could never hope to live up to – backwards baseball cap or not.

We had both yearned for the day I could wear the sweat dried Lincoln hat with pride; bicep busting and wrist whipping my way to the very top of the sport and beyond. Fate, cut from the same cruel stock as Sunbeams and bellowing Basset Hounds, had decided it wasn’t in my cards. My father’s forearms held a Royal Flush; mine looked more like a disorganized hand consisting of a pair of 2’s, an Uno card and four dollars in Monopoly money. I had stepped up to the god’s of arm wrestling and they had snapped my feeble bones in half; no better way of alerting me to the fact that their prideful game of masculinity was forever out of reach.

On the other end of the spectrum was my father, Lincoln Hawke. A prodigy powered by chart failing 80’s pop songs and single armed bicep curls while traveling cross country in a sleeperless big rig he had looked even the hairiest backed arm wrestling foes in the eyes and laughed. At one point in time he was considered a backwards baseball cap wearing god, but fate showed no favoritism and sadly my father’s time had passed him by.

Forearm flexors stretched beyond capacity, biceps past the point of bursting and a foolhardy resolve which constantly left his wrists in a crumpled heap when challenging the young lions; my father had reduced himself to a sideshow attraction for a new generation of arm jockeys.

“Come see Lincoln Hawke and his son, Noodle Arms; relics existing in the time capsule of Reganomics alongside My Buddy dolls, Pee Wee’s (pre-pornography bust) Playhouse and Philip Michael Thomas’ dream of EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony).”

To be continued next week in parts 3 & 4…

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: May 2nd

THE YEAR?!:2010

“Strap him down and light ‘er up.” The statement came out like a weathered grunt. The moment unfolding now was a scenario Sergeant Bill Brixby had experienced numerous times before and although horrific to most, as far as he was concerned this was just another day at the office.

Blatant product placement, Starry eyed ( and horribly acted ) post-Nuclear families migrating towards Sunny Southern California, Illegal Aliens ( In latex suits which would make the cast from the original Godzilla cringe ) taken with the promise of a better life once injected into the American machine and a plot so close to 1982′s E.T. you’d swear it was outright plagiarism save for an impromptu fifteen minute dance off ( Complete with an adult football team in uniform and rehearsed choreography ) in the local McDonald’s that’s so random and bizarre even David Lynch didn’t get it.

The previous paragraph only begins to describe 1988′s ‘Mac and Me’, an utter commercial and critical failure which taught us handicapped children could essentially fly hundreds of feet through the air all the while remaining strapped effortlessly to their wheelchairs; the parents simply letting out a tired sigh of exhaustion upon concluding the death defying act was only a desperate plea for attention.

The film was a cringe inducing wreck and Sergeant Brixby knew it. So why did he continue to put it in, day after day raping his helpless DVD player with the movie’s obnoxious filth? It wasn’t for pleasure, in fact, far from it.

For years he had refined the art of modern day torture. How do you break a man’s psyche without offending the masses and changing public opinion of the military? Metallica, Megadeth, Black Sabbath. They worked, but not to the extent he had hoped. Add in the preconceived notion of Heavy Metal as devil’s music and Brixby found himself in the same tired predicament. Was friendly torture possible?

Enter Mac and Me.

Unknowingly the filmmakers had created the perfect mix the Sergeant had been searching for so long. It flew under anti-torture advocates because it was a family movie, it was also a statement upon the sacrifices an immigrant must make when becoming an American citizen and most importantly…it was the shittiest movie ever made. A cinematic turd so offensive it had broken even the most iron willed opposition to U.S. freedom; including the man strapped to the chair now.

“How’s he doing?” Brixby snarled, nursing the tobacco juices from his cigar and glancing up to the ‘Mac and Me’ chamber monitor.

“The McDonald’s dance scene is about to begin, sir.”

The hard clenching of his jaw threatened to pierce the finely wrapped Cohiba in two. “Jesus” the Sergeant muttered to himself. No matter how many times he had heard those words they still managed to send a cold shudder up his spine.

The private entered the room and Sergeant Brixby stood to his feet, wiping the sweat from his forehead in an effort to keep an element of composure.

“Well?” He stood with baited breath. No one to this point had made it past the dance scene and Brixby was eager to hear the results.

“He made it, barely. Passed out a few times when he saw the Teddy Bear – no doubt due to his flashbacks from the Teddy Ruxpin commercial we showed him previously – but he made it through.”

The Sergeant sat his hands upon his hips and hung his head low in a temporary moment of defeat. “Where is he now?”

“Approaching the final scene, sir.”

A gleam of energy bolted throughout his eyes and his jaws came roaring back to life, chomping hastily at his flavorful cigar. “Let’s find out what this son of a bitch is made of.”

In a rare show of questioning one’s superiors, the private hesitated to display the same enthusiasm. “Sir…are you sure? He may not make it out alive.”

“Let it roll to the final frame, private.”

WHITE HOUSE PRESS RELEASE - MAY 3rd, 2010

Closure Of ‘Mac and Me’

Detention Facilities

EXECUTIVE ORDER — REVIEW AND DISPOSITION OF INDIVIDUALS DETAINED AT THE ‘MAC AND ME’ NAVAL BASE AND CLOSURE OF DETENTION FACILITIES

By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, in order to effect the appropriate disposition of individuals currently detained by the Department of Defense at the Mac And Me Naval Base (Codename: Big Mac) and promptly to close detention facilities at Mac And Me consistent with the national security and foreign policy interests of the United States and the interests of justice, I hereby order as follows:

Sec. 2. Findings.

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: March 5th

THE YEAR?!:2010

I’ve always wondered what the movie Predator would have been like if, alongside Arnold Schwarzenneger, it had co-starred some of the top names of the time. Guys who made their careers in action movie staples in the 1980′s with movies like Die Hard, Rambo and The Road Warrior.

After imagining that revision for quite some time I finally decided to edit together a small sample of what it might look like with Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson fought alongside Arnold and the rest of his team as they team up to try and stop one of the most frightening monsters in modern cinema!

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: February 7th

THE YEAR?!:2010

In A&E’s devotion to providing it’s loyal fanbase with an ever growing selection of cutting edge material they’ve gone far and wide to invistigate the depths of society in order to obtain new and striking material to fill their selection of hard hitting and fact based shows. When first stumbling on the subject at hand it was originally placed in the stations flagship star ‘Dog The Bounty Hunters’ hand, a job which required his immediate travel to Las Vegas in order locate the perpetrator in question. A&E, upon receiving a series of entrail filled buckets marked ‘Dog’ were than forced to send another respected journalist investigator on the case.

Enter Bill Curtis.

Not willing to end up reduced to a crimson colored pile of pig food like his unfortunate channel sharing, mullet haired compatriot before him, Bill went about this dangerous case with a more cerebral approach, doing the one thing he knew best, handing the case off to his team of writers to investigate so he may later put his name on whatever they may come up with and claim it as his own.

The subject in question? Wanderlei Silva.

The team was puzzled. How did we not hear of this 5’11″ compacted bundle of unbridled monstrosity sooner? Simple. Much like Jude Law before him, this Axe Murdering monster was a United States Import who had already left a long line of unfortunate victims behind him before being unleashed on an unsuspecting American audience, replacing Law’s smarmy arrogance with pure undiluted violence.

The tireless research team worked vigorously, inching closer in an attempt to discover the origins of this monster who walked among us. Tipped off by an anonymous lead, the team traced his humble beginnings back to Caritiba, Brazil. Like a group of curious aliens observing Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman attempting to have sex, what they found shocked them.

Seemingly this Wanderlei Silva was the result of famed scientist Seth Brundle sending an unfortunate Brazilian and his ferocious junkyard pit-bull through his gene splicing telepod in an act of ultimate animal cruelty. In a related case which sprung up shortly thereafter which had the team researching for possible similarities, Football player Michael Vick had reportedly greased his ass with bitches-in-heat-spray, letting a small herd of American Terriers take turns sending their red rocket’s airborne into the black ass end of space. Later, when being questioned by Bill Curtis’ investigative crew if he had attempted his own version of Human-Dog splicing as Brundle had accomplished before he replied with a simple “Human-Dog splicing what?” It turns out he was not so much a scientific gene-splicer as he was a man following PETA’s advise in an ultimate attempt at redemption.

Shortly after Wanderlei’s birth by telepod Jeff Goldblum sought his own redemption. In an act devised to never allow such a monstrosity as the one he had created into this world again, Jeff went insane, destroying his life’s work and vowing never to let the public by subjected to either another Wanderlei or Jurassic Park II: The Lost World. Saved for a short lived T.V. show, Jeff faded into obscurity, forever haunted by unleashing ‘The Axe Murderer‘ onto the world. Sadly, we may never be blessed by a follow-up to his star making turn as ‘Mac’ in ‘Earth Girls Are Easy.’

Goldblum’s monster evolved into something far worse then he could have ever imagined. An untamed fighting machine who was quickly imported and unleashed on the unsuspecting Japanese public by way of their popular combat sports organization ‘Pride Fighting Championship,’ Wanderlei’s reign of carnage in the land of the rising sun would soon become a thing of lore. The Japanese had for years searched for a successor to their famed nuclear reptile, a monstrous lizard who leveled cities with little moral regard. In Wanderlei Silva they found the same uncontrolled rage shrunk down onto a five foot, eleven inch frame but no less destructive. There was little time wasted before they began pitting The Axe Murderer up against all comers, the result were a beast so scary that if not for his opponents to fight in the ring one would assume he would begin attacking himself, the outcome which would most likely look similar to Brundle’s unfortunate experiment involving his insides-on-the-outsides orangutan friend.

Of the many violent weapons at his disposal, surprisingly the most intimidating was his strategy before the fight had even yet to begin. Like a Great White shark moments before the attack, Wanderlei’s stare down has become a thing of legend, like the X-Men’s Cyclops before him, Wanderlei was soon required by law to wear doctor prescribed shades in all places public for fear of mass panic.

Prior to his October 2000 match up with Gilbert Yvel, while walking down the streets of Tokyo the Axe Murderers glare alone netted him the misfortune of being charged thirteen times in the Japanese legal court systems for ‘attempted vision rape,’ an isolated incident no mortal man has thus far been able to replicate. A devout fan of The Axe Murderer, actor David Spade has repeatedly attempted to emulate that fateful vision-raping occasion but to no avail, although on many occasions getting pretty damn close. It is unclear at this moment whether or not Wanderlei’s five year old son ‘Thor,’ who most have fittingly nicknamed ‘The Lil’ Hatchet Murderer’ has acquired these abilities although time will tell.

In Wandy’s (A nicknamed most have given him in an effort to soften his image. The result is akin to putting an adorable PetsMart doggy sweater on Stephen King’s title character from the book Cujo.) repertoire were a collection of weapons he stored (which when not in use was often raided from his cutlery drawer by Michael Meyers and Jason Vorhees ) including:

• Gorilla Hooks. His bread and butter method of attack. Eyes closed, head down and arms swinging he came at you like an enraged overweight child who had just received word he’d be shipped to fat camp. This blitzkrieg was the set-up shot, which opened up three distant possibilities.
  
• Knees. As a child locked in the basement, Wanderlei would look on through the dusty window below and watch outside as Goldblum’s landscaper Jeff Fahey (When not working for the next door neighbor Pierce Brosnon on his cutting edge Virtual Reality devices) would accomplish an array of tasks. One fateful morning Silva peered on as Fahey used a jackhammer to renovate some loose asphalt. The image of a horribly hair-dyed landscaper in overalls using this weapon of destruction was ingrained forever in the young Murderer’s mind and he has since tried his best to accurately replicate the tool on his victims faces. Most famous of these victims were Quinton ‘Rampage’ Jackson, who has went on record numerous times telling of his hatred for 1992′s The Lawnmower Man and the ensuing effects it had on Wanderlei.
• Soccer Kicks. A finishing move set up by Gorilla Hooks in which The Axe Murderer punts the heads of his victims as souvenirs for guests in attendance.This is likely where he got his reputation of being ‘fan friendly.’
  
• Foot Stomps. The Axe Murderer’s Fatality move, in which the feared Brazilian attempts to make fine wine out of his victims face.

The steadfast research team, fueled by Mountain Dew and a commitment to watch ‘Sneakers’ at least once daily to keep spirits lifted moved on, turned their journalist page’s next to Chapter II: Wanderlei’s Violence.

In order to fully comprehend their adversary at hand Bill Curtis’ crackpot team of sleuths next step was watching The Axe Murderer in action. Unlike Dahmer, Gacey and Bundy before him, Wandy’s crime’s had each been painstakingly shot and edited with descriptive color commentary to boot. The men of American Justice put in a tape which lasted less than one minute, a short span of time which they would remember forever and shake them all to their core.

The tape in question was the 2008 match-up between Wanderlei Silva and Keith Jardine which occurred in The Axe Murderer’s adopted city of Las Vegas, Nevada and took place within the Mixed Martial Arts organization the Ultimate Fighting Championship. By now the team was well aware of the criminal, but what of his bald headed, goateed victim? It turns out Keith Jardine, whom one of the researchers found was at one time tapped to play the rocky road loving antagonist ‘Sloth’ in the never materialized prequel to 1986′s Goonies, was no boyscout himself. ‘The Dean Of Mean,’ a nickname someone had given him in an obvious attempt to prolong his virginity for at least ten more years, was a brawler much like Wanderlei who had similarly been brought through a faulty gene-splicing telepod. This brought forth the terrifying moment of realization that had the researchers concluding Jeff Goldblum was likely alive and well, isolating himself in The Lost World and christening himself the successor to Brando’s bloated, Twinkie wrapper filled throne.

The team now knew Wanderlei was going in against a skull crusher much like himself, and in a thought which brought about memories of the 60′s classic ‘Destroy All Monsters,’ the group of researchers mind’s raced at the thought of two, gigantic rubber faced beasts colliding with one another. The tape was put in, and the play button was pushed.

In an eerie scene which many the producers of the HBO series ‘Oz’ have threatened to sue over copyright infringement, it took exactly thirty six seconds for Wandy to take the small remaining fragment of manhood from Jardine ( Much of it had jumped ship immediately prior to naming himself ‘The Dean of Mean’ ) cut it off, drive a considerable distance away and throw the tiny, limp portion of it into a nearby field. It was an act of soul stealing carnage which brought on a wave of post traumatic stress for an attending John Bobbit who was seated live in the audience. Looking with an observent eye when viewing the quick lived brawl you can actually see Jardine unwittingly reenact the Israelite robe wearing Belloq as he pears into the Wanderlei Ark one moment before having his face exploded like a Gallager Watermelon.

Reportedly sitting at home watching the fight himself, Harrison Ford screamed to his girlfriend and former Ally McBeal star to cover her eyes in the small chance Wandy’s uncontrollable power shot out like the hammer of god, punishing all those who dared question his power. A lengthy finger pointing session ensued later that week as the former ‘Star Wars’ star warned UFC president Dana White of the villainy Wanderlei possessed.

“Axe Murdering Brazilians. I hate these guys.”

Jodie Foster has since demanded that any aspiring actress looking to take on the titular character in the remake of her Oscar winning 1988 performance in The Accused take a look at Keith’s role in the match up between himself and The Axe Murderer. Much like her role as Sarah Tobias in the aforementioned film, Jardine looked to want it, and he sure as hell ended up getting it. The ‘Dean Of Mean’ has since admitted that his scraggly, goateed asshole clenches up involuntarily whenever his UFC 84 rapist opponents name is brought up in conversation.

Upon studying this disturbing reel of destructive, Axe Murdering violence the team of researchers had hit an investigative brick wall. What could they possibly due to stop this destructive force of nature, a man who took his childhood idol the Tasmanian Devil and role-played him to life with a passionate ferocity making Furries the world round envious of his commitment and dedication to the craft.

Before long a crack in the case had been found. Looking into Wanderlei’s upcoming fight schedule the team was quick to learn of a match up between himself and the cocky fighter ‘Michael Bisping,’ another import with an attitude similar to his arrogant British cohort Jude Law. ” It’s perfect! ” The team was quick to exclaim in unison. Researching Bisping further the team learned he proclaimed himself a ‘knockout’ artist, someone who was not afraid to stand and bang with the feared Brazilian lab experiment. Could this be Godzilla’s Mothra, an otherwise unassuming beast with the power to slay Brundle’s greatest creation?

With beaming smiles they patted each other on the back and the words ‘Job well done’ were thrown about by various members to one another; the long journey was finally over. The team of researchers hastily made their way back to Bill. The team entered Mr. Curtis’ office and fought back their giddy, school boy enthusiasm. ” Well, gentlemen? ” Bill Curtis proclaimed as he rose from his desk, eying the men stoically. ” Mr. Curtis, another American Justice file closed. Wanderlei will soon be slain and the American ally who accomplished the task will soon after find himself flying to England, greeted like a King. ” The statement was met was silence. Bill nodded his head and furrowed his brow, putting a quick eye on all his researchers involved. ” England? You’re speaking of Michael Bisping, correct? ” Looking to each other and smiling the men quickly resumed position, directing their attention back on the American Justice host. ” Yes Mr. Curtis. We believe Michael Bisping will be able to stop what Jeff Goldblum and his cursed telepod started. ” The acclaimed investigative entertainer braced his hands on the arms of his chair and sat himself back down. ” Gentlemen, I’m blown away. I can with all honesty say that I am truly blown away. ” The men tried in vain to hide their grins which threatened to outstretch the faces which housed them. Before they had a reply, Bill was quick to follow up. ” I think A&E would agree with me that American Justice can no longer contain a group of individuals such as yourselves. In fact, I am making a phone call to the executives of this station post haste. Starting tomorrow I, and I’m sure my superiors will be quick to agree, want you to show up in production house three. Congratulations, gentlemen. ”

The men left Mr. Curtis’ office and their emotions soared. No longer nestled under the wing of the American Justice stalwart, it was time for this crew to spread their wings and fly. They eagerly anticipated the upcoming work week. Small Town Justice Files? The Jeff Goldblum Diaries? So many options, what direction could Mr. Curtis have recommended their flagship show follow?

Bright and early the crackpot team show up to set and were met by the veteran actor and star of their new show.

Posted By:

The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: Jan. 30th

THE YEAR?!:2010

The elder detective made his slow approach to the scene and shook his head in disgust. Overdose. The little bastard had everything in the world going for it and he had pissed it all away. Removing himself from the huddled crowd of police, paramedics and paparazzi the longtime veteran of the L.A. crime scene sought a moment of privacy. Taking his old friend Jack out of his slicker and going for a bit of the old bottoms up the oft repeated phrase rose through his insides and met the cascading booze halfway before finally escaping through his lips.

“Toons.”

Turpentine, acetone and benzine. Most people knew it by the name of The Dip. It was the only way to kill a cartoon and a formula created by Judge Doom, a self-hating animaniac whose case the liquor guzzling P.I. had cracked many years before.  It was an investigation which brought the detective notoriety, fame and the trust of all his 2-D counterparts worldwide. He was a saint to the very creatures he despised, and it was hard for him not to chuckle upon the realization that well into his seventies he was still cleaning up after the messes these toons had created for themselves.

In his old age he had found himself more a novelty than an actual aide in scenes such as these, a relic the police would use rile up interest in a toon case with the public. “Eddie Valiant, 74 years old and still defending the rights of our animated brethren across America!”

Over the years it was getting harder to keep control on these hand drawn loony’s and with the advent of the 1980′s they had found a bigger anvil to drop on their animated heads. Except this time there were no stars, only a splatter stained body upon the curb like the little blue son of a bitch the paramedics were zipping up into a morgue bag now.

The use of Dope among the flesh and blood citizens of Hollywood was all the rage in the current decade and not ones to be left out cold confines of restraint, the toons had soon found their backdoor into the house of excess.

Dipe. A combination of dope and the dip, fashioned into a form of  nose candy that had been downgraded just enough not to fry the user but give ‘em a killer high. Leave it to a toon to lust after the only known substance which possessed the ability to leave them dead.

Looking towards the mob which had congregated on the set in order to get a better view of the tragedy at hand, Valiant reflected back on the good old days. Proving Goofy’s innocence as an undercover Commie sure seemed like a ray of sunshine compared to the shit he was dealing with now.

“Gosh, they seemed so innocent on screen.” The statement hit Eddie like a ton of bricks, a bitter reminder he wasn’t the only P.I. on this case. “Looks can be deceiving my Ferrari driving friend.”

If trying to kick a dozen Smurf’s off the junk wasn’t bad enough, the grizzled detective was now partnered with the ultimate boy scout. On a summer hiatus from his hit T.V. show, his mustachioed cohort looked to make the transition into Toon Town mystery solving.  It was the studios effort to make way for a new breed of animated investigators, the old lion passing the torch to the young up and comer. Far as Eddie was concerned, he was a toon himself. Wile E. Coyote chased a bird he’d never catch and likewise his rookie actor-turned-sleuth lost out on Raiders of the Lost Ark in order to play a transplant Hawaiian . Both career ending decisions in their own right.

“Jump in your helicopter and grab me a cup o’ joe, will ya Tom?” With little hesitation his tropical shirt wearing partner was on the case. “Sure thing, boss!”

Although the over the hill detective would never admit it, in times like these he missed Roger.

The rabbit was never the same after Jessica left him. In an effort to keep his young male audience convinced of his masculinity, the studios successfully wooed her to divorce Roger and marry the closeted He-Man in order to keep appearances.  It was no secret the master of the universe was letting a string of animated dandies into his black hole, but a job destitute Jessica acted as his beard anyways in an exchange for a promise of work.

Although no longer a couple, Jessica still promised to see Roger on the side. Sadly it was too late. Out of a job and a wife The Dip ended up claiming another victim, this time by way of suicide.

“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Valiant!” The well-past-retirement age detective turned to his eager partner. “Thanks, kid.” Eddie followed up his speech with a thought better kept to himself. “But you forget the most important ingredient.” Turning around and pulling a little more self medication from his raincoat Valiant quickly rectified the situation, pouring a liberal amount into his scolding cup of coffee.

“Eddie, how do you figure we get these poor toons off the dipe?” The wise detective turned to face his Magnum P.I. starring friend and shot him a look like he had just been forced to sit through Three Men And A Baby. “Tom I think we’d be much better off splitting up. You go explore Toon Town for a bit while I check out the Studio lot. Sound good?” Selleck’s eyes lit up as Valiant finished his question.  “That sounds like a great idea! My first real case. I’m gonna show these suits I’m much more than just a well groomed mustache sporting a sexy mane of chest hair!”

Wishing his ditzy partner had kept that last bit to himself, Valiant began his trek around the backlot looking for possible clues.

Running into a who’s who of the modern animation landscape, including Heathcliff, Optimus Prime and Strawberry Shortcake, Eddie seemed to find they all had a common interest; find whoever was supplying their toon friends with this lethal cocktail and stop it, a.s.a.p.

Snake Eyes and Skeletor were holed up in a Greyskull hotel for weeks at a time on the junk, Huey, Dewey and Louie were in Juvenile rehab and Grumpy Bear’s septum had a quarter sized holed which would make Stevie Nicks jealous. Even for his 2-d counterparts, it was all getting out of hand.

The old man had one last case in him and in order to find the culprit his own feelings regarding toons were going to have to be shelved once again. It was due time to crack this sucker wide open and stop the deadly supply of Dipe.

His questioning had gotten him no where and the sun was beginning to crest upon the Universal backlot. In an attempt at reversing his slide into frustration the grizzled detective tilted his perspective in an effort to come in at a different angle. It worked perfectly.

If the hired hands had no answers maybe the suits did. Casually browsing the many building which occupied the famed Universal Studio Eddie was quick to discover a film division that was new to his wizened eye. “Motion Capture Division?” It was terminology new to the Valiant lexicon and peaked the curiosity of the snooping dick.

Helping himself to the back entrance and sneaking in without effort, Eddie began his exploration of the young mysterious new branch of the Universal Studio lot.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: January 23rd

THE YEAR?!:2010

When it comes to handling the role of a film director, German born Roland Emmerich is as mainstream and successful as one can get. His movies break countless records worldwide and his resume includes the summer tent pole blockbusters Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow and 2012.  When attempting to tackle a new creative project, most directors draw from their past. Oliver Stone, director of the classic films Platoon, Born on The Fourth Of July and Salvador, used his harrowing journey through the depths of the Vietnam jungle in which to cultivate inspiration. Steven Spielberg, possibly one of the most respected and commercial figures of the modern film industry, used the divorce of his parents at an early age in which he channeled those feelings of loneliness and confusion into plots involving sons and the absent fathers they sought connection with.

What of Roland Emmerich, though? Little is known about the European director’s direct influences but with a little journalist ingenuity and a lot of fictional fabrications I have uncovered the direct source of cinematic ideas the filmmaker taps into. Its an invaluable object he obtained as an impressionable child which he continues to hold close to his heart. This wellspring of ideas provides an unlimited resource of inspiration on demand for the foreign director.

Frankfurt Germany, 1944. The war for Nazi dominance in Europe rages on. Although whispers abound through various channels regarding the National Socialist’s foundation crumbling beneath them, happily married Dieter and Helga Emmerich pay no mind. They are proud German people with a strong sense of moral balance.  Eat your morning strudels, wear your lederhosen and blindly follow your government’s directions and you will lead a long and fulfilling life, they would often say. Through it all nothing made the couple more proud than their five year old son, little Roland, or Reinlobbinmeinenhiknerstein as his fellow boyhood friends had lovingly nicknamed him. Much like the droves of mentally disabled citizens the S.S. officers frequently brought into the town factory (The black heavy smoke billowing through the chimney tops are the tires we burn to keep our disable friends warm!) soon young Roland would be making a journey of his own.

Roland would be six soon in the upcoming summer months and the Emmerich family were eager to send the shy and obedient little boy off on the journey to make him a man. The parents were ecstatic to finally gas tiny Roland with a Zyklon B. amount of national pride into his lungs they themselves had already been subjected to. His destination? The Hitler Youth Camp.

Unbeknown to the simple living Dieter and Helga, the smallest Emmerich had his own thoughts on the matter. He was a dreamer, a pacifist. The idea of climbing into the mold and having it slam down upon you, stamping their mark and turning you into a predetermined design didn’t interest the young boy. He was a square being pushed into a circular hole, and he struggled with himself to tell his absent minded parents the true feelings he harbored deep down inside.

Roland hadn’t realized what his goal was in life but the small creative sparks made themselves known from time to time. When his father once arrived home after a long day at the factory burning rubber tires Roland was overjoyed when he realized Dieter had brought him a present; two toy cars.  Although the faint stench of human hair exuded from his new playthings the joyous Emmerich paid no mind, immediately running outside in his tiny pair of lederhosen to put his new gifts to good use. For hours the little boy entertained himself with the metal vehicles, slamming the two together over and over against each other until they barely resembled their original form. Eventually growing tired of this scenario, five year old Roland next began taking turns slamming each one onto the ground time and time again squealing with delight. He had found his gift that fateful afternoon. Roland Emmerich was a storyteller.

His mind was set, “No Hitler Youth and no military future.” Day by day it became harder for Roland to hold back his true emotions, knowing the journey to camp was soon nearing. He hadn’t a clue what to do, his parents let off a glow which grew ever brighter as the summer months grew near and he had seemed to shrivel away, dying a little inside through each passing moment. Surely there had to be some way to break the news to his parents and tell them of his true ambitions.

Eating his breakfast strudel one bright spring day the waves of change crept back onto shore and again tickled little Roland’s toes. With the family gathered round the kitchen filling their bellies and basking in the delightful Saturday morning sun there was suddenly a knock at the door. “Oont who could zat be?” Dieter proclaimed in his strikingly perfect German dialect. Excusing himself from the table, Roland’s father made his way for the door in an effort to greet their unexpected company.

Little Emmerich continued eating and paid no mind. Within a short period Dieter was once again in the kitchen looking to seat himself and Helga was quick to inquire to her husband who had been at the door and why hadn’t he let them in to help themselves to the warm and delicious cinnamon strudels. “Can you believe this garbage?” Dieter proclaimed, clutching a book in his hands and shaking it in an aggressive fashion. “These wackos believe the world will soon end and the government will crumble!” Taking a moment to chuckle at his own statement the eldest Emmerich continued. “Don’t those fools realize the Reich will be around for at least a thousand more years! What mindless, brain washing trash they try and peddle.” Dieter turned to his wife, disgusted as if he held one of the diapers Roland filled as a baby. “Helga! Put this drivel in the waste basket where it belongs.” She grabbed the book without haste and threw it into the garbage, treating it as toxic material.

Little Emmerich, always the shy, respectful boy his parents had grown to know and love simply nodded his head as his father continued his rant. “Well, off to burn some tires. Roland, remember to practice today, ok? You do know what I’m talking about, right little man?” Roland looked up to his father who had finished his strudels and now was in the midst of adjusting his collar. “Yes, pappa. Two hundred goosesteps around the house and one hundred heil hitler salutes in front of the mirror.” Dieter stretched out his arm in order to pat his young son on the head. “Good boy.”

With his father off to work and his mother in the middle of laundry Roland’s curiosity began eating at him. Who was at the front door? Why had they angered father and what had they given him? Making a slow approach to the waste basket the littlest Emmerich reached down and clutched his little mitt’s on what Dieter had been in such opposition to.

He quickly ran to his room and closed the door, book in hand. Jumping onto his bed and huddling around his prized possession the youngest Emmerich went in for a closer look, opening the defiled object up and browsing it’s contents. Roland couldn’t believe it.  Flipping through page after page his little mind was in a state of shock. “It’s like they took a blueprint of my career and mapped it out in intricate details for me to use on future projects.” Every page was a building blowing up, a dog falling helplessly into the chasm opened up by an earthquake or innocent children being swept away by a multitude of various biblical judgments. Along with the dozens of pictures littering each page which seemed to scream out ‘Use me as storyboards in your future directorial endeavors!’ were the constant threats warning of judgment day, the apocalypse and the earth’s natural disasters paying back men for their sins. The littlest Emmerich had found his muse, the teachings of the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Years passed by and the boyish Roland became a man, in the process keeping his prized possession close beside him at all times and using it as a template for his new found profession. Through the help of Armageddon-minded organized religion, Roland was now a filmmaker helping to spread their word.

Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow, 2012. All ideas directly torn from the cherished book obtained as a child. Many times his actors would seek inspiration on set, and with a simple wink of the eye and a the turn of a page Roland would fill their struggling minds with ingredients from his recipe book.  Often times Emmerich would meet up with fellow directors at parties and award ceremonies, all clamoring for a taste of his beloved formula. “Your plots are almost of a divine origin!” Esteemed colleges like Martin Scorsese would oftentimes say. “What strikingly original idea will you think of next?” Others like acclaimed director Clint Eastwood would inquire. Filled with an inspirational warmth, Emmerich knew his next plot was only a page turn and another proclamation of the world’s end away.

Of all his industry acquaintances had he formed over the years there was only one he trusted to reveal his secret to,  fellow German native and respected filmmaker Uwe Boll. In what shocked the plagiarizing Emmerich, Boll seemed none too surprised by this revelation, admitting he too had taken all his inspiration from a printed work. In Uwe’s case it turned out to be something he also obtained as a young and impressionable forty three year old, the video game magazine Gamepro, issue seventeen.

With the release of the critically and commercially successful 2012 behind him it was now time for Roland to do what had always worked so well for him in the past; open up his beloved book and work on his next movie based upon the newest page. He sat by himself in his writing room, which was a small piece constructed as part of the giant mansion that the tiny, worn book had helped fund and realizing this he cracked a smile. A nice stretch of the arms and a sip of his freshly brewed coffee commenced, Roland was now ready to use the next chapter of his beloved book for the basis of his new movie.

He opened the dusty tome and flipped the page to the final chapter in the book, shocked at what he set eyes upon. Where were the burning building? The tornado’s? The innocent children and puppy dogs being punished for their horrible sins?  Flipping through the next dozen pages it was all the same; gone were the destruction, fire and brimstone and in it’s place were smiling family’s and green meadows filled with carnivores interacting peacefully with their prey. “FUCK!” Roland screamed, throwing his once cherished book upon the ground. “Mich keinen meinen eemster noonen dracht! Das leiben streicht!” (Translated: What is this Disney bullshit?!)

Roland was a visionary, a man known for high concept films involving destruction and chaos. Had he taken it all for granted? Was this some sort of cruel joke, the book laughing in his face? He walked over to his once prized possession, picking it up and peering into it’s final pages once more before throwing it back down in disgust towards the ground again. He had a reputation, a legacy! How could he make a film with kitty cats and puppy dogs that didn’t end up with them dying cruel, unnecessary deaths?

The filmmaker searched for answers. Maybe he could steal Uwe Boll’s issue of Gamepro! No, no that wouldn’t work. Uwe was so fearful people would realize his works were all borrowed from video games that he kept it secured high up his anal cavity in order to keep it hidden. In fact, this was exactly how Roland had originally found out where the fellow German kept his secret when Emmerich kept bumping into it accidentally. He was out of options. What would he do now, what could he do?

Crying in his kitchen and stuffing his face with the strudel’s he had eaten as a child Roland suddenly heard a knock at the door. “Ich fukken habben” (I’m fucked.) Emmerich proclaimed, realizing it was most likely Will Smith interested in another Armageddon themed role he planned on starring in. Dragging his feet halfheartedly and holding his head down in shame Roland made his way to the front door, cringing at the thought of explaining his situation to the fresh prince of bell air.

Opening the door Emmerich was caught off guard, it was not the guest he assumed but rather someone much different.

“Hi, are you afraid of the impending doom awaiting us all? We as Jehovah’s Witnesses believe…” Glancing down Roland set eyes upon a book in the suited man’s hands. It was a book of close similarity to his prized possession yet much larger in size. His pulse raced. “Excuse me, not to be rude but I have a book like that only much smaller.” The well kept gentleman smiled “Oh, you must have an older edition of the same book. This new printing adds a dozen or so more chapters in…” Emmerich couldn’t contain his glee.  “In the destruction parts? Are there new pictures, new scenarios involving old ladies and men who do other men dying?” The suited man’s voice filled with sorrow. “Sadly, yes, in an act to show how this world will end we have added many new chapters with pictures involving the end of mankind. But only for the purpose of showing why you must…” The director reached for his wallet and grabbed a large wad of bills, shoving them into the man’s breast pocket and grabbing the book from his hands. “Here, here, take it! Take it all!” Roland, possessing the new instrument of script design in hands raced back to his front door. “Would you be interested in a return…” Slamming the door, Emmerich clutched the tome, face shimmering with glee.

He was overjoyed, not only did he have a fresh set of material to work into his next half dozen or so movies he hadn’t revealed the source of his inspiration to Will Smith or any others besides his closeted fellow German colleague Uwe Boll. His reputation as a respected filmmaker hadn’t been tarnished and he had a fresh new supply of material. Emmerich’s secret was safe.

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The Hud

What day is it? The Date!: January 16th

THE YEAR?!:2010

The job climate has changed rapidly in the past few years and likewise, so has the means of finding such employment. Gone are the days of walking in, handing your resume and letting your future boss take a small glimpse at your personality as an aid in their search to find the perfect candidate for the position in question. Today, that method is an ancient memory. In this day and age of short attention spans, giant corporations and the incoming flux of recently unemployed who seek new means of income through different careers we have been reduced to the online job application in an effort to speed up the process. Gentlemen, let the bitching begin.

After Miles Dyson became a suicidal martyr which set back his breakthrough computer research by dozens of years in an effort to stop the impeding doomsday prophesied by a young waitress, technology continued at its normal, steady pace. ( Long exhale and a quick wipe of the brow. That was close! ) Not so fast. Unsatisfied and in an effort to bring Cyberdyne systems back to the forefront of applied science we as a society have done away with the traditional Gort’s, C3P0′s and Johnny 5′s of the job application processes to make way for a new, scarier model.  If the online job application were walking down the street naked in the middle of the night and you found yourself in the unfortunate role of Bill Paxton; promptly begin pissing your pants and revealing the tiny, pathetic size of your dick now. It wouldn’t be long until he was digging his meat club sized hands like a spoon into a juicy piece of cantaloupe in an effort to pull out your still beating heart. “Fuck you. Asshole. ”

At the core of the online job assessment are the hundreds of questions thrown your way in order to get a good idea of who you are to the company you look to for employment. They range from a wide variety of topics such as ‘Will you steal?’ to ‘Will you let other c0-workers steal?’ and so forth.

If anything they are a good glimpse into how modern American businesses view the bulk of their prospective company representatives. When beginning the test two polarizing figures begin to take shape rather quickly. The Model Employee and the sexually confused, goth-rock loving homicidal maniac with his cock n’ balls tucked between his legs. Sadly, and much to Buffalo Bills dismay, there is no question asking where the lotion goes in order to refrain from getting the hose again. To put it bluntly, if I had the choice of being locked in a room full of people answering the wrong end of these questioners or the cast of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead I would happily enter into the zombie’s blue toned undead arms after a long tanning bed session with apple in mouth and food stuffing in ass.

Wait, they can’t be that bad, can they? Let’s take small look at a few of the questions in…er, question, shall we?

• People cannot be trusted, because eventually they let you down. Ah yes, the Ed Gein defense. They may not be able to be trusted, but they make great lampshades and designer snuggies!
• Your moods shift dramatically from one direction to the next. This is actually true. I’m a happy, motivated individual when I begin and by the end due to the bizarre nature of the questions I wonder if I’m applying for a job or as a guest on the set of ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.’
• Sometimes I get really mad, and I don’t know why. They left out the part where it said ‘And then after blacking out I wake up naked covered in my fellow employees entrails with a prostate that feels like it got in a fistfight.
• You look back and feel bad about things you’ve done. And the people you’ve buried under the basement.
• You don’t believe a lot of what people say. Simple things, like ‘Don’t J-Walk, respect the elderly and refrain from pouring acid into the back of incapacitated peoples heads in order to try and start your army of zombie sex slaves.’
• You are a very private person. Yes, I love privates! In fact, I have a whole rotting refrigerator full of them.
  

So what conclusion have we come to thus far? Well, seeing as you’re taking the test in solitude with no supervision to determine even the slightest amount of truth it’s easy to say whether you’re Jeffrey Dahmer looking for his next meal or an honest job searching citizen you’re going to get the position. Unless of course you’re an honest job searching citizen. Did your modesty prevent you from answering ‘excellent’ on all questions regarding your mental, physical and communication attributes? Sorry, this job only recruits the best of the best, the most ‘excellent’ of all candidates. Welcome aboard, John Wayne Gacy.

So you’ve submitted your first application and have been passed over by a homicidal clown. You’re down but not out. ” I’ll show them dammit, even if I have to play by their rules. ” Bingo. Stage one is complete and soon you’ll be marching alongside Donald Sutherland; index finger pointed in air and mouth agape, signaling in a wretched scream the location of all who haven’t yet been body snatched.

So now they’ve begun to take hold, their cold wart ridden fingers gripping your soft, living flesh and stuffing you head first into their witches pot; melting down your body into goo and pouring it into their mold of mediocrity. It’s bad enough marching in single file towards the personality glue factory, a cruel fate comprised of taking any glimmer of individuality and stripping it down, humiliating it through spraying it with a hose and laughing at its cold, naked body. Are you ready for the next step? Wait, they’re not finished. As a final act of beating your fading attempt at uniqueness six feet under throw in pointing and smirking towards its shriveled, frightened member for good measure before finally tossing it into the Jack LaLanne industrial grade personality juicer. Moments later it will be drank up by an employer with the emotional range of Christopher Lambert and the same singular philosophy. In the age of mindless, soulless armies of prospective work force employee’s when it comes to charisma there can truly be “only one.”

So what is the one personality to rule them all? Let’s put this in perspective. If this graduate of the personality glue factory was given the task of directing 2008′s ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’ he would’ve asked Keanu Reeve’s to tone down the emotions a notch. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of a heart rate monitor flat lining. Don’t fret, it happened twice on the set of The Matrix. In fact, he was declared legally dead for half of ‘Something’s Gotta Give’ and here he is, alive and well; an example all alumnus of the soul stripping machine aspire to one day emulate. When Don Johnson sang of looking for a heartbeat in his hit 1986 tune, unbeknown to most it was regarding a future GNC employee trained at the university of Johnny Utah. Sadly, he hasn’t stopped singing.

Surprisingly you’re not deterred. You did it once before and you’ll do it again. What’s a couple 150 question online psychological profiles, anyway? A great opportunity for your long dormant hemorrhoids to be re-introduced to Preparation-H, that’s what. On average most job sites let you know that the ‘profile evaluation’ segment will take between 60-90 minutes, depending on the user. Six job applications later and even with half a bucket of lube shoved up your ass those fuckers are exploding like face huggers from their hatching pods. Somewhere in the depths of syndication hell Paul Reiser is smiling.

A series of long, harrowing journeys through multiple application processes which bring to mind an online Lament Configuration cube and you’re finally finished. You have experienced the pain and now, after Pinhead and his band of Cenobite minions have finished ripping out the frayed ends of your sanity using fish-hooks disguised as a half dozen endless personalty questioners which, in an act of self sacrifice that would make Jim Caviezel envious, you’ve accomplished the impossible. You’re done. You’ve gone through the telepod and made it out to the other side; experiencing only mild Brundlefly side effects.

Now it’s time to put on the Ray Bans, lean back in your pleather executive chair with your feet stretched out and crossed onto the desk all the while blaring Timbuk 3 through your tinny, bass-phobic computer speakers. The sweet smell of success is so strong it cuts through your vapid anal cream odor. The space between both ears may have been reduced to a pink and grey paste, you may on rare occasions answer to the name Theodore Logan and your ass probably looks like the aftermath of Colonel Kurtz’s destroyed compound but these are just small casualties in an otherwise bigger war. Not much longer now and you’ll be rising up the ranks, all the way to the top. All you gotta do now is wait. And wait. And wait. The legs are off the desk, the shades are now gone. Timbuk 3 has long since been replaced by Eric Carmen’s trademark tune of self pity and the putrid stench of anal cream once again fills the air. You’ve waited days, checking the e-mail at least three dozen times every instance you sat down to the computer. You’ve even e-mailed yourself just to make sure your inbox is receiving incoming mail correctly. Nothing. All the while you grind your bitter teeth knowing somewhere out there Ted Bundy just received the keys to the employee van you were hoping to get and is heading out for the beach, arm in cast.

All that long, tiring work and no reward. It’s the real life equivalent to the early MAC game ‘The Oregon Trail.’ Your six kids are dead from cholera, the wive who you’ve aptly named after one of many Victoria’s Secret models drowned while crossing a four foot river and in the final stretch of 16 color landscape your final Oxen smashes into the ground dead with victory in site. “Thought you could take ‘The Trail’ on hard, didn’t you? Fuck you and your foolhardy, childish ambitions. ”

You may have been down, but not out. There was always the next day, during library break, to jump back on the wagon, create six new kids and rename your hot pixelated wive one of the multiple lingerie models who hadn’t yet drowned while crossing the Columbia river. My kids could starve, my 8-bit trophy wife could succumb to cholera and my supplies could be ravaged by Indians but god dammit, I’ll finish that game. Twenty seven tries later and fresh out of Victoria’s Secret models to kill the ancient Apple Mac II had destroyed my will to continue through brute force. Maybe like playing the game, it was time to lower my expectations regarding my work possibilities. If the online job search hadn’t worked, maybe donating my organs to the black market would.