Oates’ Last Words

Oates’ Last Words

Oates stands up and he’s all like, “I’m just going outside, I may be some time.” Then he pauses, all dramatic like. After a bit of silence, he goes, “I may be some time!”

Scott was just like, “I heard yer the first time.”

And Oates was like, “It’s a euphemism.”

So we was all like, “Oh, you’re going for a shit!?” We’d all been thinking he was about to kill himself.

“I thought you were about to kill yourself,” says Scott.

And Oates goes, “I am.”

So we was all a bit confused by this. Then Scott says, “Erm. . . Bye, then.”

Then Oates only goes and get all narky, and he’s like, “None of you care?”

We all kinda looked at each another, and then eventually Scott says, “To be honest, I was thinking ’bout the extra rations.”

“Me too.” Says Bowers, and the rest of us kinda mumbled in agreement.

“You’re jumping ahead a bit,” Oates goes, “I’m not out the tent yet!”

There was a totally stinging pause. All of us kinda looking down at our frozen toes and minimal rations. We could feel Oatesy, like, totally staring at us. Eventually Scott goes, “You going then?”

And Oates was like, “Aren’t you even gonna note down my last words? I worked on them.”

So Scott opens his stupid diary, what he’d been keeping, and goes, “Was that them?”

Oates went a bit mental at this. “No! It’s the I-may-be-some-time bit.”

“You said that ages ago,” says Scott. “And if you keep talking, I can’t be getting your last words, can I?”

So Oates, all huffy like, goes, “Fuck it! I’m going outside and may be some time.” Then steps out the tent, lettin’ in a great blast of cold air, then slapping the tent-flap as hard as he could.

We sits there for a few second till he’s out of earshot. Then Bowers goes, “If you’re noting that down, I’d take the ‘Fuck it’ off the front.”

Scott was like, “I have.”

I Am Resigning as Attorney General So I Can Finally Bring the Talking Rabbit to Justice

I Am Resigning as Attorney General So I Can Finally Bring the Talking Rabbit to Justice

Mr. President,

I have had great fun during my time as Attorney General of the United States. The last two years have gone by in a flash–time surely does fly when you’re doing what you love, cracking down on outlaw gangs and beating your chest at press conferences like the Wild West bad boys of old. Through ups and downs, I have cherished the friendships I’ve made along the way. A long, strange trip indeed.

However, the more time I spend behind the desk of my dream job, the more I am unsettled by an ever present force. A persistent villain lurking in the shadows of my periphery.

The big, talking rabbit is still at large, and I fear I may be the only man capable of stopping him.

Since my earliest days, even before I was cutting my teeth on the selective prosecution of black activists in the 1980’s, the rabbit has haunted me. Ours is a conflict that predates my lifelong quest for unilateral justice and the stoking of racial tensions under the guise of economic anxiety–a conflict that predates my existence entirely. He is an ageless trickster, a primordial evil; and I his mortal nemesis, the other side of a fatal coin, the vessel through which he must be destroyed.

I cannot in good faith continue my work until he is in the ground for good.

This is not an easy choice for me to make, Mister President, but I understand your concerns about my ability to perform this job to its fullest extent while the Bastard Rabbit consumes me. Every time I close my eyes I am greeted by his smug visage. Gnawing on his carrot, inquiring about the doctor, shoving his leporine finger into the barrel of my shotgun and causing it to backfire. The stress has torn my family apart, and more tragically, it has affected my work to an unbearable extent.

That is why I am conceding to your request for my resignation. I hope one day we may meet again, Mister President, once I have destroyed this burden of my conscience, the lodestar of my unceasing nightmares.

Until then, I must pack my things and recede into the woods for an undetermined period of time. Fear not, though, for I will not fall for the cur’s tricks. I will not play his mind games. I will not be seduced if the talking rabbit disguises himself as a sexy female rabbit.

Best wishes, and may we both live to see the large, talking rabbit burn in the deepest recesses of Hell.

Yours Truly,

Jeff Sessions, Former Attorney General of the United States of America

Odysseus Butthurt

Odysseus Butthurt

Beer number one. He arches an eyebrow at me and there he goes: “You have not preserved your legacy well.”

The Reviewer has been to Athens, Thessaloniki, couple other spots, and he is not satisfied.

My speaking turn breaks off mid-sentence. The expat protocol of international courtesy tilts, crashes, awaits hard reboot.

“…What?”

He repeats, voice low with foreboding like I blew a deadline.

“You have not preserved your legacy well. The ruins. It’s a fact.”

He’s for real. I am now the subject of a physical TripAdvisor review, spokesperson for our entire poor-yet-happy trimillenial people. Cavities already tightening.

“What do you mean?”

The Reviewer is out for blood, his pauses heavy with the ritual determinism of a Eurogroup meeting: “All you have is tiny bits of wall where you say ‘this is where something was.’ Well… ok.”

I gather my wits. The Reviewer has been bestowed upon us from lands beyond dear old Albion, but he regards me with the stern consternation of a disapproving English committeeman, sharpening his fact-made knives. Is this how TripAdvisor always works?

Sap that I am, I roll the kicker off my tongue and give it to him.

“So, you saw the Parthenon–”

“It’s in terrible… condition.” Voice even lower now, jawline tilted slightly inwards for dramatic effect, faintly nodding at his own words. Holy shit, the old story all over again. The Balkanians can’t take care of their marbles.

“Erm, no it isn’t–”

“It’s in terrible… condition.”

Aghast! Swirl of confusion! I was on the Acropolis a couple years ago, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m tweaking my own memories in a subconscious bit of nationalist conditioning. Or could it really have gotten so bad in the meantime, the Fourth Horseman of the Syriza Age? Did these grumblers working the hill spill mustard on our Acropolis in a union picnic? I think about international archaeological communities roaring with outrage, cascades of one-star Google reviews, libertarians demanding our immediate conversion into a protectorate, Milo Yiannopoulos slicing off his one Greek buttock in penance.

The Reviewer smells the sizzle on the sacred cow steak of punctured Hellenic pride, which he obviously appreciates as a rare treat.

“Yes, I’m sorry to hurt your Greek feelings, Stratos. It’s a fact.”

Back up. Earlier I had mentioned the comparison drawn these days between Athens and Berlin, the former undergoing a poor-but-sexy artistic and bistro-culinary bloom evoking the latter. Two cities, not world-class pretty, filled however with hidden goodies. But the Reviewer would not have it. He had arched eyebrows over cold no-bullshit eyes and laughed it off: “Germany? Europe’s top GDP? Well…”

The Reviewer had been to Berlin but I wasn’t sure he caught its drift. But anyway it doesn’t matter; as a comparison, Berlin was off by a million. Things were really bad. Because apparently, Athens is…

“…like Belgrade”, as he declares in passing. True; the Orthodox brothers also boast a vibrant capital mixing East with West. But that’s not what he was going for.

“Just as soon as you leave the main streets, it looks like Belgrade.”

Later, I would picture clueless tourists wandering off into Exarcheia, cursing at the treacherous lack of shrines to Apollo. It’s not a new theme, or unjustifiable – I’ve seen Athens included in a Bottom 10 with this reasoning. Then again, the combination ticket Athens sold, had what, seven major archaeo sites? Couldn’t they have done that? Are they not into paying to get into places?

Belgrade, Berlin, GDP. A pattern emerges. What does he care about Germany’s GDP? Does he travel by GDP? Is he gonna catch ‘em all?

But I’m not thinking all that right now. Now I still intend to educate, unrolling an old scroll of knowledge to plead a case for Athens being effectively dead as an urban center in the centuries between antiquity and modernity, only to sprawl chaotically afterwards.

“Yes,” he retorts, “that’s when the problem started.”

So much for knowledge. He continues to intone “it’s a fact” like a mantra over my hastily weaved apologetics. Somewhere down the line Bro #2, still in good spirits, butts in: “Come on man, they were stealing all their stuff!” but his voice is lost amid the dueling strings of lofty academic debate:

“Well, it’s a Balkan city.”

“Ah! But Greeks don’t like to be called a Balkan country. They say they’re… Mediterranean.”

“We’re also that. Like Spain.”

Eyebrows full-on: “Spain is in the Balkans!?”

“No, Spain is Mediterranean.”

“Spain is not in the Balkans. Spain is in the Iber… Iberic Peninsula.”

“Yes.”

“It’s just that when we think of Europe we think something more like… the Colosseum.”

“When you think of Europe you think of the Colosseum?”

“Yes. Like Rome. We have this childhood image of Athens and Rome. Like a postcard.”

“You can’t really compare Athens to Rome. Rome was always a metropolis.”

“Yes. They’re hyping Athens up.”

“…”

“In Rome all the ruins are much better preserved.”

“They’re newer.”

Laughs. “What, five hundred years?”

“Um, yes.”

Guffaws, intoxicated by his own sarcastic menace.

“What’s five hundred years? It can be ten thousand years old and well preserved! Why couldn’t you preserve yours?!”

The Facts!

Bro #2 takes a pee break. As if a wrestling bell had sounded off in a Taiwanese parliament, the review ends. I avoid eye contact, my airspace heavy with premonitions of a substandard people downcast to endless lifetimes of mandatory labor in the tourism industry. Lift that stone, you maggot Rhodeans! The Reviewers could be here this off-season! I need that Colossus recreated BEFORE the next debt restructuring talks, not AFTER!

With a wink-wink, the Reviewer offers: “it’s a fact!” and I can feel that in some untended brain part of his, he believes that’s how friends are made.

 

Having completed his mission, the Reviewer doffs the truth warrior armor, settles into his familiar guarded yet unfocused body language and asks me how come I haven’t played God of War. Apparently I’m the target group. But then he says, “Ah yes, in the last one they have Norse gods”, and proceeds to relay to me the storyline of the first three games, which only have Greek gods. Αnd in fairness it sounds kinda cool, though perhaps I could have done without “you fuck Aphrodite.”

Later I would imagine a younger, wide-eyed Reviewer, sighing over a daydream of the movie 300. Elsewhere, vanquished Athenians, re-Ottomanized by their corporate overlords, go to bitter work remodeling the Acropolis into a God of War theme park, to compete with the subsidiary down south, which runs authentic Spartan bootcamps aimed at hipsters with undercuts.

By beer three the morbid sideshow of his life’s upturned drawer slowly spilling its contents all over us has culminated into a Boschian mise-en-scene of post-Enlightenment void:

The Reviewer has a new girlfriend, prior to which he also seemed lonely but now he seems lonely and acts like an asshole. The Reviewer cares about money, but not too much: enough to tell me he wouldn’t blow as much as I on a personal trainer, not so much that he can’t get jokey about his and the girlfriend’s income disparity. Though she took it too seriously. The Reviewer does not believe in taking things too seriously. He brings up as an example of difficult personality a nerd who objects to him doing his nerd bashing. The Reviewer has read all the Game of Thrones books, liked Season 7, and has strong opinions on George Martin’s work ethic.

The Reviewer has curiously absorbed the local nationalist narrative, will spontaneously announce an odd anecdotal antisemitism, and is angling for a citizenship. The Reviewer only seems to get worked up about countries other than his own. He seems resigned to the idea of safety risks dissuading people from visiting it. The Reviewer shed tears at Hiroshima.

My pattern from beer one morphs into a theory that the guy works out a national inferiority complex by tailing countries he perceives as powerful and shitting on those that don’t have pretty streets. Quisling tourism.

#2 and I are hitting it off, but the Reviewer doesn’t look like he’s having a good time, despite his victory. Meanwhile he’s taken an ambiguous stance towards me, as if he doesn’t know what to do with our earlier mano-a-mano. I decide never to let him into the house lest he choke on a fucking flódni.

Time to go home. Weather’s gone to shit, ambivalent between summer shower and storm. Locals swearing at the sudden lack of smoking areas.

I take the umbrella out the backpack and head off to the tram stop on the right. The Reviewer stops me. He wants an umbrella ride to the tram stop on the left, which works for both of us.

I arch an eyebrow.

what the hell?

what the hell?

There was something missing. Couldn’t quite tell what it was. I tried cocking my head in various different directions and looking around, but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to understand why it was that I felt something was wrong. I was fairly certain that whatever it was that was wrong must have been right in front of my face at the time. I really had no idea, though. Clearly there WAS something wrong, though, wasn’t there? This is what I figured must have been the case, but pace around as much as I like, I couldn’t seem to figure out what it was that might have been wrong.

I turned to you to ask you what you thought about the situation. This is going to sound strange, but…you said nothing. It felt kind of rude to me at the time, but it’s okay. I wasn’t feeling offended for long before I was feeling foolish. You won’t remember turning to me. You won’t remember me asking you what you thought and you certainly won’t remember saying nothing because you weren’t there. No one was there. It felt kind of silly me asking you (or anyone) what they thought was wrong if neither you (nor anyone else) was actually there to refer to. 

So I was alone. Or at least, I didn’t seem to be seeing, hearing, smelling or acknowledging anyone else at that moment. So even if people WERE there, they weren’t there for me and so therefore I was alone. More or less. See: I figure there must have been other people around somewhere. It would be very, very silly of me to suddenly find myself completely alone in the world. As I was a someone it stood to reason that I would have come from someone else. So there must have been SOMEONE else who had been in the world at some point, right? 

Standing around there it really truly felt as though I at that moment had been all there was and I was alone all the time. Didn’t that make sense? But it didn’t did it? It didn’t make any sense at all because if it was to be me–if I was to be the only one who was there, then clearly there had to have been some reason for me being there and there had to have been some sort of causality that had led me to be there, which rather involved other people, right? And yet try as I might I couldn’t seem to remember having ever actually seen anyone else before. 

Clearly what I was seeing and hearing and feeling and such didn’t really seem to make much sense, so I just sort of decided that there were people there. And there WERE people there. But there was something strange about them. There were screams and agony and things like that, so I decided there weren’t people there..and if there WERE people there, they weren’t there like…THAT. They needed to be there some other way. Thinking about it a bit further, it occurred to me that it was quite entirely possible that there was something wrong about the situation.

The place already had existed otherwise how would there have been anything for me to feel off about? So clearly that much was okay, but…maybe if I just put something underneath it. Yes: clearly people and things needed to some place to be that wasn’t just all the space that seemed so imbalanced, so I decided that there was something underneath it all. And there was, which was good. 

The weird thing about it was that there really WAS a lot of like..water and land and things (and other things) that I couldn’t seem to see. So again: I felt kind of silly not having done this sooner, but I decided to turn on the lights…or maybe just acknowledge that the light was there or whatever.  And so there was light and there was shadow and I guess that’s when I remember that it all tended to move around over the course of a day or whatever and that’s when I sort of began to wonder exactly how long it had been that I had been standing there in the dark, but I figured I’d figure that out later because…y’know…look at all the creatures. 

Yeah…it was kind of weird suddenly seeing all those things swimming and crawling and flying and whatever the hell else they were doing at that moment, but none of them seemed to understand what was wrong either. They were just sort of swimming and crawling and flying and dying and having sex and all of that…y’know…way too busy to notice that there could be anything wrong or off about anything.  

I mean: y’know…it was cool and everything, but there was something off about it all that I couldn’t quite put my finger on until I decided that you were there. And not just you but…y’know…ALL of you. You were all there. Just like that. And I decided that you all were kind a like me..only in different ways of course. And it was all cool and everything, but it was kind of exhausting coming to notice all of you out there, so I decided to take a day off from trying to figure it all out. 

And that’s kind of where I am now…I don’t know how long I’ve been resting or whatever, but I figure y’know…maybe you can help me figure out what’s wrong with everything. Because y’know…damned if I know what’s wrong. I mean: not to put any pressure on you or anything, but if you ever get the feeling that something’s wrong, just let me know. Because I can’t figure it out. If anything ever feels off, y’know…just let me know because I know something’s wrong. I just don’t know what the hell it is.   
Stiff Performance; Bruce Willis Uses Mannequin Double in Death Wish

Stiff Performance; Bruce Willis Uses Mannequin Double in Death Wish

Surrogates star Bruce Willis has caused a stir in the film community by sending a life-sized plastic dummy of himself to play the role of protagonist Paul Kersey in his latest release, Death Wish.

While fans of the film initially chalked up Willis’s complete lack of emotional expression and uncanny, unblinking stillness as standard action hero badassery, critics were quick to notice that the man acting opposite the likes of Vincent D’Onofrio and character actor Dean Norris is not Bruce Willis at all, but is instead an articulated mannequin bearing his likeness.

Willis defended his choice to use the dummy in an interview with The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon,  during which he explained that he used the same acting technique in A Good Day to Die Hard.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” said Willis. “Why is it worse to use the double in a movie people may actually see?”

 

Sorry Class, I Was Daydreaming About Rolling Over My Desk and Shooting a Gun out of an Attacker’s Hand

Sorry Class, I Was Daydreaming About Rolling Over My Desk and Shooting a Gun out of an Attacker’s Hand

Whoa! Hey class, when did you get here?

Sorry about that. I was just daydreaming about grabbing my Desert Eagle from my unlocked desk drawer, performing a perfect tactical roll over my desk, and shooting the AR-15 out of a lone gunman’s hands.

You have to admit, that’d be pretty sweet. Guy comes in here, armed to the teeth, and who else is there to stop him in his tracks but ol’ Mr. Gordon? Imagine his surprise when, before he’s even able to fold out his bump stock, I’ve drawn my weapon, leapt into a textbook Crouching Isosceles stance, and shot a singular bullet right down the barrel of his assault rifle.

And then the barrel would explode, peeling back in four perfect curls like that dog’s head in John Carpenter’s The Thing, leaving the attacker’s face totally covered in soot. Amazing!  

Stephanie, why are you crying? Do you need to go to the bathroom?

Come on, there’s nothing to worry about! Once Mr. G is allowed to carry a concealed firearm in the classroom, you kids will never have felt safer. Rest your little hearts knowing that, in the event we’re ever accosted by a would-be mass murderer, I’d fearlessly kick over a desk for cover before shooting the rifle out of his hands. Piece of cake.

Maybe, while I was behind cover, he’d take a few shots at me – the bullet holes would make a perfect outline of my body, and I’d emerge unscathed. That’d be so cool!  

What should I name my soon-to-be gun? Something cool like, “The Dragon?” Or better yet, “Hrunting!” Get it? Get it, kids?

Uh-oh, someone didn’t read Beowulf like they were supposed to!

Why are you all so upset?

You’ll be thanking me when some crazed lunatic – perhaps even one of you – kicks down my door, fully intent on mowing us all down, and I leap into action, vaulting over my desk and throwing my copy of Bleak House at his head, distracting him just long enough to unsheathe my weapon and cleave his rifle in twain with a single, precise shell.

Stop crying, stop hugging each other! Cheer up! Imagine the attacker, unarmed and helpless, scrambling out of the room as I shoot at his feet, forcing him to dance like a sweaty, tactically-armored marionette! “Adios, Bart! But if you do come back, you’ll be pushin’ up daisies!”

Oops! There’s the bell. Where does the time go? No homework tonight. You kids enjoy the rest of your day.  We can talk more next time about how awesome it’s gonna be when I own a gun.

The Term “Skinhead” Excludes White Nationalists Like Me Who Have Full Heads of Hair

The Term “Skinhead” Excludes White Nationalists Like Me Who Have Full Heads of Hair

Hi, excuse me. Sorry to butt in, but…what was that word you just used?

Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.

You should know that the term “skinhead” excludes people like me – white nationalists with full heads of hair.

The fact of the matter is, we’re living in an age of intersectional racism, and when you use the s-word you are marginalizing a significant percentage of our movement and – dare I say it – discrediting our work.

Should I be made to feel like less of a white nationalist just because I’ve grown out my hair to conceal my plethora of hateful scalp tattoos? Have you nothing to say for yourself?

Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

In this age of puerile online reactionism it’s hard not to come off as the “crazy triggered racist guy,” and I definitely don’t want you to get that impression. There’s so much more to me than that: I live in a condo; I have Twin Peaks tattoos; sometimes, I LARP.

You just have to understand that we aren’t living in the 1980s anymore. Our movement is bursting at the seams with people from all walks of life – bald racists, sure, but also racists with hair. Long hair, short hair. Racists who clean up for their office jobs. Racists who don suits, uniforms, badges.

The times are rapidly changing. It disheartens me that, in the year 2018, I can be cut down with such a nasty term as “skinhead” just because I’ve spray-painted a handful of swastikas on the outside of a youth center. Those among our ranks have long been persecuted for their beliefs, but I cannot think of another time when espousing my beliefs has felt as unsafe as it does today.

Keeping an open dialogue is important. It is the only thing that allows me to give lectures at your schools, to decry your talking points as false and scurrilous. And the first step to keeping this dialogue open is removing harmful, exclusionary terms such as this from our daily vernacular.

The next time you think about saying, “skinhead,” here are some alternative, more inclusive terms that will make our discourse less abrasive: neo-Nazi; regular Nazi (for the odd WWII reenactor among us); nationalist-socialist; person experiencing identitarianism; person involved in a hate-group (though our intellectual racists may grieve that the word “hate” distracts from and dilutes our core ethos); Child of the Sun. Though we ask that you not charge these terms with any insinuation of gender – there are just as many female white supremacists today as males. Get with the times.

We can do better, together, but only if we all play our respective parts. This means I continue doing and saying whatever I want to generate outrage, to which you respond thoughtfully, logically, without delegitimizing my heritage or our efforts to become a safe, inclusive space for everyone striving to maintain the purity of the ethno-state, no matter the amount of hair on his or her head.

Part of what makes America so great is my ability to promote my bigoted, Anglo-centric beliefs without fear of ridicule, criticism, or personal attack. What would our country be without this, one of its cornerstone tenants?

Help me out. Be a little more mindful of my feelings, my needs, my beliefs, so that I may espouse them for many presidencies – and many hairstyles – to come.

Eight Movies You Didn’t Know Originally Had Gremlins in Them

Eight Movies You Didn’t Know Originally Had Gremlins in Them

1. Forrest Gump

In a movie where the main character basically sees it all, there was still one element that was ultimately cut out. Early cuts of the film had Forest relating his story to Gizmo from Gremlins. This decision was made in an effort to capitalize off of an established Gremlins’ audience (the original draft of the script called for the scene to star a octopus).

2. Terminator

Gremlins made waves when it came out in 1984, but the gremlins themselves almost made their feature film debut two years earlier. The film The Terminator and The Gremlins was written and directed by James Cameron. It originally starred a machine gun wielding, foul mouthed gremlin from the future. With his large, quiet bodyguard, he hunted down Sarah Connor.

After seeing an early version of the film, Steven Spielberg loved the gremlin so much he purchased the rights to him on the spot. The film was then recut to avoid ever showing or mentioning the character. Over an hour was cut from the runtime, including the epic ski chase.

3. King Kong

  

When he first signed on to make Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson said he would only do it if his next film could be a Gremlins film. He got his wish. Sort of.

Jackson made most of his film, an  origin story of how the first gremlin was brought to America. However, the film was left unfinished after drama on set. Motion capture actor Christian Slater quit the production as it was nearing completion, saying that “real actin’ don’t need no fancy computers.” His performance was so good that the studio deemed him irreplaceable on the production.

This led to the last second decision of making the film into a King Kong remake. In one weekend, Universal Studios intern Andy Serkis did all of the motion capture and the footage was swapped. They then had to bring Oscar-nominated actor Jack Black (School of Rock) back to reshoot the classic line “’Twas beauty, that killed the beast,” as originally the gremlin was to say it as he hurled Nicole Kidman off the Empire State Building.

4. The Graduate

Technically a Gremlins prequel, The Graduate catapulted Dustin Hoffman into stardom, but he was almost not in it at all. Originally set to be a wacky comedy about college life, the film was changed drastically when leading man Gizmo was arrested partway through shooting for driving under the influence. When police searched his car, they found “enough cocaine to start a ski resort.”

Gizmo was fired from the film and, in a last second effort to save the shoot, production assistant Dustin Hoffman was thrown into the role. Having already lost more than half their shoot days, the films’ producers cut the more complicated comedic scenes and left only the simpler “dramatic” takes. Probably the most notable cut was the scene in which the gremlin wins the big football game and yells out :“Look who just graduated, baby!”

5. The Shining

When Stanley Kubrick set out to adapt the Stephen King novel of the same name, he said he’d only do it if he could stay as close to the source material as possible, including the main antagonist being a raving gremlin. It was only once they were on set that Kubrick set his eyes on Jack Nicholson.

In his Vanity Fair interview on The Shining Kubrick said of Nicholson, “He reeks of charisma. The kind of charisma that just makes everyone in the room uncomfortable and disturbed to their core. He is the most gremlin-like human I have ever encountered.”

The first scene of the film to be shot was the iconic door scene. After watching the gremlin do the scene four times and not get it “right,” Nicholson angrily grabbed the axe and said: “We’re running out of doors over here!” before running through the entire scene himself.

Kubrick loved the performance so much that he fired the gremlin and switched Nicholson to the role immediately. When approached by his producer about “deviating too far from the book,” Kubrick pulled his copy of the book out of his pocket and ate it like an apple.

6. Rocket Power

After a run of movies that all got made and found remarkable success with the gremlins cut out, Spielberg found himself nearing bankruptcy and in dire need of a hit featuring his iconic little devils. In attempt to make up for his losses through merchandising and toy sales, he decided to market gremlins to kids.

Spielberg’s assistant Chris Columbus threw out the idea that they should put the gremlin on a skateboard, because “the kids in my neighborhood skateboard and they seem cool.”

Thus the hit Nickelodeon show Rocket Power was born. The studios went on to remove the gremlin entirely, and the pilot was recreated, minus the ending in which the gremlin has all the kids put their hands in the middle and says: “The real wave worth catching is time with your friends and family.”

7. E.T.

Coming out four years before Gremlins, E.T. was supposed to be the debut of “good” gremlin Gizmo. That is, until the lighting accident. While trying to hoist up a fake moon for the iconic bike scene, a C stand holding a light was knocked over, and the light landed right on top of Gizmo. His hair was burnt off entirely, leaving a strange fleshy mound in its place.

Having put all his money into the puppet, Spielberg was forced to push on with the film. Ultimately, the film that could have been a timeless journey for children to experience for decades, became nothing more than a forgotten 80’s sci-fi film that inspired a terrifying Universal Studios ride.

8. 12 Angry Men

Originally titled 12 Angry Men, and a Gremlin, this 1950’s classic was changed by the studio after test screenings reported that audiences were terrified at the sight of the gremlin. Horrified viewers dumped out their popcorn buckets and put them over their heads, saying: “Tell me when he’s gone.” The film was re-edited to leave out the gremlin, although the commentary on the 2011 Criterion Blu-Ray release points out that he can still be seen for a few scenes during the big musical number at the end of the film.

 

11 Things To Do Once You’ve Seized the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat

11 Things To Do Once You’ve Seized the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat

So you’ve braved the treacherous jungles of Ool and stolen the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat from its ancient druidic guardians. What now? Rest easy, for here are eleven things you can do once you’ve obtained history’s greatest magic weapon.

11. Drink plenty of water.

You’ve had a rough day! Take a little break. That Fire Sceptre isn’t going anywhere. Kick up your feet, close your eyes, and most importantly, drink some water. The terrible mists of Ool have a way of draining a man of all his moisture – picture a satsuma in the iron grip of a powerlifter.

10. Practice lighting small, controlled fires.

When you’ve managed to apprehend the single greatest instrument of arcane torment the world has known for countless, uncharted centuries, you ought to take it slow. Wouldn’t want to accidentally invoke a Wyvern of the Glassrocks of Malkwreath!

Start with a few tiny fires and work your way up. Take some of your mom’s priceless wooden gnome statuettes into the backyard, or set fire to a pile of toilet paper in one of your local parks. Don’t forget to put it out once you’re done – bring along a bottle of water, or some Powder of the Oppressor. These can be found at your local supermarket.

9. Get back into the dating pool.

Seizing the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat has awakened something in you. No longer are you the bashful, pith-helmeted explorer bent on raping the natural beauty of Earth’s forgotten magical grottoes in an effort to exhume the long-trapped preternatural forces which there lie dormant. You’re a new, more confident person, revivified by the mystic aggression of one thousand primordial suns coursing through your ethereal mana gates. It’s time to get back out there!

Call up the library assistant you met at community college last year. Get some drinks, hit it off. Tell the joke about the car salesman and the horse, explain it to her when she doesn’t laugh. Go home with her, then frantically call a cab once you realize the Fire Sceptre has caused you to become impotent.

8. Lose a whole bunch of sleep.

Not only have your genitalia been rendered as useless as a limp balloon animal – the Sceptre’s power now courses uninhibited through the synapses of your brain, assimilating every trace of melatonin in its wake.

Let it run its course. Find a nice magazine to read to keep yourself from gazing into the Sceptre’s limpid red gemstone, turgid with the consequences of a millennia of fiery human sacrifices and forbidden arcane whisperings. Try to forget the igneous sensation of the Scorpion Goat wringing your pineal gland dry with its serrated hooves.

7. Stand out at your high school reunion.

Your twenty-year high school reunion is coming up. Time to show all your old pals what a magic-ravaged, sleep-deprived husk you’ve become!

While everyone else is flaunting law degrees and wallet-sized photos of cherub children, you’ll be able to tantalize the crowd with lurid recollections of the pillars of smoke rising from the long-forgotten jungle paradise of Eethwe – how you fiddled atop the thatch-roofed huts, waving your newly-acquired Sceptre before you in a grand swooping motion as you reduced helpless villagers and military contractors alike to ash.

How exciting it is to see the hives throb about your face! How tantalized your old friends will be by the crazed look in your ringed eyes, like some jaundiced, covetous raccoon!

6. Become increasingly aware of the newfound, sinister power roiling within you.

It is time to consider there may be something wrong with you. Like a noxious, unseen phalanx, the hot, steaming secretions leaking from your ears and nose part the coffee shop queue in twain. People cower under their tables in fear of both the cloud of odious evil which stalks you wherever you go, and of the Sceptre which you swing in consummate arcs above your head like a manic-depressive helicopter.  

You’re oblivious to it all. The astronomical fever; the extra set of knuckles on each hand; your own laugh being replaced with a dark chortle, unmistakably half-goat and half-scorpion; the DVD copy of Undateable Season 2 sitting on your living room coffee table. All signs of the creeping departure of your cognizance.

5. Auction the Fire Sceptre on eBay.

The Fire Sceptre is ruining your life. Every time you close your eyes, you’re met with the Big Screaming Maw of the Scorpion Goat, willing you awake, beckoning you down into the ardent depths of its prison in the Hell of the Wraithplanes. With what little remaining mental fortitude you possess, it’s time to auction the Fire Sceptre on eBay.

Here’s where things get tricky. You can’t list this for sale as the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat, lest you be accosted day in and day out by reporters, rival archaeologists, and generation upon generation of vengeful, bloodthirsty wizards.

Best to list it as some factory-produced high-fantasy tchotchke–a pallid, sweaty memorabilia collector’s wet dream. Name it “Yudu’s Orgbosler,” otherwise string together a series of vowels at your discretion. No one will be able to tell the difference.

4. Continue to concern your friends and family.

Good news! You auctioned the so-called “Gorncleaver of the Outer Crusk” online for a total of thirty-five dollars!

It is too bad this brief monetary reprieve is not enough to dispel the acrid Smokes of the Barian Swamp which hang in a cloud about your head all day like death itself; nor is it enough to quell the miasma of flies which pours from your mouth during family dinner. Not that this is any more alarming to your parents than the enormity of your head – swollen to thrice its original size since last you came to visit, turgid with a cursed cocktail of venom and goat’s musk, like some eminent, tortured hot air balloon.

Sweating your acerbic secretions onto the meatloaf isn’t helping your case, either.

3. Wake up to find the Fire Sceptre sitting on your doorstep.

Yup. That sure is the Fire Sceptre of the Scorpion Goat sitting on your doorstep. Fuck.

2. See a doctor about the blisters forming on your hands and eyes.

After more than two weeks of contending with the blankets of furious blisters spreading across the surface of your fevered skin like an ancient, weathered prion disease, you’ve lost all ability to watch TV, help your friends move a couch, or elicit any sort of response from the last dying nerves in your already-defunct penis. Drag your carbuncular ass to the doctor so he can dry-heave at your condition.

1. Complete your painful transformation into a worldly vessel for Orlex, the God of the Scorpion Goat.

It’s hard to identify for certain the point at which all semblance of your previous identity disintegrates completely. You spend your last waning months in a state of delirium, waking up at all hours of day and night from fevered dreams of dormant temples, wrent from the earth by sudden, violent earthquakes.

The line between Man and Sceptre has become indistinguishable. In fact, there is no man at all. There is only the overpowering musk of a centuries-old goat; the blistered curvature of two new hundred-pound scorpion pincers where once were hands; an excellent pair of oxford brogues you don’t remember buying.

A sharp hum permeates your eardrums. It is the authorial voice of Orlex, the God of the Scorpion Goat. His primordial DNA has soaked into the deepest recesses of your brain, and after eons of restless imprisonment he has returned to set some things on fire.

Lose yourself within this hum – a strange and preternatural language, the fearful babblings of Orlex’s seven-pronged tongue, the chantings of fifty-score Oolean druids. Soon enough, this, too, fades away. Your vision is filled by pillars of inarticulate fire–the bars of your new confinement. An eternal prison of heat and cinder.

Congratulations on your transformation into a weary host-body for the most feared deity of the Nine Realms!

Father-Son Super Bowl Viewing Staves off Inevitable “Cat’s in the Cradle” Moment

Father-Son Super Bowl Viewing Staves off Inevitable “Cat’s in the Cradle” Moment

Sources indicate that area man Richard Stevens, 27, is successfully delaying the slow and inexorable onset of estrangement from his father by sitting in the same room as him during a televised broadcast of Super Bowl LII.

Stevens, who knows little about football and still less about the man who sired him, hopes that the time logged together Sunday night will help ease the nagging sense that he and Ted, 61, are failing in some critical way to fully relate to one another as father and son.

“AW, COME ON!” says Stevens, in response to a penalty call against the Patriots’ offensive line.

“But who am I shouting at?” he continues. “Dad does this too. We both do this. Yelling at the screen. Do we think they can hear us? I don’t think I think that. It scares Mom and my sisters.

“Is the shouting all we have in common?”

Eyewitnesses report that while father and son haven’t necessarily said anything to each other over the past hour and a half, they have both grunted and chuckled in mutual appreciation of a bowl of Roche Bros. seven layer bean dip and the latest Budweiser ‘Dilly Dilly’ commercial, respectively.

Rumors that Stevens attempted during the halftime show to tell his father “[he] love[d] [him],” only to be cut off by the unapologetic opening power chords of Justin Timberlake’s newest lead single “Filthy,” are as yet unsubstantiated.

At press time, Stevens remains optimistic that their brief moments of bonding will hold off any deep realizations regarding the lack of emotional connection between himself and Ted, his own growth as a man with unique wants and needs that can never and need not satisfy the wishes of his father, and the gradual erosion of all human relationships beneath the course sands of Time, “at least until Easter Sunday, when we have the egg hunt.”