Yeah, but still no I-Slept-With-My-Mother-In-Law-Gate. I figure at this point Bravo's just fucking with us and they'll air it sometime around next Easter. Whatever...I've given up caring. EXCEPT I HAVEN'T, YOU FUCKERS AT BRAVO! Again with the end teaser trailer previewing next week and offering the false promise of a I-Fucked-My-Mother-In-Law-Gate-A-Palooza. Only difference being is that in this trailer we actually hear Asshole From Outer Space, Jim, shout the words "HE SLEPT WITH YOUR MOTHER!" So...maybe...NO! I refuse to be duped by Bravo for a third straight week. Christ ABIB, its not like you're going to stop watching. Truth.
So we rejoin the girls chilling in Boca, hanging out at a reptile ranch and falling in love with a baby gator born with no tail. Dina especially, she of the hairless cat and dog with no front legs, is charmed, crooning that she wants to take the little fella home. Until she remembers that he'll eventually eat her and her other pets. Not to mention a likely revenge-fueled rampage through her DSW sized shoe collection some of which HAVE to have originally been one reptile or another. Yeah, so no little tail-less alligator. Next the girls hop onto two fanboats for a fast trip through the swampy Everglades to spot some real gators in the wild. which they do and its kind of boring, frankly. They're just gators, in a swamp, floating. ZZZZZZZZZZZ The girls seem to like it though, screaming and waving their arms as another lackey shuttles them around and basically becomes a water taxi. At this point I'm pretty sure that these girls are always totally hammered, so even a bug-laden swamp is fun, fun, FUN cause they're drunk!
Back in Jersey the families Guidice and Wakile are loading up on fambly time, T, JJ and their girls over at JJ's bro's house, and the Wakiles over at Kathy's place listening to Rosie the Rivet Head prattle on and on about how she and Ellen broke up and she's sure that there's someone out there for her. Someone like her own mother, she pines, who is always at her side no matter what. The sentiment is kind of sweet until you realize that she's pairing the concept of her loyal mother and a future sexual partner/wife. Theeeennnnn it gets a little creepy. Even Rosie realizes what she's saying and laughs uncomfortably. Yeah, Rosie, we're right there with you. Let's not rule out nervous laughter, said Rachel Green, better than anyone ever. Everyone at the Guidice dinner table is crying, like every week someone is crying this season and this week it's JJ, his mother, T, JJ's old Dad, JJ's brotha...fuck it: everyone at the table is crying over all the sentimental crap everyone is intoning. Weekly lectures this season about IMPORTANT TOPICS! FORGIVENESS! DEVOTION TO FAMILY! VALUING WHATS IMPORTANT! OFFSHORE ACCOUNTS! GETTING A BETTER FUCKING CPA! Stuff like that. Also, we get another tearful visit to the Laurita's with Jacqueline-san and her crying over the kid. Oy, is this going to become a weekly event? Seriously? Who gives a shit? Sorry, I might be the only one here, but Jacqueline Laurita annoys the crap out of me.
Back in Boca shits starting to get real with the arrival of Amber and Asshole From Outer Space, jim. Either Jim's a really stupid,mean drunk or his role is scripted to the point of him nearly looking into the camera and twirling his mustache ala Snidely Whiplash. I mean, who talks like that? As soon as he and Amber sit down he starts to pick a fight with Nicole's boyfriend and Jim's ex-BFF, Bobbie. Bobbie listens for a hot second and then runs upstairs and locks himself in the bathroom after accusing Nicole, who in her 12-inch Jimmy Choos, is hobbling after him as fast as her wobbly legs will carry her. "You're so stupid!" Bobbie yells at Nicole who is quickly losing ground on him. He repeats that Mean Girl line about three more times and then locks himself in the bathroom. Yeah, I wondered the same thing, too: what grown man locks himself in the bathroom? Whatever, it prompts a rapid acceleration of the drama downstairs as one-by-one, starting with Amber all the girls run to the kitchen and start to cry. This mayhem makes zero sense even for a Bravo RH franchise so I figure it's very badly edited or the producers are just getting lazy with the scripts. Probably both. Soon Amber's crying, Nicole's crying, Jim's still cussing out every dude in the room, which at this point is only Joey The Ape. Melissa is shaking her head and looking distraught, running between the tear frenzy in the kitchen and JTA's side on the couch. Jim still won't shut up. That's what its like when you're an Asshole From Outer Space, the rules of our world just don't apply. Dina is trying to Namaste the hell out of Amber who WON'T STOP CRYING EVEN THOUGH THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HER. Amber and Jim def deserve each other. Meanwhile, as the episode draws to a close Jim is heard dissing ex bestie Bobbie with tales of his cheating by way of a condo he maintains with a ho on the side. THE ENTIRE TIME HE'S BEEN DATING NICOLE! She won't hear of it and TeRESSa jumps into protective twin mode, vowing in her talking head confessional: "You mess with my sister you mess with me! You hurt my family, I hurt you!" All we need is Kathy's canollis and Don Corleone and it's a wrap.
Joey the Ape weighs in by calling Jim a bitch. Good one JTA, pretty articulate of you. At this point in the show I was struck by the audacity of men who are wholly supported by their wives' participation in this three ring circus using derogatory terms for females to insult their fellow freeloading husbands/boyfriends. Pretty ironic, dontchathink? So the episode ends with Asshole from Outer Space Jim drunkenly crashing into a glass table on his way out to the pool to continue in his harangue of Bobbie who has finally emerged from the powder room, apparently having regained his composure. So there you have it, next week promises to continue the Brawl in Boca and I'm pretty sure that Rino's gonna convieniently show up just in time for the big I-Fucked-My-Mother-in-Law-Gate...not that I'm getting my hopes up; Bravo is a fickle, fickle temptress.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Oh Honey Boo Boo, Honey, Honey Boo Boo
Uncharacteristically slow on the uptake here, The ABIB is (SHOCKINGLY) just now reporting on the break up of the...what was it exactly...marriage? committment arrangement? shack-up-tials?...lets just say union, of Mama June and Sugar Bear, they the parents of the titled progency HBB herself. Accused of trolling for hook-ups on various dating services (which he vehemently denies) Sugar Bear has been summarily dumped by big, 'ol Mama June who's in the process of looking for a new big 'ol house for her brood sans SB and closer to her fambly, wherever that may be. I picture them just like The Beverly Hillbillies, driving down the road in a ramshackle, old truck..."swimmin' pools, movie stars!" Hey June: I know of a $4M, 12,000 square foot white elephant up in New Jersey. Probably too cold up there for your normally shoeless feet (due to an unfortunate intersection between one of those said feet and a forklift). Not going there.
Certain wags have been heard to opine that this whole Mama June - Sugar Bear break-up is wholly concocted for ratings as the show is just now beginning it's third season on that stalwart of high brow programming: TLC. Yeah, brainiacs, we all figured that out, too. I caught Honey Boo Boo and Mama June on The Tonight Show recently and Jimmy Fallon gamely played along with the pair in spite of having to deal with a nine-year-old who has been raised in the freak show world of child beauty pageants followed by the super freak show world of broadcast reality TV. Oy. To say that shes badly behaved is kind of like saying that Mama June needs to lose a few pounds. Cue the inappropriate cheap joke at the expense of the fat lady effects. But seriously, how can this kid ever emerge from such an upbringing and lead a halfway normal life? It's been reported that HBB has left the world of pageants. Ya think?
A quick search reveals that this girl and her family have been photographed what appears to be 10 million times. HBB barefoot at the Quicky Mart, HBB walking down the street with a giant soda, Mama June's 2008 mug shot, Sugar Bear's undated mug shot...the list goes on and on. So it's no wonder that this little "Holla for a Dolla Honey Boo Boo" keeps being put out in front by her mother to shake that money-maker for the fambly. Anyway, back to the beginning: Mama June and Sugar Bear are, The ABIB believes, in the process of faking a "separation" to boost flagging ratings and extend HBB's 15 minutes of fame, which seem to have sadly expired. All that's left is an ever-growing HBB having to adjust to life as a mortal child. A fame target at six...washed up by nine...its all downhill from here.
Certain wags have been heard to opine that this whole Mama June - Sugar Bear break-up is wholly concocted for ratings as the show is just now beginning it's third season on that stalwart of high brow programming: TLC. Yeah, brainiacs, we all figured that out, too. I caught Honey Boo Boo and Mama June on The Tonight Show recently and Jimmy Fallon gamely played along with the pair in spite of having to deal with a nine-year-old who has been raised in the freak show world of child beauty pageants followed by the super freak show world of broadcast reality TV. Oy. To say that shes badly behaved is kind of like saying that Mama June needs to lose a few pounds. Cue the inappropriate cheap joke at the expense of the fat lady effects. But seriously, how can this kid ever emerge from such an upbringing and lead a halfway normal life? It's been reported that HBB has left the world of pageants. Ya think?
A quick search reveals that this girl and her family have been photographed what appears to be 10 million times. HBB barefoot at the Quicky Mart, HBB walking down the street with a giant soda, Mama June's 2008 mug shot, Sugar Bear's undated mug shot...the list goes on and on. So it's no wonder that this little "Holla for a Dolla Honey Boo Boo" keeps being put out in front by her mother to shake that money-maker for the fambly. Anyway, back to the beginning: Mama June and Sugar Bear are, The ABIB believes, in the process of faking a "separation" to boost flagging ratings and extend HBB's 15 minutes of fame, which seem to have sadly expired. All that's left is an ever-growing HBB having to adjust to life as a mortal child. A fame target at six...washed up by nine...its all downhill from here.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
RHONJ - Where's An Intracoastal Waterway Kraken When You Need One?
Welcome back to the ongoing saga of...what exactly? Overpaid buffoons making like they've got something of importance to say, when in reality they're just a bunch of...goombas. But I'll give it some more time because they keep teasing me with quick scenes from next week where the bozo boys get into it over The Gotti Rumor From Hell. But it turns out it's not fucking next week, its the WEEK AFTER NEXT. Those fuckers at Bravo better be careful with their endless teaser trailers because it's not like this is such a scintillating season and we're all gonna just hang around until they're ready to entertain us. Well, I am, of course, but I'm compulsive that way.
Anyhoo, Amber, as you might have guessed in spite of all the drama and dramatic editing:
"Yes, Amber, your blood work came back and it's...it's...." COMMERCIAL BREAK!
As if any fucking doctor talks that way. Christ folks, lets at least TRY to pull the wool over our eyes that this crazy fest is not TOTALLY scripted! So, as I was saying, as you might have guessed, Amber's blood work came back fine with no leftover "inconclusives" hanging over her Godiva-haired head. So, after shedding some much coached tears of joy, she and her lunatic husband Jim are off to Boca to hang with da goils and get all kinda crazy behind her good news health report. Good on you, Amber. I still think you're a mega annoyance. But that's just me...
Meanwhile in Boca we've got the twins, TeRESSa and Nicole, "I'm Hatin' On Her With A White Hot Intensity" Melissa the Gorgon, and my would be BFF, Dina. T politely declined wanting to stay back in Jersey with the fam, what with the federal indictments and all. Totes understand, babe. By the by, T is really all grown up this season, she's mature and together and just kinda chill. I'm waiting for the other Mahnolo to drop. This is our table-flipper after all.
The gals in Boca are cougaring it up with a Bravo-supplied pool boy whose only flaw, according to Nicole (or was it TeRESSa?) is that he's got nipple hair. Um, ewwww.. They find out ASAP that he's single which makes him perfect for our Dina who is also single and ready to mingle. But in her talking head confessional Dina tells us that she's not really into the whole cougar vibe...she's more into an older fella. Way to look out for that DSW sized shoe collection babe. That kind of purchasing fetish is not going to fund itself. My Dina's a smarty girl. After lazing at the pool and getting pretty hammered, and watching Melissa flaunt her, truth be told, pretty kick ass body after three kids, everyone decides that they're going to hang out tonight at the house, drink wine and make dinner togehter. Oh, and that flaunting I just mentioned? Melissa was cavorting, capering and otherwise jumping around like a grasshopper on acid, as boats motored by on what must be the Intracoastal Waterway. I kept chanting at the TV: just another couple of feet...just another couple of feet...I was totally pissed that she didn't fall in. Oh well, a bitch can hope.
Girls then went on over to the local supermarket to get all the fixings for their Eyetalian dinner in and honestly if those fucking twins said "WE NEED THE LONG HOT PEPPERS! YOU KNOW? THE LONG HOTS! YOU GOT ANY OF THOSE LONG HOT EYETALIAN PEPPERS? THE LONNNNNGGGG HOT ONES!" Of course just toting around an entire film crew wasn't attention grabbing enough. Even "I'm Hatin' On Her With A White Hot Intensity" Melissa The Gorgon, herself a shrill annoyance, was "SO OVER THEM!!" Yeah, Meliss, we know just how you feel..
There was one quick cut back to Joey the Ape "babysitting" the kids while Mom was whoring it up on the Intracoastal. Babysitting by Joey the Ape entails throwing his kids around...literally...and telling his seven year old daughter that he wasn't ready to "have The Talk" with her just yet. Oh, thank Christ, you moronic numbskull..SHE'S SEVEN!!! He also told us that once his daughter is old enough he's going to "break the Internet". Hmmmm....OK....presuming that your currrently seven year old daughter is going to become a porn addict is kinda creepy, no? But that's life with a man whose head is approximately the size of a billiard ball.
Okey dokey, following that throw away scene of mayhem we wind up WHERE??? In Casa Laurita with WHO???? Jacqueline and Kathy. What the What? Who the fuck invited them? True to her style, Kath's brought some calorie-laden, homemade goody for Jacqueline to sample. Delish, of course. Also? My prediction that Jac's love of plastic surgery has her on the fast track to becoming Big Ange is proving very insightful on behalf of The ABIB. In her talking head where Jacqueline is talking about...who the fuck knows..she's such a boring annoyance, plus I was transfixed by her ever-changing face which has now rendered her Asian. Fo rill, her eyes have been so pulled up that they have quite literally taken on the angle of Asian eyes. Anyway, Kath's come over to spill the news that she and Idiot In Chief Richie are building a new, BIGGER house in Franklin Lakes and that means she and the Lauritas are going to be neighbors! Kathy's evil plan to keep her grown kids at home forever (fuck, can you blame her, if they leave she's stuck with Idiot In Chief) is to build a house so huge that they each have their own WING! Yeah. Well, Jac's on the downsize train along with T and JJ, so Kathy's left out there in left field with her burgeoning new McMansion, which they visit even though its still just a shell and Jac's wearing 18 inch heels. Way to go ya fucking jackass.
We quickly rejoin the Boca Bitches and post-dinner they're outside just chillin' by "the tallest, skinniest palm tree" that Nicole or was it TeRESSa has ever seen. Then the producers get Dina all scripted out as she worries herself into a frenzy about how on earth she can keep this huge secret that T shared with her about how The Gotti Rumor From Hell is just too big to keep inside. Dina's determined to tell the secret but she can't tell, because...well, way back at the beginning of this post I told you all that Bravos got it on the tease for next week. For the last TWO weeks. So in the last 10 minutes of the show we're treated to Dina fretting should she tell, shouldn't she tell. She's been hinting at it since the bus ride in from the airport and the twins have openly stated that they don't wanna know. That don't matter because in the teaser we already know that Asshole From Outer Space Jim (of Jim and Amber) is going to shout out the news once the guys get there. Next week. Yeah, Bravo; fuck you!
So that's the latest except for T and her woes. I skipped over them cause frankly they're pretty boring. She's looking for a new, smaller house and JJ's in a suit. Nuff said. Stay tuned cause I'm pretty sure that this week's ep's gonna blow the lid on I Fucked My Monther-In-Law-Gate. Should be real, real, classy.
Anyhoo, Amber, as you might have guessed in spite of all the drama and dramatic editing:
"Yes, Amber, your blood work came back and it's...it's...." COMMERCIAL BREAK!
As if any fucking doctor talks that way. Christ folks, lets at least TRY to pull the wool over our eyes that this crazy fest is not TOTALLY scripted! So, as I was saying, as you might have guessed, Amber's blood work came back fine with no leftover "inconclusives" hanging over her Godiva-haired head. So, after shedding some much coached tears of joy, she and her lunatic husband Jim are off to Boca to hang with da goils and get all kinda crazy behind her good news health report. Good on you, Amber. I still think you're a mega annoyance. But that's just me...
Meanwhile in Boca we've got the twins, TeRESSa and Nicole, "I'm Hatin' On Her With A White Hot Intensity" Melissa the Gorgon, and my would be BFF, Dina. T politely declined wanting to stay back in Jersey with the fam, what with the federal indictments and all. Totes understand, babe. By the by, T is really all grown up this season, she's mature and together and just kinda chill. I'm waiting for the other Mahnolo to drop. This is our table-flipper after all.
The gals in Boca are cougaring it up with a Bravo-supplied pool boy whose only flaw, according to Nicole (or was it TeRESSa?) is that he's got nipple hair. Um, ewwww.. They find out ASAP that he's single which makes him perfect for our Dina who is also single and ready to mingle. But in her talking head confessional Dina tells us that she's not really into the whole cougar vibe...she's more into an older fella. Way to look out for that DSW sized shoe collection babe. That kind of purchasing fetish is not going to fund itself. My Dina's a smarty girl. After lazing at the pool and getting pretty hammered, and watching Melissa flaunt her, truth be told, pretty kick ass body after three kids, everyone decides that they're going to hang out tonight at the house, drink wine and make dinner togehter. Oh, and that flaunting I just mentioned? Melissa was cavorting, capering and otherwise jumping around like a grasshopper on acid, as boats motored by on what must be the Intracoastal Waterway. I kept chanting at the TV: just another couple of feet...just another couple of feet...I was totally pissed that she didn't fall in. Oh well, a bitch can hope.
Girls then went on over to the local supermarket to get all the fixings for their Eyetalian dinner in and honestly if those fucking twins said "WE NEED THE LONG HOT PEPPERS! YOU KNOW? THE LONG HOTS! YOU GOT ANY OF THOSE LONG HOT EYETALIAN PEPPERS? THE LONNNNNGGGG HOT ONES!" Of course just toting around an entire film crew wasn't attention grabbing enough. Even "I'm Hatin' On Her With A White Hot Intensity" Melissa The Gorgon, herself a shrill annoyance, was "SO OVER THEM!!" Yeah, Meliss, we know just how you feel..
There was one quick cut back to Joey the Ape "babysitting" the kids while Mom was whoring it up on the Intracoastal. Babysitting by Joey the Ape entails throwing his kids around...literally...and telling his seven year old daughter that he wasn't ready to "have The Talk" with her just yet. Oh, thank Christ, you moronic numbskull..SHE'S SEVEN!!! He also told us that once his daughter is old enough he's going to "break the Internet". Hmmmm....OK....presuming that your currrently seven year old daughter is going to become a porn addict is kinda creepy, no? But that's life with a man whose head is approximately the size of a billiard ball.
Okey dokey, following that throw away scene of mayhem we wind up WHERE??? In Casa Laurita with WHO???? Jacqueline and Kathy. What the What? Who the fuck invited them? True to her style, Kath's brought some calorie-laden, homemade goody for Jacqueline to sample. Delish, of course. Also? My prediction that Jac's love of plastic surgery has her on the fast track to becoming Big Ange is proving very insightful on behalf of The ABIB. In her talking head where Jacqueline is talking about...who the fuck knows..she's such a boring annoyance, plus I was transfixed by her ever-changing face which has now rendered her Asian. Fo rill, her eyes have been so pulled up that they have quite literally taken on the angle of Asian eyes. Anyway, Kath's come over to spill the news that she and Idiot In Chief Richie are building a new, BIGGER house in Franklin Lakes and that means she and the Lauritas are going to be neighbors! Kathy's evil plan to keep her grown kids at home forever (fuck, can you blame her, if they leave she's stuck with Idiot In Chief) is to build a house so huge that they each have their own WING! Yeah. Well, Jac's on the downsize train along with T and JJ, so Kathy's left out there in left field with her burgeoning new McMansion, which they visit even though its still just a shell and Jac's wearing 18 inch heels. Way to go ya fucking jackass.
We quickly rejoin the Boca Bitches and post-dinner they're outside just chillin' by "the tallest, skinniest palm tree" that Nicole or was it TeRESSa has ever seen. Then the producers get Dina all scripted out as she worries herself into a frenzy about how on earth she can keep this huge secret that T shared with her about how The Gotti Rumor From Hell is just too big to keep inside. Dina's determined to tell the secret but she can't tell, because...well, way back at the beginning of this post I told you all that Bravos got it on the tease for next week. For the last TWO weeks. So in the last 10 minutes of the show we're treated to Dina fretting should she tell, shouldn't she tell. She's been hinting at it since the bus ride in from the airport and the twins have openly stated that they don't wanna know. That don't matter because in the teaser we already know that Asshole From Outer Space Jim (of Jim and Amber) is going to shout out the news once the guys get there. Next week. Yeah, Bravo; fuck you!
So that's the latest except for T and her woes. I skipped over them cause frankly they're pretty boring. She's looking for a new, smaller house and JJ's in a suit. Nuff said. Stay tuned cause I'm pretty sure that this week's ep's gonna blow the lid on I Fucked My Monther-In-Law-Gate. Should be real, real, classy.
But Seriously Folks...
The insane asylum hothouse that is the Chicago improv "community" exists to perpetuate its own bloated self interest. It does this by huckstering multi-leveled "coursework" ostensibly aimed at creating armies of earnest improvisers poised to make their lives, and by extension, our world, a better place. In actuality what this pipeline churns out are armies of adherents willing to do nearly anything to be validated by their improv teachers and "coaches", themselves extensions of the organizations that sell the coursework. Any given cult or pyramid scheme uses methodologies to indoctrinate the faithful that bear striking resemblance to what passes for the advocacy of the group think of improv. Its all about the "yes, and"...or actually, “there’s a sucker born every minute”. Let me begin by painting a picture.
Eager Young Person: I want to be an improviser so I came to Chicago. I live in a crowded apartment with four other young wanna-be improvisers and we all work minimum wage jobs. Can you help me (insert here your choice: iO, The Annoyance, The Playground, Second City)?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School (again, insert your choice from the list above): Can we help you? Babe, you can’t get ANYWHERE in this town WITHOUT our help. You’ve come to the right place.
Eager Young Person: What do I need to do?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School: OK, first, give us several thousand dollars and all of your free time to take classes at our establishments that span several levels and many, many months, if not years. Following that, audition for one of our “teams” in a very competitive but essentially totally random selection process. You will be observed and your skills judged by (in one of our $$$$ “schools”) a shadowy organization made up of self-important douchebags who call themselves The Harold Commission. Let me repeat that: The Harold Commission. Commission. Yes, I know; try hard not to laugh at this level of outlandish pomposity. This holy order is named for "The Harold", the signature improv format that nobody outside of the insular world of improv has ever heard of. The Harold was invented by cult-founder-leader-for-eternity-self-proclaimed-warlock-and-clearly-certifiable-sadistic-maniac Del Close who, in the late 1950s, supposedly invented the cult...er, " art", of improv. I’m not going to go into his story so as not to rile up the pathetic faithful who continue to extol his superior vision all these years later. To improv purists Del Close is quite literally a god.
So, if you aren’t selected its because you did something wrong or otherwise missed the deep message embedded in the training you’ve just had, so clearly you need to go back to the beginning and start again. Come back for another audition in about 18 months, but of course, no promises. In the meantime max out your credit cards and, or, beg money from relatives to pay for this next round of “education” because, of course, by beginning again you have to pay the full fee. And you'll go on paying it until we deem you sufficiently "educated". Also, know that once you complete the first two or three levels that ensure that you’re adequately indoctrinated into our group think, cultish lifestyle, we’ll precipitously limit the the number of “students” that have to compete for a dwindling number of slots in our “courses” in order to complete the full roster of “training” that allows you to audition for a “team”. Oh, and sometimes those audition slots are limited to the point that online registration for an audition is filled in a matter of a few seconds. Have fun with that because that’s what the mind fuck of Chicago improv is all about. If your life is disrupted to the point that you have to take a day off work in order to be at your laptop when registration opens, oh well, that’s the improv life - a full-on commitment to playing by our random, ever-changing rules. You gotta want it! Plus, if it isn't obvious by now we really like to shake our dicks at all of you just because we can. That and we're awful, awful people.
Eager Young Person: OK, if I do that will I get on a “team” and be able to perform and use all the skills I’ve learned going through your course levels again? Will I be able to get on SNL then?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School: Not so fast. If you’ve set aside your ego sufficiently this time to be able to absorb the improv wisdom that has been presented to you in this second (or third, or fourth, or fifth) round of coursework (and we’ll be the sole judge of that), and you successfully pass the audition for a “team”, then you get to BE on the team, pay money to us each week for a team “coach”, and fork over the cost of our performance space when your team is on stage. You, of course, earn zero money for this activity; you’re just one of the lucky ones that gets to be in the position to pay US for the opportunity we’re offering you to get into the “group mind” of improv. Of course we sell the fuck out of tickets to those folks who come to see your team perform because, well, we set the rules, remember? Also, if you’re really, really lucky we’ll pick you to work for free selling tickets or tearing tickets or pouring beers because by volunteering your free time to work in a for-fucking-profit enterprise you show us just how much you WANT IT. Oh, did we tell you we’re building a new seven million dollar theater across town? Yeah, it’s good to be king. Or queen, as the case may be.
Eager Young Person: Where do I sign up? AKA, please, please love me.
And...scene. So if I told this story to a random group of people not brainwashed by the improv cult leaders that rule the improv roost in Chicago would any of them in their right mind choose to participate? Uh, just in case I have to spell it out for you...oh, hell no. However, what you read just now is exactly the way the world works in the factory farm environment that is Chicago improv. The difference being that it’s not cattle being sent down the chute to the slaughter, its young people from around the country who make the pilgrimage to Chicago because they saw a few episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway? and expect that they’ll become the next in a supposedly long line of winners chosen by Lorne Michaels to join his SNL casts over the years. Reality being reality, a decent guess as to the chances of that happening, based on the number of young people paying to become an improv "star" versus the number of actual stars that have been made over the years is about 1 in 50,000. If the odds are even that good. For real.
So there you have it, folks. The dirty little secret that is the rigged game of the Chicago improv world. All the chips for all the prizes for all time are owned by the few at the top of the pyramid and paid for by the multitudes of slaves at the bottom of the pyramid. So, YOU! Yes, you, that slob in the flannel shirt, geek-chic glasses and dirty sneakers, shuffle on over here to Chi-town and take your place in the great factory that is Chicago improv. We guarantee you’ll be glad you did. And what were you going to do with that down payment cash anyway? That house will always be there and, after all, it’s just a house. We’re offering you the chance to create ART with a capital “A” because we’re all assholes with a capital “A” and we’re damn fucking proud of it.
Eager Young Person: I want to be an improviser so I came to Chicago. I live in a crowded apartment with four other young wanna-be improvisers and we all work minimum wage jobs. Can you help me (insert here your choice: iO, The Annoyance, The Playground, Second City)?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School (again, insert your choice from the list above): Can we help you? Babe, you can’t get ANYWHERE in this town WITHOUT our help. You’ve come to the right place.
Eager Young Person: What do I need to do?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School: OK, first, give us several thousand dollars and all of your free time to take classes at our establishments that span several levels and many, many months, if not years. Following that, audition for one of our “teams” in a very competitive but essentially totally random selection process. You will be observed and your skills judged by (in one of our $$$$ “schools”) a shadowy organization made up of self-important douchebags who call themselves The Harold Commission. Let me repeat that: The Harold Commission. Commission. Yes, I know; try hard not to laugh at this level of outlandish pomposity. This holy order is named for "The Harold", the signature improv format that nobody outside of the insular world of improv has ever heard of. The Harold was invented by cult-founder-leader-for-eternity-self-proclaimed-warlock-and-clearly-certifiable-sadistic-maniac Del Close who, in the late 1950s, supposedly invented the cult...er, " art", of improv. I’m not going to go into his story so as not to rile up the pathetic faithful who continue to extol his superior vision all these years later. To improv purists Del Close is quite literally a god.
So, if you aren’t selected its because you did something wrong or otherwise missed the deep message embedded in the training you’ve just had, so clearly you need to go back to the beginning and start again. Come back for another audition in about 18 months, but of course, no promises. In the meantime max out your credit cards and, or, beg money from relatives to pay for this next round of “education” because, of course, by beginning again you have to pay the full fee. And you'll go on paying it until we deem you sufficiently "educated". Also, know that once you complete the first two or three levels that ensure that you’re adequately indoctrinated into our group think, cultish lifestyle, we’ll precipitously limit the the number of “students” that have to compete for a dwindling number of slots in our “courses” in order to complete the full roster of “training” that allows you to audition for a “team”. Oh, and sometimes those audition slots are limited to the point that online registration for an audition is filled in a matter of a few seconds. Have fun with that because that’s what the mind fuck of Chicago improv is all about. If your life is disrupted to the point that you have to take a day off work in order to be at your laptop when registration opens, oh well, that’s the improv life - a full-on commitment to playing by our random, ever-changing rules. You gotta want it! Plus, if it isn't obvious by now we really like to shake our dicks at all of you just because we can. That and we're awful, awful people.
Eager Young Person: OK, if I do that will I get on a “team” and be able to perform and use all the skills I’ve learned going through your course levels again? Will I be able to get on SNL then?
Multimillion Dollar Improvisation Theater/School: Not so fast. If you’ve set aside your ego sufficiently this time to be able to absorb the improv wisdom that has been presented to you in this second (or third, or fourth, or fifth) round of coursework (and we’ll be the sole judge of that), and you successfully pass the audition for a “team”, then you get to BE on the team, pay money to us each week for a team “coach”, and fork over the cost of our performance space when your team is on stage. You, of course, earn zero money for this activity; you’re just one of the lucky ones that gets to be in the position to pay US for the opportunity we’re offering you to get into the “group mind” of improv. Of course we sell the fuck out of tickets to those folks who come to see your team perform because, well, we set the rules, remember? Also, if you’re really, really lucky we’ll pick you to work for free selling tickets or tearing tickets or pouring beers because by volunteering your free time to work in a for-fucking-profit enterprise you show us just how much you WANT IT. Oh, did we tell you we’re building a new seven million dollar theater across town? Yeah, it’s good to be king. Or queen, as the case may be.
Eager Young Person: Where do I sign up? AKA, please, please love me.
And...scene. So if I told this story to a random group of people not brainwashed by the improv cult leaders that rule the improv roost in Chicago would any of them in their right mind choose to participate? Uh, just in case I have to spell it out for you...oh, hell no. However, what you read just now is exactly the way the world works in the factory farm environment that is Chicago improv. The difference being that it’s not cattle being sent down the chute to the slaughter, its young people from around the country who make the pilgrimage to Chicago because they saw a few episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway? and expect that they’ll become the next in a supposedly long line of winners chosen by Lorne Michaels to join his SNL casts over the years. Reality being reality, a decent guess as to the chances of that happening, based on the number of young people paying to become an improv "star" versus the number of actual stars that have been made over the years is about 1 in 50,000. If the odds are even that good. For real.
So there you have it, folks. The dirty little secret that is the rigged game of the Chicago improv world. All the chips for all the prizes for all time are owned by the few at the top of the pyramid and paid for by the multitudes of slaves at the bottom of the pyramid. So, YOU! Yes, you, that slob in the flannel shirt, geek-chic glasses and dirty sneakers, shuffle on over here to Chi-town and take your place in the great factory that is Chicago improv. We guarantee you’ll be glad you did. And what were you going to do with that down payment cash anyway? That house will always be there and, after all, it’s just a house. We’re offering you the chance to create ART with a capital “A” because we’re all assholes with a capital “A” and we’re damn fucking proud of it.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Three Musketeers Mini Annoyed At Being The Last Candy Left in the Bowl - Again
Jill's Office, Andover, Massachusetts - A Three Musketeers Bite Size Mini was heard voicing its annoyance at once again being left as the last candy in the candy bowl on Jill's desk. Previously filled to the brim with mini Hershey bars, Kit Kats, Milky Way bars and Twix, the bowl was down to one lone bite size Three Musketeers.
"I don't get it. I'm chocolate inside, chocolate outside, light, airy and delicious. What the hell does Kit Kat have that I don't? So what if its crunchy; I'm fluffy! And don't even get me started on the Reese's. Peanut butter? Please."
Jill's candy bowl is a well-known office hangout for co-workers needing a mid or late afternoon sugar fix. People have been known to openly pick through the Three Musketeers to get to a Hershey's kiss buried at the bottom of the glass bowl. Overheard recently when encountering the last Three Musketeers, two co-workers conjectured on what might be in the vending machine down on five, baldly voicing their disdain for the Three Musketeers as "nothing but corn syrup and air; its not even candy, really". They left the mini alone in the bowl and were heard to be pooling their change to buy a bag of Skittles.
"That was the low point for me," the mini Three Musketeers grumbled, "I mean what does a candy have to do to be picked? A song and dance routine? I'm silver, red, white and blue for Christ sake! My Truffle Crisp even says "New" on the front! Jill's gonna come in here soon and dump in a whole new bag of the glitterati and there I'll be...back at the bottom again. So unfair."
When last heard from the bite sized Three Musketeers was plotting to unwrap itself in a desperate bid to be noticed. Chuckling at the top of the pile were a mini bag of Reese's Pieces and two Rolos.
"Loser."
"I don't get it. I'm chocolate inside, chocolate outside, light, airy and delicious. What the hell does Kit Kat have that I don't? So what if its crunchy; I'm fluffy! And don't even get me started on the Reese's. Peanut butter? Please."
Jill's candy bowl is a well-known office hangout for co-workers needing a mid or late afternoon sugar fix. People have been known to openly pick through the Three Musketeers to get to a Hershey's kiss buried at the bottom of the glass bowl. Overheard recently when encountering the last Three Musketeers, two co-workers conjectured on what might be in the vending machine down on five, baldly voicing their disdain for the Three Musketeers as "nothing but corn syrup and air; its not even candy, really". They left the mini alone in the bowl and were heard to be pooling their change to buy a bag of Skittles.
"That was the low point for me," the mini Three Musketeers grumbled, "I mean what does a candy have to do to be picked? A song and dance routine? I'm silver, red, white and blue for Christ sake! My Truffle Crisp even says "New" on the front! Jill's gonna come in here soon and dump in a whole new bag of the glitterati and there I'll be...back at the bottom again. So unfair."
When last heard from the bite sized Three Musketeers was plotting to unwrap itself in a desperate bid to be noticed. Chuckling at the top of the pile were a mini bag of Reese's Pieces and two Rolos.
"Loser."
Local Woman Admits to Having Problem With Overuse of Enthusiastic Punctuation
Rachel Williamson of Edina took the first steps toward recovery today when she resisted the urge to add an exclamation point to the end of her email to several colleagues at the accounting firm where she is a group level administrative assistant.
“I’ve known for some time that I have a problem,” Rachel quietly admitted, “it’s something that, up until now, I’ve been unable, or maybe unwilling, to control. It’s just so easy to be that cheerful, ebullient enthusiastic person when you’ve got the exclamation point crutch. I finally had to admit to the problem when the exclamation points started to creep into my Word documents, titles on Excel spreadsheets…even my text messages…I’m so ashamed.” Ironically described as “quiet” by her coworkers and friends, Rachel admits that her addiction has been an uphill battle.
“It’s so easy to be that jaunty, bubbly person when you’re hiding behind an exclamation point.”
It was a polite but direct email reply from her manager requesting that she “tone it down in her emails” that was the first clue to Rachel that she had to take action.
“I have to say that at first I was hurt when I got Ed’s email. I mean, I’m just trying to be cheerful and bright. But then I realized that Ed was right…it was just too much. I was practically shouting my cheerfulness to people. I mean who talks that way?”
Rachel’s next step was to discreetly reach out to fellow enthusiastic punctuation overusers in her office and form a self-help group. They meet once a week at lunch at a local Panera Bread.
“It’s loud enough in there that we can all really just be ourselves, really let our enthusiastic hair down and share.”
“We all knew we had a problem. I was grateful to Rachel for reaching out,” said Maggie, “I have a problem with both exclamation points and happy faces…well, actually all kinds of emoticons.”
Rachel admits that she’s still got a ways to go in her recovery.
“What with Instagram, Tumblr and Facebook, we enthusiastic punctuation overusers have a special challenge in fighting against the immediate gratification of adding those four…or Lord help me…even five or six, exclamation points to the end of a post or a Tweet…It’s a journey.”
“I’ve known for some time that I have a problem,” Rachel quietly admitted, “it’s something that, up until now, I’ve been unable, or maybe unwilling, to control. It’s just so easy to be that cheerful, ebullient enthusiastic person when you’ve got the exclamation point crutch. I finally had to admit to the problem when the exclamation points started to creep into my Word documents, titles on Excel spreadsheets…even my text messages…I’m so ashamed.” Ironically described as “quiet” by her coworkers and friends, Rachel admits that her addiction has been an uphill battle.
“It’s so easy to be that jaunty, bubbly person when you’re hiding behind an exclamation point.”
It was a polite but direct email reply from her manager requesting that she “tone it down in her emails” that was the first clue to Rachel that she had to take action.
“I have to say that at first I was hurt when I got Ed’s email. I mean, I’m just trying to be cheerful and bright. But then I realized that Ed was right…it was just too much. I was practically shouting my cheerfulness to people. I mean who talks that way?”
Rachel’s next step was to discreetly reach out to fellow enthusiastic punctuation overusers in her office and form a self-help group. They meet once a week at lunch at a local Panera Bread.
“It’s loud enough in there that we can all really just be ourselves, really let our enthusiastic hair down and share.”
“We all knew we had a problem. I was grateful to Rachel for reaching out,” said Maggie, “I have a problem with both exclamation points and happy faces…well, actually all kinds of emoticons.”
Rachel admits that she’s still got a ways to go in her recovery.
“What with Instagram, Tumblr and Facebook, we enthusiastic punctuation overusers have a special challenge in fighting against the immediate gratification of adding those four…or Lord help me…even five or six, exclamation points to the end of a post or a Tweet…It’s a journey.”
Sunday, September 14, 2014
RHONJ Shorthand Quickie Update
So, three weeks in what have you missed?
Lotta prayin' goin' on.
Lotta wondering from T: Why is this happening to us?
Lotta mail, mortgage and and wire fraud - that's why, moron.
A second Theresa who calls herself TeRESSa.
Her twin named Nicole who only needs oral sex and Dunkin' Donuts.
Amber who can't keep a secret and who is potentially the busiest busybody on a franchise dedicated to the nearly worshipful exposure of busybodies.
Her douchebag husband Michael who is a LAWya. And, like I said, a douchebag.
Oh, and Rino, TheRESSa's husband who, when they were divorced from being married the first time, slept with her mother. According to sometime-RHONJ-guest-star and full time buddy of T, Victoria Gotti. Yeah, THAT Gotti. Everyone now, sing with me: Mother in law....MOTHER IN LAW...Mother in law...MOTHER IN LAW...Oy, the ick factor could NOT be higher.
Blessedly precious little of blockhead-in-chief Richie Wakile. But Kathy still occasionally appears bearing canollis.
Also blessedly less of Rosie the Rivet Head, who, BTW, has a new girlfriend...good on you Rosie, now go away...just go away...
More to despise about Melissa the little asshat and her bullet-headed husband Joey the Ape: lying, throwing shade every-fucking-where, humble bragging about having to pay to fix her Bentley because "it was icy out that day...", bitching and moaning about the indignity of having to live in a downsized rental house while their new custom giganto mcmansion is being built, being concerned for T and JJ and their kids because of all the, you know, "legal stuff". You know that secretly she's just filled with evil glee that T, her sister-in-law-cum-nemesis, is now twisting in the wind. Melissa, I think I'll hate you most of all...
And last but not least, rather BEST: the triumphant return of Dina Manzo the gloriously delightful and refreshing voice of reason and sanity on an otherwise crackpot cast of 40-something juvenile delinquents. Dina, whose sister you may recall is the high and mighty mother to three empty headed ninnies, Caroline Manzo. Caroline, or Dirty C, as I like to think of her, is OFF THE PROGRAM!! She got a spin-off with her scrounging-for-IQ offspring so at least I don't have to put up with their dipshit nonsense on RHONJ. Lordy good riddance!
I will be picking up where this blog left off with weekly updates on the RHONJ and anything else that occurs to me that's worthy of a righteous rant. Until then I will return to lobbying Dina Manzo to be her new BFF, because she's here this season to bring the Zen. And because she has a whole room dedicated to her color-sorted shoe collection. Namaste, bitches!
Lotta prayin' goin' on.
Lotta wondering from T: Why is this happening to us?
Lotta mail, mortgage and and wire fraud - that's why, moron.
A second Theresa who calls herself TeRESSa.
Her twin named Nicole who only needs oral sex and Dunkin' Donuts.
Amber who can't keep a secret and who is potentially the busiest busybody on a franchise dedicated to the nearly worshipful exposure of busybodies.
Her douchebag husband Michael who is a LAWya. And, like I said, a douchebag.
Oh, and Rino, TheRESSa's husband who, when they were divorced from being married the first time, slept with her mother. According to sometime-RHONJ-guest-star and full time buddy of T, Victoria Gotti. Yeah, THAT Gotti. Everyone now, sing with me: Mother in law....MOTHER IN LAW...Mother in law...MOTHER IN LAW...Oy, the ick factor could NOT be higher.
Blessedly precious little of blockhead-in-chief Richie Wakile. But Kathy still occasionally appears bearing canollis.
Also blessedly less of Rosie the Rivet Head, who, BTW, has a new girlfriend...good on you Rosie, now go away...just go away...
More to despise about Melissa the little asshat and her bullet-headed husband Joey the Ape: lying, throwing shade every-fucking-where, humble bragging about having to pay to fix her Bentley because "it was icy out that day...", bitching and moaning about the indignity of having to live in a downsized rental house while their new custom giganto mcmansion is being built, being concerned for T and JJ and their kids because of all the, you know, "legal stuff". You know that secretly she's just filled with evil glee that T, her sister-in-law-cum-nemesis, is now twisting in the wind. Melissa, I think I'll hate you most of all...
And last but not least, rather BEST: the triumphant return of Dina Manzo the gloriously delightful and refreshing voice of reason and sanity on an otherwise crackpot cast of 40-something juvenile delinquents. Dina, whose sister you may recall is the high and mighty mother to three empty headed ninnies, Caroline Manzo. Caroline, or Dirty C, as I like to think of her, is OFF THE PROGRAM!! She got a spin-off with her scrounging-for-IQ offspring so at least I don't have to put up with their dipshit nonsense on RHONJ. Lordy good riddance!
I will be picking up where this blog left off with weekly updates on the RHONJ and anything else that occurs to me that's worthy of a righteous rant. Until then I will return to lobbying Dina Manzo to be her new BFF, because she's here this season to bring the Zen. And because she has a whole room dedicated to her color-sorted shoe collection. Namaste, bitches!
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