Filthy's on the warpath, looking to scalp a hubby. It seems like
every six months she gets a burr up her ass about me getting a
job. Don't get me wrong; I still love her like a zoo ape loves
jerking off in front of the kids. That is, with both my hands.
But I don't know what makes her decide she's sick of paying the
bills alone every six months or so. It's not like I'm unmotivated.
I think about getting a job all the time, and I even start the
applications if they're right there on the placemat, and I have
a pen handy, and there's no fat family fighting over the chicken
tenders for my entertainment.
couple weeks ago, I got a brilliant idea, so I collected a stack
of applications from local businesses that have cool shit I can
steal, like the Big O Tires, K-Mart, Martial Arts Warehouse, Paint
Gun Supply, Hot Dog on a Stick and the Salvation Army. My idea
was to fill them out at the Tavern because I always get supermotivated
to do shit with my life after two pitchers of Bud and a pickled
egg. Plus, I get really creative when I'm drunk. It's when I do
my best dancing, singing and choose the most interesting things
to defecate on. As an added bonus, I have a harder time remembering
what's true and what's a lie about my own past, so I'm way more
likely to write bullshit next to the questions about felonies
and college educations and not worry about it. This one application,
I swear, was developed specifically to exclude me because it had
eight questions about personal hygiene. You know what? Urine is
sterile, so I ain't washing my hands after pissing just to make
settled into my booth the other night, rubbed it clean it with
a rag, laid out my applications real neatly, set out two fresh
Bic pens and cleared my mind. Then I puked because I ate that
taco out of the dumpster. Or from sniffing Gorilla Glue. Whatever,
I was pissed at first, and then not so pissed, because once I
wiped away the chyme and bile it made the applications look sort
of old-fashiony, like a treasure map or Dead Sea scroll. So long
as whatever asshole reading them doesn't stick his nose up to
them, I'm sitting pretty.
gotta say, this was one of my greatest inspirations. Better than
buttering that cat, for sure, and that started out as a pretty
great idea. I took some good tips from Worm, like to misspell
shit because tat tells them I got a lot of big fish on the line.
I ignored suggestions from the Harelip because it almost always
had to do with her vagina. I plowed through those applications
like Candy Bottoms through frat boys in One Ton Fuck.
like after my blood was suitably diffused booze, the pen wrote
all by itself. With every application my confidence grew. I told
those store managers things about me I wouldn't even tell my wife
when I'm drunk. Under "other skills" I let Arby's know that I
was the man any time the job called for a Dirty Sanchez. The Big
O now knows how I once tried to install my own tires and broke
both arms when I trapped them between the rim and lip. Managers
are really impressed with that self-motivation shit. "Look at
me, I'm a God damn go-getter!" No, wait, I wrote that on the King
a few I applied under awesome made-up names. How can the Volkswagen
Parts and More not hire Johnny Farfrompuken?
my inspiration flagged, but after last call, I walked around the
city and slipped my applications under the doors of the respective
businesses. Except for the Salvation Army. Their door is flush
with the ground, so I busted out a window and stuck it in there.
How's that for problem solving skills? I'll let you know what
happens next, but I'm feeling pretty good about my prospects.
And when I feel good sober about a decision I made while drunk
that's the God damn Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.
funny, you know, that the same week I finally got so fucking serious
about taking a job, I saw a zombie movie that lampoons the working
class. Shaun of the Dead takes place in London and suggests
that there ain't much difference between the living dead and the
mindless shuffle of the average stiff who goes through his routine
without much variation. It's a pretty damn good concept, and funny
enough. It'd be even better if it didn't drag on so long.
Simon Pegg plays Shaun, a soft, lazy layabout with no career goals
and a girlfriend frustrated by his lack of motivation. He buys
the same junk food for breakfast every morning, allows his fat,
unemployed bum friend (Nick Frost) to live indefinitely on his
couch, and gets drunk in the same dreary tavern every night. Slowly,
and without him noticing, Pegg's neighborhood is overtaken by
the walking dead. By the time he catches on, he's surrounded and
endangered. He and Frost have to rise from their sofa to not only
save their own asses but those of Pegg's mom and girlfriend. In
this, Pegg goes from slacker to team leader and hero.
movie is a companion piece to pretty much all other zombie movies.
It doesn't add to what we've learned about zombies, and for that
we are all no better off. These movies need to help us understand
a little better how to fuck to win when zombies really do come.
That's why people go to see movies. Like, how will I know when
it's finally okay to chop the head off the Harelip? Sure, she's
already got the pallid, wormy skin and sagging shape of the undead,
but she still talks too fucking much to be dead. Shaun of the
Dead doesn't mock zombie movie conventions; it plays by them,
even using the slow-stumbling sort rather than the more recent
"running" zombies. You can tell writer/director Edgar Wright and
Pegg love zombies. I do too. Not in a "I want to fuck them" way,
because, seriously, probably only ten percent of zombies are hot
enough to bone. Only a sicko would want to hump more.
movie makes its jokes at the expense of the ruts people get into,
and jabs at its characters, which comprise the stereotypes: the
reluctant hero, the slacker friend, the cocky prick who thinks
he knows best, challenges the hero and gets his comeuppance, the
sort of girlfriend who needs to be won back, etc. And of course,
it's got some visual gags about beating the shit out of zombies.
got me thinking. Even pussies can beat up zombies, but what if
I can't? You know, like what if the world were overtaken by the
undead and my friends all thought it'd be fun to go out with softball
bats and knock the stuffing out of a few. Even the skinny girls
do it, but I suck. I can't even knock off an arm or poke out an
eye. Man, I hope zombies don't come because it's embarrassing
enough for me getting my ass kicked by teenagers every couple
movie's got loads of charm. The characters are all nice, maybe
too nice, and maybe too well liked by the writers. And the plot
is as clever as any zombie movie. The problems with Shaun of
the Dead are in the length and its talkiness. If ever a movie
could benefit from a bit more brain bashing and a little less
introspective yammering, this is it. By the end, I knew the characters
well enough to move beyond liking them to being bored with them.
They are too needy. Much time is spent holed up talking about
feelings and expressing feelings. It is, after all, a zombie movie
and the emphasis should be more on blood and guts than on a boyfriend
getting back together with his girlfriend and showing his mom
he loves her. I mean, that stuff's sweet in small doses, but in
big doses it's as nauseating as Wienerschnitzel chili.
dug that it started with the Specials' "Ghost Town" which is a
pretty fucking great song. But I wasn't too crazy about the fact
it ended on a happy note. Let the zombies win. Don't make the
mistake of thinking we came to see people get what they want.
Three Fingers for Shaun of a the Dead, a good flick,
but not as good as the Dawn of the Dead from earlier this
if you'll excuse me, the manager at Glee's Hallmark just called
and asked for "Franklin Superstud." Sounds like there's gonna
be a new sheriff in the Precious Moments aisle.
Filthy || Want to tell Filthy