When the world gives you lemons

It’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re dressed in a rainbow poncho and matching sombrero, especially in a busy airport. Santo fidgeted as he walked past travellers decked out in business suits and holiday clothes, their judgemental gazes seemingly burning holes in him. He adjusted his large backpack and kept moving through the crowd, head down, gaze averted, short legs pumping away at the tiled floor. It was always like this when he travelled – the stares, the pointing fingers, the rude comments – but he was getting used to it, at least to a degree. It wasn’t as if he really had a choice though. For years he had been representing Mexico at the different Pokemon championships around the world, and the body which organised the events insisted that every entrant wear his or her nation’s traditional costume wherever they went. They said it was to foster a ‘greater understanding of diverse cultural backgrounds’, but Santo suspected that they were just arseholes having a good laugh at his expense. A small boy called out as Santo trudged through the terminal. ‘Look, Grandpa! It’s Speedy Gonzales!’
Santo flipped out. He could deal with snide comments and staring businessmen, but he couldn’t deal with slurs from children, which is why he turned towards the kid and kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling across the floor. As the grandfather reached out to grab his grandson Santo disappeared into the crowd, insofar as a rainbow-poncho-wearing Mexican can ‘disappear’ in a crowd of Japanese businessmen. There were no heavy footfalls behind him, nor was there any shouting from security guards, so he kept moving at a constant pace towards the security checkpoint.

Pokemon Master! Who would’ve thought such a thing even existed? As far as most of the world was concerned, Pokemon just existed on television or in computer games designed for children with ADD. Santo and his competitors knew differently, they knew that Pokemon had a purpose in the world, which is why he was walking through Tokyo International Airport with a backpack crammed full of the little bastards. Santo maintained a love/hate relationship with his Pokemon charges – on the one hand he loved travelling the world and participating in the championships, on the other hand he hated being abused for his pastime and his nationality. As in the past, Japan was the worst place to visit – once people stopped laughing at the idea of a world Pokemon Championship, they laughed at the idea of a Mexican Pokemon Master. Santo was a nerd at heart, despite his violent temper, and he knew that he couldn’t fight a whole country, so every time he visited Japan he kept his head down and took the insults on the chin, except the ones aimed at him by six-year-olds. He hated kids. As he passed a bank of money exchange booths he glanced up to get his bearings, and froze solid. The security checkpoint was ahead, and he started to sweat. It was the hardest part of any trip for him because he was completely at the mercy of the guards on duty. If they insulted him, he had to ignore it, if a six-year-old insulted him he had to control the urge to punch the kid in the neck, if a bag search was required he had to open it and stand there, completely humiliated. Santo ducked into a bathroom on his left, washed his face and straightened his ridiculous poncho. ‘Respectability,’ he said to himself. ‘Others will not respect you if you do not respect yourself.’ He didn’t believe it one bit, and but adjusted his sombrero anyway. He straightened his pack as he left the bathroom and walked with purpose towards the checkpoint where a line of people waited to be processed. He started to sweat again, but hoped that he could explain it away by saying he’d just washed his face – security guards LOVE bullying sweaty passengers. To an airport guard ‘sweaty passenger’ means ‘terrorist’, and ‘sweaty Mexican passenger’ means ‘terrorist drug dealer’, so Santa couldn’t afford to take any chances. He put his bag down on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. The guard took one look at him and pulled him aside. ‘English?’ he asked.
‘Si. I mean, “yes”.’
‘Good. Is there something wrong, sir? Your face is red and you’re sweating. Is anything the bother?’
Santo relaxed – he could do this.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine. I just washed my face in the bathroom.’
The guard looked stared at Santo for a few seconds and said, ‘There was a problem with your backpack. Come this way please.’
Santo’s heart skipped a beat – he wasn’t worried in the way a bearded Muslim would be worried in this situation, he was worried in the way a nerd gets worried when a pretty girl finds his collection of action figures. The guard, carrying Santo’s backpack, led the way to a room with no windows, motioned Santo inside, and shut the door.
‘Would you please open your backpack, sir?’
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’
‘Open your pack.’
Santo sighed and his shoulders sagged. Here we go, he thought.
He unzipped his bag and flopped the top open, whereupon the guard burst out laughing. ‘What are these, sir? Your bag is full of dolls!’
‘They’re my Pokemon.’
‘You mean like the children’s toy?’
‘Yes. I’m here for the World Pokemon Championships. I’m representing Mexico.’
The guard was crying with laughter, tears streaming down his face. ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! A Mexican po…po… Pokemon master! Hahahaha.’
Santo stood stock-still, his eyes downcast. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
The guard kept on laughing. ‘Wait… wait here. Ah. Haha. Let me show my colleague.’
The guard opened the door and called out to someone. A few seconds later another guard entered the room, and after a brief exchange in rapid Japanese burst out laughing. He had to hold the table to stop himself from falling over. ‘Ridiculous!’ he managed, before doubling up with laughter again.
‘Can I go now?’ asked Santo.
‘Why? Are you… are you SLEEPY?’ the guard burst out laughing again.
It took all of Santo’s willpower to control the urge to scream at the guard. He instead opted for a ‘That’s not very nice,’ before zipping up his backpack. ‘Just because I’m Mexican doesn’t mean I can’t be a Pokemon Master!’
The guards were lying on the floor in hysterical fits of laughter when Santo walked out. Tears were blooming in his eyes as he exited the terminal; how dare they! He hailed the first cab he saw and climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the address of a warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo. The driver, thankfully, didn’t bother him as they drove through the congested traffic, so Santo sat in quiet contemplation.

An hour later they arrived at a dilapidated warehouse which a surprising number of cars had parked outside. Santo paid the driver and entered the building through a side door, making sure no one saw him. Inside were lines and lines of trestle tables, behind which a number of men stood, each dressed in their national costumes. There was a German in lederhosen, a Russian in a tall fluffy hat, an Englishman in a top hat and tails, and many other people from many other countries. Santo walked up to the Japanese table and, without a word, opened his pack and lined up his Pokemon in front of him. The ‘Samurai’ curtly nodded. They stared at each other like seasoned combatants for a moment, stiffly shook hands, then burst out laughing.
‘Your costume looks ridiculous! It’s even better than last time! Rainbow? Really? Unbelievable!’
‘Yours isn’t much better. Who ever heard of a Samurai who stands five feet tall?’
The Samurai chuckled. ‘We all have our little fantasies. Did you have any trouble at the airport?’
Santo smiled. ‘Some, but the guards were too busy laughing at my poncho and my Pokemon to do a proper search.’
‘Good, good. It sounds like it went just as planned. Do you have our product?’
‘I do.’
Santo reached down and picked up a yellow Pokemon that he didn’t know the name of; what did he care what the stupid thing was called? It was just a doll. He tipped it over and stuck his hand up the bottom of it, rummaging around before pulling out a neatly-bundled package of white powder which he handed to the Samurai.
‘Outstanding. You really have a knack for this business, Santo. We’ll transfer the money into your account immediately.’
Santo lifted the brim of his hat slightly and smiled. ‘Thank you, you are most kind.’
As they rummaged around inside the rest of the dolls the small Japanese man turned to Santo and said, ‘I was disappointed to lose the last shipment, but I’m glad you adapted after such a negative development.’
Santo just shrugged. ‘It’s like they say back in Mexico: “When life gives you lemons, sell the lemons, buy some cocaine, and smuggle it to Japan inside the anus of a small animal.’ He paused. ‘Or something like that anyway.’

Topics needed for this week's story

Last week's story worked quite well, so I'd like to make it a regular thing. If you have ideas for me to write a story about, put them in the comments section of this post.

Same as last week, any topic goes, 5 topics per person so there's some variety of input, and we'll see how it goes. I'll choose which one to write about on Wednesday night.

Get suggesting!

Knut, the German Snow Dog

Dear Professor House,

My name is Cornelius Littleton and I work at the Plateau Seven weather station in the Artic Circle. It’s the oldest meteorological station that your department runs and, quite frankly, I get the feeling that people back in the Big Smoke forget about us sometimes.

I’m writing to you because I’m afraid we will not last the next two months if Knut stays on the station. He’s ‘the real snow dog’ your department sent a month ago; you remember, yes? He’s the German Shepherd that was sent instead of the requested Husky or Malamoot. As if that wasn’t inconvenient enough, it seems that Knut will only answer to ‘Knut, the German Snow Dog’ these days, which is part of the reason for my correspondence. Realistically he should answer to ‘Knut’ – it’s much too hard to manage the sled dog teams if we have to call out ‘Knut, the German Snow Dog’ every time we want an order followed. It really is too much and to be perfectly honest with you we will not tolerate it any longer.

I’m writing you a letter because our wireless is STILL broken, despite our every effort to repair it (and your department’s insistence that we didn’t NEED a wireless in the first place), and our only contact with the outside world is the fortnightly supply/mail boat. Might I add that we would have solved this problem ourselves had the captain of said boat not flatly refused to take Knut on board? His exact words were, ‘Under no circumstances will Knut board this vessel – not after what he did to the cook on the trip over. Animals like that have no place on a ship’. I am contacting you directly because everyone else has ignored my previous letters, despite the fact that I have been following the established protocols. I get the feeling that I am being punished for some transgression of which I am unaware. If this is the case, please inform me so I may rectify the situation as soon as possible.

This isn’t about the thing with your daughter, is it?

Our problems started the moment Knut landed on our dock – he had been thrown there by the captain of the supply boat, in addition to some very choice words. We were polite and non-confrontational but Knut just growled at us and lumbered off to the huts. Not an ideal start, but this sort of work takes all kinds, doesn’t it? Davis, my research partner, asked the captain why Knut had been delivered so unceremoniously to our small piece of civilisation, to which the captain replied, ‘Anyone who attacks one of MY crew with such wanton sexual abandon does not deserve the slightest bit of courtesy.’ It must’ve been quite a crime because the captain didn’t linger, as is his usual custom, – he simply dropped off the supplies and exchanged mailbags before casting off and sailing away. Somewhat perturbed, we followed Knut’s footsteps back to the huts and eventually traced him to a corner of the kitchen where he had curled up next to the stove and fallen asleep. Unusual behaviour, certainly, but it takes a certain strength of character to work in this place, so we didn’t think that much of it – we simply put it down to a tired old dog resting his weary bones – so we left him be until morning, or at least what passes for a morning up here. The constant darkness gets to you after a while, maybe even makes you a bit mad. You don’t have to have an idiotic coffee mug to work here, but it helps!

Are you sure this isn’t about your daughter? I thought we’d put that behind us.

The next morning Davis took Knut out to the sled teams to get him settled in. If he was to be our team leader he needed to get acquainted with our existing dogs. Everyone except the lead dog, Basil, took a liking to Knut immediately, so the previous day’s misgivings were somewhat assuaged right up until the point where Knut viciously bit Basil on the back of the neck. Now, I understand that this is standard dog behaviour, but we didn’t expect anything of this nature from Knut, especially not after reading the glowing references which you sent us. At any rate, Davis separated Knut and Basil with the aid of his whip and managed to diffuse the situation. We relocated Basil to the infirmary where we patched up his wounds, and decided to set Knut up near the other dogs for the time-being, assuming it was for the best. It wasn’t. We were disturbed at 3pm by frenzied barking coming from the direction of the kennels. We investigated the noise and were horrified to see Knut attempting to mate with one of the bitches (am I allowed to say ‘bitches’? I know it’s entirely accurate, but it just doesn’t seem right). We gave him a whipping and decided to put him in a room which was removed from the dogs, purely to instil a semblance of discipline in his head. Twenty minutes later we investigated more barking and found him ‘rutting’ with another bitch (are you sure? Because I’m really having a problem with this). How he got out, I don’t know, but the point is that he did it, and caused us immense grief by doing so. This was his SECOND day at the station. The SECOND day of a THREE-MONTH-LONG STAY, professor. We whipped him again and confined him to his hut. It was at this point that he refused to respond to ‘Knut’. It was Davis’ idea that we refer to him as ‘Knut the German Snow Dog’, and I hope he freezes to death because of it as Knut refuses to respond to anything else.

I’m beginning to have some serious misgivings about why you sent him to my station.

Thankfully, Knut settled into his hut with minimal fuss after that. We would keep him away from the sled dogs until it was time to take the day’s weather readings from the station’s outlying instruments. A change would come over Knut during these periods and he would happily run ahead or alongside the sleds, setting the pace. My guess is that sled dogs fear ‘romantic advances’ more than anything else – what other reason could there be for their sudden speed increase? We would take the readings from the instruments and hot-foot it back to the warmth of our huts. Knut would join us inside at these times, although what interest a German Shepherd has in weather forecasts I do not know. When he got bored he would stare out the window or ruthlessly hump furniture – an activity we tolerated because it was better he fornicate with a desk than the research team’s legs. During the second week he started viciously grinding against the research team’s legs despite their fervent protests and violent whippings. I almost think that the whippings spurred him on, strange old dog that he is. When we locked him in ‘his’ hut one night he turned aggressive and violent. He tore the room to pieces. Everything was completely destroyed – the power outlets, the telephone, any exposed wires, the bed, the bookshelves – anything he could get his teeth into. When Davis released him the next day for our daily sled run Knut lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. As Davis fell, Knut ran off into the darkness, and was gone. Some of the team searched for him, albeit half-heartedly, but there was nothing much we could do until what little light the Artic Sunrise offered returned the next day. Davis wasn’t hurt, but you can understand our alarm. Knut had been here for two weeks and we already wanted to see the back of him. It was almost as if he was a sadistic gift given to the station leader as punishment for transgressions against his boss’s daughter, allegedly committed years previously.

The next day Knut was lying in his bed, sound asleep. How he managed to find his way back I do not know – perhaps it can be put down to the famous German Shepherd’s sense of smell? Regardless, we begged the ships captain to take him back the next day, but he flatly refused, mean-spirited bastard that he is. I resolved to try again the next time he docked.

Professor, the last two weeks have been pure agony. Knut has destroyed nearly everything of value here and he’s either mated with or chased off our sled dogs. Our wireless is still broken (as your department has been so kind to notice…) and we don’t have many options left. I’m giving this letter to the captain to deliver to you personally, along with a list of supplies we need to repair our equipment and survive out here. The infamous Artic Winter is approaching and we’ll need all the support we can get if we’re to continue our work through the following months as it will be impossible for any ship to reach us. I’m betting that the captain won’t be taking Knut on board at this meeting either, so we can only hope that our German Snow Dog loses himself in a blizzard or jumps into the icy water. SERIOUSLY, professor, what made you think that a crazier-than-a-shithouse-rat German Shepherd would be of any use out here? There aren’t any sheep for crying out loud and he can’t even speak English! At what point did you think that such a man would be of ANY use to me or my team? His mood swings are as changing as the tides, and his refusal to communicate like a human being, his refusal to even respond to his damn NAME, is making me wonder whether you didn’t just find him in a mental hospital and send him out here to terrorise me because of what happened with your daughter all those years ago.

Oh you bastard. That’s exactly what you did, isn’t it?

Fine. I’m SORRY, but we were both FIFTEEN YEARS OLD, professor and I didn’t HAVE any chewing gum on me. If I did, I would have given her some, but I didn’t, so I couldn’t.

There’s probably no point in me sending this, but I will anyway in the hope that it makes a difference.

‘PLEASE send us the supplies we need, PLEASE send us a new sled dog team, PLEASE send us the wireless we need, and PLEASE send a security team to take out Knut, because if you don’t, I will. I swear I’d do it, like, you know even KNOW.’

Yours sceptically,

Doctor Cornelius Littleton

PS. I’m going to die out here, aren’t I?

'Help!' cried Postman Pat, 'My cat is trying to fellate me!'

I need your help.

It's quite simple - I have emerged from the depressive fugue and find myself teeming with brain sparks again. Alas, I have nothing to write about.

This is where you come in. What I want you to do is give me a story topic to start with. Make your suggestion in the comments section of this post and I'll choose the 'best' one to use. I'll have a story knocked up within the week, whereupon the whole process starts again.
Suggestions for this round close on Wednesday the 17th of Feb.

Max of 5 topics per person (purely for logistical reasons). That's the only rule.

I'm hoping the can of worms I just opened is delicious.

The 6 Manliest (realistic) Christmas Gifts

Regardless of whether they know me very well or not, I am berated by girls asking ‘So what should I get X for his birthday/ for Christmas?’ What would YOU want for your birthday/Christmas? Guys are so hard to buy for!’. Whenever I’m asked this I usually respond with ‘I don’t know’. The thing is, I do know, damn it. I do I do I do I do, but I’m hardly going to tell them because the gifts are either outrageously expensive or likely to generate mocking laughter, meaning that I going home alone. Again.

However, since I’m safe from derisive laughter here at my keyboard I’m willing to put in writing the 6 Manliest Gifts you can receive for Christmas. If any guys reading this WOULDN’T love to receive at least ONE of these gifts (based on the gift’s nature alone, not its monetary value), then you’ll have to hand in your penis on the way out.

6. A Year’s Supply of Beer

Yes, it exists. Every year, somewhere in the world, there is a chance to win a year’s supply of beer. Right now, you can find it here. What isn’t to like about this delicious beverage? It’s got sugar in it, it’s got bubbles in it, it’s got alcohol in it and it’s also been around for thousands of years. The ancient Egyptians drank it, the Romans drank it and Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke drank it. In fact, he drank it so much that, for a time, he held the world record for beer drinking; a yard glass (1.7L/3 imperial pints) in 11 seconds. That alone should be incentive enough to enjoy this gift – one day you too can have your name in the record books AND run a country. That’s two gifts in one!

Leadership material

Sure, there are naysayers who declare that beer is the root of all evil, that it causes harm to society, that it damages the livers and bellies of people everywhere, but to them I say ‘feh!’. ‘Feh’ to your wowserism and ‘feh’ to your buzz-killing. Beer is a root of friendship and good times. Camping and fishing trips worldwide have been turned into bonding experiences (but not in a gay way) because of beer. It’s a problem solver which has even been embraced by Barack Obama. And if there’s one bandwagon we all love jumping on, it’s the Obamamobile.

5. A vehicle of any sort

Blokes love vehicles. It’s just one of those things. It probably started with a mammoth ride thousands of years ago and it hasn’t stopped since. Before cars it was all about having the best horse, before outboard motors it was all about having a slim boat with crafty sails, before motorbikes it was having the most smashing Penny Farthing in the street, eh wot? The invention of the internal combustion engine initiated blokes’ love affair with the noise and feeling of explosions in close proximity to his body. Some guys are turned on by the rumble of a V8, others by the raw power of a crotch-rocket (it means ‘motorbike’ – look it up), others by the smell of a 2-stroke outboard motor. It’s all the same though, it all boils down to our desire to go further and faster than we’ve been before, and if we can do it with our mates in tow, then it’s even better.

Dear Santa…

Granted, vehicles can be quite pricy, but this helpful list wouldn’t be the same without the inclusion of lumps of metal powered by barely-contained explosions.

4. Fishing gear

There’s a primal bit, right at the base of our brains, which compels us to hunt and provide for our families, and it’s rarely satisfied in the modern world. Did you fight a bear for your dinner last night? No? Well that’s a problem, isn’t it? How are you going to satisfy that primal alpha-male urge? Certainly not by knocking out a koala. The solution lies in obtaining fishing gear. Ideally it’s a rod, a tackle box and a reel full of line, but in some circumstances some line and hooks wrapped around a bit of wood suffices.

A time when men were Men

Fishing gear is our connection to a different time – when we had to kill our dinner in the great outdoors. It exposes us to fresh air, new sights, and the thrill of pursuing a quarry. Mates are usually in this equation too (as you may have noticed, it’s a recurring theme here). Sure, fishing on your own can be fun and relaxing, but it’s not the same as sharing the excitement of a large catch with someone else.

It’s also fun to say ‘Yeah, you can hold the fish anywhere, it isn’t poisonous’ when you know full well that it is.

3. Lego Technic

I shouldn’t even have to explain this one. Every young boy liked Lego in some shape or form. If a bloke claims to have never enjoyed Lego in his life, it’s time you started questioning his gender and his claim that he pisses standing up. Lego Technic is the gateway to understanding how stuff works and it’s been the inspiration for engineers the world over. If that isn’t enough there’s also a theme park dedicated to it which proves that you can do nearly anything with Lego if you set your mind to it.

Since anecdotal evidence is the most reliable form of evidence I’m going to share a little story with you all. When I was 8 years old all I wanted for Christmas was the Lego Technic Thunder Rescue Helicopter, and my parents knew it, but they couldn’t afford it. Slightly disappointed, but entirely understanding, I made a list of other Lego that I wanted for Christmas and put the helicopter firmly on the ‘Unobtainable’ shelf in my mind. I knew, KNEW that I wouldn’t be getting that set for Christmas, so imagine my reaction when, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped a large box with the Thunder Rescue Helicopter inside. My body was electric and I was left in stunned grateful silence. It is the best gift I have ever received, and I’m betting ever will receive, purely because it was a dead-certainty that I would never get it. And yet there it was. It ranks higher than a car or my guitar because in my 8-year-old mind I may as well have asked for the moon.

THAT is why a Lego Technic model is in this Manly Gifts list – because all guys are secretly 8 years old.

It may not look like much to some, but to others it’s the whole world.

2. A Stihl Chainsaw

The only reason this isn’t number one is because blokes haven’t worked out how to have sex with it - in fact, it’s well-documented that we shouldn’t even try. These things are dangerous, really loud and quite powerful – all the reasons why we want to own one. Why did I specify Stihl brand? Because I’m sponsored by them. But really, the reason is because they make bloody good chainsaws and the Stihl orange is now synonymous with quality. Great, I sound like a bloody ad.

Oh you are just gorgeous

The point is, these things are fantastic. They make a noise which is second-to-none, the combined smell of two-stroke fuel and sawdust is better than… I dunno, I got distracted thinking about it. When you’re using one the weight and vibration and sound and threat of imminent death is intoxicating – you feel like the strongest person in the world. Chainsaws can also kill or maim you if you lose concentration! How cool is that! Also, you can cut down trees with them which is a manly experience in itself. Ever cut down a tree? You should. It’s great.

1. A woman

I know it’s weird how ‘a woman’ is number one in this ‘manly gifts’ list, but bear with me. Women are beautiful creatures and they don’t nag all the time if you pick the right one. They’re there to look after you when you’re sick, console you when you’re sad, praise you when you succeed, they’re great to look at and the right one likes a bunch of the same stuff that you like. They do a bunch of other stuff too: they have real hair, moveable joints and a karate-chop action! Women remember important dates, so you’ll never need to carry a diary around, and they know everything there is to know about medical stuff, so you’ll never have to remember the ‘right’ questions to ask your doctor.

Nurses don’t use stethoscopes, but I’m willing to overlook that just this once

You’ll have someone to share the cooking and cleaning duties with, someone to tell jokes to and someone to grow old with. Plus, they do all the things that the rest of the stuff in this list does – they can get you beers from the fridge, they can drive you places, they can go fishing, they can cut wood and they have lots of fiddly bits to play with as well. just like Lego. In fact, forget about the driving and fishing and beer and tree-felling, and let’s talk more about those fiddly bits…

The 6 ways Twilight: Eclipse can be more Twilighty than Twilight (it will be terrible)

In a tall tower somewhere in Hollywood, the people responsible for the Twilight movies are lounging around on a pile of money and pre-teen angst. New Moon shattered all the box office records set by The Dark Knight (it’s ok, even we don’t know how that happened), and the people in charge want to milk the cash cow some more by releasing the next movie by June 2010. That’s only six months away! Sound unachievable? Sound like madness? Well, so do the producers tasked with this feat, so they put out the call for proposals on how to best tackle the situation.

6. The Script

How it’s usually done:

All movies start with either a script, or a pitch to write a script. If there’s a script the studio pays the writer for it, and then changes everything, because studios are run by jerks. If there’s only a pitch, the studio straps a monkey to a typewriter and says, ‘Write a movie about stuff blowing up around Bruce Willis.’

The script is what the movie is based on; it tells the actors what to say, it establishes the setting for the story and it tells the director when to insert a kickarse car chase. A good script, like the one used for The Usual Suspects, can make for an enthralling thriller. A bad script, like the one used in every Eddie Murphy movie, leaves the audience feeling cheated but, hey, at least there WAS a script.

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

Forget this stage completely, just like the Twilight books forget to include a plot. The movies don’t NEED a script – this isn’t The Shawshank Redemption, this is fucking Twilight. It doesn’t need to make sense, it just needs to appeal to naïve pre-teens and horny 18-year-old girls. Just roll those cameras and feel the angsty one-dimensional love (by the way, that’s the name of my new band). Twilight and New Moon set the precedent on this one – they apparently didn’t use a script, so why the hell should the third movie? It SHOULDN’T, that’s why. It’d ruin the authentic Twilight vibe with things like ‘dialogue’ and ‘coherence’. Does Twilight’s lead character, Pale McRapey, ruin the mood by thinking before he speaks? OF COURSE HE DOESN’T. He just stares moodily into space and mumbles anything while his girlfriend stumbles around dropping things.

'I can’t believe they’re actually paying me to do this'

5. Casting Calls

How it’s usually done:

The studio (run by jerks) has a script and they need to fill all the roles required. They choose a director and spend months filtering out terrible candidates through an arduous audition process. Their goal is to find someone with that X factor, that thing that makes them stand out from all the rest. It could be their acting ability, it could be their chiselled jaw, or their big boobs (this is usually where the casting for female leads ends) or, as happens most often, it could be the actor’s HUNGER and LUST and LACK OF DIGNITY that gets them the gig. What we’re saying is that some actors don’t SUCK at what they do.

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

Casting? The studio doesn’t need to do that shit. They already have their one-dimensional, pseudo-attractive lead actress from the first two movies, why change it now? Female audiences love it when the ugly duckling gets her man, because there’s an ugly duckling in every girl, waiting to turn into a swan.

Fun fact: ‘Ducklings are baby ducks. Cygnets are baby swans. Please get it right.’

The male lead from the first two movies is back as well, so there is no need for the studio to go through the frankly terrifying ordeal of finding a pigeon-chested little bastard in Hollywood who looks like a rapist. Against all odds, the studio has their token eye-candy for the movie too in the form of a pre-cast actor from movies one and two. Did we mention that he isn’t underage in this film and that it’s now legal for audiences to be aroused by him?

Sure, Twilight: Eclipse contains more than three characters (does it? I haven’t read the book), but no one cares who plays them. The studio will just paint ‘Vampire Three’ on the sound guy and throw some flour on him before pushing him into shot – no one cares, they’ll be too enthralled by Pale McRapey’s moody stare and Wolfy McChildporn’s muscle tone.

‘Old men in trench coats are gonna be all up on my shit’

4. Location Scouting

How it’s usually done:

Directors and producers traipse all over the globe looking for that ideal location. For Quantum of Solace they went to Havana on a location scout. Why? Because if you had an all-expenses-paid trip to Cuba, wouldn’t you?

Fun!

It’s ok, neither would I, but Hollywood types love expense accounts and the perks that come with them.

That’s the beauty of Hollywood – no location is off-limits, especially when it comes to cashing in on a semi-poorly-written, semi-novel about vampires.

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

Location Scouting is for amateurs. Take my advice, producers, you don’t need to scout SHIT for Eclipse because you did all that way back in the Twilight: The First Movie days, remember? You already have a foggy pine forest to film in, you already have an architect’s house to film in, and you already have tumbledown shanty to film in (McRapey’s girlfriend’s house could be described as a shanty, right?). What else do you need? Fucking NOTHING is what. Why should you spend valuable time which you don’t have scouting out locations which will just end up on the cutting room floor? ‘You shouldn’t’ is what I’m getting at. If you deviated from the well-established ‘Of course vampires live in forests, there’s no sun there’ you would just piss off all the girls who haven’t seen the two Blade movies (as far as I’m concerned Blade Trinity doesn’t exist).

3. Special Effects

How it’s usually done:

In any way possible. These days it’s mostly done on computers, but before the electronic age it was the domain of puppets and fishing line. Back then special effects could be done fairly easily and quickly, and they were cheap too. Nowadays it’s a whole different ballgame; a whole different expensive and time-consuming ballgame. Movies like Star Wars and The Matrix are game-changers, and push the boundaries of what is possible to do in the digital space.

'Mister Lucas, can you PLEASE put down the crack pipe?'

In addition to all the ‘obvious’ special effects like explosions and spaceships are the colour-grade and filtering effects. Remember in The Matrix how everything in the ‘real world’ had a blue hue to it whereas everything inside the Matrix had a green tint? That’s the colour-grade at work – slight manipulation of the footage to bring out certain colours or add a narratively-essential effect (matrix blue/green). Every movie is colour-graded, whether you realise it or not.

‘Bring up the white some more. She doesn’t look boring enough’

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

I have three words for you: ‘Bucket’ ‘Of’ ‘Glitter’. That’s it. The studio doesn’t need fancy computer graphics to bring their poncy vampires to life – they just need to sprinkle a popular craft accessory all over their actors shortly before the camera rolls. Pale McRapey not enough of a glitter queen? Just use more glitter. Vampires not pale enough? Just throw flour at them until they develop a wheat allergy. It’s really fucking simple, and I am disgusted that the studio didn’t pay ME to do the effects for the first two films. I could have spent the effects budget on cheap polish vodka and mail-order brides whilst STILL delivering on my promise of providing ‘The sparkliest damn vampires you’ve ever seen. Like, you don’t even KNOW’. Fuck Blade’s lava and ash; it’s all about glitter and getting in touch with your feelings.

Glitter-queen rapists aside, what about the colour grade?

…

What colour grade? The scenes in Twilight are so full of fog that you can’t see shit anyway, so why do you want to change the mood? Vampires and teenage girls LOVE fog, and the fog helps accentuate how pale and bland the characters are, so any changes made in post-production would be artistic suicide (Erotic artistic suicide – that effects budget won’t spend itself).

2. Sound and Music

How it’s usually done:

While the movie is being shot, the composer gets to work writing music that reflects the action in the script. As the filming is completed he or she then alters the music accordingly to better reflect how the movie ACTUALLY turned out after the jerk studio altered the script. Sweeping scores match sweeping wide shots; deep, drawn-out tones enhance scary moments; exciting guitar riffs follow helicopter shots of pirates. The music is an alternative interpretation of the script and should complement the story that unfolds.

Likewise with sound effects – they enhance the mood on screen and add something to the experience. Think the squeaking bed in your favourite love scene was recorded on-set? It wasn’t. The sound was creating by the Foley artist squeezing two dog toys with his hands (that isn’t a euphemism). Ever wondered how they made that aroused moaning sound that comes out of the female lead’s mouth? Bears.

The real face of celluoid orgasms

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

This movie is all about werewolves or vampires or something (are there werewolves in Twilight: Eclipse?) so the chances of a bear turning up are slim to none. The only sounds you need are wolf howls, mouth-breathing (for Pale McRapey) and crickets chirruping to enhance the tension of the moody stares. Are McRapey and his Love Slave having a deep-and-meaningful talk in the forest? Add cricket noises. Is Wolfy McChildporn is getting his wolf junk out and flexing his muscles? Add cricket noises and a howl – even if his mouth is shut. The audience won’t notice this minor detail as they’ll be too enthralled by his pendulating red rocket. Twilight movies are all about clichés, so include as many as you can, especially in the sound department. Remember the sound of exploding vampires in Blade? Well forget it – Twilight vampires are all about twinkling, so hire the people who did Tinkerbell’s sound effects in Peter Pan and you’re sitting on a solid gold winner.

1. Direction

How it’s usually done:

A director usually reads a script, makes a metric shit-ton of notes, and storyboards his or her balls off to make the movie work. The reason The Lord of the Rings was so good was due to Peter Jackson’s fastidious storyboarding process. Every single shot was mapped out, revised, deleted and mapped out again so everything flowed. The director is responsible for motivating the actors and tying the whole production together. Grass not green enough? Change it. Backlot village not real enough? Blow up a real one. Directors give the movie focus – they decide what stays and goes, what’s good and what’s not, when the actors should show some more skin (every Jessica Biel movie), and when they should cover up (every Kathy Bates movie).

Hot

The creative force behind any movie comes from the person in the cheap canvas chair, and if a solid script is turned into a terrible movie, the blame rests solely with them.

How Twilight: Eclipse should do it:

It’s been established that Twilight: Eclipse won’t have a script – that’s an old-fashioned way to make films - and the guy who directed Twilight: New Moon, Chris Weitz, has announced that he’s quitting the film industry after his next project. There is only one rational conclusion to draw from this: Twilight: Eclipse should go one step further and not have a director at all, not even at the start of the project. Hell, what even needs directing? The actors? Of course not, they don’t even have a script to read! Besides, I’m sure they’ve seen humourless, blank cliff faces before, they just need to replicate that, but on film, just like they did in the first two movies.

Oscar-worthy

As for the editing process, it’s clear that nothing from the first films got cut, because if there was, there wouldn’t actually BE any Twilight films in the first place. Think outside the box, studio jerks. Think beyond your cocaine-fueled sexy-party filled existences and consider my proposal for the next Twilight movie. Face it: it can’t be worse than what you’re already considering.

Will update soon

Turns out I haven't posted anything in a while for one reason or another. Will put something up this week.