Okay everybody, I know I’ve been somewhat MIA lately, but that’s because I’ve been working on my new, super secret project. Which coincidentally, I am ready to take the wraps off of right now! Well, sort of.
I have been making a cartoon with my friend, Nathan Hamill. It is called Weasel Town. It is about the adventures of 2 friends, Dipster and Haunches. One is a dog, One is a cat. I’m not sure which is which, but I can tell you this right now, there are no weasels. Derek Waters from Drunk History is the voice of Dipster and Jason Ritter (Parenthood and starring on Gravity Falls this fall) is the voice of Haunches. It is animated by Xeth Feinberg and features the voices of Simon Helberg )Big Bang Theory), Craig Anstett (Funny or Die Presents), Lindsay Weiglein (Stone Darling), and Sarah May Bates. It is premiering on the Shut Up! Cartoons channel on YouTube July 11.I will be at Comic Con to sneak preview the 1st episode. For now, you can check out the trailer. While you’re there, why don’t you subscribe and make sure to give a thumbs-up, if you like what you see. That really makes a difference! Thanks so much, Eric!
“Osama bin Laden, mastermind behind 9/11 and countless other acts of terror is dead. Truly, this is a day that all of America has been waiting for. But as usual, the LIBERAL MEDIA is rushing in to tarnish what should be a day of celebration, with their socialist propaganda agenda. Obama this, Obama that. All hail Obama! Not a word about George Bush? Really? The New York Times would have you think that 9/11 happened, then nothing for 10 years until our Savior, Barack Obama, swooped in to save the day. This, of course, is ridiculous! Once again, the Democrats have stood on the shoulders of giants, to reach grandma’s proverbial cookie jar full of condoms, on the top shelf. This triumphant day could not have come without all the hard work George W. Bush put in over the last decade convincing Osama bin Laden that we had given up looking for him, altogether. This guy is wily! He he could have hidden in those caves for another hundred years. All the bombs in the world wouldn’t have been able to snake him out and George Bush was the only one smart enough realize this. The true credit behind the killing of this truly evil genius belongs to one person alone. The person who was willing to send the resources of the entire U.S. Army to Iraq, a country that so obviously had no ties to Al Qaeda or any of the international terrorist community. The person who was willing to make a fool of himself, by holding a big ceremony on a aircraft carrier with a banner that famously read, mission accomplished!”, Just to convince this monster that we had forgotten about him. That person is George W. Bush and he is my hero and I am not going to forget the sacrifice he made in the name of national security.”
Michael Vincent found me a new job!
I’m sitting in the LAX cell phone waiting lot. If you’re from somewhere else, that probably seems like no big deal. But if you’re from LA, you’re probably asking yourself, “what the hell is the cell phone waiting lot?”. There’s 3 other cars here. Nobody uses it but me. They all circle the gates for 45 minutes and then complain about how awful the airport is. Because they are stupid.
So I just got a call from NBC News (national, not local), asking about my video. They wanted to know why my shirts don’t move in the background.
I’m going to come clean here.
I don’t know, I’m not a seismologist. But this video is obviously real. I am so sick of people accusing me of being a liar or trying to make a video as a joke!
Why would I do that??
Why is it that everybody thinks this is fake? Are they just jealous of my shirts which I made out of cement and then secured to stationary hangers in my closet with bolts and wires?
Look at the comments on YouTube:
There are some people who think it’s real and I want to thank them for their support, but the rest are just mean. If you think something is fake, then you shouldn’t tell other people. Just keep it to yourself.
Also, I am apparently very unattractive. Especially to 21 year old unemployed women living in England.
Here is my dream scenario of what happened at NBC prior to me receiving this phone call:
Scientist: Well, we just ran the video through our computers, the sounds appear to be real. The shaking is consistent with that of an earthquake, but we can’t explain why the shirts aren’t moving in the background.
Crackerjack NBC Reporter: Hmm, OK. Well, since there isn’t a war (or two) going on and there’s no elections coming up, rather than watch this video the whole way through to the end, I’ll just call this little weasel and try to get a confession out of him!
I was up listening to the same two songs on iTunes over and over.
The first song I am saving for next week when I have a secret surprise for everyone, but the second song is “Lost Girls” by Tilly & the Wall.
I haven’t really listened to any of their other songs, but my companion likes them and she played this song for me once.
If you haven’t heard it, I suggest you give it a listen. It’s based on the works of Henry Darger. He’s what’s considered an ‘outsider artist’.
He was a hermit who only ventured outside of Chicago once in like 50 years or something. He grew up in an orphanage and lived alone his whole life.
He wrote a 15,000 page(!!!) book called The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion, that was only discovered days before he died.
Nobody’s even read the whole thing except for a few scholars. An article on him in MSNBC pointed out that number is nearly 16 times as long as the standard English translation of War and Peace.
He not only wrote these ridiculously long books, but made enormous 10 foot long watercolor/collages, illustrating the scenes in his book.
Anyway, I really relate to this guy. And not just because he appeared to be completely unfamiliar with female genitalia! Ha cha cha!
I feel like the only thing holding me back from becoming a prolific hermit/recluse/genius who will die completely unappreciated is that I’m too lazy.
Maybe it’s time I really reach my full potential?
I’m not too fond of picking through garbage, but maybe I could make something else my ‘thing’? Like I could be one of those people who yell at you for no reason or give out-of-towners incorrect directions to various landmarks just for kicks?
15,000 pages? I’m only at 317 words right now and I’m already winded!
Let’s face facts: I’m no genius. I don’t have it in me to create anything good, I know that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t aspire to achieve that, without really wanting to put in the effort, right? This is America, afterall!
In a rare moment of weakness, I will let you in on a little secret. I believe in the triumph of the small and the weak over the unassailable.
That’s what this giant book is about. Little children, enslaved by an evil power, rising up against it and (maybe) defeating it, against all odds.
Oh man, I can’t even read this over or I know I won’t publish it. I can already see 11 AM Eric wanting to beat the shit out of 1 AM when he sees this tomorrow.
And you know why? Because 11 AM Eric is a bully. So fuck that guy. He’s not gonna win this one!
So I am up and dressed for my big day.
Today, I am shooting a commercial. My call time is 5:15 a.m.
Normally, commercials are easy money. I am none too happy they are making me work for this.
Whenever I have a big day ahead of me, especially when I have to get up early, I always have a hard time sleeping. There’s something about knowing that 100 people are counting on you to not blow the hundreds of thousands of dollars they have sunk into this national advertising campaign, that really makes me nervous.
It’s nearly impossible for me to sleep before midnight, but I tried. The dog woke me up at 12:30 and then I woke up again at 1:30. So at 3:30, when my alarm went off, I had 2 hours of solid sleep.
Now I have to drive 45 miles to a beach in Malibu and put on a lot of clothes and stand around in the sun.
It is pitch black out and I have to navigate treacherous canyons in Malibu. I’m not supposed to drive at night, also.
Hmm, let’s see, what else can I complain about?
Oh, here’s one: I can’t upload a pic for this.
[Note: I was re-reading old stories and I kinda realized I’ll never write anything this good again. In case you’re new to my blog, this is an old classic I wrote right before I had some botched surgery that got me hooked on ativan, which could explain the undercurrent of dread that permeates this piece. I can’t stress to you how much I like this story, it’s almost like I didn’t actually write it, it’s so beyond anything I’m capable of today. I would submit it to a contest or a magazine or something, but I don’t really know how and I’m also super lazy.]
That’s me, with the bird on my head. His name is Peaches.
Standing next to me is my maid, Consuela.
Let me start over. My family was very wealthy. Easily the wealthiest family in all of Connecticut, which is saying something.
I was the youngest of 17 children. My father made his billions as an industrialist in the 30’s. He was an older man and didn’t have much time for his children.
My mother was a socialite and not the most nurturing of women. The care of myself, my brothers and my sisters was largely left up to the substantial support staff in our palatial mansion home.
At birth, we were each given our own maid. They were usually poor Mexican children stolen from their parents by missionaries. A few were bartered for on the black market, usually swapped for trinkets.
Consuela was a few months older than me. My parents’ thinking behind this was that a maid our own age could better relate to us children and our “modern problems” than one who was older. It fostered a strong bond between servant and master, one that I cherish to this day.
As soon as she was able to walk, my dear, sweet Consuela learned the tricks of her trade. I was always so envious that she didn’t have to go school. I would go off and study boring things like math and dodgeball and she got to spend all day around the house, learning to iron my shirts and launder my trousers. What a glorious time she must have had!
Owing to her fiery Latin blood, Consuela could never be trusted to learn English, for fear she would run off and disclose family secrets to the media. So she was taught the sign language and grunts my father had invented for the help to be commanded by. I was able to convey basic emotions to her, like “Get my shoes now!” or “Hey you, it is time for my suppository.”
We had an unspoken thing, akin to love or affection. I never thought of her as my “maid” or my “servant”. To me, she was Consuela, my friend.
Like any good friend, I had Consuela’s best interests at heart. Though she was my elder by a few months, her primitive native brain was far behind mine in terms of intellect. I treated her as one would treat their own child; albeit a child with brain damage who was unfit to be an heir to my tremendous wealth.
I would frequently have to “correct” Consuela’s behavior when she would make mistakes. Again, this was all for her own good, which I put far ahead of my own. I didn’t care if people thought me harsh when I would remove my belt and give her a sound lashing by the soda machine in our neighborhood Burger King, because I knew it was the only way to show her there were consequences when she ordered me a sandwich with pickles on it.
Some would have coddled a girl so innately sweet-natured, but I felt it was my duty to administer tough love to her as often as possible. Even when she had done nothing wrong.
Oh it wasn’t all vicious beatings and nights spent handcuffed to the radiator. As we grew older and our natural urges began to take hold, I began making love to Consuela. Most evenings, from the time I was 9 until I was shipped off to boarding school in England at age 15, we would embrace in coitus under the covers of my race car bed.
Our relationship transcended all boundaries of the physical realm. The love we made was so tender and beautiful, that often Consuela would weep throughout the night when we were done. Even my vicious beatings couldn’t stop her tears. Sometimes, I would simply give up out of exhaustion and collapse on top of my covers, still wearing my pirate costume, her gentle sobs lulling me to sleep like the lapping of waves in the ocean.
I know what you’re thinking, “what the hell kind of English boarding school doesn’t allow its pupils to bring their own servants with them?” But apparently, Father thought it best if I gained some independence from my sweet Consuela.
Since I couldn’t write directly to her, I sent weekly dispatches to my siblings, reminding them to keep her busy with chores and errands. “And don’t forget the lashes!” I would add at the end, as if I had almost forgot! This would always bring a smile to my face and I would chuckle and think about my brother, Stevenson Ranch Filipkowski and his love of terrible, violent beatings. I knew Consuela was in good hands.
Sadly, when I returned home from school, there were no vicious lashings for me to administer to my beloved Consuela. I liked to think she was cleaning toilets up in heaven now, though I knew this couldn’t be true, as her people would never be allowed in such a hallowed place.
It seems that someone had murdered poor Consuela just weeks before I was set to return from the academy. Because she was an undocumented worker and kidnap victim, we couldn’t report this crime to the police and it remains unsolved to this day.
There were all the tell-tale clues of a struggle: a chair knocked over, bruises around her neck. Somehow, the noose which her killer had used to attack her with had become entangled in the rafters of the attic and asphyxiated her.
There were no signs of forced entry and no clues besides my brother’s assurance that “a black guy must have done it.” This was fine for most of my family, but not for me. I dispatched some mercenaries my father had employed to intimidate union organizers to interrogate the entire staff. Though 11 people met their deaths that day in those interviews, no answers ever surfaced.
Perhaps my brother had been right? I tell you, if I ever meet that black guy who murdered Consuela, I am going to have some harsh words for him, believe you me!
In the past, I have relayed this story to some and they have dared to suggest that perhaps Consuela was not murdered, but rather took her own life. This is not only insulting to me, it’s preposterous. Why would someone from such a poor background who was given a second chance at a life amongst some of the grandest people in the country have any reason to do such a thing? She wouldn’t and she didn’t. I will thank you to speak no more on the subject.
In the time that has passed, I have not spent a single five month period without thinking of my dear Consuela at least once. Oh sure, I have had other maids, some much more technically proficient at their work, but none as proficient in the ways of friendship.
Consuela will always have a special place in my heart. Right next to my love of God and Country, behind the shed where I reserve my feelings for my own family, in an old converted outhouse near my left ventricle lives Consuela. Quietly sweeping the floor, waiting for the day her master returns home to fill her life with not just angrily-barked orders and beatings, but love.
Since it’s my video, I get the ten grand.
I’m not even going to post the runners-up. They were pathetic. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.
I got 37 different videos and they were all awful. I feel mine, the one above, is the only one that really captures the essence of the song.
I guess nobody liked my story about being in the ICU. 1 comment. Nice. This is what happens when I try and ‘keep it real’. Well, point taken.
Back to lying all the time!