October 20, 2011
All A-Twitter
I probably should have told you guys this awhile ago, but I've moved this bitch to Twitter, where I can crack jokes more fasterly. Have no fear, there will still be the occasional p-shop. @bonzozzy
March 3, 2011
Woolery's World
If someone ever makes a movie about me, I've got the soundtrack all figured out. I also know for the most part what kind of scene should be going on during each song. I'm sure that's a backwards way to do it, but whatever, the movie's about ME, motherfucker. One song I would definitely want in my movie would be Coma by Buckethead (Feat. Serj Tankian and Azam Ali). I tried to write the scene for that song as a screenplay, but I suck at that. So basically what I've written below is written in the style of if-books-were-read-to-music. Before you read on, click the link below to hear the song while you're reading. Otherwise you won't get the full effect. Cue the music: the music.
Darrell walks into the dark kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light. As he stares out the window, a flash of lightning illuminates his face. A thunderclap sounds and he instantly shifts his gaze to the freezer.
He is hungry.
Opening the freezer door, he removes a large object. On it is written “STATE FAIR CORN DOGS.” He hears a noise, unsure if it’s his stomach or the rolling thunder. He closes the freezer door and decides he doesn't care.
He is hungry.
Quickly through the flashes of lightning he scans the box for something, his eyes every bit as ravenous as the rest of his body. He pauses for a minute and a slight grin creeps onto his lips as his eyes devour what they’ve been looking for: 375. He sets the box gently on the counter and reaches toward the oven. His eyes, languid from their feast, are no longer needed…for now. His hands, exact and almost automatic in their movements, find their targets. Bake. Temp +. Start. As closes his eyes he inhales in anticipation, attempting to smell what would soon be his.
He is hungry.
Removing a baking sheet from the crowded drawer under the oven, he notes with little interest that he can still hear the thunder through the clatter of metal. On the baking sheet he places one corn dog. Then another.
He is hungry.
He opens the freezer again and his hands find a formless object. A bag. It is labeled “Ore-Ida Golden Crinkles.” A flash. A boom. His eyes jolt awake, their lust renewed. They scan the bag, voracious. They stop, then continue again. They return to the same spot yet again, refusing to settle for what they’ve found. They roam again, but still come to rest on their original destination: 450. He hears a sound like thunder and suddenly bullets hit the window. They rip through his body as he tries to maintain his grip on the bag.
He is hungry.
His shirt explodes with each shot, yet he remains standing. A bullet pierces his thigh. He begins to fall, slamming the bag on the counter under his hand as he tries to steady himself. His other leg is blown to pieces as bullets continue to pound through the window. All he knows is pain. And hunger. Such hunger. Such pain.
He is nothing.
He comes to in a warm room. His head pounds, his vision is foggy, yet still he feels the cool pillow beneath his head. As he lays there, dazed, he listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor. He looks for a nurse, but no one is around. Just the beeping. It bothered him at first, but as it continues it has grown to comfort him. Each note, a sign of life. He looks again for a nurse, but his vision is no better. He raises himself up to test his legs. They wobble, but he steadies himself against his bedside tray. He squints his eyes, trying to bring them into focus. As he stares ahead his vision begins to clear and he notices a familiar sight. His kitchen window, rain spattering incessantly. His feet find the bag of fries where his head laid just seconds ago. As he regains his senses, the beeping grows louder and he remembers.
He is hungry.
Darrell walks into the dark kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light. As he stares out the window, a flash of lightning illuminates his face. A thunderclap sounds and he instantly shifts his gaze to the freezer.
He is hungry.
Opening the freezer door, he removes a large object. On it is written “STATE FAIR CORN DOGS.” He hears a noise, unsure if it’s his stomach or the rolling thunder. He closes the freezer door and decides he doesn't care.
He is hungry.
Quickly through the flashes of lightning he scans the box for something, his eyes every bit as ravenous as the rest of his body. He pauses for a minute and a slight grin creeps onto his lips as his eyes devour what they’ve been looking for: 375. He sets the box gently on the counter and reaches toward the oven. His eyes, languid from their feast, are no longer needed…for now. His hands, exact and almost automatic in their movements, find their targets. Bake. Temp +. Start. As closes his eyes he inhales in anticipation, attempting to smell what would soon be his.
He is hungry.
Removing a baking sheet from the crowded drawer under the oven, he notes with little interest that he can still hear the thunder through the clatter of metal. On the baking sheet he places one corn dog. Then another.
He is hungry.
He opens the freezer again and his hands find a formless object. A bag. It is labeled “Ore-Ida Golden Crinkles.” A flash. A boom. His eyes jolt awake, their lust renewed. They scan the bag, voracious. They stop, then continue again. They return to the same spot yet again, refusing to settle for what they’ve found. They roam again, but still come to rest on their original destination: 450. He hears a sound like thunder and suddenly bullets hit the window. They rip through his body as he tries to maintain his grip on the bag.
He is hungry.
His shirt explodes with each shot, yet he remains standing. A bullet pierces his thigh. He begins to fall, slamming the bag on the counter under his hand as he tries to steady himself. His other leg is blown to pieces as bullets continue to pound through the window. All he knows is pain. And hunger. Such hunger. Such pain.
He is nothing.
He comes to in a warm room. His head pounds, his vision is foggy, yet still he feels the cool pillow beneath his head. As he lays there, dazed, he listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor. He looks for a nurse, but no one is around. Just the beeping. It bothered him at first, but as it continues it has grown to comfort him. Each note, a sign of life. He looks again for a nurse, but his vision is no better. He raises himself up to test his legs. They wobble, but he steadies himself against his bedside tray. He squints his eyes, trying to bring them into focus. As he stares ahead his vision begins to clear and he notices a familiar sight. His kitchen window, rain spattering incessantly. His feet find the bag of fries where his head laid just seconds ago. As he regains his senses, the beeping grows louder and he remembers.
He is hungry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)