Alien Night Club - Show 26?
Alien Night Club
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Show 26, motherfuckers!
Helluva way to start the show. But too late now.
Welcome to the show, here, in the Alien Night Club, I am your host, fortunately or unfortunately depending on your point of view, Captain Blank.
Real quick, 2 things, the giving of shits and a meta action movie.
1st, the giving of shits. Or lack thereof. The reason why it seems as though no one gives a shit is because they don't.
And the reason why is because they're too overwhelmed by all their own stuff. They have almost no mental, physical, and psychospiritual bandwidth left to allocate to you and your problems, your needs, wants, fears, concerns, problems, dilemmas, et cetera.
They're maxed out.
They need to buy more storage.
How many of you need to buy more storage?
I do. I've already purchased additional storage and now I need more. I've been in the 90th percentile for a while, with constant warning messages to buy more and that my stuff is out of sync.
Don't really even know what that means. Ever feel like you’re out of sync? With the whole world?
Point being that people are busy with their own stuff. And everyone is running around with a stiff upper lip acting like they're fine, like they've got it all together.
But, privately, they’re drowning. Silently drowning in Chris Hemsworth’s quicksand. Without the easy, casual strength required to tie a rope to their truck and pull themselves out.
There simply isn’t any space left.
They’ve got space for their kids if they have them. Their parents if their parents are alive and weren’t horrible, abusive dicks. Maybe siblings if they have any and are close to them physically and or spiritually. Maybe a friend or two. Spouse, for sure, if there is one. At least, hopefully for sure. If you’re married or are quote unquote with someone and the two of you aren’t rowing TOGETHER, good luck. Because every day you spend going in different directions is one more day you’re slow-motion thrashing around in that quicksand, and it’s just a matter of time until your head goes under. And then what are you gonna do?
Point being that we all have a shortlist. And everyone you know has a shortlist. And if they don’t respond to your text messages right away, you ain’t on it. If you’ve got them on yours but you’re not on theirs, good luck. It might be time to make some hard choices. Lack of reciprocity is the primary KPI. A K-P-I is a Key Performance Indicator. It’s one of those newfangled bullshit words invented to help navigate workplace performance. Metrics. Output. Blah blah motherfuckin blah.
Point being that reciprocity is what you should look at. We all have those people who never seem to get back to us. In other words, they don’t reciprocate. We’re always texting them. We’re always emailing them. We’re always sending them funny memes and screenshots and shit. We’re always calling them. We’re always inviting them to do stuff.
And they don’t initiate jack shit.
And it’s one of 2 or maybe 3 possibilities.
1, they don’t give a shit about you. That’s the obvious one. And if you stop reaching out to them, the friendship will get swallowed up by the quicksand. It will fall into the Sarlacc pit, where it will be slowly digested over 1000 years. It’s sad but it’s true. And it hurts. So maybe to avoid that hurt, you keep reaching out. And the degree to which they perceive you as a nuisance is something you have to suss out. You have to figure it out. Because only they truly know. And if you let the relationship do a Bobba Fett and slide down the sand and into the gaping maw of the Sarlacc, bye. Game over. Fuck off.
So that’s that.
2: They have an inferiority complex. And every time they think about reaching out to YOU, they talk themselves out of it. Their negative self-talk pathology bullshit kicks in and tells them not to do it because you’re busy or you don’t really care about them or you don’t actually want to hear from them. So they don’t initiate. They don’t reciprocate. And to you, it seems like they don’t give a fuck. But maybe they do. It’s probably worth a conversation in order to get things straightened out. If only for your own dignity.
Now, 3: They DO like you and DO want to be friends and DO want to do stuff with you but they’re just too busy. They’ve got their foot on the gas from the moment they wake up until the moment they fall asleep at night. And all day they’re taking care of their responsibilities: family, work, et cetera. And they almost don’t even give a shit about friendship. With anyone. Not just you. They’re simply too busy. There’s no time. Real or imagined, there’s no time. And their self-talk tells them that, yes, they’d like to acknowledge your texts, your emails, your whatever, but they can’t now. They have to go. They have to get up. They’re late. They should’ve been there already. Traffic is fucked. They have laundry to do. There’s nothing to eat so they have to go to the store and get groceries. Because ordering online is great but they fuck up a lot. Every other order is either missing something or it has the wrong version of something, and it’s not clear if the person who fulfilled the order didn’t give a fuck or if they grabbed the wrong thing by mistake. But the net result is they’re tired of dealing with getting the wrong shit and having to just eat it financially because they don’t have time to get on the phone and call the company and have them issue a refund or resend the right item.
I think most people are in #3. Be patient with them. Ask if there’s anything you can do to help. Assuming, of course, that you’re not a #3 yourself and you need someone to ask you what they can do to help you. But maybe they can meet you for lunch or they’re open to having you come over for dinner every now and then, especially if they order food and you go pick it up or you show up a little bit before the delivery driver does. Point being that the relationship might be worth pulling out of the Sarlacc pit. But you may have to rappel down in there and pull it out.
Same with the #2’s. Those people may genuinely like you and value your friendship. If it seems like they’re usually available when you reach out to them, and you WANT to have them as a friend, then accept the fact that the relationship dynamics may simply be such that you’re the one who must initiate. And their lack of reciprocity is not disinterest or apathy; it’s merely low self-esteem, lack of self-worth, et cetera.
Now, everyone else you know could very well be a #1. They don’t give a shit about you. Not really. To whatever extent they appear to, it’s only to save face or to avoid or ameliorate their own assholeness ex post facto. Meaning after the fact. After they’ve been a dick, they feel a little guilty so they make some token gesture that allows them to believe that they are a good person and are not the kind of person who treats someone else – you – like shit. But the truth is that if you stopped calling, stopped texting, stopped emailing, stopped reaching out, stopped trying to be their friend, they’d be okay with it. Maybe even a little relieved. Every now and then they’d see something that reminds them of you and for a moment they’d feel kinda bad or sad or like they miss you. But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to take action. Not enough to reach out to YOU for a change and to then follow through. And even if they do, they’ll soon cancel whatever plans you guys made, even after you invited them over and they agreed to come and you went and spent kind of a lot of money on all the stuff you needed to make dinner, like salad and lasagna and garlic bread and a couple bottles of pretty good wine – better than you normally buy for yourself – and chocolate mousse and some really good coffee. And you buy all that shit. And you bring it all home. And you prepare it all. And you clean and spruce your place up. And you’re just about ready to take the lasagna out of the oven and the mousse is in the fridge chilling and you’re finishing your 1st glass of wine because you’re kind of nervous for some reason. And then your phone pings or buzzes or whatever. And it’s them texting to say that they can’t make it. That they’re going to go to the bead store.
And you’re like….
What the fuck.
And it’s not even a question. It’s a statement. Such is your consternation. And you’re almost speechless. You can’t fuckin believe it. And then, after a few minutes, you’re angry at yourself. And the reason you’re angry at yourself is because you fuckin fell for it.
Again.
And you hate yourself for that.
And it hurts. It’s painful and confusing and the whole situation is simply fucked.
And what’s more, you know that this is the last time. You know that you’re not going to do this ever again. You’re done. With them. Because it’s pretty fuckin obvious what’s up.
And a month later, when you see an email in your inbox with their name in bold, you open it and read their message and it’s some stupid shit about how slow their Wi-Fi is. And it’s fucking devoid of substance. And you’re like, What the fuck? How can this person have their head THAT far up their own ass?
So you click out of it. You go back to your inbox. To the rest of the JUNK email. And you forget about it.
And that’s it.
Radio silence for a long time. Months, probably. Maybe even a year. Or more.
And when you have cause to think of them, you’re sad. And you wish it were different, that it had gone a different way. And you consider telling them. But you don’t. Because you know the same shit is going to happen. You’ll pour your heart out. They’ll be all like, Oh, I’m so sorry! Blah blah blah. And you’ll think all is well. That you guys are friends again. That you matter to them. And you guys will plan to meet for dinner at a nearby restaurant you both really like. And you’ll be thinking about it up until the day of. And that day, you plan your day around it. You get off work early and arrange your schedule so you can be there on time. You even skip your workout and postpone a few things that you needed to do. And you get dressed up a little and put extra time into your appearance because you’re looking forward to a fun night out.
And when you get to the restaurant, they’re not there yet. So you hang out for a bit and wait until a table is ready. And you go sit down. And you wait to order any drinks or apps. And you’re keeping an eye on the front of the restaurant, so you won’t miss them when they walk in. But after about 15 minutes, you text them to let them know you’re there and you got a table.
You wait 5 minutes, staring at your phone the whole time. And the server has been by 3 times so you order a glass of wine or a beer or whatever.
And another 10 minutes goes by and nothing.
They don’t text you back. Which seems weird because they’re probably on their way and surely have their phone nearby. But maybe they’re driving and don’t want to text back, which is good, because it’s safer. And it’s the law.
But another 15 minutes goes by and still nothing. Your wine glass is empty and you’ve been holding off ordering another. So you text them again and ask if they’re on their way. And another 15 minutes goes by and it’s weird now. Even the server knows. And you’re all stressed out because the place is full and there are people in the foyer waiting for a table and you’re sitting there with one empty wine glass. And then the server walks by and grabs it and walks away without asking if you’d like another. And just as you’re about to freak the fuck out, your phone pings. And it’s them texting to say, Oh, snap I totally forgot! Lol
And you’re like: You FORGOT?
And you’re staring at your phone, trying to process what the great holy fuck is happening; what to say back; what to think; what to feel; what to DO.
And because you realize and understand that shit happens, you respond in a way you think is the most mature: How soon can you get here? Lots of people waiting for tables. Lol
And you put that stupid fuckin lol in there even though there’s nothing lol about this whatsoever. You’re ready to scream or beat the fuck out of someone or throw something to demonstrate in the strongest, clearest possible manner just how passive-aggressively fuckin furious you are.
And several more minutes go by. Like…8. And you’re thinking, What the fuck are they doing? We’re in the middle of a conversation.
And you’re torn between being outraged and hating yourself.
And FINALLY they write back: No. On my way to bank. And then to get dog food.
And you’re like, Oh………mygawd.
Not only did they not answer your question – How soon can you get here? No. No? What the fuck! – they’re blowing you off because they’re going to the bank and to get dog food?
The bank.
And dog food.
The motherfuckin BANK.
And fucking DOG food.
Not food.
DOG food.
For their dog.
Their motherfuckin dog is more important than you. If you were in a burning building with them and their dog, they would pick up their dog and haul ass. And never look back.
And now you really don’t know what to do. Do you get up and storm out, all huffy? To let everyone there know how angry you are?
Because what good will that do?
Answer: nothing. Zero. None. It won’t do any good. Because the dumbfuck you’re angry at isn’t there to see it. So you’re going to make a spectacle of yourself and punish a bunch of strangers by removing yourself from their presence and somehow that will make things better?
And then you get another text. From them: Enjoy dinner!
And you stare at it as wave after wave after wave of confusion and dismay wash over you. Because you’re not able to discern the tone or meaning of their message. Are they mocking you? Or are they serious?
And you’re so confused.
They didn’t apologize. They didn’t offer a rain check or to make alternate plans or to meet tomorrow and dinner is on them.
All the usual things we do to show contrition and regret. That they’re at least a little bit sorry.
Just, Enjoy dinner! With an almost-unfathomable exclamation mark. Is it mockery or sincerity?
They just hit you upside the head with a screwball thrown so fucking hard that you’re flabbergasted and perplexed and puzzled and confused and all the other words that mean the same thing.
And as you’re sitting there in a crowded, noisy restaurant, looking at your phone on the pretty white linen tablecloth, reading and rereading and rerereading their texts, waiting for God stroke Gawd knows what, you get another text from them: If you can eat alone
And now you’re REALLY confused.
Like holy shit.
So.
What do you do?
Do you get up and leave? And go where? Home?
Or….
Or….
Do you order?
Do you raise your hand and get the server’s attention so they come over and you tell them your friend can’t make it and to bring you another glass of wine while you look at the menu?
And then you order apps and an entree, a bunch of expensive shit, and you eat the fuck out of it because that asshole essentially just dared you to eat alone.
And you’re not THAT fuckin weak.
Or are you? Because you took the dare and you’re sitting there, alone, the only table of 1 in the whole place.
Should you pay for the single glass of wine and go home?
Or are you the problem? Are you the one who’s wrapped too tightly, all bent out of shape because someone with a life of their own canceled on you?
Or are you allowing yourself to be manipulated? And every minute you sit there – alone – eating your apps and finishing your 3rd glass of $8 wine and devouring your entree, which is surprisingly fuckin good, you’re quietly, inwardly growing ever more enraged. Because the situation, confusing as it is, seems fucked. And you don’t understand what you should think or feel or do. And because of that, you can’t decide what to think or feel or do. And you’re caught in a descending death spiral of analysis paralysis while shoving great forkfuls of lasagna in your mouth. And you eat the entire basket of garlic bread and ask for another one. And when the server brings it, you eat all of that one, too. And in the back of your mind, you know you look just like Ross and his crab cakes and that the servers and bartenders are all looking at you and watching you and talking about you, speculating about what happened and why you’re eating so much and so quickly. And you can tell that they were laughing and joking about it before but they’re actually a bit concerned now because you just slammed your 4th glass of wine and now they’re talking about liability because if you drive home and fuckin kill someone with your car, they could be liable as well. And so they’re quietly watching you and waiting to see if the manager is going to go to your table and ask how everything is.
And just as you’re thinking it, the manager comes over. And it’s a nice-looking person in a nice suit and they smile and seem friendly and say, How is everything?
And you look up with a mouthful of garlic bread, smiling because you don’t know what’s happening or why you’re doing any of this and you say, Oh, fuckin great!
And the manager smiles and turns away and you see them make eye contact with your server and the bartender and make the universal Enough gesture as they pass their flat, open hand side to side in front of their neck.
And you’re tempted to be enraged but it suddenly seems funny. And you’re well aware that you’ve had an entire bottle of wine, which you pretty much never do and you’re a tad concerned that there will be vomiting at some point in the evening. But at the moment, you feel fine. The garlic bread is good. And the lasagna is good. And the thick red sauce is hot in your mouth, and it’s the perfect temperature and it’s SO good. And you’re not even mad about getting cut off as you take a sip of water and focus on your meal. And 15 minutes later, you’re enjoying the best chocolate mousse you’ve ever had, along with a really, really good mug of coffee. And it occurs to you that this is basically the same meal that you prepared when your so-called friend was supposed to come over for dinner that night they flaked on you and went to the bead store instead. And that you didn’t even really eat it that night. You nibbled on it over the next several days but the whole affair was so unpleasant and painful that you could barely bring yourself to eat the food you prepared. But you’re eating the same thing now. And it’s amazing. And this whole thing seems like some sort of fucked-up circular Black Mirror episode conjured by the Universe in order to teach you something but you have no idea what it is.
And you’re having the best time sitting there alone. Stuffing your face. Drunk off your ass. Neither knowing nor caring how you’ll get home. Because you’re here now, in the restaurant. And it seems like the perfect evening. Despite being flaked on – again – AGAIN! – wait, do we even care? – by a complete asshole.
But are they the asshole?
Or are you the asshole?
You’ve been angry at them all this time.
Have they been angry at you?
It doesn’t seem like it.
Are you the one who’s holding on too tightly? Waking up every morning and choosing to be angry and hurt and dejected and unwanted and unloved?
Because if you are, that is most definitely 100% totally and completely YOUR problem. That is YOUR mistake. And YOU – and ONLY you – can decide to stop doing that.
And maybe it requires a bank-bound dog food-buying quasi-asshole pseudo friend to dare you to eat alone in a restaurant in order for you to see it.
Furthermore, it required a great triggering of all your unresolved pathological bullshit and the inevitable self-medicating with an entire bottle of wine – $32 worth – for you to be able to A, enjoy yourself and B, see the big picture.
And what you’re left with is that you’re so glad they flaked. That they totally forgot and are probably either in line at the bank – is the bank still open? What the fuck time is it? – or they’re at the store, pushing a rusty, fucked-up shopping cart with a big-ass bag of dog food in it while YOU are the center of attention in a pretty doggone nice restaurant, enjoying some really good food.
And if they hadn’t canceled on you, they’d be sitting here with you, yammering about how they need to go to the bank and how they’re out of dog food. And the whole time you’d be quietly obsessing over the fact that you’re still kinda pissed that they flaked on you that night to go to the bead store. And that you don’t understand why they never text you back or email you back. Or if they’re even really your friend.
But now you’re not thinking about any of that. You don’t care at all.
You’re so happy. You’re having so much fun. And it’s not the wine. The wine is helping, obviously, – a lot! – but it’s more than that. You’re actually having fun. You’re even thinking maybe you’re going to start going out to eat alone on a regular basis. In fact, after you pay the bill and assure the manager, the server, and the busser that you’re not going to drive, you walk across the parking lot to the almost-divinely convenient movie theater where you buy a ticket to a movie you’ve been wanting to see. And you go in and get a bucket of popcorn and a frosty beverage cola drink and a box of Junior Mints. An actual box of Junior Mints. Because you haven’t had Junior Mints for so long that you literally cannot remember how long it’s been. And they’re 6 bucks a box. $6! But fuck it; they sound delicious right now.
So you get them. And you find your seat. And the theater is surprisingly not crowded. And it’s one of the big auditoriums. Not one of the dinky ones they put the movies in after they’ve been out for awhile and which you always find to be a little bit disappointing.
The popcorn is warm and crunchy and just the right amount of salty. And the Coke or Pepsi or whatever the fuck is in there is really good. And the ice is the little balls of crushed ice kind that you used to love to eat out of the red plastic Coke cups whenever you used to go out for pizza with your parents when you were a kid. And you’re going to take the lid off of your cup and eat it later. In the meantime, you open the Junior Mints and eat one. It’s minty and chocolatey and it burns your sinuses a little and it’s so creamy as you chew it up and pop another one into your mouth.
And then the lights go down, all the way down, and the previews stroke trailers start and you’re hooked. And each one looks SO good. And you decide you’re going to go see each of those movies when they come out. And one of them is already out. And you’re going to go see them alone, by yourself. Rather than texting everyone you know and trying to convince them to see it with you.
And then the movie begins. The main attraction. And it’s incredible. You’re so into it. You enjoy every minute of it.
And two hours later, you walk out of the theater and you’re so happy. And you see your car parked over there but you’re still wasted. And driving sounds like a pain in the ass anyway. So you Uber home. And you go inside, take a shower, and climb into bed naked and still a bit wet. You reach for your phone on the nightstand but it’s not there. And you totally don’t care. Everyone and every thing can fuckin wait. And your bed is so cozy. And you’re in such a good mood. And next thing you know, you’re touching yourself.
And it feels GOOD.
REALLY good. Better than it normally does. It’s one of those days when your genitals are super sensitive. The cause of which you STILL have not been able to identify. Maybe it’s the fish oil capsules you started taking again, even though it’s only been 2 days. Maybe it’s the wine. Even though alcohol is a sedative. Or maybe it’s none of those things. Or maybe it’s all of them. And more.
And maybe it’s because you’re lying down. You’re not standing up in the shower trying to bang one out before work. And although it takes a little longer, and the wine affords you the pleasure of being out of sync with the Universe’s timeclocks – much like your cloud storage – you still manage, eventually, to have a really really REALLY good orgasm. And you can’t remember having one THAT good for awhile. Especially not alone. And you pull the blankets up, roll onto your side, and fall asleep, happier than you’ve been in years.
And in the morning, you’re still happy. You open your eyes, see that it’s definitely daytime. Probably close to or even past Noon by the look of the lighting in the room. And you sit up. And you wait. You wait to see how hungover you are. You don’t remember puking. So you’re almost positive there’s nothing to clean up. Your head hurts a little. But not that much all things considered. Because it’s been years since you drank an entire bottle of wine yourself. But the lasagna and garlic bread and artichoke dip appetizer and chocolate mousse and coffee and popcorn and Coke stroke Pepsi and Junior Mints seem to have done the trick and prevented you from spraying projectile vomit all over your bathroom.
And you get up, have a pee, wash your hands and splash a little water on your face, stumble to the kitchen for a K cup, and you plop down on the sofa, where you sip the hot, sweet goodness, hot brown bean water, and you utterly, totally, and completely enjoy the silence.
And then you realize what just happened.
You went on a date with yourself.
And you fell in love with yourself.
And there’s a new, distinct inner peace that wasn’t there before. And you don’t know if you’ve ever had that before. And if you have, you haven’t had it for a really long time. And you have no idea where it went. At what point you lost it. If indeed you ever had it. But you have it now. And it feels good. It feels great. It feels fine. It feels almost heavenly. And you’re not worried about anything. And you hope what’s-their-face got to the bank okay and was able to find the right kind of dog food and that their dog is okay. Except you don’t really care about any of that, either.
Because it’s not your problem.
Just like your problems are not their problems.
And that there are worse things than being stood up in a restaurant by someone you’re not even sure you’re friends with.
And you see now that the Universe was trying to teach you something. Because the pain you felt was the sign that you hadn’t learned it yet. And as soon as you learn it, the pain goes away.
And you find yourself sitting on your sofa, enjoying a really good cup of coffee, untroubled by the world, unsure of what’s going to happen, of what you’re going to do that day.
But one thing you are sure of: it’s going to be okay.
There’s still going to be time when you’re neck-deep in quicksand tinged with fecal matter and you want to scream, cry, kill, or die.
But those times, too, shall pass.
SB?
SB: Yes, Captain?
Is the band ready?
SB: They’re always ready.
Hit it.
SB: Ladies and gentlemen, here now for your soul’s pleasure, ready to sweeten your earholes like the smooth white cream inside a 50-foot Twinkie – that’s a big Twinkie – , please give a warm Alien Night Club welcome to the hardest working band this side of the Daygoba System. Performing their brand new hit song Scream, Cry, Kill, or Die, it’s the one-and-only Hot Fudge Sundaes. Take it away!
{musical interlude}
Wow. Wow. Just…wow. Mind blown. Did you guys HEAR that guitar? I hope you were able to hear that. Somewhere, Jimi Hendrix is doing a most-sincere Golf Clap. That was…majestic. My earholes are so creamy I feel like the Staypuft Marshmallow Man just exploded in my brain. I need Ricardo Montalban to put some of those little bugs in my ears to go in there and eat up all the ear cream.
Which reminds me, it’s time to thank our newest sponsor. Tonight’s show is brought to you in part by Khan’s Earhole Cleaner. It’s the cleanest of earhole cleaners. It’ll make your earholes so clean they’ll be clean for months. I know mine are. All-new and extra-strength, available without a prescription, wherever the best earhole cleaners are sold. Get yours now. So you’ll be ready for more heavenly sweetness from The Hot Fudge Sundaes.
Scream, Cry, Kill, or Die. Yes, indeed.
In fact, that is the title of the aforementioned movie.
The movie you went to see after being stood up by the dog food buyer.
It stars an all-star cast headed by – in no particular order – Dwayne Johnson, Ryan Reynolds, Gal Godot, Adam Sandler, Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro – on screen and actually TOGETHER this time, unlike in Heat – Kevin Hart, Keanu Reeves, and an ensemble cast that’ll blow your mind, including me. Yours truly. And that’s the joke. That I’m in it. And it’s all very meta 4th wall because the crazier things get, the more time I spend turning to the camera and espousing profound expositional profundities like in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Did you ever notice that Ferris was the only one who spoke to us? Neither Sloan nor Cameron nor Jeanie nor his parents nor Mr. Roonie nor Grace nor the guys from the garage who stole the Ferrari ever did. Only Ferris did. And they didn’t even notice when he did it right in front of them. Hence, the 4th wall. Broken by one of the all-time masters: John Hughes.
But what is it about, you ask?
It’s about people who have to decide.
Whether to scream, cry, kill, or die.
Because ultimately that’s what it all comes down to for each of us: how are WE going to react. How and when are WE going to take charge of our lives?
But what is it ABOUT?
It’s part Red Notice, part Extraction, part Jon Wick–
Because Keanu’s in it. It’d be a crime for him not to be. He plays himself, of course. As does everyone else.
Kevin Hart runs around being short. Jamie Foxx runs around doing impressions. Dave Chapelle runs around providing cutting commentary on Jamie Foxx’s impression of Kevin Hart.
This is how the movie begins: Kevin Hart and Dwayne Johnson are in the pool together. At first we’re not sure whose house it is; probably the one belonging to the one who has the largest pool. Which suggests an overcompensation for something. Which causes us to realize it’s Kevin’s house and Kevin’s enormous pool.
And they’re playing that game kids like to play where they have a grown-up see how far they can throw them. So they can go way up high in the air and then come down safely in the water.
So DJ is grabbing Kevin under his armpits and throwing him 40 or 50 feet in the air, chuckling as Kevin screams on his way down.
And they’re laughing and arguing and using too many swear words when all of a sudden Keanu Reeves comes roaring in on one of his very own custom-built Arch motorcycles. And he rides all over the grass and Kevin goes, Oh, man! Keanu, watch the grass, man! That’s genuine Kentucky Bluegrass!
And Keanu gets off the bike and pulls off his helmet and looks at the grass and goes, Sorry. But there’s no time for that.
And Kevin interrupts and goes, Why? Is a bus about to explode?
And he and DJ laugh and DJ goes, That’s a good one. That deserves another toss.
And Kevin starts screaming, No, no! Don’t toss me! I got a chlorine water enema last time. I’m covered in welts. I don’t want to!
And DJ is like, Come here, you little chocolate muffin!
And Kevin is like, No, dammit, keep away from me you crazy Black Adam motherfucker!
And Keanu calmly says, No, it’s not a bus this time.
And Kevin goes, Why? Are there more surfers robbing banks wearing masks of ex presidents? What if they were all wearing masks of President Obama this time?
And DJ goes, I think that would make President Obama very sad.
And Kevin goes, And the rest of us, too.
And DJ says, And the rest of us, too.
And Keanu goes, No, it’s not surfers robbing banks this time.
And Kevin goes, Is there a magical phone booth about to take you across time to find So Crates?
And Keanu goes, No, this is not about So Crates.
And DJ goes, Is it about a lake house with a magic mailbox?
And Keanu goes, No, it’s not about that, either.
And Kevin goes, Is it another humans versus machines movie where you learn Kung Fu in a day and save everyone’s ass at the last minute? Because I admit I would like to see that.
And DJ goes, Yeah, me, too, I’d love to see that.
And Keanu goes, No, even though my agent said I can still do kung fu if I want to, it’s not about that.
And Kevin goes, Then what’s it about? Get to the point, Keanu. My gardener is coming on Thursday and he’s gonna be pissed when he sees what we did to his lawn.
And DJ goes, Yeah, you never do that to someone else’s lawn.
And Kevin goes, That’s right. You never fuck with another man’s automobile and you never ride your motorbike through his yard tearing up his immaculately-maintained and very expensive lawn.
And Anthony Michael Hall floats by on an air mattress, wearing shades, with a drink in his hand, and says without even looking up, Or his floors.
And Kevin goes, That’s right, or his floors.
And DJ goes, A person’s floors are sacred. That’s what you walk on.
And Kevin goes, Where else you gonna walk? On the ceiling?
And DJ goes, Maybe if you’re Spiderman. Are you Spiderman? Because I’m not Spiderman.
And Kevin goes, No, I most definitely am not Spiderman. I’m afraid of spiders. Spiders scare me. And I am man enough to admit it.
And Keanu goes, No, it’s not about grass or floors or spiders or lawns or automobiles or any other thematic or comedic elements or plot devices from any of my past movies.
And Kevin goes, Then what’s it about? My lawn’s not about to fix itself so I need to know what this is all about and I need to know soon. Right now. The sooner the better. Not later, not tomorrow, not in 20 minutes, not in Act II. Now. I need to know now.
And DJ goes, You should probably just tell him.
And Kevin goes, Tell me what? Tell me what, DWAYNE? Are you in on this? Are you with him? Are the two of you in this together? Are you conspiring behind my back? I invite you over for a pool party and this is how you repay me? With chlorine pool water enemas, painful itchy welts all over my body, and a lawn so torn up my gardener is going to think King Kong and Godzilla came through here and dragged their asses across it like a dog dragging its ass on your living room carpet after it comes inside from being outside where it just got done taking a giant shit? Is that what’s happening here?
And DJ goes, No, no, Kevin, that’s not it at all, man. Keanu and I are not conspiring behind your back. We would never have a large and messy bowel movement and then come in and drag our dirty back sides all over your nice carpet. We would never do that. Would we, Keanu? Please assure him that we would never do that.
And Keanu goes, Yeah, we would never do that. Maybe if it was a zombie apocalypse and there was no toilet paper anywhere on Earth and your living room carpet was our only remaining viable option for personal hygiene. Then maybe.
And DJ goes, Yeah, then maybe.
And Kevin goes, Well, shoot, if it’s a zombie apocalypse, we’d have bigger things on our mind, wouldn’t we? We’d be fightin off zombies and shit, with baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire and solar-powered chainsaws and football helmets with spikes on them. Dragging your poopy asses all over my carpet wouldn’t seem like such a big deal in that scenario. Am I right? My house is besieged by the undead and I’m worried about carpet. Could you imagine how shortsighted and insensitive it would be of me to put my carpet ahead of my friends?
And Keanu goes, It might be a little shortsighted under the circumstances, yeah.
And DJ goes, Maybe a little. But then again, in a zombie apocalypse, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to try to maintain some semblance of normalcy by trying to maintain an orderly household in which you and your friends can relax after a long day of zombie slaying and you’d like to have a nice clean house in which to do that. And dragging your bottom across the living room would most likely be something everyone in the room would prefer that you not do.
And Keanu goes, That’s true. Maybe it would be better if we all just went into the bathroom and used the bidet.
And Kevin and DJ laugh and say, That’s true, that’s a good point, that would be better.
And Kevin goes, Because if you haven’t had a nice stream of warm water gently caressing your backside, you ain’t living right. Know what I’m saying?
And DJ goes, Wait, I thought you didn’t like enemas.
And Kevin goes, I don’t! I don’t like enemas.
And Keanu goes, How do you know? Have you ever had an enema? How can you know if you don’t like something if you’ve never tried it?
And Kevin goes, No! I have never had an enema. And I don’t want one.
And DJ goes, But you just said the bidet is nice. Are you saying millions of bidet users are wrong?
And Kevin goes, No! I ain’t saying that. Stop putting words in my mouth.
And Keanu goes, Better words in the mouth than chlorinated water up the ass.
And DJ goes, That’s true. Well said, Keanu.
And Keanu goes, Thank you, Dwayne.
And Kevin goes, Keanu, why are you here? Other than to spoil my pool party and ruin my lawn and threaten me with enemas?
And Keanu goes, I never threatened you with enemas. I would never do that. You guys were making fun of my career and then somehow we all started talking about zombies and enemas.
And Kevin goes, Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry, Keanu. I apologize. I didn’t mean to make fun of your career. I think you’ve had a great career. I think you’re one of the all-time greats. I think you’re a great actor who acts in movies that are also great but who makes them even more great by virtue of the fact that you are in them.
And Keanu goes, Well, I don’t know about that. I do my best. Mostly I just try to stay out of the way and to not mess up whenever somebody says Action. And to not be late to set. And to not be late to hair and makeup. Which is hard sometimes because I’ve never been much of an early riser. And I try to keep my trailer clean. I don’t want a tired, pissed off P.A. to go in there after I’ve wrapped and take a video of my mess and post it to social media, telling everybody what an inconsiderate slob I am. Sometimes I even hire my own cleaning service to come in and clean my trailer before the production sends its team in to clean my trailer.
And Kevin goes, That must be one clean trailer.
And DJ goes, That must be a very clean trailer.
And Keanu goes, It’s the least I can do.
And then there’s a long, drawn-out silence when they all look at each other. And it’s weird because the Rock and Kevin are in the pool, leaning against the side, and Kevin is holding onto the deck because it’s too deep for him to stand up – Fuck you, Captain! – and Keanu is kneeling beside the pool wearing boots and a motorcycle jacket and holding his helmet. And no one remembers why he’s there or what they were talking about.
And then Deadpool and Wonder Woman walk in. And Robert Downey Jr. shows up and he’s eating shawarma. And pretty soon everyone is eating shawarma and having a great time. And Ryan Reynolds goes, Hey, what happened to the lawn? Keanu, can I take your bike for a spin?
And Keanu goes, Sure. It’s electric and very fast so be careful.
And he tosses Ryan his helmet.
And Ryan goes, Careful is my middle name.
And then Ryan’s mom floats by on an air mattress, with a margarita in one hand and a bottle of Aviation Gin in the other. And she goes, Sweetie, your middle name is Rodney. Does anybody want some of this lovely gin? Ryan made it himself.
And Ryan goes, Mom, for the millionth time, I did not make it myself. And would you slow down on that stuff? We are trying to turn a profit here.
And Ryan puts on Keanu’s helmet and roars away on the electric motorcycle, doing copious amounts of donuts all across the Kentucky Bluegrass before he goes.
And Gal Godot goes, That wasn’t very nice. Kevin’s gardener is going to be pissed.
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, It’s okay, it’s grass. It’ll grow back.
And Kevin goes, Gal, what’s your favorite city in the whole world? Mine’s Nice.
And Gal goes, Nice? Wow. Nice is nice. For sure. I love Nice. But I think I’d have to say Tel Aviv. It’s my home.
And Kevin goes, I bet you feel at home there.
And Gal goes, Yes, I feel very at home.
And Kevin goes, Because it’s your home.
And Keanu goes, She just said that.
And Kevin goes, I realize that, Keanu. So, Gal, tell me, do you like ice cream?
And DJ goes, Oh, no, not this again.
And Kevin goes, Yes, Mr. Rock-hard Rock-n-Roller Rocky Road, this again.
And Gal goes, What’s going on?
And DJ goes, He’s obsessed with having his own flavor of ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
And Kevin goes, Jerry Garcia has one. Jimmy Fallon has one. Stephen Colbert has one. Monty Python had one. Alec Baldwin had one for his Schweddy Balls because they feel so good in my mouth. Why can’t I have one? I can have one.
And DJ goes, Fine.
And Kevin says, As I was saying…. Gal, do you like ice cream? I believe you call it gleeduh.
And Gal goes, That’s right, we do call in gleeduh. And yes, of course I like it.
And Kevin goes, But a lot of people over there in the Middle East are fightin over the ice cream, aren’t they? They’ve politicized the ice cream. Is that true? Is that correct?
And Gal looks around, clearly uncomfortable, and says, When Ryan invited me to come with him to your costume pool party, he never said anything about arguing over geopolitics. But yes, that’s true. There has been some pressure by certain groups to try to get the parent company to stop selling Ben and Jerry’s in certain places.
And Kevin goes, Do you think they should?
And Gal goes, Do I think they should what?
And Kevin goes, Do you think they should stop selling it?
And Keanu goes, We don’t really have time for this.
And Kevin goes, No, it’s okay, Keanu. Gal needs to answer the question. Wonder Woman needs to answer the question.
And Gal goes, Why do I need to answer the question?
And Kevin goes, Because I’m trying to make a point here. I want people to stop fighting and love each other. I believe we should all start fresh and stop fighting and let bygones be bygones and let it all just be water under the bridge and we should all eat ice cream together and use that ice cream to get together to eat ice cream because people all over the world eat ice cream and we can have vegan ice cream for people who can’t eat dairy and we’ll try to have ice cream for everybody and I would like it very much if it was my own personal flavor of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
And DJ goes, Ask him what the name of his ice cream will be.
And Gal, hesitatingly, cautiously, begrudgingly, beset on all sides by adverbs, asks, What will the name of your ice cream be?
And Kevin smiles, pauses dramatically, and says, Kevin Hart’s Heavenly Hearts. It’ll be chocolate ice cream, because I’m Black, in case all y’all hadn’t noticed, and it’ll have little hearts inside, because I have a big heart and I’m trying to spread love. And each heart will be shaped like an actual human heart. None of that Valentine’s Day shit with the dumb little round hearts. I’m talking about anatomically-correct hearts molded from an ultrasound or a CT scan or an MRI of my actual heart. That way, it’s authentic. It’s gonna be a new take on Black Forest which is chocolate cake with cherries on top and not a sequel to Forrest Gump in which Tom Hanks discovers he had a long lost brother who is also a Brother, with a capital B, because he’s Black, and the two of them get into adventures together. So what do you think? Kevin Hart’s Heavenly Hearts. It’s good, right?
And Gal goes, Honestly, I think it’s disgusting. I don’t want to see tiny little anatomically-correct hearts in my ice cream. I don’t want to peel the top off the pint of ice cream and dig my fork into it and see actual human hearts!
And Kevin goes, You eat your ice cream with a fork?
And Gal goes, Of course.
And Kevin goes, Why? It’s not a piece of steak. It’s ice cream.
And Gal goes, Because when you eat it with a fork instead of a spoon, there’s less metal in your mouth. So you taste the ice cream instead of the metal spoon.
And Kevin looks around and goes, Is she serious?
And DJ goes, I’d say she’s quite serious.
And Keanu goes, Kevin, she’s right. It’s a well-established yet still little-known fact that for a more enjoyable flavor experience it is better to eat ice cream with a fork instead of a spoon. But like I said, we really don’t have time for this.
And Kevin goes, Why? Why don’t we have time for this? What is more important than achieving world peace through unity via a hundred million delicious pints of chocolate ice cream with my heart inside?
And Keanu goes, That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And for the record, I’m with Gal on this one. I like the flavor combination, but I think she’s right about people being repulsed by the sight of tiny little human hearts.
And Gal looks at Keanu and says, Thank you.
And Keanu looks at Gal and says, You’re welcome.
And Kevin says, If all y’all are done flirtin with each other and shitting all over my plan for world domination, would you mind telling me what I should call it then?
And Gal goes, World domination? I thought you wanted to bring world peace.
And Kevin goes, Yes, you’re right, I do. I misspoke.
And Gal goes, Didn’t sound like it.
And Keanu goes, Didn’t sound like it at all. DJ, is he always like this?
And The Rock goes, Oh, no, he’s usually much worse.
And Keanu goes, Maybe he’s cranky from all the chlorinated pool water enemas. Maybe he should fill the pool with salt water and see if that makes the enemas more comfortable.
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, That’s true, salinity does affect buoyancy. Just look at the Dead Sea. You float like a leaf no matter how much you weigh.
And Gal says, That’s true. You do float in the Dead Sea. Just don’t shave your legs before you go in there. It really burns.
And DJ rubs his head and goes, I’ll remember that.
And Kevin goes, Does nobody care about my ice cream? What am I going to call it?
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, Just call it I’m In Here. You’re so tiny you could probably fit inside the actual cardboard pint.
And Kevin goes, What? I’m being dissed by Iron Man?
And DJ goes, Put a picture of yourself on the label. And have little tiny chocolatey Kevins inside. And it could be chocolate fudge Kevins in vanilla ice cream because you’re a tiny little Black man lost in a White world, trying to make it a sweeter place.
And Keanu goes, And you can have a disclaimer that says, Chocolatey Kevins are enlarged to show texture. Kevin is actually much smaller.
And Kevin looks all around at them and goes, Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.
And Keanu goes, We really don’t have time for this.
And Kevin goes, Why? Why, Jon Wick? Why Neo? Why Ted? Why don’t we have time to figure out a solution to world peace? With all of our collective wealth and high-profile, high-visibility, it shouldn’t be that difficult.
And Keanu goes, Because if we don’t stop arguing over ice cream and how tall you are, there may not be a world left, peaceful or otherwise.
And just then, Ryan Reynolds come roaring in on Keanu’s nearly-silent-but-still-very-dramatic-and-cool motorcycle, and his Deadpool costume is FUCKED. He’s all ripped up and dirty and his face is bloody. And he JUMPS the motorcycle over the pool like he’s Travis Pastrana and he shouts, RUNNNNNNNN!!!!!
And everyone looks up and there’s a horde of zombies coming.
And all hell breaks loose. And Kevin Hart shouts, Don’t nobody wipe they ass on my rug!
And The Rock pulls out a machete and Not a Flamethrower and says, Too late! before he leaps over Kevin’s 18-foot security fence and begins fighting zombies.
He comes back a minute later and says, The Not a Flamethrower ran out of propane and the machete broke on the third chop. We should probably run.
And Keanu goes, This is exactly what I was talking about.
And Gal goes, Are those real zombies? Oh my gosh, I think that one used to be my agent.
And Keanu goes, That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’re not zombies. They’re agents. Zombie agents. They’re on strike. And they want their 10% commission upped to 10.5%. And they won’t stop until they get it.
And Kevin goes, That’s only a half a percent!
And Keanu goes, Try telling them that.
And just then, Ryan Reynolds comes FLYING through the air on Keanu’s silent but cool motorcycle, only now his Deadpool costume is almost completely gone and he’s wearing boots and tighty whiteys. And he flies through the air and crashes the motorcycle through a big glass window, screaming, OHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIT! like a REAL action star!
And Kevin goes, Iron Man, can’t you do something? Don’t you have a suitcase with an Iron Man suit in it and you can whip all these zombie agents’ asses with one fell high-tech swoop?
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, Iron Man is a fictional character. Those zombie agents are real. What would you have me do?
And Kevin goes, Offer them some of your shawarma! I loved you in Less Than Zero, by the way. And Pineapple Express, too. I wasn’t offended at all. I really appreciated the subtle nuances of an actor so committed to their role that they lose themselves completely. Kinda like if Jim Carrey played Andy Kaufman playing Hunter Thompson or something. Like you don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, Thank you. Maybe I’ll do a movie called Less Than Zero Pineapples On the Expressway to Las Vegas.
And Kevin looks confused and frightened and goes, Don’t…don’t do that. I don’t know what that means.
And then Ryan Reynolds comes out of the house and he’s got pieces of broken glass sticking out of his perfect chest and rock-hard fucking Photoshop bullshit abs, and Ryan Gosling is with him and he’s not wearing a shirt either, and then Mark Walhberg comes out and he’s also not wearing a shirt, and Steve Carrell looks at them from where he’s been sitting all this time and just shakes his head. And Ryan Reynolds is holding a rolling pin and Ryan Gosling is holding a ladle and Mark Walhberg is holding a cheese grater. And Ryan Reynolds goes, I’ll try to pin them down. And Ryan Gosling goes, See ya ladle, zombies. And Mark Wahlberg goes, A grater challenge we have never faced than a horde of undead agents demanding a half a percent raise.
And then Maya Rudolph comes out of the house, along with Kristen Bell and her big David Bowie knife.
And Maya goes, I’m the single-most hated person on Mars. I think I can handle THIS.
And Kristen Bell holds up her knife and goes, Wait, what’s my line?
And then Edward Norton yells, CUT! And he’s up on the roof, holding the same really nice Red camera he had last time we saw him.
And a buzzer goes off and he yells, Everyone reset. Kristen, it’s, I’m Kristen Bell, bitch.
And Kristen goes, Oh yeah.
And Edward pulls out a megaphone and goes, That’s an hour for lunch, people!
And the zombies all stop and pull out their phones and some of them light up cigarettes or joints or pull out their vape pens.
And Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling and Mark Wahlberg all sit down together at a table next to the pool under an umbrella and Ryan Reynolds turns to them and goes, I thought you guys were really good.
And Ryan Gosling goes, I thought you guys were really good.
And Mark Wahlberg goes, I thought you guys were really good.
And then it’s quiet and Mark Wahlberg goes, Do you guys think I should do another Transformers movie?
And both Ryans go, Yeah!
And Ryan Gosling goes, If you don’t, I will.
And Ryan Reynolds goes, Me, too!
And Robert Downey Jr. comes over and sits down with them, sighs, and goes, Ride it into the ground. That’s what I did. Want some shawarma?
And they all go, Thanks! and take some of his shawarma.
And Ryan Gosling goes, What is shawarma exactly, anyway?
And Gal Godot walks by and goes, It’s roasted meat, like a Mediterranean cheesesteak but without the cheese, and she keeps on walking. She comes back a minute later eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s – with a fork – and she sits down at the table.
And Kevin goes, What is that?
She shows everyone the label, which has a picture of her as Wonder Woman and reads: Shalosh Pa’am Gleeduh.
And Robert Downey Jr. goes, What does it mean?
And Keanu goes, It means three times ice cream. Meaning, on the third time, you get ice cream. It’s like saying the third time’s the charm.
And Kevin goes, What? Wonderwoman got her own ice cream with a different language on it and I can’t get mine cause of all the tiny little anatomically-correct hearts? What flavor is it?
And Gal says, Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and extra-dark dark chocolate. With tiny pieces of candied pecans.
And Kevin says, I’d like to try some but I’ve already eaten Iron Man’s shawarma. And it’s not kosher. You don’t mix meat with dairy. See, I know that.
And DJ walks by on his way into the house and says, At least you know something.
And Kevin mutters, Smart-ass wannabe oak tree motherfucker.
Then he turns to Mark Wahlberg and goes, Hey, Mark. Dirk Diggler called. He says call your mom. You know? That’s funny. You know? Because he did your mom?
And Mark Wahlberg goes, Oh, really? I heard he went ass to mouth on your mom while your dad watched.
And Kevin goes, Alright, take it easy. It was supposed to be a joke because you played Dirk Diggler but I see now that it wasn’t as funny as I thought it was in my head.
And then Edward Norton, from atop the roof once more, yells out, Places, please, everyone! Places! From the top!
And Kevin turns and squints up at him in the bright California sun and says, It hasn’t been an hour yet!
And Edward Norton says, And does that make you angry? That I, a fellow actor, a fellow thespian, a fellow patron of both stage and screen, albeit much, much taller, would make you go back to work prematurely?
And Kevin Hart says, You’re damn right it does.
And Edward Norton says, Good! Use that! Use it to fight the zombie agents. Look! Here they come!
A melee ensues, with actors and zombie agents flying everywhere like a street brawl in Anchorman Three, The Hunt For The Whale’s Vagina. And just before the zombie agents overwhelm Kevin Hart, he cries out, I still think tiny anatomical hearts is a good idea!
And then the zombies pull him under. He pops up a moment later, now an undead actor, with white, creepy zombie eyes that he fixes on Dwayne Johnson and Keanu Reeves, who are fighting back to back. They take one look at zombie Kevin and The Rock says, Ah, look how cute he is.
And Kevin Hart stops and says, Goddamnit, Dwayne, that is not the line!
And Edward Norton yells, Cut! again from atop the roof, where he’s still standing with his Red camera. He yells, That’s another hour for lunch, everybody!
And it’s very funny. I don’t want to say much more than that because I don’t want to spoil it.
Anybody else reading A Song of Ice and Fire?
I’m actually not. But I would like to.
For those of you who actually are, do you guys think George will finish the two final books? The Winds of Winter and A Dream of Spring.
To be more than fair, he’s already written five: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows, and A Dance with Dragons. And A Game of Thrones came out in, dot dot dot, brace yourself, dot dot dot, 1996.
Great titles, by the way. Most of the fantasy titles I see today mimic his naming scheme. So it’s great that he’s inspired so many people to want to read and write fantasy. He did for fantasy what Jay Kay Rowling did for kidlit with Harry Potter.
I guess he’s got about twelve-hundred pages so far for The Winds of Winter. Which is very very roughly three hundred thousand words. So, a lot.
I do hope he finishes and I hope he gives us the ending we didn’t get with the HBO series that pissed everyone off. A lot.
It’s called A Song of Ice and Fire, right? And the last book is A Dream of Spring.
Ice and fire.
Jon Snow and Danaerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, dragons equal fire.
What happens when you combine ice and fire? They influence each other and change each other and become a new thing together. The fire melts the ice and the ice snuffs the fire and they make water. And with water you get life. The snow of Winter and rains of Spring provide the water for Spring to happen and for Life to renew every year.
What I’m saying is that I hope Jon and Dany wind up together. King and Queen. It’s the satisfying ending the show didn’t give us.
It could be that George told D&D, the two guys who helmed the show, what his plan was for the later books once they’d caught up to him and didn’t have his story to work from. And then they did that.
And we all hated it.
And everyone knows it. Especially George. So now he can write what should’ve happened. Because after seeing the chemistry between Jon Snow ay kay ay Kit Harrington and Danaerys Targaryan ay kay ay Emilia Clarke, it was completely obvious that they belonged together. You wanted them to be together. Sometimes you get that. A lot of times, you don’t. Sometimes you even get two actors who clearly dislike each other. And it shows. And it ruins the movie or the show. Their performance suffers as a result.
But sometimes, you get a perfect match. And that’s what Kit and Emilia were. Which is why Jon and Danaerys belong together.
It’s a very meta case of life influencing art.
Which is why this is the end of tonight’s show. Thank you for your time. You were wonderful. I hope you enjoyed it. And I shall see you next time. Goodnight.
Remember to tip your waitress!
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