So Your Ten Year Reunion is Approaching

So your ten-year high school reunion is approaching. Congratulations on reaching this milestone of adult American development. As a much older, wiser person, I'd like to offer you some advice for this event in our digital age.

First things first: yes, it really has been ten years. No, I can't believe it. Yes, it seems like you were dorm-shopping at Target just yesterday.

Great.

For the purposes of this guide, I will assume you are the sort of person who moved away from your home town after high school and is now pursuing a difficult, low-paying field in a much bigger city. Why? Because I don't understand any other lifestyles.

Step 1. Your reunion may be up to a year out at this point, but you've just received a notification on Facebook/email to that old address you forgot you had, telling you to save the date. You're toying with the idea of going (you will not end up going). You may have already asked your best friends, with whom you're still in touch, if they're thinking about going. Wouldn't it be fun if you all went together (probably not)? Tentative plans are lightly pencilled in. You begin daydreaming about what it will be like, based mostly on old TV shows or 80s romantic comedies. You'll show off your partner to that person you always had a crush on. They'll tell you they secretly had a crush on you, and you'll just laugh and laugh while your ego inflates. People who stayed in town will marvel at your ability to live in a larger city, and how much cereal costs there. You are the life of a party that you will in no way be attending.

Step 2. Six months out, you've gotten a few more specifics on what your old student body officers have cooked up. Really? It's in THAT hotel? And it costs HOW much? And there's a FAMILY day? Who has a family already (see step 3)? You make the rounds with your friends, who are all in different large cities, debating the merits of these new details. You still keep the weekend open, but think it might be fun to just plan your own thing. This is pencilled in somewhat more lightly than the reunion itself.

Step 3. The Facebook tsunami. Scientists have yet to figure out quite how this begins, but you are bombarded with friend requests from people who look like the parents of people you kinda knew. Remember that time your freshman year at college when you were eating lunch by yourself, and that guy you'd gone to school with for 12 years and never spoken to sat down next to you, said hi and invited you to a party? This is like that, but with much more passive aggression and baby pictures.

You call your mom and have her check your yearbook for you, to verify some of these names. This is stressful because half the people have changed their names. She verifies them and asks when you're going to figure out what you want to do when you grow up. You get sweaty and hang up. Now, you're going to be tempted to say "yes" to all these requests. DON'T. If you follow my advice, you'll be happy with what you're struggling to do in that big city. You'll have no problem dedicating 80% of your income to rent and working mostly for free. You'll still find the narrow aisles and random stock of your corner grocery room quaint.

But you're going to say yes anyway. And when you do, you will regret it. The growth is exponential. You will find your secret crush, and see pictures of their five children. You will also discover their favorite musicians are Nickleback [sic] and Chris Brown. You will go down the rabbit hole of friend lists, spending hours remembering where these people sat in English and who they went to prom with. You realize some of those uteruses have only been baby-free for a total of five months since high school. But you will begin to think: I could have a house. I could have a regular job. I could make a set income and actually try creating a budget. I could mow the lawn on weekends and drink tea on a thing called a "porch." And you will realize My God, I've been spending $20 a week on Golden Grahams.

You will then be horrified by the political views of most of your classmates, but wish you'd talked to that one weird kid more because they seem pretty cool now.

Step 4. The reunion is a month away and it looks like you'll be missing it. You just went to those two weddings on opposite coasts, and work's been thin lately. Your friends all agree that the slumber party you were planning would have been awesome, but you'll meet up in one of those big cities you live in soon. You once more daydream briefly about really cutting loose on the girl who laughed at your new haircut that one time, then go back to accepting Facebook requests out of guilt.

Step 5. The reunion was last week. You've thus far resisted the pictures all your new Facebook friends have uploaded, but you finally caved. It looks like everyone had a decent time. It looks like you wouldn't have had a single person to talk to. And ugh, people still smoke inside public places back there. You probably made the right move. You crack open a box of cereal, go to your window, look at the city and cry a little.

Movies I've Never Seen #4: Spirit of the Forest

Spirit of the Forest

In which I fully describe the plot of a movie I've never seen and know nothing about, based solely upon its Netflix picture.

Spirit of the Forest is based on the whimsical Scandinavian folk tale "Skellenvagbitchmunden," so get off the director's back already because it in no way infringes upon the Smurfs.

Now, on to the plot: Gargamellen is an evil wizard who lives in the forest and wants nothing more than to feed the Smorfen to his pet dog Israelen. The Smorfen are of course the titular "spirits of the forest," but this isn't truly known until a stellar reveal in the 7th act. I suppose I should mention that since this is based on a Scandinavian story, it comes in at a bulky 5 hours 23 minutes.

In an attempt to escalate his Smorfen-cooking efforts, Gargamellen uses chopped up Smorf bits to create a female Smorf and sends her into the Smorf village. Once there, she entices the all-male Smorfen with a surprisingly lewd dance. Dada Smorf, being older, wiser, and far less interested in females than the rest of the village, recognizes this as sabotage on the part of Gargamellen and uses ancient forest magic to reprogram Smorfette into a vicious killing machine.

The film takes a wild turn here. Smorfette, now completely consumed with desire to destroy Gargamellen, dons a pair of Ray-Bans and a leather jacket and speaks in broken Austrian-accented English. At one point the director inserts a full scene from Terminator, apparently transferred directly from an old VHS copy.

In the hour-long climax of the film, the Smorfs, led by Smorfette and Dada Smorf, invade Gargamellen's compound and kill him. The death scene is a combination of those from Braveheart and Passion of the Christ, but without the nuance. With Gargamellen dead, balance is restored to the forest and the Smorfs celebrate with a 24-minute musical number. This was Sweden's 2008 entry for Best Foreign Film at the Oscars.

Also there's a talking tree voiced by Ron Perlman, because why not.

Movies I've Never Seen #3: Somebody Help Me 2

Somebody Help Me 2

In which I fully describe the plot of a movie I've never seen and know nothing about, based solely upon its Netflix picture.

Somebody Help Me 2 is a deeper look into the philosophical implications put forth in Somebody Help Me; chiefly, in a slasher film populated entirely by African Americans, who dies first?

Marques Houston (left) plays Dr. Marques Dallas, an astrophysicist keenly aware of the spacetime consequences of this paradox. Similar to the situation of Schrodinger's Cat, the characters of this film exist in states of both dead and not-dead until the film is viewed by an outside observer. Fortunately, this has yet to happen.

Malika Haqq (second from left) plays Maliqqa Hak, Dr. Dallas' mysterious lab assistant.

Omarion Grandberry (third from left) plays Mario Littlefruit, childhood friend of Dr. Dallas and a beloved pop star. In either a bold acting choice or a desperate cry for help, Mr. Grandberry is barely intelligible and may actually be speaking Russian. At one point he's clearly on the phone with his agent trying to get out of his contract.

Chrissy Stokes (right) spends the whole movie being all "bitch, please."

In a startling third act reveal, it turns out Maliqqa Hak is actually Jennifer Love Hewitt in blackface. As soon as a white actor is introduced, all three African American characters are simultaneously murdered.

Movies I've Never Seen #2: The Stranger In Us

The Stranger In Us

In which I fully describe the plot of a movie I've never seen and know nothing about, based solely on its Netflix picture.

Eddie (top) is a quirky copywriter who does the descriptions on the back of shampoo bottles. Edgar (bottom) is the scrappy orphan Eddie took in to impress the new girl at work (Zooey Deschanel). On a madcap adventure to find the out-of-print vinyl edition of Zooey's favorite song, Eddie and Edgar accidentally kill a homeless man (middle) and eat him to hide the evidence. They spend the rest of the movie looking at each other smugly.

How the Apes Rose

This is PFC Robert Walgrave, 3rd Marines. I am holed up in an abandoned K-Mart outside of Boston. At least I think it's abandoned. Hard to tell with K-Mart. My entire division was wiped out in the uprising, and I know my days are numbered. My only hope is that the eyes reading this belong to a human, and not one of those damned apes.

I can imagine what you're thinking. How could you let this happen? How could the world's highest-funded military be bested by animals whose only bragging rights are opposable thumbs and free-wheeling attitudes about rape and fecal matter? I'm sure you're angry. I am too. And I'm sorry. I have no excuses. I can give you reasons, but not excuses. If it's any consolation, the images of my buddies getting torn apart by screeching chimpanzees in diapers and clown wigs will haunt me the rest of my days.

At the time of the Ape Uprising, we were complacent. We were ignorant. It was bliss. Monkeys and apes had been ingratiating themselves for decades. How could we be threatened by animals who looked so adorable in little suits, smoking cigars? Who cherished stuffed animals like our own children did? Who *ate their own poop*? Were there warning signs? Of course. Some had lashed out, impatient to set the game afoot. Need I remind you of the orangutan who almost raped Julia Roberts, or the chimpanzee who removed the face of that one lady in Connecticut? We failed to connect the dots. That's on us.

The military itself was focused on other areas. When given our choice of electives, did any of us think to sign up for "Managing and Quelling Higher Primate Revolts?" Of course not. We stood in line for "High-Impact Explosives and You," "Headshots as a Form of Self-Realization," and "Making the Most of PTSD to Get Laid Back Home." You know who did sign up for the primate revolt course? Henderson. You know who the first target was once the shit literally hit the fans? Henderson. Clever monkey bastards.

Their tactics were outstandingly original. We received our own call to arms at 0500 on 5 August 2011. My platoon scrambled out of our racks and we were locked and loaded within minutes. We moved outside to form ranks for what we assumed was a surprise drill. That was our first encounter with an ape trap. The grounds were covered in banana peels. If the Three Stooges taught us anything, it's that banana peels are the slipperiest substance known to man. Turned out it was also known to ape. Within seconds we were all on the ground. The accidental discharges alone counted for 28% of our losses that day. Before we could regroup, we were nailed by an artillery barrage of ape feces. I mentioned shit hitting fans; this was it. They'd stolen giant wind machiens from their connections in show business, and were using them to shotgun their feces into our base. Blinded, bruised and generally grossed-out, it was a simple affair for the apes to move in and start raping and face-tearing.

I hope the textbooks of your day don't shy from the horrors of this war. The apes' greatest advantage was psychological. A man who's been covered in poo and raped by a silverback is a man who's lost his fighting spirit.

You may be thinking "Private, at the time of the Uprising there were only a few thousand gorillas left. How could such a small force overcome your numbers?" Well, we were fed lies. It turned out those totals were gross underestimations. Gorillas and other large apes had been hiding in our society for decades unbeknownst to us. The advent of reality television gave them even greater cover. Several contestants on The Bachelor, including a few winners, and most MTV reality stars were in fact actual apes. Hiding in plain sight, they were able to gather incredible amounts of intelligence on our army and social structure so that they could pinpoint the most vulnerable spots, causing great devestation with minimal effort. And in lowering the bar of mass entertainment, they dulled and softened the population, ensuring we would provide little resistance once the uprising began.

So here I am, writing to you on a legal pad in this K-Mart. Hmm, 4 for $5, good deal. How could these guys not keep up with Wal-Mart? Anyway, I reached this point by traveling at night. Some ape outposts were unavoidable, though I tried saving myself through dissemblance. Fortunately my wife was a big Jersey Shore fan so I could blend in. Though due to my narrow build I had to perform my share of favors. Apes' tastes are certainly...specific.

To my descendants, I can only offer my deepest regrets for the situation I've left you with, and what little advice I can afford. Don't take your time for granted. Don't get complacent. And for the love of God almighty, if you take back this planet, do not under any circumstances allow reality television to resurface.

Also, keep an eye on those penguins. Anything that cute and isolated is bad news. Take it from a survivor.

Movies I've Never Seen #1: Beauty's Magical Adventure

Beauty's Magical Adventure

In which I fully describe the plot of a movie I've never seen and know nothing about, based solely on its Netflix picture.

This film is a cutting-edge animated documentary about the ins and outs of copyright law. Not content to merely gather talking heads on the subject, documentarian Peter McFickelson inserts himself into the story by creating his own version of the Beauty & The Beast fable which bears a striking resemblance to an Oscar-nominated film by animation powerhouse Disney Co.

The film starts with a quick five-minute segment detailing the copyright process and what constitutes copyright infringement, a la Schoolhouse Rock. This is followed by a longer animation-within-an-animation of McFickelson hand-drawing his own Beauty/Beast feature. This is then followed by an animation-within-an-animation-within-an-animation of McFickelson hand-drawing the segment in which he hand-draws the feature. This goes on for two more hours. Many viewers have questioned this decision, but McFickelson has always marched to the beat of his own drum to say the least!!! Following this segment is the completed result of his labor, Beauty's Magical Adventure. It is, to quote the main theme song (composed by none other than McFickelson, what can't he do?!), a "tale as old as wine."

The documentary takes a turn for the dark in its final act. As we all know, Disney Co. operates above US and even for that matter galactic law, so their punishment of McFickelson is one of Supreme Commanding Judge Michael Eisner's own choosing. Never one to shy from the truth, McFickelson shows us every detail of his time served as a restraining belt on Space Mountain, a hand towel in the bathrooms by Pirates of the Caribbean, and finally the newest character at Epcot. This is achieved [SPOILER ALERT] by the removal of McFickelson's skin, which is then worn by an actor outside Test Track.

I give this 3.5/5 McFickelson skins.

Diary of a Mad Bedbug

Dearest diary,

Yet another day of fighting the good fight, trying to change our image in the eyes of these humans.

Yet another failure.

Diary, what path is left open to me? What door has not been slammed in my face? If only you had ears, that you could hear the horrible things they say about my kind. Have you been called a plague? An epidemic? A punishment for all man's crimes? Then what could you possibly know of my pain?

I'm sorry Diary. I should not have lashed out like that. You can see how deeply this discrimination is affecting me. If I could raise my bedbug voice, I would tell these humans how much we love them. Why else would we fill their movie theaters to the brim? I cannot do justice to the pleasure I derive from watching my hundreds of thousands of offspring take in their first Pixar film while nursing from the elbow of a human child. The look of joy in their multifaceted eyes is a precious thing. The folks at Pixar really know how to tug our bug-heartstrings.

I wish you could know the bittersweet pride I feel when I watch those same offspring hitch home on their children, knowing they will go on to fill that human's house with bedbug joy. And hundreds of thousands of their own glistening, translucent progeny.

It is love alone that drives us into the racks of Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria's Secret. We adore the fashion sense of the humans. If only we could wear those jeans with the same flair. Alas, they are terribly unflattering to our six stubby legs and wide, blood-filled abdomens. And thongs? Forget about it. Not with these proportions.

Diary, have you ever loved something only to have it look upon you with abject horror and fury? Have you stood watch over that thing in the night, protecting it from whatever evil lurks in the dark, only to hear the screams of your beloved upon waking and finding that you've been feeding periodically on their life's blood? It's no picnic to discover that your beloved thinks YOU are the evil lurking in the dark. If it is a crime to love something so much, you want to put a part of them inside you, then Your Honor, I am guilty of it in the first degree.

What is a bedbug to do, when the object of our love finds the very means of our procreation hideous? Would that I had a switch, with which I could flip off my lusts like my human's bedside lamp. Diary, they would take every form of pleasure from me had they the means. What can I say? When I see a bed-damsel, segmented abdomen bloated with the blood of our human, I simply have no choice but to stab her in that abdomen with my hypodermic genitalia and ejaculate into her body cavity. Do you know what makes the prejudice of the humans even worse? I'm thinking of them the whole time I do this.

They would take this joy from me, Diary, but they shan't. For I am going "underground," as they say. The humans hate us? They think us monsters? Then monsters we shall be, hiding in the dark crevices of the human home. Fortunately for us, we can fit into a gap the thickness of a credit card, lurking undetected. There are thousands of such gaps in my human's bedroom alone.

If you need me, Diary, that is where I shall be. Waiting. Watching. Feeding.

Loving.
xoxo