FUN WITH BALDERDASH!

ROUND ONE, DEFINITION: “CHATOOKEE”

PLAYER ONE: A constrictive force which can render life stagnant and static.

PLAYER TWO: Ok, well its sort of like a train. Its this certain type of train. Dang, I guess I’m not too good at this…is it a train?

PLAYER THREE: A spell that ancient Indians used to help with their harvests.

PLAYER FOUR: A lewd, adulterous sexual act. Ask Sarah, she’ll know.

REAL DEFINITION: A bird which drinks falling raindrops.

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ROUND TWO, DATES: “October 1, 1988″

PLAYER THREE: The day a pair of Siamese twins walked from Georgia to New York to raise awareness.

PLAYER FOUR: The day where it became apparently acceptable for a married woman to suck whatever dick was waved in front of her face.

PLAYER TWO: Halloween? It can’t be Halloween. Halloween?

REAL ANSWER: The Bavarian government asked people to stop yodelling because it was scaring the mountain goats.

PLAYER ONE: The first day of the Bobbitt trials.
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ROUND THREE, PERSON’S NAME: “CHARLES L. BROLEY”

REAL ANSWER: Famous bird-watcher who did extensive studies of the bald eagle, known to many as the “Eagle Man”.

PLAYER FOUR: I dont know, is it someone you slept with? I’m just going to award myself a point right now, because given that you’ve seemingly slept with EVERYONE, my answer is statistically infallible.

PLAYER THREE: The man drove a car with wheels of cheese.

PLAYER TWO: TV Host!

PLAYER ONE: The guy with the second smallest penis in the world.

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ROUND FOUR, MOVIE TITLE: “THE STRANGE DOOR”

PLAYER TWO: Never heard of it.

PLAYER FOUR: A fucking bitch does some real shitty things to a nice guy with a statistically average-sized penis who doesn’t deserve any of it. Her cunting ways cause him to spiral into a deep depression and ultimately question the meaning of love and whether or not it can ever even exist again. An intriuging tale of betrayal, blowjobs, manipulation, more blowjobs and lies.

REAL ANSWER: A noble-born cad has been tricked into a forced stay at the eerie manor of the Sire de Maletroit, an evil madman who plots revenge.

PLAYER THREE: A young married couple walk through a strange door that opens up to a world without quarrels, where troubles are forgotten and love is in the air.

PLAYER ONE: An emotionally crippled and immature man-child with a striking inability to face reality makes consistently inappropriate barbs to cut down his unimpressed wife in front of two friends who sit awkwardly in silence; then walks through a strange door.

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ROUND FIVE, INITIALS: “M.C.S.A.”

PLAYER THREE: Many Couples Seek Assistance

PLAYER ONE: Men Can Suck Ass

PLAYER FOUR: Giving everyone blowjobs is immature

REAL ANSWER: Marble Collectors Society of America

PLAYER TWO: C.N.N.

Excerpt from: The Barked at and the Bitten

selection prepared by Max Hartshorn

Every once and a while Terminal Laughter likes to take a break from its constant stream of silliness and hahas to showcase the work of some emerging animal authors from our creatures publishing division: Animalia Extant. This week it is our honor to present our readers with an excerpt from promising young writer Rex Woofington’s upcoming novel: The Barked at and the Bitten. Due out in hardcover next spring, this tale of lust, passion, hurt and ultimately dignity is poised to assert Woofington as a major presence in the highly competitive canine market.

A member of our editorial staff first became aware of Woofington while dog sitting for a friend over a long weekend. He, along with the rest of the staff, were deeply impressed with the samples shown, and immediately forwarded chapters to Animalia. On first encounter, Woofington comes across as something of a good boy, with a kind, sensitive demeanor that belies his gruff, mutt appearance. His work veers away from the typical MBF (mixed-breed fiction) themes of mutt identity and pedigree prejudice, in favor of a more personal approach. As one staff member noted, Woofington combines the nuanced characterization of a Schnauzer with an emotional directness more commonly found in large Border Collies. We are certain you’ll be hearing much more of Rex Woofington in the dog months and dog years to come.

Young novelist Rex Woofington at his Park Slope den and workspace

…………………….

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Cranberry wished she could believe him. She wished she could chalk it up to some sort of accident, the clumsy jerk of atrophied muscles, unaware of their remaining strength.

“If only it didn’t happen so often,” she thought. The routine was familiar. At first a mild mannered “here girl,” followed by her placid denial. Just a few more seconds to smell the flowers, how could he deny me my greatest pleasure? Then the demand, “come on girl, now!” The wrenching of the chain coinciding with the accent on the final word, almost preempted by her defenseless howl.

Why is it that owners abuse their pets? Cranberry had developed a theory. She believes the act of hurting a pet is an attempt to repress one’s love for it. Not sexual love, of course, but the true expression of caring, the kind we reserve for our mothers, and perhaps our favorite nephews and nieces. Man cannot admit he extends this grace to animals, indeed he cringes at the thought. Thus they reach for what is in their minds the complete negation of love, violence. What’s more is owners expect their pets to be grateful for it. They expect unrelenting love in return. Loyalty they call it, what farce! As if all love is is an act of loyalty.

This is what went on in Cranberry’s head: “Jeremy loves me, yet he refuses to admit it to himself. I must therefor make a show of my suffering.” No, he would not receive the benefit of her capitulation. He would not woo her with delicious treats. She would be strong and wounded. She would make him heel to her. But then again, Pupperoni was her favorite. Perhaps just a tiny bite, just a nibble, just a—grumph.

Jeremy scratched gently behind her ear. He could be so sweet, there was no doubt of that. He knew just how—as if by some sorcery—never had the lifting of pain felt so cruel. Yet she had no room for self-pity. “A dog must not be ruled by her emotions,” Cranberry was oft to state. Though more accurately she believed a dog must choose the emotions that rule her. Happiness for Cranberry was as much her choice as it was the outcome of certain daily events. So too of course, was sadness.

…………………….

Cranberry imagined that if she could speak, she would have a distinct southern drawl. She wasn’t from the south, and neither was Jeremy, her mother, or anyone else in her life for that matter. Yet the idea was firmly entrenched in her self-concept since childhood. Perhaps she felt it gave her a certain dignity, a grace she believed was lacking in her manners and body.

On lazy summer afternoons, while Jeremy was out, Cranberry would strut around the house with, she imagined, a great piece of colored ribbon affixed to her neck. She would enter the living room, blush, trot gracefully to the sofa and twirl around, imagining the whole room full of guests. Suddenly she was a hostess, standing at the head of a grand parlor. Colonial legs of ash wood would grow under the sofa and armchair, now upholstered in a fine burgundy brocade. The cocktail table was a Davenport original, full of exotic teas, crumpetted delights, barkening back to a forgotten age. She would survey the room with a hazy sense of satisfaction, breathing it all in before she addressed her audience.

“Hi there. I’d like to thank all y’all for comin today. ‘Specially with the weather bein’ as hot and humid as it is.” Her piercing eye’s would survey the gathering, various members of the social register, taking careful note of who was not there. “This is what we as children used to call lemonade weather, as opposed to gin weather.” She’d pause for polite laughter, perhaps a golf clap or two. During the mild reverie she would lock eyes with a dark pedigree standing in the corner, hold it for a socially determined two seconds, and chuckle knowingly. “And now I’d like to direct your attention to the Whistler over in the corner, we just got it framed last week.”

The same scene had been repeated hundreds of times until the key components more or less solidified into ritual. Often she left out words entirely and would simply pace across the room intoning outlines of phrases. These were the best because she could go on for hours. She didn’t know what she was saying but the audience would always respond beautifully. They’d laugh, cheer, awe in amazement, and always with the strict modesty their caste dictated.

Bonus Readership Question: It has been said that all dogs go to heaven, yet to what does one attribute their universal salvation? Historically dogs have no particular religious affiliation that we are aware of. In the Greek mythos it is Cerberus, the three headed dog, who is even found guarding the gates of hell. Perhaps the slave mentality surrounding their relationship with humans holds as its corollary the redemptive element.

FUCKING WITHOUT FRICTION: WHY YOU SHOULD TRY NOT TO LIKE CALIFORNICATION

Californication is a television series on Showtime, or HBO 1.5. It stars David Duchovny as a just-famous-enough writer, sporting crumpled but tasteful black clothing, interesting sunglasses, and never-ending hangover-sarcasm. The opening scene of the pilot is him getting blown by a nun. Of course, he wakes to find that this was just a dream; luckily for him, he was simultaneously getting a real-life beej from an other-man’s-wife he’d presumably laid the night before. Nameless wife rolls around her round oceanside bed, thinking out loud about how sexually satisfied he made her with his progressive cunnilingus (“Did you know my husband has never made me come?”). Eventually her equally nameless hubby shows up. David compares him to K-Fed while casually fleeing the scene in his underpants.

But this effortless bad boy whatnot is just getting started. In the first twenty minutes of the pilot episode, Duchovny’s character will:

1. spurn the blockbuster film adaptation of his book God Hates Us All for being too effeminately low-brow;

2. spurn the director of said film by entering his wife;

3. spurn said wife because because whatever, she sucks in bed;

4. recklessly drive a coupe convertible on a southbound oceanside highway;

5. squint at the dawn because oh man, not a morning person;

6. put a cigarette out in a basin of holy water to the chorus of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”.

I mean holy fukkakes! The narrative essentially steps aside for a three minute scene where Duchovny beats up a latino yuppie for talking on a cell phone in a theater. The movie’s audience applauds him (meta, i guess), and the scene proudly ends.

Did I mention Duchovny’s character is named Hank Moody?

In other words, Californication is shaping up to be a 12-part waking wet dream for post-BA typewriter-types who write Dismemberment Plan songs into their crappy spec scripts — types like Tom Kapinos, the show’s creator and head writer. You might know Tom from his earlier work: making Dawson’s Creek pithy. Do you really want to use your Bittorrent space downloading hamfisted pillow talk scenarios Kapinos probably conceived of while hamfisting his own penis?

Let’s assume for a second that I’m as cynical as Showtime’s test-marketing has clearly indicated that I am; how can I believe a character with less unlikeable aspects than a Silver Age super hero? This is the 2000s! This is second nineties! Manageable alcoholism and a half-assed crush on your sensible ex-wife do not a conflicted protagonist make. His writer’s block seems tacked on, and because his dialog is composed entirely of quips, what few real problems he has never really seem to bother him anyway. I mean Christ, watch some old X-Files, Kapinos! Let me know when aliens give Hank Moody’s daughter cancer or something. Let me know when Hank Moody is addicted to porn in a way where Hank Moody is at least somewhat ashamed of it.

Whatever it is, Moody better do something in an unsuave manner soon. It’s the only way Californication can redeem itself after the hollow wish-fulfillment reel that is it’s pilot. I usually like Duchovny, but not since the romantic comedy Return to Me — in which he starred as a considerate widower in a turtleneck — has he played a character so gratingly desperate to please an audience. If I want to make believe I’m pulling off troubled-lite in a manner that lands me balls-deep in book deals and women, I’ll just go to sleep listening to Nick Cave on repeat like I usually do.