You Had Me At Halo

SMACK!! SMACK!!!
The feeling of flesh flattening against my forehead ground into my skull as I hit the closed patio door. I yelped in surprise and pain, my hand rising to my head to rub the spot above my eye. The sun glared off the door and I pulled it open with an annoyed yank.
“Dammit,” I muttered, still rubbing the red welt. I went to the fridge to get some ice when someone started pounding on the front door.
Opening the door, who should be s staring me in the face but a Master Chief.
He gets to the point right quick. "We gotta go, soldier," he said. "She’s in labor and only you can get us there."
I blinked.
I blinked again.
He looked pretty much the same as they all do here in town. There were a few in the surrounding neighborhoods. I think there’s even a couple living down by the beach. He was almost seven vertical feet of space marine, almost pure armor with a helmet that sported a gold faceplate.
I always wondered what it looked like from the inside.
His armor was vibrant blue, black hiatuses at the joints giving him full range of movement. There was a pistol, a magnum, on his belt and he was carrying something on his back, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He looked down at my five foot whatever frame.
A true warrior, they had been created, genetically enhanced, by the government; an unstoppable force en mass. After winning the war ten years ago, a lot of them assimilated into our society.
His blue, armored hand grabbed my shirt and yanked me out the door.
"Get in," he's said as I heard a car horn start to honk incessantly in front of us. Only it's not a car. It's some kind of truck/jeep, dark green and heavily armored.
Strangely, there was no roof. I was still in a haze when he shoved me towards the driver seat.
"Let's go!" he commanded, jumping in the back. There was someone else in the vehicle already. A female version of the seven foot tall man was lying across the back seat. She was armored as well, only hers was a deep red instead of blue. How could I tell she was female under all the protection? The helmet covered her face, however, looking down I saw her midsection was distended with approaching motherhood. Someone had been thoughtful enough to build a suit of armor with a pregnancy midsection. Maternity wear for a pregnant warrior? Nothing slowed these folks down. The Master’s were a mystery to me.
"He's gonna drive?!" she exclaimed. I raised an eyebrow at that.
"What? Did you think I was? Why would you think that?" he shot back, laying one hand on her metal belly. "You know I have to be back here in case you pop in the Hog."
"Hog?" I ask, finding my voice at last and climbing up--UP--into the driver’s seat.
"Warthog. You're driving a Warthog. I just made the last payment so don’t scratch it up! That way!" he pointed down the street. My new vehicle stood out next to the minivans and the town cars not only because of it's size, which I failed to mention was approaching Monster Truck proportions, but because none of my neighbors had a .50 mm cannon attached to the back of their Honda's. 'Cept maybe Jason, my neighbor who was a Master Chief-acholic. He studied their culture as a hobby. I could see him owning something like th--
"What are you waiting for!?" they yelled in unison. I jumped in my seat. I guess I'm driving.
The motor was on already, so off we went. "St. Luke's?" I asked over my shoulder.
"Solomon General," he instructed, caressing her...well, I'd say cheek, but it was really her helmet.
Solomon General? "You're Jewish?" I asked as we careened down the suburban road.
"She is. I converted," he replied. His head up next to mine, it felt like it was the size of a basketball. "You got a problem with that?" he growled and I swear I could hear a gun’s chamber being cocked behind me.
"No no no, not at all," I hastily replied. Touchy. "Solomon's all the way on the other side of town, though. It's--" I looked at my watch. "--6 p.m. on a Thursday. We're gonna run into a lot of traffic, man."
He nodded. "I'll take care of that," he said and grabbed the handles of the cannon bolted to the back of the truck.
"Don't do anything stupid!" his--what? Wife? Girlfriend?--yelled at him. Then another contraction hit and she slammed a fist into the door next to her. There was a wrenching of metal as her fist imprinted itself.
"Hey, trust me," he replied. "And, uh, c'mon, you know I'm the Master Chief. What could go wr--!"
"Now?!! she yelled. "You're giving me the 'I’m the Master Chief' schtick now!?? This is NOT THE TIME!!" she screamed.
We were approaching an intersection. "Make a right!" he barked at me.
I looked to the right. "It's a one way street," I said. "I can't--"
My protest was cut short by three huge explosions behind me. I watched in amazement as every car blocking our way was shoved aside, three perfect little mushroom clouds appearing in a line.
"Now, it's a two way. RIGHT TURN!" he ordered.
What could I do? I went right. As we accelerated through another intersection I spied the posted DEAD END sign. Clearing a road was one thing; I wasn't prepared for what came next...
That long object he had been carrying on his back? Rocket launcher. Figures. I still hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but now I sure heard it. A rocket sailed over my head, leaving a long, grey tendril of smoke as it flew ahead and obliterated the office park at the end of the road.
"Go that way," he pointed.
I didn't argue.
The gas pedal, if that's what this thing ran on, was almost to the floor when the seat next to me was suddenly ripped out, bolts cracking under the strain of a Master Chieftess' genetically enhanced grip. She suddenly wailed," I don't think we're gonna make it!" Another wail, a kick, and there went the door at her feet, sailing into a tree by the curb zooming by.
How is she going to give birth with that suit of armor on? Does it ever come off? I mused, although, admittedly, I was more concerned with the road ahead, which Mr. Full Metal Jacket was carefully carving a path for us with rockets and light-weight cannon rounds.
Out of the blue, there was an explosion in the back seat. This time a verbal one.
"Dammit! This is all YOUR FAULT!!!"
"Me??!!" yelled Master Chief. "I didn't program you to have kids!! They did it at the lab!! Why is it my--hold on--" He let fly another salvo and a GameStop in front of us disappeared, creating a smoldering hole and a new path. "--fault?!" he finished.
"If I could say something...?" I ventured.
"WHAT?!" came the reply in stereo.
Now what? What was I going to say to them? "Right now you've got a little, special...uh, something,” I struggled, both of them staring at me, “...coming into the world. Maybe, uh, a little more listening to each other and a little less yelli-“
My advice was cut short by a punch to the back of my seat. The force of it almost threw me through the windshield.
"Shut up, Oprah!" she ordered. "Do you have kids?" she yelled.
"No."
"Have you ever had two of them having a death match in yer gut?"
I concentrated on the road. "No," I admitted.
"Just drive, man," Master Chief sighed while tossing some kind of grenade at a Suzuki Wagoneer. It exploded as we zoomed past. "Buy American!" he yelled back over his shoulder to the smoking remains.
Something she just said caught my attention. "Twins? You're having twins? Congratulations!”
"Yeah, right," she spat back. Another contraction took hold of her. The Chief had a clear road ahead and kneeled down to check on her status.
"Here baby, squeeze it when it hurts. Just give it a good-aaiyIIAA!!! Notthathard!Notthathard!!"
"Oh, does that hurt?" she said through, I presume, gritted teeth. He yanked his armored and probably bruised hand away. "Man, they're really fighting in there, huh?" he tried to sympathize.
She nodded.
I was more than confused. “Who's fighting?" I asked.
Master Chief answered me. "When Masters have kids, we always have twins. We're programmed to. When we go into labor--"
"We?!?!" the Chieftess barked incredulously and I could feel her hidden eyes rolling.
"--they fight in the womb to see who will become the dominant one."
This was fascinating and more than a little disturbing. "What happens to the other one?" I asked.
"Death. One kills the other. It is the first trial of life, before they are born. The first lesson. You must fight to earn the right to live.
This fact nestled into my brain. "I never knew that! What are you people, Klingons?" I yelled, slamming on the brakes. We skidded to a halt next to a row of stores and restaurants. As I looked back at them, EDSTROM'S HARDWARE stood out in bright, yellow letters from behind.
"Why is he stopping?" she asked.
"You're saying that your kids are trying to kill each other right now?"
She answered. "No, our kid, singular, is finishing the fight!” Suddenly the back of my seat was yanked down and I found myself horizontal, looking up into a faceless red helmet. “And let me tell you, it really, really hurts! Are you happy, now Mr. Anthropologist! Drive!” The seat shoved forward, giving me minor whiplash. “I just want to see Dr. Goldstein and get these little monsters out of me!" she yelled . Master Chief leaned forward and cocked a .45 pistol.
"You heard the Chieftess. Drive!" He pointed the barrel down the road.
I paused and then carefully put the truck into gear and drove off towards the hospital.

After they wheeled her into the Delivery Room, I stood with Master Chief in the waiting area. I don't think he knew how to sit down.
"Uh, should I be wearing one of those?" I asked, pointing to the yarmulke on top of his helmet. I had never been in a Jewish hospital before. He touched it self-consciously. "Nah, not unless you want to..."
I nodded. We stood in silence for a moment, looking down the corridor where they took the Chieftess.
"Well, I should probably go talk to those guys," I said, hooking a thumb at the cops surrounding the demolished, smoking Warthog in the parking lot. "I think we may be in a little trouble..."
He turned and looked at the gaggle of uniforms shaking their heads and pointing at the truck.
"I’m tight with the Police. We'll be fine," he told me.
I had a hard time believing that and let him know with a glance. "Really," he assured me. "It's a "Chief" thing."
There was a loud bag down the hallway as a door flew open and an orderly flew out of it, hit the opposite wall, and slumped to the floor.
"OI!! GET YOUR MASTER ASS IN HERE AND HELP ME!!!" reverberated down to us. Master Chief looked up at the ceiling for the barest of moments.
"Gotta go," he said, pulling out a small camcorder from one of the blue metal pockets and walked away, leaving me with a half empty paper cup of water in my hand. As he entered the room, he forgot to duck his seven foot high head, giving the door frame a good SMACK! I smiled. In all the confusion I had forgotten about the bump on my own melon. He disappeared into the room. I drained the cup, crumpling it in my fist and tossing it away.
Walking outside, the air was suddenly filled with the sounds of three of the weirdest flying contraptions I had ever seen descending upon us. They looked like some king of mini helicopter on steroids, each set of dual blades kicking up random, parking lot debris. They didn’t have anything that looked like engines, but there they flew. The exhaust smelt terrible, like boiled ammonia. I felt my eyes start tearing up and my nasal passage was assaulted as the fumes washed down on us.
Everyone watched as they, well, not really landed, but hovered as three Master Chiefs, their armor a bright red in the sunshine, jumped out of them and landed with a triple 'thump!' that I could feel even from where I was standing, two hundred feet away.
They pulled out various guns and started heading my way.
The fumes swirled around me. I couldn’t breath. The sun got very, very bright as I fell to one knee, my hands to my face. Next, as they say: I went to brush something off my cheek and it was the ground.

“He’s coming around. Mr. Dram. You passed out. You’re okay now. You’re safe.” The smelling salts disappeared. I could breathe again.
I could hear the voice through my swampy consciousness. My eyelids slowly opened. There was a doctor looking at me with mild concern. I raised my hand to my head and felt a grenade sized lump on my forehead. Touching gingerly, I found another one on the side above my temple. Yeah, they hurt a lot.
“You won the fainting lottery, Mr. Dram. You hit the stirrup before hitting the floor. Whammo, double jeopardy.” The woman’s gentle voice again. A nurse? I touched the lumps again and the flare of pain brushed away the remaining mist.
“My…wife…” I murmured. “How is she? Is she okay?” I asked, remembering why we were in a hospital to begin with.
“Mother and sons are doing fine, Mr. Dram.”
I’m a father now, I thought. It sounded weird. I tried it another way. Now, I’m a father. Then I Yoda’ed it into a father, I now am. I noticed the lights started to dim as I felt another wave of darkness start to descend. Dark clouds of ungraspable terror compressing my heart, making the blood slow…
…down…
…and…
…start…
…to…
NO! I told myself. Not this time.
I closed my eyes. My pure will poured into my veins, making the blood flow fast, faster.
I will rise! I will finish the fight!
I banished the clouds. I stomped them like a narc at a Hells Angels rally.
My eyes opened. They were all staring at me, not sure what to say.
My sons. My boys are here.
“Would you like to see them all?” the nurse finally asked. This was rhetorical at best.
“I want to check him for a concussion first,” the resident cautioned, pulling a small flashlight out of his breast pocket.
I answered questions for five minutes before they finally let me rise up from the hospital bed. The nurse handed me two aspirins and a half full paper cup of water.
I wanted more than anything to meet my sons.
To be with my wife.
I went to them.

Cliche Joke Haiku

A Rabbi, a Pollack
and a farmers
daughter walk
into a
bar

A Few Good Jobs

I've had a few jobs. If there's one thing, one fuckin' thing I know that's written in granite, it's that I'm definitely not employable.

Nope. Not at all. Surprise. I am not a people person. I do not, as my first grade teacher put it, play well with others. A few jobs back I was a taxidermist assistant. In New York City however, people mostly bring in pigeons and squirrels and I got bored, so I started literally mounting, literally mounting the animals onto each other. My imagination soared as I pondered the hellish genetic combination of pigeon/cat (posed doggy style for irony, snarky expressions placed on their faces), or my favorite, hawk/iguana (Cross genus! Where to even begin!) I was in the middle of building a Basilisk when my imagination, along with my ass, soared into the street, fired for stealing Mr. Grabowski's favorite rooster head. 'You can't make a Basilisk without a rooster head!' I implored with all logic but it was a no go and I got canned, though I still have the Basilisk.

I've had a few jobs. Previous to that I worked the human guinea pig circuit. Before they fired me for sleeping with all seven of my doctors...at once...I let them run me into the ground on a treadmill, study my goiter, inject my eyeballs with dye, look down my throat, up my ass, in my ears, scrape my nasal passage, give me eight different antidepressants at once, and tied me down Clockwork Orange style and made me watch the pilot to "30 Rock" 5 times until I threw up (actually, I threw up after the second showing but they couldn't find the "STOP" button on the Tivo. Idiots.)

And all that was before lunch.

(Now if Rachel Dratch was a cast member on the show, I might, might have enjoyed myself..........................<-- Tina Fey, please note extended pause and feel shame.)

I've had a few jobs. My relatively normal job before that was at Scholastic Books as an illustrator. I got fired. Long story short, I went out after work, got stinking, blind drunk, went home, decided to jerk-off to some soothing Internet porn, and passed out with my pants around my ankles like a set of corduroy shackles, whiskey dick in hand. Why is this different from, say, what YOU did last night? Because at 10:00 a.m. when I emerged from my porno blackout I found I wasn't sitting in front of my computer at home.

I had gone back to my office.

I've had a few jobs.

Before that I did my best Ed Norton and trolled the sewers for the MTA. I wasn't there to muck with pipes or wires, they just needed someone to flush out the vermin/insects/Velociraptors that make the sewers their home. I had this metal detector looking thing that emitted high frequency ultra-somethings that I guess were supposed to be frightening but did nothing but piss off the wildlife. One day a homeless subway denizen, who was literally living under the "3" train, surprised me and yanked my equipment away from me, running off down the tunnel. I gave chase, yet the running pustule pulled a landlubbing Aquaman and summoned several Great Beasts of the IRT to block my way, halting my pursuit. As I backed away from the rising wall of sewer rats, tank-esque cockroaches and child psychiatrists that impeded my chase, my assailant disappeared into the gloom. I fretted at what my boss would say about the lost ultra high frequency Flux Capacitor. No surprise, I was fired and a week later I spied a supiciously familiar homeless guy with a 80's boom box tricked out with suspiciously familiar looking Capacitor on the side. I'd say he looked like Dave Chapelle, but that would be predictable. It really was Dave Chapelle.

Oh, and Ed Norton was a character on this show called "The Honeymooners" and, ah......never mind.

Yeah, I've had a few jobs. Most of them, and there's about two dozen more that I'll save for another time, I worked alone. People piss me off too much too quickly, and Dad never came back from buying cigarettes, so I work alone now. As any practicing sociopath would tell you, self employment is the way to go, so finally I bought a small taxidermy shop in Chinatown that specializes in Griffins.

And no, I don't keep a computer in the shop.

Writers Strike Out

Man, I am LOVING this TV and screenwriters strike. It's made a longtime fantasy come to fruition: I get to walk down to Rockefeller Center and lob eggs at Tina Fey; a challenge, as she's small, quick and wiley.

I might be stating the obvious, but the writers are all on crack. The strike's a waste of time. The networks won't fold. Unlike back in 1988, now they're all owned by huge got-more-money-than-Warren-Buffet-Bill-Gates-and-GOD corporations now, e.g. GE = NBC, Disney = ABC, Westinghouse = CBS, Viacom and Time Warner Cable = everything else... I would hurt GE more if the Microwave Door Installers Union walked out than a bunch of nerds who are probably wondering how the hell are they going to turn their cardboard picket signs into bongs when all the brouhaha settles.

And what are you going to miss, ? Jay Leno? Heroes? The Daily Show? As they said in Goodfellas, "Fuck 'em inda ear." Heroes has turned into such a lousy dried up piece of crap even flies would avoid it. Leno I couldn't care less about and Jon Stewart? If his material is any indication he's been without comedy writers for the last five years. Write up an insightful thought or two Mr. Stewart, something pertinent to the times, something with an edge and THEN you might find an audience...

It's like I was saying to my co-worker Lenny back at the lime quarry: Hollywood sucks blue wombats. There hasn't been a quality program on since Cop Rock (and where's the Cop Rock DVD boxed set? I think I've been patient enough.) with the shining exception of Meerkat Manor.

Maybe the meerkats can fill in as scabs. I mean, they war with each other, they stink to high heaven, and they piss on everything, including each other. Add a degree from Harvard and a solid methadone dependency and voila! you have yourself a network television writer. Do you think they know Microsoft Word? Can they type without thumbs or would they write dialogue with meerkat pee in the sand?

Greedy greedy greedy. It's all about money, about those horrible people wanting to be paid for their "work". Listen up Shakespeare wannabees, produce something of value first and then we'll talk. First get some company to give you $250 for a thirty second advertising spot and then you might be able to negotiate.

And what about the executives? The poor, poor television executives (or "suits" in street jive) whom these nasty "artists" want to take the bread out of their defenseless, pitiful, moisturized claws. How would Tina Fey like to sit down and...explain...to a CBS Vice President's child that Daddy can't afford a third solid gold XBOX 360? I can see the tears welling up in their little blue, blind eyes (ironically, too much TV) as Tina holds them, pressed to the breast until their muffled sobs subside, their salty, bitter, bitter tears staining her burlap blouse.

Yeah Tina. Good job there. Way. To. Go.

They want to strike I say let them strike. They couldn't have picked a better time, right? Nothing like a WINTER picket line. The first sign of hoarfrost and I say they'll be out of there with nothing left on the steps of Rockefeller Center but some empty Starbucks cups, a rhyming dictionary, and Tina Fey and Stephen Colbert trading bong hits, spilling brackish THC laden water on their sandaled feet because the Brainiac Twins forgot to take the actual sign off the cardboard tube and it keeps knocking on their chapped, raw, wind burnt knees.

Go back to work guys. Those Cop Rock DVD extras don't write themselves, you know.

My Own Damn Blog

Welcome to my squeaky new blog. If you don't like what I'm saying, screw you and tell me why.

'Well, the time has come...' said the Walrus.

You will find no cabbages or Kings here, though. My name's Rez. This space will be filled; with ramblings, diatribes; sermons, muses, misplaced semi-colons, many, many grammatical errors, run on sentences and a general decapitating of Strunk & White. Speaking of...

Who the hell pumped out that illustrated Strunk and White piece of crap? An illustrated English textbook? Fucking brilliant. All those words were so distracting. Maybe the next over-priced edition will have giant Centerfold of the word "Sucker". In Goudy Stout font.

Oh, and if you don't know what Strunk and White is, you best keep walkin' Pablo.

Did I mention tangents in that list? Tangitizing will be common here, at least until I can find someone who disagrees with me and wants to qwerty battle. Stop the insanity people; I want arguments! Here's a tasting menu of my principles that you can yell at me about:

1) Fun fun fun. Life is all about the fun. If it's not fun, I ain't doing it. Unless a fleshy wombat is involved.

2) "Fun" is a noun, an adjective, and strange sounding. Overcooked and underfun? Attila the Fun? (Again, the tangent thing...)

3) We need more pollution. I can still see that bright, glowy thing in the sky. Where's 500,000 burning tractor tires when you want them?

4) Bush is a stand-up guy. I like him. He can fuck my fiance anytime.

5) Anyone who thinks racking up 145,377 kills online in Halo 3 is a waste of time has never wanted to shoot teenagers in the face with a rocket launcher.

6) Trying is for suckers/Failing is forever.

7) Punching kittens is a gas.


Specific targets you can nail me on.


1) The Daily Show sucks warty ass.

2) I love reading...about books on fire.

3) I'm a filthy, filthy Jew. Christians, hide yer babies 'cause it's dinnertime and I'm bringin' the BBQ sauce.

4) I'm incredibly self-absorbed. I actually absorbed my own ears just last week.

5) I have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.

(Alright, I stole that last one. I'd apologize to Mr. Robert Bloch, but I think he's dead now and therefore not real.)

6) Oh yeah, and I'm a bit of a petty shoplifter. Power issues, not that you'd figure that out, LOSER!

My ego is god-like and needs sustenance. Tell me what you think. Unless you're a teenager.

Then you better start runnin' Pablo 'cause these rockets are pretty damn fast.