Posts tagged with ‘humor writing’ include the following:
I just found the first feature-length screenplay I ever wrote, which was basically a re-write of “Patience, or Bunthorne’s Bride” by Gilbert and Sullivan, except instead of the Aesthetic movement in the 1890’s it’s about early millennial hipsters in New York and a guy who tries faking it at performance art and slam poetry.
It’s kind of trite (and full of typos) and reads a bit like a YA novel but it’s also really cute and I’m having a lot of fun reading all the 18-year-old Ben jokes.
Here are some screenshots.
Emily — You are a devoted friend. You often prioritize the happiness of others above your own. Try to set some time aside for yourself!
Anita — You are the queen of esoteric talents! You can juggle, moonwalk, walk fast, spit into anyone’s mouth, slap your dad awake when he’s sleeping, and rob stores then burn the money.
Hannah — You’re a bleeding heart. Literally! Gross. Get a body, Hannah!
Rebecca — Family means everything to you. Anyone’s family. You like to go into their houses and tie them up and gag them, then act out all the Simpsons couch gags with your new living puppets.
Rhonda — That’s a stupid name. Are you a mom? That’s a mom name.
Yasmin — You know how to party! By knocking everyone out with codeine and drawing nude Dr. Seuss characters all over them. Is that a Grinch dick? That’s a Grinch dick!
Gina — Gina, you are so boring it’s criminal! Get a personality, Gina!
Charlotte — You’re super feisty and nothing can stand in the way of your goals. If your goal is to pick up a quarter off the sidewalk and someone gets to it first, they’ll get a sea urchin up the ass courtesy of Charlotte (that’s you!).
Marissa — It’s your destiny to find the other half of the amulet and follow the path it reveals. Get on that, Marissa! You go girl!
Kristin or Kristen — You are a real planner; an organization freak! You planned the Kennedy assassination.
All other names are bullshit/fake.
EXT. WOODBINE CLUB - NIGHT
The year is 1953 and the city is Philadelphia. A TALL FIGURE and a SHORT FIGURE walk into view.
(pointing at the club’s NEON SIGN)
ET Phone Home!
JOHN “TRANE” COLTRANE
Well, little buddy, round here there’s only one kind of ‘phone that matters.
It’s a common misconception that flatus, the gas produced by bacterial fermentation in the colon, is simply methane. Flatus is so much more than that. It contains oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen—that simplest and most plentiful of molecules in the cosmos, and carbon—the molecule of life.
These elements were forged in the crucible of the big bang. They comprise the galaxies up at which we gaze with wonder and the lenses through which we gaze—the air we breathe. Each time we expel flatus, we’re releasing these elements back into the vastness from which they were gathered over the course of billions of years.
We are, all of us, made of fart stuff.
You like games? We got games!
Test your emotional resolve by listening to someone for whom you have feelings talk about their various love interests!
You like rides? We got rides!
No wait, you got rides! You get to give them rides to their dates with other people!
You like slides?
Watch your confidence slide away as the object of your hopeless affection tells you how it’s weird but you don’t count as a boy/girl to them.
You like ball pits?
Wrong! Nobody likes ball pits! They’re gross!
The more time you put in, the more tickets you get.
When you’ve got enough tickets, guess what you can cash them in for?
Nothing! That’s not how this works!
If your crush is a slinky or a box of glow in the dark ants, you are in luck!
Otherwise, your crush is a person and is not redeemable with tickets, you idiot!
Are you mad at your crush for bringing you to FriendZone?
Consider this: either you suck at hinting or your crush is an oblivious or cruel person.
Consider also that if you don’t like the rides or games, you can just leave. You are not helpless. You get to choose how you spend your time and resources.
Remember, No One’s Got A Gun To Your Head™
In 1996, Alan Sokal (an NYU physics professor) was fed up with the pervasive, waffly trend of postmodern deconstructionism in academia—of people like Derrida whose work is often riddled with circumlocution and false syllogisms and which aims to undermine the existence and importance of objective realities.
He submitted a deliberately nonsensical paper called ”Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity” to an academic journal. And it was published.
Sokal describes it as "a pastiche of left-wing cant, fawning references, grandiose quotations, and outright nonsense…structured around the silliest quotations [by postmodernist academics] I could find about mathematics and physics."
Said Sokal, “Anyone who believes that the laws of physics are mere social conventions is invited to try transgressing those conventions from the windows of my apartment. I live on the twenty-first floor.”
2. I, Libertine
Jean Shepherd, the raconteur best known for A Christmas Story, had a long and fascinating career as an irreverent radio host. His prank came out of frustration, like Sokal’s—specifically with the way the New York Times Bestseller list was determined.
He claimed that if enough people simply requested a book from bookstores around the country, it would make the NTY Bestseller list. He asked his viewers to request I, Libertine by Fredrick R. Ewing—a book and an author that didn’t exist. They obeyed. And it made the New York Times Bestseller list.
In 2009, Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer orchestrated the company’s most elaborate April Fool’s Day prank to date.
With competitors Google and Apple dwarfing the erstwhile top dog Microsoft corporation, Ballmer decided to engage in a little good-natured self-effacing fun.
Under his direction, Microsoft engineered and launched a search engine of their own—ostensibly in competition with Google—which they named Bing. And people actually used it.
Bing.com is still an active website—you can visit it and even use the functioning search engine.
The bag is pulled off your head and you find yourself on the poured concrete floor of a small, dank room with stained walls. Your hands are tied behind your back, so tight that the rope grates away skin every time you move. A group of men in the shadows speak to each other in a language you don’t recognize.
A single fluorescent light turns on, flickering weakly, throwing dingy green highlights into the room. A man enters and steps into the light—the men in the shadows fall silent. He stares at you, appraising you, then jabs you twice in the ribs with the butt of a rifle. You double over, gasping, and choke out “What do you want from me?”
The man’s lip curls into a sneer and he lowers his face until it’s right in front of yours. His breath makes you gag.
He asks you a question in the same language you heard the other men speaking. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re saying,” you tell him, looking at his cheeks, his mustache—anything but his eyes.
He grabs your hair and pulls upward until you’re forced to meet his gaze and he repeats the phrase—this time you understand it.
A Conversation Between Myself And Ricky, My Childhood Best Friend Who Turned Out To Be A Robot Programmed By My Mother
WHAT’S UP? WHERE’S YOUR COAT?
YOUR RED WINTER COAT. YOU’RE GOING TO CATCH A COLD. YOU SHOULD WEAR YOUR COAT. I RIDE A SKATEBOARD.