Proving I'm not Racist.

So I had an unfortunate... incident... last week.

Involving racism.

My own racism.

It was, you know, one of them unfortunate incidents that makes you reexamine everything about yourself, causing you to doubt who you are, put a Colt Detective Special in your mouth, and pussy out before you can pull the mutha' fuckin' trigger (like Riggs. It's ironic really, the whole gun in the mouth incident was what convinced me I had something left to live for because I realized I was like Mel Gibson and I thought that was really swell. Then I realized being like Mel meant that I was racist again, causing me to doubt who I was and reinsert the gun which made me happy because I again was able to compare myself to Mel Gibson by way of Martin Riggs. It was a confusing and unending cycle that lasted for hours and eventually prevented me from killing myself because I eventually fell asleep). We've all had moments like that.

But I digress. Here's the incident...

I was in my Seminar in TV Writing class, where we write spec scripts and what not, just kidding ourselves, pretending to be filmmakers before we hit the cruel, real world where an ordinary business man won't give a second thought to raping you in the ass (it's hard being a man with the threat of anal rape in Obama's America).

Anyway, I was in this class where someone was pitching a SOUTH PARK script. Her script was a little flat with no real point, and I was explaining that even when South Park appears to be about something of little insignificant it's usually actually about some bigger important event or message. Whatever the boys are involved in is usually a metaphor for something bigger and more important. And then came my fucking stupid, accidentally racist comment...

"You know, like maybe you think an episode is just about poop, and in the end it's really about... about...I don't know... a black president."

Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ. I had just accidentally compared a piece of poop to President Barack Obama. On the surface, that's pretty bad, but when you begin to analyze that comparison it is much worse. My accidentally racist comment was clever enough that I equated the color of skin to the color of poop. I had effectively called black people poop.

I was going to put a picture of poop here, but the images that come up when you do a google image search of poop are just too disgusting. So, instead, I included a picture of someone who is about as a talented as a pice of poop.

Aye caramba.

There is a black guy in the class (African American? Does saying Black make me more racist? Does worrying about the terminology make me even more racist? Yes, until I explain my way out of it all at the end). He had been the one to react first with a nervous laugh (the rest the class followed). The teacher, my favorite teacher, who knows me pretty well, kinda covered for me, saying that that one "got away from me. "

I began to worry, do I apologize to the black (African American?) student? I'd be singling him out as the only black student... Is that even worse? Is the fact I even notice he's black make me even more racist (I hadn't noticed he was black till after he was the first to nervously laugh, to be fair. I swear!). I decided the best plan of action was to ignore the whole thing happened, as did the rest of the class (I was a little more friendly to the black student, laughing at more of his jokes and what-not. God Damn, I'm racist). But you know they were all thinking, my teacher included, "Holy Shit, Nick is a mutha' fuckin' racist piece of shit! That explains that unexplainable feeling of disgust I had toward him ever since I first met him."

I didn't think a whole lot about it that class period, comfortable that I was not racist because I had never intentionally said anything racist. For fuck's sake I voted for Obama! The man is half-black!

Barack Obama: Every White Person's Proof that they are not Racist since 2006

That night though, the seriousness of the situation really set in. The fact that it was an accident makes me MORE racist. That means I'm thinking racist, subconsciously. I mean, some Southern blowhard just says racist things cause it's "cool" as he sucks down his Virginia Slims (also "cool") before he sucks his buddies dick/penis/cock (super "cool" down South, or so Billy Bob's best buddy Billy Joe claimed that one faithful night that changed their friendship forever). To be intentionally racist doesn't mean you are racist, it just means you're trying to keep up an image. To act all cool, "I love black people. I voted for mutha' fuckin' Barack Obama, bitch!" and then think racist thoughts deep down in the very soul of you makes you very, very racist.

Virginia Slims will make you "8O's cool."

So I came to conclusion that I was very, very racist, which lead me to the Martin Rigg's Colt Detective Special moment already touched on.

And then a few days later... came salvation!

I was in the grocery parking lot, just having narrowly avoided a car accident when I realized I also hate Asian people.

You may be saying, "Nick, how does hating Asian people make you NOT Racist? If anything, that makes you MORE Racist."

"Aha!" I say, let me explain further.

"Alright," you say, "But I'm still not convinced. This better not be a fucking waste of my time."

Anyway, before you so rudely interrupted...

I realized I hate Asians. Then I began to really think about all the different races and ethnicitys and nationalities...

I realized I also hate Mexicans. And Jews. And Arabs. And Indians (which are technically Asian when you think about it). And Native Americans (which are sometimes called Indians, which I guess would make them technically Asian as well). And every other race you can think of.

I even hate Whites. I hate them soooo much!

Ta Da! Salvation!

I realized in that moment that redefined who I was, that I don't hate Black People! I HATE PEOPLE (which I guess actually DOES include hating Black People, but I'm not singling anyone out is the point). I hate all people of all shapes, religions, colors, and intelligence levels. Hating everyone EQUALLY keeps me from being a racist.

This is what America is all about. Equality. And by hating everyone, I am not only not racist, but I am also more American.

So, sure I compare a black person to poop. I would compare a white person to bird shit mixed with ejaculate.

So by hating everyone, I keep myself in the clear. Postponing thoughts of suicide for a few more days...

Huzah!

I still wounld't date a black chick though cause they're just not attractive.

The Shortest Genre Films Ever!

I'm a wannabe screenwriter. And I've been working out a lot (cause my Weight Loss Car is only in the 'prototype' [aka 'Blog'] stage). So since I'm spending a total of 3 hours a day either in the pool or on my bike, I've been thinking a lot. And since I'm a wannabe screenwriter I think a lot about movies. And there is something that just ain't right about 3 beloved genres. Something that makes no sense to me upon further review.

First, a wee bit of background for those of you who aren't screenwriters. Most fiction movies that aren't ultra realistic require the audience to suspend disbelief at least once in a real major way. By suspending disbelief just that once, audiences are rewarded with a story that makes since based on the one time they had to suspend their disbelief.

Examples.

Audiences suspend disbelief when they buy into the fact that when bitten by a radioactive spider, an ordinary teenage gets super strength and the ability to shoot sticky white goo from his wrists (though it's not the first time he has had sticky white goo on his hands if you catch my drift [I mean, who doesn't love roasting marshmallows by the fire?]). After audiences are willing to believe he has super powers, all the following scenes capitalize on this first suspension of disbelief, playing by these rules, not asking the audience to suspend disbelief again.

Smores are so delicious, it's worth getting sticky white goo everywhere!

Audiences suspend disbelief when they accept that there are giant robots from outer space that can become cars and trucks and such. After that it's just giant robots smashing each other as set up by the original suspension of disbelief.

Giant Robots from Outer Spacer - a small suspension of disbelief.

Audiences suspend disbelief when they are asked to believe that a total bad-ass like Kurt Russell can really settle down and coach a hockey team, after defeating identity stealing aliens in Antarctica. Likewise, they suspend disbelief when they are asked to believe a whiny pussy like that guy from New Kid's on the Block can get the drop on Matt Damon.

No way this bonafied-bad-ass could live a content life coaching hockey.

Now that the short screenwriting lesson is over, I can get to the heart of the issue.

I believe that one can apply suspension of disbelief to almost any ridiculous event they want (look at that wiggle room I give myself with the use of the word 'almost'), but it SHOULD NOT, would not, could not, be applied to explain character behavior. When you use suspension of disbelief to say "oh yeah, he'd totally act that way cause its a movie" when no person in their right mind would EVER act that way, that's not Suspension of Disbelief, that's sloppy mutha' fuckin' screenwriting!

And this sloppy screenwriting is why there are 3 genres that just don't make any since to me (That is how you bury your lead, ladies and gentlemen. I buried it so deep you'd be better off flying to china and attempting to dig it up than doing it stateside.)

First, the horror genre.Here's the scenario. You're in the woods. You see a creepy house. You're friend says 'Oooo, a creepy house, the same creepy house where those horny teens disappeared last week, let's go check it out!' In the movies a character's like 'Let's Scooby Dooby Doo the shit out of that creepy house even though it means we'll most likely get chopped to bits by a guy with a chain saw and/or axe!' In real life, any person with half a brain would be like, 'Fuck that creepy house. Let's go to Quizno's for an oven toasted sub for under $10.'

The horror genre would not exist if it weren't for sloppy screenwriting. If these scripts were written with characters who acted realistically, they'd just be 30 minute films introducing the characters, showing them having to make a decision about whether or not to enter a death trap, and then having them make the decision to go home instead, with a quick stop to Quiznos on the way. Sure they'd be a waste of money and the least popular genre in Hollywood, but they'd make more sense God-Damn-It!

I'm a sheriff on a small island and there's a shark eating beachgoers. Do I go onto a small boat, out on the ocean, to face the shark like a man? Fuck this shit! I'm moving back to New York!I'm offered a trip to an island where a mad scientist has created Dinosaurs from DNA found in prehistoric mosquitoes. You have velicorapters and T-Rexs? Fuck this shit! I'm going back to digging up dead dinos that can't eat me.
For Christ sake, I've never had sex cause I know that slashers in masks go after the slutty, sex crazed teens first (and that's the only reason I've never had sex. I swear).

I ain't being hacked to death with a machete any time soon!

Next genre that makes no sense... The Fantasy Genre!

Here's the scenario. I'm a regular guy, living a regular life in the real world. A talking animal comes to me, telling me I'm the rightful king of a fantasy realm that exists through a magic doorway. It's not really important what the animal is, it could be an elf like in Harry Potter or a talking frog or mole or something.

Talking mole complete with adorable suspenders and sharp pick axe.

In the fantasy genre, the protagonist undergoes a few moments of disbelief and then buys into the creature's story, being whisked off to a kingdom full of magic and wonderment. And sure, the audience will suspend their own disbelief at the sight of a talking animal. But how can we ask them to suspend disbelief again when the person says, "alright mole, lets go to Terianzibithia." I ask you, the reader, in the real world, at what point does an ordinary person accept that an animal is speaking English in order to cordially invite you into a parallel universe.

This isn't a "gee whiz, maybe the mole is telling the truth" moment. This is an Earth-shattering experience that brings everything you hold to be self evident into question. I propose that in the real world, a normal person can NEVER reach that point where they follow the mole into the magical sewage pipe to Terianzibithia.

If a mole ever talks to me, my thought process would be as follows...

'Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ! Has it finally happened? Have I finally gone fucking insane? That mole is fucking talking! It's happened, I've finally gone fucking insane! I can't live a life where fucking moles fucking talk to me! Fuck!'

Being a proud member of the NRA, I would then withdraw my Colt Detective Special, put two slugs between the eyes of the demon mole, and then blow off my own fucking head.

Again, such a change to the fantasy genre makes for a pretty short film that would be meant for an older audience (suicide ain't for the kiddies).

I have biggest beef of all with the final genre. This is absolutely, without a doubt, the least realistic genre ever, and audiences should be insulted that a writer tried to pull this one on them.

I'm talking of course about the 'bus-that-can't-slow-down-below-50-miles-an-hour-in-LA' genre. The most popular movie from this genre being SPEED.

Who the fuck made this movie? The writer, director, producers, and everyone involved should not only have their movie licenses revoked, but they should all be taken out behind Warner Bros and shot.

I buy that the power of god comes out of a little gold box and kills Nazis. I don't question it when a billionaire builds a suit that weighs a couple hundred pounds and yet can fly without wings. But there is no way in fucking hell that I believe a bus can even accelerate to 50, let alone maintain it for an entire act, in Los Angeles, the city with the worst traffic in the US.

Did the filmmakers really think people would just sit back and buy this impossible suspension of disbelief? Did not one person raise their hand and say, "Our premise makes no sense" on the set?

Seriously, I can't remember the last time I was able to go above 50 on the highway. And you're telling me this bus not only got up to 50, it maintained it for 40 minutes, going many many miles on the LA highway system?

I call bullshit on that one, Hollywood. Pure, unadulterated bullshit.

SPEED should be 10 minutes long. Keanu finds out there is a bomb on the bus that gets activated when the bus goes over 50. Keanu smiles and shrugs, he knows that the bomb will never get activated because the bus will never get over 20 miles an hour because of LA traffic. And if for some reason the bus does reach 50, the movie is still over quick, because it will immediately get stuck in traffic, causing it to slow below 50, blowing it to smithereens!

Believable SPEED

There, I fixed 3 broken genres. They may not be better movies, but at least I'm not distracted by unbelievable scenarios anymore. With ideas like mine, it's a wonder I'm not being paid the big bucks to write Hollywood spectacles.

The Amazing, The Fantabulous, The Astounding... Weight Loss Car!

I have it, ladies and gentlemen... the first truly great invention of the 21st Century (right after a black president)!

I call it, simply, The Amazing, The Fantabulous, The Astounding Weight Loss Cartm .

You see, weight loss has been on my mind recently and I believe I have traced the cause of obesity to its original source, it's very first occurrence in the history of mankind. By coming to this understanding of the beast I shall hence forth refer to as 'fatty disorder' I have invented a device that will eliminate said disorder until the Earth's oil reserves are depleted.

It is a well known fact that the first fat person did not appear until the late 19th century when the automobile (or 'car' as it is called by the uneducated) became a prevalent form of transportation. Evidence of this can bee (buzz) seen in the following photographs, all pre-automobile, all containing no fatties.

Exhibit A: There Were No Fat Cavemen.


Exhibit B: No Fat Pilgrims Either.



Exhibit C: No Fat Founding Fathers!Exhibit D: Cars = Fatty Disorder

So let's look at the facts so far. There was not a single fat person on Earth until man began using the automobile: FACT. After the automobile, there were suddenly gelatinous beings known as fatties: FACT. Therefore, the automobile IS responsible (i.e. the cause) of Fatty Disorder: FACT.

Of course, it should be obvious why cars cause fatty disorder. If a person is no longer walking to McDonald's or whipping a horse to get to McDonald's like in pre-late-19th century times, said person is no longer exercising. Contrary to the beliefs of NASCAR fans, driving is not a sport as there is no exercise involved.

So if cars are the problem, can they not also be the solution?

The answer to this question is as old as guns themselves. Every member of NRA knows that guns CAUSE violence and murder, but these same members are also are the only level headed people to realize that guns are also the only way to PREVENT violence and murder. If Liberals would just butt out, the late Charleston Heston and his band of merry gentlemen would have already cured the world of violence and murder using their 'little friends' (referred to by the uneducated to as 'guns' or 'firearms').

But I digress. I am not here to stop violence and murder with my Colt Detective Special. I am here to stop Fatty Disorder with my new and improved automobile.

My invention works as such. It looks like a regular automobile (which I will hence forth refer to as car because of Dummy Disorder, an entirely different issue). Basically, to use this device, one must open the door and sit in what I call 'the driver's seat' just like an ordinary vehicle. One then takes the 'seat belt' and pulls it across them, buckling it into the 'seat belt receiving receptacle' until they hear a click and it locks in place.

This is where my invention begins to differ from the ordinary, fatty creating car. Once a person is buckled in, the car will measure their 'fatty factor.' The seat will measure their weight and the seat belt will measure the roundness of their tummy, giving the person a fatty index.

If a person receives a fatty index of Brad Pitt or Christian Bale from THE MACHINIST, the car will start. If instead, a person's fatty index is closer to a Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, or, dare I say it, Danny Devito (with or without added padding from when he was The Penguin), the car will not start and will say to the intended driver "Get out of the fucking car! You're walking today, bitch ass fatty."

If you are the weight of Christian Bale you're OK to drive!

A Danny Devito level Fatty will have to get out and walk.

I don't have to explain to you why this device is genius. But I will anyway. Basically, if fatties are forced to walk everywhere, they won't be fat for long. Either they will walk 5 miles to get to McDonald's, or they will just skip it, either way they are getting thinner!

Now I'm sure you're saying, "Nick, you fucking idiot. People (yes, we fatties are still people) can't walk everywhere. Nothing would ever get done. How is a person supposed to take a road trip to Kansas to see all that beautiful flat farmland? They can't possibly walk that far!" And to that I reply, "You are smarter than you look and damn it if you aren't correct. And every one needs to see the flat, majestic nothingness of Kansas before they die" Still sucks to be you though, as I have considered every possible weakness and situation concerning my flawless invention and I do, in fact, have an answer for everything.

When you get in the car, you will enter your destination into a GPS-type device. The device will look up the destination and calculate how far away it is from where you are. If it is less that 20 miles away, the car will say "Don' t be such a lazy fucker. Take a walk." I think that 20 miles is a reasonable distance for someone to walk if they really want to get a hamburger, go grocery shopping, or keep their job.

Now, I know there are people who will want to cheat the system, so I have provided a safety net for that as well. If a fatty enters a destination that is farther than 20 miles just to get the car to start and then tries to drive to the McDonald's down the street or their office that is only 19.9 miles away, well, then the brakes won't work. No brakes until you've gone the full 20 miles, that way you don't cheat and stop somewhere closer.

It's brilliant, really, and I'm not afraid to admit that. I have created a flawless invention that is guaranteed 110% to annihilate fatty disorder.

Before you go and give me all the awards let me give you this disclaimer, though this device will keep most fatties off the road, it will have about a 0% impact on LA's Traffic Problem. Everyone knows that everyone in LA has a perfect body, so the amount of people on the road will be exactly the same. So please, no awards for solving the traffic crisis, just awards for curing fatty disorder.

--- Nick is also the inventor of the French Fry Straw, the Phone-Keys-that-you-will-never-lose-cause-you-can-just-call-them, and co-Inventor of the waffle hamburger and the candy beanbag.