Even Death Has An Odd Bad Week

"Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to begin with an explanation of sorts. We, the Grim Reapers, sometimes also known as Death Inc., have an endless task set before us. People are born. And people die. We're tasked to bring them to the afterlife. Whatever destination that may be for them. It's a lot easier with animals. They all go to the good place. Humans? Not so much. Especially these days.

The point is, we're busy. And sometimes, mistakes get made.

It's been a hard few days for the world. There's been a great deal of anticipation, expectation, and people waiting for a long overdue obituary. Yes, that obituary. A certain obese obnoxious self absorbed con man who weaseled his way into a powerful position not once but twice. As a grim reaper, may I just say that one should try going through life not being the sort of person whose death will be cause for  global celebration. Because if you're that sort of person, you're really not going to like the place that you're heading to when you leave this life.

So, for the record. Yes. We are working on it. Things just keep getting in the way, but he's definitely running short on time, and the Devil has prepared a place in Hell just for him- a dark void with no exit, no company, and no audience. Just himself. Alone forever. That's kind of fitting, don't you think?

Theologians might say that he can repent his ways and go the other way, but realistically?

You'd have to have a soul. And he frittered that away decades ago.

So no, he's going to Hell.

But we need to set the record straight on some things.

A lot of people have been taking out their anguish on us. Which we get. Because in short order, you had these wonderful people die, who lived their lives very much as themselves, who made an impact on so many lives. People who are widely mourned and commemorated. I mean, the closest thing Earth had to a living saint was Dolly Parton. Kind, compassionate, humanitarian, with a personal interest in childhood literacy and access to books. An entertainer who didn't take herself seriously, but who helped others because it was the right thing to do.

And Tim Curry? Loved him in Clue, by the way. That movie is a big favourite among grim reapers. But Tim was a larger than life actor who inhabited every part he played, and breathed life into every film. People loved him.

And now both of them are gone. To a better world, let me assure you. Dolly has joined that heavenly choir, and Tim is cracking jokes with St. Peter. They're at peace now, in a place which will never be home to an odious slug who resides at 1600 Pennsylvania.

We just want to say that we're sorry. Dolly and Tim dying in short order comes as a shock, because it is. Because these were good people, and even though they lived long lives, it's never long enough when good people pass on.

But everyone has their time to pass on. Except Keith Richards. That guy's going to live forever, because we misplaced the paperwork. And it was Dolly and Tim's time to depart from this world, even after all the good they did and the joy they brought to the lives of people they might have never had the chance to meet. Look, this is our job. And despite our reputation as looking scary, we're not. We're walking you into the afterlife. Like an old friend. Helping you make that transition.

Unless you're going to Hell. In which case we're kicking you in the ass and sending you down into the pit.

I get that people don't want to deal with the idea of Death. But we are a natural part of Life. Namely the ending of it. And when you live the kind of life that people mourn you in the way people mourn Dolly and Tim, you'll meet us as an old friend, taking that last walk together. If, on the other hand, you live your life like a Donald Trump, you're going to be screaming in terror when you meet us. The moral of the story is, be like Dolly and Tim. Don't be like Donald. 

So what we're saying is we appreciate the frustration people are having with us. You want to see him no longer wasting oxygen, and it hurts when good people pass out of this life and horrible people live on. We get that. 

Just rest assured with this:

He's running out of time. We're on it. Trust me."

Patient Bears Versus Impatient Humans

I have an image blog today. Enjoy!

It Was Mrs. Peacock With The Explosives

It's been awhile since I've featured this raging egomaniac. Enjoy!

Self Absorbed Director Announces Latest Film Project, Annoys Gallery Of Reporters

Los Angeles (AP) Reporters were summoned to the offices of Digital Domain, the special effects headquarters of vastly overrated explosion porn aficionado director Michael Bay yesterday, for the latest announcement by the self absorbed twit who brought the world Armageddon, The Rock, and Pearl Harbor. This reporter was doomed to be among them, for his editor makes it his personal mission in life to be as much of a pain in the butt as he can… (editor: do I need to remind you of the fact that you laughed when my kid flubbed his lines during the school play? You will do what I tell you to do, damn you!).

Anyway, before that interruption by the aforementioned editor (question:  why on Earth do you keep demanding my presence at these things? You and I hate each other!) this reporter had been summoned to the lair of the Self-Absorbed Blowhard that is Michael Bay. There were a number of actual reporters present, as well as the inevitable horde of brain deprived entertainment reporters. This reporter has no respect, none at all, for the pestilence that are entertainment reporters.

The spokesperson came out on stage before the assembled group of journalists and fake reporters belonging to such wastes of airtime Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood. She thanked everyone for coming; this reporter sighed in dismay and wondered how long he’d have to wait before he could slip away. Then she announced her employer.

Michael Bay came out on stage, dressed in his usual fashion: jeans, denim shirt, and blazer. As always, there were a couple of days worth of stubble on his face, and his hair was in that usual windswept slightly disheveled look that he seemed to favour. A large mirror was waiting for him beside the podium, and he took a moment to admire himself. This reporter expected he had gone thirty seconds since the last time he looked at himself in the mirror. Bay smiled in his usual vacant way, winked at himself, and looked out at the reporters, waving and grinning in his usual addled way.

“Hello and welcome!” he said, laughing as if at some imagined joke. “Welcome to Digital Domain! Of course you all wanted to come and see what the greatest director of all time was up to, didn’t you?” This reporter looked around, wondering if Alfred Hitchcock or Michael Curtiz might have managed to rise from the grave. Of course not. The self-asbsorbed blowhard was talking about himself. (editor: do I need to remind you your job doesn’t involve personal editorials or slants?) This reporter, admonished by the Editor Demon (editor: hey! I am not a demon!), nonetheless rested assured that while the Editor Demon could send him on pointless stories like this, the Editor Demon could not fire him (editor: I am so slashing your tires for this).

Back to the story at hand. Bay was going on and on about himself and how busy he was with his many projects, but there was something else that he had in development. “You know, I keep thinking about that film a couple of years ago based on a boardgame. Battleship! Yes, that was a real classic.” The real reporters collectively groaned in dismay at the mention of a film that was so ridiculously awful that it could have been directed by Michael Bay, even though it wasn’t. Bay seemed to not hear that groan of dismay. “You know, I wish I’d directed that one. Lots of action, babes, explosions, aliens being all Big Bad for no reason whatsoever. Well, for some reason that film didn’t do as well as it could have, but no matter. It gave me an idea. Why not go back and do a film about another classic board game?” He grinned in a way that suggested a doctor had failed to finish a lobotomy on him. “Ladies and gentlemen, coming as soon as I can film it… the big screen epic murder mystery Clue!”

Another groan of dismay mixed with outrage filled the auditorium. That particular board game had been adapted into a film years ago, one that had been considered a flop.  There have been odd rumours through the years of follow-up films or television miniseries, but nothing has yet become of it. And now Michael “Blow It Up Good” Bay of all people wanted to adapt the boardgame into a movie?

“Are you out of your mind?” a Reuters correspondent asked.

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Bay replied, puzzled.

“That was already made into a movie starring Tim Curry. A bad one,” this reporter told the egomaniac.

“Years ago!” Bay said with yet another dimwitted grin. “Everyone’s forgotten that. And my version will be different. It’ll be bigger. It’ll be grander. It’ll be more explosive. We’ll have suspects and red herrings and plot devices and countdowns and hidden bombs in a secluded New England mansion. We’ll have hot babes waxing cars and Aerosmith doing a theme song. I’ve already got them working on it. I really have to keep the band stocked up with whiskey while they write music, let me tell you… those guys could drink Russians under the table.”

Bay smiled as he paused, looking at the crowd. “Let’s start bringing out our cast. Playing our hero, Mr. Green, I give you one of my favourite actors in the whole wide world, put your hands together to welcome the one, the only… Shia LaBeouf!”

A collective groan of dismay rose up from the real reporters. LaBeouf, the waste of oxygen given to speaking of himself in the third person actor, walked out on stage. As usual, he was dressed in a sloppy way. “It is good to see you have come to pay homage to Shia!” he called out. “Shia is much pleased!” He took his place by Bay.

Bay nodded and continued. “And as Miss Scarlet, how could I ever pass up a chance to cast her? Ladies and gentlemen, Megan Fox!”

The real reporters groaned in displeasure. Fox came out on stage in a low-cut dress that showed off her assets. She smiled in her customary vacant way. “Hi there! I’m going to have so much fun playing the bad girl with a heart of gold. Though am I the killer or not, Michael?”

Bay laughed. “Spoilers, Megan, spoilers! We can’t let the cat out of the bag yet. Playing a role that is sure to win him another Oscar, ladies and gentlemen, as the ethically challenged Professor Plum, may I present… Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage, looking bleary eyed and smoking a cigar lit by a hundred dollar bill. “Hello, everyone, don’t mind me, this is just how I smoke. No worries, I’m not going to run myself out of money again…” He joined his fellow cast mates.

Bay smiled again. “I had to think long and hard for this next one, but I think it’s an inspired choice. As the mysterious Mrs. Peacock, someone I haven’t worked with before, but someone who I think will be ideal for my films, Sarah Jessica Parker!”

Parker came out on stage. The real reporters gasped in another dismayed tone. She waved and joined the others. “I keep waiting for someone to greenlight Sex And The City 3: Carrie’s Mid-Life Crisis, but until then, this ought to be fun, right?”

Bay nodded. “You know, I think I could be an ideal director for that kind of project. We’ll talk backstage. Anyway, carrying on, we come to the character Mrs. White. She’s also a mystery, a widow with a whole lot of secrets. Blackmail kind of secrets. Which is why I wanted to work with this actress. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, may I present…” Bay turned to look at himself in the mirror once again, while this reporter wondered if the flesh eating virus might be more appealing than this assignment (editor: keep it up and I’ll give you the flesh eating virus). Then he looked at the crowd again, and announced, “Say hello to Kathy Griffin!”

The real reporters howled in outrage. The infuriatingly annoying red headed comedienne came out on stage, waving enthusiastically. “Take that, Sarah Silverman!” she bellowed and displayed both middle fingers. “Bite me, you ******!”

“And the last member of our cast, at least the last one to be announced for now, is our Colonel Mustard. I say for now, because we have to have a touchstone character guiding the suspects through the story. And while I do have that actor cast…. I’m not going to announce who that is. It’s going to be a surprise left for the film itself. So you’ll just have to wait and see who it is. Ladies and gentlemen, as our Colonel Mustard, give it up for… Mr. Eddie Murphy!”

The real reporters sighed yet again. Murphy came out on stage. “Look, I’m sorry, I know I should know better. I just haven’t done much in the last couple of years, and I’m running out of money.”

Cage smiled and clapped Murphy on his back. “Hey, let me introduce you to my accountant. You’ll  never be in money trouble again.”

Bay laughed. “Oh, they kid, they kid. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the cast of Clue: Murder In The Mansion. It’s going to be big. It’s going to be explosive. We’re gonna have a blowout murder spree for the ages. Too bad we couldn’t have Columbo solve the case, but raising the dead isn’t possible, and no one will ever let us get away with recasting the role. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure there are studio rights involved…”

He shrugged.  “Well, that doesn’t matter. This is going to be a big film, and everyone’s going to love it, and it’s going to get a whole mess of Oscars. Be here, be there, be ready for us, because we’re coming!”

With that, Bay left the stage with his cast. This reporter felt like going to get a stiff drink. And this reporter also felt that he was being abused by his tyrant of an editor who wouldn’t know good taste if he saw it (editor: I hate you with every fiber of my being).

Fine, Editor Demon. Next time you subject yourself to a Michael Bay press conference.