Archive | July, 2009

My Screen Play for Bat Man III

30 Jul

Batman: The Dark Knight was a box-office power house, garnering over a billion dollars worldwide. Some say the third film will be receive noticeably less buzz because of the lack of a dead lead actor. I disagree. I think a strong Batman script can stand on its own without petty hype. I wrote my own screen play for the third Batman flick in the Christopher Nolan-era. Here’s a sample:


Batman III: It’s Scary at Knight

(Commissioner stands on roof. He looks out onto night skyline of Gotham. He’s wearing glasses. Glasses mean you’re smart. Camera pans behind the Commissioner, revealing the Batman.)

Batman! You can’t scare me like that! I’m getting too old for you to be–

Batman: (In rough Batman Voice)

I had no time!

Commissioner: (Wearing glasses.)

No time for what?

Batman: (Batman looks around nervously. Growls.)

To tell you where I’m standing! I’m standing where I’m fucking standing, OK?! (Batman crosses his arms, holding himself.)

(Batman and Commissioner both stand, confused. Commissioner still doesn’t understand Batman’s needs—emotionally. Flash back to Batman and Commissioner laying in a motel bed together. Batman is still wearing his cowl. He turns to hold the Commissioner, but is swatted away. The Commissioner is wearing glasses.)


There’s been a break out at Arkham. This was a big one, Batman. The Riddler has escaped.


(Screams like a girl)

Commissioner: (Surprised. A bit concerned.)

Are you OK?

Batman: (Embarrassed)

Yes. Yes. I’m fine. I just get jumpy around… crime.


Wh…aren’t you a crime fighter?

(Batman is gone. All he has left is a small Post-It note with “SRY, GTG :-P” in Sharpie…black Sharpie. A Sharpie as black as Knight. [Be sure audience knows that “night” is spelled with a “K.” This is imperative.])

Scene II

(Batman stands facing the Riddler. They are grappling on a catwalk that is suspended above a vat of acid. Acid is bubbling. Instead of bubbling sounds, use Seinfeld-esque bass-slaps.)

Riddler: (played by Jim Carrey, Eddie Murphy, Johnny Depp, CGI Heath Ledger, Steve Buscemi)

Riddle me this, Batman. (Looking down at acid) What do you call a very clean super hero?

Batman: (In Clint Eastwood voice)

Happy! (Smiles like a child. Claps.)

Riddler: (Now played by Kevin James.)

No. You call him BATH MAN!

(Riddler kicks Batman. Batman almost falls into the acid. They grapple along the handrails above the very dangerous vat of acid. To make sure the audience knows it’s dangerous, make it lime-green.)

Batman: (Escaping the grasp of the Riddler.)

Riddle me this, Riddler. What do you call a Riddler in acid?

Riddler: (All Buscemi-like)


Batman: (Looks to camera, winks. Has Ferris Bueller-like monologue where he talks about how he will always
remember this day and how he and the Riddler will never be the same.)

You call him “Dead as shit.”

(Kicks Riddler into vat of acid. Riddler is like so pissed. And dead.)


That’s all I can give you because of copyright constraints. I’m also afraid of Christopher Nolan stealing all my ideas without having to pay for them, so I’ll stop short of giving it all away. Enjoy!

Story Time. Tall Tales. Kyle-tastic Legendry.

27 Jul

It was 2009. I had just finished my 67th post. Some said I was the strongest, fastest, blogger in all the world. I would sit down at my laptop, surrounded by adoring fans from all over the country (even Delaware). There were the sounds of vendors and street entertainers, women and men laughing, somebody singing “Dancing Queen,” a dog barking, a goat mewing, a guy asking who brought a goat.

Wesley Alford, dressed as Nintendo’s “Yoshi” because all of the ring leader outfits were gone, stands next to Kyle’s desk in the Blogdium yelling into a megaphone.

“Come! Watch him blog! Laugh at him! Laugh with him! Enjoy all his comedic wonder!”

I sit at my laptop, firing away. Every now and then I wink at one of the pretty girls in attendance. Girls love a man that can wink. Eyelids are hot.

In the distance, a dark smog approaches. Somebody makes a Fern Gully joke. I laugh quietly, but then stifle myself so nobody starts to think they can be funny like me.

When it pulls up to the Blogdium, the fog is found to be coming from a large truck with a flat bed trailer at its rear. It carries a tall, cylindrical, iron contraption with a full keyboard at its top and several thin metal projections surrounding said keyboard.

“Whhath thish?” Wesley struggles to yell out through his nachos. They serve nachos at the Blogdium. Delicious.

A portly, mustached man with a smile that it looks like he bought it steps out of the hulking vehicle.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Lionel Faulks. How do you do?” He bows to the masses. Kyle stops for a moment and looks over at the man. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what I’m doing here.” He says.  “You see that man there? That man supplying you with ALL THAT LAUGHTER?!” He points up to Kyle’s blogging throne. “That man–is ANTIQUATED! He has run his course! The future of comedy writin’ is not with him. He is the dinosaur. He is the carriage. He is Screech.”

“Ah, damn.” Screech says from his place working the nacho cart. I walk over and pat Screech on the back. He asks me to call him Dustin. I say no. That’s not his name.

“What’re you saying, man? Get to it!” I say to Lionel.

“What I’m saying, King Blogger, is that now is the time for you to be overthrown, your crown usurped by technology! By progress! Observe! The knife in your back, the ender of YOUR WORLD! The BLOGMASTER!”

The machine is activated and it begins to whirr and spit out great plumes of black smoke. The metal projections bordering the keyboard begin to spin and whip about, hitting the keys with great speed. On the right side of the truck, the side facing the crowd, a screen illuminates and words began to run across the screen. The words are hilarious, the entirety of those in attendance are laughing and laughing hard. This doesn’t impress me.

“You SEE! This Blogmaster can make hilarious blogs faster than even the great Iron Kyle! He is obsolete!”

I look to Wesley and then to the crowd. I then take out my cell phone and tweet: “@brozozo, Guy just showed up to my Blogdium. Has a machine that looks like a wiener. lol.”

Kyle then puts his cell phone away and says, “That’s not true! I can blog faster than any machine!”

“Oh yes?” The man responds.

“Yes!” (Kyle tweets: “@brozozo Guy with machine is being kind of a dick. Hurting my feelings.”)

(Brozozo tweets: Eating cereal in my underwear. Is Ellen still on?)

So the competition was set. Each blogger would blog for three hours straight. Whoever could continue to write quality blogs at the end of that time would be declared the victor. Kyle would take on the Blogmaster for who was the fastest blogger in the land.

The sun rose on the day of the competition. Kyle thought this was fortunate, because the sun not rising would’ve “freaked him out.”

When Kyle arrived at the Blogdium, there were already hordes of people arriving. The Blogmaster is on the right, Kyle’s throne and laptop on the left. Hanging by cables above are three monitors. The one above Kyle labeled “Kyle,” the one above the Blogmaster labeled “Blogmaster.” Wesley has installed a third monitor that reads “Wesley’s butt.” He has installed a webcam just above his butt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the greatest contest of man vs. machine ever seen!” Lionel yells. The crowd goes wild. I walk into the Blogdium and take my seat. Then, a man raises a pistol into the air and fires. This sets off a panic in the crowd because instead of doing it in the arena he does it in the men’s restroom and instead of yelling “GO!” he yells “Freedom!” After we get that settled, things get kicked off by a simple three count.

After a bit, the Blogmaster pulls ahead so I start blogging with two computers at the same time. After three or four minutes of typing absolute nonsense on both computers, I go back to just the one.

I start to fatigue. I need some Gatorade®. Its unique blend of electrolytes and carbohydrates are just what any athlete needs to refuel and replenish. (Thanks for the $50, Gatorade.)

“GO you damn fool! GO!” Wesley screams, hitting me with a sandwich. The Blogdium serves sandwiches. Fantastic.

“Behold, ants! He falters! Your hero is losing his grasp! My machine will never fatigue! You will never again be without a blog to read! It can go on forever!” Lionel screams into a megaphone.

Reaching the finishing time, the machine began to break down.

“GO!” Lionel yelled to his machine.

I look up at the screens. It’s still neck and neck. I don’t think I can go any further. Then I remember one thing I can do that the machine cannot: hit something else with a baseball bat. I beat the mechanical daylights out of the Blogmaster.

The crowd ran out onto the field and hoisted Kyle upon their shoulders. Wesley had gone to Target to buy some jalapeños. He sat eating nachos in the Target parking lot.

I was declared [Editor’s Note: By himself] to be the greatest blogger in the land and Lionel Faulks was quickly put out of business. For now, blogging would still be done by human hands. This day forever and on would be commemorated every year on December 25th. It would be called “Christmas.” [Editor’s Note: Not really, no.]

The End.

All the Pretty Kyles

22 Jul

I didn’t post anything on Saturday. That was my first Saturday to not post since my blog’s inception in early 1998. I was busy working on a ranch across the border in Mexico. You see, I reread All the Pretty Horses last week. This book filled me with vigor for the outdoors, the southern sun, and calling jeans “trousers.”

The ranch has been around for hundreds of years, but it’s anything but antiquated. It’s an extremely well-kept ranch with a good mix of old with new. The hoses are made of stucco with reddish stone shingles. So nice. I take a moment and think about HGTV. Then, I meet with the hacendado, the owner of the ranch.

“Hola.” I say

“Hola, como estás?” He asks.

“Estoy bien.”

“We may speak in English if you’d like” the hacendado says.

“Very well. Thanks for having me out on your ranch today. I really appreciate you inviting me out here.”

The hacendado looks at me strangely. “There was no invitation. You were found by some of my vaqueros asleep by our well. You were covered in alcohol and black beans. You were wearing a woman’s clothes.” I forgot that me and my editor got pretty hammered the night before in a city east of La Vega. The editor made out with a man. [Editor’s Note: I did not.] The editor held hands with a man that called himself Ramon and wore frilly clothes. [Editor’s Note: Stop. My wife reads this.] The editor said that his wife was a big fat burro and that she doesn’t have enough mustache. [Editor’s Note: He’s lying honey, I promise.]

“How long have you owned this ranch?” I ask the hacendado.

“Oh” He pauses and leans back. A small, nostalgic grin spreads across his face. “My family has had this ranch for almost two hundred years. It is very important to pass things onto your children, and they to their children. Do you believe this is the truth?”

I have fallen asleep. The hacendado clears his throat.

“Wha! Jeez, sorry. So, how long have you owned this ranch?” I ask.

“Almost two hundred years.”

“That’s a long time. What is the most valuable product you export: the cattle or the dressing?”

The hacendado looks at me cockeyed. “Dressing?”

“The ranch dressing.” At this the hacendado laughs heartily.

“What’s funny? This is a ranch. You should make ranch dressing. I want some. On this salad, right here.” I reveal a large bowl full of a variety of vegetables.

“Where did you get that salad?”

“Doesn’t matter. Where’s the dressing?”

“I…we don’t make ranch dressing.” He pauses and shifts in his seat. “So, I suppose the most valuable product would be the cattle. I believe that the greatest wealth a man can have is the wealth he gets from the land under his feet.”

“I believe wealth can come from whatever you’re passionate about.” I sound smart.

“This is a good point.”

“Tomatoes, tomates.” I say. The hacendado smiles and nods his head.

“Tomatoes, tomates.” He replies.

“Potatoes, baños.” I say.

“I think I’m losing you now.”

“Can we go look at the ranch?” I ask excitedly.

“Yes, of course. But, I feel maybe we get you into a man’s clothes first.” I look down and see that I’m still wearing a dress. I think I can see my junk.

“Sounds good.”

After I change, we go out to the stables to look at the horses. On the way to the door I ask the hacendado where they make the ranch dressing. He laughs politely and looks over at me. I’m not smiling. I’m starting to think this ranch sucks. We enter the stables and I speak to the gerente, or manager, of the stables. The horses are of varying sizes, colors, and breeds–all healthy, all fine specimens.

“These are beautiful horses.” I say, doing a thumbs up.

“Ah, gracias.” The gerente responds.

I reach out and smack one of the horses on the hind quarters to illustrate how strong they look. The horse is startled and kicks the gerente into a pile of lumber. He doesn’t get up for a long time.

“Never stand behind a horse.” I say as I shrug my shoulders.

I’m asked to leave and am almost immediately escorted from the ranch. As I leave I see my editor apologizing profusely to the hacendado handing him release forms. He might of also been hitting on him. [Editor’s Note: My wife just called me.]

I love Mexico.

The End.

My Trip to the Vet

20 Jul

OK. So my girlfriend has this cat. The cat’s name is Swarley. “What an interesting name! Where does it come from?” I’ll tell you, faceless reader. Swarley means, in Hebrew “He whom God has forgotten.” [Editor’s Note: Lie.] It also is a reference to a moment of hilarity in the hit television show How I Met Your Mother. [Editor’s Note: Truth.]

Anyway, since Katie lacks an automobile on this day, she asked if I’d be terribly inconvenienced by driving her and her animal thirty or so miles north to the veterinarian’s office. Of course, I said it’d be a terrible inconvenience and that I simply could not do it. Katie then smiled, put one hand on her hip, and with the other lifted her shirt to reveal the handle of a .38 caliber pistol. She then stopped smiling and pointed directly at me.

We got to the office roughly thirty of forty minutes later. The waiting room is probably the nicest of any veterinarian’s office I’ve ever seen. It’s way nicer than the one my mother took me to when I was a child *Quietly leans away from keyboard, repressing terrible childhood memories*.

The waiting room was clad in Texas iron-work and dark wood tones. Really nice. I almost fell asleep, but Swarley jumped onto my neck, digging his claws deep into my flesh. The pain was searing. I jumped and Katie pulled him off. I swear to god, as I was wiping the bits of blood from my neck, the animal smiled at me. I’m now terrified. I spend the rest of the waiting period across the room, pretending to read about heart worms, but really just watching Swarley and his tiny, smiling, cat face.

We take him to the vet and everything goes smoothly. Everything goes smoothly until we go to leave, however. As we’re crossing the parking lot, I notice two distinct bulges on her back and stomach.

“Katie, what are those?” I point at the two undulating masses under her t shirt.

“What the f– What are you talking about?” She begins to open her door when one of the bulges meows.

“…” I pause.

“I have two cats in my shirt.” Katie says, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” I say. “I have the vet’s son in mine.” Katie suddenly notices the muffled cries of a 86 lb. lump protruding from my shirt. “I’m going to write the vet a letter, describing how I’m using her son as collateral in case anything happens to Swarley. We get our cat back, they get their son back.”

“…” She pauses. Her shirt meows some more.

“I don’t want to pay to feed those stupid cats. They can’t even be ransomed. Nobody notices when a cat dies.” This is the exact moment that I became single again.

“You are stealing a child. You know how much those things eat? Way more than a cat.”

“Wait, more?”


“Can’t we just feed them the same thing?”

“God, no! We can’t feed them the same thing! OK…” She puts her hand to her face, massaging the bridge of her nose. “OK. I don’t want to feed your kid and you don’t want to feed my cats. Let’s juts give them both back. Deal?”


We gave them all back. After that, we went to a gas station, bought some Doritos and drove to a junk yard to shoot stuff with Katie’s gun.

What a great day.

Kyle & Art vs. Facebook & “Terms of Use”

17 Jul

Tuesday, I posted two pictures to facebook and was notified this morning that one of them had been removed because it violated terms of use. Although they couldn’t tell me which picture it was, through simple process of elimination, I was able to find out which picture was in violation.

Facebook gave me no explicit explanation for the warning. They just sent me a link to the “Photo” section of the “Terms of Use” page. This is what the “Terms of Use” says:

Photos are removed if they contain nudity, drug use or other obscene content. If the photo attacks another individual or group, it will be removed as well.

That’s pretty fair. But let me ask. If this photo got removed:

Innocent fun.

Innocent fun.

Then why didn’t this picture get removed?


Angela Frayre ≠ Angela Fuehrer

I desired more of an explanation than I had been given. I was confused. I was confused. So, I decided to get a hold of facebook itself so I could better understand its terms of use.

Below is the series of e-mails between facebook creator Mike Zuckerburg and I.



Hey Mark! Hey. Thanks for the site. It’s been a great tool for letting people know how funny/handsome I am. But hey, recently I got a picture removed from the site (I’ve attached it to the e-mail) and was wondering why. Earlier that day I’d put up an arguably more insulting picture and received no rebuke. What’s up? If you could let me know as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it. You have six hours.




Your picture was reported as offensive and was reviewed by our team and deemed in violation as per the guidelines of our terms of use. Please be more cognizant of others when you post media on your profile.

Six hours until what?


Mark Zuckerburg

Six hours later, I was standing in front of facebook’s headquarters in Palo Alto, California. The building is modern and slick-looking. I bet if it were a human, it’d be such a prick. I look it up and down and roll my eyes big enough for it to see (I have no idea where the building’s eyes are. For this reason, I walk to three or four different spots along its perimeter and do the same thing.).

I enter the building. I walk up to the elevator and look over the office listings. “402, M. Zuckerburg.” Let’s do this.

The elevator is typical, it only goes up and down. There’s a guy in there when I open the door.

“Good afternoon.” He says.

“Good afternoon.” I cover my mouth so I don’t catch his liberal California attitudes. The rest of our ride is spent in a stifling, conservative, right-wing silence.

I reach the fourth floor and begin my hunt for Suckerburg’s office. The space is separated by mottled glass walls that reach about 3/4 way to the ceiling. The rafters above are exposed Oak. Damn it, this building is cool. I try to bring it down a “cool” notch by taping my autographed picture of Screech onto the wall. I remove it from my wallet and place it gently on the wall. I kiss my first two fingers, holding them to my lips, then pressing them to Screech’s. “You are my most beautiful. I love you. May you find a brighter desti–”

“Can I help you?” A young, petite woman asks me.

“Yes, I’d like to be left alone while I’m saying goodbye to my friend here.” I nod towards Screech. I have yet to remove my fingers.


I never called him Dustin. That's not his name. His name is Screech.

“I–” She laughs uncomfortably. I simply stand and nod again towards Screech. She huffs a bit and walks away.

I finish my goodbye and continue my search. Damn it, I’m lost. I run up to the woman and ask her directions. She points to her immediate left. In gold letters, on large double doors reads “His Lordship, Z.” This is weird.

“This is weird.” I say. Her face goes ghostly pale. She smiles a smile that looks more like a mask of a smile than a smile itself.

“He’ll have to buzz you in.” I think of making a Bee Movie joke, but decide against it, in case I need her to validate my parking later.

The intercom above us rang out in a voice so clear it was as if the voice was not from a speaker but the man himself.

“Send him in, dear.” It was Fuckyerbird.

“Cool.” I say. “Time to kick some ass.” I approach the door and the girl grabs me by my arm.

“Have a good meeting.” Her eyes wide and fearful, enunciating each word, giving it it’s own space amongst the others in the sentence. I nod politely. She’s probably on her period or something.

I open the door and walk in. The room is mostly empty. The rear wall completely made of glass. The drapes have been pulled and the room is full of an eerie, artificial twilight. Suckyercock is standing with his back to me next to a large desk. There is a picture on it in a frame. It’s my picture of Screech. I have no idea how it ended up in here. A chill runs up my spine as I imagine the horrors that Screech has had to endure on my behalf. There’s no time to quarrel over this now, however. I must stay on course.

“Why did you take down my devil picture, Zuckerburg?” I ask.

“I told you already, old friend. I–”

“Let me stop you right there. We aren’t friends.”

“No. You have to send me a friend request first.” He looks at me stupidly. “Go ahead,” I say.

He sighs deeply. “OK. Mark Zuckerburg would like to be your friend on facebook! Accept or Decline.”

“Decline.” I say. A moment of black, abysmal silence.



“You CAN’T!”

“I can.”

He began to seem frantic, his eyes darting around the room. “Mark Zuckerburg has poked you. Poke back or remove?!” His eyes were filling with tears.

“Remove.” I take a step forward. Zuckerburg stumbles back and falls to his knees.

“M…M-M-Mark Zuckerburg has sent you some f-f-flair.” His voice is weaker now, afraid.

“Ignore ALL REQUESTS FROM THIS USER!” A gust of wind ran through the room, as if the entire building was exhaling.

“NO! NO! PLEASE!” Zuckerburg is crumbling before me. I’ve won. The sun began to glow brighter.

I stand over him, fire in my eyes. “PLEASE REMOVE THIS USER FROM MY NEWS FEED!”

Zuckerburg begins to thrash about wildly. After a few moments he lay completely still, completely silent. I take out his wallet. I get $38 and a Kroger’s plus card.

“I guess my account won’t be disabled then, eh?”

“No…p-p-please…just go…” He says feebly.

Before I leave, I reach across Zuckerburg’s desk and take back my picture of Screech. This building is uncool enough now without him. I walk to the door and before I leave, look back at the broken man on the floor beneath me, curled into himself like a giant infant. For a moment I actually pity him. I then lift my left foot and fart loudly. It smells badly and I shake my head. “Oh, boo boo smell.”

“Go now. You’re free,” I say to the young girl in the hallway. She looks elated. She unshackles herself (Where did those come from?) and begins to skip down the hall.”Hey, wait!” I yell. “Can you validate my parking?”

“Yes,” she said.

And all was right.

And all was good.

The End.

My Trip to the Art Museum

14 Jul

You ever been to an art museum? Aren’t they fun despite the fact that they’re completely lacking in ball-pits and slides? I feel that surrounding yourself with culture is a great way to spend an afternoon. I went to the Kimball Art Museum with my girlfriend, Katie, last week. It was a lot of fun. I learned a lot of cool things. I saw a lot of post-renaissance penises (penii?).

We pull up to the museum, Katie and I. It’s a lovely facility. There is a sculpture sitting prominently in front of the building. It looks like it would make a kickass TV stand. I ask Katie to remind me to ask how much for the TV stand when we get inside. She looks at me, then back down to her phone. I grab her boob.

Since it was Wednesday, our tickets were free. Students get in free on Wednesdays. The room we walk into is large and rectangular, the walls and floor made from marble.

“Look at these floors, dear!” I say. She’s exchanging numbers with the guy at the ticket booth. She must of asked him about the TV stand.

We go upstairs to look at the exhibit. Katie wants to see the paintings first. I agree to this because I want to see if the Kimball has put up my submission I sent them a couple of weeks ago. I’m looking for this:

Kyle, 2009

Does this frighten you? Is it too real?

I look everywhere for my painting. It’s nowhere to be found. I assume it’s part of its own exhibit separate from the rest and approach an art guard/museum security to ask about its whereabouts. I hate these people, the guards. None of them are physically imposing, so I know that if I REALLY wanted to, I could lick whatever piece of art I wanted for as long as I wanted. More than that, though, they are CONSTANTLY staring at me. Constantly. I realize that it’s not particularly couth to eat a meatball sub while perusing fine art, but sue me. I’m hungry and the museum doesn’t have a food court.

“Excuse me, sir?” I tap him on the shoulder. He says nothing. So rude.

“SIR! Please do not touch the exhibits!” Yells an old lady in a blue blazer from a cross the room. I had tapped the shoulder of a statue of Hephaestus. Katie‘s talking to that guy about the TV stand again. “Now,” the art guard said, exasperated. The ten foot walk had obviously winded her. I think of licking the statue and running, but decide to play it straight. “How may I help you?” she asks.

“My painting, miss.” I’m trying to be as “artist” as possible, looking up to the sky at all times, talking quietly and gesturing a lot with my hands. I accidentally touch my sandwich to her face because I’ve craned my neck back so far that I can’t quite see where she is. “Where is my painting?”

“Who are you?” She asks, cleaning tomato basil sauce from her glasses.

“I’m Kyle Irion. You may also call me ‘Iron Kyle,’ or ‘Wolverine,’ if you like.” I wink at her, but since I’m looking at the ceiling, it just appears that I have something in my eye. She asks me if I need help. I ask her if she’ll hold my meatball sandwich. I was done with it and didn’t want to carry it around anymore. “I submitted a painting. I’d like to see it.”

“What’s the problem, babe?” Katie walks up to the woman guard and I.

“This troglodyte won’t tell me where my painting is.” I don’t know what this word means. I heard Carlton use it once. Katie stands in silence, arms crossed.

“You don’t have a painting here.” Katie says.

“No, remember that one I–”

“Why is she holding your sandwich?”

“We’re not even supposed to allow these. I could lose my job.” The old meddler says.

“OK, listen, you old bag. If you had a problem with my sandwich, you should of said something like twenty minutes ago before I wiped my hands off on that wall over there.”

“What wall? Where?!”

“That one.” I point.

“Th… that’s a statue! You wiped your hands on a statue!”

“I meant to say statue.” I reach over and get my sandwich back. I want it again.

“Kyle! God!” Katie says, with love, and walks away.

I run after her. “I hate this museum. Suck town.” I throw my meatball on the ground next to me. “Let’s bail.”

We immediately were forced to break into a run when real securities guards started chasing us.

I love the museum. We made it to the car safely and escaped without a scratch. Except for Katie, she ran into a tree and got scratched. To atone for my inadvertent vandalism, I threw $6 and a SuperCuts Club Hair card out of the window as we drove off. With your eighth haircut, you get a free shampoo. That’s pretty sweet. Once again, I love the museum.

The End.

What My Resumé Would Look Like If I Were Honest.

13 Jul

“Iron” Kyle Irión

“When age has made you obsolete, I’m going to take your job!”

Summary of Qualifications

“What they don’t get is that I can never be paid enough. Never. Not unless they invent dollars made from the love of a child.” -Kyle Irion, 2009

  • OK, let’s be honest (Another qualification: I’m honest.). I’m not the most qualified guy for this position. However, I do have one thing that the other applicants probably don’t: A forklift license. This skill will be invaluable if the story I’m writing is about forklifts, or if the subject of an interview is hiding under a pallet of concrete, or bananas, or Valkyrie DVD’s. I can make those stories happen. I can offer you that. Let me help you.
  • Have you ever done something wrong? I haven’t. I wouldn’t know what that felt like.
  • I made and then ate a bowl of cereal comprised entirely of Lucky Charms marshmallows. This isn’t really a qualification (See? Honesty.).
  • In 1998, I was trying to communicate that a TV belonged to someone without saying “That TV of his.” It was at this time that I invented the apostrophe. I can now say “Wes’s TV.”
  • I spent a weekend building Kyletopia, or “Florida” as most people call it.


“God, I hate school.” -Kyle Irion, 2007

  • I went to college once. When it became clear that my professors only wanted to talk talk talk and never listen, I left. I later came back because manual labor scares me.
  • I wrote, like, a million papers. Usually, I wouldn’t even do a revision. I’d just mentally throw up onto the screen and print it out. And guess what? They ate that shit up.
  • I found a grammatical error in The Old Man and the Sea.
  • I’ve been awarded with the President’s, Dean’s, and Santa’s (Nice) list.

Work Experience

“Work is for people who can’t find oil in their back yards.” –Kyle Irion, 2004

Carino’s Italian Grill Denton, TX

Salad Cook 01/2008- 04/2008

  • Spent hours hitting on the attractive female members of the wait staff. Used the phrase “Toss my salad” upwards of 18 times. Made out with three hostesses and got a hand job from a food runner.

Home Depot                                                                  Waxahachie, TX

Lot Attendant 05/2008- 08/2008

  • I’d hide in the sheds by the garden center until someone called me on my walkie. I would also steal flowers. I’d go sit in the bathroom and pretend to poop so I could be in the air conditioning.

Wal-Mart Waxahachie, TX

Produce Associate 05/2006- 08/2006

  • I ate strawberries in the backroom and used the oranges to learn to juggle.
  • During a hard selling period, I made an interesting new fruit called the bananapple. They looked really cool, but were pretty bad for you. All they were was a banana that had been glued to the side of an apple.

SpeedBlog II: God I’m in a Hurry.

13 Jul

OK, so I wanted to post real fast but I also have to poop but I don’t want to start a post and work on it later and I really like the idea of speedblogging so I’m going to try to speedblog before I shat myself.

OK so today I went to this place called Eatzi’s. It was delicious kind of like a market but also a restaurant I didn’t know how to take it. It was kind of like a rollercoaster that was also a great pair of slacks. It was just too great.

Later we al;sd

Damn it.

I shat myself.

Getting Girls to Like You

11 Jul

Hey, guys.

Getting girls to like you is stressful and incredibly difficult–not to mention dangerous and possibly bloody. Personally, being a successful musician-turned-writer, I’ve never had trouble meeting women. Here’s a promo shot of me from back in the day:

Man, do I miss that haircut.

*This might be John Stamos

The problem with women loving musicians and artists is that most of you aren’t those things. Most of you are normal. Most of you look like this:

Not so bad.

Not so bad?

Granted, that is a lovely pair of suspenders, but other than that, there’s not a whole lot here that you would call “striking.” So what am I getting at? There’s a lot more to getting a girl than good looks (unless you’re really good looking). I’m going to show you those things.

1. Don’t ignore your appearance entirely.

Your appearance is kind of important. Girls don’t like coveralls like they used to. They no longer get into acid wash jeans. And believe me, they are not impressed by your vast array of free blood donation t-shirts. Get ready for a metaphor: there could be a sweet ass ride parked on your driveway, but if it’s covered in pig vomit, you’re going to be a bit hesitant to get behind the wheel. Girls aren’t perfect (WHAT?!), they can guilty of judging a book by its cover just like us men can. Take pride in how you look. A nice pair of jeans or a button up shirt can easily take any guy from a four to a six.  So let this be a lesson to you–wear some clean clothes, comb your hair, and do not cover yourself in pig vomit.

2. Be genuine and honest.

Women are smart. They get stuff. They get stuff that us, as men, do not (Cooking, sewing, why Sex and the City has even a nominal shread of entertainment value). One thing women “get” is constructive criticism. Here, I’ll show you what I mean. The other day my girlfriend and I decided to go to the art museum in Fort Worth. While we were there I had the… you know what? Just read the transcription:

Katie: Kyle, look at this one! (Points to a portrait of St. Jude.)

Kyle: Uh oh, careful there.

Katie: What?

Kyle: (Incredulous, whispers) Katie, don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about.

Katie: Kyle, I’m not kidding. I have no idea what I need to be “careful” about.

Kyle: You’re pointing like a man.

Katie: (Stares back blankly)

Kyle: (Buys Katie a Sex and the City box set)

See how well she took that? Women see constructive criticism as an opportunity to better themselves, especially when it deals with their physical appearance. It would be completely appropriate to, upon seeing your female in an ugly blouse, say lovingly “Ew.” or “Fuck you for that blouse.” or “Those shorts might look better on a skinny person.” Women love and appreciate honesty. Be honest. Notice their appearance and you will be rewarded (with sexy time).

3. Listen and engage her in conversation (with your penis).

OK, not with your penis. That was a joke. Your penis can’t talk. Right?

Women love a good listener, but a person who only listens and never contributes is like a word thief or a Somalian conversation pirate (Remember a couple of months ago? The pirates?). So, always be ready with what you’re going to say about midway through her sentence. You want to fire back quickly so you appear intelligent. Here’s an example:

“Yea, so, I dyed my hair and decided that it was time to start my new life, to leave my alcoholism and drug abuse behind me.”

“Yea? What color did your hair used to be?”

Brilliant. That guy is a Don Juan, a cassanova, a George Clooney. He is, as literature would say, an “unblushing libertine.” I love those last couple of words. I do.


Three steps is enough for you to think I tried, right? I sure as hell hope so, because that’s all I’m doing. With these tips, you should be more than prepared to procure any beautiful lady who happens to tickle your fancy. Believe in yourself, believe in my tips, believe in miracles. You’re a superstar. You’re god’s most beautiful creation. You’re art.


Your friend,


Liveblogging a Day in My Graduate Life.

9 Jul

I’ve decided to take a brief break from the one episode long “Kyle Helps” series to talk a little bit about something that’s really close to me– myself.

Graduate life is much different from student or work life. You’re in a bizarre state of limbo, turning in resumés and applications, following up with not-always-receptive employers, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. They say “Kyle, why don’t you wear the shirt withOUT the Cheetos stains?” or “Kyle, people can smell you,” or “Kyle, are you purposely putting Cheetos dust on that shirt? It looks like you’ve written your name there.” They just do not get it. I want to give everybody a peek into my life– a peek into what it’s like to be a graduate.

8:30 am

I wake up and stretch. I then look into the mirror across my room and, smiling wryly, say “Just kidding,” to my reflection and go back to sleep for four more hours.

12:37 pm

Lord, it’s already past noon? A normal person might look at this time and think “God, I’ve wasted so much of the day,” but not me. No, not me.  I say to myself that I had breakfast, I just simply forgot what I ate. This is how I lie to myself. This is how I survive.

1:45 pm

Laying out by the pool. I’m reading some Stephen King. I get scared and have to go inside.

3:00 pm

Spend roughly six minutes trying to clean a speck of dirt off my computer screen. It turns out to be a comma. The cats saw me do that. I’m so fucking embarrassed.

Harsh, unceasing, judgement.

Cold, unyielding, judgment.

4:03 pm

OPRAH! OMG! I sit down in front of the T.V. with my “Oprah Snacks”: a jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of crackers, and a liter of Diet Coke. I’m comfy, alert, and ready for a good cry. I’m going to eat all of this food. Today, the show is about food. I’m so EXCITED. This really will help me lose those pesky pounds!

4:27 pm

Dr. Oz or whatever just said that Diet Coke is bad for you. He’s a fucking idiot and so is Oprah.

4:29 pm

I’m so sorry, Oprah. I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t. You’re brilliant. You’re the queen of daytime television. Dr. Oz isn’t, though. He’s a fucking idiot with a stupid haircut that wears scrubs on national television.

5:30 pm

I go to the kitchen to do some chores. I clean the counters (push the cats off the counters), mop up the floor (slide a cat around with a broom), and load the dishwasher (I put a cat in the dishwasher.).  After I finish those chores, I decide to re-organize the pantry according to my own personal likes and dislikes. I push all the “icky” stuff to the back of the shelf and pull what I like to the front. Now all you can see when you open the cabinet is a bag of croutons and a DVD of Wedding Crashers (That’s not food, I just love that movie.)

6:38 pm

I lean back in my chair and crack my fingers, adoring my newly completed blog, which is resting quietly on my screen. I wrote about pooping in a movie theater. Poetry. Poo-etry.

7:00 pm

I put on a pair of leather pants and walk around despondent, drug-addled, and bloated. From 7 to 8 I usually do my best Jim Morrison impression for everyone. Nobody at my house likes this. I just tell them (from atop the kitchen table) that they’re all slaves and that art can’t be chained down. I then throw up the crackers from earlier and fall down. I decide that I’ve pretty much ruined the evening for everybody already and that it’s probably best that I just don’t get up for a little bit.

12:38 am

My father comes into the living room and tells me it’s probably a good time for me to go to bed. He mops where I was laying. I spend six or seven minutes in quiet self-loathing before I remember that I installed the Sims on my laptop last week. I spend the next two hours trying to create a kind of breeding program in my Sim neighborhood. It has yet to yield the perfect Sim. Don’t worry, though. I have plenty of time to perfect it. I have all the time in the world.

That’s my day. Later, girls and boys.

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