Archive | December, 2009

My Favorite Posts of 2009

31 Dec

I haven’t been writing for a year, much less two years, and even less ten years, but I have been posting for roughly nine months now, and that’s at least long enough for my blog to have carried a tiny, internet child to term, so I feel that lends my blog a certain stately authority. I decided that in light of the New Year approaching, I’d look back and give my favorite pieces one more chance at the light of day.

1. The Job Interview– One of my very first posts and still one of my favorites. The narrative element–really the entire job interview concept–was added after I’d already posted another version. Originally it was a bland, tired, trite tirade on the blogging, hipster-elitist culture. I asked my friend, Derek, for feedback. His response was something along the lines of “It’s well-written, but unoriginal. Anybody can rage against that kind of machine.” I agreed completely and still do. I went back, did a complete revision with the job interview in place and the rest is history.

2. Protect Yourself: You vs. The Swine Flu, Part 1– Of all the posts I’ve done that had more than one part, this one is easily my favorite. At this point, my writing was starting to suck way, way less and actually sound like something people would read.

3. My 100th Post– I was actually really proud of myself for writing 100 posts. I bring back an old friend to my blog, President Barack Obama, and we have a ball. My GIMP cropping skills really got a work out for this one as well; I believe the pictures in this blog do the best job of any in any other posts of accenting and improving the punch of the words.

4. Interview With a Beaver– The idea for this blog was originally to have a blog from an animal’s point of view, maybe one of my fish or cats or something. However, after trying at that for awhile, it seemed like the execution would be a little more difficult than anticipated, so I decided a back and forth with IronKyle would be better.

5. Writer’s Block– This is a blog that didn’t get a whole heap of adulation when it was first released. However, this list is about which ones I like, so I’m putting it here. It’s short, it’s sweet, and I think it’s pretty sharp.

6. My Screenplay for Bat Man III– Here it is. The big mama. My first screenplay. I can’t tell you how much fun I had writing this one. It’s my only post to be labeled homophobic and misogynistic. I don’t think it is at all, really, but it makes me seem edgy, so I’m telling you now.

7. Kyle & Art vs. Facebook & “Terms of Use”– Definitely the most epic of all my posts. I had been reading Stephen King’s The Stand around the same time I wrote this one, and I think it shows. Mark Zuckerburg’s persona was a big parallel to Randall Flagg, the villain from the aforementioned novel.

8. Letter of Apology to My Childhood Self– This post kind of gave me a Homeward Bound lump in my throat when I was finished with it.

9. My Day With Stephen King– Stephen King is the man. In this post, he farts on me. I get farted on by the man. Written when I had just finished King’s The Gunslinger and was reading his memoir on the craft of writing, On Writing.

10. Kylelight– I love being able to touch on a subject that a lot of people can get a kick out of. Twilight provided me with an almost universally-known subject to lampoon. Kylelight was a post that I was actually kind of nervous about when I put it out, half expecting it to fall flat, but people liked it. The most interesting thing about it was that the people who seemed to like the post the most were Twilight fans. I like that.

Thanks, everybody. Happy New Years! I hope to be way funnier in 2010.

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My Screenplay for Sherlock Holmes 2

30 Dec

[Scene opens with Holmes, played by Kyle Irion, sitting in a large, cushioned, leather chair. His right leg is crossed over his left. He is smoking a pipe. There is weed in the pipe. Holmes is high as balls.]

(Enter Watson, played by Zach Galifianakis)

Watson:

Holmes! Holmes! There’s been a MURDER!

(Watson looks concerned. Holmes looks asleep. Holmes has fallen asleep.)

Holmes! Wake up!

Holmes: (Waking up, startled.)

What then? Bally hoo! (Accent begins to transform from British to an overly exaggerated Australian.)

I was asleep on the barbee. You know then, Watson. One begins with a bit of the devil grass and then you end up with that old moosha moosha. (Accent is now a horrifically inaccurate Swedish. The sound can be likened to the Swedish Chef from The Muppets.)

Watson: (Steps back, surprise quickly changing to concern.)

Holmes, are you feeling all right?

Holmes: (Once again British)

Why yes, dear Watson, absolutely flibble. (Holmes is making up words.) I feel as healthy as an ox. Now, tell me of the details of this murder.

Watson:

Well, Lord Vandermill, a businessman and well-respected member of parliament, was found dead this morning with a large, metal stake driven through his heart. They believe the murder was political.

Holmes: (Now wearing Iron Man armor.)

I guess Lord Vandermill won’t be up for re-election any time soon. (Holmes breaks very basic film and television rule and looks directly into the camera, winking. Director can be heard telling him to stop because he’s embarrassing himself.)

(Watson, now played by former presidential candidate Ron Paul, nods politely at Holmes’ joke.)

Watson, take this down. Take a note. Note this. “Sherlock Holmes to take on new mystery. Sherlock Holmes to wear snappy new hat.” Then tell them what my hat looks like. (Holmes is wearing Green Bay Packers Cheese Head with several feathers attached. A picture of “Lost” cast-member Matthew Fox is taped to the front.) I’ll continue. “Sherlock Holmes vows to find politicians’ murderer. Says that if he cannot, he will sacrifice his dearest friend, Watson, to the prison system in lieu for the missing murderer.”

Watson: (Stops writing, looks at Holmes incredulously.)

What is the meaning of this? Why are you sending me to prison instead? Why even make a promise like that?

Holmes:

Well, you see Watson, you–

Watson:

Why am I writing this down in the first place? Who am I supposed to give this to?

Holmes:

Oh you’ll see. You’ll see. (Holmes turns and winks at camera. As camera cuts away, Director can be heard screaming, angrily.)

[Holmes and Watson now walk through a crowded London street. Ebenezer Scrooge is there. So is Doctor Who. Mr. Bean sells them a bagel. After a brief musical number about England, tea, or rain or whatever, Holmes and Watson reach Lord Vandermill’s estate. Vandermill’s body is still resting on his desk, metal stake lodged in his chest. Holmes moves Vandermill’s hands so they rest behind his head.]

Holmes:

There. Now he looks more comfortable.

Watson: (Now played by Hugh Laurie because Ron Paul decided to go and die.)

Sir, perhaps we shouldn’t disturb the crime scene. (Moves hands back to original position. Inspector LeStrade enters.)

Lestrade:

Dr. Watson, please don’t disturb the body. (Moves hands back behind Vandermill’s head.) You should know better than that. (Turning to address Holmes.) Any clues?

Holmes:

Only one. On Vandermill’s coat. A very faint hand print. A hand print made of flour. Baker’s flour.

Lestrade:

So old man Tilbolt, the baker down the street must have some involvement?

Holmes:

Perhaps. Vandermill was on the cusp of pushing a bill through parliament that would have raised the price of domestically produced flour by two sheckles a gallon. (Watson and LeStrade look to each other, both knowing these quantities are completely inaccurate. Holmes is, at times, a fantastic idiot.)

Watson: (To LeStrade)

Holmes is, at times, a fantastic idiot.

Holmes:

I heard that.

(Watson looks directly at Holmes, unfazed, and leaves the office. Holmes follows after.)

[At old man Tilbolt’s bakery]

Holmes:

You’ve been caught white handed, Tilbolt.

Tilbolt:

(Stupidly, like a stupid peasant.) Caught at what, my lord?

Holmes:

The murder of Lord Vandermill! Admit it. It’s too late now.

Tilbolt:

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been here all day. I slept here last night because I’ve lost several barrels of my flour to thieves who come here in the night. Mos’ likely because of fear of the new law Lord Vandermill is proposin’ in parliament.

Watson: (Whispering to Holmes)

That means Vandermill could have been murdered by one of the flour thieves!

Holmes:

What? Really? (Sighs heavily, head hanging low.) Jesus. Okay, we’ll be back later, Tilbolt. Please, please don’t kill anybody. Please. I don’t know if I could handle doing another stupid investigation.

[Montage of Holmes and Watson investigating the murder through a series of cunning scientific and deductive techniques. Holmes is so smart. He’s awesome. Three or four times during the montage, Watson turns to Holmes and can be seen mouthing “You are so awesome.” Holmes and Watson shake down a number of possible thieves before ending up back at Vandermills home’s personal bakery.]

Holmes: (Now speaking to Vandermill’s personal baker, Frontworth]

So, Frontworth. I see that some of your barrels don’t quite match.

Frontworth:

How so?

(Closeup reveals beads of sweat forming on Frontworths brow. Use brow-double. Frontworth is ugly. Antonio Banderas’ brow is shown.)

Holmes:

Well, some of them are contained in fine, well constructed barrels, like the flour that would be purchased by a Lord, from the finest reaches of the globe.

(Briefly surveys the barrels)

But these others, they seem shoddy, common–like the barrels you’d find in a regular old bakery. The very same bakery they were stolen from. The flour from which was on your hands when you–

(Frontworth totally loses it. Goes bat shit crazy. Frontworth pulls out a roller and tries to strike Holmes with it. Holmes ducks and Watson hits Frontworth on the head with his cane. LeStrade enters.]

Lestrade:

Well Holmes, it seems you’ve solved the murder with impossible logic, extraordinary cunning, and barrels and barrels of pseudo-erotic hand gestures.

Holmes:

Oops, I did it again. (Holmes looks into camera as Britney Spears’ “Oops I Did it Again” begins to play. Winks at camera. Directors megaphone is briefly seen coming from behind the camera when credits roll.)

The End.

The Highway.

26 Dec

They marched slowly, one with the cart tightly clutched in wrapped hands, the other with nothing clutched at all. The air was acrid and bitterly cold. The cold was, for that moment, the only thing either of them could be completely sure of. Survival? No. The very world before their wandering feet? Not even that, for with the falling snow all the world was a sea of whiteness. A fog of moving parts. Impossible.

Lanny and Kyle were careful.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Lanny asked.

“I’m writing my best friend’s name in the snow.”

Kyle was urinating.

“Jesus, is this the ‘great important, life-saving thing’ we had to stop for?'”

“Yes,” Kyle said, zipping his pants and returning to the highway. “I only got the ‘L’. Sorry.”

Lanny sighed and pulled the drawstrings of his hood. “It’s all right.”

They continued to move with an almost instinctual mindlessness, like infant turtles, just born, clawing, for whatever reason, toward the moving water.

“What do you have in your pack?” Lanny asked. They were hungry.

“I have, a can of…” Kyle looked through his bag. “I have three Hustlers and a book about cats.”

Lanny shook his head, as if to shake the words, and perhaps the truth of the words, from his head.

“You have what? Where is all the food? Where is all the food I gave you?

“I threw it at those dogs. Remember the str–”

“Yes, I remember the stray dogs. I remember you yelling things to them. You yelled–”

“–Neener neener, who’s got the biggest wiener, stupid snow-covered dogs?!” Kyle laughed to himself, holding his gut. To Lanny, the solitary sound of Kyle’s high-pitched, puerile laughter sounded almost sinister. Lanny shuddered against it.

“Listen. We’re not going to survive all the way to Denton if you don’t start taking better care of your supplies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, papa.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What did you call me?”

“Papa.”

“I’m not your dad.”

“I’m not your dad.”

“All right?” Lanny said, confused, waiting for Kyle’s next words to somehow make sense of all this.

“Crap, look at the time! I gotta get going!” Kyle looked blankly at Lanny for a moment, then rolled over and began reading his Hustler. Somewhere in the dark, an animal yelped and then was stifled. Its last, struggling breath heard by two ardent travelers, almost invisible in the coming night.

The next day, Lanny woke at dawn. He set up the small stove, placed the metal cooking plate above the flame and began to make breakfast. Keeping the fire alive was difficult. The wind whipped aggressively over Lanny’s huddled frame and the fire likewise. However difficult, Lanny kept the fire alive.

“Is it time to eat middly-mo-bye-eat?” Kyle asked, his eyes the only thing visible through his hood.

“Why do you keep doing that? Why do you keep talking like that?”

“Because I’m slowly losing my mind.”

Lanny sat silent.

“Because I’m slowly losing my mind looking at your stupid, shitty beard.”

Lanny sighed and made Kyle a plate of beans.

“I love beans,” Kyle said.

“So do I,” Lanny said.

Squatting together around the still-lit stove, there, for a moment, was a tranquil silence.

“Lanny?” Kyle said, breaching the quiet that was.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever miss things?”

“Miss things?”

“Yea, miss things. From the past. From before–” Kyle looked around, as if to motion at the very world around them, “–before all of this.”

Lanny smiled to himself and did not meet Kyle’s eyes. Although his body rested firmly in the bit of snow Kyle saw him in, his mind and his heart had traveled far from this place. “Yes, I do. I miss lightly moving the hair from my wife’s face as she sleeps. I miss the look of the world when I wake up–bright and shimmering–full of life–as if somehow, overnight, god reached down and started it all over again. That’s what I miss. What do you miss?”

“I miss boobs.”

Lanny looked at Kyle, waiting for more.

“Boobs and Jersey Shore.”

Lanny put his hand on his shoulder. Kyle was crying.

From his whimpering voice, Lanny could hear Kyle saying “I just don’t understand why Pauly D would…” He struggled, his voice trembled with weeping. “Why he would let Mike, ‘The Situation,’ down like that. Why he wouldn’t take the…why he wouldn’t take the ugly girl away so Situation could get his…”

“His what?” Lanny asked.

“His sex on. So Situation could get his sex all over that woman.”

For the second time in as many days, Lanny shook his head and wished to be ridden of the words Kyle had spent on him.

The road to Denton was long and cold. The surface of the road itself had long been buried in a layer of white–a layer now so thick that the footsteps of the two weary journeymen could no longer penetrate deep enough to reveal its blackness.

They continued.

It was important in those times to remain warm, but more important to remain dry. Wetness could cause frost-bite faster than anything else. It could cause hypothermia and pneumonia. They stayed dry mostly through Lanny’s efforts. Kyle cared little for staying dry. He loved splash fights.

“Let’s go splash each other!” Kyle yelled, running toward the Trinity River.

“Jesus, no!” Lanny yelled, stumbling after him. The snow was high now, and its slick bottom caused Lanny to lose his footing. Kyle moved through the snow adeptly, as if he had been born in a world that knew no other kind of ground than this.

Kyle got close to the Trinity River and stopped. “Smells like doo doo,” Kyle said, his face contorted in a frown.

Lanny, breathless, got to his feet. “I know it does,” Lanny said. “I know it does.”

At nightfall, with no moon and no stars, as there had been no sun in the day, they slept. Sometimes a fire would be made. Lanny feared being spotted by the bands of marauders and road agents that marched the road at night–hunting.

This night Lanny laid as he always did–silently, wrapped in a tarp. Kyle lay next to him in similar fashion.

“Lanny?” Kyle beckoned, barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” Lanny answered.

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

“Will we always be cold?”

“No.”

“I made a snow man.”

“That’s good.”

“He has a wiener,” Kyle said.

“That’s good. All men should have wieners.”

“He needed clothes, though, because it’s cold out, and I didn’t have any spares, so I put the rest of your clothes on the snow man.”

“What?! Why?”

“It’s cold.”

Lanny left Kyle under the overpass that night.

Kyle Plays Santa…Kind Of.

24 Dec

“Did I lie to the children? Did I deceive them? In the strictest interpretations of the words ‘lie’ and ‘deceive,’ I in fact did. I absolutely lied to to those kids,” I say.

“Oh come on,” My friend Derek says from across the table. “It’s not really a lie, you were doing it for a good cause. Think of it as a game.”

“Was it a game a few years ago when I did the same thing to you?”

“Wait, when did you do the same thing to me?”

“I dressed up like your dad and went to your last three or four cross country meets.”

“That was you?!”

“Yea, that was me. Funny thing, I think I even used the same voice.”

“Is that why I had to pay for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was weird that my dad wanted to be dropped off at my friend Kyle’s house.”

I shrug my shoulders and put my hands in an “I don’t know,” gesture.

“Where was my dad?”

“It doesn’t matter. See, the spirit of your dad was there the whole time. The body of your dad, though, was either hung over to hell or at home watching Hunt For the Red October.”

“You’re the devil.”

“I know.”

Tuesday I dressed up in a Santa suit and gave out presents to a day care center my friend’s children attend. It was a pretty good time. When I got to my friend Cecil’s house, the suit was already laid out. There was the standard jacket, pants, and hat combo, a beard and matching wig, a belt, and some big black boots. I had to get make up put on my eyebrows and cheeks to diminish the youthful zest of my eyes. I got suited up and looked at myself in the mirror. Here’s a photograph:

Ah crap. No, not that.

Here. Oh, never mind, the joke's ruined.

Screw it. Merry Christmas.

Twas the Night Before Christmas–Iron Kyle Edition

20 Dec

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my room

My friend Sam rolled around stirring, ’cause he ate a shroom.

My stockings were hung from his package with care

In hopes that I’d notice, and reach my hand down there.

Our friends were all nestled, warm in their beds

Visions of their friend Kyle dancing in their heads.

And Sam in his dick-sock, and I in my cloak

Had just set the bath for a totally straight Christmas soak.

When out from the lawn, there arose such a clatter

I looked at Sam, afraid, and he asked, “What’s the matter?”

Away to the window, I flew like a flash,

Nothing but moon light covering my ass.

Squinting through fragments of glimmering street light

I thought I saw something moving, grumbling in the night.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

Wesley had struck a parked car. He reeked of cheap beer.

“Where are your pants?” Wesley asked, in a rage.

“You don’t have to wear pants,” I said, “Not when you’re our age.”

Wesley began to undress, and I regretted my lie.

“Don’t act like you’re not jealous,” Wes said, “Don’t even try.”

We examine the damage, the damage was great.

“Death and damnation,” said Wesley, “That’s my van’s fate.”

Just at that moment, a new pair of head lights, twinkling and bright

Made their appearance in our Christmas night.

Derek came bounding out of his Saturn, ecstatic and enthused

Looking as an elf and heroin addict, fused.

“I just found a gun, and I think we should shoot it.”

“I just don’t know,” I said. “Let’s think a-boot it.”

“We can shoot it at graves, and things that don’t move,

We can shoot it at raccoons, rats, and things with hooves.”

Wesley reached out with his hand, and swiped the gun away.

“You can have this back when you’re not such a fucking weirdo,” he did say.

Derek struggled and whimpered and put up a fight,

But Wesley silenced him with a jaw-knocking right.

Things had gotten violent and a bit out of hand, so Sam decided to speak

“We shouldn’t be fighting. Holiday fun we should seek.”

We knew he he was right, his logic was sound.

No smiles could be found, no spirit around.

Derek began to cry, Wes started drinking.

I became worried; my Christmas was sinking.

Then who would come forth, but old St. Nick!

“Santa!” Sam said, pulling the sock from his dick.

Santa did a double take, then greeted us heartily.

Wesley finished off his 40 and threw it away, fartily.

Santa’s face was round and jolly

From his belt hung wreaths of holly.

He offered us presents, and treats from his sack.

“That’s what I thought!” I said. “It’s presents we lack!”

Santa gave us all gifts, he gave us all fun.

“Man I love presents!” Sam said. “Christmas is number one!”

We all hugged each other. We all were so happy.

Our Christmas was saved, and no longer crappy.

Merry Christmas

The Whiskey Kyle Letters

17 Dec

1

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

How pleased I am to see that you haven’t vandalized anything in recent weeks. This is a strange time for us, Whiskey Kyle. Our money is short, yet our desire to get absolutely shit-faced-plaster-eating-it’s-okay-to-slap-me drunk is great. What to do? I will help you. I will give you a great, great gift. I will give you jug after jug of cheap, poorly made wine. We both know that by the time you are at full strength, Whiskey Kyle, everything tastes the same, anyway. Remember that time Sam made you drink Windex? What a tremendous buzz you had! Never forget, Whiskey Kyle, anything ending with “ex” “ine” or “ol” or “poison” most likely should not be ingested. You got lucky with that Windex–vomiting profusely, thereby expelling it from your body.

Also, no one can drink a gallon of milk in an hour. Not even you.

Your friend,

Kyle.

2

Hey Kkyle,

Whiy don’t uy shut up!? I’m haviehn such a gud gtime with whiskeyy rite right now! Have you evr hreard of girls/? They might be better than whiskey? They might. Can you make whiskey have bubz? boobdf? Boobs? I think hyoiu can. next time get me wine wiff boobs on it? Anhyway OH SHIT ISA THAT A PEARLJAM SONG ON?! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH BEST BAND EVER! I just saw a dog and it looked at me and I think I yelled something at it.

love,

Whiskey Kyle

3

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve taken such an antagonistic view of me. I’m also sorry to hear that you’re to the point of screaming at stray animals. What do you hope to achieve?

Whiskey Kyle, I assure you, I mean you no harm. I am your care taker. I have to rebuild what you destroy, be it relationships with women, relationships with friends, or your relationship with your stomach, liver, and brain. I have to do clean all the mysterious stains I find on your clothes in the morning.

Yes, I have heard of women, but no, I cannot put boobs on whiskey or wine. I’m not sure how you realistically expected me to do that. Did you really think I could do that? Were you kidding? I’m worried.

Your friend,

Kyle

4

Dear Fucker,

I’m sorry to see that yu’ve taken sush an ant-hand-against-it view of me! Why do you use those words I think you don’t like me? I peed.

Love,

Whiskey Kyle

5

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

First off, it’s antagonistic, not ant-hand-against-it. That doesn’t make any sense. And why do you keep ending declarative sentences with question marks? I can’t tell if I’m supposed to answer you or just listen to you jabber on.

Before you do anything stupid tonight, go through all the possible repercussions. Think to yourself, “If I do decide to sign these papers, officially making Derek and I equal partners in a civil union, will I still find it humorous a week from now? How about twenty-four hours from now? How about two hours from now?” Before you let Angela slap you, ask yourself “Should I at least ask her to take off her wedding ring?” And finally, before you try to do a wicked jump off that handicap ramp, ask yourself “Is this safe? Do I have any experience in performing stunts? How did I get this motorcycle?” and most importantly, “Did I steal this motorcycle?”

One more thing of note. I know you have a propensity to spill. This would make white t-shirts a bad choice, but as I go through all the photographic evidence of your existence, that’s all I see you wearing. Why not wear something with some color? You’re not the Fonz. Change your shirt or wear a bib.

Your friend,

Kyle.

6

Dear Foop butt 😛

Here’s me:

I just tuk taht with camera. Am Ii Fsamakn>?

Wienerz

Whiskey Kyle.

7

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

I’m growing more and more concerned for your well-being. That is 90’s heart-throb Jonathan Taylor Thomas, not you. This is you:

This might be difficult for you to look at, as it would be for a vampire who has finally been allowed to see his own reflection, but I tell you, you must look at it. Did you know that this is how you look in your final transformation? Not very good, eh?

To answer your question, I don’t know because you’re not making words anymore.

Your friend,

Kyle

8

To my Sober Enemy,

I loOk like a bgadass!

8IIIIIIIIIIID

love,

Whiskey Kyle

9

Dear Whiskey Kyle,

I quit. Just try to not get cirrhosis.

Your friend,

Kyle.

The end.

New Page

14 Dec

I now have a site exclusively for my short fiction and script work. Check it out if you have time. It’s mostly serious stuff, but the comedic play I wrote is there too, and I’m working on some more humorous short stories to post in the future. HERE’S A LINK!

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