“Man and Dinosaur”
by Zachary Puente
The general population, according to opinion polls of the time, could not understand why God, whose existence was only before mentioned in the presence of the word ‘Dammit’, would go ahead and repopulate the Earth with huge, and often ravenous dinosaurs. He did not have approval to do so; not even at local-district levels. He didn’t have a single member of city council, let alone the senate or leaders in Djibouti, Djibouti on his side for that matter. His complete reform against public opinion wasn’t so good for his popularity at the time.
One day the sky stretched open and like a running faucet, the reptiles poured onto the suburbs, the farms, the inner city, the plains, and the planetariums (which no one seemed to mind so much). There was the initial panic, the rampant speculation; Global warming, frapping, gluten enriched diets, trans-fats, a six-dollar gallon of gas, Hilary Clinton, the gays, really everything was being given an equal amount of potential blame. The colossal beasts of the land before time were stripping the trees bare and terrorizing cattle and the national news is asking if Miley Cyrus’s new phase of rebellion and nude wrecking ball swinging may have smashed a hole in the temporal anti-cyclical time port and brought on a new age of Dinosaur and Man. And though public opinion leaned In favor of this, scientific principle could not support it and instead resorted to the presence and might of God.
It became novelty after the first year of infestation. Reality TV shows, dating websites, market brands, political parties, churches, restaurants, etc.
After the third year, dinosaur mania had exhausted, the dino-bubble popped and brought upon another recession. Man began to sweat. Not only because the dinosaurs were still coming every day but also because Dinosaurs had reminded the Earth that volcanic activity used to be all the rage. Lava flowed like a menstrual cycle; Pain and confusion; Frustration, wild and shifting emotions reigned over poor man. Rocks spewed from the widening San Andreas Fault, crashing into the modern homes of Malibu and Beverly Hills. As their houses were slowly eaten by the licking of flames, they invited friends to sip wine and talk about their new piece of naturalistic art, it practically flew into their possession; the hole in the ceiling, that is symbolic for the incompleteness one feels from material items, oh you don’t get it?
The plates shifted, the states became distant neighbors, and they never spoke, but somehow found confidence to borrow shit from one another constantly. Tribes became of the communities and as the only form of communication was twitter, the language was made convenient and shrunken into grammatically displeasing grunts of a laziness accepted as a language. The finned dinosaurs claimed the ocean, the seas were oily and polluted enough to support creatures accustomed to such harsh conditions.
Some of the dinosaurs would let us straddle them up, the field workers would harness themselves to the necks and they would pick that orange that was just out of reach. The harnesses came out of a worker being tossed from the neck of his creature and breaking his own neck in consequence. He sued the dinosaur for medical bills and grief, but the charges were dropped when it was discovered that this particular diplodocus was a migrant from East Texas and had no liability coverage. Also, the reptilian could not fit his Mesozoic-ass in the defendant’s seat or fit through the courtroom door. You can imagine the apocalyptic shit storm. Here we are taking these creatures in, allowing them work for us and they go and literally break the necks of the real workingman. A vote was casted and as a result dinosaurs were officially unwanted by the uproarious majority, but the dinosaurs kept coming.
Needless to say, there was a boost in dinosaur feces on the Earth, however the streets stayed clean for a period of time because those Neo-paleontologists couldn’t wait to get their curious hands on that shit. Eventually scientists had all they needed and man was forced to live amongst the ever-piling shit, it stacked so high they couldn’t get to work off the I-5 or any off-ramp for that matter. The shit just kept piling up into nice little stacks and all hope of treading it was lost. The stink of dinosaur dung bound people to their homes. There were even cases of homes with the shit piling so high that it hit the fan.
People were freezing in the winter, they had their chimneystacks and their fireplaces, but they couldn’t burn. Burn days were taken off the calendars, no one knew for quite sometime because no person owned a calendar. What the hell is a calendar?
The clothing of the time minimized naturally, women’s asses became bare from the shrinking of shorts; breasts the center piece of the woman’s physique as tops became out of fashion. Men’s clothing deteriorated with the changing of the generation. Faux-fur bro-shirts and a large wooden club, virility in the size of the club became the dress of success. Parents just couldn’t understand, but that didn’t say much because parents were stuck between the teeth of the raptors and the tyrannosaurus; which reminds me of the dental massacres of ’47. The dentists, judgments clouded by need of work, tried to open a practice inclusive with the reptilian counterparts. The more cynical dinosaurs became aggravated when the dentists would ask how they were doing while they were elbow deep in their mouths. ‘Have you been flossing?’ They asked with the perfect-toothed grin. And then they were dead.
I guess you could say that the dinosaurs were the next stage of our evolution and our next stage of evolution was a fresh start at the beginning. The new generation didn’t feel so shitty and deadbeat for staying indoors and banging their heads on the walls because now that was a survival strategy. The dinosaurs stalked the earth, the lava flowed from Chicago to Timbuktu, and young women flaunted their asses to catch a heavy browed man with a big wooden club.
By Jason Montes
Jurassic World Z
All of the dinosaurs from the previous movies come back as zombie dinosaurs.
Titanic 2: Rose: The Lost Years
Sheds light on the events that happened to Rose DeWitt Bukater between the Titanic sinking and discovery. She’s living in New York and is suffering from poverty, heartbreak, nightmares, and post-traumatic stress disorder. She lets perverts draw her naked in order to get a quick buck. However, the worst part is she keeps running into her ex-boyfriend, millionaire Cal Hockley. Rose would lament, “There are 20 other Starbucks’ on this block alone. What is the probability of him coming to this exact spot at this exact moment?”
Side Commentary: I believe this one would also make a ton of money because dads could show their daughter what would happen if you have pre-marital sex.
The Birds 2
No one is safe from the Birds who coordinate a worldwide assault on mankind. The Birds use tactical warfare such as slingshots and kamikaze self-implosions.
Rush Hour 4
Terrorist plan to destroy America, but leave once they realize Obama Care is already doing that for them. Jackie Chan does all the work from the bed of his nursing home. Chris Tucker tries his best to add comedic value, but he’s just not as funny as he used to be.
60 Years A Slave
Follows the life of a slave from his birth to death. Literally 5 times as visceral, bloody, and inspirational as its predecessor. It basically makes 12 Years a Slave look like an insensitive asshole.
The Looney Tunes are challenged by the North Koreans to a game of basketball. With the help of LeBron James playing for the Tune Squad, the game isn’t even close. The Looney Tunes blow out the North Koreans, but this is where the movie really begins. Kim Jung-Un threatens to nuke everyone (receives a technical foul), and it’s up to the gang to save the world with the help of CIA spy Dennis Rodman.
Special Appearance by Bill Murray
Back To The Future 4
The year is 2015, but it’s a much cooler 2015 than in reality. There are hologram movie ads, hoverboards, and everyone dresses up like they are in an 80’s Devo music video. Marty, 47, is enjoying a quite life with his family, until he finds out that he is turning into a chicken, not a coward, but the actual bird. It’s then revealed to the audience that Marty’s tragic flaw of losing his temper whenever someone, like Biff, would call him a chicken wasn’t derived by macho-egotism, but rather a deep insecurity that his autoimmune disease would take over his body. Marty had Chickensons: the condition in which you turn into a chicken.
Marty knew this day would come, which is why he stole the blueprints to build a time machine while in 1885. The plans were quite detailed with convincing mad scientist logic, but easy to digest because it has many footnotes and a comprehensive FAQ section. After assembling the most daunting piece, the complex flux-capacitor, Marty travels 500 years into the future to when he believes there would be a cure for his Chickensons.
Once Marty exits at 88.8 mph, Biff emerges from out of the shadows. Biff has been stalking Marty all these years hoping he would once again be able to time travel. Marty carelessly leaves the blueprints behind for Biff to steal. You see Biff has his own disease he wants to cure. He has butthead: a disease that transforms your head into a butt. When he called people “butthead” all these years he secretly hoped they were a butthead so he wouldn’t feel so alone. His disease is full blown in 2015, so it takes him longer to build the time machine.
500 years later, 2515, we find out that the people in Hill Valley have divided into two factions: chickens and buttheads. In more shocking news, we find out that Obama Care actually worked. However, no cure currently exists for either disease.
Marty and Biff make interactions they aren’t supposed to and totally mess with the space-time continuum. They get wrapped up in the current affairs of the era, which is basically a civil war between the two factions. They each respectively assume the rule as savior/leader/ignorant new guy hotshot. There is a climatic hoverboard battle that gets everyone in the audience stoked and sad at the same time. The boards have been tricked out with nitrous oxide that makes the battle even more epic.
The real savior is Doc Brown, who is just happening to be vacationing in this particular time stream. He discovers that the only way to cure this disease is to listen to Chuck Berry hits. So the Hill Valley mayor holds a prom for the entire city.
The movie ends with this exchange:
Marty: Hey Doc, guess what?
Doc: What Marty?
Marty: Chickenbutt, haha.
Doc: Not so Great Scott.
Marty: But your kids are going to love it.
Nightmare After Christmas
Jack Skellington is once again infatuated with human idiocracy: the concept of zoos, baseball, and above all else pizza. Jack is so obsessed that he kidnaps Papa John so that Jack could fulfill a selfish desire to become the Pizza King. He inadvertently turns all the Papa Johns stores into Hot Topic stores. Most of the general public doesn’t care, however, because they prefer Pizza Hut, or Dominoes, or any other local pizza place that serves better pizza.
The Social Network 2
Al Gore sues Mark Zuckerberg for acquiring the rights to the Internet.
Introducing Jonah Hill as one of the lawyers. He doesn’t do or say much, but gets nominated for an Academy Award.
It turns out the sadistic Romans are not entertained. So the commissioner of Gladiator fights bring them three new death matches: bikini-toga babe mud wrestling; Tables, Ladders, and Ceramics; and a cage match with a lion.
More zombie dinosaurs, but the setting is a carnival. Jeff Goldblum makes an astute observation halfway through the movie about the zombie dinosaurs technically being zombie dinosaurs in the previous movies because they were dead, but then brought back to life. It blows everyone’s mind. Good for you Jeff Goldblum. We all really like you.
Special Appearance by Bill Murray
Ferris Buller’s Week Off
Buller, age 42, skips out on work. When he returns he gets in trouble for causing the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.
Rocky vs. The Audience
Rocky is fighting Mr. Quickeryoungerstronger. Everyone in the movie thinks Rocky is going to lose. Everyone in real life thinks the movie is going to suck. So Stallone campaigns for the movie by going door-to-door and threatening people to go watch the movie. Despite him being shorter in real life and slight incoherent slurs, people respect the move.
In the final fight scene, Rocky loses the fight, or so we think. At the cusp of defeat, Rocky is overcome with a surge of untapped energy that helps him defeat Mr. Quickeryoungerstronger. The audience in the movie thinks they are the real winners.
Spoiler Alert: Nobody really wins at the end.
Begins in the bus where The Graduate left off. Ben can’t get the image of Elaine’s grandma out of his head, after seeing her at the wedding. He thinks he may have a shot at the trifecta: dilf, milf, and gilf.
Ben: So what’s the story with your grandma? Is she seeing anybody?
Elaine: My grandpa passed two years ago.
Ben: Oh no, the feels. She must be pretty lonely.
After the initial adrenaline of running out of her wedding has worn off, Elaine starts to realize how much of a creep Ben is. She ponders, do I really want to have my mother’s sloppy seconds? She also hasn’t told him about her biggest secret, that she is pregnant. This may not be the best time, but she needed to define the relationship. Keep in mind this movie is set in 1967, and relationships were steadfast and sacred then.
Elaine: So remember that guy I left at the altar just a couple of minutes ago.
Ben: Yeah, what a chump.
Elaine: Totally. Here’s the thing though, this wedding that we just took a massive dump on… wasn’t exactly contrived out of an organic ceremonious courting, but rather a situational dilemma.
Ben: You’re pregnant?
Elaine: I really wanted to tell you sooner. I had no intention to lead you on. I mean the wedding thing, and I just thought you were gone, and I’d never see you again.
Ben: This is a lot for me to take in.
Ben: I’m going to need some time to think.
Elaine: I understand.
Ben: Everything is so complicated now. We were so happy five minutes ago. Can we go back to that time?
Elaine: (sobbing) I wish we could.
Ben: When I burst in through that church, everything made sense. I was sending this grandiose message to you, our parents, and myself. It felt so awesome.
Elaine: I can’t believe you swung that cross.
Ben: I know that was so sacrilegious.
Elaine: Yeah, you’re definitely going to hell for that one.
(laughter, then an awkward pause, the sound of silence)
Ben: I think I’m going to call my dad.
Elaine: Good choice.
Ben: Yeah, he always knows what to do.
Elaine: Sorry about all of this again, for being a buzzkill and everything.
Ben: It’s fine overly passive 1967 gender role.
Ben makes a phone call to his dad, who is played by actor William Daniels, best known for his role of George Feeney in the sitcom Boy Meets World making this character, by association, a mentor with the upmost credibility and speaker of all things gospel.
Ben: Hey dad, it’s me. I need your advice.
Dad: Oh hello, Ben. It’s been a minute. How are your life goals developing?
Ben: Whoa, that’s exactly why I’m calling you dad. I’m at a crossroads and I could really use your help. You see I have an opportunity here to go for the trifecta: dilf, milf, and gilf…
Dad: Go for the trifecta.
Ben: You didn’t even hear the other choice. I could be a part of something priceless, a stable and happy family.
Dad: You want to go with the trifecta son. Listen, do you know how many men dream of being in your situation? If you complete this you would be a god.
Ben: I guess you’re right. This is a pretty unique circumstance I’m in.
Cue long video montage with a soundtrack provided by Simon and Garfunkel (assuming they’re not dead). Ben breaks up with Elaine, but also manages to score her grandma’s phone number. Her grandma, as it turns out, only sleeps with doctors. So Ben enrolls in graduate school to get his masters degree, which takes 2 years, and then gets his doctorate, which takes another 4 years. There are many scenes in between where Ben is staring off in the distance, and lost in self-reflection, but after six years the grandma finally puts out.
Later, Ben moves back in with his parents because of the economy. Elaine is still living with her parents as well. They run into each other during a Christmas party.
Ben: Hey Elaine. I know that we’ve had a rough history, but I’ve matured since we last met. I just want you to know that I’m sorry and I hope that we could…
Elaine: You slept with my grandmother you twisted son of a bitch.
Ben: What? No, that’s definitely not true. I would never. She’s crazy.
Elaine: Do you know how much therapy I had to go through once you left?
Ben: Probably a lot, but not as much as a sociopath, or a cat lady.
Elaine: You destroyed my future. The worst part is my libido is just as crazy as my psyche. I haven’t had a date in four years.
Ben: (fake laughter) haha, why yes Elaine. I am a doctor.
Elaine: I can’t remarry. People look at my seven year old daughter and think I’m damaged goods.
Ben: A daughter… interesting.
Elaine: Nobody wants me. You are the biggest ass I have ever met.
Ben: Ok just shut up, shut up (putting his finger over her mouth). Remember that you are a woman and it’s still the 70’s. How old is your daughter?
Elaine: She’s eight…
Ben: Excuse me, I have a new life goal.
Ben walks away. Elaine screams, then cries, and then silently confesses that she still has feelings for him. For those of you keeping score at home, Ben now has the opportunity to go for the four-fecta: ddilf, dilf, milf, and gilf; or interchangeably dilf, milf, gilf, and ggilf. Now Ben must decide how he wants to play this out. Does he want to wait until Elaine’s daughter is legal, barely legal, or as is? Waiting ten years seems like a long time, but he is no monster. He decides that he would wait nine years, barely legal. This would be the right thing to do.
Ben makes a phone call to the admissions office of his university.
Ben: Is there anything I could get after my doctorate?
Admissions: Well there’s a post-doctorate.
Ben: How long does that take?
Admissions: It depends, two to three years usually.
Ben: Can I do it in nine years?
Admissions: Typically our programs…
Ben: Hear me out. What if I took a bunch of electives?
Admissions: Electives aren’t a requisite to a post-doctorate, but I don’t see why not.
Ben: That’s awesome. Thank you so much.
Admissions: This is quite an unusual request Dr. I’m glad I could help.
Ben: Yeah, you’ve been super helpful thanks, but before you go, can you tell me what kind of electives the university has to offer?
Admissions: All kinds. Golf seems to be popular.
Ben: Golf. I don’t think I could get into golf.
Admissions: Nine years is a long time, you never know. If you want more help, however, I could transfer you to a representative in guidance. This is the admissions department.
Ben: Wow that’s embarrassing. I apologize. No need to transfer. I think I got everything I need.
Admissions: Try golf. It may surprise you.
Ben: Ok, maybe an intro class. Thanks for all your help.
Admissions: My pleasure. Have a great day.
Ben: You too, bye.
Another folky montage: Ben contemplates in a library, plays golf, fails his tests, but happy with tests results, not happy with his golf swing, plays putt-putt with his dad, gets good grades on a test, but mad for getting good grades, slowly improves golf swing, talks to a bunch of students holding up four fingers, students nod in respect, hits a golf ball, and the camera takes the point of view of this golf ball flying in the air that falls inches from the hole, and rolls slowly into the cup.
Nine years later, Ben returns home. He wears a stethoscope around his neck even though he got his PhD in Philosophy. He finally runs into Elaine’s daughter after staking out her house for 5 days.
Ben: Hey you must be Elaine’s daughter. I’m Dr. Ben, a friend of your mom.
Daughter: Nice to meet you Dr. Ben. Do you want me to go inside and get my mom for you?
Ben: Actually, I just want to show you one thing.
Daughter: Sure Dr.
(Ben reaches into his bag and pulls out a long phallic object)
Daughter: What’s it made out of?
Daughter: Dr. Ben you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?
The movie ends with a 70’s disco remix of “Scarborough Fair.”
“Listen Up, Men of the Internet. We’re Coming for You.”
by Katie Pecho
Bitches be crazy. You’ve been warned. We love designer shoes, hate our besties and scream like rabid banshees on the rag when our favorite song comes on. We seduce innocent men with cleavage and attitude. We’re out to destroy video games and Monday night football, and we’re strangling masculinity with our tampon strings.
We love strutting around in stilettos and yoga pants, and, don’t let us fool you, we like the attention. Particularly if we look really tired or sad and you’re rubbing up against us on the subway. Bonus points if your hand is moving around in your pocket. We’ve talked, and we all agree that’s really hot. And by the way, the popularity of yoga pants is not an accident. Yoga pants were invented by Hillary Clinton to incapacitate male rationality and create an army of drooling voter-robots. First order of business? Chocolate fountains at the White House.
We’re really emotional, but so what? Is it really that weird that one minute we’re making you a sandwich, and the next we’re screaming because the grout in the kitchen reminds us of that time when you totally forgot the 17 day anniversary of the first time we passed you a Kleenex? And yes, you can read our minds. You’re just not trying hard enough. If you really loved us, you’d sell your soul to the devil for telepathic powers. But that’s fine, you just don’t care. Whatever. We’re not even mad.
This is also part of the female conspiracy, by the way. We act out pages 12-26 of the Crazy Girlfriend Handbook and then we all gather at TGI Fridays every third Sunday to laugh at you over mango margaritas. After that, we review the security footage of you buying us tampons, set to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” of course, and plan next year’s “impromptu” visits from our mothers. Then we make a group trip to the bathroom, have a naked pillow fight and we all make out. And most of us look like Lara Croft, but with bigger boobs and fewer inhibitions.
We’ll let you in on a little secret. We don’t really take that long to get ready. While you’re pacing in the foyer and repeatedly checking your watch, we’re curled up on the floor of the bathroom playing Candy Crush or reading Cosmo for the hot, not at all confusing sex tips. There is always a stash of Hershey’s Kisses hidden under the third tile from the window. And we have a surveillance system hooked up to each of the compact mirrors in our makeup bag so we can watch you squirm as we get later and later for your boss’s dinner party. Ever wonder why we keep an egg timer on the counter? It ain’t for hair dye, honey!
And we are after your money. We want the Gucci purses and the Prada Tupperware and a diamond bigger than Wrigley fucking Field. We’re trying to ensnare you into proposing so we can quit our jobs and sit on our well-toned, well-tanned asses eating bonbons and liking baby pictures on Facebook, and your barista salary and crippling student loan payments are our sure-fire way to the top. All we have to do is trap you within our manicured claws, and then you can say goodbye to Sunday golf outings and strip club hot wings. It’s Christmastime, and we’re watching Love, Actually again, and then it’s off to the bedroom to make us some babies. We’re going to name them Mackenzie and Jack. Your input is not required.
Don’t try to argue with us, either. We will annihilate you. Santa Claus may drive the sleigh, but we all know it’s Mrs. C who’s whipping his sorry ass into shape. Even if you somehow manage to make a good point, we’ll just start flailing our arms and screaming until the neighbors call the police and you give up. It’s all just a ploy to get period sex, anyway. And flowers, the most powerful female currency there is. The roses to dynamite exchange rate would blow your damn mind.
You may have patriarchy and privilege, but we’ve got rockin’ tits and legs that go on for days. We’ve been preparing for war ever since Eve duped that sucker Adam into tasting that sweet, seductive fruit. And we’ve got the technology to pump out period blood like a weaponized fire hose. Think Carrie meets Niagara Falls, and then run for your fucking lives.
We’ve studied your comments and memes, and you may have your suspicions, but you’ve got no idea what’s in store. We won’t stop until there’s a changing table in every Gamestop and the last mancave has been burned to the ground. We’re the baddest bunch of frenemies you’ve ever followed around a mall, and we take no hairy, pit-stained prisoners. Get ready for the clam jam, motherfuckers. We’re taking over. It starts with the internet, and then it’s on to the whole goddamn world.