#mentioned: comicsnas

[comedianrhapsody]

There’s a reason you prefer to do your own driving.

You have always had a love for cute, quirky classic cars -- not much knowledge for their inner workings, and you’ve never laid on one of those wheely boards and slid under the body to do your own maintenance. It’s a privilege to be able to pay people to do your oil and tire changes, and you’re aware of that, but you’d rather tip generously than subject your back to the nitty gritty of it.

No, you do love your aqua blue convertible whose make and model you sometimes forget. It’s twice as old as you, that much you remember. The forties had big hoods, bulk and curves, and really slender sports cars. The kind of polished wooden steering wheel you would wear racing gloves with. The thing with driving such a car in the 2020s is that it makes you very recognizable, even in a city as big as the L of A, because those who keep an eye on you know what to look for.

That is why, these days, whenever there’s an event or show and your attendance is public knowledge, you have to be more careful. It doesn’t bother you much, because you also like chatting with your drivers, and it helps Dave sleep at night to know nobody is cutting your brakes or planting a car bomb, no matter its probability.

“Banana,” you tell your chauffeur of the night as you slide into the backseat. It’s an additional security measure, just to make sure you’re not getting hoodwinked. Having a password that changes with every staff member in your hire is less than ideal, because you are a forgetful man. Thankfully, they echo back, “Banana, Sir,” and get a chortle out of you. That was the one, then. You’ve had to start saving them on your phone.

All truth told, you do not feel at risk. Your adoptive mother had upwards of 35 years to cause you harm and didn’t do it. Yes, you are consorting with her mortal enemy now, but every hit she has ever put out was on Dave and his family. In a way, you even feel like he might be safer in your presence. In your heart of hearts, you can’t shake the feeling that Betty Crocker would struggle to hurt you in a way that endangered your life.

That is why your guard is well and thoroughly down, and when the rear shelf pops, you don’t hear it over the sound of traffic. When a hand reaches around you and presses a handkerchief over your mouth and nose, your responding struggle is delayed. There’s a chemical stench that you realize too late that you shouldn’t be breathing in. The thought doesn’t have time to form fully before you pass out.

[calamusgerent-blog]

SWEET BRO AND HELLA JEFF: THE TURD MOPVIE, REVIEWED.

THIS IS GOING TO BE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT THAN MY OTHER REVIEWS, BECAUSE WHILE I HAVE ALWAYS FOCUSED ON THE AUTHOR’S STYLE, I WILL ALSO MAKE REFERENCE TO THE CONTENT OF THE PLOT. IF YOU GIVE A SHIT, THERE ARE PROBABLY GOING TO BE SPOILERS. I HAVEN’T SEEN THE FIRST TWO MOVIES, IF THEY EXIST, AND THE TITLE ISN’T JUST A FUCKING JOKE.

SBAHJ: TTM IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN TOO MANY PEOPLE ENCOURAGE A TALENTLESS PISSLORD. SOMETHING LIKE THIS DOESN’T JUST OCCUR NATURALLY WITHOUT THE KNOWING CONSENT OF DOZENS OF PEOPLE. MOVIES ARE A COLLABORATIVE EFFORT AND AGREEING TO SHOOT THIS SHOULD BE A FUCKING WAR CRIME. HOLLYWEIRD, I GUESS.

THE IDEA THAT THIS COULD BE THE THIRD IN A SERIES GIVES MY ULCER AN ULCER. LET’S GO.

WE OPEN ON A FULL-SCREEN OF A BRICK WALL, WHERE NOTHING HAPPENS FOR, QUOTE, “SEVERAL MINUTES.” “THE END” POPS UP, AND GIVES EVERYONE IN THE AUDIENCE A SHOT OF HOPE DIRECTLY TO THE HEART, LIKE THE RESUSCITATION SCENE IN PULP FICTION. BUT IT’S NOT THE END. IT’S NOT EVEN CLOSE.

SWEET BRO

You know what we need, Jeffryey?

HELLA JEFF

I don’t like when you call me that.

SWEET BRO

I SAID.

You know what we NEED

ASSMUNCH?

THIS, ON PAGE ONE, IS THE FIRST SIGN OF CONFLICT BETWEEN OUR PROTAGONISTS. I’M BEING MOTHER THERESA LEVELS OF GENEROUS BY USING ANY OF THOSE TERMS, USUALLY RESERVED FOR WORKS OF FICTION INSTEAD OF THIS SANDPAPERY BOWEL MOVEMENT. ANYWAY, IT’S NEVER REFERENCED AGAIN. IT’S A CHEKOV’S GUN THAT SITS ON THE TABLE, FOREVER, INERT AND UNKNOWING. WHAT I WOULDN’T GIVE TO BE THE SAME: AN EYELESS, EARLESS, INANIMATE OBJECT, WHO COULDN’T POSSIBLY READ THIS YEAST INFECTION ON PAPER.

WE MOVE SEAMLESSLY FROM LOCATION TO LOCATION, BUT ONLY BECAUSE VOMIT DOESN’T HAVE SEAMS. FROM THE NACHO STORE OF ACT ONE, WE APPEAR IN WHAT I THINK IS A SUPERMARKET? IT ISN’T SPECIFIED. A PLACE WHERE BELL PEPPERS ARE.

MORE CONFLICT.

HELLA JEFF

Looks evil.

GREY MAN #1

The bell pepper? Bell peppers can’t be evil.

HELLA JEFF

Sounds like something,

an evil one would say.

HELLA JEFF IS MANY THINGS, INCLUDING AN IDIOT, BUT NOT RIGHT NOW, FOR SOME UNEXPLAINED REASON.

SWEET BRO AND HELLA JEFF PRESENT A UNITED FRONT AGAINST GREY MEN ONE AND TWO, THEIR EARLIER SQUABBLES FORGOTTEN. THE GREY MEN IMMEDIATELY FOLD, IN A SCENE WHICH I CAN ONLY IMAGINE MIRRORS WHAT THE PITCH MEETING FOR THIS FUCKING MOVIE WAS LIKE. THE “STAR POWER” OF THESE TWO CANKER SORES IS ENOUGH TO BULLDOZE ANY OPPOSITION. THIS IS GETTING AD HOMINEM, BUT FUCK IT, I’M WORKING HARDER ON THIS REVIEW THAN TUMBLR USER COMICSNAS WORKED ON THE SCREENPLAY.

INT. A PARK AT NIGHT. IT’S RAINING. GEROMY clips through the floor.

ONE: THAT’S NOT INTERIOR, THAT’S EXTERIOR. HOW CAN IT BE AN INTERIOR PARK, COMPLETE WITH RAIN? SURPRISE, IT CAN’T. TWO: WHO THE FUCK IS GEROMY? IN TWO HUNDRED FULL PAGES, HE IS NEVER MENTIONED, NOT ONCE. THREE: WHY THE SUDDEN VIDEOGAME REFERENCE? FOUR: SERIOUSLY WHO IS HE??? IS HE IMPORTANT? DO I NEED TO SEE THE TWO PREQUELS FOR CONTEXT? WHY WOULD YOU SEND ME A PROJECT THAT DOESN’T STAND ON ITS OWN???? DO YOU WANT ME TO LOSE MY MIND?

SWEET BRO

Imbecile*. You know nothing.

(*pronounced imbessool)

IF YOU WANT ME TO MCFREAKING LOSE IT, YOU ARE DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO SUCCEEDING.

THE RISING ACTION OF THE SCRIPT IS HIDDEN UNDER LAYERS OF POND SCUM AND MASTURBATORY, SELF-REFERENTIAL “””””HUMOR,””””” BUT APPARENTLY IT’S TO DO WITH THE ENVIRONMENT. THERE’S A THING WITH A GIRAFFE AND A MOTORCYCLE THAT’S TOO LONG FOR ME TO QUOTE DIRECTLY. THERE’S A SPECIFIC NOTE TO USE RED SPOONS AND CAKELIKE SYMBOLISM IN THE BACKGROUND OF THIS SCENE. THERE’S A LOT OF HORSESHIT SET DRESSING IN THE MARGINS OF THIS THING, BUT THIS STANDS OUT TO ME FOR TWO REASONS. ONE, PAID ADVERTISING FOR CORPORATIONS IS USUALLY WAY LESS SUBTLE THAN THAT. TWO, IT’S KIND OF IMPLIED THAT THE CEO OF THIS COMPANY IS AN ALIEN? THERE’S THIS WEIRD SCIENCE FICTIONY VIBE TO THE CLIMAX, AND IT’S ONE OF THE ONLY THINGS THAT IS FORESHADOWED AND ACTUALLY COMES TO FRUITION. EVERYTHING IN THIS MOVIE LIVES AND DIES WITHOUT PURPOSE, BUT THIS MESSAGE IS SUCCESSFULLY DELIVERED. NO CLUE WHAT IT MEANS, THOUGH.

WHILE THE WRITING IS AN INSCRUTABLE MESS THAT LIVES AND DIES WITHOUT PURPOSE, THE METATEXUAL LAYERS OF THIS STORY ARE JUST FUCKING DEPRESSING. THIS IS THE THIRD OF THESE MOVIES, IMPLYING THAT THERE IS A DEMAND FOR THE AUDIOVISUAL EQUIVALENT OF CATCHING YOUR PUBES IN YOUR ZIPPER. THE COMMITMENT TO PARATAXIS IS SO UNWAVERING THAT, IF THERE IS ONLY A POLYSYLLABIC WORD FOR WHAT HE WANTS, HE WILL FUCKING INVENT A SHORTER ONE TO SUIT HIS NEEDS. “LAUNDROMAT” BECOME “LAUNDO.” “TAQUERIA” BECAUSE “NANCH.” IT SERVES AS A STARK VISION OF AN IDIOCRACY-LIKE FUTURE, WHERE WORDS BAD AND NO THINK GREAT.

I FOUND THIS STORY MORALLY, EMOTIONALLY, GRAMMATICALLY, AND PERSONALLY OFFENSIVE. BECAUSE IT EXISTS, GOD CANNOT. WHEN WE DIE, THERE IS ONLY BLACKNESS. A FIXED SHOT OF BLACKNESS FOR SEVERAL MINUTES, UNTIL “THE END” POPS UP.

BAD.

[microsoftedgy69]

since its come up heres a list with all the blogs i somehow, and dont ask me how, have been active on

@mechasnark - auto-responder, you’re here

@asystotle - post-game slightly AU dirk

@stunttrouble - post-game kidswap john english

@stakehammer - post-game kidswap john lalonde

@comicsnas - no-game post-scratch dave strider

@fontjoke - ^ same AU rose lalonde

honorary mentions: not very active, but here now and then

@humancentipeding - post-game john egbert

@magicides - post-game kidswap dirk lalonde

[caliginousgestic-blog]

homeslicedbread mentioned you in a post “@thisismildred @oceanickohai @pessimistictestified @comicsnas...”

@pessimistictestified @comicsnas @ahnnarchy @ caliginousgestic @edgestrider @thetrucmastermind @torridgravepurge @feltenglish…

MY NAME IS CARMINE. I’M A BLOODSUCKING FIEND FROM THE FIERY DEPTHS OF SATAN’S MALICIOUS AND SWEAT-INFUSED TOE CRACK.

HAVE YOU LITERALLY KILLED PEOPLE OR IS THIS MORE OF AN EXPRESSION TO GO WITH ALL OF THE OH SO SICKNASTY HORSETRASHERY?

[comedianrhapsody]

john: > wake up.

it’s not unusual for you to wake up in hotel rooms and not remember why you’re there.

your career has you traveling the country a lot, and you’re notoriously bad at keeping your appointments straight. (so much so, it was turned into a successful bit of you stumbling onto stage, ‘late’, at the academy awards.) you’re not fussed. it usually comes back to you by breakfast. a quick look at your personalized greeting card confirms that you’re familiar with this hotel chain, at least. you realize the reason you feel so stuffy is that you fell asleep in your clothes. shoes, even. that also happens sometimes, if you happen to leave a party particularly late.

you know yourself well enough to make use of helpful tools these days, and you’re sure one of the notes in your phone will help jog your memory. the lockscreen informs you that you have 9 unread messages. the push notification blocks out an unfamiliar background image. as you try to place it, your thumb hovers over the number pad uselessly.

your agent, grace, all but reamed you for keeping a sticky note with all of your important passwords in your wallet. you sure would love to call her now and rub it under her nose, but sadly, you can’t do any such thing. maybe you’ll be able to csi your way into this one. it’s probably something easy to remember, like your birthday.

wrong PIN. two tries remaining. birth year, then!

one try remaining.

“oh, boy,” you sigh heavily, rubbing your temple. the thick fog that has settled over your consciousness is persistent; you’re not worried, but it is a minor annoyance you chalk up to age, like the backaches or the way your knee pops after you keep it bent for too long.

it’s not jeff goldblum’s birth year either, and so you’re effectively locked out of your phone. you’ll need the papers and manuals at home to reset the thingamabob, you know. this isn’t your first tech-rodeo.

you go about the rest of your morning in a relatively analogue fashion. you've since learned that you're in d.c. where you grew up, and that you were going to grab coffee with your mom, but she left a message with the front desk canceling for urgent business. such is her life. you do not question it.

the hotel staff help you book a flight and call for an uber. it’s on your way to the airport that your phone buzzes in your breast pocket. force of habit has you picking up the device before you remember that it’s a fool’s errand, but at least you’re able to see who has been trying to reach you: a contact simply labeled ‘dave’ flashes up at you.

do you have lock screen notifs turned on

that's clever. you can't respond, but you're grateful for the communication.

another buzz.

hi john go back to chicago ok? its important

you have no idea who dave is, but he makes a reasonable point. way ahead of you, buddy, you think. maybe grace is off on vacation and this guy is filling in? it wouldn't be the first time you forgot.

dave the substitute manager keeps in touch with you. your feet have barely had time to touch illinois ground when he texts you again.

hope you had a nice flight please get that phone issue fixed we gotta talk chop chop

his tone changes from friendly to kind of bossy just quickly enough to support your suspicion. you like that in a coworker, though. you need your ass kicked into gear at times. he continues to debrief you,

your phone info is in the blue living room cabinet, second door from the left. go unlock it nerd

huh.

you do have a blue living room cabinet. what an insightful fella. you decide to tip him extra. you do not even begin to question where he acquired this information because even you can’t keep track of what you’ve told grace since the beginning of her employ. instead, you look forward to coming home, changing into clothes that aren’t rumpled, and flopping onto your sofa.

when you walk into your apartment, there is no sofa. there is no blue cabinet either; for a second you think you’ve been robbed, until you process the stacks of boxes with varying levels of helpful labels.

this, you question.

you walk back out again to empty out your overflowing mailbox. this is where you run into the familiar face of your neighbor. everyone in the building keeps to themselves, mostly, and you probably have a kooky rep for attempting to strike up conversations by the garbage containers, but you’re deeply confused, so it’s worth a shot. “uh,” you start eloquently. the man, who you think is an app developer or something, clearly wasn’t prepared for social interaction. you go on, “‘scuse me. this might sound weird, but -- am i moving?”

it sounds more than weird. the look on his face clearly questions your soundness of mind, and you think that’s fair enough, honestly. instead of answering, hermit hipster shuffles back toward his apartment door, holding eye contact as if to make sure you’re not following him. and then that’s that. you won’t find answers here. kind of rude, really. with another heavy sigh, you resign to your fate of having to go through those boxes, one by one, figuring out the phone situation, and making calls to people who won’t judge you too harshly. hopefully.

[comedianrhapsody]

@comicsnas you're right! mentioning it won't make me want to ask, which totally isn't another mind game.

[comedianrhapsody]

> john: go to washington.

you’re not one to beat yourself up about things, but for once, you think you should have seen this coming.

you’re not sure what kept you from asking dave who he was sneaking out at night to feud, or who took his eye. who was responsible for that time you found him bleeding over the bathroom floor with a stab wound in his abdomen. you especially didn’t like to think back on that. and as if he sensed your apprehension, dave kept it to himself for an impressive amount of time. you know now that he wasn’t always sure that you weren’t in on the big evil scheme. that it would hurt your friendship if you weren’t, or that you wouldn’t find it within yourself to believe him. you do, even if a lot of things don’t make sense. he sits you down one afternoon when dirk is asleep in his crib, takes your hand, and tells you that your mother is plotting to overtake the planet. he shows you proof, and there’s plenty more of it in his hollywood home, in that room he used to keep locked when you visited. until eventually he didn’t. maybe he was hoping for you to snoop around and make that gruesome discovery by yourself. again, you kept your eyes averted. there’s no point in wondering if you could have prevented anyone from getting hurt if only you paid attention. maybe dirk’s parents would still be alive, but you certainly have no regrets with knowing he’s growing up under dave’s roof instead, with someone who actually loves him. maybe that’s selfish, because you love the baby too, and you probably wouldn’t even have met him. two weeks pass. during daytime hours, you pack up your home -- because you bought a house in california, to be closer to them -- during nighttime hours, you have trouble resting. it’s not like you to get trapped inside your own head, but no matter which way you try to piece it together, it doesn’t make sense that your mother has managed to hide this from you for three decades. you can’t tell if it’s because she is that good, or you are just that stupid. once dave and dirk are back in LA, you reach your wit’s end. you want answers. you text her that you’ll be in the area soon, and book a flight. shore thing, buoy, she replies. there’s a blingee of snoop dogg giving a thumbs up. you used to think those were hilarious. she’s your mom. she raised you, a human boy, and you turned out fairly decent if you may say so. there’s got to be something there, and surely she’ll see reason.