GIRLS AREN'T FUNNY.

In the great green-certified room
There was a smartphone 
And a silver spoon 
And a picture of—

A high-contrast, brain-stimulating black-and-white moon

And there was a musical concert by Baby Mozart

And high window guards 
And French flash cards

Read More 

 I used to write more, before I got addicted to technology. I was going through my old journals from elementary school, pre-cell phone, and saw that I wrote so many short stories and poems. The excuse I tell myself is that I don’t have time, but that isn’t true. I do have time, but I am wasting it reading tweets and looking at Willow Smith’s Instagram. The amount of time that I spend on my phone scares me. The amount of time I see other people on their phones makes me realize that what I’m doing isn’t important and I shouldn’t be wasting my time. Getting invested in other people’s relationships just makes you feel bad about yourself and maybe feeling bad feels good sometimes.

I read into technology too much and it makes me sad. I take every “like” and “follow” personally. I take everything personally in real life as well, so maybe it isn’t different. Constantly having something to do like check Twitter, Facebook and Instagram makes me feel like I don’t have time to do other things like write or read. I feel like my brain is getting smaller and I cant think of any new ideas to write about. Sometimes when I start thinking about things that make me upset or I feel like I am thinking too much, I go on my phone to shut my brain down. I have been thinking about checking my phone the entire time I have been writing this.

I put so much pressure on myself to make sure my writing is good (whatever that means) that I stopped. I gave up and got involved in social networking. All I think about when I don’t have my phone is checking it. When I don’t have it, I don’t feel safe. (I secretly think one of the many reasons I didn’t like summer camp was missing my phone and feeling disconnected.

Why do I tweet? I like twitter because reading about what other people are doing makes you forget about what you have to do. I like Twitter because it makes me laugh. I like Twitter because it informs me when something important has happened. I like Twitter because it makes me feel closer to celebrities that I know I will never be close to. I like Twitter because reading about crazy things other people do makes me feel normal. I like Twitter because people are so  nice to me and it makes me feel happy.

First, I will complain about things I have total control over, from my fitness level to my terrible taste in men. Then I will complain about being accused of having control over these things. Finally, I will ask the question on all of our minds: why do non-athletic elastic waistband shorts exist?

I am out of shape. I used to be able to run seven-minute miles and now I blame the heat and my hair-tie, but it is all a rationalization designed to make me feel better about the wheeze as I round mile three. My playlist is far too many bpms for my pace and in the last road race I ran I was passed by an old woman with a cane (because she was blind), a 300-lb man with a neck tattoo, and a 12-year-old with a T-shirt that read, on the back,EAT MY DUST.

My commute is full of terrible strangers that I only feel kindly towards if they: trip; have unnoticed fashion malfunctions; or are small children in endearing outfits—preferably dressed as an adult or adorable animal. Sometimes I pass the time determining if my fellow passengers are: gay or European; hipster or homeless; pregnant or unfortunate; male, female or gender-indeterminate-clown-dressed-in-traditional-quincenera-garb. And thwarting my plans for a fun commute spent silently judging those around me, my phone’s screen is scratched/cracked. The buttons sometimes don’t work and then I sit there, slapping my phone and cursing under my breath. Tourettes or someone who gets drunk and throws things?

Nota Bene: Some people should never wear shorts (group A). Some people should never wear shorts when they know they will be sitting next to a complete stranger who has no choice but to jostle into their billowing, doughy legs for thirty minutes and pretend, out of common courtesy, to be actually reading the Mesothelioma class action suit advertisement on the wall and not shuddering with each convulsion of flesh (group B). Some people should only wear shorts (Natalie Portman, Mario Lopez). Some people should never wear clothing at all (Ryan Lochte: call me, definitely).

Ruining any chance for future empathy, I am only interested in emotionally unavailable men. There is always a childhood trauma, fear, or girlfriend but rationalizing is my best/worst trait. How am I supposed to make a stable and healthy choice when I have to commute to work and my phone doesn’t properly play the Phil Collins/Scandinavian electronic/aggressive rap I need to get through a run? Forces beyond my control lead me to sit at home drinking a beer reading about the woman who gave birth hours after running a marathon. Really Amber Miller? Stop being a jerk.

I Am…Sasha Fierce

The Single “As F*ck” Lady

You’re so single right now that if some mysterious benefactor dropped two box seats to a Giants playoff game into your lap, you could not think of a single guy (not related to you) who would join you. You RSVP stag to all events that invite you with a plus one, because there is literally no one in your graveyard of a contact list that you’d even consider putting up with for a few hours just to save some face. You can’t remember the last time you went on a second date. Your sex life is a disappointing series of one night stands followed by weeks of dry spells. You’re seriously thinking about accepting that date with your girlfriend’s boyfriend’s frat buddy from college that she so graciously keeps offering to you.

The “Consistently Getting Laid” Single Lady

You’re not about to introduce this guy to your friends or let him meet your mother, but at least you’re getting laid on a semi-consistent basis. Sure, he snores in your ear, refers to you as “bro,” and hates your cat (to be fair, the feeling is mutual). But he’s always available and the sex is okay — he doesn’t ask to come on your face or put it in your ear or anything. Plus, he’s kind of cute when he’s asleep… actually, you like him best when he’s unconscious.

The Single “But Dating Lots Of People” Lady

You’ve got your eggs in more baskets than the Easter Bunny. You’re stoked about your second date with that accountant you met at karaoke, that upcoming dinner with the architect your friend from college introduced you, that so-called “catch-up session” with an old flame who just moved back to the city… and the list goes on. If any one of your stocks crashes, you’ve got your investments spread all around.

The “Third Date” Single Lady

You’re single for all intents and purposes, but you’ve actually made it to date number three with a guy that you’re extremely attracted to and have an awesome time with. Your face is harboring that “I might be getting laid soon” glow that even JWoww’s bronzer can’t imitate. There’s more bounce in your step — you smile at strangers and start to think that babies are cute again. You have trouble answering your date’s simple questions, such as, “What are you going to order?” because you’re too busy thinking about how much you like his face… and how much longer you’ll possibly be able to hold out. 

Read More

The Mindy Project is a show where the lead gains confidence by channeling a warrior named Beyoncé Pad Thai. It is a show where teenagers at a swanky high school have a class called History of Dubstep. It is a show where a bright blue alcoholic drink is compared to the liquid used in pad commercials. It is a show that is, literally, THE BEST THING EVER.

First things first: It’s on Tuesday nights on Fox; it’s also on Hulu. Mindy Kaling, who created the show, stars as Mindy Lahiri, a gynecologist who is great at her job and not great at romance or at being a good person (but is working on both). It’s not necessarily plot-driven (it doesn’t need to be; I would be content even if the show was just all of the characters talking over a visual of a bouncy screensaver), but everyone has enough layers and potential for growth to be worth caring about. My favorites so far are Mindy and her colleague Danny, and I hope they get together in season 14, because I intend to keep the show going that long through my many Hulu viewings and because I will need a lot of time to prepare for something that will surely be an emotional experience for us all.

And, oh, Ike Barinholtz (from MADtv like five years ago), playing a nurse who initially tries to get people to call him “Ransom,” is a revelation. It’s too early for any clips to be on YouTube, so you just have to trust me when I say he goes to a trendy club with a duffel bag and a sudoku book and that he kills it in every episode.

The Mindy Project is good at helping you reconcile seemingly contradictory things, like your deep affection for romantic comedies and the pain you know you’re in for if you try to live your life like you’re in one. Or caring about how you look and knowing that you shouldn’t. Mindy Lahiri can be obsessive and silly and self-righteous and self-destructive, but she’s also really good at her job and cares genuinely about being a good person and friend. The humor and delight of the show come not from seeing her do something stupid and being like, “That Mindy, will she ever learn?!” It comes from seeing her do something stupid even though she knows it’s stupid, and watching the resulting moment of self-reflection—or the lengths to which she’ll go to avoid it.

Her “project” might seem like it’s just about finding a man or being unslutty, but now that we’re seven episodes in, it’s clear that she just wants general better-ness. To grow up a little. Right now, I would guess that she pictures her goal as sort of a vague swirl of stuff like Tom Hanks and kale and the kind of Buddhism where you decide to also be super wealthy. But she’s too cynical to buy into that completely (“Maybe I’ll do one of thoseEat, Pray, Love things. Ugh, I don’t wanna pray. I’ll just die alone”), and too earnest for the show to become a perpetual rant about spinster fears. She’s sarcastic, but she’s hopeful, and when you add it all together, it is just really, really funny. 

Read More 

Dear Elf on the Fucking Shelf,

You’re a book, a doll, a keepsake box. You’re an iPhone app, a newsletter, and a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. You’re everywhere.

You’re a fucking nightmare.

When I was pregnant I made a list of things that I was going to ban from my house upon my daughter’s arrival: Barney, Crocs, Tickle Me Talking Elmo, all other battery-operated toys, and light-up sneakers—to name just a few.

If I had known about you, Elf on the Fucking Shelf, you would have been right up there at the top of the list.

But I was blissfully unaware of your felt trend sweeping the nation, as I waddled around gorging my face on lemon bars. Being out of the loop gives you a certain sense of liberty. It is the same liberty that I felt when we recently moved into an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood. There was no way my daughter would hear about you while riding her princess bike in circles around a synagogue. In fact, we could skip all the holiday hoopla and she would never know. A fallen Catholic and a non-practicing Muslim found utopia. It was perfect!

Well, it was perfect. Then last winter my mother showed up—with you! And, before I could stop her, she gave you to my daughter, which ignited a ridiculous new family tradition. I think it was a secret ploy disguised in an act of kindness to torture me for being a stay-at-home mom. Staying home to raise a kid means having all the time in the world to waste on monkey brain bullshit—or so my mother thinks, which is why I believe it was a ruse. But that’s okay, I would play the game. I mean how long could it really last? My daughter was five, and at two she was already questioning the Jolly Old Man. I figured I’d have one more year of decking the halls and screwing around with an you. Figuratively, of course.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m really not a Scrooge. I admit that I feel a tinge of warm and fuzzy when I look at the you, Elf on the Fucking Shelf. You remind me of the Annalee knee-hugging pixie elves my mom collected and lined up on the mantle every year when I was a kid. But now, when I have to set my alarm to playact your creepy spying on us in the dark of night, in the middle of a freeze-your-ass-off New England winter, I don’t feel so nostalgic.

I’m also not feeling creative. My daughter recently expressed her disappointment in you. She doesn’t think you’re very “tricky.” You are a dud—which, indirectly, means I am a dud. Thanks for that. But then there was the time I had too much spiked eggnog and left you and Barbie in the 69 position. I hope you had as much fun with that one as I did.

I am out of ideas and refuse to go on Pinterest for elf-posing tutorials. Actually, I refuse to go on Pinterest, period. I would bet a bag of reindeer food that there is a direct correlation between Pinterest account holders and Elf On the Shelf owners. If you’re the sort who virtually pins wallpaper patterns and dream kitchen sinks to a bulletin board in the sky, you are definitely posing your Elf to drink from a syrup container through a straw.

It was so much easier when I was a kid. Santa came down the chimney, filled your stocking, and went on his merry way. Throw in A Charlie Brown Christmas and call it a day. Now I have to worry about not taking the magic out of you, our “friendly scout” Elf. Now I have to leave sparkly reindeer food and cookies and milk out for the big man and his team. I have to hide gifts, disguise my handwriting on name tags, secretly wrap gifts, and prostitute myself to get my hands on McKenna, the American Girl Doll of the Year that is, ironically, sold out. Like I don’t have enough shit to worry about. I’m trying to catch up onArrested Development on Netflix. I mean, how much can one woman handle?

First, sleep with someone. They could either be someone you know or someone you don’t know. It could also be someone you sort of know. Just make sure that it’s someone.

Then, wake up in the morning and realize that someone you know or don’t know or sort of know is in your bed. Register that that is strange. Almost against nature. Play a game where you pretend like you’re a huge creep and stare at their face while they sleep. Acting is fun!

Check to see if you have an embarrassing book on your bedside table: It’s Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince. Eff.

Carefully get up so as not to wake the person next to you and quickly switch out Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince with one of your two unread copies of Infinite Jest. Throw Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince out the window but note where it lands so you can pick it up later.

Contemplate brushing your teeth but then think that if your teeth are brushed and the other person’s teeth aren’t brushed that just makes that person feel bad, which is actually fine with you, but your minty-fresh breath might lead them to use your toothbrush, which is gross. Then reflect that in the grand scheme of things, considering what you did last night, maybe you should just relax about them possibly using your toothbrush. Vow to throw your toothbrush out regardless, it’s time you got a new one anyway.

Lie back in bed, trying not to move, but attempt to conjure the other person to wake up. It’s basically like you’re Matilda lifting a piece of chalk with your mind, except you’re you, willing a questionable decision from last night to rise. Pretty much the same thing. To clarify: You’re Matilda and the person next to you is a piece of chalk. Curse yourself for purchasing such a comfortable mattress that is causing this person to be in a deep slumber. Damn your impeccable taste.

When they finally do wake up, panic that you might have something in your nose, but try to keep calm. Resist the urge to cover your entire face with a pillow and smother yourself until you’re dead.

This is a fucking nightmare.

Get up and try not to sprint to your clothes, because you might fall and hit your head and then you’d be lying there naked and unconscious in an awkward folded position and that would not look cute. The person might not even call an ambulance for you because of how not cute you look.

Agree to go for breakfast and try your best to put on a cool outfit. Check three times before you walk out the door to make sure that you’ve put on pants.

Eat breakfast and note that the person has subpar table manners. How have they survived this long without being told to chew with their mouth closed? Exactly who raised them? A wolf? A lion? Sure, that would be cool, but not to go home to for the holidays. If they chew with their mouth open, does that mean that they lied about not having a disease? Probably.

Recall your last one-night stand where the person texted a few days later to say that they couldn’t hang out because their friend’s cat was sick. Remember how you thought no one could top that amazingly stupid, ego-crippling, so-bad-it’s-funny way to blow you off, but, looking at the wolf/lion person across from you, you realize that they could be capable of something similar. Try to make yourself feel better by humming “The Circle of Life.” It doesn’t work, and now the person is looking at you weird. Ugh, whatever, you’re weird, WEIRDO. And anyway, you should like that song, seeing as how you were raised by a LION. Pray that you didn’t say all that out loud.

When you part, try to make a joke by shaking their hand, except they go in for the hug. Look around for the closest sharp object to stab yourself in the heart with or a blunt object to hit the person over the head with, hopefully causing amnesia so they will have no recollection of you or the night, and maybe they can start from scratch with the whole table manners thing.

Read More 

1. Why is every single male here wearing a striped collared shirt? Does this place have a uniform I should be aware of?

2. Am I actually expected to talk to anyone other than the small group of people I came with? Seriously?

3. I’m sorry, this eight-ounce watery vodka concoction is costing me how much? I could buy two burritos for that price. Oh my God, burritos…

4. Why did I wear heels? This night was not worth wearing heels for.

5. Do people know I’m being semi-ironic when I shake my ass like this? I am being semi-ironic when I shake my ass like this, right?

6. At what point can I tell this sweaty-faced spiky-haired male that I have a boyfriend? Is it uncouth to suggest that the girl in the scrunchy turquoise dress featuring the exposed ass cheek might be more his speed?

7. Where exactly is the nearest late-night pizza place and how exactly can I get there?

8. Judging by tonight’s music selection, is it reasonable to assume that not everyone hates Lady Gaga as much as I do? Work with me here, people. The woman wears dresses made of meat.

9. Why do girls shop at Forever 21 if they don’t know how to do it correctly? It’s a fine art, you know.

10. At what point is it socially acceptable to order a couple rounds of “bar snacks” acting as if they’re for the group but really looming over them as if I haven’t eaten since I was 12? 

Read More 

Dear People in Coffee Shops in the Middle of the Day,

Hi! I have a lot of questions about you! See, like you, I am one of the people who can sometimes be found in a coffee shop in the middle of the day, and I cannot help but wonder about my café-squatting brethren. I mean, I know why I am here – I am a writer and sometimes I get bored writing from home and thus a switch in location leads me to the closest coffee shop. But what about you? It’s almost 3pm on a Tuesday and you are in a coffee shop! Are you like me? I want to know what you are doing here and I want to know your story! I want to know everything about all of these people in the coffee shop in the middle of the day!

What are you doing? Are you on Facebook? Instagram? Tumblr? All three at once? Are you inventing a new social media website? Are you emailing with someone? Who? What are they saying? Are you writing? What are you writing? Is it a script? A book? An essay on coffee shop aesthetics? Are you lonely? Are you employed? Is this your job? Doesn’t it annoy you to have that plate of crumbs sitting on the table for hours on end? Wouldn’t you just go and throw it out by now? How much coffee have you had? Would you still come here even if they didn’t have free wifi? What did you do before free wifi existed? Who is your favorite superhero? Do you have any single guy friends? Do you think I’ll meet my boyfriend in this coffee shop? Do you like the music they are playing? Are you as creeped out by that one weird dude in the corner as I am?

My first Jingle Ball — a holiday pop extravaganza hosted by the Top 40 station in most major radio markets — was actually a “Deck the Hall Ball” held in Atlanta in 1998. Barenaked Ladies headlined, and the Cardigans were trotted out to play that one song that every girl knew from the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack. (No regrets. “Lovefool” forever.) My second Jingle Ball was last Friday at Madison Square Garden, where the Holy Trinity of 2012 pop stars — One Direction, Taylor Swift, and Justin Bieber — played to a stadium full of highly vocal tristate-area teens and a few wannabe teens looking to recapture that first Jingle Ball magic. I, being very much a part of the second demographic, was lucky enough to find myself seated next to the real thing: A thoughtful 14-year-old girl, who came to Z100’s Jingle Ball all by herself, asked me to make sure nothing bad happened to her and then proceeded to document the entire show with her iPhone, iPad, and super-intimidating long-lens camera. This was her second concert (she’d seen One Direction the previous Monday; Niall’s her favorite), and she was kind enough to answer all my annoying questions about the experience. Here is what I learned from her.

We should take fun. more seriously. 
Despite her One Direction allegiance, fun. was my new friend’s favorite set of the night, and she was not alone — even the wandering lemonade guy joined in on the “We Are Young” sing-along. (He was conducting, too. I really liked him.) Fun. was obviously going to shine in this setting — those songs can fill an arena, unlike, say, One Direction’s “One Thing,” and they are a real band who can play instruments — but I underestimated the effect they could have on a teen who otherwise only listens to straight bubblegum. Fun.’s sound is “unique” and “classier” than most pop music, according to my neighbor, which was her endearing way of saying that she recognized something different and more accomplished in their songs. Fun. is a gateway band. We (I) should be kinder to them. 

Whatever swaggy is, Justin Bieber still has it.
My neighbor was pretty iffy on Justin Bieber: She had two of his songs one her iPod (“Baby” and “Pray”), but had never really felt connected to him one way or the other. That changed after his performance. “It’s different when you see him in person,” she admitted. That is especially true when you take into account that Justin Bieber is basically stripping during his concerts now.  

Read More 

A few years ago, I sat down for a meeting with some executives at a movie studio that I will call Thinkscope Visioncloud. Thinkscope Visioncloud had put out several of my favorite movies, and they wanted to see if I had any feature ideas. I was very excited. I have a great job writing for “The Office,” but, really, all television writers do is dream of one day writing movies. I’ll put it this way: At the Oscars the most famous person in the room is, like, Angelina Jolie. At the Emmys the huge exciting celebrity is Bethenny Frankel. You get what I mean. It’s snobby and grossly aspirational, but it’s true.

The junior executives’ office at Thinkscope Visioncloud was nicer than any room within a fifty-mile radius of the “Office” studio. After I finished pitching one of my ideas for a low-budget romantic comedy, I was met with silence. One of the execs sheepishly looked at the other execs. He finally said, “Yeah, but we’re really trying to focus on movies about board games. People really seem to respond to those.”

For the rest of the meeting, we talked about whether there was any potential in a movie called “Yahtzee!” I made some polite suggestions and left.

I am always surprised at what movie studios think people will want to see. I’m even more surprised at how often they are correct. Based on what I’ve learned from my time in Hollywood, the following titles are my best guess as to what may soon be coming to a theatre near you:

“Bananagrams 3D”

“Apples to Apples 4D” (The audience is pummelled with apples at the end of the movie.)

“Crest Whitestrips”

“Sharks vs. Volcanoes”

“King Tut vs. King Kong”

“Streptococcus vs. Candidiasis” (Strep Throat vs. Yeast Infection)

“The Do-Over”

“The Switcheroo”

“Street Smart”

“Street Stupid” (“Street Smart” sequel)

“Fat Astronaut”

“The Untitled Liam Neeson Vendetta Project”

“Human Quilt” (horror movie)

“The Cute Bear from Those Toilet-Paper Ads Movie”

Those movies all sound great to me, and, incidentally, I am prepared to write any of them, if there is interest. But what I’d really like to write is a romantic comedy. This is my favorite kind of movie. I feel almost embarrassed revealing this, because the genre has been so degraded in the past twenty years that saying you like romantic comedies is essentially an admission of mild stupidity. But that has not stopped me from enjoying them.

I like watching people fall in love onscreen so much that I can suspend my disbelief in the contrived situations that occur only in the heightened world of romantic comedies. I have come to enjoy the moment when the male lead, say, slips and falls right on top of the expensive wedding cake. I actually feel robbed when the female lead’s dress doesn’t get torn open at a baseball game while the JumboTron camera is on her. I regard romantic comedies as a subgenre of sci-fi, in which the world operates according to different rules than my regular human world. For me, there is no difference between Ripley from “Alien” and any Katherine Heigl character. They are equally implausible. They’re all participating in a similar level of fakey razzle-dazzle, and I enjoy every second of it.

• Read More 

Because in real life, sex can be boring…

***

INT. OF DIMLY LIT RESTAURANT, NIGHT. An attractive woman in her 40s stands up and bursts into tears as she sees a man walk towards her table. 

KELLY: I can’t believe you came! Twenty years I’ve waited. There was never anyone but you, Ryan. You’re the one! You’ve always been the one!

RYAN: Oh man, I totally forgot about that. I just get takeout from here sometimes. Sorry, it’s Rhonda, right? Try the salmon teriyaki.

***

EXT. DAY, NEW YORK CITY. A couple in their early 20s sits on a park bench.

GERT: I didn’t think you’d call.

JOE: Actually, I didn’t plan to, but I was hoping you’d loan me $10 so I can get back to Park Slope.

GERT: I’d invite you back to my place, but my roommate has a “no overnight guests policy,” and well, we have bedbugs again.

JOE: Hey, it’s cool. I’d rather get back home. When we met at the bar last night, the light was dimmer, and I didn’t realize your face was like that.

Gert gets up and walks away crying. She doesn’t look back, because that angle gives her a double chin. 

***

INT. OF TRENDY BAR, NIGHT. A man approaches a woman sitting at the bar. 

MAN: Waiting for someone?

WOMAN: No, I just saw Samantha do this on Sex and the City, so I’ve sat at this bar every night since 2009, waiting for men to talk to me.

MAN: Cool. Excuse me while I pretend to take a call even though I lost my iPhone yesterday in a cab.

***

INT. SHABBY LIVING ROOM, DAY. Roommates COLIN and JANET sit in their Astoria apartment.

JANET: You know what they say, true love’s always just under your nose. Come on, let’s go out to a beautiful romantic spot in the West Village so I can take off my glasses and you can realize how beautiful I am.

COLIN: That’s like an hour on the N train! And why spend 12 bucks on a drink? Let’s just look under the futon mattress for change and get beer.

JANET: Whatever, I have to work at two of my three jobs tomorrow. I’m going to bed.

Janet walks to her room and goes to slam the door, until she remembers it’s only a curtain partitioning off the living room.

***

Read More 

People say that obesity is an epidemic in America, but I’m determined not to become part of the problem. That’s why I’ve spent years perfecting the secret to a trim and attractive physique. My foolproof system involves just nine easy steps.

Step 1: Avoid what psychologists refer to as “emotional eating.” This is hard, because many people have a tendency to experience emotions. To solve this problem, consume increasing dosages of psychotropic medications until you cease to feel emotions of any kind.

Step 2: Visualize yourself as a thin person. This is very important, because the body often takes its signals from the brain. Each time you take a bite of food, imagine that you are a thin person taking a bite of food, chewing the food, then spitting the food into a napkin, then tucking the napkin into your backpack or purse. After you’re done visualizing these things, start doing them.

Step 3: Get rid of your “fat clothes.” Keeping your closet stocked with unflattering garments will only distract you from your quest for a slender body. To complete this step, shred or burn everything in your closet, including any hangers or shelving that a fat person may have touched. Refrain from donating anything to charity, as this could cause underprivileged people to become obese, which would be unsavory and possibly even illegal.

Step 4: Refrain from consuming food.

Step 5: Surround yourself with thin people. This will naturally encourage you to emulate their healthy habits. Weigh your friends on a regular basis, then weigh yourself. Do you have a friend who weighs less than you? If so, consider gastric bypass surgery.

Read More 

Shrek 4
by Woody Allen

Shrek (no longer Mike Myers. Me? Failing me, Ewan McGregor?) is a disenchanted oboist living in a land called Far, Far Away (for our purposes, Far, Far Away is Scarsdale). His wife, Fiona (Téa Leoni speaking like she’s not a goy), can no longer satisfy him in bed. The two struggle impotently under the covers. Shrek puts on his glasses and makes a wisecrack about how sex is almost as fun as reading Dreiser. They order Chinese and Shrek reads the Science Times in his underwear, obsessing over an article about the expanding universe. A Benny Goodman song plays, and Fiona remarks absently that Shrek’s record collection was “mysteriously burned” in an apartment fire. Shrek suffers unspeakably beneath a mask of ironic good humor. While eating at a Greek diner on Broadway and worrying about his blood pressure, Shrek meets Princess Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), a creature who is green like him but not Jewish or married. Her naiveté is charming—especially that way she has of being 25 years younger than him—and she seems receptive to his fumbling, pretentious overtures. She inexplicably agrees to sleep with him, and he tries to get her to worry about the expanding universe. When she appears blithely unaware of the Dostoyevskian pall of death hanging over New York City, he compliments her on her legs. Donkey (should be Alan Alda—recast Eddie Murphy as Princess Charlotte’s father) advises Shrek not to continue with the affair, but Shrek makes a series of frantic hand gestures to signify that he’s not in the advice-taking business. In the end, Princess Charlotte gets married to some pischer who’s actually her age, and Shrek realizes that if he imitates Humphrey Bogart, Fiona’s futile struggling transforms into attentive lovemaking.

Untitled
Second Installment
of Kung Fu Panda
by David Lynch

The Kung Fu Panda (Justin Theroux) has been away from suburban Moosetown for three years to practice his martial arts. When he returns home, he discovers that Girl Panda (Laura Dern) has gone missing. While swimming naked in a nearby lake, the Kung Fu Panda makes temporary eye contact with a mossy female corpse whose face is frozen in a permanent half-scream. Unsettled, the Kung Fu Panda decides to play bocce with his neighbors, a retired marsupial couple whose mannerisms and dress are stuck in the year 1954. They cannot get the mallets out of the garage, however, because a severed human hand is putrefying in the backseat of the couple’s ‘54 Buick Skylark, and the couple (Dennis Hopper and the female equivalent of Dennis Hopper, if one exists) don’t want the Kung Fu Panda to find out. Suddenly the sky goes very dark, the Kung Fu Panda feels his pulse quicken, and “Embraceable You” plays in the background. The Kung Fu Panda dreams that he makes love to Girl Panda. She asks him to hit her and he does, raising his paw against the numbing ignorance of values-centric Middle America. She laughs and her lips bleed. There is a bolt of lightning outside, and the Kung Fu Panda wakes up to see the male half of the marsupial couple dancing in his bedroom with Girl Panda. The marsupial male is crying and wearing a neon-green dress. Girl Panda hugs him tightly. They are both splattered with blood. The Kung Fu Panda considers leaving Moosetown and then doesn’t.