Essa Writes a Lifetime Movie

You know what slogan I hate? “Lifetime: Television for Women.” While I do enjoy the occasional show in the network (Snapped, anyone?) I do not consider this my network and I find it presumptuous that they dare associate themselves with me simply based on the fact that I have a vagina.

It’s not the shows that are my problem. It’s the horrible, horrible movies. Every single one is designed to be a completely clichéd piece of shit. Not only do they dare to irritate me with clichés, they love to cash in on mass hysteria as well, frequently bringing us shows about the dangers of sexting, internet perverts, avian bird flu and whatever topic is popular in inspiring fear in everyone because it happened to one kid in some rural Idaho town.

However, some chicks must love this shit because Lifetime has been spewing out one clichéd mess after another since I was 12. As such, I have decided to totally sell out and write a movie for them. Enjoy.

 

Love Comes A Knocking…From the Pervert Next Door

A Women’s Empowerment/Moment of Truth/Girl Power/Vagina Fest Production

Starring Tracy Gold and the creepy blond guy with no eyebrows, who is kind of hot, but also looks like a serial killer

Alexandria is a sexy single mom who works at a magazine and is just trying to make it in the city. She is overworked and under appreciated and she has no time for a love life. Even though her mother (played by Judge Judy) is constantly harassing her to settle down and find someone nice, she still is unable to hook a man. Alexandria is just too much of a busy ball breaker to date a man. She’s too busy working at the magazine, with a boss who sexually harasses her regularly, and caring for her two children.

Alexandria is divorced from her husband, because he used to hire prostitutes on Craigslist and then kill them. He was also abusive and addicted to meth, so she has trouble trusting men. This leaves her two daughters with no father figure. Her youngest, Cassie (played by Isabella Acres) is precocious, but streetwise, and spits out a new catchphrase every fifteen seconds. Her oldest, Brittney (played by Miranda Cosgrove) is the head cheerleader at her school, but has recently become the subject of internet bullying due to the fact that she texted a nude picture to her internet boyfriend Steven (played by Gary Busey), who actually turned out to be a 60 year old man.

Due to the incident, and her subsequent suicide attempt, Brittney is sent to live with her no nonsense, spry, young at heart granny, Esmeralda (played by Betty White) in a small rural town that actually still has farms. (Also, they’re Amish. Let’s just throw that in there too.) There, Brittney learns the meaning of inter-generational love, a hard day’s work and foils an evil land developers plan to knock down the old folks home at Christmas time to build a parking lot.

Back in LA, Alexandria continues to regularly work for her evil, lazy womanizing boss, Nick (played by um, fuck, who really needs money?…Charlie Sheen). In an attempt to win a major business deal, Nick is forced to pretend to have a wife and family. That’s where Alexandria and Cassie come in. In exchange for the promotion she’s been angling for, Alexandria agrees to pretend to be his wife for one night.

Unfortunately, some kind of ridiculous wackiness ensues and Alexandria and her precociously adorable daughter are forced to move in with Nick in order to convince the Japanese investors (played by a bunch of tourists I found at Disneyland) that their marriage is legit. The two get in all kinds of shenanigans that cause them to grow closer. (I don’t know; something about getting stuck in an elevator together and knocking some stuff over at the mall. Whatever. We’ll do it montage style). They fall in love. Alexandria learns to trust again. Nick learns about the unconditional love that he couldn’t accept because he never got it from his alcoholic mother. They all learn the true meaning of Christmas.

Unfortunately, their troubles aren’t over. Nick’s evil, identical twin, Mick (also played by Betty White), comes to town, hell-bent on destroying Nick’s newfound happiness. He moves in next door and pretends to be nice, meanwhile exhibiting shifty eyes and smiling evilly whenever he thinks no one is looking. He also sets up cameras in the couple’s home and watches Alexandra shower, go to the bathroom and play with that weird mole on her neck that won’t go away. After it’s discovered that the evil Mick has been molesting Cassie, Alexandria confronts Mick at his office.

It culminates into a rooftop scene where Nick, Mick and Alexandria are stuck in a deadlock. Alexandria has the gun that Nick and Mick were fighting over. She doesn’t know who to shoot, because for some completely unknown reason, they are dressed exactly the same. Finally, she asks a question that only Nick could know the answer to.

“Why do they sterilize a death row inmates arm before they administer a lethal injection shot?”

The real Nick answers the question correctly and Alexandria shoots Mick. She races into Nicks arms, throwing her arms around him. Just as he leans in to hug her, the credits start rolling…and he smiles evilly while shifting his eyes.

The End

 

So, apparently, anyone can do this shit. Tracy Gold, give me a call when you’re ready to negotiate the terms. Unless you’ve gotten fat again. Otherwise, I’ll have to call Danica McKellar.

 


Dear England; I Don’t Give a Shit About Your Royal Family

I get it. You guys are proud. For the first time in well…ever, your royal family doesn’t fully resemble horses. In fact, they’re actually kind of cute. Good for you guys.

Now, can you take them back please? I’m a little tired of hearing about them every time Kate puts on a new fucking hat or they decide to go to a polo game. Shocker. Rich people going to a polo game. Thanks for the update CNN.

Look, I know it isn’t really your fault England, but I’m tired of appealing to the American media. They just decide whatever story their going to shove down our throats and we have to take it. So, I’m begging you England; take them back. Stop sending them on tour, and then getting pissed whenever someone takes a picture of them. Just stick them in the castle, or wherever they’re suppose to live, and have them come out on the balcony and occasionally do that stiff little waving thing you guys perfected.

Also, please send more pictures of Harry naked.

Sincerely,

Concerned American Citizen


Alternative Ways to Quit Smoking

So, as anyone who reads my stuff knows, I’m a pretty heavy smoker. Not social, not just when I drink. I am a full on, cigarette constantly in hand, gagging up green stuff in the morning, openly addicted smoker.

I have had a love/hate relationship with cigarettes since I was 12 (yup, started at 12, how sad is that). To be entirely honest, I love the way smoking makes me feel. I love the way that cloud of carcinogens and fiber glass (I’m a menthol lover) burns on its way down. I love the way it calms me down. I love way it gives me something to do with my hands and I love the way it keeps me from gaining weight.

I hate the fact that’s its probably going to kill me someday. I hate the fact that I get winded walking to the mailbox. I hate the way I wheeze in the morning when I wake up and a little voice whispers cancer with every intake of breath.

I’ve tried to quit. I’ve tried cold turkey, pills, lasers, patches, gum, fake cigarettes, candy cigarettes, lollipops and just about everything I can try, but it just doesn’t work. Why? Um, because I have absolutely so self control or will power whatsoever. So if I’m going to quit, I’m going to have to get extreme.

Aversion therapy – You know that thing where you put a rubber band on your wrist and snap it every time you think about smoking? Yeah, that’s for pussies. Seriously, who does that actually hurt? I have a pretty high pain threshold. Example? The other night, I removed a mole with a razor blade I got at Home Depot. Sounds stupid? A doctor would have charged me $200. I did it for $12 (adding in the cost of the six pack). So if this aversion therapy is going to work, it’s really going to have to hurt. From now on, every time I smoke a cigarette, I’m going to put it out on my hand when it’s done. I really can’t see any downside to this plan. Unless I get addicted to pain. Then I actually might start smoking more.

Get knocked up – The only time I’ve successfully quit for any length of time was when I was pregnant. Of course, I started again as soon as the baby weight didn’t instantly melt off, but for awhile, I had a good thing going. I don’t really want a baby though. Their cute, but they’re a lot of work and honestly, I’m really surprised that I have managed to keep my son alive for as long as I have. I don’t know if I could do it again.

Get addicted to something else – I’ve been watching Intervention a lot lately, and there are a whole listing of drugs that I’ve never even heard of. Did you know bath salts are a drug? I have some of those. The vanilla bean kind! I just don’t know how I’m supposed to ingest them? Snorting? Eating? If its smoking, that would kind of ruin the point. Maybe I could try porn? I already spend a lot of time on the computer, so it would really just be switching my focus from writing to watching freaky Asian girls do weird things to each other. Never mind, I just thought about “Two Girls One Cup” and gagged in my mouth a little.

Coma – This isn’t really something I can plan, but if I was in a coma, I’m pretty sure I could kick the habit for good. Not one of those weird comas with the breathing tube and brain damage. I just want one of those nice, “Soap Opera” comas where my hair is always perfect and I wake up fully alert, like I just took a really long nap.

Time Machine – Any day now, according to every sci-fi movie I’ve ever seen, one of these is going to be invented. Once it is, I’ll get in one and set my destination to 1992 in a small New Hampshire town. I will find little Essa, hiding out behind the local convenience store, with a group of her hooligan friends, and slap the cigarette right out of her hand before she can take that first addictive drag. As a bonus, on my way back, I’ll stop in 1999 and warn my 19 year old self to never see Blair Witch Project. Such a stupid shitty movie.

That’s all I’ve got for now, but I’m open to more ideas. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch some pornography. All this burning myself with cigarettes has made me weirdly horny.


Dear News; You’re Supposed to be Unbiased

ver·ba·tim

adjective /vərˈbātəm/

  1. In exactly the same words as were used originally
    • - subjects were instructed to recall the passage verbatim
    • - your quotations must be verbatim

I inserted the above definition to remind any journalists or newscasters out there that the news is supposed to be delivered in the exact manner of the above listed word. The word is verbatim, aka, word for word, unbiased, without inserting your own personal slant. Ver – god – damn- ba – tim.

The news is not an opinion piece. It’s the news. Share the facts, and not your opinion of the facts.

I’m bringing this up tonight because I’m seeing a familiar news story pop up. It comes around every year at this time, and the headline is always something along the lines of “those evil atheists are trying to ruin Christmas again.”

 

I dealt with in when the news was complaining that all the atheists had gotten together and demanded that Christmas become ‘Festivus’, despite the fact that the story was complete bullshit and a source could never be found. I dealt with it when the news jumped in and said the evil atheists wanted to cancel government holidays related to Christmas, because they were religious. Again, no source located and ridiculous premise. Who the hell demands they NOT be given a day off?

This year it’s a nativity scene that is at the center of that controversy. Apparently, a bunch of evil atheists got together and demanded that nativity scenes in a local Santa Monica park be taken down, because they shouldn’t be forced to look at them. The nativity scenes would apparently offend their delicate sensibilities. At least, that was what my newscaster alleged.

Unfortunately, he was unable to separate how he felt from the actual FACTS of the news story. Let me tell you what really happened.

Let’s start with the history. Back in the day, a collection of Christian Santa Monica churches used to take up all 21 available slots in Palisades Park to stage their own nativity scene.  A couple years back, a few more groups jumped in. They said, ‘hey, we would like to stage our own Christmas scene too.’ In the interest of fairness, the city of decided to hold a raffle, so everyone would get a fair chance at setting their own Christmas scene. There were 21 spots available.

Atheists won 18 of those spots, a Jewish group won another. The final two were allocated to the Christian churches that entered. So the Christian churches sued. Today they lost.

And the atheists ruined Christmas.

There is no guarantee that the Atheists wouldn’t have done anything, just because it was for Christmas. In fact, several of the groups were planning traditional ‘Santa Clause and Reindeer” displays. Also, the ‘atheist’ spots were actually ‘secular’ spots. But don’t bother a newscaster with actual fucking facts. Their too busy reporting their opinions.

Of course, in answer to the controversy, the city banned ALL private displays. So now nobody wins. And it’s all the atheists fault.

Here’s the thing. I, like many American’s, am not an Atheist. But I am also not religious. I like to consider myself an Agnostic Apathist. (Which is a religion I made up entirely). Mainly, the philosophy of an Agnostic Apathist is that the only people who know what happens when you die are dead people. So, I’ll go ahead and worry about what happens after I’m dead WHEN I’M DEAD.

Agnostic Apathy in a nutshell. I try not to hurt anyone, I make decisions based on my own moral compass, and I leave other people the hell alone unless their asking for my help. I don’t have to go to meetings once a week. I don’t make fun of what other people believe in. I don’t pray to a father figure, because I don’t need to. If I really feel like I’m doing something wrong, I don’t do it. If not, I do. I don’t act like I know how we got here or how it all ends, because in all honesty, nobody does! Maybe there’s something, maybe there’s nothing, but to date, no one has given me any definitive proof either way.

At the same time, I feel like atheists get a bad rap. Most of the atheists I meet are a lot like me. They agree that their might be something, but at the same time, their afraid of admitting it lest some over eager zealot try to shove religion down their throat. They’re not bad people, they’re not good people. They’re just people and their not trying to ruin Christmas.

I will admit there are some snarky atheists out there, with the condescending attitudes who think they know it all. And for every one atheist like that, I could probably introduce you to a religious counterpart who is just as bad.

So news, stop trying to create a bad guy every year around this time. Stop pinning it on the atheists because their easy targets. Instead, report the damn facts of any given situation and stop adjusting them to meet your own ends.

I’ll go back to getting wasted on eggnog and watching Rudolph. All is as it should be, just like on the first Christmas.

 


The Facebook Fight – Succeeding in Making Everyone Look Moronic Since 2003

 

I’ve made my feelings clear on this time and time again, with the Excessive Information Status Update, the spam post and many other blogs, but I just feel like my Facebook friends aren’t listening…despite the fact that I link this page to my Facebook. So let me make this clear one more time.

No one should be confronted with your drama when their doing something as innocuous as checking their Facebook timeline.

I’m not talking about some basic “oh, so tired of my friends’ or ‘work sucks so much’. Everyone wants to vent a little now and then and I get it. I’m talking dropping a bomb, like calling your wife a fat cow who you want to divorce or kicking your son out of the house via status update.

Lots of people say, “if you don’t like it, don’t look.” Here’s the problem with that. Once three people comment on a retarded post like that, its starts showing up on MY timeline. And believe me, if you’re announcing a trail separation from your wife or giving your kid the boot, you’re getting more than three comments.

And I feel the urge to step in. Not by commenting. That I save for all the idiots who want to play Facebook Flame Wars. Instead, I want to tell anyone whose ever done this, you don’t look right, you aren’t justified. You’re crass and classless.

And for me to be saying something like that, it has to be pretty bad, because I am the motherfucking QUEEN of crass and classless. If you don’t believe it, just read my book. <— (Example of classless, sneaking a plug in for my book in a post that has nothing to do with it.)

Look, when you’re starting a fight on Facebook, you’re doing it in the public eye. Maybe you’re ok with that. Maybe you’re ok airing your dirty laundry in public. You know who else is ok with that? People who go on the Jerry Springer show.

That’s what you are. You are the literary equivalent of a Jerry Springer guest star…and you got me changing the channel to watch reruns of Frasier as fast as I can click ‘unfriend’.

That’s why I don’t get rid of my Facebook entirely. Because I know, someday, reason will prevail and you will be sitting alone on your page, arguing with your four remaining friends about which one of your cousins its ok to sleep with.

And I will be plugging my book, sharing dirty jokes, and clicking like on various ‘lolcats’ pictures in peace.


The Fear of Commitment – Fact or Fiction?

 

I hear this phrase get tossed around a lot. It’s usually by a friend of mine who just went out on a date with some douche she met on Plenty of Fish. “Yeah, he’s a totally awesome guy. He’s just not ready for a relationship right now. He went through a lot with his ex (wife, girlfriend, sheepherder, whatever). For now, we’re going to take it slow and just let what happens happen. Oh, also, we’re totally sleeping together.”

Heartfelt sigh and hefty eye roll.

Let me explain something right now. There really is no such thing as a fear of commitment. There is a fear of committing to you, that’s for damn sure. But the fear of commitment thing is a fucking myth, perpetrated by the entire male gender so they could fuck you and have an excuse for trading up when something better comes along.

Because ask yourself this; If a 22 year old, supermodel, nymphomaniac billionaire virgin dropped into his lap, do you really think he’d still have a fear of commitment?

I can’t blame dudes for trying this one all the damn time, because chicks fall for it again and again. The whole broken, damaged, “maybe I can fix him” thing. Sometimes, my friends will even have the balls to say “well, at least he was honest.”

Um yeah, honesty ain’t everything. What if he honestly told you his trunk was full of dead hookers? Would that make the hooker killing ok? I didn’t think so.

I love it when a dude drops the ‘fear of commitment’ thing thirty minutes into our first conversation. It’s his way of telling me I’m good enough for one night, but not good enough for a weekend trip. Thanks for the validation douche bag. I’ll stick to being hot and you stick to going home alone.

I just find the ‘fear of commitment’ so damn arrogant. How do you even know anyone wanted to commit to you in the first place? Trust me, if you’re a 41 year old, overweight, out of work software engineer living in you moms basement, your fear of commitment is about as valid as your fear of zombies. Both zombie apocalypse and you getting a woman who actually wants you for something beside a drunken accident are equally as likely to happen, so put your fears aside. I’m pretty sure you’re safe.

In all honesty, I have no desire for a committed relationship. If it happens, cool. If not, my life is full enough to keep me from getting depressed. My biological clock ain’t ticking, I already had a kid. I have a mirror to remind me how hot I am, gardeners who mow my lawn, and a neighbor with just enough of a crush on me to fix my transmission for free.

But some guy disqualifying me for something I haven’t even asked for just gets my dander up. And that’s pretty hard to do, because I don’t even know what dander is! I think it might be an adult male goose named Dan?

Anyway, what I’m trying to say to the men out there is the fear of commitment thing is played out. Time to let it go. Because while a fear of commitment might be sexy when you’re thirty, by the time your 60, it just screams ‘trunk full of dead hookers’.

Don’t be that guy.


Stupid Greener Grass

 

So a few months ago, I was absolutely miserable. I was sitting in a cubicle 8 to 10 hours a day, watching my life drain away and feeling like it was in perpetual pause. For people who don’t know what perpetual pause is (and you shouldn’t, because I just made that phrase up), its when every single day of your life feels exactly the same and the only think that changes is the amount of crows feet on your face.

So I did what any normal person would do to fix my problem. I antagonized my employer until they had no choice but to fire me. In all honesty, it was only a matter of time. I was incredibly bad at my job and I am still amazed to this day that it took everyone 6 years to notice.

I think I might be prettier than I originally thought.

I would like to say straight off, I have no regrets. My job was guaranteed to end only one way.With me flinging myself out a window if we had another ‘Lean Process’ meeting.

The freelancing is going well. I’m actually a bit busier than I can handle at the moment, with new clients sending me query letters every day. I’ve finished a novella and almost finished my sequel and I’m pretty sure as soon as I put them up, I’ll have a decent amount of residual income coming in from book sales.

But how do I put this? Oh yeah, I’M FUCKING BORED. I’m spending like 16 hours a day on my computer. How do the fat guys who live in their moms basements do this? I’m tired of wearing sweatpants and putting my hair in a pony tail. I’m tired of forgetting what day it is, what month it is and sometimes what year it is. The only people I see are my brother and my son and I’ve run out of shit to say to both of them.

I miss coworkers and inappropriate workplace jokes. I miss mean spirited rumors and snide office gossip. I miss high heels, wearing lipstick and fixing myself up in the morning.

So I’m considering a part time job. Many people might be scream, ‘why!, you’re living the dream. You answer to no one. You’re self-employed!” But in all honesty, I have to disagree. Why? Because now is the perfect time to get a part time job.

I have absolutely nothing to lose.

I don’t need the job and I don’t need the money. What I need is the human interaction and change of pace. And if that human interaction and change of pace doesn’t meet my standards, if my boss is an asshole or the work is boring, there is nothing in the world to keep me from photocopying my middle finger and sliding it into all my coworkers inboxes. There’s nothing to keep me from quitting in a way that will get me escorted from the building by security. And there is nothing keeping me from posting it on my blog for all your entertainment.

And if it turns out the grass was greener when I was sitting behind my desk 16 hours a day, there’s nothing to stop me from going back to it.

I might start looking tomorrow. Then again, this might be a delusion brought on by the dangerous levels of sleeping pills and beer I’m mixing. If so, disregard.

If not, I think I might make a good DJ.


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