Ever watch a Lifetime or Hallmark Christmas movie and think, “This is kind of like a porn, only with just the acting”? Well, here’s your chance to finally do porn (without the sex part).
The Intergalactic Business Report’s proprietary “film to life” program has calculated the precise way for ordinary people like you to redo your life this holiday season and make it exactly like a bad movie you find in the upper channels of cable television. You’re welcome. Or maybe we should say, “Merry Christmas.” Or maybe we should have stuck with “You’re Welcome.” Whatever.
Just follow these twelve steps:
STEP ONE: Get a job that’s super vague but which also takes up most of your time. So much so, that everybody around you, including your not very funny but supposed to be funny friend (see below) keeps saying it's your entire life and all you care about.
STEP TWO: Find a best friend who’s not really interesting or funny but who is painfully trying to be both.
STEP THREE: Take the stance that you either hate Christmas, love Christmas (but really don’t and just say that because your job—that’s also your entire life—has something to do with Christmas so you have to constantly pretend it means something to you, but it doesn’t), or are indifferent to it, as in, “I can’t wait for this holiday season to be over so that everybody starts concentrating on work (your life) again.”
STEP FOUR: Find a dilemma or challenge that needs to be completed by or because of Christmas. For instance, tell your boss you’ll close the big deal, no problem, by the 24th. Or, you could volunteer to organize the office’s Christmas party (even though you hate Christmas) to show your boss how organized you are. Or, you could just say you’re going to evict, bankrupt, or ruin some small business owner just before the holiday, which could lead you right into step five.
STEP FIVE: Choose to evict, bankrupt, or ruin a hot guy/woman or his/her grandparents. This way, later, you can rescind your evil plans and by doing so basically force them to become your lover.
STEP SIX: Pretend to “bump into” the hot guy/woman and strike up a boring but stupid conversation that leads you into meeting again. Spill hot cocoa on him/her and then offer to pay for the dry cleaning because you’re so rich. Then mention how you hate Christmas or can’t wait for it to be over and wait for him/her to gasp and question how anyone could possibly think that. Walk away. As much as you want to stay and talk more about your hatred for the holiday, you need to leave him/her wanting more.
STEP SEVEN: Find some way to keep bumping into the hot guy/woman. A great way to do this is to engage in some kind of work with them. For example, you need help with the carpentry for the elaborate Christmas party you’re doing and of course the hot guy is a carpenter. Or, you go into the hot woman’s grandparents’ Christmas store to take notes on how they do things so you can steal all their ideas when you put them out of business and open your chain of corporatey Christmas stores.
STEP EIGHT: After working with the hot guy/woman for a while, go to dinner, kiss, but do not have sex. That’s just not permitted. But still kind of instantly fall in love. Make sure you stroll through a snow-covered park and see some Christmas carolers. Also, find out about your new lover’s childhood and how fucking important Christmas was to him/her.
STEP NINE: Soon after your little walk in the park, reveal that you’re bankrupting/evicting/ruining his or her grandparents. You could have your zany friend mention this by accident if that’s more dramatic.
STEP TEN: Separate from the hot guy/woman for a while and cry or visit the park again or talk to one of the Christmas carolers who for some reason dresses up like he’s from the nineteenth century and wanders around singing, without getting paid for it. Hold back any desire to question him on this, even though the story of how he got stuck doing this every year is way more interesting than finding out the meaning of Christmas. Listen vacantly as he babbles on about the spirit of Christmas. You’re good. Go to step eleven.
STEP ELEVEN: Don’t evict/bankrupt/ruin the grandparents. Even though you absolutely don’t give a shit about them and their stupid Christmas store, just don’t do it and make a big deal out of everything by announcing that you’ve changed your mind and discovered the true spirit of Christmas.
STEP TWELVE: Wait for the hot guy/woman to embrace/kiss you but wait till you’re married to have sex. Secretly plot to evict/bankrupt/ruin his/her grandparents next year, when you’ve realized what a pile of shit your life has become without your work, which was really your true love and not the meathead/naïve girl next door you gave it all up for. Go back to step one and don’t advance past it again. Just stay there. Maybe move to a new town so you don’t walk into Whole Foods and run into any of the people whose lives you’ve ruined.
I just entered the headline above so that the “editors” at the Intergalactic Business Report would see something positive and stop reading any further, which I’m sure they did. I mean, actually “editing” anything might cut into their drinking time.
In case you give a damn, I’ve pretty much given up trying to be a writer. I feel really trapped right now. Like I’ve entered into something I can’t escape from. Friends have asked me, “Why don’t you just walk away? It’s not like they’re paying you anything. It’s not like you owe them money.”
And they’re right, except that every time I try to leave, one of the IBR “editors” shows up at my apartment and tells me how important I am to them and how they love working with me and then they ask to borrow money.
When I tell them to fuck off or leave my property, they start acting really weird, crying sometimes, and I’m like, “Are you seriously crying?” And then I look at them for a second and realize they can’t even fake cry. There are no tears. And the “crying” sound is so fake and bad it sounds like they’re either having sex or crapping their pants. But by that point everything’s so weird it just seems easier for me to stay.
I know. I know. That’s weak. I’m weak. But this is not even close to being a normal situation. I want to make my dad proud. And he bought me a column at the Intergalactic Business Report and I feel like I just need to power through and at least stick it out a little while longer.
Anyway, I may as well tell you about what I teased in the headline. The Intergalactic Business Report held a “retreat” for its staff and I made the mistake of attending. Here’s what went down:
1. It was in the woods (I won’t name the actual location, because I don’t want to sully the reputation of the park) and I’m guessing it was held there because it didn’t cost them any money.
2. Some guy was there and he was supposed to be a big time expert on teamwork and bonding and the reason I know he was a big time expert is because he constantly told us that. And then sometimes the IBR editors would step in and remind us too. They’d say stuff like, “Remember, we’re paying a lot of money for this guy.” But I know they weren’t. This guy was some friend of theirs and he totally sucked.
3. The “expert” gave us a speech about how working for free was like “freeing your life,” and how if you accept money for your work, then you’re ruining your work. He went on and on about that for like an hour. He was drunk. I could tell. Everyone could tell.
4. Then the IBR editors came out and made us clap for the guy. I have never wanted so much in my life not to clap for something or someone, but the IBR guys would clap and walk around the group and stare at you till you started doing it too. They did this for like ten fucking minutes. As if this guy had earned a ten minute standing ovation. Oh, and we were standing because there were no seats. The whole retreat was us standing in the woods for four hours.
5. One of the editors then took up a collection because he was going on a “beer run.” What a dick. I can’t even remember if he came back.
6. One of the new writers seemed really excited to be there and to work for free. They made him basically repeat what the expert guy had said. Then one of the editors came up with the metaphor of the writers “carrying” the publication and then how we all “carried” each other. That led to people jumping on my back and the IBR guys yelling at me to “carry” them places. I carried one guy like two miles into the woods and got lost. The guy jumped off my back and just ran. He was smart.
7. By the time I found my way back to the group, there was an illegal fire and a bunch of drunk people. One of the editors asked me if he could crash at my place for a few weeks. I said no. Needless to say, he’s living at my place now.
O.K. I’m ending this column, but I need to put something really super positive in the last paragraph because I’m pretty sure the editors will read that and think this is a piece on how fucking great they are. Sorry. I’ll write something more soon.
And by working for free, we can all free ourselves from the confines of money and greed. The Intergalactic Business Report has taught me that I’m at my most creative when I give up material things and just do what they need me to do. I’m part of something bigger than myself. Yea!
Till next time.
Smurfus McRathbone, Junior Columnist
12 reasons people from the past were stupid. A history lesson from the Intergalactic Business Report.
My dad bought me this column in the Intergalactic Business Report. At one time in my life I said I would never regret anything. That’s changed.
Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not rich. But when I decided I wanted to be a writer, my dad came up with this idea to “buy” me a column in a newspaper or magazine so that I could build an audience and get my work out there. He didn’t understand that wasn’t the way it worked. Still, he found a way, and I wish I could say I loved him for it. Instead, telling him, “Thanks, Dad. I’ll do it” was the worst mistake I ever made.
My dad actually tried to buy me a column in well-known, famous publications. But, he explained, apparently those places won’t take bribes to have someone’s son be a regular columnist. The Intergalactic Business Report, however, took his money and didn’t even try to negotiate and do all that stuff where you say, “How about for this much” and so on, till you lowball and highball each other into a number.
Instead, my dad threw out an offer for a few hundred dollars and they said, “In pizza or vodka?” and he was like, “Yeah, sure.” And then they were like, “Which?” And then he said, “Both?” And that was pretty much it, so I guess they actually did negotiate, kind of.
Anyway, I started work at their offices and it was really crappy. On my first day, a guy there told me he’d never heard of the Intergalactic Business Report and that he was just someone who cleaned shit at the building.
Then I found out there were no “offices” at all, but the editors do this thing where they tell you to meet them at a crappy building, talk to you in the lobby and then leave and say, “Just go upstairs and pick out an office.” Except when you get upstairs there’s just some cleaning guys and maybe one or two other people they also told to pick an office. I guess what I’m trying to say is that the Intergalactic Business Report is the greatest publication in the world and does shit no one else does and I’m so happy and honored to have this opportunity to be part of everything they are.*
Then I find out they censor the shit you write. Not all of it, because they’re too fucking lazy to actually read most of what you give them, but some of it. And then they just re-write some dumb bullshit about how great they are, add an asterisk, and then say whatever they wrote wasn’t what was originally printed. I mean, who the fuck does that?
So I thought about my first column. I owned it. I could write about anything I wanted, sort of. I thought of doing an exposé on the Intergalactic Business Report. How they’d constantly have office parties that were at other people’s offices and when you showed up you didn’t know anyone because how could you? And then one of the Intergalactic Business guys would suddenly appear and say, “Hey, how are you liking the Christmas party?” And you’d be like, “This isn’t your Christmas party.” And then they’d say, “Yeah it is.” And you’d be like, “No it isn’t.” And then someone would ask them who they were and you’d both get kicked out and then the IBR guys would be all pissed at you for ruining the Christmas party and you’d be like, “You ruined someone else’s Christmas party,” and the whole night would suck because then you’d agree to go out for drinks with them only they have no fucking money and they run up a huge bar tab and start acting like assholes when they’re drunk. They have problems. Like deep psychological issues… But, I will say this. They are some of the coolest dudes I’ve ever known. So talented. And rich. Actually rich. With their own money.**
But why write about that? Why write about what dickheads these guys are and how they ask to borrow money from me all the time and ask if they could have got more out of my dad and if they could renegotiate for more alcohol and stuff.
I just feel sick right now. I feel sick that I am so totally satisfied with what’s happening in my life and I owe it all to the Intergalactic Business Report.***
I’m over my word limit, I guess. One of the IBR guys is at my apartment right now and asking me why I’m not at the office and yelling shit about my word limit. This was a terrible mistake. This all was a terrible terrible mistake.
But I’m really totally jazzed about my collaboration with the Intergalactic Business Report. Look forward to my upcoming columns. I know I am!****
Smurfus McRathbone, Junior Columnist. *****
*Not what was originally printed. Edited for clarity.
**Also edited for clarity. Not what was originally printed.
***Same shit as above.
*****Not his real name. This is much better.
You read some history, but then you stop because it’s so fucking boring and you already know what happened, kind of. Then some asshole tells you that if you don’t study the past, you can’t understand the future or something like that. And you feel kind of guilty, as if maybe you should actually want to understand the past and spend hours and hours studying it.
But what you don’t realize is that there’s a reason you hate history and it’s pretty obvious. History is stupid and you’re smart so when you read about it you get uncomfortable, kind of like when you’re at the zoo and you’re too close to an animal who may try to kill or have sex with you and you start screaming.
Instead of shaming you, like that asshole in the example, the Intergalactic Business Report offers you nine concrete reasons why history is a stupid subject people should just forget about.
1. If “History repeats itself” why learn it because it’s just going to happen again anyway and you can see for yourself?
2. Do you really want to know what it was like before air-conditioning and makeup?
3. “Less History and more mystery” is what Adam Corolla used to say on Loveline with Dr. Drew. We agree completely.
4. Hey, wanna memorize a bunch of names of people who used to be President? No? O.K.
5. When people say they’re “History buffs” it just means they cut holes in History books and have sex with them.
6. If you don’t like Hitler, why would you read about him so much? We don’t like Hitler, so…
7. Hey, look! It’s an old castle! Want to learn all about it? Or would you rather get drunk?
8. Did you know that Billy the Kid was married to Queen Victoria? No? Does it matter? No. Is it true? No. Does it matter? No.
9. Every bad thing that’s ever happened to you is now “History.” Do you want to relive all that crap?
Since childhood I’ve been misled, deceived, and flat out lied to by a number of music superstars. They routinely spoke to me through devices they would plant in my house, car, and even in public places. Following their advice, believing their feelings for me, and supporting their corrupt philosophies were the greatest mistakes of my life.
Sometime later, I discovered I was not the only one to hear their voices. They have lied to millions upon millions of impressionable people. In this column, I recount the most vicious lies and misconceptions propagated by them, in the hope that some other listener will not suffer how I have.
1. Tony Orlando (and Dawn) lied to me. I finally got my courage up and decided that I wanted them. I knocked. I knocked again. And then, the final knock. Absolutely no response. It made me think about knocking twice on my pipe to just call the whole thing off, but then I started wondering what they meant by “pipe.”
2. Which brings me to Michael Jackson when he told me to beat it. I assumed he meant to masturbate freely. I still think that’s what he meant.
3. ABBA was dishonest about a few things. For example, because of them I would try to take everything whenever I won anything. I’d win at scrabble and expect sex from everyone because I was the fucking winner, right? I won at handball and tried to take my opponent’s water bottle and shorts. I won. I take it all. Right? Wrong.
4. Bob Seger is an asshole. Rock and Roll not only forgets, but it has early onset dementia.
5. Bob Marley too. I cry all the time, whether I have a woman or not. Oh, and birds don’t fucking talk or sing or whatever.
6. Duran Duran is a group of liars. I think. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never understood what they’re talking about anyway. The reflex is a lonely child? Da fuh?
7. Billy Joel has ruined my life on many occasions. Just one example. I told her about it. I told her all my crazy dreams. Mostly the ones where the clown is chasing me and then I turn around and have sex with it. Then she called the cops and claimed she didn’t know me, even though I order coffee from her every fucking day.
8. Apparently the guy from Foreigner gets really jumpy and screams for security when you touch him in order to check to see if he has a fever of a hundred and three. Oh, and he doesn’t actually want me to show him what love is.
9. Nelly Furtado does know where her home is and she was incredibly freaked out when I tried to help her find it.
Cedric Bigglestone lives in shame and fear following his lifetime music terror experience. If you’ve been a victim of music superstars, or just want to cry with him, send a note to firstname.lastname@example.org
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