I guess I should preface this particular entry with a few notes about the complicated history I've had with Kirk Moufe. At the moment, Mr Moufe serves as a "research assistant", which is kind of an odd job for him, seeing as how most of the crap I write about I either make up completely or rip off from The Daily Mail. So, when working for me, Kirk spends most of his day making trips to various dispensaries, procuring medication for everything from epilepsy, to night terrors, to the inexplicable violent rages that I seem to break out into anytime my neighbors play their Nicki Minaj records too loudly. Which they do.
All the fucking time.
If this job sounds kind of harsh and meaningless, well, it is. To be perfectly fair though, once upon a time Kirk and I were 2/3rds of a grindcore band called Drysocket that was doing alright until he and the drummer - his name is Buzzard - decided to toss me out of the band without so much as a warning. The two of them wanted to drop the whole grindcore thing, and do something different. So they sold Kirk's bass guitar and bought a Moog synthesizer and began performing as Charonnn; a two-man low-tone Synth-doom act that when played live, induced fits of uncontrollable vomiting in anyone standing within a hundred meters of an amplifier.
Needless to say, they weren't much of a draw, although they do get invited to play at some of the super hard-core fetish balls every now and then. So nowadays, every once in a while Kirk comes around and I give him some work to do and throw him a couple of bucks. I figure it's better than holding a grudge, and more often than not Kirk manages to provide me with some much needed entertainment. This week he's going to try his hand at guest-blogging on my site, so without further ado, Kirk Moufe, everybody.
What Go Carts, Rihanna's Boobs & Sharktopus Have In Common,
by Kirk Moufe
Since taking up the mantle of "Research Assistant" I've had very little opportunity to do any actual research. This week I decided to remedy that. The purpose of this experiment was to figure out exactly how high a person would have to be to just get, like, blown away by the movie Sharktopus
My reasoning behind the idea that this could totally happen is pretty sound when you think about it. Laughable as this movie may seem to us, it's mostly just because as a society we're kinda jaded. If you were somehow able to beam this movie back to the 1920's and show it to people they would straight up shit themselves in terror and awe. Show a film clip to the right bushman in Papua, New Guinea and bet your ass we'd have a whole new clan of Sharktopus worshipers.
So I called up my pal Buzzard, because for every experiment it's important to have a control. I'm not really sure what a control is, but Buzzard just bought a totally sick new vaporizer that I was stoked to try out. He came over and I explained the experiment to him and he was on board.
I've never used a vaporizer before, and I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was different. It seemed like it was impossible to get a good clean hit off of it, and when I told Buzzard he just shrugged and said "they work differently, is all."
Fair enough. I broke out the Sharktopus DVD and explained the experiment to him. He said that it sounded good and all, but we should check out "Battleship" instead.
"You cow," I snarled. "If it wasn't for the fact that you brought your gear over I'd ban you from the goddamn house for a month just for suggesting such a thing."
"But we're watching a shitty movie on purpose," he said. "How does something like Sharktopus differ from Battleship in the first place?"
To my credit, I managed not to strike the poor, misguided bastard. "Because," I said slowly, patiently, as if speaking to a child. "Sharktopus is intentionally bad. It's aware of its inherent badness and does what it does with a knowing wink and a nod to the audience, with the understanding that everybody is in on the joke. Battleship, on the other hand, was created by evil corporate fucks. It's the worst kind of shit. It plays on the ignorance of the masses by carpetbombing the media with so much advertising and sponsorship and product placement that by the time most people realize what a pile of shit it really is, it's recouped whatever it spent by idiots who didn't know any better in the first place.,"
"The difference between Sharktopus and Battleship is like the difference between the crooked game at the carnival midway and the guy trying to sell a balloon mortgage to a couple of twenty-something newlyweds, knowing full well they'll be upside down on their dream home before they even get done painting the nursery."
Buzzard took a big, smokeless hit off of the vaporizer as he allowed my diatribe to sink in. "Yeah, but Rihanna takes her top off in Battleship."
"Bullshit," I said. But if it was true, it would have changed everything. A few minutes on the internet (Finally, my experience as a research assistant was paying off) proved Buzzard's claim to be false. On a side note, for somebody who spends a lot of time in the Caribbean, Rihanna's tits prove to be fairly elusive creatures.
Anyway, by this time Buzzard and I were both pretty high, and that Sharktopus flick wasn't going to watch itself. The problem was, while I hadn't seemed to have been able to take a really good hit off of Buzzard's vaporizer, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of THC in my bloodstream. So much so, in fact, that I could not for the life of me remember how to operate the myriad of remote controls allayed across my girlfriend's very expensive glass coffee table.
Buzzard must have sensed my distress. "What's with you?" He asked, and goddamned if he wasn't smirking just a little, the prick.
"'They work differently is all...' That's you're explanation for what's happening to me? Jesus Christ, Buzzard, I can hear my own sperm swimming around in my goddamn testicles. What the hell kind of monster kush did you load into that fucking contraption, anyway?"
"Nothing special," he said. "I told you not to try to hit that vaporizer like a normal bong."
"You most certainly did not, fucker."
"Well, I meant to. Anyway, I've got something that'll help. Here." Buzzard fished a half dozen small yellow tablets out of his cargo pocket and dumped them on the coffee table.
"Fuck that," I said. "We're supposed to be doing research. I can't get all gacked out on Ecstasy and try to watch a goddamn Roger Corman direct to DVD movie. The high wouldn't match the medium, you fucking savage. It'd be like sitting through a Tibetan Throat Singing concert on ketamine. 5 minutes into it and we'd be setting the friggin' chairs on fire. Besides, who rolls on a weekday, anyway. What are we, strippers?"
"Relax, this isn't ecstasy. It's a prescription drug to help you focus. It's called Esperanto."
"You mean that universal language that the loonies in the Star Trek outfits speak at the airports?"
"No those are Hare Krishnas, I think."
"Buzzard, you are a fucking idiot," I said, but he wasn't listening. He was snapping his fingers and trying out different words, trying to find the right one.
"Escalade - no. Eskrima, fuck, no that's not it."
I couldn't take much more of this. My eyelids felt like they were engorged in blood, and that at any moment, I might sprout eyestalks like Jar-Jar fucking Binks. "Ritalin?" I offered.
Buzzard snapped his fingers. "Ritalin!" He whooped for joy and clapped two down my open mouth before I could so much as ask him how the fuck he got Esperanto from Ritalin. He then began to crack up a third tablet and dice it up into lines.
I told him that I wasn't interested in snorting anything, and he laughed and called me a "Quaker", whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. "Besides," he said. "I'm just cutting this up because you only need like a little bit for it to take effect."
I didn't like the sound of that one bit. "Like, how little?" I asked.
Buzzard took a long pull and wiped a stream of tears from his eyes. "About a quarter tab will get you zooming," he said.
"And yet you saw fit to give me two. You heartless motherfucker."
Buzzard spread his hands out, palms up, like Jesus receiving his sentence from Pontius Pilate. "Hey man, you wanted to be blown away by Sharktopus. I'm just trying to help you keep your eye on the ball."
He had a point. And now, not only did I understand the function of every remote on the table, I felt at one with every piece of audio-visual technology in the house. Whether or not this was some sort of divine inspiration, or simply my drug-addled brain seeing connections where there were only a jumble of wires and ports, I had an idea, nay an obsession. I was going to move every television in the house downstairs and create a wall of screens - floor to ceiling, corner to corner, filled with nothing but the glory of Roger Corman's finest and most terrifying work come to life.
I would call my creation - The Sharktopusatron - and all would fall before it and weep...
(To Be Continued)