Episode 1

Later, the intern fouls up the coffee run again, and Bear’s day takes a turn for the worse.

Episode 2, under the break.

]]> http://twovue.wordpress.com/2011/08/07/301/feed/ 0 Kim oh snap frappuccino http://twovue.wordpress.com/2011/08/07/ive-got-this-you-guys/ http://twovue.wordpress.com/2011/08/07/ive-got-this-you-guys/#comments Mon, 08 Aug 2011 02:38:41 +0000 Kim http://twovue.wordpress.com/?p=296 ]]>

Crystal Head Vodka: Filtered through diamonds and crushed hopes for the future. Just kidding, that would be super expensive. The part about the diamonds is true, though.

Suffice it to say … and by that I mean … what I’m really trying to get across here is … listen:  As you may have guessed by now, everyone who once ran this blog is dead.

However, you would have guessed wrong.  Just as wrong as the first few hundred guesses I made for the password to get back into my WordPress account.  Which is to say, super wrong.  You see, I had to guess, because I couldn’t actually remember my password.  Look, it’s been a rough few months you guys, okay?  I’ve had a lot on my plate and I’ve been on a bit of a self-improvement kick and also I’ve been drinking a lot of Dan Akroyd’s Crystal Head Vodka, which kind of negated the self-improvement kick but whatever, screw you guys I’m a grown ass woman and I can do what I want, unless what I want is to take down The Easy Mode, formerly known as ThreeVue, which I can’t, obviously, because if I could, I would have done it by now.

Despite these slight hiccups, and the continued survival of The Easy Mode, I’m back and ready to entertain and cajole and generally unenthuse at abandon.  Oh I know.  Try and contain your excitement.

This is somehow related.

Saboteurs!  False Prophets!  Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing!

Those nincompoops (or should I say… THREEcompoops?!) over at Threevue dot com thought they could escape our ire by changing their address.   That’s funny, because my ex-boyfriend thought the same thing when he moved across the country, got a new phone number, legally changed his name, and took out that restraining order.  If shenanigans like that didn’t stop me from sending him dolls made out of my own hair, baptized in samples of his old bathwater, then it sure as shingles isn’t going to get me to stop calling Rascall, Marcus, and el Tigre out on their shit.

At the moment, they’re running under the name The Easy Mode.  As a nom de guerre, I suppose I can’t knock it.  However, dear readers, you’ll be pleased to know that in their frantic strides to attempt to live up to Twovue standards, they’ve hired on two more staff writers, Stan and George.  I’m pretty sure those names are right, but as usual, I can’t be bothered to make sure.  If they won’t acknowledge our superiority with regard to precedence as well as quality, then what do I owe them?  I’ll tell you, reader.  Nothing but grief.  A big, steaming pile of grief.  Drizzled with revenge.  And topped with blogging.  Rich, creamy, blogging.

Look.  I’ve been really ill for like a week, and I’m so hopped up on NyQuil right now that I’m almost prepared to let this whole situation fly.  Not to mention I’m watching The Hunger, and I’m a little distracted by this whole Susan Sarandon, Katherine Deneuve love scene thing.  Make that a lot distracted.  All I’m saying is, you can’t just change your name and expect everything to just what was I saying?  This is a really great movie.  Now they’re in a pool?

Awesome.

Ooh, you have a Slanket too? How utterly urbane. Come here, hat-hair... let's get cozy. Literally.

I like how in this advertisement, the guy wearing the Slanket has been shunned by his friends/companions/significant other, and is sitting quite alone. Because he’s at a sporting event. Wearing a f-ing Slanket. The beer does not cover for the fact that you are wearing glorified feetie-pyjamas, sir. Luckily the Slanket is not only impervious to cool drafts, but the cold sting of ostracization as well.

In other news, I’ve not been home for more than a week, and have had to snatch access to the internet whenever it comes up, such as the public library. Where a man who looks like the evil brother of Santa Claus told me I had my file sharing on. From behind some bookshelves. Like Wilson, from Home Improvement. Or Deep Throat.

Do me a favor and let me know if you guys see any saucy pictures of me floating around on the internet. The only one who should make a profit off of those ultimately disappointing boudoir photographs I have stored on my hard drive is yours truly. And don’t give me that shit about how the warm feeling in my heart that comes with sharing my assets with others should be payment enough – my Animated Hitch Critter, Slanket, NFL Forest Faces, and Car Antlers did NOT pay for themselves, people. SkyMall is not cheap, and neither is the lifestyle that comes along with my sophisticated tastes in understated douchebaggery.

"Great for the driver (who desperately wants to prove they still have) a sense of humor."

For the love of all that is good and right in the world, do not put these in your yard. Front NOR back. Also, I'm pretty sure they teach Photoshop courses at community colleges. Just saying.

I have no words.

nom nom nom

Listen: I woke up this morning with the worst hangover I have ever had in my entire life. Ever. Whether it was due to the homemade beer I imbibed, the multitude of microbrews I sampled, or the few choice sips of wild turkey which are still haunting me as I type this in the form of disembodied wafts from some kind of demonesque sense-memory, the three hours I spent in the bathroom this morning have really given me a shift in paradigm. I feel as though I have a new lease on life, so to speak.

Naturally, this means that I have a lot to share with you, my dear audience.

I am sure that my absence has caused many a sorrowful heart among our readership, and I now hope to rectify that by breaking down the mind-numbingly dull things that have kept me from you all these past weeks.

LET US BEGIN:

1. While driving on the freeway, I saw the man in front of me switch lanes and then use his side-mirror to crack open a hard-boiled egg.* This threw me into a momentary existential crisis.
2. A pollster called my house and asked to speak to a male between the ages of 18 and 32. I replied, “…We don’t have one of those here.” Only later did I realize this was unnecessarily awkward.
3. I waited on line for hours with hundreds of people to see a highly anticipated show and was then unceremoniously turned away, but also discovered I still remember how to play MASH.
4. Tried jackfruit carnitas.
5. Cake.
6. Was publicly insulted and humiliated by a TA. He’s DEFINITELY not getting an inappropriate love note now.
7. The handle on my toilet fell off and ended up in the toilet bowl, whereupon I flushed it in a drunken, angry stupor, because I was unable to retrieve it. Upon further contemplation, I find this very meta, not unlike the Ouroboros – the snake eating it’s own tail.
8. Lost two wrestling matches.
9. Found out that going off caffeine for more than 24 hours gives me blinding headaches and nausea.
10. Tried to get myself back into my locked apartment with a credit card. As a result, I was still locked out, but now have minus one working credit card.
11. Panic attacks.
12. Fully embraced my quasi-creepy love for theme/love hotels. More on that later.

Really, this post doesn’t answer any questions, but it also tells you no lies. I’ll be back soon.

In conclusion: thank God for Rebecca Gayheart, who is singlehandedly keeping this website afloat with her inexplicable draw.

*This is legal, but apparently answering my phone is crossing the line.

just another day at the office

So I can already tell that this post is going to be a little problematic. Borne necessarily out of the collective writers block that we here at Twovue seemed to have accrued through a stint of our own laziness, I am here to invigorate our stymied sentience and return to the charge of shedding light on the most apocryphal injustices that plague our great nation . In so far as this is the first post in…let’s call it “awhile,” it’s going to be the blogging equivalent of me riding a tricycle. So let’s all put our heads down and get some work done.

The first matter of business that needs attending to is a palatable excuse for our long absence. While I cannot speak for my co-denizens of truth and beauty (though if you think about it, the blogging media is in reality a sort of synthesis of a collective conscious into one homogenous voice, but I digress), I personally have spent the last three weeks in a state of relative vegetation, enraptured if you will, with the great expanse of cheap entertainment that is the internet. What the novelist and NPR contributer Sarah Vowell has christened “Nerd Israel,” the holy land of the idle, indolent and cripplingly dweebish alike, the internet has simultaneously served as an incapacitating crutch, and a phosphorescent Bat-signal, uniting us all under a common desire for free porn and the derisive comedy of 4chan.

That being said, I’m not one to bite the hand that feeds me. I realize that the intrawebs is how we here at Twovue make a living. While I’ve heard rumor that we’re not actually getting paid for this, the joke is on them, I have been pilfering from their dry-cleaning for years now. That will teach them to undermine my great intellectual capacity with menial labor. However, without sharing too many state secrets, I have to admit, an absence of posts has had literally no impact on our readership. So keep up the good work all ye mindless drones, absent-mindedly clicking away through your bookmarked websites at random, clearly on the edge of your seat, waiting to see a new post here at Twovue. You’re living the dream. Maybe one day all of this hard work will  pay off and you too can join this awesome cavalcade of literary greatness and take up the honorable post of Robin to our immemorial caped crusade. Really. We wear capes. I am not fucking around.

Location, location, location.

Something about crippling depression, finals week, and constantly being surrounded by inbred jackholes can really suck the funny right out of you.

Luckily, I don’t really care, and you’re going to be subjected to my shit regardless.

On that note, welcome to another edition of “this isn’t completely terrible“, with me, Kim.

Like I was telling some dear friends recently, after inhaling far too much gasoline fumes and spending far too much time in the hot, hot sun (just like OMC says), I hate myself, but generally, I hate other people more, so it looks like I still have some semblance of self-esteem.

Which is probably what propels me to do things like to go cafes with names like Bourgeois Pig. Located in breathtaking Hollywood, California, right across the street from what I believe is the Scientology Celebrity Center*, the Bourgeois Pig serves coffee, pastries, and cafe food. It’s obviously way too blue-blooded for me (it’s in the name, for Christ’s sake), but I go there anyway because it reaffirms everything I hate about Los Angeles while simultaneously serving me delicious drinks and intriguing eye candy, both in human and decorative form. It’s really a win-win situation. But you don’t have to trust me, I’m not the only one raving about it. User Sir Felgar on the Zagat website exclaims,

Way overpriced and somehwat[sic] pretentious(.)

Which is cool, because that’s what all my Johns tend to say about me. Not to leave any doubt about the place, CarolS0256 adds:

It could be cleaner.

I know what you’re all thinking: “I have to get IN ON THIS.” And you’re right, you do. Where else are you going to get to sit and listen to recent high school graduates on their third JDate discuss such mindbending topicry as one man’s search for symbolism within his own dreams about vampires, the same man’s use of growth hormones, which are “completely natural”, yet again the same individual’s gripping tales of how his previous girlfriend didn’t appreciate his highly metaphoric poetry, that very guy’s “highly sexual” nature, and how its led to his lowering his standards from “supermodel types” to “you know, normal girls”, and that dude’s date’s “need to use the bathroom”. My verdict? Best. Date. EVER. I wish them the best. Please have tons of babies, because we need more intellectual alchemists out there, turning mere bullshit into 24k hipster bullshit.

At any rate, the Pig’s got a pretty sweet room in the back that looks like a forest, complete with crackling campfire and twinkling stars. It’s a perfect place to laze about on poofy chairs and/or roofie someone. Go there. Try the matcha chai. Eat a cupcake. Work on your screenplay. Eavesdrop on the innocent. Buy me a drink, whatever.

You had me at 'Meat Market', Zagat.

*I try not to look directly at it. Last time I was there, there were people in the garden having some kind of funny hat party. That sort of association is way too vanilla for me. I prefer to think they spend their time reenacting scenes from Battlefield Earth^, and calling each other rat-brain.

^Yes, I actually watched the whole thing.**

**And I was only halfway drunk, which is a quarter as drunk as I am on any given weekday.^^

^^MATH, BITCHES.

However, later on in the week he attended the Joystiq meet-up, and apparently forgot to pack some manners.

Here he is, accosting some young man in the blogging biz. It appears as if that young man is searching for something on his iPhone. Maybe directions on how to procure a restraining order?

"You WILL type faster on that lifestyle phone. And you will LIKE it."

Look, I’m not going to sit here and point fingers, unlike some people (see above). I think what we can ALL agree on, is how, despite the fact that Threevue is a general disgrace to the V-U-E name, they sure do know how to grow a mustache.