“But it’s still quite early in the century to be making such luxurious claims, don’t you think?” Gerry’s logic could not be faulted.
“Ah, but in my home town of Genevieve I am known as a PRINCE of luxury!” faulted Terrence Carabobo. “Besides, there has not been a heist so grand since 1912, and that my friends, is exactly one century ago, is it not?”
He bowed gracefully to the crowd, who flashed each other looks of ‘well, you can’t argue with that’ and dutifully entered into a polite clap.
Not to be outdone, Gerry refuted the seemingly impeccable reason.
I guess this is a bit morbid, but I've always had a fascination with the mythology behind filmmaking. These stories represent the 'urban legends' of film and TV, only they happen to be true. I've tried to avoid some of the more obvious ones like Brandon Lee or Belinda Emmett, and have dug up some of the more bizarre and conspiratorial examples.
Vic Morrow Gets Decapitated
It's virtually impossible to write a list like this and not talk about the '80s Twilight Zone movie.
"Look mate", said Gerry, "I chose your fuckin' peanut, I came to your scummy fuckin' house, but what kind of prize is this? I'd rather fuck an actual dog than have Tru as my queen. No offence Tru, but you've got a face like a bucket of fish gut".
With his last sentence, Tru let forth a piercing scream of anger and threw herself towards Gerry, her ratty french tips raking the air as she attempted to claw his face. Gerry stepped back with a smirk as Leonard-the-henchman wrapped a burly arm around Tru's bony midriff and gently pulled her back.
Terrence Carabobo wearily facepalmed. Tru began to slowly calm down as Gerry snickered at his own wittiness.
I thought I'd talk a bit about the alternative view of the world I have. It's quite different to what I hear every day from other people, and from news reports.
I love paying taxes. They pay for the life that I live. They pay for the security I have. The roads I drive on. The hospitals I'm yet to use but will some day. The education I received growing up. I want to pay more taxes and get more nice things, like affording the less fortunate more of this good stuff so that they can feel good one day too.
Every time I pay taxes, I feel like a god damn patriot. I am just helped my country! Booya! I just helped other people. It's freaking awesome.
I know that without paying taxes, I would not be in the position I'm in to be earning money in order to pay taxes.
The other day a teacher of mine tried to tell me that buying drugs is actually supporting forms of terrorism. Listening to the words coming out of her mouth made me so angry and I visualised smacking her in the mouth with a hammer. I explained to her that when I buy weed it isn't supporting terrorism, it supports a 18 year old kid named Marc. That's it.
To put it simply: "in my never ending quest for knowledge", I do drugs.
I smoked pot for the first time in year 9 (2010).
By 2007, Jerry Tickwell had had enough.
At 64 years of age, he got to thinking that running his own business had lost some of its charm. From his perch on the first floor loft he gazed out at the factory sprawled below. Tired old machinery squelched alongside tired old workers, spluttering out product at a forty-year-old pace. It had been a good run for a while there, he thought whimsically. Once upon a time things had been different, the world more innocent and the market a frolic. At one point they could barely keep up with demand, things were so good. In those days Jerry drove a Cadillac, wore shorts and sunglasses to work, and smoked fine cigars. These days it felt like he had passed his golden years and was on to the silver.
Last week I read with great pleasure Wayne Swan’s Essay in The Monthly, ‘The 0.01 Per Cent: The Rising Influence of Vested Interests in Australia’. Its points are salient, albeit overly verbose (not that I’d be guilty of that).
Of course it was filled with the typical ‘Australia’s Fair Go’ battler imagery, it managed to avoid most of the usual fuckwittery (as displayed during the Kevin Rudd challenge or whenever Abbott opens his mouth about stopping boats) and actually made a very valid point.
There is an overly large influence by a rich few over democracy rather than the great many, I get that. A push toward greater equality is not a bad thing etc.
Terrence Carabobo took in the bizarre confrontation, his pulse racing; his stomach in turmoil. The boy from the wretched slums of Caracas had been shaped by some horrendous things over his life – this was among the worst and he was certain that he would not easily forget this encounter.
On his left was the sickly visage of a woman who had plainly wasted her life in the pursuit of the promise of happiness broken time and time again by alcohol. Her hair was thin and plainly in danger of thinning further. Her face was contorted into a painful grimace which was as close as she could come to a smile.
Here's the second last round of the Captain's Log for the original Star Trek series, and let me just say that these episodes are getting decidedly less meaty as I wade through them. The genuine highlights are getting further apart, and the episodes are starting to get a little crazier (and stupider).
"Water streets? You want fucking water streets? Is that what what you want, is it? Terrence, Leonard, take this slappa out of my site" said Gerry as he fumbled around in his pockets looking for a cigarette that didn't exist.
"I'm sorry Gerry, but we can't do that. Tru is an important part of our plans".
"But I'm farkin, I'm farkin the CHOSEN one right mate? So you have to do what I say!" snorted Gerry, hands on hips, with a satisfied grin on his face.
Terrence looked pleased and Leonard let out a hearty belly-laugh that perfectly replicated the sound of two Walruses fucking.
"Gerry, it seems there's been a misunderstanding.