The arrival of autumn brings both the mating season and hunting season of several animals. Its a Darwinian tug of war, as one species attempts to increase its population while another tries to lower it. During the rut, deer-the main attraction for most hunters- are much more active and less cautious since they are all hopped up on hormones, with a Propagate-Or-Bust attitude.
The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department did an extensive study on white-tailed deer. The study showed does go through estrous cycles 28 days apart. They may be attracted to bucks for a period of 5 days, but only willing to reproduce during one 2 hour period within those 5 days (teases). Bucks on the other hand, like males of most species, are always ready to go.
Mating season is a interesting biological phenomena. Surely at some point in time, humans had a mating season. Early man probably knew that having offspring during a certain season greatly improved its chances for survival. As man evolved, the mating season stretched longer and longer to the point where it was no longer a season at all. It could have been due to any number of reasons, such as climate change, advances in horticulture, or the advent of alcohol.
And with mating season amongst people being phased out, the world changed dramatically. But what if humans had a mating season this very day? What if every fall humans had an overwhelming instinctual urge to reproduce? Imagine how different the world would be...
In most animals, the number one priority during mating is procreation. I'll assume the human race can remain a bit more civilized. I'm not suggesting meaningful, loving relationships wouldn't exist, nor am I foretelling a story of a world where people are transformed into a zombie like population, walking around in a pheromone induced haze. But their sex drives would be heightened to "Drunk Frat Boy" level. And drunk frat boys' sex drive would be elevated to "Rabbits On Some Really Good Ecstasy" level.
First, there is the economic effect. Nine months of hormonally balanced people would lead to much more focus at work and greater productivity for 75% of the year. But there are quite a few businesses that would suffer if people only thought about sex for those three months. What are year round businesses in our current world would be sweating things out until their busy season begins in late September, like lingerie and cologne manufacturers, the people at Pfizer, and the entire porn industry.
Bucks are more active in times of low light, during their mating season. Low or no light has played a crucial part in many, many, many, many, many hookups. Many. Seriously, its like a huge number. Same goes for alcohol. So I would expect bars to stay open until sunrise during our mating season. The fast and shameless moments of debauchery that college students traditionally experience and regret if they are able to remember on Spring Break would take place on Fall Break. Las Vegas' drive-thru wedding chapels would notice a spike in business in the autumn months, for those whose pending physical relationship also has a strong, emotional relationship.
The NFL, which gets a significant amount of attention from the general male population, would most likely need to change its season start date to sometime in January, as opposed to September. As much as men love football, there's one thing we love more, and if there's only one time we can get it, football will lose out. In fact all sports seasons would need to be run sometime between January and August. Of course watching sports will be challenge even still, what with all the birthday parties to go to in the spring and summer.
The entertainment world would be effected too. Summer time, particularly Memorial Day and the 4th of July, are key dates for the releases of the biggest blockbusters - usually high budget action films. I suspect movie studios would similarly go all out with the production of romantic comedies during Labor Day and Columbus Day weekends. Its very easy to predict Rihanna's new sex driven anthem dominating the radio waves at some point in the fall. And in the winter, when the romance and the "romance" has died down, Taylor Swift's latest break up song will replace it at Number 1.
And then there's Valentine's Day.
There is great variance in the interpretation of the day. If you think otherwise, next Valentine's Day pop in at the nearest fine dining establishment and notice the mode of decorum of the patrons. Afterwards, head to a bar. Any bar. There is a significant difference in the behavior in the two places. If there was a mating season, Valentine's Day would generally be celebrated in the fashion stated in the former, not the latter. It truly would be a day about true love.
But those people in that bar will still get their day. There is a day similar to Valentine's Day in the fall that receives far less fanfare. Sweetest Day, which falls on the third Saturday of October, would be the make-it-or-break-it day of mating season. The cheesy pick up line spouting, tight shirt wearing, enough cologne to give an elephant a headache wearing, men who bought a stash of roses from a guy in the parking lot hoping he will find a woman either dumb, drunk, and/or desperate enough to succumb to his advances will not be present though. He will be replaced by cheesy pick up line spouting, tight shirt wearing, enough cologne to give an elephant a headache wearing, men who bought a stash of chrysanthemums from a guy in the parking lot hoping he will find a woman either dumb, drunk, and/or desperate enough to succumb to his advances, as that particular hardy flower is in season in the fall, and in much more supply. The rose, an icon for romance for romance for seemingly forever, would be kicked to the symbolism curb.
And the women in the bar will have a more accepting attitude of such immature, and obviously insincere wooing by these men. As awful, creepy, or just plain lame as some of these guys may seem, the attention must be nice. However, this time there would be a biological obligation to select one of these chest thumping alpha male wannabes. The ball will still be in the females' court, so they'd have the right to be choosy, at least for a while. Can you imagine what awkward offspring the last two misfits standing would yield?
Well, they say there's no timetable for love. Its probably a good thing there's no timetable for getting some lovin' either.
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PHOTO CONTEST: I am working diligently(-ish) on the production of a My-Randomalities calendar, highlighting many of the great days like the ones in the Save The Date blog that most calendars curiously choose to ignore.
Of course, I will need 12 photos. So I'm having a photo contest for the (almost) centerfold. Send me your pic of you "Randomality-ing" (reading my blog with a paper bag over your head in normal, strange, or random situations), and the person with the best photo will be dubbed Mr or Mrs Randomality, and get a spread during May, the month I began this silliness.
Perhaps this will become the next Internet fad, like planking or owling. Well, probably not.
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Upcoming Randomalities:
-The Character of LIncoln
- maybe a blog on windmills
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Delayed By Paranoia
Sunday morning has become my self imposed ( yet loosely followed) deadline to post my blogs. I had every intention of posting one this Sunday morning, and oh boy, it would have been a dandy.
In the days leading up to Sunday, I had a revelation, an epiphany. In my head popped - no, burst - no, exploded, the most amazing idea I've ever had. While I was short on time to actually write earlier this week, the seed had been planted, and I did have time to nurture this amazing idea, allowing it to sprout and grow in the warmth of my greenhouse of a mind. This blog would become my Magnum Opus, my grandest work, the blogging equivalent of Walden being written on top of the Mona Lisa.
With the groundwork laid in my brain, I spent Saturday fine tuning the most minute of details in my brain, carefully selecting the perfect word for the poetic diction, placed accordingly in a choreographed cadence.
I returned home after working a double shift, physically tired, but the idea of my greatest literary achievement was rather lively, still growing strong, like Jack's beanstalk climbing to the clouds. No worries, I thought. A sound night of well deserved rest and an early rise is all I would need. And then the words would dance from my fingertips to the screen, the sun would rise, the birds would sing a joyful chorus, and you, the reader, would notice the warmth spreading through your body is not from the 1st cup of coffee that is recommended with this blog, but is actually being induced from the words before you. A great feeling of comfort and joy would overcome you, as if your belly were being rubbed by the hand of God. I made my way to my bathroom for my bedtime routine, and that's when everything changed.
It would seem like such a minor incident, one that should not distract me, and especially not derail me. Yet it did, and with it, I lost nearly everything.
I looked in the mirror. I saw an exhausted man peering back at me. He winked at me, because he too was aware of my Sunday morning date with greatness. I reached for my toothbrush, the final task of the day. But it was not in its usual place. I scanned the bathroom, and quickly found it on the counter. That's not where it belongs. I ran it under the water, brushed my teeth, and made my way to bed.
But that amazing blog, The Blog, which I had rehearsed in my mind all day, which sounded like a symphony in my head, began to fade, as very different thoughts crept in. By the time my head hit my pillow, I felt a nervous anxiety coursing through my veins. Why was my toothbrush moved?
Sure, weaker men have been defeated by less compelling issues. But that was all I could think about. It had been 13 hours since I had last seen my toothbrush. I have four kids, one who is 1 and half years old. We close the door, but maybe just once, in those 13 hours, he found a way in. Probably not, but still, 13 hours is a long time. What would he do if he got to it? His motor skills are pretty advanced for his age, but then again, his age is under 2. Dropping it is a real possibility. So is putting it in his mouth. Or worse. His nose was pretty runny this morning. Oh God!
What if he took it out of the room, and did something with it to one of my dogs, then put it back? I don't buy in to the "their mouths are cleaner than ours" philosophy. I violently turned to my side and clenched my eyes shut as if the these images were being broadcast before them rather than in my mind. I was desperate to fall asleep, silently mouthing the words "Shut up, shut up, shut up" as if it was a 6th grade bully announcing my fears to the entire playground.
I felt a small bump on the inside of my cheek with my tongue. What is that? That wasn't there all day, was it? Its probably nothing, but WHAT IS THAT?!!
I tried to convince myself I probably left it on the counter as I rushed to leave, and rolled to my back. But it was close to the sink. And then I remembered two neighborhood kids were at my house today too. Six kids in and out of the bathroom with my vulnerable toothbrush. Sloppily washing their hands. Maybe little drops of dirty water and soap dripped on my toothbrush. Why did I always insist my kids wash their hands? What if one of them sneezed on it. Maybe it got knocked in to the sink while my kids were brushing their teeth that night, and unknowingly spit on mine. And Seriously, what the Hell is on my cheek?!! I think its getting bigger!!
I tossed my body back to my side. I'm sure they rinsed it off if anything happened. A deep breath. A brief moment of comfort. So something did in fact happen to the toothbrush, then? I rolled back on my back, kicking the covers off of my body, the anxiety causing my body temperature to rise. Maybe it wasn't even mine. My mother is visiting, and she had left her toothbrush safely placed on the counter the night before. Perhaps she left it somewhere else, and I mistakenly grabbed it? Could I really make that mistake? Both brushes in question are white and blue. The only thing I could tell you about my toothbrush is that its white and blue. Brushing my teeth is an exercise in muscle memory. I can do the entire process blindfolded, assuming all the necessary equipment is in its proper place. But I couldn't pick my toothbrush out in a lineup. I don't even know who made it; Oral-B, Colgate, Bic ( Does Bic even make toothbrushes?)... but still, how have I gone through life paying so little attention to something that I insert in to such an intimate place multiple times daily?
But it should be okay. My mother has never had any dental issues and rarely gets sick. But she had Chinese tonight. Shrimp in fact. With soy sauce. Yuck. We both would have used toothpaste, but now in a remarkable display of mind over matter, I felt like I could taste the shrimp and soy sauce just from the few minuscule particles that may have been transferred from her mouth to the toothbrush.
Wait, I'm pretty sure her brush was in the same place it had been the night before. I'm good. But that spot on my cheek is even bigger now. And I think there's another one on the inside of my lip. What happened to my toothbrush?!
I could envision microscopic cells of bacteria getting it on, using my tongue like a cheap hotel mattress for a late night tryst, as they reproduced at a hypersonic pace, covering my mouth with their gross little bacteria babies. I know cells reproduce through mitosis, but I was not in a rational state of mind. My head shook back and forth, me opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out like a cobra on the prowl, hoping the cold night air would slow the horny bacteria. My eyes sprung open, as the horror show I saw in my mind became unbearable. I stared at the ceiling, paralyzed and paranoid. Exactly eighty seven minutes had passed since I first laid down in my bed. In those 87 minutes, I realized 9 different people could have been in that bathroom during those 13 hours I was away, and I had imagined each and everyone of them having a portion of the blame. My breathing became heighten as the army of bacteria marched toward the back of my throat, intent on strangling me from within.
With what little energy I had left, I sprung up. I reached for my cup of water and gulped. Then I realized there was no way I could swallow what ever I was jarring loose as the water swished in my mouth. I headed back to the bathroom and spit it out. I gasped for air. My legs were weakened, yet I knew victory would soon be mine. I yanked open the medicine cabinet and saw the emerald green vile of my antidote. I ripped off the cap, and raised it to my lips. I saw that same man from earlier in the mirror, in much worse shape than before. Bags under his eyes, and sweat leaking from his brow. I felt his pain. We nodded at each other, flashed each other a quick smile, exposing the enemy in our mouths, whispered "I'll see you in Hell", and toasted each other before I dropped to the floor, chugging the bottle of Listerine. I violently gargled, the minty fresh liquid dribbling down my chin. I raised myself back to the sink and let loose a powerful spit, with the force and urgency of a sixteen year old whose stomach is rejecting her first bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, before doing it all over again. I rinsed with hot water, and then well aware of my how my tired mind worked, took a shot and half of NyQuil to prevent being kept awake by more revolting images of what may have happened to my toothbrush.
I awoke early Sunday morning, in a haze. Few remnants remain of that one glorious blog. Like Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry, I am slowly piecing things back together. I'm confident the pieces of the wreckage will wash ashore in my mind, and I can rebuild it. But Sunday morning was not the time. My first priority had become, understandably, getting a new toothbrush.
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Remember you can 'Like' My-Randomalities on Facebook. There will be information on a photo contest as well as details on a My-Randomalities calendar, and the most random Shark Week you will ever see.
In the days leading up to Sunday, I had a revelation, an epiphany. In my head popped - no, burst - no, exploded, the most amazing idea I've ever had. While I was short on time to actually write earlier this week, the seed had been planted, and I did have time to nurture this amazing idea, allowing it to sprout and grow in the warmth of my greenhouse of a mind. This blog would become my Magnum Opus, my grandest work, the blogging equivalent of Walden being written on top of the Mona Lisa.
With the groundwork laid in my brain, I spent Saturday fine tuning the most minute of details in my brain, carefully selecting the perfect word for the poetic diction, placed accordingly in a choreographed cadence.
I returned home after working a double shift, physically tired, but the idea of my greatest literary achievement was rather lively, still growing strong, like Jack's beanstalk climbing to the clouds. No worries, I thought. A sound night of well deserved rest and an early rise is all I would need. And then the words would dance from my fingertips to the screen, the sun would rise, the birds would sing a joyful chorus, and you, the reader, would notice the warmth spreading through your body is not from the 1st cup of coffee that is recommended with this blog, but is actually being induced from the words before you. A great feeling of comfort and joy would overcome you, as if your belly were being rubbed by the hand of God. I made my way to my bathroom for my bedtime routine, and that's when everything changed.
It would seem like such a minor incident, one that should not distract me, and especially not derail me. Yet it did, and with it, I lost nearly everything.
I looked in the mirror. I saw an exhausted man peering back at me. He winked at me, because he too was aware of my Sunday morning date with greatness. I reached for my toothbrush, the final task of the day. But it was not in its usual place. I scanned the bathroom, and quickly found it on the counter. That's not where it belongs. I ran it under the water, brushed my teeth, and made my way to bed.
But that amazing blog, The Blog, which I had rehearsed in my mind all day, which sounded like a symphony in my head, began to fade, as very different thoughts crept in. By the time my head hit my pillow, I felt a nervous anxiety coursing through my veins. Why was my toothbrush moved?
Sure, weaker men have been defeated by less compelling issues. But that was all I could think about. It had been 13 hours since I had last seen my toothbrush. I have four kids, one who is 1 and half years old. We close the door, but maybe just once, in those 13 hours, he found a way in. Probably not, but still, 13 hours is a long time. What would he do if he got to it? His motor skills are pretty advanced for his age, but then again, his age is under 2. Dropping it is a real possibility. So is putting it in his mouth. Or worse. His nose was pretty runny this morning. Oh God!
What if he took it out of the room, and did something with it to one of my dogs, then put it back? I don't buy in to the "their mouths are cleaner than ours" philosophy. I violently turned to my side and clenched my eyes shut as if the these images were being broadcast before them rather than in my mind. I was desperate to fall asleep, silently mouthing the words "Shut up, shut up, shut up" as if it was a 6th grade bully announcing my fears to the entire playground.
I felt a small bump on the inside of my cheek with my tongue. What is that? That wasn't there all day, was it? Its probably nothing, but WHAT IS THAT?!!
I tried to convince myself I probably left it on the counter as I rushed to leave, and rolled to my back. But it was close to the sink. And then I remembered two neighborhood kids were at my house today too. Six kids in and out of the bathroom with my vulnerable toothbrush. Sloppily washing their hands. Maybe little drops of dirty water and soap dripped on my toothbrush. Why did I always insist my kids wash their hands? What if one of them sneezed on it. Maybe it got knocked in to the sink while my kids were brushing their teeth that night, and unknowingly spit on mine. And Seriously, what the Hell is on my cheek?!! I think its getting bigger!!
I tossed my body back to my side. I'm sure they rinsed it off if anything happened. A deep breath. A brief moment of comfort. So something did in fact happen to the toothbrush, then? I rolled back on my back, kicking the covers off of my body, the anxiety causing my body temperature to rise. Maybe it wasn't even mine. My mother is visiting, and she had left her toothbrush safely placed on the counter the night before. Perhaps she left it somewhere else, and I mistakenly grabbed it? Could I really make that mistake? Both brushes in question are white and blue. The only thing I could tell you about my toothbrush is that its white and blue. Brushing my teeth is an exercise in muscle memory. I can do the entire process blindfolded, assuming all the necessary equipment is in its proper place. But I couldn't pick my toothbrush out in a lineup. I don't even know who made it; Oral-B, Colgate, Bic ( Does Bic even make toothbrushes?)... but still, how have I gone through life paying so little attention to something that I insert in to such an intimate place multiple times daily?
But it should be okay. My mother has never had any dental issues and rarely gets sick. But she had Chinese tonight. Shrimp in fact. With soy sauce. Yuck. We both would have used toothpaste, but now in a remarkable display of mind over matter, I felt like I could taste the shrimp and soy sauce just from the few minuscule particles that may have been transferred from her mouth to the toothbrush.
Wait, I'm pretty sure her brush was in the same place it had been the night before. I'm good. But that spot on my cheek is even bigger now. And I think there's another one on the inside of my lip. What happened to my toothbrush?!
I could envision microscopic cells of bacteria getting it on, using my tongue like a cheap hotel mattress for a late night tryst, as they reproduced at a hypersonic pace, covering my mouth with their gross little bacteria babies. I know cells reproduce through mitosis, but I was not in a rational state of mind. My head shook back and forth, me opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out like a cobra on the prowl, hoping the cold night air would slow the horny bacteria. My eyes sprung open, as the horror show I saw in my mind became unbearable. I stared at the ceiling, paralyzed and paranoid. Exactly eighty seven minutes had passed since I first laid down in my bed. In those 87 minutes, I realized 9 different people could have been in that bathroom during those 13 hours I was away, and I had imagined each and everyone of them having a portion of the blame. My breathing became heighten as the army of bacteria marched toward the back of my throat, intent on strangling me from within.
With what little energy I had left, I sprung up. I reached for my cup of water and gulped. Then I realized there was no way I could swallow what ever I was jarring loose as the water swished in my mouth. I headed back to the bathroom and spit it out. I gasped for air. My legs were weakened, yet I knew victory would soon be mine. I yanked open the medicine cabinet and saw the emerald green vile of my antidote. I ripped off the cap, and raised it to my lips. I saw that same man from earlier in the mirror, in much worse shape than before. Bags under his eyes, and sweat leaking from his brow. I felt his pain. We nodded at each other, flashed each other a quick smile, exposing the enemy in our mouths, whispered "I'll see you in Hell", and toasted each other before I dropped to the floor, chugging the bottle of Listerine. I violently gargled, the minty fresh liquid dribbling down my chin. I raised myself back to the sink and let loose a powerful spit, with the force and urgency of a sixteen year old whose stomach is rejecting her first bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, before doing it all over again. I rinsed with hot water, and then well aware of my how my tired mind worked, took a shot and half of NyQuil to prevent being kept awake by more revolting images of what may have happened to my toothbrush.
I awoke early Sunday morning, in a haze. Few remnants remain of that one glorious blog. Like Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry, I am slowly piecing things back together. I'm confident the pieces of the wreckage will wash ashore in my mind, and I can rebuild it. But Sunday morning was not the time. My first priority had become, understandably, getting a new toothbrush.
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Remember you can 'Like' My-Randomalities on Facebook. There will be information on a photo contest as well as details on a My-Randomalities calendar, and the most random Shark Week you will ever see.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
If It Looks Like A Duck and Kills Like A Duck....
October has come and gone, and with it a myriad of Halloween themed programming. Halloween falling on the last day of the month is an ideal situation for TV stations, as shows and movies progress in quality as the fateful day nears,
I will admit, I've never been interested in watching horror movies, but I do find it to be an interesting genre. You have the types where specific monsters terrorize a community, like Dracula, Frankenstein, The Werewolf, etc. You have the ones which have been greatly aided by the advances in special effects, allowing for graphic and gross mutations in the blink of an eye. Horror movies spark creativity in both the most genius and moronic film makers. Absolutely nothing is off limits as to what will be the source of terror.
Sure, Dracula, Jason, and Freddy Kruger are scary. But when it comes to horror movies, practically anything can be used as a medium of fright, like a videotape ("The Ring"), a low lying, thick mist ("The Fog"), zombie strippers ( "Zombie Strippers!"), a leprechaun, (Leprechaun), giant irradiated ants ("Them!"), clowns from another planet ("Killer Klowns from Outer Space"), tomatoes ("Attack of the Killer Tomatoes"), and even a cookie ("Gingerdead Man").
Again, I've never watched any of those movies, so I am in a sense judging a book by its cover. The premise of many of these just seem too silly to be taken seriously. I think I could defeat the antagonist in a lot of horror movies. Take "The Ring" for example. I simply wouldn't rewind the tape. In this instant gratification/ADD age, who is going to wait for that. While it rewinds, someone will text a friend, get invited to the mall, then maybe go out for some Thai food, followed by disco-glow bowling. Meanwhile the tape sits idly in the soon to be obsolete VCR which collects dust, until its finally tossed in the trash.
One successful horror franchise that I never quite understood is the "Child's Play" series. Its a freaking doll. All you should need is a Louisville slugger to beat Chucky in to smithereens. Even a swing from a mop or umbrella should be good enough to send him flying across the room. If you can't kill Chucky yourself, you should be able to trap him with a laundry basket with an encyclopedia on top until help arrives. And I guess the people being terrorized in these movies never had any dogs. Both of my dogs have destroyed bigger, badder toys..
I think if I ever were to get in to scary movies, I'd prefer the type where regular animals turn into blood thirsty, killing machines as opposed to one particular monster or evil spirit. A werewolf is pretty bad ass, but there's only one. You and your group can disperse, and hopefully someone will find a silver bullet before its too late. But a large group of animals, well that's much harder to escape from based on the sheer volume of the pack.
Sharks ("Jaws") and wolves ("The Grey") are obvious choices. But there is a breed of film makers that gets a little, well, for lack of a better word, crazy, when selecting a species to be the film's killers. There have been movies made where slugs and frogs actually went on killing sprees in villages full of village idiots.
So if I were to pick an unusual animal for my horror movie, my selection would fall some where in the middle between slugs and wolves. My beast of choice would be ducks. Yes, I said ducks.
I know, Alfred Hitchcock already did a bird movie. But he used gulls. According to my research, 84% of Americans feel compelled to thwack a gull with a tennis racket, regardless of the situation. Part of the reason I chose ducks is because they are feathered Prozac. Who can watch a duck waddle, swim, and hear its little quack, and not help but feel a little better? So a malicious, violent duck would have the element of surprise on its side.
Some imagery from my duck movie:
An old man sits on a park bench at sunrise. He tosses some stale bread towards the pond. A duck swims to the shore, waddles to the bread, and happily gobbles it up. The duck quacks with approval, and the man tosses another piece. Soon the duck is joined by 3 others, who quack for more. The man tosses more bread, as the ducks creep closer to him. The man continues to throw them bread, the ducks quacking becoming louder and more rapid. The man looks inside the sack, and sees all that's left is a few crumbs. When he returns his eyes back to the ducks, he sees not 4, but hundreds. Not pleased that he is out of food, they attack, ripping the poor old man to pieces, leaving behind only a few crumbs themselves.
The movie title, "DUCK & COVER", flashes on the screen, to a chorus of quacks with a cadence similar to a cliched evil laugh.
From there we follow a group of seven 20-something friends, on a camping trip in Oregon for one last hurrah before the reality of adult life pulls them apart (if the ducks don't do it first).
One young woman wakes early and decides to go on a hike. At the crest of the mountain, she notices what appears to be a hawk circling in front of the morning sun. She squints to follow its graceful flight. The sun is blinding, and she momentarily loses sight of the bird. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes she see the bird dive bombing above her. She freezes, shocked, and mutters one word as she realizes what is happening- "Duck?".
If only she would have. The impact of the blow of the falling water fowl knocks her to the ground, her head hitting a large rock. When she comes to, she hears the soft flap of webbed feet on the hard ground, as several ducks approach her. She's paralyzed, and lets out a blood curdling scream as bills pierce and rip her young, slutty flesh (oh, did I forget to mention this film will follow the standard formula of terror and sex romps, with the virgin being the lone survivor? How else do you expect people to watch this movie? Its freaking ducks killing people!). Her screams echo through the valley, but the joyous quacks of the feasting ducks, for a reason known only to God, do not. Her friends know it is her in danger, but have no clue as to the nature of the threat.
The remaining group of friends decide to split up to find their friend and get help.
One by one, the friends encounter a group of ducks, and unsuspectingly get devoured by the vicious birds. They walk. They run. One even climbs a tree but can still not escape.
The last two surviving friends get in a canoe to paddle across a lake, to the ranger's cabin. It has begun to rain (ideal weather for ducks). They notice a group of ducks in the not so far distance. They see the ducks plunge underwater in unison, and re-surfacing having caught something small to eat. The repeated, perfectly choreographed dives captures the two friends attention. The flock heads underwater again, but do not return as early as they had previously. The friends take notice. They are now invested in this beautiful show put on for them by nature. Seconds pass. They look at each and laugh, wondering where the ducks could be. They drop the paddles, and lean forward, peering down in to the dark, deep lake water.
Suddenly the canoe's floor is punctured by 10 duck bills. Water fills the boat. The ducks fly out the water and attack the confused friends. The canoe begins to sink, and the friends try to both swim away and defend themselves. They reach for the paddles, but the onslaught from the ducks is too much to allow them mount an effective counter attack. The male friend's foot gets caught, making escape very difficult. He himself has become a sitting duck, and becomes the focus of their attack. The sinking canoe fills with water and blood. He gasps for air as his head bobs, mouth being filled with water, and lets out one fateful last scream "UUCCKK" (first letter drowned out by the water, but you have 2 very appropriate ones to choose for this scenario).
The female friend has managed get free, and grab one of the oars. She looks over her shoulder and sees the ducks diving in to the water like they had a few minutes earlier, only this time surfacing with bits and pieces of her friends flesh in their bills. Shore is only a few hundred yards away, and she made All State on her high school swim team. Plus, as the only virgin in the group, she has a little more reserved strength due to the lack of fornication the night before. She grabs hold of the oar floating nearby, and swims to land.
The girl makes it to shore. Weakened from the swim and the many bites and abrasions, she struggles to rise to her feet. It isn't long before she hears the squishing of webbed feet on the mud. As the blood from her wounds is washed away from the downpour of rain and tears, she grips the canoe oar. The ducks advance, and with what little strength she has left, she swings the oar like a samurai with a sword. Feathers get tossed about in the air like a sorority house pillow fight. She suffers many more bites, but is able to stumble in to the cabin. She sees what scraps of a park ranger the ducks left behind lying on the floor. On a desk she sees a set of keys and lighter. She grabs both as the cabin is filling up with savage ducks. She turns the gas on the stove, advances towards the door, swinging the oar like a baseball star who promised to hit a home run for a sick child.
She gets knocked to her feet yet somehow makes it to the door. She gives one last swing with the oar, freeing herself enough to lunge out the door and pull it shut behind her. She notices all the broken windows and strikes the zippo and throws the lit lighter in the cabin just before the ducks crowd the windows to chase after her. She runs to the Jeep and pulls away, noticing the exploding duck filled cabin in the rear view window.
Or something to that effect. The bottom line is ducks walk. Ducks swim. Duck fly. If a duck wants to get you, its going to get you. You can't hide from a duck.
---- If you enjoy horribly bad and cheesy movies, ones even worse than the ones I just described, check out this website:
http://www.pastemagazine.com/blogs/lists/2009/10/the-xx-best-worst-horror-movies-of-all-time.html
Their is a brief description of each, along with a trailer. I highly recommend watching the trailer for "The Gingerdead Man". The scariest thing about these movies is that someone thought making these movies was a good idea. Especially the one is named "Monsturd". I didn't watch the trailer for that one, but my guess is scientists create a genetically superior dung beetle to defeat the Monsturd, or a priest exorcises a demon, leaving one big pile of holy crap.
---Remember you can 'Like' My-Randomalities on Facebook. There will be information on a photo contest as well as details on a My-Randomalities calendar, and the most random Shark Week you will ever see.
I will admit, I've never been interested in watching horror movies, but I do find it to be an interesting genre. You have the types where specific monsters terrorize a community, like Dracula, Frankenstein, The Werewolf, etc. You have the ones which have been greatly aided by the advances in special effects, allowing for graphic and gross mutations in the blink of an eye. Horror movies spark creativity in both the most genius and moronic film makers. Absolutely nothing is off limits as to what will be the source of terror.
Sure, Dracula, Jason, and Freddy Kruger are scary. But when it comes to horror movies, practically anything can be used as a medium of fright, like a videotape ("The Ring"), a low lying, thick mist ("The Fog"), zombie strippers ( "Zombie Strippers!"), a leprechaun, (Leprechaun), giant irradiated ants ("Them!"), clowns from another planet ("Killer Klowns from Outer Space"), tomatoes ("Attack of the Killer Tomatoes"), and even a cookie ("Gingerdead Man").
Again, I've never watched any of those movies, so I am in a sense judging a book by its cover. The premise of many of these just seem too silly to be taken seriously. I think I could defeat the antagonist in a lot of horror movies. Take "The Ring" for example. I simply wouldn't rewind the tape. In this instant gratification/ADD age, who is going to wait for that. While it rewinds, someone will text a friend, get invited to the mall, then maybe go out for some Thai food, followed by disco-glow bowling. Meanwhile the tape sits idly in the soon to be obsolete VCR which collects dust, until its finally tossed in the trash.
One successful horror franchise that I never quite understood is the "Child's Play" series. Its a freaking doll. All you should need is a Louisville slugger to beat Chucky in to smithereens. Even a swing from a mop or umbrella should be good enough to send him flying across the room. If you can't kill Chucky yourself, you should be able to trap him with a laundry basket with an encyclopedia on top until help arrives. And I guess the people being terrorized in these movies never had any dogs. Both of my dogs have destroyed bigger, badder toys..
I think if I ever were to get in to scary movies, I'd prefer the type where regular animals turn into blood thirsty, killing machines as opposed to one particular monster or evil spirit. A werewolf is pretty bad ass, but there's only one. You and your group can disperse, and hopefully someone will find a silver bullet before its too late. But a large group of animals, well that's much harder to escape from based on the sheer volume of the pack.
Sharks ("Jaws") and wolves ("The Grey") are obvious choices. But there is a breed of film makers that gets a little, well, for lack of a better word, crazy, when selecting a species to be the film's killers. There have been movies made where slugs and frogs actually went on killing sprees in villages full of village idiots.
So if I were to pick an unusual animal for my horror movie, my selection would fall some where in the middle between slugs and wolves. My beast of choice would be ducks. Yes, I said ducks.
I know, Alfred Hitchcock already did a bird movie. But he used gulls. According to my research, 84% of Americans feel compelled to thwack a gull with a tennis racket, regardless of the situation. Part of the reason I chose ducks is because they are feathered Prozac. Who can watch a duck waddle, swim, and hear its little quack, and not help but feel a little better? So a malicious, violent duck would have the element of surprise on its side.
Some imagery from my duck movie:
An old man sits on a park bench at sunrise. He tosses some stale bread towards the pond. A duck swims to the shore, waddles to the bread, and happily gobbles it up. The duck quacks with approval, and the man tosses another piece. Soon the duck is joined by 3 others, who quack for more. The man tosses more bread, as the ducks creep closer to him. The man continues to throw them bread, the ducks quacking becoming louder and more rapid. The man looks inside the sack, and sees all that's left is a few crumbs. When he returns his eyes back to the ducks, he sees not 4, but hundreds. Not pleased that he is out of food, they attack, ripping the poor old man to pieces, leaving behind only a few crumbs themselves.
The movie title, "DUCK & COVER", flashes on the screen, to a chorus of quacks with a cadence similar to a cliched evil laugh.
From there we follow a group of seven 20-something friends, on a camping trip in Oregon for one last hurrah before the reality of adult life pulls them apart (if the ducks don't do it first).
One young woman wakes early and decides to go on a hike. At the crest of the mountain, she notices what appears to be a hawk circling in front of the morning sun. She squints to follow its graceful flight. The sun is blinding, and she momentarily loses sight of the bird. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes she see the bird dive bombing above her. She freezes, shocked, and mutters one word as she realizes what is happening- "Duck?".
If only she would have. The impact of the blow of the falling water fowl knocks her to the ground, her head hitting a large rock. When she comes to, she hears the soft flap of webbed feet on the hard ground, as several ducks approach her. She's paralyzed, and lets out a blood curdling scream as bills pierce and rip her young, slutty flesh (oh, did I forget to mention this film will follow the standard formula of terror and sex romps, with the virgin being the lone survivor? How else do you expect people to watch this movie? Its freaking ducks killing people!). Her screams echo through the valley, but the joyous quacks of the feasting ducks, for a reason known only to God, do not. Her friends know it is her in danger, but have no clue as to the nature of the threat.
The remaining group of friends decide to split up to find their friend and get help.
One by one, the friends encounter a group of ducks, and unsuspectingly get devoured by the vicious birds. They walk. They run. One even climbs a tree but can still not escape.
The last two surviving friends get in a canoe to paddle across a lake, to the ranger's cabin. It has begun to rain (ideal weather for ducks). They notice a group of ducks in the not so far distance. They see the ducks plunge underwater in unison, and re-surfacing having caught something small to eat. The repeated, perfectly choreographed dives captures the two friends attention. The flock heads underwater again, but do not return as early as they had previously. The friends take notice. They are now invested in this beautiful show put on for them by nature. Seconds pass. They look at each and laugh, wondering where the ducks could be. They drop the paddles, and lean forward, peering down in to the dark, deep lake water.
Suddenly the canoe's floor is punctured by 10 duck bills. Water fills the boat. The ducks fly out the water and attack the confused friends. The canoe begins to sink, and the friends try to both swim away and defend themselves. They reach for the paddles, but the onslaught from the ducks is too much to allow them mount an effective counter attack. The male friend's foot gets caught, making escape very difficult. He himself has become a sitting duck, and becomes the focus of their attack. The sinking canoe fills with water and blood. He gasps for air as his head bobs, mouth being filled with water, and lets out one fateful last scream "UUCCKK" (first letter drowned out by the water, but you have 2 very appropriate ones to choose for this scenario).
The female friend has managed get free, and grab one of the oars. She looks over her shoulder and sees the ducks diving in to the water like they had a few minutes earlier, only this time surfacing with bits and pieces of her friends flesh in their bills. Shore is only a few hundred yards away, and she made All State on her high school swim team. Plus, as the only virgin in the group, she has a little more reserved strength due to the lack of fornication the night before. She grabs hold of the oar floating nearby, and swims to land.
The girl makes it to shore. Weakened from the swim and the many bites and abrasions, she struggles to rise to her feet. It isn't long before she hears the squishing of webbed feet on the mud. As the blood from her wounds is washed away from the downpour of rain and tears, she grips the canoe oar. The ducks advance, and with what little strength she has left, she swings the oar like a samurai with a sword. Feathers get tossed about in the air like a sorority house pillow fight. She suffers many more bites, but is able to stumble in to the cabin. She sees what scraps of a park ranger the ducks left behind lying on the floor. On a desk she sees a set of keys and lighter. She grabs both as the cabin is filling up with savage ducks. She turns the gas on the stove, advances towards the door, swinging the oar like a baseball star who promised to hit a home run for a sick child.
She gets knocked to her feet yet somehow makes it to the door. She gives one last swing with the oar, freeing herself enough to lunge out the door and pull it shut behind her. She notices all the broken windows and strikes the zippo and throws the lit lighter in the cabin just before the ducks crowd the windows to chase after her. She runs to the Jeep and pulls away, noticing the exploding duck filled cabin in the rear view window.
Or something to that effect. The bottom line is ducks walk. Ducks swim. Duck fly. If a duck wants to get you, its going to get you. You can't hide from a duck.
---- If you enjoy horribly bad and cheesy movies, ones even worse than the ones I just described, check out this website:
http://www.pastemagazine.com/blogs/lists/2009/10/the-xx-best-worst-horror-movies-of-all-time.html
Their is a brief description of each, along with a trailer. I highly recommend watching the trailer for "The Gingerdead Man". The scariest thing about these movies is that someone thought making these movies was a good idea. Especially the one is named "Monsturd". I didn't watch the trailer for that one, but my guess is scientists create a genetically superior dung beetle to defeat the Monsturd, or a priest exorcises a demon, leaving one big pile of holy crap.
---Remember you can 'Like' My-Randomalities on Facebook. There will be information on a photo contest as well as details on a My-Randomalities calendar, and the most random Shark Week you will ever see.
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