Even if Tom Cruise was a Venice Beach Bum, He could still Kick Ass Mission Impossible III Style

I used to write crappy things for this crappy Fox comedy website a few years ago. One time, they wanted the writers to compose a web video script for Tom Cruise. Apparently he was interested in appearing cooler with the x, y, and z generations. My bro and I came up with the Even if Tom Cruise was a Venice Beach Bum, He could still Kick Ass Mission Impossible III Style, which of course was bomb neezle, and will amaze thine brain. However, the editor had a vendetta against me because I was not sexually attracted to his gadonka middle, and did not pitch it to TC.

So, if anyone knows that Tom Cruise look-a-like and has a BIG budget, page me!



Even if Tom Cruise was a Venice Beach Bum, He could still Kick Ass Mission Impossible III Style
                                                               By
                                                       Janie Mo


EXT. VENICE BEACH BOARDWALK-LATE DAY

TOM CRUISE is a Venice Beach Bum. He is dressed in a Dashiki
and wears a turban on his head. A small, battery powered
guitar amp on a string hangs around neck; a beat up electric
guitar is wrapped around his shoulder. Tom’s hair is long
and scraggly, as is his foot-long Fu Manchu adorned with
cool beads. A stick of incense burns stuck askew from the
turban, surrounding his head with a halo of smoke.
Tom Cruise is roller-skate-dancing poorly, while SINGING
’Scarborough Fair’ for tips on the Venice boardwalk. He
stops to battle another bum in a mediocre ’dance-off’. With
the moves of a wanna-be Michael Jackson, TC finishes his set
with one final extreme air hump.


EXT. VENICE BEACH-JUST BEFORE SUNSET

Tom Cruise is drinking a 40-ounce of beer in a brown paper
sack after a hard day’s work. He notices a discarded concert
ticket in the sand. He reaches for it, excited.

INSERT ’HOLLYWOOD BOWL JOSH GROBAN TICKET’

Disappointed, Tom spits his old gum into the ticket. The
beach is now desolate save a paltry drum circle of five
(mostly dreadlocked white youth) and a Jack Lalanne
look-a-like who is sucking up the last rays of the sun in
his somewhat sagging, neon orange Speedos. Out of nowhere,
TC hears a woman SCREAMING.

            VOICE

My babies! My babies!

A frantic woman is pointing and SCREAMING. A billion yards
out to sea, a pair of dueling blond toddlers disappear and
reappear on the ocean’s surface like fisherman’s bobbers. TC
chucks his malt liquor bottle in the air and takes action.
Kenny Loggin’s "Danger Zone" jam begins to PLAY. Sprinting
to the lifeguard hut like a bat out of hell, Tom picks up a
beached lifeguard Jet Ski and runs back to the waterfront
with it under his arm as if it weighed no more than a loaf
of bread, then hurls it the water. In a frenzy that only
dying babies can produce, Tom rides the Jet Ski to rescue
the drowning babies. A wake of water splashes his face. He
shakes it off. This, combined with the speed he travels,
leads him to an exhilaration that gives us his trademark
smile in all of its toothy splendor. Yeah! He reaches the
babes in no time fast, and begins applying tiny
turbo-charged Heimlich maneuvers. The babies are turning
blue.

       TOM CRUISE

In this life, it’s not what you
hope for, it’s not what you
deserve-it’s what you take! Now
take a goddamn breath you two!
Jesus! Do you guys want to be
living organ donors or a couple of
dead ones?!

Finally one tot spits up a baby crab; the other a couple of
guppies. The babies COUGH and breath and turn back into
their normal pink selves. Assured of their safety, TC hoists
the newborns onto each of his broad shoulders. He un-does
his turban and ties it off on the Jet Ski. Holding the
opposite end of the turban, the slack in the line becomes
taut and Tom bare-foots the infants to shore on his
improvised chariot. The babes are sky high and smiling (and
suddenly well coiffed) as TC coos to each one on the ride
back to their now beaming mother. Crowds gather and clamber
around.

EXT. VENICE BEACH BOARDWALK-SUNSET

Tom skates slowly along the boardwalk and as he passes
Muscle Beach, a few muscle men acknowledge Tom with their
dumbbells for a job well done. Tom grins and nonchalantly
flips back the hair peeking out from under his turban. Simon
and Garfunkel’s, "Scarborough Fair" PLAYS as he skates off
into the sunset.

sea tewdles

Facts: 

1. when it comes to sea turtles, i love them. 

2. sea turtles enjoy immunity from the sting of the deadly box jellyfish and regularly eat them, helping  keep tropical beaches safe for humans.

3. sea turtles are nomads, traveling around 1300 miles a day.

4. they are in major troubs. humans trap them and eat them and skin them for shoes. but that's what crocodiles are for.

 

 cruisin baby with progeria

 turtles tend to enjoy sniffing

 

 gettin low.

  too many mai tais.

constipated :(

angry dad.

i hope you enjoyed learning about the ancient ones.

is anyone even reading this piece of shit blog?

GREY CHOMPS

 GREY CHOMPS

by Janie Mo

Grey Chomps was another self absorbed actor with huge fake grey teeth. Except he was a you-tube comedian and did some weird performance one man thing in a short terry cloth robe. Anyway, he was tall and dorky. And ugly. He showed up on some vintage Honda motorcycle with a caprese salad which I was blown away by. He had a mustache. And he interpretive danced in my kitchen. Like for real interpretive danced--with calibrated kick and a pointed toe. As you know, I have no luck with dudes, so I figured an ugly dude would not be a dick. But he was a hipster and an actor. Oh and has secret old money from the south. I hate that shit. Just admit it. Yeah, we are slave drivin fucks and have money in oil. I’m rich. Don’t fucking rent a nasty ass apt in echo park and shop at out of the closet but then you have a giant mac and pimp ass advanced technological video cameras that you tape mannequins with. Booking a slap bracelet commercial in 1982 doesn’t pay your rent for life. And don’t be like oh I suck dick on the corner to pay my rent—because not with those chomps you don’t!

I always ignore shit. But you gotta listen to your heart. There’s nothing else you can do. When a guy doesn’t ask you one goddamn thing about yourself, don’t chalk it up to nerves or other bullshit. That’s how it is. Oprah said when someone shows you their true colors-believe them. So when you’re like dude check out my unique fingernail paint job or my hacky sack collection and they don’t give a damn, it’s time to step. Also doing stuff on dates is totally cool. But GOLF? There’s only one fucking bitch I know who wants to golf –my dad. So anyway, riding a motorcycle is fun and I totally want to go get one. Grey chomps made me dinner. We stopped by this questionable super market in Echo Park. With gross mushrooms. And pork rinds. And piñatas. Also Hot Carl, the neighborhood bum is shopping at the same store? Naw dude. Here's the deal, sauteing garlic and adding it to a jar of Prego sauce is not cooking.

After “dinner” Grey Chomps performed for me without asking. We don’t need to get into the sex because it was awesome. Which is why this is such a gut wrenching tragedy. 

Grey Chomps was an alky. One time he called me drunk while lawn bowling in Beverly Hills to invite me to his friend’s rapper party. He was always going to a themed party. Cool. I was like great your dumb hipster friend’s rapper party, but I went anyway. Of course I had to drive so he could arrive trashed. I parked the car and then accidentally rolled his drunk finger up in the window. He whined for waaaaay too long. We entered the secret warehouse and boom! It’s a FLAPPER party. Not a rapper party. These assholes were taking Jello shots and sepia toned pictures, standing around throwing fake money in the air with tons of bums sleeping right outside. Nice display of your grandiose white pride. Great job, losers. I spent the night watching his BORINGist hipster friends stare at each others' fedoras and tricked out mustaches.

On our last and final date, we ate some food somewhere and ended up at his apartment. We had period sex and then he told me he suddenly had a birthday party to attend. He flew into his short pants, slapped his suspenders, and said, “I’m sorry for being too social.”

It’s okay Grey Chomps. It’s okay.

tattoos that rule/don't rule.

this rules for obvious reasons.

CentaurSwayze 'Outsider' Art Tattoo. RULES! (RIP Swayze)

American Psycho Nar Pow. SUCKS big time.

Not funny or cool. The placement makes me want to kill.

Penis Butterflies with balls and Rats and Ants climbing Dicks on your HEAD?!?!?!? This lady is so fucked that she and her tats are AWESOME as hell!

Pump Up the Ink: Steroids and Unbeatable Writing!

by janie mo, duh.

It is no secret that authors of present and past have puffed, banged, and snorted their way to epic and essential works. Bukowski drank. Burroughs shot up. Baudelaire smoked opium. And I’m pretty sure James Frey used crack and Novocain. But did anyone ever try steroids?
Yes, two hours ago, I downed five pills of Prednisone and one cup of coffee. Now it’s 3 am and I’ve never felt more alive, more wizardly, in my life!

This essay, just a simple mind-flex really, will no doubt align myself with Freud, Flaubert and the rest of those F’ers; only it will be better and faster. Time me. Afterward, I will request a green Adirondack chair and slam it to the ground. Then I’ll shout: “I HATE THE BEATLES!” from the rooftops. Or perhaps I will scoop my eyeballs out with a melonballer instead. And what about that Yorkie-sized rat lying prone with a frozen look of horror outside my building? Someone has already beaten it down, clubbed it to death.

That person should have been me.

For seven days and six nights, I’ve suffered an intolerable rash on my stomach and back, and it itches. It itches. Did I eat bad cheese? Did Lubriderm change its formula? No: It was Teddy, the boy who wore girl pants. Teddy lived in a loft with a puffy (much like my newly swollen “moon-face”) easy-chair and a twin-sized mattress. Luckily for Teddy, the bed was already in his room upon move-in day. It had lots of loose coils to spring you into action. When I sat upon it, I flew right off again and hit my head on the adjacent wall! BOING!

 Teddy and I never actually had sex, mostly because of his erectile dysfunction. At first I thought, Oh great: more sub-par penis. But we still gave it the old college try. Perhaps he was a grower, not a show-er. Nope. Still, we pressed on. I think he went down on me, I forget. What I do remember is that he begged me to place his limpness upon my then thrush free tongue. I said, “Hells Nos!” and ran for the hills. And by hills, I mean Bushwick Avenue. The scary part. With disheveled hair and my libido unsatisfied, I teetered in red heels at five in the morning waiting for the cab. How I would’ve killed for a gun, a taser, a stick of gum—anything! to fend off the early morning boozehounds. And that’s when I began to itch.

I called my father and told him that I had scabies. “Nah, this isn’t scabies,” he said.  “I’ve had that shit. You don’t have that shit.” Whew! What a relief. Still, I thought it best to seek a professional opinion anyway. Finding affordable and competent dermatologists who welcome the uninsured is the latest in extreme sporting. Have you ever heard of the sliding scale? Weeeeeeeee!

Once you actually find your dermatologist, the real challenge begins. Sitting in a dank and crowded waiting room, I found myself asking some troubling questions: If that guy’s scaly red arm brushes against mine, will I get one too? Did they forget about me, or is this a psychological test? Is my Guardian angel named Satan? Is that smell human? The clinic’s fire alarm sounded forcing its patients to shuffle outside in our open-backed gowns. I was accosted by an elderly man resembling Salisbury Steak while biding my time.

“What are you? A dancer?” he asked.

“A waitress.”

“A writer?” he confirmed.

“Well, yeah that too.”

“Huh. Anything published?”

The alarm subsided long before my temper did. We packed ourselves back into the elevator and your grandma’s medicine breath blinded me momentarily. Then, back in the waiting room, I listened again for my name to be called. A muted screening of Chicken Run was being shown with Spanish subtitles. I got three quarters of the way through when the nurse attempted my name: “Mo-Mo-Kee-Ya?” Yeah yeah yeah yeah YEAH. That’s me—but what about the chickens? Do they ever stop running?

Sweating and itching in a paper gown, I waited in room 11. Where the fuck was my doctor? I’d wait five more minutes, then I’d ask. Five minutes later, I gave him another five. Finally, I peeked out of my room and saw a man in a white coat.
“Are you my Doctor?” I asked.

“Just give me five minutes, Ms. Mocha.”

So I did and he came back twenty three minutes later and asked me to pull down my gown. Then he stared at my chest. “I’m going to need a second opinion on this,” he said.

Eventually the verdict was an “allergic reaction.” The solution? Prednisone. Yesssssss!

In conclusion: Steroids are not addictive. It’s just that mostly you want to take a lot of them all the time. And really, it’s for the best: I was afflicted with a horrific rash, terrible writer’s block, and a bad case of sexual frustration. Then I found steroids, or as I like to call them: God. And look at me now! My unsightly rash has been replaced with a shiny new hair coat, I’m writing like the pros, and the sex, well, let’s just say steroids took the envy out of penis envy! All in all I’d have to say that I’m rising up. I’m back on the street. I did my time, took my chances. I went the distance, now I’m back on my feet. Just a woman and her will to survive. Rising up, straight to the top. Had the guts, got the glory. Went the distance, now I'm not gonna stop. Just a woman and her will to survive.

Asperger's Nation: High Functioning, Low Return

We may be in an economic recession, but when it comes to dating, the world is booming with Asperger's: full of awkward handshakes, lacking rudimentary social skills, depressing haircuts, and that strange use of cutlery during the dining process. Wake up ladies! Stop ignoring the signs—you deserve better! I don’t care how normal his penis is, discoursing green pepper varieties and collecting adult toys (not sex toys, mind you, stupid-ass plastic toys designed by graffiti artists displayed in a case that just sit there and what is the fucking point?) is not okay.

Date with Donald, the Cartoonist with Asperger’s.
It was a typical Los Angeles day. Donald picked me up in his sensible Camry, complete with dashboard cozy, and we went to dinner. Well, actually, at the El Pollo Loco drive-thru, the dinner comes to you. I didn’t order anything because that food is shit. Donald drove us back to his house and after he powered down 14 cheesaritos or whatever, he suggested we play basketball in his driveway. Of course I killed, in part due to his delayed motor development (a common characteristic of Asperger’s), but more so because of my superior B-ball skills. Don’t ever mess with me in
H-O-R-S-E, I have crazy dunks that you can’t replicate!

To save Donald any more embarrassment, I suggested we go inside to cool off a little.

“Let’s go inside and cool off a little,” I said.

Donald’s bedroom was sparse and the walls barren, save a small mirror hung alongside a ‘big cats’ calendar. A typical 25 yr old straight man’s bedroom, you're thinking. Not so! You didn't notice the piece of paper taped above the mirror that read: Be a Killer and Win, did you? That's pretty atypical, in my opinion.

Donald showed me his cartoon projects and I pretended to care. I said stuff like: “Wow!” and “Cool!”
Then I said, “Hey, wanna go take a walk or something?”
To which Donald replied, “Okay, but I have to take a nap first. I’m very tired.”

“Taking a nap” is an Asperger’s attempt to romance you. Even though Donald was definitely not the day sex type I realized after spying a thick blanket of black hair on his ass, everything else was top notch and truth be told, it had been awhile. Too bad you can’t put a bag over an ass! Now I’ve heard it all from the mouths of dudes while doin’ it: “I wanna f your brains out,” “Work that pussy,” “Sodomize me with your dildo,” “Go Trevor,” but “Are you going to come all over my dick?” well that was a new one. I know what you’re thinking boys—probably one of the sexiest things a woman could ever dream of hearing (ok fine, it's kind of hot)! —but put down your pencils. You see, Donald’s co-existing obsessive-compulsive disorder was making him feel dirty and he literally just needed to know.

“Um, yes?” I answered. I mean why the hell not, right?

Donald began f-ing so furiously that I thought his head was going to bust through the adjoining wall to the neighbor’s house--maybe he really wanted to watch Telemundo. I can’t be sure.
His neck tendons protruded and throbbed as he strained to say, “I’m, I’m, I’m trying to come!” Was he sweating or crying? 1 hour of tantric weirdness later, he finally succeeded in, in, in, coming. Immediately afterward, Donald insisted we rate the sex on a scale from 1-10. He gave it a 7??? and then announced that he “had to go do something bad in the toilet.” I tried not to react and wrestled with these statements privately.

The END!