The Beatles

Happiness Is A Warm Gun.
By Mo Levy

Int: Plain, ordinary bedroom. A teenage boy is laying on the bed playing with his iPod. We can hear what is playing on his iPod.

Cut to shot of iPod. The screen says he is listening to Ludacris. We can hear the song, “Move bitch, get out the way” playing like the iPod indicates.

Cut to shot of boy’s face. He groans. Cut back to iPod, the shuffling begins. We land on DMX and the jam “Break your Neck” is playing. Boy groans again.

Boy: Hey Ty, do you have anything besides this awful rap shit on your iPod?

Cut to shot of Ty, another teenage boy. He is playing with a yo yo and trying to do an elaborate trick. He does not give much thought to what his friend is saying.

Ty: No, not really.

Boy: Jesus, man. Don’t you know anything about music?

Ty is still not really paying attention, he is now fully focused on the yo yo. He looks up for a split second.

Ty: What?

Boy: Don’t you listen to good music? Like the Beatles and David Bowie and shit like that?

Ty still not paying much attention.

Ty: Nope.

Ty completes trick.

Boy: Tight.

Ty: Yeah, I’ve been practicing.

Ty imitating Elvis.

Ty: Uhh, thank you, uhh thank you very much.

Boy: that’s the worst Elvis I’ve ever heard. Anyway, why don’t you listen to real music?

Ty: I don’t know, I don’t really care. It’s just music man.
Boy is suddenly shocked and defensive.

Boy: Just music? What? Are you fucking with me right now? Just music? Was the Magna Carta just a piece of paper? Was Cesar Chavez just a fucking anorexic?

Ty: Stop talking like you’re in Superbad, man. You’re not that funny.

Boy: Shut up dickbitch. Let’s get back to the core of this argument right now. Abbey Road. Have you heard of it?

Ty: Sure.

Boy: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?

Ty: No.

Boy: And how are we friends?

Ty: I honestly don’t know.

Ty picks up his yo yo again and starts fiddling with it. The boy puts the headphones back on.

Boy: Sometimes man, sometimes. Sometimes you disappoint me.

Ty: Are you still talking?

Boy: I am.

Ty: Would you mind shutting the fuck up for just a minute right now? I’m going to master this trick.

Boy: Lame.

Boy takes headphones off. Boy gets up.

Boy: Have fun with that man. I’m goin’. Make sure you email me that econ shit or else I’m fucked for tomorrow’s quiz.

Ty: Aight.

Boy: Peace bitchdick.

Ty: Later doucheton checks in.

Boy: Is that a reference to Dunston Checks In?

Ty: You know it, doucheton.

Boy: And that’s why we’re friends. Payce negro. But seriously don’t forget those econ notes or else I’m in low C territory which would totally fuck me over come midterm time so…

Ty cuts off boy.

Ty: I fuckin’ know. Now leave dude.

Boy leaves. The guys are in a different room of a similar looking house the next day. A living room with a couch. They are watching South Park. Ty is drinking QT, the boy is eating Mac and Cheese. Nothing is said for about 15 seconds. Shots change from Ty to boy to TV to dog and then back to boy.

Boy: Oh yeah, I made a mixtape for you.

Ty: What are you, gay?

Boy: No sir, I’m not. I’m an educator. This is some good shit. This is life changing shit. Sir, you may cream your pants this is so enjoyable. You might shit your pants due to the delightfulness of the music. It’s possible that you coud..

Ty: Ok, ok. I get it.

Boy: Should I put it on?

Ty: Let’s wait until the end of South Park.

Boy: Fiiiiine.

Montage of shots until the end of South Park. The guys laugh, Ty busts out his yo yo and plays with it during the commercials. The boy repeatedly checks his watch. Finally, the South Park credits appear onscreen.

Boy: Ok, we can listen to this now..

South Park theme music interrupts the boy.

Ty: Nope. After this episode.

Boy: Fuck man. All right. Fuckin’ Comedy Central with like eight South Parks in a row.

Ty: It’s fine with me- I don’t want to hear that mixtape all that badly.

Boy: Well, we’re listening to it after this episode. I am not watching the fucking daily Scrubs marathon.

Ty: Ok.

Similar montage to the one we did for the last episode of South Park. Then the credits roll again.

Boy: All right. Let’s do this thing. Now this first track is pretty special. It’s off the White Album. It’s called “When My Guitar Gently Weeps” and Eric Clapton collaborated with the Beatles to make it.

Ty: That’s kind of bad ass.

Boy: Let’s give it a spin.

Boy presses play on the iPod. The opening riff of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” plays. Boy lays down and closes his eyes. Ty continues sitting on the couch with his yo yo and QT. Conversation begins thirty seconds into the song.

Boy: This song fucking blows my mind.

Ty: It’s OK. It’s kinda boring.

Boy: All right, how about this then?

Boy gets up and puts on “She Came In through the Bathroom Window.”

Ty: This is pretty fucking good, man. It’s trippy.

Boy: Maybe even groovy?

Ty: Yeah, one could say that.

Boy: Right on. You are catching on my friend. You are catching on.

Ty: Yeah, I do like this. All right. Give me the best song now. Straight up.

Boy: The best Beatles song?

Ty: Yeah.

Boy: Dude, are you serious.

Ty: Uh, yeah, I’m serious.

Boy: There is no such thing as a best Beatles song. They’re all little fucking perfect pieces of music.

Ty: Just play your favorite song. I’m not asking you to punch a baby. I’m asking you to pick a fucking song from a 40-year-old band.

Boy: Dude, this is on par with punching a baby.

Ty picks up the remote.

Ty: Well, I guess it’s back to Scrubs.

Boy: Fine, fine. I’ll play my current favorite.

Ty: That’s the spirt laddie.

Boy: You know you’re causing me great pain.

Ty: Just spin that record DJ.

Boy: Ok. It’s called “Across The Universe.”

Ty: Like the movie.

Boy: Yeah. But the original is just so fucking kick ass.

Boy plays Across the Universe. The music plays for about thirty seconds. Ty’s mom walks in.

Ty’s mom: I love this song.

Boy: Yeah, Mrs. Myers!

Cut to shot of Ty. He has a tear in his eye. Mrs. Myers walks out.

Boy: Ty.

Ty tries to hide the fact that he’s crying.

Boy: Ty. Are you crying.

Ty: No, it’s just, it’s. Yeah. I am. This music. It’s just so fucking.

Boy: Beautiful?

Ty: Yeah. It’s just really happy and sad at the same time.
Boy: Not exactly “Move Bitch Get Out The Way” or “Break Ya Fuckin’ Neck.”

Ty: Yeah. This shit is good.

Boy: I told you man.

Ty: You were fucking right man. You were fucking right.

Boy: Uhh thank you, thank you very much.

Ty still sniffling.

Ty: Your Elvis is way fucking worse than mine.

Boy: Shut the fuck up man.

Fade to black while Across The Universe continues to play.

Roll credits.

Capitalism

My father is a stock broker and he knows his fair share of tricks and trades when dealing with financial issues. Yet, it was when I was four that I taught him a little-known secret about American currency.

Pops brought home one of those large calculators that also printed out receipts. When he stepped out of the room for a break and a cool glass of water, I took over at the calculator. I started printing receipts as fast as I could.

My dad re-entered the calculating factory and said, "What are you doing?" I told him I was creating money. And LOTS of it! "Look at all of these numbers on the paper, dad! We're gonna be millionaires! No, wait! We're going to be trillionaires! I'm going to need some Power Ranger toys!"

I was removed from the table and was never to return again. Why would I ever come back after striking it rich the first time? I was a gazillionaire.

Pretty Heavy Set

Always the fat kid. Always.

Looking back on it, I probably shouldn't have eaten so much pizza. Or hamburger helper. Or chicken nuggets. Or whatever was in the fridge.

From the age of four and up, I had man boobs. This social cancer was nearly as bad as a real medical disorder. Dealing with it was a piece of shit. And I would personally like to beat the person who invented titty twisters. Seriously, why?

My name is Matthew. Which gets shortened to Matt. My mom called me Matty. Which rhymed with fatty. Couldn't I just have been a Jim or a Elvin or something?

Kids didn't really pick on me all that much but when they did, they'd always say, "Just kidding," in order to make everything better. I'd laugh, but I'd be thinking, "Oh, that was joke? Man, you're FUCKING hilarious. I've never heard the one about how fat I am. Great social satire. You're so witty. Can you sign my pog?"

People just don't put themselves in the shoes of a fat person and understand quite how shitty it is. We are THIS close to being normal (I'm pinching my fingers) but we're just not. We are the most sensitive human beings in the world. Everything is misinterpreted as some type of reference to our weight.

EXAMPLE:

Regular, skinny guy: Wanna go work out?

Fat guy: Why'd you ask me instead of him (regular guy)?

regular, skinny guy: Um, Um. I'm leaving.

You get the point. It's like asking a black person if they want to go to a rap concert. There are certain activities that are reserved for asking certain people to them. Sadly, the oppressed (the fat and black folk) fall into this category.

However, at the peak of my fat years (probably grade four), the idea that I was pretty heavy set sunk in. I was pretty used to wearing fat kid clothes (Big Dogs, anyone) and regularly ordering more food than my dad already. But one fateful day after a baseball game, I did the unspeakable for a fat kid.

I tried climbing a fence. I'm still alive, so don't worry about that. But still, there's a story to be told.

My team had just finished a regular season game and I was helping my dad clean up the team's equipment when I needed to grab something from the other side of the fence. In a high-pitched squeal, I yelled, "Got it dad!" and did the whole fat kid climb. You know what I'm talking about. Rather than putting one leg atop the chain-linked transportation stopper, I do the chunky eight-year old straddler move. Perched on this fence, one of two things can occur.

1.) You make it safely across.

2.) You get stuck.

I got stuck. First the pants ripped. I called for help. No such luck. My colleagues were a bit too far away.

Then the boxers ripped. Panic.

Finally, as I tried to wriggle me and my fat ten-year-old self free, my testicles ripped. Just a little. It certainly hurt like a bitch.

Following that painful experience, I didn't take the hint to go lose weight. No, I had a Choco-Taco later that day. But I did learn how to climb fences. Embarrassingly enough, my dad and I would go practice on the weekends.

Now I'm still somewhat of a husky young man, but I can climb a fence like none other- without ripping my testicles.


Postscript: It's fucking awkward to write something this honest. They're just words but they're hard to say.