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.

Winnie the Pooh- Lovable Bear or Dangerous Outlaw?

When I was in first grade, my brother was invited to a birthday party. The party was to take place at a Western-themed amusement park called "Rawhide." Because my mom was asked to help chaperone twenty kindergartners riddled with ADHD, she got a little something in return: I got to go with her.

And I loved Rawhide. I was also in a phase where I was infatuated with all things Disney; most notably, Winnie the Pooh.

So we went. The party went surprisingly well, for a kindergarten party. We panned for gold, watched an old western style shoot out and ate Pizza Hut. I was making new friends and really enjoying myself. I really could not ask for anything more. The day was going so well.

Toward the end, my mom spotted a little booth. This little booth's sole purpose was to embarass people.

This was their concept: We will fake arrest someone with a fake charge. For a recovering alocholic, it might be, "You're arrested for loving booze too much," (I hope no kindergartner ever gets that title), or maybe a Star Wars nerd would be arrested for his passion toward George Lucas' cinematic tour de force.

Well, as I mentioned before, I loved Winnie the Pooh at this time. My mom connected the dots. Being a mother she did not see the embarassment potential in this situation; she just wanted to make a little homage to my secret love.

This is how it went:

We were all eating cake, when a sheriff approached the group. "Now, which one of you young cowboys is Matt Levy?" he growled. I raised my hand, unsure of what was to unfold. "Matt Levy, get up here!" he exclaimed in that raspy voice sheriffs are known for. I walked up.

The shrriff then proceeded to pull a certificate out of his holster and announced, "Matt Levy, you are under arrest for loving Winnie the Pooh too much."

Due to my naivete, I had no idea that this wasn't real. "How does the sheriff know I love Winnie the Pooh?" I thought. Then I remembered that cool kids did not love Winnie the Pooh, cool kids loved Power Rangers and Spiderman.

Before I could deny the allegations that this was untrue and they must have the wrong Matt Levy, all of the other kids started laughing. Even the sheriff was snickering. It was truly an awful moment in my childhood.

Moms snapped pictures of me on disposable cameras (an age before digital cameras, mind you) and my mom yelled, "Pose with the sheriff!"

So we posed. On the car ride back, I told her how humiliated I was. "Oh," she said. "It looked like you were having fun."

Religionism

Mother: Judaism is carried through the woman and you know that. You will marry a nice Jewish girl.

Son: But what if I love someone who isn't Jewish?

Mother: Well, I'd be pretty disappointed.

Son: But you're not even religious...

Mother: I know I'm not religious! But that's just the way it is, OK? I married a Jew and things turned out pretty nicely didn't they? You'll do the same, that's that. Now will you grab the pork from the freezer we're having tonight?

I Am A Winner.

In a society that is notorious for it's obsession with success, and is more famous for it's defeats, there are some ways to easily identify who the winners are as opposed to America's plentiful array of losers. A few simple ways to distinguish between winner and loser include: The top 8 on various friend networking websites, income levels, and the dreaded push up competition in Physical Education classes which separate the beautiful people from the fatties/ weaklings. The three aforementioned scenarios clearly distinguish between winners and losers in every way. However, nothing shows who the real winners/ losers are in a more effective and simple fashion than the college admissions process.


Ok. You grow up. Life is hard. Boo hoo. Toughen up, babies. By the time you reach seventeen, your nebbish educators are all up in your George Foreman (slang for "grill") about your precious admission into a university. The parents start looking at their little winner/loser with fear in their eyes. "What if my little fatty can't produce and maintain a comfortable enough income for me to have a ridiculously lush life after 65?" Mom and dad scramble. Mom and dad begin signing you up for SAT practice courses and for other various procedures that will ensure little fatty's entrance into a university. And think. This is every little fatty the United States of America has to offer. The competition is as steep as a large ice cream cone. Now little fatty has to succeed for his/her teachers, mom, dad and beat all of the other little fatties. How does one fatty do this?


Well, quite easily. All one has to do is waste their fruitful years of youth cramming for standardized tests that will, if anything, lessen your brain power. The one exam that ultimately determines if you're Harvard material or bound for Massage College is the SAT. Four hours of standardized testing that will ultimately end up deciding your fate. If you do really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, well, congratulations. You sir or madam- you are a bona fide winner. Now you can go get high and relax until you go to the university and the studying cycle begins again. But congratulations on the drug habit. If you do moderately well on the SAT, you will have to fight for your entrance into college. Fatties scraping for that last piece of scholarship pie. This means writing plenty of online essays that begin with, "I'd like to change the world because..." because there's no way your parents are paying for their moderately successful fatty's tuition. These people make up most of America- the wosers. We're talking Middle America here, babies. The losers who are almost winners. When their senior year of high school rolls around, it's time to apply to a number of woser universities (ASU, U of A, NAU to name a prestigious few). Write more essays. As for the losers- they'll go to community college.


This process is ridiculous. A four hour test that tells you if you are a winner or loser almost immediately? Why can't this be done immediately? To solve this epidemic, I propose that the college admissions process become a beauty contest. Each student shall enter a room in their sexiest attire (fatties and weaklings must cover up) and the administrators will pick their incoming freshmen based solely on their beauty (sorry fatties/ weaklings/ uglies- skin deep beauty does not count). This way students can spend their fruitful years of youth not with their heads in textbooks, but in toilets. Further, we all know that the beautiful people are the winners. I have never seen an ugly person win the Miss America Pageant. College admissions should not be based on academia. Fatties and weaklings and uglies (or a combination of the three) must not get into good schools, they're not winners. Also, if there is a tie between the beautiful people (winners) into getting into the university, the ultimate decider must be a push up contest. If there is still no apparent winner, the university will call up Simon Cowell and he will personally judge them. In the event of another tie, Donald Trump will be sent in to evaluate and/ or fire them. If Trump fails, the university will send in Jeff Probst to communicate that the tribe has spoken. Once the winners are chosen, it will become apparent that the winners (the beautiful people) go to the good university. As for the wosers and losers, well, who cares about those fatties anyway? They're not sexy.

Pigs

There were three pigs. One was smart. One was stupid. One was somewhat smart. Not necessarily in that order. They were maturing. The mother pig said, Leave. The smart, stupid, and in between one moved out. Dumbfounded, they didnt know what to do. Um, the smart one said. The dumb one had an idea. Lets build a house! Since he was the leader everyone agreed. He said, Lets all build our own houses! Since he was the leader everyone agreed. He was big. He was the biggest.

The dumb one went to build his house. In the forest, he found straw. Internally, he knew it was an omen. If he had looked around the corner he would have found a mansion waiting for him. No, his omen from God didnt permit looking around corners. He put his house together quickly. His house was sloppy. At the completion of his house, the dumb pig felt pride. Yay! he shouted to the heavens.

The somewhat dumb one went to build his house. He was smart, but did not utilize his talents. Instead he liked to play computer games, doodle, and watch the cooking channel. He saw a muddy area. He set up a plan in his head (he did things quickly, mentally) and built a house of his mud that was much more stable than the dumb pigs. He only finished half of it. He decided to nap rather than finish building the house.

The smart one went to build his house. He knew his way around the town. He was polite. He got what he wanted. He wanted a bomb proof home. Naturally, he found the mansion when some locals pointed it out to him. He went inside. He fixed the house until it was to his liking. Then he sat down and ate pork chops. Little did he know, he was eating the dumb pig. Read on.

A wolf came into town. The pigs town to be exact. He was a door to door salesman. He loathed his job. He hated his profession. He despised his trade. He wanted to be a butcher. It makes good money, he said to no one in particular. He went to a straw house. He knocked on the door and started talking to the dumb pig. The wolf pitched his routine encyclopedia selling routine. The dumb pig was kind. He exchanged cliches and non witty banter with the wolf. The wolf pitied the dumb pig. His mind kept saying, It makes good money. The wolf huffed. The wolf puffed. He blew the dumb pigs house down. He butchered the pig. He was numb to the whole activity after seeing instructional butchering films. Two days later that meat was sold to the smart pig. Cest la vie.

The wolf was making good money. He was killing civilians and getting away with it. He loved his job. He had a hankering for his profession. He had an infatuation with his trade. He kept up the good work. He saw a mud house that was not completely put together. This was routine work. He knocked on the half completed, almost stable door and started talking to the slothful pig. The wolf pitched his routine encyclopedia selling routine. This pig invited the wolf in for a draft and was genuinely kind to him. This was hard. The wolf drank the beer. The wolf shared stories and had a fun time. His mind kept saying, It makes good money. The wolf huffed. The wolf puffed. He blew the intermediate level pigs house down. He butchered the pig. He was numb to the whole activity because he was drunk. He also plundered all of the alcohol. This pig was sold to his mother. Cest la vie.

The wolf was a millionaire. He refused to share his success secrets. He went into business. He went into business with the smartest pig of them all. The best tasting (He presumed) pig in the world. He would eat him himself. The smart pig suspected something. The smart pig had also become accustomed to the tenderness of wolf meat. They met at the mansion for a business meeting. Each had a fantasy that the meeting would end in a feast for one. The wolf entered, skipping his encyclopedia routine. The smart pig automatically felt uneasy. He felt that feeling. Words slipped out of his pig tongue. Hello. He said. Im the smart pig. He said. You killed my family. He killed the wolf in timely fashion. He ate the wolf in timely fashion. He was ironically satisfied. Yay, he shouted to the heavens. Cest la vie?