And a Madness Came to Sherman Oaks


The Shining

You meet a lot of people at Starbucks.  People who are nice, and people who aren’t.  People having a good day, and people who aren’t.  People who are Steve Carell, and people who aren’t.

It’s tough to make a mean person not mean, but it isn’t that hard to change someone’s bad day into a good one.  A dash of kindness here, a dad joke there, a smile, a laugh, and voila!  You have a happy customer and, more importantly, a happy human being.  It’s my favorite thing to do at Starbucks.  If I can cheer somebody up, I feel like it’s a job well done.  I’ve not yet been able to transmute the not Steve Carell’s into Steve Carell, but I’m working on it.  It’d be a big get.  He tipped me five dollars.

Steve Carell

Even if someone’s order is wrong, there are ways to fix it.  Corporate suggest simply apologizing and saying “what can I do to fix it?”  The fact that you want to help changes so many situations from bad to good.  If you care, people notice.

The one thing you can’t change is crazy.  At last I can’t.  Maybe with the proper medication and counseling a psychiatrist could, but I’m a writer.

We had a regular who came in practically every day over the summer.  I never caught his name, because he only ordered brewed coffee, but I did catch his scent.  It was a miasma of body odor and halitosis, not the kind you might find on a homeless person, but rather on someone who just doesn’t care.

He always wore sandals, cargo shorts and colorful Hawaiian shirts.  More often than not he would have a Fidel Castro hat on.  He was a weird guy, but he’d always been polite, and I enjoyed chatting with him just as much as anyone else who came through that I only sort of knew.

It was a May afternoon, and I had been on register all day.  I was looking forward to getting home, cracking some beers, and playing League of Legends.  I fiddled with the cup holder below my register.  The springs were always cracking and falling out.  I was trying to fix it.

A stench overwhelmed me.  I stood up, and there he was, standing at my register, smiling with this sort of vacancy in his eyes, and lack of movement in his face that made him seem very insane.  He practically starred right through me.

“One coffee, please” he said with a mad lilt.

“Of course”

I got him his coffee, and he just kept smiling.  He took it, and passed me two dollars.

“If they come by, don’t sign it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The people.  They’re coming around with a clipboard and getting you to sign things.  Don’t sign anything.”

I looked over at Andrew, who shrugged.  I decided to do what I always did in difficult situations: pass the blame up the food chain.

“Oh, it’s Starbucks corporate policy not to sign petitions.”

The smile remained.  He pointed a finger at me.

“It’s state sponsored terrorism.”

“I’m not going to sign anything.”

He smiled, nodded, and raised his coffee cup to me.  Once he was out of earshot:

“What the actual fuck was that?”

Andrew was laughing.

“I don’t know.  He was…”  Andrew stopped.  He starred at the coffee bag display.

“What?”  Andrew just pointed.

The guy was back.  He was still smiling.  He pointed at me.

“It’s state sponsored terrorism, okay?”  He shouted.  I didn’t know what to do.  Normally, I just ignore crazy people.  I’ve learned the hard way that if you even look at them, they might direct whatever is happening onto you.  I couldn’t ignore a customer at Starbucks, though.  I smiled a nodded.  “Don’t sign anything.  I’m serious, okay?  Not kidding.”  He laughed.  It was terrifying.

I just nodded again.  He dismissively waved me away and went to put cream in his coffee.

Why couldn’t I just turn him into Steve Carell?

“Welcome back, Mr. Carell.  I loved you in the office, and basically everything you’ve ever… what’s that?  Five dollars?  Thank you!”

A hispanic woman as at my register.  She seemed nice.  Nothing crazy about her.

“Hi, welcome to –”

“HEY!”

I turned to the coffee again.  He was back.  The smile was gone.  All that was left was rage.

“9-11 was an inside job.  The planes, the oil, jet fuel.  It’s state sponsored terrorism!”  He was shouting.  I looked around for help.  Everyone was just as scared as me.  I raised my hands to signal my passivity.  He just kept going.  “No one else heard what you said, but I heard it.  You know.  9-11 was a fucking INSIDE JOB.”

He twitched.

“They’re after me.  I’m a wanted man.  It’s state sponsored terrorism.  They want me because of what I have in here.”  He jabbed at his head with his index finger.  “In my brain.  They know I know and they’re after me.”

This was possibly the most frightening thing he said.  I searched for a weapon with which to defend myself.  I could use our serrated knife, but we only had one, and we might need it later to cut a bagel.

I settled on the broom.

I heard a snort.  Slater was on the floor, counting over the money from the safe.  He was laughing.  He was actually laughing.  I looked at him and mouthed “what” as in “what the fuck is funny about any of this.”

He just shrugged and kept laughing.

I clutched my broom all the tighter.

“I’m calling corporate on you.  You won’t think I’ll do it?” He threatened.

Steve Carell wouldn’t,  I thought,  He’s a nice man.

I didn’t say anything, though and he went away in a huff of anger.

I went to the back ten minutes later.  Michael and Slater were counting the money.  Slater was laughing again.

“Here he is,” he said, looking at me, “he can probably tell it better than me.”

“Slater was saying some guy was yelling at you?” Michael asked.

I told him the whole story.  Michael took it very seriously.

“Okay, I’ll call corporate,” Michael said, and I thought thank god!  He’ll get banned, or arrested or something! “Just in case he makes a complaint, I’ll let the district manager know he should just disregard it.”

Disregard it?  Disregard it?  The dude’s crazy!  He’ll probably babble on about moon rocks and the dark lord Cthulhu.   I don’t care if they disregard it.  I wanted a body guard, a Starbucks employed strong man than could protect me for when this man inevitably returned with a gun.

He’d motion with a little wave of the barrel.  “Come on,” he’d say, “we’re taking a walk,” and then he’d take me up to the roof of the parking deck for a murder suicide so we could both board the galactic ferry on it’s way to Cariathor to meet the Lord Xenu or whatever.

I’d stare at him, and I’d say “I’m sorry.  Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Who knows what he’d do then?

I know one thing, though.

If he was Steve Carell, he would have tipped me five dollars and taken his adorable daughter to the Disney store.

Screen Shot 2015-09-18 at 10.07.59 AM

1800 Seconds at a Starbucks With No Line


StarbucksPic

I’ve often thought that opposites are the scariest thing in the universe.  What could be more frightening to a being accustomed only to light than darkness?  Only land than water?  Only existence than nothingness?

There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to ask himself the hard questions.  What’s he afraid of?  What’s his opposite?

I work at a Starbucks in a large mall. It’s not a bad job, and it’s actually a great break form writing screenplays and thinking all the time.  I never thought I’d have an existential moment there.

And yet I fucking did.

What’s my opposite?

I found it, this very night, while working the register during the late shift.  It all happened in the span of 30 minutes.

30 terrifying minutes where I had the opposite of a line.

Minute 1:

The two women stood about five feet back form the counter.  The squinted at the menu.  I asked if I could help them.  They didn’t respond.  They just stared.   I wondered if they even heard me.  They were probably going to order Very Berry Hibiscus Refreshers.  They had the look about them.  The thirst.

Minute 2:

They finally ordered very berry hibiscus, just like I knew they would.

Minute 3:

They went over to the bar.  There was no one else in line.  I drummed my fingers on the counter and let out a long sigh.

Minute 4:

Joe finished passing out their drinks.  I watched him do it.  His eyes were dead.  The smile was forced.  I could tell he couldn’t hang on much longer

Minute 5:

There still wasn’t anyone else in line.  Joe went to the back to do some dishes.  The shift was in the storeroom counting supplies.  I was all alone.

Minute 6:

I couldn’t believe it.  There wasn’t even anyone else in the mall.  The phone rang.  I picked it up.  There was no one on the line.  I crumpled up a receipt and tried to shoot it into a trash can.  I missed.  I picked it up and tried again.

Minutes 7 – 10:

I continued to miss.

Minute 11:

I heard a scraping sound coming from the somewhere by Bloomingdales.  It sounded like somebody was dragging a shovel on the tile floor.  The phone rang again.  There was no one on the line.  I walked out of the store.

Minute 12:

I looked toward Bloomingdales.  One of the overhead lights about 300 yards down flickered.  The scraping sound didn’t stop, but no one was there.  The phone rang.  I didn’t answer.

Minute 13:

Still no line.  I heard a splashing by the fountain.  The sound of a child’s laughter.  I wanted to go investigate, but someone had to stay at the front of the store.

Minute 14:

Things started to get weird.  A woman in a dress walked back and forth between the Disney Store and the Sporting Good store.  She carried an old, one-eyed teddy bear.  The phone rang.

Minute 15: I asked her if she was okay.  She turned to me.  She had no eyes.  “Today is National Hot Dog Day.” She whispered.  My heart seized up in my chest.  I told her I already knew it was national hot dog day.  Facebook told me.

Minute 16: The woman just stared at me.  I just stared back.  I noticed she actually looked more like a little girl than a woman.  Perhaps the girl from the fountain.o-BLACK-EYED-CHILD-570

Minute 17: This was certainly the longest I had ever gone without a customer at Starbucks.  The girl recommenced her wanderings.  She eventually walked away.  I went back into the store

Minute 18:  The phone rang.  I picked it up.  “It’s National Hot Dog Day.”   That’s when I started to go mad.

Minute 19 – 25:

I don’t remember much.  The phone kept ringing.  I think I stacked cups into castles on the counter.  I made sugar packet guards and used the drink sleeves as gates.  I laughed a lot.  The children kept laughing with me, too.

Minute 26:

I thought there was someone in line.  It turned out to be no one, though.

Minute 30:

I woke up on the floor.  An old lady looked over the counter at me.  She had a Nathan’s Famous bag on the counter.

“Are you okay?”  she asked.

I wasn’t.  I just asked her what I could get her to drink.

“What goes well with hot dogs?”  She asked.  There was a strange smile on her face.  “It’s national hotdog day.”

And that’s when I heard the phone ring.

And that’s when I started to go slightly mad.

But…

Ah!  Another person!  And another.  A line, a blessed line, and I was swept up in the moment.  The fear vanished and I told her, I told her…

I told her a Java Chip with an add shot would go great with hot dogs.  It was a lie.

creepy kids

Job and the Burger


Here’s a scene that I wrote for my screenwriting class.  The prompt was that we needed to write a scene that reveals the flaw in the main character.  It could be no longer than 3 pages and had to have dialogue.  Can you guess who my protagonist is and what is his flaw?

(Note: the formatting is less than desirable here.  The first two caps (A BURGER and A MAN) are scene introductions.  The rest are dialogue, which i have painstakingly formated in the center.)

JOB AND THE BURGER

———————————-

A BURGER
…Sits on a food tray. There are some fries and a drink next to it.

A MAN
…Glares at the burger on the counter of the fast food restaurant, incredulous. The fools! 34 years old, JOB is a nuclear bomb, anger barely contained by the paper thin veil of society, ready to go of at any moment.

JOB
What’s this?

BRITTANY, 19, looks up from filing her nails. For Brittany, life is perpetually dull, and each day always proves more boring than the last.

BRITTANY
You’re food, sir.

Job continues to glare at the burger, like it had just slapped him. He lifts up the bun. Lettuce. Lettuce.

JOB
This isn’t what I ordered.

BRITTANY
You asked for lettuce.

Job screws up his face, and forces the red back down.

JOB
No, I didn’t. I hate lettuce. I asked for a burger without lettuce.

Brittany rolls her eyes and dramatically punches some keys on her computer like she was playing whack-a-mole. She turns her screen around so Job can see.

BRITTANY
One burger. Ketchup, tomato, cheese. With lettuce.

Brittany goes back to filing her nails. Job stares at the screen.

JOB
Can you just make me another one?

Brittany pauses her filing.

BRITTANY
No.

Job’s hands begin to shake visibly. He breathes deeply. It isn’t working. A man behind Job taps him on the shoulder. Job turns to see fat, middle aged man with his equally fat family standing behind him.

MAN
Sir, just take your damn burger. We’re hungry too.

Job roars like a lion. He grabs the food tray and smashes it on the counter, fries flying like shrapnel from an IED.
He lifts the tray up and smashes the man in the side of his face. The man goes down among the raining fries.

The man’s family cries in fright and his wife tries to tend to him.

Job throws the tray like a frisbee and pegs the man at the drive-through window in the back of the head.

JOB
BULLSHIT! I DIDN’T WANT LETTUCE!

Job pulls a revolver from a pocket inside his jacket and fires a round into the air. The bullet strikes the ceiling and chalky dust covers Job’s face, making him even more terrifying.

The other patrons make a mad dash for the exits. Job hears them running and spins around. He does his best to point his gun at all of the dozen patrons.

JOB (CONT’D)
NOBODY’S LEAVING. IM GONNA GET MY BURGER, AND WE’RE ALL GONNA SIT DOWN AND HAVE A NICE FUCKING MEAL. YOU GOT THAT

Job points his gun at a frightened, college aged woman by the door.  Not so fast!

JOB (CONT’D)
YOU GOT THAT?

WOMAN
Y-y-y-yes?

JOB
GOOD!

Job spins back around to Brittany, who has dropped her nail file and is staring at Job like a deer in headlights. This is the best day of her life.

BRITTANY
Ok. Ok! Here!

She reaches behind her and grabs a new burger. She opens it up and removes the lettuce, and then hands it to Job.
Job puts it back on the tray.

JOB
SOME FRIES TOO!

Brittany gives him some fries. Job glances quickly between his food and Brittany, and then nods.
He holds the food to his chest like a bag of money from a bank heist, and slowly backs away, randomly pointing his gun at people behind the counter.

JOB (CONT’D)
Good, thank you. Good.

Job sits down at a table and places his food in front of him. Everyone is eyeing him nervously.

JOB (CONT’D)
It’s ok. We’ll all be alright. Sit down and eat. I got my burger.

Everyone hesitantly sits down and eats. Job smiles happily at his food and takes a bite. We can hear sirens in the distance, steadily approaching, like a distant storm.

The Red Carpet


Tonight is the dreaded apex of an event that began less friday, the snapshot film festival.  Tonight the short films that we designed, wrote, filmed and edited in just 48 hours will be shown.  Tonight, the truth will at last be revealed; who was the best and who wasn’t.

Luckily for all of us, Party Spock did not compete this year, though i'm sure everyone will continue to have a logical time in his absence.

Every  year I do this i find myself sitting around and staring during the week before the big premier.  As I stare, I wonder.  I wonder how good the movies will be this year, when mine will be shown, if it will be the best etc.  I am always torn on the issue of hoping that the films will be good this year or not.  On the one heand, the whole event would be far more entertaining if every film is utterly fantastic and as any movie goer can tell you, there are few things worse than sitting through an awful movie, regardless of the length.

It doens't say on the poster, but the blood war is what happens when, at the end of this movie, everyone realizes that not only have they lost nearly two hours of their lives, but also $10.

I then realize that if all the movies are good, there is a better chance that my movie will be bad.  Good and bad are often relative terms.  Consider the movie Hangover 2.  We already saw that movie 2 or three years before it came it, in it’s less evolved form of hangover one.  Relative to hangover one, hangover 2 is bad.  Relative to ultraviolet, it is the best damn thing ever made.  Such is the case for film festival shorts.  If a good film shines out from the pile of pig filth that is the rest of the movies, it appears to amazing.  On closer inspection, however, one might discover it’s not as good as one previously thought.    The same stands for a good movie surrounded by better ones.  It’s still good, but in comparison to the other, better movies, it sucks.  There’s a formula for this.  It’s called the theory of relativity.

And so the pattern goes, back and forth, back and forth.  The film festival is, after all, a competition, with prize money to boot, and I want to win terribly, because I am competitive and I enjoy money.  But I don’t want to win by having everyone else be terrible.  Far better if everyone was good, but i was just better.  This thoughts constrict my insides like a burmese python, and always put me in a fowl mood.  Therefore, when I come upon other film makers during that wretched week of waiting, I often try to not say anything, and merely attempt to ferociously scowl.

“So how’d your movie go?” they always good-naturedly ask.

“Fine.” I growl, giving them nothing.  These pleasant exchanges are merely ways of gauging the competition, you see, and the less they know the better.  This confuses them, and makes them feel on edge.

“Well, good luck on friday” they say as they slowly make their escape.

“Break a leg.” I tell them, but I don’t say it like most people.  I say it like a curse.  I actually want them to break their fucking leg, maybe even both legs.  Would that I were to enter the brock forum, where the movies are screened, to discover a group of people surronding fellow filmmaker young Timmy, who’s gripping his severed femur and trashing about in pain.

“What happened here?” I would ask, hoping beyond hope that I had guessed the truth.

“Little Timmy,” a bystander would say, “He was just walking… and… and then his leg just broke!  Pow!  Just like that, almost as if he had been cursed or something.”  I would be barely able to contain my maniacal laughter.

“What’s so funny?” they would ask, offended.

“Oh, nothing!” I would laugh, “I just remembered a really funny meme I read, earlier today.  Berks, I think it was called.”

Ha!

I would then make my way to my seat, doubled over in joyous laughter, one opponent already out of the competition.  I know that his film would still be here, but hey, it’s my fantasy, leave it alone.

I don’t actually want anyone to break their leg(s) though.  I’d have to be some sort of deranged psychopath to want that.  In reality, I’m, just nervous about that movie.  I’m sure my fellow film makers can sympathize with me on this.  You, the audience, see a seamless whole, a complete narrative for your enjoyment.  We, the film makers, see a disjointed series of images, sometimes with audio, patch-worked together in a most inexpert manner, trying so hard to make sense of an already poorly written story, hastily spawned in the back of a cafeteria last friday night, and we weep.  We weep for the insanity of it all, the absurdity of some human being wanting to lose hours of sleep cutting and editing these videos.  We weep for you, who we entice to the screenings with promises of cupcakes and free drinks and force to watch or movies.  But most of all, we weep for ourselves, who cringe at every competitors clever plot twists and jump at every one of their cool camera angle, who look around expectantly after every joke, hoping beyond hope that you get it.  You seldom do, but that’s not your fault, it’s ours.  And for that we apologize.

And for this too. Despite me having nothing to do with it, I do so heartily apologize.

So to all my fellow short film makers, sweating copiously as the minutes slowly tick by before the debut of your masterpiece, I say this: you’ve already won.  You did it.  Who cares if it sucks?  Who cares if it’s the worst fucking thing the audience has ever endured?  It doesn’t matter, because you made it and it’s yours.  And you only made it in 48 hours.  Imagine what you could do with a whole week?

Are you there God? It’s me, OTHER GOD! HAHAHAHA!


SWISH went the basket as the ball passed cleanly through it, leaving nothing but displaced air and a net that felt as though it had been somewhat violated.

“Dear lord,” said Ray-Jay, running his fingers through his hair in utter disbelief.  “Thats two.  Two in a row.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?”  I said as I readied myself for yet another backwards half court shot.  “Schultz are you watching?  This is history in the making!  I would hazard a guess that no one has ever made two backwards half court shots in a row before ever.”  Schultz of course was not listening, seeing as he had passed out, much like an LSU fan 5 minutes into the second quarter,

Did we win? What? What do you mean it's tuesday???

His unconsciousness was most likely due to overexposure to awesomeness, courtesy of me making two backwards half court shots in a row.  Ray-Jay, being a half court shot witness veteran, had shielded his eyes and turned the children around before the second shot had gone in thusly rescuing them from the more serious side effects of such an event.

“Hang on, let me use my smartphone to find out.”  Ray-Jay said as he began furiously clicking away.  The fool!  “My god, you’re right!  No one has ever made 3 backwards shots in a row!  Ever!”

“Of course not!  It’s fucking impossible!  Now watch…ANDBEAMAZED!”  I hurled the ball mightily into the the awaiting bosom of the air.  On wings of glory it flew!  Pole, Andrew and Armani, the children I had mentioned earlier, began to drool uncontrollably at the majestic arch and sublimely perfect trajectory of the rubbery projectile as it splendidly soared to it’s intended target.  As it neared the hoop all of the onlookers held their breath.  When the ball passed through the net, the only sound to be heard was the collective exhale and dumbfounded admiration of the collective audience.

“I… I…” stuttered Pole.  I can only assume that his brain was attempting to process what it had just witnessed, you see, and therefore speech was all but impossible.

“Silence you troglodyte!”  I shouted at him, “Shut your face and retrieve my ball.

“But…” said Ray-Jay, entirely caught up in the moment, “You’ve already made three backwards halfcourt shots in a row, a feat even the mighty Hercules could not accomplish!  Surely you don’t mean to…”

“Enough!” I interrupted as Pole returned with the ball.  “I am not done here.  Not yet.”  I positioned myself in a horse stance for maximum power, and inhaled deeply.

Practice hard, dear reader, for the stance was made for times such as these.

The ball literally flew from my fingertips, a rainbow arching behind it that rained coins down upon the recumbent form of Schultz.  The light was blinding; I’m surprised even I was able to withstand the ball’s terrible glare!  Pole and the other children were on their knees weeping, overtaken by the beauty of the moment.  An onlooker might not have even noticed the slight metallic clink caused by an object passing perfectly through a basketball hoop, caught up as they would undoubtably be in the glamour of the moment.  The ball striking the cold, synthetic wood floor of the gym had the effect of a judge’s gavel.  Silence reigned for what seemed like hours untill little Pole approached me cautiously and trembling asked me

“Are you god?”

“No, no child. I am not your god.” I chuckled as I patted Pole on the head, “I merely play basketball like him.”  Ray-Jay stood stunned and unmoving, like an especially stiff plank of wood.  I’m afraid the shock might have killed him.  Shultz had woken up and was playing in a small pile of golden coins, tossing them in the air in euphoria.

“Money!  Hooray!” he shouted.  The coins, which had hitherto provided him with bushels of amusement, began to fade, and were all but gone by the time they reached the floor.  “Aww.” He lamented.  I squatted down and ran my finger across the floor where the gold had just been.  I then raised it to my nose, sniffed and recoiled.

“Leprechaun gold!  Tricky stuff, that.  Should have known.  It disappears right when you are appreciating it the most.”

“Charles?” Schultz asked, worried.

“Yes?”

“I think all the children have evaporated.”  I looked over to where the children were.  There now remained only a small puddle of evaporating liquid.

“Ah, so they have.” I replied, helping Schultz to his feet.  “Well, what do you say to a piece of that campers cookie cake?”

“I’d say fuck yeah my friend, fuck yeah.”

Weekly Guest Blogger of the Month


First off, i would like to let you all know that for 3 days in a row my blog had exactly 7 views.  Ideally, I would want this number to be increased by about 500,000 daily, but in folklore and myth the seventh son of a seventh son is a wizard.  I think this augurs great things for my future posts.  For instance, the day right after those 3 days of seven views had 16 views.

Speaking of views, ive subscribed to some other blogs and constantly wonder how big their audience is.  It cant be much bigger than mine

Pictured: My audience

But the way most bloggers talk, it sounds like everyone in the world is reading what they write about.  They have “guest bloggers” which are exactly what they sound like.  Guest blogging is an insidiously brilliant way to get more people to read your page.  For instance, say there is someone who has a dedicated following of thousands of readers.  I could get this person to guest blog on my page and siphon ALL of his or her viewers, at-least for a one day, skyrocketing my blog into superstardom.  Therefore, i would like you to welcome my guest blogger of the month: Cardinal Salvatore Bruchetti, the 124th Vatican Warlock Assassin Commander.

Note:  If you are not familar with Charlie sheen, just watch 

WEEKLY GUEST BLOGGER OF THE MONTH

The Cardinal

There has been alot of talk in the news lately about “assassins” and “warlocks” and “vatican” and i decided to guest post on this fantastic blog to clear the air; it’s all true. Since the great rift war of the mid 7th century the vatican defense council has kept a reserve unit of vatican warlock assassins in order to find and close any rifts to other dimensions that open from time to time.  Before I continue I would like to point that  ALL of these vatican warlock assassins are unpaid volunteers.  They dont see a dime for their noble sacrifices so please, show them some respect.

VWA’s are highly trained, super powerful win-o-mancers who are learned in the thaumaturgical arts of victory.  Training typically lasts anywhere from 10-20 years before a VWA is able to effectively combat rift demons and close the tears in space time that such creatures create.  If just ONE rift demon was loosed upon the world, the consquences would NEVER BE THE SAME.  Ever heard of a thing called armageddon?  Thats NOTHING compared to the power of a single rift demon.  Fortunately, we have VWA’s to combat these horrible evils.

A typical rift demon uttering his terrifying challenge.

Yes, Charlie Sheen is a VWA, the most decorated one in our long history.  Please show him some respect fort the good work that he does.

Pictured: Winning

And incase you people thing it is “funny” or “cool” or “lulz” to make fun of Charlie, let me tell you that he is literally addicted to winning.  If he doesnt win at everything always, he goes through horrible withdrawals that cripple his warlock powers for hours on end.  WE CANT AFFORD THIS. If Charlie isn’t leading around his band of VWA’s (called a troupe) the world might very well end.  So please, lay off Charlie sheen, the future depends on it.

Peace be with you

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