For all fans of Arrested Development and literature geeks out there, I give you an epic poem based on an epic poem about an even more epic series…
An Epic Tribute to the Bluth Family Misfortunes and
Michael’s Triumphant Return [to the Model] Home
‘Development Arrested’, that’s all they wrote
So our hero departed at the helm of his boat
From the Orange Coast he’d surely (Maeby?) float
Forgetting you should always leave a quick note.
He traveled, it seemed, the world around
No detective nor Ice could track him down
But alas Pop Pop would reach the far off town
To steer dear Michael’s vessel homebound.
Merely looking to take a much-needed break
Mike knew that he’d made a huge mistake.
The risks at sea he’d surely (Maeby?) take
And the journey home he’d set off to make.
If only by some wondrous sorcery could
He swiften his trek, yes, that would be good
But the family wizard said “No way, no deal.
COME ON! Magicians’ secrets are ne’er revealed.”
Not even for his own hermano would G-O-B do it
Nor could $80,000 of cartography lessons see Michael through it
So without direction he pushed off, and shouted, “Ahoy!”
Hoping he’d not end up in a sailor suit at Mother Boy.
Setting out on calm waters, Michael dozed off to dream,
Of banana stands, stair cars, girls with low self-esteem,
Men up in attics, men with no hair,
Lawyers, illusions and marriage by dare,
Of how hard it is to be both brown and white,
Business models, Annyong and courthouse fights,
Of cowardice as his true fatal flaw,
To which Gob would say, “CAW CA-CAW CA-CAW CA-CAW!”
As Mister Manager steered, Michael did not but stir,
So his son daydreamed of his own true love Ann (really, her?)
Wait, no, that’s not right. Was it her? Not sure, maybe.
But for homesickness he couldn’t but cry like a baby,
Cry like a man in cutoffs in the shower
(George Michael, after all, is a delicate flower.)
And right then Mike woke from his nightmare with a holler,
Feeling pain like he did with the goddamn Cornballer.
Realizing the life he was going back to,
Michael had second thoughts and knew not what to do,
Too far on their trek they had already traveled
And all of the sudden their plan had unraveled.
In need of some time to revamp their plot,
George Michael and Michael would give it a shot
To dock on the sands of an isle nearby
And figure it out (or maybe just die).
On this beach where the first leg of their journey had ended,
Was a blue one-eyed monster (no pun intended).
Not particularly large, and resembling an elf,
They soon came to learn that this man blue himself.
One more thing they learned, you can add to the list,
Was he happened to be the world’s first analrapist.
They talked through Michael’s problems ’til all had been mended
And again headed home, feeling like life was splendid.
The man yelled, “Alas! I’ve rubbed you the right way!”
“Yeah, you really might want to rephrase what you say.
But thanks for your help, we’ll blow out like two feathers.”
“Of course! I’ll stay here with my best friend, Carl Weathers!”
Back on the sea, deep and blue as that man,
Soaking in rays and nursing his tan,
Michael could only help but let out a whistle,
Flying straight home like an Iraqi war missile.
But soon drawing him towards a treacherous dune
Was a lonesome Siren, her intoxicating tune
No man could resist as she continued to croon
A classic song of delight in the afternoon.
And who should voice this heavenly piece
But his freckled television executive niece,
Definitely, Maeby had lured him right in
But he could not repeat George Michael’s first sin.
So to the sails our Michael was tied,
To withstand the sweet sounds as he passed right on by,
Keeping past love after past love in mind:
Mostly Sally. And Miss Baerly. Marta, Tracy and Maggie (who wasn’t actually blind).
Having traversed the fearsome and menacing pass,
Michael came upon yet another mean lass,
A sister, it was, though by no blood related,
But a leach, nonetheless, only by vodka sedated.
A six-headed beast, one for each social cause
She supports without question, please hold the applause,
Saving trees, fish and cows with such drive and such vision,
And last but not least: protesting circumcision.
Weaving away from her monstrous claw,
He evaded her grasp, as did Bob Loblaw.
“Hard to starboard” he yelled, keeping so calm and cool
When ahead it appeared a huge, swirling whirlpool.
“Are you serious, right now? Is this really for reals?”
But suddenly saw ‘twas a group of loose seals
And again turned the ship with all the strength he could muster.
Fearful, perhaps, but at least he’s not Buster.
But once he had passed them, well, what do you know?
He’d encounter another: one who’d never let go.
More than a hand to which she would cling,
Somehow drawing men in with each bitter zing.
To have a faithful son at her side once more,
Lucille tried to pull the ship into her shore,
(On which she’d romped with Oscar before)
Eyeing Lucille 2, hoping to even the score.
But quick as he was like a whore with her tricks,
Michael turned the boat and the course again fixed,
Home free he was, with his son at his side,
Each of his foes, long gone, pacified.
It’s the final countdown, and we indeed have arrived,
Thank [George Sr. in a] God [costume] that our hero survived,
Steering his ship towards his home port anew,
Thanks to Reed Hastings, for viewers like you.
Showing no fear: Notapusy, notacoward,
Ushered in by the voice of our main man Ron Howard,
Back to the model home, as in days of yore,
We give you Arrested Development, the last season: four.
It’s very rare that I’m really embarrassed to have gone to USC. (Oh, and apparently it’s now really rare that I write. And absolutely NOT to quote that horrendous sketch-that-makes-me-want-to-kill-Keenan-Thompson-but-not-in-a-hate-crimey-kind-of-way-AT-ALL, but “What’s up with that?” Sorry….) But today. I just. words. Can not. I just need to get on with the story because it’s making me depressed thinking about it.
I was on campus talking to a bunch of senior PR students. Giving them advice. Accidentally dropped an F-bomb or two. Nbd. And I realized after finishing my ultra-inspiring panel discussion that while I have recently been severing ties with a number of collegey things (blacking out super hard and puking (ish), wearing my sorority shirts, being friends with fratty club promoters on Facebook, Facebook groups relating to fratting), I had failed to fully separate myself financially.
Yes, though I no longer owe them money, a USC-owned institution still had money that belonged to me. And though I had access to it via my debit card (sitting in my desk drawer, unlike another of my debit cards that was recently stolen out of my roommate’s car when she was at the car wash <– yeah, that shit happens. fuckers charged $140. AT THE SAME GAS STATION WHERE SHE GOT HER CAR WASHED. lock your shit up.), I really just needed to close my checking account with the USC Credit Union and have that not hanging over my head anymore.
A couple of points you should be aware of:
- The reason I haven’t closed this account is because. well. the only times I’m really ever on campus is drunk on a Saturday to watch football. Banks just aren’t having that.
- I have not used that debit card in forever and a half.
- At one point there was negative $2.50 in it, yet I was never charged an overdraft or anything. And they eventually just restored my account to zero.
- So apparently I lied up there – USC didn’t have my money. They just had a thing that held money, were I to have any. It’s kind of like spending a ton of money on a wallet and have nothing to put in it. Which is kind of like buying an education and then having to use it to have money again. All of these analogies are upsetting to me. I’d much prefer getting things for free. But I digress.
So I make my way up to the credit union and the following conversation occurs:
Me: I have a checking account. I haven’t used it in 12 centuries. I don’t even think there’s money in it. I don’t know the account number, and I don’t have the debit card with me. Here’s my ID, let’s get that closed now.
Teller: Let’s see here. Yep, card hasn’t been used in over 2 years. You have 3 cents…. oh….. uh… hold on, your account just froze my computer.
Funny story on its own, right? Cuz, you know, they gave me 3 pennies even though I at one point owed them 250? No. Not even close to what I heard next to me.
Asian girl, probably a freshman, definitely a complete moron: (pulling multiple hundreds out of her wallet) Um, I need some traveler’s checks.
Indian teller (<– relevant, I promise): Ok.
AGPAFDAM: Wait, is it better to get traveler’s checks, or just get the money here and bring it with?
IT: *confused silence*
AGPAFDAM: Like should I get traveler’s checks? Or if I get Indian currency here and bring it with me, will I have a better exchange rate? I’m going to India with the business school. (*Lara kills herself upon hearing* <– not really, but kind of)
IT: Currency exchange rates change daily.
AGPAFDAM: *confused silence*
IT: There’s no way of knowing if you’d get a better rate here or there. And that doesn’t have anything to do with traveler’s checks.
AGPAFDAM: Ok, so I guess I’ll get some. If I don’t use them all, can I bring them back and get my money back?
…… at this point, I stopped listening, embittered by the fact that this person 1) has parents paying for her to go to India 2) has hundreds of dollars that her parents gave her to go spend in India 3) quite possibly may not know where/what India is 4) is most definitely going to graduate and get a job in consulting making minimum double my salary.
Also, my teller’s computer had finally just unfrozen, so he gave me my 3 pennies. I kept them, but I really should have given them to that girl to buy a fucking clue. Or a traveler’s check.
Though my absence from this blog for the past month might suggest otherwise, I’m first and foremost a writer. It’s my craft (<– #ThingsThatShouldBeAddedToTheListBelow).
And I mean, I’m also a really good actress. And I could totally be an actress if I wanted to be. But I don’t have a full on camera crew nor the desire to make a half-ass, shitty “Shit ___ Say” like all the unemployed 20-somethings/coeds out there who are bored as fuck and not actually creative enough to make it work.
Don’t get me wrong. “Shit Girls Say”, “Shit Nobody Says”, “Shit Black Girls Say”, “Shit White Girls Say to Black Girls” – top notch. But an overwhelming majority of the other lol-m-g-let’s-jump-on-the-shit-so-and-so-says-bandwagon videos really put the “shit” in their video titles (unless they’re total vadges and put “sh*t” or “stuff” instead. Like that’s going to make a difference.)
Regardless of the fact that I generally pride myself in not stealing ideas from other people, these videos have been truly inspirational, and it’s kind of making me sad that I don’t have access to bored film students at USC anymore. But if any of you come across the following and want to use it, I guess just credit me?
This intro is already getting too long (and probably boring. I’ll admit it.), so here’s my latest masterpiece. Use your imaginations. (Oh, and I know there’s already a video for this one. And it’s fucking terrible.)
Shit Aspiring Actresses Say
I just think I need new headshots.
He thinks I have real potential.
I won’t do nudity.
But like, if it’s essential for the role.
I’m totally fine with side-boob.
So you just want me to hold them like this?
I have an audition.
Yeah, I got a call back.
I really think I’m gonna get it.
This could be it.
I’m so close to getting my SAG card.
Yeah, I have an IMDB page.
I just need my time during the day for auditions.
Yeah, it’s at some apartment in the valley.
I’ve been in some commercials.
I was the lead in my high school play.
Aw thanks, I got them taken last week, the photographer was a-may-zing.
I’ll just have a salad.
I think I’m gonna stay in and work on my monologues.
I need to memorize these lines. This audition is a really big deal.
I met this agent last night, and he totally thinks I have the “it” factor.
I would have been perfect for that role.
He really wants to represent me.
I signed with a manager today.
Oh my god, that’s totally the kind of dress I’m going to wear at the Oscars.
I don’t even get why she’s famous.
I saw Jennifer Garner at Urth today. She’s not even that pretty.
Yeah, just a few student films.
It’s called Naughty Nurses 15, but I read the script and it’s really good.
I just feel like I’m really becoming the character.
There’s so much I can do with the role.
“But, Papa, I love him.”
“And then, he raped me.”
“And then, they raped me.”
I can totally cry on demand.
I’ve been on Law & Order.
It was the one where the girl got like gang raped by the homeless clan of former circus clowns.
I’ve worked with him. He’s such a dick.
I can’t wait to move to New York.
But if I get a boob job, they’ll never consider me for serious roles.
Why are they always complaining about paparazzi? I love having my picture taken.
Can I take your order?
And I’m sorry if you do too and you’re angry at me for being the laziest blogger in the entire world lately. Why? Because I exercise now (yikes!) and like living in the real world sometimes (double yikes!).
But there’s nothing like a love letter from “genital warts” to remind me of why I do this whole blog thang:
Unfortunately, I don’t like genital warts, and genital warts are not welcome here. Though I’m afraid of being in contact with (<– get it??) genital warts, feel free to send genital warts an email. Maybe something like “I HATE YOU GENITAL WARTS!”. At least that’s what I would say. But maybe you like genital warts. Who knows.
Anyway, I have some posts coming up. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, and I want to share those thoughts with you, but I got this really cool little box that lets me stream Netflix to my TV (because I don’t have a penis and therefore don’t own a PS3 or XBox whatever the fuck you need to stream Netflix to your TV) and I’ve watched the entire series of the Hills and about 3 seasons of How I Met Your Mother in about 3 weeks.
Jesus H. Christ is right. Looks like my boyfriend Tim Warner is shit outta luck, there’s a new game in TV town.
Lara, hold on a second. Did you really just skip over the fact that you RE-watched the entire series of the Hills? Even that last season when Lauren Conrad isn’t even in it?
Yeah, I did, and I’m not embarrassed. I like the TV on in the background. And with the Hills, I don’t even have to watch, because I know what’s happening. They’re sitting at a trendy outdoor restaurant in LA having lunch. Or at a trendy, dimly-lit restaurant having dinner. Having conversations that go like this:
“And I was like, ‘Whatever’.”
Yes, that was pretty much the best recap I’ve ever written. That is, until I take on Virgin Diaries in an upcoming post. Wait for it, like a virgin bride and groom saving their first kiss for the wedding. And then, you know, violently orally accost it.
Even though Ryan technically lost to Bradley Cooper for People’s Sexiest Man of the Year, I think we all won. Why? Because the Ryan Gosling protests have increased the number of sexy Ryan Gosling photos I see every day by approximately 9904%.
Why else do we win? Because unlike boys, we don’t have actual boners to conceal. Oh, except for gay guys. Sorry. This must be rough for you. Good luck being at work for the next few days.
For everyone else who loves Ryan Gosling and doesn’t have a weiner and doesn’t have the luxury of actually protesting outside Peopla Magazine’s headquarters, please feel free to post this all over your Bookface and Twatter:
Saturday night I went to a birthday celebration. ‘Twas fantastic. A lot of that had to do with the fact that we went to a BYOB restaurant and got pretty shitty drunk for pretty cheap. My kind of situation.
Having said that, there was a less-than-desirable bathroom situation. Meaning that there was one unisex bathroom. (Gross.) And of course, with all the booze I had consumed, I had to use it.
As soon as I walked into the bathroom, a few ridiculous things happened:
1. This sign was on the toilet
Oh, cool, so I’m just supposed to “press down”? Is that how a toilet works? Because it’s not like I’ve used one every fucking day of my life since I was 2. (<– I actually have no idea how old I was when I was potty trained, but that sounds about right.)
Really though? Necessary? I think not. It’s not like we’re in a 3rd world country. We get it. Thanks, Cha Cha Chicken.
Oh, but wait…
2. If you did, in fact, “press down” nothing happened because the flusher was broken. Thanks for being inaccurate, sign.
3. People were using the toilet and not pressing down.
4. I FIXED IT.
Yeah, put this on the list of “really ridiculous shit I do when I’m drunk”: Realizing that the flusher is broken on the toilet and lifting up the lid on the tank and fucking FIXING THAT SHIT. I don’t even know how I did it, but I did it. Like a pro. First try. And then clearly I washed my hands a LOT.
But seriously. I think I should get a prize. Slash everyone who was there should get me a present.
Sooo yeah. Got drunk and fixed a toilet. #Saturday