“That’s my girl,” mumbled her comatose ex-country star father after Miley had finished reciting the sentimental pap that the movie’s incompetent screenwriters had recycled. “C’mere and give Daddy a big southern hug, but not the incestuous kind, ’cause we might lose our target demographic.”

“OK,” she said, smiling a smile she wasn’t sure was real. She leaned in toward her father, who put a Taser against her left breast and shocked her. An electric shock surged through her body like her underwear photos surged through the Internet. While she lay twitching on the couch, Billy Ray Cyrus tied her up.

“Daddy, what the hell?” said Miley Cyrus.

“I’m not your father,” said Billy Ray Cyrus. “Your real father was Napoleon, and he froze you in a block of ice so that one day you could take over the world by mobilizing all preteens and making a massive bubble-gum slingshot that could obliterate entire cities. I was playing along so that I could finally have a hit song when you were queen of the world, but there are some people who’d like to have a word with you about your quest for world domination. I’m afraid they paid good money for me to help them.”

“But I thought you were my daddddyyyyy!” pouted Miley Cyrus. “I thought you lovvveeedddd me!”

“You’re dumb as shit,” Billy Ray Cyrus said. “All right, you guys can come out now.”

“Thank you,” said a soft voice. Two figures emerged from the refrigerator and shot Billy Ray Cyrus in the back of the head. He died instantly.

Two young, hand-drawn boys stepped into the light and looked smugly down at their captor.

“Who the jeepers are you?” asked Miley Cyrus.

“I’m Phineas,” said Phineas. “And this is Ferb.”

Ferb waved mutely.

“Who are you nerds and what the hell do you want?” asked Miley Cyrus. “I’ve never heard of you before.”

Ferb shook his head sadly, his mop of green hair swaying from side to side.

“We actually represent the only quality programming left on Disney,” said Phineas. “While most shows, especially yours, are cliched, superficial, overcommericalized junk, we are the only show left with some dignity. If we eliminate you and the cheesy show you use to present a kid-friendly image of yourself–”

“It’s not right to mask your being a shameless whore by compromising the dignity of the Disney Channel,” added Ferb in a rare moment of speech.

“–Then everyone would realize that we’re the only good show on Disney,” continued Phineas. “But first, we have to stop you from carrying out your plans of world domination that Napoleon sired you for. Ferb, the kill-i-nator, please?”

Ferb produced an ingenuously designed contraption made out of Tinkertoys, playing cards, and small pieces of radioactive metal. It looked very dangerous.

“Help! Someone, help me!” Miley was defenseless. She had no idea what to do. She had let brains go to the devil when she decided to do a mindless children’s show for Disney, and she had never had time to be strong because she was too busy reinforcing feminine stereotypes for our nation’s children. She began frantically searching through the cushions on her couch for something to defend herself with.

Instead, a nude, crowbar-weilding Asian man jumped out of the couch.

“What the hell’s going on?” asked Miley Cyrus frequently.

“Calm yourself, Miley,” echoed a booming, radiant voice, and Chuck Norris stepped out of the shadows.

“Chuck Norris?” asked Phineas in reverent awe.

“Yes,” said Chuck Norris. “It is I, Chuck Norris, the universe’s appointed guardian and executor of justice. This is my sidekick, Mr. Chow.”

He indicated the nude Asian. The nude Asian waved.

“Justice?” said Miley Cyrus. “So you’re going to let me go?”

“No, Miley,” chuckled Chuck Norris, “I said justice. Chow?”

Mr. Chow gleefully swung his crowbar, to the terrified screams of every little girl in the world.

“Would you boys like to go to an amusement park?” said Chuck Norris to Phineas and Ferb.

“Yes sir!” they replied gleefully, following Chuck Norris out the door. Mr. Chow, who was the last to leave, turned around and looked at Miley Cyrus’ corpse.

“Toodleoo, muthafucka.”

Keep in mind that I’m not taking a jab at kindergarten teachers. Of course they’re fallible. Everyone is. But we have to remember that they’re molding the minds of the most susceptible kids in the world. There are no excuses for accidentally feeding their minds false information. Maybe all kindergarten classes should be taught by google.

All plans for technology to take over the world aside, let me get to my point.

In Kindergarten, we learned more than most people care to believe. We learned simple things like opposites and colors, as well as etiquette standards such as how to share and where it is acceptable to poop (NOT in the puppet theatre, Fortney. NOT in the puppet theatre).

But when we weren’t learning, we sang songs. Since I go to a hippie school, most of them were about trees. Then, of course, there was the hippie standard–It’s A Small World After All.

Since we were kindergartners, most of us memorized the lyrics and sang along in our endearing little kindergartner voices.

But I, being a cut above my fellow droolers, was already questioning authority. I took note that this was a blatant contradiction to what we had been taught about opposites. Opposites were two different things, I remembered that much. And the world was big, based on what they’d told me. And I knew that there was no way something could be two things at the same time.

So, in my head, I sang “It’s a big world after all.” And I still do, to this day.

I know there are people who are going to say “C’mon, Fish. You really want to go against those adorable dancing kids in the ride at Disneyland?”

Yeah, actually, I do. They’ll tell you that it’s a small world after all–but they’re wrong. It’s big.

NEWSFLASH–THE REASON THE DANCING “IT’S A SMALL WORLD” FIGURES SAY THAT IS BECAUSE THEY’RE FUCKING MIDGETS.

They are midgets, surrounded by nothing but midgets. Of course they think it’s a small world. Oh, but no! You say. That’s not true, because they see us coming through the ride, and we’re big, right?

NEWSFLASH NO. 2–THEY ARE DOLLS. THEY ARE THEREFORE BLIND.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to take advice about spacial proportions for a blind guy. It really speaks to what kind of society we are when we follow blindly the word of blind, dancing midgets.

You guys can trust the blind midgets, but I’m gonna keep singing “It’s a big world after all.”

Seriously, folk singers, this kind of stuff wouldn’t happen if you didn’t try to make your songs all metaphorical. Just make one long song called “Be nice to each other, and also the trees,” and you’ll have it done.

By which I mean we moved Sarah Palin’s “Going Rogue” from the Bestsellers to the Humor section.

It sounds like a random act of teenageness, to be sure. The placing of “Going Rogue” next to the Pearls Before Swine books and covering it up with Ozzy Osbourne’s memoir seems largely inconsequential, right?

On the contrary, it is the first step in my master plan.

Hold on. I need to get my radar-screen backdrop behind me, a sinister-looking glove, and a fluffy, strokable cat for the unveiling of my treacherous plot.

You see, Sarah Palin is only the first victim. Soon, I will branch out, targeting the books of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, and Karl Rove. I shall build my army and storm the local Barnes & Noble, hiding the books in places that no one will look in a million years–in the bathrooms, in the section where Greek philosophers discuss how to be eloquent and succeed in politics, behind copies of Twilight. Soon, not one book of theirs will be available for purchase, having been safely tucked away behind a cheap, dusty old paperback with a title like “The Joy of Fascism” that no one would want to read, ever.

I’m not doing this to silence these writers/crusaders/drunk people yelling–far be it from me to deny anyone their right to free speech (besides, they get plenty of free speech on TV). However, I am doing it to–and my reason may shock you–save Republicans’ money.

Why would I want to save Republicans’ money, you ask? Wouldn’t I, with my stereotypical republican views, believe that they would spend it on Confederate flags and marriages to their second wives and beer? Or, worse, make campaign contributions to Sarah Palin for Queen?

No. I’m hiding their biased political bibles to save them money so that they will simply have more. Then, when tax time comes around, they will complain less about taxes. And then health reform can finally get passed.

So if you want our country to live a healthy lifestyle, with Republicans not complaining about every penny of their tax dollars that the government spends on frivolties like, say….education, go to your local book store and start hiding Sarah Palin’s memoir.

It’s for our own good.

“C’mon, Edwards, I neeeeeed you,” whined Bella. “I’m just so dramaaaaatic and if I don’t get laid real sooooooon, I’ll sigh for four weeks straiiiiiight and then everyone will keel over deeeead.”

“All right,” said Edward, who was currently sucking the blood out of a squirrel. “If you want to get laid, you’ll get laid. Get out of the car.”

“We’re doing this outsiiiiiiiide?” whined Bella. “I don’t like treeeeeeeeeees. They don’t spaaaaarkle. Can’t we just do it in the caaaaaaar? I’ve got my cliched diiiiiiary entry all planned out about how the car was roccccccking and stuff.”

“Well, um,” said Edward, “I forgot to tell you that vampires have this rare, uh, condition that causes them to spontaneously combust if, um, they don’t have sex outside.”

“I don’t want you to spontaneously combuuuuuuust,” cried Bella. “Then you’d be gooooooone. And my life would be ooooooooover. I’m I’d have no one except the thirty guys who inexplicably liiiiiike me even though all I do is whiiiiiiine.”

“Just get out of the damn car,” said Edward.

“Don’t yellllllll at meeeeee!” whined Bella. She got out of the damn car.

Edward produced a gun. “OK, put your hands on the car! Now!”

“Eddddwarrrrrd? What the hell is thisssssssss?” she wined.

“My name’s not Edward. I’m Tyler Branson, deputy head of the whiny bitch police. You’re going away for life.”

“Buttttttttt…I thought you looooooved me?”

“Do you honestly think I could love a person who spends her time narrating a trashy novel about how she’s madly in love with a random, brooding kid in her biology class who feeds on people’s bodily fluids? I was conducting a sting operation?”

“Nooooooo! Jacobbbbb! Save meeeeeeee!”

Jacob Black stepped out of the shadows with a gun of his own. “I think you mean Special Agent Luke Wharton, of the homeland security department, crazy motherfucker division. Bella Swann, you’re under arrest on one count of improper misuse of a motorbike, five billion counts of reckless attraction to fictional beasts, and one count of unhealthy glitter obsession.”

“Noooooo!” cried Bella. “My weird uncle willlllll save me!!!”

“You mean me?” said her uncle, stepping out from behind a tree. He tore off a fake latex mask to reveal an unmistakably distrustworthy set of features.

“Richard Nixon?” said Jacob Black/Special Agent Luke Wharton. “I thought you were dead!”

“No,” said Richard Nixon. “Actually, I was, in my disgrace, masquerading as a doctor in the hospital the day Bella was born. When I first heard that obnoxious little cry, I knew she would corrupt and annoy an entire generation. I faked my own death and trailed her, knowing I would come out, when the time was right, and kill her, saving America and regaining the public’s trust.”

He went behind the tree and came back out with a tank. “Bella Swann, your time is up.”

All three fired at the same time, and Bella fell to the ground, dead.

“Let’s all go get a beer,” said Richard Nixon.

————–

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Stephanie Meyer, deleting the sensible ending that a wise person with forethought had wrote on her computer.

My favorite shows are their comedies. I watch ‘em every week. Now those are some original shows for you. I want to talk about two particular shows of theirs–newcomer Community and critical darling 30 Rock–and examine how two TV shows can be so good, yet so different.

Let’s examine the original casts of characters. In Community, Joel McHale plays a charming wise guy with a twinkle in his eye. He knows how to talk, and he’ll use it to convince his friends and victims. He’s low on scruples but has a heart underneath. He comes from a high paying job as a lawyer.

Meanwhile, one of the best actors on 30 Rock is Alec Baldwin. He plays a charming wise guy with a twinkle in his eye. He knows how to talk, and he’ll use it to convince his friends and victims. He’s low on scruples but has a heart underneath. He has from a high paying job as an executive at NBC.

Also, he’s old. The age dynamic creates a big difference there. It allows the 30 Rock to have 50% more arthritis jokes from its male leads. (Of course, Community’s supporting actor Chevy Chase makes up for those with his own old-man jokes).

Speaking of Chevy Chase, he has a heckuva a character to play–very fresh. He plays a fat, bespectacled guy who is arrogant, thinks he is funny, and can sometimes be crude and shocking.

You think THAT’S a good character? Check out Judah Friedlander’s character on 30 Rock. He plays a fat, bespectacled guy who is arrogant, thinks he is funny, and can sometimes be crude and shocking. He also wears trucker hats sometimes.

Trucker hats provide a really subtle difference. They can convey a lot of details about a character.

Speaking of characters, you wouldn’t believe the one they created for Gillian Jacobs’ Britta. She’s a confident, strong woman entering middle age who doesn’t have much success with love life, and can sometimes be not very feminine and occasionally confrontational–but she’s still a good person with a big heart.

Speaking of big hearts, let’s talk 30 Rock’s big-hearted Liz Lemon, played by Tina Fey. She’s a confident, strong woman entering middle age who doesn’t have much success with love life, and can sometimes be not very feminine and occasionally confrontational–but she’s still a good person with a big heart.

She’s also a brunette. Hair color–another subtle nuance that makes characters believable.

Speaking of believable, I think I see a bit of myself in Danny Pudi’s Abed, a polite but awkward young man whose misguided antics provide for frequent comic relief.

Speaking of comic relief, I think that the funniest character by far on 30 Rock is Jack McBrayer’s Kenneth, a polite but awkward young man whose misguided antics provide for frequent comic relief.

Oh, and did I forget to mention that Abed is middle eastern?? That opens the door for a lot of ethnic jokes (and their accompanying lawsuits)

And speaking of different ethnicities, there are more minorities in the group–for instance, Donald Glover’s Troy, a funny African-American guy who can sometimes be selfish and egotistical due to his popularity, and who is sometimes clueless, but nevertheless has a big heart.

That sort of reminds me of that guy on 30 Rock–you know, Tracy Morgan’s Tracy Jordan, a funny African-American guy who can sometimes be selfish and egotistical due to his popularity, and who is sometimes clueless, but nevertheless has a big heart.

Then, of course, there’s Shirley, a gossipy, grudge-holding, occasionally paranoid, insecure, and overly cheerful middle-aged woman.

She is, of course, not to be confused with 30 Rock’s Jenna, a gossipy, grudge-holding, occasionally paranoid, insecure, and overly cheerful middle-aged woman.

But hey, Community has an extra character to add to the mix–Annie, a smart, cute, innocent, and sweet young dark-haired thing who is a voice of reason and can do no wrong.

Oh, I almost forgot! This season, 30 Rock introduced Danny Baker, a smart, cute, innocent, and sweet young dark-haired thing who is a voice of reason and can do no wrong.

So how can NBC be the fourth place network? We’ll find out, right after ANOTHER exhausting series of AT&T commercials with Luke Wilson and Verizon commercials with those annoying little maps that make me feel sad that I have AT&T.

OK, commercial break’s over. Yeah, the people at NBC are just dumb. Case closed.

The Office, SNL, and Celebrity Apprentice, you need to save yourselves.

Why not? I like the hosts. I like music, which is what they play. I like food, which is what they eat. I would probably like the sexual stimulation taking place on the dance floor were I man enough to engage in it.

I always think I will enjoy the party. When I get the invite in the mail, I am honored to be invited by the host. I know they will throw a great party. I put on my most knock-’em-dead clothes (generally consisting of a pair of randomly selected jeans and a shirt from Abercrombie that a girl told me she liked once) and know that I will rock this.

I enter the party and it’s awesome. Everyone is having a great time, whooping it up and shouting on the dance floor.

In general, it is not a good place for a guy for whom ‘excitement’ means ‘the feeling you get when you make the semifinalists of a screenplay contest’.

As I edge carefully around the group orgy in the middle of the dance floor, I realize that the entire place is populate by cool cats (translation: people who I am not worthy to behold). My only good friend there is the host, who obviously cannot chill in the back with me and laugh at my Sarah Palin jokes all night long.

I conjecture that I will be doing a lot of observing tonight. The first thing I observe is a tagalong little brother 7th grader workig the room better than me. Now I KNOW that I will be doing a lot of observing tonight.

So, after observing, I have compiled a list of must-haves for a bitchin’ party. Yes, party hosts, these will be somewhat cynical and sarcastic. This is not because you throw horrible parties (you throw great parties), it is because I am bitter about how socially demented I am. It is not your fault that I have no friends. Or only friends from nerd camp that reside in faraway places.

How to have a bitchin’ party:

Rule #1: Have generic floor-shaking dance music.
I know what caused the earthquake in Haiti, and it was the thundering bass line of the dance songs that it seems every DJ is required by law to play.

Another factor is the food. The party I attended had a nice assortment of ham sandwiches, potato chips, and pretzel sticks, which brings me to…
Rule #2–It is not a bitchin’ party unless the refreshment table looks like a third grader’s lunch box.

The decorations are also a factor. For instance, just to show that it is their party, the birthday person gets a….

Rule #3: EGO WALL.

This is basically the equivalent of the 6-year-old  birthday child bossing their friends around about where to sit and demanding the largest piece of cake. It’s a bunch of photos of the person.

Also, the DJ should have brought along lights with him to aid his performance, meaning:

Rule #4: It’s not a bitchin’ party unless the ceiling looks like an LSD-induced hallucination.

Other fine touches that I saw at the party:

Rule #5: Grass skirts on the overhanging lights.

They weren’t glass skirts per se, but they were made of the same material. The stuff was just gray. It looked very nice. Plus, it aided me in fantasizing about Hawaiian girls after the depressing realization that everyone on the dance floor was getting some and I was not began to sink in.

Also, the couches were covered in some sort of sparkly, glittery covering, which inspired

Rule #6: It’s only a bitchin’ party if your couches look like a stripper’s crotch.

Another mainstay:

Rule #7: You must have a well-wishings board.

I wrote a generic (read: crappy and uninventive) sentiment. How could I not? Most of my memories with people are too nerdy to put on a board that is generally populated by cool cats. It’d stick out like a pair of briefs in a 10-pack of boxers.

Rule #8: Don’t lull your guests into a false sense of security.

Don’t let them think you’re going to do everything for them. This is easily achieved by purchasing ridiculously hard-to-open soda bottles. I spent five minutes trying to twist the top off mine, when the host’s mother took pity on me (and my bloodied hand) and fetched a soda opener from the kitchen. Even then, whenever we needed to open a soda, we had to track down whoever had the opener at that time. It kept us on our toes.

Rule #9: Have a photographer.

Not only will it give you lasting memories, it’ll make your loner population feel 45% more uncomfortable. See, not a lot of people noticed I was just wand’ring around. But photographers are paid to notice things–and then take pictures of them. I caught them giving me sympathetic stares. Not one to accept pity, I kept turning my back on them. My ass ought to be prominently featured in the party album. Hope I have a nice ass.

And rule #10: Have freakin’ fun.

It’s what parties are all about. This is a classic ‘I can never follow my own advice rule’, but I still encourage people to follow it. If no one has fun at parties, no one will have parties any more. And then what can I use as a vessel to carry me to the land of Whining About My Crappy Social Life?

I dislike myself.

Fish out.

Also, I may have to be more careful of what I say here, after what I will lovingly call the Tajikistani Scandal that resulted in the deletion of all my posts (no Tajikistanis were harmed in the making of this blog. I swear). Please, if I say anything that would cause my principal to say “You have just very seriously violated the values that we as a community share,” please make me delete it, offer a public apology, and force me to stop blogging under the influence of too many Reese’s peanut butter cups.

So, today, I’m going to talk about one of my greatest fears. I actually have many: fire drills, Republican majorities, castration, anal sex, urinals in public bathrooms, and elevator doors, to name a few.

Here, I’m talking about my fear of making phone calls.

Making phone calls, you ask? Such a mundane exercise that we do every day.

Yes. And yet so traumatizing.

After too many awkward messages left on females’ phones, embarrassing conversations where no one understands everyone else over the phone, and telemarketers mistaking me for my mother, I have decided to abstain from the phone forever. My voice sounds horrible, and whenever I leave a message I sound like the Awkward-Tron 2000. I’m not very good at monologues (I am, however, very good at mono-blogs. hee hee.)

A sample message left by me:

“Hey Danielle, I mean Allie, I, um, like, called and you’re not…there. Not at your residence. Unless of course you’re ignoring me. Which, um, you’re not, right? So, anyway, I wanted to talk to you, so…call me back, because, like, I want to talk to you. So, yeah, call me back. That would be, like awesome.”

That makes sense, of course, as the type of message I would leave when I was 10 and my idea of bold and daring was inviting the cute girl I was friends with over to my lounge chair to play an obscure French card game.

Except my skills have not evolved. My messages are drenched with stutters, repeats, and many a faux pas (Which means a ‘fake not’, apparently. What the hell? Any time I make a faux pas it’s too horrible to be fake and too grevious to be dismissed as a ‘not’).

Anyway, today I had to man up and face my greatest fear.

See, I had written some politically themed songs over the past week, and I wanted to sing them, play guitar, and put them on facebook. A sample lyric from my song about Fox News:

“We report news in a way
that’s balanced and it’s fair–
that is if you’re a skinhead
livin’ south of Delaware”

Problem was, my guitar was at the shop. They were mounting hooks on it so I could put a strap on it and walk around with it as I trashed the Republican party.

It had been in the shop for a week. I know, I know, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Rome also didn’t consist of two small hooks that just needed to be glued to something.

I asked my father: “Did the guitar shop call and say anything about my guitar being ready?”

His intentions were good. He meant no harm. But five terrifying words spilled out of his mouth.

“Why don’t you call them?”

“Um…” I stammered, desperate. “I…don’t have their phone number.”

“That’s what the phone book’s for.”

I nervously dialed, my fingers pressing the keys reluctantly.

“Garret park guitars, [unintelligible gibberish]“

I don’t know what the man on the other line said. It could have been “How may I help you?” It could have been “If you stay on the line, that is confirming that you want me to come over to your house and rape you”. Telephones are very confusing.

“Yeah…I dropped my guitar off at your place, like, for some stuff.”

“What stuff.”

“Like, you were putting stuff on so I could put, like a strap on. Those thingies.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Um..Stark.”

“Doug. And I need your last name, Doug.”

“Actually! Stark is…first name–I mean last. Stark is…last name. My last name.”

“Oh, yes. Stark. We have you here. And what was it for?”

“You were…” Oh shit. How do I explain this? “…putting on a thing that would, like, hold a strap.”

“Yep, we have you here. It should be ready to pick up…now.”

I got the guitar, but I still had to go through that traumatic experience. Plus, when I recorded the videos, the camera wouldn’t let me upload them to my computer. Make that two technologies I hate. I wish I was old so that I could throw them on the ground and say “Why won’t this dagnabbed newfangled gadget work?” and people won’t look at me like I’m running through Quiznos naked.

After that, went to my little sisters’ third-and-fourth-grade folk dance night. One parent, in the middle, turned to another and remarked “This is worse than Jazzercise.”

You know your social life is fucked up when your most exciting Friday night in months takes place at a crappy Jazzercise imitation for third graders. I’m off to cry myself to sleep and ride on the back of a dragon slaying phones in my dreams.