Walden, Directed by Quentin Tarantino

Written By Henry David Thoreau
                          Directed by Quentin Tarantino

When I wrote the following pagesor rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord Massachusetts.  I lived there two years and two months, immersing myself in nature, self-reliance, simple living, and personal introspection.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.  But my life is anything but quiet or desperate. You seeI'm in the killin' Nazi business, and cousin, business is a-boomin!

It all began shortly after my arrival at Walden Pond. I was pondering the indescribable innocence and beneficence of nature and the notion that time is but the stream I go a-fishing in when my reveries were interrupted by a strenuous knock on the door of my small but thoroughly amenable tightly shingled and plastered cottage perched within the New England countryside. 

"Are you Mr. Henry David Thoreau, the transcendentalist?" called a voice through the cottage window from the direction of the bean field I had diligently and gingerly planted and was so tenderly nurturing. "I am Colonel Hans Landa, the Jew Hunter."

Now I think that I love society as much as most and am ready enough to fasten myself to any full-blooded man that comes in my way, so I welcomed Colonel Landa as proudly as Chanticleer into my humble yet fully self-sufficient dwelling abode.

"May I smoke my pipe?" inquired the Colonel.

In the spirit of fellowship and conviviality, I nodded in the assent. 

"So you're the Jew Hunter?" I asked of the Colonel.

"That's a bingo!" replied Colonel Landa with churlish frivolity. 

"Colonel Landa," I offered in deepest sincerity, "I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor."

"Mr. Thoreau," retorted the Colonel with brusqueness of a most crude and acute nature, "I must now search your house for Jews, unless you have something to tell me that makes the conduct of a search unnecessary."

It was a propitious moment for Colonel Hans Landa to meet his transcendental maker.  

"This will make the conduct of your search unnecessary!" I shouted, quickly reaching under the table and pulling out my Glock 34 Semi-Automatic Pistol, a present from Emerson.  I blasted Landa all the way to Walden Pond, where his blood drenched pulverized remains scattered into fish food for the random pickerel, perch, and pouts which local industrious fishermen are wont to catch in its expressive translucent waters.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. What I learned, what nature had to teach, was that I wanted me 100 Nazi scalps real bad!  And I did not want to discover when I came to die that I had one Nazi scalp less.

After that my life became a 24/7 Kill Wilhelm-A-Thon!

I destroyed Nazis by bashing in their brains with baseball bats, choking them with wild hickory nuts, slicing and dicing them with a machete, and reading them the first draft of my chapter on Economy with special emphasis on the accounting and bookkeeping details. Once I dispatched a Nazi by reading him the entire First Series of Emerson's Essays after which I carved a giant likeness of a loon landing upon Flint's Pond on his forehead. 

I think this just might be my masterpiece!

The day is an epitome of the year: the night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer.  I prefer the winter for killin' Nazis because I hate to get up early.  If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. But if the music be Wagner, shoot him right through the head!

I finally left Walden September 6th, 1847 as it seemed to me that it was time to look onward to the morrow. I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this, but only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.

When the next day dawned I asked Marsellus Wallace for a job, and I turned out to be one hell of a hit man.  

I even got to work with John or Jonathan Travolta! 


My Life in the Woods,or 
Die, Nazi, Die!
                                                                                                            Where I Lived

     What I Lived For                       

Brute Neighbors                        

Former Inhabitants (Very Former)


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~FRIDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2012

"The War On Christmas" - A Film by Ken Burns

It has now been over six and one-half years since the War began and still there is no end in sight.  

It is a brutal war.  One that pits brother against brother, elf against gnome, reindeer against reindeer, and worst of all, Santa Claus vs. the Martians. 

It is that national cataclysm known as: 

                                    The War On Christmas 

Its origins seem obscure and even petty now.

In the latter part of the Twentieth Century, rampant secularism was gaining strength in America. Christmas Parties became Holiday Parties, Nativity Scenes morphed into Petting Zoos, and Department Store Santas began giving way to Department Store Richard Dawkins'.  Gradually the secularists were joined by disgruntled off-key carolers, reindeer haters, and chubby chasers rejected by Santa.

This Union, as it was called, demanded that there be just seven days of Christmas with only one Calling Bird, two French Hens, and no Lords-a-Leaping whatsoever. Frantic negotiations followed but failed over the verifiability of Maids-a-Milking.  

On February 14, 2007,  an overtired and jittery elf assigned to protect a shipment of lumps of coal for Santa's Naughty List threw a holiday wrapped Hershey's Kiss at a Union soldier.  The soldier was badly chocolated.  The first shot of the war had been fired.

In the beginning the Union had the best of the fighting.  In the Battle of Candy Cane Crossing,  the Union's General Scrooge smashed through a line of Christmas Trees commanded by General Giggly Pointy Ears, resulting in the loss of over 47 candy canes, 28 holly wreaths, and six gingerbread men.   

The fighting was fierce, as Union Private Lance Mesnick of Walden Massachusetts recorded that day in his journal:

"Everywhere you looked there were chestnuts roasting on an open fire! Suddenly I felt a sharp pain and whirling around I caught Jack Frost nipping at my nose! That's the last nose he'll ever nip ..."

Journal of Lance Mesnick,  April 15, 2007

By day's end,  not a creature was stirring --- not even a mouse --- at Candy Cane Crossing.

Christmas fought valiantly back.  A force of seasoned elves under the flamboyant General Stonewall Sniggle de Goop surprised Union troops in a dense fog at Gumdrop Hill. How did Christmas forces maneuver through the fog? Private Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer later wrote to his wife:

"Oh, Sarah!  My heart is full and my hindquarters tingling!  This one very foggy eve Santa came to say 'Rudolf with your nose so bright, won't you guide our carnage tonight?' Dearest Sarah, I long to have my hooves around you! Love Always, Rudolf."

                                                  Letter of Rudolf the Red-Nosed  Reindeer to Sarah Weintraub  Reindeer 
August 14, 2007

Just eleven days after the Battle of Gumdrop Hill, Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer contracted hoof and mouth disease and Santa shot him.


The war was to continue on for six long years without decisive victory on either side.  Mistakes were made by both sides, such as Union General Grinch's decision to invade the North Pole.   Implementing a scorched ice policy,  Christmas forces decimated the Union troops which were wholly ill-equipped for the frigid temperatures and constant painful Nutcracker night raids.

In the Battle at Mistletoe Pass, Christmas retaliated by firing a deadly barrage of fruitcakes at Union forces, but the Union managed to counter them with an Anti-Fruitcake Shield.  All of us should have such a device.  A further assault with jetties of eggnog also failed when it turned out Union troops actually liked the stuff. 

Will there ever be an end with honor to this fight?  Will a wise and just leader emerge as did once before during an earlier great American struggle? Will we ever get presents again?

Oh, Sarah, who the fuck knows? 

                                                     [Closing Music]


Freedom Fighter or Terrorist, You Decide

Go Down, Twitter

And it came to pass that Moses was wandering in the wilderness.

And Moses was without cell phone and laptop, and he came onto the farthest edge ofthe plain of Horeb, near the Mount of Midian, only a hop, skip, and a jump from Borax.

And there appeared unto Moses a bush that burneth with mighty fire yet wast not consumed, next to which wast a Dell Desktop. And Moses knew that he wast on Holy Ground and in the presence of the Lord because the Desktop employeth Microsoft Software, and yet did still respondeth and wast not locked up!

"Moses, Moses" tweeteth the Desktop. “I am the Lord, thy God!

And God tweeteth unto Moses  “I am the Lord who tweeted unto Abraham and tweeted unto Isaac but who Facebooked unto Jacob, because I was more into FB at the time.”

And Moses tweeteth back “WOOT! My Lord, is this about the bacon?”

“No, Moses,” tweeteth back the Lord. “I knowest not about the bacon, so now thou hast got even another problem with me. LOL!

“Far be it from me to criticize, Lord” tweeteth Moses, “but shouldn’t I be the one to hand out the LOL, not thou? Thou madest the joke. I'm the audience.”

“IMHO,” tweeteth the Lord, “I am the Lord, thy God; I’ll give myself an LOL if I want!!! And that joke wast funny!"

“Eeeehh...” tweeteth Moses.

Moses,” tweetheth the Lord, “tweet unto @Pharaoh to let my people go. That is, the Jews, I mean.”

“ULP! Oh, er, umm …. there’s the Failwhale!” tweeteth Moses. “Afraid I didn’t, umm, get your tweet. Yes, that’s it, didn’t get your tweet!”

“Don’t pulleth that one on me, Moses! I am omniscient. Whenever there’s really aFailwhale, I have already kicketh the desk a half dozen times before it even appeareth!"

Lord, if I tweet that unto @Pharaoh, the reply will be less in the form of a tweet and more in the form of disembowelment! Just sayin’.”

“Fear not, Moses,” tweeteth the Lord.  “In my very best form, I don’t plan to play fair. I will visit plagues upon Egypt!”

“What doth thou mean?” Moses tweeteth. “Doth thou have a blog or something that giveth details? And perhaps a contest?”

“No, Moses. These are #TheTenPlaguesoftheLord#Blood #Frogs #Murrain …”

“Thine use of hashtags is cute, Lord, but don't expect me to check out the relevent tweets, I've only got 4,000 years! How didst thou come up with all this?” 

“I googleth plagues,” tweeteth the Lord.

“This last one, #Deathofthefirstborn, should be a load of laughs," tweeteth Moses. "What happens after the Hebrews are freed?”

RT: And to show His love for His people, @God parteth the Red Sea, gaveth them the Ten Commandments upon two stone tablets, and broughtest them to the Holy Land.”

“What wast that RT, Lord?” tweeteth Moses.

“I didn’t feel like working just then so I retweeted a pretty good overview from @PatRobertson. I farm out a lot to him.”

"Instead of inscribing thine Commandments on stone tablets," tweetethMoses, "why doth we not just tweet them to the Children of Israel?”

“Because I only hath 74 followers!” tweeteth the Lord. “Look at all the Hebrews who doth not follow me back!”

“Well, thine tweets could use more bounce," tweeteth Moses.

“Now go, Moses, tweet unto @Pharaoh to let my people go. I must complete my#Follow Friday before Shabbot.” 

“I see,” tweeteth Moses. “Hmm, who is this @GeorgeClooney, Lord?”

“Uhh, y’know, Moses ... since there’s no graven images of me, I had to .. er, uh .... base my avatar on someone, so … ummm ….”

LMAO!”  Moses tweeteth unto the Lord, his God. 

 "Think I can take it from here." 


Fahrenheit 451 + 10

Montag was alone, sitting by a brook on the outskirts of the settlement. 

Sure, he was helping to keep knowledge alive in the dark times by memorizing and becoming a book. But after these ten odd years, a dark sadness had descended upon him, sapping his spirit and diminishing his soul. 

A tall man with a ruddy complexion and piercing eyes approached him. 

"Hello, my friend.  Why are you so morose?"

"Oh, hullo,  Great Expectations.  I'm kind of bummed out because I'm just not getting anywhere with the ladies.  You ever have any problems like that?" 

"Me?  No,  not at all,"  said the tall man.  "I'm Great Expectations.   I intrigue the hell out of women!   Y'know, I've been diddling Madame Bovary for the past three months!"

"Well, it's sure different for me.  Ever since I joined the Book People and selected a book to become,  women don't take me seriously. Hell, they treat me like a child!  

"Well, what do you think the problem is, Goodnight Moon?  

"The problem is I can't compete with the more macho books!  Last night I went to a single's bar withCaptains Courageous and Last of the Mohicans.  We ran into two chicks,  Anna Karenina and Tess of the d'Urbervilles."


"Right away Captains Courageous pairs off with Anna Karenina and hasn't been home since.  I spent the whole evening playing Pac-Man while watching Tess of the d'Urbervilles  grind into Last of the Mohicans on the dance floor!" 

"Well,  maybe some woman will admire you for your warm sentimental values as opposed to manliness."

"That only goes so far, Great Expectations.  Can you imagine: 

 Ride me, Goodnight Moon
 Give it to me, Goodnight Moon

It just doesn't work."

"I just had a thought, Goodnight Moon.   A new woman recently joined the group;  name's  Dr. Zhivago.  She looks a bit like a young Julie Christie." 

"I've seen her!  That Dr. Zhivago's babe-a-licious!"

"Well, I'll introduce you.  Straighten yourself up,  clean up your punctuation, and remember to stay in proper tense at all times."

"Okay, okay!  Y'know, if all goes well, Great Expectations,  one day Dr. Zhivago might become Mrs. Dr. Zhivago Goodnight Moon!" 

"Let's not rush things, Goodnight Moon.   


Slight Club, a Parody of Fight Club in Three Acts

The First Rule of Slight Club is you do not talk about Slight Club

People are always asking me if I know Taylor Gurgin.

With a gun barrel between your teeth, you only talk in vowels. And even though your sentences sound like somebody talking in Morse Code, you still aren't all that worried even if the gun is being held by a crazed dentist possessed of an NRA-sized hatred of plaque.

But the gun between my teeth on this occasion was being held by Taylor Gurgin, intent on an act of mass destruction known as Project Hemline, which he planned to raise up a good two, two and a half inches on the whole of humanity within the next three minutes. 

This is how it all began


I hadn't been able to sleep for six months.  My doctor refused to prescribe sleeping pills because then there would have been no movie, so I began frequenting support groups at night.  Soon I was as addicted to them as CNN’s News Model is addicted to being stupid.

I regularly attended groups for "Episcopalians who are Rabbis," "Doctors without Borders who Hate Barnes & Noble," and "Coping with Cardboard.”  One day I met Marla Stinger who was attending all the same groups, and we decided to split them up. She would attend the groups for "Guys named Larry who (fill in the blank)” and I would take all the others.  We'd flip a coin for any group in which Meatloaf was a member.

Then on an airplane flight I had a life changing experience: the plane left on time. Also I met a weird creepy guy named Taylor Gurgin who told me he made and sold soap. Taylor said he'd always been mesmerized by soap. 

One day he might even use some.

When my apartment building mysteriously burned down,  I naturally --- as people do --- called the weird creepy guy I'd met only once on an airplane to ask for a place to stay.  So we got together in a bar.

"I want you to do me a favor," said Taylor Gurgin.

"Yeah, sure."

"I want you to slight me as hard as you can."


"I want you to slight me as hard as you can!"

"Umm ... you can brighten up a room ... just by leaving it."

"That was perfect!  You have a great personality. It grates on all of us!" 

Err, umm .... You have delusions of competence!" 

"Terrific!  Where have you been all my life?  And how soon can you go back there?"

Energized and excited, I went back with Taylor to live at his house.  It was as crumbling and dilapidated as Burt Reynold’s internal organs.  What a shithole!  Had not the Olympic size pool and health club been world class, I would have been tempted to move out.

We continued to slight each other constantly and soon others joined us.

"Sorry, I almost tripped over your IQ when I came in!" 

"Someday you'll go far, and I hope you stay there!"

Taylor gave our group a name:


Taylor would give the rules at the beginning of each meeting.

"The First Rule of Slight Club is you do not talk about Slight Club.  The Second Rule of Slight Club is you do not talk about Slight Club."

"Sir, a question? May we talk about Slight Club?"

Well, we didn't always get the sharpest of members.  Even Meatloaf joined, and this is a guy who votes for Republicans.

"And the Eighth and Final Rule:  if this is your first night at Slight Club, you have to slight."

"You're a dirty blighter!"

"Your mother wears army boots!"

Some of the slights by newbies were less than epic.

I'd introduced Marla to Taylor Gurgin, and before long they were rocking and gyrating the house with passionate sex. I can't say I was thrilled, but I was making fabulous milkshakes and we didn't have a blender.  Taylor and I began forming Slight Clubs in other cities, franchising them under the name "Slightbucks."  There are probably half a dozen in your town and most likely one in your basement, if not in the left side of your jock strap.

You didn't realize all this?  I'm not surprised.

After all, there is nothing like an intelligent man.  And you are nothing like an intelligent man!

Taylor began talking about Project Hemline, his secret plan to unleash veteran loudmouth comic Lewis Black upon all of society. Then one day while in the Slight Club in Havertown PA, someone mistook me for Taylor Gurgin. Even Marla thought I was Taylor Gurgin, which placed future milkshakes in extreme jeopardy.

It's called a Changeover.   Turns out Taylor Gurgin and I were one and the same!

"All the ways you wish you could be, that's me," said Taylor Gurgin, suddenly appearing in my room. "I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not."

"Yeah, Mr. Big Shot, but can you touch your elbow to your nose, like I can?"

Turns out he could.  

I think this is about where we came in.

"Three minutes left. Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

"Yes, Taylor. What do you expect Lewis Black to do?”  

"Undermine everyone’s faith in humanity with his mordant observations. Then you and I will take over and rule!"  

"That is, will rule!" I said, snatching the gun from Taylor and placing it back into my mouth. "And since I'm going to be taking over from you with Marla, do you happen to have a GPS of her erogenous zones or something like that?"

"But why do this?" Taylor Gurgin protested.

"Because you look too much like Brad Pitt, and I look like Edward Norton. You've gotta go!"

I pulled the trigger and it blew a gaping hole in the back of Taylor Gurgin's head and he fell to the ground. I was still okay, wound the size of Rhode Island behind my left ear notwithstanding. In rushed Marla along with Lewis Black, who went about ranting about the state of the world and destroying 21th Century society as we know it.

"Marla, you met me at a very strange time in my life," I said.

"And, by the way, I would never call you fat, but when you sit around the house, you sit around the house!"

The End

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