18 December 2007
THE SIXTH DAY OF SPIDERRIFFMAS: COLIN JOST
YYES! It's the (day after the) FIFTH DAY of Spiderriffmas hosted by your man The Real Spiderfang, and I will give the beeper number for the guy who used to play Code-man on Step By Step to the first person who can correctly guess what my true love gave to me today, the fifth day of Spiderriffmas. What's that?!
FIVE GOLDEN LINKS!
That's right, I've joined Linkpasser. It's a social bookmarking website, the best of the internet picked by your friends. So while I was in bed this morning switching out my road wheels for something more all-terrain--let me tell you, that pint of Sahadis babaganush, that six-pack of microbrew I pick up from this guy parked behind the adult book store on Hoyt, these are all-organic food stuffs lover, no preservatives, no antibiotics in the feed, and let me tell you, they do not deliver themselves--while I was in bed pumping tire, my main girl Wife Huckabee was up on the internet, passing links to your boy FANG, sliding up and down the world wide web like Zap on a joust pole. Lycos.com, we takin over!
Each contributor to the 12 Days of Spiderriffmas was told: OK I'll let you jump on a record, but listen Kite Runner! You got 35 minutes max. Because I do not want no Bonfire of the Vanitas like last year. So the only rule was: Thou shalt not write more than 35 minutes--capito?
This week I got some serious names lined up. I got my man Curtis Hanson, Don Pollyanna's supposed to holler like Wednesday, plus I got my own Spiderriff I'm working on, it's called GENESIS. Sonic CD, holler! Game Genie, get your paper up! FANG
YEAR IN RIFFS: COLIN JOST
Letter To Mayor Bloomberg
Dear Mr. Mayor,
Let me begin by saying that I admire all you’ve accomplished in your first 6 years. “It ain’t easy being mayor,” as they say. Well, I say. I’m quoting myself.
Enough small talk. I need to talk to you about a serious threat to our city.
You: Really? Come right in.
Me: Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.
You: Not at all. You seem like a reasonable person. Reasonably handsome.
Me: Mr. Mayor, please.
You: Sorry.
Me: Mr. Mayor, what if we made a sequel to Jaws?
You: They already did. They made three or four sequels.
Me: One of them was a prequel.
You: Really? The one at SeaWorld?
Me: No, that was the son of Jaws.
You: The one with the killer whale?
Me: No, that was Orca. Look, it doesn’t matter if they’ve already made a sequel. Look at Rocky Balboa. Look at John Rambo or whatever his name is. You can always make another sequel. The question is: How do you update Jaws? What’s the modern-day equivalent of a shark?
You: An investment banker!
Me: …
You: Sorry.
Me: The answer is: A pigeon.
You: A pigeon.
Me: Yes.
You: You’re proposing that we make a sequel to Jaws, but we replace the shark with a pigeon?
Me: Not just one pigeon. Many pigeons.
You: Isn’t that the premise of The Birds?
Me: Yeah, but in our movie, the pigeons actually attack people.
You: You haven’t seen The Birds, have you?
Me: … It’s in my Netflix queue.
You: Ok, even assuming this is somehow distinct from The Birds – which I frankly doubt – why would the current mayor of New York make a “sequel” to Jaws about pigeons?
Me: (slow, dramatic clapping)
You: What are you doing?
Me: Wait, I might have jumped the gun. Did you just say, “I’ve already made that movie – in my heart”?
You: No.
Me: Then forget the clapping. You know what, forget the movie altogether. It was a metaphor.
You: For what?
Me: Pigeons.
You: I don’t know if that really counts as a metaphor.
Me: (slow, dramatic clapping)
You: Stop it.
Me: Sorry.
You: If you’re trying to call my attention to the growing pigeon problem, thank you. I’m well aware of the situation and I’m trying to find an effective yet humane solution.
Me: Kill ‘em with kindness, right?
You: Not exactly.
Me: With poison?
You: No.
Me: Exactly. And that’s where I come in.
You: You heard me say ‘No,’ right?
Me: Loud and clear. So I dress up like a pigeon, go to a public park, and eat a bunch of poison. The real pigeons look at me and think, “Wow. Poison must be the new iPod or something.” You remember what happened with iPods, right? Cut to six months later. The press is swarming. “Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor! All the pigeons are gone! Children can breathe again! The murder rate has dropped below zero such that hundreds of corpses are reanimated every year! How did you do it (‘it’ being the elimination of all pigeons)?!” You stare off into the distance. With binoculars. And you see a tombstone. It’s mine. It reads “Husband. Father. Fake Pigeon. Hero. Friend. Popular. Always wanted to open a pizzeria.” Etc. We’ll work out the details. You cry a solitary tear and tell the press, “It was worth it. It was all worth it.” Then you walk away, confusing them.
You: (slow, dramatic clapping)
Me: Welcome aboard, Mr. Mayor. Let’s do this.
You: What? Oh, I was just shutting off the lights. They’re on that Clapper system. I’m leaving.
Anyway, you get the point. There’s a pigeon problem. But you’re a smart guy. You’ll think of something. Catch you on the flippety-flop.
-Me
97 S'FANGS
Labels: year-in-riffs-2007
// posted by NBS @ 2:00 PM 
