issue34latenighttv

this is oh so blue
A MAGAZINE OF FICTION, POETRY & MORE!

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     ZYGOTE
            IN MY
                COFFEE.COM

ISSUE #34

$O.OO

March 2005

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                                   ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** Eric Tolles has been spotted sleeping in coffee shops, libraries, parks, his truck, his front yard, but never in his bed. He ommits the "c" from the word fuck. He raises tarantulas for a living and occasionally sells 1. (Note: spelling numbers really gets his blood pressure up) He is currently in love with Janeanne Garafalo. She never calls.

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Late Night TV

by Eric Tolles

With the gadzillion ways to waste our time these days, and yes gadzillion is an actual number, I looked it up today and it has been recently added to the hallowed halls of numerology to approximate how many children McDonalds slaughters every year to make chicken nuggets, the choices are infinite for our technologically advanced simian-evolved society, albeit socially retarded. I’d be remiss not to mention the fact that Black Thursday had no effect on chicken nuggets sales as only republicans would be stupid enough to eat them, or any of the crap that MickeyD slings.

When I am not knee deep in back issues of the conspiracy theory publication Aliens Rented My Cereal Bowl To Jimmy Hoffa or stalking various girls who have a penchant for wearing 80's cock rock band t-shirts, that is until they see through my " have you seen my kitty?" ruse and unload a can of mace into my left eyeball, I love watching really great cinema, and by really great cinema I mean I’ve seen better dialogue and plot direction scrawled in turtle feces.....by my turtle.....not me.

I was sound asleep last night when I was woken by the vibration of my 47 lb. remote control, GoldStar model #37gbt17397666. With the addition of GS Camel Vomit View and the subtraction of $149.99 from my bank account, any time a program sure to inspire suicide, or at least the attempt thereof, as I screw up everything, my remote springs to life, vibrates and emits electronic squeals that simultaneously repel sharks and wilts any plant matter for 32 miles in any direction. Of course, if that fails to wake me up, it jumps onto my face slapping me around and yelling insults along the lines of “IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU BOUGHT THOSE SHOES AT HOT TOPIC, YOU STILL LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT!!!” just like dear old mom would.

So at about 2 am this morning, give or take 49 minutes of tossing and turning, the movie Wraith assaulted my living room like 10 Roman gladiators, the King of Siam and the ghost of Steve McQueen. Not that I have any real idea what that is like, but according to Quentin Tarantino it’s pretty bad.….and it sounds cool.

This 1986 classic was taken from a script written in 3072, which explains its high tech patina and robot like performances. Stolen by the infamous Dougherty brothers, whose true life was captured in the movie Back To The Future using the very same car that they used to travel to the year 4072, but then realized that they had went 1000 years to far, and after the smoke cleared and they reset the alarm clock, Harold turned to Floyd and says “Wouldn’t that make a great movie?”, hence Back To The Future 2 as BTTF 1 was actually made after 2, because their original vehicle for time travel was not a DeLorean, but a Honda Civic, but due to a pending civil case against Spielberg concerning Sheena, Future Babe, But With Wheels Instead Of Legs little can be said. And besides, Floyd smoked half of the blueprints. Due to the mountain of official looking documents I had to sign, and by official I mean they were handwritten on post-it notes, and a lot of them had various stains on them, ranging from coffee to tears, to just plain unidentifiable, I am not allowed to say anymore about it. But I have been assured that Bonnie, Harold’s 10 year old sister is going to type them up as soon as she finishes the 5th grade.

The script for Wraith was sold to Mike Marvin under the title Clint Eastwood versus The Buckaroo Bonzai Boys but unfortunately Clint was too busy that day “getting his hair done”, so the lead role was bestowed apon the then "unknown, but sure to be doing Shakespeare someday and making it look easy" Charlie Sheen.

The plot is nothing short of a Victorian masterpiece, but with muscle cars and high tech gadgets I can’t even begin to enunciate, no less spell. The plot summary meeting, pieced together from strands of hair (this is the media in the year 3072) that several Bothan spies died delivering, is as follows:

“Like, this dude right, he gets killed, ok? Then, uh…..ok, ok, the guy that kills him and that guys friends drive these tricked out gasoline engine propelled vehicles....hair strand #586B77.23 becomes 7 minutes of high pitched laughter.......and then after killing the dude, the bad guy forces the dead guys girlfriend to be his girlfriend right….and she doesn’t even know that he killed her boyfriend….then, check this out, this ghost dude shows up in a black plastic ghost car…yeah…….and uh, challenges each of the guys in the group of guys that killed the other guy to a race……dude, I thought you said your mom wasn’t going to be home until 9?....quick, hide the….muffled noise, and a womens voice…….ok, ok, that was close……ok, what?........oh yeah, so the ghost car is racing all of these dudes, and totally smoking them right…….and the guy driving the black car is really the guy that was killed in the beginning of the flick yo!......and like the girlfriend of the dead guy falls in love with the dude driving the ghost car….that 's tight yo!"

I cry every time I read that….excuse me.

Besides Charlie Sheen's shining thespianism, the film also stars Randy Quaid as the wacky, yet sub textually versed Sheriff of this happening little burg, who through the smoke and mirrors of it’s twists and turns, realizes who the driver of the ghost car is, what he is avenging, and through this metaphysical awakening falls in love with Bertha, the 600 lb short order cook of the local soda jerk, as he now can see through the pimples and grease stains to her inner beauty.

The film features a whole slew of dangerous individuals who have dent resistant hair, tight jeans and really dangerous and fast cars, and by dangerous I mean really, really loud and have pieces of cardboard attached to them and painted with silver spray paint to approximate looking like sharp metal, uh, metal.
The film is also chock full of dialogue such as:

“You smell a cop?” –talented actor wearing cut-off flannel muscle shirt.
“All I smell is french fries, but that don’t make no sense does it?” –equally talented actor not wearing cut-off flannel muscle shirt.

And one of 1,682 poignant moments:

“I love you. And I would die for you, because I love you. Only someone who loves you that much would be able to say that, that I love you and would die for you. Without my love for you I feel nothing. If I didn’t love you would I be able to feel this…” - Really, really talented actor who then takes a switchblade knife and slowly pulls the blade out of his tightly clutched hand. A lot of red stuff drips out of his hand. And he is the baddest of the bad guys, as he drives a souped up 1972 Corvette, wears a leather jacket with something akin to a steer’s head painted on it’s back, although it may in fact be an angry oatmeal cookie, I’m not quite sure, as my TV was manufactured in 1847.

If you don’t find yourself up at 3 am in the morning, balled up in a corner with your fist shoved deep in your throat to stiffle the screams, just dive into the local Wal-Mart 27 cent DVD bin and enjoy, and don't forget to grab some McDonalds chicken nuggets, conveniently located on the way out.