Nice mumu, fat-ass

When the news surfaced nine months ago that Nickelodeon’s then-sexteen superstar Jamie Lynn Spears was in the family way, my initial reaction was to a) check the Polaroids of teenage girls I’d successfully lured into the back of my van with the promise of a free iPod, then b) thank the Gods of Statutory Love that this was one paternity suit I wouldn’t lose due to damnable DNA evidence. Still, even as the lump cleared from my throat I couldn’t help but feel a little pang of sympathy for Jamie Lynn and whoever the unlucky gym teacher or mall janitor it was that covered her mouth with a chloroform-soaked rag, dragged her behind a dumpster then proceeded to sow his seeds into the fertile ground that lurked beneath her Hello Kitty panties. Because as years of first-hand experience had taught me, teenage pregnancy is a serious matter. It can blight the once-bright future of a would-be mother who is still but a child herself; or it can ruin the career and marriage and result in jail time for a 36-year-old drill press operator whose only REAL crime was loving too much — too soon — and forgetting to pull out after. So I hope Jamie Lynn will forgive me for my initial reaction, which was to post this missive suggesting that she and her unnamed statutory baby-daddy do what I would have done in their shoes – namely, go down to Planned Parenthood and Hoover that womb-crawler like it was something my cat coughed up, then go on with their unencumbered lives.

But I do think part of the problem is that people don’t fully UNDERSTAND abortion. If you were to believe all the pro-life literature stuck to your windshield after a NASCAR race you’d think you were committing some horrible, unnatural act. Not the case at all. Abortion can be just as beautiful and natural as childbirth itself. It doesn’t have to be a psyche-scarring grim medical procedure carried out behind the rubber curtain of some dirty free clinic’s back room. Light some scented candles, put on some Enya and voila! It’s now a beautiful moment shared between you and your partner. Hell, why not take some pictures and upload them to your Flickr account? Instead of racking yourselves with guilt over terminating the life of what would’ve been your own flesh and blood, why not celebrate the fact that you’ve rid your body of a freakish-looking parasite that would’ve essentially ruined your lives? And make no mistake, fetuses are FREAKISH looking. They’re like an H.R. Giger painting brought to life by black magic, smeared down with placenta then shoved into some poor girl’s vagina. If you saw one of those things coming at you out of some dark alley your first reaction would be to swat it with a stick until nothing’s left but a greasy little stain on the sidewalk. So why make these grand distinctions when the thing’s actually living inside you, robbing your body of precious nutrients, biding its time until the moment it’s ready to burst out of you in a gory display that would make Eli Roth erect with envy — and thus rendering your cooch so saggy and ruined that barring expensive vaginoplasty, no man will ever love you or want to be with you again?

Still, all that said, I respect Jamie Lynn’s decision to ignore my advice and carry her ‘lil oopsy to term, regardless of how irresponsible a decision it was. Don’t get me wrong; babies are wonderful. They provide literally hours of entertainment, have malleable skulls than can be molded into a variety of shapes, and will eat pretty much anything you stick in their mouths. But as Jamie Lynn will soon realize, once the fun wears off all you’re left with is a cone-headed, whiny little pants-shitter with a mouth full of coffee grounds and 100% dependence on YOU for the next seventeen years. You can’t just lay down some food in a bowl, install a cat-door and let them fend for themselves. You need to be there 24-7; which means while all your little teeny-bopper friends are off doing ecstasy and binge-drinking and flashing their titties to frat boys in the hopes of getting invited into the cabin of a Lake Havasu party-boat for some semi-consentual triple-penetration, YOU have to stay home and change diapers. It ain’t glamorous. It ain’t fun. But for better or worse, it’s now your life, Jamie Lynn. And I hope that you – unlike your fat semi-retarded sister – are ready to live up to the responsibility.

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on September 12th.

We’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.
***

Dear Ronnie,

Best regards,
Luke S.

Luke S, huh? Is that a pseudonym or are you writing to me from the droid shed of some Tatooine moisture farm? Get it? That’s a Star Wars joke. See, shit like that there’s the reason Ronnie gets paid the big bucks for writing films like PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH (coming soon to DVD) while you’re off doing “meetings” with “producers” that your stupid “agent” set up for ya. Which reminds me. Judging from your email I’m gonna make a wild hobo-stabbin’ guess that you’re one of those air-quotes guys. So my first advice is to not, under any circumstances, do “that.” Ever. Nothing gets my rectal polyps flaring like you damn air-quoters. First of all, who the hell are you quoting? Is there really some unnamed third party injecting tired clichés into your inner dialog or are you using that gesture as a place-holder for a less annoying, less overused turn of phrase? Second, why do you air-quoters always put both quotation marks at the beginning of whatever it is you’re “quoting?” That’s just bad punctuation there, sport. If you’re gonna raise my ire with that damn little snakebite thing you’re doing, might as well at least do it right. Left-hand air-quote = beginning of phrase. Right-hand air-quote = end of phrase. Now you work on that while I take time out of my busy schedule of bong-scraping and playing Tetris on my mobile phone to answer to your stupid question.

Before you go giving yourself the anxiety-shits trying to hash out entertaining, persuasive pitches for story ideas that currently exist only in the form of log-lines scribbled on the backs of strip-club cocktail napkins, take solace in the fact that what you’ve got on your hands is a mere “General Meeting” (see, now you’ve got me doing that damn quotation mark thing). You bust out a full pitch at a General Meeting and that exec’s going to stare cancer into your face with a slit-eyed disdain usually reserved for child molesters, al-Qaeda terrorists, and the server at The Grill who forgot to put their ranch dressing on the side. See, in the military, something called a “General Meeting” would probably be pretty important; but in Show Business -– an industry comprised mostly of over-educated, over-privileged snivelers too cowardly to serve their country by blow-torching unarmed Asian peasants the way my Pappy and Grandpappy both did –- the General Meeting ranks just below changing toner cartridges, cleaning the break room fridge, and writing reference letters for summer interns.

General Meetings were invented by some crafty creative executive who –- upon realizing that their daily routine consisted mostly of passive-aggressively avoiding phone calls, glancing at the first page of coverage for scripts they were supposed to read over the weekend but didn’t, screaming at their assistant for putting through the call they were passive-aggressively trying to avoid, parroting to their bosses whatever crap it was their assistant just read on some tracking board, and (mostly) dicking around on whatever the pre-Scrabulous version of Scrabulous was -– decided they needed to pad at least some portion of their workday with stuff that couldn’t potentially get them fired. In other words, something that RESEMBLED actual work… but wasn’t. And thus the General Meeting was born.

Lucky for you, Ronnie’s been on his fair share of generals, back when I had an agent who wasn’t disqualified for parole due to California’s Third Strike law (and before I started getting all my screenwriting work care of a cleverly-worded Penny Saver ad). So I can happily give you a gist of what you have in store:

First of all, plan on your meeting being re-scheduled at least 1 – 4 times (depending on how desperate the exec is to polish your agent’s ring-piece, which is directly proportional to the amount of more-important-than-you clients on his/her roster). The time of the scheduled meeting should give you an indication of how likely it is to actually occur. Before 11AM on a Monday? Forget it. Something will inevitably come up like a production meeting (hangover), casting meeting (Perez Hilton needs reading), or conference call (Facebook friend-requests to sort through) that will get your meeting bumped. Same goes for anything after 3 on a Friday, or anything before 10, or after 5, or within three weeks of Sundance, Cannes, the Oscars, or any major holiday. If you work a day-job all this schedule-jostling’s gonna eat up your sick time mighty quick, and is sure to arouse suspicion (especially if your co-workers are aware of your “screenwriting dreamz”). So I suggest contriving for yourself a handy serious illness to explain away all your sudden “doctor’s appointments.” My suggestion? AIDS. Guarantees that your boss won’t be asking you any stupid questions, and if even they do, just start coughing, or excreting bodily fluids, and you’ll be left to your own devices.

On the day of the actual meeting: Plan on showing up at least fifteen minutes early. That way you can wait for 45 minutes in their lobby instead of a half hour. Someone –- either the receptionist or the creative exec’s harried assistant — will inevitably ask you if you’d like some water. Don’t accept it. Accepting the water is a sign of weakness. Kindly explain that the only fluid you imbibe is your own urine, due to its “healing properties.” Then pull out a flask of piss and take a swig. Don’t forget to ask the receptionist/assistant if they’d care for a sip. This will cement your reputation at their company as an enigmatic, eccentric “creative type.” Execs love that shit.

Once escorted into the executive’s office, you will be asked again if you’d like some water. To avoid the uncomfortable moment of them watching you drink your own piss, just assure the exec that you’re “all set.” They’ll hear about the piss thing later, believe me.

The creative exec will then firmly shake your hand, exuding the false self-confidence of a person whose entire career was built upon their ability to exude confidence, and laud the script they supposedly read without giving away any details to reveal they actually didn’t. Small talk will ensue. They’ll start with some questions about your background. Don’t bore them with the petty details of your actual life. It’s your job to convince them you’re a story-maker, so make shit up. I usually tell them I worked as a soldier of fortune in former Yugoslavia, sparing no details about the Croat villages I massacred and the women I raped. An intriguing back-story like that ensures they won’t forget you once you walk out the door. But if weaving tall tales ain’t your cup of tea (I mean it’s only what you want to do for a living and all), just stare daggers at them and ask, “who sent you?”

That’s sure to move you along to the next stage of the meeting, wherein the exec talks at length about themselves mostly, and the company, and the vague buzz-words meant to describe the types of movies they’re looking to make. You’ll hear phrases like “genre,” “high concept,” “outside of the box” and “made for cost.” They will not be used in a way that makes sense, which is why it’s best to ignore pretty much everything coming of the exec’s mouth until it’s your turn to talk.

Which comes right after the exec asks you “So what else are you working on?” They’ll feign interest as you prattle on about your next spec, listening just enough (when they’re not texting on their Blackberries or hitting “refresh” on the Perez Hilton browser window) to pick out any ideas they may want to pilfer for themselves. That’s why I find it’s best to just spout a bunch of word-salad nonsense, peppering in phrases such as “heart-warming,” “character arc,” Will Ferrell” and “Juno-esque.” That way even if they do steal one of your ideas, there’ll already be 15 projects just like it in development. After you’re done with your hambone bit, the exec will once again firmly shake your hand, emphasize how much they want to be in the “(insert your name here) business,” and assure you they’ll be sending over a list of open writing assignments to your agent “within the week.”

Your parking ticket will then by validated, you’ll be shown on your way, and you will never hear from them or see them again. Unless you happen to run into them at a social event, like say a mutual friend’s wedding, where they will either avoid eye-contact all night or re-introduce themselves to you like you’ve never met. But don’t let that dissuade you. It’ll all part of the game, my friend. One more stop on the road toward achieving your “screenwriting dreamz.” And before you know it, you’ll no longer be doing shitty, pointless generals and will be ready for shitty, pointless actual pitches. Good luck, sport. Or should I say, “good luck.”

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on June 8th.

If you have any questions for Ronnie Pudding please send them to boxofficepsychics@gmail.com

We’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.

***

Dear Ronnie,

Best regards,
Gary Wakley
Valley Village, CA

Dear Gary,

Hold on a second. Um… writing group?!? HA-HA-HA HA-HA-HA HAAAA!! What kind of DORK joins a writing group? What do y’all do, sit around talking about writing crap like character arcs and third-act reversals? Or do you just smell each other’s farts and take turns jacking off onto a Ritz cracker? Writing groups are two steps below furry conventions in my book. And furry conventions are two steps below NAMBLA meetings if that gives you any perspective (at least the pastries at NAMBLA meetings are fresh. And hey, free juice-boxes!). Man, the LAST place I’d wanna be is trapped in a room full of writers. The B.O. alone would kill me.

Okay, so now that I’ve got that out of the way: Um… you actually PAY for software?!? HA-HA-HA HA-HA-HA HAAAA!! What kind of DORK pays for software? What, are you writing to me through some space-time wormhole, from that ancient time before the internets were invented, when people actually went to the store and PAID for shit instead of downloading it for free off of some Russian bit-torrent site? Gary Wakley, you are too much! This is a joke, right? No, seriously.

But let’s just say you ARE a real person and not an FBI agent trying to trick me into sending an email so you can track my IP to use as evidence in my upcoming trial for allegedly stalking Florence Henderson. I ain’t too big on screenwriting programs myself; ever since I lost three fingers at the machine shop (mom was right, drinking and lathing DON’T mix) typing’s been as fruitless an endeavor as trying to teach a woman to drive stick. So I write most of my screenplays longhand, on the backs of humorous cocktail napkins I get from the Van Nuys gentleman’s club, The Tit Pit. The Tit Pit’s cocktail napkins are especially useful when writing comedies, seeing as they’ve already got the jokes printed on ‘em. All you gotta do is fill in the action lines and character names and shit.

However, assuming you’re one of those writers possessing all ten of your fingers and thus prefer to do your word-writing on a computer, I’d agree that $229 is WAY too much scratch to drop on software that’s essentially a crappier, buggier version of Microsoft Word. You’re better off spending that money on crystal meth – which, If you’re interested in, I can cut you a deal on – and downloading one of these FREE templates for Word from the Brit government’s TV network BBC here (I guess sometimes Communism ain’t so bad). These templates will not only cost you a helluva lot less (as in nothing), they won’t crash or crap out or make your fonts all funky when you type like Final Draft does.

Another alternative: Write your script from your browser at the new website Plotbot. It’s 100% FREE and so simple even a Down Syndrome kid could use it. Hell, I bet even Akiva Goldsman could use it. Of course it means entrusting your data to some nameless entity across the webosphere, but your drafts can be downloaded at anytime as XML or RTF files. So there’s that.

Or you could, you know, steal Final Draft and be done with it. Not that I’m condoning software theft or any other sort of crime for that matter. Because THAT would be in violation of my parole. Well, gotta go. Judge Mathis is on. Writing group… you slay me.

Ronnie.

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film DEEP VENGEANCE III: STINGRAY’S RETURN is available in lesser-known video stores throughout the Midwest and Canada.

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As you may recall, back in yonder twilight hours of 2007, youngest Spears progeny Jamie Lynn briefly stole the spotlight from her pre-Mexican standoff, manic-meltdown-having sister Brit when the slack-jawed, tanning-bed addicted teen announced she was in a family way. While it’s still unclear who the father of the sixteen year-old’s festering intronaut is (could be anyone, even YOU, but the press has thusfar narrowed it down to JL’s on-again/off-again BF Casey Aldridge and an unnamed statutory rapist on the Zoey 101 production staff) what’s clear as the picture on my new Samsung 46″ 1080p LCD HDTVis that her positive pee test has not been positive for Lynn-Lynn’s actoring career: Spears was recently nixed from an upcoming CosmoGIRL! cover shoot, and last week it was rumored Nickelodeon would dump Zoey 101from its line-up despite strong ratings, as the fetuses spilling from Jamie Lynn’s uterus like M&Ms from the 3-pound bag permanently welded to her older sister’s stubby little fingers ain’t exactly copecetic with the family friendly, non-slutty image the tween-beloved Zoey actress is supposed to portray. Aforementioned rumor had Jamie Lynn scurrying for an influx of cash with which to raise mommy’s lil bastard, stooping so low as hawking off exclusive baby picture rights to tabloids, pre-selling her placenta on eBay and slinking around Long Beach Harbor whispering offers of $15 handjobs into the ears of passing merchant marines (theoretically).

We here at BOPSy are sympathetic to Jamie Lynn’s plight. As the plaintiffs in any one of our ongoing paternity suits can attest, being pregnant ain’t easy, especially when you’re barely out of diapers yourself and the dad could be any of the guys in your MySpace Top 8. And while I understand JL’s desire to experience the miracle of life shooting out of her vagina – hey, I saw JUNO – Jamie Lynn is neither whip-smart nor full of uber-stylized quips. And as we may surmise from the child-rearing skills of the elder Spears womenfolk, once the novelty of motherhood wears off and her attention’s drawn away by something newer, fancier and shinier, JL’s DNA-damaged specimen will probably be tossed into a Sizzler dumpster faster than the sort of sturgeon-scented, defiled Trojan Enz Jamie Lynn SHOULD have pulled from the musky recesses of her baby-cave post-coitus, rather than the jury-rigged condom she’d hastily fashioned out of Watermelon Jolly Rancher wrappers in the back of whatever late-model luxury vehicle it was she’d been violated in on the way to cheerleader try-outs. So rather than bring yet ANOTHER neglected mongoloid into the world, we URGE Jamie Lynn to do the RIGHT thing, the RESPONSIBLE thing… and scrape that critter out of her spitter like it’s a “VOTE NADER” sticker on a used Volvo’s bumper.

And to prove how much we care (and we do care, we care a lot!) — and because we don’t want the possibly employment-deprived Jamie Lynn suffering the indignity of a cheapie Chinatown coathanger abortion (and I happen to know for a fact those things don’t always take… RIGHT, mom?) — we’re passing around the collection plate internet-stylee and taking PayPal donations to finance baby Jamie’s first trip to the abortion clinic. According to our credit card statements research, abortions can cost up to $750 U.S. dollars, so that’s how much we hope to raise. If you want to lend a helping hand in aborting Jamie Lynn’s fetus, you may donate via the handy-dandy DONATE button below.

Oh, and lest you think the BOPSY staff will only spend your hard-earned luchre on cocaine and churros should Jamie Lynn choose to IGNORE our advice and carry her womb-parasite to term, we swear on the bones of our ancestors that we will donate whatever loot’s left unclaimed to Planned Parenthood (helping teenage moms fix their oopsies since 1916).