Shawn: I know! Let’s write a children’s play about John Wilkes Booth to teach kids the importance of persistence!
Ann: No, Shawn.
Shawn: He could be all like, “Dang, missed again!” and then his friend could be like, “You’ll get him next time, Johnny!”
Ann: Absolutely not.
Shawn: The friend could be his talking gun!
Ann: WHY ARE ALL YOUR IDEAS TERRIBLE?!?!?!
By Shawn
Dear Sister,
Happy birthday, and thank you for the best friendship to ever begin with a kick in the face.
Love,
Your Brother
Dear The Internet,
We’re writing this open letter to you because something happened recently that really baffled the crap out of us. First, a little background. As administrators of this blog, we’re privy to certain information about how people access it. (Though, no worries, readers, we can’t see who you are or anything.) For instance, some people link to it from Facebook and others find it by searching for various terms on Google.
When people find us through Google, we can see the search terms that led them to click on our site. Most of the time, they’re pretty innocuous things such as “sibling and charybdis,” or “same girl Shakespeare,” or “Sam Worthington.”
A little while ago, however, someone found our site by searching for the term “fuck panda.” You might recall that we do have a post entitled Fuck Pandas, which is a sensible, accurate rant about how useless pandas are, and this is what the person found. Still, we were a bit confused as to what they were looking for–
Shawn: So, did you notice that somebody found the site by searching for “fuck panda”? What do you think that was about?
Ann: I see two possibilities. One, they were searching for rants about pandas and forgot to type in the “s” . . .
Shawn: Or, two, they really were just searching for a fuck panda.
Ann: I don’t know what that is. I don’t want to know what that is.
Shawn: Whatever it is, it’s not a good thing. It’s not like, if we knew, we’d feel better.
Ann: I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. I’m sure they meant it to be plural.
Shawn: I don’t know, man. I just don’t know.
We were prepared to leave this mystery unsolved and simply move on with our lives. But then things took a disturbing turn. A few days later, someone found the blog with the search term: “no, a single fuck panda.”
Well, thank you for resolving our debate. You did not simply leave off the “s.” You really just want a single fuck panda. We’d like to make a few points in response.
First of all, we still don’t know what a fuck panda is. But whatever it is you’re trying to do here, we’re pretty sure God and the federal government would not approve.
Second, in light of your single-minded determination to obtain a fuck panda, we don’t know why you clicked on us again. You must have known from your previous visit that there are no fuck pandas for you here. We don’t condone this thing you’ve got going on, and we’re certainly not engaged in any fuck panda retail.
Third, “no, a single fuck panda” doesn’t make any sense as a search string. It only makes sense as a response to our conversation. So naturally, each of us initially assumed that the other was responsible for this. But here’s the thing: we weren’t. Neither of us did this. And what’s most baffling is that no one else was present for that conversation—no one overhead it.
This is the part where you need to explain yourself. How did you know? How did you do this? Why did you do this? And finally, our curiosity’s just gotten the better of us here—what the fuck is a fucking singular fuck panda, and why do people keep searching for it?!
With reluctant awe,
Ann and Shawn
By Shawn
Several years ago, I was at school in England, and during my time there, I lived in one of the university’s grad dorms. This dorm evidently suffered from some serious maintenance problems, because we’d receive a constant barrage of e-mail updates about them, all in same matter-of-fact, semi-apologetic tone. This led me to write the following parody, which I thought I’d share.
Dear residents,
We have been informed that there is no hot water in the building. Please be patient, as we have called Maintenance to deal with the problem and will have the hot water restored as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Butler’s Wharf Administration
Dear residents,
We are aware that that there is still no hot water. Maintenance was unable to identify the cause, so we have called in outside contractors who will hopefully rectify the problem. We apologise for the inconvenience.
Sincerely,
Butler’s Wharf Administration
Dear residents,
It has come to our attention that, as a result of the repair work done by the outside contractors, there is now running hot water in flats 1-10, lukewarm water in flats 11-31, and no water whatsoever in flats 32-40. Maintenance will attempt to repair the problems caused by the contractors, and we will call in additional outside contractors should Maintenance not prove up to the task. In the interim, we would ask that the residents of flats 1-31 please allow the residents of flats 32-40 to make use of their showers. Should the shower queues prove too long, the Butler’s Wharf reception will be handing out moist towelettes. Again, we are sorry for any inconvenience.
Sincerely,
BW Admin.
Dear residents,
It would seem, as a result of the repair work performed by the second set of outside contractors, several pipes have exploded in flats 23-27, blowing gaping holes in the walls. For those residents who are now exposed to the elements, please be patient as we attempt to call in outside contractors who will build some sort of temporary structure to seal up the openings. In the interim, Maintenance has agreed to turn up the heating slightly in your flats, which admittedly will do little to protect you from the stinging, death-giving caress of the cold night air. We assure you that this inconvenience is temporary and will swiftly be dealt with.
Sincerely,
BW Admin.
Dear residents,
It has not escaped our notice that the outside contractors failed to completely repair the wall damage to flats 23-27, and, by blocking out the sun with scaffolding, have instead made the dining rooms of the affected flats ideal nesting grounds for giant bats. We know that, as of this time, a colony of giant bats has indeed taken up residence in flat 26 and that more are on the way. Maintenance is planning to bring in a group of ravenous polar bears to deal with the bats, so please rest assured that this situation will be rectified shortly.
In the interim, residents whose flats still have walls are cautioned to keep their windows closed at all times, as the bats have been known to fly in through open windows to feast on their screaming prey. That said, we would appreciate it if residents could keep their bloodcurdling shrieks down to a minimum. Butler’s Wharf is located in a residential neighbourhood and we have already received several complaints about the noise from the people living across the street.
Sincerely,
BW Admin.
Dear residents,
We are aware that the bats and polar bears have joined forces and have kidnapped the Prime Minister. He is currently being held in flat 34 along with several other officials, including the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Scotland Yard and the Ministry of Defence have been notified and a special operations unit is expected to make a daring rescue attempt shortly. Should they fail, outside contractors will be called in.
We have also received a letter signed by several prominent biologists who believe that the giant bats are evolving at an incredible pace as a result of prolonged exposure to our cleaning chemicals. It is likely that the bats will soon possess the ability to reason and possibly take on human form, à la the movie Screamers. Please bear in mind that the bats could be anyone, or anything, and trust no one.
Screamers, incidentally, will be shown in the common room at 8 PM for Sunday Film Night and we sincerely hope that those residents who are still alive will attend.
Sincerely,
BW Admin.
Deer resedents,
Plese com outsidd. Theer is no risin to bee afrid. The bats arr gon fur gud.
Sinserly,
Barry the Hu-mon
Dear residents,
Please disregard the previous e-mail as it was written by a giant bat. It was a long and grueling battle, but the special forces unit managed to drive out the Giant Bat-men and their polar bear allies once it was discovered that silver was their weakness. We here at Butler’s Wharf wish to once again to thank you all for your bravery and endurance throughout the siege, and wish to apologise once again for any inconvenience you may have experienced these past few days. We are still sifting through the wreckage of flats 19-36 and fishing out the bodies, so please be patient: we will confirm the death of your friends on a large bulletin board posted in the reception as soon as we know ourselves.
Incidentally, it has come to our attention that there is no longer any hot water in the building. Maintenance will be called in to deal with the problem shortly.
Sincerely,
BW Admin.
From a series of e-mails:
Ann, first e-mail: “Also, I just got super glue on my finger, and now the skin trapped below it’s surface is slowly dying, and I don’t know what to do about it. Just thought I’d share.”
Ann, second e-mail: “Oh my god, I wrote ‘it’s’ instead of ‘its.’ THE SUPER GLUE HAS SOAKED THROUGH MY FINGER AND INTO MY BRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNN!”
Ann, third e-mail: “Actually, did you know super glue washes off fairly easily with hot water and soap? Probably I should have tried that first instead of yelling about it. But here we are.”
For anyone who doesn’t know us, my brother and I are co-writing playwrights. And so, to unveil the mysteries of our writing process, we decided to introduce a new series of posts into our rotation: The Writing Process Revealed. This is just one such incident of what happens when siblings write together:
Shawn: The sonnet form is a little limited. Maybe we should write a villanelle!
Ann: Maybe you should shut up and die.
Mom: (overhearing) How on earth did you two ever write a play together?!
Shawn: Like this.
Ann: Yeah, exactly like this.
By Ann
Okay, New Girl, it’s time to talk about the concept, “adorkable” and the unrealistic standards it’s setting for all the lady-dorks out there.
Now, I have never seen an episode of the New Girl, but even if you’re in my boat and haven’t seen it yet, I think it’s safe to say that most of us are familiar with the premise by now (mostly because it seems like this show has become an omnipresent force on TV, in magazines, etc.). Just in case you missed it, though, Zooey Deschanel plays a girl who seems to be too darn adorkable for her own good.
What is adorkable, you may well ask? Why, being a dork and being adorable at the same time, of course! At first, this seems like good news for all the lady-dorks out there. I was a little psyched. Finally, a little appreciation for all of us weirdos out there who are tired of being sidelined by the vanilla (sans embarrassing foibles) crowd!
Ahh, but let’s see what happens when one of us real world lady-dorks tries to pass off as adorkable. See, you might think you could be adorkable. But you might not be qualified. How do I know?
Cosmo told me so. In their January issue, they included a handy little graphic chart, for all us adorkable hopefuls out there. I’ve included it below. Go ahead, ladies, educate yourselves:
Cosmopolitan, January 2012.
I’ll break down my score for you.
Adorkable-o’-clock: “She wears overalls on a regular basis.” –> I have never owned a pair of overalls in my whole little life.
Adorkable enough: “She busts out fake snaggletooth in the middle of a wedding.” –> Well, that seems oddly specific. But no, I’ve got to admit, that particular act had not occurred to me. I’ve also got to admit, now that it has, I’m still not going to do it.
Adorkable-ish: “She cries hysterically while watching Dirty Dancing.” –> I’ve never seen Dirty Dancing. On the rare occasion I do cry at movies, I totally try to hide it by sniffing up a tiny storm and wiping my sleeve all over my face while pretending to scratch an itch conveniently near my eyes. Wow, I’m not doing so hot.
Kind of a Dork: “She quotes Lord of the Rings.” –> So, um, the first monologue I ever did, the one that got me into my arts magnet middle school, was Gollum vs. Smeagol. I pieced it together out of the books in fourth grade—before the movies came out and it was even a tiny modicum of cool. (I did get into the school, though…)
Made of Dork: “She does the chicken dance in public.” –> Yeeeeeah. Oops. I hope the Macarena doesn’t also count in this category. I do that one every chance I get.
Big Ol’ Dorkus Malorkus: “She sings silly, made-up songs out loud to herself.” –> COSMO/NEW GIRL, GET OUT OF MY HEAD. THIS IS ALL I DO. Ask anyone who has spent too much time with me. Usually, they’re about various food products; often, the lyrics have everything to do with what happens to be in my line of sight at the time. I once left Shawn a three-minute voicemail, which was me singing an invented song about butter. But that was just awesome.
There you have it: according to Cosmo, I do absolutely nothing that is considered adorkable and absolutely everything that is considered dorky. In summary, I’m pretty sure I just got served.
This, to me, is the problem is with adorkable. I mean, we’re talking about some pretty narrow qualifications here—qualifications that in no way account for just how delightfully weird the vast majority of people truly are. Come on, ladies, I know I’m not the only one who has referenced Tolkien, does embarrassing dances, and sings silly little songs. This is simply not a realistic standard.
Joke’s on you, though, Cosmo and New Girl. Guess why? Us weird-o ladies find love all the time. And if we’re not adorkable, but still behave in totally weird ways, the only explanation for us finding love must be that we’re defined by some new word that no one has thought of yet… a cross between two other words that must somehow be endearing…
Henceforth, I offer myself and all others of my kind the more realistic moniker: “chalarming.” Now, with our new catchy charming and alarming style, we too can be candidates for the world’s adoration! We don’t need Zooey Deschanel and her adorkable ways. Adorkable is out, chalarming is in! You’re welcome, fellow chalarming ladies. Go forth, and charm and alarm your way into the hearts of millions.
But before you do, use this little graph as a reference to make sure you’re actually chalarming and not just plain alarming, because no one wants that. (That’s right, Cosmo, I can make graphics, too.)
By Shawn
I see a fair number of movies, and over time I’ve discovered that they are subject to several ironclad laws. Here I’d like to introduce one of my favorites. I call it “The Marmaduke Rule.”
The Marmaduke Rule is simple. It states that if a movie has an official poster featuring something wearing sunglasses that cannot or does not normally wear sunglasses, the movie is going to suck.
In case you’re wondering why I decided to give it that name, this:
MARMADUKE
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 9%
Now you’re probably thinking, “Okay, Shawn, that’s one example. But maybe it’s just a coincidence Marmaduke (a) is terrible and (b) likes to wear sunglasses.” You might have a point there. It’s not like I’m sitting on an exhaustive crap-ton of evidence or anything. OH WAIT.
ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 26%
GARFIELD
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 15%
G-FORCE
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 21%
KANGAROO JACK
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 8%
ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS 2: THE SQUEAKUEL
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 21%
LOOK WHO’S TALKING TOO
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 17%
BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 41%
THE SMURFS
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 23%
And last, but by no means least:
ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS 3: CHIPWRECKED
Score on Rotten Tomatoes: 14%
We can certainly argue about why this is or what it means. But one point is beyond dispute–the absolute surest way to make a movie suck tremendously is to stick a pair of sunglasses on something that has no business wearing them. The Marmaduke Rule is a thing.
By Ann
Yesterday, I was perfectly healthy. Today, I am a gimp. Would you like to know how this happened? I’ll tell you how.
Last night, I was walking to a bar with Katie and Grant. It had snowed recently, and I was being extra careful in my heels not to slip on the ice. I had to be extra careful because—if you know me, this is will hardly come as a shock—I happen to be particularly prone to hilarious mishaps. I know this well. I also know that God absolutely refuses to miss any opportunity to injure me in a hilarious way. Maybe it’s because my improv background causes me to involuntarily emit cartoonish sound effects to accompany my real life pratfalls; maybe it’s divine retribution for the unnecessary pranks I play on those I love; maybe it’s just for funsies.
Whatever the case, you can bet your bottom dollar I slipped on that ice.
However, I didn’t fall! I recovered! For once my reflexes actually decided to come to my aid instead of focusing on making me scream out a useless cartoon noise.
Glowing with a sense of utter victory, I cried out, “HaHA! Nice try, God!”
Then, I took another step and went down hard.
Touché, God. Touché.
