Good news, Correctness readers! We have managed to find an excerpt for the script for part 3 of the Dark Betty Saga: Crisis in Infinite Riverdales, due for Christmas. We had a 45 minute argument in our office about who wrote this script- the names have been surreptitiously removed from the document. What do you guys think? Morrison? Miller? Moore? Dave thought Claremont, at this point, given the X-Men forever storyline, I tend to agree. Possible spoiler alert: It looks like this series will bring the Dark Betty story cycle to its conclusion.

Crisis in Infinite Riverdales: The Dark Betty Saga

Issue 3: Dark Betty Rising DRAFT 2

Page 1:

Ext. Road Night. Instead of a splash page, we begin with a series of smaller panels which reveal the wreckage of Archie’s jalopy from it’s head-on collision with Mr. Weatherbee’s car. In quick succession we see: The two vehicles have fused. Jughead’s hat is in a tree. The last of the steam from the radiator. The cross hatching of the side of Archie’s hair with rivulets of congealing blood. Moose’s legs sticking out from under the back of the car. Veronica is twisted into impossible angles. Shattered glass on a speedometer gauge.

CAPTION:(Archie’s Voice)(over scenes above) : In the beginning, there were three: Bets, Ronnie, and me. One malt with three straws. We were a team. We were a family. We were a family that dated each other. Also, there was that redhead girl sometimes. Basically though, in the beginning, there were three.

Page 2:

Perhaps a few stacked panoramic panels showing the crash site, and then images of Archie, Reggie, Veronica, Moose and Midge gathering themselves, steadying themselves. Archie is dabbing away blood from his face. Veronica looks stunned, she has curled up into a ball.

CAPTION: (Archie’s Voice)Then there was the accident. We were going too fast. We were going to hit Mr. Weatherbee. Bets- Betty- she tried to save us- it’s hard to remember. She – somehow- was she out of the car? Did Betty save us?

ARCHIE
Is everyone okay?

VERONICA
Jesus, my head, my head, I can’t…

REGGIE
I’m fine, I think, we’re all- Betty…

JUGHEAD
What? My God, Arch he’s right.
Something- Betty…

VERONICA
Was she thrown out? Did she fly out
of the car? Oh My God. Betty?

Page 3:

ARCHIE
She was in between the two cars.
Ours and Mr Weatherbee’s. She’s dead.
She’s dead. We saw her die.

Caption: “As we saw last ish- Ed.” Or something. –Ed.

VERONICA
No… No!

REGGIE
He’s Right. Oh Jesus. She tried
To save us. What was she thinking?

A Close up at the place where the two cars have melded into one. A few shreds of Betty’s dress flutter in the breeze. A larger panel, wide, on the whole accident site.

VERONICA
No. No. No.

Jughead
Arch? Is she gone.

PAGE 4:

SPLASH: Surrounded by flames, eldritch plasma, and beams of pure energy, Betty rises into the sky. Beautiful, and terrifying, she is full of a disturbing power and anger. The others look on in abject horror.

CAPTION: (Archie’s Voice)She told me once that she’d always be there for me. I never thought she meant even in death…

ARCHIE
Bets?

VERONICA
Betty? You…

BETTY
Betty has transcended. I am DARK BETTY!

CONT.

Page 5:

Some panoramic panels: A swirling mist surrounds the whole Riverdale gang, and in the blink of an eye, they have all disappear leaving an empty nighttime forest road.

Bottom half of the page: With a sudden “THWUDGE!” The whole gang arrives in a barren astral plane, as the mist they were transported in dissipates around them. A weird orange desert-scape under a sky with 2 moons.

Thwudge? – Ed

Page 6:

Close up on Archie Straining under some effort.

ARCHIE
(thought bubble)
Can’t Move! None of us can!

He looks around to see the others in the same predicament, held motionless my mysterious forces- Except for Betty. She is hovering several feet off the grown surrounded by a greyish flame, casting a strange light on her.

BETTY
I need to speak to you one at a time.
Hope you don’t mind waiting around.

In another panel, Betty gestures towards Veronica. Suddenly, Veronica floats towards Betty- Still frozen, standing, but nonetheless floating inexorably towards Betty.

VERONICA
(Thought Bubble)
My God, Bets, what happened to you?
What happened to us?

BETTY
I can hear you thoughts, Veronica.
What has happened is irrelevant. I died,
I returned, there is much I wish to say.

Page 7:

The others stay frozen, immobile. Veronica settles onto the ground near Betty. A puff of powdery desert sand rises up into the sky.

VERONICA
(tearful, terrified)
Bets? I…

BETTY
(tenderly)
Ronnie, hush.

Betty presses her finger to Veronica’s lips, then gingerly begins running her other hand through Veronica’s hair, petting her in a parental but condescending way.

BETTY
He played us off each other for so long.
We were a game to him. He held you like he
held me. One hand on your cheek, he
called you “little squirrel” too, didn’t he…

VERONICA
I – He, yes… but I thought…

Betty draws the still helpless Veronica closer, and puts her hand on Veronica’s cheek.

BETTY
He shared everything, little
squirrel. When he kissed you-

Veronica is terrified, a close up panel of tears trickling out of the corner of one eye.

VERONICA
Betty, no, please, no…

BETTY
Was it just like this?

Betty closes the last few millimetres, and tenderly kisses Veronica. Veronica struggles, but is still immobile, her only protest a muffled and terrified whimper.

Page 8

Archie struggles in vain against his psychic bonds.

ARCHIE
No!

REGGIE
(with a crazy boner)
Yes!

Betty turns swiftly and is suddenly alight with the same weird rageful flame which we saw a when she first arose from the car wreck. Energy flows from beneath her skin, making her inhuman.

BETTY:
Silence, Reginald! Silence all! You
have tested my limits of my kindness
enough this day!

JUGHEAD:
Bets, where is Mr. Weatherbee?
Our car, we collided, you…

BETTY:
Saved you? Indeed I saved you, for
I was not yet finished with you.
Weatherbee I had no need of. He
Is gone.

JUGHEAD:
You could have saved him!

BETTY:
And I could have let all of
you die in that car wreck , but I chose
to let you live! Do you want to see
Hot Dog again, Jughead?

JUGHEAD
My dog? You wouldn’t…

BETTY
Then enough of your mewling, Forsythe
Pendleton Jones III, you miserable
cholesterol junkie!

Page 9

Suddenly two diner style tables appear in the middle of the waste in a flash an a puff or eldritch force. Using her strange new abilities alone, Betty hurls Veronica hard into a chair at one of the tables. Veronica tumbles over the back of the chair, and drags herself to her feet, Her dress is a shambles, a sexy, sexy shambles.

ARCHIE:
Why are you doing this, Betty?

Betty calmly makes her way over to the second table and sits down in a chair. Her strange garb transforms itself into a 1950’s ensemble. With the slightest motion of her hand, a malt appears at each table, and in each malt, 2 straws. The desert plain is balance. On either side of the frozen Riverdale gang are 2 tables. At one table a helpless Veronica is seated. At the other table is Betty.

BETTY
The time has come to choose, Archiekins.
Choose one of us.

ARCHIE
Betty, why-

BETTY
Try not to forget how I saved your life.
Your precious Veronica may have been able
to afford healing factor and an
Adamantium skeleton, but you, Archie
Andrews, are as frail and human as ever.
Choose.

Page 10

And that’s all of the excerpt we could get on hands on folks. What do you think?

You have been asking, you have been waiting, you are a fictional construct I am using to build tension. Finally, what “you” wanted is here: Another correctness.com Awesome Undercard event to tide you over until the next full on smackdown series.

In this match-up, it’s every bear for himself- Or, every bear for himself and his or her family, cousins, distant relations, or loosely knit community! And if that wasn’t enough, they are facing off against me, and my unfathomable ennui! That’s right, it’s Care Bears vs. Gummi Bears vs. Berenstain bears, vs. My Increasing Disillusionment.

First up, it’s the Care Bears. Initially created by the good people at American Greetings, the Care Bears were transformed into a Saturday morning cartoon- back when that used to mean something, you damn ungrateful kids. TBinns and I were just talking about this: Do you remember when they stopped having evangelists and started having cartoons on Sunday mornings too? That is, assuming you didn’t live in the southern US, because that hasn’t changed there. Anyhow, the Care Bears were indeed made into a highly profitable cartoon marketing vehicle, no doubt because of the involvement of Haliburton.

The Care Bears shoot ray guns of weaponized emotion out of their chests, much like Haliburton, except Haliburton rapes wildlife with weaponized oil-cocks. Many people have asked me (and by “many” I mean “no one” has): “Just what is the effect of being hit with a Care Bear Stare? And furthermore, why do they stare out of their bellies?”. Those are both good questions, hypothetical non-existent questioner.

The Care Bear Stare would blast you in the heart, or nuts- whichever of the two you feel your feelings in- and make you feel care and joy. To clarify, this is in fact different from an SSRI, which makes you feel nothing at all, in a really pleasant way. Tenderheart be damned, pass the Zoloft.

To answer your second question, Care Bears stare out of their chest because all Care Bears suffer from a genetic condition called Thoracic Astigmatism. I will say nothing further on the matter.

Our next competitors are the Gummi Bears. You might know them best for bouncing here and there and everywhere, or perhaps for their high adventure that’s beyond compare. Of any of the Saturday morning cartoons, the Gummi Bears had the most pulp science fiction back-story. They live in a post apocalyptic world where a once great Gummi civilization, now long since decadent, hides underground awaiting discovery. If you like the Lovecraftian tone of that weirdness, then you’ll love where the story gets all Phillip K Dyck: The Gummi bears are all addicted to Gummi Juice , which gives them the power to bounce and be energetic. They have to “cook” gummi juice carefully, or it explodes. You know who else wants Gummi Juice? Everyone, including, get ready for the Tolkien part, the ogres and their human overlord named Duke Igthorn. To recap: Meth addled descendants of an ancient, decadent, partially subterranean society evade capture by meth addicted ogres, and their ogre-prison-camp-running human master. “High” adventure, indeed. This was all at Disney during the Michael Eisner years, so you just know somebody pitched him this show while he was mid-coke snort off the partially exposed inner thigh of a hot young actress dressed as Tinkerbell.

I would like to stop here for a moment and give us all some time to think about doing anything to a hot young actress dressed as Tinkerbell, on any of the key Disney female leads rendered coquettish through the eyes of consenting adulthood. We return now to our regularly scheduled thingy.

Next up are the Berenstain Bears. I have no problem with the Berenstain Bears. Their stories were innocuous, wholesome, charming and demographically appropriate. What to do about a loose tooth, and such the like. With the possible exception of the home-maker mother reinforcing stereotypical gender roles, these bears are the least cloying and most watchable of the whole group. NB:The dad often carries a pitchfork, if I am not mistaken.

Finally there is me.

I am a force of nature. I am as terrible as the sea, and as pissy as the rain. There are the Bad News Bears, and then there is me. NB: I often carry a pointy grudge.

How This, Being the Event, Would Go Down:

I see the Gummi bears coming out strong, all jacked-up on their Gummi Juice. I wouldn’t put it past those guys to berserk/kamikaze the whole fight, so you would definitely want to make sure they didn’t get their hands on any swords or airplanes. I suppose they might stumble across a pointy stick in their Gummi Forest, but fear not, as anyone who has ever walked past a meth-head knows that a light breeze will push them over.

I would probably strike early at the Care Bears. Accusing Tenderheart of being crass and commercial, I would read him an essay on the irony inherent in capitalizing on the concept of empathy for corporate gains. Not a penny to charity, I would point out, and poor children couldn’t afford to give care bear merchandise to indicate their own sincere level of care. Tenderheart, and several other care Bears would probably shit oil, which Haliburton would use to rub down the Berenstain bears, and any baby animals they could find. Cheer Bear would spin some positive PR for both Haliburton and BP, and I would hold her down and shave the word “Motherfucker” into her pink, fuzzy ass. No doubt Cheer Bear would be leaking quite a bit more oil out of her ass than initially predicted. Consequently, I would use the Gummi Bears that I could catch (probably while they are low and asking for change) and forcibly stopper the anuses of the Care Bears with the Gummi Bears emaciated walking corpses.

The Gummy Bears that were still not being used to stem the oily flow from the Care Bear leak would be bouncing aggressively. If Papa Berenstain had not been completely immobilized by ImMobil Oil (TM), he would likely be puncturing the Gummi Bears with his pitchfork.

At some point, I would be distracted by a hot young actress dressed as Tinkerbell. Meanwhile, Tenderheart and one of the other Care Bears, (It doesn’t matter which one, the one with the cloud on his chest maybe, what’s his name, you know, Cunty Bear or whatever) would team up and hit me with a Care Bear Stare. Now normally, this would only irk me, but suddenly overwhelmed by caring, I would realize that the young actress I had been leering at would have been coerced into the awkward position of garnering attention through her sexuality to try to get acting work. Suddenly overwhelmed by a moral distaste for the entertainment business (about which I am already conflicted), I would begin to worry that my own desires were exploitative, and I would lose my ability to get an erection forever. Blow after dick-limpening blow (The first time in print history in which the words “blow” and “dick limepening” have been used in the same sentence) of Care Bear Stare would pummel me in the junk. If you have never had your junk pummeled by caring, it feels like a bit like being clubbed to death BY an adorable baby seal, who is holding a club made of baby sealskin and rainbows.

Having turned the tide in their favour, but exhausted after jizzing sunshine and sparkles out of their nipples (Nipples? What chest-orifice emits a Care Bear Stare?), The Care bears would collapse, breathing heavily, and mumbling apologies for finishing so quickly. Papa Berenstain would have polished off the last of the Gummi bears, whose high could not possibly have lasted so long into the fight.

This is when I would strike my deathblow (”Strike a deathblow” also not arousing despite containing the word blow.) to the Care Bears. IN their enthusiasm, they could not possibly have foreseen that making me care would depress me even more. I would sigh heavily, and then sigh some more. “Without even the basest of my animal emotions left to motivate me, what is the point of living?” I would say. The Care Bears are not built to cope with existential crises, and they would gradually die of broken hearts, or possibly AIDS.

Papa Berenstain and I would then take some time away from our lives, and try to find ourselves getting our Yoga teaching certificates in India.

Winner: Haliburton
Loser: Tinkerbell

List of Demands: Microsoft Office Word 2007 for PC

Dear Microsoft Office Team:

I have used your product for Mac extensively, and it works fine. However, your product for the PC world, which as I understand it, is 95% of your market share, is a deplorable prison rape of a program. It is worse than a searing hot knife up the urethra. Microsoft Office Word 2007 for PC is worse than having a tiger swipe out your eyes, and then piss in your eye sockets, marking your skull as territory with its feline reek. It is worse than eating a bowl of tapioca pudding, only to discover both that it was actually a bowl of silverfish, and that you are made of wool. Your product is worse than being bound naked with duct tape to a steel folding chair, and being forced to pay an exorbitant mandatory admission fee to watch a live gang bang of Glenn Beck, who then, mid blow, starts delivering an angry TED talk about his feelings on something about which he is ill informed, like particle physics, US politics, or reality. It is worse than the Batman and Robin film. I do not enjoy your product.

No further pleasantries. This is a list of demands:

Item the First, in which I avoid automatic list formatting: Edit Selection:

When I left click to select a word, I don’t always want to delete the entire word. I don’t always want to delete the entire sentence. Let me make this very clear: I WANT TO DELETE EXACTLY, AND ONLY, THE PORTION I HAVE DRAGGED MY MOUSE OVER. That is it. If I want to change the word “intractable” to “indefatigable”, and I want to leave the “able” at the end, I should not have to retype the entire word, or sentence. I did not highlight the entire word or sentence. I highlighted exactly the portion I wanted. This is an example of “selection”. You do not know what I wish to select, but I do, that is why I have selected it. How it is that in many cases this work seamlessly, and in other cases this is a hopeless endeavour will never cease to amaze me. Fix this immediately.

Furthermore, why does MS Word occasionally pop out of “insert” edit mode, and begin overwriting? I ask because I am curious about which of your customers edit in anything except for insert mode. Are there huge populations of people who are so certain their most recent draft is better than the last, necessitating a complete rewrite of every word, starting from the edit point?

Item the Second in which I continue to avoid automatic list formatting: Auto Correction in general:

What a joy would it be if this actually worked. What you have designed, as far as I understand it, is Auto-Enfuckulation. If I want my document even half as auto-enfuckulated as you normally provide, I would have to run it through an online traditional Chinese translator, then into Spanish, then back to English, email it to myself, translate it into HTML, copy and paste it into a spreadsheet, make it a PDF, print it, scan it back as a TIFF, convert it to a JPEG, run it through an optical character recognition program, read it aloud, press it to vinyl, play it back onto cassette tape, and then shit on it. I despise your auto correction. Here are the things I despise about your auto formatting and auto correction.

Sub-Item the first:

When I go to switch dictionaries, which I have to do inside of your utterly purposeless
“Office” button, instead of in a “file” or “preferences” menu like a real grown up piece of software, I would like it if my dictionary stayed changed from US English to UK English. I clicked my preference. I clicked it. Do you not care about my preference? Do you assume I’m wrong? I am not wrong. Canadians spell words very much like the Her Majesty would prefer. Words like “colour” and “neighbour” and “valour”. In fact, we spell some words like our friendly American neighbours do, like “tires”. Hahaha, I just had to correct the auto-correction of my spelling of those words listed in quotes above. Hahaha! HAHAHAHA! HA! Not actually funny. How about the addition of a) a Canadian English dictionary, and b) a way to select the dictionary so that it stays selected?

Sub-Item the second:

Once I finally found out how to make changes to the auto-correction protocol, what I noted is that none of my changes were saved for even the merest second. I turned off the auto capitalize to write poetry, and POW! there it was again, each word re-capitalized. I turned off the grammar correction feature which makes helpful suggestions about my modern language use, suggestions based presumably on some kind of eldritch curse, and much to my chagrin the grammar continued to be corrected with squiggly green lines. I know not everyone writes haiku all of the time, but I do. How come I can’t just switch this stuff off? What is the arcane purpose of the tiny check boxes in the auto-formatting options menu? I remove the irksome green check marks, click “OK”, which by the way is spelt “okay”, and moments later, all my effort has been undone and rendered purposeless.

Sub Item the third:

Automatic list formatting is so immensely awkward and inconvenient, I have taken to composing longer works in email first. Of the hundreds of lists and bullet points I have tried to compose, not one, I repeat, NOT ONE of the lists has been formatted to my satisfaction. As soon as I am ready to move on with my life, and begin my next paragraph, something goes wrong. And God forbid I want to add an item to the list, or remove one, because the process involved in reformatting that section of the document involves excessive use of the tab key and spacebar. In addition, I often need to reveal the hidden formatting, such as the paragraph symbol which, despite my efforts to delete, does not always delete (revealing another layer of hidden formatting beneath the now visible formatting?) which brings me to my next point :

Item the third: Online “help”:

Suppose, just suppose, I needed to search the help menu for information on how to reveal the hidden paragraph symbols, spaces and other formatting and indentation markings (yes, I know there is a button that does that, but not because you helped with it). Or, let’s suppose I copied a text conversation from facebook, or a chat, or whatever, and I wanted to delete not just one, but all of the hyperlinks embedded in the text, or at least make them inactive. Or let’s suppose that I wanted to permanently alter the behavior of my auto-formatting and dictionary. Now, let’s further suppose I clicked the minuscule blue question mark located in the upper right of my screen. You, I, or anyone, might think that typing in a question about these processes using those words, into your “Help” search would yield results, any results, from your Microsoft Office Help online database. I assure you, your assumption would be incorrect in that regard. Where was I able to find help? Oh, it was online, but on a series of third party websites which offer more accurate help than your own online help site does. Your tiny blue button is about as useful as that fucking animated paperclip, good riddance to that. Under what circumstance were you raised that you developed such an obscure definition of the word “help”? Were you also tied down and forced to watch Glen Beck be gang fucked while he was ranting like a schizophrenic in a tin foil hat on the street corner?

Item the Fourth: Anything other than words:

Please append the following warning label to future releases of your product:

“Microsoft Word 2007 is intended exclusively for typing in our obscure default font Calibri. It is not to be used for desktop publishing of any kind. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to insert charts, graphs, shapes, colours or layered images. Do not attempt to format text, or reformat lists. The “Insert” menu is purely decorative. If image fidelity or page-formatting are of any concern to you, please limit your compositions to plain text in a sans serif font on a US letter page only. Do not attempt to use the help menu. Thank you for your purchase, go fuck yourself”

Item the Fifth: Image resizing:

Foolishly ignoring your warning label, I occasionally wish to insert an image. I have long since given up trying to place words on top of an image and center, justify, or align either the image or the words atop it. Typically, to resize an image, there are three choices.

Choice the first: Grab the top or bottom of the image to make it taller or shorter.
Choice the second: Grab the sides of the image to make it fatter or skinnier.
Choice the third: Grab a corner of the image to RESIZE IT PRESERVING THE ORIGINAL ASPECT RATIO!

You fine people have offered the first two choices. I should point out that the first two options, in terms of image manipulation, are the least useful, as almost any drooling mouth breather can recognize when an image has been stretched incorrectly, and will, for example, angrily demand to know why the hockey players all look fat on your fancy new TV. However, and this is a big however, I have not as of yet been able to divine the ancient secrets of resizing an image and maintain the shapely original ratio. What I did discover on the corner of the images was a handy rotate tool, which I think you’ll agree, outside of church newsletters, would not be exceedingly popular. I know you have a grown up application for this kind of work called Publisher, and if you’ll excuse my ignorance, why do you have a secondary application to do things that Word could now do?

Let’s suppose ( and I love playing “let’s suppose” with you guys) I were just to eyeball the resizing of my image, which I am then intending on cropping, or covering in a white object and typing over -Wait, I know this is all becoming highly fictional sounding, but bear with me- so, I am eyeballing these hamfisted picture adjustments, and I go to a third party help site to find out how to turn on the grid lines so I can manually calculate and count the correct number of graph squares that my new image will be. What if, and this is maybe too much to ask, what if I COULD AUTOMATICALLY SNAP THE IMAGE TO THE GRIDLINES WHEN I STRETCH IT? Snapping to a grid is nifty technology that allows the accuracy one might expect from a computerized thinky-machine. The fact that I realistically find it to be easier to resize pictures on my photocopier, glue them onto a page, and then copy the end result again is immensely saddening.

In conclusion, while I have had great success with your product on more than 2 occasions, I demand that you immediately effect repairs to your bizarre Frankenstein program.

In Abject Despair,
RobbieRobTown

Haiku Cycle Requiem for the Indicator Light

The dusty stick on
the left of your steering wheel
is your signal light.

You won’t shoulder check
So signaling is the least,
THE LEAST, you can do.

Click. How hard is that?
Click. There, I did it again.
Click. See how easy?

B.M.W.
I’ll bet you can drive real fast.
Signal to turn, dick.

You drifted four lanes
when you made your right hand turn.
That is incorrect.

On the wet spring grass
I am under your Hummer,
dead. Fucking signal!

A traffic circle
speeds up the flow of traffic
when you signal, douche.

If you care enough
to pimp your Ford Probe, can you
afford to crash it?

Proud of your red truck?
It almost wasn’t red, but,
charcoal wreckage black.

Hey, Seriously,
How goddamn tricky is this:
Click left, click, right, DONE.

Workout Plan in 5 Parts:

Have you heard about
the signal light workout plan?
It is too easy.
*
No, really, Gary
got all kinds of fat trying
to lose weight that way.
**
I saw him crying.
Lost his wife and dignity.
He is still obese.
***
Too few calories
Are consumed by signaling
to lose any weight.
****
Fundamentally,
the problem is: Signalling
IS FUCKING EASY.
*****

Recently, RobbieRobTown made a grant application to the Canadian Government for new works featuring “Stories of our Heritage”.  Rob felt that he should be able to include elements of his favourite themes in a historical context. He was incorrect in that regard. The grant application was rejected summarily.

A Prairie Tale

Cornelia Perseverance Downing threw the door of the outhouse wide, and looked out across a wild and ceaseless prairie. The young barley was just now high enough to be tousled by the same late spring winds which tugged at Cornelia’s skirts.  She hastened to readjust her Victorian garb. Green and naked, the barley wore no skirts, and would have laughed at Cornelia’s fussing, had it the voice to do so. “Ha!”, the barley would have said. “Haha to your manifold skirts!”

Cornelia looked at the chicken coop. It had been six long winters since its construction. It needed a proper white-washing this spring, and some portions of the rough hewn walls had to be replaced. She gave the briefest flicker of consideration for the effort involved in rounding up the chickens and keeping them out of the way while she repaired and painted the coop, but that was a matter for another time.

Still feeling fresh and light from a vigorous spring poop, Cornelia bounded down from the outhouse platform and strode confidently towards the stable. She was headed in to town to pick up her supplies. The mighty trans-Canadian railway had only recently been completed, and the station nearest her should have received her summer order by now.  It was still nearly 2 days journey to the station by horse, and there would be no assurance of lodging between her own land and the tracks to the north.  It was a lucky thing she had both the temerity for such a venture, and the regularity to have a really tremendous poop before departing.

A loyal servant of the Queen, Cornelia knew her lands served a dual purpose. Firstly, and obviously, her barley and her eggs would help to feed Her Majesties great Empire-  At least, the eggs of her chickens would. While fertile, her own eggs would feed no man. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, by settling south of the railroad tracks, she was a kind of watchman, ever vigilant of the expansionist machinations of her  American neighbours.  She wondered if she would ever learn to approve of the Americans. It seemed only Christian to forgive their traitorous and irrational concerns about taxation-, but that was all over a century ago by now. Nonetheless, the mutterings from the border were filled with suggestion that lands in southern Canada were ripe for the taking. Or the picking. They were ripe, and stealable. Like a pie on a windowsill. Except pies don’t ripen. The lands, by the way, were the ripe things. Lands don’t ripen per se either, but they can be stolen. Well, they can be occupied. Anyway…

She snugged-up the harness on her horse, climbed into the wagon, and headed gradually north. She cast a wistful glance back at her simple homestead, the coop, the stables, her unadorned home. It troubled her to leave, not as much from fear for security, but more from pride. Her farm was a continuing source of pride for her, and she always felt she represented herself best to others when she could be standing on the land she worked.  What she could not always find the words for could speak for itself on her homestead.  She knew it was wrong to be prideful, but she permitted herself this one sin. For a woman to do the work she had done, in the name of God and Country, was a noble thing and worthy of what little praise she would ever receive.  Little else brought her as much pride, in fact only one thing did- her stunning digestive regularity.  She was a woman that could take a clockwork nine o’clock dump. Though her pocket watch was spring wound, she could set it by the arrival of the Express Steamer every morning.  Without fail, the mighty engine of the Big Brown emerged from the mountain tunnel and dropped off its majestic load at Dump Station. No robber could hold up that train, and incidentally no pirate would ever sail upstream. Her pantloads were the rhythm of the heartbeat of the commonwealth. She was regular.

She rode onwards across the fields, some fallow, some lush and verdant.  All around, the tenuous blooms of spring had begun to give way to the presumptuous growths of summer. She noted the canvas cover for her wagon had developed a tear, and that the wind was toying at a strip of loose fabric. She would have to fix that when she made camp tonight.

She found a spindly tree atop a small rise, and made her camp there for the night.  Just down the hill, if you could call it a hill, a stream ran slowly and lazily on its course to the Hudson bay- Or perhaps The Mississippi, from the way it meandered around the plains it could be anyone’s guess as to its eventual destination.  From distant headwaters, it flowed effortlessly towards some yet distant mouth, spilling silt into some vast delta, depositing a beach. Cornelia smiled to herself, as she saw her own body as metaphor for the land she lived on. Just like this stream, Cornelia would take the gifts of nature into herself, break them down through slow erosion, and spread her life-giving soil into the arms of nature, every morning at 8:55.

Cornelia set her horse to graze, and laid down for the night atop a rough woolen blanket. The cloudless sky transitioned from blue into a bruised purple. Every star could be seen, unobstructed by any city light, and each one glistened like a kernel of corn in a vast cosmic poo smeared across the public park washroom of infinity. Soon enough, she drifted into a blissful sleep.

*******

The dawn was pink, and  breakfast was cold. Cornelia hastily swallowed two handfuls of oat bran buds, knowing that if she didn’t make good time today, the Brown Steamer would derail and leave heavy skid marks. Her horse pooped without concern, letting tendrils of steam rise into the cool morning air, tickling the sky.

Gertrude,  Cornelia’s noble horse tamped the ground with one of her front hooves, sending a thud of vibration through the ground that reverberated into Cornelia’s bowels. The time had come. The inevitable Poop Harvest would come early this year,  and the short grass prairie offered no solitude, no delicateness, or decorum.

Cornelia walked a short way from her camp, and found a sufficient clump of grass. Squatting, she honoured the commonwealth with a reeking poop salute. When she finished, entwined in the still-rosy fingers of dawn, she faced the Eastward rising sun, and sang “God save the Queen”. A single tear tracked down her cheek. There was beauty in this land. Every turd in the path of progress was one that would someday cling to the shoe of of a great nation. Someday, somewhere, on this very same stretch of boundless prairie, someone would smell the metaphorical dung on their workboot, and smile.

Monthly Horoscopes For May 2010

Looking for the answers? Well they are here! Vague as ever, yet somehow magically tailored for you and your swollen nuts! The month of May will be tricky for many signs in the Zodiac, because even if you are a girl, you will have swollen nuts. Please enjoy our prognostications, and remember: If you heard it on the internet, it’s probably true.

Aries:

You are a fire sign, and a ram. Our regular readers know how much I fear goats on bikes, but flaming goats fill me with a similar dread. I would rather be anything other than a flaming ram. Like, if somebody said “Would you like to be a medical spoon for manually clearing constipation, or a flaming ram?”, I would choose the poop spoon right away. I predict you will almost certainly die, if not this month, then someday.  Perhaps someone will extinguish your fiery goat wrath in the cold seas of regret that Leo has going this month. Might be a good month to kneel before Zod.

Taurus:

You are another barnyard terror with horns. At least you feature prominently in Bugs Bunny cartoons, unlike those flaming goats. If somebody asked me whether I’d rather be a flaming goat, or a hat-dancing bull,- That isn’t even a question. Like, it’s not even a decision. It is spring in the fields, and for you I predict thawing poop smell will waft up your nostrils at least once this month, maybe twice.

Gemini:

You are twins named after a Canadian Television writing award. The Gemini sign has been around since 1986. Previous to that, there was not enough going on in your sign to warrant an awards ceremony.  This month, it would be inadvisable to buy a car you can’t afford. Instead, spend that money on treating yourself to a small reward, like an ice cream sandwich, or Canadian television writing award. Buy a car you can’t afford next month, it will be somehow okay then.

Cancer:

Listen, crustacean, I hate giant crabs. Remember the Dark Tower books? And Roland ends up on the beach with those clicking giant crabs? clickity click clack! Crab or no crab, you have the most bum-luck name in the zodiac. Who the fuck wants to be cancer? Certainly not me. I know a few very beautiful girls who are cancers, and coincidentally, they are also metaphorical cancers. This month, I predict you will be an insufferable crabby crab, and then give everyone cancer. At least one person you know will at some point get cancer, at some point in their life, and guess what? It’s YOUR fault.

Leo:

You are a big ol’ cranky butt lion. Look at your cranky butt! I just wanna cuddle you, then mount your head to my wall, HARD.  This month will bring possible misfortune to Leos. Why not totally rethink your life? It is entirely possible that everything you have ever done is a horrible mistake, and your whole existence, career, marriage, children, family, are mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Your life is an intractable nightmare of unending error.  A vast oceanic abyss of despairing failure. How you got things this badly screwed up is a complete mystery to me. What the fuck did you do? You cranky butt lion you. C’mere for a cuddle, then, I’m gonna mount your head so hard, you will feel like Jesus.

Virgo:

Virgo. Virgo virgo virgo virgo. The word has lost all meaning now. Virgo. What is that? What is a virgo? It sounds like a poorly built Renault from the late 70’s, introduced during the first energy crisis.  Apparently you are a virgin. Are you? I guess if you are on this website you probably are, just like me. In fact, they should change it from “Virgo the Virgin” to “Leonard who had sex that one time in 2003 with a really pretty girl one night, and then she disappeared”. This is a bad month to make a property investment, or any large investment. I’m not saying that because the economy is shit right now, I’m saying that because the stars tell me so.  Might be a good month to kneel before Zod.

Libra:

Striking a balance between work and home is a good idea, but this month, why not throw out your usual balanced routine? The stars demand that you either quit your job or leave your spouse. Better yet, do both. It also looks like a good month to make a significant property investment. If you do invest, do so before you quit your job, as you will never qualify for a mortgage after you quit. Rest assured though, if you do qualify and have your mortgage approved, you can abandon your job DAY 1 after you get your house, and they’ll never find out. I’m confident that you didn’t just read Virgo’s horoscope, in which I informed them that this was a bad month to invest, and if you did, you can just pretend that I did it because you are different signs, even though the economy is equivalently awful for all star signs.

Scorpio:

There sure are a lot of arthropods in the zodiac.  If you fought the mammals, you might lose, unless we exclude humans. If you were the same size, or bigger than the humans though, you would win, because giant multi-legged things always win.  Anyway, you are a scorpion, and that’s what your personality is like. You like to hide in shoes and murder the anaphylactic.  You scorpionpants (as we experts in astrology know your sign) have a busy month to cope with. Try getting some fresh air, or freshing some get air.  Or, try airing your get fresh, or just stay in and watch snuff films.

Sagittarius:

This month, try to be easier to spell.

Capricorn:

I used to love capricorn on the cob, but now it bothers my tummy. Too starchy, I think. I know some people blame that on GMOs, but that is not likely the reason.  I mean, when people were hybridizing plants, or cross-pollenating, them,  a full 50% of the genetic material was being randomly exchanged! Think about human babies, you are risking 50% of how your kid will turn out on another flawed, imperfect human. You can’t tell me splicing in some fish DNA so your kid ends up with  shinier hair is more likely to be harmful than having sex with your ex and getting pregnant, especially when you already know they have a genetic predisposition to be an asshole.

Aquarius:

Well, the dawning of your age came and went, and now what? Things look the same as usual, and hardly any long haired hippies danced around your house and were naked and beautiful in your huge yard on a mild summer day somewhere in the US. Did they dance beneath the oak tree your great grandfather planted? No. Did you prevent cancer? No, Every year a whole month of cancers are born. The space program is a joke, there are no aliens, we are killing thousands of people in wars that don’t make any sense, the environment is ruined, your supposed age suck assballs. It sucks balls dipped in ass. This is all your fault. Why not kneel before Zod?

Pisces:

Two fish? Really? I hope you don’t have to fight the giant arthropods, even if they are butterflies.  There is really nothing like a giant bug staring you in the face, trust me. I know of which I speak, I’m a werebug, and every full moon I become a moth that flap-flap-flapfuilly tries to destroy Tokyo. WEREBUG!. Anywho, I’m a pisces, you know, and they promised me this amazing year. “You’ve been shit on long enough”, they told me. Well, they are dead-assed wrong.  I am promising you more of the same, and the inevitability of your lonely death. Consider kneeling before Zod.

Ophiuchus:

Nobody, but NOBODY has any idea what to do with you guys. To be sure, you are the 13^th sign of the zodiac, but you forget that astrology is not an actual science with actual facts. Somebody said there were 12 signs, and they all behaved in predictable fashions based on their date of birth, and then somebody else said “Hey guys, did everyone forget about Ophiucus?” and astrologers all over the world promptly ignored you people. It’s like discovering a whole new gender- what the hell do you do with a whole new gender? How do you generalize about a new gender? Hell, I’ll just tell you what’s going to happen to you this month. Ophiuchus men will get one of those terrible cramps in your prostate- you know the ones I’m talking about? Oh man are those the worst.  Ophiuchus women will grow a prostate, and get cramps in them. If you are concerned about the number of women growing man-parts in May, in general, then I would take it up with Zod, who you should kneel before.

Zod:

Looks like quite a few of the signs will be considering kneeling before you this month. Those that haven’t been explicitly instructed to do so, you should remind with the full force of your will.

Good news everyone! We have excerpts from the 2009 guidebook to Middle Earth!

Staying in the Barrow Downs:

Accommodations:

Accommodations are available, but dusty at best. If your room has a barrow wight, you’ll want to put in a call to Tom Bombadil, his songs are the strongest.

Weather:

While the weather on the downs itself is temperate, the weather inside the barrows tends to be clammy and chilled. You probably don’t need rain gear, as the thought of returning to the surface will be overwhelmed by the soul-sucking desire to stay where you are and die.

Dining out:

Unless you ate with Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, or are packing lembas, it’s going to be pretty slim pickings on the downs. Wights have an unparalleled disinterest in fine cuisine, unless, again, you count sucking your will to live as dining, which the authors of this guidebook certainly do not.

********

Isengard and Area:

Accommodations:

Since only the foolhardy would risk the Fangorn forest, Orthanc becomes the only viable housing in much of Isengard. Sadly, to paraphrase Gandalf’s review of Edoras in the Riddermark, the courtesy of this hall is somewhat lessened of late. There is really only one central room in Orthanc, and recent guests have found the interior to be a post-modern hodgepodge of a design- somewhat like the Fortress of Solitude, but with none of the Scandinavian cleanliness. The roof, watch your step, is exceptionally spiky, and being hurled against it repeatedly would be uncomfortable at best.

Entertainment:

Well, it’s a real stretch to call an Entmoot entertaining, so bring your special brownies if you are going to listen to this listless whale music all night. Otherwise, it’s a view of the orc pits which, while industrial, are quite remarkable. The writers of this guidebook heartily recommend you bring your pipeweed either way.

********

Rivendell/ Imladris:

Entertainment:

The mood of Rivendell is entirely dependent on the mood of the Elves. Visit with Bilbo, and it’s all show tunes and travel songs, ALL THE TIME. Visit during the end of the Third Age, and it’s all Elrond being pissy, and hardly a jam session or drum circle in sight. We recommend going during the summer.

If you are out dancing, we recommend learning the Misty Mountain Hop.

Timekeeping:

Bring a world clock with you, time passes differently in Rivendell than it does in the rest of Middle Earth. Women on oral contraceptives should take note, especially if they have had anything to drink while visiting Fangorn forest…

Language:

Learning Elvish is a bit like learning Castilian Spanish. Expect to do a lot of lisping.

*******

The Mines of Moria:

Security and Access:

If you want to get in through the Doors of Durin, don’t forget your password. We cannot emphasize this enough. The neighbourhood outside the doors is run down, and the nearby lake is not safe for swimming. The Watcher in the Lake is not to be mistaken for a lifeguard.

Balrog encounters:

Near the bridge of Khazad-Dum, but anywhere in the main mine really, you might encounter a Balrog. First off, it is NOT more scared of you than you are of it. This is a common misconception. Do NOT, under any circumstances, attempt to feed the Balrog. Unless you are the servant of a sacred fire, and the wielder of the Flame of Anor, you are likely to be eaten. Here are some tips:

1. Store your food in designated Balrog proof containers, or regional parks “food hang” sites.

2. Avoid any sudden movement and loud noises. This is also useful when avoiding large parties of orcs with cave trolls.

3. Play dead. The Balrog isn’t so much interested in eating you, as he is interested in destroying you.

4. Do not leave your party to take flash photography of the Balrog. Most large creatures are annoyed by camera flashes, especially those that live in the dark.

*******

Mordor on 1-2 days:

Highlights:

If you loved the pomp and circumstance of the Black Gates, we think you’ll be disappointed by the alternate entrance at Minas Morgul, particularly if you don’t like spiders.

Getting around:

The terrain in Mordor is largely volcanic, and we heartily recommend a good pair of hiking boots. Your casual walking shoes simply will not do.

Travel though Mordor is mostly forced marches, so try not to get dehydrated, or frustrated by the constant shouting and whipping.

Security:

The All Seeing Eye is a remarkable security feature. It’s sees inside you soul and knows your will. On the down side, the eye has it’s own agenda, but rest assured, you are under constant surveillance. Travelling to any country with a police-state ethic like this can be a blessing and a curse, but it’s best just to go with the flow, stick to the rules, and enjoy the security benefits. Unlike Singapore, chewing gum is allowed.

Shopping in Mordor:

The main commodity of interest is the One Ring, though any of the great rings are up for discussion. If you have the One Ring, expect to be drawn inextricably to Barad-Dur, and expect headaches, insomnia, and depression.

Other transactions in Mordor are made primarily by stabbing you for your shiny things, so wear a money belt.

Accomodations:

The Orcs have fleas, a bed-net is strongly recommended.

Advice for Couples:

Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor I met a girl so fair, But Gollum, and the Evil One crept up and slipped away with her.

Language:

The Black speech of Mordor will get you negative attention . Use the common tongue, or Orcish if you must -Or, alternatively, try Castilian Spanish.

The Shire and Surrounding Area:

Dining:

Expect to be eating all the time. Food will be your largest expense in the Shire, as Hobbits have insatiable appetites. Vegans, vegetarians, and those avoiding carbohydrates can expect limited menus, and little assistance from the halflings. In fact, those with alternative diets of any kind will be considered rude. Try Gondor if you want a little Human understanding about your digestive issues. Otherwise, make with the sticky cakes.

Shopping in the Shire:

Well, while the wares available in the shire are by no means as technically brilliant as those made by the dwarves, nor as elegant as those of the elves, there are a lot of off-brand options. Leather goods, walking sticks, detailed regional maps, and tupperware are all readily available.

Safety:

Get used to feeling tall. As a practice, duck every time you enter a building.

Health Concerns:

The Hobbits never wear shoes. The fact that they are constantly eating and strolling around without footwear is difficult for some travellers. No matter how well groomed the Hobbits are, the subtle foot smell is pervasive. Again, the writers of this guide cannot emphasize this enough. PERVASIVE FOOT SMELL.

Diabetics can expect death by snacks, and non diabetics can expect to develop type II diabetes.

Romance for Singles:

Of all the lands you might travel to, you are most likely to find yourself attractive in the Shire. If your preferences tend to sway towards short, stocky, foot-odoured people, then this might be just the adventure you’ve been looking for. Beware a sort of reverse racism, your height and good looks might garner suspicion and even disdain. If trying to impress a potential partner, discussion of your travel outside the Shire is considered uncouth. Try sticking to the basics like how much you enjoy potatoes, or how attractive you find their curly foot hair. Do not bring up the PERVASIVE FOOT SMELL.

We here at The Correctness have listened to our fans, and we know we couldn’t design a superhero or supervillain smackdown to please everyone. In fact, we couldn’t design an article to please everyone, and I particularly can’t please anyone with anything for any reason. Mind you, somebody decided to make the film “Extreme Ops”, so I don’t know how any human could be pleased with that either.

Today’s undercard smackdown cage match pits two wily wizards against a flying rocket turtle. Our regulars know that I have certain prejudices against rocket skateboards, but a rocket turtle is an entirely different kind of rad. In fact, the right kind of rad. I very much want to be a rocket turtle when I grow up.

So, where do we begin? Let’s begin with asking why it is that Rufus Sewell is in “Extreme Ops”? It just keeps making less sense. Just radio the police for God’s sake, Interpol can make it to Switzerland. Why take the gondola down? Just ski! Oh, I see, the gondola was so that the Russian terrorists (Russian terrorists?) could stop it, so the good guys would have to do a 200’ drop from the gondola car and Xtreem-sports-you like Blueshie.

Competitor Powers:

1. Gargamel:
Gargamel has a big pot, and a pet cat Azrael. He hates/eats/needs smurfs.

2. Daedalus:
Daedalus has a hat he sometimes borrows, and a pet cat Dydo. He hates Hercules. He eats hummus, presumably.

3. Gamera:
Gamera is an overgrown turtle with a rocket ass. He is a pet. He also has either fire breath, or plasma breath, or Japanese schoolchildren love him. Japanese B and C cinema is very confusing. Anyway, he is a turtle, and he eats giant radioactive lettuce, and he has a rocket ass. He hates when he gets flipped upside down.

4. Rob:
I sometimes get a rocket ass when I eat too much greasy food, but I rarely get more than a couple of centimeters of lift. I can’t shoot fireballs out of my mouth, or plasma balls, but I do have balls. I also have a pot. I am allergic to cats. I eat hummus, and I am open to being flipped upside down by the right lady.

Let us assume that Daedalus, the bane of Hercules, has stolen the Mask of Vulcan, and he becomes invulnerable to the attacks of Gamera. This could be quite a battle, as Gamera attempts to crush and set Daedalus alight, and Daedalus furiously punches a giant turtle in his invulnerable shell.

Meanwhile, if Gargamel could be torn away from his, frankly, fetishistic obsession with smurfs, he could watch as the battle raged on. This cage match is going to come down to paper rock scissors. Gargamel has a pot. Turtles can be made into soup. Gargamel just has to wait as the fight between Gamera and Daedalus wearies them both, and Gargamel may then cook Gamera.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking “Rob, Gamera is powered by heat, and Gargamel’s pot is very small.” Furthermore you are also thinking “Daedalus has healing factor, and he could fight a really long time, especially with that crazy hat on.” , but you are thinking incorrectly. Daedalus does not have healing factor. But you know who might have it? Gargamel.
“Gargamel with healing factor?”, you ask incredulously. But you have not taken one important thing into account. Gargamel was originally trying to capture smurfs (or the plural “smurves”) to turn into gold, in the quest for the Philosopher’s Stone! Yes, not just invented by JK Rowling, The Philosopher’s Stone was the original writer’s cop out! I’ll do some googling to see whether or not Jesus was the first dude with healing factor, but I’m kinda thinking he wasn’t. Anyway, the Philosopher’s Stone might not be the absolute original writer’s cop-out, but it is the penultimate writer’s cop out. And just like healing factor, it allows your otherwise vulnerable heroes to be invulnerable, and it allows you otherwise inflammable heroes to become flammable, and your otherwise disgruntled heroes to be gruntled quite thoroughly.

So, while the battle rages on between Gamera and Daedalus, Gargamel is slowly making turtle/weirdo soup. Assuming he has a pot big enough. Which he might not have, unless he stole Galactus’s hat.

For those not in the know, I’m pretty sure Galactus was invented in 1991 to sell an unending series of summer super-specials and cross-overs in which there was a glove, and some rocks, and I had to read a 96 page Daredevil comic because there was mention of what Spiderman was up to. Anywho, Galactus had a hat. And his hat was pretty big, and one could probably cook a turtle and a dude in it.

I know what you are thinking. “How come Gargamel has access to Galactus’ hat, but he doesn’t have access to something more awesome?” Well, I don’t know. Anywaysies, Gargamel wins this battle, and makes rocket assed turtle soup.

Winner: Gargamel.

NEXT WEEK: Robin vs Aquaman vs. Darth Vader maybe.

Dear Local Restaurant/Lounge:

I drove past your street sign the other day, its flourescent letters still arranged in their original message- a tantalizing offering to the urban teens with time to spare. How many words contain the necessary letters for “Ass Rods on Your Nuts”, I wonder? In any case, your sign, confoundingly, said the following:

“We have one of the best burgers in town!”

Where do I begin?

If you had simply claimed to have THE BEST burgerS in town, I would have understood you were attempting to promote your burger(s), which, subjectively, and according to no system of scientific standards that I am aware of, is (are) very tasty. No need to qualify your opinion by saying that you have, though not in a legally binding way, a competitively delicious burger. It’s an ad, I get it. In fact if the advertisement had said “we have the best burgers in the goddamn universe”, I would have still understood your signage , no matter how much hyperbole you chose to employ.

But, you did not say “we have the best burgers in town.” You said “We have one of the best burgers in town”.

Did you simply craft, in a perfect moment, one of the best burgers in town? If so, well done (no pun intended), but how long will your single masterwork burger be the best one? I’m going to hazard a guess that after about 30 minutes, I can get a hotter, more fresh burger at the A&W.

Did you go to another restaurant, and procure JUST ONE of the burgers from the best restaurant in town, and you wanted me to know that? As in “We have ONE of the best burgers in town.” ? Are you going to put this burger in the mix? Might I receive this burger instead of one of your own? Again, I bring up the shelf-life issue. And if it is from a fast food joint, I bring up the half-life issue. Eating fast food burgers is how people get bitten by radioactive lanterns and become Sinestro.

Or, did you want to threaten me? Did you take a burger hostage, and do you have a forthcoming list of demands? “We HAVE one of the best burgers in town, and if you don’t release the secrets of the burger, we will kill one Guatemalan immigrant every half hour. Bring mustard.”

Do you have no confidence in your burgers? Man up! Grow three extra dicks and scream it loud: “I have the best burgers and town, and shit yeah motherfucker, I have something to confess: I have four dicks!”

Oh, Local Restaurant/Lounge, high school is for everyone, and education is virtually free. Learn words or grow additional wangs.

Sincerely, RobbieRobTown.

You have no idea how much it pains me to admit this. Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do. But last night I found I could deny this no more and I had to come right out and say it.

Alyson Hannigan, adorable though she may be…

(sigh)

is not such a great actress.

This hurts me deeply, One of the reasons I first asked out my wife was that she reminded me of Alyson Hannigan. I am not debating cuteness at this juncture. But I feel I must state once again that Alyson is to acting what Dane Cook is to comedy, which is to say very successful in spite of not being very good at it.

I never watched Buffy, I’m sure it was awesome that her character turned into a bi sexual witch. I only ever saw American Pie once. Most of my exposure to her is through How I Met Your Mother, a show which is Legen (Wait for it, I hope you are not allergic to milk products because the next word is ) DERY.

But like Jerry Seinfeld before her she is consistently out acted by a talented cast her own show. Even Ted, the straight man gets more laughs out of me than she does. EVERYTHING SHE SAYS comes off wooden and artificial, like she’s reading a script. Every emotion seems forced, every moment canned. I was in denial for ages…”Awww but look at her” I’d say “She’s adorable! No, she’s not a bad actress, her lines are awkward, it’s not her fault…she’ll find her rhythm.” We are in season, what, 5 now? She still comes off like Keanu Reeve’s slightly less wooden sister.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s not January Jones on SNL bad, but she is the weak link in that cast without question. She’s got charisma to spare, but something about those line readings sound like …well…line readings. It kind of works when playing an uber shy nerd girl in American Pie, but as a confident adult it just rings false.

Maybe she would have went to Drama Camp instead of Band Camp.

Awww you see? I feel like a complete asshole for saying that, like I’m kicking a puppy.

You know what, I take it all back. She’s great. I’m sorry Alyson, I’m just a huge jerk.

Go Ahead. Say something mean to that face. I dare you.

—————————————————————-
Comments:

admin_rock said on 16-03-2010
admin_rock

No, a huge jerk would have posted a picture of Ted, or Marshall. You’re doing juuuuust fine.

Ringo said on 16-03-2010
Ringo

I know exactly the amount you wrote there about her. However, LOOK AT HER!!!

Shame.

Peace & Love,

Ringo

NotVictoria said on 18-03-2010
NotVictoria

Sorry I have to disagree there Mr.Binns I am in the middle of a huge Buffy craze right now and she is doing just fine in the year 2002. As an Avid hater of sitcoms I ask you when has a woman ever been funny in a sitcom? Never, they are always hot with forced lines…not to mention she is working alongside NPH.
Very few women are hot and genuinely funny…(I am a rarity) and if she is “make you laugh” funny it is scientifically proven her hotness stats go down.

Tbinns said on 18-03-2010
Tbinns

I will counter all of your arguments with two simple words: Tina Fey

I want to go to there.

NotVictoria said on 18-03-2010
NotVictoria

Sketch Comedy doesn’t count…I am going in the world of sitcoms here…and when I mean sitcoms I mean terribly bad sitcoms with a laugh track….cause I totally have a girl-crush on Jamie Presley.

Barroness said on 31-03-2010
Barroness

You are correct, sir! Her performances always leave me wanting more. Not more of her, just more substance. Something. Anything! But, no. Not quite as appalling as Andy McDowell (who should be relegated to acting in shampoo commercials), but still unnecessarily vapid and 2D. Not being a Buffy acolyte, I normally wouldn’t have taken not of her at all save that I have a certain soft spot for the “gingers” of this world.
See M. Roach’s “Roots of Desire: The Myth, Meaning and Sexual Power of Red Hair” http://www.powells.com/cgi-bin/biblio?inkey=2-1582343446-1