Wednesday, February 4, 2009

O Brother, Where Art Thou?


By Chris Larsen

Many of you know the story of Jesus and his affair with Mary. Many of you also can count to three, but this is not in its own unusual or special. But, I'm willing to bet you don't know the true story of Jesus' brother, Calliope. Of course you know that he was his half brother from God's first marriage, and that he was an inn keeper (magician) in Bethlehem. What you probably didn't know is that Calliope is Greek for beautiful voice, and is also a female name. How rotten of God to spite his first born like this, how embarrassed he must have been when everyone found out he was named after a vaginal species. Jesus is known for his wonderful powers, he could make the blind see, he could turn a rock into a pet rock. Unfortunately, this wasn't Jesus doing all of this, it was in fact, Calliope! He was the worlds premiere magician, doing three shows a night on the B-town strip. Calliope was so kind too. He would help out the poor all the time by throwing them from a 500 foot cliff. Wait, that's mean. No, there was a pretend magic coin at the bottom, and if the poor soul (literally) made it to the bottom alive (nobody ever did), they could keep the coin (that was a pretend magic coin).

He trusted everybody, believing that everyone was pure at heart, except his father whom he decided to get even with by emancipating himself at 4. This was ugly for a few years, he had no money and God refused to pay alimony (they were never "legally" married, but Calliope swore to his death bed God had asked). In order to make enough to pay off the bears and to buy food, he was forced to do magic on the street corners. Some days he ate a muffin, other days (he ate nothing...didn't want to say, but I had to, its tough to think about). 10 percent of the time somebody would rob him, 100 percent of the time this was Jesus. This worried Calliope, for he was beginning to see Jesus go down a path that would lead to a CROSSroads (that's an inside joke, you probably won't get it, I do however). He decided to take Jesus under his wing, to nurture him, feed him the first Gerber baby foods. Carrot, that was his favorite, but he could only get it once in a while, it was a treat, and he so badly needed the discipline.

Calliope decided to enroll him into the prestigious School of Jesus, named after a different Jesus that might have been Spanish. Too bad. So sad. It wasn't two minutes before Jesus was expelled from school for mutilating a small dwarf child. And when I say mutilate, I mean he ripped of his little pieces and hung them from a telephone wire like the lil' shoes in the "ghetto". How could they possibly have telephones back then Chris, George Washington didn't invent it yet. Well small adults, Washington didn't even invent it, and I never said they had telephones. They just needed to put the town employees to work so they made them make polls with wire connecting them. Anyways, Jesus was now beginning to prove himself a major problem to Calliope. He couldn't possibly keep both Jesus and his magic career, thus resulting in the most difficult decision in his life (he lived to age 14). Well, obviously Calliope decided to kill Jesus and hang him from a cross because of his severe allergic reaction to crosses. Jerk.

But please, before you judge him, realize that magic was really cool and just beginning, and Jesus always took credit for everything Calliope did, making him famous and Calliope a dud. In the end, Calliope became the greatest magician of his time. He could make people blind by gauging out their eyeballs, the likes of which had never before been seen. At age 10, he wrote a book titled, My Life: The Calliope Christ Story and assorted candies. At 12, he developed severe finger cuts, and at age 13, he died of old age. Calliope Christ, dead at 13 (he never made it to 14 like I previously stated. I was simply hoping for some updated information that would confirm my long held belief that he was actually older than he stated on his birth certificate, which had long thought to be a fake copy).

Chris Larsen is a beat writer for TWOTF
He has a dog, some fish, and a book of poems

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Miracle on 34th Street

By Chris Larsen

ORIGINALLY POSTED JANUARY 17, 2009 Thursday's incident in which an airplane leaving New York crashed landed in the Hudson river made me do a little soul searching. After getting lost in the middle of nowhere, I asked for directions and found that I had a few questions in the back of my mind. Well, the first thing is just more of a statement that I've got to get off my chest. How can you call it the "Miracle on the Hudson" when it should so clearly be called Miracle on 34th street. I mean for publicity purposes, naming after a movie in which the girl from Matilda starred would be a hell of a place to start. Now you may be saying, "hey there Chris, that kinda sounds like an ole question to me." Well sir/madame, I've read the Bible (I haven't), and I think I've been guided a little better by The Lord than you have.

Anyway, I believe I may have gotten a wee bit off topic; oh wait, there it is (the topic silly). So yeah, "Miracle on the Hudson" is a bad name, the worst apple on the lot. It's like naming your first born Adolf Hitler Campbell, as one couple did in New Jersey. Yeah sure, its a cute name, but the backlash your going to get from that knit picking Jewish community just isn't worth it. They really should have minded their P's and Q's on this one, bad decision on their part (the couple, not the Jew's). It also brings up the discussion, exactly what are they putting in the water in New Jersey. I mean who's the last big name to come out of that town (doesn't deserve the title of an American state)? I'm putting my money on Whitney Houston (pictured at right, clearly high on life), the lovable singer actress who inspires us all. And while she's been a model citizen and savior to the doping community, there has got to be something on her I can dig up to prove my point. Well, I can't, but let us get back to that plane in the sky, er... Hudson.

So they say that "supposedly" a flock of birds flew into the engine and caused it to explode. I have learned a couple of things from this little factoid. First off, this tells me that American hunters just aren't as good as they used to be, and are clearly inferior to their European counterparts. Whens the last time a plane from Europe when down because of birds? Answer, never, they have no birds in Europe. Why? Because the hunters have killed them all. Another thing I've picked up is that being a bird just isn't as good as it used to be. I mean what happened to make all of these birds so depressed that they choose to fly towards death faster then Japs the a boat. I'm no bird, but I think in a flying zone as big as the freaking sky, I could avoid a couple engines flying around. The more I think about it, I kind of want an autopsy done on all the little birds and their body parts. I mean, imagine the commander in chief of the birds air team. He's flying along, starts to day dream about his wife and kids on the coast on Mexico, enjoying the breeze, chomping on some Mexican jumping beans, living the life. Next thing he knows, a giant turbine is 10 feet from his head. Being the skilled diver he is, he's able to avoid disaster... barely. Unfortunately, the rest of his men (and one woman lieutenant who got into the air unit through lawsuit) weren't so lucky. He led them right into their death, they never saw it coming, having complete faith in their leader. Now imagine this, you are solely responsible for the killings of several heroes back home and will have to face the family's of these brave men ( and one woman lieutenant who got into the air unit through lawsuit). I'm thinking that instead of going back home, we might find this commanders body along with the rest, only he won't be quite as chewed up as the rest. I'm willing to bet that we will find a single bird with a single BB gun pellet lodged in his head. It's a sad sad story, but somebody had to tell it. That's why this prestigious group here at TWOTF hired me to write, because I'm willing to go where nobody dare go. Well, I went there, and you are welcome.

Chris Larsen is a beat writer for TWOTF
He has a dog, some fish, and a killer smile.

24 by Chris Larsen


I'm trying to find my place in this blog, and I still don't have a clue where that could possibly be. I see that Luke is the movie reviewer; Rob seems mostly into sports and concerts; James is weird; and I'm unsure where that leaves me. I guess I'm supposed to be the comic relief to these duds, but even Lance Bass has to let the cat out of the bag after holding the group together for so many years.

I'm the butter, they are the toast. Without me, they are nothing; something that is incomplete, missing a key element. My butter is that key element. Unfortunately I can't seem to find any butter in my refrigerator these days.

I want to write about random stuff, but my life seems to get more boring as the days go on. No, this isn't a suicide note, although it probably should be. Now after that wonderful introduction, you could probably tell by the title I am going to talk a little about 24 and how I've welcomed Jack Bauer back into my precious lifestyle.

So I started watching 24 in its fifth season – a little behind most followers – but I had heard much about it and gave it a shot. That was a magical season. Jack could make a rabbit disappear and reappear where ever he wished. I thought I had another show to add to my "must watch" list.

In case you are wondering: yeah, I watch a bucketlist of TV. I could sit around for days watching anything and would only occasionally forget to breathe… Other than that, I'd be happy as a clam (an uneaten clam).

Anyways, I had a wonderful new action thriller to add to my weeknights. Unfortunately, the following season tanked like Ricky Lake in her early years (see Hairspray for confirmation, and no, not the one with the adorable and impalpable Zac Efron). I could only bare to watch a few episodes of the season before I gave up entirely. 24 had lost its touch – it was crap and I had run out of toilet paper. I needed it out of my life.

For two years, I was happy, I had forgotten all about 24 with the help of many other outstanding shows, and had moved on. While Jack Bauer was getting arrested in real life for stuff Nick Nolte could only dream of, I was sleeping next to a nice Gregory House doll. And to make this clear, I don't like Kiefer Sutherland – I think he is a poor man's Daniel Baldwin (unless of course Daniel Baldwin is now a poor man himself, but you understand what I mean). He almost annoys me sometimes with his poor portrayal of an angry agent yelling at a bad guy. His deep angry “yell voice” is almost as bad as Christian Bale's take on Batman (my favorite DC Comics hero). It's the awesome stories and the usually great action sequences that made me fall in love with people attacking our country. If terrorism serves one purpose in life, it’s for others to make movies and TV shows about it, and Allah bless them for that.

So I had fallen out of love with 24; no biggy, didn't care, didn't want to care. I had already shed enough tears over the loss of the lovable Edgar in season 5 to poisonous gas. I felt like it should now be reduced to being called 23; it didn't deserve the honor of being an American day. I was done with 24 for good… or so I thought....... Dun Dun DUUUUNNNN

I went over to my bitch girlfriends’ house this past Sunday to hang with the fam, feed my fishlets, grab some grub, trims the hedges… you know, everyday stuff. So as I sitting there I find out her mother, “the bitch from Ipswich” as I calls her (she was born and raised in Lexington), was a huge fan of 24. So I'm thinking: “what the snail, I hate my life anyways, I'll put myself through this again.”

I start watching and although it didn't start off any better then it had ended, it rapidly began to get better and better. I watched the first 2-hour premiere Sunday and was excited about seeing another two hours on Monday. I watched that, was blown away at the awesomeness, and immediately fell back in love with 24.

There are twists and turns galore, and I just want more Jack. The once fat and disgusting Ricky Lake (24 - season 6) has now blossomed into beautiful talk show host Ricky Lake (24 - season 7). I just want to go on record as having known this would happen and always, always having faith in Allah (who doesn't exist).

Chris Larsen is a beat writer for TWOTF
He has a dog, some fish, and a hell of a back swing

Don't Touch Kids by Chris Larsen


I learned that lesson the hard way. Unfortunately for you, before I get into that nonsense story, I'm going to tell you a little about me, myself. I was born Chris Larsen Jr, son of Chris and Cynthia, in Concord, MA on September 7th 1988. In a bit of bad luck, I made if past the first few days of birth and was released from the hospital. Since then my parents would continuously tell me they regret not smothering me with a yellow pillow (I guess yellow is their least favorite color, or race, it's all a little fuzzy). I am a white male, and I molest children. Seems almost cliché nowadays, which is why I never cared to tell anybody. I mean, I'm just another Joe Smith getting some from little Johnny, and that just doesn't make the headlines anymore. Anyways, forty to life is the reason I tell the kids I'm Santa Claus and if they tell anyone, they won't get any presents.

On a more serious note, today was the first day I had learned about this blog. I had a tough time trying to figure out what to write about. I had a serious case of writers block, and this stone wall wasn't going to be knocked down by some David Hasselhoff, no way no how, too strong. So I asks myself, "do you write about yourself?" "No" is the proper answer. I'm a loser and I'm boring. What about a little boy on a log, thinking about his mother and adopted sister kneading dough? Well, this one I had to think out. I mean its solid, but I want to appeal to a large audience, and the child molester market is hot right now, while the dough kneading has really taken a hit with the economy in its current state of dieting. I guess in the future I'll write about my life (which sucks) or anything that may pop into my head at any given moment (which sucks), but I was forced to post on the first day, and I knew I shouldn't.

The Celtics just lost, and that saddened me, but then Adam Morrison was talking post game and that lifted my spirits. This one also goes out to my mom. Tommy Heinsohn said "The Celtics need a mental vacation," and I would like to think that he was talking about me right there. I mean, I seem to be the solution of every problem of every person; male, female, Chinese (who aren't as smart as they appear to be).

Life becomes too much to handle, and so I write... To this I write to thee, and now I will go and play Gears Of War 2 with my bro Nicholas, who got his first Mohawk today and makes a big brother proud once in a blue moon. Don't smoke pot.