Oh! Hello. Didn't see you there. Sneaky bastard aren't you...

Booby Hatch is a comedy stealth bomb detonated by Alex Gray, Katharine Houston, and Sabrina Veroczi. We write, we perform, sometimes we turn on the video camera machine. Sitting comfortably? Good. Welcome to The Hatch!


Movie Review: $5 a Day!


$5 a Day is a earnest road-trip movie about a son’s reconciliation with his grifter father. The film opens with a classic  Screenwriting 101 twist of fate: Just after our protagonist, Ritchie Flynn (Alessandro Nivola) gets fired from his job as a Health Inspector, his girlfriend (Amanda Peet) dumps him. This conveniently frees up his schedule for a wacky cross-country drive with Nat (the one and only Christopher Walken), his father, a con man from Atlantic City who claims to be dying. Along the way they come to understand each other, they scam various salesmen, and they hang out with Flynn’s old babysitter (an uncomfortably tan Sharon Stone).

So first of all, let me say that Amanda Peet is very good at seeming fed up. I have seen at least 43 movies where Amanda Peet is just miffed at something or other, and I feel pretty secure in saying that I think maybe she actually is just very disappointed as a human being. Or she is a disappointment pretending genius. She gets so fed up, that I feel like I personally, even though I am watching her movie on Netflix a good 5 years after she made it, am somehow watching it in the wrong way and offending her. I feel like I should pack up my bags and just go. Her frustration transcends time and media. Kudos to Amanda Peet. The Scrunchy Onion award goes to her, hands down.

Okay, nextly, let me say that even though I think of Alessandro Nivola as a poor man’s Sam Rockwell, or as the man who is lucky enough to married to Emily Mortimer, he did a pretty good job in this movie. Also, his name is like Tennessee; it had too many of the same letters in it. It makes me feel weird. But Alessandro-ness aside, he really makes Flynn a sympathetic chap, despite the fact that the screenwriters made little effort to provide actual events to explain his personal transformations. Kudos to you, Mr. Nivola. You win the Stoic Carrot award for your strong chin and your independent acting choices.

Now, as I have not yet gotten to the Walken in the room, I will say this about Sharon Stone: Her boobs look very nice, but she is orange. I don’t know if this was a movie-choice or a life-choice, but she has turned herself into an Oompa Loompa. If Orange is the new Black, then Sharon Stone wears overalls and works in a chocolate factory. ‘Nuff said? No Golden Globes for you this time, Ms. Stone. Go polish them orange ones instead.

So, yes. Christopher Walken is in this movie. And, yes, this is why we chose this movie. It’s Christopher Walken!! Not that he doesn’t make some stinkers, but, well, even when he does, it’s still a pleasure to watch. Hell, it’s a pleasure to watch him make a chicken. That said, he is really lovely in this role. He is subtle and detailed in his portrayal of Nat, and doesn’t rely on his affectations or odd mannerisms. He is so simple and honest that this movie is not really successful as a comedy. I’m not really sure it’s successful as a drama either. Walken hits one beautiful note, then sustains it for an hour and a half. One lovely, low note does not make a symphony, although Walken, true to form, dances as if it does. Yes, folks, there is a dance scene. I’m sure the C-Walks demanded it, and I was grateful. Mr. Walken, you win the Tab Award for Best Motorcross Robot built in a painting


Off-topic, I would like to request that Paul Rudd and Chris Walken dance together in a movie. Hopefully, in a re-make of one of those “Breakin'” movies, where they play leaders of fighting dance gangs.

So, I don’t know, man. I was expecting a pile of poo or a surprising glorious moon, and this movie was neither one of those things. It was a solid, decent movie, but you don’t need to see it. Beans Meh2I just don’t think it’s going to surprise you or make you think about anything. If I were you, I would just rent Seven Psychopaths Christopher Walken and Sam Rockwell. Plus, Martin McDonagh wrote it. But, back to $5 a Day. Listen, if we’re rating it on the Booby scale, I would give it two mid-sized boobies in a loose-fitting shirt. Solid, but not stopping traffic.



Kath meh2  I give this a definite “Meh” rating.  It’s not that there was anything wrong. It’s just that… Well, it was meh.

I get the fact that the father is thrifty (if not just a charming liar), but why is the movie called “$5 a Day.”  I mean, I get it.  They did strange things to not spend much. But there was no “We have to only spend $5 a day or we are going to A. starve, B. explode or C. turn into green aliens, making this a movie worth Katharine’s time.  I mean, how am I supposed to play the “Drink when you hear the movie title” game if they never say it?!

And can we continue to talk about Sharon Stone? I think we can all agree that she is a beautiful lady.  But I think you can actually see too much of anyone.  Sure, in theory anyone should want to watch Ms. Stone walking around in lingerie.  Nope. That theory’s still sound.  But why so orange? orange $5 a day

I was about to go into a tirade regarding the different hues of tan the character could have be, but then realized that perhaps Ms. Stone is a genius.  Her character is in the movie perhaps 20 minutes. Yet, what do we discuss?  An orange Stone glowing in lingerie.  Brilliant.

So what else do I remember of this film.  Hmmm…  The performances were good, the story was fine and glowing orange stones.  Oh, and a Sweet ‘N Low car.  Who I’m assuming sponsored a large portion of this film or at least donated the car.

But, it wasn’t bad.  That sounds harsh.  It was somewhat enjoyable?  There, that’s better. Right?  Alex?

Alex: *snorts, raises head from drool pool* Oh, hey! I agree that Alessandro and Chris give pretty earnest, genuine performances. They do their damndest with dialogue has all the novelty and nuance of a Meatloaf song, and politely ignore the blaring incidents of product placement that become monumental distractions from the wafer-thin plot premise (see Kath’s reference to the bright pink vehicle inexplicably plastered with the Sweet ‘n’ Low logo. They drive from New Jersey to Mexico in that thing. Chevron, HoJo’s, and Cadillac also make un-subtle cameo appearances). Sharon Stone shows up to chew some scenery and reprise her creepy cougar role from Broken Flowers (this performance was so similar, in fact, that I kept getting confused and wondering where Bill Murray was. Then again I wonder that while watching a lot of movies).

Some good stuff: I enjoyed the recurring humor of Nat’s black socks (he wears them to bed! and in the ocean!!), and that Richie kept thinking he was dead, and that the entire movie looked like it was shot through an Instagram filter. Alex says MEHPlus, it was educational! As a result of watching this film, I know how to grift free room service, steal pubic hair, fake a paternity test, fudge a cancerous X-ray, and piss off my no-good son in the name of a few thousand dollars. I also need to start working the expressions “You’re pure flame!” and “I slept like a polar bear” into my vocabulary. (Imagine them spoken by Christopher Walken – right??) In light of its dubious hits and charming misses, I hereby award $5 A Day my gold-plated “Meh” rating.

Kath: So we all agree!!  Here is our “We all agree” photo.  Enjoy it more than the movie.


Now go get yourself a little treat, you’ve done some fine work today.

Movie review: The Chateau

Hey Boys and Girls, this here’s a new feature on the Booby Hatch blog in which we review movies! Films, even! Maybe web shows and banner ads too! Get on board, Space Coasters – OFF WE GO.

Alex: I just wanna begin by saying that I felt sort of robbed by The Château, an odd little gem from 2001. Based on the movie poster (below) I don’t think it was unreasonable to expect a madcap parade of hilarious cultural misunderstandings involving farm life, saucy nudity, and the repeated mispronunciation of French – basically, Benny Hill in Bourgogne. What The Château delivers instead isn’t bad exactly but is certainly…not that. Image

The film follows Graham Granville (played by Paul Rudd), an aimless fuckup from Lawrence, Kansas and his adopted older brother Alan (or “Rex” as he is known, played by Romany Malco) as they travel from Los Angeles to rural France to claim a castle inherited from a recently-deceased uncle. After overcoming the initial language barrier and the fact that the staff (who still lives in the castle) wasn’t expecting them, Graham and Rex develop a tenuous rapport with Jean, the butler, and Isabelle, the demure maid, but are then saddled with the responsibility of either selling or saving the crumbling home. Rex, a practical neat freak, wants to sell it immediately along with the staff (what?? Are we in feudal France?), presumably to shore up his small business that specializes in “solutions for premature ejaculation” (yeah – not nearly as funny as it sounds). Graham eventually agrees, but closing a sale proves harder than they thought – cue a droll cameo by Donal Logue as un sac de douche Americain interested in buying the property.

“Droll” really is the key word here, in its most literal French sense – the humor is…subtle, hinging on differences between the brothers (Graham leaves his shoes on the train- ha!), between France and America (much is made of Graham’s veganism, which the French clearly don’t “get” – at one point they serve him an entire boar’s head, hair and all), and between the respective languages (the dead uncle’s surname is Leconte – get it?? HOURS OF FUN.) I can say I enjoyed The Château, mostly thanks to Malco and Rudd’s respective charms; it just would have been easier if I hadn’t been expecting National Lampoon’s Gallic Vacation. The entire film is shot in a dim, grainy glow – it reminded me a lot of Watcher in the Woods – and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see an elderly Betty Davis lurking around the castle instead of Isabelle, whose moony eyes started to creep me out. Maybe the cinematographer was trying to set a mood (I get it! The South of France is really brown and twiggy!), but the effect was less “art house comedy” and more “middle-period George Harrison music video”. There are some charming moments, to be sure: Rex yelling “Je suis le roi du château!!” and beatboxing with Isabelle, or every time Rudd attempts to speak French, but overall The Château suffered from a severe international identity crisis. Ladies?

Kath:  They had me when Rudd said, “What am I going to do when I get to France?.. Love the ladies!”  They lost me by playing bad porn music during the montage of Rudd and Malco driving up to the Chateau.  They had me when Rudd started speaking English in a bad French accent since he knew few French words and they used English subtitles anyways. They lost me when Rudd went from charming dork to a cautionary tale you tell your daughters to avoid.  I wish I could tell you it ended well, but I don’t actually remember.  I blame the wine I drank.

Sabrina: As someone who has stayed in a town near Lawrence, Kansas,* I can assure you that Paul Rudd does a really funny, weird dance-walk as he and the guy who was also in The Forty-Year Virgin stroll through the village in France. Remember when Paul Rudd danced on The Daily Show ? This scene was JUST LIKE THAT, except if the Daily Show studio was a village in France, Jon Stewart was that other guy, and instead of having a really good camera and a professional crew, I just shot it on my iPhone. Totally worth the price of admission!!!!** I laughed; I cried; I doodled a picture of Paul Rudd’s smile on a napkin.

Oh, I can also tell you that it took me about half of the movie to figure out who the other guy (Romany Malco) was. I honestly can’t tell you anything about the first part of the movie at all, because I was too busy yelling, “Wait, who IS that guy? I know him from somewhere!” Finally, my husband told me who he was as he rolled his eyes and finished the last of my peanut-brickled iced cream. It was then I realized that I have become an eighty-year old woman.

So, if you would like to see Paul Rudd do one of his silly and charming dances, and you would like to get in touch with your inner grandmother, I highly recommend watching this movie right away.***  If you would like to see Paul Rudd get his dance on, but want to skip the flick, check this out!

*Kansas City. I do have a friend who lives in Lawrence. I think he just directed The Odd Couple. Now that’s a movie!! Hey, maybe they should just remake The Odd Couple with Paul Rudd and the other guy from this movie.**** I bet that would be pretty good. They should probably get a new camera though. And some lights.

**I watched this movie for free on the Netflix, says this grandmother.

***I just remembered that the end of this movie kind of makes you say, “Wait, hey, why did that happen? That doesn’t make any sense at all.” And then, if you’re me, and/or you are eighty, you will spend the next twenty minutes explaining why that was a terrible way to end the film and going over the 47 reasons why. This is the reason I am no longer allowed to watch Brewster’s Millions or  The Money Pit.

****That guy was in Weeds? Yeah, I guess so.

Kath: The Forty-Year Virgin!! THAT’s who that guy is!  Jay-z-us, that took years off my life.  I still don’t remember how it ends.

Oprah & Ebert-style Book Club G-chat:

Sabrina:  So do we want/need a rating system? 3 boobies up?

Kath:  That’s a great idea! I give it 1/2 a wormy boob.

Alex:  I give it one boob with stretch marks.

Sabrina:  I give it two old-lady boobs out of five nice 20-year old boobs. Wait…what’s the scale?

Alex:  I thought it was outta three.

Sabrina:  Oh, ok, then it’s one old boob.

Alex:  But seriously, were you two as confused as I was about like…what the hell kind of movie the director wanted to make?

Sabrina:  Was there a director? I thought someone just used a flip cam. Paul Rudd’s wife maybe.

Alex:  *puts on research goggles* It was directed by Jesse Peretz, who at the time was best known for directing that Foo Fighters video where they pretend to be in a Mentos commercial? Also THIS, which I will admit to enjoying.

Kath:  I don’t “do” links. what is it?

Alex:  Our Idiot Brother – Jesse, you’re alright with me. You’re like pizza and funerals. You bring people together.

Kath The Château had potential… then went wackawoo.

Sabrina:  It’s crazy. The butler guy who is his uncle pretends to die, then for SOME reason, this makes them not sell the house and give it to the hot maid, then she goes to Barcelona on a train with her toddler ?????? (oh wait did I just reveal one of the big reveals? not really)

Alex:  Yeah, how are we supposed to feel when she takes off? “You go girl”? Cuz I was confused.

Kath:  The writer couldn’t figure out how to end it.

Alex:  I agree. Or they ran outta money.

Kath:  They should have put endings in a hat and just picked one, instead of giving us a wet fart and a handshake.  Example: lots of talk about how the black and white dudes were brothers, but no back story.

Sabrina:  Yeah. I felt like they thought they could get a lot of mileage out of that hilarious joke.

Alex:  Ok, so in a prequel who would play Graham and Rex? Jaden Smith?

Kath:  Please no.

Sabrina: And Fred Savage?

Kath:  Maaaaaybe his son…if he has one. That dude is our age.

Sabrina:  Martin Short, dressed like a kid?

Kath:  I vote Martin Short!!!

Alex:  Oh sure; Jaden Smith could totally act opposite Martin Short and hold his own.

Sabrina:  Does the prequel begin in a karate school or is Peter Falk reading to them?

Kath:  Peter Falk is teaching karate!

Alex:  Ok, anything else we wanna say about The Château?

Sabrina:  *tries to make loud fart noises so that Kath will have to shhh me*

Alex:  *begins the ever-popular “armpit fart”* Beans I’m totally editing this into the post.

Sabrina:  That’s the stuff! We are the best. I want to marry us.

Kath: *actually farts*

Kung Hii Fatt Choi from Booby Hatch!

Imagine if you will that the text on this page is beginning to flicker. You check your computer, swearing that if it dies on you, you will “totally go 100% mental, and this time you mean it.” By “100% mental,” you mean you will go to a Big and Tall Men’s Store and buy a giant suit, like the one that David Byrne wore in that Talking Heads video, and you will run around the streets in the middle of the night, holding a stuffed penguin, and screaming “BOW WOW WOOGIE WOOGIE WOW!” And by “this time you mean it,” you mean that you’ll talk about doing it with your friends as you get drunk in a bar and swear that you’ll do it next week, but “next week” will never come, and when your friends tease you about it later, you’ll say, “Let it go already, Funky Winkerbean!”
But before you can further contemplate your computer’s demise, the words fade and the image of a deserted moonscape appears on your screen. Without much hesitation, you realize that your FaceTime Jetson phone (a.k.a. Skype) has turned itself on and “accidentally” dialed our number. 
Now “close your eyes” and keep imagineering. Take a deep breath. By “close your eyes,” we mean keep your eyes wide open and read the words on the page.  By “take a deep breath,” we mean put down the bong and exhale.  Celebrate the fact that with modern technology and old-fashioned mind drama, any crap you can think of becomes possible. Just ask Steve Jobs. Cough. Too soon? Back to our future playtime saga…

Sabrina stumbles into the frame, holding a tiny man in a space hat.

Sabrina: AAAAAAAAAAAAAALEX!!! Yer space phone’s ringing.

Alex pokes her head into the shot and looks around suspiciously.

Alex: Ahoy ahoy?

Sabrina: How many times I gotta tell you – save that crap for Alexander Graham Bell Assassination Re-enactment Day. The BLOG is ringing!!

Katharine runs in, holding a smoking gun.

Katharine: Is it the neighbors? I just shot their parrot.

Alex: Dammit, Katharine! He was the only one who knew my email password!!

Sabrina: (Looks at the tiny spaceman) We should probably wish them a Happy New Year or something. We’ve neglected the blog for a while.

Alex: What about the neighbors?

Katharine: Taken care of. I told you I just shot their parrot. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?

Sabrina: No, no. Not Jim Nabors and his wife, who coincidentally happen to be our neighbors. It’s time to wish our blog readers a Happy New Year.

Katharine: Taken care of. That was last year. I wrote a Haiku about it.

Sabrina: No. For this year.

Alex: AGAIN??? This happens every time I drink whiskey. WHERE DOES THE TIME GO?? (sings) Sunrise, sunset..sunrise sunset…

Katharine: You really need to stop blacking out. You miss so much.  Also, people keep writing “Twat” on your forehead.

Alex: This pop stand blows. Let’s get in the time machine!!

Sabrina: But…but…(looks sadly at the spaceman, who has fallen asleep in the crook of her arm.)

Katharine runs out of the frame and returns with a Vita-Mix with a large pineapple sticking out of it.

Sabrina: We can’t all fit inside there! Tiny Spaceman, you’ll have to stay behind.

Tiny Spaceman: Mumble, mumble, fart, poop.

Alex: Good job Tiny Spaceman! That’s another Adam Sandler script in the can. Stay here and write us a Steve Guttenberg vehicle.

Sabrina: Enough jibber-jabbering! It’s time to go BACK! To the fu—(she begins violently coughing. Alex slaps her on the back and a dead parrot shoots out of her mouth. Somewhere, John Cleese rolls over in his cash-filled swimming pool.)

Katharine: (stroking the Vita-Mix time machine affectionately) I have complete faith that this will work.

Alex: That’s what I’m afraid of! Never tell me the odds! Yippy kai ay motherf— (Katharine slaps her.)


Sabrina covers the tiny spaceman’s eyes with her hand and gently carries him off-screen. She returns and the three ladies climb inside the blender, alongside the pineapple. Alex hooks the pineapple up to a computer, and the lights begin to flash. You put a bra on your head and press this link, as it disappears beneath your finger: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDe5Ckt4joQ  The screen goes dark, and one-by-one all the lights in your house/coffee shop/office/train car/box of donuts go out. You sit in darkness, wondering what in the Heckleberry Finn you have gotten yourself into, when suddenly power is restored and your screen comes back on. The moonscape is gone. You are now watching the past, a New Year’s party in an old-timey wild west saloon. The date is December 31, 2011.

Alex: (Looks around) What a dump.

Katharine: I don’t think my spleen made it.

Sabrina: It did, but it’s over there, sitting on Mark Twain’s Melba toast.

Katharine: Again?

The camera zooms out and reveals Mark Twain, Shania Twain and Damon Wayans standing in front of a poster of Dwayne Wayne, star of Michael Bay’s remake of Shane.

Mark Twain: All things change except barbers, the ways of barbers, and the surroundings of barbers. These never change.

He eats Katharine’s spleen.

Shania Twain: Men are like shoes! I ain’t got time for the flip flop kind.

Damon Wayans: I was 12 years old when I had my first job, delivering packages.

If you decide to follow Nostalgic Damon Wayans to the nearest UPS, turn to page 15. If you decide to suggest that Mark and Shania Twain are the same person, click this link: http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Mark_Twain  If you think politicians have become way too political, grab some poster board, the ghost of Andy Rooney, glitter glue, and make a sign about it, why don’t you? If your name has any vowels in it, continue enjoying this space blog.

Alex: This Western SUCKS. Where are all the floozies and sarsparilla?

Katharine: Ooh check out this trunk fulla junk!

Sabrina: EXCUSE ME? Just because a lady has a curvaceous derriere does NOT —

Katharine:  Wha chu talkin’ bout, Brina?  I was just pointing out this mysterious trunk full of Olde Tyme Western Wear I just found.

Alex: I call dibs on the chaps!!

Sabrina: I call the tiny spaceman! Wait, what’s the spaceman doing here? I thought we left him behind.

Katharine: Don’t question it; this is fantasy. And put a kerchief on that spaceman; he’s nude, and this is a family show.

Alex: Isn’t it New Year’s Eve? Sabrina, didn’t you and Don Rickles have a gig tonight?

Sabrina: Crap, you’re right. (turns to the blog audience) Thank you all for coming to the New Year’s Eve Friar’s Club roast of Kadeem Harrison. I would like to take this opportunity to share this eggnog recipe from the restaurant formerly known as St. Elsewhere with you:

6 eggs separated
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1.5 teaspoon vanilla
6oz Scotch
3oz Bourbon
3oz Brandy
1 pint milk
1 pint cream
3 tablespoons white sugar

Beat the egg yolks with the brown sugar, salt and vanilla to the ribbon stage. Add the booze and the dairy and mix until incorporated. Set this mixture aside.

Whisk the egg whites with the white sugar to the medium-hard peak stage. When ready fold the egg whites into the boozy mixture. Season generously with freshly grated nutmeg. FRESHLY!

Allow this to sit for at least an hour or two to let the drink separate from the foam a little. Garnish with a pair of round flip glasses and shoulder pads. Enjoy!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large crowd begins to count down in unison. The Ladies of the Hatch throw on their Western wear, dress up Mark Twain as a saloon tranny floozie, and pose confidently against the flimsy backlot film set as flashbulbs pop and confetti cascades down upon them. There is a resounding cry of HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Ryan Seacrest makes out with a New York City cop and all is right with the world. Sabrina, Alex, and Katharine clink glasses of eggnog.

Sabrina: (leaning on the tiny spaceman’s rifle) God bless us, every one!

Alex: (through violent hiccups) It really is an (hic) anytime drink…Ann Jillian (hic) was right…(hic)

Katharine: Who’s the dude?

Sabrina and Alex: MARK TWAIIIIN!!

Katharine: Huh. He looks different in person.

Coney Island Fantasy!

Well. It’s been QUITE a month, hasn’t it boys and girls? First, Booby Hatch held our first annual country bear reunion jamboree, where we chewed some scenery, sampled local culture, got charmed by a tiny bald dude, and met Ned Beatty:

And if that much fun wasn’t enough, the 2011 Coney Island Film Festival bestowed the hallowed Best Music Video distinction on our saucy little baby, Suck It!

Katharine and Alex happily accepted the hand-painted plaque, spurred on by several generous gin & tonics and heads full of adrenaline (earned the way Jebus intended: on the Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel!)

But something was missing.

Instead of basking in much-deserved glow on a Brooklyn Boardwalk, Sabrina was blissfully ensconced in her family-size comedy space farm, and unable to join her fellow Stooges. So we would like to take this time to imagine what our acceptance speech might have been like, had all three Darrens been present at the reunion special:

>>> Wiggly visuals! Harp Music! Time Travel!! <<<

KATH: (runs up to the mic, breathing heavily) WHOOO! Kibbles and BITS this is awesome!!! USA! USA!

SABRINA: (tackles Kath from the side, tearing off her weave) This one’s for all the LADIES!! My hotel room is number…(squints at her car keys) One…Nine..Subaru?

ALEX: (stumbles up to the mic clutching her fourth martini) I can’t…I just…I feel like for the first…this is so…you guys you just…you GET us, you know? YOU GET US. (Cries.)

(mic squeals. Kath grabs it away.)

KATH:  If I had known we were going to be accepting this major award, I would have worn spanks. That said, why is Sabrina still skinnier than me and she pooped out a baby?

SABRINA: I’m not. I’m just standing in front of a fun house mirror. The GOOD fun house mirror. (Sabrina winks at a Carny)

KATH: Enough already yous! They want to hear about our Sucking It geniusnessnesses.

ALEX: (frowns at Kath) Uh…

SABRINA: (also frowns; begins to say something, then stops herself and winks at the Carny again.)

ALEX: (clears throat, straightens tie and drains her martini) I just wanna sssay…that I couldn’t have done it without my number one girl, the love of my liffffe…the creeeeam in my donut —-

SABRINA: Alex!! Get to the point. This carny’s getting cold. No, seriously. Somebody poke this guy with a stick. He might be dead.

ALEX: Right! I wanna take this opportunity to ask a very special lady here…(Kath smiles and begins smoothing her dress.)

ALEX (looks out at the audience): You know who you are. You’re my everything. (She stumbles down onto one knee. Kath gasps) Will you…make me the happiest lady on the planet, and —

KATH: YES! YES! I will! (Alex knee-walks over to a rubber tree plant in the corer of the stage and tries to shove a diamond ring onto its leaves) Wait…what?

SABRINA (taking hold of the mic) I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen; we’re all a little overwhelmed up here.

KATH: (to nobody) I knew she loved that plant. I knew that… (She coughs casually, covering her pain.) I have a husband.

SABRINA: Focus, you silly kites. They’ll be plenty of time for making out with plants and dead carnies and us when we get that golden diamond award thing. So, before the sweet and kind citizens of the Island of Coney give us our giant diamond encrusted gold medallion pirate ship, we would like to thank John Des Roches for being the director whose name was painted on our award.  You did real good, kid.  Space Wipe!  Ha. That’s an inside joke between me, John and Jesus.  We also want to thank Dylan for having a fantastic camera and knowing how to use it.   Thank you also for climbing up walls, for taking your shirt off, and for wearing shiny silver ass-tro-nut underpants.  Are you going to be in the next X-Men movie? Because you should be. (She winks at the dead carny. A sea breeze ruffles his hair, and for a moment he resembles a young Robert Goulet.)

ALEX: (still cuddling the plant, suddenly remembers something)  Megan Steer! You made us bee-yooootiful and for that we thank you. I mean, HD is a harsh mistress am I right everyone? (Silence.) I mean this thing (points to her own face) looked like a bag of old Band-aids before Megan got a hold of it! And these two (jerks her thumb towards Kath and Sabrina) …woooo! They were….just…

KATH: (gives death eyes to Alex) I want to thank the Coney Island Film Festival for asking important questions during the Q & A talkback – questions like, “Who’s that guy in your video who takes your picture on the subway? He looks so familiar.”  And we told ’em, “That’s E. James Ford from the web series Pioneer One! Yeah, we know him. Any other questions?  About the process? No?”

AUDIENCE: (Chants) E. James Ford! E. James Ford! E. James Ford!!!

SABRINA: Ok, we get it. You like the sexy man. But before they play the exit music, I would also like to thank David Crittenden for letting me wear the underthings that one Beyonce Knowles wore in some kind of fancy magazine something. Her ass sweat gave me courage and fire. I haven’t washed my butt since. I liked it, and now it has got a ring on it! HA-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Say, is that funnel cake?

ALEX: You looked like Ann Jillian!

KATH: In a Lifetime movie!!

SABRINA: What if I AM Ann Jillian?? And what if this is all just part of a very elaborate Lifetime movie??

ALEX & KATH: Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!!

ALEX: (too close to the mic) Although if there IS anyone from Lifetime here I will gladly star in one of your movies. For free. I do nudity. And animals.

SABRINA: Also, whatever happened to that Narnia thing we shot? That actually happened…right? I remember Ethan Hawke eating bagels and Kath throwing up. Or was that just the after-party?

KATH: It was the after-party. I was strapped to his chest in a Baby Bjorn. You know, for the government.

ALEX: So THAT’S why there was only one set of footprints in the sand! That’s the last time we have an after-party on the beach. Too confusing.

JESUS: (in audience) You suck! Get off the stage and let some real musicians get an award!

ALEX: DJ! Play us off! (Silence. the “DJ” glares at them from the orchestra pit)

SABRINA: Hey, is that DJ Henry Mancini? (Henry Mancini plays them off with a vengeful version of “The Pink Panther Theme”. They sing over the music.)

ALL: Oh Baby YOUUUUUU, you got what I NEEEED…but you sssayy— (A horrible noise as all three fall into the rubber tree plant.)


In closing, The Management would just like to say that if we HAD gotten that ill-fated tattoo on our trip to Sabrina’s space station…it woulda looked something…like…THIS: 

Coney Island, here we come! Fayetteville: we’ll call you back…

First, the Good News: Everyone’s favorite antipodean rap travelogue, Suck It! was accepted to the 2011 Coney Island Film Festival! We’re already drunk on thoughts of red carpets, surfside cocktails, and sideshow naughtiness. If you’re in the NYC area September 23-25th, come on out – you know the words!

Now, the (Dwight) Gooden News: Just as the three suns had to align in The Dark Crystal before Bowie could wow the Muppets with his pants (magic pants), every so often the three ladies of the Hatch must come together in order to recharge their creative mojo. This weekend will witness the Grand Funk Reunion of Booby Hatch in the Heartland of America. Mayhem, baby fashion montages, and a few tee many martoonis, are bound to ensue.

We’ve got Goulet on speed-dial. Stay tuned.

The Best Idea I’ve Ever Had

I had just the greatest idea for a post, but then I had to do some stuff, and after I did all that stuff, I decided that I should take a shower, and then it sounded to me like a scary thunderstorm was building up inside the shower head, and that has never happened before, well, I mean, it’s never happened to ME before anyhow, although it might have happened to my husband, but I wouldn’t know if it had or hadn’t because he hasn’t been sharing much with me verbally, and by that I mean he hasn’t really been talking to me at all since the whole “baby incident” (which I realize that in this context sounds like I am implying that there was some sort of incident with our baby or with someone else’s baby or maybe that I am referring to a news story about a baby trapped in a well or a baby who acquired superhuman strength and lifted a bus off of his mom or something, some kind of story that particularly affected him in some way, rendering him less communicative, like some kind of third-degree form of PTSD, and I apologize, because I don’t mean to imply that at all, because what I meant by the “baby incident” was just that we had a baby, but since I ended up explaining all that anyway, now I am thinking I should have just written “since we had a baby” in the first place, because that would have saved me from realizing that I misspelled the word “acquired,” I mean, you wouldn’t have known it if I hadn’t just outed myself, because there was a red line under it, and I thought, “Well, that’s silly. That’s not how that’s spelled,” and I quickly added a “c,” but I really originally typed “aquired” without even thinking, because my lazy brain sounded it out, and it seemed like a “q” would be enough to make a “k” sound, the “cq” seemed like overkill, although I guess if you were to separate the syllables, the first one would be making an “ak” and the second one would be making a “kwiored,” but still, that kind of thing is not something I think I would have done before the baby incident, or even since I had the baby, but maybe I would have because I haven’t been reading much lately, I mean, I am almost done with Tina Fey’s book, but I don’t think that counts, because she makes me laugh, and there are funny pictures and there is really big print, you know, the kind that editors probably suggest the publisher switch to when someone is supposed to deliver a book, and he/she only turns in 115 pages after working on it for almost a year, well, I mean, after saying that he or she or the robot worked on it for a year anyhow, but then only putting about two weeks into it if you added up all the hours it was writing and subtracted all the ice cream and bathroom breaks it took, and I don’t mean a break where you eat ice cream in the bathroom, but two separate breaks, although I guess if you were either really pressed for time or had a very traumatic bathroom experience, you might want to combine the two into one swift gesture, well, less like a gesture and more like an incident, but not in the way that the baby incident was a pretty solid “incident,” but–oooooouch, the baby from the aforementioned incident just bit my boob, and then he farted, but not just farted, LIFTED HIS LEG AND FARTED LIKE  A GULL-DARNED ANIMAL (!!!), which reminds me that I really need to stop using such shitty language around my son, I mean, he can’t really understand language or even the idea of language, although maybe he’s starting to, because I did show him a “ball” yesterday, I mean, actually I guess I misused those quotation marks–thanks, Bossypants!–it was actually a ball, it wasn’t like a shoe or something that I held up in front of him while I said “ball” a bunch of times, because, well, that would be tricking my son, which, don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought about doing, but only in an abstract way, the same way I think about dressing him up like a bumblebee or a fat bear, but this time the ball that I held up was a real ball, and I held it up and said, “BALL, BALL, BALL,” and he looked at me like he didn’t like what I was getting at, and, anyway,  according to the New York Times Magazine, if I was using bad language around him, he might understand that it was language, but he wouldn’t really know that it was “bad,” because he doesn’t really know right from wrong or good from bad, which is why I forgive him for biting my boob and lifting his leg to fart, although, don’t get me wrong, I am still plotting my revenge!!– no one that I know has done that, which means it never happened), and I guess the noise, which my husband may or may not have also experienced, really threw me off my game, because when I tried to remember what it was that I was going to write for my post, I had to think about it really hard, and nothing at all came to me, except the thought that maybe it had something to do with the bathroom, so I started brainstorming and thought about all the random things that make me crazy, which is where I usually start getting ideas for these posts (famous people, classic movies being remade, bananagrams, etc.), so I started going over all the things that make me crazy, like “facebook” and my husband telling me that Daddy Longlegs are arachnids but not “spiders” every time I point at a Daddy Long Legs on our bathroom floor and yell “SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIDER!!!” and make him smash it like the dirty spider it is, but neither one of those things seemed like things that other people would have feelings about, partially because they might not exist outside of my head, but mainly because they both start with the letter “f,” and neither one of them had anything to do with a bathroom, except the part with the spider on the bathroom floor (but that really seemed like I was forcing a connection), so I cleared my head and used the principles of “The Secret” (the movie, not the book) to awaken my mind to the manifestation of the original genius idea for my post, because I was pretty sure that it was the best idea that I’ve ever had.

Lost in Space

In New York City, no one really has a home base. Most of us don’t travel to work in cars so we spend part of each day marooned far from comforts and conveniences we could easily toss in the back seat if we had one: a fuzzy sweater, a comfortable pair of shoes, library books, a family-size box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies (what? I’m a family.) Instead we carry this stuff on our backs or slung over a shoulder in a giant tote bag that pulls relentlessly at our weak urban arms, stretching them towards the pavement like orangutan limbs.  We defy common sense and lug bulky items onto the subway – things that should never be taken on a moving train: coffee tables, king-size comforter sets, pool cues, a chipped wooden headboard that probably has bedbugs but really looks like it’s worth something, a twin stroller the makers swore could be folded with one hand, because we know that squeezing them into a cab would be a hassle and we’re New Yorkers dammit – we can DO this!! Gamely we struggle, up subway steps, through the turnstiles and past train doors, overbalancing and apologizing but never giving up…mostly because it’s illegal to dump a 6 foot plaster giraffe on a subway platform.

I think about this in the Duane Reade, looking at their line of “Help!” products:  adorably-packaged single-serving items one commonly needs in a pinch. Pain killer! Band Aids! Opaque nipple covers! Ok that last one is made up but if you’re wearing a summer-weight top they’d really come in handy during a flash thunderstorm (think about it.) For city dwellers already weighed down by other necessities (running sneakers, tins of cat food, rape flute) and tourists burdened by distinctly unnecessary items (I Heart NY t-shirts, Magnolia cupcakes, a caricature drawn on a grain of rice, tickets to Stomp) these products are life savers. I’m just surprised it took Duane Reade so long to come up with a way to commodify our needs. Sure, every drug store carries travel size items, but how often do you really need a palm-sized bottle of conditioner? Or a tiny can of Barbisol? On a given day, chances are the urban emergency you’re experiencing is more along the lines of a giant heel blister or a jacket stained with A/C leakage than a five-o-clock shadow or scarecrow bangs.

In my ideal world, I wouldn’t have to make a drugstore pitstop for emergency basics, because I would have a dedicated space, outside my apartment, of my very own. The stationary equivalent of a suburbanite’s car packed with Capri Sun and Paul Simon CDs, it would be strategically located to wherever I spent most of my time for easy access. I could go and recharge, or sit and think, or nap, or – just for a miraculous second – put down the giant fucking duffle bag of old heels and t-shirts destined for the Salvation Army across town. Having a space like that would make me feel great – like Little Orphan Annie when she arrives at Daddy Warbucks’ mansion. I would spin around grinning under my bad perm and jitterbug with any gay gardener or turbaned doorman who’d have me.

And that’s for a space as tiny as a bus locker. (Those don’t exist anymore, do they? Shame, because the idea that I could leave something heavy at Port Authority and skip away holding a key makes New York in the 70s seem like a utopia. THANKS TERRORISTS.)

The sad thing is, if I was a person with more ambition my Annie Warbucks dream might have come true. Right after I finished college I had the idea for something called “Siesta Village”. It was a place in the city – perhaps a single floor of an office building – where anyone could go to take naps, any time of the day, for as long as they wanted. I envisioned the space as a network of cubicles, separated from one another by hanging drapes or woven tapestries. Each unit would be carpeted, with a cot, a nightstand, a cubbyhole, and a place to hang your clothes. Nap sessions as short as a half hour could be purchased on the spot or booked in advance. (I envisioned a “frequent napper” card, embossed with the image of a sleeping kitten, where the 10th snooze was free.) The vibe at Siesta Village would be as quiet as a library, with no infuriating chimes or whale songs. Everyone would wear slippers, and pad around in an alpha-brainwave state of blissful half-consciousness. It would be a soundproof oasis at the center of a honking, angry, grit-caked city. I wasn’t sure how much to charge for a nap, but honestly? There were days when I would gladly pay $50 for a place to drop my bags and zone out for an hour before schlepping to my next appointment. It was a scheme that could only have been born of post-college culture shock combined with the trial-by-fire of producing theater in New York City.

Even though I never had any intention of trying to make Siesta Village fly as a business, I spent a lot of time thinking about the practicalities (because in any city fantasizing about real estate is just another form of porn. ) I realized that discouraging squatters would be a problem, ditto masturbators and people engaged in illicit affairs who wanted to use my carpeted temple for a lunchtime quickie. I thought of all the good people: the weary, sincere nappers who would be disturbed by the interlopers’ animal grunting, and the amount of time I’d spend with a blacklight and anti-bacterial wipes. It occurred to me that Siesta Village was an idea best preserved in dreams, as I dozed on the subway or hauled dirty clothes to the laundromat. Nevertheless, when a facility called MetroNaps sprang up a few years later, I was slightly envious. I consoled myself with the thought that a hooded La-Z-Boy is no substitute for a room of one’s own. Even if it’s just a bus locker.

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