The Smokies: It’s Been So Long/Recycled Robot Edition
January 9, 2012 in The Smokie Awards
Soooooo . . . I may have missed posting a new Smokies for the last couple of weeks (or since October 9). Not to fear, for as you know, this site's airtight award system ensures that no comment goes unnoticed. Wordsmoker is proud to present the first edition of the 2012 Smokie Awards, which happen to cover nearly a quarter of 2011. Because it's been so long, the theme "It's Been So Long" is the obvious choice. But that's kind of a gyp, right? Well, so is recycling an old video, yet here we are.
Admit it: you love him. Here are your goddamn awards.
GottaHaveCereal/Tales From the Mall Food Court: Guns and Soup
Noodle World, Noodle World,
how I’d risk my life for you!
There is no weapon I will not brave,
no perp that can deter
my desire for udon soup
when it’s yours that I prefer.
(Believe it or not, I didn't choose this as the year's first Smokie just because it was on my post. I usually think everything that rhymes is clever.)
Blix/Let Me Die in Spring
I'm grinning at the sentiment of not interrupting the football season by the selfish shedding of my earthly coil. I gaurantee anyone wearing earbuds at my funeral will be haunted (not in a good way).
(Reposted as a warning to those who might attend Blix's funeral wearing earbuds.)
NoDebutante/The Cover Up
You know what they say, “once you’ve seen a woman’s breast, you want to see them all.”
(I'm not sure if that's actually an old play on words, but it happens to be accurate, and that is sort of a virtue.)
DieterTheMasseur/5-Second Movie Review: Immortals
I haven’t seen it, but friends who have managed to sum up its raison d’etre in only two words: “Gay” and “Porn.”
(I don't know if this is hot or super critical or what, but a Pokie to Dieter and his friends.)
MilitantRubberDucky/5 Second Movie Review: The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
I can’t get over how tiny she is; I was quite envious of how easily Daniel Craig flipped her right over. Merf, petite bitches.
(All shapes and sizes . . . and um . . . species, Duck.)
She was a woman, an actress, who did something groundbreaking and brave. She had boobs.
(Only because we had pioneers back then are big boobs so commonplace. Amen.)
Bell: Hemingway happened to know that Fitzgerald’s penis was of normal size ’cause on that one trip to pick up the car when they got rained out and had to stay in that hotel together, Fitzgerald’s penis was in Hemingway’s mouth. Later that same trip when Hemingway’s penis was in Fitzgerald’s mouth, Hemingway was all: Spell my name, bitch, spell my name. And Fitzgerald was all: W-H-O-R-E. And Hemingway was all: That’s right. Which is why Hemingway was all pissed whenever he got a letter from Fitzgerald addressed Dear Ernest and not Dear Whore and was always, That motherfucking small penised asshat who can’t handle his alcohol, and is a total hypochondriac with the pretty lips of a sexy hot girl, is illiterate.
(My eighth grade English literature teacher would hate you if she wasn't dead, Vaq. She probably hates you from heaven.)
Looking back over the eligible nominees, there really was only one Mechanical Larynx candidate that made any sense: Virusw Ithshoe's twelve-minute burning candle video. However, because of his ineligibility, I had to dig deep to come up with another entry.
(This voice needs to be canned and sold. Beautiful poem as well, Vaq)
The Iron Lung
Someone recently told me that the best writing is that which entertains and enlightens the reader. For those of us who are straight, white, middle class, male, and have never had to deal with any sort of prejudice or discrimination, this piece was insightful and moving.
Nick was very tall. He towered over everyone, smiling benevolently down upon our upturned eyes. We were sitting one night on the sidewalk curb when a couple of townies walked by. One stopped and looked straight at me and asked, “Are you gay?” “No,” I said levelly, reflexively, as my entire body flushed hot. The townie snorted and walked away. My hands trembled as I wiped them on my jeans and then I looked up to see Nick looking down at me, his mouth a slanted line. “Why did you say no?” he asked. His voice was so quiet and low. “I don’t know.” He kept looking at me, even as my own eyes fell to stare into his chest for a while before straying back up to meet his gaze. “It must be so hard,” he said at last. He gripped my shoulder with his huge, soft hand and briefly squeezed it, and then we both stood up and headed back toward campus. The feeling of it lingered on my shoulder like an afterimage of the sun.
(Thank you for writing this BRB, and thank you for posting it here. Congratulations on receiving the highest honor anyone has ever received for the written word. What does it feel like to be blasted with the equivalent of a hundred Pulitzers and five Nobels all at once?)
It's great to be back in the driver's seat (of the awards section) of this blog. See you all in a couple of weeks.