All The News....That Fits....

It was business as usual at the offices of the Weekly World News.  Jimmy sat waiting for his appointment with the editor, and he tried not to let his despair show.  It wouldn’t do good to appear desperate.  He needed a job, and the WWN, as the staff affectionately referred to it, was the only paper on the entire East Coast that had been willing to grant him an interview. 

The editor flung the door open and a large, beefy man rushed out, followed by a cloud of hazy blue cigar smoke.  He strode briskly to the desk of the mousy young woman who had greeted Jimmy and picked up the stack of pink message slips, glancing at them momentarily before he crushed them into a ball and tossed them over his shoulder.  He turned to Jimmy and eyed him suspiciously.  “You the kid who’s here about the job?” he grumbled. 

“Yes, sir, my name is-“  He was cut off in mid-sentence by the outstretched palm of the burly man.

“I already know your name,” the man barked.  “Don’t waste my time with nonsense like that.  Follow me; we’ll talk in my office.”  Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched back into the office.  Jimmy blinked for a moment, then rose and hurried after the man. 

The office was large and spacious, but felt almost claustrophobic due to the dazzling assortment of papers, filing cabinets, and bizarre souvenirs that filled it.  The editor took a seat behind the large mahogany desk and propped his feet up, nearly knocking over the Zuni Fetish doll that sat next to the telephone.

“Hey,” said Jimmy in delight.  “You’ve got one of those little doll things from that movie with Karen Black.  That movie scared the hell out of me.  How’d you get your hands on that prop?”

“Prop, my ass, kid.  This here’s the real thing.  Just keep your hands off that chain around his neck; I don’t want to chase that little bastard around this office all damn day.”  The editor puffed on the stogie that was clenched between his teeth and regarded Jimmy.  “Okay, kid,” he said.  “My name’s Carl.  We don’t worry about last names in this place, we don’t worry about formalities, we only worry about putting out a good paper.  I’ve seen your stuff; you’re a decent writer, so as far as I’m concerned you’re already hired.  I just wanted to fill you in on how things work here.”

Jimmy stammered in surprise.  “I’m hired?”  He was caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, he had a job, but he also knew that he could say goodbye to any hopes of a career as a serious journalist.

“Yeah, you’re hired,” muttered Carl.  “We covered that already.  Try and keep up will ya?”  He fell silent for a second as he studied the young man.  “Listen, I’m not gonna sugar coat this, kid.  This job sucks.  You’ll be traveling to every hick town and godforsaken country on this big beautiful blue ball we call the world.  But that’s how we get the big stories.  If I wasn’t willing to travel, I’d never have landed that exclusive interview with Bigfoot.”

Jimmy could not hide the look of amusement that spread across his face.  “Wow, Bigfoot, huh?  That’s quite a scoop,” he said.

“Ah, it isn’t as impressive as you might think,” Carl said.  “Catching up to Bigfoot is easy, and once he starts talking that hairy bastard never shuts up.  The tricky part was finding an interpreter.”

“I’ll bet,” said Jimmy.  “You really must have some amazing connections.”

“Yup,” the editor said with a smug smile.  “When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you meet some mighty interesting people and you learn some very interesting things.  Best week in my life was spent with the denizens of Atlantis.”

“Atlantis, wow,” Jimmy smirked.  He was now convinced he was the victim of a put-on, the kind of harassment that all new fish were put through until they proved themselves.  “I imagine you got very good at holding your breath.”

“Didn’t have to.  Atlantis isn’t really under the sea, ya know,” Carl said conspiratorially.  “It’s floating seven miles above the surface of the earth over San Francisco.  See, the people of Atlantis are all a bunch of hippies.  Nice enough guys, but a real group of granola heads, know what I’m saying?  Anyway, the entire population is hung up on Transcendental meditation, and they reached such an enlightened state that they levitated the whole place.”

 “Okay, that’s enough,” said Jimmy.  “A joke’s a joke, but this has gone far enough.  Are you trying to tell me that all of those stories about Bigfoot and space aliens and Bat Boy are all true?  I know you have to pretend for the public, but you don’t really expect me to believe that all of that garbage is for real.”

Carl took a deep pull on the cigar and fixed Jimmy with a look of such openness and honesty that the young reporter was instantly silenced.  “Kid, every word we print is the absolute truth, even Bat Boy.  You’ll meet him at the picnic next month.  Word of advice, kid.  Let him have first crack at the hot dogs.” 

Jimmy chuckled.  “How can that be?  How come none of the other media outlets cover any of these stories?  If they were all true, wouldn’t they be reporting on these things?”

Carl scowled and lowered his feet.  He leaned across the desk and spoke in a low voice.  “Look kid, you better get one thing straight right here and now.  I don’t care what you’ve always heard about us in journalism school, I don’t care how many times you’ve laughed at us while you were in the supermarket checkout line, and I don’t care how many times we’ve been the butt of a joke on the Tonight Show.  The big media outlets, the television news stations, every paper across the country, they all mock us because we are the only independent publication left in America.  We print the truth, and they can’t do that.”

Jimmy sat silently in the chair.  Carl had a point.  Every “news outlet” he could think of was owned by a big corporation, and it was obvious to any thinking person that no story went before the public unless the government wanted it out there.

“This is a great country and it can be once again. But before it is, we need to stop fighting against each other,” Carl said.  His voice had taken on an impassioned tone.  “That isn’t what the folks in power want, so they print story after story that pits race against race, creed against creed, belief against belief.  They scare us into thinking that different is bad.  They keep us distracted from the important things, the unexplainable things that keep us wondering and searching for the beauty and mystery of life.  We are truly fortunate, Jimmy, you and I.  We have an opportunity to help people forget about the all the ridiculous things that scare them and frighten them and we get to help them smile, help them laugh; help them see that the world is still a place of wonder and magic.  Now do you understand?”

Jimmy wiped a tear from his eye.  The big man’s words had moved him and filled him with a sense of pride in his profession that had been missing for too long.  “Yes, I do,” he said.  “I thank you for this honor, sir, and I won’t let you down.”

Carl smiled.  “Don’t worry about me, kid,” he said.  “You just make sure you don’t let America down.  Everything else will take care of itself.”

Jimmy nodded.  He left the room sobbing at the beauty of the big man’s words.  Carl smiled as he watched the newest member of his staff close the door behind him.  Immediately, he burst into hearty peals of laughter.

“Boy,” he said.  “Is that kid ever gullible.”

An Open Letter To My Grocer

Dear Sir,

I wish to express my strong dissatisfaction with your practice of recording and tracking my purchases.

I realize that, according to you, this is done in order to more effectively manage your inventory and to create custom savings opportunities for your customers, but let's be truthful with each other, shall we? You monitor these purchases so you can determine what I like and then cease to provide it.

Time after time, always shortly after I discover a product and make it a part of my regular diet, you remove it from your shelves. It doesn't matter how long the product was carried by your chain prior to that, once I become a regular consumer, it's gone.

I could understand this if I were purchasing odd items. If, for example, I were searching for fresh Dalmatian puppy hearts that had been marinated in the blood of young virgin Russian women, I would understand. But I'm not searching for such items at your location. That's what gourmet grocery stores are for. I'm just looking for cereal and potato chips and the like.

I've heard all of the arguments before. You claim that monitoring the purchases of your clients allows you to give them a variety of goods. Personally, I don't consider "variety" to mean "six brands of oreos whose only distinguishing characteristic is differently colored cream filling". You claim that you are able to tailor make coupons specifically geared towards me. If so, I wonder what I bought that led you to the conclusion that I was a likely purchaser of depilatory creams.

You argue that your customers appreciate your practice. In my experience, people often say they enjoy something even when they don't mean it. Every woman I know tells me they enjoy massages, but as soon as I put my hands up inside the fronts of their shirts, they get all belligerent, so clearly, people seldom mean what they say.

The only conclusion, therefore, is that you have a personal vendetta against me, just like my Nintendo Wii and the folks who conspired to label my jeans so that it appears I wear a 38, when I clearly am much more svelte.

I wish I knew what I had done to offend you. I shopped faithfully at your store, even during strikes by your cashiers and baggers. I ignored your price gouging. At let's not forget the night you had your unfortunate "accident" with that drunken "working girl". I'm not saying I regret helping you dispose of her remains. I'm just saying that I really would enjoy having that freezer space back.

The point is, I thought we were friends. I thought we understood each other. I thought you had my back. Clearly, I was wrong.

I've done all I can for you. I hate to say it, but I think our relationship has soured beyond repair, much like the milk you sold me last week. It didn't have to end this way. All you had to do was say those simple little words you knew I wanted, needed to hear: "The Sunrise cereal is in aisle four." But you couldn't even do that.

Have a nice life.

Physician To The Stars

Richard’s parents had always hoped he would become a doctor. Unfortunately, it was a dream that he did not share. A lifetime of prodding and guilt can lead a person down almost any path, however, and so Richard had worked his way through medical school and residency with competency, if not enthusiasm.

As a student, his one moment of inspiration had come when he decided that he would base his practice in Toontown. He believed it would ensure a quiet, undemanding workload. After all, he reasoned, if your patients can have a piano dropped on their heads and then walk away, how serious could their medical issues be? Now, as he studied the case file that lay before him, he reflected on how naïve he had been. With a sigh, he raised his head and spoke to the sailor seated across from him.

“I’m afraid you have acromegaly,” he said softly. “It’s a disease which cause the pituitary gland to produce excess growth hormones. This often results in tumors that cause facial swelling and protuberances. That’s the reason your jaw is the way it is.”

Popeye chomped down on his pipe and was silent for a moment. “Well, blow me down,” he muttered.

“The good news is that the condition is treatable. Drug therapy can restore normal pituitary functions, and surgery can remove the tumor.” The doctor paused for a moment. “There’s another issue I think we should discuss. I’m a little concerned about your spinach dependency.”

The sailor looked indignant. “I don’t have a spinachk depensdensky,” he said sullenly.

“Mr. Eye, let’s face facts. You eat spinach for breakfast. You eat spinach for lunch. You eat spinach for dinner. Hell, you even smoke the damn stuff.” At this, the sailor sheepishly removed his pipe and hid it behind his back. The doctor continued. “Spinach is fine in moderation, but when it’s consumed in the sort of quantity that you regularly use, it represents a serious problem. I advise you to quit cold turkey.”

“Quitsk spinachk!” cried Popeye. “I’ll die!”

“You’ll die if you don’t,” said Richard matter-of-factly. “I’m going to give you the address of a clinic that can help you with your withdrawal symptoms. Also, I recommend joining a support group to help you when you feel the need to use.” Richard rose from his desk and led the sailor to the door. “I’ll have my receptionist schedule an appointment to begin treatment for the pituitary disorder. I wish you luck.”

Richard closed the door and returned to his desk. He hung his head in his hands. At that instant, the door to his office burst open. In stomped an angry black mallard, followed by the receptionist. She apologized profusely to the doctor. “I’m sorry, Doctor,’ she said. “He refuses to wait for his appointment.”

“You’re darn tootin, Florenthh Nightmare,” the mallard shouted. He covered the desk and the doctor with a fine spray of saliva with every “s”.

“It’s okay, Miss Foray,” said Richard. “I’ll take care of it.” The nurse withdrew and closed the door. Richard looked calmly at the duck. “Now, Daffy, what’s the matter? You seem upset.”

“You’re darn right I’m upthet!” The mallard was enraged and his lisp was even more pronounced than usual, something Richard would have thought impossible. “Ith that plathtic thurgeon you referred me to! Just look at me!”

Richard stared at the duck. He looked him over carefully. He was no beauty contest winner, but he looked a darn sight better than he had when Richard had first seen him. His crossed eyes had been corrected, his rubbery limbs had been strengthened and converted to a normal length, and his beak, which had been a monstrosity when the mallard first hit town, had been shortened and bobbed. Richard could see no reason for the duck to be displeased. “You look great, Daffy. What’s the problem?”

“Thith ith the problem,” hissed Daffy, and he gave his beak a smart slap. Richard watched as it spun around the duck’s head and slowly settled to a stop on the back of his skull.

“Oh, my,” said Richard.

Daffy reached behind him and pulled the beak back into proper alignment. “Look at me,” he wailed. “I’m a monthter! How can I thtar in movieth when my beak fallth off with every take?”

Richard tried to calm the duck, but it was nearly impossible. He was livid. “Daffy, I’m sure there’s something we can do…..”

“Damn right there ith,” snapped the duck, cutting him off. “I’m thuing you for malpractith. I’ll make thure that theepskin never theeth the light of day again.” He turned on his webbed foot and headed for the door. “I’ll thee you in court, Jack!” With that, the duck was gone.

Richard rose and exited his office. He walked quickly into the reception area and called out to Miss Foray. “Get my attorney on the phone. Tell him I need to speak to him right away. Also, I’ll need to talk to my insurance agent.” He took off his lab coat, which was soaked with mallard spit, and handed it to the girl. "Have this sent to the laundry as well."

“Yes, doctor,” she said. “Oh, here are your messages.” She handed Richard a stack of pink notes and he thumbed through them quickly. Mighty Mouse was calling concerning potential side effects of the steroids he had been using. Droopy needed a refill on his anti-depressant prescription. He stopped and held one out to the receptionist. “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Coyote,” Miss Foray said dismissively. “He stopped in and wanted to see you. I told him you were booked solid and that he should call for an appointment in the future.”

Richard sighed heavily. “He can’t call for an appointment, he suffers from hysterical vocal paralysis,” the doctor said. “If he returns, I want to see him immediately. I think he needs to be referred to a psychiatrist. This business with the bird is becoming an unhealthy obsession.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day, and put the attorney and the insurance man through as soon as they call.” The doctor turned and slunk back into his office. He sat heavily in his chair and pulled open his desk drawer. He snatched the aspirin bottle, thumbed off the cap and shook two into his hand. He dry swallowed them, grimacing at the taste, and leaned back in his chair. The phone rang, and he answered it. He listened for a moment, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

“Yes, Mr. Disney,” he said. “Yes, the test results are in. I’m afraid it’s a venereal disease.” He held the phone away from his ear as the voice on the other end let out a stream of profanity. He returned the receiver to his ear as the invective faded away. “No, no, it’s not serious. Yes, I’ll be discrete….Yes, I can meet you at your home this evening. We can clear this whole thing up with a shot of penicillin and a dash of turpentine. Fine…..I’ll see you then.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head. The tradition of the casting couch was a long and fabled one, but he never understood why these moguls always failed to take even the most rudimentary of precautions. He hoped Disney would think twice this time. He had, after all, gotten what he deserved.

Everyone knew Minnie was a tramp.

Bashing

For most of my life, I have felt as though I belonged to a different time and place. I grew up with a love of classic films, classic television, classic radio and the like. To find a contemporary interest in my list of likes and dislikes was rare indeed. The things I loved weren’t embraced by my friends or even my family. I stumbled across these things on my own. I tried to share them with others, but there was little interest in them, and so I began to view these things as my own secret treasures.

I had a lot of difficulty in making friends. I was fairly isolated as a child, and I felt a kinship with the monsters and the comedians that I shared so much time with. They were outsiders, unable to participate in the world around them because of circumstances of birth or fate. They simply did not belong. They could not help what or who they were. These creatures and creators meant a lot to me. When I watched Larry Talbot suffer the tortures of the damned and come to the realization that his life would be a solitary existence, I could relate.

A lot of people would therefore suppose that I’d be attracted to conventions honoring these things, but this wasn’t the case for me. I had no one to travel with for the majority of my life, and I feared going on my own. I imagined I would be viewed as the strange little fellow, friendless and alone, and that I would be mocked or laughed at.

One day I learned of the Monsterbash convention. For some reason, I was drawn to this event, and I couldn’t understand the reason why. The event kept popping up in my mind, and I decided to attend.

I traveled alone, as my family had other commitments and were unable to join me. All during the drive down, the old demons played in my mind. Would I be out of place? Would I be laughed at? Was I going to be disappointed and hurt by the other attendees? As I soon found out, those fears were completely unfounded.

From the moment I walked into the event, I was made to feel as though I was part of a family. The celebrities in attendance were all unfailingly kind and all seemed honestly pleased and delighted to hear about how much their work had meant. I met Chris Costello, daughter of Lou Costello, and she shared wonderful stories about her father. I met Ron Chaney, grandson of Lon Chaney, Jr. and the love and affection he had for his famous grandfather touched my heart. I met Penny Dreadful and Garou, both of whom embraced me with open arms and made me feel as though I had known them all my life. I met Kyra Schon, and was struck by her talent, kindness and artistry. I found myself sharing smoke breaks with Ron Pelligrino, one of the principals behind the event, and marveled at his knowledge of the genre and his skill as an interviewer. And in one delightfully surreal moment, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find myself face to face with Yvonne Monlaur, star of Hammer’s Brides Of Dracula. She asked if I could spare a cigarette and I got to spend several minutes alone with a woman whom I had had a crush on for many, many years.

The things that happened during the event were all wonderful. They were entertaining and informative and special in ways that I just don’t have the skill to describe. Watching Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein in a makeshift drive in and marveling when the film concluded and Dracula, Frankenstein, the Bride of Frankenstein and Ron Chaney, wearing a recreation of his grandfather’s most famous creation, The Wolf Man, all came out of the woods to menace the crowd was magical. Hearing the stories of the many celebrities provided many delights and laughs. But those things were not what set Monsterbash apart, or made it stick so firmly in my brain.

Every person there, from the smallest child to the most famous celebrity, was made to feel special and welcomed. Each person was made to feel as though they had given a great gift to the other attendees. The “civilians” were treated with kindness and respect and honest gratitude and affection by the celebrities, all of whom made us feel as though our respect and affection for their work was the best gift we could have given them. The celebrities were reminded again of just how much their work meant to all of us. And all of us made every single participant feel like a family, a group that had in many instances never met face to face, but still shared a common body of memories and experiences.

I’ve been to a number of conventions since that first Bash, sometimes as a guest and sometimes as a fan. But even the very best of them pales next to the Bash, and I think it’s for one simple reason: Love. I can’t describe it any better than that. The Bash has a sense of love and friendship and acceptance that nothing else has.

As I read this over, I am frustrated by my inability to capture what the Bash is and what it means to me. All I can say is thank you to the organizers and the attendees for creating a place where I truly feel like I belong. Penny, Garou, Kyra, Ron (Adams and Pellegrino) and everyone else, thank you. Thank you for so much. But most of all, thank you for being the people that you are. Without folks of such good and gentle natures, such kind and generous spirits, the Bash would not be what it is. There are many more people deserving of thanks, and I wish I could name them all, but I can’t.

I do hope, however, that they all know what a special place they hold in my heart.

Service Call

When the doorbell buzzed at 1:00 p.m. exactly, Eric blinked in surprise. He was expecting a service call, and the rep had told him the technician would arrive at 1:00 p.m., but Eric had never known a service person to arrive on time. When he opened the door, he blinked into the face of the visitor with stunned incomprehension.

The man at the door was huge, 6 foot 4 if he was an inch. He was a burly sort, his thick arms ending in meaty paws that were stained almost black with some unknown substance. His bulk strained against the grimy jumpsuit it had poured into. The nametag sewn above his left breast identified him as Vince. "I'm from Data Doctors," he said. "Where's the PC?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode into the room.

Eric scrambled into action and led Vince to the study where the PC was housed. "No offense," he stammered, "but you don't look like a computer technician." Vince stopped in mid-stride. He turned and stared at Eric. Finally, he pulled a pocket protector from the toolbox that swung from his right hand and slipped it into his left breast pocket. "Feel better now?" he said, the irritation evident in his voice.

Eric decided to change the subject. "The computer is on the desk in the study. I don't know what's wrong with it. It's been running very slowly lately, and it makes all these awful sounds, like it was growling at me." Eric noticed the sudden quizzical look that appeared on Vince's face. He laughed nervously. "I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but that's what it sounds like."

Vince stepped in front of the PC. He turned it on and listened carefully. Immediately, the computer began to emit a series of odd noises. To Eric, they sounded like a surly old man grumbling through a throat full of phlegm. "Yeah, I figured as much," Vince said. "Listen, can I run a diagnostic on this thing?" Eric nodded, and Vince pulled a disc from his toolbox and popped it into the PC. It began to run, slowly at first, and then picked up speed. Eric watched as the monitor began to flicker rapidly. Soon, it flashed with the speed and intensity of a strobe light, and Eric found himself thinking of the unwitting children who had experienced seizures while watching pokemon cartoons. Finally, the monitor settled back to black. Vince peered at the screen and nodded. "Just as I thought," he said. Your PC is full of hate."

Eric blinked. "It's full of …hate?"

"Sure is," said Vince. "Take a look at the monitor."

Eric looked at the screen where the results of the diagnostic were now displayed. On it, he saw a happy little devil capering gleefully. "I don't understand."

"I don't see why it's so confusing," said Vince. "Take a look at these sites you've been visiting."

Eric gulped and began to stammer. "Listen, hey, I can explain those. Sometimes a guy gets lonely, and-"

Vince cut him off. "I'm not talking about those sites. In fact, I'd prefer we never, ever mention them again, if it's all the same to you. I'm talking about all of these blogs and stuff. These things are loaded with hate. All of those negative user comments, all of those flame wars, all of that pre-school name calling, that's pure unadulterated hate and it's ruining your performance."

Eric stared at the technician. "I am soooooo lost right now," he muttered.

Vince sighed. "Look," he said, "it's very simple. There's a lot of hatred and negativity out there on the web. As you come into contact with it, it accumulates in your hard drive. If you don't clean it out, it manifests itself physically and it gunks up your machine. Lemme show you."

With that, the man powered down the tower and removed the casing. In a flash, he had removed the hard drive from the unit. He reached into his toolbox and brought out a jar with bright yellow labels covering its face. Before Eric could vocalize his unease, Vince had opened the hard drive and turned it upside down over the jar. Instantly, a foul smelling black sludge poured out of the drive and settled into the jar. "What the hell is that stuff?" Eric asked.

"I already told you,' said Vince. "It's the physical manifestation of hate. Nasty stuff, too." Eric watched the sludge slowly fill the jar. "This isn't possible," he said quietly. The web is just a series of electronic impulses. How can it turn into that….goo?"

"Beats me," said Vince. "I leave the metaphysics for the geniuses. I just clean up after everyone." He finished draining the drive and set it onto a yellow cloth. He capped the lid on the jar and sealed it in a lead lined canister which he then secured in his tool chest. Next, he pulled a strange looking box from his tool chest and gingerly placed the hard drive inside. He pressed a button on the side and Eric heard a soft hum. A blue glow emanated from inside the box.

"I'm just decontaminating the hard drive," said Vince. "I'm nearly done here. In the meantime, I'll just advise you to stay away from most blogs, political party websites and YouTube. You wouldn't believe the level of hate in the comment section. It's also a good idea to spend time visiting cute sites. The sweetness eats away at the hate on your machine, kinda like that oil-eating bacteria thy use to clean up spills. I'd recommend at least two hours a day on the Hello Kitty website."

"Seriously?" said Eric. "Two hours?"

"Hey, it's your choice," said Vince. The box had finished its work and he was reassembling the tower as he spoke. "It's either that, or you can invest in an anger management pump for your system, but those babies are really pricey. Plus, you'll have to become licensed to handle the accumulated hate."

"What do you mean, licensed?" asked Eric.

"Listen," said Vince. "That concentrated hate is a biohazard and it needs to be handled carefully. You wouldn't believe the lengths we go to when we dispose of this stuff. Some companies just dump it in the river, or worse yet, they sell it on the black market."

Eric was shaking his head in disbelief. "You mean there's a market for this stuff?"

"Of course," Vince said. "The republican party buys a lot, and so does Fred Phelps." He packed up his tool chest and stood up. "Well, that should do it. Remember what I said about sites to avoid, and be sure to surf responsibly!" In a flash, the man was gone.

Eric moved to the terminal. The computer was up and running silently. All traces of the phlegmy growl were gone. He tried to grasp what had happened. The whole thing had been so surreal. It had to be a scam of some sort. He didn't believe a word of it.

Nevertheless, he didn't hesitate at all as he punched in www.sanrio.com.

How to write a SyFy channel "original" movie

Lately, I have spent an obscene amount of time watching the SyFy channel. This can only be attributed to intense boredom. Fortunately, I am blessed with a unique ability to pull something positive out of everything I see. After absorbing the essential elements of the programming presented on the channel, I will now present my sure-fire tips on how to make a successful SyFy epic.

Step 1: The Story
Science fiction is about originality and creativity. Finding an idea that hasn't been done to death will be challenging. However, based on my viewing, the following concepts will serve you well:

Giant Insects
Alien Invasion
The reanimation of the dead (they should, of course, become flesh eaters upon resurrection)
Giant reptiles
The resurrection of dead aliens (they should, of course, become flesh eaters)
Giant aliens
Alien insects
Giant alien insects
Reanimated giant reptiles
Alien reptiles
Giant reanimated dead alien insect/reptile hybrids

Step 2: The script
Screenwriting is a craft, and there are no short cuts if you wish to achieve a great piece of work. However, you are writing for the SyFy channel. Try these tips:

Glasses mean smart, and thus save pages in which you must develop a character.
Logic is your enemy
The army is always evil
Science is always evil
Evil is always evil

The following pieces of dialogue are indispensable:
"If that things escapes, it could mean the end of all mankind."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"I'm in charge of this mission and you'll do what I say."
"They're expendable."

Step 3: Casting
For male roles, follow this model:

Call Bruce Campbell
If Bruce refuses, call Lance Henrikssen
If Lance refuses, call Dean Cain
If Dean refuses, give part to first man to pass office window.

For female roles, keep the following in mind:
Must have a D-cup
Must have permanently erect nipples ( do not apply this requirement to male cast, it is very unsettling)
Familiarity with English language not required

Step 4: Shooting the film
Keep the schedule short and the budget lean.
Never do a second take unless something falls on and impales an actor. In this instance, work the injury into the script rather than re-shoot the action.
Get close-ups of the wound, as it represents a neat "make-up effect" that you got for free.
Prior to shooting, save all condiment package from local fast-food chains. This will function as your craft services table.

Step 5: Post-production (special effects)
Nowadays, most special effects are handled via CGI. To make sure your effects are up to the standards of the Sci-fi network, obtain the following:

One small child (he will design the creatures for you)
One Commodore 64 PC

Remember, when chosing a resolution for your graphics, keep things slightly above the level of the Atari 2600.

If you keep these tips in mind, you too can be a movie mogul. My condolences.

Perchance to dream...

I have almost total recall of my dreams. This isn't a great thing, mainly because my dreams are weird beyond belief. For example, here's a little gem from last night.....

I was at an international swim meet. I wasn't participating, just watching. The competitors were all wearing large dorsal fins and this made them incredibly fast. We're talking 1000 yards in 2.6 seconds fast. Naturally, the crowd was rooting for the American team.

The competition was a tie as we went into the last event, the diving competition. The platforms were on hydraulics, and the divers were leaping and plummeting thousands of feet to the water below. The competition was a dead heat, and the platforms were raised so high that they could not be measured without the aid of satellite photography.

While we were waiting for the final results to come back, the Americans in the crowd began to sing the National Anthem. Unfortunately, this was prohibited by the event organizers, so I was rushing around trying to silence the crowd by silently mouthing the word "Forfeit". Everyone understood, and they silenced themselves.

We won the competition, and the grand prize was free heating oil for the Olympic training compound. The prize was presented in a video hosted by Bob Saget and Joanna Kerns. They were in the White House, and of course, many "humorous" things happened. Saget fell off a chair and chased a dog through the oval office. The video ended with a fire in the White House. Joanna Kerns was perched atop a ladder, smudged in soot, her hair singed, while Saget cooked a marshmallow off of her flaming shoe.

Then I woke up.

Weird, huh? I sometimes wish I could just dream of normal stuff, like nuns wrestling in Jell-O.