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Episode 34 — David Wain, Our Close Friend

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Hey Pat, u wanna go halfs on a pro versh and link up at a nice restaurant to watch the pod on a TV? Otherwise my friends got a sling box and he's a sick hacker so he can just hack Tim's feed and we can watch it at his house but like I said he is sick and mom says this is how we ended up with a president in a wheel chair and she's not gonna let that happen again so we probably shouldn't stay too long. U in?

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The pro version is video...

 

You're not supposed to be asking questions unless you're on the pro version. Please rectify or I'll have to report to Agata pee.

 

A thousand apologies. I guess this means I'll have to be crucified over on greggy's new Jesus podcast.

 

As an aside, I found a .torrent file for the video version of the show. I just needs some codecs and I'll finally be able to see what I've been jerking off to every week.

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Hey Pat, u wanna go halfs on a pro versh and link up at a nice restaurant to watch the pod on a TV? Otherwise my friends got a sling box and he's a sick hacker so he can just hack Tim's feed and we can watch it at his house but like I said he is sick and mom says this is how we ended up with a president in a wheel chair and she's not gonna let that happen again so we probably shouldn't stay too long. U in?

 

Is it Shrimpfest right now? Cause if it's Shrimpfest I'd say we could do it at the Red Lobster by my house. We could lay down some Ched. Bay Biz-cuits and just feast on some shrimps...your friend sounds cool so you can invite him. Not his mom though.

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I try to make one big purchase per day so my bank account doesn't get too high that I don't know the numbers anymore. One day last week it was a tough choice between the Pro Version and an engagement ring.

 

I went with the Pro Version because I didn't feel like choosing between Sofia (Vergara), Eva (Mendes) and Milana (Vayntrub). Plus, I wanted to see the music video for the Popcorn Gallery song that I directed for Tim Treese.

 

By the way, Tim, I'm in talks with Sean's buddy Mark to get some sick sound drops up in the bizznatch!

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Is it Shrimpfest right now? Cause if it's Shrimpfest I'd say we could do it at the Red Lobster by my house. We could lay down some Ched. Bay Biz-cuits and just feast on some shrimps...your friend sounds cool so you can invite him. Not his mom though.

 

 

feast on some shrimps...

 

 

shrimps

 

you do mean skrimps, right? Someone tell me this is a typo. WHAT THE FUCK IS SHRIMPS

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you do mean skrimps, right? Someone tell me this is a typo. WHAT THE FUCK IS SHRIMPS

 

Nope not a typo...Shrimps... like little dudes...sorry maybe I need to be more specific...feast on some little dudes like maybe a Peter Dinklage or a Vern Troyer. Is that better? Clearer?

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Vern Troyer

oh behave baby

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Must be tough being poor and not having the pro-version. Meanwhile, I'm sitting on this fat stack of cold hard cash I earned from all this beet farming in this "garbage flyover state" that Tim was so hot to criticize. JK bro, you know I got your back no matter WHAT happens!

 

Great ep this week gang. I would echo all the other statements that if I were to listen to any Hollywood Handbook episode that came out on May 27, 2014, It would for sure be the one with David Wain that was released on May 27, 2014.

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GUYSSS I HAVE A GREAT IDEA.

 

we all make another earwolf account for next week's posting and post under that alias and then try to guess who's who.

 

work is sooooo boring and my co-worker has really bad asperbers and he's been sitting at my desk trying to name everything in the studio that take triple a batteries. so far we've got the wireless keyboard and mouse. but the conversation continues so i'll keep you posted.

 

ps. this guy's a genius so ur gonna want a copy of this list when he's done.

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would the idea be to try to hide who u are so people cant guess or just post like always, because if its the second i would be very easy i think

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i would just repost jokes from the show and do a hayes and sean impression, no one would be able to tell who it was

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i think the second. it would be easy for some and not for others -- maybe i start posting political science rants tho and then you start sweating and noticing more and more orange hairs clogging up ur drain every morning.

 

guys michael bay of pigs is a siq guitar player -- check out from 1:20

 

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Have you guys clicked on OcterDoctopus' signature link? It had me crying laughing.

 

Also if you haven't posted a link to your facebook yet, please do that. It makes me smile to see people from the forum being funny in a second place.

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oh and also MBOP what's good with the rap-shit?

 

if u post yours i'll post mine.

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Can I tell you guys something secret? I like to pretend that Hayes is DJing some sick party on his M-Book PRO and he accidentally played the Popcorn Gallery theme. Initially everyone stops dancing (because it cut off a sick 30-minute mashup of two nice DnB songs), and then one guy stands up.

 

He starts clapping, slowly at first. The two people next to him look at him then look around, feigning a disgusted look because they think everyone else thinks the song is lame. However, slowly a second person starts clapping, then a third and a fourth. Before we know it, Hayes has succumb to the crowd's desire and has the Popcorn Gallery song on repeat, and everyone starts dancing like Jazzy and classy! After about 20 repeats of the Popcorn Gallery song, Hayes starts to do a little bit of a mashup between it and a sick (just TWISTED UP) dubstep song (REAL dubstep not brostep that garbage sucks but the real, British stuff). The party goes late.

 

Hayes' neighbor Mrs. Wegner, the crotchety old German woman who lived through WWII (and doesn't hesitate to tell you), with the spider's veins on her legs and the meanness of eight whole spider eyes in just her two human eyes, knocks on the door. The party falls SILENT. Just you could hear a PIN drop it was so quiet. One guy (a total pussy wuss-bag named Joe McGurl) tries to sneak out the back window but starts to fall out but his pants get stuck! His pants fall off and he's hanging there with his undies out (and his balls are hanging out of the undies!). Hayes and Sean shoot quick looks at each other. They know each other so well they don't need words to have the following conversation:

 

Hayes: "Dude what do I do? I'm going to be in so much trouble!"

Sean: "I don't know man. You know I would take the fall for you normally because we're like BROTHERS and I'm LOYAL to my bros, but I'm on thin ice from when my dad discovered our party LAST weekend!"

Hayes: "I know and I love you and I wouldn't even let you take the fall even if you could. But what Can I do right now?"

Sean pauses for a minute, shifting his gaze from Hayes to a thousand yards behind Hayes, staring down the floor in sudden realization. He slowly moves his eyes back up to Hayes's, focusing in with no mistake: "Play the Popcorn Gallery song. Dance with Mrs. Wegner."

Hayes, no longer scared and abruptly resolute: "It's our only hope"

 

So Sean moves over to the DJ table and Hayes moves toward the door. The crowd, just minutes since dancing in a human continuum of flesh and rhythm, now parts fluidly for Hayes to walk to the door. All eyes are on him. They don't even notice Sean putting on the DJ-grade professional cans and warming up Hayes's MBP.

 

Right as Hayes is about to get to the door, Mrs. Wegner knocks for a fourth time. The knocks say more than words can; her anger is stronger than Sean when his Dad told him he couldn't go on the ski trip with his friends. That's how mad her knocks were. Hayes opens up milliseconds before the frail, veiny hand of Mrs. Wegner was about to strike the door for a third consecutive blow.

 

Hayes: "Hi Mrs. Wegner. How are you to..."

Mrs. Wegner snaps: "Oh don't sweet-talk me, Hayes. Hayes, How many times do I have to tell you that my cat is old and needs his sleep? He's going to have a heart attack!"

Hayes: "Well, there's just one thing you need to do first." Hayes winks just the slightest but at the same time most visible wink right into her eyes.

Mrs. Wegner: "Hayes, stop playing games! When your parents died, they left me thi..."

Hayes cuts off Mrs. Wegner: "You need to dance with me."

Mrs. Wegner: "Hayes, don't be insane! I'll lock you up in an asylum! I haven't danced in over 70 years. No song is good enough anymore!"

Hayes: "There's one song, Mrs. Wegner. Just one song." Hayes snaps his finger and Sean picks up on the cue instantly and starts the song.

Mrs. Wegner: "Hayes, stop this nonsense and stop this party!" Her hips involuntarily begin to sway with Tim's dulcet tones. The soft and yet geniusly complex Jazzy drum beat starts to bypass her most hardened exoskeleton and her primal musical attractions betray her icy exterior.

Hayes extends his hand: "May I?"

 

Mrs. Wegner takes his hand and enters the apartment without a word for the first time since Hayes's parents lived there. Hayes and Mrs. Wegner dance and dance. Sean is smooth enough on the turntable that they don't even notice that he's had the song on repeat and they've been dancing for 10 minutes. They get closer and closer.

 

Hayes: "I think I'd like to kiss you, Mrs. Wegner"

Mrs. Wegner: "Please, call me Ludwiga, like my husband used to"

Hayes: "I think I'd like to ki..."

Ludwiga breaks Hayes's sentence with a soft, tender, big, juicy, floppy kiss right on his lips.

 

Mikey Piggso, who had been watching from the crows, finds an engorged flesh pipe in his pants where his urinal hose used to be. "Ooh yeah, me likey the hott-a-stuff!"

 

After they finish the kiss (Hayes got a little titty feel in there too because he's a BOSS), the crowd erupts in applause.

 

Ludwiga turns to the crows and says loudly: "I haven't had a kiss like that since before WWII!"

Hayes: "I bet you her panties are wet NOW!"

 

Sean turns the volume WAY up on the Popcorn Gallery song and everyone starts right back where they left off. At some point, all the girls notice that the super-hot, well dressed, and funny guy they've been attracted to at the party all night named Tim Treese is actually the maker of the best song ever made! Even though they were already all over him, they can no longer control themselves and Tim just LAYS some PIPE all over them!

 

Back in the corner, party-goers Freja and Greggy notice Joe McGurl hanging out the window by his pants with his balls out. They start to laugh, and get a wooden bat and start beating him up, halfway to friggin death! He learns his lesson NOT TO BE A PUSSY ANYMORE.

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oh and also MBOP what's good with the rap-shit?

 

if u post yours i'll post mine.

 

You guys are talking about dick pics right? Because I'm totally in!!

 

PS - Upon further reflection, perhaps such enthusiasm was unwarranted or creepy.

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PPS - Tim Treese's story is very insensitive toward German WWII survivors. Also, how long have you been fucking Hayes? Honestly. How long? I can tell. Way too nice.

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Tim that was a killer ending. Really dark stuff, but Joe was being OD pussy.

 

 

Things you got right: everything

things you got wrong:)

 

 

Charles I gotta get in the lab to drop these mars bars ill post some on the weekend

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guys michael bay of pigs is a siq guitar player -- check out from 1:20

 

 

 

dude I think that's a little racist first of all? but yea that's me.

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Cool story Tim, I really liked that but you forgot to mention that my balls got caught in the window because they were so honking big and all the ladies were totally oogling and oggling me saying, "Boy what a legendary sack that stud has. He is definitely NOT a pussy and I think that I'm going to go around the house to the outside of that window and give him a big fat kiss on the lips probably with tongue and shit because he has got me SO hot."

 

 

"Friggin got a brush burn on my lips from all the hot babes I was kissing.

Thanks for the lip balm, naked Kate Upton."

 

"You're very welcome. I think that you are a great kisser and that song that keeps getting played is effing awful. Probably some limp dick total n00b made it I bet," says Kate.

 

"Yeah, I dunno. He's alright I guess, but his dick is totally limp." I replied trying hard not to stare at Kate Upton's bare bazongoz bouncing up and down.

 

"I came to this party knowing you'd be here," she said with a wry smile.

 

"And now I'll have made you come for a different reason," I say pulling the sunglasses out of my pocket and putting them on even though it's pitch black but it really makes me look like a cool guy. Kate loffs so hard and it's real clear that she's super into me. "Come on, let's get outta here."

 

She helps me out of the window and we get into the car that was in the end of Grease and start flying off into the night sky.

 

"Wait," Kate says. "I have to do something."

 

She makes me turn my flying car back towards the party and pulls out a can of spray paint out of the glove compartment. "TIM TREESE IZ A TOTAL LIMP DICK N00B OR SOME SHIT" is spray painted on the garage door.

 

"Ooooooh yeah. Daddy like dat."

 

I smile and loff as the credits role. Ignition Remix by R. Kelly is played over the credits while a cartoon of Tim getting the shit beat out of him by Bugs Bunny rolls underneath.

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I wanna get into this fanfiction game too.

Call me Hayes. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

 

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

 

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

 

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

 

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

 

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

 

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don't sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

 

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honour, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

 

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

 

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But BEING PAID,—what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

 

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

 

"GRAND CONTESTED ELECTION FOR THE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES. "WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE HAYES. "BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN."

 

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

 

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would they let me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

 

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

 

 

 

There are a few more chapters before Sean shows up, any interest?

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Have you guys clicked on OcterDoctopus' signature link? It had me crying laughing.

Be warned, all who click, its the only way you'll be able to hear the song for the rest of your days.

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Charles I gotta get in the lab to drop these mars bars ill post some on the weekend

 

BEEF.

 

dig?

 

i'm really ill and the illness requires me to eat pillz and other similar jokes. but we have beef and i'm not actually a rapper but i'll explain later 'cause i'm in a hurry but i'm coming at you in a diss track -- THAz all i'm sayin.

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