The Room is unquestionably the most entertaining bad movie ever made, so how entertaining is the movie that chronicles its birth? We dig into James Franco's The Disaster Artist as well as Lady Bird, Call Me By Your Name, and our favorite movies about movies on the latest episode of Drunk Monkeys Radio!
A podcast on spirituality & religion, hosted by the Founding Editor of Drunk Monkeys. This episode features an interview with poet Bill Lessard.
COMICSMr. Butterchipsby Alex Schumacher
Mr. Butterchips gets in the Christmas spirit.
You’ve Got Mail by David Rubenstein
Hello friends—
Well, that was quite the Trump issue, eh? I’ll be honest: Trump is exhausting, and that issue caused a lot of anxiety in me. And I didn’t even curate it (our founder, Matthew, ran that ship). It was a fantastic issue (did you even read that Bonnie Rae Walker poem?), but in a way I am happy it’s behind us.
Kendall County by David Rubenstein
Golden by David Rubenstein
The Blue Nugget by David Rubenstein
Into the Superstitions by David Rubenstein
Growing up, I went to a private Christian high school that leaned heavily toward Southern Baptist fundamentalism, that was 95% white, that considered the law of God above all other laws, that stated, as per both Christian Bible and Judaic Torah, that the man was the spiritual and physical head of the household, all others subordinate unto him; he, of course, subordinate unto God. There was a specific moral code of “dos and don’ts” to which we were expected to adhere that included how to dress, how to interact socially with the opposite sex, what to believe and not believe, even what to think or not think.
“Officer Holmstrom, can I please talk to you a minute?” The voice was smooth like butterscotch, sweet and oversugared.
Inmate Gary Phoenix stood at his cell front, his figure barely illumined by the light of an underpowered reading lamp on the shelf above his single bunk.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
To say that I love Mel Brooks would be an understatement that borderlines ridiculous. It’s a poorly-kept secret that if you can make me laugh, and if you can make me laugh often, you’re going to generate a lot of goodwill from me. I don’t think I’m unique in that respect, but it’s still something I take seriously. Chances are, if you’re making me laugh on a regular basis, then you’re saving my life. I mean that.
Your feet start to hurt just before the dinner rush; only a few tourists complaining of sand, how it gets under their skin and irritates. Smiling with each order, your fingers can barely keep up. Some of the men glance at your exposed legs, despite their wives and girlfriends. “Whatever gets ya the best tip,” Nellie says as you pin and spin orders. She trained you two months ago, every piece of advice replaced with an endless clutter of expectations. You only hope you won’t still be working here in ten years, flirting to pay the rent.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
I don’t know if a perfect album exists.
It’s quite possible I’m being picky. After all, I’ve basically been reading since I emerged from the womb, and it took me 17 years to pick a favorite book—I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak. Even then, it took another 8 or 9 years to realize I thought it was a perfect book. (For me, anyway. I’m not going to make any promises to you.)
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
His elbow hurts my ribs and something clashes against my forehead. The scarf gets knocked off me and I squint into the sunlight of a Dromore market day.
There’s a trace of what must be blood on my gloves but not enough to scare me. I hear the passing guffaws at our tumble. He stinks of whiskey and I can’t bare to look at him.