As requested, by popular demand, and all that marketing hoo-ha! Here are today’s SMonologues, collected for convenience.
SMonologue # 3
Via @thedarkknight98 “please help me i want to kill myself i am told im to FAT”
We’re all too fat, sir.
But weight loss, while a frustrating proposition, is the key – because when you’re thin, you’re healthy, & nobody bothers you – so life’s always a non-caloric-cupcake-&-firework party!
However, having met one or two thin people (or “normies”) in my life, I’ve been able to glean that it’s also not always a picnic being skinny. So if life blows for fat and thin people sometimes, then it’s all relative – except for your packaging.
So remove the whole “IF I CAN JUST GET THIN, EVERYTHING WILL BE BETTER!” bullshit and approach the weight loss with a realistic perspective: losing weight will solely make you thinner & heart-healthier. Other than that, it’s no different from being thin – except all the sweating & getting a hard-on for Devil Dogs.
So when the fantasy factor of weight loss is eliminated (fact: your life may stay the exact same & your problems may not suddenly evaporate), you’re left with un-hyped, non-augmented truth: when you lose weight, you’re doing just that: losing weight.
Now – if you need to attach drama to weight-loss, as a sort of motivator, there’s no better gas in the tank than the simple desire to shut motherfuckers the fuck up. S’fun to watch the endlessly opinionated suddenly choke on a reality they’d never prepared for: the mutable you.
Folks wanna cast you in a walk-on role in the movie of their lives: they wannna minimize you to one aspect/role/title that their self-esteem can handle. Don’t settle for being a last-billed extra in some other prick’s feature; be the goddamned STAR of your OWN movie. The best revenge is when folks who’ve tagged & bagged you suddenly realize their true roles: they amount to little more than a footnote in the film of YOUR life. Then? #CuttingRoomFloor
Now, I’m not spectral communicator & I don’t claim to congress with the dead. But I doubt ANY of this can be accomplished from the grave.
As far as I know, you get one life. Milk it, sir. Chocolate-milk it, if you’ve gotta, but milk it for all it’s worth (without harming others). Treat yourself like you treat the things you own: bag & board your life & put it somewhere fuckers can’t bend your pages, maybe even framed.
But whatever you do, don’t even whimsy about ending shit. It all ends soon enough, without our input or agreement.
Drop a little weight and it’ll be easier to drop a little more. For me it’s more about portion control: I’m an American, so everything I eat is like four feet tall. On Weight Watchers, I’ve been rocking the Smart Ones meals, which I’m using to train myself to remember that two boxes of cereal in one sitting is not a meal; it’s a freak show that belongs on the boardwalk at Coney Island, in the summertime.
Make the portions smaller. It’s the thing no chubby wants to hear, but it’s the only path: eat less & exercise. I’ve been doing that since November first and I’ve lost 40 pounds now. And if I can do it, ANYBODY can do it. I’m the laziest, fattest slob I know. My gut has a gut. But I’ll go Christian-Bale-In-The-Machinist before I give this wicked, wicked world one more second of my life any earlier than I’ve gotta…
Batman watched his parents get killed and rather than crumble in defeat, he opted to stay above ground to make sure the same didn’t happen to anyone else. Granted, Batman is fictional… but then, so are most of the people you look up to. They’re fictional, too: you don’t see their struggles, you only see their wins. Life is a zero-sum game: there has never been a winner.
Find a role model: someone who’s done this life in a way that inspires you and use the lessons of their life to enrich your own (hands off Gretzky, Lunchbox: he’s mine). But find a role model, not a hero. Learn from others but be your own hero.
Long story short: next meal, eat less.
Meal after that? Eat half.
Leave food behind. Start like that.
In a week or two, step it up a little: go out walking. Bring an iPod (I recommend loading with some SModcast Network shows). Walk for 10 minutes. Then 20. Then 30. Increase weekly.
A week will go by. Then a month – at the end of which, you’ll have lost some weight. It may not be a breathtaking amount, but it’ll be enough to make you wanna lose a little more, maybe. And then a little more.
But you can do this. Just know you’re going to do it ALONE – and that’s okay. This is YOUR journey. From time to time, even when nobody else understands why, we have to act against their grain – to get shit done.
Expect some taunts and teases from the swine. I suggest finding a somewhat less-traveled road (but always let someone know where you’re going); and to paraphrase Teddy, a walking stick’s good for balance and for making fucktards think twice about shooting their mouths off.
So no more of this suicide bullshit: how the fuck do you know you’re not the one who’s supposed to cure cancer? Or change shit? Or inspire the one who will change shit? The flick has three acts, sir; stay above ground – or you’ll never know what was possible; just what wasn’t…
So today, eat only HALF that Ho-Ho. All this week, eat only half the Ho-Ho. Next week, it’s Anti-Claus time: meaning NO Ho-Ho. Ho-Ho’s won’t vanish in our absence: there will always be Ho-Ho’s. Months from next week, maybe years even? You can have another Ho-Ho – after which, you may mutter to yourself “Wasn’t worth it…” because that Ho-Ho becomes an hour walk to even make a dent in the caloric burning department.
We’ll lose weight, @thedarkknight98 – that’s easy. Much harder to lose: the yapping, negative swine.
Like herpes, they’ll be with us always.
SMonologue # 4
A few movie websites this morning have chided me for talking about not doing press on Red State.
Number one, that’s ironic right there: I say I’m not doing Red State press… and press writes about it.
But I never said I’m not talking: said I always talk plenty right here. So if you can always ask me anything you want right here (and often get a LONG-ASS response), what’s the damage?
Besides, the only story in Red State that really needs telling is the Michael Parks story – and, as per usual, NOBODY is writing it.
“Gotta wait & see on the Parks of it all. Don’t wanna be out front, first with THAT story. Now – the boring story of how KevinSmith Tweeted he’s not doing press? THAT’S news!”
And one month from now, when EVERYONE ELSE is writing the Michael Parks story, these websites who wasted their time/space on a fruitless war of words with me are gonna wonder why other websites get more hits/have more followers/earn more than their site does.
I’M TELLING YOU THIS FAR OUT: why the FUCK aren’t you writing the Michael Parks story? First one out there gets the top Google hits!
But these swine have zero vision; it’s all “Kevin Smith is gonna hurt his career not talking to press.” Seriously: someone actually wrote that story today (naturally, it was a movie news site). This site that’s accomplished merely a fraction of what other movie sites in the online fraternity/sorority have, suggested that – since I’m not gonna play the game the normal, boring way – I’m gonna hurt my career.
Once again, these motherfuckers are a day late & a dollar short.
Hurt Kevin Smith’s career? Have you SEEN this?
I ain’t hurting the career of Kevin Smith, I’m taking a fucking chainsaw to the career of Kevin Smith. That’s what you gotta do as an artist: when everyone’s comfy, pull the fucking chair out from under their settled asses while showing ‘em something they’re not used to seeing from anybody, least of all YOU. And if you lose some people in the process, so be it: art should be a little dangerous, scary & thrilling – ESPECIALLY for the artist.
You think there isn’t some tiny part of me that stops & says “You can make this SO much easier on yourself & the journey of this film if you just do what you’ve ALWAYS done and go hat-in-hand to the snark-factory…”? But nothing about Red State has been done conventionally; why should I start now?
Best piece of advice I can give (a bunch of people who only wanna shit on what I do)? Go find Michael Parks and become the interview of record. Stop writing about how you’re mad at me, or how I’m not doing it your way, or how I’m gonna hurt myself. Write about something original: the guy who the entire world is about to wanna talk to…
The money’s out there; pick it up it’s yours. You don’t, I got no sympathy for you.
“Hurt Kevin Smith’s Career”? Bitch, I’ve ANNIHILATED Kevin Smith’s Career. And now? I get to remake it, all over again.
And I’ve got a dopey movie blogger to thank for it: one day, one of these hymens wrote “Kevin Smith owes his career to people like me” (said people being bloggers, critics, movie journalists).
I gave this some serious thought & realized I’d never know whether that theory was true or not. But while I couldn’t validate the veracity of the statement, I realized it didn’t matter: if people like this were to thank for my career, then I didn’t want that career anymore.
So I made SModcast. And now Red State. And then I combined the two.
And realized I could do it without the help of the same people who don’t seem to have anything nice to say about not only my flicks, but ANYBODY’S flicks they see. Their game is rigged; why play it? I go to the carnival, I wanna ride the roller-coaster, not waste money on the rigged games of chance – the rewards of which are cheap, empty prizes that don’t seem nearly as cool in the light of day, away from the cotton candy haze.
If they weren’t convinced that I made my own way the first time, I’m happy (and more importantly, excited) to do it again, one more time – just to prove that point. And if you’re gonna make art, you SHOULD reinvent periodically anyway. Lots of jackasses writing about my craft & how I conduct it weren’t even BORN when I built my shit from scratch. They can’t possibly be expected to be impressed by shit they couldn’t witness for themselves because they were just cum when it happened the first time.
So rather than continue being the same ol’ Kevin Smith that all these movie sites kept insisting I was, I practiced my game, skated night & day, and learned to stay out of the scrum & figure out where the puck was going. I stopped being the Kevin Smith they loved to bitch about; the Kevin Smith they chided to change. So I changed.
And guess what? Now they’re bitching about that. And trying to scare me with some booga-booga bullshit about “hurting my career”.
Like I said: the game’s rigged. So why play it on their terms?
Kobayashi Maru that shit: at the very worst, you get bitched-out by cowards. At best?
You BECOME James Tiberius Kirk.
Via @sarahjay272010 “Do you and Jen ever have phone sex when one is far away”
As long as there is blood in my veins/cum in my balls/desire in my loins and even one mile between me and Jen, there is phone sex. It’s the Talking Cure. iChat, too – even when she’s in the same house.
The only sexually level playing field for a fat man is in print and on the phone. That’s the only way I ever got laid in this life: selling my shit with words. How else do you think I can rock a 50 Tweet #SMonologue that actually inspires more change than annoyance?
In the realm of thoughts and letters, I can be as sexy and seductive as Eric, the Vampire Viking in True Blood. It’s only when I’ve gotta compete in the visible spectrum that I’m revealed as Jabba or Quasimodo.
But there are two ways into any person, body or soul: through the heart or through the head. The eye is less reliable, because it only sees – and what we see changes every day. But shit that’s lodged in your head or heart? That never goes anywhere. It’s not visible, so it’s an image that’ll never corrupt. The flesh decays, but memories of a feeling, an insight, an intellectual or spiritual impact? They only burn brighter with time.
We race toward the future while we lionize the past.
We look ahead for half our lives, then spend the other half looking back.
And when the view ahead is bleak, the look back is vivid.
Written or spoken, words are the foundation of reality. So, yeah: I spank my dick when my ol’ lady talks me off on the phone.