Dear HBO, Please Pick Up My Potential Web Series, “Spider Webs”

by Ben Hargrave

Dear HBO,

My name is Peter Pincheloaf III and I have a clean and rad and powerful business opportunity for your premium cable enterprise. I realize that you likely are inundated with an unending stream of pitches for television shows, movies, and soft-core adult entertainment, but I would appreciate just a brief moment of your time to ask that you consider picking up my potential web series, “Spider Webs.” My pitch is below:

--

(POTENTIAL) TITLES

- Spider Webs

- Spiders Be Webbin’

- Spiders Spin The Darndest Webs

- VICE Presents: You Don’t Know Jack Silk

- Charlotte’s Web Series (conflicts?)

- Webbing Crashers

- 8-Legged Freak Goop Nets

(POTENTIAL) LOGLINES

- An assortment of spiders play the hits – web hits, that is – by spinning their classic webs, set to yacht rock.

- Spiders of all shapes and sizes pinch out sticky silk strips to make kaleidoscopic nets, set to yacht rock.

- Air-breathing arthropods design beautifully macabre death traps for bugs that they capture, liquefy with digestive fluid, which they then suck up, set to yacht rock.

(POTENTIAL) TAGLINES

- There’s a new sticky icky in town.

- Welcome to the World Wide Web…Spider Edition.

- In web space, bugs aren’t capable of screaming.

- Webs can hold you prisoner and webs can set you free.

- Whoever webs…we win.

(POTENTIAL) SYNOPSIS

The year is 2017 – a time of turmoil, tumult, and tumid egos. In an epoch of divergence, one thing remains constant in fierce defiance of the dystopian reality being played out in a fools’ game of life chess: spider webs.

From the jungles of the Amazon to the deserts of the Sahara to the basements of the Kaminskis, spiders have been threading their silky yarn for over 318 million human years, which was way before dinosaurs dropped.

Experience a journey beyond space and time, and in the space up by your ceiling – the ceiling corner, I guess you’d call it – as Gilbert Gottfried colorfully narrates the stories of all spider webs that have ever existed in the past, present or days of future past. 

Each episode shines a sometimes-controversial spotlight one spider's web. With an estimated 46,000 species of spiders (with new spider flavors being discovered constantly) equating to as many possible episodes, this is a spider-web-journey that will trek ever onward on until spiders evolve long enough to destroy us.

This is all set to yacht rock.

(POTENTIAL) CHARACTER SHEET

[Limiting this to 5 because of the aforementioned number of spiders types…so much opportunity for growth here.]

1.    Black Widow Spider Web
One of the most feared of all s’webs (hot, new portmanteau) due to the Black Widow’s history in the spider terrestrial universe as being a real nasty woman whose bite can kill bugs and convince human mothers their children are dying. [Villain]

2.    Daddy Long Legs Spider Web
The patriarchy embodied in a spider web is sure to raise some eyebrows, considering this gangly-appendaged creature is an utter butthole who designs his s’webs exclusively to oppress women. [Villain]

3.    Tarantula Spider Web
The spider that makes these s’webs eats insects, frogs, and sometimes birds! And your heart will be consumed by love once you see these dazzling s’webs, designed with heart, humility, and passion for the bugs that tarantulas murder by fanging them to death. [Hero]

4.    Bagheera Kiplingi Spider Web
 When you think spider, you don’t think progressive, until you learn that this spider has evolved an herbivore’s lifestyle, much like cows. Unfortunately, Bagheera’s s’webs aren’t great because of a self-imposed, vain dietary restriction. [Sidekick]

5.    Jumping Spider Spider Web
It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s Jumping Spider’s s’webs! You’ll be jumping for joy when you see “Jumpy’s” fantastic s’webs that highlight this spider’s ability to jump real high. He also smokes weed. [Supporting]

(POTENTIAL) PILOT EPISODE

[Every episode will focus on a different s’web, making this is an ad-lib dream scenario.]

(MICHAEL MCDONALD SONG) rises slowly and sits at a humble mid-range. A montage of spiders and their s’webs fills the screen. Gilbert Gottfried’s floating CGI head crashes through thousands of s’webs in every spider habitat on the planet as he groans out, ‘S’WEEEEEEEEEBS!’ until a perpetual zoom out reveals (REAL OR FICTIONAL PLANET) from outer-space as it is entangled in a giant s’web. Gottfried’s floating head skyrockets towards the screen as the title credits appear in (COOL MOVIE) font: (POTENTIAL TITLE)

Various shots of (SPIDER BREED’S) lair as (AIR SUPPLY SONG) rises slowly until it hits a cacophonous level.

(SPIDER BREED) is vaguely mentioned by Gottfried, who cannot pronounce complicated spider names. He proceeds to – for 45 minutes to 3 hours – improvise everything he knows about that particular spider and their s’web, which, honestly, is not a lot.

BLACKOUT

--

Thank you for your consideration. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t message me with questions.

Sincerely,

Peter P III

Ben Hargrave is a comedian, writer, and videographer living in New York who makes his own peanut butter (is so good). Check out his tweets @HarHarHargrave – it would mean a lot to him.

The First Father's Day for Adam, Father of All Mankind

by Brian K. Pinaire

Dear Diary,

I guess it went okay. The whole thing was God’s idea—or maybe it was my idea with His help. Still not sure how this free will stuff works. He, or we, or whatever, decided to create a day for honoring fathers in our land of exile. I pointed out there were still no other fathers around this place, but He just said, “Do it.” You know how He gets sometimes.

The day began like any other: I was roused from sleep by my increasingly hefty sons, Cain and Abel. As usual, they jumped on me and landed in a spot that generally needs a little extra time waking up in the morning. (If there were any other men in this land, we’d do a fist bump right now.) Anyhow, the boys were really excited for the day and kept telling me I was the “best” dad in the world. Which was nice, I guess, but again, I’m the only dad in the world.

After that, the little ones served me breakfast in bed and promised to behave themselves the entire day—a promise they broke before they even finished making it. It seems like those two are always fighting over something. Abel doesn’t think it’s fair that Cain gets to wear a sheath over his man-snake, and Cain is still mad that Abel even exists. He’s always giving Abel that creepy thousand-yard stare that says, I’m not your keeper. Eve says it’s just a phase, that Cain would never really hurt his brother. But then again, Eve doesn’t exactly have the best judgment. I mean, come on: Who’s the one who cost us all paradise on earth? Amirite?

While Little Adam continued to recover from the trauma of his early morning assault, I thought about how I might enjoy this inaugural day for honoring fathers. Since I’d had a rough week doing the Lord’s work, I wanted to relax. So, I went out to a field to hit some little white rocks with a bag of sticks. I like doing this, because it gets me a few hours away from the family, but as usual I lost all the little white rocks right away.

After that, I went home to see what Eve had prepared for my mid-day meal and was disappointed to find yet another apple and serpent casserole. It’s not a bad recipe—I mean, for something made of snakes—but for whatever reason, I was really craving a big plate of ribs. I think Eve could tell I was unhappy, because she started crying, muttering something about how we don’t appreciate her, and then wondering aloud why God hadn’t declared a special day for mothers. The boys and I laughed at that because, duh, every day is a special day for mothers! Plus, as I reminded Eve, technically she was still on probation for causing the fall of man. Sometimes she forgets that part.

After dinner, Cain gave me a rock that he’d hollowed out during home school. He called it a “mug.” I didn’t know what to do with a mug, so I just spit some fig pits into it. Then Abel braided some vines and told me to wear them around my neck. My neck isn’t the body part that needs covering up, but I appreciated the thought. It was a nice tradition to get going—giving me gifts for which I have no use—so I thanked the boys. But then Cain thought I liked the vines more than the mug and started giving his brother that thousand-yard stare again.

By nightfall, Eve and I finally had some time to ourselves. We talked about the future, whatever that is, and reminisced about how I always used to call her “Woman.” We decided that, if we had another boy, we might name him “Seth.” And as she pressed herself against me in that way she does on the nights when she doesn’t hate me, I started to get that feeling I get when her fig leaves don’t stay in place. I whispered something romantic, like how she still looked great for a mother of two, but then she just rolled away, annoyed, and said I was “emotionally unavailable.” And also an asshole.

Making things even worse, this is when Abel started calling out from his room and insisting that I come in there right away. As he explained in a series of terrified screams, Cain wouldn’t stop looking at him. I yelled back and told him to just ignore his brother, but he said he couldn’t because now Cain was standing right over him and muttering something about hating sheep. Really, Eve? I wondered. Just a phase?

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I ran into Abel’s room, glowered at Cain, told Abel he was my favorite son, and then went back to bed. Not bad fathering, I thought, as I reflected on the day’s events and realized I was, in fact, the best dad in the world. I wanted to give Eve another chance to acknowledge my greatness, so I started tugging at her fig leaves. But by then she was already asleep. Like I said, every day is a special day for mothers.

Yours,

Adam

Brian K. Pinaire is a writer, researcher, and editor living in Portland, Oregon. A former college professor, Pinaire is the author of over seventy articles and two books, including the recently published comic memoir This Is Not Your Father's Fatherhood. You can follow him on Twitter at @brianpinaire.
 

Ever Since I Was Boy, I Dreamed of Growing Up To Be a Bushel of Cauliflower

by Chris Collier

“Here’s to the ones who dream. Foolish as they may seem”

As long as I can remember, I felt a deep longing for something more. My parents sat me down on my seventh birthday and told me I could be anything I wanted when I grew up: a doctor, a certified public accountant, or even President of the United States. I felt out of place. I didn’t want to be any of those things because I didn’t like them. The only thing I liked was chomping on a delicious head of cauliflower. I blew out the candles on my cake, and from that birthday on I wished for one thing, and one thing only: to someday be a big tasty bushel of cauliflower.

In my high school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof, the director cast me as an apple at the market. I asked if I could be a bushel of cauliflower instead and she said, “Sure, I guess.” On opening night I felt the spotlight pour on me in my cardboard cauliflower costume, exposing my hopes and dreams to the world. I was cauliflower. I am cauliflower. I will be cauliflower. Past, present and future merged with the orgasmic ecstasy of self-realization. I realized I couldn’t keep this charade up. I ripped off my cardboard façade and sprinted home. I dug a hole in our back yard, stripped naked and buried myself neck deep in the fertile topsoil. After four short months of edging myself out fractions of an inch each day, I would be ready for harvest. I finally felt satiated.

To my dismay, I awoke the next morning to my parents digging me up. “No!” I cried, “I haven’t even begun to reach harvesting maturity yet!” They didn’t understand. My parents had just realized this wasn’t a phase: this was my dream. I stood there, naked and covered in dirt, as my parents told me they could no longer support these foolish endeavors. If my destiny really was to become a luscious bushel of cauliflower, I was on my own. I packed what I could into my beat up 1998 Ford Windstar and set off for California: the cauliflower capital of the world.

I wish I could say the rest was history, but a long and trying journey lay ahead of me. Farmer after farmer rejected me saying, “Why do you want to be a cauliflower? That’s a vegetable and you’re human. That’s stupid. You’re a stupid idiot dumb dumb stinky fart face.” It didn’t stop me. When you run into adversity in pursuit of your dreams, you must keep working towards your goals. Finally, on August 24th 2013, I met a farmer by the name of Jacob Milton. That day would change my life forever.

Milton took a long puff from his cigar. “We already planted cauliflower for the season, kid. Sorry, maybe next year.” Milton turned to go inside as he tossed the butt of his cigar on the ground. “Wait!” I pleaded. I was on my last dollar and couldn’t afford to lose this chance. “I would be willing to start on the ground floor as a carrot, or possibly a legume. Please, I know it’s unrealistic to ask to be a cauliflower on the first try. I’m willing to pay my dues.” He turned around slowly and looked me in the eyes. “Alright kid, I like your gumption. We’ll be planting cabbage at five in the morning. You make it to harvest, and we’ll see what we can do about making you a cauliflower.”

The droughts were long, and the rabbits ruthless, but I made it to harvest. The farm hands exhumed me from the ground, washed me, and took me to market, where a middle-aged mother of four bought me for $1.39. She looked at me and said, “Ooooh, look at you! I’m going to make sauerkraut out of you yet!” She took me home, ripped me limb from limb, diced me up with a Ginsu knife, tenderized me with a mallet for 8-10 minutes, poured a tablespoon of sea salt over me, and packed me in a jar with a 2% brine solution to ferment for a week. When the week ended, she took me out and served me to her family, who all laughed and laughed as they gulped down every last bite of me while talking about how good I tasted. After I finally worked my way through each of their respective digestive systems, I collected myself and returned to Milton’s farm. I would have passed through the endocrine system of 100 more families, too, if it meant one day realizing my dream of becoming a cauliflower.

I approached Milton’s rustic porch a tattered and broken version of my previous self. He stood from his rocking chair, and reached a glass of lemonade out towards me. “Drink up,” he said with a crooked smile, “It’ll be a long four months until harvest.” I started tearing up. “You’re a cauliflower, kid,” affirmed Milton, “You know where to go.” My dream finally manifested itself into reality. I chugged the lemonade as fast as I could. I went out to the fields, where the farm hands stripped me naked, covered me in manure, and planted me in the cauliflower patch. If anyone tells you your dream isn’t worth it, or that you aren’t good enough: don’t believe them. You are good enough. You will make it. Take it from a big tasty bushel of cauliflower.

Chris Collier is a writer, comedian, and uncle living in New York City. He doesn't really have any credits yet, but he hopes you like this article.

Can The Rock’s Wife Smell What The Rock Is Cooking?

by Dustin Mark

Well, well, well, look who’s decided to enter the home of The Rock. A bold decision. Before you do anything, I have one question for you: can you smell what The Rock is cooking?

Can you? I’m not good at this, but it’s supposed to smell like spaghetti and meatballs. It’s what you ordered on our first date! The Rock would never forget that amazing night; it began the metamorphism that turned me into who I am. I know it’s not much – I’m not a world-class chef the way I am a world-class wrestler, actor, and massive person, but I’m trying.

I know The Rock has been a little absent lately. I’m away so often shooting movies on tropical islands, or hosting Saturday Night Live, or stuck in a door frame, and when I am with you I’m a little distracted, but that ends now. The Rock is going to put more time into this relationship, because he loves you.

The only reason The Rock takes on all these fancy, high profile jobs is so he can provide for you. Sure, The Rock can get a little carried away, and sometimes he gets lost in the grandeur of it all, but his main priority is you – he just needs to be reminded sometimes.

Come, sit, relax. Have a glass of wine. The sauce needs to simmer for a few minutes, so let The Rock massage your shoulders. He won’t bruise your collarbone this time! Baby, you do so much for The Rock: you cook, you clean, you look after the quarry when he’s away. You’re so patient and caring and you deserve better. It’s time for The Rock to stop rolling around so much and settle down. Maybe it’s finally time to have that Pebble we’ve been talking about? You don’t have to decide right now, just relax.

Really, can you smell what The Rock is cooking? Does that smell right? The Rock has never made this before but he followed the recipe exactly. Well, he multiplied the two-person recipe by four – one serving for his love and seven servings for The Rock himself. Is it burning? Really, is it? Cooking is not The Rock’s forte.

This is just the beginning, baby. Get ready to smell a whole lot more of what The Rock is cooking; tomorrow he’s making you breakfast in bed. After that The Rock has to go to the gym, but when he’s done he’ll take you to a movie. Anything you want to see, that’s what we’ll see – even if The Rock isn’t in it.

Do you smell what The Rock is saying? He’s making an effort and promises to be there for you. When we exchanged rings on our wedding day it meant we’d be together forever and The Rock would do his best to keep you happy. Even though The Rock’s ring won’t fit on his finger anymore, he is still committed to you.

Oh no, look at this, The Rock is starting to cry. Only you can bring tears from this unfeeling brute. It is as if you are Moses and the Israelites and I am, well, I am The Rock. The Rock isn’t completely sure, but he thinks that happened in the Bible. Drink from me, my love, and I will sustain you. And then drink some of this Chianti The Rock poured you. I ordered it from that vineyard we visited in Tuscany on our honeymoon. We had such a lovely time there. Do you want to go back? The Rock will take you anywhere you want to go.

What The Rock is trying to say is that he loves you more than anything in the world – more than wrestling, more than being a movie star, and definitely more than cooking. How am I supposed to know when the spaghetti is done? Can you tell if spaghetti is cooked by smelling it? Can you smell The Rock’s spaghetti?

But above all, can you smell what The Rock is feeling? It smells like love. Burnt spaghetti, Ragú, and love.

Dustin Mark is a writer and comedian in New York City. His work is largely unpublished and he performs standup comedy when asked to

An Open Letter to Gwyneth Paltrow and Vagina Eggs

by Jen Retter

Dear Gwyneth,

I recently purchased a set of jade eggs at your wellness summit, "In Goop Health." After years of trying to harness the power of my feminine energy, I was eager to hear vagician Shiva Rose’s views on inserting foreign objects in the name of detox. I must say, "Better Sex: Jade Eggs for Your Yoni" was a welcomed departure from her last suggestion (pineapple rinds imported from Isla Nublar, $165. Thorns and UTI aside, I'm fairly certain Isla Nublar is from Jurassic Park).

Thing is, I'm not sure what I did wrong. As you suggested, I worshiped the egg. I took it out for a candlelight dinner, bought it three shots of Jose Cuervo, complimented its shape, and didn't mention my cats, my ex, or my biological clock (only time for one egg, right?). I angled my bed so the moon illuminated its silk sheets in a way that was pleasing to the egg. I burnt incense. I released my inhibitions. I visualized light flowing from my yoni, which was difficult to do because I lit too much sage and it was smoky and I swear the egg whispered "Jess."

There were a few hiccups, but I was open-minded. Though the egg was smaller than expected, we experienced a bit of trouble getting in (and staying in). I assured the egg that this was ok, we'd been drinking, it was normal.

You also mentioned it may be difficult to try while standing, but we didn't even get close to that. To be honest, the egg wasn't that great in horizontal positions. I made all the effort. Despite my ego-pumping, the egg just laid in silence. I felt like it was rolling toward the TV.

Still, I thought we had a fine night. But when I woke the next morning, the jade egg was gone. No note, no explanation— just its velvet bag left on the altar I built for it, per your recommendation. My roommate, who saw a cab peel out of our parking lot, thinks it ate the last of our cruelty- and spiritually free chia seeds (infused with Miranda Kerr’s hot yoga secretion, $628, Goop). When I reached out for an explanation, I received "sry phone broke who’s this" in reply.  

Though the egg itself was a reasonable $65, the whole production cost me upward of $500. I don't need it to crack all over me, but for that money, I'd like some measurable outcome indicative of success. Could Goop do a followup piece for those of us who want the experience to be good for the egg, too?

Faithfully yours,

Jen

PS: The original post suggested cleansing the egg before use, but I was too shy to ask. I didn't want to insult it, as the moon was in its Waning Gibbous phase and the egg was particularly sensitive. I assumed it was disease-free.

Shiva Rose made no mention of backup protection. Could she please touch on what to do if our egg was sleazier than anticipated?

Jen Retter is a cat lady from Philadelphia. She’s good at writing bios.