Tag Archives: story

Mocking TV and Movies

TV and movies, love them or hate them, but definitely mock them.

I love television and movies as much as the next person, but mostly, I love to make fun of those goofy scenes that defy reality and the laws of physics.

My mockery is a wicked pleasure that hurts no one, unless you are watching the picture with me and have to listen to my critiques.

I’m not going to reveal the titles of the works I criticize, because these flaws are in so many television episodes and movies.

Viewers deserve better than sloppy entertainment, so I came up with a “Bugs Me Quotient” to judge weak scenes. I wish I could tell you how I arrived at my quotient, but the formula is so complex that only aliens and amoebas can understand it now.

I can tell you the higher to quotient, the more ridicule these scenes deserve.

Here are some mockable moments from action movies and TV and their Bugs Me Quotient.

Heroes are the good guys in this blog. They are fleeing bad guys down a corridor with closed doors. The good guys find an unlocked door and run through it, but as they flee, they don’t close the door behind them. Thus the bad guys know which door the hero used. This occurs in many movies even when there is no chase; hardly anyone closes the doors behind them anymore.

Bugs me quotient: As one who closes doors behind me, and when needed, I lock the door, I give a bugs me quotient of 100 percent because it bugs me every time I see it. Close the door.

There is a shootout between two sides, each armed with machine guns and automatic weapons, and they shoot and shoot and shoot and spray cars, stores and buildings with multiple bullets as innocent bystanders run in all directions. Both sides miss their targets and the bystanders. The shooters eventually run away.

Bugs me quotient: A machine gun or automatic weapon increases the odds that a blind person could hit a target. But what’s the excuse if you aren’t blind, and you do a whole lot of shooting and nobody gets hit? My bugs me quotient is 90 percent, because the incompetence shown in these battles makes them unbelievable, and therefore, uninteresting. It’s just a bunch of noise.

There is a shootout in a house, and the shooters have high powered weapons. Yet the targets hide behind the interior kitchen wall next to the doorway, and the drywall protects them from numerous bullets. Unless the wall is concrete or steel, which is unlikely in most homes, it won’t stop bullets. Drywall does not stop bullets, and the interior walls of most homes are made of drywall.

Bugs me quotient: Another win for disrespecting the audience for the sake of more shooting. If heroes are hiding from bullets, give them something bulletproof to hide behind. Put a little effort into the scenario or change it. My bugs me quotient is 80 percent. Shooting for the sake of shooting is poor entertainment.

Hero gets shot, usually in the shoulder or just a graze, and it doesn’t slow the hero down. If the hero gets shot all over, hero is down until patched up, usually by a veterinarian, and then hero is back in the game. The wounded hero kills the bad guy and walks away. But when hero’s back is turned, bad guy comes back to life and attacks hero in one last desperate attempt at murder. The hero, of course, finishes off the bad guy, finally.

Bugs me quotient: Getting shot hurts a lot and will put you down for a long time. Bullets will kill you. My bugs me quotient is 35 percent. Blatant over exaggeration bugs me, but I understand the story must move along, and so we must suspend belief for the hero to complete his objective.

Hero is tortured. He is hung by his hands several feet off the floor for hours or days. He is shocked with battery cables as his feet hang in a tub of water. After he is brought down from his height, he lies stomach down across a table. Hero is in horrid pain from hanging so long. Then the torturer pours a pail of boiling water on hero’s naked back, before throwing a bag of salt onto hero’s burns. Hero is rescued and needs help out of his dungeon. Hero cannot walk on his own because of the brutal torture. But minutes later, burns are gone and hero goes after the bad guys as if nothing happened. Maybe there is blood.

Bugs me quotient: Forget all the other torture, the boiling water and salt alone would have rendered hero incapable of continuing that day. My bugs me quotient is 90 percent. Why does this bug me so much? If you can’t justify a torture’s effects, leave it out or change it.

Hero must escape or save someone by swimming underwater. We find that our heroes can hold their breaths for up to 5 minutes or longer and swim great lengths while navigating treacherous courses of underwater obstacles, and sometimes, enemies. Five minutes is a long time underwater, and some distances would be impossible to swim in those five minutes.

Bugs me quotient: Few can hold their breath underwater while moving for five minutes, and fewer still can swim such long distances without breathing. My bugs me quotient is 10 percent. Some people — think Navy Seals — can do these things, so I gladly suspend belief for a good underwater action scene.

Hero is chased to a cliff where hundreds of feet below the ocean or river awaits. Hero jumps off cliff to escape bad guys and lands perfectly in the water so that no legs are broken, and fortunately, the water is deep enough the hero survives.

Bugs me quotient: First off an urgent public service alert: Never! And I mean Never! jump or dive into water without first knowing how deep the water is and if there are any rocks near the surface. You can break your neck and drown. My bugs me quotient is 10 percent. The hero has no choice but to jump or be captured and tortured and killed by the enemy.

So that is my list.

Movie makers should use common sense to stay as true to reality as possible. It’s the simple things you ignore, and the outright flaws put into a scene to make it bloodier or more violent, that leads us to mock your work.

Ha, ha, ha. We laugh at your gaffes.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2023 FabulousFables.com

A BB to the Buttocks

“Pull down your pants and bend over,” my big brother Joe instructed me one cold winter morning.

Joe was my hero; I worshiped him as a nun worships Jesus, so when he commanded; I complied.

Five neighbor kids gathered to witness Joe’s proof that a shot in the butt with a BB didn’t hurt.

My brother and I got BB guns for Christmas, and we showed off our rifles, which led to the butt shot.

I was about 4 years old, my brother 2 1/2 years older.

I pulled my pants down to a respectable level, (upper cheek) bent over and waited to prove my sibling correct.

And then … bap! went the BB gun. Splat! went my left cheek, and the projectile stung like an angry wasp.

Ouch!

My screams were those of a crazed dying baboon, and the commotion brought our mother out of the house.

She assessed my wound, a little uplifted red splotch.

She assured me I would be OK.

I’m sure my brother got punished for his low-down dirty deed, but I don’t remember.

He insists I deserved to be plinked for being stupid enough to listen to him.

I still trusted Joe, though the Jesus glow rubbed off him, and a bit of a devil glow showed, which taught me to beware.

Now I am happy my brother shot my buttocks, because it left us with a story to tell as I have just done.

The neighborhood kids saw Joe’s claim as bogus, and no one else volunteered to be shot.

A week later, a BB I shot at a water meter — at my brother’s direction, I must add — ricocheted and plinked Joe in the eye.

He wasn’t blinded, but he was angry, and he accused me of revenge for the butt BB, which was silly, because I had no control over the ricochet.

That bouncing BB did teach us something: actions can have consequences beyond getting in trouble by your mother.

Moral: Karma: Sometimes a BB to the eye equals a BB to the butt.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2023 FabulousFables.com

Zombies Suck

Zombies suck.

I hate them.

If zombie were a race, I would be a racist.

Call me a Zombist.

My introduction to zombies was the movie “Night of the Living Dead.”

That is George Romero’s 1968 masterpiece, considered the first modern zombie movie.

As I watched, I realized the undead suck.

Unless you are talking about vampires. I like vampires; they are cool, which is ironic, because they are also undead and they literally suck.

I guess I am a hypocrite, when it comes to zombies.

“Night of the Living Dead” is a black-and-white movie. I watched it at a drive-in.

A drive-in is an outdoor movie theater. You watch the movie from you car, big screen jutting up to the sky,

There aren’t many drive-ins left.

”Night of the Living Dead” — a young zombie (Kyra Schon) and her victim (Karl Hardman).

Don’t think black-and-white movies aren’t cool; that grainy texture lends itself to the story of the undead.

Arguably, George Romero’s movie is better without color.

The Walking Dead

The zombie genre has improved substantially with the television series “The Walking Dead,” which began in 2010.

No. I haven’t watched the series, but it is widely watched, and people, whose opinion I respect, praise the drama.

I must admit to watching another zombie movie.

It was “World War Z,” an action horror flick released in 2013 about a world overrun with zombies.

I admit I found the movie entertaining, but it doesn’t change my opinion of zombies.

Zombies are dirty, rotting, brainless corpses who are cannibals.

They have rotting skin hanging off their bones, blood splattered inside and out and around their mouths where they ate people.

They are ugly.

I assume they stink of death, the worst smell ever.

Good thing we can’t smell them through the big or little screen.

Where do zombies come from?

Legend says a zombie can create more zombies by biting humans.

Modern stories blame the undead on military experiments gone horror show. Or humans can be transformed by an alien attack.

As with many a horror story, zombies are based on fact, in Hattian voodoo, birthed by West African magic.

A sorcerer or witch called a bokor concocts a potion that includes tetrodotoxin, a deadly neurotoxin found in the pufferfish.

Administered in the correct dose, the pufferfish poison causes a coma so deep it mimics death.

There are credible reports of dead Hattians, said to be victims of voodoo, found alive.

My disgust  for zombies began with that first movie “Night of the Living Dead.”

A zombie chowed down on some human intestines, and I was revolted.

Really? Intestines? Nasty.

Zombie popularity

Who could unnasty the zombie?

Music superstar Michael Jackson; that’s who.

Jackson deserves credit for an explosion of zombie popularity; never underestimate a great work of art.

His 1982 groundbreaking 13-minute music video “Thriller” featured the undead coming out of their graves to join the superstar in a funky graveyard dance.

To this day, large crowds dress as zombies and dance to “Thriller.”

The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies shown below.

I must admit, I don’t have a problem with Michael Jackson’s zombies; such is the power of music and art.

You can see “Thriller” below. It is worth a watch.

Did I just talk myself out of the premise of my blog, that zombies suck?

Not really.

Most zombies suck.

‘The Guiness World Record for People Dancing “Thriller” was set in Mexico City in 2009, by more than 11,000 temporary zombies.

Contact: David Madrid

© 2022 FabulousFables.com

Thank you to Wikipedia for the photo of the little zombie girl and for providing clarifying information for this blog. Read all about zombies at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zombie.

A Horse’s Tale

“A Wild Ride Up 14th Street” is a true story that has been embellished for your entertainment. What is true and what is exaggerated is up to you to decide.

The setting is a simpler time, a time of no cell phones, when mothers sent kids out to play and didn’t worry about them once they were out the door.

It was a time of no pandemics, a time when freedom was a way of life, and kids were afforded the opportunity to learn freedom’s lessons.

This story isn’t so much about lessons learned — though lessons were learned — as it is about adventure and heroics on 14th Street.

Enjoy “A Wild Ride Up 14th Street“, a piece of untold history.

By David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

Monkey: Basketball Wizard

They called him Monkey.

He was short, brown, had big ears and a smile wide as the Pecos River.

He was a most interesting-looking fellow.

When I first saw him, he stepped onto the basketball court as if he owned it.

Then he owned us. All of us on the court.

He moved around the court. Smoothly.

He mesmerized us with his grace.

He flowed. Then suddenly he moved the other way.

And “Whoosh!” Basket!

Wait. What just happened?

That’s how it was when I met Monkey. I liked him immediately.

I had recently moved into the neighborhood. I now discovered I was playing on Monkey’s court.

I admired Monkey’s moves.

I emulated those moves. He helped me master them.

In the finger-freezing cold of winter.

In the blazing heat of summer.

I met Monkey there on the Eddy School court.

Dribble, dribble, feint and spin.

I learned Monkey’s secrets.

I never matched him, but I learned to be competitive.

I held my own against Monkey until he unveiled a new move, a new trick, a new shot.

Monkey’s most  dangerous weapon was his imagination, which guided his wizardry.

And defense? Forget about it.

Monkey was quick, and he stole that ball.

Although he was short, Monkey could swat your shot.

He intimidated players just by waving his arms. Pass and he steals the ball. Shoot and get blocked.

My favorite times on that court were when Monkey and I were on the same team.

We had our moves.

No-look passes. Pick-and-Roll. Feint and shoot.

A bounce pass between a defender’s legs.

Basket!

Wait. What just happened?

It was our court.

We ruled.

Kids came from far and wide to play.

Everybody played.

It didn’t matter your talent or how you shot the ball.

All that mattered was the game.

It was Monkey’s game. He decreed that everyone play.

He was the best. Those who competed against him learned.

And that, I think, is the highest compliment Monkey would accept, that he taught you something.

I wonder now.

I first assumed Monkey got his nickname because of his height, big ears and perpetual smile.

Though the name may have be given derogatorily — playground kids can be cruel — I didn’t consider it so.

The first sightings of Monkey coming down the street toward the court always elicited loud cries from the kids of “Monkey! Monkey!”

He basked in the attention.

Did the nickname bother him? I truly don’t know. He never complained.

I think of the nickname differently though. I believe it was his moves that earned him the nickname Monkey.

Imagine a monkey swinging through the trees. Effortlessly.

Vine to vine. Tree to tree.

Now picture my friend Monkey. No vines to swing on. No trees. No jungle.

Only a big concrete slab of court and a basketball that came alive in his hands.

Imagine a small boy, pure muscle and grin, flying effortlessly toward the goal and gently letting the basketball fly off his fingertips.

Basket! Nothing but net!

Wait. What just happened?

By David Madrid

This story is dedicated to Monkey, a childhood friend and basketball mentor.

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

Rastas Boodrow: Mathematical Mastermind

 

Rastas Boodrow was just like many other little boys in that he loved games. All kinds, but especially sports. He was good at sports. He loved computer games as well, but Rastas didn’t own any.

Rastas preferred to play outside anyway.

Rastas was poor. His parents earned minimum wage. His dad worked two jobs, but the family never got ahead. Financially, they were losing pace, not even running in place, one illness away from homelessness.

Rastas was different from most the neighborhood kids because he was Jamaican. He was darker than his peers; he had dreads, and he dressed in second-hand clothes and wore old beat-up sneakers.

Whereas, most children his age — Rastas was 7 — would be ostracized for their poverty by their classmates, Rastas was not.

Rastas was popular. He was an exceptional athlete. He was fast. He was strong. He had a winner’s heart. Everybody wanted to be on Rastas’ team.

Rastas was also smart. He liked to read books, and he loved the intricacies of math. Not just adding and subtracting, but now multiplying and dividing, fractions and decimals, meters and milliliters.

Oh yes, he was advanced for his age when it came to math. He was born with numbers running through his mind. He was a genius who already pondered the possibility of endless mathematical probabilities. Maybe that is why he was a bit weird.

Rastas had a compassionate heart. He loved deeply.

He loved his parents even though there were no gifts for him or his sister Amancia under the tree. Christmas was two days away, and nothing.

Rastas knew something would appear on Christmas night from his parents.

It would be clothes or shoes. The real gift would come from Santa Claus. Rastas and his sister would rely on Santa Claus for a perfect gift just like they did every year.

This year, Rastas wasn’t confident he made Santa’s nice list. He dreaded landing on the naughty list. Especially when he wanted a special gift.

He wanted a red bicycle. That wasn’t too much to ask was it?

Rastas imagined the many possibilities a bike would give. He would be mobile, go where he pleased.

No more rides to the library. Rastas didn’t own a phone, so he read books. The library was a magical place, and Rastas didn’t understand why he didn’t see more young people there. Rastas also read above his age level. That’s how he knew so much about math.

He also loved the fantasy books. He imagined he was in the worlds he read about. Leaving this world for a while was comforting.

Rastas was at the age that little boys begin to develop a strange sense of humor that can sometimes lead to cruel pranks.

Though he loved his sister Amancia with all his being, he sometimes pranked her. She didn’t hold it against him. Amancia was just as her name reflected: one who loves unconditionally. There was no doubt  Santa would be good to her.

Rastas also didn’t obey his parents as he should.

They came home tired and still made dinner and helped with homework. And how did Rastas repay them? By doing dumb stuff like hiding his clothes under his bed rather than hanging them in the closet.

Now I know that sounds stupid. Rastas didn’t know why he did it; he just did it.

So it left him no choice but to appeal to the big man himself: Santa Claus. How would he get Santa’s attention long enough to explain? He didn’t have a ride to take him to the mall, where he knew Santa hung out.

That’s when one of those mathematical possibilities presented itself to young Rastas. He would study the fireplace and its flue. Measure it, and turn his problem into an equation. Therein was the answer.

So my friends, read about Rastas’ solution to his problem in “Rastas Boodrow: A Christmas Story“.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2019 FabulousFables.com

Rudy Poo Tootee Does His Duty

 

Rudy Poo Tootee was not a name anybody called the red-nosed hero  to his face, but that was his nickname among the Reindeer Corps, his elite team of Santa’s sleigh pullers.

Oh the reindeer respected Rudy alright, but Rudy was — how shall I say this in a delicate manner? — somewhat anal. You know, head so far up the butt his rigidity prevented him from bending over.

Rudy’s training regimen was strictly formulaic. March, march, march. Run, run, run. Crawl, crawl, crawl. Jump, jump, jump. Roll, roll, roll. Fly, fly, fly. Now do it again until you get it right. Every day, day in and day out. Oh it was tiring training to be an elite reindeer.

But back to the nickname.

Forgive me for transitioning from the anal to flatulent. Don’t shoot the messenger, I’m just telling you the story as it happened.

Anyway.

One day Santa walked onto the training grounds looking for his reindeer leader, and he yelled “Rudy!” which was what everyone called the red-nosed one.

Right after that, Rufus — Rudy’s cousin — the snot-nosed reindeer, let loose with a gassy “Pa Too Tee.” Not silent, but deadly nonetheless, judging by the reindeers’ wrinkled up faces.

Now, you have to realize that despite Rufus’ love of bodily-function humor, he hadn’t intended to let loose at that particular moment. Oh, he intended to fart with great vigor and release a really smelly onion bomb.

That was the only reason he was on the parade grounds that day. He wasn’t much into Rudy’s training obsession. Rufus was all about the jokes.

Rufus ate three onions from Mrs. Claus’ kitchen in hopes of building up the most effective flatulence.

But he was trying to hold the fart in in deference to Santa, whom he hadn’t expected that day. Unable to stifle the fart, it escaped him with a three-part, almost musical, sound.

“Poo Too Tee.”

The Reindeer Corps heard Santa’s “Rudy” and then Rufus’ “Poo Too Tee” and seized on the rhyme to dub their leader Rudy Poo Tootee.

But I digress from my original intention. I really meant to come here to remind you how we left the reindeer cousins at the end of the story “Rufus the Snot-Nosed Reindeer.”

In that story, Rufus unintentionally seized Rudy’s authority and upended the status quo. When given the opportunity to regain his head reindeer role, Rudy Poo Tootee does his duty.

Read “Rufus the Snot-Nosed Reindeer: The Reckoning“, to learn how the story turned out, not only for the reindeer cousins, but ultimately, for children all over the world.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2019 FabulousFables.com

Rufus is no Doofus: A reindeer’s story

 

Rufus was a snot-nosed reindeer, but don’t let that gross you out.

Because within his veins ran the blood of reindeer royalty.

Yep. Somewhere along the reindeer evolution timeline, a strain of reindeer blood exerted itself and produced some remarkable offspring, reindeer who would do incredible things in their lives.

Two of these reindeer princes were cousins, but as different from one another as a frog and a flea.

Both came to their greatness through humble beginnings.

One was bullied and taunted and not allowed to join in reindeer games.

The other had no need for reindeer games. He was a warrior with one goal in life: to wrestle.

You will be surprised to learn that both cousins saved Christmas.

One is famous for lighting Santa’s way.

The other is not famous except in the North Pole, where he is as legendary as his famous cousin.

So I’ll tell you the story of the not-so-famous reindeer.

He was called Rufus the snot-nosed reindeer, but he didn’t care.

Rufus was not a reindeer to worry about drama, idiocy or nicknames.

He was a reindeer who cared for only one thing: the thrill of of a competitive grapple.

Read his story: Rufus the Snot-Nosed Reindeer.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2020 FabulousFables.com

Thanksgiving: A Bird’s Perspective

 

Thanksgiving.

A time of gratitude and counting our blessings.

A time when November breezes anticipate December freezes.

A time when families and loved ones come together and share a meal.

A time of green bean casserole and pumpkin pie.

A time of turkey slaughter on a massive scale.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I am as guilty of enjoying Thanksgiving turkey as the next guy.

But for one tiny hummingbird, Thanksgiving was a time of terror.

Gilbert, the hummingbird,  heard that humans eat birds on this holiday.

He feared he could become a meal, a morsel for sure, but a meal nonetheless, for a boy who showed too much interest in Gilbert’s movements.

You’ve probably figured out that Gilbert the Dancing Hummingbird is not your typical Thanksgiving story.

As with many stories on FabulousFables.com, this story sprouted from a kernel of truth: a little boy’s love for a green-headed hummingbird.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid

© 2019 FabulousFables.com

The Night of the Goat Sucker

Consider the goat sucker, better known as el chupacabra.

What is this creature? Is it real? If so, why has nobody produced evidence? Where is a body? Where are the bones of the dead goat suckers?

Yet, there have been numerous sightings. The creature has been spotted in Puerto Rico, Mexico, South America, the Southwestern United States, and now, reports trickle in from around the world.

Some eye witnesses say the chupacabra has large oval blood-red eyes. Alien eyes. Which raises the question, is the chupacabra extraterrestrial?

Out on the streets, the word is that the loathsome little creature was born in a government lab somewhere inside Area 51, that fortress of extraterrestrial legend.

The origin of the goat sucker is a mystery my friends. But there is something about this creature that is not of this world, it with its sharp fangs, serpent’s forked tongue, greenish-gray hue, leathery hide and spikes on its back. Just weird.

Well, I’m here to tell you that the chupacabra exists.

How do I know? I am an eye witness. I am going to tell you my story of that chilling encounter. Since that night, which coincidentally, was Halloween, I have learned much about el chupacabra.

Some night you may come across a chupacabra. You will be frightened, and rightly so. The chupacabra is hideous to behold.

But the animal, if indeed it is an animal, probably will flee, because it is an elusive creature. It is a loner. Traditional chupacabras hide. They generally avoid people and even other chupacabras.

But what if, like people, chupacabras have complex personalities? Maybe their alien brains are more complex than ours, but we can’t recognize that because of our limited and puny human intelligence?

What if there was a chupacabra larger and stronger than all the others? What if that creature was a beast with a malevolent personality and a hankering for not just goat blood, but human child blood and flesh as well?

Well my friends, that would be one dangerous creature. A fierce and formidable fiend.

So I’m going to tell you my story of my encounter with this bloody creature, a most evil entity who wasn’t content to just suck goat blood, but rather, he enjoyed ripping his victims apart.

Read my story “El Chupacabra” here.

David Madrid

Contact: David Madrid