Parting is such sweet... Blood.

Two months have passed since my last post. I've used my peons to poke and prod you into thinking I'd return sooner, but I haven't. Not until now. Not until today. I've been planning for too long. I wasn't going to let fury over the attempted lampooning of my documentaries by Scary Movie 4 rush me. Why waste time on a movie so meaningless to culture anyway? I know it had a surprising box-office take, but the real surprise is still to come when every member of that crew ends up in a nursing home with the knowledge that their life was spent on fart jokes. Surprise. You evolved less than snakes.

I am going to go away again after this post. Possibly for a long while. My personal input is needed on the set of Saw IV (filming). Also, I don't feel as if my cancerous crusades come across as well on the internet as they should. My majesty has to be seen to be believed, which is why I'm also in negotiations for a daytime talk show to replace Tony Danza. Tony will soon be cancelled, after which he will fail to escape one of those rooms with slowly-closing-in spikes on the wall, unless he can successfully reason why every character he ever played was named Tony.

I am not going away quietly, though. I've seen who of you out there has followed this blog, and I'm impressed by your attempt at substance. It is now time for you to prove your loyalty. If you succeed, you will become another apprentice around whom a sequel can be pivoted. If you fail, your teeth will become another fulcrum for my patented teeth-and-wrist-bone seesaws. Flea circuses love to use them in their acts. I never said I wasn't a patron of the arts.

Spanishturtle, you are first. I've learned much about your moving plans and recreational evenings, but I feel as if you've failed to demonstrate how those two fit together. Successfully move wine night into the television time slot once occupied by Four Kings, and in place of Gilmore Girls I'd like to watch that dog you once bought. You have five minutes in which to accomplish this semi-possible task. If you fail, your episode order will be cut short and you will be forced to include a sweeps week rating gimmick in your life. My favorite gimmick? Killing off a main character, of course. Or a new baby.

Chris and Qualler. Again I must create a revelatory scheme for those obsessed with pop culture. Let us delve a little deeper into your world and discover that you focus on the outside because your insides are so devoid of thought. Literally. I placed air pockets into your brains last night, and if you fail to stimulate your nerve centers in the appropriate order, the bubble will travel through your cerebellum, into your bloodstream, and onto your death. Here is a clue to the process you must think: Tom Cruise plus Mates of State minus Michael Stipe. Life blooms in its lack.

To Chris, of Chris and Qualler: You must accomplish that task whilst thinking only in terms of the secondary functions on a keyboard's number bar.

Arun in Brooklyn. You attempt to relate the life of a young American teacher in an inner-city setting, but I know more about your musical experiments than I do of your experiments with pedagogy. Three of your students have been trained to talk in tones that, when put together, simulate the opening four bars of Mozart's Requiem. It was his final work, if you didn't know, which he died while making. Why did he die? He selected three choir members trained in the wrong key, and his eardrums imploded.

IJFP. Do you think I have time to worry about architecture renovation projects in the barren plains of Minnesota? I am attempting to re-educate a generation so that they don't realize the glories of life as late as I did. Too late (cough). Successfully convince the Minnesota city planning commission to construct a monument to both me and Lions Gate Films between Minneapolis and St. Paul, and you will be saved. If you fail, the marble I've reserved for that project will be spent on building a living mausoleum around your flat. Enjoy the new view from your window: A look at those still free to wander the Earth.

Blogging with a Ghost. You like lists, I see. And math. Here is a list for you: Arsenic, hemlock, spider venom. Arrange the letters in those poisons to spell a list of five reasons I don't have a Messiah complex and I'll let you join my team. Also, make sure that your new list can be spelled with numbers, so that when I turn a calculator upside down I can read it. Hint: "BOOBS" is not one of the reasons.

Life of a Hero. How can you ever claim to be a hero when you are a member of the same blogging community as I? Have you not read up on my impressive "New Deals" of evangelization? You're dead. No game.

And finally, Imaginary Lines. I've always sensed more of a kinship with you than any other. Perhaps I sense the evil in you that is necessary to do the good things I do. However, your humor often verges on the nihilistic. Religion is not to be condemned. It is to be glorified for scaring people into living as they should. Without these boundaries, society is lost, as you have become. I have placed you in a vacuum chamber shaped like the left-wing of a political spectrum, something with which I assume you are familiar. I've also suspended physics briefly to allow you to exist in this vacuum. A philosopher once said, "All the meaning in the world can be spotted in a grain of sand." I was that philosopher. Find the grain of sand. You have thirty seconds to survive.

Thank you all for accompanying me on my short, maiden voyage through the world of blogging. Predictably, I found the world lacking. Maybe one of you can help me revolutionize this world as I have the real one. If you survive.

Good luck.

A Call to Severed Arms

You might have recently read the following in the Internet Movie Database (IMDB), otherwise known to me as the Rolodex of Sinners/Future Capturees (RSFC):

"An online auction of props, costumes and autographed scripts from the original horror film Saw and its sequel, Saw II, has raked in $220,000 in its first day, Raybin Management, which is holding the auction on eBay, said Wednesday. In a statement, the company noted that $14,800 was paid for the venus fly trap prop seen in the opening scene of Saw II and that a spiked and bloody baseball bat used in the film brought in $4,100. Raybin Management President John Rabin said, "The best of the auction is coming in the next three weeks, timed to culminate with the DVD release of Saw II on February 14."

Are you amazed by the kind of attention my crusade is garnering? I'm not. Unfortunately, my adorers seem to be idolators with no regard for the sweat and tears and worth of money, but at least all the profits go towards cancer research.

WHAT?! The profits go into the pockets of typical Hollywood faux-liberals like this guy?!

I'd probably drown him in hair gel.

Unbelievable. A man allows his story to be put into film so that the masses will be inspired to carry his, I don't know, cross, and this is what becomes of it. Ravenous fans with no understanding of the message but complete understanding of how "wicked cool that bloody bat is, bra." This is a tragedy that cannot be fixed by the IMDB or the RSFC, both being the same thing. This is a tragedy that requires CAM - the Convention of Angry Murderers.

We almost went with the Convention of Upset Murderers, but we felt that anger was a stronger emotion.

A note: I still don't consider myself to be a murderer; however, it's the only title upon which we could agree. I'm more of an enlightener, in the vein of Voltaire and Descartes. Nevertheless, compromise is the key to success.

Therefore, over the next few months I invite all members of CAM to post their opinions on my fated-to-be-Nobel-nominated blog.

Hannibal, Michael, Freddy, Jason, girl from Sleepaway Camps 2 and 3, virus from Cabin Fever! I call on all of you to make your voices heard here! The movies have distorted our messages behind a frontdrop of crowd-pleasing sex, violence, and rock-and-roll! Here is your soapbox! Now empty the soap, violently if need be, into the mouths of teens everywhere!

Let the world feel our power! I give us all 100 years to survive!

Privacy

As a cancerous serial "killer," I know one or two things about privacy. First, never give your credit card number to a telemarketer. Second, never give your credit card number to your life coach, Tiffani, who will use it to buy thousands of dollars of feminine hygiene products and then complain when she awakes in a dark hole with her only means of escape being the key locked in her left Fallopian tube. Third, never pick up the phone.

You may think that this last rule is a bit extreme, but there is a reason man invented voicemail. That reason is to screen calls while at the same time providing hilarious recorded jokes that are just long enough to make one chuckle but not so long that the police have time to track where the answering machine is. Here is the written version of my latest voicemail:

"Hi this is John. If you'd like to leave a message, then do so after the tone. If you'd like to repent your sins, then do so before it's too late. If you'd like to eat a sausage, then do so on your own time, you pervert!"

And then there's random blood sounds. Beeeeeep!

Anyway, this post was inspired by the latest cinematic disaster - When a Stranger Calls. I honestly thought the trailer for this was a spoof cell-phone commercial the first five times I saw it.

Of course, I honestly think everything, because I am a moral and responsible human being.

83 minutes of a quasi-attractive girl being chased by a phone-abusing killer? Question: Have you ever seen me chase anyone in my two bio-pictures? Answer: No. Danny Glover chased me once, and I, for one, thought the scene was sub-par.

The greatest suspense and drama comes not from predictable chases around a blasse set (such as - sarcastic gasp! - a house!). It comes from taking flaws in human persona and transforming them into disgusting yet appropriate death traps from which few will escape. And then giving people downwards of one minute for said escape.

Unfortunately for this movie, it's flaws are so gaping that potent aerial bacteria have already begun to invade the wound and infect it with three kinds of polio. When a Stranger Calls has but five seconds to survive.

Good luck.

There Will Be What?!

Again I am enraged. However, as suggested by my life coach Tiffani, there will be no extreme capital letters or exclamation points this upsetting time. Such accentuations only bury the power of my words - the same rusty tools that give me my power. Imagine Saw II without my foreboding cassette recordings. More impossibly, imagine Saw without them. There would be nothing. Even moreso, think of how anticlimactic the second documentary would have been if your neck hadn't snapped back in shock when you realized that in telling Donnie Wahlberg to be patient and talk to me for just a bit, I was being as sincere a human being as ever existed. My words are what make me so mindblowingly sincere. Metaphorically, I am the sincerest pumpkin in the pumpkin patch - a patch fertilized by the caracasses of rotting sinners.

And that is why I am so angry. The words that shot me like a poison-tipped needle into the heart of America have been stolen from me. By Hollywood. And not the good Hollywood that produced my movies.

Here is a synopsis of the shameless piece of thievery, as detailed by ScriptSales.com:

Title: There Will Be Blood
Log line: A prospector overseeing the drilling business in Southern California buys the oil rights to a family's ranch, and then hits a major pocket of crude. Things suddenly turn greedy as the prospector realizes the American dream and is destroyed by it.
Writer: Paul Thomas Anderson
Agent: United Talent Agency
Buyer: Paramount Classics and Miramax
Price: n/a
Genre: Drama
Logged: 1/18/06
More: Based loosely on the 1927 Upton Sinclair novel "Oil!" Ghoulardi Film's Paul Thomas Anderson and Joanne Sellar will produce. Scott Rudin and Eric Schlosser will executive produce. Paul Thomas Anderson will direct. Daniel Day-Lewis will star.


This is what they choose to do with the title There Will Be Blood?! Sweet Jesus have my crusades failed to enlighten anybody?! Sorry Tiffani. I'm trying to calm down. Oh yeah that feels good. Right there on the cancer.

Deep breath.

So it seems they've taken my messionic tagline and converted it into a dramatic derivative of The Beverly Hillbillies. I don't care whether the movie is loosely based on Sinclair, Twain, Pinkett-Smith, or Dickens-Pinkett, there is no way this film can have any more than ten seconds to survive.

Hollywood, you had better learn to tread lightly. If not, you will soon find yourself sinking into the pit of filth you're digging for yourself. And you'll find a cassette recording and packet of South American jaw-worms in the filth, too. Just to give it that Jigsaw flavor you so sorely need.

Tragic "Cinemagic"

Greetings once again. I understand that it's been a while, but I'm sure you'll appreciate - nay - applaud my absence when you hear where I've been. And if you don't, then you'll soon applaud with blade-pronged gloves as you toil in a pool of a bigot's vomit.

I've just returned from a remote Canadian villa where I spent time with the transcribers of my crusade (who are more likely known to you as the screenplay writers of Saw and Saw II). We've put some finishing touches on Saw III: The Return of the Blood, and even laid out the foundations of the fourth entry, an indubitable masterpiece in which I battle evil in the future.

What is your reaction to this last idea? "The Jigsaw Killer heads into the future to teach people the errors of their ways in the past." Pretty good, eh?

....

....

NO!!!!

It's a horrible idea, and if you even for a moment lingered on the thought that it's good, then I will already know by the length of your visit to this page and I will punish you for your embarassing artistic pallet.

And yes I know how long it takes you to read. Otherwise I could not make the accurate calculations I have already stated I will make. Speaking of which, over half of you can soon expect a package containing Hooked on Phonics (By John, the Jigsaw Killer). It's my version (thus the parenthetical note), in which your skin is literally hooked onto letters as you learn.

Anyway, whilst in Canada I took a look at some other contemporary horror flicks so as to create a "What Not to Do" guide to cinema. Here is the product:

What Not to Do (if you want to make a movie that doesn't throw culture back into the pathetic-yet-strangely endearing Dark Ages)

1. Breed a villain of false sympathy.
Both House of Wax and the lesser-known Creep were guilty of this horror faux-paux. Villains who grow to be evil because of birth deformities? Quasi-sympathetic at best. It is not nearly as hard to cope with a sickness you have always had as it is to cope with one that you develop later in life. My cancer has taught me this. And if you question my bias on this matter, let me point you to the ingrown nail on my third toe which I've been forced to walk on my whole life. It's been hard, I assure you, but not nearly as hard as *cough* cancer.


2. Use the supernatural as a legitimate conclusion.
Kate Hudson's The Skeleton Key tries to scare with the pseudo-religion of Hoodoo. I quip, "Hoodoo you think you are, Kate Hudson?" I watched the DVD's special feature "Kate's Real Ghost Story" and did not come away fearing ghosts but rather fearing for Ms. Hudson's sanity. If she truly believes that there are ghosts of children wandering around, then why does she insist on wandering around in her sexy black panties throughout the movie? Ha! I caught you in a logic trap, Kate! Either admit to pedophilia or admit that ghosts don't exist. You have to choose. We all do.


3. Sign on with Lions Gate Films.
If it weren't for the weakened state that this cancer has left me in, I would have stopped watching Ghostwatcher after the first five minutes. Unfortunately, I was stuck in a Canadian hospital for some tests, so I was forced to lie idly by as my room's multi-disc DVD player read both Ghostwatcher and Ghostwatcher II sequentially. I don't understand how a production company can give a storytelling-ly challenged fool a 1980s home-video camera, accept the film said fool makes, and then ship the movie to every Hollywood Video in the country. Surely no one can actually be renting this garbage.


Until next time, I leave you with a line from Saw III: The Return of the Blood:

"It doesn't hurt because I care. It hurts because you never cared."

Jigsaw + No Bloggies = 1 Murderous New Year's Eve for the Blogulution

I have recently been informed that I was awarded a whopping ZERO awards at this past Monday's Blogulution Awards. I had a pre-recorded acceptance speech and everything. But that's not the real reason I am so whiny--err--VENGEFUL. I just wanted...(pivots foot)...to be...(flutters eyelashes)...INVITED!

For this, the Blogulutioneers will die. Cleverly, of course. They will probably not see this before their respective New Year's Eve parties tonight, so this will only be a document of what has already happened. This will teach them all to check my blog before they ring in a new year without Jigsaw and WITHOUT even INVITING him to the awards, much less not AWARDING him. Behold my new masterplan:

2000 LICKS FOR 2006

Another year has passed. I'm sure you have lots of people to write letters to who you've lost contact with over the span of 2005. I have been keeping documents of every person you've said "we should hang out sometime" to in the past year and have never ACTUALLY made any attempt to hang out with them, and all of you will have to write 2000 letters to compensate for your insincerity. And each envelope has been painstakingly sharpened so that the above picture may or may not depict your life around 12 a.m. tonight, a la the hilarious Frank Whaley/Kevin Spacey picture Swimming With Sharks. Get out your favorite Uniball, because you will never live down not inviting NOR awarding JIGSAW at your BLOGULUTION AWARDS.

The Holidays

To escape the overwhelming tragedy that is the holidays, I have been on vacation for the past week. I cannot stand the ignorant bliss of consumer-driven celebration. Before I left for vacation I would stand in line, waiting for my complimentary giftwrapping, and the pathetic nagging and whining of housewives in front of me forced my mind to contemplate the immense amount of revelatory work I have left to do. And after hours of this torture, I would be told by employees that the points of my bear-trap teeth were too sharp and cutting through the paper, and would I mind putting the device in a box. A box?! Do they not know that it was boxmaker who killed my dear Justine?! Do they know nothing of the customer always being right?! Unbelievable! It is almost enough to drive a man to murder.

Don't even think for a second that I am unawares of how cheap a joke that final line was. I possess the comedic understanding of men twice your age and four times your mental girth. I only chose to use the former humor to talk down to you, the public. As the philospher once said, "You cannot teach a peasant to laugh. You much shame him into it."

What's that? You are interested in the itinerary of my vacation? It is unexpectedly courteous of you to ask, but I realize you are probably working undercover with the hopes of arresting me and bringing me to your simple form of "justice." Nevertheless, my vacation has not been without earnest meaning, so I will show to you a partial itinerary from earlier this week. Regarding my future path, you will remain in the dark. Until, that is, I turn on the electricity and enlighten you as per the room of carniverous cats in which you are trapped.

This cat is both carniverous and insane.

Itinerary

9 AM: Meet and greet at airport. Encourage new acquaintances to repent before it is too late.
10 AM: Board plane. Chat with seat-partner about how myopic it is that security officials screen for knives, but not syringes.
10:30 AM: Tell stewardess that you were only trying to make polite conversation with your seat-partner. Brainstorm ideas for teaching the tattletale a lesson.
10:45 AM: Expediate brainstorming when it is learned that the seat partner has been divorced.
11:00 AM: Notice stewardess taking birth-control pill. This will need to be taken care of as well.

....

6 PM: Arrive at Krakow International. Shuttle to hotel.
6:30 PM: Tell group leader that plane food isn't settling well and return to room.
7 PM: Research the number of plane seat-partner's hotel room. (Probably get Amanda to do this).
7:15 PM: Call room service to dispose of suitcase containing stewardess's body. Continue to be amazed that no one can smell the combined scent of human flesh and razor-emblazoned latex condoms emanating from the suitcase.
7:30 PM: Meditate. The most gruesome killings deserve some reflection.

...

(Next Day)
9 AM: Arrive at Auschwitz Concentration Camp. Contemplate the horrible atrocities committed here. Ponder how the Nazis would have acted if they had experienced the epiphany of cancer. Pray for the mercy of the innocents who perished.
9:15 AM: Dispose of seat-partner in Auschwitz restrooms. Be appalled by the fact that visitors are charged .50 Euro to use the facilities.

...

I may post some pictures of my trip when I return. Until then, be ethical.