More often than you’d think, movies are conceived and developed under a title that is then changed for one reason or another upon the film’s release. Here are some movies we’ve come to know and love with their original titles.
There Will Be Blood - Barring Any Obstacles, There Will Have Been Blood
Jaws – Attack of Fin Monster
Chinatown – Big Trouble in Old L.A.
Titanic - Love Boat: The Movie
Honey, I Shrunk the Kids - Honey, Have You Seen Our Son
Goldfinger - Jimmy B’s Slammin’ Summer Free-For-All
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly - The Bad, The Great, The Not-So-Nice and The Sleepy
Catch Me If You Can - Catch Me If You Want
Batman - Superman
Gone With the Wind – A Chicago Love Story
Men in Black – Men in Dark Grey
Home Alone – A Short Paris Vacation
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves – Robin Hood: Men in Tights
Jurassic Park – Dino’s Day Out
Rear Window – Front Door
Die Hard – Christmas with the Kranks
Christmas with the Kranks – Some Christmas Themed Crap
The Last Detail - One More Deet
Donnie Brasco - Danny Farty (Originally an Andy Dick vehicle)
Edward Scissorhands – Demetrius Normal Hands
Men in Black 2 – Men in Even Darker Grey
Attack of the 50-Foot Woman - One Long Lady!
Rocky – Ricky
Dear Dr. Marc Globus, DDS.,
Well. It happened. All my teeth fell out just as you predicted. I woke up this morning, shuffled into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and was astounded by what I saw— an entirely toothless mouth. I looked back at my bed and sure enough, there on my pillow sat a little pile of 31 teeth.
I screwed up. Plain and simple. You were right. I was wrong and that’s not easy for me to admit. I’ve struggled all afternoon with this decision, but I’m putting my pride on the shelf for a moment to write and say that you know far more about dental care than me, an out of work chair-maker. I’ve often been described as a cocky showoff, a know-it-all, a jerk. To put it plainly, a perfect jackass. Well, now as I sit and eat my 15th jar of baby food today, I can tell you with much humility that my attitude and behavior have come back to bite me right on my ass.
I’d like to try to explain my inexplicable actions on the day of my last visit to your office. When you suggested I brush and floss more than three times a week and lay off the sweets, I laughed in your face. I called you a moron. That was rude, uncalled for, and immature. I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. I apologize also for the scene I made in your waiting room when I announced before your waiting patients and entire clerical staff, “If you are as good in bed as you are a dentist, then I feel sorry for your wife!” There was no need to involve her. If she happened to catch wind of that, please let her know that those words were coming from a very addled psyche and I’m sorry I made those remarks. If she hasn’t, please don’t tell her.
As you tried to pacify and guide me out of the office by my arm, I became enraged. I had no right to slap you. No right at all. You were posing no immediate threat to my physical well-being and my reaction far exceeded your prompt. I shouldn’t have screamed at you. I shouldn’t have pulled framed paintings from the walls (accidentally knocking my own bottom front tooth out. Did anyone find that?) And I certainly shouldn’t have tipped over the filing cabinets. Tell Denise I’ll help her reorganize that mess if she hasn’t done so already.
Why did I react this way? The truth is… I panicked. I didn’t know how, when, or if I was going to be able to fit more personal teeth maintenance into my schedule, and I took it out on you and your staff that day. I was scared, frustrated, and angry, and I didn’t quite know how to vent it. It’s been a difficult couple of months for me and I’ve been a little on edge. You see, my favorite basketball team didn’t make the playoffs. Aside from that, I’ve been losing a lot of tennis balls over the fence at the public courts. I accidentally send them over and they’re lost forever. I don’t have the money right now to act so haphazardly. Those factors compounded with the distresses over a new dog that refuses to be housebroken culminated with my unfortunate outburst in your office one week ago.
I was wrong and I know that. I should have trusted you, the dental professional, rather than my brash, hotheaded, egotistical, misinformed, scared, ignorant, and flat out WRONG notions of tooth care. I look back at this whole ordeal and can almost laugh when I think of how simple your suggestions were, how easy they would have been for me to fulfill, and how far in the opposite direction I inappropriately responded. Now, I have paid the price dearly. This is a sad chapter in the history book of my life. Sad because of my unfortunate condition (I have no idea how I’m going to deal with popcorn at the movies tonight) and because of how I treated my dentist. I overstepped my doctor-patient privileges or at least came very close and there is no excuse for my actions.
Again, I sincerely apologize. Hopefully we can put this behind us and move forward. I understand however if we cannot.
Humbly yours ,
Lars Fuller
Dean’s eyes opened. He was lying on a tiled floor. His head pounded and his throat burned. Dean was hung over. Again. He drank a few drops of beer the night before and was paying the price. Now, a few drops of beer may not seem like much to you and me, but Dean is an ant. And a drunk.
He lifted his tiny black head off the bathroom floor and coughed, then vomited. And then he called me to come pick him up. I found him in the hallway leaning against the wall and yelling at the “fucking” TV in the family room. He was hung over and tried to tell me that an ant’s ears aren’t suited for a human TV, and those preteen ASSHOLES should show a little fucking respect and get a job. He was all over the place.
I pulled Dean’s coat out from under a dime and got him into the car. As I helped him with the buckle, I told him that if he puked, he was going to clean it up. Not me. He nodded. He knew the routine.
We rode in silence. I could only brow beat him so many times. All his friends had given up on him, and he didn’t need a drill sergeant right now. He didn’t need advice. He needed coffee. I looked over at Dean, with his sad head against the door. All I could do was feel sorry for him. He was in bad shape for sure, but he had been like this to some degree since the first day I met him.
It was a Friday. I was heading up to the Adirondacks for a fishing trip with my uncle and his wife. I was a little on edge because, without going into it TOO much here, I had a tense relationship with my uncle’s wife. She made out with a friend of mine at her bachelorette party before she married my uncle. Anyway, I had to stop off at Dilly’s, a sporting goods store, for some Styrofoam coolers. In the parking lot I saw this ant with a nametag that said “Dean” smoking the discarded nub of a cigarette on the picnic tables. He looked blue, so I asked him what was wrong and if he had a cigarette I could bum to calm me down a little before I met up with my uncle and Rhoda.
I thought he was a funny guy—the way he dumped on his manager and the sporting goods store. He told me he had been stealing beer coosies for months. It eventually came out that we were both huge White Sox fans, and I complained that there wasn’t anywhere to watch the games around town. He told me that Harry’s, a bar I had never been to, bought a baseball package through the cable company and showed White Sox games all the time. He and a bunch of other Sox fans watched every game there. After I got back from my trip, I took him up on his offer. I must have watched every game for the rest of that season with Dean. I would be surprised if he can remember any of them. His drinking was in full swing by then.
Why does he do it? Why does he stay up all night drinking drop after drop after drop until he doesn’t even know why he started drinking in the first place? Well, for starters, Dean is on the small side. All his brothers were on the varsity football squad at Rutgers, and he could never even make the JV team. And that killed him. Gave him a pretty sophisticated Napoleon complex.
Dean isn’t even his real name. It’s Ray. He started calling himself Dean after he saw The Wild Ones. I kept telling him that was Marlon Brando but his mind was already made up. I once told him about the Jim Croce song “Ray” but he said he wasn’t going to “take cues from some spaghetti slurping…” Well, Dean can get racially inappropriate when he drinks.
After about 7 months of knowing Dean, I was able to get him to cut back a little on the drinking and things were actually starting to get better. He was eating right. He was taking care of his dog. He was even showing up to work on time. Things were looking good until his girlfriend walked out on him.
Dean’s relationship with Vikki had always been unstable at best, but I guess any relationship between a 37 year old human Denny’s hostess and an alcoholic ant would always be unstable at best. Vikki was never comfortable with Dean’s drinking, but Dean wouldn’t take her complaints seriously. I don’t blame him. Vikki’s a self-described pothead, and it’s hard to take that type of guff from someone with essentially the same problem. The interesting thing about Dean is that he is dependant on beer only. He never smoked pot with Vikki or anyone else in his life. He had no interest in it. When I asked why he never got into it, all he said was, “Those hippy queers can choke on it for all I care.” He didn’t really have any other vices either. He wasn’t a chronic gambler, coffee drinker, regular cigarette smoker. Just booze. As much as he could get whenever he could get it. That of course was the straining source of his relationship.
And here’s the breaking point. It happened about a month ago, the day
Vikki moved into his apartment. The way Dean tells it, they were making out on his recliner. They were always making out it seemed. They were very “hands on” which was difficult to watch when it was just the three of us hanging out. I don’t know how he does it actually. I mean how he physically does it. I’m not saying that I only hop in the sack with supermodels, but Vikki is not attractive. She stands at five foot zero inches with big teeth and straight grey hair. She’s not even a type. Honestly, I can’t imagine how he does it in the bedroom. I know I couldn’t. I’d puke. And I’m not joking around here.
Anyway, she had just moved in and they were making out to celebrate. Everything seemed to be going fine until Dean playfully told her that they’d have more room on the recliner if her butt wasn’t so big. At that point he says it gets a little hazy. From what he can piece together, she pushed him onto the floor, gave him a bloody nose and stormed out. She hasn’t been back since, hence the upswing in his drinking.
I’ve tried everything to help him kick drinking. I locked up his booze in a closet but found out a week later that he picked the lock right after I left. So, I dumped all his bottles and stole his driver’s license so he couldn’t buy more, but he just paid strangers heading into the liquor store to buy for him. I stopped talking about drinking and would nonchalantly change the channel whenever a beer commercial came on, but that didn’t help. Drinking was always on his mind. We started exercising together, jogging mostly, to boost his mental and physical health. He beat that one with his continual shin splint complaints. Eventually our jogs got shorter and shorter until he simply refused to run. I brought him to the community center. He signed up for a figure drawing class but stopped attending when he saw Vikki there for an aerobics class. We even tried AA, but Dean was just too tiny for something like that.
After our efforts, (and I say “our” because Dean wanted to get better. He really did) disaster struck.
By some miracle, Dean had been able to keep it together enough to keep his job at Dilly’s and about three months ago he got a letter telling him his brother Victor had been named head of the English Department at the University of Maryland. This sent Dean into a binge. He felt more than ever that he was a failure and a runt and that there was no hope to turn his life around and go to college, let alone become a department head.
So, he drank. And drank. And drank for three days straight until his afternoon shift at Dilly’s. He got into his car and showed up for work cocked out of his head. Thankfully he didn’t kill anyone on the way there. Dean staggered towards the entrance half asleep from the booze. It was then that a young man walking in to buy golf balls stepped on Dean and crushed his tiny body.
It’s been a dark three months, but Dean is going to make it. He spent the first month of his ongoing recovery in a coma in a head to toe body cast. He’s awake and alert these days with casts on his torso, but his arms and legs have healed. They are still very weak, and Dean’s going to have to do a long period of physical therapy, but he’s getting there.
I’ve been to see him on most days, and his family has visited even more than me. He almost seems like a new person. Bless his little heart, he is lively (as lively as an ant with a full torso cast can be), and he’s positive about the future. I haven’t asked him about his drinking yet, and I don’t know if I will or if I need to.
Last week as I was leaving I asked, “Do you want me to turn the light off, Dean? So you can get some sleep?”
He said, “Yeah. That would be great. And you know what? Call me Ray.”
(I’ve included a photo of Ray in high spirits, recovering at St. Mary’s hospital. See below.)
I recently came back to the United States after a brief trip to merry ol’ England, and I found the differences in our common language fascinating.
-An “elevator” is called a “lift” in England.
-What we call a “diesel truck” or a “semi” they call a “lorry.”
-Our “cheeseburger and fries” is their “fish and chips.”
-To “crumple” something in the US is to “flatten out” in the UK.
-A “rock” is called a “bird.”
-“Merry ol’ England” is “Big London.”
-A “pile” of forks is known as a “pack” of forks.
-“Hugh Laurie” is called “Hugh Diesel Truck.”
-“Taking a snooze” means to “steal a Snooze brand candy bar.”
-“Magnets” are “Northie-Southie Stickers.”
-When they say “Germany” they mean “Spain” but not visa-versa. “Spain” to a Brit means “a tidy grouping of forks.”
-The name “Fred” is “Corbin.”
-To act “Wobbly Nobbly on the Dipper Disher” means to stand perfectly still.
And that’s all the linguistic differences there are between England and the U.S.
HONK IF YOU’RE HOMELY
MY PARENTS WENT TO JAMAICA AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT
I BRAKE FOR RED LIGHTS
MY OTHER BUMPER STICKER IS A CORVETTE
LEGALIZE SPEEDING
MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT LAKESIDE HIGH. AND A CLOSETED HOMOSEXUAL. PROBABLY.
BUSH/CHENEY 2011
Complaints about a few U.S. Presidents:
-Benjamin Harrison- The most exciting thing about this guy was his haircut.
-James Buchanan- Stood exactly 6 feet tall. I don’t think I like that too much.
-Grover Cleveland- Yo, Grover! Ever been to Ohio? Try a new name, pal.
-Millard Fillmore- An A-Plus name for a D-Minus President.
-Zachary Taylor- He let celebrity go to his head.
-Franklin Pierce- Someone once told me he used to beat his dogs. I now know that’s not true but it left a bad taste in my mouth so Pierce made the list.
-Richard Nixon- I’m not familiar.
-John Tylor- Hey, America, he’s YOUR president. I voted for Nader.
-Lyndon B. Johnson- This guy was actually pretty great. He was the one shot near that theatre, right?
-Herbert Hoover- Too easy.
-Ben Franklin- This guy wasn’t even a president.
-Chester A. Arthur- Sex Maniacs don’t make good national leaders.
-George H.W. Bush- Yikes. Imagine if this guy had a son?
-Jimmy Carter- I met his niece once.
“You’re certainly out early, sir.”
Patty was right. Warren hadn’t been riding this early in months. Upon the morning’s first glimmer of sunlight, he had slipped out leaving his wife in bed asleep. There was a time when the two lovers would spend a weekend there. Touching. Sharing. Last Sunday in front of the fireplace, Warren kissed his wife so he wouldn’t have to glare at her anymore. The resulting intimacy was a chore. Had she noticed the change in him? Had Patty, his stable manager noticed? Warren almost asked. He longed desperately for an opinion from anyone. Anyone but her.
“Sure, Patty. Figured I’d get a good ride under my belt before brunch.”
Patty handed him a clean towel and his bridle. The length of the whip reminded Warren of her shimmering black hair. He wanted to lightly run his fingers over the bridle and snap it in half at the same time.
Hold on a second. Sorry. As I read that last paragraph back, something doesn’t sound right. I don’t think I want to use the word “bridle” there. I know a bridle is a piece of riding equipment but it’s not what I’m describing. It’s on the very tip of my tongue. Hold on a second. I spent 30 bucks on this Horseback A to Z book, I might as well use it. Just a second.
Okay, here we go. What I’m referring to is known as a riding crop. One of those long whips. Well, not too long. Maybe 2 feet. Not like one of those Indiana Jones whips. He used to wrap that thing around tree branches for crying out loud. His whip must have been 40 feet long. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m terrible with length estimations. Always have been.
Anyway, as Warren held the riding CROP (thank you), he ran his hand over it with the firm gentleness he used to treat Eva with during a passionate afternoon. You know what? I’m just realizing I didn’t name Warren’s wife earlier, did I? It’s Eva. Hold on. Someone’s knocking at my door. I’ll never finish this thing.
It was my neighbor who oddly enough is named Eva. Is that ironic? I’m not sure. I’ve never fully understood irony. I’m actually going to change Warren’s wife’s name because if Eva ever reads this, she might think the character is supposed to represent her, which she isn’t. Warren’s wife…well, I guess I’ll just tell you. Warren’s wife represents Globalization. You’ll understand later on in the story. Trust me.
Oh…so anyway Eva. My neighbor not Warren’s wife. We’ll name Warren’s wife Carol. No, wait that’s my cousin’s name. Oh, who cares. She won’t read this. I never see her. But then again our moms do talk a lot. There’s a chance she might read this. A pretty good chance in fact. Let’s leave Warren’s wife unnamed. That’s pretty neat. The thing that is eating away at Warren doesn’t even have a name. That’s really cool.
Jeeze. I keep getting off topic. So Eva shows up at my door and she doesn’t look too happy. Turns out when her husband left for his demolition job this morning, my car was blocking his and —she says— they were knocking on my door for a half hour —which I doubt— but I didn’t answer. I apologized and said something to the effect of, “What’s he going to be late for? It’s not like the building’s going anywhere.” She didn’t find that as funny as you and I do. Pardon me for a second, I’m going to jot that down. That’s funny. That’s the type of thing I should be writing.
Whoops. I knocked over my coffee reaching for my pen.
Whoops. I knocked over the creamer reaching for a napkin! Double mess. Hold on.
Okay. We’re all cleaned up. Here we go. Where are we? Has Warren found the pistol in the woods yet? Wait, we haven’t even gotten him out of the stables. Okay, so he goes out riding into the woods and finds a pistol resting on a stump.
Warren twitched. He shook. He knelt down and picked up the pistol. It was a Remington. No…hold on. It wasn’t a Remington. Let’s see here… Dangit! I can’t find my hunting manual. Let’s just say Warren picked up some sort of unnamed pistol (like his wife—remember?). The morning had grown moist and Warren knew it was time to take his leave from those old woods.
You know what? That kind of pisses me off. Where the hell is that hunting book? I spent 40 bucks on that one. Not that I’m really even into hunting that much, but I knew I was going to need it for this story. I just wish I hadn’t signed up for the entire volume. This is so frustrating. That book’s in my way just about every day and now when I actually need it, I can’t find it. Now THAT’s ironic.
Speaking of irony, what do you think of this? Warren goes back to his house with the pistol but instead of killing his wife like originally planned, he kills himself. Pretty weird, huh? Again, I don’t know if it’s exactly irony, but it works. I’m gonna call Keith and run this idea by him.
He liked it. He said it made him think of the movie Good Will Hunting. Not in any comparative sense. More in the sense that when he saw that movie in theatres, there was this guy in the theatre who would not stop talking. For an hour and a half, this motormouth wouldn’t give it a rest. Well, Keith turned to his girlfriend at the time (he’s married to a different girl now) and said, “I’m gonna kick the crap out of that a**hole when the lights come up so everyone can see it.” True to his word, the movie ended and Keith made a beeline for the guy only to find out that it was Warren Neun, an old neighbor he used to baby-sit in high school. They both agreed that it was a small world and Keith told Warren to keep it down a little next time he goes to the movies. Warren said he would.
Warren (from our story, not Keith’s) gripped the front door knob. His mind snapped like a riding crop on a horsehide. He couldn’t fire the gun in his home. There was sacredness there. Warren lifted the steel to his temple and squeezed.
He didn’t feel his kneecap split on the cement stairway or the gravel dig into his cheek. (Before I forget, Keith had the hunting book.) Warren was gone.
The servant’s quarters gushed hired help into the courtyard. From the window in the foyer, Warren’s anonymous wife watched gun smoke fade. A contented sigh escaped her chest as her lips ironically curled into a smile. Her plan had worked.
Wow.
