the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: April 2008 (Page 1 of 3)


First a post about sadness, now sleep.  Can he get any more boring?

Hold on a minute.  I think we should write more about sleep.  Think about it.  We sleep for 1/3 of our lives.  If we live to a hundred years of age, that means we slept for thirty-three years (ok, thirty-three and a third).  The woman at Bagel Stop in Redondo Beach is thirty-three years old.  I know that because I recently heard her tell her friend, “Woo-hoo, I’m thirty-three today!  Are you coming to the Cheesecake Factory tonight with Joey for the party?”  On that same day as her birthday, somewhere else in Los Angeles, an elderly man turned a hundred years old.  He had slept through the bagel woman’s entire life.

We like to tell stories about action, not sleep.  We climb mountains, we kill whales, we buy video games, we love.  We write about sex.  But sex is small potatoes compared to sleep.  Even if we had sex every single night for our entire lives, which in my experience lasts about… uh, eight minutes a pop, that means that if we live to a hundred, we have only spent 8 minutes x 356 days x 100 years having sex, which equals…  well, just take my word for it… it is less than the time we sleep.   I’m just too sleepy to do the equation.

Yes, I’m sleepy.  Exhausted.  I can’t wait to go to sleep. 

Should I be embarrassed to tell you, my dear reader, that I want to go to sleep?  It does feel a little funny.  It’s an area that we usually keep off-screen, like Meryl Streep sitting on a toilet in a movie.

I’d like to take sleep out of the closet for one day. 

Years ago, poets compared sleep to death, and maybe that has scared us from talking about it.  Sleep is the absence of action.  It looks like we are dead to the world.  A lot of people actually DO die in their sleep.  People have nightmares.  Children want the lights on.  Sleep can be creepy.

But it’s time to take the reaper out of the sleeper! 

I see sleep as food for the brain.  If the day sucked, there’s always tomorrow.  Sleep refreshes you.  If it was a good day, a good night’s sleep is a reward for your accomplishment. 

Sleep is your friend.  I don’t usually remember my dreams, but I’m sure they are good ones.  I’m sure there are a lot of hot women in my dreams every night.  I know this for sure — in my dreams, the sex always lasts for longer than eight minutes.

Good night.  Sweet dreams.

The Power of One Reader

On Sunday night, I was feeling sad.  I was thinking about my marriage situation, why I was taking so long to move out, whether I should get a roommate, if I should go to New York for a few weeks, how that would affect my writing, and other issues that I would rather not have bouncing about in my head.  These nagging questions took time and energy from important things, like keeping up with your blogs, or poking people on Facebook.

Don’t worry, Mom.  I wasn’t depressed, just sad.   

So, what does a blogger do when he’s feeling sad?   He writes a blog post. 

I wrote a blog post about… feeling sad.  When it was done, I read it over, and it just seemed pointless.  What was I  expressing? 

I… am… feeling… sad… period.    Bleh. 

There wasn’t much artistic merit here.  I didn’t describe the sadness in any poetic manner,  like saying my sadness was like a black cloud hovering over Redondo Beach or compare my life to the crumbling facade of an ancient pyramid in the Egyptian desert.  I’m not that melodramatic.  Life goes on.  My sadness was more a pedestrian sadness… a blah sadness.  The type a sadness where a friend might call you on the phone and say, “Hey, let’s go to see that new movie where Jessica Alba walks around in a bikini,” and I might answer, “Eh.”

So, I wrote the sadness post.  It was done, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to publish it.  I noticed that a blogger friend was on Yahoo IM.  I contacted her.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “I wrote this post about being sad, but I haven’t published it yet.  Could you read it and tell me if you think it is something I should publish?”

“Sure,” she said.

I sent the post over and waited for her response.  After a few minutes of me nervously pulling the hairs out of my arm —

“It’s good.  You should publish it.”

“Isn’t it… about nothing?”

“Well, you’re sad.  That’s what it is about.”

The moment she said this, I suddenly felt very different… calmer.  I felt relieved, as if my stress had drifted off.  What had happened?

Someone had read my post about being sad.  Someone knew I was feeling sad on this Sunday in April.

Oddly, I didn’t have the need to publish it anymore.  She knew I was sad.  It was enough.  It wasn’t important to have readers from the four corners of the world reading my post.  I wasn’t trying to promote my blog.  I just wanted to to tell someone that I was feeling sad.  And now I did.  Mission accomplished.   I said thanks to the blogger, and that was it.  I deleted the post and wrote another post where I have sex with various women in my old bedroom in New York.  Did I think this new post was a bit stupid and perverse?  You bet.  But it made me laugh, and I wasn’t sad anymore. 

Bloggers always talk about how many “comments” we get, as if getting 300 strangers giving you feedback is the ultimate validation.   Sure, it is amazingly cool and satisfying.  Yesterday, I just wanted to connect… to say that I was feeling sad.   And one reader was all that I needed to make me feel better.

A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy

— starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.



Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”



Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”


Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”


Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”


to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”


Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.



Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Back to the Shtetl!

In the last issue of Los Angeles’ Jewish Journal, there was a full-page advertisement from the McCain campaign. The ad consisted of a letter written from a woman in New Jersey who said she was once a Democrat, but was now going to vote for McCain. She insisted that she wasn’t a right-wing nut. In fact, she specifically said she was liberal in social matters such as abortion and gay rights. No, her big issue was Israel. And some think that the Republicans are a better “friend” to Israel than the Democrats. I don’t know if I agree, or understand what this “friendship” really means, but there is this impression out there.

I’m not an Israeli. I don’t let one issue become the reason I vote for a candidate. But Israel is a big thing for most Jews. Is it surprising? Or wrong? Are we upset when the Irish care about Ireland? Or Chicago residents root for the Cubs? Passover just ended. The whole story of this ancient holiday, one that Jesus himself celebrated, is about Moses leading the chosen people into the Holy Land.

Do backers of Israel have too much of a say in American policy? Perhaps. Or is Israel in the best interest of America? The Arabs may have the oil, but when you get stuck at a seder, you’ll be glad you’re drinking the Israeli stuff rather than our own Manishevitz. And did you know that Natalie Portman was born in Israel? Enough said.

The Chosen People. I sometimes get the weirdest anti-Semitic emails about the phrase “chosen people,” as if Jews believe God gave them special freebies, like bigger penises on Jewish men. While this is true for some of us, I can’t vouch for every Jewish man. Maybe next week, I’ll write a post about “the chosen people” and have some of you goyim tell me what you think the phrase really means.

I’d like to also hear more of your feelings about our policies with Israel. Is America too biased towards Israel? Who do you think we should be biased to? Syria? Don’t be afraid to speak your mind. I already know which of you are anti-Semitic. Seriously, I’m open to different views. I have a few blogging friends who live in Europe who are very upset about the conditions of Palestinians in Gaza, and pretty much blame Israel. I understand the humanistic need to fight for those without a voice — the underdog. It is part of the liberal tradition. It is also why Republicans have made inroads with the Jewish community. Because many have forgotten that Israel is an underdog also.

I don’t think I met a Republican until I was twenty years old. A Republican in New York? A Jewish Republican? But politics make strange bedfellows. Soon, it was the religious right that was supporting Israel, while liberals like ex-President Jimmy Carter were sharing tea with Hamas leadership.

I consider myself fairly liberal. I care for the underdog. I just happen to see Israel as an underdog, despite its military power. Look on the map.

There’s a lot of guilt to go around in the Middle East. Israel can suck, too. Their policies have caused chaos in Gaza. But then again, I don’t live there. It is very hard to be sympathetic to those wanting to kill you.

I once read this very bizarre article (written by a French intellectual, of course) which theorized that Israel was bad for the Jewish people. This writer was proud of the older generation of Jews — the ones who thrived in Europe and added so much to European intellectual life — the Spinozas and Einsteins of the world. Now, Jews lost some of their moral high ground by having Israel. They became like everyone else. He seemed disappointed in these new Jews, because these Jews weren’t as alienated and miserable as they used to be. What should liberals do with Jews who aren’t victims — the prototypical victim?

I think the extreme right and the extreme left end up meeting in the same place concerning Jews and Israel: they don’t really feel comfortable with them being normal people. It’s as if they take “the chosen people” more seriously than Jews themselves. They need to be “chosen” for something, whether they want to or not.

How many other countries get the scrutiny that Israel gets? Or is as demonized by liberal Europeans, despite violence going on all over the world? Or is berated for land that was given them, and then won after the other side repeatedly attacked them? Or has given back most of the land and repeatedly made compromises? That actually respects the religion of their enemies?

Still, it would be nice to go back in time, to a more carefree era — back before half of the Jewish population was wiped out by the Nazis — back to the shtetls of Russia. Imagine if we could just move all the Jews back to Russia! I can give up blogging and return to my life as a grumpy milkman with three daughters, waiting to become a rich man. Wouldn’t that be a miracle of miracles?!

Of course, this dream could become a reality, as one blogger points out. In an interesting article in today’s BlogHer, Dana J. Tuszke writes “Quo Vadis, Israel?,” in which the blogger paves a way for peace in the Middle East by following H. Peter Nennhaus’s cool plan:

Nennhaus proposes that purchase of the land called the Kaliningrad Oblast from Russia, would encourage Russian immigrants to return to Russia by means of financial enticements, and the transfer of the Israelis to the Baltic, would prevent anyone from questioning the legitimacy of this new Israeli homeland.

What do you think? Could Israel relocate its entire nation? Could peace finally be achieved?

This is perfect for me, since I’ve already married a Russian and know how to drink vodka! Das Vadanya, Comrade Jews!

Why You All Suck Compared to My Mother

Email this morning:

Subject:  Call Me!

From:  Elaine Kramer

Call me when you get up.  Want to know how you feel.   Are you still coughing and sneezing?  Are you taking any medicine?  I worry about you.   My direct phone number is 1-212-xxx- xxxx or you can call 1-212-xxx-xxxx and get Audrey at the desk who will connect me with you, or you can call me on the cellphone at 1-718-xxx-xxxx, or later at home at 1-718-xxx-xxxx.

Your mother

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month:  Talking Guns with NSC

Life Goes On Around the Blogosphere

Life is all around you, all the time. My own head is spinning, trying to put together the pieces to my own puzzle. My desk is a mess. My work, my writing, and my relationship with Sophia pull me to the north, west, and south — and I want to go east. I want to reach out to you, but you live on your own rollercoaster. I appreciate that you share with me a little part of your life each day. It gives me insights into my own.

Some random posts that caught my eye, for no other reason that I know you lived it, which in itself, makes it special.

Caitlin married Billy!

A new baby at Turn of the Sue!

Sarah has not smoked for ONE WEEK! Yeah!

Karen Sugarpants is running for charity.

Blogography is in the middle of his yearly blowout blogiversary party.

Mocha Momma is proud of her daughter’s big Senior Project.

Elisabeth‘s daughter, Claire, is graduating from Pitt with a BA in English Writing (Oh, no!!!!)

Kyran lived it up in NYC.

Blackbird‘s son is in the top three finalists of the Cloverfield video competition.

Los Angelista announces the winners of her Earth Day Contest.

Leahpeah has moved to a new house.

Carly officially launches her new book, Sexography, tomorrow night.

Mamarosa is having a fight with her thyroid, but she is going to win because she has faith!

Danny’s work was stolen from his car! Boo!

Feel free to add your own link in the comments if there is something exciting going on in your life.

Note: It’s probably time to wrap up the Great Inteview Experiment. It had it’s three month run, much longer than I thought it would. Maybe I’ll mention it on the BlogHer site since I never really promoted it. Other than that, add your name if you are still interested. But it is time to move on to bigger and better things!

Are Obama Supporters Too Elitist?

Did you ever notice that the humor in the the site “Stuff White People Like” is not really about “white people,” but about upscale, educated white people? They are the ones interested in New Balance shoes and ipods. Of course, most of us don’t really care about the OTHER white people — the ones who live in trailer parks in Kentucky — they’re off our radar anyway, so it isn’t a big issue. Not working class minorities. Those we do find interesting. But working class white people.

Can we add “Supporting Obama” as “Stuff Upscale, Educated, White People Like?” (at least the ones I read all the time on the blogosphere)

While I usually don’t write much about politics, I have been fascinated by the growing class distinctions in the Democratic race. You would think that this year’s election would be manna from heaven for the Democratic party, as the candidates include a woman AND a man of color. Instead, upscale white people, meaning most of the media, academia, and Democratic blogosphere are crazy over Obama, leaving Clinton with the underbelly of the party. Ironically, this group is helping Clinton win the nomination.

Obama is a great orator, someone who inspires the intellectual with visions of hope (which means living in a country that isn’t run by George Bush), but the actual working class seems to be voting for Clinton. They gave her the victory in Pennsylvania. Why isn’t the working class inspired by Obama? Is it because Clinton gets down and dirty and speaks to the real-life issues that face these citizens rather than speaking in flowery tones about hope? Is it racism, where the Archie Bunkers of the world feel more comfortable with a woman than a man of color?

I think we should partly blame ourselves… and our own elitism, which is affecting the whole election. While the Democratic party was once the strong hold of the working and middle class, most of the upper middle class now look on them with disdain. Our issues are not their issues. Maybe we are embarrassed about our own humble backgrounds, wanting to maintain a certain sophisticated image as we Twitter away in our loft/office in San Francisco. Obama has been criticized as elitist, but I think he is only trying to appeal to his followers — us.

Here are a couple of Twitters I just read after Hillary’s victory speech in Pennsylvania:

Watching a Hillary Clinton “victory speech” is like watching puppies raping kitties.

Let me rephrase that, Hillary’s audience looks like the crowd that got turned away at the Jerry Springer taping.

“blah blah blah day one, blah blah blah gas prices, blah blah blah give me money”

I love watching the idiots behind Hillary… they are funny to look at.

I really want to understand how anyone can look at Hillary Clinton & think to themselves: “You know? I think she should be president!” WTF?!

Not only did I notice a hatred for Clinton, but also for her followers, as if they were stupid. They are described like the unwelcome family members from the deep South that you hide from your children. I even read a blogger calling Clinton the candidate of “old saggy women,” and this was written by a woman! Great, let’s add a little ageism to the mix!

Why do people who always complain about lack of equality in life, always turn around and act just as pig-headed? Maybe someone working hard to care of their family doesn’t have the time to go to seminars about global warming or Darfur, but it doesn’t mean that we both can’t be part of the Democratic party. That’s what politics is all about. If the Democrats really want to win, they need to get the working class under their wing. Without them, first Clinton will win, and then McCain will be President.

Too many people think supporting a candidate is akin to following some cool band. I don’t think it is a good idea for Obama supporters to be dismissive of the lower middle class, calling them ” gun-toting trailer trash.” This is not an effective way to win voters over to your side. Supporting a candidate isn’t feeling good about yourself. It is about winning elections.

If I were some hard-working blue-collar guy working in Pennsylvania, there would be no way I would vote for Obama after reading some of the things Obama supporters write about ME on Twitter. It’s like when Simon Cowell trashes some singer on American Idol, and the bulk of Americans vote the opposite way just to sting him. Why are we mocking those necessary to win an election? At some point, hipsters have to listen to at least one Randy Travis song if they want to win the election.

The Ticker-Tape Parade

Dear Meg, Allison, and Bill Jr.,

Wasn’t that an amazing day?  I can’t stop thinking about it.  There were millions of people lined up Fifth Avenue, cheering so loud that it was deafening, like a rock concert.  And then the ticker-tape fell from the sky, like multi-colored snowflakes, littering the city streets. 

And it was all for ME!

You were all so proud.  I saw in your eyes.  Me — Bill Addison, your husband, your father — the first man about to make a solo trip to Jupiter!

I remember that day so vividly.  Don’t you?  I can’t believe that it was thirty eight years ago. 

Anway, not much new here.  The trip to Jupiter is still in progress.  It gets lonely at times, but then again, it’s only another twenty-seven years before I reach Jupiter, and then — who knows what I’ll find?!  Woo-hoo, party!!

I know these emails don’t reach you, but know I’m thinking of you!  I hope you’re all enjoying life.  Is Gramps still around?  I’m always looking at the family photo — the one we took at the Ticker-Tape Parade.  Whenever I sit down with one of my NASA food packets, I imagine you guys here with me, chowing down. 

I’ll never forget that Parade.


Bill (Dad)

Movies Based On Comic Books

I’ve never done this before, but this post is really for just one person, my childhood friend, Tuck, who I know reads this blog.  I went to the movies today and the studios are already promoting their summer movies.  It seems as if every other movie now is based on some comic book adventure hero.   

Today I was inspired, Tuck.  I finally discovered the reason I moved to Los Angeles.  It is a spiritual reason.  It is my duty to write the screenplay to OUR favorite comic book!  Of course, there will have to be a few changes to make it work as a summer film.

Imagine this trailer at your local movie theater —


The camera zooms in on a typical American high school.  Everything seems normal, the same as it is every day.

V.O. — “A typical day in suburbia.  A typical day in school.”


We find ourselves in a chemistry class as Dr. Dolbell is showing a group of students an experiment in making dry ice.

V.O. — “But today is not a typical day.  Because today, this peaceful bastion of education will change forever….”

One of the students, a practical joker, turns on his bunson burner.

Dr. Dolbell:  “No!!!!”

There is a huge explosion.  The entire school is engulfed in flames.


A CNN reporter is standing in front of the fiery chaos.  Stretchers are being rushed out to waiting ambulances and emergency choppers.

CNN Reporter:  “Casualties are high.   The local hospital is filled.  The state has called for a state of emergency.  This is the worst event that has ever happened to this quiet little community.”

 A paramedic is quickly wheeling one of the injured. 

Paramedic:  “We need to get this one out now!  He’s serious.  I don’t know if he can make it.”

Although bloodied, we can see the young man on the stretcher, his red hair still neatly-coiffed.  On his shirt, is written his name, “Archie Andrews.”  In the background is the name of the school, “Riverdale High School.”

This used to be an illustration of the Archies, but now I am using this lame photo instead so I don’t get sued by Archie comics. 


A large group of surgeons are at work, rushing back from one victim to the next.  Five students are unconscious, side by side, each barely alive.

V.O. — “Archie Andrews, Reggie Mantle, Betty Cooper, Veronica Lodge, Jughead Jones.  We can rebuild them.  We can change them from typical high school students who are only interested in drinking sodas at the malt shop into a TEAM OF HIGHLY TRAINED KILLING MACHINES for a secret department of the United States Government.


V.O. — “Archie Andrews — is now THE FIREMAN!”

Archie, now as muscular as a boxer, extends his hand in the direction of a group of Russian renegade military officers.  Fire shoots from his hand and incinerates the bad guys.


V.O. — “Reggie Mantle is now DOCTOR PUNISH!”

Reggie stretches his body like rubber completely around the TKTS ticket both, lifts it from cement and tosses it at a meteor about to hit New York, knocking it away and saving the day.



Betty is making love with an Argentine drug dealer, when she sees him reaching for his knife.  She wraps her thighs around his head and cracks his neck.  He dies with a smile on his face.


V.O. –“Veronica Lodge is GOLDBITCH!”

Veronica is surrounded by three martial artists swinging nunchucks. 

Veronica:  “Well, hello boys.  I always wanted a threesome.”

She whips out two golden revolvers.

“Daddy always told me that everything is better in gold.”
She blows them all away.


V.O. –“Jughead Jones is DJ Crown!”

Jughead is leading a team of Marines in to find Bin Laden while doing some impromptu rapping for the entertainment of the others.  Jughead, looking through a nighttime telescope, catches a glimpse of Bin Laden trying to escape.

“Not this time, sucker!”

Jughead takes off his metallic crown and flings it like a frisbee, pinning Bin Ladin to the rock.


The five ex-high school students, now superheros, swagger down the street, towards the camera, each carrying their weaponry.

V.O.  — “For these five high school students, school is definitely out for summer.  It is out… forever.  Riverdale, Riverdale, rah, rah…

A bus blows up behind our heroes.  Flames and metal fly into the sky.  They keep on walking to Jughead’s new rap hit “Sugar, Sugar, Sweet Bitch, Sugar.”

Note:  This post is a parody and this blog is not affiliated or associated with Archie Comic Publications, Inc.

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