I Wrote My Own Gilmore Girls Revival Script, And This One Has Aliens

Screen Shot 2018-07-13 at 12.02.18 PMAs a huge Gilmore Girls fan, this was a labor of love (and silliness). I hope you all enjoy Gilmore Girls: “Aliens Attack Stars Hollow!”

And in case you need to know where I stand personally, Jess > Logan > Dean > Marty > Paul From The Actual Revival > Guy Who Rejected Rory In The Laundry Room at Yale.

Oh, and Luke > Max Medina > Alex The Coffee Enthusiast > Christopher > Gross Guy Who Hits On Lorelai in the Pilot Episode > Jason Styles.

In omnia paratus!

#TBT: Haiku Series

By Sam Jarvis

Out of dry shampoo.
Amazon Prime takes two days
But I need it now.

What to have for lunch?
Something healthy or yummy?
I guess I’ll eat carbs.

Gel manicure chipped
So I sit here picking them.
Now they look awful.

A boy is en route,
I guess I will shower now.
I don’t feel like it.

I want some rosé.
The fridge is barren and sad
Who will bring me some?

 

 

Read more from my strange brain here.

Haiku Series

By Sam Jarvis

Out of dry shampoo.
Amazon Prime takes two days
But I need it now.

What to have for lunch?
Something healthy or yummy?
I guess I’ll eat carbs.

Gel manicure chipped
So I sit here picking them.
Now they look awful.

A boy is en route,
I guess I will shower now.
I don’t feel like it.

I want some rosé.
The fridge is barren and sad
Who will bring me some?

 

Read more from my strange mind here.

Mating Calls

By Sam Jarvis

The blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew is a bird of great complexity. Feeding on mainly seeds, it lives much of its adult life high in the treetops resting on branches and pruning its feathers. But in the early stages of adulthood, the male phillabrews retain many of their feathers, aspiring to fluff them out should they meet a suitable mate for breeding.

It is not difficult for the blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew to find a female companion with whom they wish to procreate. Their challenge, is convincing the female that he is the best option for her. Approximately three or four days after its initial contact with a female, he will take out his cell phone and text her. The correspondence varies, but usually begins with “hey” and will have some form of “babe” peppered in. He will sit on his couch, smoke weed with his friends, and wait for a response while pretending he does not care. Research has found that he actually does care, but doesn’t want to come off as a pussy to his fellow bro birds.

In very rare instances this approach will work, eliciting a response from a female who is either looking for a serious boyfriend, or just wants to get laid and thinks Jason is “cute enough.” They will go out a few times, usually somewhere kind of inexpensive so that the male doesn’t have to spend his fortune in the process of fornication. The females will notice this, and although statistically they will still mate with the male phillabrews, they will be silently annoyed that he can’t get his shit together and spend a little more money on the wine.

Turns out cheap wine gets you just as buzzed as the good stuff, so the females will inevitably go home with them. High up in the branches, he will kiss her. It is worth noting that most male phillabrews are bad at kissing, a combination of inflated ego and the fact that their beaks make it difficult. His performance usually worsens as the night goes on, the male thinking he is doing a great job pleasing her while the female is kind of going, “Oh great, I’ve officially lost all sexual attraction to you.” Science however, suggests that we shouldn’t place too much blame on the male. Sure, he can’t find most of her female parts, but can you point out the female parts on a bird? You can’t. You are sitting here right now thinking oh my god, where are all of their parts! Where are the male parts, even?! So you see, it is more complicated than you think.

 

Want more weird shit? Try What Really Happens When Girls Go To The Bathroom In Groups.

Or maybe you’ve been asking yourself How Many Houseplants Is Too Many? 10,000?

OR you want to hear about My Date With Gary Busey.

“More links! More links!!” -You guys. Okay fine, here’s .

Sex Ed

Mrs. Perkins knew she was in trouble the second she set the plastic mold of the female reproductive system onto her desk. The class before her, 20 students and 20 of their parents, looked on with wonder as they sat in the room that was usually adorned with test tubes and Einstein quotes. Today, they were surrounded by graphic diagrams and step-by-step instructions on how to put on a condom.

Why Principal Thompson would schedule the first annual Bring Your Parent To School Day during their sex education rotation would be discussed for years to come. This was one of two large oversights in his calendar, having also picked the week the PE activity was swimming. Sally May’s mother in a bathing suit was nothing to be desired. Tanner Bergman’s father had refused to wear a swim cap, worried the rubber would rip out the last hairs that remained on his horseshoe head. Mrs. Perkins adjusted the plastic vagina as fifth graders and their namesakes looked on.

“Let’s start with the inside. Here are the ovaries, where eggs are produced.” Children giggled and adults shifted in their seats with discomfort. Finally, little Laura Mazur shot her hand in the air, her brunette hair held back by the cutest of headbands.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Perkins?” she asked.

“Yes, Laura?”

“Where exactly in the uterus does an egg attach itself?” Laura sat awaiting a response, pen and paper at the ready. Laura was incredibly smart. Yale bound, for sure.

“On the side, although it varies each time,” Mrs. Perkins responded. Laura wrote it down, word for word. It was then that Mrs. Perkins opened it up to the class. The discussion, not the vagina. “Does anyone else have questions so far?” Ed Lerman, father of the adorable nerd Charlie Lerman, after much deliberation, raised his hand.

“Yes?” Mrs. Perkins asked.

“Why is it that whenever I initiate intimacy with my wife, she turns a cold shoulder and pretends to be asleep?” Mrs. Perkins looked over to little Laura, sitting patiently in front of her notes.

“Well Mr. Lerman, perhaps if you were more motivated in your career…“ Mrs. Perkins started.

“Is that it?” Ed asked.

“Well,” she continued, “it could also be that during your children’s bath time you watch Sports Center and drink beer.” Ed pondered this as Scottie Nemoy’s father chimed in.

“I help with bath time every night. Or I did, before we separated.” As the word separated clung to the air, Sally May’s mother to perked to attention, pushing her boobs higher into her bra.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked. And like that, they were gone. Now little Laura, who had just finished rereading her transcripts, had another question.

“Mrs. Perkins, where did Mr. Nemoy take Sally May’s mother?” she asked.

“Well Laura, they went to have sexual intercourse in the women’s restroom outside of the band room.” Laura jotted all of this down, furrowing her brow.

“I thought two people only had sex when they were in love,” Laura responded, now confused but still writing.

“Yes, only when they are in love. Or drunk, bored, or lonely. Or if the other person is really cute.” Mrs. Perkins then looked over to Ed, who was staring inquisitively at the plastic vagina.

“Did you have another question, Mr. Lerman?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of half of these parts.” He squinted his eyes, still looking at the model.

“Well perhaps that, dear Ed, is why Nancy turns a cold shoulder and pretends to be asleep.”

Ed rubbed the top of his head as the bell rung and Mrs. Perkins handed worksheets to her students. He gathered his belongings, stopping Mrs. Perkins before leaving the classroom.

“Could I have one of those worksheets? I’d like to audit this class.”

You may also like Suicidal Math Teacher (The Downs and Downs of Mr. Greenwald)

Check out all my short stories here.

An Open Letter To The Wax Figure of Sofia Vergara

By Sam Jarvis

Dear Wax Figure of Sofia Vergara,

Thank you for taking the time to read this, even though you are made of wax so I assume you are illiterate. It’s still kind of you to maintain aggressive eye contact with this piece of paper as I hold it mere inches in front of your face. You haven’t blinked in several minutes, so I’m pretty sure you’re absorbing the information.

I write to you today, because I want to tell you that I understand everything you’re going through. I can’t imagine how agonizing it would be to know that while you look like the creepy fraternal twin of Sofia, you lack her accent and bubbly personality that is so adored by millions. It can’t be fun to have breasts that are sculpted to perfection, but are missing the bounce and natural movement that make them so iconic. And perhaps worst of all, there is no wax figure of Joe Manganiello. You spend every night alone in this room. Well you aren’t technically alone, you are surrounded by Wax Figure Rihanna and Wax Figure Heidi Klum, but I’ve never heard either of them speak a single word.

Sure, you look a lot like the highest paid actress in television. That’s nice. But those residual checks have no mention of you OR Madame Tussaud. You have to tell people you were made in London, which is wayyy less exotic than Colombia. They speak English in London, did you know that? So boring. I assume you would defend all of this by saying that none of it matters, that your one true happiness in this world is your 24-year-old son Manolo and as long as he’s good, you’re good. But he isn’t your son, he’s Sofia’s. You’re as barren as a chunk of plaster and wax because you ARE a chunk of plaster and wax.

I don’t mean to put you down. I respect everything you do, even though all you do is stand there. Your skin looks just as flawless as it did yesterday when I visited and brought you that nice wedge of brie. You keep a smile literally glued to your face day in and day out, nobody ever stopping to think hey, what if this inanimate object has a complex set of emotions? I’ve thought of these things, but only because I’m currently in an intimate relationship with an ottoman. So I get it, you know?

Anyway, I guess I should let you go. The line behind me is truly horrified that I refuse to put this letter down and walk to the next figure until I am absolutely positive that you’ve gotten to the end of it. I just want you to know that I support you, and also that things aren’t really working out with the ottoman and I wanted to see if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? You know what, let’s hold off on that drink, because at this very moment I’m getting arrested for licking your ear. Wow, everybody in this museum is like, super mad at me right now. I’ll write you from prison!!

 

You might also enjoy Sorry I Turned Your American Girl Doll Into A Voodoo Doll of Hailey Baldwin

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

What Really Happens When Girls Go To The Bathroom In Groups: A Piece of Investigative Journalism

By Sam Jarvis

It was a night like any other, all of us sitting around a big table in the middle of PF Changs. We laughed and ate beef and broccoli, flirting with the boys across from us. It had taken me months to infiltrate this group, hundreds of dollars worth of gel manicures to gain these girls’ trust and prove that I wasn’t a rat, I was their friend. I had fooled them.

Roxy chewed on a bite of orange chicken, reaching into her mouth to pull out a piece that was definitely too- something. She set it on her plate and I gagged in my mouth. It was then, under the dim lights of this critically acclaimed restaurant, that Lena made eye contact with us.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

As soon as she said it, the girls looked to each other in understanding, rising from their chairs in unison.

“I’ll come.”

“Me too.”

I felt the temperature on my face rise. This was the moment I had waited patiently for, and I wasn’t going to screw it up. Lena looked at me.

“Are you coming?”

I nodded, stood. I took my purse with me but I’m not even sure why. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, trying my best to ignore it so I could hear the end of Jacqueline’s story about switching eyebrow threading places.

Lena led the girls into the women’s bathroom and I immediately took mental notes of my surroundings. Three stalls, two sinks, automatic paper towel dispenser. This was information they’d need when I reported back to the agency. I’ll be honest, I was in a bit of a daze. Having always been a loner, I had never been asked to go to the bathroom with a group of girls before. I was scared, but elated.

Roxy went into a stall and without shutting it, started peeing. I adjusted my bra to make sure the wire I was wearing was still intact. Deep breaths, I thought to myself. I knew they were picking up my heartbeat in the audio.

Nothing happened for several minutes, as I pondered the possibility that I had gotten a bad lead. But suddenly, Lena and Jacqueline were talking in whispered code. As I leaned in, struggling to make out the words Cote d’Ivoire, and Tuesday is the drop off, I put it together. Holy shit, they’re arms dealers.

Roxy put on her reading glasses and scanned a detailed map she procured out of her bra. Lena asked if anybody had a tampon. I truly couldn’t believe what I was seeing: these women were selling machine guns to African soldiers.

Sudanese militants, secret weapon bases, they were discussing it all in great detail.
And as I watched tens of thousands of dollars pass from one girl’s moisturized hand to the other, I breathed for the first time in several minutes. My palms were sweating so profusely that I needed a paper towel to wipe them. I casually walked over to get one, but of course the machine couldn’t sense my hand motion beneath it.

All of the girls were looking at me. I glanced up nervously, wondering if this paper towel dispenser faux pas had demolished the cover I’d worked so hard to create. Lena saw the terror on my face.

“Something wrong?” She asked, putting a hand on her slender hip.

“Nope.” I said, as convincing as I could. I took Improv 101 a couple years ago and hoped to God it was shining through now.

It had been hours. They’d sketched out twelve drop routes, paid, in cash, for seventy five semiautomatic weapons, and made me try on four different shades of lipstick.

My focus waning, it was thankfully time to go. They rolled up the plans, stuffed them back in their undergarments, and took a last and final look at themselves in the mirror.

“I’m thinking about getting low lights,” Roxy said to both herself and no one. And although I couldn’t believe that millions of innocent people’s blood was on her hands, I did think she would look excellent with some darker pieces near her temple.

We walked back to the table, now completely cleared. All that remained was a small pile of fortune cookies. One of the guys looked up from his phone.

“What took you so long?”

Lena smirked, glancing at the girlfriends who flanked her sides. I was oddly proud to be one of them.

“Oh, you know. Girl stuff.”

 

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Weekly Horoscopes For Strong, Independent Women

By Sam Jarvis

Aquarius  
(January 20th-February 18th)
You’ve got a lot on your plate this week, Aquarius. Three Facebook friends are going to get engaged, and you will do squats in your living room while talking on the phone with your mom about how unhappy your cousin Megan must be now that she’s tied down. Remember to relax and remain optimistic about the future.

Pisces  
(February 19th-March 20th)
Ruler Neptune will decide a lot of your fate this week, Pisces. Your coworker is going to imply that you must be on your period since you didn’t reply to his email with, “the usual girlie exclamation points.” Your instinct will be to slice his throat from ear to ear, but try to hold back. You know he has a small penis. Let that be enough.

Aries  
(March 21st-April 19th)
With Mars as your ruler and fire as your element, things are going to be smooth sailing, Aries. You’ll get a bunch of Tinder matches, but you aren’t in a hurry to respond. This week will be better spent with your lady posse, drinking wine and discussing current events.

Taurus  
(April 20th-May 20th)
Watch out, Taurus. You’ll order a green juice and the guy will call you sweetie as he hands it to you. Tell him you are a badass bitch and the next time he demeans a complete stranger he should remember that he is talking to the owner of a company and not one of his sweaty ass food truck peers.

Gemini  
(May 21st-June 20th)
Your moon is over Venus this week, twin. Some guy’s gonna ask if you need help carrying that humongous Amazon Prime box full of stemless wine glasses to your third floor walk up. Don’t lose your cool. Say no thank you, carry that heavy ass box up three fucking flights of stairs, and put more money into your 2016 Roth IRA.

Cancer  
(June 21st-July 22nd)
With Mercury rising (?), it’s time for a change, Cancer. You’re starting to realize that maybe your boyfriend is a fucking loser. Has he washed his sheets in the last three months? You will hit your breaking point and dump him. Your bestie will respond to the news with a, “You go girl!” gif.

Leo  
(July 23rd-August 22nd)
You’ve got the travel bug this week, great lioness. You don’t need an excuse to book a trip or even a spa day, you’re a grown ass woman who earns her own paycheck. Spend the weekend in Palm Springs raging with older gay men. Go to a Korean spa and hang out with very naked Asian women while someone scrubs all your dead skin cells off. It’ll hurt, but in a good way. Treat yo self, girl!

Virgo  
(August 23rd-September 22nd)
Don’t be over analytical, Virgo. An old lover from your past will reenter your life, possibly stirring up forgotten feelings. Remember that you are doing so much better at life than they are. I mean for god’s sake, he sells supplements. Be polite, say hello, and keep it moving. It may feel better than you think.

Libra  
(September 23rd-October 22nd)
You’ll find balance in your apartment this week, Libra. Rearrange your space without any help from anyone. You don’t need a god damn man to move the couch. You like when your legs feel like noodles and you have two dead arms the next day. That means you did it all by yourself and now the chaise is on the south facing wall!

Scorpio   
(October 23rd-November 21st)
Biting your tongue will be your challenge this week, Scorpio. A guy you’re casually dating will bring up the fact that his ex used to cook him chicken pot pies on rainy days. Although you’ll immediately think to say, “Well you can cook your own damn meals with me,” try just giving a long, overdramatic eye roll instead. He’ll get the picture.

Sagittarius   
(November 22nd-December 21st)
With ruler Pluto, you’re going to find yourself feeling a little melancholy this week, Sag. You may be craving some male attention, and that’s okay. Flirting is not the same thing as needing someone to open this motherfucking jar of salsa that I’ve been trying to get open for the past three days. Like, is this what my life has come to? Bursting into tears alone in my kitchen eating shitty plain eggs with no chunky medium spice salsa? UGH like seriously, I knew I should’ve bought that little rubber square the last time I was at Bed Bath and Beyond but I was too focused on what I was going to use my 20% off coupon on. As if I have even used that stupid Vitamix a single time in the last three months. What a waste of money.

Capricorn  
(December 22nd-January 19th)
Don’t expect the worst this week, you sexy mountain goat. A new job offer or promotion may be extended to you, and it’s a good time to take it. It will come with a significant raise, so be sure to enjoy it. As Rihanna once said, “Bitch better have my money.” Also your DVR’s on the fritz so make sure it records The Bachelor this week. And delete all those episodes of Lockup: Raw. It gives you nightmares.

Read more of my short humor pieces here.