(300 seconds) We’re close on a boy’s face. He’s ecstatic, nearly screaming with joy. His hair whips and water splashes him and we are obviously in a snaking water slide. Washed out color goes dark as we enter a tunnel, then returns. Then another tunnel, then another. This time, when we reemerge into sunlight, the boy […]
(45 seconds) A room lit poorly by light through shades. A figure visible only by the sheen of his oily skin. He breathes and the telephone handset he holds rings to a connection somewhere far away. These are the only noises. “…hello?” someone says, finally. Someone tired, someone exhausted. “Did I waken thee?” our man […]
(210 seconds) We open on a packed auditorium. People slump in suits and shiny shoes; they are obviously near the end of a grueling day toward the end of a week-long conference. Their postures tell us that things started well and that good information is still being shared and they are learning techniques they will […]
(90 seconds) “These cows, sir,” a man on TV says. His voice is clear but there is no video. We’re concerned something is wrong with the cable again. “They’re, to put it like our sign says, they’re twisted. They’ve done vile things. But that’s what makes the leather so good. Here, feel this.” The screen […]
(15 seconds) A man and a woman in an intimate restaurant. He wears a tie, she wears a dress. A bottle of wine and a short candle shine between them. “I invented this new game,” the man says. “I call it ‘Mario Kart.’” “I think that’s already a thing.” The man pounds the table. “It’s […]
…are coming on Saturdays next month. If you don’t know what I’m talking about: this is a series of Saturday morning cartoons for adults. They may also be transcriptions of Saturday morning cartoons I remember from childhood. I just can’t recall which. You can read the old ones at the Uncanny Valley Magazine blog.
I just remembered this story, from These Are My Funnies #22 and #23 at Uncanny Valley‘s blog: A father, mother, and son sit around a modest dinner table. Dishes steam before them. The son, who is maybe eight, spears a pile of meat and raises it, dripping. His face is rapturous. “This pot roast is a […]