Paul Rudnick

In Afghanistan, most citizens use only a single name, but lately census takers have been urging everyone to invent surnames. One guy, named Khaliuddudin, picked Mayroj as his second name, because it means “the highest.” This has made me wonder: if all Americans were suddenly allowed to select new surnames, what would happen?

– There would be way too many Skywalkers and Solos and Vaders.

– Would anyone still choose Smith or Jones, aside from people checking into cheap motels? Sadly, I bet that plenty of people would go for easy, ordinary names out of sheer laziness, the way many of us use 1234 as our passwords.

– Would there be pockets of dizzying imagination, as in Mike Iwannaluvya or Kelli #Onedirectionbiggestfan?

– Would some folks get political, as in Jason Freedomlover or Helen Indievoter?

– If teenage boys were allowed to change their names, would we get more Timmy Blackops or Timmy Bigones?

– If small children get in on this, will there be an Alison Prettykitty and a Jimmy JimmyJimmy?

– Maybe people could be paid by corporations to become  Debbie Cokezero or Harold Dayquil.

Seeing Exodus: Gods and Kings made me even prouder to be Jewish, and not just because Moses is played by a star named Christian. This movie shatters every stereotype of Jews as being brainy or rich or overly cultured, because Moses is portrayed as a swarthy, two-fisted brawler, barreling through the desert on horseback and sometimes skewering two evil Egyptians with one thrust of his golden sword, like shish kebab. I loved watching Christian Bale gradually morph into Charlton Heston, thanks to an array of belted caftans, hair extensions and fake beards. Christian manages the colossal task of never embarassing himself, even when late in the film, he has to hunch over those stone tablets, diligently chiseling the ten commandments as if they were an overdue crafts project, and he really wanted that merit badge.

When it comes to biblical epics, I’ve always favored both The Ten Commandments and The Greatest Story Ever Told, because they feature celebrity cameos; the Demille movie also includes Anne Baxter as the Pharoah’s haughty wife, sneering, “Moses, Moses, Moses!” with, according to IMDB, “Yvonne De Carlo as Sephora.” Exodus makes do with John Turturro as a dying monarch who resembles my Aunt Sylvia at the pool in Boca, and the glorious Sigourney Weaver as someone called Tuya, a name which seems perfect for knock-knock jokes. Ben Kingsley also shows up as a wise Hebrew elder, and I was hoping that maybe Ian McKellan, as Gandalf, might be glimpsed near a pyramid, having lost his way. But overall, Exodus is a very solemn movie, although like the very best epics, just about the entire cast uses quasi-English accents, as if the Old Testament was produced by the BBC.

There’s been some controversy over the fact that Exodus stars only the most extremely Caucasian actors, slathered in makeup the color of redwood patio furniture. The Australian Joel Edgerton plays Ramses with a shaved head and a gallon of black Cleopatra-style eyeliner, and Joel’s gaudy outfits made me wonder if gold sequins had been one of the 12 plagues. There’s a scrawny burning bush, but God is played by a snippy English child actor, as if the Lord was Malfoy from the Harry Potter series. There’s something fun about the idea of God as a spoiled brat, because it explains everything from the Holocaust to that last Transformers movie.

The plagues are the highlights of Exodus, because Egypt gets visited by some pretty snazzy special effects, including locusts, frogs and gnats which give everyone onscreen a terrible rash, as if they’re having the worst summer camp experience ever. Because we’ve all seen so many CGI tidal waves and tsunamis, the parting of the Red Sea is no big deal, although I might have spotted a few charioteers surfing. And when it comes to the relationships between Moses and Ramses and their wives, the movie gets incredibly PC. Moses marries a gorgeous, unblemished babe whom he meets at an oasis, and they promise to love and respect each other forever, as if the ceremony was taking place on the beach in Easthampton. In ancient times,  most of the guys had many wives and concubines, but then so do the billionaires in Amagansett.

My only problem with Exodus is that I’m not sure why it was made, because the story of Moses is awfully familiar, especially from that animated Disney version with the tiny noses. Exodus tries really hard not to seem too Jewish, which made me long for Mel Brooks to show up with a brisket and a bottle of Manischewitz. Maybe director Ridley Scott just wanted to make a deeply goyische version, like Troy with matzoh. But at one point an exasperated slavemaster does begin a sentence by saying “Let me tell you about Hebrews”, which is just the way my Aunt Sylvia talks, after she’s had a few Mai Tais over canasta. Exodus ends with the Jews finally approaching the Promised Land, and I only wish that, as the music soared triumphantly, we’d seen superimposed images of Albert Einstein, Jerry Seinfeld and Barbra Steisand, if you ask me.

When conservative people laugh:

They often actually make a hahaha sound, as if they’re expelling something caught in their esopahagus.

They will glance around, in a jolly manner, indicating to their fellow audience members, “That was a good one!”

If they disagree with a punchline, or its political content, they get very stern and will tell their spouse, “Not funny.”

If they’re drunk, they’ll laugh at anything, and even merrily slap their thighs. This can be endearing or annoying.

The most uptight right-wingers won’t laugh at all, but instead will announce, “That’s funny”, as if they’re the presiding Judge at Komedy Kourt.

When liberal people laugh:

Nervous white liberals will often check in with other audience members, to see if it’s permissible to laugh at something which might be offensive. They will glance beseechingly at any minority member, for guidance.

They will laugh especially loudly at anything which ridicules Republicans, while vigorously nodding their heads in agreement, as if they’re voting.

Liberal women will sometimes cover their mouths when they laugh, geisha-style, if they’re laughing at something naughty. In a similar situation, a conservative woman won’t laugh at all, but she will stare at whoever’s laughing, to shame them.

If they’re drunk, liberal males will laugh uproariously and high-five or fist-bump each other. This can be endearing or sad.

When white liberals laugh at African-American comedians, they feel better about America.

Last night, as I was trying to get some work done, I was also dipping into the live broadcast of Peter Pan. As this was happening, I heard the sound of a helicopter, coming from very close by, as if it was circling overhead. Then I heard chanting, so I ran to my window, which overlooks the West Side Highway. The street had been blocked off with at least three civilian vehicles at odd angles, and then row after row of police cars and vans, in both directions. Hundreds, if not thousands of protestors, many carrying placards, were gathered; some people were standing in place, while others headed around the police cars to continue along the pedestrian lanes beside the river. A large group of uniformed police officers had formed a circle around the parked vehicles. The protest wasn’t violent, but it was outraged, with the crowd yelling “I CAN’T BREATHE! I CAN’T BREATHE!”, which were the last words of Eric Garner, the man whose arrest and death, along with that of Michael Brown in Ferguson, had sparked all this.

The situation reminded me, in an odd way, of 9/11, because on both days, I was torn between heading outside to watch the live event, and checking in with my computer and TV, which could supply more information. On 9/11, my partner John had called me and told me to go up to the roof, where I watched the second plane fly into the tower, and then I saw the towers collapse.

Meanwhile, because I’m a hopelessly shallow person, I kept checking in with Peter Pan, and with the continuing online commentary on the broadcast, which was every bit as vehement as the highway protest.

Two nights ago, right after the announcement that the arresting officer in the Garner case wouldn’t be indicted, protests took place all over town, and right across Fifth Avenue from the annual tree-lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center. That night, the online conflagration had centered on both the lack of an indictment, and Mariah Carey’s troubled vocal performance of “All I Want For Christmas” at the tree-lighting.

It’s a helluva town.

Dale Scott, the 55 year old Major League umpire in the photo above, has just come out in the media. He seems like a terrific guy, and in 2013 he married his partner, whom he’s been with for decades. I know nothing about baseball, but since I’m gay, that entitles me to have an opinion about everything; in fact, many of the gay men I know often behave like umpires, as they announce their judgements on restaurants, toggle coats, and the live broadcast of Peter Pan. So if Dale is busy, here are some of the calls I might make, during a World Series:

“The sun was in my eyes and I was trying to decide if I want to see that new Reese Witherspoon movie, so could you do whatever that was again?”

“You got to second base! And you didn’t even have to buy him dinner! Bada boom!”

“I know it’s an important position, but calling someone a shortstop sounds hurtful. Especially in bed.”

“If he’s the pitcher, which one is the sugar bowl? And if you’re the catcher, here’s my number. Bada bing!”

“Fine, you slid into home plate. But now your uniform is filthy.”

“Strike one! And yes, I’m talking about your mullet.”

“Before I decide about that foul ball, is everyone wearing sunscreen?”

“Batter up! I sound like Betty Crocker!”

“Strike two! Because if you keep chewing tobacco, no one will ever want to kiss you.Think about it, Jimmy Ray Earl Whoever You Are.”

“Does anyone remember Field of Dreams? Are all of you ghosts?”

“Wait a minute, this is nothing like Damn Yankees. Where’s the locker room number?”

“Strike three! Because I just don’t like your attitude, Mister I’m-Going-To-Keep-Everyone-Waiting-While-I-Put-On-My-Ugly-Plastic-Hat.”

“If you scratch your balls one more time, I’m going to have to hug you.”

I’m not going to sue or start a Twitter war, but anyone with half a brain will totally agree, that Jennifer Lawrence has based her performance in The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1, entirely on me. Over the years many people have mistaken me for Jennifer, but I always tell them, excuse me, but I was blonde and super-talented and had problems growing out my Mia Farrow pixie cut years before Jennifer. In the gracefully titled THG:M-P1, Jennifer has returned as the brave, heartsick Katniss Everdeen, who’s still deeply traumatized after being forced to slaughter other children with a bow and arrow in the earlier two movies, while wrangling a high-degree-of-difficulty side-braid, just the way I was traumatized by having to watch her do it.

In this latest installment, Katniss awakens in a secret underground bunker, where the rebel forces ask her to lead the districts in fighting the evil rulers of Panem. While Katniss is concerned about all of the bloodshed and injustice, her first reaction is pure Libby, because all she wants to know is “But where’s my cute boyfriend?” Katniss is still being pursued by Peeta and Gale, two yearning dreamboats, and Jennifer is forced to constantly demand, “Where’s Peeta?” as if she’s ordering bread in a Greek restaurant. Jennifer pretty much spends the entire movie sulking, which of course made me think: Libby, sophomore year at Massapequa High School, while I was still waiting for my new nose to heal.

THG:M-P1 is more than a little padded, in order to justify splitting the final book of The Hunger Games trilogy into two separate movies, so Jennifer is always curled up on her bunk or snacking in the cafeteria, until a military underling comes to fetch her; the movie could be subtitled either “What now?” or “Excuse me, I’m eating.” On several occasions Katniss also stumbles across various rubble-strewn battlefields, registering shock and allowing a single photogenic tear to cascade down her flawless cheek, and I was reminded of my own experience when, due to a stomach flu, I arrived at the Barneys Warehouse Sale at least 48 hours after all of the good stuff was gone, and I had to keep fingering the same polyblend salmon-colored Escada cardigan, in Extra-Small. Here’s Katniss, in something from one of Donna Karan’s Urban Zen collections:

Julianne Moore is introduced in THG:M-P1, as the stern leader of the Resistance, in a drab jumpsuit and serious silver hair, as if she’s about to teach a prison self-defense workshop on Orange Is The New Black.

Julianne attempts to comfort Jennifer, and I think she murmured, under her breath, “Remember, after you finish the last Hunger Games blockbuster, you can make another indie.” Thankfully, Elizabeth Banks is also on hand, as Effie Trinket, Panem’s foremost style consultant, who really hates the whole jumpsuit vibe, and compensates by wearing delightfully off-center military-issue turbans. Elizabeth is one of the few characters who’s allowed to have a sense of humor, which is a great blessing, because the Hunger Games movies remain faithful to the novels, which refuse to glorify even a righteous war. This is a noble sentiment, but the movies can get a little grim.

Jennifer not only has to cope with terrorist atrocities, a center part and Peeta’s disappearance, but she’s also saddled with a beaming, helpless kid sister named Prim, who only exists to do stupid things, so Katniss can rescue her. Trying to make us care about someone named Prim is already dicey, but it’s short for Primrose, which is so much worse. In THG:M-P 1,  Katniss, who’s always hunted, goes vegan, and I have the feeling that in the final movie she may either become a midwife or make her own sandals out of recycled inner tubes.

But still, as my perfect teenage daughter Jennifer reminded me, “You don’t understand anything, because The Hunger Games movies are about how grownups ruin everything, so teenagers have to fix the whole world, until they can finally be free to kiss each other.” And then we both said, “While wearing their favorite fitted leather jackets.”

Jennifer may have a point, but when Katniss was once again in the cafeteria, and then got summoned to address the rebels on TV, as she stood up, she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and all I could think was: she’s doing Libby, and I’m sure she’s about to check her reflection in the back of a spoon, to see if she’s got any kale caught in her gumline. Because even Joan of Arc wore Spanx under her armor, if you ask me.

In honor of Black Friday, here are my observations on the big box stores:

TARGET – Shockingly good. Extremely decent imitations of higher-end stuff, including lamps, furniture and containers, which can be used to hold smaller containers. The very young staff is helplessly helpful, and all of the recently hired guys have those scraggly, hopeful, almost-beards. The girls are of course, far better informed, but everyone is nice. The lighting and layout are welcoming, and the stores are spotless.

WALMART – Wondrous and sad. Harsh lighting and a floor plan which recalls a vast Soviet prison; Walmart is a retail gulag. The clothing is both neon-bright and grim; everything is stiff and flimsy enough to seem like paper doll clothes for plus-size adults. The staff is older, sometimes eccentric, and pretty great – Walmart hires retired and handicapped people as greeters, and they’re cheerful and distinctive. If you’ve ever visited the irresistibly terrifying website called People of Walmart, you’ll understand the overall vibe, which combines affordable stuff, lots of choices, and a Star Wars intergalactic hangout ambience. Diane Arbus would’ve lived at Walmart.

MARSHALL’S HOMEGOODS – Tchotchke paradise. There is absolutely nothing at Marshalls which anyone needs, and I wanted it all. Endless variations of things like holders for boxes of Kleenex, toothbrush caddies, and is-it-a-vase-or-is-it-a-wastepaper-baskets. Ground zero for seasonal decor: well before Thanksgiving, the place brimmed with both traditional angels and reindeer, and those strange, nonsectarian, modernist versions, for an Atheist Glitter feeling. Following an intervention, a shopaholic should be led through Marshalls and not allowed to touch or buy anything, even if their soul is crying out for that wicker napkin holder with the lucite handle.

PETSMART- This is why they hate us, and why they’re right. American pets have far more wardrobe options than the entire populations of most Third World countries. You can get hot pink princess leotards with tulle tutus and embroidered golden tiara emblems, for your cocker spaniel or salamander. My favorite item: the Thundershirt, which is designed to alleviate all of your dog’s anxiety issues, including, according to the packaging, thunder, social interactions, riding in cars and abandonment. This shirt is basically a puppy straitjacket, which can be tightened because, as the label explains, research has proven that animals respond well to compression, including “cattle when they’re being vaccinated” – no mention is made of cattle when they’re being slaughtered. The label even mentions autistic children – does Temple Grandin wear a Thundershirt? Because PetSmart allows owners to bring their animals, the place smells just the way you think it might smell.

COSTCO – The mothership. Everything is bigger at Costco: the savings, the Big Bucket of Brownie Bites, the pillow-sized sacks of potato chips, and the mammoth shopping carts, which I’ve seen holding up to four children. You need to establish boundaries at Costco – I will not allow myself anywhere near the canisters of cashews and chocolate-covered almonds, or the jumbo bags of Costco crack, which is trail mix. You’re rarely allowed to purchase a single item at Costco, where the jugs of detergent are only sold in pairs, yoked together. Last week, I saw huge cartons jammed with threateningly life-sized stuffed versions of Hello Kitty and Minnie Mouse, turned on their stomachs, with their polka dot skirts revealing their frilly white panties. Costco is America at its best: a great idea taken way too far.

Here’s one of my favorite things about this scene from Addams Family Values: no one has ever asked why the kids at a summer camp are performing a Thanksgiving Day pageant. I also love this scene because it includes so many of my very favorite actors, including Christine Baranski, Peter MacNicol, Christina Ricci, David Krumholtz, and, among the parents in the bleachers, Harriet Harris, Julie Halston and the movie’s director, Barry Sonnenfeld. I’m also proud that this movie somehow made the Addams family at least a little Jewish; when Joan Cusack’s black widow character marries Uncle Fester, Lurch can be heard playing a snippet of Sunrise, Sunset on the organ.

When the movie first opened, I was interviewed by a writer from the Jewish Daily Forward, who asked me if, in fact, I thought that the Addamses were Jewish, and I replied, “Do you want them to be?”

I also deeply enjoyed working with the brilliant Marc Shaiman on the song “Eat Me.” It was one thing to write the lyrics sitting in my apartment, but watching the song being performed by actual children remains both thrilling and unnerving.

The injustice in Ferguson, Missouri, where a jury has refused to indict police officer Darren Wilson in the death of Michael Brown, an unarmed teenager, seems unspeakable. Especially offensive is the attitude of both Wilson and Robert McCulloch, the St. Louis county prosecutor, who both come across as paranoid and self-pitying, as if they can’t understand why the world finds their conduct so reprehensible. Amid the outrage, the Brown family has remained impressively sane, issuing a statement saying that “We are profoundly disappointed that the killer of our child will not face the consequences of his actions. While we understand that many others share our pain, we ask that you channel your frustration in ways that will make a positive change. We need to work together to fix the system that allowed this to happen.” They call for a campaign requiring police officers nationwide to wear body cameras.

From what I’ve read, in cities where officers wear these cameras, incidents of police brutality drop remarkably; these cameras protect the officers as well, from false accusations. In response to tragedies like Ferguson, most of us throw up our hands, or discuss the legacy of ingrained racism. The Brown family has suggested a workable solution.

I’ve now watched the video footage of George Stephanopoulos interviewing Darren Wilson, after the verdict. I found it just about impossible to watch the interview objectively, because I kept looking for clues and missteps, as if I was a juror. I also thought the following:

Whatever anyone thinks of Darren Wilson and his actions, being interviewed on TV in the wake of such a hyper-publicized event is the most unnatural act imaginable. Wilson had clearly been coached, which is understandable. He stuck by his story without a second of doubt or, frighteningly, regret. When Stephanopolous asked him if, in retrospect, he would’ve done anything differently, he said no. He insisted that he’d simply been doing his job, according to his training.

Being a police officer is an impossibly difficult job, requiring enormous courage, and many officers are true heroes. But I’m not sure if being an effective officer means sacrificing your humanity; Wilson seemed determined to remain calm and straightforward, and to consider the death of another, unarmed human being, as just, in his own words, “something that happened.” Wilson doesn’t come across as a monster, but he does seem to have dangerously compartmentalized his actions, which of course, may be a necessary tactic when faced with extreme circumstances.

Watching Wilson, all I wanted to know was: is he lying? The answer, clearly, is that by this point, even Wilson probably doesn’t know. His memory of the events surrounding Michael Brown’s death is remarkably clear and concise, which seems unlikely, but again, he was adamant about not admitting to any confusion.

Wilson characterized Michael Brown as looking like a demon. Wilson and Brown are both 6’4″, but Wilson claimed that he felt like a 5-year-old being grabbed by Hulk Hogan. All of this may be not only racist, but it leads to the conclusion: why was this man allowed to become a police officer? Wilson also said that this was the first time, in the line of duty, when he’d ever fired his gun. When Stephanopoulos asked Wilson why he didn’t just remain in his police car, rather than pursuing Michael Brown, Wilson again claimed that he was doing his job. None of this timeline made much sense. Wilson’s account of his actions may in fact be true, but it also sounds like a very carefully rehearsed narrative.

Wilson has just gotten married, and says that he just wants “a normal life.” I couldn’t tell if he was in shock or denial or just being hopeful, but his goal, under the circumstances, came across as either crazy or callous. Millions of people consider Wilson to be a criminal and a murderer, and plenty of people regard him as a hero. From the interview, more of which will be broadcast tommorrow, it was hard to see Wilson as anything but a template, a willfully blank page, for all of our opinions.

During the day, this past Thursday, I began having stomach distress, possibly caused by something I’d eaten the night before, or rather, devoured. My stomach pains increased and then subsided, and I was eager to attend the opening night of Edward Albee’s A Delicate Balance on Broadway. So I go to the theater with my partner John, and the play is terrific, with a superb cast led by Glenn Close and John Lithgow, on an especially stunning, haute Connecticut set by Santo Loquasto, with gorgeous, witty costumes by the legendary Ann Roth.

Sometime during the third act, my stomach troubles returned and increased, probably exacerbated by sitting upright in a packed theater for an extended period. I know and love the play, so I begin calculating how much more time I have, before I can get home. During the curtain call, there’s a well-deserved standing ovation, but as I try to stand and join in, I can’t: I’m drenched in cold sweat, and I’m unable to move. The superb John Lithgow quiets the ecstatic crowd and delivers a moving tribute to Mike Nichols, whose death had been announced that day. Several of the cast members had worked with Nichols, and Glenn Close had won a Tony for his production of The Real Thing. Lithgow recalled how on any Nichols film, once an actor had shot his or her last scene, Nichols would have the cast and crew sing the Roy Rogers theme song, Happy Trails, as a warm goodbye. Lithgow then led the audience in singing Happy Trails, in honor of Nichols.

During this wonderfully appropriate singalong, I keeled over, and I hoped that people would assume that I was simply overcome by the play and the tribute. As the crowd left, I collapsed and vomited in the aisle. The ushers were concerned and attentive, and two ridiculously handsome young police officers arrived, and were incredibly helpful. Did I want an ambulance? As I tried to stand, I realized that an ambulance might be a good idea. John and the officers helped me out into the alley which leads to the stage door, where I managed to sit on a bench, and the combination of the cool evening air and having barfed began to revive me. The officers and I discussed their work, since they were assigned to the theater district, and they told me that Bradley Cooper and Hugh Jackman were delightful, to their mobs of fans and everyone else, and the officers also recalled the filming of the amazing movie Birdman on the next block. I began imagining a new series called Law&Order:Opening Night.

As I felt better, I was greeted by various friends leaving the backstage area, who were giddy and only a little confused by the fact that I was deathly pale, with a police escort. The ambulance arrived and much as I longed to be strapped to a gurney, for the sheer drama, I was feeling much better, so I sat up while the attentive and caring EMS workers took my blood pressure. John’s a doctor, which means he’s especially helpful in these situations, so he and the EMS folks traded possible causes for my illness. We got to the emergency room, which was shockingly quiet, and once more, the staff couldn’t have been more helpful. By this point I was feeling just fine, and the various tests revealed nothing wrong, and I was released, and wisely told to schedule a visit with my regular doctor.

So for both Edward Albee and myself, it was a highly dramatic evening. As I later told Scott Rudin, the play’s producer, he should feel free to use the blurb, “A Delicate Balance Made Me Sick and I Loved It!” The episode also confirmed something I’d already been sure of: if you have to get sick, do it in Manhattan and preferably on Broadway, because New Yorkers are the best.

When I first heard that there was a movie called The Imitation Game,  I assumed it would be a hard-hitting expose of those Connecticut outlet stores, which instead of providing genuine bargains on Ralph Lauren or Burberry, just sell less exciting goods manufactured directly for the outlets. And I also thought that Benedict Cumberbatch might be playing a Scotland Yard detective, working undercover as an innocent English tourist browsing for knockoff fragrances. But instead, The Imitation Game turned out to be a terrific, very entertaining, Hollywood-style biopic of Alan Turing, the British genius who pretty much invented the computer, shortened World War II by breaking the Nazis’ impenetrable network of codes, but who died tragically, after being relentlessly persecuted because he was gay.

The movie takes place at all of the English locales which Americans love best: a stately yet cruel boarding school, a manor house called Bletchley, and assorted jolly pubs. As Turing, Benedict is presented as a sort of Rainman figure, a savant who can solve impossible riddles but stammers and retreats when faced with any social situation. Benedict is heavenly, although I kept wondering if he might run into Eddie Redmayne as Stephen Hawking, and they could discuss the nature of time and their mutual Oscar buzz. A batch of desperately adorable English actors turn up, including Charles Dance, Mark Strong and Matthew Goode, all of whom spend most of their screen time shaking their heads ruefully at Benedict’s eccentric behavior, as if they’re about to burst into “How Do You Solve A Problem Like Alan Turing.”  Keira Knightley arrives as a brilliant mathematician, and by now I bet that when Keira is playing any sort of sprightly Englishwoman in a period film, she can supply her own wardrobe of jaunty fedoras and trim belted coats.

Even when the movie sometimes gets clunky, by repeating catchphrases and dumbing things down, Turing’s story is so fascinating that I didn’t care, and by the time Alan and his associates cracked Hitler’s code, I was in tears. On a certain level, the movie is a little like watching a very special episode of The Big Bang Theory, with all the characters in tweed jackets and Fair Isle sweater vests, but I’m always a sucker for egghead triumph.

I asked my cousin Andrew what he thought of the film; Andrew has just begun marketing an app which will insert the steamy gay sex scenes from How To Get Away With Murder into any episode of Duck Dynasty. Andrew was already familiar with Turing’s life, and his status as a gay hero who named his computer Christopher, after an early boyfriend. Andrew loved the movie, but he told me, “I just have one problem, because while Alan Turing was amazing, he was also hounded by the British police, until he committed suicide. So while I was watching the movie, I kept thinking about homophobes like Michele Bachmann and those Focus on the Family idiots and all of those nasty Cardinals and Ayatollahs. And while I know that progress takes time, and that I should be working to change these peoples’ hearts and minds, I don’t want to. I want to kill them.” Andrew makes an excellent point, which is why The Imitation Game is the real thing, if you ask me.

I have just read some terrible and shocking news: the worldwide demand for chocolate has begun to outstrip the cocoa crops, and a choco-famine may result! Fuck ebola, climate change and immigration reform, ALL INTERNATIONAL RESOURCES MUST BE FOCUSED ON INCREASING AND PROTECTING CHOCOLATE PRODUCTION!!!!!

Here are some things which YOU, as a concerned earthling, can do:

EAT MORE CHOCOLATE – this will let the cocoa plants know that you care. In fact, through crop-dusting and a scorched-earth campaign, we must destroy all vegetation which does not lead directly to the creation of Peanut M&M’s. LET THE COCOA FIELDS BREATHE.

REFUSE TO EAT ANYTHING WHICH ISN’T MADE OF CHOCOLATE. There can be exemptions for frosting, sprinkles and certain cookies, as long as all of these items come directly into contact with CHOCOLATE. If someone offers you, say, a sirloin steak or a crisp apple, hurl it to the ground and ask, “WHAT IS THIS SHIT? WHERE IS MY CHOCOLATE?”

WE MUST SURROUND ALL EMBASSIES WHILE WAVING SNICKERS BARS. WE MUST REFUSE TO ELECT ANY CANDIDATE WHO DOES NOT MAKE INCREASED CHOCOLATE PRODUCTION HIS OR HER #1 PRIORITY. WE MUST WEAR CAMPAIGN BUTTONS READING “WHERE’S THE CHOCOLATE?”

Tweet the Pope to stop pushing compassion and inclusion, and insist that he lead the world in PRAYING FOR CHOCOLATE. TELL HIM TO TALK TO GOD ABOUT THIS WHOLE CHOCOLATE ISSUE, BECAUSE GOD WILL UNDERSTAND. BECAUSE GOD MADE CHOCOLATE.

Make a weekly spiritual pilgrimage, with your family,  to Hershey, Pennsylvania and genuflect before the machine which manufactures the Kisses, especially the ones wrapped in gold foil with an almond inside. Accept the Kisses as your personal savior.

PANIC. IMAGINE A WORLD WITHOUT CHOCOLATE. WE MUST SEND MANNED SPACECRAFT TO OTHER PLANETS IN SEARCH OF A CHOCOLATE-FRIENDLY ENVIRONMENT. MAYBE ONE OF SATURN’S MOONS IS MADE OF CHOCOLATE – HOW WILL WE KNOW UNTIL WE TASTE IT?