Category: Movies and Television

Jonny & Boris Meet J.J. Gittes

Finally confronted with a direct question of what Boris’ relationship actually was to him, Jonny shot a furtive glance at the pug and quietly answered “He’s my partner.” “Okay, so he’s your partner,” replied Gittes. “So why the…” “He’s my pet,” interrupted Jonny.

Gittes had finally had enough. He slapped Jonny across the face with enough force to rattle his teeth. “He’s my partner…” Gittes slapped him again. “He’s my pet…” Another slap. “My partner, my pet…”

Gittes delivered a barrage of slaps that reduced Jonny to hysterics. “I said I want the truth!”

“He’s my partner AND my pet!” screamed Jonny. “And when I’m lonely, sometimes I get him to lick peanut butter off my wang. Got it now? Or is it too tough for you?”

The Tragedy of My Asshole Teen Son

Hack saw the brilliant film Hamnet about how Shakespeare was inspired to write his masterpiece Hamlet by the death of his young son and was so moved that he wrote a Jonny & Boris “Time Machine” novel where they go back in time and save the kid. Unfortunately, Hack then got inspired by his relationship with his own abusive father so that the thing went completely off the rails from there.

Soup For You

By the time the trio finally made it to the front of the line at the soup place, Jonny felt like he’d made some headway with Elaine. But Boris’ perpetually ravenous belly was focused on only one thing: lunch. The middle eastern proprietor starred down the pug with an intimidating glare that would have overwhelmed anyone else, but Boris’ only master was his stomach. “We’ll have three large mulligatawnies and make it snappy!” The man was unmoved. “Who brought this animal in here? Dogs are not allowed on the premises. Whoever it belongs to, take your mangy creature and get out! No soup for…”

Before he could finish his catchphrase, Boris leapt over the sneeze guard and delivered a kung fu kick to the insolent server’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. While he laid there in a daze, Boris put him in the dreaded Ninja Death Grip so that if the pug increased the pressure of his paw even a fraction of an inch, the soupmaker would be meeting his maker that day.  “I said we’ll have three large mulligatawnies, and it will be your pleasure to give them to us on the house.”

Jonny threw his arms around Elaine protectively because he’d witnessed this scene enough to know that if the Soup Nazi was foolish enough to resist, there would be blood spouting at least six feet in all directions. The sultry beauty returned the grasp with the firmness of a woman whose blood was about to boil over with passion. She looked at Jonny with a red-hot intensity, and he replied with the smug grin of a man who knew that he was about to spend the afternoon between tangled sheets.

Happy birthday to Julia Louis-Dreyfus!

Jonny’s Island

Boris shook the salt from his jowls and watched the last bubbles of the S.S. Jonny Pals wink out like bad ideas at dawn, the sea around them littered with the bloated punctuation marks of a voyage gone wrong. Survival, he knew, was about priorities, and priorities were about people. He cleared his throat and laid it out like a crooked hand of cards. Pussy was a given—some things in this world were as fixed as gravity. The movie star with the Frankenstein jawline didn’t blink before calling dibs on the brilliant professor, citing destiny, chemistry, and the simple math of ego. Everyone nodded, because in a crisis people believe whoever sounds most confident, even if he’s wrong.

That left the odd scraps, and that’s when Linda cut in, braids swinging, red gingham bright enough to insult the sun. She chose her boyfriend Jonny…’s pal Eddie with the cool efficiency of someone picking the only lifeboat that hadn’t sprung a leak, and she didn’t bother sugarcoating the reasons. “No offense, Jonny, but you’re pretty damaged and I don’t think you’ll survive more than two weeks in the wild. Plus, you cheat on me in every other Hack Werker novel with whatever hot celebrity has a birthday that day, so it’s not like I owe you anything. “ Jonny felt the verdict land like a sap to the kidneys. Boris made it official with a wag of his paw and a tone that brooked no appeal: couplings set, pecking order established. Jonny, freshly demoted to island mule, got the worst of it—dragging the dead from the shallows while the living sorted their futures. The sea smelled like rust and regret, and as Jonny worked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that being unfuckable was the least of his problems.

Happy heavenly birthday to Bob Denver!