BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Fucking annoying, right? That’s what Ian thought, when it tore him out of the warmth and passive comforts of sleep. Quite rude, if you ask me, which is why he felt completely justified in silencing it.




WAKE THE FUCK UP!
is what his brain should have said. But that’s not what he heard. Something between “sleep, just sleep” and “why does my hand hurt” mucked its way through his mind. If fully conscious, he would have weighed the benefits, the pros and cons, decided that his education, or at the least, five hours of government sponsored brain numbing, was more important than an extra three minutes of rest. He, however, was drifting in the wonderful state between sleep and consciousness, and therefore decided that all he wanted was to stay immobile, wrapped in his own arms, away from the cold, dead world that beats you down, and kicks you till you give in. He was getting ready for another bout of self-loathing and cynicism, when a bear ripped his head off and ate his entrails.
Nah, I’m just fucking with you. But seriously, his mom was pretty pissed that he wasn’t awake, reasonably so, considering that he was pretty fuckin late. He walked out the door and a hairy dude hugged him. He probably should have called the cops, but the dude just seemed so upset, he figured he needed a hug. People should be able to do that, just grab a guy and hug him. If a lot of people love each other, the world will be a better place to live, he thought.
Suddenly, Tommy Wiseau dashed out of the bushes. “You betray me, everybody betray me, you are tearing me apart! Now let’s eat huh!”
Ian had no idea what to say. If he had seen The Room, the situation could have been improved, but he hadn’t seen the room, so nothing made sense and he started thinking in run on sentences and shit hit the fan. The hairy dude charged at Tommy Wiseau, with a cry that, thinking back, was actually quite humerus. He then struck the confused director with his upper arm, which brought him to his knees. He tried to say something profound, but was hopped up on horse tranquilizers, and couldn’t really do much. He mumbled something about being betrayed and collapsed, a sobbing, convulsing mess. The hairy man then spontaneously grew hair out of his face, and handed it to Ian. That, my friends, is how babies are made.
The writer knew that at this point, he had pretty much exhausted all of his storytelling options, so he spontaneously grew a beard. He experimented with different deliveries; he attempted to write with grace and finesse. Fuckit, I’m done. And now for something completely different.