Those monsters.

Last Friday I watched in horror as a six-year-old boy drifted 6500 feet above the plains of Colorado in a silver plastic bag. A CNN aviation expert warned the kid might have been frozen stiff or unable to breathe due to the high altitudes.

Falcon, as they called him (that was his name), was in trouble.

Surely he’d pissed his pants.

At first I enjoyed what seemed like a true-life “Flight of the Navigator,” but then real fear sunk in. Witnesses reported that an object fell from the silver plastic bag while it was floating high in the air. That object must have been the intrepid Falcon, who was not in the silver plastic bag when it landed several miles from his home.

But it wasn’t Falcon who fell. He was hiding in a box in his family’s garage.

So what was the mysterious object? Could it have been the last few sane thoughts belonging to Falcon’s father, Richard Heene? Did they jump onto that silver plastic bag along with his self-respect and consideration for other human beings?

Or perhaps it was the maternal instincts once belonging to Mayumi Heene, the mother and video editor of the family. Did her husband’s long-term aspirations of launching their children into the stratosphere strip her of a definitive characteristic found in all … mammals?

“Hide in the box, Falcon. Cha-Ching!”

But Falcon couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. The poor kid didn’t know he was being exploited, and – in front of millions of viewers – he spilled the beans. And in those simple words …

“We did this for the show.”

… It all becomes so clear.

You see, the Heenes wanted to be on television. And who doesn’t? I’ve been on television and it’s fucking amazing. You get to DVR yourself and queue the video for every single person who enters your home.

“See how I look into the camera but you can’t really tell because I’m blurry?”

Still, the journey of a child star is along a dark and winding road. For every Neil Patrick Harris there are 1,000 Mario Lopez wreaking havoc and destroying everything they love. Seriously - let’s not forget the Corey Haims and Gary Colemans of the world before they become poster boys for something else.

And that’s where it gets twisted. Somewhere inside of their sad, lonely and diseased brains the Heenes thought they were doing a good thing for their family. A good thing for Falcon. They were wrong. No six year old with a household name has ever done well. In fact, the most successful one to date just died of a drug overdose. His name was Michael Jackson.

So I say let the ‘Balloon Boy’ drift out of the headlines. Let him be a normal kid away from the cameras. Let him have a shot at a productive life. And make sure his parents don’t interfere with the process. In fact, someone should revoke the Heene's ability to purchase or operate A/V equipment. For Falcon’s sake.

Fact: Ten years from now the Gosselin kids will be smoking meth with the stars of “Britney Spears is My Mom.” The pipe sharing will be featured on the “Gosselin/Federline Road Rules Challenge.”

Fact: The Heene family will get its own TV show. It might be after Poppa Heene serves a few years in jail or the kids spend time in various orphanages (also a show), but “The Heene Family Flying Low” will happen. Damn straight it will.

And every time I order popcorn at the Frolic Room and watch the glowing metal coils heat and expand the foil bag resting above the portable stove, I’ll remember the Friday I sat on the edge of my seat and watched that same shape drift above the plains of Colorado.

Those monsters.

With every kernel that pops: “Those Goddamn monsters.”

Friends,

We've just uploaded a sizzle reel for a fake fall show to Funny or Die in hopes of winning their HBO "Comedy Fetish" contest. The winner gets to make a video with Will Ferrell and Judd Apatow.

If you like "Good Cop/Bad Cop" - please pass it on to your buddies. The more views we get - the better chance we have of advancing in the contest. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you, but I'll do my best if we win. Perhaps life-sized murals of everyone who votes?



Thanks and let me know what you think of the video! I truly appreciate your help!

Here is the link: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/ed2d1ac07c/good-cop-bad-cop

Please pass it on. Will is my bio-dad and I'd love to meet him!

Forever,

Jason
JasonSereno.com

Your new shoes aren't
awesome. They are
reasonably priced
and fashionable.

Awesome is a tidal wave,
which crashes hard against
a city, and casually devours
every structure in its path.

Friends,

Below is one our latest shorts "Barry Hump - HR Superstar." It's about an HR Rep who helps to young lovers redefine their office romance.


And here are the outtakes. Even more outrageous than the original. Believe it.

Well friends,

We may have crossed the line a bit, but have been rewarded with a featured spot on the Will Ferrell and Judd Apatow site, FunnyorDie.com. The music video below is a celebration of the site and all who've ever had their faces on the front page.

I give you: MY FACE! (Front Page of Funny or Die)
Directed by Andy Kastler, Produced by Jason Sereno and Andy Kastler, Lyrics by Jason Sereno, Music by Matthew Quinley and Will Sanders


Do yourselves a favor and see the full widescreen version at FunnyorDie.com

Big Ups to Grundy County!

Jason

Some Saturdays you just want to go to the store.

But - through all the running around and craziness of the weekend - somehow the store is the one thing that gets neglected. You get home Saturday night, curl up next to a good book (or bottle of Seagrams) and think "Motherfucker."

"The store."

I try to be at the store as much as possible. My cart is always bouncing back and forth against the aisles. With a hobbled wheel and sticky handle, I push that stubborn bastard hard against the cold linoleum.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/5b0d6feb71/team-o...

Here is our latest submission to FunnyorDie.com. Follow the link and vote for Team of Assassins if you think it's funny. So far - it's at 90 percent! Pretty damn good.

I'm one of the few 26 year olds living in Los Angeles who doesn't want to be in front of the camera. I'm a writer. I write. Let the actors act. It's their motherfucking dream.

My motherfucking dream: conceiving the first child in outerspace.

But more and more I find myself being thrusted into the spotlight. At the end of last year I toured around the country performing interactive workshops for the world's largest beer company. It was fun. And sobering.

And now that pilot season has arrived, so have more opportunities to be in front of the camera. And therein lies my frustration: I'm a writer. Not an actor. Not a host. Not a high-five and "stay tuned" and "see you next week."

Then again ... if the price is right ... and the work is light ... onto another dream job. I only wish it were my dream...

Greetings desperate lovers,

I hope this blog finds you well.

A little birdie flew into my window this morning. Her eerie bird eyes watched me sleep well into the afternoon. When I awoke a message had been left on my bed. It was written in her violet droppings.

'Throw a party,' it read. 'Start planning this instant.'

And here we are.

I've thrown several social functions in my day; from keggers and cookouts to sock hops and S&M sessions, I've pretty much seen it all. Once I watched a dude eat a bong. No shit.

I find that one practice commonly overlooked by party planners is the process of DeThieving a home prior to an event.

DeThieving: (to DeThief) The act of hiding valuables and other objects that may become desirable during the night through the eyes of trashed partygoers. (e.g. 'Dude, hide your bong. Carl might eat it again.')

'But Jason,' you contest. 'I don't invite larcenists into my home. The cunning art of DeThieving is unnecessary within my social circles.'

Don't be so sure. Even the most heralded individuals are subject to bouts of inebriated theft. DeThieving allows you - the party planner - to take away the source of the urge before it manifests.

Below are some common items I remove during the DeThieving process.

1. Q-Tips. It seems like the only time partygoers remember to clean their ears is when they're in my goddamn bathroom. In the past as many as 12 wax-drenched cotton tips may have been left in my wastebasket at the end of a night. But no more.

2. Toys and Collectibles. I learned this the hard way in '02. I saw the bastard eyeing my Michael Jordan Starting Lineup Action Figure. He'd been staring at it since the moment he stepped in. I leave for a split second... and he and MJ are both gone. Forever.

3. Porn. This is more of a suggestion that a personal practice as I've never owned a porn or even seen one. Still, smart money says any video or magazine left out in the open has a 50/50 shot of leaving inside of a guest's jacket. Put that High Society where it belongs; between your box spring and mattress

4. Pets. Sure you know your dog is cute - that's why you bought the little guy. But beware. Your pet's cuteness is magnified tenfold through the eyes of the partygoer, and your chances of of pet thievery double every hour the party rages on. The same is true for babies.

5. Food. A good host always supplies marginal food for his or her guests. But sometimes the partyers finish the chips, dips and bite-sized snacks and still want more. My suggestions:
    A) Chain and bolt the refrigerator.
    B) Live next to a Taco Bell.
    C) Maintain a filthy fridge to discourage others from eating the food inside.

I hope that helps when you plan your next party. Please enjoy yourselves this holiday season.

Festively,

Jason
JasonSereno.com

And be sure to check out my favorite Holiday Musical Group, The Drunken Christmas Carolers. They long for friendship.

The flicking of bottle caps will no longer be tolerated. No more can I stand by while others twist off their bottle caps, raise them high above their heads and flick them toward distant corners of my apartment or unaware partygoers. Penalties will be enforced. Social and physical repercussions will be realized.

The flicking of bottle caps may seem some sort of meaningful skill or acquired communication tool within certain circles. Others may believe it is an amusing way to pass the time while drinking or a means to solidify a healthy bromance.

Flicking bottle caps is none of these things. The flicking of bottle caps is dangerous, infantile and ultimately disparaging to the basic fundamentals of the human race. These conclusions become clearer as we weigh the consequences of bottle cap-flicking.

1. The bottle cap's final resting place is one of two places; inside the couch or under the couch. Regular people throw away their bottle caps in the garbage. The bottle cap wants to go into the garbage with the rest of the bottle caps from those fabled regular people.

2. The bottle cap can chip objects. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through clothing, drywall, glass, wood, tribal masks, lampshades and plasma screens.

3. The bottle cap can hurt people. It is made of metal and has sharp edges, which tear through skin, hair, eyeballs, mouths and tongues. God forbid the bottle cap might land perpendicular against the ear of a houseguest and blow his or her eardrum out.

4. The bottle cap spreads germs. The transients and other nefarious types flicking these bottle caps certainly are not of the breed that washes their hands after using the bathroom. But still I sit, on my hands and knees, picking up their filthy caps.

Be a friend. Don't flick those fucking bottle caps.

But DO check out the new Sarah Palin sketch going live on Funny or Die this week!

The other day I sat on my bed and sorted a year's worth of nickels, dimes and pennies. I didn't have a reason to sort them, other than the twelve-month stretch since the last occasion, but thought maybe I'd discover an old wheat penny within the mounds of coins.

I did. Two of them.

But the world is seldom that magical. Most of the time things are moving too fast for us to appreciate and when the adverse becomes true, and each second stares us dead in the face, we only then realize how truly lucky we are during those average fleeting moments.

Once in a great while, if we discover time moving at a comfortable rate and cleverly combined with solidarity, we are allowed an instance of reflection. For as much as we question, blame and accuse God – at least he/she/it/everything/nothing gives us some time to ourselves now and again.

… so I counted out the loose change resting in the same Tootsie Roll Bank given to me as a youngster. To be honest, the Tootsie Roll Bank has seen better days. The weight of the coins over the years has bloated the cardboard cylinder, which also features several burns from its use as an ashtray during college.

But the Tootsie Roll Bank still serves its purpose; it holds my loose change. This time around the total was thirty-eight dollars. No shit.

The coins were placed in Ziploc bags and together, the coins and I, we were off to the bank.

I remember watching the bank tellers pouring my coins into their counting machines as a kid, anxious to see if my arithmetic was correct. Something about the process made my coin-hoarding all the more worthwhile.

But those wonderful machines don't make money for banks, and have since been removed. If you want to use one of those cool coin counters you have to go to a supermarket where the CoinStar System will charge a flat percentage against the money deposited.

Bullshit. I refuse to use it.

In the past, the bank employees took my word for the total deposited and dropped the money directly into the account. Those were the days: "Take coins to the bank and you can grab dollar bills equivalent to your deposit at your discretion."

COINS: MONEY.

"I'm sorry, sir," the teller explained. "To deposit this money it must be in the appropriate coin sleeves."

"Coin sleeves?" I asked.

"Yes." She pushed a handful of the paper rolls through the teller window.

I sighed. "Is there somewhere I can sit?"

She pointed me toward a large desk usually reserved for a loan specialist. And there I sat, counting thirty-eight dollars worth of coins and placing them inside individual sleeves.

I thought about shaving a coin off each roll, maybe to teach the bank a lesson. After all, if a bank can't count your money then what the fuck is it good for? Thankfully my satisfaction came in the form of inquisitive customers.

The fun started as the first customer, a middle-aged woman, approached me.

Keep in mind; I'm wearing mesh shorts and flip-flops while sitting next to a cardboard Tootsie Roll Bank and thirty-eight dollars in coins.
 
"Do I talk to you about a home loan?" she asked.

"You can if you want," I replied. "But you should probably wait until the market really hits rock-bottom. Check back in after Christmas."

Another man approached after eight or nine more rolls of coins were fitted snugly. "How can I protect my money?" he asked.

"Tootsie Roll containers are the most stable investment I can think of," I replied.

"Tootsie Rolls?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "A few coins a day. It can really add up."

"What about long-term investments?" he asked. "What about the economy?"

"I used to be a youngster," I replied. "And the Tootsie Roll is still here."

He nodded.

And the Tootsie Roll Container remains intact; bloated and boastfull and proud - as the boy who first held its responsibility.

This isn't a step-by-step guide to a successful one night stand. It's not exclusive to men either. This technique - this gift that I'm giving you - is a way to introduce yourself to the opposite sex in a way that is simply too good to turn down.

And it has worked every time. Every. Time.

What we have here is an "in" for you and your friends at a bar or a social function. What you do with your opportunity is ultimately up to you. Think about it. Take it in. Tell your friends about the gift...

... You'll need at least three people in your group. More is acceptable but only if the female counterparts you plan on approaching total a sum equal or greater than your own.

The best part about this technique is that only one person in your group needs to make the pitch to the women in question. This person should be a smooth talker - not a ladies man per say but able to communicate effectively and with a calm cadence in the presence of the opposite sex. We'll call him GUY A.

GUY A approaches the group of females (LADIES A, B and C). GUYS B and C sit 20 yards away and pay no attention.

GUY A arrives at the ladies' table and says, "Hello."

GUY A becomes instantly non-threatening: "My name is Jason. I just want you to know that I'm in no way hitting on you. I'm in love with a girl who gets off work in two hours and when she gets home I'll be there waiting for her."

… God damn that's good. Work it.

"The reason I'm here is because I have two buddies with me tonight. They're good guys with a lot going for them and I'd like them to meet some new people (GUY A points out GUYS B and C across the bar). If they knew I was talking to you right now they'd probably kick my ass."

"Here's what I'm suggesting: if you'd like to meet these friends of mine tell the bartender to put your next round on the Sereno tab and sit down with us for a while. If you don't think there is anything special about them - no big deal. Enjoy the rest of your drink and have a great night. But if you hit it off with one of them don't be afraid to hang out for a while."

"Either way - you all look great and I hope you have fun this evening."

… Maybe that is a little too thick at the end. Confidence is to cheesiness the same way hops is to malt; your confidence can balance out any mistakes your mouth makes - up to a certain point.

Here are a few variations to this method. which works every time:

+++ Some women think that a stranger talking to them at a bar is somehow loathsome and inappropriate. For those women I would say, "Stop going to the fucking bar." If GUY A's first "hello" gets a negative response from one of the ladies - his job during the next few moments is to win over that Debby Downer. Make her an evangelist and the rest is downhill.

+++Don't think a bachelorette party improves your chances either. Every bachelorette party has a cock blocker. Her life's mission is to be a starting Cock Goalie in the National Cockblocking League: "We came here together and we're leaving together too, Janet! Don't give that creep your number!"

Larger groups will have marginal characters such as this so find the fun-loving parties of women traveling in packs of threes, fours and fives.

+++Guy A doesn't have to be in a relationship but it gives him plausibility if he has nothing to lose from the initial conversation. GUY A can be made a target by one of the home-wrecking women in the group so - if single - he is on the inside track of deception.

But JasonSereno.com does not endorse deception of any kind.

Use the gift for good.

If you'd like to see the technique in action - start a tab and give me a call.

Every. Time.

So did anyone else notice the shot of George Jr. talking to the President of Russia during the Olympics Opening Ceremony? It wasn't hard to read their lips.

George W. asked, "tomorrow?"

The President of Russia nodded.

The announcer said they must have been talking about the drumming exhibition.  But it seems like they were talking about the invasion of Georgia the following morning.

CRAZY!
 
Great Coverage, NBC!

 

I had a small brush with death last week involving my speeding bicycle, a suddenly opened car door and a trailing SUV. It could have been bad. Real bad.

As you may have deduced, a commuter on the side of the street popped his door open while I was biking down the busy road. Scared shitless, I turned the handlebars to the left to avoid ramming the door face-first at 20 mph but, unbeknown to me, there was an SUV closely trailing behind my bike.

The next few moments seemed to go by in slow-motion; my right handlebar clipped the car door, which turned the wheel perpendicular to the upcoming intersection and nearly threw me overtop the bike. While I was struggling to stay on, the SUV's tires squealed behind me. A fall from the bike meant a fall from this mortal coil.

Thankfully the impact of the car door, which threw my right arm off the handlebar and turned the wheel sideways, caused me to make a B-line for the sidewalk. The bike snuck in between two other parked cars and, lying across the handlebars like a surfer paddling toward a wave, I somehow reached safety.

A woman on the sidewalk gawked.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fucking pissed," I replied. "Motherfucker son of a bitch asshole cocksucker motherfucker." (Or something similar, the adrenaline was really pumping.)

The door-opener was long gone, so I pedaled home. And then it was back to work. Today was the first time I thought about being potentially splattered across the pavement. It wouldn't be a real good look for me.

So no more street riding for Sereno. I'm sticking to the bike path on the beach.

I've been sitting in front of the computer a lot lately, so much that my balls have developed their own groove in this chair (slides to the left). That's better.

While sitting in front of a computer usually means I'm writing - actual writing versus pitching, reading, taking notes, going to kinkos, assembling scripts, going to meetings and thinking about writing - we are no doubt in agreement that staying glued to this damn screen for any extended length of time is unhealthy.

So yesterday I decided to venture out into the world. And what better world to invade on a hot summer day than the beach?



... The beach was closed unfortunately. Too much sewage had leaked in, according to the signs posted every 100 feet across the sand. You know what else is shitty?



DVD releases that ruin franchises. You can't fit the beauty of Ariel on a disc! Only the big screen can withstand her power.

Discouraged by the filthy water, the sun's sudden disappearance and the death of a beloved animated icon, I walked to the adjacent Marina del Rey and saw something that made me laugh-out-loud (LOL for anyone 20 years old or younger).



After laughing for a spell, I fell into deep thought. Below is a poem penned that afternoon. We'll call it Marina del Rey on a Dreary Monday.



Marina del Rey on a Dreary Monday

Several thick ships push through
the chilly Pacific waves,
between lesser crafts
of fiberglass and balsa wood.

Some return from the fickle sea,
unhappy with its choppiness and gray shade.
Others venture out to find a break in the clouds,
a golden jolt from the June gloom.

The marina rocks count each familiar sail.
They shout the horsepower of every motor.
Beneath the seagull shit and scraps of shell,
welcoming weary travelers home.