ThrillMingtoN Thrillmington, NC - Issue Three
Did you know that there are two previous issues available for you to read at thrillmington.com?
Did your head just explode? Put the pieces back together and then catch up on Wilmingtonâ€™s number one alternative zine, according to Thrillmington.
Try to use the bathroom at Soapbox. Just try.
We couldn’t remember what the question was, or, for that matter, what newspaper this was in, so we had our crack team of analysts come up with some possibilities:
• • • • • • • •
What’s your favorite movie snack? What do you most frequently smuggle through customs? Name your future children. What are your top two most arousing smells? What would be your last meal on death row? How do you keep such a radiant complexion? Name the key ingredients in your most successful DIY birth control. Who did you vote for in the race between McIntyre and Rouzer? Follow-up question: So...Rouzer?
Alternate uses for a baseball stadium that will never actually get built Dinosaur & Friends
• Michael Jordan’s minor league comeback • Dizzybat, aka “VomFest 2014,” featuring Duck & Dive fixtures (The Alcoholics) vs. Blue Post weekenders (The Frat Rejects) • Stray Cat Olympics • Hurricane Relief Center for Cockroaches • Wounded Confederates’ Ego Rehabilitation, Compassion, and Treatment Center • Wilmywood presents: Field of Amateur Artists’ Crushed Dreams (filming location) • Monster Truck Show (But seriously, guys…MONSTER TRUCK SHOW.) • Giant Baptism Pool: “Friday. Friday! FRIDAY! Everybody’s getting saved!” • Jail for people over the age of 20 using longboards • Synchronized Stargazing Championships • Methadone Clinic • Citywide Speed Dating • Processing center for NY/NJ immigrants • Scotty McCreery • A gigantic refrigerator for everyone’s leftover half-a-sandwich from Chop’s Deli that they’re “totally gonna eat for dinner”
IMDB is not okcupid Rena Murphy
it seems the only available guys in Wilmington are movie stars. Okay, not
movie stars, per se, but extras from TV shows, guys who’ve had their “big break” in an indie short, or production assistants. I can tell you, though, that once a man has an IMDB profile, he might as well be—in his mind—a movie star. Recently, I’ve had to instate a new rule: IMDB? You’re out. I admit I used to buy into it. I found it unendingly flattering when the production staff of One Tree Hill would stop to ogle me in all my normal person glory. These people see stars every day! And yet, in my officeappropriate pencil skirt and cardigan, I’m remarkable enough to get their attention. It was hard not to be seduced by the glow of Those Who Stand So Close to the Spotlight. My first kiss in Wilmington was with a guy who doubled for Chad Michael Murray because his height and build made him ideal for pre-shoot work. When we kissed, I felt just like someone who looked a little like Sophia Bush. I remember watching them measure from the camera to his head as he stood perfectly still. He was really good at his job. They even let him act in one of the episodes! Finally, his big break. Then I met a guy who once starred in a commercial for mattresses. He was also in a band, so I thought he might be different than the typical IMDB profile guy. He wasn’t as tan and glossy as they usually are, but he dressed well and washed regularly. As these things tend to go, his band got a cameo on a new TV show and he got a girlfriend. For the IMDB profile guy, scoring a beautiful fan girl seems to be almost as important as getting the next fifteen minutes of fame. A few weeks ago, I decided I might be being too hard on them. So, I went out for a glass of wine with a TV producer from California. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’d just been dumped by a non-IMDB profile guy, and maybe I was the one who needed affirmation, a moment to believe in the Wilmywood fairytale. He had an interesting backstory, though he didn’t tell me much, cutting off my polite questions with, “Why don’t we just skip all the chit-chat and get to the making out.” Perhaps these are the kinds of lines that work on fragile ingénues in LA, but in Wilmington a regular girl has to learn to put a jerk in his place. You know you’ve arrived when a producer of “The Bachelor” tells you “You’re lucky you’re attractive because you don’t have much of a personality.” He asked me out again for three weeks afterward.
Set up your own valet parking stand at Trader Joeâ€™s. Park every car at Whole Foods.
true wilmywood story: What happened that night Schmachel Schmichardson
my dog pinto had to pee. Pinto had to pee and I hadn’t had dinner because I was
on Weight Watchers and I’d used all my Points on beer. That’s what they don’t tell you about Weight Watchers: a beer is 5 points, and Jimmy John’s is 15. I’m bad at numbers. The year is 2010. The month is November and I am in the early gestation of my wildest days, though I don’t know it. I’ve done drugs in Europe and I’ve shoplifted chapstick (repeatedly) and I busted into a foreign building to lose my v-card, but I never got caught. My current job is eating my soul. In nine months, I will lose it. My current roster of sexual partners is at a number less than four; in six months, it will triple. My weight is 180; in three months, it will be 150. A lot of good and bad things will happen between this night and my future, the one I now inhabit. I will meet the next great love of my life. Pinto will erupt into a small horse of a dog, a giant loving bull. I will bicker with my landlady and get dog shit smeared on my windshield, I will drift away from my family and my friends, I will do some outstanding work and drive to a lake in New York and sit beneath the moon drinking wine. I will move home, 1200 miles away from the last two years of my life, with Pinto in the passenger seat and the dashboard pinging because he’s the size of a small child and activates the seatbelt light, so I’m swerving as I’m trying to buckle in my dog and whack the sideview mirror off my car on a traffic cone (this one, at least, happened stone sober). But right now, right now I don’t feel drunk. Right now I know I’m only beer-drunk, not whiskey-drunk, because man, have I been whiskey-drunk a few times, waking up to see a Big Mac carton on my nightstand, moaning, “Oh, no, I didn’t, did I?” and not knowing the answer, though the Special Sauce smear on my tit is proof enough. I drink alone, but I drink with my friends, too, and my current status is Comic Lush— let’s laugh about how much you drink—and Moody Drunk—you seem so sad, are you sad? In a year, I will be a Full Blown Alcoholic. But that’s a longer story about a job in a liquor store and the darkest days of my life in a state far, far from the ocean, and right now I’m thinking about driving to the ocean to smoke a cigarette on the beach but holy shit my dog has got to pee so bad. That’s what they don’t tell you about dogs; they become your children. Your ugly, big-toothed, unwieldy children. The time is somewhere around 2:24 a.m. In ten minutes, I will be arrested. So I didn’t stop all the way for a right on red. I sailed right through it onto 4th Street, glorious 4th Street with its sudden one-way inexplicableness and its big six-toed cat that lived by my house who I’d named Hemingway and even though the landlady said he was a “mean old puss” we got along great. Pinto and Hemingway, not so much. And I feel so guilty because I love that little dog, who is right now a mid-sized dog and not quite a canine sedan and all I have to do, all I have to do! All I have to do is use my fucking thumbs and open the door so he will go outside and piss. And I cannot even do that without fucking it up because I am me and that’s what I do, I fuck things up. But right now, one thing I am not going to fuck up is this drunk test. He makes me get out of the car because god knows what the hell I said when he pulled me over, and his name is Officer K------ S---- and we become fast friends as he makes me walk a straight line (no prob) and then balance on one foot for more than, oh, a nanosecond because fuck damn this is hard. I’m breathalyzed. I’ve been breathalyzed before but that time, I drove home.
Names of persons, not dogs, were changed to protect the innocent.
This time, I’m in trouble. I got caught. I’m arrested. Cuffed—front of me, not back. Passenger seat. I cry. I cry a lot. Pinto still has to pee. Maybe some of you reading this have been to the fair drunk tank of the Port City. If you have, recall with me. Come, let’s join hands. Ah, the hideous woman behind the glass window. The bustle of activity—drunks like you!—and behind the glass, a lot of officers doing nothing. Remember when they asked you which hand you wrote with and handcuffed the other one to the wall? Remember when you went to rest your free elbow on the steel ledge of a counter and they banged it away? Remember how sober you felt and how drunk you actually were? Remember all the fun you had? The officers needed someone sober to come sign me out and take my sad heiny home. Pinto, please remember, has still not been let out to pee. It is Saturday night, going on Sunday morning. Kim will take me to DUI brunch the next day and pay for my Fired Green Tomato Eggs Benedict. Let’s take a moment to worship downtown’s eateries: have you had Chops? Do you know the liquid delicious that is the Black-and-Razz at Front Street? Are you aware there are four—four!—places to get ice cream or frozen yogurt with your choice of toppings within one square mile? Do you know how many of your friends are going to be sober on a Saturday night? The answer is none. Truthfully, none. I exhaust my phone book, dialing from the police phone pushed beneath the gap in the glass because there is of course no cell phone service in the drunk tank and it’s worse than any horror movie or don’t-drink-and-drive-scare commercial. No one will pick up. Do you know who I almost called? Yes, him. And him. Both of them. But lo, there is light in this tragic murk. There will be an answer, not from someone sober—this is someone new, someone I’ve known all of eight weeks, still in that honeymoon phase of fall semester, a dewy-eyed young first year grad student who knows the number of a number of someone’s roommate who, amazingly, does not drink. At all. A grizzled third year will actually call the station back, recognizing the number, and he, along with the carless sober person and the first-year who organized the mission, will all arrive and wait in the parking lot, a posse of friendship. This DUI will give me a lot of things: a newfound appreciation of Wilmington’s Wave transit system. An amazing well of gratitude that it wasn’t a whiskey night and I didn’t kill anybody and my car was intact, not even impounded, and yes, yes, Pinto was finally let out to pee at 4 a.m. because the beast was so kind not to whizz all over the carpet, angel baby that he is. But what I want to impart to you, dear readers, is this: don’t fucking do it! It’s stupid! It’s almost—almost—as stupid as going to graduate school during a tanked economy and thinking your dreams will feed you! They won’t!
“But right now, one thing I am not going to fuck up is this drunk test.”
wilmywood location quiz In April 2001, Steve Buscemi was ______ repeatedly while accompanied by Vince Vaughn at ______ in downtown Wilmington. (a) (b) (c) (d)
talked to ; Fat Tony’s Pub snuggled ; Hilton Wilmington Riverside Hotel licked ; Kilwin’s Ice Cream Chocolates & Fudge knifed ; Firebelly Lounge
In October 2012, JJ Abrams’s personal assistant Carl took a dump at this local restaurant, asked the girl at the counter for more toilet paper, and ______. (a) (b) (c) (d) (e) (f )
then asked her out on a date when he was finished ordered another chili dog promptly afterwards didn’t actually purchase anything did it all again the following day both (a) and (b) both (c) and (d)
THIS PAGE OF THRILLMINGTON HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE SOUTHEASTERN NORTH CAROLINA AIRBORNE LAW ENFORCEMENT HELICOPTER! WHAT? I COULDN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUTHEASTERN NORTH CAROLINA AIRBORNE LAW ENFORCEMENT HELICOPTER!
This zine was created out of sheer boredom by Bro Radlee and Ferguson â€œFergieâ€? Blackfoot in a top secret lab in a submarine under the Cape Fear Bridge. Wilmington, NC. December 2012. Want to participate? Email firstname.lastname@example.org with theme ideas, story pitches, drawings, wild rants, and empty promises.
Do you wake up in the middle of the night, dripping in cold sweat, filled with an insatiable hatred for Thrillmington? Do you crave constant attention and validation? Are your letters to the editors at StarNews, Encore, Wilma!, and Wilmington Club Scene Quarterly Review returned unopened? Well, you’re in luck! Call 910-4-HATING and leave a voicemail that lets us know exactly what you think about us! And maybe we’ll just print up your grievances in the next issue of Thrillmington (that’s right, there’s gonna be more). Previous messages include: Hey, Thrillmington! I really liked your cocktail list in the last issue. I made a pitcher of Battleships for our office Christmas party. Please provide me with a mailing address and I’ll forward you the medical bills. – Unknown caller Call 910-4-HATING today, and escape into relative obscurity!
Scan this QR Code with your fancy-ass phone to listen to a voicemail from Jimmy Chadsworth
Thrillmington is pleased to bring you an exciting new feature: advertisments! Strangely, this month’s were all bought by one very angry guy. Also, while he was filling out the check, he kept muttering about his lousy girlfriend, but when we looked in his wallet, we saw a bunch of pictures of a cardboard Cindy Crawford standie from Fair Game with a frowny face drawn on it. But, hey, love is love. Who is Thrillmington to judge?
Let’s face it: you live in a far from perfect world. Your body is failing, your co-workers are indifferent, most of your family is dead, your friends are all alcoholics or junkies, you are not as young as you used to be, and you fucking live in Wilmington, NC.
was not what I thought it would be. I came to Wilmington because of its many nubile females, but I could only have sex with the cardboard ones I found in the dumpster behind Carmike Cinemas. You would not believe the papercuts. Great.
your friend is dead
Completely dead and gone. You will never see them again. Or hear them tell you a joke. Too bad you guys never hooked up at one of Eric’s soirees. Sorry, bro.
god hates you
But a beverage made from a fermented solution of certain grains provides temporary shelter from this fact. Invented by a Paleolithic fertility cult, this delicious and psychoactive substance is actually the excrement of billions of little microscopic organisms, whose dead corpses are weltering in their own shit as you imbibe this delicious piquant liquid. Your senses will be transformed. Life will seem like it never has been difficult. Passing strangers smile at you. Available in growlers at Front Street Brewery while supplies last. Lots
for a good time call hank 1 - 800 - BUG - MI