I'd Rather Live in Richard Gere's Butthole

I sift through craigslist grit, hoping a jewel-apartment will surface on my screen. Charming Garden Studio Apartment: $2,300. Light-Filled Flat Near Beach: $3,700. Beautiful Glassy Condo: $3,000. I don’t want to spend more than twelve-hundred.

For twelve-hundred, I can get: Cozy, Mossy Hut in Muir Woods: 

 Twelve-hundred, and spacious enough for two gerbils. Gerbil-feed not included. 

Inside The Room: The Toilet

Tommy Wiseau, you won me over. I—like hundreds of thousands of unsuspecting people—am hooked. I can’t get enough.

Saturday night Justin and I went to Piedmont Theater for a midnight showing of The Room, a terrible movie Wiseau wrote, directed, produced, and starred in. A terrible movie that’s rib-crackingly hilarious.

Take a look:

Justin and I are making a film. It’s called The Toilet. It’s a drama, and it takes place entirely on the toilet. We’re going to hire our friends—together, we have three—to play the roles. On the toilet. We’re going to invest $6,000,000 of our money—we’ll take out loans—to finance the film.

Or maybe we’ll flush the money down the toilet.