Riley Beach is an animator. He won the inaugural Metro Shorts. He is Spicybackpain.
I was also going to write something about how Riley is a wonderful young man and his skeletal structure suits his witty disposition but I’ll just let this train drive itself:
“Way back in the days of yesteryear, Riley was born in the bustling metropolis of Bon Accord, and had the great honor of growing up in a house behind the town’s grain elevators. Life was sweet, the cows were fat, and the hens shot eggs all over town as the people rejoiced and danced in the streets. The Mayor smiled upon the town, and everyone knew he would rightly rule for the next thousand years.
That was until the train stopped coming through town. The grain elevators came down, dust settled on the once proud society, and the grime hasn’t washed away since. The Beach Family moved shortly after, selling the family plot, and settling in St. Albert. They were proclaimed deserters by the remaining citizens, and the town soon after fell into anarchy.
Not understanding prepositions and adjectives, Riley was at a loss on how to act around cityfolk. Conversations were frustrating and new, and not understanding the feelings growing from deep down inside him, his social life mostly consisted of punching people in the mouth. He was destined to spend most of his teen years in detention, drawing cartoons and talking to himself in the photocopier room.
On one fateful day, Jesus tripped and fell over a series of clouds, and a batch of fairy dust spurted from his pockets and settling on Riley’s head, allowing him to somehow graduate high school. After a long and uninteresting series of events, his vast experience of mumbling and doodling in solitary detention magically transformed itself into a sustainable income as an animator and vocal artist. He can frequently be seen in his basement, fiddling with drawings and shouting at his cats, clad in his boxer briefs and constantly drunk and tired.”
There is much truth in these words. Too much.
If you would give yourself a nickname, what would it be?
I Owe You Cake. Anytime someone would try to get my attention, they would inadvertently owe me cake. I don’t have a lot of it around the house, so this could solve some problems.
If you could switch one body part with anyone else in the world living or dead, who and what would it be?
A genie’s arm so I can grant myself three more body parts.
In five words, describe your most uncomfortable dream.
Marlon Brando, get the butter.
What is your favourite word?
What does that word smell like?
A small jail cell, bread and water.
What is your spirit animal?
My cat, Clem. When I have to clean her feces and urine out of the litter box, it helps me clear the feces and urine out of my consciousness. Sometimes my spirit howls in the night, and needs to be shooed away into the basement. I feel great comfort in the fact that I can get a new spirit animal for around $50, and have the old one put to sleep for around the same amount.
If ghosts existed, would you want to meet one? If so, what would you ask it?
Yes, I would meet Ghost Dad and ask him why he can stand on the floor but somehow pass through doors.
If you could share a bottle of alcohol with anyone who has ever existed, who would it be and what would you drink?
A bottle of Everclear with Gordon Korman. When he regains consciousness, he would’ve replaced Bruno with Riley in the Bruno n’ Boots series, and I’d spend the rest of my life reading Go Jump In The Pool making squealing sound effects and not blinking.
What would you rather have as a pet: a dragon, a unicorn, or Ezra Levant?
I had to Google Ezra Levant, so I feel that I’ve cheated and shouldn’t be graded on this question.
Finally, if you could live your life over again with guaranteed success, what would you do?
I’d eat cake and fried chicken all day, and shit anywhere I felt like. I’d beat up homeless people and tell cops to SHOVE IT. I would find orphans and topple their cauldrons of gruel, and turn them upside down so all the stopwatches and pearls they’ve stolen would form a big pile on the ground that I’d dump into my hat as I skipped out of the room. I would shout racial slurs around all races and punch babies in the mouth. I’d trick old people into giving me all their insulin, then shout loudly and scarily enough to turn their Rascals into their coffins. I’d get really sweaty and hang out in playgrounds with pee/poo stains all over my sweatpants, and if parents objected I’d punch myself in the dicks.
Then I’d sit around my house rubbing my thighs together, awaiting my guaranteed success.