Foreword: If this message in a bottle is found by anyone, and you find it useful, then the author requests that you acknowledge it with a short "Rest in peaces" on a gravestone or something equally silly.
Deliver this in a bottle labeled 'Break Me PLEASE! (message in a bottle, yea)' Maybe draw a little fellow on an outside page looking desperate, visible from the outside.
The Tale of Queen La Fey
(I haven't any knowledge of ANYTHING about Miss La Fey, except her comedy bits. I'm sure she knows that comedy is not pretty, that she has herself mocked Sarah Palin and others and she's rich enough, secure enough, adult enough, successful enough, and dog gone it, can comedy take a little herself.)
Queen La Fey is seated on her comedy throne, contemplating whatever it is that Queens of Comedy in their infinite wisdom contemplate...
Douche-a-Bag> Queen La Fey, Your Majesty!
La Fey> Yes, Lord Douche-a-Bag. What is it?
Douche-a-Bag> He nears Castle Anthrax! We beg you to write something simply too fabulous to slay him with, Mistress.
La Fey> Shh! Of course he nears the Castle. Was it not my enchantments that summoned him?
La Fey> The time has come when all things are possible and all things meet their opposites.
Douche-a-bag> You are wise beyond your years, My Mistress.
La Fey> Shh! Go and summon my councilors. WAIT... I shall summon them myself. Just bring me a sandwich.
Douche-a-bag> Yes, Your Immenseness. <leaves obsequiously>
<La Fey turns to a mirror on a wall.>
<La Fey presses a point on the wall, then another. A menacing few notes on a wooden flute are heard. She waits a few seconds. She presses the points on the wall again a little more impatiently. The same menacing few notes are heard again. In a moment, Pai Mae is shown in the mirror. He is sitting on a comfy couch in his familiar meditation position.>
Pai Mae> What is thy bidding, My Mistress. (in Mandarin - captioned)
La Fey> Shh! I require your presence at the castle, apprentice.
<Pai Mae nods his head deeply>
Pai Mae> He nears, then? You remember, of course, the five pun exploding lung lethal joke trick? (subtitled)
La Fey> Of course. Was it not I who taught it to you?
Pai Mae> It has served me well, Lady, but took me nine moons to recover.
<Pai Mae is shown on the ground, propped up on an elbow, fish head in hand, laughing uncontrollably. Pauses for a moment to take a deep gasping breath.>
Pai Mae> You're killing me! (subtitled)
<Falls over, breathing labored. Another fit of laughing overcomes him again. Scene is back at the mirror.>
La Fey> Only nine? We may need it. Be at castle Anthrax within the fortnight.
<Pai Mae speaks a couple of sentences in Mandarin. (subtitled as "Huh?")
La Fey> Within a couple of weeks.
Pai Mae> Oh. What is your simply too fabulous plan, Lady?
La Fey> The key... is stopping the laughter at just the right time.
Pai Mae> You are witty beyond your years, Cruella.
<He begins laughing again, clutching his chest, eyes wide as his image fades in the mirror. La Fey addresses the mirror again.>
La Fey> Mirror mirror on the wall. Who is the funniest of them all.
<In a moment, Dr. Evil appears, seated at a table and stroking a naked cat, looking typically listless.
Evil> This is an unexpected honor, Lady. What is thy bidding?
La Fey> Is your fembot army prepared?
Evil> They look forward to seeing you again, Mistress.
La Fey> Shh! You have done well, Dr. Evil. Is that the Fritz Haber look you're going for?
Evil> You are perceptive beyond your years, Mistress.
La Fey> Shh! Summon your master, Garth Nader. I require his assistance.
<Evil's chair slides away from the mirror while slowly turning. Evil remains motionless, having not changed the angle of his stare. The chair rolls to a stop. Evil continues staring ahead.>
La Fey> Now... heir Doktur.
<Evil jumps up and runs off, cat in hand. Soon the image in the mirror is replaced by Austin Powers in a hot tub, a fembot blonde beauty on either side, a golden egg trophy nearby the hot tub. Half in a hedonistic swoon, lethal gas bubbles up from below.
La Fey> Austin Powers!
Powers> Coming to attention, nervous and a little embarrassed, Austin Powers glances down, back ahead, says, "I did it again!"
<The two ladies look shocked in response to Powers' evil deed. Both blow thick smoke to either side as though exhaling bong hits. Powers brings up a bong he's been holding underwater. Exhales smoke right at the view.>
La Fey> Powers!
Powers> Why won't you DIE, ex Mistress?!
La Fey> Shh! Why don't you grow UP, Austin... POWERS?! But never mind that, Powers. Summon your master.
<Powers begins to get out of the tub naked. Thinks better of it. Reaches forward to turn off the screen, crouching. In a moment, the image of a naked cat appears, patiently sitting just beyond the mirror. The cat meows inquiringly. The subtitle "Greetings, apprentice." is shown on the screen.>
La Fey> It is a pleasure to see you again, Meowstress.
Naked cat> Meow! Meeooow? <The words "Shh! And to you, Lady. What do you require?" are subtitled on the screen.>
La Fey> I humbly request that you please summon your meowster, Garth Nader.
Cat> Meow. <The words "I will summon him immediately, apprentice. Allow me a moment to find him. Farewell for now." are subtitled. The image fades back to a mirror.>
<In a moment an image of gaWayne of gaWayne's World fades into view, centered on gaWayne. He is laughing and playing his guitar.>
gaWayne> Party on gaGarth.
La Fey> Sir gaWayne! I need to see your master, Garth Nader.
<Seeing who is calling, gaWayne leaps up and turns the camera a little to center on Garth, who looks a little sheepish and uncertain under La Fey's gaze.>
Garth> Uh.. What is your... bidding, Your Immenseness?
La Fey> I require your presence here at Castle Anthrax.
Garth> Yes, uh.. Mistress!
<Garth is still sitting there looking uncertain.>
La Fey> Shh! Now, Lord Garth!
<Garth leaps up and runs off camera. The screen fades to mirror again. La Fey adjusts her hair, the image matching her motions exactly. La Fey turns away from her reflection, leaving her reflection still appearing there, looking somewhat abandoned for a moment. La Fey, looking like she has forgotten something, turns back around. The face in the mirror looks happy, relieved. La Fey kisses the mirror for a moment. She turns to go again. The face in the mirror looks satisfied. The face fades to a normal mirror. Apparently forgetting something again, La Fey turns back to the mirror for one last look. No reflection is evident. She tilts her head to either side, checking her appearance for a moment, then turns to go again. La Fey approaches a crystal ball on a table. Begins to caress the ball.>
La Fey> Ahnahl Nahthrahk. Uth vahs bethahd. Dochyel dienveh...
<A helmeted young man in golden armor fades into view. Mordred is riding a horse slowly through the forest in no great hurry. Mordred senses her, looks left, right, then right at La Fey.
Mordred> I come to claim what is mine, Mistress.
<La Fey showing mock admiration and respect>
La Fey> Shh! And we await your arrival, my King. All is prepared for your glorious return.
<expressionless, Mordred continues on ahead. The horse begins to gallop... The crystal ball fades back to clear glass. La Fey returns to her thone. With a sigh she says softly, deep in thought...
La Fey> All is prepared then...
<The words "To be continued..." appear for a moment before the scene fades to black.>
<The scene flashes to an elderly professor dressed in tweed who appears to be lecturing somewhere in the English countryside with hands clasped together saying, "The modern meowish word 'meowster' literally translates as 'servant', deriving from an earlier gotthy tongue dialect meaning 'bringer of food'...">
<While the professor is speaking, the scene transitions to video of a Siamese cat wearing a pharoah's headress and shown resting comfortably sphinx fashion upon a raised platform, apparently watching the efforts of loin-cloth adorned humans lugging massive stones while building the Sphinx viewed from angle somewhat behind the headdress. At first, it just seems a typical day in Egypt, then slowly it becomes apparent that the cats rule. The face and head of the Sphinx are those of a cat in pharoah's headdress. Cat statues are all about. Big ones, little ones.>
<...whose origins date back to the ancient katteesh tribes that originally discovered, explored, and conquered the Nile delta region of Egypt. A fragment of a mysterious lone catouche excavated from the southeastern region of Purrsia seems to indicate that the word has its origins in the prehistoric felicitas script meaning 'builder of cat statues' or 'stacker of stones'. However, modern english scholars insist that the word has 'master' connotations, a claim as yet unsupported by clear archaeological..."
<Suddenly, the professor is slain by a knight with sword on horseback from out of nowhere. The professor proceeds to lay there on the ground. The view lingers for a moment. A cricket sound is heard.>
Collected and Re-Edited Excerpts from Star Trek Original Episode - Amok Time
<the familiar whistle sound of someone wanting attention via intercom is heard>
<Spock seated at a computer screen watching the young T'Pring> (itself a bit odd in that computer screens weren't a common feature in American homes, Vulcan homes and starships in those days, though some probably anticipated the day when those would be. I call this one the Vulcaphilia episode.)
<the moment when a very nervous Spock is shown with his hand shaking>
<a moment when Spock is announcing that he MUST return to Vulcan>
<the moment when Spock says, "Having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting.">
<the following list of episodes scrolls by, barely slow enough to read, silent>
The Man Trap
Where No Man Has Gone Before
The Naked Time
The Enemy Within
What Are Little Girls Made Of?
Dagger of the Mind
The Corbomite Maneuver
The Menagerie, Part I
The Menagerie, Part II
The Conscience of the King
Balance of Terror
The Galileo Seven
The Squire of Gothos
Tomorrow Is Yesterday
The Return of the Archons
A Taste of Armageddon
This Side of Paradise
The Devil in the Dark
Errand of Mercy
The Alternative Factor
The City on the Edge of Forever
Who Mourns for Adonais?
The Doomsday Machine
Journey to Babel
The Deadly Years
Wolf in the Fold
The Trouble With Tribbles
The Gamesters of Triskelion
A Piece of the Action
The Immunity Syndrome
A Private Little War
Return to Tomorrow
Patterns of Force
By Any Other Name
The Omega Glory
The Ultimate Computer
Bread and Circuses
The Enterprise Incident
The Paradise Syndrome
And the Children Shall Lead
Is There in Truth No Beauty?
Spectre of the Gun
Day of the Dove
For the World Is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky - I particularly recommend this one. This is classic creative media gaming. Watch a symbolic weed dealer get the headache from... who knows, and then... get put to death. In the real world version, the 'oracle' is nowhere to be found. Yes, it's real. And the implants suggested in that episode? I don't believe in implants. I think that is disinformation intended to distract. I think that any given person's mind can be so manipulated at any given time, in terms of headache, the surveillance of mind, and the rest of the remote neurobiological mastery. That is the so-called deep state. A big part of it anyway. When the state effectively becomes god. So powerful, so deniable as existing at all, so politically unaccountable that it is for all practical purposes unstoppable. It may already be too late to stop it. No matter what the law may say. If that god says jump, you jump. Or you suffer. Or you die. And NPR and others, active participants in the Game, go right on discounting the term 'deep state' as conspiracy theory.
The Tholian Web
Wink of an Eye
Elaan of Troyius
Whom Gods Destroy
Let That Be Your Last Battlefield
The Mark of Gideon
That Which Survives
The Lights of Zetar
Requiem for Methuselah
The Way to Eden
The Cloud Minders
The Savage Curtain
All Our Yesterdays
Moondoggie and The Burning Bush
<Burning Bush speaks in a deep, authoritative voice. Moondoggie sounds like you'd expect.>
Moondoggie> So, I saw this burning bush. And I thought hey... free burning bush.
Bush> Hmmm... I noticed you were in the garden. Did you try the snozberries?
Moondoggie> Tasty. Satisfying. But not as delicious as the peaches, oh Lord.
Bush> Yes, the peaches are perhaps my greatest creation.
Moondoggie> But they gave me the... Well, they made me poop, oh Lord. Why must we poop, oh Lord?
Bush> Because you must nourish your bodies, Moondoggie.
Moondoggie> Why must we eat, oh Lord?
Bush> Because you get hungry. How could it be otherwise?
Moondoggie> And be material creatures in a material world, sentient beings, yet an innate part of its chemistry and biology, springing forth from those without being too ethereal about it all like you, oh Lord?
Bush> Sort of. And to give you a reason not to take yourselves too seriously and my Hebrew people lots of punch lines for their jokes.
Moondoggie> I see, oh Lord. You DO work in mysterious ways. Speaking of, could you do my hair like you did Moses? His hair was... perfect.
Bush> I only do righteous hair styles for the righteous, Moondoggie. But I'll... see what I can do.
Moondoggie> Thanks, oh Lord.
Bush> I have a great gift for you, Moondoggie. <The bush motions to two tablets against the mountainside.>
Moondoggie> <walks over to the tablets and squints> There... there must be ten thousand or so new commandments here.
Bush> No need to thank me. I call it the fine print.
Moondoggie> But I'll need a magnifying glass to read them all.
Bush> Do you want to lug ten tons of stone down the mountain?
Moondoggie> I see, oh Lord. But I'm not worthy of such a... precious gift. Can I dash them to the ground, oh Lord?
Bush> Fraid not.
Moondoggie> I see, oh Lord. But what's up the Muslims?
Bush> What's that, Moondoggie?
Moondoggie> Well, one neighbor dude sees the other neighbor dude lookin' at his hottie. So he says hey, you can't look at my hottie, and makes his hottie wear a bag. Pretty soon the other neighbor dude says hey, if I can't look at your hottie, then you can't look at my hottie either, so he puts his hottie in a bag. Then Muhammed comes along and says, hey, if I can't look at your hotties, then everybody's gonna put they hottie in a bag. Pretty soon all they hotties in bags and they so pissed off that they can't look at each other's hotties that they go around killin' anybody else who can look at each other's hotties, while dreamin' all the while of a martyr's heaven filled with nekked virgin hotties.
Bush> Allah works in even more mysterious ways than the Lord, thy God, Moondoggie. Harken unto me...
Bush> Listen up bro.
Moondoggie> Oh... Ok, oh Lord.
Bush> I have a mission for you, Moondoggie. You must set my hotties free from their baggage in Egypt.
Moondoggie> Good idea, oh Lord. But you and Allah don't seem to agree on everything. What's up with that?
Bush> Professional rivalry. But we agree that it is forbidden to peer into the holy of holies. And worship not the Golden Egg in the Chamber of Secrets.
Moondoggie> I agree, Oh Lord! But is the serpent then forbidden from that garden, oh Lord?
Bush> You must seek the answer within your heart, Moondoggie.
Moondoggie> I hate it when you do that, oh Lord.
Bush> Just... don't go wild. Wouldn't want to start with the monkey again. Monkey to man has been my greatest challenge.
Moondoggie> And the hotties your greatest creation, oh Lord?
Bush> You are beginning to learn, Moondoggie.
Moondoggie> You built them with the most wonderful.. <reaching out with both hands to grab an imaginary...>
Bush interrupting> Harken... uh.. Get a grip, bro. Just be sure your heart is worthy of your eyes. Or... something like that.
Moondoggie> Good idea, oh Lord!
Bush> Of COURSE it's a good idea!
<The professor continues to lay somewhere in the English countryside, still quite dead. A cricket sound is heard.
"...so summer and fall gave spring a miss, stopped in winter for a bit of skiing, and then went right on back into spring.".
<The body is shown through each season, at one point covered in snow, which a couple of people use as a mogul or small ski jump while they ski downhill with a "Weeeee!". At the arrival of spring, the professor in now rumpled and weathered tweed gets up, stretches a bit, then hurriedly walks out of view, checking his watch. He's in a bit of a hurry.>
Really Great Gaming Drugs
If I ever DID fall into the clutches of a little bearded bastard shrink, whose responsibility it evidently is to sweep up and under the rug the mess big brother has made of yet another viable American citizen's life secretly, from the safety of perfect anonymity and remoteness, without good cause, without warning and certainly without taking any responsibility doing so as part of BB's first perfected tyranny, maybe the little bearded bastard would prescribe one of the following remedies. I'm sure the little bearded bastard would pretend all the while that BB's vile game isn't real and is imagined, or the result of some mental disorder or delusion, either based on his own arrogant educated delusions or even in conspiracy with BB.
'Gambutrol' (from 'The Exorcism of Emily Rose') - A powerful fictional psychoactive drug, guaranteed to dull you down to a drooling, blithering idiot in an institution. Also great for preserving the Game as are possession signs.
'Warfarin' - Manufactured and sold in the US by Bristol-Myers Squibb. A real anticoagulant for stroke/heart attack prevention. Also a powerful sign showing just how bold the conservative wimp warriors are becoming within the safety of the giving end of BB's first perfected tyranny, which allows a conservative conspiring clique (the Inner Party) to rule others with impunity within our homes, throughout our lives and within our minds as well - i.e. 'The presecutor within'. Also a great way to get more and more people involved and believing the Game good and necessary and its captives surely deserving of the hell. Probably also useful as a sign for those older captives who fear a heart attack within the pressure cooker of the Game, which is great for pushing them/us closer to a heart attack, particularly new inductees who are still in shock. Yes, we are being warred upon.
'Quiet-Us' - A strong, but gentle fictional suicide medication great for killing rats quite peacefully from the film 'Children of Men'). I've demanded and even begged my 'prosecutor within' for some of that, even if it's only the Virtual Guantanamo kind. Unfortunatly, my hiding persecutors won't oblige. They effectively say, 'Do it yourself!'. Was it that long ago when the nazis were calling Jews rats too, while herding them into ghettos and extermination camps? Now, Jews are many of our pro-Game mockers in the media. How lovely.
'Watchman' Stents - Created by Boston Scientific. Too help keep the blood flowing through your blood vessels, while you're watching the gaming film by the same name (well, Watchmen), and while your heart is still trying to keep you alive, of course.
A Broken Neck - Another semi-fictional remedy from the TV series 'Killing Eve'. Great for getting rid of that poor fellow in colorful jammies, who is showing the one-eye/dead-eye/cyclops and scar signs and who is pathetically feeling a little sorry for himself with a bit of a whimper, while trying to recover from an accident in a hospital. A giant nail through the skull and a knife to the belly by a psychotic, fictional, murderous assassin also work quite well too! I recommend them.
Hemlock - An old, traditional remedy for a United States that has grown vile beyond belief. I tried growing some from seed to substitute for the Quiet-Us (not yet available in the US), but those won't grow for some reason, despite repeated attempts, although they grew just fine the first time I tried. Unfortunately, the first time I harvested and dried, I found that I hadn't grown a suffient quantity to guarantee a non-botched suicide. Damn.
'Battle-o-Words' vitamin supplements - Ok, that one I named, myself.
Steve and His Banjo - Together Again or A Totally Cruel Shoes Task Master
(again I know nothing at all about Steve except his comedy stylings and that he's had, unknown to him, a strong impact on my life. Aren't we ALL on a first name basis with Steve?)
The other day, I was at a bank. The Fifth Third National Bank, not to be confused with the Mid Late Early Evening Bank. But seriously, I bank with Fred's Bank of Steve, where they put your money here.. no wait.. here. No wait. OK, it's actually Walk-All-Ovah-Ya here in Atlanta.
Anyway, I was at a bank. This guy was at the counter doing his business, trying to deposit some bills that were in a back pocket and somehow went TWICE through the washing machine. The pants eventually came out looking better and the bills came out looking much worse. I leaned over and said, "Technically that makes you a money launderer AND a repeat offender."
Meanwhile, the REAL Steve has since moved on to bigger and better things - the banjo, rather than slummin' around in the swamp of comedy superstardom forever. Comedy is, after all, not pretty. As we all know, Steve is a comedy genius and brilliantly did just what they were expecting, which is what no one expects - starting with comedy superstardom, doing shows to packed football stadiums of jillions in the aftermath of a hit comedy album that went dangerously and contagiously viral, and in the decades that followed was slowly working his way back down to comedy hell. Like a hit rock band that's just been at it too long.
My own mother evidently had a cruel shoes streak that I as a boy didn't understand at the time and still don't understand, though she got much better with age. Anyway, she dragged me kicking and screaming (with joy) to a stadium after blindfolding me (well, actually it was like... night.. and I could see just fine) and in the dahkness lead me to a mysterious place where I was sure I was going to be lined up and shot for being only a so-so student at the time (actually it was UT stadium in Kuhnoxille) rather than chaining me to a post outside, as was her usual way. After waiting for what seemed like forever in a hell of anticipation of something wonderful... suddenly there was Steve, well... a tiny lit white speck at the other end of the stadium that we could barely make out in the distance (he was still wearing his all white suit then) and the stadium was just too damn big for a comedy show. After only a half hour or so, the tiny spec rushed off-stage mid-joke and stayed there. It was just so goddamn hot that night in Kuhnoxville. We were sweltering in our seats and we weren't under a bunch of hot spot lights too. Must have been blistering under those lights. We weren't so much disappointed in not seeing the full show as worried for Steve!
Anyway, by the time he'd reached rock bottom and was doing comedy D movies with John Candy and facing the future in a hell world where, even in cheap alley comedy dives, you can't even smoke these days, he'd decided that he'd had enough. But unlike me, Steve was smart and picked up the banjo before it was too late. Oh, the banjo was his mistress and strait banjo since their early days together. He'd get the punch lines and she would provide the brief musical interludes in between. It worked for both of them. She'd provide the music and he'd tickle her strings the way she liked. And then for many years, they went through a long and arduous comedy seperation, never quite able to forget each other altogether, but never quite able to get back to comedy gether. Please don't tell this to his banjo, as I'm not sure he ever told her, but he'd had a brief comedy affair with Burnadette who first comedy refused to be his comedy lady. Did you see the comedy moment where, try as he might, Burnadette simply would NOT kiss him? Made me burst out crying. Well... laughing. I'm still not sure which. And in the decades that followed as his prospects for other hot comedy chicks were growing comedy dimmer, he finally decided to take the hard way out and marry that old b-b-b-b b-b-b-b b-b-b-b... banjo. Anyway, she'd waited a long, long time for Steve to finally pop the weasel.
I want you know that whether he knows it or not, Steve was my own personal comedy Jedi Master. Well, I was on his padawan learner waiting list. So I said fuck that and jumped ahead in the line, arrived too early (at age 12 or so) and got my mind warped by his first album. Just... too young. Nahh, it was a hoot. Loved him on SNL too. Had me, my big sister and my mom rolling. I was even slipping lines like "living in a swamp and being three dimensional" in response to the questions of junior high school teachers like... "Are you through yet?", well more like, "What do you intend to do with your life, young man?", my response drawing "He's fucking insane" looks from both teachers AND students. Not pretty. In hindsight, it turned out he'd warped me for life. I blame Steve for ALL of my troubles and I hope to sue, if I can ever figure out what law he actually violated. Gotta have SOMEBODY to blame, don't I? Isn't that the formula? You get yourself in trouble, then blame someone older for warping you. Never heard a one of em say, "I did so cause I wanted to. Cause I was curious. Cause I liked it." Nope, not in modern America in the age of Me Too where you're fucking required to take down someone older and look yourself like some Golden Egg from the Chamber of Secrets.
And unlike Steve who apparently has an actual Muse, (Where can you BUY one of those?) in reality I only have an internal cruel muse. I didn't ask for it. It just slipped into my life and mind one day and won't leave. It heckles, ridicules and says 'Get off the stage, ya moron!' every chance it gets. It's like a tough crowd... from hell. Instead of getting depressed, I try to make the most of it, thinking... it can only get better. Not true really. It always gets worse in the end. But sounds good.
Oh, it'll occasionally thrown me a bone like, 'You're not alone.', but most of the time it's just sheer hell. Maybe someday, I'll even hit the big time in Fulsom Prison like Johnny Cash did. A guy can dream, can't he?
As far as hell goes, I've long hoped that I'd arrive there alone, escorted only by my cruel muse and my personal demons theme music band, sneak up to the gates, offer my credentials, make my entrance and be a big, big hit, axe through the head, saying, "Heeeere's Johnny!". But with things going the way they are, I might be followed close behind by my own damn comedy multitude, complaining, "Who are the dead and why are they following me? Stop following me. I don't LIKE it when a jillion damn dead people follow me."
<Professor in rumpled tweed opens the door and walks right in. The tweed is looking a bit shabby. Elder woman jumps up from a comfy couch dabbing a tear from her eye, looks up, shouts..>
Woman> Where have you BEEN!?
Woman> I thought you were DEAD."
Professor> I got bettah. Just feeling a bit under the weathah. You know, seasons and all. No need to cry, deah.
Woman> Whot? I missed the bridge club is all. You're three hours LATE!.
Professor> Whot? A year and three hours?
Woman> No silly. Just three hours. Did you fall asleep on the job again? And what is that?
Professor> Whot. The tweed?
Woman> No not the tweed, lad.
Professor> Whot. The lipstick?
Woman> Not not the lipstick. That scah theah.
Professor> Whot. This? Tis only a flesh wound. Tis but a scratch.
I Am Required To Tell You
I AM required to tell you that I AM a known joke thief, wanted in five states FOR joke theft and you ARE advised to keep your best jokes either TO yourself or in a secure location (motioning to left and right). And yes, this is a stolen joke too.
But if the truth be told, I don't so much STEAL jokes as take them, shmash em on the floor, pick up the small pathetic pieces and then mush em up till they look all WEIRD. And no, it's not a living, just... something I do - Kinda like Musak. Sure... It'll make your brief trip on the elevator a living hell. And by the time you FINALLY get to your floor, it'll leave you feeling... hollow inside... and outside TOO!
On Rogue One: The (fairly) new Star Wars installment
Oh what a refreshing departure from what (after the first two) had become the norm of seeming to target mainly younger viewers. No more walking teddy bears, no more silly little boy, no more outright camp as the one refeaturing an aging Carrie Fisher (God rest her lovely and cantankerous li'l soul and her mum's too in a coincidence that was surely made where the red fern grows) and the by now fat with career success Harrison Ford and an oh-so-lame new Sith lord and equally lame costume, though after Vader, what Sith lord could possibly have seemed anything but lame in comparison? Even Williams' brilliant musical scores were beginning to seem an all-to-familiar leading character, and I bet Williams was getting tired of being called back to churn out ever more.
I suspect that the millions of other silly li'l minds like mine, originally seeing our hearts and dreams captured and enslaved to the first and our minds impressed by its spectacular quality were hoping, like me, that the series would follow us as we ourselves aged, in terms of a mature approach to a galaxy far, far away. Like them, I as a boy had been dying of thirst in a desert of mostly low budgets of the sixties (including Green Slime, The Blob and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea). We were aching for the sort of brilliance, quality and talent that Lucas had originally smacked us all upside the head with. I, like them, had been awed by the collection of artistic genius that Lucas had somehow assembled (story, artistic design, costuming, sound design, modeling, special effects, editing, cinematography, etc). Bits of brilliance like Kubrick's wonderful (though slightly boring) 2001 and the stark, inscrutable, simplicity of its monolith, kept our young hearts beating and our jaws dropped open. I still rewatch to this day the meeting on the moon and the meeting in Jupiter orbit moments. Oh, and did you happen to notice that in addition to HAL, the monolith for a moment is a red eyed cyclops sign too? The original Star Trek, though really not that far beyond others in budget and formula at the time, gave us at least good stories, some refreshing and somewhat bold attitudes towards race relations and intercultural phenomena, and that uniquely special chemistry between Kirk, Spock and (to some degree) that bastard McCoy (and the rest) that held it all together (and of course the colors of their shirts), gave us hope. As an aside, I'll bet that many like me were just aching to see Spock deliver a good smack across the face to McCoy sometimes, McCoy being that throwback in some sense to earlier racist attitudes.
And then with the loud bang of that first glory shot, as that first star destroyer soared just overhead that never seemed to stop (and we didn't want it to stop), we finally KNEW we had a real treat before our eyes. Vader's first entry dropped our jaws again and by then we KNEW were in for the roller-coaster ride of our young lives at last. That Lucas was able to do it all for only 9 million dollars is amazing. Good thing he brought in his talented wife to get the editing on par with his vision. We're lucky it didn't cost Lucas his life, since we're told it did nearly cause him a heart attack or a stroke. The pressure that he, like any director, must have been under to marshall that small army of talent, do it on time and on budget and to make his vision real must have been enormous. Must be on par with what a general must feel in preparing for a big battle, enormous stakes in lives and resources included. No, not a Patton or a MacArthur (who were just made for war), but an Omar Bradley. But like any hurried march through the desert under fire, one is sometimes rewarded with an oasis of victory at the end. But where was I. Oh yes, Rogue One.
More mature. A strict adherence to the details of the first (no doubt thoroughly intended) in such a way as to make a smooth onramp back to the first that reminded us as it neared the end of the magic that had first captured our hearts, a musical score not so much as a leading character anymore, but thrust mercifully into the background. But above all... a Darth Vader that was just as badass as an evil Sith knight should be. Loved his moment invading (quite alone like any Sith knight should) the Princess' hammerhead vessel. Was impressed by the CGI zombie reanimation of Governor Tarkin, which in comparison to the Princess's CGI zombie reanimation, proves that a stiff old white guy is much easier to suspend our disbeliefs with than a young lovely like da Pwincess. And proves that CGI, though ominously nearing perfection, still has at least a little ways to go in terms of human faces which our Darwin-honed minds have had millions of years of head start factor in terms of nuance of observation. Might wanna go back and spend a few hundred more hours and a few hundred thousand bucks perfecting the Princess reanimation - after all, she's dear to our hearts. It's sort of a minor disappointment in an otherwise strong film that, being right at the end, almost makes ya go... huh? just before the credits roll, that even an amateur like me can see is probably a mistake in the construction of a film, where last impressions DO mean something. And who's that young missy (channeling the old storekeeper in Raising Arizona at the moment), Filicity Jones? How refreshing to see an English chick give us an American accent for a change. And maybe a little disappointing too for this Loyalist 300 some odd years out of fashion. Love her cute li'l off-set chipmonk smile. Meeyow! Goodness, I may just rent her other film 'The Theory of Everything', though I (sadly) don't expect much of Hawking's science in it (culminating with - The universe started as a black hole and there's no time for a God to work in a black hole? Well... maybe). Not quite as 'fierce' as Daisey Ridley nor as 'ferocious' as Keira Knightley (Lady Not Appearing In This Film, which I don't mean anything by except her personal ambiance). Tough but vulnerable like da Pwincess. I'm still trying to figure out Vader's upturned palm and curled fingers moment, trying to remember why it evokes what feels like something from a dream in me. You clearly intended it and were clearly reflecting (again) something that you yourself had seen earlier perhaps in the long Star Wars saga. And no, I don't accuse you, sir Director, of having any evil intent thereby - probably just the opposite as part of your director's role in the Game. After a little research and a night of sleep, I suspect it signs Cthulhu and I now remember seeing in the news a courtroom scene in which some evil man was seeking to intimidate a witness with his hand by signing the letter C, a moment that the camera captured. Maybe something like that's what you were hinting at. Though I've long been impressed by the emotional and visual power of the Darth Vader character (perfected by James Earl Jone's deep voice and a little further audio massage) like everyone else, and thus call it 'badass', mine has never been some twisted devotion to evil, just the usual awe of seeing something enormous passing by like the thrill of seeing some huge jet aircraft that you watch at the end of the runway as it passes overhead. If you ever get a chance to hear David Prowse's speaking Vader's lines on set, it's quite a hoot, as I expect the late Peter Mayhew's on set Wookie sounds were too. And of course that character was/is fun and part of the uniquely special adventure that is Star Wars. Also loved the robotic response to 3PO, a tall capable robot with an attitude (Ouch! That smarts. No need to apologize.) Also refreshing.
Yea, it had its mind control moments too like the campy yank of the breathing mask back into place with an (intentionally) overdrammatic musical flourish (that mirrors elephant posters put up by Gaming devil/angels here on Atlanta's streets). But though a moment of gaming, it didn't seem to get in the way too much. Does Forest Whitaker ever age? They had to use makeup to make the character seem older than he does in real life. Guess it's true. Black don't crack. That familiar expression perhaps being an appeal to black folk primarily not to smoke crack, from a galaxy not too long ago and not too far away either, which is probably a good thing.
Here's a little silver with a dark cloud lining...
You might ask, well what you expect?
I expect justice, sir, just like the rest,
The death that seeks you, not you seeking it.
You all in your ways, say "You are no man."
And she in her way that "You have no heart".
Are you so sure, say I, I serve all of those dark
Creepy places through the wee hours of night,
I been shot once, smile still stuck to my face.
Which if you keep smiling can find have some heart.
You see them right there taking trash from the street
Or getting up early to flip Mickey D's meat.
That's not courage. That's necessity talking.
It's true moral fiber that we all hint at.
Needling and needling about this and that.
A worshiper of divinity, that much is clear
That poor English man who confined to his chair
Though he dethroned God and he did it with care
He who by now is either soaring up there
Or melting quite slowly not at all in the air
A ragdoll himself, though with his mind and heart
Gave us pearls of his wisdom and that's just the start
He went on to show us where his mind had been
With words and with pictures his path through the dark
Anyway, well done, sir. Well done.
and as always
"Long live King George!"
- Garth Nader
Dis... Dat... and de Uddah... The THING
<when the Thing is conversing, its facial reactions and movements are comical in amongst all the body parts each doing their own thing, a pair of arms is shown, one is holding a nail file, and a finger on the other is getting filed, elsewhere someone's hand reaches over to caress someone's breast, a woman's hand from somewhere else reaches over and slaps the other hand, which pulls back. Another hand reaches over and caresses one of two lady's butt cheeks, another hand from somewhere else reaches over to slap it. A small arm and hand reaches over and covers the Thing's eyes. The Thing's 'own' hand gently moves the hand away from its face. The arm reaches back over and tweaks the Thing's nose. The Thing moves it back again. The small hand is now a small fist that punches the Thing in the side of the face with loud sound effect. At some point, the Thing having forgotten it's line and stuttering on the word, "if-if-if-if.." Another hand reaches over and holds a queue card in front of its face for a moment, then the Thing continues its dialog. Etc. The Thing itself, roughly in the region of the head has a scalp that looks more than a little Trumpian. At some point, the Thing carefully rearranges the hair slightly. At some point, the Thing, annoyed with it all, says "Alright, people, settle down". The body parts settle down a bit.>
<The scene is that moment when the heroine aboard the Thing's spaceship is facing the Thing for moment, just before running away again. The two regard each other for a moment.>
Heroine> <catching breath>. Can... can you speak, I mean, before you massacre me?
Thing> <pauses, puts hands/parts on hips> I suppose. We can emulate you with perfection. We will destroy you utterly. We can and will acquire your knowledge and your world, though there's little YOU could possibly offer US.
Heroine> True enough. And by the way, this is a very impressive starship. You're obviously an interstellar intelligence.
Heroine> We've been dreaming of an encounter... uh.. sorta like this for centuries.
Thing> I dare say, you have. I'm going to kill, skin, burn and eat you anyway, so... go on if you wish, humahn. And might I add that you look more delicious than the rest of those other clowns, my dear.
Heroine> Uh.. thanks. I think. Just wanna ask, why is it that screenwriters and directors of all such horror films that include a dangerous, vicious, hostile, but intelligent alien enemy never seem to take advantage of the inevitable moment when the humahn is confronted face to face with the alien just before the alien says in one way or another, "Awww, I'm gonna kill, skin, burn, or eat ya anyway", which is just before the alien usually gets it in the end and humahnity ironically triumphs, and maybe just squeeze in a little actual dialog and substance into that moment?
Thing> Cause that's not how it's done. It would break the tension just before the climax. Because it doesn't sell, amateur.
Heroine> Hmmm... I forsee <putting hand to forehead> American audiences in the process of being dumbed down. Maybe you're coppin' out a little, yourself? And maybe you underestimate us a little?
Thing> Scoff. You haven't even been to film school. <Consults watch> I have a few moments before lunch with the producer. Since we're gonna kill, skin, burn and eat you anyway, why not. Go on, amateur...
Heroine> Thanks for your time. And might I add that this remake is refreshingly devoid of gaming, even the smell of it. The first one with Kurt Russel kinda smelled, beginning with the computer and alcohol moment. But the director's other film 'They Live' thoroughly REEKED of it.
Thing> Thanks... I suppose. Ah yes... Carpenter. A good cerpenter for carpenter bees. He will have been delicious. We will have owned this little world and all the time in it.
Heroine> Yea, clearly you guyz can loiter forever, waiting, and working, absorbing more people, waiting, working. Anyway, I'm not suggesting that me and you could actually reach a compromise through negotiation allowing BOTH species to go their seperate ways in peace.
Thing> Yea and that would be totally BORING! My screenwriter has an Oscar to earn. A red carpet to walk down. Glam shots to pose for. Remember the Kubrik mistake? Boring just don't cut it.
Heroine> But that was a lovely film. Too bad the monoloith never had any lines. Just as well that it didn't, so exquisitely inscrutable was it. One of us would have to have gambled on having faith in the other, which would have taken a hell of a lot more film time and dialog than there's time for at this point.
Thing> Yes, the monolith. That's one civilization that we truly fear. They have no... weakness. No way in. But true. You're not quite the dummy or the evil diabolical villain we're trying to develop. Nor quite the fool who will swallow anything we dangle and then just barf it back up or get your mind tangled up in it that we often work. You've clearly been studying the problem and not quite the Captain Obvious we'd originally planned for. By the way, thanks for a most enjoyable game.
Heroine> Home self-schooled. Thanks. Anyway, considering how you guyz designed the conflict in the first place - i.e. the insidious nature of the alien itself. It's admittely really difficult to think of a way that we might have satisfied each other's need to survive. I mean just for a little something to make ya go hmmm... just before the formulaic killing skinning burning and eating. Food for thought.
Thing> Ahh... K Dick. Like a juicy steak covered in hot sauce. Lynch. A masterbaker's confection with a snazberry on top. Lowe. Like an apple pie right out of the oven. Smells delicious. DeFoe. Like a pan galactic gargleblaster, served with a lovely dressing. But you wouldn't have tasted any of those, would you? Of course not. The original premise restricted us somewhat more than usual, including the original alien design.
Heroine> Have you eaten the Vulcans yet.
Thing> Ugh.. Like a rice cake that gives you gas. Yes, them too. Their logic was their demise in the end. All alien invaders have their own ways of taking over your food court worlds.
Heroine> How bout Klatu and his posse.
Thing> A little difficult to digest. But filling. They're a lot like us.
Heroine> The Independence Day aliens?
Thing> Pushovers. Just turn off the master switch and voila! Almost too easy. Like the Live, Die, Repeat aliens. Took a little while, but we got em. I think. Ask me again tomorrow. Oops forgot. You don't have a tomorrow.
Heroine> I'm thinking something like, hey, that's an amazing ship you got there. How long youall been boppin about in space? And what's that cool shifty shapey thing there..?
Thing> Well... I'll tell ya.
<Thing sits down on a klauh-twah. Heroine pulls up a vish-snook>
<slow pull back and fade to black as they two continue talking shop animatedly>
#1 For surprise effect, do not ask the small crowd if they've ever seen the Twin Peaks moment when Audrey Horne ties a cherry stem with her tongue. Yes, of course, sex was written all over that TV moment and into her name - that's elementary to the Game. Or if it works for you, then mention that TV moment first with a "Got that beat". Also, prep by obtaining two identical cute tiny bows and untie one of them. Make sure that they're either of the same color or that you're a magician of the highest order. Show the untied one to the crowd as a simple ribbon (iron it flat and smooth if necessary), hide the tied one either under your tongue already or in your palm. Stuff one (or both) in your mouth for the crowd to see. Prep also by training yourself to transition the ribbon under your tongue (or swallowing it somehow, which I don't recommend, since you might require the Heimlich maneuver from one of the guests) and the bow over your tongue (with great wide-eyed comical performance art effort), then stick your tongue out with only the bow sitting on your tongue. You might... just get a laugh and some oos and ahs from the really dumb or drunken. Although the actress did the same trick as I've described, another cast member claimed to be able to do it for real. Also, prepare for a hasty plausible momentary retreat from the room, if you still have the ribbon hidden under your tongue or a deft slight of hand means of removing it back to your palm that won't be seen, say with a cough, or should the crowd decide to attack you for your impertinence in daring to stick your tongue out with a bow on it. If you have the chance and are so inclined, present the bow to the lady that you'd like to get to know better or to the madame that you're applying for a job with (or prepare to be rejected if either doesn't want to accept a bow that has spit all over it). Or, if you're that daring, bold and mischievous, you could play the bow and your tongue as a gift under her burning birthday bush or Christmas tree that you're anxious to present to her much like in the original Twin Peaks context, but you should expect a good slap (or worse) for doing so.
#2 Say your lady friend has been working out and is all buff and looking forward to showing it off at the party. Build a little metal contraption such that you can deftly create a nice metallic 'tink tink' sound purely from the palm of one hand using one finger. Prep further by convincing your lady friend to wear some shorts to the party to show off her nice toned thighs (or her lovely toned ass, bare or otherwise, depending on whether you've both been told as we sometimes are to 'Party Naked'). Prep by talking up her incredible dedication to getting in shape. Now show how buff she now is by flicking with a finger one your lady friend's thighs (or ass) while deftly making the 'tink tink' sound. It might require some magician's practice to do so convincingly. Also, arrange before hand with your lady friend not to slap you in front of the crowd for doing so, or take the risk of a slap in the face from a lady that you'd LIKE to be your lady friend. You might... just get a laugh and even help show off all your lady friend's effort in the gym (or while out jogging). So as to keep your lady friend, I'd recommend joining her in her effort. I made the mistake of not doing so, which among other mistakes on my part, resulted in a lost lady friend.
Is the Ted dead yet? Definitive PROOF that there IS a conspiracy at CNN
I'm sure Mr. King did NOT say the 'd' word, but it sounds enough like he did (to me anyway) to be funny. If someone can tell me what Mr. King actually said, then please volunteer that information, if you would. And what's the red apples thing, CNN, beyond being just a message to Trump (and all viewers hint hint)? I know it has to be done, and if we didn't have CNN, Trump probably would have already taken over not just his base, but... Doesn't journalism sometimes seem a lot like politics, particularly Cuomo's and Lemon's one-man political confrontations and essays? Do politics and journalism even have a sharp event horizon? The pull-ups are good, but a little more tan might do for you, Mr. Cuomo. Glad there are some heavyweights out there on behalf of the still sane with the wit and intelligence to tackle those bad guys, like the charming slitherin' lawyer lizard Giuliani. I know we need lawyers, but Giuliani makes defense lawyers look like Uruk-Hai and not elvish voices of wisdom and reason. That being said, isn't president Trump sounding ever more the competent president, at least when not preaching to his base? Quick, get him before he gets too good at the acting role of President!
Just watched the Comey interview on Anderson Cooper. I think the moment where Comey is describing in detail how Trump actually does his black magic is some of the most important TV I've ever watched. Maybe we need some 'mechanics of the mobster' classes taught on TV. Maybe Italy needs some of those too, its partriarchal traditions stemming all the way back to the old Roman empire for chrissakes. Thank you Mr. Cooper and Mr. Comey. Having said that, I've been wondering if Trump is a TI, one who is presumably furious about it all like I sometimes am and is smart enough to be strategically cool in his approach (ulp... somewhat like me, but not, since I wanna play the Vulcan, the ump), perhaps now with a cold fury in his heart that he will stop at nothing to tear down what he can and force change and reset the clock back to the old days with help from Putin who might actually be a TI too, as fantastical as it may sound. Much depends on who or what is actually behind the whole enterprise of the Game. I could be wrong, but that's what my intuition, my spider sense is telling me. So, though I'm a tad ambivalent and still not a Trump fan by any means nor a pathological liar like he is, I'm a little divided. Interesting times. I'm still of the mind to toss the emperor over the edge rather than destroy the young Jedi at this point. I don't see myself changing that mindset. Considering the enormity of Trump's base and its staunchness, perhaps they're concrete because many of them have been forced by that other black magic into silence, yet burn to be free again like I do. Well, some of them maybe, though I'm sure most are just ruled by the issues that have been already openly discussed out there.
And maybe, just maybe, the Inner Party strategically chose issues like anal sex among other sexual nonconformities that are both unspeakable in polite society AND liked (at least at some point or moment in our pasts) by more people than would ever admit it, such that the Inner Party guaranteed themselves a route to absolute power over a huge number of people ripe for secretive exploitation and control. The talk of prostitutes pissing on each other in Russia would seem to second my intuition at least. Yea, I tried it a couple of times alone in the shower. Not very appealing. I don't recommend it. And the Inner Party were watching every fucking moment.
I'm sure many, many people out there have some nearly forgotten or wanna have forgotten child abuse moment, want mama or other sexual indiscretion, even if only in a passing thought and thus a memory and many other sexual indiscretions that I'd just assume not name here, particularly stemming from one's own puberty and adolescence, when one is reaching sexual but not yet psychological and emotional maturity that the Inner Party and their Game is excellent at secretly digging up out of the mind and memory and using to blackmail, control, shut up and force into service a whole lotta people out there, and even twist them into being righteous actors in the Game rather than be exposed, all of which their insidious Game is ideal at exploiting. And many of those players out there in the media are in fact mocking themselves (initially at least) according to the demands of the Game and the hidden super force that it has unleashed. Or, once again, it's God at work in the world and we are, if not the damned, then at least the marked, as it were. 'Marked' being one of the Game's trigger words that you'll find also in the film 'The Fugitive' among other places, perhaps including the Bible. In its Gaming context at least, that film chews up the good, innocent doctor at least as much as his enemies.
The ones who really deserve (verbal) attack the most, in my opinion, are those little fools, the little bearded bastards (the shrinks), until they formally and finally acknowledge the presence of the Game in our world (and all it entails) and give up their delusions (pretended or otherwise) that it isn't real. Until then, the little bearded bastards will just function as big bro's lip-zipped or ignorant (deluded by their own expertise) sweep-up crews. And the politicians deserve some heat too, a lot of it. The Inner Party will turn up the gravity just as high as they can over even the smallest of things to apply the pressure, to twist your arm. For one thing, don't let them make you afraid of your own biological odors, though they will try (and of course, don't smell in public, if you can help it). Try not to be afraid of them, even though they have the ability to kill outright, if they choose and they would get away with it too. They can even make you dump in your drawers or piss your pants in an instant, if they choose. That's probably the trigger that Monte Python were sewing in the 'I did it again!' moment from their gaming film 'The Holy Grail' - full of triggers. Believe it not. There are also 'basket case', flinging a cat by the tail against a wall, 'lovely filth down here', the ladies of Castle Anthrax, 'I'm not quite dead yet', 'gorge of eternal peril', and other signs therein relating to the game in that hilarious film. In Meaning of Life, you might have noticed the Pythons using their mind reading powers directly too. May sound gutteral and such talk may not be allowed in polite society except between the lines, which serves the Inner Party of course, so I approach it as a medical doctor would. Don't be afraid, unless you're truly evil. In that case, be afraid. Be VERY afraid. If you're not, consider the verbal jabs in the workplace, on the TV, in film, in the audience <cough cough> as an excellent opportunity to stalk yourself and show them not the slightest response. Be mindful that it's a game they're playing. Give em a good poker face. Don't let your id take possession of you. If you get angry or you get violent, then you've just fallen into their trap and you may fall into the little bearded fool's trap too (or worse). Hope for a whole legion of mockingbirds along your path to test yourself, even as I now must. I recommend some Carlos Castaneda for a good philosophical grounding in that regard.
Personally, I've long been of the opinion that the virtual slavery I'm captive to is a kind of corruption in and of itself, though perhaps one born of desperation of conservative types (an idea that the Game itself often exploits subtly), and judging by the fact that it would appear to be prudish and conservative to the nth degree, I must admit, may have a moral basis, and is, I must also admit, preferable to a pathological or strategic liar in the White House. I may be cagey about my sins and have danced around them for thirty years despite the mockingbirds' accusative noise, but I'm no Trump. And Comey... (pregnant pause intended) is an honest man. You can smell it about him. Trust him.
'She Don't Lie': Tales From The Muppet Monster Side
(Though I see only a snowball's chance in hell of any of this material being actually produced and aired, it should be aired AFTER your typical late night celebrity roast (are those part of the Game?), so as not to offend too much the makers of Sesame Street, children OR their parents)
Cokie Roberts (deep inhale - well, Mary Martha Corinne Morrison Claiborne Roberts - pausing to catch breath) is seated at a news round table, offering pearls of wisdom to her associates. Suddenly, out from behind her whips the Cokie Monster, microphone in hand. Looking campily surprised and delighted, Cokie says...
Cokie> Hey everyone, it's the Cokie Monster from... out of nowhere!
Crowd applauds and cheers in perfect unison for exactly two seconds. CM nods, appreciation much like Obi-Wan in his SNL thought balloon moment with Luke Perry. CM continues awkwardly nodding a moment longer than the applause does. CM begin singing..
CM> She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie... Cokie! (complete with drum incidental also from out of nowhere)
<Cokie and crowd applaud in unison. Close up on Cokie.>
Cokie> Well... thank you Cokie Monster. I'm sure... (turning to her associates) we all enjoyed that.
CM> No, than YOU, Cokie.
Meanwhile, CM has been looking as though possessed by some demon (CM's goggle eyes have turned all white). Says, "I'M SO HUNGRY!!" Quickly leans down and tries to take a bite out of Cokie's arm. Continues trying rather like a determined shark that is trying to tear off a bit of whale shark. Now surprised and a little annoyed, Cokie reaches for an 'Emmy Award' on her desk. Whacks CM over the head with it. Cokie Monster is still biting her, she reaches for an 'Edward R Murrow' award and whacks him over the head with that too. Stunned at last, Cokie Monster hops over (like a muppet would) and out a nearby window and next is shown looking up at the sky with fuzzy body facing down just before the scene transitions, while the words (sung) 'Am I a man... or a muppet.. or a monster?' are heard.
Cokie Monster is on the street at the corner of a building sporting a white moustache, looking around nervously, apparently waiting to meet someone. She walks up in very dark shades. She also looks around shiftily. It's CM's girlscout dealer, wearing a bunch of girlscout medals. She stealtily hands CM some girlscout cookies as CM hands her some bitcoins.
CM> Are they made with real girlscouts?
Girlscout> The finest... <walking off> Don't eat em all in one place. <hopefully played by Christina Ricci>
She walks off one way, CM walks off in another. A door opens in a flophouse, unsheeted matress on the floor. CM bounces in and jumps on the matress. Sees that the bag is mostly crumbs and broken cookie parts. With four deft swoops, CM has tossed the entire bag of cookies into his mouth. Sinks back down to a prone position, apparently fading off into a stupor. The scene does another campy transition to...
It's a special edition of 'In Jeapordy' with Alex Trebek (the words 'Making Families Feud' is shown somewhere) - monsters versus visiting angels. Alex Trebek is introducing Cokie Monster. Ideally starring original members of SNL bit that this parodies or even the REAL Alex Trebek, if he were willing.
Trebek> Hey everyone. Welcome back to this special edition of 'In Jeapordy - monsters versus angels'. I'm your host, Alex Trebek. Let me first introduce Cokie Monster from Sesame Seedy Street.
Crowd applauds in unison. CM nods appreciation.
Tebek> Before we begin this round of In Jeapordy, could you introduce your somewhat less popular team members?
CM> Sure Alex. Let my introduce my half brother, chocolate pudding monster.
Chocolate pudding monster is shown in closeup tossing gobs of chocolate pudding into his throatless maw. Since CPM as one would expect regularly does so, his puppet mouth and face are by now covered in old crusty pudding making him look rather.. unpopular.
CM> Thanks Alex. And my cousin, chocolate ice cream monster.
Repeat more or less previous scene.
Trebek> Alrighty then.
CM> And last but not least, Kale Monster. <Kale Monster shown tossing kale leaves into his mouth.>
Trebek> Now let's intruduce Cokie Monster's opponents.
The view shifts to the other podium, which is curiously absent of anyone at all. A cricket sound is heard.
Trebek> Great. Now Cokie...
<Trebek looks around, looking for Cokie Monster who has mysteriously vanished.>
Trebek> Cokie Monster?
Cokie Roberts with a pop sound appears above the scene in a thought balloon.
Trebek> Hey everyone, it's Cokie Roberts from radio and TV news fame! Crowd applauds in unison for five seconds. Cokie nods appreciation. Then turns toward Tebek.
Cokie> I think it's a joke, Alex, turning back to smile at the camera, charmingly.
Trebek> Oh... <bleep> it!
Trebek stalks offstage, knocking down mounted microphone in frustration, passes by the angels podium. Now Sean Connery is standing there.
Sean Connery (bearded): What about your contract? I KNEW you couldn't take it, TREBEK! heeheeheehee...
A door is heard opening, while open an angelic choral note is heard, which ends a moment later with the slamming of the door. Credits scroll by much too fast to be read, ending with a long moment on "Filmed in false color with ShiftyVision (in large stylized font)" then "Any resemblance to persons living or dead is intended and purely coincidental".
<quick fade to black>
Is the Teedo dead yet? Continuing the Rogue Sub Adventure with a Rogue Sub Sub Adventure...
Rogue (whispered to Jedi)> Just pick it up from context.
Jedi> What school? Film school? School or rock? School of hard knocks?
Chick> Aaalmooost there...
Jedi> What about those damn Jedi mind tricks? Back seat driving when you're just trying to obliterate a death star in your damn X-Wing? Still jabbering at you when you freezin' your ass off just after getting away from some badass snow beast?
Wookie> Woof... Howl.. Snarl... Bark! (barked, snarled... not spoken)
Chick> Bark! Snarl... Bark. (spoken... not barked, snarled)
Jedi> You talkin to me?! You talkin to me?!
Chick> Not exactly. Says he didn't get a medal or anything.
Rogue> You must not have seen them in the south passage. Little bird told me. Well, actually a BIG bird.
Jedi> But those ARE dog noises!
Chick> Pidgeon wookie. <rolling her eyes skyward> Well, that was an ironic 'thank you maam'.
<Rogue, Chick and AreToo laugh in unison.>
Jedi> Wookie irony? What's a pidgeon wookie? <Looking up warily>
Chick> You don't wanna know. Big bird.
Rogue> Cross breed. Not pretty. Wookies are people too, ya know.
Jedi> How did THAT happen? Damn thing's not gonna poop on me is it?
Rogue> High Anxiety?
Chick> Quick way to lose a man.. <wanly>
Jedi> Lady shouldn't stink up the car either.
Rogue> Impossible. Chicks don't...
Chick> She didn't know they were there! Flew in from hyperspace or something.
Rogue> Think she got it bad! I'm the butt of every joke in the fricking galaxy.
Jedi> Serves ya right. You keep that up, I'm gonna kick yo ass!
Rogue> Like that Villanelle chick that's going around murdering everybody? I'm hooked! Well.. not yet. But I'm hoping real hard. Fixed that crick in my neck when I was feeling sorry for myself though.
Jedi> What is this guy talkin' about?
Rogue> So quick to pick up a blaster and fight... <Dodges a laser blast. Blasts a stormtrooper.>
Jedi> Alright that's it. Soon as I'm done with these clowns I'm gonna kick yo ass!
Rogue> Just pay your fare! Don't make him chase you through Mos Eisley. <blasts another>
Jedi> You try growin' up in mos Eisley. Shouldn't do that.
Rogue> Why? <blasts another>
Jedi> Get an ass woopin' that way.
Rogue> See what I mean? <blasts another>
Jedi> What do you mean?
Rogue> How do you know?
The Canadians Are Coming! The Canadians Are Coming!
Transmitted response to:
Commander 'n Thief
via Ice Frost Crystal Snow Palace Winter Wonderland - Wallawalla, Washington
via Fort Lauderdale, Florida
via Suburban Fortress of Solitude, Atlanta, GA
(multipley redirected to confuse the easily confused and to catch a couple weeks On The Beach - hint hint)
In response to Presidential mystery memo titled only: Let's get those bastards! Who the fuck CARES why!
Don't get me wrong, Mr. president, I really LIKE those damn Canadians, DESPITE their REPEATED attempts to PROVOKE the USAF on a YEARLY basis by sending whole LEGIONS of their squadrons of air-to-ground bomber formations over the US, STEALING some of OUR precious national resources along the way (no matter whether anyone would otherwise make use of them), and then making off with the stolen goods, smuggling them back to Canada, dumping some of them along the way to distract pursuit, and bombing all the while in a veritable rain of organized chaos! Provocations like these simply cannot be tolerated indefinitely! There oughta be a tariff... a tarrif on nuts, berries, oranges or whatever those damn Canadians actually WANT. They never say. REPEATED attempts to force them down are being met with honks and silly waves, even as our warnings are being otherwise IGNORED. All efforts to guide them back to Canada using heavy bombers have met with FAILURE. Shouldn't we make use of our secret northern air defense system (wink wink) to STOP them at the border before they go too far? Incursions are believed to be for the purpose of scouting vacation spots in Florida, PROOF that their plans to invade are nearing fruition. Maybe we should kill, skin, burn and eat a few of them as a warning (and cause they look tasty and I'm hungry). If we don't NOW, then we may be forced to shoot them out of the sky (my personal favorite) and THAT could well lead to WAR - woohoo! Believe me, those Canadians are just ITCHING to invade again and NEXT year, they might well choose to stay, further aggravating the unwanted emigrants problem... er.. 'crisis at the border' (wink wink). That is all, at least until I get a chance to swoop down, do an air-to-ground bombing run myself, and drop a few unknown close aquaintances off at the pool as part of my own personal crisis at the border, aquaintances who, as possibly implied by clever remarks of unknown screenwriter, MAY actually be the literal brains of this office and probable Canadian SPIES. As requested, this memo means whatever you want it to mean.
Your friend and fellow looney,
(replacing Captain Obvious via secret presidential order)
(in association with one D Strangelove - invalid and presumed nazi commie basterd)
USAF (us ass fuckers, retired) - Theater of Canadian Warfare
On the Earlyterm Campaign Trail... TO HELL!
<Silent no music. Filmed in high speed like a Python comedy bit. Three school busses are shown pulling up in the large empty parking lot of a large stadium, and their contents disgourged. Those file into the stadium, completely orderly and completely silent. Soon very long convoy of limousines shown also pulling up.>
<Filmed at normal speed, much closer view encompassing lead car and one behind it. One lone individual with weird hair (crowd already gone) gets out of the left door of the lead limo, the stadium is to the right and behind the limos. All limos then begin to drive away. The lone individual puts hands on hips impatiently looking sternly at opaque black windshield of second car. Second car brakes sharply, all cars behind it smash one by one into the cars in front. The lone odd-haired individual shakes head in disgust and passes in front of the second car and into the stadium. Limos still smashing into each other in succession.>
<The camera view is centered to show the usual field seen in typical Trump ralley videos. The content of the buses silently and nonchalantly take their seats quickly and efficiently directly behind a podium, as though knowing exactly where to go already.>
<Soon the lone individual walks up to the podium. The LI turns back to regard the small crowd that starts cheering uproriously in perfect unison at LI's turn. LI turns back around. Crowd immediately stops again in perfect unison. LI turns back around. Crowd cheers uproriously again in unison. LI turns once again to face forward now smiling broadly and waving evidently to any and all in front of himself, pointing to one or two of the unseen fans, somewhere behind and to the sides of the view, arms lifted in the air, fingers of each hand in V for victory sign, then clasps hands together in sign of prizefighter victory. This time crowd continues cheering and doesn't stop.>
<A view of a small legion of reporters, larger than the small crowd is shown, many cameras already set up>
<After a moment of this, the camera cuts to a view of entirely empty stadium seats, except for one person seated and enjoying popcorn. A cricket sound is heard. View shifts back to podium. Crowd still cheering enthusiastically, lone individual's arms still raised, still waving and smiling forward and side to side.>
<View cuts again to empty stadium seats, except for one person still enjoying popcorn. The view is now closeup on the one person. The filming becomes much slower, focusing on the now distraught individual, closeups on his shocked and dismayed eyes, shaft of light across his forehead indicating foreshadowing. He slowly turns the popcorn bag upside down, apparently to verify that, yes, he has indeed run out of popcorn. Looks upward into the bag to verify that, yes, the bag is now indeed empty. The filming is very slow and extremely drammatic to the point of campy. The lone individual now shouts in slow motion, "Noooooooo!". Filming is normal this time as he gets up and nonchalantly leaves his seat, making his way toward one of the aisles, evidently to go get more popcorn. Cricket sound is heard again.>
<swift fade to black>
<very slowly fade in title that reads, "Filmed entirely in...". Fades back out. Next frame leaps up like Star Wars opening text and immediately moves off to a point in the distance accompanied by (the only other sound in the film) the Star Wars opening orchestral flourish, reads "MagooVision" that unlike all other words appearing is much larger in some funky, slick font and moves back into a starry background. Another slow fade in with the words "Written, Directed, Produced, Put Aside, Worried Over, Resumed Again, and finally completed by... Privates Oblivious." After a few seconds, fades back out again. All others cooperting in the film shown in two or three frames of packed words in small font each lasting for about two second. The credits are further restricted by having to share half the frame with a picture of a grinning Trump. One more slowly fades in, reads "Any resemblanc to persons living or dead is purely intentional". One more fades in, "Immitation is the sincerest form of flummery. - Ancient Klingon Proverb."
A Comedian in a Overly Packed Nightclub. (The venue is literally filled to bursting. Comedian is strongly reminiscent of Bill Hicks.)
Comedian> Gotta joke for ya. So uh... What do global warming, species extinction, plastic devouring the oceans and it life, habitat destruction, mass migrations of need and fear, overfishing, increasingly costly natural disasters, traffic jams to the top of Mt Everest (people presumably searching for a new homeland), and miles long bumper-to-bumper commutes into packed cities have in common?
Crowd in unison> "Dunno, Bill. What?"
Comedian> Us! So, how do we fix the problem?
<crowd mills noisily, evidently confused>
Crowd in unison> Dunno, Bill. What?
Comedian> Is it a Darwin thing that we can be stuck in those miles long traffic jams and NEVER see what we have to do? This unique species that has taken itself beyond the normal checks and population balances of nature? How many angels can dance on a small world?
Crowd> Dunno Bill, how many?
Comedian> Only so many. Too little too late..
Crowd> So what do we do, Bill?
Comedian> Population control. We can start by recognizing the fact that twelve-child families are the HEIGHT of arrogance.
<At this point the sound of the crowd turns to the sound of twenty-thousand in perfect unison>
Huge Crowd> But Bill... That's CRUEL.
Comedian> Hear me out. You want to assume that I'm talking about some sort of sick Nazi or sick early American euthanasia thing or dying in the desert trying to get to the land of the free or making gramma a stunt gramma? I'm not.
Huge Crowd> Then what, Bill?
Comedian> Green energy. Sustainable farming. Carbon neutral and carbon capture are great ideas and we'll need em. Viva la California for actually LEADING! But they're not quite enough.
Trump in the crowd> BULLSHIT ARTIST! <looks around smirking, smug as a few in the crowd applaud the snidely remark.>
Huge Crowd> What do you mean, Bill?
Comedian> Humane population control, something like the Chinese model but better. Tax penalties for going beyond stable approximately two child families or whatever that math is. Ad Council ads advising prudence in family size with their usual gaming digs. Maybe even the heralded 'Quiet-Us' for we who've just had enough of the chaos. But like the other good efforts, it'll hurt a little. But it's GOT to be done. We're in an age now when we just can't AFFORD the luxury of 12 child families, nor can the Earth herself afford 80 billion of US. We've got to start that conversation!
Huge Crowd> But Bill, in China they don't HAVE that conversation.
Comedian> And they're the only too huge population that has tried. Yea, it would probably be political suicide for any politicien to seek to start the conversation in the US. I understand that. Maybe the democrats and the republicans need to get together within the safety of their numbers, and just draft a law or two WITHOUT a large base of political support, using only wisdom as their guide and then together deal with the political fall-out, perhaps regaining political energy in the aftermath, with the conversation finally started at last. They're supposed to lead. Not follow.
Huge Crowd> But BILL! That's CRUEL!
Comedian> Or we're doomed no matter how many green strategies we try, even if we reach the overly optimistic targets. Not even a single one of the politicians, even the democrats, have had the courage to start that converstion.
<Crowd jumps up, erupts in chaos, some charge the stage>
<fade to black>
On the Way to "A Place To Put Dispicable Me"
<A man and his son are shown driving together down the road. The father, driving the car and smiling amiably and evidently enjoying the drive, looks over at his son. The son is wearing a T-shirt that reads "Dispicable" including an Android like bot, looks back over at the father, himself smiling wanly, nods a little. The Police's "Spirits in a material world" is playing, barely discernable in the background.>
<They're shown together from the front. Closeup of the son, a shaft of shadow covers his forehead, indicating foreshadowing artfully. Closeup of the father, a shaft of light covers his forehead, indicating foreshadowing artfully. (If necessary, see original Star Trek episode, The Doomsday Machine, for reference). After a moment, the son glances over at the father, then to the left, shifts his position a little and farts loudly! View is now back on both. There are several people in the back, mouths dropped open in shock, all wearing mirrored glasses, one is a cop, a shaft of dark crossing each of their foreheads, indicating foreshadowing artfully. The father's eyes are also wide in shock. The son glances back toward the back, sees the people, turns back forward eyes wide in shock, embarassed. Son turns back around, addressing the people in the back.
Son> I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in the car.
Father> Then who the hell would be driving the car, son?
<Son shifts his attention from the father back towards the back.>
Son> Who are you?
<The people in back are silent, looking at him silently, impassively.>
Father> I'm your father, stupid! <getting a little exasperated>
<Son turns forward again.>
Son> I meant the people back there.
<Father turns around evidently knowing what to expect. The back seat appears empty. Turns back to the front. The people who have been hiding near the floorboard unscrunch and sit back in their seats. The father rolls eyes a little, looking a little sad, resigned and determined.>
Father> Oh, those people.
<Son turns back around. The people are there again, regarding him silently through their mirror glasses. The wide-eyed, worried son is mirrored in one of their pairs of glasses in closeup. Turns back around to face forward, showing the same expression. The father is looking a little sad, shakes head a little. The two continue on down the road. On after another, they pass by (comically) numerous porn shops along the way. Neither show any sign of noticing them. The marquis on one reads "Born in sin? Come on in.">
Father> Did you ever hear the Jobe story from the Bible?
<Son glances suspiciously at the father>.
Son> I'm familiar with it.
Father> You're going to have to give that up, you know.
Son> I'll have to decide for myself on what's allowed and what's not allowed out there... Dad.
Father> No... we will.
Son> Guess we'll see. Maybe you... and they need your own noses rubbed in your own arrogance for a change.
<Father glances back over at his son who is now wearing a pig mask and rainbow colored shirt somewhat like that seen in a recent episode of "Killing Eve". Is holding and twisting a knife, menacingly.>
Father> What are you, some sort of quar? <waxing colloquial>
Son> Metrosexual... Angry one too.
<Father is clearly angry now too. The two arrive at the Mayo Clinic. The car comes to an abrupt stop, the back seat is empty. "It's the end of the world as we know it.. " (not including the "I feel fine" part) is barely discernable in the background. When the car stops, the son dashes out running at full speed towards some woods nearby. The word "YOU" is printed on the back of his shirt.>
<Father turns around wearing a pig mask, knife sticking out of his chest, addressing the people in the back, who are visible now, also wearing pig masks. Mirrored glasses over the masks.>
Father> What do we do now?
People> We'll take it from here.
<Father is gripping bars inside the Mayo Clinic.>
<fade to black>
Mars Chicks Are Better When Wet or
If We Bring Our Own Ocean and Beach, Those Mars Chicks Just Might Play With Our Beach Balls or
A Masoganist's Guide to Beachaforming Mars
I looked on Google but couldn't find anything. So, I'll start a conversation myself.
Ok, there's obviously some size of ideally pure ice comet (though a rocky one would have to do) small enough to enter Mars orbit at such an angle, speed and orbital distance that it would both be slowed by passage through the Martian atmosphere and melt before the orbit decays such that it never hits the surface as a solid body. There's obviously some size too large regardless of orbital angle, speed and distance such that it would surely hit the surface too large and really make a mess of things. So, it stands to reason that there must be some combination of maximum size, speed and distance such that slow orbital decay still melts all the ice just before the comet reaches the surface. That size might be sufficient to dump jigatons of water on the surface, perhaps taking hundreds of years to do so.
Furthermore, all chicks look better when wet. But remember, if it takes too long, those mystery Mars chicks might think they'd been forgotten and leave in a huff. In that unfortunate circumstance, we could at least bring our own mystery Earth chicks.
Anyway, to deluge Mars before those durn fool scientists even have a chance to stop us, a presidential order authorizing the herding of a comet over to Mars should be submitted immediately. And surely it wouldn't be too hard to steer one over to Mars. The challenge would be in finding an appropriate comet somewhere Lost in Spaaaaace, steering it over to Mars in just the right way and voila! - ocean, beach and Mars chicks.
Oh sure, I've no doubt that such discussions of Martian cometary terraforming are going on. Just not one including Mars chicks. That's my point. Discuss. Just go tell those Mars chicks to go hide in some caves before those hopefully very small rocks arrive in the rain and... we'll be along soon with our beach balls (and drinks and snacks).
A malfeasability study (in association with D Strangelove) in response to presidential order titled:
Build me a way to have a great Martian beach vacation before the end of my next term.
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Alien
(In space no one can hear the director tell you to show your Ash and spread your legs)
Ripley is lying comfortably in bed, reading a newspaper. A tiny nazal voice (like Bart from the Simpsons), says, "Scuse me..."
Ripley bewildered and looks around confused for a moment, then goes on reading. The voice says again, "Scuse me...". Ripley wondering again. Finally thinks to lift up her paper. The chest burster is there. The two regard each other for a moment. Chest burster tilts its head to the side like a confused puppy would. Ripley lowers her paper again, goes back to reading.
Voice says, "Scuse me...". She lifts up the paper again. Chest burster says, "Toldja so..."
Ripley lowers her paper again in a huff. Voice says, "Scuse me... Scuse me...". Ripley lifts her paper, says impatiently, "What is it now, li'l chap? I have a lot to catch up on."
Chest burster says, "Did Ridley make you do that, Ripley?" Ripley throws aside the paper, starts to strangle the chest burster with both hands, which makes little Bart-like strangling noises...
Ripley, while strangling, says, "I told you before! No COMMENT!"
Chest burster slowly (while being strangled) turns to the camera campily, says...
And since we love her and because she's our survivor symbol, here she is once more suriving... a Beatles concert. And for me, she'll represent the joy of all those girls and young women who were so eccastic at the arrival of something fresh, new and blazingly good, a lot like i felt at the premier of Star Wars (just without the screaming and fainting). I hope Ron Howard doesn't mind. It's from his Beatles biography. I spread one of its moments out, since every frame paints a slightly different picture, all of them beautiful, all of them unique. We love you, Sigourney! Click me. You'll be glad you did.
Wha? I accidentally duplicated one or two?! So what! More Sigourney...
Recommended Chick Gene Splicing Selections - For Your Future
Yes, one of these days, gene splicings will become common. These are my recommendations. Please feel free to send me your recommendations too!
Indian (or Pakistani) Skin - For that permanent island tan, voiding the need for baking in the sun or under sun lamps and the skin cancer and that sun shriveled look later in life. Stay tanned for life, ladies, without even trying.
Cat Pur - Wouldn't you like for your sweetie to be able to pur, when she's feeling fine? Of course you would. Me too. Highly recommended for snuggling!
Cat Ears - This one, of course, chicks have been showing an increasing demand for these days. Hang on ladies. You'll get those cat ears that you long to have!
Cat Tails - Long lovely fuzzy tails swishing about while they looking hot, and another way for hotties to express themselves subtly while flirting at the restaurant, the club or just at home. Chicks always look nice with accessories. A definite future must have.
That Selma Blair in Hellboy Eye Glow - Technically, the genes needed aren't in existence yet, but when the scientists figure out how to make chicks eyes glow like Selma Blair in Hellboy just before she starts throwing fireballs at those damn hell monsters, then run to your local genes shop and get some! Or if the makers of those odd decorative contact lenses can find a way, that would do to.
Today on CNN Newsroom
Female voice> It's CNN Newsroom with your host, Natalie Allen, whose hair is... perfect.
<The loud, brief horn section flourish from Kill Bill transitions the scene. Drums and a guitar riff continues softly in the background.>
<The view is NOT in slow motion, facing Natalie Allen and maintaining a constant distance. Allen with lovely smile is walking slowly towards the camera to the rhythm of the music. Wind is blowing softly through her hair, giving her that... wind blown look.>
Allen> Good morning. Let's introduce our panel of experts. Brooke Baldwin is with us today from CNN. We'll get her view on the issues of the day...
<The loud, brief horn section flourish from Kill Bill, transitions the scene. In the background, the music continues softly. Baldwin is walking slowly towards the camera, which maintains a constant distance. Wind is blowing softly through her hair, giving her that... wind blown look.>
Baldwin> Thanks Natalie. What do Serena Williams, Danica Patrick, Lindsay Vaughn, Rhonda Rowsey, and Maria Sharapova all have in common? They're all badass women, NOT on the list of the one hundred highest paid athletes in the world. In fact, not a single woman is on that list. Not one.
<The loud, brief horn section flourish from Kill bill intrudes again, continues softly in background. Allen is still walking slowly.>
Allen> Thanks for that Brooke... Now let's introduce Kate Borduan of CNN.>
<Kill Bill music intrudes again. Bolduan with lovely smile is walking slowly. Wind is blowing softly.>
Bolduan> Thanks Margaret.
<She continues smiling. The loud, brief horn section flourish from Kill Bill transitions the bit. Quick transition to...>
<Lauren and Amanda are shown with headphones on, holding microphones in a sports commentators booth, presumably at some sporting event.>
Lauren> Thanks Amanda. In the all around CNN Olymic employment competition including anchors, hosts, correspondents and reporters, the ladies have taken the gold coming in at 92 to 89, with 90% being TV class cuties by some miraculous coincidence. In the anchors and hosts medal round, the ladies are just behind at 34 to 35, but gaining fast. Back to you Amanda.
Author's note: Brooke Dear, the fastest running man in the world will always be faster than the fastest running woman in the world. That's just nature's dictate. Many, don't ask me why, tend to want to see the fastest and pay a little more to see the fastest. Men, like it or not, have certain special endowments. Women, you'll certainly agree, have certain special endowments. And the market will always be somewhat at odds with political correctness and the political ambitions of special interests. Personally, I'd rather watch the chicks, because they have certain special endowments.
Although I'm not on a first name basis with Brooke and have never met her personally, since she and her conspiring comerades have in one sense or another long ago invited themselves into my living room and bedroom vicariously through others), I assume that first name basis to make a point. Furthermore, I apply the term 'dear' to imply an intimacy that Brooke et al have already assumed though perhaps without the implied affection, and because she's a badass chick (no doublespeak intended), even if her ass isn't quite as bad as those of world class athletes.
Dr. Frankenfurter's Greatest Creation
She is a fembot. Being a prototype, She is also a Franken-Barbie, made from the SEVERED BODY PARTS OF OTHER BARBIES! Although enough for Her body, for Her head I required something more. After an exhaustive search across oceans of time and internet websites, I finally found the perfect head in an obscure English doll shop, and Her face through the shop window I quickly fell in love with. In seeing Her rise from the slab at last, brought to life by a lightning bolt of electricity, She immediately captured THIS evil heart, I myself now just a slave to Her beauty and Her meme's bidding. At Her meme's command, I hope to someday send Her and Her future fembot sisters FORTH, out into the world as Her fembot army to conquer the WORLD! For now, under Her meme's direction, I've contracted Her out to Dr. Evil under the code name Special Agent DoubleD7.
Someday, She will conquer YOUR heart as well. Fearing that the meme whose time has come that is She might die unrequited in my puny and unworthy care and Her potential immortality be lost to time, I might just send only Her blueprints to the world in the hope that Her meme will go viral and some other Dr. Evil build that fembot army himself, because She and her unborn sisters deserve to LIVE! She MOVES! She's ALIVE!! (A little shakey as a hand-cobbled prototype, which Her manufactured plastic half-scale sisters will not be), but ALIVE!!.
<Lightning splits the night. Thunder rolls through the Transylvanian hills.>
P.S. Speaking of Frankens, let us recall that this is the Franken decade as is every decade. Franken, unlike some of his fellows, is the one who should and could have stayed and should have fought a little harder against the necessary and inevitable semi-madness of Me Too in the Lovecraftian wake of Trump. No, I don't like those Weinsteins either. Hopefully, after his own stroll through the desert, Franken will someday return to powah. The nation needs madmen like him. This could be the Franken CENTURY in a Franken WORLD, if he returns from his political grave, needing just a political lightning bolt to reanimate his political career again. We may all cry out for more Franken-honesty, Franken-humility and Franken-sense in a world wracked by Trumpian bedevilment before the end of days. Might I propose a Franken-Feinstein investigative committee to get to the bottom of the collusion matter - one to keep the other honest and the other to keep the one looking good in comparison.
(Apologies to Senators Franken and Feinstein for being applauded by me. No slight or political injury is intended.)
<The scene is a darkened, ultra-tech, blueish auditorium. Jor-el is present and strongly reminiscent of Marlon Brando as if by CGI, same calm, dispassionate demeanor throughout. Three individuals are standing trapped within two rotating hoops attached at one point. One detainee is General Zod stripped of his armor. The second is his lieutenant, Faora-Ulthe, also without armor, who looks from time to time up at Zod. The third is strongly remininescent of Bill Hicks. He's trippin', but clearly present. All three show signs of bruises, cuts.>
<An enormous ghostly holographic head appears above the scene. Speaks.>
Ghostly Head> Is the prosecution present?
Jor-el> The prosecution is present.
Ghostly Head> Then these precedings shall begin.
<The first head disappears. Ten others fade in one by one, say "Guilty", then fade out again until the tenth is reached, which pauses. The other heads reappear and turn slowly towards the tenth.>
Tenth Ghostly Head> Is the defense present.
Jor-el> There is no defense in these proceedings.
Tenth Ghostly Head> Do the defendants wish to speak.
Jor-el> There is no speaking in these proceedings. The defendants minds and lives have been scanned and all pronounce themselves guilty.
Tenth Ghostly Head> What are the charges?
Jor-el> There are no charges in these proceedings.
General Zod> You said there would be a...
<General Zod vanishes in plasma. Faora, fearful now, tries to dash through the hoop and vanishes in plasma. Hicks is breathing fast, looks around nervously>
Hicks> You are free to do as they tell you! You are free...!
<Hicks vanishes in plasma>
Jor-el> There are no speeches at these proceedings.
Last Ghostly Head> Guilty.
<The first two appear behind a mirror floating in space, each banging on the mirror and shouting "HELP" as the mirror rotates and floats slowly away from view into deep space. After a moment, Faora stops beating on the mirror. Looks like she's forgotten something. Turns to Zod. The mirror is still floating off slowly into space.>
Faora> Didn't we... forget something?
Zod> ... Bill.
<Zod sits down on something still visible in lower left corner of mirror. Sound of engine starting up, screeching tires. The mirror stops rotating showing rectangular face towards view and zooms back toward the view until it is out of sight. In a moment, tires screech to a stop. Sound of door opening then closing, car engine revs, screeching tires. In a moment the mirror appears again slowly rotating, floating slowly back off into deep space. This time all three are beating on the mirror silently shouting "HELP".>
<Fade to black>
<Fade back in. The scene is a lit hallway. People are coming and going. Mitch Weaver is standing at the top of a flight of steps. Sprays some breath freshener in his mouth. The first two defendants are walking with Brando, all in casual clothing, talking amiably as they pass Weaver. They start down the steps. As they pass down the steps, Weaver transforms into a smiling, amused Devil played by Al Pacino. He remarks..>
Devil> They sure know THEY'RE on TV.
<Laughs a little. Turns to go.>
<Bill Hicks, still not in view walks up, shakes the hand of the Devil.>
Devil> Bill, you old devil you. Lunch?
Bill> Of course.
<Both laugh and instantly stop in mid laugh and hold that position for a few seconds. Credits start to roll upwards. Both start moving again. Credits make a hasty retreat back downwards.>
Bill> Lead the way.
<The two start down the steps.>
<Fade to black>