Monday, December 23, 1996

Satan Claus

Satan Claus
ANNOUNCER: (ridiculously cheery) Yes Children, it's Christmas time again! Time to visit the winterwonderland of Santa's workshop!

(We see a row of elves--miserable, sweating elves--working frantically to produce toys. Santa appears with a bullwhip. He kicks one of the elves off a stool and begins whipping him.)
(Santa notices us.) Christmas...yes. Ever wonder about Christmas, eh?  Buy buy buy! Sell sell sell! The pressure! The insanity! All the time ignoring you-know-who...
(We see a lonely, sad, old-timey preacher in an empty church).
SANTA: All the time celebrating materialism! Greed!
(We see a shot of frantic shoppers at the mall.
Santa: Christmas has become MY HOLIDAY. When all the world worships ME hahaha. Ever wonder who I am?
(At a blackboard, Santa points out the anagram of SANTA and SATAN).
Santa: I've been working...steadily WORKING, yes. For two thousand years I've waited. I have built my following. My Kingdom grows. Now the time has come...
(SANTA leaps into his sled, which flies into the air. The reindeer have a hideous, glazed, undead look in their eyes.)

(Cut to ground level. People are looking up at the sky as in the old Superman show. We can hear SANTA's voice filling the world...)

SANTA's helpers go out, ringing bells, chanting "Worship Santa...worship Santa." The Santa's helpers put up enormous Big Brother-like posters of SANTA on buildings everywhere. They enter churches, defiling them, placing statues of SANTA on the altar. Across the world the evil figure of SANTA appears on TV, calling out to the children to worship him. And they do.

SANTA: Worship me...worship me...
CHILDREN: We worship you!
SANTA: I will bring you presents...
CHILDREN: You will bring us presents!
SANTA: The Spirit of Christmas must live all year long!
CHILDREN: All year long!
The CHILDREN scream with fanatic worship, devotion. The scene resembles a Nazi rally.

Cut to: SANTA flying through the air in his evil sleigh,
flying over rows and rows of houses in the suburbs. He lands on the roof of a house. The hideous, demonic reindeer stamp. Inside, Dad with pipe looks up, sees hoof poke through roof...
DAD: Wha...
SANTA: (leering red face popping out of chimney) Merry Christmas, hahaha...
He grabs MOM and DAD, then ties them to the Christmas tree with the electric lights.
SANTA: Now, children, I demand...sacrifice!
DAD: No, can't...we're your parents!
SANTA: Plug it in. Plug in the tree...
(We hear a hideous scream. In Santa's face, we see a reflection of the red light of the parents being electrocuted. Santa is grinning. Last shot: Santa's sleigh against the sky.

CAPTION: "And I heard him explain as he went out of sight...'Merry Christmas to all...and to all, a good night!"

Tuesday, December 3, 1996


OK, kids. It's a movie trailer for the latest Billy Bob Thornton vehicle ...

This time, it's a glimpse at a dark, not-too-distant future that could happen in our lifetimes. Yattayatta. OK.

Run the trailer.

Montage of 2019 LA. Dangerous Replicants walking around. Scary music.

ANNOUNCER: The year is 2019. There’s a new kind of android in the City of Angels. They’re called Replicants. Four are walking the gritty streets right now. They look like us, but they sure as hell don’t like us. Problem is, they’re stronger and smarter and trained to kill.

Jump cut -- ROY crushing TYRELL's skull.

ANNOUNCER: And in a world where machines are better than people, it takes a very special person to fight back.


Holden is giving the V-K test to LEON to see if he’s a Replicant. They sit at opposite ends of a long steel table.

HOLDEN: Describe in simple words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.

LEON: My mother? Let me tell you about my mother.

Beneath the table, LEON raises a laser pistol. Before he can shoot, CARL leaps down from the ceiling and cuts LEON in half, vertically, with his slingblade.

CARL: (holds up slingblade) This here’s a slingblade. Some folks call it a Kaiser blade.

HOLDEN: Thanks Carl. I owe you one.

CARL: Just doing my job, I reckon. Mmm-hmm. My mama never loved me. She was a whore.

CARL raises up his slingblade in a heroic pose. Freeze-frame.

ANNOUNCER: Meet Carl—Slingbladerunner. He’s on the case.


BRIAN shows CARL the four escaped Replicants on a video display.

BRIAN: This is bad, Carl.

CARL: What’m I looking at’chere?

BRIAN: New model.

CARL: Mmm-hmm. They look like models. Kinda pretty like.

BRIAN: No. Replicant models.

CARL: Replicants. That there’s them robots with skin on ‘em, mmm-hmm.

BRIAN: Nexus 6. They’re smarter than you.

CARL: I reckon that there toaster is smarter than me. Mmm-hmmm. But I take your point.

ANNOUNCER: He’s on the hunt.


CARL watches ZHORA taking off her costume.

CARL: That there your snake?

ZHORA: No, idiot. It’s my schlong. I took it off and it wriggles around by itself.

CARL: I reckon you’re mocking me.

ANNOUNCER: He’s on dangerous ground.


RACHEL and CARL confront each other.

RACHEL: You going to kill me?

CARL: Nah. I reckon I ain’t gonna kill you. (holds up slingblade) You sharpened my slingblade real nice.

RACHEL: I love it when you talk dirty.

CARL: I ain’t talking dirty. I’m retarded, brain-damaged some might say. I reckon retarded folk ain’t inclined to say one thing what means another. They just say what they wanna say, mmm-hmm. You got nice titties, mmm-mmm. See? Kinda like that.

RACHEL: That test. You ever take it yourself?

CARL: Yeah. I failed. I hate tests.

RACHEL: No empathy?

CARL: No. Too much empathy. I sorta feel sorry for everybody.

RACHEL: But you don’t mind killing.

CARL: Killing. Mmm. Killing folks like you is what you mean. People what sorta ain’t people.

RACHEL: Killing Replicants? That’s OK?

CARL: I reckon Replicants ain’t got souls, so's that makes it OK.

RACHEL: That’s what it says in the Bible?

CARL: Well. I reckon mine’s the one with pictures.

ANNOUNCER: He’s on borrowed time.


ROY, shirtless, is stalking CARL. He howls like a wolf.

ROY: Owwwooooo! I’m coming for you, Carl.

CARL cuts off his head.

CARL: I reckon I got here first.

ROY'S HEAD: Ow. That hurt.

ANNOUNCER: Slingbladerunner. He’s not the sharpest tool in the chest.

Triumphant close-up, Carl holding up his bloody slingblade.

ANNOUNCER: But his slingblade is.

Wednesday, November 6, 1996

Bring me the head of Barney the Dinosaur

OPEN, Mister Rogers staring wide-eyed at the camera.

MISTER ROGERS: Hello kids. Are you afraid of the toilet? Don't be afraid of the toilet. You can't fall in. No. You'll never get sucked in that spinning vortex of death, screaming helplessly and thrashing your arms ...

Cut to SEAN, the cameraman -- tough looking guy with Boston-Irish accent.

SEAN: Jesus, you sick bastard.


MISTER ROGERS: ... until you and the peepee and doodie go down the drain to the sewer place where all the bad things go forever and ever and your mommy and daddy can't help you. That can't happen to you. No! Let's sing a song.

You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.


SEAN sits alone at a table, eating a sandwich.

SEAN: (to himself) Sick fucking bastard.

BARNEY enters, unscrews his head. It's a black guy who resembles Samuel L. Jackson. He sits down next to SEAN.

BARNIE: Hell you muttering about?

SEAN: Mister Rogers. He's not right, man.

BARNEY: Kids like him.

SEAN: You like him?

BARNEY: No, man. He creeps me out. He got that Anthony Perkins thing going.

SEAN: Anthony Perkins?

BARNEY: Y'know. The "Psycho" dude. Eeee-eee?

SEAN: Yeah, the "Psycho" guy. Right. They could be brothers.

BARNEY: His eyes don't blink, man. Creep me the fuck out. What's your damn problem?

SEAN: Ah, I left some shit in the studio. My girlfriend got me this present. She'll chew my ass out.

BARNEY: Go get it then. Pussy-whipped motherfucker. I ain't stopping you.


SEAN wanders through the studio.

SEAN: Purple dinosaur. I get my balls busted. By a fucking purple dinosaur. Now what? Ah, Jesus. Who left the lights on?

Someone is talking in the the supposedly empty Neighborhood of Make Believe set. SEAN's curious. Wanders closer. Sees --

MISTER ROGERS has arranged all the puppets in a semi-circle. He stands at the center, talking to them -- and doing the puppet voices so the puppets seem to talk back.

MISTER ROGERS: I am here, my children. Who are you?

PUPPETS: We are nothing! We are puppets! We are creatures of putty and clay! We have no life but the life you give us! We have no words, but the words you speak through us!


PUPPETS: You are our Creator! You give us life!

MISTER ROGERS: What is my name?

PUPPETS: Mister Rogers! Mister Rogers is your holy name!

MISTER ROGERS: Who is Mister Rogers?

PUPPETS: You are God!


PUPPETS: Hail Mister Rogers! Hail to our God!

MISTER ROGERS: Mister Rogers is God in his own personal universe.

PUPPETS: All hail! All hail Mister Rogers!

MISTER ROGERS: Worship your God!

PUPPETS: We worship you! We --

HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow! Intruder, meow!

KING FRIDAY: An outsider among us!

MISTER ROGERS turns and sees SEAN.

MISTER ROGERS: Hello neighbor.

SEAN: Look, I don't know what --

MISTER ROGERS: (holding something up) You know what this is?

SEAN: I fucking quit, OK?

MISTER ROGERS. Taser. Can you say Taser?

MISTER ROGERS zaps SEAN with the Taser. He jerks spasmodically.

SEAN wakes up, tied to a chair.

SEAN: Let me go, OK? This is not funny.

MISTER ROGERS: Behold the unbeliever.

SEAN looks around. He's surrounded by a circle of puppets -- like bloodthirsty Romans in the Coliseum.

PUPPETS: Death to the unbeliever!

SEAN: Help! Somebody fucking help me!

MISTER ROGERS: No one will help you. The studio is sound proof. Can you say sound proof?

SEAN: Help! H -- ah, fuck it.

MISTER ROGERS. Well, my children. What shall we do with the unbeliever?

PUPPETS: Hanging!

KING FRIDAY: Electrocution! Electrocute him with Trolley!

HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: No, meow-meow. Fire!

MISTER ROGERS. Fire is good, Henrietta. I like that idea, mmm-hmm.

The puppets cheer.

PUPPETS: Fire! Yay.

HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow! Fire! My idea, meow-meow!

MISTER ROGERS: Now where did I put the gas can?

HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow, there! Under the castle.

MISTER ROGERS: Thank you, Henrietta.

SEAN: I fucking hate you, Henrietta Pussycat!

Mister Rogers walks towards the castle -- then turns around.

BARNEY is standing there.

BARNEY: Fuck you doing?

MISTER ROGER: Well. We're having a party. You're invited too.

Fires Taser. Nothing happens.

BARNEY: Insulated, dig? You know how many fucking times some punk's tried to tase my purple ass?

BARNEY advances.

MISTER ROGERS: Get away from me.

BARNEY advances.

MISTER ROGERS: I'm Mister Rogers. You're extinct! You --

BARNEY closes the distance. Mister Rogers runs.

Hold a few beats. BARNEY returns.

BARNEY: It's true.

SEAN: What's true?

BARNEY cuts the rope with a switchblade.

BARNEY: That "can't go down the drain," shit. It's true man.

SEAN looks down. Water is spreading across the floor.

BARNEY: Let's grab something to eat.

They walk out of the studio

Wednesday, October 30, 1996

Woody Allen's "Crash"

Woody Allen addresses the camera ...
WOODY: How's it going? I hope you enjoyed the banjo music and my signature use of the Windsor font in the title sequence. Before we start, I'd like to apologize to all you David Cronenberg fans. Uh ... Apparently he had some problems with the Canadian tax people and asked me to finish this picture for him. It's based on a novel about sex and car crashes by that kid in the Steven Spielberg movie who got bad advice from John Malcovich in a Japanese prison camp and grew up to be a writer. His name is James Ballard and that's the name of my character. It's "James" in the script but I changed it to "Jimmy." I like vowels. Other than that, I tried to stay true to Mr. Cronenberg's vision. I mean, I put my personal stamp on it, come on. Strictly speaking, the picture hasn't started yet. OK, now we're starting. One, two, three ...
Go to black --
Fade in on JIMMY against the same neutral background.
JIMMY: A relationship is an example of chaos theory in action. This one started by accident. I’d say "literally," but the expression is overused and often used incorrectly.
Tracking shot; side view of JIMMY driving a car. A BMW.
JIMMY: This is a German car. I should know better.
A car crashes into him, head on. The unseatbelted driver, a man, flies through the windshield, turning into so much human pizza on the crumpled hood of JIMMY’s car. The passenger, a woman, exposes her breast. JIMMY sees her through the windshield. They lock eyes.
JIMMY: (to her) Ah, displacement activity. Freud explained it succinctly in “Civilization and its Discontents.” Don’t get me wrong. It’s a very nice breast. A very, very nice breast. I’m sure the other one is too. I’d reciprocate but I appear to be somewhat pinned.
HELEN: La-di-da. Are you hurt?
JIMMY: (looks down) Well. I am experiencing some significant swelling. (looks at body on hood) Ohmigod, is that James Spader?
JIMMY's in a hospital bed, casts on both arms and both legs, and trussed up with pulleys like a Thanksgiving turkey.
JIMMY: Jesus. How am I going to pay for this?
HELEN: It's Canada, stupid.
He sees her standing there. Dressed in a white lab coat.
JIMMY: Thank God. (beat) What are you doing here?
HELEN: I'm a doctor. Your doctor.
JIMMY: Jesus, my doctor? You?
HELEN: La-di-da.
JIMMY: Jesus, I can't believe it. Look at you! Not even a scratch. I look like I’m auditioning for a Dalton Trumbo movie.
HELEN: How are you feeling?
JIMMY: Well, considering the fact they've pumped enough Morphine in my system to make Allen Ginsberg join the Republican party, pretty good.
HELEN: You look good.
JIMMY: I'm wounded.
HELEN: (stroking his hair) I like that in a man.
JIMMY, bandaged up and in crutches, is hobbling along next to TONY ROBERTS who’s jogging along in a jogging suit.
JIMMY: You're the actor, right? Not the self-help guru with the freakishly enormous jaw?
TONY: I'm the actor, Jimmy. The actor. What's this all about?
JIMMY: I’m in trouble, Tony. My life is starting to resemble one of those horrible driver’s ed movies with a porno subtext. “Sex on the Highway” is apparently the title.
TONY: What are you talking about?
JIMMY: I met a girl. Strictly speaking, a woman. She has two X chromosomes and a driver’s license.
TONY: That’s great.
JIMMY: No, it isn’t. I met her under extremely unusual circumstances. In terms of understatement, that’s on the level of saying Hitler had an anger management problem.
TONY: Where’d you meet her?
JIMMY: In a car –
TONY: Well that’s normal. Christ, Jimmy. That's all-American!
JIMMY: A car crash. We ran into each other in the Newtonian sense. And then she exposed her breast.
TONY: OK, that’s not normal.
JIMMY: You’re telling me. (snorts) I had an erection the size of a Buick. When does that happen?
TONY: Well, there was that embarrassing incident at the Shirley Temple film festival.
JIMMY: You want to know something? She likes my .. there’s has to be a nice way to put it…accoutrements of recuperation.
TONY: Uh… your wounds? Your casts?
JIMMY: Don’t forget the sutures. She thinks they’re erotic.
TONY: Stay away from her, Jimmy. She’s bad news.
JIMMY: Yeah, well. No news is good news. No sex is bad sex. Let me tell you something. Despite the limitations of the hospital environment, she is very good news. Anyway, she’s a doctor. My mother would be thrilled.
TONY: She’s sick, Jimmy.
JIMMY: Sick. (snorts) Sick? That's a value judgement. It happens to be right, but ... It’s completely understandable. If she’d pursued a career in accounting, her juices would start flowing at the sight of The Wall Street Journal. She deals in blood and tissue, naturally her erotic fixation attaches to car crashes.
TONY: Come on, Jimmy. There’s nothing erotic about car crashes.
A car runs him over.
JIMMY: You’re right. That wasn’t particularly erotic. Hey, you're lucky this isn’t a Cronenberg movie. You could turn into a fly or an evil gynecologist or something. Your death could take hours. His directorial style is essentially a two-hour gross out session.
CRONENBERG: Oh really? (O.S.)
David Cronenberg walks into the scene.
JIMMY: Christ, it’s director David Cronenberg.
CRONENBERG: I heard what you were saying! You know nothing of my work!
JIMMY: Jesus, what are the odds? Hey, I can’t even watch my own movies. I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m late for a meeting.
HELEN walks into scene.
JIMMY: With ... (turns around, sees her) Yeah, with her. Christ, where are my manners. Helen, David. David, Helen.
HELEN: La-di-da.
She exposes her breast.
JIMMY: I’ll drive.
Various wounded loonies sitting around in metal folding chairs. There's donuts and coffee.
VAUGHAN (played by Christopher Walken) welcomes JIMMY.
VAUGHAN: Welcome to our cult, Jimmy. Or may I call you James?
JIMMY: No. (to the group) Hi. My name is Jimmy Ballard and I'm an alcoholic.
VAUGHAN: Wrong meeting, asshole. We believe in auto-eroticism.
JIMMY: That’s hilarious. I suppose I should buckle my seat belt. There’s a bumpy road of comedy ahead.
VAUGHAN: Whatever, cupcake. Here, our lives revolve around two things. Violent car crashes and old Jean-Luc Goddard movies.
JIMMY: Which is more painful?
VAUGHAN: We’re still trying to decide.
JIMMY: Artistically, I have the same problem.
VAUGHAN: You’re an artist, huh?
JIMMY: Well ... Failed. Hack. But yeah.
VAUGHAN: Can I confess something? I tell you this as an artist, I think you'll understand. Sometimes when I'm driving... on the road at night... I see two headlights coming toward me. Fast. I have this sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into the oncoming car. I can anticipate the explosion. The sound of shattering glass. The... flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.
JIMMY: This is all vaguely familiar. (to HELEN) What do you think?
HELEN exposes her breast.
VAUGHAN: I find your woman strangely alluring.
JIMMY: We're leaving.
Two-shot JIMMY and HELEN in car. He's driving.
HELEN: We need to take our relationship to the next level.
JIMMY: The next level? Relationships have levels?
HELEN: That’s what Vaughan says.
JIMMY: That’s what …If Vaughan said drive over a cliff would you ... Forget I asked.
HELEN: La-di-da. Can I drive?
HELEN: If you loved me, you’d let me drive.
JIMMY: Love is unconditional, sweetheart. (to us) Let’s see her get out of that one.
Jump cut to --
Two-shot JIMMY and HELEN in car.
HELEN is driving. Calm at first. Then she floors it and spins the steering wheel madly.
The car careens down the road.
JIMMY Ten o’clock and two o’clock! Ten o’clock and two o’clock!
The car slams through the railing of a freeway, flies through the air, crashes into an Aquarium and pins a large marine predator. Glass shatters. Water floods. People run screaming. JIMMY and HELEN sit there, contemplating the moment.
JIMMY: What we have here is a dead shark.
HELEN exposes her breast.
JIMMY: Jesus, always the left one.

Sunday, October 27, 1996

Pirate support groups

We see a bunch of pirates sitting in a circle of metal folding chairs. BLACKBEARD is the leader.

BLACKBEARD: Yar. This here pirate support-group meeting be called to order. Feel free to share.

SMEE: I'm a bloody pirate. Sharing ain't me nature.

BLACKBEARD: Not yer gold, matey. Yer feelings. Spill yer guts.

Stabs him in the gut with a sword.

SMEE: Ya mean ... what's inside me?

BLACKBEARD: Yar. Until this moment.

SMEE: Yar. I'm sexually attracted to ...

He collapses in a pool of his own entrails.

BLACKBEARD: Guess we'll never know. Who's next?

LONG JOHN SILVER: Yar. (draws sword) I ain't born yesterday.

BLACKBEARD: Share or be damned!


BLACKBEARD: What be on yer heart?

LONG JOHN SILVER: Oy have no heart!

BLACKBEARD: Sure. But what de ye love, matey?


PIRATES: Aye, gold, aye, aye.


BLACKBEARD: Sure. We all love gold, matey. There be general agreement on that score. What be the problem. Ye ain't got it, do ye?

LONG JOHN SILVER: No! Damn yer black eyes! No.

BLACKBEARD: Tell ye tale.

LONG JOHN SILVER: Aye. T'were a dark night for dark deeds. Four score and twenty men I lured to death to sink ye Black Pawn's treasure. A Carrib isle t'were its final resting place, what shape be like a question mark. X marks ye spot. As belike the map would indicate. Writ in blood in me own hand!

BLACKBEARD: The one yer missing?

LONG JOHN SILVER: (gestures with hook) Aye.

BLACKBEARD: Try a pen the next time.

The PIRATES laugh.

BLACKBEARD: Had it all planned out, did ye?


BLACKBEARD: Came back for it, did ye? Years and years later. When the trail be cold? The naughty Board of Trade be off yer back?


BLACKBEARD: So ye waited.


BLACKBEARD: And retaaarned.


BLACKBEARD: But there be no sodding treasure.

LONG JOHN SILVER: No. No! (sobs) Oy want back and found nought but nothing nowheres!


LONG JOHN SILVER: Meself be me self's worst enemy. Aye.

BLACKBEARD: What be ye quarrel? Twixt you and ye?

LONG JOHN SILVER: T' ... t'was all that mattered to me father! A banker he was. Ar ... I thought he rejected me. I thought I returned the favor. But all these years, oy just been trying to please him! (sobs) Me own love of gold be ye spitting image of his own!

BLACKBEARD: A breakthrough this is.

REDBEARD: Then ... where be the gold?

LONG JOHN SILVER: Where? Ar. Ask the devil when ye see him. (stabs him) In the meantime, fuck off.

He gets up and leaves.

BLACKBEARD: Have a donut on yar way out, John. Well, well. A jolly time we've had today. (to CAPTAIN BLOOD) What be your issue?

CAPTAIN BLOOD: Oy had farted.

BLACKBEARD: Fartin's not an issue.

CAPTAIN BLOOD: Ar. It affects me self-image it does.

BLACKBEARD: Fine. Stop farting so much.

CAPTAIN BLOOD: Can't help it.

The PIRATES groan, look disgusted, back their chairs away.

BLACKBEARD: Then stop calling attention to it. And stop wasting me time! (to CAPTAIN PHLEGM) What be yar issue?

CAPTAIN PHLEGM:(indicates guano-stained shoulder) Polly died.

BLACKBEARD: Ar. Ye be in the wrong support group, matey. "Pirates without parrots" be next door.


He leaves.

BLACKBEARD: Ar. Sorry. Well, I guess that be that then. Ar. Time for rousing tune! The Pirate Self-Help Song! With a will, lads!

PIRATES sing in unison:

We're co-dependent no more, lads.
Co-dependent no more.
We're balanced and centered and open and real.
We're co-dependent no more!

(individual PIRATES sing lines)

I have issues of personal boundaries.
I'm passive aggressive and snore.
I like to find women and kill them.

(in unison)
He just runs them through with his sword!

We're co-dependent no more, lads.
Co-dependent no more.
We're balanced and centered and open and real.
We're co-dependent no more!

Monday, October 14, 1996

Conspiracy? We don't need no steenking conspiracy!

A sign announces ...

an equal opportunity employer

This is above the freaky, paranoiac image of the eye on the floating pyramid.


MR. BURNS: Well, gentlemen. (bangs gavel) This meeting of the Secret Conspiracy of Rich Bastards is hereby called to order. Old business? Monopoly Octopus!


MR. BURNS: Excellent. New business?

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: The destruction of the middle class proceeds.

MR. BURNS: How shall this be accomplished?

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: I defer to Richie Rich.

MR. BURNS: Very well. Richie. How do we destroy the petite bourgeoise?

RICHIE RICH: You're going to die, grandpa. And I'm gonna piss on your grave.

MR. BURNS: You're a little shit, Richie Rich. But I like the way you think. Now answer the bloody question.

RICHIE RICH: With these, pops! (whips out credit card)

MR. BURNS: Ah! The ever-tightening vice of compound interest.

The assembly laughs.

MONOPOLY OCTOPUS: But .. why? Why give stuff away?

MR. BURNS: Why? You cretinous cephalapod! You ask why?

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: We shipped all the real jobs to China. Nobody's getting paid, stupid.

RICHIE RICH: The economy should crash.

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: But a crash in the standard of living might lead to a peasant's revolt!

MR. BURNS: And peasants are definitely revolting. But, by means of these magical plastic lozenges, the great unwashed can magically beam money from the future! They can maintain their standard of living! Buy cars, and stereos and so on and so forth ... for a time.

The assembly laughs again.

RICHIE RICH: We boil the frog, stupid.

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: Delaying the inevitable.

MONOPOLY OCTOPUS: Ah! Until the bottom drops out.

MR. BURNS: Now you're catching on!

RICHIE RICH: Stupid octopus.

MR. BURNS: Next order of business, William Jefferson Clinton. We had a deal. Grease the skids for our complete domination, and we'll soften the blow for the wretched Baby Boomers. Touching medical insurance was never part of the deal!

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: I should say not, sir! That's where we keep our money!

RICHIE RICH: Yeah. State the obvious, pops. That'll keep you out of the nursing home.

RICH UNCLE PENNYBAGS: Fuck you, you little shit! Fuck you!


MR. BURNS: Belay this squabbling! (whips out enormous paddle) Summon the miscreant!

Tuesday, July 23, 1996


(a response to Ollie Stoned's Nixon)

Open longshot, ext: the White House. Boiling clouds in a time lapse sky--a writhing maelstrom of evil right outta "Something Wicked This Way Comes," the book that is, not the dumbass movie.

The camera pulls back and we see --

That the White House is inside a glass sphere.

Pull back --

And we see a wizened old hand holding the sphere.

Pull back --

Nixon, mummified, phlebitic, hunched forward in a Craftmatic adjustible bed with oxygen tanks on one side, ziggurats of pill bottles on the other.

Extreme c.u.: Nixon's eyes.

Jump cut to --

Extreme c.u.: Nixon's mouth.

NIXON: Rosebud.

Medium shot, Nixon in bed.

C.U. -- Nixon's hand. The hand relaxes; the ball drops, shatters.

Dead stop: freeze frame. Then, Stephen Hawking style, time's arrow reverses -- the glass shards converge, vectors of motion congealing into a perfect sphere which shoots up into the hand which neatly catches the sphere.

NOXIN: Budesor.

And, now, the trip begins. Distorted, backwards-playing Roger Corman acidhead music playing to razor-cut Moviola Eisenstein mishmoshmontage of Checker's speech; G. Gordon Liddy melting into Jim West on "the Wild Wild West" melting into the Grateful Dead's Statue of Liberty shoving torch up the ass of JFK; bombs falling up; longhair on armies of freaks growing backwards; microfilm inside a pumpkin which turns out to be a human head; Linus screaming "Auuuggghh"; "the whole world is"--zzzzzt--", stronger, faster, cleaner!"; burning Cambodians; National Guard Troops shooting tiny little college students at a Funhouse Arcade; Flo and Eddie freaking out in Centerville;

Frank Zappa melting into Jerry Voorhees melting into Pat Brown melting into the Soylent Majority -- men of dust, like grey, granular snowmen, marching in perfect formation on an infinite plane, then blown away by a wind from nowhere.

Hold on the nothingness, the dust.

Oliver Stone appears dressed as Hobo Kelly; sadfaced, he sweeps up the dust into a dustpan; a spotlight holds on the dust, diminishes, until the Stone Clown sweeps up the last fragments of light as well and there is nothing but darkness.

NOXIN: Thgil eb ereht tel.

The rest is Soylent.