Wednesday, December 13, 2000


Well, George W. Bush is a shoe-in, now that the Supreme Court has shoe-horned him in. Coincidentally, this prophecy has been flying around the Internet ...

"Come the 12th month of the millennium in the home of the greatest power, the village idiot will come forth to be proclaimed as leader."
Yes, yes, we've all heard it. Most people don't know Nostradamus' next canto goes on to say..

"And it shall come to pass the idiot shall put drilling platforms in the Gulf of Mexico while floating his phony tax cut past an apathetic public who believe what they're told if the nice man on TV smiles at them. The resulting leverage will give the overconfident twit the notion that going to war over China's attempted invasion of Taiwan is a good idea. Yet, even before the horseman of war is unleashed, the idiot will die of botulism from a can of "Bon Vivant Vichychoise" somebody forgot to clean out of the White House kitchen cupboard. And in these days, the PRC will turn Taiwan into a vast slave labor camp producing cheap animation such that fat rich fucks in Hollywood will become even fatter and richer while in Korea's animation studios the wailing will ascend even unto the heavens. The seas will boil, the heavens darken. And, in Hollywood, Callista Flockhart will refuse to blow Robert Downey Jr. because she doesn't need the extra calories."

See, that would be a prophecy.

Tuesday, November 21, 2000

Least Loved Children's Stories

More tales for tots from Latchkey Press, publishers of Sex is Fun for Kids on Drugs and Heather has Two Mommies, Three Daddies and a Horse.

Now We Are Six Six Six
Christopher Robin,Winnie the Pooh and Tigger learn valuable life lessons and worship Satan.

The Little Engine that Couldn't
Hans, the "train engine with a heart," doesn't want to take children to Auschwitz -- he jumps the tracks and flees across a meadow. Sadly, the Gestapo captures Hans and take him to Gestapo Train School. Via coal deprivation and painful aversive conditioning, they methodically break his will. Hans becomes an obedient train, ignoring the children's cries. After the war, he is tried at Nuremberg and melted down into scrap metal.

Huggery, muggery, buggery!
Where Goldilocks surprised the three bears, Buggery Bear is fond of surprising unattended children. Who can forget this delightful verse?

Buggery Bear is everywhere
He chases the children, he just doesn't care
Look -- there he is now at the foot of the stairs!
Huggery, muggery, Buggery Bear!

Are you My Mommy, Bitch?

Little Tommy is 30 years old but in his heart he is only five. Tommy goes from bar to bar looking for a young woman to be his new Mommy. This is called transference. Transference is sad. Tommy doesn't find his mommy and blows out his brains. That is sad too.

Everybody Eats Their Poop
A reissue of the timeless classic from Coprophiliac Press. In a new washable edition for the 21st century.

Your Dog is Dead, Get Used to It
Unafraid to tackle the myth of Doggie Heaven, this no-nonsense tome explains with colorful illustrations why your doggie is food for worms along with your hamster, the cat and grandma. (Followed by the charming sequel, Your Dog is Dead, It's Your Fault.)

A Child's Garden of Plastic Explosives

By the author of How Things Burn, it's jam-packed with copiously illustrated recipes for mass-destruction accompanied by easy-to-remember instructions in verse:

The little child is unsuspected
Because he is, he's undetected!

What could be clearer than that?

Stealing, Stealing We Will Go!

Hello, what's this? Why it's a hole in the raincoat! Oh my, it's just big enough to stick your hand through and grab lots of candy! Stealing is better than magic because you get to eat candy and it's easy once you know the secret. This book will tell you how.

Three Men and a Restraining Order

By the author of Little Suzie Walks the Street it's a tale of three silly fellows whose lives go topsy-turvy when a baby drops into their laps. What will they do with it?

Not to mention The Cat in the Twat; Let's Make Drugs; Brother, Sister, Mother, Blister; God Made White People Better; Bring Me the Head of Yogi Bear; and Sad Touch, Mad Touch, Bad Touch, Dad Touch.

Gee, this took a dark turn, huh?

Monday, October 30, 2000

Whatever happened to the Taco Bell Chihuahua?

OPEN: REN's California modern house, hugging a cliff in the Hollywood Hills.
REN: (addressing camera) Hey! The Taco Ball Chihuahua, it is I! The trapping of Hollywood success surround me. I will call my old friend Stimpy and make him feel bad!

Dials phone.

REN: Hey, Steempy! I love the life of a corporate spokesdog! I've sold out to the man and it feels great! I'm enjoying the good life now!

STIMPY: I'm very happy for you, Ren.

REN: That's a load of crap and you know it! I'm successful and you're a loser! Looooosser. You want my stuff!

STIMPY: Stop it, Ren. I don't want your stuff!

REN: You can't have it! I refuse to share the wealth with losers! I would say curse words now, but this is a show for cheeeeldren.

Someone knocks on door.

REN: Did you hear that? They're bringing me my dinner! That's how important I am. Unlike you. Goodbye forever!

Hangs up phone. Opens door.

SCIENTIST: Your dinner, Mister Ren.

REN: Oh. Tacos! It smells delicious! (he almost takes a bite) Say, wait a minute. You're not the normal food guy. He's a Mexican like me! Who are you?

SCIENTIST: I'm a scientist.

REN: I know that, eediot. You're wearing a white coat! What's going on here? Is this some sort of experiment? You think I'm your GUINEA PIG or something?

SCIENTIST: No. It's just delicious tacos made from Starlink Corn.

REN: Oh, in that case -- I'm starving!


REN eats the taco.

SCIENTIST: How'd it taste?

REN: Deeeliciousss!

SCIENTIST: How do you feel?

REN: Great.

SCIENTIST: Nothing bad happening?

REN: No.


REN: No. Not yet. (beat) What do you mean, not yet?

REN convulses.

REN: Agggghhhh! What's happening to me?

His foot expands to ten times its normal size.


REN'S tail expands to ten feet.

REN: What did you give me, you swine?

SCIENTIST: Tacos. Tacos made from corn.

REN: Corn?????

SCIENTIST: Genetically modified Starlink Corn.

REN: I'm. Going. To. Keeeel. You.

EXT, REN's house. The SCIENTIST is running away.

REN bursts through the mid-century modern roof -- now 50 feet tall, enraged.

REN: Stimpy, I'm sorry. This is all my fault for rejecting you. I hate Taco Bell! I hate their filthy genetically modified tacos. I. Will. Have. My. REVENGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He stomps his way into the Hollywood Hills, leaving a path of destruction in his wake.

Go to --

STIMPY, alone in his house. He looks at the camera.

STIMPY: Gee, I hope Ren's all right. I'm really happy for him. Honest!

Monday, September 4, 2000

I want Ghandi

(to the tune of Bow Wow Wow's cover of "I Want Candy")

Ghandi came to India
Wearing just an old loin cloth
Told the people to resist
Really pissed the British off

I want Ghandi, I want Ghandi

Gotta see him at the spinning wheel
He’s got skills like so unreal
Spun a sweater for my cat
Made my mom a bitchin’ hat

I want Ghandi, I want Ghandi

Ghandi went on a big long fast
Before too long he had no ass
What a guy, like he’s so great
He taught me how to lose some weight

I want Ghandi, I want Ghandi
I want Ghandi, I want Ghandi

Saturday, September 2, 2000

Bugger Off!

An oily PRIEST glides up to a young ACOLYTE reading the Bible.

PRIEST: Ah, the Good Book.

Puts hand on the kids shoulder.

PRIEST: God is love, my son.

ACOLYTE: Yes, Father.

PRIEST: You know, lad, there are many kinds of love.

ACOLYTE: Y-yes, Father.

PRIEST: The love of God. Brotherly love.

ACOLYTE: As you say, Father.

PRIEST: The love between a man and a woman.

ACOLYTE: Yeah ...

PRIEST: There is another kind of love ...


Squeezes the
ACOLYTE's shoulder.

PRIEST: The love between a Priest. And his Acolyte.

Big squeeze.

PRIEST: What do you say to that, my son?

ACOLYTE: Bugger off, Father.

The ACOLYTE whips out a can of Bugger Off! and sprays the PRIEST. The PRIEST screams, falls on his back and starts flailing his arms and legs.

ACOLYTE: (holding up can of Bugger Off!) New Bugger Off! Repels unwanted Priests for a distance of up to 50 yards. Bugger Off! Don't go to church without it!

ANNOUNCER: (OS) Bugger Off! By the makers of Piss Off! and Sod Off!

Friday, June 2, 2000

A Name with No Horse

(to the tune of America's "A Horse with No Name")

On the first part of the journey,
I was starting to burn my balls.
There were billboards and skulls and rusted-out cars,
But no coke machines at all.
The first thing I met, well I kinda forget,

So I cannot relate it to you.
But the heat was hot, and the sand was sandy,
And the sky was a sky-colored blue.

I've been through the desert on a horse with no name,
He’s got a scratched up saddle, so I think that he’s tame.
In the desert, the sun fries your brain,
Unless you brought a hat or something for shade. 

La, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la
La, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la

After two days, in the desert sun,
I got a big sore on my tongue.
After three days, in the desert fun,
I started to sing like Neil Young.
We fell into a river, but the river was dry.
I think that I punctured my lung.

You see, I've been through the desert on a horse with no name.
The horse kicked my head when I patted his mane.
The desert is boring, everything is the same,
So I named the horse Fred like my Uncle in Maine.

La la, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la
La la, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la

After nine days, I let the horse run free,
And then he got hit by a truck.
There were McDonalds and signs and wires and stuff.
There were winos and hippies and bugs.
Malibu is like a desert with a big ferris wheel.
The pot’s full of bug spray, you can’t get a good deal.
They’re closing the road on account of the horse.
I guess I better avoid the cops.

You see, I've been through the desert on a horse I named Fred.
The vet picked him up so he’s maybe not dead.
In the desert you can act like a jerk,
'Cause there ain't no parents for to put you to work.

La la, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la
La la, la, la la la la, la la la, la, la

Tuesday, May 2, 2000

Son of Sam

It always bugged me that David Berkowitz (aka "Son of Sam") blamed his killing spree on his neighbor's dog. I always imagine the dog taking the witness stand and talking like Scooby Doo ...

DA: Did you order Mr. Berkowitz to kill?

DOG: Roh! Re's rying!

DA: He says you ...

DOG: Re's rout rof ris rucking rind!

Monday, May 1, 2000

Yankee Doodle Psycho

(to the tune of "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy")

I’m a Yankee Doodle Psycho
I like making people die
A real life nephew of the Son of Sam
I kill on the Fourth of July!

I've got a Yankee Psycho sweetheart
She is just as sick as me
She sent me off to swinging London
Where I killed the Royal Family
I am that Yankee Psycho Boy!

Wednesday, March 22, 2000

Grim Reaper Interview


DAVID LETTERMAN: Our next guest has been tormenting the human imagination since the dawn of time. Ladies and gentleman please welcome ... Death!

GRIM REAPER walks out. Audience applauds. Paul Shaeffer plays a jazz-fusion take on the "Dead March." GRIM REAPER sits down.

LETTERMAN: I've got Death on my show. I can't believe it. Wow. This is a first.

GRIM REAPER: I dunno, Dave. You've died on the show before, you know.

Audience laughs.

LETTERMAN: Death is a comedian. You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen.

GRIM REAPER: Enough with the firsts, OK? Before we go on. I'm not Death. I'm the Grim Reaper. Death is a human concept, OK? Death. Life. We don't see things that way.


GRIM REAPER: You don't want to know, pal.

LETTERMAN: OK. So .. you're not Death.


LETTERMAN: What are you?

GRIM REAPER: Grim Reaper.

LETTERMAN: So ... what is the Grim Reaper?

GRIM REAPER: It's a job description.

LETTERMAN: Wow. Why would you want this job?

GRIM REAPER: People. It's a great way to meet people. Hey, I like people

LETTERMAN: You kill people.

GRIM REAPER: Not exactly. (sighs) Here's where it gets complicated. That thing you humans call a soul? That thing that makes you you? That's basically software. When you quote die end quote, it gets uploaded back to ..


GRIM REAPER: Can't answer that.

LETTERMAN: Aw, c'mon.

GRIM REAPER: Sorry, pal. I could lose my job, OK? I'm not allowed to talk about that BLEEP. The last thing we need is another religion.

LETTERMAN: Amen to that, ha-ha-ha. Laugh obsequiously, Paul.

PAUL: Ha-ha-ha.

GRIM REAPER: I don't harvest souls. See, that's another department.

LETTERMAN: And yours is?

GRIM REAPER: Life force. I harvest the life force.


GRIM REAPER: Ah, the damn Egyptians had it all figured out. They called it "Ka" or something like that. See, that's like the interface between soul and body.

LETTERMAN: In layman's terms?

GRIM REAPER: The life force keeps the meat moving around. After the soul leaves the body, the meat would keep moving around if I didn't do my job. The walking dead, OK? It's your basic zombie situation.

LETTERMAN: So ... we have you to thank for the lack of zombies?

GRIM REAPER: Damn straight, pal.

LETTERMAN: So what's on the horizon?

GRIM REAPER: Ah, you know. Book tour. Show 'em the book, Dave.



LETTERMAN: It's ... an autobiography?

GRIM REAPER: No. Cookbook ... you didn't read it?


GRIM REAPER: (flashing scythe) Listen. This thing slices and dices. You want Julienne fries? BLEEP the vegamatic. This puppy ...

He inadvertently cuts of LETTERMAN's head.

GRIM REAPER: Oh. Uh. Sorry Dave.

LETTERMAN'S HEAD: Next up, Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders!

Tuesday, March 21, 2000

Who Wants to be a Moron?

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

For that matter, Who Wants to be a Moron?

I do! You do!


Behold the new game shows. Behold the banal, braindead world to which the candy-colored choo-choo train of the "information revolution" has so rapidly taken us. Who Wants to be a Millionaire ... Greed ... 21 ...
21 yet. As if Mediagod were saying, "History is an Etch-a-Sketch and we hold it in our hands. We can do whatever the fuck we want with it." Shake, shake, shake. "Any questions?"

So, behold the new game shows. None of that threatening middlebrow intellectuality like you see on "Jeopardy," no sir. What they're testing is how many trainspotting popcult facts you've crammed in your head like some obsessive-compulsive squirrel. What they're testing is whether the audience likes you. What it's really about is the big, big money. Hey, the show's idiotic but we've got A REALLY BIG FUCKING PRIZE! Christ, the NFL must be shitting themselves at the thought because, if that premise were true, the networks could cancel the Superbowl and get millions of Americans to watch a few spastic refugees from the Special Olympics playing turd tennis ... just so long as there's a REALLY BIG FUCKING PRIZE! Goddamn. As a semipro humorist, I always try to look on the "bright side of life" and all ...

But this shit gets me thinking that Unabomber guy was really on the beam and wishing I hadn't flunked shop.

That's a joke, you fucking morons.

And now here's...


We open on the set, a scary dais of post-industrial, metallic cruelty resembling an offworld alien interrogation chamber -- a somewhat ironic extrusion of design overkill, seeing as how it's all set up so that the CONTESTANTS can answer retarded questions. REGIS PHILBIN appears, his smiling waxy face beaming with all the warmth and spontaneity of James Vernon as the meat puppet in Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Through the miracle of Supermarionation, he crosses the room with grace and ease, despite the presence of an 8" steel rod shoved up his ass.

REGIS: Who wants to be a moron?

Thousands of hands shoot up in the AUDIENCE.

REGIS: Who already is a moron?

Most of the hands come down.

REGIS: (under his breath) Fucking morons. OK! This is the point where our (miming "quote" signs) "computer" selects ten members from the "audience" who are physically appealing but not so physically appealing that the average moron in our target viewing audience can't identify with them.

FX of rapid red-pointed scans over various faces in AUDIENCE crosscut to pattern-recognition computer database of generic faces with labels like MIDWESTERN MEDICAL SECRETARY #10, REGULAR JOE #15, etc.

REGIS reads off the names JOHN Q. PUBLIC, JOE DOKES, UR NAME HERE, etc. concluding with SALLY O'MALLY. As their names are called, the CONTESTANTS come forth and sit down in two rows of high-backed, metal chairs.

REGIS: OK, human cattle, listen up. List the Spice Girls in order of their first period.

The faces of the CONTESTANTS contort with concentration. A buzzer sounds.

REGIS: And the correct sequence would be... (drumroll, hushed breath) Can you stand it? It's...SCARY...BABY...SPORTY...GINGER...POSH!

Applause for no reason in particular.

REGIS: Hmmm looks like only one of our contestants got that right and that would be Sally! (points) That's you, kid!

Cut to SALLY, a Victoria Jackson-ish blonde in a "Catatonic State University" sweatshirt, beaming with joy.

REGIS: Get over here!

She leaps out of her chair and runs up to him. Metal straps lock down over the arms of the rest of the CONTESTANTS, holding them firmly in place.

REGIS: Sally, do you want to be a moron?

SALLY: Uh-huh!

REGIS: Great! As for the rest of you...

REGIS pushes a button. A trap door opens beneath the chairs of the LOSERS, who are consigned to waiting flames below. A brief look of horror crosses SALLY's face but she quickly forgets why. REGIS walks up to her disarmingly.

REGIS: Hi, Sally.


REGIS: She looks just like the girl next door, doesn't she, audience?


REGIS: Of course she does...she's programmed to. The girl next door ... but not too threatening.

SALLY smiles, thinking this is a compliment.

REGIS: How're you feeling, Sally?

SALLY: Well...I'm a little nervous.

REGIS: (smiling evilly) Just wait.'s question number one! We'll start with an easy one.

SALLY: Works for me!

REGIS: Regis Philbin is...

A) A painful fungus infecting the groin and anal regions.
B) The host of "Who Wants to be a Moron?"
C) The host of "Undead with Regis and Katie Lee."
D) All of the above.


REGIS: You're sure?

SALLY: I'm sure.

REGIS: Well you're right!

SALLY giggles and applauds herself while the AUDIENCE applauds along with her.

REGIS: (slightly suggestive) Let's move on to the human anatomy ... are you ready?

SALLY: Ready spaghetti!

REGIS: The hole from which doo-doo emerges is known as:

A) The ass.
B) The elbow.
C) Zeta Reticuli.
D) Kansas City.

SALLY: Gee, I dunno. Could I do like that 50-50 thing?

REGIS: Sure. Let's do that 50-50 thing!

Blooping computer noise. On the display, two answers disappear.

REGIS: And the remaining answers are...
A) The ass.
B) The elbow.

SALLY: Wow. This is hard. Can I ask the audience?

REGIS: Ask 'em.

SALLY: (to the AUDIENCE) Well...what, Audience? Which one is it?

REGIS: Help her out, folks!

We hear people shouting out "ass"... "elbow"...etc. The AUDIENCE punches in their answers which turn out to be...

REGIS: Hmm. Pretty evenly divided between ass and elbow.

SALLY: Can I call my dad?

REGIS: You want to use your lifeline?

SALLY: No. I wanna call my dad.

REGIS: And your dad's your lifeline.

SALLY: No. He's my dad. Can I call him?

REGIS: Call your dad.

She calls.

SALLY: Hello, dad? Do you....

DAD: (on voiceover) Ah, stow it. I been watching. You don't know your ass from your elbow?


DAD: Well it's your ASS, stupid. ASS.

SALLY: OK. (to REGGIE) Then I'll go with ass, stupid.

DAD: She's not my real d— (cut off)



REGIS: Are you sure?

SALLY: Well...yeah. If my dad says so.

REGIS: That's your final answer?

SALLY: Yeah. Dad's pretty smart.

REGIS: Well I guess I'd have to agree ... BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE YOUR DAD IS RIGHT!


SALLY: I love my dad.

AUDIENCE awwwwwwwws.

REGIS: Now let's move on to the vegetable kingdom.

SALLY: Wow. I didn't know they had their own country.

REGIS: Yes. And I'm the king of it. Now, here's the question, so listen up and don't strain your limited attention span. The word "tomato" refers to...

A) A form of igneous rock.
B) The third planet from the sun.
C) An edible red fruit frequently found in salads.
D) A style of Korean kickboxing.


REGIS: C? Wow, she didn't even have to think about it!

AUDIENCE: Ha-ha-ha!

REGIS: Just like that...C. You want to stick with that? C?

SALLY: Well...yeah, uh, because a tomato is, uh, like ... C. I mean it's like a fruit you like eat.

REGIS: Are you sure of that?

SALLY: Well...yeah. (rolling eyes) Kindof. (getting more and more unsure of herself) I mean I guess like uh ... like I think it's red?

REGIS: You can still change your answer, Sally. Do you want to change your answer?

SALLY: (wracked with tension, eyes going all over the place) I dunno.

REGIS: Is that a yes or a no?

SALLY: (not understanding the question) Agggh...(making a face) I had, like an accident. (starting to cry) I'm sorry! Can I call my dad again?


SALLY: Ask the audience?


SALLY: 50-50?


SALLY: I already did!

REGIS: You did? You're sure of that?

SALLY: Yeah... (eyes rolled to heaven as she desperately tries to remember what she said)


SALLY: Uh...


SALLY: (exploding) C! I mean a fruit! A tomato's like a fruit!

REGIS: (softly but with a hint of danger) Are you sure?

SALLY: No! Yes!

REGIS: Don't toy with me! (he slaps her) IS THAT YOUR ANSWER?

SALLY: (weeping) Yes!

REGIS: Is that your FINAL answer?


REGIS: (all smiles) Well, that's right!

Relief explodes on her face. The AUDIENCE laughs, cheers.

SALLY: I like wet myself....I'm so sorry. (She reaches down wiping at the stain) That's so, like, embarrassing?

REGIS: It's OK, kid. We'll get you a blow drier.

SALLY: (standing up and walking over to REGIS she puts a hand on his shoulder leaving a visible hand print) You're a very nice man.

She returns to her seat. REGIS wipes at his shoulder, a barely-contained look of disgust struggling to emerge on the puppet-like mask of his rictus-grinning face.

REGIS: Now, Sally. A slightly harder question. Are you ready?

SALLY: I guess so.

REGIS: Using a standard chi-square distribution, rank the relative frequency of obscure pop culture references on South Park for the following individuals who had their fifteen minutes of fame when animators Trey Parker and Matt Stone were still members of the 16-to-21-year-old demographic.

A) Scott Baio.
B) Brian Boitano.
C) Robert Smith of the Cure
D) Patrick Duffy.

SALLY: Oh that's easy! B. Anybody knows that!

REGIS: And that's your final answer? B?

SALLY: Well ... duh.

REGIS: And you are right on the money! B it is!

SALLY wiggles. AUDIENCE applauds.

REGIS: And now, Sally, here's our penultimate poser. Better put on your thinking cap.

She looks around.

REGGIE: It's an expression of speech.


REGIS: OK, here's the question! Who predicted that people would become stupider as technology got smarter?

A) Kornholio
B) Korn
C) C.W. Kornbluth
D) Who the fuck cares?

SALLY: (instantly) D.

REGIS: Wow, that was even quicker than tomato!

SALLY: I just know.

REGIS: And you know that you know?

SALLY: Uh-huh.

REGIS: You're sure you're sure?

SALLY: Sure.

REGIS: That's your final answer?


REGIS: Your vinyl asherah?

SALLY: Uh-huh.

REGIS: Your phenyl Anacin?

SALLY: Uh...yeah?

REGIS: Well that's right! Who the fuck cares? We don't! If it's a pop culture reference before Kennedy got his head shot off or something somebody wrote in a book, fuck it! No brain, no pain and we're feeling no pain! Because we're all morons, right?


REGIS: Now what time is it?

AUDIENCE: It's time to suck the money!

REGIS: You got it!

Music up: to the tune of "Shake Your Booty." Disco-chorus on the soundtrack as the AUDIENCE sings along to...

Suck, suck, suck!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck the money!
Suck the money!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck the money!

REGIS: (to SALLY) As you know, Sally, our ultimate question is, indeed, a deed. Are you ready to suck the money?

SALLY: Oh yeah!


REGIS: Then bring on Mr. Moneysack!

What appears to be a large sack of money with arms and legs walks out, either some guy in one of those bigass suits you see in Disney World or a hideous, genetically engineered mutant, we're not sure. MR. MONEYSACK has roughly the same proportions as the "Grimace" in the screaming primary colors of the alternative reality of the McDonald's commercials, except that his skin is off-white, rough canvas and not a shiny purple. There's a large dollar sign in its ventral region with two googly eyes at the top. Obviously not his real eyes. Dangling betwen his legs is a large, cartoony p --

["Valve stem." That's right folks. "Valve stem." Keeping it clean.]

MR. MONEYSACK walks up to SALLY rolling its fake eyes with expectation, its cartoony valve stem bobbing up and down. SALLY looks MR. MONEYSACK in his googly eyes, looks down at his valve stem -- then eye-level again. MR. MONEYSACK bounces with anticipation and much eye-rolling. SALLY makes a wry, ironic, upwardly-mobile, gotta-do-whatcha-gotta-do-to-get-ahead face, her lips an uptilting moue, her eyes looking thiswaythat on the ceiling to see if there's any answer up there other than "Suck MR. MONEYSACK's valve stem." There isn't. SALLY kneels and sucks. MUSIC still playing...

Suck, suck, suck!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck the money!
Suck the money!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck, suck, suck!
Suck the money!

Cut to the AUDIENCE happily singing along. Back to REGIS.

REGIS: As you know, the more she sucks, the more money she gets, and the more her IQ goes down!

Cut to a video display. Two digital readouts side by side of IQ and bank account scrolling rapidly...

IQ Income
92 $575,834

Cut to SALLY powerfully sucking. MR. MONEYSACK is deflating, thrashing his arms. We hear jingling coin noises. Back to board...

IQ Income
67 $893,647

Back to CONTESTANT. MR. MONEYSACK down to next to nothing, flailing wildly, in obvious pain, vanishing like Wicked Witch of the West until...

IQ Income
44 $999,999

SOUND: Ding! Ding! Ding!

Go to SALLY on her knees. MR. MONEYSACK expires, cartoonhand reaching up in one last feeble gesture then falling to the floor again. SALLY gets up, wiping her mouth. Dazed, stupid, happy look on her face.

REGIS: You did it! Now you're a millionaire!

CONTESTANT: (ecolailically) Duh...I am...uh...muhuyuhuh.

REGIS: And you're also a moron!

AUDIENCE laughs warmly. SALLY smiles. Two beefy BOUNCER types appear.

REGIS: Get her out of here, boys. And make sure to get her REGIStered for the Republican Party!

They lead her off, arm-in-arm. Applause...

CU of REGIS addressing us.

REGIS: Well, that's it for our show, folks, and you can bet there'll be more of the same! In fact, as a special treat for all you "Who Wants to be a Moron?" fans, here's a little preview of a few new game shows on the horizon. If you liked tonight's show you'll be sure to love...

Crime Scene. The game show where YOU are the Forensic Specialist! Two teams race against the clock collecting bits of skull and identifying dental records to see WHO can identify the body first. And don't miss the companion show...

Quentin Tarantino's Crime Scene Cleanup! with host Harvey Keitel.

Are You My Mommy? It's sure to be everybody's favorite new attachment-issue dating game where women meet eligible bachelors who, due to the Freudian process of transference, are still trying to marry their moms.

The Ten Thousand Volt Pyramid. Based on Dr. Millikin's groundbreaking experiments on conditioned responses to authority figures, contestants see how much voltage they're willing to send through family and friends for fabulous prizes!

Whose Tongue is it Anyway? Husband, wife...or the family dog? Christ, maybe it's RICHARD DAWSON...but whoever it is it always means cash!

That's Entrapment -- the DEA Assets Seizure Game! Houses, cars and untold riches can be yours just so long as you find the evidence. You'll be sure to find it, now won't you?

Candid Bathroom Camera! Somewhere...somehow...when you least expect it, there'll be a camera in your toilet! The one with the biggest bowel movement WINS! With host, Chuck Berry.

Family Fugue State. Uncle Bob doesn't know it, trapped as he is in a soundproof isolation booth, but pretty soon he's gonna be hearing from a few nieces and nephews who're going to help him remember those years he's "kinda fuzzy on." Uh-oh. What's happening to the air?

The Magic Christian. Holy shit, would you jump into an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of steaming shit to fish out the thousands and thousands of dollars of money and prizes inside? Pat Robertson is betting you would! Only on the Family Channel.

Back to REGIS...

REGIS: Wouldja buy it for a quarter? Well I sure would! (waving) Goodnight, morons!

© February-March 2000, Jack Getz/Marty Fugate. All rights reserved. E-mail comments and feedback to Jack Getz at

Monday, February 14, 2000

The Sex Files

The truth is really out there...

Feb. 2 • 11:27 p.m. • Lexington, KY

The camera pans away from an extreme close up of an Alien Conspiracy bumper sticker on the bumper of a stretch limo. The mysterious intelligence operative known only as CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN is, as usual, sucking on a Marlboro. He looks across a fence where MARGARET THATCHER is riding a horse, which is also smoking a cigarette. The CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN's eyes narrow. We see something flying through the air—impossibly fast—hear a sound like a knife hacking into a watermelon. Cut to: close up of the ground where CM's cigarette falls into the grass.

Feb. 10 • 8:15 a.m. • Naval Research Hospital, Bethesda, MD

(INT, hospital suite. CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN is in bed, wired up. He seems to be in a kind of daze. MULDER and SCULLY are standing over him, questioning him.)

CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN: And it hit me—just like that.

MULDER: What do you mean it "hit" you?

CM: It hit me, I tell you. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here...something hit me.

SCULLY: Nothing hit you.

CSM: I know it.

SCULLY: You know what I know? We’ve X-rayed you, done an MRI—there’s no entry wound, no exit wound.

CSM: I felt it, don’t you see? Right here—stabbing me.

SCULLY: Where did you feel this?

CM: (pounding chest) In my heart—right here.

MULDER: A pain. Like a sort of stabbing pain?

CSM: Exactly.

MULDER: (pointing to a pack of cigs by the bed) Maybe you should cut down.

CSM: It’s not the cigarettes, damn it, it’s not my angina—

SCULLY makes a dubious look.

CM: I know something hit me, and you want to know why I know that?


CM: Because it hurt, but it also felt good....ahahaha...REAL GOOD.

CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN collapses and the machinery starts beeping. A nurse skitters in and starts fussing over him, casting accusing glances at the two FBI agents. A cell-phone rings. CIGARETTE-SMOKING MAN picks it up, waves MULDER and SCULLY away and begins talking in chummy tones to someone on the other end about the Falklands engagement.

EXT: Hospital hallway. Two-shot—MULDER and SCULLY walking.

MULDER: I don’t understand it, Scully.

SCULLY: What exactly don’t you understand?

MULDER: You know he said it got him right there—right in his heart?


MULDER: I never thought he had a heart.

SCULLY: It’s not funny, Mulder. This is happening all over—and it’s always the same pattern. The stabbing pain, the disorientation, the infatuation. I think this could be some sort of pattern killer...

MULDER: But the symptoms usually aren’t fatal.

SCULLY: Maybe whoever it is we’re dealing with is inexperienced. Maybe the killer’s just starting out....

MULDER: I don’t think so, Scully. We’re not talking Murder 101—we’re talking exobiological.

SCULLY: On what basis?

MULDER: On the basis of your medical report. (quoting) "Victims repeatedly reported the presence of a winged, babylike creature that apparently fired arrows in their hearts—though no wound could later be found."

SCULLY: could be a mass hallucination.

MULDER: How? It’s always the same hallucination—the victims all managed to get their stories straight, even though powerful chocolate and floral delivery companies have succeeding in keeping these incidents out of the press. How can you explain that?

SCULLY: I can’t.

MULDER: I can. It goes back to Roswell, Bigfoot, the grassy knoll...

EXT: Hospital. Day. MULDER and SCULLY emerge into parking lot—MULDER still talking.

MULDER: It’s all connected, Scully. The truth is out there, not to mention a little naked guy with wings on his back, a bow and arrow, and a sick sense of humor.

SCULLY: (pointing up at the sky) You mean that guy?


They collapse. Fade to black.

Feb. 14 • 7 p.m. • Earth orbit.

Open on the interior of a flying saucer. MULDER and SCULLY are strapped onto two medical tables positioned next to each other. Small, chubby, pink, babylike figures with wings growing out of their backs are marching around them, twiddling the dials of strange machinery and chomping cigars. MULDER and SCULLY turn to look at each other. Exchange glances.

MULDER: Agent Scully?

SCULLY: What is it, Agent Mulder?

MULDER: Anybody ever tell you you’ve got beautiful eyes?

Originally published Sarasota Arts & Entertainment, Feb. 2000

© February 2000, Jack Getz/Marty Fugate. All rights reserved.

Saturday, January 1, 2000

Traveler's Advisory

January 01, 2000

The U.S. Mission in India alerts U.S. citizens that a resurgence of the Thuggee cult has appeared in Mumbai. Cultists have been quoted as saying, “Kill for the love of killing. Kill for the love of Kali. Kill! Kill! Kill!" Several American tourists have been reported missing or strangled. Travelers are advised to take shelter in the Temple of Doom.

January 02, 2000

An alien spaceship has been discovered buried beneath a London subway station. Lead investigator Professor Quartermas reports that the craft is protected by an energy field and is turning London citizens into mindless zombies. A monster has also been sighted. In a related development, evil children with white hair and telekinetic powers have been reported in the village of Midwich. The U.S. Embassy advises U.S. citizens to vacation in Bristol.

January 02, 2000

The "Happy Fun Time Vietnam War Reenactment" tourist resort has been commandeered by a Colonel Walter Kurtz, a renegade Green Beret reported MIA in 1971. Animal sacrifice and drug use has been reported, along with the beheading of a visiting Cajun chef. U.S. citizens are advised to avoid the area and not wear black pajamas.

January 07, 2000

The Taliban is currently celebrating "Death to America" week and inviting Americans to participate. Host Osama bin Laden claims the event title is, "meant to be humorous. It is more like a barbecue -- strictly hallal of course -- with egg-rolling and other fun games!" U.S. citizens are advised not to attend.

January 04, 2000

A Mummy has been sighted near the Great Pyramid of Cheops making groaning noises and advancing slowly. Walter Higgins, a visiting America tourist, refused to move from his lawn chair and was torn to pieces. The chair, apparently, was resting on a sacred relic. The Mummy advanced on Mr. Higgins for approximately three hours before this happened; according to his wife, "He didn't take it seriously! He just sat there like an idiot until the damn thing got him!" Experts collaborate that the Mummy walks at a speed of approximately .25 miles an hour and can be easily avoided. For the sake of caution, U.S. citizens are advised to avoid the area.