Sunday, September 23, 2001

Jesus is coming, look busy

OK, we gotta do something. Nobody asked. But here's some ideas.

OPERATION LET THEM EAT SAND

Why are we even in the Middle East?

Oil.

Basically, that's the only reason we have any connection with these fuckers whatsoever. Their main natural resource is oil. After that comes psychosis. After that comes sand.

If it wasn't for the oil we could tell them all to go jump up a stump.

That would be a good idea.

Because these people are crazy.

They're all a bunch of lunatics who've been out in the hot sun too long.

I know what sun will do to you.

I remember when I worked at the concrete yard out in the sun all day. Everybody was constantly hostile. The Do-the-Right-Thing effect. "Where's the fucking drill fuck you where do you fucking think it was goddamnit you got fucking shit for brains". Fuck, fuck, fuck - every sentence was like that. There was a constant baseline of hostility. You figure that's what happened to the people there. All that sun fried their brains. Look at Lawrence of Arabia. Typical English closet queen.

Put him out in the sun for a year and he's like, "EAGGGHH! NO PRISONERS!"

These people have been out in the sun for hundreds and hundreds of years.

It's turned them into a whole region of Yosemite Sams.

--OOOOOO, YOU OFFA MY GOLDURN PROPERTY, VARMINT. I'M A COUNTIN TO THREE!

--IT AIN'T YOUR PROPERTY IT'S MY GOLDURN PROPERTY.

--WELL IT WAS MY GOLDURN PROPERTY FIRST.

--WELL YOU KILLED MY DAD.

--WELL YOUR DAD KILLED MY GREATGRANDAD.

--WELL YOUR GREAT GRANDDAD KILLED MY GREATGREATGRANDAD.

--LISTEN YOU DAGNAB HORNY TOAD, DON'T THINK I'M FORGETTIN HOW YOUR VILLAGE KILLED MY VILLAGE BACK IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

--WELL I'M GONNA KILL YOU RIGHT NOW.

--NO I'M GONNA KILL YOU YA DANG VARMINT!

We've tangled ourselves up with a buncha Yosemite Sams with centuries old feuds because they happen to be sitting on top of a sea of oil. It's like buying gas at Charlie Manson's filling station. CRAZY CHARLIE SELLS FOR LESS! "I'm Crazy Charlie! I'm slashing prices to the bone! I'm slashing everything to the bone!" America says, "Shit, I know he's crazy - but you can't beat those prices!"

We need to stop going to Crazy Charlie's. If oil is the reason we're involved in the Middle East in the first place, we need to find something else. We need to develop other forms of energy and let them eat sand.

Fuck them. Fuck the Middle East. Fuck Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Turdistan...

Fuck all of them.

If you had the best brains in the world developing efficient solar panels, fusion, whatever, we could say fuck them.

We need an alternative energy Manhattan Project.

We need to create a hydrogen economy. Get some cheap energy source - solar and wind at first, eventually fusion - and use the energy to extract hydrogen out of water. Use that to create self-contained hydrogen cells that don't blow up to run our cars and power plants. Create a society where you don't use gasoline at all and everything runs on clean hydrogen - that turns into water when it burns.

Sure, it'd cost a shitload of money.

But that money would be a fraction of all the money we've spent since, say, the oil embargo of 1973 when we should've figured this out in the first place. All the money we've spent propping up various regimes, all the money we spent on the Gulf War, the marines killed in Lebanon, the destruction of the WTC, the money we'll spend on the next war, not to mention all the money down the fucking toilet creating a total surveillance society.

Not to mention the untold trillions we're going to spend.

OPERATION ACID RAIN
Like I said, these guys are boiling with adrenaline. If only the CIA could invent some kind of chemical that'd make people turn peaceful.

Wait a minute. They already did.

It's called acid.

They were testing it on college kids back in the early 60s. A few of them decided they liked it and started making their own. This is the source of the entire "Peace and Love" revolution.

So....

Drop massive amounts of acid in the water supply of various hateful countries. They'd all be dropping their weapons and going, "Everything is so beautiful." Bin Laden would start shaking like a washing machine with a towel caught in the agitator. "That...that map isn't real. The pins. Killing people, not pins. I'm so full of...hate...ohmygodohmygod." He'd either explode, like the Nazi in "Raiders of the Lost Arc" who couldn't look at the face of the angel
without seeing death. Either that, or he'd fall on the ground and remain totally helpless until the Mafia got him.

PS: Yeah, I know this shit ain't funny.

Mafia, not Marines

Like I said, it's a trap. We need to resist the urge to blow the shit out of people in huts with towels on their heads in some massively futile symbolic gesture. This is not a time for emotional retaliation. This is a time for cold revenge. We need to put a hit on Osama.

We don't need the marines. We need the Mafia.

This is what they're good at.

I think there was even a guy named Genovese who got killed in the WTC. This shit is personal. They fucked with us, now we need to fuck with them - on a personal level.
Subcontracting the assignment to the mob would be cost-effective.

Just call in Tony Soprano.

The government could say, "Here's the deal, you guys get to own Liberty Plaza. You get to rebuild the Trade Center, the Mafia gets to own it. We also let John Gotti out of jail. Just kill these fuckers. Stop 'em. Be creative."

So one morning Bin Laden gets out of bed and there's a camel's head under the sheets. "Ahhhhhh!" Robert DiNiro's in the tent. "Nice fucking tent you got here, nice fucking map. You think you're some big shit, huh? Let's dance. You want to fuck with me? No, you're not dealing with the army now, it's just me, you're dealing with me. You wish it was the fucking army. Hey - here's Joe Pesci with his pen. He wants to talk to you!"

So, just like "The Godfather," you wipe all the fuckers out no matter how long it takes. Ten years later somebody's falafel stand is blow to bits. That's OK. These guys can be very, very patient.


Friday, September 21, 2001

Last Day at the Office


INT, OFFICE -- DAY

The office is somewhere halfway up the WTC North Tower. It's still early morning. JEFF and TIM -- two guys in their early 20s -- are fooling around, throwing Nerf football. ANN, meanwhile, is trying to get the copy machine to work.

ANN: 47...47. I want one copy, not 47. Why's it stuck on 47?

She makes a groan of frustration. Turns machine off and on.

TIM: 53, 22, 47 - HIKE!

Just as TIM shouts "47" the machine blinks back on. The copy quantity readout says 47. It blinks on the exact moment TIM shouts "47." ANN notices this and makes a face.

TIM hikes the ball back to JEFF then makes run across the office. JEFF throws the Nerf football to him, a totally wild shot, no chance JEFF will catch it. The screaming purple foam football boinks off cute little King Kong display on wire shelf over copy machine. (There are King Kong dolls and posters all over the place. The big old ape has been the office mascot ever since the remake -- in which Kong climbs the WTC -- came out in the 70s.)

ANN reaches down and picks up football off the floor. She straightens up KING KONG display, talking to it, dusting him off.

ANN: Sorry.

Cut to KONG's eyes. In a weird way, he almost seems to react.

ANN: You guys should show some respect.

JEFF and TIM make ape noises.

ANN: You're so immature.

JEFF: Lighten up. It's Monday.

ANN: It's Tuesday.

JEFF: Well for me that's Monday. Could we have the football back.

ANN: No.

She says no but throws him the football anyway. Reflexively, he catches it.

JEFF: Jesus, I knew you're going to do that. It's like I've been having this weird sense of déjà vu all morning. Anybody else?

ANN: Yeah, it's weird.

JEFF: Like synchronicity, is that the right word?

TIM: That's an album by the Police.

JEFF: Yeah, but I think it's the right word.

TIM: Sting is such an asshole.

ANN: Like you said "47" right when the copy machine went "47."

TIM: That's called a coincidence.

JEFF: I knew you were going to say that.

TIM: I don't believe in that Miss Cleo shit...

The second he says that a TV comes on. We hear MISS CLEO saying "Hi, I'm Miss Cleo! The cards can reveal..."

ANN runs over, turns it off. TIM whistles "Twilight Zone" theme.

TIM: Who turned that on?

JEFF: This is definitely getting creepy.

JEFF throws the football across the room. It lands, exactly, inside a King Kong basketball hoop which lights up.


JEFF: See, normally I couldn't do that.

TIM just kinda looks at him.

JEFF: Now the boss is going to open that door.

TIM: Yeah. Like he does that every morning.

BOSS: It's time people.

JEFF puts his fingers to his temples in a psychic see-all gesture. ANN laughs. TIM shakes his head, tries not to laugh. They all go into the meeting. TIM's the last one in -- muttering "Why can't we have a 9 am meeting like everybody else....no I didn't say anything..."

Door shuts.

INT, Meeting Room - Day
BOSS, ANN, TIM, JEFF and BOSS's silent secretary are all sitting around a long conference table with panoramic view of New York City skyline outside the windows.

BOSS: (gesturing with his hands) Wireless internet.

JEFF: (uninspired) Wireless internet.

BOSS: Come on, people, work with me. Wireless internet. How can we make that sexy?

JEFF: Put another hole in it.

BOSS: You're funny, you know that, you're pretty fucking funny, you should get a job as a comedian. (gesturing again) Wireless internet -- come on people, you had your fucking coffee yet? Free associate, OK? Gimme something.

TIM: (tiredly) Wireless...tireless.

BOSS shakes head in disgust.

JEFF: (looking out window) Jesus, that plane's coming in kinda low, isn't it?

TIM: Reddy Killowebb.

BOSS: Come on, let's focus, OK?

JEFF: Jesus, he's turning.

BOSS: Hey, stop looking out the window...hello! Focus! (he does an eyes front gesture with two fingers) Wireless web. I want everybody to really think about it.

JEFF: (turning away from window) Web, web...don't get tangled in the web.

BOSS: Yeah...no. There's something there, but...

JEFF: You know, web, spiderwebs, wires, traps. Tangled web we weave. There's that whole association.

BOSS: That's clever, Jeff. Too fucking clever.

JEFF: (nervously stealing glances out window) But that's what people hate. Plugging in, wires, Ethernet cards, LANs and all that...Jesus, does anybody else see that?

TIM: Wireless sets you free like...

BOSS: (cutting him off) Don't anybody say butterflies. Gates already did the butterfly with that MSN thing.

JEFF: Anybody else see that plane?

TIM: (rubbing eyes) What, yeah. There's a plane there. So ...

BOSS: (pissed) Enough with the plane.

JEFF: The plane isn't supposed to be there.

BOSS: Then it'll turn around. Enough about the plane. What about wireless internet?

JEFF: I don't know. Get wired? Got wireless?

TIM: Get unwired. The Internet unbound?

BOSS: Somebody did that.

TIM: You sure?

JEFF: (looking out window -- can't believe what he sees) It's not...

TIM: Pinocchio with his wires cut?

BOSS: I like.

JEFF: It's not turning around.

BOSS: (curtly) It's got to turn around.

JEFF: It's not.

BOSS: Could we stay on topic here?

JEFF: It's coming right for us.

TIM: (mocking -- because this is a line on "South Park") 'It's coming right for us.'

JEFF: No, seriously, it's coming right for us.

TIM: (finally looking) Shit, it's coming right for us, shit. This isn't happening.

BOSS: Goddamnit, guys, it's not --

He looks out window, sees plane, shuts up, freezes.

JEFF: I dreamed this. I know I dreamed this.

TIM: This isn't happening. He's gotta pull up.

JEFF: He's not pulling up.

For a few more seconds they all sit there at the conference table -- all of them frozen, deer-in-headlights style. The plane gets closer and closer, coming in straight on.

Some authority-figure gene kicks on in the boss. He stands up, takes charge, starts barking out orders.


BOSS: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, COME ON PEOPLE, LET'S MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT...

Everybody except JEFF runs out of the room. He just stands there, frozen at the window as the plane gets closer and closer. Then something seems to tug him. He turns around. Sees ANN watching them.

Seconds left. They exchange looks. Both know they're going to die. It's suddenly, blindingly clear to JEFF that he loves her and she loves him, one of those office undercurrent things, though they never admitted it. They knew it all along, of course -- but they danced around the fact, both assuming there'd always be time for the dance.

Less the last second left and the barriers fall. He smiles, she smiles back. Each knows what the other is thinking -- barriers gone now, not that they were ever real in the first place -- time for one last look, eyes exchanging infinite knowledge just like Bonnie and Clyde yeah, exactly like Bonnie and

Thursday, September 20, 2001

Rightface March Dept.

All of a sudden, everywhere I look it's flags, flags, flags. Eagles and flags. Support the President! United We Stand! An overdose of patriotism. America -- rightface, march! Hut, hut, hut! Understandable response, OK. But is anybody else uncomfortable with this shit? We're one step away from martial law. The right has been a little too damn quick to use this as an excuse to clamp down and control the agenda. It's like all they can do not to start smiling. It's exactly what they want.

I picture a George C. Scott-type Four Star General appearing on TV and addressing the American people on 9-12.

GENERAL CARNAGE: This has been a great tragedy for the American people. This has been a sad day for all of us. As a result, we're going to have to stop worrying about shit like "lock boxes" and all that egghead math stuff like plus "two equals four." The Pentagon's gonna need a whole lot of money. Oh yeah. We're gonna need all the money America's got, and then some. And we're going to have to beef up the CIA. All this shit like, "you can't kill leaders," "you gotta get search warrants" -- the bill of rights all that crap - we'll have to throw all that shit out. We'll need to send lots of money to the military so we can buy cool shit to kill people. Remember, if we'd had Star Wars we could've sold Bin Laden a missile and shot it down. But no! He was forced to use low-tech shit that worked! That's why we need more weapons systems, more military power, more spies, more finks, more surveillance, more police. It's been a sad day for all of us, but, together, the American people shall prevail. Thank you."

Then he goes into the next room. He starts saying "YES...YESS!" under his breath and pumping his fist. "YESSSSSSSSS!"

Meanwhile, the American people responds ...

"Let's lurch to the rightwing! Let's go to war! Let's support our leader!"

It's like there's a hypnotist with a watch on a chain. "Don't think about George W. Bush. Think about the war! See the pretty, pretty war! The President is not an idiot! You must respect your leader! Support the leader!"

America's like Homer Simpson with drool coming out of his mouth. "Support....leader. Must support leader."

Uh, you mean Bush?

George W. Bush?

HOMER: Support leader. Aggghhhhh.

This guy's a leader? Jesus. They're comparing him to FDR.

FDR was like "A date which will live in infamy."

That's a leader.

GWB is reading the teleprompter. "They did stuff to us so, uh, we're gonna do stuff to them. And to ourselves together. Or something."

He's an idiot.

Let's face it, if John McCain had been elected president nobody would've fucked with us. The terrorists were probably watching the election returns. "The wimp is president! They elected the wimp! Hahahaha! Not even the wimp - the son of the wimp!"

And, like any wimp, GWB will be tempted to do some dumbass thing just to prove he's not a wimp.


Thursday, September 13, 2001

Two terrorists on a plane

Two terrorists on the plane, getting ready to hit the first Twin Tower. They're guarding the cockpit. One turns to the other and says, "So ... what are our demands?"

And the laff just never stop!

Hey, is everybody in the mood to escape and just feel good tonight?

Sorry.

There’s no escape, no Seinfeld-esque observational comedy. I’d feel like an asshole -- “Hey, what’s up with those tags under chairs saying ‘Do not remove under penalty of law?’ First, what’s the law? Second, how would they know, hahaha.” It’s like cracking jokes when the Hindenberg’s going down, “Is that a blimp or a zeppelin or what?” No.

All I can think about is the towers, so we’re going to talk about the towers.

I’m sorry, that’s probably the last thing you want to think about. but the images keep going through my mind -- like that scene with the guts spilling out of that guy in Catch-22, over and over...sorry....

OK, now that I’ve got everybody in a good mood (announcer voice) Tonight, here’s comedian Jack Getz with the lighter side of mass murder!

I think Sam Kinison said it best...

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING
WHAT WERE THEY FUCKING THINKING? YOU FUCKERS!”

I paraphrase.

I mean they thought they were going to paradise -- like God’s ordered ‘em to kill! Like God’s like Charlie Manson in the sky sending ‘em out on a killing spree. “I know Terry Melcher’s in one of those fucking buildings -- he wouldn’t give me a fucking record deal!” They thought there’d be chicks, like heaven’s the fucking Playboy Mansion, or for some of ‘em more like Neverland Ranch. You kill thousands of people then -- BING! -- “Here we are in paradise!”

Imagine the surprise.

One second, the Terrorists are looking out the cockpit window at an extreme fucking close-up of a skyscraper coming at ‘em at 300 mph. The next second -- DING! --

DEMON: (with voice of Franklin Pangborn) Welcome to Hell Hotel! We’ve been expecting you!

They’re looking around at all these flames and shit. People are screaming in the background. Little demons are running around with pitchforks. Something is deeply wrong. It’s messing up their whole theology...

TERRORIST: There must be some mistake. We have a reservation in paradise.

DEMON: No, there’s been no mistake.

TERRORIST: There are supposed to be women.

DEMON: No women for you, but we do have an excellent view of the lake of fire. (hits bell on front desk -- DING!) Front!

A nasty-looking demon bellboy appears.

DEMON: Show these gentlemen to their rooms...

TERRORIST: No, please check your register, ahhhhhhhhhh.

Thursday, September 6, 2001

Oooeey-gooeey

Back when I was a kid, American TV was stupid and crappy the way it should be.

My family had an old black-and-white Zenith ("The quality goes in before the name goes on!") that was more like a Nadir. No cable. No clicker. Only three channels.

In fact, we didn’t even get three channels. ABC came out from Channel 10 in Largo and another Channel 10 in Fort Myers. My hometown was pretty much equidistant between the two--thus, the signal was equally crappy from each. So I spent my childhood with no ABC. No Batman. No Bewitched. No Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.” Poor me. Years later, I actually saw the shows I'd missed. Jesus. I didn’t miss much. (The poor damn actor from La Strada reduced to dueling with ghost pirates for Irwin Allen, etc.) But I’d be lying awake at night thinking wow, what am I missing, a submarine with big windows in the future, Batman kicking the crap out of the Joker, aliens ...

The two stations we could get came out of Tampa: WTVT Channel 13 and WFLA, Channel 8. My brain was filled with phantom reference points: Dale Mabry Boulevard, The Frisch’s Big Boy (We didn’t even have a Big Boy) Courtney-Campbell Causeway -- aw, shut the hell up, somebody drop a bomb on Tampa, I hate Tampa.

WTVT had a guy called Salty Sol Fleishman who talked about fishing, another freckle-faced guy called Andy Hardy, who looked like Howdy Doody, who did the weather. Late, late at night (in an interminable live commerical, plunked, evilly, dead center in the horror movie time slot), Andy Hardy would do a fake interview with an old Cuban guy who looked like a corpse and owned the Columbia restaurant chain. Both of ‘em would be there at this big photogenic spread of Cuban food on a white tablecloth. Mr. Whiteboy’d be sitting there and the undead Cuban would raise a glass of wine and say, “Salut and happy days.” Hardy’d ask him, “Uh, what’s all that Manuel?” and the ancient Cuban dude would explain, "Well, this is flan de leechy custard, this is..."

And I’d sit there watching that shit because I was a TV addict.

Addict. Not in the sense of, ha-ha, exaggeration for rhetorical effect. I was a little TV addict. “TV will ruin your mind,” as they say. They were right.

I’d pop up at 4:30 in the morning to watch -- whatever.

If the tube was showing a steaming turd, I'd watch it.

I'd watch snow.

There were times when there was NOTHING on. Even Saturday mornings....

But I’d be up. Watching. Dead black around me. Everybody else in the house asleep. Must have TV. Need TV. Aghhhhh....

I’d be there, in front of the Zenith, in a modified zazen sitting posture in front of the TV screen, flickering blue light pouring over my face, eyes wide open like the “2001” space embryo. Watching.

The camera would be panning back and forth over fucking BAROMETERS and windspeed indicators -- rows and rows of big black round dials with various weather information -- slowly, slowly, back and forth. And I’d sit there watching it.

Because there was nothing else on.

Sometime around 5 a.m., they started broadcasting some crappy early-1950s space opera, damned if I remember the name. A spaceport with gantry, etc. Rockets with fins that shot flames like 4th of July firecrackers. Guy with big chin. Woman with big tits. I think there was a monkey, but this may be progressive memory interference from “Amazon Women on the Moon”...

As dawn approached, Saturday morning content got less and less shitty. Block of real cartoons were just ahead. If I could just hold on.

Gumby. Some low-rent puppet show....

Then, around 8, we’d enter the big cartoon block -- “Space Ghost,” “Banana Splits,” “Scooby Doo,” I’d be mainlining the stuff. Starting to get a headache about 3 hours into it. Dad screaming DON’T SIT SO CLOSE TO THE TV! YOU’LL RUIN YOUR EYES! Fighting with my sister over content control. NO, I DON’T WANT TO WATCH PENELOPE PITSTOP, aggghhh WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE STOP THAT WHO STARTED.

All this time, I'd be maintaining constant battle with my parents not to turn off the TV and do chores (which succeeded or failed relative to parents’ hangover) and with my sister not to watch icky girl TV.

I fought this battle, always knowing at some level what I was seeing is horseshit. I mean, come on. I'm a kid. But I could see every joke coming a mile away. Then, sometime around 10 a.m., there was an oasis of Warner Brothers -- Roadrunner cartoons, Bugs Bunny cartoons, a segment I’ll remember for the rest of my life where Yosemite Sam dies, slides down a chute and goes to hell...

Then, around 12:30 p.m. the cartoons flickered out. After that, Salty Sol started talking about fish. “Well the tarpon are...” Fuck the tarpon! Do I give a shit about tarpon? No. A shit I do not give. No towheaded fishing pole-carrier I. But I'd watch anyway. Because THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE ON. I knew that, if I held out, if I could just hold out, sometimes (depending on the whim of Channel 13’s erratic programming schedule) they’d show “Shock Theater” at 1:30 p.m., a neat, mini-seminar on the effects of radiation on bugs, gila monsters and 50-foot women with big tits. Around 2 p.m. my parents would kick me outside.

No more TV.

I wanna watch TV!

No. Go play, you little shit. Play! That's what kids are supposed to do!

Now, if any of you out there are still with me after this self-indulgent, projectile-vomit inducing nostalgia trip, here’s more...

The same TV-addict shit applied after school. I’d get in, and fight my parents over whether I’d watch TV or do homework. (I had a very strange household, namely one with parents in it. Dad, a one-book published writer suffering from a five-year spell of “writer’s block” was always home; Mom, a teacher, got home around 2:30 or 3 p.m.)

At 4 p.m. there was a bizarre little kiddie show featuring Uncle Dave -- “Uncle Dave’s Restraining Order,” or whatever the hell they called it. A by-the-numbers kiddie show, natch. "Uncle Dave" had a peanut gallery of screaming kids and a clown assistant (of the Hobo Kelly knockoff variety) called “Barnie Bungleupper.” Uncle Dave entertained kids with stupid games, humiliated the clown, had a “Cavalcade” of old, cartoons, showing crappy Popeye cartoons (evil King Features mediocrity) and a few surprisingly good cartoons -- surreal, R Crumby stuff from the 1930s in which fire grew legs and ran down stairs ...

As to the stupid kiddie games, one was more along the lines of bizarre, surrealistic, sado-masochistic, David Lynchian and disturbing.

The game was called “Oooey Gooey.” It was a sort of Russian Roulette for kids, I kid you not.

Six kids would sit around a lazy susan -- a wooden wheel, about one foot in diameter, about six inches off the floor. Six upright paper bags were poised above the wheel, mouths hanging in emptiness.

Inside five of the bags were cheap little prizes. Decoder rings. Viewmaster projectors. Candy. Balloons...

Inside one bag was something nasty. Runny eggs, etc., inserted by Uncle Dave (or his exploited clown assistant).

How it worked --

Uncle Dave would spin the wheel with six kids sitting around it. Wheel spins, stops. In clockwise order, each kid puts hand in bag expecting either prize -- or slime. When one of the kids got slimed (awful facial expression, pulls out hand covered with nastiness) all the other kids would shout out "OOEEY GOOEY!” and Uncle Dave’d would come up, haha, you’ve been a good sport, here’s your consolation prize, a ticket to...

So, one day, it doesn’t work out so well.

They spin the wheel, wheel stops, each kid takes turn.

Kid #1 - gets prize.

Kid #2 - gets prize.

Kid #3 - gets prize.

Kid #4 - gets prize.

Kid #5 - gets prize.

And there's only one freaking bag left.

Now it’s Kid #6’s turn. All the kids kinda turn and look at him. Mixed expressions. Feeling sorry for him with a little ha-ha thrown in.

He knows there’s slime in the bag. He knows.

He knows, now, that what he’s supposed to do is stick his hand in the bag of slime, pull out his slimed-hand, and have all the other kids shout “OOEY GOOEY!” Everybody’s waiting around for him to do it. But he’s not going to do it. He’s not sticking his hand in there.

“C’mon,” says Uncle Dave. “Stick your hand in there.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Be a good sport.”

“No.”

“You’ve gotta stick your hand in there.”

“I don’t wanna stick my hand in there.”

Uncle Dave and the kid exchange looks. It’s a battle of wills now. Uncle Dave realizes this kid is making him look bad on his show. (My God...what if this kid gets away with this? It’ll be anarchy...anarchy!) On some deep, sick, control-freak level, Uncle Dave is morally outraged at this kid. The kid knew the rules when he got into this game. He was willing to take a prize, natch. He lost. Now he has to pay the price. (Bust a deal -- face the wheel.) It’s the principle of the thing!

“Stick your hand in the bag.”

“No.”

“Be a good sport, kid. You don’t want all your friends to see you and think you’re a bad sport, do you?”

The kid shakes his head no -- meaning, Fuck you, Uncle Dave. I don’t give a shit, I don’t care what my friends think, I’m not sticking my hand in the bag.

The kid starts to get up and walk away.

At this point Uncle Dave loses it.

Uncle Dave grabs the kid by his skinny little wrist and starts man-handling the kid’s hand into the bag. The kid is howling NO! NO! like there’s sulfuric acid in there. The kid fights, with everything he’s got. But Uncle Dave, with an expression like Mister Hyde on his face, is winning. He forces the kid’s hand down into the slime. All the other kids shout “OOEEY GOOEY!” The kid pulls out his dripping hand and starts bawling at the top of his lungs.

WAHHHH! MOMMY! WAHHHHH!

Suddenly, Uncle Dave realizes he’s in deep shit.

All at once, he realizes his assertion of authority was a mistake.

He pats the kid on the back, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Barney Bungleupper is wiping the kid’s hand off. Kid’s still crying.

“Say, we’ve got a consolation prize!”

“WAHHHHHH!”

“It’s...I’ve got a ticket to -- wouldn’t you like to go to...”

Kid’s backing away like Uncle Dave’s a child-molester.

“It’s a whole day’s pass to -"

“WAHHHHHHHH!”

“Hey, dry those eyes kid. I’ve also got --"

Mommy's screaming off-camera.

“Leave him alone! Haven’t you done enough...”

Outraged Mom is coming up now -- kid runs to her, buries head in her skirt. Uncle Dave’s looking trapped. Barney Bungleupper’s sorta caught in the middle. Kid’s still holding onto Mom and screaming. You can hear his voice kinda muffled.

Which is when the PLEASE STAND BY card comes up.

The Barney Bungleupper Show premiers the next day.

And Uncle Dave was never seen again.