Joyce Chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
—as told by James Joyce

“chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC. Sir Chickenheart, poulet d’amores, fr’over the thirteen spices, had dropencre clucked the bucket from his Old Kentucky Hume (Gonna lay my bourbon down!) on this side the cooped funhouse, hunhouse, henhouse to peckerfight his cockamamie war: nor had Marilyn Fired Childrens ripped the recipe: nor had Colonel Mauders kicked the bawket and braised the deads: nor had Leghorn the Foggy planked the arse of the doggy (Ruff! Ruth! Roof!): nor had Gilbert O’Shelton set the chickens free (while surprise lust) dizzydriving Cadillacs and Caddyshacks everywhichway drunkstonedbrilliantdead (mind the fowl, Mr. Kenney): nor had Superchicken heard the caul: nor had King Chicken viced his evile plans to Duckman, (Mwah-ha-haa, bawk bawk bawk!): nor had Chickmagnet aligned him’s ironyfiled AC-DC poles: wrongstory shite, the Cock of the Walk was rightbawk where he started: i.e., to wit, to what, may the feathers fly, the wing itself, in sum, in same, the rude road. Fowl circle! Joke the chicken! What too due? Cross it he must, did. (For avoidance of shame, behold peacesign tracks all the assfault way.) Ask why? No, not, nyet. The bawk stops here. Aye. When all is shed and dumb, he’s a dimbulbbirdbrain feckless fecking foul, in’t he? (Feck!) Yet, still, apparently, inerrently, in dumbness of dimness, even so, morcel of cerveau in his noggin or not, pecking and puckering roadwise in rightangled fashion, this poultry fella (our hiero!) had a dejavoodoo fritzfeeling he’d been herr befire. Just on. Tit of tongue it. Was. Memberberrying along the lions of …

chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC ...”

Cheech and Chong's "Buzz Killer"

INT, RATTY, CLUTTERED OAKLAND FLAT - DAY 
Cheech and Chong, sitting at home, stoned. Then a drug delivery drone buzzes in from an open window. They take awhile to react. Then… 

Chong: What the hell's that buzzing noise? 
Cheech: I dunno, man. Some kind of bug flew in. 
Chong: I told you not to leave the window open. 
Cheech: No, man. I told you … remember? 

Drone buzzes around, bounces off walls. 

Chong: Wow, look at it go! It’s like a Roomba with propellers. (giggles) It’s a big mother***er. 
Cheech: It’s a dead mother***er. 

Drone buzzes around. Cheech grabs a fly swatter from a filthy kitchen counter. 

Chong: You’re gonna need more than that, man. 

Cheech grabs an iron skillet. He runs around, swatting at the drone. It tries to avoid him, knocks over most of the glassware, bongs and lamps. Cheech finally corners it and smacks the hell out of it. The drone goes down. 

Cheech and Chong walk up to it. 

Tarantino point-of-view. A fish-eye lens, looking up at Cheech and Chong looking down.

Chong: So what the hell is this thing? Like an alien?
Cheech: No, dumbass. It’s a delivery drone, like Amazon or whatever. 
Chong: Yeah. That makes sense. There’s something strapped to its back. See? It’s like clown makeup or something. 
Cheech: No, man. That’s not makeup. 

Cheech reaches down out of frame, comes back holding a brick of white powder wrapped in plastic. 

Cheech: It’s a shitload of cocaine. 
Chong: (giggles) Somebody up there likes us. 
Cheech: No, pendejo. Someone other there got the wrong address. We better kill this motherf***er.
Chong: It looks dead to me, man. 
Cheech: That’s just the flying shit! It’s still got a robot brain inside. There’s probably GPS or something. Maybe even a camera. 
Chong: How would it hold a camera? 
Cheech: No, stupid. Like a built-in camera. Like an eye. 
Chong: Hey ... That black ball on top kinda looks like an eye. 
Cheech: Yeah, it does. Like the ones they put on security cameras in the grocery store. 
Chong: Wow … so it’s watching us? 
Cheech: No. The guys who sent the cocaine are watching us. 

Chong waves. 

Cheech: Don’t wave, you idiot. These are not nice guys. They cut off your face and shit. 
Chong: That’s scaring the shit out me, man. How do we kill it? 
Cheech: Not by talking to it! Give me a hammer, stupid! The toolbox is right behind you! 
Chong: OK, here. (hands tool to him) 
Cheech: That’s a screwdriver! 
Chong: Sorry, man. 
Cheech: Gimme the f***ing hammer! 
Chong: OK! (hands it to him) You don’t have to shout, man. 
Cheech: Yes I do. It’s the only way to get your attention! 
Chong: Hey. You think that's really a camera?

Cheech bends down, holding hammer and looking into camera. Smiles evilly.

Cheech: Goodnight sweetheart. 

Smashes hammer down. Go to black. 

Cheech: (OS) And close the f***ing window.

Henrik Ibsen's "Pulp Fiction" (an excerpt)

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INT. APARTMENT (ROOM 49) – MORNING

Jules shoots Roger on the couch. Brett reacts with horror.

Jules: (to Brett) Oh, do forgive me. I appear to have broken your concentration. I assure you, that was not my intent. By all means, please continue. Something about “best intentions,” I believe? Oh … Is something the matter? Ah, I see! You have completed your apologia! Very well. With your permission, my retort shall be a query.
Brett: I fail to grasp your meaning!
Jules: Then you are clearly not from this country.
Brett: Your meaning is still opaque, sir!
Jules: Opaque? Opaque? I’ve never heard of such a country! Do they speak Norwegian in Opaque?
Brett: Norwegian?
Jules: Yes, you Oedipal afterbirth. Norwegian! Are you fluent in this language?
Brett: Yes! 
Jules: Ah. Then you do grasp my meaning. 
Brett: Admittedly so.
Jules: Then please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Excuse me?
Jules: No, sir! I will not excuse you! I will repeat the question—and caution you of dire and dreadful consequences if you respond with an “opaque” reply.
Brett: Sorry. What was the question?
Jules: Please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Oh. Well. His head is entirely devoid of hair.
Jules: Ah. Does he by chance resemble a female dog?
Brett: Excuse me?

Jules shoots Brett in the shoulder.