Hollywood Special Olympics

EXT - DAY

BUGS BUNNY leans against a sign, gnawing on a carrot and obscuring the sign. "Chariots of Fire" theme plays. A line-up of mentally challenged people from top dollar Hollywood film runs into frame from right to left: LENNY (from Of Mice and Men) CHARLIE GORDON (from Charly), FORREST GUMP (from, duh, Forrest Gump), RAINMAN (from Rainman) - etc.

BUGS watches patiently, then steps away from the sign.

The sign says: BRIDGE OUT.

We hear a splash. BUGS looks at us.

BUGS: Ain't I a stinker?

Satan Claus

ANNOUNCER: (ridiculously cheery) Yes Children, it's Christmas time again! Time to visit the winter wonderland 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: WORK! WORK YOU MANGY ELVES! CHRISTMAS IS COMING... (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? Who I really am? Isn't it obvious? Ho-ho-ho.

At a blackboard, Santa points out the anagram of SANTA and SATAN.

Santa: Ho-ho-ho! 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: WORSHIP ME! I BRING YOU PRESENTS! I BRING YOU YOUR HEART'S DESIRE...ANYTHING YOU WANT IS YOURS IF YOU ONLY WORSHIP ME!

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!

SANTA: I AM THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS!!!

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 hooves 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, Timmy...you 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!"

The Clastic, Fantastic Deconstructions of Pseudo DiGiolino

Schweene Gallery through November 30

Polymorphously perverse, the ethnic, eidetic deconstructions of Pseudo DiGiolino present, as it were, a fractured synthesis of peripatetic realization; a forced march through shattered-glass synecdoche, as visually realized in sequential synchronicity.

The viewer is astonished at DiGiolino's deconstructed entelechy; the matrix of surds, both analog and digital; the holistic-yet-fractured fractals recalling Feynman diagrams or Coach Vince Lombardi's representations of football plays.

Atom or etym, pigskin or boson, the biomorphic abstraction proliferating within DiGiolino's work seems to multiply geometrically; rapidly advancing and receding in the picture plane; ultimately crawling out and devouring the inattentive viewer in one gulp, sending screaming, panic-stricken, art-walking crowds into the streets as the biomorphic abstraction grows and grows and grows, bursting through the roof, destroying the gallery in one enormous jet of flame, as the relentless biomorphic abstraction emerges to crush, to destroy, to grow, to feed.

Such imagery recalls the work of Caravaggio, with oblique references to Destroy All Monsters, as well. One sees bread sticks, biscuit tins, buckets and bears. This is a tickertape parade for newspaper people who tear themselves into millions of little bits; flesh shredded to shards of meaning, blowing in the wind; words reduced to nonsense celebrating the triumphant arrival of the man who wasn't there. Because nothing ever was.

But there is something to be said for nothing.

As the artist himself once said, "Art is like a baked potato, except the potato is made of dynamite and the microwave oven is a nuclear bomb."

DiGiolino acknowledges his debt to Dadaism, not to mention his mounting credit card bill, which is now a five-digit figure. Other influences include: Caravaggio, Davide, R. Crumb, the Venus of Willendorf, dirty pictures on the bathroom wall, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Art Levine, Stella (the artist), Stella (from A Streetcar Named Desire), Stella Artois (the beer), Jackson Pollock, Jackson Pollack, Chuck Close, Chuck Far, Chuck Norris, Chuckie the evil doll in Child's Play 1-3, all those paintings in Rod Serling's Night Gallery, Caravaggio, Norman Rockwell, Tristan Tzara, Dirty Duck, the Lysol Duck, and a napkin drawing of an unknown dying artist's penultimate expression of aesthetic experience that briefly existed on the floor of the Horn and Hardart automat in New York City, but is now, unfortunately, lost. And, of course, Caravaggio.

I could go on. DiGiolino's art, in fact, reminds me of everything. Fittingly so, because everything which has existed up to the present moment has led, ineluctably, to the creation of that art. DiGiolino's existing body of work is also strikingly reminiscent of the work he will produce in the future. As these pieces are unavailable to this reviewer, I cannot comment on these resemblances at this time. But what am I really saying? The question intrudes like a doctor's finger in a latex glove. To truly understand DiGiolino's work, one would have to see with the eyes of God, and understand with the mind of God, all that ever was, is, and will be, as well as the penumbral matrix of hypostasized possibilities and potentials. Lacking this omniscience, my review clearly means nothing. But, I have reached my word count. That has to mean something.

—Jackson DeVoe, Artist at Large

Quentin Tarantino's Wizard of Oz

WIZARD: Harvey Keitel.
LION: Samuel L. Jackson
SCARECROW: Steve Buscemi
TINMAN: Michael Madsen
DOROTHY: Linda Fiorentino

DOROTHY and her friends stride into OZ's vast, echoing hall. Purposeful, not polite.

The head flames to life.

OZ: Can I believe my eyes? Why ... (pause) Why have you come back?

DOROTHY: Surprised?

DOROTHY kicks broom across the shiny, green marble floor.

DOROTHY: Weren't expecting me, huh?

LION: No, man. Big fuckin' head over there? He ain't expecting shit.

The head flames again. Oz roars.

OZ: I am the great and powerful Wizard of Oz!

SCARECROW: Yeah. And you made a great and powerful miscalculation. We're supposed to be dead.

OZ: I am the great ...

LION: Hey, fuck that talking head shit. (pointing) Check out the goddamn dog.

TOTO starts sniffing around a curtain hiding ... something.

SCARECROW: Dogs are smart. They got like a fucking instinct or something.

LION: Instinct for bullshit.

TOTO pulls the curtain open, revealing the man -- OZ, the very human grifter -- working the controls. DOROTHY and her FRIENDS surround him.

OZ: Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

LION: Bust that shit up.

TINMAN: With pleasure. (advances with axe)

SCARECROW: (blocking him) No. That's expensive hi-fi shit, man. We can sell it.

Their voices echo from the sound system. Painful feedback.

TINMAN: I can't stand this fucking --

SCARECROW: Then turn it the fuck off. (turns a nob) See? Sounds of silence.

LION: Motherfucker got some explaining to do.

OZ: I'm a very good man, but I'm a very bad wizard.

TINMAN: No. Actually. You're a very dead fuck.

Clubs him with flat end of the axe.

OZ: (stunned) Why ... Why'd you--

TINMAN: Why? You're asking me why?

OZ: Why --

TINMAN: 'Cause it amuses me. 'Cause you asked, fucker. I don't even have a fucking heart. (raising axe) You wanna see how it feels?

WIZARD: No!

LION: Tie him up. I ain't got all damn day.

OZ's POV. The TINMAN smiles. Lifts his axe ...

Black.

They slap OZ back into consciousness. He's tied to a chair, beaten bloody. DOROTHY and FRIENDS are laughing at him.

LION: You were asking?

OZ: Asking?

LION: Well then, allow me to refresh your memory. You posed the Tinman here a question. "Why" ...

OZ: (delirious) Oh. Yes .. yes. "Why"... Why are you doing this?

LION: Yeah. You said that already. Allow me to ...

OZ: Why ..

LION: Say why again! I dare you! I double dare you!

OZ: Why ...

TINMAN: (raising axe) I'll fucking kill you!

LION: No, man. Let him answer the damn question. Then kill him.

TINMAN: How 'bout I kill him, and then he answers it?

LION: No. (to SCARECROW) Hey motormouth. You got all that verbal ability. This lying motherfucker here asked why. Fucking explain it to him.

SCARECROW dances up. Punch-drunk, loopy.

SCARECROW: Why? Why, why, why. (hits him) Why'd I hit you? (hits him) Why'd I fucking hit you again? Why are we gonna kill you?

They laugh. SCARECROW slaps OZ silly again.

OZ: Why ...?

SCARECROW: Good question! Let's pose a hypothetical. That's lawyer talk. You know what it means?

OZ: Y-yes.

SCARECROW: Outstanding! (slaps him) Now here's the hypothetical, so pay attention.

OZ groans.

SCARECROW: OK. Let's say there's this teenaged girl living in white trash Kansas. Some sorry-ass third world country drop the fucking H-bomb on Kansas City and her fucking Airstream trailer rides the shockwave and miraculously lands in Uganda intact and crushes Idi Amin's second in command. The poor kid walks into a war zone. There's a war going on, civil war, worst kind of war there is. Now she's a fucking refugee. She's running for her fucking life. What does she do? She teams up with three other fuck-ups who are all running for their lives. And they all go to this guy for help. The big cheese, lives in some enclave like Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. The locals all think he's King Shit. But he's really some grifter from the USA who's been hiding out. He's spread this big story to the local yokels about his magical powers -- sound familiar? Hey, I asked you a question.

OZ nods.

SCARECROW: Yeah, I thought so. The kid's scared. She's a stranger in a strange land full of weird fucking shit and she doesn't know the rules. So, the kid and the three fuck-ups finally meet the magic man. "I wanna go home," she says, "Send me back home, if there's anything left of it." He's fucking pissing his pants this little girl might blow his cover. So, you know what he says to her? "Yeah, sure, I'll send you back. If you bring me Idi Amin's machine gun." Get it? What are the fucking odds of success? I'll tell you. None. Zero. Squat.

OZ: This is hardly ...

LION: You stone cold motherfucker. You sent her to die. You sent us all to die.

TINMAN: (OS) This head thing. It's like a projector. All that fire. That's gotta come from somewhere. (starts rooting around -- OS)

SCARECROW: Whatever man.

TINMAN: (OS) Kerosene! It's like a bigass barbecue grill. Hahaha!

SCARECROW: We need some fucking music in here.

Starts fiddling with dials.

SCARECROW: (OS) Hey! Stealer's Wheel!

"Stuck in the Middle with You" starts playing. DOROTHY walks up to OZ.

DOROTHY: We coulda been friends, you and me. You're kinda cute. That's the tragedy.

OZ: Wait! You need me!

DOROTHY: I need you?

OZ: I have a balloon.

SCARECROW: He has a fucking balloon!

OZ: I'm from Kansas City! The Omaha State Fair ...

They laugh.

OZ: You don't understand! I can take you home! You can't get home without me!

DOROTHY walks up to him and kisses him wetly.

DOROTHY: Fuck home. Somebody take care of this Kansas City motherfucker.

TINMAN: With pleasaure.

He starts dancing around with the axe. Dances out of frame.

DOROTHY: Let's get something to eat.

SCARECROW: Read my mind, gorgeous. I'm starving to death.

LION: Yeah. Me too. Ate a fucking munchkin outside but they like Chinese food. (shouting to TINMAN) You want anything?

TINMAN: No. I'm having my own barbecue.

He dances back into frame with a can of kerosene. Splashes OZ with it.

TINMAN: See you when I see you.

He dances. In a kind of trance.

SCARECROW: He's doing his thing again. Hey! Act like a fucking professional!

TINMAN ignores him, keeps dancing.

LION: Let's split this fucking joint.

DOROTHY: I love you. I love all of you.

DOROTHY puts her arm around the LION and SCARECROWs shoulders with great familiarity. They leave. "Stuck in the Middle with You" continues to play. OZ screams. The Tinman dances with his axe.

Natural Born Clowns

INT, DINER - DAY

Two CLOWNS walk in -- a guy clown and a girl clown. One of them is holding a seltzer bottle. The fat MANAGER looks them up and down with amusement.

MANAGER: What're you gonna do...spritz me with that thing?

CLOWN #1 smiles and sprays him in the face.

MANAGER: Ahhh, my eyes!

Instinctively, his hands shoot up to his eyes. The second he does this, the other clown viciously gut-punches him. The MANAGER folds up like a pocket-ruler. One more club to the head with the seltzer bottle and he's down. CLOWN #1 smashes the seltzer bottle to the floor and pulls out a gun. CLOWN #2 pulls out another gun.

CLOWN #2: I say we waste these fucks, whaddya say?

CLOWN #1: I dunno Clowny-bunny.

CLOWN #2: We got any heroes here? Anybody wanna be a hero?

The camera pans to the people sitting in the diner. We see a long table. Sitting at the table are all the "Superfriends" -- Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, etc. They all shake their heads no.

CLOWN #2: Gimme your fuckin' wallets!

They do.

Cut to the two CLOWNS driving away in a large, brightly colored clown-car with big bouncy wheels. CLOWN #2 is counting the take.

CLOWN #2: "Super Friends"...(snorting) "Super Fags" is more like it.

CLOWN #1: You think the police will be after us?

CLOWN #2: (pulling condom with large "S" from Superman's wallet) No.

CLOWN #1: Why not, Clowny-bunny?

CLOWN #2: 'Cause we're wearing this clown makeup, dumbass. They'll never recognize us!

EXT, view of clown car driving away comically down the road, obvious as all get-out.**

[I actually dreamed this, more or less as is. Ever now and then, your subconscious gives you one for free.]

HRS Kid

to the tune of "I'm a Toys-R-Us Kid"

I don't wanna grow up.
I'm an HRS kid!
My mommy didn't beat me
But my daddy sure did!
With bricks and boards
And electrical cords.
That's why I'm an HRS kid!

Shall we gather at the reefer?

Ah, dearie, dear. The Man continues to persecute the Ethiopian Zion Coptic Church, having recently thrown "Brother Louv" in the slammer for pot possession. Seems the EZCC views pot-smoking as a sacrament. Which strikes me as, y'know, more mellowing than wafer and wine, though the Man doesn't share my opinion.

Let us turn in our hymnals to Hymn 420. "Shall We Gather At the Reefer?"

All rise.

Shall we gather at the reefer?
The beautiful, beautiful reefer.
Shall we gather at the reefer ...
And get completely stoned?