Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Ballad of Newt Gingrich
(to the tune of "The Ballad of Gilligan's Island")
Just sit right back, and you'll hear a tale
A tale of a man named Newt
Who wanted sex with lots of chicks
And a marriage vow that's moot
His first wife had a tumor
Her white blood cell count was shot
Newt divorced her in the hospital
Jackie was no longer hot
His second spouse was Marianne
An understanding wife
Newt asked her for an open bed
And she picked up a knife
His third wife was Callista
She was pliable and young
Like Monica Lewinsky
She likes a guy who's hung
So this is the tale of our candidate
Savior of the USA
Newt says don't do what you see me do
Just do what I say!
Just sit right back, and you'll hear a tale
A tale of a man named Newt
Who wanted sex with lots of chicks
And a marriage vow that's moot
His first wife had a tumor
Her white blood cell count was shot
Newt divorced her in the hospital
Jackie was no longer hot
His second spouse was Marianne
An understanding wife
Newt asked her for an open bed
And she picked up a knife
His third wife was Callista
She was pliable and young
Like Monica Lewinsky
She likes a guy who's hung
So this is the tale of our candidate
Savior of the USA
Newt says don't do what you see me do
Just do what I say!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Bad Idea Dept.
Researchers genetically engineered the H5N1 avian influenza virus (aka "bird flu") to make it more deadly to humans to see if it could possibly mutate into a deadlier form. Now that they succeeded, the government is politely asking them to keep their research secret. As anyone who's ever read Stephen King knows, this is a bad idea on many levels.
In a related development, physicists at the Large Hadron Collider launched an attempt to open up a "hell mouth" and allow Satan to enter our plane of reality. "We want to see if it was possible," one was quoted as saying. "That way, we can make sure it'll never happen. We're scientists. We don't believe in your stupid Flying Spaghetti Monster, but we like to be sure just in case. We want to avoid all that scary Book of Revelationsy kind of stuff."
Unfortunately, Satan did enter our plane of reality after one physicist spilled a cup of coffee on the Large Hadron Collider. Satan immediately took the next available flight to Los Angeles and became a late night talk show host with the Sham-Wow Guy in the Ed McMahon Role.
Here's a clip from Satan's opening monologue:
SHAM-WOW GUY: No, Satan. You're the best, Satan!
SATAN: !@# my !@#$.
SHAM-WOW GUY bursts into flame.
SHAM-WOW GUY: Eaggghhhhh!
SATAN: Behold humans, my reign of fear and torment begins! Now, let's give a big hand to my first guest ... John Boehner!
Applause.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Buddhist Nirvana
Back in my jolly college days, I signed up for a course in "Buddhist Nirvana" taught by Jeffrey Hopkins at UVA. I mean ... Buddhist Nirvana? Shit. How hard could it be?
The catalog said it was on the fifth floor of Wilson Hall at UVA. I went there, walked up the staircase. It only went up four stories. I came back down. Talked to the cute young babe at the front desk.
"What are you looking for?" she said.
"Buddhist Nirvana," I said.
She gave me a look like a tiny door had opened up in my forehead and a cuckoo bird had just popped out.
"The catalog says it's on the fifth floor at Wilson Hall."
She snickered.
"There is no fifth floor in Wilson Hall."
I walked away.
Evidently, you only make it to the fifth floor when you're ready for Buddhist Nirvana.
The catalog said it was on the fifth floor of Wilson Hall at UVA. I went there, walked up the staircase. It only went up four stories. I came back down. Talked to the cute young babe at the front desk.
"What are you looking for?" she said.
"Buddhist Nirvana," I said.
She gave me a look like a tiny door had opened up in my forehead and a cuckoo bird had just popped out.
"The catalog says it's on the fifth floor at Wilson Hall."
She snickered.
"There is no fifth floor in Wilson Hall."
I walked away.
Evidently, you only make it to the fifth floor when you're ready for Buddhist Nirvana.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Santa is magic
Santa Claus. Well, you know. I had a problem with Santa from the beginning.
The whole backstory was fishy. From both an epistemological and ontological perspective.
I recall being introduced to Santa in the antediluvian world of the early 1960s. Santa was appearing at Sears and Roebucks, a giant blue cube which is now Michael's on East. Santa, Dad told me, would be there in person. I could meet Santa.
This struck me as bullshit. Or the childish equivalent thereof.
I informed my Dad that this appearance wasn't logical. Santa was a major world figure, like JFK or Khrushchev. If Santa was appearing at Sears, there'd be TV cameras and screaming crowds. More importantly, WHY would he appear at Sears? Santa has better things to do.
Dad conceded that it wasn't Santa. As such. It was Santa's helper. One of Santa's many representatives, pervading the world.
OK. I could buy that.
So, I joined the line of snotnosed children at Sears. After an interminable wait, I met Santa's Helper #4,917. I asked him for an end to nuclear war and to make my parents stop fighting. And a bicycle.
But a seed had been planted in my mind. A seed of doubt.
The logical inconsistencies of the Santa story stuck with me.
I thought about it.
Santa had a workshop at the North Pole? There was precedent. Superman maintained his Fortress of Solitude at the North Pole. Santa had a vast army of elves, endlessly working, creating toys in a vast factory.
OK. So, why were the toys under the Christmas tree WRAPPED IN PLASTIC with the stickers obviously pulled off? Was Mattel shipping toys to the North Pole for redelivery by Santa?
If Santa delivered toys to all the good little children, what about the starving children in India? Or Africa? Or Communist China? Did they get toys?
Come to think of it -- leaving the question of surveillance aside -- how could Santa possibly deliver toys to all the good little children on earth in 12 hours? How did he fit all those toys in one sack in one sleigh? It violated the laws of physics.
I confronted my father with these questions. He's like Foghorn Leghorn. I'm like Widow Hen's insane genius baby chicken. Dad thinks. He doesn't want to say "Santa is bullshit." That'd rob me of one of the joys of childhood. Creating this joy explains the adult conspiracy to feed unsuspecting children this bogus story about a fat man in an anti-gravity sleigh distributing toys. So Dad says, "Santa's magic." Or something to that effect.
Good magic or black magic?
Good magic.
Oh, I say. So Santa's working for Jesus!
It's all so logical. It explains why a Turkish Bishop from the fourth century had lived for nearly 2,000 years in a Fortress of Holiday Gifting at the North Pole. Why Santa could circumnavigate the globe in only a night. His sleigh and flying reindeer. His ability to watch you at all times. The computational power implied in dividing all the children of the world into lists of good and bad.
Santa was working for Jesus. After His resurrection, Jesus left the earth and delegated some of His powers to Santa until His return. He extended Santa's lifespan and gave him extrasensory powers. The elves, no doubt, were diminutive Neanderthal Men, whom Jesus resurrected and sent to work for Santa. The cavemen were grateful. "Ugh! We make toys now!" It all made sense now.
Dad looked at me. Appalled. I had just folded the bullshit story of Santa Claus into Christian theology. It was, after all, the only logical explanation. Santa's sleigh flew for the same reason that Moses had parted the waters. It was a miracle. God's power. What else?
The only way to refute this notion was to say, "Uh, sorry son. This whole Santa Claus thing is pure bullshit. Adults like to tell this shit to kids to make their eyes light up on Christmas morning."
He didn't.
"Sure," he said. "That's one way to look at it."
Two years later, I was taking a leak in the boy's restroom at Alta Vista Elementary. I asked some kid what Santa was getting him for Christmas. He snorted. "You still believe in Santa Claus?" No, of course not. I fought back tears. Zipped up. Just joking. Ha-ha. Santa? I don't believe in Santa ...
Jesus, I thought.
If they lied to me about Santa Claus ...
What else are they lying about?
I got a Lionel train set for Christmas.
The whole backstory was fishy. From both an epistemological and ontological perspective.
I recall being introduced to Santa in the antediluvian world of the early 1960s. Santa was appearing at Sears and Roebucks, a giant blue cube which is now Michael's on East. Santa, Dad told me, would be there in person. I could meet Santa.
This struck me as bullshit. Or the childish equivalent thereof.
I informed my Dad that this appearance wasn't logical. Santa was a major world figure, like JFK or Khrushchev. If Santa was appearing at Sears, there'd be TV cameras and screaming crowds. More importantly, WHY would he appear at Sears? Santa has better things to do.
Dad conceded that it wasn't Santa. As such. It was Santa's helper. One of Santa's many representatives, pervading the world.
OK. I could buy that.
So, I joined the line of snotnosed children at Sears. After an interminable wait, I met Santa's Helper #4,917. I asked him for an end to nuclear war and to make my parents stop fighting. And a bicycle.
But a seed had been planted in my mind. A seed of doubt.
The logical inconsistencies of the Santa story stuck with me.
I thought about it.
Santa had a workshop at the North Pole? There was precedent. Superman maintained his Fortress of Solitude at the North Pole. Santa had a vast army of elves, endlessly working, creating toys in a vast factory.
OK. So, why were the toys under the Christmas tree WRAPPED IN PLASTIC with the stickers obviously pulled off? Was Mattel shipping toys to the North Pole for redelivery by Santa?
If Santa delivered toys to all the good little children, what about the starving children in India? Or Africa? Or Communist China? Did they get toys?
Come to think of it -- leaving the question of surveillance aside -- how could Santa possibly deliver toys to all the good little children on earth in 12 hours? How did he fit all those toys in one sack in one sleigh? It violated the laws of physics.
I confronted my father with these questions. He's like Foghorn Leghorn. I'm like Widow Hen's insane genius baby chicken. Dad thinks. He doesn't want to say "Santa is bullshit." That'd rob me of one of the joys of childhood. Creating this joy explains the adult conspiracy to feed unsuspecting children this bogus story about a fat man in an anti-gravity sleigh distributing toys. So Dad says, "Santa's magic." Or something to that effect.
Good magic or black magic?
Good magic.
Oh, I say. So Santa's working for Jesus!
It's all so logical. It explains why a Turkish Bishop from the fourth century had lived for nearly 2,000 years in a Fortress of Holiday Gifting at the North Pole. Why Santa could circumnavigate the globe in only a night. His sleigh and flying reindeer. His ability to watch you at all times. The computational power implied in dividing all the children of the world into lists of good and bad.
Santa was working for Jesus. After His resurrection, Jesus left the earth and delegated some of His powers to Santa until His return. He extended Santa's lifespan and gave him extrasensory powers. The elves, no doubt, were diminutive Neanderthal Men, whom Jesus resurrected and sent to work for Santa. The cavemen were grateful. "Ugh! We make toys now!" It all made sense now.
Dad looked at me. Appalled. I had just folded the bullshit story of Santa Claus into Christian theology. It was, after all, the only logical explanation. Santa's sleigh flew for the same reason that Moses had parted the waters. It was a miracle. God's power. What else?
The only way to refute this notion was to say, "Uh, sorry son. This whole Santa Claus thing is pure bullshit. Adults like to tell this shit to kids to make their eyes light up on Christmas morning."
He didn't.
"Sure," he said. "That's one way to look at it."
Two years later, I was taking a leak in the boy's restroom at Alta Vista Elementary. I asked some kid what Santa was getting him for Christmas. He snorted. "You still believe in Santa Claus?" No, of course not. I fought back tears. Zipped up. Just joking. Ha-ha. Santa? I don't believe in Santa ...
Jesus, I thought.
If they lied to me about Santa Claus ...
What else are they lying about?
I got a Lionel train set for Christmas.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Star Trek: The Stupid Curtain
INT, BRIDGE, USS ENTERPRISE. ORIGINAL SERIES.
KIRK is asleep.
Red alert. The ship shudders. Everything's bathed in white light. The ship's lights go dead.
SPOCK: (shaking KIRK's shoulder) Wake up, Captain.
KIRK: Huh? Wh... I thought she was over eighteen, your honor. I had no waying of knowing. The Zoobian year. Is eight months long. (suddenly realizing where he is) Oh. Spock. Uh. Status report.
SPOCK: We're being scanned, Captain. A deep probe, incredibly swift.
UHURA: Mmm-hmmm.
The lights come back up, and a man appears on the view screen. FONZIE.
MCCOY: Jim! Look!
The FONZ is floating in space, thumbs hitched in his leather jacket.
FONZ: (on viewscreen) Yo. Captain Kirk. Ayyyyy.
KIRK: The Fonz!
FONZ: (on viewscreen) Correctamundo!
KIRK: But …You’re a fictional character!
FONZ: Hey. You’re a fictional character.
McCOY: I have a very bad feeling about this.
KIRK and FONZ (in unison) Wrong franchise,dipstick.
KIRK, SPOCK and McCOY dematerialize.
EXT, DESERT - DAY
Well-known pointy rock formations north of L.A.
KIRK, SPOCK, McCOY and FONZ materialize.
KIRK: Where the hell are we?
SPOCK: Vasquez Rocks, just north of LA, Captain.
KIRK glares at him.
SPOCK: That is to say, a planet with striking similar, uh, meterological and geographic features to said, uh, overused film location.
KIRK: Nicely played, Spock.
ROCK ENTITIES appear, surrounding the party in a circle.
SPOCK: (pointing) Rock entity at one o’clock!
McCOY: Rock entity at two o'clock!
FONZ: Three o'clock rock!
The ROCK ENTITIES start dancing and singing. The FONZ joins in.
ROCK ENTITIES and FONZ: Four O'clock rock, Five, Six, Seven O'clock, Eight O'clock rock. Nine, Ten, Eleven O'clock, Twelve O'clock rock, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight!
One ROCK ENTITY (aka ROCKY) steps forward and waves its heavy fore-claws.
ROCK ENTITY: Shut up!
The other ROCK ENTITIES stop dancing, shut up and slink away.
ROCKY: Welcome back to Escalbia, Captain.
KIRK: Aw crap. Not this again.
ROCKY: Yes Captain. This. Again.
McCOY: Fredric Brown is rolling in his goddamn grave.
Cut of Frederic Brown, the original SF writer who penned "Arena," actually rolling in his grave.
ROCKY: Now, a new drama unfolds. I see you've met the Fonz.
FONZ: Ayyyy.
ROCKY: Now. Meet your new friends. Elvis.
ELVIS appears. The young ELVIS. He lets loose with a string of dipthongs.
ELVIS: Euhhuehh.
ROCKY: And Fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Woah. Man. This ain’t heaven, huh?
ELVIS: No man. Some fucking planet or sumpin.
FAT ELVIS: Wow man. That’s some strong stuff, tell you what. Taking a dump one second. Bright light. Next thing I know science fiction city.
ROCKY: Gentleman, please. We can do this later ...
FAT ELVIS: Hey. You look familiar man.
ELVIS: I’m you.
FAT ELVIS: Me?
ELVIS: Yeah, man. Elvis.
ROCKY in background getting increasingly pissed.
FAT ELVIS: How do you know I’m Elvis?
ELVIS: Says so on your sissy jacket, man.
FAT ELVIS' sequined jacket, in fact, has the name "Elvis" written on it in glass-bead studs in bulbous cursive handwriting.
ROCKY: We are wasting time here!
ELVIS: Elvis. Hell, that means I’m you. Man you let yourself go.
FAT ELVIS: Screw you, man.
ELVIS: Look like a fruit all those dang things dangling off you.
FAT ELVIS: Chicks dig …
ROCKY: Shut up!
ELVIS and FAT ELVIS: (dirty look) Talking to the Kings man.
FONZ: Yeah. Sit on it!
The ELVI go back to squabbling.
ROCKY: Shut up and I’ll give you some pills!
They shut up.
ROCKY: Well, Kirk. Young Elvis, Fat Elvis and the Fonz. Do you detect the common element, Captain?
KIRK: Ah, Space Christ …
ROCKY: Yes. The human philosophy of "cool." Which is opposed by the philosophy you term "uncool." Such philosophies are alien to us.
KIRK: You ever heard of Wikipedia? Look it up.
ROCKY: We did. The definition is opaque and contradictory.
McCOY: Hell, you dumb rock, everyone knows what cool is.
ROCKY: Very well, doctor. What is cool?
McCOY: It’s, uh … it’s … I’m a doctor, damnit. Not a … clever uh, word-defining guy.
ROCKY: Yes. I thought so. Now … Behold your uncool opponents!
Emo Phillips appears.
ROCKY: Emo Phillips, who endured 15 minutes of degrading fame as whipping boy for Judy Tenuta.
EMO: (muttering) Enjoyed.
ROCKY: Woody Allen, who mocked his lecherous, craven nature and turned out to be even worse.
WOODY: I'm available for children's parties.
ROCKY: Bill Gates, who crushed the souls of millions.
GATES: (snorts) Billions.
ROCK: Now you shall fight. To the death. In the struggle, we shall observe which is stronger. Thus, we shall learn the nature of cool and uncool. It is our way.
SPOCK: Highly illogical.
ROCKY: Excuse me?
SPOCK: First, if you Escalbians can create a simulation of so-called "cool" and "uncool" beings, it follows logically that you understand the concept. Secondly, trial by combat is only a test of survivability--a test of a single factor, hardly a definition of essence. Thirdly, in terms of sample base, this is a single trial beset with highly random factors and...
ROCKY: Well taken, Mr. Spock. We Escalbians have a saying. Go fuck yourself.
FONZ: Same to you, rock.
ROCKY: Let the battle begin!
KIRK: (to the NERDS) Gentlemen …
The NERDS run away screaming.
EXT, DESERT - DAY
KIRK, McCOY, SPOCK and the COOL ENTITIES sitting around a campfire.
FONZ: It’s quiet.
ELVIS: Too quiet.
FAT ELVIS: Do some singing man.
ELVIS: Now you're talking!
ELVIS, FAT ELVIS and FONZ all leap up. ELVIS snaps his fingers ...
ELVIS: And a one, and a two, and a ...
BILL GATES steps around a rock formation holding a white flag.
GATES: Hi ... everybody I hope I’m not bothering you. Please don’t hit me.
KIRK: I’m not going to hit you.
GATES: (to Kirk) OK. Uh. Wow, I’m such a fanboy … But. Well. We have something in common. Not dying would be the common subset. Thus, negotiations would be appropriate.
KIRK You were notorious, Mr. Gates, for striking at your enemies in the midst of negotiating with them. (rock bounces off his forehead) Ow!
GATES: That wasn’t me.
FONZ: Pants on fire.
GATES: Well, history was written by those stupid Apple commercials. I don’t look good in a turtleneck ... and they make me feel like I'm being strangled. Can we talk?
KIRK: No.
FAT ELVIS: (getting up) Hell, I’ll talk to the little runt. Work something out, man. You got any pills?
GATES: No.
FAT ELVIS: Well let’s talk anway.
FAT ELVIS follows BILL GATES around the rock formation.
A few seconds later ...
FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hey, man stop that shit. Yeooowww . Goddamn that hurts. You little peckerwood. You some kinda? Owwww. Hey, man, somebody help!
KIRK and pals get up to help FAT ELVIS. ELVIS stops them.
FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hell, ain't even Ann Margret touched there ... no .. Eeeeeeeeeeeyowwwww!
ELVIS: Uh-huh. That ain’t cool. Man. Ain’t no way Elvis yelling out like a little girl. Even old fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Eeeeee (rising in pitch) EEEEEEEE!
FONZ: Well, whoever he is, he needs help.
They all grab sticks and rocks and run around the rock formation.
On the other side they see --
FAT ELVIS standing right as rain.
FAT ELVIS: Hey, man. I’m just messing with you cats.
ELVIS: You got me good, Fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Heyuhuh, you know. Anyhow, me and this here fella, we made us a deal. We got us a band, man. 2Es and the Fonz -- this squirt's gonna manage. Hitting the space road. You in?
FONZ and ELVIS nod, hell yeah, ayy, agree.
GATES: More to the point, The Microsoft Corporation now owns exclusive marketing rights to the operating system to Escalbia.
ROCKY: What? Why?
GATES: (holding up legal document) This.
ROCKY: A piece of paper?
GATES: (holding up another piece of paper) A court order.
ROCKY: How?
FAT ELVIS: Got us a lawyer, man.
A ROCK ENTITY lawyer gives ROCKY the finger.
ROCKY: This court order. What does it ... say?
GATES: Well. (clears throat) "Due to copyright infringement via duplication of intellectual property of The Estate of Bill Gates in the creation of Bill Gates Entity (and proprietary knowledge of Microsoft products in mind of said entity) created from memories stored in minds of 24th-century humans, said action taken without consent or prior notification of said humans, it is the judgment of this court that, for payment of compensatory and punitive damages, Microsoft Industries (deemed, on basis of "Recreation of Bill Gates by Aliens" clause in The Estate of Bill Gates title document), to be henceforth exclusively both owned and represented by Bill Gates Entity, (as both actual and corporate person) operating in perpetuity through any and all afiliates, shall be granted all legal title, past, present, future and hypothetical, to reality-generating substrate of planet defined as "Escalbia," as well as all representations, demonstrations and future marketing rights."
ROCKY: In plain English, you little shit!
GATES: It’s my planet now. Get off.
ROCKY: That’s uncool!
ROCK ENTITIES drag ROCKY away. "Rock around the Clock" starts playing again. ROCK ENTITIES, "Star Trek" away team and recreated dweebs and pop icons all start dancing.
KIRK is asleep.
Red alert. The ship shudders. Everything's bathed in white light. The ship's lights go dead.
SPOCK: (shaking KIRK's shoulder) Wake up, Captain.
KIRK: Huh? Wh... I thought she was over eighteen, your honor. I had no waying of knowing. The Zoobian year. Is eight months long. (suddenly realizing where he is) Oh. Spock. Uh. Status report.
SPOCK: We're being scanned, Captain. A deep probe, incredibly swift.
UHURA: Mmm-hmmm.
The lights come back up, and a man appears on the view screen. FONZIE.
MCCOY: Jim! Look!
The FONZ is floating in space, thumbs hitched in his leather jacket.
FONZ: (on viewscreen) Yo. Captain Kirk. Ayyyyy.
KIRK: The Fonz!
FONZ: (on viewscreen) Correctamundo!
KIRK: But …You’re a fictional character!
FONZ: Hey. You’re a fictional character.
McCOY: I have a very bad feeling about this.
KIRK and FONZ (in unison) Wrong franchise,dipstick.
KIRK, SPOCK and McCOY dematerialize.
EXT, DESERT - DAY
Well-known pointy rock formations north of L.A.
KIRK, SPOCK, McCOY and FONZ materialize.
KIRK: Where the hell are we?
SPOCK: Vasquez Rocks, just north of LA, Captain.
KIRK glares at him.
SPOCK: That is to say, a planet with striking similar, uh, meterological and geographic features to said, uh, overused film location.
KIRK: Nicely played, Spock.
ROCK ENTITIES appear, surrounding the party in a circle.
SPOCK: (pointing) Rock entity at one o’clock!
McCOY: Rock entity at two o'clock!
FONZ: Three o'clock rock!
The ROCK ENTITIES start dancing and singing. The FONZ joins in.
ROCK ENTITIES and FONZ: Four O'clock rock, Five, Six, Seven O'clock, Eight O'clock rock. Nine, Ten, Eleven O'clock, Twelve O'clock rock, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight!
One ROCK ENTITY (aka ROCKY) steps forward and waves its heavy fore-claws.
ROCK ENTITY: Shut up!
The other ROCK ENTITIES stop dancing, shut up and slink away.
ROCKY: Welcome back to Escalbia, Captain.
KIRK: Aw crap. Not this again.
ROCKY: Yes Captain. This. Again.
McCOY: Fredric Brown is rolling in his goddamn grave.
Cut of Frederic Brown, the original SF writer who penned "Arena," actually rolling in his grave.
ROCKY: Now, a new drama unfolds. I see you've met the Fonz.
FONZ: Ayyyy.
ROCKY: Now. Meet your new friends. Elvis.
ELVIS appears. The young ELVIS. He lets loose with a string of dipthongs.
ELVIS: Euhhuehh.
ROCKY: And Fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Woah. Man. This ain’t heaven, huh?
ELVIS: No man. Some fucking planet or sumpin.
FAT ELVIS: Wow man. That’s some strong stuff, tell you what. Taking a dump one second. Bright light. Next thing I know science fiction city.
ROCKY: Gentleman, please. We can do this later ...
FAT ELVIS: Hey. You look familiar man.
ELVIS: I’m you.
FAT ELVIS: Me?
ELVIS: Yeah, man. Elvis.
ROCKY in background getting increasingly pissed.
FAT ELVIS: How do you know I’m Elvis?
ELVIS: Says so on your sissy jacket, man.
FAT ELVIS' sequined jacket, in fact, has the name "Elvis" written on it in glass-bead studs in bulbous cursive handwriting.
ROCKY: We are wasting time here!
ELVIS: Elvis. Hell, that means I’m you. Man you let yourself go.
FAT ELVIS: Screw you, man.
ELVIS: Look like a fruit all those dang things dangling off you.
FAT ELVIS: Chicks dig …
ROCKY: Shut up!
ELVIS and FAT ELVIS: (dirty look) Talking to the Kings man.
FONZ: Yeah. Sit on it!
The ELVI go back to squabbling.
ROCKY: Shut up and I’ll give you some pills!
They shut up.
ROCKY: Well, Kirk. Young Elvis, Fat Elvis and the Fonz. Do you detect the common element, Captain?
KIRK: Ah, Space Christ …
ROCKY: Yes. The human philosophy of "cool." Which is opposed by the philosophy you term "uncool." Such philosophies are alien to us.
KIRK: You ever heard of Wikipedia? Look it up.
ROCKY: We did. The definition is opaque and contradictory.
McCOY: Hell, you dumb rock, everyone knows what cool is.
ROCKY: Very well, doctor. What is cool?
McCOY: It’s, uh … it’s … I’m a doctor, damnit. Not a … clever uh, word-defining guy.
ROCKY: Yes. I thought so. Now … Behold your uncool opponents!
Emo Phillips appears.
ROCKY: Emo Phillips, who endured 15 minutes of degrading fame as whipping boy for Judy Tenuta.
EMO: (muttering) Enjoyed.
ROCKY: Woody Allen, who mocked his lecherous, craven nature and turned out to be even worse.
WOODY: I'm available for children's parties.
ROCKY: Bill Gates, who crushed the souls of millions.
GATES: (snorts) Billions.
ROCK: Now you shall fight. To the death. In the struggle, we shall observe which is stronger. Thus, we shall learn the nature of cool and uncool. It is our way.
SPOCK: Highly illogical.
ROCKY: Excuse me?
SPOCK: First, if you Escalbians can create a simulation of so-called "cool" and "uncool" beings, it follows logically that you understand the concept. Secondly, trial by combat is only a test of survivability--a test of a single factor, hardly a definition of essence. Thirdly, in terms of sample base, this is a single trial beset with highly random factors and...
ROCKY: Well taken, Mr. Spock. We Escalbians have a saying. Go fuck yourself.
FONZ: Same to you, rock.
ROCKY: Let the battle begin!
KIRK: (to the NERDS) Gentlemen …
The NERDS run away screaming.
EXT, DESERT - DAY
KIRK, McCOY, SPOCK and the COOL ENTITIES sitting around a campfire.
FONZ: It’s quiet.
ELVIS: Too quiet.
FAT ELVIS: Do some singing man.
ELVIS: Now you're talking!
ELVIS, FAT ELVIS and FONZ all leap up. ELVIS snaps his fingers ...
ELVIS: And a one, and a two, and a ...
BILL GATES steps around a rock formation holding a white flag.
GATES: Hi ... everybody I hope I’m not bothering you. Please don’t hit me.
KIRK: I’m not going to hit you.
GATES: (to Kirk) OK. Uh. Wow, I’m such a fanboy … But. Well. We have something in common. Not dying would be the common subset. Thus, negotiations would be appropriate.
KIRK You were notorious, Mr. Gates, for striking at your enemies in the midst of negotiating with them. (rock bounces off his forehead) Ow!
GATES: That wasn’t me.
FONZ: Pants on fire.
GATES: Well, history was written by those stupid Apple commercials. I don’t look good in a turtleneck ... and they make me feel like I'm being strangled. Can we talk?
KIRK: No.
FAT ELVIS: (getting up) Hell, I’ll talk to the little runt. Work something out, man. You got any pills?
GATES: No.
FAT ELVIS: Well let’s talk anway.
FAT ELVIS follows BILL GATES around the rock formation.
A few seconds later ...
FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hey, man stop that shit. Yeooowww . Goddamn that hurts. You little peckerwood. You some kinda? Owwww. Hey, man, somebody help!
KIRK and pals get up to help FAT ELVIS. ELVIS stops them.
FAT ELVIS: (O.S.) Hell, ain't even Ann Margret touched there ... no .. Eeeeeeeeeeeyowwwww!
ELVIS: Uh-huh. That ain’t cool. Man. Ain’t no way Elvis yelling out like a little girl. Even old fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Eeeeee (rising in pitch) EEEEEEEE!
FONZ: Well, whoever he is, he needs help.
They all grab sticks and rocks and run around the rock formation.
On the other side they see --
FAT ELVIS standing right as rain.
FAT ELVIS: Hey, man. I’m just messing with you cats.
ELVIS: You got me good, Fat Elvis.
FAT ELVIS: Heyuhuh, you know. Anyhow, me and this here fella, we made us a deal. We got us a band, man. 2Es and the Fonz -- this squirt's gonna manage. Hitting the space road. You in?
FONZ and ELVIS nod, hell yeah, ayy, agree.
GATES: More to the point, The Microsoft Corporation now owns exclusive marketing rights to the operating system to Escalbia.
ROCKY: What? Why?
GATES: (holding up legal document) This.
ROCKY: A piece of paper?
GATES: (holding up another piece of paper) A court order.
ROCKY: How?
FAT ELVIS: Got us a lawyer, man.
A ROCK ENTITY lawyer gives ROCKY the finger.
ROCKY: This court order. What does it ... say?
GATES: Well. (clears throat) "Due to copyright infringement via duplication of intellectual property of The Estate of Bill Gates in the creation of Bill Gates Entity (and proprietary knowledge of Microsoft products in mind of said entity) created from memories stored in minds of 24th-century humans, said action taken without consent or prior notification of said humans, it is the judgment of this court that, for payment of compensatory and punitive damages, Microsoft Industries (deemed, on basis of "Recreation of Bill Gates by Aliens" clause in The Estate of Bill Gates title document), to be henceforth exclusively both owned and represented by Bill Gates Entity, (as both actual and corporate person) operating in perpetuity through any and all afiliates, shall be granted all legal title, past, present, future and hypothetical, to reality-generating substrate of planet defined as "Escalbia," as well as all representations, demonstrations and future marketing rights."
ROCKY: In plain English, you little shit!
GATES: It’s my planet now. Get off.
ROCKY: That’s uncool!
ROCK ENTITIES drag ROCKY away. "Rock around the Clock" starts playing again. ROCK ENTITIES, "Star Trek" away team and recreated dweebs and pop icons all start dancing.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Hogans Heroes -- What Really Would Have Happened
EXT, STALAG 13 - DAY
A German army truck pulls up, the back covered with a flap. General Burkhalter and Major Hochstetter of the Gestapo emerge from the front cab. They confront Colonel Klink, Sergeant Schultz, and five American POWs – the show’s lead characters -- who, for no logical reason, are all standing in front of the commandant’s office.
HOCHSTETTER: What are these men doing here?
BURKHALTER: Bad writing. What do you think?
KLINK: General Burkhalter. It is a pleasure to see you!
BURKHALTER: The feeling is not mutual, Klink. Are you good at math?
KLINK: What?
BURKHALTER: Your mathematical skills. How are they?
KLINK: Well ...
HOCHSTETTER: Colonel Klink tested 47% percentile at Krautschmuck University. He flunked Probability and Statistics. Twice.
BURKHALTER: You see? The Gestapo is very thorough. Tell Colonel Klink more surprising math facts.
HOCHSTETTER: Within a fifteen kilometer radius of Stalag 13, the incidence of sabotage is 798% greater than the statistical norm within comparable areas of the Third Reich.
KLINK: I am sure there is an explanation.
BURKHALTER: Yes. You are either incompetent or a traitor.
Pulls out Luger -- shoots him.
SCHULTZ: I know nothing!
BURKHALTER: I will carve that on your tombstone.
Shoots him.
BURKHALTER: Guards! Schnell!
A squad of Waffen SS bursts out of the back of the truck, form a line and aim ugly automatic weapons at Hogan and his heroes.
HOGAN: You can’t kill us. That’s against the Geneva Convention.
BURKHALTER: The Geneva Conention can kiss my fat Aryan ass. Oh wait. I forgot. You are all spies. According to the Geneva Convention, I can shoot you. Watch.
LEBEAU: (holding out a streudel) I baked a streudel.
Burkhalter shoots him. LeBeau drops the streudel. Falls.
BURKHALTER: As for the rest of you ...
HOGAN: I'm not afraid to die for my country.
KINCH: Speak for yourself, motherfucker. It’s your fucking country. You die for it.
BURKHALTER: Ah. You Americans misunderstand me. We’re not going to kill you. We’re going to torture you slowly, extract information, break your spirits, and use you swine to send disinformation to the Allies. (shouts) Take them away. We can still win this war. Heil Hitler!
HOCHSTETTER: Heil Hitler!
The Guards strongarm and rifle-butt Hogan and his heroes into the truck. The truck drives away. Burkhalter picks up streudel. Sticks his finger in and eats it.
BURKHALTER: Mmmm. Good streudel!
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Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide …
The chemists call you C2H4O
Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide
You’re colorless and flammable, dontcha know
You’re made up of two alkyl groups
Bound up to oxygen in a loop
Your mutagenic smell is sickly sweet
Polysorbate-20’s made from you
And thermobaric weapons too
And I have gotta write about you, Ethylene
Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide …
The chemists call you C2H4O
Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide
You’re colorless and flammable, dontcha know
As solvents go, you are dirt cheap
You're what tastes sweet in antifreeze
Dogs lick you up and die, Ethylene
Tom Lehrer sang the periodic chart
But, hell, I guess I ain't that smart
So I'll finish what I started, Ethylene
Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide …
The chemists call you C2H4O
Ethylene, ethylene, ethylene oxide
You’re colorless and flammable, dontcha know