Vegetable House

INT, DEAN'S OFFICE, FABER COLLEGE - DAY
DEAN WORMER sits at his desk. There's a look of pain on his face. GREG MARMALARD stands next to him. A choir is singing outside his window.(OS)

SMEGMA HOUSE CHOIR (OS)
Have you heard about the animals?
Man, we're worse than cannibals
We eat baby cows, and carve meat from sows
It's a speciest nightmare play!
Vegetable House
Duh-duh
Vegetable House
Duh-duh

DEAN WORMER: Tau Beta Smegma?

GREG MARMALARD: (nods) Yes, sir.

DEAN WORMER: Well, I suppose it's poetic justice.

GREG MARMALARD: I don't know what that means, sir.

DEAN WORMER: Of course you don't, you little shit. You're poli-sci. You don't have to read real books. Let me paint a fucking picture for you.

GREG MARMALARD: Yes, sir.

DEAN WORMER: We kicked the Deltas off campus. Bully for me, bully for you. We replaced them with ... what? With them that's what.

GREG MARMALARD: Tau Beta Smegma.

DEAN WORMER: That's right. They don't drink. They don't smoke. They don't screw. They're vegans!

GREG MARMALARD: What's a vegan?

DEAN WORMER: Like a vegetarian, only worse. Their shit doesn't stink. Literally! They don't eat meat. They don't eat eggs, cheese or honey. If the fucking vegetable truck frightened a fucking flatworm on the way to the market, they don't eat vegetables.

GREG MARMALARD: I see, sir.

DEAN WORMER: No you don't, goddamnit. They're androgynous angels without genitalia. Unlike the fucking Deltas, they're morally superior.

GREG MARMALARD: They're not ...

DEAN WORMER: Of course they're not superior! In their minds, dumbass. They think they're superior.

GREG MARMALARD: I see.

DEAN WORMER: Sure you do.

GREG MARMALARD: Can't we shoot them, sir?

DEAN WORMER: No. Not officially. Please don't shoot them.

GREG MARMALARD: Yes, sir.

SMEGMA HOUSE CHOIR(OS)
Dean Wormer tried to kill a cow.
We said that's bad. Don't do it now.

DEAN WORMER: God, I hate those vegan fuckers. At least the Deltas had balls. You can't grab a fucking eunuch by the balls, can you?

GREG MARMALARD: No, sir.

DEAN WORMER: No. (holding up pencil) I could, on the other hand, jab this delightful Faber Mongol #2 Pencil in my ear and drive it into my brain. But I won't.

GREG MARMALARD: I think that's a wise decision, sir.

DEAN WORMER: I'm glad you do, son. Go fuck yourself.

GREG MARMALARD: Yes, sir.

Die Hard Symphony

(to the tune of Beethoven's Ode to Joy)

It's another Die Hard remake
Even though they changed the name
A pumped-up, stressed-out, out-gunned good guy
Fights the thugs who kill and maim

Bombs exploding, bodies flying
Pieces spinning in the air
Oh, dear God, won't someone stop them?
Awful bad guys just don't care

The guns, the knives
The bombs, the moms
The shlock, the rock
The ticking clock
It's all been planned

Car chase! It's a car chase
And the gun in the face
Right guy, wrong place
The DA's bad pate
And the villain you hate
The children at risk
Is it too late?

The Wo Fat Diet

INT, CARGO CONTAINER 

Detective McGarrett wakes up. The protagonist of “Hawaii 5-0” is in a bad place. His hands are cuffed to the container's metal walls. He struggles valiantly, but it’s useless. Wo Fat, his ancient enemy from the People's Republic of China, is behind it all. And he appears.

WO FAT: (O.S.) Hello, Mr. McGarrett.

McGARRETT: Wo Fat?

WO FAT: The very same.

McGARRETT: Wo Fat. I should've known it was you!

WO FAT: Yes. You should have. Please accept my apologies, Mr. McGarrett. I am sorry to interrupt your retirement on the pitiful fixed income of a Hawaiian police officer's pension.

McGARRETT: Save it.

WO FAT: I am quite sincere, Mr. McGarrett. I take this action with regret.

McGARRETT: What action? What the hell are you talking about? It’s over, Wo Fat!

WO FAT: For you, yes.

McGARRETT: You have the right to remain silent …

WO FAT: You are such a cop!

McGARRETT: You have the right to …

WO FAT: There is a picture of you next to the word “cop” in the dictionary.

McGARRETT: … an attorney.

WO FAT: Yes, of course. If I can’t afford one, your glorious country will provide it. I have memorized this speech, Mr. McGarrett. As Joe Strummer advises me, I know my rights!

McGARRETT: I don’t think so, Wo Fat. “Freedom” isn’t in your dictionary, you commie bastard.

WO FAT: Commie? Please, Mr. McGarrett. You are speaking to the CEO of Wo Fat Imports! I am an entrepreneur, you see? I walk the capitalist road!

McGARRETT: A commie rat by any name is still a rat!

WO FAT: (laughs) Your hair is still amazing, Mr. McGarrett. A frozen wave, trapped in Brylcreem. Exuberant, but dead. A metaphor for America, I think.

McGARRETT: Surf’s up, Wo Fat! America’s still tubular.

WO FAT: I think not.

McGARRETT: Communism is a dead system!

WO FAT: True. As is capitalism. After destroying the communist menace, America destroyed the capitalist menace as well!

McGARRETT: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

WO FAT: Really? (laughs) Today, the People’s Republic of China has become America’s sweatshop. For you we make Beanie Babies, barbecue grills, tiny American flags, and plastic flower pots. Slaves at work, Mr. MrGarrett. Chinese slaves, creating consumer crap as fast as you lazy Americans can buy it. This is not, as you say, “free enterprise.”

McGARRETT: You’re raving, Wo Fat!

WO FAT: Perhaps. As Lenin said, “The capitalists would sell us the noose to hang them with” …? Sadly, he was wrong. Today, American capitalists buy the noose from us and hang themselves!

McGARRETT: What noose?

WO FAT: Why, the crap I speak of. All of this consumer crap! Look above you, Mr. McGarret. It is all there, suspended above your head!

McGARRETT: Yeah?

McGarrett looks up. There is, indeed, a vast assortment of consumer crap, suspended by a net above his head.

McGARRETT: I’ve never bought that crap. Any of it! I buy American, Wo Fat. I check the label, every time.

WO FAT: I’m sure you do. Goodbye, Mr. McGarrett. You have been a worthy enemy.

Wo Fat pushes a button. The vast heap of consumer crap falls down on McGarrett’s head, crushing him.

Holy Moly

Why, exactly, do fundamentalist preachers read passages from the Bible and ask their flocks to turn to their Bibles and read the same freaking passage they're saying? Did some huckster preacher pull a fast one once?

PREACHER: Yeah, uh, in the Book of Second Evasions it says ... "Give all your money to me, the guy with the bad haircut." Yeah. Chapter 11 verse whatever. That's exactly what it says. "Thou shalt givest all your money to me." Something like that. Come on. Cough up, you stupid rubes.

So, the rubes get cheated out of all their stuff. Then, one day, one of the few yokels who could actually read looked the passage up. Lo and behold, there AIN'T no such passage. The Book of Second Evasions doesn't exist! Sadly, the PREACHER has already left town with all their money. They rubes vowed ...

RUBES: Goldang it, next preacher reads something, we's gonna look it up! We ain't fallin' for that shit again!

Hence, the read-what-I'm-saying-in-the Bible tradition in the fundamentalist community. OK, fine, the preacher isn't bullshitting you, like Lucy telling Linus that the music in the radio comes from a tiny little orchestra trapped inside. The stuff he's saying is actually in there. But that's a pretty low standard.

Preacher need to try harder. Why don't they?

It seems to me having a captive audience shouting "Amen" is a bad relationship to begin with. Imagine comedians playing to audiences that never stopped laughing, no matter how crappy the joke was. Comedians would get lazy. Standards would go down. What fundamentalist Christianity really needs is sacred hecklers.

PREACHER: What does God want for us?

HECKLER: He wants you to shut up.

PREACHER: He wants us to be happy.

HECKLER: It'd make God happy if you'd FUCKING SHUT UP.

PREACHER: Hey -- you wanna get up here and do this? You think this is easy.

HECKLER: Yeah, I do. But that's OK. I've got a real job.

Congregation laughs. HECKLER gets up, bows, blows kisses, leaves.

The sermons would get better. Real fast.

Popcorn would also be nice.

And while we're on the subject ...

An open letter to Charlie the Tuna...

Stop trying to get an audition with Starkist. It's not an audition. Yes, the name of the product includes the word "star." That doesn't mean they want to make you a star. They don't want to put you in show business, you idiotic Phil Silvers lookalike. THEY'RE GOING TO KILL YOU. They're going to chop you up into little pieces and put you in a can. That's what the Starkist people do to tuna. Unlucky dolphins too. Do you want that? Is a death wish at work here?

I don't think so. You're not suicidal. You're a dreamer. But it's time to stop dreaming. It's time to accept your life as it is. A career in cinema does not await you, Charlie. You're a fish who wears sunglasses and a beret. Get used to it. And stop tugging on that hook before they kill you.

Sorry, Charlie.

Trix are for rabbits.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. For the love of God, people, he's on the fucking box.

The rabbit is a gentle soul. Trusting. Creative. For some reason -- and you could hit me in the head with a rock and I still couldn't explain it -- he isn't bitter.

The rabbit is a bright-eyed, eternal optimist. He has sunshine in his heart.

Yet, the children deprive him of Trix. Their reasoning? Identity. Apparently, the rabbit can't have Trix BECAUSE HE'S A RABBIT. That's it. "Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids!" That's their line of reasoning. Trix are for kids. The rabbit is not a kid. He can't have Trix. Well, QED. Silly rabbit! Yeah, he's silly. He's a rabbit. He wants something that IS NOT MEANT FOR HIM. He aspires beyond his station. What a fucking idiot! Clearly, stuffing "fruit-flavored frosted corn puffs" in your digestive track is a privilege reserved for human children. So they laugh at him. Like the arrogant children of white plantation owners mocking slaves. "Silly slave. Mint juleps are for white people."

The rabbit doesn't argue. He strives for Trix with subterfuge and stratagems. He doesn't pull out an AK-47 and mow the children down while screaming with rage. He wears disguises. He sends fake telegrams. It never works.

Inevitably, the little shits say, "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids." And he takes it. He keeps on smiling.

One of these days, I promise you, the rabbit is going to snap.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. Please.

Before it's too late.

Dad's Company

(to the tune of "Bad Company" by Bad Company)

A nepotist, a slacker I am called

I go to work, and just stare at the wall

Arrive at twelve, and then I’m gone by one

But no one speaks

‘Cause I’m the boss’ son

(That’s what he tells me)

It’s Dad’s company

I can’t deny it

Dad’s company

Till the day he dies

I got my car

And my expense account

Those escort gals

Make my expenses mount

Convention fun

Las Vegas and LA

Put the drinks on me

My daddy's gonna pay!

That’s what he tells me …

It’s Dad’s company

I can’t deny it

Dad’s company

Till the day he dies