Friday, February 21, 1997
Give until we stop hurting you
This program has been brought to you by the law firm of Shaft, Lynch, Burn, Twist and Fry. And the generous support of viewers like you.
Necromarketing
INT, HAACK ADVERTISING AGENCY.
Meeting room. A group of ad agency types sitting around a table are about to reveal their efforts to a client – JOE SCHMUTZ, the Dirt Devil CEO. He’s expecting to see a commercial projected on the screen at the front of the room.
SCHMUTZ: OK, show me what you got, Haack. Fred Astaire dancing around with a Dirt Devil, right? Some animation thing with the computer?
HAACK: More like a reanimation thing.
SCHMUTZ: Reanimation … wha?
HAACK: Yes, hmm-hmm. Resurrecting his corpse proved actually cheaper than CGI.
SCHMUTZ: Yeah. Ha-ha. I’m a busy man, Haack. I don’t have time for jokes.
HAACK: No, joke. Hmm-hmm. We call it … Necromarketing! Behold!
FRED ASTAIRE’s reanimated corpse leaps out from behind the screen, starts dancing around with a Dirt Devil.
SCHMUTZ: Jesus Christ!
FRED ASTAIRE starts dancing on the ceiling. Disgusting pieces of him start falling off. SCHMUTZ projectile vomits. Then FRED ASTAIRE leaps down from the ceiling, sinks his teeth in SCHMUTZ’ neck, and begins to feed. The other agency employees run screaming. HAACK and JACK GETZ walk out quietly--then shut and lock the door. HAACK turns to GETZ.
HAACK: Hmm. Well … I think it’s going to need a little more work.
Monday, February 17, 1997
The 20th Century Fair
12 Mar 2497: Sarasota.
People take the John and Mable Ringling/Burt Reynolds Museum and Holographic Simulation Array for granted around here. Bring the kids for a Saturday, interact with anyone you want to from the Baroque era; walk inside a Reubens with Paul Rubens as your host; recreate the Deliverance canoe ride.
It’s all there, anytime you want it. Sure.
But it’s not all simulated.
Somebody has to pay for it — and these days, they’re paying with thin sheets of printed green paper known as “money.” History buffs will be familiar with the term — that’s the basic medium of exchange before the North American Federation moved to an energy standard in 2044.
But it’s coin of the realm in the 20th Century Fair — all credit chips must be exchanged on the way in!
It’s like taking a step back in time.
Merchants are hawking their wares at “the Mall” — anything from microwave ovens to printed paper magazines to polyester shirts.
There’s an exciting recreation of what it must have been like to wait at the primitive Sarasota-Bradenton airport terminal; a hauntingly detailed condominium “model unit” — not a re-creation, but a one-of-a-kind historical artifact preserved in volcanic ash after the tragic eruption of 1998. All that, and exotic period foods like “pizza,” “hotdogs,” and “hamburgers,” along with colorful strolling musicians playing the quaint “rock” music of the period — with games like “miniature golf,” “bowling,” and “pinball” for those who want to recreate the ancient tradition of “fun on the weekend.”
Enjoy — but beware of the roaming “Muggers” and “Street People” who just might come up to you saying "empty your pockets.”
It’s all part of the fun!
Authentic traffic jams are staged daily employing authentic — gas powered internal combustion! — automobiles from the late 20th century period. Excited throngs watch as professional anachronists recreate what the dreaded “Tamiami Trail” must have actually looked — and sounded — like!
Crowds gasp in horror as the cars execute “passing maneuvers,” “giving the finger,” “cutting somebody off in traffic,” “out-running the police car.” Or at least that’s what the white Lexus was trying to do until the police car slammed into it at 110 kilometers an hour.
“Ooooh,” said the crowd, feeling the crash in their bones. No hologram could prepare you for this—this is what a car wreck actually looked like!
But everybody was “OK,” as they used to say.
“Agghhh,” said Officer Bill, pulling his body loose from the accordion-folded remains of his vintage police car, “I'm all right," he said, brushing himself off. "They were tough back then. There’s no way to fake it. If you want to do this you have to be tough—not like him.”
He was pointing at the driver of the Lexus—an entertainer dressed in the colorful “Yuppie” garb of the day complete with "cel-phone" and pony-tail. Officer Bill began squinting at the driver of the Lexus, studying him coldly for a moment, before he began shouting: “Hey! How much memory you got in that CPU you jacked in—huh? Biochips or silicon?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you’re using AI, right? I’m just curious. You can tell me. What you got in that thing?”
“I’m not using AI.”
Which is when Officer Bill “got in his face,” as they used to say in olden times.
“Don’t lie to me—I saw that evasive manoeuvre, pal. You're enhanced. Nobody reacts that fast. Nobody.”
“Hey—I do, ‘kay? I do. I got the stuff.”
“You? That wasn’t you — that was the car. You got that thing rigged with proximity sensors, inertial dampers and some kind of virtual net to jack up your reaction time. You’re not using the steering wheel — you’re driving up here."
Officer Bill pointed to his forehead. The Yuppie seemed ashamed.
"Am I right?”
“Yeah.” the Yuppie mumbled, “You're right — I'm enhanced. But look at the car. That’s a ‘94 Lexus. I can’t afford to wreck it—”
“So you falsify the experience for everybody else — that’s good. That’s not what this is all about, is it?”
The Yuppie was starting to walk away now.
“It’s ‘kay,” he said. “Just forget it.”
“Kay? Kay? You’re starting to irritate me, pal — they didn’t say ’kay back then—they said “OK.”
“They were starting to say 'kay.
“Not most people. Not until 2010—get it right or don’t do it at all!”
Which is when Officer Bill began shouting “Somebody throw this bum out of here.”
And they did — the fair officials are very strict when it comes to falsifying the experience. No simulations. No enhancements. No computers except for primitive 20th century models. This is as close to the real thing as possible — which is why the crowds keep coming back, year after year. They know this is not a hologram, not VR. Real car wrecks. Real fights. Real pizza.
Real smog.
So maybe it’s a matter of ticket sales — but it was clearly more than that to “Officer Bill.”
“I can’t stand people like that. I mean — what’s the point of all this if we’re
faking it? They didn’t have a user interface to the cerebral cortex back then — and cars didn’t think. All you had was the steering wheel and your nerve.”
How did you get involved with the 20th Century Fair?
"Well, it's hard to remember when I started. The 20th century has an interesting period to me, even when I was a kid — I was always a romantic, a dreamer. Just imagine! Flat-picture TV sets! Soldiers! Garbage cans! Cars! Cars that couldn’t think, couldn’t talk back to you — you actually had to drive them! The world was divided into different countries. They hadn’t invented cold fusion yet. There still had war. There still had criminals. No worries about galactic politics. Armadillos couldn’t even fly.”
Wasn't he romanticising it? Wasn't there a lot about this period that really wasn't all that wonderful? The disease? The violence?
“But that's part of what I liked about it. People were more alive back then because there was more risk, more danger.”
And then he was off—to an exciting recreation of the Rodney King riots of 1994. What joy it was to be alive in those days.
But, thanks to entertainers like Officer Bill, at least we have the next best thing.
Originally published in The Sarasota Arts Review.
People take the John and Mable Ringling/Burt Reynolds Museum and Holographic Simulation Array for granted around here. Bring the kids for a Saturday, interact with anyone you want to from the Baroque era; walk inside a Reubens with Paul Rubens as your host; recreate the Deliverance canoe ride.
It’s all there, anytime you want it. Sure.
But it’s not all simulated.
Somebody has to pay for it — and these days, they’re paying with thin sheets of printed green paper known as “money.” History buffs will be familiar with the term — that’s the basic medium of exchange before the North American Federation moved to an energy standard in 2044.
But it’s coin of the realm in the 20th Century Fair — all credit chips must be exchanged on the way in!
It’s like taking a step back in time.
Merchants are hawking their wares at “the Mall” — anything from microwave ovens to printed paper magazines to polyester shirts.
There’s an exciting recreation of what it must have been like to wait at the primitive Sarasota-Bradenton airport terminal; a hauntingly detailed condominium “model unit” — not a re-creation, but a one-of-a-kind historical artifact preserved in volcanic ash after the tragic eruption of 1998. All that, and exotic period foods like “pizza,” “hotdogs,” and “hamburgers,” along with colorful strolling musicians playing the quaint “rock” music of the period — with games like “miniature golf,” “bowling,” and “pinball” for those who want to recreate the ancient tradition of “fun on the weekend.”
Enjoy — but beware of the roaming “Muggers” and “Street People” who just might come up to you saying "empty your pockets.”
It’s all part of the fun!
Authentic traffic jams are staged daily employing authentic — gas powered internal combustion! — automobiles from the late 20th century period. Excited throngs watch as professional anachronists recreate what the dreaded “Tamiami Trail” must have actually looked — and sounded — like!
Crowds gasp in horror as the cars execute “passing maneuvers,” “giving the finger,” “cutting somebody off in traffic,” “out-running the police car.” Or at least that’s what the white Lexus was trying to do until the police car slammed into it at 110 kilometers an hour.
“Ooooh,” said the crowd, feeling the crash in their bones. No hologram could prepare you for this—this is what a car wreck actually looked like!
But everybody was “OK,” as they used to say.
“Agghhh,” said Officer Bill, pulling his body loose from the accordion-folded remains of his vintage police car, “I'm all right," he said, brushing himself off. "They were tough back then. There’s no way to fake it. If you want to do this you have to be tough—not like him.”
He was pointing at the driver of the Lexus—an entertainer dressed in the colorful “Yuppie” garb of the day complete with "cel-phone" and pony-tail. Officer Bill began squinting at the driver of the Lexus, studying him coldly for a moment, before he began shouting: “Hey! How much memory you got in that CPU you jacked in—huh? Biochips or silicon?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you’re using AI, right? I’m just curious. You can tell me. What you got in that thing?”
“I’m not using AI.”
Which is when Officer Bill “got in his face,” as they used to say in olden times.
“Don’t lie to me—I saw that evasive manoeuvre, pal. You're enhanced. Nobody reacts that fast. Nobody.”
“Hey—I do, ‘kay? I do. I got the stuff.”
“You? That wasn’t you — that was the car. You got that thing rigged with proximity sensors, inertial dampers and some kind of virtual net to jack up your reaction time. You’re not using the steering wheel — you’re driving up here."
Officer Bill pointed to his forehead. The Yuppie seemed ashamed.
"Am I right?”
“Yeah.” the Yuppie mumbled, “You're right — I'm enhanced. But look at the car. That’s a ‘94 Lexus. I can’t afford to wreck it—”
“So you falsify the experience for everybody else — that’s good. That’s not what this is all about, is it?”
The Yuppie was starting to walk away now.
“It’s ‘kay,” he said. “Just forget it.”
“Kay? Kay? You’re starting to irritate me, pal — they didn’t say ’kay back then—they said “OK.”
“They were starting to say 'kay.
“Not most people. Not until 2010—get it right or don’t do it at all!”
Which is when Officer Bill began shouting “Somebody throw this bum out of here.”
And they did — the fair officials are very strict when it comes to falsifying the experience. No simulations. No enhancements. No computers except for primitive 20th century models. This is as close to the real thing as possible — which is why the crowds keep coming back, year after year. They know this is not a hologram, not VR. Real car wrecks. Real fights. Real pizza.
Real smog.
So maybe it’s a matter of ticket sales — but it was clearly more than that to “Officer Bill.”
“I can’t stand people like that. I mean — what’s the point of all this if we’re
faking it? They didn’t have a user interface to the cerebral cortex back then — and cars didn’t think. All you had was the steering wheel and your nerve.”
How did you get involved with the 20th Century Fair?
"Well, it's hard to remember when I started. The 20th century has an interesting period to me, even when I was a kid — I was always a romantic, a dreamer. Just imagine! Flat-picture TV sets! Soldiers! Garbage cans! Cars! Cars that couldn’t think, couldn’t talk back to you — you actually had to drive them! The world was divided into different countries. They hadn’t invented cold fusion yet. There still had war. There still had criminals. No worries about galactic politics. Armadillos couldn’t even fly.”
Wasn't he romanticising it? Wasn't there a lot about this period that really wasn't all that wonderful? The disease? The violence?
“But that's part of what I liked about it. People were more alive back then because there was more risk, more danger.”
And then he was off—to an exciting recreation of the Rodney King riots of 1994. What joy it was to be alive in those days.
But, thanks to entertainers like Officer Bill, at least we have the next best thing.
Originally published in The Sarasota Arts Review.
Friday, January 3, 1997
Quentin Tarantino's "The Knife Before Christmas"
T'was the fucking night before X'mas
As I stalked through the house
Not a victim was stirring
(Each soon dead as a louse!)
Their stockings were hung by the chimney
Who cares?
Fuck their mythical hopes!
They were gonna get theirs...
My rich in-laws were nestled,
All smug in their beds
Dreams of shit they won't see
Danced in their heads
Bitch wife in her nightie
Me in PJs catblack
All ready for mayhem
With gun, knife or blackjack
When out on the lawn
There arose such a noise
I near pissed my pants
What the fuck -- some choirboy?
I leapt to the window, peeked out for a glance
What I saw -- not a caroler, nor ho with a trick
But my idiot black partner, dressed up like St. Nick
Complete with eight reindeer and sleigh
What a dick!
The moon seemed to flash like a knife on the snow
As he puffed on his crackpipe and lurched to and fro
Through the snow! To the trellis!
Like a rhino in heat
That nigger woke up everyone on the street
Time to move, and I did
As he worked down the chimney
All slicken'd with grease
I slit up Ms. Bitch and her kin
Just like fat Xmas geese
And when, from the fireplace, that fat fuck did appear
I capped him
Four shots in the face
And then two in the rear
Now sirens! Now bleeding! Now understand!
No time to gloat on my fucking great plan
From right hand to left, I shifted the knife
Plunged it in my own shoulder, but I didn't cry
But still pulled it out -- to Saint Creep's clenching hand!
Homeboy heard me exclaim
As he watched his life bleed...
"Merry Christmas, now die.
Here comes the police."
He did, and they did, and soon I was cozy
In my hospital bed, as warm as a pussy
While visions of loot danced inside my sick head
I was acting torn up -- "Aww, my fucking family was dead!"
All the chicks that I knew felt so sorry for me
As I cried on the outside, inside brimming with glee
As I thanked God for Xmas
And double indemnity
And I said to myself
Having lived through this riot
My next fucking partner
Had better be quiet
-- Dewey Grosshart, Marty Fugate (aka "Jack Getz")
Originally published, in extremely, ridiculously, gutlessly expurgated form, in The Sarasota Arts Review.
Bulk of the credit goes to "Dewey Grosshart" -- I mostly cleaned up the scan to make it fit the rhyme scheme.
PS: It should go without saying but, uh, duh, the "N-word" is part of the satire. See, uh, Quentin Tarantino uses the N-word a lot and, uh. You shouldn't say bad words like that.
As I stalked through the house
Not a victim was stirring
(Each soon dead as a louse!)
Their stockings were hung by the chimney
Who cares?
Fuck their mythical hopes!
They were gonna get theirs...
My rich in-laws were nestled,
All smug in their beds
Dreams of shit they won't see
Danced in their heads
Bitch wife in her nightie
Me in PJs catblack
All ready for mayhem
With gun, knife or blackjack
When out on the lawn
There arose such a noise
I near pissed my pants
What the fuck -- some choirboy?
I leapt to the window, peeked out for a glance
What I saw -- not a caroler, nor ho with a trick
But my idiot black partner, dressed up like St. Nick
Complete with eight reindeer and sleigh
What a dick!
The moon seemed to flash like a knife on the snow
As he puffed on his crackpipe and lurched to and fro
Through the snow! To the trellis!
Like a rhino in heat
That nigger woke up everyone on the street
Time to move, and I did
As he worked down the chimney
All slicken'd with grease
I slit up Ms. Bitch and her kin
Just like fat Xmas geese
And when, from the fireplace, that fat fuck did appear
I capped him
Four shots in the face
And then two in the rear
Now sirens! Now bleeding! Now understand!
No time to gloat on my fucking great plan
From right hand to left, I shifted the knife
Plunged it in my own shoulder, but I didn't cry
But still pulled it out -- to Saint Creep's clenching hand!
Homeboy heard me exclaim
As he watched his life bleed...
"Merry Christmas, now die.
Here comes the police."
He did, and they did, and soon I was cozy
In my hospital bed, as warm as a pussy
While visions of loot danced inside my sick head
I was acting torn up -- "Aww, my fucking family was dead!"
All the chicks that I knew felt so sorry for me
As I cried on the outside, inside brimming with glee
As I thanked God for Xmas
And double indemnity
And I said to myself
Having lived through this riot
My next fucking partner
Had better be quiet
-- Dewey Grosshart, Marty Fugate (aka "Jack Getz")
Originally published, in extremely, ridiculously, gutlessly expurgated form, in The Sarasota Arts Review.
Bulk of the credit goes to "Dewey Grosshart" -- I mostly cleaned up the scan to make it fit the rhyme scheme.
PS: It should go without saying but, uh, duh, the "N-word" is part of the satire. See, uh, Quentin Tarantino uses the N-word a lot and, uh. You shouldn't say bad words like that.
Monday, December 23, 1996
Satan Claus
Satan Claus
ANNOUNCER: (ridiculously cheery) Yes Children, it's
Christmas time again! Time to visit the winterwonderland 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?
(At a blackboard, Santa points out the anagram of SANTA
and SATAN).
Santa: 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 hoof poke through roof...
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 hoof 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!"
Tuesday, December 3, 1996
Slingbladerunner
OK, kids. It's a movie trailer for the latest Billy Bob Thornton vehicle ...
This time, it's a glimpse at a dark, not-too-distant future that could happen in our lifetimes. Yattayatta. OK. Run the trailer.
Montage of 2019 LA. Dangerous Replicants walking around. Scary music.
ANNOUNCER: The year is 2019. There’s a new kind of android in the City of Angels. They’re called Replicants. Four are walking the gritty streets right now. They look like us, but they sure as hell don’t like us. Problem is, they’re stronger and smarter and trained to kill.
Jump cut -- ROY crushing TYRELL's skull.
ANNOUNCER: And in a world where machines are better than people, it takes a very special person to fight back.
INT, TYRELL CORPORATION
Holden is giving the V-K test to LEON to see if he’s a Replicant. They sit at opposite ends of a long steel table.
HOLDEN: Describe in simple words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.
LEON: My mother? Let me tell you about my mother.
Beneath the table, LEON raises a laser pistol. Before he can shoot, CARL leaps down from the ceiling and cuts LEON in half, vertically, with his slingblade.
CARL: (holds up slingblade) This here’s a slingblade. Some folks call it a Kaiser blade.
HOLDEN: Thanks Carl. I owe you one.
CARL: Just doing my job, I reckon. Mmm-hmm. My mama never loved me. She was a whore.
CARL raises up his slingblade in a heroic pose. Freeze-frame.
ANNOUNCER: Meet Carl—Slingbladerunner. He’s on the case.
INT, BRIAN’S OFFICE - NIGHT
BRIAN shows CARL the four escaped Replicants on a video display.
BRIAN shows CARL the four escaped Replicants on a video display.
BRIAN: This is bad, Carl.
CARL: What’m I looking at’chere?
BRIAN: New model.
CARL: Mmm-hmm. They look like models. Kinda pretty like.
BRIAN: No. Replicant models.
CARL: Replicants. That there’s them robots with skin on ‘em, mmm-hmm.
BRIAN: Nexus 6. They’re smarter than you.
CARL: I reckon that there toaster is smarter than me. Mmm-hmmm. But I take your point.
ANNOUNCER: He’s on the hunt.
INT, TAFFY LEWIS’ STRIP CLUB – ZHORA’S DRESSING ROOM – NIGHT
CARL watches ZHORA taking off her costume.
CARL: That there your snake?
ZHORA: No, idiot. It’s my schlong. I took it off and it wriggles around by itself.
CARL: I reckon you’re mocking me.
ANNOUNCER: He’s on dangerous ground.
INT, CARL’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
RACHEL and CARL confront each other.
RACHEL: You going to kill me?
CARL: Nah. I reckon I ain’t gonna kill you. (holds up slingblade) You sharpened my slingblade real nice.
RACHEL: I love it when you talk dirty.
CARL: I ain’t talking dirty. I’m retarded, brain-damaged some might say. I reckon retarded folk ain’t inclined to say one thing what means another. They just say what they wanna say, mmm-hmm. You got nice titties, mmm-mmm. See? Kinda like that.
RACHEL: That test. You ever take it yourself?
CARL: Yeah. I failed. I hate tests.
RACHEL: No empathy?
CARL: No. Too much empathy. I sorta feel sorry for everybody.
RACHEL: But you don’t mind killing.
CARL: Killing. Mmm. Killing folks like you is what you mean. People what sorta ain’t people.
RACHEL: Killing Replicants? That’s OK?
CARL: I reckon Replicants ain’t got souls, so's that makes it OK.
RACHEL: That’s what it says in the Bible?
CARL: Well. I reckon mine’s the one with pictures.
ANNOUNCER: He’s on borrowed time.
INT, BRADBURY BUILDING – NIGHT
ROY, shirtless, is stalking CARL. He howls like a wolf.
ROY: Owwwooooo! I’m coming for you, Carl.
CARL cuts off his head.
CARL: I reckon I got here first.
ROY'S HEAD: Ow. That hurt.
ANNOUNCER: Slingbladerunner. He’s not the sharpest tool in the chest.
Triumphant close-up, Carl holding up his bloody slingblade.
ANNOUNCER: But his slingblade is.
Wednesday, November 6, 1996
Bring me the head of Barney the Dinosaur
OPEN, Mister Rogers staring wide-eyed at the camera.
MISTER ROGERS: Hello kids. Are you afraid of the toilet? Don't be afraid of the toilet. You can't fall in. No. You'll never get sucked in that spinning vortex of death, screaming helplessly and thrashing your arms ...
Cut to SEAN, the cameraman -- tough looking guy with Boston-Irish accent.
SEAN: Jesus, you sick bastard.
Back to MISTER ROGERS --
MISTER ROGERS: ... until you and the peepee and doodie go down the drain to the sewer place where all the bad things go forever and ever and your mommy and daddy can't help you. That can't happen to you. No! Let's sing a song.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
INT, LUNCHROOM
SEAN sits alone at a table, eating a sandwich.
SEAN: (to himself) Sick fucking bastard.
BARNEY enters, unscrews his head. It's a black guy who resembles Samuel L. Jackson. He sits down next to SEAN.
BARNIE: Fuck you muttering about?
SEAN: Mister Rogers.
BARNIE: What about him?
SEAN: He's not right, man.
BARNEY: Kids like him.
SEAN: You like him?
BARNEY: Fuck no, man. Motherfucker creeps me out. He got that Anthony Perkins thing going.
SEAN: Anthony Perkins?
BARNEY: Shit. Y'know. The "Psycho" dude. Eeee-eee?
SEAN: Yeah, the "Psycho" guy. Right. They could be brothers.
BARNEY: His eyes don't blink, man. Creep me the fuck out. What's your damn problem?
SEAN: Ah, I left some shit in the studio. My girlfriend got me this present. She'll chew my ass out.
BARNEY: Go get it then. Pussy-whipped motherfucker. I ain't stopping you.
INT STUDIO
SEAN wanders through the studio.
SEAN: Purple dinosaur. I get my balls busted. By a fucking purple dinosaur. Now what? Ah, Jesus. Who left the lights on?
Someone is talking in the the supposedly empty Neighborhood of Make Believe set. SEAN's curious. Wanders closer. Sees --
MISTER ROGERS has arranged all his puppets in a semi-circle. He stands at the center, talking to them -- and doing the puppet voices so the puppets seem to talk back.
MISTER ROGERS: I am here, my children. Who are you?
PUPPETS: We are nothing! We are puppets! We are creatures of papier mache and clay! We have no life but the life you give us! We have no words, but the words you speak through us!
MISTER ROGERS: Who am I?
PUPPETS: You are our Creator! You give us life!
MISTER ROGERS: What is my name?
PUPPETS: Mister Rogers! Mister Rogers is your holy name!
MISTER ROGERS: Who is Mister Rogers?
PUPPETS: You are God!
MISTER ROGERS: Yes. I am God.
PUPPETS: Hail Mister Rogers! Hail to our God!
MISTER ROGERS: Mister Rogers is God in his own personal universe.
PUPPETS: All hail! All hail Mister Rogers!
MISTER ROGERS: Worship your God!
PUPPETS: We worship you! We --
HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow! Intruder, meow!
KING FRIDAY: An outsider among us!
MISTER ROGERS turns and sees SEAN.
MISTER ROGERS: Hello neighbor.
SEAN: Look, I don't know what --
MISTER ROGERS: (holding something up) You know what this is?
SEAN: I fucking quit, OK?
MISTER ROGERS. Taser. Can you say Taser?
MISTER ROGERS zaps SEAN with the Taser. He jerks spasmodically.
SEAN wakes up, tied to a chair.
SEAN: Let me go, OK? This is not funny.
MISTER ROGERS: Behold the unbeliever.
SEAN looks around. He's surrounded by a circle of puppets -- like bloodthirsty Romans in the Coliseum.
PUPPETS: Death to the unbeliever!
SEAN: Seriously?
SEAN looks at Mister Rogers' lunatic eyes. He realizes the smiling sweatered psychopath is dead serious. Panics.
SEAN: Help! Somebody fucking help me!
MISTER ROGERS: No one will help you. The studio is sound proof. Can you say sound proof?
SEAN: Help! H -- ah, fuck it.
MISTER ROGERS. Well, my children. What shall we do with the unbeliever?
PUPPETS: Hanging! Castration!
KING FRIDAY: Electrocution! Electrocute him with Trolley!
HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: No, meow-meow. Fire!
MISTER ROGERS. Fire is good, Henrietta. I like that idea, mmm-hmm.
The puppets cheer.
PUPPETS: Fire! Yay.
HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow! Fire! My idea, meow-meow!
MISTER ROGERS: Now where did I put the gas can?
HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow-meow, there! Under the castle.
MISTER ROGERS: Thank you, Henrietta.
SEAN: I fucking hate you, Henrietta Pussycat!
Mister Rogers walks towards the castle -- then turns around.
BARNEY is standing there.
BARNEY: Fuck you doing?
MISTER ROGER: Well. We're having a party. You're invited too.
Fires Taser. Nothing happens.
BARNEY: Insulated, dig? You know how many fucking times some punk's tried to tase my purple ass?
BARNEY advances.
MISTER ROGERS: Get away from me.
BARNEY advances.
MISTER ROGERS: I'm Mister Rogers. You're extinct! You --
BARNEY closes the distance. Mister Rogers runs.
Hold a few beats. BARNEY returns.
BARNEY: It's true.
SEAN: What's true?
BARNEY cuts the rope with a switchblade.
BARNEY: That "can't go down the drain," shit. It's true man.
SEAN looks down. Water is spreading across the floor.
BARNEY: Let's grab something to eat.
They walk out of the studio
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