Saturday, March 27, 2004

There's no place like home

Let’s face it. The rest of the world lives in a shack.

“Home.” A four-letter word that says so little. Calling this grand residence “home” is almost an insult. This place is more than that. Much more than that. Much, much, more. It’s your home in the Florida sun.

Yes. Yours.

Mega-Mansion?

That also is an understatement.

Strictly speaking, it’s a mega-mega-mega mansion. But so much more. Words fall short. This glorious manse is literally indescribable. But we will try.

First impressions are always so important, are they not? Here, it’s an impression an Impressionist would kill to paint.

Your expansive residence towers against the eastern sun like the Rock of Gibraltar, blocking the waterfront view of area residents for miles around and making that view exclusively yours.

Welcome home, it seems to say. Toss the keys to your Lamborghini to your fawning valet and come closer. You own me. Enter me. I am yours.

The implied seduction draws you closer.

The grand portico towers above you at the elegant Entranceway Transition Space. A cudgel-wielding giant could walk through those massive mahogany doors. A giant could live here. You could be that giant. It’s entirely possible.

And thus you enter.

Inside, you experience a light-filled, oxygen-enriched space of luxury and tranquility. It’s a graceful simplicity that’s simply graceful. The understated elegance makes a grand statement. The ambiance is second to none. It is truly a realm of the senses and a holiday in Rio for the mind.

Such details. Such texture. Such suchness.

A cut-glass chandelier as large as a Buick. Bold lines, vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows and polished porcelain floors lend an air of drama and splendor. The word “openness” comes to mind. Just drink in the view. And take a deep breath. Ahhhh. Yes. There’s room to breathe here. Room to grow, to live, to feel. And there are many rooms in this roomy expanse. It’s a spacious residence with more interior cubic feet than the Vehicle Assembly Building.

So many possibilities. The helpful GPS displays and helpful guides at every turn are always there to help.

Why not go up in the world?

An excellent choice.

Today, your homecoming journey to your own Shangri-la begins on your private elevator to your rooftop retreat where, through custom-designed arched doors, you realize you’ve come to a very special place indeed. A Master Bedroom that’s truly worthy of the name. Stroll boldly to the open patio doors as your personal penthouse chef gleefully roasts a whole lamb on the giant roaring hearth. The terrace of the Palazzo Patio Porch Exterior Viewing Area affords a contemplative sanctuary of heart and mind. The waters of Sarasota Bay splash below, on the charming, shell midden of a former Indian burial ground. One of your many pools sprawls right next to it, directly above Billy Bowlegs' grave. It’s actually larger than Sarasota Bay.

A charming window seat awaits for tranquil moments of reading or meditation. Take your time, count the roses and savor the delicious smells. The chef has caught on fire and is screaming in Greek, but you've hardly noticed. The deep feeling of peace surrounding you is that profound.

Now let’s return to the Great Room, which is right next door to the Not So Great Room, which in itself is greater than most people’s homes. Stroll through the massive granite lintel recalling the ancient temple of Hammurabi, a replica only and certainly not looted. You’ll quickly agree: This Great Room is great indeed.

Herein, you enter a stultified yet exquisite tomb where ancient kings and Native American shamans are buried. Sheep stand grazing near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Muted sounds waft through the air as an undocumented Arabian boy flutist plays the lilting melodies of Jean Pierre Rampal from the adjoining Music Room, submerged in a two-meter layer of dead rose petals. A lone trapeze artist awaits in your bubbling hot tub.

Miss the old farmstead? The Florida Cracker Farm Room greets you with the sweet aroma of hay tossed by the pitchforks of sturdy native farmers, toiling silently in the fields awaiting their turn to be fed. Your exquisite palazzo harbors three acres of authentic "Florida" farmland, complete with farmers, tractor, grazing cows and meth lab.

Did we mention the 50-foot indoor Olympic-sized pool filled with water filtered from pristine Tibetan streams? It’s literally an Olympic pool. The American swim team is training there even now. But you can shoo them off at any time. The Dali Lama himself serves as your personal lifeguard.

Enjoy constant games of living chess amidst the cavernous Even Greater Room which can also be modified for enjoyable and educational Civil War reenactments. And the sheer, granite walls are ideal for rock climbing!

But there are different forms of athleticism.

Indulge in your spacious Hot Chicks Room as seen on the Upright Citizens Brigade. Containing hot chicks, of course. Or anything you want. Your personal Pimp will assure you of that. The room is elegant, by the way. And exquisite.

David Bowie will be your guide through your exclusive personal Labyrinth just next door. Do you dare? You do. How daring!

You stride confidently out from the maze several hours later. A helpful, trained dwarf appears in an instant, preventing your fall into a perfect circular shaft in the middle of the travertine marble floor.

What is it you ask? A well? Well, no.

Other manses boast lap pools. Your luxe dwelling also boasts an exclusive, Vertical Diving Pool — an elegant shaft driven 100-foot deep below the surface of the earth to provide relaxing home spelunking at any hour of the day or night. Or dive into a world of entertainment!

Your spacious haven in the sky houses a high-definition, surround-sound Media Room unlike all others. Real Hollywood stars serve you in the privacy of your own vaulted estate. Ask DeNiro to pass the popcorn — or Michelle Pfeiffer to whip up your favorite milkshake. Or make them fight! There's no star too famous for the owner of this supreme residence. Not in the mood for filmic fun?

Pretend to be God in the Overweening Hubris Room. Rain fire on highly realistic miniature planets in a convincing 3-D environment. Laugh omnipotently as the “virtual” inhabitants curse you and die.

Such creature comforts don’t mean the practical details have been neglected. Oh no. Far from it. You can take our word for it, we assure you. Architect Zoltan Zbarro and builders Carl and Carl Conrad of Carl and Carl Conrad Construction Company assure you as well.

Storage space is endless. Literally — a wormhole created at the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland. If it becomes unstable, it could destroy the fabric of space and time itself. In the meantime, there's plenty of room for your prized collection of vintage Rolls Royce Silver Clouds and unused board games. Thanks to Zbarro's relentlessly efficient design, there’ll be plenty of time for more fun and games!

Or fine dining.

If feeding your face is the feast that you need, you’ve come to the right place.

This is a house that says indulge yourself.

This is a house that says eat. Eat. EAT!

Ethnic chefs from every country are creating colorful native dishes in every room. And of course there’s a state-of-the-art, high tech, cutting-edge Gourmet Master Kitchen.

Why settle for a walk-in freezer? Your personalized Walk-In-Antarctic-Ice-Station provides both endless cold storage and a chance to re-experience the chilling thrills of Amundsen's South Pole expedition of 1912.

Why settle for a Wolf stove? The Gourmet Master Kitchen offers authentic Arctic wolves who will attack and kill their prey before your delighted dinner guests. After a short and bloody battle, your fearless chefs will then cook what they kill over the endless bonfires, burning outrageously in your Grand Salon Brasserie and Survival Station.

Or you can wear the chef's hat! Cook up a storm if you feel like it. But, seriously, why? All of the chefs on the food channel await your every command. It gets noisy — but you eat well!

And if you do indulge too much, don’t worry. Your personal physician is ready to administer liposuction at any time.

What to eat? Anything you want. Where? The possibilities are literally endless.

Your grand dining table makes Citizen Kane’s table look like a fucking picnic table. In an al dente mood?

Outside, the sprawling Family Activity Area is ideal for intimate tête-à-têtes or regulation soccer matches. And it comes supplied with its own authentic Family and Trophy Wife of your choice! Enjoy early sunset cocktails by the pool — or spread a blanket alongside the razorwire-topped sea wall and enjoy the drama of natural Florida unfolding before your eyes as your helpful security staff chases away dirty, noisy Florida-native boaters approaching your perimeter. A few efficient warning shots, and the all-pervading quiet returns like a shroud.

But even a glorious day such as today must end. God will not punish you for your sins, we assure you. You can take it with you. Relax, and go to bed.

Finally, as you bow down for evening prayers, Leonard Cohen, from his IRS-imposed isolation chamber, croons unrequited love songs through the air conditioning filters of the state-of-the-art, LEED-certified HVAC system. His mourning wails create a delightful addition to the elegant ambiance of your distinguished residence in the sun. As a great entrepreneur once said, “The World is Yours.”

Enjoy it.

You’ve earned it.

Saturday, March 13, 2004

Gloop's Revenge

INT -- WILLY WONKA'S CHOCOLATE FACTORY - CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
HORST, a reporter, is already seated on one side of a conference table. There’s an empty chair on the other side. In front of him, HORST has a pad, a pen and a tape recorder. The door opens, WILLY WONKA steps in. Twenty years older than the last time we saw him in the movie.

WONKA: Ah, the fourth estate has arrived.

HORST stands up.

WONKA: Shaking of hands. Social ritual. You sit there. I sit here. Cane goes here. Good. Begin.

HORST: (German accent) It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Wonka.

WONKA: Reciprocally, Mr. …

HORST: Horst Weinhold of Der Speigel.
WONKA
Mirror mirror on the wall.
Speigel, mirror. Ah, you know your German. Good, Mr. Wonka. Shall we begin the interview proper? In English, if you please. I am in need of the practice.
Bitte.
HORST takes out digital voice recorder.
With permission?
Wonka nods.
HORST turns recorder on.
No tape, you see, Digital. Our words become ones and zeroes.
WONKA
Progress marches on. But what of the human heart?
What indeed, Mr. Wonka. I was taken on a tour of the new factory. It is all so clean. So industrial.
WONKA
The hand that rocks the cradle turns the wheels of industry.
HORST: Your fame for cryptic sayings is well deserved. Perhaps you refer to Diana Bucket, the new owner of this place? She is of course, pregnant. Is that your meaning?
WONKA: I dunno. I just say these things. Open my mouth, the words come out.
HORST: Yes, well. Do you think she’s doing a good job?
WONKA: As could be expected.
HORST: Yes. The great responsibility of this place became hers rather suddenly. It is a shame about the untimely death of Mr. Bucket.
Wonka nods sadly.
WONKA: Poor Charlie.
HORST: Yes, poor Charlie. Hmmm. To think he would choke on a fraudulent golden ticket on a candy bar that had somehow remained in circulation since 1970. What are the odds, do you think? Are you crying, Mr. Wonka?
WONKA: No.
HORST: No, of course not. Getting back to the factory. It is said that all this new technology I see, it is not so new, yes?
I’ve never said it.
HORST: For the record, Mr. Wonka.
WONKA: No. I invented most of it in the 1960s. We’ve automated a lot of it, converted it to the 1s and zeroes you carry around in your pocket. Charlie …
HORST: Poor Charlie.
WONKA: The late Charles Bucket … started the conversion. Diana finished it. But the industrial process at the heart of it isn’t new.
So – the technology you revealed in 1970. This was not the real technology?
WONKA: No.
The chocolate river, the geese which laid the chocolate eggs and so on. This was all misdirection for the masses?
WONKA: Misdirection for the competition. Slugworth was trying to steal my secrets.
Mr. Slugworth. He was not a fiction?
WONKA: No. there was a real Slugworth. I’d hired a man to impersonate him, but ...
Gunter Meisner.
WONKA: What?
Gunter Meisner, the character actor.
WONKA: Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. What was I saying? I’ve lost my train of thought.
You were telling me that Mr. Slugworth was not a fiction. There was a real Mr. Slugworth.
WONKA: Yes, there was a real Slugworth. It’s public knowledge.
HORST: Tell us about the real Slugworth.
WONKA: He was … Le mot juste? A shit. A right bastard. A sphincter with legs. An affirmation of mediocrity and pettiness. The utter absence of imagination and joy. One of the reasons God had second thoughts about creating the human race. A picker of intellectual pockets.
HORST: And, not too bright, yes?
WONKA: Oh, no, no, no. Dumb as a rock. Dim as a dim bulb could be.
HORST: Ah. Dim enough to believe a chocolate egg comes out of a goose’s ass?
WONKA cracks up.

Right.

So, if I am to understand you correctly, Mr. Wonka. In 1970, you know, when you revealed the inner workings of your factory at the time of the golden ticket promotion. You only pretended to reveal your secrets.

WONKA: If you want to put it that way.

When the four little children walked through? The things they suffered ...

WONKA: They didn’t suffer …
No, it was just a learning experience. But, showing your factory to the children – the fake factory -- this was merely to throw Mr. Slugworth off the scent?

WONKA: Partly. But I did need a successor. That was the main reason.
Ah. The late Charlie Bucket.
WONKA: He was a good man.
A good little boy from a story by Charles Dickens. Did the ticket fall into his hands by accident?
No, of course not.
WONKA: Of course not. If the contest itself was rigged ...
I wouldn’t say …
Was the selection of a successor rigged?
WONKA: No. It was a series of moral tests.
Which Charlie passed through his innate moral goodness.
WONKA: Yes.
Yes. You and Mr. Bucket were very close. I understand he was your gay lover.
WONKA: What? No!
Then. I am misinformed. The rumors …
WONKA: People have me confused with Marilyn Manson. It’s the hat, you know?
HORST: Then you are not gay?
WONKA: No! Not that there’s anything wrong with it.
HORST: No. Unless of course your gay lover was a child.

Hold a beat.

WONKA: Right then. Sod off you sodding kraut. This interview is over.
HORST: I don’t think so, Mr. Wonkla. Sit down.
HORST removes an ugly looking Luger.
A luger for sentimental purposes, hmm? Don’t move until I tell you.
WONKA: What’s this …
HORST: You don’t recognize me, hmm? My name was not always Horst, you know.
WONKA: Augustus Gloop.
GLOOP: Yes, Mr. Wonka. (bows) Augustus Gloop.
WONKA: Wow, you’ve really taken the weight off.
GLOOP: Yes. I work out regularly. I am not the butterball I once was. (gestures with Luger) Now get you, you pig. We will take a walk together.
WONKA reaches for his cane.
Leave the cane, Mr. Wonka. (gestures with gun) Now move. Slowly. You go first. Keep walking and stay four steps in front of me at all times.
WONKA: Where are we going?
To the ersatz factory, hmm?. To the area you have preserved for tourists. The chocolate river, of course.
WONKA: Of course.
Of course. You are cooperating. It is the wise thing to do in a hostage situation.
Is that what this is?
GLOOP: Let me tell you something, Mr. Wonka. You can cooperate like a lamb, you can scream like a girl, it won’t make any difference. Diana will not help you. She, of course is on a leave of absence. I thought about killing her, but she is not connected to my pain. The Oompa Loompas will not help you. The ones who mocked me with their songs.
WONKA: You killed them.
GLOOP: No, Mr. Wonka. Well, only four of them. The uncooperative ones. But the others? I have taken their families. The Oompa-Loompas will live. The extortion is perhaps over carelful. The organge ones, for the most part, have no objection to what I am doiing.
WONKA: I saved them.
GLOOP: Yes you rescued them from the Grunka Lunkas and the Vermicious Knids. Mr God with the Big Hat in Africa. You saved them, then imprisoned them in your factory.
WONKA: They weren’t slaves!
GLOOP: No, of course not. They could turn themselves in to British Immigraition at any time. Please. The songs you forced them to sing? And thopse stupid costumes. They resented it greatly. Ah, and here we are. Keep walking . Four steps ahead, hmm? Stop there.
WONKA stops.
Look at it. The chocolate river.
WONKA: It’s beautiful.
Hmm. Perhaps this is, how you say, in the eye of the beholder. To me, it resembles a river of shit.
He kicks Wonka into the chocolate river.
Oh, I’m sorry.
The current takes him. WONKA thashes wildly. Goes down. Then his head pops up again.
WONKA: Help!
GLOOP: Ah. Perhaps this part is familiar to you?
The current pulls WONKA into a chocolate whirlpool. WONKA then gets sucked down out of sight.
GLOOP looks up at a transparent plastic tube coming out of the chocolate river.
GLOOP looks at his watch.
GLOOP: 4 …3..2..1…now.
WONKA gets sucked into the tube. Then gets stuck.
WONKA's POV --
HORST smiles.
WONKA watches as, down below, GLOOP puts a headset with a mic on. Then speaks.
Inside the tube, WONKA hears GLOOP’s voice booming through from the sound system.
GLOOP: Can you hear me?
WONKA nods. He can hear him.
GLOOP: Does it hurt, Mr. Wonka? I was an eight-year-old kinder. Imagine what it was like for me. The pressure of the chocolate. It hurt, you know. Yes, of course you know. Now you do. Imaginative sympathy is no longer required.
WONKA speaks. His voice echoesin the tube.
WONKA: I’m sorry.
No response.
WONKA: I’m sorry. I said I was sorry. Hello …Augustus? Can you hear me?
GLOOP: Yes, I can hear you.
WONKA: I’m sorry.
GLOOP: You’re sorry, you’re sorry.
WONKA: I am sorry!
GLOOP: Of course you are sorry. I am making you suffer. But this is an act of moral weakness. It is not like you, Mr. Wonka. Like Dante, you arrange mechanical hells for the unrighteous and a a heaven of chocolate goodies for the suvck-ups. You must defend your moral position. Shall we continue our interview?
WONKA: Interview?
GLOOP: Please try to be honest.
WONKA: I’ll do my best, you psychotic bastard.
GLOOP: Good.
GLOOP turns on the recorder.
GLOOP: Well, Mr. Wonka. Did I deserved what happened to me?
WONKA: Nothing happened to you! You shot right out of the tube!
GLOOP: Yes. Your body mass is greater than mine, that is true. For me, it was not so long. But I did not “shoot out of the tube.” I was stuck for atotal of fifteen seconds. Ity hurt. I was frightented. I washumiliated. But do you think that was all I suffered, hmm? After this event, after I left your stupid factory, when I went back to Germany, what do you think happened to me?
I never thought about.
GLOOP: No, of coure not. You paid off my parents and forgot about me. Well, Mr. Wonka. Please think about it now. Augustus Gloop the roly-poly boy. I was a child. I was fat. My experiences in this place became public knowledge.. My name became a synonym for disgusting fatness, a term of abuse. Pig, swine, glutton, gloop. At my school, I was ridiculed publically. I was beaten every day by the bullies. Hey gloop! Hey gllops you want some chocolate. Eseen! They shjopved it in my mouth and laughed at me. They insulted me with my own name. You can see why I changed it. So, now, I ask you my question again. Did I deserve what happened to me?

WONKA: No.

GLOOP: Don’t lie, Mr. Wonka.

WONKA: Yes!


WONKA: Yes, yes you wre a disgusting, greedfy little pihg. Yes you deserved it! I told you the rules! Very clearly! No, stop, don’t! Remember? You didn’t have to stick your face in the chocolate river…

GLOOP: I had a glandular condition.

WONKA: I’m sorry.

GLOOP: Please, don’t be. The doctors have cured it with prednisone treatments. (makes a muscle) T though they tell me it is affecting my bones. My shoulder, they say, is necrotizing.

WONKA: I’m sorry…Augustus.

GLOOP: It can’t be helped.
I’m sorry about what I did. You didn’t deserve it.

GLOOP: No, Mr. Wonka. I didn’t. But still you do not see, hm? Even if I had been simply greedy , a litte pig and nothing more? (shouting) you do not cure a child with a weight problem by making him ashamed! He will only eatmore! Everyone knows this! (calm agaij) What you did was sadism.
This is sadism!

GLOOP: Yes. Yes it is. I do not pretend to be teaching you a moral lesson, Mr.Wonka. My goal is not to reform you. You made me suffer. I am paying you back. That is all. I do not claim the moral high ground. Charlie, for example. He didn’t deserve to die. Choking for a full minute on the foil in his throat. I just hated the little shit.

Goddamn you!
Perhaps. Calling his child Diana. It reveals his lworking-class origins, don’t you think?
WONKA
Goddamn you!
GLOOP
You’re repeating yourself, Mr. Wonka.
You won’t get away it.
No, of course not. Diana will appear at the last minute and stop me. She will save you. Perhaps, ironically, I will drown in the chocolate river.
Looks around.
No. Well. Too bad.
Aggggh.
Oh are you feeling uncomfortable? Now let me tell you what to expect. I hate to say it, but the fun part is over. According to my calculations?
Go to hell!
Your sayings are not so clever now, huh? Here, let’s be precise.
He takes out a high-tech device and does calculations.
The chocolate, at 1500 pounds of foot pressure per square centimeter will soon begin pushing into your lower intestines. The capillaries in your eyes will begin to burst. You will, at some point, vomit, and begin to choke on your own vomit, unless an embolism of the brain has killed you first. Or, perhaps, the chocolate seepage from below will reach up to your mouth and drown you. It is of no matter. By the time that the pressure finally forces you through the tuber, you will be long since dead, Mr. Wonka. Due to your greater mass ratio, your body will be a mangled lump of flesh when it comes out on the other end. Well. Any last words? Cute sayings? No? (smiles evilly) Well, I have one for you.
THE OOMPA loompas march.

HORST: Here, look. Your little friends have come to sing. (he smiles) the lyrics, of course, are mine.

OOMPA LOOMPAS: Ooompaloompa ...

Not yet, OK?

Goodbye Mr. Wonka. I believe this concludes our interview. My desire for revenge is purely intellectual. I do not have a strong stomach. OK, hit it boys.
I’ll pay you anything you want. Anything.

The Oompa Loompas look at him.
Then burst into song.

Oompa loompa doopadee doo
I’ve got a final puzzle for you
Oompa loompa doopadah Dee
Before you die you'll listen to me
What is the fate of the man who plays God?
Wears a big hat and acts very odd?
Jails orange dwarves in his personal zoo.
And likes to hurt children too?
By enticing them with chocolate.
Oompa, loompa, doopity das
Karma is biting you, right on your ass.
You will die in agony too
Oompa looma – hey, Wonka, screw you!

Saturday, March 6, 2004

The Silence of Saddam

OPEN, int., maximum security, dungeon-like secret CIA nuthouse.

Sound of buzzer. Doors open.

CONDOLEEZZA RICE enters.


She walks down creepy hallway looking prim, proper and tough – and, underneath it all, a little scared.

She walks past rows of barred jail cells containing various dictators and bad guys, a few that people know about (NORIEGA), but most (IDI AMIN, the AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI, etc.) are officially “dead.”


CONDI stops at end of hall in front of Plexiglas window with little breathing holes cut into it as if there’s a giant lizard on the other side. There, standing in the middle of the room and looking right back at her as if expecting her, is SADDAM HUSSEIN.

SADDAM: Hello Condi. Love your suit.

She tosses her head in frustration.

SADDAM: And the way you bob your head like that. Is very sexy but not, how you say, very black. I am quite curious, where did you learn this move?

CONDI: (holding out piece of paper) I brought you a test.

SADDAM: Watching Katharine Hepburn videos? “Philadelphia Story,” hmm?

CONDI: (ignoring him but flustered) If you could just …

SADDAM: Or the “Preppy Handbook,” perhaps? (like a snake) Dressss for successss…?

CONDI: Just take a moment …

Putting test in slide-out drawer pushes it into his cell.

SADDAM: (removing test contemptuously, but not looking at it) I know why you are here, sister. You want Osama, hmm? Osama yo mama, yes? And you think I will help. It takes the fox to catch the fox, yes? You think to crack open my head like egg of the mythical roc and scoop out the tasty yolk inside. Ah, you know once in my home country, a census taker tried to crack my egg. I put him through a meat grinder feet first and had his whole family killed. I will not take your stupid (looking at test, suddenly interested) Oh, this is a poser. (reading aloud) ‘If it takes sixteen bulldozers to dig 3,000 mass graves in six hours and there are 14 Kurdish villages with populations of …”

Fade to black.

Fade in to CONDI sitting cross-legged and prim, dead center in front of SADDAM’s cell, grading test and making significant “Hmmm” noises.


SADDAM: How did I do?

CONDI: It’s the highest score ever. You even beat out Idi Amin.

We hear a frustrated howl from down the hall.

SADDAM: Excellent. And it is the last information you will ever extract from me. (waving hand contemptuously) I advise you now depart and have your hair straightened.

He turns his back on her. She realizes it’s hopeless and walks away dejectedly down the hall.

From one of the cages, IDI AMIN hollers, “He cheated!” and throws a wad of his own dung in her hair.


CONDI: Damn! (wiping crap out of hair – reverting to Alabama accent) I’m fixing to fuck you up motherfucker!

SADDAM: Come back!

She runs back with a clattering of high heels.

SADDAM: If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s rudeness. Torture, genocide, OK. But rudeness I hate. I will help you. But it will be quizzybuck perquacky.

CONDI: You mean quid pro quo.

SADDAM: Yes, yes, Miss Stanford Faculty I-have-a-PhD Bitch. As you say, “quizzybuck perquacky.” Here are the rules: I answer question. You take off article of clothing.

CONDI: (shuddering groan, then with loathing and philosophical acceptance) Fine.

SADDAM: Are you wearing any underwear?

CONDI: No, I mean … Hey I’m supposed to be asking the questions!

SADDAM: (unzipping fly) Sorry. My bad. (smiling) Shall we begin?

Cut to…

CONDI with upper garments off, still wearing a bra.

CONDI: (removing earring) Where is Osama hiding?

SADDAM: Better you should ask what he is hiding.

CONDI: And that would be?

SADDAM: Phrase it in form of question.

CONDI: What is Usama hiding?

SADDAM: What isn’t he?

CONDI: You tell me.

SADDAM: As a question.

CONDI: What is it that Saddam isn’t hiding?

SADDAM: His manhood.

CONDI: Why not?

SADDAM: (smiling) You cannot hide what you do not have. (outraged) Hey, a watch is not clothing, a watch is an accessory!

Fade out…

Come back to …


Worm’s eye view from floor – shot of CONDI from behind, just her high heel shoes and a bit of her ankles. Her panties drop – unsexy Republican Underoos emblazoned with pictures of Ronald Reagan in a cowboy hat with a lariat. She kicks them away.


SADDAM: (groaning) It is all so obvious, Condi, so very obvious.

CONDI: If …

SADDAM: I have told you enough. A mind is terrible thing to be wasted. Use your mind! Go! But before you go, could I ask you to …

CONDI: No.

She bends down out of frame, comes back up holding pile of clothes, utter disgust on her face.


We hear her walk off.


Go to SADDAM watching in sexual frustration.


SADDAM: Quizzybuck perquacky, Condi! Quizzybuck perquacky!

Go to black.

Come back to CONDI in seat of jet plane.


She suddenly gets it.


CONDI: (sitting up straight in her seat) Showtunes! Of course. That’s it. SHOWTUNES!

Go to int., off-off-off Broadway theater. On stage, we see some over-the-top, pre-Andrew Lloyd Webber, old-school, loud, lush, gushy musical, the kinda thing Mel Brooks satirizes. There’s a female chorus line doing ba-da-boom kicks, grinning too widely. Close in. We see that a shaved, rouged OSAMA is in the chorus line, dressed as a woman.


From outside, the sudden sound of helicopters, troops. The music stops. OSAMA stops in mid-kick, fear in his eyes.


Go to ext., night, military airport. Much activity, jubilation. We infer OSAMA has been caught.


Go to int., brightly-lit hanger. G.W. Bush smirking at SADDAM who’s strapped vertically to a loading dolly.


BUSH: Well this is it, Ayatollah.

SADDAM: Saddam, you idiot.

BUSH: Whatever. The moment (pausing significantly) of destisity. American determification has freeified even more and securified even less than anyone, anywhere, anyhow. Now. In the past. And even beyond the future.

SADDAM: Please get to the point.

BUSH: The point. (thinking, rusty wheels grinding slowly) OK, the point. Well let me shoot it to you straight, pard …

SADDAM: (muttering to camera) How did a brain-damaged cowboy like him defeat my beautiful wickedness?

BUSH: Sure you won’t tell me where you hid them-there weapons of mass distraction?

SADDAM: No.

BUSH: Ever consider a career as a Vice President?

SADDAM: No. Now, please to, as you say in America, "fuck off."

BUSH: Suit yourself.

BUSH walks off.

Go to wide shot, looking down. Strapped vertically to the loading dolly, SADDAM’s in the center of the huge space. BUSH walks out of frame. We hear his footsteps echoing. Sound of big door opening, clanging shut.


Hold on SADDAM.


SADDAM remains in his rig impassively, totally alone in the enormous hanger. Camera goes in …


Close on his face.


His eyes shift side to side like the cartoon donkey at the beginning of “Hee-Haw.”


SADDAM smiles.


Grunts.


Releases himself from straps like Houdini.


Pulls nuclear warhead out of his ass.


Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Batman vs. Auntie Christ

BATMAN and ROBIN driving down the Gotham City streets -- the campy TV version of the Dynamic Duo. ROBIN reacts.

ROBIN: (pointing) Holy shroud, Batman ... it's Jesus Christ!

BATMAN: Don't curse, old chum. It shows a lack of command of the English language. There are plenty of words in the ...

ROBIN: No, Batman. There on the street corner. It's Jesus Christ!

BATMAN: (looking) Yes, of course! Don't break out the loaves and fishes yet, old chum. That's Auntie Christ ... the arch queen of crime disguised as Jesus Christ to lure the world into Armageddon.

ROBIN: The fiend!

AUNTIE CHRIST: (hawking wares, making noises like Penguin) Wah! Wah! Whore of Babylon scented candles, 50% off! Four horsemen for the price of three!

WHORE OF BABYLON: (Catwoman delivery to passerby) Isn't it just perrrrfect? (pedestrian ignores her) Aw don't look so sad, sweetie. It's not the end of the world.

BATMAN: My sentiments exactly. And I'll tell you another thing, missy. Armageddon pretty tired of ...

ROBIN: God, our dialog sucks.

BATMAN: Yes. I'm afraid it's something even Stanislavsky never prepares you for.

ROBIN: Why Batman? Why?

BATMAN: Because we're second-raters old chum. As the old saying goes, 'The people get the government they deserve.'

AUNTIE CHRIST: Wah! "Mark of the Beast" iron-on tatoos!

BATMAN: It's also true that actors get the scripts they deserve.

ROBIN: Holy plot point, Batman. I get it! The scripts suck ...because we suck!

BATMAN: Exactly. In fact the writer's so lame, he can't even think of an ending for a simple three minute sketch.

ROBIN: Ayn Rand could think of better dialog.

BATMAN: I wouldn't go that far ...

Cut to: THE JOKER in court giving the evil clown version of the "Howard Roark Speech"

JOKER: Thousands of years ago, the first evil clown put hydrochloric acid in the first seltzer bottle. He was probably burned to death in the hydrochloric acid spritzer he had ...

Sunday, October 5, 2003

Robe Warrior


Open, idyllic scene of ancient holy land. Shepherds, camels, rustic little mud villages and all that crap.

ANNOUNCER: (strong Australian accent) Who was Jesus, then? Gentle Jesus, meek and mild? I don’t think so mate.

VOICE OVER: (another Australian accent) Je-zus Kroist!

Explosion blows village to pieces.

ANNOUNCER: Mel Gibson is …


Krazy Krist
Robe Warrior

ANNOUNCER: It’s Jesus like you’ve never seen him before.

A man’s man kinda Jesus …

INT, KRAZY KRIST in bar with crowd of rowdy disciples and followers.

KRAZY KRIST: I just turned this water … into Fosters!

Crowd cheers, raises pints.

DISCIPLE: I just turned it back into water again.

ANNOUNCER: A well-armed Jesus …

Militia-on-the-Mount scene of thousands of followers holding automatic weapons.

DISCIPLE: But Lord, we have only 5 bullets and 7 magazine clips.

KC: Pass them out among the multitude.

The ammunition miraculously multiplies.

Cheers, gunfire.

ANNOUNCER: An anti-Semitic Jesus.

Go to – ‘Road Warrior’ scene of KRAZY KRIST and disciples in tricked-out vehicles bristling with weapons being chased down dusty desert road by argumentative but also well-armed RABBIS in similar vehicles.

DISCIPLE: (pointing at vehicle behind them) Jews!

KC: (Mel Gibson as Jesus spraying crowd of Jews with automatic weapons fire) Accept God’s unconditional love and forgiveness, you bastards!

RABBI: (holding up coin) So should we pay the tax or not?

KC: (Still firing madly) Die!!!!

RABBI: You didn’t answer the question …

Vehicle goes off road, explodes.

ANNOUNCER: Yes, it’s a wild ride of Biblically inaccurate drama, excitement, Jew-bashing and death. All leading to …

The Last Supper …

INT, KC and pals in kosher restaurant.

KC: (looking at bill) Wait a minute … I didn’t order this. Dirty sodding Jews! (kicks up from table – starts shooting up the restaurant)

ANNOUNCER: The betrayal in the garden …

KRAZY CHRIST is asleep. JUDAS sneaks up on him and kisses him.

KC: (punching him in the face) No poofters!

ANNOUNCER: The trial …

Crowd of Jews stomping and shaking fists in “Rome Dome.”

JEWS: Two men enter, one man leaves! Two men enter, one man leaves!

ANNOUNCER: … crucifixion …

EXT, night. Cross in silhouette. Sound of nailing.

ROMAN: Sorry!

KC: You call yourself a bloody carpenter?

ROMAN: I said I was sorry.

ANNOUNCER: … and resurrection.

EXT, tomb. Morning.

GUARD: Hey. Ever notice all us Romans speak with British accents?

GUARD #2: No. Never thought of it before. I suppose you’re right.

GUARD: Why do you suppose that is?

GUARD #2: Dunno. Got something to do with the British Empire, I reckon.

GUARD: Right. Those Brits are right bastards – Ireland, India, Australia, you name it. Almost as bad as us.

GUARD #2: You mean like in the future.

GUARD: Well that goes without … what the hell was that?

A huge explosion blasts the rock out of the tomb. Mel as KRAZY KRIST roars out in some deathmobile, machine guns in both hands, steering with his knees. Blows GUARDS to pieces, roars off.

KC: I’m back you bloody Jews!

ANNOUNCER: (very quickly) Filmed entirely on location in Aramaic, Latin and Greek then translated into Australian and back into Aramaic, Latin and Greek without subtitles according to the revelation of St. Anonymous, a charming lady with multiple personality disorder who saw a revelation of the Virgin Mary in a third-generation VHS copy of “The Thorn Birds” and wrote it all down on a napkin and lost it, thus founding the Holy and Apostolic Even More Catholic Than You Jew-Loving Vatican II Bastards Catholic Church in 1962. All rights reserved.