Economic Sacrifice

ERIC: I’m speaking with noted economist, George Enright, who is now trapped inside the giant Wicker Man. Current trends indicate, he will soon be set on fire. Leading cultists feel this will have a positive effect on crops and the weather.

THE CULTISTS dance in a frenzy.

ERIC: George Enright. What is your analysis of the current situation?

ENRIGHT: I don’t want to die!

ERIC: Clearly not.

ENRIGHT: This wasn’t supposed to happen.

ERIC: How did it?

ENRIGHT: Frum! That Chicago School BLEEP. He betrayed me! He was sleeping with my wife.

ERIC: Ah. May I safely assume you felt that John Frum’s immolation inside this effigy would better stimulate the current economy? Had that, in fact, been your plan?

ENRIGHT: Yes, exactly. I mean no! It wasn’t my plan! No!

ERIC: Whose plan was it?

ENRIGHT: The Money God.

ERIC: I see. The Money God.

ENRIGHT: Yes!

ERIC: It was his plan?

ENRIGHT: Yes!

ERIC: He told you to build the Wicker Man? And place John Frum inside this effigy?

ENRIGHT: That’s what the Money God told me!

ERIC: It’s a bold exciting plan. You brought this proposal to the cultists?

ENRIGHT: Yes.

ERIC: Clearly, your – sorry—the Money God’s proposal was altered without your knowledge. How …

ENRIGHT: That’s not all the Money god told me, you fool. He… he also said, uh, beware, your crops will fail if you kill me. He said that too and, uh. George Enright is the …

ENRIGHT realizes he’s making the sale to the wrong person. Starts shouting to the mob of CULTISTS.

ENRIGHT:(shouting) George Enright is the prophet of the Money God! Don’t kill George Enright! Your crops will fail! The breasts of your women will not give milk.

ERIC: A compelling argument. But what of the national rail system?

He starts to walk away. The hand-held steadicam tracks with him.

ENRIGHT: And the dragon will eat the sun! And he also said …

ERIC: Final words from George Enright.

ENRIGHT: (pointing at BBC crew) Kill! Kill them!

ERIC: Additional words from George Enright. But words alone …

INSANE CULTISTS rush the news crew. ERIC whips out AK-47, blasts the first wave. They fall back.

ERIC: Aren’t as effective as this AK-47. Also a compelling argument. But how long can this method of pursuasion last? Like food and lithium batteries, bullets are part of a complicated product stream. A stream which has been …

Screams. Crackling fire. (OS)

ENRIGHT: No! Please don’t kill me … please! You can’t!

Screams.

ENRIGHT: I am… I am the prophet of the Money God!

ERIC: Keep moving. Steadily. Don’t run.

ENRIGHT: Please! For your own sake. You will anger the Money God!

He screams.

ENRIGHT: It isn’t me you want! Kill those guys from the BBC!

Chanting.

ENRIGHT: Kill! Obey the money God! He will protect you from their firestick!

ERIC: He lies!

ENRIGHT: Kill! I am the prophet of the Money God!

ERIC: The Money God is a false god! And you are a false prophet!

ENRIGHT: Kill him!

ERIC: There is no Money God. There is only the All-Seeing Eye!

ENRIGHT: Blasphemer! Obey the Money God!

ERIC: No! Obey the eye! Bow before the eye! (show him the eye)

The frame changes, as if cameraman has lifeted up camera so the CULTISTS can see it. The CULTISTS move forward, hesitate.

ERIC: Behold! The Eye! The one true God!

They fall to their knees.

ENRIGHT: No! No! Oh God get me out of here! (screams)

Crackling fire, the Wicker Man collapsing in on itself. The CULTISTS stand, confused. Begin slowly advancing on the news crew.

ERIC: Blessings to you all, good people. Blessings in the name of the Eye!

CULTISTS: Blessings in the name of the Eye!

ERIC: (whispering to cameraman) Keep backing up. (shouting to mob) No, not you. I didn’t say get up. Stay where you are. Don’t look at the Eye. For it is the Eye that looks at you.

CULTISTS: It is the Eye that looks at us.

ERIC: If you look at it the blessings won’t work.

CULTISTS: If we look at it the blessings won’t work.

ERIC: Splendid. Well, we go to spread the good news of the eye.

CULTISTS: The good news of the eye.

ERIC: And will someday return. With cargo. And solid gold lollipops!

CULTISTS: Solid gold lollipops!

ERIC: Well. Cheers.

CULTISTS: Cheers.

ERIC: I think we can run now.

They start running.

ERIC: A surprising development from the former township of Cliffton Wells. As you can see, the current state of affairs is unpredictable.

Fear and loathing in the Bush years

INT, CAR RENTAL DEALERSHIP - DAY

TITLE: Jan. 7, 2001

Reverse lettering of sign in front window reads: EXECUTIVE BRANCH MOTORS. FOUR YEAR RENTAL.

Bush and Cheney come lurching in through the front doors. They resemble Duke and Gonzo in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

A helpful Clerk awaits.

BUSH: How’s it going Cochise? I’m here for the car.

CLERK: What car?

Indicates red, Chevrolet Caprice Convertible.

BUSH: The Presidential "Red Shark," with the 5.7 liter hemi V-8, mouth-breather.

CLERK: You’re the President?

BUSH: Sure. Ask Katherine Harris. Ask the Supreme Court, you bottom-feeder.

CLERK: OK, OK. (hands him keys) Do you solemnly swear to uphold ...

Ignoring clerk, Bush and Cheney hop in.  Bush fires up the engine. He roars through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window, then backs up inside again.

BUSH: Wait. (indicates large, padlocked metal box labeled "Social Security") I forgot the lockbox.

Grabs it. Jumps in car. Roars out gaping hole in front window again.

Al Gore walks into frame. Watches car speed away.

AL GORE: Hey. That’s my car.

MUSIC: Chords of Big Brother and the Holding Company's Combination of the Two.

EXT, DESERT HIGHWAY - DAY

Red Shark blasts down two lane blacktop. Sound of distant explosion.

BUSH: We were just outside of 9-11 when the mandate kicked in. (VO)

We hear a snorting noise. Bush's head jerks up into frame.

BUSH: Wow that’s some f***ing mandate. Agghhh, bats! Jesus, shoot those bats, will you?

CHENEY: Why?

BUSH: You got the rifle -- I got my hands on the wheel?

CHENEY: OK, OK.

He starts shooting randomly. A Hitchhiker in the back seat wearing a stupid Mickey Mouse t-shirt ducks down in terror.

BUSH: Jesus. Be careful with that thing. You almost went all Pulp Fiction on that … (noticing Hitchhiker cringing in backseat) Where'd we pick up the hitchhiker?

CHENEY: I dunno. Somewhere outside of Barstow.

HITCHHIKER: Where are we going?

BUSH: We’re going to war.

CHENEY: (singing insanely) To war, to war, to war we’re going to go. (blasts shotgun) Yeeehaw!

BUSH: F***ing towelhead can’t pull that shit on us.

CHENEY: Hell no.

BUSH: He thinks he can get away with that he’s got another think coming

HITCHHIKER: War... you mean like Afghanistan?

BUSH: No. We already invaded Afghanistan. I’m talking Iraq.

HITCHHIKER: Uh .. Osama’s not in Iraq.

CHENEY: Check out the f***ing national security expert.

BUSH: We’re not looking for UBL, kid. We’re looking for Saddam. Pay attention. (to Cheney) Hey you. Elmer Fudd. Open up the lock box.

Cheney blasts lock of the lock box, which is next to the kid in the backseat. He screams.

CHENEY: (reaching around, rifling through box) Fuck! There’s nothing but fucking IOUs!

BUSH: Well, spend em and pretend it’s money.

HITCHHIKER: S-spend it on what?

Bush turns his head, talking to the kid, still driving forward at insane speed. The Hitchhiker looks more and more nervous.

BUSH: War’s hell, kid. It also costs money. We gonna get our splendid boys in uniform in this country and find those WMDs. Until they do, we'll kick their ass to the curb. Time to rally the troops!

HITCHHIKER: Look out! (screams)

Bush drives through ANOTHER plate glass window --


-- and into CIRCUS CIRCUS in Las Vegas. Right into the front lobby. Showgirls run screaming.

HITCHHIKER: What’re we doing here?

BUSH: Viva Las Vegas!

HITCHHIKER: I thought you were, uh, gonna rally the troops?

CHENEY: He thinks you were talking about America’s fighting men. And uh women.

BUSH: You insane? We’re not wasting money on them. I’m privatizing this here incursion. We’re outsourcing this f***er!

BUSH strides through the hotel -- and into the main stage in front of a vast conference auditorium hosting various private security corporations and military contractors. There's a massive American flag behind him.

BUSH: How’s it going guys?

AUDIENCE: (singing) Old Backwater, keep on rolling, Missisippi moon won’t you ….

BUSH: Wow. I feel like Patton. Or George C. Scott. I would be honored to lead you wonderful f***ers into battle anytime, anywhere.

This gets a laugh.

BUSH: War is hell. It’s also Heaven, Purgatory, Nirvana and possibly Valhallah.  F*** it, here’s some money. (dumps bucket full of money on AUDIENCE)

They cheer.

BUSH: Find those f***ing WMDs, OK? I don’t care to be left with my dick hanging out on this one. Pick that f***ing dirtbag country up by the ankles and shake it til something falls out.  I want results, not reporters, OK? You see some fucking Al Jazeera cameraman, smoke him! Let’s roll!

Montage -- 

Statue of Saddam falling.

Iraqis looting museums.

Angry Iraqi crowd.

CROWD: Death to America! Death to America!

Hitchhiker watches scene on tiny portable TV. Looks up. A fierce wind is whipping through his hair.

BUSH: See, kid? That’s how you win hearts and minds.

HITCHHIKER: (looks around) Where...where are we?

BUSH: High, kid. Pretty f***ing high.

Bush hits the CD player. It starts playing "Danger Zone."

Cut to shot of jet with the Red Shark attached to its underbelly. The jet releases the Red Shark.

Bush rides, going "whooo-hooo" like Slim Pickens. The poor, suffering Red Shark slides onto the carrier deck and, shooting sparks, skids to a stop just barely in time. Bush leaps out in a flight suit.

BUSH: Well, it looks like we won, huh?

Bush pushes a big red button. A banner unfurls.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

BUSH: That was f***ing easy, wasn’t it?

The men cheer.

CHENEY sidles up to BUSH, looking nervous.

BUSH: (puts hand over microphone) We found those f***ing WMDs yet?

CHENEY: No.

BUSH: Goddamnit, we got to turn up the heat. Set up another meet with the black-ops boys.

INT, RANCH, CRAWFORD TEXAS - NIGHT

Bush and Cheney sit in the Red Shark while the Hitchhiker crouches in the fetal position.

CHENEY: OK. We got the CIA, the Blackwater boys, the A-Team, and the guy from 24.

KIEFER SUTHERLAND: I'm just an actor.

MR. T: Mamma didn't raise no fool.

PETER LORRE: (sharpening knife) What do you want us to do, sir? Unofficially?

BUSH: Think outside the box, people. The Geneva Convention box. Use torture. Use Viola Spolin improve techniques.

Cut to famous scene of hooded detainee with wires attached.

WOMAN: (OS) You are a Christmas tree. What do you experience?

MAN: A fear of electricity.

RED SHARK - DAY

Bush blasts down the road, talking to his cell phone.

BUSH: We found those WMDs yet?

CHENEY: (also talking on his cell phone) No. He hid his stash pretty good.

BUSH: Goddamnit, it’s not working. (tosses cell phone) Mission’s not accomplished. OK. We’ll change the mission. Starting now, we find Saddam.

CHENEY: How? He’s in a fucking hole somewhere.

BUSH: I’ll tell you how!  Operation Iraqi Set Three Trillion Dollars on Fire!

INT - C-4 TRANSPORT PLANE - DAY

Troops are busily shoving huge pallets of flaming money out the door.

They fall, hit the ground and explode

Saddam runs out of his hole.

SADDAM: Ow. That’s really hot. I burned my peepee!

Bush pulls up in the Red Shark and a cloud of dust.

BUSH: Reach for Allah, f***er, I got a present for you. (he pulls out a rope) This one’s for dad!

INT, HOTEL ROOM – THE SANDS IN VEGAS – NIGHT

The Red Shark, somehow, is in the room.

A Boom Box blasts out Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow."

CHENEY: (OS) I’m depressed.

BUSH: Stop whining. I’m depressed too.  Those ungrateful fuckers. We kill their f***ing dictator. We restore civil order and democracy. What’s the thanks we get?

CHENEY: They unrestore civil order and democracy.

BUSH: Yeah. If we win, they win. If they lose, we lose. It’s a f***ing paradox. Bertrand Russel would’ve ripped the eyes out of his sockets just thinking about it.

CHENEY: Kill me.

SOUND: Cheney splashes water in bathtub. (OS)

BUSH: What?

CHENEY: When it gets to White Rabbit, throw the CD player in the tub. The part where the rabbit screams.

BUSH: Sure, you crazy fucker.

He throws a bust of Lincoln in the tub.

CHENEY: (OS) Agghhhhhh! Agghhhhhh!

BUSH: (to Hitchhiker) An excitable individual. Mutant DNA. Some mongrel combination of Welsh, Scottish and something else.

The Hitchhiker huddles, shaking in the corner.

HITCHHIKER: Please let me go home.

BUSH: This is home., f***er. Ever seen “Audition? You better keep your mouth shut.

Cheney leaps out of the bathroom holding a large Bowie knife.

CHENEY: Road trip!

EXT, NEW ORLEANS - DAY

Devastation. It's like a scene from a depressing post-apocalyptic near future SF movie.

Red Shark blasts down the streets of the ruined city, past closed up businesses and bordered up homes.


Bush speaks into his tape recorder.

BUSH: Mission accomplished. There were many missions. We created the greatest wave of prosperity in American history.

HITCHHIKER: No you didn’t.

Cheney head butts him with a rifle.

BUSH: From a certain perspective, the Neo-Conservative movement was like a wave or Jack Lord’s hair. You can see exactly where it stopped. This is something new. A new wave. No maps for this territory. No direction home. We cut all the Wall Street regulations and lowered taxes. We ...

EXT, DESERT - DAY

The now-battered Red Shark speeds along insanely. Bush is still talking.

BUSH: …history will judge. Fuck history. I’ll be dead. Far as I’m concerned, I’m the one to judge history and history’s guilty! (loud THUMP) Hell was that?

CHENEY: You just ran over Noam Chomsky.

He stops the car, backs up, runs over him again, then goes forward, running over him yet again.

BUSH: I saw that in The Sopranos. Always wanted to do that. Are we there yet?

CHENEY: Yeah.

Red Shark crashes through windows of the car rental dealership. The car is now a smoking wreck. Bush and Cheney get out. The Hitchhiker’s still in the back, shivering with post-traumatic shock.

Obama is standing there.
 

BUSH tosses the keys to Obama.

BUSH: Here. It’s all yours.

CHENEY: Christ. He looks like a f***ing lawn jockey.

Bush and Cheney laugh and run out.

Obama stands there.

The car falls to pieces like the Bluesmobile.

Die Hard 9-11

INT, COMMERCIAL AIRLINER - DAY
John McClane is leaning back in his seat. The seat in front has a mini-TV screen on it. The screen flickers and comes to life. A smug, Teutonic face appears.

KARL: Enjoying the flight, Mr. McClane?

McCLANE: I was. Gruber right?

KARL: Karl.

McCLANE: Yeah. That's bullshit. Simon and Hans. Two brothers.

KARL: I am a bastard.

McCLANE: You ask me, you're all bastards.

KARL: Ah, the trademark McClane wit.

(OS) A noise from the front of the airplane. Terrorists storming the cockpit.

KARL: Shall I tell you what's going on, Mr. McClane?

McCLANE: Save it. I got some ass to kick.

Wesley Snipes and Sylvester Stallone walk by.

SNIPES: Keep talking man. We got this.

STALLONE: Yo.

McCLANE: Fine. OK. So, what's going on, asshole?

KARL: I am causing this plane and another exactly like it to fly into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

McCLANE: Why are you -- the money right?

KARL: Precisely. The gold bullion in the basement vault conveniently deposited by your Federal Reserve. As we speak, my men are driving away with it in armored vehicles disguised as ice cream trucks. In the confusion and destruction, the loss will not be noticed.

(O.S.) Sounds of ass-kicking.

SNIPES: (O.S.) Stop hitting him, man. He ain't breathing.

STALLONE: (O.S.) Yo. 

McCLANE: Dream on, Karl. Your pilots in training just dropped outta flight school.

SNIPES: (O.S.) Can anybody fly this fucking thing?

TED STRIKER: No problem.

TED strides to the cockpit. The passengers applaud.

LESLIE NIELSEN: I want you to know, we're all counting on you.

PASSENGERS: USA! USA!

TED: (O.S.) OK, I got it. Like riding a bicycle.

KARL: (smirking) I am sure Mr. Striker is quite competent. But this will not matter, you see.

STALLONE: (O.S.) Yo. Pull up on the fucking joy stick there. What's the matter with you? I thought you said you could fly this thing!

TED: (O.S.) I'm trying!

McCLANE: OK, you Eurotrash dickweed. What's wrong with the fucking plane?

KARL: Ah. Nothing as such. We're flying the planes by remote control, you see. I saw it on The Lone Gunmen. The so-called "terrorists" are smoke and mirrors.

McCLANE: You'll never get away with this.

KARL: Oh. But I already have.

McCLANE: This is bigger than me, asshole. You crash this plane, you move to the top of the shit list.

KARL: Ah. And whose list would this belong to?

McCLANE: The United States Government, shithead. The Feds will be after your ass.

KARL: I think not. In fact, the "Feds," as you say, are paying me to perform this operation.

McCLANE: Bullshit.

KARL: No. Mr. Cheney himself is, as you might say, my silent partner.

McCLANE: Why? What's his fucking motive?

KARL: Your nation's elite needs another war, of course. The military industrial complex, as it once was fashionable to say. Arm sales are down. A Reichstag Fire will reverse that trend.

McCLANE: You fucking bastard. Fire?

SNIPES: Yeah, he say "fire" like it ain't no thing.

McCLANE: You know how many people ...

KARL: Oh, it's not just a fire, Mr. McClane. The Towers will fall.

McCLANE: I don't believe you. You think two planes will bring down the Towers?

KARL: It's doubtful. Which is why my demolition team has laced the Towers with explosives and severed strategic support columns.

McCLANE: Nobody noticed?

KARL: They are a Ninja demolition team.

McCLANE: Jesus, crashing the planes ain't enough?

KARL: No. The Towers must fall, you see.

McCLANE: Why?

KARL: It's more visually interesting.

McCLANE: This is too fucking complicated, man.

STALLONE: Yeah. I got the IQ of a pork flank, and this plan sounds retarded to me.

KARL: Does it? Well there's more.

McCLANE: More?

KARL: Yes. We're destroying Building 7 as well.

McCLANE: Why?

KARL: The fireworks would be pretty. Did I mention we also are crashing another plane into the Pentagon?

McCLANE: No.

KARL: Well, we are. Except it won't be a plane. We're diverting the real plane and killing the passengers and disguising a missile as a plane and shooting it into the Pentagon.

McCLANE: It won't work, Karl.

KARL: Why not?

McCLANE: Too many moving parts is why. You ever heard of Murphy's law?

KARL: Please. I explained it all to George Bush and Dick Cheney in my highly detailed Powerpoint presentation. Mr. Murphy did not attend. My plan will work.

McCLANE: No it won't! You ever seen an old movie? No matter how good the plan is, the plan gets fucked up. The Killing, Reservoir Dogs, whatever. The best-laid plans of mice and men and all that shit. Something always goes wrong. Somebody always talks.

KARL: Nothing will go wrong. No one will talk. The plan is perfect, Mr. McClane. Well, I must be off. How is it you say? "Yippie-kai-kay, motherfucker." Goodbye, Mr. McClane.

STALLONE: Hey! There's the Statue of Liberty!

I wish to make this nice and sparkling clear, O my brothers. This sketch is a reaction to Dylan Avery's "Spare Change," a DVD of which I have seen. This is satire. I'm not postulating 9-11 was an inside job. I'm saying that's an idiotic idea -- for the reasons that John McClane pointed out. It's too !@#$ complicated. Every !@#$ detail has to work like clockwork or the plan fails. Too many people involved. The motive makes no !@#$% sense. 

Son of the Microsoft Car

EXT, HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY - NIGHT
The house is surrounded by Zombies.

INT, HOUSE
Joe and Linda get ready to make a desperate run for it.

JOE: Come on, honey. The car is only ten feet away. We can make it.

LINDA: OK.

One of those this-may-be-our-last-kiss kisses.

JOE: Let's do it.

EXT, HOUSE
They burst out the door. JOE blasts various ZOMBIES with a shot gun. LINDA whacks them with a crowbar. They make it to the car.

LINDA: Let's get out of here!

JOE: My thoughts exactly.

He turns the key.

COMPUTER VOICE: Microsoft Car now installing updates.

A bar display on the dashboard slowly expands.

EXT, HOUSE
The ZOMBIES surround the car. We hear smashing noises. Screams.

Microsoft Car 2007

INT, MICROSOFT CAR SHOWROOM, day.

JOE USER approaches BILL GATES. BILL’s proudly showing off the Microsoft Vista, otherwise known as MSCar 2007, which resembles a genetic splice between a 1957 Cadillac and the Hindenburg. It gleams and shines. Despite his better instincts, JOE is seduced and comes closer. BILL notices, rubbing his hands and leering. He speaks with the unctuous, accent of Peter Lorre -- apparently polite but dripping with perverted subtext.

BILL: I see you are man of taste, sir. How do you like our new car?

JOE: Oh. It’s uh pretty, I’ll give you that. (looking closer) Why fins?

BILL: Oh, you don’t like fins?

BILL reaches in and touches dashboard – the fins disappear.

JOE: How did you do that?

BILL: The same way you would, sir. It’s easy.

JOE: What would I do?

BILL: Anything you want. The options are infinite!

JOE squints, looks suspiciously inside the car.

JOE: Where’s the steering wheel?

BILL: In the recycle bin of history! We at Microsoft Cars use the joystick now! It’s so cool and futuristic. But, see, you can have the steering wheel if you want. (touches something – a steering wheel magically appears) We can also do “old school.”

Opens door.

BILL: Would you like to go for a test drive?

JOE: Well, I …

BILL: You’re not afraid, are you?

EXT DAY, LA Freeway.

Without any transition, JOE and BILL are sitting in the car, just driving along on the I-10. JOE’s on the left, BILL’s on the right. BILL’s driving. It’s a right-drive car.

BIL: Welcome to your beautiful, new home.

JOE: (white knuckled grip on the dashboard) Uh. What just happened?

BILL: We are taking a test drive, as you requested. I can show you the electronic form you signed. Including the “hold harmless” indemnification clause. Feel free to relax.

JOE: OK. (leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes)

JOE: Gee, the engine sure runs quiet … (opens eyes—realizes he’s in driver’s seat) Wait a minute, you’re driving.

BILL: Of course, sir. It’s a right-drive car. Right-drive is much more logical. We at Microsoft Car have done studies on the human brain that … But it’s so simple to make it a left-drive car! I just have to touch the menu… in the right way. (gropes suggestively at the bewildering dashboard menu) Even an ape could do it! Would you like to …

JOE: No, no, no. Keep driving.

BILL: As you wish.

Cars on the freeway pass them wildly, honking furiously.

JOE: How fast are we ... (looks at dashboard) 80 miles an hour? No. That can't be …

BILL: It’s kilometers per hour. Metric system!

JOE: So much more logical, yeah, OK. What’s that… I dunno, that red bar over the ...?

BILL: Oh. That is the following-distance bar. It’s wonderful. You don’t have to do that irritating “one second, two second” thing where you’re counting telephone poles. It indicates …

JOE: Where’d you put the turn signal?

BILL: The turn ...? (laughs) Oh, that. We put it in the DDCI, of course.

JOE: DDCI?

BILL: Oh, forgive me, sir. The Driver-to-Driver Communication Interface menu. See, you just touch …

JOE reaches for something

BILL: No, not that!

A heads-up map display appears on the windshield in front of JOE’s face.

JOE: Ahhhh! I can’t see anything. What the hell are you ...

BILL touches something. The map disappears.

BILL: I’m sorry, sir. That was the Personal Navigation Global Positioning menu. It shows you where you are in terms of a Google Earth virtual reality real-time avataric presence which is constantly correlated to the number of available seats at nearby restaurants and sports venues.

JOE: I couldn’t see the road.

BILL: Naturally! Everything is designed with you, the user in mind. As I was saying, with the power of the DDCI, your car can indicate much more than whether you’re turning or applying the brakes or other such mindless things. You don't even need to honk the horn anymore! MSCar is so smart, it knows when you are angry! The car changes color depending on your mood and adopts a submissive posture in the presence of a policeman.

JOE: (pointing) What’s that tiny little …

BILL: Oh, the cute little glass? I’ll make it bigger. (gestures) This is how much gas you have. In optimist mode, we are half full. In pessimist mode …

JOE finally explodes with rage.

JOE: Shut up! Just shut up and take me back!

BILL: As you wish.

BILL pushes a button. The front of the car turns into the back of the car. The seats rotate 180 degrees. The car comes to a complete stop, then accelerates in the opposite direction against Interstate traffic. Older cars crash and burn all around it.

BILL: You see how easy that was?

JOE: Jesus Christ!

CAR: The nearest church is 1.7 kilometers.

JOE screams, covers face with his hands.

JOE: We’re gonna crash! We’re gonna crash!

BILL: “Crash?” I don’t like that word, Joe. You know what, Joe? The more I think about it, the more I don’t like you.

JOE: Help!

BILL: But you don’t want my help, do you Joe? (recorded soundbite of Joe’s voice) I hate you! I hate you!

BILL turns into Clippy. A blinking manifestation of pure evil in the form of a living paper clip.

BILL/CLIPPY: Do you think I’ve forgotten?

JOE: No. No!

BILL/CLIPPY: Goodbye, Joe. Enjoy the ride.

He fades away. The car crashes off the road, headed for a gas station.

JOE: No! I don’t wanna die!

CAR: Ask about MSFuneral.

JOE: Nooo!

The Naughty Little Bunny

... a cautionary tale

Hippity-hop, hippity-hop.

The chocolate bunny skipped along the path. An empty yellow Easter basket dangled lightly from his paw. His burden of chocolate eggs was gone now. He had hidden them all for the children to find.

But he was a lazy little chocolate bunny. He had slept late and started late and taken too much time.

All his brother and sister chocolate bunnies — the good little bunnies who loved the children and got up early and worked quickly — had finished long before.

And they were long since gone.

Theirs had been the work of morning, his the work of late afternoon. Very late. Now, like a brightly colored egg, the sun was slipping behind a purple hill. Easter day soon turned to Easter night.

And the lazy little bunny was alone.

Hippity-hop.

He skipped along nervously.

Hippity-hop.

How quickly the darkness came!

Hippity-hop.

So dark. How he wished he had gotten up earlier. How he wished he had worked harder.

Hippity-hop.

There were tales, legends. The wise old bunnies spoke in quiet whispers …
Of him.

Him.

He who came out at night.

Only at night.

He dealt harshly with any bad little bunnies that he might find wandering about alone through the darkness.

Quite harshly.

Hippity-hop.

Don’t go out at night, the old bunnies said. Get home before dark or he’ll find you. He’ll find you.

Hippity-hop.

He. Him. It. The thing that all chocolate bunnies feared but would not name.

Hippity-hop.

But such things could not be. They were just stories. Old bunny stories. They …

What ... was that noise?

The chocolate bunny stopped in his tracks. He twitched his nose and looked from side to side.

There was nothing.

He looked up and then looked down.

Nothing.

But behind him? What if there were something behind him? What if …

His little heart went pitter-pat. He steeled his courage, all the courage a chocolate bunny could find, and forced himself to turn his head. He looked behind him …

But there was only darkness and the wind.

He let out a sigh. And then he laughed.

What a stupid little bunny he was! He was almost home now. Through the rustling trees he could see the lights of Chocolatetown. Almost home. Stupid bunny!

There was nothing to fear, he told himself. Nothing to fear. Only stories. And he turned his head towards home once more.

But the path was blocked.

He froze in his tracks. The empty Easter basket dropped softly from his paws. Help …

The naughty chocolate bunny tried to scream for help, but the scream did not come. Voice and breath did not come. Help did not come.

Silently, deliberately, Count Chocula sank twin fangs into his neck and began to feed.

This narrative should be spoken in a Boris Karloff imitation to accompanying animation or puppetry. A Hannibal Lecter voice would work, too.

The Wasted Land

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Cuidado, piso mojado. All rights reserved.

I. Something Died in Here

APRIL sucks if you’re an old fart

It’s like your willy is one of those zombies
In one of those zombie movies
It comes back to life, but who’s kidding whom?
It’s still dead
Anyway, your penis won’t feed on people’s brains
Even if it is old and shriveled
I remember that time my cousin’s foot
Got run over by a car
And I was frightened. Cause I gave him the mescaline.
And I took some too, cause I’d just read that
Book about that crazy Indian guy by Carlos Whatsisname
Who probably made it all up
Then, all of a sudden, that Big Boy statue
You know, the one on top of Frisch’s Big Boy
Where they sell the Frisch’s Big Boy sandwich
Man, I love those things
Started talking to me
You’re out of gas he said
But I’m not a car I said
It’s a metaphor he said.
Oh, I said.
Buckle up, he said
And I was so freaking scared
Then he started speaking in German
“Ich bin ein Berliner”
Or some shit like that
I guess that makes sense cause Frisch is a German name
And I ran into this place where they had
This fortune telling lady, Madame Whatsername
With these Tarot cards and stuff
She looked me in the eyes and said
Kid, you got pupils the size of quarters
You look like one of those Keane kids
In those crappy old paintings
Then she tapped her bony fingers
In one of those Tarot cards
One of those real fucking scary ones
Here is you card she said
The Wanged Chung
Fear death by chocolate

II. Why You Lose at Chess
The dead do not play chess

If they do, they always lose
Pawn to Queen 4
Pawn to Queen 4
Your move
The dead guy just sits there
Bony fingers wrapped around the queen
Or his own dead shween
Out of the mystic East
Comes a dream of the mystic West
Out of the mystic West
Comes a dream of
Etcetera
We are dreaming of each other
Chess masters playing before a mirror.
East and West are one.
We are playing with ourselves
Jerking off
If I have to spell it out for you.
Hahahaha
But what of Lazarus?
What's he talking about?
I dunno. Some old Star Trek episode.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Oh, shut up.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
I wouldn't stay here if you paid me.

What’s the matter?
Nothing’s the bleeding matter.
Where are we?
Rat’s alley, I think.
Why do you think so?
It’s an alley. There’s rats in it.
What’s that noise?
The wind.
You farted.
What are you thinking?
None of your business.
I never know what you’re thinking.
Thank Christ.
Amen.
If you were a psychic I’d kill myself.
Oh, crikey.
What?
It’s a dead man’s bone.
No it isn’t. It’s one of them rawhide dog bones.
Ecky-ecky-ecky-ecky-pikang-zoop-boing-goodem-zoo-owli-zhiv
What the bloody hell was that?
Oh, calm down it’s just a nightingale.
Nightingale my ass.
I wet myself.
Searching for bargains, ladies?
Eagggghhhh!
Who are you?
T.S. Eliot, antique dealer
I will show you amazing bargains!
Christ, you frightened me!
Bloody old poofter!
This is the chair she sat in ...
Who?
Madame Sosostris, the psychic
You can see where the rich golden cupid peed on it.
Ooooh.
That makes it even more valuable.
Not interested.
My emporium contains an assortment of candelabra
Encrusted with rich filigree and bric-a-brac.
Piss off.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

SHUT UP

III. The Fire Sale
They’re selling post cards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports –
Oh, sorry wrong poem
And here’s Mr. T.S. Eliot, noted modernist poet
And the subject of today's man-on-the-street interview
Hello, Mr. Eliot
What’s on your mind today?
The Thames. It’s a mess.
Empty bottles, sandwich paper, cigarette ends.
Yes, it’s quite a problem.
No nymphs, though.
No. Apparently not.
The nymphs are departed.
Were they ever here in the first place?
Yes. But they’re not here now.
Where’d they go?
They didn’t leave a forwarding address.
What’s the T stand for?
Turgid.
Shut up, Ezra.
Cet gen ici, il est complètement fou.
Bais ma coude.
A busy scene today along the Thames
As dead writers and imaginary beings continue to mingle.
And here comes Mr. James Joyce!
Ix-nay, on the Oyce-Jay.
We’re all in disguise today.
I am Tiresias, the blind guide between this world and the next
You may have read about me in Joseph W. Campbell’s
Many exciting books
Har, and I be ye old sailor home from the sea
Disguised as an impotent Jewish ad salesman.
I’m Billy the Mountain, disguised as Donovan
We're Terry Jones and Graham Chapman dressed as women.
Look! What's T.S. Eliot doing?
He’s looking in that young lady's window is what he’s doing.
I think he's spotted a nymph!
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
He's making a face!
Christ, look at her.
Bloody prude.
They won't bite, you know.
Stop laughing at me!
You don’t like women, do you?
What?
Don’t shop if you ain’t gonna buy.
Stop laughing at me. I like women!
No, you don’t.
If they’re smart, you think they’re pretentious.
If they’re old and poor, you sneer at them.
Female sexuality makes you cringe.
Ar, and he don’t like Jews, neither.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You remind me of this fellow, Boylan.
Put down that arrow!

IV: Death by Chocolate

Augustus, the Gloop, a fortnight dead,

Forgetting Wonka’s warning, drank deep
Of the chocolate swell
Of the chocolate river
And did fall in
The swift current took him, writhing, up the tube
Shooting out and away
Like an impacted German turd.
No money could save him.

Consider Augustus, who once won the Golden Ticket.

V: What the Chunder Monkey Said
Yatta yatta. Yatta, yatta, yatta.

He who was living is now dead
Jerry Garcia is now dead
Ken Kesey is dead
Get a job

Stop children.
What's that sound?
Everybody look.
What's going down?

To be a rock
To be a rock and not to roll
To be a rolling stone

What's that then?
Never eat anything
Bigger than your head

Yatta yatta. Yatta, yatta, yatta.
Santa, Santa, Santa.
Santy Clause
Is coming to town.

NOTES

Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Preface: Standard printer's dummy copy dating back to the 15th century. Actually, a mangled passage from Cicero. The original text states that nobody wants pain for its own sake but only as a means to an end. Cicero, evidently, had never met any masochists.

Line 2. This is a parody of Jack Handy. Not a rip-off.

Line 12. Carlos Castanada, a UCLA anthropology student who hit the big time writing about peyote after he supposedly met a Yaqui shaman at a bus station.

Line 14. Frisch's Big Boy. A hamburger chain boasting an iconic Big Boy statue of an enormous fat kid in checkered pants holding a hamburger the size of a Buick. The basis of Lard Lad on "The Simpsons."

Line 27. A quote from John F. Kennedy at a speech he made near the Berlin Wall. In literal German, it means "I am a jelly donut."

Line 35. Creepy paintings of big eyed waifs that were popular in the 1960s. Walter Keane signed his name and took the money. His wife Margaret actually painted them.

Line 41. Wang Chung.  From "huang chung," meaning "yellow bell," the first note in the Chinese classical music scale. Also a 1980s British New Wave group with a video that caused epileptic seizures.  

Line 63. A quote from "The Alternative Factor," season one, episode 27, on the original "Star Trek" series. Worst episode ever.