The fear of the fear of fear itself

ENRIGHT: What happens when the seed of fear sprouts?

FRUM: A giant metaphoric fear tree grows.

ENRIGHT: Then?

FRUM: Oh? Well. The fear tree spooks the herd.

ENRIGHT: Then?

FRUM: The herd goes over the cliff, of course.

ENRIGHT: Then?

FRUM: The stock market dives. Consumers stop buying things and America run out of money to pay the interest on the money we’ve borrow from China to pay for crap we don’t need we’ve already burned up.

ENRIGHT: Well that’s their problem!

FRUM: Well, no. If that happens, they’d stop making stupid crap for Americans. The Chinese economy would slip into a depression. The Chinese, of course, would call in their loans. Thereby plunging the world into the Greater Depression.

ENRIGHT: We could stiff them.

FRUM: No we couldn’t.

ENRIGHT: Why not?

FRUM: I don’t know. They don’t teach that at Harvard. It’s some complicated three-card monte game involving t-bills. I think the money’s in Switzerland.

ENRIGHT: We could always start a war. Another war.

FRUM: No. We’ve used up our credit limit.

ENRIGHT: What’s our best option?

FRUM: Human sacrifice, of course.

They exchange dark looks.

ENRIGHT: Funny.

FRUM: Hmmm.

ENRIGHT: I was thinking the same thing.

They leap on each other, grapple. Static.

This just in

EXT, DAY, LONDON. ERIC, the BBC NEWSREADER, running through the wasted, burning cityscape —
28 Days with a dash of Lord of the Flies.

ERIC: In economic news, everything’s gone, at least on this sceptered isle. The crops have all been burned. Computers, books, all records of human civilization from the last 5,000 years have all been smashed. Leading economic analysts see a solution to the problem. Human sacrifice.

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!