Stupid Grammar Tricks

Hey kids! It's writer's rant time! Today's petty grievance? Anal grammatical rules in bonehead style books that petty editors shove down your throat or other orifices. Hard to swallow, because there are a host of these freaking rules. Wait. Did I say that right? Maybe there is a host of these freaking rules. Is "host" a collective noun? No, it's definitely "are." I think. Damnit, who cares? Here is a few pet peeves ...

Sentence fragments are the mark of a lazy writer.

No. They're not. A sentence fragment is a tool. A handy tool, in the hands of a good writer who knows when to use it. Hemingway, Harlan Ellison, I could go on. There's no such thing as a bad tool -- but what's the right tool for the job? (Hey, if you scratch your eyeball with a hammer, you might poke it out. Even a lousy carpenter knows that.) My point? Sentence fragments work. Sometimes.

Shun the split infinitive.

What idiocy. By way of illustration, let's take our Grammar Nazi pen to the original Star Trek intro. "To boldly go where no man has gone before" becomes "To go boldly where no man has gone before." Just doesn't sound right. That split infinitive rule is LATIN grammar, damn it. English is not an inflectional language. You can't have a split infinitive in English. On any planet.

Never start a sentence with a conjunction.
And I know. And I feel. And I swear. Starting a sentence with a conjunction can give it more punch. It's also a form of linguistic connective tissue. The sinews binding a new sentence to the last.

"More than" is a statement of quantity. "Over" only refers to position.

A stupid rule that kills a useful synonym. "More than." What a tooth-breaking, awkward, gob-stopper of a phrase. Say "over," baby. Say it over and over! You know you want to. "Over a hundred people started dancing!" Feels good, doesn't it?

Hear, O Grammar Nazis. I am the Singular Possessive Pronoun. I am One.
Shakespeare lost no sleep over this commandment. No, gentle readers. The Bard was singularly fond of "their." As in: "There's not a man I meet but doth salute me / As if I were their well-acquainted friend." And as an added bonus, the epicene "their" swings both ways, avoiding tedious repetitions of "his or her." Based on those cross-dressing comedies, I figure Shakespeare was cool with that.

Never end a sentence with a proposition.
Not to beat a dead horse, but a pox on this dicta. (Again, a bogus rule borrowed from Latin that doesn't apply to English.) As Churchill said, "This is the kind of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put."

Atlas Flushed

If Ayn Rand had written the biography of Thomas Crapper and King Vidor had filmed it.

Title: LONDON, 1886

INT - MR. SQUISHY'S COLLECTIVIST PLUMBING EMPORIUM
Thomas Crapper is showing Mr. Squishy his blueprint for a flush toilet.

THOMAS CRAPPER: What do you think of my design Mr. Squishy?

SQUISHY: Well, Mr. Crapper. It's radical. It could quite possibly transform the world.

CRAPPER: Will you back me, Mr. Squishy?

SQUISHY: No. I shall block you with every fiber of my being.

CRAPPER: It will work, Mr. Squishy.

SQUISHY: I know. That's why I shall block you! You have very dangerous ideas for a plumber. You think too much. Why improve upon the humble chamberpot, the noble outhouse?

CRAPPER: Because I can.

SQUISHY: Why?

CRAPPER: Man was meant for something better.

SQUISHY: Meant by whom? The mind of God?

CRAPPER: Meant by me, Mr. Squishy. The idea was born in my own mind.

SQUISHY: How dare you! Ideas exist to serve the community!

CRAPPER: Not mine.

SQUISHY: There's no such thing as an original idea!

CRAPPER: You have seen one. Ideas originate in the minds of individuals and individuals alone. There is no collective mind.

SQUISHY: That is where you are wrong! There is a collective mind, and I am the one who speaks for it! We don't need your dangerous ideas!

He tosses blueprint in furnace.

SQUISHY: Furthermore, we don't need you! You shall never work again as a plumber in this community! In all of England! I shall see to it personally! You'll be shoveling horse dung before the week is through! You're through, Crapper! Get out!

CRAPPER: Thank you, Mr. Squishy.

INT, LADY SPANKNY RAGNAROK'S HORSE STABLE

Spankny, dressed in riding pants two sizes too small, contemplates sweaty, bare-chested CRAPPER shoveling horse manure.

RAGNAROK: Who are you, Thomas Crapper?

CRAPPER: I am a plumber, Miss Ragnarok.

RAGNAROK: Not anymore. Who are you really?

CRAPPER: I am what I am, Miss Ragnarok.

RAGNAROK: That's what Popeye said.

CRAPPER: Aristotle said it first, Miss Ragnarok.

She slaps him across the face with her riding crop.

CRAPPER: Thank you, Miss Ragnarok.

RAGNAROK: You're welcome. Make love to me.

CRAPPER: No, Miss Ragnarok.

RAGNAROK: Why? Something wrong with your willy?

CRAPPER: No. Sex begins in the mind and ends in bed. My willy is an extension of my mind, Miss Ragnarok. It is the purest expression of my basic values. My willy and my mind will compromise for no one.

RAGNAROK: Let me see if I follow your logic ... I'm not good enough for you?

CRAPPER: No, Miss Ragnarok.

She turns away pouting.

RAGNAROK: Fine. Don't make love to me.

CRAPPER: I changed my mind.

RAGNAROK: Why?

CRAPPER: Your rejection of me has changed my estimation of your worth as a human being. You are not a second-rater. I should have known. Your name is filled with harsh consonants and flat vowels. On that basis, I want to rape you.

RAGNAROK: Then rape me!

CRAPPER: I don't want to anymore.

They make love. As this is a 1950s movie, it's not explicit. The action takes place in the dark with loud, swelling string music. We only hear voices.

RAGNAROK: Say it again, Tom. Say it.

CRAPPER: A is A.

RAGNAROK: Oh God! More!

CRAPPER: If A = B and B = C, then A = C.

RAGNAROK: Oh God, Tom. Yes, yes!

CRAPPER: Thank you, Miss Ragnarok. My mind is suddenly inspired.

He spends the night wanging away in a blacksmith shop on a new steel toilet while she admires his sweaty chest. The morning dawns.

CRAPPER: There it is.

RAGNAROK: It is beautiful Thomas. The world will destroy you.

CRAPPER: I do not care.

He opens his own shop: THOMAS CRAPPER'S FREE THINKING TOILET FIXTURES.

There is immediate public outrage.

A Socialist stands on a soapbox ranting in Hyde Square.

MONTAGE --

SOCIALIST: Thomas Crapper's so-called "flush toilet" ignores centuries of culture and tradition in this community! It destroys basic human rights -- and puts thousands of workers out of work!

RABBLE: Rabble, rabble, rabble!

SOCIALIST: Crapper's vicious invention will destroy the chamberpot guild and outhouse repair workers, to say nothing of the ditch diggers! I won't hear of it! What makes him so good, eh? What makes him better than us? The good people of Londontown have been pissing and shitting in ditches, chamber pots and outhouses for a thousand years. We shall do so for a thousand more -- am I right?

RABBLE: Rabble, rabble, rabble!

INT, CATHEDRAL

A Priest lifts his eyes to heaven.

PRIEST: This "toilet" is the work of Satan! Did Jesus use a toilet? Did Adam? If God had meant for man to defecate in toilets he wouldn't have given him shovels!

A crowd gathers outside CRAPPER's shop.

PLUMBER: He dares to sell his wares without the approval of the plumbers guild!

DITCH DIGGER: Or the ditch diggers collective!

OUTHOUSE BUILDER: Or the outhouse league!

PRIEST: He defies centuries of tradition!

INSIDE SHOP --

A rich woman looks down into the toilet.

RICH WOMAN: How horrid! I might fall in and drown!

She runs away.

OUTSIDE --

TOOTHLESS MAN: What if dogs drink from our toilets?

DUMB BLONDE: What if babies drink?

RICH WOMAN: What about the children? The poor children!

A THUG runs into the shop.

INSIDE

THUG: Here's what I think of your toilet, Crapper.

He pisses in the toilet.

THUG: What do you think of that?

CRAPPER: I think that it works perfectly.

THUG: Yeah. Well what about this?

He takes a dump in the toilet.

THUG: From now on, whenever I take a dump, I'm going to call it a crap in your honor!

The crowd laughs with mindless glee. They attack the shop, throw bricks through the window, burn it down.

Montage of London. People wearing "CRAP ON CRAPPER" buttons.

CRAPPER stands alone in his burned-out shell of a shop. SQUISHY enters.

SQUISHY: Ah, Mr. Crapper. Alone at last. May I ask you a question?

CRAPPER: That is a question. You may ask more.

SQUISHY: Good. Please speak your mind. No one will hear us. What do you think of me?

CRAPPER: I do not think of you.

SQUISHY: Really?

CRAPPER: I have no idea who you are.

SQUISHY: Mr. Squishy.

CRAPPER: Oh. Right. You are the man who tried to destroy me. I could place the face but not the name.

SQUISHY: It happens all the time.

CRAPPER: What do you want?

SQUISHY: (pointing to the blackened-but-not-destroyed toilet) I would like to buy your toilet.

CRAPPER: It is not for sale.

SQUISHY: Not the toilet itself. The idea for the toilet.

CRAPPER: Ideas are not for sale.

SQUISHY: I thought you were a capitalist.

CRAPPER: Oh, right.

SQUISHY: How much do you want for it? How much money?

CRAPPER: I do not ask for money.

SQUISHY: Credit for the work.

CRAPPER: I do not ask for credit.

SQUISHY: You took out a patent, of course?

CRAPPER: The patent exists in my mind.

SQUISHY: Did you fall on your head or something?

CRAPPER: No, Mr. Squishy. I will supply you with my design. You may execute my design. But it must remain my design without alteration. My one stipulation is that no essential design element be changed. That is the full payment I desire.

SQUISHY: That's it?

CRAPPER: Yes, Mr. Squishy.

SQUISHY: I shall draw up a contract immediately.

CRAPPER: My word is my contract.

SQUISHY: What -- I mean, mine too. My words is also my, erm, contract. Shake?

He shakes limply.

A few days later

INT - MR. SQUISHY'S COLLECTIVIST PLUMBING EMPORIUM

A crowd has gathered. Something up front is covered with a sheet. SQUISHY stands there, ready to unveil it.

SQUISHY: Behold, good people. (whips back sheet) The people's toilet!

The toilet is encrusted with Corinthian columns and rocket fins.

SQUISHY: Note how it incorporates elements of the chamber pot and outhouse and is also grooved like a latrine!

RAGNAROK: Oh Thomas. It is an abomination!

CRAPPER: I must destroy it. My mind and my willy insist.

Later that night, they break in to MR. SQUISHY's shop. CRAPPER drops a cherry bomb in the toilet. RAGNAROK rolls around in the street. She smears herself with feces. The toilet explodes, loudly. CRAPPER emerges.

CRAPPER: You did not have to do that.

RAGNAROK: I wanted to.

INT, COURTROOM

JUDGE: Oyez, oyez. The state vs. Thomas Crapper. The defendant is accused of willfully blowing up the toilet of Ian Squishy resulting in damages of 16 pounds. Court is now in session. Solicitor for the prosecution, state your opening argument.

MR. SQUISHY appears in a solicitor's robe.

JUDGE: Wait a minute. I thought you were a plumber?

SQUISHY: Night school law classes. At least two weekends.

JUDGE: Fine. Please state your opening argument.

SQUISHY: This man is a lone wolf, a threat to the community. He must be destroyed!

JUDGE: That's not exactly relevant to the charge, is it?

SQUISHY: Oh. Sorry. Prosecution will prove that John Crapper willfully blew up my toilet.

JUDGE: Solicitor for the defense, please state your opening argument.

CRAPPER: (standing up) I will act as my own solicitor, your honor.

JUDGE: You are a fool sir. Very well. What do you plead to these charges?

CRAPPER: Not guilty.

JUDGE: On what legal basis?

CRAPPER: I will make a very long speech. It's complicated.

JUDGE: Sum it up, eh?

CRAPPER: The speech is what is is. My argument is what it is. It cannot be summed up, reduced, summarized or redacted. My --

JUDGE: I get the idea. Right. Prosecuting solicitor may proceed.

SQUISHY: I will call my first witness. Richard Urchin.

JUDGE: Richard Urchin to the stand!

URCHIN: Yeah. He blew up the toilet. He put a cherry bomb in it.

JUDGE: Thank you. Cross-examine?

CRAPPER: No.

JUDGE: Am I the only one in this courtroom who went to proper law school? Anyone else? Squishy?

SQUISHY: No, your honor. Prosecution rests.

JUDGE: Defending solicitor may call the first witness.

CRAPPER: I will call no witnesses, your honor. I am my own witness.

JUDGE: Christ. Then you're a witness, eh?

CRAPPER: I am not on trial here.

JUDGE: What? (looking at Squishy) You're not going to object? Well, if you won't I will. Mr. Crapper. Sorry to but in, but in point of fact you are on trial here. Just pointing it out. Please continue with your farcical argument.

CRAPPER: Thank you your honor. As I was saying ... Thousands of years ago, one man stood up and said "Let us stop taking dumps in the cave. Let us dig a ditch outside and crap there." His brothers probably shoved him in the ditch that he had helped to dig. I, also, have created a new idea. I, also, am the subject of collective rage. What is the basis? By what charge?

SQUISHY: He blew up my toilet!

JUDGE: Silence in the court, all right? Please continue.

CRAPPER: Yes, your honor. Regardless of any human laws which I may or may not have violated, in terms of the inviolate laws of physics and chemistry, I have destroyed a porcelain and metal object. This I do not deny. But the toilet itself is irrelevant. But I state, unequivocally and proudly, that the key nature of my act was my intent: the idea behind the act. On that basis, I did not destroy Mr. Squishy's toilet. I destroyed the idea behind his toilet. That negation is also an affirmation! To erase an idea is in itself an idea.

JUDGE: Bit of a stretch, eh?

CRAPPER: I assert that, by judging me, this court is also blowing up an idea. Not the idea itself but the idea of a negation of an idea: the idea of the free mind. What could be more crystal clear? To you, the free men and women of this jury, I assert that Mr. Squishy's toilet stands for something: it is an embodiment of an idea: the idea of collectivism, conformity and the herd mentality: a nightmare dystopia in which second-raters like Mr. Squishy hold the whip hand. I also stand for an idea: the idea of freedom, the freedom of the unfettered mind. The choice between freedom and slavery is yours to make.

JUDGE: That's it, then? You done?

CRAPPER: No, your honor. My speech goes on for another 27,000 words.

JUDGE: (sighs) Proceed.

CRAPPER: I will, your honor. I do not compromise. I do not use contractions. I ...

SIX HOURS LATER

CRAPPER: ... I and every man. Without apology and without fear.

The jury is asleep.

JUDGE: (slamming gavel) Wake up! He's done!

JURY FOREMAN: Oh.

JUDGE: Jury may --

JURY FOREMAN: Eh, forget it. He's innocent your honor! We want to go home!

JUDGE: Fine. Not guilty. Charges dismissed.

INT - MR. SQUISHY'S COLLECTIVIST PLUMBING EMPORIUM

Mr Squishy flushes himself down toilet.

EXT - CRYSTAL PALACE, LONDON - DAY

CRAPPER is at work on this latest creation. RAGNORAK runs up to him. They kiss. The toilet is inside an elevator.

Music swells.

CRAPPER and RAGNAROK ride up into the sky.

King of Capitol Hill

[George W. Bush considered as lovable cartoon redneck, Hank Hill]

Title effect – the usual speeded-up intro with GEORGE W. BUSH and buddies drinking beer in front of White House.
INT., WHITE HOUSE TV ROOM


GEORGE W. BUSH and his father, GEORGE BUSH SR., are watching SADDAM HUSSEIN on TV. SADDAM is brandishing a rifle and acting like a dick.

GEORGE BUSH SR: Boy, when are you gonna kick his ass?

GWB: Dad, I got other things to worry about.

BUSH SR: Like what?

GWB: Like Usama bin Whatsisname.

BUSH SR: Ain’t you caught him yet?

GWB: I don’t know, dad. I think so. We blew the hell outta the whole dang country. Some of the boys found some pieces in the cave … but it mighta been a donkey.

BUSH SR: That ain’t good enough!

GWB: The DNA evidence was inconclusive.

BUSH SR: American people ain’t gonna stand for it!

GWB: I can say for certain that maybe we killed him.

BUSH SR: "Maybe" don't cut it! American people wants blood – an eye for an eye! You gotta make an example outta somebody –

GWB: Yeah, that's easy for you to say.

BUSH SR: It is easy! Just pick a bad guy and kill him!

GWB: Dad, the world's full of bad guys. It's like a dang candy store full of evil candy. Which one do I pick?

BUSH SR. Who do you think?

On TV, SADDAM wipes his ass with the American flag.

BUSH SR: You gonna let him get away with that?

GWB: Well … you did.

BUSH SR: What'd you say?

GWB: (sighing) Uh … no. No Dad.

BUSH SR: No “Dad”…?

GWB: No, sir.

BUSH SR: That’s better.

GWB: Guess I better write the speech.

BUSH SR: You? (laughs) No. Karl writes the speech. You say it!

GWB: Yes, sir. (mumbling) You dropped the ball, guess I'll pick it up.

BUSH SR: What'd you say?

GWB: Nothing, sir.

TITLE: PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS

OPEN, INT. OVAL OFFICE

Tight shot of GWB at his desk looking nervous. He can't read the TelePrompter.

GWB: Uh. (squinting) I can't read that. Can't you make it any bigger? You can't. OK. (unintelligable voice O.S.) What do you mean wing it? Oh.

Gets a terrified smile on his face. Stares at the camera.

GWB: This is your President speaking. Hello, American people. Uh. You know, the thing I’ve always admired about the American people is you’re all good people. Well, most of you. And if there’s one thing we all agree on … uh, we’re all in favor of … good. And we all think evil is bad.

Cut to CLINTONS watching on TV.

BILL: Lord have mercy, he's dumber than a sack of rocks.

HILLARY: You mean like this one?

She hits him the face with a sack of rocks.

Back to the President's address --

GWB: Well, what I'm about to say may sound shocking. But there's folks out there who don't agree with America. See, there’s this here “Axis of Evil,” namely Iraq, Iran and North Ko-re-a. The bad guys running those outfits think evil is good. That sorta makes them evil, if you see what I mean. And the most evil bad guy of them all is … (thinking) Sad-dam Hus-sein. If this thing is working right, you'll see his picture right there over my left shoulder. Why Sad-dam Hus-sein? Well, that's a good question, America. (sighs) I guess I'll have to talk about history. I hate it as much as you do, but stick with me.

We already fought one war with this fellow back in -- awhile back. My Daddy kicked Saddam's butt. But, because the American people is or are so all-fired good, we gave the man a second chance. "Saddam," we said. "You can put down your guns and become one of the good guys." By guns I mean nu-cu-lar weapons. He coulda put on a white hat instead of that stupid beret. Instead, Saddam just kicked out the UN inspectors and said to heck with it. I know they're French, but it's the principle of the thing. We gave him a second chance. And he blew it.

Now we know he's got weapons of mass destruction. How do we know, if he kicked the inspectors out? That's a good question, America. Well ...

The way Karl Rove explained it to me, it's like the time Coach caught me smoking. He didn't see the cigarette, but he saw me hiding the cigarette. What kind of idiot tries to hide a cigarette when he ain't got one? An idiot who's trying to look cool, maybe. I sure as heck wasn't cool. Coach knew it. Saddam Hussein is not cool, and he knows it! According to Karl, that means he's smoking. And we caught him.

It's what they call a smoking gun, America. Or a mushroom cloud.

Like my coach once said, "Screw up once, you’re out of the game. Screw up twice, you’re off the team."

As coach of the only remaining superpower, I am forced to blow the whistle.
(He blows a hideously loud whistle)Saddam Hussein … you are hereby suspended as quarterback of Iran for smoking mushrooms!

FLOOR DIRECTOR: Iraq.

GWB: Iraq. I meant to say Iraq. America knows what I meant, don't you America? Well, I guess that's it. We're going to war, America. Now you know why. Good night. Heh-heh. And don't let the bedbugs bite.

We go from the TV address to scene inside Oval Office revealing the cameras and film crew. LAURA BUSH applauds. BUSH SR. scowls.

FLOOR DIRECTOR: OK, that’s a wrap.

GWB: "That's a wrap." I feel like a dang TV star. (getting up from desk) How'd I do?

FLOOR DIRECTOR: I got technical stuff to do.

He leaves quickly.

GWB: OK. Guess you better do it, then. What do you think, Laura? Give me your honest opinion. Was I … Presidential?

She bites her lower lip and forces out a lie.

LAURA: George … you reminded me of Sam Houston. Or Tom Landry.

GWB: (touched at the comparison, standing up a little straighter) Tom Landry …

BUSH SR: Hell! Tell the truth, woman! George ain’t no Tom Landry – just ask the Rangers! If I was still President…

LAURA: Sir, may I remind you that you are not the President. Not anymore.

BUSH SR: You gonna let her talk to me that way, son?

GWB: Let her? Laura’s gonna speak her mind, dad. Dish it out, you gotta take it, heh-heh. (Thinking he’s as wise as Solomon with next bit of advice.) But I think it’d be a good idea if we all keep in “mind” who our real enemy is.

BUSH SR: William Jefferson Clinton! (spits on carpet)

GWB: No, Dad. Saddam Hus-sein.

LAURA: (to BUSH SR.) Sir. In this time of crisis you must put aside your petty differences. War demands sacrifices.

BUSH SR: Sacrifices! You wanna talk about …

LAURA: (whispering in BUSH SR.’s ear) Sir, with all due respect, it is necessary to build up his self-image.

BUSH SR: His what?

LAURA: Jiminy Christmas, sir, you know what! Your son is a brave man, and you know it!

BUSH SR: Brave? Yeah, sure he is. He kept the VC outta Texas airspace.

LAURA: According to psychological studies, the fear of public speaking ranks above the fear of death! You should know that more than anybody. This is not the time to tear him down!

GWB: What the heck are you two whispering about?

LAURA: (smiling supportively) How much we love you. Isn't that right? (she elbows BUSH SR.)

BUSH SR: Yeah, I guess.

LAURA: We’re all very proud of you, George.

BUSH SR smiles unconvincingly.

THREE MONTHS LATER

GWB watching TV. SADDAM is posturing – again.

GWB: There he is again with that stupid rifle. That burns me up, I tell you what. (Sighs, then turns to CHENEY – who resembles the chain-smoking, paranoid Dale Gribble of the cartoon show.)

CHENEY is fiddling with a confusion of maps and charts at a big situation-room type table.

GWB: Dang it, Dick. You said all’s we had to do was threaten to go to war and somebody’d put a bullet in his head. The man seems fine to me.

CHENEY: All in good time, George, all in good time. It’s all part of the plan.

GWB: What plan? You’ve never actually shown me this so-called plan.

CHENEY: It’s in the Bible, George. Babylon the Great equals Iraq. Gog and Magog. Damien and Johnny Cash. It has all been foretold…

GWB: So … who’s Saddam supposed to be? Gog or Magog?

CHENEY: I haven’t figured that out yet.

GWB: Dang it, Dick. You off your medication again?

Phone beeps – the blazing-red “hotline.”

GWB: It’s the hotline! (awed) Wow! I have never actually answered the hotline.

Phone still beeps.

GWB: (looking at it, savoring moment) I feel like John F. Kennedy. (picks it up) Hello. This is the President of the United States speaking. May I help you?

KIM JONG-IL: (the dictator of North Korea with irritating voice like Hank Hill’s Laotian neighbor) Hello, hillbilly!

GWB: (irritated) Who is this? (shouting) Dang it, Dick, are you ordering Chinese takeout on the hotline?

KIM JONG-IL: Not takeout, stupid. I Kim Jong-il, North Korea dictator! Your worst nightmare!

GWB: No. That’s the one where I have to take the exam naked …

KIM: Spare me psychobabble crap! You suck, hillbilly boy! You stole election!

GWB: Now that’s just uncalled for.

KIM: Can’t hear you! What dat noise in background? You watch stupid American TV?

GWB: The Fox news channel.

KIM: Hillbilly News Channel! All the time kiss your ass!

GWB: It is fair and balanced. See, it says so right on the logo. They can't say it if it's not true.

KIM: Turn on CNN, Jethro – get a big surprise!

GWB picks up clicker – zaps over to CNN.

Big as life, he sees KIM JONG-IL. Who waves.

KIM: Hello, hillbilly! Whole world watching embarrassing phone conversation! Hear every stupid word you say!

GWB: (shuddering) Oh God.

KIM: Whole planet know! I badass! You all hat, no cattle! (grabbing crotch) I got your weapons of mass destruction right here, hillbilly! What you gonna do about it? You stupid – just like daddy!

GWB: I am not stupid like my daddy – I mean my daddy’s not stupid – I mean neither one of us are stupid!

KIM: Get story straight! You stupid! Say “nucular.” Can’t even say nuclear! You stupid American, can’t even speak own language. I smart Korean, I can say it! Nuclear, nuclear, nuclear! See how smart?

GWB: Calm down.

KIM: I not calm down!

GWB: Perhaps we can discuss this reasonably. In private.

KIM: Not discuss reasonably! I not reasonable, remember? That what you said! I evil! I part of Axis of Evil! Real bad guy! Irrational crazy guy like John McCain!

GWB: Just a second… Kim. That’s a girl’s name.

KIM: Hey!

GWB: (chuckles to himself) I think I hear Laura calling.

KIM: Laura not calling!

GWB: (faking conversation) Yes, Laura. Heh-heh. Just talking to Kim here. No, it ain't my old girlfriend. Kim's a guy's name, too, Laura. Kim's my buddy.

KIM: I not your buddy!

GWB: What? Oh, time to walk Spot, heh-heh? Don’t want to stain the White House carpet. (calling to invisible dog) Here boy, here Spot… (he whistles)

KIM: Dog not there! This bullcrap!

GWB: (dangling car keys in front of phone to sound like dog leash) You ready, Spot? (faking dog bark) Good boy!

KIM: You not hang up on me!

GWB: Sorry, Kim. I have to … walk the dog.

He hangs up.

Shudders.

Looks at TV where KIM JONG-IL is still ranting into phone for all the world to see.

Shudders.

Clicks off the TV.

SPOT walks into the room, expecting a walk, looking confused.

GWB looks at dog.

GWB: You got no idea what's going on, do you?

SPOT wags his tail.

GWB: That makes two of us. Come on, boy.

GWB and SPOT walk out of frame.

Go to black.

Getting wrecked on the Edmund Fitzgerald

The First Mate was drunk and he smelled like a skunk

And he puked out his guts on the railing

The Captain was stewed and he acted quite rude

And all of his senses were failing

The Captain wired in he was all out of gin

And drank grain alcohol from the barrel

Later that night he was feeling quite tight

Getting wrecked on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

TRUE STORIES OF THE FBI

ANNOUNCER: Welcome to “true stories of the FBI” featuring real actors pretending to be loosely-based composites of real agents and no cross-dressing. Ever. Tonight’s story: “NONE DARE CALL IT BOOTLEG.” We take you back in the summer of 2001. We’re deep inside the heart of the FBI’s Intelligence Analysis Division. As our story begins, an earnest, young rookie agent is just coming in from the field. He learns something. You will too.

AGENT JONES comes running in waving a file stuffed with papers.

JONES: Director! Director! You’re not going to believe…

DIRECTOR: (not recognizing him) And you are…?

JONES: Agent Jones.

DIRECTOR: (considering this – it doesn’t ring a bell) Jones. Jones? I don’t think I …

JONES: It’s been awhile, sir – six months, actually. I’ve been undercover – deep cover – but I think it’s finally paid off.

DIRECTOR: Refresh my memory.

JONES: I’ve infiltrated six different flight schools and …

DIRECTOR: (totally confused) Flight schools?

JONES: Yeah. What I found out was, they all contained disproportionate numbers of Middle Eastern nationals. Weird guys. Creepy-looking guys. Some approached me and attempted to rent crop dusters.

DIRECTOR: So…?

JONES: It adds up to terrorism, sir. A new kind of terrorism.

DIRECTOR: (scornfully) Terrorism? Six months undercover, and all you come up with is “terrorism” …? This is the FBI, Jones. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.

JONES: Like what?

DIRECTOR: Like video piracy, that’s what.

JONES: Video piracy?

DIRECTOR: Yeah. While you’re playing Junior G-Man, we reorganized the whole bureau. Today’s FBI is totally focused on video piracy.

JONES: You got to be kidding me.

DIRECTOR: I wish I was, Jones. It’s a crime wave. It’s big.

JONES: How big, sir?

DIRECTOR: International. We’re working with Interpol now. Terrorism’s just not priority.

JONES: (digesting this) Uh. Maybe it’s just me, sir, but …

DIRECTOR: Spit it out, Jones.

JONES: Shouldn’t international terrorism take priority to video piracy?

DIRECTOR: Is that what you think, Jones? Yeah, it figures. You would think that – snot-nosed academy punk. You want the headlines, the sexy assignments – “Terrorism”… “drugs” … “organized crime.” You think video piracy’s not important? Listen up, Jones. Let’s say we turn a blind eye, what happens then? They teach you that at the academy?

JONES: Uh … no.

DIRECTOR: No? No. I didn’t think so. Well they should, Jones. (tapping Jones' forehead) Think Jones. Let’s play it your way. Let’s forget the bootleggers and go after the so-called “terrorists.” While you’re off hunting Carlos the Jackal, the pirates board and loot and have their way with Hollywood. What’s the harm? A few bootleg copies of “Zoolander,” a DVD rip of “Training Day.” What’s the harm you say?

JONES: I didn’t…

DIRECTOR: (cutting him off) I’ll tell you what the “harm” is, Jones. What happens to creative artists who don’t get fairly compensated for their intellectual property rights?

JONES: Sir ...

DIRECTOR: What happens when your local Blockbuster goes bust? Ever think about that? Barry Dillar’s out on the street – not to mention all the moms and dads at MCI and Sony with hungry mouths to feed. What happens to the studios, Jones? No subsidiary rights, no secondary income from video and DVD. They’re forced to cut back on production values – you know what that means? No more explosions for Jerry Bruckheimer. He starts doing chick flicks – lotsa talk, hugs and kisses, relationship stuff. Little Johnny grows up watching that, little Johnny grows up soft. And what about little Johnny? He can’t go down to Blockbuster anymore, let alone some Mom and Pop porno stand. Where’s he go? The street, that’s where. Back alley video. He comes home with third generation bootlegs full of scan lines, Jones. Scan lines and bad synch and bad audio to match. Johnny’s up in his room watching some knockoff of “Pretty Woman” that looks like a dirty car windshield on a rainy night ‘cause that’s all he can get. His eyes go bad, his ears go bad, and little Johnny grows up light in the loafers ‘cause he grew up watching chick flicks. Little Johnny, and all the little Johnnies across America. So America grows up soft. And before you can say “Me so horny,” the commies are drinking Starbucks in Seattle – Why? Because you’re worried about a few towelheads in cropdusters. That’s what happens if we play it your way.

JONES: I didn’t think, sir.

DIRECTOR: No. You didn’t. Ever notice that FBI warning at the end of every video?

JONES: Yeah.

DIRECTOR: Ever read it?

JONES: No.

DIRECTOR: Well you should Jones. Read it. Memorize it. Think about it. The FBI stands behind that warning. Don’t you ever forget it. (addressing audience) And that goes for you too, America. It’s time to just say “no” to copyright violation and turn in your friends. They’ll thank you for it. So will the FBI. Goodnight, America.

ANNOUNCER: This has been a “true story” taken directly from the video piracy files of the FBI. Any resemblance to persons, places or things represented in this teleplay is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

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Mr. Large

NARRATOR: (Walter Winchellesque) Crime. It’s the cancer of society, the scourge of civilization. After years of scientific study, there’s one thing we can say with absolute certitude about it. (long dramatic pause) Crime is caused by lawbreakers. Here’s a look at one of them – a man known only as “Mr. Large.”

“Mr. Large” enters. He’s actually kind of short.

NARRATOR: He started out stealing statues of the Virgin Mary from Irish churches and reselling them to Italian churches frequented by the Chicago mob. “Fighting Father Flanagan” tried to talk him out of it …

MR. LARGE and three HOODS are huddled together. He watches approvingly as the HOODS file serial numbers off statues of Jesus' Mom. The PRIEST enters and confronts LARGE.

MR. LARGE: Ya lost, Father?

PRIEST: No, son. You are.

MR. LARGE: Get him. Ya got a lotta guts, Father – good for you. Now beat it. Drafty old place like dis ain’t so good for an old guy like you. (pulling out gun) Bad for your health, know what I mean? Better go back to yer nice warm mick church.

PRIEST: I'm not leaving from this spot.

MR. LARGE: (cocking gun) Not alive, you mean.

PRIEST: You wouldn't shoot a priest, son.

He shoots him.

PRIEST: I guess I was wrong.

Falls.

NARRATOR: Large made his mark with extortion during the 1930s. His victims included the British Prime Minister…

MR. LARGE: (on the phone) No, no, no, I ain’t threatening. I’m just saying London’s a real nice place. Be a shame if something happened to it. Like I don’t know what. Like say the Germans got a hold of some rockets and started firing ‘em at you. Real big rockets. I’m just speculating. As a friend. (hangs up)

NARRATOR: And the Emperor of Japan.

MR. LARGE: (on phone) Cute little town, Hiroshima …

NARRATOR: By playing both sides against the middle, he helped start World War II. He was equally ruthless with his henchmen.

Three mobsters huddled together, cleaning guns, etc. MR. LARGE enters room and confronts them.

MR. LARGE: Something's up.

THUG #1: It's strictly legit, boss.

MR. LARGE: Yeah? (sniffing) Well I say something stinks here. (gesturing to one of the THUGS) You. Take out the garbage.

THUG #2: Sure ting boss.

THUG #2 leaves with garbage.

MR. LARGE: How many times I gotta tell you mugs? No food garbage in the office garbage – paper garbage only.

THUG #1: What about food that's wrapped in paper and you eat the food and there's just paper?

MR. LARGE: What about you clam up?

THUG #1: Su – (he clams up)

MR. LARGE: Something still stinks.

MR. LARGE just pauses, studying them. They’re all terrified. Then he points to THUG #1 and walks up to him. The other THUGS back off.

MR. LARGE: I smell a rat and his name is you. What gives?

THUG #1: Nothing.

MR. LARGE: Nothing, eh?

THUG #1: Yeah, boss. N-nothing.

MR. LARGE: You think I'm paying you to sit around and do nothing?

THUG #1: No.

MR. LARGE: Oh, so you did do something?

THUG #1: Yeah.

MR. LARGE: Like what?

THUG #1: Like what I'm s’posed to.

LARGE: Yeah? You wanna know what I think you did?

THUG #1: Whaddya think I did?

MR. LARGE: You tell me.

THUG #1: I didn't do it.

MR. LARGE: Sure, sure.

THUG #1: Honest, boss. Ya gotta believe me!

MR. LARGE: Oh I believe you, I’m a real trusting guy, I’m a real sap, I believe anybody – (whipping out gun) but my pal here Roscoe don't.

THUG #1: (shaking, obviously terrified of “Roscoe”) Listen....

MR. LARGE: I’m a real easy-going Joe, but Roscoe’s a skeptic, see. Like them pre-Socratics. (cocking gun) Roscoe’s gonna need some convincing…

THUG #1: (sweating) Listen, boss…

MR. LARGE: Don't talk to me, talk to Roscoe.

THUG #1: (bending over, talking to the gun) Listen Roscoe, I didn't do it.

MR. LARGE: Roscoe thinks yez lying.

THUG #1: I ain’t lying! I don’t even know what you think I did.

MR. LARGE: Then how do you know you didn’t do it?

THUG #1: (forgetting himself and talking to MR. LARGE, not the gun) Cause, uh …

MR. LARGE: Not me, Roscoe.

Bending over again to talk to the gun.

THUG #1: (addressing the gun) Cause I ain’t…

He can’t think of anything to say.

MR. LARGE: Roscoe’s waiting.

Abruptly, ridiculously, he starts pour his heart out to “Roscoe.”

THUG #1: (practically babbling) Uh, y-you know how loyal I am, Roscoe. Da boss means a lot to me! Most mugs wouldn’t even think about doing the boss no dirt on account of nobody screws wit de boss and gets away with it, but me I wouldn’t even do nothing if I could get away with it on account of it ain't right cause da boss done good to me and I wanna do what’s right, so … (losing train of thought, has to think for a second) …so dat's why I didn’t do nothing I ain’t supposed to do, Roscoe, honest.

He looks up hopefully but it’s no sale. MR. LARGE gets even more belligerent.

MR. LARGE: Roscoe ain’t buying. Something's up!

THUG #1: No, boss!

MR. LARGE: You've been walking the dog!

THUG #1: No!

MR. LARGE: Charking on the farklebark!

THUG #1: I wouldn’t do dat!

MR LARGE: Jamming on the floyfloy!

THUG #1: I don't even know what none of that means!

MR. LARGE: Oh you don’t, eh? Well maybe you’re just playing dumb. Maybe you’re some kinda wiseguy. Are you some kinda wiseguy?

THUG #1: I ain’t no wiseguy!

MR. LARGE: Sure you are! You’re a regular Einstein!

THUG #1: No boss!

MR. LARGE: A real bright boy!

THUG #1: No!

MR. LARGE: Think you’re real smart, don’t you?

THUG #1: No boss I don’t. I don’t think I’m smart. I’m real stupid. I never thought nothin’ in my whole life, boss. I sweartagod I ain’t smart!

MR. LARGE: Yeah?

THUG #1: Yeah.

MR. LARGE aims “Roscoe” and shoots him.

MR. LARGE: If there's one thing I can't stand it's a dummy.

NARRATOR: Through fear, violence and wise investment, Large’s criminal empire grew – eventually including mail-order delivery of orphans to slave labor camps by the late 1970s. In the 80s he moved into basic cable but got out again because he found it unethical. It seemed like nothing could stop him – but the long arm of the law was closing in. In 1998 it grabbed him where it hurts – in a hospital suite in Schenectady.

At this point the NARRATOR assumes the role of a cop and walks over to MR. LARGE who is lying in a hospital bed.

NARRATOR: Vincent Divanziochicanziawhatever, a.k.a. Mr. Large, you’re under arrest for the… (noticing he’s dead) …ah crap, he’s dead. (quickly closing curtains on hospital bed and addressing audience) Well, I guess in his case crime did pay, but it doesn’t happen often. Let this be a lesson to hooligans and scofflaws everywhere. (opens mouth, can’t think of anything else to say) Goodnight.

He walks off.