House of Clods

With Richard III, Shakespeare created an evil genius who shared his twisted thoughts directly with the audience. Frank Underworld talks to the audience, too. Hey, he's no genius. But it's easy to look like one when you're living in a ...

INT, WASHINGTON DC SUBWAY STATION - DAY

Intrepid reporter Zowie Barnes stands at edge of platform. Frank Underworld is right behind her wearing a fedora.

FRANK: Now is our winter of discontent made glorious summer by pushing this pesky reporter in front of a train.

He does. Zowie goes splat. Frank smiles at us, knowingly.

FRANK: The cameras will see nothing, of course. (points at his fedora) I'm wearing a hat.

Subway cops appear, unspooling yellow tape marked: "Dead Reporter: Do Not Cross."

Frank slinks away in the confusion.

A cop points a nightstick at him.

COP: All right you! No breaking the fourth wall!

FRANK: Sorry, officer.

Frank passes a newsstand, does a double-take, buys a Washington Post.

The headline reads --

PRESIDENT FALLGUY RESIGNS
Admits to illegally downloading Metallica in 1999

FRANK smiles.

FRANK: Well, well. Guess everything's going according to plan.

Across the subway station, Shakespeare howls with disgust.

SHAKESPEARE: "Guess everything's going according to plan"...? What kind of lame-ass soliloquy is that?

EXT WHITE HOUSE LAWN - DAY
Frank's impromptu inauguration.  His hand is on the Bible. His nose extends to Pinocchio proportions.

FRANK: I, Frank Blahblah, do solemnly swear to blahblah defend the Constitution of the United States of so on and so forth. Blahblahblah. So help me, Blah.

INT, WHITE HOUSE CORRIDOR - DAY

FRANK: Now that pointless voodoo is out of the way, I'll spend some quality time with my psychopathic security chief

INT, WHITE HOUSE CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
Frank enters. Dog sits alone carving a pentagram into the table.

FRANK: Well, Dog. To date, what have we managed to accomplish with our unique blend of lethal talents?

DOG: Well, Mr. President. So far, between the two of us, we've faked a Senator's suicide, killed the prostitute we used to set him up, driven the former President out in disgrace, put you in the Oval Office and flattened that reporter.

FRANK: What about Zowie's editor? That Lupus fellow?

DOG: Neutralized. An elaborate cyber sting

INT, LUPUS' NEWSPAPER OFFICE -- DAY

Lupus sees an envelope on his desk. The label says:

NSA Data Fork inside!!

He removes --

A four-pronged metal fork and an instruction sheet written in crayon.

It reads:

1) Go to National Security Administration.

2) Stick NSA Data Fork in electrical outlet.

3) Steal Frank Underworld's secret files.

INT CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY 

FRANK: Damnit, Dog! Lupus may be stupid but he's not that ...

The lights flicker and dim.

FRANK: Well, I stand corrected. Anything else?

DOG: (points to huge pile of papers) Uh, policy stuff

FRANK: Bores the hell out of me. Take the rest of the day off, Dog. Go kill somebody just for fun. You've earned it.

DOG: Thanks, boss.

INT, WHITE HOUSE MASTER BEDROOM
Frank enters. Sits with Eclair in the dormer window. They begin passing a cigarette back and forth.

FRANK: Well my friends. I guess there's nothing left to do but contemplate the sidereal distances between myself and the drop-dead-gorgeous ice queen who is my wife. Eclair and I share zero sexual chemistry.

ECLAIR: But we dearly love swapping ciggies.

FRANK: That we surely do.

He studies her.

FRANK: Well, Eclair, in the words of the vernacular, what's shaking in your part of the world?

ECLAIR: Same old, same old. I got through the first 24 pages of the Kama Sutra with the Russian Prime Minister this morning. After lunch, I set fire to the master negative of "Sam I Am." You?

FRANK: Some Girl Scout looked at me cross-eyed. I pushed her in front of a train.

Obnoxious yammering. (OS) Frank reacts, looks up.

FRANK: Who the ... Oh hell.

ECLAIR: What ...?

Frank points.

FRANK: E-election year.

Frank and Eclair look up in horror at the flat-screen TV mounted on their bedroom wall. The orange face of Donald Trump looks back at them.

TRUMP: President Underworld is a Southern-fried putz. You wanna know something else? The man talks to himself. All the time! I'm not making this up people. I've got it on film!

ECLAIR: That man scares me, Frank.

FRANK: Me too, Eclair. Me, too.

She looks at him intently.

ECLAIR: You wanna watch West Wing?

The Republican Primary Considered as an Oval Track Horse Race

Announcer: And they’re off! Billionaire Butthole is leaping out of the gate – he’s way out in front, that forelock’s just flying in the breeze! But Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender is coming up fast, woah, he’s pouring it on! Cubano Chameleon’s still at number three, followed by Nowhere Man and that sweet filly, Mrs. Fireball Harddrive Crash, with I Am John Galt and former favorite Daddy’s Other Boy! barely stumbling past the first turn. Billionaire Butthole’s still way out in front, still ahead by two lengths. Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender is coming up on the inside, now he’s down by a length, just one length to go, and it looks like he’s closing. Cubano Chameleon’s still four lengths back at number three, Mrs. Fireball Harddrive Crash snorting jets of toner from her nostrils one length – oh! Looks like Charles Koch is working that whip on Cubano Chameleon’s backside, really working it! Cubano Chameleon’s changing position, look at the maneuverability that’s a dancer’s grace if --  oh! Ladies and gentlemen, Fred Koch is whipping the daylights out of Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender – two jockeys in a brother-brother spat of Shakespearean proportions -- and Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender’s closing, just half a length, a quarter – now they’re coming up head and head! Billionaire Butthole on the inside, hoofs pounding with hellish fury, this looks personal to me, folks.

And Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender is fighting for position, but Billionaire Butthole is pulling ahead, just plain outrunning him. He’s coming up to me, ahead one length – two lengths in the lead. And Billionaire Butthole thunders by, still ahead by two lengths, followed by Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender with Cubano Chameleon right on his heels – I’ve never seen such poetry in motion, folks. What – Oh! Back on the paddock it looks like I Am John Galt just dropped out – and Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender's still trailing Billionaire Butthole around the turn! Billionaire Butthole on the lead by two lengths, Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender stuck at second and Cubano Chameleon right behind and moving up – oh! Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender cutting him off, getting a taste of the lash from brother Fred – but he’s still behind Billionaire Butthole. Now they’re going into the backstretch. Billionaire Butthole by a length and a half. Now Billionaire Butthole by two lengths, Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender second. Billionaire Butthole by two lengths – they’re going up with 3/4 of a mile left to go – and the crowd is roaring! Just feel that excitement – to hell with those creeps who say it’s all fixed. Now it’s Billionaire Butthole by a length and a half, down the backstretch. They’re halfway down that backstretch and there goes Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender with front row seats on Billionaire Butthole’s, uh, posterior. And he pulls around! Oh … he’s coming up fast!

Now the horse race is on! And I’m losing them… they’re head and head, but I’ll catch them in about 50 yards. Wow! They’re neck and neck and now Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender has a head advantage and Billionaire Butthole’s got a head advantage. They’re going into that far turn, neck and neck, and it is either one – take your choice… as they head for that home lane. Is this a horse race or what?

Listen to that thunder! They’re neck and neck and both jockeys driving. It’s the best horse from here on in. They’ve 200 yards left to go. It’s horse against horse! Both of them driving! Billionaire Butthole leads by a length. Now Billionaire Butthole by a length and a half, Creepy Evangelist Sex Offender trailing with a look of determination in his glassy, doll-like eyes. The whip doesn’t work anymore, Fred’s put it away. Billionaire Butthole by a length; Billionaire Butthole by length, this could go either way  – I think we’re talking photo finish folks. And it’s …

Cthulu vs Pazuzu 2016: Attack Ads

CTH PSSY TOON. PNLF2016 CAMPAIGN SPOT #665.
Cloying cartoon of happy, cartoon Cthulu doing good deeds and giggling. Irritating bouncy music. Like The Smurfs theme, but worse.
ANNOUNCER: (OS) Cthulu claims to be evil. But how evil is he? According to The Guardian, he was seen distributing bottled water and medical supplies to victims of the 2004 tsunami. Does that sound like an amoral, transdimensional, eldritch intelligence beyond the pathetic human categories of "good" and evil" to you? To us, it sounds more like a pussy. Pazuzu on the other hand. Caused the !@#ing tsunami.

Pazuzu: (OS) I AM PAZUZU. AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.

PZZ PSOUP. NCTEC2016 CAMPAIGN SPOT #859.
While mammals cringed below the feet of sauropods, Cthulu silenced the minstrels of the fifth planet and shattered their world to lifeless rock. He drowned the Atlanteans before their crystals could open the time gate. The blood tides of Attilla, Genghis, Hitler, Stalin and Mao all flowed from the dark springs of his mind. Pazuzu, on the other hand, made a little girl vomit and do naughty things with a crucifix. He was defeated by a drunken priest with mommy issues. If you were Putin, whom would you fear?
 Cthulu: (OS) “I AM CTHULU AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.”

CTH FSHTNK. PNLF2016 CAMPAIGN SPOT #229.
POV, microsub below ocean. Close in on scummy submerged city that looks like a castle at the bottom of a fishtank that hasn't been cleaned. Ever.
ANNOUNCER: (OS) Deep beneath the southern Pacific Ocean lies the drowned city of R'lyeh. Thanks to James Cameron, we'll give you a look. Scary isn't it? Well filthy, anyway. Somewhere inside, "dead Cthulu awaits." Allegedly. According to several writers of pulp fiction, he's been sleeping in there for the last 100,000 years. They also claim his nightmares are the source of all human misery. Sort of like Freddy Kruger, but alien. Yes, Hitler, Stalin, and all the wars, plagues and bad guys since the dawn of time. They're all Cthulu's fault. Although this bad boy has never been seen outside the DT dreams of a few alcoholic hacks. We'll just have to take their word for it and let the old guy sleep. Unlike Pazuzu. Who never sleeps.
Pazuzu: (OS) I AM PAZUZU. AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.

PZZ DVHM. NCTEC2016 CAMPAIGN SPOT #404.
Open, can of Underwood Deviled Ham. Slowly zoom in. Scream continues (OS) and gets louder and louder ...
ANNOUNCER: (OS) Pitiful humans who know not true fear love to frighten themselves. Ghosts, goblins, witches,  scary monsters ... and devils. Yes, cringe before the image of true terror. Behold, our dark Lord! Or in this case, jolly red. There he is, holding a terrifying trident in his limp wrist. The very face of fear itself. And the perfect symbol for chopped, spiced ham that's perfect for picnic sandwiches or anytime snacks. You can stop screaming anytime you want to. Or vote for Cthulu. And never stop screaming.
Cthulu: (OS) “I AM CTHULU AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.”

James Joyce's "Groundhog Day" or "Phil Connor's Wake"

gopherrun past links and Semtex, dough he cud nae say for shite the 19th hole nurture of Spackler’s major mallfunctionjunction. (Loving on burrowed thyme, the krayture.) Bigbadaboombang! Alarum Mr. Connors! I got you bait! I cod, you bay! Upaneatem, sick, sick, sick! Chronillogically speaking, it’s 6 a.m againagain! Geeohmyday! Ichod Yuban! Drop your socks and beat the clock! AieeGodyou! With lightning speed Phil's manly fist flies! SMASHBASHCRASHSLASHBUSTBURNFUCKYOUYOUFUCKINGSONYDREAMMACHINE Tink. (A mormon of soylents for the poor wittle chrononometer. Hey, man.) Killing time, the Philsbury D'ohboy rises. No? Bedwardfalls!? Wrong way, Culliganman! Wake he, wake he! Nowthen, sleepyhodhollow. Get it up! And he duds. Finially! And a goyful Jour de la Marmotte to you, Monsieur Fool Conman! Your carse from prochroistian bed entiredly remove now, see view please, and joint the funt in Purgatorwney, Punsylvania, where suicide is pointless and it’s never too late too late too late. (Sorry squire I scratched the record.) On your toes now, Mr. Overground Weathermurray, who gnose which W.A.S.T.E the wind blows (Me!) or why skyhighhaired martial vandellas filched wot focking handle. (Me!) Dream no more of Spackled Cervix or lesterbangs of gulf curse hos. Look out of any widow! Any mourning, any die! Sonny today, Cher tomorrow, you feel me? Id’s Showtime, baby! Turnontunein today’s reeferrerun on the 27-inch motelhellrhume Skylarge scream! Uckup! (Feck the walls are thin.) Seize the Phish, lazyboyrecliner! Cease your eternal recursing! Carry on, you have no choice. Carrion, you have no Joys. It’s Feeb Too, today, all day, everyday! Happy Groundhawg Die! Hippy Barfday! And many hypedup returns, you balding Irish bastard. Calibrate good times toadie, come on! Scythe. Upandout is all I'm saying. Dis appointment awaits with the hog of the ground. (The Shadow knows!) E'en now, your checkcutting overlords fret in the Burg of the Pitt, impatient in their godseyepoking skyscrape eyries. On film the fell fiends feed. Great is their hunger. Cruel is their raptor’s cry. Hear it echoecho! Media immediately! Media immediately!

Jebus wept, am I being too subtle? Ticktockticktock is the pint I’m driving at. Masters of the Err need footage of the hour. Pretty Ms. Sexliesviddytape and Cabinboy need puffpiecepatter. So, if it's no skin off your hip gnosis, do it again again, Mr. Talkinghead, pretty please with sugarsugar on top, if it's not too much bloody tribble. Get your karma on the rogue to nowhere now! Overdrive your arse! Break the déjàvoodoo spell! You don’t have all die.

A Skeleton Key to Phil Connors Wake
By now you’re probably wondering as to the point behind this whole wretched exercise. Oh .. you’re not? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I do go on and on. Anyway. James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake” posited a cyclic theory of history. I.e.: we live in a big dream that endlessly circles back on itself and bites its own tail. Ironically, Joyce’s birthday was February 2! Groundhog Day! You know. Like that Bill Murray movie where the same day kept repeating. Wacky coincidence, huh? So, uh. Being fundamentally insane, I put my useless English Major to work and wrote this parody for the five people on the planet who might actually find it funny. That's it. Thank you for your time.

Why did Thomas Pynchon’s chicken cross the road?

A clucking comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

So ... why did the chicken cross the road? I'm not ignoring your question. That's the sort of thing a paranoid schizophrenic would say. Have you considered seeking professional help? As to your question. Why did the chicken cross the road? Why?

Because (from the chicken’s point of view, this insight’s blind spot a constant nagging emptiness,  presque vu, its blank frames neatly edited from consciousness, just a snip of the old Movieola, nothing to it, folks in the Editor’s well-practiced hands) They wanted him to, and so, of course, he does, bawk, bawk. End of story, but it kinda ducks the question, dontcha think? IT’S OUR JOB TO THINK, MR. CHICKEN. Sure, but why do They want him to cross the road, this feeder line to I-9 here, favorite shortcut of those knights of the road, America’s Truck Drivers, its rush of traffic a blur of whitenoise, not a marked Chicken Crossing, not exactly safe, making this particular chicken kinda reluctant to actually CHICKENS DON’T GET TO ASK THE QUESTIONS, WE DO. Yeah, aaaand like it says in that King Chicken Bible, “The secret things belong unto the LORD our God,” or in this case, Them. Yeah, but. YOU’RE A CHICKEN. STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. CROSS THE ROAD. So he does, looking both ways first (futile gesture, he knows) then stepping out, this is one small step for chicken, bobbing his cute little Road Island Red head as he chickenwalks onward, whitenoise getting louder, those physics-defying knights errants in their 18-wheelers whipping by in both lanes, all hepped up on white crosses these here knights, but he’s made it this far, huh, BLATTTTTT, bawwwwwk, blast of the old air horn from Sir Medical Waste Transport Solutions, off the road you fucking chicken aaand still the brave little chicken advances, why lookee here, there’s the point of no return! wow, he’s still alive, odds getting better and better, another step, traffic noise a roaring in his head, getting louder now kinda like a waterfall, even louder, impossibly don’t stop the wall of sound reaches and passes a perceptual threshold, but the chicken keeps going, just one more step, just