The Funniest Story

Sandy (mid-teens) and Grace (late 70s) are preparing a holiday meal, the girl stirring a pot, the old woman chopping vegetables and herbs.

Grace: Don’t let it burn, Sandy dear.

Sandy: Don’t worry, Grandma.

Sandy stirs the pot. Connie enters – forty-something, brusque.

Grace: Oh, Connie dear, would you finish the stuffing?

Connie: (cheerful) Certainly, mother. I’m just finishing the cornucopia, on a sheave of wheat.

Grace: Oh, that reminds me of Darnel. (to Connie) You remember, dear. He had hair just the color of wheat, ripe wheat – remember?

Connie: (tense) No, I’m sure I don’t.

Sandy: Who’s Darnel?

Connie: Sandy, don’t bother grandma with questions.

Grace: Why it’s no bother at all, dear. It’s the funniest story. Darnel was a boy who lived with us when your mother was little – the son of the man who saved Grandpa’s life in the Hitler war. Well he died – the father – he got sucked into a threshing machine and was turned into, oh, red apple sauce it looked like.

Connie: Mother, please don’t start.

Sandy: I never heard this.

Connie: Grandma has so many charming stories. Let’s save this one for some other time, okay?

Grace: Darnel had blond hair just the color of wheat, ripe wheat, remember?

Connie: Yes mother, ripe wheat.

Sandy: I thought you said you didn’t remember.

Grace: Well we had some neighbors, Livia and Barney. You remember them, don’t you Connie honey?

Connie: No. Can we change the subject. I — How’s Aunty Belle? Is she settling in?

Grace: Of course you remember. Now Livia had traveled when she was young, used to do a balloon dance on the burlesque circuit, and then she got too fat and she settled down and wrote mail-order correspondence courses on Oriental techniques of love-making and colon-cleansing and the health benefits of leeches and the like.

Connie: (to Sandy) Did you see the Thanksgiving Day sale at Feldmann’s? – 20% off. Let’s—

Grace: (to Sandy) Your mother used to play with their little boy – well, Livia’s little boy, Claudius. Barney married her later. Claudius was really the son of an earlier husband. Augustus, Augustus Figg. He was the bearded lady at the Parkway Amusatorium. We were all watching “The Last Days of Pompeii” at the Bijou when somebody set him on fire. I never did see the end of that movie. He’s the one who was little Claudius’s father. He burned up extra fast because of all the hair and then he just exploded, like pop corn.

Connie: (fast) I – I remember in second grade we’d make turkeys by outlining our hands, and pop corn necklaces— (covering her mouth) OH!

Sandy: Yeah, mom, everyone’s done that. So what else, Grandma?

Connie: (fast, loud) Here, Sandy, pass me the pop corn gaahhngh the parsley. And keep stirring. What’s your favorite holiday dish? I like Tofurkey—

Grace: Now Barney – Livia’s last husband – was a soft-spoken little man from the Philippines. Brown as a beetle he was – a short little brown quiet man with a big fat wife, Livia. She must have weighed, heavens, 400 pounds. When they were courting it was like the circus. Jumbo and [...Cheeta]—

Connie: (angry) Oh please, mother, just don’t go rummaging through your bag of nightmares tonight.

Grace: (laughs) Well Livia came up pregnant, and you never saw a happier man than that little Barney. Who’d imagine they could even have marital relations? She was 500 pounds if she was an ounce – hadn’t stood up since the funeral – not the bearded lady’s funeral, but her other husband’s – not Barney, but, oh, I’m forgetting the name, but he had an eyeball made out of clear glass ... it was hypnotic, especially when he had a cold – the colors! – like a kaleidoscope! Well he fell into the hole when he was ice fishing. Hirum, Hirum Krupple! Oh, no, it wasn’t after the funeral, it was after the wedding that she never stood up again. Barney’s wedding. She ate most of the cake and they hauled her home on top of an irrigation wagon. They had to use an extra horse – imagine! But when they finally found Hirum, come the thaw—

Connie: (babbling) I’m going to the dentist next week. I’m thinking of having all my teeth pulled. I made an appointment for you too, Sandy.

Sandy: You told me, mom. Go on, Grandma.

Grace: Connie dear, please don’t interrupt. So when they found Hirum he was hollow as a gourd and just full of eels. At the wake, well some sort of shining algae had taken root and he glowed inside just like a jack-o-lantern. His glass eyeball acted like a lens and projected a bull’s-eye onto the ceiling. All the boys flicked olives at it – it was so festive.

Connie: (hysterical) Oh! God! Um, have you ever noticed there are no Thanksgiving songs? Let’s make one up right now. (singing) OH TURKEY TURKEY TURKEY MAKES ME PERKY PERKY PERKY, I WILL DO THE HERKY-JERKY— (fades away)

Grace: Well Livia came up pregnant as I said, and Barney was so happy. He had a cheesy deposit on the back of his neck – he’d scoop it out with a garden trowel or a shoe horn and it would be back the next week. But when the baby was born – Livia named it Nero – and when she brought it home, it had hair the color of wheat. Ripe wheat. And when little brown Barney saw that blond baby from his big fat elephant of a wife but most certainly not from himself, well, you can just imagine. He got a big old—

Connie: (shouting) I’m taking salsa lessons at the W. Here, let me show you. (she dances spasmodically)

Grace: That’s nice, dear, you always were so gifted. When Barney saw that pale little blond baby bastard he took a rusty old machete knife and chopped that whole family into pieces – Livia, and Claudius, and Baby Nero too. Cut them up like carrot cubes. The neighborhood was crawling with cats for weeks afterwards.

Connie: (feebly) I feel sick.

Grace: And he came to our house, Barney did, looking for Darnel. I remember thinking how itsy-bitsy his tiny little bloody footprints were when I scrubbed them up. Very inconsiderate – of course, he grew up in a mud hut village, so he didn’t know any better than to track blood all over. But only your grandfather was home, and he was not a man to trifle with. Well he took down that little man with the fungus on his head and trussed him up like a castrated goat. It was 40 years ago this week! – how funny! And when they electrocuted Barney it smelled just like sautéed mushrooms.

They continue cooking in silence.

Sandy: That’s a sad story.

Connie: (bitter) All of them are.

Grace: You think so? I’ve been meaning to send it to Reader’s Digest. Maybe “Laughter is the Best Medicine.”

Sandy: Nobody ever told me it before.

Connie: There’s a reason for that.

Grace: But that Darnel – my, my, he was not a good boy.

Sandy: He didn’t get killed, did he?

Grace: Yes he did – oh no, Barney didn’t kill him – oh, it’s the funniest—

Connie: (angry) Mother! – what is the point of telling all these horrible stories?

Grace: Why, take Darnel and Barney for example. Some babies are better off not born. That’s why I wasn’t against it when you had your abortion.

Connie: Mother!

Sandy: Mom, you had an abortion?

Grace: Oh, it’s the funniest story—

Connie: Mother! Please! I’ll talk to you later about this, Sandy. Just please drop it for now.

Grace: Oh, but let me tell you what happened to Darnel—

Connie: I’m going to finish the centerpiece. You don’t have any jolly anecdotes about cat-tails, do you I hope to God not? And save your cheery little Darnel tale for next Thanksgiving, mother. Honestly! (She exits.)

Grace: I do love Thanksgiving. I don’t prefer Christmas. Do you know what your Grandfather gave me once for Christmas? Gonorrhea. Oh, it’s the funniest story...


End

The Day After Election Day: a public service announcement

Two friends on a park bench are hanging out in a park on a bench.

Sally: Bob, did you vote? Did you vote after all?

Bob: Chill, Chiquita. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

Sally: (gasp) What!?!

Bob: I said, “Noooo di-fer-rence!”

Sally: I can’t believe you! Even after an apparition of Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior, himself appeared here in the park as an apparition to me and you yesterday here on this park bench?

Bob: Man, I thought that was just some grotty ’shrooms.

Sally: Oh, you disgust me. I suppose you were groveling in front of your computer monitor again, corrupting what’s left of your character with pornographic images again.

Bob: Bet I know who you voted for, Ms. Petticoats. As for my porn, people get blood clots from standing in lines. I don’t want that to happen to my extremities from lack of activity.

Sally: Now you’re disgusting me even more.

All of a sudden an apparition of Martin Luther King, Junior, appears suddenly in the park and stands in front of Sally and Bob on the park bench.

Sally: (gasp) My goodness! It’s Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior! Again!

MLK: Yes, Sally! It is me! Again!

Sally: What are you doing here, again?

MLK: I sensed your blood was boilin’ again, Sally, for one thing.

Sally: Yes, Bob here couldn’t be bothered to vote! Can you believe it?

MLK: Well, yes, there’s that. But what I’m really here to talk about is this porn thing. So Bob--

Sally: But voting! What about voting?

MLK: Oh, poor Sally. Of course votin’ matters, in some abstract, meaningless, no-child-left-behind sort of way. But less than 40% of young Negroes bother to vote at all, and if they don’t care, why in mercy’s name should you? Time to smell the coffee, sugar-plum.

Sally: But -- but then why did you bother to appear yesterday here to urge Bob to vote in the park?

MLK: Well, we have to go through the motions.

Just then, an apparition of J. Edgar Hoover appears suddenly, wearing a conservative suit and tasteful chandelier earrings.

Sally: (gasp) My goodness! It’s former FBI Director and transvestite J. Edgar Hoover! What are you doing here?

JEH: I still like to keep an eye on Martin, here. That, and -- (excited) oh, I’m all aflutter! Is it true? (breathless) I heard Liza was getting married again!

Sally: How can you care about a thing like that at a time like this?

JEH: (indignant) Young woman! If we stop caring about Liza and her weddings, the terrorists will have won.

MLK: Hello, Jedgar.

JEH: Hello, Martin.

MLK: That’s a lovely shade of rouge.

JEH: (defensive and insincere) I’m not wearing rouge.

There follows an awkward silence.

MLK: So anyway, Bob, like I was meaning to say, any groovy web sites you could recommend? I’m partial to Orientals--

Bob: Uh, I’m a little uncomfortable--

MLK: Son, I may have missed out on the full tide of the sexual revolution, but men don’t change. (laughs)

Bob: (laughs knowingly) You might try, um, www wutz-yer-sin dot com.

MLK: Really? Sounds happ’nin’!

JEH: Martin! You know my feelings about race-mixing. Although I’m not sure that intercourse between Negroes and Orientals would count--

MLK: Jedgar, you of all people are hardly in a position-- OH! Great Heavens! I must leave you now. I sense a great stirrin’ in the Aether -- someone’s just uploaded another Paris Hilton video!

JEH: That whore has no fashion sense whatsoever! Simply atrocious! Did you see what she was wearing in that last one?

MLK: I saw what she wasn’t wearing. Mm-mm!

Sally: (gasp) Dr. King!

Bob: So the man has a fantasy--

Sally: That’s just cheap.

MLK: Farewell, my child. I must depart.

Suddenly, the shade of Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior, disappears. The remaining three stand silently for a moment.

JEH: My, this is awkward. (chuckles nervously) I imagine you’re wondering why I’m still here. Clyde was supposed to pick me up. (looks at his watch) Well, I’m certainly not going to hang about in the park like some trolling degenerate. If he appears -- Mr. Tolson, tall, blond, piercing blue eyes -- tell him to meet me at Frederick’s -- of Hollywood.

Suddenly, just then, J. Edgar Hoover disappears suddenly. Sally and Bob stare at each other with their eyes.

Bob: That was weird. What next?

Suddenly, just then, the shade of Charles Lindberg appears suddenly.

Sally: (gasp) My goodness! It’s celebrated aviator and anti-Semite, Charles Lindberg.

CL: Howdy, folks. Say, either of you seen Henry Ford?

Sally: No, sorry.

CL: Goll dang it. We were s’posed ta meet up at Denny’s with Strom Thurmond and John Wilkes Booth.

Suddenly, the shade of Charles Lindberg suddenly disappears just then.

Bob: This park bench must be some sort of multi-dimensional nexus.

Sally: Well, all I can say is, the After Life certainly seems to have porous borders.

Bob: Borders! Now there’s a reason to vote.

Voice-over Announcer: Remember, folks. Whatever the reason, just get out and vote!

END

The Merry Adventure of Mr. Punch

***THE MERRY ADVENTURE OF MISTER PUNCH ***

& HIS POEM

& ALSO A RIPPING VELOCIPEDE!!!

~~~~~

Composed extempore twixt Nones & Vespers

& performed by

Messieur le Baron Jacques du Fete, Marquis of Puppetland

with the able assistance of one

Mister Punch, Esq., & Others

~~~

Now then, my young Masters & Mistresses! Gather you round here and fix your sparkling eyes upon this here old box! Yes, it IS a shocking bad box, as you Youngsters like to say. Ha! What! But what’s this here then? Eh? Why, bless my pocket-watch! — ain’t it Mister Punch! And, my Young Gentlemen & Fine Ladies in this here assemblage of worthies assembled here, do you suppose what he’s a right rum fellow? Ho! You’ve rumbled THAT trick soon enough by cracky! Oh, yes, you are so right to boo & hiss and make such sour faces, for he is an awful bad blighter, a rare game cock he is, and smells something terrible, too. Ha!

Now why might Mister Punch be going about so sprightly? Do you reckon what he’s taking himself out & about for a little promenade in the fine morning air? – to promote the flowing of the vital humours as what we know is right? For he is awful sallow & pasty, ain’t he. But see! Now he’s rummaging about his person, searching out himself for a tuppence, and perhaps a thruppenny bit even? Oh, very ferocious he is about it too, I SHOULD say! What might you suppose he’s going to buy with such a fine sum? Buckingham Palace? Big Ben? Ho! Mayhap a jewel from the brazen brow of an Hindoo idol, or a bushel-weight of rarest Mussul-man incense, stolen from the Grand Pasha of blackamoor Cairo and brought to our blessed verdant shores by the dwarfish Pirates of Cathay? Oh p’shaw, I should think not, my sillies. For bless my belly, thruppence is not so grand a treasure as all that, for all what it’s part of a guinea. No, my hardy jack-sauce, and you, my pixie princess. He seeks to procure for himself a thing far more wonderful than THAT!

There! See him go at it! For he has found what his purse be empty, and off he goes to find what he will do. Ho! – what is it lies at the bottom of THIS mystery? For bless my whiskers, Mister Punch has taken himself to an artful Scrivener, who has copied out in ever so curly an hand the fulsome couplets what Mister Punch has writ himself. And don’t you suppose it will show itself to be an epic indeed, master poetaster what he fancies himself? But what have we here, then? Why, he is striking the Scrivener upon his pointed nose! See? And again! That DOES seem unnecessary, don’t you think so too? I should SAY so. And now look! He is running away, and with a parchment snatched away from the inky fingers of the Scrivener! And looky there! Why, he’s got the Scrivener’s pocket-book as well! No, no, Mister Punch, we’ll have none of that now, shan’t we? That is SUCH a low thing, ain’t it. We must pay for what we take, mustn’t we, Boys & Girls. For there is a design in everything, and a Grand Designer too, and don’t you forget it. I shouldn’t wonder what such a black-hearted blackguard as Mister Punch should come to a very bad end indeed, and don’t you doubt it, neither!

But look now! See? Why, naughty, thieving Jack-daw Punch is about to recite his poem, what he had copied and then stole. Let us listen, do, and hear with our own ears what Mister Punch has to say for himself.

THE POEM OF MISTER PUNCH

My name is Mister PUNCH,

For that’s the Man I am!

And ev’ry Noon for Lunch,

I eat my Rinds & Ham!

And well I love to munch,

On toasty roasted Lamb!

Now you can pat my Hunch,

You can, my pretty Ma’am!

But do beware my PUNCH,

For I shall FLIM & FLAM!

& WRECK! & RAP & RAM!

& SCRAP! & SQUASH! & SCRUNCH!

& whack! & waste! & walm!

& SLASH! & SLAP! & SLAM!

& TRUSS! & TROUNCE! & TRUNCH!

& queer! & quake! & qualm!

& BLOW! & BLAST! & BLAM!

& BUCK! & BUTT! & BUNCH!

& BASH! & BOMB! & BAM!

& CRASH! & CRACK! & CRAM!

& CREAM! & CRUSH! & CRUNCH!

& scare! & scald! & scam!

& drum! & dim! & dam!

& squinch! quinch! Clunch!

& conch! & crab! & clam!

& drop! & drip! & dram!

& Hunt! & Harm! & haunch!

& pop! & paste! & palm!

& WHIP! & WHOP! & WHAM!

& clinch! & clench! & craunch!

& JERK! & JAB! & JAM!

& bench! & wince! & TRENCH!

& drench! & blanch! & launch!

& LYNCH! & flinch! & stench!

& wrench! & wretch! & raunch!

& Sick! de Sade! Kabomb!

uncalm! embalm! pogrom!

KILL ’EM!! BEDLAM!! CALAM!!

And BL**DY H*LL!!! by D*MN!!!

Oh. Oh, my. My oh my. Bless my spectacles. How he does screech & shout. And on and on he did go, frothing & flailing & stomping & spitting so. His Mother never DID teach him fine manners, you may be sure. But have you never in all your innocent lives heard such a persistent bit of rhyming as all that? Enough to blow you down, ain’t it. You Boys & Girls have heard of Sir William Shakes-a-spear, have you not? He lived in Bible times, he did, with Hercules & King Arthur, an hundred years ago, and partook himself in the craft of the Theatre, much as you see before you at this very moment performed by Your Humble Servant & Company. Well, by Dickens, I should warrant what even ol’ Billy Shivers-Quivers himself never did peal out a row of rhymes like THAT, now did he! And now he’s taken his bows, and off he runs, to find what other mischief he can do.

But who’s THIS then, happening along? Why bless my buckles, ain’t it his sweet-heart, Miss Judy – and WHAT a frilly pink pinafore she is wearing. I’ll warrant some one spent a good few hours tatting THAT together, eh? Perhaps Mister Punch will have some kind word to say to her, wouldn’t you wager it’s so? Perhaps he will recite his poem, now he’s practiced it. Oh! OH! I MUST say. That’s a bit of a shocker, ain’t it? See what he’s doin’ there? Oh, right, Boys & Girls, he IS a bad old sod, he is. And see what he goes about now? OH! And he has taken the purse of Miss Judy! Oh, please, somebody call a Constable.

And looky there, now! ’Tis the Constable himself, summoned by the noise what Mister Punch did make in screaming out his poem. Why, I reckon the Bobby thought it was a fire-house claxton, by Jove. And right you are to moan so dearly, for bless my britches, sure it is the Constable knows of Mister Punch and his evil ways. And looky there, Children! See how Mister Punch starts, of a sudden? And how small & furtive he tries to make himself? But the Constable does see him now! And there they go at it! Crack, pow! But Mister Punch has found himself a great whacking stick, and is beating the Bobby about the head & neck! – like to bludgeon him to shivers, too! Oh, that IS a dark deed. And well might you shout a caution, but Mister Punch has no ears to hear it, does he Boys & Girls, for he is so busy doing – why, NO! Oh, it IS so! He is taking for himself the Constable’s purse as well, and leaving the Constable all in an heap! But now the Bobby is up again, and grabbing after old Punch. But there he goes, running away to save his life. Oh, Mister Punch, there is an Hang-man’s noose waiting to fit about YOUR neck, you may be sure.

But where is he speeding himself to, in such a fury? Why, ’tis to a Ferrier, there to reward himself & his day’s dark work. Here he is now, meeting the Ferrier, and my goodness, what brawny arms has this fine hardy, don’t you see. And see how meekly Mister Punch hands over all the lucre he has stolen To-day. Now, what can he be procuring for himself? Do you know? Why, see? SEE! Ho! Why, ’tis the very thing itself, I must say. And right you are to cheer so gaily, for who in all the land has ever seen so gaudy & banging a velocipede! No penny-farthing here, for what young Lady would want her Sweet-heart upon such an outlandish machine, I SHOULD wonder. And there he goes, spinning so merrily about. But OH! See how he has taken a fall! And such a sight he does make of himself, storming about like a Tumble-jack. For his pretty velocipede has fallen to pieces, and bad old Mister Punch is left, worse off than when he started.

THE END

THE MAN FROM Na.N.N.I.E.

The Man from Na.N.N.I.E.

(A “SIMPSONS” SCRIPT)

by

Jack H.

ACT ONE

FADE IN:

                                                     SCENE 1

INT. SIMPSONS BEDROOM – DAY

MARGE is folding clean laundry at the bed. Homer rushes in, wearing oven mitts and carrying a large pot of red sauce.

HOMER

Marge, I made the meat sauce for the cotillion! You can put it on anything! I put it on...

MARGE

(INTERRUPTING) Be careful, Homer.

HOMER

What could possibly go...

He trips over a laundry basket. In slow-mo the sauce flies in an expanding arc. Marge and Homer cry out, voices deep and slow.

MARGE

Noooooooooo!

HOMER

D’ooooooooh!

The sauce SPLATTERS across the walls, the clothes on the bed, into the closet. Music reminiscent of “PLATOON” fills the air. Homer and Marge stand frozen amidst the carnage. Meat sauce SLIPS down the wall, falls in gobs to puddle on the floor.

INT. SIMPSONS LAUNDRY ROOM – CONTINUOUS

BART is at the side-load washer, by a pile of field stones. A book, “Diamond Polishing for Dummies,” is on the washer. Bart tosses in one last stone, closes the lid, turns the knob; there is a roaring, the washer shakes, then crumples like an aluminum can.

BART

Ay carumba.

Homer dashes in, covered in sauce and cradling soiled clothes. He stares in horror at the shambles.

HOMER

Wha...wha...

BART

It broke. What’s the big deal? Just buy another one.

Homer DROPS the laundry and GRABS Bart by the throat.

HOMER

Why you little...

EXT. A LAUNDROMAT – DAY – ESTABLISHING SCENE 2

INT. LAUNDROMAT – CONTINUOUS

Homer is loading a dryer. He wears a swimsuit and an extraordinarily tight pink “Malibu Stacy in Paris” tee-shirt. THE DOCTOR, wearing a fedora and a dapper white suit, loads a nearby washer.

HOMER

...and one morning I was, um, palpitating myself? – and I found this lump in my armpit? Sometimes they’re just gummy bears, but this one’s getting bigger. And Doctor Leopard – it has teeth.

THE DOCTOR

Sounds like you need a dentist then.

HOMER

(LAUGHS) Yeah. But sometimes it keeps me up at night. It snores.

THE DOCTOR

Lie on that side.

HOMER

Wow, you’re really smart, Professor Leotards.

THE DOCTOR

A girl scout once commended my intellect, trying to sell me her macaroons. I told her she was a stupid little girl and ate all her Caramel deLite Cookies. [SLURP]

ANGLE ON HOMER

HOMER

(DROOLING) Ahhh...macaroons. (BEAT) So you English or something weird like that? The English people have horrible food and large discolored teeth. Poor, pathetic limeys.

THE DOCTOR

I do just bet you love your pizza pies and your toasted cheese sandwiches. What do you feed your tumescent armpit-growth with its budding bicuspids, Homer? Can it digest those cocktail weenies you think no one knows you feed it?

HOMER

Hey! Cool your jets.

THE DOCTOR

If you tell me your worst memory of childhood.

HOMER

What? I...I don’t think so.

THE DOCTOR

You would be afraid.

HOMER

(LAUGHS INSINCERELY) I’m not afraid.

THE DOCTOR

No, not of anything. Except...vulnerability.

HOMER

(FRETFUL) Ohhh. (RELUCTANTLY) It was probably when my pet died.

THE DOCTOR

And what was the little boy’s “pet”?

HOMER

I wasn’t...I was in high school.

THE DOCTOR

(SHARPLY) Tell it all.

FLASHBACK – TEEN-HOMER’S ROOM – DAY

Teen-Homer PLAYS delightedly at his tide pool tank. Among the sand dollars, crabs, coral, etc., is a freckled clam which seems somehow to smile. “Welcome Back Kotter,” “Space: 1999” and “Jaws II” posters hang on the wall.

HOMER (V.O.)

(RELUCTANTLY) So I really liked Jacques Cousteau, okay? And I had a tank, like a peaceful tide pool...

THE DOCTOR (V.O.)

(DRYLY) Sounds tres cool.

HOMER (V.O.)

But then one day I came home and one of them, my favorite, was missing.

Teen-Homer enters his room, notices, holds his hands to his cheeks in distress.

TEEN-HOMER

(TO A CRAB) Horshack! – where’s Freckles!?

BACK TO SCENE

THE DOCTOR

(SARCASTIC) One of your pieces of coral was missing? How moving.

HOMER

No! It was worse! Shut up! I don’t want to talk about it anymore!

THE DOCTOR

But one of your crustaceans had disappeared. You still do love the beach, don’t you, Homer, with your carefully preserved swimwear redolent of post-pubescent salad days.

FLASHBACK – TEEN-HOMER AT THE BEACH – EVENING

Teen-Homer walks along the shore, sits by an open fire with a plate on his lap.

THE DOCTOR (CONT’D – V.O.)

Ah, the beach — the tugging of the tide, guitar strumming of an evening, fire cracking, embers flying into the effervescent sky, clams abaking. Ah— They were having a clam bake, your little teeny-bopper prankster friends.

Freckles lies dead on Teen-Homer’s plate, wearing a ghastly “smile.”

HOMER (V.O.)

(HYSTERICAL) Yes! Yes! It was Freckles, my favorite clam, smothered in spicy shrimp sauce!

BACK TO SCENE

HOMER (CONT’D)

(WEEPING) Oh, the steam, rising from the jelly of his succulent flesh — the steam, the horrible steam...

The SQUEAKY-VOICED TEENAGER saunters by with a boom box playing Bach’s “Goldberg Variations”; he drops a Pilates flyer into Homer’s laundry basket.

THE DOCTOR

(INTENSE) You still wake up sometimes, don’t you, Homer? — to the terrifying memory of your dear oyster Freckles, his spotted little half-shell open to you like a pleading hand.

HOMER

(WEEPING) Oh Freckles, how I miss your manic antics!

THE DOCTOR

And do you think if you can wash out those horrid freckle-like meat sauce spots now staining your polychromatic polyesters, that you won’t wake up in the dark ever again to that terrible vision? Do you?

HOMER

Yes! No! I don’t know—!

THE DOCTOR

(SHUDDERING BREATH) Thank you, Homer. That was very...sweet. I do prefer savory, but...

HOMER

I don’t want to talk to you anymore, Cap'n Liquor.

THE DOCTOR

But tell me one final thing, Homer. After all these years, in the deep of the night when you lay abed, now, in your memory, Homer, in your dreams, have the clams stopped steaming?

HOMER

You’re a monster! A freakish monster of insensitivity!

Homer frantically bundles his washing and attempts to flee, but trips over the Doctor’s basket and crashes into him, who cartwheels out of sight, his laundry flying: a clown suit, socks, tee-shirts (labeled “World’s Best Dad,” “I’m with stupid,” “Predator”), etc.

INT. SIMPSONS LIVING ROOM – AFTERNOON            SCENE 3

Bart and LISA sit WATCHING an Itchy and Scratchy cartoon.

ON TV – ITCHY & SCRATCHY CARTOON

Title card: “Fatwa in the Fire”

Scratchy (cat) walks through a desert, with a gas can. Itchy (mouse) pulls up in a car and Scratchy gets in.

ITCHY

Going my way?

SCRATCHY

Yes, thank you.

Itchy stops at an oil derrick, and Scratchy goes to it with his can. Itchy gets a flame thrower from the back seat and ignites a geyser of oil, which arches down toward Scratchy. The cartoon is interrupted by—

ON TV – NEWS ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Newsman KENT BROCKMAN’S talking head fills the screen.

KENT BROCKMAN

Dangerous developments are developing dangerously down at the Springfield Oil Refinery. Protestors are protesting at the gates, led by infamous peace-nik Montgomery “Red” Burns.

EXT. SPRINGFIELD REFINERY – CONTINUOUS

MONTGOMERY BURNS and WAYLON SMITHERS are wearing slogan pins in psychedelic font, “OIL SUCKS, NUKE ROCKS.” Behind them is the MOB, with signs and slogan tee-shirts. Some of the mob tips over an oil tanker, which crushes a cluster of protesters then bursts into flame.

MOB

(CHANTING) No blood for oil!

ANGLE ON BURNS AND SMITHERS

BURNS

Smithers, shake my fist.

Smithers RAISES Burns’ hand and waves it limply.

BURNS (CONT’D)

More fervor, you flaccid lackwit! Like I mean it!

SMITHERS

I don’t want it to snap again, sir.

BURNS

I’ve got others, dolt.

MOB

(CHANTING) No blood for oil.

BACK TO NEWS ROOM

KENT BROCKMAN

There we have it, Americans. “No ballads for girls.” What a sad state the world is in, when poor Britney Spears can’t sing a soulful song to gladden the hearts of lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows. I’m Kent Brockman. Courage.

BACK TO ITCHY AND SCRATCHY

Lions, bears, hyenas, jackals, vultures, crocodiles, camels and a small T-Rex fight or gobble at the blackened remains of Scratchy, his charred head looking on in horror while Itchy laughs.

End card: “The End”

BACK TO SCENE

Bart and Lisa laugh in delight. Homer rushes through the front door, carrying his laundry basket.

 INT. SIMPSONS KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS    

Marge sits CLIPPING washer ads. Homer ENTERS, drops the basket on the table, goes to the fridge, gets a sandwich. He SNEAKS a cocktail weenie down his collar. Marge notices the Pilates flyer.

HOMER

(EATING) Comfort.

MARGE

Oh look. They’re offering Pilates at the “W”.

HOMER

(MOUTH FULL) Pilates?

MARGE

I’ve been wanting to take a class.

HOMER

Pilates is a funny word. (LAUGHING RUDELY) Pilates!

MARGE

(DIMLY ANNOYED) Yes, Homie, Pilates.

HOMER

What’re Pilates. Sounds foreign. Deliciously foreign. Are they like gelaties? (GROWING EXCITED) Or baklavies? Or Turkish Delighties?

MARGE

Well, I don’t really know exactly what it is. But I’ve heard they’re just wonderful. It’s some sort of wonderful exercises.

MARGE'S PILATES FANTASY

Draped in veils, Marge leaps through the moon-drenched glades of a silver and blue dreamscape; unicorns prance, fawns play lyres and pipes; Marge’s face assumes an aura of grace. Ravenous chewing shreds the scene, which resolves into—

BACK TO SCENE

—the face of Homer, finishing the last of the sandwich.

HOMER

Pilates exercises? Keepin’ your man satisfied is all the exercises you need.

MARGE

(STIFLED FRUSTRATION) Mmm.

INT. MONTGOMERY BURNS’ OFFICE – AFTERNOON SCENE 4

Burns, still wearing the slogan pin, sits at his desk watching a film. Smithers and the film’s pimply, multi-pierced Gen-Y DIRECTOR stand nearby.

XLN-ERATOR TEST COMMERCIAL

A pale, anthropomorphic car labeled “REGULAR OLD-FASHIONED POLLUTING GAS-GUZZLER” lies in a sickbed, hooked to an I.V. marked “TERRORIST-SUPPORTING FOREIGN GASOLINE”. White-coated DOCTORS are grouped solemnly about. A just-visible “subliminal” message flashes -- “OIL = EVIL BAD” -- over a zombie-like face.

DOCTOR # 1

How long can he last?

DOCTOR # 2

It’s hopeless. Let’s just end it.

Doctor # 1 pulls out the tube, and a ‘flatline’ tone starts. A macho XLN-ERATOR-MAN bursts in, labeled “The XLN-erator”. He clutches a bottle labeled “NEW CLEAR HYBRID TO­­-IC!” – his thumb blocks a letter in “TO-IC”. XLN-erator-man takes a swig and the doctors cheer. “Subliminal” message -- “NUCLEAR = HAPPY GOOD” -- over the image of Santa Claus.

ANGLE ON XLN-ERATOR-MAN

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

It’s dynamic! It’s radical! It’s nuclear! The new XLN-erator hybrid automobile! Fuel-injected with highly-charged energistically activated atomistic alpha-rads, isotopically forged in the mighty core of American power!

A paunchy, balding pony-tailed ACTIVIST-type — love beads, hippie vest — enters. “Subliminal” message — “UNPATRIOTIC” — over Stalin and Hitler locked in a passionate embrace.

ACTIVIST

(WHINEY) Oh no, you can’t use that! That’s toxic!

DOCTOR # 2

That’s the OLD way of thinking!

XLN-erator-man holds up the bottle: the blocked word is “TOXIC”. He waves his hand and the “X” shifts into an “N”, making “TONIC”.

ALL DOCTORS

You saved us, Excellenerator! (CHEERING)

Suddenly flanked by bikini MODELS, XLN-erator-man smiles hugely into the camera, and gives a thumbs-up. “Subliminal” message — “SEXY” — over a kickline of can-can dancers.

XLN-ERATOR-MAN

(THUMBS UP AND SMILING) It’s genuine!

End card: “Buy-buy!”

BACK TO SCENE

BURNS

(TO DIRECTOR) No! More bathing beauties, you gangrenous degenerate. Show me some “IT”! And that Bolshevik is too sympathetic. Make him more loathsome — more Charles Laughton, less Randolph Scott.

DIRECTOR

Anything you want, Mr. Burns. We’ll give him a runny nose, and a tattoo of Pol Pot on his face.

BURNS

I’m not paying you to stand here yammering, college boy. Hop to it.

The director trots away.

BURNS (CONT’D)

(TO SMITHERS) When I’m done, those swine with their coal-tar factories couldn’t sell kerosene to the Amish.

SMITHERS

But why is the old car a car, but the new car is a very attractive man? It doesn’t make sense.

BURNS

Details! I leave that to the artsy types.

SMITHERS

And the name, sir — “Excellenerator” isn’t very easy to say.

BURNS

I don’t know. I have a throng of bruiters snuffling out something more lyrical.

INT. SPRINGFIELD MALL – DAY

The SQUEAKY-VOICED TEENAGER, holding a clipboard, is standing with HANS MOLEMAN.

SQUEAKY-VOICED TEENAGER

(READING) Which do you think sounds more patriotic and/or family-friendly, sir: “The Toxicab”, or the “Chernobyl-Mobyle.”

MR. MOLEMAN

(WORRIED) Oh, can I go home and think about it?

INT. SIMPSONS LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS               SCENE 5  

Homer watches TV, eating from a cereal box: “PeaNuttee Vocabuleeri-O’s,” picturing an owl, realistic but wearing a mortar-board hat; a dead TRIX Rabbit dangles from its beak. It hovers over a bowl of words: “cotillion” “palpitate,” “succulent,” “implausible,” etc.

TV ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

This concludes “Autochthonia: The Mysterious Origin of Mount Rushmore!” Coming up, “Tintinnabulation: The Philadelphia Mystery”!

Homer mutes the TV and grabs for a pencil—

HOMER

(MUMBLING THOUGHTFULLY) ...rintintinitudinity...

—when the doorbell RINGS.

HOMER (CONT’D)

(EXCITED) My GRIT magazine is here! “The Joy Bells of life are ringing!”

EXT. SIMPSONS HOUSE — CONTINUOUS

POV over the shoulder of TWO MEN in black suits. Homer opens the door.

HOMER (CONT’D)

(DISAPPOINTED) You’re not mailmen. (GASPS AND POINTS) Men in Black!

The two men are SAM STRYPE, SR. (older), and GENE MANN, JR. (younger), clean-cut.

MANN

I’m Agent Mann, and this is Mr. Strype. We’re with the government, sir.

SAM STRYPE

You are Mr. Simpson? Mr. Homer J. Simpson of 742 Evergreen Terrace, Springfield,(A HORN BLARES), USA?

HOMER

(CAUTIOUSLY) Earth?

STRYPE

Yes.

HOMER

Yes.

STRYPE

Well, Simpson, we actually do have a letter for you.

Homer gives a tippy-toe DANCE of anticipation.

HOMER

Oh, what can it be! Gimme!

He SNATCHES a letter from Mann.

HOMER (CONT’D)

(READING) “Greetings. Your friends and neighbors have selected you for service in the Armed Forces of the United States of America..." Woohoo! I’ve been elected! (BEAT) Oh, wait...

STRYPE

The word would be “selected.”

MANN

“Inducted.”

STRYPE

Inducted. You see, you were drafted...

HOMER

D’oh!

FADE OUT:

END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

FADE IN:

INT. LIVING ROOM — DAY SCENE 6

Bart and Lisa look out the window at Homer and the two men.

LISA

What’s up with Dad?

BART

I think we won the lottery again.

LISA

I hope he doesn’t spend it all on paper flowers, like last time.

QUICK CUT TO:

INT. ATTIC – CONTINUOUS

The attic is heaped with riotously-colored paper flowers, ruined and in sodden piles from a roof leak. A pile stirs and a MOUSE peeks out, its fur a rainbow of colors from the running dyes.

EXT. SIMPSONS HOUSE — CONTINUOUS

HOMER

Drafted into what army?

Marge RUSHES out the door.

MARGE

Well, Homer, I’m off to my Pilates! Have fun with your new friends. Brunch is in the fridge.

The men NOD politely as Marge RACES off, then enter the house.

INT. SIMPSONS LIVING ROOM — CONTINUOUS

HOMER

(DAZED) “ARMY” is almost “Y-M-C-A” backwards.

STRYPE

(TO HOMER) It happened quite a number of years ago. You see...

BUREAUCRATIC FLASHBACK – 1991

A montage shows the Congressional voting, the bureaucratic paperwork going through, the random selection process, the mailing of the notification.

STRYPE (V.O.)

...during Gulf War I, Congress secretly re-instated the draft. It was rescinded...

MANN (V.O.)

Repealed.

STRYPE (V.O.)

...repealed after precisely three minutes, but one name was already selected. You, sir. The notification was misdirected, somehow.

QUICK CUT TO:

FLASHBACK – INT. POST OFFICE – DAY – 1991

A berserk firehose-wielding POSTAL WORKER trips over a Chihuahua. No water sprays, but the nozzle nicks Homer’s letter, knocks it behind a bin of “M” dead letters to “Milli Vanilli,” “Musical Youth,” “Menudo,” “Men at Work,” other 80’s demi-celebs.

BACK TO SCENE

STRYPE (CONT’D)

The letter was found not long ago, during a routine mumps virus sweep, and this brought you to our attention.

HOMER

(GASP) The MP’s! I’m a deserter!

STRYPE

No, Mr. Simpson.

MANN

We’re with (DRAMATICALLY) N.A.N.N.I.E.!

He flashes a badge bearing the acronym “Na.N.N.I.E.” and the motto, “Minding Big Brother since 1948.”

MANN (CONT’D)

The National American Nuclear (FALTERING)... Necessary... Investigatorial Effort, or something. I don’t really know what it stands for. It’s very secret.

STRYPE

(SMUGLY) I know.

HOMER

(STILL WORRIED) What do you want with me?

STRYPE

Your country needs you, Simpson.

HOMER

Me?

STRYPE

Your Homeland Security file is astonishing. You’ve stopped a number of China Syndromes.

HOMER

I won a plaque. (POINTING TO IT ON A TABLE) I use it to crack walnuts.

STRYPE

You saved the Space Shuttle.

HOMER

I thought I dreamed that.

STRYPE

You helped Hank Scorpio save the Eastern Seaboard from creeping liberalism.

HOMER

Wasn’t that an episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E.?

MANN

And then there was the time you kept the Earth’s core from exploding by diverting the coming Ice Age down that big volcano.

HOMER

Yes, I remember doing that.

STRYPE

Frankly, sir, there is no one more suited to the mission. You’re a renaissance man.

HOMER

Woohoo! I’m going back in time! Now I’ll get the guy who cracked the Liberty Bell! (RESENTFUL) Dirty luddite.

STRYPE

No. Now you’ll save the world. Again.

INT. BURNS’ OFFICE – DAY SCENE 7

Burns is at his desk, with Smithers nearby.

BURNS

Smithers, get the former Yugoslavia on the line. I’m tooling up the old Yugo factory for my XLN-erator. Atomic reactors in every automobile — brilliant!

SMITHERS

But sir, fueled by nuclear waste? It’s so toxic.

BURNS

Tonic! Weren’t you paying attention to that pedagogical flicker show? And not “waste”...

Burns NODS at a formula on his desk: “NUCLEAR WASTE = SUbmolecular Puissantic Recto-Ionic Surfeit Excreta = SuPRISE.”

BURNS (CONT’D)

...“suprise!” It’s such a happy word. Blast that Clinton Administration...

INT. A STALACTITE CAVERN — CONTINUOUS

Countless aisles of shelves cover a vast cavern. Snaking between stalagmites is a small monorail. At the center are mad-scientist machines; background noise suggests heavy industry.

BURNS (V.O. — CONT’D)

...with its environmental extremism! (INDIGNANT) What are garbage men for, if not to cart away my effluvia?

Moving in, shelves are stacked with red-labeled cans, reading “SuP”, and “RISE" beneath. Each can is marked with a picture of a leering Clinton next to a finger-wagging Gore.

BURNS (V.O. — CONT’D)

Ah well — at least those SuP (‘SOUP’) cans will turn a pretty profit.

BACK TO BURNS’ OFFICE

BURNS (CONT’D)

I’ll even get a nickel back for the cans. (LAUGHS MALIGNANTLY)

EXT. THE “W” — DAY — ESTABLISHING SCENE 8

A building identified by a large “W” sign.

EXT. THE “W” — CLOSER VIEW — CONTINUOUS

Marge stands near the entrance reading a banner: “The W offers — Happy Magic Partyland Pilates of Tantalizing Joy.”

MARGE

(TO HERSELF) Ooo, it sounds so enticing!

INT. EXERCISE ROOM — A FEW MOMENTS LATER

Marge, NED FLANDERS, BARNEY, KRUSTY, SELMA and PATTY, COMIC BOOK GUY, CHIEF WIGGUM, BUMBLEBEE MAN, SEA CAPTAIN, HANS MOLEMAN, EDNA KRABAPPEL, AGNES SKINNER, MANJULA NAHASAPEEMAPETILON, and others mill about. Mats are on the wood floor in regimented order.

Krusty is facing a scowling Selma, who wears a headband which shapes her hair into Krusty’s hairstyle.

KRUSTY

My god, it’s like looking into a mirror. A sexy, scowling mirror.

Selma ignores him.

KRUSTY (CONT’D)

You really send me, doll.

SELMA

Crawl back into your crypt, pasty.

KRUSTY

Wowie! Do you do voice-over work?

SELMA

Lucky for you I used up my MACE on him.

She points at DISCO STU, curled in the corner, CLAWING at his face.

KRUSTY

(UNDAUNTED) So, sugar, did you know your eyes are the color of tobacco smoke? Sultry!

SELMA

Under all this makeup my skin looks like the floor mat of a Brooklyn taxi.

KRUSTY

That’s very exotic.

SELMA

Go sell some blood, rummy.

KRUSTY

So you’re gonna make me work for it. Okay, cupcake, I got yuks outta the Grand Dragon in ’63 — I guess I can turn you around.

ANGLE ON FLANDERS AND BARNEY

FLANDERS

Hi-didley-ho, Barney-bean, gonna exchange those abs-of-flab for a bustle-o’-muscle!

BARNEY

Huh? Isn’t this the Labowsky bar mitzvah?

FLANDERS

Ding-dang defin-idley not.

Smithers ENTERS, dressed in 80’s aerobics wear — leg-warmers, wrist-bands around biceps, lime tank-top, lemon tights. Chief Wiggum is dressed identically — he notices this, BURSTS into tears and RUNS like a school girl from the room.

SMITHERS

Hello, all. I’m Waylon, your Pilates instructor. Everyone find a mat and lie on your backs, please.

They comply. The lights dim, and a low mechanical humming begins.

SMITHERS (CONT’D)

We’re going to initiate you into a higher degree of Pilates. Everyone, stare at the ceiling, at the light directly above you.

They comply. The humming increases, and the lights begin to pulsate and spin in sickly shades from red to yellow.

COMIC BOOK GUY

There is something familiar about this.

Marge shows mild confusion, then relaxes.

COMIC BOOK GUY (CONT’D)

(WEAKLY) Oh! Daggers in...my mind...

Comic Book Guy passes out, eyes open, and so does Marge. Everyone is entranced. A metallic door slams down. The recorded voice of Mr. Burns starts.

BURNS (V.O.)

Now, my lumpen pawns, you are about to begin an appalling, an excellent adventure...

INT. LIVING ROOM — EVENING SCENE 9

Homer sits on the couch EATING from a Vocabuleeri-O’s box. Marge COMES IN the front door, mechanically.

MARGE

Hi, Mommy. I’m going to bed now.

HOMER

But what...what about dinner?

MARGE

Look in the closet.

Homer obediently GOES and looks.

HOMER

There’s nothing here but cookie boxes. (THE SOUND OF FRANTIC TEARING) Empty!

Homer TURNS around, but Marge is gone.

INT. SIMPSONS BEDROOM — CONTINUOUS

Marge, fully clothed, lies asleep face down on the bed. The room darkens into midnight, and we widen to find Homer in bed, staring at the ceiling. He hears the doorbell ring faintly.

INT. LIVING ROOM — A FEW MOMENTS LATER

Homer is in his pajamas standing next to Strype and Mann. The Vocabuleeri-O’s box is on the couch, next to another Homer which stares ahead blankly.

STRYPE

This is an exact robotic replica of you...

HOMER

What, again?

STRYPE

...programmed for any contingency. Your family will never know you’re gone.

HOMER

That’s (EYES DARTING TO THE CEREAL BOX) implausible.

MANN

(IMITATING MARGE’S VOICE) Homer, would you open this pickle jar?

ROBO-HOMER

(HOMER’S VOICE, FLAT) In a minute.

MANN

(MARGE’S VOICE) Homer, the funniest thing happened to me today.

ROBO-HOMER

Can I have another beer?

MANN

(MARGE’S VOICE) Homer, why aren’t you at work?

ROBO-HOMER

It’s Saint (BEAT) Thistlethwait’s Day and additionally (BEAT) I have a headache.

HOMER

(PENSIVELY) It might work. It just might work. (DECISIVELY) Alright, men. I’ll do it. I WILL save the world.

INT. LIVING ROOM — THE NEXT MORNING

A bedraggled Marge LURCHES down the stairs and to the front door. She dimly notices the Robo-Homer.

MARGE

Morning, Homie. Oh, my head hurts funny. But I’m going to Pilates. It’s so...it’s so, um, tantalizing.

ROBO-HOMER

I am continuing to sit here on this (BEAT) red couch.

Marge EXITS.

INT. “W” PILATES EXERCISE ROOM — A WHILE LATER

Marge and the others lie on mats, staring at the ceiling, again mesmerized. Their arms SWING in semaphoric arcs as they listen to the droning voice of Mr. Burns.

BURNS (V.O.)

(SLOWLY) You will pinch the seal with the mechanical prizer...

EXT. SPY SCHOOL — MORNING — ESTABLISHING SCENE 10

An inconspicuous building with a flashing neon sign: “American Slosh Copy.”

INT. SPY SCHOOL INTAKE ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Homer, wearing skivvies, stands in a bare room. An elegant DOCTOR STEREOTYPEPERSON poses nearby with a stylish clipboard, a cigarette dangling from his insouciant lip.

DR. STEREOTYPEPERSON

Name, Homer J. Simpson, code name, “CRULLER”. Sex?

HOMER

I’m married. (SLOWLY) To Marge, my female wife.

DR. STEREOTYPEPERSON

(HUFF) Gender?

HOMER

Oh. Um, well, I’m a man. But I’ve got this growth? Under my arm? And I’m not quite sure if it’s a boy or a girl.

DR. STEREOTYPEPERSON

(BEAT) Fabulous — male then, with tertiary sexual characteristics. Body art?

HOMER

Oh no, I’d never get a tattoo art. I knew this guy who got one? And his baby was born with an extra head! — in exactly the same spot! I don’t want anything weird like that.

They stare at each other for an endless moment, something unspoken not passing between them.

EXT. SPY SCHOOL TRAINING FIELD – DAY

In a wet sweat suit, Homer is EATING from a foil MRE (“meals ready-to-eat”) bag as if from a feedbag. A black-garbed man approaches — BULLENGER, a drill sergeant-type, hairy arms and neck. Homer LICKS and swallows the bag, finishes by popping a roundish “treat” into his mouth.

HOMER

Hey, that wasn’t a fortune cookie! It was a snail!

BULLENGER

Snail is the other dark meat, cockroach. Now, two! Gimme two push-ups!

HOMER

You’re hairy. I burn the hair off my back with a lighter.

INT. SIMPSONS KITCHEN — NIGHT SCENE 11

Bart and Lisa finish eating hard spaghetti in a bowl of milk. Their eyes are haunted. Lisa washes the bowls, and Bart puts away the milk and spaghetti package. They stare at each other, Lisa picks up Maggie, Bart takes Lisa’s hand, and they walk into the living room.

INT. LIVING ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Robo-Homer has not moved, and Marge stands waving her arms. SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER (dog) lies curled by the couch. A rainbow-striped mouse RUNS out of Robo-Homer’s pant-leg.

BART

Um, mom, Homer, we’re going to bed now.

ROBO-HOMER

I really dug my groovy day.

LISA

My recital is tomorrow, mom.

ROBO-HOMER

Woo. Hoo. This is my favorite show.

The TV is not on.

BART

Hey Homer, Lisa’s butt-crack goes sideways.

ROBO-HOMER

I think so. Ask your mother.

The kids look at each other. Bart goes up to Robo-Homer and SHAKES its shoulder.

BART

Hey man, you’re freakin’ us out.

ROBO-HOMER

(VIBRATING) Here come the judge.

The Robo-Homer attempts to stand – its head tilts to the side, then pops off. A ganglia of optic fibers spouts from the neck.

BART

Gaaahhng!

LISA

(WITH TERRIBLE INSIGHT) This explains so much.

The kids look at Marge, then FLEE upstairs. The dog growls at the Robo-Homer head, which blinks mechanically on the floor.

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATE NIGHT

Bart and Lisa, in pajamas, stare from the staircase as Marge finally stops waving her arms and goes out the front door, which closes with a small noise.

ROBO-HOMER’S HEAD

I taught I taw a puddy-tat.

FADE OUT:

END OF ACT TWO

ACT THREE

FADE IN: SCENE 12

INT. SAM STRYPE’S SPY SCHOOL OFFICE — THE NEXT DAY

Homer stands, and Strype sits at his desk, which has a name plate, “Sam Strype, Master Spy.

HOMER

(GASP) Mr. Burns!? How do you know?

STRYPE

Anonymous tip.

HOMER

What’s he doing?

STRYPE

That’s on a need-to-know basis. And also, we don’t know. Just stop him, Secret Agent Cruller. (DRAMATICALLY) By any means necessary! Or unnecessary.

HOMER

But, um, from doing what?

STRYPE

We trust your judgment, man. (DRAMATICALLY) We trust your judgment. Anything you see that needs stopping, go ahead and stop it.

HOMER

But, shouldn’t I get more training or something? Like in a movie?

STRYPE

There’s no time, man! There’s...

HOMER

Yeah yeah, there’s just no time.

STRYPE

(ANNOYED) You’ve got a lifetime of heroism behind you. Use it!

HOMER

(DOUBTFUL) Okay. I guess.

INT. ROOM D’EQUIPAGE — LATER

Homer walks with PROFESSOR FRINK through a gadget-testing room. The “GET SMART” theme is playing.

A MIDGET holds a pinwheel — the wheel flies off and beheads an Osama manikin. A WOMAN is shot with a ray gun — she swells into a female HULK, then explodes like a green balloon.

A TECHNICIAN turns a dial and the “BOND THEME” plays. A MAN with a fly-head walks with a tuxedoed JAMES BOND, who sees Homer, moans sickly and flees in terror.

A FEW MINUTES LATER

Homer stands with Professor Frink by a table holding familiar and bizarre spy-gear, including a TV Batman utility belt.

HOMER

(POINTING AT THE BELT) Ooo! Do I get a cape, too?

PROF. FRINK

Now pay attention, Cruller, here. (HOLDING UP A KOOSH BALL-LIKE PILL) Now this makes you pass a rainbow from the bladder of your body with the swallowing and the passing hennggg.

HOMER

What good is that?

PROF. FRINK

(DEFENSIVELY) Look at what I’m saying to your ears now and suppose you were captured by a primitive tribe of island people in the ocean, who’d think you were a god or that sort of thing that’s in the sky with power.

HOMER

Oh.

PROF. FRINK

(HOLDING A WATCH) And this wristwatch translates Italian words into Egyptian...

HOMER

”Egyptian?”

PROF. FRINK

You’ve heard of “mummies” with the scaring and the choking, I think so. And it explodes when it gets wet.

HOMER

Explodes! This is so cool.

INT. CAVERN BALCONY — NIGHT SCENE 13

Burns looks out over the expanse of the cave, which is now occupied by figures moving about stiffly, all wearing “DR. NO” style radiation-suits.

BURNS

My army is working perfectly.

SMITHERS

But sir...

BURNS

(INTERRUPTS) Enough insolence! Don’t make me make you thrash yourself, Smithers. There’s always room for one more dupe in my Legion of Drone-Droids.

SMITHERS

(CONFLICTED) Oh no, sir — being your willing slave would be terrible.

BURNS

My Brain Wave has worked its magic on this pliable bevy of magnetized ciphers.

INT. CAVERN DECANTING CENTER — CONTINUOUS

The drone-droids are at work — carting, unsealing with hand-held devices, opening (with a Rube Goldberg-esque can opener requiring large arm-movements), pouring the sludge into open tanks which drain into gas cans.

SMITHERS (V.O.)

Why not just use an electric can opener, sir?

BACK TO SCENE

BURNS

Silence, you simpering blatherskite! That level of technology — it’s — where do you think we are? Roswell?

SMITHERS

Sir, I just don’t understand how you can release all this nuclear waste into the environment. It’ll cost millions of lives, sir.

BURNS

That’s a price I’m willing to pay. In any case, my top scientists tell me that SUNLIGHT is radiation. (DEFENSIVELY) I’ll be selling a blocker.

He points to a corner, at a barrel of “PAPA BURNS ALL NATURAL RADIATION BLOCKER — WITH ALOE VERA.”

SMITHERS

It must be illegal...

BURNS

You’re forgetting (AS IF THIS EXPLAINS IT ALL) “The Yucky Mounds Recycling Loophole Act.” And it will be good for the economy! “Waste” not, want not. (LAUGHS)

SMITHERS

(TROUBLED) Yes, very witty, sir.

INT. SPY DRESSING ROOM — NIGHT SCENE 14

Homer, wearing black and the Batman belt, is at a mirror. He POPS a KOOSH BALL pill, drains a jug of water. With a FLURRY of makeup he gives himself a clown-face, WIPES it off, PAINTS again. Now it’s the “Cat Man” drummer from KISS. He WIPES, paints, has proper camouflage.

EXT. WALLS OF THE NUCLEAR POWER PLANT — LATER THAT NIGHT

Homer is ready for the mission. Mann is with him.

HOMER

Can’t you come with me?

MANN

It’s a one man job, and you are that man.

Homer dances about on tippy-toe.

MANN (CONT’D)

I know, you’re eager.

HOMER

(INSINCERELY) Well, yeah. But I have to...you know...

MANN

(IMPATIENT-PARENT VOICE) Why couldn’t you – oh never mind. Find a tree.

Homer WALKS OFF for a moment, RETURNS. There is an angry squeaking from a bush. A rainbow-colored mouse FLITS away.

INT. SUBTERRANEAN CORRIDOR — LATER

Homer SKULKS down the hall, down dank stairs, along horror-movie tunnels. He OPENS an arched wooden door: a huge room filled with barrels of “PAPA BURNS’ ALL-NATURAL RADIATION BLOCKER, WITH ALOE VERA – RPF LEVEL 27,000,” labeled with various scents: “POTPOURRI,” “LEMON ’N’ STRONTIUM,” “HEAVY WATERMELON,” “APOCA-LYPTUS,” “RAINBOW HOLOCAUST,” “ON THE BEACH,” “HEART OF THE SUN.” Homer closes the door.

Homer OPENS another door. Inside are rows of large glass capsules, holding clones of Mr. Burns at various ages. The oldest are stamped “RIPE” and labeled “MONDAY” thru “SUNDAY”. A large dumpster overflows with “Burns bodies,” limbs akimbo. Homer SHUTS the door.

Homer OPENS a final door, which leads onto the cavern balcony.

INT. CAVERN FLOOR – A LITTLE LATER

Homer CREEPS along, and sees: Flanders, wearing a horrified expression, surrounded by stalagmites and bats, shoveling nuclear waste into a reactor. Then he sees Barney.

HOMER

Hey, Barn, lend me that outfit, okay?

BARNEY

Sure thing, master. (URP)

A FEW MOMENTS LATER

Homer, in a radiation-suit, moves to the decanting machine, looks confused, touches the operator, who turns — it’s Marge. Through the protective helmet, Homer’s face distends in Munch-like horror.

HOMER

Eeeeeeck!

Burns, in a Darth Vader radiation-suit, looks up from a 1960’s style “computer” panel.

BURNS

(POINTING) Seize him!

A hoard of drones converges on Homer, who backs into a tub of waste, tips backwards and disappears beneath its roiling surface.

INT. A DUNGEON CELL — LATER SCENE 15

Homer, bound with ropes to a chair, again wears black, sans camouflage. Burns is just finishing revealing his plan.

BURNS

...spiffing scheme, isn’t it.

HOMER

You’ll never get away with it.

BURNS

And just who are you, my meddlesome intruder.

HOMER

(ATTEMPTING TO BE DRAMATIC) I’m The Man from, um... B.A.B.Y.S.I.T.T.E.R.!

BURNS

Well, it’s nap time — forever!

HOMER

Mr. Burns, you’re acting so, so evil.

BURNS

Quit your nagging, Jiminy Cricket. I’m over 21.

HOMER

But if all this nuclear waste...

BURNS

(BORED AND DISMISSIVE) Yeah yeah, nuclear waste, blah blah, nuclear winter. Brrr. But what about the nuclear spring afterwards, hmm? (TO THE SIDE) We never hear about that, eh, Mr. Nader?

Widen to find Ralph Nader, also bound, and gagged. He wears a slogan pin, “Nuclear Power Is Just As Bad As Oil – In Fact, Worse, Even, Probably.”

HOMER

But, um, but...

BURNS

But me no buts. You bore me. I’m going to get a Fresca, and when I come back, well, I don’t know, but it seems like I should do something — something nefarious.

Burns LEAVES. Homer STRUGGLES with his ropes, gives up. A rainbow mouse scurries across the floor.

HOMER

Come here, mousie, I have a yummy peanut for you.

Homer puffs and a peanut flies out of his nose. The mouse grabs it and scampers way.

HOMER

D’oh!

There is a gnawing sound out of shot – it is Homer’s unseen armpit twin, which he calls ‘Boo-Boo’. Homer GLANCES down to his left side, and looks joyful.

HOMER

Yes, Boo-Boo, yes! Use those wonderful teeth, and gnaw, gnaw our way to freedom! And then, to rescue our wife and save the world!

INT. CAVERN – A FEW MOMENTS LATER

Homer stands heroically in the decanting area HOLDING Smithers by the throat; Marge stands nearby.

SMITHERS

Goodness, there’s no need to be so butch. I’m on your side.

HOMER

Oh yeah? Says who?

SMITHERS

It was me who called for help. Mr. Burns isn’t himself. He has a mold infestation in his socks, and he just won’t change them. But the medicine’s coming down from Canada any day now. Honest, this is just a passing phase.

Burns, holding a Fresca, DODDERS by and sees that Homer is free.

BURNS

Horrors! – the brute is loose! I must flee!

He STEPS into a nearby Blofeld monorail which carts him away at walking speed — a white cat leaps and settles in his lap.

HOMER

(TO SMITHERS) That’s alright for now, Igor. How do I get all these poor Pilates zombies out of here?

SMITHERS

(POINTING) Just tell them to go out that tunnel.

INT. CAVERN TUNNEL ENTRANCE — A WHILE LATER

The last of the Pilates zombies, including Ralph Nader, are trotting into the tunnel. Marge is beside Homer.

HOMER

(TO MARGE) Wait here, beautiful. I’ve got one final bit of business to attend to.

Homer TROTS to a tub of waste, REMOVES Professor Frink’s exploding watch from his belt and TOSSES it in. He RACES back, sweeps Marge off her feet, heaves her over his shoulder and RUNS down the tunnel.

A fireball consumes the cavern, and flames race down the tunnel toward Homer and Marge. On and on he RUNS, the now-somehow-impossibly-slow fireball plodding along after him. Homer stumbles and the fireball pauses. Finally he reaches a door, slams it as the flames arrive. A thread of smoke leaks through the keyhole.

INT. “W” PILATES EXERCISE ROOM — NIGHT — CONTINUOUS SCENE 16

Homer finds himself among the rescued zombies.

HOMER

Alright, everybody, snap out of it.

And indeed, they bestir themselves as from a troubled sleep.

ANGLE ON COMIC BOOK GUY

Wearing a look of supreme distain.

COMIC BOOK GUY

Worst, definitely worst exercise experience ever. Henceforth I shall exert myself solely by re-cataloguing my graphic-novel archives.

ANGLE ON FLANDERS

He’s talking on a cell phone.

FLANDERS

And I just diddly-dang don’t know if it was a vision from the Lord, Reverend, or if I was actually in hell.

ANGLE ON KRUSTY

He SLUMPS against a mirrored wall.

KRUSTY

Oy, did I get some farshtunkeh kreplachs or what? I haven’t felt this bad since Totie Fields taught me how to rumba.

Widen to find Marge and Homer.

MARGE

(DISORIENTED) Oh Homie, what’s been happening?

A series of muted explosions shakes the building.

MARGE (CONT’D)

What’s that?

Homer

Joy bells, baby. Joy bells.

Homer takes her hand and they go outside—

EXT. “W” BUILDING — CONTINUOUS

—and look toward the far hills, where a towering mushroom cloud possesses the horizon. Homer pulls an improbably large tube of RADIATION BLOCKER out of his utility belt.

HOMER (CONT’D)

Butter up, beautiful — it’s gonna be a hot night.

Marge utters a suggestive Mae West purr.

By the glow of the distant pillar of flame, Homer’s shadow is cast behind him, the shadow of a flawed man, a weak and a foolish man, but now a man who is everything a man would want to be – strengthened, redeemed, by the love of a good woman.

INT. SIMPSONS KITCHEN — DAY SCENE 17

The Simpsons are at the table. Robo-Homer sticks feet-up out of the trash. Homer has finished a feast of meat sauce and 8 or 10 entrees. Lisa wears the badly-stretched Malibu Stacy tee-shirt.

HOMER

And that’s how your father saved the world again.

LISA

But dad — didn’t the explosions just spread all that nuclear poison that much faster?

HOMER

(CONDESCENDINGLY) Of course not, honey. Because the “Papa Burns” blocking goo blew up with it, and canceled it out.

LISA

(UNCONVINCED) Oh.

Homer contentedly PICKS his teeth.

HOMER

I’ll miss Boo-Boo, though. (ASIDE TO BART) That was gonna be your name, boy. (TO ALL) Boo-Boo — I guess he just ... dropped off, like a blue toenail.

QUICK CUT TO:

INT. SIMPSONS ATTIC – CONTINUOUS

A rainbow mouse scurries from a flower pile, accompanied by a tiny HOMINID with huge teeth in a Homer-face. It wears an MRE bag.

BACK TO SCENE

BART

(TO HOMER) How do we know you’re really Homo-Homer, and not just another Robo-Homer?

HOMER

I’ll show you my Boo-Boo scar.

He pulls up his shirt to reveal a sucking gouge in his side.

LISA

(AVERTING HER EYES) So would this “Boo-Boo” be a brother, or an uncle? (BEAT) Dad, are you a hermaphrodite?

MARGE

I don’t think those are appropriate things to think about, Lisa. The important lesson here is that, if you get a chance to do something you really want to do, like Pilates, it just may turn out to be a nightmarish living hell.

BART

Well, I got the Robo-Homer head (HOLDING IT UP BY AN EAR) and I’m keeping it. It does my homework.

Bart SWINGS the Robo-Homer head onto the table with a loud THUNK, cracking a walnut.

ROBO-HOMER-HEAD

That’s all, folks.

THE SIMPSONS ALL

(DELIGHTED LAUGHTER)

FADE OUT:

THE END

Civility

Helmut Crisp – a radical Democrat lefty traitor.

Jack Haytch – a right-wing Republican reactionary bigot.

Satan or the Boogey-Man – a disruptive guy, who encourages imbalance.

Jesus or Buddha or someone – I don’t know, maybe sort of reasonable guy, maybe who doesn’t like bad manners, or logically invalid arguing, or unthinking knee-jerk prejudice, or maybe someone who just shames unbelievably self-righteous partisans into a little self-reflection, because after all people can have very different views on a matter and still not be stupid or evil [or some sort of generic really awful ‘bad,’ if there should happen to be no such thing as ‘evil’], even if they never do actually agree, because it’s not just some Pollyanna ideal of “getting along” – it has to do with common civility – like not using racist language or not insulting someone’s religion, even if you disagree with it, because for goodness’ sake (if there is such a thing as ‘goodness’), how long does it have to go on? – does anyone actually need to be hit over the head over and over again with the same old thing? – because doesn’t it seem like, Yeah yeah, we get it – you think ‘those guys’ are really awful ... now is there any other thing to talk about? – because is there anybody anywhere who’s going to be convinced by bigoted attacks? – and even if they’re actually funny, how is political bigotry not like coon jokes or faggot jokes or kike jokes? I don’t know ... something like that.

A black box, the waiting room between Heaven and Hell. Harp music and/or cries of torment are heard sporadically. Angels and devils enter occasionally, right and left respectively. Helmut Crisp is in a wheel chair, headless, with his head on his lap; Jack Haytch has a huge knife protruding from his back. We pick up the thread in the middle.

Jack Haytch: ... your pig, President Caligula. A Republican Congress dragged him to prosperity and he was just too busy getting serviced by Lewinsky to do anything about bin Laden. And as for Shrillary the screech owl...

Helmut Crisp: The problem isn’t “Shrillary,” it’s Shrubbery. Oh, that’s fabulous...

Jack Haytch: Yeah, you said that already, remember?

Satan or maybe the Boogey-Man is standing between them.

Satan or the Boogey-Man: And that Cheney’s really a jerk too, right Helmut? (to Jack Haytch) But are you gonna take that? What else about clinton?

Jack Haytch: Yeah, um, President Pinocchio, um, he murdered Vince Foster, you know. One order of eternal torment, please – extra toasty.

Satan: Ha ha ha ha ha. Yeah!

Helmut Crisp: Oh yeah? Well, Bush ... um, he’s such a moron. So stupid, he is. Um, see that rock over there...?

Jack Haytch: Yeah, you love rocks ... of cocaine, crack-head. You lefties are such spineless hopped-up appeasing cowards. You love Osama, because he hates decency.

Helmut Crisp: No, you love Osama, because he’s a Saudi, you Republican oil-hog. Oh, there’s some Vaseline in my pocket! Don’t kill me for it!

Satan: Dude, that’s a good one.

Jack Haytch: The Vaseline’s in your ass, Pricilla.

Satan: Ooo, what a burn! He called you Pricilla! And he said you had Vaseline in your ass!

Helmut Crisp: Your head’s in your ass, Trog. Go bomb a baby, baby-killer. Go bomb an abortion clinic.

Satan: Yeah, war-monger! Too bad you’re not as smart as your bombs ... right Helmut?

Jack Haytch: Go pay for an abortion — or make me pay for it—

Satan: Touché!

Jack Haytch: ...You pinkos ... “Down with Agnew!!” Idiots! You never saw a baby you didn’t want to abort, a gay you didn’t want to marry, or a flag you didn’t want to burn.

Helmut Crisp: Hey, there’s the Constitution – go burn it! You right-wingers hate minorities, and gays and women.

Jack Haytch: Yeah, still, just like you said before. And we hate the Constitution? That’s rich. You hate self-control ... and America. You’re destroying Western Civilization.

Helmut Crisp: You’re destroying The Planet! Go back to the Father Land, you stupid Repug!

Jack Haytch: Donk!

Jesus or Buddha or whoever sticks his head into the room.

Jesus or Buddha or someone: Hey you two, hold it down in here. Can’t you just get along? I’m listening, you know.

Satan storms off in a huff.

Helmut Crisp: Oh ... um ... well, all right. Well, first, I suppose I do have to admit, I sure do love being a drug addict. I love to degrade myself. I have sex with drug lords. Not marriage, just sex.

Jack Haytch: Yeah, but, um, all my alcohol and hypocrisy is just as poisonous, and these giant corporations we right-wingers love so much are nothing but drug cartels anyway. I don’t know why I love alcohol and hypocrisy and corporations so much ... but that’s love. Oh Enron, my sweet, sweet Enron! How I adored you and weep for your demise!

Helmut Crisp: That’s how I felt when the USSR collapsed. Oh! -- by the way, you were right about how I hate America and Self Control. It’s just that America and Self Control stole my lover – one of them. I’ve had thousands, of course.

Jack Haytch: Oh, that explains so much.

Satan enters again.

Satan: Yeah.

Jack Haytch: Well, you’re right about how much I hate women and minorities and deviants. WMDs. But they leave specks of tooth paste all over the bathroom mirror. Grosses me out. And they leave hair on the soap – long black gay female hairs. Eeewie.

Satan: Because they’re all so stupid and stuff.

Helmut Crisp: Ugh – yeah, what pigs we are. WMDs. I’m gonna start saying that.

Jack Haytch: Hey, get this: we did invent AIDS.

Helmut Crisp: Are you serious? I thought I was just lying about that.

Jack Haytch: No – any chance to oppress ... and of course get you sodomites.

Helmut Crisp: Well, we do support the Man-Boy Love Association – but you knew that...

Satan: Hey, you guys know you’re dead, right?

They ignore Satan.

Helmut Crisp: ...Personally, there’s no depravity too disgusting for me not to fight for. Anyway, I’m just a pathetic coward and a traitor. It's Awesome bin Laden to me. Not that I could learn anything from history. All Hitler taught us pansy abortionists was how to use propaganda.

Satan: Hitler! I love Hitler.

Jack Haytch: Well, I’m the one who uses propaganda.

Helmut Crisp: Oh come on. Do you have anything like Fahrenheit 9/11? Goebbles lives!

Satan: Yeah, in hell, with me, Satan or somebody.

Jack Haytch: Well, how about talk radio? Is there a bigger liar than Bill O’Reilly?

Helmut Crisp: Yes. Al Franken.

Satan: Hello? Can you hear me?

Jack Haytch: Maybe, but who listens to Air America?

Helmut Crisp: Who listens to radio? – what is this, 1930? We decadent perverts control television. And the schools. And the courts. And I really am a baby killer, you know. I was really mad when you pointed it out? But it’s true. It’s just that babies ripped me off on a drug deal. So I kill them. I’m evil.

Satan: That doesn’t even make sense.

Jack Haytch: Yeah, I kill babies because they keyed my pickup when I was at the gun show. Oh, my Silverado, my beautiful Silverado! So I bomb them. I’m evil too.

Satan: What the hell are you idiots talking about?

Helmut Crisp: Oh, before I forget, I meant to say that it’s true, that I really am destroying Western Civilization. I don’t know what it is, but it gets on my nerves, with its capitalism and Christianity and stuff. Thinks it’s all big. Oh, look at me, I’m big bad Western Civilization. Better get out of my way! And it cheated off me on the SATs and actually scored higher then me. Man!

Satan: Yeah, I get it already – ha ha, funny joke.

Jack Haytch: No, I’m the one, who’s destroying The Planet. You know how The Planet is. It spelled out a really dirty word on my front lawn with salt? – that killed the grass? The F-word, can you believe it? So I’m going to destroy it by warming it globally.

Satan: Har-dee-har.

Helmut Crisp: Deserves it. Stinking Planet. I hate it too, now.

Satan: You guys are such assholes. First of all, you’re dead. Then, you’re not making any sense. And am I invisible all of a sudden?

Helmut Crisp: Oh, and I hate myself, because I’m white – white is bad. I’m just a hateful lying evil scum bag white pervert.

Jack Haytch: No, I’m the one who’s evil. A stupid, stupid conservative, very evil, if there were such a thing, but there isn’t, and a scum bag also. Hey, I gotta say, it feels good to be honest for once.

Helmut Crisp: Yeah, me too. And I’m a scum bag, too, did I say?

Jesus or Buddha or whoever enters.

Jesus or Buddha or someone: Now that’s much better. And really, you’re both scum bags. Anyway, one of you was right, so you get to go to heaven. Which one? Why, it’s you...

Jesus or Buddha or whoever raises his hand to point, and --

Blackout

J

­That Wacky Mahdi

Osama bin Laden is sitting in a cave, taping a speech.

Osama bin Laden: Cursed be his name, the Satan Bush re-stole the American-pig election somehow, despite my endorsement of the heroic John Kerry. Bile, which is the fluid found in spleens as I believe, will flood the gutters of the Great Satan, by which I mean America this time, not Bush, who is also Satan, but not “Great.”

Michael Moore: An…cut. Oh, Osama! That wuz fuckin inspyerd! Now duh worl’ll hate shitty supposably “grate” America evin moore, if such a thing wuz possable, which it fucken aint. Almose as much as me an you, if such a thing was fuckun posaball, but itz not, cuz [to the camera] Americuz a dick, an [wagging a finger] you shood hate it to. Im Michael Moore, an this messudj has bin browt too u bi MoveOn Dot Org.

George Clooney: And…cut. Okay, Mike, that was great. You too, OBL.

Osama: Thank you, George. [to Susan Estridge] Susan, get me an Evian.

Estridge: Yes sir, sure thing Mr. bin Laden, sir. Would you like one too, Mr. Clooney? Mr. Soros? Heh heh.

They shake their heads.

Moore: Git me a Jolt.

Estridge scurries off.

Hillary Clinton: What a honking toad. [to Osama] I’d like you to rework some of that middle bit – this needs to translate. My opinion, speaking as a powerful orator, is that it wasn’t purple enough – flowery is powerful. Flowerful … write that down, Wolf. And more screeching. It’s about the hatred.

Osama: So when I say, about when the monkey Bush stole Florida, maybe I could say that Orlando will drown in hurricanes of virgin blood from hell where Iblis devours the entrails of infidels and…

Moore: Thatz fuckon awesum, butt du we got duh bujit fer duh FX?

Hillary: I’m liberal elite darling Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Clooney: I’m leftist Hollywood prettyboy powerhouse George Clooney... or maybe Oliver Stone.

George Soros: I’m socialist billionaire George Soros…or maybe Harold Ickies.

Osama: I am Osama bin Laden

Estridge returns, holding an Evian bottle.

Moore: [shaking his head] Yeah, wut wuz i fuccun thincken. its jus im … i hayte Ammarruca sow mutch ... duh thawt uv fuken Bush an thoez fuckan Crischun bigutz…

Estridge: Yeah.

Hillary: Ugh. His excruciating personality.

Osama: Ugh. Anyone but Bush.

Hillary: Doesn’t that moron get it? War is not the answer.

Soros: That is so true. War is not the answer.

Moore: Thas rite. Warr aint duh ansar.

Estridge: Yeah. Heh heh. War’s not the answer – that’s what we’re saying, right?

Osama: That is correct. Terrorism is the answer.

They all stand in doleful silence as a clock ticks loudly, both nodding and shaking their heads in agreement.

Moore: wee wuz wureed ubowt u, Osama, we dint heer nuthen fer soe lawng—

Estridge: Yeah. Heh heh.

Hillary: We don’t want to lose you, Osama. You’re terrific. You’re the model of what we intelligent progressives love to tolerate. Nobody thinks locally and acts globally like you do.

Moore: Yeah, Osama. Fukc! Haoo kan u b sow fucqen, pashunutlie, fuccune pashawnit?

Estridge: Yeah!

Soros: Yes, tell us, do!

Osama: How? Well, listen up, gang, and I will tell you…

To the tune of “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.” They stomp feet, slap knees, and play spoons, whiskey jug and wash board; during the bridge Moore and Estridge alternate singing “fuck” and “yeah/heh.”

Osama:	I am the very model of a cruel medieval cleric, all The imams are astounded at my aptitude barbarical; My penchant for the bellicose – a savage wrath and atrocious – It’s passion quite precocious: I am frightfully ferocious.
Moore: Hillary: Osama:	A Western Coalition fuckin’ checked Saddam’s ambition And Crusaders and their superstition stayed without permission. This unbearable condition, infidels so unsubmissional?— Abominal pollution, not to mention impositional!
All: Moore/ Estridge:	Abominal pollution, not to mention imposition! And only one solution: not to offer opposition, But to flee his retribution when he gave his admonition! fuck-yeah-fuck-yeah, etc.
Osama: Hillary: Soros: Osama:	It’s a sacred supposition and it bears the repetition. There’s a need for both sedition and unceasing demolition. And in short in matters injudicious … … horrifyingly malicious, Surreptitiously pernicious … … I’m the man who’s most vicious.
All:	In short in matters injudicious, horrifyingly malicious, Surreptitiously pernicious, he’s the man who’s most vicious.
	_______________
Estridge: All: Moore: Estridge:	I’m biased and a shameless liar but a Lefty so I’m right! It may be true we’re blind to truth but that bin Laden’s out-of-sight! Osama is my hero, fuck, he’s such a fuckin’ Minuteman! And if you rubes don’t think it’s so, just wait until I spin it, man!
Hillary: Soros: Osama : Hillary: Moore:	So let’s tell lies about this war of Bush, who knew … … He knew ... … It's true. ’Cause I agree with Michael Moore; and I detest the U.S. too! America’s so fuckin’ shitty that I want to fuckin’ puke - I think it’s just a fuckin’ pity that Osama’s got no nuke.
All: Moore/ Estridge:	George Bush has left this shitty country in a disunited state, And though we’d rather this land stick it, here’s the thing to make it great: Just vote the Hillary-Osama ticket in Two Thousand Eight! fuck-yeah-fuck-yeah, etc.
Soros: Moore: Hillary: Soros: All:	A billion for MoveOn dot Org I’ll spend to get a full relief; I couldn’t buy it for Al Gore - I’ll blow my wad for a Caliph! We’ll tolerate agreement! … … You object? … … Fermais la buche! We pinkos are quite veh’ment: we’ll take anyone but Bush.
All:	And though we loathe this shitty land we’ve just the thing to make it great: We’ll vote Osama! – he’s the man we want in Two Thousand and Eight! ______________
Hillary: Moore: Soros: Osama:	He hastens with celerity and speaks it with all verity: He means with fuckin’ clarity to practice his barbarity. Compassion or its parity? – he’s unfamiliarity; I seared my heart of charity – it was an albatrossity.
Osama: Soros: Hillary: Osama:	With Allah’s generosity, my pure religiosity With terminal velocity conceived a grim curiosity; With virtuous monstrosity his Wahabic ferocity Revealed its animosity: a Twin Towers atrocity!
All: Moore/ Estridge:	Revealed its animosity: a Twin Towers atrocity! To state with stern loquacity his Islamist philosophy He planned with grave audacity a Twin Towers atrocity! fuck-yeah-fuck-yeah, etc.
Osama:	Now when I bring destruction (mass), and death, and hell - oh, when I’m done With dirty nukes and sarin gas you won’t remember Nine One One. In short I hate – it’s plainly true – the Christian most, and more the Jew; I hate George Bush and Cheney too, but not as much as I hate you.
All:	In short he hates – it’s plainly true – the Christian most, and more the Jew; He hates George Bush and Cheney too, but not as much as he hates you. And though we loathe this shitty land we’ve just the thing to make it great - We’ll vote Osama! - he’s the man we want in Two Thousand and Eight! His penchant for the bellicose is frightfully barbaric, And in short he is the model of a cruel medieval cleric.

!

The Exciting Adventure of the Mysterious Ancient Rain Forest

Transcribed by

Jack H

Willam C. (age 9 ¾) – a good boy, with good parents who taught him manners and not to take drugs like bad parents do.

Crystal F. (age 10.12) – a good girl, also with good parents but sort of bad, because they’re always talking about gay things like the environment and stuff, which is important but people have to have jobs too. But they’re not very bad, just not very smart.

Patrick S. – a bad boy, 10 years old. His parents are VERY bad, and they have naked parties and take many drugs too.

Aaron B. – also a bad boy. He thinks he’s 10, but he was stolen by gypsies as a baby and sold to a formerly wealthy couple (ENRON). Now the father puts pamphlets on windshields and thinks about naked girls all the time. And he has a pony tail, which is gay. And now they’re sorry they bought Aaron, because they don’t really have family values.

Three Bears – Large, medium & small.

Two children stand facing the classroom. They motion for silence repeatedly, then begin. As they tell the story, they act it out in pantomime, with the help, penultimately, of three bears.

Willam: Okay, um, so I’m Willam. And there was this little girl once? And she was lost in the woods? And she was all looking around, all over the place, for where she was?

Crystal: I’m Crystal. And so she had ran away from home, cuz she didn’t want to do her homework or something. Maybe it was a bath. But she wasn’t dirty.

Willam: So whatever, she climbed out of the window cuz she was sent to her room without supper and she was really mad.

Crystal: Yeah, and then she was lost in the woods, which she lived on the edge of these really big woods.

Willam: Like a jungle.

Crystal: Yeah, or a rain forest.

Willam: So she was walking for a really long time, and her legs were so tired, so she’s like, ‘oh, I’m so tired. When is this forest going to end?’

Crystal: Yeah, this rain forest.

Willam: But it just keeps going on and on and on and on and on and she doesn’t remember which way she came cuz she’s really lost.

Crystal: And she’s all crying and worried like snakes will bite her and spiders too, or fall in a big hole.

Willam: So then the sun goes down, and she’s been walking for just hours, so she must have been sent to her room like at four o’clock, and maybe it’s summer so the sun is up for longer.

Crystal: Because of the earth’s axis, that’s tilted.

Willam: Yeah, I knew that. And so, um, then it goes down, because of the rotation of the earth, which is a planet, but not all the way down yet but like it’s getting dark?

Crystal: Okay, so then she sees this little house like a cottage or something, and she thinks she’ll knock on the door.

Willam: She’s like, ‘oh, I’m going to knock on that door.’

Crystal: And she thinks she’ll get something to eat or something because she didn’t have any supper like he said.

Willam: So then she knocks on the door but it’s open and nobody’s there so then she goes in.

Crystal: And it’s like exceedingly dark inside cuz there aren’t any lights or anything so she looks around.

Willam: And she’s like, ‘hello is anybody here in this ancient mysterious cottage?’

Crystal: And then she gets some lights, I don’t know maybe a candle or like one of those old man lanterns, like the guy on the fish sticks box.

Willam: Anyway, then she sees there’s this table, like all out of wood and there’s a big chair that’s too hard, and a middle one that’s too soft and a little one that’s just right? And she sits in this big one, and she says ‘oh, this chair is too hard…’ And then she goes upstairs…. No, wait…

Crystal: No, no, so there’s these three big bowls of soup…

Willam: No, of porridge.

Crystal: Yeah, of porridge…

Patrick: (interrupting from the class) Ha! Are you sure? You’re so dumb! Maybe it was pus!

Aaron: Yeah, stupid -- pus and vomit. And old smelly diapers. And toenails and nose hairs!

Patrick: And boogers. And insulin and snot!

Crystal: Be quiet Patrick Savedras. And you too Aaron Burghdorf, this isn’t your story.

Patrick: …and cat jelly and dog slobber. And vegetable oil and cigarettes!

Aaron: Or like horpnast and…

Crystal: Don’t interrupt. It’s very rude...

Aaron: …and graglesnop, and sprinkled with skunkwart!

Patrick: And topped with cream of slugmush!

Aaron: And a cheesy discharge…

Crystal: Be quite!

Aaron: …for a creamy filling!

Patrick: Yeah, that’s cool, and…

Willam: Shut up Patrice.

Patrick: You shut up.

Willam: No you shut up. You think you’re so smart.

Patrick: I am so smart.

Willam: Then how come you got a D on the spelling test since you’re so smart?

Crystal: Yeah, how come?

Patrick: Shut up. My mother is sick.

Crystal: Then don’t interrupt then.

Willam: Yeah, so don’t interrupt then. So anyway, so it was these three bowls of PORRIDGE, but then the big one is too hot and the middle one is too cold and then the little one is just right.

Crystal: So she eats some of the big one and she’s all, ‘my goodness, this is too hot, and the middle one is too cold but this one, the little one, is just right.’

Willam: But I guess cuz it was little and she was so hungry that it wasn’t enough, so I guess that by then the big too hot one was just right too and so she ate all of it too.

Crystal: But not the too cold one cuz it’s still too cold. There wasn’t any endothermic reaction to make it hot.

Willam: Yeah, there was only, like, um, exothermic reactions, so then she’s really full, and she says, um…

Crystal: She’s all, ‘my goodness, I’m really full, and I was sure walking a lot too, so I think I will go upstairs and go and sleep.’

Willam: And then she sees these three beds? And one is really big and too hard, and she says, ‘oh, this big one is too hard but the middle one is too soft, but the little size one is just right.’

Crystal: And she’s all, ‘my goodness, this little bed is so comfortable and so soft, but firm too, just right. I really like this little bed.’

Willam: And then she goes to sleep.

Crystal: And she’s in this little bed that’s so comfortable, cuz maybe there’s like little teddy bears on it.

Willam: Yeah, that’s funny, there’s these teddy bears all over it.

Crystal: So anyway, so what this house is, is that it’s the house of these three wild bears.

Enter three bears, who stand idly and funnily by, waiting for their cue.

Willam: But they’re like smart, so maybe they were trained bears from the circus, that ran away or retired or something.

Crystal: Or maybe they were like a scientific experiment in a laboratory of a big corporation that was trying to make super vitamins for your brain and they tested it on these bears.

Willam: Yeah, and then the bears were really smart but then there were these side effects, like everybody who took these brain vitamins turned into bears.

Crystal: Like a virus or something, so the scientists hid these bears in the rain forest.

Willam: Or maybe the scientists became the bears, and hid in the jungle so terrorists couldn’t find them and operate on them or dissect their brains open to find the secret formula for the transformation code.

Crystal: Yeah, that’s cool. And it was like a family of scientists.

Willam: Yeah.

Now the bears pantomime the action to the narration of the children.

Crystal: So anyway, the first big bear said, ‘my goodness, somebody’s been sitting in my chair and porridge,’ and the mama bear said ‘yes, me too,’ and the other one said, ‘yes and all of my porridge is gone’ and so did the first papa bear.

Willam: And he’s like, ‘oh, hemorrhoids!’ and she’s like, ‘oh, George, not in front of the children.’

Crystal: But there’s just one though.

Willam: Yeah, and he’s like all bothered.

Crystal: And then one of them said, ‘I bet she’s upstairs!’ and they all ran upstairs and there she was asleep.

Willam: With the teddy bears.

Crystal: And the big papa bear said, ‘my, somebody has been messing up my blanket or jumping on my bed or something,’ and the middle bear said, ‘yeah, me too,’ and the other baby bear exclaimed, ‘and here she is too in my bed asleep!’

Willam: And so then Goldilocks jumped out the window and ran home.

Crystal: And then from then on she always did her homework or took baths or whatever.

Willam: Yeah, but before that? When she ate the porridge? It was really like the brain formula, and so she became like this hairy werewolf –

Crystal: No, a werebear!

Willam: Yeah, a werebear --

Crystal: And the porridge was GMO with a virus ... like, Genetically Modified, um, Organisms, with DNA, which is Deoxyribo Nucleic Acid.

Willam: And so she had to live in the jungle, but she was smart, and so she had this laboratory where she tried to find a cure, and she did.

Crystal: And she cured AIDS too.

Willam: Yeah, cuz thanks to the brain formula of the porridge, she was Gifted and Talented.

Crystal: Yeah, like us.

They bow, deeply.

FIN

Look Out! He's Got a Gun!

That Wacky Mahdi

Click here.


J

Happy Abortion Day!

See here. A Helmut Crisp Production.


J

The Mysterious Office of Doctor Frankenstein!!!

Dramatis Personae

Dr. Victor Frankenstein – a surgeon

Ygor Goldblat – an office-manager

Jojo Frankenstein – the monster

Judy Frankenstein – the Doctor’s mother

Doctor Victor Frankenstein (slim, 35), wearing an open lab coat over a stylish vest, sits at his desk speaking on the telephone.

Dr. Frankenstein: Yes, yes. And remember Mrs. Henderson, don’t squeeze them or they’ll get infected. Bye-bye now. (hangs up – arranges some papers) Ygor! Come here!

Ygor Goldblat, a twisted Quasimodo-like hunchback dressed in a conservative pin-stripe suit, shuffles in.

Ygor: Yes, master?

Dr. Frankenstein: Type a letter! And be quick about it!

Ygor: Yes, master.

Dr. Frankenstein: Idiot! I’ve told you a thousand times! It’s Doctor Frankenstein! Now get to it!

Ygor: Yes, yes Doctor!

Ygor shambles across the office and sits at the typewriter, feeds in a piece of paper, then types as Frankenstein dictates.

Dr. Frankenstein: Dear Amenhotep-Ra, comma, the Radiant, comma, crocodile, big eye, two serpents over a hand, dash. In reference to your inquiry of the seventeenth I regret—

Ygor: Please, master, no I mean doctor, it’s too fast. I have no fingers on this hand (holding up his left hand, its fingers webbed together) – it’s for the space bar only.

Dr. Frankenstein: Space bar? Ah, that reminds me, send Lord Zoltan of planet Quintax VI a bottle of pink Chablis from my private reserve. It’s his son’s bar mitzvah—

Ygor: He’s so touchy.

Dr. Frankenstein: Can’t have him riling up the zombies again. What is he, on Outer Space Plan number 37 by now? God, what a loser. Now, keep up, or it’s the lash for you!

Ygor: Yes, master doctor.

Dr. Frankenstein: Where was I?

Ygor: “…inquiry of the seventeenth, I regret—”

Dr. Frankenstein: —I regret that botox could do little for your condition, period. I recommend intensive massage with wood polish, and pickling yourself in a tincture of tanis leaves, period. Please do be aware that this office specializes in plastic surgery, not … furniture restoration— (laughs maniacally)

Ygor: ( typing) “—ha ha ha ha ha.”

Dr. Frankenstein: No, idiot, don’t— Ach! I’d’ve fired you years ago if it weren’t for the Bavarian-American’s with Hunchback Disabilities Affirmative Action Act. Now, strike the laugh.

Ygor: Yes, yes – no laughing.

Dr. Frankenstein: And strike that furniture crack too. After all he was Pharaoh 3000 years ago, and still has powerful Republican connections.

Ygor: (bridling at the political jibe) Yes, Doctor Frankenstein.

Dr. Frankenstein: God, these people. What am I, a taxidermist? (whiny voice) ‘Oh Doctor Frankenstein, my skin has turned to crepe paper – how do I hold in my spleen?’

Ygor: Elmer’s Glue?

They laugh.

Dr. Frankenstein: Sign it, “Yours very truly, Herr Doktor Professor Victor Wolenzcroft von Frankenstein.”

There is a groaning noise off stage, and Jojo Frankenstein lurches enormously in, wearing bunny p.j.’s – a doll in a pink pinafore is in one hand and a look of consternation haunts his eyes.

Jojo: Gaaarraahh!

Dr. Frankenstein: Jojo, it’s past your bed time.

Jojo: Urrrgh!

Dr. Frankenstein: Oh, you poor baby. A nightmare.

Jojo: Aaarrggh!

Dr. Frankenstein: Well, sweetie, come tell me all about it.

The Doctor motions, and Jojo comes and perches on his lap.

Jojo: Oorraagh, aaahhnngg, hurrrruaah.

Dr. Frankenstein: Oh, no! A monster?

Jojo: Hunngggh!

Dr. Frankenstein: Bulging red eyeballs? Ooo, how frightening! But you know there are no monsters. You be papa’s brave little man and go back to bed, Jojo. Love you, sugar plum.

Jojo is comforted, starts to leave, comes back for a kiss, starts to leave, pauses.

Jojo: Aaggrrah?

Dr. Frankenstein: Alright, honey boy, but you have to be quiet – papa is working.

Jojo busies himself playing with his dolly.

Dr. Frankenstein: Ygor! Did you get me that fresh brain I wanted?

Ygor: No, doctor master.

Jojo: (anguished) Graaahaah!

Dr. Frankenstein: No, no, sweetie, it’s not for you – your brain is perfect. I love your genius brain. Ygor! – Get it. A fresh one-- and make sure it’s not criminally insane this time. I swear to god – how many evil brains are there?

Ygor: But they’re on sale.

Dr. Frankenstein: What, at Brain Barn? How hopeless are you? I swear to god I think they’re selling monkey brains. That would explain the public masturbating. Go to The Cerebrum-Porium. And pick up some fresh blood – not O positive, for once. And eight pounds of liver. Hurry, before they close.

Ygor: Yes, master. Sorry master.

Dr. Frankenstein: Doctor! Doctor, idiot!

Ygor: Yes, Doctor.

A knock at the door.

Dr. Frankenstein: Get the door, and for god’s sake, make an effort!

Ygor slouches to the door and opens it. Judy Frankenstein enters – an aging matron, mid-town yentl. Jojo reacts to her voice with exaggerated joy, clapping and hopping with delight.

Judy: Oh Ygor, how are you! You’re looking well.

Ygor: Thank you, Mrs. Frankenstein.

Judy: And Lorain and the twins? She’s not still shpilkes about her lycanthropy, poor thing?

Ygor: Such is life, Mrs. Frankenstein.

Judy: It should happen to a dog. Oh!

Ygor: Tush. So many worse things – heart worm, mange—

Judy: So true, so true. Well it’s only three nights a month – think of it as PMS.

Ygor: She’s stopped drinking from the toilet. And we race her at the track – pick up some extra cash. Pays for the electrolysis.

Judy: So it evens out, what more can you hope. So my son the doctor is here?

Ygor: Come, please, he’s right here. Good evening, Mrs. Frankenstein. (exits)

Judy: Give my love. (to Dr. F.) Ach! There he is. Come here, bubee, kiss your mother.

Dr. Frankenstein: Mama, what’re you doing here? I’ve got a NARAL fund-raiser—

Judy: This is how you say hello? Well, my little luftmentsh, I couldn’t wait. A baby bird told me there’s going to be a wedding?

Dr. Frankenstein: Jojo, it’s time for bed – I’ll tuck you in, in a bit. Kiss meemoosh goodnight and off you go.

Jojo rushes to Judy, gives her a monstrous hug, and exits reluctantly. Judy is clearly not infatuated with Jojo.

Judy: (to Dr. F.) A wedding, and you don’t even tell your own mother?

Dr. Frankenstein: Um, well—

Judy: I have to hear it from some shmendrek on the street? Ach, never mind. So who is she? Not that Lefkowitz girl I hope to god.

Dr. Frankenstein: No. Ma—

Judy: Thank god! What a chaza! So who? Who’s going to fill my heart with nakhes at long last now I’m nearly dead with age and worry?

Dr. Frankenstein: Um, mama, it’s not a girl.

Judy: So what, an old lady? Mrs. Lublinsky maybe? – already she’s gone through four husbands.

Dr. Frankenstein: No. Mama, remember when I was a foreign exchange student—

Judy: Oy, don’t remind me. You were young, you made a mistake, it’s in the past.

Dr. Frankenstein: No mama, it’s who I am. I’m gay, mama!

Judy: You were confused, it happens.

Dr. Frankenstein: Mama! Just love me for who I am! I’m gay.

Judy: “Gay” – what is this “gay”? Why can’t you just marry a nice girl, like your brother Herschel? You always have to be different. What kind of a man makes a man for himself out of dead body parts that he finds god knows where like a ganef. Like some traifnik, it’s unclean, it’s unnatural. And that woman you made? No wonder you’re a gay if you think that’s what a woman looks like. You didn’t even give her a k’nish!

Dr. Frankenstein: She wasn’t for me, mama, she was for Jojo.

Judy: Well you gave him a groisser schlong you could beat a carpet with. I should know – I changed enough his gigantic diapers. My god, he’s a bulvan!

Dr. Frankenstein: Yeah, whatever, I get it already.

Judy: So this is what you like? It’s sick, it’s perverted. Oh god, I don’t even want to think about it!

Dr. Frankenstein: I didn’t even want you to know, mama. I know how you are. I just wish you could be happy for me, but even if you can’t, we’re flying to Boston, and we’re honeymooning in South Beach because he loves the nightlife there and we’re going to be happy together, and that’s that, period.

Judy: Oh, a dagger, it’s a dagger in my heart! So who? That fremder? You can’t even be with your own people? My god, it’s what I feared most, that shaigitz faigelah.

Dr. Frankenstein: Ma, I’m not gonna have you talking like that! He’ll hear—

Judy: So he’s got his claws in you—

Dr. Frankenstein: I felt this way a long time before I met him.

Judy: Gevald! So bitter! That paskudnik! A little orthodontia wouldn’t hurt in his fat pisk.

Dr. Frankenstein: Farmach dos moyl! I love him, mama, and he’s the man I’m going to marry and that’s that! Period.

Judy: I should curl up and die. It’s too much. First Herschel has his terrible accident and loses his baitsim and can’t have children, and now this.

Dr. Frankenstein: I offered to get him a new pair.

Judy: Please! From who? Some schlamazl? You couldn’t give your mama a grandchild of her own? I’ll just dry up like an old termite mound, because that’s what I am alone in my old age without grandchildren!

Dr. Frankenstein: I’ll make one for you, mama, I’ll make one. I’m just now getting a new brain.

Judy: God no! Another golem is too much to bear! How glad I am your poor father isn’t here to see this may he rest in peace. Oh, it’s too much, too much! I can’t go on! You – you’re – you are dead, dead to me! And I’ll die alone in the dark and the cold. (exits hysterically)

A few moments pass while Doctor Frankenstein moves about in agitation, then the phone rings – he answers.

Dr. Frankenstein: Yes? (beat) No Mrs. Henderson, I told you already just keep applying the ointment. (beat) Well save me a sample. Now you must please excuse me but I’m very busy. Good night. (hangs up)

From another room, a gay Bela Lugosi voice:

Dracula: (seductively) Oh Victor, I’m waiting for you. Come, my hot monster-maker boi, come to me and tickle your little impaler! I want to s— (suck your [blood]—)

Dr. Frankenstein: Coming already, Vlad, I’m coming!

End

Civility

Why All Republicans are All Totally Evil

Click here. A Helmut Crisp Production.


J

Clam Bake!

Two men are at the laundromat, Clarence folding clothes at the drier, the Doctor at a washer.

Clarence: Cool fedora.

Doctor: That means so much to me.

Clarence: Here, wanna Slim Jim?

Doctor: I have just eaten a slim Jim. Quite messy, actually.

Clarence: Yeah, man, I feel ya. All I had clean was this swimming suit and my girl friend’s tee shirt. Barbie in Paris – pretty lame, huh?

Doctor: Love the suit.

Clarence: Good thing it’s so late, huh? Hardly anyone around. Guess I look pretty faggy.

Doctor: Delicious.

Clarence: Yeah, well, I spotted up my last pair of clean pants with meat sauce, so here I am, lookin’ like Daisy Duke.

Doctor: I commiserate. I too have had difficulty with meat sauce. Even now I have some towels with troublesome protein stains.

Clarence: Ha ha. I know what you’ve been doin’, huh?

Doctor: You thrill me with your perspicacity. Allow me to reciprocate. (sniffs) You wear Brut aftershave, and you use Gold Bond Foot Power. (sniffing) You have ejaculated today. (sniffing) Twice. With — (sniffing) — a French woman. She bathed Tuesday last.

Clarence: She’s Belgian.

Doctor: That is your first lie to me. How sad.

Clarence: (beat) Sure was hot today. Great beach weather though. I just got back from Zuma. Man, caught some gnarly tubes.

Doctor: No no, this stupid attempt is oafish and bores me. It won’t do. At all.

Clarence: Yeah, well, that’s cool, but nice weather though, right?

Doctor: A girl scout once commended the weather to me, trying to sell me her macaroons. I told her it was a very bad day and ate all her Caramel deLite cookies. (sluuurp)

Clarence: Right. Whatever, dude. So where you from? You English or somethin’ gay like that?

Doctor: No no, do you think you could have me sing to that paltry little jingle? But I do bet you just loooove the beach, the balmy weather, the hot chicks admiring your waxed chest and your bulging Speedos. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay on Scabies Island.

Clarence: Hey dude, chill.

Doctor: You’re a tough one, aren’t you. Very well, I will “chill” – if you tell me your worst memory of childhood.

Clarence: Fuck that, man.

Doctor: Yes, of course, you would be afraid.

Clarence: I ain’t afraid of nothin’, dude.

Doctor: No, not at all, except – vulnerability.

Clarence: Sssss. (beat) It was probably when my pet died.

Doctor: “Pet.” That is an odd way to say it. And what was the little boy’s “pet”?

Clarence: I wasn’t a little boy. I was seventeen. (looks down)

Doctor: I don’t imagine the answer is in those spandex trunks, Clarence.

Clarence: Anyway, that’s it.

Doctor: No, that’s not it. Tell it all.

Clarence: (beat) So I was into marine biology, OK? And I had a tank, like a tide pool – you know, sea urchins, sand dollars, crabs—

Doctor: Sounds really rad.

Clarence: And I really liked them, you know? But then one day I came home and one of them, my favorite, was missing.

Doctor: One of your pieces of coral was missing? How moving.

Clarence: No! It was worse! Shut up! I don’t want to talk about it anymore!

Doctor: But one of your crustaceans had disappeared. You still do love the beach, don’t you, Clarence. The tugging of the tide, sand between your toes, the guitar strumming of an evening, the fire cracking, embers flying into the effervescent sky – weenies roasting, clams abaking. Ah— They were having a clam bake, your little teeny-bopper prankster friends.

Clarence: (hysterical) Yes! Yes! And there he was! It was Freckles, my favorite clam! There, on my plate, dead, smothered in spicy shrimp sauce! (weeping) Oh, the steam – rising from the jelly of his flesh – the steam, the horrible steam —

Doctor: You still wake up sometimes, don't you Clarence? Wake up in the dark, with the terrifying memory of your dear oyster Freckles, his spotted little half-shell open to you like a pleading hand?

Clarence: (weeping silently)

Doctor: And do you think if you can get out those spots at the laundromat, those horrid freckle-like meat spots now staining your dungarees, your polychromatic FUBU leggings, that you won’t wake up in the dark, ever again, to that terrible vision? Do you?

Clarence: Yes! No! I don’t know!

Doctor: (beat, then a shuddering breath) Thank you, Clarence. That was very – sweet. I do prefer savoury, but—

Clarence: (beat) Yeah. (beat) Anyways, I – I gotta go get some Snuggles.

Doctor: And do buy some soap for your malodorous French doxy.

Clarence: Fuck you, dude.

Doctor: But tell me, before you go. After all these years, in the deep of the night as you lay abed, now, in your memory, Clarence, in your dreams, have the clams stopped steaming?

Clarence: You are one insensitive dick. Freak.

End

Op Ed

ISAIAH 14:14

Four people are gathered about a conference table. Jack Haytch comes into the room, clearly late, and sits at the extreme end of the table.

Jack Haytch: So I see you were waiting for me. That’s as it should be. Now we can get started.

Sally: We’re waiting for Doug.

Jack Haytch: Worst boss ever. Little Doggie's late again, huh. How inconsiderate. Is he a Jew?

Bob: You were just late yourself.

Clarence: It happens.

Jack Haytch: Well yes, “it happens” – nobody said “it” doesn’t “happen.” But golly, thanks so much for that helpful clarification, Clare. If you have any other tasty morsels from the vast picnic basket of your life’s wisdom, just do feel free to share it with us all. Like maybe, “Surfin's tubular.” Jack Haytch is so glad you’re here to share your insight with these poor stupid plebes.

Clarence: That’s not really what I—

Jack Haytch: Yeah, right. Whatever.

Bob: (to Clarence) I think Jack Haytch ought to tone it down a little, don’t you?

Jack Haytch: I’m right here, you know.

Bob: You make that very obvious.

Jack Haytch: For a lefty you’re awfully judgmental.

Bob: I’m not a “lefty.”

Sally: I was almost late – traffic was really bad.

Jack Haytch: (to Bob) No, wrong, I’ll tell you what you are, pinko, and you’ll like it, see?

Bob: Just watch your mouth.

Jack Haytch: Or what, tough guy? – you’ll give me a hard look? I’m trembling. Hey, look, everyone, I’m quaking with terror because Bob might raise his voice.

Mike: (to Bob) Never mind him – he gets like this sometimes. There was this one conference (chuckles and shakes his head) – it was like Fellini on crystal meth.

Jack Haytch: Well, thanks, Michelle, but next time I need to be defended by a panty-waist, I’ll call France. You know, that place you and your twin Michael Moore love so much? (to all) Moore's the reason they still make horse-whips. That, (to Bob) and for your sexual fantasies.

Bob: Listen, princess, I don’t know what your problem is, but you’d better learn some manners, quick.

Jack Haytch: Again with the threats.

Bob: (to the group) What do you do with someone like this?

Jack Haytch: Did you speak? Did you squeak? S-Q-U-…

Clarence: You know, dude, you make it kind of hard to get along, sometimes. Not everyone’s against you.

Jack Haytch: You’re very wise.

Sally: If you’d give people a chance—

Jack Haytch: Gee, thanks for the homily, Mother Superior. But it’s very hard, you see, very difficult for someone like me to live in this ant hill.

Clarence: A little modesty—

Jack Haytch: The only thing worse than false modesty is unmerited false modesty.

Clarence: I’m sure that made sense, to you.

Jack Haytch: Are you still here, old chap, old pip, old queen? Go back to your sand dune, you weedy gitt.

All: (uncomfortable silence)

Mike: That’s uncalled for, whatever it means.

Jack Haytch: What, not sensitive enough for you, Butch? Can I help it if I’m so much smarter than you morons? Would you like to know what my I.Q. is?

All: No.

Jack Haytch: How about my penis? It’s also quite phenomenal.

Clarence: Yeah, Jack Haytch, that’s really mature.

Bob: No, let’s all think about Jack Haytch’s weener. (instantly) I’m done.

Jack Haytch: You only said that because I thought of it for you.

All: (silence)

Mike: What?

Jack Haytch: I dreamed it, that line – this is a dream.

All: (uncomprehending silence)

Jack Haytch: We’re sitting here in a dream, that I'm having.

Clarence: Wow, dude, I’ve heard of delusions of grandeur… So you go around thinking that everyone else is just some sort of imaginary character in your dreams?

Sally: That’s very disturbing

Bob: You’re really a freak, dude.

Jack Haytch: Well, how else do you explain that I get all the good lines?

Mike: You think what you’ve been saying is clever?

Jack Haytch: (beat) Very.

Sally: That’s kind of sad.

Jack Haytch: Save your sympathy for when Hallmark calls.

Bob: (mocking) Was that clever too?

Jack Haytch: You people make me sick.

Clarence: (quietly) Just relax, Jack Haytch.

Jack Haytch: Screw you.

It’s clear that Jack Haytch doesn’t want to play anymore.

Mike: (to Clarence) So did you get that fax I sent?

Doug the boss enters.

Pat: Yeah, thanks -- we're reworking it now.

Jack Haytch: (to Doug) Oh, hi Doug. Oh, Clarence here was bad-mouthing you. He said you were unprofessional but I defended you.

End

Born the First Sunday of Last Month

In the Garden of Eden.

Adam squats, trying to start a fire with a stone. Eve stands watching, carrying a basket.

Adam: I don’t know what it’s going to be, but I’ll call it “fire.” Or “music.”

Eve: Gosh, Adam, you’re so smart.

Adam: Yes, I know.

Eve jogs the basket.

Eve: Um, what’s this called again?

Adam: I told you yesterday, Eve. It’s a “basket.” Pay attention. You’re over a month old already. Act it, will you?

Eve: Well pardon me, Mr. All-Superior-Acting.

Adam: Let’s not get into this again, okay?

Eve: And you don’t have to be so grumpy.

Adam: Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m so busy – do you know how many animals I haven’t named yet? I’m just now getting to the Darwin finches.

Eve: Well, I – I have stuff on my mind too, you know.

Adam: Something small, I expect.

Eve: Ha ha. So I went for a walk today? Oh, here, have some.

She holds out a piece of fruit from the basket. Adam takes it and eats.

Eve (cont’d): Anyway, I was admiring myself in a puddle? – thinking about how pretty I am and stuff, and how long and shiny my hair is, and my lovely bosoms, and how hot it is to be naked all the time and stuff.

Adam: “Naked?” What – what do you mean, “naked?”

Eve: You know.

Adam: No, no I don’t know.

Eve: You know, like with your thing, there. (pointing)

Adam: (looking down) What thing?

Eve: You know, your little thing.

Adam: What “little thing.”

Eve: You know. Your – your dormouse.

Adam: What in creation are you talking about?

Eve: Your little pink serpent there.

Adam: Serpent? What about the serpent? I told you to stay away from him.

Eve: Oh, that reminds me! So I was talking to the serpent?

Adam: What?! You were talking to the serpent? I expressly told you never to talk to him!

Eve: Oh you grouchy. What’s the big deal?

Adam: Eve. Eve. Do you, do you remember Tuesday, when the salamander told you to eat mud?

Eve: No.

Adam: Do you remember when that trilobite told you to see how many lima beans you could stuff up your nose?

Eve: Um – sort of, I guess.

Adam: Yeah, I guess, sort of.

Eve: Well, if you weren’t always so busy, always running around naming things and stuff, I wouldn’t have to talk to all these icky slimy things…

Adam: Look, I’ve got things to do – important things, alright?

Eve: You know, you’re only five weeks older than me.

Adam: “Only?” I’m twice your age.

Eve: Well that’s not so much.

Adam: Well, I was married to Lilith, you know. That’s a lot!

Eve: Will you please stop harping about your ex? Anyway, I wouldn’t go around bragging about being married to a demon. (making a scary demon-face)

Adam: Whatever. The point is, if you get into that much trouble when you listen to invertebrates... (pauses meaningfully) So that’s why I told you not to talk to, oh, say, the SERPENT!

Eve: Oh, that reminds me! So I was talking to the serpent? And I ate this new fruit? It was really good!

Adam: (beat) What – what “new fruit”?

Eve: You know, silly.

Adam: There are no new fruits. We’ve had them all. We’ve had every fruit there is, in every combination – fruit salad, fruit bouillabaisse, tofu fruit—

Eve: You know. The one with the red? It has seeds.

Adam: What are you saying?

Eve: Gee, it was really yummy! Really juicy and sweet. You just had some.

Adam: (slowly) Eve, are you trying to tell me you ate of the forbidden tree? And you gave it to me?

Eve: Huh?

Adam: The tree, the tree, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Eve: What?

Adam: The one in the middle of the garden! The one I expressly told you never to eat from!

Eve: Oh, yeah, that’s the one.

Adam: You did?! After I expressly, I, I—

Eve: I forgot. And he said – the serpent said just go ahead.

Adam: What?! You ate it because the serpent said to? After I expressly told you not to? Not to talk to him, and not to eat that fruit?

Eve: What’s the big deal?

Adam: What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal? Um, uh, oh, how about death? How about entropy and absolute zero and Black Holes and the Big Crunch? How about hell, and death and disease and suffering and death and hell? How, how, how ’bout, how ’bout—

Eve: Say it don’t spray it.

Adam lapses into stunned silence.

Eve (cont’d): What’s the big deal. It was yummy, wasn’t it?

Adam: (silence)

Eve: I’m gonna call it the “grumpy-man fruit.”

Adam: (dully) No, Eve. I’m the one who names things. Fudge. We’re gonna have to hide from God now. And I’ll never hear the end of this from Lilith.


End

Decline & Fall

Ancient Rome:

Septumus and Interruptus are walking in the market place when they encounter Pedophilius.

Interruptus: Ave, Pedophilius.

Pedophilius: Ave, Interuptus. My, if it isn’t Septumus – deviated Septumus.

Septumus: Yeah, Pedophilius, that was funny, the first X-V-I times you said it. Still scrubbing up bull guts at the Taurobolia?

Pedophilius: I’m so over that. Mithra’s a dick. I’m into Cupid now, all the way! A cultus with a naked boy as its demiurge? – where do I sign!?!

Interruptus: Yeah, I heard you got a gig as raisin-peeler for Emperor Nero’s favorite catamite?

Pedophilius: And who did I sleep with to get that job? Don’t ask! But it was Nero.

Interruptus: They say he’s a wife to every man, and a husband to every monkey.

Pedophilius: Deliciously decadent. What a time to be alive. Oh, that reminds me. I heard the funniest joke in the slave market. Have I told it?

Septumus: Is it funny?

Pedophilius: Ever so.

Septumus: Then you haven’t told it.

Interruptus: Tell it.

Pedophilius: How many Neros does it take to burn a Christian?

Septumus: I’ve heard this one.

Interruptus: I don't know. How many Neros does it take to burn up a Christian?

Pedophilius: Just one, but he has to burn down Rome to do it. (laughs)

Septumus: That’s in very poor taste. My brother Hippopotamus was crucified as a Christian last Saturnalia.

Pedophilius: You’re really the life of the orgy, aren’t you.

Interuptus: So Pedophilius, I saw you at the slave market.

Pedophilius: I heard you bought a lovely blond slave boy. I was going to buy him for myself, but I didn’t get there in time.

Interruptus: I’m going to train him to turn spokes for chariot wheels. Deft fingers, those Germanians.

Pedophilius: Ooo, I’ll say! Deft tongues, too, if you know what I mean.

Septumus: No chance of anyone not knowing what you mean, Pedophilius. If Augustus were still emperor, you wouldn’t be quite so loud in your enthusiasm.

Pedophilius: You – you republicans. Get with the times, already—it’s the First Century AD, for gods’s sake! You’re so phalanx! It’s the age of Nero, not st-st- stammering Cl-cl-claudius – that idiot. What kind of an emperor can’t even speak proper Latin? Did you hear? He said strategerius instead of strategius! Moronicus!

Interruptus: I hate to interrupt your fascinating lyceum, boys, but politics bores me. I gotta go train my slave boy.

Pedophilius: Oh those ice-backs, how can you work with them? They’re so vulgar. I couldn’t stand them if not for their gigantic peni.

Septumus: You’re talking too much now.

Pedophilius: And they’re lazy.

Interruptus: That’s nothing a good flogging won’t cure.

Pedophilius: Oh, that’s so sexy!

Interruptus: I gotta admit I’m sick of hearing that ridiculous language – if it is a language. (makes gargling noises) Sounds like someone drowning in vomit…

Pedophilius: I did that once. Fortunately a big fat eunuch was sitting on me at the time and—

Interruptus: …but they work cheap. And they’re great for battling hyenas in the arena.

Septumus: I disapprove of blood sports on humanitarian grounds.

Pedophilius: Yeah, whatever, Sanctimonious. Anyway, don’t get me wrong – they’re thick as mud, but they know their place – most of them. Gotta have someone to pull up garlic on the latifundia.

Interruptus: Did you see Gothicus last Marsday? He only had a wood sword, and he killed two crocodiles and a bunch of buzzards. And a really fat hog. And twenty-five babies. Awesome!

Pedophilius: Oh, they have their uses. The Sodomatorium needs big hairy blond brutes just as much as big savage dusky Nubians, by Ganymede. More even, to my tastes. A little cinnamon, a little more vanilla… Mama mia! – that’s a spicy meatball!

Septumus: They come for the opportunity, not to get eaten in the circus.

Interruptus: You’re kind of a softy, aren’t you. They’re here illegal, and if they’re made slaves, well they shouldn’t have snuck across the frontier.

Pedophilius: Yeah, they’re lucky to be here at all, and if they get to lose some of their rustic retro-sexuality, so much the better – for me.

Septumus: You’re everything that’s wrong with Rome, Pedophilius. I heard you had Galen’s grandfather install a hatch in your belly so you could gorge yourself without stopping to puke.

Pedophilius: That’s for me to know and you to be jealous about.

Septumus: Coitus you.

Pedophilius: Only if we coitus Interruptus too – bac-chan-al, bac-chan-al! What, no? You’re too old, anyway. And I like ’em blond, weren’t you listening?

Septumus: Ya know, every empire gets invaded by barbarians, and they all fall. I suppose the same’ll happen to us. But do we need to become so utterly depraved?

Pedophilius: You’re so BC. You should start a religion.

Septumus: If I did, it would have a hell, and you’d be in it.

Pedophilius: Intolerant. Oh, there’s my new boyfriend. (waving) Yoo-hoo! Beowulf!

He runs off.

Interruptus: I give us another 400 years, tops.

Septumus: Optimisticus.


End


_____________

Sometimes, I just giggle to myself.

I'm not bad, I'm funny! Look here.

J

THE THREE WISE THINGS I KNOW I’M WISE FOR KNOWING

I’m wise because I know
     it hurts so much
     when pets die
to prepare us for the loss of
     real people, who matter.

I’m wise for knowing
     the really painful
     thing about suffering
is the fear that it will
     never end.

I’m wise because I know
     from careful observation
     that I’m a fool,
and it’s wise to know
     true things.

_____

Waiting for the Dane

Personae Dramitis:

Horatio — Hamlet’s friend
Laertes — not Hamlet’s friend
Hamlet — the Prince of Denmark

Standing side by side on a rocky promontory, Laertes and Horatio face out to sea, a forlorn wind tugging at their cloaks. The sky is grey and threatens snow. Occasional thunder mutters on the horizon.

Laertes: What? Horatio! Did you say something?

Horatio: I didn’t say anything.

Laertes: You did.

Horatio: Did I?

Laertes: I think so.

Horatio: Aren’t you sure?

Laertes: Sure? Who can be sure of anything. I think so.

Horatio: You think so, therefore you might be.

Laertes: What?

Horatio: Pardon?

Laertes: I said “what.”

Horatio: Did you?

Laertes: Did I what?

Horatio: God.

Laertes: Isn’t he coming?

Horatio: God?

Laertes: Hamlet. He’d better, Horatio. We have business. About my sister. Poor Ophelia. He’s not treating her right.

Horatio: Yeah? How?

Laertes: Just never you mind. (sighs, and sits)

Horatio: It’s cold. It’s going to snow.

Laertes: (sighs) I had a dream last night.

Horatio: Nothing is more boring than other people’s dreams. (beat) What was it?

Laertes: I drank a lot of water, so I had an erection.

Horatio: As dreams go, that’s pretty average.

Laertes: That wasn’t the dream.

Horatio: (dryly) Oh.

Laertes: I’m not going to tell it now.

Horatio: I suppose it was a sex dream.

Laertes: Depends what you mean by “sex.” And my erections aren’t “average.”

Horatio: (sigh) Please.

Laertes: It’s been too long.

Horatio: What? Sex?

Laertes: Hamlet. Looks like your chum isn’t coming.

Horatio: He said he’d be here. This is where he’s supposed to be.

Laertes: (defensively) I know, I was there.

Horatio: No need to be defensive.

Laertes: I’m not being defensive.

Horatio: Okay. Whatever. Just sounded defensive to me.

Laertes: Well it wasn’t.

Horatio: I didn’t say it was.

Laertes: I didn’t say you did. (sigh)

Horatio: He’s not coming.

Laertes: Have you seen how he’s been acting? “To a nunnery go!” What’s that supposed to mean – what’s he saying? – (emphatic) to my sister.

Horatio: “There’s nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so.”

Laertes: Yeah, right. (beat) He’s not coming.

Hamlet approaches with exaggerated stealth from behind.

Horatio: (sits next to Laertes) He wouldn’t do that to me.

Laertes: Wouldn’t he? Did you see the absolute spectacle he made of himself during the play?

Horatio: What does he want with us?

Laertes: I hope he doesn’t come.

Hamlet: Boo!

He laughs inanely as they leap to their feet.

Hamlet (cont’d): Hi gang! It’s me! Hamlet! Remember me? Hamlet? Your friend? Hi Horatio! You’re my friend! (not so friendly) Hello, Laertes. Remember me?

Horatio: Well met, fair prince. The glow of happier days still brightly lights the halls of memory. How fares my lord this day?

Hamlet: Oh! I had a really neat day! Did you? I did! I really dug my cool day!

Laertes: Shadows cast no more that leaden pall across thy merriment?

Hamlet: Huh?

Laertes (deep breath):
Art thou relieved the heft of Terra’s sphere?
An’ doth the solstice breath of death delay
No more within thine heart? – ’tis breezed away
To settle cold about old Hamlet’s bier?

Hamlet: What? Oh, Horatio! Remember when I saw that ghost? (ghostly) Oooo! That was spooky and really weird, right?

Horatio (clearing throat):
It was a grave and horrid sight, m’lord,
That plucked the lyred heart, its every chord,
In melancholic tunes. Nor all the Ocean Sea
Can compass—

Hamlet: (gasp!) I bought a blue doublet today! It’s really cool and stuff! It’s blue! See? It has many frills! And pleats too! With yellow laces that have tassels. See? Oh! Look at my chest hair! It’s blond and curly, but very pretty. Like tassels! Do you like my new blue doublet?

Snow starts falling.

Horatio: Aye, m’lord. ’Twould pale the tropic azure seas—

Hamlet: And I snuck up on you! And I said “boo” and you were ascared! Haha!!!

Horatio:
Rejoice the gelid grip of grief no more
Doth grasp away thy spirit’s ease, like sore
Unfixéd winds that strew out icy ash.
The breathless snow—

Hamlet: You rhyme good, Horatio! Hurray Horatio! Haha! Listen! (shouting)
My name is Hamlet!
I like to eat breakfast pancakes!
I am tall!
I like to see walls!
I like girls!
Everywhere in the world!
I like snow!
When it tickles my nose!
See? Did you hear my good rhymes too? You’re not the only one who can rhyme good, you know.

Laertes:
The very sky doth crumble an’ that joy
In you be filled, and such a wind will – will— (peters out)

Horatio:
—such a wind will toy
With sullen Hades’ fire, and soar to damp
Proud Etna’s flames, and sore contend the sun!
The torrid blast of southern climes—

Hamlet: Ophelia thinks I’m hot! I made out with her!

Laertes:
My sister’s gentle soul is like the muted morn,
Veiled in gray—

Hamlet: I think she’s hot too. I hope she’s not mad about Polonius, though. Polonius is her father. And your father too, Laertes! She’s your sister. Should I tell her? That she’s hot?

Horatio: Nay, m’lord – ’twould not be—

Laertes: What? What about my father?

Hamlet: (pointing) Look at that cloud! It looks like a bird, a hawk! Hawks eat mice, you know. Haha! That reminds me! “A mouse! A mouse!” I – I, um, exclaimed to my mother Queen Gertrude. And then I stabbed it! But it wasn’t a mouse at all! It was Polonius! Isn’t that funny? Haha! (solemnly) And weird too? (pointing) Oh, look! My father’s ghost! Yoo hoo!

Hamlet waves, then runs off toward the apparition.

Laertes: (shocked) What?

Horatio: That was pointless. (beat) He rhymed “Hamlet” with “pancakes”. (beat) That “crumbling sky” line of yours was pretty good. You should write it down.

Laertes: Did you hear what he said about stabbing my father?

Horatio: Huh? No. I’m cold.


END

____________


For after a long day's toil in the fields of the Lord, such refreshement as this is sweet nectar.

What? It's "derivative?" I -- I don't know what you're talking about.


J

WHAT KNOWS THE MOLE

Somebody wrote me a compliment that wasn't effusive enough. When you're me, that's pretty offensive. So I wrote the following brief response:


~~~~~

Damned with faint praise —
         left handed, half-hearted,
Tepid and bland — as if I move to raise
         Just now myself, just now have started
Vaguely wending down too dull, too flat a way —
         Myself possessing only that mere
And all-too-common share of (dare we say?)
         Talent. This incomplete compliment, here
So glibly handed down....
                                  What says the crow
         Of skylark song? — the hacking daw, its parching
Voice of grating rock. What thinks the toad
         Of phosphorescent glory, of dolphins’ arching
Grace, the spray of sun-dripped dew? What dreams the troll,
         Dank and matted monster, reviled thing,
Loathsome freak of filth? What knows the mole
         Of soaring heights, of eagles’ breadth of wing,
Of piercing Heaven’s peerless, pearled bowl,
         Of glory rising up from hearts that sing?


Does it somewhat please him? Is it “quite
         Amusing” and knit, oh, “rather well. . .
Considering”? This?
                              This? — of power, might? —
         So fierce and terrible, so dire, fell,
So potent, awesome, great and grand? — which grinds
         The hills and blasts like thunder down to hell? —
That shimmers, scintillates, benumbs and blinds
         And burns like radiation every cell,
Every deepest part, and tears and haunts the mind
         So utterly that ever after sight
Is shades of gray and color has no hue
         And taste has lost its savour — dull, trite,
Fossilized, entropic, cold and untrue,
         And why? Why?
                               You could have sipped from out the stream
Of genius, its waters’ crystal blue
         Kindly offered from my hand, that you might dream
Along with me. I should have seen, and known —
         So hopeless, useless, dreams. You’ve spilled your share
Into the dust (now mud) — upon the stones
         (So shiny!). What remains? Unrecognized despair.

_____


I remain, again,

Your Very Bloated Monster

A Fable

     A hunter pursued a wounded hart into the ruins of an ancient city. Hot on the trail, the man rounded a corner of the antique streets and found himself confronted by a griffin. Neither were prepared to fight, but both were too proud to surrender the hapless quarry.
     “Depart, dumb beast,” shouted the hunter, “lest I slay thee.”
     “As for dumb, O Hunter," replied the griffin, speaking the tongue of man, “thou canst hear thine error. And if thou wouldst take my life, thou art more than I take thee for.”
     The hunter, a practical man, wasted no worry on the griffin's power of speech, and returned, “Thou say thou takest me, but thy beak lacks the point of thy words. Fly!”
     “Babbler,” quoth the griffin, “thine only point is the tongue in thy mouth.”
     “Mine arrow will make my point, in thine heart. Save thy breath for flight.”
     “So many words, thou upright pig. But the bones of thy father are dry in my nest.”
     “And the hide of thy dame swaddles my babe.
     “The babes of men lay for nine seasons in their own filth.
     “And griffins are born in feces.”
     “But they are born griffins.”
     “Look about thee, beast. Even these ancient walls bespeak my power over thee.” And so it was, for cut into the stone was the image of a mighty hero, strangling a griffin.
     The griffin sneered in response. “If griffins carved in stone, thou wouldst see men under their talons.”
     “But griffins cannot carve stone.”
     “No, rather thy flesh.”
     “Yet thy blood this day shall flow.”
     “Not so freely as thy boasts.”
     “The wind blows from thy direction.”
     And so they contended, each winning his point, neither losing ground. And as the two contended, the hart covered ground, too.

The Funniest Story

Move here.


J

Hacked?!

What the hell is this! "Purgatorio"? How'd that get on my site, my wonderful site? Who's this "Helmut" dude, anyhow? I've been hacked?! Why, why would somebody do something like this. It doesn't make sense. It's insane! And he's, I don't know, it's like some sort of glitch. I can't get it off, can't erase it. I've tried to dump the whole thing and re-load it -- however the computer geeks say it -- but it's like burned into my computer or something. Man! OK, dude, I get my hands on you, you're dead! -- hear me? Dead! I'm doing a search on you right now! Some queen named "Helmut" who wrote some gay book called Purgatorium. Let's see ... Mae West died November of 1980 -- dude, you're, like, ancient -- so some faggy disco novel in the '70s. Let's see ... here's Purge and Void: living the death of IBS, by Helena Frod ... no, that's not it. Prick Up Your Ears, by Schmu Razowski ... sounds like something you'd write, Powder Puff. Ah! Here it is. Purgatorio, by Helmut Crisp. Right. OK, Bisquick, I'm closing in. Oh, will you look at this:

"Mr. Crisp's freshman effort embodies, zombie-like, the unspeakably, indeed, the unreadably worst of the already hideous Haute-frisson School, the dreck which now pollutes the remainder bins, bargain basements and flea markets of bouffanted suburbia. His style is a sort of Three Mile Island on the topography of contemporary fiction, managing somehow to produce prose at once fluorescently, psychedelicly purple, yet monochromatically dull. This reviewer is brought to say something he never dreamed possible: How I long for the by comparison subtle shadings of a Norman Mailer, as anodyne. Mr. Crisp, all of us so unfortunate to have plowed through your awful offal of a purgatorio, are left one level lower, infernio. The world is diminished because of you. May you rot in hell, forever."

Man, you are pathetic. Tell you what, loser -- just stay out of my way, and I'll forget it. You ain't worth it. I just better never hear from you again. Ever. Got that, Cupcake?

J

Purgatorio

ertion hanging wettly down his leg.
        "But why," I asked over the rushing in my ears, "why is it called Monty Python's Flying Circus?" Tears streamed down my cheeks, fell and froze before they reached the mire. In the distance, I could see the last of the baby seals disappearing, dragged behind the silo. The red snow was streaked and rumpled like brothel bedsheets.
        His sad lips pulled into a mild smile. "Because," he gently intoned, "there's no one named Monty Python, it doesn't fly, and it's not a circus."

        So ended my innocence. Thus began my ragged descent into the desperate, the wretched condition in which you find me now. Oh, I could speak of some fruitless, feckless quest for redemption ... of endless gray days, of the eternally impersonal stars that glance like light caught in corpses' eyes, too remote to know even indifference, let alone contempt. I could speak, could so speak, I could. But why? You see it in my scars.
                    
                            ~~FIN~~


That's how my first roman à clef ended. Good, isn't it. Well do I remember that madcap year. I was feted across Manhattan like Capote, rebirthed. I wore a dapper disco-blue bikini-tux, with fairy dusty glazing my boyish shoulders like powdered sugar -- in fact, that's what they called me, Powdered Sugar, on account of my downy blonde hair, no doubt. Mae West was still alive in those days, and I was the toast of one of her 78-hour soirées -- toward the end, only I and Buddy Ebsen retained consciousness, and don't get me started about what we got up to. Let's just say it wasn't illegal ... then. But I've said too much. The hour is late, and The Sheikh is calling.

And so, to bed.

With love,

Helmut

Bookends

It occurs to me that I'll share versions of a couple more of my Amazon reviews. The first I entitled "Something that Matters, " in which I was pleased to indulge myself in a wistful bit of philosophizing:

There are a few ... well, call them competitions, where just to finish is to win. Not too many things you can say that about. There are only three sports: mountain climbing, grappling, and distance running -- everything else is just a game. Everyone should climb a mountain. Every man should grapple. But as for endurance running, I don't suppose it's for everyone. It's where you ... not test, not prove ... where you meet yourself, naked of accessories and suppositions. At mile 24, there are no more theories. The unfairnesses of your childhood don't matter. You get to the place where you'd just weep except the water is too precious. This is where what is base in your soul can become noble.

And so I, taking the long view and realizing that birthdays pass like a caravan of elephants, have resolved to commemorate such an upcoming thing with a long run. That's why tales of the accomplishments of others are important. We need to be reminded of excellence. We need to be encouraged to strive. Dreams matter.

I am an earnest sort of man, don't you see. The other, "To the Bone," is on the book "The Face of the Tiger" by columnist Mark Steyn -- look him up at steynonline. To wit:

Steyn is a superb polemicist -- sharp unto the dividing of joints and marrow. There isn't a false note in his prose, and even if you don't subscribe to his warmongering right-wing madman bigoted homophobic ... am I leaving anything out? -- I quote from memory his own self-description ... oh! intolerant views, you can still admire the clarity and self-assurance of his style.

My own wonderful son is now serving in the US military, and I'm sending him my copy of Steyn's book, just to help my own wonderful son (do I repeat myself? I am vast!) stay focused on the whole point: if it is to be Jihad vs Crusade (and it seems that it is), we have to know which side of the line ... or should I say "razor" ... we're on ... or should I say "box-cutter"?

There is a folk tale, variously attributed, about the fox that is persuaded to carry a scorpion on its back across a river. "Oh, I surely will not strike you with my venomous tail," assures the scorpion, "for then I too would drown." But halfway across, the scorpion does indeed sting the fox, and as they both flounder, the fox reproaches the betraying creature. Its reply came thus: "It is true that I too shall perish. But I am a scorpion, and to strike is my nature." How Islam is practiced by the vast majority of its adherents is as it may be. But its nature is Jihad.

In any case, Steyn is laugh-out-loud funny, and there is hardly a page that doesn't have some master-trope that just makes you shake your head and wish you'd thought of it first (I just pretend to myself that I did). It may be that even those on the far left would be convinced, if such a thing were possible. In short, a whole-hearted recommendation ... and did I mention my son is wonderful?

I'm not, actually, a political sorta fella. It's just that I Hate & Despise discourtesy, and I guess I kind of suppose that 9/11 was an impolite affair. Call me crazy.

Anon, Dear Reader. Anon.

J

...who falls before my balefull eye...

Diatribe the First: On the Merits of Perfect Nutrition; or: Diet-Tripe the First.

I'll introduce myself by splicing in some comments I wrote on Amazon dot com -- written as a response to a Hostile Reviewer. The books are on the benefits of responsible, plant-based diet, and the Hostile Reviewer thought some cutting remarks were in order. I'm afraid I might have been just a teeny little bit sarcastic, but there you have it. I'm very self-righteous. To demonstrate my point, I wax eloquent about my own considerable masculine beauty. So:

I've been effectively vegan since the Carter era (ah, youth!), with maybe some butter once in a while. Nothing dead since Iran was our friend (thanks, Carter). I'm not hoary with years, but no longer a mere slip of a boy, and my biometrics put me in my mid-twenties. When I'm trained (last year) my resting heartrate is 43 bpm, and I run a 5 minute mile and a 3:20 marathon; I can squat 600 pounds, dip twice my body weight (180) ten times (that's, um, like, uh, 360 pounds or something!), and I've nearly got my one-armed chinup. My body fat is somewhere under 10%, and I have that delightful and intriguing masculine shape, complete with abs, pecs, lats, and even [pause for dramatic effect] delts -- lean, not bulky. My son says I'm "ripped."Gee, I'm terrific! So am I saying this (if it's true) because I want vicarious admiration? Yes, I want vicarious admiration. But also because I think I pretty much demonstrate the fact that meat is in every sense optional.

The Hostile Reviewer asserts that meat is not "unhealthy" -- I'm sure he meant "unhealthful" ... I just cannot conceive how something that's dead might be "healthy" -- adducing carnivores as evidence. It's been years, decades, really, since I went through all this, but I still recall that the intestinal tract of carnivores is several times shorter than that of herbivores; since we are neither c. nor h., our i.t. is intermediate -- something like five times longer than comparable meat-eaters; the point being that meat doesn't sit and ferment ... rot ... in a cat's colon, the way it did in John Wayne's [yes, I know it's an urban legend]. Anyone can find this sort of info on the hippy-dippy veggie sites ... they're not wrong, just ... um ... artistic. It may or may not be true that "Humans have been eating meat since time immemorial" [Anno Domini 1199?], but given the differences in GI structure between carnivores and humans, the plaintive query "If meat was so unhealthy how could carnivores ever exist?" answers itself. In any case, horses outlive lions, 28 years to 16 -- that's like, uh, twice as long or something. Upshot is, Are we carnivores? No duh. Are we dedicated herbivores? Get along with you. We *can* eat just about anything -- but what is most healthful?

As for the inadequacy of a vegetarian diet, we need only consider the beasts of the field -- say, the bovine staple of the Troglodyte Diet, cows, which eat, um, grass. Maybe some grasshoppers and lady bugs that don't elude the heft of a slobbery tongue, but mostly grass, right? I don't know what the incidence of osteoporosis in wild buffalo is, but I don't think it's endemic. As for protein: "nutrients from animal-based foods increase tumor development while nutrients from plant-based foods decrease tumor development." The consistency of lab findings "was stunningly impressive..." [The China Study, p. 66.]

Regarding "unhealthy," as The China Study points out, a study funded by The Atkins Center revealed that subjects on that diet for half a year suffered constipation (68%), bad breath (63%), headaches (51%), hair loss (10%), and a 53% increase in calcium excreted in urine [cf. TCS, p. 96]. An Australian review of the data points out low-carb dangers of heart arrhythmias and contractile problems, impairment of physical activity, osteoporosis, lipid abnormalities, kidney damage, increased risk of cancer, and sudden death [TCS, p. 97]. Yikes. Atkins himself died weighing 258 lbs; even if this was fluid retention related to his coma, the 195 lbs claimed for him by a spokesman is considered overweight, a BMI score of 26.4. His heart disease and high blood pressure may have been from insalubrious diet, or, as claimed by his apologists, from a viral infection of the heart -- which hardly suggests a healthy immune system. All this cannot conceivably indicate a "health" diet -- at best, it could only be a weight-loss diet, apparently at the cost of being a health-loss diet.

The Hostile Reviewer asserts that "When people lose weight on high carbohydrate diets they always lose muscle and bone at the same time, sometimes as much as 40% ... from lean tissue..." Perhaps he's referring to the *Bonbons Seulement* Diet we've been hearing so much about? The Black Hole of Calcutta Diet? The Bataan Death March Diet? Just a hint: sensible diet and sensible exercise, together. Actually, for a sustainable diet, both animal and plant proteins are associated with greater weight, but "Greater plant protein intake [is] closely linked to greater *height* and body weight." [TCS, p. 103; emphasis added.] Third Worlders tend to be smaller not because plant protein is inferior, but because of insufficient dietary variety, quantity and quality, poor public hygiene, and prevalent childhood disease -- in other words, because of poverty.

I shall refrain from a descent into the minutiae of high-carb v high-protein. But honestly, does either extreme sound sensible? How about *adequate*, or *optimal* carbs, amino acids and EFAs? It's not a "boys are better than girls" argument, after all; both are sorta necessary.

If we make the issue one of definitions, we must consider what I call "muffin vegetarians", where the issue isn't about health at all, and those people may be dropping like bloated blow-flies. Pretty much like the meat-and-no-potatoes folks. If it's only about weight (and merciful heavens, I hope it isn't), then amputation is a quick solution. But if it's about health, well didn't your grandmother ever teach you? Finish your vegetables, and don't play with dead things. If you insist on eating meat, doesn't moderation sound like a noble virtue?

In any case, and kidding aside, there's scarcely anything more emotional than food. It's our first comfort, when we come out of the womb. It's the melancholy, nostalgic feasts of childhood. It's courtship and conviviality. Mercy, it gets a whole sense to itself! But when you consider the steep decadal rise in obesity and diabetes -- diabesity? -- and the failing fight against heart disease and cancer and the like, you know something is wrong. What's different? Is it oil prices? Is it ebola? Is it the Illuminati? Or is it what we're eating. The solution is certainly not fad diets, high-this and low-that. The word "diet" comes eventually from the Latin, meaning "a way of life," or "lifestyle." Hmm. Why, that's another hint! We should eat in a manner that we can sustain, and that can sustain us, for the rest of our lives.

The muffin vegetarians think their ethical purity will protect them. The cavemen think protein should be used as energy more than as building blocks. I suggest that we stop thinking of food in terms of a diet, and instead think of it as nutrition. It's not about how fat your hips or big your belly. It's about how healthy you can be. And like grandma used to say, "Moderation in most things."

So. Anytime, I'll put my three decades of plant-eating up against the Hostile Reviewer's 3 meat years (that's like, uh, twice as long or something). He sounds like he's quite a powerful man, so maybe he's stronger than me, but I bet I'm faster -- and I'm sure I look younger ... and that's what really matters. Um, right?

End quote. Yes, I was a bit snotty, and I wouldn't take that tone eye-to-eye -- wouldn't be nurturing to communication. But anonymity allows us to forget ourselves.

In any case, this is a slight introduction to the miracle of myself.

[Insert farewell catch-phrase here]


J

POWER ON!

Ahem. Me me me me. Ha! To sit in solemn silence... Mememe...

What -- we're on? Oh. Oh, my...how embarassing for me. Mortifying.

No, I clearly have nothing to say. So sorry.