tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50657757716389671062024-02-20T16:02:30.911-08:00Never Ending CampaignJackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-84812186360301409772011-02-13T15:44:00.001-08:002011-02-13T15:44:46.985-08:00The Arkansas HillbilliesArkansas Hillbillies Theme -- to the tune of the Flat/Scrugs Beverly Hillbillies theme...<br />
<br />
Let me tell you story 'bout a man named Bill<br />
Arkansas Gov who liked cheap sex and pills<br />
Then one day he was looking for some poon<br />
And a phone call came from Carville and his goons<br />
"You can get that nomination. For President, that is....<br />
A Democrat. In Washington DC"<br />
<br />
The kinfolk said, "Bill, get your ass in gear<br />
There's toilets, running water, and a fridge that's full of beer"<br />
They said "inside the beltway is the place you oughta be"<br />
So they pulled in lotsa favors and moved to old DC<br />
Washington, that is...<br />
Movie stars...cocaine bars...<br />
The Arkansas Hillbillies!<br />
<br />
(banjo riff)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Go to INT, White House. CLINTON coming down the stairs dressed like a hillbilly. He hollers out...</span><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hey Chelsea -- you done laundered that money yet?<br />
<br />
CHELSEA: (hollering back) Almost, Pa!<br />
<br />
Hillbilly CLINTON enters an enormous livingroom space where freshly-washed, still-wet, dripping money is hanging from a clothesline. CHELSEA is pinning up more, taking bills from an old washtub...<br />
<br />
CHELSEA: (wiping back her hair) I reckon that about does it, Pa.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I surely do appreciate it.<br />
<br />
CHELSEA: Pa...how come folks got a problem with what we's doing? I heard on the television set some folks think laudering money's bad!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Wellllll....I don't know about that, Hon. Way I see it, I reckon we gotta keep it clean. Specially with this here investigation. Old Ken Starr can get mighty peculiar.<br />
<br />
HILLARY: (coming down stairs) Ken Starr -- that varmint! Don't even name that goldurned name in my house! Somebody oughta investigate him!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Don't get all het up, Hillary. I reckon he's just doing his job.<br />
<br />
HILLARY: And I reckon he ain't. Trying his level best to put you in the pokey when all's you're trying to do is make this a decent country for hardworking ordinary people! Going after you when there's real corporate crime that needs a good investigator -- and Michael Moore cain't do everything, now can he?<br />
<br />
CLINTON: No, I reckon he cain't.<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Somebody especially oughta investigate them newfangled HMOs what's done a foul deed to plenty of sick folk and all what need good doctoring and some of my medicine -- but that ain't none of Ken Starr's concern! (holding up fist) I oughta give him some of this medicine.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Now Hillary...<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Now Hillary nothing! You can sit here jawing all you want. I'm fixing to go out and tend to some sick folks in sore need of my ministrations! Somebody's got to do something, and you ain't gonna stop me.<br />
CLINTON: I wouldn't dream to try.<br />
<br />
She storms out.<br />
<br />
CHELSEA: She's a regular Florence Nightingale, ain't she Pa?<br />
<br />
CLINTON: (shaking head in admiration) She is at that. She is at that.<br />
<br />
<br />
INT, hospital room. HILLARY leaning over a hospital bed where LOUISE (the one from the HARRY and LOUISE insurance commercials) lies suffering. Soap opera organ music through the whole bit...<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Anythin' I cin do for you, hon?<br />
<br />
LOUISE: How can you even help me...<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Eh, fergit it -- what's done's done and I ain't studying the past. Them companies didn't do right by you but I reckon I can.<br />
<br />
LOUISE: You're an angel. (coughing) How's... (coughing) How's...<br />
<br />
HILLARY: How's Harry?<br />
<br />
LOUISE: (nodding)<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Harry's going to.... Harry's going to be just fine, darling.<br />
<br />
LOUISE: You're a (coughing) bad liar...Hillary.<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Goldurn it I ain't gonna stand for it! I'll make sure you get doctored up! And Harry too!<br />
<br />
LOUISE: You can't. (coughing) No one can. The insurance companies. The HMOs. You tried...<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Then, by thunder, I'll try again! I'll do it, Louise -- any which ways I can!<br />
<br />
LOUISE looks up at her. Tearful. Grateful. Near death.<br />
<br />
Firey, militant determination clamps down on HILLARY's face...<br />
<br />
She squeezes LOUISE's hand.Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-78090100960995500172011-02-13T15:10:00.000-08:002011-02-13T15:10:10.060-08:00War on CrimeGETZ: My opponent is soft on crime. He thinks criminals have "rights." He<br />
thinks criminals should be treated like "human beings." He coddles criminals.<br />
Just take a look at what could've happened.<br />
<br />
Exterior: Raiford Prison. We see a series of revolving turnstiles, one marked<br />
SERIAL KILLERS, then CHILD MOLESTERS, MURDERERS, etc. A CRIMINAL emerges from<br />
one of them, notices CHILES' large, black limousine.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Hello. Yoo-hoo. Mr. Criminal.<br />
<br />
CRIMINAL reacts, not believing he's being addressed.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Yes, you. I mean you. I'm here for you. Come here...<br />
<br />
Childlike, the CRIMINAL runs over to the CHILES's open window, leans in.<br />
CHILES begins stroking his head.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Oh. You poor criminal. Oh--just look at you. Were they mean to you?<br />
CRIMINAL: (crying) They yelled at me and did bad things.<br />
CHILES: There, there...<br />
<br />
The CHAUFFEUR lets the CRIMINAL gets into CHILES' limo. They drive off.<br />
CHILES cuddles him, rocks him comforts him.<br />
<br />
GETZ: Is that what we want? Is that what they deserve? I don't think so.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Exterior: country road. Warm color values. Pine forrest one side, a lake on<br />
the other. A little kid in a straw hat is fishing. We hear a fish jump.<br />
CHILES walks into frame, notices us, begins talking in a casual, friendly<br />
way.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Maybe you've seen that ad. Maybe it's supposed to be funny. They've<br />
got an actor pretending to be me pick up some thug outside of Raiford. I<br />
don't know. I don't think it's funny. And it's not true. I don't like<br />
negative campaining--and I hate to even respond to that kind of thing. But I<br />
don't coddle criminals--I hate criminals. I have personally sent 5 of them to<br />
the electric chair last year alone. (getting a weird look on his face) And I<br />
liked it.<br />
<br />
Interior: execution chamber at Raiford. Another CRIMINAL sitting in "old<br />
sparky." CHILES looking in from the viewing window, rubbing his hands,<br />
gloating.<br />
<br />
CHILES: How's it feel, huh? How's it feel? I might just go ahead and give you<br />
a stay--not.* Haha! (looking off camera) Do it.<br />
<br />
Sound: bugzapping noise. Light effect flashing on CHILES' face like something<br />
in a Frankenstein movie. He laughs, gloating, relishing it.<br />
<br />
Go to title effect: campaign logo.<br />
<br />
VO: Vote Chiles for governor in '92. He send 5 killers straight to hell.<br />
<br />
Cutaway square opens bottom right. CHILES face.<br />
<br />
CHILES: And I liked it.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
GETZ: Well Chiles says he's tough on crime. Chiles says he likes sending<br />
people to the chair. Liked it, huh? Five in one year doesn't sound like he<br />
liked it--or maybe he did. There's such a thing as quality, fine. But I'm<br />
going to give you quantity, Florida. He did five a year. I'm going to do five<br />
in one week, every week--that's my pledge.<br />
<br />
GETZ FOR GOVERNOR<br />
...turning up the current in '92<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
CHILES: Getz points his finger at me again like that I'm gonna cut it<br />
off--you hear me, boy? You're not from around here, are you? (nodding head) I<br />
think he's from New York. And you say I don't wanna fry these people? What do<br />
you know? Blame the State Legislature, not me. I swear, people--get rid of<br />
the legislature, give me full dictatorial powers, and you'll start to see the<br />
SPARKS fly. I'll do better than five in one week. I'll do more than that--and<br />
I'll make sure the job gets done right, because I will personally pull the<br />
plug on each and every one.<br />
<br />
(We see CHILES' hand go to the switch and pull. Sound and light effect).<br />
<br />
VO: Chiles for governor. Because the hand the signs the laws will be the hand<br />
that pulls the switch.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
GETZ: Now Chiles says he's tough on crime. Now he says he favors the death<br />
penalty. He says he's going to personally pull the switch--but is that really<br />
enough? Death<br />
is nearly instantaneous in the electric chair. Their victims didn't have it<br />
so good. Their victims suffered. Is that really fair?<br />
<br />
Cut to shots of normal people.<br />
WOMAN: I think the chair's too good for that human scum.<br />
REDNECK: Gimme five minues alone. Just five minutes.<br />
<br />
GETZ: I hear you people. I'm listening--and I'm going to kill them. I,<br />
personally, will make them suffer. Not on the other side of a piece of glass.<br />
Not impersonally, pulling a switch on the wall. One on one--with me. It's<br />
going to be cruel. It's going to be unusual.<br />
<br />
Cut to: interior, death cage chamber. Steel cage with rows and rows of<br />
screaming people looking down. A CRIMINAL is ejected through a hole in the<br />
wall. From another, GETZ emerges in a black gi. CRIMINAL reacts with fear,<br />
but there's no way out. GETZ advances...<br />
<br />
GETZ: (to the crowd) Remember my promise?<br />
<br />
They cheer. GETZ leaps up in the air, does a wheelkick to the side of the<br />
CRIMINAL's head. Bones crack. The prisoner falls, holding his head, blood<br />
gushing out of his fingers.<br />
<br />
GETZ: That's one...<br />
<br />
GETZ leaps again. The prisoner begins screaming. Go to: extreme cu open<br />
mouth.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
CHILES: (crouched in the shadows of an alley, dressed in black, Ninja style)<br />
Getz says he's going to make them suffer--and we're supposed to be impressed.<br />
Maybe he thinks people are stupid--but did it ever occur to him that killing<br />
these people, however you do it, ain't gonna do a lot of good once they<br />
already committed their crimes? That's why you've got to stop this kind of<br />
thing...before it starts. <br />
<br />
(Two thugs walk in: we hear sounds, vicious stabbing, bone-cracking, noises,<br />
and then the thugs fall.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Some people talk about a war on crime: I'm doing it, "Death Wish"<br />
style, one criminal at a time on a one-man crusade. (smiling) And we're<br />
saving money, too...Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-27858701734248344262011-02-13T11:56:00.001-08:002011-02-13T11:56:59.261-08:00testing testing XYZblahblahblahMarty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-66467857298088060282011-02-13T11:50:00.001-08:002011-02-13T11:50:57.461-08:00Testing, testing 3-2-1Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-61104334548653822392011-02-13T11:46:00.001-08:002011-02-13T11:46:19.753-08:00Testing, testingseeJackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-12835287436395340272011-02-13T11:45:00.001-08:002011-02-13T11:45:51.341-08:00testtestJackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-78993245956061548282011-02-13T11:39:00.001-08:002011-02-13T11:39:35.856-08:00TestHere's some of the "Jack Getz" comedy I did in the 1990s.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-36872990719552535442009-01-20T19:05:00.000-08:002011-02-27T20:15:57.171-08:00Fear and Loathing in the Bush YearsINT, CAR RENTAL DEALERSHIP - DAY<br />
<br />
TITLE: Jan. 20, 2001 <br />
<br />
<i>Reverse lettering of sign in front window reads: EXECUTIVE BRANCH MOTORS. FOUR YEAR RENTAL.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Bush and Cheney come lurching in through the front doors. They resemble Duke and Gonzo in Terry Gilliam's filmed adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson's “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."</i><br />
<br />
<i>A helpful Clerk awaits.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: How’s it going Cochise? I’m here for the car.<br />
<br />
CLERK: What car?<br />
<br />
BUSH: The fucking car that symbolizes the fucking country in this particular satiric exercise. <br />
<br />
<i>Indicates 1970 Chevrolet Caprice convertible. Mint condition. Candy flake red, more layers of paint than a Rembrandt. It gleams like a candy apple.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: The Presidential "Red Shark," with the 5.7 liter hemi V-8, mouth-breather.<br />
<br />
CLERK: You’re the President?<br />
<br />
BUSH: Sure. Ask Katherine Harris. Ask the Supreme Court, you bottom-feeder.<br />
<br />
CLERK: OK, OK. (<i>hands him keys</i>) Do you solemnly swear to uphold ...<br />
<br />
<i>Ignoring Clerk, Bush and Cheney hop in. Bush fires up the engine. He roars through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window, then backs up inside again.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Wait. (<i>indicates large, padlocked metal box labeled "Social Security"</i>) I forgot the lockbox.<br />
<br />
<i>Grabs it. Jumps in car. Roars out gaping hole in front window again.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Al Gore walks into frame. Watches car speed away.</i><br />
<br />
AL GORE: Hey. That’s my car.<br />
<br />
MUSIC: Chords of Big Brother and the Holding Company's<i> Combination of the Two. </i><br />
<br />
EXT, DESERT HIGHWAY - DAY<br />
<br />
<i>Red Shark blasts down two lane blacktop. Sound of distant explosion.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: We were just outside of 9-11 when the mandate kicked in. (VO)<br />
<br />
<i>We hear a snorting noise. Bush's head jerks up into frame.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Wow that’s some fucking mandate. Agghhh, bats! Jesus, shoot those bats, will you?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: Why?<br />
<br />
BUSH: You got the rifle -- I got my hands on the wheel?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: OK, OK.<br />
<br />
<i>Cheney starts shooting randomly. A Hitchhiker in the back seat wearing a stupid Mickey Mouse t-shirt ducks down in terror.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Jesus. Be careful with that thing. You almost went all<i> Pulp Fiction</i> on that … (<i>noticing Hitchhiker cringing in backseat</i>) Where'd we pick up the hitchhiker?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: I dunno. Somewhere outside of Barstow.<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: Where are we going?<br />
<br />
BUSH: We’re going to war.<br />
<br />
CHENEY: (<i>singing insanely</i>) To war, to war, to war we’re going to go. (<i>blasts shotgun) </i>Yeeehaw!<br />
<br />
BUSH: Fucking towelhead can’t pull that shit on us.<br />
<br />
CHENEY: Hell no!<br />
<br />
BUSH: He thinks he can get away with that he’s got another think coming<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: War... you mean like Afghanistan?<br />
<br />
BUSH: No. We already invaded Afghanistan. I’m talking Iraq.<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: Uh .. Osama’s not in Iraq.<br />
<br />
CHENEY: Check out the fucking national security expert.<br />
<br />
BUSH: We’re not looking for UBL, kid. We’re looking for Saddam. Pay attention. (<i>to Cheney</i>) Hey you. Elmer Fudd. Open up the lock box.<br />
<br />
<i>Cheney blasts lock of the lock box, which is next to the kid in the backseat. He screams.</i><br />
<br />
CHENEY: (<i>reaching around, rifling through box</i>) Fuck! There’s nothing but fucking IOUs!<br />
<br />
BUSH: Well, spend 'em and pretend it’s money.<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: S-spend it on what?<br />
<br />
<i>Bush turns his head, talking to the kid, still driving forward at insane speed. The Hitchhiker looks more and more nervous. </i><br />
<br />
BUSH: War’s hell, kid. It also costs money. We gonna insert our splendid boys in uniform in that sorryass country and find those WMDs. Until they do, they'll kick Iraq's ass to the curb. Time to rally the troops!<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: Look out! (<i>screams</i>) <br />
<br />
<i>Bush drives through ANOTHER plate glass window --</i><br />
<br />
<i>-- and into CIRCUS CIRCUS in Las Vegas. Right into the front lobby. Showgirls run screaming.</i><br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: What’re we doing here?<br />
<br />
BUSH: Viva Las Vegas!<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: I thought you were, uh, gonna rally the troops?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: He thinks you were talking about America’s fighting men. And uh women.<br />
<br />
BUSH: You insane? We’re not wasting money on them. I’m privatizing this here incursion. We’re outsourcing this fucker!<br />
<br />
<i>BUSH strides through the hotel -- and into the main stage in front of a vast conference auditorium. There's a massive American flag behind him.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: How’s it going guys?<br />
<br />
AUDIENCE: (<i>singing</i>) Old Blackwater, keep on rolling, Missisippi moon won’t you ….<br />
<br />
BUSH: Wow. I feel like Patton. Or George C. Scott. I would be honored to lead you wonderful fuckers into battle anytime, anywhere.<br />
<br />
<i>This gets a laugh.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: War is hell. It’s also Heaven, Purgatory, Nirvana and possibly Valhalla. It's Doggie Heaven, for all I know. Fuck it, here’s some money. (t<i>hrows money at them</i>)<br />
<br />
<i>They cheer.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Here's the deal. There's more where that came from. Find those fucking WMDs, OK? I don’t care to be left with my dick hanging out on this one. Pick that fucking dirtbag country up by the ankles and shake it til something falls out. I want results, not reporters, OK? You see some fucking Al Jazeera cameraman, smoke him! Let’s roll!<br />
<br />
Montage --<br />
<br />
<i>Statue of Saddam falling.</i><br />
<i>Iraqis looting museums.</i><br />
<i>Angry Iraqi crowd.</i><br />
<br />
CROWD: Death to America! Death to America!<br />
<br />
<i>Hitchhiker watches scene on tiny portable TV. Looks up. A fierce wind is whipping through his hair.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: See, kid? That’s how you win hearts and minds.<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: (<i>looks around</i>) Where...where are we?<br />
<br />
BUSH: High, kid. Pretty fucking high.<br />
<br />
<i>Bush hits the CD player. It starts playing Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone."</i><br />
<br />
<i>Cut to shot of jet with the Red Shark attached to its underbelly. The jet releases the Red Shark.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Bush rides, going "whooo-hooo" like Slim Pickens. The poor, suffering Red Shark slides onto a carrier deck and, shooting sparks, skids to a stop just barely in time. Bush leaps out in a flight suit.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Well, it looks like we won, huh? <br />
<br />
<i>Bush pushes a big red button. A banner unfurls.</i><br />
<br />
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED<br />
<br />
BUSH: That was fucking easy, wasn’t it?<br />
<br />
<i>The troops cheer.</i><br />
<br />
<i>CHENEY sidles up to BUSH, looking nervous.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: (<i>puts hand over microphone</i>) We found those fucking WMDs yet?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: No.<br />
<br />
BUSH: Goddamnit, we got to turn up the heat. Set up another meet with the black-ops boys.<br />
<br />
INT, RANCH, CRAWFORD TEXAS - NIGHT<br />
<br />
<i>Bush and Cheney sit in the Red Shark while the Hitchhiker crouches in the fetal position. </i><br />
<br />
CHENEY: OK. We got the CIA, the Blackwater boys, the A-Team, and the guy from <i>24</i>.<br />
<br />
KIEFER SUTHERLAND: I'm just an actor.<br />
<br />
MR. T: Mamma didn't raise no fool.<br />
<br />
PETER LORRE: (<i>sharpening knife</i>) What do you want us to do, sir? Unofficially?<br />
<br />
BUSH: Think outside the box, people. The Geneva Convention box. Use torture. Use Viola Spolin improve techniques.<br />
<br />
<i>Cut to famous scene of hooded Detainee with wires attached.</i><br />
<br />
WOMAN: (OS) You are a Christmas tree. What do you experience?<br />
<br />
DETAINEE: A fear of electricity.<br />
<br />
RED SHARK - DAY<br />
<br />
<i>Bush blasts down the road, talking to his cell phone.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: We still haven't found those WMDS? Did you just say that, or am I fucking hallucinating?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: (<i>also talking on his cell phone</i>) No. He hid his stash pretty good.<br />
<br />
BUSH: Goddamnit, it’s not working. (<i>tosses cell phone</i>) Mission’s not accomplished. OK. We’ll change the mission. Starting now, we find Saddam.<br />
<br />
CHENEY: How? He’s in a fucking hole somewhere.<br />
<br />
BUSH: I’ll tell you how! Operation Iraqi Set Three Trillion Dollars on Fire!<br />
<br />
INT - C-4 TRANSPORT PLANE - DAY<br />
<br />
<i>Troops are busily shoving huge pallets of flaming money out the door.</i><br />
<i>They fall, hit the ground and explode</i><br />
<i>Saddam runs out of his hole.</i><br />
<br />
SADDAM: Ow. That’s really hot. I burned my peepee!<br />
<br />
<i>Bush pulls up in the Red Shark and a cloud of dust. </i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Reach for Allah, fucker, I got a present for you. (<i>he pulls out a hangman's rope</i>) This one’s for dad. <br />
<br />
INT, HOTEL ROOM – THE SANDS IN VEGAS – NIGHT<br />
<br />
<i>The Red Shark, somehow, is in the room.</i><br />
<br />
<i>A Boom Box blasts out Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow." </i><br />
<br />
CHENEY: (OS) I’m depressed.<br />
<br />
BUSH: Stop whining. I’m depressed too. Those ungrateful fuckers. We kill their fucking dictator. We restore civil order and democracy. What’s the thanks we get?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: They unrestore civil order and democracy.<br />
<br />
BUSH: Yeah. If we win, they win. If they lose, we lose. It’s a fucking paradox. Bertrand Russell would’ve ripped the eyes out of his sockets just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
CHENEY: Kill me.<br />
<br />
SOUND: <i>Cheney splashes water in bathtub.</i> (OS)<br />
<br />
BUSH: What?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: When it gets to White Rabbit, throw the CD player in the tub. The part where the rabbit screams.<br />
<br />
BUSH: Sure, you crazy fucker.<br />
<br />
<i>He throws a bust of Lincoln in the tub.</i><br />
<br />
CHENEY: (OS) Agghhhhhh! Agghhhhhh!<br />
<br />
BUSH: (<i>to Hitchhiker</i>) An excitable individual. Mutant DNA. Some mongrel combination of Welsh, Scottish and something else.<br />
<br />
<i>The Hitchhiker huddles, shaking in the corner.</i><br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: Please let me go home.<br />
<br />
BUSH: This is home, fucker. Ever seen <i>Audition</i>? You better keep your mouth shut.<br />
<br />
<i>Cheney leaps out of the bathroom holding a large Bowie knife.</i><br />
<br />
CHENEY: Road trip!<br />
<br />
EXT, NEW ORLEANS - DAY<br />
<br />
<i>Devastation. It's like a scene from a depressing post-apocalyptic near future SF movie.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Red Shark blasts down the streets of the ruined city, past closed up businesses and bordered up homes.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Bush speaks into his tape recorder.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Mission accomplished. There were many missions. We created the greatest wave of prosperity in American history.<br />
<br />
HITCHHIKER: No you didn’t.<br />
<br />
<i>Cheney whacks him in the head with the rifle butt.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: From a certain perspective, the Neo-Conservative movement was like a wave or Jack Lord’s hair. You can see exactly where it stopped. This is something new. A new wave. No maps for this territory. No direction home. We cut all the Wall Street regulations and lowered taxes. We ...<br />
<br />
EXT, DESERT - DAY<br />
<br />
<i>The seriously battered Red Shark speeds along insanely. Bush is still talking.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: …history will judge. Fuck history. I’ll be dead. Far as I’m concerned, I’m the one to judge history and history’s guilty! (<i>loud THUMP</i>) Hell was that?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: You just ran over Noam Chomsky.<br />
<br />
<i>He stops, backs up, runs over him again, then goes forward, running over him yet again.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: I saw that in <i>The Sopranos</i>. Always wanted to do that. Are we there yet?<br />
<br />
CHENEY: Yeah.<br />
<br />
<i>Red Shark crashes through windows of the car rental dealership. The car is now a wreck. Bush and Cheney get out. The Hitchhiker’s still in the back, shivering with post-traumatic shock.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Obama is standing there. </i><br />
<br />
<i>BUSH tosses the keys to Obama.</i><br />
<br />
BUSH: Here. It’s all yours.<br />
<br />
<i>Bush and Cheney laugh and run out.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Obama stands there.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The Red Shark falls to pieces like the Bluesmobile.</i>Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-12914695419871254531997-10-11T06:16:00.000-07:002018-10-11T06:17:26.989-07:00Oral Office Update<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">ORAL OFFICE UPDATE</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">or...<br />
the Arkansas Hillbillies</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<br />
<i>Arkansas Hillbillies Theme -- to the tune of the Flat/Scrugs Beverly Hillbillies theme...</i><br />
<br />
<i>Let me tell you story 'bout a man named Bill<br />
Arkansas Gov who liked cheap sex and pills<br />
Then one day he was looking for some poon<br />
And a phone call came from Carville and his goons<br />
"You can get that nomination. For President, that is....<br />
A Democrat. In Washington DC"<br />
<br />
The kinfolk said, "Bill, get your ass in gear<br />
There's toilets, running water, and a fridge that's full of beer"<br />
They said "inside the beltway is the place you oughta be"<br />
So they pulled in lotsa favors and moved to old DC<br />
Washington, that is...<br />
Movie stars...cocaine bars...<br />
<br />
The Arkansas Hillbillies!</i><br />
<br />
(<i>banjo riff</i>)<br />
<br />
<i>Go to INT, White House. CLINTON coming down the stairs dressed like a hillbilly. He hollers out...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hey Chelsea -- you done laundered that money yet?<br />
<br />
CHELSEA: (<i>hollering back</i>) Almost, Pa!<br />
<br />
<i>Hillbilly CLINTON enters an enormous livingroom space where freshly-washed, still-wet, dripping money is hanging from a clothesline. CHELSEA is pinning up more, taking bills from an old washtub...</i><br />
<br />
CHELSEA: (<i>wiping back her hair</i>) I reckon that about does it, Pa.<br />
CLINTON: I surely do appreciate it.<br />
CHELSEA: Pa...how come folks got a problem with what we's doing? I heard on the television set some folks think laudering money's <i>bad!</i><br />
CLINTON: Wellllll....I don't know about <i>that</i>, Hon. Way I see it, I reckon we gotta keep it <i>clean</i>. Specially with this here investigation. Old Ken Starr can get mighty peculiar.<br />
HILLARY: (<i>coming down stairs</i>) Ken Starr -- that varmint! Don't even name that goldurned name in my house! Somebody oughta investigate <i>him!</i><br />
CLINTON: Don't get all het up, Hillary. I reckon he's just doing his job.<br />
HILLARY: And I reckon he <i>ain't. </i>Trying his level best to put<i> you</i> in the pokey when all's you're trying to do is make this a decent country for hardworking ordinary people! Going after you when there's <i>real </i>corporate crime that needs a good investigator -- and Michael Moore cain't do everything, now can he?<br />
CLINTON: No, I reckon he cain't.<br />
HILLARY: Somebody especially oughta investigate them newfangled HMOs what's done a foul deed to plenty of sick folk and all what need good doctoring and some of my medicine -- but that ain't none of Ken Starr's concern! (<i>holding up fist</i>) I oughta give him some of <i>this </i>medicine.<br />
CLINTON: Now Hillary...<br />
HILLARY: Now Hillary nothing! You can sit here jawing all you want. I'm fixing to go out and tend to some sick folks in sore need of my ministrations! Somebody's got to do something, and you ain't gonna stop me.<br />
CLINTON: I wouldn't dream to try.<br />
<br />
<i>She storms out.</i><br />
<br />
CHELSEA: She's a regular Florence Nightingale, ain't she Pa?<br />
CLINTON: (<i>shaking head in admiration</i>) She is at that. She is at that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Cut to EXT, starfield. We hear a low, throbbing, thrumming noise due to the assholic convention of sound in the vacuum of space. A metallic sphere emerges into view: it looks like the Death Star out of Star Wars. It comes closer. In one quadrant, an enormous crack'n'peel label announces "VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY." Underneath, in smaller letters: "your ad here."<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to: earth. EXT, rooftop. MINISTER FARRAKHAN squinting through a battered Tasco telescope.</i><br />
<br />
FARRAKHAN: Goddamnit, I <i>knew </i>it! It's the cracker flying saucer! How come nobody believed me 'bout the cracker flying saucer?<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT: cavernous imperial audience chamber inside the VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY STAR. NEWT, STARR and SCAIFE enter. The enormous, shimmering holographic form of Nixon's face appears before them. They kneel before their undead Emperor...</i><br />
<br />
SCAIFE: (<i>in Darth Vader costume</i>) We await your bidding, O master.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Back to Earth--</i><br />
<br />
<i>INT, hospital room. HILLARY leaning over a hospital bed where LOUISE (the one from the HARRY and LOUISE insurance commercials) lies suffering. Soap opera organ music through the whole bit...<br />
<br />
</i>HILLARY: Anythin' I cin do for you, hon?<br />
LOUISE: How can you even help me...<br />
HILLARY: Eh, fergit it -- what's done's done and I ain't studying the past. Them companies didn't do right by you but I reckon I can.<br />
LOUISE: You're an angel. (c<i>oughing</i>) How's... (<i>coughing</i>) How's...<br />
HILLARY: How's Harry?<br />
LOUISE: (<i>nodding</i>)<br />
HILLARY: Harry's going to.... Harry's going to be just fine, darling.<br />
LOUISE: You're a (<i>coughing</i>) bad liar...Hillary.<br />
HILLARY: Goldurn it I ain't gonna stand for it! I'll make sure you get doctored up! And Harry too!<br />
LOUISE: You can't. (<i>coughing</i>) No one can. The insurance companies. The HMOs. You tried...<br />
HILLARY: Then, by thunder, I'll try again! I'll do it, Louise -- any which ways I can!<br />
<br />
<i>LOUISE looks up at her. Tearful. Grateful. Near death.<br />
<br />
Firey, militant determination clamps down on HILLARY's face...<br />
<br />
She squeezes LOUISE's hand.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
<i>Back to our crew on the VRWCS --<br />
<br />
</i>NIXON: ...example of him. He fucked with insurance. Nobody fucks with insurance. <i>Nobody</i>. That's the fucking third rail and he touched it and now he must pay. <i>Clinton must be destroyed.</i><br />
SCAIFE: We will destroy him, O Master.<br />
NIXON: Dig for dirt. Throw some money at some hungry reporter on that <i>American Spectator </i>of yours.<i> </i>K<i>e</i>ep throwing shit until some of it sticks...<br />
SCAIFE: Yes, O Master.<br />
NIXON: Today we shall see the democratic rebellion crushed for the...<br />
<br />
<i>Beeping noise. <br />
<br />
</i>NIXON: Our total domination of the...<i><br />
<br />
More obnoxious beeping. NIXON stops talking. <br />
<br />
We still hear the beeping noise. It's some gadget in NEWT's pocket. <br />
<br />
Everybody turns to look at him, including the enormous and enormously displeased disembodied sepulchral head of NIXON. NEWT's desperately fishing in his pockets to find the beeping gadget...</i><br />
<br />
NEWT: Uh...<i>sorry.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
<i>Earth. EXT, city streets. Lone man running...</i><br />
<br />
FARRAKHAN: (<i>running through the streets</i>) Watch the skies! Watch the skies!<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, White House bedroom. CLINTON and HILLARY in bed, morphing out of hillbilly mode back to their, uh, normal selves. CLINTON has a shocked expression on his face...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: What do you <i>mean</i> no more nookie?<br />
<br />
HILLARY: Not until you deal with health care.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: But Hon...we<i> tried </i>that, remember? Try it again, they'll carve me a new asshole. <i>Another</i> one. (<i>he shifts uncomfortably</i>) <br />
<br />
HILLARY: That's your problem.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Can't you just...<br />
<br />
<i>Abruptly, she turns away from him, her back an S-curve, the bumps of her spine like the ridges of a frozen mountain range, impossible, impassible. Clinton reaches out to touch her.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: How 'bout just a massage, then?<br />
<br />
<i>He strokes her back. Electric sparks shoot out. He jerks his hand away.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Owwwww.....<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The next day, EXT Washington DC. CLINTON in the Presidential limo. His driver is driving randomly around the beltway while CLINTON sits in the back, pouting, enmired the depths of sexual deprivation. He looks to the left, he looks to the right. Wherever he looks, everything seems sexual...<br />
<br />
The Jefferson Monument. Very tit-like. <br />
<br />
The Capitol dome. Owww.....<br />
<br />
Washington Monument. Like an enormous, thrusting...<br />
<br />
All those bursting cherries along the Potomoc.<br />
<br />
He returns to the White House. SOCKS looks at him. CLINTON looks back. Smiles. SOCKS runs...<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to: INT, White House bathroom. CLINTON taking cold shower...<br />
<br />
CLINTON: </i>Owww.....owwwwwwww.....goddamnit, <i>oww</i>. Cold showers my ass! This is supposed to work but is sure as hell ain't. <i>Oww....<br />
<br />
<br />
INT: hotel room. The Whitewater investigation team buried under a mountain of paper...<br />
<br />
</i>STARR: I can't believe this! He itemized the paperclips! Every last one of them!<br />
FLUNKY: We've got to find <i>something</i>....<br />
STARR: Then do it, OK? Do I have to do<i> everything</i>, people?<br />
<i><br />
<br />
Go to: CLINTON in conference with JANET RENO.</i><br />
<br />
RENO: ...may say you can't afford the budget for any more killer robots, but I can't afford to lose any more of my people.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>staring at her dreamy-eyed</i>) Janet?<br />
<br />
RENO: Sir?<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Anyone ever tell you you've got beautiful eyes?<br />
<br />
<i>She looks at him. Blinks. Punches the shit out of him.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Go to black-eyed CLINTON at breakfast table, pouring mounds of saltpeter on his breakfast cereal, crunchingly eating it...<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to, INT, Whitewater investigation team in a deeper avalanche of paper...</i><br />
<br />
FLUNKY: I'm afraid she <i>did</i> send thank-you cards.<br />
STARR: Dingdong darn it! Throw somebody in jail or something. A woman or somebody who's dying. And harrass a journalist while you're at it...<br />
FLUNKY: Yes sir.<br />
STARR: (<i>storming out</i>) I'm having a very bad day, people!<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, darkened parking garage. STARR storming along in a funk...</i><br />
<br />
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Follow the pussy.<br />
<br />
STARR: (<i>stopping</i>) Excuse me?<br />
<br />
<i>LINDA TRIPP steps out of the shadows.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: I said <i>follow the pussy</i>. It's all about pussy.<br />
<br />
STARR: Get away from me!<br />
<br />
LINDA: (<i>grabbing him by the lapels</i>) It's all about pussy, you little pussy -- don't you know that? <br />
<br />
STARR: You're scaring me!<br />
<br />
LINDA: You want the President? Clinton's a dick -- wanna catch a dick? Find the pussy. <i>Follow</i> the pussy.<br />
<br />
<i>She lets go of one of his lapels, reaches into the folds of her trenchcoat, pulls out a tape and hands it to STARR. He takes it reluctantly...</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Now let me go!<br />
<br />
<i>LINDA grabs him by both lapels again, forces him back against a wall, puts her hideously lined, Margaret Dumontish face close to his. STARR recoils...</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Wanna have some fun?<br />
<br />
STARR: No!<br />
<br />
<i>He breaks free and runs.<br />
<br />
LINDA: </i>Run away, little man! Run away! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! (<i>turning directly towards the camera and clutching a wicked witch hand at us</i>) AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!<br />
<br />
<i>She whirls around and disappears in a puff of green smoke...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>INT, office. NEWT and STARR in conference.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: ...course I said, no way, honey, not <i>this </i>sailor. No way jose' I'm going to...<br />
<br />
NEWT: (<i>thoughtfully fiddling with LINDA's tape</i>) Shut up.<br />
<br />
STARR: Excuuuuse me?<br />
<br />
NEWT: Maybe she's got something.<br />
<br />
STARR: May-be.<br />
<br />
NEWT: (<i>twisted light glowing in his face</i>) It's crazy, totally crazy. (<i>pounding desk with fist</i>) It's so crazy it just might work!<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Go to INT, darkened corridor, White House -- just outside the President's private study. </i><br />
<i>MONICA walks out and softly shuts the door, a cat-that-ate the-canary expression on her face. But is it Monica? Is it really?</i><br />
<br />
Mission Impossible <i>theme...</i><br />
<br />
<i>She reaches a hand to her face. Pulls off a latex mask. And we see that it's really...</i><br />
<br />
NEWT GINGRICH!<br />
<br />
<i>...his face a mask of lizardlike disgust. He runs to the nearest bathroom, collapses at the sink. NEWT spits out Presidential semen. Enormous quantities....<br />
</i><br />
NEWT: Arrrghhh! Geh....<br />
<br />
<i>Desperately, frantically, he washes mouth out with every available bathroom cleanser he can find. KEN STARR enters the room.<br />
<br />
</i>NEWT: (<i>brushing teeth with toilet brush</i>) The things I do for the grand old party...<br />
<br />
STARR: Newtie...<br />
<br />
NEWT: What?<br />
<br />
STARR: I've got some, well, bad news, OK? <br />
<br />
<i>NEWT turns, murderously. Says nothing.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Our little surveillance system? <br />
<br />
NEWT: What about it?<br />
<br />
STARR: Belly up. <br />
<br />
NEWT: Belly up?<br />
<br />
STARR: It's just...you know. (<i>fluttering hands</i>) Static! Static! Static! Snow! Snow! Snow! <br />
<br />
NEWT: Nothing?<br />
<br />
STARR: Nothing.<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT spits.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Let's just say I hope we're still under warranty...<br />
<br />
<i>Silence.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: So are we up for a retake?<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT glares at him with pure hatred. Throws STARR the Monica-mask -- right into his gut like a medicine ball.</i><br />
<br />
NEWT: <i>You </i>do it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Go to INT, corridor, White House. Again, what looks like MONICA emerges from the Oval Office. Again, she reaches a hand to her face. Pulls off a latex mask. </i>Mission Imposible <i>theme. And we see that it's really...</i><br />
<br />
KEN STARR!<br />
<br />
STARR: (<i>licking lips</i>) Actually that wasn't so bad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Go to basement. STARR hunched over TV monitor. He pops in a VHS tape titled "PRESIDENTIAL NAUGHTY BITS." NEWT, meanwhile, is lying on an army cot nursing an extremely painful coldsore. STARR hits play. Stares. Rolls eyes.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Problems!<br />
<br />
NEWT: Arrgghhh.<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT looks. Somehow, unbelievably, it's a tape of Sesame Street...</i><br />
<br />
KERMIT: Hi-ho! Kermit-the-frog here! And I'm <i>still </i>here...<br />
<br />
NEWT: Arrrrggghhhhhhh!<br />
<br />
<i>Suddenly, the TV shuts off. NIXON's face appears, a ten foot shimmering hologram.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Oh. Lord Nixon. I was just...<br />
<br />
NIXON: You have failed me for the last time.<br />
<br />
STARR: (r<i>eacting to some invisible psychic force</i>)<i> Ow.</i><br />
<br />
NIXON: Now listen to me, Newt.<br />
<br />
STARR: (<i>folding legs knock-kneed together</i>) Owwww...you're <i>hurting</i> me!<br />
<br />
NIXON: I have obtained for you a complete set of vintage dirty tricks from Operation Mongoose. Spanish Fly bon-bons. Cuban cigars dipped in pheremones. An amazing assortment of bizare pornography, not to mention cheeseburgers...<br />
<br />
<i>STARR thuds to the floor.</i><br />
<br />
NIXON: Your feeble efforts need not go to waste. At least you've made him <i>want </i>her.<br />
<br />
STARR: My little Mary hurts!<br />
<br />
NIXON: Now it is simply a matter of bringing them together. My dirty tricks should be enough...<br />
<br />
NEWT: (<i>bowing</i>) Yes, my Lord.<br />
<br />
NIXON: But -- just in case -- we'll shut down the government and bring them to a crisis point. We'll make <i>sure</i> they find each other -- part of the team, understaffed, making sacrifices, shoulder to shoulder, both in it together against the world. And both extremely horny.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Yes, my Lord.<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT bows, deeply reverent, eyes closed -- then open -- as he notices he's sitting with his knees in the puddle of urine leaking out from KEN STARR...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Go to, INT, CLINTON in staff meeting with Presidential interns, MONICA included, all of whom (though this may be a sex-starved distortion of Presidential perception) seem to be female and beautiful, none of whom seem to be wearing bras. It's day one of the governmental shut-down and he's just given them a peptalk.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: ...assume additional duties. You up for it?<br />
<br />
ALL OF THEM: (<i>breathlessly</i>) Yes, Mister President.<br />
<i><br />
CLINTON blinks, pops a Spanish Fly bon-bon in his mouth, chews slowly, blinks again. All the women seem to be naked. He chews thoughtfully...</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: Could I have one of those, Mister President? I think I want to put something in my mouth right now...<br />
<br />
<i>He smiles, hands her one. MONICA takes it. Slowly puts it in her mouth. Slowly, slowly chews. The other women shoot her dirty looks. One puffs up her mouth full of air, miming "No wonder she's fat." But CLINTON sees none of that. He's just chewing, chewing, chewing. MONICA does the same. They're in oral synch together...</i><br />
<br />
<i>CLINTON looks at MONICA; MONICA looks at him. Thick sexual tension. Rapid Tom Jonesish crosscutting of kissylip moues, winks, tonguelicks...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>getting up from the table, stretching</i>) Well, ladies. I'd like to thank y'all for com-com-com...for <i>being</i> here, but I guess that's it, y'all can go. Me? (<i>loudly</i>) Guess I'll take me a stroll back to windowless hallway adjacent to my study in the south south-west quadrant of the White House in approximately 7 minutes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>And so it begins...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
THEN:<br />
<br />
<i>MARILYN MONROE singing seductively....</i><br />
<br />
MARILYN: Happy birthday, Mr. President. Happy birthday to you.<br />
<br />
NOW: <br />
<br />
MONICA: Can I suck your dick?<br />
<br />
<i>CLINTON leans back his head. Groaning....</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Must...preserve...precious...bodily...fluids....<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>As in </i>Porky's, <i>NEWT and STARR have drilled a peephole into the White House and are peering in...</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Ohmygod that's just <i>awful.</i><br />
NEWT: Let me see.<br />
STARR: Ohmy<i>god.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>And so it goes on...<br />
<br />
<br />
INT, Oval Office<br />
<br />
ARAFAT walks into Oval Office. Sees CLINTON with fly open, dick hanging out.</i><br />
<br />
ARAFAT: (<i>Cornholio accent</i>) Oh. A thousand apologies, affendi. Is this the customary greeting in your country?<br />
<br />
<i>He unzips his own fly -- but CLINTON shoves him out.</i><br />
<br />
ARAFAT: Owww! The zeeeeeper!<br />
<br />
<i>Slams door. </i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>to Monica</i>) Alone at last.<br />
<br />
ARAFAT: (<i>through the walls</i>) Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: We have so much in common. I love Fleetwood Mac. <br />
<br />
ARAFAT: Bactine! Someone bring me the bactine!<br />
<br />
MONICA: And<i> I </i>love Fleetwood Mac. <br />
<br />
ARAFAT: No, not rubbing alcohol you fool!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I've got plastic hair.<br />
<br />
MONICA: And so do I!<br />
<br />
<i>They both smile wickedly. Clinch. Tongue-kiss. She slides down...</i><br />
<br />
ARAFAT: Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Wanna see <i>my</i> Southern strategy? (<i>he slides down</i>)<br />
<br />
MONICA: No, no, no...it's my<i> time.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>sliding back up</i>) My you were raised right. But I see a way out of this, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>He reaches into a humidor stuffed with illegal, imported Cuban cigars -- thinks better of it -- reaches into another cheapo cigarbox and pulls out a White Owl...<br />
<br />
The camera discretely pans to the window where ARAFAT is running around screaming in the Rose Garden...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to EXT, White House corridor. STARR and NEWT crouched down in the shadows. STARR peering in through the peephole...</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Ohmygod that's just <i>awful.</i><br />
NEWT: Let me see.<br />
STARR: Ohmygod, ohmy<i>god.<br />
<br />
<br />
And on....<br />
<br />
<br />
INT, Oval Office. CLINTON and MONICA sit naked before a pentagram. Candles burn.<br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: ...faust, aleph, null -- and let "do what thou wilt be the whole of the law!"<br />
<br />
<i>The candles flare. CLINTON turns, smiling charmingly to MONICA.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Anyways that's how we summon Satan back where I come from...<br />
<br />
MONICA: Geez, Mr. President. You really <i>know</i> so much.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>looking at watch</i>) Oh my <i>word</i>...the prayer breakfast. Gotta go, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>He runs out -- then runs back in for his pants and runs out again.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>EXT, White House corridor. STARR peering through the peephole. NEWT still trying to get a chance...</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Ohmygod that's just <i>awful.</i><br />
NEWT: Let me see.<br />
STARR: Ohmygod, ohmy<i>god </i>look what they're doing.<br />
NEWT: GImme.<br />
STARR: Ohmygod this is...you wouldn't<i> believe.</i><br />
NEWT: (<i>fumbling, trying to push STARR away</i>) My turn!<br />
STARR: If you only...oh no...oh <i>nooo</i>...this is priceless....this is really...<br />
<br />
<i>He stops. Something's occured to him....</i><br />
<br />
STARR: I wonder how much people would pay to see this?<br />
<br />
<i>Someone taps him on the shoulder. BILL GATES.</i><br />
<br />
GATES: How's about we find out? Call me Mr. Computers or Mr. MSNBC but whatever you do...<i>call </i>me. (<i>smiling like a cyborg Cheshire cat</i>) Because I <i>really </i>need content and I really think we can do this...together.<br />
<br />
<i>Cardsharplike, he hands them a business card.</i><br />
<br />
<i>STARR reaches for it. NEWT rips it out of his hand.</i><br />
<br />
GATES: I <i>love </i>you people.<br />
<br />
<i>He smiles. NEWT smiles. STARR turns back to the peephole.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Ohmy<i>god</i>....<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>And so it goes on. The growing scandal. Throbbing just below the surface ready to burst at any moment...<br />
<br />
INT, White House hallway outside the President's office. Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS just standing there like beefeaters. Monolithic. Impassive.<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a pizza. Goes into President's office...<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a sack of food from McDonalds.<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by with takeout from Long John Silver's.</i><br />
<br />
GUARD #1: Something's up.<br />
<br />
GUARD #2: You got that right.<br />
<br />
<i>Go to: INT, Oval Office...<br />
<br />
MONICA and CLINTON sitting together, munching down on Taco Supremes...salsa packets and sacks from Taco Bell scattered recklessly across the room.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: God<i>damn</i> this is better than sex.<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>mouth full</i>) Uh-hmmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Goddamn it, I'm the President and I can eat anything I want! To hell with cholesterol! Never say diet!<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>pointing</i>) Mmmm-mmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Oh. Here you go, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>He hands her a packet of salsa.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: Mm-ooo.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: You're welcome.<br />
<br />
(<i>They continue munching...in hog heaven</i>)<br />
<br />
<i>And then comes President's Day...<br />
<br />
MONICA bursts into the hallway. CLINTON follows.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: You bastard!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I'm sorry, kiddo...<br />
<br />
MONICA: My name's not kiddo!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just the thought of honest Abe and little George Washington and the cherry tree. I just cain't...<br />
<br />
MONICA: There's somebody else!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hillary?<br />
<br />
MONICA: I mean somebody else else.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: There's nobody else else. (<i>noticing the Secret Service agents</i>) Oh. Hello, boys. Heh-heh.<br />
<br />
AGENTS: Hello, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just a little old Christmas pageant we're rehearsing. Page 52. <br />
<br />
AGENTS: Yes, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Ain't that right, kiddo. I mean, Miss...<br />
<br />
MONICA: And to think I supersized you!<br />
<br />
<i>She runs out weeping.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Great job, kid! Thumbs up! That was totally convincing.<br />
<br />
<i>He goes back inside the office.<br />
<br />
Go to: NEWT and STARR in some conspiratorial office cube.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
NEWT: Are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: I feel like a Jr. G-Man.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: Herbert Hoover was one of my role models, you know.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Goddamnit...are we ready yes or no?<br />
<br />
STARR: We're ready yes and no.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Argghhhhh....<br />
<br />
STARR: See...ever since <i>you</i> broke the surveillance camera, well, we don't have the smoking gun, so to speak...<br />
<br />
NEWT: But we've got the tape.<br />
<br />
STARR: The tape. Oh the tape.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Oh yeah.<br />
<br />
STARR: Linda's tape.<br />
<br />
NEWT: That's the one.<br />
<br />
STARR: I just forgot all about that...<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT pops the tape in a tape recorder. Hits play.</i><br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: C is for cookie...that's good enough for me! C is for cookie...that's good enough for me!<br />
<br />
NEWT: Arrgghhhh!<br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!<br />
<br />
STARR: Well I guess we'll just have to get another one, won't we?<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT smashes the tape recorder.<br />
<br />
I am your father search your feelings you know it to be true.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>And so it goes on. The growing scandal. Throbbing just below the surface ready to burst at any moment...<br />
<br />
INT, White House hallway outside the President's office. Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS just standing there like beefeaters. Monolithic. Impassive.<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a pizza. Goes into President's office...<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a sack of food from McDonalds.<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by with takeout from Long John Silver's.</i><br />
<br />
GUARD #1: Something's up.<br />
<br />
GUARD #2: You got that right.<br />
<br />
<i>Go to: INT, Oval Office...<br />
<br />
MONICA and CLINTON sitting together, munching down on Taco Supremes...salsa packets and sacks from Taco Bell scattered recklessly across the room.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: God<i>damn</i> this is better than sex.<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>mouth full</i>) Uh-hmmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Goddamn it, I'm the President and I can eat anything I want! To hell with cholesterol! Never say diet!<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>pointing</i>) Mmmm-mmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Oh. Here you go, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>He hands her a packet of salsa.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: Mm-ooo.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: You're welcome.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>And then comes President's Day...<br />
<br />
MONICA bursts into the hallway. CLINTON follows.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: You bastard!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I'm sorry, kiddo...<br />
<br />
MONICA: My name's not kiddo!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just the thought of honest Abe and little George Washington and the cherry tree. I just cain't...<br />
<br />
MONICA: There's somebody else!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hillary?<br />
<br />
MONICA: I mean somebody else else.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: There's nobody else else. (<i>noticing the Secret Service agents</i>) Oh. Hello, boys. Heh-heh.<br />
<br />
AGENTS: Hello, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just a little old Christmas pageant we're rehearsing. Page 52. <br />
<br />
AGENTS: Yes, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Ain't that right, kiddo. I mean, Miss...<br />
<br />
MONICA: And to think I supersized you!<br />
<br />
<i>She runs out weeping.<br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: Great job, kid! Thumbs up! That was totally convincing.<br />
<br />
<i>He goes back inside the office.<br />
<br />
Go to: NEWT and STARR in some conspiratorial office cube.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
NEWT: Are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: I feel like a Jr. G-Man.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: Herbert Hoover was one of my role models, you know.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Goddamnit...are we ready yes or no?<br />
<br />
STARR: We're ready yes and no.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Argghhhhh....<br />
<br />
STARR: See...ever since <i>you</i> broke the surveillance camera, well, we don't have the smoking gun, so to speak...<br />
<br />
NEWT: But we've got the tape.<br />
<br />
STARR: The tape. Oh the tape.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Oh yeah.<br />
<br />
STARR: Linda's tape.<br />
<br />
NEWT: That's the one.<br />
<br />
STARR: I just forgot all about that...<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT pops the tape in a tape recorder. Hits play.</i><br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: C is for cookie...that's good enough for me! C is for cookie...that's good enough for me!<br />
<br />
NEWT: Arrgghhhh!<br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!<br />
<br />
STARR: Well I guess we'll just have to get another one, won't we?<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT smashes the tape recorder.<br />
<br />
LINDA TRIPP appears in a puff of smoke...<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: That can be arranged, my pretties. That can be arranged. Ahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHA!<br />
<br />
STARR: Make her stop!<br />
<br />
NEWT: God, what a woman.<i><br />
<br />
<br />
INT, Oval Office. CLINTON kneeling in prayer.<br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: Carter committed adultery in his heart -- and thinking's the same as doing it? The Clinton corrollary: as far as I'm concerned, I didn't do it, besides which I repent, so I don't think I'm gonna do it anymore, and that's the same as not doing it. And I defy you to list me <i>one</i> passage in Your Holy Word dealing with blow-jobs as adultery or defining sex qua sex. Just one...hmmm? I didn't think so. Amen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, MONICA and LINDA at breakfast table. LINDA stirring tea. The spoon dissolves. MONICA doesn't notice.<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: Tea?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Oh. Like thanks.<i><br />
<br />
LINDA slides the tea to MONICA who lifts it up, sips it.<br />
<br />
</i>MONICA: Mmmm...<br />
<br />
LINDA: It's tannis root.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Is that, like, organic?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Eee-heee-heee...something like that.<i><br />
<br />
</i>MONICA: (<i>sipping</i>) You're really something special, Linda.<br />
<br />
LINDA: Eh-heh-heee. Thanks, dearie.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Thank God I gotta friend in this goddamn town, y'know?<br />
<br />
LINDA: (<i>wincing at the word "God"</i>) Yessss. Apple?<br />
<br />
<i>She hands MONICA an apple. MONICA takes it. Starts to bite.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: No, no, no...the OTHER side, yesss. It's so much...sweeter...eh-heh-heh...<br />
<br />
<i>MONICA, obediantly, rotates the apple, bites from the other side.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: That's it. Eat, my dear. Eat.....<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>chatty, chum to chum, talking with a mouth full of apple</i>) Have you ever like cared about somebody but they don't like care about you? Or maybe, like, they care, but they don't, like, show it? Or maybe they're just, like, using you?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Mmmhmmmm. (<i>leaning forward, conspiratorial</i>) Anyone I know?<br />
<br />
MONICA: As if! Like if you knew you'd just like...you'd be all like, no way! <br />
<br />
LINDA: Try me.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Yeah. I mean no. I mean, like, I wanna tell you, but, like, I said I wouldn't and a promise is a promise.<br />
<br />
LINDA: But a friend is a<i> friend</i>. It's not the same as telling someone else if you tell it to me, my pretty.<br />
<br />
MONICA: OK. So...<br />
<br />
<i>We hear a loud, audible CLICK.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: What was that?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Nothing, nothing. Just my...guess I'm just an old lady and I'm having a little problem with my pipes, dearie. You will excuse me?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Anyth...<br />
<br />
LINDA: I'll be all right.<br />
<br />
<i>INT, bathroom. LINDA removes microcassette recorder from her snatch. Opens it, reverses tape.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Goddamnit, I KNEW I should've gotten the auto-reverse. That's what I get for being a penny pincher...<br />
<br />
<i>She slides it back in. Returns....</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Much better. You were saying?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Try the P...<br />
<br />
LINDA: Just a minute.<br />
<br />
<i>LINDA spreads her legs.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Ah. That's better....<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>EXT, MONICA's apartment. LINDA heading out the door. MONICA saying goodbye. She seems grateful...</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Now, remember what I told you! He needs to make a <i>commitment</i>.<br />
<br />
MONICA: God you're such a friend.<br />
<br />
LINDA: Just trying to help, dearie. <br />
<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hey...you doing anything tonight? Aw...you know I care about you...I'm thinking about you all the time, why do you think I'm calling? So I'm just thinking if you're not doing anything, you want to come over, kiddo? Maybe we could do something. Maybe we could try something new. I'm thinking, like, y'know...you ever suborned purjury before?<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></span></div>
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Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-5257467121184053021997-10-11T06:14:00.000-07:002018-10-11T06:15:46.361-07:00Oral Office 2<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">ORAL OFFICE #2</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">or...<br />
Meatloaf Surprise</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><br />
And so it goes on. The growing scandal. Throbbing just below the surface ready to burst at any moment...<br />
<br />
INT, White House hallway outside the President's office. Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS just standing there like beefeaters. Monolithic. Impassive.<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a Domino's pizza. Goes into President's office...<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by holding a sack of food from McDonalds.<br />
<br />
Next day...<br />
<br />
MONICA walks by with takeout from Long John Silver's.</i><br />
<br />
GUARD #1: Something's up.<br />
<br />
GUARD #2: You got that right.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Go to: INT, Oval Office...<br />
<br />
MONICA and CLINTON sitting together, munching down on Taco Supremes...salsa packets and sacks from Taco Bell scattered recklessly across the room.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: (<i>stupid-happy chewing</i>) God<i>damn</i> this is better than sex.<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>mouth full</i>) Uh-hmmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Goddamn it, I'm the President and I can eat anything I want! To hell with cholesterol! Never say diet!<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>pointing</i>) Mmmm-mmm.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Oh. Here you go, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>He hands her a packet of salsa.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: Mm-ooo.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: You're welcome.<br />
<br />
(<i>They continue munching...in hog heaven</i>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>And then comes President's Day...<br />
<br />
MONICA bursts into the hallway. CLINTON follows. The stone-faced AGENTS watch.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: You bastard!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I'm sorry, kiddo...<br />
<br />
MONICA: My name's not kiddo!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just the thought of honest Abe and little George Washington and the cherry tree. I just cain't...<br />
<br />
MONICA: There's somebody else!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hillary?<br />
<br />
MONICA: I mean somebody <i>else</i> else.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: There's nobody else else. (<i>noticing the Secret Service agents</i>) Oh. Hello, boys. Heh-heh.<br />
<br />
AGENTS: Hello, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Just a little old Christmas pageant we're rehearsing. Page 52. A little method acting, heh-heh...<br />
<br />
AGENTS: Yes, Mister President.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Ain't that right, kiddo? I mean, Miss...<br />
<br />
MONICA: And to think I supersized you!<br />
<br />
<i>She runs out weeping. Runs away...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Great job, kid! Thumbs up! (<i>he does the gesture</i>) That was totally convincing, uh...really like the way you use your instrument.<br />
<br />
<i>CLINTON looks at the AGENTS. They're not buying it. He drops it. Goes back inside the office. They just stand there...<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to: NEWT and STARR in some conspiratorial office cube.<br />
</i><br />
NEWT: Are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: (<i>flush with excitement</i>) I feel like a Jr. G-Man.<br />
<br />
NEWT: I said, are we ready?<br />
<br />
STARR: Herbert Hoover was one of my role models, you know.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Goddamnit...are we ready yes or no?<br />
<br />
STARR: We're ready yes <i>and</i> no.<br />
<br />
NEWT: Argghhhhh....<br />
<br />
STARR: See...ever since <i>you</i> broke the surveillance camera, well, we don't have the smoking gun, so to speak...<br />
<br />
NEWT: But we've got the tape.<br />
<br />
STARR: The tape. Oh the tape...<br />
<br />
NEWT: Oh yeah.<br />
<br />
STARR: <i>Linda's</i> tape.<br />
<br />
NEWT: That's the one.<br />
<br />
STARR: I just forgot all about that...<br />
<br />
<i>STARR smiles. Hands NEWT Linda's tape -- this one labelled "Deep Intern." NEWT pops the tape in a tape recorder. Hits play.</i><br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: C is for cookie...that's good enough for me! C is for cookie...that's good enough for me!<br />
<br />
NEWT: Arrgghhhh!<br />
<br />
COOKIE MONSTER: Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT smashes the tape recorder. Collapses in despair...<br />
<br />
</i>STARR: Don't give up now!<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT moans.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: We'll just have to get another one, won't we?<br />
<br />
<i>NEWT's moans increase -- STARR's not cheering him up. <br />
<br />
LINDA TRIPP appears in a puff of smoke...<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: That can be arranged, my pretties. That can be arranged. Ahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHA!<br />
<br />
STARR: Make her stop!<br />
<br />
NEWT: God, what a woman.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>CUT to: LINDA flying through sky on broom...<br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
INT, Oval Office. CLINTON kneeling in prayer.<br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: Carter committed adultery in his heart -- and thinking's the same as doing it? The Clinton corrollary: as far as I'm concerned, I didn't do it, besides which I repent, so I don't think I'm gonna do it anymore, and that's the same as not doing it. And I defy you to list me <i>one</i> passage in Your Holy Word dealing with blow-jobs as adultery or defining sex qua sex. Just one...hmmm? I didn't think so. Amen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, MONICA and LINDA at breakfast table. LINDA stirring tea. The spoon dissolves. MONICA doesn't notice.<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: Tea?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Oh. Like, <i>thanks.<br />
<br />
LINDA slides the tea to MONICA who lifts it up, sips it.<br />
<br />
</i>MONICA: Mmmm...<br />
<br />
LINDA: It's tannis root.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Is that, like, organic?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Eee-heee-heee...something like that.<i><br />
<br />
</i>MONICA: (<i>sipping</i>) You're really something special, Linda.<br />
<br />
LINDA: Eh-heh-heee. Thanks, dearie.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Thank God I gotta friend in this goddamn town, y'know?<br />
<br />
LINDA: (<i>wincing at the word "God"</i>) Yessss. Apple?<br />
<br />
<i>She hands MONICA an apple. MONICA takes it. Starts to bite.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: No, no, no...the OTHER side, yesss. It's so much...sweeter...eh-heh-heh...<br />
<br />
<i>MONICA, obediantly, rotates the apple, bites from the other side.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: That's it. Eat, my dear. Eat.....<br />
<br />
MONICA: (<i>chatty, chum to chum, talking with a mouth full of apple</i>) Have you ever like cared about somebody but they don't like care about you? Or maybe, like, they care, but they don't, like, show it? Or maybe they're just, like, using you?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Mmmhmmmm. (<i>leaning forward, conspiratorial</i>) Anyone I know?<br />
<br />
MONICA: As if! Like if you knew you'd just like...you'd be all like, no way! <br />
<br />
LINDA: Try me.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Yeah. I mean no. I mean, like, I wanna tell you, but, like, I said I wouldn't and a promise is a promise.<br />
<br />
LINDA: But a friend is a<i> friend</i>. It's not the same as telling someone else if you tell it to me, my pretty.<br />
<br />
MONICA: OK. So...<br />
<br />
<i>We hear a loud, audible CLICK.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: What was that?<br />
<br />
LINDA: Nothing, nothing. Just my...guess I'm just an old lady and I'm having a little problem with my pipes, dearie. You will excuse me?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Anyth...<br />
<br />
LINDA: I'll be all right, dear...<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, bathroom. LINDA waddle-shuffles in, removes microcassette recorder from her snatch. Opens it, reverses tape.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Goddamnit, I KNEW I should've gotten the auto-reverse. That's what I get for being a penny pincher...<br />
<br />
<i>She slides it back in. Starts to leave -- then flushes toilet.<br />
<br />
<br />
Returns....</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Much better. You were saying?<br />
<br />
MONICA: Try the P...<br />
<br />
LINDA: Just a minute.<br />
<br />
<i>LINDA spreads her legs.</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Ah. That's better. And do speak up. (<i>rubbing thighs</i>) My old ears just aren't what they used to be. I'm just an old, old lady.<br />
<br />
MONICA: Oh stop!<br />
<br />
<i>They smile, exchanging glances of affection. </i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Now you were saying?<br />
<br />
<i>MONICA resumes talking...</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>EXT, MONICA's apartment. LINDA heading out the door. MONICA saying goodbye. She seems grateful...</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: Now, remember what I told you! He needs to make a <i>commitment</i>.<br />
<br />
MONICA: God you're such a friend.<br />
<br />
LINDA: Just trying to help, dearie. <br />
<br />
<i>MONICA waves. LINDA waves back. Walks away. Eyes narrowing darkly...<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: Just trying to....help.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, cave, ante-room to hell or rented self-storage space. LINDA, shrouded in darkness and the inward darkness of her inmost hate. Drawing a deadstick in dead dust. Laughing. Drawing the sign of the pentagram...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Which dissolves into the Pentagon. Camera flies down into MONICA's office. MONICA sits. Bored in the loveless warcube. Just staring at the phone. It rings. Sad eyes joyful again. She reaches...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>The duststick stabs into the heart of the pentagram. Dark runes. Dark, gibbering incantations. Dissolve to...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>INT: White House basement. CLINTON on the redhot phone chatting to MONICA. <br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: Well sure I missed you. Course. No it's not just physical -- I mean it. I really missed you, kiddo. You're not like...<i><br />
<br />
Situation maps behind him, blinking with graphics of missiles, global hotspots, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. CLINTON ignores it. Shmoozing on the phone to MONICA. The eternal adolescent...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Hey...here's a thought, kinda wild and crazy thought. You doing anything tonight? Aw...you know I care about you...I'm thinking about you all the time, why do you think I'm calling? So I'm just thinking if you're not doing anything, you want to come over, kiddo? Maybe we could do something. Maybe we could try something new. I'm thinking, like, y'know...you ever suborned purjury before?<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, Oval Office. CLINTON, in his boxers, smiles, greets MONICA as she enters. He holds up two plastic tubs...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Look. I brought some cream cheese.<br />
MONICA: God you're so oral!<br />
CLINTON: It's <i>lite </i>cream cheese...<br />
MONICA: Were you like weaned too soon or something?<br />
CLINTON: Listen, kiddo...<br />
MONICA: Don't call me <i>kiddo.</i><br />
CLINTON: OK, uh...uh...<br />
MONICA: You don't even name -- do you huh? HUH?<br />
<br />
<i>Freeze frame on CLINTON's noggin. Go to cutaway of his brain. Anacin-animated graphic, wheels turning inside his head. We hear a voiceover. CLINTON's voice.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON VOICEOVER: Inski, pinksi, Jerzy Kosinksi...no, no, no Prez on water<i> Being There</i>, Kaczynski, no that's the Unabomber, inski, inski, law, Lawinksi first name mnemonic, mnemonic fat chick in Santa Monica wearing monocle Monocle Lawinski no, no...<i>yes..</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Time unfreezes...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Monica. And it's a beautiful <i>beautiful </i>name...<br />
MONICA: Do you love me?<br />
<br />
<i>Freeze frame. Inside CLINTON's head. Lawyer wheels turning.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON VOICEOVER: Well it depends on your definition of love. The Greeks had -- scratch that. Emotional appeal.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Baby...<br />
<br />
MONICA: Don't baby me, you <i>shmuck</i>. If you <i>really</i> loved me there'd be penetration.<br />
<br />
CLINTON: You know I don't....<br />
<br />
MONICA: Goddamnit...I NEED CLOSURE!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: C'mere, kiddo.<br />
<br />
<i>Her resistance melts. Like two magnetic doggies, they animal-magnetize together, clinch, start to kiss. MONICA slides, down, down, down, out of sight, working. CLINTON reacts -- reaches for shelf -- pulls sax, wails a tune -- Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." CLINTON puts down the sax -- the score still playing. He sings, Meatloaf music accompanying him on the soundtrack... <br />
<br />
</i>CLINTON: Golden glow like McDonald's in the middle of the night<br />
Golden arches glowing, coming just in sight...<br />
Though it's cold and lonely in the White House Night...<br />
I can feel paradise when you suck me tight!<br />
<br />
Ain't no doubt about it<br />
I like it when you fress!<br />
Cause if I do not penetrate<br />
It's not really sex...<br />
<br />
RADIO BROADCAST: OK, here we go, Ken Starr's really got the pressure going in the 16th month of his investigation. Two in jail, 27 indictments including possible obstruction of justice and subornation of perjury but it looks like, once again, William Jefferson Clinton is coming through it without a....<br />
<br />
<i>She pushes him away.</i><br />
<br />
MONICA: Stop right there!<br />
I gotta know right now!<br />
Before we go any further!<br />
Do you love me?<br />
Could you do it above me?<br />
Will you win me -- <br />
Like you'd maybe come in me?<br />
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?<br />
Will you pillory Hillary...will you make me your wife?<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Let me sleep on it...<br />
Baby, baby let me sleep on it...<br />
<br />
MONICA: I gotta know right now...<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Let me sleep on it...<br />
<br />
MONICA: Stop waffling, asshole!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: Let me...<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Yeah, well, we can see where this scene is going. MONICA exits the White House, satisfied, satisfied. Drives away in some insectoid 90210 convertible, wind whipping her hair just like in the commercials....<br />
<br />
<br />
EXT, Washington DC. CLINTON walking smugly on the surface of the reflecting pool...</i><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br />
<i>INT, MONICA's apartment. She enters, holding blue dress. Walks in to bedroom -- puts dress in extremely large walk-in closet. Lots of other dresses hanging there. Fitted with tags reading: Yassir Arafat, Zubin Mehta, Boris Yeltsin, Speedy Alka Seltzer, Larry Harmon, Moahmar Khaddafi, Bigfoot, Deng Whatsisface Ping, etc....<br />
</i><br />
MONICA: Mental note. Make time for self to alphabetize closet.<br />
<br />
<i>She takes a cel-phone off a dresser, punches number. Walks out of bedroom, talking what may or may not be Russian...<br />
<br />
<br />
EXT, Washington DC. CLINTON walking on water -- then sinks.<br />
<br />
<br />
LINDA clutches enormous greenish globe, swirling clouds within revealling all.<br />
<br />
</i>LINDA: Ah-hahaaha...<i><br />
<br />
She reaches out her clawlike hand, expectantly. A FLYING MONKEY brings her the phone. She speed dials....<br />
<br />
<br />
INT, MONICA's apartment. Flour-dusted MONICA whipping up a bundt cake. Looking oddly domestic. Phone cradelled ear to shoulder...</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: What's the dish, dearie?<br />
MONICA: Just between you me and the four walls?<br />
LINDA: My mouth to God's ears.<br />
MONICA: He did the deed.<br />
LINDA: No!<br />
MONICA: Yeah.<br />
LINDA: No...yeah?<br />
MONICA: Yeah.<br />
LINDA: The full nasty?<br />
MONICA: No, but I think like this time he committed himself. Like when the guy's like holding back and you're all like what are you afraid of and...<br />
LINDA: I want details!<br />
MONICA: Swear-to-god you tell nobody?<br />
LINDA: I swear.<br />
MONICA: Swear?<br />
LINDA: Monica! How can you hurt me like that! Who's your friend in this town?<br />
MONICA: Sor-ry.<br />
LINDA: So the dirt.<br />
MONICA: The secret dies with you?<br />
LINDA: Monica!<br />
MONICA: So, OK. Anyway he's like....<br />
<br />
<i>Dish, dish, dish, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt. Go to LINDA's witchy eyrie, MONICA's voice nattering on in moist particularity, camera pulling back to reveal the tangled wires, banks of blinking lights and rows of slowly, slowly turning, reel-to-reel audiotape of LINDA's vast taping system. The system is manned -- or maybe it's better to say monkeyed -- by the FLYING MONKEYS....<br />
<br />
<br />
INT -- White House bedroom.</i><br />
<br />
<i>CLINTON adjusting tie, looking at self in mirror.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: Being in itself, being for others, <i>en-soi, en neant</i>. I'm no goddamn hick...<br />
<br />
<i>A final twist. He winks at himself. SELF winks back, surrealistically off-synch. He strides out of the bathroom, dressed for success. Rooster-like, smug, he walks out of the bathroom, sees HILLARY sitting on the edge of the well-made White House bed.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: My last day of questioning Hillary -- and the Kenster's got nothing on me -- <br />
HILLARY: Nothing?<br />
CLINTON: <i>Rien.</i> Vince Foster suicide, banking conspiracies, one horseshit thing after another. Just one big multimillion dollar goosegg when the rubber meets the road. Enough to make you <i>wanna </i>give 'em some goddamn thing to investigate, know what I'm saying?<br />
<br />
<i>She looks at him darkly. CLINTON smiles back at her -- nervously, boyishly, bullshittishly -- then strides out.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>EXT, Washington Expressway. Presidential limo stopped by cop.<br />
</i><br />
CLINTON: Goddamn it, I'm <i>not </i>a Clinton impersonator.<br />
DRIVER: Sir. I've attempted to...<br />
CLINTON: Anyways when you say stopped, you know, what's stopped. According to Zeno's paradox an arrow moves yet it's an infinite series of points in which the arrow doesn't move, yet somehow....<br />
COP: (<i>ripping up ticket</i>) It's him...<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>INT, STARR CHAMBER, a cliche courtroom, fans turning, galleries of spectators fanning themselves. STARR, playing the underestimate-me fool, bobbles up to CLINTON. MisterRogers seasoned lightly with Anthony Perkins. Tim Conway with a dash of Linda Blair....</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Please...please...gosh, <i>wow</i> you look Presidential in person, anyways...(<i>making like he's in awe -- hands fluttering in aborted, insecure, apologetic gestures</i>) ...what was I saying...anyways, p-please accept my deep apologies for having wasted so much of your time....Mr. President. This is but a mere, mmmm...formality....<br />
CLINTON: (<i>expansively</i>) You got your job to do. I got mine.<br />
STARR: (<i>reading from sheet of paper -- he squints, puts on goofball reading glasses</i>) So, uh, the s-score is...the results. OK. What it says here...uh...this 40 million dollar, uh, sheet of p-paper, anyways, it says you're clear on Whitewater, Simon pure when it comes to Travelgate, Filegate's neither here nor there, old Vince pulled a Brody, the rest of it's he said, she said and...mmm...(<i>adjusting ridiculous reading specs</i>) evidently, uh, looks like evidently you evidently did not kill the dinosaurs or Jesus Christ. I think we're just about ready to wrap this up. One last question?<br />
CLINTON: Hit me.<br />
STARR: Have you ever cheated on your wife? (<i>Gotcha! Gotcha! Gotcha! Now Boyscout pissant prissy...</i>) Remember Mr. President...you <i>are</i> under oath.<br />
<br />
<i>No reaction in CLINTON's face. He eyes STARR. STARR eyes him back.<br />
<br />
Above, the turning fans turn slower...slower...<br />
<br />
Distorted sound. Dramatic thud. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Cut to: star-spattered black of deep space, suns, planets, asteroids wheeling. Clockwork racheting on the soundtrack...<br />
<br />
And then the machinery of the heavens impercetibly slows and stops, the grinding, chittering clockwork noise of the heavenly spheres turning to terrible silence as CLINTON approaches the cusp of this decision point -- that mystic whatsis poised in the realm of the transcendental unity of apperception, in time but outside of time, clown's mouth at the end of the funhouse ride where you gotta get off -- CLINTON's astral body roaring down the downside of the cosmic rollercoaster, approaching, I say, the delta-T of choice, that terrible mystery by which, moment by moment, we create and destroy infinite universes with every act, OK, whatever. Drumroll. The envelope please.</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: No I did not.<br />
<br />
<i>Flags across America burst spontaneously into flame; mystic runes coagulate in the alphabet soup of children everywhere spelling dark messages of doom; a skeleton begs for a crust of bread; Sting bursts spontaneously into flame; the car won't start; <br />
flaming angels fall from the heavens; the veil in the Holy of Holies rips from top to bottom; she doesn't return your phone calls; the crack in the Liberty Bell widens; he does return your phone calls; the statue of Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial cries a single bloody tear; dogs howl; milk curdles; a rough rude beast slouches to Bethlehem to be born as a stupid monk, poking his head out of this world into the machinery of time space and dimension and going oh wow, gets his head crushed by the once-more turning heavenly spheres.<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>INT, VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY STAR<br />
<br />
NIXON rampant in the Satan throne. NEWT, HELMS and other Republican orcs thronging around him in a spasm of celebration, LINDA TRIPP dancing widdershins, clutching her hands and cackling. Yep, we're feeling good on the old VRWCS tonight -- that good old Walpurgisnacht groove so thick you could cut it. Only KEN STARR seems unmoved. Oddly centered....</i><br />
<br />
NIXON: Ah, I feel a surge in the dark side. Yes. Yes...<br />
<br />
<i>Clenching fists together drawing bluewhite forks of energy into himself...</i><br />
<br />
<i>KEN STARR smiles.<br />
<br />
Part Mona Lisa...<br />
<br />
Part Quaker Oats man...<br />
<br />
And even the dancing devils scream with fear.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
<br />
LINDA: (roaring through the sky on her broom) Ah-hahahahaha!<br />
<br />
KEN STARR<br />
<br />
's neighborhood<br />
<br />
wow. When I grow up I wanna be President.<br />
<i>I am your father search your feelings you know it to be true.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
INT, White House hallway outside the President's office. Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS just standing there. Groaning sex noises from within.<i><br />
<br />
</i>MONICA: Oh....ohhhh....SUPERSIZE ME!<i><br />
<br />
They don't react.</i><br />
<br />
</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It could be worse.<br />
How could it be worse...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
STARR: <br />
<br />
<i>I am your father search your feelings you know it to be true.<br />
<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
No problem<br />
<br />
One last question<br />
<br />
Shoot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i>Case </span></div>
Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-53178387242391124581997-10-05T06:06:00.000-07:002018-10-11T06:07:16.862-07:00Oral Office 3<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">INT, the backroom. MONICA tied Betty Pageishly to a chair. KEN STARR appears holding a rubber truncheon.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MONICA: Hey!</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">STARR: You're probably expecting good cop bad cop. I'm both. You've really been used here. I sympathize. (<i>wickedly cracking her a slantways blow with truncheon</i>) And I'll fuck you up if you don't hand me that fucker's balls. (<i>different personality</i>) Hey stop that! (<i>hitting her</i>) I own you -- you fucking cunt. You don't mean shit to me. (<i>nice guy</i>) I said LEAVE HER ALONE! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He again raises a hand to hit her, grabs his truncheon hand with his other hand, falls to the floor, wrestles with himself, screaming insanely in alternating voices. MONICA screams in pure terror. STARR gets upoff the floor. Walks up to her. Looking down at her with dead doll-in-a-trashcan eyes...</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">STARR: Can we be friends?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">INT, White House breakfast table, CHELSEA, HILLARY and BILL CLINTON. Thick, fart-in-church silence. No servants. Just a just-folks family breakfast...</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON: Well I reckon we still gotta eat. (<i>offering plate</i>) Sausage?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">HILLARY: No!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON: How 'bout some butter then...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He lifts lid of margarine tub.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MARGARINE TUB: Blowjob.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON: I said <i>butter.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MARGARINE TUB: Blowjob.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON: Butter?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MARGARINE TUB: Blowjob.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He throws the tub across the room.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MARGARINE TUB: Blowjobbbb.......</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON: Try something else then. (<i>lifting lid off plate</i>) Macadamia nuts?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CHELSEA: (<i>howling -- runs up from table</i>) Agghhhhhhhhh!</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">HILLARY scowls. Punches his lights out.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">CLINTON wakes up. Alone on the floor, birdies and stars twirling around his head. The margarine tub rolls to him. Stops.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">MARGARINE TUB: Blowjob.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He hears tinkling sounds. Looks up at TV to see....</span></i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">KEN STARR's NEIGHBORHOOD</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
<i>KEN STARR walks out of house carrying garbage can filled with shredded constitution...</i><br />
<br />
KEN STARR: Hello. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, it's time to chop off the morning wood...could you be mine? Would you be mine? Please come inside with me or I will kill you now.<br />
<br />
<i>The camera follows him in.</i><br />
<br />
KEN STARR: You may have noticed I don't blink. That's because the voices in my head adjust my pupils so the light doesn't hurt me. (<i>holding up President Clinton doll</i>) Do you like to play with dolls? I do. Somebody once said you can't go down the toilet. (<i>dropping Clinton doll in toilet</i>) But they're wrong. (<i>flushing toilet</i>) It felt like God to do that. God sends bad people to hell. When we send bad people to hell we're helping God. If you've done anything bad God will find you. Or I will. (<i>smiling</i>) No one can hide from Mister Starr.<br />
<br />
MISTER MAILMAN: Speedy delivery! Speedy delivery!<br />
<br />
KEN STARR: Come in!<br />
<br />
<i>MISTER MAILMAN enters. Drops a sack of dripping rubbery sex toys and moist cigars at STARR's feet.</i><br />
<br />
STARR: Bad people must be punished -- don't you think so boys and girls? Let's go to the neighborhood of Make-It-Bleed! Let's go right inside that tiny little hole...to the other side!<br />
<br />
<i>The Magic Trolley appears, goes through a hole in the wall, into the neighborhood of Make-It-Bleed where a wooden-headed CLINTON DOLL gestures from a fakey puppet White House. The other stupid puppets applaud him. KEN STARR, of course, is doing all the voices...</i><br />
<br />
CLINTON: I am King Bubba the Large!<br />
<br />
HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: Meow, meow, we love King Bubba the Large!<br />
<br />
CLINTON: I command you to suck my dick!<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Back on the floor, CLINTON goes arrggghhh, pulls himself up to the feet, staggers to the TV, finds a clicker. He clicks -- from channel to channel, it's all about his dick. Madonna, on MTV, urges national repentence. MSNBC has a large USA map resembling a weather map complete with graphics of dicks and mouths. CNN has a running tickertape display at the bottom that reads like the last chapter of Ulysees. Unavision is a gabble of Spanish punctuated by "Monica"..."El Presidente Clinton"...."blowjob"..."masturbacion"...DOLE appears on C-SPAN, a Frankenstein's monster, piteously human in its inhumanity....<br />
<br />
</i>DOLE: Dole said...where outrage? Dole penis safe. Dole intern safe. Dole wife safe. But too late now. Dick out of barn. Where outrage? Presidential dignity. Dole say, think of the children...<br />
<br />
<i>Cut to two male adolescents pulling out centerfold from </i>The Economist.<br />
<br />
TEEN#1: Wow.<br />
TEEN#2: When I grow up I wanna be President!<br />
<br />
KEN STARR addressing...<br />
<br />
He sleeps. Dreams of a vast, nationwide repentance.<br />
<br />
Witches are stoned. Stoned people are stoned.</span></span></div>
Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-79996737515638209021996-08-16T10:26:00.000-07:002011-09-04T10:39:09.275-07:00Businessman's Lunch #2Flamo: Behold, Jesus Christ ...<br />
<div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><div class="post-header"></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4180680457918953684"><br />
Businessmen: Booo!<br />
<br />
Flamo: The RepubliChrist.<br />
<br />
Businessmen: Yayyyy!<br />
<br />
Flamo: The character actor shown here represents Jesus Christ for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to indicate an actual divine manifestation, or endorsement of the Republican party, or endorsement of the Christian purposes by the Republican party except for entertainment purposes.<br />
<br />
JC: Thanks guy. Hey!I just want to say I'm proud to be a part of the American family, and proud to be a part of what we're doing today. Because together we can make the American dream come true for all Americans in America. Family values--isn't that what the dream is all about? As God in human form I invented the family -- I'm all for it. But what does family really mean?<br />
<br />
Businessmen: No fags!<br />
<br />
JC: Exactly right! What does it mean?<br />
<br />
They think. We hear crickets.<br />
<br />
JC: Palatial homes, college for your children, a comfortable life in your<br />
retirement years -- even if it means getting hairplugs and trading in your<br />
first wife. So let's say "no" to fathers without families and no handouts to<br />
families without fathers. Suffer the little children--it was true when I said<br />
it 2,000 years ago, and it's still here today. <br />
<br />
Lower taxes; save our children; build up a firmer policy with immigrants.<br />
Yes, America is a land of immigrants, but you have to have your papers--and<br />
we got here first.<br />
<br />
The poor will always be with you -- theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven, and I<br />
for one don't want to take that away from them.<br />
<br />
Blessed are the rich for they've got theirs.<br />
<br />
Blessed are the warmakers, for<br />
they shall get contracts from the D.O.D. Blessed are they who take, for the<br />
law shall be with them. <br />
<br />
The talk rolls on incessantly -- a resistless tide of words. The REPUBLICHRIST ducks out of there, takes a check from FLAMO on the way out. More speakers appear.<br />
<br />
About an hour into this, each table is visited by its own S. Clay Wilsonesque DEMON -- the SATANARIANS greet the DEMONS warmly -- lotsa back-slapping and gladhanding.<br />
<br />
The talk rolls on, as does the food. Every 45 minutes or so the WAITERS emerge with more food. The SATANARIANS eat, helplessly engorging themselves on what, by now, are the equivalent of 6 or 7 main courses. Subtly, subliminally, what started as fine cuisine becomes progressively more vile. Until the WAITERS, at last are bringing out: Entrails. Worms. Roadkill on a Stick. The SATANARIANS are stinking drunk by now. But one of them, at finally, notices.<br />
<br />
DEMON: (farting outrageously) Ahhh ... ahhhhhhhhh.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Say Bud, think you could hold it inside?<br />
<br />
DEMON: Could if I wanted to. But it just. Feels. So. Good.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: What is this?<br />
<br />
WAITER: Liver.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Thye're palying the rocky theme</i><br />
<br />
SATANARIAN: (pointing) I didn't order that!<br />
<br />
SATANARIAN #2: Mmmm. There's something moving in there. Mmmmpppfffff.<br />
<br />
DEMON: (holding bowl in front of his mouth) Don't waste it!<br />
<br />
(He pukes vast soppy chunks into the bowl.)<br />
<br />
DEMON: (offering bowl) Tastes better the second time.<br />
<br />
S#2: (puking) Mmmmfffffff!<br />
<br />
<i>The DEMON catches all in the bowl--drinks all. </i><br />
<br />
TEXAN: Garcon!<br />
<br />
DEMON: I'd simmer down if I were you. We haven't even had dessert yet.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Well you sure as hell AIN'T me and I sure as hell didn't order that...that whatever it is.<br />
<br />
DEMON: Listen--can I give you a piece of advice.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: It's a free goddamn country, ain't it?<br />
<br />
DEMON: If Satan's picking up the check, Satan gets to order what he wants. And you'd better eat it.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Hell no.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: That's the way it is for the victims but it sure as hell ain't the way it is<br />
for me.<br />
<br />
Victims?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: You know what I mean--<br />
<br />
WAITER: May I help you sir?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Take this back and give me a goddamn steak. Well-done.<br />
<br />
WAITER: Yessir.<br />
<br />
TEXANS: All the whiners--you know. All that victim psychology. Making somebody else responsible for their own personal failures--when anybody knows if you want something all you gotta do is take it. Ain't no excuses.<br />
<br />
DEMON: Just take it?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: You got it.<br />
<br />
DEMON: Even if you hurt somebody?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Well hell, that's what it's all about ain't it? Big fish eats the little fish, dog eats dog. Somebody's gotta win, somebody's gotta lose--and somebody's gotta get hurt.<br />
<br />
DEMON: What if you want to hurt somebody just because you want to hurt somebody? Just because you can do it?<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Well that's OK, too, heheheh. That's what makes them other people victims--and what makes us Republicans.<br />
<br />
DEMON: HEhehehe.<br />
<br />
SATANARIAN: What the hell IS that? There's an EYE in there.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: Get a load of him, my my, goddamn pussy can't take responsibility for his own damn plate. Me on the other hand--I send it back. <br />
<br />
SATANARIAN: <br />
<br />
TEXAN: You're all right, pard, my kinda folks. Truth is, I kinda like settin'<br />
people up to fall. Like these college kids I found out about workin' for this outfit<br />
here in California. Buncha goddamn socialists. They thought, well hell, the<br />
cable<br />
companies and TV studios and production companies had a lock on the medium.<br />
So they worked up this digital editing thing, just the little plug in<br />
board--did it on their own time, garage programming--and they planned to sell it for something like<br />
$2,000<br />
American dollars so any goddamn punk with a Video Toaster could do studio<br />
quality production work--studio quality editing and effects--and then go mix<br />
and match tapes, make copies, make their own damn movies, decumentaries,<br />
ray-por-tage just as cheap and easy as you please, workers of the world<br />
unite. So I just went into their home office and handed the C.E.O. a<br />
briefcase of money under the table--and told him to kill it. He sent the word<br />
down this ain't worth our time, market this, positioning that--the usual<br />
doubletalk. He tells me they just stood their with their goddamn mouths open,<br />
hehhehheh....but sir, we don't understand...well no, hell no, they don't,<br />
hehheheh...<br />
<br />
DEMON: HEhhehheh...<br />
<br />
TEXAN: and they couldn't believe their little revolution would not be<br />
televised--and he couldn't even give 'em a good reason. But I knew. Hehehehe.<br />
Just the way it goddamn is. Hehehehe. I wish I coulda seen their faces.<br />
<br />
DEMON: I think I know what they looked like.<br />
<br />
TEXAN: And what would that be, pard?<br />
<br />
DEMON: Something like this.<br />
<br />
<i>The DEMON reaches out--clutches onto a bit of twisted bric-a-brac on the hearth, pulls. The entire floor of the restaurant opens up, suddenly, like an enormous trap door. The SATANARIANS fall, screaming, into the flames below. The DEMONS fly upwards. Moments later, the restaurant snaps back into place. WAITERS emerge, holding oval trays with the roasted remains of the former company, mouths stuffed with apples, skin glazed a la Cook Thief Wife Lover Pierce Fenner and Bean.</i><br />
<br />
DEMON: Mmmmmm! Tasty, tasty fat Republicans--just the way I like 'em!<br />
<br />
DEMON: (<i>sucking out the eye-sockets of somebody's head</i>) It's skull-licious! </div></div></div>Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-33227014337298575721996-08-01T10:27:00.000-07:002011-09-04T10:41:50.540-07:00Businessman's Lunch<div class="post-header"></div>EXT: Holiday Inn. One of the old fashioned signs with jittery neon star and marquee. Askew plastic letters announce: WELCOME FAUST & MEPHISTOPHELES. Rain pounding down. The camera closes. To the restaurant--<br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-772383796153776116"><br />
<i>Another neon sign cries out: FLAMING PIT.</i><br />
<br />
INT: FLAMING PIT. Preparations going on for a local-yokel civic gathering.<br />
FLAMO, (a.ka. Jacques Flambeau, ex-circus performer, businessman, cannibal)<br />
is storming about in red hood, red costume, red flowing cape. Barking orders<br />
at the busboys and in general trying to micromanage everything. FLAMO walks<br />
past one busboy, does a doubletake.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: What did you just do?<br />
BUSBOY: I jus kinda cleared offa table, y'know.<br />
FLAMO: You cleared off the table?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Whatever.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: You mean--the crumbs? You cleared off the crumbs?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Whatever.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: Just sort of swept it off--like this?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Yeah, like, y'know, it's like...messy eaters.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: With your hand?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Yeah, like...y'know.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: Onto the floor?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Yeah.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: With your hand?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Well, y'know.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: (holding up odd-looking metallic intrument) Do you know what THIS is?<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: (frightened) I'm REAL sorry, Mr. Flamo.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: This is a crumber, hmmm? A crumber. And with the crumber we sweep the<br />
crumbs off the clean white linen. Like this. (pantomiming)<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: Cool. Didjoo invent that?<br />
<br />
FLAMO: No. My second point. (hissing -- getting in his face) We do not EVER<br />
EVER EVER sweep the crumbs onto the floor. We sweep the crumbs into our<br />
HANDS.<br />
<br />
BUSBOY: But that's like...it's been in somebody's mouth, OK?<br />
FLAMO: What do we do with the crumbs?<br />
BUSBOY: (muttering) Into our hands.<br />
FLAMO: What?<br />
BUSBOY: We sweep the crumbs into our hands.<br />
FLAMO: Good. And then...what do we do with the crumbs?<br />
BUSBOY: Uh. We uh, we like bring 'em back in the kitchen and put 'em in the<br />
garbage.<br />
FLAMO: Good. (brushing invisible, pantomime crumbs into his hands) Go and do<br />
likewise.<br />
<br />
DARTH VADER-like, FLAMO walks off, trailing cape behind him. BUSBOY watches<br />
him go, looks down at his hands. Almost brushes invisible crumbs onto floor<br />
-- but stops, afraid. Walks into kitchen, brushes invisible crumbs into<br />
garbage can, then brushes hands together, wipes hands on pants, shudders.<br />
<br />
Go to: long shot from above, INT of the restaurant. Sound quality has<br />
changed: the get-together's just begun, folks are milling about, yapping,<br />
sitting down. We see a huge fireplace and oversized video monitor at one end.<br />
Bland decor, emphasis on red, phony-baloney sheet-rock on the walls and<br />
ornately-carved pseudo-Spanish chairs with overstuffed vinyl seating. Lotsa<br />
fat, cigar-chomping bidnessmen types (with a smattering of wimmin). Loud,<br />
ribald, drunk--the SATANARIANS.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: (taking the podium) Good evening, and WELCOME, my friends. How the<br />
hell are you tonight? (they laugh) Yes, yes. I got my eye on you, Ralph.<br />
How're you doing? OK, OK. Welcome to our 10th annual celebration of EVIL --<br />
tonight's once-of-a-lifetime event will be featuring a live, pay-for-view<br />
coverage of the Republican National Convention on our state-of-the-art video<br />
monitor. This treat is on us, of course -- you've certainly earned your front<br />
row seats. And you may notice another little gift...<br />
<br />
Go to MED shot one of the tables. One of the BUSINESSMEN looks down. There's<br />
a lucite chip (in the shape of an inverted-7) holding a digital clock. The<br />
legend reads: "SATANARIANS: 1796-1996. The end is near!" He purses his lips,<br />
nods to himself in a self-satisfied way, puts the clock down. It clicks to:<br />
6:66.<br />
<br />
FLAMO: Thanks to you, my dear merchants, we have succeeded in making Evil an<br />
acceptable lifestyle choice both here in America and throughout today's<br />
emerging global economy. We have moved from a world that thinks in terms of<br />
"right and wrong" to one in which "winning and losing" are the only moral<br />
categories. And, as the great poet Auden once pointed out, "the only two<br />
sexes are the weak and the strong."<br />
<br />
BUSINESSMAN: (Texas accent) What's that mean, exactly?<br />
<br />
FLAMO: It means without power you're fucked.<br />
<br />
(They laugh)<br />
<br />
FLAMO: Hear now, the words of a great damned soul--Richard M. Nixon.<br />
<br />
BIDNESSMAN: The bird is cruel!<br />
<br />
(They all shield their eyes)<br />
<br />
FLAMO: Channelled, in a gesture of hellish irony, through the possessed body<br />
of Hillary Clinton. Behold -- Nixon's advice to the Republican media<br />
handlers... </div><span class="post-author vcard"> </span><span class="post-comment-link"><a class="comment-link" href="https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=345052541839184472&postID=772383796153776116"><br />
</a> </span>Marty Fugatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05077693961075517845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-538506654318565531996-07-23T15:41:00.000-07:002011-02-13T15:42:22.966-08:00Xuder Noxin(a response to Ollie Stoned's <span style="font-style: italic;">Nixon</span>) <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Open longshot, ext: the White House. Boiling clouds in a time lapse sky--a writhing maelstrom of evil right outta "Something Wicked This Way Comes," the book that is, not the dumbass movie.</span> <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The camera pulls back and we see --</span> <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">That the White House is inside a glass sphere.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Pull back --</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">And we see a wizened old hand holding the sphere. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Pull back --</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Nixon, mummified, phlebitic, hunched forward in a Craftmatic adjustible bed with oxygen tanks on one side, ziggurats of pill bottles on the other.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Extreme c.u.: Nixon's eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Jump cut to --</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Extreme c.u.: Nixon's mouth.</div><div class="MsoNormal">NIXON: Rosebud.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Medium shot, Nixon in bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">C.U. -- Nixon's hand. The hand relaxes; the ball drops, shatters.</div><span style="font-style: italic;">Dead stop: freeze frame. Then, Stephen Hawking style, time's arrow reverses -- the glass shards converge, vectors of motion congealing into a perfect sphere which shoots up into the hand which neatly catches the sphere.</span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">NOXIN: Budesor.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">And, now, the trip begins. Distorted, backwards-playing Roger Corman acidhead music playing to razor-cut Moviola Eisenstein mishmoshmontage of Checker's speech; G. Gordon Liddy melting into Jim West on "the Wild Wild West" melting into the Grateful Dead's Statue of Liberty shoving torch up the ass of JFK; bombs falling up; longhair on armies of freaks growing backwards; microfilm inside a pumpkin which turns out to be a human head; Linus screaming "Auuuggghh"; "the whole world is"--zzzzzt--", stronger, faster, cleaner!"; burning Cambodians; National Guard Troops shooting tiny little college students at a Funhouse Arcade; Flo and Eddie freaking out in Centerville;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Frank Zappa melting into Jerry Voorhees melting into Pat Brown melting into the Soylent Majority -- men of dust, like grey, granular snowmen, marching in perfect formation on an infinite plane, then blown away by a wind from nowhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Hold on the nothingness, the dust.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;">Oliver Stone appears dressed as Hobo Kelly; sadfaced, he sweeps up the dust into a dustpan; a spotlight holds on the dust, diminishes, until the Stone Clown sweeps up the last fragments of light as well and there is nothing but darkness.</div><div class="MsoNormal">NOXIN: Thgil eb ereht tel.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest is Soylent.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-91175280738358180401996-02-13T14:59:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:59:51.286-08:00THE BI-SATAN-ENNIALGETZ: The..the Bi-Satan-Eennial?<br />
NIXON: Yes. A celebration of the true Amerikan Government.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-86124549538288148341996-02-13T14:58:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:58:35.988-08:00AloneOPEN: multiplane animation effect--the camera swoops down from above through<br />
battered, postindustrial urban decay: the discarded skeleton of what could be<br />
any once-great American city. We close in a glass-strewn alley where a tiny<br />
little mouse is shivering: FEIVEL, alone, looking forlorn. Music up.<br />
<br />
FEIVEL: (singing) Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight...<br />
<br />
An enormous, #17 army boot descends from above, stomping the rodent into<br />
Feivel pate' -- pull back to show the DOLEMAN, looking forlorn.<br />
<br />
DOLE: Dole alone and afraid in world Dole never made.<br />
<br />
ROBOMONKEY: (from high above city streets) ROBO already use that line.<br />
<br />
A can of pineapples bounces off DOLE's head. DOLE stomps on, not noticing. It<br />
begins to rain. Drops spattering on, then sliding of, DOLE's grey, lifeless<br />
skin like an infomercial demo for some new autobody sealant. Sound: thunder.<br />
More rain. The drops begin hitting the electrodes in the sides of his neck,<br />
sizzling, popping with blue sparks, as smoke begins to rise. <br />
<br />
DOLE: Dole want Yvonne De Carlo.<br />
<br />
His dead arm rises involuntarily, obscenely. We hear music: "I'm All Alone in<br />
the World," from "the Mister Magoo Christmas Carol." DOLE begins singing.<br />
<br />
DOLE: Where am voice to answer Dole back?<br />
Where two shoes to click to my clack?<br />
Dole all alone in the world.<br />
<br />
Cut to: another deserted street where a tiny little car is sputtering along<br />
unnoticed. Yet another mouse, STUART LITTLE, is driving.<br />
<br />
STUART: Fuck you, Margalo--eat worms and die. "I'll fly away. I'll fly away."<br />
Fucking birds. They're all the same.<br />
<br />
Cut to: Xtreme c-u of DOLE's hideous, inhuman boot stomping down ominously...<br />
<br />
Cut to: DR. FRANKENSTEEN and EYEGORE (the pop-eyed Marty Feldman) on the roof<br />
of an enormous highrise. Light rain, lightning in the sky behind them. DR.<br />
FRANKENSTEEN is furiously cranking an old Victrola which is playing "I'm All<br />
Alone in the World" from its ridiculously large horn. Indolently, EYEGORE is<br />
leaning up against a wall reading the "National Enquirer." A few raindrops<br />
spatter the pages, but he ignores it.<br />
<br />
EYEGORE: Look at this, boss. Sez here a woman gave birth to a live mouse.<br />
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: (cranking furiously) That's disgusting.<br />
EYEGORE: Sez he could talk like the first week after. They made him like this<br />
little suit and a little car and everything.<br />
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: And you believe it?<br />
EYEGORE: It's in the paper.<br />
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: I'll tell you what--instead of filling your mind with the<br />
rubbish of the gutter press, why don't you crank it for awhile? Do you think<br />
you could crank it?<br />
<br />
EYEGORE, smiling twistedly, begins turning the handle much too fast. The<br />
music plays, Chipmunk-style:<br />
<br />
Where are two shoes to click to my clack?<br />
Where is a voice to answer mine back?<br />
I'm all alone in the world<br />
<br />
STREETNOISES: (garbled) Turn shut that you fucking off fucking thing shit up!<br />
<br />
EYEGORE: Thanks, and hope we passed the audition. Want me to urinate on them<br />
boss?<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: No, no, no--we can't do that until we're in power. How many<br />
times have I told you?<br />
<br />
(retardedly, EYEGORE begins counting on his fingers)<br />
<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: I only hope he hears this--he's alone out there. Lost.<br />
EYEGORE: Stomping on mice.<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: I only hope we find him. Before it's too late. (looking at<br />
camera -- suddenly brightening with hope) Perhaps you could help us find him?<br />
Do you think you could help? (looking away, disgusted) No. Forget it. What<br />
was I thinking. Forget I said anything. (to EYEGORE) Just keep cranking.<br />
<br />
Cut to: c-u twisted leer on EYEGORE's face.<br />
<br />
Cut to: silhouette of darknened, dangerous city streets. The music plays. At<br />
regular intervals, tiny mice squeek out in agony.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-30176299517405204271996-02-13T14:55:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:56:02.393-08:00CrimeGETZ: My opponent is soft on crime. He thinks criminals have "rights." He<br />
thinks criminals should be treated like "human beings." He coddles criminals.<br />
Just take a look at what could've happened.<br />
<br />
Exterior: Raiford Prison. We see a series of revolving turnstiles, one marked<br />
SERIAL KILLERS, then CHILD MOLESTERS, MURDERERS, etc. A CRIMINAL emerges from<br />
one of them, notices CHILES' large, black limousine.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Hello. Yoo-hoo. Mr. Criminal.<br />
<br />
CRIMINAL reacts, not believing he's being addressed.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Yes, you. I mean you. I'm here for you. Come here...<br />
<br />
Childlike, the CRIMINAL runs over to the CHILES's open window, leans in.<br />
CHILES begins stroking his head.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Oh. You poor criminal. Oh--just look at you. Were they mean to you?<br />
CRIMINAL: (crying) They yelled at me and did bad things.<br />
CHILES: There, there...<br />
<br />
The CHAUFFEUR lets the CRIMINAL gets into CHILES' limo. They drive off.<br />
CHILES cuddles him, rocks him comforts him.<br />
<br />
GETZ: Is that what we want? Is that what they deserve? I don't think so.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Exterior: country road. Warm color values. Pine forrest one side, a lake on<br />
the other. A little kid in a straw hat is fishing. We hear a fish jump.<br />
CHILES walks into frame, notices us, begins talking in a casual, friendly<br />
way.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Maybe you've seen that ad. Maybe it's supposed to be funny. They've<br />
got an actor pretending to be me pick up some thug outside of Raiford. I<br />
don't know. I don't think it's funny. And it's not true. I don't like<br />
negative campaining--and I hate to even respond to that kind of thing. But I<br />
don't coddle criminals--I hate criminals. I have personally sent 5 of them to<br />
the electric chair last year alone. (getting a weird look on his face) And I<br />
liked it.<br />
<br />
Interior: execution chamber at Raiford. Another CRIMINAL sitting in "old<br />
sparky." CHILES looking in from the viewing window, rubbing his hands,<br />
gloating.<br />
<br />
CHILES: How's it feel, huh? How's it feel? I might just go ahead and give you<br />
a stay--not.* Haha! (looking off camera) Do it.<br />
<br />
Sound: bugzapping noise. Light effect flashing on CHILES' face like something<br />
in a Frankenstein movie. He laughs, gloating, relishing it.<br />
<br />
Go to title effect: campaign logo.<br />
<br />
VO: Vote Chiles for governor in '92. He send 5 killers straight to hell.<br />
<br />
Cutaway square opens bottom right. CHILES face.<br />
<br />
CHILES: And I liked it.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
GETZ: Well Chiles says he's tough on crime. Chiles says he likes sending<br />
people to the chair. Liked it, huh? Five in one year doesn't sound like he<br />
liked it--or maybe he did. There's such a thing as quality, fine. But I'm<br />
going to give you quantity, Florida. He did five a year. I'm going to do five<br />
in one week, every week--that's my pledge.<br />
<br />
GETZ FOR GOVERNOR<br />
...turning up the current in '92<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
CHILES: Getz points his finger at me again like that I'm gonna cut it<br />
off--you hear me, boy? You're not from around here, are you? (nodding head) I<br />
think he's from New York. And you say I don't wanna fry these people? What do<br />
you know? Blame the State Legislature, not me. I swear, people--get rid of<br />
the legislature, give me full dictatorial powers, and you'll start to see the<br />
SPARKS fly. I'll do better than five in one week. I'll do more than that--and<br />
I'll make sure the job gets done right, because I will personally pull the<br />
plug on each and every one.<br />
<br />
(We see CHILES' hand go to the switch and pull. Sound and light effect).<br />
<br />
VO: Chiles for governor. Because the hand the signs the laws will be the hand<br />
that pulls the switch.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
GETZ: Now Chiles says he's tough on crime. Now he says he favors the death<br />
penalty. He says he's going to personally pull the switch--but is that really<br />
enough? Death<br />
is nearly instantaneous in the electric chair. Their victims didn't have it<br />
so good. Their victims suffered. Is that really fair?<br />
<br />
Cut to shots of normal people.<br />
WOMAN: I think the chair's too good for that human scum.<br />
REDNECK: Gimme five minues alone. Just five minutes.<br />
<br />
GETZ: I hear you people. I'm listening--and I'm going to kill them. I,<br />
personally, will make them suffer. Not on the other side of a piece of glass.<br />
Not impersonally, pulling a switch on the wall. One on one--with me. It's<br />
going to be cruel. It's going to be unusual.<br />
<br />
Cut to: interior, death cage chamber. Steel cage with rows and rows of<br />
screaming people looking down. A CRIMINAL is ejected through a hole in the<br />
wall. From another, GETZ emerges in a black gi. CRIMINAL reacts with fear,<br />
but there's no way out. GETZ advances...<br />
<br />
GETZ: (to the crowd) Remember my promise?<br />
<br />
They cheer. GETZ leaps up in the air, does a wheelkick to the side of the<br />
CRIMINAL's head. Bones crack. The prisoner falls, holding his head, blood<br />
gushing out of his fingers.<br />
<br />
GETZ: That's one...<br />
<br />
GETZ leaps again. The prisoner begins screaming. Go to: extreme cu open<br />
mouth.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
CHILES: (crouched in the shadows of an alley, dressed in black, Ninja style)<br />
Getz says he's going to make them suffer--and we're supposed to be impressed.<br />
Maybe he thinks people are stupid--but did it ever occur to him that killing<br />
these people, however you do it, ain't gonna do a lot of good once they<br />
already committed their crimes? That's why you've got to stop this kind of<br />
thing...before it starts. <br />
<br />
(Two thugs walk in: we hear sounds, vicious stabbing, bone-cracking, noises,<br />
and then the thugs fall.<br />
<br />
CHILES: Some people talk about a war on crime: I'm doing it, "Death Wish"<br />
style, one criminal at a time on a one-man crusade. (smiling) And we're<br />
saving money, too...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* a popular catch phrase of that era.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-38083524300517821171996-02-13T14:53:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:55:00.709-08:00Dole UnleashedOpen: INT, Press Conference. DOLE staggers up to the podium led by DR.<br />
FRANKENSTEEN. Vulture-like, the REPORTERS wait.<br />
<br />
REPORTER: What is your position on the abortion platform?<br />
REPORTER #2: What is your platform on the abortion position?<br />
DOLE: Dole stand on platform.<br />
GAY REPUBLICAN: What about the Log Cabin Republicans?<br />
GAY REPUBLICAN #2: (dressed as Aunt Jemima) What about the Aunt Jemima<br />
Republicans?<br />
DOLE: Dole change mind. Take check from anybody. That Republican way.<br />
REPORTER: Do you believe in abortion in cases of rape or incest?<br />
DOLE: (hitting head with fists) Dole confused!<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: (whispering) Careful. He's got that Baptist haircut.<br />
R#3: Certain members of the Christian Coalition believe it's a question of<br />
predestination...<br />
DOLE: Dole Pelagian.<br />
R#3: What about alien abduction? What about the Alien in "Alien 3."<br />
WAYNE: Yeah. If you like, beamed it out with a transporter or something it'd<br />
be like an alien abortion.<br />
GARTH: Ewwwwwww.<br />
DOLE: Depend if alien fetus have consciousness.<br />
R#3: But fetuses don't have consciousness...they have souls.<br />
DOLE: Dole don't know that. Only God know. But if Alien accept Jesus Christ<br />
as personal savior and join Republican Party, then alien saved. <br />
<br />
(the Reporters applaud)<br />
<br />
DOLE: Alien act like Republican.<br />
R#3: What about late term live fetal abortions?<br />
DOLE: Dole no like--but doctor decide. Is sometimes only way.<br />
R#3: When? When is murder EVER justified?<br />
DOLE: Dole show. Look at diagram.<br />
<br />
(DR. FRANKENSTEEN pushes a button. On a large screen, a slide is projected: a<br />
cutaway drawing of the White House where, fetus-like, a naked CLINTON is<br />
crouched in the womb-like cavity therein, hands balled-up in tiny little<br />
fists)<br />
<br />
DOLE: Must cut out or country die. Must have hard choices.<br />
R#3: How?<br />
DOLE: Next slide please.<br />
<br />
(We see a large vacuum cleaner inserted into CLINTON's head)<br />
<br />
DOLE: First, media suck out brains, then spine, then soul. White House saved,<br />
country saved--better than truck full of dynamite.<br />
R#3: You would do this?<br />
DOLE: You do this.<br />
R#3: It's still an abortion.<br />
DOLE: Dole think of it as Clintonectomy.<br />
R#3: I think you're avoiding the original question.<br />
DOLE: Dole brain hurt.<br />
R#3: What if an alien abducted YOU and made you pregnant?<br />
<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: Please stop. You're confusing him.<br />
<br />
R#3: What if you knew it had a soul--and you knew it was going to be a<br />
DEMOCRAT?<br />
DOLE: Brain hurt!<br />
R#3: What's it going to be, Bob? What's it going to be when it really counts?<br />
DOLE: (shattering podium with his steel arm) STOPPPP!<br />
REPORTER #1: He's losing it--get this. Roll.<br />
<br />
Cameras begin flashing furiously, chittering like the bug noises in "The<br />
Right Stuff." Bulbs flashing like mad, REPORTERS calling out questions. DOLE<br />
freaks--and leaps out the window.<br />
<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: Now look what you've done!<br />
R#3: He's a monster!<br />
FRANKENSTEEN: (running out the window) He is not a monster--he is a good boy!<br />
<br />
(Cut to: a little blonde haired girl alone in a field of daisies. She's<br />
plucking one)<br />
<br />
GIRL: 7...6...5...<br />
<br />
Freeze frame.<br />
<br />
MISSILE TECH'S VOICE: 4...3...<br />
<br />
DOLE runs into the frame.<br />
<br />
DOLE: Run! Run! Bomb come! Run!<br />
<br />
(DOLE scoops up the girl, runs off.)<br />
<br />
TECH: 2...1...<br />
<br />
(The bomb explodes.)Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-3159527612765109291996-02-10T23:43:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:44:06.447-08:00Call it Conspiracy 8Subj: Conspiracy VIII<br />
Date: 96-02-10 13:20:45 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
BART: So am I, man--the future really sucks. I hate you. You ruined my life.<br />
Everybody talks about Generation X, but what about my g-g-generation, huh?<br />
Nobody talks about us. What about my generation, huh, huh, huh, why don't you<br />
answer the question, huh, you don't want to talk about us, man--we don't even<br />
have a cool name yet. My generation really sucks and it's your fault,<br />
man--even the bad stuff is boring. What is there?<br />
SMITHERS: Republicans. Talk radio.<br />
BART: You suck, man.<br />
LISA: Bart. I think he's experienced enough pain. Leave him to his private<br />
hell...<br />
BART: Like...that's so easy. What are we supposed to do?<br />
SMITHERS: Watch television.<br />
<br />
SMITHERS lifts up the clicker, clicks it to THE ITCHY AND SCRATCHY SHOW!<br />
Title: "Howard's Endless." CAT in boat (as LEONARD BAST), rowing--wooing<br />
MOUSE in drag. Hearts fluttering out of CAT. Go to INT, house. CAT kneels to<br />
propose. MOUSE rips off dress. CAT shrieks, eyes bugging out of head. MOUSE<br />
removes sword, hacks off both the CAT's buttocks...then pulls a bookshelf on<br />
top of the CAT as blood leaks out and BART, LISA and SMITHERS laugh.<br />
<br />
GO TO BLACK: CLOSING CREDITS.<br />
<br />
MUSIC: “Take a Walk on the Blue Bus” by the Doors. Music fades out & generic<br />
radio announcer’s voice begins saying: “A barely-known unemployed<br />
screenwriter was killed today in Dallas in a burst of triangulated crossfire<br />
in Dealy Plaza, in a bizarre recreation of the Kennedy assasination. The<br />
screenwriter was dressed as Oliver Stone as part of a directors look-alike<br />
costume contest--there is speculation that Stone was the intended target.<br />
(hurriedly) Not that we’re trying to say we don’t believe in the<br />
single-bullet theory. I mean it’s not even a theory. We’re<br />
not...mmmpph...(sounds of scuffling, thuds) <br />
<br />
Music up again...<br />
<br />
ENDJackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-17291489258061712381996-02-10T14:42:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:42:42.072-08:00Call it Conspiracy 7Subj: Conspiracy VII<br />
Date: 96-02-10 13:19:12 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
Fade out, fade in to INT: SMITHERS residence. Title effect: 1996.<br />
<br />
SMITHERS: Why did I do it? I keep asking myself. Why didn't I just walk<br />
away? At any time. So many chances...<br />
BART: Wow! Look at those backwards little numbers...right next to where it<br />
says "XOF."<br />
LISA: He's in pain, Bart.<br />
BART: He is not in pain.<br />
LISA: Can't you see? Just look at him. Think about his feelings.<br />
BART: He's an adult. Adults don't have feelings.<br />
LISA: Yes they do.<br />
BART: (surprised) Adults have...feelings?<br />
LISA: Oh, Mr. Smithers. That must have been so humiliating for you. The<br />
beating.<br />
SMITHER: Actually it was kind of...<br />
LISA: (glancing quickly to cutaway of an old, framed b+w print of a young,<br />
long-haired SMITHERS in a peace demonstration) But the guilt.<br />
SMITHERS: Yes...the guilt. (burying face in hands, sobbing)<br />
BART: Yeah, yeah, boohoo. So...it's like your fault that the country sucks,<br />
right?<br />
SMITHERS: Right.<br />
LISA: And that's why the idealism of the 60's came to naught. Now I<br />
understand. A conspiracy. Wait'll Oliver Stone hears about this...<br />
BART: He's not going to hear about this.<br />
LISA: What's that supposed to mean?<br />
<br />
BART smiles smugly. 3-second, almost subliminal clip of STONE in limo in<br />
Dealy Plaza, Dallas. A van marked “GRASSY KNOLL EXTERMINATORS” pulls up to<br />
the book depository. Echoing sound of footsteps in stairwell, rifles cocking.<br />
Cut back to--<br />
<br />
SMITHERS: It's my fault. All my fault.<br />
LISA: How can you live with yourself?<br />
SMITHERS: (glancing sadly at shelf of still-packaged Barbies) I...I have my<br />
dolls.<br />
LISA: Wow. A disturbing Philip K. Dickian metaphor for the alienation of<br />
modern man.<br />
BART: Philip K What, Lisa?<br />
LISA: (mortified) Shut up, Bart.<br />
BART: (taunting) Smithers is a...<br />
LISA: Bart!<br />
BART: Sorry. So the future is going to get like...<br />
SMITHERS: (sadly) It gets worse.<br />
BART: Are there gonna be killer robots like "Terminator"...?<br />
SMITHERS: No.<br />
BART: No killer robots?<br />
SMITHERS: No.<br />
BARTS: No killer robots at all, huh, not one, no killer robots, you can't<br />
have any killer robots, huh, huh, how come there aren't any killer robots?<br />
SMITHERS: No. I'm sorry.<br />
LISA: He said "no" Bart. Drop it.<br />
BART: What about guys in cool cars with guns and fire like "Mad Max"...? I<br />
liked the first one best.<br />
SMITHERS: Not exactly. <br />
BART: Atomic war?<br />
SMITHERS: No.<br />
BART: Cryogenic freezing chambers and like these prison colonies where<br />
everybody is like killing each other and the women don't wear any clothes?<br />
LISA: Bart! That is so derivative!<br />
BART: Judge Dredd?<br />
SMITHERS: Nothing like that...<br />
BART: New York City turns into a big prison for human scum?<br />
LISA: Bart! It already is, OK?<br />
BART: What about, like, assassins, like this woman with these big legs like<br />
on "Aeon Flux."<br />
LISA: You're not supposed to watch that.<br />
BART: It's a cool show.<br />
LISA: Disgusting.<br />
BART: Cool show.<br />
LISA: Disgusting.<br />
BART: Same thing. You're not going to tell Mom, huh?<br />
LISA: (insulted) No!<br />
BART: (to SMITHERS) So what about it?<br />
SMITHERS: No.<br />
BART: No what?<br />
SMITHERS: I forgot. What were we...<br />
LISA: You're confusing him. Can't we just...<br />
BART: Gotta keep up, man. No women with long legs and almost no clothes with<br />
cool guns who kill people?<br />
SMITHERS: No.<br />
LISA: Bart you are so...<br />
BART: Politically incorrect? (snapping fingers) That's my style, little<br />
sister. <br />
LISA: Agggghh! That's not what I was going to say!<br />
BART: What were you going to say, huh?<br />
LISA: Self-absorbed.<br />
BART: Like that's a bad thing?<br />
LISA: This isn't about you. <br />
BART: "About" me? Oooh--like this is a "story" or something.<br />
LISA: You sound like Dad when you say that.<br />
BART: No I don't.<br />
LISA: Yeah you do and it's his story.<br />
BART: It's my story.<br />
LISA: It's his story.<br />
BART: My story.<br />
LISA: His.<br />
BART: Mine.<br />
LISA: No it isn't. Can’t you see? Here before you is the pathetic broken<br />
figure of the man who sold out the future. That's the story. <br />
BART: Well it's my future so it's my story. And there's not even any killer<br />
robots.<br />
SMITHERS: I am so sorry.<br />
>tbc<Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-30519870432950765481996-02-10T14:41:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:41:31.024-08:00Call it Conspiracy 6Subj: Conspiracy VI<br />
Date: 96-02-10 13:17:06 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
INT: Cabin hallway, Bohemian Grove. The conspirators walking away, BURNS &<br />
SMITHERS together.<br />
<br />
<br />
BURNS: Ah, the sauna--one of our more civilized legacies from the Vikings. A<br />
bit of a sweat, a roll in the snow, and a good stiff birching. Quite the<br />
thing, eh Smithers?<br />
SMITHERS: (stuttering) Ye...yes, sir.<br />
<br />
(They walk off down a hall. We still hear them, faintly, fading out.)<br />
<br />
BURNS: Does this mean I can wear my top hat in public again?<br />
SMITHERS: Yes sir.<br />
BURNS: Beat them?<br />
SMITHERS: Of course, sir.<br />
BURNS: (singing) “Putting on my top hat...dusting off my tails.” (to<br />
SMITHERS) I really can?<br />
SMITHERS: You really can, sir.<br />
BURNS: Any snowballs--and it's a public whipping? Like that Simpstone whelp?<br />
SMITHERS: Only fair, sir.<br />
BURNS: (singing) "This is justice...all sublime...that the punishment fit the<br />
crime!" A public whipping just like Singapore--now there's a tightly-run ship<br />
of state for you! None of that ACLU nonsense there.<br />
SMITHERS: No sir.<br />
BURNS: And...when the dust finally clears on all this...I really can beat my<br />
servants?<br />
SMITHERS: Of course, sir.<br />
BURNS: Do I detect a note of hesitation, Smithers?<br />
SMITHERS: No sir. In most cases...<br />
BURNS: Most cases? A qualifier--a condition? You're hedging, Smithers.<br />
SMITHERS: No sir. I mean, of course you can beat them--when they're bad.<br />
(long painful moment of hesitation) Of course.<br />
BURNS: Of course? That certainly sounds like a hedge to me, Smithers. I<br />
thought you were getting the Almighty State off my back. That's what you told<br />
me.<br />
SMITHERS: No sir. I mean, yes sir...<br />
BURNS: (pulling out a cudgel) Do you play me for the fool? Perhaps it's you<br />
that wants the beating. Would you care to continue this debate<br />
with..."Rodney"...?<br />
SMITHERS: That's certainly up to you, sir--ow! I had that coming sir. And<br />
that's the point.You can beat them when they're bad--ow!--or me! Thank you<br />
sir! But that depends on how you choose to define "bad" --ow! I deserved that<br />
sir! It's my fault!--however you see--ahhh!--fit and that's certainly<br />
entirely up to your--"ow!"--whatever you...however you...<br />
<br />
(SMITHERS collapses. BURNS sheaths his cudgel.)<br />
<br />
BURNS: I think you've made your point, Smithers. The private sector is truly<br />
private--my servants truly mine--Q.E.D. (putting away his cudgel) You're<br />
quite the debater.<br />
SMITHERS: Thank you, sir...<br />
BURNS: Well, off the floor with you. The others seem to have left me behind<br />
during our little forensic volley--but no matter. The so-called at this place<br />
will probably have forgotten to heat up the sauna as per usual--it’s my<br />
compatriots will endure the cold, not I. I'll go on--you fetch me my towels<br />
and be quick about it. About ten minutes.<br />
SMITHERS: (disappointed, groping, trying to get up) They...they already have<br />
towels, sir.<br />
BURNS: Not their towels, Smithers--think, man! My personal towels...with the<br />
MB monogram--the ones in the autoclave in the back of the Silver Cloud.<br />
SMITHERS: I thought I was...<br />
BURNS: You thought...?<br />
SMITHERS: Nothing, sir.<br />
BURNS: You amuse me, Smithers. You remind me of that tricky rabbit in the<br />
TRIX commercial. Trying to get the TRIX--when he knows TRIX are for kids. He<br />
gets his comeuppance--pets or meat, as they say. What was his name?<br />
SMITHERS: He doesn't have a name, sir. Just a rabbit...<br />
BURNS: Hmmm. Well, enough idle chitchat. Off the floor with you. Towels in<br />
ten minutes--no bleeding.<br />
SMITHERS: Yes sir. <br />
BURNS: (shouting, feebly running, in an arthritic shadow of his college<br />
gridiron days) Monty's coming, gang! Make way for Monty Burns!Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-84363512590699457511996-02-10T14:39:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:40:20.065-08:00Call it Conspiracy 5Subj: CONSPIRACY V<br />
Date: 96-02-10 13:15:29 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
GILBERT GOTTFRIED: (screaming) I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING--MORE? HE’S GOT<br />
THE NERVE TO POST MORE STUFF? AND THAT’S IT, BUT I WOULDN’T SAY “NERVE” HE<br />
HASN’T GOT A NERVE WORKING, NOT A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD, NOT ONE, THEY SHOULD PUT<br />
HIM IN A JAR WITH FORMALDEHYDE, BUT DON’T BLAME ME! I TRIED TO TELL HIM<br />
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH ALREADY YOU HAD A GOOD ENDING, DROP IT. COMEDY IS ABOUT<br />
RESTRAINT, RESTRAINT, RESTRAINT--THE THREE Rs OF COMEDY--IT’S ABOUT WHAT YOU<br />
DON’T SAY--IT’S ABOUT KNOWING WHEN TO STOP, FORGET THIS OVER-THE-TOP THING,<br />
YOU CAN TAKE A GOOD THING AND KILL IT BUT NO, HE HAS TO BE MISTER BIGSHOT, HE<br />
HAS TO BE MISTER CLEVER, PEOPLE JUST GET TIRED OF IT, THEY DON’T TELL YOU TO<br />
YOUR FACE BUT THAT’S WHY THEY’RE THINKING OH GOD IT’S HIM AGAIN, MOTORMOUTH,<br />
AND LOOK THE OTHER WAY AT RESTAURANTS YOU THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE YOU WAVING<br />
YOUR ARMS LIKE SOME KIND OF MORON THE OTHER DAY, SO FORGET ABOUT IT, DO NOT<br />
TRY TO TALK TO ME IN PUBLIC, AGAIN, EVER, AND I AM NOT GIVING YOU RHONDA’S<br />
PHONE NUMBER, NO WAY.<br />
<br />
>tbc<Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-57481706384510173371996-02-09T22:38:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:39:00.124-08:00Call it Conspiracy 4Subj: CONSPIRACY IV<br />
Date: 96-02-09 14:13:41 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
FRIEDMAN: These are "credit cards."<br />
BURNS: Credit...like a sort of cashier's check?<br />
FRIEDMAN: No. It's a sort of credit line the bank establishes at a high rate<br />
of interest.<br />
BURNS: Letters of exchecquer?<br />
FRIEDMAN: It's digital...done with computers. These have actually been around<br />
for awhile...<br />
BURNS: I'm a bit out of touch on that--gold's the thing for me. (tossing<br />
coin--SMITHERS reflexively grabs it) But to the point...about these<br />
lozenges...<br />
SMITHERS: Credit cards.<br />
BURNS: (to FRIEDMAN) You're loaning them money? I fail to understand. We<br />
don't want them to have money.<br />
FRIEDMAN: But it's easy money--very easy. It changes their buying pattern.<br />
More impulse purchases...<br />
BURNS: Ah, I see...electronic geegaws and playpretties. Ephemeral diversions,<br />
soon discarded.<br />
FRIEDMAN: Yes sir. As opposed to investing in houses, businesses, capital.<br />
We'll dry that up.<br />
BURNS: (doing a double-take) What? The one hand doesn't know what the other's<br />
doing, sir. You're opening the Keynsian sluices with this...this wafer-thin<br />
thing...and shutting down the flow at the other end. How ever shall you<br />
justify it?<br />
FRIEDMAN: We're combatting inflation.<br />
BURNS: (snickering) Combatting...inflation? <br />
FRIEDMAN: Yes. It's called Monetarism. We'll raise the prime rate to keep<br />
people from spending too much...<br />
BURNS: (waving credit card) And at the same time they'll be spending like mad<br />
with this lozenge--but not on capital. Hahaha. No capital investment. I see.<br />
The<br />
banks won't be loaning money to small businesses, black people--but they will<br />
be loaning money for comestibles, alcoholic beverages, clothing,<br />
haircuts...why the lower orders might as well take their children's<br />
inheritance, put it in a big pile and set it on fire! Why this is quite<br />
ingenious!<br />
FRIEDMAN: But...of course they'll wind up owing the bank money. <br />
BURNS: Yes...and as the bumper sticker says.."I owe, I owe, it's off to work<br />
I go"...there's a lot of wisdom in the bumper stickers, shouting in the<br />
street, as it were.<br />
SMITHERS: A very biblical metaphor, sir.<br />
BURNS: Debt leads to industry...commendible. All those idle hands will be put<br />
to work. None of that spare change encouraging hippies, drug addicts and<br />
artists. But I forsee another problem...<br />
SMITHERS: What's that, sir?<br />
BURNS: If they're working...won't they be making something?<br />
Cars...boats...houses...capital? All that wealth has to go somewhere, and if<br />
everyone's making more of it, we can't help but distribute some to the lower<br />
orders, now can we? <br />
SMITHERS: We've anticipated that as well, sir. They won't be making<br />
anything--most of them.<br />
BURNS: If they're working, why aren't they making anything?<br />
SMITHERS: We're going to call it a "service economy."<br />
BURNS: Service economy?<br />
SMITHERS: Yes, sir. Restaurants, cleaning services, window washing.<br />
BURNS: But what about...you know...the white collar set?<br />
SMITHERS: We've got the Tofflers working on that--a nice little puff piece. <br />
ALVIN TOFFLER: We're going to call it the "information age"...nobody makes<br />
anything anymore...just ideas...information.<br />
BURNS: I see. (flapping his arms) And we're all going to go flying away into<br />
a big happy cloud--just like Peter Pan, haha. But...of course...if they<br />
create those ideas in my factory, on my analytical engines...they are my<br />
ideas, now aren't they?<br />
SMITHERS: Absolutely sir. <br />
BURNS: I think I'm beginning to like this service economy. You know what I<br />
like about it?<br />
SMITHERS: What sir?<br />
BURNS: A service economy is an economy of servants...<br />
SMITHERS: Hahahaha. Very witty. Very witty, sir. <br />
BURNS: I think that will do. Meeting adjourned--now lets try out the sauna,<br />
shall we? <br />
(They push away from the table, walk out. Chatting, happy.)<br />
<br />
BURNS: A bit of a sweat, a roll in the snow, and a good stiff birching. Quite<br />
the thing, eh Smithers?<br />
SMITHERS: (stuttering) Ye...yes, sir.<br />
<br />
(They walk off down a hall. We still hear them, faintly, fading out.)<br />
<br />
BURNS: Does this mean I can wear my top hat in public again?<br />
SMITHERS: Yes sir.<br />
BURNS: Beat them?<br />
SMITHERS: Of course, sir.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-59494052373255176961996-02-09T22:37:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:37:41.948-08:00CALL IT CONSPIRACY 3Subj: CONSPIRACY III<br />
Date: 96-02-09 14:08:31 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
REAGAN enters, grinning, idiotic, like a post-lobotomy Jack Nicholson. Two<br />
doctors lead him, holding him by either arm.<br />
<br />
SMITHERS: Why...it's the gipper! Our great white hype! Why is he grinning so?<br />
C. EVERETT KOOP: (whispering) It's the operation.<br />
BURNS: (shuddering) Most disquieting. I assume there is a point to<br />
this...this unseemly spectacle...<br />
BILL GATES: (a big, geeky grin on his face) Watch. (GATES pushes a TV<br />
clicker) <br />
REAGAN: Oceania is at war with Eastasia.<br />
GATES: Your reaction?<br />
BURNS: I believe him.<br />
GATES: Now watch. (pushing clicker)<br />
REAGAN: Oceania is at war with Eurasia.<br />
GATES: Your reaction...<br />
BURNS: Why...yet again...I believe him. Strange. It's a contradiction--law of<br />
the<br />
excluded middle and all that--but somehow I believe. I believe...and I feel<br />
good about myself! A warm sunshiny feeling...all over...a sort of glow! How<br />
is this possible?<br />
GATES: (whizkid showoff, eager) It's my new chip, Mr. Burns. Koop did the<br />
wetware...I handle the hardware, now it's in--in all the new TV sets. Give us<br />
another ten months and it'll be everywhere. We've got a carrier wave attached<br />
to all his broadcasts...activates it.<br />
BURNS: Which means...<br />
GATES: Reagan can say anything, contradict himself, lie...people will believe<br />
it.<br />
BURNS: Anything?<br />
GATES: Anything.<br />
BURNS: Quite impressive--and so we sell our deficit...our little bubble. But<br />
any security leaks?<br />
KISSINGER: Stockman...shooting off his mouth to the "Economist," spilled the<br />
whole thing.<br />
BURNS: (to REAGAN) You took him to the woodshed, I assume?<br />
REAGAN: (grinning, bobbing head) Oh yes.<br />
BURNS: And soundly thrashed him?<br />
REAGAN: Well...let's just say...well...there you go again...<br />
BURNS: Charming fellow--but not much upstairs. But how do you think he'll<br />
stand in the debate with that peanut farmer?<br />
BUSH: (holding up sheaf of papers) We've got his debate book, sir.<br />
BURNS: Haven't lost it, have you Poppy? Boola boola. Mustn't let the side<br />
down. Haha.<br />
BUSH: Gonna win, sir. Gonna win.<br />
BURNS: A "well-oiled" campaign, I assume?<br />
BUSH: Yes. Very witty. Very witty. Good sense of humor. Incisive kind of<br />
thing. To the point. Witty.<br />
BURNS: Paronomasia, it's called--but I expect no rhetorical education from an<br />
oilman, nor appreciate his flattery. Know your place sir!<br />
BUSH: Sorry. Outta line, there, sir, outta line. Backing off...<br />
BURNS: Next item...<br />
SMITHERS: Destruction of the middle class.<br />
BURNS: Yes, very good, very good. They irritate me with all their--what was<br />
that Wolfe fellow was saying?<br />
SMITHERS: "Status spheres." <br />
BURNS: That's it. All these...little people...creating their own definition<br />
of success, "I'm a surfer"..."I'm an aesthete"...and completely ignoring the<br />
fact that Mongomery Burns is on top of the pile. Put them in their place, I<br />
say. Let them know their betters, doff their hats.<br />
SMITHERS: People don't wear hats anymore.<br />
BURNS: It's the principle of the thing, man. So how do we break them?<br />
FRIEDMAN: (holding up a credit card) With these sir...<br />
BURNS: (taking it) A flat, plastic card? Why this looks perfectly harmless...<br />
<br />
>tbc<Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5065775771638967106.post-86745563736217116871996-02-09T21:34:00.000-08:002011-02-13T14:35:27.357-08:00CALL IT CONSPIRACY 2Subj: CONSPIRACY II<br />
Date: 96-02-09 14:06:42 EDT<br />
From: JGetz <br />
<br />
BURNS: But what of the legacy of that horrible crippled Jewish man?<br />
SMITHERS: I'm afraid I don't understand...<br />
BURNS: Roosevelt. The Welfare state. Think, man...<br />
SMITHERS: Roosevelt wasn't Jewish.<br />
BURNS: You're contradicting me? I'm not prejudiced against Jews, of<br />
course--am I, Milton?<br />
MILTON FRIEDMAN: No sir. No.<br />
BURNS: Henry?<br />
KISSINGER: Of course not, sir.<br />
BURNS: (snapping fingers) Enough bibble-babble. What's your plan? Specifics,<br />
not generalities. Snap to.<br />
FRIEDMAN: We're going to bankrupt the government.<br />
BURNS: I see. I see. (brightening) A sort of..."Atlas Shrugged" strategy.<br />
Atlas...<br />
<br />
(in a sudden fit of enthusiasm BURNS runs over to the large globe in the<br />
corner of the room, strains, attempts to lift it.)<br />
<br />
BURNS: Smithers!<br />
<br />
(SMITHERS runs over, removes globe, tosses it across the room.)<br />
<br />
BURTNS: Hahaha! That felt good. Kicking up my heels, a bit. On top of the<br />
world, Ma! Haha. <br />
SMITHERS: (clutching himself) I think I hurt myself.<br />
BURNS: (striding back to table, slapping SMITHERS on the back as his<br />
underling limps behind him) Buck up, man. You'll live. I feel young again!<br />
Global domination--quite the tonic, eh? If only Ayn were here, my Ayn--quite<br />
the number she was--there was a jewess with fire--and she knew the value of a<br />
dollar--what are you laughing at?<br />
FRIEDMAN: Nothing, nothing...<br />
SMITHERS: As to...the plan.<br />
BURNS: (singing) Nightmoves...<br />
FRIEDMAN: We'll spend the government into the ground--maintaining a massive<br />
military buildup while retaining the...discredited social programs. We'll<br />
build up the deficit to the point of fiscal collapse. Something will have to<br />
go.<br />
BURNS: (waving hand) And...it'll be all those chutes and ladders and safety<br />
nets.<br />
FRIEDMAN: Exactly.<br />
BURNS: But how do we sell this?<br />
FRIEDMAN: We'll run a president on a platform to eliminate the deficit--and<br />
then have him quadruple the deficit.<br />
BURNS: And who will perform this act of prestidigitation? No one's going to<br />
be so gullible. Not even Joe Punchclock. They'll see this game of three card<br />
monte for what it is, sir--and raise the hue and cry. <br />
SMITHERS: They'll believe it when they see...him. Bring in the test subject.Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15507153500550333352noreply@blogger.com0