tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41372763752411815812024-03-13T09:19:00.553-07:00Thirsty Nelly StudiosThe Importance of Being EvanUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-31748685612316096932011-07-24T20:22:00.000-07:002011-07-24T20:26:56.607-07:00Chris Schafroth Seeks Help<i>Chris Schafroth, a young man with a big problem, seeks advice from the <a href="http://www.vampireforum.net/vampire-awakenings/10737-really-need-help.html">Vampire Forum</a></i><br />
<br />
<b>Thread: Really Need Help</b><br />
<br />
<u>Chris Schafroth</u><br />
<div class="normal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=4137276375241181581&postID=3174868561231609693&from=pencil" name="post149671"></a> 03-30-2011, 01:41 AM<br />
</div><div class="normal"></div>Hey everyone,<br />
<br />
My name is Chris and for the past few weeks really strange things have been happening to me. I've always preferred the darkness to the daytime and my sleeping patterns reflect this (I sleep from about 6am to 2pm, meaning I'm awake during most of the moonlit hours). I've also always had a pallid skin-tone because of this. I never really thought much of it until last month when my friend Austin cut his elbow. I felt an overwhelming urge to drink the blood from his arm. In addition to this, I've been experiencing really vivid nightmares where I hunt young men through the streets of Zurich. <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD5">The dream</span> always ends right before I capture them and during it I feel a mixture of thirst and lust. What does this mean? Am I some sort of alpine vampire? If so, do I tell me friends? My annoyingly persistent pal Liam seems suspicous but this may just be paranoia on my part. Any advice would be appreciated. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yX2jTh2Oi6o/TizhMzDvEPI/AAAAAAAAACU/oT5nkPgDLrI/s1600/countliwm.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yX2jTh2Oi6o/TizhMzDvEPI/AAAAAAAAACU/oT5nkPgDLrI/s400/countliwm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Schafroth and his persistent pal Liam.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><u>PhoenixNightengale </u><br />
<div class="normal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=4137276375241181581&postID=3174868561231609693&from=pencil" name="post149685"></a>03-30-2011, 02:55 AM<br />
</div><div class="normal"></div>Your issue is not indicative of vampirsm, in and of itself. You may be a vampire. You may be otherkin. You may just be more in tune with <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD8">nocturnal</span> <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD6">energies</span> and have tapped into your more primal, predatory urges. You never really know for certain at this point. I'd just wait it out and see if anything else develops. If and when that happens, be sure to let us know and we'll see about helping you out. I'm actually leaning away from vampire right now, seeing as there haven't actually been any actual signs of vampirsm mentioned yet. As for your friends; they don't need to know anything. Besides, you can't tell them what you don't know yourself.<br />
<br />
<u>Hawkmoor</u><br />
<div class="normal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=4137276375241181581&postID=3174868561231609693&from=pencil" name="post150314"></a> 04-14-2011, 12:01 PM </div><div class="normal"></div><br />
Good evening Chris.<br />
First off don't panic and do anything because of it. It is a big load to carry, for sure but as Phoenix pointed out, telling your friends of something you don't even know for sure is not a sensible course to follow.<br />
<br />
The pale skin is to be expected if you do not expose yourself to sunshine regularly. I have a son who has extremely pale skin but he is not a vampire.<br />
<br />
Vivid dreams can be indicative of other things than that which they first appear to be. <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD7">Dream interpretation</span> is inexact at the best of times, in fact if you ask any two dream interpreters you are likely to get three different answers!<br />
<br />
When you dream of this "hunting" do you see yourself from outside your body or are you still inside your body? I am interested in how you see, or relate to your own nature during the dream.<br />
<br />
I am with Phoenix on this one, sit tight and see what develops. There are plenty of people here to help if you have any questions or feel you are having problems.<br />
With compliments,<br />
<b>H.</b><br />
<br />
<u>Chris Schafroth</u><br />
<div class="normal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=4137276375241181581&postID=3174868561231609693&from=pencil" name="post150369"></a> 04-15-2011, 01:11 PM<br />
</div><div class="normal"></div>Thanks for the feedback guys,<br />
<br />
Hawkmoor: I am most definetely in my body during the dream. If anything I am ultra-aware of everything I am doing and feeling. There have been some developments in that regard. About two nights ago the dream finally reached its conclusion. I managed to pin down the fleeing man and drink his blood. The feeling was.....indescribable, like pleasure and guilt all at once. But mainly relief. Anyway, when I looked at my victim's face, I recognised it as belonging to my friend Tadgh. Ever since that night, I can't talk to this guy because the same feelings I have in my dream (thirst and lust) come rushing up and I have to leave the room or else I dont know what I might end up doing.<br />
<br />
Also, is it normal that I find myself drawn to butcher's shops all the time?<br />
<br />
<u>Hawkmoor </u><br />
<div class="normal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=4137276375241181581&postID=3174868561231609693&from=pencil" name="post150377"></a> 04-15-2011, 02:00 PM<br />
</div><div class="normal"></div>Good evening.<br />
I sympathise with your predicament Chris. Strong feelings and urges are sometimes overwhelming and the perception of being unable to address them can lead to frustration and anger ~ be careful about this and rely on your rational thought processes.<br />
<br />
I have had dreams of a similar nature but in the end they have been just that, dreams. Dreaming and fantasising is part of the normal human psyche, it is part of the body's response mechanism to outside stimulus. The dream cycles are, in effect, the mind's way of "filing" things away - at least that is how it has been explained to me by <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD12">a friend</span> (<span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD2">a psychologist</span>)<br />
<br />
I would personally avoid attaching too much importance to <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD1">the dreams</span> but rather concentrate on the waking sensations and stimuli that trigger certain thought processes within you.<br />
<br />
As Phoenix said, it doesn't necessarily mean you are, or are not, a modern vampire. My advice, exhaust the simple explanations before you go looking too deeply at the complex ones. Do some research on dreaming and dream interpretations before you decide what's what.<br />
<br />
BTW, I like <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD3">butcher shops</span> too... especially the ones that do the thick pork sausages and I don't mind the smells of the place either. It could be something, or nothing. Difficult to say for certain.<br />
<br />
With compliments,<br />
<b>H.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-47626774295657566382011-07-13T05:24:00.000-07:002011-07-13T05:28:46.997-07:00Scene 21 and Scene 22 - The Return of the King<b>Scene 21</b> <i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Int. Night. A small, dimly lit room on the top floor of the pirate hideout. Evan Hennessy, our glorious hero,</i><i> wakes up to find himself strapped to a chair with a bright light shining in his eyes. Squinting, he can tell that there are two pirate-guards guarding the door. To his left is Captain Hodgers, leader of the urban pirates. Captain Hodgers is wearing a ballroom gown, pirate hat and leather boots. On his shoulder is perched a chicken, who has been clumsily painted to look like an unconvincing parrot.</i><br />
[Writer's note: This is a cost-saving device due to the large amounts of money needed for special effects in Scene 22. Chickens are cheaper than parrots and can be eaten afterwards]<br />
<i> There is another figure in the shadows who Evan (who thinks he's the big man but, as a matter of fact, isn't) cannot make out</i>.<br />
<br />
Captain Hodgers: Yarrg! Methinks the prisoner be awake!<br />
Evan: What's going on Captain? Why have you kidnapped me? This isn't your usual modus operandi.<br />
Captain Hodgers: Yarrrrd! I have no interest in you Evan! My only interests are plunder, wenches, booty and backgammon. No young Evan, I'm just the middleman. Yarrrrrrj! My crew was hired to raid that ballroom and to bring you back here.<br />
Evan: Hired? By who?<br />
Mysterious, husky voice: Oh I think you know that one Evan.<br />
Evan: No....No....It can't be.....Please....<br />
<br />
<i>The other man steps forth from the shadows. It is Alec Balwin. He is naked except for old issues of the New Yorker and the Beano which he has stapled all over his body. That they were recently stapled is attested to by the amount of blood that is smeared across their pages. As this is a formal occasion, he has also covered his nipples, genitals and ears in glitter. He rubs his willy as he advances towards Evan, who has wet himself in terror.</i><br />
<br />
Baldwin: So Evan, we meet again.<br />
Evan: Please, not again....WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?<br />
Baldwin: Do you ever have fantasies Evan? <br />
Evan: No...<br />
Baldwin: I have many. One in particular. Ever since I was a young Baldwin, frolicking freely in the shadows of Mt.Baldwin, I have wanted to make love to a smurf. Several years ago, while filming Glengarry Glen Ross, I was told, to my horror, that smurfs aren't real. I thought that dream was over...until today.<br />
Evan: But I'm not a smurf damnit. I'm a man!<br />
Baldwin: Things can change Evan. Often in the blink of an eye. Captain Hodgers!<br />
Captain: Yark?<br />
Baldwin: Have the boy stripped naked and covered in blue paint. When you are finished, bring him to my room.<br />
Captain: Aye aye sir!<br />
Evan: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!<br />
<br />
<b>End Scene</b><br />
<br />
<b>Scene 22</b><br />
<br />
<i>Int. Night. The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout. Squire Moore, Lord Fannyweather and Salmonella O'Sullivan ready their weapons as they prepare to storm the place</i>.<br />
<br />
Squire: Right, now that the flashback has concluded we can launch our assault on the pirate hideout. We've been here for hours now and there can be no more putting it off. Frankly I'm surprised that we ran into Dorian Mammeri and Von Knutstrom in a secret tunnel connecting a nightclub to a pirate fortress. It seems highly unlikely that this would occur here, rather than say a pub or a public square. Nevertheless, time is of the essence and we must proceed onwards to victory!<br />
<br />
<i>Squire, Salmonella and Fannyweather grab a pair of Uzis, a crossbow and a shotgun respectively and climb the ladder to the pirate hideout. They emerge in the recreation area of the hideout, where thirty or so urban pirates are kicking back, playing cards and drinking Musket Gunning's Old Fashioned Country Liquor. Battle commences. With the initial advantage of surprise, our heroes managed to kill or wound a significant minority of the pirates. However, they quickly find themselves outnumbered. Salmonella is hit by a stray arrow and explodes. Squire is struck by a cannonball in one of his testicles. However, as he has seventy testicles, he merely regards this as a flesh wound. Under heavy fire from superior numbers, Squire and Fannyweather are forced to take shelter behind a couch as they become pinned down under heavy fire</i>.<br />
<br />
Fannyweather: Damnit Squire! It's hopeless.<br />
Squire: Not quite my good chum. What we need are reinforcements.<br />
Fannyweather: But we don't have any.<br />
Squire: The Lichtenstein Armed Forces Rapid Response Unit could be here in ten minutes.<br />
Fannyweather: You know that's no good to us! I renounced my throne in order to marry Herself, a mere fishmonger's daughter of few prospects and ill repute.<br />
Squire: If we're going to survive you need to dump her and call your father in order to regain your vacant throne.<br />
Fannyweather: Never!<br />
Squire: Go on like.<br />
Fannyweather: Alright. It's probably for the best. She doesn't even like Fleetwood Mac.<br />
<i>Fannyweather takes out his mobile phone as Squire holds off the pirates with a constant stream of gunfire</i>. <br />
Fannyweather: Hello? Herself? <i>Cod </i>we talk for a minute? I don't think we should <i>sea </i>each other anymore. It's been great and all but this relationship has been <i>flounder</i>-ing for a long time. I can't <i>kelp </i>to make things right again though I have tried. Though it pains my very <i>sole </i>to say it, this relationship is over. W- <i>eel </i>still be friends ok? I know. I know. Take comfort from this: There are plenty more fish in the sea. Y'dig.<br />
<i>Fannyweather quickly dials another number as Squire comes under pressure trying to hold off the pirate advance</i>.<br />
Fannyweather: Hello? Yeah, she's gone. Could I be king again? Great. Could you send a squadron of soldiers to this location. Thanks. You're a star.<br />
Squire: Is it done?<br />
Fannyweather: Yes. I can feel it in my bones. The QUICKENING!<br />
<i>Lord Fannyweather is enveloped in a dazzling blue light, which momentarily blinds the urban pirates. When the light fades, he is wearing golden armour and the jewel encrusted crown of the heir apparent of Lichtenstein</i>.<br />
<i>Squire Moore receives a message on his pokedex.</i><br />
Pokedex: Congratulations. Your <i>Lord Fannyweather </i>has evolved into a <i>Prince Fannyweather</i>.<br />
<i>Squire Moore bends his knee.</i><br />
Squire: My liege!<br />
Fannyweather: No time for formalities young Squire. The Lichtenstein army will be here in a moment. The tide's about to turn. What do you say we kick some ass?<br />
Squire: A magnificent plan!<br />
<i>Cue music: Queen - Princes of the Universe</i><br />
[Writer's note: I have included a youtube link below. Play it while you're reading the rest of the scene]<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VEJ8lpCQbyw" width="400"></iframe><br />
<br />
Squire: For Lichtenstein Fannyweather?<br />
Fannyweather: No Squire. For me.<br />
<i>Squire and Fannyweather leap from behind the couch, guns blazing. Despite overwhelming odds, they kick some rump indeed. Squire dives through the air dual-wielding Uzis like your man in that film, taking out half a dozen pirates. Fannyweather grabs onto the rafters and launches himself into a group of pirates, knocking them to the floor and spins round with his shotgun at the ready. Two pirates aim a cannon at him but they feel the wrath of his shotgun, like many a crow has before. Squire grabs one of the pirates and uses him as a human shield while he sprays lead across the room. Despite performing well in this competently written action sequence, our heroes are outnumbered and are backed up against a wall.</i><br />
Squire: Your men better get here soon or we're dead as Nicholas Cage's career. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's sense of self worth. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's self-respect. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's sex life. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's marriage. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's pride in his son. Or we're as dead as Nicholas Cage's libido. Or we're as dead as the glimmer of hope that once existed in the eyes of one Nicholas Cage.<br />
Fannyweather: The men of Lichtenstein are noted for their punctuality Squire. They are a noble race of men. Look!<br />
<i>Suddenly the windows explode in an explosion of glass as the brave men of Lichtenstein burst in and surround the pirates. The dread fleet realise they have lost and surrender.</i><br />
Squire Moore: Victory is ours!<i> </i><br />
<br />
<b>End Scene</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-22205571041896735922011-06-30T04:07:00.000-07:002011-06-30T04:10:35.504-07:00Scene 20 - The Bet<b>Scene 20</b><br />
<br />
<i>Int. Night. The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout</i>.<br />
<b> </b><br />
Squire Moore: Ah yes, that interruption has been dealt with. Now, finally, the narrative can continue.<br />
Lord Fannyweather: Oh no. The screen's going blurry. I think you're having a flashback.<br />
Squire: Oh fiddlesticks. This shit is whack yo.<br />
<br />
<i>The Screen goes blurry</i>. <i>Cut to New York circa 1946. Interior. Night. Corporal Squire Moore, Liutenant Dorian Mammeri and Scrotum Private (-32nd Class) Miguel Sanchez, three young and dashing G.Is, are returning from the war and are on the prowl in a swanky Manhattan nightclub. As they have had no sex for two years due to imprisonment in a German P.O.W camp (operated by the noted Nazi war criminal Von Knutstrom) their balls are swollen with repressed lust.</i><br />
<br />
Squire Moore: My balls sure are swollen with repressed lust.<br />
Miguel Sanchez: Too right buddy. I ain't had no sex since I ain't known no what now not ever 1941 dang Germans.<br />
Dorian: Damn skippy buddy. What's the rhumpus here?<br />
Squire: Get on the trolley Dorian. We're looking for a few Dames to take surfing up the river Intercourse.<br />
Dorian: What say we make this a little . . . interesting?<br />
Miguel: Spill the beans daddio.<br />
Dorian: Hopefully I will, later on tonight (<i>note: innuendo) </i>but how bout a little bet?<br />
Squire: What's the rhumpus Dorian?<br />
Dorian: The first one of us drugstore cowboys to get a dame back to our place wins 20 dollars.<br />
Miguel: Now you're on the trolley! I'm down with that.<br />
Squire: Dorian, you pagan Saracen. I wouldn't do anything so churlish.<br />
<br />
<i>A passing gentleman with a fashionable goatee interrupts</i><br />
<br />
Gentleman: I'm willing to put some moolah on the young Squire here. Despite his resemblance to the Canadian mountain vole or, indeed, the more common Southern Desert vole, and his off-putting furtive behaviour, I can see that he has a certain charm.<br />
<br />
<i>The gentleman places his m</i>oney <i>on the table and vanishes into the night</i>.<br />
<br />
<i> </i>Dorian: Excellent. Let's see. It's 8 o'clock now. I reckon this should take less than an hour.<br />
<br />
<i>Three weeks later. The bet is still standing, Miguel Sanchez resorts to cheating by spiking his opponent's hooch with the drug 'Fannycol', turning them into fannies. Once again they return to the same joint and order some giggle water</i>. <i>Dorian spies a saucy little hoochy mama.</i><br />
<br />
Dorian: Woah fellas. Check out the gams on that broad!<br />
Squire: Is she french?<br />
Dorian: Er, does it matter?<br />
<i>Squire grabs Dorian roughly by his swollen balls</i><br />
Squire: Of course it fucking matters! I can only fuck women who are French or from a former French colony as a result of a gyspsy curse placed on me many years ago!<br />
Dorian: Oh yes I forgot. I think she's French canadian. Does that count?<br />
Squire: It fucking better. I'll let you have first go though.<br />
Dorian: Okay....Here I go...Walking over any minute now....On my way<br />
<i>Dorian remains exactly where he is</i>.<br />
Miguel: What are you doing guys? You can't just go up to a broad and start flapping your gums. That's illegal. She has to be wearing blue socks and standing next to the bar at a 93 degree angle.<br />
Dorian: Horsepoop. I'm going over.<br />
Squire: WAIT! STOOOOOOOOOOOOP!<br />
Dorian: Why?<br />
Squire: I'll feel bad for not going over if you do.<br />
Dorian: Bullshit infidel. I'm gonna...Wait, where's she gone?<br />
<i>The broad has turned into a butterfly and escaped through an open window</i>.<br />
Dorian: Bugger. My swollen balls are not impressed. Where's Miguel gone?<br />
<i>Miguel has an amateurish approximation of sex with a young lady wearing blue socks and standing at a 93 degree angle to the bar</i>.<br />
Squire: Oh god damn it.<br />
<i>Dorian's balls explode with frustration</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Cut back to the pirate tunnel in the present day</i>.<br />
<br />
Squire: And that's why I have never since passed up an opportunity for sex no matter how inconvenient or ill-advised.<br />
<br />
<i>Writer's note: The character of 'Passing Gentleman' should be played by either Michael Fassbender or Johnny Depp for the purposes of realism.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-55197030166387368832011-05-02T09:49:00.000-07:002011-07-26T15:32:30.417-07:00From the Pen of Sir Anthony Hopkins to the Desk of Ms. Sinéad Gunning.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fZYaECuxkEY/Tb7UrhLcNRI/AAAAAAAAACQ/9rnaesMQ1f4/s1600/Anthony+Hopkins+-+Oscar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fZYaECuxkEY/Tb7UrhLcNRI/AAAAAAAAACQ/9rnaesMQ1f4/s320/Anthony+Hopkins+-+Oscar.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>Dear Ms. Gunning,<br />
<br />
How are you? I hope you are well. I am the actor Sir Anthony Hopkins. You may remember me from such films as 'The Silence of the Lambs', 'The Remains of the Day', 'Amistad' and 'Fracture.' Perhaps you are also familiar with my directing work or even 'Distant Star', my moderately successful pop single from the late 1980s.<br />
<br />
I was told, Ms.Gunning, that you were interested in an acting career. It just so happens that I am currently working on a small, independent film called 'Last Call for Alcohol at Dead Man's Ridge.' You may be familiar with the novel from which it is adapted. If not I shall give you a brief overview. <br />
<br />
In the film I, Sir Anthony Hopkins, play Sheriff Eli Tabernackle, a tough Welsh lawman trying to keep order in the town of Dead Man's Ridge, New Mexico. The role I had in mind for you was that of Penelope Leotard, a local prostitute with a heart of gold who befriends Eli before the two of them become lovers. Before you ask, yes, the film will require you do some nude scenes. Yes, some of them will involve you being nude next to the leathery, aged, naked body of me, Sir Anthony Hopkins. Don't worry, it's all above board. You can trust me. After all, I'm Sir Anthony Hopkins.<br />
<br />
I shall give you some time to mull it over and will eagerly await your reply.<br />
<br />
Yours sincerely,<br />
Sir Anthony Hopkins.<br />
<br />
P.S. I am wanking as I write this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-40975006987353522572011-04-30T16:44:00.000-07:002011-04-30T16:53:17.157-07:00Scene 19<b>Scene 19 </b><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout</span>.<br />
<br />
Squire Moore: Well, now that that interruption has been dealt with, we may proceed.<br />
Salmonella: Wait! Something else approaches!<br />
Lord Fannyweather: Ah Christ....<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Dorian Mammeri, a tall man with aesthetically pleasing features many a mile removed from those of Squire Moore, who is a vole. However, these features seem to hide an indescribable darkness</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">He is dressed in a poncho, aviator sunglasses and an ironic t-shirt. On his shoulders he bears a backpack full of frisbees and the internet. He is followed by a gaggle of starving children</span>.<br />
<br />
Squire Moore: Why! If t'isn't me old pal, Dorian Mammeri! How goes it chum?<br />
Dorian: Really cool man, what are you up to these days?<br />
Squire Moore: Well I...<br />
Dorian: That's totally interesting man. When I was in Nepal, this really wise old man.....<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Several hours later</span><br />
<br />
Dorian: . . . . . and I was like 'yeah, I'm totally trying to find myself too.'<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Lord Fannyweather wakes from his doze.<br />
<br />
</span>Fannyweather<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">:</span></span> Hang on sorry, could you repeat that last line again?<br />
Dorian: Gladly. I said to him 'Woah! dude! I'm like totally trying to find myself too.'<br />
Fannyweather: Why do you hate the english language so much? What has it ever done to you?<br />
Dorian: Look man, if you saw what I saw in East Wyoming, you wouldn't be asking me that.<br />
Fannyweather: The phrase 'trying to find myself' means absolutely nothing. It is a massacre of meaning conducted by western backpackers on a collection of words, each individually containing some sort of meaning, but when grouped together meaning sweet fuck all. In fact, that phrase means less than nothing<span style="font-style: italic;">. </span>It actually drains meaning from a conversation, rendering all involved lesser for the experience. It is a phrase that is born not in the brain, but in the bowels, from whence it emerges, dripping with excrement, to fling itself into an unexpecting and undeserving world like a malformed foetus from some sort of horrible experiment, a creature that manages to survive, despite posessing neither face nor brains.<br />
Dorian: . . . . . .<br />
Fannyweather: So matey, have you found yourself? Or should I say: Herble gerble murple?<br />
Dorian: No, not yet, I think that . . . .<br />
Fannyweather: Well, have you tried the kitchen? Hmm? Maybe the attic? Did you leave yourself there and then forget about it? Maybe you gave a loan of yourself to a friend? Or maybe you're under that pile of dusty textbooks in the office?<br />
Dorian: Uhhhh...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens suddenly materialise from the aether. They look upon Dorian with disdain, piddle on him and fuck off.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span> Squire Moore: Well, crimes against communication notwithstanding, what brings you here?<br />
Dorian: These things.<br />
<br />
<i>Dorian indicates a number of children, all younger than nine, wearing rags over their emaciated, nearly expired bodies</i><br />
<br />
Squire Moore: Urgh! Yuck! What are they?<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
Dorian: The lower classes. Some of them followed me here. I thought you might find some use for them.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">One of the ragamuffins coughs up blood and pipes up</span><br />
Ragamuffin: Please Mr.Moore sir, we're quite ill and malnourished. We were hoping that because of your boundless wealth you could perchance spare a shilling?<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Squire laughs at the dying child</span><br />
Squire: Hahahahhaha! You lazy fucking peasant cunt, if you want shillings you just have to get a job, and to get a job all you need is to want one hard enough. Didn't you know that you little commoner oik! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!<br />
Ragamuffin: Sir, we're too ill to work. We used to work for you, in the mine. Then we got scurvy from lack of food because you said we weren't resourceful enough and denied us fruit for over a year.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">One of the children dies from his scurvy. Squire Moore's laughing becomes louder and louder. </span><br />
Squire: Did you see that idiot? He didn't want scurvy medicine hard enough and now he's dead. What a silly Plebeian. If he'd only rationally chosen to be an aristocrat like me instead of a street urchin! Get these creatures out of my sight before I puke.<br />
Dorian: Yeah ok. Well, at least they might be able to help me find myself.<br />
<br />
<i>Exit Dorian and the starving children.</i><br />
<br />
Squire Moore: Also, I hate Davey for some reason.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span><br />
<b>End Scene</b><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-50572583045506705702010-08-17T15:59:00.000-07:002010-09-09T14:18:44.403-07:00Scenes 17 and 18<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 17</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mayfield Garda Station. Detective Fellatio Interlude, feisty female super-sleuth, is hard at work investigating the rape of one Evan Hennessy. She types on a computer. Enter her partner, Vulgate Milfield.</span><br /><br />Vulgate: What's the good word Fellatio?<br />Fellatio: I'm investigating the Evan Hennessy rape case.<br />Vulgate: Oh?<br />Fellatio: Yes, it's quite a conondrum. Even claims it was Alec Baldwin but we need another witness to secure the case.<br />Vulgate: So, why are you here on the computer?<br />Fellatio: Are you familiar with facebook?<br />Vulgate: Yes.<br />Fellatio: Are you familiar with Queefu Nell?<br />Vulgate: No.<br />Fellatio: Queefu Nell is a facebook user who is legendary for the sheer quantity of status update that she produces.<br />Vulgate: How many status updates could she possibly produce?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fellatio pulls out a massive hardback tome that she can barely lift.</span><br /><br />Fellatio: This is the complete St. James bible, old and new testaments, plus apocrypha and several theological essays...large print edition.<br />Vulgate: Ok...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fellatio pulls out an even larger book, the size of a large labrador</span><br />Fellatio: This is part 1 of the subject index for her status updates, from 'Aardvarks' to 'Bumblebees'<br />Vulgate: Ah, I see. Well, what's this got to do with the case?<br />Fellatio: Well, you know the way enough monkeys on enough typewriters would eventually write King Lear?<br />Vulgate: Yeah<br />Fellatio: Well, between the 5th and 18th of July she actually did write King Lear by accident. What I'm hoping is that there is such a massive quantity of information on her status updates that, by the law of averages, some of it will help our case.<br />Vulgate: Well what are you waiting for? Qwanza? You go girl!!!!!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Writer's note: Holla!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fellatio searches Evan Hennessy, cross-referencing with Baldwin and assault.</span><br /><br />Fellatio: Here we go, her facebook updates from the night of the assault:<br /><br />5pm: Am sad :(<br />5.02pm: Am super-thrilled :)<br />5.03pm: Am nostalgic for the days of yore........<br />5.05pm: Only joking they sucked! But still, a little bit anxious<br />5.10pm: Had bowel movement (8 people like this)<br /><br />Fellatio: Hmm, better scroll down a bit...<br /><br />7pm: I fucking HATE butter (2 people like this)<br />7.25pm: Had bowel movement<br />8pm: The Wire is better than the Shield and most of human civilisation (567 people are aware that this is true)<br />8.45pm: OMFG. Just saw a nude Alec Baldwin running after a fair-haired man with the physique of a small child or an upright grehound. Lads, what is going on? :)<br /><br />Fellatio: AHA!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Writer's Notes: Yes, you should have been patient shouldn't you?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 18</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior. Night. The secret tunnel beneath the pirate hideout. Our three heroes advance towards their goal.</span><br /><br />Squire: Sh! Did you hear that?<br />Fannyweather: No, but the air suddenly went cold.<br />Salmonella: *Sniff* There is a stench of evil...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Von Knutstrom, the embodiment of darkness</span><br /><br />Von Knutstrom: Hi lads, heard ye were rescuing Evan. I thought I could lend a hand.<br />Squire: You? Von Cuntstorm? Embark on a noble mission for good?<br />Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom and yes, I'd be delighted to.<br />Fannyweather: What? You? The same Cuntstorm who bathes in the blood of children because you believe it increases your sexual prowess?<br />Salmonella: The same Cuntstorm who once threw a puppy into a volcano just for the fun of it?<br />Von Knutstrom: What? No I didn't.<br />Squire: Just like you didn't surrender France to the Nazis?<br />Von Knutstrom: Er, that was several decades before I was born.<br />Fannyweather: A likely story, just like you didn't colonise the Congo?<br />Von Knutstrom: That was Belgium!<br />Salmonella: As considerable as your Satanic powers are, we cannot trust you to join us on our quest in case you commit an atrocity. Return from whence you came, Cuntstorm, destroyer of worlds!<br />Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom.<br />Squire: Whatever, get thee behind me Satan!<br />Von Knutstrom: Well I'll leave ye to it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exit Knutstrom</span><br /><br />Squire: Now, let us continue on our noble quest with no more of these ludicrous interruptions.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-83555929338862397152010-08-17T15:03:00.000-07:002010-08-17T15:09:42.279-07:00Honourable ArchiveTHERE WILL BE A NEW SCENE BY THE END OF THE MONTH!<br /><br />Until then, the honourable archive:<br /><h4 class="post-title"><a href="http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=484564622&BlogId=8952997700">The Men of Honour aboard the Orient Express</a></h4> <div class="post-preview"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the east there is murder, mystery and...Men of Honour.</span><br /><br />Fresh from the battle of Omdurman the Men of Honour (tm) return to Europe. Boarding the Orient Express, the daring pair hope for a quiet holiday in Constantinople. These hopes are quickly dashed as a passenger, the eccentric aristocrat Lord Devonshire Ali Khalifa St.George the third of Galloway, is murdered. Liam and Michael resolve to unravel the mystery.<br /><br /> At first short of funds for investigative material such as magnifying classes, hammers and Dr.Mandels Patented Clue-Finding Apparatus (tm) their progress is hampered. Luckily it emerges that immediately before his death Lord Devonshire left his entire estate to the Men of Honour (tm). Thanks to this bizarre and unexpected windfall the investigation proceeds at pace. One passenger, Dr.Maguire, makes the ludicrous claim that the Men of Honour were responsible for the death of the ageing aristocrat, before mysteriously hacking himself to pieces while taking a bath. The Men of Honour conclude that it was a suicide, resulting from the intense shame of lying about Men of Honour, which also explained why Dr.Maguire left his entire estate to them in an effort to assuage his guilt. Combining Liam's knowledge of early Soviet history and Michael's civil engineering expertise they discover that the murderer was none other than the Tsar, who disagreed with Lord Devonshire's wild theories on structural durability. Arresting Sister Assumpta, the nun-hitman who carried out the attack, the pair retire on their mysterious fortune, building a small villa on the Bosphorus where they played table-tennis and read the works of Anton Chekov for over a decade.<br /><br /><h4 class="post-title"><a href="http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=484564622&BlogId=7737722267">Men of Honour Vs. The Man</a></h4> <div class="post-preview"><span style="font-style: italic;">In a world of corruption. In a world where fine wine and vinaigrettes can buy you freedom, there are still Men of Honour.</span><br /><br />It is the late 1960s. Flower Power has ended Canada's reliance on nuclear energy. The armies of the Caliphate have reached Galway and China boogies to the sound of a hip new groove called communism. But in the west, there is trouble brewing. Tired of being kept down by the white man, the oppressed African Americans turn to their only hope: Liam Cullinane and Michael Kelleher, the fragrant, notorious and dashing Men of Honour (tm).<br /><br /> Despite their admittedly pale complexions and ignorance of every culture, especially their own, the Men of Honour too feel a vigorous loathing for the Caucasian Fellow. After being refused membership by the black panthers, the pair found their own radical movement: the 'Green Armadillos'. Spreading hard-as-nails, tough as tarantula justice throughout the southern states, the Men of Honour send shockwaves through the corridors of power, causing over seventy thousand dollars worths of structural damage. The American president, Chairman Mao, attempts to win the pair over to his side with an offering of fine wine, beautiful vinaigrettes and tasty crepes. But the Men of Honour are beyond even such bountiful offers and call him a philistine, the shock of which kills him instantly, paving the way for Brian Wilson's eight-decade reign of terror. The new president, despite his talk of 'good vibrations', decides to take the men of honour out once and for all. Hounded by a fleet of police cars, the men of honour find themselves surrounded at the edge of the grand canyon. Rather than bow down to whitey, the pair throw themselves off the edges, dying in a mangled heap on the canyon floor. They later recover. </div><h4 class="post-title"><a href="http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=484564622&BlogId=7424249087">Men Of Honour in da Hood. Summary</a></h4> <div class="post-preview">Film summary:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> The late 1980s. America's inner city crack epidemic is at it's height. All over the nation solutions are sought for. All have failed. Until now..</span><br /><br />Knowing the one solution to the epidemic lay in the capable hands of Liam Cullinane and Michael Kelleher, the titular Men of Honour (tm) Ronald Reagan sends for the notable duo with one mission. End the drug war. Returning from their crusades in the east, the pair enter Chicage, the most notoriously drug ridden city in the world.<br /><br />Deciding to bring the crack trade down from the inside, the Men of Honour (tm) infiltrate the drug cartels by establishing covers for themselves as antique/crack dealers. Being incapable of dishonour, the pair soon establish themselves within the upper echolons of the city's drug dealers as to fail, even at drug-dealing, would be an act of gravest dishonour. Finally their efforts pay off and the Men of Honour (tm) discover the identity of the two biggest druglords in the city, who, because of their incredible and unexpected success, are the Men of Honour (tm). Undeterred, Liam and Michael prepare for a valiant showdown with themselves, taking down their own drug-empires and bringing themselves to justice. The film ends on a high note with the Men of Honour observing the desolate ruins of their own houses which they have just blown up. They lament the immorality of drug-dealers, even though they accidentaly became the largest suppliers of crack cocaine in the free world, and set off on their next mission: To restore Alf to the airwaves...<br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-90688527065559259412010-07-09T06:21:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:14:45.406-07:00Villages that are worse than LisgooldI have, of late, come under some degree of pressure to write scene 17. Rest assured loyal readers (Sarah and Aoife) that it is on its way. In the meantime I have taken the time to compile a list of villages that are worse than Lisgoold. For, as someone once put it to me, Lisgoold may have produced Crystal Swing, but where is producing their audience? I will mention that these places are being judged mainly on aesthetics and my impressions of them don't reflect on their inhabitants, who should only receive sympathy and moral support.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Whtechurch</span><br /><br />Whitechurch is a commuter village just east of Blarney. The first issue here is the fact of what it is: A <span style="font-style: italic;">commuter</span> village. What a strange country where that type of thing actually exists. That adjective and that noun should not go together. Here is a list of things that co-exist quite happily with <span style="font-style: italic;">village</span>:<br /><br />Rustic village<br />Fishing village<br />Charming village<br /><br />Commuter town? Grand. Commuter village? No. That belongs to a list like this:<br /><br />Microsoft village<br />Industrial village<br />Scientologist village<br /><br />Whitechurch's only charm is that its parish priest is a bona fide nutter: http://www.irishexaminer.com/ireland/kfauqlcwkfql/rss2/<br /><br />To describe Whitechurch to the outsider. Imagine a few half-empty estates, an estate consisting solely of showhomes, an unfinished housing estate and one church and one petrol station, the latter's deli leaving much to be desired. Nevertheless, if you like aesthetic distress and negative equity, Whitechurch is the place for you.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Grenagh</span><br /><br />Another fucking commuter village. To be fair to Grenagh, most of the estates are quite nice and are compacted into a single area, rather than sprawling all over the place. At first sight it might even seem like a nice place to live.<br />Wrong.<br />Once you have been in Grenagh for more than ten minutes you notice something hard to describe but utterly chilling. There are many, many houses, but no fucking people. You suddenly get the feeling that Cillian Murphy gets in 28 Days Later. Except that at least if you were in London after a zombie apocalypse you could at least seek comfort in the modern infrastructure and ease of access to the British library. Me and another person were there in the middle of summer after both the secondary and primary schools were out, but there were no young people. No teenagers chattering loudly about...whatever teenagers talk about (probably sex and amphetamines and that type of thing). No children's laughter. Nothing. Just one middle-aged man staring at me through a second floor window. To be fair to Grenagh, it is the only town in the world that seems to have been designed by Franz Kafka and Samuel Beckett, but even they wouldn't want to live there.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Dromahane</span><br /><br />The pick of the litter. The most godawful place I've ever came across.<br />I think there are advantages to both living in the counryside and to living in the city. The former is generally nicer what with cows, fields, mountains and that type of thing. While the latter has better services and infrastructure, though usually a higher crime rate and a more stressful living situation. Dromohane combines the worst of both. It is as if someone took a few streets from between Harbour View Road and Mark Caroll drive and plopped them in the middle of nowhere. Dromohane is ugly. Very, very ugly. Here is the grey hopeless mass of stone they call a church:<br /><br />http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/70/DromahaneChurch.jpg<br /><br />That, frankly, is one of the nicer parts of the place. Dromohane's other problem is very different from that of Grenagh. While Grenagh was weirdly empty and had an almost Silent Hill quality about it, Dromohane seems to be almost entirely populated by roving gangs of feral children. I know I said I wouldn't mention the inhabitants but in this case I feel I must.<br />To give an idea of the kind of people who live in Dromahane, look at this guy:<br /><br />http://www.bebo.com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=1670275795<br /><br />Yes people, they still use Bebo for some reason. I imagine they reject facebook as some sort of withchcraft.<br /><br />According to Wikipedia: ' <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Russell_%28rebel%29" title="Thomas Russell (rebel)">Thomas Russell</a> is referred to as the “The man from God knows where” and, as it happens, he was born in the village on November 21, 1767.' I wonder why, when asked his hometown, he replied 'God knows where'. My theory is he blocked out all his memories of Dromahane to maintain his sanity. Russell was hanged in 1803 in Downpatrick. His last words were: 'Better the gallows than Dromahane'.<br /><br />Oh also, being within an hour of the city, it has three ghost estates, because what would a commuter village be without fucking ghost estates.<br /><br />Dromahane. Depressing, ugly and shit, it is the winner of this week's Golden Turd award.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">L.C, the writer, is chief researcher for 'Drisceoil's Graveyard Tours of Ireland' and is currently working on his own travel guide 'Worse Than Lisgoold: A Bastard's Guide to shit villages'</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-34661046840399175012010-05-29T07:47:00.000-07:002010-05-29T08:50:33.876-07:00Scenes 15-16: The Thick Plottens!<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 15</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior, night. The kitchen of Lord Fannyweather. Squire Moore and Salmonella wait anxiously for the Fannyweathers to finish their cake. This is a difficult and tiresome process. The cake is eaten slowly and with great affection.</span><br /><br />Squire Moore: FOR THE LOVE OF ST. BERNARD HURRY UP! EVAN COULD BE DEAD ALREADY!<br />Lord Fannyweather: Back when I was a fireman, I left a maternity ward burn down so me and Herself could finish a raspberry sponge. What is Evan's life to an entire maternity ward?<br />Moore: (Angry mutterings)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">3 Hours Later</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Squire Moore and Salmonella have fallen asleep on the couch. Fannyweather loudly deposits his plate on the sink, waking them both.</span><br /><br />Herself: What did you think of the cake dear?<br />Fannyweather: Bit shit actually<br />Herself: Yeah, I'd nearly have skipped it.<br />Moore: Can we go now?<br />Fannyweather:...................................................okay.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Bold" title="Bold" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 3);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="img/blank.gif" alt="Bold" class="gl_bold" border="0" /></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 16</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exterior. Dawn. Salmonella, Squire and Fannyweather walk towards the pirate hideout to bring great justice. They carry a large arsenal of weapons in a burlap sack. They see the well-defended hideout at the end of the road.</span><br /><br />Salmonella: At least eight men on sentry, probably a lot more inside.<br />Fannyweather: Do we have a plan?<br />Squire Moore: Yes. We charge wildly towards the hideout, firing bullets at the bad men.<br />Fannyweather: I see you have studied Napoleonic strategy.<br />Squire Moore: Yes. I just hope we don't get <span style="font-style: italic;">blownapart</span>!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The trio laugh hysterically at the witty joke. The audience too are enthralled and titillated by the sophisticated witticism.</span><br />Fannyweather: Well, funny jokes aside. We'd better get to it.<br />Moore: Hold on, we'd better check ourselves for testicular cancer first. We don't want to come down with cancer in the middle of a firefight.<br />Salmonella: Good idea.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The trio grope themselves and ensure they have no lumps on their scrotum. Moore, being meticulous, asks a passing woman for a second opinion. She politely declines.</span><br />Moore: Well, I'm not entirely happy about this. Is there maybe a way we can sneak in unnoticed?<br />Mysterious Voice: Well, it just so happens there is.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our heroes turn to find themselves face to face with Miguel Sanchez. Sanchez stands seven feet tall. He has an indefinable wildness in his eyes, that speak of wild moors and windswept islands. He is ludicrously drunk.</span><br /><br />Squire Moore: Ah Miguel, what is you speak of?<br />Miguel: There is a secret entrance. See that nightclub over there? In the wine cellar there is a trap door that leads to the basement of the pirate hideout. Come on, we'll go in together.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The four men head into the nightclub, except for Miguel who is halted by the bouncer.</span><br />Bouncer: Sorry, you're too drunk and posessing of a certain wildness. I can't let you in.<br />Miguel: Awwwwwwwwwwwww. But why? I'm not drunk, leave me in. Why are you so mean? Stop being mean. I hate you.<br />Bouncer: Sorry bud.<br />Miguel: Well, we'll see what Fris Bafroth has to say about this!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Miguel makes a phone call.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">2 hours later</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fris Bafroth, a young and dynamic heart surgeon, arrives at the scene, still wearing a medical gown and covered in blood.</span><br /><br />Fris: Miguel, what's the emergency? I was in the middle of open heart surgery fifty kilometres away.<br />Miguel: He won't let me in. He says I'm drunk (hiccup).<br />Fris: Okay....What does this have to do with me?<br />Miguel: I thought you would have wanted to know.<br />Fris: .....you were wrong.<br />Miguel turns again to the bouncer: C'mon, let me in.<br />Bouncer: No.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Miguel starts turning bright red. His eyes turn yellow and strange bulges start appearing all over his body.</span><br />Bouncer: What now?<br />Fris: His whining is reaching critical mass and when that happens....<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Miguel suddenly morphs into a moaning velociraptor.</span><br />Fris: He becomes Sulkosaurus!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sulkosaurus lets out a might roar</span><br />Sulkosauras: C'mon...let me in.<br />Bouncer: I wouldn't let you in when you were slightly sloshed. Why would I let you in now that you're a bloody dinosaur?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sulkosaurus wets himself in frustration.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-51080877131694169772010-03-28T20:08:00.000-07:002010-03-28T20:52:44.584-07:00Scene 13 (continued) and Scene 14<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Captain Hodgers circles the room</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Captain: Yarg! Where be Evan methinks?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >The crowd parts, revealing Evan<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The captain's parrot, in reality a thirty-five year old accountant from Greenwich, points at our protagonist</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Parrot: That's him there!</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Captain: Yarg! So 'tis. Come with us Evan!</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Evan: No! Never! I shall fight you til my bones are ground to dust! I cannot be brushed aside in the manner that Squire Moore brushes aside his various illegitimate children! I shall screw my courage to the sticking-place and do glorious battle! En garde!</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Evan pulls a sabre from his trousers and there is a fight scene. It is very entertaining. The audience are thrilled<span style="font-style: italic;">. Evan lies semi-conscious on the floor<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Captain Hodgers: Yarg! What a wonderful fight, complete with lasers and explosions. However, you are defeated and I shall kidnap you now!</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Squire Moore: You'll have to get through me first!</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Captain Hodgers gets through Squire Moore first.<br />Weakened by venereal disease, Moore collapses onto the floor. Captain Hodgers places Evan in a paper bag and he and his crew flee the scene</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Squire Moore: Shittywankbullocks!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Squire passes out</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >End Scene 13<br /><br />Scene 14<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Interior. Night-time. Griswell Food Emporium. Lord Bourbon Fannyweather and his mysterious fiancé, known only as 'Herself', are hard at work stocktaking. Lord Fannyweather's eyes are wattery with the softer emotions of the human heart, feelings which led him to give up the hallowed throne of Lichtenstein in order to marry an ordinary fishmonger's daughter</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Lord Fannyweather: How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Herself! who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still. Alas! how heavily This quiet morning weighs upon my heart</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Herself: Uhm. I'm just over here by the beans</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Fannyweather: Ah right. How foolish of me. How feelsth thou mine sweet?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Herself: Grand. You?</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br />Fannyweather: I feel that </span><span style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Love is not love<br />Which alters when it alteration finds,<br />Or bends with the remover to remove:<br />O no! it is an ever-fixed mark<br />That looks on tempests and is never shaken;<br />It is the star to every wandering bark<br />Herself: That's nice. Where did you put the relish?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Fannyweather: Top Shelf. Oh look, here comes Squire Moore and Salmonella O'Sullivan</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Enter Squire and Salmonella. Squire is panting and is carrying a recently purchased stockpile of weapons</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Lord Fannyweather: Ah Salmonella! Squire! How pleasant to see you!<br />Squire Moore: As you can see from my big bag of crossbows and revolvers this is not a social call Lord Fannyweather<br />Fannyweather: I see. What's the trouble?<br />Squire: Evan, our good friend who once helped you with that bat infestation in your attic, has beenn captured by Captain Hodgers and his urban pirates. We need to find them and rescue him as Evan has still not recovered from being graphically raped in the bum by Alec Baldwin. A terrible experience like pirate torture could impede his emotional and spiritual recovery even further as, to add to his troubles, his stalwart companion handbag has left him alone in this world. For this reason, you need to join me and Salmonella here on a daring raid on the pirate H.Q before the situation deteriorates further.<br />Fannyweather: I understand completely. I'll join you as soon as I've finished my shift.<br />Squire:.......How long will that be?<br />Fannyweather: An hour or two<br />Squire: Ok....but then it's straight to the rescue.<br />Fannyweather: Oh my, no! After my shift, me and herself are having some cake.<br />Squire: Can't that wait?<br />Fannyweather: If your soul was filled with tender passion and not the spirit of ceaseless sexual conquest, you would understand that the cake must be eaten.<br />Squire (in loud, angry capital letters): WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR CAKE!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Marie Antoinette<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />Marie: Go on. Let them eat cake.<br />Squire: Fine. But as soon as they've finished, we mount our daring rescue<br />Fannyweather: Grand job.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene 14<br /><br />Writers Note:<br /></span>And they said I couldn't write romance!<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-33145066574016924592010-03-20T12:41:00.000-07:002011-04-30T16:51:39.026-07:00Intermission<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Tam1K1Xsf9s/S6UoQ9Zw0KI/AAAAAAAAAAw/enat3RU-rSw/s1600-h/spaceball.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450807195827490978" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Tam1K1Xsf9s/S6UoQ9Zw0KI/AAAAAAAAAAw/enat3RU-rSw/s320/spaceball.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 1px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 1px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">7 Steps to Save the Catholic Church</span><br />
<br />
We interrupt this movie to discuss an important contemporary social issue. We all know the Catholic Church to be an organisation of jolly, affable old men wearing silly hats, a bit like Santa Claus and his elves. However, recently it turns out that, for decades, they’ve been molesting children and covering it up, much like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother Rodrigo Derrida and his crew of paedo-badgers. Understandably, this has had an impact on people, who now realise that some of the stuff they were saying, in between the bits about the magic carpenter and nudist garden thingy, may have not been strictly true. To many it seems that they may not be the jolly crew we once imagined them to be. How is the Catholic Church to save itself? This is not an easy question, but, following a papal request, I will outline a few ideas that have occurred to me and which could easily be implemented within a few months:<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Moving Statues</span><br />
<br />
In 1985, people travelled from all over the country to Ballinspittle Co.Cork to watch some moving statues of the Virgin Mary. This was in the days before Ipods and popular American sitcom ‘Friends’, so it was understandable that so many should travel down to experience this unique event. Of course, we know now this to be a classic case of ‘mass hysteria’ brought on by the stress of economic decline, emigration and constant repetition of the rosary, but it was good PR for the silly hat brigade. So, if people’s minds can move statues, why can we not simply use technology to do the same thing? Imagine: Finding every statue of the Virgin Mary in the country and attaching an electric motor and a micro-chip, before sending them off, zipping along the N25, circling the country as an attached speaker plays ‘Ave Maria’. Not only would this work wonders for the faithful, being reminded of the death of our Lord as his mammy whizzes by at 70 km/ per hour, but it would improve the moral standards of the nation. Would you mug someone, break the speed limit or have a cheeky joint, if there was a small chance of the Blessed Virgin hurtling over the horizon? Didn’t think so.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Hat Innovation</span><br />
<br />
Most informed people will tell you that faith is the core of any religion. This is untrue. Silly hats are far more essential. How many religions do you know that DON’T involve silly hats? That’s right, zero. Indeed Catholicism’s historical success was based on particularly ostentatious headwear, which dwarfed the far more mundane headgear of Protestants and others. Therefore, what is needed is even more ludicrous items to be placed on the heads of clergymen. For example, priests should wear twelve-foot conical hats, covered with green polka dots, with a little bell attached to the top. I’d like to see Islam or Judaism top that. Also, constant research should be undertaken to push the limits of silly hat technology, with eccentric fashion gurus roped in to advise the Church hierarchy on what to wear. This would make for great television as every episode of ‘Off the Rails’ would include a five minute segment called ‘Off the Aisles’ where chirpy young presenters would dress the Bishop of Killaloe in the latest trends, draping his 20 foot tower-shaped hat with glitter and rosary beads to the delight of rapt audiences.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Sexier Priests</span><br />
<br />
Johnny Depp or Cheryl Cole in a confession box. Enough said.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Re-decoration</span><br />
<br />
As many of my 4 and a ½ regular readers will know, I myself have avoided mass for the past several years. This was not due to a crisis of faith, but a crisis of comfort. Simply put, there is no logical need for Church pews to be so ridiculously uncomfortable. Padding and a couple of hundred footstools and I may even have considered running for pope. Call DFS and I assure you that you will see the flocks returning en masse.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Deny Everything</span><br />
<br />
The Nixon Defence. Simply refute any and every accusation as the evidence mounts. Insist that your flock must have faith that confessions, leaked letters and DNA evidence are all tools of the devil. If asked ‘Is it true that you swore victims of child abuse to silence?’, the correct response is: ‘No. Those children swore me to silence. They are working for the North Koreans and are trying to bring down society by taking down the church. Besides, I wasn’t even in Ireland that week. In fact I wasn’t on earth. I had spent a week in an alternative dimension where nothing was what is seemed. Then I bought a lolly’. If further probed, simply curl up into a ball until the journalist leaves.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Shift the Blame</span><br />
<br />
We are lucky in Ireland that racism is not so prevalent as it is elsewhere. In Irish society racism is just not socially acceptable, except when directed at travellers or the English. Therefore, the Church publicity bureau should begin an immediate policy of shifting the blame for clerical child abuse onto itinerants or the crown, perhaps suggesting a conspiracy of both. For example, a headline in Alive! could read: ‘Queen Elizabeth Visits Halting Site to Spread Lies about Innocent Priests: The Scandal Uncovered’ or ‘Did Prince Charles Travel Back in Time to Abuse Children in Convincing Priest Costume?’. The opportunities for journalistic endeavour here are limitless.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">7. Lasers</span><br />
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Can’t really think of how to implement these in an ecclesiastical context, but c’mon people, everyone loves Lasers.<br />
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Follow these simple steps and the nation will soon forget what a bunch of hypocritical, lying, child-abusing, preachy, shit-brained, arrogant tit-a-ma-boobs the clergy are.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-49817594493761222292010-03-14T17:32:00.000-07:002010-03-14T18:48:37.319-07:00Scene 13<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 13</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior. Night. The Post-Daisy Ball. Many are milling round the punch-bowl. Others are quietly mingling. The rest stare in amazement at Bobby Brisco, the break-dancing cardinal, as he struts his stuff on the dancefloor. Enter Squire Moore and Evan. Squire Moore is carrying a blackboard under his arm.<br /></span></span></span><br />Squir<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>e Moore: Lotta poontang here tonight<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br />Evan: Er, yes I suppose<br />Squire Moore: Fancy some...(raises eyebrows mischievously)...fun and games?<br />Evan: What do you mean?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Squire Moore places the blackboard on the floor, pulls out a piece of chalk and draws two columns on the blackboard. One is headed 'Evan', the other 'Squire'<br /></span>Squire Moore: For each fine young thing we canoodle with, we get a point<br />Evan: I don't really want to. I'm still reeling from losing Handbag. Also, since I was raped by Alec Baldwin, the thought of being physically intimate with anyone fills me with dread and revulsion.<br />Squire Moore: Sounds like fightin' talk to me! Away I go!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Squire Moore sets off on his rounds, a smile on his face and a lump in his trousers</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Evan rolls his eyes and notices his old associate, Salmonella O'Sullivan</span><br />Evan: Ah Salmonella, how goes it?<br />Salmonella: Evan old boy! So good to see you. Terrible to hear about this Alec Baldwin business. How are you holding up?<br />Evan: I'm alright I guess.<br />Salmonella: Splendid, splendid. Surprised by this year's winner?<br />Evan: Yes, the first transvestite Daisy of Dungarvan I believe.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly, both are interrupted by the return of Squire Moore. Moore wipes the lipstick off his face and draws '24' under his name on the blackboard.<br /></span>Squire Moore: Falling behind I see Evan?<br />Evan: I'm not participating in this weird competition. Please stop.<br />Moore: What's that? You don't think I can make it to 40 in the next fifteen minutes? Well, we'll see about that!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cue music: The Vinyls - I Touch Myself.<br />Montage of Squire Moore mauling onto various women</span><br />Evan: I must apologise for my friend. He appears to have the jockstrap jitters.<br />Salmonella: Evidently.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly there is a loud rumbling outside. Evan and Salmonella look around. Squire Moore, like Alexander the great dining at Persepolis, takes a break from his conquests to cower behind a chair. The noise grows louder and louder. Suddenly, a fire engine, two ford fiestas and a bicycle plough through the wall, circle around the room and pull up. All the vehicles bear jolly rogers</span>.<br />Salmonella: Oh no!<br />Evan: What is it? Who are they!?<br />Salmonella: I'd know that flag anywhere! This is the dread fleet of Captain Hodgers and his crew of urban pirates!<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly the door of the fire engine opens and a skinny, effete pirate emerges. On his left shoulder stands a tall bearded man, dressed in a colourful ensemble<span style="font-style: italic;">. </span></span><br />Captain Hodgers: Yarr! Listen up mateys. Things about to get interesting!<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Writers Notes:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span><br />I realise that I have introduced yet another character and gone off on another tangent without any hint of real plot development, but if Lost can get away with it then so can I<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">.<br /></span></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-42127288889410192222010-02-12T12:39:00.000-08:002010-02-12T13:04:30.048-08:00<object id="doc_312020810390651" name="doc_312020810390651" height="500" width="100%" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf" style="outline:none;" > <param name="movie" value="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf"> <param name="wmode" value="opaque"> <param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff"> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"> <param name="FlashVars" value="document_id=26789701&access_key=key-23bg8ztgvd0dzc7obity&page=1&viewMode=list"> <embed id="doc_312020810390651" name="doc_312020810390651" src="http://d1.scribdassets.com/ScribdViewer.swf?document_id=26789701&access_key=key-23bg8ztgvd0dzc7obity&page=1&viewMode=list" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="500" width="100%" wmode="opaque" bgcolor="#ffffff"></embed> </object><br /><br />The poster. Click to enlargeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-12711232199043235132010-02-07T14:04:00.000-08:002010-02-08T16:01:58.156-08:00Scenes 10-12<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 10<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exterior. Daytime. An innocent inner city playground. A large number of young children and several teachers are gathered around a truly fearful sight. Enter Backpack, a popular item of luggage, associated mainly with young travellers.</span><br />Backpack: I say, what has everyone so entranced?<br />Teacher: See for yourself.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The crowd parts, revealing drunken scallywags 1 and 2 canoodling in the middle of the circle.</span><br />Backpack: Why has nobody stopped those ne'er do wells?<br />Teacher: They smell awful and have been here for hours. Nobody wants to get too close...<br />Backpack: I'll handle this...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Backpack walks to the middle of the circle</span><br />Backpack: Ahem!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scallywags 1 and 2 are jolted from their drink-soaked revelry. They stand up, revealing themselves. Both are bollock-naked and have a thick lining of blue fur all over their bodies.</span><br />Scallywag 2: Humbo..gru...bleuh?<br />Scallywag 1: Gurk?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Backpack slaps both of them</span><br />Backpack: Do you have any idea where you are?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scallywags look around at the scarred, tearful eyes of the children.</span><br />Scallywag 1: Pub?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Backpack slaps them again, more violently this time. One of Scallywag 1's eyeballs becomes dislodged.</span><br />Backpack (angrily): NO! NOT PUB! PLAYGROUND!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scallywags slowly realise the reality of their situation and blush slightly. Scallywag 2 takes a swig of 'Musket Gunning's Old-Time Country Liquor'.</span><br />Backpack: Yes, you understand now?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scallywags grunt in the affirmative</span><br />Backpack: Good! Now off to the Bawdyhouse with you, where you belong.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exit Scallywags<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Backpack turns to leave</span></span></span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly he sees Evan exiting the brothel from across the road.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span>Backpack: Oh my...<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span><span>Scene 11</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Interior. Night. Backpack's apartment, where Handbag has been staying since she left Evan the night before. Handbag is looking at a picture of Evan and has been visibly sobbing. Enter Backpack<br /></span></span></span><span><span><span>Backpack</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">: </span></span></span><span><span><span>Still upset I see?<br />Handbag:...<br />Backpack: You know he was never right for you...There <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> other guys....and sentient containers..<br />Handbag: Stop. I know where you're going with this. You're a good friend Backpack, but there's only one man for me. Evan is kind, considerate and can ride me like a Mayo donkey. I shouldn't have left. Me and Evan can get through this together.<br />Backpack: (Sigh) There's something you should know.....<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 12<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior. Night. The annual Daisy of Dungarvan competition. Evan and Squire Moore, a dashing young aristocrat, take their place in the audience.<br /></span>Evan: Thanks for this Squire but I'm not sure I'm really in the mood...<br />Squire Moore: Oh nonsense old boy! It'll lift your spirits! By the way, you're welcome to stay at my place as long as you need<br />Evan: Thanks. Oh, it's starting...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The curtains part, revealing host Pat Kenny. Pat Kenny is dressed in a grey suit and tie. Unknown to the audience, Pat is wearing leather bondage gear underneath...<br /></span>Pat: Welcome to the Daisy of Dungarvan competition!<br />Pat's thoughts: Hello minions!<br />Pat: Tonight we shall have lovely girls from Donegal to Dingle all vying for the judge's vote<br />Pat's thoughts: Yeah! We gonna have sexy bitches from Tullamore to Imloughmore trynna get in with the Patman! Oh yeah, things are gonna get hot up in here!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pat, overwhelmed by desire, suddenly grabs his crotch<br /></span>Evan: Did Pat Kenny just grab his crotch?<br />Squire Moore: I believe so.<br />Evan: Should be an interesting evening...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE<br /><br />Writer's Notes to Scene 12<br /><br /></span>Casual observers may make the mistake of thinking that the 'Daisy of Dungarvan' is being used to avoid sparking a law suit with the 'Rose of Tralee' people. This could not be further from the truth. I would consider the whole project a failure if it didn't result in several lawsuits. Rather, the 'Daisy of Dungarvan' competition is an event being launched later this year by myself and a collaborator as a hip-hop alternative to the 'Rose of Tralee'. The film will not likely be released until at least 2012, by which time the 'Daisy of Dungarvan' will have replaced the now irrelevant Rose of Tralee competition. As such I am simply planning ahead. Also, while the idea of Pat Kenny suddenly grabbing his crotch may seem farfetched, the incident is based on an actual encounter between myself and Pat early last year, when, in addition to grabbing his crotch, he also began masturbating. Needless to say, I found the whole thing offensive and left soon afterwards.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-80463836389132005452010-02-05T16:20:00.000-08:002010-02-05T16:28:53.118-08:00Scenes 8-9<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 8<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">An uncouth brothel. Interior. day. Evan is guilty for placing Jason into orbit. He seeks to drown his sorrow in the bosom of a lady.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Laeticia Jones.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Laeticia: So young Evan you require gratification?<br />Evan: Yes. Handbag has left me and I have placed a fellow human being into orbit. Sex please!<br />Laeticia: Here you go.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Laeticia and Evan have various sex. First blowjob, then bum-style.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cue music: Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sex happens.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />END SCENE<br /><br />Scene 9<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Sex scene. There is lots of sex, including doggy style.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />END SCENE<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-35413959085750088972010-02-04T16:22:00.000-08:002010-02-06T10:44:01.993-08:00Scenes 5-7<span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 5.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior. Night-time. Evan's Room. Evan sits in a wicker chair, brooding like a young Winston Churchill. Enter Handbag, a popular female accessory.</span><br /><br />Handbag: So. I heard you challenged Jason to fisticuffs.<br />Evan (angrily): What of it?<br />Handbag: I heard what he did. It hardly seems worth fighting over...<br />Evan: He tarnished my honour Handbag! I cannot let this go unanswered.<br />Handbag: Why not? Is it any different from the time he suggested that Stephen Spielberg do a film about the holocaust and then demanded 80% of the D.V.D royalties for Schindler's List? Or when he phoned the fire brigade over that orphanage blaze and then sued the firefighters for intellectual property theft because he claimed putting out the fire was his idea?<br />Evan: Damn it Handbag I don't know. I just know I need to do this!<br />Handbag: I know why...<br />Evan (Sarcastically, like a middle-aged Winston Churchill) : Oh then please, enlighten me!<br />Handbag: Ever since Alec Baldwin raped you, you been trying to recover your confidence and masculinity. The fights, the drinking, the sudden unexplained trips to the Isle of Man. You're trying to heal yourself, but I worry that you might die in the process.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan rises to his feet and throws a cup at the wall.</span><br />Evan: NO! That's faeces! You-You just don't understand me!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Handbag stands up to leave</span>.<br />Handbag (Calmly, with an air of resignation): No Evan. I guess I don't....I don't think I even know you anymore...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exit Handbag.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan returns to his chair and sulks like a blonde Wiston Churchill.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 6</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exterior. Dawn. The hill of muscles.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan, Jason and a crowd of onlookers ascend the hill. At the summit, the ring of endeavour where the fight will take place has been prepared. Only one flaw is evident. Two drunken scallywags are canoodling in the ring. They have clearly been there since midnight.</span><br /><br />Evan: I say! What's all this then?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scallywag 1 rolls to one side and looks at the crowd. Dazed, confused and from Castlemartyr, he does not know how to respond. However, he does make a pitiful attempt.</span><br />Scallywag 1: Urg...buh..turnip?<br />Jason: We will have none of <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> foul turnips my good man. Explain why you have have no callously violated the ring of endeavour!<br />Scallywag 1: Glurb?<br />Evan: Oh what cruel threads the gods do spin, that nature should produce two such as you! Leave at once so that fisticuffs may occur!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The drunken scallywags are rolled off the ring of endeavour and placed in a brown paper bag. The trumpet is sounded.</span><br />Jason: Ah! Battle begins. Throw them up Evan!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jason and Evan circle each other menacingly. The tension is such that half the crowd faint. Jason and Evan fight like cats, scratching and biting, and removing each other's fur. After some time it becomes clear that Evan has the upper hand. Jason attempts to surrender, but Evan, like a teenage Winston Churchill, has become overcome by rage and is pushing Jason towards the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, a voice from behind stays his hand.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Handbag</span><br />Handbag: Evan! Stop! You've gone too far!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan calms down and looks at his bloodied hands, visibly surprised by his own actions.</span><br />Jason: Thanks Evan. By the way, you'll pay for the taxi ride home, won't you? It <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> my idea to get a cab instead of a bus.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan suddenly punches Jason with such force that he enters orbit</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene</span><br /><br />Writers notes: Some astute commentators have pointed out that the characters of Drunken Scallywags 1 and 2 bear more than a passing resemblance to real-life individuals. This is correct. Both are based, to one extent or another, on Indira Gandhi.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 7</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Stock footage of meat being processed to the sound of 'Material Girl' by Madonna.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">End Scene</span><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://ssl." : "http://www.");<br />document.write(unescape("%3Cscript src='" + gaJsHost + "google-analytics.com/ga.js' type='text/javascript'%3E%3C/script%3E"));<br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />try {<br />var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker("UA-11930047-2");<br />pageTracker._trackPageview();<br />} catch(err) {}</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-5676412931341244032010-02-01T18:49:00.001-08:002010-02-04T17:15:38.276-08:00Scenes 1-4<span style="font-weight: bold;">THIS’LL NEVER FUCKING MAKE IT PASSED JOHN KELLEHER: THE MOVIE</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 1</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Exterior. Dusk. Evan flees down a dark alleyway. He is pursued by Alec Baldwin. Alec Baldwin is completely naked except for a substantial number of twigs, berries and wild herbs that he has sellotaped to his person.</span><br />Baldwin: Come out, come out Evan! I shall find you!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Evan finds a hiding spot behind some barrels and beings to weep silently, knowing the fate that awaits him</span><br />Baldwin: Oh Evan, my fair-haired siren. Reveal yourself! You cannot hide forever!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Baldwin examines some boxes, thinking Evan may be hiding there</span><br />Baldwin: Bah! Just a box<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly, Evan shits himself in terror, the noise alerts Baldwin, who throws some barrels out of the way, revealing Evan.</span><br />Baldwin: Ha! You are mine!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cue Music: Enya – Sail Away<br />Alec Baldwin graphically rapes Evan</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span><br /><br />Writer’s notes on scene 1: It may be difficult to convince Alec Baldwin to play himself as a psychotic rapist. If this proves impossible then one of the other Baldwin brothers (Billy or Stephen) will have to suffice. Also, while ‘Sail Away’ may seem inappropriate for the rape sequence, it has to be included as it hints at a later plot twist.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 2</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interior. Daytime. Evan and Dr.Miravago are at the Advanced Rectal Repair Clinic of North Munster. </span><br /><br />Doctor: Wow Evan. Your recovery is taking longer than we expected. Alec Baldwin really did a number on your arse.<br />Evan: Yes I know. It is very painful.<br />Doctor: Well, I would prescribe a lot of rest and relaxation. Where do you like to unwind?<br />Evan: Oh you know, the wine bar, the haberdashery, the onion supply depot, usual stuff.<br />Doctor: Yes well, here comes Jason. Perhaps he can help you unwind?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enter Jason, a man of modest sensibilities and noble bearing</span><br />Jason: Hello all.<br />Doctor: Ah hello Jason. I was just trying to think of a way for Evan to unwind after being sexually assaulted by Alec Baldwin<br />Jason: Yes, I know. I was walking by the door and heard you say that Evan should unwind. Perhaps we should go to my Gentleman’s Club?<br />Evan: Yes, a splendid idea. Goodbye doctor.<br />Doctor: Farewell.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exit Jason and Evan.<br />Doctor M returns to his desk and drinks a latté for ten to fifteen minutes. He then stares intently at the camera.</span><br />Doctor: I HAVE A PHD IN ADVANCED RECTAL REPAIR!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />END SCENE</span><br /><br />Writer’s Note: Doctor must have moustache<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 3: Interlude</span><br /><br />Various clips of Manchester United’s 1994 premiership season to the music of ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ by Duran Duran.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />END SCENE<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene 4</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Interior. Night. The Gentleman’s Club. Jason and Evan take their seats by the roaring fire.</span><br />Evan: Ah, back to normal. Now, what shall we have?<br />Jason: Perhaps some champagne?<br />Evan: Good idea! The 1973 Chateau Matt Damon?<br />Jason: Spiffing! Jeeves, the Matt Damon 73 please.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Champagne is brought to the table. Montage of Evan and Jason laughing and frolicking. The clock shows 2am. </span><br />Evan: Ah. Excellent shenanigans. Perhaps we should retire.<br />Jason: Yes. Pay the bill would you?<br />Evan: What? Shouldn’t we split it?<br />Jason: Well....it was my idea to come here...<br />Evan: So?<br />Jason: So you should pay 7,000 euro for the champagne and truffels we just consumed?<br />Evan becomes furious and leaps to his feet<br />Evan: I thought you were a dashing man about town Jason, but you are little better than a cad. Fisticuffs at dawn!<br />Jason: If you insist....<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">END SCENE</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137276375241181581.post-79021794512754414582010-02-01T18:46:00.000-08:002010-02-01T18:48:39.756-08:00IntroFrom the people thaat brought you 'Arthur Scargill: The Musical' comes: <span style="font-weight:bold;">This'll never fucking make it passed John Kelleher: The Movie</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0