Scene 20
Int. Night. The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout.
Squire Moore: Ah yes, that interruption has been dealt with. Now, finally, the narrative can continue.
Lord Fannyweather: Oh no. The screen's going blurry. I think you're having a flashback.
Squire: Oh fiddlesticks. This shit is whack yo.
The Screen goes blurry. 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.
Squire Moore: My balls sure are swollen with repressed lust.
Miguel Sanchez: Too right buddy. I ain't had no sex since I ain't known no what now not ever 1941 dang Germans.
Dorian: Damn skippy buddy. What's the rhumpus here?
Squire: Get on the trolley Dorian. We're looking for a few Dames to take surfing up the river Intercourse.
Dorian: What say we make this a little . . . interesting?
Miguel: Spill the beans daddio.
Dorian: Hopefully I will, later on tonight (note: innuendo) but how bout a little bet?
Squire: What's the rhumpus Dorian?
Dorian: The first one of us drugstore cowboys to get a dame back to our place wins 20 dollars.
Miguel: Now you're on the trolley! I'm down with that.
Squire: Dorian, you pagan Saracen. I wouldn't do anything so churlish.
A passing gentleman with a fashionable goatee interrupts
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.
The gentleman places his money on the table and vanishes into the night.
Dorian: Excellent. Let's see. It's 8 o'clock now. I reckon this should take less than an hour.
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. Dorian spies a saucy little hoochy mama.
Dorian: Woah fellas. Check out the gams on that broad!
Squire: Is she french?
Dorian: Er, does it matter?
Squire grabs Dorian roughly by his swollen balls
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!
Dorian: Oh yes I forgot. I think she's French canadian. Does that count?
Squire: It fucking better. I'll let you have first go though.
Dorian: Okay....Here I go...Walking over any minute now....On my way
Dorian remains exactly where he is.
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.
Dorian: Horsepoop. I'm going over.
Squire: WAIT! STOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
Dorian: Why?
Squire: I'll feel bad for not going over if you do.
Dorian: Bullshit infidel. I'm gonna...Wait, where's she gone?
The broad has turned into a butterfly and escaped through an open window.
Dorian: Bugger. My swollen balls are not impressed. Where's Miguel gone?
Miguel has an amateurish approximation of sex with a young lady wearing blue socks and standing at a 93 degree angle to the bar.
Squire: Oh god damn it.
Dorian's balls explode with frustration.
Cut back to the pirate tunnel in the present day.
Squire: And that's why I have never since passed up an opportunity for sex no matter how inconvenient or ill-advised.
Writer's note: The character of 'Passing Gentleman' should be played by either Michael Fassbender or Johnny Depp for the purposes of realism.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
From the Pen of Sir Anthony Hopkins to the Desk of Ms. Sinéad Gunning.
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.
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.
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.
I shall give you some time to mull it over and will eagerly await your reply.
Yours sincerely,
Sir Anthony Hopkins.
P.S. I am wanking as I write this.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Scene 19
Scene 19
The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout.
Squire Moore: Well, now that that interruption has been dealt with, we may proceed.
Salmonella: Wait! Something else approaches!
Lord Fannyweather: Ah Christ....
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. 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.
Squire Moore: Why! If t'isn't me old pal, Dorian Mammeri! How goes it chum?
Dorian: Really cool man, what are you up to these days?
Squire Moore: Well I...
Dorian: That's totally interesting man. When I was in Nepal, this really wise old man.....
Several hours later
Dorian: . . . . . and I was like 'yeah, I'm totally trying to find myself too.'
Lord Fannyweather wakes from his doze.
Fannyweather: Hang on sorry, could you repeat that last line again?
Dorian: Gladly. I said to him 'Woah! dude! I'm like totally trying to find myself too.'
Fannyweather: Why do you hate the english language so much? What has it ever done to you?
Dorian: Look man, if you saw what I saw in East Wyoming, you wouldn't be asking me that.
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. 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.
Dorian: . . . . . .
Fannyweather: So matey, have you found yourself? Or should I say: Herble gerble murple?
Dorian: No, not yet, I think that . . . .
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?
Dorian: Uhhhh...
Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens suddenly materialise from the aether. They look upon Dorian with disdain, piddle on him and fuck off.
Squire Moore: Well, crimes against communication notwithstanding, what brings you here?
Dorian: These things.
Dorian indicates a number of children, all younger than nine, wearing rags over their emaciated, nearly expired bodies
Squire Moore: Urgh! Yuck! What are they?
Dorian: The lower classes. Some of them followed me here. I thought you might find some use for them.
One of the ragamuffins coughs up blood and pipes up
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?
Squire laughs at the dying child
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!
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.
One of the children dies from his scurvy. Squire Moore's laughing becomes louder and louder.
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.
Dorian: Yeah ok. Well, at least they might be able to help me find myself.
Exit Dorian and the starving children.
Squire Moore: Also, I hate Davey for some reason.
End Scene
The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout.
Squire Moore: Well, now that that interruption has been dealt with, we may proceed.
Salmonella: Wait! Something else approaches!
Lord Fannyweather: Ah Christ....
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. 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.
Squire Moore: Why! If t'isn't me old pal, Dorian Mammeri! How goes it chum?
Dorian: Really cool man, what are you up to these days?
Squire Moore: Well I...
Dorian: That's totally interesting man. When I was in Nepal, this really wise old man.....
Several hours later
Dorian: . . . . . and I was like 'yeah, I'm totally trying to find myself too.'
Lord Fannyweather wakes from his doze.
Fannyweather: Hang on sorry, could you repeat that last line again?
Dorian: Gladly. I said to him 'Woah! dude! I'm like totally trying to find myself too.'
Fannyweather: Why do you hate the english language so much? What has it ever done to you?
Dorian: Look man, if you saw what I saw in East Wyoming, you wouldn't be asking me that.
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. 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.
Dorian: . . . . . .
Fannyweather: So matey, have you found yourself? Or should I say: Herble gerble murple?
Dorian: No, not yet, I think that . . . .
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?
Dorian: Uhhhh...
Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens suddenly materialise from the aether. They look upon Dorian with disdain, piddle on him and fuck off.
Squire Moore: Well, crimes against communication notwithstanding, what brings you here?
Dorian: These things.
Dorian indicates a number of children, all younger than nine, wearing rags over their emaciated, nearly expired bodies
Squire Moore: Urgh! Yuck! What are they?
Dorian: The lower classes. Some of them followed me here. I thought you might find some use for them.
One of the ragamuffins coughs up blood and pipes up
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?
Squire laughs at the dying child
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!
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.
One of the children dies from his scurvy. Squire Moore's laughing becomes louder and louder.
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.
Dorian: Yeah ok. Well, at least they might be able to help me find myself.
Exit Dorian and the starving children.
Squire Moore: Also, I hate Davey for some reason.
End Scene
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Scenes 17 and 18
Scene 17
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.
Vulgate: What's the good word Fellatio?
Fellatio: I'm investigating the Evan Hennessy rape case.
Vulgate: Oh?
Fellatio: Yes, it's quite a conondrum. Even claims it was Alec Baldwin but we need another witness to secure the case.
Vulgate: So, why are you here on the computer?
Fellatio: Are you familiar with facebook?
Vulgate: Yes.
Fellatio: Are you familiar with Queefu Nell?
Vulgate: No.
Fellatio: Queefu Nell is a facebook user who is legendary for the sheer quantity of status update that she produces.
Vulgate: How many status updates could she possibly produce?
Fellatio pulls out a massive hardback tome that she can barely lift.
Fellatio: This is the complete St. James bible, old and new testaments, plus apocrypha and several theological essays...large print edition.
Vulgate: Ok...
Fellatio pulls out an even larger book, the size of a large labrador
Fellatio: This is part 1 of the subject index for her status updates, from 'Aardvarks' to 'Bumblebees'
Vulgate: Ah, I see. Well, what's this got to do with the case?
Fellatio: Well, you know the way enough monkeys on enough typewriters would eventually write King Lear?
Vulgate: Yeah
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.
Vulgate: Well what are you waiting for? Qwanza? You go girl!!!!!
Writer's note: Holla!
Fellatio searches Evan Hennessy, cross-referencing with Baldwin and assault.
Fellatio: Here we go, her facebook updates from the night of the assault:
5pm: Am sad :(
5.02pm: Am super-thrilled :)
5.03pm: Am nostalgic for the days of yore........
5.05pm: Only joking they sucked! But still, a little bit anxious
5.10pm: Had bowel movement (8 people like this)
Fellatio: Hmm, better scroll down a bit...
7pm: I fucking HATE butter (2 people like this)
7.25pm: Had bowel movement
8pm: The Wire is better than the Shield and most of human civilisation (567 people are aware that this is true)
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? :)
Fellatio: AHA!
END SCENE
Writer's Notes: Yes, you should have been patient shouldn't you?
Scene 18
Interior. Night. The secret tunnel beneath the pirate hideout. Our three heroes advance towards their goal.
Squire: Sh! Did you hear that?
Fannyweather: No, but the air suddenly went cold.
Salmonella: *Sniff* There is a stench of evil...
Enter Von Knutstrom, the embodiment of darkness
Von Knutstrom: Hi lads, heard ye were rescuing Evan. I thought I could lend a hand.
Squire: You? Von Cuntstorm? Embark on a noble mission for good?
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom and yes, I'd be delighted to.
Fannyweather: What? You? The same Cuntstorm who bathes in the blood of children because you believe it increases your sexual prowess?
Salmonella: The same Cuntstorm who once threw a puppy into a volcano just for the fun of it?
Von Knutstrom: What? No I didn't.
Squire: Just like you didn't surrender France to the Nazis?
Von Knutstrom: Er, that was several decades before I was born.
Fannyweather: A likely story, just like you didn't colonise the Congo?
Von Knutstrom: That was Belgium!
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!
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom.
Squire: Whatever, get thee behind me Satan!
Von Knutstrom: Well I'll leave ye to it.
Exit Knutstrom
Squire: Now, let us continue on our noble quest with no more of these ludicrous interruptions.
END SCENE
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.
Vulgate: What's the good word Fellatio?
Fellatio: I'm investigating the Evan Hennessy rape case.
Vulgate: Oh?
Fellatio: Yes, it's quite a conondrum. Even claims it was Alec Baldwin but we need another witness to secure the case.
Vulgate: So, why are you here on the computer?
Fellatio: Are you familiar with facebook?
Vulgate: Yes.
Fellatio: Are you familiar with Queefu Nell?
Vulgate: No.
Fellatio: Queefu Nell is a facebook user who is legendary for the sheer quantity of status update that she produces.
Vulgate: How many status updates could she possibly produce?
Fellatio pulls out a massive hardback tome that she can barely lift.
Fellatio: This is the complete St. James bible, old and new testaments, plus apocrypha and several theological essays...large print edition.
Vulgate: Ok...
Fellatio pulls out an even larger book, the size of a large labrador
Fellatio: This is part 1 of the subject index for her status updates, from 'Aardvarks' to 'Bumblebees'
Vulgate: Ah, I see. Well, what's this got to do with the case?
Fellatio: Well, you know the way enough monkeys on enough typewriters would eventually write King Lear?
Vulgate: Yeah
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.
Vulgate: Well what are you waiting for? Qwanza? You go girl!!!!!
Writer's note: Holla!
Fellatio searches Evan Hennessy, cross-referencing with Baldwin and assault.
Fellatio: Here we go, her facebook updates from the night of the assault:
5pm: Am sad :(
5.02pm: Am super-thrilled :)
5.03pm: Am nostalgic for the days of yore........
5.05pm: Only joking they sucked! But still, a little bit anxious
5.10pm: Had bowel movement (8 people like this)
Fellatio: Hmm, better scroll down a bit...
7pm: I fucking HATE butter (2 people like this)
7.25pm: Had bowel movement
8pm: The Wire is better than the Shield and most of human civilisation (567 people are aware that this is true)
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? :)
Fellatio: AHA!
END SCENE
Writer's Notes: Yes, you should have been patient shouldn't you?
Scene 18
Interior. Night. The secret tunnel beneath the pirate hideout. Our three heroes advance towards their goal.
Squire: Sh! Did you hear that?
Fannyweather: No, but the air suddenly went cold.
Salmonella: *Sniff* There is a stench of evil...
Enter Von Knutstrom, the embodiment of darkness
Von Knutstrom: Hi lads, heard ye were rescuing Evan. I thought I could lend a hand.
Squire: You? Von Cuntstorm? Embark on a noble mission for good?
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom and yes, I'd be delighted to.
Fannyweather: What? You? The same Cuntstorm who bathes in the blood of children because you believe it increases your sexual prowess?
Salmonella: The same Cuntstorm who once threw a puppy into a volcano just for the fun of it?
Von Knutstrom: What? No I didn't.
Squire: Just like you didn't surrender France to the Nazis?
Von Knutstrom: Er, that was several decades before I was born.
Fannyweather: A likely story, just like you didn't colonise the Congo?
Von Knutstrom: That was Belgium!
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!
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom.
Squire: Whatever, get thee behind me Satan!
Von Knutstrom: Well I'll leave ye to it.
Exit Knutstrom
Squire: Now, let us continue on our noble quest with no more of these ludicrous interruptions.
END SCENE
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