Man Made of Bees: I am. It just looks like I’m standing because of all the bees.
Archive for the ‘Scenes’ Category
Which was a really bad screenplay about modern FM radio:
INT. JACK’S BEDROOM, NIGHT.
Casey walks into the doorway.
Um, we’re gonna smoke out of that shark. If you want some.
I’m fine for now, thanks.
A: This not a question easily answered by me, since I would never own an animal that doesn’t have a rectum. Do you think I can afford to have bird shit all over my stuff? I have two HD televisions. My headphones are made of carbonite. I park my car in my living room. I can’t have birds just flying everywhere, unaware of the fact that they’re just shitting on the things I own. But hey, don’t let me stop you from owning the bird of your dreams. You and your weird, pervert-dreams. Let me turn this question over to my Uncle Greg who has owned eleven birds in his lifetime. As a result, he has no fingers (falcons), so I will be typing everything he says.
What is this? A what? What is it for? A magazine? I read an article that said the magazine is dead. Give me that spoon. It has soup on it. Just put it in my mouth. GMDFGGFHFDHRBMRLE. God dammit. Forget it. What do you want to know? Birds? Who wants to own a bird? Jane in Austin? Jane Austen? Texas? I’m going to shit, you have to wipe me. Ok, ok. I’ll hold it.
Okay. Jane? Jane, should you own a bird? Well, I don’t know. What do you mean I’m a bird expert. Holy shit, this crap is peeking out my asshole. Alright, alright. Jane, you should own a bird. You’re lonely. You’re lonely because you’re asking this question in the first place. You’re asking it to a goddamn magazine, and as I’ve stated previously, the magazine is dead. And here’s the thing, a bird will provide you with companionship. Oh, sure, you’ll get a bird that can talk– like a cockatiel or a parakeet. And you’ll teach it your name, you’ll rub its little head and feed it little peanuts and, for awhile, you’ll think you’ve found the meaning of life. You’ll say “To hell with men! I’ve got you, Skeeter.” And you better believe you’ll name the thing Skeeter. They are always named Skeeter, Jane. I’d just like to warn you though, Jane. A bird won’t love you like you love bird. Inevitably, one night, when you’re asleep, envisioning yours and Skeeter’s lives together: taking a cruise, checking out Dave Matthews Band, finally opening that Jurassic Park-themed diner you’ve been yammering on about for years, on that night you’ll open your eyes — and that’ll be the last time because PECK-PECK, JANE! THERE GO YOUR IRISES – HEY, WHY ARE YOU TYPING IN CAPS – I CAN SEE THE TYPE-WRITER. I REALIZE I’M YELLING BUT THE ONLY REASON I’M YELLING IS BECAUSE I’M HOLDING IN A SHIT RIGHT NOW AND THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN TALK BECAUSE I’M CLENCHING ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING THAT CAN BE CLENCHED IN A BODY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO YOU? OH, FUCK. I’M SHITTING RIGHT NOW. AT THIS VERY MOMENT. RIGHT NOW. DON’T TYPE THAT – IT’S NOT GONNA BE TIMELY WHEN THESE PEOPLE READ THE MAGAZINE, EVEN IF SOMEHOW, WHILE THEY’RE READING IT, I’M TAKING A SHIT BECAUSE IT’S NOT GONNA BE THIS SHIT, IT’S GONNA BE ANOTHER SHIT, SOMEWHERE ELSE, SO THE CONTEXT WILL BE WILDLY DIFFERENT SINCE MOST OF THE SHITS I TAKE ARE ACTUALLY PLEASANT. SERIOUSLY, IT’S CRAWLING DOWN MY LEG. I CAN’T UNBUCKLE MY PANTS. YOU NEED FINGERS FOR THAT AND YOU KNOW THIS. AND YOU’RE SITTING THERE TYPING. OH HOLY HELL YOU ARE BUYING ME SOME DOCKERS.
Well, Jane, I hope that answers your query and, you know, quite honestly you can go right to hell if it doesn’t.
[Scene: The Canastota Glovers dugout, top of the 1st]
Backup Outfielder: Well, beat the drum and hold the phone; the sun came out today.
Backup Shortstop: No shit man. Watch the goddamn game.
Backup Outfielder: We’re born again, there’s new grass on the field.
Backup Shortstop: No. Same grass as last time. No one is born again. Why do you say this every game?
Backup Outfielder: A-roundin’ third, and headed for home it’s a brown-eyed handsome man!
Backup Shortstop: What? No.
Backup Outfielder: Anyone can understand the way I feel.
Backup Shortstop: Name one person.
[Backup Outfielder walks behind his Manager]
Backup Outfielder: Oh, put me in, Coach! I’m ready to play. Today.
Manager: No you are not. Yesterday in practice you tried to eat a bat.
Backup Outfielder: Look at me!
Backup Outfielder: I can be!
Manager: Sitting down–
Backup Outfielder: Centerfield.
Manager: Absolutely not.
Backup Outfielder: You know I think it’s time to give this game a ride-
Third Base Coach: How do you ride a game?
Backup Outfielder: Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat–
Backup Shortstop: Dude. We have, like, a million bats. You can stop using that birch tree branch.
[Backup Outfielder tears out of the dugout, pulling a gun out of the back of his pants. He shoots EVERYONE on the field except for the manager and the PA announcer. And the hot-dog vendor because that is his dad. He drags the manager, at gunpoint, to centerfield. He points the gun up toward the PA announcer's booth]
Hot Dog Vendor: I love you, son!
Backup Outfielder: YOU SAY IT RIGHT NOW! SAY IT!
PA Announcer: Now in at Centerfield for the Glovers, Number 3–
Backup Outfielder: ME. LOOK AT ME. I CAN PLAY — NOW IT’S YOUR TURN [gun at coach's head]
Manager: You can play Centerfield?
Backup Outfielder: And?
Manager: Just to hit the ball, and touch ‘em all – a moment in the sun–
Backup Outfielder: It’s gone. And you can tell that one goodbye.
Hot Dog Vendor: HOT DOGS!
Ghost of Babe Ruth: I am shitting in my pants right now guys
–it’s just — no, you’re all this thing that’s like, “hey,” wait–no, come on, wait, stop, just, okay, okay, OKAY! No, I don’t — I don’t! We. WE — oh, ho, ho, no, no, n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-o, NO! Did. Not. Never. You. Why? Why? Why? Tell me why? I want to hear why. Why? Why? Tell me why? Say it with your mouth. Say it. Say it. You say it right now. I don’t have anywhere to be. Say it. Say it. Saaaaay. IT. You know you–REAL NICE JARED, THAT IS REAAAL NICE. I’ll shhsh you–don’t you, no, I’m the one, hey, yeah? No? I don’t know? Maybe? When? Can’t? CAN’T? And won’t. Happy? Don’t. Don’t. DOO-ON’T! Don’t start. Yeah vroom-vroom–WHAT-EVER. F-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-c-k! I am! I am! Don’t you say–I, I am! can I just, can I just, let me just, I’m just, I’M JUST SAYING — WHAT is your problem? You’re like this thing that’s always doing this thing–Oh, like I don’t know? Like I don’t know that already? Where have I been? Where? Tell me where. I’d love to know where I’ve been-NO. N-O-O-O-O. I have NEVER been there and you KNOW that. I am a person. Don’t play this game. Don’t. Don’t play it. Don’t–no. I’m not, no I’m not, no I’m not–you are. It’s you. You’re the thing that you’re saying. Should I just hold up a mirror against my face and you can yell at that? Because that’s what it’s like right now. You wouldn’t even have to move from your perch. You look like a bird right now. I’m invisible. I feel invisible. I should just starting eating all your food in front of you. OH MY GOD! Once! One time! That was — no, you’re making that up, that’s a, that’s a, that’s a LIE. I don’t even. I can’t. I can’t. Why did it–why. I’m just saying–I’m–just–fine. Fine. FINE. No, I said fine. Fine means fine is what fine means. Fine always means fine. Don’t believe those billboards. UGH. I’m just trying to–I’m trying to. Okay. You know what? Goodbye. Good-BYE. Yes I’m going to get on this hot-air balloon. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear it. Goodbye. Good. Bye.
Hot Air Balloon Operator: Where to?
Hot Air Balloon Operator: No can do.
Arguer: Oh yes you can.
Hot Air Balloon Operator: No. I can’t. This is a museum balloon. I’m an actor. You’re indoors. At a hot-air balloon museum. Everyone in here heard you. Everyone. Look at that guy over there. He’s still taping this with his cellphone. Going to be on YouTube pretty soon–
Video Taper: Already is.
Hot Air Balloon Operator: You see that? Already on the internet. Did we learn our lesson today, kids?
Fourteen Kids Taped To The Ceiling: No!
Hot Air Balloon Operator: Hey, I tried.
NY Lotto Guy: Hey, you never know.
Two girls were playing badminton on the street today, with their hands. Right in front of a Foot Locker, just batting a feathered ball back and forth. They looked like they were taking the match pretty seriously. An older dude, maybe a father, looked on, annoyed. I couldn’t figure out why, though I really wanted to. So, here is the scenario that I made up:
“Christa, stop stepping on the back of my flip-flop. I HATE IT.”
“Girls. This is New York City. You don’t yell. Or wear flip-flops.”
“Shut up, Dad. That guy is screaming over there.”
“I BET YOU NEED JESUS CHRIST IN YOUR LIFE RIGHT NOW YOU PIECE OF SHIT WHERE IS MY TELEPHONE – STACEY, STACEY, STACEY! OH HO HO, THE LORD AND SAVIOR, STACEY!”
“Ow! Dad! Belinda just flicked the back of my head.”
“ALRIGHT, THAT’S IT. YOU TWO, RIGHT NOW. BANDMINTON. RIGHT HERE, IN FRONT OF THIS FOOT LOCKER. WINNER GETS FREE LUNCH, LOSER GETS TO SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE REST OF THIS TRIP. AND YOU HAVE TO BUSK FOR YOUR FOOD WITH THE MANDOLIN IN MY BACKPACK. GOT ME?”
“Dad, neither of us know how to play mandolin.”
“Dad, we don’t have rackets.”
[father throws shuttlecock into the air, girls begin swatting at it].
I’d like to see YOU come up with a better explanation.
No, seriously, I’m all ears.
Me: What was your favorite thing about Who’s the Boss?
Tony Danza: Pissing in the coffee-maker every morning. OH SHIT A PLANE
Scenario #4586: You’re drinking beers at a bar, except it isn’t actually a bar but the flatbed of a pickup truck, where you’re sitting because you’re hitching a ride and you happened to find beer under a tarp. The guy driving, who is actually Bruce Willis but you haven’t discovered that yet, looks like he’s a man of few words, a man who might not like it if you drank his tarp-beer, but man are you thirsty and aching to FEEL anything different than the last three weeks which has consisted of you hitch-hiking across middle-America because you went out to Los Angeles to sell your T.V. Pilot* but it turned out that the guy who wrote you from the email address “BigTimeHotShotGuyInCharge@CBS.com” was not any of the following: big, hot, guy, in-charge or filled with gummy worms,** but was actually an agent of the British-Columbia MAFIA, an organization notorious for bilking earnest rubes out of scads of cash by promising them [the rubes] a world of opportunity and then immediately clubbing them [the rubes] in the back of the head with a tire iron, stealing their [the rubes] wallets, and more importantly, their [the rubes] scripts. From there, the B.C. MOB re-tools the scripts with serious aplomb, like, you look at these guys who are absolute slobs, can barely function and think “What do those pieces of shit know about rising action?” But, man, they really do. They can put a shine on just about any television script–before they got their hands on Alf, it was a show about a talking helmet that only talked about atom-splitting. Anyway. I’ve gotten off-track here. The point is: you’ve had a terrible go of things the past few weeks and pine for that crisp, golden brew inches from your feet. Do you drink it? What will that guy [Bruce Willis] do when he realizes you’re taking the only thing from him that truly matters–beer, the only mirror into the truth for poor ‘ol broken-down Bruce? Is that how you want to be remembered?
INNER-MONOLOGUE MULTIPLE CHOICE:
A. “No, hell, no. I can’t do that to this guy. Look at him. Probably divorced, goes home, dreams of a better, idealized life every night in some sad-looking chair. No. No beer is worth that pain.”
B. “I don’t know. I do have REALLY long sleeves on right now. I could fit an entire bottle in the shirtsleeve and just kind of lift up to my mouth. It’ll look like I’m checking to see what time it is. But, wait, that doesn’t make any sense. What do I care about time at this point? He’ll know I’m a fraud at that point. He’ll say ‘I do this fucker a favor and he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t miss Gilmore Girls or something? Well that’s it, I’ve had it.’ And, then, he’ll take a hard, sharp turn, flip this thing over. But, you know, would that be so bad? I don’t think it would be because — and a lot of people don’t know this about me, but — I took a stuntman class four years ago. Was a gift from my Aunt Raspberry. Crazy Aunt Raspberry, may you rest in peace. So, I know HOW to fall, you know? Alright. We’re doing this.”
C. Yes. And I’m gonna fuck the bottle right after.
You choose C. Bruce checks his rearview mirror, attempting to get over to the right-hand lane so he can hit that rest-stop that has the Arby’s. Always stop for an Arby’s, that’s Bruce’s rule. Doesn’t matter when, if any one is hungry or not. Doesn’t matter. All that sort of stupid, bullshit “logic,” goes down the toilet drain of Bruce’s mind. Out the window. Gone, finito, Arby’s Beef ‘N Cheddar combo with curly fries and extra horsey sauce. Bruce sees you doggystyling [yeah?] the beer bottle and gets livid at first. But, then, as the neon ten-gallon hat that is Arby’s classic sign comes into view, a chorus of beautiful birds sing sweetly into Bruce’s cortex, and Bruce thinks to himself: “Man, maybe this kid has got it right. I love beer, and I love fucking things. I don’t really love a whole lot else. Arby’s, of course. Making mixtapes — gotta love that. Oh! And when you order a bottle of wine and the waiter comes over and is all like, showing you the label of the bottle as if he’s saying ‘You sure about this one, bro,’ and I’m like ‘Fuck man, I don’t know,’ and then he goes ‘Shh, bro-bro-bumble-bees, here take a sip, let it breathe and take a sip. You can decide after that,’ and I take a sip and just look at him like, ‘Fuck. You really get me.’ Those are the things I love, but mostly beers and putting my penis inside of new things. Think of the possibilities, so many beer bottles. This! This is my Nazareth! I’ve come home! No more human beings, no more ‘thinking!’ From here on in its: roast beef, beers and bottle-pussy. Thank you kid, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you say aloud. Then you fucking freak out because now, apparently, you can read minds.
*Show about a guy who gets lost inside a waffle and has to eat his way out. Problem is, his mouth(s) are on his feet and his feet are inside the mouth(s). How do you walk?
**Very rare North-American medical condition in which someone is born as a pinata.