I USED TO BE LEGEND

Times, as people everywhere say, are tough. All across the country, from New York to California, everybody, regardless of their age or gender or familial connections is asking the musical question, “Grandpa, tell me ‘bout the good ole days.” Well, I am here to tell you the good ole days were fried terrific on a stick dipped in chocolate, and now they’re all gone, vanished into thin air like Reese’s Pieces down ET’s gullet. And yeah, you can listen all you want to the Presidents of Car Companies and CEOs of big Banks cry to Congress about net losses and bad press and unsatisfied customers, the real unsung heroes have kept their mouths shut. Until now, that is. I’m standing up for all of my kind, to tell our story. The vampire slayer story.

You see, vampire slaying was a sweet, sweet gig back in the day. One of the absolute sweetest. You were your own boss, you got tons of exercise, you were a hero, for Chrissakes! There was the rush of adrenaline and sense of accomplishment you just don’t get anywhere else, plus book and movie deals up the proverbial wazoo. I’d go out some nights and cruise the usual vampire haunts completely unarmed, then suddenly grab a broken stick or an unbroken stick (then break it) and stake me some undead ass! And the ladies! Chicks love a strong man who can protect them from the pointy-teethed creatures of the night, and we gladly provided that service for them. They returned the favor in their own exciting ways, such as intercourse in revolving doors, Hand Jive hand jobs, and erotic Laser Light Shows. But then, the public turned on us. The small, but loyal movement of Goth Kids grew and developed media attention, Anne Rice soared in popularity and those highly inaccurate Twilight novels started selling like really tasty hot cakes. All of a sudden, vampires were more en vogue than En Vogue. It was unthinkable but true. And, very slowly at first, we vampire slayers lost our credibility and eventually our livelihood. These days, I’m lucky if I get to see an interesting Laser Light Show.

So the next time you see a banker whining on CNNSPAN or MSNBS, don’t forget that us vampire slayers are hurting, too. And certainly don’t forget that vampires themselves aren’t brooding emo virgins. And even if they were, wouldn’t it be better if they were slain?

STILL EVEN MORE MOVIE TAGLINES OF THE DAMNED

WHAT WOMEN WANT: Extra-Sensory Perception! Also, Mel Gibson.

12 ANGRY MEN: Take 6 Irate Fellows, Combine With 6 Impressionable Fellows, Add Conflict, Stir. Serves 12… Anger.

THE USUAL SUSPECTS: Or Are They… Unusual? (NOTE: I haven’t seen this so I honestly don’t know.)

SOME LIKE IT HOT: And Some Sweat When the Heat Is On (Boom Bim! Boom Bim! Boom Bim Boh Bim! Bam!)

HOTEL RWANDA: There Will Be No Vacancy In Your Heart Once These Heartwarming Characters Check In.

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN: But They Can Still Choose From Jazz, Popular, Lite Contemporary or Aggro- Metal.

HIGH NOON: More Like 4:20, Am I Right? Oh, Sorry.

DIAL M FOR MURDER: Enter A Strange, Dangerous World Where Nothing Is As It Seems, and Letters Replace Numbers On Your Telephone!

GOOD WILL HUNTING: This Summer, The Search For A Decent Secondhand Couch Is On!

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE: Thrill As Bono Reads Of His Favorite Guitarist’s Trip To The Ozarks! It Will Have You On “The Edge” Of Your Seat!

RODAN! RODAN!

Well, I went to a party, the food and tunes were fine.

For some unexplained reason it was held down in a mine.

We were Fruggin’, we were Freddyin’, we were doing the Can-Can.

But all the noise we made awoke the one they call Rodan.

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! You can do it if you can!

We were all a little terrified when Rodan showed his face.

We were freaking and were screaming and un-Feng Shuiing the place.

That’s when my buddy Curt said hey why don’t we give Rodan a chance?

And Rodan began to fly around and show us all his dance.

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! Be you a man or a woman!

See, all you gotta do is flap your arms around and shriek.

Then you grab a friend and devour them within your beak.

Fly around the room and dive bomb and throw things round in your talons.

It’s a blast and it ain’t even hard, if you’re up to the challenge.

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! For a limited time span!

Now everybody’s flying round and everybody’s screaming.

Your parents’ faces disapprove but your gal’s face is beaming.

All your friends are dancing like the prehistoric flying lizard.

Everyone’s arms are a-flapping and their legs are all a-scissored.

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! Ironically not big in Japan!

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! It’s part of your Master Plan!

Rodan! Rodan! Let’s all do the Rodan!

Rodan! Rodan! Rodan Rodan Rodan!

I WAS A TEENAGE PRESIDENT- OF THE UNITED STATES!!! PART THE THIRD

And now, the final installment of the rare, never-before-seen novelization of the unproduced coming-of-age comedy I Was A Teenage President- Of The United States!!!

We here at False Moustache must apologize for the choppiness of this last installment, yet even with our lab technicians working endless hours attempting to decode and salvage what remained, we were only able to fully save what is below. It’s broken into three chunks, and we believe that even without the missing sections, you can still follow the plot and see what an incredible movie-going experience this would have made. But hindsight has perfect vision all of the time, whereas the past is as blind as an Italian tenor. It’s a shame the world at large suffers from reverse Benjamin Button Disease, or we may have all learned from ourselves. Enjoy!

                                          PART THREE: HAIL TO THE YEAH!

In Rod’s dream, he was sitting on the curb of Main Street back home, when George Washington rode up on his horse, Martha II. “Roderick Ossum, though you may not know it yet, you have taken on a major responsibility, perhaps the most major responsibility of the Free World.”

“But being the President looks so hard! I haven’t ever held a job in my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to take on this supremo big job without ever life-guarding a swimming pool or bussing tables or being vetted or anything? It’s so whelming, it’s overwhelming!” Rod tried to hide the whine in his voice, and ended up sounding like Bob Dylan, which wasn’t half bad. George smiled, adjusting his wooden teeth.

“There are a plethora of difficult decisions and tasks ahead of you. I won’t lie, you’ll be placed in dangerous situations, and you may even get bored out of your gourd. However, once you get past them, it’s a sweet gig. You can get whatever you want anytime you want. Ice cream, pizza, you can even get beer! Girlie mags, rated T videogames, pocket pussies, the list goes on and on! But don’t tell them I told you. You listen to your Founding Father; you’re going to be swell at this. So long!”

And with that, Washington rode away into the foggy sunset. Rod yelled at him to come back, and was awoken by the sound of his very own screaming. Ned the Secret Service Agent rushed into the Lincoln Bedroom to make sure Rod wasn’t being assassinated, placing his Mad magazine face up and splayed open, so he wouldn’t lose his place in The Lighter Side.

“Hey, home-skillet, you cool?” he asked. Rod smiled.

“Yeah, I just made a supremo big decision.”

Halfway across the world, in a dark, dank, stank castle, Russian President Igor Scramkov was having a dream of his own. Only he was awake, and daydreaming. Only it was night. Scramkov was daydreaming about being President, even though he already was. In his daydream, however, he was President of the entire world. And he ruled it with an iron fist- two of them, in fact, in case one got tired. Everyone was forced to salute a loving caricature of him every hour on the hour, and all the men were forced to wear three-piece gray suits. All the women were forced to wear nothing, even grandmothers. 

At that moment, two of his henchmen, Yakovs and Klein burst in. “Mr. President, whatever are you doing?” Klein asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, I was daydreaming, Klein.”

“But it’s the middle of the night! That’s wrong and perverted and undignified!”

“You dare judge me, you swine-hound!” Scramkov shouted, rising slowly, his eyes glowing red.

“N-n-no, sir! Of course not, Mr. President! That is, uh…” Scramkov laughed evilly.

“Fire him,” he ordered. Yakovs nodded. And Klein was fired. Which meant that he was shot out of a cannon! Without severance! Scramkov chuckled and turned to the television. “Now, let’s hear more about this newly-fangled teenage President of the United States.”

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“And that is what I believe!” Rod summed up. He paused, posed and poised. There was a deafening silence that would have unsettled Helen Keller- combined! And then, without any advance warning whatsoever, there was a response. The crowd cheered! The Press Corps high-fived each other. All the gathered foreign leaders did the “We’re not worthy” move. Tori was more in love with Rod than she’d ever been up until that point right there. And Skratch was laughing his ass off at a funny-looking dignitary. Everything was perfect, and it appeared as though the world was safe. Rod smiled, his face beaming like the Bat Signal. But then all of a sudden, a smoke bomb was dropped and everybody had a major coughing fit. Secret Service Agents were blowing and blowing and blowing and blowing to get all the smoke outta there, and when it cleared, both the President of Russia and Tori were missing! Rod snapped into action. “Circle the perimeter,” he shouted, but it was too late. The Russian Helicopter was already in the air, and the President Scramkov was hanging out the door. He was holding a megaphone up to his Russian lips, so he could be heard over his Russian helicopter. Tori was holding on for dear life.

“Ha ha ha! I spit on your too cool for school antics, Mr. Teenaged President! You’ll never see your precious lady-friend again!” The military shot missiles and grenades and arrows at the helicopter, but it was of no use. Rod tried not to cry, and made a scowly adult face as he came to terms with the first big decision of his Presidency. Then he raced to the airstrip to take off, in Air Force One!

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President Scramkov laughed maniacally as Tori hung precariously over the adverbially existing tank of vodka and bloodthirsty sharks. “My dear young lady, if your precious teenaged President does not respond to my demands of one bajillion smackolas and a star on the Walk of Fame, you can kiss your lifetime sayonara!”

“Never!” shouted Tori, a little ambiguously. Scramkov laughed some more, and took a swig of vodka and a bite of pastry. He motioned to his henchmen.

“Lower the girl closer to the tank, Yakovs,” he declared.

“NO!” A voice shouted. It was Rod! “Let her go, Scramkov, or you’ll feel the taste of the rainbow of my wrath.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, little President. I’m much older and smarter than you.”

“That’s what you think!” And with that, Rod attacked on his turbo-charged skateboard. The two henchmen tried to stop him, but he counter-attacked with his patented moves. The Sleuth Maneuver! The Andy Turn! The Sticky Wheel! The Early Bird! And with that, they were down and out and eaten by drunken sharks. President Scramkov tried to sneak out, but Rod raced past him to the door. “I don’t think so, Scramkov!” Scramkov got down on his knees, begging for forgiveness.

“Please, I promise to end Socialism! I’ll be your best friend!” Rod scoffed, but acquiesced. Scramkov kissed his British Knights and ran off to fix the world for the better for America. Rod raced up to untie Tori, who surprised him kissing him on the lips! Not like his Mom did, but with real passion and love and no smacky noises. Rod blushed, and Tori grinned from ear to ear.

They were married the next day.

Forty years later, President Ossum still reigned supreme over the country, shoot, the continent, furk, the whole universe. And everyone was as happy as they could possibly be, and there were no problems that couldn’t be solved with a party or a rock and roll guitar riff. Skratch was Secretary of Pizza and took his job so seriously, no one had the heart to tell him he and it were completely fictional. As for Rod and Tori and their rock band, crime fighting world leading family of seven kids, there was a whole franchise of stories left to tell. The End!

 

I WAS A TEENAGE PRESIDENT- OF THE UNITED STATES!!! PART THE SECOND

OTE: This is the second part of the recently unearthed novelization for an unproduced film called; I Was A Teenage President- Of The United States!!! In Part One, Rod learned he was the new President when a limo bearing Secret Service Agents showed up on his block and swore him in. Part Two will explain how a fifteen-year-old came to hold the highest office in the land.

PART TWO: HAIL TO THE NO!

“Suh-weeeeet!” Skratch enthused as he, Tori and Rod were ushered into the Oval Office of the White House in Washington, DC, USA.

“Yes, this is a nifty little pad your homeboy has, isn’t it, dudes?” Ned the Secret Service agent said, trying desperately to be cool. Everybody rolled their eyes all around in their sockets, even the other Secret Service Agents.

“But I still don’t understand what I’m doing here,” Rod said, maintaining an air of cool in the overwhelming atmosphere of responsibility.

“Perhaps I can explain,” a new voice intoned, and from behind them strolled Perfidy Hardaway, the Vice President. He was an old yet handsome man, bald aside from tufts of gray hair around the temples. Everything about him appeared warm and inviting, aside from the severe-looking eyebrows, the result of a freak grooming accident. “I’m afraid there’s no other way of putting this- the President is dead.”

Everyone gasped.

“I should explain that by dead, I do not mean he passed away. He’s dead in the polls. No one likes him, his approval rating is abysmal. Everyone thinks he’s a mean, doddering old stinkybag. And the worst part is that all of it is one-hundred percent accurate.”

Everyone gasped.

“It gets worse. Because of his unpopularity at home, he is unable to make any impact abroad. He is laughed out of the UN whenever he tries to enter, the guffaws creating an impenetrable barrier. We are facing a potential global nuclear threat, and are powerless to do anything about it because no one will take our President seriously.”

Everyone gasped. “Where is the President now?” Tori asked, thinking of someone else for a change.

“He’s resting at Camp David, taking solace in all of the Davids that reside there.”

“But I still don’t understand. How do I fit into all of this? What am I doing here?” Rod emo-ed to the VP. Hardaway chuckled and put and arm around Rod, gently pushing him down to sit on the sofa. Without flinching, Rod executed a leg-flip over one arm of the couch and a single-axle head rest on the other arm, effectively annexing the piece of furniture. The VP smiled inwardly, thinking Rod was already making a natural world leader, as he settled his aged Vice-Presidential butt-cheeks into the nearest chair.

“Stellar lounging, bro!” Skratch whispered conspiratoriorioriorially. Hardaway chuckled warmly, like a napping uncle after a drunken midmorning.

“You see, Roderick, we conducted an intricate survey to determine who in this country embodied the core values of the Presidency, which are youth, independence, scrappiness, heart, lungs, cheek, lack of knee-pads, gumption, grit, spunk, and a radicool ‘tude. And despite your lack of backwards baseball cap, you fit the profile the most. You are, in point of faction, the Most Popular Person in America right now. Head of all the sports teams, winner of all your school trophies, the teachers love to hate you and school administrators hate themselves for loving you. Girls find you too, too dreamy and boys think you’re downright tubular. Mothers see in you an angel and fathers see in you the devilish child they once were. Young people prefer you to unicorns and old people prefer you to Andy Rooney. That’s a helluva demographic, my boy!” While VP Hardaway was explaining this, the Secret Service Agents had offered the guests and availed themselves to fruit punch. As she dreamily sipped hers, Tori imagined herself as First Girlfriend, painting the White House hot pink and appearing at press conferences with Rod in matching fauxhawks. Skratch imagined all the free food he’d get and bungee-jumping off the Washington Monument! Ned the Secret Service Agent imagined recounting this exceptional day to his wife and her new husband Ted and laughing in their faces about how much better his life was now. Score!

Rod was imagining something else as he guzzled his fruit punch. He was imagining having to sit through boring Senate Subcommittee Hearings and reading and signing tons and tons and tons of long, complicated bills and long, long hours full of difficult decisions and foreign foods and walking and talking at the same time. His first day of summer was quickly turning into the biggest day of his life and he was most assuredly NOT of mixed feelings about his … feelings. “I can’t do it, man!” he finally yelled. “I’m just a kid! I’m not ready for this kind of responsibility. I’ve never even had a job! And I’m not starting with this one. You can take your stupid Presidency and shove where the sun refuses to shine!” And with that, he arose from the couch, did a 180 and strode toward the Oval Office door, intending on walking out and away from his destiny for, like, good.

“Hey, amigo, don’t harsh the room buzz, dig?” Ned the Secret Service Agent cried. Tori grabbed Rod by the arm and pulled him back, then leaned in to whisper in his perfect ear.

“Rod, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll still be your friend forever,” she said, winking as she said friend to emphasize that she had the hots for him.

“You can go if you like, but you’ll be walking out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one in which the entire nation, heck, the continent, furk, the world will be your friend forever,” VP Hardaway said, winking as he said friend to emphasize the world had the hots for him. Rod was torn, literally. The decision he was being asked to have to be made by him was one of the biggest decisions he’d ever been asked to have to be made ever by himself. It could change his life forever, figuratively. If he stayed, he could become a force for change, end nuclear war fear for Earth folks forever. If he left, he could have a carefree summer back home in Sufficient Springs, Indiahoma, riding his turbo-charged rocket, tipping cows at Old Man Mose’s farm, licking ice cream cones and eating the cones of ice cream cones, and staying up all night to watch USA Up All Night. What to do? What to do?

What to do? What to do? Rod chose to do what his father had always told him when faced with a difficult decision. He decided to sleep on it. In the Lincoln Bedroom.

He was the New Prez, baby! Rod Rulez the Countryz 4-Everz!!!!

I WAS A TEENAGE PRESIDENT- OF THE UNITED STATES!!! PART THE FIRST

This week at False Moustache we have a special surprise prize treat for you, dear readership! Recently, one of our fun, friendly, fictional interns unearthed in his (or her! Doesn’t matter…) garage the manuscript of the novelization of an unproduced film entitled, “I Was A Teenage President- Of the United States!!!” It appears to have been a vehicle for the likes of Michael J. Fox, Pauly Shore or one of the Ninja Turtles. Though portions of the manuscript were irreparably damaged, our lab technicians were able to salvage major chunks of plottage, which our Geek Squadron formatted into three blog-post-sized units, once they had finished biting the heads off of chickens. Seriously, gobs of work went into bringing this to you people, so read it! Weep! Read it again! Weep again! Thanks!

PART ONE: HAIL TO THE ME?

Rod Ossum was feeling totally supercharged to the max. Not only was it the first day of summer, not only was the sun shining down on his street and the thermometer boasted a bodacious eighty-six degrees, not only was he fifteen (the best age to possibly be: too young for responsibility and too old for a babysitter) but he was about to become the coolest kid on his block once again, heck, the coolest kid in his neighborhood, shoot, the coolest kid in the city, furk, the coolest kid on the planet. Strutting down the street (Main Street, in Sufficient Springs, Indiahoma) in his signature bad-to-the-bone-ass salmon colored (and flavored!) t-shirt of a windsurfer windsurfing, stone-washed jeans with the cuffs rolled up to better show off his yellow-striped tube socks and white British Knights, and of course the orange cool-specks, Rod was feeling just a little bit dangerous today. Oh, and did I mention he was carrying his brand-new rocket-powered skateboard? Because he totally was.

Rod was so deeply lost in his own coolness that he just about passed by his two best friends waiting for him on the corner of Main and Also Main. Skratch (the one with the jet-black hair and bright-green hoodie) was Rod’s main man, and partner in partying down. If there was a pizza to be scarfed up or a root beer to be chugged down, Skratch knew about it and let Rod in on the skinny, too. They were friends to end, through thick and thin, best buds forever. Their plan was to become the first people to skateboard on Mars, doing sweet anti-gravity tricks and selling the subsequent tape for billions of dollars to rich slackers. It was a foolproof plan, and both had pinky-sworn to never give up the dream. Never!

Rod’s other best friend was Tori (the girl in pigtails, black eyeliner, frilly black tank top and ghost-tinted skin.) She had been his next-door neighbor since they had been six, and at first they hated each other. But once they bonded over their mutual love of comics, her intense and amazing judo maneuvers, his bravery in the watching of slasher movies and the time by the pond they showed each other their thingies, they were inseparable. The friendship had not quite developed into anything more, but both knew deep down it potentially could, were the prospect not so deeply terrifying. Skratch and Tori got along as well, though ever since they entered adolescence Tori resented the attention Rod gave to Skratch over her, and Skratch resented not being invited to the pond to see their thingies.

“Yo, Rod, we found an empty pool to shred in, badass style, yo,” Skratch informed Rod.

“Yeah, it’s totally killer,” Tori added shyly, a bit overwhelmed by his kickin’ ensemble.

“Sweet! I can’t wait to try out my new turbo-charged skateboard,” Rod said, gesturing to his new turbo-charged skateboard. To the untrained eyeballs, it appeared to be your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill skateboard, except for the twin turbine engines flanking the back, four extra multi-colored wheels, skull ornament befronting it, aquarium full of piranhas, naked lady silhouette mud flaps, shrink ray, love letters from Mark Twain to himself, joy stick, suggestion box, and a glowing flame sticker all across the base.

“Dude, that flame sticker totally glows, which is hardcore!” Skratch whispered. Tori surreptitiously smacked him upside the head in her mind.

“Wait till you see what this baby can really, really, really, really, really do!” Rod exclaimed, and with that, he flipped the switch, turned the key, threw the lever, primed the pump, clockwised the knob, cranked the winch, counterclockwised the other knob, added a tank of gas, kicked the engine six or seven times and hopped on! After warming up for about fifteen minutes, the skateboard took off, doing 35 MPH easily- in a school zone! Skratch was impressed! Tori was head-over-heels in attraction! Rod didn’t notice any of all that sexual tension because he was zooming down the boulevard. He didn’t notice the cop cars speeding past him, either. Nor did he notice the helicopters in the sky, looming above like a gaggle of levitating weavers. Nor did he notice the fleet of tanks and Hummers which tore up the block behind him. Nor did he notice the searchlights and fireworks and falderal. He did notice the stretch limo, which had just pulled in front of him and was now blocking the intersection of Also Main and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Main Streets. He may have even crashed into it, too, cutting our story short. But Rod was way, way, way, way, way cooler than that and executed a perfect triple flip-flopple ollie oopie nozebone baby-swipe right over the roof, pausing just briefly to flash an A-OK sign to his friends, who had run down the street after him, and landed safely on the other side. Removing his shades, he turned to Skratch and Tori and stated, “That… was… classic!”

Skratch was jumping up and down in utter-excitement mode and Tori was sneakily applying extra make-up and puffing out her chest, when a tall dark man in a tall dark suit exited the tall dark limo. “Step back!” he commanded, issuing forth his hand as if any and all questions should be addressed to it rather than his face, which appeared preoccupied with Rod. Skratch noticed that the man had a holster below his shoulder with a gun that looked like it could super-soak any opponent to death. With bullets.

Tori did not see the gun, and instantly grasped Rod to her person, exclaiming, “You can’t hurt my best friend, tall dark stranger! I won’t let you!”

The tall dark man laughed a tall dark laugh. “My dear Goth girl, your best friend and secret crush is no average teenager anymore. Roderick Ossum, by order of the Congressional Constitutional Committee Chairpeople of the Country, I hereby swear you in as the latest, greatest President of the United States of America.”

The teenagers fainted.

DVD COMMENTARY

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me on this, the most illuminating DVD commentary you will surely hear. You are of course listening to the voice box and word noises of the creative force behind this magnum opus, Bikini Space Babes. One of the most personal projects an artist like myself could possibly conceive of undertaking and committing. While I can’t speak for everyone, I’m not that good a ventriloquist, I can safely say this film speaks to each and every individual in a very specific and visceral way, be it to the heart, head, eyes, ears, nose or throat. Perhaps I should start by explaining the root of the genesis of the seedling of the story. I was grocery shopping at the local consignment store, they have lots of vintage food there, which is my favorite, and it’s just a really gratifying place to meet people, you know. There’s just a special class of people there, who know the value of good, fine, aged produce.

And I met these women, and through the course of our conversation about space travel, and because I was already imagining them in bikinis, for the most part, the story just sort of gelled right then and there. I hugged them adieu and raced home to write the first and only draft of Bikini Space Babes.

I remember being concerned about rewrites but just decided to go with my gut. Your gut is like your conscience only more conveniently located.

Ah, so here we have the underlying visual motif first established, as we settle on a shot of two moons. Roundness and duality, words thrown around a lot on set. The roundness of time and the duality of… two things. I’ve always been influenced by, not just by art, but by those everyday occurrences that are encountered on a daily basis. Note the subtle shading here of the mise en scene in the shower scene. This was inspired not only by some of Fellini’s finest moments conquering color and light, but also of a wild dream I had about these three women essentially doing what you see here, although it was liquid body wash as opposed to bar soap. Art is on occasion about compromise, and I think the soap adds an edge to the overt roundness of the film. I find dreams to be incredibly potent and use them for inspiration in our films among other things.

And of course, here I am. Captain of the Spaceship Mom. A little shout-out to my mother there. I promised her I’d do that, though she kept insisting she really didn’t need to be associated with this. But being the son that I am, I felt that I owed it to her, since it was her name on all the checks. I should probably address the question on everyone’s mind, whom did I model my look after? It’s actually a composite of a few people, really, a bit Matt LeBlanc, a bit of the guy who tailors my suits, I don’t recall his name but he’s a great guy and an exceedingly adequate tailor. And that one President, from the 20-dollar bill? Joshua? I can never remember his name. Okay, but this was a real tough shot here, this is what they call a star swipe? It was all eventually done in post after hours of cutting little stars out and trying various swiping methods. It’s a shame we didn’t get it on set, but it really moves us to our next scene here.

So now we’re on Jupiter, which is our parking lot. I ad-libbed that throne line to cover up the handicapped parking sign. There was a lot of that kind of off-the-cuff idea engineering with little line ideas and costume alterations that occurred during shooting. I like to really go with the flow, which is what I call my heart sometimes, and not be bound by convention, which is what I call the girls’ outfits sometimes. And here we return again to our theme of roundness and duality in this close-up. I promised Ambria a close-up and was shocked when she didn’t appreciate this one. Sometimes artists have trouble grasping a true vision, there’s so much of their own vision they want to force upon you, like the fuzz or something, and you’ve gotta stay true to your own vision and not let anyone else’s vision supersede your vision. Particularly with this film.

What makes this such a personal film I think is the aspect of the journey. These women have traveled far, from Planet Hollywood to Jupiter and they’ve now experienced this irreplaceable loss, in the loss of their bikinis. It’s a coming-of-age tale, appropriate since all of these girls had just turned 18, they knew, at least they knew when I explained it, that this was really a story of hope and loss, and regaining that hope for a second and third time.

And the obligatory monster, made from old boxes and some newer boxes. That gun was given to me by my grandfather; at least he intended to give it to me.

And here, the destruction of the monster symbolizes the destruction of all monsters. And the gun is like an extension of myself which shoots. This celebration scene is of course, what I was working up to. This regaining of hope after so much loss. There are boundless examples of roundness and duality here, completing the endless chain of life, were it in chain form. And the classic fade-out on a literal high-five. And then a figurative high-five.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this commentary, I hope it illuminated some of the finer points of this cinematic experience. It’s certainly a film I revisit a lot, and I can’t help recalling the events surrounding it as I watch. And now I hope you won’t be able to help it either. Thank you for joining me, and thank me for joining you.

TOO MANY GIRLS IN MY BED

There’s too many girls in my bed,

There’s too many girls in my bed.

I’ll repeat what I just said,

That there’s too many girls in my bed.

The Fire Marshall’s gonna be pissed,

I’ll have to cross one off the girls in my bed list.

If a fire breaks out, we’re all dead,

From the too many girls in my bed.

We started out partying on the lawn,

That’s when I did my best Don Juan.

One thing led to another and another and another,

Now we’re really getting to know each other.

But there’s too many girls in my bed,

There’s too many girls in my bed.

I’ll probably lose my monogamy cred,

If word of these too many girls spreads.

Now the time has come for me to choose,

Who will win me and of me who will lose?

I will send half of these girls away,

And the other half I’ll allow to stay.

Because there’s too many girls in my bed,

There’s too many girls in my bed.

When I found out, my face was red,

It was the biggest mistake since sliced bread.

So now half of the girls have left,

And now I lie here feeling bereft.

I’m like a church but minus the steeple,

You open the door and see just a few people.

Because there’s not enough girls in my bed,

There’s not enough girls in my bed.

I wish the other girls hadn’t of fled,

Because there’s not enough girls in my bed.

And now the outside is losing its bright,

As the daytime absconds with the light.

A few phone calls will set all aright,

And I’ll have a mathematically perfect night.

Cuz there’ll be just enough girls in my bed,

There’ll be just enough girls in my bed.

It won’t be too sparse or overcrowded,

There’ll be just enough girls in my bed.

BOYS WILL BE…YOU AND ME! A COMEDY SKETCH FEATURING SPEX & 2 TONS

(Spex and 2 Tons are sitting on a park bench, scoping out the scenery and I don’t mean foliage. Or do I?)

Spex: Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude! Check her out.

2 Tons: Yowza!

Spex: Double Yowza!

2 Tons: She just radiates sexuality.

Spex: I’d like to radiate some sexuality at her, if you know what I mean.

2 Tons: With your sex radiator?

Spex: You got it, bro!

(They high-five.)

Spex: Whoa, hold on, flip your gaze stage-left! Check this lady out.

2 Tons: Homina Homina Homina!

Spex: And a fourth Homina!

2 Tons: She is a super freak, you don’t take her home to mother.

Spex: I’d like to take her home to mother, if you get my meaning.

2 Tons: For comparison?

Spex: You got it, bro!

(They high-five.)

Spex: Sweet Joey Christmas, check him out!

2 Tons: Double take!

Spex: Triple take!

2 Tons: He’s a God, torn from the thigh of Zeus.

Spex: I’d like to thigh his Zeus, if you catch my drift.

2 Tons: With your Mount Olympus?

Spex: You got it, bro!

(They high-five.)

Spex: Holy shit, German Shepherd, five o’clock! Check it out!

2 Tons: Make me a sandwich!

Spex: A double-decker sandwich!

2 Tons: That canine has cat-burgled my heart.

Spex: I’d like to cat burgle its heart, if you follow my wavelength.

2 Tons: (Pauses, attempting to follow Ike’s wavelength.) With your love gloves?

Spex: You got it, bro!

(They high-five.)

Spex: Good Christ, check out that lamppost!

2 Tons: Shoot the Piano Player!

Spex: The Pope Must Diet!

2 Tons: That is one hot source of light.

Spex: I’d like to heat up its light source, if you comprehend my statement.

2 Tons: In your convection oven?

Spex: No.

(Pause. The lights begin to fade.)

Spex: God, I wanna titty-fuck that sunset.

(Blackout. Scene is done with!)

DON’T JUDGE PEOPLE

(Song is performed very minimally, with rock beat from keyboard and regular stingers also from keyboard.)

Don’t Judge People!

Judging People Is Wrong!

And If You Judge People…

Take A Listen To This Song!

Judging People Is Lame!

And It’s All Sortsa Work!

So If You Get Good At It…

You’re A Supreme Court Jerk!

Take A Walk On Down The Street!

Check Out All The Homeless Guys!

They Were All Judges Of People…

And That’s Why They Sleep Outside!

What About Your Foreign Neighbor?

Why’s He Got That Crazy Name?

Well You Have Probably Guessed It…

Being Mr. Judgy Is To Blame!

No No No

Don’t Judge People!

Being Judgmental Is Wack!

If You Think Judging Is Awesome…

Then Hear Our Screamy Feedback!

Now I Know You Know Of Your Elders!

And You Know Of Their Smelly Smell!

It’s Cuz Of Centuries of Judging…

They’re Stuck In Stinky Odor Hell!

And All Those Tiny Baby Orphans!

With Heads A-Bald And Arms A-Pudgy!

Their Mamas Took One Look Right At ‘Em…

And Found Their Faces Too A-Judgy!

So No No No

Don’t Judge People!

That’s The Moral We Have Today!

But I Can Tell Just By Looking…

You’re Gonna Do It Anyway!

Don’t Do It! Don’t Do It! Don’t Do It! Don’t Do It!

Don’t Do It! Don’t Do It! You Did It! You Did It! Nooooooooooooooooooooo!

ANTONIO X, INTERNET HYPNOTIST

Greetings, surfer of the webs, curiositer of curiosities, filler of time. Behold the fortuity of your search, and prepare to have your mind a-blown! I’ll wait.

Are you adequately preparated? Good! I will then proceed to take control over your senses. For you see I, Antonio X, am a certified Internet Hypnotist. That’s right, you read me correctly, I can hypnotize your entire body simply through the powers of the printed word you consume ocularically on this fine website. Impossible! You say aloud to your computer. Possible! I counter with my keyboard. And I win the argument through logic. But never fear, dearest of readerships, I vow to never ever ever ever ever ever ever use my incredulastic powers of literary hypnosis for questionable or evil or mean-spirited or awful or perverse or stupid means. Nay nay nay and nay I will only use them to create goodness and solidaritude and increased sexual prowess throughout the world about me.

But still, I sense, you shake your head to and fro above the equator of your neckline, still the doubting Thomas or Thomasina. Very well, if you need a demonstration, then a demonstration I shall perform upon you.

Everyone, everywhere and every time has a vice of some kind or another kind. Be it cigarettes, alcohol, junk food, heroin, cocaine, gambling, prescription drugs, glue-sniffing, panty-raiding, online gambling, shoplifting, lying to your parents, pyromania, fan fiction or sweat pants, it’s a skeleton within each of our closets that, try as we might, we just cannot evictify. Or can we? I hypothesize that we indeed can, and I guarantee that I indeed will! Simply loosen your mind of any spare thoughts, empty it out completely, then slowly but accurately count down from ten. By the time you’ve reached the end (one in American numerology) you will be entirely hypnotized, your consciousness as malleable as marshmallow fluff, your mind as open as a pilfered purse. Now, you will read aloud and repeat the following statement.

“O, ye venial sins which thinketh thee soooooo superior to mine veritable own goodness and angelousness and light, begone! Leaveth this body, by hook, crook or anus and never the Twain shall Mark us again! I swear it upon my very own personalized name, be it Antonio X or otherwise, I shall henceforth and hereinafter be a classier more upscale model citizen guy or gal, and start utilizing the terms henceforth, hereinafter and upscale in my daily vocabulary, regardless of said context or written context, tra la!”

Now, after you have repeated this statement seven times, count slowly but accurately up from one, ending whereupon you reach the number ten, and you will once again be moored to the realm of the unhypnotizeds.

Feel any different? Yes? No? Just wait until you hunger for a cigarette or a sweat pant, and then wait for the surprisingly violent response. Even I’m not certain what exactly will happen! It will be barrelfuls of fun for all involved, particularly me! I just cannot wait to hear how your life has been forever changed. Be sure to let me know. Enjoy your new life, and you’re welcome!