The Mario 2 Outlook

I hope I didn't lose you with that title—and by and large, I am addressing women. Admittedly, this essay does in fact discuss video games, but my intent is not to bore you with bluster about Blaster Master or Bionic Commando or some other garage-sale relic that means nothing to you. For good or ill, the fact remains that if you were born after 1970, video games were a part of your upbringing. And like it or not, a select few Nintendo titles have become iconic in our culture, and nothing short of a genocide waged against nerds like me is going to erase that.

The three Super Mario Bros. games, for instance, transcend obscure and geeky limitations. If someone were to show you a picture of Super Mario and ask you to name him, failing to do so does not mean that you're remarkably refined and mature. It means that you're probably Amish.

So, allow me to reverse my tactics from defensive to offensive. If you're unwilling to accept that Super Mario has made a mark on our culture, if it seems silly to construe deeper meanings from something that is so widespread and familiar to us, then by all means, don't read another word and find something better to do. Somewhere, no doubt, there is a barn that needs to be raised and butter that is not going to churn itself.

Now that we're off and running: It is vastly accepted by people of my ilk that Super Mario Bros. 3 is the finest of the trio in question. (Regardless of whether or not you care to know, 3 has been voted the absolute greatest Nintendo game by numerous websites devoted to critiques of interactive button-mashers.) The original Super Mario—the one bundled along with Duck Hunt and a Nintendo system that enthralled so many children of the '80s on Christmas mornings—is commonly rewarded the silver medal. The guiding force of this essay, Super Mario Bros. 2, is still considered very good by critics, yet by no means a match for its odd-numbered counterparts.

But 2 is the true standout in my opinion that is due for a humbling any day now. Let me tell you why.

Saluting 2 is a fine way to buck conventional thought. If we concede that dimwits outnumber sages on this planet—and that one of the downfalls of the consensus is that its masses are more prone to human error—then it's not at all absurd to recognize 2 as Mario's premier 8-bit adventure. Now, if you still consider 2 the runty black sheep of the litter, that doesn't mean you're part of a consensus dumber than the Earth-is-flat believers of centuries past, nor wickeder than the generations of Americans who had no big qualms with slavery. All I'm trying to convey is that the majority have been known to embrace faulty convictions.

2 is distinct and versatile. There are four characters to choose from with unique strengths and weaknesses. Whereas the first and third games are, at best, partnerships, 2 has to offer a full-fledged democracy. In 1 and 3, Mario & Luigi represent Simon & Garfunkel in that it's clear who meant more to the duo and therefore had richer success in his solo career. 2, by contrast, has to offer a quartet that is as dynamic as the Beatles.

Just like Paul, Mario is an affable and steadfast front-man, a consummate leader. With his wild and eccentric leaps of creativity (and jealousy of Paul/ Mario's prestige), John functions as Luigi. George is like Peach; both can levitate with meditative Zen. Toad has the beefy build of a drummer, and much like Ringo, his contribution to the group is indelible, but you'd never want to buy one of his solo projects.

You're still free to favor the odd-numbered Marios, of course, but be warned: doing so may lead to debates with nut-bars who will counter that that's like saying Simon and Garfunkel are better than the Beatles.

Holy fuck, Shakespeare probably realizes he was a chump by now if indeed dead souls have conscious thoughts! More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Sean Connery Will Survive

My friend had his tuft of black locks pulled and bobbed in the back. I thought his hairdo made him resemble Steven Seagal, and as he sought the bartender's attention, I nudged him and told him so. He grinned and took no offense and that was the intent. In no time he got me to agree that the Seagal-look was at least better than having a receding hairline. We took a minute out of our night to discuss Seagal-classics like Undersiege and Marked for Death. That alloted minute extended when we couldn't recall the name of the action flick in which Seagal dies within the first twenty minutes. We remembered that it took place on an airplane that had been hijacked by terrorists, and while an American special forces unit covertly boards the plane to rescue the passengers, some sort of a mechanical mishap spells death for Seagal's character. From the thin air of the stratosphere, he plunges to the ground. We're left to imagine the gruesome impact of his body going splat and then the movie—whatever it's called—goes on without him.

The next morning, when I logged on to the Internet to get the answer, three things occurred to me. 1.) The movie is Executive Decision. 2.) Although this film was received fairly well by audiences and critics, it Marked for Death the clout of Seagal as a lead-actor in action flicks. The year after ED hit theaters, 1997, saw the release of Fire Down Below, and by then, it became pretty clear that Seagal had devolved into a farce. In the following decade, most of his action flicks were shipped straight to rental racks. Then Seagal decided he was tired of pretending and wanted to kick some ass for real. Decades after he graduated from police academy, Seagal became a Reserve Deputy Chief in Louisiana. As of late 2008, a camera crew has followed him around on the job because it would be wasteful for Seagal to tackle and shackle a meth-cook without broadcasting his heroics. 3.) I can think of one actor who can't at all relate to Seagal's plight; his career was never marred by an ignoble death on-screen. His premier roles signify more about survival and death than any other actor. His name is Sean Connery.

As the original James Bond, Connery set the mold for action heroes who defy death against all odds in a flurry of punches, bullets, explosions, and charisma. Most of the actors who followed in Connery as Bond's wake emphasized the first three parts of the action-movie equation in order to compensate for their lack of charisma. Connery as Bond didn't have that problem. Arnold outlasted the Predator because he was the strongest one in his squad. Neo killed dozens of digital-henchmen because he had an unlimited supply of guns and ammo. John McLean prevailed in Die Hard 2 because in the end he (cleverly) blew up the bad guys' plane. James Bond is different. Punches, bullets, and explosions are constant in Bond flicks, but somehow they are marginalized. It's more engaging to time how long it takes Bond to bed his next vixen and then guess which sexual innuendo he'll quip afterward. Bond employs fisticuffs, guns, and gadgets to survive, but the primary reason why he seems so impossible to kill is because he's such a ruthless charmer.

In Casino Royale, Ian Fleming's first novel in the Bond series, the author describes 007 as the spy nods off for the night on a hotel bed.

“...With the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold.”

Fleming hints that—beneath a veneer of good manners and chivalry—chilled irony is one of Bond's core, unconscious traits. Bond is wont to express the opposite of what he means in his actions and speech. That is why, in Goldfinger, for instance, he seems smooth rather than silly while he swims toward the shore of the harbor of a bad-guy stronghold with a fake-duck helmet strapped to his head. It's a farcical trick that is more befitting of Inspector Clouseau, and yet Bond lends the impression of a shrewd expert because of his capacity for irony. Later on, in the calamitous wake of the detonation of the bomb that he plants to combat evil forces, Connery as Bond gallivants into the dressing room of the belly-dancer in a nearby tavern. They smooch, of course, but when she objects to the presence of a pistol carried in his shoulder-strap, Bond mock-apologetically says, “I have a slight inferiority complex.” (Even though he clearly doesn't.) Obligingly, he sets the holstered gun aside to allow further kissing. Facing the bathtub that his latest lust-interest emerged from, Bond has his back turned to an advancing henchman armed with a club. A trusting and romantic lover would likely keep his eyes shut during this stage of foreplay; Bond, however, opens his lids to gaze warily into the eyes of the belly-dancer. He detects the ghostly glimmer of the advancing henchmen in her deceitful peepers, and whirls her around so that the club crashes down on the back of her skull. Following a prolonged tussle, Bond launches his attacker into the filled bathtub. He then swipes a plugged-in fan into the porcelain pond and electrocutes the man. As the treacherous woman rubs her swollen head, Bond readies his escape, but not before he quips, “Shocking. Positively shocking.”

Only, he wasn't really shocked by the belly-dancer's treachery. Casino Royale is rare in that Bond doesn't kill a soul nor bed a woman until his tale of genesis is almost finished. More surprising still, he tells his main squeeze--a fellow spy with stunning curves and dark secrets—that he intends to marry her. The woman, named Vesper Lind, panics, balks, makes love to him, and begs to study his face intently before he retires to his own quarters. He finds her dead the next morning, having overdosed on sleeping pills. Her suicide note reads...

“...This is the last moment that your love will last...I am a double agent for the Russians.”

Vesper was blackmailed into deceit by SMERSH, a cutthroat counter-intelligence group founded by Stalin, but nevertheless, the gash in Bond's heart has never mended. “He saw her now only as a spy,” Fleming writes. When Bond phones London to inform his bureau he tartly reports: “(Vesper) was a double, working for Redland...Yes, dammit, I said was. The bitch is dead now.”

Although Casino Royale wasn't adapted into a film until long after Connery's tenure as Bond had run its course, the novel must have been vital to Connery's understanding of 007. Accordingly, his brisk and bold seduction of Goldfinger's gorgeous accomplice Jill gets her killed and coated from bare head-to-toe in gold paint, but Bond never sheds a tear. Later in the film, Oddjob slays Jill's vengeful twin sister with a long-distance toss of his deadly bowler hat, but Bond doesn't waste a minute of screen-time mourning. After that, a rollicking match of Judo-foreplay in a barn begets a roll in the hay with Pussy Galore—another lackey of Goldfinger's whom Bond bangs in spite of (or because of) her cold and brutal disposition. Much of You Only Live Twice takes place in Japan. In addition to confirming another skill of survival, Bond's Christlike power of resurrection, the hero charms and seduces a Japanese ally named Aki. While the two slumber in bed one night, a ninja-assassin poisons and kills her. Again, Bond hardly mourns; the next day, he graduates from ninja academy and—rather than attend Aki's funeral—he weds a different Japanese stunner, Kissy, in a mock-ceremony to (somehow...the plot gets a bit silly) increase his inconspicuous cover and further his mission to thwart the evil Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Aki's murder barely causes a murmur in the plot-line. Upon completion of his mission, just give Bond an exotic siren to ravish on a life-raft or underneath a parachute (Aki, Kissy, Pussy, the busty blond from Dr. No—who cares?) and he's a happy Double-O agent...a happy Double-O agent with a boner.

Bond's aversion to long-term relationships explains why his constant flirting with Miss Moneypenny has never led to intercourse. To Bond, the problem with Moneypenny—secretary to M, his superior—is that she would make the perfect wife. He trusts and admires her. The two believe in and fight for the same global causes. Her wit is a worthy match for his own and she is much smarter than the typical bimbos in Bond's Rolodex. Unfortunately, Bond will have to wait until his retirement to propose to Moneypenny. In the following passage, Fleming explains his protagonist's feelings on love and luck.

“One day, and he accepted the fact, he would be brought to his knees by love or by luck. When that happened he knew that he too would be branded with...the acceptance of fallibility.”

The Bond/ Moneypenny union would equate to 007's surrender to death—and he won't risk that as long as vermin like Dr. No and Goldfinger infect the planet. In the Bond films he starred in, Connery doesn't survive because of love; he survives because he transcends a reliance on love that is far too human and fragile.

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Connery's survival in The Hunt for Red October is simpler to assess. As Captain Marko Ramius, a Lithuanian-born refugee to Russia, Connery plots to exploit his command of the Soviets' prized, top-secret submarine for his own benefit. The Red October's stealth is unmatched. The vessel can't be detected by sonar and it is stocked with nuclear missiles. The captain's intent, however, is not to incinerate Manhattan and incite a toxic heat-wave on the Cold War-front. Instead, he plans to surrender the sub to the U.S., as a gift to declare his defection.

Before the completion of this traitorous deal, the bare hands of Connery as Ramius snuff the life out of a political officer (and loyal Soviet) on the cusp of foiling his scheme. He dupes his own soldiers as well as the entire naval fleet of “Redland.” Later on, a rogue sailor who averted American capture ambushes and shoots his devious captain. Ramius survives the wound, though. He advises agent Jack Ryan to be careful what he shoots at and then relies on the American to retire the assassin for his act of vengeful patriotism. Ryan succeeds, of course, but shortly afterward, the Red October is targeted by a Russian sub. No matter. As he tends with grit to the bothersome bullet-hole in his side, the captain advices his newfound allies of the bold steering techniques required to evade the torpedo-fire of the Konovalov. Another success! The underwater jukes and swoops work so thoroughly that the Russian sub haplessly falls prey to its own torpedo.

While skillfully constructed and engaging, certain aspects of The Hunt for Red October make it seem as though it was adapted to film by the scriptwriting team of Hulk Hogan and the ghost of senator Joe McCarthy. At times, the movie disgraces Russians almost as badly as Birth of a Nation defames African-Americans, but that only serves to emphasize another facet of Connery's survival skills. In Red October, he endures because he chooses to be an American. Connery showcases that such an unnatural patriot of Planet Apple Pie must muster the courage to draw scourges of TRAITOR in order to honor our causes of freedom, capitalism, jingoistic bluster, and granting casinos to those whose ancestors we butchered. He is not a patriot in the truest sense; rather, he is better than a true patriot. In addition to love, Connery transcends loyalty to survive.

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I never got around to watching much of Highlander, but from what I gather, Sean Connery plays the part of a warrior known as an “Immortal” who is destined to slay others of his own ilk—by decapitation, the only way to truly snuff out those pesky Immortals—until Immortaltown is whittled down to a population of one more than zero. The victor of this fantastical and nerd-approved Super Bowl of eternal warriors is granted omnipotent power over mankind.

At some point, something called “The Quickening” factors into the plot and dialog. The Quickening is a telekinetic state of mental acuity that is even sadder to mention when conversing with women than references of Yoda's Force or Peter Parker's Spider Sense.

But never mind that. In the interest of conciseness, I just want you to know that Sean Connery once played the part of a mythically gifted warrior who never let a sword-plunge through his heart ruin his day.


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In the third installment of the Indiana Jones trilogy (never you mind the fourth of the bunch), Connery plays the title character's father, Dr. Henry Jones. He instilled in his iconic son a passion for archeology. Father and son differ in ass-kicking prowess; Sr. slyly squirts ink into a Nazi henchman's eyes to gain the upper hand, whereas his son favors a deadly mastery of whips, firearms, fisticuffs, and flag-pole jousting on a motorcycle. (And it's telling that a bewildered Jones Sr. is seated in the side-car throughout the thrilling motorcycle chase.) In a role that is antithetical to the brutal efficiency of Bond, Connery showcases his range (and vulnerability) in The Last Crusade.

We relearn that Sean Connery is vulnerable to gun shots to the stomach. The film's climax takes place in the Canyon of the Crescent Moon,* where a hidden temple was long ago carved into the steep walls of rock. Inside this temple, the Joneses and their two noble pals encounter Nazi scum. Both parties seek the preferred cup of Jesus Christ: the Holy Grail.

Owing to enduring tales of its miraculous healing power, the Holy Grail is kind of a big deal. Of the rival groups questing for the Grail, one believes it belongs in a museum, while the other craves an eternity of tyranny run amok—and it should come as no surprise that the group of Nazis champions the latter cause.

The leader of this evil troop is a man named Donovan. After every one of the lackeys he commands one-by-one to retrieve the Grail is beheaded on the first of three challenges—level 1= The Breath of God, which only the penitent man will pass—Donovan coaxes the fit and resourceful Indy into the cobwebbed and booby-trapped tunnel. He does so by busting a cap in Sr.'s gut. Indy is then forced to risk death for the Grail in order to save his dad.

If you guessed that Indiana Jones succeeded in returning the Holy Grail to his gravely wounded father, you are correct. But before that happens, he kneels (as a sign of penitence) at the right moment to dodge the ambush of a blade sprung at throat-level, then nearly plunges to his death when he forgets that Jehovah begins with an “I” in Latin. Indy recovers and scolds himself, conjures enough faith to walk across thin air, and watches on as that Nazi rube Donovan chugs from a poorly chosen cup and falls victim to a supernaturally heinous fatality that must have inspired the creators Mortal Kombat.

Enfeebled, bloodied, and lying supine, Connery as Jones Sr. sips from the Christ-astic cup offered by his son. Sacred water is poured on his gunshot wound. He grimaces as the lump of newly healed flesh flattens like a bulbous hill leveled out by the compassionate tears of God Almighty. Jones Sr. stands to his feet and buttons his shirt, awestruck and revived.

Even when Connery teeters on the cusp of death, one should never brainstorm phrases for his obituary until a year or so after his burial. He can survive by means of divine miracles, too, because God can't bare to see him die, either.

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It would be inaccurate to claim that Sean Connery never dies in movies. Aside from the film I'm about to discuss, he dies in at least one of his lesser works, too. That doesn't defy my intent, though, because I have no illusions that the man is immortal in a genuine sense; nobody is. The Grim Reaper is undefeated--and when he notches his win over me, I want the scene to replicate in as many ways as possible Connery's death scene in The Untouchables.

To clarify: I don't want to bid an orgasmic farewell to this life in the throes of bedroom passion. I'm not so naïve to forget that it takes two, you know, and a double-homicide love-making session hardly seems romantic. And if my girlfriend or wife's pulse outlasted me in bed, I'd hate to instill in her a lifetime of recurring nightmares. No self-respecting 80-year-old man would inflict that sort of ghastly drama on his 22-year old girlfriend.

(No death during sex fantasy for me. Sex is supposed to be about the opposite of death.)

I don't want the screen to go black and read “Game Over” while playing the video games I like so damn much, either, nor keel over once the final guitar note from “Yellow Ledbetter” trails past the horizon and slowly vanishes at the conclusion of a Pearl Jam encore. Sure, those are also fairly ideal scenarios in which to parish, but they're tame and gutless compared to the demise of James Malone, the wizened and feisty patrolman turned treasury officer in The Untouchables.

The Prohibition era, which lasted from 1920 until 1933, made criminals of beer and booze drinkers, but because most people didn't mind bending a law that rebukes freedom of choice in the name of absurd puritanism, the masses drank nonetheless--albeit illegally. A moral dilemma arose, however, once it became evident that murderous bootleggers helped to facilitate the availability of liquor—especially in major cities like Chicago, where Al Capone reigned as a criminal tycoon.

In The Untouchables, Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness is chosen by the Treasury Department to exact justice on Robert DeNiro as Al Capone for corrupting the moral fiber and police department of Chicago. The hero's efforts are embarrassing and fruitless until--in a chance encounter--he meets Sean Connery as James Malone.

At first, Malone declines Ness' recruitment efforts, but he regains his dormant gumption when he remembers that “The Lord hates a coward.” In no time, he takes Ness to church and preaches a pithy endorsement of “The Chicago Way”—a method of crime-fighting that entails pulling a gun when enemies pull a knife and sending the bad guys to the morgue after they send a good guy to the hospital.

Two others join the ranks of the Untouchables—a bespectacled accountant who is shockingly deadly with a shotgun and a cool Italian-American marksman—and the quartet successfully raids numerous dealings of Capone-controlled liquor. In response to this pesky yet strengthening thorn in his criminal underbelly, Capone orders hits on the Untouchables. The Rick Moranis-lookalike is the first victim, but never mind that, for minutes later, Sean Connery performs perhaps the most gripping and bad-ass death scene in the history of cinema.

As he awaits a return-call from Ness, Malone strolls tensely around his apartment. He is eager to inform his boss of a helpful tidbit he gained by pummeling an elderly cop: the identity of Capone's bookkeeper—the man who keeps track of the gangster's shady dealings. With his attention seemingly focused on winding a phonograph, Malone has his back turned when a knife-wielding assassin creeps into his place and sneaks up on him with a malicious grin.

Malone is merely playing possum. Before the goon can strike, Malone whirls around and unleashes on his rude intruder a short-barreled shotgun; he insults the homeland of the “dago bastard,” reprises an adage of “The Chicago Way,” and chases him out the back door.

Henchmen seldom carry out solo-missions, though, and so once Malone steps outside, another villain--one hiding in the alleyway—pierces dozens of holes through his torso with an onslaught of Tommy-gun fire that blares and devastates for about ten seconds.

And yes, Sean Connery does eventually meet his cinematic demise, but prior to that, he crawls the distance of an astoundingly long hallway back to the telephone beside his phonograph. He coughs wretchedly and bleeds helplessly, and when a distraught Ness at last arrives, Connery's character does not seek religious rites or a kind farewell from a friend. Instead, he hisses a raspy revelation--the name of Capone's bookkeeper. With his final surge of willpower, as a crimson geyser oozes from his mouth, Connery jolts upward from his soon-to-be chalk-outline and asks Ness the following...

“Now! What are you prepared to do?”

He fights and suffers so that his last words can serve as a fiery pep-talk to good men willing to challenge their nefarious counterparts. He is outraged by his fate, yet resigned to it. Life will, after all, go on without you or me or Sean Connery. We are but replaceable characters in an ongoing saga.

Yet every character has a part in the story we were born into but destined never to see completed. Connery's greatest roles testify that we should fight the acceptance of mortality with all the tactics available in our survival handbook until the time comes to concede that no character means more than the cause he fought for.

Here endeth the lesson.

* Note to self: Conduct a search for the Holy Grail. Begin by locating the Canyon of the Crescent Moon on Google Earth.

Nick Is All Done Listing His Favorite Albums

The trouble with epitaphs on tombstones is that one can never fully ensure that his outgoing message will be etched faithfully. I could offer no earthly protests, naturally, if that fateful chisel should fall into the hands of someone who wants me remembered as, “A guy who bitched about Phish too much.” It should be stated that I'd very much prefer the following as a parting message exchanged from my burial mark to the lifeforms of the future—until a worthy upgrade occurs to me, at least—and it goes like this: “With fuck-yous to further ados...”

That's an obscene way of stating that my interest in suspenseful wondering and silly distractions has been exhausted, and that—more so than merely the end—I'd like nothing more than to get to the answer.

5.Beastie Boys—Check Your Head (1992): “So What'cha Want?” functions as more than just the most recognizable track from Check Your Head. It also serves as a brash challenge to doubters whack enough to question the versatility of the 3 most bad-ass Trekkies on the planet. You want thumping beats and bass pulsing beneath slick and self-assured rhymes? (“Jimmy James,” “The Maestro”.) Instrumentals that exude funky grooves and prove that white boys know how to honor the likes of George Clinton and Curtis Mayfield? (“POW,” “In 3's”.) Let's switch gears. How about rowdy and infectious skate-punk? (“Time for Livin'” and “Gratitude”.) Mystical and exotic-sounding slow-jams? (“Lighten Up,” “Namesté”.) Are you in the mood for delightfully schizophrenic samples that seem incompatible until DJ Hurricane gets his mitts on the records? (“Stand Together,” “Professor Booty”.) Haters and sucka MCs, seriously, So What'cha Want? Adrock, Mike D., and MCA can deliver just about anything to shut you up.

The Beasties aren't quite my favorite group, but they just might be the most eclectic, and without equivocation, I consider them the absolute coolest. Now, there's a designation that gets more and more senseless and evasive with age: Coolness. To assume that an objective definition can be applied to such a term is a sign of immaturity. In my opinion that is due for a humbling someday, then: cool people are talented and confident but grounded, compassionate without traces of hypersensitivity (compassion's extreme counterpart), goofy and irreverent but socially conscious and unafraid of activism in the name of peace and equality. The Beasties' dynamic range is the chief reason why they're “as cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce.” It has indeed been proven that the trio love to see the party people just movin'--regardless of whether such harmony occurs at a sold-out Madison Square Garden, or a dank basement in Brooklyn, or at a concert to protest the Chinese government's senseless brutality against the people of Tibet.

And sure, appearing as un-lockable players in NBA Jam is a fine way to boost one's level of coolness, too. While it's true that such a 16-bit cameo failed to stylize Al Gore so soundly, come on—don't shit yourselves: that stilted sayer of inconvenient truths is never going to “rock a block party 'til your hair turns gray.”

4.The Clash—London Calling (1979): My main issue with punk-rock is that I think its spirit—while feisty and independent—can prohibit musicians from fulfilling their peak potential. Two-minute outbursts of three-chord aggression can provide great catharsis for teenagers in the early stages of learning a fun craft, but after high school, it is wise to stretch out a bit more and seek creative challenges that punk-rock does not always present. Such ambitions are sometimes misconstrued as traitorous and soft by punk-elitists who favor exile in Never-Never Land.

The Clash paid no mind to that prospect of backlash from their peers. If the paramount purpose of punk-rock is to express oneself without caring about the commonly unkind judgments of others, then it follows that its truest followers should have no qualms with expanding beyond the genre's boundaries. No other band understood this catch-22 as soundly as the Clash did.

The band's aim was not to subvert the style they helped to found, however. Many tracks from London Calling bare a resemblance to the brash and straightforward vigor of their debut album. The title track is a mid-tempo march from the toxic shadow of “a nuclear error.” Both apocalyptic and galvanizing, the opener's simple structure yields a doomsday anthem worth treasuring. “Brand New Cadillac” puts a profane and sloppy spin on a rockabilly hit from the '50s. “Hateful” finds levity in the plight of a frantic drug-addict but pauses to mourn in its concise breakdowns.

I won't kid myself, though. The not-so-punk portions of London Calling account for most of its mastery. New wave balladry is covered on “Lost in the Supermarket,” a lament of the steady replacement of people with consumers that does its part to exalt the partnership of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones to the upper echelon of songwriting duos. With celebratory toots from The Irish Horns, “Rudie Can't Fail” is a ska romp that redeems an irresponsible but idealistic crumb-bum who “drinks booze for breakfast” and “can't live in service.” “Train in Vain” is quite content in its sonic welding of David Bowie and the Beatles. The album's closer packs power-pop abounding with melody and love gone sour.

London Calling and the Clash are easily my favorite punk-band and album, resp., precisely because neither fear to tread outside of the style's rigid parameters. Punk never kept the Clash under its grimy thumb; it was the other way around.

3.The Beatles—the white album (1968): A fun exercise in inciting fidgets in a Beatles fanatic is to ask them to name their favorite album by the group. Inevitably, a handful of candidates will emerge from their quavering lips. They will contemplate and stammer, overcome by awe mixed with consternation. I'm not much different, but at least I have come to a decision—debatable though it may be. It's the one that simply boasts the most great songs: the white album.

True enough, the white album is of the double variety, includes a total of 30 tracks—which is hardly economical—and features (at least) two bona fide Fab Four abominations, namely “Revolution #9” and “Good Night.” In regard to the bigger picture, however, such concessions prove that the Beatles were at times victims of their own excellence. 28 tracks that range from solid to exceptional--delivered without much delay between Sgt. Pepper and Abbey Road—leaves nothing to quibble about, and furthermore, the album's first-half alone rivals every other record in their staggering catalog.

By 1968, turmoil within the band was starting to surface. John had officially been Yoko'd, and his partnership with Paul was functioning more and more in name only as the two were inclined to sojourn on separate holidays to different recording booths. By no stretch of the imagination did listeners suffer from the erosion of the tag-team that gave way to competitive oneupmanship. On the acoustic ode “Blackbird,” Paul serenely tends to a wounded animal, mends its broken wings, and sets it free with a friendly challenge to make the most out of its rejuvenated life. Not to be outdone, John bemoans two lovers in limbo on a sleepless and tortuous night on “I'm So Tired.” Paul gathers us around a desert campfire for a Western ballad about “Rocky Raccoon,” a tragic figure demised by hubris. John counters that fictitious plight of an individual with “Revolution 1,” a slow-groove overview of the strife of the world-at-large that replies to widespread chaos with the promise, “Don't you know it's gonna be all right?”

The white album can't be reduced to a John and Paul showdown, though, as George contributes the soulful and forlorn personification found in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” (with a little help from his friend Eric Clapton). Even Ringo—yes, RINGO—delivers his finest offering as a rare front-man on “Don't Pass Me By,” a wobbly yet melodic jaunt packed with the penitence and faith that blokes must so routinely express to their mistreated and sensitive birds.

Another gross reduction of the white album is to claim that it's a compilation of four solo projects. Pure bullocks. “Back in the USSR” is an airborne travel anthem that nods to Beach Boyish harmonies and adoration of babes worldwide. Its thumping piano twinkles and six-stringed shock-waves rock with timeless fervor. The ethereal rising action of “Dear Prudence” boasts psychedelic stings and resolute beats. Aside from somehow inspiring malice in a creepy cult-leader, “Helter Skelter” is as a four-piece onslaught that marks the closest the Beatles ever got to Black Sabbath.

On the cusp of “The End,” where their epitaph read “Let It Be,” the Beatles' most telling track on the white album is perhaps found in the jovial piano-romp of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” when fussy fanatics are assured that even though All Things Must Pass, “Life goes on, brah.”

2. Radiohead—OK Computer (1997): Thom Yorke is a malcontent. OK Computer opens with the ominous guitar wails of “Airbag,” an entrancing narrative about a car-crash survivor who feels both revived and nonplussed by his brush with death. Elsewhere, not even the heroic salvation Yorke's girlfriend grants him on “Lucky” can make him fitter or happier, but no front-man since Kurt Cobain has been more productive in his transformation of gloom and neurosis into catharsis.

Radiohead's critically worshiped third album offers a few glimpses of levity, too. In “The Tourist,” the group satirizes frenetic travelers too busy snapping photos to truly absorb the scenery as a means to express a common theme of OKC: our forfeiting of visceral sensations to technology. (Ha, ha...ha?!?!) Amidst laser beam chirps and serene keyboard tones, Yorke muses about how misguided and uptight humanity must seem to intelligent life on other planets. (“High up above, aliens hover/ Making home-movies for the folks back home/ Of all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits/ Drill holes and themselves, and live for their secrets.”)

It is, however, the album's disaffection that resonates the strongest. Whether it be the paranoia of persecution waged by the “Karma Police” or the suspicion of politicians who “say the right things when Electioneering” in their quest for power rather than progress, the Oxford scholars realize plenty of reasons to feel “Let Down.”

Let down, indeed, but nonetheless hanging around—as evidenced by another decade-plus of acclaimed music. With no offense intended to subsequent tracks like “Idioteque” or “There There,” I have an unwavering hunch that “Paranoid Android” still stands as the band's most stunning song. Spanning nearly six-and-a-half minutes, OKC's lead single seems to emerge from thick mist like the foreshadowing in a nightmare, lashes out with gallows-humor, and then culminates with a blitz of triple-guitar mayhem.

“Ambition makes you look pretty ugly,” Yorke declares at one point—and perhaps that's true—but the sad adages he unearths are still preferable to the “handshake with carbon monoxide” that he contemplates in “No Surprises.” Rather than diverting listeners from conflict and strife, Radiohead aim to recreate the spooky yet unerring notes owed to life's grim inevitabilities.

Recap: Because one cap simply isn't enough. 20. Jets to Brazil—Orange Rhyming Dictionary...19. Nirvana—Nevermind...18. Elliott Smith—From a Basement on the Hill...17. Cake—Comfort Eagle...16. David Bowie—Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars...15. The Jimi Hendrix Experience—Are You Experienced? 14. The White Stripes—Elephant...13. Weezer—the blue album...12. The Strokes—Is This It...11. Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy...10. The Rolling Stones—Exile on Main St. ...9. Bright Eyes—I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning...8. Modest Mouse—The Lonesome Crowded West...7. Spoon—Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga... 6. Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon...5. Beastie Boys—Check Your Head...4. The Clash—London Calling...3. The Beatles—the white album...2. (Sigh.) You just read it. Jesus, how short are your attention spans?!

1.Beck—Odelay (1996): With a precise blend of samples and a hodgepodge of sounds courtesy of a multi-instrumentalist with a mono-syllabic moniker, Beck presents an odyssey of styles on Odelay, a masterpiece of party-friendly poignancy.

“Where It's At” showcases the far-reaching yet minimalist powers of one astronautical cowboy with two turntables and a microphone at his disposal. “Hotwax” discovers a compatible landscape of country-western storytelling, sweetly flowing rhymes, and otherworldly scribbles and cuts of records. On “Jack-ass,” Mr. Hansen does away with ironic witticisms and pop-culture savvy to express his most sincere existential ballad to date. (“I've been drifting along in the same stale shoes/ Loose ends tying a noose in the back of my mind/ If you thought that you were making your way/ To where the puzzles and pagans lay/ Put it together, it's a strange invitation.” Word. For penning such an apt and dreary summation of my life, what can I say other than...thanks??) With a groove that borrows from the Beatles “Taxman,” “The New Pollution” brings to (my) mind the neon luster of casinos and strip-clubs viewed in the rearview mirror of a smoke-filled, pink Cadillac en route to desert-exile beyond the fringe of Vegas. Powered by alt-rock angst, and a raucous riff that serves as Beck's definitive ode to head-banging, “Devil's Haircut” is a cryptic yet vivid denouncement of “the evil of vanity” (as the man himself puts it).

For his treatment of the recording studio as a playground and his superlative wordplay—his ability to snatch choice phrases from grab-bags and enlightened minds alike-- Beck is my favorite musician and this is my favorite of his albums. He has to offer a prolific catalog of zany Zen that I truly hope has nothing to do with the book of Scientology.

We're finished?!

Yup. We're finished. Remember the intro about epitaphs?! Well, here's the epitaph to “Favorite Albums”: “Titanic fare-thee-wells, my eyes are turning pink/ Don't call us when the new age gets old enough to drink.”*


* This is a quote from my favorite Scientologist.

Nick Is (Almost) All Done Listing His Favorite Albums

What?! Favorite albums revisited? After months of hibernation and a dozen or so posts in between...it's finished? Almost, but maximum relief will arrive in the near future. Sometimes the short writings so akin to kidney stones hide cunningly in a recess of the urinary tract. That anxious pain of wondering if I'll ever expel another fairly innocuous idea from my system has just about passed. The wait will be over soon enough, and as a brash side-note, I'd like to mention that Stephen King has indeed been dethroned as the master of suspense.

King had a good run. Can you believe he got ousted by such a widely unknown writer? Just like in the film version of The Mist, this story has a twist-ending.

And with that I segue gracefully into gushing over my favorite Rolling Stones' album.

10.The Rolling Stones—Exile on Main St. (1972): The quintessential Saturday night soundtrack, Exile on Main St. is a raunchy celebration of dance-crumpled mini-skirts and lipstick-smeared collars. The album showcases brass-blowing session men in impeccable harmony with their rock superstar overlords; the Stones achieve a broadened and voluminous sound without cutting the contributions of any core members of the group (as the Beatles did on Sgt. Pepper, wherein Ringo was left to idle so constantly that the bloke learned how to play chess when he wasn't needed). On Main St., rocks are gotten off, joints are ripped, and hips are shaken—and that only covers the first three tracks.

Later on, the Stones muse on the dual natures of love and luck, reason and spirituality, but such melodic insights should not be mistaken for a lull in the party; the boys simply need to recharge their long-enduring batteries, and they do so with tranquil resolve, even when scraping the shit off their shoes in “Sweet Virginia.”

“Loving Cup” jumbles sentiment with lust and liquor until the distinctions seem moot—for they are all but things that embody longing and pleasure, the group's primary drives. Powered by gospel-like backup vocals, “Tumbling Dice” is a soulful entreaty that evokes how Abba's “Take a Chance on Me” might sound in Bizarro World. “Stop Breaking Down” is rowdy, blue-infused rock best-suited for strutting trouble-makers with simple yet sound advice to offer.

In addition to breaking down: along with many others, I'd be best advised to stop comparing the Rolling Stones to the Beatles. If you favor the pragmatic principles of physical attraction and compatibility to that grand and hokey romantic yarn about soul-mates transcending mortality to go on and on across the universe, you almost certainly prefer the Rolling Stones. If you view pop-sensibilities that duly garner radio play as a gift rather than a demerit, you almost certainly prefer the Beatles.

Exile on Main St. is the Rolling Stones album that most makes me squirm and beg, “Do I really have to choose?”

9.Bright Eyes—I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning (2005): Have you heard the one about the woman who was flying to meet her fiancée over the largest ocean on planet Earth when--quite unexpectedly--the plane went down? Like most of Conor Oberst's narratives, it gets much more captivating once the music cues. In the tradition of singer-songwriters who eschew chops in favor of poetic passion (and inevitably garner comparisons to Bob Dylan), Oberst and his indie-pals craft folksy melodies to serve the boy-genius' visceral storytelling and vivid imagery.

Conor's depth and versatility of sound lift him above derisive accusations of Emo-sympathizing. Sometimes he comes across as snotty, but such petulance is entirely redeemed by his volition, grit, and sincerity. I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning does more than just flourish as a (mostly) folk album released 40 years after Bringing It All Back Home, which was released decades before MTV, Nirvana, and Nine Inch Nails. The album also presses with the right amount of force against the boundaries of what exactly constitutes folk music.

“Lua” and “The First Day of My Life” are romantic acoustic ballads that stand as Oberst's finest musings on heartache and true love, resp. “Another Travelin' Song” channels the grieving swagger of Gram Parsons. One could wear Chuck Taylors or cowboy boots while dancing to it without feeling like a hypocrite either way. It's the sort of song that can be boogied to with perked ears that seek out every note and word.

Whereas the previous entry constitutes an ideal night-album, it's worth savoring I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning shortly after arising from bed for the day. All ten tracks goad a heightened awareness in listeners. Whether somber or fiery, the songs command attention and coax a craving for details. On “Road to Joy,” Oberst concludes his masterpiece with a nod to Beethoven and waylays with his brand of minutely crafted, righteous spunk. “The Sun came up with no conclusions,” he sings. “Flowers sleeping in their beds/ The city cemetery's humming/ I'm wide awake, it's morning.” From the standpoint of a contented night-owl, this album marks one of the premier reasons to toast with coffee the majestic expansion of daylight that comes with every new sunrise.

8.Modest Mouse—The Lonesome Crowded West (1997): Though he seems like a goofy cynic at heart, Modest Mouse front-man Isaac Brock's musical mind tends to gravitate toward dark moods and loathsome squalor—particularly on his group's earlier efforts. On their second LP, the salty Pacific Northwesterner and his two band-mates capture the wry indictments of a hung-over malcontent on a cross-country journey.

“Teeth Like God's Sunshine,” the album's opener, is like an American indie-rock counterpart to “Paranoid Android.” The first track is a jaded and sprawling overview of the downfalls of a lonesome, crowded culture. “Shoeshine” rollicks, plods, rises, and thrashes for nearly 7 minutes without squandering a second. With snide exhaustion, Brock advises us to “Go to the grocery store and buy some new friends” before plaintively asking, “Do you need a lot of what you got to survive?”

“Convenient Parking” comments on the dispassion incited by highway travel to various cities that all pretty much look the same. Brock's musings on monotony culminate in a concise and primal outcry in the chorus that calls to mind the profane tantrum of a sweat-stung, working-class underling stuck in an L.A. traffic jam. His imagery is even more concrete and evocative on the sobering, twang-laden ballad “Trailer Trash.” Descriptions of indigent teenagers “eating snowflakes with plastic forks” and pithy summations of their parents (“Short love with a long divorce”) almost cause too much heartache to be considered beautiful. (Almost.)

In spite of his detection of sinister undertones in mall-walking and Orange Julius stands, his snarls of blasphemy in “Jesus Christ Was an Only Child” and “Cowboy Dan,” Brock's band has to offer a headphones sanctuary that is in no way nihilistic.* No—a more fitting designation of such a sonic hideaway is along the lines of the lonesome, uncrowded bliss.

7.Spoon—Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007): Few bands, in my estimation, have handled the transition from indie darlings to (fringe) mainstream fame with as much nonchalance and integrity as Spoon. It matters little that a fluky teen drama, The O.C., played a significant role in their rise to success. Spoon have outlasted that sort of chic ephemera and established themselves as perhaps the most critically praised band of the naughties on our side of the Atlantic (where Radiohead are deemed foreigners...brilliant and gloomy foreigners).

My favorite of their LPs commences with “Don't Make Me a Target,” a disaffected alt-rock gem that expresses the wariness of peaceful individuals cloaked in the gigantic shadow of nuclear-age tyrants. The baleful bitterness of the opener is surpassed by its virtue and accentuated by a momentous jam of jangled riffs gone haywire and piano keys that sound precisely stomped more so than fingered. “Rhythm and Soul” and “Finer Feelings” are tuneful deep cuts that could easily pass for singles. Former Get-Up Kids bassist Rob Pope plucks the groove that impels the jaunty pop-flourish of “Don't You Evah.” Front-man Britt Daniel's mastery of quirky tinkering in the production booth is evident throughout the album, and his melodic rasp once again employs grit to create smooth textures in the same way that sandpaper refines unseemly bumps and blemishes.

Spoon expand on their minimalist roots on “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb” and “The Underdog,” a pair of singles boosted by horn-section blasts of gusto. “Cherry Bomb” is somehow at once crystal-clear and enigmatic, joyful and faintly rueful (with lines such as “We lost it all before, you and me”). My savviest stab at its meaning is probably reductive: it serves as a contrite love letter, an infectious message to Daniel's better-half akin to, “Sorry I fucked up, but bare in mind, I wrote this song for you, so please take it easy on me.” “The Underdog”--as a struggling and loopy muser on pop-culture has mentioned before--provides the perfect soundtrack for a muted game of Super Punch-out. The likes of Super Macho Man, you see, represent hulking masses of hubris, bulky meat-heads with steroid-enhanced egos who shun the advice of frail but sagacious water-boys, while Little Mac embodies the righteous jabs of humility that so often (yet somehow unexpectedly) pulverize the undue conceits that fester inside of us.

Delivered with Paul Simonesque wryness and attention to detail, “The Underdog” can also be construed as a fine dismissal of those foolish enough to charge that indie-darlings on the rise are damned if they do (sign to a major label and—shudder—risk accusations of “sell-outs!”) and damned if they don't (cash in on what they could potentially earn because of some misguided attempt at purity). Ga X 5 stands as indelible proof that success is not the enemy of creativity—and that any would-be hipster-derisions mean nothing compared to the pay-raise that a truly great band deserves.

6.Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon (1973): In regard to this undeniable classic, some have a bold theory. Edgar Allan Poe—that dreary pioneer of Gothic horror and mystery who used the word “phantasmagoria” in wise recognition that it would soon go out of style—met up with Jules Vern—the main forefather of science-fiction and author of From the Earth to the Moon—and traveled in a time machine built by H.G. Wells to Abbey Road Studios in London, where they scared the bejesus out of a reefer-stoned Roger Waters as he gazed with sorrowful longing at a photograph of Syd Barrett, the former front-man of Floyd—who had opted out of the pressures of fame and adulthood and went into seclusion, owing to the mental havoc wreaked by schizophrenia and way, waaaayyyy too many doses of LSD.

After a fit of hysteria and a frantically snuffed-out joint, Waters' terror was quelled—not by reason, for that had clearly failed him, but rather by the unreasonable nature of creative miracles. The three artists swapped notes, exchanged ideas on psychosis, man's relation to the cosmos, and psychedelic space-rock much closer in tone to Kubrick's 2001 than the Grateful Dead. An epiphany was born, but shortly afterward, Poe raided Floyd's liquor cabinet and began blubbering, “O—the contemptible plight of it all!” Vern affronted Waters' ego with incessant beseachings of "Wishing to revel in the grand acquaintanceship of the transcendent Paul McCartney.” The brainstorming session had precipitated a rather dismal celebration. With a brusque clearing of his throat, Waters thanked his innovative visitors from the past but hinted not so subtly that they had better depart. The writers obliged--ruefully--and boarded the time machine that flashed psychedelic and (dare I say) faintly phantasmagorical beams of light before vanishing in a puff of smoke.

When band-mates David Gilmour, Richard Wright, and Nick Mason returned from their lengthy lunch-break, waving away dense clouds with cheeky grins and commenting on the peculiar odor of Waters' strand of marijuana, they were told to never mind such distractions and report at once to their instruments, for their chief songwriter had made a breakthrough.

As evidenced by much of Floyd's canonized output from the '70s, Waters never forgot that unlikely meeting, and from it he extracted memories whenever he got stuck in his effort to pen a new number. The aforementioned event was freshest in his mind, naturally, when his band recorded Dark Side of the Moon.

Saw it on Behind the Music.

###

Albums Five-to-One, baby, coming soon.

* Bah! Those lowlife, asshole nihilists...

Signing Cleavage, Glorious Cleavage

The man to the left has grown weary of signing cleavage all the time.

Originally printed a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Na. The college years...dedicated to my old roommates: Screech, Fonzie, and who could forget...oh, the one with the overbite and a collection of model airplanes.

When I gaze out into the vast crowd of Advance-Titan readers before me—it's astounding—there are no uglies in the entire bunch. I see some new faces, mostly freshmen, that have never toured my Wacky Factory. Due to woeful MTV programming such as Baby's First Cell Phone and Sluts on a Bus, these youngsters may very well be burdened by attention spans shorter than a Sally Struthers hunger strike. I've got to win over the freshmen immediately if I expect them to read on. The following joke ought to do the trick.

I was at the grocery store the other day.* By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.

Holy Ka-blamo! You've just been bit by the silly snake, freshmen. Its venom is now coursing through your veins and you won't be relieved by the antidote until I start running out of ideas in a few weeks.

Now that we're all on the winning team—aside from that prudish PETA advocate who didn't laugh—let it be stated that the following column may test your tolerance of deadpan delusions of grandeur. It features some boastful fibbing, some bawdy bluster about boobs (or hooters, to be more refined). For the record, I don't advocate sexism, but I do advocate jokes. OK?

I am frequently asked (no...begged) by my female fans to sign their cleavage with a Sharpie marker. Is the request flattering and deliciously appealing? Oh, you bet. Get right out of town if you thought I was going to say no. Truly, signing cleavage gets me closer to God. Anyone who claims that God is a man has obviously never signed 40 eager chests in one night outside of an IHOP.

But ladies, please understand, as of now, I will only sign cleavage in moderation. If you approach me and request a cleavage-signing—Golly, as awful as this seems—I may have to turn you down. And furthermore, your chances diminish when you ask me to sign the words, “BREAST wishes—Nick Olig.” This pun has become trite and it cheapens what is already a fairly cheap practice.

Now, I don't want to be branded as “unkind” or “uptight” or “latently homosexual.” It's just that I have to scale back in order to save my sanity. Sometimes it takes me half-an-hour to walk a short distance—from Reeve Union to the library, for instance—because I'm constantly getting swarmed by screeching ladies with Sharpies. For God's sake, it's like an R-rated version of A Hard Day's Night. And when I'm backed against the wall, surrounded by fawning females, it takes a great deal of will power to declare, “No, I will NOT sign your cleavages! Now please allow me safe passage to my destination.”

When I say no, I feel like a pizza boy snubbing a small village of starving Ethiopians. Yes, cleavage-signing is to horny fans as pizza is to Ethiopians. It's what the pros call an airtight analogy, freshmen.

Those throngs of Sharpie-waving women will always tempt me, but they have become stoplights that impede my busy schedule. It won't be easy, but there comes a time in every handsome celebrity's life when he must ask himself, “Which is more important: signing cleavage or punctuality?”

I'm also cutting back because I believe in the virtues of fidelity. My heart belongs to just one lady, and signing random breast—however thrilling it may be—is an act of false advertising. You're no doubt thinking, “Who is this lucky lady who basks in reciprocated love with this undersized weirdo we have all grown to tolerate from time-to-time?” Bombshell revelation: It's Scarlett Johansson—the poster, not the actual woman. But once the actual Scarlett sees how much I adore her wall-adorning counterpart, she will become wooed past the point of brain damage. As testament to my adoration for MISS (unmarried, jackpot on the horizon) Johansson's poster, I sign the image of her deceptively flat cleavage with an erasable marker every night.

Outside flirting occurs in just about every relationship, and so the occasional cleavage-signing can be tolerated. But true commitment to a poster entails sacrifice. Therefore, my strict policy is as follows: Two cleavage-signings per week is my new limit. If this policy causes some petty heartaches, that is unfortunate, but ladies, I won't apologize.

Just to clarify, the two cleavage-signings per week excludes the ones I contribute to charity. If such philanthropy strikes you as objectionable, relax, it's not like I donate cleavage-signings to the Boys and Girls' Club. I am a devout contributor to “Cleavage-Signings for a Less-Sucky Tomorrow.” On behalf of this noble group, I routinely write inspiring messages on swooning bosoms. (Editor's note: Did you just use the word “bosoms”?) These messages include include: “Nobody Likes a Tattletale" and “Help Stop Sexism.” The autographed women then carouse about town to spread the word, one tavern at a time.

But enough about one of the many ways I help to make a difference. It's embarrassing!

In closing, I'd like to reaffirm the continuation of my ass-signing policy. I still do that without qualms.




* Even the setup is a laugh riot!

Hacked by Hank

I received the following bug of spam recently. It has been quite a nuisance, and again, I'd like to express fake-apologies to those with e-mail accounts that I may have unwittingly infected with this virus.

From: Hank Williams Jr.
thesouthshallcomeagainonyourmom@hotmail.com
To: Nicholas Olig
KL5nick.olig@gmail.com
Date: 11/09/11
Subject: Be my rowdy friend!

Dear Mr. Sucker,

Hooooo-Weeeee! You've just been hacked by none other than Hank Williams Jr. Bet y'all had no idea I had so much computer know-how, but sure as hell, old Hanky-Panky's chalk full of surprises...plus I got some help from a Harvard boy I done kidnapped.

I gotta have your un-subtracted attention 'cause I got an important message for y'all. Focus them eyeballs, will ya? This hack-job ain't got nothing to do with stiffy pills or phony princes from Nigeria. I'm preachin' about the big picture stuff—the brass tacks, people.

You best be ready for some FOOTBALL!

That's right. It's no longer a question of whether or not you're ready for some football. Since I got canned by ESPN, I play by my own rules. I command you to get ready for some football. On Monday nights.

My rowdy friends, if you don't watch football on Monday nights, the terrorists win. Plain and simple. God help us, if we waver in our love of American football, we'll have a rampaging zombie Bin Laden on our hands, and Zombin Laden is gonna jabber on about Infidels and soccer right before he neck-chomps you to death. Trust me—old Hank the Tank had a graphic nightmare about it last night.

A Monday night shindig!

Damn straight. Real men throw shindigs, not parties. Couple seasons ago, yours truly got the creative urge to tweak his rowdy lyrics. Well, ESPN put the kibosh on that.

“Shindig? Why, that word is old hat. Nobody says 'shindig' anymore. Hanks but no Hanks on that idea.” That's what them ivory tower elitists done told me.

Well, now I get to call my own plays in the huddle. Good riddance, ESPN. Y'all just wanted to toss screen-passes during the two-minute drill, but old Citizens First Hank is about slingin' some bombs for big chunks of rowdy yardage. Everybody start sayin' 'shindig' in place of 'party,' will ya? Otherwise, the terrorists win. Screen-passes... Bah! The new Hank spits at that kind of a conservative offense.

Shoot. Now, don't that just beat all? Man finds himself in hot water for bashin' liberal scum, then badmouths a conservative frame of mind. Ain't that ironic? Yup, the Harvard boy just agreed with me. It's irony, all right.

Now, hold your horses if you got the audacity to consider me some kind of inhuman Gore-voter. It's only on the pigskin field that I knock conservatism. (Throw it deep, ya pansies! OK, that's enough.) Outside of the arena, liberal sympathizers are killin' this great nation. Noble countrymen like Jefferson Davis are rollin' over in their southern-dug graves pukin' and a-cussin' on account of Barack HUSSEIN Obama bein' elected commander-and-chief. And not for the reason some of you Yankees probably expect. It's not 'cause he hails from the north, all right? It's 'cause he's black.

I stand by the righteous comments I made on Fox and Friends. Because he played a two-on-two golf match with Republicans, you best believe Obama is like Hitler. That comparison is totally legit, my Hankamaniacs. For your information, my would-be doubters, during WW2, Hitler routinely paired with FDR—another lousy democrat—in golf games against the likes of that filthy Brit Churchill and Mussolini. Trust me. It happened. Old “You Hank My Battleship” had a dream about that, too. Then Hitler chipped in a birdie on a par-5 and it turned into another nightmare.

Folks who criticize me for what I done said on FOX News are no better than the yahoos who cheered on the nut-job that shot a hole in Ronald Reagan. “Shoot him a new one, Hinckley!” they shouted, those left-wing bottom-feeders.

Now that I'm flying solo, I can snitch 'bout some of Monday Night Football's darkest secrets. I'll bet you didn't know ESPN let old Hankonia pick the sleight of games for this season. Most of the time, I chose the match-ups based on the rhyme scheme offered by the two teams. If they tripped the trigger of my inner artist, hell, I ran with it.

Welcome to the grand-daddy of Monday night shams/ Get ready and rowdy for the Seahawks and Rams!

Those lyrics just seemed to pour out of my pen when I gazed upon the pairings of week 14. Since ESPN kicked me off the team, though, y'all are doomed to watch two rosters of human garbage struggle to kick more field-goals than their equally chump-plagued opponents, and your rowdy friend here won't even be on TV beforehand to give those eardrums a sonic shot of Jim Beam. What a pity.

We got Hank, and Harvard boy, and a gun...We're gonna get it kick-started!

Oh, yeah. No more kowtowin' to those pinhead announcers in my epic intro to Monday Night Football. No more “shout-outs,” as the urban street-toughs call it. No one can stop me from yappin' to y'all 'bout the time I walked in on Ron Jaworski diddlin' himself in the film room as he ogled that fella Rodgers pickin' apart the Steelers' defense in the Super Bowl. Heh, heh. As such, my new single, “Starin' at Aaron” will be released on the I-Tunes doodad later this month.

Don't wander far from your computer in the following weeks, Hankamaniacs, 'cause Bocephus here will be keepin' y'all abreast of a crap-ton of dirt on Hussein Obama and ESPN, as well as Bill Clinton's covert plans to install the frozen-brains of deceased Kennedys into massive, steel constructs known as “Liberalbots.”

And bare this in mind, y'all, if you report me to the authorities, so help me God, the terrorists win.

The Simpsons Script 3

ACT THREE

FADE IN:

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

The conversation resumes. Homer concludes his appeal to Krusty.

HOMER: So, how 'bout it, Krusty? I need this date real bad.

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

The harlequin pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

KRUSTY: Look, pal. Tinseltown broads ain't all they're cracked up to be. Aside from their pretty faces, gaudy mansions, irresistible perfumes, flawless figures, supple curves, (GETTING AMOROUS) velvet panties as smooth as scotch on the rocks...

He convulses out of his lusty stupor and regains his intent.

KRUSTY (CONT'D): OK, let me put it this way. Last night you said that you and the old ball-and-chain had something special. Do you really want to risk that just to boost your lousy lifetime total with dames?

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer: What? No, I'd never cheat on Marge. I just want to stage a mock date with some important strangers so I can put the guy who deflowered my wife in his place. Is that so hard to understand?

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

A flabbergasted Krusty lunges forward on his seat.

KRUSTY: Yes, I barely know you! Forget it, tubs. I'm not doing it.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

With determined ire, Homer points a finger at the phone receiver as he retaliates.

HOMER: Oh, yes you are! Otherwise, the tabloids are going to hear about your “close call with David Bowie.”

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

Embarrassed, blackmailed and well aware of it, KRUSTY slaps his palm against his forehead.

KRUSTY: Aw, come on—don't let that haunt me! It was a hazy night. Let's just say I had too much of the Ziggy Stardust.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer's eyes narrow like that of a hunter one trigger-squeeze away from the kill.

HOMER: Are you going to do it or not?

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

Waylaid by treachery, Krusty's bones seem to turn to jelly as he slouches deep into his expensive couch.

KRUSTY: All right. Fine. I'm trying to squirm out of other plans I got, anyway.

HOMER: (OVER THE PHONE) Woo-hoo!

Krusty slams the receiver back onto its perch.

KRUSTY: Ah...”woo-hoo” yourself, ya yutz.

With embattled resolve, he picks up the phone and dials.

KRUSTY: (CONT'D) Hey, hey. It's Krusty. Now, I know the show starts in a few hours, but I gotta cancel, all right? (BEAT TO LISTEN) Aw, lighten up, will ya? I got someone to cover for me.

INT. SOLD-OUT ARENA – EVENING

With frenetic splendor, spotlights scroll across an expansive stage. A thunderous and captivating drum roll cues.

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Live from Radio City Music Hall, it's the Tony Awards! And now, tonight's host: Kruuussstttyyy the Klooowwwnnn...'s obscure sidekick, Sideshow Mel!

The distinguished look of Mel's tuxedo is offset by the bone protruding through his hairdo. The crowd grovels haughtily at the sight of him.

SIDESHOW MEL: Friends, Romans, and countrymen, I wish to earn your esteem with a one-man rendition of the entire third act from Shakespeare's Othello.

INSERT:

OFFSTAGE

The show's DIRECTOR eyes a nearby STAGEHAND and swipes his hand across his neck in a cutting gesture. The stagehand nods and grabs a bucket labeled “Weasel Guts.”

INT. SIMPSONS' BEDROOM

Hours after his foray to Stu's Disco and the Casa Nova, Homer stands and fidgets in front of the dresser-mirror, adjusting his tie without poise or precision.

MARGE: Hi, Homey.

HOMER: Marge.

MARGE: (BEAT) Are you still upset?

HOMER: (WOODEN) I'll feel better about the whole thing soon.

Marge advances with a mix of hesitance and love. She wraps her arms around Homer's robust waist and forces affection.

MARGE: Where are you going dressed up looking so handsome?

HOMER: Uh, I'll be heading out with the guys to a...seedy gentleman's club—er, to protest the...objectionizing of...you know, female sex objects.

MARGE: Ah-ha. Well. Are you sure you don't want to stay in tonight? I rented your favorite movie, The Apes of Wrath. And afterward, I could blare some Grand Funk so the kids won't hear us--

HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Eh, I gotta go.

He shuffles past his wife and ignobly exits the room.

CLOSE-UP

MARGE: (SIGHS) Goodbye, Homer.

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT

Beneath a behemoth sign, the slogan of the restaurant reads: “Where the food costs as much as the stuff on the walls!” Homer parks his car and walks toward the entrance. He spots a nerve-addled Krusty puffing on a cigarette beside his Bentley.

HOMER: Hey, Krusty. Thanks for doing this for me.

KRUSTY: Shut up. Now, I gotta level with you, tubs: my networking skills ain't what they used to be. A lot of the famous broads in the old Rolodex are either too uppity all of a sudden or married to Kurt Russell.

HOMER: So, what are you saying?

The entrance to the restaurant swings open and two classless, haggard bimbos—D'ARCY and CHANDRA—stagger outside.

CHANDRA: Krusty, what gives? We've already purged our salads and now we're hungry for dinner.

KRUSTY: (MUSTERING TACT) Ladies, I'd like you to meet my dear friend Honus.

HOMER: Homer.

KRUSTY: If you say so, guy. Now, say hello to Chandra and D'arcy. They'll be our dates tonight, barring a timely fire alarm or apocalypse. We'll be inside in a second, babe.

CHANDRA: All right. (TO D'ARCY) Come on, let's go schmooze with Keanu Reeves some more.

KRUSTY: Aw, for the last time, that's just a freakin' wax sculpture!

Oblivious, the two women reenter the restaurant. Krusty viciously snares Homer by the necktie.

KRUSTY: Dibs on the one with less cold sores!

Homer nods cowardly.

INT. PLANET HYPE

Chandra and D'arcy linger in front of what appears to be a replica of Neo from The Matrix. Feigning a thoughtless mishap, D'arcy drops her purse.

D'ARCY: Oops. Clumsy me. I dropped my purse again.

She bends over to pick it up and brandishes her backside to the motionless figure.

Homer and Krusty enter the lobby.

KRUSTY: All right. Let's get a stinkin' table already.

As Homer drudges past the (apparent) sculpture, on accident, he steps stomps on its leather shoes. The figure flinches with a jolt of pain.

KEANU: Ouch! Watch where you're stepping, dude.

Krusty walks by and quips.

KRUSTY: Well, I'll be damned.

Keanu resumes his stoic pose and the quartet moves off-screen.

INT. PLANET HYPE – A SHORT TIME LATER

The unlikely quartet sit at a table. D'arcy and Chandra fawn and lean longingly toward Krusty as they ignore Homer.

CHANDRA: So, Krusty, can you still get me that guest spot on Mr. Belvedere that you promised me?

KRUSTY: Uh...maybe I could pull some strings. (EAGER TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT) Hey ladies, did you know my buddy Homer over here once supplied the voice of some talking dog on Itchy & Scratchy? Not too shabby, eh?

Nonplussed, D'arcy and Chandra gaze at Homer, who forces a wide grin and meekly offers two turned-up thumbs.

D'ARCY: Voice actor on a cartoon? Oh, my dear—how low can one go? Well, at least you weren't one of the writers.

Following a terse shudder, she cackles along with Chandra. Homer hangs his head as Disco Stu struts to their table.

STU: How may Disco Stu serve you?

HOMER: (REVIVED) Well, if it isn't the waiter—the humble servant who scrapes by on minimum wage in a field dominated by women. I'm Homer Simpson, the swinging husband of a blue-haired lady named Marge that you may or may not know. Say bonjour to my acquaintances, D'arcy and Chandra, and mind you, they're actresses.

With tentative vigor, Homer throws his arm around D'arcy. She promptly rebuffs his gesture.

STU: Actresses, eh? That's nice. What have I seen you in?

CHANDRA: Benny Hill chased me around a tree back in '79.

D'ARCY: I made an appearance on Cops just last week.

Stu points to D'arcy, cocking his head in recognition.

STU: Meth bust, right?

D'ARCY: You know it!

STU: Out of sight. Hey, that cop had no right to search you like that, doll-face. And if you don't mind me sayin', you looked pretty chic in that grass-stained tank top.

D'ARCY: Well, aren't you a sweetheart? Handsome, too. I wish all men your age had thick hair like you.

Reeling from this passive-aggressive jab, Homer leaks sweat and fidgets.

HOMER: Um, anyway, you might also recognize a dear friend of mine—none other than Krusty the Klown.

STU: Yeah, yeah. I hate kids and everything they like.

KRUSTY: I respect that.

STU: Now, would you care to order first, babe?

D'ARCY: I'll have three low-carb croutons and a pitcher of vodka screwdriver.

STU: Ah, the “Lindsay Lohan.” Excellent choice.

CHANDRA: Same.

STU: OK. (TO MEN) And I'll be back for your orders after my smoke break.

As Stu strolls away, D'arcy slaps him on the butt.

INT. PLANET HYPE – LATER

The burned-out starlets are hammered and giggling for no apparent reason. Homer is atypically sober and long detached from human interaction.

CHANDRA: Krusty, you wanna know what I think? 'Cause I'm gonna tell ya. I think we should do this again sometime. How about next Friday?

KRUSTY: Ooh. Next Friday's no good. That's the—uh--Jewish holiday of Rokmoklahavven. Can't do it. (TO HOMER) Hey, fatty, you up for dessert?

With the posture of a dejected primate, Homer stands up.

HOMER: No, that's all right. I think I'll just leave. I lost my appetite, anyway.

On his way to the exit, though, he pilfers some spare ribs off of a deserted plate and starts to nibble on them morosely.

D'ARCY: Hey, what ever happened to that cute waiter?

With that, she leaves the table. A moment later, Chandra follows suit. Krusty looks around at the vacated table in a vacated restaurant and takes a long swig from his drink.

KRUSTY: (EMOTIONLESS) Alone at last.

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT – MOMENTS LATER

With sunken eyes gazing down on his leather shoes, Homer flings the meatless ribs over his shoulder.

CHANDRA: Big Kojak! Wait a second.

HOMER: What do you want?

CHANDRA: (BEAT) Someplace new to have the bed-spins.

Before he can ward her off, Homer is ambushed by a desperate embrace. He struggles away from her.

HOMER: Get away from me, you floozy!

CHANDRA: Floozy?! Hey, you're the one who wanted this date. Loser.

HOMER: I only wanted this date so that I could humiliate that jerk-of-a-waiter the way he humiliated me. But I just made a fool of myself. I could be home with my loving wife—making lucky number 3,407. Or at least be joining the five-timers club watching The Apes of Wrath, but nooo, instead I'm here, telling you to get lost.

Upon completion of his rant, Homer notices that Chandra has nodded off—still standing, remarkably.

Homer presses on a few more paces back to his car. He gets inside.

INT. HOMER'S CAR

CLOSE-UP ON HOMER

MARGE: (O.S.) I couldn't have said it better myself.

Mortified, Homer whirls around to see his wife sitting in the backseat.

HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Marge! What are you doing here? Oh God, I can explain--

MARGE: (ANGRY) I think you just did--to your tipsy friend out there. I know how jealous you can get, Homer, so I tailed you on your little stalking escapade. This is one of the most petty, conniving, despicable--

HOMER: Whatever word you're going to say next, I'm sure I deserve it, but I swear on our children that I never wanted to lay a finger on that woman. Marge, I can't believe you slept with that guy. It seems so wrong, and now I don't know if things can ever be the same again between you and me.

MARGE: (SIGHS DEEPLY) Homer, when I first met that man—that boy—he was popular and hip--and I was naive. He worked his charm and I made a mistake and then he broke my heart. You remember senior prom the next year? I went with that weasel Artie Ziff, and when he turned out to be just like Stu, I spent a short time convinced that I'd never find a man who respected me. I was wrong, though. On the ride home that night, I picked up a man who sees me as the only one worth counting. And that makes a girl feel special.

The two share a tender smile.

MARGE: (CONT'D) So, even though Stu was the first, he certainly wasn't the best.

HOMER: (ABRUPT) Woo-hoo! You mean I'm bigger than he was?

MARGE: (IRKED BUT MANAGING) Homer...yes. But that's not at all what this whole thing is about.

HOMER: (EYES DARTING, DISINGENUOUS) No...of course not...(BEAT) Anyway, I've had enough crazy bullcrap for one day. Let's go home, sweetie.

Marge leans in and bats her eyelashes seductively.

MARGE: Well, that's an idea, but you know, even though high school was lonely for you, you're never too old to have some fun in the backseat of a car.

Delighted by the invite, Homer crawls to Marge. As he wriggles his duff between the front seats, he moans.

HOMER: (HUNGRILY) Mmmmm...Number three-thousand, four-hundred and seven...

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT

The perspective shifts to the far end of the lot, where Disco Stu is spying on Mr. and Mrs. Simpson through a pair of binoculars. The eyepieces are bordered by pink, glittering stars reminiscent of Elton John's sunglasses. A single tear plummets down the cheek of Disco Stu.

STU: Disco Stu never knew love could be so sweet.

D'ARCY pops her head up from his lap and leers out the front windshield.

D'ARCY: What could be so sweet?

All traces of romance and decency vanish and Disco Stu reverts to his true self.

STU: No use trying to buckle me in/ 'Cause Disco Stu is ready to sin.

FADE OUT.

THE END.

The Simpsons Script 2 and a Half

ACT TWO (CONT'D)

INT. HOMER'S CAR – MOMENTS LATER

Homer strangles the steering wheel and grimaces; he is as anguished as a madman in a straight-jacket with a fly crawling on his face.

INSERT:

A thought balloon appears above his head.

He pictures teenage STU nuzzling up to teenage Marge. As homage to Freddy Mercury, Stu wears a gaudy leather ensemble that barely covers his nipples and shows his chest hair and belly-button.

STU: Baby, my love is true/ So don't look for someone new/ 'Cause the only one for you/ Is your man Glam-Rock Stu.

Won over and smitten, Marge smooches him on the lips and then tends tenderly to Stu's neck. As she does so, he reaches behind her and grins at the notepad in his hand. The opened page is titled, “Words that Rhyme with Stu.” Several appropriate words have been scribbled beneath the heading.

STU: (TO SELF) Heh, heh. Never fails.

Homer's thought bubble goes poof. He bashes the steering wheel and exerts a primal and furious growl.

EXT. STU'S DISCO PARKING LOT- MOMENTS LATER

Homer's sedan screeches to a halt across two parking spots.

INT. STU'S DISCO

The club is vacant except for a MUSTACHED MAN who sweeps the dance floor, which is littered with confetti, long spoons, and rolled-up dollar bills. Homer barges through the entrance.

MUSTACHED MAN: (CHARLES BRONSON VOICE) Hey, not so fast, KC and the Stout-Sized Waist Band. The place don't open 'til five.

HOMER: Can the insulting disco-puns, wise guy. I need to speak to the manager.

MUSTACHED MAN: Well, you just did, paly-boy. Will that be all then?

HOMER: What are you talking about? Where's Disco Stu?

MUSTACHED MAN: Ooh. Well, Stu made some shoddy investments. He financed a Monkey Dancing League that went bankrupt in two weeks. He was up to his sunglasses in debt, so he sold me this dump for ten-grand and a Carl Douglas Greatest Hits album. “Kung Fu Fighting” is the only song on the entire friggin' record. Still, that was the deal-breaker.

HOMER: Well, why is this place still called Stu's Disco? Why not name it after yourself?

MUSTACHED MAN: (DEADPAN) Hey, swell idea. “Adolf's Disco.” It's got a nice ring to it. (BEAT) Look, if you really want to track him down, he's got an apartment at the Casa Nova.

HOMER: (WOODEN) Thanks.

MUSTACHED MAN: (CALLING) And tell him those monkeys in the basement aren't gonna drive themselves to rehab, will ya?!

EXT. CASA NOVA APT. COMPLEX PARKING LOT – LATER

Stu's rusted jalopy approaches a parking spot. Its muffler drags on the cement. He is (naturally) grooving to disco music. The tunes cease as he transfers the cassette from the tape deck to a boombox on the passenger's seat, and then the tunes resume. Clad in the uniform of a Planet Hype waiter, Stu exits his car and boogies all the way to the entrance with the boom-box perched on his shoulder.

From the shrubby fringes of the lot, Homer spreads apart two bushes to reveal his obsessive stare.

He prowls along the side of the building. He gazes at the rickety porches of the dwellings on the second floor and sneaks past three dumpsters of increasing size. They're labeled: “Recyclables,” “Trash,” and “Outdated Porn.” Homer closes the lid on this third dumpster and uses it as a platform to aid his strenuous climb up to Stu's porch.

INSERT:

From inside the dumpster, Moe thrusts open the lid and shakes an angry fist at Homer.

MOE: Hey, I'm scroungin' down here! Do ya mind?

INT. STU'S APT.

Stu's place is squalid and dimly lit. Homer can be seen through the sliding glass doors, peering discreetly. The front door opens and Stu steps in. Still abuzz with swagger, he does the splits and flips on the light switch as he springs back to his feet. He then slams the door shut at the halfway point of a 360-degree spin.

Once the door is closed, however, his posture sags and he thumb-punches the STOP button. Suddenly silent and haggard, he looks down gloomily.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

Squatting like a catcher expecting a pitch off the plate, Homer grovels, beset by envy and delusions.

HOMER: Stupid big shot can't tear his eyes away from his faaaancy leather shoes.

INT. STU'S APT.

STU: Disco Stu needs a Hot Pocket and a cologne bath.

He mopes into the kitchen, snags a Hot Pocket from the barren freezer, and opens the door of the microwave. He yanks out the dirty laundry stored inside and tosses the heap onto the carpet.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

HOMER: (AWED) Great dancer, renowned lover, and gourmet chef?

INT. STU'S APT.

As the microwave hums, Stu plops down on a lawn chair in the living room. Remote in hand, he flips on the TV.

KENT BROCKMAN: (O.S.) Tonight on Smartline, the collapse of the Monkey Dancing League has led to an outbreak of drug addiction in Springfield's once-proud primate community. Channel 6 anchor Scott Christian is live outside of Stu's Disco with more on the story...

Stu turns off the TV and buries his careworn face in his hands.

STU: Oh...Stayin' Alive just ain't what it used to be...

Someone knocks urgently at his door.

STU: (HUSHED) Crap! That's either the landlord or the cops.

The microwave beeps and Stu—overcome with panic—hushes it from afar. He grabs a pillow case strewn on the carpet and starts to shovel records and discarded clothes (a rhinestone codpiece included) inside it. He rushes over to the microwave and snares his Hot Pocket before escaping toward the porch, where Homer slinks anxiously out of view. Stu is halted in his tracks by a resounding call from the hallway. It's KIRK VAN HOUTEN.

KIRK: (O.S.) Hey, it's me—uh, Kirk! Are you in there, Stu?

His composure regained, Stu sighs and backtracks toward the door. He opens it.

STU: That's Disco Stu to you.

KIRK: Sorry. Listen, could you be a pal and work my shift at Planet Hype tonight?

Stu reaches into the pillow case, extracts the steaming Hot Pocket, and boldly munches on it.

STU: Among other things, working a double shift is beneath Disco Stu.

KIRK: Aw, come on. Milhouse is in the hospital with third-degree Indian burns on his forearm. (BEAT) Look, if you don't cover my tables tonight, I'll tell the boss you're the one who stole the Travolta codpiece from his wax statue.

Stu's shades droop to reveal eyes that dart fretfully like a trapped animal. He adjusts his sunglasses, lets out a timid cough, and conceals the pillow case with the codpiece stuffed inside behind his back.

STU: That codpiece could be anywhere but inside my pillow case. (SIGHS) Fair enough. You've found my one weakness: kleptomania, coupled with compulsive lying and a lousy work ethic. Plus I have a drug problem. You leave me no choice but to say yes, Kirk.

KIRK: Call me Mr. Van Houten!

STU: (FEEBLE) Yes, Mr. Van Houten.

KIRK: (GASPS) My God! That actually worked? What a breakthrough for my manhood...

Disgusted by both Kirk and himself, Stu slams the door shut.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

His eyes aglow with shifty mischief, Homer strokes his chin.

HOMER: So...Disco Stooge will be waiting tables at a classy restaurant, eh? This give me an idea. Heh, heh.

He begins his descent from the perch of the second floor porch.

Beneath Homer's dangling legs, Moe hasn't gone anywhere; he gapes lewdly at a dirty magazine inside the dumpster.

MOE: Ho, ho, the mother load! Probably 18 magazine. I can't believe they still print this. Oh, somebody up there likes me.

Unwittingly, Homer's foot kicks the upraised lid of the dumpster. The lid teeters and crashes down with great force on Moe's head. Homer lands safely on the platform, oblivious to Moe's concussion.

EXT. NEARBY PHONE BOOTH – A BIT LATER

Homer studies the digits scrawled on the napkin he took home last night. He dials the number of Krusty the Klown.

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION – CONTINUOUS

Draped in a bathrobe as he lounges on an extravagant couch, Krusty sips on a highball glass. He's watching TV but doesn't seem like he's enjoying it.

KRUSTY: Buy a vowel, you moron!

GAME SHOW HOST: (O.S.) Survey says?

A buzzer razzes on TV to indicate a wrong answer.

KRUSTY: Ah, the poor schmucks just don't want to listen...

The nearby phone rings and Krusty answers it.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Plagued with doubts, Homer's fingers coil and twist the cord connected to the receiver.

HOMER: Um, Krusty? Hi. This is Homer. Homer Simpson. I got your number from a bar last night? Remember that?

KRUSTY: Yeah, I guess so...the fat, chrome-domed sex-o-phobe, right?

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer's shoulders go slack with relief.

HOMER: (FLATTERED) Aw...you do remember. Listen, I need a favor. A double date. You, me, and two of the glitziest, prettiest, fake-boobiest women you can find.

An operatic dirge of grim foreshadowing plays.

FADE OUT

END OF ACT TWO

The Simpsons Script 2

Pretty soon here I'll be presenting the second installment of a TV script I wrote in college. Consult the title above if you're unsure of which show it was. Read the words below as long as you're not likely to cuss me out for misplacing (or losing?) the pages (or floppy disk?) that includes the latter half of the episode I conceived when I was 21. If you're the optimistic type, know that I'm pretty obsessive about saving all my creative crap, and so another tortuous round of digging through desk drawers just might yield the missing pieces.


ACT TWO

FADE IN:

EXT. SIMPSONS' HOUSE – MORNING

INT. BEDROOM

Homer is still passed out on the carpet with his pants around his ankles. He drools and fidgets, in the throes of a bad dream.

HOMER'S DREAM

Hundreds of TEENAGERS in bell-bottoms are gathered at a fair. A banner by the entrance reads “Class of '74 Carnival.” The viewpoint PANS past a Ferris wheel and a dunk tank to focus on the entrance of a funhouse, where JOHN TRAVOLTA pleads with OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN. Their attire matches what they wore in the climax of Grease.

TRAVOLTA: Aw, jeez! What do I gotta do to prove I'm crazy about you? Should I improvise a big song and dance number?

INT. BEDROOM

In response to the question posed in his dream, Homer winces and shakes his head.

HOMER: (MOANS) Nooooooo...

HOMER'S DREAM

A lone dark cloud appears in the sky above Travolta. The cloud unleashes a bolt of lightning, incinerates him, and then vanishes.

INT. BEDROOM

Sleeping Homer smiles with relief.

HOMER'S DREAM

Beside the funhouse, TEENAGE Homer stands next in line for a booth marked “KISSES: ONE DOLLAR.” A PRETTY GIRL poses behind the counter.

TEENAGE HOMER: (TO SELF) Oh baby, this is going to be the best dollar I ever spent.

Repulsed by the sight of Homer, the pretty girl hangs a sign that reads “Closed for Repairs.” She rummages through her purse for makeup and a hand-mirror and then slowly applies lipstick. Homer is dejected.

TEENAGE HOMER: (HANGS HEAD) Oh...

He walks away.

The viewpoint PANS to a nearby booth marked “Premarital Sex: Fifty Cents.” Clad in a skimpy skirt, TEENAGE MARGE poses behind the counter. At the front of the very long line, TEENAGE LENNY digs into his pockets.

TEENAGE LENNY: Aw, nuts. All I got is a quarter.

TEENAGE MARGE: Eh. No biggie. I'll just start you a tab.

She grabs Lenny's hand and ushers him into a rickety and unromantic shack.

INT. BEDROOM

Homer returns to consciousness in a wild and terrified fit. Sticky with sweat, he clutches the two hairs atop his head.

HOMER: (BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM)

INT. SIMPSONS' KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER

Marge tends to dishes in the sink, her sullen eyes fixed on a plate she scrubs with numb repetitions. Homer barges up to her, berating and pleading.

HOMER: How could you, Marge?

MARGE: Homer—

HOMER: Homer nothing! We've been married since Lisa was a bun in your oven...

MARGE: Actually, I was pregnant with Bart.

HOMER: Don't interrupt me when I'm too mad to fuss over details! All these years, you've lied to me.

MARGE: Lied to you? You never asked!

HOMER: Yeah? Well, I've never asked my dad if he loves me, but that doesn't mean I'm not dying to know.

Having overheard, GRAMPA enters the kitchen, feeling sentimental.

GRAMPA: Son, of course I--

HOMER: Put a sock in it, old man.

GRAMPA: (CHIPPER) Well, that's a load off. See you at Thanksgiving.

He leaves.

HOMER: Who was he? Who was your first?

MARGE: Oh, Homey, it was so long ago. What does it matter?

HOMER: It matter because the only pure thing in my life has been dragged through the mud.

MARGE: Dragged through the-- (beat) I'm the exact same person--

HOMER: It matters because I can't stand the thought of another man's hands running through your puffy blue hair.

MARGE: (EMBARASSED) Homer, please. Don't be so vulgar. And after all, it was the '70s.

Homer slaps his forehead and points to the tall perm atop Marge's head.

HOMER: I meant that hair!

Having sunk to a new horror of embarrassment, Marge peers at the kitchen tiles.

MARGE: (beat) Oh.

HOMER: Who was he?

MARGE: (SIGHS) I met him when we were juniors in high school. He was kind of a fanatic about Elton John and Queen, so he dubbed himself “Glam Rock Stu.”

HOMER: (SKEPTICAL) “Glam Rock Stu?”

MARGE: Right. Only, ever since he got caught up in the Saturday Night Fever fever, he changed the first part to “Disco.”

HOMER: So slept with a guy named “Disco Glam Rock”? What the hell kind of a name is that?

MARGE: No, no. You've got first part/ last part confusion. See, when the second type of music became more popular than the first type...

HOMER: Aw, would you please just tell me the guy's name, Marge?

MARGE: Disco Stu! That's what he calls himself now. The sleazy weirdo with the dead fish in his platform shoes! I slept with him. He tricked me into loving him and I've never stopped regretting it. There. Are you happy now?!

HOMER: (SINISTER) Delighted.

He storms out of the room, past his children. Seated at the kitchen table, Maggie is glum and Lisa is aghast, but Bart finishes the last of his orange juice and sets the glass down, reposed and detached.

BART: (BELCHES) Mom. Refill!


NEXT SCENE(s)...Overcome with jealousy, Homer tracks down Disco Stu-- whom, I seem to recall, waits tables at Planet Hype and lives at the same apartment complex as Milhouse's dad. Krusty returns to the storyline. Homer blackmails him into his scheme of vengeance that blunders but leads to catharsis.

Let the search resume. Sigh.

NICK: Such a pain in the ass, this writing business.