A well decorated office. A well dressed man sits at a desk, looking over his papers. He looks up as the camera pans in closer, stopping in a medium close shot. "Hello, fellow Americans. We hope you have learned something from the preceeding film. It is not our want to frighten you, but it is very important that we as Americans realize the very real threat of communism to the ideals we hold dear." "As we speak, communist filmakers, authors, talkshow hosts, and pizza deliverymen are inflitrating our very society, weakening the foundation of our moral fortitude by exposing our children to communist textbooks and films, and anchovy pizzas. We as Americans cannot stand by while the next generation is swept away by this "red" flood. So we encourage you to turn in any communists or persons you suspect to be communists. Trust noone. If you have reason to suspect someone, then they probably are a communist. Please. Help us clean America up. Thank you. Fade out as camera draws back. "The preceeding message was paid for by SACS, Citizens Against Communist Stuff. Coming up next on Channel 23, The Erotic Adventures of Jesus Christ!!"
"Cut!" The well-dressed man stood up from the desk, shuffling the stack of papers together. He smiled. "How was that?"
"You dope!" growled the Director. "It's 'no one,' not 'noone'! Spell correctly when you speak!"
"That's not all, boss," called out some non-descript man waving a copy of the script. "Just got a call from some engineer guy... 'SACS' has already been taken as an acronym: Structural Analysis Council or something like that."
"That makes nothing, buddy!" A smartly-dressed Air Force Lt. Colonel strode into the room, flanked by a squad of MP's. "You boys are defaming the initials of the Strategic Air Command, and I have orders from the ghost of Curtis LeMay himself commanding you to cease and desist." Turning to his left, he said, "OK men... round 'em all up."
The Colonel leans into the camera. "My friends, always remember the vigilant armed forces of your country watch over you and protect you not only from Communists, but also from Communists proporting to be Communist haters."
Cut to scene of empty sky, with voice-over: "The B2... you can't see it, but you can feel the warmth" Quick cut to nuclear blast filling the screen with blinding light.
OK, OK, we got the shot. Only now, thought Dipswitch, what do we do with it? I've given up half my life to this production - NO, at least 90%, considering I don't exist outside of this paradigm. OK, OK. STOP saying OK, you boob! The shot of the bomber. That's all that counts. The rest of this movie/drabble/drivel has been a lot ot tripe. Almost like a rocket to the moon, as grandad would say. Tripe. No imagination in that old man.
But rockets would be fun... spaceships, sky-el's, the starship Enterprise (caps on starship, italics on Enterprise). Who's to say where this voyage might take us? To the edge of vogue literature, where we sit and make jabs at other eclecticatory elements? For we ARE better writers, and imaginers, and thinkers. Take Morgelshit and Rudy, for examples. And every thread thereafter, each trying to top, better or over funny the next. Bullshit! Let's have some originality. If not some correct spelling and grammar, at least.
After a fit of self-conciousness he was minutarized and turned into a burrito. Kareem abdul jabaar happened to be walking by and picked him up. Together they went to the park and watched the kids on the jungle gym. Kareem told the burrito how he could never play with the other kids because he was too tall. This made the burrito very sad. Kareem was hungry but he was not about to eat his new burrito friend...after all that would be wrong. So with a gentl sky-hook he threw him into an open sun roof of a passing car. Paco was suprised to find the burrito. He knew his kids would love to play with it.
Paco saw three wise men, breaking last year's record.
Paco saw a movie. It was called "Cotton for Victory." It was very educational.
Paco saw a terrible accident happen on the other side of the road. One of those vans with no windows hit the side of a station wagon that had suddenly pulled into the van's path. Groceries flew from the back end of the spinning wood paneled wagon and contributed to the general atmosphere of chaos. The food followed a gentile arc onto the hood of Paco's car. A brightly colored package of spaghetti split open on contact, dispensing the yellow, raw pasta directly at Paco's eyes.
Fortunatley, Paco was driving a car with a windshield. The spaghetti fell back onto the hood and stayed as Paco brought his vehicle to a sudden stop. He looked at the picture of the garlic-grinding chef on the pasta box, his garb the white, green and red of his native Italy. He had a thick, black moustache, and a jolly demeanor. It was obvious he loved to cook. Of course he did. He was Italian. Paco looked at the burrito next to him. He could imagine how happy his beloved children would be to have a burrito with which to play. But would this vision of Paco's come true? He suddenly questioned the validity of such an estimation. Was it mere fantasy, or an accurate prediction? And what was the signifigance of the difference. The chef on the box smiled at Paco, as if to say, "Que sera, sera Paco!"
Paco got out of his car and put the stiff spaghetti back in the box. Then, when the owner of the station wagon was repeatedly getting his face slammed onto the hood of the van by the owner of the van, and Paco was sure he was not looking, he took the spaghetti with him into his car. He put it next to the burrito and continued home. As he looked at the police using their clubs on the owner of the van- who was quite a large fellow- Paco remembered how the very nature of time seemed to change during the accident. Both of the soon to be damaged cars seemed to be moving through water, or a clear variety of pudding. It was so surreal, Paco had the feeling that he could reach out and stop the accident from occuring. He knew now that this was silly, but at the time he was genuinley suprised by the fact that the drivers didn't see the collision before it happened, and he was shocked when neither driver did anything to avoid the incident. Now, they would both have to get their cars repaired. The owner of the van would probably spend some time in a jail. The driver of the station wagon would have to get some new spaghetti. And Paco now had a plan.
Paco checked again to make sure his hands were level with each other. In the right hand, he held the burrito. In the left, the box of spaghetti. He nuged his car door shut with his foot, and started walking around his house. He could hear the sounds of his two children- Lupita and Carlos- playing in the backyard. It stirred Paco's heart to hear the voices of his own children so happy and carefree. He loved them very much. They were twins, and he felt like the proudest man in Los Angeles the day his wife gave birth to them seven years ago. But Paco had not always been happy since then. Times were tough- he barley made minimum wage picking strawberries. Crops had been thin because of the drought, and because Paco and his colleauges got paid by the pound, the competition in the fields was fierce. His marraige with Bonita had also been under stress. They had married when they were very young. But family was important to Paco- he and Bonita had brought children into the world, and if he had to start using firearms to get the most strawberries, he would. For them.
As soon as Paco rounded the corner of his house into the backyard, Lupita and Carlos jumped up from the sandbox. "Papa! You brought us spaghetti!" Before Paco could blink, the children grabbed the box of spaghetti out of his hands and quickly returned to their crude sandcastle, yelling "Thank you papa!" over their shoulders. Paco, in shock, looked at the burrito. He thought back to when he was a kid, when nothing was more fun than a burrito. He always played with a burrito. Always. Every kid in his barrio played with burritos. His amigo Pedro, his children played with burritos. Just yesterday, in the fields, Jose was telling him how his children are failing their classes because all they do is play with burritos. All kids love burritos. At least, all kids that Paco knew.
He watched Lupita and Carlos, and the shock wore off. A great sadness overcame him. He saw them play with the spaghetti, their kingdom of sand already forgotten, until his vision was blurred with tears. He knew what he had to do.
Bonita was in the kitchen, fixing tacos. She was completley oblivious to outside events as she hummed along to Selena. Paco walked, on the verge of loosing control, and said "Whose children are they?" "What? Oh, Paco, you scared me. How many pounds did you pick today?" "Who is their father?" "What are you talking about, Paco?" "Lupita and Carlos. I am not their father, no?" "Of course you are their father. Don't talk nonsense. How much money did you mke today?" "ANSWER MY QUESTION!" Paco shouted as he backhanded a jar of salsa off of the dinner table. The glass broke on the wall, leaving a large, red splotch. "Paco, what is the matter-" "You know what is the matter." "No, I don't!" Bonita cried, still startled by the broken jar. "You and I. We are Mexican in every way. We have typical Mexican names. All of our friends have typical Mexican names. I earn little money for a lot of work. We have tacos for dinner and listen to Selena. I wear a sombrero for a hat. I love tequila. We speak English, but that is explained by the fact that we live in Los Angeles. We even keep Salsa on the table." "Yes, Paco, but-" "Even a television executive could not dream up a more typical family of Mexicans. But our children. They prefer to play with SPAGHETTI. Over a BURRITO." Paco threw the burrito onto the table, where it landed limp, witha loud, greasy slap. "They are not my children. They are not blood of my blood. Whose children are they?" "Oh, dios-" "WHOSE CHILDREN?" Paco paused, then brough himself to face a devistating truth. "Are they Anthony Tortolini's children?" "Yes."
"Stop this bickering" came a strange voice from the living room. The couple were startled to hear the voice. They were scared. There was a stranger in their home. Cautiously Paco advanced towards the living room. He soon realized it was the burrito that was speaking. "If your kids like to play with the spaghetti then that's all fine and good...what's the matter with you?" Paco said,"But...I...But.."Bonita picked up the burrito and stroked him gently, the way you would pet a bunny rabbit."Where do you come from?" "I am very old and very wise, but I'm not really senile....and I also just hung out with Kareem Abdul Jabaar. He's really cool and when I look at the light shining off his bald head, I feel at peace....and I know everything is going to be all right." Bonita wasn't sure what the burrito was talking about, but Paco had a good idea.... "If you know kareem why don't we give hime a call...I know this guy over at Fox and I think we could make a cool show with you and Kareem as partners who fight crime together....if they don't like it, we can maybye hook up a movie deal..." "That's a great idea Paco.... Kareem and the Burrito... the kids will love it!"
Gramm Chapman then, back from the dead, walked into the room, and the occupants were unsure if he was part of some asid or ascii trip, but they still greeted him cheerfuly. "Bloddy christian cunts!" he barked. "They think they're all that, don't they". He continued with his rant to say "Well they're all wrong, just you wait, I'm going to tell Ophra my story and then I'll make a movie about the meening of life.. er death." Oddly enough, a small midget with a "Da Fonz" button on her chest walked in and shot everyone.
Then the naked woman from Chapter 4 entered the room and proceeded to say her rant, "Where the fuck is this story going anyway? Wasn't it a biography of sonic's life? Arn't *I* sonic? What the fuck's wrong with you writers anyway? I need a drink."