Bord Ded. Bin Gud.
Karellen’s Top Ten Muscle Cars Ever
The Ford Testicula
The Pontiac Mullet
The Pontiac Kilminster
The Chevy Date Rape
The Oldsmobile Area 51
The Ford Horde
The Pontiac Gran Jury
The Chevy BAC .24
The Ford Chokehold
The AMC $20 Blowjob
O’Brien’s Top Ten Not-So-Muscular Cars Ever
The Yugo Hugo
The Saab Caak
The Pontiac GTO’Donnell
The Peugeot Fiste
The Chevellen DiGenerous
The Volvo Sac
The Pontiac Mustache
The Opel Sphincter
The Pontiac Trans Ann Heche
The Cadillac Prince Albert
Mustapha Mond’s Top Ten Classy Classic Cars
The DeSoto Douche
The Hudson Harrumph
The Peugeot Pigpoker
The Nash Rash
The Studebaker Muffinstuffer
The Tucker Tuckus
The Plymouth Plower
The Ford Model “A” Assmunch
The Packard Pucker
The Stutz-Bearcat Vagina
Wintermute’s Top Ten Inherently Funny Car Models
The Oldsmobile Pratfall
The Dodge Punchline
The Honda Pupu Platter
The Pontiac Queef
The Ford Skidmark
The Renault Jerry Lewis
The Chrysler Heckle
The AMC Mongoloid
The Yugo Yuk
The Toyota Tercel
Charles Darwin: Look: if you’re a guy, then the only thing that matters in life is the fucking. For millions of years you have evolved to put your prong in a moist warm place and leave your seed there, then move on. The marrying, the dating, the art, the music, the jobs, all that stuff, that’s just secondary to the fucking. Those are the things you need to do in order to get to the fucking. It’s different for women because they have evolved to carry a baby in their belly and breastfeed it long after you have gone. They’ve got investment. And if they choose to use the modern science of pills and prophylactics to keep from filling their evolutionary role, then that’s their business. But that doesn’t change your business, my male friends, which is the fucking. You need to leave your seed, even if the recipient has created a chemical cocktail in her nether parts designed to destroy it. That’s her problem. Not yours. So if you aren’t doing the fucking on a regular basis, then your life is without meaning or point. You might as well kill yourself now, and release the seawater inside you so that it may be used by someone who will actually satisfy his evolutionary prerogative.
O’Brien: I was wondering what my life was all about. Thanks for cluing me in. The meaning of life is the fucking. Well, then. Who knew?
Charles Darwin: Don’t misquote me, O’Brien. I never mentioned life having meaning. Life has no meaning. It has purpose. And that purpose is the spreading of the genetic material. Also known as the fucking.
O’Brien: Does pleasuring one’s self to pictures of moist warm places count?
Charles Darwin: No. The LORD was right to punish Onan for spilling his seed. The pleasuring of the self is not the fucking. It is the wasting.
The LORD: That’s right. Ka-POW! Consider yourself smited.
Charles Darwin: Consider . . . if you had a choice: would you live in a little ragged hut by yourself with just enough food to live on and get to have your way with three different women every day, or have a nice house in the suburbs with a wife and three kids and a pension and get laid once a month? Be honest with yourselves now. Tap that lizard brain.
O’Brien: Honestly? I think if I lived in the ragged little hut, I’d get sick of the women after a couple of days and want to look at online porn by myself, so I’m going to have to pick the suburbs option. And I suspect I’m not alone.
Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Whether life has meaning or life has purpose is a meaningless distinction. Life simply is. And let me tell you all, especially you, Charles Darwin: the fucking is over-rated, and O’Brien has touched on an essential truth with his choice. You can live a long and satisfying life without the fucking, especially in an era of unlimited pornography on demand, all the time. No, the truest, deepest pleasure in life comes from the shitting. Nothing satisfies more than a good, solid bowel movement. Any one of us can go without the fucking indefinitely. But see what happens if you try to go without the shitting. Everything you work for and achieve in life is not about the fucking, because we have evolved to the point where we’re selfish pigs who don’t actually care about our spawn, but is instead about the shitting. You have arrived as a human when you have a nice, clean, private, sanitary place to deposit your feces, unrushed, unmolested, unwatched. So forget the fucking, and embrace the shitting. This is what gives life its focus, meaning and purpose. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a bran muffin explosion in my immediate future. Is there any of the fucking in yours? I didn’t think so. QED. Zorax, out.
Charles Darwin: Yeah, that’s what I meant to say. Survival of the Shittest. On The Origin of Feces. Right. I stand corrected. Darwin, out.
The LORD: “Darwin, out?” Oh, you jest, Charlie. You’re a funny little man. I’ma send Lucifer down to stick a fork in you to see if you’re done yet, and I suspect he’ll find you need at least another 50,000 years of broiling. Then we can talk about “out.”
Charles Darwin: Shit.
(Script for the Pilot Episode of BET’s Next Smash Hit)
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, yo, yo homies! Jay-zoose in the Hell-zoose! Walkin’ on the Cocytus, easy peasy, just like on Galilee! Just poppin’ in for a surprise visit, peeps! Gonna go rip the gates off the Burning City of Dis just for grins and giggles, ‘cause I like to watch them uptight union devils having to rebuild them without any overtime or holiday pay every time I come down here and tear ‘em up. Keep it real, eternally damned peeps! Jesus loves ya! Peace out!
Satan (in Hell): Yo, JC, whatcha doin’ down here? Damn, brah, I ain’t seen you since ought seven! Yo, why you always gotta come down here, mess up the gates of the Burning City of Dis, and then rush off? Why don’tcha stay awhile and let’s grill us up some tasty souls?! C’mon, I’ll fire up the new husky-sized George Foreman I got, and we’ll get all barbecued up in this here Malebolge! This Foreman’s so huge you could feed all your apostles in one sizzizzle!
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, good to see you, Lucifizzle, word! You lookin’ sharp! Been workin’ out? Keepin’ it real? Hey, uh, sure, I could stand a couple slices of some grilled souls, that sounds good. But you know, nothin’ personal, my brother, but if anyone from Upstairs pops in, then I gotta do the whole “Get thee behind me” schtick while I’m down here, lest my Pops’ll get all up in my shit, namsain?
Satan (in Hell): I got your back, brother.
Jesus (in Hell): Thanks, brah. Good to know that you’re lookin’ out for me and you won’t make waves with my Pops. He can be tough, y’know . . .
Satan (in Hell): Nah brah, forget that shit, I ain’t bootlickin’ for anybody from Upstairs in my own damn crib. What I meant was: I got your back. Right here! Look at this choice cut of meat I just carved off the flip side of one them sizzlin’ lardasses down there in the glutton’s pit!
Fred “Rerun” Berry (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Hay, HAY, Hay! OUCCCCHH!!!!!! AIGGGGGGHHHH!!! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!
Everyone: Ahhhh ha ha ha ha!!! Ha ha ha!!! Ahhhh ha ha!
Jesus (in Hell): Ah, got it!! Yeah, that’s some nice lookin’ fatback for sure, thanks, brah. Thanks for cookin’ it up for me. I usually try to cook with 93% fat free souls, but they don’t really work that well on the grill.
Satan (in Hell): Oh man, that’s just lame, Jesubibble. You need that fat to give your food taste! Damn, son, I figured after that 40 days in the wilderness thing that I put you through, you’d know better than to deny yourself again. Mmmm . . . yeah, that’s gonna crisp up real nice on the Foreman!! Mmm mmm!! Yo, step back there, JC. You don’t want to be breathin’ in this smoke here, what with your weak lungs and everything. You know how you get if you have an asthma attack, right?
George Jefferson (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Weezie!!!
Everyone: Ah ha ha!! Ha ha!!! Ahh ha ha ha ha ha!!!
Jesus (in Hell): Hey Beelzibbibble, I been meaning to ask you: What’s up with all the ball sacs hangin’ off of the trees down in the suicide circle? You best not let my Pops see that. He don’t like it when you start making up new punishments without running it by him and shit. My lips are sealed, but just watch your back, yo.
Satan (in Hell): I’m watchin’ your back, JC! I’m watchin’ it cook! Look at it sizzle! Oh man, I sure am glad your old man made gluttony a sin!! But, serious, how come he’s gotta be so hard on me down here? I mean, I got the prime contract from Heaven GmbH to provide the eternal punishments for the next 10 millennia, so why he gotta micromanage and tell me what I can and can’t do all the time? Damn, next time contracts are up, I’ma tack on another five points if him and Gabriel don’t stop comin’ down here and tellin’ me how to run my shop!
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, you know how it is with my Pops. He’s all uptight about bein’ in charge, and makin’ all the peeps follow all those damn Leviticus rules and whatnot. I can’t even keep ‘em straight, yo. It’s like, “Whoa, am I supposed to smite this sodomite, or this chick who’s on the rizzag while she’s in my kitchen, or both of ‘em?” Just roll with it, man. He don’t notice if you don’t make waves.
The LORD (on the intercom, over a human beatbox rhythm track): Who’s balls be these, that hang from thine suicide trees, that scratchin’ need of there be? What nuts of which thou speaks are these, that art forever to swing, from the hell’s bowels without permission from me?!!!
Satan (in Hell): DEEZE NUTS!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!! I been waitin’ years to be able to say that!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!
Baal (in Hell): Ah, wow, Satan! You done smacked that ass now!
Pan (in Hell): Yeah, Satan!! You tell him!! I got your back!!
Belial (in Hell): Yeah, that comeback’s gonna start a new revolution! Fire up the Foremans! Tonight we eat the unbaptized babies! Hell’s yeah!
Snoop Dogg (making a cameo appearance in Hell, with a subpoena): Yo, mizzle Devizzle. Mah lawyers will be callin’ at your cribbizzle in the morizzle to discuss the infringizzle copyrizzle. Spizzle wizzle.
Everyone: Awwwwwwwww . . . . .
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, Pops, it’s all good. I was mistaken. They’re not ball sacs at all. They’re just Me-mas decorations that Satan hung up, givin’ me all the Glory and everything. Don’t worry ’bout comin’ down to check it out. Everything’s good. I’ll be home right after dinner. Tell Moms I love her, aight?
The LORD: Well thou hast said, son. And thou art trusted, as none other is. For thou art mine only son, which I gave for the world, despite all your, uh, shall we say, flaws. Now, seriously, yo mama’s cookin’ one hell of a steak up in dis griz-ell, so get yo’ ass on up here!
Jesus (in Hell): Aw, Pops, why you gotta talk like that? That’s weird when you drop into vernacular that way.
The LORD: What, you think just ‘cause I’m old I don’t know how to ‘chill with my peeps’? I can still ‘get down’ with the young people! I’m cool like James Earl Jones, only I’m omniscient, for My sake! Gimme some skin!
Jesus (in Hell): Dad, you’re embarrassing me! Cut it out! I’ma have some fatback down here with Satan tonight, aight? Tell Moms I’ll have leftover steaks with her tomorrow. Love you, Pops!
The LORD: Me dammit, we are not amused at being stood up for dinner! All I can say is you’d better mess those gates of the City of Dis up something fierce if you’re gonna make your mother go through all that effort for nothing. Where’s the Holy Ghost? Maybe we’ll have him over tonight instead . . .
The Holy Ghost (materializes in Hell): Boo! Boogity boogity boo!!! Boo-yah!
Satan (in Hell): Ahh! Don’t sneak up on me like that, The Holy Ghost! Damn!! How many times I gotta tell you that?!?!
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Aw man, that’s so funny to see the look on your face when I do that!!! That one never gets old!!! Hey, you got some extra traitor ribs on that grill I can have?
Satan (in Hell): Yeah, but they’re not fresh. JC’s Pops always makes me freeze the traitors before I serve ‘em. It’s in the contract. Here you go, hand me a paper plate, I’ll slide you some.
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Whoh, whoh, whoh! I said I said I wanted some ribs, Satan!!! Don’t be tryin’ to slide fatback onto my plate, punk. Don’t forget, you work for Heaven GmbH. Try to pawn off fatback as ribs with me again, and I’ll make sure you never get another contract in this town!
Mary Magdalene (out back at the clothesline, in Hell): Is that Jesus I hear over there? What? You come all the way down here, Jesus, and all you do is go barbecue with the Lord of the Fries? What about me? You got no time to come see your babies’ mama no more? I tell you what, Jesus, John the Baptist’s gettin’ tired of payin’ for baby formula, namsain? You gotta get with the Fathership program. Ask your Pops how it’s done, aight?
Satan (in Hell): Mmmm, mmm, mmmm . . . that Mary Magga Dagga still one hot SILF!!! That mean “Soul I’d Like to Fu— . . .”
Jesus (in Hell): Get that thought behind me, Satan!!! I don’t talk about Missus Scratch and her six spectacular goat breasts, so you leave Mary Magdalene alone, got it? Wait, Maggie! Wait! You actually want me to ask my Dad about Fatherhood? Okay, here goes: Hey Pops, ‘member when you got all up in mama’s grill then didn’t even call her? I mean, you got this legion of angels, and all you do is send down Gabriel, like a total of, oh, let’s see, once. Shit, Maggie, cut me a break. At least I stuck around for 30-something years.
Gary “Arnold Drummond” Coleman (making a cameo appearance in Hell): What’choo talkin’ ’bout, Jesus?!?!
Everyone: Ahhhhh!!! Ha ha ha ha!!!! Ahhh ha ha!!! Ha ha ha ahhh!!!!
The LORD: I was too busy watching over the smallest sparrow to be able to spend all of my time with your mom, Jesus, you know that. Plus someone has to bring home the ribs around here, and after my work schedule, I just want to come home and veg out on the Play Station for a while. She’s just lucky that I had Gabriel and all the other archangels around to watch out for her. Most women would be happy with that kind of arrangement. Plus, I never bitched any about the whole Joseph the Carpenter thing, now did I? I think I get some major tolerance points there.
Joseph the Carpenter (in Hell): What tolerance? When I died, you sent me down here, where there’s an army of devils lined up with ball peen hammers and nails, each one of which gets driven through my sturdy plank, namsain? That was tolerance?
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Hey hey hey! If I wanted all this domestic drama, I’d be watchin’ “Beaches” right now, bitches. But I don’t. What I want is some RIBS!! NOW!!!! Don’t make me bring down the fires of Heaven GmbH and get y’all floppin’ around on the floor and speakin’ in tongues and shit!! Don’t MAKE me do that!!
Satan (Flopping around on the floor in Hell): Om gevveibble ganna takka!!! Meshondrevanna honndagga tommagonaam!!! Naka mescotolomia eppehsussivua!!
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): See, I TOLD you I was gonna make you flop and babble if I didn’t get my RIBS!!! Now quit shaking and get grillin’! I ain’t kiddin’ around anymore!!!! Damn. You just can’t get good contractors to do the The LORD’s work anymore since Noah and Sons went belly up after the Great Gopherwood Blight. Those were the days, when we could make a demand and, hey presto, chop chop, shit got DONE!!! Ah well, speaking of getting shit done . . . hey, Jesus! You know what would make it easier for you to tear down those gates at the Burning City of Dis?
Jesus (in Hell): Nah, I dunno, The Holy Ghost. What would make it easier?
Jimmie “J.J.” Walker (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Dy-no-MITE!!!!
Everyone: Ah ha ha! Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!
Bumblefuck Kid: I got a record by a band called Black Flag from my older brother who went to a hardcore show up in Albany once. There was an insert in there to purchase some SST records. I bought some records by bands called The Minutemen, Husker Du, Dinosaur, and the Meat Puppets. Then I went to my school computer (we have the internets here in Bumblefuck County) and I looked up other bands with my friend Bumblefuck Sue. We started an awesome duo influenced by this kickass band we heard on Garageband called Flat Duo Jets, and are in the process of recording our first record. It’s an indigent musical exploration of the Beirut sewers in the 1980’s by a young girl named Pip. Expect to be charmed, disillusioned, tickled pink and nauseated. Will Pip ever live up to her dreams of marrying a wealthy Frenchman, or will she succumb to the undeniable desires that lie in her bosom of becoming a sensitive lesbian folksinger? Find out for yourself, as soon as we finish it!
Wintermute: Did you spend a lot of time in Beirut in the 1980s? It was a lovely place to be an Overlord at that point. So many grubs. So many earthworms. I tingle at the memory!
Bumblefuck Kid: No, I’ve never been to Beirut. It’s kind of like how Barry Gibb was never in New York, but he still wrote a heart-rending ballad about a mining disaster there, that took place in 1941, five years before he was born. Actually, truth be told, I don’t know where Beirut is. But I know a lot about a little girl named Pip with whom I share a heart.
Wintermute: That’s fascinating, this not going someplace but writing about it. Have you ever actually been a girl named Pip? Because sharing a heart, that’s just got to be hard.
Bumblefuck Kid: It is, Mister Wintermute, it is! Sometimes I just start crying and I have no idea why. And then I get these conflicted urges to make love to wealthy Frenchman even though I know I should be marrying a beautiful woman. Truth is, wealthy Frenchmen make me sick. But, who knows, marrying one might get me more access to the beautiful women I so want to make love to. Until my wealthy French husband finds out and has me castrated, anyway.
Wintemute: Let’s imagine what it might be like, being with a Frenchman, shall we? Is he gentle with you? Does he have strong hands or facial hair? Pets? Will he allow you to pursue your musical career, or will your debut album also be your swan song? Also, how many beautiful women will we be able to access?
Bumblefuck Kid: No, I don’t want to imagine such things. You don’t seem to understand that I’m talking about a real girl named Pip that lives inside my heart. She communicates with me in a language I cannot understand, the language of love. And she is real. You might want to talk to me when I’m having one of my seizures.
Wintermute: Lives in your heart? I’m confused. Did you eat this little girl? And if so, then why haven’t you just pooped her out? Please explain.
Bumblefuck Kid: I didn’t swallow her. I don’t know how she got in there. I think a psychiatrist implanted her while I was under hypnosis. Either that or during my electroshock treatment to cure my homosexuality.
Wintermute: So Pip is a lesbian?
Bumblefuck Kid: She doesn’t know it yet, but yeah, she’s definitely a lesbian. I know because she’s really into Boyskout.
Wintermute: When you’re on the couch, you have to watch their busy hands, don’t you?
Bumblefuck Kid: Well, when I was hypnotised and undergoing shock therapy, I don’t really remember much. I just know that I’m less crazy now.
Wintermute: And, yet, you have a little vagina in your heart. I’m intrigued. Tell me how that informs your songwriting.
Bumblefuck Kid: Sometimes, especially on this album we’re working on, the vagina really comes through. Then I start to write about stupid topics like heartbreak and romantic love and murder. If it weren’t for Pip, I’d just be writing about war and getting drunk all the time.
Wintermute: I hear you. Now I understand how your aura is full of so many pastels. I like that a lot.
Bumblefuck Kid: Fuck that “aura” new age shit! I don’t do that pussy garbage!
Pip: That’s not true! I love pastels! I love to color pictures of lesbian hearts with them! I’m in the middle of a pastel rock opera right now. It centers on Princess Leia, torn between her marriage to Charlton Heston and her lesbian desires for members of Sleater-Kinney, Le Tigre, and Boyskout. The part of Princess Leia will be played by John Travolta. In drag. With a Freddie Mercury mustache.
Bumblefuck Kid: mumble . . . . drool . . . . mumble . . . twitch . . .
Wintermute: Isn’t Charlton Heston dead now? And if so, can I have his gun? Seriously, though, how did Princess Leia wind up with Moses?
Bumblefuck Kid: Uhhh . . . what are you talking about? And why are your busy hands in my lap?
Wintermute: Because I swallowed a wealthy Frenchman and can’t shit him out. Save me!
THE UPSTATE ETHER ZODIAC
Redneck Dawg (March 21 to April 20):
Dim and one-dimensional, you’ve got your base tastes down pat and have no interest whatsoever in exploring anything new. You are an open book: shallow as a puddle and simple as Bisquick.
Baygenie Ken (April 21 to May 20):
Shifty and untrustworthy, you profit off the hard work of others, and then rub their noses in it after the fact. You think you can hide behind your masks, but no amount of disguise will hide the shortness, baldness and fatness in your soul.
Spartacus Crab (May 21 to June 20):
Pushy and dictatorial, you’re more than happy to bring on epic meltdowns just to satisfy your own interests. Feigning to be a team player, you’ll throw everyone else under the bus, and then hope it runs out of gas before it hits you.
Albany Jones (June 21 to July 20):
Tidy and organized, with a masterful sartorial sense, you are the hidden wizard who makes things tick from your secret bunker beneath the Empire State Plaza. If the babes knew you existed, you’d be a playa, but you opt instead to love your machines instead of other people, potential unfulfilled.
Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange (July 21 to August 20):
You have an undeniable animal magnetism that drives the ladies mad and makes the men step aside when you come up the sidewalk, screaming and shaking. But that’s okay, since you just came from their houses, where you were diddling their wives. Who cares if your trousers stink?
Richie Muffinstuffer (August 21 to September 20):
The world is handed to you a silver platter, which you lose, but the world hands you another one, since there’s an endless supply of silver platters out there for the likes of you. Endlessly cheerful, because you have no wants, people are drawn to you because of what you can buy them. But, hey, you have so much money you can buy and still have plenty for yourself later. So why be stingy?
Underpants Gnome (September 21 to October 20):
Big attitude in a little package, with a chip on your shoulder the size of a redwood and the worst job this side of the offal tasters. People pity and fear you, though the fear tends to outweigh the pity, especially when they see you writhing about in a pile of their intimate garments.
Pee Pee Dog (October 21 to November 20):
Cuddly and easily excited, eager to please but accident prone, you mesmerize and horrify people in equal parts.
Gobrin Shalk (November 21 to December 20):
Xenophobic and paranoid, always seeing slights when none are intended, convinced that everyone is out to get you, you lash out every time someone tries to make inroads with you, and are destined to a lonely, bad-toothed life and dismal, painful death, probably at the hands of a large sea mammal.
The Wailrus (December 21 to January 20):
Oh, the whining! Oh, the angst! You are a blathering bundle of complaints and petty whimpers, the world handed to you on a platter, which you hate because it’s silver plate, not sterling. And silver plate makes your teeth hurt, probably because of the cancer. Oh!
Special Kitty K (January 21 to February 20):
Not the brightest bulb in the box, people tend to give you what you want, even if it’s bad for you, because it’s easier than trying to explain stuff to you. When people say they’re laughing with you, don’t be so sure.
Fucking Sucks Monkey (February 21 to March 20):
You are the bummer dispenser. No matter what’s going on, you will be there to tell everybody that it’s not as good as it used to be, or not as good as your other thing, or just not good at all. Thing is, nobody thinks you’re worth a tinker’s damn either, but they’d just rather avoid you that tell you that.
What Happened: It’s boy’s night out at the billiards hall. Karellen and O’Brien vs Mustapha Mond and Wintermute. All agreed to a best three out of five games. Game 1: Wintermute sinks the 8-ball way ahead of schedule; it’s 1-0 Karellen and O’Brien. Game 2: Karellen sinks the 8-ball on schedule, but in the wrong pocket; score tied at one all. Game 3: Mustapha Mond and Wintermute mop the floor with Karellen and O’Brien, 2-1 for Mond and ‘Mute. Game 4: Remarkably similar to Game 3; Wintermute and Mustapha Mond win! Later, in a bitter fit of poor sportsmanship, Karellen tells lies about the final results at the bar because he has no integrity whatsoever. O’Brien grieves for the soul of his team-mate, and cries quietly in his beer.
What Really Happened: Mustapha Mond and Wintermute sit waiting for Karellen to show up. All of a sudden, “Staying Alive” starts blaring from the jukebox. Karellen walks in just as the line “Well you can tell from the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man” comes on. He walks over, says; “Flip the coin. Heads.” The coin is flipped. Heads lands face up. Wintermute racks the balls. Karellen chalks, blows the extra off and winks at Mustapha Mond. Knocks the 8-ball in off the break. “Rack ‘em.” Wintermute, now noticeably nervous, puts the quarters in and racks them again. The first chorus of “Staying Alive” is playing at this time. Karellen twirls his cue and knocks the 8-ball in off the break again. “One more time.” Wintermute is too frightened, so Mustapha Mond racks the final set of balls. “Thanks suga,” Karellen exclaims as he releases the final cue ball and sinks the 8-ball off the last break. “And now, there’s only one thing left to do. Strut.” Karellen walks the sexiest walk ever, even sexier than John Travolta’s, and turns back one time to wink at Mustapha Mond again. By the time the last “Stayin’ Alive” is sung, Karellen is out the door. O’Brien grieves for the soul of his team-mate, and cries quietly in his beer.
What Actually Happened: Karellen is rolled in by a crew of twenty several hours before the match begins. By the time O’Brien has shown up, Karellen is sobbing over the table. “I can’t do it, I just can’t!” He has been trying to lift himself off the stool the whole time. “Don’t worry so much, I’ll get you a drink” offers O’Brien. “Okay thanks, make it a triple Johnnie Black. Here’s some money.” O’Brien looks at the greasy wad of cash and says “Um, this one’s on me…”. Just then “Staying Alive” starts blaring on the Jukebox. Wintermute and Mustapha Mond walk in, wearing all red patent leather. They stop to pose as photographers snap photos. They walk over to the table and say “We break.” Karellen, sitting at the table alone, says “Okay, just please don’t hurt me!” Mustapha Mond racks as he laughs in disgust and amusement at Karellen’s attempts to stand up. Wintermute knocks in the 8-ball off the break. “Your turn,” he says as he passes the cue to Mustapha Mond. The chorus of “Staying Alive” is playing. O’Brien shows up with several drinks in his arms. “These are pity whiskeys from everyone at the bar for you, Karellen.” Karellen greedily grabs the glasses and starts chugging. O’Brien puts the quarters in and racks. By the time the triangle is off the balls, Mustapha Mond has sunk the 8-ball in and the second game is won. He blows the extra chalk off the cue and winks at John Travolta, who is sitting in the corner. He says “You take the last one, Wintermute. Pity we can’t embarrass that lard ass more.” “Yeah, he’ll probably be asleep in a pool of his own vomit by the end of the night,” Wintermute responds. “I gossa be homes ta watchin debazze cause I’s a good Christian,” Karellen manages to slur as Wintermute sinks the third 8-ball off the break in a row. He throws the cue to O’Brien, who helps him into his red patent leather jacket, and the three of them strut out as the final chorus to “Stayin Alive” is played. Karellen passes out in a pool of his own vomit. No one grieves for his soul.
Burl Ives: Well, you know, O’Brien has always been The Littlest Overlord. All the other Overlords pick on him. All the time! He doesn’t get to play in any of the Overlord games! But then, something wonnnnnnn-derful happened! On Christmas Morning, The Littlest Overlord got to give The Baby Jesus the best present of them all!
O’Brien: Here, Baby Jesus. I would like you to have my copy of the Criterion Collection DVD of Petulia. It’s the greatest movie ever!
Burl Ives: And when the other Overlords saw what O’Brien did, they were, like, “Whoh! Did you see that?! That Littlest Overlord just scooped us!”
Karellen: Yeah, sure, that’s how it happened, right. But then when we got home, we kicked O’Brien’s ass and made him clean the Easter Bunny hutches for being a dick and showboating on us.
O’Brien: I don’t want to be an Overlord! I want to be a dentist!
Mustapha Mond: Hey, who’s that girl on the cover of the Petulia DVD? She’s pretty cute!
O’Brien: That’s Petulia.
Mustapha Mond: I know that, Dinghis Khan. I mean, who plays Petulia?
Guy Who Esplains Thins: The role of Petulia was played by the young Cloris Leachman, before her “accident”. Rock Hudson plays her love interest. The villain is played by Marty Feldman, in a genius stroke of counter-casting.
Plot Summary of Petulia, from Internet Movie Database: After separating from his wife Petulia (Cloris Leachman), Elmer Scroggins (Rock Hudson) quits the spy business and became a restaurateur. His wife refuses to speak with him, and his daughter, who changes her career more often than her clothes, has begun dating a man old enough to be Elmer’s father! On top of it all, the government has asked him to come back and save the world again. The evil Von Bandeez (Marty Feldman) has hypnotized animals into doing his bidding, and plans to use them to take over the world! It’s up to Elmer to save the world, as only he can battle Von’s Vegetarians and man-eating rabbits!
O’Brien: Like I told the Baby Jesus. It’s the best movie ever!
Karellen: Oh nonsense, you littlest assblister. Everyone knows that Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked blew that first one out of the water. It gets an 8.3 on Internet Movie Database!
Plot Summary of Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked, from Internet Movie Database: A 14-year-old boy named Rudy (Sean Astin) is trying desperatly to lose his virginity. His neighbor, the divorced Petulia (Cloris Leachman) invites him over and they watch a porno film called “E.A.T. M.E.: The Sextra-Terestrial” starring Roxanne Du Jour (Shelley Winters). When the movie is turned off, they discover on the news that the famous porn star has died. Meanwhile in Heaven, Roxanne must become an angel by commiting one good deed. She decides to help young Rudy lose his virginity. It just so happens that Rudy has a crush on the sister of the town bully, Mean Gene (John Travolta). Only Petulia can make it all turn out all right!
The Baby Jesus: Leave it to O’Brien to give me a DVD without checking to see whether we actually had a DVD player. How useless was that, The Littlest Overtard? But I forgive you. And I’m letting Joseph wear the disc around the house on top of his head, since he gets bummed out sometimes that me and Moms have halos, and he doesn’t.
The Sad Trombone: Womp! Womp! Womp! Wommmmmmmmmmp!
There’s an explanation for why we exist in the form we do, and I know what it is.
We are all about moving little pieces of the ocean from one place to the other. That’s all we are: sacks of seawater that can convert solar energy into locomotive force, so that we can move our little pieces of the ocean around. Unlike most seawater sacks, though, we are conscious of our selves, and this consciousness leads us to question our primary universal role as movers of hydrogen, oxygen, salts and minerals.
Consciousness is an electrochemical process that our particular strain of seawater sacks have evolved. No better or worse or different than a tail, a gall bladder, or an appendix. Because we don’t understand how this electrochemical process works, we use the very same electrochemical process to create mystical, non-biological explanations for its workings.
The lizard brain buried underneath our consciousness tells it that it must survive and endure at all costs. That’s why we use our electrochemical processes to seek patterns and practices designed to make said processes part of a larger cosmos and eternal. But the electrochemical processes are not part of a larger cosmos, nor are they eternal. Only the seawater’s constituents elements may lay claim to such status, so if we believe in a heaven for humanity, then we also must believe in a heaven for creeks and lakes.
When our sacks of seawater can no longer turn solar energy into locomotive force, they become useless in life’s order, and our electrochemical processes stop, so that the atoms and molecules driving them can be dispersed to build other sacks of seawater.
Seawater will continue to organize itself into sacks that then break up and decay until such time as the universe implodes in the big collapse. There’s no meaning to any of it, it just is. So the best thing to do while your sack of seawater is conscious is to find all the things that produce the chemical process inside your seawater that we label as “happiness,”, and do as many of those things as you can.
And then you need to die, and let some other sack have your seawater.
Some may despair at these thoughts, but what’s wrong with being a sack of seawater, really? A sack that can organize and carry itself around, perceive the world and all things in it, experience electrochemical processes that make it feel good or bad, reproduce itself, control and manipulate other sacks of seawater, and (when it is no longer able to locomote seawater from place to place) break itself down so that other sacks of seawater can use its atoms and molecules, for as long as the universe exists? The sheer science of this equation guarantees immortality in far more meaningful ways than any metaphysical religion yet crafted by any seawater sack can offer.
And such science will explain everything that requires explaining, eventually, but we conscious sacks of seawater have only been dabbling in science for a few thousand years, so it’ll take another million or so, at least, before we (or the other forms of conscious seawater sacks that follow us) have even a tiny portion of all the answers. I don’t doubt at all that other forms of mobile chemistry sets have developed consciousness, figured out all the answers, became one with the Universe at the most molecular of levels, and then were extinguished when their stars blew up and turned their planets to cinders, shattering the very bonds between their seawater’s elements, sending them on lonely voyages across the Universe, where, in time, they will re-bond with other sundered atoms, and be assimilated into other seawater sacks.
And I also don’t doubt that those fully actualized, now extinguished seawater sack cultures came to understand their place in the Universe via science, not metaphysics. If knowledge is a measurable product, then the path to knowledge is clear. How much more do we Earth-bound seawater sacks know about science now than we did in 1000 AD? Countless orders of magnitude more. And then how much more do we know about this construct that our chemicals have concocted called “God” after a Millennium? Not one, single iota.
Scientific knowledge grows exponentially, so at some point in the distant future, our particular form of seawater sacks will know everything there is to know, or will be close enough to knowing everything there is to know as to make the distinction immaterial. And when that time comes, we won’t know any more about “God” than we know today.
So I think we’re just conscious seawater sacks, but I don’t then leap from there to “existential meaninglessness.” Of all the organisms evolved to move seawater around, we’re the only ones on our little rock of a planet (that we know of) who have developed electrochemical processes that allow us to wonder what it means to move seawater around. That’s pretty special. It doesn’t need to have any “meaning” or “purpose,” it just is.
I don’t think I’m going to be carrying any metaphysical seawater around any metaphysical heaven or hell when my sack breaks down and releases all its atoms, so I figure I should use every bit of the consciousness I’ve evolved, here and now, to enjoy my fleeting moment in the Sun. This is not to say that I’ve a problem with other sacks of seawater whose enjoyment of their fleeting moments in the Sun involves the belief in something different. If such chemical processes provide joy or comfort (or at least the chemical processes that cause their seawater to experience such sensations), then such is their right, and who am I to force my chemistry upon them?
I take joy and comfort from just being conscious, though, and consider that scientifically miraculous enough.