The Best Laid Mice of Plans and Men
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
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