Sleeping Dogs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, Steven Spielberg has officially rejected my screenplay "Schindler's Full Black Down Metal Hawk Jacket": it came back in the mail today with a rejection letter smelling suspiciously like urine.

It would appear I have only one hope left for getting a movie made, and I’m banking all Terri's money on my secret weapon: The Scalding.

It’s an epic two page script about a buxom hot chick relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.

You should see the poster!


***

On the first day of shooting, the cast and crew effusively greeted me as I arrived on the set.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist V." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."

"Oooh, goodie!" I says. "The part where the waffle iron spawns a second head?"

"Yes."

“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”

Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.

LBSCC#1 screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosoms. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her stiletto heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.

“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”

A tiny plastic model airplane –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.

"Hey!" I whisper to the producer. "That's supposed to be a stealth bomber!"

"Well to be fair sir," the producer says quietly. "How many kitchens have picture windows overlooking military airport runways?"

“There he is!”, exclaims LBSCC#1, pointing at the hero on a motorcycle. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!” As she crosses off-screen, the click click click of her heels diminish audibly from the plastic microphone.

"Well," I concede. "She does have large breasts and is scantily clad."

Suddenly the airplane’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air and the two unlikely objects collide solidly. Both burst into flames, and -fishing line burned away- they fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.

“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”

“What exactly is the budget for this production?” I ask.

“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”

“Can’t any of you guys work with a budget?” I complain. “With six bucks, I’m funding the Predator Press Space Program, the Topless Holistic Online Medicine and Cancer Research Institute, and the LOBO Foundation for Sickly, Dying, Hungry-Yet-Hard-Working Orphans with Gambling Problems!”

"I'll pay you that $50 Friday, sir," he says. "But please don't put me back in the Space Program!"

"It's not my fault you bet on the Lakers with only a six point spread."