[LOBO]
Okay. I’m sick.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.
I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.
Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:
“What?” says Ethan.
“I'b sick”.
“Dude. It’s noon.”
[pause]
“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.
“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."
“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“
[dial tone]
12:16 pm
To: Ethan
Re: “Plan 9” script
Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.
Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.
And then I go fight some aliens.
The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.
Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.
I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?
LOBO
