You mess with Harpo Marx, you get the horns.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

The Torfivious Mr. Spock

The Star Trek remake is progressing just like a big old satchel full of greased-up clockwork. They are already in the looping stage, I understand (this is when unnecessary vocal tracks are laid down again and again), and will soon complete costumes and set building. Yes, they have chosen to do the looping first, prior to actual filming, and, as you will hear from the clip, Mark Northover is clashing a bit with the director of the film over the spoken intro to the film. Oh well, such clashes happen.

Caldenfold Foith, chief effects supervisor for Industrial Light and Magic, is hard at work making the latex torso and hips that will be used for Mark Northover as he protrays the lower half of Mr. Spock. There are some radical new designs for the look of Mr. Spock: the handsome Mr. Spock, the special Mr. Spock, the diff'rent Mr. Spock, and the gorgeous Mr. Spock. Which one they choose remains to be seen. Mark Northover, being a Method Actor in the mode of Jim Varney, is studying for his role as the lower half of Mr. Spock by following around a professional model's lower half for six months, learning to emulate her mannerisms and way of talking.

Meanwhile, Warwick Davis, secluded in his mountainside cabin, is hard at work learning to operate the robotic arm attachments that will portray most of Mr. Spock's arms. Rumor has it that the arms have gained sentience and are currently battling Warwick Davis for control of his everlasting soul, but this remains speculative at the moment. Since Mr. Spock speaks mostly with electronic beeps and bloops throughout the film and has, at most, three lines of spoken dialogue (rumored to be, 1. "Jim, my Pon Faar is affecting my pants." 2. "Logic makes my Pon Faar go all crazy like." 3. "My arms are trying to kill me with their evil sentience. Please stop filming and save my life."), Warwick has few lines to memorize, so he can spend the bulk of his time fending off the evil attacks of the self-aware robot arms.

As of yesterday at noon, the working title for the new movie was Star Trek One: Mark Northover's Infinite Voyages Throughout the Anamolous Locations of the Moiety, but that is subject to change. I will bring you more information as soon as I can steal it from George Lucas's briefcases.

Friday, June 30, 2006

World Cup Fever Resumes... Argentina is playing Germnay as I write this. All right, it's the half, for those of you playing Mr. Spock at home.

Later, Italy will attempt to dive...erm, play their way past the surprising Ukrainians. Of course, how "surprising" can the Ukrainians be when they've got Andriy Shevchenko in the side? The lad is a spectacularly lethal striker.

Tomorrow, I will be go spare watching England play Portugal. Will Beckham score again? Will Rooney score at all? Will Lampard put a shot on goal? Will Theo Walcott be asked to fetch Sven Goran Eriksson biscuits and tea, since he hasn't been asked to do anything else? Maybe Sven is waiting for the latter stages of the tournament to bring him on like Pele in '58?

Also, Brasil and France play in what may be a classic. There'll be more flair on the pitch than at a Duran Duran concert.

I have the fever, and I love it!

I still intend to post on Stew's Frappucino addiction though. An intervention is long overdue.

Update: I'm battling a cold/possible sinus infection, so it will probably be later before I can truly lambast Stew... I mean help Stew free himself from his devastating caffiene and sugar addiction.

Yet Another Update: I'm watching the Italy versus Ukraine match on Yahoo!'s Match Tracker. Besides the usual creeping subconscious feeling that Yahoo wants me to enslave myself to their Machiavellian plans to conquer the Internet (which runs counter to DOUI's purely noble and altruistic campaign to conquer the Internet), I've noticed one other strange thing: Ukraine has seven blokes named "Andriy" on their team.

Somewhere in China, some gent named Wang is reading this and thinking to himself, "Weird."

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Earl Fando is Tom Baker...

Or so says the "What Dr. Who Are You?" Quiz. My penchant for scarves and invective must have been the clinchers. My hair gets a bit who-ish when long as well. Mrs. Fando still refers to my "having an afro" when she first met me. Before I forget, my mother-in-law also happens to own a TARDIS, but it's not very impressive as a time machine.

I predict the following:

  • Stew is the Fifth Doctor (Peter Davison) based on the fact that he is tall, frequently wears trainers, and also wears a sprig of celery (albeit not on his lapel...enough said!)
  • Nuffy is the Second Doctor (Patrick Troughton) in that he played a character that was killed by Damien in the Omen II as well. You have to look really, really fast. Or, they might have cut that out. I can't remember. Also, he plays the recorder... the tape recorder.
  • Zimpter is the Eighth Doctor (Paul McCann) in that he was here a very short time and then vanished.
  • Jorge Carlito Viejo is the Seventh Doctor (Sylvester McCoy) in that he is vaguely Latin... I mean Scottish. Actually Sylvester McCoy is very Scottish. It can't be helped, you know.

Allow me to correct a typo above. My mother-in-law in fact owns a Ford TAURUS. That does explain why it looks like a car.

Live Long, and Remake

World Cup Fever continues to infect people worldwide, as evidenced by this Swedish nutter with a paintbrush and a subconscious need for extended marital counseling. However, as there are no matches today, I thought I'd step out of my football-induced reverie to address Nuffy's post.

Utter crap.

No, not the Star Trek remake, or even the choice of Mark Northover to "Star" as Captain James Tiberius Rudolphus Anita Kirk. No, I'm referring to the idea that Northover and Warwick Davis could play Spock by standing on one another's shoulders.

First of all, they'd need mechnical arms to account for the fact that Spock occasionally needs to press the doo-hickeys on the Science control panel of the bridge to make it look like he's doing something highly complicated, enhanced as always by impressively mechnical sound effects left over from Forbidden Planet. Davis and Northover could barely reach the first row of buttons without toppling over like Scotty after a full Robert Burns' Day of Glenfiddich swilling.

Such arms would be a dead giveaway the moment the ship started shaking as a result of a Romulan cloaked assualt, Klingon death ray, or Scotty playing the bagpipes with his arse after the above said holiday.

Second, with such little legs, Spock would be walking around like a thinly-clad, pointy-eared geisha.

Finally, neither Davis or Northover have the quiet resolve as actors to maintain the cool, logical, emotionless passivity of Spock. You'd need someone with an astronomically high dullness quotient to pull that off, meaning you'd have to hire a politician or accountant. I recommend John Kerry or Bill Frist, provided that watching them drone around the bridge of the Enterprise doesn't put the entire audience into the boredom equivalent of a tequila coma. Al Gore could do it as well, except that he'd be constantly complaining about the effects of the matter-anti-matter drive on "interstellar warming."

So, just who should take on these legendary and ridiculous roles. Matt Damon seems to be the lead candidate for Kirk, but Damon is too young-looking, too short, and too good an actor for the part. I would suggest Russell Crowe, who brings the talent, the hint-of-arrogance and petulance, the phone-throwing, and the ability to look at a woman in a way that would get 99% of men on the planet slapped with a permanent restraining order. He's Shatner with more talent, and therein lies the problem with him in the role.

If one could create a combined clone with the brutal he-manliness of Crowe, the odd and seemingly contrived cadence of Christopher Walken, and the clumsy, almost drunken fighting prowness of Sean Penn, then you'd have something.

Since that remains beyond current science though, we shall have to resort to stunt casting for cheap laughs.

So, here are my own casting suggestions for the new Star Trek. My selections would not only generate an enormous amount of buzz for the film, but would also give good actors a chance to put their own spin on this venerable (Meaning: "as if inflicted with venereal disease") institution:

  • James T. Kirk - Phillip Seymour Hoffman - He's talented, unorthodox, and he could do the Capote voice for the big speeches. No one can compete with Shatner's version, so let's make a new Kirk! ...A freaky Kirk!
  • Mr. Spock - Rowan Atkinson - What if Vulcans were not only highly logical, but also incredibly snide and insulting? Also, the whole Pon Farr experience would be great as a Mr. Bean episode.
  • Leonard "Bones" McCoy - Triumph the Comic Insult Dog - The cigar! The one-liners! The barely able to contain his laughing! "Spock! You are a cold, unfeeling, computer of a man... for me to poop on!!" Triumph is McCoy!!
  • Lt. Uhura - Halle Berry - OK, there's really no joke here. Uhura has to be one spectacular bird, and Berry is the best choice around. If Dorothy Dandridge were around, she'd be my pick for the role. I also recommend writing in a fight scene between Uhura and that green, dancing woman, as played by Cameron Diaz.
  • Lt. James Montgomery "Scotty" Scott - Tracey Ullman - Billy Connolly, Alan Cumming, or Ewen McGregor would be too obvious. Ullman can do the accent, play a barely sober man to a tee, and also give a strange androgynous quality to the lines, "I canna get the power, Captain!" and "If we don't shut down now, Captain, the engines are gonna blow!"
  • Lt. Sulu - Jet Li - Jackie Chan is too old for the role, but "Jet" who apparently had a Paul McCartney song written about him, is dynamic, athletic, and really in need of a big-time Hollywood film on his resume. He would give the whole shirtless, flailing about with a sword routine a bristling kung fu edge. Also, he could break through malfunctioning Enterprise doors with his bare hands.
  • Lt. Pavel Chekov - Samuel Jackson - Sam would turn Chekov from a bowl-haircut, Monkees-wannabe, into a tough, even completely vicious navigator with a heart of gold. As a bonus, gunplay would be almost automatic, and think of the dialogue with Kirk -
    Kirk: "Chekov, set a course for Antares 7." Chekov: "#$%& you,
    Captain. I'm getting pretty
    sick of all your %$#@!#$!!! 'Do
    this Chekov!!!' 'Set a
    &^%$-ing course Chekov!!' I oughta put a
    cap in your $%# right now
    and let my man Spock run this $#@%-ing ship
    One downside: Screenwriters are tempted to make way too many "Black Russian" jokes.
  • Nurse Chapel - Cameron Diaz - Sorry, just bumping up the site hits.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Five Times the Shatner

Ever since Mark Northover got exiled from Hollywood for breaking the Hays' Code with his nude gymnastics in the movie Shawshank Redemption 2: Electric Shankaloo, the American motion picture industry has become a cesspool of disgusting wastrels and sickening filth. And as if that weren't hyperbole enough, every motion picture released since Mark Northover's last movie in 1998 has been an embarrassment to humanity and suitable only for being strapped to a Saturn V rocket and launched into the sun.

All that is about to change, however, for Hollywood is about to redeem itself by recycling into the public eye that which has been our only remaining hope. Yes, they are bringing back Star Trek. Not just another goofball spin-off of Star Trek with silvery moon freaks on a rocket to Moon City USA. No! We're talking about a bona fide remake of the original purest Star Trek, the sacred journey of Captain James Tenderliciousmouth Kirk and his Pon Faar adventures in the Mulvonian quadrant of the universe.

Even more exciting, of course, is the news that they have cast none other than torfivious Mark Northover in the role of Captain Kirk, and they have cast limanorbunago Warwick Davis-sitting-on-Mark-Northover's-shoulders-wearing-a-long-robe in the part of Mr. Spock. This is destined to be a modern day classic. There are also rumors flying around that the part of Dr. McCoy, the surly old crankpot alcoholic with a heart of silver, will be portrayed by a young British gentlemen named Mr. Mark Northover, and that the part of Hikaru Sulu will be played by none other than Mark Northover. Other roles have yet to be cast, but whispers in the tabloids suggest a person named Mark Northover is a shoe-in for the parts of Mr. Chekov and Ndege Uhura Ochelo.

Plot details are lacking at the moment, but I snuck a peek at the super-secret first draft of the screenplay while sharing a toilet stall with Mr. George Lucas during a recent crowded evening at the Stoikenkeyk Pancake Hut in Rowland Heights. Here is what I saw:


James Kirk -- Spock! Get us out of here or we'll explode up dead!

Mr. Spock -- I cannot activate the Escape Lever, Captain. My Pon Faar is acting up!

James Kirk -- There is no time for Pon Faar, Mr. Spock! The Deliberation Tube is approaching through the voids of time! We have ten seconds to live!

Mr. Spock -- Then Ndege Uhura will have to take care of it, Jim. I am busy with my Pon Faar.

James Kirk -- Uhura! Press the Live Button or we won't live! Hurry, succeed and there's a sweet sweet mouth kiss waiting for you in episode 2!

Uhura -- Sorry, Captain, I, too, am in the midst of Pon Faar.

James Kirk -- This is Khan's doing! KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

The Enterprise enters the Deliberation Tube and is sundered by anomolies!

Whoa! That's powerful stuff. Mark Northover is destined to remake cinematic history with that one. Hurry, Mark Northover, save Hollywood! Save motion pictures! Save Pon Faar! Now is the time.

Improving Language for All Humanity

My coining of the now-ubiquitous adjective "torfivious" has inspired me to go ahead and create a whole new language. Now, I know this has been done before. When Markthrough McBarty invented Esparanto in 1923, he hoped to create one universal language that would replace all the regional dialects of the earth, thereby ushering in a new era of Tower of Babel building and earth-searing judgment from Heaven. Fortunately for one and all, he failed, failing so utterly that he was disowned by his family and exiled from his home country of Moldavia, forced to live on a small island in the south central Atlantic and subsist on a diet of coconuts and camel bowels.

In order not to repeat his embarrassing and legendary failure, I will not do as he did, writing up a whole pretend grammar book and dictionary of pseudo-words and foisting them upon a frail and whimpering public of literature-eschewing cake eaters. Instead, following the path of Five Times Betterness that I have both invented and perfected, I will introduce my new language gradually and effervescently, one word at a time.

Therefore, today's word is "Limarnorbunago." Yes, li-mar-NOR-bu-NA-go. Roughly it is translated, "Like Mark Northover but Not as Good" but could also be translated "Similar to Mark Northover in many ways, but certainly not as good as that torfivious individual." I think this new adjective will be appropriate for any and all situations dealing with one or more of the following 1) mediocrity, 2) simpletonism, 3) less-than-Five-Times-betterness, 4) disgraceful ineffectualness, 5) bland goodness, 6) non-excellence, 7) odors.

So, there we go, my fine and upstanding readers. The language of Nuffy Noe has begun. Already the glossary contains two words. Here, then, is the entire glossary of Nuffy Noe language, so you can memorize it and begin to replace your local dialects with it.

Limarnorbunago -- li-mar-NOR-bu-NA-go -- adj. -- 1) Like Mark Northover but not as good, 2) Possessing a very limited number of Mark Northoverish qualities but in lesser fashion than Mark Northover himself, 3) not being very good in comparison to Mr. Mark Northover, 4) having one too many unpleasant odors emanating from the mouth region.

Torfivious -- tor-FIV-i-us -- adj -- 1) being Five Times the genius and actor of so-called normal human beings, 2) the quality of actually being Mark Northover himself, 3) being someone other than not-Mark Northover

I thank you in advance for peppering your everyday speech with these two words.

Monday, June 26, 2006

And he's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone....

It's all over the news today. No, it's not the latest World Cup action or an A&E documentary of the torfivious Mark Northover as my colleagues here would have you believe. It is the story of a misunderstood bear and the German bloodlust that has led to his untimely demise. I am speaking of Bruno the Bear, who was only doing what bears do, only I guess he decided to do it in the wrong country.

I assume looting beehives is tantamount to murder in good old Deutchland these days so why don't we go around gunning down raccoons, maybe Ranger Rick oughta' keep one of those beady eyes looking over his shoulder. I don't say this to belittle the German people who have a wonderful heritage (except for a few years in the thirties and forties) of being tolerant and understanding. But to gun down a defenseless bear, who just wanted a few honey-glazed bovines is just going too far in my book.

When things like this occur many times we feel helpless to do anything. I thought of starting a fund to maybe buy some flowers for the funeral until I heard he was just loaded into a large sack and dumped in a landfill. Then I thought maybe we could protest in front of the Reichstag but I learned it had been burned down in 1933. I have decided to do two things: first I will give you a brief timeline of Bruno's life which will help us to understand the misunderstood bear who as Joern Ehlers so eloquently put it, "found his way into our hearts", and secondly I would like to present a performance art piece I have written called "Die Bear ist Kaput, and so is my Heart".

Bruno's Timeline

Apr. 27, 2004 - Bruno is born to Helga and Heinz Beare of 27 Einhoven Stasse.

Sept. 22, 2004 - Bruno says his first word, which coincidentally was also his last word, "Sausage".

Feb. 15, 2005 - Bruno sniffs his butt. (While we're still not sure why, it was pretty apparent that it meant very much to him.)

Jun. 21, 2005 - Bruno begins dating Paris Hilton and is seen as a "bear on the rise" in Hollywood circles.

Aug. 8, 2005 - Bruno and Paris break up sending Bruno into a spiral of drugs, booze, illegal honey substitutes, and gangsta rap. Bruno begins calling himself DJ Bruno B and is often seen in the company of Flavor Flav and Verne Troyer.

Sept. 5, 2005 - Suge Knight signs Bruno to an exclusive production deal but the bear disappears and isn't seen again until his untimely death.

Jun. 25, 2006 - Bruno is discovered by "hunters" who gun him down.

Die Bear ist Kaput, and so is My Heart

(staccato violin music similar to the music from Psycho is heard as William Shatner enters in lederhosen and Klingon make-up)

Shatner: (almost yelling) A..... shot was fi-red. The bear is dead. (with maximum delay and reverb) He's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

(Mark Northover enters dressed as a bee and runs around the stage making a buzzing sound until Robin Williams enters with his shirt off.)

Williams: Whoa, it's like Andy Warhol on crack. (William's kicks Northover in the groin and begins to do a River Dance routine around the collapsed dwarf)

(US soccer team coach Bruce Arena enters dressed as Adolf Hitler)

Arena: There was no other solution. Rabbits are also deserving of sympathy. (Arena is about to salute when US team captain Claudio Reyna slide tackles him with the studs up.)

Wait a minute. Now I'm thinking this was just a dream I had last night. Earl, Nuffy!!!!!!!!! I'm blaming you for this.

Referees, FIFA, Blatter: Crap, Crap, Crap

I wasn't able to see the game itself, having to rely on Yahoo!'s peculiar Match Tracker (whereby a solitary computer geek provides a running update of the match, interspersing his commentary with droll asides as to how Yahoo! should rule the world because of their wonderful World Cup coverage... well, that's how it feels, anyway), but I fully expect to tune into Fox Soccer Channel this evening and watch Italian defender Fabio Grosso tumble to earth like William Shatner in a Star Trek fight.

The diving has been abyssmal at this World Cup. For non-football fans, diving is when grown men fall down the moment a member of the opposition gets within shouting distance of them, flailing their arms like little girls, and screaming in Mediterranian falsetto for the referee to pull out a red card or give a penalty so their team can get the goal that otherwise has eluded them for 90 minutes. Despite their great skill at football, the Italians (along with the Portugese and Argentinians) are masters of this emmasculated art, frequently going down at the slighest touch with as much bravado and noise as their formidable goal celebrations. Eddie Pope of the U.S. got one of his two yellow cards against Italy when, whilst running alongside an Italian player, he was pulled down on top of him by his own jersey. The official, a Uruguayian who apparently has extraordinary vision problems, immediately pulled a yellow card out to punish Pope for his daring to allow himself to be pulled down on top of another player.

Frequently divers will trip themselves up on their own feet so that the falling will seem more natural and less like the demise of the bad guys in a Steven Segall film. All of this acting, this wild gesticulation, is in order to gain an unfair result against the opposition, and also to cover up for the fact that the player apt to do this sort of thing is distinguished by his lack of a penis or testicles of any sort.

On top of these dishonest dramatics, the officiating has been extremely foul. The referee in the South Korea vs. Switzerland match overruled an offsides call by his linesman because the ball happen to carom off a South Korean player, which in the rulebook is a meaningless dinstinction, but in the mind of a World Cup official who is plainly out of his gourd is of infintesimal importance.

In the U.S. vs. Ghana match, the German official, a full-time dentist who should drop the refereeing gig and return to inflicting needless pain on children and pensioners, and who was apparently voted "Best Referee in the World" twice by his colleagues (obviously at two drunken officiating conventions), gave a penalty in injury time of the first half when American defender Oguchi Oneywu won a 50/50 ball by virtue of his height and strength. The only fouls on the play was the German dentist's judgement, positioning, and attitude, all of which were excreable. By consensus amongst the sporting press, Onyewu's only offense was to be considerably larger than the Ghanian attacker, who wouldn't have won the ball if he was being covered by Danny DeVito.

Getting back to today's travesty, the penalty the Italians won was given in the 5th minute of injury time. This is of course, after the referee indicated that there would be 3 minutes of injury time. I suppose his watch was slow.

So, the officials have been incompetent, criminally negligent, and pretty much out and out wankers, pulling cards out and giving penalties just about anytime a match threatened to turn interesting, ruining several matches by needlessly expelling players for what, in any other league in the world would be yellow card offenses at most (the deliberate elbow by an Italian on Brian McBride being the notable exception, as even the Italians conceded).

However, to be fair, the real blame lies with FIFA, the organizing body for the world's biggest sporting event. Right before the start of the tournament, FIFA does what it always likes to do... No, no, not prolifigately waste money on alcohol and women of dubious professions, but rather to totally change the expectations of the officials and players by declaring they are "going to clamp down on [insert meaningless topic here]."

In this case, they claimed they would clamp down on fouling. Their strategy was to insist that referees ignore the way in which they have officiated the last four years, much less 4 decades, and instead give out yellow cards quickly for offenses that normally would have only received verbal warnings or in many cases (I'm thinking of the English Premiere League) been ignored by everyone, including the players involved. On top of this, they implemented rules against time-wasting by giving players yellow cards for kicking away the ball after it went out of play or taking too long to put a ball back in play. This strategy, which has seen numerous players rendered ineligible for matches in football's premier event, was deemed much preferable to the silly, practical alternative of adding more time to the match.

The result is that we have a World Cup that, despite some brilliant goals and play, has been tainted, if not ruined, by heavy-handed officiating. So, what does FIFA Executive President Sepp Blatter do to rectify this? He holds a press conference excoriating the officials for handing out so many cards.

Let's rephrase that a little to make it clearer. Sepp Blatter held a press conference to loudly and publically criticise match officials for doing exactly what Blatter and his other FIFA executives, the stupid, hypocritical bastards, told them to do. Blatter even went so far as to follow it up with another press conference, after the disasterously officiated Portugal vs. Holland match, to suggest that the Russian official presiding should have gotten a "yellow card." After Blatter's comments, there was much chortling and rattle of Brandy snifters around.

Will someone please give Mr. Blatter a red card and see this charlatan off for good? Then, maybe he can move from ruining the world's greatest sport, interfering with the national leagues, and distorting the offsides rule to the point where it is almost unenforcable, to his real passion of getting women's players to wear hot pants in the matches.

As horriblly sexist as that Blatter suggestion was, at least it wouldn't spoil the play.

Five Times the Torfivius

Well, I know I did not post much last week, and for that I feel a disgusted sort of stomach-sickness. Please understand, devoted readers of the Dictionary, that I was polishing the final draft of my Mark Northover screenplay. Yes, Mark Northover, our torfivious star of stage and screen! Things have changed since the first draft of the script, some of which I posted here previously. In particular, the original name of Mark Northover's character repulsed certain persons, though I can't for the life of me figure out why. I have changed it in the final draft to be more sensitive to the pansy-like wimpiness of weak persons.

Neverthemore, without further ado, here is a delicious sample of my upcoming Mark Northover smash hit, future Oscar contender, and heir to the throne of such hits as Amadeus and Stank: the Musical.

Edging Towards the Midnight Moisture Adventures
Nuffy Noe


Salisbury Femininenapkinmaker and his trusty sidekick, Shoots McKills, enter the dank, dark, festering, smoke-laden showroom of the evil pumpkin factory, guns drawn.

Salisbury -- Remember, Shoots McKills, shoots first and mckills later.

Shoots -- I wish I could see over all these pumpkins. They are sort of blocking my line of sight. Being a fan of pumpkin pie and pumpkin-liver sausages, I would consider eating these pumpkins to get them out of the way, but I see that they are, in fact, hollowed out pumpkins full of elephant excrement.

Salisbury -- Just start shooting as soon as the you hear the klaxon which signals the missile launch.

Shoots -- I hear it! I hear it!

Shoots begins shooting in all directions, blasting pumpkins to pieces and filling Salisbury so full of lead that he poisons the earth's water supply when he slams to the fetid ground with a thud. When the smoke clears and the bullets are all spent, Shoots holsters his weapons and wipes two inches of grimy sweat-filth from his forehead.

Shoots -- Dang, I don't think I did hear that klaxon after all. Sorry, Salisbury. I'll buy you a new existence when I can get back to the Laboratory. And possibly a seven-layer burrito with extra mayonnaise.

Salisbury -- Too bad for you I am a robot. And I am not of this earth. And I am immortal. And I cannot be killed. *HISS*

Salisbury rises from the ground and stomps on Shoots McKills with his iron alien-robot foot, crushing him into the ground. It turns out Shoots McKills is actually a pile of melted golf club rubber handles, brought to evil life by a wicked sorcerer from the pits of moldiest Europe. The rubber splatters all over the ground beneath the iron boot.

Salisbury -- Now, it is time for the special dance.

Salisbury begins to have a toe-tapping good time in the pumpkin factory. Fade to pink.

Anyway, that is the very last scene of the movie, and, as you can see, it will save America from moral bakruptcy. Thank you. That is all.