Return of the Original Best Thing Ever

Nuffy Noe here. Glad to re-make your acquaintance, all you internet lurkers. I have been gone for many a moon, trying to make it in Hollywood. It's a tough business, I tell you, tough as a plate of over-fried hog jowls. I did everything I could think to do to be noticed. You see, I wrote a screenplay, and, I have to be honest, it's the best screenplay you've ever heard about in your short, miserable life. I consider it The Great American Screenplay. If Mark Twain were alive, I don't doubt for two microseconds that he would personally endorse this screenplay and love me for it.

The trick is, I can't get anyone to read it. I put it in Danny Devito's mailbox, but he just marked it Return to Sender and dumped it in the gutter. I snuck it through a crack in David Hasselhoff's car window, but he deliberately poured coffee on it, ripped it up into little soggy pieces, put it in a plastic bag, and tossed it into the sedimentation tank at the Orange County Sewage Treatment Plant. It took a long session with a hair dryer and a whole lot of scotch tape to put the thing back together (yes, yes, I only have one copy. Kinko's is expensive when you work at the Fatburger). My final plan was to throw the script right into the big, pasty face of Bob Saget, and I hit him good, too. Blood and snot spewed in all directions like the Fountain of Styx. Unfortunately, it was only a Bob Saget impersonator working for tips on Hollywood Boulevard, and after I hit him, he chased me for five blocks, screaming, cursing and making these strange mewling noises. Fortunately, he had a gimp leg and couldn't catch me.

So where does that leave me? On the D-List, at least. Possibly the E-List. But I haven't given up. You, Dear Readers, are my next plan. I will post a delicious morsel of my screenplay right here on this blog in the hopes that one of you has "connections" to the people who can green light this Next Best Thing. Here is the Oscar Moment:

Dooter's Revelation -- Scene 23

EXT. FANCY NIGHTCLUB -- NIGHT

Dooter is straddling his bike, a cherry red Multistrada 1200, in the parking lot of Floppy's Night Sweat Club and Grill, smoking a Swisher Sweet cigarillo. He is complex, sweaty, turgid, with floppy hair dangling in vast curly stalks down in his face. Muncy, his fine example of a lady, stands nearby, one high heel shoe held in her hand.

MUNCY -- I wish you'd quit smokin' that murder stick and love me the way a real man is supposed to love a real woman.

DOOTER -- Cain't, Muncy. Gotta think 'bout killin' a man.

MUNCY -- You ain't gone kill my step-brother, is you? He never meant no harm, Dooter. Now, you know he needed that money. He's dyin' of rabies, and you never gave him no never mind.

DOOTER -- He burnt m'dog. I don't permit no man to burn m'dog and walk this earth. I'm gonna put him down the way Jonas Salk put down polio.

MUNCY -- How dare you talk about polio when you knowed it done ruint my mama.

Muncy throws the shoe at Dooter. It puts his eye out. He screams and collapses to the gravel.

DOOTER - Muncy! You took my good eye! I can't see the world no more. I'm falling.

MUNCY -- I've loved you since you first picked them scabs. I've loved you like the lightning loves the wet old earth.

DOOTER -- I ain't able to love, not after the surgery.

MUNCY steals his bike and leaves him forever. Dooter raises his hands to the sky as it starts to rain. The rain falls on his face and slicks his hair back against his skull like a burial cloth.

DOOTER -- Curse of the night! Oh, father, that you taught me the ways of hate! Oh, mother, that you never called me by name! I will never love again!

DOOTER dies.

End

I really don't know how a screenplay could be better than that. That one scene contains everything you'd want in a movie: pathos, drama, tension, dialogic reasoning, love, glory and human pain. Please make it a reality for me, People with Connections. I will never not be grateful! Never not.