Will Franken-Diary Archive

A few weeks before that, I put some angry tirade up about how some people got upset at a show over some things that I said and they scowled at me. It was the first time that instead of receiving a condescending "good luck with it" or a sincerely appreciative reception--I got scowls and disapproving shaking heads. I thought they were wrong. I said something in the blog about where does one draw the line in comedy. Every day, comedians get up on the microphone and talk about anal sex and prison gang rape and that's somehow socially acceptable. So what makes a certain topic off limits? I dissected the argument--but then my friend Jeff called from Missouri and said I sounded like an asshole or something or other--and I took it off. I respect Jeff's advice.

The show on April 20th was the high point of my career to date. That's about all I can say at the moment. The crowd, as eclectic an age and economic range as you can get, were with me every single step of the way. Ninety percent of the show was completely untested material and it went over like gangbusters. For an hour and twenty minutes, and for days afterwards, I knew exactly why I wanted to do this for a living.

Usually during a longer show, I'll have this switch of self-esteem that usually happens right around the halfway point. It's like peaking on acid. As you climb up, you think "They love me. This is great." and then at the halfway point,you think "They're just pretending to like me. They really hate me." Even though my body is performing, even though I might be killing, my inner neuroses are so loud that I can't enjoy it even if it is going well.

But on 4/20, I only climbed up and up and up until I thought I was going to burst through the ceiling separating earth from the heavens. I feel reborn. I feel this is only the beginning.

I told everybody that I thought this was my Sgt. Pepper's. But now I think it's my Revolver. Or maybe my Rubber Soul. I don't think the Sgt. Pepper's has happened yet, but it's close. . .it's very close. . .

Some high points of 4/20:

Getting a laugh at the line "Jesus reassured me by saying 'you like that big, black cock, don't you'" Something that three or four audiences before the 4/20 show had refused to laugh at either because they were a) Christians, b) white, or c) big black cocks themselves. Reminds me of an old line of mine--"I'm not going to do any of my blow job jokes tonight. Last night, I did a few blow job jokes and there were actually a few blow jobs in the audience that got pissed off and walked out."

Having a crowd hip enough to understand the irony of a birthday tribute to Hitler at the end.

Watching as the crowd actually ate the cake that had a swastika andthe words "good luck with it" on it.

Having a crowd smart enough to laugh at the line in the Scott Peterson retrial bit--"Even though the Modesto police had examined every mechanistic enlightenment philosophy concerning the case, they still did not feel it warranted a teleological argument from design in which the concept of a universal, infinite substance was examined through the paradigmatic framework of a pantheistic theology. And this is the chief of police?"

To have my wife onstage with me as "Judy" in the bit of the same name.

The list goes on. I'll never forgot that night.

AXIOMS FROM THE BOOK OF IDEALIZED BEHAVIOR

97. CONVERTED AMERICAN HINDUS/BUDDHISTS SHOULD NOT BEHAVE LIKE CHRISTIANS

Our number one religion in this country is not Christianity. Our number one religion is Proselytizing, which incorporates Christianity and any other religion that a white American Anglo-Saxon Protestant converts to from Christianity. If you have converted to Hinduism or Buddhism from Christianity, try to behave more like Hindus or Buddhists instead of Christians. For example, do not tell somebody that the problem with America is that everybody tries to shove Jesus down your throat and then lecture them on the importance of recognizing Krishna in everything. Do not make the claim that Christians try to control what you think and then pontificate on the importance of thinking in a non-linear fashion. Finally, as a recently converted Buddhist, it is also important to note that one of the initial precepts of most schools of Buddhist thought is a denunciation of the use of any and all intoxicants. So before instructing your inadvertent pupils that they need to get a copy of Siddartha so they can really understand the truth, try to avoid lighting up a bowl.

If all else fails, become a Jew.

116. MEN SHOULD NOT BEHAVE LIKE MEN!

Men, please don't behave like men. If you are in the presence of an attractive woman who is a complete and total cunt and has not a shred of decency or kindness in her, do not forgive her bitchiness and her icy exterior simply because she has a "killer body" or because you'd "fuck that shit so hard". Remember, her killer body will one day wither away--pools of silicon will seep outwards, collagen lips become deflated, the tension of botox-strained skin will gather insurmountable slack--but her bitchiness will thrive eternal if you do not say something to her now. Let her present physical state forgive nothing of her decrepit personality.

Have some self-respect, men. Do not behave like men, men. No longer gawk and holler and slide greasy bills in g-strings worn by pole dancers in neon clubs. You are masturbating to years of accumulated psychological trauma manifested in one stilleto-heeled incest survivor. Masturbate to the backs of milk cartons if your desire for ruined childhoods and personal tragedy is that insatiable. Your fantasizing has done nothing more than idealize yet another deflowered female whose current vocation was only selected because of a socially conditioned and fictitious ultimatum in which waitressing and stripping are her only choices.

152. FIND OUT IF YOUR TROUBLED SUBURBAN TEENAGER REALLY IS TROUBLED OR JUST NEEDS TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE SUBURBS

Is your child at-risk?

Is he or she constantly getting in trouble with pseudo-authorities in your whitebread and sedentary suburban community? Does your child have a hard time fitting in with the rest of what you call normal society but what he or she knows is a fraud? Is it hard for him or her to swallow the endless stream of bullshit that you feed them on a daily basis? Are their aspirations being crushed into thwarted dreams and empty hopes every time you try to instruct them on the importance of getting a good job and having a family? Have you tried to set a good example with your static life of compromise and quiet desparation? Does your child not suck your dick enough because you put the food on the goddamn table? Are you repressing their homosexuality? Did you instill enough guilt in your child during their formative years by reminding them about how many fucking sacrifices you made for them? Is sending them to some random strip-mall psychiatrist not doing the trick? Did you sit on the edge of their bed like in those cute little public service announcements and talk to them honestly and openly about drugs/abortion/teenage pregnancy/staying in school? Does your child use coasters or a napkin when setting their drinks down? Are you surprised that your child has no work ethic but can't wait to get his or her hands on some money? Does your child show any interest at all in what passes for God these days? What the fuck is wrong with your child?

Have you looked in the mirror lately?

February 15th, 1:04pm

HOW ACCURATE IS THE WEATHER IN CLEAR CHANNEL LAND?

By Kathy Sinclair, Staff Writer

In the postmodern age, meteorologists, or "weathermen", have become nouveau prophets whom we turn to for sage advice on what to expect, what to wear, and what the skies will look like for the next five days. We have come to regard their nightly prognostications as the gospel truth, divinely obtained through the gift of color-weather radar. But how much of what they say is the truth--and how much has been tainted by corporate demands? The East Bay Daily Weekly spoke to one weatherman who claims he was simply a pawn in a chess game of big business. Meteorologist Wilton Shambles is ready to blow the whistle before checkmate is called.

EBDW: When did you first decide you wanted to be a weatherman?

WS: I grew up on a farm in Nebraska and I must have been about five years old and I remember my dad pointing to a storm cloud and saying "Looks like we're gonna get a spot of rain." I guess I was trying to imitate him and I pointed my hand up to the same cloud and said "Yes, it looks like we're gonna get a spot of rain." And when I said that, it felt so true, so pure. And when it finally did rain a few days later, I remember feeling that this must be God's will for me.

EBDW: This is an independent weekly, so can you try to avoid mentioning God?

EBDW: We just try to keep a hip image, you know.

EBDW: Because we're cutting-edge. Sort of rock-n-roll indie, you know?

EBDW: I mean, you can mention God, but it has to be ironic. Or blasphemous.

EBDW: Talk a little bit about how you started off in meteorology.

WS: Well, I went about in sort of an unorthodox manner. My family didn't have the money to send me off to the fancy meteorology schools, so I pretty much started out going door to door and asking people if they wanted to know if the sun was going to shine the next day.

EBDW: What sort of reaction did you get?

WS: A lot of times, I had doors slammed in my face. People would say, "If God had wanted us to know if the sun was going to shine tomorrow, he would have made tomorrow today."

EBDW: What did I just say about God?

WS: No, I know--but that's what they would say.

EBDW: I don't want to put words in your mouth, but would you say that the reason they said that was because they were uptight right-wing religious conservatives and a legitimate threat to the sort of independent freedom of thought that something like the East Bay Daily Weekly promotes?

EBDW: Could you say that?

WS: Uh, yeah. The reason they said that was because they were uptight right-wing religious conservatives and a legitimate threat to the sort of independent freedom of thought that something like the East Bay Daily Weekly promotes.

EBDW: Excellent, my little parrot. You've done well. And then what happened?

WS: Well, I saved up enough money and moved to New York. I started doing the weather on the streets in Washington Square Park and Times Square. Eventually, I started hitting meteorology open mikes--but it was extremely difficult. You could only do three minutes of weather and you'd have to wait and wait because there would be twenty other weathermen in the line-up. And this was on a night when the station manager wasn't even there, so none of it really led anywhere. I was pretty despondent. See, the business has really changed for the worse since I started. Everybody does the weather now because they just want to get on TV. But back then, in the sixties, I think weathermen really wanted to say something about the weather. This wasn't our parents' weather. It was our weather. We didn't like the weather in Vietnam. We didn't like the weather in Washington D.C. And that's why we gathered at Woodstock in '69 for three days of weather--

EBDW: If we could skip the old hippie dinosaur rhetoric for a second and jump forward--eventually you moved to San Francisco and were hired by an independent FM station to do the weather?

WS: Yes, I worked for KPOW, a small, independently-owned radio station, around 1987. Bill Graham had booked me to open for Moby Grape in 1970 doing a psychedelic weather report. It was a great show and word of mouth got around--but very slowly. Because of the drugs back then, word of mouth was considerably slower than it is today. Nowadays, word of mouth can get all over the world in an instant with the internet, but back then, we were using these things called our mouths to start a word of mouth. That show for Bill Graham eventually got me my job at KPOW, but it took seventeen years. I think only one person told another person each year for seventeen years until David Gridlock, station manager at KPOW heard about me in 1987 and offered me the job.

EBDW: And when did Clear Channel enter the picture?

WS: In 1998, Clear Channel bought out KPOW. It was an extremely scary time, careerwise. I remember hiding in a piano when Clear Channel came in and so they didn't see me for the first week that they were there. I had to be very careful when I moved around during the day so they didn't hear me. But eventually I was discovered. They had confiscated my desk and all my pens and they ushered me outside to a waiting boxcar. I was told by one of the Clear Channel employees that one of my children would be killed and one could live, but I had to make the choice. I told him that I didn't have any children and he said that it didn't matter, I had to pretend. So I pointed to a space next to me and said that I would keep that one. And then he shot the space next to that space and I just cried and cried.

EBDW: And then what happened?

WS: I was loaded up into the boxcar with hundreds of other ex-employees of independent radio stations. We were taken by train to Palo Alto and placed in Clear Channel camps. We were all given tattoos of Yin-Yangs and Calvin and Hobbes. Our noses were pierced and our hair was dyed. All of our clothes were thrown away and we were given kitschy retro vintage thrift store clothing. And then we were told that we could come back and work for Clear Channel after we took a shower.

EBDW: Tell me about the showers.

WS: Well, they weren't the greatest showers. The water would come out lukewarm no matter how much you turned the hot faucet. There wasn't really any constant pressure and the bar of soap was just a sliver. Plus, I'm pretty tall, so I had to hunch over to wash my hair.

EBDW: So you returned to work for Clear Channel. Tell us about your first day with your new employers.

WS: I was excited to be doing the weather again, that's for sure. I came in and sat down at my desk about fifteen minutes before I was to go out over the air and that's when Bob Goebells, Minister of Propaganda for Clear Channel, came over and introduced himself.

EBDW: What did Goebells say?

WS: He said that everybody at Clear Channel was very happy to have me doing the weather for them because they knew that I was a weatherman who knew how to "play ball". At this point, I told him that I didn't really know how to play ball and that I had always been a sort of shy and awkward asthmatic child and that the guy at the sports desk might know a little bit more about playing ball. He laughed and shook his head and said, "No, I mean we know you're the sort of weatherman who will tow the company line." I was very confused at this point and so he continued on. He said that Clear Channel liked to think of itself as one big family and that this big family wants nothing better than to get along and have a good time like all families do. But sometimes, when a family member gets out of line, an uncle might rape and kill a younger member of the family. He said that I had a very pretty face, but he wouldn't want to see it on the back of a milk carton. He then pulled out a buckskin knife from a sheath and held it up to my neck and said "Gee, don't you hate it when you forget your glasses? Sometimes people end up looking like a loaf of rye bread." Then he pulled out a revolver and said, "Gosh, I hope I don't suddenly start thinking that I'm auditioning for a made for TV movie about Jessie James and you're playing a bank teller and I've accidentally switched the fake gun with a real one. That could get pretty messy." Then he pulled out a noose and draped it over my neck and said, "Oh, my pretty little Christmas present, I'll have to put a bow on you if you don't behave."

EBDW: What did you think about all this?

WS: I thought his metaphors were getting really silly. I didn't know how a Christmas present could misbehave and even if it did, why would putting a bow on it be punishment? Unless, of course, the Christmas present was a male and having a bow would appear effeminate--sort of a forced feminization thing. Maybe the other male Christmas presents would hassle him under the tree. But then again, maybe he would meet other Christmas presents who accepted him--I guess it would depend on how diverse the Christmas was--

EBDW: No, I mean, when did you start getting the feeling that you were being threatened?

WS: Oh, after he told me "I'm threatening you." Then it all made sense: the playing ball, the towing the line, the knife, the gun. Everything except the misbehaving Christmas present and the punishment bow.

EBDW: What did you do?

WS: Oh, I just explained how I found out he was threatening me and how everything except the Christmas present made sense and--

EBDW: No. Not now. What did you do then?

WS: Oh, then! Well, that was then. This is now.

EBDW: Well, pretend that then is this.

WS: Then make then this and keep this now? But what happens to this now?

EBDW: This becomes then and then becomes this.

WS: So I've already talked to you and he's threatening me now?

EBDW: No, I'm talking to you then about what's happening in this.

WS: Oh, I get it. It's like Jenga.

EBDW: What do you mean?

WS: It's like that game Jenga where you have all these wooden blocks and you try to avoid making the tower fall down.

EBDW: No, it's nothing like that.

WS: So there's no wooden blocks?

EBDW: What are you talking about?

WS: I'm trying--or wait--have you seen Jumanji? Is it about an elephant?

EBDW: I'm so confused.

WS: In Jumanji these kids try to get out of this land--

EBDW: How did we get on this?

WS: I think they made a game out of that, and it might have had one of those dice that you squeeze the bubble to get it to roll. Is it like that?

EBDW: Is what like that?

WS: The game that we're playing.

EBDW: We're not playing a game. We're doing an interview.

WS: Oh, like Osh-Kosh.

WS: Osh-Kosh. The line of children's wear.

EBDW: How is a line of children's wear like an interview?

WS: Oh, an interview! I thought you said we're doing a new fall line of children's wear.

EBDW: Okay. So what happened after Mr. Goebells from Clear Channel threatened you?

WS: Well, at this point, I asked him what he wanted from me. He was very good at threatening, but he wasn't so good at explaining why he was threatening me. As the saying goes, those who can, explain. Those who can't, threaten. So he then told me how Clear Channel has always valued the weather highly and how Clear Channel liked to think of itself as a company that provided sunshine to the world. And it was at this point that he told me how the Clear Channel administration didn't like to hear weather reports involving rain, snow, clouds, or anything other than sunshine. And that if I ever did talk about these things over the air, according to him, it could affect my job. He told me how the bosses frowned on terms like thunderstorms and low pressure fronts and other "gray" material. All of my scripts for the weather had to be submitted to a team of Clear Channel censors before broadcast and any mention of any type of weather that wasn't sunshine was stricken from the record.

EBDW: So your job was basically--

WS: --to be a corporate puppet. Every day when I went on the air, I was to report only that there has been, was, and will continue to be nothing but sunshine thanks to the good people at Clear Channel.

EBDW: And so what happened on days when there wasn't any sunshine?

WS: On the days where it would rain, hail, or even during the recent tsunami--I was forced to read the following transmission over the air: "Guten Abend mein Damen und Herren. We here at Clear Channel have recently received word that weather not of the sunshine variety has affected certain parts of the world. It is not the policy of Clear Channel to advocate any weather that is not sunshine. Rest assured that this deviant weather is more than likely the result of renegade independent radio stations who do not value sunshine with the high esteem that we here at Clear Channel do. All registered Jews must report to their local Clear Channel station to receive their identification cards and shovels before departing for Bergen-Belsen. And remember: Arbeit macht Frei. That is all."

February 10th, 7:07pm

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 55th:

Can you hop on one foot for a mile? If so, Thursday is your day. Join the Bay Area Chopper Five Team and Lisa Flipflapper as KCTV-12 embarks on the first ever One-Mile Hop For Peace. This is being done to celebrate our servicemen and women overseas who have better things to do than hop around all day. Golden Gate Park, 9am-11am.

THURSDAY, APRIL 11th:

Do you or somebody you know have or will have or somebody you know been affected by the tsunami or breast cancer? Thursday, Seekwell Productions in association with Have A Nice Nagilah Limited are presenting the first ever dual benefit for breast cancer victims and tsunami relief. For only $15-$25 sliding scale, spectators can feel good about benefiting tsunami victims or breast cancer victims. And for only $35-$55 sliding scale, spectators can feel good about benefiting both. There will be two stages with round the clock entertainment. For the tsunami relief side, there will be Enron Poppinfresh, winner of last year's "Last Comic Ever Please", Michael-Lynn Dwightevansfootball, third or fourth runner-up on TV's "Fresh Batch Of Whores", and The Dweezil Zappas, San Francisco's most beloved Captain Beefheart cover band. On the breast cancer stage, don't miss the musical accidents of Shrieking Middle-Aged Woman With Dildo Calling Porno Art, the limp-wristed finger-picking and licking stylings of The Honorary Bluegrass Roadblock, and emcee Chester A. Arthur--winner of Rooster T. Homogenized Milk's Pedestrian Banality Competition. The Shallow End Of The Pool, 5th and Lexington, 9pm.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 269.75:

The First Annual Non-Annual Event. This Friday, don't forget to celebrate the First Annual Non-Annual Event. We've all had birthdays and Christmases and Halloweens and Valentine's Days, but what about those events that aren't so--well, annual? What about non-annual events like brushing your teeth, getting off of work, and serving up a helping of Stove Top brand stuffing to your hungry husband? This Friday, celebrate the original non-annual event--waking up. Bedroom or Alley, depending on class status. 8am-8am.

Wouldn't it be great if there was a local band that was influenced by Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Neil Young and did some covers and some of their own material? And what if that same band had a lead singer who was sort of grunge and indie combined but who vehemently denied that any label would fit him? As Sam Cooke once said, "what a wonderful world this would be!" And what a wonderful night this will be when Klingon Wuz Here (pictured) takes the stage at the Fashionable Syringe in the Embarcadero. I'm getting all woozy just thinking about Troy Brenhoffen (pictured) and his guitar (pictured). Fashionable Syringe, Embarcadero and Fluff, 1700 hours.

SUNDAY, HOPPYEMBER 1

Celebration of the sexual in art and poetry is something that we just don't get enough of here in the Bay Area. With so many artists refusing to tackle the taboo subjects of sex in favor of more cerebral topics, it's refreshing to see unique and poignant performance art like The First-Ever Cock-Sucking Art Expose Anal Grind And Gender-Queer Fuckfest Tranny Pussy Fuck Dildo Cum Poetry Event being held this Sunday at the San Francisco Institute For Higher Knowledge and Cultural Expression. If you like hot and steamy man-on-man anal boy fucking, dripping dominitrax Asian pussies, or something more simplified like bi-queer lesbian artificial orifice insertions, come to the San Francisco Institute For Higher Knowledge and Cultural Expression. San Francisco Institute For Higher Knowledge And Cultural Expression, Warfare and Himdale, 9pm, $10 (half off with rim job)

ROBERTOPPENHEIMER, OCK-OCK 2nd

Don't throw away those old coat hangers! Today's the day when the Berkeley Bowl in conjunction with some community organization is holding the first annual "Coat Hanger Drive." Wire coat hangers will be collected throughout the day and then shipped to third-world countries where malnourished native pre-teen girls don't have access to the fancy wine and cheese abortions that we have here in the states. Also on this day, UC Berkeley professor K. R. Apathist will be in the produce section of the Berkeley Bowl reading from his book The New Pro-Choice in which he advocates a new type of choice when it comes to abortion: Choice on what to think about the topic. According to his website, Apathist doesn't care "what you think about abortion. If this girl thinks it's okay to have an abortion, that's cool. And if this guy over here thinks she should be shot in the head for having an abortion, I can dig that, too. It's all good. Freedom of choice." Berkeley Bowl, one mile south of Magical Acceptance Lane, 1pm to 4pm.

ENTRAILS, NOVEMBER HPth.

Tired of all that old money lying around the house? San Francisco Honda invites you to come down and trade in that old, useless cash or check for a new pre-owned Lexus or Ford F-150 super truck with shift to shifter handling and three-back posi suspension on an all-wheel drive frontloaded chamois. This one-time offer is good year-round! The only cash they won't take is the kind that isn't enough. Bank One Vroomelet and Ford, 16th and 17th, 2005-2006.

RIFFDAY, BLOGINTY AVA, VAA, AAV, VVA, VAVth

Wouldn't it be great to French kiss a steel tiger? What if you could eat your next Thanksgiving dinner on a pink monorail? What would you give to know what it was like to be a fourteen-year old Polish waif in 1939? If you could, do you think you could live for a month inside someone's hoop skirt? Do you think my hair looks fat? Will grandpa ever wake up? If Jeremiah owes Molly five dollars and Jeremiah thinks Molly is a cunt, is Jeremiah obligated to pay Molly back? Do you think you can let me have a drag off that menthol? Tonight, don't miss "The Celebration Of The Interrogative"--another in a series of long-winded pompous academic discussions where champagne sparkles and names like Derrida and Lacan fall like stars from the sky. Oberlin, Berkeley, Princeton, San Francisco State (simultaneously through satellite feed) 8pm-10pm.

January 31st, 10:11pm

IF THY RIGHT EYE OFFEND THEE

I had a dream last night or early this morning--it was hard to tell, I was sleeping--and in the dream I was at a bar with some friends. There were about twenty people gathered around chatting nonchalantly. I was bored and wanted to get up on stage but there was no stage--only society. Dreadful, boring society.

And then--in the dream--in this desparate search for attention, I pulled out an exacto knife and carved about a fourth of my head off including the portion which contained my right eye. There was a mild bit of laughter at this--it didn't go over as well as I had hoped it would. But I kept on with my conversation as if it wasn't supposed to be funny and it didn't really hurt me that people weren't laughing that loud. There was no blood--or bone even. The chunk of my head including the eye came off like soft gouda cheese.

For the remainder of the dream, I continued chatting socially. Nobody brought up the fact that a fourth of my head was gone. It wasn't until two or three hours later (dream time) that I became less concerned with the fact that nobody laughed at my missing head portion and more concerned about the fact that I was now missing a fourth of my head and an eye to boot. I remember wondering if it would regenerate somehow and it actually did, partially. By the end of the dream, layers of the head had started to reappear, but I never got the eye back. It was possible to make out an indentation where the eye socket might have been and there seemed to be a semblance of an eyelid, but it was grafted shut and sanded over.

The strange thing is--all this happened when I was asleep.

January 25th, 5:20pm

Dear Mr. Producer Of Films,

I know this is probably going to come a bit too late to be of any use to you, but for what it's worth, let me try. My name is Derek Clawhorn and I am an aspiring screenwriter. For years I have dreamed of writing for the big screen and for years I have pined and longed for a day where one of my scripts would be accepted by the prestigious Hollywood community.

Fifteen years ago when the "Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons" genre came into full swing with such classics as Vice-Versa, Like Father Like Son, and 18 Again, I was in Missouri, studying rapidometry. I don't know if you know what rapidometry is--it's basically the study of things that go by really fast--like hummingbirds, baseballs, boy bands, relationships with intensive care patients, and life itself. It's a fascinating field. Did you know that the human eye perceives fast moving things differently than slow moving things? For example, humans perceive slow moving things such as turtles, sloths, and political progress with a sense of nonchalance. There is a feeling of relief at knowing that you can blink and not miss something. Whereas with fast moving things like Nascar legend Jeff Gordon--(is he a legend yet or does he have to die in a fiery crash like that other Nascar legend?)--or the triple-posi quad action of the new Ford F-150 Outback Shitkicker, humans actually become afraid to blink. And blinking, as you may or may not know is a reflex. So if there would be an increase in the number of fast moving things versus slow moving things, there is a possibility that humans will become conditioned not to blink in order not to miss anything. This would be a redefinition of a reflex. Instead of it being a reflex to blink your eyes, it will be a reflex to keep your eyes open. I wonder if that's the case anyway. Who's to say that it's not the opening of the eyes that's the reflex? Actually, this might be a moot point since blinking is not necessarily a reflex. After all, I can make myself blink when I want to--wait a second--I thought I could--there, I did it. Anyway, I never received my degree in rapidometry because the school that I was attending didn't offer a degree in rapidometry. In fact, they didn't even offer me admission. I had to pretend for four years that I was a student there getting a degree that didn't even exist. I was dedicated. But despite my dedication and my total lack of interest in Hollywood, I still desperately wanted to go to Hollywood.

Having studied rapidometry for a number of years, I have learned to place more value on the act of moving slowly--which is exactly what I did with my film script. While there was a big boon in the late eighties and early nineties for screenwriters to get their "Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons" scripts out to studios--I decided to take my time and really hone my script to perfection. Good things come to those who wait, I figured. I didn't want to just write any "Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons" script. I wanted to write THE "Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons" script. Most people, by now, have forgotten all the "Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons" movies of days gone by. Furthermore, it is also a testament to our postmodern cynicism that the average man on the street no longer believes that a father could, would, or should change places with his son. I believe that it is time for things to change in this department. Now, after all this time, my script is ready for your approval.

Here is the brief treatment: I call it The Greatest Fathers Changing Places With Their Sons Story Ever Told. It will take place in Jerusalem circa 33AD.

The lead characters are 33-year old Jesus Christ, a long-haired rabble rouser sent to earth by his father via a computer-animated virgin birth. His father is God, an Eternal-year old omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent being that sits outside of space and time with a detached or sympathetic view of humanity--(depending on the belief systems of random focus group audiences)--Jesus and God get along fairly well, but don't always see eye to eye. Then one day, while Jesus is arguing with rabbis and God is whooping up a tsunami to overthrow fornicators--through a magical turn of events, Jesus and God swap places. Comical possibilities abound as God learns to walk in a human body for the first time while Jesus takes advantage of his new found powers to give everybody in Africa AIDS and make that girl break up with me in eighth grade. Eventually, everybody in Jerusalem gets sick of the new smug and cocky Jesus who starts telling everybody he's God and more and more people are starting to fear the new rambunctious and trigger-happy God in the sky, that people ultimately revolt from Christianity altogether. And then it turns out that it was all a wacky and crazy nightmare and we realize that the whole world is Hindi.