Alien Night Club - Show 16?
Alien Night Club <the transcripts>
If you’re just discovering this (Hi!), begin with The Pilot HERE.
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Show 16! 16? Yeah, 16.
Okay, okay, let’s go, let’s get this show on the road. All aboard the sodomy train. Because we done built the train – this is my Denzel Washington impression – dramatic pause… We done built the train. She is chuggin. She is picking up speed. Finally! Now it’s just a matter of getting everybody on board.
So the water dripping in my shower sounds like an 80s video game. I call it the Rainshower Symphony.
Lady Gaga and David Goggins should go out and do a wilderness and wildlife outdoor survival documentary during which they camp in the wilderness for 9 days. Or however long Goggins says to do it. And knowing him and LG, they’ll totally sit there and call each other’s bluff, upping the ante. Until it’s absurd and they’re going to go out there and never come back. So they each start saying they could go longer than the other. And they both honestly believe it. Which is exactly the problem. So Stephanie is all like, A month.
And Goggins is like, I’ve gone longer than that without oxygen.
And Stephanie’s like, 3 months.
And Goggins goes, Shit, BUDS was longer than that. I had to do that shit 3 times. Living in the woods is a fucking piece of cake compared to the shit I’ve been through. Me, as you know, but her, too. We all know that. Which is what’s going to make this show so fucking good. You’re going to see a couple of badasses go out into the wilderness and live for a year.
And Stephanie is like, A YEAR? Really? I did not agree to that. I never agreed to a year. In fact, I DISAGREE to a year. I fuckin DISS AGREE. I’m dissing Agree. Like she’s a person. Like, Hey! Hey, Agree. Yoo-hoo, Agree. And Agree looks over. Because she’s right there and she can’t go anywhere because this is her job, basically. And she looks over and I go like, Hey, Agree! Fuck you, bitch! And Agree gives me the finger. And she goes back to mowin her lawn. Poor ol Agree out there, mowing her lawn, having people diss her 24 7. 25 8 366. Shit, I should’ve come out with a tee shirt that said that before I did this. Oh well. Point being that poor old Agree has to fuckin take it. Because that’s her function. When someone wants to disagree, they must diss Agree. Because that’s what happens when you disagree: you diss Agree. And she takes it. Because she has to. Yeah, she gives you the finger back and you know if you ever went over there and started some shit with her and it got physical, she’d probably kick your ass. Something about the way she gives you the finger like that tells you that she doesn’t give a fuck. She’s ready to rumble. So you wouldn’t do that. Instead, I'll just yell shit at her from over here where I am, far enough that she couldn’t run over before I had a chance to run away. But she can totally hear you. So you diss her. Because it’s safe and there are no consequences. But what if there were? Imagine if Agree got tired of being dissed and rallied her posse, which would be fuckin HUGE, by the way, because Agree is an ephemeral, multidimensional being. Meaning that she is big. She is vast. She is GREAT. She knows a lot of people. And a lot of people know her. And they 100% have her back. They will gladly go to the intergalactic penitentiary as a result of helping a fellow resident of the Universe set things right. Especially when they need to be set right. What if they totally misconstrue what I just said and they start trying to cancel me? Point being that I never agreed to a year in the woods with you, Mr. Goggins. And the reason I never agreed to a year in the woods with you, Mr. Goggins, is very simple. You will laugh when you hear it. And you will realize that I am right and you will agree. You will will Agree now instead of dissing her. And guess what, when you look over there to agree, Agree is over there in front of a really super amazing house she has done entirely herself over a long ass time. And she looks amazing out there every day working on it. And when you put your hand next to your mouth and call out, Agree! She looks up, sees you, smiles a huge smile, a dazzling and mesmerizing Jennifer Garner smile, and jumps up and down because she’s so happy to see you. And eventually, you go over there. And you and Agree become the best of friends. Because she’s so genuine. So you guys become the most besty of besties. I’ve lost the thread of this joke. The point was when you agree, you see Agree and she’s sweet and lovely and happy and you then also feel sweet and lovely and happy. And that’s a wonderful, fantfuckingtastic way to be. But when you disagree, you diss Agree and you see darkness and loneliness and rage. So the lesson that we should all learn here is that it is better to agree. It is better to agree than to disagree. It is better to agree than to diss Agree. So don’t do it. Don’t diss Agree or you’ll have me and several billion of my friends crawling so far up your ass you’ll throw yourself into some sort of really big industrial chopping or mixing or crushing machine. Because people do fall into those things. Imagine falling in at night when you’re there alone, cleaning everything. You’re alone in this one section of the factory or the plant. And you’re cleaning a giant ham-making machine. And you’re pretty sure it’s switched off. And you put the cones out around the machine and all the required safety gear is all in place. And you even have a half-eaten lunch sitting there in plain view, along with a bag of your stuff, so it is obvious that someone is there. So they will NOT turn the machine on while your ass is still inside cleaning it. Because what happens if they do? You get turned into sliced ham, slowly, a slice every 11 seconds. Like something out of Saw. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m saying they’re throwing pigs in those fucking things and slicing them up. Now imagine it’s YOUR job to go in there at night, put on full biohazard-level overalls with a helmet and everything. And you have to climb down into the machine with a scrubby soapy sprayer thing with a brush on it, just like at those drive-in do-it-yourself carwashes. Which are kind fun to use. Even though I always run out of time and wind up panicking as I’m shoving more quarters in the thing. Anyway, imagine you have to clean that machine with the scrub brush. And there is a bad, bad stench down there. Even through your respirator, your medical-grade professional respirator, even through THAT, you can still smell it. It smells a teenie tiny bit like bacon. It does! But there’s something foul and wrong about it. Because it smells weird. Like…iron. Metal. Something metallic. And fatty. Kinda like rotten milk except worse. A lot worse. Like…maybe what it smelled like when they tried to render fat in Fight Club to sell the rich ladies their fat back to them as a bar of pink soap, and the big orange plastic bag of fat ripped open and poured out all over Ed Norton. The smell he must’ve smelled was probably something like the inside of that machine. Probably even worse. But imagine you finish cleaning that fucker and you’re ready to get out. And as you climb up the little ladder they have installed inside it, one of the metal hand-hold things breaks and you fall and it’s slippery as fuck and your legs go weird and both your femurs break. And you collapse on the cold, greasy floor of the pig slicin machine in some sort of fucked-up new yoga position because you see two white bones sticking out of both of your legs. Jagged white bones poking out of the top of each thigh. One going this way and the other one going the other way. And it’s like motherfuckin Pangea how neatly those jagged edges line up. And now you can’t move. You can barely breathe it hurts so bad. So how are you going to get out? You just started your shift. You’ve got at least another 6, maybe 7 hours before people show up and can help you. But even with your limited medical knowledge, it’s pretty obvious that you’ll most likely be dead in 6 hours. Probably from either shock or blood loss.
Jesus, what was I talking about? It was don’t diss Agree or me and my friends will not allow it. We shan’t let you bully Agree. Agree with a capital A. Because that’s her name. And we should all wear tee shirts and hoodies and stuff that say, Don’t diss Agree! Except that that is a negative statement which will reinforce the negativity of dissing agree – thereby disagreeing – which is the opposite of what we want.
So it’s probably better to just say Agree. Maybe in yellow. Or maybe lots of colors and styles so everyone can find a style that they like, that they believe and feel really suits them. And of course there will be people who shit on it and say, Look at all those Agree fucks over there. God, I hate them. They’re like some kind of fucking cult. Be a cult all you want. Just stay the fuck over there, away from me. I’m not interested.
And, admittedly, it might come off as a bit utopianist. And I guess it is. But maybe the utopia they have in mind isn’t so bad. For all of you who hate the idea and you’re like, No, motherfuckers, you cannot make me live there or pay X blah blah blah tax rate or vote for this or vote for that or don’t vote for this or don’t vote for that. Fuck that shit.
And I get it. I do. I hate it when someone tries to tell me what to do. Motherfucker come and try to push me around? I don’t think so.
But again, the point is, something about Jennifer Garner. Oh, yes. Happy Agree. We all want Agree to be happy.
So the point is that we should all agree. Talk until we agree. It’s really that simple. Because if we talk about the right stuff, we will agree. And then we can build from there.
Which is why a year in the woods with Goggins is a joke. You know why it’s a joke? Because it’s too short.
And Goggins would say, without even missing a beat, A year is too short? Okay. 5. 10. 50. How about fuckin forever. How about we go out and live there forever? We never come back. We’ll be the stars of the greatest fuckin reality show ever made. The two of us living alone in the woods together for the rest of our lives? Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. I would love that shit. That shit would be a piece of cake for me. It would be close to Heaven. But I have responsibilities and so do you. So we can’t go longer than a year. I’m fine with a year but that’s it. I’m cutting it off at that point. For your sake. Because I’m so goddam stubborn, I will stay out there forever. I am not bullshitting you. Once we get out there and the year is up and it’s time to come back, you and I will be sitting there saying, “After you. No, after you. No, you first. No, you; I insist.” Because neither of us wants to leave. Because neither of us wants to lose. Which is why we will go on and on and on, forever. Even after the public lost interest and the network cancelled the show and everyone took all the equipment and left and even our families and friends came out here and tried to talk us into leaving, even then we didn’t go. Because neither of us will go first. And we really, truly will spend the next 50 fuckin years living alone together in the woods. But if you want to, I’m down for a year.
And Stephanie would say, Okay. A year.
And they’d spit in their hands and shake on it. Like, totally not rehearsed. And it would be like one of those year-long research studies where a crew of people pretend they’re living on Mars. Like a Kubrickian episode of Bar Grylls that’s a year long.
Have we talked about the Rain Shower yet?
Have you read The Old Man and the Sea? Have you seen The Old Man and the Seat? I got that confirmation in the past 24 hours. Pretty trippy. Those two things popped up independently within 12 hours of each other. That’s pretty fast to manifest something. Maybe it happens faster up here. Maybe I’m close to the galactic center. If there is such a thing.
Speaking of the galactic center and all things nutty, have you read The Mushroom and the Cross? It’s all about Theogems aka psychedelics. Fertility rituals. And how Religion with a capital R was to get people high and encourage them to have sex. So they make more babies. Because mortality rates throughout history were so low. So they needed more business. Business? Did I just say business? The church needed more business? So they told you that you were sick and that they had the cure. And all you had to do was give them some of your money and remember that they’re higher up than you. Which means they know more. So they know what’s best. So just let them handle it. And for you not to worry about it.
So Religion is inherently the same process as Medicine?
Also, it's not a lack of discipline, it's a lack of interest.
Unless it’s something that you know is good for you. Like brushing your teeth. Then just do it and don’t think about it. Get it over with.
But if it’s not something so mundane and you are bored out of your mind, are you inherently disinterested? If you’re disinterested, of course you have no discipline when it comes to that thing. Start doing more of the thing that you do that is the thing you most prefer to do. Like playing drums. Or running. Or ballet. Or archery. Or writing something. Or making videos. Or writing code. Or you hate code but you love building software and apps and games. Or you love making movies. Whatever it is, fuckin Crossfit, dive into that. Because if you were able to find a way where you could do that 8 hours a day pretty much every day, not only would you get very good at it, which will command respect, it will also come across to everyone watching that you have insane discipline. That your discipline is among the best. It’s off the charts. Which is how you got so good that whenever we think of that thing you do, drumming or music or software or whatever, we think of you.
So spend more time doing that thing you do that causes time to stand still and speed up at the same time. And then you look at your phone, it’s been 6 hours. And it felt like maybe 2.
Also, the shower thing. The water dripping in the shower here sounds like 80s video game music, definitely Atari. Mid-80s Atari. How trippy is that? Music in the shower on a spaceship stroke station. Music that sounds like an Atari game from the 80s. Was that programmed just for me? Or does every shower have that? Or do none of them have it, nor any music of any kind, and I’m simply imagining it? I gotta say, it’s pretty tough to say which one it is. Maybe I can ask the Skeleton Patriot. He lives in the shower. I can ask him next time I see him. I can be all like, Hey, Skeleton Patriot, how are you?
And he’ll be all like, Oh, I’m fine. A little bony.
And we’ll both laugh, mostly pretending, because it’s simultaneously so stupid of a joke but it’s also true. Because it literally is a skeleton. A walking, talking skeleton wearing a hat like the one Napoleon wore, and he is, indeed, a little bony.
And I can ask him if that is his music, if he put that on. Or if it’s just piped in for the guest which, for now, in that room, is me.
And then if he goes, What music?
I’ll be all like, to myself, in my own mind saying and thinking, Oh, shit, he doesn’t hear it. Is that because it’s not there and I’m imagining it or is it because it is there but he can’t hear it because he’s a skeleton and his tympanic membranes are probably shriveled up and gone, as is all of the connective tissue between the ear and the brain, so of course he can’t hear it.
But he answered me when I asked how he was doing.
By the way, Lady G. should have her own line of lingerie.
And it’s merch for their show.
It’s lingerie, bras and panties and whatnot, only it’s flannel.
It’s all flannel.
Ladies, would you like to feel the feeling of a soft flannel bra supporting you?
With bottoms to match. A variety of styles. Bikini. Boy shorts. Thong.
Ladies? What say you? Or anyone who wants to wear it, for that matter. What’re your thoughts? Would you be willing to actually buy Stephanie’s LG-branded flannel g-string show merch to help promote conservation and bioethics and doing what we need to do to make sure our pretty, amazing forests don’t all die because the Earth got too hot because we burned too much oil in the form of gasoline in too many cars and introduced too many trillions of metric tons of little tiny pieces of hard, gritty black stuff called carbon. Even though if a really big volcano went off, it would blast so much ash into the atmosphere that we’d be fucked. Flash-forward fucked. In a matter of days. Like, anarchy and hell on Earth and a complete and total breakdown of society. And thus the entire human race.
So maybe it’s not such a bad idea to help Elon et al to get your ass to Mars?
Because a volcano COULD do that. It’s been one of the leading theories as to what happened to the dinosaurs for decades. It could also be a meteor hit the Earth and sent up a similar amount of debris into the air and the jetstream took it and spread it around the world and all the sunlight got blocked out. So then the plants began to die. The humans kept eating the plants and animals, until the plants were gone. And then, very soon, the animals were gone because they didn’t have any plants to eat. And then the humans ate all of them.
And then the humans ate each other.
Because if there’s nothing else to eat that is organic, what are you gonna do? Starve? Take your own life?
Or get good at barbecue?
You think that’s how cannibals think? I never read the Hannibal Lector books. Do we get to go inside Hannbal Lecter’s mind and learn about cannibalism? Because if so, I definitely want to read them. No one ever told me that THAT is what they were about. I just saw the movies.
How fucked-up is it that one our best, most-beloved actor’s most-beloved roles is as a cannibal?
Like, somebody wrote that and everyone went, Yes! Yes! Yes!
Is there a Brett Easton Ellis American Psycho ultra-detailed description of the recipe for cooking the liver with fava beans and a nice chianti?
Regardless, it got published and a movie was made and we all went to see it. And whenever someone brings it up, maybe once every few years, we are right there, balls deep in that conversation, labia deep in that conversation, sex organs deep in that conversation.
Anyway, Stephen King, do you want to write the person stuck in the pig slicer story? And maybe Fincher and you can write the script. Which means Fincher writes it, sends it to Steve, along with the $1, Steve reads it, gives a few notes here and there, writes I LOVE IT! on the front of the script in red or green or blue or purple pen, and has it sent back. And Fincher runs with it.
Who should fall down into the pig slicer?
Who would you BELIEVE if they were down there for 90 minutes, crying and gasping and fighting for their life?
Who would you want to see actually do it? To pull it off and make it seem real so you forget you’re watching a movie? Like what if Reese Witherspoon is dressed in a bloody white paper napkin-like so-called hazmat suit, and she’s down in there crying, trying to pull herself up the ladder? But she can’t because of her far-too-graphically-portrayed double matching broken legs. And they look like the repulsive hunks of meat that normally come out of the factory machine she was fuckin stupid to climb down into in the first place!
But she did. She broke in during the night to protest pig death. And she climbed down into that thing to disable it in the hopes of saving some piggies.
But she slipped and fell.
And now she’s trapped down there. With just her GoPro and shitty 5G.
With bits of raw pig meat in her hair and all over her face. And maybe she accidentally opens a relief valve while trying to get out, and a red river of pig blood sprays out of a pipe, throat fucking her so hard that it snaps her head back. And you can hear the dong on the inside of the metal as her skull makes contact with it. And she doesn’t move. Just keeps taking the firehose of dark-red blood to the face. Hard, too. Like you can tell that fuckin hurts. You’ve sprayed yourself with a garden hose or felt water come out really fast and it hurts. So getting blasted in the mouth with pig blood like that definitely looks uncomfortable. And it doesn’t stop. And she doesn’t move. So you’re like, Okay, that’s a dummy. That’s a mannequin. That’s a mannequin Reese Witherspoon and the special effects people are blasting it in the face, in the mouth, with a strong hose of red water. And Reese Witherspoon isn’t even in the building. This is all 2nd unit pickup type stuff that she will only see when she watches a rough cut. Or when she goes to the premier and she watches herself get sprayed in the face gratuitously with red water. And it’s way over the top. But then as she’s sitting there, waiting for the gratuitous shot to end, it doesn’t. And she starts looking around for someone she knows and trusts, so she can do that eye contact thing to figure out if she’s right that this scene is terrible and needs to be cut way, way down. And she even shields her eyes. Because she doesn’t want to look at it. It’s obviously fake but it’s still kinda disturbing. It’s in incredibly poor taste, at the very least. And finally, FINALLY, after like 5 minutes, 5 actual literal minutes of that, she wakes up and eventually succeeds in climbing out. And then everyone is applauding at the end and looking at her when the movie ends and they turn the light on. And she’s all like, Thanks, you. It wasn’t me. It was all those guys. David and the FX team and the editors and Stephen for the book and that weird Captain Blank guy on the spaceship who came up with this whole thing.
And then Fincher comes and hugs Reese really hard. Like excessively. And he’s crying.
Everyone is crying.
And Reese is like, What is going on here?
And Fincher says, When we were shooting that scene, you insisted on doing it yourself. You said it was going to be your Kubrick moment. Because you’ve always loved The Shining. But the valve malfunctioned and the pig blood came out too fast. It hit you in the face, breaking your jaw, your nose, and several teeth. And you hit your head on the inside of the machine and it knocked you out. And you didn’t move for 5 minutes. And that is the actual footage from your accident. And you were rushed to the hospital and were in a coma for a month. Because the truth is, Reese, this is not a David Fincher Film. This is a Reese Witherspoon Film. You snuck into a meat factory one evening, alone, unbeknownst to anyone, including the closest members of your family. And you went in there to prove a point about what it must be like to be a pig. And you climbed down into that goddamn machine and when you tried to climb out, the thing broke and you slipped and fell and broke both of your legs and got knocked out and you really were sprayed in the face with real pig blood. And you really did escape out of it. And you really are the badass of all badasses. And Lady Gaga and David Goggins came in out of the woods because of you. And this film…this entire film…is a documentary in which you were both director and star. Because you care so deeply about what is happening that you couldn’t sit by and watch any longer. Which is why A Reese Witherspoon Film is perhaps the greatest movie of all time.
And it probably would be.
If she really went through all of that. But for some reason, she doesn’t remember it that way. She remembers making a movie about it. In her mind, it was all just work. Pretend. Another day at the office.
But in reality, it was…real.
I think I’d like to see that.
Man, that got heavy. What were we talking about? 80s Atari music and cannibals?
Which led us to wanting to avoid the collapse of society and the resultant cannibalism. Thus: conservation.
And Lady Gaga out in the woods with David Goggins. And they’re both wearing flannel lingerie.
Fuzzy red and black flannel.
Or blue and black.
Or green and black.
Or maybe some other pattern. But those are my favorites.
Flannel lingerie and a pair of matching Uggs? You are all set for your year in the woods with Goggins and Gaga.
That could be the name: A Year in the Woods, with Goggins and Gaga.
What would they do out there the whole time?
Once they had water, weapons, tools, food, fire, and a shelter, what would they do? How primal would it get? Especially if all the footage was recorded when they were alone for that whole year. Or what if it was broadcast live 24/7?
So whatever happens happens. And we all get to watch. Even when they haff to poop behind a tree.
What would happen?
The point was the tee shirt.
And Agree.
That’s it: Agree.
Agree.
Which is of course the gateway drug to Obey. And anyone who has ever seen They Live knows all about that.
Anyway, back to show notes. There are a few I’ve forgotten. We kind of went off on a tangent there with Reese and her pig movie. A really good one. But we did veer away a bit from our pre-planned trajectory.
I think it was something about Feminism…. Or vaginas….
Maybe about grabbing people by their dicks.
Whiney voice, Um, excuse me; that’s assault. That’s sexual assault.
Is it? Even if the guy likes it? Even if the dick owner likes it? What if the dick owner likes it? Because, most of the time, I think the dick owner likes it. Liking it equates to consent, no?
Cue Sexy Black voice!
SBV: Took you long enough. Sheesh. I been standing here this whole time and we ain’t played a single song. You just been flappin your gums. Perhaps you’d like to do the intro yourself? Perhaps you’d like to–
SB! It’s an open format.
It is?
Yes.
Oh. Okay. Well why didn’t you say so. Comin to the stage, comin at your earholes, comin at you with dangerous yet sexy intent, here’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes doing a mega-whammy powerballad double hit feature song back to back, singing The Dick Owner Likes It… followed by Dangerous Intent. Fellas, let’s regale some earholes.
{musical interlude}
Yep.
Earholes regaled.
Wow. Oh my God. Stroke Gawd. My earholes were most definitely regaled. I can’t hear anything. I’ve got so much Hot Fudge Sundae jizz in my ears. I’m going to have to go back to that hospital on the beach and have it sucked out, like I did one Saturday night with my earwax. We’d been swimming all day and the water from the pool got in my ear and congealed my earwax into a giant ball so big I could literally hear nothing out of my right ear. So we went to the hospital, woke up the doctor, and he sucked the big ball of orange wax out of my ear. And then he did the other one. And it took about 10 minutes and we were back in the car. And there was a concert on the beach nearby. So the loud, loud, bassy music was playing and bumping the whole time. It was very surreal. Especially after I got the earwax sucked out and could actually HEAR it.
So, anyway, yeah, I was agreeing with you. The Hot Fudge Sundaes agreed, too. They agreed all over the inside of my earholes. They totally agreed inside me. They agreed inside me so hard.
Should that be the shirt we all wear to signal each other?
Instead of Agree, it says Agree Inside Me.
Or maybe all lower case:
agree inside me
Like that. No capitals, no punctuation.
Because it’s actually rendering consent. In the deepest, most intimate way. Not only are we agreeing…but we’re doing it with our SOULS.
Our hearts, minds, and souls.
So yeah, when our souls agree, our bodies do things. There’s a chemical reaction that happens. Enzymes flying around doing all kinds of crazy stuff. Fluids are exchanged. And a new soul is made. Or called. Or at least the–
Oh! I just thought of one of the lost nuggets from today’s show prep: PODS.
Did you guys know that back on Earth, they’ve got people living in pids?
Pids?
No, not pids.
PODS.
P-O-D-S. Pods.
Like a tiny little house you crawl into where you can be safe, clean, and dry to sleep, eat, whatever. And it’s surrounded by lots of other pods full of other people doing the same thing. And it doesn’t cost you anything. It’s given to you. It’s assigned to you. And so you can go there and set up house. That’s where you go every night or during the day or after school or after work or whenever you want to. It depends on what time it is and whether you work or not.
Point being that people in big cities are living in them. And more are being built. And more people are going there and living in them. It seems crazy but it’s better than having tent cities everywhere. The pod is climate controlled, within limits, is easily cleaned, and the area is patrolled. As long as there’s no violence, they pretty much leave you alone. You have digital money, a central bank digital currency, that you use to buy food. Or new clothes if you need them and don’t want the standard issue clothing everyone has free access to.
Which makes sense because individuality is fun. For some people. Probably most people. It’s really more a matter of to what extent they present themselves as an individual. Maybe it’s only a tiny bit. They dress the same, act the same, do the same stuff. Except they put tons of black pepper on their protein mash in the mornings. Or maybe they drink their hot brown bean water sans sucrose polymer.
SBV: Cue Sexy Black Voice! That’s me. I cued myself. Here now, ready to perform a steamy sweet song for us all, it’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes sexing us up inside the pods of our minds with their newest hit: Sexy. Brown. Beanwater. Hit it, fellas.
{musial interlude}
Yes!
Yes.
That was so good. Hot Brown Bean Water. And I didn’t even ask for it. I didn’t even know to ask for it. It was just there, provided for me, right when I needed it, ready to blast into my earholes and into my soul, a jizzillion little energy sperms going inside me, making me whole again.
Behold the power of the cocoa bean.
I wonder if the hot brown beanwater you get in your pod is as good as the coffee a lot of us know and love. It would make sense if it was the most pure, clean, clear, exquisite coffee ever made. With the perfect aroma, smell, and taste. Even though aroma and smell are pretty much the same thing. The hot brown beanwater would be state-sanctioned amphetamines administered in a perfect, warm, warming, nurturing, extremely satisfying format: something to drink. A hot beverage. With just the right amount of oomph for your body, premeasured ahead of time and adjusted according to your biochemistry, which is tested via tiny, silent air analyzers built into your pod. So every day, you receive just the right amount of caffeine. The exact perfect amount for your body that will allow you to cheerfully exit your pod and go out into the world to contribute to it in your own unique way. You won’t own shit. So there’s no need to fret about buying shit or having shit stolen. When you want to go to the park, you go to the park. When you want to go eat, you go eat, When you want to sleep or just chill or whatever, you go back to your pod. Your very own little place where you feel completely safe. And you love it there.
Ensconced and snuggled within the bosom of your fifteen-minute-city.
Where you’ll be able to get, do, have, or go pretty much anyplace you need to go within a 15-minute walk.
From your pod.
There won’t be room for a flatscreen in your pod. But you won’t care because the augmented reality content will be so much better and more real that it makes all previous forms of content look like cave paintings. It’s that good.
Hence the hot brown beanwater.
Get out there and help turn those cranks, little cog!
Good Little Coggy.
That’s the name of the main character in our pod people story: Little Coggy.
And Little Coggy’s favorite thing to do in their pod before falling asleep is to watch Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. Because Little Coggy loves the similarity between pod people then and pod people now. Even though it would totally never happen. It’s just a movie. And, yeah, aliens came and replaced actual human people with pod-grown, all organic, non-GMO, gluten free, soy free, sugar free versions of themselves. But that would never happen in real life. People coming out of pods. Hilarious. So trite. So funny because it’s so trite.
And where does Little Coggy quote unquote work? It’s not a job, per se. Rather, it’s more of a purpose. A function. It’s something Little Coggy is good at because they naturally love to do it and would do it on their own anyway. So the nice people who run things suggested Little Coggy get up every morning and go do that thing as much as they want. And it would be of great benefit to everyone.
So that’s what Little Coggy does. Little Coggy goes out every day and fulfills their purpose. And no one does it quite the way Little Coggy does it.
Because Little Coggy is a gigolo. Little Coggy is a professional lover.
Not a sex slave.
Little Coggy is not in chains. Little Coggy is not punished for not having sex.
Little Coggy LIKES having sex. Little Coggy LOVES having sex.
And because of this enthusiasm, Little Coggy has developed a bit of a reputation. A brand, if you will. A business of sorts. And for Little Coggy, business is good.
Because Little Coggy has been with the best. And the best can’t hold a candle to Little Coggy.
Little Coggy is a god. A sex god. So transcendent is the experience of laying with Little Coggy.
Little Coggy owns nothing and is happy. Everything Coggy could ever need is provided for and his job is to eff people’s brains out all day long. And he’s respected and revered everywhere he goes as a result.
Coggy never waits in line. He always gets right in. He gets to sit wherever he wants. Everyone has an open invitation for Coggy to call any time or to even just stop by when he’s in the area. So every morning, Coggy lies prone in his pod, smiling his ass off because yesterday was the most amazing day of his life. Just like the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that and the day before that and the day before that. Just like today is going to be.
So Coggy sits up and leans back against the wall. And it’s so comfortable and cozy and private and perfect in there. And he sips his hot brown beanwater. And he feels it come over him. Feels his body change. It seems to come alive. He gets a huge smile on his face. He’s so happy. So, so happy. And the beanwater is so hot and so sweet and so good. And he feels his abs get firm. And his legs. And his genitals start to feel…really…good. And he wants to go and use them. A lot. For hours and hours. To show those people what he’s got.
Sounds like there’s a shitload of sildenafil in Little Coggy’s cup of Joe.
So who should play Little Coggy?
Because I see Brad Pitt doing it.
If Reese Witherspoon can make us weep watching her endure getting sprayed in the face with pig blood for five minutes straight, Brad can convince us that he is a boner-addicted pod person. With a huge smile on his face. Imagine watching Brad Pitt roaming around a futuristic city for 2 hours, smiling and giggling, half or mostly naked, fuckin the shit out of…fill in the blank.
So it would basically be a combination of Dirk Diggler and Fight Club. And maybe he can wear a cowboy hat and use a blowdryer like a pistol again.
And he’s got the most beautiful penis in the city. Little Coggy and his Michaelangelo cock.
Did you guys know that Michaelangelo wrote letters to friends while he was up there on the scaffold, working on all those ceiling paintings? He described what it was like, lying up there all day every day, for hours and hours, 13 hours a day, lying on his back on a piece of hard wood, with his arm extended, painting the ceiling. He said it was excruciating. His neck hurt, his back hurt, his arm and shoulder hurt. Imagine that’s your job for like 13 years: to go into a church, climb up a big-ass scaffolding and then lie up there all day by yourself, freezing your ass off in the winter and sweating your ass off in the summer, probably getting high as fuck on paint fumes because they used oils and weird shit back then that they knew would last a long time and would allow the painter to create a decent painting. What a job. And at the time, you would have no idea that hundreds of years later, people from all over the world would come there just to see your paintings so that they could marvel at them.
Speaking of marveling, let’s get back to Little Coggy, and his monster beauty penis.
Everyone knows and loves him.
Until one day when there’s a new dick in town. And it’s Chris Hemsworth with his prosthetic penis from the Vacation remake. And he is dressed like Cary Elwes in Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Meaning that he wears white tights and a green shirt with a matching tutu. Which means you can see his cut schlong through his tights.
And then one day he shows up with new tights that have a pocket on the front, like a sock for an elephant to keep their trunk warm. And Chris slides his schlong into that thing. And he becomes the talk of the town.
So Brad goes to the one man who can help him: Ben Stiller. From the male models movie. Especially the part with all the dumb pretty guys – let’s face it: pretty dumb guys – having a car wash party orgy in their Jeep at the gas station, spraying themselves and each other with gasoline. Until they are all literally soaked in it. Literally – literally, mind you – SOAKED in and DRIPPING with gasoline. That stuff we’re not really supposed to be burning anymore because it’s giving Mother Earth some serious fucking asthma. And if she goes, we all go.
Point being that one of those dumb guys–
Well, I won’t spoil it for you.
I-Y-K-Y-K, right? If you know, you know.
Getting back to Little Coggy, in his pod in the morning, sipping his hot brown beanwater, waiting and loving it as it hits and his Long Dong Schlongson wakes up, too.
Remember in Real Genius when Iceman went to Professor Hathaway’s house and Hathaway’s twenty-something daughter was there, played by Deborah Foreman from Valley Girl? And he totally has the hots for her so he says, If there’s ever anything I can do for you, or, more to the point, to you, let me know.
And she said, Can you hammer a six-inch spike through a board with your penis?
And he says, with a perfect amount of consternation, puzzlement, and delay, Not right now.
And she says, A girl’s gotta have her standards.
And she leaves.
And Iceman turns to her dad, her friggin DAD, who has just witnessed this entire encounter stroke conversation, and Iceman says, That is a very smart girl.
Well, guess what? Little Coggy actually CAN hammer six-inch spikes through boards with his penis.
Some people go to the gym. Some people go run. Some people do jiu jitsu. Some people break boards with their hands or feet, like Jean Claude Van Damme kicking the tree in Kickboxer, which was good but not as good as Bloodsport.
Well, Little Coggy breaks boards with his penis, just like Jean Claude Van Damme kicking the tree in the movie.
And there’s towel practice. Seeing how many wet towels he can hang from his penis.
And there’s sparring. Like fencing with meat bagels.
And alllll the hot brown beanwater he can drink.
Imagine Brad, dressed like a futuristic neon techno sissy boy in bright green chartreuse mesh undies and boots and a bandolier and a cowboy hat. And a belt with a holster for his hair dryer. Because part of his signature therapy is warming people with his hair dryer. And it’s a special hair dryer that is cordless and never needs recharging because it can draw energy directly from the air. And the hornier and more excited Coggy and his clients stroke patrons get, the more of a charge the hair dryer receives. And thus Coggy and the client stroke clients get even more turned on as well. And it’s a ponzi of lust. A closed-loop cycle of ever-increasing pleasure until it becomes almost unbearable passion. Using ephemeral quantum ecstasy to repay the payment of ephemeral quantum ecstasy. And the hair dryer thereby becomes a visual comedic device that can be playfully intercut with snippets of a meat banana ensconced in an elephant sock.
And he wears yellow rubber gloves, too.
And has a variety of pleasure dongs on his holster. And he is a quick draw. Hence the cowboy hat and boots.
And Little Coggy blows on the tip of his blow dryer, winks, and hits us with that grin that lets us know we are going to be sexually unfulfilled for about the next two years until they can shoot the sequel, Coggy Does Dallas.
Watch out, Dallas, Little Coggy is coming for YOU!
And one day Coggy is called to a penthouse high-rise apartment so tall that the roof is above the clouds on cloudy days. And Little Coggy, still with a smile on his face, fantasizes about running naked out onto the balcony, and doing a perfect swan dive off the side of the building.
With a dick so hard, he’d punch a hole in the concrete half a mile below and come up smiling, kind of like the way Neo bounced the first time he tried to fly in The Matrix.
But instead, he just keeps giving it to the VIP. Because with great boners comes great responsibility.
But he begins to hear murmurs, people talking about him and his silly erotic hair dryer.
And he starts to lose his confidence.
And for every degree the confidence fades, the erection fades thricely.
Thricely.
So a mere 5% loss in confidence results in a 15% loss of boner power. Hammer strength. Me so horny, me love you long time. Unless me can’t get it up all of a sudden.
So there’s your inciting incident and story arc: Little Coggy has to go on a quest to get his boner back.
And he encounters and solicits the advice, counsel, and aid of many fantastical creatures, including not just one horny minotaur but a whole HERD of them. Because first rule of comedy: you can never have too many horny minotaurs.
And then a bunch of minotaurs come out dressed like the Village People and they sing It’s Raining Men.
And then Gay Predator comes out wearing spikey high-heeled boots. And he does a par coeur ballet, channeling Prince, Michael Jackson, James Brown, and Barry Shnikov. No, wait; that’s Baryshnikov.
And then Thor comes down from Asgard, hammer in hand, luscious locks more luscious than ever, and asks Little Coggy if he needs a word of encouragement. Such as something Bruce Banner once said; something about smashing.
And before Little Coggy can ask Thor to please elaborate, Chris Hemsworth shows up with his elephant trunk sock, which he has fashioned to look like a sock rabbit with little black button eyes and whiskers and it’s just adorable. But he and Thor take an immediate disliking toward one another. And next thing you know Chris Hemsworth is bashing Thor in the face with his mighty penis while Thor panics and drops his hammer and begs Loki to come and help him.
And then Ryan Reynolds comes out. Only he’s dressed like Deadpool, minus the hood over his head and the shriveled testicle special effects makeup on his face. And he sees us looking at his outfit and he goes, Don’t worry, he knows I borrow it from time to time.
And then Ryan Gosling comes out. Only he’s dressed like The Hulk. Except it looks like he’s wearing Hulk’s pajamas. It’s actually an ill-fitting green leotard that makes him look like Jim Carrey playing The Riddler in X Batman movie, the one where Woody Allen played Batman after everyone else had done it.
Imagine Woody’s screen test: Oh, yeah, no, Batman, yes. Definitely a lot of responsibility. Masked vigilante, hidden identity. Lives on a big estate, imagine the utility bills. And the dry cleaning on the suits. How do you prevent them from smelling like day-old feta? And the light in the sky…forget it, I’ll never get any good, quality sleep. Never! I’ll just be over here, working on Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask part 2, the prequel: Everything You Ever Wanted to Ask About Sex But Were Afraid to Know. We’ve got more sheep in lingerie – flannel lingerie, for the GaGa Goggins sex in the woods tie-in; which I could never do, by the way; never! Sex in the woods. Not enough wood in the sex, if you know what I mean. Just splinters. Lots and lots of splinters. And you definitely don’t want your mother digging out the splinters with a pair of rusty tweezers and a bad attitude, believe me. We’ve also got more first-person POV stuff, which we were the first to do, by the way; just ask Burt Reynolds, he’ll tell you. And we’ve also got more giant breasts roaming the countryside. Because Free the Nipple! Let the nipples be free. Fat free, sugar free, gluten free, nipple free! Do you have any aspirin? Is it possible to do the Batman thing in Paris? And maybe instead of the Bat Signal, they just flash the lights on the Eiffel Tower a few times. Three times if it’s an emergency. Twice if it’s not an emergency yet but it might be. And once if you just want him to come over for dinner. Maybe a nice baked brie and fresh baguette, paired with a wonderful merlot. And the heavies can come, too; the bad guys. And everyone can just talk it out like adults. And then go for a nice walk along the Seine. And in the morning, take the train to Berlin for Oktoberfest. But we can only stay a couple of days because eventually we do need to get back to Gotham. That big empty house isn’t going to clean itself. Besides, the Batmobile has been acting very strange lately. It’s making a noise. Hopefully it’s just an oil change but it could be a converter or a driveshaft someplace. It has a very complicated drivetrain. Too complicated, really. And it really would be better to sell it and get a hybrid. It won’t be as exciting but at least I’ll sleep better at night knowing I’m responsible for fewer tiny bits of carbon in the atmosphere, slowly asphyxiating Mother Earth, poisoning her a little more year after year until she can’t take it anymore and she lets go a mighty fart that manifests itself as a powerful volcano. Only it’s not just a fart, it’s a shart. It’s Mother Nature’s half fart, half bowel movement. And it sprays things into the atmosphere that no one wants to think about. Things that aren’t so nice. And soon the sun will be blocked out and all the plants will die and the animals will die and humans will have no choice but to begin eating other humans. And that’s going to be very difficult for me because I’ve been trying to cut back on my meat consumption. Maybe they’ll have Beyond Human plant-based human flesh. Or the Impossible Person, also plant-based human victuals, which are also pronoun sensitive for the benefit of our non-binary cannibal friends. But I gotta say, if someone wanted to eat me, I’m not sure how I would feel about that. It might be alright. I certainly wouldn’t want them to starve on my account. I could never live with that. If the difference between someone going hungry and going to bed with a full belly is nothing more than my own cannibalphobia, then I should probably do something about that. I should take a course. Perhaps an online course. So I can get up to speed on the finer points of cannibalism. Because it’s really only the fear of the unknown that is the problem; not the problem itself. So it’s not really being eaten so much as it is my fear of being eaten. What will it sound like as they’re eating me? Will it be excruciating or can they give me something for the pain ahead of time? And if they do give me painkillers and tranquilizers, will that taint me? Will it make me less tasty? Will they have to sprinkle more salt on me to make me palatable? I’d hate to be responsible for their cholesterol going up. The LDL and the HDL. I forget which is which. I should probably look that up, too. I should probably know that. So that I can advise them properly while they’re eating me. I wouldn’t want to make them sick in any way. I hope I’m fresh when they consume me. I hope I haven’t been left sitting out on the counter too long. Or forgotten in the back of the refrigerator until there’s furry green mold growing all over me and they’re forced to throw me out like on old onion. Because at the very least, I would like for them to enjoy me. So they might remember me. So they might one day say, “Remember when we ate Woody? He was really delicious. He paired nicely with the baked brie and baguette and the nice Merlot from the Loire Valley.” I don’t even know if there is a Loire Valley, by the way. I just made that up. Cannibals are eating me and I should be worried about geography? But at least if they’re French cannibals, they’ll really know how to prepare me properly for their table. A Michelin 5-star cannibal chef is what I want. He or she or they will really know their way around a human corpse. They’ll know the proper way to prepare me. They won’t just run me through a big slicer like in Reese’s pig movie and fry me up as part of a pancake breakfast for a bunch of Cub Scouts somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska so I can help them earn a merit badge. A merit badge in cannibalism, I suspect. I never earned any merit badges. In cannibalism or anything else. Certainly not how to be a caped crusader, driving around town in a 1950s Cadillac shaped like a bat. I think I’d really just prefer to call an Uber. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about any unsafe driving on my part, after I took all those pain killers and tranquilizers on my way to the cannibal festival. Do they let you say any last words, I wonder, or do they simply pounce on you like a pack of wild, hungry dogs tearing apart a carcass the minute I step out of the Uber? Maybe I can ask the Uber driver to circle the block a few times, until I’m a bit more comfortable with them eating me. Plus, I gotta say, being eaten in public like that, out in front of everybody, it makes me very uncomfortable. It makes me very nervous. I really think that it would be better in a smaller group setting that would perhaps be more intimate. I’d hate to have any untoward bodily reactions that would make me taste badly. I’d hate to ruin everyone’s evening. The foie gras was great but the Woody was terrible. I’d hate to be remembered as terrible Woody. At least let me be halfway-decent Woody or the kind of Woody you use to make soup a few days later after you’ve eaten all the decent parts. Woody Soup might not be so bad. With some carrots and onions, a nice bullion cube or two, maybe some shallots for color. Perhaps some chives as well. Maybe they can top me with some croutons and melted cheese and enjoy me as a French Onion Woody Soup. I’ve always loved French Onion soup. To be honest, I’ve never wanted to BE French Onion soup but if I have to be soup, that’s the soup I would like to be. It’s hearty. Either that or chop me up into cubes and bake me into a pot pie. A Woody Pot Pie. With peas and carrots and a nice gravy. Maybe some potatoes for a little extra starch. And a crispy crust that turns just the right shade of golden brown in the oven. I think perhaps I would be okay being enjoyed as a nice pot pie like that. I think it’s much more preferable than being sushi. Raw Sashimi Woody with rice and black sesame, a little roe on top, and you’re picking me up with chopsticks and dipping me in the wasabi and soy sauce? I read somewhere that the wasabi is necessary when eating sushi to kill any harmful bacteria or microorganisms in the raw fish. I wouldn’t want anyone to be fearful of consuming any harmful bacteria or microorganisms as a result of eating uncooked me. It’s really probably best to cook me thoroughly and properly. Don’t just walk me across the grill. I should probably be Medium-well to Well-done, just to be on the safe side. Perhaps make a nice burger out of me. A nice warm, grilled bun with plenty of fresh produce, tomato, pickle, and onion, all organic and locally-sourced from farm to table, of course. And perhaps topped with a little garlic aioli to give me a bit of an uptown sophisticated flavor. Uptown and sophisticated is a nice way to be remembered, believe you me. There are a lot worse ways to be remembered. Like chopped and pressed and sliced and put in a can, like in Reese’s pig movie, which I thought was marvelous, by the way. I just know I could never have gotten out of such a situation. I just couldn’t do it. What can I say? I’m a realist. I know I should be consumed only after being tenderized, cooked thoroughly, and heavily garnished and I know I could never climb out of a giant meat slicer after breaking both my legs and being severely concussed after being hit in the face by pressurized pig blood. Talk about a way to go. I wouldn’t want to be hit in the face by any sort of pressurized fluid. But to be hit in the face by pressurized pig blood is really just adding insult to injury, if I’m honest. I really think it’s God having a joke at my expense at that point. A very perverse, and might I say also a very disgusting and disturbing joke. One that I don’t find at all funny. And in my last hours I wouldn’t mind being funny. I wouldn’t object to doing a bit of light comedy to improve my mood. I think it would make me taste better prior to my being consumed. I think if you’re going to go out, try to go out with a smile on your face. Even if it is at the hands of a 5-star Michelin cannibal chef caught between ethics and reality. It’s either starve to death or eat the director. If it were me, I’d eat the director. You can always get another director. We’re a dime a dozen, I tell ya. Everyone wants to be a director. They think it’s so easy. You try yelling Action and Cut while trying to get real human beings to do something magical there someplace in the middle. Some days it’s not so easy. Some days it’s downright miserable if you want to know the truth. Some days the actor is sad. Some days the camera breaks every five minutes and the entire morning is wasted. And then some other days, the cannibals come for you, because you’re the director and you’re a dime a dozen. At the very least, at the VERY least, and I really mean this, please, make sure I’m kosher.
Okay, that’s our show, folks!
Goodnight!
Remember to tip your waitress!
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