Alien Night Club - Show 24?
Alien Night Club <the transcripts>
If you’re just discovering this (Hi!), begin with The Pilot HERE.
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Show 24? Show 24? Is it Show 24? Chronologically, it's Show 24. Allegedly.
Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome. Welcome times five. Welcome to the 5th. The 5th power. That sounds racial, like…well, never mind.
Welcome to the show! Welcome, as always, to the Alien Night Club. I am your nonadjectival host Captain Blank. They call me that because I'm shooting blanks. Oh my God stroke Gawd, he's talking about shooting. This is my rifle, this is my gun; this is for fighting, this is for fun! This is my bulbul, there are many like it but this one is mine. Without me, my bulbul is useless. Without my bulbul, I am useless.
Sorry. I went off on a little Full Metal Jacket thing there. I went shopping for a full metal jacket. Seven six two millimeter. Anyone? Kubric? Yes? No? Lee Ermey, the guy who plays Leonard whose name I'm blanking on, OMG - maybe this is why they call me Captain Blank; oh! Vincent D'Onofrio – and Mathew Modine. He's very tall, by the way; Mathew Modine. I sold him popcorn once. He and Bob Eubanks. And their lady friends. Bob was wearing a kickass belt buckle.
Speaking of bulbuls and uselessness, the Costanza Doctrine.
Heard of it?
It basically says that when your instincts are forged during your childhood and that childhood has stroke had a lot of trauma, your instincts become unreliable. They wind up telling you to do the opposite of what you should. Like George in the diner with Jerry. When he wanted go talk to a beautiful woman. And he ranted about how he was going to merely sit there and do nothing. And that every instinct he'd ever had in his entire life had been wrong.
So Jerry adroitly pointed out that the opposite would then haff to be right.
We all saw George's parents and the way they quote unquote communicate and the household he grew up in. A wee bit o' dysfunction.
So of course he turned out the way he did.
And thus he realized the wisdom of Jerry’s statement.
The opposite would haff to be right.
So he went over to that beautiful woman and said, Hi, I'm George. I'm unemployed and I live with my parents.
And she said, I'm Julia, hi!
She totally went for it.
Also, perhaps this is why George equated eating a block of cheese with some sort of a bachelor paradise.
Point being that I have always been a bit of a misfit. I never seem to fit or belong or be like the people around me. And I've never known why that is. And it always hindered or totally prevented my success. And now I see why.
I was in the wrong place. Surrounded by people with whom I had little in common.
For example, I used to sell insurance. Me. Cold-calling strangers and trying to sell them insurance.
Me.
That's madness.
I should’ve gone to an art school and asked to work there mixing paint or cleaning the kiln or teaching underwater basket weaving. Or creative writing. Or film appreciation. I could've made everybody watch Alien and then use fingerpaints and giant canvases to create an image of how the movie made them feel.
At least I would've been around like minded people.
So if you are also someone who feels that you don't belong, that you're a misfit, take a look at your childhood and see how your coping mechanisms were forged in trauma and how they've been driving you to act in your life. And what role they played in you winding up where you are.
If you like where you are and who you're with, you're probably okay.
If you don't, maybe take a look at what drove you to do the things you've done, to make the decisions you've made, to cope by medicating with food or alcohol or drugs, to run away.
But then you're always running.
And the good things come from staying and showing that people can depend on you.
And it helps to be able to recognize your drivers and your resultant actions. And your thoughts. Because thoughts become speech, words, and actions. And actions have consequences. Good or bad.
If you eat when you're stressed, yes, you feel better in the short term. But long-term, you're likely to become obese. That's not good.
If you drink when you're stressed, you wind up an alcoholic.
Once you recognize this pattern, you can invoke the eternal wisdom of the Costanza Doctrine and do the opposite.
Instead of hiding in the pantry and shoving food in your mouth, go for a walk.
Instead of hitting the bottle, go for a walk. Every time you want a cigarette, do ten press-ups stroke push-ups.
Go work out. Go pound some iron. Go to a kickboxing class. Go do something physically grueling. Because that will demand your focus. Which means you're not thinking about that thing you were thinking about before that had you all stressed out. And in so doing, you now have a healthier coping mechanism. A new tool in your tool belt. And you can begin to rewrite the neural pathways of your very existence.
And that's how we become better versions of ourselves.
It takes time.
And it takes work. You haff to do the work.
You.
No one else.
Only you can do it.
A friend can drag you kicking and screaming and pouting to the kickboxing class and can show you how to wrap your hands and put on bag gloves and the basic 1 2 3 4 5 punches and the basic types of kicks before turning you loose on a heavy bag.
But they can't punch and kick FOR you.
You haff to do that. You haff to be the one to beat the shit out of the heavy bag, three three-minute rounds with one minute of rest in between. And the last 10 seconds of every round, you go apeshit. With deference to our ape friends. Go crazy. With deference to our quote unquote crazy friends. Punch and kick that bag as hard and as fast as you can, until your shoulders burn so badly you can't lift your arms. You may even collapse and find yourself on your knees, gasping for air.
And when the class is over, you feel great. You feel amazing. You just did something very difficult that rather few people ever do. And now that argument you had or that shitty comment that person made to you or that person who gave you the finger in traffic don't seem so bad. They're not that big of a deal. You now have perspective. As well as a brain and body full of pleasure chemicals. The same ones you normally get from eating or drinking or getting high. And you just discovered a new method for extracting them. A new tool. And over time, you apply this same process and you discover, acquire, and hone new, additional tools. And that's how you win at life.
Anyway, welcome to the show.
Hi.
How’s this for a new T-shirt? Real Women Don't Masturbate.
The he'll we don't, motherfucker. Now they're trying to tell us we can't pleasure ourselves? Mansplaining away my own agency? Please.
Well, you liked it when it was directed at men. Quote unquote men. Those toxic evil manchild fucks.
But now you don't?
Aren't we equal? In every way?
Dress for revenge.
Is there such a thing as a veterinarian obgyn?
A vagina doctor for your, ahem, pussy's pussy? Your feline? Your cat?
Everyone know the difference between envy vs jealousy? Envy is wanting what someone else has. Jealousy is fear of losing something you have. You envy your neighbor and their big-ass house and sweet brand new Model X Plaid. You’re jealous when some piece of crap hits on your significant other.
Is it hard being here?
You know it uh uh uh!
Do everything you did in the first 10 years of your life but do it on a spaceship. Is that child abuse? Making kids live on a spaceship for twenty years whilst en route to Beta Theta New Earth Gamma Seven Oh Five Six One Two Three Eight?
Might wanna shorten the name, by the way. Nobody’s putting that on their birth certificate.
So, where are you from?
Beta Theta New Earth Gamma Seven Oh Five Six One Two Three Seven.
Beta Theta New Earth Gamma Seven Oh Five Six One Two Three Seven? I thought you said you were from Beta Theta New Earth Gamma Seven Oh Five Six One Two Three Eight.
Oh, that’s right! I misspoke. It is Beta Theta New Earth Gamma Seven Oh Five Six One Two Three Seven.
SV? Tell us what time it is if you wouldn't mind.
SV: I wouldn't mind at all. It's time for a fresh one from the band. The one-and-only Hot Fudge Sundaes singing The First 10 Years of Your Life. Gents, hit it!
{musical interlude}
If there's something you want to do, start doing it. Stop waiting for permission. Don't run around asking everyone you know if they think it's a good idea.
Screw that.
Just Do it.
See how that works?
And then you can get into bed each night and rest easy and therefore well knowing that you just DID it.
Have you ever wanted to die? Wished that you were dead? Not all the time but at least once. I think that's pretty normal. If not, are you living hard enough?
Great art makes you want to fall in love with the artist. To meet them, be with them, fall in love with them, in lust with them. And they with you. So you can share the most powerful lovesex soul friend deep wet French kiss you've ever had, the one you always wanted. Which is probably what explains stalkers. Nutjob people who obsess over a person such that they create an entire false reality in their mind. A false reality in which the object of their obsession returns their affections once made aware of them.
But that’s not how it works. So stop climbing over the walls or gates or fences of so-called celebrities and breaking into their homes and stealing their watches and lighting their stairs on fire. Dumbass.
Is anyone else here getting fat? Even though you are living on protein shakes and protein bars and are having one meal a day at dinner, you're basically doing OMAD, and you're being active walking 10,000 steps a day and you get home from a 12,000-step walk that took two hours and you're standing there in the bathroom, naked, ready to get into the shower and you do a quick visual assessment in the mirror and you are definitely fatter? Or at least not thinner? Leaner?
And you're like, What the fuck?
Me, either.
You guys ever watched Sphere? If not, you should. Based on a Michael Crichton novel. He's the same guy who wrote Jurassic Park, F-Y-I. It's really good.
Am I right, Sammy?
SV: Oh, you're definitely right.
Yeah, great movie. Seen it more than once. You, Dustin Hoffman, Queen Latifah, Rene Say It Ain’t So Russo. Panache. Yeah, it means flair. I know what it means. Really? I had to look it up.
That’s from In the Line of Fire. Wolfgang Petersen. Motherfuckin Clint Eastwood. Is he not the mother of all bad motherfuckers? Hello? Dirty Harry. Any Which Way But Loose. He even had an orangutan companion named Clyde. And he’d point his finger at Clyde and say, Clyde, bang. And freakin Clyde would fall on the tree stump and play dead. It was awesome. Is it evidence of the Cool Cohort going to the zoo to see the gorillas? I think so.
But yeah, I’m definitely getting fatter. Or at least not losing any fat. Trying to keep the muscle, of course. That means eating enough protein and doing resistance training several days a week to activate the muscle fibers and stress them enough to either grow or at least stay the same. And we know what happens if we don’t. The stinky Uber driver takes the nutrients and calories into the fat cells.
I’m fat, I’m fat, you know it…
That’s Weird Al doing Michael Jackson.
Fat, fat, fat.
But don’t worry, I can still make the whole room shimmer.
And, you know, the thing about masturbation is that there is an element of shame to it. Like even if it’s only a teenie, tiny part of your mind that says it. That part of you still knows it is preferable to share your sexuality with another person. Another lifeform. Another consenting adult, however those terms are legally, morally, and common sensically defined in your jurisdiction, planet, system, galaxy, et cetera.
Note also that it is et cetera with a T; not eck cetera with a K sound. Et cetera. With a T.
And if you are with someone but you are still masturbating regularly, there may be an additional component of shame because you’re hiding it from your lover stroke partner. Because you know they wouldn’t like it. They’d prefer you come to them for your sexual outlet. Right? As you would prefer them to come to you. If you’re in a relationship, and you’re touching yourself all the time instead of doing it with your lover, you guys need to talk. Like, REALLY talk. Get that straightened out. If it’s a time thing, a busy schedule thing, put it on the schedule. Date night. That’s why date night was invented. So you guys can get dressed up, feel good, feel sexy, look good, look sexy, go out to eat, maybe to a movie, relax, and then go someplace where you can make love for a couple hours. Even if it means getting a hotel room. Otherwise, go home and do it. Because it’s better with another person.
Point being that if you’re NOT doing that, if you’re HIDING it, there’s probably times when they’re home and you’re afraid you’re going to get caught. So now you’re in a hurry. Now you’re combining shame with expediency. You’re training your body to be able to orgasm quickly, before you’re discovered, before they walk in on you.
So no wonder you can’t last very long when you guys do actually, finally do it. Together. Of course you can’t. You’ve been training your body to respond quickly. To be able to do it fast.
And the body gets better at whatever we ask of it.
If you were running instead of quote unquote tossing off to mah-guh-zeenz in the bathroom, end quote, you’d be a marathon runner. You’d be a serious runner. You’d be one of those people with the expensive running shoes you can only get at specialty running stores, not the big box chain places. You’d be one of those people everyone knows to be a runner. We all know someone like that. If it’s not you, you probably know someone who routinely runs 5 to 10 miles almost every day.
Have you seen the movie with Taylor Swift where she quote unquote plays herself? It’s an autoerotic biopic.
That’s the title:
Taylor Swift – An Autoerotic Biopic
And it’s just a cameraperson following her around, with her narrating what’s happening in her life. And for the really juicy stuff, she wears spy glasses or she hides a camera in a button or a hair clip or something. So we’re in the kitchen with her. We’re in the studio with her. We’re in the talent agency office with her. In the lawyer’s office with her.
We’re on stage with her. Talk about unprecedented access. Also via the brand new Google Hololeye, which is a pair of contact lenses that not only overlay virtual reality onto the wearer’s actual reality, they can also record EVERYTHING. They have a set of matching bluetooth microphones. Plural. That you can clip or stick pretty much anywhere on your person. For full stereo quadraphonic sound that would quote unquote make George Lucas pee in his pants end quote.
And then we get to see her seducing guys and toying with women and maneuvering the bizarre, heartless, cruel, extremely fucked-up minefield – mindfield? – of her career due to the business she’s in. It’s super Rated R, by the way. So the young Swifties must not be allowed to see it.
And one night she’s at a party and she brings a guy into her bedroom and beds him. And she’s wearing a big white dress for some reason. And the entire bedroom is gray. And his clothes are gray. And she’s on top of him, riding him like a cowgirl, and he’s like, Wait, wait, I’m not wearing, I’m getting, I need to—
And she whips out a switchblade butterfly knife and does that cool thing where she flicks it and flips it around and opens it. And she puts the knife to his throat and growls, Keep going.
And the look on his face….
Holy shit.
Because we’re all thinking the same thing: this is messed UP . . . but also kinda hot in that perverted irresistible way we’ve all heard about but have never really experienced ourselves. And now, holy poop, it’s happening, we’re witnessing it. And it’s Taylor Swift riding some dude and kinda sorta, uh, raping him?
Because what if she was on the bottom and a big, strong dude was on top of her with a knife to her throat, telling her he was going to, you know, inside her?
You’d rush in and kill that piece of shit. Right?
But for some reason, now that Taylor is on top of the guy, holding a knife to his throat, moving up and down and squirming around to make him, it’s kinda hot.
You might want to take a moment to check your phone. The Double Standard Society called, and the People for the Ethical Treatment of Double Standards just texted and told you to pull your head out of your ass.
Because think about what happens after that guy blows his load. Which in and of itself is also a crazy commentary on the aforementioned double standard. But what happens after he finishes, she does, too, and then she tells him not to tell anyone or she’ll tell everyone he raped her. It’ll just be their little secret. As long as he’s a good boy. And as long as he answers his phone the next time she calls and wants him to COME over for more. And he nods incoherently because he’s all messed up in the head and has no idea what just happened or why, nor why he responded the way he did and how he feels about this whole thing. So he pulls his pants up and he has semen and Taylor Swift’s vaginal fluids all over him. And he goes downstairs and stumbles past his friends and out the door. And just before he closes the door, he looks over his shoulder and sees Taylor standing at the top of the stairs in her poofy white dress, watching him, with this weird-ass look on her face. Kinda like she’s somehow amused but also…sad?
And everyone at the party is watching while pretending they’re not, wondering what just happened.
And Taylor comes down the stairs and her friends rush over and are all like, Are you alright?
And she’s like, Yeah, I’m fine.
But they know something is up. The two of them were up there for almost 15 minutes. And now he’s leaving. And one of her friends straight-up says, Did he rape you? Because these days, nobody – fuckin NOBODY – is having any more of that shit. Fucking rapists get castrated. That’s the deal. Brad Pitt shows up in a white tuxedo and pins him down and puts a rubber band around the rapist’s scrotum and asks a few questions to just sort of coax the confession, which he of course captures using his all new Hololeye eyeball cameras and total sensory recording suite.
And then instead of cutting the rubber band, he does a full-on Elliot Page from Hard Candy. If you haven’t seen Hard Candy, stop what you’re doing and watch it. It’s epic.
Point being that Taylor says, No, guys, he did NOT rape me.
And then she sniggers and goes, Maybe I raped him!
And they all laugh and go, He should be so lucky.
And we all laugh.
Despite knowing that what just transpired upstairs was a crime.
A full-on CRIME.
But it’s fine because it was a woman doing it to a man.
And then we see Taylor at the end of the night, after the last people leave. The house is trashed. She’s there alone. Looking around at the mess. Wondering what we all wonder in that situation: Why your FRIENDS make such a mess and then leave without cleaning it up. Oh, no, screw that; your house, your party, your mess. That’s the rules.
Uh-huh.
So she trudges slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. She puts on some music on her crazy insane insane crazy George Lucas sound system, maybe a song about a woman getting what she wants, and she goes into the bathroom. She opens a drawer and digs around and pulls out a pregnancy test. And she goes and pees on it. She sets it on the counter and starts the timer on her phone and paces around the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. Turning sideways to look at her stomach, which is totally flat, of course. But then she sticks it out and tries to make it round. And she lovingly cradles her distended belly with her hands the way a pregnant woman does. And then she checks the time on her phone and sees the timer counting down to zero. So she dismisses it. And then she looks at the pregnancy test. And it’s a single line or whatever, and she compares it to the picture on the box, and it’s clear she’s not pregnant.
And she looks at herself in the mirror and goes, Yet.
And then she looks in the drawer and we see it’s full of pregnancy tests. And she opens the cupboard under the sink and there’s a basket in there, and it’s FULL of pregnancy tests.
And we’re forced to conclude that, holy shit, Taylor, the totally fake, made-up, completely not real parody fictional character portrayed in this film, this piece of fiction that also is totally and completely NOT REAL, is maybe just a little bit cuckoo.
And then she goes into the bedroom where she has an elliptical machine. And she gets on it in her bare feet and still wearing her big white dress that kinda seems like a wedding dress except also not. And she pulls out her phone and begins manically thumb typing:
Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over Cum over
Like that, over and over again.
She hits Send.
The doorbell rings. A really nice-sounding doorbell, too. Something appropriate for a house where the world’s most famous singer songwriter entertainer would live.
She goes downstairs and opens the door and it’s him. And he’s wearing the same suit.
And he’s hammered.
He is wasted.
Eyes bright pink. Obviously high as a kite. Has an actual flask in his hand like he stole it from some version of Grandpa Rick.
And Taylor takes it from him and smells it. And then pours it out onto the floor at their feet, all over his shiny black shoes he is still making payments on on his credit card because he hasn’t quote unquote made it yet and is broke and in debt up to his eyeballs.
And she carefully, slowly, pointedly screws the little silver cap back on the flask and tucks it into the inside pocket of his gray suit coat, which he also is paying 24.99% interest on on his credit card. And she goes, You’re definitely going to be needing this.
And she grabs him by his tie and the front of his shirt and she drags him over to her big, black, shiny grand piano. And she pushes him down onto the bench. He stumbles and his arm hits the keys and makes a loud, disjointed sound that fills the whole room.
And she goes, Play something for me.
And he says, I don’t play piano.
And she says, Even more useless than I thought. Strip.
And he looks at her with weed-red heavy eyes and goes, What?
And she looks at him. For a long time. Just staring at him. Finally she says, Strip. Or would you like to see the knife again?
And he slowly begins to undress. Until he’s standing there, naked. Shoulders slumped, half sideways, because he’s wasted, very, very, VERY far from being able to legally render consent in the state of California.
And she pushes him onto the piano. He hits the keys again, making an ugly sound.
Climb up on it, she says. Sit up there.
And she points. And slowly he climbs up on the piano, until he’s sitting on it, facing her. And she climbs onto the bench and steps up on the piano. She uses one foot to push him back onto his back.
She straddles him.
She reaches under her dress. That’s it, she says. That’s a good boy. That’s a good little doggie. Bark for me, little doggie.
And he goes, Whuh?
And she says, Bark. I said, Bark. Bark, little doggie.
And he grins and goes, Arf.
Arf? she asks. Arf? Not Ruff or Woof? Fuckin Arf? See? I knew you were a little pissant piece of shit.
And then she sits up, still with one hand under her dress, and then she sits down again, exhaling as she does so.
Don’t you fuckin go soft, she says.
He just stares at her, his eyes literally half-crossed.
I said…Don’t. Go. Soft.
She leans forward and takes his face in her hand, squeezes his face and makes his lips look like a fish. She leans down, lower, closer, until her mouth is next to his ear. And she whispers, I think somebody needs to see the knife again.
She sits up, smiles, and says, That’s better.
She puts her head back and bounces up and down, losing herself in it.
His bare feet flounder across the keys, playing a disjointed score.
Eventually, both their bodies stiffen and they gasp. She leans forward and looks into his eyes and says, Don’t let me find you here in the morning.
She climbs down from the piano, goes into the kitchen, pulls a slice of pizza from one of the many pizza boxes, picks up a bottle of red wine, which she drinks from, spilling red wine all over her dress. Like when Joey drank the entire gallon of milk in ten seconds. She goes into her home studio and uploads the ugly piano sounds to her mixer. She fiddles about and soon has a catchy new song based on them. She grabs a pen and a notebook and hums and bobs her head, mouthing words as she writes.
The next thing we see is her doing a publicity stunt somewhere in L.A., it looks like Beverly Hills, and she’s holding her new CD. And the camera zooms out and she’s standing way up in the air, literally standing high atop a giant billboard, overlooking Sunset Boulevard. And the image on the billboard is the same as on the CD in her hand. It’s the cover art for the new album. It’s a picture of a butterfly knife on a shiny black grand piano. And it simply says Taylor Swift – Piano Sounds.
And then credits roll:
Taylor Swift – An Autoerotic Biopic.
A Taylor Swift Production.
Of a Taylor Swift Film.
Written, Directed, Photographed, and Edited by Taylor Swift.
Starring…Taylor Swift. And…The Rapist.
fin
The movie ends. The house lights come up.
We’re in the main auditorium of the world-famous Chinese Theater in Hollywood on red carpet premiere night.
And everyone just sits there. Stunned.
And then Taylor walks out on stage. She’s wearing a cute little sparkly black number. Perfect eye makeup sharp enough to kill a man. Dressed for revenge. And she looks STUNNING. With her dorky girlish grace. But also…womanly somehow. Hot as fuck. And she holds up both hands, gives two big, fat middle fingers, and then walks off the stage and up the center aisle of the theater. And then out the door. Everyone hears her slam the door open, followed by it slowly closing.
And then Reese Witherspoon breaks the silence when she says, Holy fuck.
Everyone gets up from their seats and files out to the infamous courtyard to the very Taylor-less afterparty where press gets to hang out and feel like they’re part of the industry rather than a barely-necessary evil. Someone shoves a camera in Reese Witherspoon’s face and goes, Reece! Reece! What did you think of Taylor’s film?
And Reese blinks a bunch of times and goes, I…I…I…I don’t know what to say. I’m still processing it.
And then someone else shouts out, What do you think this means come awards season?
And Reece goes, Well, I admit I’m biased but I thought surviving a harrowing experience in a ham slicing machine was compelling. And that maybe I had a shot. But then along comes Taylor Swift. I suddenly feel stupid. I feel like I should’ve quit after my Friends episode. The only thing I can’t have is DAIRY!
And everyone laughs.
And the next day, the trades are all like, Is Taylor Swift the victor in the Battle of the Biopics?
Her movie sweeps the Oscars and she doesn’t even show up. She Facetime’s in from somewhere in the Caribbean. Or maybe Greece. Or maybe the Maldives. And she’s all like, Hey, fuckers. Hope you guys are having a lovely evening. I’m about to smoke a fatty and then go snorkeling and eat pizza. See ya!
And she tosses her phone down on the chaise lounge and everything is upside down as we see Taylor apparently smoking a cigarette. She turns to the camera and smiles and blows the smoke at us, and you have the urge to wave your hand in front of your face.
Taylor grins and stands up. She’s wearing a cute little white bathing suit and she has a mask and snorkel in her hand. She takes another BIG drag on the cigarette, licks her fingers and pinches it out, tosses it on the chaise, pulls her mask on, and exhales milkwhite smoke out of her nose, filling the mask. She puts her arms out and starts feeling all around as she turns and walks toward the cyanblue sea, the tiny breakers, where the water looks warm and amazing. She zig zags a little, with her arms out. She looks over her shoulder and calls out, I can’t see shit! And she giggles. She walks into the water and melts into it, until we see only the back of her head and the snorkel poking out of the water, with a trail of white smoke wafting up out of it.
And everyone just sits there, staring up at the many screens on which are the image of Taylor Swift, somewhere in paradise, submerged now below the water. And we see only warm sandy beach, perfect water, and blue blue sky. Except the phone is upside down and everything is on the ceiling. The ocean is where the sky should be. And people start to wonder why the phone didn’t use its accelerometer thing to autocorrect the screen orientation, so everything is right side up.
And then it suddenly does. It flips. And everything looks normal. Like maybe the phone was at a weird angle and the software was having difficulty reading the input from the accelerometer, and it took a while for it to flip.
And we can still see Taylor’s little snorkel out there in the water, bobbing around. And for some reason, we all want to just sit and watch Taylor Swift snorkel. It’s like watching somebody play video games or watching someone work out. Instead of doing it ourselves.
And then credits roll:
A Taylor Swift Production.
Of a Taylor Swift Film.
Snorkeling.
Starring ME
(Taylor S.)
And that cool song from the end of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off plays.
And we keep looking at the sea, watching Taylor snorkel.
And when the song ends, we’re still sitting there staring at the sea.
And then Taylor appears! She comes out of the sea, glistening like a glorious mermaid. She walks up the beach toward us and comes over to the chaise lounge and kneels down and peers right at us.
She’s still wearing the mask and snorkel. She pops the snorkel out of her mouth. Through the semi-foggy lenses of the mask she goes, You’re still here? It’s over. Go home.
And she stands up and walks toward the water. She stops once, looks over her shoulder and says, Go!
And she melts into the sea again.
And the video call ends.
And then Taylor walks out on stage in a stunning gown with matching gloves and hair and eye makeup and she waves and points, laughing her ass off and we’re all like, Oh, man, she got us again!
And everyone has a good laugh. And they get closeups of Brad Pitt, who stands up to give Taylor a standing O and he licks his lips and makes everybody wet. Because how is it he just keeps getting more and more handsome with every passing year?
And then they show Reese Witherspoon and she’s on her feet too, clapping and shaking her head knowingly, now that she is – and we are– in on the joke.
And Kristen Bell is over there with her David Bowie knife, standing next to Maya Rudolph, who is clapping but mostly staring disconcertedly at Kristen’s crazy knife.
And Ed Norton is standing there in his tux, holding a sweet-ass Red camera, filming ALL of this. All of it. And when the camera comes close to him, he looks down into it and says, Yeah, I’ll see you fuckers next year! Just wait! Palindrome the Prequel, motherfuckers. It’s called tattarrattat. James Joyce, Ulysses, 1922, the longest palindrome in the English language. In theaters next summer! Now get the fuck out of my face.
And thus the Battle of Biopics rages on.
And Chris Nolan and Larry David are rumored to be up to something epic.
But we’ll have to see.
Remember that scene in Ocean’s 11 when Bernie Mack went to the car dealer to buy the white vans they needed for the job? He spoke with the salesman, an older White guy. And he shook the salesman’s hand and asked him if he moisturizes. And he starts talking about skin and moisturizer. And he gets the salesman to drop his price from 18,5 to 16 per van. Through what was essentially intimidation.
Was that okay?
What if it was reversed? What if the White dude came in to buy vans and Bernie Mac was the salesman Mr. Denim, like the jean, and the White man shook Bernie’s hand and wouldn’t let go, and started blabbering about lotion and aloe vera and his sister and his allergy to camphor and his eschewance of the traditional remedies, and he squeezed Bernie’s hand really, really hard until he was hurting him, physically hurting him, and Bernie caved in just to appease the man, and he dropped the price in order to make the sale and to get his hand back.
Everybody would be thinking, That racist fuck. I hope he gets run over by one of those vans later in the movie and Bernie Mac is driving and the tire runs right over his crotch and crushes his pelvis and his balls and his dick, so he can’t reproduce or have sex ever again, so we won’t have to worry about him bringing anymore racist assholes into the world.
Would that be okay?
Or do historical transgressions grant a free pass in perpetuity?
Asking for a friend.
While listening to Taylor Swift’s Piano Sounds. Which is a freakin masterpiece. Very mature. Very introspective and outtrospective and hyperspective and hypospective and high perspective of low perspective.
A high perspective of low perspective. Story of my life.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our show.
Thank you.
Thank you for being here. You’ve been swell and I thank you.
Goodnight!
Remember to tip your waitress!
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