Best Law and Order Ending Ever

Episode:
"Ain't No Love"
2005

Actual Law and Order Ending

INT. BRANCH'S OFFICE - NIGHT

District Attorney Arthur BRANCH speaks with Assistant District Attorney SERENA Southerlyn.

BRANCH
You're a superb attorney.  And you oughtta be involved in cases that feed your passion.

SERENA
Well, that would be wonderful.

BRANCH
But Serena, you must know, that will never happen in this office. It can't.  Now, a prosecutor can be zealous, but not passionate.  Advocacy is warm blooded. Enforcement's gotta be cold blooded.  And blind, and even handed.

SERENA
Does Jack feel as strongly about this as you do?

BRANCH
No.  But it's my office and my decision.  And he accepts that.

SERENA
(concerned)
A decision.  You've already made a decision.

BRANCH
I have.  You're fired.

Pause.

SERENA
Is this because I'm a lesbian?

BRANCH
No.  Of course not.
(adding)
No.

SERENA
Good.
(adding)
Good.

FADE OUT.

Daaaaaaaaaaaamn!

I really just wanted to transcribe that before I deleted it on my tivo.  But now that I did, as slippery a slope as catering can be, I feel your desperate craving and I so badly want to satiate you.  I will try.  I will try my best to help you.

My Revision of Law and Order Ending

INT. BRANCH'S OFFICE - NIGHT

SERENA
Is this because I'm a lesbian?

BRANCH
No.  Of course not.
(adding)
No.

SERENA
Good.
(adding)
Good.

She gets up and starts to gather her things.

BRANCH
Serena, wait.  Don't go.  I can't do this.  I want you to stay.

SERENA
Why, because I'm a lesbian?

BRANCH
Yes.  The fact is, I didn't remember you were a lesbian until just now, at which point I realized, you'll probably sue us, and it won't matter if you win or lose, it'll be in the papers, and it'll be a mess, and, like my Granpappy used to say, that coon won't hunt.

SERENA
Well, I don't want to come into work every day knowing that you wish I wasn't here but you're afraid to fire me because I'm a lesbian.

The sound of sawing wood prompts them both to look up.  The tip of a saw is protruding through a slit in the ceiling, vigorously sliding up and down and raining plaster dust as it lengthens the slit into a three foot circle.  The circular portion of the ceiling falls to the floor of Branch's office. 

Serena and Branch stare at the hole.  Nothing happens.

The door to the office is slammed shut, startling them.  Serena goes to it and tries to open it. 

SERENA
It's locked from outside!

BRANCH
Shh!  Shh!  Listen!

They stay perfectly quiet.  A faint hissing sound can be heard.

SERENA
What is it?  Cats?  Why would there be cats up there, how could they use a saw?

BRANCH
It's not cats.  I'm from Georgia.  Those are snakes.

Hundreds of snakes fall through the hole into Branch's office.

BRANCH
Fuck!  Fuck you! 

Branch runs to the pile of snakes and tries stomping on them.  Several of them leap and bite him on the legs, arms and face.

BRANCH
Agggh!  Fuck you!
(to Serena)
The bookshelf!  Pull the transcripts from Henderson v. Henderson!  NOW!

Serena scans the shelf of books as quickly as she can, trying not to panic.

Branch opens a drawer on his desk and pulls out a lit kerosene lamp, which he throws on the snakes.  It explodes into a lake of fire.

Serena finds what she's looking for and pulls a book on Arthur's shelf.  The book won't come all the way out.  Instead, it tilts forward and makes a loud click.  A section of Branch's book shelf slides open, revealing a flourescent lit concrete tunnel.

BRANCH
Go, go, go!

SERENA
I'm not leaving without you!

BRANCH
Yes you are, Serena!  You're an advocate.  I'm an enforcer.  I can no more abandon this office than you can stay in it, now GO!

A flaming snake leaps and bites Branch on the throat.

BRANCH
Aggggggh, mother fuckaaaaaaaa!

Serena shrieks through tears and covers her mouth, but then runs through the secret door into the concrete hall.

Branch, now leapt upon by dozens of flaming snakes, keeps screaming in pain and anger while twirling in circles.  He falls into the lake of fire and rolls around screaming.

The entire pile explodes.

INT. CONCRETE TUNNEL

Serena runs down the hall. 

Flame from the explosion moves rapidly up the hallwway behind her.  She grunts and runs faster, crying. 

A voice in her head:

MEDICINE MAN (V.O.)
Remember, Serena.  Remember your legacy.  Remember your people.

Serena concentrates while running. 

She turns into a jaguar. 

The jaguar is able to outrun the fire.

The jaguar gets to the end of the hall, where there is a metal door.  The jaguar tries scratching the door.  Paws at the doorknob, to no avail.

She looks back and sees the wall of flame bearing down on her.

The jaguar roars in anger, and then is consumed by the fire.

FADE TO BLACK.

Title card and Law and Order sound:
District Attorney's Office
10:05 AM, Friday, June 3

FADE IN:

INT. BRANCH'S OFFICE - DAY

A worker in coveralls is screwing the circular section of the ceiling back in place.  Other workers are sweeping up charred snake.

Detectives GREEN and FONTANA observe the blackened corpse of Arthur  Branch.  Green is thinking out loud about what must have happened.

GREEN
So, he's having a meeting with the girl.  Hole gets cut in the ceiling, she moves to the door.

FONTANA
Snakes come down, boom, Branch is up and stomping on them and she takes off down the tunnel.

GREEN
Where she turns into a jaguar before burning to death.

FONTANA
You have any idea how long the list of suspects is when the victim is the Distrct Attorney. 

GREEN
Yeah, we're going to be doing overtime on this one.  Let's hit the streets.

FONTANA
(to someone else)
Sorry to disturb you sir, I'm sure you're looking forward to getting started on your new job.

They walk away.  We pan from the door over to whomever Fontana was speaking.

It's an elderly MEDICINE MAN, sitting behind Branch's desk.

MEDICINE MAN
I am.

He looks at the camera and gives a sinister smile.

MEDICINE MAN
I am.

FADE TO BLACK.

Title card: 
Executive Producer
Dick Wolf.

8:51 AM - 16 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Beating God’s Rotted, Dead Horse’s Corpse for Myke

At Erin's party on Friday, Myke "Bertrand Russel" Chilian came bounding up to me with this disappointed smirk on his face and "confronted" me about this rumor he'd just heard that I believe in God.

Nobody hears me when I explain this, I feel like I'm talking into a paper bag:  The phrase "believe in God" is beneath me, that's how awesome I am. 

This is my explanation of my point of view on religion that I'm now pulling out all the time.  You can disagree with it but don't try to tell me it's not what I think:

If "believing in God" is Coca Cola and "not believing in God" is Pepsi, then the "corn syrup" that unites them, the poison that slips through disguised as dichotomy, is mediocrity.  Unremarkability.  Inhumanity.  That's what people who "don't believe in God" and people who "believe in God" have in common.  They all think you're limited, and they're all inviting you into their limited world where you can realize how limited you are.

Human beings do not come out of the womb having to decide what to think.  They come out just thinkin', the way Rambo comes out killin', it's as easy as breathin'. 

Society then [understandably] tells them they have to use their natural thinking power to make decisions, decisions that keep them from getting hit by cars and arrested and stuff.  In the real world.  Fine.  I agree. Make a decision at a stop sign.  Make a decision about using condoms, or, in the event that you don't make that decision, decide who you invite to your wedding or who to tell about your abortion.  Think real hard and make a decision about whether or not to record Nylon Nymphos 3 or Law and Order.  It's got to be one or the other and it's going to make a difference because you're either going to be cumming into a rag or...well, okay, you're going to be cumming into a rag no matter what but you might be doing it while watching Sam Waterston's closing arguments.

There are 9,000,000,000 decisions you have to make to get through this life.  God isn't one of them.  That's not what he's either there or not there for.  He's there or not there to be there and/or not there, not to be there or not there.

Mentally, by default, we are graceful, powerful creatures of limitless potential and we are as capable of living comfortably within mystery and paradox as we are capable of drinking water instead of Coke or Pepsi.  It's riiiiight there.  It's the easiest thing in the world.  It is the natural state of your incredibly beautiful human mind to be simultaneously aware of completely contradictory thoughts.

Mythology is our expression of that fact, an [attempted] reconciling of the infinite with the finite, an [attempted] surfing of the whirling spiral created by our consciousness of our own mortality. 

Gods are personifications of that which we have yet to understand.  The fact that we are able to give That Which We Do Not Yet Understand a name and a face is the reason why we're able to confront it, atone with it, and wield its power, which is another way of saying that mythology begets science, which begets us standing around at parties with the free time and laser-corrected vision to look down our noses at personifications of the unknown created by busier people who knew less and died younger. 

And yes, they were very silly people, those that came before us, with their flat Earth and their leeches and their please-confess-to-not-being-Jewish-or-we'll-sew-your-butt-closed and their stop-being-schizophrenic-or-we'll-blame-you-for-our-souflet-falling and all kinds of horrible things.  But that is not the fault of That Which We Do Not Know.  On the contrary, the witch burnings, the inquisitions, the highly inaccurate maps depicting everything past Portugal as a giant octopus and the highly uncomfortable taxonomical hierarchies justifying the ownership of people with different hairstyles, these are crimes committed by hubris, by refusal to acknowledge, let alone surrender, to That Which We Do Not Yet Know.

That Which We Do Not Yet Know is still a minimum of 50% of every conversation we have, every room at the party and every minute of our lives, which is why nobody gets a pat on the back from me for pretending it's not there.  What you'll probably get is an ulcer, but it's none of my business and I'm not a doctor.

There is such a thing as a perfectly healthy, self-actualized atheist.  I've met them.  They're not all that pissed off at other people's religions and they don't devote a lot of energy condescending to primitive mythologies.  When you are a genuinely smart person with respect for scientific method, the confidence it brings is rarely characterized by a need to disprove people's personifications of the unknown.  Science is founded on the principle that there's a great deal left to be known and a great deal to be gained by knowing it.  So when you fold your arms and talk about everything you already know, and get up in my shit about how differently I should be thinking, I don't care if you work for NASA or Billy Graham, I don't exactly feel like I'm in the presence of a mentor.  I kind of feel like your Mom and Dad were as dopey as everyone else's but you haven't gotten over it, yet.

Do you have to call everything you don't know "God?"  Hell no, baby, you don't have to do anything.  The big question is, now that you know you don't have to do anything, what are you going to do with that freedom and power?  Nothing would be cool with me, I'm mostly a Taoist, I can roll with doing nothing.  Something would be equally cool, provided it was something you wanted to do.  We call the moment when a character realizes they don't have to do anything the "mid point."  It's half a story.  The second half of a full story involves knowing what you want to do and doing it. 

And I'm telling you, not because I'm good at it, but because we have been told this for 5,000 years now, knowing what you want to do and doing it involves a relationship with That Which You Do Not Yet Know.  A really intimate relationship with a lot of slappin' and kissin'.
 
Like the relationship Tom Hanks had with that volleyball in that movie where he got cast away.  It was very helpful for Tom Hanks to give that volleyball a name and a face.  It helped him be less lost and fix his tooth with a rock and get home to his ice cubes and icky face acting lady.  The process of getting from A to B was aided, for the audience and the character, by the character having something with which to commune.

So, are you going to float down to Tom Hanks' island and pop his volleyball and explain to him that it's not a person?  If you're that guy, here's some rhetorical questions for you:

1) Do you think Tom Hanks doesn't know it's just a volleyball?
2) Are you going to replace his instinctive mythology with something, or
3) Is your job done when everyone's buzz is killed?
4) Are you really doing this to help other people, or
5) Does this have something to do with your own empowerment, and if so
6) Do you think fighting something is the most effective way to gain power, or
7) Is it possible to attain something's power by surrendering to it?

Which brings me around to my corn syrup conspiracy point, which is that when everyone's given a "choice" between a life of religion and a life of science, what they're really being told is that they have no choice but to believe they have to choose.  To choose in which manner they are limited.  Someone's got to be dictating your margins, is it gonna be math or the pope.  You're not allowed to define right and wrong, you're not allowed to draw your own map of the cosmos.  

And I say that is a limited world, for limited people. 

I mean, if I make the statement that there is no God, I get a bunch of people with calculators agreeing with me.  Okay, could be worse.  Like if I made the statement that there is a God and he looks like Santa Claus but his suit is purple, in which case I get a bunch of high strung hillbillies and fat teenagers that haven't tried marijuana on my side.

But if I make the statement that I, Dan Harmon, am God, then I get a lot of hillbillies and calculator people booing in unison and high fiving each other.  Because those people aren't so different, not in the way that matters to ME.  From my perspective, they're all on the Dan Harmon is Not Capable of Greatness Team.  Fuck those guys.  Every vote in that election is a vote against me, I won't pick a side in the battle to decide why I'm a useless piece of shit.

I say, mythology is about man becoming one with the unknown, and in order for that to happen, you have to personify the unknown- which is very religious and not very scientific- and you have to then know that unknown - which is very scientific and somewhat sacreligious in the eyes of modern so-called Christianity, which, in spite of its name, has nothing to do with man-becoming-God and everything to do with belonging to a global cult of selfish, lazy, gluttonous, sanctimonous, xenophobic cowards.

In Myke's defense, his family is a bunch of foreigners, which can only mean that their version of Christianity was probably forced on their ancestors through the barrel of a gun or some kind of Happy Meal, and was therefore all the more fraudulent and therefore all the more forced around the dinner table, and he needs to run all the further from it all the faster to become a good person, and how old is Chilian, really?  His band still gets together for rehearsals, that means he's under 30, so why am I defending myself from the supposedly worthless derision of an Armenian teenager when I could be finishing my screenplay that's so good when he reads it he'll have no choice but to believe in God.

I just don't appreciate the implication that there's anything I don't know about - oh, crap, busted.  I don't know what I'm talking about, I'm just arrogant and blocked.  I feel unblocked now, though.  Thank you, God! 

4:30 PM - 19 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment

A Letter Home From John Rambo

[spoilers, I guess].

Dear Dad:

I guess, since I am 62, you are somewhere between 80 and 100 years old.  But a Rambo is nothing if not a survivor, so I'm thinking you might be alive.

Writing to family is sort of like killin', in that it's only as easy as breathin' if you're pushed.  And people push me into killin' more often than they say, "John, please, for the love of God and country, pick up a pen and drop a line to your old man."  But I also have to fully admit that in the war against keepin' in touch, I drew First Blood.  And I apologize. 

There's so much catching up to do.  Jamming it all into one paragraph won't do it justice, but you need an overall sense of what's been going on with me: 

In the early eighties, I went to visit an old Viet Nam buddy and the cops gave me a real hard time and it reminded me of Viet Nam so I blew up their town.  Because of that, I got sent to prison, but I got out early because they needed someone to rescue POWs in Viet Nam, which really reminded me of Viet Nam and I ended up killing, let's say 80 people.  After that, I moved to Thailand, and only beat the shit out of people for money until a friend of mine was taken prisoner by Russians and I had to kill like 150 people to rescue him.

After that, I moved to a new place in Thailand and I didn't give my address to anyone I know that tends to solicit my participation in military operations and/or get taken hostage.  And I stopped hanging out in places where they cover their fists in glue and dip them in broken glass.  And that made a huge difference in my life. 

For the last 20 years, I've been selling snakes (mostly cobras) to the curator of a local snake-poking exhibit a few miles from the Burmese border, where I figured I could get some peace.

And don't think that over that 20 years, there weren't a ton of people coming to me and saying, "hey, you're Rambo, can you rescue so and so or blow up such and such."  I had plenty of opportunities and my policy was absolutely not.  I adopted a new technique that I call "Ram-No," where I simply negate the overall context of any question or statement coming from someone who I think is going to get me into trouble.

Which is what I did when these Christian missionary people came to me and asked me to take them up river so they could make a difference.  You ain't gonna make no difference, I said to them.  Please, aren't you a good person, they said, and I was like, people aren't good, no way, and they were all, come on, we're trying to make a difference, and I was all, differences can't be made, that kind of thing.  I can do that for hours.

Ugh.  But only with dudes.  After the first Christian guy got Ram-no'd, this cute blonde lady was like, don't you want things to change, and I was like things don't change, and she was like, not if people don't change them, and I was all, nobody don't change nothing, go home, and she totally left.

Ugh, but then she came back again that night, and it was raining.  And she was like, don't you want to change things for the better, and I was like, nothing gets better, everything stays the same, and she was like, no, everything changes, because of people, and I was like, people don't change nothing, they get changed by things, only things is the way they is, they just is, and she was like, what is, and I was like, is just is, and it don't change.  But my words got all twisted around and she was so pretty and it was raining and you can only say no so many times and cut to me in a fucking boat with these hippies taking them up river.

And it was in that boat that the blonde lady asked me about myself, and I found myself mentioning you, Dad, and our place in Arizona, for the first time in 40 years.  And she said, "don't you ever think of going home and seeing what's changed," and I said, "I don't know...it's complicated."  Something like that.  Which is what I want to get back to at the end of this letter.

Anywho, I really doubt I have to tell you where this is going.  I dropped them off, went and slept in my hammock for several weeks, and then a pastor came to me and said it had been 10 days since they were due back home, and would I please go up river and find them with some mercenaries.  And he's talking to me, and all I wanted to do was Ram-No him, but I also thought, Jesus Christ, you know, I already did three scenes with the other people where I said no, this is the fourth scene where someone asks me to go be Rambo, if I hear myself say "no" one more time I'm going to start boring myself, so I agreed to go pretty quickly.

Well, I didn't go quickly.  First I hand-forged a giant knife.  And while I did, I got some thinking done out loud in my head.  And I thought a lot of stuff like, "sometimes you gotta just accept what you are" and "if you're pushed, killin's as easy as breathin'."  Thoughts that I would also like to revist after I get you caught up.

So, I finished making my new knife, and cut to me in a boat, but it wasn't a double beat, because now it's with mercenaries.  I was kind of like Sigourney Weaver in the second Alien movie, which I think was called First Aliens: Alien Part Two. 

And then we basically walked to the military camp where the cute blonde lady was moments from being raped, thankfully for the first time during her month long stint as the hottest female prisoner of 100 genocidal rapist maniacs, and I ripped one of their throats out with my bare hands and I blew most of their arms and legs off with guns and then I cut their leader in half with my giant knife.

And I looked at the blonde lady from up on a hill, and she was hugging one of her Christian friends, and I got the sense that they were an item, and I thought, what am I doing, I'm 62 years old, I look like a monster, I don't think you can kill enough brown people to get into her league.  She loves Jesus and I'm a big lumpy devil. 

So, dissolve to me coming home. 

Now, by the time you're reading this, if everything is still the way I left it 40 years ago, I will already have walked up a country road and down a dirt driveway, past a mailbox that says "R. Rambo" on it, toward our horse ranch.

And, because I'm not the world's most gifted thinker, except when it comes to first aid and camoflauge, I am hoping that you reading this letter will help stimulate a conversation between us, and we can get to the bottom of some things I don't quite understand, yet:

Was it Viet Nam that messed me up or was it my family?  If it was Viet Nam, it seems like going back to my horse ranch would have been something to explore before living in Thailand.  I didn't really mention my home life for 40 years and then I just blurted something on a boat to a hippy about not wanting to go home because it's complicated or something.  Was I just trying to get laid? 

What is my position on killing, exactly?  Do I like killing or do I not like killing?  I seem to put myself in situations that end up involving a lot of killing, but I also do a lot of monologues, both internal and external, about the horrors I've seen.  And this monologue I did while making my most recent knife really confused the hell out of me, because clearly, at 62, I have made some kind of decision I hadn't previously made about "accepting what I am."  And I'm not sure if it's that decision that resulted in me killing twice as many Burmese soldiers as Soviet and Viet Namese soldiers put together, and if so, am I coming home to stop killing, or - and don't be alarmed here - to really get the killing started?

Usually, after each murder spree, I make a speech, and it's easy enough to figure out what the moral of my murder spree was.  This time, I mumbled something in my head while making a knife about killing being as easy as breathing when you're pushed.  And now I'm coming home.  So I guess...um...don't push me? 

And just to give you an indication of what pushing me entails, those cops in Mount Washington made fun of my haircut and squirted me with a hose.  So...I would say...no fucking around when we're washing the car.  Spread the word about that.

I'm looking forward to seeing you and Mom again.  I'm either hoping that nobody pushes me, or I'm totally hoping someone pushes me, I'm not sure which, but just so you can get mentally prepared:  I have this weird feeling someone's going to push me.  Within hours of me ringing the doorbell.  Horse rustlers?  Overzealous ATF agents?  Gang bangers?  Paparazzi?  Indians?  I don't know, I'm not psychic, I can't read the future, but I can see the past, and the past says, some shit's going to go down.

I have a good feeling about it.  I have a feeling you're kind of a bad ass, but 80 years old, and maybe I've got a couple brothers, and maybe there's some foreclosure thing happening that will quickly escalate, with an entire Blackwater type corporation coming to evict us, but us standing our ground, and I think it could be neat, sort of like a Legends of the Fall meets Home Alone but with way deadlier booby traps.

You never know.  Maybe it's over.  Maybe if killin's as easy as breathin', then, by the transitive property, whenever I feel like killin', I can just take a deep breath.

By the way, do you still make those smiley face pancakes?

12:03 AM - 10 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

A Movie Review Blog By My Twelve Year Old Nephew

Hi, I'm Sherman Harmon, Dan Harmon's nephew.  I was five years old when 9/11 happened and I'd like to talk about summer movies.

The first one is called The Love Guru, an experimental comedy movie that introduces a new talent named Mike Myers to the world.  Mr. Myers' first foray into cinema is nevertheless executed with the confidence and professionalism of a man who has been rehearsing his jokes for twenty years.  Throughout the entire history of film, comedies have been operating under strict rules, like it has to be created by Judd Apatow or it has to be about a pregnancy.  Now this man comes blazing in from outer space, wearing ridiculous costumes, doing dirty puns, and playing a foreign character who is, well, let's just say a bit horny?  And what if I told you there was a "midget" (little person) in this film, and that some of the jokes involved physically throwing him across the room?  Would you be shocked?  Probably.  I was.  But then I realized:  it doesn't matter what the "politically correct" finger waggers might say, because comedy isn't about structure and expectation and routine, it's about the unexpected.  It's about doing something that makes people say, oh my God, I can't believe they just did that.  It reminds me, in a sense, of comedies from the old days, like 40 Year Old Virgin and Napolean Dynamite, but it adds modern elements like dirty puns, crazy names, wild props and Beyonce music.  I predict big things for Mister Myers and personally, although it's never been done, I wouldn't mind seeing a second "chapter" to The Love Guru, an entirely new film in which he does new versions of the same jokes.  I'd buy my ticket right now, if only for the privelege of living through history.

Mike Myers is not the only member of this bumper crop of comedy.  "You Don't Mess With the Zohan" stars Adam Sanders as a tough man, capable of great violence, who finds himself thrust into a not-so-tough world.  Now, I know that doesn't make any sense, because all movies since the day I was born have been about tough people in tough worlds or not-tough people in not-tough worlds.  This is a movie that mixes the two.  It's as if...I don't know, I'm pulling this metaphor out of my ass, it's like a fish being outside of its water, or a hockey player trying to play golf.  Sanders is no Myers, but he's got his whole career ahead of him, and if he plays his cards right, I expect to see him becoming the new Tim Meadows on Saturday Night Live.

Now, if there's two things I know, one is that the world's first computer used software called Windows 98, and two is that this Batman movie is going to be very, very important.  It's not like me to give a thumbs up to a movie before I've even seen it, but then again, there's never been a movie this anticipated, certainly not one about Batman, and I've been trudging around this ball of mud since the days when the WB still ruled the airwaves and HDTV was only available in front projection units, and I have never seen this much hype end with any amount of disappointment.  Batman, for those who are too young to remember, was a series of campy movies when I was a kid about a man in a purple suit with nipples on it who fought glow-in-the-dark acrobats.  Now, over a decade later, it's time to tell the real story.  What would the story of Batman be like if you took it really, really seriously?  The answer is:  who knows.  But I do know who's going to be in the front row.  It's a guy with two thumbs.  This guy!  Wait, holy fuck, I just invented a new joke!

So, in review:  I was born the same year The Daily Show debuted on Comedy Central, I can't remember a time when we weren't fighting Iraq, and, on a completely unrelated note, I love all three of these films.  Thank you for your time, but if you'll excuse me, I seem to have shit my pants again and I have to hide my underwear in a drawer so I don't get in trouble.

8:38 PM - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Jar Jar Saigon

Today, in the middle of my daily phone conversation with Green Leaves vegan restaurant, I was siezed with the desire to drink something other than a thai ice tea or a diet coke.  I wanted to try something new, and I wanted it so badly that I was willing to engage the woman that answers the phone there.  To give you an indication of her accent, I have figured over time that her first line is "Hello, Green Leaves."

---------------

WOMAN ON PHONE
Heyo Geem Lee.

DAN
Hi, I'd like to order for delivery.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Okaaaaaay ca na habba temmafo numba?

DAN
Three two three, -

WOMAN ON PHONE
Tree poo tree,

DAN
- Two five one, -

WOMAN ON PHONE
two faaaah....

(short pause)

WOMAN ON PHONE
(impatient)
Uh huh?

DAN
(confused)
Two five one-

WOMAN ON PHONE
(irritated)
- Yeah, uh huh?

DAN
(embarrassed)
Three three four six!

WOMAN ON PHONE
Okaaaaaaaay, yoo addess tooo-wenty twenty twoooo no comma well, rye?

DAN
That's my address, yes.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Okaaaay wacannagifayoo.

DAN
A chicken sandwich-

WOMAN ON PHONE
-yes, enna ting ess?

DAN
...Edamame-

WOMAN ON PHONE
-yes, enna ting ess?

DAN
Um...do you guys have...um, anything besides thai iced tea, I'm looking for the menu, here.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Yes, we habba thai ice tea, enna ting ess?

DAN
No, wait.  I don't want a thai ice tea.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Issa thai ice tea, we habit.

DAN
I know, but I don't want it.  Like, do you guys have any kind of....mango...

WOMAN ON PHONE
(dubious)
We habba... sennöché....

DAN
sennöché? 

WOMAN ON PHONE
(correcting)
Sennöché.

DAN
Is that a drink?

WOMAN ON PHONE
Iss may wiff mango, it has....uh... mango in.  Mango isside.

DAN
It's a drink?

WOMAN ON PHONE
Iss a...sennöché.  Iss a, has mango.

DAN
And you drink it?

WOMAN ON PHONE
It's a sennöché.

DAN
Sennöché.

WOMAN ON PHONE
(deliberate)
sennöché.

DAN
It's a drink?

WOMAN ON PHONE
It habba mango, I...
 

DAN
...and you drink it?

(deep, long, loud, unabashed, abjectly disappointed sigh from other end of phone)

DAN
(embarrassed)
Okay.  I'll try the sennöché.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Okaaaay, one chickah sandwee, one edamame, one sennöché, you toto tooowenty one dah toooowenty sebben sen, you pay cash o' creddy?

DAN
Cash.

WOMAN ON PHONE
Okay be foe five min.

DAN
Thanks.

----------

Click here to see a photograph of my new favorite drink, Sennöché.

It was actually really fucking good.

5:57 PM - 54 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

My Revisions of Bad Law and Order Cold Opens 002

Law and Order
Episode: "DR 1-102," 2002

THE ACTUAL COLD OPEN:

INT. APARTMENT BEDROOM - NIGHT

Detectives Green and Briscoe are standing over a murder victim.  She is in pajamas, face down on a blood-drenched rug, with a wound on the back of her head.

The NERDY FORENSICS GUY approaches them.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
If you want, I can take samples from the carpet and determine the time of death.

BRISCOE
Knock yourself out.

Nerdy Forensics Guy holds up a plastic evidence bag with a bloody barbell in it.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Found this in the closet.  Haven't dusted it for prints, yet.

Green takes the bag and examines it.

GREEN
Free weight.

BRISCOE
Dead weight.

TITLE SEQUENCE

WHAT I IMAGINE HAPPENED DURING THE TITLE SEQUENCE:

GREEN
What, so the weight is dead?

Briscoe sighs deeply.

GREEN
Seems like the weight was used to kill someone, I don't know if "dead weight" -

BRISCOE
- Well, there's no such expression as "killer weight."  I work with what I'm given and I don't know what you expected with that setup but "free weight" is kind of like having seven fucking vowels in Scrabble.

GREEN
It's right under your nose, prick.

BRISCOE
Beg your pardon?

GREEN
Tee me up.

BRISCOE
"Free weight."

GREEN
"Looks pretty costly to me."

Long pause.

BRISCOE
Wwwwwwwhat?!

GREEN
Oh, fuck you.  Something like that, not that exactly.

BRISCOE
That would have sounded GREAT coming out of my mouth.  "On the contrary, my good sir, it appears as though that weight came with a bit of a price.  Fancy a crumpet?" 

GREEN
So you MAKE IT YOUR OWN.  Say "yo, I dunno, looks like it cost a life, badda bing."  Like you're such a fucking tough guy that the word "costly" isn't in your essence.  Have you looked in the mirror?  You look like a fucking nerd.

BRISCOE
You know what?  Fuck you, man.  And I'm not kidding around, you are a fucking dick to me, every day, and you ride my shit, and there is no pleasing you, and I fucking hate you.

GREEN
Come on, man.

BRISCOE
No, you "come on man."  Come on man fucking be nice to me for ten seconds.  I have fucking had it with you.  You just called me a fucking nerd.

GREEN
You weren't this sensitive when I made you suck my dick yesterday.

BRISCOE
You didn't make me, Ed.  You asked me to, and I did it, because I like making you happy.  Because I care how you feel.  Ta da.

GREEN
Ta da, huh.  I think I want some of that ta da right now.

BRISCOE
No.

GREEN
Come here.

BRISCOE
Stop it.  Don't touch me.  I mean it, I'm really pissed at you and if you don't get your hands off me so help me God I will file charges.

GREEN
Pfft.  Fine.  Like I want to put my young, hip dick in your nerdy old ass.

BRISCOE
Yeah, don't do me any favors, pal.

GREEN
(to nerdy forensics guy)
How about you, you want some of this?

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Oh.  Shit.  I...

Nerdy Forensics guy looks at Briscoe.

GREEN
You don't need his approval.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Well, he's your partner..

BRISCOE
Ex partner.  I don't give a shit what you guys do.

GREEN
Yes or no, kid.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
..Well, I'd..ha...I'd be a fool to say no.  Are you going to fuck my butt?

GREEN
Sounds like a request to me.  Bend over.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Sure thing.  Okay.  Wow.  Holy mackerel.  That's something else.  You're really letting me have it back there.

GREEN
I've only just begun, my friend.  This is what Lenny could have had.  He didn't want it.

BRISCOE
Yawn.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Oh, yeah, pull my hair.

GREEN
You like that.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
No, I hate it.  Of course I like it, don't be ridiculous, this is one of the greatest things that's ever happened to me.  Do you mind if I look out the window while you do that?  My God.  This city.  You know, people think our job should make us jaded.  They don't know that, because we work inside the ugliness, we can look out and see the beauty.  Eight million people living their lives, separately and freely, but meshed, mingled, on schedule.  A symphony of soloists, a family of orphans, a humming, hopeful, heroic human hive.  New York.

GREEN
I'm cumming in your ass.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Believe me, you don't have to tell me.  Man, that was really great.  Thank you so much for doing that.  This is turning out to be a really great week, and it's only Thursday.

BRISCOE
Take that barbell to the lab, asshole.

NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Woah.  I don't know if I like your tone.

BRISCOE
What?

GREEN
Yeah, don't talk to him like that. 

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Hey, you guys!

BRISCOE, GREEN and NERDY FORENSICS GUY
Lieutenant Van Buren!

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
You know what today is, right?

GREEN
Tell us!

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
It's Train Day!

BRISCOE
Train day?  What's Train Day, I don't understand what Train Day is, tell us about Train Day.

Lieutenant Van Buren drops her pants and bends backwards into a crab walk position.  A full size passenger train speeds out of her vagina.  Green pulls Briscoe out of its path as it runs over Nerdy Forensics Guy, speeds through the wall and rockets into the distance, where it crashes into "ground zero" with such force that all the rubble, which is still there, because it's 2002, flies straight up into the air, and comes down in stacks, making a xylophone sound while it rebuilds both World Trade Towers.

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Bing bong!  Pussy had a train up in it!

A passing uniformed officer gives her five while sipping his coffee.

UNIFORMED OFFICER
Cold blooded, ma'am.

Briscoe looks at Green.

BRISCOE
You saved my life.

GREEN
Of course I did.  We're partners.

Briscoe's lip trembles.  He looks away.

6:16 PM - 15 Comments - 25 Kudos - Add Comment

The Blog in Which Beau Brooks, Not Dan Harmon, is the Topic

I blog a lot, so it's hard for people who need to communicate with me through comments.  You could be having a conversation with me below the blog where I talk about rubbing my nipple with pantyhose, but just when you think you've really let me have it, all the eyeballs have moved to some blog where I talk about putting a pen in my butt.  And there's no way to subscribe to my responses so you don't know whether or not your messages about your relationship with me are even getting through. 

And I feel like there's a lot of improvements Myspace could make to help this situation, like maybe if everyone could have their own "space" where they could talk about themselves and say whatever they want, and pick and choose who they're friends with- look, I don't know, I'm not a web designer. 

What I can do is design a blog entry, so what I've done here is created a blog entry where I can talk about Beau Brooks, or address Beau Brooks, and Beau Brooks can respond, or talk about himself, etc.  So if you're interested in that kind of thing, I would bookmark this blog entry.  I can't enforce a rule saying contain all of your Beau Brooks related thoughts here, but what I can do is say that if you say it here, Beau Brooks will read it, and if I have anything to say about Beau Brooks, I'll try to say it here.

I guess the first order of Beau Brooks business should be to talk about where he and I are at so far.  We had a little bit of a falling out recently under my blog entry where I talked about Jerry Orbach kneeling in blood at a homicide scene and sucking Jesse L. Martin's cock and playing with his broadway balls.  His comment was this:

And then I said this:

And then he totally said this:

Then, while I was writing my response, there were more comments coming in from him, on other blogs I had written, where he does his impression of the kinds of blog comments he hates, where people say stuff like "I liked this blog!" 

Which, as he points out, you could totally say without even reading the blog, whereas it takes a little craft and individuality to say something like, "I didn't like the part where you did that one thing!"  Especially if you say it in a way where we can imagine you pointing a finger and cocking a thumb, and winking, and making a little clicking sound. 

I think that's his point of view.  I don't share it. 

I like it when people give a direct compliment or supportive comment.  I feel like if you like something, and you say you like it, there's no real crime being committed there, and you're not revealing any flaws in your personality.  I also like hearing what people are compelled, upon reading my blog, to share.  Like if I say "I saw a dog today," and then someone comments and says, "I saw a cat today," or, "I didn't see anything today, I'm blind," or "I love my dog," I don't resopnd to their comments and say "hey, fuck you, pal!" 

I guess I just respond negatively to comments I feel aren't communicating what the person is really thinking.  I imagine when Houdini was even mildly impressed by a magic trick, he probably said stuff like, "wow, I enjoyed that, bravo, thanks."  He probably didn't say, "that sucked, just kidding, well, it's not cool to be so magical, wink wink, awesome, just kidding, not, ha ha, by the way, I'm a magician too."  If he had done stuff like that, he'd probably be less famous as a magician than he would have been infamous among magicians as a  dick. 

But enough about Houdini, I want to talk about Beau Brooks, and his comments, and why I don't like them.

I don't know, do I need a reason?  Does anyone need a reason to like or dislike someone, isn't the customer always right?  I'm just not buying what Beau Brooks is selling, it smells like something I don't like.

I think maybe it reminds me of my older brother?  I felt like my brother was always jealous of me and didn't handle it very well.  I always wished he would just say, "I think you're better than me," because that's what I could feel him thinking, and if he had said it, I could have told him, in all honesty, "that's not true, you're better than me," and I could have made it true, just by saying it, because I have that ability, which is something that, between you and me, makes me better than everyone.  Instead, he chose to think "you are better than me" but SAY "I am better than you," which is dishonest, and dishonesty cannot be rewarded, so I had to systematically ruin his life through psychological sabotage that, to this day, nobody suspects me of because I was a child.  Don't feel bad for him.  He deserved it because he was a liar.   

Let me explain it this way:  Because I'm a good person, God gave me the power to make anything true that I want to be true.  And if I abuse that power, by making untrue things true, he will take it away, because bad people can't have that power.  Which is how I know I'm good, because I have that power.  And I keep it by only using it to make good people feel good.  Which is as easy as doing nothing because they're already good people. 

And bad people want me to make them feel good, which is how I know they're bad, and why I can't do it.  It would be a lie.  If you say, for instance, "I need a hug," you don't deserve one, and giving you one would make me as bad a person as you.  I have to find people that don't need hugs, and hug them, in order to stay someone whose hugs have any value.  

So, I guess I could tell, the moment Beau Brooks walked in the virtual door, that he was someone that was going to need me to make him feel good, which meant he was a piece of shit.  My Dad didn't tolerate people needing him and I don't have to, either.  That's why I hate women.  Because they need men, which I find disgusting, because we're the ones that need them.  Women and Beau Brooks.  Gross. 

Nah, I'm not explaining myself right.  Here, let me try this:  I can say whatever I want...and everyone but me is stupid...if I say so?  Does that make any sense?

4:54 AM - 31 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

Kari From Mythbusters: I Have a Myth to Bust, Let me Finish

Dear Kari from Discovery HD's Mythbusters:

I have a myth that I would like you to bust.  LET ME FINISH.  It's not what you think.  I know you get a lot of these letters, this is not going where you think it's going.

The myth is my wiener.  WAIT.  You're not being scientific about this.  Just please hear all the data before reaching a conclusion, all right?

Supposedly, as the story goes, if you make out with me, and touch my wiener, and then sleep with me - will you please just hear me out for five seconds - according to legend, it will feel really good, for both of us, and then I'll fall asleep.

I call this the "myth of my wiener."  I don't know if you and that guy that looks like Steve Agee have heard of this one, but I certainly have, and I would love to see it busted or confirmed on your wonderful show, which I think is doing great stuff for kids and science and whatever, especially when you have pigtails and wear stuff like hooded sweatshirts.

I guess I'll leave the details to you, you guys are the mythbusters, I wouldn't know how to "test" this myth, I'm just a guy with this hypothetical wiener that allegedly gets hard when you theoretically touch it, and who then is rumored to have sex with you, then fall asleep and then MAYBE have breakfast with you IF you're smart and friendly.

Good luck, I look forward to a new season of your show.

2:40 AM - 20 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Fuck You, Whatever Bruce Willis Symbolizes in my Unconscious!

A few days ago, Ryan Ridley and I were talking about dreams, and I told him I didn't usually have very interesting ones, that my dreams, much like my waking life, are a series of forgettable expeditions for lost wallets and awkward conversations at parties.

Then I had this dream the very next night.  And before I describe this dream, I have to make the unrelated disclaimer that I apparently have seventies television style stereotypes baked so deeply into my synaptic circuitry that I am literally racist in my sleep.  And, while this is undoubtedly frustrating to my three black friends*, I just want to point out that while my dreams can change me, I cannot change them.

* I technically have like eight black friends if you go by the white person criteria for black friendship, criteria I have always felt were intentionally lax, therefore, as a card carrying non-racist, when counting my black friends, I always divide by 3 and round up.

In the dream, I am part of a small high school class of misfits being taught by Bruce Willis circa Last Boyscout.  We are in a very large, sunlit chemistry lab.

One of the students starts to feel sick, and wants to leave the class.  Bruce Willis interrogates him: "What are you on?  How much did you take?"

The student confesses: he got something to "keep him awake" from another student.  He indicates a black male sitting across from me.

Bruce Willis dismisses the sick kid, then goes over to the black kid and asks him about his ambitions.  "What do you want to do in life, kid?"

The kid's response, and I am so sorry to all of America:

"I want to play basketball.  And not like those other guys that think they're gonna be stars, just cause they can make points.  I want to play because I'm not as good as them, but I'm gonna be.  When I'm on that court, I'm a wannabe.  Because I have to be.  I have to take everything except what I'm given.  I have to play basketball."

Bruce Willis is sitting down next to him by this point, and now raises his hands and says "let's see your sticks, show me your sticks," and the kid, without batting an eye, pantomimes throwing basketballs at Bruce Willis' upraised hands, as if demonstrating his skills, although, in the larger picture, what's being demonstrated is my complete ignorance of basketball.

Finally, the kid stops, kind of winded from...showing his sticks...and Bruce Willis gives him a Last Boyscout nod and says, "That's pretty good, kid.  Come here.  I want to show you something."

The kid gets up and follows Bruce Willis to the front of the room.  Bruce Willis has his arm around him.  "You got pimples, kid?"

"No."

"That's good.  That's gonna help you a lot.  It's important to look good."

And with that, Bruce Willis punches the kid right in the kidney.

The kid punches back, really takes a piece out of Bruce Willis.  Bruce Willis recoils, then attacks. 

The two of them keep trading blows and the fight moves around the room.  Every time they pass another student, Bruce Willis inexplicably but intentionally gets the student in the crossfire.  A girl gets hit in the face and runs from the room. 

I stay put.  I'm not sure what to do, but the fight is circling the entire room and, after every other student has gotten abused by it, it's now landing on me.

By this time, Bruce Willis isn't even hiding his actual agenda, he wants all the other students involved in the fight.  I'm thinking maybe, after we're all beaten and tired, he's going to say, "that's how they felt at the Boston Tea Party" or "you have to get mad about geometry" or some shit like that.  And it's pissing me off, because it's not going to work and we aren't that bad a class.  So I stay put and pretend I don't even see them.  I don't want to dignify it.  I'm just going to take the punches and be like Gandhi, and all the kids will rally on Bruce Willis and he'll learn the true meaning of power.

Bruce Willis gets on one side of me and grabs my wrists.  And the black kid is just swinging away at Bruce Willis.  And I'm trying to dodge the punches, and I'm doing a pretty good job, but I'm getting angry.  I'm angry at Bruce Willis' audacious, irresponsible "stand by me" routine, I'm angry at the black kid's gullability, and mostly, I'm really fucking angry because Bruce Willis is holding my arms down so nobody can tell I'm not trying to fight.

Finally, I've had enough.  I get up out of my chair.  The black kid stops punching.  But Bruce Willis won't let go of my hands.  I'm facing him.  "Let go of me," I command.  He just stares at me.  I'm trembling with rage.  I'm so fucking mad.  I'm shrieking and snarling at him.  You fucking let me go I'm gonna fucking kill you.  The madder I get, the more I want to hit him, the less I'm able.

But then, I realize that if I get really, really, really mad, and put all of my anger into one arm, I can free it from him and smash his face in.  So I start doing that. 

And Bruce Willis gets this smirky look on his face, which, at the time I'm thinking is compensation for his fear, because he can feel that I'm about to win.

And with the power of mighty Thor, I wrench my right hand free from Bruce Willis, and I swing with all my might -

- and I wake up in my bed exactly .01 seconds before my punch lands on the wall next to my bed, right on a stud.  Not hard enough to break the plaster or my hand, but hard enough to bruise my middle knuckle and radiate pain halfway up my forearm.

And I have to lay there like a fucking idiot, cradling my limp, throbbing paw, realizing the following:

Bruce Willis' smirk wasn't compensatory, but anticipatory, because he knew he was about to inflict actual physical pain on a Waking Person, which among the population of Dream World, is an achievement of Lindberghian proportions; that Bruce Willis was an avatar for my misguided definitions of manhood and leadership; that the black kid, along with the rest of the class, symbolized the indirect victims of my elitist, self-serving fantasies of heroism; that in the end, all of my misguided ambitions are only going to come full circle and hurt me the most after disrupting a society of people who have their own lives to consider;

And that above all, when talking to a friend about one's dreams, one is wise to be a little more respectful.

8:09 PM - 10 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

My Revisions of Bad Law and Order Cold Opens 001

Law and Order
Episode: "The Myth of Fingerprints," 2001

THE ACTUAL COLD OPEN:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

Detectives Green (Jesse L. Martin) and Briscoe (Jerry Orbach) are standing over a murder victim.  He is face down, with a massive head wound that has the floor covered in blood.

Detective Green turns the victim's head slightly, revealing that there is some shaving cream on his face.

GREEN
Looks like he was in the middle of shaving.

BRISCOE
Yeah, well, I think he missed a spot.

TITLE SEQUENCE

WHAT I IMAGINE HAPPENED DURING THE TITLE SEQUENCE:

GREEN
...Is the "spot" that he "missed" the big head wound, or the shaving cream on his face?

BRISCOE
It's gallows humor.

GREEN
Not if you're talking about the shaving cream.  He didn't get suffocated by shaving cream.  The shaving cream isn't the grim straight line here, you can't humorously "understate" something that's completely overshadowed by a massive head wound.

BRISCOE
I'm talking about the wound, that's the joke.

GREEN
Okay, THAT'S what I thought you might have been talking about.  Because understating a massive head wound WOULD be gallows humor, for sure.  One problem:  He missed a spot and it caused a massive head wound?

BRISCOE
Have you ever been shaving, and you cut yourself?  It doesn't result in a fatal wound.  Irony.  Get it?

GREEN
I most certainly do not get it, sir.  I do not get it.  Because I have been shaving my whole life, and I have cut myself many times, but never, ever, ever, in the entire history of shaving, has a man ever cut himself by "missing a spot."  Here I am shaving.  Whoops!  Slice.  Ouch.  I cry out in pain.  My wife says, "what's wrong, honey, what happened?"  I say what, Lenny?  What do I tell her?

BRISCOE
"I missed a spot."

GREEN
Fuck you, you fucking lying idiot cocksucker.  I tell her I "cut myself shaving."  And when someone has shaving cream on their face, they did the OPPOSITE of cutting themself, Lenny.  The OPPOSITE.  They "missed the spot" they might have otherwise cut, had the razor ever been near their fucking face.  Do you see the problem?

BRISCOE
Yeah, I made a joke and you're Kevin Smithing it.

GREEN
Nope.  Nope.  You dumb fucker.  You asshole fuck.  You fucking dick.  The problem is, you didn't make a joke.  You failed.  You suck. 

BRISCOE
So, what's your version, I'm supposed to say "oh, look at the shaving cream, that reminds me of shaving, maybe this wound is from him cutting himself shaving."

GREEN
Yeah, that's your ONLY other option.  It's one of those two.  Either you say he "missed a spot" or you do some retarded rambling monologue about what you see in the room and how it reminds you of shaving, fuck you.  You are a seethingly dishonest piece of shit.

BRISCOE
Yeah.  Indict my fucking character.  I'm a bad person because I riffed a bad homicide joke.

GREEN
Mother fucker, you're a bad person because it just took you five times longer to admit your shitty mistake than it did to make it.  Here, this is my impression of what you should have done.  You be me, you tee me up, say he was shaving.

BRISCOE
"He was shaving."

GREEN
"Yeah, well, I think he missed a spot - oops, you know what, I fucked that up.  That doesn't make any sense.  I'm a fucking idiot.  I have a fucking potato where my head should be."  Done.  Instead, you have to fight me.  Everything has to be a fucking fight, because you don't have the power to say, "I'm a dumb piece of shit."  Which is why you're going to die incomplete.  And you know what, mother fucker?  You know what happens when you die incomplete?  Your last thought is a negative thought about yourself, and because time is subjective, it lasts forever.  There's no such thing as a portion of time so small it doesn't exist, you just get closer and closer to a destination you never reach.  You're one nanosecond from death, then half a nanosecond, then a quarter, and on and on, ad infinitum, dwelling on your final thought.  And in your case, because you're such a fucking dip shit, because you spend so much of your ADJUSTABLE life trying to con people into thinking you know what the fuck you're talking about,  Your last thought is going to be, "oh, shit, I'm a fucking turd.  I'm an empty god damn fraud."  And you're going to think it- you're going to DREAM it - For.  Ever.  And that's called "Hell."  That's called "punishment for being a fuck face."

BRISCOE
Fuck you, man.

GREEN
Fuck you, mother fucker.  Seriously, fuck you.  I fucking hate you.  And if I die today, my final thought is going to be how much I wish I could rip your fucking throat open with my teeth, and I'm going spend eternity murdering you in my mind, and that's called heaven.

BRISCOE
Fine, I'll put in for a transfer.

GREEN
I want to fucking shoot you.  Every day I think about it.  I want to stick my gun up your wrinkled old asshole and just empty the clip, but it's too good for you.  You'd die with something up your ass, which you'd love, and you wouldn't die alone, which is what you deserve.  I want you to die cold and alone.  Just fucking shivering and gasping to nobody while God draws the stinky black tarp of infinite night over your repulsive, waxy body.  As much as I want to be there when that happens, I need so badly for you to experience it all by yourself.  As soon as you catch that last cold, which we know is going to be sooner than later, I'm going to lock you in a fucking warehouse and guard it with my life from a block away.  I will kill anyone that comes near giving you any closure or comfort.  You're going to die like a frog on a concrete slab, Lenny.  You're going to desecate while you ponder your wasted life.  And I'm never going to bury you.  I'm going to piss on your rotting corpse every morning and I'm going to sleep like a baby every night.  Because I fucking hate you.  So, yeah, get a transfer, you bag of shit.

BRISCOE
I will.

GREEN
I hope my new partner is AIDS Hitler.  I could work with that.  Because over time, Lenny, I can make anything work.  Because I'm a good guy. 

BRISCOE
Well, I don't know about that, you're being really mean to me right now.

GREEN
That's part of what makes me good.  I'm "really mean" to homelessness when I volunteer to build shelters.  Homelessness is a bad thing, and I smash it with a hammer.  People who are mean to you are better people.  I could rape a nun, and not apologize, and still get into heaven, as long as before I died, I called you an asshole.  God would be like, "well, fuck, I hate it when people rape nuns, but all things considered, this guy's got my number."

BRISCOE
You're just...Dude, you're being so mean to me right now.

GREEN
Oh, relax, I'm just fucking with you.

BRISCOE
Really?!

GREEN
Of course.  You're the best.  I just didn't like that joke. 

BRISCOE
Yeah, it was awful, I fucked up.

GREEN
You're better than that.

BRISCOE
I'm so glad you're not really mad at me.

GREEN
How glad are you?  Are you glad enough to get on this?

BRISCOE
Holy shit, look how hard you are!

GREEN
That's how hard you make me.  You do this to me.

BRISCOE
Oh my God, I want it in my mouth so bad but I don't want to mess up this crime scene.

GREEN
Fuck this crime scene, get on this dick scene.  Solve this shit.  Solve it with your mouth. 

BRISCOE
Oh, man.  I feel so weird doing this.  Mmmmm.

GREEN
Oh, fuck.  Oh, fuck, Lenny.  Oh my God, Lenny, you're sucking my dick so good.

BRISCOE
Am I doing this right?

GREEN
Are you fucking kidding me?  This is the best.

BRISCOE
Do you like it when I play with your balls?

GREEN
I like it all, baby, yeah.  Those are Law and Order.

BRISCOE
Your balls are Law and Order?

GREEN
Man, I don't even know what I'm saying, you're driving me so crazy. 

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
What the hell are you two doing?!

GREEN
Oh, shit!

BRISCOE
Lieutenant!

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
This is a damn crime scene!  Are you two out of your minds?  Do you even have a suspect in this case?

GREEN
Uh, yes ma'am, we were thinking we would look at the wife first.

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Oh, I see, because every time a man died, the wife did it.  Has it occurred to you that this man's been divorced for nearly three years?

BRISCOE
Hey, I've been divorced three times and I still want to kill every one of them.

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Well, your marriages aside, Lenny, I think you two might want to check the deceased's LUDS, find out who he talked to before this happened.  AFTER you talk to the M.E. and establish a time of death.

GREEN
That's a good idea.

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Then why are we having this conversation?  Go!

GREEN
(to Briscoe)
We'll finish that later?

BRISCOE
Sure, kid, maybe if you ask real nice.

Briscoe rolls his eyes at Van Buren.  She shakes her head and smiles as they leave, closing the door behind them.

LIEUTENANT VAN BUREN
Well, time to eat.

She unhinges her lower jaw and swallows the entire corpse.  After a moment, a condensed mass of the victim's clothing and hair the size and shape of a football comes out of her butt!

A meteor hits the world!!!!

But there are some people left, and they inhabit the stars!!!!!!

4:38 AM - 21 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment