Sunday Sceneggiata

Post/Op

Fri., Nov . 20, 2009

CHICAGO - Holding back tears, Oprah Winfrey told her studio audience Friday that she would end her show in 2011 after a quarter-century on the air, saying prayer and careful thought led her to her decision.

----

What’s next?

I already know. Or at least believe I know. In my heart.

But the spirit of openness. And propriety. And gratitude. Commands that I ask this question of you. The people. My staff. Because I truly belong to you. The universe. (not the other way around, though often it does seem that way. )

That.
And second-guessing.

So. I ask (humbly)
What’s next?

Suggestions. Anyone?
Or should I just read the response cards from the audience?

Let’s see..
Here’s one..

Why not rename The first decade of the 2000s “The Opraughts?”
Why not? Because there’s only one year left.

Might as well rename Kleenex – Oprex? Why? Because it’s something we use everyday. Or let’s rename the sun.. umm. “Oprah.” We use that everyday.

And then we can call the Roman calendar the Oprah calendar. What’s the difference?

It’s the same. Only more gratitude for each day.

Speaking of the 21st century, There’s been talk of my seizing the White House, which I would like to dispel. First of all, the job is already taken, and Valerie Jarrett is a good friend and homegirl.

And while I would not be the first black president, I would be the first “real” black president. And the first woman president. But what does that make Stedman?

And if you think trudging to your acupuncturist in Chicago in February is a Siberan death march, try keeping your hair straight in D.C.! In August?. .

Suh-WAAMP-EEEYY!

Next?

Host the Oscars?

(a moment of contemplation)

But wouldn’t it be odd if the host won an Oscar?
Let me ask you - Why Oscar?

Why not Opscar?
My name on the statuette bearing my name?

And hosting the Barbara Walters interviews after.
Interviewing myself about myself.

(another contemplative pause)

Two words (one hypen)
Over-kill.

Next!



Why would I want Dubai?
What would I do with Dubai?
I don't have a closet big enough for Dubai..

What's that?
Well that IS a good price…
Can we talk 'em down if I pay cash?

Put it in the “maybe” box..

Nexxxxt..

Something juicy please, something..
(blush)
Oh no no no..
Yoko-oh-no-no-no..

No, because I'm more of a spiritual person than a religious person
and I'd be competing with the Jews and the followers of the Buddha
and the Mormons. And Travolta.

And while I love the idea of my own religion (in theory)
the responsibility, the paperwork..

And if the Beatles were bigger than G-d..
And I'm bigger than the Beatles..

Well.. do the math.

Wait - aren't all those (air quotation marks) “churches” tax-exempt?

Hmm..
Intrigued.
Not sold.
But put a pin in it - VERY intrigued…

Batter up!

Ooooooo..
I like this..

I like this A LOT
This.. speaks my name..

Say what?
Don't tell me that girlfriend!

There's no such thing as Emperor of the Universe??
Then who was that old fool in “Star Wars?”

Get back to me on that.
And bring me a pomegranate seed salad while you're at it..

(Lunch Break)

(Nap)

(Massage Break)

Hello, beautiful.

I thought on it
I mediated.
I visioned.
I prayed.

And on this, the 21st day of the month of Opranary in this final year of the Opraughts..

I have made a decision.

I'm going to do what I do best.
What I was put on this planet..
(in gratitude)
To do.

I'm going to do a tv show.
But not just any tv show.
Not just my old tv show.

No, in this one..
I play a cop.

Sunday Sceneggiata

Killer/App

This is the greatest app.. ever..

No.. really..

It’s not just YouTube and Facebook and built-in compass and light saber-sound cool..

But get this –

(must make sure that there’s no one within earshot)

My iPod can see the future.

Cool!  Right?

I wouldn’t suggest you run out to the apps store and get one.. For one thing, I’ve got the only one!  For another, Once you get past the stock tips and the sports scores (this thing has paid for itself .. twice over!) it becomes a heavy responsibility.

Ipso facto/Q.E.D. (both learned from my latin dictionary app) --

Do I tell everyone (or just Facebook friends) about the coming biblical flood (calamity caused not by melting ice caps, but a 2% rise in..  shh!  I've already said too much!)

Take it from Bob Dylan (iTunes!) you better start swimmin', or you'll sink like a stone!

I know what you’re thinking.  (My iPod is not merely clairvoyant, but telepathic as well.)  At first I thought – impossible!  Maybe it’s just a system error, a glitch which would resolve itself when I downloaded the new iPod operating system ($29.95 presently, but only 111,121,111.00 Buffetian Universal Ducets (BUD) in the future currency system, I’ll explain later.) 

Or maybe it was just my neighbor’s iPod which could see the future, and I was siphoning off his Wi-fi?

And furthermore, why me?  How me?  Maybe it’s just another one of those wonky apps I shouldn’t have downloaded after seeing the silhouette people dancing on the commercial – like say… the “Are you a Foodie or A Jew?” app  (turns out I’m both!)

But then I got to thinking – if I’m Steve Jobs.. and I want to get this thing out into the water supply.. I ’m not going to advertise it (this ain’t New Coke!) but rather he’d slip it out on little cats feet.

The man’s the living embodiment of Willy Wonka (only not so menacing) and I got a golden ticket!  Woo-hoo!

Before you get jealous (see: burden, above) note that I didn’t ask for this.. and I certainly don’t want to hog it..  If you want to know more, especially those of you with interests in financial market crashes (I cannot say more.. just.. cash in your cash – it’s Monopoly money!)  just send me an email.. better yet..  a tweet at..

Hold on!  Message coming in..  From tomorrow!

..............................

Sorry, ‘bout that.   Correction: It was my neighbor’s Wi-Fi. 

But then in the interest of science, and societal ethics, and, since, y’know.. he changed his password protection (what kind of password is “My Modem?”) I was forced to find a new “hotspot.”

I haven’t paid for internet access since I got this thing, nor before.  But especially not “post-Future-iPod” informed me that Wi-Fi access was a Bush (Jeb) Cheney (Mary) White House plot to monitor the private lives of Americans who opposed their formation of a third.. and fourth intergalactic/interspecies political party.

Yet this morning when I grabbed my iced-blended at the Coffee Bean, and logged in off their Wi-Fi (future secret:  every Coffee Bean will have an internet access code located in the bottom left-hand corner of their video display board.. check it out if you don’t believe me!) I was instantly online, and in touch with the leader of Neo-Interplanetary Revolutionary Underground  - salutations Anna Paquin!

Mind-blowing, huh?  Want more proof?  My iPod doesn’t have a battery.. or extension cord.. hahahaha.. thought of that, too.  I flipped it over and it’s solid as a rock, no double AAs, no solar recharger.. though that is an option the Jobs clones (more on that later) will introduce (to the Southern Hemisphere, and only on AT&T) in the year 20--..

............................

They’re after me! 

Hunting me. 

And they can smell me.  (iScent – Free!)

Fortunately, I have a plan.  Or more specifically, my iPod has a plan (iPlan – an app not available at ANY price) and if you’re reading this, you’re probably not “evolved” enough to read my thoughts and know precisely what I’m talking about.  But an app that makes EVERY decision for you (what a relief) and hatches a scheme aka “a plan” – well my friends.. that’s better than a Magic 8 Ball, or rock/paper/scissors.. or calling my cousin Max, which is how I used to make all my decisions.

I do not mean to imply that in the future the iPod has replaced all human decision making and we are at the mercy of the machines (not.. quite, though there are quantum dimensions where this has unfolded.)

No, rather, the iPod is for me, a crutch;  and like many handicaps, the casual acquaintance is too embarrassed to point it out.  Go ahead, I say!  Call attention to my “challenge.”  For I can read minds without its assistance.  Or should I say, “link” minds without it.   If you are in my iMind network, then you’ve already shared this thought.  And you know what I’ve long suspected;  that everyone with the iMind app is able to speak to both the “Windows” and “Mac” guy(s) on the tv commercials.

And by speak I mean not just speak.

But speak without speaking..

Or the use of a mouse..

Spine-tingling, right?  Brrrr…. (and ouch) My skin is very sensitive, you see.

For my skin is now a touchscreen.

My fingertips. Are like.. umm.. Fingertips.

And wherever they touch.

I feel.

This app must be stopped, the rip in the time/space continuum mended.  If only I could get back to our dimension.  I’ve been trying to get in touch with Anna Paquin, but she’s gone into hiding.

My only hope?  An audience with the future Job Clones (the good ones, NOT the evil colony.)  But I’m still on hold with customer service.  Time slows down.  It’s all irrelevant/relative when you can mold time like child’s clay.

I can wait.  Forever.  Or at least until someone invents an app to save me.

Or the Jobsians update this thing.

Still on hold..

Fading/Collapsing/rebirthing as a supernova.

Still don’t believe me?  Did I mention the Yankees winning the world series (in six?)

Aha!

Still not convinced?

Did I mention that my iPod is also a phone?

If  you’re reading this -- on paper --  It’s not too late.  The future is nigh.

And if you find my iPod, whatever you do, don’t press the app marked --

Sunday Sceneggiata

music/up&down courtesy/the mountains and the trees http://www.rockandroots.com

Roman/à clef

ZURICH (DICTATED LETTER from undisclosed location CENSORED by Swiss Justice Ministry)

My Dearest Wife(s)

As I write I sweep away the last crumbs of my paltry prison breakfast – pain au chocolat (stone-cold) orange juice (concentrate, I suspect) eggs (over-poached) and a pauper’s wedge of cheese (runny) I ask that you plead my case with the lawyers, the French government, and the court of public opinion.

Please speak to the children – perhaps in a low, gravely accent from an adjoining room, just as they are falling asleep – and remind them that although he is being held captive behind bars, like an animal without acceptable moisturizer or bottled wasser – their papa is a man, a flawed man, a man who has made mistakes. And counsel them, again, in hushed tones, perhaps over a speakerphone, oui? – not to make the same mistakes I, by no fault of my own, save for my puckish spirit and predisposition toward elfin mischief, have made.

Let us not compound these errors my love(s.) Chins up! While I am in the care of the Swiss government, life goes on! Alas, would you please set the DVR to record the Hell’s Kitchen Finale and next week’s Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares. And do not forget to postpone our October 11 reservation at L’Ambroisie (indefinitely.) Injustice and liberty denied shall not affect long-standing relationships with favorite maître d’s.

Yours,

R.

.......

Written in spidery hand on the back of a Lindt Chocoletti Stracciatella Bar WRAPPER

Dear Madame and Mr. President Secretary Clinton (and Chelsea)

Surely YOU understand. I am the victim of a Frankenstein witch-hunt. A vast right-wing conspiracy! For too long have the names Polanski and Clinton been slandered (though rarely in the same breath) on Fox News and held over the devilish flames of politically motivated inquisition. I say to fathead Glen Beck, YOU FIB!

Sweet Madame, I know you are a busy woman, a citizen of the world whose passport has been stamped more times than Carla Bruni (wink) but as they say in America, if you want something done right, go to the top! And I know of no higher authority in the Department of State - save for Vice-President Biden, who does not list his email online.

Rest assured I would have voted for you, save for my status as a citizen of the Republique Française. France, where the great libertarian and free-thinker Thomas Jefferson – middle namesake of your own free-swinging husband “Le Willy Luisant” – could educate and cavort with his true love Sally Hemmings! I appeal to your sense of patriotism, your sense of propriety, your sense of persecution!

And if all else fails, may I opt instead for traffic school?

Check enclosed,


A victim of circumstance
 .......



Scrawled on a cigarette rolling paper found as a MESSAGE IN A (Moet & Chandon) CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE

The Most Reverend Jesse Jackson –

My pleas to Amnesty International and the liberal media have fallen on deaf ears. Won’t you please help? In casting terms, you were always my first choice. If I were making a movie -- and believe me, before this Swiss sting operation, that’s exactly what I did between ski vacations and bible study – and I needed a suave, silver-tongued spiritual and social activist leader to play the private citizen cum diplomatic emissary, the role would be yours to lose! Man-to-man – we both rock a mean turtleneck, which is my way of saying “I dig your style.”

Let me put it another way – a non-nuclear Iran may be beyond your influence, but THIS is something you can accomplish.

Praying for a hero,


The Littlest Auteur

.......

EMAIL originally transcribed on a piece of one-ply toilet paper
 

To: bono@Amnestyinternatinal.org
cc: charlierose@bloomberg.com
cc: jerryspringer@jerry!jerry.tv

Good sirs –

Together you are the three most powerful men in the Jewish dominated media, and while only one of you is “technically” a member of the tribe, the remaining pair either work for Jews, or closely “identify” with our struggle. Though none of you are a filmmaker (nor need the gig to get with chicks – you all do fine on your own!) I ask that you lend your voices, and signatures, and bully pulpits to the huddle masses which have lined up behind me in support.

These include Oscar™ winner Martin Scorcese (not Jewish, but New York Italian!) Woody Allen (King of Jews!) Debra Winger (Oscar™-nominated Jewess!) Adrien Brody (Three-quarters Jew!) Sir Ben Kingsley (Gandhi AND a Jew!)

Why should you care? It is simple my landsman - Today, a Swiss prison, tomorrow a HUAC tribunal? There but for the grace of G-d, let he without sin, etc et al.

Let me be the first to wish you a belated L’shana Tovah!


Roman (my real last name) Polański

.......

ETCHED on a 1ply Dryer Fabric Softener sheet dropped at American Express, Zurich

Dear (NAME DELETED)

Free at last! Free at last!
I am out!

Without the time nor inclination for a “Hudsucker” denouement, I took matters into my own hands and volunteered for the prison laundry - an undesirable task in inhumane conditions – ever hear of “Swiss Laundry?” Exactement! 

Mummified in the scratchy sheets of my tormented sleep (150 thread count – sandpaper!) I tumbled vertiginously through an energy-saving cycle before squeezing out, born-again into newfound liberty via the linty loins of a steam vent. I am shaken, but not stirred, and my shirts have never been cleaner.

Disguised as a homely house frau in chain store-purchased dungarees – think of a taller Linda Hunt - I intend to sneak back into my hotel suite and retrieve—

POP! Flashbulbs! Merde!

PAPARAZZI!

And me in my chain store denim!


Jean Valjean


.......

E.C.U. (Extreme Close-up) DIGITAL VIDEO recorded on media card found in pocket of Wrangler (children’s) jeans retrieved outside Zurich Prison

Forgive me for I am weak.

(And for my derivative and under-lit composition - tres “Blair Witch.”)

I am returning to my Swiss hell, a baby bird to his nest. I am not meant for a life on the streets, hounded like a fox for the sport of those blood thirsty savages who will not be satisfied until I am ensconced in a squalid American minimum security facility for a presumed stay of 16 months to three years. (minus good behavior.)

Define “good behavior.”

I’d rather eat Nutella,

(Napoleon-in-Exile)
RP.

Sunday Sceneggiata

The Audacity/of Soap

An MSNBC survey asked:

What’s the biggest item you would steal from a hotel?
15.1% Wouldn’t steal anything
6.4% Towels
1.2% Slippers
2.7% Bathrobe
74.6% Just takes the soap, shampoo, and lotion

........

Come closer.

Oui mon coeur.. I am talking to you. And only you.
Your skin so perfect. So soft.

Like me.

Oui. We. Belong together.

I am exotic, this we know.

Born in the Orient.
Milled in Paris.

I am a citizen of the world.
A wanderer.
A seeker.

Like you.

That’s why we’re both here.
In this place.
At this moment.

Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.
I believe in you and me.

The catalytic explosion of chemistry. Le Big Bang.

I know what you are thinking (before you think it.)

You’re thinking –

“G-d does not play dice with the universe.
Anything Mother Nature makes that looks this good.
And smells this good.

Must feel so good.”

Come closer.

Take me.

You know you want to.

And I want to be taken.

(darkness)


........

I am alone.

In this strange place.

But unafraid.

The scents of bergamot and Provence Shea butter replaced by..

Renuzit?

(sniff)

Edelweiss and glacier buttercup overpowered by..

(sniff-sniff)

Pine-sol?

(sigh)

Why?

(sigh)

Why do you treat me so?

Shh. Don’t answer.
This is not what either of us expected.

Cie la vie.

I know you are seeing others. Using them.
Like you once dreamed of using me.

Do you not understand, mon petit chou?

When you use them, when you touch them, when you soil yourself by letting them rub themselves all across your body..

(moan)

You cheapen yourself.

Because you could be touching..

Me.

Allowing me to touch you.

What are you afraid of?

Is that it? Are you afraid?

Afraid to unwrap me, to ruffle my frilly decoupage?

To dance your fingertips along my timeless, Louis XIV contours.

To trace your tongue down my spine like a Mr. Whippy softserve cone?

Do you shiver when you peer at my pristine, chiseled physique?

Reminiscent of the chilly marble of Dave’s bedroom suite at the end of 2001, A Space Odyssey?

I am David. You are Bathsheba.
That is not a pun.

Ceci n'est pas un calembour.

Undress me – let me anoint you in juniper and sandalwood.

Let me sing to you with the smoky bonhomie of Leonard Cohen.

Let’s take a bath together and watch all of Kieslowski’s Decalogue.

What was that? How do I know so much about the cinema?

Pay-per-view, of course!

I am shocked you do not have a television in your bathroom.
You call this “living?”

I would rather endure the downward spiral of the drain..

No!.
Do not go! Not yet!

Do not shut me out. Do not –

(darkness, redux)


........

A dream of flight.

No. A dreamy flight. First class.
The clink-clink of airline crystal.

The pop of champagne.

Bubbles.
I know bubbles.

You’re taking me away.
I always knew you would.

Sweet music of an elevator.
Penthouse level.
Ding. Ding.

Music to my ears.

Déjà vu.
(all over again)

The perfume of freshly scrubbed Roman marble.
Brightly polished brass.

A five-star hotel suite.
The manner to which I’m accustomed.

We will rendezvous.
Tonight.

‘til then..

Au voir..

(interminable darkness)






.......

Time stood still while you were gone. Anticipation fed my soul.

How was my trip?

Eh. The usual.

The clumsy choreography of airport security.

Their ham hands and thick sausage fingers fumbling through your toiletry kit.

Shaking but not stirring my heaven-sent scent.

But that was then.

And now – we are alone
(at last.)

Would you like to freshen up first?
Or simply join me in the shower?

(grrrrowwl)

Mon cher?

Where are you going?
Leave your baggage at the door.

(Again, not a pun.)

Mon amour?

(!)

Sacre bleu – you are not unpacking.
You are packing up!

The rejuvenating lotion, the botanical shampoo!

Merd!
How could I have been so stupid?

And you?

Are you so superficial as to sell your soul for a whiff of lemongrass and chamomile?
A hint of tea tree oil and verbana.

You are leaving me for THAT?

Ha!

You will find that I am more than just a pretty label slapped across a (non)biodegradable polyethethylene fliptop bottle.

I am a survivor.
I will wait.

And I will find you.
This is my solemn promise.

Just as Daniel Day Lewis promised Madeline Stowe beneath the waterfall in
The Last of the Mohicans.

I will find you!

You will see!
We are meant to be.

You will be back – you filthy little..

Ho!

Someone harkens..
The servants?

No. I knew you would return – it was only a matter of..

Hellooooo…

Who are you?
Have we met before?

No, I would have remembered.

Are you..

New? Just checking in?

In our fair city for a short visit.
Of course.

Looking for a bit of good, clean fun.

(blush)

Do not be embarrassed.

We are the same, you and I.

Your pleasure is my pleasure.
Your future my path.

We meet at a fortuitous time.

(purrr)

Come closer..

Sunday Sceneggiata

Subterranean/Hill Street Blues

Associated Press – Fri Aug 14,2009

Bob Dylan was treated like a complete unknown by police in a New Jersey shore community when a resident called to report “an eccentric looking old man” walking around the neighborhood.

A 24-year-old police officer apparently was unaware of who Dylan is and asked him for identification. The singer of such classics as "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Blowin' in the Wind" said that he didn't have any ID with him, that he was just walking around looking at houses to pass some time before that night's show.

A second officer, also in his 20s, responded to assist the first officer. He, too, apparently was unfamiliar with Dylan.

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

Good morning, officers. Settle down, rooks settle down. Guiliano brought the BIG box Dunkin coffee and bear claws.. plenty to go around.

By now its become clear that the unfortunate incident of August the 14th was not this Precinct’s “finest hour.” You may say “Hey, Sarge - cops make mistakes.” Don’t I know it. And have the alimony to prove it. I get that. But this thing was all easily avoided. And here’s the thing about this thing – we detained a legend.

Ipso Facto – you book the wrong Hahvad professor, Spike Lee crawls up your anus.
Arrest Robert Zimmerman – well, let’s just say that none of us needs Senator Lautenberg riding shotgun on his retirement package. Dayenu!

So as in the interest of making sure that such an “error” in judgment never, EVER happens again, I present to you -- LIGHTS PLEASE -- a brief power point presentation in..

HOW TO IDENTIFY A ROCK ICON

You say “Sarge – whattathis all mean? We gotta go pussy footin’ around every Tom Jones, Dick, and Harry that comes to town?” No.. Plenty of long-haired faggedy dressed rock types you can shake down. Snoop Dogg. Haul his ass in. Amy Winehouse – the Mrs. don’t like her looks. Me? I’d personally like to kick Coldplay’s ass for ripping off U2’s sound.

But I don’t.

Question in back – Who’s Tom Jones? LOOK IT UP, fuckface. The Wikipedia.

Slide please.

This here is Bob Dylan. Aka Robert Allen Zimmerman. Aka Lucky Wilbury. Jack Fate. Willow Scarlet. Sometimes known as Hymie the Kid. Recorded in 1963 as Blind Boy Grunt. Checks into hotels as Justin Case. I see a hand up - What was that? No.. NOT with my wife..

Here’s a current photo. Looks like the guy who panhandles outside the Passaic diner, I know. Makes Tom Waits look like Brad Pitt. Yes, man’s got jowls like my sister-in-law’s basset hound. But there are ways of knowing. What our friends at the FBI -- and my daughter at Brown University – call “signifiers.” You dig?

Slide –

The rock icons often hide behind the urban camouflage of “the cap.” Example – the Spanish gaucho hat – as worn by Dylan on his “Never Ending Tour” or favored by Jack White of the eponymous White Stripes on his most recent concert appearances. Yet even even if Dylan is sporting said chapeau, I’m tossing out two words for you –

JEW. FRO.

Slide.

Hoodie. Right. Suspect was wearing a hoodie so you couldn’t see the Jew Fro. Feeling you. I do. Read the police blotter. Nine outta ten assailants in the commission of a crime are dressed in hoodies. Forget prohibiting the sale of spray paint, BAN THE HOODIE, watch the crime rate drop like a ten dollar hooker.

Next slide..

I got this from a Gap ad. You riff-raff still shop at the Gap? What’s the GAP? F-U, what’s the Gap! It’s the space between your sister’s legs is the GAP!

‘kay.. simmer down. Look at the jeans. You/me. Relaxed fit. Boot cut. Mom Jeans. Rock types go for the SKINNY CUT. Pipe Cleaner legs. Case in point – DAVID BOWIE. Inseam cuts right up to his scrotum. How else does he hit the high notes in “Young Americans.”

Slide..

Talk to the man. And I quote the Rolling Stone Encyclopedia Of Rock, “By performing his allusive, poetic songs in his nasal, spontaneous cadence, Dylan enlarged pop’s range and vocabulary while creating a widely imitated sound.”

Checklist: Does he mumble? UH-HUH! Does he sound like my Grandpa Frank after a pitcher of Pabst and a boilermaker chaser? THEN HE’S BOB FREEKIN’ DYLAN!

Let’s test what you’ve learned.

Slide puh-leeze..

Western-style hat, unshaven, reeks of weed.

No.. Not my mother..

ANSWER: Dylan. Or tourmate Willie Nelson..

P.S. Funnyman - You are now a CROSSING GUARD.

Officers we’ve got 30 seconds here – questions?

Dylan’s best album? Me, I’m a “Blood on the Tracks” man, but there is nothing wrong with the evangelical overtones of “Slow Train Coming” – We’ve all got to serve somebody, capeche?

Germaine question?

No, I do not watch Flight of the Conchords. Wife won’t let me get the HBO.

Anyone else?

Uh-huh, uh-huh..

I’ll repeat it so everyone can hear – Down at the park, you seen a large African American fella.. Played leftie.. Incendiary chord progressions? Good call – that was the GHOST OF JIMI HENDRIX, let the man be..

That’s our designated time for today officers, in summary – the ghost of Hendrix walks amongst us, Dylan’s the man, but Springsteen RULES! Do not fuck with Bruuuuuuuceee..

I see a hand up in back?

Yes. You can still arrest a black guy breaking into his house.

Sheez..

Let’s be careful out there.

Sunday Sceneggiata

Super/bad

TO: (NFL/CFL/UFC/Pro Wrestling) GENERAL MANAGER
FROM: WORLDWIDE FOOTBALL MGMT, INC.
SUBJECT: MICHAEL VICK IS BACK

Dear Friend:

Hey-hey.. Don’t throw this away as SPAM. This is the real thing. This is NOT from the Amalgamated Bank of Nigeria and I am NOT seeking to regain my fortune with the help of American friends..

Ok. I am. Sort of.

As you may have heard, my client Michael Vick was recently released after 18 months in Federal prison, and roughly 60 days in home confinement -- minus Dish TV. Which is a blessing considering that those ankle bracelets wreak havoc on your satellite reception.

As the legally licensed and State (by State) approved (NY, GA, and District of Columbia pending) representative of Michael Vick, I ask you:

Is there room on your roster for a man who once gave his all (and regrettably, his middle finger) to the good people of Atlanta?

You’re probably asking yourself:

Why should I invite Michael Vick to my training camp?

I’m glad you asked.

MICHAEL VICK CARES

How much does Michael Vick care?
So much so that it hurts..

As much as a Rottweiler with a Pit Bull’s foaming jaws around his neck?

Probably not.

But A LOT.

You need more?

MICHAEL VICK IS SUPERBAD

Not like those kids in the “Superbad” movie.
Well.. if you can call them kids. They’re like 30.

And not that Michael Vick would say no to those kind of movie bucks. Hey! Apatow! How ‘bout a movie about Michael Vick and a knocked up virgin? Hahahahaha!

No, Michael Vick is BAD ASS.

How bad ass?

You won’t catch him dating Jessica Simpson.
(Contractually guaranteed.)

MICHAEL VICK IS AN EDUCATOR

No less an authority than James Brown.. no not THAT ONE.. the CBS sports guy, said that Michael was:

“..Very committed and passionate about his efforts to continue educating youngsters, particularly youngsters in urban areas.” (aka major market football cities.)

Would I leave Michael Vick alone with my natural (or adopted) kids, from either of my marriages? Sure.. for a short period of time.

And incidentally, the other James Brown would have LOVED Michael Vick. Can you imagine the SHENANIGANS those two would have stirred up? SAY IT LOUD – I’m Michael Vick and I’m PROUD!

MICHAEL VICK HAS AFFORDABLE HEALTH INSURANCE

Can you say the same?

MICHAEL VICK IS REMORSEFUL

Michael Vick learned in prison. And not just how to pump iron and or make a shiv out of a spring-loaded toilet paper roller. (remember – you don’t fuck with Michael Vick – see: SUPERBAD above.)

MICHAEL VICK HAS GOLDEN REFERENCES

And I quote Super Bowl winning coach and all-around Christian good guy Tony Dungy, who has offered to mentor, and if necessary, car pool with Michael Vick should.. natch.. when he returns to the NFL:

“Hey.. if I wanted to sign this guy, I would want to sign this guy, I would want to look in his eyes and find out if anything’s different – give me that feel.”

But I warn you, take care looking into Michael Vick’s deep, soulful brown eyes because…

MICHAEL VICK IS HYPNOTIC

Look deeper into his eyes.. I dare you..

You can try to pull away from his gaze, but it will not be easy since..

MICHAEL VICK HAS A FIRM HANDSHAKE

Good luck breaking free. He’s got you in his VICE-LIKE grip. Blood drips from your fingers while Michael Vick applies the power of suggestion mastered via Neuro-linguistic programming (learned in prison.. Michael Vick eschewed “Sports Illustrated” and was always the first to grab “Wired” off the magazine cart.)

With a grip like that, can you imagine what he’d do to a football? To the choke collar around a Rottweiler’s throat?

MICHAEL VICK IS ON YOUR FANTASY FOOTBALL TEAM

‘Nuff said.

And on 60 MINUTES!

Suck on that Andy Rooney!

SCOREBOARD, baby! BOO-yah!

MICHAEL VICK IN 2012

America needs Michael Vick. Bite one for the Gipper!

WOOF-WOOF-WOOF!

And as if you need more reasons..

JESUS FORGIVES MICHAEL VICK

Won’t you?

Sunday Sceneggiata

De/briefed

(Hold Muzak.. Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You..”)

(clik)

President Clinton… Secretary Clinton will be with you shortly..

“Hummmm.. I.. could drink.. a case of..”

“William??”

(inhale/EXHALE)

“Willlllliammmm?…”

(heavy breathing)

“What are you wearing?”

“A smile. Now tell me about the trip. I need to know everything.”

(sigh)

“As a husband, or as an ‘unofficial’ diplomatic envoy of the United States government?”

“This is State Department Business. This call may be recorded.”

(sigh)

“What plays in Pyongyang/stays in Pyongyang.”

“From the top please. How was your flight?

“From here to ETERNITY! Private charter, NO ESPN. BBC the only station that came in clear. Had to watch Gordon G-ddamn Ramsey making casserole the whole dang way. Next time I use those flier miles on Singapore Air.”

“Next time?”

(hahaHAHA-cackle-snort)

“Don’t mock me Hilary Rodham. I’m not in the mood. You played me like a Nintendo Wii.”

“Moi?”

“First off, those two Asian gals – neither of ‘em was the gal from ‘The View.’”

“I never said..”

“And neither of them was PAMELA ANDERSON.”

“I never said Pam Anderson was a prisoner of the North Korean government.”

“Your aide did!”

“Perhaps ‘implied..’”

“Liar/Liar/Pantsuit on Fire!”

“Tell me about Kim Jong Il..”

“Little fella, kinda kooky but sweet. Ain’t gonna be prom king..”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing much at first. Kids. Sports. A tacit understanding of American nuclear imperialism on the Korean peninsula as a stumbling block to bilateral disarmament talks. The usual “Dr. Strangelove” missile-straddling-whose-gamecock-is-bigger BS.”

(silence)

“Did he mention me?”

“In what context?”

(cold silence)

“What happened next?”

“Lunch. Spicy but not too spicy. Hot towels.”

“After lunch. Were you alone?”

“We’re all alone, Hils.”

“With Kim?”

“Gimme a break, Madame Secretary! I mention ‘hot towels’ and you get visions of me getting a tug job from Miss Saigon next to the strong man of the North.”

“It wasn’t like that?..”

“I wish!”


“I need specifics, William. On-the-record..”

“We played Scrabble.”



“Scrabble?”

“Dude is a FIEND. One of those guys who sits on the can with the ‘Scrabble Players Dictionary’ and memorizes all the little three letter words. Words that start with Q. Maybe that’s why he’s so svelte.”

“What’s your secret?”

(chuckle-chuckle)

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

(garbled male voice)

“Who was that?”

(giggles)

“No one.. A friend..”

“We don’t have friends in Washington, sister.”

“..only people whom owe us favors, I know-I know. So what else did you learn about Kim? A feeling? A vibe?”

“Crosswords. We both do the Crossword. Only there, it’s in Korean and not even SUPERbama could solve that.”

“The President’s a very bright man.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah. And when I’m on the Supreme Court, I’m gonna wear pants under the robe.”

“Anything else?”

“Suduko. Hershey’s Miniatures. Kim Jong Il breaks out a copy of Obama’s Kenyan birth certificate. Some Jello shots. Then he hands over the girls like the keys to the rental car.”

“Did you take that car out for a spin?”

“They are married. BOTH of ‘em. Kept to themselves and ate a bowl of Starbursts. Al Gore’s got a better chance of winning the Nobel Prize than I do scorin’ with those gals..”

“Al won the Nobel Prize.”

(static/pffft/hoarse laughter)

“What was that? You’re breakin’ up Hils..”

“I said.. ‘Don’t unpack your bags..”

“’Scuse me?”

“I’m sending you to Tehran, next.”

“Uh-uh”

“Uh-huh”

(sigh)

“I want an official jet this time. With fondue. And a badge. (beat) And a Kindle.“

“I’ll make some calls.”

“Can I ask whyyyyy Tehran?”

“Umm.. They’ve taken Megan Fox hostage.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Hilary – I read 'Us Magazine..' online.. everyday.”

“Mr. Kindle reads ‘Us?’”

“Yeah, it’s like ‘People’ with bigger tits.”

(gnashing teeth)

“Madame Secretary – any message you wish to deliver?”

“For President Ahmadinejad?”

(heavy breathing)

“For me..”

(giggle)

“I love you, Mr. President.”

(moan)

“I love you, too Dragon-First-Lady.”

(air-kiss)
(air-kiss)