Comedy Whirled

Let's Write A TV Pilot Script #2 The Randomabration!

Additive format.  it starts like this:

"A man walks into a bar ...."

(then you add something)

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in Utah and he's forced to sit at a table and eat pretzels before they'll serve him.  Because it's Utah.
A membership, the guy tells me I needs.  sheesh! I didn't realize the USofA had became a communalist state right under our noses.  But that's how it is on the mean streets of  BUM BUM BUM! Salt Lake City!  So I's order a coke, and freshen it up with my handy two way radio alcohol watch, whiles the glass filler's checking out a missionary's girlfriend.  You can always tell, that faraway cornfed look.  Then somethings really amazing happens ...
Several members walk in as a group, they seem to be wearing the same suit, highwater pants, white socks, orthopedic shoes and a tie with a knot the size of a keiser roll . They all sit at a round table, all the while gviing me the cornfed stare. I'm thinking they are going to ask me to sell AMWAY when suddenly one of them places a miniature conestoga wagon on the table...
"Is it Groundhog day?"
I saws the group, I asekd mineself the question.  No, it was not groundhog day, it was crap tornado day.  Of all the membership orientated bars in all of Salt Lake City, this group of returned missionarys had to step into mine. It was like back in 87 all over again.  This was no ordinary group of johnny do gooders, no this was "the mormon militia".  The radical-conservative-ultra violen, yet unoffical arm of the unofficial church.  You know the one I mean, with all the wifes, and such business.  I checked my hogleg as un-chalantly as a ham fisted pollack, such as I am, can do.  Old bessie was chock full of death seeds. Thank God. I looked for the nearest exit, but then one of them shot me a cornfed sideways glance, and I knew things would not go well. 
I had to think fast, I ordered a sasparilla (Just to throw them off a little) then asked where the bathroom was. The bathroom took me back momentarily, the walls were covered with old portraits, most of them yellowy except one that seemed newer, taken of a man with his back to the camera. Anyways, no time to take an art class, I needed to find a window. There was a rusty old crank window over the urinal, I climbed up to have a look. I saw their bicycles all parked outside with a lookout, every bike had a rifle holder,a bananna seat and wheelie bar. My first thought was, how can they do wheelies on these rutted out roads? I had to act quickly, I dipped old bessie in the nastiest toilet I coud find (just in case the first shot just winged them), I grabbed a roll of toilet paper and then wiggled myself out the window

The window was one of those cracker jack box prize vinly jobs.  Luckfully there was a tree branch extending itself like a handshake from a vaccum salesman.  The window snagged the toilet paper roll, (which I will explain later whys I took later).  A piece separated, which according to the laws of literary reference past participle physics, meant the limb had to jounce somebody.  I was the only cigar in the wooden indian's hand, so down I went.  And like poor Kaw-Liga, my noggin felt like it was made of knotty pine when I awoke.  I looked around me, just out of reach was a sign above a door "This way to the cornfeed stairs".  Jesus Crap on a Crap Cracker, the perserves warehouse!  When I went to stand, I found by a process of elimintaion that I was chained to a bike rack full of bananna seats.  I used the toilet paper to clean up the elimination.  Just then I got shaken like a jinkyboard, and recieved complementary turn down service from the managment. I had just enough time to regret dipping old bessie in dirty toilet water, before ... hey why did I do that?  I'd better save some squares just in case I find the old gir...

When I awoke again, I was surrounded by ...

Flies, which meant Old bessie was still in my waistband. I looked around to recomposition mineself (he, he he). My head had several cranial congratusions and my hearbones were ringing like a lunch bell. As I slowly came around and started getting all my "ducks in the road" I noticed something on the ground, it was glistening under a pile of corn husks. The full moon provided just enough light to make out what it was and at first I couldn't believe my eyes, it was a Scientologists Cross!! My first thought was" What in the fucking screaming yellow eagle shit is going on here?" my second thought was "Where did my roll of Toilet paper get to?",. The chains were easy to slip, my arms were still wet from dippin bessie. There was a blinking neon sign in the distance. I managed to free one of the bikes, it was completely coverd in  Licorice Pizza stickers?? no time to ponder that one! My Italian leather loafers weren't the greatest pedaling shoes but considering the situation I knew the only hard part would be keeping the front tire on the ground "I hadn't done a wheelie in years"
All these pictures of the big puzzle, a tiny conastaga wagon, bananna seats, an apocalypse preparedingness warehouse, a scientologist cross, Wait, those guys don't have crosses!  Hmm?  It was all forming a soupy puddle of soup in my brain.  Now all I needed was bread, and a leggy dame pretending to cry with her engine-do eyes and a "my office" full of cigarette smoke.  I really needed to get back to a "my office".  I popped a wheelie with the force of a hundred smaller wheelies, and broke through the wall of the preserves warehouse.  The sirens went off like a cat with no skin catterwalling at the guy who took his skin off. Which was me.  I saws a fence alls around me, I checked the bikes front wicker basket, which was saddly devoid of charming extra terrestrials.  A quick survey of the grounds revealed a total lack of charming extra terrestrials what for to put in the wicker basket so the bike would fly and such.  I headed for the gate, banked by machiene gun fire.  It was very exciting, and yes, I popped a halfy.  Um I mean wheelie, pulled out old bessie, which had been improbably retured to me, and shot the lock on the gate.   Yeah, that didn't work.  Just then I looked back in the basket, and found a sub terrestrial.  I thought my happiest thought and popped a wheelie through the ground.  Technically it was a downie, but you get the pont.  Sheesh, what are you a lawer? After inflating a few pookas, and killing a frygar with a rock, I remereged a block from my office.  I just couldn't wait to see those engine-do eyes!  I saw a few agents from the bureau of agriculture scoping out my joint.  Frickin' Corn Feds!  If only I could get to the back door way in nobody nose about.
The last thing I needed tonight was to get "Popped" by the Corn Feds, so I has to be extra cautious. I had to think fast, I needed a diversion. I gathers up some Jimson weed, stuffs it into a PBJ I had been carrying around and gives it to the homeless chap on the corner, it was only a matter of time before he starts barkin at the moon and the Fed's began pistol whippin some sensk into him. I narrowly slip by and make it to the back entrance, I pause momentarily and get a whiff of burning cloves...she's here! I needed a drink and with a little luck, she didn't drink everything in sight, including my fish tank. I stepped through the door and there she lay, passed out, bottle in hand, spread eagle'd and looking mighty felching tonight. I had plenty of thinnin to do but right now I had some pressing bidness and old engine eyes was going to help in more ways than you could imagine.
"I kneeaade Yoouur helf ROOOLF". she said, casting me that semi-concious come hither/ clean up this mess while you're at it look.   "Hi Husband go cigarlet dand not com ho ROLLLF" (poop).  This dame had it goin' on.  "He cootpocket scientific cross, BLAAACH (poop) EAAAAAgh". The astral moonglow caught the last trickle of vomit streaming through her pursed ruby lips. "I afraid for his, what's taht work?  O goddammit, UUUUGH!"   Clearly she was sober enough to use a comma in her description of events, which had my hopes up.  Saddly her convulsions and bluening face meant it was time to give somebody an ambulance to chase.  The reciever slammed down like a cold shower of hornyness.  The alerted were in authority, which meant no hankying of her diaphanous, yet vomit infused panky.  I forgot to discuss my fee, so gentileman that I am, I took a pay cut by means of all the money in her purse, and some fuzzy mints.  No dame takes me for a fool, though in the wrong light, some have taken me for a dame.  But those were differnt times (tm). An reflectorizing aint what Chad Freebolt or his detective agency is about. It was time to beat the pavement with my shoe weiners.  I just can't seem to get that corn like substance clad dame's orange-goo-chunk stewn pomegranite breasts outta my mind.  I need a drink, and there is only one membership orientated bar which has answers on tap, "The Reluctant Midwife" where this whole story startiated.  I took my time cleanifying old bessie, cause I'm classy like that, snuck out the back, and paused at what I sawerized.  Old Bucky Clark in his farm truck.  Yous still driving that corn sled?  I asked him. He answered with ....

You mean ole Bathsheeba? hell, she only has 258,000 miles on her!! what you talkin about? I just converted her over to runnin on pig shit! goddamn Arabs aint a gittin any of my money, no sireee. Come slaughter time, I get's all my fuel money back!! The only damn drawback is she smells like dead rat asshole all the time. Old Bucky got my wheels grinding, if I was to nose around "The Reluctant Midwife" I couldn't very well come riding up on a bike, the stickers would surely give me away. I needed to roll up in something they wouldn't be expecting so's I ask Old Bucky when's the last time he had any action, just like that. Bucky looks up to the sky and I can see he's time traveling in his mind, going back....wayyy back, so's I wouldn't be here all day I say's to Old Bucky "It just so happend I got a Dame that has an itch needin to be scratched, you gotta be quick about it (not that I expected that to be a problem) and she's right here ready to go". I could see Old Bucky face change like he won ten lottery's, I figures he wont mind the smell and she certainly wont notice a smell...hell, this is as good as! I ask Bucky if I coud borrow Bathsheeba for a little while, I walk him around to my office..tell him to call 911 and cancel the order and I point out the heap by my desk, her skirt was still up over her head but I didn't get the sense that Bucky cared much about prettiness anyways. Bucky hands over the keys, well actually he threw them at me and just before I left, I showed him where the bike was parked, case he got his fill of romance and wanted to get back to the farm. Turning to leave It hit me, I needed to complete the disguise, I turned to Bucky, who was already banging away like an old steam shovel and I lifted the "John Deere" hat from his head, that ought to do it. Time was a wastin, I needed to get back to the bar while them twerps were still there and besides, between Old Bucky's sweatty pig shit smellin rankness and Nancy's odoriferous puked out bleachy (That was mine) soured out alcoholy stank...I was gettin light headed anyways. Off I went, I never even noticed the pig in the front seat until I jumped in, he looked tame enough and actually, he might come in handy..I forgot my wallet and I might just need fuel.


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