A Czar is Born
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, the AM talk-radio gasbags I hear say that our current presidential administration is passing out czardoms like condoms at a college frat party. Apparently, these air-waved Brownshirt bozos think this not to be a good thing for the country. Our previous president out of Texas appointed enough czars to hide under every bed from sea to shining sea, and how did that turn out? Well sir, we got ourselves a black guy in the White House.
Anyways, I can’t write an essay this week ’cause I’m too busy filling out my federal job application for a czar position. I hear they get really good health insurance. My dream is to be czar of Hollywood Standards & Practices. First thing I’d do is make all Tom Cruise and Nicolas Cage movies pay-what-you-can at the box office, and “if” they sucked you’d get your money back, you betcha.
Second thing as Czar of Hollywood I’d do is make sure my in-the-drawer movie script finally got produced and shown in every theater from Natchez to Mobile, from Memphis to St. Joe. You know, the one that goes something like this:
Are You Axing, or Telling Me?
(A.K. repasts at a swinging cafeteria, his swankily long-legged date excuses herself to visit the powder room and plug the condom machine. Buxomatic waitress approaches and leans over his corner of the counter.)
Waitress: Are we all through here, Mr. Kumbalek, or can I fill your cup?
A.K.: “Through”? Doll, I don’t recall that you and me ever got started, know what I mean? But I’ll tell you, if you can fill my cup about a half as well as you fill the two of yours, I’d like to see you for dessert. Know what I mean?
(Waitress excuses herself to use the powder room and plug the condom machine. There, she discovers A.K.’s swankily long-legged date dead on the floor due to an ax taking up residence in her retro-stylish ’70s Farrah Fawcett-coiffed noggin. Screams. Cut back to A.K. who leaps off his stool and races to the men’s room, enters, and to his visible chagrin finds it standing-room only. A.K. exits, tosses some loose change on the counter and rushes out the front door.
(Cop shop. A.K’s getting grilled but good by a detective—female, statuesque out-to-here up-the-jock-and-back for the whole nine yards, you bet.)
A.K.: Hey, if I’d known I was going to get the third degree, I would’ve packed the Coppertone, know what I mean?
Detective: Don’t play funny with me, Kumbalek, ’cause funny you are not. You were seen running out of a swinging cafeteria seconds after your lady friend turns up dead for the axing.
A.K.: That’s got to hurt, ain’a?
Detective: And you’re trying to sell me the reason you fled from the scene is that you were on the hunt for an unoccupied toilet. I’m not buying, mister. I’ve been trying to nail you for a long time, Kumbalek.
A.K.: Then you’re in luck, doll. Based on the coroner’s report, seems I’m currently unattached. How ’bout dinner?
Detective: I need to frisk you.
A.K.: No problem. Your place, or yours?
(Exterior shot: Two cars traveling high speed with lots of symbolisms like going in and out of tunnels and stuff. Pull up in front of swinging townhouse. Cut to townhouse interior.)
Detective: Mind if I slip into… nothing?
A.K.: Hey, is the pope an old fart? (A.K. saunters over to the wet bar, blends up a tall and frosty. Sits down at the grand piano, pounds out a couple, three fugues with a hot toccata thrown in for good measure. Blends another king-size tall and frosty. Takes off his shirt, gets down on the floor, pumps out 50 no-arm pushups. Stares out the window introspectively at twinkling light-strewn mid-major American-city vista—his city. Knocks on bedroom door.)
A.K.: Hey doll, I’m ready for some frisking, I kid you not.
(No response. A.K. enters boudoir. Finds Detective on bed, dead, head resting deep on business-end of ax. Smiles wistfully.)
A.K.: Nice pillow, doll.
(Couple, three more homicides, snappy dialogue, A.K. hot-to-trot on trail of crazed ax-murderer uncovers clues as well as totally stacked tertiary female characters of an expository manner.)
(For budgetary costsavings, we’ll work out details-schmetails during shooting. Suffice to say, A.K. nabs murderer after numerous pistol whippings of potential suspects and sundry bystanders, what the fock. Ax maniac turns out to be nutbag leader of right-wing religious outfit dedicated to stamping out TV and movie violence not to mention health-care reform.)
(Back at townhouse, A.K. in arms of statuesque Detective who turned up not completely dead on account of Kumbalek’s street-wise ways with Band-Aid and hydrogen peroxide-soaked Q-Tip.)
Detective: So about that frisking…
A.K.: Balls in your court, beautiful. Hold on.
(A.K. turns to camera) Well folks, that’s our movie about a show within a movie. See you next week ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
(A.K. douses the Edisons to fade; and out.)