Sometimes I write things that don't make any sense. Okay, I always write things that don't make any sense. But some of these things seem to begin with purpose, then peter out. For example, this, below. I don't know what I was intending & it's not exactly a parody or satire. Maybe I wrote it with sympathy for the unheralded writers & artists of Disney. Who know? It certainly falls apart soon enough.
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Scene: Hollywood, California. A bungalow on a movie lot. Time: then. Date: now.
A thick pile of night-black cat hair rises up to talk. It's Frisky Feline, star of stage & screen!
Frisky Feline introduces the short documentary film. He's smoking a cigarette on a long diamond-encrusted holder, to signify the wealth he's made in the movies. It's a stark contrast to the terrible working conditions the cartoonists who created him had to slave in!
Scene switches to: a sweatshop in Santa Barbara. Cigar smoke fills the air.
Rows & rows of middle-aged white men in their shirtsleeves lean over their drawing boards, allowed only a pipe or a cigar to calm their grumbling guts. Standing over them, wearing a double-breasted suit, is the Overseer. He wields the pen that signs the checks. He has a giggling blonde tattooed on each arm - but these poor cartoonists will never see.
Scene switches to: wealthy voice-over artists on their palatial estates in the Hollywood hills, getting foreign massages & other bizarre treatments while explaining how they rewrote scripts to suit their talents.
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Just to let you know. I have scraps of things like this everywhere. I think people who really write - songs, poems, stories, etc. - save their scraps & find ways to use their ideas in other ways. I just save them. Then I look at them occasionally & go "What the fuck?"
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