Explanation: When I was a high school senior, I took a speech class that required that we get together in groups and shoot a movie. My friends and I took the opportunity to film our own version of an episode of the Dukes of Hazard. It is now available in DVD form, if you're interested.
Back on my old site I one day decided to write a new version of the script. Then I got bored...
The Dukes of Hazard (a remix of a highschool project): By Mike
PRIMARY CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Matt Miller - Luke Duke
John Garrett - Bo Duke
Brent Maue - Uncle Jesse
James Brown (no, not that James Brown) - Roscoe
Mike - Boss Hog
I can't remember who else was actually involved. This is a remix, anyway.
ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS:
Overweight Robot - Nate Book
Slim Robot - Dave Youngman
Mysterious Stranger - Mark Brown
Mysterious Stranger's Companion - Dave Huffman
I believe that's the whole cast of the original film, minus Buddy Stumph, whose roll has been filled by Mark Brown.
SCENE ONE:
SETTING:
We pan across a rolling desert. There are miles upon miles of dunes, and not a tree in sight. Think of Star Wars IV, A New Hope.
The camera scans the dunes until we see two robots standing atop a dune.
Slim Robot: I hate myself and want to die. If only I had some sort of weapon.
Overweight Robot: I just happen to have a baseball bat. Beep Beep. Boop.
Slim Robot: I don't think that will work. Let's keep walking.
THEY SEE A SIGN THAT READS "HAZARD - 2 MILES"
Slim Robot: Say, I think that's where we want to go.
Overweight Robot: It's about fucking time. Boop.
Slim Robot: What's the chance this is going to be funny?
Overweight Robot: Slim, slim. Beep beep BOOP! BEEP! Boop.
CLOSE SCENE
SCENE TWO:
SETTING:
We are now in a bustling city. People are selling things in the street. Dirty children are running everywhere.
Mysterious Stranger: Sure are alot of dirty children running everywhere.
Mysterious Stranger's Companion: Hey look! A fat robot!
Mysterious Stranger: And a slim robot. Kinda like Star Wars.
Mysterious Stranger's Companion: RAAAAAWR!
Mysterious Stranger: Nice Chewbacca.
Mysterious Stranger: Thanks.
CLOSE SCENE
SCENE THREE:
SETTING:
We are on the Duke Farm, but for the first time we realize that it's far into the future. Uncle Jessies' house is made of shiny metal.
Uncle Jessie: Say you two idiots... I can't believe your parents just dumped you on me like this.
Luke Duke: Mom and dad have been dead for years. I can't believe the global AIDS epidemic has had such a profound effect on our lives.
Bo Duke: Yeah, they never should have gone swimming in that pool of blood, what with their open sores and such.
Luke: But that sure has taught me a lesson; cover your open sores.
Uncle Jessie: Anyway, Boss Hogg was by the farm today and he said we've got to come up with $10,000 to pay back taxes or we're going to lose the farm to two mysterious strangers. They might even be gay guys.
Luke: You mean like queers?
Bo: We're they cute?
Uncle Jessie: How the hell should I know? I didn't see them. Sounds pretty mysterious, don't it?
Luke: VERY MYSTERIOUS.
LUKE GAZES THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT TO THE SUN. HE STARES AT IT FOR WHAT SEEMS LIKE HOURS.
Bo: I wonder if they're cute.
Uncle Jessie: I'm sure they're cute, Bo. Anyway, we need to come up with ten grand quick.
Luke: I've got an idea.
HE RETURNS TO GAZING AT THE SUN.
Bo: You hear that Jessie? He's got an idea!
Jessie: Let's hear your idea.
Luke: Well..
LUKE BEGINS TO LOOK AROUND THE ROOM. HE PUTS HIS HAND IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. HE CANNOT SEE.
Luke: I'M BLIND!
Bo: Liar.
Luke: I'M BLIND!
Bo: We'll see about that.
BO GIVES LUKE A WET WILLIE.
Luke: What was that?
Bo: I guess you are blind.
CLOSE SCENE
SCENE FOUR:
SETTING:
We are on the edge of town; the two robots are hiding behind a building. Someone is shooting at them.
Overweight Robot: This sure is a strange twist of events!
Slim Robot: Yeah.
THE CAMERA PANS BACK TO REVEAL BO SHOOTING AT BOSS HOGG, ROSCOE, AND THE TWO MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS AND THE ROBOTS. LUKE IS WALKING AROUND AIMLESSLY.
Luke: I've been hit!
LUKE FALLS TO THE GROUND, BLEEDING.
Bo: You motherfuckers shot my blind brother! I'm never going to forget this!
Mysterious Stranger: Like it matters anyway. Nobody cares about cripples.
Roscoe: Coo coo (or whatever Roscoe says).
Boss Hogg: Well I guess we've learned an important lesson. Haven't we?
BO SHOOTS BOSS HOGG IN THE FACE.
Mysterious Stranger's Companion: Nice shot.
Bo: Thanks.
AN EXPLOSION KILLS THEM ALL, EXCEPT THE OVERWEIGHT ROBOT.
Overweight Robot: Beep beep. (Now sadder) Boop. (Even sadder) Beeeeep.
CLOSE SCENE. ROLL CREDITS.
Showing posts with label old stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old stuff. Show all posts
11 September 2007
God Bless the Endlessness of the Internet
It's always fun to find things you did a while ago...
I think I was trying to make some sort of profound statement or something... this is overthought. Anyway.
Duty Calls (And Gets My Voicemail)
There are only so many chances in a lifetime to prove your worth. Failure or success when faced with these opportunities defines who you truly are. The sum failure or success of the answer to this call often defines a generation.
For my Grandfather's generation, the opportunity came with World War II. His peers stood up, and with a clear goal, prevailed, defining itself as perhaps the greatest generation.
For my father's peers, the goal was not so clear. As a result, Vietnam may have ultimately defined how history will remember his generation.
One might argue that for my generation the opportunities are obvious. The war in Iraq and the war on terror are constantly defining who were are and what we believe in. But I have no real role in that outcome. Besides longer lines at airports, none of it really effects a person like myself. We spend our days behind desks, hoping to avoid any call to define our generation (of for that matter, any call at all). But there comes a time in almost every one's life when he or she has to step up and define themself. The question for me was not so much "Will my call come?", but instead, "How will I answer it?"
Last night I think I got a small taste of that answer. My call to duty came suddenly and unexpectedly at the intersection of State Road 135 and Stonegate, in the lounge of my favorite Starbucks.
There I was, tall white chocolate mocha in hand, about to make my way out to my car when I was met by three women who appeared to be about my age.
"Do you know how to change a tire?"
If I had realized the grand scale of what I was being asked, I may have taken a minute to ponder my answer. But much like those who immediately signed up with the army on September 12th, I jumped into action.
"Yes."
"Can you look at our car?"
"Sure."
What I should have done was pointed to my girlfriend Gina, who was with me, and said "She normally does stuff like this." But I didn't.
So we stepped outside, over some mounds of plowed snow, and over to a newer Pontiac Grand Prix. Here was my Everest, my WWII, parked in the Starbucks parking lot and sporting a badly broken front driver's side wheel.
"Ooh. That's going to be expensive" I said.
The girl didn't seem to mind. "Can we just put the spare on so I can drive it down to the Goodyear place?"
I said sure and began digging through her trunk for the spare. I pulled it out with little effort, and removed the jack. Working my way around to the front of the car, I asked her if she had her manual so I could find out the proper location for the mount of the jack.
As I flipped through the pages of the manual, little did I know that my battle was going to be more of a Vietnam than a WWII. But even calling it Vietnam is probably generous. The manual said something about putting the jack into the notch, and had an illustration of the bottom of the car with the words "18 inches" written below. While I secretly wondered I was supposed to do with those 18 inches (insert joke), I began to clear the packed snow away from the undercarriage. I loosened the lugs nuts on the wheel, felt around for some sort of clear indication of where the jack belonged, and then made a completely wild guess that the first undercarriage notch I found was my target.
After what seemed like hours, I had unpacked the jack enough to establish a firm fit between the snow covered parking lot and the snow covered undercarriage. I began winding the jack more enthusiastically now, knowing that I was getting closer to my goal. But after getting the jack about halfway up, I noticed that it didn't seem to be sitting straight.
I suppose it was at this point that I gave up on trying to keep my beltless pants up. In conversation later, Gina noted the I was hanging out the back of my pants, and I explained that I was so frustrated that I had given up on caring.
I now had a decision to make: either continue to jack the car up with a crooked jack (knowing full well that it could cause the car to fall), or lower the jack and start all over. After kicking the idea around in my head a bit, I decided to start over.
The jack wasn't having it. As I started to lower the car, I first heard a sort of crunch sound, which didn't really worry me (plastic cars make odd sounds sometimes). But then I noticed that the jack was getting more and more crooked. Slightly worried that something terrible had happened, I turned the lever faster and faster.
I guess really it didn't take long to realize I had bent and completely destroyed the jack. I should have know when it pushed sideways into the tire.
I said "So... do you want the bad news or the bad news?"
I'm sure that the girls already knew they had picked an idiot when my ass started creeping out of my pants. Now they had confirmation.
"Oh, that's all right. We'll just call somebody." They then offered me ten dollars, which I refused.
As I put my tail between my legs and walked back to the car, I started to drink my now cold mocha. I recalled a conversation with Gina earlier in the week when she had asked me "Who doesn't know how to change a tire?". Then I blamed it all on my girlfriend, much like those brave soldiers who gave their lives at Pearl Harbor.
"You cursed me!"
"No I didn't."
"Whatever"
So there we have it. My call to duty felled by faulty equipment, or bad planning, or an evil woman out to destroy me. All in all, I guess it can't be my fault. But that didn't stop me from feeling cold and embarrassed, a lot like my overexposed ass in the Starbucks parking lot.
I think I was trying to make some sort of profound statement or something... this is overthought. Anyway.
Duty Calls (And Gets My Voicemail)
There are only so many chances in a lifetime to prove your worth. Failure or success when faced with these opportunities defines who you truly are. The sum failure or success of the answer to this call often defines a generation.
For my Grandfather's generation, the opportunity came with World War II. His peers stood up, and with a clear goal, prevailed, defining itself as perhaps the greatest generation.
For my father's peers, the goal was not so clear. As a result, Vietnam may have ultimately defined how history will remember his generation.
One might argue that for my generation the opportunities are obvious. The war in Iraq and the war on terror are constantly defining who were are and what we believe in. But I have no real role in that outcome. Besides longer lines at airports, none of it really effects a person like myself. We spend our days behind desks, hoping to avoid any call to define our generation (of for that matter, any call at all). But there comes a time in almost every one's life when he or she has to step up and define themself. The question for me was not so much "Will my call come?", but instead, "How will I answer it?"
Last night I think I got a small taste of that answer. My call to duty came suddenly and unexpectedly at the intersection of State Road 135 and Stonegate, in the lounge of my favorite Starbucks.
There I was, tall white chocolate mocha in hand, about to make my way out to my car when I was met by three women who appeared to be about my age.
"Do you know how to change a tire?"
If I had realized the grand scale of what I was being asked, I may have taken a minute to ponder my answer. But much like those who immediately signed up with the army on September 12th, I jumped into action.
"Yes."
"Can you look at our car?"
"Sure."
What I should have done was pointed to my girlfriend Gina, who was with me, and said "She normally does stuff like this." But I didn't.
So we stepped outside, over some mounds of plowed snow, and over to a newer Pontiac Grand Prix. Here was my Everest, my WWII, parked in the Starbucks parking lot and sporting a badly broken front driver's side wheel.
"Ooh. That's going to be expensive" I said.
The girl didn't seem to mind. "Can we just put the spare on so I can drive it down to the Goodyear place?"
I said sure and began digging through her trunk for the spare. I pulled it out with little effort, and removed the jack. Working my way around to the front of the car, I asked her if she had her manual so I could find out the proper location for the mount of the jack.
As I flipped through the pages of the manual, little did I know that my battle was going to be more of a Vietnam than a WWII. But even calling it Vietnam is probably generous. The manual said something about putting the jack into the notch, and had an illustration of the bottom of the car with the words "18 inches" written below. While I secretly wondered I was supposed to do with those 18 inches (insert joke), I began to clear the packed snow away from the undercarriage. I loosened the lugs nuts on the wheel, felt around for some sort of clear indication of where the jack belonged, and then made a completely wild guess that the first undercarriage notch I found was my target.
After what seemed like hours, I had unpacked the jack enough to establish a firm fit between the snow covered parking lot and the snow covered undercarriage. I began winding the jack more enthusiastically now, knowing that I was getting closer to my goal. But after getting the jack about halfway up, I noticed that it didn't seem to be sitting straight.
I suppose it was at this point that I gave up on trying to keep my beltless pants up. In conversation later, Gina noted the I was hanging out the back of my pants, and I explained that I was so frustrated that I had given up on caring.
I now had a decision to make: either continue to jack the car up with a crooked jack (knowing full well that it could cause the car to fall), or lower the jack and start all over. After kicking the idea around in my head a bit, I decided to start over.
The jack wasn't having it. As I started to lower the car, I first heard a sort of crunch sound, which didn't really worry me (plastic cars make odd sounds sometimes). But then I noticed that the jack was getting more and more crooked. Slightly worried that something terrible had happened, I turned the lever faster and faster.
I guess really it didn't take long to realize I had bent and completely destroyed the jack. I should have know when it pushed sideways into the tire.
I said "So... do you want the bad news or the bad news?"
I'm sure that the girls already knew they had picked an idiot when my ass started creeping out of my pants. Now they had confirmation.
"Oh, that's all right. We'll just call somebody." They then offered me ten dollars, which I refused.
As I put my tail between my legs and walked back to the car, I started to drink my now cold mocha. I recalled a conversation with Gina earlier in the week when she had asked me "Who doesn't know how to change a tire?". Then I blamed it all on my girlfriend, much like those brave soldiers who gave their lives at Pearl Harbor.
"You cursed me!"
"No I didn't."
"Whatever"
So there we have it. My call to duty felled by faulty equipment, or bad planning, or an evil woman out to destroy me. All in all, I guess it can't be my fault. But that didn't stop me from feeling cold and embarrassed, a lot like my overexposed ass in the Starbucks parking lot.
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