“But if I had a million dollars…” -Eminem
If I suddenly came upon a million dollars, lying in the road say, I’d use the money to do what I’ve always wanted: to make my dream film, a realistic romantic-comedy containing some very heartfelt drama not unlike one of the classics of the genre, “When Harry Met Sally.” Except no Billy Crystal. He stinks.
The problem is, I’m out of my writing element on this one. For the first time ever I’ll need a collaborator when I write the script. I need a writer who can do all the sappy parts, and I’ll do the rest. I’d contract her (I’m just guessing) to write a script that would clock in around ninety minutes, and that perfectly sets up a dramatic ending. Then I’ll painstakingly finish the rest of the script for our ninety-two minute film.
The entire story arc should set it all up for me to write the big final “The Graduate”-type scene, where our hero has to save the girl of his dreams from her dickhead boyfriend or whatever. After an hour-and-a-half of dramatic twists and turns filled with love and laughter—yet tinged with potential heartbreak—between two true loves, the audience is on the edge of their seats. The women dab their misty eyes in anticipation, even their boyfriends, surprised by the high quality of a so-called “chick flick,” and the emotions they have vested in it, sit transfixed.
Suddenly, as our hero sprints inside a romantic restaurant to begin his, “Elaine! Elaine!” pounding on the nearest table to gain his sweetheart’s attention and profess his undying love once and for all, he just starts uncontrollably shitting his pants. Shitting everywhere. Think Monty Python’s famous throw-up sketch, except much more graphic and disturbing—what with the wonders of CGI nowadays.
Instantly, impossibly, the floor of the restaurant is ankle deep. Only seconds later the tide is somehow beginning to rise to dangerous proportions. Our hero actually shits to the point where it floods the entire restaurant and drowns everyone, until the pressure from floor-to-ceiling is too much for the structure to bear and the director (probably Scorsese), cuts to an outside shot of the restaurant, and we see shit smashing out the windows and spilling out into the street, terrorizing traffic and horrified pedestrians alike. Then, written in perfect cursive, “The End” appears on screen and the credits roll like nothing happened. I’m thinking the credits song should be “I’m Sensitive” by Jewel.
Could you imagine the utter confusion? Then outrage? People would be still sitting in their theater seats like, “No. What the fuck. That had to be a dream sequence. I’ll wait till the end of the credits. Then I’ll see the real ending.”
But no reprieve would come, which would lead to violent uprisings in cinemas throughout the world. Popcorn would be strewn about with wanton abandon. Swedish Fish would become heat-seeking missiles for pimple-faced staff. Refunds would be demanded in droves at every theater upon pain of death by gummy bear. In short, it would be magnificent.
Brilliantly though, due to my last-second script re-writes, if anyone dared further review of my masterpiece they would notice subtle hints as to the rather explosive finale. Like for instance you’d notice the hero guy randomly complained about his stomach hurting in a scene or two. Then there was the scene where he ate that spoiled tuna fish sandwich. It was also fishy how he kept popping ex-lax pills like tic tacs throughout the entire film.
But no matter. By then, the reviews will be in and the film will be a record-breaking box-office smash and sweep the Oscars, the Academy Awards, and somehow, the BET awards.
All I need to do is get that million dollars.