- Jun 30, 2004
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First, the latest breaking news: They've raided a house HERE in MY TOWN, in investigation of the guns acquired by Farook and Malik. While I can see all of San Bernardino from my hillside patio, this latest tidbit momentarily raised the hair on my back. I'm thinking that the troubles have come home to roost for local gun-nuts. The Riverside paper always have some rant by a hinterland cornpone over the 2nd Amendment and the "proteckshun of his preshious bodily fluids."
Second, there is a "Propaganda of the Truth." A literary tradition that goes all the way back to Jonathan Swift. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say. It's called "Satire."
So it's time for some movie remakes and Broadway plays.
My wicked little mind has already concocted some basic concepts.
A re-make of the movie (and play?) derived from the Ken Kesey book "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Call it "One Flew Over the Jihad Nest."
In addition to Nurse Rasheed (previously Nurse Ratchet), we have Rahdool Macmoofi (Randall McMurphy). A scene in which two jihadist inmates fight over a pack of cigarettes, and one stabs the other in the neck with a plastic fork. Rahdool protests taking his meds. Nurse Rasheed tells him:
"Mr. Macmoofi. If you don't take your medication orally, we'll have to administer it . . a different way."
Rahdool ruminates over a certain Gitmo waterhose practice, downs the pills, and says "Yummy! Allah be praised!"
The only difference: Nurse Rasheed isn't the villain. In fact, none of them are terrible villains, but only bumbling, though no less dangerous lunatics, arguing about turning down the music so they can see the soccer game on the TV.
Then, perhaps, a musical, like "Hair." Call it "Blast!"
The audience is warned to stay calm over a certain scene, where the actors catapult cello-wrapped gummi-bears at the audience with toy Ping-Pong-ball guns.
At the end, a great chorus about making the world a better place by blowing it up. The entire cast, clad in ninja garb, end the chorus by blowing their brains out (dramatized -- nothing real). One of them makes a botch of it, and fiddles around in a mime that lasts five minutes -- enough to have the audience rolling in the aisles with convulsive laughter.
Perhaps, then, after the curtain drops briefly, the last scene has flames all around, the audience smells sulfur, and the same jihadist is surrounded by 70 virgins, only to find his sexual preference has . . . ah . . . reversed.
The curtain comes down; the reviews are astounding.
Wagner, Strauss, even Ken Kesey -- they ain't got nuthin' on me . . . .
Second, there is a "Propaganda of the Truth." A literary tradition that goes all the way back to Jonathan Swift. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say. It's called "Satire."
So it's time for some movie remakes and Broadway plays.
My wicked little mind has already concocted some basic concepts.
A re-make of the movie (and play?) derived from the Ken Kesey book "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Call it "One Flew Over the Jihad Nest."
In addition to Nurse Rasheed (previously Nurse Ratchet), we have Rahdool Macmoofi (Randall McMurphy). A scene in which two jihadist inmates fight over a pack of cigarettes, and one stabs the other in the neck with a plastic fork. Rahdool protests taking his meds. Nurse Rasheed tells him:
"Mr. Macmoofi. If you don't take your medication orally, we'll have to administer it . . a different way."
Rahdool ruminates over a certain Gitmo waterhose practice, downs the pills, and says "Yummy! Allah be praised!"
The only difference: Nurse Rasheed isn't the villain. In fact, none of them are terrible villains, but only bumbling, though no less dangerous lunatics, arguing about turning down the music so they can see the soccer game on the TV.
Then, perhaps, a musical, like "Hair." Call it "Blast!"
The audience is warned to stay calm over a certain scene, where the actors catapult cello-wrapped gummi-bears at the audience with toy Ping-Pong-ball guns.
At the end, a great chorus about making the world a better place by blowing it up. The entire cast, clad in ninja garb, end the chorus by blowing their brains out (dramatized -- nothing real). One of them makes a botch of it, and fiddles around in a mime that lasts five minutes -- enough to have the audience rolling in the aisles with convulsive laughter.
Perhaps, then, after the curtain drops briefly, the last scene has flames all around, the audience smells sulfur, and the same jihadist is surrounded by 70 virgins, only to find his sexual preference has . . . ah . . . reversed.
The curtain comes down; the reviews are astounding.
Wagner, Strauss, even Ken Kesey -- they ain't got nuthin' on me . . . .
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