music: atonal jazz
I saw David Lynch in a bloody heap on the floor, paper strewn all around his twitching body. "Is this the rest of the script, fool?" I asked, kicking him in the head for dramatic emphasis. I picked up some of the paper, and saw they were blank. Rage contorted my features, and I kicked him again. "Damn you!"
Little old people came running out of his nostrils, along with his blood, but I squashed them beneath my feet as I would a couple of ants. "You know, Lynch, a thriller is supposed to have a coherent plot, and answers that match the questions posed."
He looked up at me, drooling. Obviously, he was suffering from syphilitic insanity, which would explain the gratuitous lesbian love scenes and the fact that his movie was missing at least an hour of footage.
"I should kill you for misusing an actor of Robert Forster's skill, you bastard. Did he solve the mystery?
Did he? DID HE!!??!?" More drool and inaudible grunting was the only reply, so I picked him up and tossed him across the room in disgust. The answers I sought were not to be found here.
tommygun on 07.21.05 @ 08:47 PM CST [link] [No Comments]