The Scripts I Haven’t Written That Shouldn’t Be Made

They’ll tell you in any business school worth the price of admission that the way to make money in this world is to find a need and then fill it.

At least, that’s what they tell me they tell you. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea; the closest I’ve ever been to business school was the time I tried to pay a bar tab with an allen wrench. I’d like to see MacGuyver pull that off.

Which begs the question: what the hell am I supposed to do with all these damned wrenches?

In allen we trust.

Now, normally, this business plan involves analyzing the modern world, figuring out what’s missing, and then making it and marketing it. That’s the route of ingenuity, creativity, hard work and determination.

The lazy path to riches begins with figuring out what’s making other people stinking rich, and plopping your ass right down on that bandwagon before it passes. Right now, the lazy, enterprising asses are in Hollywood, poised hovering above scripts for ridiculous movie adaptations, reboots, sequels and prequels, ready to reap obscene sums of money for little to no initial effort. Now, you may expect this to be the point when I launch into a obscenity-laced thousand word rant about how Hollywood’s really scraping the bottom of the idea barrel, or the fact that in the end, the blame lies with the movie-going public who keeps going to see these travesties unfurl on the big screen, but not today. No, dear friends and complete strangers, today’s epithet-speckled wall of text is all about seizing the opportunity. Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf; trying to change my outlook from ‘cynical and sardonic’ to ‘sunshiny-fucking-rainbows and adorable-G.D.-kitties.’ Or maybe I started mixing medications too early this morning…

I just call it medication so I can buy it with my flex-spending account. It's tax-free!

...although I've been told that some people call them "Jagerbombs."

Now, then, if I’m going to get in on the racket of writing terrible movie scripts, I’ll need an original idea to pick out an intellectual property that hasn’t already been ripped off or run thoroughly into the ground… This should be something that’s seeing a resurgence in popularity, but wouldn’t normally be considered ‘film material.’ That way, it’s got built-in name recognition, and will be more likely to create ‘buzz’ in the ‘blogosphere,’ which, I think, is what they call the giant hamster ball in which known bloggers are kept.

I'm willing to bet that the inside of that ball is covered with a thin coat of resin.

Also, Wayne Coyne has one. But I think he's there voluntarily.

and I’ve already got something in mind. Now, roll with me here, shit’s about to get cinematic.

This adaptation of a classic family game will tell the tale of a group of people who awaken to find themselves trapped in small concrete cells. As soon as they each wake up and start moving around, a small panel opens up on each of their cell walls to reveal a hidden screen, full of numbers and symbols. They are to be part of a deadly game being played by two to eight people from varying socio-ethnic backgrounds, (aged seven and up) each in their own separate cell, and all being watched by a depressed-yet-nefarious psychologist (who is never shown, heard or mentioned, but will be available for sequels). Soon, they discover that the cells are rigged to slowly fill with water, and that each ‘player’ can make the water level of their own cell decrease by using their screen to correctly complete sequences of colored numbers and symbols, but that doing so will make another person’s water level rise (gasp!) and bring them closer to a watery grave! The only way to escape is to be the last one left alive at the end, so one by one, the cast of characters suffers a grisly demise at the hands of the others. Finally, it comes down to the last two: a sleazy ticket scalper and an innocent young Spanish boy. In a plot development that will have audiences everywhere cheering with joy, the young boy will overcome adversity (Oh, yeah; I forgot to mention that he’s colorblind and dyslexic.) and emerge victorious. As the slimeball ticket scalper drowns, the water drains from the young boy’s cell, a door opens in the wall and a single ray of sunshine beams inside. The boy turns to face the door, and subtitles at the bottom of the screen translate as he says,

Soy… el último…

(I am… the last).

Nadie más.

(No one else.)

Yo soy el-

(I am the)”

"Nuh uh, she skipped you! It's my turn!"

"This summer... DRAW FOUR. The color is TERROR."

Riding high on the rousing success of that blockbuster, I’ll attend all the red carpet events, do interviews, and spout cryptic nonsense about my writing process (regurgitating ideas from other successful films) and motivations (money!!!!1!). Then I’ll disappear from the scene for a bit, and wait until everyone is clamoring for me to write something else, at which point I’ll reveal that I’ve already completed work on my second screenplay:

Scrabble

…which will follow the exploits of a beautiful young woman struggling to make her way in a hectic, post-apocalyptic New Jersey (hint: it’s not very different except for the end-of-the-world-related shortage of hair product and spray tans. So, really… very different, I suppose.). In this bleak vision of the future, people deemed to be good breeding stock are in such short supply that relationships are semi-arranged, in a ceremony similar to the NBA drafts. In an effort to finally earn a first round pick of a good man, she turns to the one remaining civilized form of socialization: a brutal, no-holds-barred competitive crossword tournament, in which competitors must engage in a vicious free-for-all to acquire large metal letters dispersed throughout a giant maze, filled with dangerous traps and unspeakable beasts captured from the nuclear wasteland.

"...and both Z's!"

"You gotta help me- ALL I HAVE ARE VOWELS!!"

After all the letters have been collected, the surviving contestants must then use the letters to create a giant crossword puzzle, gaining points for each letter they use. When our heroine wins by demonstrating her prowess in battle and her razor wit on the field of Scrabble, she is awarded the coveted first pick of New Jersey’s most eligible members of the opposite sex. It is then, after surveying the choices available to her, that she realizes that she doesn’t need a man at all, and sets out alone to forge her own destiny.

—-

Once that little gem is topping the box office charts, I’ll quickly option off my next script, before the heat dies down and people start to realize I’m actually a complete hack who couldn’t write his way out of a… something. I don’t know where I was going with that. Oh, well. ONWARD!

Murder, She Wrote

This last big screen adaptation centers around a retired mystery novelist who lives in a small, cozy New England town with a murder rate higher than the worst inner city ghetto. The film follows her daily activity, assisting the local police department despite her complete lack of law enforcement credentials, until an FBI agent is assigned to the case of the recent murder of a prominent government researcher who had been vacationing in the area. Our heroine fights to remain involved in the investigation, as she’s quite certain she can crack the case, and doesn’t have much to do since her children hardly ever call. Defying all logic, the FBI accepts her help as a consultant, and she teams up with the bright young agent. As the case goes on, however, pieces of the puzzle don’t quite add up, and as we follow the script through twist after mind-fellating twist, it is finally revealed that the FBI agent was actually conducting the investigation on his own, without the knowledge or support of the FBI. He’d recently been suspended for his controversial and unsubstantiated theory that all the murders in that town were actually the work of a genius serial killer, which turns out to be true when our protagonist, the sweet retired novelist, confesses to the crimes. When the intrepid agent attempts to arrest her, however, he realizes that she’s poisoned him, and as he falls to the ground gasping to catch his final breath, the last thing he sees is her sweet, subtle smile.

—-

Sure, some people will be angered by my new-found wealth and status. They’ll be jealous of my success, and say that “it’s utterly ridiculous that anyone would pay for that kind of mindless, utterly irredeemable tripe.” And sure, all those die-hard Murder, She Wrote fans will want to lynch me for turning a beloved character into a ruthless, calculating, mother-of-all-evil serial killer, but to all those people I’ll say,Who the hell let you get so close to my mansion?

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~ by tazehim on March 5, 2010.

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