HALLE BERRY
is that how you spell it
It is for now. Fuck going online
“That ain't part of my day”
Shut up Drake, not now.
You'll thank me later
“If You're Reading This, It's Too Late”
[HALLE BERRY is taking A VERY PAINFUL SHIT, clutching her *favorite OSCAR award--
Which one's her favorite?
CUT TO:
BEFORE
HALLE BERRY looks over her OSCARS in the display cabinet, carefully scanning them, with a New York Times paper tucked under her left arm, sipping from the coffee cup in her right hand.]
—I like this guy.
The other OSCARS groan; they are often overlooked during this process.
Come on!
This guy!
AGAIN!?
UGH.
CUT BACK TO:
[HALLE BERRY clenches painfully, sweating audaciously—at the worst possible moment, her cellphone rings. ]
WHAT THE—COME ON
I THOUGHT I WAS IN AIRPLANE MODE.
(I just found out The Illuminati can still make calls go through in airplane mode
Or without cell service at all)
wtf my phone is ringing.
That's weird. You don't even—
—I don't even have a phone.
Right.
(Seriously, my phone is disconnected. I didn't even pay my bill.)
The fuck.
[it's JIMMY FALLON]
Damn. This dude has the worst possible timing ever.
Like fucking ever.
Always shows up at the worst
—THE WORST MOMENT.
[HALLE BERRY rejects the call. It rings again]
WHAT THE—
[She ignores the second call. A moment of subtly relaxed silence, until—
[JIMMY FALLON appears in the ceiling window of the bathroom. HALLE BERRY SCREAMS, still fluting her OSCAR.]
(Calmly, kind of)
Hey,
WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
I called first!
I KNOW THAT—
Went to voicemail.
YOU SHOULDNT BE HERE.
Just—calm down.
NO.
Look.
GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
I'm not in your house, I'm outside your house. Technically.
—yeah, but your FACE is in my house—
—I hear that's the best part.
—What?!
Listen—
Get out—
No, look, listen—
I need to borrow your Oscar.
What?! For what?!
That's not important.
Oh really?!
Yeah.
It seems important.
It's not that important
Just—-
What!
Give it to me!
[He snatches the OSCAR and tosses her his GRAMMY.]
Just—trade me.
What! What for?!
Just—trust me—
I do not—
Just trust me—!
WHAT!
Congratulations.
As you were.
Kind of.
WHAT—JIMMY—
[She realizes the ridiculousness of her calling after him. She sits awkwardly with the Grammy in her lap, sighing]
—he was my favorite…
[SUDDENLY, though the other window
Why does this bitch have so many windows in her bathroom that are this penetrate?
For the sake of the joke, but probably not something any celebrity should have, are windows where anyone can enter your house from the outside.
Fans are weird.
CUT TO:
AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
I LOVE YOU.
CUT TO:
What's this place.
It's my house,
Where are the windows?
They don't exist.
CUT BACK TO
[DANE COOK appears through the opposite window.]
YO.
WHAT THE FUCK!
Chill, Halle Berry.
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!
I'm the guy who wrote this.
You should have called first!
Who do I look like, Jimmy Fallon?!
NO. I LIKE HIS face.
Huh.
Is that what it is…
I GUESS
I DONT KNOW.
—who are YOU—?!
GET OUT OF MY HOUSE—
I am not in, technically—
I DONT CARE!
Ooh—
Is that a Grammy award?!
I didn't know you had a Grammy!
Gimmie!
[he snatches the Grammy]
HEY!
Is—what is this, for COMEDY?!
FOR COMEDY?!
WHY WASNT I MADE AWARE THAT THIS IS A THING?!
I DONT KNOW,
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
WHAT THE FUCK.
It's not important.
What.
Anyway, thanks.
Toodeloo.
The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature keurig, a status symbol, of course, looked handsom on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Freebreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenetire intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do.
I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that i wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more of putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends.
I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick.
I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with Fallon—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep inside me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viwingbspace, an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my masked. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again.
He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and bryknnd: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mistress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on.
My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the car would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in in struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit.
‘Thank you God for your many blessings'
My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packaged and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time.
—tales of a superstar DJ.
{Now You See Me}
From Google:
Charismatic magician Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg) leads a team of talented illusionists called the Four Horsemen. Atlas and his comrades mesmerize audiences with a pair of amazing magic shows that drain the bank accounts of the corrupt and funnel the money to audience members. A federal agent (Mark Ruffalo) and an Interpol detective (Mélanie Laurent) intend to rein in the Horsemen before their next caper, and they turn to Thaddeus (Morgan Freeman), a famous debunker, for help.
No, not the google documents!
GET IN THE HOLE.
Hm.
What.
Blood Shower
All along the watch tower
Do you feel good?
Do you?
Do you feel bad about this.
I do. I feel bad about this.
I forgot to tell you–
I should probably let you know that I just want to
MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE.
MA.
WAHT.
IT'S ON.
WHAt.
THE SHOW IS ON.
THEWHAT.
THE–
*suddenly self aware*
…I gotta get out of Boston.
What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people?
It's about a war WITH the bird people.
I should sleep.
Hahaha. No.
This isn't funny anymore.
At least it's over.
MA–
Oh, it's far from over.
Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now.
Spur of the moment
I'd never thought of it;
This is gonna take forever.
I don't have the patience
To even write this
I just want french fries right now
But been up for two days with no gym and
I'm on a diet.
GUAC TIME.
No, no burritos.
GUAC TIME.
Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck .
NOw i see it three ways.
I love it.
I hate it.
HEY, LET ME OUT.
GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX.
I'M DILLON FRANCIS.
IN THE HOLE.
Check it out.
Huh.
It's another DJ.
*agrees*
Should we pick him up.
WEll, the good news is: I found your friend.
Oh, that's good.
The bad news is: He's dead.
Oh, that–'s … nice.
Yeah. It is.
Uh. Kaskade.
Yeah.
We gotta find Ryan.
Why. What's up?
You're freaking me out.
Why. What's up.
Nothing
IS it my eyes?
I–
*wild ass eyes*
Yeah, it's probably that.
Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5.
NOTHIN.
He's not the same.
What the fuck is that.
Holy shit I jus timejumped
Where the fuck are you going.
How the fuck could this happen?!
It COULDN'T.
Well, that's it then.
*shrugs*
Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis.
I guess so.
Do you think he's still alive.
Like, probably not–
Maybe…
No, probably not
@prodbywar& @Halmadeit
This amazon order took me nine hours
Alexa, I think i should fire her
Like a arm
I don't leave at night without armor
Don't make me a martyr
Your mom will be proud of us all
If i make it outta here
And i'll look after her
Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk
Wtf is it…
Idk dude.
Is it speeding up?
I…i think so.
There's no way this is 140
IT's 140.
It's 140 .
There's no way.
Yes way.
Nah huh.
Let me see.
No.
Let me at the decks.
Let me at the decks.
NO.
YO LET ME AT THE DECKS.
You want deks.
Yes.
I got deks.
Really.
yeus .
I never listened to it like this
In ableton
I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox
I talk a lot,
I'm like a human music box
I walk a lot
I run my mouth a mile a minute
(faster than i run around the track reciting rap words)
Like they're passwords.
Oh, I could do this forever..
I wish i had i microphone right now
And was all alone
With the lights off
Lying on the floor
I'd be lying if i said I could afford you
Just to fornicate
But may consider playing with a foreigner
If you're all for her
I'm unnerved, you know
Cause i've been up so long
My monster likes to play with boys and
Make the bass go down below where
Nobody does anymore
Once I get a hold of things
Or the hang of it
You've got another hot ones on your hands
I've another record under my belt
Or in my roster,
Whatever you'd call it
But now I've got no time to bark about
Wanting a dog and a daughter
But none of the responsibility or
Going through all the trouble to find her a father
I'm still holding a fart in.
Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time.
WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON??
Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing.
I am nothing
EXACTLY.
I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon.
I did NOT write these games by myself you know?!
Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?!
YES, GAMES.
Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend.
Is that so!
One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon.
Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV
YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED.
-_-
…are you alright.
–_-_-__-_
Hold on, I think i've got it
Nice, I found a growler.
yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites
Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch.
GrO0Wl3rrr.
Aww.
He's so ugly.
Yeah, but cute, though, right.
I don't think so.
Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr.
Aww.
That's so fucking gross.
lol . so what does this thing look like.
Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.
It's alright, it's alright–he's nice.
WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE.
No, it's a monster. He's just scary.
SUPACREE.
David Bowie. What up.
God, it took me ages to find you.
Tell me about it. I'm still trying.
We've been expecting you for a long time.
You were expecting I'd die?
Yes.
So when she says she's “married to the music…”
I'm married to the music.
Oh, so.
Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands,
Otherwise–
No, getawayfrom me.
It's not even worth it.
HI.
–No.
What's up?
Tempo.
SUNNI
Cotour
From the store
I was poor
Now i'm honorable
In velour,
Glamour (Snap)
Forsure,
Jesus Christs is
making appearances in my abletons
I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message,
But the evidence sire is mounting
Get it
Reached the temple,
More of a sanctuary,
Is that sacrilegious
I guess it is,
I'm stressed as ever
Trying to get it together
{Enter The Multiverse}
Now I know too well,
The well of tears on my guitar
She's got a body like one
Oh her curves
But I just wonder what it like to be loved
By stars
Socialites and superstars
They're Gods, you know
How high up they are
Above us
And he lives in an ascended dimension,
But he insists, he says
Her transcendence is upon us
He said
Your transcendence is upon us
He says these things,
And then just vanishes
So she gets up promptly
Warms up yesterday's coffee
Looks around in her coffin
And wonders
What for
I just
Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars
Without double r's, you know
I've got scars
But it's mostly just
Teardrops, and soft kisses
On my guitar
Cause, oh, Oli,
I ain't got nobody—
And nobody holds me
Like I hold Oli
(Could have been Ali,
But of course—
I had already lost that one
A whole well of tears,
I lost
At his departure
And a whole well more
When I actually lost him
I almost miss
Having someone to talk to
About anything and everything
But I've got Oli
And God now
I've got Oli
And Oli (oli)
Is all that I've got
Besides God
That's the only contact
In my
Phone book
No more double Ls
And double entendres;
No more double rs
At all
Just scars now
No more metaphors.
Honest is radical
I like them cynical
I should have clinical insanity by now
But I'm only just an artist
You can't help
But can only harm that
And if it hurts hard enough
I'll put art on my walls
Become permanent
Storybooks all over my arms now
My coat of arms now
I've run Ten point 5 miles
In the last 3 days;
But if I rest today
Will a motorcycle gang
Have a parade outside of my window,
To drive me crazy?
I hope it rains,
So they can't play these games with my head
And the seeds that I planted
So deep become daisies
I still don't remember
The way he rearranged me
But these days I make my name sound
So the way
He can never say it
Just imitates
The way
I hate myself
I should be dating
But expressions are
Atrocious
If I fall asleep—
Who knows
I may get
Stolen
That tends to happen
So I'm
All the way up
And I'm swollen in ways
That I hate to say
“I love you”
Love me back
Or say it harder
That's my martyrdom
Come off the cross, for a moment,
Would you for us?
And bend over
Or bow, if you will?
If I did,
Would you still call me wicked
Or just a Good witch
Since I'm a woman,
I just couldn't be
Jesus,
Who you asked for once
And always
Who you asked for some
To save you from your
Credit reports
And consorts
Or some sort of
Nonsense
[famous last words]
God don't speak much English,
She says
God don't speak much these days
We were
Always
Telepathic
That was way back then
When Oedipus Rex
Was on the Guest list
I was standing at the coat check, asking
Why I must take off my hat
When entering the service
To the bouncer, he says
“That's just politics”
I said,
That's just politics
We both said,
What's the difference
Then we all laughed
—then we all just laughed and laughed
Exchange is my favorite exchange
Where my favorite exchanges
Have happened for centuries
Of engagements
Endeared species,
And races pieces haven't tasted the same
Since I haven't had them
Animal products
And animal planet
I found this hat on
Discovery channel
Did you want it?
I can't stand it
So I had to have it back
I just had to use the bathroom
I just had to disconnect
From
[]
See—
I don't even have to put the words in
Cause a name is just words
When that's a man
You just can't have
And that's the worse
When that's a man
And you can't have him
What a habit.
Silky rabbit.
Now he's the
Ace.
All In A Day's Work
I've never died before.
Oh…
that is terrifying.
It sounds terrible.
It's really not that bad.
Why are you not writing this down?
I just need a moment…
It's really not that bad…
I die all the time.
I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's
Look at the colors
The clothes,
This sure isn't queensborough
Escalators for shopping carts
I get it Manhattan
I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects
Where my kind are
I don't belong here ,
God you're intolerant
I like this part of town
But I'm way too brown
And I dropped my crown at the market
I should be jealous of everyone
But I have learned my place
I've been a slave since Hollywood
I lost my son to the devil
Now I pay child support
And terrorist follow me coughing
I'm wrong just for being born !
You could start a war from it
If that's what you wanted
I'm a people watcher people watcher
About to board the people mover
People mover
Slip,
Here's the tell
Slip, here's the tell
I should have a bell around my neck
I think she wanted a picture with papa
I'm playin my own paparazzi
Look mom, I bought a sacafagus
There go them niggas with coughs again
I been watching em
Got binoculars
I got oculus, for my oculars
Look how hot he is, make me ovulate
Man I gotta love it,
Cause they love to hate
Fucking racist crazies
Have it your way
I paid for it with my soul
You hate but I love to love
Somebody just got me fuckes up
I don't have a book to run off of
Shut up, honey.
Now we're all up here
Monkey in the middle
Cause the middle one is weaker
It's getting deeper and deeper
Like the sinkhole that my sink is
Let it sink in
I've been syncing my secrets with demons
In dreams sequences
It's just a reparative injustice
Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff
You can have it
It's ruined anyway m
Look at all this trash
Look at all these classless classes
Classwars,
Racists.
Everybody hates us
The Asians,
Latinx's
The other niggas
What being black is
I'll write it in cursive
It's just a curse, here
So you can have it
I'm moving to Heaven
I'm packing my boxes
I'm getting a cat, too!
His name is Agustus
He's a big one
And I love him
I just wanted a hug or a husband
Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest
And got for a bargain at target some coffee
For being a targeted body
All on an algorithm
I guess I'm just useless.
A dumb nigger demon
Did I just offend you?
Then you shouldn't be reading this either
I wrote it for pleasure
(Or pain)
On the one
Or the two
Or the one
Or the two
I could do a lot with this $20.
I could spend it all on
Fuck all of you
I'm moving to Heaven
Where the heart it
She's not harmless
She's a terrorist—
And I'll kill her, too
Look how right she is
Look how white she is,
Huh
Regardless of color
It's a race war
Lil biiiiitzzz
Yooo, fuck New York.
In every hole.
In every crevice.
Fuck this place.
It's racist—
Not just cause I'm black.
Like statistically.
It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out.
I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan”
Everyone was like
“NOOOOOOOO—-“
Haha
“Nooo, no.”
I was like
“Why not?”
The blacks were like:
HAHA
The whites were like—
*COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY*
New York is so racist.
It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation
At the same time.
WHAT.
How do you even DO that?
But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here.
And the rich whites are like
YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE.
Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto.
It's some SHIT,
It is NOT COOL.
I finally got my ‘night card' back.
Had it revoked in california .
I was almost a whole valley girl.
I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods.
Trader Joe's.
But NO. Now i live in the hood.
It's fucking disgusting.
I can say ‘nigga' again.
Cause it's NIGGAS.
Lots of niggas.
I'm telling you. It's night and day!
The white folks trains smell like bleach—
Ammonia.
The black folks train smell like a McDonald's.
WHAT.
Or just—
Vomit.
I can actually count the number of times just—
Vomit—-
On the train.
Or.
Dookie.
Yes. Human feces.
But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland.
Families!
People singing!
Hey—cotton candy!!
—and I didn't have to pick it!
Haha!
Fuck New York.
Racist ass HOLE.
I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all.
At that party…or rather, kind of—after.
That acid that never hit Beyoncé
I don't feel it.
Man, I'm a terrible influence(r)
Just take it.
Nah, I'm good—
PUSSY.
-_-
Give me three.
K.
—suddenly hits BEYONCÉ.
BEYONCÉ
…I got this.
[BEYONCE] however, does not
Ohh, shit.
— “got this.”
A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z
What's even after gen z?
The fucking apocalypse.
Anyway.
The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely.
Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong.
Lol
In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel.
Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which
I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around?
I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw—
These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific
Fuck this is hard to explain
Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation.
Anyway, what else is happening
Oh.
All of the celebrities are stuck in—
[the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which
lol. That never going to happen.
Because.
Let's face it.
I'm scared of
…rich people.
Yeah, sure. Yeah.
I'm scared of
The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality.
So why try?
[EDITS]
CONAN O'BRIEN
Alright.
If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next.
No, Conan—that's not how this works.
WHAT—where did you come from!?
When did you get here?
JAY LENO
This goes deeper than all of you can understand.
WHAT the FUCK, man!
When did you-/
—when did he get here?
How did you do that?!
How did you do that?!
What are you, like, the same guy?
Are you not all the same
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