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My Million Dollar Screenplay
by rick   April 22, 2003

My writing teacher in college was always extolling the virtues of "writing what you know," so as I have yet to sell a screenplay for a million dollars (wtf, Hollywood?), I have decided to take that maxim to heart:

a life




The dull buzz of the alarm wakes a groggy Rick Hrobinson (the "h" is silent) out of his fitful and well-deserved slumber. Opening only his sleep-crusted left eye, he peeks at the clock, which now says 11:30.

Indignant that his alarm would try to tell him when it was time to get up, he hits the snooze button and falls back down into sleepy dreamland.

He sleeps. Ten minutes pass. He is still sleeping. With a sudden... suddenness, the alarm goes off again...


    ZAHN... ZAHN... ZAHN... ZAHN


    (Shutting it off.)
    Fuck. Shut up.

Beaten by his persistent alarm, Rick decides that noon might indeed finally be the time to get up. He slightly elevates his left butt cheek in expectation of The First Fart of the Morning, but he belches instead, the first sign that this day might end up being a little off-kilter.

Rolling out and onto the floor of his messy room, he does a "smell test" on a couple of pairs of pants before finally deciding in lieu of any clear winner that a pair of smelly cargo pants will have to do. A white T-shirt and the pair of black socks that he was too lazy to take off the night before complete the ensemble.

He stumbles down the hallway to his refrigerator, opening the door and grabbing a neatly wrapped piece of Carl's Jr. cheesecake, a can of soda, and a SUPER bag of cheetos from the nearby kitchen cabinet.

Settling down on the couch with his morning feast, Rick grabs the remote and turns on the TV. The fact that much of his favorite daytime TV has been pre-empted for coverage of some war that was being fought somewhere irritated him enough that he was forced to switch channels to VH1 so he could get in his daily quota of Vanessa Carlton and John Mayer videos in before it got too late in the day.

But when even his easy-listening video station was pre-empted for a speech from President Bush, Rick wipes a Cheetoh stained hand on his white shirt in disgust.


    We have been called... to a great battle... against the evil... that threatens America.

Looking down at his newly smudged-shirt, Rick realizes that he has left a near-perfect cheetoh handprint on his T-shirt that bears a startling resemblance to the prodigal volleyball that dissed Tom Hanks at the end of that Castaway movie.


    (To his shirt:)
    I will call you "Rita Wilson," and you will be my friend.


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