Visual Aid.

AUGUSTE
Have you lost your fucking mind?

RED STATE EDITORS
Liberal blogging superstars, you’re making a terrible mistake I’m not gonna let you make it.

JEFF GOLDSTEIN (OFFSCREEN)
Come on, guys. Nobody wants this. We’re supposed to be fucking professionals.

AUGUSTE
All right, look, it’s been quite a long time, a lot of back-and-forth. There’s no need for this, man. Let’s just put our guns down, and let’s settle this with a fucking conversation.

RED STATE EDITORS
Liberal blogging superstars, if you kill that man, you die next. I repeat: if you kill that man, you die next.

AUGUSTE
Red State Editors, we have been friends, and you respect my dad and I respect you, but I will put fucking bullets right through your heart. You put that fucking gun down - now.

RED STATE EDITORS
I’m sorry, who the fuck are you again?

AUGUSTE
Sorry, just trying to get into the spirit of things.

RED STATE EDITORS
Goddamn you, Liberal blogging superstars. Don’t make me do this

AUGUSTE
Red State Editors, stop pointing that fucking gun at my dads!

(Atriobloggsites fires at Domenech, Red State Editors shoot at Atriobloggsites and miss. Auguste shoots Red State Editors but it’s a starter pistol. Red State Editors ignore Auguste completely. Auguste shoots again and a nearby horse with a broken leg is miraculously healed. Red State Editors fall to the floor moaning. Jeff Goldstein comes out from his hiding place under the ramp, surveys the devastation, grabs the Washington Post application form and exits.)

SOUND - car door (Jeff Goldstein getting in a car) SOUND - engine (He has trouble getting it started)
SOUND - Engine starts, tires squeal (Off he goes!)
SOUND - More tire squealing, shots (Here come the cops!)
SOUND - Lots more tire squealing, sirens, and shots (Jeff Goldstein
probably puts up a fight)
Sometime during this shoot out, Jeff Goldstein’s car apparently gets
stopped because the next thing we hear is cops, guns obviously
trained on him, shouting.
COP - “Get out of the car!”
COP - “Get your hands on the dash!”
COP - “Throw the gun out!”
The cops apparently don’t have a real clear idea what they want him
to do, or in what order, but it sounds like they’ve got him. The
next line confirms this.
JEFF GOLDSTEIN - “Ben, for what ever mistakes he may have made, at least appended his own name to whatever columns he posted or wrote publicly.1 Which is more than can be said for the vast number of leftwing bloggers who feel quite at ease attacking people with “impugn”ity from behind their stage names.”
The cops start laughing uncontrollably, dropping their guns as they writhe on the ground helplessly crippled by this unbelievable bullshit. Inside the warehouse, Auguste chuckles gamely while trying not to look too shifty.
Goldstein takes advantage of the cops’ uncontrollable amusement to jump in his car and drive away, shouting “schadenfreude! schadenfreude! j’accuse!”

RED STATE EDITORS
I’m sorry, kid. Looks like we’re going to– do–do a little time.

BEN DOMENECH
I’m a plagiarist. Red State Editors.. I’m sorry. I’m so– so sorry. I’m a plagiarist.

RED STATE EDITORS
(sobbing) Oh! Oh!

BEN DOMENECH
Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Red State Editors!

(Red State Editors, still moaning and sobbing, put a gun to Ben’s face. We hear the door burst open)

RED STATE COMMENTERS
Freeze! Drop the fucking gun, buddy! Put the gun down! Don’t do it! Don’t shoot our brother in arms! Drop the gun, man! Drop the gun! Drop the fucking gun! We’re going to fucking blow you away!

(Gunshot. Then more gunshots, and Red State Editors are blown out of shot)

fin

Disclaimer: By the way, part of the intended irony is that this was plagiarised directly from what I assume is the actual script of the film, but it was brought to my attention that some might assume I had transcribed it myself. I figured I’d come clean now, and also add that I blame Michelle Malkin for my lapse. Plus I was only 30. And also that I met Quentin Tarantino at a party once and he said he loved my work. I said, “Thanks. Hey, 10 years from now can I rejigger your Reservoir Dogs script?” And he said, “Sure.”

So eat it, cobags.

I like Mike Doughty, and have for years. I vaguely knew that M. was a poet but had never really read anything by him - his lyrics are a huge part of what made Soul Coughing one of the best bands of the 90s.

Well, I’ve read a couple poems now, and I’m not sure. What do you think?

The Incredible Magnetic Man

Onward to Victory, mule,
with a subatomic glimmer of rage
humming a hot inch below the cheekbones

moving down Water Street like an ox
hound in fleshy lumber, muscles and lumps
pouched up and numb like insect bites

Inside the contours of veins blown up
by mosquitos into tidek balloons,
a single radiowave transmits itself
into loose bits of metal scattered around;
Keys. Beltbuckles. Scissors. Headphones.

Streetlights sizzle like bees being taken to slaughter.

On Water Street, two legs
are the chick of drills
spearing into the blacktop

in the light further down
what you can only hope will be
some Imperial China is actually
the orange noise
at the ends of cigarettes
glowing at your approach

and

I’ll Be Your Baby Doll, I’ll Be Your Seven Day Fool -

Tonight the train is a curveball
sloping towards portions of
Darkest Brooklyn; some house unlit,
like a blank face, where I assume
you sit unsatisfied in a cubical room.

Update:

In Honor of Jeff Goldstein - by the Liberal Avenger

Manshake.

Manshakemanshakemanshakemanshake.

Manshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshakemanshake.

Manshake.