Free 2007-Eleven by Frank Cammuso Page B

GOING!”
    Too late. Triple Bypass jerks the steering wheel, EAUGH, careening the bus, EAUUGH, onto the off-ramp, EAUUUUUGH, and into the parking lot of an A.M. - P.M. minimart, silencing the songs, halting the bridge game, and rousing nappers from their happy dreams. Soon, the Pranksters hobble out, stretching sciatica, lighting cigarettes, suckingin guts, buttoning pants, resetting hairpieces, and blinking fresh droplets of Visine, as a Dylan CD wails, “Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”
    “Oh, wow, man!” Kidney Stone shouts, discovering the nose-ringed, shaven-headed cash-register attendant. “Look, everybody, it’s Pirate Boy!”
    “No, it’s Nosemetal Q. Youngfellow!” Miracle Ear proclaims, waving his cigar. “Roadside retailer extraordinaire!”
    “I don’t see fat-free Ben & Jerry’s,” Trophy Wife asks, jabbing the counter with a Visa card. “Got any fat-free Ben & Jerry’s? Fat-free Ben & Jerry’s!”
    “FAT-FREE BEN & JERRY’S!! FAT-FREE BEN & JERRY’S!!”
    “HEY, SHUDDUP, PEOPLE! I’M TALKING TO CLEVELAND,” 401(k) yells, cradling a cell phone to his ear. “Listen, Phil, we still got 543 T-shirts in stock, and we’re cutting a big-time loss on the tote bags. I told you, man, this logo sucks. Nobody listened. I said we should take the Nike deal, but nobody listened, and now we’re screwed, because this logo sucks!
    “Hey, Ringbeak,” 401(k) says to the clerk, showing off his shirt. “Would you wear this piece of crap?”
    When the cashier looks confused, 401(k) waves him off and offers a paternal smile.
    “Aw, forget it, kid. Don’t let us crazy hippie freaks blow your mind. Just do your own thing. If you’re into workin’ here on Maggie’s farm, that’s cool. But make your own kind of music. Stand up for what you believe in. And don’t never let no Doo-Dah man tell you otherwise!
    “WHAT THE—?” He jerks to the phone. “WHADDAYA MEAN THEY’RE NOT THERE YET! You tell them kids to get their stoned-out asses to that bookstore by six, or we’re callin’ the cops! You hear me? What’s with these kids today? Like I said, it’s six o’clock at the TV station, six-thirty at the bookstore, eight at the hotel. Christ, I don’t care what they told you! THE TIMES, THEY ARE NOT CHANGIN’!”

Raze the Titanic

    Today in Hollywood history: March 23, 1998.

Beneath the joy of these Oscar ceremonies

lurks a terrifying dilemma: The most successful

movie of the year—perhaps of all time—

cannot birth a sequel. Right?
    F irst off, I truly love you guys for having me here because I know you’re busy, what with the speeches and humanitarian stuff, so I’ll try to pitch this in less than the usual three minutes.
    We begin with a submarine, cruising the North Atlantic. But it’s not one of ours. It’s a German U-boat. Suddenly, the commander’s eyes bulge. He yells something in German. The subtitle: “ICEBERG, DEAD AHEAD!” The sub turns, barely avoids the ice, but scrapes off a piece, exposing—a human hand!
    Bang! We roll the credits. “Kate Winslet … BillyZane … George Clooney in … TITANIC II: JACK RESURRECTION!”
    Flash to Germany 1936. A Nazi scientist, Dr. Klauss Von Schlumberg, examines the chunk of ice. Using a top-secret thawing process, stolen from an American named Clarence Birdseye, he brings Jack back to life!
    Now here’s the beauty of this: We don’t need Leonardo DiCaprio. You sit eighty-six years in an ice cube, and it rearranges your face. In this case, Jack comes out as George Clooney. Or, if necessary, somebody cheap.
    Anyway, Jack wakes up confused. He doesn’t know about the Nazis. He thinks he’s in Schenectady. When the Germans realize there’s no current record of Jack’s existence, they do what you’d expect: They train him to become the ultimate killing machine. Then they send him to America on a mission via—get this—the
Hindenburg!
    We’ll build an exact duplicate of the blimp, right down