In article <20000529213352.03355.00000209@ng-fy1.aol.com>, podkayne1@aol.com (Podkayne1) wrote: > Any of our talented parodists want to take a crack at using JT and BE
> in "Casey at the Bat"?
Oh, how can I resist when you ask me so nicely? (Oh, and "Mgt." is pronounced "midget," of course.) The Story of "Battlefield: Earth" A Ballad of Old Teegeeack, Sung in the Year 50 A.D. The prospects weren't thrilling for the C of S that year; The lawyers, thugs, and private eyes all cost the Mgt. dear. When Minton was acquitted, and the critics did exult, A sickly silence fell upon the members of the cult. A mighty flood of "apostates" got wise and "blew"; the rest Just clutched their cans more desperately and touted "wins" with zest. They thought, "If only one of L. Ron's books gets dramatized, We'll make a heap of money, and we might be less despised." But producers wouldn't touch 'em, and directors wouldn't bite, For both professions had been trained to know a turd on sight. The leaders of the C of S were grumpy and downstat; There seemed but little chance to film the turds that Hubbard shat. But then from 50,000 throats (8 million? NOT!), a cheer! "Hip, hip, hooray," the yell went up, in missions far and near. In Hemet, Dave Miscavige smiled, as filmic plans were laid: Travolta, John Travolta, longed to get this turkey made. King Elie sold the foreign rights (though he had to fib a bit); And Roger Christian signed to helm the ill-starred piece of shit. And when the contracts had been signed, and 80 mil supplied, They cordoned off Vancouver, B.C.; "Action!" Christian cried. Five thousand caveman extras dressed up, grunted, yelled, and died. Five thousand 3D graphics mavens cranked out CGI. A hundred hairstyle artists draped the cast in braids and dreads, And wardrobe dressed Travolta up in leathery, KISS-like threads. There was pride in J.T.'s manner as he stepped up to his mark, And cackled "Stupid humans!" in a Bette Davis bark. And when, according to the script, he whimpered, bitched, or boomed, No member of the crew could doubt, "This film is surely doomed." And now the flat round cans containing prints to theaters go, And Johnny (Terl, not Goodboy) troops to every chit-chat show: On Letterman and Leno, Rosie, Oprah, and Today, "It's 'Star Wars'-like," Travolta says; "It's shit," the critics say. In theaters void of people, there is heard a deadly quiet. Not even fans of Ed Wood, Jr.'s campy flicks will try it. "Skip it! Skip this movie!" flies the word of mouth all over. And those involved soon know they'll all be deep in shit, not clover. With a smile all coprophagic, John Travolta grins and sweats; The rave reviews of Scienos are the only raves he gets. On web discussion groups, the shill-jobs, flames, and insults fly; "It's great; I loved it!" cultists say; "It sucks," the masses cry. "Crap!" yell the pissed-off millions, and to "Gladiator" rush, Which puts "B:E" in the toilet; "MI:2" gives it the flush. We watch the weak box office drop, we watch the screens go black; Mad moviegoers ask for (and receive) their money back. The grin is gone from J.T.'s lip, his jaw is clenched in pain; This failure has restimulated "clam" engrams again. And now the star sits on the toilet, holding Hassan's book; And now he, trembling, draws the cover back, and takes a look. Oh, somewhere on this theta globe, the "Freewinds" sails the seas; The OSA plants evidence; the RPF plants trees; D.M. assigns Conditions: Non-Existence, Treason, Doubt, But there's no raw meat outside the Org -- Travolta has struck out. -- Love and encouragement, The German Paymaster (well, half-German... on my father's side) http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~dst/Library/ "Sheesh! Everyone's a critic!" -- John Travolta :-)

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