08. The Drew Barrymore Show. [I_NY/ As Seen on TV]

Why didn't you just get out when you could? When could I just ever ‘get out'?? You're probably right. More than probably. I could feel my abdomen creeping up my sides–I was heavier than normal, but mostly all new, lean muscle–the long hours on the cycle bike were making my core a strange and hard, sturdy plank under the soft skin on my tummy, a smooth and comfy and warm, plush layer of autumn coconut oil and sweet potatoes resting on my midriff and thick thighs– I would be the best to hug and cuddle, but since there was no one around I would even consider letting close to me, I sometimes hugged and kissed myself instead; sometimes I squeezed in places I knew his hands should be and wished they were, trying not to tear under the weight of being alone. Now i'm in enemy territory. How do you feel? I don't. God's an asshole. This is the bitter end; Recede, retract back down, bow low Keep your head up, And your head down And your mind up Go to bed now. Something's wrong; I know I am. I don't dare talk to God, When The Knicks are on. I don't dare talk to God When her soaps are on. I don't dare talk to God at all; Did you know you had a heart, after all, but a mind made of straw, run along, watch it all burn Watch it all burn Watch it all burn Come on, Come hard Think of dinner afterward and what you want Think of all the words you never lost Think about the soft sprung hard wood floor Think about a love gone wrong And the worlds spun off course Watch it all burn Watch it all burn Watch it all burn, Come on, Come along now Come along Mama Talismans, strange; Follow the secret, Swallow it hard, and don't throw up (even though you want to) Another God, that With just a look, but never touch Pen to pad and now you're on, off again but at least not as far off As you woke up Have a word, God Soft spoken and All out of numbers Ah, come on heart, Don't stop, nah Not now, mom Come on, ma Come on As the tear falls and the clock stuck four minutes after Might as well have been an hour, since the clock struck Stuck on asphalt, all you wanted All the God's gone, Come on, heart, Don't pump so much blood Only salt in those, ah You know there are no other ones What does that cost Nothing. Love just falls out of her. What? Nothing. It does cost afterward, The haunts, And all the moving parts The clock struck hummus, All you wanted, once But so much further off that God shook her head And hung her shoulders, Put the world up, and went down in her cot or coffin For just a half hour nap Before the next world war Alright, God– You won that one. Does it hurt less? Nah, i'm alive more. (before i wasn't) Where the fuck are you going? I WAS LOOKING FOR SUNNI BLU. WELL, DID YOU FIND HIM? NO! THEN WHAT THE FUCK! wait a second…you wrote this. Goddamit, just google me already! you wrote this? I don't know. Lets find out! Sorry, no can do. It's a rule Limited exposure, contain your composure. I can guarantee you, not a single human being on this planet can explain to you what's happening right now. Maintain your composure. SUNNI BLU stumbles over what appears to be a dead body on the floor. Ow. Sorry. I thought you were a speed bump. Is that really how it goes? We'll fix it later, cause here's this one. I'd marry a bunson burner before I'd even think about marrying you. What is that supposed to mean–what? Cause there's more fire– Heat? The bunson burner has more heat? That makes like no sense. Are you saying i'm not hot enough for you? Let's just say… We'd have a lot more chemistry. That's what I said! My punchline was better. I'll show you a punchline. __ You can't keep a secret, can you? …i don't know…why. You look like you can't keep a secret. Try me. –fuck that. Go ahead. Nah, fuck that. Tag, youre it. GodDAMMIT. This is literally the most intricate game of tag, like, ever played. dammit. He got me again. How long have you guys been playing. For ever. Forliterally ever. Like always. MOB GUY Man, i'm so fucked for writing this. Why are you still writing this. The tarot told me to keep writing it; And the Tarot doesn't lie: especially about MOB GUY (CONT'D) Jimmy Fallon, you slimy bastard. “The Good Guy” Am i slimy? I'm probably slimy. Yikes. MAFIA GUY FALLON, you rat-faced lyin' bastard! Ah shit, the Jimmy-isms. I almost forgot about them. (I didn't.) [Unintelligible blabbering in hysterics.] Which one is that?! Doesn't matter. Just get the Jimmy into the elevator before anybody actually sees him. That's it. This dude's got to believe in God, or something. Christ. Yowza. Why do you think that? Nothing else makes sense. Heavy price to pay, don't you think? Whatever, dog. To risk everything–your career, your livelihood–your family– On just one idiot? Sorry. Well, you ought to be. I said i was. Yeah, but somehow, I don't think i believe yas. Are you catholic? On my mudda. Then really, honestly–I don't think you believe in anything. What did you just say to me? (the irony is that this mobster is having a conversation with the living incarnation of Jesus Christ himself.) That is irony, but how is anybody else going to actually understand what's happening in this story. Explain to me why it's Jason Sudakis that remembers everything? I don't know exactly. Because. In all of the timelines, in all of the stories, there's at least one principal character from each group of characters that remembers absolutely everything. {Enter The Multiverse} You still didn't find him? No! It's no use! We've looked everywhere. Seriously. Seriously. Of course– [An exasperated sigh, then a brief pause] Make the feelings go away. ok. What drug is this. All of them. Did you check under the craft services table? What? Seriously just. OH MY GOD. there he is! See. That's easily the third time i've written that part. Easily. It must have been important, but i couldn't help but wonder why; I had written it at least once and then down again in my notebook after visiting 30 Rock to see Seth Meyers, but hadn't ever pondered until now why exactly something such as this might be so important. Perhaps it was the simple hilarity in the fact that, although having been missing for arguably days or weeks on end, that this character–Jimmy Fallon–or whoever it actually was, is simply unconscious beneath the craft services table, out of view but otherwise in plain sight; How coulda 6-foot tall man— He can't be 6 feet tall. Why not. If Post Malone is 6 feet tall, And this is JImmy Fallon sitting next to Post Malone [Jimmy Fallon is sitting next to (or rather, almost under) Post Malone] Are you sure that's The Real Jimmy Fallon? What? How many are there. Well, there's this guy. >< Hello, mrs. wong. Oh, dear God. This is all just for shits and giggles, right? Right. There will be no shitz. And no giggles! [HANZEL becomes the host of The Tonight Show] What parallel is this? I don't know. Wake me up; it must be a nightmare. It was strange to be almost consistently writing comedy and otherwise almost always feeling on the verge of regurgitation ad nauseum, and constant thoughts about slitting my wrists, as if somehow jumping in front of an oncoming train was suddenly out of the question. It wasn't. But i thought more constantly about slitting my wrists, And the worse part of it was, It was actually serious. I started to worry about myself and take long, thoughtless breaks from writing, And speaking, and forging an effort to make the music business work. I stopped caring almost entirely about anything besides taking the minimal effort to exercise and shower, which I knew that in its worst states, depression often enough kept other people from doing. I couldn't stop caring enough not to shower, and though I was eating more than usual, my abdomen was an alarmingly firm plank; it was kind of weird to have a flat stomach, but the exercise bike and occasional run was keeping me average, if anything, by american standards, above average, however one look at Lindsay Lohan sent me backward trying to remember what it was like to be anything close to some kind of woman, or some kind of phenomenon, or some kind of perfectly trained monkey; not that I considered the performer as such, however, dismantling my aversion for the aforementioned sent a striking resemblance to the-1 Stop there. LINDSAY LOHAN FUCK. Are you serious? SUNNI BLU SHH! Why , I want to show you something. LINDSAY LOHAN GODDAMIT! IT ALWAYS CUTS OFD WHEN IT GET TO MY PART! SUNNI BLU SHHHH. OTHRR SUNNÏ BLŪ Shhh, chill. It's our part. LINDSAY LOHAN Where the fuck did you come from? SUNNI BLU II Heaven, baby. What is it. My basement. I–no–Gosh– Step inside. LINDSAY LOHAN Stop fucking around with the Illuminati. SUNNI BLU What does that mean! LINDSAY LOHAN There are literally two of you right now. SUNNI BLU More to love! –at least I was pulling together a decent Trump impersonation from Meyers, and tried not to think too poignantly about the seething hate a woman like Tina Fey might actual harbor for someone like me. What are you, anyway? I's hopin you'd tell meh. {L E G E N D S} He's a psycho. Huh. Jimmy Fallon is a fucking psychopath. You're kidding me. I'm not kidding you. I'm serious. I'm serious. I knew that. This is serious. Why are you meditating? I'm summoning it. What?! Summoning. We are live in like, 5 minutes. Where the fuck is JImmy? Jimmy what? You are all idiots. Summoning it. Quit meditating and get backstage. I'm– –concentrating… [The Festival Project ™ ] More Cream of Wheatn? Yeus. Mor Cream uf Wheatun. Wheeeeeet. CARTMAN. GODDDDDAMMMNIT< WHUT. TELEPLONE. WHUT. TELE– ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT. UHHNNN. Ah. Bones. [Bones Duggar] Fancy seeing you here. …is it? Man, am I still writing The TV People? I guess so. I thought I was getting in trouble for writing anything about— CUT TO: What are you doing? Midget fishing. What?! AGHHHHHH! What in the fuck. I caught one. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. I'm midget fishing. ARE YOU SERIOUS?! Haha: here you go little guy. [he hands the man a lollipop; the man is furious.] WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. It's your reward! Enjoy. WHAT THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! A midget. YOUVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? He pulls the large hook from out of his Jacket. YOU OWE ME; THIS IS A $2,000 SUIT. Two grand—even in that size?! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR THIS! Ah, alright. [he pulls out a $100 bill and hands it to the man.] WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? {Enter The Multiverse} Catherine enters with the children. KATHERINE Go hug your father. omg was it Catherine or Katherine. I don't know. It's been so long. It's Katie. PATRICK I'm their father; you don't need to tell them to hug me. KATHERINE Sophie wouldn't. If I didn't tell her, she wouldn't do it. Sophie?! Who the fuck is Sophie?! It's two syllables, at least… What was the middle one's name? Not Sophie. Sophie will do for now. I'm still not ready to go all the way back into that hole. [Patricks's middle child hugs him begrudgingly.] I like Edie Falco for the mom. Edie Falco? I love Edie Falco. So we got—Edie Falco, and some dude who looks like Jimmy Fallon. There is no Jimmy Fallon. Some dude who looks like him. Apparently there's only one of those. Whatever. Whatever, indeed. Okay— so CUT TO: INTERVIEWER/REPORTER –And–What is your standing relationship with JImmyFallon ELMO Excuse me? Your relationship with Jimmy Fallon? ELMO What did you just say to me? What? Jimmy Fallon. ELMO This interview is over. [Elmo dismissively exits.] Wait. Elmo. Come back. ELMO No. No more questions. Elmo! ELMOWe're done here. What do you want, Kimmel?! I WANT TO TALK TO GHOSTS. —which ghost do you want? [beat] …which ones you got? [beat] …which ones do you want? I'll make a list. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©