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Monday, October 26, 2015

A Poem To My Daughter.

Hello, my lovely daughter, it is me, your dad.
I wrote this little poem for you, and hope it isn't bad.
There are many who say that poetry is all but dead,
But those people go whole lives leaving things unsaid.

Sometimes the love inside us must come out with time,
And sometimes we make that love into clever rhymes.
Without a band or orchestra, I cannot hope to sing,
To tell you that to me you are the most precious thing.

If a person came to me with diamonds all in heaps,
And said they would trade it all for you, for  keeps,
I'd spit right in that person's eye and laugh them far away,
You are the reason I wake and live, from early rise of day.

And if a person came to me, with a massive boat,
And said if they could have you, I could then be afloat,
I'd tell them not for all the ships that ever sailed the sea,
Unleashing my swashbuckling skills, they would swiftly flee.

If someone came to me with a spaceship bound for Mars,
Offering a grand voyage among the twinkling stars,
And all I would have to do, for them, was give you in return,
I would reject their offer quickly, and their houses I would burn.

And if a person came to me, and offered me the planet,
A final mission to my will, and an army too, to man it,
And all I would have to do for them is surrender my little girl,
I'd take their offer in my hand, tear it up, and hurl.

You are too young to read this now, and to understand,
How very much you mean to me, you are so very grand.
Grace is a blessing we do not ask for, or even quite deserve,
It is the beauty among the chaos that we can preserve.

You bless us with your life and make our dark world bright,
It is for you I live and die for, and strive, and struggle, and fight.
Time parts all things eventually, no matter how we cling,
But nothing will stop my love for you, my most precious thing.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

David Lynch Scholarship Prompt Script.


Sheriff Peter Ball is on late duty in the small sheriff’s office. He hears a noise outside.


He opens the front door of the office and discovers a box on the doorstep. He spots two people running 50 yards away. He chases them but loses them in an alley. He returns to the box and opens it up. Inside is a small handgun and a folded note. The sheriff yells back into the office.

Hey... hey, Ernie, get me an evidence kit, would you? And some latex free rubber gloves?


The walls of Sheriff Ball's office are a dense and cluttered pastiche of awards and surreal art. Following behind him is deputy Ernie Hicks, the only other person in the office this night.

What you got there?

I'm not sure. Couple of kids dropped it off.

It's a pretty little pistol.

Isn't it?

The sheriff puts on gloves and removes the note.

Please return to Chickendiaper.

Chickendiaper? Is that two words?

No, just one. Capitalized.

Well, that is bizzare.

What do you think they mean? Chickendiaper?

Well, I guess whenever I think of that it's the absorbent layer often placed below packaged chicken that's meant to absorb excess fluids.

They shove so damned much weird shit into processed chicken these days.

Amen, brother. Here, why don't we put this all in evidence bags? It will be fun.

I wish our jobs weren't so much putting things into plastic bags, as much as solving crimes.

Or bettering society, yes, I know, Sheriff. We go round and round on this, and I'm just done. Can we talk about sports, or something?

No. No I'd rather not think about sports.

Well, I'll get this locked into evidence, then. I sure hope we can solve this one.

Let's not get our hopes up. I'm so tired.

You should go home, and rest. I can secure the city. My plan was just to drive around and harass drunks before shaking down some kids for fun drugs.

I remember when that used to be fun.

You should go home. You look terrible.

Do I? Because I feel terrible.

You should  rest.

Do you find it a little funny that in order to  avoid the fear of our death, the only thing we can do is succumb to it?

I find it a little funny, but not "Ha ha" funny.

The best we can hope for, I guess.


The Sheriff and the Deputy exit the building.

I guess we should round up the regular suspects.

Is that a movie?

No, it's a term.

Oh. Well, let's get to it, then.


The Sheriff and the Deputy are drinking fruity cocktails and looking over the crowd.

You see anyone familiar?

Lots of people I've dated, but no. Nobody that I would call suspect.

Well, it appears we've gotten fruity drink drunk for nothing.

Roxy Jack [20's Female Student] approaches the officers.

Can I help you guys with anything? You're making my chronic drug users nervous.


It will be $200, for fifty extra your friend can watch.

The hell are you talking about?

The hell are YOU talking about? Buy an urban dictionary, you plebe.

You've got a lot of sass for a peasant.

And you're very pretty, for a pig.

You hate the law?

I hate hegemony.

I took an intro philosophy class once, too.

Look, don't you have a minority to harass?

Justice is blind, kid.

And castrated.

Jesus Harold Christ, would you two shtup and get it over with?

Eat cock in hell, rapist.

Roxy walks away.

I don't know why you make me come here.

You like it. You like to see me abused.

Hell, I can watch you abuse yourself, just fine.

Well... it's nice to get out. Come on, bottoms up, we've got an urban dictionary to find.

No bookstore will be open at this late hour.

Then by christ, we'll use the interweb.

The Sheriff and the Deputy finish their drinks and then exit the building.


The Sheriff and the Deputy sit in their squad car, monitoring the streets.

You have any drugs?

Not on me.

Nuts. Nut butter.

Can I ask you something, Pete?

Sure, Ernie, what is it?

Why did you get into law?

Bored, mostly. Wanted to shoot someone before I die.

Me too. About the shooting people. I believe that boredom is an illusionary byproduct of our failed society that drives us towards consumption.

Everything drives us towards consumption, Ernie.

You could always shoot me, if you wanted to?

And you could shoot me at the same time?

Sounds kind of romantic.

Indeed it does, Ernie.

Hans Lindberg knocks on the window.

Wait a minute, here's someone we may be able to shoot, yet.

The sheriff rolls down the window.

Good evening, Hans. What's doing?

Evening, Sherriff. Ernie. Say, I wanted to let you know, I heard there's a murder rapist in town.

What do you mean?

Well, I mean I heard from someone, or I guess some kids heard, that there is a raving lunatic, planning to murder and/or rape a large number of people in the coming days and weeks.

Now, when you say that, do you trust your sources?

I guess so. I mean, they are as credible as any worth investigating?

We don't typically handle that sort of thing, Hans.


Most of our job is placing evidence in bags and maintaining files on the items we've placed in bags.

Oh. Well, I mean, what about body bags?

Oh sure. You have some bodies we should know about?

Well, I mean... not YET.

Listen, you keep your ear to the ground on this, and as soon as you get a name, or address, or phone number, give it to my secretary and we'll get back to you.


The Sheriff and the Deputy have returned to the office.

Didn't your secretary die?

I thought she quit?

No, I'm pretty sure she died.

Crumbs. Did we send a card?

I think so? Give me $5.

The Sheriff does.

We'll call it good.

Quentin Chickendiaper approaches the men.

Good evening, gentlemen.

Good evening, sir. Can we serve or protect you?

You may, you may indeed. My name is Quentin Chickendiaper.

Hot damn!!!

Looks like we solved the case, after all.

I'm afraid I don't gather your meaning.

Mr. Chickendiaper, you are under arrest under suspicion of murder rape. Please submit for questioning.

Oh no! I'm no murder rapist! I'm a poultry vendor!

Prove it.

Chickendiaper produces a poultry license, and Hicks looks it over.

Well... it looks like he's right. He IS a poultry vendor. Licensed and everything.

Did you know that you don't need a license, in this state?

We have plants in Omaha.

Of course. Well, this was all a misunderstanding, you have a good night.

No no, I came to YOU.

That's not how the report is going to read, but whatever.

What's your problem?

My friends left my pistol here? I'm terribly sorry, there was a miscommunication, and they were supposed to bring it to where I'm staying, but the connection was poor, and I suffer from severe dementia.

Your friends, why did they run away from me?

Well, they are both on the lamb, you see? Suspects in an ongoing tax fraud investigation. They typically live in the woods around here, subsisting on trash and native berries.

Everything make sense, but why not just let us keep the gun?

I need it around to make me feel better about my tiny penis.

Well, you don't have to tell US about that...

Looks like another fine day for law enforcement.

Why don't you run inside and get Mr. Chickendiaper's gun, Ernie? I'm going to smoke this cigar that smells like hot diarrhea.

Ernie goes indoors while Chickendiaper suffers the smoke of the Sheriff's terrible cigar.

Oh, that smells just putrid. Where is it from?

The tobacco store.

I burn feathers off of chickens, and that smells nicer than that.

I enjoy them when they really smell like nothing of this world.

Ernie returns with the pistol.

Well, there you are. I think you will find it quite loaded and the safety off.

Well, thanks so much for understanding. I'm going to go continue to suck the chrome from the muzzle. You both have a lovely evening.

We will try.

Stop leaving your gun with other people. You should keep it hidden on your person, or under your pillow.

I will!

Just then Hans runs up to the group.

Sherriff! You've got to come quick! There's a murder rapist who just took over a school bus downtown.
It's always something, isn't it?


A bus sits in the middle of the street with a MANIAC brandishing a machine gun at a the embarked schoolchildren.

I want sex lube, ammunition, a helicopter, a jet, and a submarine aircraft carrier!!!

The officers arrive on scene and exit their vehicle. They've brought Hans and Chickendiaper, for whatever reason.

Well, there you go.

Thanks, Obama.

How do you want to play it?

The only way I know how...

Sheriff Ball opens the trunk of his squad car, which contains a rocket launcher. The Maniac takes notice too late to do anything but watch in amazement as the Sheriff levels the weapon at the bus.

Fire in the hole.

The Sherriff fires on the bus, and it explodes in a glorious fireball. Children's flaming limbs and paper rain down on the witnesses.

They would never have lived functional lives, anyhow.

Hicks sighs, and begins collecting body parts in plastic bags.


Thursday, October 01, 2015


"I think the timecraft was attempting to arrange an extraction through a previous droid. Something about "T T P V V V Vrunt" and then unintelligible. Initially, I thought it was possessed, and people would otherwise say malfunctioning, but I don't think they sent me the extraction code. So. It may be that we are all of us now screwed. Sorry."

-JT Liend 10-2-2015

If I could uninvent any one thing, in the entire course of human history, it would be the gun. To call it a gun is to simply explain a wide array of firearms we have used over the centuries to perforate and kill one another, across the globe. Entire nations are trained in their use. Vast reserves of automatic weapons, cached around our planet, could kill us all a billion times over. Up to 14 billion bullets are made globally every year, enough to shoot every person on the planet twice. In case you miss the first time, or they don't die, immediately. This is every year, and then we spend those, killing one another, and animals, and targets, and we have to create more brass to create more chaos to create more money. Selling your services as an assassin will get you thrown in prison for the remainder of your life, most places, but producing the bullets to do the killing is a multi-billion dollar industry, free of any moral obligation, or culpability.

But that is not the problem, with guns. The problems, for there are a few, with guns, is that you don't need any sort of training or education to own and operate one. I own two .22 rifles that were gifts, and they stay at my parent's house, where my child can't accidentally shoot herself, or anyone else, for that matter. Because one of the many problems with guns is the fallacy of "The Responsible Gun Owner". To be clear, there are responsible people, but there is nothing more irresponsible than owning, and/or operating a gun. At best, you are hunting a species that needs population control because we've already killed every predator, and also we still hunt the predators. We will kill, mount, and/or eat anything short of a Bald Eagle in this great nation. Canada should allow licensed Bald Eagle hunts for particularly vicious anti-patriots. Back home we are lousy with them. You see them in ditches, eating corpses. Much like America. Another problem with guns is the second amendment.

In a different rant I explain that the constitution was framed by slave holders who gave their slaves votes, before women. Thomas Jefferson was a slave rapist, and that crass asshole is carved into a sacred Indigenous American mountain. America was never good. We have always tried to be good, but in the end, we can only ever be strong. We are a warrior nation, bred of the most vicious and victorious genociders history has known. Numbers don't exist for the carnage we have brought to every corner of the map but our own. We even hold the dubious and singular distinction of being the only world power to use nuclear weapons. The war on terror has killed 2 million people. What is the cost of vengeance against a symbol? If we can kill them with remote craft, vaporize them with a missile, anywhere on the planet, from the clear blue sky, are we not now the terrorists? Have we not always been? Patriots and Terrorists never took off as a children's game, except among Bush and his staff. But back to the second amendment.

People with serious chemical dependency problems and unique mental disorders brandish machine guns around me and say "blah blah blah second amendment." And then I ask them "Oh really? What organized militia are you a part of?" And then they say "blah blah blah hate group. 'Merica." Merica is the hubris of the 21st Century. It is calling out the backwards hillbilly in all of us that convinces us it's a waste to vote, or pay attention to politics, because corporations own Merica now, and ain't nothing doin bout it nohow. Well, nuts, to that, I say. Nuts. If every person in the world really thought about the hate, and tragedy, and pain that comes with using a gun? They would bury them in the ground like Bob Dylan. They would just realize that they don't have to shoot anything, anymore, and that would be alright.

Happiness is not, in fact, a warm gun. Happiness is knowing a world beyond guns. When owning a gun is considered as ignorant and unjust as owning a person, because that is really what you own. The potential to end lives. To take the sum total of a miraculous, beautiful, infinitely impossible being, and just shoot some lead into it till it stops moving. At best, eat it. But do you need to eat it? Can't you just spend the money you would have spent on the gun, and bullets, and taking time off, and travel, just to murder a deer that you could probably kill with a spear, if you were a competent hunter. Which you are not. Sitting up in the air and shooting a gun doesn't make you a competent hunter, it makes you normal. As a child I did it, and it was not difficult. I could train an ape to hunt deer on a long weekend, but too many people would try to stop me to make it worth the effort.

The worst part is that nobody shoots the people who deserve to be shot. The robber barons, and the tyrants, and the hate mongers that ride the celebrity of working the ignorant into an indignant froth towards an "other" that wants to take their jobs, their women, their guns, and their dicks before rounding them into pens for meat processing. No one goes on a killing spree shooting Kony between his crazy, milky, evil eyes. No one fights their way inside prison and shoots Charles Manson where his heart may be. It would save the prison system so much money, and we really have to look out for the prison system, all of us. Without imprisoning more people than China, the entire republic would fall down like Rome and go boom. No one shoots up a gun convention, and this has never made sense to me. As an imaginary action scene, you can see a sort of old west barroom brawl, but with a chorus of fire, smoke, and explosions of reporting automatic hilarity. The old John Wayne drag them in front of the camera and shoot them in the mouth. The fire from the hip into the masses of trembling fat. The tiny dicks shriveling back towards the butthole, puckered itself to a pinhole, and the squeal of inevitable irony. Eventually there is just one man standing, and he is all coated in blood, and gore, and bone fragment, and pink macabre brain chunk, and he looks around at the corpses of so many great white people, what he imagines Gettysburg was, because he thinks the south won that battle, and he puts both of his pistols into both ears and screams as he empties both clips into his useless brainpan.

Nuclear proliferation aside, people talk about an insecure Pakistan losing a nuclear weapon, and I laugh, for a lot of reasons, I laugh. One of those reasons is how they were harboring Usama Bin Laden for a number of years while trillions of dollars were spent killing millions of people. Another reason is how silly it is to think that Pakistan or whoever, wouldn't just sell a nuclear weapon to whoever they want to. And what? Sanctions? Don't get me started about the red line. Please don't gas anyone. Oh, crumbs. You gassed people? Well... you have to live with that. That's on you. We're not world police, we're world security, and you have to be weak enough that you can't fight back, very well. But another thing that makes me laugh is that North Dakota, because that state is like the fourth largest nuclear power. North Dakota is filled with lunatic recluses who can stand living in an ocean of nothing, and laid off leathernecks high on hillbilly meth. I am fairly certain a person with a tractor and an afternoon could walk away from any number of installations with a few warheads and cheap commissary beers, to boot. 

Try your luck with a military installation, but no, schools. Churches. Malls. Theaters. Because we hate the shooter, because they are cowards, and fiends, and we can never understand what would drive a person to those ends. But what I don't get, is where are all these fucking responsible gun owners, when the shit goes down? Where are these gun packing action heroes, ready to spring into action in a milliseconds notice to save the lives of many, through the tactical application of lethal force? What are we doing with all of these pistols, when we need them? Because we are all still waiting for you, out here.

Because my deal is, if we don't get guns, neither do the police. The police should be using stun guns and tranquilizer darts. This isn't crazy rambling. None of it. It speaks to you because it is truth, and the truth is, if we stop giving police guns, they will stop shooting people with them. They will have to do other things. You remember the responsible gun owner? What about the police? How do you kill 20 children without a single officer showing up to stop it? Why do you have to shoot unarmed people everywhere else, instead? Why aren't we dropping police out of the sky? Why don't police have jetpacks, and we take away the squad cars, and also stop calling them because someone is rocking too hard into the AM? I guess because we're all crazy and hormonal because our water treatment is tainted with anti-depressants and estrogen? Maybe we're all born crazy, because we are the children of crazy people. The entire function of our society is simply to marginalize and treat those who self identify as needing help, but the truth is, we are all of us holding on by the thinnest of threads.

The truth is that any moment of any day the wrong button being pushed means we are all nuked to death. If I could uninvent two things, I would uninvent the gun, and then the nuke. But, I also feel we are going to need nukes, in space. I had hoped that my child would not have to live in a world with the fear of nuclear annihilation, but I am as afraid of it now, if not more so. Trump on the button. I see a reality show in the works. I don't know what sort of larger anxiety the self knowledge of potential oblivion has. But I know that managing my ability to both ignore the news, and researching whether fallout survival is even a thing I want to do, is taking a prolonged toll. 

Then there are these people with guns, shooting people. Over and over again. Smart guns, you know? Guns that lock inside of schools, and churches, and malls. If guns are impossible to control, do the same thing with bullets. RFID chips in bullets. Try to fire it in a wireless range, other bullets explode, rendering the weapon obsolete. There are a lot of solutions where men get to feel the raw power of life ending phallus while at the same time being unable to waste a busload of nuns.

Because this current shit isn't working. I'm going with the Bob Dylan approach. Mama, bury my guns in the ground. I don't want to shoot them, anymore.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Please Come See 21st Century Play.

Ask anyone in theater if it is possible to produce a Pulitzer Prize winning drama with $100,000, and they will more than likely tell you no. Maybe the more optimistic, or visionary, might look at that amount and realize the potential, and tell you it is merely highly unlikely. Ask those same people if it is possible to write, produce, direct, and perform in a Pulitzer Prize winning drama with $1,000, and you are unlikely to find anything but no. It is lucky then, that I do not believe in the impossible, merely the improbable. Along a long enough time line, say infinity, the improbable is nothing more than the inevitable. I take comfort in knowing that if I never succeed in writing a prize winning drama in this life, that in some tangential reality, it has already happened. 21st Century Play is probably not a Pulitzer Prize worthy drama. To be entirely honest with you, it is still not perfectly what I wanted it to be, but it is moving in that direction by the second. I am producing it because of a sincere and abiding belief in the value of the work. It is no Driving Miss Daisy, by any means. No, we are trying to tell a different story, here. But perhaps no less important. It asks questions about our society and theater, what we value, how we respect it, and whether it will survive past our ability to protect it?

John Steinbeck wrote, “The theater is the only institution in the world which has been dying for four thousand years and has never succumbed. It requires tough and devoted people to keep it alive.” It was a gracious nod to a perpetually dying art, but what would Steinbeck think of our world now? A world where few read, let alone attend the theater. A world where the price tag of a performance has outpaced the ability for a person of simple means, or family to attend. Theater works best now to build community, and foster learning. Earning money is a virtual impossibility. Consider film, and how a performance from an actor need only be captured in one insoluble, perfect take. From thousands of such perfect moments a feature film is built, and stands forever as the only way an art can exist into the future. Stanley Kubrick would do hundreds of takes, pushing performers to the very brink of mental and physical exhaustion. He would have hundreds of thousands of hours of film to choose from to build his works. He also had millions and millions of dollars at his disposal.

I believe that a person can do something for love, or for money, but never both. I have to believe that if my craft is checked successfully, the performances alive and free, and I direct my message forward through time with enough energy, and love, that it could better the world. It is a fools notion, soaked in brazen optimism. My message is no more worthy than any you may have. Told with no more eloquence, or complexity. But it is mine. In a world that will take everything from you, it is significant to have something  you can create and love. I have created it, nurtured it, altered it, and I send it forward without fear, and with an open heart. If the Gods created us in their images, then in the art of creation we become closest to them. When groups of people, aligned in purpose and invested with will come together to create something, miraculous things happen. What could have been good is made great, and what would have been great is made fantastic. Through collaboration and cooperation we transcend what any one person could possibly accomplish alone. 

Our lives are lived building and then losing our memories, the ebb and flow of human experience. I am sad to have lost so many memories to other information. I wish I could remember my youth, and the joy I was ignorant to. Before I ever learned about the genocide around us and the weapons poised to destroy us. When the world was gold with light, and filled with life.The only timeline that abides in the chaos of my life are the productions. I can look back through the years, in my minds eye, to those many faces. Those young innocents that pounded the boards with the anger of a generation. I see them dance, and sing, and scorn, and love. I remember their stories, and their struggles. Their very lives a tapestry interwoven for a moment with ours. In theater we create a brief, perfect family. A perfect society that must endeavor together towards success. We have lost so many, along our way. It is hard to look back, now, and remember them. To see their ghosts dance under the stage lights, unaware that they are gone everywhere but that stage. Sometimes, they are captured on film, and that is hardest of all, for it is the clearest. We could almost reach out and touch them, but they are gone forever.

The beauty of theater is the dying elegance of a well cut flower. It is a sand painting thrown from a cliff. It is the oldest and most fantastic of magic because it demands that you suspend your disbelief. Whole crowds, charmed into believing they are seeing king Henry the Fifth at Agincourt. That they are in the dust bowl, and starving. That the world outside is a colorless void, and within this space is the most entertaining thing happening anywhere on the planet. That the struggles we see played out before us are important, because they touch the lives of those who listen. They change hearts, open minds, and free the spirit. Western theater is based on the teachings of Aristotle who believed that theater was an essential component to human existence. He thought that by exposing the tragedy of human existence, that the humors of the bodies could be balanced through releasing these emotions. He called it catharsis, and it means cleansing.

I wish that our society was as enthusiastic about employing Aristotle's principles as they are teaching about them. For instance, a college could claim to be a liberal arts school and then eliminate their theater department in order to build a hockey stadium. Base whole texts on the value of western society while ignoring the terminal decline that is far closer and more dire than any philosophy. The world is destroying our stages. The financial insolvencies of modern live performance have collapsed entire networks of learning and art. Those organizations robust enough to survive the economic collapse and media fragmentation have done so through compromise, adaptation, and perseverance. Those that have not are gone forever. To see the stages my family, living and dead, blood and soul, have danced upon rotten and razed has tested my soul. To see the visionary efforts of so many leveled to the ground by the ignorance of so few. It is a war, and art, humanity, is losing.

This is the clarion call to arms, dear reader. If you have made it this far then I don't have to convince you that the arts are important. What society has succeeded without art? It is perhaps one of the only universal and binding thing humanity can use to communicate and bridge the gaps in understanding and culture that keep us apart. Educate and inform while entertaining by creating a positive, all-inclusive, secular, community experience. Maintaining a storytelling tradition that belongs to no one culture or society, but travels back to when we were all one tiny and rare people. A handful of humans in a world of monsters, gathered around a fire and in need of comfort and distraction. Come to our fire, and hear our stories. Our show is a tragicomedy, in that it incorporates aspects of both. Comedy and tragedy, the eternal dance of opposites, captured in performance for all time. Come and see our ghosts dance for you, once more. The stages will all burn and collapse, and we will dance still, on the ashes, and when we are ashes, still we will play. Come see our play, and remember to bring a friend. No one will get rich from this production, or probably even famous, but that does not mean it will not be the best thing you've never seen. 

One love, 

JT Liend


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Game of Thrones Season 6 Spoiler Alert.

[Last Season: Show everyone the terrible stuff that has happened so far.]


[Int. Castle Black. Right where we left off. ]

[Jon Snow bleeds out and his eyes frost over.]


Captain Dudewehate. Oh nO! ZOMBIE SNOW! We should have known!

Jon. I was a nightwalker all along! I just didn't want to be cold all the time. But now it's on!

[Jon Snow kills all the murderers and rapists who so cruelly betrayed him. Little Ollie is last to go.]

Ollie. Oh Jon! Don't kill me! Your girlfriend killed me ma and pa!

Jon. Ollie, you're mother sucks poops in hell.

Ollie. No!!

Jon. Yes.

[Jon lops off Ollies head and then turns around, where Ghost is licking his massive ballsack.]

Jon. Really? Ghost? No help? Whatsoever?

Ghost. You got this.

[Talking dogs WHAT!? What a twist? Cut to:]

[Int. Temple of the Many Faced God. Whenever.]

[Arya is all like "aaah" while A Man looks on.]

Arya. Aaaaaa! Nuts! And berries, what happened!

A Man. A girl has used a face to take revenge, and so The Many Faced God has blinded a girl.

Arya. What? Why? That's not cool!

A Man. Now a girl must live her life in darkness forever. But at least you can never.

[Arya leaps on A Man and stabs the holy hell out of him.]

Arya. You talk a lot, for a dead guy!

[Arya doesn't even give an F about not having eyes, that's how badass she is. Instinctually she worgs into A Man and becomes lateral to The Many Faced God. She considers her options, and then focuses her divine energy into a 50 story tall metal golem replica of Sean Bean, AKA Daddy Stark, AKA He's on the cover but it's all a ploy.]

SuperAryaStark. FU, BRAVOS!!!

[Arya stomps on the temple, a la Ghostbusters. A Man leaps out of the rubble.]

A Man. No one steps on a church in my town!


[Arya stomps A Man and affords him the dignity of a simple twist of her school sized foot. Wiping the goo off on a dock, Arya realizes she is looking at that dude she was supposed to kill.]

SuperAryaStark. Treat your workers more fairly, or I'll return and squish you too.

Clamguy. Pfffft. I don't have to listen to a girl.

[SuperAryaStark groans and then eats the small man, as a person would eat a fly. Not to enjoy it, or be nourished. But because the fly has to go.]

[Ext. Bravos. Day.]

[SuperAryaStark wades into the ocean, knocking over the much smaller statue as a final dick move, before heading back towards Westros. Cut to.]

[Ext. Stark Castle. Day.]

[Brienne of Tarth and her little friend tool past the battlements with the head of Stannis Borathian.]

 Squireface. Hey, what's that over there?

 Brienne. Looks like a couple of corpses.

 Squireface. I'll see if they're worth eating!

[Brienne's little friend helpfully turns over the lady corpse.]

 Squireface. Uh oh. My lady? I've got some bad news. Two pieces of bad news, actually.

 Brienne. And?

 Squireface. Lady Sansa Stark is all corpsified...

 Brienne. Crumbs. Nuts. Nut butter sandwiches. What else?

 Squireface. We can't eat this guy's dick.

[Just then, Ramsay and Roose Bolton ride over with a bunch of dudes.]

 Roose. Hello, I don't believe we've met.

 Brienne. No, we have. We've met a few times, actually, and you never remember my name.

 Ramsay. May I rape her, father?

 Roose. Not now! Don't call me that!

 Brienne. What's up, duders? You want to eat these people?
 Ramsay. Oh no! Is that my wife?

 Brienne. Former wife. I was charged with her protection. But I'm not so great at protecting people.

 Ramsay. Reek! Bring the corpse along! We'll get to play with it a while, before she turns.

 Squireface. This other corpse does Reek...

 Ramsay. Oh no! No! My manpanion! I loved torture raping him most of all! Arg!

[Ramsay turns and sees his crazy girlfriend dead from before.]

 Ramsay. Oh nO! No! This is the worst day ever! All of this murder and victory is laid low by my vain hubris! Quickly, sieze that manish woman. We will all be consoled in running a train on her.

 Brienne. Oh no. No, that's not going to happen.

 Roose. Whose head is that?

 Brienne. Mine. Now listen. You all just go back in your castle. There's no reason you all have to die here.

 Roose. You, useless minion, who is this buff chick?

 Squireface. She is the Lady Brienne of Tarth. Greatest warrior in the seven, or any realms.

 Roose. Let's go back in the castle, Ramsay.

 Ramsay. Oh no! I've always wanted to murder-rape the greatest warrior in this, or any realm.

 Brienne. Whelp, he warned you.

[Brienne is feeling nice, so she only chops the arms and penis off of every person who foolishly allows themselves to be thrown near her. After a prolonged and overbudgeted, if not cathartic fight scene, everyone but Squireface is left dickless, limbless, and/or dying.]
 Squireface. I did tell them, Milady.

 Brienne. It's like they don't speak the king's English.

[Brienne hands her sword to be cleaned. Cut TO:]

[Int. Boat. Day.]

[Jamie holds his daughter niece as she becomes more and more corpsified, then stands and goes out.]

[Ext. Boat. Day.]

Jamie. Turn the boat around.

Bronn. Don't think that's such a great idea, sir.

Jamie. They poisoned my girl to death.

 Bronn. Yeah. They will do that. Why did you let that terrifying woman kiss her, anyhow?

Jamie. I don't know. I thought it was sexy.

 Bronn. You have some very failed notions of sexy.

Jamie. Turn the ship around!

Bronn. Is there really any reason this entire cast and crew has to die, so that you can go out in a daring but fruitless last stand against an unbeatable foe?

Jamie. Did someone eat alphabet soup for dinner?

 Bronn. I did. It was very good.

Jamie. We're going back.

Bronn. No, we're not.

[Bronn draws his sword.]

Bronn. We both know how this ends.

 Jamie. I don't think so.

[Jamie pushes a button on his hand that turns it into a chainsaw.]

 Bronn. You don't think I wasn't prepared for that?

[Bronn calls from bellow, and a heavily armored little person climbs unto his shoulders and starts pinwheeling dead fish on chains.]

 Bronn. Those are the deadly puffer fish! One sting and you're a goner!

[There is an epic shipboard duel between Jaimie and Bronn, but then Jamie's hand runs out of gas.]

 Jamie. Nut butter!

 Bronn. We have you now!

[But in his enthusiasm, a thrust leave's Bronn vulnerable, and Jamie stabs the armored little person in the face.]

 Bronn. No!

[The little person falls into the sea. Before it sinks, we see that it is the king, Incestface the first.]

 Jamie. My son nephew! Why!?

King Incestface. Because... Yolo...

 Jamie. Why!?!?

 Bronn. Because we spent too much money on the last swordfight.

 Jamie. Fine... then I'll go BY MY SELF!!!

[Jamie gets in the dingy, which has been there the whole time.]

 Bronn. I can't let you go.
 Jamie. Why!?

 Bronn. Because my pornography is in that boat.

 Jamie. HERE!!!!

[Jamie is ugly crying as he row back towards more conflict. CUT TO!]

[The Mother of Dragons is utterly surrounded by a bunch of dirty horse people.]

 Daenerys. Hey! Stop riding around me! You're going to get my dress dirty!

 Lead Horsedude. Hey, what's up.

 Daenerys. Nothing. My dragon is tired, so we're resting here. Why, what do you want?

 Horsedude. RAPE!

[There is a general feeling of rape, among the men.]

 Daenerys. Let me just stop you there. That might seem like a good idea, now, but two things. First off... my dragon would eat you.

[With that, her broken, lazy dragon makes itself known.]

 BrokeDragon. Hey. Leave her be. Don't make me get up. Because, I will.

 Lead Horsedude. Your dragon looks broke, lady. What was the other thing?

 Daenerys. I am the wife of Kal Drogo, and thus your queen, so get down. Get down.

 Lead Horsedude. I am not going to get down. Kal Drogo?

 Daenerys. It was in season 1. It doesn't matter, just believe me when I tell you that I am either now, or will be in the very near future, queen.

 Lead Horsedude. OK. Well. I dunno, lady. I think we're just going to kill that thing, and eat it, and probably you're going to be my plaything, before I pass you around to the other horsedudes. Unless?

 Daenerys. Yes?

 Lead Horsedude. Unless you have gold?

 Daenerys. Uh... not on me.

 Lead Horsedude. Then I would just go limp.

[Just then, the lead horsedude explodes in fire, as the other two, not broken dragons reign fire from above.]

 Lead Horsedude. OUR BAD! OUR BAD!

 Daenerys. But how?

[Jorah and Tyrion are riding one dragon, and Daario is riding the other one, with both Michiel Huisman and Ed Skrein versions.]

 Jorah. We used the power of the pretty and hideous versions of Daario to make love to, and then talk sense into these other dragons, and they are all on board!

[There is a lot of screaming, and burning, and gorging on horses, and laughing. The Daario's help Daenerys up, and they buninate manhorse by the score.]

 Daenerys. I want to burn up this entire, useless world, and anyone who ever thought it was a good idea.

 Daario. I just want to not be fired for someone prettier.

 Daenerys. Oh... simple, vain Daario. Flick my bean as we straffe these nwbs.

[Afterwards everyone flies back to the capital and everything is cool, because the warrior eunuchs rounded up and killed anyone larger than 4 feet tall. But, Jorah also gave his dragon fantasy syphilis, so it is, as always, two steps forward, and a dozen    back. CUT TO:]

[Int. Creepy Castle Lab. Day.]

[Cersei is set down by Zombie Mountain and Wizardface attends her.]

 Wizardface. Let me do something about that hair!
[Wizardface pours a tonic on Cersei's hair, which grows it back to it's normal dimensions.]

Cersei. Amazing. Hair magic?

 Wizardface. I didn't always want to create zombie mutants with my time. At one point, I was a very talented hair wizard.

 Cersie. You're my best hire, yet.

 Wizardface. Thank you, my lady, but I have some disturbing news about King Incestface...

 Cersie. No time! We've got to kill everyone!

[Cersie arms herself with a brace of poisoned crossbows and throws a murder-saddle on Zombie Mountain.]

 Cersie. Shame on YOU...

 Wizardface. But, my queen! Without subjects, what sort of kingdom will it be?

 Cersie. Shameless.

[With that, Zombie Mountain lurches out of the laboratory with Cersie on his back.]

[Ext. City Streets. Day.]

[The Shame Lady, Mother Superior is smoking a cigarette and talking with the crowd about how great it was to finally be able to throw feces and dead things on the queen, when suddenly.]


Zombie Mountain. Bleeeeeorrrrg!!!

[In a whirl of blades and bolts, bodies are pierced and torn to pieces, as a mob of people tramples babies and old people trying to escape.]

 Cersie. All of you revolting plebes will suffer my wrath!!!

[Mother Superior only has time to get out "Confe-" and is fed her bell to death.]

Cersie. To the temple!

[As Cersie cuts a bloody path through the streets, we CUT TO]

[Int. Temple. Day.]

[The Sparrow is donning arcane and wonderful armor.]

Cleric. She's coming.

 Sparrow. I know.

[The Sparrow rises with a sword in hand.]

[Ext. Temple. Day.]

[A wall of shaved head zealots with clubs stand guard at the steps of the temple as Cercie rides Zombie Mountain around the corner.]

 Cercie. Where is he!?

[The Sparrow walks out of the temple, dressed as warrior Sam Lowry from Brazil.]

 Sparrow. Let her come. The Gods are with us, brothers. No zombie, or Queen Incestface can bar our just and rightous WHAT THE F IS THAT!?

 Cercie. Oh ha ha, Pryce. I'm not going to fall for that one.

[The shadow of SuperArya eclipses the sun overhead.]


 Cercie. Oh nuts. Well, it was a hell of a ride. And Jonathan?

 Sparrow. Yes?


[Monty Python foot. Fin.]