Filmmaker, Comedian, and Crackpot

For more info: IwanttobeHulk.com

I let my crackpot flag fly in this set where I pop off a couple 9/11 Truth jokes.

Check me out making fun of all that is holy, The Bible and Facebook.

I performed this set as part of a SuperEgo Comedy Showcase.

Take that, Master of Magneticism. Performed at the SuperEgo Open Mic at New York Comedy Club.

Chapters 1-8, Chapters 9-12, Chapters 13 & 14

Chapter 15
Governor Schwarzenegger sat at his desk. 

Should he do it now?

California had been in a financial crisis.  The state’s money had gone away.  This frequently happened within state governments: low tax rates, mismanagement of funds, inefficient programs… whatever the reason California was often out of cash.  But this time California had gone into the gutter for a completely different reason.

If Schwarzenegger’s movie career had taught him one thing it was that when disaster strikes you need an action hero, a plan, and lots of fire power.  And Schwarzenegger had secretly diverted state funds for just that purpose.  There was a reason California had no money and it was because its Governor spent it all on an army of androids that were housed all over the caverns of California.  At Schwarzenegger’s command they would emerge and save California and perhaps a section of Nevada and a couple acres of Mexico.

As the world fell apart around him, he had to be the chess player that he was raised.  If he launched his drone army too soon they could be wiped out.  He wanted the alien invaders to tire from their attack.  Then he would strike.  He feared if the aliens had travelled the galaxies their robots would be better than his. 

Perhaps he should advance them in waves?  But he wasn’t a general.  He didn’t have a map with toys on it to go over his plan.  He just had his instincts.  The same instincts that made him agree to appearing in Jingle All The Way.  And that made him nervous as hell.

Chapter 16
Sarah Palin, Ron Paul, and Saddam Hussein stood before Hillary Clinton.

“Hillary,” Paul said, “we have to put our differences aside and work through this one.”

“Work through what?” Hillary asked.

“You see that smoke over there?” Palin gestured.

Saddam cut through the jibber jabby with his British inflected Iraqi accent.

“A Polaris space station crashed.  I went and checked it out before you arrived.  I believe it to have a nuclear missile attached.  It looks… unstable. “

Clinton took out her iPhone.  She scrolled through a couple things.  “Polaris space stations don’t carry nukes.”

“Who told you that?”  Saddam asked.

“The CIA.”  Clinto held up her iPhone’s CIA app.

Saddam made a bemused face, “Ah yes, the same folks who discovered my weapons of mass destruction?  Come, Hillary, we have a nuke to disarm.”

“Otherwise the whole island could explode,” Ron Paul added.

“Or worse,” Saddam said as he vanished into the Island’s forest.  The three followed the former Iraqi leader.

Chapter 17
Brad Pitt’s ’92 Civic lay in tatters.  Neither Pitt, Senator John McCain, or that guy who played Rueben Kincaid on The Partridge Family could figure out how to change the timing belt.

“You should have changed that thing 60,000 miles ago,”  McCain sniped at Pitt, “Who just farted?  That you Kincaid?”

That guy who played Rueben Kincaid on the Partridge family had no idea how he got to this gas station, what his real name was, or worse, how he was going to get out of the situation.  He wished, deeply wished, wished so hard that his signature pout went up a couple notches, that the Partridge Family Bus would just pull up and take him back to TV land.

Apparently he wished too hard and another cream cheese fart slid out of his rear like a fat kid between two narrow couches going for free ice cream.

“Kincaid! “  McCain yelled at first in anger, then in as if the broken wind was strong enough to knock a memory loose, McCain screeched in joy, “Kincaid!”

McCain took inventory of all the Civic’s parts that lay in the hot desert sun.

“Boys,” McCain said and then looked at Pitt, “and Girls, we’re going to build a rocket.”

“Enough with calling me a girl, McCain.”

“I’m sorry, What branch of the military did you serve?”

“None,” Pitt answered.

“Then you’re a girl,” McCain shot back, “or a Marine.”

“Ladies!”  Kincaid interrupted, playing along, “Before we build anything, we might have to be killed.”  On the horizon a wave of dust approached the gas station.

All three squinted their eyes as they noticed mixed into the dust were glints of metal.

“Robots,”  Kincaid whispered.

“We got to get out of here,” Pitt exclaimed and ran off.

McCain shook his head, “Thanks Eliza-brad.”

Kincaid picked up a tire iron, “Never in all my days did I think I’d go out like this.”

McCain stuffed a Tiger Milk bar in his mouth and unsheathed his machete, “Welcome to the party, pal.”

Pitt ran back,  “Fellas, there’s a plane behind the gas station!”

“Kincaid!”  McCain scorned.

“I didn’t know!”

All three ran back to the small cropduster.

It was a tight squeeze but Kincaid and Pitt fit in the passenger seat as McCain hopped into the pilot’s seat.

“Pitt! Get out there and spin the propeller!”

“Only if you stop calling me names.”

I recently learned that New York City was trying to reduce salt in processed foods to improve cardiovascular health.  That sounds good.  There probably is too much of that stuff in our food as well as all that sugar crap that’s in everything.

Want to cut sugar out of your diet?  Well too bad if you like buying things that come in boxes or jars.  Here’s some lettuce and a raw oyster.  Enjoy your new life.

But back to New York City’s campaign to reduce salt intake because of its affect on our health.  Here’s what I don’t get:  If the city wants to regulate things to make us healthier, if the city wants us to have healthier hearts, then the answer ain’t cutting out the salt, the answer is making everyone get off their salted ham rump roast asses.  Or better yet, the answer is letting everyone get off their salted rump roast asses.

How many hours a day does everyone spend sitting down?  I currently work 9 damn hours a day at a temp job.  Throw in three hours to commute (my fault) and I spend 12 hours a day sitting down.  Lucky for me, this is a temp job.  I only have to do it for a few more weeks.  Unlucky for people who don’t have such a temporary situation.  How many people in this city sit for 9-12 hours a day?  You want New Yorkers to be healthier?  Limit the work day.  Limit the amount of days people need to go to work.  It makes no sense that with all the computers and stupid iPhones that people have to be in an office for forty to sixty hours a week.  We constantly are inventing labor saving devices and we just use them as an excuse to do more labor.   Screw that.  Let’s give it a rest and get outside.  Less work hours will mean more time to exercise, more time to deal with stress, more time to enjoy things.  You know who’s healthy, people who are happy.  You know who gets sick?  People who work too hard.  You ever work real hard for a long period of time and then take a week off?  What happens?  You get sick.

The stupidest part of the whole deal is that there are huge chunks of the day when people aren’t really working but a required to be at their suicide machines of a work environment.  Why do we have the need to be at a job for 8 hours (in many cases more) a day?

Get off of that seat and go outside, New York.  That’s what the city should be helping us to do.  Salt is the least of our worries.  The city that never sleeps has turned into the city that always sits.

Chapters 1-8, Chapters 9-12

Chapter 13
Well, Senator Edwards had certainly impressed himself but his chances of being seen as a hero by anyone beyond his own perception may have been brutally reduced to a couple low digits hanging out on the wrong side of a decimal point.

He had out maneuvered a couple of the alien space craft and rammed into another, causing a total of three space ships to be knocked out of the sky.  As he ashed his cigar in victory, he wondered the whereabouts of the cameras and the talking pie-holes who were so quick to appear when he had a shit day.  But being a cowboy had cost him the farm.  All that banging around the sky damaged the Polaris space station’s guidance system.

He fell out of the heavens towards an impending inferno.  And it got worse.  As Edwards tried to disable his on board nuke which he had been hoping to use against the space aliens, he realized his weapon’s controls weren’t responding.

He frantically tried to read the Czech user’s manual in the dash.  He was going to crash.   His only hope now was that he wouldn’t take a city with him.

Wouldn’t it be ironic, John Edwards thought, if once dead he spoke to people through that crap Psychic, John Edward with whom people always confused him.

Aha!  He found it.   Buried in all the Czech tech jibber jabby was a picture of a parachute and an arrow pointing to a corresponding button.

Now all he had to worry about was an unstable thermonuclear warhead.

Chapter 14
Dick Cheney had been rolling around the War Room for a while.  Nobody could see the wheels under his robes but everyone was in agreement that whatever was under there could have used a little grease.

The former Vice President’s out of style spectacles hung from his face as he gave a villainous monologue detailing humanity’s hidden history.  For the first two minutes of this unwelcome speech the President constantly tried to interrupt Cheney but is was useless.    Obama slumped in his chair, resigned to enjoying a couple smokes.   Nobody could challenge Cheney’s strange super powers.

A toilet flushed and Henry Kissinger entered the War Room, picking up his notepad.

“What did I miss?”

“I was just telling your colleagues how Eisenhower found the Arc of the Covenant under Stonehenge then offered it to the alien grays in exchange for–”

SLAM!  Obama had had enough.  He slapped his hand on the table.

“I GOT AN OIL SPILL!  I GOT TWO WARS!  I GOT A COUNTRY WITH NO MONEY!  I GOT ALIEN ROBOTS INVADING THE PLANET!  I don’t have time for Battlestar Galactica!”

“Actually, what Cheney is talking about is closer to Stargate: SG1, Barack,” Rahm Emmanuel added, popping in a stick of gum he had found in a pack of baseball cards.  He was saving it for when the world needed him the most.

“Either way!”  Obama exclaimed, “I want this mess cleaned up.”

“You are under my control for the time being.  You will only be able to accomplish that which I command,”  Cheney calmly reminded the War Room.

“Mr. President,”  Kissinger interrupted, “I believe our only hope is to flee to Mars.  The Washington monument can be fueled and ready for liftoff in 15 minutes.”

“Flee to Mars?  What about the American people?”

“We need to focus on continuing the species.”

“Me and you?”

Kissinger shrugged.

“And it’s you and me.  Humanity might perish but let’s try to preserve a little bit of grammar,”  Kissinger added after a beat.

“You know, you always have really bad ideas.  I don’t know why anyone ever listens to you.”  President Obama tapped his cigarette, glaring at Kissinger.

“I beg your pardon!  That hurts my feelings!”  Kissinger spat herbal tea all over the War Room.

“Has anyone heard from Nader yet?”  President Obama looked around the room.

“Bup-bup, recess is over.” Cheney motioned his hand.  The shadows of the room came alive and grasped hold of President Obama.  “The consumer advocate is part of my plan.  He will bring me Aykroyd.  Now, my pretties, the story continues.  Where was I, ah yes…  In exchange for the Arc of the Covenant the alien grays agreed to the following.”

Cheney took out a list of handouts and thumbed through them as he took a quick headcount of the room.

Chapters 1-8 may be found here.

Chapter 9
Nader sat in his cave waiting for any of the Nader’s Raiders to respond.  It had been a while, but the fight had never ended.  He just lost touch.

Scattered across the world, they were an elite group of operatives who sought to dismantle the iron grip corporatized greed held on the good folks.  Some got bought off.  Some saw the fight as foolish, an attempt to hide our own human nature from us.  And some were just tired, internally admitting defeat while going through the motions until they came to a stop.  But some, a couple, a handful, a smattering, who really knew, some were still out there. In the wilderness.  Nader set out the call and patiently waited.  Deep down he was nervous.  Nervous that one of his Raider’s would respond.  What would he say?  Where was the world they strived to create with their goodwill, perserverance, and hard work?  It was there, Ralph conceded to himself, mixed in with the other stuff.  Mixed in with the crap.  Ralph went to pick a booger and thought that he might be seen.  Maybe back in the day when the Raiders were here.  Not anymore.  Ralph went in with the pick.

The Nader’s Raider phone flashed a bright red.

Nader removed his finger from his nose, flicking a particularly dry and crusty booger into the shadows.  He slapped down the speaker phone button.

“Access code,” Nader ordered.

“Alpha Tango Foxtrot Sigma.” The voice that scrawled out the esoteric letters was that of Dan Aykroyd, Elwood Blues himself.

It had been a long time.  But an invasion of alien robots had a way of smoothing out old wrinkles.

“I have the BluesJet at your command, Ralph. Where should we start with these Aliens?”

“Ignore the alien robots.”

“Ignore the alien robots?”

“Look, I saw you on Larry King, Dan.  I know you love this stuff, but we have to find Biden.”

“Has he been kidnapped?”

“Worse,” Nader said, donning his cape and metal helmet, “He’s on vacation.”

Chapter 10
Secretary of State Hillary Clinton shot above the Pacific in her Secretary of State Underwater Car that she had just transformed into a miniature jet. Flying saucers were ripping out of the water and zooming away in all directions like a hornet’s nest tossed into a campfire.  She was running low on gas and needed to stop soon.  She knew of only one place to go, Harlem. Her husband’s office building had a vast underground complex built for events such as these.  But unless there was a gas station around, she was going to have to find a motel.  In the middle of the Pacific.  As her demise seemed imminent her multi-dimensional deity gave her the comfort of being surrounded by friends and various dimensions of herself.  Gallows humor crept in, “Maybe I’ll find that Lost Island.”

Whatever the validity of prayer, Clinton’s transformed underwater car spurted out of gas and plunged into the water, floating just a mile or so away from a small patch of land.  Hillary popped the hatch, extended an emergency paddle from under the seat, and started working at the calm waters to take her closer to this speck of sand and trees bobbing on the horizon.

Chapter 11
That guy who played Rubin Kincaid on the Partridge Family felt his beeper go off.  He hadn’t heard anything on it in… too many years.  He had fallen asleep and forgotten about the world.  He stared at the beeper.  It had been so long.  He didn’t even know what it was for.  Was he supposed to call someone?  Why couldn’t they just dial him up on the cell?  And what was his name?  The only thing he could remember was that he was the guy who played Rubin Kincaid on the Partridge Family.  He had no idea of who he was or how he got to… an old gas station in the middle of nowhere… 

What he did know was that he needed a change of underwear and socks.  It was just too damn hot.

That guy who played Rubin Kincaid got up from his rocking chair.  He was about to go inside to see where his socks and underwear were when a ‘92 Honda Civic pulled up, dragging some sort of alien robot underneath it.

“Hey, it’s that guy who played Rubin Kincaid!” McCain squinted to make sure he was seeing all right.

“Oh yeah, from the Partridge Family!” Brad Pitt responded.

Kincaid smiled and nodded. For some reason he felt insecure telling Brad Pitt and John McCain about being lost in a fugue.

Nobody said anything for a couple moments as the beeper continued to buzz.

“Kincaid!” McCain said, biting the end off a Tiger Milk bar, “Turn off that damn beeper. I need you to replace my timing belt and fix the brakes on this heap.”

“The mechanic’s off today.” Kincaid said.

“Well, then it’s gotta be you, me, and the princess,” McCain gestured towards Pitt.

“Come on, man.” Pitt whined.

Chapter 12
Hillary paddled her floating underwater car to shore. She couldn’t get up on the sand so she ditched it and swam to the beach, grabbing a few things.  She hated to part with the car, but what else could she do?  In the back of her head she had hoped it would just float there and she could figure a way to tether it later.

The island looked deserted, except for something that looked like a door hidden in some rocks.

The door immediately opened with a mechanical hum.  Sarah Palin ran out.

Out of all the Islands, Clinton thought, why this one.

“Hillary!” the former Governor yelled, “We need your help!”

“Who’s we?”

“I think I fit the other part of that description.”  Ron Paul emerged from the door.

“What are Ron Paul and Sarah Palin doing on an Island in the Pacific?”

“Having a Tea Party rally.”  Palin said, deadpan.

Hillary raised her eyebrows.

“She’s joking,” Paul exclaimed, “we were, coincidentally, on the same plane. It crashed. We washed up to shore and found this secret base thing.”

“What?”  Hillary, “That’s crazy.”

“It gets crazier,” a Middle Eastern voice laced with a British inflection murmured from the doorway.  An old man walked out.

“Saddam Hussein!” Clinton gasped. “I thought we killed you!”

“You did,” the old man said, “quite embarassingly I might add.”

Thanks to my old college friend Geoff Wood who supplied the first sentence.

Chapter 1
Crazed with loneliness and impotent dreams of revenge, John McCain slapped the snooze button twice.  The elder statesman of a broken nation lay awake, himself in tatters.  He wasn’t tired. He just didn’t feel like fighting the world today.  The $65 a night hotel that he had moved into after his failed presidential bid smelled of  bad television and wrapped him up in a warm stench of feet.  He wish he could slap the voters like he had just slapped his cheap CVS alarm clock.

Then the alien robots invaded.

McCain stuffed down a Tiger Milk bar and reached for his machete.  It was going to be a long day.  A damn long day, he thought.

Chapter 2
Ten minutes before the aliens hit, former Senator John Edwards was orbiting the planet in his secret Polaris space station, a slick piece of Czech craftmanship Edwards had bought at a surplus sale from the European Space Agency, to get away from his scorned wife.

From his celestial view, former Senator Edwards was the first human to see the invading crafts shoot from behind the moon and zig zag down Earth’s atmosphere like beads of rain on a windshield.

“Robots,” he mumbled to himself.  Perhaps he had once last chance to be a hero.  He finished off his Tang, rubbed out his cigar, and activated the onboard nukes.

“Party time,” Edwards solemnly exclaimed as he began to steer the craft in a rapid descent.  Next stop, Boom-Town.

Chapter 3
When the robots hit, President Barack Obama had finally come up with a fool proof plan to clean up the oil spill in the gulf.  A fool-proof plan, but these alien robots weren’t fools.  As he stared at multiple screens deep below in the Capitol’s War Room, the President’s stomach sank. “Why did I have to be the alien robot invasion president?” Obama reached for a pack of Kools.

“Because it had already been decided, five thousand years ago.”

Obama’s cigarette dangled from his lower lip in surprise as former Vice President Dick Cheney rolled out of the shadows, wrapped in a monastic robe.

“And now my plan has come to be!”

The secret service descended on Cheney, but with a wave of the former Vice President’s hand all of their guns flew into the air and crunched into a ball as if the forces of magnetism had just been sold to the highest bidder.

Obama immediately pushed the intercom button.

“Get Ralph Nader on the phone.”

Chapter 4
Hillary Clinton ripped off her ninja mask.  It had been a hard job single handedly sabotaging the North Korean nukes, but she didn’t do easy.  In her small Secretary of State Underwater Car, she breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the C.B.

“Mission accomplished.”

She was answered by only static.  Unusual.

Hilary fiddled with the controls.  Nothing seemed to work.  The only thing she could hear were radar beeps.  She checked the instruments.

Something, lots of somethings, were emerging from the ocean floor.  She angled the car to get a look.

“Those look like flying saucers,” she said to herself.  Hillary believed in an ever present multi-dimensional God which manifested in many forms including an external audience as well as mirror of the self with whom she routinely check in.  ”I don’t believe it.”

The unidentified floating objects soared past her miniscule underwater car, casting her to and fro.

“I wish I didn’t waste all that time on that stupid nuke,” she grumbled as she prepared the underwater car to transform into a small sleath-like air craft.  The Secretary of State shot out of the sea.  She knew of only one place to go.

Chapter 5
Brad Pitt didn’t realize he was staying at the same hotel as John McCain, that is until the Senator crashed into his room strangling a shiny serpent-like robot.

McCain started hacking at the mechanical beast with a crude blade.  Pitt didn’t know what else to do other than mute the TV.  He had fallen asleep in front of it, waiting for the latest Powerball.

Chapter 6
The grizzly and grizzled Senator managed to hack off a piece of the slithering robot.  A strange limb fell to the ground.  Pitt jumped away like a frightened cat.  Out of the dismembered metal hundreds of small snake like robots crawled, fleeing out the window.

McCain picked up the rest of the robot and threw it out the door. “There’s too many of them and when you pick one apart, hundreds replace it.”

“Like some sort of virus.” Pitt added.

“Boy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.  A virus invades a host and reproduces–oh never mind.  You got a car?”

“Yes,” Pitt answered, “but my license is suspended.”

McCain spotted the keys on the table and grabbed them.  “Welcome to the club.”

Chapter 7
Ralph Nader studiously reviewed a study on the perils of water flouridation. The radio, tuned to a contemporary jazz station, began to crackle.  Nader flicked a booger off his index finger and reached for the dial.  But his search for another station was interrupted by an emergency broadcast.  Alien robots had invaded the planet.

The phone rang.

Nader answered.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Pause.

“I just heard on the radio.  How can I help?”

Pause.

“No, according to the ancient rules, only the current vice president can banish Cheney to Dimension 13.  Where’s Biden?  Oh, you want me to find the Vice-President?  What’s in it for me, Barry?  A cabinet job? A tax on stock trades?  Holding corporations accountable?”

Nader picked his nose as he listened to President Obama’s offer.

“I think we should focus on the alien invaders. I don’t have time for petty– Cheney said what?  I’ll get you Biden in 48 hours.”

Nader slammed the phone down.  He went to his bookshelf and found an original copy of Unsafe at Any Speed.  He pulled the book out.  The book shelf opened up to what looked like a fire pole.

Nader slid down to a deep cave full of 1970s era computers and hardware. He went over to a microphone and pushed a button.

“Nader’s Raider’s, activate.”

Chapter 8
Brad Pitt had starred in many movies, but none as bizarre as the adventure he had stumbled upon with Senator John McCain.  As Pitt rambled down the highway, McCain sat in the passenger seat of the 1992 Honda Civic and fashioned a canon out of some items they had scrounged up, in a similar fashion, Bradley noted,  to Captain Kirk in that episode of Star Trek with the lizard man.

“What are you going to do with that canon?” Pitt asked.

“Shoot at homeless people,” McCain responded.

“Really?” Pitt asked, beginning to wonder how he was going to throw this madman out of his Civic.

“No,” McCain shot back, “I’m going to hunt down and kill every one of those robot aliens.  And you’re going to help.”

“Well, I’ll certainly do some of the driving,” Pitt responded.

An alien robot started running by the side of the car.

McCain, not finished with the canon, took out a PVC pipe, shoved something in it, held the pipe up to his mouth, and blew at the robotic beast.  PUH!  PUH!

The robot became covered with a thin powder and rendered blind.  McCain opened the car door, slamming the beast.  It fell.

So it goes.

To be continued. 

Thanks to Marvin8723 of YouTube…

I remember watching this when I was a kid. It has everyone! I think it aired on ABC in 1991. I like the scene with Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams in part 5.