canonicity: scars.

Most people I know have scars. Who hasn't gotten a little overzealous while opening a package with a knife that is clearly too big and sharp for the job? Or burnt themselves on something coming out of the oven that they really shouldn't have been touching? It's happened to the best of us. I should know, because I'm the best of us.

What's a little harder to find than scars are cool scar stories. Nobody wants to hear about you jumping a fence when you were younger and cutting your leg. That's a boring story. Really, I yawned just writing that. Where's the action? Intrigue? Romance? How can James Cameron turn that into a movie?

I've got some pretty awesome scar stories.

First off, let me introduce you to the scar. The camera on my phone is pretty bad, so here's an illustrated representation:

I'd say this picture is like, 99% accurate, so you're not missing anything by not seeing it first-hand.

Now, let me take you back to 1993. I was eleven years old, and ninjas were everywhere. You couldn't turn around without seeing a ninja somewhere, which I guess makes them crappy ninjas, but whatever. Surf Ninjas had just been released that year, 3 Ninjas and Sidekicks the year before that, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles the year before that. Children everywhere harbored dreams of being taken under the wing of an unassuming Japanese janitor and trained in the ways of ninjitsu. Everyone was wearing those black ninja pajamas that Wikipedia tells me are called shinobi shōzoku and jumping from rooftop to rooftop in the middle of the night. Kids would practice their roundhouse kicks and ninja flips during recess, and a popular prank became placing caltrops on the seats of teachers when they weren't looking, and then laughing ominously and vanishing in a puff of smoke when the unfortunate teacher sat down. Ninja Fever, for better or worse, had taken hold of America.

I was doing a little training at the town's local Karate dojo myself. Being the oldest kid in the children's white belt class by a few years was hard for my ego, but I trained hard and persevered, until I was finally ready to obtain my yellow belt. It was the night before I was to go in and perform my yellow belt form in front of a panel of ninja judges. I had just finished some super-intense training and was getting ready for bed when I heard a loud crash. Utilizing my highly attuned ninja senses, I worked out that the crash had emanated from my little brother's room. I pulled out the nunchaku that I usually had tucked into my pants and kicked down the door to my brother's room, completely ready to fight a squad of ninja assassins.

Going on sound alone until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I sensed that the room was empty. After a minute, I glanced around the room, seeing that the window was broken and my brother was missing. There was a throwing star stuck to the wall, and attached to that was a note, scrawled in Japanese kanji. Pensively, I grabbed the note and read it. A mega-serious look crossed my face as I looked up to where I assumed a camera would be had this been a movie.

A rival ninja clan had taken my brother hostage.

I really didn't even know that we had a rival ninja clan up until that point. I mean, I was eleven and I lived in a small suburban town in Michigan. That doesn't even really make sense. But that's what the note said, and after reading it, I knew I wouldn't be getting any sleep that night. Shit was about to get real.

I knew that time was a huge factor, so I immediately started getting ready to go out and rescue him. I spent probably about 45 minutes or so flipping through my parents' tapes, looking for the perfect song to get me pumped up and ready to kick some ass. I finally settled on "You're The Best Around" by Joe Esposito, and took to making my preparations. I took my shirt off and greased up my pecs and abs, thinking that would intimidate the other ninjas. I sharpened my katana, loaded my belt with ninja stars and various magic potions, and put a knife in a holster around my ankle. I was about as ready as I was going to be.

Walking to the front door of my house, the weight and seriousness of the situation hit me all at once. Things were about to get really dangerous. Shouldn't I call the police? Isn't that what people do when their loved ones get kidnapped? They don't get decked out like Michael Dudikoff and go out looking for revenge, especially not if they're eleven years old and only a white belt in karate. I'll be honest, I was scared. More scared than I had ever been in my entire life. But I had to push all of those feelings aside to do what was right. They wanted me, and they would kill him if the police showed up in my stead. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I took to the streets with a renewed sense of purpose...

...only, I don't know how I did it, I must have caught my hand at a weird angle on the screen door or something, but I felt a slight sting on my wrist and looked down to see a small trickle of blood. It wasn't too bad, looking back on it now, but to an eleven year old, it was a mortal wound. I cried and ran inside, waking my parents up to help me put a band-aid and some Neosporin on it.

I think we ended up calling the police anyway, and they totally didn't kill my brother or anything. That was just some childish melodramatic thinking. So yeah, he was fine, but my wrist... oh, my wrist.

That's a scar that never healed.

precious the precocious kitten! #7

precious the precocious kitten! #6

canonicity: arby's.

In keeping with yesterday's theme of retroactively altering my life's canon, allow me to spin you a yarn about what inspired me to work for five years at America's favorite cowboy-themed quick-service establishment in my early twenties.

 

Everybody gets asked the question "what do you want to be when you grow up?" at some point or another in their lives. Some kids chose to become marine biologists, others brain surgeons, still others rocket scientists. It seems like children pick the most impossible goals to try to achieve, only to be let down when they learn of all the hard work and impossible odds that go into reaching these goals. It's like god's preparing children early with these little lessons for a life of disappointment. I was no different from the other children, with my wide-eyed idealism and dreams of a lucrative career in the fast food industry as a shift manager.

 

There's one thing that separated me from all the other children though.

 

I ended up living my dream.

 

What led me down this path, you may ask? I remember it just like it was yesterday. It was the summer of my 11th year. I had just graduated from my elementary school, and middle school awaited, promising a plethora of new experiences and opportunities to mature into the young adult that I was becoming. My eyes were opening to the opposite sex (although nothing would be done about that for years and years to come), I was first exposed to the type of rock that I would later become enamored with via MTV... it was an exciting time in my life.

 

That summer was just like any other summer in terms of ways to waste away the day. My friends and I would sit around my room playing two player Double Dragon 2 on Nintendo, we'd have squirt gun fights in the front yard, and we'd go for long walks to the arcade and video store, talking about Saturday morning cartoons and Launchpad McQuack. It was on one such long walk that fate intervened, and changed my life forever.

 

There's a part right next to the arcade, between the wall and the privacy fence, where you're only visible to the road for a split- second as they're driving by, and blocked off from everything else. I had a backpack full of tickets won from Ski-Ball and the Feed Big Bertha game, and two NES games shoved down either pants pocket, newly rented from the Video Giant a couple blocks from my house. When you're eleven, you don't take into consideration that this could be a dangerous scenario: walking down the mean streets of Waterford, Michigan with a pocket full of booty (in the pirate sense of the word). But reality hit hard that day.

 

My friends and I were jumped from behind by two teenagers, one with a peach-fuzz moustache and a rat-tail haircut, the other the shorter version of Marky Mark (of Funky Bunch fame). The details of the encounter are sketchy at best in my mind. I remember the shoves. The spits. The taunts. One of them pulled a butterfly knife, flipped it around in his fingers like some sort of Latino Zorro, then stabbed my friend's hand to the wall behind him, and threatened that if we didn't give up our shit, more harm would come to us.

 

It was then that he came out of the shadows. He moved with the quickness of a man that had spent half his life throwing change out of a drive-thru window at cars needing to get their food within 30 seconds at the window. The way he moved, the way he ducked and dodged and weaved between our assailants... this was obviously a man who was used to sprinting, be it between a fry station and a front counter, or a register and a phone. The vicious judo chops to the throat the man delivered to our two antagonists seemed inspired by fast food culture itself. They were reminiscent of a disgruntled fast food employee scooping fries violently into a fry carton.

 

That man saved our lives that day, and he disappeared just as quickly as he came. My friends, one nursing his hand, looked up in awe at the roof of the building that the man had just jumped with the greatest of ease, but my attention was drawn to the ground below -- to a single name tag laying on the pavement, the words SHIFT MANAGER scrawled ominously on the plain white plastic; the Arby's insignia in the top corner. It was all I could do to finally utter the words, "they must train their men in the ways of the ninja," but I quickly decided it was something more than that.

 

That day, I discovered my fate. There have been times when I've foolishly tried to deny it; working jobs at factories, drug stores, engineering plants, but it's always come back around to me. All the kids that I went to school with no doubt ended up working meaningless, soul-sucking jobs delivering pizza, tearing tickets at the movie theater, maybe even managing other fast food restaurants, such as McDonald's or Burger King. They will never know the true joy, the sheer bliss, of being the leader of a crew at Arby's... and I feel sorry for them.

canonicity.

It occurred to me the other day that when I die, I probably won't have any books or anything written about me. I won't have my own biopic, and I probably won't even be mentioned in anyone else's biopics, unless my son goes on to do monumentally great things, which is a possibility. In any case, after people stop talking about me, the only thing that anyone will have to go on when trying to figure out who I was and what my life meant will probably be this online thing I'm doing here.

 

Let me take this moment to introduce you to a little concept called canon. Canon is a way to denote what's part of the official story in certain series and franchises. It's used, for example, by nerds when talking about which aspects of Star Trek lore are official, and which other aspects came about through some poorly written fan fiction. Like, Jean-Luc Picard and Geordi La Forge were crew members on the USS Enterprise. That's canon. What's not cannon is that they totally boned in the holodeck in a tropical simulation while Riker watched. That's just something I wrote just now.

 

Having this thing that I'm writing in here being the only chronicling of the events in my life for future generations gives me the opportunity to declare various events in my life non-canon, and to write a new series of events that I can officially declare canon. Who's going to know any better? Like, that time in elementary school when I couldn't unlock the front door in enough time to avoid peeing my pants? Non-canon. In the canonical event, I actually got a running start, fly-kicked the door open, and avoided peeing my pants by going in the first available spot, which happened to be on my dog. Canon! Wait, that wasn't very good.

 

Let's see... another non-canon event was when I saw a spider at Arby's, and I grabbed a 90 pound girl to kill it for me because I was afraid of it. That totally didn't happen. What actually happened was that I rounded a corner and spotted this 300 pound beast of a spider, staring menacingly at the aforementioned 90 pound girl. I dropped the box of curly fries that I was carrying, and do you know what I did? I punched that spider right in it's goddamn dick. Canon!

 

There's just too many possibilities to cover all of my life's rewrites in this one entry. Note to future historians: look for a few entries in the future to get a better idea about who I was, and why my life was so full of these great, totally canon moments that seem like they're out of action movies but are actually totally real.

greetings from heaven.

As I'm sure you've already heard, the Rapture occurred on May 21st, 2011 at 6:00pm worldwide. We all got advanced notice from the archipelago of Tonga, as they were the first time zone to be judged by the Almighty. As He made His way from time zone to time zone, 1/24th of the world at a time, sucking naked bodies into the sky, the world was left to wonder why He would choose to abide by our arbitrary borders, but really, the dude's God. You can't really question His logic.

 

The good thing about not being in the first time zone to get Raptured was that you had at least a few hours to think about what was going on. I actually did a last-minute conversion to Christianity before God hit the east coast and got Raptured myself. It wasn't that big of a deal. As an agnostic atheist, the only thing really keeping me from Christianity was a lack of extraordinary evidence, but I'd say floating millions of people up to Heaven at an agreed upon date and time should be proof enough for anyone. All I had to do was clasp my hands, say that I wanted Jesus to be my buddy, and that was that. I actually went the extra mile and wrote JESUS' #1 FAN in body paint really big on my chest, just so He could spot me in a crowd, and it apparently worked. I made sure to go outside at around quarter to five, so that if I didn't manage to get Raptured, I could at least watch for those who did. I set up a lawn chair on my roof, took my shirt off so he could see my awesome body paint job, and waited. 6:00pm came around and, like clockwork, up I floated, out of my clothes and into the sky.

 

The ride up was a little awkward. I saw people that I've seen before maybe once or twice, at the gas station or the grocery store. There was that weird moment of recognition, like "haha, hey! You've bagged my groceries before and now I can totally see your weiner!", but you don't really say that because we're all awkward animals and the guy's bagged hundreds of people's groceries and why would he remember you or care who you are anyway? But then the ride to Heaven is really long, so you're forced into some form of small talk with all of these naked Christians, and what do you really talk about when you're floating up to Heaven? How can you talk about anything besides the fact that you're floating up to Heaven? I talked to one naked Christian about how it would be super weird if this was actually an alien abduction of some sort, and he laughed it off and then floated over to some of his naked Christian buddies. I don't think I talked to anyone else for the rest of the trip.

 

Heaven's pretty sweet, though. We've got Internet (it wouldn't really be Heaven if we didn't, ha ha), so I'm finally getting a chance to let you guys know what the deal is up here. St. Peter stood at the gates when we all got there untold hours later, but he just waved us all in. It felt like we were on some planned field trip at school, so we just got a free pass. Jesus is super-chill. Awesome dude, really. Totally un-zombie-like. We haven't hung out too much, since He's got a million people to talk to, but I totally want to hang with Him a little more after everything's settled down a little. He's got the best beard I've ever seen. It's just so full of majesty. God's kind of a dick, but I guess I probably would be too if I were God. He's like the entire world's overbearing father. I heard someone call Him Zeus or something, totally in a joking way, and He didn't look too happy about it. It's like, I've seen the platypus, God. I know You've got a sense of humor.

 

I've basically just been hanging out for a couple of days, up here in the clouds. I know it's supposed to be Heaven, and don't get me wrong or anything, it's beautiful and the weather's nice and everybody's really friendly, but I don't know if I'm supposed to be here. These aren't really my type of people. Everyone's really snooty, and the music sucks, and we don't really get any good channels on TV. All of the awesome people I know are probably going to go to Hell, and I think I might be better off down there. I mean, Hell's where the party's at, when you think about it. Where do you think Hendrix went when he died? God's talked a little about throwing some sort of thing up here, but I get the idea that it'll probably be like those chaperoned dances that you went to in middle school, where everyone had to dance with at least six inches between them and there was no alcohol and all they played were Boyz II Men slow jams.

 

So that's that. I'm hoping that it gets better up here, but I don't know. If it stays like this, I might just have a talk with God about some things. He's probably a cool dude when you talk to him one-on-one. I don't think He'd kick me out of Heaven for challenging him or anything.

precious the precocious kitten! #5

precious the precocious kitten! #4

i'm doing my part! WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

I'm not the world's biggest fan of insects.

 

Back when I was into themed parties, I wanted to throw a "Fuck Insects" party, which would have involved imbibing various potent potables (I could have said "drinking', but I wanted to throw a Jeopardy phrase in there) and watching classics such as the John Goodman favorite Arachnophobia and David Cronenberg's remake of The Fly. The party kinda got stopped in the planning phases when everyone I invited evidently thought I was asking if they wanted to go to a "Fuckin' Sex" party, which would have been a little awkward, admittedly.

 

Really though, if any class of animals deserves to have a party thrown with the specific intentions of raising a glass to it's demise, it would be insects. I would go as far as to say the entire Arthropod class can go fuck itself, but it unfortunately includes crustaceans, which, I'm sorry, are delicious. I don't know if the urge to eat an entire subphylum of creatures can be quantified as hatred, so we'll let them slide, even if they are underwater bugs for all intents and purposes. Basically, what I'm saying is anything with an exoskeleton that's not a delicious sea creature or a sweet robot can go fuck itself.

 

Speaking of robots, you'd be hard pressed to convince me that some insects aren't robots from the future sent back in time to skeeve us out. There was a carpenter ant in my house last night, crawling on the counter in the kitchen while I was trying to get some mac & cheese prepared for my son. As I am wont to do when killing insects, I recited Samuel L. Jackson's favorite Bible passage from Pulp Fiction to the ant, letting it know that I wasn't fucking around, and as I got to "AND YOU WILL KNOW MY NAME IS THE LORD!" part, I raised my hand in preparation to vanquish this unholy bastard. The ant wiggled it's antennas, no doubt trying and failing to grasp it's own mortality in this time of peril, as I slammed my hand down with great vengeance and fuuuurious anger. After silently congratulating myself for a job well done in protecting myself and my family, I lifted my hand to find the ant, I shit you not, no worse for the wear. Confused, I grabbed a paper towel and smushed the hell out of that little jerk, applying way more pressure than was really needed just to make sure that the job was done right this time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't reminded of the final scene in the original Terminator movie where Arnold finally meets his maker in the industrial press. Well, I guess "meets his maker" doesn't really apply in the case of a cyborg from the future, but that's neither here nor there because HOLY SHIT THE ANT IS STILL ALIVE ARE YOU KIDDING ME. In abject horror, I pounded the counter with my bare fists, sending Conrad's bowl of mac & cheese flying into the sink and various utensils falling to the floor, all in an effort to finally kill this one little ant with an exoskeleton made of fucking adamantium. With the job finally done, I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by utensil shrapnel, and shuddered. If it's that hard to kill one little ant, then what the hell chance to we stand as a species?

 

If that doesn't make the case for you that these bugs are goddamn robots from the future: did you know that there's a type of carpenter ant that can explode in self-defense? What the fuck? Uh, self-destruct sequence? Hello? These things are murderous robots from the future, and I hate them all.

 

Now generally speaking, I'm against scientists fucking around with our food and playing God with things. I feel like it's probably similar to when I used to get into shit I shouldn't have gotten into on my family's old computer and started changing lines of code because I could, only to find the computer beeping angrily at me upon it's next boot up. We're doing things because we can, and not necessarily because we should. But I'm willing to throw all of that out the window if these nerds in lab coats can figure out some way to not completely fuck up the food chain if we wipe out insects completely. I don't care how many genetic modifications we need to make to animals and other food sources. I don't care if I'm feeding cows to other cows or whatever. Let's just do this thing so I can get out there all Starship Troopers-style like Johnny Rico and just absolutely wreck these fucking insects.

precious the precocious kitten! #3

unfuckwithable (5.18.82)

There are few days as hallowed as Nickmas, which, as we were all taught during our childhood, falls every year on May 18th and celebrates my delivery into this world. We've all been celebrating Nickmas for so long that it's become sort of this commercialized bastardization of what it was originally supposed to be. I feel like we're getting away from the true meaning of Nickmas, year by year, and that's a damn shame.

Seeing as how we're about to start the 12 Days of Nickmas in a few days, I thought it would be the perfect time to look back and see how this whole Nickmas thing got started.

So here, in music video screenplay form, is the story of the first Nickmas. To hear the song that goes along with it, go to this page and listen to the song called "Unfuckwithable". It's my theme song.


note: this music video screenplay was written with no knowledge of how the hell to write a screenplay. I just opened up a screenplay written by Stephen King, saw that he wrote stuff like "CO" for "close up" and "EXT." for "exterior", and then was like "hey, I can write screenplays now!" So this is a mess. You're not missing anything if you don't know what the various abbreviations are for.

UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)

music video screenplay

FADE IN ON:

A woman in a hospital room in the middle of an apparently painful pregnancy. A doctor is at the end of the bed, coaching and monitoring the progress of the delivery. A mustachioed man, presumably the father of the forthcoming child, stands to the side of the bed, uttering words of support.

MOTHER
SON OF A BITCH! THIS LITTLE BADASS INSIDE OF ME
IS REALLY FUCKING MY SHIT UP!

DOCTOR
It's going to be all right, you're doing fine! Just a few
more pushes! You can do it!

INT. MOTHER'S FACE, ECU

MOTHER
ARRRRRRRRRRRMOTHERFUCKERAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

THE MOTHER, an extreme look of concentration on her face, pushes harder than she's ever pushed before in her life. One is left to wonder if she is actually one of those psychic dudes from that movie SCANNERS, what with all the veins bulging from her face and all.

SOUND: POP!, like in that old "Lollipop" song.

DOCTOR (off camera)
HOLY SHIT! WHOA!

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM, SIDE ANGLE

A baby Contra-flips out from between THE MOTHER'S legs and lands across the room as the doctor dives out of the way.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" STARTS.

INT. THE BABY ON THE FLOOR, POV OF THE DOCTOR

THE BABY is hunched down, on one knee, head down like THE TERMINATOR when he first gets to the past. Steam is rising off of his tiny body. You can tell already that this little dude is a SUPREME BADASS. THE CAMERA SLOWLY DRAWS CLOSER to the little ball of "DO NOT FUCK WITH ME" that lays on the floor as THE DOCTOR moves in closer to inspect.

INT. DOCTOR STANDING UP WITH THE BABY HELD AT ARM'S LENGTH, CU

THE DOCTOR holds THE BABY up by his feet, like a prized fish, and spanks his ass, hoping to elicit a cry. THE BABY, in turn, reaches out and punches THE DOCTOR in the face, HARD.

INT. DOCTOR'S FACE, ECU

THE DOCTOR is visably shocked that this little dude, just moments ago a fetus, has just made him his bitch, now and forevermore. Before THE DOCTOR can even react further, a GIANT PENIS swings into frame, knocking THE DOCTOR on the side of the head and rendering him unconcious.

INT. REACTION SHOT OF BOTH PARENTS

The parents are obviously horrified.

INT. FATHER'S PANTS POCKET, ECU

A little hand reaches into the pocket and swipes a set of car keys, which is made apparent by the keychain, which is a Mercedes-Benz logo. Both parents are too shocked to do anything but wonder what kind of horse steroid made it's way into the womb and made this baby such a huge badass. THE CAMERA LINGERS ON THE KEYCHAIN, AS THE SHOT DISSOLVES INTO...

EXT. HOSPITAL PARKING GARAGE

...THE SAME LOGO ON THE FRONT OF A RED SPORTS CAR, which peels out of it's space. THE CAMERA PULLS BACK and follows the car as it swiftly approaches the toll booth and the horizontal length of yellow-and-black wood that blocks the exit.

INT. INSIDE TOLL BOOTH

THE ASIAN MAN working notices that the car is not stopping, and runs out of the booth.

EXT. OUTSIDE TOLL BOOTH

As THE ASIAN MAN stands in front of the oncoming car with his arms extended in the universal sign for "HOLY FUCK STOP!", he notices...

INT. INSIDE CAR

...the small infant driving!

EXT. ASIAN MAN, CU

His arms drop as his face is overcome with an expression of what could only be called sheer befuddlement.

EXT. VIEW FROM BEHIND CAR, SPOILER'S POV

WHAM! The car slams into THE ASIAN MAN, flinging him over and behind like a ragdoll.

EXT. OUTSIDE PARKING GARAGE

The bar blocking the exit splinters into a thousand pieces as the sports car breaks it's way through and screeches onto the streets. THE BABY extends his arm out the window and gives the entire hospital the one-finger salute.

EXT. INSIDE PARKING GARAGE, BEHIND ASIAN MAN

THE ASIAN MAN slowly gets up, rubbing his head, and saying in his native Korean:

ASIAN MAN (subtitled)
Wow, what a dickbag baby!

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" CONTINUES TO PLAY AT THE FOREFRONT OF ALL THE ACTION, and just as it reaches the sweet metal part...

EXT. MAJOR INTERSECTION

...WHAM! The sports car our badass baby protaganist is driving SMASHES into opposing traffic, obliterating the front end of the car. The car flips end over end through the air as broken glass flies everywhere. It's a pretty sweet car accident; the kind where, even if you knew a backseat full of toddlers just ate it, you'd still be like, "that was fucking rad!"

EXT. CAR CRASH (multiple camera angles show the car flying through the air in super slo-mo, just to accentuate the awesomeness of it all)

EXT. SIDEWALK, A MAN AND A WOMAN ARGUING

Judging by the attire of the couple, it is obviously a prostitute and her pimp. THE PIMP'S body language is threatening, and THE PROSTITUTE appears bruised and battered. One eye is black, and her cheek is bloodied. THE CAMERA PANS FROM THE COUPLE'S UPPER-HALF DOWN TO THEIR FEET WHERE... WHAM! The infant Stalone that is OUR HERO falls from out of the sky, smoke rising from his body, skin partially singed, and still holding the detached steering wheel. This would normally kill an average person, but it just pisses THE BABY off.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" RETURNS FROM IT'S METAL AWESOMENESS TO IT'S CHORUS

EXT. PROSTITUTE AND PIMP, CU FROM BEHIND PROSTITUTE (OVER SHOULDER)

THE PIMP is yelling something angrily at THE PROSTITUTE that we can't hear. He raises an arm to smack her in the face, when HOLY SHIT! (that's your reaction), the detached steering wheel rockets in from off-camera and almost decapitates the dude!

EXT. SIDEWALK (LOW ANGLE)

THE PIMP falls and grabs his face in agony, while THE BABY just hauls off and starts WAILING on the dude's junk. You haven't seen junk-wailing like this since the last episode of AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS. I mean, this is like, EPIC junk-wailing. We're talking like, LORD OF THE RINGS-level junk-wailing. THIS BABY is not fucking around. With his talents, he could grow up to be a professional junk-wailer. No joke.

MEANWHILE, THE PROSTITUTE squats down and starts hitting THE BABY with her purse. THE BABY pauses from his INTENSE junk-wailing to jump up and sock THE PROSTITUTE in her non-black eye. She falls to the ground and grabs her face as well.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" REACHES IT'S INTENSE DISTORTED DRUM PART

EXT. POLICE SIRENTS, ECU

THE CAMERA STAYS WITH THE POLICE SIRENS FOR THE DURATION OF THE DISTORTED DRUMS. The reflectors inside the sirens rotate to the beat.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" COMES TO IT'S EXTENDED METAL JAM

EXT. CITY STREETS, BABY'S POV

The police cars (three in all) screech up to the scene and the police jump out, guns drawn. Their guards drop and they slowly lower their guns when they realize that...

EXT. BABY ON SIDEWALK

...there's a baby here! THE CAMERA SLOWLY PANS IN TO THE BABY, laying on his back, arms and legs flailing, crying like a normal infant.

EXT. SIDEWALK

One officer runs up and grabs THE BABY to see if it's okay, while the other two cops run over to THE PIMP and THE PROSTITUTE, assuming them to be neglegent parents. THE PROSTITUTE is put in handcuffs (we see that both eyes are now black, making her look like RANGER RICK the raccoon, or maybe AVRIL LAVIGNE), and the obviously-in-some-serious-fucking-pain PIMP is attended to by a paramedic, who has just arrived at the scene.

EXT. COP CAR

As THE PROSTITUTE is being put into the backseat of the car, we see that she is trying to look at something behind them that we do not see. She starts screaming something, prompting the escorting officer to turn around and see that...

EXT. CITY STREETS

...one of the cop cars, back tire over THE PIMP'S junk, is peeling out, kicking up neon-colored fabric that, once upon a time, covered THE PIMP'S crotch, before finally taking off down the road. The cop that grabbed THE BABY lay on the ground unconcious, and the paramedic returns from the row of trash cans that he just dove into.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" RETURNS TO IT'S VERSE

INT. INSIDE COP CAR

THE BABY has an intense look on his face as he weaves the car in and out of traffic. SUDDENLY, he looks over to the radio in the car.

INT. POLICE STATION

A large, gruff man, sheriff of the police station, is yelling something into his end of the radio. You can tell by the look on his face that he's a pretty pissed off dude. This guy looks super-tough, like your stereotypical movie hardass police officer boss; like he just demanded MEL GIBSON's and DANNY GLOVER'S badges that morning.

INT. INSIDE COP CAR

THE BABY is pretty obviously displeased with THE SHERIFF yelling shit at him on the radio. THE BABY'S already pretty fucking intense face becomes EVEN MORE SUPER INTENSE as he flashes the radio a MEGA PISSED OFF LOOK!

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" REACHES IT'S FINAL CHORUS

INT. POLICE STATION

THE SHERIFF stops yelling just long enough for his head to explode.

INT. INSIDE COP CAR

THE BABY, turning the radio off with his ENORMOUS PENIS, returns his intense gaze to the road to continue driving. This is obviously a baby not to be trifled with; THIS BABY DOES NOT FUCK AROUND.

EXT. COP CAR BLAZING DOWN THE ROAD

The cop car SMASHES into the rear-end of another car. If THE BABY could speak, he would probably say that that's just how he likes it, but instead he finds himself CATAPULTED THROUGH THE AIR for the second time that hour, FLYING IN MEGA-SUPER-SLO-MO TOWARDS...

EXT. THE BEACH

...a sandy beach! The car comes down and skids sideways to a stop amongst a group of bikini-clad college coeds, and what looks to be a dog wearing sunglasses and a hawaiian shirt. That dog's a party animal!

INT. INSIDE COP CAR

Door flung open in the crash, all the bikini-clad females gather around the adorable baby in the driver's seat.

SOUND: "UNFUCKWITHABLE (5.18.82)" CONCLUDES IT'S LAST CHORUS, ENDING, AS THE SOUNDTRACK FADES OUT INTO THE SOUND OF GIRLS GIGGLING

SOUND: BRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAP!

THE BABY gets a surprised, and then very embarassed look on his face as all the girls pull away from the loud fart. He starts to cry a very loud baby-cry. AW, HE'S JUST A BABY AFTER ALL!

CAMERA FADES TO BLACK