Dear John Malkovich,
John, I gotta admit I was pretty pissed off when you blocked me outa yore email, especially
after I spent YEARS emailin' you all them great movie-plot ideas that coulda made you
a even bigger-time matinee idol than you already is. Bein' a Hollywood bigshot an' all, maybe
YOU can just sit down at some fancy laptop and drink one of them air-bubbled coffee thangs
and knock out an e-mail any time you feel like it, but I got ta wait 'til the graveyard
shift nurse ducks inta the broom closet with one o' the guards. This not only puts me under
whatchacall a serious time constraint, but imagine tryin' ta figger out a complicated
movie-plot idea while yer listenin' to a 200-pound Mexican woman and a steroid freak ten feet
from yer head makin' noises like they was stranglin' a sack full o' puppies. This damn
medication ain't helpin' much, either.
So I got a buddy o' mine ta put up this website for me, an' from now on, EVER-damned-body
on the planet is gonna be able ta see the QUALITY of the top-notch stuff I been sendin'
ya. (The movie ideas, I mean, not them three different pairs o' panties that nurse fergot
ta pick up. Me, I don't roll that way, if ya catch my drift, I jist figgered what with
you gittin' older an' all, ya probly don't git as much stuff like that in the mail no
more.)
Anyhow, FERGIT all them other ideas I sent ya, 'cause this is the BIG ONE, baby! Now
follow my reasonin' here. Hollywood's been rakin' it in fer years with all them musicals,
but GUYS don't go to musicals unless their wives or girlfriends keep bitchin' and whinin'
about it till they just give up. But see, I got this theory that it ain't the musicals
themselves that guys don't like, it's just that they're always about some wishy-washy
shit an' they got a bunch of faggoty characters who almost NEVER actually git to KILL anybody,
let alone git to, say, rip Doris Day's blouse off! Puttin' it plain an' simple, guys hate
musicals 'cause there ain't no tits OR body count in 'em!
Wellsir, I got a way to fix ALL that. I got a rough script here for a musical version
of "The Alamo". Picture the John Wayne version, except
there's a lot of tap dancin' an' shit, but the Mexicans still get to use them godawful-lookin'
six-foot bayonets on damned near everybody. I figger now that that Riverdance craze has
about wore down, we can git them Irish jokers cheap, stick 'em in some coonskin caps an'
git 'em runnin' a conga line all over some run-down adobe church.
I had Steve Buscemi in mind for General Santana, maybe George Clooney for Davy Crockett (in
between blowin' the shit outa Mexicans we can have him lip-synch some sappy shit about
how all he wants to do is be home with the old lady pickin' out curtains), and Ice Cube
for Jim Bowie (at the end, he can hold his flintlock pistols SIDEWAYS when he shoots
'em, an' you know all them inner-city people LOVE shit like that).
Now, the way I see it, we ain't got no CHOICE for the female lead but that Sigourney Weaver
gal. Cut the sleeves off some skin-tight black longjohns, dump a bucket of water on her so
her nipples pucker, give her a flamethrower or somethin', an' at the end she can do some
tearjerkin' song about how women need to git empowered an' then she grabs a torch an' dives
into a vat full of Mexicans AND gasoline. Yeah, I know she prob'ly can't sing for jacksquat,
but we can always dub in Celine Dion or Cyndi Lauper or somebody. (If Sigourney ain't available,
maybe we can git that Daphne gal from "Frasier".)
John, this could be BIG, an' ya know I'm always lookin' out for ya, buddy, so I saved a PLUM
role fer you personally. You git to play that Colonel Travis joker, an' that's right up
yore alley 'cause I know you got a thang fer swords AND ruffled shirts, an' this time you
don't have to wear one o' them godawful white wigs an'
stuff shit up yer nose to make ya sneeze an' all that other medieval French horseshit.
An' ya git to die with some dignity for a change,
instead o' jist gittin' yore ass blown out of a glass elevator or somethin'.
Anyhow, now that I got this-here innernet site, you kin jist type yer replies right
inta the comments. (Use that secret code phrase I emailed ya, so's I'll know it's really you.)
But lookee-here, John, I ain't gonna keep ON sendin' ya my blockbuster ideas much longer
if I don't git a in-vite ta the Left Coast purty soon now.
Oh, shit, he's finishin' her off, so I gotta go!
Sincerely,
Bubba Joe Jim Bob Beets, Jr. Big-Time Hollywood Screenwriter