This is a short sketch I wrote and shot last Friday. It’s short and sweet and I made sure to only put ONE joke in it so that people didn’t watch and think “that’s too many jokes…”
Read Chapter 1
Read Chapter 2
Read Chapter 3
Weyland woke up in a luxurious guest room compared to his previous lodgings with Frank and Lukala. There was a cot, a window with a beautiful view of a cement wall, and a television that he assumed could play porno.
First thing was first. He needed to break the window. Not to escape, but because breaking things is fun. Unfortunately, breaking the window revealed that it was just for show, and the concrete behind it was an impenetrable wall.
The door clicked open and in walked the masked leader from before, followed by the most vexing woman Weyland had ever seen. She was giving Weyland an unashamed hard-on, which no one could see due to its small size and disfiguration from the spear wound. The only way to know was by the little spurts of blood staining his pants.
“Jesus Christ, Abel. Can you give him something for that?” The woman’s voice was like music to Weyland’s ears, making him lightheaded along with the loss of blood.
Abel, the lead guard, gritted his teeth and approached Weyland to address the bloody spurt. He was met with a “hi-yah!” and a karate chop as slow as molasses. Abel tried to block it, but the chop was as deceptive as a slow pitch and he missed the block. This filled Weyland with a false sense of confidence.
Incorrectly feeling the tides shift in his favor, Weyland sat back on the cot with bravado. “Now that we know who the better man is, what can you do for me?”
The woman, Belle, as she would later introduce herself as, was intrigued by his powerful word choice although he meant to say “what can I do for you?” he simply messed up.
“My name is Belle,” (told you), “and we’d like you to give us some answers.”
“10. Foxes. The Duke of Earl. Nevada. 12,” he spouted.
“What the fuck is he saying?” said Abel.
“He’s giving us answers,” Belle responded, somehow having an immediate understanding of Weyland.
She stepped up to Weyland and pressed the toe of her high-heeled shoe into his crotch. “Let’s cut the cute act. What are you doing here?”
The deep pain in his crotch let him know that whoever this woman was, she meant business, and had great taste in shoes. He needed to give them real answers.
“I was taken here by a crew of soldiers after a village burned down. I was a soldier once-”
“I know how you got here, smartass. I want to know why you’re on this island.”
Weyland took a drag off of an imaginary cigarette. “Who wants to know?”
She wasn’t having any more of it.
“Put him in the cell with his two friends.”
Weyland tried to think of which two friends they were talking about, but then he realized that he didn’t have any. She must have meant Frank and Lukala, and wherever they were was the last place that he wanted to be.
He blurted, “I was in a plane crash. I was the only survivor because that’s what I do. I survive. I didn’t want to be here, but now I am, so let’s get off this island together.”
Abel chuckled to himself. Belle wasn’t much of a laugher.
“We’re not trying to get off this island, you idiot. We’re taking it over.”
At that moment an assistant walked in and handed Belle a folder, which had several labels crossed off and must have been used many times. It’s like, get some new folders. Jeez.
She pulled an envelope with type printed on it. Someone had accidentally only ordered envelopes instead of printer paper, so they printed everything on those. No one knew how to do it except this one guy, Stephen. Stephen felt proud every time someone printed something, and took offense to it when people made jokes about how stupid it was. The jokes weren’t directed at him, but you know how it is.
She read over the envelope and spoke to no one in particular. “A plane did crash near the island. This isn’t good,” Bell then addressed Abel, “have some plane wreckage wash ashore 1,000 miles North. We don’t want anyone snooping around here. See if those villagers will pass as plane passengers. We’ll load their bodies into the wreckage and no one will suspect a thing.”
Watching her talk, Weyland realized that she was the type of woman he wanted to marry. She knew how to get things done. She could do his laundry and cook for him since he didn’t know how to do either.
“I want to help,” he said.
“You won’t be of any help,” she said to Weyland, and then to Abel, “We need a liaison to the two others we captured. Someone they trust.”
“They trust me. I’ve become their friend. I can help.” Weyland still wanted to kill Frank, so he figured this situation could be a win-win. Belle considered it, not once looking to Abel for direction. Abel could care less. Weyland looked harmless with all his injuries and unfit body, but he did find it odd that the man was still able to stand.
With a twirl and a snap, Belle left with Abel quickly following suit. Weyland used the opportunity of being alone to pile the broken glass by the door as a trap.
Frank and Lukala were kept in the same type of holding cell but there’s was a dingy affair, much worse than Weyland’s lodging. Cold, hard, and damp with puddles of blood from Frank. Weyland and Frank had more in common than they knew, with their high tolerance for damage and most people considering them incorrigible.
Other than a lump on the back of his head, Lukala was fine, although he did have a headache. It hardly felt like something to complain about, but he mentioned it out loud anyway. The tension was palpable, and was only broken by a fart that neither man wanted to take credit for. It smelled like blood so it was probably Frank’s.
They felt so hopeless that no thought of escape had come up, but if it had, Lukala may have got up and noticed that the guard didn’t lock the door. It was a tricky door and the guard hadn’t been sure if it had locked or not, but he didn’t want to test it in front of his boss. He was super embarrassed about not being able to get it right.
Abel came into the room and told them that he’d be taking them to their friend, and that they’d better cooperate. They asked which friend and then listed every friend they knew. Frank was slowing down, but didn’t want to look less popular than Lukala so he started making up names.
With a stiff jab, Able told them it was Weyland. They begged him not to take them to Weyland. It seemed like reverse psychology so he brought them to him immediately.
Lukala dragged Frank along on a furniture dolly, at first being careful not to harm his father, but that got really annoying, so he gave up and Frank hit his head several times.
Unbeknownst to Belle, they were ignorant to the power of their own island.
Everything was on fire.
Lukala frantically slapped at the fire as it crawled into his hut, thinking, “Wow, this material catches fire really easily and we knew that. Why did we construct our homes out of it?” He also thought it was weird that the gods would be cursing their village this early in November. They usually did it quarterly.
A feminine scream snapped Lukala out of his thoughts. It was his father, immobilized in his palace hut. Frank blew rapidly at the flames to keep them at bay, which would have worked if the flames were someone with a sense of smell.
Lukala’s future empire was glowing orange and red, crumbling to the ground piece by piece. His people were doing as instructed and gathering at the ‘safe spot,’ which was also completely engulfed in flames. The roar of the flames muted Lukala yelling at them to stop, so they died. They were brave, loyal idiots until the very end.
A dozen or so villagers ran off into the purple jungle, refusing instructions. This is who Lukala would be left with- the intelligent cowards. It’s kind of similar to how America was formed.
Weyland sat at the jungle’s edge wondering where the fire had come from. What were the chances of another arsonist being on an island with so few people? In the last 48 hours Weyland had been in a village fire, survived a plane crash, and murdered a police officer (that happened before the story began so I didn’t mention it).
From the corner of his eye, Lukala caught his father chin-dragging himself out of the hut, his body engulfed in flames. From the corner of his ear, Weyland could hear American voices deeper in the jungle, but he lost interest when he saw Lukala stomping at the fire engulfing Frank. Weyland assumed Lukala was trying to smash Frank’s skull open, so he ran over to help.
Weyland stomped aggressively, but Frank couldn’t feel it past the fire, though he was assuredly breaking bones. Luckily it made it appear as if Weyland had been helping. Lukala glared at Weyland, which made Weyland immediately blurt out, “Whoa, I’m not like that, buddy.” Lukala thought that Weyland had meant that he wasn’t responsible for the fire, when he was actually implying Lukala was a homosexual.
Weyland didn’t feel like fighting Lukala, plus he still had multiple stab wounds, so he didn’t take a swing. Instead, he followed him.
With Frank hoisted on Lukala’s shoulder, they ran through the jungle towards the cowards. At least they would all be safe together. Little did they know that the cowards were hiding in the bushes from a duo of masked soldiers. As cowards do, they said nothing, and the three men ran right into the masked men.
The masked men aimed their guns at them. Weyland shouted, “Shoot them, not me!” Lukala looked at him with a confused look, to which Weyland whispered, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” (The plan was for the two men to shoot Lukala and Frank.)
One of the masked men, obviously the leader because of his patch that said “leader” on it, told them to get on their knees. They did what he said as best they could given that between Frank and Weyland they had every injury you could think to have. The leader watched the three of them very closely, and nudged Frank with his gun, “What happened to him?”
Lukala coldly replied, “A misunderstanding.”
The leader turned his gaze to Weyland, “and you?”
Weyland promptly replied, “They did this to me. Kill them.”
Lukala and Frank gave him a “What-the-fuck” look, to which he again whispered, “I have a plan.” The plan was still to have the men shoot Lukala and Frank.
The leader scanned Weyland with a serial killer’s gaze, “Are you American?”
The other masked man trudged over to Weyland and hoisted him up. Weyland acted like dead weight, and the man pulled something in his back that would give him problems for the next few days.
“We’ll kill these two,” commanded the leader, nudging towards Lukala and Frank.
Weyland looked at Lukala and Frank, who were all but resigned to their fate. Their entire village was destroyed except for the cowards, who were still watching from 10 feet away in the bushes. The machine gun’s cocking click echoed through the forest, only masked by the dying roar of flames. The gun raised to their heads, as if the soldier had done this a million times before. It was actually his first time and he was very nervous, but he’d always lived by “fake it ’til you make it.”
“Wait,” interrupted Weyland, “I want them for myself.”
The masked men looked at him, giving Lukala the chance to wink at Weyland. It was absolutely true though. Weyland wanted to kill them himself. To finish the job.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” demanded the leader.
“Weyland Grauman, like the theater. I’m a marine for the United States army,” which wasn’t true at all, but he’d used it so many times he wasn’t even sure it wasn’t true anymore. It was surprising how seldom he had been called out on it, although it does help when you’re openly bleeding from wounds that should have killed you, which was surprisingly often for Weyland.
“What do you want from me?” asked Weyland, now feeling like he was in with the group.
The lesser masked man leaned into the leader and whispered something in his ear, to which the leader sharply replied, “I know. Let me handle it,” and he shifted his gaze back to the three men, “You’re all coming with us.”
Weyland washed up on the shore of an island, unscathed. The sand was as white as cocaine, and it hurt when Weyland snorted it into his wheezing nostrils, thinking it was cocaine. He had landed on an island so remote that it didn’t appear on any maps. It was also ripe with purple foliage, making it an eye-sore and difficult to print. To this day, millions of dollars have been wasted on reprints of maps and globes around the world, due to people thinking the small purple speck was a mistake. Approaching from the shore it looked as if you were walking into a purple cabbage field, and something about the air smelled like purple cabbage farts.
The plane had crashed, killing Billy Joel and Billy Joe Armstrong, along with everyone else on board. He couldn’t remember exactly how he made it out alive, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was alive. He picked himself up from his raft of dead bodies to see five indigenous men running straight for him. He was able to knock them all out before they could tell him they were there to help.
It was incredibly easy for Weyland to dispatch the five men. Throughout his life he had taken an enormous amount of self-defense and skill training classes, from Tae Kwon Do to clay potting. He was quickly kicked out of every single class within the first few weeks for either not paying, or sexual harassment and not paying. Despite the individual setbacks, the sheer amount of beginner-level knowledge combined with self-training made him a killer. His conviction for DUI and Manslaughter also made him a killer.
He looked over the men’s bodies. They had skin like peanut butter and open head wounds like jelly. Typically Weyland wouldn’t have attacked the men, but they were rushing towards him and had a different skin color than him. Any normal day he would have let them beat him up and then filed suit, either embellishing heavily or lying completely. Today was no normal day though. Today Weyland would become a hero, again. Even if it meant certain death for someone else.
Overlooking the carnage, he thought how nice it would have been for someone to high five him, but no one ever wanted to high-five him, and no one was there. No people, but there were spears raining down.
Weyland launched into a barrel roll to dodge the oncoming spears, getting hit by every single one of them in the process. He got one in the head, one in the heart, and three in the crotch. All of them missed his vital parts on account of them being so small.
His vision started to go black and he uttered what he assumed were his last words, “Stacy Miller’s body can be found in the Hillsboro national park behind a redwood,” and then he was out.
The village looked like one of those amusement park tiki towns, only real and not fun at all. With all the straw material used to construct the buildings, the whole place could go up with one small spark (FORESHADOWING!). Even the utensils and condoms were made of straw, which the people, the Hichawas, sometimes confused for one another.
The chief of the Hichawas, Frank, watched Weyland’s chest heave up and down under the bandages. He knew that his prisoner was dead asleep, but had somehow masturbated to completion. Frank stabbed salad with a condom and took a bite as he studied his guest.
No people ever visited the island, so the chief was admittedly “pretty stoked,” but he was also disappointed that Weyland was such a turd. Weyland had caused severe injuries to some of his men, but Frank didn’t even know the half of it yet (Weyland likes to chit chat during movies, but he always talks way too quietly, so you have to ask him to repeat himself. By that time you’ve missed half the movie).
The Chief had assumed that Weyland’s attack was just a misunderstanding, so he planned on making a peace offering to Weyland, and aiding him in whatever way was necessary. He imagined the endless possibilities of two men from different walks of life working together.
That’s when Weyland’s hand shot up on the chief’s throat and snapped it in between his thumb and middle finger, dropping him to the ground immediately.
The guard hurled a spear at Weyland, but he caught it with his shoulder before it could hit another part of his body.
The guard called out for help, but in his own language, so it sounded really stupid. A group of other island warriors came rushing in and tensed up for their attack.
“Stop,” choked a voice from below.
It was the Chief, still alive, but completely paralyzed from the neck down. He had quickly adapted to using his lower jaw to help him move on the floor. Either that or he was choking on his own blood.
“This is a simple misunderstanding. This man is afraid. He thought we were going to attack him-”
Weyland stomped on the Chief’s head.
The Chief groaned, “Ok. What the fuck?”
The 12 other warriors shrouded Weyland like smoke – thick, stinky smoke – and wound back their spears like pinball turrets. Weyland realized he had made a mistake. He never should have been in a plane crash, but there was no time to think about his follies now. Admittedly, he was afraid. He already thought he was going to die once today, but now he had to worry about it again? He’d never even been married or had consensual sex with a woman.
He could practically feel the tips of the spears piercing his skin, because they were, when a man larger than all the rest, even the chief, entered the disgusting hut.
“Stop it. My father is right.”
His father, the Chief, was gargling blood on the floor, doing his best to nod in agreement.
Weyland thought, “Boy these guys are forgiving. And they’re suckers. I’ll have to find a way to steal from them,” as his hand glided into the nearest warrior’s tunic, snatching a trinket that ended up being the warrior’s penis.
As the Chief’s son, Lukala, approached, Weyland fell to his knees and bowed since his wounds wouldn’t allow him to stand anymore. In the hubbub I think we all forgot that he was shot by five spears. Lukala blanched when he saw his father’s crumpled body on the ground.
“Why did you do this?” demanded Lukala.
Weyland sat, stoically on his knees, unmoving.
“I asked you a question, stranger.”
“I’m trying to shrug, but I can’t,” Weyland groaned as little spouts of blood bubbled from his wounds.
“Father, he is not dangerous. Not in this condition. What should we do?”
Three of the guards hoisted Frank up on their shoulders like a big, floppy sex-toy. Frank choked out, “Bring him to the palace guest room.”
Lukala wasn’t happy to hear this. As much as he respected his father, and his over-welcoming attitude towards guests, he didn’t trust Weyland yet. With good reason too, as Weyland was flipping everyone off as he got hoisted away. Lukala was the more traditional man of his lineage. Frank had spent some time in California on a quest for god back when his name was Rahkala. All he ended up finding was Los Angeles’ City Walk where he spent the next 10 years becoming Frank.
The palace guest room was no different than any of the other straw hut rooms, in that it was awful. If you saw it, you wouldn’t call it a palace guest room. For something that was so authentic, it looked tacky. Weyland mentioned that fact to the man carrying him, though the man couldn’t understand him past the blood gushing from this mouth. He was hurt badly, but it was nothing he hadn’t been through before. When he had worked construction he held the record for the most pieces of rebar to penetrate someone. It wasn’t a real record, but it was one he kept, honored, and championed. The damage it did to his body is the reason why he looks like a guy in his 50s when he’s really 23.
The guards swung him onto a cot that buckled and whined under his weight. The cot continued to squeak. The guards saw that Weyland was either writhing in pain or masturbating. They didn’t want to stick around to find out, so they quickly left.
He was masturbating.
Once he was finished he knew he had to think of a way to get out of there, find the chief, and finish the job. Everything in his brain and heart told him that killing the chief was the wrong thing to do, but something visceral was telling him it was the right thing to do. He decided to masturbate one more time before leaving.
From deep inside the jungle, eyes were peering into the Chief’s chambers, watching Lukala scold his father. The hum of night-vision goggles married with the hum of the jungle bugs, perfectly covering up the spy’s urinating onto a leaf.
It was midnight and the Tokyo airlines flight 881 was halfway to Chennai. Taking red eye flights used to be fun until the movie Red Eye came out. Movies have a tendency to ruin things, like how Pretty Woman ruined hookers. Most of them aren’t as nice and charming as Julia Roberts. Some are even guys, which isn’t so bad, but it’s false advertising.
The plane was filled with mostly Americans, other than the few other people who don’t matter to this story. Post 9/11 you really start to notice who’s on the plane with you, and let’s be honest, you’re more comfortable in a plane full of white people, even if you’re on a plane from Japan to India. This, of course, is not true for albinos. If you’re on a plane full of albinos, change your flight.
A lot of people think that planes contain the demographic mixture of the departure city and the destination, but they’re more like bad breath containers. Especially at the butt-crack of dawn, when bad breath is at its most rampant.
The night air was thick with the rubbery smell of people-breath. I bet most of them hadn’t even brushed their teeth in hours. It smelled like they had all chewed on a condom (Not a used one. That would be gross. Not the same condom either).
For every precaution we take here in our US airports, there are a hundred other airports with fewer restrictions. They’re all a lot more fun than our airports, like when you’re taking shots in the cockpit with the pilot, but there are inherent risks with doing that. It’s kind of like being a teacher who has sex with their eighteen-year-old student, which is a total blast but frowned upon in a lot of cultures.
The Tokyo airport must have been really lax, because something bad and completely avoidable was about to happen. Duh. You wouldn’t really want to read this if something bad wasn’t going to happen. It’s the same reason you go to an alcoholic’s wedding.
In the middle of the plane was our hero, Weyland, your typical mid-50s military guy. Also, your typical Weyland. His haircut was exactly what you’d get if you went to a barber and said “give me the Weyland.” Don’t do that though, because it’s an awful haircut.
Weyland kept his eyes on the wing of the plane, expecting to see a creature and do everything that John Lithgow didn’t do to be the hero in that Twilight Zone movie. It’s important to know now that there will be no creatures on the wing, and that Weyland’s disappointment doesn’t subside once throughout this story.
In the deep back row was your typical creepy guy. The kind that masturbates in public places. Not in a perverted way like when people are around, but more like the type of guy who goes to a vacant restroom and rubs one out to make it through the day. We’ve all done that. For his integrity it’s important to note that he wasn’t masturbating at the time. But if anyone had actually chewed on a condom, it was probably him.
Weyland already had his radar on the creepy guy. Every once in a while he would even make light beeping noises with his mouth as if he was running radar.
There was a girl next to the creep, and Weyland wanted to touch her boobies, so he knew the creep did too. She was a Tara Reid type. You know, the type of femme fatale who has way too many daddy issues. If she had two dads it would be a total disaster for her. Just way too many daddies and issues.
Much to Weyland’s delight, sitting in front of him were Billy Joe (Greenday) and Billy Joel (Billy Joel). One of them looked really greasy and old, the other one was Billy Joel.
Rhonda, the flight attendant, walked up and down the aisles. She had a look on her face like she smelled a really bad fart. Or maybe it was just that she was suspicious of this flight. She probably went to a palm reader in Vegas who told her something bad was going to happen. Girls like Rhonda do that a lot. It’s better than horoscopes because sometimes you become close friends and have a drink together. You can’t have a drink with a horoscope. I imagine if you did it would be really awful.
And that’s who was on the plane. Pretty annoying, right?
Suddenly without warning, because there’s no real way to warn anyone about it, the plane had a really bad convulsion, or “turbulence” if you’re a snob. The plane shook so badly that everyone popped up in their seats. It was bad with or without a seatbelt on, but for different reasons. You could spend hours thinking about all the reasons.
Everyone settled back in, until the second convulsion happened. They all popped up in their seats again. Those that had changed their seatbelt arrangement since the first blast felt a whole new type of discomfort.
Weyland decided to be a total Weyland about things and say, “It’s going to be OK. I was in the military,” in a really lame voice (his own). It was one of those moments where everyone thought, “fuck that guy” but they also figured he could dig a pretty good hole if they needed him too, so they didn’t say anything. If the plane went down and they survived, there would probably be a lot of hole-digging for one reason or another (graves, shelter, underground pig cookouts. Mmmm, wild pig).
The crowd definitely needed reassurance. Military guys like to assure everyone that everything’s OK. It usually works too.
It didn’t this time.
In the cockpit the pilot had a gun to his head, because of course he did. The man with the gun was being very forceful. I’d even go as far as to say he was being rude. It just didn’t seem that it was any way to treat a pilot, whether you’re hijacking his plane or not.
“Turn this plane around to Las Vegas.”
“We’re going from Tokyo to Paris. That’s so out of the way,” he was pretty proud of that assessment, but it was only met with a stiff gun jab to his head.
“Shut up and take us there.”
At the control tower, the field monitor, Jared, leaped to his feet, or leapt (again, for snobs)-
“Did you hear that?! He said terrorist.”
Sigh. Oh, Jared.
“You say that every week,” said his co-worker who gets more tail than him.
“You didn’t hear that? The plane is being held hostage!”
Yeah, you can see why he doesn’t get any tail.
Back at the plane the hijacker slapped off the radio. He wasn’t very happy that the pilot had turned the radio on, but there’s nothing he could really do to retaliate since he didn’t know how to fly a plane. Note to all – Travolta learned. You can too.
The guy back at the tower could hear a voice come through the radio, “Everything is fine here. No terrorists.” This was enough to quell the tower’s fears since it was easier to move on than to report it. The last thing you want to do is report something like that. So much paperwork. People like to shoot the messenger, too.
I’m pretty sure that’s how Paul Revere died. Either that or AIDS.
In the aisle, Billy Joel and Billy Joe were singing what could only be described as a great song, that Billy Joe was absolutely ruining. The plane cheered, begging for another song.
“And so it goes, it’s all rock and roll to me, Piano Man,” slurred Billy Joel in one of many glorious puns to come. All the passengers were lost in Billy Joel’s sweet, tangy words, and Billy Joe’s labored singing. They were too lost to smell something fishy.
Dinner was being served.
Weyland started to connect the dots. It was a hippo. He put the Highlights magazine away and started to notice something. This was no normal flight. He surveyed the room like he was taught. One – the pilot hadn’t said anything over the loud speaker following the turbulence. Two – the plane had suddenly shifted direction. 3 – The people.
He stood up, “This plane ride is too perfect. What are the chances we would have two American rock legends and me, an American hero, all in one plane?”
Everyone started to see Weyland’s point, until they remembered how annoying he was. They got easily distracted when the pervert popped up and asked for the Billies to play another song.
Billy Joel replied in song, “You may be right. Just the way you are.”
Weyland made eye contact with Rhonda, who looked like she needed to tell him something. A little bit of blood rushed to his penis, but he realized it wasn’t that she wanted to get it on. She was scared, not horny – emotions he had often confused for each other.
Rhonda chimed, “Could the person who looks like the strongest guy in the room come help me with something?”
Billy Joe knew it wasn’t him but he tried to stand up anyway. His seat belt caught him and he let out a pathetic little fart that no one heard but Billy Joel. Luckily Billy Joel had been farting silently for 45 minutes straight and knew how to keep a secret.
Whether he liked it or not (which he very much did), Weyland had to be the hero again. He got up and escorted Rhonda to the back cabin with the calm of someone who had silently followed women before.
The pervert took this as a chance to get closer to Billy Joel.
“I think the plane is being hijacked,” said Rhonda over the clacking of coffee dishes.
Weyland stopped clacking the dishes together. More blood went to his penis.
“I know,” said Weyland, “You chose the right man to help you.”
His brashness and bad haircut made her doubt him, but all of her fears were erased as he reached into his shirt and pulled out the chain around his neck – his dog tags, and by dog tags I mean a necklace that said “WAR” on it, meant to look like dog tags. He also had a glittery necklace that said “slut” in his back pocket. “Now let’s get this plane back.”
Inside the cockpit the pilot nervously gripped the controls, even though it was on autopilot. The pilot was a little stressed because the hijacker was one of those guys that talks at you, not with you, so the conversation sucked. Some people, right?
Weyland burst through the door and kicked the hijacker in the back of the head.
Then kept doing it because one kick wasn’t enough. The hijacker looked like he was tumbling down stairs in place. It was actually pretty incredible and everyone there could have watched it for hours. Too bad the hijacker was killed on the 9th kick.
Weyland kicked 43 times.
In the cabin, no one could hear a thing over Billy Joel’s blather-singing. He was acting drunk even though everyone saw that he only had two drinks. Then they all remembered that 15% of Billy Joel’s blood is ethanol.
The pilot was pretty beaten up after Weyland had started kicking him too.
“Jesus, why did you do that?” asked the Captain, massaging his head wound.
“It’s something I learned in training. In the military.”
The pilot shook off the stupid answer, “There’s another hijacker. I don’t know who it is, but they must be in the cabin.”
Weyland assured them, “Just keep this plane in the air.”
Ugh, does he ever just turn it off?
The airplane cabin turned into a full-on concert and demonstration of Billy Joe’s inadequacies. It was like a circus but with Billy Joel music, no animals, magic, tricks, or ring. At this point Billy Joel was completely drunk, and pulling puns out faster than he could let out gas, which was VERY fast.
Everyone was having a good time, except for the pervert, who was frequently checking his watch. He seemed to cringe with every syllable sung, unable to take much more. Oh, yeah. Did I mention he was the other hijacker?
The creep leapt up with a gun, “Everybody shut up! This plane is getting hijacked!”
“I knew it!” shouted Billy Joe. He didn’t.
The hijacker smacked Billy Joe across the face with his gun and everyone gasped. They were sad he didn’t shoot him.
“No more singing!” shouted the hijacker.
Billy Joel, a poet as always point out, “we didn’t start the fire.”
Everyone cheered except for the pervert.
“Shut up, you hack!” He slowly peeled away the skin mask he was wearing to reveal that he was none other than Jerik Waters, a man no one knew or had ever heard of.
“I’m taking this plane down because of these two arseholes!” pointing at the Billies.
“This doesn’t make any sense!” shouted Billy Joe, which is true about everything until it gets explained.
He continued, “I’ve wanted to be a star for as long as I can remember. A large, gaseous being in the sky. Then I realized that’s impossible so I decided I wanted to be a singer. I sang every day. I loved it so much it’s all I could ever think about. Day and night, without rest, I would practice.”
They were already bored out of their wits. Billy Joel was buying things out of Skymall and Rochelle, the slut, was eating her hair – with a knife and fork.
“Listen to me!” his voice boomed through the plane.
Billy Joel put the Skymall away to reveal his erection, and Rochelle stopped eating her hair, which would do nothing to stop the now deadly bezoar from growing inside of her.
“Like I said, I sang every day. Day and night, without rest, I would practice-“
“I like Daughtry,” chimed Rochelle, cross-eyed to the verge of aneurism.
“Me too!” Billy Joel added.
“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!”
He raised the gun in the air and “Bang!” he said with his mouth. It still got the point across. The plane hushed themselves, letting Jerik proceed. It was his villain’s right to give a speech.
“I sang every day. I wanted so badly to be like Billy Joel. I spent every waking hour practicing, performing, and sacrificing everything just to be a shred as good as him. He was my hero. I even had a Billy Joel action figure, which turned out to be a Tim Curry action figure, but I loved it just the same. That all came crashing down when I met him outside of a concert at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk. I had spent my last dollar just to get there. But when I met him he reeked of alcohol and called me a ‘piglet dyke.’ That day I vowed that I’d get revenge on him.”
Suddenly someone shouted, “Can’t we just kill Billy Joe?” It was Billy Joe.
Jerik erupted, “You’re all dead anyway!”
After sneaking into the plane cargo hold, Weyland was starting to feel really light-headed because of all the blood in his penis. Rhonda was pacing back and forth.
“Did you hear everyone scream up there? What are we going to do?”
“I know what we have to do. We have to kill everyone on this plane.”
As expected, she didn’t understand.
“It’s the only way to know for sure.”
“That we got the bad guy.”
“There’s only one of them and we know it’s not Billy Joe or Billy Joel.”
“You’re right. We can’t let Billy Joel die,” he lamented, “but we have to make sure Billy Joe does die.”
She nodded in agreement.
Weyland scanned the room, “It looks like we have a food cart, some inflatable vests, luggage, and a coffee pot…”
It looked like nothing to her, but to Weyland-
“We’re going to make a drone.”
“A drone?” thought Rhonda. She had never seen a drone let alone seen one made. She felt like more had happened to her that day than in the whole year. It made her think about the ballroom dancing class she’d always been meaning to take. This was going to be the day she took her life back, but first they had to create a drone.
Weyland got to work and started assembling the drone. He was using more than what he listed, which Rhonda thought was pretty unfair. She would bring it up to him later, but wanted to pick the right time. It was all coming together quite brilliantly. Too bad it was Weyland doing it so it still totally sucked.
He started sweating and getting that same feeling he’d had when he used to handle bombs.
It’s important to now note that Weyland has NEVER served in the military and he HAS sexually assaulted someone.
Like all villains, or the really good ones at least, Jerik revealed his backstory to the frightened passengers while he stroked a white cat that was there for some reason. He went on and on, and Billy Joel could barely concentrate over thinking about the perfect time to say “at least somebody’s getting a little pussy.” If Billy Joel had been listening, he’d have heard your typical “boo hoo, why doesn’t anybody like me” kind of thing. He wanted to kill Billy Joel because he had felt spurned by his hero, and he wanted to kill Billy Joe just because. That made them all feel sympathetic towards him.
“I’m crashing this plane into Joel’s house! And killing Billy Joe and Billy Joel in the process.” His fist came down on the nearest tray like a gavel to an empty courtroom. No one was paying attention.
Billy Joel was back to buying Skymall items, and Billy Joe was playing a PSP because he sucks and has one. It was time for Jerik to make a statement (kill someone).
“Teng!” he called out to the pilot’s cabin, “I’m going to take one of them out.” The response was silence. Teng was dead. Remember?
Jerik immediately thought the worst – was he lowering his voice subconsciously because he lacked confidence? Then he thought the next worst thing – something happened. He started to edge towards the cockpit.
Rhonda walked in right at that moment, pushing a large food cart meant for Billy Joel.
Weyland crouched under the cart to secure the drone, but also because his penis was completely filled with blood and he couldn’t stand. He was waiting for the perfect moment.
“What the hell is going on here?” hissed Jerik. Wasn’t it more fun when we could just call him “the creep”?
The Creep slithered his finger along the trigger, ready to say “bang,” but this time with the gun. Suddenly, back at the cockpit, the pilot was using Teng’s body like a puppet to wave he was OK. It was tasteless at the time, but looking back it was pretty funny.
Weyland could feel the tension ease, so he continued to wait for his perfect moment, his legs coiled like springs ready to explode.
“Only the good die young,’ quipped Billy Joel.
The Pervert growled, “Fuck this,” and blasted Billy Joel in the head. Everyone racked their brain thinking of a Billy Joel song to make a pun of the situation, then they started screaming.
Weyland came tumbling out of the food cart (not tumbling like cartwheels and twirls, though to this day he wishes he would have). He was pretty upset, especially since he didn’t even get to see the Billy Joel shooting. He knew it must have been pretty cool.
He hit the button on the drone, and sure enough, it started flying, spewing steam and hot coffee out of it, disfiguring nearby passengers.
Jerik looked out to the screaming crowd and imagined himself on a stage in front of millions of adoring fans. The vision he had in his mind slowly transformed from hot cheering girls to wailing ugly people. To his left he saw Billy Joel’s lifeless body, looking like a child, mostly because he had defecated himself when he died.
Realizing what he had done, Jerik immediately fell to his knees in tears, which was pretty lucky because the drone immediately stopped working.
Weyland quickly snatched the gun away and pulled it apart. It took him about three minutes, but nothing much happened in that time. People like to take a breather after witnessing a murder.
“Looks like I’m a hero again,” proclaimed Weyland, which everyone immediately regretted him saying, including himself.
They sat in silence for a while as Jerik whimpered on the ground. He was no threat to anyone anymore. Weyland’s job was done.
Rochelle suggested to Jerik, “If you don’t kill us I’ll let you have sex with me.”
Everyone murmured disagreement.
“And let everyone watch.”
Everyone knew it was unnecessary but they obliged her regardless.
Rhonda, “She bangs. She bangs.”
The passengers laughed at her decades old reference and curled into their seats.
They all enjoyed the rest of the flight while watching Rochelle and Jerik, the pervert, have sex. Eventually they ran out of fuel over the Pacific Ocean and crashed, killing everyone on board.
All except one.
You probably remember me from Josiah’s party last Saturday at Round Table. I was the guy who put down four slices of supreme and about a dozen garlic knots in under five minutes.
Though you may remember me better as the guy who had the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.
Just to clear things up, it was more of a “I’d rather have it and not need it than need it than not have it” type of situation, and I do realize now that the chances of needing a flesh colored dildo at a 3rd grader’s pizza party (that I wasn’t invited to) were pretty slim, but I never thought that bringing it would lead to me being known as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.”
“The guy who could really put down the pizza,” absolutely.
“The last guy to leave the restroom before it was discovered that the sink had been inexplicably ripped from the wall,” maybe.
But “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket?” No way. That was such a small part of who I am and who I was at the party. In fact, after Craig told me that I shouldn’t have come because it was a kid’s party, and because he doesn’t know me that well outside of work, I was fully ready to be “the guy who shouldn’t have been there.” What I’ve been relegated to is simply unfair.
Please stop referring to me as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket” or I’ll kill Josiah.
I didn’t mean that. But I think you get the point.
Meet Sam. Sam is like every other 30 year old white male in America except for one thing. Due to an adolescent misunderstanding of the Clinton trial, he thinks that “intern” means “hooker.”
Sam sits down with a laptop. He’s frustrated and overworked. His wife, Julia, notices.
Do you need a snack, honey?
No. I can’t eat right now. I have so much to do for the business.
You’re so overworked. You need an intern.
I’m serious. I think it would be really good for you.
Yeah. Having someone help you out would be good for you.
You wouldn’t want to do that stuff?
Oh, god no. Are you kidding?
Wow, that kind of makes me really sad, but as long you’re letting me do this, that’s cool.
What’s to be sad about? I’m your wife, not your slave.
When you put it like that, yeah. I mean, this is awesome. It’s just crazy.
It’s not that crazy. I just want you to be less stressed.
I don’t even know where to start to find one.
Online? That makes sense. I was kind of worried we’d need to cruise around the streets and pick one off the street.
Hah! What were you thinking? We’d go pick up one of those guys in front of Home Depot?
Jesus. No. A woman. Definitely a woman.
A woman? She better not be pretty. I’ll get jealous.
I think we’re well past that.
You know who you could ask? Our neighbor Stan’s daughter.
Oh, my god. Are you serious? She’s not even out of high school.
I think she’d like the experience before she goes off to college.
That just doesn’t seem like the best way to get experience.
Why? She interned for her father for a little while last Summer.
Jesus, I’m going to be sick.
You’re such a drama queen.
Julia looks on the computer.
Here’s a good one. Do you want to check out her resume? She’s been around. A lot of experience.
Not exactly a high selling point for me, but that’s to be expected. I guess let’s try her.
Ok. I’ll tell her to come in for an interview.
You think I need to interview her?
Yeah. You need to make sure you two get along. So what kind of things are you looking for them to do anyway? Scheduling? Filing?
Suck my dick.
Julia gets straight faced.
I don’t think that’s very funny. I think it’s disrespectful.
We’re already talking about a dirty intern.
Dirty intern? You know I was an intern at my work before I got hired.
What?! The whole company?!
I just can’t process this.
Why do you have to make this hard? I’m just trying to help you. If you don’t want an intern, don’t get a damn intern-
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (blurting out) I’ll take Stan’s daughter.
Ok, great. I’ll call Stan and tell him to send her over tomorrow.
Holy shit. I’m getting an intern.
Wearing your shoes inside the house can be a hard habit to break. After all, if you leave your shoes outside they might get stolen by a relative/enemy, or once you’re inside there might be a masked gunman waiting for you, leaving you without a shoe to throw at him.
The alternative isn’t any better. If you leave your shoes in a pile inside your home, people might start calling you “Shoe pile Joe,” or “Shoe pile [whatever your name is]” or even worse, “Shoe pile whatever your name is.”
But the statistic I’m about to tell you will shock you to where you will never wear your shoes inside your house again, or maybe even outside (if you live surrounded by grass or very soft dirt). Here it is:
100% of the people who have worn their shoes inside their house have died, or will die in the future.
Take a moment to let that sink in. 100% of the people. That means that if you’ve worn your shoes inside the house, you’re statistically already dead. If you are in a home right now, and you or anyone around you has their shoes on, you are all as good as ghosts.
It’s a terrifying reminder that we need to watch what we do at every step. Like Kermit the Frog always said, “the only way we’ll ever be truly is safe is when we’re dead.”
Fred Le, Joe Cabello, and George Harry Williams III discuss the first episode of The Shy Ones, “Thinkin’ Love – (Ever had a crush?)”
Rather listen? Check out our audio link of the episode.
Audio link: http://joecabello.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Talking-Shy-Episode-1-talking-love.m4a
Watch The Shy Ones episode on here:
So, I’ve been really busy writing for the 2016 CBS Diversity Showcase, so I haven’t been writing anything other than sketches. I’d still like people to enjoy something that I wrote since I’m a millennial and I want all the attention, so I decided to post up my National Sketch Writing Month page.
National Sketch Writing Month is a month long event (obviously) where writers write 30 sketches in 30 days, despite whatever else they have going on in their lives (job, kids, weed to smoke). All of my sketches are available to download on the following link. Honestly, some of them are pretty gnarly and unedited, but let me know what you think. They’re all short and sweet! (My favorite is The Perfect Killer)
Also, please do me a big favor and like my Facebook Author page. I’d appreciate it x1,000,000,000