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March 30, 2009 | by  | in Features |
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How to Make an Epic Blockbuster Movie

In my column about how to be the best universe in the child actor author, I mentioned my novel about the android lesbian Nazi redeemer two-handed sword of ages that slept in the darkness for a thousand millennia, and got to make out with Britney Spears back when she was hot—like when she was slutty but also vulnerable and innocent—you just knew she was so dirty—and found out he was Garion of Mordor, the chosen one from Mallorea, and an Elf-Demon. Only he could wield the Hyperion Damascus Spear +5 to THACO and damage (+1d4 electrical damage, no saving throw) and the Orb of Aldur from the great deity, father of the unkempt, leader of the reptilian connection, and how he led the masses in rebellion of the sailors from space, and then time traveled even faster than light speed at zero curvature, so nyeh nyeh physics, because he’s got the blood of Bhaalspawn like in Baldur’s Gate II, and went to the planet of Lesbor, and convinced all the lesbians to turn straight and brought them into my lectures, and only the bicurious ones with good personalities were allowed in. It’s totally realistic.

Now: I was going to direct the movie version myself, but… hmm… I guess I might let Peter Jackson direct it if he asked me nicely. I mean, he’d have to convince me, you know, play his cards right, but… yeah… I suppose I could let him.

So the first thing you need to do is get wise to the business. You need to know people. You need to know who is who and what is what, and funny laundry items you should take to bed when you wine and dine them. Because in this business, it’s not what you know, it’s who’s got the best money. So find them and beat them up and pickpocket their gold pieces using your thief ability. Or if they are higher level and have more XP than you, then be mates with them. Like that guy in Extras, buddy up to them and ask them for a speaking role, then tell them you’ve read my column about being the best writer (mention my name to them) and tell them you did all that stuff I told you to. Also tell them I’m free tomorrow, and I’ll be round to pitch some ideas.

So here is how to make out with hot lesbians:

Firstly you need to adjust the sprockets. And wear a mouthguard! Dammit champ, you’re not in the featherweights anymore! Then assemble the beta-pleats in spheroid fashion around the circumference of the nipple, and bake at 180 degrees for ten minutes while you go up the road to buy a tinny. Get some beer as well.

Now I walked into the Salient office the other day, and Jackson had rather a frown on his face. It was even more confusing when he paid me a wonderful compliment, saying I was a great male. “Why thanks Jackson, I am a great male,” I remarked back in gay banter. There’s nothing wrong with liking yourself, is there? “No no,” said Jackson, “You’ve got heaps and heaps of fate mail.” “Fate mail?” I asked him. “What is that? Is that where people write in to tell me my destiny?” “No,” he said. “People have been sending you in a skate rail.” Well, I was chuffed. Not being a good skater though, I turned it down, and fled back to my hobbit-hole for some movie-script-writing.

My next song is a tortured, harrowing story about what to do when the whippor whills. It’s called “What’s Called The Corpse?” and it’s an angry story about an eagle missionary kleptomaniac zookeeper-turned-Neighbours addict who knew too much about the FBI’s liaisons with extra-terrestrials and had to time travel back to ancient Egypt (Nile playing soundtrack in this bit) to escape from Matt Damon but Arnie was there and kicked his ass, then said a cool one-liner (maybe something like “Get to the sarcophagus!”), and he had to learn not only how to fight, but how to be a real man. A tender man. A man with boobs. But oh no!—they didn’t have any beer back in prehistoric future time! How could he learn about man stuff without beer? So he had to invent beer and became the manliest man of all, and got heaps of chicks, even the real uptight library ones. Now I’m bored, man. If only there was TV to save me, right? No! Not so at all, young pad warmer. TV is evil and bad and if you do TV that is satan who is wrong and not the true Christine. The Stephen King one! So buy a ticket to the premiere screening of What’s Called the Corpse? and see the agony and horror of being a young black woman in small town America with only five guys buying you drinks a night and having to wear that skanky purple skin-tight outfit while the East Coast hos call you a slapper and shed a tear for the rotting tortured soul of the main character played by my brother Tommy who plays a dog with only two legs (right front and left back), and gets rejected by the other dogs of the town and must redeem himself, and on the way he befriends a tough guy, a wise cracking sidekick, a hot female dog, a robot that develops human feelings, and of course, a token black guy. I’m not a racist! It wouldn’t be realistic without a token bald guy! It’s totally original! Especially the bit where the corpse plays ‘Dancing Queen’ on a didgeridoo—that’s abbariginal! Ha ha ha ha ha!

My sixth and final book is about my life. It starts off in the distant future in Alpha Centauri, where the human race has colonised the universe and is being invaded by dog-like aliens who are extremely violent and homophobic—I mean they won’t even stand next to each other at the urinal even if they absolutely have to. I’m not gay or anything, but surely having a tiny peek without anyone knowing is okay, right? These dudes will just hold on and wait for a cubicle, lift their leg, aim, and wee all over the floor. Naturally they have a lot of janitors. Even a bum student like you could get a job there. They are smelly and leave hair everywhere, and always call their women bitches, which is totally wrong. They have no right to do that! They’re not from Compton! So us humans have decided to use Americans to blow them up, which is pretty cool. This play will star some of the best Shortland Street actors to have ever had the channel changed on them, it will be absolutely epic, I promise. Especially the end, where you see I’ve been dead since halfway through the movie. And only I live to tell the tale. So what about that band Dire Straits, what is up with them? Like I listened to their ‘Best Of’ and there wasn’t a single song about cutting up a corpse and sodomising all the different bits of the corpse. So come on Dire Straits, what is going on here? Are you guys brutal or not? And Pink Floyd as well! They could sure do with a good anthem or two about necrodismemberment and corpse sodomy to help their career a bit, don’t you think?

One thing I’m always being told is that the book is better than the movie. I often wonder why this is. Obviously it is because it is. I am always hearing from people and conversations that I eavesdrop on that the book is better than the movie. So why bother make a movie at all? Why not just read a damn book? Duuuuuuhhhhh? I mean “!” You are reading a book, silly! Problem solved! Didn’t your mother tell you it was right in front of you? Unless it’s here in my computer! That’s not a book! That means I’m reading it! I mean what I’m writing to you, but reading myself! Now! So I’m talking to myself! Am I going mad? If it’s me talking to myself about talking to myself when I’m in a computer then I hope not!

But to our consternation, people still make movies. This is because sometimes the book has to come second, because the Hollywood druids have taken the idea from the cosmic ether before a writer does. Writers are pretty lazy, after all. I am such an awesome writer I can’t even be bothered being a proper one. This writing coming second is exactly what happened with Star Wars, Star Trek, Pascall Starburst and Doctor Who. So where can we do to fix the problem, whoever it was? We need to make some movies about books!

But there are other questions that float through my mind, in between the bits with thinking stuff in them. Science must come up with an answer to these questions ere this eve lest I emblazon ye upon a fart. The appropriate question for now is the eternal question: “Is it realistic that Han Solo is such a great pilot of the Millennium Falcon when the cockpit is way over on the right of the ship? Wouldn’t he find it hard to aim a laser blaster at the storm troopers, and even to function as a normal member of society with such a bizarre orientation to his eyesight? Wouldn’t he always be bumping into things? Surely when he first got off the ship he would, right? Or does he just have extra ordinarily brilliant spatial depth perception? But would someone with that kind of ability be so hot-tempered? I just don’t like the way he always yells at everyone, but I guess that’s just part of his rugged appeal. But in a galaxy far far away, why is life still so cheap?” Answer me, Bollywood LucasArts Druids!

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