Post by Lawnmower Jones on Aug 25, 2006 2:40:42 GMT -5
(The scene opens up inside of a board room. The letters ESPN are hanging on the wall in black writing. The room is filled with big business suits, all over the age of 60. They each take a seat in a black leather computer chair. At one end of the table is Eight, the CEO of ESPN who we have already met. He has on a black suit, and his old hands folded into one another, showing off the expensive rings that glaze his hand. A boombox is set onto the long, glassy business table that seats all the suits.)
Man: When is this going to be started?
(A young man, no older than 22, presses the play button on the boombox. "My Name is Lawnmower Jones, and I love to mow!" is heard on the tape, followed by Scottish bagpipes. Lawnmower Jones bursts into the room, kicking the door open. He has on a cheap 70's blue suit, and is standing like he is a super hero. The business men all look at one another, quizzical expressions on their faces.)
LJ: I am here, ready to do battle!
(Jones circles around the table with his hand up in the air in a high five motion. Only one old man, really old, like I'm about to die old with a hearing aid old gives him a high five. The music comes to a halt as Jones takes his seat at the opposite end of the table from Eight.)
Eight: Very good, Jones. You've behaved yourself.
(Jones nods with a smile on his face.)
Eight: Well, let's get started shall we? First order of business ok? Mr. Jones, please meet the bored of directors, they shall be deciding whether or not you're going to be successful.
(Jones waves at them, eccentrically like an eight year old. The directors look rather embarrassed, and make feeble attempts to wave back.)
Eight: (Under Cough) Stop you idiot!
(Jones straightens up his face, as does Eight.)
Eight: Now, Jones, we here at ESPN…..
(The voice trails off as Jones begins to daydream. Jones is now in a magical fairytale land, riding a pink unicorn on a fluffy cloud. Little babies in diapers with curly hair and wings sprouting from their backs fly alongside Jones, who also is licking a lollipop.)
Little Angel Baby: (Sounds like a mix of a dog and New Yorker) This Sunday at Ultimate Showdown, you will lose your match. You are not good enough to wrestle in the WCF!
(Jones begins to shake his head and cry. Suddenly, ten other Little Angel Babies make their way onto the screen, circling Jones' head and chanting.)
Little Angel Babies: Grass sucks. Turf is better.
(Jones closes his eyes at this comment.)
LJ: Grass.
LAB: Turf is good.
LJ: Grass!
LAB: Grass it sucks! It really, really sucks!
(A sudden earthquake in dreamland puts Jones in a hot, fiery place. Flames engulf from above the ground, and it becomes certain we are in hell. In the middle of the scene, a T-Rex's head with red eyes on a stake is there.)
T-Rex: (Like Stevan Segal) Your destiny will be fulfilled come Sunday. Your destiny will be the new TV champion.
(Jones nods his head, appreciatively. A pounding is heard.)
T-Rex: Demon child, wait! I will give you the power of laser eyes so you will be sure to win.
(The scene dwindles back to the board room meeting, Jones gazing into the sky. Eight throws a pencil at Jones, refocusing his attention.)
Eight: How does it sound?
LJ: (Unsure) Uh, well, yea, I uh, well, uh, I guess the economic stapler will uh, arise come tide season?
(The room looks at Jones with disgusted looks. Obviously, Jones is retarded.)
Eight: (Sighs) Jones, do you want to be on a damn TV show?
LJ: (Cheerful) Oh boy, you bet!
(The scene fades out to black.)
Man: When is this going to be started?
(A young man, no older than 22, presses the play button on the boombox. "My Name is Lawnmower Jones, and I love to mow!" is heard on the tape, followed by Scottish bagpipes. Lawnmower Jones bursts into the room, kicking the door open. He has on a cheap 70's blue suit, and is standing like he is a super hero. The business men all look at one another, quizzical expressions on their faces.)
LJ: I am here, ready to do battle!
(Jones circles around the table with his hand up in the air in a high five motion. Only one old man, really old, like I'm about to die old with a hearing aid old gives him a high five. The music comes to a halt as Jones takes his seat at the opposite end of the table from Eight.)
Eight: Very good, Jones. You've behaved yourself.
(Jones nods with a smile on his face.)
Eight: Well, let's get started shall we? First order of business ok? Mr. Jones, please meet the bored of directors, they shall be deciding whether or not you're going to be successful.
(Jones waves at them, eccentrically like an eight year old. The directors look rather embarrassed, and make feeble attempts to wave back.)
Eight: (Under Cough) Stop you idiot!
(Jones straightens up his face, as does Eight.)
Eight: Now, Jones, we here at ESPN…..
(The voice trails off as Jones begins to daydream. Jones is now in a magical fairytale land, riding a pink unicorn on a fluffy cloud. Little babies in diapers with curly hair and wings sprouting from their backs fly alongside Jones, who also is licking a lollipop.)
Little Angel Baby: (Sounds like a mix of a dog and New Yorker) This Sunday at Ultimate Showdown, you will lose your match. You are not good enough to wrestle in the WCF!
(Jones begins to shake his head and cry. Suddenly, ten other Little Angel Babies make their way onto the screen, circling Jones' head and chanting.)
Little Angel Babies: Grass sucks. Turf is better.
(Jones closes his eyes at this comment.)
LJ: Grass.
LAB: Turf is good.
LJ: Grass!
LAB: Grass it sucks! It really, really sucks!
(A sudden earthquake in dreamland puts Jones in a hot, fiery place. Flames engulf from above the ground, and it becomes certain we are in hell. In the middle of the scene, a T-Rex's head with red eyes on a stake is there.)
T-Rex: (Like Stevan Segal) Your destiny will be fulfilled come Sunday. Your destiny will be the new TV champion.
(Jones nods his head, appreciatively. A pounding is heard.)
T-Rex: Demon child, wait! I will give you the power of laser eyes so you will be sure to win.
(The scene dwindles back to the board room meeting, Jones gazing into the sky. Eight throws a pencil at Jones, refocusing his attention.)
Eight: How does it sound?
LJ: (Unsure) Uh, well, yea, I uh, well, uh, I guess the economic stapler will uh, arise come tide season?
(The room looks at Jones with disgusted looks. Obviously, Jones is retarded.)
Eight: (Sighs) Jones, do you want to be on a damn TV show?
LJ: (Cheerful) Oh boy, you bet!
(The scene fades out to black.)
