"The Arrival and Pre-Dawn Departure to New York City of One Miss Annie Oakley"

Full disclosure: somewhere along the way, I began thinking this was a terrible idea.

This is mainly due to the fact that it is, in fact, a terrible idea. Far worse than some of the other ones I've had, and this is coming from someone who, in high school, thought it would be hi-larious to write a poem about menstruation. As you can all infer from my current situation, this did not turn out to be the work of comic genius I imagined it would be.

However, I said I'd do it, and goddammit I'm gonna go and get it done did. But in lieu of trying to squeeze some kind of life out of the several equally horrific ideas I've had since I thought up this originally stupid idea, I'm just going to create a quick little dramatic set-piece that describes what I would imagine would happen were I to run this idea by some kind of talent evaluator, say a "Star Search" judge or maybe Kris Kristofferson.

Like I said before, I got nuthin':

(begin scene)

INT. BRIGHTLY LIT ROOM.

There is nothing on the walls. There is only a desk, behind which sits a chair, in which sits maybe Kris Kristofferson. There is also another chair, opposite the desk, in which sits myself. This is a boring room, the kind someone imagines when they just need somewhere to have two people talk.

ME: So what do you think?

KK: I think you're starting this conversation in the middle.

ME: Yes, but I think people are smart enough to infer that I've just told you about my idea, given my opening line there.

KK: If I was in the business of trusting people's intelligence, I wouldn't be Kris fucking Kristofferson.

There is an awkward silence. I shuffle my feet.

KK: But in answer to your question, I think it's a terrible idea.

ME: Oh.

KK: Is that all you have to say for yourself?

ME: Am I supposed to apologize?

KK: I would, if I were you. Though I have the sneaking suspicion that you have much to apologize for beyond this one god-awful idea.

ME: That is probably true, yes.

There is more awkward silence. KK scratches his beard and gazes idly at a corner of the ceiling. He then emits a slow, whining fart.

KK: So aren't you going to now explain what your idea is, for the benefit of the audience, but in a way that makes it seem like it's not just some clumsily inserted exposition?

ME: Alright.

An awkward pause.

ME: Um, well. Let's see. We open on Annie Oakley, in her cowboy hat and leather trenchcoat-like jacket, and she's set against a black cloudless sky with a full moon--

KK: Jesus Christ.

ME: And then the word "Shaolin" flashes on the screen, followed by "3 A.M."--

KK: Shaolin?

ME: Yes.

KK: I thought this was supposed to be New York.

ME: It is. It's a Wu-Tang reference.

KK: Uh-huh. Of course. Go on.

ME: And Annie just stands and waits there, patiently, while this vagrant sitting against a mailbox kind of mumbles nonsense in this raspy voice.

KK: For how long?

ME: Oh, I don't know. Eight minutes or so? Anyway, so that happens, and then this group of eight black men approaches, kind of out of the shadows, which there are a lot of because it's 3 A.M., and they're all dressed in black, mostly in like hoodies and stuff, except one's smoking a gigantic blunt and another has like a mask over his face--

KK: And like I told you before we started this scene in the middle of our conversation, that seems pretty racially insensitive.

ME: Oh no, it totally isn't, because they're not just stereotypical black city dudes, they're the Wu-Tang Clan.

It is at this point that Kris Kristofferson dies inside.

ME: So the Clan approaches, and the clever thing, see, the clever thing is that when they speak, they only speak in lyrics of actual Wu-Tang songs. Including solo material, of course, and maybe a line or two from "How High" or something. For example, when Annie Oakley asks what's going on--this is when a multi-cultural group of anonymous bad guys approaches later on--Masta Killa would say "This is a gathering of the masses who come to pay their respects to the Wu-Tang Clan." Which would be ironic, of course, 'cause actually they're there to start trouble, you know? And like in the fight, RZA will kill this guy who's trying to run away from him, and RZA can say "Aw yeah, he ran, but he didn't get far, 'cause I dropped him, ha, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha."

I am sweating at this point. Or maybe not; maybe I'm just twitching or something, whatever makes me look the most pathetic (insert "Just being yourself?" joke here).

KK: And Annie?

ME: Oh, Annie's a badass. She's firing off her six-shooter, Clint Eastwood-style, and dropping guys left and right. And these guys all have guns, too, but they can't touch the Wu, of course, who only have swords, but they're slicing shit like a samurai--ooh, that reminds me! There's only eight Clan members there, right? But at the end of the fight, that vagrant resting against the mailbox? He like jumps up, and it turns out it's Ol' Dirty Bastard, of course, and they thought he was dead but really he wasn't, he's the Osiris of this shit, you know? And he jumps into the middle of this fight with no weapons, just his hands, dealing out some crazy Kung Fu shit, and as he's fighting he shouts out, "The saga continues! Wu-Tang! Wu-Tang!" It's fucking brilliant.

KK: No--

ME: Wait, wait. There should probably be nine dudes plus ODB, actually, because I forgot Cappadonna. He's definitely gotta be there.

KK: Is that--

ME: Maybe Redman should be there, too, but...no, I got it! At the end, after it's all over, he does like a Porky Pig thing, you know, like "That's all, folks!" Except he's smoking a blunt, of course.

KK: And that's it?

ME: Yeah, just about.

KK: So how does it end?

ME: Oh. Well, Annie and the Clan kill all these guys, and then she just kind of tips her hat to them and wanders off. Or maybe she gets in a cab. Yeah, that's more New York, I guess, with a cab. And like Armin Mueller-Stahl could be driving it, you know, a little Jim Jarmusch homage there.

KK: And that's it?

ME: Yeah, that's about it. Yes. That's what I've got.

KK: Well here's what I think--

(end scene)

It's really kind of irrelevant what Kris Kristofferson thinks, but basically he lays into my idea and I either shuffle off sadly or all of a sudden get arbitrarily aggressive and crush his testicles with my chair or something. Suffice to say, I should have left the dead good and buried.

You win this round, Crabclaws.