8.15.2002
Clear Channel Communication Sucks Ass
A Screenplay
We are looking at some kind of dark, shiny surface on the screen. It is moving. Silence. Slowly, we hear something, a soft, scratchy sound. It becomes clear that it is the sound of a needle on a record hitting the label at the end of the album.
Cut to an office in Clear Channel Communication headquarters. POL MARTIN, a sad looking man in a business suit, is asleep at his desk. A number of gold records adorn his otherwise bland office. The record player is behind him.
Cut to MR. MURDOX, a grim, balding white man.
Cut to a file in his hand, marked confidential.
Cut to MR. MURDOX’s hand as he pushes the door to POL’s office open.
Cut to the office, a fly’s eye perspective on the room.
MR. MURDOX: Martin!
Cut to POL, falling out of his chair.
Cut to MURDOX, smiling grimly.
Cut to fly’s eye perspective.
POL: M... Mr. Murdox. I wasn’t.. s... sleeping...
MURDOX: Listening to records?
Cut to MURDOX’s hand tearing the needle off the record.
Cut to the record smashing against the wall.
POL: No!
MURDOX: What was that?
POL: It... it was a Miles Davis album...
MURDOX: Who?
POL: A... a jazz great...
MURDOX: Jazz.
Cut to close up of MURDOX’s face, a mask of disgust.
MURDOX: Jazz is for the weak and poor.
Cut to POL, sweating
POL: Sorry, Mr. Murdox, it won’t happen again.
Cut to fly’s eye view.
MURDOX: See that it doesn’t. It is time.
POL: Already?
MURDOX: Look at the charts. The teen idol era is nearly over. We need fresh meat.
POL: What about N’ Synch’s come back, surely...
MURDOX: Come back? They are already over the hill. It is time. Stop being a pussy, Mr. Martin.
POL: Sorry, sir.
MURDOX: Bring the virgin.
POL: Yes, sir.
Cut to BRITTANY SPEARS, crying, gagged and bound in a closet. The door opens. A shadow falls on her.
POL (unseen) : It is time.
BRITTANY’s eyes go wide with fear.
Cut to a long, dark staircase, something straight out of Lord of the Rings. We see shadows of MURDOX and POL (carrying BRITTANY over his shoulder) as they walk down the horrid slope. The only sound is that of dripping water.
POL: I’m having a hard time keeping up, sir.
MURDOX: Just drag her. You’ll move faster.
POL: That might hurt her.
MURDOX: You will never make it in the music industry with an attitude like that, Martin.
Cut to a giant, throbbing, butthole, the HELL ANUS. A stone slab, something of an altar, lies in front of it.
MURDOX: Put the virgin on the slab.
Cut to POL, who drops BRITTANY on the slab and starts to secure her arms and legs to it with iron wristbands.
POL: I feel just terrible about this, ma’am, but a deal is a deal.
Cut to MURDOX, donning some sort of red hood.
MURDOX: Ungag her. The Hell Anus enjoys the screaming.
Cut to POL, ungagging BRITTANY
BRITTANY: No! I know I signed the contract, but I didn’t know this was for real!
MURDOX: As Martin so astutely pointed out, Ms. Spears, a deal is a deal.
BRITTANY: I can still make the company money! I mean, I could still have another hit album! I could pose nude or something. You could whore me out to Saudi Arabians. Anything!
MURDOX: You are worth more as a virgin sacrifice than as a commodity.
BRITTANY: I’m not a virgin! I fucked Justin! I fucked all five of them! I fucked Christina!
MURDOX: Mr. Martin?
POL: The nurse told me her hymen is intact, sir.
BRITTANY: They all had microscopic dicks, but they were in me! I swear!
MURDOX: Falsehoods do not suit you, Miss Spears. Did you really think you could have the incredible career you’ve had with the minimal talent you have without paying for it?
BRITTANY: I am still bankable!
MURDOX: Martin, pull the lever. Enamize her.
POL: Yes sir. Sorry ma’am.
Cut to POL, pulling a jewel encrusted lever,
BRITTANY: Noooo!
Cut to the slab, as it is shoved deep inside the HELL ANUS on a pendulum. BRITTANY vanishes inside with a squish.
Cut to POL looking terrified. A horrible slurping noise is heard.
Cut to the HELL ANUS, as the slab comes out, empty.
Cut to a view of the whole anus room. MURDOX walks over to POL. He hands something to POL.
MURDOX: Glorious. Now, put on your hood.
POL: Yes sir.
Cut to the HELL ANUS, as MURDOX and POL approach it on both sides of its immense orifice.
MURDOX: Time to get to work.
POL: Do I really need to suck it?
MURDOX: It is the only way. Now get to it.
MURDOX and POL place their lips against the HELL ANUS and start to suck.
HELL ANUS: Yes! Suck me! Suck me, humans! Suck me!
There is a gurgling sound and the HELL ANUS starts to throb.
MURDOX: It is working! Suck harder!
POL and MURDOX suck hard. Camera cuts back and forth to each of their faces as they aggressively suck at the HELL ANUS.
HELL ANUS: You have pleased me, mortals, and shall be rewarded!
The HELL ANUS begins to spew fluid and fecal matter all over them. POL grimaces with disgust, but MURDOX stands in front of it, taking it like a man.
MURDOX: We thank you, mighty Hell Anus!
A blast of shit knocks over POL, completely burying him. His arm pokes out of the pile, holding some sort of list.
MURDOX: Martin? Martin! Pol? Are you in there?
POL emerges from the pile of shit, clutching the list, a smile on his shit covered face. He spits out crap.
POL: I have it, sir. The new play lists for all of our Clear Channel stations. Praise be the Hell Anus.
MURDOX: Yes, praise to the Hell Anus.
Cut to blank screen.
Cut to titles, "Every time you listen to a Clear Channel station, another Mousketeer dies."
Cut to titles, "Also, another Miles Davis album is smashed."
Cut to titles, "The End?"
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A Screenplay
We are looking at some kind of dark, shiny surface on the screen. It is moving. Silence. Slowly, we hear something, a soft, scratchy sound. It becomes clear that it is the sound of a needle on a record hitting the label at the end of the album.
Cut to an office in Clear Channel Communication headquarters. POL MARTIN, a sad looking man in a business suit, is asleep at his desk. A number of gold records adorn his otherwise bland office. The record player is behind him.
Cut to MR. MURDOX, a grim, balding white man.
Cut to a file in his hand, marked confidential.
Cut to MR. MURDOX’s hand as he pushes the door to POL’s office open.
Cut to the office, a fly’s eye perspective on the room.
MR. MURDOX: Martin!
Cut to POL, falling out of his chair.
Cut to MURDOX, smiling grimly.
Cut to fly’s eye perspective.
POL: M... Mr. Murdox. I wasn’t.. s... sleeping...
MURDOX: Listening to records?
Cut to MURDOX’s hand tearing the needle off the record.
Cut to the record smashing against the wall.
POL: No!
MURDOX: What was that?
POL: It... it was a Miles Davis album...
MURDOX: Who?
POL: A... a jazz great...
MURDOX: Jazz.
Cut to close up of MURDOX’s face, a mask of disgust.
MURDOX: Jazz is for the weak and poor.
Cut to POL, sweating
POL: Sorry, Mr. Murdox, it won’t happen again.
Cut to fly’s eye view.
MURDOX: See that it doesn’t. It is time.
POL: Already?
MURDOX: Look at the charts. The teen idol era is nearly over. We need fresh meat.
POL: What about N’ Synch’s come back, surely...
MURDOX: Come back? They are already over the hill. It is time. Stop being a pussy, Mr. Martin.
POL: Sorry, sir.
MURDOX: Bring the virgin.
POL: Yes, sir.
Cut to BRITTANY SPEARS, crying, gagged and bound in a closet. The door opens. A shadow falls on her.
POL (unseen) : It is time.
BRITTANY’s eyes go wide with fear.
Cut to a long, dark staircase, something straight out of Lord of the Rings. We see shadows of MURDOX and POL (carrying BRITTANY over his shoulder) as they walk down the horrid slope. The only sound is that of dripping water.
POL: I’m having a hard time keeping up, sir.
MURDOX: Just drag her. You’ll move faster.
POL: That might hurt her.
MURDOX: You will never make it in the music industry with an attitude like that, Martin.
Cut to a giant, throbbing, butthole, the HELL ANUS. A stone slab, something of an altar, lies in front of it.
MURDOX: Put the virgin on the slab.
Cut to POL, who drops BRITTANY on the slab and starts to secure her arms and legs to it with iron wristbands.
POL: I feel just terrible about this, ma’am, but a deal is a deal.
Cut to MURDOX, donning some sort of red hood.
MURDOX: Ungag her. The Hell Anus enjoys the screaming.
Cut to POL, ungagging BRITTANY
BRITTANY: No! I know I signed the contract, but I didn’t know this was for real!
MURDOX: As Martin so astutely pointed out, Ms. Spears, a deal is a deal.
BRITTANY: I can still make the company money! I mean, I could still have another hit album! I could pose nude or something. You could whore me out to Saudi Arabians. Anything!
MURDOX: You are worth more as a virgin sacrifice than as a commodity.
BRITTANY: I’m not a virgin! I fucked Justin! I fucked all five of them! I fucked Christina!
MURDOX: Mr. Martin?
POL: The nurse told me her hymen is intact, sir.
BRITTANY: They all had microscopic dicks, but they were in me! I swear!
MURDOX: Falsehoods do not suit you, Miss Spears. Did you really think you could have the incredible career you’ve had with the minimal talent you have without paying for it?
BRITTANY: I am still bankable!
MURDOX: Martin, pull the lever. Enamize her.
POL: Yes sir. Sorry ma’am.
Cut to POL, pulling a jewel encrusted lever,
BRITTANY: Noooo!
Cut to the slab, as it is shoved deep inside the HELL ANUS on a pendulum. BRITTANY vanishes inside with a squish.
Cut to POL looking terrified. A horrible slurping noise is heard.
Cut to the HELL ANUS, as the slab comes out, empty.
Cut to a view of the whole anus room. MURDOX walks over to POL. He hands something to POL.
MURDOX: Glorious. Now, put on your hood.
POL: Yes sir.
Cut to the HELL ANUS, as MURDOX and POL approach it on both sides of its immense orifice.
MURDOX: Time to get to work.
POL: Do I really need to suck it?
MURDOX: It is the only way. Now get to it.
MURDOX and POL place their lips against the HELL ANUS and start to suck.
HELL ANUS: Yes! Suck me! Suck me, humans! Suck me!
There is a gurgling sound and the HELL ANUS starts to throb.
MURDOX: It is working! Suck harder!
POL and MURDOX suck hard. Camera cuts back and forth to each of their faces as they aggressively suck at the HELL ANUS.
HELL ANUS: You have pleased me, mortals, and shall be rewarded!
The HELL ANUS begins to spew fluid and fecal matter all over them. POL grimaces with disgust, but MURDOX stands in front of it, taking it like a man.
MURDOX: We thank you, mighty Hell Anus!
A blast of shit knocks over POL, completely burying him. His arm pokes out of the pile, holding some sort of list.
MURDOX: Martin? Martin! Pol? Are you in there?
POL emerges from the pile of shit, clutching the list, a smile on his shit covered face. He spits out crap.
POL: I have it, sir. The new play lists for all of our Clear Channel stations. Praise be the Hell Anus.
MURDOX: Yes, praise to the Hell Anus.
Cut to blank screen.
Cut to titles, "Every time you listen to a Clear Channel station, another Mousketeer dies."
Cut to titles, "Also, another Miles Davis album is smashed."
Cut to titles, "The End?"
