Five second interview |
ABEL: You’ve taken a controversial stance on poultry. Can you give the audience a rough idea what that’s all about? JOHN: Yes, I can give the audience a rough idea. As rough as they want it! That costs $100 an hour though. Oh yeah, the chickens. I loves ta break me off a piece of that chicken. I would say that anywhere between 27 and 102 chickes get fucked Lawson-style during the average episode of The Dream People (http://www.dreampeople.org). The animal rights activists have been after me for years, but they seem to like it that I play hard to get. Perverts. By the by, sometimes electric eels get used for a little somethin' somethin', if ya know what I mean. ABEL: Oh shit yes! But let’s talk about the craft of fiction. Do you write with your pants pulled up around your tits or down to your ankles? JOHN: Funny you should ask that. In all seriousness, when I first started writing--this is when I was doing screenplays--I would write mostly late at night completely naked. I shit you not. Naked, sweaty, and cranking out 15 or 20 handwritten pages a night. Had to be naked to get the words flowing. Well, also I sometimes wore these PVC gloves and this hockey mask I had from when I was a teenager. Still have the gloves and mask, but I don't feel a need to wear 'em or to get naked to write. Writers are known for their strange compulsions I suppose. ABEL: What kind of screenplays are we talking about, John? Snuff? Porn?!? Oh god, is it snuff porn?!!? JOHN: Well, you had to open that can of worms, didn't you? They told me I'd be dead in twenty four hours if I ever talked about it, but what the hell. I wrote the sick shit: demonic possession porn, Fight Club meets Mary Poppins and she can't walk straight for a week after. You know what I'm talking about. Muscle amazons dominating fools in apartments, kids blowing things up because they're bored, a punk rock apokalypse. And the queer thing is that I got my foot in the door with so many major studios and agents! But, in the end, here I am, broken and ready to die for my art. ABEL: David Cronenberg or David Lynch? JOHN: Cronenberg is a god, I tell you. He's had an enormous impact on me. But you just cannot fuck with David Lynch. Pound for pound he's the king shit of exploratory cinematic surgery. What? What's that? You wanna make something outta it? I am not afraid of resorting to fisticuffs, if necessary, to get my point across! ABEL: That won’t be necessary, John. Jennifer Lopez or Marge Simpson? JOHN: Symmetry vs. imperfection: that which is not symmetrical is retained by the mind. Therefore imperfection is attractive and the cult of perfection is bullshit. When the monkey hits the fan I want Marge to thrill my gorilla man! Can you imagine that voice screaming in ecstasy while you make the beast with two backs? Oh my god... ABEL: Would you like to introduce your story? JOHN: How dare you insinuate that I'd like to introduce this script-like story!
That kind of thing makes me want to put a man's face in the mud and step on
it. No, I won't say that this story should be taken literally and figuratively
at the same time. And I refuse to point out that it was written by hand while
laying on the floor! And, it would make me a detestable lout to point out that
a lot of people have the initials JL. Force Fed Mr. PK and Mr. JL are sitting at a cluttered table in a crowded cafe. Ms. CR sits to Mr. PK's left and Mr. JL's right; nobody is situated across from her. PK: I didn't really expect them to bring one of everything... CR: Didn't you? PK: I can't decide. What do you want for nothing, a rubber biscuit? CR: Well who's gonna eat all this? I refuse to set my genitals on fire to pay the bill again. JL: Guess I'll be eating it then. PK: HUZZAH! Mr. PK's breath rejuvenates a pail full of desiccated invertebrates. A waiter walks past and Mr. PK throws his ale on the poor man. PK (frothing): If I'm happy the customer's happy! A Sporting Fellow and his Toddler are at an adjacent table. The Sporting Fellow pushes his Toddler to the floor, where the boy laps at the spilt ale. CR: God damned communist lap dog. JL: (eating tostada): I guess that's what you call a tree falling in the forest. An overtly handsome waiter--disgustingly so--sashays over and places a new ale before Mr. PK. PK (shaving own pubic hair): This is my lucky day! JL (eating pickle): This is your lucky day. Ms. CR plays with the resuscitated invertebrates from Mr. PK's pail, making a 'house of worms.' CR: So where's the rubber biscuit? PK: It's up yer ass. JL: (eating cranberry soup): With a piece of glass. PK: With a rubber hose. JL (eating mayonnaise): With my nose. Ms. CR crams her fingers into Mr. JL's nostrils; after a vigorous session of rummaging she comes out with a pina colada. CR: So they didn't bring us one of everything! The cheap bastards! She sets to downing the beverage. JL (eating cheese sticks): Somehow my sinuses feel ten times better than tomorrow's polls should indicate. Mr. PK is riding the Toddler around like it's a bucking bronco. PK: I guess this is what you call a tree falling in the forest! CR: That should do something for his bunions. JL (eating salad and potatoes): Damned polls... CR: Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker. JL (eating salami): Fucking polls! Mr. PK lassos a low-flying bird. PK: How ya like me now, ya vegan sumbitch! CR: I guess this one gets the worm... She begins to shove the Lazarus worms into the bird's beak. Meanwhile, Mr. JL has lifted the skirt of a female diner and is on hands and knees, face-to-crotch with her. JL (eating snow cone): Bush? Bush?! He rips away the panties. JL (eating salmon cakes): Hey Georgie Boy, we need to bomb Poland. Pronto! PK (proffering bird): Eat the bird, JL! Female Diner: Is it suddenly drafty in here? CR: I refuse to accept your pretense of spontaneous lividity. Now hold that bird still so I can feed it! PK: Eat the bird, damn your eyes! JL (eating female diner): The Pols! The god damned bitch-titting Pols! Sporting Fellow: I was known to give MacEnroe quite a nuanced game or two in my day. PK: Right here's the intellectual dishonesty of veganism, shit for brains! Now eat the fucking bird! In his desperation to get JL to eat his prize catch PK shoves the bird irretrievably far into the Female Diner's nether regions. JL (eating kielbasa): That's it for Warsaw, baby...Chopin is fucking history! CR And the punk ain't usin' a condom... Female Diner: Whoever smelt it dealt it. Buffalo Wings begin to squirm their way up through her esophagus, exiting between her lips. Ms. CR is keen to catch them in the vacated pail. CR: It's a boy! The Sporting Fellow reads a newspaper bearing the headline: LOINS OF A GENIUS — CHOPIN STILL HAS WHAT IT TAKES. He then rolls up the paper and beats the Toddler with it. CR: That's a fairly nefarious interpretation of the spread of European culture. JL (eating cream pie): This is your lucky day. ================================ Kick me in the nuts at abel@bizarrEbooks.com. Your Host, |
