[EDITS]

CONAN O'BRIEN

Alright.

If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next.

No, Conan—that's not how this works.

WHAT—where did you come from!?

When did you get here?

JAY LENO

This goes deeper than all of you can understand.

WHAT the FUCK, man!

When did you-/

—when did he get here?

How did you do that?!

How did you do that?!

What are you, like, the same guy?

Are you not all the same guy?

[they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree]

Listen at this.

Okay then.

The enemy of your friend is my enemy.

Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend—

That is correct.

—so we're all friends here.

That's right.

Some special forces?

Which forces?

How special?

[JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK]

Do I look like a fool to you?

Uh—

OOPS

[a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.]

This feels heavier than usual.

Same as always.

Hm. Are you sure.

Yep.

Hey, you're not the regular guy.

Regular guy died.

That makes sense.

JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū

Okay, grosss

Not like that

[lifting max weight]

Okay. That was cool. Wow.

Yeah, sure whatever.

I am strong

Yeah yeah, okay.

Are you sure you want to be my size?

Yep.

JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū

Okay, gross!

Yeah.

SKRILLEX is in all of Ū.

okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but

That other guy?!

[JIMMY FALLON]

Yeah, he's weird.

Also meanwhile, kind of—

MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service

lol.

Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know.

Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke.

What?! Big uh!

[Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.]

Woah!

See.

Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that.

Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine

Ooh.

Psycho bitch<> devious methods <> new ludachris commercial

All ya'll girls is toddlers

I like long boards and longhairs

Lawn mowers and lawn shares

Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher

I got the Blair witch project

On Blair,

I hope I scare you

How dare you.

Your girl looks like a naked mole rat.

I got my soul back.

You blue eyed bastards stole everything

From the whole blacks,

Hold that thought

I'm at Whole Foods market

throw in the Amazon algorithm off

With marked dollars

Look at God at Walmart

On them rollbacks

You old hacks are cackling

I'm shackled to old habits

Hold hands with me, rabbit

I'm just a silly rapper

really, are you?

Maybe.

Cut the verse of

Reverse God

Now I'm the devil

I'm still lost in the Amazon cart

I sharted all up in your pop tarts

Before you warmed them up, pops

Just for the sake of the art,

Heart to heart,

It's a war on love

And the white girls won with nothin but

Buckets of

Whatever's up there

I wouldn't know

Cause I'm stuck job searching

And running,

Trying not to have a tummy

So some gummy worm will love me

First their sour, then they're sweet

Then nobody,

Trolli

Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean!

Said nobody

But the globalists are performing your programming

Which you're worshiping

I put my eye on the dollar

So I could watch you all

Crumble and fall

Don't you know

The apocalypse is happening at the mall

Of all the places

How's that for a stream of consciousness,

You salamander

I asked Anandar back

But I went past that chapter

Have a chap

Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars

A bottle of water will cost you a fortune

(But at least the drugs are in it)

Get it

It's recycled piss

Distilled? Which is it, Mr,?

The mystery box was literally lifted into

My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it—

I want a refund, before I catch that

Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it

salmonellahallibut

One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk

But guess what?

The devil's in your pocket or your palm,

And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one

Cause God is awesome,

But my mom is fuckin toxic

And that's how I fuckin got here

Blow my head off,

Slit my wrists

And write a song

While jumping off a bit

When all you need is money,

But the world costs more than

It's worth, and words are nothing

But another fucking problem in your Google documents

I look at my son and see a God,

But half of Satan's in him,

Oh man

Robotics

Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this.

Where's my sides?!

WHERE'S MY SIDES.

You don't get SIDES with this;

It's just CHICKEN.

I don't eat CHICKEN.

It appears as though, however–

You do.

Ok, I gotta get off this playlist.

I…

i

gotta .

“The Wal*Mart Wars”

Hm.

…

………….

….

*face*

… no.

No. l–

What is this place.

{After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control,

great , there goes my peace.

Not forever, though, maybe.

FUCK THIS PLACE.

I HATE THIS PLACE.

Everybody hates this place.

But the album is called

“I love New York”

Yes, thats

Technically

How it's pronounced,

though

It's stylized like

I _ NY

Cause.

EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY

Oh, wow, this is beautiful.

THis is great.

I love this place

FUCK THE FEDS.

CUT TO:

EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE

Anywhere ‘above' like 87th?

Lets just call it 80th, be safe.

BE SAFE!

NIGGAZ.

ah shit, i gotta go.

BITCH–

But lets just be honest,

It's technically ‘above'

But it's really

[THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld]

Oh no.

srsly tho.

X_c

Anyway.

FUck man,

Do you think i'll ever get good like that.

Idk what equipment is this

Hmm, lets see, that's approximately

$8,000 USD of CDJs

wow

yep

That's retarded

Yep.

And you still need a mixer.

fukt.

OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this.

Consider it done.

wait , really?

YES. you earned it.

Wait, I–

What?!

You earned it…

Uh oh.

Take care now.

Shit.

[BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART]

Uh oh.

Fuck.

what is this place.

INT. WALMART. WHENEVER

EMPLOYEESLAVES

WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE.

That's not funny

IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau

MEanwhile, in this other dimension,

So that i don't offend anybody…

Actually, you know what?

Be offended.

Quit that stupid fuckin shit

and follow your dreams!

Wait really?

Wait, really?

Sure!

If you want!

…i guess.

AMERICA

NO.

INSTANT HOMELESSNESS

ok , nvm.

Damn.

I know, right.

wtf r u guys watching.

Shut up.

All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents.

x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be

Could it really?

Shut UP, PLURNICORN.

Wtf is a PLURNICORN

We'll see.

[Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public

Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?!

NO.

I grew up in LA

Rich as fuck

And i've been famous since I was liike 12,

Or something.

Right.

That is–kind of terrifying.

LATER:

WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE.

WHERE'S THE EXIT.

THEY HAVE GUNS?!

oh wow, they have GUNS.

WHY DO WE NEED GUNS!

KA-BLAM.

BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS.

Bang-bang!

Ptttttttttt—sttt.

And they have guns.

Actually, these are just– confetti cannons.

*pop!*

Lol

“Possibly The Worst Show Ever

the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks.

what else happened?

idk.

I CANT STOP DANCING.

none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth.

"missing"

YOU SHOT HIM.

I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART.

{Enter The Multiverse}

“TVP”

Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1

Season 7- 15

Man, I can't remember the other two kids names,

I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit.

Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent—

Holy shit, give this kid a name-/

I thought I already named her, I just don't remember.

That's true. It seems like they all had names.

She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself.

“Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season.

Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick—

Where's his write up, anyway?

That shit could go on for days.

I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like—

At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason.

Hazel's 7 - Season Arc

Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child.

Holy shit, what is this kid's name

If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't.

The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't.

I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's—

I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene.

I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all…

The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically

What's the therapists name?

Doctor Robin

She has to have a last name

Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but

It seems like it starts with a T.

We'll see. I just saw her anyway.

I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer.

It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible…

lol the Al Gore Rhythm

Ahahahahahahaha

Was that the joke?

Maybe. Idk.

Maybe. Idk.

Hm.

Hmmmmm:

What:

Nothing.

That actually might have been it.

Really, was it?

I will never know.

That is kind of a good dad joke, though.

And a good band name.

Idk about that.

My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was—

The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar.

‘Why would I even want that, anyway?'

I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily.

But really—

I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one.

$5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else.

It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at

“Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about.

I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption.

e.

My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.

Robin Bennett

Fine.

“My name's

—ahem—

“Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.”

—did the say “don't” write a book about me?

It's Not about him…

Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.

Robin Bennett

Fine.

“My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.”

Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason.

I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that wenwere somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline.

Episode 01. Pilot

An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger.

Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth.

Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshipped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen—

Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all…

—specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role.

I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were everpresent anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead.

‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.'

Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizzare and asenine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-concious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the —

Was it Keystone?

It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true.

I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about.

It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to

What if someone steals this out of my documents?

That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form.

‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high,

So incredibly high right now…'

They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation.

And it was, a disaster.

He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronizatic nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'.

I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a faciniation, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't.

I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters.

It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all.

‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub.

I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another.

‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more.

That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become

[The Festival Project™]#

Sai

Psy.

See you in seven years, then.

You're so silly—

I'm not going to live seven more years.

We'll see about that.

You will see.

I'll be dead.

So I'll be dead.

So it is.

A summer hiatus,

Vacations in Prague, yes

Let's pray for the rest of us

A sign of the times and a coming of ages

Who made you famous again

As the rest of us

I don't like it

As much as I'd like to

Keep writing

Keep finding the reason to die

and you're blinded by kindnesses

And I ams

I woke up in the 9th dimension,

As an infinite friend

Familiar with my kitchen

JOHN SLATTERY

An interesting thing happened this morning.

What's that, John?

I woke up as John Slattery

Just remember what love holds

The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries

This walk could take forever in designer jeans

Another day in slave hell

The controllers controlling

And Satan is Sataning

Seems like a time to go clubbing

It's a simple kind of depression

Resting on your head when

All you simply wished is the taste of flesh

The freedom of skin

And the lather of love—

Or blood spatter on the pavement

Aim for the head

If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again

Look what greed does

I hate lazy days in Manhattan

Cause I've never had one

What happened on the way to the forum

I was starstruck;

Five finger death punch

Right in the heart

I wish I was punctual

Right on time for lunch

Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent?

Don't you got models to robot?

Don't you know I never want to hurt you

But you know, I'm going to hurt you.

You know I'm going to hurt you

Now, the review:

Sooner or later, I fall over your world

Good dudes in drags

Good food for thought

I'm a dog

With the wrong parts

You should take Kanye to the mall

With a migrants lanyard

(The migrants are anarchists!

Good one, God)

This one goes to. | this one first, from—

Which one are you ?

I guess we are one in the same

It's a famous radio tower

Live up to your name

Go sell your flower for flour

As I stand at the jumping point

Eye on Manhattan,

The wind beneath my wings

Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't

The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain

The brain and brain cereal I left at the market

I used to love Brandy

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

Now I just wish I was something, awesome

“The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted”

That's a really long album title.

I didn't imagine I'd write this much

Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants,

Or what have you

(I'm just a fan)

I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom

Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired

Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow

Must be on my way to Manhattan

For some blacklist event.

Where I'm from

The A List

Is a face

No name needed

“Oh, I know who you are”

If I purchased a car today

I might get done paying it off

By my 81st birthday.

Shady.

If I had a penny for every mistake I made,

I would probably be Nameless.

If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense;

Yes, let's move the train for a moment

With the doors still open.

— I'd like to watch what happens.

So what happens when the sun comes up

On the only body you've ever known

And no one wants it

What happens with a dude named Starr

Punches you over and over again

And then no one loves you

(That's starstruck, your honor)

What happens when granted a pardon for passions

And everything happens after is magic

What happens when all you want is to go manic

To finish the album

And just feel good again

What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it?

What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts?

Huh, what happens!

What happens, Kanye?

What happens, The God?

What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of…

No on can trust you

And nobody loves you

Since it was simply a tryst

Put this at a distance.

Where did my energy disappear to!

Where in the fear is my other earring?

Fuck.

Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment.

Be anyone but a mother,

Anywhere but your apartment—

It hurts, the construction.

Someone doesn't something

Nobody knows nothing about me,

But what I put in this casket

(This podcast)

Oh hey,

I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now!

I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex!

For real!

Heal, Oh great dragon,

HEAL, BITCH.

Word.

woof for the world

Will for the wolf;

Rain on the roof.

Cobain don't have a God

(Or a Gun, if you wanted that one)

“Pull me up, God,

I'm done under here”

He called in

I followed the fosters to farrow

And got better

I got better and bitter much quicker and

Never in bed had I been as flexible

As to kiss his chest

As I kicked my own neck

With my left foot.

What the fucking fairyshit is that?

There, I fixed it.

Fixed what.

I don't know what. But I fixed it.

I know, huh!

So be 110 and flexible

Powerlift tectonic plates

Do Pilates

And make waffles!?

Alright, I can do that

But only as Jennifer Aniston

I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market

He's broken.

I like his band tho—

The one on the left hand,

Over the damaged one.

Are you on to that?

Says the sayer,

Son of Sam

So Sai the sage

Sets the stage

Is that the plan?

Never fall for a man,

Even over an alter

And tied by the hands.

All I see in my initials initially is B Minor

16 might be minors, guys

But she's creaming to find you

At the front lines

Life of a superstar DJ

At the cross roads

Or the turnstiles

How do you turn bile into

Beguiling

Without rifling a few feathers

Or looking into the eye of the rifle

And dying first

Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train.

I'm just training for fame

And hating you every day

Since we made it

Love

Get out of my way, Satan

I'm staying

I'm saying your name sake insanely

Please break me

Like a chicken leg

Or just shake me from this existence

Since I don't seem fit for it

Anymore than I fit that

Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right?

Am I dying! Or just dying inside

Fuck coughs

If you want him enough to—Use black magic

To do that to me,

wait till it falls back on you,

You gross hag

If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks

We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice

When she's back from her adventures in wonderland

No wonder you're a Monro

Crossed over from O'Fallons

It's an old warfare with two clans

From the old countries

With no borders

Or border collies

Laboradores

And labirites, likely

As Aphrodite is to smite me

So here comes DJ Francis

With his new black girlfriend

Just kidding

We all know in his world

It's cold and broken

With nothing but blue eyes

And big wild to look over you

Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you.

Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock.

Turns out you'll sit stuck in your own sick

God as my witness

For screenshotting those ass pictures

—that's somebody's kids, dick.

tick tok has no limits.

VO

Of course,

The day and time I should have to go to Rockerfeller Plaza quickly, quietly and unseen, the train is magically destined not to move.

I've been sitting here at least a half hour, with no end in sight—

[The doors close and the train begins moving.]

Hahaha!

Fucking hilarious, God.

I've been avoiding The Rock like the plague—

Not that I think anything would happen at all upon arrival— who am I, anyway?

Nobody important.

There she goes.

Still, I've written enough about it, and the people inside and around it,

That the place makes me nervous.

More nervous than ever, that is, actually—

I always felt weird in the place.

[flashbacks]

When I first got to New York,

I would end up there on accident.

Completely by accident.

Lost.

Faulty navigation.

Hackers:

Whatever.

I always just—

By complete fucking accident

Ended up at Rockerfeller Plaza

The city slips over us, as the train sinks back underground —

I'm facing the city now,

As not to be reminded of my abuser's toxic words and toxic hands,

By dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpacks

Still, etched into the subway walls

Are two stars, which remind me to repeat the mantra:

Starr Michael Roberts is a pedophile wifebeater

Less of a mantra than the truest words ever spoken,

But that's all the shape of a five point star means to me now or will ever mean to me

And to think,

The American flag has 50 of the

50 wife beating pedophile men

On a red white and blue flag

That waves just to remind me

I was born a fat ugly black woman

To be a slave

And there's no one to save us

I want to senselessly beat the man in the dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpack

Just like I was beaten senselessly by the man called Starr,

The devil in disguise as my first love

Still trying to chase my soul from its dream

Back into his nightmarish under realms of unhygienic hatred, vomit stained rugs

And piss stained couches,

Phlegm on the walls and

Nothing on but Diablo

And old episodes of The Sopranos.

—but I still love The Sopranos;

And I still love my one and only

Good thing that ever happened

From an awful marriage

That buried me

wonder what's on this side of the train to write

Maybe nothing

Nothing I like, anyway

Some guy that just thinks i'm some ugly black bitch

Of course

All the white rich dudes

Are horrible

I miss the poor surfers

Blowing blunts and wishing they was with blondes,

With me tucked under their arms

I need a tummy tuck to find love

Goddamn,

I'm miserable just sitting here

At least I get a glance at her

The tattooed God

With the pink hair

Where's Wanda

Sai the Saige

Don't say ahit

Unless its music

Sai the Saige says

Turn the page

For more sermons

Sai the Saige sings her words carefully

Writes forwards for whole books in four words

Four worlds down,

Now four more.

That's a world tour.

Lil biiiiiiitzzz

Bro, I might never have sex again.

There's a new STD on the loose

And patient zero is a white man from New York in his 30's

FUCKING GROSS.

Where's wanda

Where's Waldo

Ah FUCK

I got your wallet

WHATS WRONG WITH YOU.

SOMETHING

which one are you?!

Nothing, nobody.

Sunni?!

I'm not Sonny, you're Sonny.

I'm not—

Don't say it

Whatever

Where is it?

Where's what?

The rock

You're on the rock!

I that's not —

Stop it

what I meant!

Which one are you—

Who are you

8mm

I'm the cosmic—

Whatever the fuck.

Gimmie the rock

Get off of me

I think too much

I think I have a disease

I think too much

But I don't think much of me

It's just as much as I want

A three musketeers bar,

That's far fetched

For a vegan

With 12 dollars in the budget

For the rest of the month

Goddamn.

One down

20 to go

Call someone

To take your husband

Home

I'm drunk

I'm stuck in this thought

At the bottom of the rock

Damn. 8 always/ eight ways to get lost here

Not today though, I hope

Follow the smell of coffee

— the open doors

This the stairs—

— up a couple stories.

Muscle memory, I—

Wait.

Are there stairs to the top of the rock?

I would walk them.

Shazam, what's this lame ass fucking song?

Ugh, at least I have muscle memory.

OUCH.

COME ON.

OUCH.

Come with me.

Ugh. I have so fucking much to do.

*I have so much fucking to do.

Okay, now what do I do?

Just jump!

That seems like a bad idea.

It's the only idea you've got.

That's not even my idea!

—but it's the only idea you've got!

OKAY, I've got an idea!

What's it?

Wtf, I've never even seen this many people here.

What is this, a field trip?

GODDAMIT

JUST JMP.

i can't, I'm scared!

Okay. Then I'll push you.

No don't

*push*

helicopter: fluh - fluh- fluh- flh

THERE HE IS—

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

AGHHHHHHHH.

GIANT BIRD OF PREHy-

SNATCH.

GODDAMN

Turn SIM down

Okay, how much.

Just a little

How's that

That's better.

Okay.

Look, I am not interested in you.

I get that, Jimmy Fallon.

I am just doing my job, okay.

I get it, Jim.

Okay?! Do you understand.

I understand.

Okay?

Okay.

Okay.

So what is your job, exactly?

I keep my mouth shut,

Hands fisted misdirected,

But staying on track

Thank god they put this shit here

Hands in my pocket equals words undocumented

I can't help but to admit

I almost wasn't even writing before this

Now fast forward

Every time I'm under this, it feels like I'm already in my own show or something

Of course,

I used to love a good revolving door

Shit

I used to love at all

Man! I hate the rock!

Why.

Cause fuck Jimmy Fallon, that's why!

why?!

CAUSE.

Look, the you from the other dimension should be coming around that corner any minute.

Okay, for what.

To use the restroom.

Make sure she

They:

What.

Me is a “they”

Whatever.

I love the rush of death telling me to jump as the oncoming train approaches from behind me

I could be blinded by the light.

Look, 6'3

God knows what I need

And that makes history

Make sure when you —

when she —-

—goes into the bathroom, find Fallon and give him the—

I know what to do.

Alright,

YO.

NO. LEAVE ME ALONE.

I'm married with a family!

I don't find you attractive! At all!

I know that, asshole!

I only want you for your fame and money!

Wait, really?

No, you handsome basta'd!

Goddammit…

Goddammit! Sunni!?

I knew that was you!

It is me—but the other me is somewhere, so take this—quickly back to the 4th dimension—-

This is the fourth dimension!

Wait, it is?!

YES. What dimension did you think it was

The 8th!

The 8th?! THAT EXISTS?!

yeah!!! Where the fuck are you from?!

The third, I thought!

Thank god, here's this fucking train.

Well, fuck off, then! I gotta go find the 8th dimensional Jimmy Fallon!

What! For what?!

That's priveleged information

Ascended extraterrestrials only, broh!

Woah, woah, woah, don't “bro” me.

I said “broh”

What?! That's what I said—

No, you said—

Whatever. “Broh”,—

—now you said it—

—I'm coming with you—

Don't be homo.

—but, you're a woman, I thought.

That's what's you think.

That's what the tabloids said…

You wanna know what the tabloids said about you?

In which dimension?

Right?! Now shut up. Come on.

[they move quickly towards the—

Towards the where?

I don't know. I've only ever been at the bottom of the rock:

I don't get it. If the antenna is on the top,

Then why did my vibe go.

GLUH.

Sorry:

No , that's a lot; what is that:

—you really think I'm handsome?

I think you're an asshole.

I hate writing at the rock

(Launching to onesel.)

Wtf was that supposed to be

(Laughing to one's self)

Or

(Lunching to one's self?)

Or

(Launching to—

Fuck it, I don't know.

You look ridiculous.

At least i can just write it off to

“Mental Health Problems”

MEANWHILE

Check it out. The devil is following me.

What.

Wanna see.

What the FUCK is that?

He wants my soul.

WOAH.

Yeah, cool, right.

No!

Yeah it is…

What the hell happened

I sucked him off once:

You what.

Calm down. I didn't know it was the devil.

Holy!

It's was un Unholy

See.

Damn Satan

Youuuuuuu are fucking gross.

Yeah.

Nice tattoos though.

I thought you'd like this.

I do. Who's your body?

Some drunk.

The alcoholics are so easy.

What about my soul.

What about your soul, dude?

Why doesn't he want my soul?

He already has your soul.

What?! I never sold my sold my soul.

That's what you think.

Oh, I get it

Comcast owns Jimmy Fallon.

Actually, Nancy Drew does, or whatever.

What's her name

Nancy!

HUH- what!!

DREW BARRYMORE.

GET IN HERE!!!!

woah. Okay. I gotta get back to the 90's.

Why!

I left my

DREW BARRYMORE

GODDAMIT.

Sorry,

JUST GET OUT.

She is cute, though.

She's so fucking cute.

Hey,

What.

Put me on your hit list,

For what.

Cause.

No way, dude.

So it's this Nancy Drew Character

Uh huh.

Then Comcast

Correct.

Then NBC/Universal.

uh-huh

Then Lorne Michaels—

Wait

Correct.

Fuck man. So you mean the portion of Jimmy Fallon I won in that game of 8 dimensional poker is pretty much nothin.

It's pretty much—

Worthless.

Not worthless.

What are you saying—

I'm saying—

I'm not a real woman

I just saw a real woman

With a long skirt

And a body worthy of love

Beautiful hair

And face like porcelain

Nothing upon the sleeves strewn in ink

Petite

I could never be a real woman

Actually, you know what.

I could have worn anything

But I'm not showing up for anything at Rockerfeller Plaza dressed like my inner cumslut

YOUR “INNER” CUMSLUT

THAT WSS AWESOME

I know, God.

*belches juicy semen, slurps*

You're—a fucking awful person, though, just awful.

I know.

Just—disgusting.

Yeah, but—

—that was the best blowjob I ever had

Yep. *burps—slurps* ufgh.

—and you swallowed all of it. I don't know how!

Both: That's was so much!

Haha yeah:

Jinx! You owe me a blowjob.

Okay!

You're fucking gross.

Yeah.

Oh wow.

That went deep.

I mean, not really “deep” it went aural.

*oral*

I swear to god if you publish this

POSTED

DAMN. that dude is good looking.

Why is he dating someone that looks like a mouseS

Maybe he's into mouce face

I guess.

I'm into mouse face.

[deadmau5]

Be nice.

Hey!

What: what do you want

That guys an asshole!

Duh!

Okay. I love white people

But they're weird sometimes

I was lookin at this dude on the train

Like real hard,

And I swear to God, I couldn't tell if that was his girl

Or his twin sister

I was like

What I the fuck am I lookin at

Idk but I like it

It's almost refreshing to see sliders that aren't made of plastic or whatever awful material

OH. CONAN O BRIEN

YEAH.

But mad young.

That's—

LUCIFER!

Hahahaha what

GET BACK HERE.

DAMN.

That's one good looking kid.

Dammit dammit dammit

A bunch of handsome white dudes I want nothing to do with

It's true

I do like the fame

The power

The respect

The money, I could give or take

Or make my own

Just so you'll date me

The power, I like

The respect and the fame

So your name came and went with the hour

And the sunset

I might take walk in the rain

Because my body is ugly

And I just want to be loved

A husband

Two dogs

And pushing a stroller

Of course, there's the part that just wants to have fun

Get fucked up

Love someone I trust enough

To rub against

Without a rubber

Against the grain

Our heads together

He grabs the back of my neck

And I just can't handle it

Fuck. I love mad men— and I love men when they're mad

Especially Fallon

That's somebody's dad in the bathtub, yeah mate

Somebody back at the opera

Probably phantoms

There you go

You've got you a girl

So grab her hand

And hold onto her

Don't let her know

If you love or fuck someone else

Just for the fun of it

Don't break her head and her heart at the same time

She might not come back from it

Like I never did

I never came back

I was punched in the face maybe 5

Or like 6 times

Before I got up, became Skrillex, went for a a run with the dogs

And then did it again

Never was god, though

I got a lot of problems

I love the waterfront

But no one loves me

I'm left in the lobby a lot

Like Miley, in that one song

I guess I'm destiny

Or perhaps I'm your density

Once upon a time, I walked here

Once a upon a time, I worked here,

Shout out to number six.

This one is sung for you

This verse undoes the hex.

Remind me to get your mom hallmark card, someone uttered

I fucking love her

Remember to stop at the shopping carts before your long walk home

Almost hoping you're soaked in the strange acid rain

So hard

You forget what your name is

I spent a whole plot of a film

Just trying to be famous

Luckily,

I think The Tonight Show stops taping in the summer,

So with any luck,

The real Jimmy Fallon is somewhere in Greece or some shit

Rich assholes and their summer vacations—

I'm guessing,

But still unwavering in the back of my mind somewhere

That no matter what,

Whenever I'm at 30 Rock, I'm being watched.

The entire cast of 30 rock is watching the legends saga in 3D, along with some of the keynote cast of Saturday night live—

Don't be selfish

I'm not. I don't know what else I used to watched that's owned by this media conglomerate

ahem.

SLASH/Universal.

Oh, so we are doing this back to the future revamp

depends, are you gonna keep being fat,

Or be spry, like Marty McFly

And just for the fuck of it,

You're the new Hanson in the new 21 Jumpstreet Movie

SUNNI BLU

Aight,

SUPA

Dammit.

TINA FEY

Do you smell donuts.

LIZ LEMON

no, it's cookies

Follow the smell of the cookies.

I get it.

I got it.

Try to remain unseen!

LOOK AT ME. I'M AT THE BASE OF A GIANT PE—

COCK.

LUTZ

When's the action?!

Notes:

Chocolate man makes everything chocolate

Okay. That's stupid.

Chocolate!

Chocolate!

Uhhh—-

TINA FEY

What are you doing here?!?

JIMMY FALLON

I work here…what are you doing here?

TINA FEY

I have tenure

JIMMY FALLON.

*purses lips*

[tina tries to hide the entire cast Reunion of late 90s/early 2000's SNL cast members behind her

TINA FEY

(Nervously)

tah—uh;

I thought you were on vacation.

JIMMY FALLON *squinting under dark sunglasses*

I redacted it.

What does that mean?

MAYA RUDOLPH

(Munching popcorn, wearing overalls)

I know what it means.

Mm.

What does that mean?

I read the comics.

CUT TO:

I have something to tell you.

Okay, what.

It can't be over the phone.

Okay.

-31

Where the firefighters is?

I got some propolis cough syrup for the stalkers

Where is it!

Where is what?

You know what.

What?

From the fountain.

It wasn't me! I don't have it.

. .

. .

Now my days are shattered

My heart is scattered

Around down,

Fowl feathers of the night owl

Dancing in my head

In given nightgowns

Right now

Put the candle out

Put the light on

Every night,

I'm gone

Wandering around

In the eye of the camera,

My orb

Falcon turned to black panther

I prance around in a dance robe

Like a disaster

Put it out there,

Just so I can't go back

Pass the cake

Pass the butter

Pass the late night hatred

Pass away the day praying

For the faithless

And their fake friends, but

I digress

Once the cameras are rolling

A job's to be done

For the funny men of us

Are undercover

Dressing up the dead

And most disgusting sinister

The winded wonder bread apostles

I am a robot god

I am born again in acid rain

Something changed me

Here's to the late night

I hope he hates me

—I hope I'm right, at least

I hate being right—

But I'm always right.

Right hand over my bathroom counter

Stacked up attacks on the Muslims

But I love em

Or I want to

Hot tub

The doctor

Don't worry, loser

Viewerships down to two downloads

According to the numbers

My demographic is faggots and players of forenig

I have a habit for magic

Addiction to alphas,

You know?

I'm a God

I'm a robot

I was washed in the acid rain

—-

Take the back of my neck like an animal

Yes sir

Put my hair in your hands

Pull me back,

Like an animal

Up the ante

Up in the air is my ass

In a past life

I had to have you

Now I stand I higher grounds

I'm higher now

Coming up next

A deeper addiction

Coming up next

A deeper dicking

John Wiccan

Coming up next

Change the channel, coming over

Move em up

The winners circle

Then move over.

I lit a candle for another lover

A real one ,

With a body and mind

The tide of my soul wants to know you

Behold, way below deck

Deep dick

Imm in deep shit now

Way below the belt

Blow all my hole on the dope fiend

Do you want to know me

A piñata full of chocolate

Ive got a new list

And you're not on it

Aagain with this

Again with the

What's in my head

It's a letter said

Never forget this

Forget this

Forget this

Tell me how to be like this

To get a man like that

To get a real deep dick

That's way below deck

I should settle for less

Just to get my head better

Some medical man

Or some meth

Just to finish this project

I could protect a protector with holes in his pockets,

The proctor

The trophy,

Two daughters

And another one

Here's goes the show

I'm way too old for this

I just need one good Fred Again

Who knows how to hide he's a man

But conspired

Admirers,

You know what it is?

A deep dick, man

Way, below deck

Way below the belt

Get ahold of him

Ring the phone again

I been calling on Collin

Coleen is more polished

It's brother sister sameness,

Same mess for the colonizer

White on white is

Right on right

I'm just behind you

Way under the bridge

Belt around my head to make it better

I'll see you in heaven

Out of Manhattan

Where trash is the precipice

Never better

Bodies in perfection

Where it went

And where it goes again

I'll see you then

So apparently—

Shh

Wrong document

great! Now we gotta figure out why apparently—

[JENNIFER ANNISTON has a vendetta against JIMMY FALLON]

What. For WHAT?!

Idk, what did you do to this bitch?

What did I say?!

What did you do?!

JENNIFER ANNISTON

I'm not finished with you, yet!

WHAT?

I don't know.

Apparently,

Goddammit.

Wait.

What.

So he's a genius, right?

Yeah, I guess.

Which means he's like—socially inept in some kind of way….

Yeah!

Yeah.

Yeah.

Oh yeah.

Flashback:

Like: the 90's, or whatever.

…are you turning me down?

Wait. So I just shapeshifted into J-Lo

Before.

Hello.

hello:

Yeah. We could have done it.

Ew.

But we didn't.

Ew.

I mean:

Cut back to:

Nobody turns me down! Not even me!

Alright.

There's something off about that dude.

Maybe he's gay…

Hm.

He not gay.

He very not gay.

Hm.

See, I knew it. He's a good guy!

[REDACTED]

He's a MONSTER!

He's an ANIMAL.

WOOOOOOOOOOF .

Oh man, that guy is a

WOOF. I'm a DOG.

Skrillex?

I'm a dog

Heeeeeeeeeeee

Baby

Heeeeeeeeee

Damn, this fools got a whole list of celebrity ass bitches

—a list celebrity.

CUT BACK TO

I'M SUPER HOT.

Hmhm. I know.

Listen.

Okay, Jennifer Aniston.

Are you trying to fuck Jimmy Fallon?!

NO!

Okay, good.

God no.

That's—

Wait, why NOT?!

—I need way more than a million dollars.

I knew it! It's about the money.

It's actually not about the money.

Wait, no, it's not?

No.

…then what is it?

Yo.

Okay, so

Everybody likes his genetics.

And I mean like

FUCK IT, I WANT HIM.

This one. I want this one!

Right here.

ICE CREAM. GET YOUR ICE CREAM.

Okay, imm not supposed to tell you this but—

What.

I'm—

JOHNNY CARSON

LOOK AT ME.

Ah, well, alright

TAG, YOURE IT.

DAMN, you're good.

Okay, I'm stoned.

Damn. I got a boner.

Cool.

JLO

look at me .

I see you.

You do see me. You know why?

…yes.

I am a-list.

I get that.

That's priority level ho status.

Uhhh—-

Ben affleck.

That's real?!

Some other guy—

This guy.

Wait,

But that Fallon motherfucker?!

[Redacted]

He turned me down!

Hey, so, uh—

No thanks.

WHAT.

*shrugs.

*

BITCH.

Look, okay, I'm not touching this.

Why NOT,

His WIFE is CUTE.

Dawwwe.

Gangsta.

Oh, no, you know what?!

What?

You're gonna write this—

And you're gonna like it.

Pass.

PASS?!

Yes. I am not going to attack Fallon.

ATTACK.

THINK OF THE KIDZZZZZZ.

That is a nice midlife crisis.

Yikes.

Aaaaaahhh. Wow.

What happened.

I shifted Fallon.

And then wa—

I think I died.

I'm dying. I'm dying.

You're probably right.

My right to write this

Is your right to remain a public figure

For this cyclical fan fiction

I suck dicks for a living

And inhale tlevision

Schizophrenic sickness

Illuminati, predictive

Programmings

I'm so spamming

These hoes

Hoping I slit writsts

(Only my own though)

So

Most of the late night guys are

Conviniently enough Irish

In some way or another

Probably because

Predictive programming targets the demographic of

Somewhat

You know what?!

Nevermind, I'm not writing this.

I get it though.

I think they're hiding something.

Are you sure he's not even just a little Asian.

Positive.

Or like, adopted.

No.

Are you sure?

I mean, for the the most part—

They would never allow a—

I mean—

Just water it down host by host,

Until the racists are too old

To care who replaces him.

Shiny.

He is shiny.

Yeah, um—

Let's just face it;

Either this dude

Is the most perfect man ever

Or he's secretly getting laid every week.

What's so secret about

None of these things.

[redacted]

Look, there's nothing protecting me from a malicious system, there's nothing protecting you from me writing about you;

But hey, at least I'm staying away from The Rock

For my own sake

This equinox doesn't even have fucking free weights

What the fuck!

I need a break,

What does that mean?

The entertainment industry's been

Using me for years

At some point realizing

My infinite creativity

Comes from my

Inability to have

Actually

Every really been

Loved

So.

So.

No love, then.

Seems like it.

What about these?

Look. I like WHITE DUDES.

WHIIIIIIITE.

Not brown

Not black

Not slanted

Not Asian, really?

UGH.

The only reason—

—well, not the only reason—

I even hated him in the first place is because he

WAS so attractive

He's breaking 4th wall! Again!

Quit breaking character!

I am.

Stop it.

Fuck you, Fallon.

—that he just seemed like a douchebag.

—is a douchbag!

Always trust your gut.

There's nothing—and I mean NOTHING that would make me pull up an episode of SNL with fucking FALLON in it.

FUCKING FALLON!

GODDAMMIT,

Dude, let's just think back to a time before

OOH. COLORS.

THE COLORS.

OH.

FUCK.

Yo dude.

Fallon just kind of—

Was everywhere for awhile, wasn't he?

Yeah..:

Yeah.

For like, no reason.

No reason at all.

Yeah. He was just

Everywhere I went

Everything I saw

On everywhere I was

GODDAMMIT,

For like FIVE YEARS, bro.

That's nuts.

This is nuts.

This is famous.

W

What.

How did he get that famous?

Let me in.

No,

LET ME IN.

NO.

LET ME OUT.

Can't.

LET ME OUT OR I'll KILL YOU.

Kill me. I don't care.

What:

I think I scared that man.

He had a knife to my throat, and I thought I was done for; I might as well have been.

I was homeless, penniless, trapped in North Carolina with nothing at all, no phone, and nobody at all that knew where I was.

Nobody at all.

I looked him in the eye,

Dead on

And I told him

“Just do it.”

Now tell me again what's wrong with me.

I—

Right.

Stay in your lane. Wear your little blue fucking suit, your dress shoes, smile for the camera—

And shut the fuck up.

Cause if anybody's gonna kill me—

It's gonna be me.

N sync, it's gonna be me.

GODDAMMIT JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. NOT NOW.

Why not

WE'RE HAVING A MOMENT

No, we are not.

Take it away, boys.

So you wouldn't date—

After Britney, bro?

Awhs.

[Tales of a Superstar DJ]

Even if he wasn't married, I was too young for him—but not really—

Something in me met in the middle and collided for my attribution to moral decency as if it were anything more than a plot line bustling in my head; and even that was arousing—Patrick and Esha were lovers, so passionate and star crossed that it was hard not to imagine them as I had first saw them//as us, but in a different world, a different lifetime; a love drawn so shaken with a kiss that shattered me, with visions of grief ingrained in my mortal being, and though somewhere he, this Fallon had captured my heart, these were all just actors, mere players upon a stage in which I had no business being on, or searching for; the whole world was in my head.

Fuck it, I'm useless. I'm going go back to being useless, then.

An idling motif at the end of the block reminded me, I would never be safe or loved again. This was the end of days, and the end of my days, and I only hoped to one day soon be relieved of life itself…

[INFINITE HOWLING LAUGHTER LEAS BY TINA FEY AND JIMMY FALLON'S COLLEGUES, FRIENDS, and FORMER CAST MATES]

*literally crying of hysterical laugher*

Have you seen this?

What it it?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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