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  • Dear John Malkovich,

  • John, I gotta admit I was pretty pissed off when you blocked me outa yore email, especially

  • after I spent YEARS emailin' you all them great movie-plot ideas that coulda made you

  • a even bigger-time matinee idol than you already is. Bein' a Hollywood bigshot an' all, maybe

  • YOU can just sit down at some fancy laptop and drink one of them air-bubbled coffee thangs

  • and knock out an e-mail any time you feel like it, but I got ta wait 'til the graveyard

  • shift nurse ducks inta the broom closet with one o' the guards. This not only puts me under

  • whatchacall a serious time constraint, but imagine tryin' ta figger out a complicated

  • movie-plot idea while yer listenin' to a 200-pound Mexican woman and a steroid freak ten feet

  • from yer head makin' noises like they was stranglin' a sack full o' puppies. This damn

  • medication ain't helpin' much, either.

  • So I got a buddy o' mine ta put up this website for me, an' from now on, EVER-damned-body

  • on the planet is gonna be able ta see the QUALITY of the top-notch stuff I been sendin'

  • ya. (The movie ideas, I mean, not them three different pairs o' panties that nurse fergot

  • ta pick up. Me, I don't roll that way, if ya catch my drift, I jist figgered what with

  • you gittin' older an' all, ya probly don't git as much stuff like that in the mail no

  • more.)

  • Anyhow, FERGIT all them other ideas I sent ya, 'cause this is the BIG ONE, baby! Now

  • follow my reasonin' here. Hollywood's been rakin' it in fer years with all them musicals,

  • but GUYS don't go to musicals unless their wives or girlfriends keep bitchin' and whinin'

  • about it till they just give up. But see, I got this theory that it ain't the musicals

  • themselves that guys don't like, it's just that they're always about some wishy-washy

  • shit an' they got a bunch of faggoty characters who almost NEVER actually git to KILL anybody,

  • let alone git to, say, rip Doris Day's blouse off! Puttin' it plain an' simple, guys hate

  • musicals 'cause there ain't no tits OR body count in 'em!

  • Wellsir, I got a way to fix ALL that. I got a rough script here for a musical version

  • of "The Alamo". Picture the John Wayne version, except

  • there's a lot of tap dancin' an' shit, but the Mexicans still get to use them godawful-lookin'

  • six-foot bayonets on damned near everybody. I figger now that that Riverdance craze has

  • about wore down, we can git them Irish jokers cheap, stick 'em in some coonskin caps an'

  • git 'em runnin' a conga line all over some run-down adobe church.

  • I had Steve Buscemi in mind for General Santana, maybe George Clooney for Davy Crockett (in

  • between blowin' the shit outa Mexicans we can have him lip-synch some sappy shit about

  • how all he wants to do is be home with the old lady pickin' out curtains), and Ice Cube

  • for Jim Bowie (at the end, he can hold his flintlock pistols SIDEWAYS when he shoots

  • 'em, an' you know all them inner-city people LOVE shit like that).

  • Now, the way I see it, we ain't got no CHOICE for the female lead but that Sigourney Weaver

  • gal. Cut the sleeves off some skin-tight black longjohns, dump a bucket of water on her so

  • her nipples pucker, give her a flamethrower or somethin', an' at the end she can do some

  • tearjerkin' song about how women need to git empowered an' then she grabs a torch an' dives

  • into a vat full of Mexicans AND gasoline. Yeah, I know she prob'ly can't sing for jacksquat,

  • but we can always dub in Celine Dion or Cyndi Lauper or somebody. (If Sigourney ain't available,

  • maybe we can git that Daphne gal from "Frasier".)

  • John, this could be BIG, an' ya know I'm always lookin' out for ya, buddy, so I saved a PLUM

  • role fer you personally. You git to play that Colonel Travis joker, an' that's right up

  • yore alley 'cause I know you got a thang fer swords AND ruffled shirts, an' this time you

  • don't have to wear one o' them godawful white wigs an'

  • stuff shit up yer nose to make ya sneeze an' all that other medieval French horseshit.

  • An' ya git to die with some dignity for a change,

  • instead o' jist gittin' yore ass blown out of a glass elevator or somethin'.

  • Anyhow, now that I got this-here innernet site, you kin jist type yer replies right

  • inta the comments. (Use that secret code phrase I emailed ya, so's I'll know it's really you.)

  • But lookee-here, John, I ain't gonna keep ON sendin' ya my blockbuster ideas much longer

  • if I don't git a in-vite ta the Left Coast purty soon now.

  • Oh, shit, he's finishin' her off, so I gotta go!

  • Sincerely,

  • Bubba Joe Jim Bob Beets, Jr. Big-Time Hollywood Screenwriter

Dear John Malkovich,

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B2 git ta ain john hollywood gal

Dear John Malkovich S01 E01

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    Why Why posted on 2013/03/26
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