Thursday, July 24, 2008
Dude, Where's My Hockey Mask?, Pt. 3
In keeping with the ongoing commentary on the Fridays, I'll attempt the feat of all feats, and write an entire post without reference to any of the past Friday the 13th movies. With that in mind, I propose the following for the next Friday the 13th script:
Awakened by an electrical short from the 4th of July celebration, Jason awakens to find a box of Black Cats on his feet. Putting them in his pocket, Jason lumbers off into a cave, eating rats and endangered species of owls for the next nine days. It is, after all, only the 4th, and everyone knows that he can't do jack until the 13th.
The morning of the 13th, Jason rolls over from a long night's slumber, cooks a dozen or so eggs, reads David Brooks' column in the NY Times, and stalks through the woods. A deep hunger drives him, deeper than the drive for human blood...it is the drive for caffienated beverages. Coming across the only rural Starbucks in North America, located somewhere on rural route 81 in northern Oregon. Avoiding the stares of the other patrons, Jason draws out a picture of a steaming cup of coffee for the barrista. The unfortunate exchange ensues:
Barrista: I'm sorry; I can't make out exactly what that is. What's that coming out of the top of the cup in the picture--is that a worm?
Barrista: Okay, let's just make it a venti coffee. Room for cream?
Barrista: Room for cream. That'll be $1.84.
Jason: .............. (reaching in pockets, pulling out tufts of hair and maggots) ............
Barrista: (eyeing Jason's mask suspiciously) Frank, venti house. $1.84, sir.
Jason: ................ (right hand twitches around precariously held map of Oregon).
Guy behind Jason in line: Buddy, there's other people waiting here.
It's at this point that Jason recognizes the barrista as the last remaining counselor for Camp Krystal Lake. I've never seen coffee stirrers used in such a gruesome fashion. Now that's disgusting--I'm never drinking a frappucino again.
Days later, Starbucks franchise owners come to investigate, finding two of their employees stuffed in the drive-through speaker, and the bake case discretely unlocked, with one toffee-crunch bar missing. An investigation ensues, concluding with the firing of the shift manager who was apparently not sick as he claimed, but rather taking a 'sick day' to watch the USA marathon of Nightmare on Elm Street flicks. Ah, the sad, sick irony. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Jason, caffienated and alone, lumbers through the woods of Astoria, until he spies, off the coast of Oregon, a lone pirate ship. Taking his last shot at the good life, Jason skips the coast, and sails the globe with One-Eyed Willie's ghost crew, never to be seen again, until the next sequel where he will again be inexplicibly dead and resurrected.