After spending the better part of yesterday pouring through Kirk's papers, I discovered that what he had written actually had very little to do with the film Sharktopus, and was in fact a disturbingly erotic bit of fan fiction involving himself, Anne Coulter and Michelle Bachmann in one of those "marooned in a desert island" scenarios. There was also a lot of crudely drawn attempts at what may have been Hentai pornography, or simply sketches of the Sharktopus itself.
In the interest of hanging on to whatever shred of decency this blogsite may still have any hope of maintaining I have elected for now to post neither the sketches nor any excerpts from KM's threeway right-wing cougarotica.
As a matter of fact, I was ready to scrap the whole thing last night. I had procured several pints of Boddington's Ale and queued up a bunch of bad movies on Netflix when I got a call from a friend who wished not to be named, telling me he'd found Kirk sleeping in the back of his pick-up truck, and would I come get him, please.
I did, and after hosing him off in the backyard for a few minutes, then dumping a bottle of Flea and Tick Shampoo on him, repeating the process, burning his clothes and finding him a suitable set of sweats from the box I keep meaning to drop off at Goodwill, I was ready to hear firsthand, how the rest of that day had unfolded. The following is a 1st person account, in his own words.
(Kirk's Notes)
Buzzard and I had done it - we'd created an altar of sorts, one befitting to the Magnum Opus of Roger Corman's career. This was the guy who taught Jack Nicholson how to act, for God's sake. He taught Francis Ford Coppola how to make movies - He's the fucking master. And now he's giving us a shark. Mated with a fucking octopus. It seemed only appropriate that we should watch this film in a manner that presents it in the awe in which it should be received.
Simple enough - Buzzard and I took the two 32' plasma screens down from the upstairs bedrooms and mounted them next to the big ol' 54 incher I got in the living room downstairs. On any other day figuring out how to sync these multiple sets together would have been far beyond my ken, but thanks to the near lethal amounts of Buzzard's black market Methylphenidate I had coursing through my bloodstream, I probably could have figured out how to make the toaster hum the theme song to Jaws, had I seen fit to do so.
Buzzard seemed to have noticed my agitation. "You're too fucking wired up, man."
"No shit," I said. "What the fuck are they feeding that Ritalin shit to kids for? I wouldn't be surprised if in a few more years those fucked up albino kids from 'Village of The Damned' didn't start sprouting up everywhere."
"You'r talking crazy. Nobody would give a kid that much Ritalin. It could make somebody's head explode."
"Thanks."
"Maybe you should take something to get the edge off, man."
"Yeah, well that vaporizer of yours didn't seem to help."
"I got brownies," Buzzard offered.
I thought about that. "Is it the same stuff from the vaporizer?"
"No, you'll mellow right the fuck out, dude. I promise."
The trusting fool that I was, I pulled a few chunks of brown goo from a cellophane bag and took a couple of slow, careful bites as the stack of televisions whined into life.
As the opening credits to the movie began to roll, I realized the error of our ways. Buzzard and I had climbed too high - while we did not completely destroy the 4th wall that separated us from the carnage that was about to unfold among the unsuspecting revelers in Puerto Vallarta, we'd definitely minimized the safe distance between ourselves and the story.
Good God!!! Every pore in Eric Robert's gloriously chiseled face seemed be reciting his lines right along with him. This was too much. I realized also that for some reason I was sweating, despite having the AC turned down to a balmy 58 degrees, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of cargo shorts and a Melvins T-shirt. More distressing was the fact that my sweat seemed to have taken on a bluish tint.
"Hey," I asked Buzzard. "What was in those brownies?"
"Shh..." he hissed. "Sharktopus is about to come on.
And come on, he did - Like Cthulhu awakening from his slumber... "In his house at R'lyeh" I mumbled, or something like that. I don't know who distressed me more - Sharktopus or Eric Roberts, who for some reason made me want to burst into tears any time his noble face filled the multitude of screens that Buzzard and I, in our drug fueled hubris were foolish enough to stack together into a force multiplier of terror and awe...
Ahh fuck, it's the Sharktopus - It's definitely without a doubt the Sharktopus. I had to get out of the house, and as I told this to Buzzard, his knowing grin turned to a look of alarm as he spied the empty cellophane bag on the coffee table.
"Dude, did you really eat all of those?"
"We don't have time to talk about that." I said. "Go to the hall closet. I have a couple of golf clubs and a bat in there. We've made a terrible mistake. We need to destroy the Sharktopusatron!!!"
(To be continued...)
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