A Mad Bomber And The Idiot Swimmer

Dimwitted Swimmer Draws Hollywood Attention For All The Wrong Reasons

Los Angeles (AP) In the wake of the Olympics, American swimmer and general halfwit Ryan Lochte, who set off an international incident at the Games by lying about a crime that never happened, has been dealing with the fall out of his poorly thought out deception. Sponsors have dropped him like a rock. He’s been booked into the next season of Dancing With The Stars, a program that uses the word star generously, given that the bulk of its famous dancers down through the years have been people who haven’t worked in years. And now his story has drawn the interest of a director, seeking to tell Lochte’s story in a rather bizarre way.

Reporters were summoned to the offices of Digital Domain, home base for the world’s biggest egomaniac director this week. Michael Bay, the director behind the Transformers films, as well as Pearl Harbor and Armageddon, has been busy recently, taking on more and more projects, to the point where one wonders when he’ll ever get them all done. There were a multitude of entertainment reporters on hand in the auditorium, gushing and chattering amongst themselves. And there were a number of actual reporters on hand, condemned for one reason or another by cranky editors to cover.... (editor: shut up! I hate you!)

The real reporters spent time talking and comparing notes as to who they’d offended to get stuck with this assignment. The entertainment reporters were too busy buzzing with anticipation and hero worship of Bay to notice much of anything. Finally a spokeswoman came up on stage, walking to the podium. This reporter made notice of the customary full length mirror right beside the podium. She addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to the Master of Disaster, His Supreme Greatness, the one, the only... Mr. Michael Bay!”

That particular title was new, but didn’t seem a surprise given Bay’s ego. The man himself came out on stage, waving and grinning like a lunatic, the usual vacant expression in his eyes, the usual dishevelled hair, the usual three days of stubble, and the usual attire- jeans, denim shirt, and blazer. The entertainment reporters were applauding and cheering. The real reporters were rolling our eyes. He laughed and pointed, saw the mirror, and walked over, smiling and winking at his reflection like the egomaniac that he is... (editor: stop making fun of Michael Bay! He’s a genius auteur of cinema!)

Bay gleefully sighed, and took to the podium, looking out at the crowd, basking in the adulation of the entertainment reporters while totally oblivious to the contempt of real reporters. “Hello! Thank you for coming!” he proclaimed. “As always, it is so good of you to come see me and pay attention to me and bask in all that I am. For am I the greatest director in history, or am I the greatest director in history? I think we all know the answer to that. Of course I am.”

This reporter wondered if he should sneak in a bottle of hard liquor to the next Michael Bay press conference. Not to drink, just to throw at Michael Bay. (editor: I’ll tell him you said that!) Said what? This reporter said nothing. This reporter wrote that, not said that, and advises his editor that he ought to pay more attention in the future to the difference between said and wrote. (editor: you’re dead. You hear me? Dead! Dead, dead, dead, dead infinity dead!)

“You know, like many of you, I watched the Olympics recently. One of the things that struck me is that they need to have an obstacle course event. With landmines going off, and a music number by Aerosmith. What they really need to do is let me direct the whole opening number. I’d be doing a rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air and a....”

“Despite the fact that the Games were not being held in the United States,” this reporter noted.

“Stop confusing me with facts,” Bay countered. “Anyway, I saw it happen, and I saw an idea for a movie unfold. About a heroic athlete, placed into a position of deception, ridiculed by the world for his story and his intellectual levels. And I said to myself, Michael... you’ve got to tell this story. You’ve got to give him some redemption. You’ve got to bring Ryan Lochte’s real story to light.”

“You want to make a film about Ryan Lochte?” this reporter asked.

“The dimwit,” another reporter added. “The guy’s a complete idiot.”

“The liar who set off an international incident,” yet another reporter chimed in.

“The same liar who tried to pass off a preposterous tale of being held at gunpoint when in fact he was wrecking a gas station washroom at the time,” another reporter spoke up.

“Hey!” an entertainment reporter yelled. “Leave Ryan Lochte alone! He’s a role model and a really smart guy!” This reporter looked over at the individual in question, wondering how anyone could be that dumb to believe Lochte was anything but a halfwitted jerk (editor: hey! Shut up! Ryan just made one mistake!).

“You talk about him one way, but he’s really another,” Bay insisted. “Look, I know, that whole debacle got blown way out of proportion, but I think the truth is a lie, and the lie is the truth. Or whatever that means. Anyway, I think Ryan was up to something bigger. Something that he couldn’t tell the world. Something that was real national security stuff... no, international security stuff. Fortunately my being a filmmaker means that I can tell his story. The real story. What really happened in Rio.”

He grinned again, seeming to come across as a demented escapee from an asylum. “This is the story of a heroic swimmer, called to the highest duty by his country to go to the Olympics, swim for glory, and track down a mad bomber trying to upset the whole apple cart. Not a literal apple cart, I’m talking about a metaphorical apple cart. And the metaphor refers to the meaning of life. Wrap your minds around that, ladies and gentlemen, if you can.”

The real reporters were shaking their heads. The entertainment reporters were cheering. Bay was laughing. “Without further ado, let me introduce you to the cast of this masterpiece of cinema. Playing our hero, the wise and modest Ryan Lochte, one of my favourite actors, and I know how much you love him.... Mr. Shia LaBeouf!”

The actor wandered out on stage, his expression confirming the general belief that he’s probably been hit in the head by too many baseballs, or perhaps that his parents were breeding too close to the gene pool. In other words, the perfect casting choice for someone as dumb as Ryan Lochte. “Hello! Shia is glad to see you!” he called out, still speaking in the third person. “Shia is looking forward to playing this role and doing it justice!”

He took his place beside Bay, who was beaming. “I’ve had to change names for the role of the team coach, because the actual coach threatened to drown me in a pool if I used his name. So, ladies and gentlemen, playing Ryan’s coach and life mentor under the name of Robbie Reno, give it up for the one, the only... Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage, laughing and carrying a bottle of what appeared to be old Scotch and smoking a Havana cigar. “Hey there!” he called, stumbling over towards Bay and LaBeouf, trying not to spill any of the Scotch. “Thanks for coming! Do I look like a swim coach or do I look like a swim coach?”

Bay nodded. “Of course you do. And playing the composite romantic interest in this whole endeavour, because as the real Ryan told me, no one woman is enough for him, but it has to be for this movie... playing the all American sweetheart Jessica, may I present... Megan Fox!”

Fox came out on stage, dressed as usual- the too tight black dress featuring lots of cleavage. She took a bow- the cameras went into a blitz of flashes- and walked over to the others. “Thanks for coming!” she told the crowd.

“And rounding out our cast,” Bay started. “He’s playing our mad bomber. A bomber who’s willing to blow things up just because. No complicated political motivations here, folks. Playing Griff Grissom, the deranged villain of the film, I give you Seth Rogen!”

The actor, if one wants to call him that, came out on stage, just as you’d expect of him: looking stoned, dressed like a slob in sweat pants and a sweat shirt that seemed stained with spaghetti sauce. “Um, hi!” he said, waving mildly, joining everyone else. “Say, did anyone notice the purple ogres in the kitchen? They were right beside the talking cactus.”

Bay shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s a joke. Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of the upcoming blockbuster Oscar winning film, The Lochte Deception. You like it? I figure if I’m gonna make a big budget espionage caper, it ought to sound like one. You’re gonna love it!”

The director and his cast left the stage. The entertainment reporters were busy gushing and applauding. The real reporters were rolling our eyes at the thought of ever covering another Michael Bay press conference, or being in the company of entertainment reporters again, for they are... (editor: one more word and I’m having you personally cover the whole season of Dancing With The Stars. You are dead to me! You hear me? Dead! Dead, dead, dead! Dead with a capital D! Better yet, I’ll hold your head under water in an Olympic swimming pool until you drown!)

This reporter would like to formally advise his readers that if he meets a bad end, the authorities should look squarely at his cranky editor as the prime suspect (editor: they’ll never find your body, you punk!)