Headlines, Three Years Hence

The following came to mind after Agent Orange toyed around with the idea of that elephant hunt trophy ban reversal. Let's just say it irritated me- to be fair, everything about that man irritates me. So I thought of the idea of what a newscast might be like after the Age of Darkness comes to an end. Here we have it. You might want to skip this if you're a fan of the man.

“It is February 8^th, 2021, and welcome to the evening news. I’m your CBS anchor, Drucilla Scott, and this is what’s making news at this hour. The stunning fall of the former first family of the United States continued today. Donald Trump Jr. and Eric Trump, long sought after being convicted in absentia of fraud, met a bad end today in Zimbabwe. The two brothers were avoiding legal authorities and engaged in one of their favourite pastimes, hunting big game, when they and their party of bodyguards and associates were attacked by a herd of angry elephants. Witnesses reported that the animals singled out the Trumps and particularly went to work on both, trampling them beneath their full weight. Authorities in Zimbabwe will take no action against the elephants, and have called for, and I quote, extra sized spatulas, end quote, to clean up the mess. We are still awaiting word on whether or not the bodies will be repatriated or simply dumped in a trash heap.

Other family members are in no position to claim them at this time. Ivanka Trump and her ex-husband Jared Kushner are both in prison after their convictions for fraud in the so called Covfefe Gambit affair that was the final nail in the coffin of former President Trump’s tenure. The former chief executive himself is doing time for the next forty years in prison for that same fraud, as well as treason in giving state secrets to his good friend Vladimir Putin. Trump, who has spent the last two years in a six by ten-foot cell, deprived of the ability to tweet, has been described by some as unhinged and deeply unhappy at the state of his hairline, demanding to be released and vowing revenge on a list of enemies.

Melania Trump has retreated to Europe with her son and has had little to say to anyone since the dying days of her husband’s presidency. Her infamous ‘let them eat waffles’ remark about angry Vietnam veterans has never been forgiven, and getting away from America while she could may have been the right course of action. Often forgotten younger daughter Tiffany Trump, who managed to stay out of criminal convictions by not being part of her father’s administration, shrugged when told of the deaths of her brothers, saying that ‘this is what happens when you need to compensate for your physical shortcomings by trophy hunting. And as a complete aside, I never really liked either of them.’

Former president Pence, who notably recently skipped the inauguration of his successor, and who reportedly had a meltdown on election night, went into a profanity laden rant when reporters caught up to him in Indianapolis this morning. Pence, who lost the 2020 election by the biggest margin in American history, looked five minutes away from a stroke as he screamed at reporters, cursing like a sailor and blowing a proverbial gasket before being whisked away by his Secret Service detail.

President Biden continues to get settled into his presidency, which has an informal theme of Restoring Sanity. After a stunning electoral night win which had him take every state but Mississippi, the new president has been busy restoring the dignity of the office after the turbulent Trump-Pence administration. Biden has a Democratic Congress to work with, while the former Republican party has fractured into six pieces and is caught up in infighting. He has steadfastly refused to consider pardoning the Trumps, stating that the Supreme Court has already ruled on the matter when President Pence attempted it. Instead he told reporters today he must respect the rule of law, which applies to all citizens, ‘especially the president.’ Biden finished his remarks in the press room at the White House, excusing himself to head off to the White House kitchen in search of a rocky road ice cream cone.

In other news, the ongoing conflict in the American heartland continues. The self-appointed General Miranda Lambert continues her feud with her ex-husband’s wife, the self-described Fabulous Supremacy, Gwen Stefani. Both sides in the years long conflict have their fans and followers, who continue to wage a low level state of warfare on each other. Authorities continue to try to intervene in the feud, arresting those on either side after fist fights and shoot outs. Members of Congress and state governors have asked the two singers to knock it off. Lambert has refused, and so has Stefani. Stefani’s husband Blake Shelton, the one-time sexiest man alive, spends his time avoiding the issue entirely.

Steve Bannon remains at large. The former Trump confidante and head of Breitbart was wanted for inciting violence after his part in trying to start a race war in the dying days of the Trump presidency. Last month he was confronted by a British secret agent with a Walther PPK and a dry sense of humor at his hollowed out volcano base of operations, and in the ensuing conflagration, Bannon was believed to be dead in an explosion. However, a video featuring Bannon’s head grafted onto a robot’s body was issued to the press. Bannon vowed revenge and swore that he’d finish building his death ray, if every Breitbart subscriber would just send him their bank code information.

The Oscars are coming up later this month, and people are still puzzled as to how explosion-prone director Michael Bay could have possibly garnered an Oscar nomination for his film Casablanca III: Rick Gets Lucky, which was panned by critics and despised by audiences. The vacant eyed director is remaining tight lipped, while Academy staffers are busy trying to determine if their nomination process somehow got hacked.

A long missing masterpiece work of art, The Storm On The Sea Of Galilee, done by Rembrandt and stolen in 1990 from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, was recovered by authorities today, with the thieves taken into custody in France after an intensive investigation. While Interpol authorities have not publicly identified the suspects, the Facebook page of the high wire acrobats the Wallendas has been taken down after the painting was reportedly displayed in the background of a family gathering on one of their numerous photos. None of the family are available for comment, fueling suspicions on the matter.

Disgraced former evangelist and former presidential candidate Pat Robertson died today at home, surrounded by family and minions. One of those minions, speaking anonymously, reported that Robertson looked horrified in his last minutes, as if, and I quote, ‘staring right into the face of hell’, end quote. Reached for comment via webcam, the Prince of Darkness stated that ‘I should have really taken him five years ago, but I was busy whispering into Kellyanne Conway’s ear about the Bowling Green Massacre.’

In science news, physicists at Cal Tech claim it is now possible to broadcast news into the past. This has delighted gambling addicts, who hope their past selves will be able to place sure fire bets knowing who will win a game. Experts hope it will give solace to those still living through the Trump presidency, otherwise known as the Age Of Darkness, that the time of suffering will eventually end. Other experts warn of the perils of interfering in the space-time continuum.

And in sporting news, the Toronto Maple Leafs have been officially eliminated from the NHL playoffs after losing the first fifty-eight games of the season. Fans in Toronto are taking it all in stride, claiming that next year will be the year their team finally brings the Stanley Cup home. Fans of every other team in the league are laughing at them.” 

Tale Of A Chainsaw Wielding Nun

Nun Inspires Trainwreck Of A Director Into New Film; Real Reporters Roll Eyes

Los Angeles (AP) Reporters were summoned this week to the production facilities of Platinum Dunes, one of the stomping grounds of the fond of explosions self-described “movie auteur” Michael Bay, who has spent recent months in recovery after he and Nicolas Cage were beaten up by legendary and cranky Mountie Lars Ulrich. The Inspector, who’s never met an entertainment reporter he liked, was annoyed by their efforts to turn his life into a film, and put both the director and actor into body casts (editor: and one day he’ll pay for that! I don’t understand why this Mountie keeps getting away with beating the crap out of people! Saving the world repeatedly isn’t a good enough reason!). During convalescence, Bay canceled the project, and his numerous other films, in production or pre-production, were placed on hold.

One would think the director has plenty enough to do on his plate, with his endless love of bigger and badder movie explosions, hot girls waxing cars, and Aerosmith theme songs dominating a back list of a couple dozen film projects, not to mention daily intense sittings with his mirror. Apparently not. (editor: stop making fun of Michael Bay!) Real reporters gathered at Platinum Dunes in the company of entertainment reporters- to use a phrase from Obi Wan Kenobi, “you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

This reporter, doomed by a bad working relationship with a horribly grouchy editor (editor: shut up!), so much so that there is a restraining order forbidding the editor from coming within five hundred feet of him (editor: what did I just tell you? Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Oh, do I hate you!) was dispatched to the press conference, joining a handful of actual reporters and a horde of drooling, celebrity obsessed halfwits otherwise known as entertainment reporters. There we waited, rolling our eyes while the entertainment reporters gushed and speculated on what Michael Bay might have to say. This reporter hoped it would be the announcement that he was suspending production on all of his films and going into immediate retirement.

The stage was set as usual. A podium stood before the curtain. Beside it stood a full length mirror. A spokeswoman came out on stage, greeting the crowd and introducing her boss. “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the one, the only, the magnificent, the stupendous, the absolutely terrific and totally humble…. Michael Bay!”

The entertainment reporters were in a state of rapture, cheering wildly, applauding like their lives depended on it. The real reporters sighed, rolled their eyes, and hoped this would all be over quickly. Bay came out on stage. He wasn’t in a body cast- the only nod to his previous experience was the cane he used to walk. But he otherwise looked the same- jeans, a denim shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a blazer. The same disheveled hair, the same three days of stubble, the same dazed deer in the headlights look. He waved and acknowledged the adoration of the entertainment reporters, while remaining completely oblivious to the disdain of the real reporters. To be fair, he’s not that bright to begin with. (editor: shut up! Michael Bay is a smart guy, and a wonderful director!)

“Hello! How wonderful it is to see you!” Bay called out, walking up to the podium, taking a moment to smile and wink at himself in the mirror. He laughed and pointed to his reflection as he looked out over the crowd. “You know, it’s positively criminal to look that good.” The entertainment reporters laughed and cheered. The real reporters groaned and checked their watches.

Bay carried on. “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other last. I had to drop one of my projects. It turns out that not every Canadian is nice and polite, so we’ll just have to bid goodbye to my Mountie film. Oh well, there are always fresh ideas and new things that come along. Such as one that I’ve recently come up with.”

He paused, smiled in that vacant way that suggested the figurative mouse running around on a wheel inside his empty head had died years ago. Then he carried on. “All of us saw the horrific hurricane damage recently in the south. All of us saw the flooding and the damage and the carnage and the inhumanity and the humanity and the coming together and the water and the high wind and the reporters getting blown halfway across the state, and, well, I could go on, but what for? Just to hear myself talk? Well, that is a good reason, right?”

The entertainment reporters broke out into wild applause. Bay lapped up the attention, smiling with glee. Real reporters wished Bay would get swept out to sea by a hurricane. Bay carried on. “Now I’ve done disaster movies. Epic big scale movies with explosions and destruction and all that. I’ve never really concentrated on the clean up, because let’s face it… who cares about the National Guard and the fire fighters and the cops and the military and the civilians all helping each other recover? What’s cinematic about that? Am I right or am I right? Of course I’m right.” (editor: of course he’s right! Not one word out of you, you smirking, evil jackass!)

Bay kept speaking. “But one image stuck out for me. The footage of a nun, carrying a chainsaw, cutting up fallen trees on her school property. That gave me an idea. No, not a movie about a nun, because let’s face it, as any kid who spent time in a  Catholic school will tell you, nuns are scary, and who wants to watch a film about a nun living a life of service and celibacy? There’s no sex appeal in that! Am I right or am I right? Of course I’m right!”

Bay was laughing at this point. The entertainment reporters were gushing. The real reporters were setting personal records for most eye rolls at a single press conference. “So here’s my idea, because it’s a Michael Bay film, and in Michael Bay films, there are always some pre-required things like explosions and hot babes and explosions and crazy villains and a few more explosions. Anyway, the movie title, in the tradition of great films like Snakes On A Plane, which, by the way, I should have directed… the movie is going to be called Nun With A Chainsaw! Isn’t that great?” (editor: great title! Great, great, great title from a great director!)

The entertainment reporters cheered and applauded again. Bay carried on. “And here’s the plot idea. A capable but totally hot female cop goes undercover as a nun to stop a mad bomber. We’ll work out the details of why she has to pose as a nun while we write the screenplay. I called Garrison Keillor and asked him to write with me, and he told me to go **** myself. I didn’t know he used that kind of vocabulary, but that’s beside the point. So we’ve got the cop. We’ve got the bomber. We’ve got the young Jesuit student about to take his vows as a priest and startled by his attraction to Sister Mary Katherine Calliope Aphrodite Madonna. We’ve got the crazy bomber determined to blow up the Pope on an official visit. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, let’s bring out our three leads. First, playing Detective Kate Walker, otherwise known as Sister Mary Katherine Calliope Aphrodite Madonna… give a warm welcome to Megan Fox!”

The actress came out on stage, wearing a low cut dress as usual, flashing her cleavage for the crowd. “Oh, this is going to be a wonderful role for me to play!” she proclaimed, taking a place beside Bay.

Bay carried on. “And playing the troubled seminary student, Alec Jericho, one of my favourite actors and I know he’s one of yours… Mr. Shia LaBeouf!”

LaBeouf came out on stage, waving. “Hello! You have all come to see Shia! Shia is pleased! Shia will look on you with favour when Shia ascends to a higher plane of existence!” This reporter had a face palm moment. Where was a bolt of lightning when you needed it? (editor: shut up! If anyone deserves to be hit by a bolt of lightning, it’s you! Oh, how I hate you!)

Bay carried on speaking. “And finally, he’s my go to guy for roles like this. Sometimes he’ll be the lead. Sometimes he’ll be the villain. But he never lets us down. This time he’s playing the villain, the man I’m calling Rory “Mad Dog” Muldoon. Give it up for my pal and yours… Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage, looking recovered from his time in a body cast. He was stumbling about, carrying a bottle of vodka and smoking a Havana cigar. “Hello! Good to see you! Thanks for coming out!” He staggered over to join Bay, Fox, and LaBeouf.

“So there we have it, the lead cast of Nun With A Chainsaw, a big blockbuster action thriller from yours truly,” Bay boasted, still smiling like an idiot. (editor: he is not an idiot! You are!)

This reporter spoke up. “Mr. Bay, are you concerned the Vatican might take a dim view of your misuse of their institutions?”

Bay shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’re gonna have to get creative with the CGI. They won’t let me film in Rome. I called the Vatican to see if the Pope would play himself, and some bishop in charge of public relations told me to go **** myself. Why do people keep telling me to go **** myself? So we’ll probably cast Steve Buscemi or Dave Chapelle as the Pope. Anyway, this one’s going to be the big one. It’s going to be the masterpiece film that finally nets me my long overdue Oscar as greatest director of all time. Of all time, baby!”

Bay laughed, walking off stage with his cast as the entertainment reporters called out his name repeatedly, chanting things like “we love you, Michael!” Real reporters were busy sighing, leaving the building as swiftly as possible, and cursing their wretched editors (editor: restraining order or not, you are a dead man! You hear me? Dead! Dead, dead dead!)

In closing, if anything should happen to this reporter, the police need not look any further than his editor, who just threatened to kill him in print.

The Downfall Of An Egomaniac

Egomaniac Director And Star Meet Subject Of Film; End Up In Hospital

Calgary (CP) Reporters were summoned to the Alberta city this week at the behest of an all too familiar self absorbed and self described “cinema auteur of absolute brilliance”. Michael Bay, the narcissistic director behind such explosion extravaganzas as Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, and the Transformers franchise, has been busy as of late preparing a flurry of films for eventual release. Usually these events are held at his offices at Digital Domain in California; instead, the director invited reporters from real media outlets and of course hordes of entertainment reporters to Alberta.

This reporter was among them. His cranky editor (editor: stop calling me cranky!), fresh from a stay at St. Mungo’s Asylum For The Perpetually Insane (editor: it was a four week break obliged on me by the newspaper publisher! Not an insane asylum! Blessed Tranquility is a place of healing therapy and yoga and scented candles and singing kumbayah!), had assigned him remotely to go along. I say remotely, because there is now  a restraining order against the cranky editor forbidding him to be in the same room as this reporter after all those numerous death threats (editor: shut up!) over the last couple of years. And so this reporter was sent by a cranky sounding email dispatching him to the latest in a long line of tedious press conference by a demented egomaniac.

And so after an uneventful flight to Calgary, this reporter found himself among other real reporters and a horde of entertainment reporters in a large assembly hall at the airport terminal, where a Digital Domain aide informed us that four buses would take us out to the site of the press conference itself. This reporter, eager to be as far away from those vacant headed entertainment reporters, got on the bus containing all of the real reporters. Four entertainment reporters managed to get on board as well. The entire trip to our destination, we real reporters could hear them prattling on about nonsense, such as what Selena Gomez might be wearing on the weekend, which Kardashian was going to end up the subject of yet another sex tape release, and, to use direct quotes, “who’s this Elvis Presley guy anyway?”

The bus convoy arrived at its destination in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A limo had joined the convoy, and had stopped as well. When this reporter got off and looked around, he recognized the spot, because he had been here before. It was the entrance driveway leading to a wooden structure among the trees. That was the building that housed the headquarters for one very particular detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

It was the workplace of the legendary (and grouchy) Inspector Lars Ulrich.

At this point, with entertainment reporters getting out of their buses, gushing about what this was all about, the limo opened up, and two men got out. Both were instantly recognizable, both inspired cheers from the entertainment reporters, and both garnered eye rolls and sighs of dismay from the real reporters. The aforementioned Michael Bay, who never saw a reflection of himself he didn’t like (editor: stop making fun of him! He’s a magnificent director!) was the first. The other was his frequent film collaborator, actor Nicolas Cage, waving and carrying a bottle of Scotch.

Bay and Cage approached the group. Bay was smiling in that delirious, demented way of his, acting as if the world was his proverbial oyster, looking just as you’d expect- the stubble, the dishevelled hair, the casual wear topped by a blazer. Cage looked like he’d just crawled out of bed, and was stumbling a bit. This reporter wondered how much he’d been drinking.

“Hello, everyone!” Bay called, waving, smiling. “Thanks for coming all the way out here for a great announcement today. But of course it’s great. It’s a film directed by me, after all, and as we all know, any film I make is by definition outstanding.” Bay went on and on, praising himself. This reporter noticed movement up at the detachment, with a familiar figure emerging from the front door. It was the aforementioned grouchy Mountie. Even at a distance, he didn’t seem pleased to see so many potential irritants at his proverbial doorstep.

Bay was carrying on. “You know, I’m a great director. Everybody says that to me. I say it to myself when I look in the mirror seventy eight times a day. I don’t get why the Oscars seem to overlook me, but hey, if you can manage to finally award Leo with a Best Actor, that means surely I’m long overdue for Best Director and Best Picture and sweeping every single award, right?” The entertainment reporters were gushing and cheering. The real reporters were shaking their heads- most had already seen the Mountie making his way down the driveway and hoped he might pick up the pace.

“Which is why we’re here,” Bay said. “I want to tell the epic story of a brave, fierce, heavy metal drummer who seems to spend a lot of time in this sideline gig of being a lawman. Which is why I’m going to be directing this man, my buddy Nic, as the lead in the blockbuster movie about Lars Ulrich! Isn’t that a great idea?”

“You do realize Nicolas Cage is twenty years too old for the part?” this reporter asked. “And that he doesn’t look anything like the actual Lars Ulrich? What with having a lot less hair than the actual Lars Ulrich.”

Cage looked offended. “Hey! Don’t make fun of my hairline!” (editor: yeah! Stop making fun of his hairline!)

This reporter pressed on. “And you do realize, Mr. Bay, that the heavy metal drummer Lars Ulrich is not the same person as the RCMP Inspector?”

Bay looked confused. “You must be mistaken. They are clearly the same person.”

The real reporters sighed, shook their heads, and rolled their eyes. This reporter shook his head. “Mr. Bay, the drummer is a good twenty years older than the Mountie, and they look nothing alike. But why don’t you ask the man himself?”

At this point, the entertainment reporters noticed the approaching Ulrich. “Look!” one of them called out. “It’s Lars Ulrich! Metallica must all be here!” Bay and Cage turned as the inspector stopped before them.

Ulrich clenched his fists. “What are you doing here?” he asked Bay in a low, growling voice.

Bay grinned, clapping him on the shoulder, completely oblivious. “I’m making a movie about you! With Nicolas Cage here playing you! We’re talking bombs and explosions and hot babes waxing cars and more explosions and Aerosmith doing a theme song with Metallica and a villain who keeps getting mistaken for Justin Bieber just because they share the same name! Maybe I can get Bieber to play that part, wouldn’t that be fun? But the real crux of the matter, Lars baby, is that I want to find out what it is that makes a heavy metal drummer want to spend his off time hanging out in Canada and being a lawman.”

“I am not that Lars Ulrich,” the inspector muttered in a tone that made the real reporters back up.

“Are you sure?” Cage asked. “Because you look just like him.”

“Oh, this guy! What a kidder!” Bay laughed. “Of course you’re that Lars Ulrich!”

At that, Ulrich struck, throwing a punch that sent Bay flying into Cage, sending both tumbling over. Cage was momentarily more concerned about the Scotch emptying into the roadside gravel. “My Scotch! My beautiful Scotch!” He didn’t have more time to object, as the inspector started chasing both Bay and Cage off the road. Reports later had it that he’d beaten up both of them in Tombstone Canyon and left them whimpering, bleeding, and suffering from multiple contusions. They were airlifted out by helicopter to a hospital in Calgary, where both are in body casts, out of action for the time being with multiple broken bones.

Ulrich himself returned to the detachment, where real reporters were still gathered with the entertainment reporters. After throttling three dozen of the latter for asking where the rest of Metallica was and sending them to hospital, the Mountie faced the former, who assured him that they knew he was not a drummer with Metallica. He sighed with a tone of dismay. “You know that. I know that. What is it about idiots like that director who can’t tell the difference?”

This reporter suggested that perhaps their parents had been breeding too close to the gene pool, and that kicking the crap out of them was therefore justified. The inspector grunted in agreement and went back to his detachment. This reporter mused that breeding too close to the gene pool might provide a satisfactory explanation for his cranky editor (editor: hey! Shut up or I’m tossing you into that Tombstone Canyon!).

Dear readers, you read it yourself: the cranky editor threatened this reporter once again (editor: I hate you! Oh, I hate you! I want you dead! Dead! D-E-A-D! Dead!)

This reporter thinks his cranky editor needs a few years at St. Mungo’s Asylum For The Perpetually Insane.

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!)