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!)

Some Drawing And Quartering Would Do Nicely

On the weekend before Christmas, I went to see the new Star Wars film, which I reviewed between Christmas and New Years if you missed it. Before the titles started scrolling across the screen, I already knew I’d have material for an extra blog. But it was not the movie itself that would provide fodder for this post- it was the seemingly endless pre-movie ordeal.

I use the word ordeal generously- it’s not an ordeal in the sense of being stranded in the wilderness with your foot caught under a boulder. Nor is it struggling your way through floodwaters or across a desert with little water. It’s an ordeal more in the sense of being stuck at a party for five hours with someone you really dislike, or being subjected to some other social situation that leaves you sighing with dismay, rolling your eyes constantly, and entertaining the occasional musing thought of bloody murder.

I probably should have just held off going inside until the last possible minute. I’d bought my ticket the previous day, and sure enough, the theatre was packed. That posed a problem for getting the seat you wanted. The theatre ushers had a system worked out for getting everyone in- line-ups and organized entry. This was not the problem; it just made sense from an organizational (not to mention fire code regulations) point of view.

No, the problem started after sitting down. Once upon a time when you went to the movies, you’d have four trailers for coming attractions before the movie. And that was it. If you turned up ten minutes before the start of a movie, the screen would be dark, and the theatre would be relatively quiet- right up to the beginning of the trailers. These days, however, you’ve got the pre-show.

And that’s where murderous thoughts got started.

It’s a mix of advertising, movie interviews, and some vacant headed halfwit standing in movie theatre lobbies talking to people. The halfwit might have the name Zepp Zeppelin and dream of the day he can be an intern for Entertainment Tonight. Apparently there are a great many rungs on the ladder for the entertainment “reporter” industry. And of course this goes on. And on. And on. And on some more. You see ads for the magazine the movie chain has in its lobby. You see snippets of trailers- not the actual trailers, mind you, those are still to come- for movies that have absolutely nothing in common with what you’ve come to see. I mean, honestly, if I wanted to see a teaser trailer for a Seth Rogen film (I don’t, because I’d much rather see Seth Rogen turn up on a Where Are They Now special wondering how badly his life got screwed up), I’d have gone to the low brow comedy film playing four screens away.

The problem at this point is that you can’t leave. If you’re alone in a crowded theatre, you can’t just step out- who’s going to trust a complete stranger to keep an eye on your stuff? So you’re stuck, waiting for the endless pre-show to finally end (it takes a bloody long time). That should be it, right?

Wrong.

Because after the recorded announcement thanks you for paying attention to their pre-show (I wasn’t, I was imagining Zepp Zeppelin as a passenger on the last voyage of the Hindenburg), then it gets even worse.

That’s when the ads start.

Yes, the ads, the very thing we used to come to a movie theatre to get away from.

It’s bad enough they infest our television airwaves. At least there we can click mute.

At some point years ago, someone- I blame a Marketing Chimp, because that’s exactly the kind of wretched scum who would dream this up- suggested in a movie theatre chain board meeting, “hey, I know what we can do! Let’s have commercials before the movie!”

And since everyone else around the table would have the same wretched personalities that feed off annoying their customers (I mean seriously, have you seen the prices at the concession stands?), of course they would have been crying out in unison, “that’s brilliant!”

So there it was. One ad after another. For cars. For storage spaces. For soda. For vacations. For electronics.

I lost track of how many ads went by. I was too busy thinking of the person who came up with that idea in the first place. And allowing myself the momentary fantasy of seeing them drawn, quartered, hung, fed to ravenous dogs, and then resurrected from the dead so they could be tortured all over again. Perhaps this time cast into a pit of fire ants covered with barbecue sauce.

It's one thing to entertain the thought. Most of us have, at one point or another encountered the odd person who's only alive today because they're not worth the jail sentence (believe me, I know), and so that little inner voice called our conscience occasionally reminds us of that- "the dumb bastard's not worth the jail time." Besides,  it’s too late anyway. Whoever came up with this idea already met their end years ago at the hands of someone lacking that inner voice, and who was sick and tired of forty seven commercials before the beginning of Marley & Me. 

Playing Dead Out On The Beach With Explosions

Director Plots Comedy Remake; Reporters Desperately Hope He Will Assume Room Temperature

Los Angeles (AP). Journalists and entertainment reporters- notice this reporter distinguished the two- were called for a press conference yesterday at the offices of Digital Domain, the special effects production company that doubles as ground zero for the biggest egomaniac in Hollywood (no, not Tom Cruise, but thanks for thinking of him) to make use of (editor: hey! I’m a Tom Cruise fan, you bastard!).

Why is this reporter not surprised by that revelation? Doomed by fate and a cranky editor with horrible taste in actors (editor: blood will be spilled, do you understand me?) to cover this sort of nonsense until the end of time just because the editor hates him (editor: if I could fire you, I would, but your iron-clad contract means I can’t, and you’re too damned stubborn to just quit, so I’ll keep making your life a living hell!) this reporter had to attend the press conference, wishing he could be anywhere else. Honestly, you laugh at a funeral just one time, and they never let you hear the end of it.

Real reporters assembled in the small auditorium. Most of this reporter’s colleagues were, like this reporter, being punished by cranky editors for one reason or another. In the opinion of all of us, editors need to get the big stick out of their.... (editor: one more word out of you and I’m going to rent the biggest Hummer I can find just so I can run you down with it!) This reporter wondered if his editor realized that constituted a death threat.

The entertainment reporters, being the dimwitted airheaded twits that they are, were gushing over what possible announcement might be made today. They were abuzz about the latest gossip out of Hollywood. Some were talking about the Aniston wedding. Others were ardently discussing the Shelton-Lambert breakup. Meanwhile, we real reporters were rolling our eyes, wondering if there was a bar nearby we could retreat to and get wasted at (editor: not on company time, you drunken bastard!). This reporter sighed, reminding his grouchy editor that he was not, in fact, a drinker, but time spent in the company of halfwit morons from Entertainment Tonight could drive someone to drink.

Finally a staffer came out to the stage, where a podium and the customary full length mirror were set up, and announced the presence of her boss. Michael Bay, director of such explosion prone roller coaster films like Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, and the Transformers films, has been exceedingly busy as of late, with many films on the go. The only announcement that this reporter would have liked to hear from him would be his immediate retirement from films and his apologies for being such a narcissistic hack (editor: hey! Art house film boy! I love Michael Bay films, so stop insulting him!)

Bay came out on stage. He was in his usual look- dishevelled hair and stubble, shirt unbuttoned at the neck, jeans and a sports jacket. He waved in that casual way of his, a demented smile plastered across his face, and stopped before the mirror. His smile broadened, and he gave his reflection a small wave and a wink. Real reporters sighed in dismay, wondering how long this travesty would take. Bay looked out at the crowd. “Hello! Welcome! It’s wonderful to see so many of you out here today to take in my latest announcement, my newest project, the thing you’ve all been waiting for. Granted, it’s going to take me a little time to get to it, what with all these other films I’m making, but you know, people will love it. The same way they love all my films.”

Bay grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “You know, I make a lot of serious hard action films, with lots of explosions and lots of girls waxing cars and lots of explosions for good measure, because as I always say, you can never have too many explosions. And while it is true that a certain degree of humour comes through in my films, I’ve never really done what can be called a comedy. At least until now. Which is what brings us to what I’m up to now, which of course is what you all came to find out about. I wanted to do a remake of a classic film. Something no one would forget, something that deserves a fresh look. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m remaking Weekend At Bernie’s.”

Real reporters sighed in exasperation. The original 1989 comedy had a twisted sense of humour with two hapless young office workers having to spend a weekend with their corrupt boss’s corpse, making it appear he was alive. The movie later spawned a pointless sequel. What was the point to this?

“What on earth are you thinking?” a reporter called out in dismay.

“I’m always thinking!” Bay replied with a grin, winking at himself in a nearby mirror. “Look, it’s very simple. We have our two young heroes, downtrodden office clerks, Larry and Richard. We’ve got their boss, the aforementioned Bernie. He’s been cooking the books and doing some business with some rotten people. Let’s say they’re arms dealers, because hey, this is a Michael Bay movie, and we’re going to have to have explosions. We’ve also got Bernie’s wife Drucilla, something that wasn’t used in the original movie, because instead of one corpse to deal with, our heroes have to spend a whole weekend making it look like two corpses are still alive. When you throw in the hired gun trying to kill everyone, Bernie’s mistress, oblivious neighbours, and the object of Richard’s affections showing up at the beachhouse, you’ve got a great recipe for a big bang blowout Michael Bay film. With explosions. Did I mention the explosions? Because we’ve got a whole lot of them.”

Real reporters sighed as if wondering who they’d offended to draw this assignment. This reporter could just imagine the sneer on his cranky editor’s face when... (editor: keep it up and you’ll be a dead corpse, damn you!) This reporter shook his head, wondering if his editor actually realized he had repeated himself by using the term dead corpse.

Bay was continuing to speak. “Now then, it’s time to bring out my cast. Playing Richard, one of my favourite go-to actors, Shia LaBeouf!”

LaBeouf came out on stage, waving to the crowd, smiling like a demented idiot. Wait- like? Shia LaBeouf is a demented idiot. “Hello!” he called out to the reporters. “Shia is pleased that you have all come to see Shia!” He took his place with Bay.

The director carried on. “Now then, playing the carefree bozo Larry, I’ve brought in another carefree bozo for the role. Ladies and gentlemen, give a big hand to Seth Rogen!”

Rogen, best known for slacker and stoner comedies, came out on stage, looking stoned and as if he’d slept in his clothes. For all the reporters knew, that was probably the truth. He waved with a vacant look in his eyes. “Hey there! I’m so pleased to be in on this film!”

He stood with LaBeouf and Bay. The director picked up where he left off. “And playing Gwen, the object of Richard’s affections, you’ve seen her many times before in my films, and you’ll see her again. Ladies and gentlemen, how about a big hand for Megan Fox!”

Fox came out on stage, dressed as usual, in a much too tight little black dress that showed off her cleavage. “This is going to be a whole lot of fun,” she told the crowd. “And no, I don’t want to talk about my marriage going bottoms up, but just for the record: it was all his fault.”

Bay nodded. “You hear that, Brian Austin Greene? Your fault!” He laughed, and carried on. “Now then, as to who gets to play the part of the corpses, first of all, ladies and gentlemen, playing the role of Bernie Lomax, Mr. Nicolas Cage!”

Cage came out on stage. Real reporters sighed with exasperation. Cage himself seemed oblivious, a drink in hand. “Hello!” he called out. “It’s going to be fun getting through a whole film without having to speak after the first twenty minutes!” He stumbled over to the others.

Bay carried on. “And playing the second corpse, Drucilla Lomax, ladies and gentlemen, this is my distinct pleasure to announce. I’ve seen her for a long time in a well known television series, but I’ve never had a chance to work with her before. You loved her in CSI, so you’ll love her in this... Marg Helgenberger!”

The actress came out on stage, looking a bit uncertain of herself. “Look, I was signing a whole lot of papers, one of them was a contract to work for him on one film. Please don’t think less of me.”

Bay laughed as she joined the rest of the cast. “Such a kidder!” He smiled in his delirious way, and carried on. “One more cast member to reveal. Back in the original film there was a character named Tina. The mobster’s girlfriend Bernie was banging. The same one who ended up banging the corpse. I wanted to revisit that gag by bringing in another Tina. Now then, ladies and gentlemen, she’s had sex with dead people before in films, so this won’t be too hard for her. Working with me for the first time, please give it up for Kristen Stewart!”

The former Twilight series star came out on stage and joined the others, as devoid of facial expression as she always is, and shrugged. “What can I say, there’s no market for a Twilight sequel after the books ran out, and I got bored. Besides, when he mentioned the necrophilia angle, I couldn’t pass that up.”

Bay nodded. “This film is going to break box office records. Just imagine it: comedy, life on the beach, explosions, hot babes, more explosions, a ticking time bomb that can only be stopped by a corpse. Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of the outstanding thrill ride dark comedy Weekend At Bernie’s. This film is going to be huge! Big time! Everyone’s going to love it, including the Academy, and they’ll shower us with awards and accolades and big box office, because hey, we deserve it. After all, I’m Michael Bay... the greatest director in history!!!!”

With that, Bay left the stage with his cast. Those of us who are real reporters shook our heads and wondered if anything could ever stop Michael Bay from making another film- such as a permanent coma. Entertainment reporters were too busy gushing with anticipation. This reporter wondered if his cranky editor would run afoul of an arms dealer. (editor: I’m having you sent to Timbuktu, you bastard!)

Well. That being the case, at least this reporter will be halfway around the world from his cranky editor, and far from Michael Bay press conferences. That would be a good thing.

The Angry Korean Hobbit Meets His Doom

Some links before we get started today. Yesterday having had been a Sunday, we had a Snippet Sunday post at our joint blog. Krisztina had a recipe. Parsnip took a look at the Arizona Inn. Shelly wrote about oddities in Disney movies. Maria wrote about MLK's I Have A Dream speech. The Whisk had a fun fact. Kittie is taking on the A-Z challenge in April. Hilary had Lucy make an appearance. And Mark had an appearance by Bae.

Now then, to the day's expected brand of nonsense and tomfoolery....

Lunatic Despot Gets His Comeuppance, Breaks Down Into Tears

Washington, D.C. (CP) After weeks of an international standoff between North Korea and pretty much the rest of the planet, events took an unexpected turn in recent weeks. Kim Jong-Un, the short and squat third member of a family with delusions of grandeur to control the pariah state of North Korea, has been acting out as of late, making threats against a backdrop of hacker attacks, feigned outrage over a film, and insinuations that he’s really not as short as people believe he is (he really is, despite what the Hobbit wannabe would have you believe).

The film The Interview, in which James Franco and Seth Rogen play two American journalists co-opted by the CIA to kill the North Korean leader, seemed to have touched off the outrage. North Korean officials issued increasingly harsh demands that the film be banned, with one diplomat reportedly holding his breath until he got his way- he made it a minute and a half before he passed out. A cyberhacking incident at Sony led to harsh accusations against North Korea. Kim Jong-Un merely responded with terse and enigmatic statements and more demands. Among them was a complaint of outrage that he had not been cast as Bilbo Baggins in Peter Jackson’s trilogy adaptation of The Hobbit. “I could have been Bilbo!” he reportedly hollered into the phone in a conversation with the Chinese ambassador.

The world has been at a loss as to what to do. Sanctions would be one thing, but the country is already the most isolated in the world, cut off from the rest of the planet, a nation filled with starving people terrified of a family of despots that have held them hostage in what many describe as a national cult of personality. Dropping a few bombs just to teach the Korean Hobbit a lesson in humility might sound like a good idea, but with China not that far away geographically speaking, no one really wanted to provoke a war with North Korea. “They’re all scared of me!” Kim told a massive crowd of his countrymen at a rally last week where he spoke for three hours. “They know I will rain down on them a firestorm of Korean hot sauce revenge! Wait, I said that wrong. All of you forget I said hot sauce! Forget it, or the person next to you will shoot you in the head!”

Nigel Rutherford, a professor at Harvard with expertise in Far East affairs, had a different view, and said so in a forthright, informal manner. “The simple fact of the matter is that Kim Jong-Un is crazy. Well, actually, calling him crazy is like calling Crater Lake a pond. It’ll have to do though. His father was insane, and so was his grandfather. The family are all a pack of lunatics who have carved up North Korea into an armed camp filled with citizens terrified of their own shadow, terrified that their neighbour might inform on them, and it’s become, well, downright cultish. It doesn’t help that Kim’s really short- as we all know, short politicians tend to try to make up for it by becoming dictators, biting off more than they can chew, and picking fights with everyone around them. He’s trying to compensate for shortcomings. And when you add in that awful haircut, you’re talking about a man who on every single level is totally screwed up.”

Rutherford’s remarks ring true in another section of the dictator’s remarks during that rally. “We will march all over the world!” he boasted. “We will show the world that we are not to be laughed at or taken lightly! No one insults Kim Jong-Un and lives to see their grandchildren! By the power of the flying weasels, we will send our enemies fleeing in horror before us! We will burn their childhood toys and infest them with whipping cream!”

A response in the form of one man, a specialist, was dispatched into North Korea last night, in quiet agreement between various national governments. It was later confirmed that the Chinese government promised no intervention, as long as the specialist removed himself from North Korean soil as quickly as possible after he was done. An American military stealth aircraft sent the specialist over the border at high altitude, dropping into Pyongyang in a HALO jump during another Kim rally. The specialist, in fact, was a Canadian, a man who has saved the world on repeated occasions, including from a Muppet supervillain, the Russian President, and a cabal of entertainment journalists bent on world domination. It was the world’s most dangerous man, RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich.

The inspector successfully made the jump, crashing yet another self glorification rally for the North Korean leader in spectacular fashion. The dictator, who had been busy eating a cheesecake, looked startled. Soldiers sworn to protect the height-challenged leader were quickly and overwhelmingly throttled and beaten up by the Mountie. Other soldiers, seeing how one man had decimated fifty of their own within seconds, beat a hasty retreat, leaving the Mountie on the stage with the North Korean leader, while an audience of thousands of North Korean citizens looked on from below.

The images were caught on television and later broadcast to the world; there was a stark contrast between the short Korean Hobbit and the Mountie, who stood tall and menacing. Kim stared at the Mountie, barking orders, demanding that someone shoot the intruder. Finally he blurted out in broken English, “Fine, I’ll beat you up myself!” He strode right up to the Mountie and hit him in the stomach. Ulrich shrugged that off, and decked Kim Jong-Un.

What followed was an epic beatdown to end all beatdowns, in full view of thousands of North Korean citizens, none of whom stepped up to defend their leader. It ended with the lunatic despot bloodied, on his hands and knees and in tears, begging for mercy. Instead the Inspector picked him up by one ear, holding him still with the one hand. He reached into his pack with the other.... pulling out a razor, and proceeded to shave off the Korean Hobbit’s hair.

When it was all done, the broken and battered Kim stared at his discarded hair, and then up at the Mountie, who looked grim and gritty. “Why?” he asked in English through sobs. “Are you some kind of Seth Rogen fan or something?”

“Not at all,” the Mountie replied. “I can’t stand him. You, on the other hand, are a loud mouthed short little punk with delusions of grandeur who’s spent years holding an entire country hostage.”

That seemed to annoy Kim. “Hey! I am not short! And why is the drummer from Metallica here anyway?”

Ulrich glared at him, sneered, and said, “I am not that Lars Ulrich!” The inspector kicked the dictator in the face, knocking him unconscious, and looked around at the assembled citizens staring at him in silence. For a long moment, no one moved. Then a great cheer rose up from the multitudes.

In the aftermath, much has changed. Kim Jong-Un has been taken into custody and charged with multiple crimes. A provisional government is being organized in North Korea. The crowds in Pyongyang asked Inspector Ulrich to become the new President of North Korea, but the Inspector politely declined, saying through interpreters that he had done what he came to do, taking his leave.

The last word belongs to the Other Lars Ulrich, the deafened and slightly demented drummer from Metallica, who indeed looks nothing like the handsome but fierce Mountie from Canada. Entertainment reporters tracked him down at his home, where he seemed confused and annoyed. “Look, I haven’t been in North Korea, I’ve never met Kim Jong-Un and wouldn’t care to, and I don’t know why you’re asking me why I turned down becoming the latest Glorious Leader of the People’s Republic.”