Here's a fanvid which uses Moody Blues tracks for the sound and the combination is quite cool. The rocket launch sequence at the start nailed it.
This started because I was wondering whether sixty four billion butterfly sneezes amounted to more or less than the bibliography of Paul Ryan's speeches. Is it a large thing or a small thing.
Then I thought I better check on what the Moody Blues really said only to discover they didn't say sixty-four billion butterfly sneezes but rather they said ten million. The intervening years, it seems, contributed quite a bit of butterfly sneeze inflation. That same time period gave us Paul Ryan so it looks like a clear cause and effect relationship between butterfly sneezes and Ryan speeches.
That got me thinking there needs to be a sequel to the Jimmy Stewart movie, "Mister Smith Goes to Washington." That was a heartwarming tale with a romantic view of Washington in which good things come to good people who deliver long and ridiculous speeches.
We don't want that. Noooo, we want Will Ferrell in "Mister B Goes to D.C." and he will always have his drumsticks because he's going to bring rhythm to the Hill. Every time he sits behind one of those elegant senatorial power desks to deliver a politically pontifical sermon, he will pull out the sticks so he can make a beat while he speaks because ...
because ...
it's jazz, man.
I'm just looking for some financing on this one and also, well, Will Ferrell, but full speed ahead after that. You bet.
"The Campaign"
That movie was filmed not so long ago and we didn't see it but that's ok because it probably sucked. "Mister B Goes to D.C." will probably suck too but the reason for doing it is so Will Ferrell can get some drum licks into the story. The drums won't suck unless they go to the obligatory twenty-minute drum solos which took place so much in the sixties.
Ed: why did they stop?
All the popsters went to drum machines so now you only get a house beat and the only fills they know are that shit they put inside Hostess cupcakes.
You haven't lived until you see the last scene because Mr B's drum kit is set up in the front of the Senate floor where he plays the drum licks and sings "I Will Survive." All the senators get to their feet and they become dancing fools. It's magic for the whole family.
Ed: you didn't even film anything yet!
Yes but I can see. It's the vision; it's my gift, see.
Ed: is there any way to turn it off?
Regrettably, there is not.
There isn't much science on the weekends because all scientists in universities play softball on Sundays, mostly so they can drink beer and hang out.
There was one other professorial sport I knew since Ledyard Stebbins in California was notorious for throwing his typewriter out the window of his office because he hated the infernal thing. Possibly electric typewriters were not to his liking and the IBM Selectric was too much. Zoom, out the window it would go.
Note: I'm not aware of him ever hitting a student with one.
My ol' Dad solved the problem with typewriters in his own affable way; my ol' Mother typed all of his manuscripts and she also proofed them. Good chance those 'scripts would never have got near the publisher without her. Call that sexist of him all you like but her fondest memory at the end of her life was how 'he would always do anything for her.' It went both ways and things aren't always as simple as they seem; often they're not.
There's been so much butterfly sneezing this season that people's minds are getting starved for oxygen but others have opted for the pre-Election catatonia in which I will not pay a scrap of attention to that hysterical freakshow until Election Day. Then I'll make the move I've chosen to make and I'll see what happens. Meanwhile, STFU. To all you fucking butterflies, go home. No more sneezing ... please.
This started because I was wondering whether sixty four billion butterfly sneezes amounted to more or less than the bibliography of Paul Ryan's speeches. Is it a large thing or a small thing.
Then I thought I better check on what the Moody Blues really said only to discover they didn't say sixty-four billion butterfly sneezes but rather they said ten million. The intervening years, it seems, contributed quite a bit of butterfly sneeze inflation. That same time period gave us Paul Ryan so it looks like a clear cause and effect relationship between butterfly sneezes and Ryan speeches.
That got me thinking there needs to be a sequel to the Jimmy Stewart movie, "Mister Smith Goes to Washington." That was a heartwarming tale with a romantic view of Washington in which good things come to good people who deliver long and ridiculous speeches.
We don't want that. Noooo, we want Will Ferrell in "Mister B Goes to D.C." and he will always have his drumsticks because he's going to bring rhythm to the Hill. Every time he sits behind one of those elegant senatorial power desks to deliver a politically pontifical sermon, he will pull out the sticks so he can make a beat while he speaks because ...
because ...
it's jazz, man.
I'm just looking for some financing on this one and also, well, Will Ferrell, but full speed ahead after that. You bet.
"The Campaign"
That movie was filmed not so long ago and we didn't see it but that's ok because it probably sucked. "Mister B Goes to D.C." will probably suck too but the reason for doing it is so Will Ferrell can get some drum licks into the story. The drums won't suck unless they go to the obligatory twenty-minute drum solos which took place so much in the sixties.
Ed: why did they stop?
All the popsters went to drum machines so now you only get a house beat and the only fills they know are that shit they put inside Hostess cupcakes.
You haven't lived until you see the last scene because Mr B's drum kit is set up in the front of the Senate floor where he plays the drum licks and sings "I Will Survive." All the senators get to their feet and they become dancing fools. It's magic for the whole family.
Ed: you didn't even film anything yet!
Yes but I can see. It's the vision; it's my gift, see.
Ed: is there any way to turn it off?
Regrettably, there is not.
There isn't much science on the weekends because all scientists in universities play softball on Sundays, mostly so they can drink beer and hang out.
There was one other professorial sport I knew since Ledyard Stebbins in California was notorious for throwing his typewriter out the window of his office because he hated the infernal thing. Possibly electric typewriters were not to his liking and the IBM Selectric was too much. Zoom, out the window it would go.
Note: I'm not aware of him ever hitting a student with one.
My ol' Dad solved the problem with typewriters in his own affable way; my ol' Mother typed all of his manuscripts and she also proofed them. Good chance those 'scripts would never have got near the publisher without her. Call that sexist of him all you like but her fondest memory at the end of her life was how 'he would always do anything for her.' It went both ways and things aren't always as simple as they seem; often they're not.
There's been so much butterfly sneezing this season that people's minds are getting starved for oxygen but others have opted for the pre-Election catatonia in which I will not pay a scrap of attention to that hysterical freakshow until Election Day. Then I'll make the move I've chosen to make and I'll see what happens. Meanwhile, STFU. To all you fucking butterflies, go home. No more sneezing ... please.
No comments:
Post a Comment