Unsolicited P.O.S. DVD ideas for Greg, Eric
Barabbas the Rapper

1. A Caucasian female human sits on a flat white table with a cream background, slowly writhing, nude. As the camera sweeps along the table, her back arches and a moan erupts from her lips. As we keep moving, she jerks violently revealing the ants crawling up her spine. The camera cuts back to the original position, but this time we arch over her body as she wiggles erotically. Again, ants released out of frame envelope her naked form. We watch her face as she tries to hold a sexy pose covered in bugs- she shrieks and we cut back to the beginning. A shot of the ants crawling over her butthole, she leaps from the table. Again, we move slowly across her body, but by this time the beat has come in and we've got music. Cut shots of her jerking, crying and flailing against these ant-invaders with her sexy writhing, our camera always holding steady as torture bobs its nasty little head to the beat.

2. A CCTV enactment of a product testing session in EveryMall USA. A young man and woman are asked to take part in a taste test of a new product for a reasonable twenty dollar fee. Seated next to each other, they are given a chocolate wafer with a waxy drizzle of caramel. Natural breaks in the song are good places to set up certain events and introduce the product testing narrator who gives them their instructions, as well as to highlight the increasing tension forming between these two attractive Americans. By the end of the test, these cookies aren't being tasted, they’re tools in an intense game of sexual innuendo one-upsmanship, licked and sucked and massaged, faces streaked with chocolate only standing in for fluids exchanges promised later. The food narrator enters to thank them for their time; they ignore him, sandwiched against each other in horrifyingly pre-marital wall-aided dry-coitus. Until our narrator tells them they were not selected to receive the twenty dollars, and wishes them luck in their future endeavors. Now, the locked eyes of lovemaking turn wicked, pre-orgasmic moans deepen into growls and our Chocolate Newlyweds beat the manager to death, looting his pockets for forty-odd dollars, and then light the testing offices ablaze.

3. A tribute to those Tupac videos released after his death, montages of pictures that look they were animated with the latest version of MSPaint, jerking around the screen, mixed with grainy and oversaturated home-video footage of P.O.S. in the studio staring at a wall all wistful like.

4. Long unmoving shots of various Minneapolis locations where mics may be found, store owners searching their cases, musicians ransacking studios, principals, unable to make their daily announcements, are confused as hell. Where did all the mics go? Cut to P.O.S. rapping in the middle of a black background with a few mics here and there, but growing until two-thirds through the video, he's surrounded by hundreds, thousands of mics, stop-motioned in and out to the levels. Finally, in the last act, the vocal levels get tied to the actual numbers of mics, multiplying exponentially until the world is crushed under their weight. The resulting mass soon shapes itself into a planetoid sphere, renamed by the dozen or so resulting inhabitants, MicWorld. Hey. It could happen.

5. Jesus of Nazareth has just been nailed to a Roman cross to die for all our sins. His face is pained, his suffering palpable. A distant noise bounces in from the tiny streets of Jerusalem-somebody put on some P.O.S. A 1980's hatchback, riding slowly through the streets with the bass pumped up would be nice, if unfeasible, but the beat floats over the hills to Golgotha, the Place of the Skull where it reaches the personification of the Deity. His weeping slows as He listens... His head starts to move to the beat, one here, one there, then he starts to bob, a smile crossing his face. The beats are moving him to dance, up there on the cross, and the two thieves start to get into it too, not because they enjoy hip-hop, but only recently Jesus did his whole "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise," thing and they're trying real hard not to piss him off. Jesus really gets moving, his whole body shaking to the beat when the nail rips through the tendons in his hand. He hangs lopsided and in great pain, trying to grip the nail with his hideously disfigured claw.

It's 1872. 22 year old Tsesarevich Grand Duke Alexei Alexandrovich is in the dank heart of St. Petersburg's alleyways. Low light makes our vision grainy and dark, small shoots of light are all that illuminate our Alexei in this underworld. He is deeply drunk. The alleys are strewn with strumpets, and he lolls toward and fro, alternately groping and flipping coins, never to the same moll, he'd never pay for it, he's the prince. A young urchin boy, face marred with dirt but in that perfect Disney way, where it truly shows the hope and promise of the downtrodden, the hope for lower management or slugging it out in a factory for a pittance, a pittance more than the molded bread he digs from garbage cans today, but almost cynically perfect, as if he smeared that little patch to bring out his ruddy urchin cheeks to endear himself to blitzed fops ready to lose their moneybags wallet (ed. Moneybags wallet? I'm not sure about this detail. I believe that St. Petersburg if not the majority of the monied Russians in 1872 would have graduated to a cash-based society.) (ed. Alright, here it is. It was as early as 29 December, 1768, let's just mark it 1769 because a few days between friends, etc., Ekaterina II, or Catherine the Great, issued the first paper money in Russia after the stonewalling efforts and continued copper coinage fell in the face of the continuing Seven Years War, so by 1872, cash was ubiquitous. Please remove all mentions of "moneybags wallet" and replace with "wallet") his dirt-marred face shining with hope and promise, helps him to prop himself against the nearest wall where he sleeps for a thousand years (ed. No, he doesn't.) for a few minutes and he is very drunk and he believes that it is a thousand years later (ed. He wouldn't, not possible, unless his alcohol was spiked with buckets of acid or mounds of PCP, frying his brain right the fuck off, but again, if you insist on a period piece, really get away from any of these anachronisms, pre- or post-, acid wasn't invented until 1938, PCP until the 1950's, maybe psylocybin mushrooms, but they don't have that catastrophic effect, some thousand year sleep hallucination bullshit.) vomits. A bark jolts the bleary prince awake and impoverished (ed. Impoverished?) (auth. the kid.) (ed. oh. yeah. Sorry. ). There stands P.O.S., a stern sneer, white wig and smooth velvet trousers. He picks our prince up off the ground and throws him in a sack he has brought.

A few seconds of burlap-textured pitch-black until the prince is pulled from the bag. P.O.S. is performing in front of a disturbed dance floor, darkly ornate, long and Russian in scale. It is lit like a nightmare and populated with the hobo-riche, their bedraggled costumes scavenged from some royal trash bin, the smell of banana peel wafting through their gowns, top hats without the compulsion for consistency, missing part or all of the eponymous top, long Tail suit-coats extended or patched in magnificent, unthinkable ways, the sack our Duke just fell out of has been already been scavenged for precious fabric, like a coarse bolt from the blue. A ring of admirers sit around the edges of this grand dance floor, sick and twisted folk spanning the dark and decadent periods of history but flavored or informed by 1870's Russia. The dancers spin, whirl and waltz to the beat as we follow their movements simultaneous to the dazed royal in their midst. At the bridge, the strumpets from the street and the freaks on the walls flood the dance floor and it's not a riot but a dancing rumpus, in which our dazed prince finds himself upstaged by these goons and wakes, attacking that dance floor with his long leather boots, showing the impoverished how a Duke gets down. As the party gets bigger, the song fades and ends as black takes over our screen.

The next morning, our Duke awakes, halfway crammed into the modern urinal in the clubs bathroom. His encrusted epaulettes are all that's left of a shredded uniform, revealing his one piece long underwear. He is no longer Mr. Moneybags Wallets –(ed. enough already.)

No comments: