Posts Tagged ‘electronic entertainment’

The Nest Egg Program

March 13, 2009

Nest Egg 2


As he clears his throat, FMJ tries to put a positive spin on the Nest Egg Program – his representation has told him to avoid saying the words Nest Egg Program while the trial is being recorded:

FMJ: “Well, we used our accumulated expertise to organize a cooperative and benevolent project with a reputable food distribution conglomerate to provide free food and clothing to all the orphans that my organ-seeking affiliates were finding in the foreclosed homes of my textile employees. To get a generous monthly cheque from Best Bagel International, all the staff had to do was to make sure the little monsters took their sleeping pills, and that they were all hooked up to the audio equipment before they passed out. The nightly routine took only took a few minutes to set up after we let Best Bagel’s imagineers wire earphones right into their hearing canals, so…”

Cynthia makes a neck-slicing motion with a celery stick she pulls out of her drink. This is their code for “no more details, you verbose diva bitch, or you’re going to wreck your own show trial.”

Jesus stops at the words “hearing canals.” He shakes his hair and looks at the small flowers he’s had painted onto his fingernails this morning by a team of fine arts students.

Pretending not to notice FMJ’s  nails, Abdul Bouq Emmisayar approaches the bench, and then dramatically points at a preening Free Market Jesus:

Abdul: “What exactly was this program called… for the record?”

Moe Silverberg’s blog and local weeklies have turned the name of the program into a national scandal, and Cynthia has warned FMJ that they have to avoid actually calling it by name.

But the prosecuting attorney has a knack for asking questions everyone already knows the answers to, and this has FMJ feeling flustered by the sheer ennui of justice. FMJ absentmindedly throws Moe a headline:

FMJ: “It was called The Nest Egg Program.”

As the judge reaches under his bench to take another piece of sushi, he calls Jamil Tericho to the stand. When Jamil stands up and turns around to grab his microphone, Free Market Jesus glances at his hairy chest and protruding ass half-moon, and then bites down on his Charlie’s Angels key-chain.

The judge asks Jamil to state the plaintiffs’ case in their class-action suit.

Jamil: “Your honor, since leaving the orphanages a few decades ago, my fellow orphans and I lead dead-end and hopeless lives of disappointment and insatiable desire. We don’t sleep enough hours. We can’t concentrate on a thought for a very long time. We spend hours and hours just sitting listlessly in front of our televisions or computers waiting for something to happen or someone to do something. It’s as if our ability to experience life has been taken away from us before we could defend ourselves.”

Free Market Jesus snickers out loud, and the room freezes as all eyes turn to FMJ – the star defendant – with his Gucci sunglasses and a freshly bleached smile.

He turns to whisper something loudly to Cynthia:

FMJ: “Oh those plaintiff losers are just trying to find self-affirmation by trying to bring down the god who made them what they are. I read all about this in a magazine at my pedicurist’s office. One of my own publications. They’ve got what scientists call Jan Brady Syndrome. I can’t believe they would dare show their ungrateful common-trash faces at my celebrity trial. Why don’t they just try to get on one of my reality TV shows where the audience can watch to see which one of them has to disappear every week.”

Jesus reaches into his satchel and takes out another Kool menthol. The judge tells him he has to go to the bar if he wants to smoke. Jesus turns to the judge:

FMJ: “Oh, Steven, you know this is how the Nazis started. Telling those poor Jews they had to smoke at the bar.”

He gets up as if performing a ballet move, and then pirouettes over to Jamil who is sitting on the front bench lifting weights while reading a muscle magazine.

FMJ: Jamil, my sweet piece of Phoenicia, don’t ever wear that Adidas belt with those flip-flops. It makes my cunt hairs burn.”

His gaze drops to the rising Phoenician beacon in Jamil’s strategically-faded low-rise French jeans.

Click for more FMJ


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