Figo

Loverboy.

Couldn't we invite Ricard and make it a pas de trois?
Anyway, my idea is a modification of something I read in the Errol Flynn autobiography, My Wicked, Wicked Ways, only he used geese. First, we tie a piece of fat to the end of the reel and leave it on Spielberg's desk. Spielberg wanders in, sees the tasty morsel lying on his blotter, finds it irresistible, and swallows it up, leaving a strand of celluloid draping from his lips, which of course is connected to the remainder of reel. Now, this particular type of fat is very difficult to digest, so when the time comes, Spielberg passes it whole, with the film still attached. The strip now protrudes from the entrance and from the exit, if you get my meaning.
Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, his pal George Lucas drops by to discuss how he plans to destroy the Indiana Jones series, when something catches his attention, out of the corner of his eye. A nice, succulent cube of fat! Lucas gets down on his hands and knees and scarfs it up. Before long, he too feels the call of nature, and suddenly the two directors find themselves strung together like a couple of pieces of popcorn on a homemade Christmas garland.
A short while later, there comes a knock on the door. Spielberg slurs out of the corner of his mouth, "Come in!" Wouldn't you know, it's Francis Ford Coppola, looking for his old buddy George Lucas, trying to get some advice on how he can suppress all the prints of the original Apocalypse Now. Before he can utter a sentence, however, he spies the glistening wad of fat, and leaps upon it like a cat upon a mouse. The opening moments of A.I. now begin at Coppola, pass through Lucas, and wend through Spielberg's digestive track to meet the reel, which is still in Spielberg's hands.
Another knock at the door. It's Richard Donner! "Hey, guys," he starts to say, "You were completely right about Superman -- the original theatrical version was lame. I'm so glad I followed your example and --" He breaks off suddenly.
"Is that a -- cube of fat?"
Steven, George, and Francis reply in unison, "Blahmlll-amul-mallll..."
Before they can dissuade him, Donner is on it, and the image of a middle-aged William Hurt flickers as if seen through a zoetrope as it slithers down the director's gullet, sluices through the stomach acid and eventually passes out through his small intestine.
The four directors now resemble a blasphemous centipede, each of them tenderly maneuvering to extract their mouths from their precursors' behinds. Someone chokes out something which may have been a request to call in a secretary, but Spielberg vetoes the idea. After all, they are the directors -- they should know best what is to be done! Isn't this Steven's film. Shouldn't he be allowed to do with it what he likes? At that, came a reassuring pat on the back from George.
Suddenly, another knock. It's William Friedkin! "Hey, fellas! I was just passing by and thought I'd stop in to see if Steven had eaten lunch." He laughs sadistically. "Yeah, and then I started to think about how I used to terrorize Jason Miller and Ellen Burnstyn on the set of The Exorcist. Oh, that's rich! Thank God you can no longer find the original cut on the store shelves."
Then, like a crow, he tilts an eye toward something reflective. It is, of course, the wad of fat, taken on an even finer sheen having passed through the intestines of four of the greatest American directors of the 1970s. Before any of them could get out an intelligible warning, Friedkin had become the fifth car on the A.I. pleasure train.
"Ooh," they all moaned. And if they could speak so that they might be understood, they would have said, "Dear, merciful Lord -- we are so sorry that we set ourselves up as false gods before You, and that we second-guessed the moviegoing public and decided we knew what was good for them, even to the extent of tampering with decades of collective memory. If only You could see Your way to let us out of this mess, we will restore the original versions of our masterpieces to video store shelves, and make them available on DVD, and we will never do anything as insulting as change the titles on our most famous movies so that they are known to future generations by stupidities such as A New Hope and Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark."
But God looked down upon them with a cold eye. He'd heard it all before, like when Francis vowed he would never consider suppressing the original cut of Apocalypse Now. God, of course, is an enormous movie buff, and has taken particular displeasure in the decadence of Hollywood cinema over the past twenty years.
"Hear Me, oh directors of Hollywood!" he bellowed. "I am that I am! In demonstrating your contempt for your early masterpieces and for audiences the world over, you have succumbed to the temptations of sloth. When you were unable to formulate new ideas, you fell upon your old ones, like dogs to their vomit. When you beheld the false promise of Mammon, in the form of box office receipts and DVD sales, you set upon your own children with daggers in your hands. Oh you directors of Hollywood! Have you anything to say in your defense?"
To which they replied, "Blahmlll-amul-mallll..."
And the Lord was wrath. He touched a pale blue finger to the morsel of fat that lay glistening in its own juices, and the juices of Steven, George, Francis, Richard, and William, and the finger glowed. A shaft of light emerged from His enormous cuticle, and from the wad of fat arose a column of fire. This, in turn, touched off the highly combustible celluloid, and the infernal jet raced up the fuse straight for Friedkin's colon. Their muddled screams filled the air, as Friedkin vomitted fire into Donner's anus, and their buttocks parted one by one like the Red Sea to make way for the purifying fire of God. When the molten celluoid came at last to Spielberg and he could feel it scorching at his innards -- in those final moments before his beard erupted into hideous conflagration -- he could be heard to shriek, as the final residue of A.I. drifted off like ash upon an unseen breeze, "It's beeeeeautiful!!!!"
Then the Angel of Death swept them all into her gut-encrusted talons and dumped their charred remains into the Pit of Hell.
THE END