Moving Pictures
May 22, 2024, 06:29AM

Plug in the Pleasure Receptors

Monica gets started on a no-break, seven-day schedule for the next two months.

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He just seems to take himself a little too seriously. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Where was I at 70? Some place in Marrakesh, enjoying the sun, loathing the weather and the locals. Violence is only beautiful on the silver screen, and it’s only done well when it’s almost real, with squibs, and people nearly getting killed for real and all that. But you also know that they used to shoot horses, and don’t they know it’s a shameful legacy for a nation to keep and maintain any composure with a species as noble as my own: the hen, a figure of strength and persecuted and experimented on mercilessly for centuries.

We are the fauna of flora and fauna. Da Boss doesn’t think any of this is interesting but he eats “chicken” Chicken. Da Boss, my boss, eats chicken. HE EATS ME. But these are disfigured hens of another kind, not an ordinary order, one of cruelty and hate, and I can only hope one day he’ll find a solution to his dilemma. “Nothing gets me to sleep.” He told me chicken sandwiches from Burger King and, to a lesser extent, McDonald’s, were the only vice he relapsed into during the early pandemic, and it was also the Whoppers and the Big Macs. But I don’t give a fuck about dem cows. Seriously… dumbass motherfuckers I hate you… cows…

There are no more heroes. There are no more kings. The emperors have fallen and we are all in Hell. These are things I’m saying, but Da Boss is telling me to put them into the movie. Okay, whatever. It’s your funeral, I don’t know why you’d invest so much artistic value in the tired random babblings of a hen. “But Monica, weren’t you just saying you’re a species to be respected? Venerated, even?” You are the most dense boss I’ve ever had. Or just dumb and immature. I’m not smart just because I deserve a living and to be free from murder and persecution by the global meat industrial complex. It’s killing you, too, you know. But your movie needs more perspective, there aren’t enough title cards. You have a few fine ones at the end, but we need 80 minutes, not 68.

Da Boss is ready to push ignition and send the film everywhere it might have some success. “Mars? Saturn? Mercury or Uranus? I’m flexible it just depends on which one is more expensive. Pluto? Shipping costs would be insane…” Let’s put aside the madness of my boss proposing we send our DCP copy of the film to the distant planet Pluto, I believe re-incorporated (?) into our solar system recently. That was a strange decision—denigrate a planet? Why? On a technicality? We love Pluto, we named things after the ninth planet. I think there are nine planets. Da Boss shows me a map of the Solar System. I lift my left feather and point. “Yep, that’s definitely Pluto.” He throws it onto the couch and walks out, yelling that he’s SATISFIED WITH THE WORK YOU’VE DONE TODAY, MON.

—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits


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