EXT. PARK, WASHINGTON, D.C. — NEXT DAY

Jack and Bobby sit on a bench, trying to look inconspicuous in their trench coats, fedoras, and sunglasses. They both hold newspapers: Bobby, a NY Times; Jack, a free XXX rag.

BOBBY: Wanna get caught? Spend your life in prison? We can’t be seen together- not at home, not the office. And we sure can’t talk about it on the phone.
JACK: We look ridiculous.
BOBBY: Speak for yourself, I look good.
JACK: So what do we got so far?
BOBBY: Obvious ones- poison, bomb, explosion of some kind.
JACK: How ‘bout a knife?
BOBBY: Tough to kill him.
JACK: Rope.
BOBBY: What, like the mafia?
JACK: Lead pipe.
BOBBY: Eh.
JACK: Candlestick.
BOBBY: (a beat) Are you naming Clue pieces?
JACK: You can learn a lot from a family board game.
BOBBY: Jesus, Jack.
JACK: Hitler played Risk. (Bobby sighs) From the suggested age of 8 and up.

Speaking of 8-year-olds, a tour guide leads a Cub Scout troop past them, lecturing on the wonders of democracy. Jack and Bobby wave to the boys. Thinking they’re pedophiles, the tour guide hurries the Scouts along.

BOBBY: You know the President, you been to his house. What does he like?
JACK: Fine china.
BOBBY: How does that possibly…
JACK: Princess Di commemorative plates. (big) Franklin Mint.
BOBBY: Something we can use, something-
JACK: He likes 20-year-old scotch.
BOBBY: Who doesn’t?
JACK: And 20-year-olds.
BOBBY: (perks up) Girls?
JACK: Preferably with the scotch.
BOBBY: You serious right now?
JACK: Oh, yeah. He makes Clinton look like a…

Wracks his brain, trying to say ‘teetotaler.’

JACK: … Tee-tote….
BOBBY: Jack, you beautiful bastard!
JACK: … Uh, tee-tot…
BOBBY: We got our in.
JACK: … Tater tot… (nailed it) Makes him look a tater tot.

A policeman swaggers past. Jack and Bobby sit upright and straighten their clothes. The cop eyes them suspiciously.

BOBBY: Okay, okay. Anything else you can think of?
JACK: He hates clowns.
BOBBY: Everyone hates clowns.
JACK: And babies.
BOBBY: Really?
JACK: And bunnies. And pandas. And peanuts. And-
BOBBY: Peanuts?

JACK: That’s what you took from that?
BOBBY: Wait- does he not like them or is he allergic?
JACK: What’s the difference?
BOBBY: Us sleeping on this bench or napping in the Lincoln bedroom.
JACK: I do like naps.
BOBBY: If he’s allergic…
JACK: (realizing) … We could frame Mr. Peanut.
BOBBY: Exactly.
JACK: So pretentious with his cane and monocle. Like to take a fork and-
BOBBY: (beaming) Think we found our weapon.
JACK: Fork?
BOBBY: Peanut!
JACK: Frankly, I prefer the candlestick.
BOBBY: Next time, awright?
JACK: Promise?
BOBBY: You have my word, Jack. Next time we plot to assassinate a public figure, we’ll use a candlestick.
JACK: Thank you.

A guy dressed exactly like Jack and Bobby strolls past; there’s a good chance he has nothing under his coat.
He nods hello to Jack and Bobby- after all, they’re his peers. Jack and Bobby realize they look like perverts.

JACK: We should probably…
BOBBY: Yeah.

They spring off the bench. O.s., boys SHRIEK as the guy in the trench coat exposes himself to the Cub Scouts.

EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sunny day. Magnificent yachts line the harbor. Down a wooden pier, each boat gets smaller and smaller… at the end, a tiny, ragged sailboat. A rusted bike lays on the deck.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and books from a wide range of subjects. A fraternity paddle and photos of happy, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL t-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk. Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat, SAUCY, sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: Know this is gonna fuck up your credit, don’tcha? Shit, you won’t be able to get a Discover card- and they hand those out to the fucking homeless.

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his ragged laptop as he eats cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

He opens World of Warcraft, a fantasy game. Chooses an avatar- healer. Next, he has to pick an occupation. Scrolls through the options. Like in his real life, it’s a tough decision…

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. He eyes his cell: a ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector. Chas shudders, fear coursing through him. Declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to the game. Back to fantasy.

EXT. STRIP MALL, HOMEDALE, IDAHO — CONTINUOUS

Empty mom and pop shops in a dying town. On the 2nd floor, a business: PERFECTION COLLECTION, a smiley face on the door.

KEITH V.O.: … And, oh yeah, full disclosure- did 8 years for aggravated assault. Bashed this fucker’s head in so bad, dumb shit got brain damage…

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

Shoddy gray cubicles. Scraggly collectors work the phones. These scoundrels reek of booze, body odor and broken homes.

KEITH V.O.: … Now he’s a vegetable, thank you very much. And not even the smart kind. More like a… lima bean.

MANAGER’S OFFICE.

KEITH HOLMES (42) slumps in a chair. With his mullet, mustache, and Metallica T-shirt, he’s forever stuck in 1987. He’s calm now, but there’s menace lurking in his pudgy body.

KEITH V.O.: … Think I give a shit I go back? Called room and board, dickhead. And guess what? Mine’s free….

He sits across from his boss, PATRICK (50s), a hippie with a ponytail. In stark contrast to the boiler room operation, the office is chock full of candles and incense- a mystic vibe.
They’re listening to the messages that Keith left for Chas.

KEITH V.O.: … So don’t think I won’t come out to that Saddam and Gum-whora city-

Patrick shuts off the recording, sighing.

PATRICK: How many times we gone over this?
KEITH: I dunno. How many times I told ya we gotta go alpha dog on their asses? All they understand is force- like terrorists. Why you think waterboarding works so good?
PATRICK: … Well, actually…
KEITH: Shit. Hitler be runnin’ amok today, didn’t fake drown his generals.
PATRICK: It’s not the way we do business here. We talked about this.
KEITH: Fucker’s got money, too. Know he lives in a 5 million dollar house?
PATRICK: Sorry, but… this is, uh… I’m gonna hafta let you go.
KEITH (chuckles): Yeah, right. Pretty sure that’s the incense talking.
PATRICK: Gave you a chance after, ya know…
KEITH: Thanks. Thanks for the opportunity of a commission-only job.
PATRICK: Not everyone hires ex-cons.
KEITH: Awright, fine. Fuck it, you win. I’ll play by your stupid rules.
PATRICK: I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Frankly, you’ve become a liability.
KEITH: Frankly, you become an asshole. (beat) How much cash I brought into this fucking place? Huh?
PATRICK: Zero, last couple months.
KEITH: Ah, that’s… you know I ain’t been right since my moms passed. (beat) Oh, and guess what? Goddamn IRS says she owes a shit ton a’ back taxes. Might lose the house.
PATRICK: Tsk, sorry to hear that. Wish there was something I could do.
KEITH: Yeah. Gimme my fucking job back.

Hating confrontation, Patrick reaches down and grabs a large, wrapped fruit basket off the floor. Sets it on the desk, proud of himself for solving the problem. Keith gawks at it.

KEITH: Fuck’s that?
PATRICK: Gift. From corporate. It’s supposed to go to the top man, but… go ‘head, take it.
KEITH (snickers): Gotta be… that’s my parting gift?
PATRICK: It’s a very nice assortment.

Keith springs to his feet, incensed.

KEITH: Know what, Patrick? Fuck you and the Hyundai you came in on.

And knocks over a stick of burning incense.

KEITH: Smells like Tibet in here.
PATRICK: Don’t make me call security.
KEITH: Call ‘em! Fuck do I care? Hell, I’d love a police escort, go out in style. Let’s OJ this bitch.

Snatches the fruit basket off the desk.

KEITH: Fuck it, I am taking this thing. Sell this shit on the street like a fucking Mexican… thank you, Patrick. You made me an illegal alien. Vaya cum dios, motherfucker.

And flips Patrick off as he stomps out of the room.

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION — ONE MINUTE LATER

A security guard at his side (30s, fat, mustache), Keith cleans out his desk: half a baloney sandwich, bag of Funyons and a plastic flask. The security guard eyes him quizzically.

KEITH: What, gonna judge me? You’re a fucking mall cop. Strip mall.

Whips open his flip phone like a switchblade and snaps a photo of the computer screen: Chas’ info is on it.

EXT. PARKING LOT, STRIP MALL — ONE MINUTE LATER

The security guard escorts Keith to his car as he struggles to carry the fruit basket and all his belongings.

KEITH: Could help me, ya know. Fucker.

Opens the cab of his battered, mud-caked 1995 Ford F-150. Crams his stuff next to a stockpile of shotguns and rifles.

Cameron Crowe is a wise man- definitely not a guy (read on)- particularly on the matters of relationships and love. His films are replete with romantic bon mots, yet they rarely dip into the shallow waters of mawkishness. No Capra-corn here, folks… er, not much anyway. Here’s 12 lessons from the romcom master. Learn it, know it, live it as Brad Hamilton advises Spicoli in Fast Times.

1. SAY ANYTHING: The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy.

Yes, they’re similar: three-letter words meaning adults males. But there’s a world of difference between the two, as any woman knows. Men are mature. Responsible. Hunters and gatherers, sure, but also caretakers. Guys are, well, aging frat boys. The closest they’ll ever get to being a man is creating an eponymous cave to watch football while quaffing beers… with other guys, of course.

2. SAY ANYTHING:  I don’t know you very well, you know, but I wanted to ask you – how’d you get Diane Court to go out with you?/I called her up.

A common theme that weaves through Crowe’s movies is the spoils of taking initiative. Fortune favors the bold, as the Latin proverb goes. A more recent iteration of the motivational adage comes from none other than the great Canadian philosopher himself, Mr. Wayne Gretzky: ‘You miss 100 percent of the shots you never take.’ Indeed. Lloyd Dobler took a shot and cold called the girl of his dreams. Advice? Listen to the Great One. Make that call.

3. SAY ANYTHING: Did you really come here with Lloyd Dobler? How did that happen?/He made me laugh.

Okay, I’m a little skeptical of this one, though I desperately want it to be true… kinda like a no-carb pizza that, ya know, tastes like actual f’ng pizza. Women always proclaim that a sense of humor is vitally important, though I hate to say, I’d like to take a gander at Gilbert Gottfried’s wife (sorry for the cheap shot, Gil). My politically incorrect point is that the ability to make a woman laugh is nice, but it can’t stand on its own. A sense of humor, alas, must to be combined with looks or money- preferably both. Thankfully for Lloyd, he doesn’t look anything like Mr. Gottfried (apologies again, good sir).

4. SINGLES: Desperation: it’s the world’s worst cologne.

Yes, it’s even more toxic than Drakkar Noir… if that’s even possible. It reeks a country mile and has veto power over all the admirable traits mentioned above. Better a certified geek who looks like Gilbert Gottfried (last dig, I swear) who’s bizarrely confident than a good looking guy who’s, well… creepy. Takeaway here is, there must be something inherently disturbing about you- creepy, good looking guy- if you’re so g-damn desperate.

5. ALMOST FAMOUS: Let’s say all the things we never said.

Precious time, as Van Morrison poignantly sang, is slipping away. I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but there’s no time like the present to tell your partner- heck, friends and family members, too (well, some of ’em)- how much you care.  They could be gone tomorrow.  Today, in fact. Remember: regret is permanent. Embarrassment is temporary.

6. JERRY MAGUIRE: I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.

Like the NBA draft, potential is a crucial factor in choosing the right partner. Like a caterpillar blossoming into a butterfly, a guy can be transformed into a man with the proper guidance. Perhaps you’re the person- maybe the only person- to bring out this concealed potential. Dorothy Boyd certainly was for his boss. And, in turn, Jerry became a man.

7. JERRY MAGUIRE: Maybe love shouldn’t be such hard work.

It shouldn’t. It should be natural and easy, like a bucolic creek in the woods, water flowing gently over the rocks. If a relationship becomes a daily struggle- if the pain dwarfs the pleasure- take Jordan Peele’s advice and Get Out. Now. Before you become indoctrinated… or, ya know, have your brain cut open.

8. FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH: All right, now pay attention. First of all, Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl. ‘Oh, Debbie. Hi.’

If you know the movie, this is the first of five nuggets of advice proffered by Damone, the ticket scalper. The other four are either sexist (‘you always call the shots’) or dated (‘put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV’), so I’ll focus on this one. This is some high school shit to be sure… in 1982, no less. But, yes, hiding your love away as the Beatles sang is a good rule of thumb. I wish this wasn’t the case- much like accepting the fact that decent pizza contains a ton of carbs- but you gotta play the game, you gotta be cool. ‘Specially if your name is Rat.

9. ELIZABETHTOWN: Most of the sex I’ve had in my life was not as personal as that kiss.

Birds do it. Bees do it. Even… whatever the hell the next animal in that stupid song goes. We get it- every dumb animal has sex. But how many primates kiss? Or better yet, make out? Along with the opposable thumb, it’s the thing that makes us human. And kissing is so much more intimate than sex. Not only is it STD free, you don’t hafta make that run to Walgreens a month later for the test strips.

10. WE BOUGHT a ZOO: You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.

Another quote worthy of Gretzky. Keep shooting till you score.

11. WE BOUGHT A ZOO: Well, talking to girls is easy. They’ll tell you everything. The secret to talking is listening.

Oldie but goodie. Two ears, one mouth, blah, blah, blah. And you don’t necessarily have to listen, per se, but at least pretend to. Nod a lot, throw in a few hmm-mmm’s and if the situation warrants, take Chris Rock’s advice and toss in ‘I told you that bitch crazy.’ You’re golden.

12. VANILLA SKY: You can do whatever you want with your life, but one day you’ll know what love truly is. It’s the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.

You can’t experience pleasure without having suffered pain. And they’ll be plenty of both in relationships, no matter how long you’ve been together. It’s the yin and yang, the sweet and sour… hmm, they’re both Chinese (well, ‘least the chicken, anyway)…  wait, where was I? Oh, yeah. It’s the knowing and accepting that when shit hits the fan- and it inevitably will- happy days will surely be here again… hopefully without the feces.

* 13 (for Christina). SAY ANYTHING: No one thinks it will work, do they?/No. You described every great success story. As Sinatra crooned, the best is yet to come. Believe.

I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.

It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak of- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.

I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a blue suit the color of a robin’s egg and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.

After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out: “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.

The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, the producer possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.

It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled. We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.

That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.

I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full- and needlessly aggressive- advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state). Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.

After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.

That night, like more than a few drunken escapades over the years, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More pointedly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.

EXT. BACKYARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — NIGHT

Emily and her friends quaff margaritas, in high spirits. Emily’s on her laptop, searching for something.

BECKY: You have any idea how dorky we are right now? We are literally Googling the Greek alphabet.
EMILY: Ooh, I like pi.
BECKY: Pi’s good.
MIA: Eh, too many carbs.
DOTTIE: You know it’s not food, right? It stands for 3.14-
BECKY: Dude, don’t harsh the buzz.
EMILY: Um, okay, definitely not mu.
BECKY: I think we can all agree on that.
EMILY: Beta.
MIA: Eww, like Betamax? Swipe left.
DOTTIE: Kinda appropriate, though. Just saying.
EMILY: Alpha?… Alpha’s not bad.
BECKY: Too guyish. (burps loudly) Alpha male, alpha dog…
MIA: I’ll swipe right on pi, but we need something cool to balance it out.
EMILY: Delta?
MIA: Ugh, like the airline? Hell, no!
DOTTIE: Well, actually, it means… (off Becky’s glare) Screw you guys.
EMILY: Omega?
MIA: Yes! Boom!
DOTTIE: How is that a boom?
MIA: Uh, Omega-3’s. Duh.
EMILY: I don’t really know what that is.
MIA: No one does! Who cares? It’s healthy.
EMILY: Hmm, ‘Pi Omega.’
BECKY: That’s not terrible, actually.
DOTTIE: Pecan pie and fish oil.
MIA: Sort of a ying yang kinda thing.
DOTTIE: Did you say ‘ying?’
EMILY: Ooh, I gotta call Linds.
BECKY: Uh, you might wanna wait on that.

Too late. Thrilled and tipsy, Emily calls Lindsay…

EMILY: Oh- hey! You answered. Guess what? We’re starting a sorority!
LINDSAY V.O.: You’re… what?
EMILY: I texted you I was going back to school.
LINDSAY V.O.: Weird but understandable.
EMILY: Well, it’s a long story- I’ll tell you later- but… Becks and the girls, we’re gonna start a sorority. Isn’t that awesome?!
LINDSAY V.O.: Not the word that comes to mind.
EMILY: Hey, so, whaddya think would be a cool name? We’re thinking Pi Omega.
LINDSAY V.O.: Hmmm… how do you say ‘mid-life crisis’ in Greek? I’d go with that.

And just like, Emily’s exuberance vanishes. Poof. Becky grumbles, wishing she hadn’t made the freaking call.

‘This is such a fun concept and a very enjoyable read. It’s a way more inclusive and modern The House Bunny and a memorable concept through and through… The characters are lovable and relatable. This especially applies to Emily. Her story is one that many women can relate to. She put everything on hold to be there for her family and completely forgot herself in the process. Her goal is clearly established, and it’s so easy to root for her…. The rest of the characters are equally well-crafted and likable. All of them have distinct personalities and are authentic. The dialogue is well-written and easy to read. The language chosen fits the story and the genre nicely… There are quite a few memorable lines that made me laugh out loud, and I can assure you that doesn’t happen very often. It’s a testament to your dialogue skills. The overall tone is fun and unique. We can hear your voice as a writer come through perfectly and it’s so much fun.’

EXT. PALATIAL ESTATE, RURAL NORTH CAROLINA — NIGHT

Like the opening of Citizen Kane (we’re in black and white,
folks) an imposing, wrought iron fence protects a massive
property. Posted on the gate, a menacing sign: NO TRESPASSING

Behind the fence, a colossal palace surrounded by endless
fields of tobacco plants. Over this, a 1940s-style narrator:

NARRATOR V.O.: … Legendary tobacco king Duke Bentson in the battle of his life, fighting the scourge of cancer…

INT. BEDROOM, PALATIAL ESTATE

DUKE BENTSON (70), white-haired and deathly ill, lies in bed,
clenching a snow globe with a miniature White House inside.

NARRATOR V.O.: … He amassed his fortune for one reason and one reason only: for his son to become President…

Duke shakes the globe. Instead of snow, dozens of tiny $1,000,0000 bills fall. He grins at seeing all the money.

NARRATOR V.O.: … His firstborn, John Junior, was certain to carry out that destiny- Harvard grad, military officer…

The globe slips from his hand as he utters one word: ‘power’

NARRATOR V.O.: … But he was killed in that terrible war in Grenada. So the obligation fell upon his second son, Jack, who nearly fulfilled…

The globe SHATTERS on the floor. The bills settle atop the smashed White House, blanketing it.

NARRATOR V.O.:… His father’s wish, narrowly losing his bid for the White House in a hotly contested primary. He now serves as Vice President, one step away from the Oval Office.

Duke gasps- his final one?- then his eyes close.

EXT. COURTYARD (‘THE LAWN’), UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA — DAY

JACK BENTSON (40s), a folksy Southerner with a lot of little boy in him (think Will Ferrell) gives a speech to the graduates. He’s confident. Commanding. Presidential.

JACK: … There’s an old saying in Virginia- I know it’s in Carolina, it’s probably in Virginia- that says early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and…

He’s suddenly flustered. Glances around, looking for his trusted adviser… he’s nowhere to be found. Awkward silence.

JACK: Mize. (nailed it) Makes you Johnny Mize. And in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

The students gawk at one another, befuddled.

INT. FRATERNITY HOUSE, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA — NIGHT

Sleeves rolled up, Jack has an intense look on his face. He plays a heated game of flip cup with a bunch of coeds: it’s an even match and he’s anchorman.

JACK: We got this, guys! Let’s focus.

The cute, busty blonde next to him flips her red Solo cup. Jack chugs his beer and plinks the cup over on his first try.

JACK: YES!!!

He celebrates with his teammates. Swept up in the frenzy, Jack goes to chest bump the blonde- she whips back, whoa!

JACK: Sorry.

One of the drunk frat boys captures the scene on his phone.

INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, NORTH CAROLINA — DAY

Jack reads a children’s book to a class of first graders. A SECRET SERVICE AGENT (30s, Black, fit) whispers into his ear. Jack’s face sours- some horrific tragedy just occurred.

JACK: Can I finish this real quick? Dying to see how it turns out.

The agent stares him down.

EXT. AIRPORT RUNWAY, NORTH CAROLINA — AFTERNOON

Jack steps onto the ramp of Air Force Two.

REPORTER: After all your recent blunders, are you concerned the President might replace you?

Jack snorts. To the secret service agent at his side:

JACK: That guy’s a total douche- bag, nozzle, and the box it came in.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT: Uh, we’re still live.

JACK: Let’s edit that out.

And strides onto the plane.

INT. FIVE-STAR HOTEL ROOM, PARIS — NIGHT

BOBBY ‘HIT MAN’ HEARNS (40s, Black) watches a news report of Jack’s miscues. A former street kid, Bobby’s a natural born hustler turned political adviser (think Kevin Hart).

BOBBY: Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Leave for one week…

His girlfriend, ELLE (30s), a sexy, Latina socialite, sashays out of the bathroom in a slinky black dress.

ELLE: Don’t know why you’re so surprised- can’t open his beer without you.

BOBBY: Seen him open plenty, believe me.

ELLE: Face it, guy’s a total loser.

BOBBY: Hey, c’mon, don’t say that.

ELLE: You backed the wrong horse. He was in my stable, I’d shoot him.

BOBBY: Owe my whole career to him- his dad, anyway.

ELLE: Shoulda worked with Peters when you had the chance.

BOBBY: Yeah, right. Guy who had his wife killed to win an election.

ELLE: That wasn’t proven and you know it.

BOBBY: Campaigned against him for two years. Trust me, he’s the devil.

ELLE: Yeah, well, that devil’s in the White House.

BOBBY: Say what you will about Bentson, gotta admit, he’s a good man.

ELLE: Only if you admit he’s a loser.

BOBBY: He was the most popular governor- ugh, let’s just drop it.

She studies him, dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

ELLE: Not gonna wear that tonight, are you?

BOBBY: Guess not.

Slogs to the closet as she ogles the hunky TV reporter- yum.

Title: NFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAME, JANUARY 2023

EXT. PARKING LOT, LINCOLN FIELD, PHILADELPHIA — EVENING

Frozen tundra. Six frostbitten Eagles fans swill cans of shitty beer as they watch the football game on a 13-inch TV.

The lone woman: KATE THOMPSON (40s, think Kaitlin Olson), a Philly detective who could outdrink and outcurse any Jersey truckdriver. Eagles jacket on, her face is painted green.

KATE: Let’s do our toast: to pop…

They all raise their beer cans. Belt out their dad’s creed-

THE TAILGATE CREW: Fuck the Cowboys!

Guzzle their brews as two ARAMARK workers in ski masks- one tall, one short- amble past. A chubby, baby-faced security guard leads them into the stadium. His nametag reads JERRY…

INT. BACK OFFICE, CONCESSION STAND — 10 MINUTES LATER

… SHEILA RIDDICK (40s, think Tiffany Haddish) a slender, Black vendor stacks bags of money onto a cart. Streetwise on the surface, Sheila’s a hopeless romantic at heart.

She pushes the cart out of the back office, a look of pure dread on her face, like a P-O-W. Something’s wrong here.

Jerry and the two ARAMARK workers await her. A cop tramps by. Sheila wavers, hoping the cop stops- but he treks along…

SHORT ARAMARK GUY: (under his breath) Trust me.

… Figuring she can’t back out now, Sheila flashes a flirty smile- these two know one other- and passes him the cart.

EXT. PARKING LOT, LINCOLN FIELD — 5 MINUTES LATER

The two guys swiftly push the cart towards a white ARAMARK van, past our group of tailgaters. Kate studies the guys…

Notices details no one else would: the ARAMARK logo on the van is a decal, not paint. And the uniforms look official, but they’re replicas. These at not ARAMARK employees.

She bounds to her feet, clenching a beer can.

KATE: Hey! Stop right there- PPD!

The guys heave the cart into the van and hop inside… Kate DASHES toward them as the van SPEEDS away-

BARRELS OVER a beefy man in a 49ers jacket. The tailgaters witness this. Stunned silence. Then, an explosion of CHEERS!

49ERS FAN: (gasping) … Someone call 9-1-1…

The van BOLTS out of the lot. Kate grasps her phone and dials as she DARTS past the wounded fan, splayed on the pavement.

49ERS FAN: … Thank you…

DISPATCHER V.O.: Hey, Thompson! You at the game?

KATE: (into phone, all business) Oh-300 in progress. White Aramark van heading south on Pattison.

Just then, the crowd ROARS. The entire stadium SHAKES.

DISPATCHER V.O.: Woo-hoo!!! Touchdown!!!

Kate gapes at the fleeing van, pained. Crushes her beer can. Plods back to her crew as the 49ers fan staggers to his feet.

49ERS FAN: … Ya know, I-I think I’m okay…

Kate PUNCHES him in the face- knocking him back on his ass.

KATE: Niners suck.

Philadelphia Inquirer headline: ‘WE WIN!!!’ On the bottom of the front page, in small font: ‘Lincoln Field Robbed’

Currently in development. Check it out:

https://malkusgroup.com/Projects.html

Heisting the Cup is a genuinely funny, well-composed comedy film that benefits from the writer’s ability to carefully construct an engaging narrative around dynamic characters while weaving humor in. The film has a great structure with characters dimensionalized by their inclinations and motivations. This film feels like a love letter to Philly with Charlie being both flawed and disarming enough to make the audience root for him.