The Pitch

I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce the new script I just finished for a (fingers crossed) summer blockbuster called "War is Heroic, God Damn You!". It's a touching, oversimplified pants-wetter about the struggles bombs face while finding themselves some people ass. Bidding starts at four baby skulls, no questions asked.

OOOOOkaaaayy! It all makes so much sense to me now: a href

Hello?
Oh, it's you America! Of course I recognized you, but you can't come in here dressed like that. No, it's not that I don't like drag queens, America, it's just that. . . well . . . you're just the wrong kind of queen is all. Don't act like that, America. Don't act like you care. It's plain to see that you don't, America. Your sagging cheeks are covered in stubble, and you didn't even bother to shave your legs. You're letting yourself go, America. Do you own a mirror? Your make-up is smeared, America, and why would you think that you could fit into that dress? It has sequins and feathers, but glamour still eludes you. Hmmm. You call that a wig? Your build is all wrong, America.
Do you think anyone will believe this get-up, America? You've got to tape that between your legs. Even the greenest of queens know how to do that properly, America. Why don't you? You're too old for this now, and your Helen Keller act leaves much to be desired. What kind of act is that for a drag queen anyway? I thought you would have done a Bette Midler or Madonna, America. Is that vomit on your dress? I wouldn't complain, but I am part of the audience, and who are you here for, America?
I've seen you roaming around these same streets for years now, drooling and hazed, hiking up your stockings and making scenes. I've seen you run to the crowds screaming, "Call me a queer! Call me a fag!", but everyone knows better. What'll you do when someone obliges you, America? What are you gonna do? Are you gonna teach 'em a lesson, America? What could you possibly teach them? They're all laughing at you. We're all laughing, America. You look so sad. Your charade is pathetic, America. No one's buying it.
You passed out on my doorstep, again, America. You reek. Your legs are splayed all across. . for Christ's sake, America, I can see your balls! Cross your legs or something, America! Don't you have any shame? Oh yeah. . .sorry, man. Forgot who I was talking to.