BISCUITS GONE BAD!!!!

Crazy out of control biscuits are everywhere and there's no stopping them! As the officially unofficial "biscuit (case) central," let me present you with some of the gang. They're bad. They're mad. And they're better than any pancakes you've ever had.

Quick jump to:

Part I: Biscuits I have known

Part II: What being a biscuit is all about

Part III: Three biscuit dreams()

Part IV: Biscuitmobile

Part V: P u l p B i s c u i t (The Unauthorized Script)

Part I: Biscuits I have known.

British biscuits on parade!!! Here we have a large group of biscuits ready to take over and settle "the Northern Ireland question" once and for all: let them eat biscuits! And you thought mediation after a long cease-fire would do the trick. No, the courage that our biscuits presented was unreal. They marched right in and sat on down--ready for business, ready for peace, and ready for some strawberry jam to be smeared all over them. These biscuits do more before 5am than most toast does all day. There's just something about the idea of sitting down with a british biscuit that lights my soul on fire. The grain. The milk. The ever-so-subtle aftertaste of mad cow disease. I better stop now, because I am getting WAY too excited!

You just can't get enough of those UK biscuits can you? Wimp.

After creating peace in Northern Ireland, our happy-go-lucky fun-loving punk-rockers-of-love are ready to cruise on down to Italy and snatch up some sweet Italian biscuits. As they say in Italy, "Life is full of beautiful moments. One of these is after dinner, when we like to relax, enjoy the company of our family or friends, sip a drink and taste one of our delicious, exclusive after dinner biscuits, perfect with a glass of Porto or Sherry, a Brandy or a cup of coffee, just to heighten and finish the evening in a perfect atmosphere." I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Southern biscuits. American cooking. American wholesomeness. Best served with deep-fried strips of ANYTHING. I need say no more, but I will. Why? BECAUSE THE BISCUITS TOLD ME TO. And they just wanted me to say one word: "cabbage."

I feel better now. I've just given you a biscuit review fit for a king. Now, with biscuits from the UK, Italy, and the American south all snuggled up close against me, I'm ready to tuck myself into bed and dream the dreams of a happy man. Biscuits forever man, biscuits forever.

Part II: What being a biscuit is all about.

Biscuits believe that there's another biscuit out there that's just right for them. If you bake it, they will come.
Biscuits don't.
Biscuits would make this sentence longer.
Biscuits stay up later than you do.
Biscuits can take partial derivatives.
Biscuits don't smoke, drink, cuss or get into bar fights. Well, they could get into a bar fight, but only if they're really, really sure the person they're about to beat up on can't run as fast as they can.
Biscuits are more than willing to watch "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" at any time on any day.
Biscuits realize that you aren't as cool as you think you are, but deep down inside they still like you anyway.
Biscuits like to be warm under the sheets.
Biscuits know that they're not just for breakfast anymore.
Biscuits realize that this page has just been put up, and as such is subject to extreme change at any time, including, but not limited to, becoming funny.

Part III: Biscuit dreams.

Dream One:

You know, even a biscuit can dream. This biscuit has a dream. It's happy dream. It involves Hollywood, good new friends, good old friends, and happy times all around. Here's how one biscuit makes it good:

The biscuit is tired. He's been baked. He's been spread with jam and jelly and butter and currants and everything you can imagine. He's sick of it. This is one sick biscuit. So he moves, he moves a long, long way away. This biscuit is Hollywood bound. Having no experience with Hollywood, he's a lost biscuit when he gets there. After all, what does your average biscuit know about the big Hollywood world of hash browns? Nothing. But this biscuit had a dream. First, he managed to get into the Paramount lot (5555 Melrose Avenue, no kidding!) as an assistant fact-checker for some middle-budget movie that they bought on spec two years ago. After doing good there, the hash browns at the top moved the biscuit up a notch: he would now help out a second-unit director. This cold biscuit was getting warmed up! After a while, the biscuit started writing story ideas and some scripts for hour-long dramas. He did this for about two years before getting any real attention: a producer asked him to submit a third script to a new program. Guild rules, baby, Guild rules: it's time to get an agent. Two months later he's a writer for a solid, though not hugely successful, TV show. A job. A real job. A steady job. The biscuit starts to live it up, after all, wouldn't you? Imagine you're a writer for a moderately well-received TV drama. Money. Recognition. Big parties at the homes of important hash browns.

The biscuit was pulled away three seasons later to co-produce a new show on the same network. Taking two of his writer friends with him from the old show, this biscuit was sitting pretty. Big money. A big job. Big pancakes and big doughnuts knocking on his door all day, and calling him all night. It was just after lunch with a new writer he was trying to hire. He was walking across the street, three steps into it, when he was hit by a car. He died. His first child was born two months later. She never saw her dad, and she died young, too young.

Dream Two:

The President helped make this biscuit. It was one of those vote-getting trips that Presidents take, and this trip involved a food factory and some new jobs project that had recently been signed into law. So this biscuit was special. After the President left, the biscuit (still glowing with pride) headed unceremoniously down the factory line, to be boxed and shipped out to a destination unknown. A sad biscuit, once proud, now sits in a green box in a big truck. A truck with destination unknown. The biscuit makes it to a small-town grocery store shelf, and is proudly put on display right at eye level. It was at the end of the day when this happened though, so this biscuit had to wait in the store overnight before anyone would come in the store to take it home. A woman who saw the President making biscuits saw this one package, this one biscuit that next day, and decided to buy it--not knowing that this biscuit was one that the President made. She takes it home and eats that biscuit like no biscuit has ever been eaten before. Later that day, she saves a little girl's life--she pulls the girl out of the street and out of the way of traffic, after the little girl trips and falls off the sidewalk during rush hour. A little bit of the biscuit had made its way to the woman's arms and legs by then, giving her the strength and speed she needed to save that little girl. So once again, the biscuit is proud.

Dream Three:

Covering with cheese was not the initial idea he had. He wanted to fly above this all, and look down on the cheese from above. To see the whole log, that's what he always wanted. But things never quite worked out that way. It seems that the spacing between the layers of his fluffy whiteness, the space between each layer of this biscuit, weren't quite right. Of course, no one knew how this happened, they just knew it couldn't be fixed in the right way. Maybe it was not enough milk. Maybe it was too much. Maybe the biscuit was kneeded too much, or perhaps it sat out too long before entering the oven. It didn't matter, for one way or another this biscuit was grounded. So what does a biscuit do? This biscuit didn't know. When a biscuit has a dream, a dream that it can't follow, then the biscuit must wait in the bread basket until someone happens to pick it up and hand it out. Fortunately, before this biscuit became too disillusioned, someone picked the basket up and made our dear biscuit an offer. Not an offer the biscuit was thrilled with, not an offer the biscuit even wanted--since the biscuit wanted to fly above it all remember--but an offer the biscuit could live with. In a way. He could live with the offer in the same way that you can read this story. It's there, it's not that exciting compared to what you'd really rather be doing right now, and it's not really even something that you NEED, but there it is and since there's nothing better immediately available, you read this story. In the same way, the biscuit takes the offer. The biscuit doesn't know how it'll go on, the biscuit doesn't know if it will ever be happy as it knows it would be happy if the layers of it's fluffy whiteness were correct, but this offer is a start down a road. Cry. So our biscuit friend is covered with cheese: a gunky, heavy, horrible mess. Tacky, stringy, all-covering. Yet easily removable with the right technique. The offer is the cheese. The gunky cheese that hangs heavy over the light flaky biscuit, the heavy cheese that signals the start of a new life, the horribly messy cheese that comes with responsibility, the tacky cheese, the stringy cheese, the all-covering cheese of age. Money, time, car, shirt, pen, lunch, shave, nine, six, weekend, date, age, life, future, retire, are these singular or plural? PPPPPPPPPP?P??P for certain, it's the questions that count. But the hand that picks the biscuit out of the bread basket makes the questions something that can be answered, so there is hope, since sitting in a bread basket, though warm and fairly comforting in a close-minded way, is no way to have questions answered.

Part IV: Biscuitmobile.

It turns out the Batmobile was originally going to be a Biscuitmobile. That's right, I'm not making this up. The Biscuitmobile was a Buick with a big red light and coats of white and tan paint, to make it look like a big biscuit with a flashing big red light on top. I've seen pictures of it, and I think it looks pretty good myself. But it turns out that the Biscuitmobile couldn't handle all the travel that was required of a car in a weekly TV series. They didn't realize this at first, they being the studio. The designer of the car knew it right off, but didn't tell the studio because he needed the money. When the studio eventually figured all this out, it was too late because the designer had long-since used up all the money and was off doing other things, bigger and better things that is.

Part V: P U L P B I S C U I T (THE UNAUTHORIZED SCRIPT)

I'll cut cutting straight to section

3. THE OLD BISCUIT

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPT. KOONS steps inside the room toward the little boy and
bends down on one knee to bring him even with the boy's
eyeline.  When Koons speaks, he speaks with a slight Texas
accent.

               CAPT. KOONS
    Hello, little man.  Boy I sure heard a bunch about you.
    See, I was a good friend of your daddy's.  We were in
    that Hanoi pit of Hell over five years together.
    Hopefully, you'll never have to experience this yourself,
    but when two men are in a situation like me and your daddy
    were, for as long as we were, you take on certain
    responsibilities of the other.  If it had been me who had
    not made it, Major Coolidge would be talkin' right now to
    my son Jim.  But the way it worked out is I'm talkin' to
    you, Butch.  I got somethin' for ya.

The Captain pulls a well-preserved biscuit out of his pocket.

               CAPT. KOONS
    This biscuit I got here was first purchased by your
    great-granddaddy.  It was bought during the First
    World War in a little general store in Knoxville,
    Tennessee.  It was bought by private Doughboy Ernie
    Coolidge the day he set sail for Paris.  It was your great-
    granddaddy's biscuit, made by the first company to ever make
    biscuits.  You see, up until then, people just made their
    own biscuits.  Your great-granddaddy carried that biscuit
    every day he was in the war.  Then when he had done his
    duty, he went home to your great-grandmother, took the
    biscuit out his pocket and put it in an ol' coffee can.  And
    in that can it stayed 'til your grandfather Dane Coolidge
    was called upon by his country to go overseas and fight the
    Germans once again.  This time they called it World War Two.
    Your great-granddaddy gave it to your granddad for good luck.
    Unfortunately, Dane's luck wasn't as good as his old man's.
    Your granddad was a Marine and he was killed with all the
    other Marines at the battle of Wake Island.  Your granddad
    was facing death and he knew it.  None of those boys had any
    illusions about ever leavin' that island alive.  So three
    days before the Japanese took the island, your 22-year old
    grandfather asked a gunner on an Air Force transport named
    Winocki, a man he had never met before in his life, to deliver
    to his infant son, who he had never seen in the flesh, his
    biscuit.  Three days later, your grandfather was dead.  But
    Winocki kept his word.  After the war was over, he paid a
    visit to your grandmother, delivering to your infant father,
    his dad's biscuit.  This biscuit.  This biscuit was in your
    daddy's pants when he was shot down over Hanoi.  He was
    captured and put in a Vietnamese prison camp.  Now he knew if
    the gooks ever saw the biscuit it'd be confiscated.  The way
    your Daddy looked at it, that biscuit was your birthright.
    And he'd be damned if slopeheads were gonna put their greasy
    yella hands on his boy's birthright.  So he hid it in the one
    place he knew he could hide somethin'.  His ass.  Five long
    years, he wore this biscuit up his ass.  Then when he died of
    dysentery, he gave me the biscuit.  I hid this uncomfortable
    hunk of flour up my ass for two years.  Then, after seven
    years, I was sent home to my family.  And now, little man, I
    give the biscuit to you.

Capt. Koons hands the biscuit to Butch.  A little hand comes into FRAME to
accept it.

Or, if you want, here's the whole biscuit script, first draft only!

home

Sat Mar 20 13:34:35 EST 1999