Heyheyhey there, all you ginchy cats'n'kitties! This is the ol' hipster Skipster layin' down tracks to, like, fill you in on the SnL Studios' most recent history! (No rule that sez "history" has to be, like, ancient history, you dig?)
At first, we had the grooviest directors and producers in Hollywoodland vying for the opportunity to produce our Kewl Beanz!TM commercial gig. However, when they glommed to the fact that the Foxster and me were nearly out of clams, the offers dried up to, like, nothingsville.
Set in cement in, like, the doldrums, we did, like, the next best thing.
We made a plea for handouts to squares and hepcats alike on YouTube, you dig?
These were, like, the only two responses that got carrier-pigeoned to my emailbox...
The first was from a "landlocked surfer" in Southern California, who's obviously a coffee-fiendish newbie with "Windows Movie Maker."
Odds bodkins, cats! It, like, did a Gene Krupa drum solo on our respective heads, and just made me want to shuffle downstairs and grab some Z's.
The second was from some 98-year old dude in a Florida retirement pad, who put "Ed Wood" on his resumé as his "favorite film director of all time," and that '60s Brit-chick Petula Clark as his "favorite female vocalist."
We all were doin' time in the universal mind, saying that that was not going to be "keepsville" either. (Although the Foxster kind of looked like he actually dug it while Pet's voice-over was beltin' out the beat!)
Then Tara, her pretty peepers flashin', suddenly pointed Skipwards and blurted out, "Hey! What are we spinning our wheels for? We have a talented video maker right here in this room!"
I mumbled into my turtleneck that I hadn't slipped the skin to a video cam in years, ever since my "traumatic accident with a circus elephant."
She stood up, stretched her gams, and did the Hokey-Pokey in my general vicinity, a Chesire Cat smirk on her face. She began poking me in the ribs, and goading me. "C'mon... what are you, huh? Chicken? Huh? Are you a big chicken? Bar-awwk, buck buck!" Then she started groovin' to "The Chicken Dance" around the second-floor studio and conference area, while the other cats split their sides.
Suddenly Gretchen, of all people, played her riff, rapping in English (which she's been copping to more and more lately). "Ja! That is right, Tara! Skip tell me about all these 'Gold Adder Awards' he win for his videos!"
"Addy Awards," I piped, tryin' to, like, set her straight.
Gretchen goofed on me like I hadn't uttered syllable one... and then she, like, got up and boogied with Tara in "The Chicken Dance!" What a mind-blower, you dig?
Then Kato jumped in, speechwise. "Have you lost your faith in yourself, Mister Skipster? I can help you get it back! Spend a few hours in the rec room on the punching bag with me. Remember in Star Wars when Luke used the Force?"
Why does Kato grok everything in terms of Star Wars?
Meanwhile, my writing partner and best amigo, the Foxster, was just sitting back, playing it cool in his red swivel chair, sippin' the java with a big grin on his bearded puss... gettin' a kick out of every moment of the girls shaking their fannies in the "Chicken Dance."
I held my hands up. "Cats... Cats! We don't even have any pro video equipment to shoot a spot with... and that's if I'd even jump for the wor... the w... the wwwwwwwww...!" Couldn't bring myself to use that four-letter "W" word, dig?
Then Tara did something I'd, like, never copped to her doing priorwise! She leaned forward, planted both of her tiny paws firmly on the armrests of my cushy red swivel chair, and looked me straight in the peepers! Sotto voce, she said, "Mister Skip! Gretchen, Kato, and myself have already made significant sacrifices to keep 'SnL' alive. Maybe now, it's your turn!"
I shot a glimpse over at His Foxiness, who just, like, bobbed his head like he was boppin' to the beat of an inner drummer and muttered, "She's right."
I looked upon the cookie-cutter faces of Gretchen, Tara, and Kato, who were all casting their gaze Skipward.
I sucked in the atmosphere like I was inhalin' a Kool, and bobbity-bobbed right back at them. "Okay... Cool. Let's light this candle! Reet-reet-a-rooney!""
Gretchen applauded, with waterworks -- OOH, bad scene! I used the "W" word! -- makin' a high tide in her eyes, and everyone else made like monkeys, imitating her. I had just gotten a "standing O" from my partner and staff members, and I hadn't done anything yet!
But my grey matter was already slippin' and a-slidin' into "Producer Mode."
All the cats'n'kittens sat back down... and they, like, all stared at me.
"Dig it," I speechified. "You all grok that we don't have a lot of moolah right now. The bestest we could do is to cop some ten second spots on local cable, late at night. And it's gotta be really laid back."
I caught Gretchen scopin' me out with those puppy-dog orbs of hers. "That's my man," she whispered. "That's my Skipster."
"You go, boyfriend!" Tara shouted out, punching her fists on mine. (And for a tiny little chickadee like Tara... she hits really hard!)
"Remember... the Force is with you, always," nodded Kato solemnly.
The Foxster bobbed his noggin some more. Then he looked at me, smilin' like Satchmo. "Skip... Thinking back on our early history, do you remember 'Old Number 47,' that we first used in the advertising biz?"
I flashed my pearlies in remembrance, and snapped my digits in approval! Natch! This would wor... w-wor... I mean, this would do the trick, man! Kewl BeanzTM, to coin a phrase!
Outtasite, man! We're makin' HISTORY!
To Be Continued...