Starring Brent Spiner
“You too can own a Sexual Lawn Gnome for only six easy payments of $9.95! Supplies are limited, call now before Old Man Henderson does!”
The commercial break ends and some brief intro music plays as Brent Spiner steps in front of the camera, his eyes bloodshot and glazed over.
“Hello there! Welcome to another exciting episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fluffy, where we see wealthy and/or famous people do things with or to fluffy ponies to amuse themselves. I’m your host, Brent Spiner, co-star of shows like Star Trek: The Next Generation, Night Court, and some shit you’ve never seen.”
Brent sits down in the same fancy golf cart from the previous episode, though much abused, with scratches on the fancy wood console, a broken headlight, and vomit stains across the dashboard. Pulling out a small glass tube with a fake rose inside, Brent proceeds to insert a crack rock and Chore Boy to convert it into a makeshift crack pipe and lights up as he stares directly into the camera.
“Holy shit, Brent, don’t do that on camera.”
“Fuck you, Bert, I only do this show to support my habit in the first place. Our first guest for today is… where the hell did my notecards go…”
Brent digs around in his pockets, then opens the glove box with an, “AHA!” as he pulls out a gallon Zip-Loc bag full of marijuana and his notecards.
“Brent, if the director of the DEA didn’t think this show was hilarious, we would be in so much shit. Could you please at least ATTEMPT not to be so blatant?”
“Here we go! Our first guest for today is… Johnny Knoxville? Who the hell is Johnny Knoxville?”
“Seriously? You don’t know who Johnny Knoxville is? He’s one of the stars of Jackass.”
“Oh, the tv series named for its target audience, where they do all the stupid stunts.”
Brent looks briefly confused, then perks up.
“Oh shit, I can’t wait to see what he does with fluffies!”
The scene cuts to Brent rolling up a driveway in his golf cart as Johnny Knoxville stands there grinning like a maniac.
“Hey Brent, glad you could make it! We’re actually filming for Jackass 7, so your audience gets a sneak peek at our next movie and YOU get to participate! You ready for this?”
“Do you have a keg?”
“Well, duh!”
“Hell yes, I’m ready!”
Cue the Jackass theme and a montage of the following scenes:
Brent and Johnny, both sporting obvious erections, screaming and pumping their fists as a pneumatic cannon fires a bowling ball into a foal-in-a-can vending machine, sending a spray of broken glass, blood, formula, shit, and screeching, chirping foals in all directions.
A fluffy walks up to a bowl of spaghetti and gets punched in the face by a spring-loaded boxing glove, collapsing in a bloody mess as it holds its nose and cries.
Johnny screaming, “REMEMBER TRUCK NUTS? CHECK OUT DESE NUTS! WHOOOOO!” before driving off in a pickup truck with a fluffy stallion nailed to the bumper by his scrotum.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!”
A differenty fluffy walks up to the same bowl of spaghetti and also gets punched in the face by the spring-loaded boxing glove, doing a 180 degree spin and landing on its back in a crying heap.
A shopping cart full of screaming, shitting fluffies rolling downhill, off a ramp, and getting serious air time before landing in a pond full of hungry carp that quickly swarm the fluffies who struggle not to drown.
A third fluffy walks up to the bowl of spaghetti, is briefly distracted by something behind it and turns around, resulting in the spring-loaded boxing glove punching it in the balls instead of the face; it flops onto its side and vomits before hugging its genitals in pain.
A crowd of Asians, along with Brent and Johnny, send a hundred Chinese lanterns flying into the sky, each one with a fluffy foal tied to it.
A fourth fluffy walks up to the bowl of spaghetti, gets suspicious, and encourages another fluffy to walk up to it first, resulting in the second fluffy getting a boxing glove to the face and collapsing unconscious. The first fluffy laughs, shits on the second fluffy, and begins to eat the spaghetti… at which point a spring-loaded boot kicks it in the ass so hard that it’s shoved face-first into the bowl and breaks its neck.
A fluffy, wearing a tiny astronaut helmet, is duct-taped to a large firework, which Brent lights the fuse of by holding a lit joint to it, then he and Johnny run back to a safe distance and watch as the rocket launches, then explodes several hundred feet in the air, raining a pink mist on them as they laugh maniacally.
Another fluffy, this one a mare with foals on her back, walks up to the bowl of spaghetti and gets knocked out by the spring-loaded boxing glove. A stallion runs up to one of the chirping foals and sodomizes it before eating the spaghetti while Brent and Johnny keep hitting the button for the spring-loaded boot and looking frustrated when nothing happens. The mare regains consciousness just as the stallion walks away licking his lips, and she immediately hugs her screeching, raped foal… at which point the boot finally activates and kicks her in the head, knocking her unconscious again. Another mare runs over and opportunistically steals a couple of her foals for herself before fleeing the scene.
A herd of midgets in luchadore costumes run out and begin beating a herd of feral fluffies with bratwurst nunchucks, while Brent and Johnny laugh hystericaly.
Yet another fluffy walks up to the bowl of spaghetti and is hit in the face by the boxing glove and simultaneously kicked in the ass by the boot in slow motion as the theme song ends.
The montage ends and Brent and Johnny are seen high-fiving each other and setting up for a keg stand as the scene fades out to a commercial break.
“How would YOU like to be the owner of your very own slave plantation? Now you CAN, with our specially bred and trained fluffies who do nothing but pick cotton all day!”
A woman sits on a porch sipping a mint julep and grinning as she watches several fluffies of varying shades of brown pick cotton in a tiny plot on her lawn. One fluffy, wearing a straw hat, is singing an off-key rendition of Run Nigger Run as they work.
“Forget Chia Pets, relive the antebellum days with your very own-”
After the commercial break, Brent is back in his golf cart, sipping from a bottle of Jack Daniels as he drives down the road.
“I’m not gonna lie, that was the most amazing hour of my life ever. And you’ll get to see it in more glorious detail in Jackass 7, coming to theaters this summer. Now our next guest is…”
Brent digs through the pocket of his sport coat and pulls out a note card, squinting at it as he drives.
“R. Lee Ermey? Hmm, I have an idea where this is going.”
“You’re not allowed to touch any guns he brings to the set.”
“Oh c’mon, it was just the one-”
“NO.”
“I don’t even LIKE guns, so how can you- OH SHIT!”
THA-BUMP!
“OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!”
“What?! What happened?! Brent?!”
“I just ran over a squirrel!”
“You- what?”
Brent literally rolls out of his golf cart, which continues driving down the road on its own until it hits a Ferrarri parked on the street, and rushes over to a squirrel lying motionless in the street.
“Oh shit, did I kill it?!”
“Brent, it’s just a squirrel. You don’t-”
“DON’T TALK ABOUT IT LIKE IT’S A FUCKING FLUFFY!”
Brent takes another swig of whiskey before setting the bottle down and giving the squirrel mouth-to-mouth, then going into chest compressions while screaming, “LIVE! LIIIIIIIIIIIIVE DAMN YOU!”
After several minutes of fruitless CPR and a member of the film crew going to talk to the owner of the Ferrarri in the background and getting punched, Brent finally gives up trying to revive the squirrel and collapses into a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Uh, now might be a good time for another commercial break.”
“Are you tired of your child’s whiny cry hole constantly tormenting you? Suffer no more! Now you can buy child-sized ball gags right over the phone! For only six easy payments of-”
The show returns with Brent sitting in the golf cart with a thousand-yard stare, white powder on his nostrils.
“Brent? We’re on.”
“I don’t want to live anymore.”
“Oh c’mon Brent, really? Over a squirrel?”
“The squirrel was just the cherry on the shit sundae that is my mid-life crisis, Bert. I can’t carry on like this anymore.”
“Not even to see what R. Lee Ermey does with fluffies to amuse himself?”
Brent stares into the distance long enough that the film crew begins to wonder if he passed out with his eyes open again, before finally starting the golf cart up and muttering, “Old bastard better have a fucking bazooka.”
Brent appears on screen next to a smiling Ermey; for some reason, Brent is dressed in a Starfleet uniform, has his hair slicked back, and his face is pale white.
“I, uh, didn’t know you were going to be in costume as Data, Brent.”
“And I didn’t know you were in costume as Methuselah, Mr. Ermey.”
“Brent, don’t antagonize someone who could kill us all. Wait, where did you even get the makeup from?”
“It’s not makeup.”
After several seconds, the producer mutters offscreen, “I’m not even gonna ask. It’s not worth it.”
“So, Brent, I bet you’d like to know what I do with fluffies to amuse myself.”
“Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me?”
“Say,” Ermey says, chuckling, “That’s a pretty good impersonation! So…”
“Hell yes.”
“All right, let’s get to it!”
The scene changes to R.Lee Ermey shouting into the camera and gesturing violently with both hands while a large rifle is displayed on a table in front of him.
“The M1 Garand was a honey of a rifle, and one of the most advanced designs in the world during dubya-dubya two! But by the 1950’s, it was obsolete, with a limited ammunition capacity, heavy weight, and that distinctive PING! that gave away the fact that you’d just run out of ammunition! The Italians had adopted the M1 after the war, mostly because they’re pasta-stained bastards who change sides every time the one they’re on starts to lose, and they wanted a more modern weapon like everyone else was adopting. They also wanted to switch from the venerable .30-06 to NATO’s new standard caliber, the .308, otherwise known as 7.62x51mm! But Italy didn’t have the funds to develop a totally new design, because they spent all their money on mafia kickbacks, the Belgians were dicks who wouldn’t sell them the FN FAL, the Germans were pissed that the wops had stabbed them in the back and switched sides twice in a row and refused to sell them the HK G3, and the marinara-stained fucksticks had the shittiest weapons of the war, bar none, even the Japs had better weapons and those squinty-eyed yella bastards produced utter dogshit during the war! So Italy needed a solution, and they needed it fast!”
“Hey, uh, Mr. Ermey, the history lesson is fascinating and all, but can we get to the fluffies? My buzz is wearing off.”
“Go jump up your own ass, Brent, I’m talking to the nice folks in the audience. Why don’t you do something useful and go get daddy another beer? Anyway, as I was saying, Italy needed a solution, and that solution was the BM59!”
The camera slow-pans across the rifle in loving closeup as wildly inappropriate J-Pop music plays softly in the background.
“The BM59 was essentially the M1 Garand, which Italy was already producing under license, but it had a shorter barrel and shorter wood stock, greatly reducing weight, it was converted to the .308 caliber, and instead of the 8-round en-bloc clip it was fed with a detachable 20-round magazine. They also added a happy switch so you could rock-and-roll! The US was developing the very similar M14 at the same time, but the BM59 was much more successful commercially.”
Ermey picks up the rifle, pulls the bolt back, and releases it with an ominous CLACK.
“Now then,” he says, smirking. “Let’s fuck some shit up.”
A horde of fluffies, mostly in subdued colors rather than the riot of rainbow colors they typically come in, are charging up a hill; each of them is wearing something vaguely approximating a communist Chinese uniform and cap, and one or two are actually carrying little Soviet flags in their mouths. The hundred or so fluffies are shouting incoherently as they charge slowly up the hill, and Ermey narrates the scene.
“Imagine the balloon has gone up and a bunch of godless commie bastards are charging through the Fulda Gap! World War Three, motherfuckers! How do you fend 'em off? With superior firepower! OOH-RAH!”
Ermey tugs the brim of his cap lower, leans into the rifle, and lets rip with a burst of automatic fire that blows apart fluffies in a spray of gore. The rest of the herd panics and begins to flee, but they all run into each other, get confused, and scattered in every direction, some of them being so stupid as to get turned around and charge back uphill toward the gunfire.
“But a good rifle ain’t enough to stop the entire horde! No sir! What you need is superior firepower! And that means artillery!”
In a strangely subdued voice, Ermey hands Brent a clacker for claymore mines and politely asks, “Would you like to do the honors?”
“Hell yes! Uh, do you want a breath mint? You’re kinda grossing me out, here.”
“Sorry, my wife made sauerkraut for breakfast. Ooh, what are these, wintergreen? You know if you go in a dark room, these make blue sparks when you bite them?”
Brent ignores Ermey enthusing over the mints and works the clacker three times, resulting in the entire hillside exploding in one enormous blast that annihilates the entire herd of fluffies and sends choking clouds of dust all over the set, causing both men and the camera crew to cough and choke.
“Wow. That was awesome! You know, this would be even better if- wait, where are they? Oh, shit.”
“What’s wrong, Brent?”
“I, uh, gave you the wrong breath mints.”
“What do you mean the wrong breath mints?”
Brent actually has enough human decency to look sheepish as he replies, “The ones I gave you have LSD on them.”
“Oh. Well, shit.”
“I’m sorry, I know this is gonna ruin the-”
“Fuck no! I was in 'nam! You think I’ve never done acid in the jungle with a million gooks shooting at me? This is gonna be awesome! Here, I still have a couple, you eat 'em.”
“Sure!”
“Brent! No! We’re not doing this!” Bert the director comes into view, waving frantically. “No! You promised!”
“Fuck you, Bert. This is bigger than all of us.”
Ermey grins almost seductively as he pulls an MG-42 belt-fed machine gun out of a duffle bag and sets it beside a Russian RPG-7 anti-tank rocket launcher.
“Hey Brent, you ever shoot a machine gun on peyote? It’s badass, man.”
“We got any more fluffies?”
“Hell, I order 'em in bulk! I get the ones with the shitty colors, they’re cheaper that way. Hey son, you wanna hand me that mortar over there? I’m tripping balls and I’m afraid to stand up.”
A member of the film crew announces from off screen that he’s too scared to move, and the director throws his hands in the air in disgust.
“That’s it! I’m done! Fuck you, Brent! I hope you die in a fire! We’re leaving!”
“What? No! Who’s gonna film this? I don’t get paid if this doesn’t go on film!”
“You wanna film it? Do it yourself! Here!”
The camera is torn off its tripod and the view spins crazily as it’s lobbed underhand to Brent, who utterly fails to catch it.
“Film your own damn show! I quit!”
The camera shows an excellent view up Brent and Ermey’s nostrils as they stare at the film crew leaving the scene in the van. After a moment of silence, Ermey finally says, “Well. That happened.”
“Yeah. Hey, you still wanna get fucked up and blow stuff up?”
“Hell yes.”
The end credits roll as Ermey drives a tank through a Seaworld theme park, screaming patrons fleeing in all directions. Brent is hanging out of the turret as it continuously spins around, laughing his ass off. Just before the screen goes dark and the final credit appears, the tank crashes through a concrete divider and falls into the water.
White text is displayed on the black screen.
“Shamu was killed on impact. R.Lee Ermey was uninsured and the producers of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fluffy were forced to pay for damages to the theme park, as well as the fee for renting a crane to retrieve the tank from the aquarium and return it to the museum it had been stolen from. Brent Spiner is currently facing criminal charges too numerous to list here and has been signed up for rehab by his agent. Season two of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fluffy will continue with our new hosts.”
The screen switches scenes to a grassy park with a brightly colored fluffy pony giggling and rolling a ball back and forth. Someone’s feet walk into view and the fluffy looks up and smiles as the camera slowly pans upward to reveal the person standing on set.
“Hewwo! Nyu fwend?”
“Hel-LO! Yes, I am your new… friend. My name… is Christopher WALKen. And I will be hosting season two for Brent, while he is in… rehab. Please tune in NEXT time, for our special guest star Nicolas… Cage.”
“Coming up next, Betty White and Arnold Schwartzenegger star as lovers brought together by circumstances beyond their control in the hit classic, Harry Potter and The Vibrating Wand!”