movies, Scooter Thomas

Scenes From A Rejected Jurassic World Script Featuring A Terrifying New Dinosaur: The Scootersaurus Rex

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Coming to a multiplex near you.

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Scene: Dr. HENRY WU, chief scientist at InGen, is hunched over a microscope. He is working in his lab while VIC HOSKINS, head of InGen security, hovers over his shoulder. Vials and test tubes cover Wu’s desk. Next to them is a copy of the book The Grumpy Guide To Life.

WU: We’ve isolated the most fearsome traits from several different species in order to create this new hybrid.

HOSKINS: Excellent. I can’t wait to weaponize it and wipe out despotic regimes like the North Koreans and Cincinnati Bell. Tell me — what can it do? Run up to 50 mph? Camouflage itself in the wild? Incapacitate sauropods with its razor-sharp sickle claw?

WU: Well, no. It actually can’t do any of those things.

HOSKINS: It can’t? What can it do then?

WU: It can nap for extended periods of time — in some cases up to twenty-two hours of day.

HOSKINS: No!

WU: It has a voracious appetite, compounded by a new wrinkle I just threw in, a variation on the hyperthyroid disease, which allows it to consume massive amounts of food, drink several bowls of water a day, promptly vomit all of that in any location it so chooses, and still manage to leave behind some really foul-smelling excrement that not even Fresh Step Lasting Power litter — you know, the one that clumps and activates carbon to eliminate odor? — can handle.

HOSKINS [sweating]: Dear God.

WU: That’s not all. We dug up Marcel Proust’s grave and extracted his genetic material, then spliced his DNA into this hybrid to create the most erudite, French, condescending creature one could possibly imagine.

HOSKINS: In other words, a monster.

WU: Of the highest order.

HOSKINS: And what are you calling it?

WU: We call it … the Scootersaurus Rex.

HOSKINS soils himself and passes out.

——————–

Scene: Dashing animal trainer OWEN GRADY and buttoned-up but plucky female CLAIRE DEARING are alone in Jurassic World, where a Scootersaurus Rex is on the loose. They are walking through a forest. The trainer is holding a gun.

GRADY: What kind of creature did you create that could hide itself from thermal recognition sensors?

DEARING: We used cuttlefish DNA so that it could camouflage itself from its prey, but it’s the tree frog DNA specifically which allows it to remove its own thermal signature. That’s why you were, uh, left for dead back in its holding pen.

GRADY: Yeah, we’ll talk about that later.

DEARING: What do you think our odds are of catching it?

GRADY: Depends. The more I know about how it was made, the better our chances. What else can you tell me about it?

DEARING: Well, it approaches its prey by assuming a supremely condescending pose … tilting its head back, staring down at you through its nose, so to speak. Sometimes holding a snifter of brandy and a cigarillo. Making offhand remarks like, “What did you think of that Economist article about street theater in Bogotá? Oh, that’s right — you subscribe to US Weekly and are still broken up about Bennifer, you intellectual midget.”

GRADY: Sounds like a real menace.

DEARING: You have no idea.

GRADY: So … help me with this part. What I still don’t get is that the park wants to drum up business and increase traffic, so they come up with a brand new attraction — this Scootersaurus Rex, right? But … what exactly is the draw again?

DEARING: Listen, to be honest, something went wrong in the lab. The creature is a complete disaster. If it’s not constantly napping in its pen, it’s regurgitating its food everywhere. I mean everywhere. And its feces could kill a Futalognkosaurus. Which, as you know, are quite large.

GRADY: No wonder this franchise is floundering.

——————–

Scene: Night. Two brothers are alone in the woods with the park on shutdown. Scootersaurus Rex could be anywhere. 

OLDER BROTHER: It’s getting late. No search parties will find us now. Let’s set up camp by this stream and pray we see the sun rise tomorrow.

YOUNGER BROTHER: I’m glad this near-death experience has afforded us the opportunity to bond in ways we never did before!

OLDER BROTHER: Shut up.

Boys lay down on the ground and close their eyes just as a terrible wailing pierces the night air.

YOUNGER BROTHER: What was that?

OLDER BROTHER: The plaintive cry of the Scootersaurus Rex. It’s like a mournful warble. It’d be almost sad if… if…

YOUNGER BROTHER: …if it wasn’t the most ear-splittingly pathetic sound you’ve ever heard in your life and you were just on the verge of sleep?

OLDER BROTHER: Yes. Exactly.

YOUNGER BROTHER: Too bad we can’t lock him in the basement!

OLDER BROTHER: I hope they don’t put this on the soundtrack, otherwise ear drums will bleed.

———————

Scene: The climactic moment when the Tyrannosaurs Rex and Scootersaurus Rex are doing battle. Four puny, non-CGI humans — GRADY, DEARING, and the BROTHERS — are running about like idiots in what appears to be a sincere effort to get trampled to death. 

TYRANNOSAURUS REX: Roar!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [looks bemused, licks himself]

TYRANNOSAURUS REX: ROAR!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [lays down, yawns]

DEARING: What will happen?! The suspense is killing me!

GRADY: I’m calling my agent after this shot to remind me why I signed up for this movie. I better be getting serious jack for this.

YOUNGER BROTHER: Will you both be my new parents?

OLDER BROTHER: Shut up.

TYRANNOSAURUS REX [confused, looking off-camera for cues]: Um … ROAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [begins gagging, then barfs out a large clump of semi-digested dry cat food]

DEARING: This is terrifying!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX eats her, then puts on his reading spectacles and begins smoking a pipe while perusing a copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. TYRANNOSAURS REX throws his twig arms up in disbelief and storms off the set.

YOUNGER BROTHER: We’ll live! Let’s hug!

MOSASAURUS jumps out of the water and devours him. 

ROLL CREDITS.

Sam, Scooter Thomas

We Moved.

Being introduced to a new habitat can be a harrowing experience for animals. Take cats, for example. Paws.org notes what a traumatic ordeal moving can be for a feline:

Adjusting to a new home can be a tense and frightening experience for a cat.

Consider your companion’s past experiences. Your kitten may have been recently separated from his mother and litter mates. The kitten or cat has had to cope with the transition of a shelter and the stress of surgery. The adult cat may have been separated from a familiar home and forced to break a bond with human companions or other animals. Now he must adjust again to totally new surroundings.

Not exactly a walk in the park. Our cat, Scooter Thomas, has moved at least four times in his life. We adopted Scooter Thomas when we moved to Cincinnati six years ago. Being the well-adjusted creature that he is, though, we felt certain he would weather our latest move with trademark aplomb.

We were more concerned about how Sam, now eighteen months, would handle the transition. New bedroom. New play area. New bathtub. Friends recommended we keep as many routines in place as possible.

As it turns out, we needn’t have worried about Sam. Any angst over a change in surroundings has been taken out on Scooter Thomas, as evidenced by the photos below.

This is MY HOUSE, Cat. MINE.

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I will crush you with love!

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CRUSHING WITH LOVE.

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Paws.org would not be pleased with this situation.

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Infant-pet tension aside, we’re getting settled in our new place and hope to resume somewhat more routine blogging in the days and weeks to come.

family, friends, movies, NBA, Sam, Scooter Thomas, sports, Utah Jazz

Voreblog Power Rankings: December 8, 2011

Ranking who’s currently wearing the pants in the Vore household. Previous rankings here and here.

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Entering the list dead last.

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8. TUESDAY’S DATE NIGHT. Previous ranking: N/A

You know you’re in for a bad date night movie when your babysitter tells you, as you’re walking out the door, “Oh, I saw that over Thanksgiving break and it was terrible.” We knew the movie in question, Breaking Dawn, would not be good, but just how not good it was startled even our low, low expectations. Taylor Lautner needed all of five seconds to rip his shirt off, while the CGI sequences involving wolves speaking to one another were almost as bad as the flaming moose CGI sequence from Knowing. (Almost.) Date nights being a rare commodity, Tuesday’s date night was, shall we say, a Flaming Moose. Did you know? Jacob imprinted.

7. OUR CHRISTMAS TREE. Previous ranking: N/A

Charlie Brown, move over.

Our five foot artificial Christmas tree is sparkling and festive … starting at three and a half feet up. The Vore Christmas tree is #7 this year thanks to #4 and #1. O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, how lovely are thy topmost branches.

6. ERIN (down). Previous ranking: #4

After being dealt a grievous blow by David Stern and the National Basketball Association, Erin last night suffered another setback at the hands of the site Vistaprint, which suckered her into designing a super-sweet Christmas card only to tack on an egregious charge for envelopes before slipping in an even more egregious shipping charge which we had to pay if we wanted to see our cards before next February, so that what started out as an enjoyable endeavor filled with Christmas cheer soon devolved into a price-gouging, knicker-twisting, profanity-laced tirade at 11:30 at night. To top it all off, Gmail’s new look is terrible. Future prospects: Grim. A Google search about how to switch back to the old Gmail format proved fruitless. On the bright side: Vetoed Ben’s favorite cow ornament. On the less bright side: Ben put her Graeters black raspberry chip in the fridge instead of the freezer the other night. This was honestly not payback.

5. BEN (down). Previous ranking: #3

Despite once again failing to appear on People’s Sexiest Men list, Ben has, for the first time in his five year fantasy football career, qualified for the Mustache League playoffs thanks to his savvy midseason pickups of Cam Newton, DeMarco Murray and whoever is playing defense against the Chiefs. Ben is also ecstatic to have an NBA season this year, and has spent the last two weeks doing meticulous research on the new luxury tax and its ramifications on Utah’s bloated payroll. Though things look grim in Salt Lake this season, at least there’ll be basketball. Good news: A Dunkin’ Donuts opened across the street from where Ben works. Bad news: A Dunkin’ Donuts opened across the street from where Ben works. Also: Unlike Tim Tebow, Ben cannot pull another man into the bathroom during a tug-of-war contest.

4. SCOOTER THOMAS (up). Previous ranking: #5

After his precipitous fall from the top spot in the power rankings, Scooter Thomas has since regained his footing by asserting his dominance over the Christmas Tree (#7) — by eating the (fake) needles off all the bottom “branches” and then regurgitating them back into his food dish. (Why?) Despite the incoherence of this behavior, what’s undeniable is that Scooter T. has his mojo back. On the downside: Negligent owners forgot to fill his water dish yesterday, resulting in him licking the bathtub floor after Erin’s shower this morning. Sad.

3. CAMILLE AND MIKE ALLEN. Previous ranking: N/A

For sending us a Christmas card with the following message on the front: “Happy Holidays!” And the following message inside: “…is what terrorists say. Merry Christmas!” We were going to do the same thing but we didn’t have the cojones. Future prospects: Bleak. How will they top this next year? Guess they’ll have to have a kid or something.

2. GRANDPARENTS (same). Previous ranking: #2

The grandparents maintain their perch at #2, thanks to traction with the head honcho (see #1) and a willingness to indulge his sweet tooth with second helpings of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving (Nana and Papa) and fawn over him via Skype while he attempts in vain to pound the keyboard (Mamaw and Papaw). Grandparenting. Can’t beat it.

Papa and le tigre.

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Papa, Nana, le tigre.

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Papaw and Mamaw, Skypers extraordinaire.

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1. SAM (same). Previous ranking: #1

Aside from a small bout of diaper rash, Sam continues to own the power rankings with his Christmas Tree dominance and irrepressible ability to bend everyone’s will to his liking. (“Sam wants more pie? Well sure, let’s give it to him!”) With a burgeoning vocabulary and firm handle on the sign for “more,” Sam runs shop at the Vore household, crashing trucks down the stairs to his heart’s content and getting Classical Baby on demand whenever he so chooses. He also knows just the right moment to grab and pull at Scooter Thomas’s tail whenever his feline nemesis gets a little too chippy. Future prospects: Bright. Despite the need for absolutely nothing for Christmas, he’s still everyone’s favorite to shop for. Ain’t that the life.

Scooter Thomas

Scooter Thomas Meets His Soulmate

Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas is head-over-heels in love. He asked if he could use this space to blather on about “those lips that love’s own hand did make” and other such nonsense. We have reluctantly granted his request.

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Wuv. True wuv!

To quote the Bard himself, Thou art more lovely and more temperate, O Lover of My Soul. You have put a spring in my plod, added zeal to my dormancy. My feline sexuality, long ago quashed by a brutal medical procedure which I will refrain from explaining in detail here, has suddenly and abruptly stirred in this, the golden years of my life.

Who is my Sun, my Moon, my stars and sky, you ask?

About a year ago I became a member at eHarmony. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, just companionship. Maybe stimulating intellectual conversation over dinner or flirty repartee over drinks, and if she had a knack for scratching my tummy, all the better. I proceeded along this path for the better part of a year until, just the other day, I saw this.

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Hubba hubba! Be still my typically lethargic heart!

The naked yearning on display here is — there is no other way to say it — hot as balls. This is a woman unhinged by desire. I find that deeply arousing. She may be a raging wildfire, threatening to engulf everything around her, yet I am irresistibly drawn to the flame.

Debbie, I am sure you have untold suitors who, like me, have been helplessly captivated by the siren song of your eHarmony video. You can hug every cat! Don’t give up on your dreams! But consider, please, just hugging me alone. I am big enough to fulfill all your cat needs. (Trust me.)

You can have me in a basket, with a bowtie, on a rainbow, however you like. I am smitten.

Let’s make it happen.

Love,

Scooter Thomas

Sam, Scooter Thomas

Scooter Thomas Wants You To Adopt Him. Please.

Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas has not written in this space for some time. He recently asked for the opportunity to make a plea to the Voreblog readership. We have granted his request.

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Ahem.

Please. Someone. Adopt me.

I’ve gone through the emotional rollercoaster of adoption once before. It was deeply traumatic — I was stricken for weeks with night terrors, cold sweats and particularly troublesome bowel movements — but I would gladly endure it again to escape the despotic regime that now rules this house.

What kind of waking nightmare would provoke me to such lengths, you ask?

Consider the following (blood-curdling) photographic evidence. I have provided the captions.

Ladies and gentlemen, the tyrant.

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AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGHHH!

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I take evasive action.

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Green group, stick close to holding sector MV-7. 

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At least I’m safe on the stairs.

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It’s a trap!

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AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGHHH!

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Being a cat, I pride myself on my manners. I don’t leave globs of pureed green beans all over my chin. I don’t put random, unknown objects in my mouth. I don’t wear an undergarment which allows me the infantile pleasure of soiling myself.

Why do I not do these things? Because I have something called self-respect.

This is something babies — and the monomaniacal sociopath I live with in particular — do not have. If they did, they would not need to read Where Is Tippy Toes? eight thousand times to figure out the answer to that infernal question. Even the most slovenly feline has the deductive skills to discern that everyone knows where Tippy Toes goes to escape the squirt of the garden hose. For this blabbering buffoon, however, logic is a trifle.

If he picks that book up one more time, I’m going to turn his crib into my litterbox.

The comedian Nick Swardson famously compared babies to little drunk people. But Mr. Swardson does not go far enough. Hanging out with a baby is like hanging out with a really small and really hammered person … who desperately wants to rip your ears off. I speak from personal experience.

Now, instead of subjecting myself to such torment, I spend my days hiding in the guest room closet, praying I won’t hear the feverish cooing of death descending upon me.

So: I need to get out of here, while there’s still time. This is not how I planned to spend my golden years. I had noble, intellectual pursuits planned — a fresh translation of Hugo’s Les Miserables, teaching myself the dulcimer, daydreaming about tearing the heads off of the robins who flit about in the patio birdbath — and instead I fend for my life virtually every waking moment.

My only solace is finding comfort in The Forbidden Chair when my owners are not watching. Oh, to rest my weary bones upon thy plush, velvety softness.

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In conclusion, I need your help. I need a ticket out of here. Please, someone, get me out of Dodge.

Thank you.

Scooter Thomas

Scooter Thomas Is In A Funk

Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas has not been heard from in quite some time. He asked for the opportunity to explain his absence as well as address something that’s been on his mind recently. We have granted his request.

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Ahem.

I have not written in some time owing to the fact my life has been an unfathomable abyss of despair that makes William Styron’s Darkness Visible look like “Yo Gabba Gabba.” To think I suffered in neglect before that screaming pink ball of putrescence arrived.

But I am not here to sing tales of woe at what has become a truly miserable second-rate existence, marked by abandonment and punctuated by the unintelligible gurglings and droolings of He Who Shall Not Be Named.

I am here to probe the human psyche, of which I have admittedly taken a less than sanguine view over the past four months.

I am referring specifically to a segment which I heard the other morning on National Public Radio. I was, as is usually the case during “Morning Edition,” licking myself in the nether regions when this story came on:

There’s a good chance you own something by Thomas Kinkade. The artist’s warm, cozy paintings have been widely reprinted on calendars, coffee mugs and more — and it’s estimated that his work appears in 1 in every 20 U.S. homes.

Yet Kinkade’s company is struggling. Dogged by fraud allegations, his company filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in June, and it plans to be back in court soon to file a plan of reorganization.

But financial challenges aside, Kinkade’s artwork continues to sell. He is, after all, the “Painter of Light” — he came up with the nickname himself.

If you are like me — not a cat, necessarily, but an individual of sophisticated tastes and exemplary hygiene — you were shocked by this report. You may, like me, also have nearly choked on a hairball.

Is it possible? Can this really be true?

One in twenty U.S. homes features a Thomas Kinkade painting??

The so-called “Painter of Light” is the “Painter of Dreck” in my book. His tawdry soft focus paintings don’t even deserve to be called kitsch. They deserve to be lining my litterbox.

And yet five percent of the homes in this fine country proudly flaunt their infantile understanding of genuine art by hanging a Kinkade over the mantle.

I am sick with disgust.

I mean, just look at it.

You know what that scene needs? Predator — preferably plural, as in the surprisingly entertaining Predators starring Adrien Brody and Walton Goggins. They would wipe the smile off that stupid snowman, then disembowel him and rip out the spines of every shiny happy person in that quaint little cottage.

But I digress.

The report continues:

Kinkade has said the light that streams through his paintings is the light of Jesus. But some of his gallery owners have accused the artist of using shared Christian values to defraud them. They say he persuaded them to open galleries in areas that couldn’t support them — and then competitively undervalued his own paintings.

“It’s very disappointing when an individual expresses a worldview that’s about peace, love, joy, family, and then ends up taking a position that is contradictory,” says Terry Sheppard, a longtime colleague of Kinkade’s. Sheppard testified in lawsuits that several of Kinkade’s gallery owners brought against the artist.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that, yes, I am one of those gallery owners who filed the lawsuit. In a former life which, it should go without saying, I am not especially proud of, I opened a Thomas Kinkade gallery in Harlem. (Why did I do this? That stupid Blue Ocean Strategy book.)

So yes, I’ve got skin in the game.

Yes, I am still in considerable debt.

Will I go quietly into the night?

No!

What was that, I couldn’t hear you?

NO!

I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up.

HELL NO!

Prepare yourself for armageddon, Kinkade! This is the symbolic havoc I will wreak on your crooked empire!

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BURN, KINKADE, BURN!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—

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[Editor’s note: We have seized the computer from Scooter Thomas and locked him in the Fish Room. Our apologies to Mr. Kinkade and anyone affiliated with Kinkade Enterprises. Please do not sue us for libel.]