This Segment Contains Spoilers for Say Anything
First order of business, the big ol’ “Recorded Earlier Today” graphic in the lower third of the screen. Now that this is out of the way, let’s get to the important bit, shall we?
LOVE, I GET SO LOST SOMETIMES
Oh no.
DAYS PASS, AND THIS EMPTINESS FILLS MY HEART
Not this shit again.
WHEN I WANT TO RUN AWAY
Because we didn’t beat this into the ground two weeks ago? 87 segments is a lot, after all.
I DRIVE OFF IN MY CAR
You’re goddamn right it’s this shit again.
ALL MY INSTINCTS, THEY RETURN
In the bright midday Nevada sun a 1977 Chevelle Malibu is parked far enough away from the loading bay at the MGM Grand so that the two men standing near it won’t be threatened by the crew currently loading a rather haggard-looking forklift into the bay, but still close enough so that those poor workers will find this whole ordeal incredibly annoying.
Why that particular make and model car? Because we have to – at all costs – preserve the integrity of this half-assed parody.
THE GRAND FACADE, SO SOON WILL BURN
Let’s talk about those two guys standing near the car, even though by this point the identity of one of them is a foregone conclusion.
Because it’s not wrestle-time yet, King Blueberry is in basic street clothes – shorts, and a tee-shirt that probably has a cartoon face of a cross-eyed Cancer Jiles or something (spoiler: it’s exactly that). He’s also wearing a long brown coat with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, because, again, we’re going for authenticity here. You think in-his-prime John Cusack was a hottie? Hooooooo boy you oughtta see this schmuck with his mask off. Panties be droppin’ y’all (that’s a lie).
He’s holding a boombox over his head, because of course he is.
WITHOUT A NOISE, WITHOUT MY PRIDE
The other man has only been seen once so far on PRIME (pretend I shouted it when I wrote this) television. His name is Mark, he is a backstage assistant, and he has been cursed with the job of trying to keep King Blueberry from getting fired. So figure he’s got another show or two before he vanishes forever. Wave to the nice people, Mark.
King Blueberry: Okay, here’s your motivation. Your girlfriend is going to England, her dad’s in tax jail, and your sister is uncredited in this movie.
Mark, by the way, looks terrified.
And hey, if this just spoiled ‘Say Anything’ for you? Well it’s been 33 years, so it’s not like you were ever going to watch it. Shush.
Backstage Assistant Mark: I don’t… this is… what?
I REACH OUT FROM THE INSIDE
King Blueberry: Here comes the chorus, Mark. It’s all you, baby. Sing it!
Backstage Assistant Mark: But I…
King Blueberry: Don’t tell me you don’t know the words. Everyone knows the words. Sing it loud, Mark. Sing like your job depends on it!
I mean, in a way.
King Blueberry: SING!
Backstage Assistant Mark: IN YOUR EYES, THE LIGHT THE HEAT
King Blueberry: In your eyes…
Backstage Assistant Mark: I AM COMPLETE
King Blueberry: In your eyes…
Backstage Assistant Mark: I SEE THE DOORWAY
King Blueberry: In your eyes…
Backstage Assistant Mark: TO A THOUSAND CHURCHES
King Blueberry: In your eyes…
Backstage Assistant Mark: THE RESOLUTION OF ALL THE FRUITLESS SEARCHES OOOOOOhhhhhHHHH I SEEEE THE LIGHT AND THE HEEEaaaaaaaaaaTTTTT
He chokes on that last line, because he is not a trained chanteur.
It’s here where our newfound nemesis within the MGM realm – an older chap named Roger Dawes whose waning career days have already been thoroughly, rigorously tested by this shittiest of Power Rangers and his collection of dipshit toys – storms off the loading dock with a crowbar, muttering a string of profanities that will leave a cloud of fuck words lingering in space over this spot for the next 8 minutes.
I WANNA TOUCH THE LIGHT THE HEAT I SEE IN YOUR…
The music comes to an abrupt end as both Mark and the boombox are tossed into the car.
King Blueberry: Ohshitgottagogottagogottago!
And so they do, peeling out of their spot and driving a whopping 20 yards before parking and running in through the talent entrance. Why didn’t they just walk and save the world some carbon emissions? Authenticity, baby.
Authenticity.