Parallel Universe or: How Hollywood Got Sucked Down the Black Hole of Comedy

By Stephen Frank Vitale

A smackdown parody of popular Hollywood comics...

Yes, the END is near. A famous actor, disguised within this chronicle, has brought to light the true story Hollywood doesn’t want you to know: In a parallel universe, Denis Leery, the twisted dictator of the United States, has outlawed entertainment. Then in a desperate attempt to stop the subsequent revolution, led by Jack Blackcheese, Leery banishes comics to our universe. This sets off a chain of wacky events in both universes, including one bungled by Leery’s mad scientist, Jim Carreysauce and his chimps, that unwittingly threatens to annihilate mankind. Only Jack Blackcheese and his twin Jack in our universe have the power to stop it with their mysterious foresight, but do they realize it in time?

Survive the end of mankind and learn the truth about Hollywood comedians, the Parallel Universe, and How Hollywood Got Sucked Down the Black Hole of Comedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Frank Vitale
• Release date: Jun 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476061122

Stephen Frank Vitale

He came to life one cold December day in a Bronx, New York hospital, or so he was told. It has been widely whispered that a barn hatching was more likely. Or perhaps a materialization from the pages of a novel by Mel Brooksenschlagger titled: A Childhood Goofing-off (for fifty years) explains his existence.He was educated, but none of his teachers are willing to go on record and admit it. Surprisingly, some of the nonsense he did absorb during the academic period of “The Great Suction” does still reside in his sponge. And he is confident that one day it can be squeezed out if absolutely necessary.He currently resides at The Dented Cranium Mental Massage Therapy Ward in Hoho, California where he hopes to graduate soon. His tenure there has allowed him to collect endless biographies of his fellow “students” which has produced the many true-story characters in his published scribbling.

Book preview

Parallel Universe or: How Hollywood Got Sucked Down the Black Hole of Comedy

Published by Stephen Frank Vitale

Copyright 2012 by Stephen Frank Vitale V3.1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Please Note:

The characters and incidents contained in this work are either parodied or just a heap of fictitious gobbledegook catapulted from the author’s tilted imagination.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Jack’s Worst Nightmare

Chapter 2: Revolutionaries Gotta Go

Chapter 3: Jack’s Last Shot

Chapter 4: Gobbledegook Starts to Unravel

Chapter 5: Will Retires

Chapter 6: Dictator Leery’s Turn to Unravel

Chapter 7: Dictator Swap

Chapter 8: Lover’s Get Fercockt

Chapter 9: Everybody’s Fercockt

About the Author

Other Works by Stephen Frank Vitale

A famous actor—residing with the author at the Dented Cranium Therapy Ward—whose identity in this story is disguised, has revealed the following chronicle in order to bring to light the true story Hollywood doesn’t want you to know. Yes, the END is near...

Moe, Larry, the cheese! - Curly

Chapter 1: Jack’s Worst Nightmare

It was a typical spring morning: crisp air, taxi honks, two guys prancing down 8th avenue in pink chiffon, and no birds singing—there are no birds in downtown New York City, only cockroaches and toy poodles that whizz on fire hydrants. I was on a weekend break from my latest movie, the title of which, under penalty of someone’s castration, remains a mystery.

I’m Jack Blackcheese—you might know me from School of RockHardRebels; Kung Fu Panda-monium; or devouring 325 tacos, a pair of ruby slippers, and Drew Barrymore while juggling with one hand. Don’t mean to brag, but credentials are everything in this biz. Anyway, due to the unusual twists and turns that follow, I’ll have to navigate you through most of this Hollywood forbidden-to-tell story. Yes Hollywood, where people jump out of large cakes, naked, and that cake gets shoved into the pool and someone dives into it, gets stuck and drowns. That story, of course, ends up plastered across the media; with everyone in town yelping about it like a pack of Chihuahua’s fighting over a dog biscuit shaped like Mario Lopez. But the story I’m going to tell—zipper your lips my little babies, that’s what they’ll tell ya—will bring a penalty worse than castration: the Black List. Since my last name is, well you know, might as well pucker-up and watch the doodads fly.

~~~~

It began when I was taking a stroll after breakfast and noticed a department store display. It wasn’t the attractive mannequin in the chemise—the one I’d left in my hotel room was much hotter. What distracted me was the fluid, distorted image forming in midair, it seemed, between the mannequin and the glass. It expanded to frame most of the window and sharpened to reveal a laboratory. I knew right then it was the, not-so unexpected, first sign of the end. Why not-so unexpected, I’ll explain later; and yes I said, "The End" which although I was sure of, I wouldn’t at that moment admit it to myself. I guess maybe I wasn’t ready for it to happen.

So I just stood there and stared back at Jim Carreysauce—you know, the bodacious comedian from Ace VenturaBingBong—but I knew this guy was a different Jim Carreysauce. He looked every bit the mad scientist, with lab coat, thick goggles, wild hair, and a large silver toothed crooked smile. He lunged forward to fill the window frame with his face, which stretched like he squeezed it into the camera lens. I think he was as surprised as I was (and of course, he didn’t recognize me).

He backed off until he was perfectly aligned with the mannequin’s bare legs below the image. I studied the odd combination, and so not to alarm a passerby, I shared with him a fake bewilderment.

A mad scientist sells panty hose? I joked.

Crisis averted, the apathetic passerby continued on. Suddenly I was startled when the legs started to walk. Okay, so it wasn’t a mannequin; I guess the one in my hotel room still had me under her spell. Anyway, I was torn between watching severed legs walk away from a body or Carreysauce’s puzzling contorted expressions—I guess he was an untapped comedian in his world. When the long haired brunette got beyond the image border, she turned and recognized me. Still not ready to admit to myself what the image really was, I hoped she would relieve my fears.

What’s with the mad scientist? I asked. She just scrunched her nose in dumbfound. I tried again, Jim Carreysauce! The laboratory!

She drew a circle around her ear with a finger and said, You’re nutty.

Tell me something I don’t know, Popsicle stick chick. I threw up my hands in frustration, but it's obvious to me now, from her point of view, behind the image, there was no Jim Carreysauce. Next thing I knew, the passerby was back, and in my ear, You’re that actor, Jack... wait I’ll get it.

On weekdays buddy, this is my day off, I was hoping he’d get the hint.

The model’s legs walked back behind the image; I guess she was doing her runway thing.

What marketing genius thought up that? the passerby joked, unfortunately not abiding by his namesake.

‘Everything that deceives may be said to enchant’ – Plato, I said, to toss him an enlightenment cookie, but he was none the wiser. So I tapped him with my magic churros stick, and he turned into a splotch of sidewalk gum waiting to stick to someone’s shoe, or at least that’s what I wished I could do. Nevertheless, to answer the not-so unexpected question, I had dreamt of the end to come, and at that moment I began to realize how it would happen. It’s the doorway our twins will come through. They may already be here, I decided to inform him, but only because I knew what he’d do with it.

Did you just escape rehab?

The image suddenly disappeared. But it wasn’t just an image. I knew that. I just didn’t yet know where the portal projected from.

*******

In another dimension, parallel to ours, Carreysauce shut off the portal in his cluttered laboratory, with banks of high-tech equipment surrounding a square portal structure. He itched with excitement.

This is stuuu–penderamous, monuuu-menchous! A freakin’ polymorphous orgasm, again and again and again!

He busily fussed around the pile of papers on his desk, and realized, This is better than monkey brain surgery without anesthetic, for me or the monkey. He waved and winked to a couple chimps sitting on a scraggly couch by the water cooler. They jumped and yakked, waving their arms in the air, and threw erasers back at him.

Carreysauce blew out a deep breath and scratched wildly. Gotta call the Science Advisor. Then he stood erect with pride, "My name will be on the lips of every scientist and student—except those who slingshot petrified frogs at girls, or drank lab chemicals; eek that was me."

He then froze while his excitement slipped into outrage, "My name will be remembered, not those science-hacks: inventors of Post-its, coco-butter and three-ply elastic g-strings! I have contacted the Parallel Universe!"