Thursday, August 31, 2006


The Stephen Colbert "On Notice" Generator, via Chrisafer

1. To answer Steven's question from yesterday's comments, yes, I still get giddy when I see my book on the shelves... especially when it's a brand new release. I also get inexplicably nervous, although that reaction is slowly getting better.

2. To answer David's question from the comments, if anyone is in New York on a day when I am in New York (which is most days) and you want to get a book signed, just drop me an e-mail and we can meet up. Otherwise, e-mail me and I'll give you a mailing address.

3. By the way, there's an extra-special treat hidden in the back of the book. My acknowledgments read like the closing credits for a movie; look closely and you'll find the names of the following bloggers: Patrick, Crash, Jeff, the Boi from Troy, Becks, and Teej. They were among the many people who helped me whip the manuscript into shape, and I can't thank them enough. The verisimilitude is theirs; any errors are mine.

4. And again, remember to mark your calendars for the book party on September 14. Among the expected guests are the aforementioned Boi, winging in from the Worst Coast; noted author Greg Herren, up from New Orleans; a bevy of bloggers and publishing industry sorts, including some who aren't even with my house (probably trying to cherry-pick me... but my heart remains with Kensington); and Horshack.

Okay, the housekeeping is out of the way. Now it is time for us to weep over this tragic news...

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Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Last night I made a drive-by at the Barnes & Noble at the Citigroup Center, and, yes, When the Stars Come Out was on the New Releases shelf.

And Mike reports that his copy, pre-ordered from Amazon, arrived yesterday.

And my photo is now up on the Lambda Rising web site.

Damn. It really happened again.

Somebody hold my hand and walk me through this...

Tuesday, August 29, 2006


"Kids Watch As Clown Is Crushed to Death"

Monday, August 28, 2006

Item #1.

Item #2.

Prepare to bow before your equine masters.

Friday, August 25, 2006

After last week's drama (and oh, you should only know) I'm happy to report that, last night, My Boyfriend the Planner locked in a new location for the When the Stars Come Out launch party. So mark your calendar and go buy a cute new outfit.

Thursday, September 14, 2006
6:00 PM - 9:00 PM
331 West 51st Street
(between 8th Avenue and 9th Avenue)

Also, rumor has it that Amazon is about to start shipping, and sightings have been reported on one or two bookshelves. And don't forget InsightOut and your local LGBT bookstore. They, too, deserve your business.

In fact, now that I think of it, you can buy one copy from Amazon or Barnes &, one copy from an indy bookseller, and one copy from InsightOut, then have me sign all three books and give away two to your friends, family, and neighbors! Yup, I am always thinking...

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Let's play a game. I'll give you a link, and you... SPOT THE ERROR!

Click and enjoy!

From today's Daily News:
Since Webb's strangulation bore a resemblance to Tuesday's mysterious slaying of Martin Barreto, a former press aide to Mayor Rudy Giuliani, New Rochelle police have contacted the NYPD.

Of course, you read it here first. Except the News has yet to pick up on the 'Crazy Homo Psycho Strangler' angle.

Now is there anything else you'd like me to solve?

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Hmmm. Coincidence? Or crazy homo psycho strangler on the loose?

Family, friends mourn death of Giuliani aide found strangled
NEW YORK (AP) _ Friends and family mourned the death of a one-time deputy press secretary for former Mayor Rudolph Giuliani found strangled in his apartment earlier this week.

The death of Martin Barreto, 49, was ruled a homicide after an autopsy found he died from "asphyxia due to compression of the neck," medical examiner's office spokeswoman Ellen Borakove said Wednesday.

Police discovered Barreto's nude body Monday night on a bed at his home in Manhattan's Greenwich Village after a friend reported he wasn't responding to phone calls or knocks on his door.

NYC hotel chef found strangled at his Westchester residence
NEW ROCHELLE, N.Y. (AP) _ A chef at a luxury New York City hotel was found naked and strangled at his home in New Rochelle, police said.

The body of David Webb, 44, a chef at the Benjamin Hotel on East 50th Street, was found at about 3:30 a.m. Monday inside the doorway of his building on Winthrop Avenue, police told The Journal News for Wednesday's editions.

By the way, to the best of my knowledge I am the first person to officially make this connection. If I'm proven right, I want my own series on Court TV.


Let me start by saying that, even though I'm a capitalist, Wal-Mart has some things to answer for. I don't consider the company to be Satan, Incorporated, but I am not here to defend their entire corporate ethos.

That having been said, Wal-Mart deserves some credit for its recent partnership with the National Gay & Lesbian Chamber of Commerce.

The usual suspects, of course, don't see it that way. And they are turning out in force. And, well... let's just say that they are blunt in their judgment of the Wal-Mart/NGLCC partnership.

You don't have to be a Wal-Mart fan to counter these bigots and speak up in favor of the company's positive efforts to engage the GLBT community. If you'd like to join me, just click here and add your comment.

I know you people will want to make fun of this (via Fark), but before you dismiss it as the ravings of a crazy woman, I want to highlight one passage:
Plaintiff claims to have confronted Secretary of Defense Cheney with evidence of this allegation. Cheney, through ``proteus,'' purportedly told the plaintiff, ``Well, we were so sick and tiered of killing black girls. We just had to put some variety back into our death-hunting industry. And they [Persians] are incredibly beautiful. The beauty of the face heightens the pleasure of the kill. I know of no higher pleasure than the gang-rape of exceedingly beautiful people.''
Tell me Cheney didn't say that. You know he did.

I rest her case.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

All you have to do is tell me what is wrong with this headline!


And before you start thinking that's a play on words, it isn't.

PS: If they correct the on-line version, I'll scan the dead-tree version.

PPS: I know I've been acting like a school marm lately, but -- at the risk of being branded a hypocrite -- WTF? Has the heat made everybody so sloppy that I don't have to look twice for these things to jump out?

PPPS: One more point of clarification -- I don't get bent out of shape when the average blog or personal page makes a mistake. But if you are a news source or make statements that your site was "born out of a gaping void in online publishing" or the like, you should hold yourself to a higher standard. In the words of Miranda Priestly, that's all.

PPPPS: Uh... nothing. I just wanted to type PPPPS.

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Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Okay, so they busted me at Gawker. Fortunately, I have a Plan B...

Always thinking, I am.

I don't want to do this, but I can't help myself. It's just too, too horrid. The absolute lack of command over the English language is simply astounding!

Of course, it comes from Queerty:
The photo includes only Terry, his wife, and his five toe-headed rugrats...
I don't want to be that guy who is obsessed with bad writing (and worse reporting), but this makes Baby Jesus cry. (I'm crying, too, but from laughter.)

PS: if you don't get what's so funny, click here and never, ever tell me you had to do so.

UPDATE: From Queerty's sister Jossip:
And we're not talking about Jennifer Aniston fans asking us to pass along their congratulation notes to her and Vince Vaughn. Nah, we mean bonified, reputable PR, production, and merchandising outlets mistaking us – Jossip! – for the actual people, places, and things we write about.
"Bonified"? Good God, what a train wreck. It's really not that hard to do this correctly, kids.

UPDATE 2: Credit where credit is due: Jossip corrected the error. Yay them.

Well... not exactly DIY. More like 'make you do it.'

Here's the deal: as you might have heard, I have a book coming out in mere minutes. Now, you know I'm famous Famous, and I know I'm Famous, but there are a lot of people out there who don't know that, because, well... they are idiots. They are sheep, and must be spoon-fed their knowledge of celebrity.

So get ready to feed them.

Tool Number One: go here.

Tool Number Two: submit items such as this:
I just saw Famous Author Rob Byrnes
walking on Third Avenue in the 50s.
He was talking on his cellphone and
I overheard him say "Jake would be
perfect," which probably refers to
the rumor that Gyllenhaal will be starring
in the film version of his novel 'When
the Stars Come Out.'
And feel free to be creative. The kids at Gawker will love it.

PS: Remember to send me a copy of your 'sighting.' I'll probably be posting them here eventually.

UPDATE: Welcome Gawkerites! If you're here, you obviously know that my scheme for self-promotion was foiled. (Figures Balk would make his first visit in the last year on today of all days.) Fortunately, I have a marketing back-up plan. Oh -- and even though I got caught, feel free to do the Gawker Stalker thing anyway. I mean, it could be true...

Regarding yesterday's entry: I am still angry about the inconvenience, not to mention the way I was treated by The Twerp. (Actually, the behavior of The Twerp was completely inexcusable. Scheduling mistakes happen, but rudeness is controllable.) However, I should point out that I am not throwing a hissy fit and insisting that no one ever again go to Posh or Bamboo 52. Hell, I stopped at both bars last night myself.

I just want to make it clear that I'm not screaming boycott. Cutting off my nose to spite my face is not my common practice. This may somewhat change the way I feel about my favorite watering holes, but it doesn't mean we have to proceed directly to divorce.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Only ten more days or so until When the Stars Come Out is in bookstores! But in the interests of heightening your already heightened interest, allow me to present... another excerpt.


David R. Carlyle III was not a punctual man. He was also not, in his very own self-critical estimation, the most responsible man on the planet. Although he held a senior editorial position at the publishing house Palmer/ Midkiff/ Carlyle, he knew that the fact that his last name was Carlyle had everything to do with it.

And he was fine with that. In the world of David R. Carlyle III, he was the rule, not the exception. A random twirl of his Rolodex would give up the names of dozens of other Roman-numeraled scions of Manhattan, none of whom felt any special guilt for the good fortune of their birth. They lived well, they gave back from time to time, and they generally believed that if fate was going to smile on any individual, it was just as well it was them.

In fact, David Carlyle thought of himself as, perhaps, just a bit better than his peers. Because he did hold down a job, and he did go to his office more days than not, and he did contribute not only to the economic bottom-line, but also to the nurturing of young talent. And although he was usually a genuinely humble man – one of his best friends was actually a young woman in the lower wage scales, and he loved bringing her to society events both for her company and the deflating effect her presence had on upper-class pomposity – he did have his moments when he thought of himself as a modern-day Medici.

But mostly he thought of himself as plain old David Carlyle, one of the good guys who just happened to have enough family money to keep him in homes on Fifth Avenue and in Southampton without ever giving a thought to his finances. One of the good guys who could afford to redecorate every year. One of the good guys who could go to the ballet on Tuesday, the bars on Wednesday, and, on Thursday morning, buy a book idea from an aspiring writer, before driving to the Hamptons for another long weekend. All in all, he thought, it was not a bad life for one of the good guys.

But if he wasn’t extraordinarily punctual or responsible, he expected those attributes from his writers. Which is why Noah Abraham was beginning to piss him off.

One year earlier, Noah – the son of his lawyer, Max – had sat across from him in his office and promised to deliver a manuscript on closeted gay congressional staffers. Contracts were signed, and Noah had been given ten months to deliver that manuscript. In return, David had commissioned a contract and, eventually, an $8,000 advance, half of which was payable upon signing of the contract.

Noah had signed the contract, cashed the check, and then essentially disappeared.

And now, two months late on his delivery date, he had finally scheduled an appointment, which David knew was solely – if coincidentally – because he had visited his father’s sickbed the day before. That wasn’t why David had gone to the hospital, but if it spurred things along, all the better.

It was about time, too, because things were getting a bit awkward whenever he ran into Max and Tricia Abraham on the social circuit. Almost as awkward as that time a few years earlier, when David used a favor with Max to get legal assistance for one of his authors, and was repaid when the author ignored almost all of Max’s advice before he vanished. Now that was an awkward period in the relationship between David and Max, assuaged only slightly – and exclusively on David’s end – when the vanished author’s book became a best-seller. Sometimes, vanishing is a good career move.

Noah, though… Noah had not been punctual, nor had he been responsible. Nor had he even had the decency to dramatically disappear. He had simply taken a relatively small amount of PMC money and not delivered. And it wasn’t the money, David kept telling himself; it was the principle. As a gay man himself, David felt a special need to give back to his fellow gay writers, and when one of them didn’t deliver – as occasionally happened – David Carlyle felt personally wronged.

But Noah had now taken the initiative to contact him, and although David was certain it was only because of the hospital visit, no one was holding a gun to the young man’s head, so he felt slightly better. Maybe Noah would walk into his office with 100,000 words or so tucked under his arm and…


David looked up from whatever it was he had been trying unsuccessfully to read and saw Noah in his doorway. Nothing was tucked under his arm. He frowned.


And did I mention that in ten short days, you can read the entire book? Life is good for you...

Actually, that's not quite true. Keep your calendars marked -- the When the Stars Come Out book party will still be held on Thursday, September 14 -- but cross out the location, because it won't be at Bamboo 52.

And did you notice that I didn't embed a link when mentioning Bamboo 52? Good. I also won't be linking to its sister bar -- Posh -- anymore, either. This pains me, because those bars were my second homes. But I didn't start this.

As you may recall, over one month ago I scheduled the book party with a manager and confirmed, a few days later, with the owner. You would think we covered our bases, right? I mean, the boyfriend and I were planning the menu with the owner... we were working with our favorite employees so that they'd be scheduled for that night... what could possibly go wrong?

Well, imagine my surprise when another manager (a useless tool we'll call The Twerp) got in my face on Friday night, telling me I shouldn't tell people I was having a party there because the space was booked by someone else!

So now, with the party a short three weeks away, I am scrambling for a new location. And I'm more than a little pissed at Bamboo 52 (and therefore, by association, Posh.) Since changing the date is not an option (I have people flying in) I will have to pray that we can find another venue that can accommodate 100-150 people. (Uh... that's a rough estimate, of course. Since no RSVP is necessary, that's the best I can do.)

Somehow, we'll figure it out. But this should not be happening.

As for Posh, I'm afraid it has to suffer the collateral damage. I can't see how I can justify moving the party over there. If I am subject to the totally unnecessary work of changing all my plans and tracking down every person I've invited since early July to tell them that the location has changed, the owner of both Bamboo 52 and Posh should not continue to reap the same financial benefit. Sorry, Owner, but you get no reward for causing me this major, major headache.

And to think... I never even mentioned the terrible case of food poisoning I most likely got from the sushi at Bamboo 52. See what I get for being a nice guy?

UPDATE: A clarification (also posted as a new entry... just making sure I cover all the bases, given some confusion out there.) I just want to make it clear that I'm not screaming boycott. Cutting off my nose to spite my face is not my common practice. This may somewhat change the way I feel about my favorite watering holes, but it doesn't mean we have to proceed directly to divorce.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

If you can't be bothered reading the fucking article, don't report the fucking story.

"UPDATE: At 3:20PM EST today, Haley Joel Osment was charged with four criminal counts:

Driving under the influence of alcohol
Driving with a .08 blood alcohol level or higher
Enhancement of driving with a .15 or higher
Possession of marijuana while driving...

TMZ has learned actor Haley Joel Osment, 18, will be charged Thursday with misdemeanor driving under the influence of alcohol. Osment will also be charged with driving with a .08 blood alcohol level or higher, with an enhancement of driving with a .15 or higher. Osment, who was nominated for an Oscar for his role in "The Sixth Sense" at age 11, lost control of his 1995 Saturn on his way home collided with a brick pillar in a suburb around 1 a.m. on July 20."

"At 1:20PM (PST) today the kid was charged with:

• Driving under the influence of alcohol
• Driving with a .08 blood alcohol level or higher
• Enhancement of driving with a .15 or higher
• Possession of marijuana while driving...

The mid-day bake doesn't shock us. He's got the stoner hair. But a .08 or higher at 1:20? That would even impress our grandma! Must've been one hell of a Thursday brunch."

For those of you who think I'm asking too much, please note that I'm leaving the time discrepancy alone. Missing the heart of the story by a month, on the other hand, is, well... stupid regrettable.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

I am speechless.

Joan Rivers rejected the brilliant Faustus, but loves The Gay American?

Oh, Joan... oh, Bravo... words alone cannot express my disappointment.

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Becks is looking for tattoo suggestions for a character in the next Timothy James Beck novel. I would e-mail her my suggestion, but I'm shy.

You on the other hand, can feel free to contact her with your favorite:

(a) The Tired Old Author Photo

(b) The One with the Wineglass

(c) That Other Blogger in Liederhosen

Frankly, all of these are fine suggestions, and worthy of fictionalization. Make your opinion count!

Friday, August 11, 2006

Okay, I should start with a confession: I was Googling my own name today. And that surprises...?

I didn't think so.

Anyway, I came across repeated ugly references to another Rob Byrnes -- just an RB, not a FARB -- and I thought I should share. Because I want you to know what a tough, unfair world it is out there.

Read the comments referencing the Rob Byrnes Doll, and know two things: (1) any similarities between that Rob Byrnes and this one are entirely coincidental; and (2) some day, the Rob Byrneses -- RBs and FARBs alike -- will band together and make you kneel before us subserviently, so your juvenile scatalogical humor has no power over us.

And with that, have a great weekend and stay out of my bars! Loves ya!

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Hey, y'know what?! The publication date for When the Stars Come Out is only about three weeks away. So I suppose it's time to start piquing your interest... otherwise, you might spend your hard-earned pennies on that book by my new arch-enemy -- The Gay American.

And what better way to pique your interest than by introducing you to one of my favorite characters ever: the Queen of Hollywood, Kitty Randolph.


Bel-Air, California
August, 2006

When she was a little girl in Millville, New Jersey, growing up within sight of the factory where her father blew glass for a living, young Kathy Fisher took dance lessons. Her father considered them a waste of money, although he looked the other way. Her mother considered them a necessary introduction to the social graces. And Kathy, well... she was only seven years old. It would be years before she would have her own agenda.

The dance classes led to beauty pageants, and in 1952 Kathy Fisher was crowned Miss Cumberland County. It was there that a ‘talent manager,’ an occupation he assumed for himself on the spot as he watched the virginal teenage girls walk the stage at the county fair, first took her under his wing. Two months later, Kathy was no longer virginal and no longer single.

Soon, and through no fault of her new husband, Kathy found a role on the stage of a Philadelphia theater. At that point –- earning her own income and now, thanks to the older girls in the chorus, wise enough to understand that her husband was little more than a garden-variety pedophile –- she filed for divorce. And she never spoke of that marriage again. It ceased to exist. The creep went back to stalking southern New Jersey county fairs and Kathy Fisher moved on.

“Kathy Fisher?” asked the next smooth-talking man she would marry. “That’s... banal.”

She didn’t know what the word meant, but Kathy Fisher soon became Kitty Fisher, a name apparently less banal. The second husband also soon disappeared. But by then she had adopted his last name and, after scrubbing his existence from her life, she re-emerged as Kitty Randolph.

She was a worldly twenty-one-year-old by the time the actor Bert Cooper came to Philadelphia to star in a play. And after Kitty had once again been wooed and wed she thought, Finally I have a husband I can actually list in a biography.

Bert Cooper was a chronically-depressed mess who could stay in bed for seventy-two hours at a time, but he did have a real acting resume dating back to adolescent roles in the 1930s. Kathy – no, Kitty! – thought she had married an icon. He took her from Philadelphia, set her up in Hollywood, and got her those all-important screen tests, which led to her first film roles.

Too bad about him, she thought, as she sat in the sunroom of her Bel-Air mansion almost fifty years later, sipping something bubbly and non-alcoholic. Poor Bert. But that hadn’t been her fault. Theirs was an age-old Hollywood story, one career ascending as another was falling into the Pacific Ocean. The fact that Bert had literally fallen into the Pacific –- on purpose –- was not her fault. He had always been so sad...

Her fourth husband –- no, second, she reminded herself, because the continuity of her Official Life Story was important –- well, he was another story.

In an earlier period in her life, Quinn Scott would have disappeared from her biography as effectively as husbands number one and two had vanished. But when they married she was already a screen legend, and there was no hiding it. And so for more than three decades the ghost of that relationship had followed her.

It wasn’t just that she had learned he was gay a few years into the marriage, although that was quite bad enough. It was that even after she made arrangements for Quinn to go quietly away, industry gossip kept growing. Her ex-husband, it seemed, was not merely gay, but gayer than gay. And when rumors finally reached her that Rock Hudson was preparing to go public and not only profess his homosexuality, but also his love for her ex-husband, well, that had to be stopped.

And she had stopped it. For thirty-six years.

And then, a few months earlier, word came from reliable sources on the East Coast that Quinn Scott was finally stirring after decades of dormancy. That would not do. Her lawyers were immediately dispatched to put out the fire, and she thought no more about it. Quinn knew better than to take her on in 1970, and he would certainly know better than to try it in 2006. Also, she had very good lawyers.

Kitty had moved on, and so should he. Discreet people – proper people – did just that. Why on earth would he dredge up old skeletons so many decades later?

And yet… there it was, in black and white, staring at her from an inside-page of Variety. Barely-remembered actor Quinn Scott’s autobiography would be released in September, and –- lest any reader forget –- Variety had to add that he had once been married to Kitty Randolph.

As she read the short item, over and over again, she thought herself remarkably calm. Much calmer than she had the right to be. She had the right to be furious, but she wasn’t.

The fury would come a few hours later, when the Valium wore off.


So have you pre-ordered yet?

Monday, August 07, 2006

From ABC 7 in Los Angeles: Robert Rosenkrantz is released after serving a prison term for killing an acquaintance who revealed Rosenkrantz's homosexuality.

From Queerty: "After 21 years in prison, Robert Rosenkrantz is free. He left a Los Angeles jail on parole after serving a 17-year-to-life sentence for killing his best friend from high school — for telling Rosenkrantz he was gay."

From Famous Author Rob Byrnes: if you are going to report the fucking story, at least take the time to read the fucking article.

UPDATE: At the risk of turning this blog into QueertyWatch, can I also state for the record that this is one of the most moronic things I've read recently?
We feel that we aren't getting all the facts in this story. A 12-year-old boy living in California most certainly knows what the rainbow flag means...
Uh... as a matter of fact, a 12-year-old boy living in California does not necessarily know what a rainbow flag means. Have these people ever stepped foot outside Chelsea or The Pines? Do they really think that all but the most precocious sixth graders know the gay meaning of rainbow flags? (And let's be clear that just because The Gays have claimed a symbol doesn't mean we own every rainbow.)

And let's not even mention that the twelve-year-old in question was apparently visiting his grandparents in California and, in fact, lives in Kansas, where even many of the adults -- as noted by an earlier Queerty source on this story -- don't know what a rainbow flag symbolizes to the 'mos. We don't need to mention it because we've already seen that the kids at Queerty don't bother to read and reflect before throwing it all out there, haven't we?

One last note and I'll get off of this, because this is really sort of the Internet version of picking on the mentally retarded, if the retarded were also undeservedly smug. Do you like how they write "(w)e feel that we aren't getting all the facts in this story..."? Yeah, like Queerty is the gay Sixty Minutes or something. Give me a fucking break.

Okay, back to whatever you were doing.

Type First, Think Later
Putting the Best Face on 'Gay'

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

In what Hollywood sources are calling "a damn shame... *snicker*... no, really!," ABC has cancelled plans for a Mel Gibson-produced miniseries about the Holocaust. Network executives deny this has anything to do with Gibson's recent drunk-driving-while-channeling-Father-Coughlin incident, instead claiming that they "have yet to see the first draft of a script."

As always, I am way ahead of ABC. I have not only seen Gibson's script, but I have a copy of it on my hard-drive. It is thought-provoking and edgy, and it is apparent to me that the only reason ABC has cancelled this project is because of the network's anti-Christian bias.

Don't believe me? Just see for yourself. Here are a few excerpts from Mel Gibson's original Holocaust screenplay, Provokateur.
SCENE: a tenenment. A mother, EVA, and her toddler child, HEINZ, huddle together; we can see their breath in the frigid cold air

HEINZ: Mama, will we ever be warm again? Will I ever again feel my toes?
EVA (choking back tears): Nein, son, never. Dare not to dream. Until Mr. Rabinowitz is kind enough to give us heat, we must make do.

SCENE: the street. It is later that night. EVA runs, tripping along the cobblestones. She is crying.

EVA (screaming): My baby!! Where is my baby Heinz?!!

Mr. Rabinowitz steps out of a dark alley. His white dress whirt is flecked with blood, and he holds something in his hand.

RABINOWITZ: What is wrong, Frau Wagner?
EVA (in hysterics): My baby Heinz has disappeared! Do you know where he is?!
RABINOWITZ: Nein. (he smiles, and offers her what is in his hand): Would you like some fresh matzoh?
EVA screams.
SCENE: MR. and MRS. FRANK sit in their comfortable, expensively-furnished parlor. They are agitated.

MR. FRANK: So let me get this straight: our daughter Anne...
MRS. FRANK: Ja, it is true. Our dear daughter Anne has run off. She has eloped with (she spits) a dirty German!
MR. FRANK: Nein! Not (he spits) a dirty German!
MRS. FRANK: Ja! (she spits) A dirty German! Oh, what are we going to do?
MR. FRANK (thinks a moment, then says): Here is what we will do. Can you forge our daughter Anne's handwriting?
MRS. FRANK: But of course. I am cunning and sly!
MR. FRANK (a smile comes to his face): Then go get a pen and a blank diary book. We are going to give (he spits) these dirty Germans something to think about.
SCENE: two LOWLY GERMAN WOMEN, dressed in rags, talk on the street.

WOMAN #1: Did you meet him?
WOMAN #2: Ja. I did not think he would shake hands with a lowly woman dressed in rags, but he was oh so sweet.
WOMAN #1: That's what I hear. I also hear that he dotes on his mother.
WOMAN #2: Who is his mother?
WOMAN #1: Mrs. Hitler.
WOMAN #2 (incredulous): Mrs. Hitler?! From Apartment 6-G?
WOMAN #1: That's the one.
WOMAN #2: Well no wonder Der Fuhrer is such a nice, down to earth man.
WOMAN #1 (whispers): And you know what? He's also an artist!
WOMAN #2: Oh, to be twenty years younger!
WOMAN #1 (raises eyebrow): Twenty?
WOMAN #2: Thirty. (she decides to change the subject) So is your heat back on?
WOMAN #1: Nein. Mr. Leibsteinowitz says no heat unless I give him my grandson.
WOMAN #2: Such a shame... such a shame...

(Suddenly a young woman runs past, screaming. When she departs:)

WOMAN #1: It looks like my grandson is safe for today. But don't eat Mr. Leibsteinowitz's matzoh, if he offers.
And finally:
SCENE: RABINOWITZ, the FRANKs, and LEIBSTEINOWITZ drink brandy at their private club. They are laughing.)

MR. FRANK: ... and that's the last time (he spits) a dirty German will ever try to run off with our daughter!

(gales of laughter)

RABINOWITZ: I've got to hand it to you, Franky, that diary trick was well done! Now, before we get back to work, would anyone like some matzoh?
LEIBSTEINOWITZ: I couldn't. If I have one more drop of the blood of Christian babies, I swear I am going to burst!
RABINOWITZ: All right then, let's get down to business. I've been thinking about this, and, well... if we're serious about running the world, I really think we have to seriously rework our PR angle.
MR. FRANK: Meaning?
RABINOWITZ: Meaning you were on to something, Franky. You made the Germans look bad, and the Jews look like the victims. (he leans in conspiratorily) So what if we said they were killing us?
LEIBSTEINOWITZ (leaping up): Brilliant! Let's start spreading the word that the Germans have killed... (he thinks for a moment)... six hundred Jews!
MR. FRANK: Nein, nein, you're thinking too small. Six thousand!
RABINOWITZ: Sixty thousand!

(they are silent for a moment until Mrs. Frank leans forward and says:)

MRS. FRANK: Six million!
ALL: Whooooo!

(they begin cackling, and, as the camera lingers on them, the laughter grows)
So you see, there was a script. ABC just decided to exercide its typical, garden-variety anti-Christian bias. But in an industry run by the descendants of Rabinowitz, the Franks, and Leibsteinowitz, what do you expect?

Fortunately, all hope is not lost for Mel Gibson and his dream. No... hope -- like fruitcake and Jesus -- remains eternal.

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