Well, I'm almost scared to find out the truth, but, I have just finished watching the opening scene of Uwe Boll's Postal, and couldn't help but notice some similarities between it and a scene from a long-ago posting here. I don't have the benefit of offering you my work in a YouTube (though I hope that one day, Grady Weatherford will find the time to make that dream a reality), but I hope that you will agree that I can, at least, craft a funnier scene about terrorists discussing the afterlife than Boll. Judge for yourself, and, if possible, let me down easy.
From The Taking Of The Orange Line:
LS: So, I've been doing a lot of thinking.And now, from Postal:
BG: What about?
LS: The afterlife, paradise. You know, sort of planning my day tomorrow.
BG: (sighing) What's on your mind, Leelee?
LS: Well, I was just wondering if it's true--about, you know...what they say...about the virgins?
BG: Yeah, they always talk about the virgins.
LS: I feel like, you know, it sounds too good to be true, you know? Like, maybe you get gypped and get only sixty-five instead of seventy-two, and you're there--you know, first day in heaven--and you're supposed to be happy. You don't want to complain. You don't want to seem--
LS: Right. Ungrateful. Because sixty-five virgins. I mean, that's sixty-five more than I have right now, right? They just hammer home that seventy-two. It's a selling point.
BG: I don't know how they arrived at that number.
LS: F'real. Anyway. You worry about getting shorted. And you worry how many of these virgins are like, you know, really good looking from behind, but then you get 'em turned around, and it's like, Qaddafi-city, you know?
BG: Gaaaa. Don't even put that image in my head, dude.
LS: That's what I'm saying! I don't wanna have to cross the line of death just to get some tail, right?
BG: Now I got that craggy fuck's face in my head.
LS: It's like fucking Edward bin Olmos!
BG: Nice. Yeah. I see what you're saying. Me? Personally? I hope that they aren't virgins.
BG: Yeah! Think about it. I have a half a ton of explosives strapped to me. My life is about to culminate in the biggest way possible. I'm about to put my foot down in this
bitch, you know? So why would I want to fuck a bunch of virgins?
LS: They're a better lay?
BG: That's what everyone thinks, but follow me here. I'm going to blow my ass into a million pieces. Shit. I don't have to apologize for shit. I'm the cock of the walk. Why do I want to bed down with some giggly ass virgin. Fuck that. You ever fucked a virgin? Fucking awkward. They don't know where anything goes. They don't know how to move? How to get it flowing. You get little twitty questions, fumbling, apologies. That sound like paradise to you? I'm not going to heaven to walk some dead virgin through the paces. I'm thinking: don't I deserve some bitches with experience? Someone who can read me by looking at me, who's feeling me, who knows better to stand there and gawk? When I get to heaven, I"m telling you: I'm on the lookout for some superfly TNT poontang.
LS: That's an interesting point. But aren't virgins supposed to be, you know, funner?
BG: It's "more fun." And: who says that? Why should that be?
LS: Because, they're...you know...they're...
BG: Tighter? Who cares? I want some wildlife. I want the pussy safari. Not the pussy PetSmart.
LS: There's the lot. Pull in.
BG: ...I'm not saying I wanna have to strap a toboggan to my back...
LS: The lot! Pull in!
BG: What? Shit. I'm not paying to park today. Fuck that. Let's find a neighborhood and dump the car.
LS: It'll get towed.
BG: Yeah. Call it a value-added inconvenience.