Michael, the 80s hate you back.

The other day during one of our weekly coffee sessions, my buddy and I were venting about poorly treated 80s kitch. The latest offense being the still-in-production Transformers live-action movie. From the production photos on the intertron, it looks bleek and unfaithful. So, as our angst grew, we imagined what it would be like if our youth culture avenged itself in semi-tarantino-style. This is what we came up with. It made us feel better. I hope it makes you feel better. *********************************************************** A pack of top-brass movie execs walk down the hall of the studio headquarters on their way to a meeting about yet another 80s revival movie, the very timely, live-action Captain Planet: Inconveniently Yours, staring Andy Serkis as Captain’s body and Al Gore as his face. They all pushed through the doors into the dark boardroom and the last exec flipped on the lights. They jumped back, startled, and one of the men let out a sharp, high scream and immediately regretted how womanly it sounded. They all stared in disbelieve at the entire pantheon of 80's Pop Culture, some sitting, some standing, at one end of the long conference table. But something was different about them. They were older, and looked mean and worn, and from the way they were standing together they looked like so many primarily colored Corleones. They scanned from side to side with an increasing wonderment at how they all fit in the boardroom: K.I.T.T, the TMNT, Corey Feldman, Gary Coleman, who was carrying Emmanuel Lewis on his front in a Baby Bjorn™, the Copper Kid who, before this little meeting would end, will have used a red-hot coat-hanger to perform a no-anesthesia frontal lobotomy on one of the more nervy executives to make an example out of him, Punky Brewster and Daphney from Scooby Doo. The doors slammed shut to reveal Sloth and Robocop blocking the way. The high-back chair at the far end of the table, and in the middle of the 80s Pop Cast, slowly turned and was empty, save a pall of smoke that rose from the seat just below the table. Coleman reached down and flipped the hydraulic handle and the chair raised slowly to reveal Papa Smurph, wearing Armanni (he had been smart with his money), holding a smoldering Cuban and nursing a highball glass of Jack, straight. There was silence. "Have a seat," said Coleman at Papa's right hand. No one moved. Raphael looked up from the three lines of blow on K.I.T.T's hood and sent a Sai whooshing past one of the execs' ears and into the wall behind him to show they meant business. They all sat. Finally, the lead Studio Brass mustered all of his Old White Guy fortitude and, jowls quivering with the anger of the publicly usurped, brought his great ham-fist fiercely down on the table and demanded an explanation. At the Brass's brazenness Corey Feldman and Donatello burst into a simultaneous and identical laugh that stopped abruptly as they looked at each other with an I-know-you-from-somewhere expression. Coleman calmly explained, "We're here to see that we are no longer raped of the charm of our 80s context and amended with the shiny and the new and the more-marketable. Our revival is not for today's youth. It is for yesterday's. That the current population of teenies can't relate to us as we were is something we, and our venomously loyal fans, simply can't be bothered with." With many a scandalized "HARUMPH, HARUMPH!" from the pack of suits, the jowly leader barked, "We don't know what you're talking about!" Papa nodded at Punky and Daphney, who stood at his other side. They reached under the table and came up with a large jar, which they slid down the conference table like a pint down a bar. It spun to a halt in front of the execs as the cloudy fluid inside settled to reveal Michael Bay's severed head and few hard-boiled eggs. The Brass, knowing exactly what it meant, turned a deeper shade of red and bellowed, with spittle, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT CHEVY PAID US TO MAKE BUMBLEBEE A CAMARO?!?" Papa Smurph, speaking for the first time, guessed, "Thirty pieces of silver?" Papa then cut loose with a heat of invective that turned the air so blue you could only see him when he smiled. After about an hour, he stopped, straightened his suit and took a puff of the Cuban to calm himself. Punky wept lowly. “Axel F” began to play suddenly and loudly in the room. It was Robocop’s cell phone. A compartment in his thigh whirred open and he handed the phone to the Brass. "It’s for you," said Coleman to the Brass. Shaking, now less with anger and more with fear, and shame from having wet himself, the Brass answered the phone. "We have your wives and children," announced the altered-yet-unmistakable voice of Max Headroom. So, at the beginning of what would become three days locked inside that boardroom, Coleman read aloud their demands and reluctant phone calls were made. Production on Transformers was halted until they got a response from Volkswagen. Superman Returns was jerked out of theaters and rewritten with a Superman who knew way better than to pre-maritally relate with, impregnate and abandon an apparently-illiterate Lois. Dolf Lundgren was found and shot where he stood for his involvement in Masters of the Universe. Leaving Coleman, the TMNT and Robocop there to wrap things up, Papa got in K.I.T.T with Punky and Daphney and retired to his beach-house, where he threw a fabulous after-party. And Yesterday's Youth lived happily ever after.