Wasif's World

J.W., this pitch is hot! And I wanted you to get first crack at it. All the other studios were begging me -- BEGGING ME -- to pitch it to them first, but I said, “NO! Not until I let the man who built this industry into what it is today hear it first.” And that’s you, J-dub ... Oh, I see you have some top-shelf brandy over here. Mind if I? ... Thanks.

So picture this, our story begins in a gated community in central Florida. It’s hot. But not the kind of hot you turn the air conditioning on for.

Cut to: A man. Collared shirt, ball cap, pleated pants and cleats, all crisp and new. He steps out of his black Escalade. He’s perfect. Almost too perfect.

Muffled arguments heard behind sliding glass doors in the night. Suddenly, a car engine roars, the squeal of tires, acceleration and then -- CRASH!!! An abrupt stop not three seconds after acceleration.

Car totaled, airbag deployed, driver groggy. But wait! Through the spewing water of the damaged hydrant comes a figure, an angel. No, she’s angry! She has a golf club -- a 3-iron, maybe a pitching wedge ... or a putter. Something metal.

She’s 5’0” if she’s an inch, maybe 100 pounds tops. And she raises the club to the sky and starts hacking at the back window like John Henry driving steel. Once, twice, three times! Glass sprays from the vehicle under the brute strength of this slight, Nordic goddess.

Knocking the remaining shards away so as not to damage her flawless alabaster skin, she crawls into the back and disappears. There’s no light. There’s no sound. It was as if she got sucked into a black hole.

After what seems like an eternity, she reemerges, pulling the semi-conscious man, her husband, the vision of perfection we’ve come to know, from the back seat and tossing him over her shoulder with the same ease she did the golf club. She places him carefully on the ground and they make love.

But no, that’s not what happened at all!

Am I losing you, J.W.? ... Oh, yeah, that is a funny billboard outside the window across the street ... Anyway, here’s where it gets good.

He holds a press conference to say nothing’s happened. He lashes out at all those that bandied about ludicrous claims and asks for the media to respect his privacy, which they do in round-the-clock coverage from his front lawn.

The cops arrive. But he won’t talk. “You can’t make me talk, copper!” he says brazenly. He’s protecting the woman he loves. But which woman is that?

Cut to: Interior -- a Perkins restaurant. A girl serves an elderly man a bowl of vanilla pudding. It's 4 p.m. and dessert is included in the early bird special. The elderly man thanks her and she smiles, but we can tell her mind is elsewhere. On our hero, perhaps?

Back in Florida, without a lead and about to give up on the case, the dam bursts wide open. Police uncover text messages from one girl, a nightclub promoter.

Scrambling, our hero calls her to stop the flow of incriminating evidence, but it’s too late. And that call is the final nail in his coffin as the girl has recorded it and sells it to the 6 o’clock news for a lifetime subscription to US magazine and a $200 gift certificate to a neighborhood pilates studio. They’ve got him dead to rights asking her to take her name off her phone.

What of his wife, the woman we saw earlier saving his life after the car accident? A lawyer counsels her. She begins looking through very expensive jewelry catalogs. Her mother shows up from Sweden, wearing clogs and one of those hats you’d see on Pippi Longstocking. She announces she’s staying to see her daughter through this terrible ordeal.

All settles down and then, the night air is cut again, this time with the sound of a siren. It’s an ambulance. The same house. A lady is taken on a gurney. She needs the jaws of life. We can't see who she is. The ambulance speeds away.

And then, an Escalade, similar to the one before, but this one is in mint condition ...

What’s that? ... Well, they could own two of the same car ... Yeah, I suppose it could be a loaner for the damaged one ... Y’know, let’s just make it an Isuzu Tracker ... with tinted windows. We can’t see in. But we catch a glimpse through the front windshield.

It’s her! Our golden bombshell from before. But is it her? For she has a twin sister!

But it is her and not her twin ... or were you thinking it was the twin? We can make it the twin if you want ... No?

Okay, so they’re trying to resuscitate the woman as they're doing 95 along I-95 -- (have you ever wondered, J.W., what would happen if the speed limits were actually equal to the route numbers? ... Future script idea: “Speed Demons on Route 293”) -- they’re driving along trying to resuscitate her, but strangely, our hero, Mr. Perfect, isn’t there.

He’s at home, alone, pining ... pining ... pining. He holds a picture, but not of his wife.

Smash cut to: a seedy bar in another city. A woman, the one from the picture, leaves the bar and walks next door to the National Enquirer building. She’s crying. She holds documents, photos of her with him, and tape recordings as she whispers, “Oh, baby, I hope we can still be friends after this.”

Back to the hospital. It’s a media circus. And then word trickles out that the patient was, in fact, the mother-in-law. She heard that her son-in-law was cheating and her heart couldn’t take it anymore.

Will she survive or won’t she? Doctors tell our blonde heroine there’s a 50/50 chance of survival, but only a 10 percent chance of those odds being accurate.

She’s distraught. All the while, Mr. Perfect’s sponsors are leaving him in droves. He begs them, pleads with them. “I’m not perfect!” he screams. But it’s too late. They’re gone. He cries so passionately that he exhausts himself and passes out in front of his house under the tree he hit with his car. He wears his cleats and collared shirt, but no pants.

We pull back into the dark night air and slowly dissolve to this guy as a youth, 3 years old, thwacking a plastic golf ball with a plastic Fisher Price golf club in his backyard as his father looks on. His father wears no pants. Fade to black.

What do you say, J.W.? ... What do you mean it’s too far fetched? And George Clooney playing Batman wasn’t? Fine.

I happen to have another gem, this one even better, that I want you to be the first to hear. An incredibly gifted NFL quarterback and successful pitchman wins 26 straight regular-season games. He enters the playoffs and everything is going great until ...