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WARREN ELLIS

It's 6am in Los Angeles. And,
somewhere in Hollywoodland,
Martin Scorcese still prowls the
streets, looking for a large man
from Queens to fuck right in the
eyesocket.

Still reeling from the impossible
notion that an eighty-hour-long
film featuring the box office gold
of Leonardo DiCaprio in a top hat
was somehow not Oscarworthy,
the man's brain must be full of
blood bubbles this morning. How
could the Academy reject the raw
dramatic tension of an obscenely
rich man and the insoluble problem
of how to spend all his fucking money
while looking for fresh milk bottles
to fill with his thick green urine?

If only he'd played Katharine
Hepburn himself. He did okay in
his cameo roles, right? A pair of
jodhphurs and a fine caking of
carmine lipstick, and he'd have one
of those little gold men to fondle
too. And then he could beat Harvey
Weinstein to death with it.