Okay, everyone, fold out a chair and seat yourselves, we don’t have much time. Before we start, we have to thank the town’s facilities manager for allowing us to convene this emergency council meeting in the town’s nuclear fallout bunker. Secrecy is obviously of the utmost importance. Apparently, no one’s set foot in here since it was built in 1961, which explains the volume of Little Richard-themed non-perishables. Wow, he had his own line of canned stew. Neat.
Well, we’ve really done it now. We’ve had high-profile visitors to our town die – heck, just last year, that delegation from the Dalai Lama’s monastery got Super Cholera from our tap water. But never like this. Never David Spade.
I was officiating the ribbon-cutting for our new comic book library at the time, but if I understand correctly, this is how it went down. Spade was passing through town when his sports car hit a four foot pothole, and when Barbie Nubb answered the tow call, Spade trained his trademark caustic wit on her, suggesting that her leg bangles were, in fact, from the Lindsay Lohan Ankle Bracelet Collection. As more townspeople stopped to gawk, they too were met with his withering barbs that, from what I gather, referenced hot Hollywood gossip. One thing led to another and… well, they hung David Spade from the overpass.
Because the majority of our town took part in the murder, it’s impossible to hold any one person responsible. That’s the beauty of mob justice, I suppose. I’m going to give everyone on this council the benefit of the doubt and assume that you weren’t involved, even though some of you are in fact tired and bloodstained, and Gertle was selling commemorative “I Helped Kill David Spade” tees out front.
Merle, please stop eating as many cans of rations as you can. I’d appreciate your attention. And everyone else, stop cheering him on! Merle, you are not, nor have you ever been, a Major League Eater. I’m – what’s that? How many pounds of calamari? Well, color me embarrassed. And a little impressed!
I know us Opa-Lockians historically haven’t “cottoned” to famous outsiders who stop through town because we feel like they’re rubbing their success in our ruddy, sauce-stained faces. I was especially appalled when that courageous disabled runner Ricky Templeton chose to make our fair burg a stop on his Jog for Cancer, and subsequently was shaken down for smokes and had his artificial leg stolen.
There’s just no place for that! It’s the main reason that our town’s old slogan, “C’mon ‘n’ Stay A While!”, has since been replaced by “The Shit You Lookin’ At, Shitface?” – which, by the way, I was outvoted on.
The critical disappointment that was Joe Dirt doesn’t justify this! David Spade had powerful friends. That’s right: Sandler. He’s got enough money to buy this town and turn it into a parking lot. And for the portion of this council that doesn’t spend most of their time drinking moonshine in a parking lot, that’s a bad thing.
Merle, please stop goose-stepping around. This is not Hitler’s bunker and you are not Hitler. I don’t think Der Fuhrer had a full-sleeve Aerosmith tattoo in desperate need of retouching.
I’m handing off the baton. How are we getting out of this pickle soup?
Sorry, Alf, but I don’t think we can spin Mr. Spade’s death as a suicide. It would be the first suicide in Opa-Locka’s history, which is undoubtedly because most of our citizens can’t tie a knot.
No, “Nuts” Carl, walling the town off from the rest of the country is not an option. But that’s not going to stop you from suggesting it at every town meeting, is it? Tell you what: you find a backhoe that can dig a fifteen-foot “acid moat” and then we’ll have this conversation.
Merle, for God’s sakes, please stop loudly, and obscenely, cursing the lack of cell phone reception. There’s fifteen feet of solid concrete between us and the ground. You’re dumb as a post! It’s no mystery why your wife left you for a Greyhound bus driver.
I’m sorry. That was a low blow.
Just a second… “mystery.” Merle, you just gave me a genius idea! Why don’t we just spin this whole affair into a classic “whodunnit” murder mystery? We’ll invite folks from all around, and if they’re able to solve our unsolvable crime, they get free lunch at the Chinese buffet! An attraction like this could definitely boost tourism. I mean, the 9/11 Hijacker Museum just isn’t the cash cow we thought it would be.
And we’ll erect a monument for him to keep his La-La-Land buddies happy. “Tommy Boy Fields,” anyone? When life gives you David Spade’s limp, lifeless husk, you make lemonade!
Let’s get out of here. Merle, why don’t you crank open the door? No, no, Merle – you’re turning it the wrong way. Remember: lefty loosey, righty –
And you’ve broken it off and sealed us in here forever.
Someone pass me some stew, please.