Roidville: The Movie
Hollywood should have a field day with steroid mess
Posted: Friday February 29, 2008 1:56PM; Updated: Friday February 29, 2008 2:39PM
It ain't hard to imagine it coming to a big or small screen near you: a rollicking farce with elements of Superbad, Animal House, The Terminator, Raising Arizona and The Longest Yard.
The story is set in a wealthy town where cops have been busting up a string of parties where dopey teenagers were running amok with illict substances and indulging in unwholesome ribaldry. Oh, they were having a grand old time they were, loadin' up and livin' the high life while their babes revealed their mammary renovations by the pool.
Unfortunately, the noise and hijinks disturb the moral-minded burghers in town and jug-eared authorities are called in.
One of the longest-running and best-attended shindigs has gone down at the toney digs of old Mr. Selig. Just about every kid in town wanted in because no one ever checked on what they were up to, and kindly Mr. Selig preferred to turn a deaf ear to the constant complaints of his neighbors. One of them -- cranky Mr. Pound -- was kept awake nights by all the revelry and skullduggery and he barked over the hedge, "Jumping butterballs, Selig! Those damned kids are up to no good at all hours over there. Why in the name a hell don't you do something about it?"
"Oh don't you make no nevermind, Pound," Selig snorted. "Those are good kids. A little rambunctious, maybe."
Then he shuffled away thinking, "Business is robust, so why look too close, sully my reputation in town and drive off my customers?"
After the cops come bustin' in, an entire houseful of kids is hauled off by the ear to explain themselves down at the stationhouse. Some snivel with remorse -- remorse that they got pinched and the good times ain't rollin' no more. Old Mr. Selig is embarrassed and earnestly offers to cooperate in a town-sponsored clean-up campaign. He even asks his good friend Mr. Mitchell to look into what has been going on. Mtichell comes back ashen-faced and strongly suggests that each kid in town be made to pee into a cup or submit a blood sample every 30 minutes. The other party-hosting parents scoff at attempts by the town to police their premises.
Frowning Mr. Fehr declares at the town board hearing that he'll go along with an outside effort only when a reliable test for guilt becomes available.
The imperious Mr. Stern protests that while a lad or two may have taken an on-the-sly snort of his Canadian Club, he and his peers have always kept their liquor cabinets secured. Of course, there are no ways for him or his well-heeled pals to know if the kids have been imbibing more revolutionary substances.
The icy Mr. Bettman protests that only one kid was ever caught at his manse, although rumors have been flying for years that his medicine cabinet was being raided and revelers were getting jacked up on Sudafed while blasting Zambonis cds.
In a plot complication, there's very little hard evidence that anything funky went down with any particular kid at Selig's house although an odd odor hangs in the air. Bonds, the school's star slugger, has raised eyebrows by sprouting a head that looks like it was stolen off the Charlie Brown balloon at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The town's ace in the sinkhole is McNamee, a smirking older teen who finally admits under thumbscrews and hot wax that he's been buyin' and supplyin' for years. He produces some empties that he claims were drained by Clemens, the school's star pitcher.
The burly Clemens angrily protests his innocence to the scowling Mr. Waxman, insisting that lips that touch liquor shall never touch his. But the more he rants, the more his convoluted hummina-hummina-hummina arouses suspicion. Waxman has little patience for linguistic soft shoe, not after Bonds unloads a whole lotta "I didn't know what I was taking. I thought it was flaxseed oil. All the kids take flaxseed oil. Honest, Mr. Waxman!"
Counseled by his smirking father Mr. Hardin, Clemens decides to assault the character of McNamee and the memories of the kids who are giving him up, such as the tormented Pettitte, a good, church-going kid who went along for the ride and is now convinced that Jehovah is waiting for him in the celestial woodshed. Clemens figures he's safe -- after all; even an 18-wheeler full of he-said/he-said will never be enough proof beyond a reasonable doubt -- but he neglects to realize that he lives in an age of cell phone cameras and other recording devices. Who knows what kind of trail he's left?
"Balderdash!" thunder Waxman and his board sidekick Cummings. An investigation is launched.
Clemens also fails to anticipate the arrival of Novitzki and Parrella, a tag team of ruthless cyborgs like Schwarzenegger's Terminator and Tex Cobb's Leonard Smalls, the leather-clad Lone Biker of the Apocalpypse who rides into town on a Hog, flames glowing in his tire tracks while he lobs grenades at bunnies. So far, Novitzki and Parella have blown up the local pharmacist Mr. Conte as well as Bonds, Jones, Stubblefield and Graham. Now they're coming for Clemens the way Smalls came for Nicolas Cage's bungling H.I. McDonnough in Raising Arizona.
Will our heroes end up playing ball against the guards in Allenville State pen? And in whose basement are the parties quietly beginning again, this time with new chemical wonderment?
You'll have to see the sequels to find out. And if there's one thing you can count on these days, it's sequels.