It's About Damn Time
But see, that's the beauty of it. There doesn't need to be a story. The studios realize that now. You just need a few good explosions, some cleavage, a good set of abs and a drunken marmot on a typewriter, and bam! $50 million on the opening weekend. Pretty soon we'll be paying ten dollars to watch a sixty foot screen filled with Lite-Brites and tits. Free napkins to wipe off the drool.
Nothing's off the table now. Literally, nothing. Plastic building bricks? Fuck it, let's do it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to finish my screenplay. It's a futuristic horror-dramedy about navel lint. The franchise rights alone will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams.
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