Global Drama Island

Posted: March 26, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[In light of the recent news of Malaysian Airlines Flight MH370, my condolences go out to any members of the bereaved families that may happen to, perchance, come across this particular piece on this particular blog in the deep dark web. If you are a member from one of the families and reading this, know that I am sorry for your loss. If you aren’t a member from one of the families, keep reading anyway. Regardless of who the fuck you are, I have decided to try and bring a smile to your face by writing a screenplay for the pilot episode of Global Drama Island. The premise: the world’s leaders and a random Ukrainian model find themselves on a remote island after a plane crash, LOST-style. Socio-political hilarity (as well as six seasons and a movie, hopefully) ensues]






A man emerges from the flotsam and jetsam of a plane crash on the beach. He is tall, dark and of questionable birth. A solitary bald eagle with a fucked internal compass swoops majestically behind him on this lush tropical island somewhere in the Indian Ocean. It’s a very poetic moment. The eagle cries its bald eagley cry, as if to say “Where the fuck am I?” He responds in its native tongue, for it is his patriotic duty to know the speech of the bald eagle: “Fuck if I know, dude.” He is Barack Obama: President of the United States of America, Defender of the Free World and very very lost.

He walks down to the beach, where amongst the strewn baggage and littered luggage, the rest of his cohorts in command have begun to assemble.

Barack: Friends, fellow leaders, random Ukrainian model – I address you in this dire moment of distress. I don’t know whose idea it was to let the Malaysian Prime Minister fly the plane, but here we are. At least we are all safe. Now, first things first: we need to devise a system of free speech that will allow everyone to have their fair say on what we are to do next.

Kim Jong-Un: No we don’t.

General Sisi: No we don’t.

Chavez: *cough* NSA *cough*

Barack [ignoring them]: Does anybody see a conch lying around anywhere?


Chavez: It’s a fucking beach – there are literally shells everywhere.

Nieto: Well, I have a poncho.

Barack: Brilliant! We shall use the poncho. Anybody that would like to deliver any eloquent speeches shall don the Poncho of Freedom and have his say.

Rob Ford: I would like to say something.

Barack: Very well, Brother Rob. Put on the poncho and speak your heart.

Rob Ford solemnly takes the poncho from Obama, then proceeds to rip it to pieces as he tries to fit it over his massive bulk.


Rob Ford: As my people would say… Sorry.

Barack: What the fuck, Rob?!

Rob Ford: Sorry.

Barack: You’ve torn the Poncho of Freedom. Now how are we supposed to speak in turn and have supposed equal freedom of speech? All I wanted was a little bit of order and civilization. But no, you had to tear the fucking poncho. You’ve ruined democracy, Rob. You can’t sit with us.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: How the fuck are you so fat, anyway? Guys, I think someone needs to call Greenpeace and alert them while we start rolling Rob back into the ocean because clearly he’s a fucking whale.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: Hey Rob, would you mind turning around, just for a second? I want to check out your propeller scars.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: Ok. Ok. What the hell did you want to say in any case?

Rob: I wanted to apologize to everyone for this terrible mess that we’re in.

Barack: Are you fucking kidding me?! Wait, Rob, what is that?

Rob [Trying to shuffle out of sight, no easy task for such a fat man]: Nothing.

Barack: Is that a crack pipe? Are you fucking smoking crack right now?

Rob. I’m nervous ok. Sorry.

Barack: Screw the Smoke Monster, we’ve got the fucking Coke Monster right here. Where the hell did you get crack on this island anyway??

Rob: From the Nigerian guy, of course.


Barack and Co march off to find Goodluck Jonathan, President of Nigeria.

Rob Ford: Tell him I said sorry!


A man is sitting on a rock half-submerged in the white wispy sand, an empty bottle glinting brilliantly in the sunlight at his bare feet. A black fedora shades him from the heavy heat, and he is hunched over a piece of paper, frowning in concentration, when the approaching crowd distracts him and he looks up, smiling.

Barack: Goodluck, did you give Rob Ford… Wait, what are you doing?

Goodluck: Ah, my Kenyan brother! I am writing out a message to place in this bottle to throw out into the big blue, where hopefully someone will find it and read it and come and rescue us.

Barack: That’s actually not a bad idea at all.

Goodluck [winking]: African thinking, brother.

Barack: What did you say in the message?

Goodluck: “Dear Intended Recipient of this message, my name is Goodluck Jonathan and I am the President of Nigeria. I am currently stuck on an island along with Barack Obama, Jacob Zuma, a random Ukrainian model and other leader of the worlds. I am in great needing of your assistances. If you could just-“

Barack: Ok, that’s enough. Um…  yeah. Right. One quick question: are the grammar mistakes intentional?

Goodluck: What grammar mistakes?

Barack: Nevermind.

Goodluck: I was going to ask them for their address and bank account number too so that we may rightfully reward them for any assistance they may provide.

Barack: You do that. Right. I’ll leave you to it then. As you were.

Goodluck [cheerfully]: I heard that Jacob found fresh water. You might want to check that out. Bye Barack!

Barack [glumly]: Ok, I’ll head there… Good luck, Goodluck.


The sun beats down on a huge mound of dark brown earth, peppered with curly black shrubs. We pan out, only to find that the mound is situated on yet another mound of deep brown, bigger and darker than the first. We hear an ominous “Hehehe” from somewhere off-screen. We pan out even more, only to realize that the horizon is filled with the head(s) of Jacob Zuma himself, President of South Africa, who is sitting on the bank of a pond, feet dipped into the water, jovially humming “Umshini Wami” when he hears the approaching party and hastily stands up.

Barack: Hey, Jacob.


Jacob: Hello.

Barack: So, Goodluck told me that you managed to find fresh water. I’m assuming that he was referring to this crystal-clear pond right behind you. Good on you, Jacob! You’ve saved us!

Jacob: Ja… no.


Jacob: This is my fire-pool.

[More silence]

Barack: Your WHAT?!

Jacob: My fire-pool. You know, if there’s a fire, and my life is in danger, then I can use the water in my fire-pool to put out the fire.

Barack [thoroughly confused]: But there’s an ocean right there…

Jacob: Ja, but now, you see, I can-


But we’ll never know what Barack will see that Jacob can, because at that precise moment a gunshot rings out with a loud BANG, ripping through the serenity of the surroundings. Barack and Co race to the source of the gunshot, only to find Benjamin Netanyahu, Prime Minister of Israel, standing over the now pretty much headless body of Mahmoud Abbas, President of the State of Palestine (since 2008).

Barack: Bibi, did you just shoot Abbas in the face?

Netanyahu: No.

Barack: But there’s a gun in your hand and a hole in his face.

Netanyahu: Ok fine – maybe.

Barack: Bibi, why would you do something like that?

Netanyahu: Because, like, this is a nice piece of land, right? And Abbas was here, right? Are you following me so far?

Barack: Yes.

Netanyahu: Ok, good. So anyway, I had a vision from a Jewish merman named Ariel that this exact piece of land was once owned by the Jewish people a couple of hundred years ago – two, maybe three hundred years, I don’t know, the vision had this weird clamshell bra on despite being an incredibly old man – and then anyway, I settled down here on this nice piece of ancient Jewish land.

Barack: But why did you shoot Abbas then?

Netanyahu: Oh! Yes, he wasn’t too happy about me taking his land so he starting kicking sand at me which is a direct violation of the Geneva Convention, as you know, and my life was directly in danger because sand can get into your eye which is really very irritating which can then lead you into a state of depression which is a leading cause of suicide, so I shot him. Totally justified, as you can see.


Whether it was totally justified or not [hint: it’s not], our intrepid gang of Gaia gurus is suddenly disturbed by a movement in the underbrush. The earth quakes. A tree is felled. Rob Ford lights up another crack pipe and Jacob curses himself for not being near his fire-pool. And then, lo and behold, Vladimir Motherfucking Putin bursts into the scene, bare-chested astride a motherfucking bear.

Putin: Что нового суки?

Barack: Where the fuck did you find a bear?

Putin: I am Putin. Bear finds me.

Barack: Whatever. Tell me Vlad, what have you done to contribute to our ongoing survival? Nieto very graciously donated his poncho, Rob… apologized for the mess we’re in, Goodluck is writing a message that could save us and Jacob found us fresh water. What have you done?

Putin: I have built luxury shelter up on mountain and distilled four-and-twenty litres of my own strain of vodka. I call it Putinka. I have also domesticated wild goat I found up on mountain and I wrestled four sharks today, one of them hammerhead. Yes, I admit, I did slack a bit today. What is it that you have done Comrade Black Barack?

Barack: Well, I’ve necessitated the means to our continuing survival as a faction of free men on this here uncharted island, as well as ensured the morale of all those involved in this pitiful and piteous freak accident are safe and secure and I’ve facilitated the use of a inhere-

Putin: Is this what they are meaning when they are talking about your “drones”?

Barack: No. Who said that I drone? I’ll have you know that I am the most eloquent orator that has originated fr-

Putin: Vatever. I am now taking this kinky krasotka back to my man-cave, where I shall, how you say, “annex” her body. Hahaha.

Barack: You can’t just do that. What if she doesn’t want to go, hey??

Ukrainian model: I vant to go.

Barack: No you don’t.

Ukrainian model: Of course I vant to go. Vat ve had vos nice, Barack, but you are just too banal for me. Ta ta.

Barack: But once you go black, you never go back…

Putin: Bitch please, vonce you go Putin, you never stop shootin’.

Barack: That doesn’t even make sense!

Putin: Crimea river.

Jacob: Crimea fire-pool! He he he

Putin rides off with the Ukrainian model into the horizon on his bear. Barack crumples down, a defeated man, and resigns himself to bitterly drowning his sorrows in a puddle of Putinka. Rob Ford lights up yet another crack pipe. Goodluck carefully places his note into Putinka bottle 419 and heaves it deep into the ocean. The rest of the Liquorice Allsorts of Authority settle down for the night as the sun sets over Jacob’s heads.





[Hollywood, my door awaits your knocks. Bollywood, my Kabhi Khushi awaits your Gham. Nollywood, your estranged prince awaits my money. Sollywood (the South African film industry) – I await your efforts to come up with a name that sounds better than a sensitive Chinese man apologizing to a tree he just hit.  If you still want me to remember you when I’m an infamous rockstar writer, lay upon me your adoration and adulation in abundance. Or you can just subscribe to my blog on the left and follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll, it’s kinda the same thing]


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