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2003-09-03 - 2:04 p.m.

A little while ago in a galaxy kinda far away…

Drug Wars

Episode IV:

A New Dope

It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, looking remarkably like tiny models on strings and striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Hemppyre.

During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal secret plans to the Hemppyre’s ultimate weapon, the Drug Czar, an armored space station with enough power to destroy every illegal substance on a planet, even a planet inhabited by Keith Richards.

Pursued by the Hemppyre’s sinister Drug Enforcement agents, Princess Leafy races home aboard her starship, custodian of the stolen plans that can save her stash and restore freedom of choice to the galaxy...

Space. The planet of Tattooedteen emerges from a total eclipse. A tiny syringe-shaped spacecraft, a rebel blockade runner firing lasers from the back of the ship, races through space. It is pursued by a giant Crop Destroyer starship, firing gigantic cannons like some Pink Floyd laser show at the Museum of Science. Far fucking out.

The smaller ship is overtaken by the larger one and drawn into some kind of holding dock like the last bite of some chocolaty munchie disappearing into a massive metallic mouth.


An explosion rocks the ship as two robots, MD-MA and THC-3PO struggle to make their way through the shaking, bouncing passageway. MD-MA is a short, rolling robot shaped like a gel cap. His face is a mass of psychedelic lights surrounding a half-lidded radar eye. THC-3PO, on the other hand, is a tall, slender robot of human proportions. He has a gleaming bronzelike metallic surface and two backlit bloodshot eyes and speaks in Tommy Chong’s voice.

Rebel troops rush past. Well, they kind of sluggishly walk past, munching on Twinkies, but they’re moving, anyway. Another blast shakes them. One giggles uncontrollably.

THC-3PO: Did you hear that? They’ve shut down the main grow room. We’re going to get busted for sure. This is madness, man!

Rebel troopers continue to rush past the robots and take up positions in the passageway, aiming television remotes at the door.

THC-3PO: We’re screwed, man.

MD-MA replies by playing a few beats of a bad techno song.

THC-3PO: They’ll be no community service for the Princess this time.

MD-MA continues playing his rave music. We hear sounds of metal scraping metal as one ship docks with the other.

THC-3PO: What in the name of Timothy Leary was that?


Rebel troops aim their remotes at the airlock door. It blows open, and scores of Statetroopers make their way into the ship, firing weapons indiscriminately. Rebels drop like flies. An explosion hits near the robots.

Rebel Trooper #1: It’s like Seattle all over again!

Rebel Trooper #2: I want my mommy!

An awesome, 7-foot tall figure clad in black robes, a gas mask, and a Rush Limbaugh “power tie” necktie makes his way into the blinding light of the main passageway. This is Narc CultiVader, right hand of Emperor Bush. Everyone backs away from CultiVader, ‘cause he’s obviously evil.


A woman’s hand slides a floppy disk into MD-MA’s dome. He plays some more dance beats. A computerized voice chimes through MD-MA’s speaker: “You’ve Got Mail.”


THC-3PO stands in a hallway, MD-MA nowhere in sight.

THC-3P0: MD-MA, where are you? We gotta hurry up, swallow our shit and split, man.

A familiar techno soundtrack attracts his attention, and he spots MD-MA, a pretty young woman tinkering with his blinking lights. THC-3PO doesn’t know this, but she is Princess Leafy.

THC-3P0: (to MD-MA) At last! Where have you been? The Feds are heading in this direction, man. What are we gonna do? We’ll be sent to some Texas prison or forced to listen to Pat Boone records or worse.

MD-MA ignores him and rolls down the hallway. THC-3PO chases after him. The young girl watches them go.

THC-3PO: Aw, don’t make me run, man, wait…


Captured rebels are marched away. Narc CultiVader holds a Rebel Officer by the neck as a Hemperial Officer rushes to his side.

HEMPERIAL OFFICER: The Drug Czar plans are not in the main computer.

CultiVader squeezes the rebel’s neck.

CULTIVADER: Where are those transmissions you intercepted? What have you done with those plans, you dirty hippie?

REBEL OFFICER: We intercepted no transmissions… this is a straight-edge ship… Earth Crisis is my favorite band... that’s just incense you smell… we’re just hangin’ out…

CULTIVADER: If this is a straight-edge ship, where are all the X’s?

Narc CultiVader squeezes the Rebel officer’s neck harder. The rebel makes a nasty gurgling sound. CultiVader throws him against the wall. He then turns to his goons.

CULTIVADER: Commander, tear this ship apart until you’ve found those plans, and bring me the passengers—I want them alive! Oh, and will someone please get me a root beer? Crushing throats is thirsty work!

The Statetroopers scurry off as that “Bad Boys Bad Boys” song from COPS plays faintly in the background.


The young lady from earlier is huddled in an alcove. The Statetroopers rush toward her. One spots her.

TROOPER #1: There’s one! Set weapons to “mild brutality.”

A trooper points his laser rifle at her and rings of blue light shoot out. They form holographic images of LAPD cops armed with billy clubs who beat her down. She falls to the ground, comatose. The holograms disperse and the troopers inspect her body.

TROOPER #2: She’s alright. Inform Lord CultiVader we have a prisoner.


MD-MA stops before the small hatch of an emergency lifepod.

THC-3PO: Uh, I don’t think we’re supposed to be doing that, man, it’s totally off limits to us, remember? You’re doing to get piss-tested for sure.

MD-MA plays that indecipherable backwards part of “Funk Soul Brother” by Fat Boy Slim.

THC-3PO: Don’t call me a weedless philosopher, you overrated factory-produced excuse for love! Now come out before somebody seizes you.

MD-MA plays more bad music.

THC-3PO: Mission? What mission? What are you on? I’m not going in there, man.

There’s a nearby explosion. Threepio gets in the pod with MD-MA.

THC-3PO: What a bummer.

From inside the pod, a computerized voice says “keep your hands and arms inside the lifepod at all times. We hope you enjoy the ride and the rest of your stay here at the Magic Kingdom.”


CHIEF PILOT: (looking at the escaping lifepod on a viewscreen) There goes another one.

CAPTAIN: Hold your fire, I’m not reading any brain cells aboard. It must have short circuited. Turn it back.

The Chief Pilot flips a switch where we see an episode of Jerry Springer. The text at the bottom of the screen says “I married a Jawa!”

WOMAN ON SCREEN: All day it's “Woo-teeny” this and “Woo-teeny” that…

JAWA ON SCREEN: Woo-teeny!

WOMAN ON SCREEN: You see? He’s like a broken (bleep!) record, the lazy (bleep!) bum! I swear he’s…

She’s cut off when the Jawa gets up and throws his chair at her.


MD-MA and THC-3PO look out at the receding Hemperial Crop Destroyer.

THC-3PO: That’s weird, man, the damage doesn’t look as bad from out here. And whoa, check out the stars…

MD-MA plays a Paul Oakenfold remix of something terrible.

THC-3PO: You always say that. Are you sure this thing is safe, man? A crash landing will totally kill my buzz. Plus, I’m kind of on probation…


The lifepod descends toward the planet.


Princess Leafy is lead down the hall by a squad of Statetroopers. Her hands are bound. They stop as Narc CultiVader appears.

LEAFY: Narc CultiVader. Only you could be so bold. The Senate will not sit still for this. When they hear you’ve attacked a sober ship…

CULTIVADER: Don’t act so surprised, Your High-ness. You weren’t on any goody-two-shoes mission this time. Several transmissions were beamed to this ship by rebel dealers. I want to know what happened to the plans they sent you.

LEAFY: I don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t even read me my rights. Shit, this is an illegal search and seizure! I’m a tax-payer!

CULTIVADER: You are a member of NORML and a traitor. Not to mention a crappy dresser. Wearing all white before Easter? Jeez! And that hair! Terrible! (to Troopers) Take her away!

Leafy is marched away. A Hemperial commander turns to CultiVader.

COMMANDER: Holding her is dangerous. If word gets out, it could generate sympathy for the rebellion. Just think of what Michael Moore is going to say about this shit…

CULTIVADER: I have traced the Rebel spies to her. Now she is my only link to finding their secret base.

COMMANDER: She’ll die before she tells you anything.

CULTIVADER: Leave that to me. Send a distress signal and inform the senate that all were killed. We’ll blame it on the Arabs.


CULTIVADER: Or the Hutts. Fuck, you pick. What, do I have to think of everything?

Another Hemperial Commander approaches CultiVader and the other Commander.

SECOND COMMANDER: Lord CultiVader, the Drug Czar plans are not aboard this ship! And no transmissions were made. An escape pod was jettisoned during the fighting, but there weren’t any of these lowlife dopers aboard.

CULTIVADER: She must have hidden the plans in the escape pod. Send a detachment down to retrieve them. See to it personally, commander… He leans in, glancing over his shoulder conspiratorially and pointing rather unsubtly at the First Commander. CultiVader whispers too loudly: I don’t trust that guy. I think he’s, you know… CultiVader makes circle motions with his pointer finger around the side of his head, the international signal for “crazy”

The Second Commander nods, uncomfortable, while the First Commander looks down at his shoes, his feelings clearly hurt.

CULTIVADER: There will be no one to stop us this time!


CultiVader storms away.

FIRST COMMANDER: What an asshole.


The Hemperial Crop Destroyer comes over the surface of the planet Tattooedteen.


The two robots walk away from the crashed lifepod and make their way through the desert sands.

THC-3PO: Man, this blows. Where the hell are we, Death Valley? I’m coming down and everything. We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.

MD-MA: Boom-chicka-boom-chicka…

THC-3PO: I’ve got to chill before I fall apart. My joints are almost frozen.

MD-MA: (music stops) mmmm?

THC-3PO: I didn’t mean “joints” that way, you junkie junkpile.

MD-MA: Boom-chicka-boom-chicka…

THC-3PO: This planet is a shithole.

MD-MA begins rolling off, suddenly determined.

THC-3PO: Where do you think you’re going?

More shitty dance music from MD-MA.




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