Mrs. Doubtfire 2, forever wandering the corridors of would-be genius.
Epiphanies pulled from us just before the moment of awakening.
Mrs. Doubtfire 2, in which Sally Field peels back the flesh of her own visage, only to reveal the face of Mrs. Doubtfire beneath.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire hitches a ride on an errant drone, face flapping, shouting “Halloooo” at the top of her voice––pan out to the silent desert.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire immolates a group of voice-over actors with a flamethrower. “My first day as a woman and I’m already getting hot flashes.”
In which Mrs. Doubtfire sodomizes Pierce Brosnan in a vicious pantomime of the heimlich maneuver as Harvey Fierstein rubs his eyes with cayenne.
In which the cobra hood of Harvey Fierstein unfurls. In which Harvey Fierstein spits venom.
I think we’ll have to go to the next level: latex.
In which Brosnan’s spent viscera leaks out as Mrs. Doubtfire walks off. “I don’t work with the males, ‘cause I used to be one.”
In which Sally Field plays Jumanji with Bonnie Hunt. In which Sally Field is hit by a Guinness truck. It was the drink that killed her. It was a run-by fruiting. It was David Alan Grier in the parlor with the candlestick.
Mr. Hillard, do you consider yourself humorous?
In which the little girl from Matilda’s mouth fills with blood.
In which the little girl from Matilda appears in the dark at your bedside at 3am, whispering: sink the sub hide the weasel park the porpoise a bit of the old humpty dumpty little jack horny the horizontal mambo, hmm? The bone dancer rumpleforeskin baloney bop a bit of the old cunning linguistics.
I am Job.
Do you speak English?
I am Job.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire eats a salad made from the toes of babies and Mercedes hood ornaments while singing “Dude Looks Like A Lady.” In which Steven Tyler peels back the flesh of his own visage to reveal Steven Tyler as Mrs. Doubtfire in Jumanji.
In which the faces of women are collected in jars. I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.
In which Matthew Lawrence melts like a sno-cone in Phoenix as the theme song from Blossom plays on a loop. Nanu Nanu.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire peels back the flesh of her own visage only to reveal the face of Sally Field as Bonnie Hunt in Jumanji.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire is only certain about flames.
In which I must look like a yeti in this get-up.
In which Mr. Sprinkles the mailman knocks on the door and Mrs. Doubtfire answers. “Oh, a big knock on the door! Who could it be and do we have enough time?”
“Mr. Sprinkles, boys and girls! Hello Mr. Sprinkles!”
In which Mr. Sprinkles the mailman peels back the flesh of his own visage only to reveal a glass face containing a diorama of Mrs. Doubtfire opening the door to find Mr. Sprinkles, as marionette, peeling back the flesh of his own visage only to reveal Mrs. Doubtfire.
In which Mrs. Doubtfire, deep sea in a bathyscaphe, telepathically encounters a narwhal. Kill me, it entreats her. I have a horn which contains the ache of men’s bile, the accumulation of the moment an arm is poised to hurl a harpoon. The moment of baleen. The moment of Mrs. Doubtfire peeling back the flesh of her own visage only to reveal a smoldering pile of auks. I am somehow the unicorn of the sea. How is that possible? “Oh no dear, I think they’ve outlawed whaling.”
In which Mrs. Doubtfire follows the Ho Chi Minh Trail, follows the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
In which the eyes of children in a room tear up simultaneously, dioramas of the ocean. An old woman is walking from their house for the last time. She knows this.
All my love to you, poppet, you’re going to be alright. Bye-bye.