There I was at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, surrounded by wild caterpillars. A dry wind, keening through motionless, grasping fingers; a sulfur-laden miasma leaching from the earth. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the empty, decomposing husks of dead pop idols.
I turned to my second in command: “Cohen,” I said, “What the hell are we doing on this god-forsaken tract of sod?”
“They’re dying, sir,” said Cohen. “If we don’t get them back within earshot of their screaming sycophants, there won’t be a single one left. We’ve got to do something to save them, but WHAT?” As he said this, Ziggy Sarris of the legendary Seventies stadium rock band Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner and Ziggy (George Sarris!) breathed his last.
By gad, man,” said I, “You’re right! I see that now, and I am just the man to do something about it.” I squinted out across the valley as I’d seen Harrison Ford do while imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger who was copying Clint Eastwood.
“But,” countered Cohen, “we’ll never get them past President Trump’s Great Wall of Containment. You know that he won’t allow anyone into the country who is more popular than he is, and he has surrounded the country with his private army.”
You’re right,” I answered, “but I’ve got to find a way…”
We were stuck there for a good twenty minutes. Cohen pulled out his Simpsons action figures and we re-enacted a few scenes. Cohen’s “Homer” voice was better than mine (I think he practices) but I do a pretty mean “Groundskeeper Willie.” Honestly, I’d forgotten all about the rock stars when Cohen blurted out, “That’s it!”
“What’s it?” I queried.
“We’ll sneak them in… IN COSTUMES,” explained Cohen.
“But Steve,” I said, “Where are we going to get costumes? All I have in my haversack are the clothes I was going to wear to Club Zanzibar on Saturday night.”
“Like what?” inquired Cohen.
“Oh,” I enumerated, “just a dreadlock wig, a hippy wig, a ‘John 3-16’ wig, some love beads, a tie-dyed shirt, a scarlet body suit… You know, that kind of thing.”
“Well,” expressed Cohen, “it’s so crazy, it just might work!”
Unfortunately Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Lee, Prince, David Bowie, Jim Morrison, Steve McQueen, Lenny Bruce, James Dean, Freddie Prinze, Kurt Cobain, and one of the guys from Milli Vanilli were already dead by this point. In fact, nearly all of them had nipped off, palms cupped to ears, straining to hear the distant shrieks of their devotees.
“AMDS” said a new voice. I turned around to see a new face, one that I hardly expected.
“What the hell are you going on about now, Will Ferrell?” I demanded.
“Acute Monomaniac Deprivation Syndrome,” he defined. “I’ve seen this a thousand times.”
“But how come it doesn’t seem to effect you?” inquired Cohen.
“Because WE have YOU.” A new voice was heard from.
“Billy Joel?! What are you doing here? Are all my favorite pop stars here?!” vocalized Cohen.
“Phil Collins fell into a crevasse and died of exposure,” chronicled Billy.
“But I’m here!” Cohen spun around to see none other than Sting standing behind him with arms akimbo.
“It’s Sting!” narrated Cohen, “Sting, I would trade twelve of you to have Phil Collins back!”
“That’s what everyone says but you’re stuck with me,” uttered Sting.
On that note, we told the guys our plan, dressed them in our costumes, brought them back to civilization (i.e. West 57th Street) and put on one hell of a show.
And that’s the story of how I saved the pop stars. It was all me.