October 31, 2006

24 Deleted Scenes/Outtakes


KIEFER SUTHERLAND and SEAN ASTIN stand center frame on a sound stage. In the background, grips move props and set pieces around. A guy dressed as a terrorist walks by.

Hi. I'm Kiefer Sutherland, and I portray Counter-Terrorist agent Jack Bouer in the Television series 24. This is my friend and fellow cast member, Sean Astin.

I was Sam in Lord of the Rings.

You know, in a dramatic and tightly plotted series like ours, which attempts to show you, in real time, the events unfolding during one very bad day, a lot can get left out. That's why we decided to compile this special edition of 24, highlighting the moments in Jack Bouer's workday that we just didn't have time for.

I was Mikey in The Goonies.


Pause. The actors seem to drop character. Keifer looks at Sean.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment. Dunn. DUNN. DUNN! On the last beat, the clock disappears, leaving the screen blank again.


A close up of JACK BOUER, revealing only his eyes and brow. His brow is tensed, his eyes flick back and forth intensely.

A wider shot reveals that Jack is reading Time Magazine. The cover story is about a bomb that's going to kill everyone in 24 hours.

A wider shot reveals that Jack is on the toilet. There is a loud knock at the door.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack! Come on!

Just a minute!

Split-screen shots show Jack setting down the magazine. Jack washing his hands. Jack pulling up his pants. Jack staring into space looking intense.


BILL BUCHANAN waits impatiently for Jack, who comes out of the bathroom.

Jack, time is running out!

I know that! I know! Look, I'm a human being for God's sake. I was holding that in all day.

Well get your ass into the briefing room. Chloe's got some intel for us concerning the bomb's whereabouts.

Chloe? Does it have to be Chloe?

Dammit Jack, Chloe is the best intel person this agency has!

I know, but she looks like someone punched her in the face. She's like a poor man's Renee Zelwegger.

Agreed, but there's not time to get anyone else. In case you've forgotten, there's a bomb--

Alright! I'm doing it! God, you don't have to be a jerk about it.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.


Jack is yelling at someone. We can't see who.

You may have time to screw around here, but I don't! Lives are at risk, lives that I'm not willing to jeopardize for your sake! So you give me what I want, and you give it to me now!

Wider shot reveals Jack at a drive through window, yelling at a bored-looking TEEN.

Sir, like I said, the fryalator is broken.

Give me the burger then! I'll start now!

Jack grabs a bag of food from the teen, rips it open, and starts messily devouring a hamburger. After a moment, the teen hands him his fries. He starts to eat them.

That's 6.05--

Jack has already started driving off.

I don't have time! National security!

Jack keeps eating his fries, and there's a ringing sound. He hits a button on the dash, and we hear Buchanan's voice over a speaker.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, how close are you to the weapons depot?

I got held up in traffic, but I'm on my way now.

BILL (O.S.):
Dammit Jack!

There was nothing I could do sir. Terrorists...shot...someone.

BILL (O.S.):
Are you eating?

How dare you question my dedication to this agency! I should turn around right now and--

BILL (O.S.):
Jack! Video phone!


BILL (O.S.):
We installed a video phone.

Jack is silent for a moment, then suddenly pulls over to the side of the road. He starts crying, stuffing the last of the french fries into his mouth.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack? Jack, what are you doing?

Could you just---give me a minute? Please?

BILL (O.S.):

No, shut up! Can I say something? I'm trying really hard, okay? And, I—I just wanted some fries, and I thought that—just forget it. I suck. Everything I do just gets messed up!

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, stop crying, dammit!

I'm a terrible secret agent!

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, listen to me. Jack, that's not true, you're a great agent. Come on...who's my big strong agent? Jackie? Who's gonna stop the bomb?

My wife got killed, you know, and--

BILL (O.S.):
Shh. Shh. I know, I know. Come on. Who's gonna stop the bomb? Who's my big agent? Who's going to save the city, even though he never gets any credit and his loved ones get repeatedly killed?

JACK (Sullenly):
I am.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.

Jack and Chloe are interrogating a subject. The man is tied to a chair. Chloe looks like Renee Zelwegger. Jack is sweaty and exhausted from beating the man. He hits him across the face, and yells.

Tell me who you work for!

The man spits in Jack's face, then says something in arabic. Jack pulls out a gun and puts it to his head.

Jack, this isn't working! We've tried everything, he's not going to talk.

Jack puts the gun back in his belt, and marches off with a purpose.

Wait here, I've got an idea.

Chloe looks at the terrorist and smirks, making her face look bizarre and uncomfortable.

If I were you, I'd start talking. Jack isn't known for his compassion.

The terrorist grimaces at her expression.

You are the reason we invented burkhas.


Jack is asleep on the floor. He's napping in the fetal position. Various split screen shots show him from different angles.

Chloe is standing over Jack.


Wuzzuh! Wah! Uh--

What are you doing?!

JACK (Groggily springing to his feet):
I'm on it! I'm on it! Where's the bomb?!

Jack, we're supposed to be interrogating someone!

JACK (Rubbing sleep out of his eyes):
I was—power napping...for power.


Kiefer and Sean.

Finally, as a special bonus, we'd like to share with you a never-before-seen alternate ending to season 2. Because of some differences of opinion between the writers and producers, the following scene was shot and edited, but ultimately scrapped in favor of a different, much better one. Enjoy.

I was Rudy, in Rudy. That was a good one.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.


Jack is on the phone with Buchanan. Dead bodies litter the ground. Jack is heaving with exertion.

I've done it. I've killed the terrorists and recovered the bomb. The world is safe.

BILL (O.S.):
The world owes you a debt of gratitude, Jack. Unfortunately, because of the political climate, we're not going to be able to let the public know of your involvement.

That's fine, sir. I don't do it for the fame.

Also, we're going to have to fake your death--


And fly you, in a packing crate, to Indonesia.


Where you will live undercover--


As a sewer treatment specialist--

Come on!


What? Why is that even necessary?!

Goodbye Jack. I'll call you again if we need anything.

You guys suck!

Buchanan hangs up. Jack is exasperated.



KIEFER SUTHERLAND and SEAN ASTIN stand center frame on a sound stage. In the background, grips move props and set pieces around.

There you have it. The exciting, uncut world of 24.

I was also the voice of Kodi in Balto 3: Wings of Courage.

Sean, I swear to God, I will ruin you.


October 24, 2006

The Lost Lord Bellingham Letters

Historians recently uncovered a chest dating from the mid-16th century, containing the complete lifetime of correspondence of an English noble, Lord Bellingham III. Reprinted here are three of the manuscripts, which I hope will give modern readers some insight into the world of Elizabethan England.

A Letter Addressed to William Shakespeare

O, you perfidious and cocksome baldpate!

In my flowered youth, I was stricken with the odious French Disease, contracted when I didst lay with a young boy in sin. For well nigh a fortnight I lay prostrate in my chambers, my innards twisted and bowels freely and liberally expressing themselves upon my carpeted floor.
Such discomfit was naught when compared to the pain inflicted by the bumbling exhibited on the unworthy scaffold of The Globe this Saturday last.

Thy rank performance, which thou hadst the balls to monicker “As You Like It,” made one want rather to masturbate with a fistful of tenpenny nails. In sooth, the cavorting and warbling of thy cast onstage reminded me of nothing so much as my recent visit to Ye Olde Woodehouse School For Retards.

I beseech thee, return the ha’penny I paid for admission to thy play, or risk the browning of my boot tip in thy capacious arse.

Tis true a ha’penny is naught to me, a Lord so wealthy that I couldst on a whim purchase your petty theatre for conversion into a bearbaiting pit or other wholesome entertainment, but tis a matter of principle. I did not gain my wealth by frittering it away upon amateur theatricals akin to the flatulence I can enjoy for free in the presence of my colossal and gaseous wife.

Master Shakespeare, your plays are excrement, your acting still worse, and if the world holds any justice thy name shall be forgotten ten minutes past thy death.

Lord Bellingham III

PS Enclosed, please find an artistic rendering of myself engaged in forcible homosexual intercourse with your person.

On Lord Wriothesley’s Newest Fife and Tabor Composition

Thy notes did pour forth from the page and fly
Into mine ear where they didst find a nook,
And nestled there, then urging me to cry
“I’m reminded of a dump that I once took!”
Security at thy estate was bold
In carting hence my vainly flailing form,
But no amount of beating couldst withhold
My shrieks that thou wert “sucking up a storm!”
Yes, bloodied be my nose by your swift thugs,
And drunk I was when I decried thy work,
Yet no amount of ale or other drugs
Can e’er make me deny thou art a jerk.
In short, though thou be made into a saint,
Thy fife and tabor piece can eat my taint.

A Short Story Submitted to “The Ripping Bodice,” an Erotic Magazine

Dear Ripping Bodice Magazine,

In sooth, I never thought it could happen to me. Yet there I stood, in the luminous presence of her most divine majesty, the virgin queen, Regina Dentata, Elizabeth I.

“Come, Bellingham,” purred she, face painted a pure white, and rose lips a-quiver. She wast clad in a dress most cumbersome, regal and expansive about its whalebone underframe. I strode to the throne whereon she sat and began the laborious process of removing that royal garment.

Panting with impatience, the Queen eyed my fumbling hands with contempt, and in a single move swept the hem of her dress over my head. Once within the close embrace of her naked and moon-pale thighs, I wast greeted with a sight and smell most scintillating.

The royal venus mons, tempered with the maturity of sixty winters and untouched by the hand of man. The Elizabethan love muffin smelled and looked akin to an ancient and wizened cheese, musky and inviting.

I can tell thee with no shame, I soon felt a stirring in my codpiece most insistent. My rod of rule strained fitfully ‘gainst its stays, as blood flooded it like a wineskin full to bursting.

“I command thee,” came the Queen’s illustrious voice from above, “engage orally with my virgin O, and bring thy Lady to a climax befitting the head and heart of the vast English empire.”

“I am at your service,” I replied, bringing the moistened tip of my tongue to th’ entrance of her long-sealed and secret cave. The taste, much like to a delectable blood pudding…

[The rest of the manuscript is soiled and unreadable]

October 19, 2006

Two Young Gentlemen Attend a Dance at Their High School

Brett and Ryan are standing at the borders of a High School Dance, watching everyone else on the dance floor with contempt.

BRETT: Look at all of them. Losers. Dancing to music and crap.

RYAN: Yeah.

They stand there for a long moment, feeling superior to the kids dancing.

BRETT: Where were you this morning? I couldn't get a hold of you. A bunch of us went out to the empty field behind the middle school and threw rocks at this big scorpion's nest.

RYAN: Oh, I can't believe I missed that.

BRETT: You shoulda been there. Jeremy got stung real bad on his foot. It was pretty cool. I think he had to go to the hospital later.

RYAN: Wow. I was helping my Mom out, with some chores.

BRETT: Nerd.

RYAN: Shut up!

BRETT: Whatever. When my Dad gets back from the army, he said he's going to take me out to the dunes on his dune buggies.

RYAN: That's so unbelievably awesome.

BRETT: Yeah, so, maybe you can come. I mean, if you're not too busy with chores.

RYAN: Shut up!

Pause. Brett sneers at the dancers.

BRETT: Heh. Look at them. Losers.

RYAN: Yeah.

BRETT: See that girl?

RYAN: Which?

BRETT: With the boobs.

RYAN: Oh. Oh! Yeah, totally.

BRETT: You know what I heard? I heard she's so slutty, this one time, at a party, she opened a beer bottle with her cervix.

RYAN: Yow. That is hot.

BRETT: I know, right? (Yells) Hey, Brittany! Hey! I got a bottle of bud right here with you name on it! Oh, that's right! You dance away! Just dance away! Skank. You know Joey, that stoner kid?

RYAN: Which?

BRETT: With the boobs.

RYAN: Oh, yeah, totally.

BRETT: At my cousin's birthday party last year, he totally got it on with a bong.

RYAN: What?

BRETT: No, I'm serious. We had to throw it away. That kid's crazy. And thick, like a PVC pipe.

RYAN: You want punch?

BRETT: Sure.

Amanda comes up and approaches Brett.

AMANDA: Hey, Brett.


AMANDA: Kerri told me you weren't coming tonight.

BRETT: Kerri doesn't know me. No one does.

Amanda giggles.

AMANDA: Do you want to dance?

BRETT: Do you want to do it in the back of my Hyundai?


Brett shrugs. Amanda leaves. Ryan comes back.

RYAN: What were you guys talking about?

BRETT: She was hitting on me, but you scared her off.

RYAN: Oh. Sorry.

BRETT: No biggie. She wasn't my type anyway. I like dangerous chicks. When I yank it, sometimes I go get my Dad's old pistol out of the garage and play Russian Roulette, otherwise I can't finish.

Long, uncomfortable silence.

BRETT: Where's the punch?

RYAN: They're out.

BRETT: Hey, you know what's cool to do sometime?

RYAN: Huh?

BRETT: When a girl is going down on you, play air guitar on the back of her head. I totally did that one time. They love it.

Long pause.

BRETT: Hey! Kerri! Shake it, baby! Yeah! No one's watching, sweetheart! You're all alone! You rub all up on Jim's leg! You like that Jimmy, huh?! Go on Ry, try it.

RYAN: What?

BRETT: Heckling the girls. They like that.

RYAN: Really?

BRETT: Dude, I'm telling you, girls like guys that are jerks. You think I do this because I'm mean? No, I'm a great guy. I do this because that's how it gets done. Go for it.

Ryan hesitantly shouts to the crowd. As he does, Brett scoffs cynically.

RYAN: Hey! Hey, uh—Carol! You—you look really nice tonight! That's a very nice skirt! (Pause.) Yeah, I like it! (Pause) No, no, yeah I saw it there, and I—that's funny I actually thought, you know, hey, that's like something Carol would wear, and then--(Pause). What? Oh, ok! Yeah, I'll, um, I'll get a car, and—just a second-- (To Brett) Can I borrow your Hyundai?

BRETT: Can I get in the trunk and listen?

Ryan grudgingly nods, and Brett gives Ryan the keys. Exuent.

October 3, 2006

So You Knocked Her Up

Howdy again! Every one of you faithful readers should go check out my article, So You Knocked Her Up: a Child Rearing Guide, on the CRACKED website. It's my first time in, and boy howdy does it feel good. Damn good. In fact, I would reccomend the experience to friends.

Go! Read!

An Open Letter to the Middle East

So I’m sitting on the John, sipping from my highball of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi in between bites of chicken parmegian, when my girlfriend yells at me to close the door. “No,” I mutter, “it locks the fumes in,” and continue reading Frank Zappa’s autobiography. That’s when it hits me. “Ow,” I say.

“It” is a magazine, and not a flimsy one either. It’s a National Geographic, and the spines on those things can do some damage, let me tell you. It was hurled by my girlfriend, obviously, and as I grudgingly shut the door, already plotting an elaborate revenge involving fake birth control pills, a night of passionate lovemaking, and a well-placed Planned Parenthood pamphlet, I happen to glance at the cover.

A man I mistakenly recognize as Abraham Lincoln wearing a turban stares back at me, with the caption “Understanding Osama,” emblazoned beneath him. So, as the Frank Zappa book has by this point vanished somehow (I haven’t found it to this day; don’t ask me how), I finish up my visit to Destination Defecation by parusing the article and, folks, let me tell you something: there is some shit going down in the Middle East.

Did you know about this? I mean, this is nominally a humor blog, but I finally figured it was my duty to inform people of the problems being faced out there. As if the heat and whiny Middle Eastern music weren’t suffering enough, the people of this region are being forced to deal with one anothers’ conflicting cultural and religious beliefs.

It’s not like America, where everyone—be it Catholic, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim—has the God-given freedom to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Saviour. No, these people have other, different religious beliefs. One’s without a cross even. No church picnics, no Easter, No Jesus Christ Superstar, no nothing.

And they can’t just not hire jews, or keep the black man down, like we do. Their God, who is apparently some sort of invisible lobster, commands that they make unceasing war on them! To make matters worse, they all look alike, so you can imagine the confusion their soldiers are facing on the battlefield.

This is what I gathered from the pictures in the article, anyway. I don’t like reading National Geographic copy; they’re always so snooty.

But one thing I am sure of: if anyone can bring peace to this hotbed of conflict, it’s The Specious. If my calculations are correct, nearly 98% of my readership are Middle Eastern. I gather this from the fact that I constantly get flooded with article comments such as “Nice Site!” “Good Design!” and “Click here for x98&v.,W,w3%^m” originating from ip addresses in the Mideast and North African region. Clearly, I have the ear of the Middle East. And, apparently, they have good taste in site design.

So, my message to you Mideasterners out there: seriously, hey, chill out, huh? Be more like the Midwesterners: friendly, but inconsequential to world affairs. If you won’t do it for economic stability, or to put an end to the endless parade of meaningless deaths, then do it for my sake. For your old buddy at The Specious. Can I get a “loolooloolooloolooloo?”

I hope that clears things up a bit. In any case, I’m finished in the John, so I’m gonna shut down the ‘ol laptop and get wiping. Go in peace, gentle sand apes. And may Jesus rain His Love down upon you like an unceasing barrage of US Missiles. Love Missiles.
2009 Those Aren't Muskets!