Some movie scripts are lifeless husks that must have life breathed into them by a God-like director. Not Driving With Socks; this screenplay just radiates energy and life and all of the other good stuff that a perfect script has. This, therefore, is clearly a perfect movie script. I can’t understand why it hasn’t been produced yet, but I’m willing to accept any and all offers.

And now, without further junk from me, the movie script for Driving With Socks. (Or, read the Driving With Socks script as a PDF file.)
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And now our feature presentation, The Rise of the Silkiest Saboteur. Some call it the greatest screenplay of all time, while others disagree and call it the greatest piece of writing — of any type — that has ever been created. Now you can be the judge. Read the script and state your opinion in the comments.
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Hark! The eldest housetop approaches.

“What do you want from us, oh roofen elder?”

The eldest housetop sayeth nothing, for it is but a roof and lacks vocal chords. But the ferocity of its opinions is evident from the angle of its shingles.

“Won’t you come and join us at our nightly feast, your roofen one?”

The eldest housetop slopes dangerously askew at such a brazenly inappropriate invitation, and the villager whimpers and scurries away to more comfortable, roofless quarters.

The eldest housetop scans the streets and ambles on down the road, flaunting his insulation and threatening to explode on other, lesser housetops that dare to get in his way. What does he seek? Is it eggnog once again, to stave off the harsh cold of winter? Or does this housetop have more spiritual goals in mind?

The world will never know, for the eldest housetop has learned many things over its lifetime. Such as origami, although that doesn’t make a difference here. But it’s also learned the value of privacy and secrecy, and this roof plans to tell no other person or housing unit anything about its plans for the night.

In fact, this housetop is so talented that it even gives us the slip. We have no idea where it went, and so can no longer follow it with our words and report on its actions. Maybe we’ll see it again some other night, but probably not. The great eldest housetop has escaped again, leaving us clueless and surprisingly lacking in origami knowledge.

Such is life, I suppose. One day you’re looking at the eldest housetop in the land, and the next day you’re besieged by Christians hurling missives at you while you’re innocently standing in a pasture, trying to chew your cud. Don’t you hate it when that happens? Yeah, we do too. Walk on, you butterfly of a roof, and do whatever it is you need to do. Just don’t come after us when things don’t go as planned. We’ll be far away, probably in Idaho or some place like that.

Dear Mr. Tiddlysmith,

I applaud your election campaign so far. It’s been 70% good, and that’s well done, sir. But, if I’m to be honest with you, it’s not all earlobes and monkeyboots. You have some important things that need to be fixed. Toughen up yourself, young man, and listen to my advice.

First off, your insincere nature towards geotaxation will be the death of your campaign. Do you really hope to unseat the major party presidential candidates with such a transparently aortic stance on geotaxation? The Armenians will eat your hat for breakfast. The villagers will burn you at the stake, all the while joking about the wood chipper down at the mill.

Dualism doesn’t suit you at all. Relocate your Sudanese friends onto your campaign right away, and relocate your existing position papers on geotaxation to the recycle bin. Such bird-like pecks of policy produce nothing but pat and unprincipled projects. No American citizen would ever dare vote for you, out of fear that you would actually implement some of your birdbrained ideas. They’re a lot smarter than you’d expect based on their looks and past voting record.

Yes amigo, besmirch your web site with such squalor if you must, but monolithic Hollywood will undoubtedly take their gigantic bottle of White Out and whiteout your whole existence. You think you exist now? Just wait until they’re done with you. Their CGI effects will amaze your friends and reduce you to a sniveling, crying little ant.

Don’t piss off the special effects teams, for they are Gods and will smite you down.

Might I recommend acquiring a falcon from Malta and wearing it on your sleeve at all times? Voters love Maltese falcons — almost as much as they love Burmese mastodons — and when your falcon flies over their heads, causing them to drop their hamburgers on the ground in wonder and “Oooh, look at that falcon,” your victory will be all but certain.

Don’t bungle it now. Your scrawny aluminum canniness is insanity. The new, plastic and falconized you is the future of America. Get out their and debate! Stump! Politicize the tiniest topcoat and the smallest dribble of pizza. It all matters in the grand scheme of things. Don’t be left crustless when the fat lady starts to sing!

I hope my advice helps. I will, personally, probably vote for Barack Obama. You, Mr. Tiddlysmith, just seem to easily influenced by random Internet discussions such as this one. That’s not something I want in a President. Unless you promise to only be influenced by me, darksoup.com; in that case, I will happily vote for you and cast Obama to the meditations of history, just like the Czech monks who tried to sell me that oddly rewritten Torah a few years ago. Haven’t heard from them lately, have you?

I rest my case. Let the monkeyboots return to politics. Bring the earlobes back to the caucus. Tonight we dine on Mr. Tiddlysmith’s victory over America! Go go gadget Tiddlysmith!

Pinworms fly on flyleaves
But only when I spin those leaves
And spin standard worms
Into flying pinworms

Their arc through the air
Is like an exultant yet legato Eskimo
Who sharpens his fishing hooks
On a spinning flyleaf.

Is there anything that
A spinning flyleaf
Is unable to accomplish?
Signs point to “no.”

Their rhythms are infectious
But not the bad kind of infectious
Where you get sick and die
But the good kind. You know.

Their inductance is low
So they can be connected to almost anything
Electrical or earthenware
Everything is compatible with a flyleaf.

Except for the metric system
Which we’ll just ignore today
Because the metric system is useless for flyleaves
Except for The Beatles, of course.
And maybe pinworms
Depending on where they were made

So,
Sharpen your protons!
Contort your lemon wedges!
Unleash your gristle!
And spin that flyleaf like you’ve never spun a flyleaf before!
Make that pinworm’s day!

If you don’t mind, I would like to take this opportunity to discuss something that’s been weighing heavily on my mind over the past several decades.

Unfortunately, I don’t know what that “something” is. I can feel it weighing on my mind, even to the extent of making me stumble around dizzily because of both the added top-heavy weight which affects my balance, and also because I think it’s resting on the part of my brain that controls motor functions. My joystick skills have also been weakened, and there’s no way I’m going to set a world high score on my favorite old Commodore 64 games (e.g., Lemonade Stand) with my brain in this condition.

But mostly it seems to be affecting my memory, as evidenced by the fact that I can’t remember what this important topic is that I wanted to write about. Was it something salty? Possibly. Was it something cuddly? Probably not. Was it something with extensive brittle cartilage throughout its body? Stranger things have happened.

And yet here I sit, staring at a computer screen, totally incapable of writing this rant that’s been bubbling up in my skull for who knows how many thousands of years at this point. I’ve taken to wearing a sombrero 24 hours a day just so the rant doesn’t bubble up through the top of my scalp and escape into the atmosphere, where it’s liable to accidentally shoot down a random satellite or passing UFO.

My hastily scribbled notes suggest that it might be something about the squirrel zombies that moved in next door. However, my next door squirrel neighbors insist that those scribbled notes are crazy talk, and simply aren’t a subject for mixed company. My neighbors suggested that undead cats might be a more appropriate topic for a rant, but I can’t find any data on that anywhere in my house or in my brain.

So I’m left with no answer. I’m forced to just sit here like a statue made out of person parts, with this heavy weight in my head, and not rant about anything. Maybe in a few hundred years when I’m cremated, the coroner will discover the subject of the rant, as it’s let loose from its fleshy confines. I hope that, if that day comes, he will hack into this web site using his elite coroner cracking skills and update this entry with the details that I so desperately wish I could provide.

Save us, coroner! Tell us what you know! We will worship you and name you as one of my apostles, and your name and smiling face will be famous to endless future generations.

Warsaw whelps
Quiver like arrows
As they hunt the great white yak
And purge all nitrates from aforementioned yak

And when they buy their new catamaran
With their nitrate-free yak earnings
They will ride the seas until landfall
But they will always be
A Warsaw whelp.

You may call them townies
Unless their headgear forbids it
Or their paunch suffocates your mouth
Like a blatantly open umbrella
But you know they come from Warsaw
And not Paris

So cheer the whelps of Warsaw
And give them a new drummer
And a laundered hurrah
For hurrahs are welcome
And drummers are always necessary
When you’re purging nitrates from yaks
In Warsaw.

“Can we not allow her goodly toenails into our building?” Trinoses asked. His eyebrows were arched so severely that several passing undercover agents did a double-take and took detailed notes about the archiness of Trinoses’s eyebrows.

“Her toenails may still not be allowed. They are far too menacing to be allowed anywhere near the Puffy Manatee Cabinet.”

Trinoses stared at the unexpectedly negative toenail verdict, and eventually stormed out, but not without first zapping his initials in the cordite pork that somebody had left on the table. He didn’t have anything against cordite pork, per se, but he was just very proud of his initials: TTT. Do initials get any better than that? Trinoses didn’t think so, and so he was always TTTing around.

He tried to spread the word of the denied tonails, but unfortunately he wasn’t able to. That was because Trinoses had unexpectedly come down with the Avian Cowpox, and had to be quarantined in the basement to keep the city safe. Not even the rice merchants were allowed to visit him.

Years later the courts would hear his lawsuit claiming that depriving him of rice was cruel and inhumane, and amounted to torture and violation of the Geneva Convention. The court ruled against Trinoses, however. After all, when was the last time a court had ruled against the government? That would be sheer insanity, and a complete violation of the natural order of society. If the judicial system and the government don’t stick together, why, we’re liable to wind up with a huge bowl of anarchy on our hands, and I’m just not hungry enough to eat that whole bowl.

But back to the toenails. They proceeded into the city and got dangerously close to the Puffy Manatee Cabinet. Luckily, tragedy was averted at the last minute, thanks to a large wall of figs that the manatees had cleverly ordered to be built mere moments earlier.

Soon our children will be painting pictures of the manatees’ successful toenail defense, but for now this story will have to suffice. I hope I have done it justice, it was a proud moment in our manatee ancestors’ histories, even if Trinoses didn’t play much of a role.

Poor Trinoses.

My thumb is getting on my nerves. It just hangs out on the side of my hand, sulking because it doesn’t get to hang out with the other fingers very often.

I don’t know, if you ask me, that’s just selfish of it. A thumb’s gyrations are far more impressive than anything the other four fingers can do, and I’m pretty sure that the thumb knows that. It knows a lot of things, since it is, as previously mentioned, a thumb.

Remember the story of the thumb who built a rhombus-shaped spaceship and flew to Jupiter? I bet even that thumb, so accomplished in the field of rhombus spaceships, sulked around half the day wishing that it had more fingerfriends.

I don’t get it, what would fingerfriends offer? Maybe they’d send you fudge at Christmas, or pull you out of a burning building instead of letting you roast like unfriendly fingers would. But fudge and being saved from a fire are both overrated, if you ask me.

In fact, I think we’re on the verge of a national epidemic of thumb depression. We might soon need to start training an army of thumb psychiatrists just to keep everyones’ hands as intact and healthy as possible. And if that fails, we’ll just threaten our thumbs with replacement. They should realize that we could drive over to the junkyard at any minute and get a hookworm grafted onto our hands where our thumbs used to be.

That’ll show them. That’ll show them good.

But for now let’s just try the psychiatrist thing. Maybe buy cute little outfits for our thumbs to boost their self confidence. Head over to Thumb Gap and buy some blue jeans and a fashionable stovepipe hat, all thumb-sized. You know, I think that just might be crazy enough to work. And if it’s not quite crazy enough yet, then I’ll grind up my hipbones into a fine powder, and hide that powder inside a cowbell that’s been buried under a snowdrift.

After that, I’m sure you’ll agree that my ideas are crazy enough to work. And really, that’s all a man can ask for in this world; being believed to be Crazy Enough. I can’t thank you enough for the amount of crazyfaith you seem to have in me and my plans for Thumbs Across America.

What does Valentine’s Day mean to me? Scantily clad gangsters dancing the foxtrot outside of a cheap motel, that’s what.

It also usually means intoxicated trolls, bustles in my hedgerow, and the threat of deportation lingering over my head.

But despite all that, I still show up for Valentine’s Day. I bring my esophagus with me, and together the two of us (my esophagus and I) stand outside the flower shop, narrowly escaping detection by the security cameras, and watch the flowers go in and out of the store all day long.

Usually around noon my esophagus turns to me and asks me if we’re going to eat lunch. I laugh my trombone-shaped laugh and stick my esophagus into a crate to show it who’s boss (the answer, in case it wasn’t clear, is me; I am the boss.)

And when the intoxicated trolls show up after happy hour, we both hide behind that crate. The crate reeks of peppermint, I bet they used it to ship mint weapons to Iraq in an earlier life. But the smell only helps to conceal us, since the trolls, being trolls, can’t stand to look at something that smells like peppermint. We sure were lucky choosing this crate for our hiding spot.

The trolls don’t notice us at all. They go into the store, buy flowers and a book on the foxtrot, and dance on out of there like a long centipede, only drunker (if there could be something drunker than a centipede doing the foxtrot.)

And thus ends Valentine’s Day. I put my esophagus back into my body and walk home. My sixth muscle welcomes my esophagus back to its natural habitat, and it fills in the rest of the organs on what happened. They’re all jealous, and my spleen simply can’t wait for President’s Day. There will be much rejoicing in Spleenville when that day comes around.