DIM BAP IS THE SIM BAP
or
Life is nothing but the sadness of rain
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The Universe is misery and penultimate death
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The Sublimity of the Cacti
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The Agony of Living
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The Sedate Beast of the Human soul

A messy kitchen, Werner in the middle of it, toiling over a burbling pot of unknown contents. Werner Herzog, 63, is a gray-haired old man of German descent, with a thick accent and the intense wandering eyes of a sage with the world on his mind. He mixes the pot idly.
Cecilia enters. She is a middle-aged housemaid, looking frumpy and disheveled with her apron tucked into her skirt and her shirt buttoned rakishly as if she has been in a great rush her entire life, with barely a moment to dress properly. She looks at Werner and Werner looks back, splaying a shallow smile across his face, eyes vacant. He is about to word a salutation when Cecilia cuts him off. Cecilia leaves the room. Cecilia comes back with a shotgun and squeezes off two shots, unloading them right into Werner.
WERNER
Egads woman, that is a bit too reactionary, is it not?
(Werner is completely unaffected and walks to the other side of the kitchen to check his pot on which a shoe stews. Cecilia gapes.)
(Werner looks at his wounds)
WERNER
I rather cut a dash with a few bullet holes, don’t you think?
CECILIA
W-wha-wh-wha-what? What-at areyou-
WERNER
Nothing but a man, bared to a rotted core, I am none but I, a man. We are equally flawed, you and I. You, a woman with the intellect of warm mush, and I, a thinker who’s just skirted the depth of the universe’s many questions. So I have become jaded with all the movements of life. When you spend your life sifting through the innumerable cosmos, humankind can be as blasé as plain milk toast. So excuse me, if I have been unkind. I am but a residual from all but wrung out soul and have no time for false sympathies. I am plain. I am real. And I apologize.
(Werner sits down and lights up a pipe. The smoke comes out of his bullet wound.)
Woman, I weep for you, how sad and restricted an existence you must live, with such a singular lack of vision as you have. And why I envy the cactus, one that has no flaws, perfectly built for its environment, not hindered by any brain or such inconsequentials.
(Werner clasps his wounds.)
Hilf mir, gott!
(he winces)
My grasp on life is tenuous.
(Makes a guttural noise)
Reality has caught up with me, but a minim of time is left. Cecilia.
Weep for me, Cecilia, weep for me and let the cacti sop in your tears.
Perhaps then, they can feel the pain (gasp) of mortality.

FLASHFOWARD 600 YEARS- NEO-TOKYO # 2.
After the fall of civilization and World War 2 #2, a GRAVEDIGGER walks outside. He looks directly at the camera and laughs maniacally.
GRAVEDIGGER
HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH (coughs, slinks out of the shot.)
The GRAVEDIGGER walks past monorails and grimy city streets, and past the Second Statue of Liberty, the Somewhat Eiffel Tower, the Not So Great Wall of China, and Maybe the Statue of Liberty. Due to the quantum degradation of the universe, certainty is dangerous as it leads to the destruction of dark matter that holds the universe intact. To curb inevitable Thermodynamic Equilibrium, certainty is banned. Everything must be mysterious and uncertain. The GRAVEDIGGER walks by a man sitting in a bus shelter.
MAN
I am uncertain.
The GRAVEDIGGER walks past the man. The GRAVEDIGGER walks past another man. It may or may not be the same man.
MAN
Hey, Man! You forgot to pay your Gravedigger union dues!
The GRAVEDIGGER looks at him angrily.
GRAVEDIGGER
Time is amorphous and the eventual stop of entropy will throw the entire universe into it’s natural state, that of disaccord and slow, sad death.
MAN nods, shrugs his shoulder.
MAN
Yeah that’s true, have a swell day.
The man walks away. The GRAVEDIGGER walks away, and walks by a man sitting in a bus shelter. He may or may not be the same man.
MAN
There are no bus time, I’m not sure if there is a bus or a time. There is nothing.
The MAN starts to cry. He takes a stiletto knife and stabs himself in the gut. The GRAVEDIGGER walks away. He approaches the GRAVEYARD. The GRAVEYARD may or may not be a GRAVEYARD. The GRAVEDIGGER approaches a shovel. The shovel screams as he touches it. This is not a common shovel. The man starts digging. He comes across WERNER HERZOG, who springs upright in his grave.
WERNER HERZOG
(collected and calm)
Sometimes, I feel the lifeblood pumping through the veins of mother earth.  With it carries every scream, every primal cry, distending with distance to die a whisper. It is a white noise, the rush of blood vessels in the head. This perhaps sated the child in me, harkening to days in the womb. No greater rush or unpleasant dearth of warmth has appalled me so as when I entered the kitchen-room to assay the lack of order and grime that caked every surface.
The GRAVEDIGGER looks on mystified.
WERNER HERZOG
Looking upon a spoon covered with smut, I felt great Weltschmerz awash over me. This single, hastily cleaned spoon reflected the vices of all humanity. It was equally the cracked smile of a broken and dissatisfied derelict as it was the stupid grin of 5-month-year old me as I lay, swaddled in cloth, considering the invisible clowns to which I was a private audience (WERNER HERZOG pauses.) I was thinking upon the lemming. The lemming is rumored to commit mass suicides, hurtling itself off precipices to meet its death. This is false. The lemming does no such thing. What is the world then, what is knowledge but misconstrues and misconceptions? Paltry shreds of rumor like wet paper-måche or the tender flesh of a soft-shell crab? Do these rumors affect the lemming? Does the lemming commit mass suicides to conform to humanities understanding of them? What is this knowledge but a vague attempt to rationalize the world around us, as fleshy, fragile beings, terribly inadequate for a world of constant, simultaneous murder, a world of fornication, asphyxiation, constipation, masturbation, a world of obscenity, and we, a woefully inept race, trying to rationalize an irrational world.
The GRAVEDIGGER stares.
WERNER HERZOG
This is why we have utter respect for the lemming, an animal which I melded minds with many times. On one such occasion, I saw many things in this creature’s peanut-sized cranium, portensions of doom, dark foretelling’s of end times, as well as legless clown playing a melodica on a bicycle made of toothpicks. These visions flattened me out in a state of paralyzing agony from which I could not recover. Out of the many lies that make up this world, the most grotesque, of all the twisted words, was when you told me that you had cleaned the entire house two moons ago. What a farce. The rumpus room was utterly disarrayed, pillows scattered not color-coordinated, my books on phrenology misplaced with my Oxford classics, and my rare freshwater searill was found upturned from woeful neglect, apparent from his scummy water. The sad disrepair of the rumpus room hit me like a brickbat, so much so that I had to sit down immediately, brew myself a chamomile toddy, and weep endlessly, watering my collection of succulent plants with my tears. Through the absorption of my tears, the cacti will perhaps gain conscious thought and finally claim indomitable rule over the world, as the cacti was always meant to do. The cacti is an admirable creature, as it is of tougher stuff then humans and better suited to our obscene world... For this, I respect it.
The GRAVEDIGGER stares.
GRAVEDIGGER
FLIBBERING FLAPJACKS!
WERNER HERZOG
Ach, no excuse Cecilia. Excuses are not fit for someone with such a fibrous character as you. When I was but a naïve creature of sallow gooseflesh and young, uninformed tendencies, I was filming my first film, The Agony of Living. One fated day, a failed pyrotechnic device lit some extras on fire, dwarves as it would have it. As penance for my supreme negligence, I set myself on fire as well, to prove that I was solely responsible for this bungle. The effects man responsible was found the next day sprawled over the floor. He was dead. If a man is found dead after such a tremendous mistake, he cannot be afforded an open casket, he must be annihilated, which is what we did. We lit a Viking pyre on a small sail boat and cast him off into the Danube, telling his family he had choked on a light bulb whilst trying to screw it in... They accepted this without the slightest hint of questioning, which reflected on what this man's character may have been like. He was sorely missed, as he was the backbone of the group, tasked with such important jobs as completing the daily crosswords while holding the pen between his teeth and knitting identical sweaters for the production team.
GRAVEDIGGER
ZAM!
WERNER HERZOG
And Cecilia, while we're on the subject of transparency, I have a startling confession to transmute...
GRAVEDIGGER
I am not a CECILIA!
WERNER HERZOG
I killed my fish.... And in my ire, blamed it on you. I apologize deeply... I filled his tank with vodka for no other reason to see if it got inebriated or not. It didn't. It deceased.
GRAVEDIGGER
I AM NOT ERGGGHHH!
WERNER HERZOG
No, Cecilia, you prove yourself to be incompetent with every action. A flatbrained fimiculous, only able to see to the fringes of your limited ken. Furthermore, never have I seen a fallacy of such a high order, so hatefully and utterly cruel as the malicious utensil I saw in the drawer in the kitchen-
GRAVEDIGGER
GHANDI WAS A NICE MAN.
WERNER HERZOG
A spork it was. In a fit of blind rage, I obliterated it into fine powder. As I have little love for spoons and forks in general, an amalgamation of two travesties against nature as was this spork, is a horrendous thing to behold. It walloped me like a Mousterian cudgel against a Troglodytae’s skull.
The GRAVEDIGGER shoots WERNER HERZOG with a ray-gun. WERNER HERZOG sputters and dies. He then hits WERNER HERZOG with a shovel. The shovel doesn’t scream. Not today.

FIN