SCENE: The Hollywood offices of Golan-Gobus-Garbleus-Goofus Productions, a studio which makes bloody potboilers.

Forrest Gump has a twin brother -- and we've got him! How's that for a grabber, J.B.? The junior executive was agitated, his arms spread wide in gesture, as if to emulate a marquee. His fatness filled much of the space in front of the big man's desk.

Enswathed in a shroud of cigar smoke, J.B. wasn't so sure. How do we know this guy's authentic? There's a lot of weirdos out in the weeds who just wanna cash in.

Like us, Puffy thought. But he said instead: We got the papers. It's him, all right. Little goody two-shoes mom just dispatched him to an orphanage because she couldn't handle two of em. When he found out about it, he was mortified having to claim kin with a mental defective so he just laid low. He thinks it shows genetic deficiency. Even changed his name to Grump.'

So who is this guy, Einstein or something?

Close. I.Q. way up there. Brilliant, but cold, calculating, p.o.'ed all the time, doesn't trust anybody. Thinks the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Thinks nobody's any good.

So where's he been, hiding in a cave or something?

No, not at all, Puffy wheezed, wiping the sweat off his fat, bald head. He's with the IRS, heads up the Omaha Division.

Yeah, J.B. squinted. That explains it. So, at least we can get him in here to talk ..... maybe come up with a script. It's gotta be R' rated, though, or we won't be loyal to our audience. Think we can make this guy out to be pure evil.

Um-m, yeah. That shouldn't be much of a stretch.

SCENE 2: Same office. Same characters, ushering in a taciturm, precisely dressed businessman, every hair in place, training gym fit, with the cold hard eyes of a serial bureaucrat.

J.B. offers scotch from a crystal decanter, speaking as he settles back. There's an awful lot of potential here, Mr. Grump. Your brother's film grossed so much there was a sucking sound heard all over middle America. He laughed uproariously and settled back. This is the golden age of sequels. I'm sure we can come up with one.

The cold eyes struck him and Grump spoke: You're like all the life-sucking leeches who live by greed and malice. All the while you're manifesting your nature of violent animal territorialism that has long been abetted and encouraged in you by the DNA changes that Satan and his crowd made in you.

Puffy coughed nervously. J.B. attempted to smile but lost the thread. Well, you know. We all got to make a living. I mean this is a legitimate business here. What's wrong with making a few bucks together?

What you're manifesting, you are. That's why I've consciously made myself superior to you all. You are all inferior, and you all cheat on your taxes. I just don't have time to catch everybody.

Well now, wait a minute, Mr. Grump. There's no need for animosity. I just wanna make a picture of your life. You can tell your story. We give you the celluloid, the professional assistance so to speak. What is it you wanna say? I mean, we've already said the world is full of ... you know what ... at this studio anyway. I mean, we've done our part. The world's crazy, full of evil, injustice. Let's tell em about it. You'll make a few bucks. We'll make a few bucks. We'll be doing a public service.

Why should I want to do anything for people? Mankind is hopeless and you're the prime example of it. I mean, these pitiful efforts to find spiritual truth in my poor brother's ignorance. No more than a romantic fantasy fomented by people who can't live in the real world. Talk about exploitation!

Yeah .... right, said J.B. uncertainly. Fantasy. What the people need is a dose of just how bad this place really is. Why, I heard after the Zemeckis piece, there were people actually wanting to be retarded. A guy in Arkansas even tried to get a lobotomy. Talk about your bad influences.

Grump's eyes were steely, sharp. I will do it, he said, but I want to direct.

Puffy laughed nervously and wiped again. J.B. chuckled and spoke more compromisingly gentle.

And I'm sure you'd be a fine director, but, see, we got these people on the payroll. They're directors and you know I gotta pay em anyway, so .... let's leave the directing to directors. You can be the Associate Producer. And, of course, you need to help us come up with a story of some kind. Need to have some conflict, you know, resolution, a couple or three climaxes here and there, lots of destruction of stuff, one of our well-endowed women actresses, of course, got to have a love interest. Say, have you met any of the ladies here at the studio?

I will require three of them as personal assistants and I will provide you with a list of other needs. This will, of course, include an office here so that I may begin work on a script -- an opus that will forever throw this uncivilized world of barbarians into permanent shame for the travesty they have made out of this otherwise glorious natural planet.

J.B. and Puffy looked at each other in near panic. But .... ha hahaha ... maybe we ought to tone it down a little bit, Mr. Grump. I mean, if we tell 'em they're dung, they won't buy tickets. Gotta get the butts in the seats, you know. That's what makes the tinsel blow . Hahahaha.

Is it just currency you're after then? said Grump acidly. The only thing that will help this miserable world is a manifesto so powerful and provocative and logical that all will have to take heed and repent from the silly idea of a God, that we're somehow divinely touched. We're all matter. Matter! Can't we see what is right before us? We will die! We are matter!

Wait a minute, shouted J.B. Okay. That's it. You're not getting any of my money to make a movie. A little sex and violence. That's okay. But you can take that atheistic crap back to from where you came. Nobody's gonna pay to get dumped on. Who the hell are you to judge other people anyway?

Grump stood up and spoke icily. When will humans ever be able to face the truth? Can't you see all the things that are wrong with you?

The tense scene is suddenly disturbed by the rapid step of a beautiful maid, with long, flowing blonde hair and carrying a silver tray and tea service.

Mr. Grump, she said, smiling as she walked past him. Those things are precisely what you're here to correct. Are you part of the solution or part of the problem?

The men watched as she sat down the service before them and glided gracefully back to the door, disappearing.

Grump's eyes glazed, suddenly turned wilder in realization of something. Who was that?, he asked urgently.

J.B. shrugged. It wasn't Mrs. Watson. I think she's in the mail room.

Puffy walked to the door and looked outside, seeing nothing. They all stepped before the tea service and looked at its silvery glitter. Grump reached down and opened the server. The aroma of the chamomile had a strangely relaxing effect, more relaxing than anything he had felt in years. It was a feeling of ..... could it be .... peace. Nay! But still, he would have to practice this feeling.

Grump suddenly had a powerful urge to go to the country and start an herb farm. But he would drive. He still had a distaste for running and people who indulged in it.

There was a note on the tray. It said:

Life is like a piece of chocolate. There are more in your box.

Grump, thoughtful, brow pursed, turned and walked away, deep in thought, out the door and down the hall.

J.B. called after him, while Puffy perused the note.

Don't call us, Grump. And we won't call you either. Ha! Hey, Puffy, this all gives me an idea ... long-lost twins, one good, one evil, thrown together by fate. And there's a girl. She has large breasts ....

GUMP IN HEAVEN .... A Joke

Forrest Gump graduates to Heaven and wakes up to see his Guardian Seraphim, who says: Forrest, you can't continue from here until you answer three questions. The first question is, How many seconds are there in a year?

Forrest (after thinking hard) responds: "I know! I know! There are twelve."

Seraphim: What? Twelve, How in Heaven do you get twelve?

Forrest: Sure. Twelve The 2nd of January .. 2nd of February ... 2nd of March...

Seraphim: Oh, no, you got me with that one. OK, the second question is: How many T's are there in the days of the week?

Forrest (scratches his head) answers: There are four T's in the days of the week.

Seraphim: Everyone knows there are just two T's in the days of the week.

Forrest: No, no, there are four, Tuesday, Thursday, Today and Tomorrow!

Seraphim: Oh, Forrest, you are a pretty smart fellow I have to give that one to you.

Now the Seraphim is thinking hard. OK, here's a real hard one, and if you get it right you can come on into Heaven. What is God's first name? Forrest looks puzzled and the Seraphim figures this time he's stumped.

Forrest: I KNOW! His first name is Andy.

Seraphim: That's not right! That is not his first name. Only we angels know his first name, and Andy is not it.

Forrest: Sure it is. Why else would we sing and pray in church ... Andy walks with me. Andy talks with me.