Weekend Page #2
Georges!
Give me the paint thing
from the trunk.
Toffee-nosed little b*tch!
- I've had enough.
- Stop it.
Stop it, that's enough!
Bastard! Sh*t-heap! Communist!
SATURDAY:
11:
00 AM1:
40 PM2:
10 PMThe Internationale
Unites the human race...
Go on, then, telephone to Oinville.
If you drove faster,
we wouldn't be late.
I'll drive the way I please.
We must pick up Father from the clinic.
Mother mustn't arrange it.
They're a real drag.
I know, but if Papa dictates
a new will into his tape recorder...
It wouldn't be valid.
Maybe not, but don't risk losing
your winter holiday in Mexico.
Or it'll take forever.
Of course not.
Don't worry, it'll work out.
Then why have we put poison in his
grub every Saturday for five years?
Ring and say the highway's blocked
and we'll be late.
See what happened to that Triumph?
If only it were Papa and Mama.
You bourgeois turd!
You stupid hick!
Parisian b*tch!
THE CLASS STRUGGLE
You killed the man I love!
Why drive so fast?
This isn't St. Tropez.
You can't stand us having money
when you don't, can you?
You can't stand us screwing on
the Riviera, screwing at ski-resorts!
Can't stand us throwing cash around
all year while you can't!
And in spring we go to Greece,
where dirty peasants like you...
...are thrown into jail along
No need to insult my tractor, miss.
I bet you don't even own it.
or a crummy cooperative.
Your foreign car!
Stolen, I bet!
The heir to the Robert factories
gave it to me because I screwed him.
You impotent bunch
are incapable of screwing!
The government screws you
and your twat of a tractor!
Without me and my tractor
Paul is dead!
He had the right of way.
Now he's dead.
Don't you be so sure.
He had the right.
He was handsome, young, rich.
He had the right over fat ones,
poor ones, old ones...
You shouldn't say that.
You wretched great sh*t heap, you!
Your cut-price tractor!
It cost plenty for someone
who toils with his hands.
And my Triumph? A total loss.
You don't give a damn, do you?
And now he's dead.
You think you can shrug it off,
do you? Well, I say you won't!
Witnesses!
We had right of way, didn't we?
Sorry, but we don't have the time.
You can't just leave like that.
We're all brothers, as Marx said.
You bastards!
Bastards!
Jews! Dirty Jews!
You're disgusting!
PHONY:
GRAPH:
Your shortcuts always waste time
and that means money.
Don't bother me.
When did civilization begin?
No, it's the landscape.
Anyway, I don't understand.
What?
Didn't you hear what he said?
We're all brothers, as Marx said.
It wasn't Marx.
Another communist said it.
Jesus said it.
Anyway, I agree with you.
I don't care, even if it's true.
These aren't the Middle Ages.
What's the time?
SATURDAY:
3:
00 PMSATURDAY:
4:
00 PMIf I humped your wife and hurt her,
would you call that a scratch?
Run them down.
Will it rain?
Certainly it will.
No, the sun's coming out.
I say it'll rain.
SATURDAY:
5:
00 PMCan you give me a lift?
- Get in.
- Joseph!
- To Mantes la Jolie?
- It's the other way.
- Then turn round.
- You're crazy.
Go on!
I said turn round!
Get in, Marie-Madeleine.
Hurry up!
Get a move on!
Stop!
Slowly!
- Get out! Hurry up!
- You're crazy!
Get in, quick!
Be careful!
THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL
Help!
Silence! Even God has His police.
Prove it!
Will you shut up?
- Prove it.
- Help!
Shut up!
Will you shut up?
Prove it how?
Well, we're married.
We screw legally.
I bet that's not true of you two.
That's it in a nutshell!
Tell me your name, Madame.
Me? Corinne Durand.
Durand's your husband's name.
What's yours?
My maiden name?
Corinne Dupont.
Dupont is your father's name.
What's yours?
don't know.
You see, you don't even know
who you are.
Christianity is the refusal
of self-knowledge,
the death of language.
Shut up, I said!
Are you going to keep
your traps shut?
- And what is your name?
- Joseph Balsamo.
Never heard of him.
- Help!
- Will you shut up?
Listen.
I'm not surprised, the way you look:
A Reader's Digest look.
Quiet, please.
You remind me of those who wouldn't
move Andre Breton when he was dead.
Anyway, I'll explain.
Joseph Balsamo is the son of God
and Alexandre Dumas.
God's an old queer,
as everyone knows.
He screwed Dumas and I'm the result.
Thus:
I am God.Yes, I'm God, because I'm lazy.
That's not true, my love.
- Help!
- Will you...
Will you shut up?
You, too, Marie-Madeleine.
She's nice, but she's not too bright.
Laziness, God...
Look, shut up. Pack it in, will you?
That's enough.
She's nice.
She understands laziness.
She understands about God, too.
She obeys me.
What exactly are you up to?
I'm here to inform these Modern Times
of the Grammatical Era's end...
...and the beginning of Flamboyance,
especially in cinema.
I've had enough. I'm stopping.
I'll make you a proposition.
Take me to London
and I'll grant your wishes.
Oh, sure, you loser.
Really, just look and see
what's under the dashboard.
Oh, sh*t, a miracle!
A rabbit.
Anything you wish,
if you'll take me to London.
Yes.
An Yves St. Laurent evening dress?
Yes.
Make me a blonde, a natural blonde.
like the yids used to thrash the wogs.
- I'll go for that, too.
Is that all you want?
Yes.
You creeps, I'll give you nothing.
Quick, a miracle, you swindler.
What, for a**holes like you?
- That'll do! Get out!
- Out!
Get out!
Out, you whore! I'll make you run!
Bastard!
Dirty Jew! I'll kill you!
Silence!
Silence!
Vade retro. Go home.
You see, the sun's come out.
Keep right!
Long live Anquetil!
Long live Poulidor!
My Herms handbag!
TO GAULLIST WEEKENDS
Freedom is violence.
Like crime.
It seems to be the virtue of vice...
Is the knife under the pillow?
...fighting against slavery...
...desperately.
No, in the shed.
Freedom will kill herself
in the long struggle.
Can the inconsistency of humanity
be conceived?
And the ax?
Can one believe
that man ordered society...
...in order to be happy
and reasonable?
Weary of wisdom, more like...
...nature's wisdom...
In the shed, too.
...he wishes to be unhappy
and witless.
I see nought but constitutions...
...steeped in gold, pride and blood...
...and nowhere do I see
the sweet humanity...
...and equable moderation...
...which ought to be the foundation
of the social treaty.
SUNDAY:
i cry into the void
STORY FOR MONDAY
The social treaty.
SUNDAY:
i cry into the void
STORY FOR MONDAY
I cry into the void
I call you in the midst of night
Get a move on.
Hello, can you hear me?
Are you having good weather?
Even here, in the rain
I breathe your air again
Here in the phone booth
I'm cooped for all to see
I imagine you in a bar
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Submitted on August 05, 2018
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"Weekend" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 21 Nov. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/weekend_23197>.
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