Cars: The Lost Beta Movie: Difference between revisions
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Alright children, shut the fuck up,
He brought his car into my shop one day after Monsters, Inc had come out, and said it was running funny. I did my usual inspection, checking tires, checking spark plugs, checking oil levels, power steering, the whole nine yards, until I decided to start up the car to detect anything unusual. There was what sounded like plastic clanking around in the engine. I took another look in the engine, and there sat near the coolant tank was a musty VHS cassette tape. It said
I popped the VHS into my VCR and sat down in front of my idiotbox with some Disney-themed fruit snacks and began this wonderful vehicular viewing. Little did I know that I was in for a shock that would resonate with me to this day.
The first thing to pop on screen was a note in white text on a black background that said
It then cut to Lightning McQueen, white powder still on his face, racing with other formula cars. McQueen was designed a bit different in this compared to the final product to be released just 4 and a half short years later. His shape was more boxy and his racing number was 57 instead of 95. He was quickly gaining the first place spot when the antagonist, Chick Hicks came up behind him. He also looked different. He
He came up behind McQueen and pushed him, sending McQueen spinning out of control and tumbling down the track, highly realistic car parts flying everywhere, then getting run over by every single racecar on the track.
It cut to Sally wearing a monocle and wooden teeth, holding a
It then faded to McQueen in Hell, perfectly normal and intact. What followed was Satan himself and Lightning McQueen competing in a rap battle. Weird since I thought Satan could just play a mean fiddle, I guess he got with the times. Satan was the first to go.
Satan responded to
WHAT.
Line 29 ⟶ 25:
THE.
FUCK.
McQueen responded with, surprise surprise, another
As I reached for the volume button on my television since the white noise was too loud, McQueen and Satan both turned and looked at the camera, out the television, at me, into my soul. They were crying tears of incredibly realistic blood and had razors for teeth.
Then I heard my doorbell ring. As I stood up to answer the door, all the fluid in my bladder that had built up from the past approximately two days immediately exited out my dickhole, soaking my underwear and pants completely. I quickly ran to replace my soiled trousers and opened the door. It was John Lasseter. He had a crazed look on his face and was wearing a hawaiian shirt with Twinkies on it. "I NEED THAT TAPE BACK!" Lasseter sputtered, spitting and salivating all over my brand-new expensive antique rug that I spent several years of hard-earned car-repair dollars to purchase. I told him that I don't have a return policy, but I would oblige anyway, handing him a roll of duct tape and a tissue to wipe the retarded slobber off his chin. "Ha, ha, very funny," Lasseter cackled heartily, "You and I both know what kind of tape we're talking about. Not Scotch tape, not masking tape, not filament, electrical, friction, or hockey, and certainly vnot FUCKING SHITTY ASS COCK DICK BITCH CUNT BOLLOCKS TWAT FART BASTARD HELL PISSING DUCT TAPE." He handed me back the duct tape, and I went and grabbed him some surgical tape. Lasseter became red as a beet, and had several veins popping out of his sweaty head. "I WANT THAT MOTHERFUCKING VHS TAPE BACK YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Lasseter pile-drived into me like a football player, knocking me down and rushing to my VCR. He pushed eject and waited patiently for the VHS to pop out. I snuck behind the television and unplugged the VCR, unbeknownst to Lasseter. He just sat there for several minutes, waiting for the VHS to come out of its VCR caging. I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed myself a delicious canned soda from the refrigerator and came back, Lasseter still seated perfectly still in front of my Videocassette Recorder. I was almost done with my soda as Lasseter all of a sudden in a fit of rage, picked up my VCR and smashed it against my big-screen TV. My VCR was in bits and the VHS fell out. Lasseter grabbed it and ran out of my house faster than motherfucking Usain Bolt's bitchass. I started to feel kinda woozy. A little dizzy. My ears started to get hot and I suddenly passed out.
When I awoke, I felt different, but I couldn't tell how. John Lasseter and the rest of the Pixar team was surrounding me. When they realized I awoke, Lasseter started speaking. "So, how do you like your new body?" He held up a mirror for me to see myself. I was absolutely appalled. I was a car. My eyes were the windshield, my mouth was the grill, my internals the engine. I screamed, but it was cut short by the realization that I sounded exactly like the famous actor Owen Wilson. "What the hell did you do to me?" I shouted. John told me that he had tampered with the drinks I had in my fridge before I drank the can of soda. I should've known not to drink from an already opened can of soda. "Come on, Lightning McQueen," John said, "We have a movie to make!"
I would like to close this story off by saying, the Cars movies are not CGI. They're real. I played Lightning McQueen in the 3 Cars movies, and other tortured souls play the other characters. It could have easily been done in CGI, but John Lasseter and the entire Pixar crew are a bunch of sadists. I am writing this as I am attempting suicide by drinking Clorox. Goodbye everyone, it was nice knowing you for the time it took you to listen to this story.
Mom, dad, I'm coming home.
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