You are Tim Rocko, a little-known writer and director. You have been tasked with creating the greatest SuperBowl commercial of all time. You ignore the product description and start with the most important element: choosing the celebrity cameos. There is only one problem... you don't know who to get! There are two other doors in this room besides that of Michael's office -- one on either side of the door into the bedroom. > You call up Larry David and he is in! Yes, it's a small miracle. Larry David has agreed to do your commercial. He will star as himself, but in a dream sequence. You run through some ideas for the commercial. Your mind suddenly goes blank. > You decide to use some stimulants to give you ideas, they include: A hot fudge sundae (you like chocolate) A large bowl of ice cream (for when Larry David leaves) Timmy's Magic Potion #4 (This one gives you lots of energy!) > You need a second celebrity, and this unusual, but you phone up * You can't remember his name. It was something like "Big Burt" or "The King". Whatever, there isn't much point trying to think of a third cameo, since you couldn't afford him anyway. > You decide to call every person in your phonebook and ask if "Big Burt is there?" Good idea, except that you only have one phone book. You check your watch again. The commercial is due tomorrow, and you're still not done. You quickly scribble down some ideas : A man in a chicken suit A woman with a giant fake penis A bunch of people in tuxedos and ball gowns dancing > You shoot the commercial, it is a fever dream, but you finally turn it in on time. It plays during the big game and people react. It was a real hit. Everyone loved the commercial. Suddenly you feel a strange feeling in your stomach, and then you start vomiting blood. Someone calls an ambulance, but before it arrives you're dead. > You awake and gasp for air in the passenger seat of Timmy's car. You look down at the enormous syringe hanging out of your chest. Timmy says "It's just like Pulp Fiction." You jerk awake and realize where you are. You are back in the real world, and you are in the passenger seat of Timmy's car. You cough, trying to clear your lungs. In fact, you don't remember anything after getting into Timmy's car. > You look in the backseat and notice The Weekend. You say, "Hey, you like like that guy The Weekend..." Timmy blushes. "Um... I guess so? What do you mean?" "I thought he was in Pulp Fiction!" "Yeah," Timmy says. "He was. " > You The Weekend leans over the passenger seat and whispers to you "I'm not Samuel Jackson, asshole." "Huh? Oh, yeah, right." "If you want me to be in your next movie, you'll pay me what I ask. And you'll also have to pay my agent." > You nod begrudgingly and have The Weekend star in your next movie: "Pulp Fiction XXX". You've got a deal! But first, let's get you home. > You begin filming "Pulp Fucktion". After a few takes, your cameraman runs away. You shout after him: "Where do you think you're going!?" The cameraman replies without looking back "Out of here, motherfucker. This whole thing stinks like a pile of wet dog shit." You look around the set and see a pile of wet dog shit. You shrug and go back to work. Meanwhile, the camera operator returns, and you resume shooting. > You wrap production under budget, and go to the premiere with The Weekend. As you enter the theater, the audience applauds wildly. The film starts, and The Weekend's performance is nothing short of brilliant. When it's over, the audience is practically hysterical. "What a performance!"