Scene: The 2012 Republican National Convention. There's chaos in the hall; delegates are fleeing in panic, the floor is littered with shot-up teleprompters and other debris. Off to one side a water sprinkler gushes. A golf cart lies flipped over on its side. We can hear an alarm bell ringing. A group of onlookers (Romney campaign aides) stand to one side on the podium, horrified looks on their faces.
But the TV cameras are trained on an extremely old, extremely decrepit Inspector Harry Callahan as he slowly shuffles across the podium, calmly gumming a sandwich, having (in his own mind at least) just foiled an attempt by an African-American bandit to steal America away from its rightful owners. In Harry's other hand is a .44 magnum long-barreled screenplay, the most powerful script in the world.
The camera cuts to the front of a podium, where a chair is lying sideways on the floor next to the lectern. Dirty Harry stops and, tottering, looks down at the chair, a look of confused contempt on his wrinkled face.
We cut back to the chair, and notice a teleprompter on the floor next to it, within easy reach (that is, if the chair were actually a real person.)
Dirty Harry: (waving his screenplay) Ah, ah, ah. I know what you're thinking, chair: Did he fire five brain cells, or all six. Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I kinda lost track myself. Plus I haven't taken my meds today. Damn nurses always forget ta tell me how many I gotta . . . ah, shoot, lessee, where was I? (mutters to himself under his breath.)
On the left side of the podium, the Romney aides are furiously whispering among themselves, trying to decide which one of them should go grab Dirty Harry by the arm and lead him backstage. But nobody wants to volunteer.
Dirty Harry: Oh, yeah, this thing (waves screenplay again). Well, being as this is the most powerful script in Hollywood, and would blow your, um, your . . . well, whatever that damned thing on the back of a chair is called . . . clean off, the thing you gotta ask yourself is, 'do I . . . do I,' . . . uh . . . oh crap. LINE? Anyone?
Delegate: (peering out from behind a column to the right of the podium) Do I feel lucky?
Dirty Harry: Right, yeah. The thing you gotta yourself is, 'do I feel lucky, uh, tonight?' Well, do ya, chair?
(The chair lies motionless, making no attempt to reach for the teleprompter on the floor next to it.)
Nodding his head in satisfaction, his eyes glazed and unfocused, Dirty Harry starts to shuffle away. The Romney aides are still whispering among themselves, and/or texting furiously on their i-phones.
Chair: Wait . . . I gots ta know, man.
Dirty Harry pauses, looks down at the chair with a vacant, bemused half smile his face, then quickly shoves his .44 magnum script forward for the chair to read. The chair flinches, but as the camera pulls in to show us the first page, we can see it consists entirely of a single sentence, repeated over and over again: "All work and no play makes Clint a dull boy."
The chair is motionless. Dirty Harry chuckles and shuffles off the podium, as a Romney aide timidly edges forward and sets the chair upright next to the lectern.
Fade to black.