This year, we're all players in a noted sequel to Rod Serling's, The Twilight Zone, a new version so bizarre that it winds its way onto the big-screen, replete with scenes baffling enough and sufficiently horrifying to make John Cleese step aside from his brilliant airplane performance in the first movie. This version allows us all to play ourselves: fear, terror, horror--real or imagined? In this movie, also made in a series of surreal skits, we need look no further than the GOP to find a masterpiece of scripting, the grand poobah of altered absolutes. We're the players, the on-lookers in disbelief, with an added dash of stupefaction. The GOP can play the role of the monster on the airplane wing. The media can be the unwitting flight attendants who, for whatever reason, can't see the damn monster, or grab the mike fast enough to scream, "There's a damned monster on the wing," and we can all join in with a personal take on John's performance, cracking-up in disbelief--our televisions and newspapers work nicely as airplane windows. Jill Dobson makes a lovely flight attendant.
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