# Happy birthday to you,
happy birthday to you #
# Happy birthday,
dear Sissy... #
The surprise
of Sissy Hankshaw
is that she did not grow up
a neurotic disaster.
If you were a small girl
in a low-income suburb
of Richmond, Virginia,
as Sissy was,
and your own daddy
sometimes makes jokes
about you being
"all thumbs,"
then you toughen up...
or you shatter.
# ...Happy birthday
to you. #
Oh yes!
Oh, did you make a wish?
No, and I'm afraid she ain't gonna
make much of a brain surgeon, neither.
Hey, she could
be a butcher.
She could retire in two years
on the overcharges alone.
She might make a hell
of a hitchhiker. Ha ha ha ha ha.
If she were a boy,
you mean.
She is,
if I may speak frankly,
somewhat
of a medical oddity.
Well, the Lord made them things
big for a purpose.
Although...
Lord only knows
what that might be.
Doc, oh Doc...
if a young man
ever shows up here
with ugly fingers...
you know,
would you please...
Dear lady, please remember the words
of the painter Paul Gauguin
who said,
"The ugly may be beautiful...
but the pretty, never."
I don't suppose that means
very much to you.
I'm not stupid.
There's nothing about your past,
present or future...
that your hands
do not know.
And there is nothing
about your hands
that Madame Zoe
does not know.
I, Madame Zoe...
er...
Jesus-fucking-Christ!
Husband...
is she gonna find
a husband?
Oh...
I see men in your life.
Oh...
I also see women.
Lots and lots
and lots of women.
Oh...
let's get out of here.
The gods did not choose
Sissy Hankshaw
for her thumbs per se,
but rather for the use
that she would make of them.
Hitchhiking would become
her customary mode of travel.
Hitchhiking would become,
in fact, her way of life...
a calling to which
she was literally born.
"Greater freedom
of movement."
# In perfect dreams #
# Love has no extremes #
# All the world can be #
# Endlessly
in perfect dreams #
# In perfect dreams #
# You can fly, it seems #
# Sailing nakedly #
# Weightlessly,
in perfect dreams #
# Dream... #
# Have a rendezvous #
# A fling... #
# Or two #
# Dream... #
# And I promise you #
# It all rings true #
# In perfect dreams #
# Life is quite serene #
# You and I could be #
# Happily
in perfect dreams #
# Dreams... #
# Dreams... #
"Sissy, precious being,
how are you,
my extraordinary one?
Next time you're near
Manhattan, do ring me up.
There is a man to whom
I simply must introduce you..."
- Crimeny.
- "Thrill! The Countess."
# Moving #
# Give me motion #
# Grooving #
# On a notion #
# Ooh... #
# Ooh ooh-ooh... #
Goin' north?
- You want some?
- Thanks.
American cheese.
It's the king of road food.
You in show business?
- I was a successful model once.
- For magazines?
I was the "Yoni Yum
Feminine Hygiene Dew" girl
from 1965 to 1970,
and then I got laid off.
- So now you're bumming around?
- Yeah.
Hitchhiking?
Please don't think me
immodest...
but I'm really the best.
- You're the best?
- Yeah.
I am.
When I was younger, I hitchhiked
I crossed the continent
twice in six days,
cooled my thumbs
in both oceans,
and caught rides after midnight
on unlighted highways.
When I'm really moving...
moving so freely,
so clearly, so delicately
that even the sex maniacs
and the cops
can only blink
and let me pass...
then I embody the spirit
and the heart of hitchhiking.
I have the rhythms
of the universe inside me.
I'm in a state of grace.
Well, right off...
I don't remember how old I was
when I found out I was part Indian.
My mama's family, a lot of them
had lived out west in the Dakotas.
One of them had married a squaw,
Siwash tribe.
You may say
that my pleasure in Indianhood
and my passion for car travel
might be incongruous...
if not mutually exclusive...
but after all, first car
that ever stopped for me
had been named in honor
of the great chief of the Ottawa.
New York City.
Sure is a hell of a town.
Ominous.
...gold or silver beads, she has...
- Ah!
Sit down, dear,
do sit down.
Take a load off
those lovely tootsies.
Would you fancy
some sherry?
Shit, oh goodness,
I'm all out of sherry.
How about
some red Ripple?
You know what red Ripple is,
don't you?
Fruit punch
with a hard-on.
To my own
special Sissy.
So my letter
brought you flying, huh?
Now where were you?
Salt Lake City?
LaConner?
I may have
a little surprise for you.
But first tell me
about yourself.
It's been six months, hasn't it?
In some circles, that is half a year.
- How are you?
- Tired.
That is the very first time
in the eons
that I have known you
that I have ever
heard you complain,
and now you're tired,
poor darling.
"Born freak
can only go uphill."
Freak shmeak!
All of us are freaks
in one way or another.
Try being born
a male Russian countess
into a white, middle-class
Baptist family in Mississippi
and you'll see what I mean.
Well, I've always been proud
of the way nature singled me out.
It's the people who have been
deformed by society I feel sorry for.
I've been steady moving
for 11 years and some months.
I think I should rest up
for a spell.
I'm not as young
as I used to be.
Shit, oh goodness!
You won't be 30 for another year
and you're more
beautiful than ever.
Does that mean you have
an assignment for me?
You were
the Yoni Yum girl
from... let's see...
through 1970.
And you always
smelled so nice...
like a little sister.
I loathe the stink
of females.
They're so sweet
the way god made them.
Then they start
fooling around with men
and soon they're stinking
like rotten mushrooms...
like an excessively
chlorinated swimming pool,
like a tuna fish's ree-tirement party.
They all stink...
from the Queen of England
to Bonanza Jellybean... they stink!
- Bonanza Jellybean?
- What?
Oh...
Jellybean...
Well, she's a young thing
who works on my ranch.
Anyway, my dear,
I am getting out of photography now
and into watercolors.
The exact man
that I have wanted you to meet,
is my artist,
the watercolorist.
- But Countess...
- No, no, no.
Don't get agitated. I realize
that you have always avoided
all but the most rudimentary
involvements with men
and I might add,
you have been right.
But what I am getting at,
is there comes a time
when it is psychologically impossible
for a woman to lose her virginity.
She can't wait too long,
you know?
Now I'm not saying
that you must lose yours,
but uh... just ponder it a bit,
that's all.
Well, what makes you think
this watercolorist and I
would develop
a romantic relationship?
I can't be sure that it would,
but what have you
got to lose?
Well, okay, I'll try it...
for you.
It seems kind of silly, though...
me goin' out with an artist
in New York City.
Oh good, good,
good, good!
You'll enjoy it,
you'll see.
Julian is a gentleman.
And by the way, Sissy,
he is a
full-blooded Indian.
Hi.
Julian?
Are you okay?
This is bad.
We better get him home.
He has asthma.
Take him home, he'll be fine.
- You come with us.
- Yeah.
- The cigarette is not helping.
- I beg your pardon.
Hold up.
I've been enthralled
with your photographs for years.
When the Countess said
that you might like to meet me,
he never explained why.
I was ready to paint...
for free.
And now I had
to go and spoil it.
Let's talk
back at your house.
Come on, honey. It's gonna be fine.
We're going home.
- Oh God, this is dreadful!
- It's not your fault.
You know, asthma attacks
are brought on by emotional stress.
Poor Julian he
is just so high-strung.
The excitement
of meeting you
must have upset
his chemical balance or something,
because, my dear,
you are so stunning.
Don't be afraid of us,
Sissy.
- Come on.
- Oh, I've never ridden in a cab before.
The whole idea
of paying for a ride
just makes
my thumbs hurt.
That is so interesting,
but don't worry, dear.
It's not nearly as bad
as it sounds.
Just take a nice seat
in the back.
...what I was saying,
no, she has a style.
"Crazy Guggenheim"
has more style.
I'm saying...
Ooh...
Lay him out on the couch.
I'll be right back.
Keep the airways open
is what I know.
- What do you mean?
- Keep the airways... this...
Just take a nice seat, honey.
Take a seat.
- Is this right?
- That's fine, that's fine.
You want a drink?
- Hey! You want a drink?
- Thank you.
There, that ought to beat them
bronchial buggers into submission.
I was a medic in the army.
Thank you.
I really should have gone into
medicine instead of publishing.
Sometimes though...
I think pushing books
is a lot like pushing medicine.
Think of books as pills.
And I have pills
to cure ignorance,
pills to cure boredom...
pills to elevate moods,
and pills to open people's eyes
to the awful truth.
Too bad they don't have a pill
for bullshit, is what I say.
So, where do you live,
Ms. Hankshaw?
I'm staying
with the Countess.
I know.
But uh... where do you live
when... you're not in New York?
- I don't.
- You don't?
I mean, I don't live
anywhere in particular.
I just keep movin'.
Hmm...
the traveler, eh?
Well, you might
call it that...
but I don't really
think of it as traveling.
Well, what do you
"think of it" as, then?
Movin'.
Oh...
How unusual.
Hmm...
Well, Rupert, before
you get too engaged
in your research on scotch
as a cure for aging,
are you
gonna call Elaine
and cancel our
reservations, or shall I?
What would we do without our little
efficiency expert, Carla, huh?
Without her the whole world
would just go to hell.
She's gonna be running
for mayor next year, you know.
Hey, Rupert...
Rupert!
Up yours...
"Herr doktor book salesman."
Will the demands of your
"medical profession"
allow you to cancel
or shall I?
- Oh let me do it!
- Oh, so the girl has to do it?
The girl's gonna do it.
You're not gonna do it.
Where are the others?
Rupert and Carla
had a little hassle and went home.
Julian fell asleep.
We covered him up.
We thought we should
make you comfortable too.
Yes, thanks.
Oh... mine...
mine are fuller, but yours
are more perfectly shaped.
Highly...
highly debatable.
I'll wager they're
the exact same size.
Hmm...
yours are large, Marie,
but Ms. Hankshaw's...
Sissy's are more firm.
You'd think they would have
started to droop,
I mean, from not
wearing a bra.
Howard, watch your manners.
You're embarrassing her.
Here, Sissy,
let me compare.
This is a finer place
than the place I live.
Oh, Howard!
Sissy...
- What are you doing?
- Getting dressed.
But... but I don't
want you to go.
Please, stay.
I...
l... ahem...
we can go to dinner.
I owe you a dinner and,
and later...
- Julian, I have to go.
- Why? Why do you have to go?
My thumbs hurt.
I've made a mistake.
I've been negligent.
I have to hitchhike a little bit
every day no matter what,
or my thumbs,
they get stiff and sore.
I have to go, Julian.
Sissy had crossed
the continent 400 times
and passed everybody twice...
but she had never
seen anything
like what she had just
witnessed in Julian's apartment.
Turning to the Countess'
for an explanation,
she received instead,
another surprise.
Sissy...
Sissy, you can desist
from wearing paths
in those
forgotten highways.
The Countess
has arranged a job for you.
And what a job.
A job for me?
I am once more about
to make advertising history.
And only you, the original
Yoni Yum Dew girl
could possibly assist me.
"The Food and Drug Administration
said Wednesday,
female deodorant sprays
may cause such harmful reactions
as blisters,
burns, and rashes.
Although FDA judges
that the reported reactions
are not sufficient
to j-justify
removal of these pr-products
from the market,
they are sufficient
to warrant
the proposed mandatory
label warnings."
Shit, oh dear, it's enough
to make me asthmatic.
The nerve of those twits.
What do they know about female odor?
Don't interrupt...
here's my concept.
My little ranch out west,
it's a beauty ranch.
Well, it has a few head
of cattle
for atmosphere
and tax purposes...
but it is
a beauty ranch...
a place where unhappy women,
divorcees, and widows mostly
can go to lose weight,
uh, remove wrinkles,
or change their hairstyle
and pretty themselves up
for the next disappointment.
My ranch is called
"The Rubber Rose,"
after the "Rubber Rose"
douche bag.
My own invention and,
bless its little red bladder,
is the most popular
douche bag in the world.
So, get this.
It is on the migratory flight path
of the whooping crane.
The last flock of wild
whooping cranes left in existence.
Whooping cranes,
in case you didn't know it,
are noted for their
mating dance.
Now picture these birds
doing their sex dance on TV...
right there
on the home screen...
creation's most elaborate
sex ritual,
but clean and pure enough
to suit the Pope...
with lovely Sissy Hankshaw
in the foreground...
her white gown,
red hood attached,
big, feathery sleeves,
trimmed in black.
And then,
in a very subdued imitation
of the female whooping crane,
she dance-walks
over to a large nest
where there sits...
a can of Yoni Yum
and a can of Dew!
Oh my very
goodness gracious!
Grandiose, lyrical,
erotic...
and Girl Scout-oriented.
You can't top it.
So the Countess
dispatched Sissy out west
for her first
modeling assignment in years,
but not before warning her
to keep her distance
from those nasty
and uppity cowgirls
who worked
his so-called ranch.
He also insisted
that she avoid any contact
with the alleged holy man
who lived on the ridge
above the Rubber Rose,
known as "The Chink," though
apparently he was Japanese-American.
He appeared to be one of those
berry-picking moon-howlers.
The kind of old kumquat
who might fuck a snake
and then write
a little poem about it.
# I long to be lifted... #
# I long to be lifted #
# Lifted high... #
So we take in
the good energies.
Taking in, we turn.
And we give them out.
And take in
and take out good things.
You feel that?
Good, huh?
# I long to be carried #
# I long to be carried #
# Carried by... #
# Carried by... #
I've traveled through the Yucatan
with the circus,
popping false eyelashes
off a trained monkey with my bullwhip,
when one night I ate peyote
and had a vision.
Niwetkame,
the mother goddess...
came to me
on the back of a doe,
with hummingbirds sipping
the tears she was shedding,
crying, "Delores...
you must lead my daughters
against their natural enemy.
You must come
to the Rubber Rose Ranch
and prepare
for your mission...
the details of which will be
revealed to you in a third vision."
Whoo!
Usually she preferred
to hitchhike
without a fixed destination...
hitching
for hitching's sake...
for freedom and movement
and that alone.
But something was pulling her
to the Rubber Rose,
something softer than money
and stranger than work.
Someday...
if that Sissy Hankshaw
ever shows up here,
I'm gonna teach her
how to hypnotize a chicken.
Did you know chickens are the easiest
critters on earth to hypnotize?
You just twirl a chicken
in the air 20 times,
it's yours forever.
How exciting.
Are you a pilgrim?
No, I'm more
of an Indian.
l... I think she means are you
gonna go see "The Chink"?
Well, I may,
and I may not.
But seeing him's
not my main objective here.
You know, th-that's good 'cause,
you know, he... he might not see you.
I mean, we drove all the way
from Minneapolis
and the crazy bastard
tried to stone us to death.
Yeah, it bummed me out.
I thought he was a master,
but he's nothing
but a dirty old mountain man.
He took out his wanker
and shook it at Barbara.
I mean, I wouldn't go up there
if I were you.
I wouldn't, okay?
Bye-bye.
It was like
showering rocks...
I had a vision that it
hit me in the head.
By any chance,
are you Sissy Hankshaw?
Yes, I am.
Well, my goodness,
why didn't you telephone?
Someone would have driven
into Sisters to pick you up.
I'm Miss Adrian
from the ranch.
The Countess wrote me
that I should expect you.
Oh, get in.
You must be exhausted.
Uh, Donna, help
Ms. Hankshaw with her...
...with her luggage.
Twit.
You really ought to have phoned.
We were just in Sisters
escorting some guests
to the afternoon train.
More guests leaving
ahead of schedule.
Three checked out today.
They decided to transfer
to Elizabeth Arden's Main Chance Spa
in Phoenix, Arizona.
It costs $250 a week more
than at the Rubber Rose.
So, why are our guests leaving
and going to Elizabeth Arden's?
I'll tell you why.
It's that plague of cowgirls.
I'd like to complain.
Some of you cowgirls have been
sleeping two to a bunk again
in violation of the agreement
that "crimes against nature,"
are to be kept confined
to the hayloft.
Yeah.
Well, I don't care who sleeps with who
or where or how.
But the moaners and the groaners
and the screamers
ought to turn down
their volume
'cause some of us
are trying to sleep...
or meditate.
I'd like to complain
about the food here.
It's rotten to the core.
Hallelujah, sister.
They've gradually infiltrated
every sector of our program.
The one named Debbie...
she considers herself an expert
on diet and exercising.
The ball...
with Bonanza Jellybean's
permission
- And against my explicit orders...
- Someday...
she's been coercing
the guests
into trying something
called Kundalini yoga.
Do you know
what that is?
It's trying
to mentally force
a serpent of fire
to crawl up your spinal column.
Humph.
Oh, and there's
a new one.
The one called
"del Ruby."
- She has the goodwill of a scorpion.
- Whoa!
The little barbarians are destroying
everything I've built,
mocking all that the company
stands for.
But now that the season
is practically over...
we operate
April through September...
and the Countess
is finally coming...
I'll get those
little peckers.
Our ranch has all the latest
in modern facilities.
Guests can relax on our veranda
or swim in our pool,
all in view of spectacular
Siwash Ridge.
At the Rubber Rose Ranch,
we prepare more than 850
lo-cal meals per day.
Your attention...
We have a facial wing
and next to that
is the hair barn.
We have 15 hair experts
from all over the world.
Up there is where
the fanny flab flies off
at the rate of about
That's a lot
of salted ham, Sissy.
- Wow, you're gonna make a movie.
- Hey, give me that!
Ladies, as most of you
have been informed,
one of the fringe benefits of your stay
here at the Rubber Rose Ranch
is a rare opportunity
to get a look at the world's
last surviving flock
of wild whooping cranes.
They stop off here
twice a year
at that marshy little lake
on the north end of the ranch
and you're in luck
because even as I speak,
the flock's
over there right now.
Our special guest
Ms. Sissy H...
uh, Ms. Sissy Hankshaw
is with us.
Merciful Jesus,
they're murdering the guests!
Es gibt soviele verschiedene farben
von erdpfel hier in Amerika,
in Deutschland
gibts nur eine sorte.
Ja, ja, ja.
Where are the guests?
Where are the guests?
Take it easy, lady. They just rode
over the hill with the cowgirls.
You're Miss Adrian.
We gotta talk about that filming.
Not now, you fool,
not now.
Those crazed bitches
have led innocent women out
and are slaughtering them
at this moment.
We'll all be killed.
Oh...
there's a slaughter
going on, all right,
but it ain't the fat ladies
that are getting it.
Your hired hands
are killing the cattle.
The cattle?
They're killing the cows?
That's what they said,
Miss Adrian.
How dare you slaughter
the Countess' cattle?
What's a ranch
without cows?
We're replacing them
with goats.
The cows are diseased
and in pain.
We're just putting them
out of their misery.
According to
Ms. Bonanza Jellybean,
the Rubber Rose is indicative
of the Countess' values.
They purchased a cheap but weak
strain of cattle in the beginning,
- And within...
- Oh heavens.
I don't want to hear what Bonanza
Jellybean tells all you girls.
Come on, Sissy.
I'll show you to your quarters.
Hren sie, wir mssen
ber diesen film sprechen.
Es ist sehr wichtig.
Ich meine,
warum bin ich so weit
hier angereist, ja?
Excuse me, miss.
Would you care
for your breakfast now?
I feel a bit hungry.
Okay.
Road food!
How did you know?
Well, it is a change of the usual
grapefruit and melba toast, I'm sure.
"Compliments
of Bonanza Jellybean."
She'll be up
to see you directly.
Yep?
Welcome, partner!
You seem to know
who I am.
Maybe even what I am.
Thanks
for the breakfast.
Oh I know about
Sissy Hankshaw, all right.
I've done a little
hitchhiking myself.
I'd heard tales
about you
from people I'd meet
in jail cells and truck stops.
Jail cells?
I heard about your, uh...
wonderful thumbs.
Hm...
Well, you may claim that
I have an unfair advantage,
but no more so
than Nijinsky,
whose reputation as the world's
most incomparable dancer
is untainted by the fact
that his feet were abnormal...
havin' the bone structure
of bird feet.
Nature built Nijinsky
to dance,
me to direct traffic.
The example of your life
has helped me in my struggle
to be a cowgirl.
- Tell me about it.
- About what?
About being a cowgirl.
When you say the word,
you make it sound like it was painted
in radium on the side of a pearl.
Well, I saw my first cowgirl
in a Sears catalog.
I was three.
Up until then, I'd only
ever heard of cowboys.
Years later,
my real struggle began.
I had been teased
by my classmates for some time
about my particular
fantasy.
Cowgirls exist as an image,
a fairly common one.
The idea of cowgirls,
especially for little girls,
prevails in our culture.
Therefore,
it seems to me
that the existence
of cowgirls should prevail.
I mean, otherwise
they're being fooled.
Like in the Rodeo Hall of Fame
in Oklahoma City,
there are just two cowgirls.
Two...
and both of them
were trick riders.
Trick ridin' is what cowgirls
have almost always done in rodeo.
Our society sure likes to see
its unconventional women do tricks.
That's what prostitutes call it...
you know, "trickin"'?
Did you know that cowgirls
have been around for many centuries?
Long before America.
In ancient India,
the care of cattle
was always left up to these
young women they called "gopis."
Now being alone
with the cows all the time,
these gopis got awfully horny,
just like we do here.
Each gopi was in love
with Krishna,
a good lookin' hunk
of a god,
who played the flute
like it was going out of style.
And when the moon
was full,
this Krishna would play
his flute by the river
and call the gopis to him.
Then he would
multiply himself
one for each gopi...
and make love to each one
the way she most desired.
There they were...
Krishna on the riverbank
and the energy
of their merging was so great,
that it created a huge oneness,
a total union of love,
and it was God.
Quite a picture, huh?
Wow.
Cowgirls...!
Well, that couldn't be
Krishna, could it?
A bit shrill for a flute.
Just our rotten luck.
Well, I gotta run.
Delores says I'm needed.
Somebody's here.
Maybe it's the Countess.
# Wondering, wondering #
# Wanting it all #
# A curious soul... #
# Astray #
# A curious soul... #
# Astray. #
So you look like a big bird,
a wonderful bird.
Go down and you protect
the product like...
But I'm not a bird, sir.
I'm a girl.
But you look like a bird to me
and you will look to the people
who will watch the commercial.
Come on, Sissy.
We're working here.
Okay... slowly you rise.
And you look at the product,
you turn around
and the camera
will then see you,
and the camera's
over there, remember.
- You got it?
- Yes, sir.
All right,
then let's do it.
And remember...
just be great, okay?
Thank you, sir.
Okay, do it.
Go down...
and stand by.
Music. Action!
Cut!
We do it again.
Delores zonks out on peyote
at least once a week.
But so far her third vision
hasn't happened.
Niwetkame, the mother goddess,
it seems
has not gotten back
in touch with her yet.
Huh.
Meanwhile, she and Debbie
are rivaling each other
like a couple
of crosstown high schools.
Tension... cowgirl tension.
What a drag.
Well, what is
Debbie's position?
Well, Debbie says that if women
are to take charge again,
they must do it
in a feminine way.
They mustn't resort to aggressive
and violent masculine methods.
She says that it's up to women
to show themselves better than men.
To love men and set
good examples for them.
Guide them tenderly
toward the new age.
She's a real dreamer,
that Debbie dear.
So, you don't agree
with Debbie then?
Well, I wouldn't
say that.
I expect she's right
ultimately.
But I'm with Delores when it comes
to fighting for what's mine.
This is cowgirl territory,
and I'll stand with Delores
and fight any bastards
who might deny it.
I guess I've always
been a scrapper.
Look, this scar...
only 12 years old and I was
felled by a silver bullet.
He's here.
Look at him...
perverse as a pink pickle.
Hmm.
Well, he's in a snit.
He wants to see you
after the barbecue.
- Oh really?
- Huh.
Well, why don't you go ahead
and get the girls,
'cause he's gonna
see me right now.
Okay.
You will all be rounded up
and sent to prison
if this goes any farther.
This is not your ranch.
You pathetic
little cutesy-poos.
Do you actually believe
that this exhibition
of childlike melodrama
is advancing
the cause of freedom?
Yes!
You owe us.
This here ranch is token payment
to your disgusting
exploitations.
That's right!
Then take it.
Go for it, girls!
Go to your bunkhouse
and stay there.
Better reach
for your spray cans.
Yee-hah!
Not one of these pussies
has been washed in weeks.
Yeah, smell this! Woo.
Ooh!
Shit, oh goodness!
Any of you ladies
who'd like to join us
you're welcome to stay as full-working
partners at the Rubber Rose.
The rest of you get packed,
and I mean now!
You've got 15 minutes to move
your lard-asses off this ranch.
# Cowgirl pride... #
# Cowgirl pride... #
Torn between her loyalty
to her benefactor, the Countess
and her growing affection
for Jellybean and the cowgirls,
a confused Sissy
hit the road
with not a Pontiac
in sight.
# Cowgirl, cowgirl... #
Ha ha!
Ha ha!
Ha ha!
Ho-ho.
Ho-ho.
Ho-ho.
Hee hee!
Hee hee!
Hee hee!
Ha ha. Ho ho.
Hee hee.
Hey, wait!
Come on, baby!
I'll make you supper.
I'm a friend
of Bonanza Jellybean's.
l... I know.
Whoo-hoo-hoo!
There's been some trouble
on the ranch, you know?
It's so dark now.
Doubt if I could find my way back
by myself.
You save your breath
for the climb.
I don't know
how to polka.
Me neither.
Personally I prefer
Stevie Wonder or Tony Bennett,
but what the hell?
Those cowgirls are always
complaining and bitching
about there's only
"one station in the area
and all it does
is ever play polkas."
Well, I say you can
dance to anything
as long as you
feel like dancing.
I pledge to you tonight
from this office
that I will do everything
in my power to ensure
that the guilty are
brought to justice
and that such abuses are purged
from our political processes,
in the years to come
long after I have left this office.
Some people...
Sissy...
the earth is alive.
She burns from the heat
of eternal cosmic longing.
- She longs for her mate.
- Hm.
She groans, she moans...
she turns softly
in her sleep.
I love those cowgirls.
But...
I just can't be a party to their...
utopian dreaming.
Hmm.
What do you
believe in, then?
Ha ha...
ho ho...
hee hee.
This is uh, point 3,
north 20 zero east.
Roger. Standby...
we'll call you back.
Where the hell
are those cranes?
When in doubt,
keep moving.
There was no road
that did not expect her
nor vehicle
she could not command.
In the post office boxes
that she maintained
near a dozen different
Indian reservations
she frequently found letters
from the liberated ranch.
And thus,
wherever she traveled,
Jellybean traveled with her.
Sissy, don't act dumb
with me!
The cowgirls are involved
in this whooping crane disappearance.
You know perfectly well
they are.
Last seen in Canada,
didn't make it to Texas...
Siwash Lake is between
Canada and Texas.
The cowgirls have possession
of Siwash Lake!
I don't know anything
about it.
Sissy!
You are trying to protect
those scuzzy bitches.
Well, "Let conscience be your guide,"
as my mommy used to say,
but it won't work.
Those stinking sluts
are going to suffer!
Shut your mouth!
Argh!
Oh, oh dear!
Ahh.
Ooh.
"Sissy, I'm remembering
your sweet hands on my scar.
In a few minutes, I'm going to return
to the scene of our love.
Last spring Debbie and I
left mountains of brown rice
for the cranes to munch.
And they stayed at the pond
longer than they ever had
in the past.
This time, we're gonna try
a different diet on them
to see if they won't stay
even longer.
By the way, I'm visiting
the Chink once a week again.
Now you know
my little secret, huh?
Well, I hear that you
don't exactly sit at his feet
listening to Bible stories.
He's really something, isn't he?
The billy goat.
I love you,
Bonanza Jellybean."
Well, he's not
out of danger.
But I think we can safely say
he's gonna make it.
Now I'd be pretty
surprised if he didn't.
However, there is evidence
of injury to the frontal lobe.
And I have reason to fear
that this injury may be permanent.
Brain damage?
You mean he's gonna
be a vegetable?
A vegetable?
No, I wouldn't say that.
We won't know the extent
of the injury for some days.
But there is
a genuine possibility
of severe and lasting
behavioral defects.
I wouldn't classify it in
the "vegetable" category, however.
Thumbs that not once
in a lifetime
had been raised in anger,
that had often known bliss
but never violence,
that were wound 'round
with artistic skill and athletic glory
now had been reduced
to the status of weapons.
A sorrowful Sissy
had her thumbs transport her
to the one person she knew
who might disarm her...
or should we say,
"disthumb" her.
I'm afraid
I can't help you.
- Oh Doctor!
- Please, child.
Don't be dismayed.
We all have our problems
these days.
But as the painter
Van Gogh said,
"Mysteries remain, sorrow
or melancholy remains,
but the everlasting
negative is balanced
by the positive work which
thus is achieved after all."
I don't suppose that means
very much to you.
I have retired... a victim
of a malpractice suit.
- Oh...
- My last operation
was a simple reworking
of a boy's nose.
I was a bit
overenthusiastic,
succumbing to my suppressed
artistic drives,
I sculpted,
in living flesh,
on the face
of little Bernie Schwartz
the world's first
cubistic nose.
Ah, the thumb!
The thumb, the thumb,
the thumb.
The thumb, the thumb,
the thumb.
One of evolution's
most ingenious inventions.
A built-in tool,
sensitive to texture, contour,
and temperature.
An alchemical lever,
the secret key to technology,
the link between
the mind and art.
The humanizing device.
The marmoset and the lemur
are thumbless.
None of the new world monkeys
has opposable thumbs.
The spider monkey's thumbs
are absent
or reduced
to a tiny tubercle.
The thumbs
of the potto are set
at an angle of 180 degrees
to the other digits.
And so...
you are demanding at last,
the privileges of thumb that nature
has perversely denied you?
I just want to be normal,
Doctor.
Give me that old-fashioned
normality.
It was good enough
for Crazy Horse,
and it's good enough
for me.
Ah yes.
Very well, my dear.
Here's what we can do.
The whooping cranes
are here, all right.
They're in fine shape...
and as you must have saw
from your flying machine...
unrestrained,
free to go as they please.
But this is private property
and you aren't setting a foot on it.
None of you.
We'll be back, and when we come back
we'll have a court order
and a fistful
of search warrants.
I'm scared of you.
Yee-hah!
It will be my extreme pleasure
to report to the President
who has been gravely concerned
about the fate of our whooping cranes...
...and the Interior Secretary
and the American people
that the entire flock of cranes
is, indeed, at Siwash Lake,
and in apparently
healthy condition.
The cranes have built
brooding nests
around the entire
circumference of the lake,
and have hatched
chicks there.
Uh, including the young birds, there are
approximately 60 cranes in the flock.
While this is good news,
it's also quite bewildering.
Er, whooping cranes
are territorially-minded
and have never been known to nest
within a mile of each other,
and yet here they're
virtually side by side.
The whooping crane has been driven
to the edge of extinction...
...by an aggressive, brutal,
patriarchal system
intent on subduing
the earth
and establishing its dominion
over all things
In the name of God the Father,
law, order, and economic progress.
From men, the whooping crane
has received neither love nor respect.
Men have drained
the crane's marshes...
...stolen its eggs,
invaded its privacy,
polluted its food,
blown it apart with buckshot.
Obviously, a patriarchal society
does not deserve
anything as grand
and beautiful
and wild and free
as the whooping crane.
You men have failed
in your duty to the crane,
now it is women's turn.
The cranes are
in our charge now.
We will protect them as long
as they still require protection,
while working toward a day
when the creatures of this earth
no longer have to suffer man's egoism,
insensitivity, and greed.
We refuse your order.
We say...
...take your order and shove it.
- It's Jellybean!
This awesome bird's staying with us.
Get lost, mac.
# I've pinned myself
against the wall #
# Stationed
like a horse in stall #
# Just wishin'
they might call me art #
# There I hung
in the hall #
# Collectin' dust,
that's all #
# That's all
I needed to do #
# While in the corner,
quite a size #
# He sits talkin'
whisky-wise #
# Hopin'
to throw me off #
# But no matter
how he tries #
# I'll just look him
in the eyes #
# That's all
that I need to do #
# That's all it took to see
I was wasting time #
# That's all it took to see #
# I was
walkin' the line #
# I'm gonna ride high
as can be #
# I look behind
and see them #
# Following me. #
# Yee-hoo! #
there came a point
when Delores felt compelled
to get in her peyote wagon
and leave the ranch.
She had a mission
to perform.
The cowgirls protested
that it was much too dangerous.
But they knew better
than to try to interfere.
Unfortunately, there were federal agents
who had no such qualms.
Yeah, yeah, right, right...
We heard on the radio
where they set
Delores' bail at $50,000.
Man, right when
we really needed her.
Whoo-hoo! Yeow!
Well, let's celebrate!
Ain't that
just like women?
Looks like every time
we get together,
- Things are in a mess.
- So be it.
It's pretty serious this time,
though, huh? All these guns?
You're actually prepared
to kill and die for whooping cranes?
Hell, no!
The cranes are wonderful
but I'm not in this
for whooping cranes.
I'm in it for cowgirls.
If we cowgirls give in to authority
on this crane issue,
then cowgirls become
just another compromise.
I want a finer fate than that...
for me and every other cowgirl.
Better no cowgirls at all
than cowgirls compromised.
How did this business
get started anyhow?
Why are the birds
nesting here?
You were aware we were
feeding them, weren't you?
We fed 'em brown rice.
They stayed over a couple of extra days.
Then we decided to try
something different.
We mixed our brown rice with fishmeal.
Whoopers love seafood.
Then Delores suggested
another ingredient.
We think
that's what did the trick.
- You mean...?
- Peyote!
They're drugged?
Oh come off it, Sissy.
What do you mean, "drugged"?
Every living thing
is a chemical composition
and anything that is added to it
changes that composition.
If you eat a cheeseburger
or a Three Musketeers bar...
it changes
your body chemistry.
The kind of food you eat,
the kind of air you breathe
can change your mental state.
- Does that mean you're drugged?
- No, I guess not.
"Drugged" is a stupid word.
But the peyote is obviously
affecting their brains.
It's made them break
a migratory pattern
that goes back
thousands of years.
The way I see it,
the peyote mellowed them out,
made them less uptight.
They were afraid of humans
and bad weather.
That's why they migrated
and kept to themselves.
Peyote has enlightened them.
It's taught them there's
nothing to fear but fear itself.
Now they're digging life
and letting the bad vibes slide on.
"Don't worry,
Be happy."
Be here now.
This here discussion
is destined to become academic,
because we've got less
than half a bag of peyote buttons left
and Delores' run ended up
in the Sisters jail.
So any day now,
we'll get a chance
to see how the whoopers behave
when they come down.
But in the meantime,
I'd like to say this about fear...
Judge Greenfield,
at the request of the ACLU,
has granted a 48-hour extension
of the deadline
by which the Rubber Rose cowgirls
must comply with his orders.
Negotiations between
the cowgirls and the government
are expected to follow.
Another "ride 'em in,"
the forewoman of the Rubber Rose Ranch,
a Delores del Ruby,
is now free on bond...
...after having been
arrested in Sisters
with more than 50 pounds
of peyote buttons.
Her bail has been paid
by the owner of the besieged ranch,
Countess Products, Inc.
Ms. del Ruby's bail having come
from the tycoon's personal advisor,
- A Dr. Robbins of New York City.
- Dr. Robbins?
It isn't for ourselves
that we take this stand...
it isn't for cowgirls.
It's for all the daughters
everywhere.
That ain't no lie!
This is an extremely
important confrontation.
This is womankind's chance
to prove to her enemy
that she is willing
to fight and die!
And if we women
don't show here and now
that we're willing
to fight and die,
then our enemy
will never take us seriously.
That's right!
And men know that no matter
how strong our words,
or determined our deeds,
there is a point where we'll back down
and give them their dinner.
No way!
I love you.
Every time I tell you
I love you, you flinch.
That's your problem.
If I flinch when you say you love me,
it's both our problems.
My confusion
becomes your confusion.
Students
confuse teachers.
Patients confuse
psychiatrists.
Lovers
with confused hearts
confuse lovers
with clear ones.
I'm prepared to win!
Victory for every female
living or dead...
who has suffered under
the temporary defeat
of masculine insensitivity
to their inner lives.
I'll fight the bastards!
I'll fight them with bean gas
if necessary.
Sun's gone down.
So those of you
who are not standing watch,
get a good night's sleep.
Tomorrow morning,
we'll plan our fight.
Tomorrow afternoon, those of you
who would like to join me...
in the reeds...
the cranes and I will be sharing
the last crumbs in the peyote sack.
I love you, Jelly.
Lost in a psychedelic
trance,
Delores, queen
of the whooping crane rustlers,
wandered among the nests
of those great birds
who would rather go extinct than change
their lives to suit the ways of men.
Peyote buttons sang
in Delores' brain like a choir,
and above
that ancient chorus,
there eventually rose
the voice of Niwetkame,
the divine mother, calling
her daughter to her muddy throne.
There the promise
of the third vision was fulfilled.
But what was said,
and what was shown?
It is woman's mission
to destroy as well
as it is to give birth.
We will destroy
the tyranny of the dull,
but we cannot do it
with guns...
or with whips...
oh no, we will destroy
our enemy in other ways.
The peyote mother
has promised a fourth vision.
But it won't come
to me alone.
It'll come
to each of you...
every cowgirl
in the land!
But first we have to end
all this business
with the government
and the cranes.
It's been positive and fruitful,
but it's gone on far enough.
Playfulness ceases to have
a serious purpose...
when it takes itself
too seriously.
Well,
what we got to do
is one of us
has got to go up that hill
and tell them boys that America
can have its whooping cranes back.
Now since
I'm the boss here, and
since I'm responsible
for a lot of you
choosing to be cowgirls
in the first place,
it's gonna be me
that goes.
No buts about it.
It's getting lighter by the second.
You partners
keep your heads down, all right?
I'll see you soon.
Ta-ta.
Yep, better get rid
of these.
Might give those
greenhorn dudes a fright.
She's gonna fire.
Shit! Shit!
Hey, no, no, no...
You've got two minutes
to come out with your hands up!
No!
No, no, no!
No!
Stop it!
Take that,
you bastard!
Stop! Stop! Stop!
Rotten scar. I fell on a wooden horse
when I was 12.
I wasn't really shot
with a silver bullet.
Or was I?
You know, partners,
you can tune a guitar,
but you can't tuna fish.
God, but it's good
to be a cowgirl!
# Happy trails to you #
# Until we meet again #
# Happy trails to you #
# Dearly parted friend #
# When we meet
out there #
# Where pastures
never end #
# Happy trails to you #
# Until we meet again. #
Everything getting worse?
Yeah.
Everything's getting worse.
But it's also getting better.
- Yeah.
- Hm.
The Countess
has come to our aid.
The Rubber Rose Ranch has been
officially deeded over to the cowgirls.
I've been asked
to oversee the ranch
- For $300 a week.
- All right, huh?
And the Countess... he's not going to be
the vegetable doctors thought he was.
Here's a picture.
There he is.
Hmm...
I'm splitting the ranch.
Help me up.
Look, the westbound choo-choo's
out of here at 1:40. I'm on it.
Will you drive me
to the station, hmm?
Agh, don't ever bet
against paradox, ladies!
If complexity doesn't get you,
paradox will!
Ha-ha!
Ho-ho!
Hee-hee!
The brown paper bag
is the only thing
civilized man has produced
that does not seem
out of place in nature.
Crumpled into a wad
of wrinkles
like the fossilized brain
of a dryad,
blending with rock
and vegetation
as if it were
a burrowing owl's doormat
or a jackrabbit's
underwear,
a number eight
kraft paper bag
lay discarded
in the Oregon hills
and appeared to live
where it lay.
Once long ago,
it had borne a package of buns
and a jar of mustard
to a kitchenette rendezvous
with a fried hamburger.
Most recently,
the bag had held love letters.
As a hole in an oak
hides a squirrel's family jewels,
the bag had hidden
love letters
in the bottom
of a bunkhouse trunk.
Then one day after work,
the lanky filly to whom
the letters were addressed,
gathered bag and contents
under her arm,
slipped down to the corral
past ranch hands
pitchin' horseshoes,
and ranch hands
flyin' Tibetan kites,
saddled up and trotted
into the hills.
A mile or so
from the bunkhouse,
she dismounted
and built a small fire.
She fed the fire letters,
one by one,
the way her girlfriend
had once fed her french fries.
As words such as "sweetheart"
and "honey britches"
and "forever" and "always"
burned away,
the cowgirl squirted
a few fat tears.
Her eyes were so misty,
she forgot to burn the bag.