Jiggly Scientists With Weak Ankles

I've had a flair up of my hypochondriasis, so I've been in bed watching tv. It's had a good outcome, however. I've come up with my retirement plan. I'm going to write a sure-fire screenplay for a Sci-Fi Channel movie

Without giving too much away, the plot centers around irradiated cotton seeds spewed from an undersea volcano that have been exposed to genetically-altered growth hormones developed by ancient astronauts from the Julioiglasias galaxy.

What no one knows, is that there's a secret council made up of the last few remaining Neanderthals, who are really far superior to us intellectually and have secretly been running the Earth for the past several decades from a secret location inside the remains of a failed Russian nuclear power plant. Alas, there are no Neanderthal ladies left so the Ns, as they call themselves, begin a breeding program with several buxom nineteen year-old blonde scientists from all around the world who are actually descendants of the ancient Julioiglasian astronauts.

But before they can breed with the jiggly scientists, the Ns have to chase them down through a foggy forest. I think I'll use some slo-mo (that's movie maker talk for slow motion) to create necessary suspense while one by one the scientists twist their dainty ankles while running in high heels. When they fall, they lose their heavy framed glasses and hairpins and the audience discovers that not only are they large busomed, but they are braless and turn out to be gorgeous. You see, we didn't really notice how pretty they were until they lost their glasses and their hair fell down and some shirt buttons popped off. (This will be an R rated movie, so we can show artificially enhanced mammary glands. It's necessary to the plot and/or advertisers.)

The scientists will of course immediately fall in love with the Ns, because. . . well, who wouldn't. Then just when it seems that things are going to work out, the first crop of the volcanized, genetically-altered, irradiated, growth-hormoned cotton matures and is woven into designer blue jeans, which all the busty nineteen year old scientists are wearing when they begin to shrink (the jeans, not the scientists), negatively affecting their reproductive organs (the scientists' not the jeans'), which they only then discover are much different than regular human reproductive organs and causes them to vote Republican.

Then, just when it seems that the Earth is doomed, the scientists discover that regular ol' human Influenza D-infected water is fatal to the killer cotton - the fabric of your death.

Seriously. Is that a winner or what?