Hunk

Now, Mr. Golden, how can I help you.

Hunk.

Call me Hunk, for now.

Alright.

- Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.

Nobody else would.

- You made it sound like a matter of life or death.

Well, it is.

For him.

Who is he?

His name is Bradley Brinkman.

Where is he?

Right here.

I'm Bradley Brinkman.

On the inside anyway.

- Look, playing at schizophrenia is not my idea --

I know, I know, I know.

Look, doc.

Didn't you ever want to become somebody else?

Somebody exciting?

Somebody fantastic?

I just happened to be that "somebody fantastic" that

Bradley Brinkman wanted to become.

And then became.

Somebody with a fantastic imagination.

- I know it sounds crazy, but you've got to hear my story.

Time is running out for Bradley and for me.

Alright, I'll hear your story.

But time is running out for us as well.

So, why don't you just begin

with the first time that you began to feel ---

And Bradley Brinkman.

- The first time that you and Bradley Brinkman

began to feel this way.

Doctor, if I convince you,

will you take my case?

I'm listening, Mr. Golden.

Up until six weeks ago,

I really was Bradley Brinkman, crack computer hack.

I spent the five years since college

chained to a computer keyboard,

except for my imagination, that is.

I always daydreamed about being

one of those impossibly cool guys you see in the movies,

or commercials.

You know, the guys who drive Maseratis

and run major corporations.

The kind that drip with women and self-confidence.

You know, the guy that look great in those

bikini briefs that ride up the crack in your buns?

Unfortunately, perpetual daydreaming

didn't look great to my boss,

Constantine Constapopolis

of Constapopolis Computers.

Daydreams?

I'm paying you to write for me daydreams?

Hi, Mr. Constapoplis.

Really I just drifted off.

Yes, way off, Brinkman.

Way off.

Program proposals so bad, the K-9000

shut down with D.I. again.

Digital Indigestion?

I'll ...

Camels Are Us, the Bedouin program.

Who's got a camel with a floppy hump?

Look at this one.

Conversational Icelandic.

Who are you going to sell it to?

Penguins on tour?

Look at this one.

Sushi Towers: Eat What You Build.

You know your work hasn't been the same ever since ...

Suzy eloped.

Suzy eloped with her aerobics instructor.

I know, I know.

How would you feel if your girlfriend rejected you

because you didn't wear a leotard and count during sex?

I'm running a business here.

You have two weeks.

Two weeks to make a money-making idea appear,

or else you're off stuffing ...

- the grape leaves in my one-eyed father's

Greek restaurant, Cyclops West.

Thank you, Mr. Constapopolis

for your understanding and generosity.

Have a good day.

The new program was due at 9 a.m.

I was desperate for a concept, any concept.

But everything I wrote read like

a one-way ticket to the souvlaki line

at Cyclops West.

It all seemed beyond hope when

I punched a desperate plea into the machine.

And then it happened.

What happened?

Some kind of digital vulture

appeared on my screen.

Then the computer began writing the program by itself.

What program?

The Yuppie Program.

A multi-compatible lifestyle budgeting program.

You wrote it?

I can't live without mine.

I saved a fortune stocking my wine cellar alone.

Not to mention, the compliments I get

for your recipe for microwave pate.

- Like I said, the computer wrote it

but I got the credit.

I don't know anything about pate or pasta machines

or the yuppie-ing of suburbia

until I stayed up all night reading it myself.

Now, wait a minute.

How can a computer write by itself?

Wait a minute.

You haven't heard anything yet.

I woke up a hero, and became an even bigger one

when legions of Baby Boomers snapped up

fifty thousand copies in the first six weeks.

Mom was proud.

Dad was proud.

Heck, even Suzy called to say she was proud, too,

to have yours truly for

a phenomenally successful ex-boyfriend.

- Mr. Constapopolis paid me a giant royalty

and gave me the summer off, with pay,

to write any program I wanted.

Sounds wonderful so far.

- All I knew about Yuppies was they wear Reeboks to bed,

and would hock their health club cards

for ten minutes alone with a Dove Bar.

- Mmm. Where does Hunk Golden fit in?

- At the beach house I rented in Sea Spray.

Sea Spray?

Pretty swanky place.

- Well, let's say Sea Spray is swanky

if you've got big bucks to burn.

The only thing swanky about the place

I could afford was the driveway.

The house itself was the oldest and grungiest

place on Sea Spray beach.

Bye-bye bonus.

It was built by some old sea captain

who ran out of money and ran out of town

before he could complete his sailing ship of a house.

It was ideal for investigating the

Yuppies-at-Play lifestyle, in which

I was supposedly an expert.

I'd leisurely concoct my next program

and spend the rest of my time making my daydreams come true.

So far, so good.

Except that I went a bit too far.

Now, there's hell to pay.

In my daydreams, all I had to do was wink

and the women would come running.

But there wasn't a beach full of

tanned and toned competition, either.

The old bod definitely could have used a workout.

These are fabulous.

Little piggy salt and pepper shakers.

I'm gonna add these to my collection.

Ahem.

Oh! Welcome to Sea Spray.

Where the well-to-do do well at doing well.

I'm Polly Clutter, but everybody calls me Chachka.

- I'm Bradley Brinkman, but everybody calls me

Bradley.

You're in my living room.

Thought so.

I saw your car out front.