Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Script - Dialogue Transcript

Voila! Finally, the Even Cowgirls Get The Blues script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Uma Thurman movie by Gus Van Sant based on the Tom Robbins novel.  This script is a transcript that was painstakingly transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Even Cowgirls Get The Blues. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

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Even Cowgirls Get The Blues Script



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,




of a medical oddity.



Well, the Lord made them things

big for a purpose.






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...










is she gonna find

a husband?






I see men in your life.






I also see women.



Lots and lots

and lots of women.






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




in perfect dreams



In perfect dreams



You can fly, it seems



Sailing nakedly




in perfect dreams






Have a rendezvous



A fling...



Or two






And I promise you



It all rings true



In perfect dreams



Life is quite serene



You and I could be




in perfect 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."






Give me motion






On a notion






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      to     

and then I got laid off.



- So now you're bumming around?

- Yeah.






Please don't think me




but I'm really the best.



- You're the best?

- Yeah.



I am.



When I was younger, I hitchhiked

    hours without stopping.



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.






...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?




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    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    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     .



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?









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.







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,




- 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...






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'.






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?









How unusual.






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...




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 debatable.



I'll wager they're

the exact same size.






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!






- What are you doing?

- Getting dressed.



But... but I don't

want you to go.



Please, stay.




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     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, 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,






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.




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."






Usually she preferred

to hitchhike



without a fixed destination...




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.






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    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?




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.




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 $    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.






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




- 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.






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    

lo-cal meals per day.



Your attention...



We have a facial wing



and next to that

is the hair barn.



We have    hair experts

from all over the world.



Up there is where

the fanny flab flies off



at the rate of about

    pounds a day.



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 erdäpfel 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.






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.



Hören sie, wir müssen

über 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.






Road food!

How did you know?



Well, it is a change of the usual

grapefruit and melba toast, I'm sure.




of Bonanza Jellybean."



She'll be up

to see you directly.






Welcome, partner!



You seem to know

who I am.



Maybe even what I am.




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.






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




Cowgirls exist as an image,

a fairly common one.



The idea of cowgirls,



especially for little girls,

prevails in our culture.




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.




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...



      gopis balling

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?









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...






A curious soul...






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!




We do it again.



Delores zonks out on peyote

at least once a week.



But so far her third vision

hasn't happened.



Niwetúkame, the mother goddess,

it seems



has not gotten back

in touch with her yet.






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




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    years old and I was

felled by a silver bullet.



He's here.



Look at him...

perverse as a pink pickle.






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.






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?






You owe us.

This here ranch is token payment



to your disgusting




That's right!



Then take it.



Go for it, girls!



Go to your bunkhouse

and stay there.



Better reach

for your spray cans.






Not one of these pussies

has been washed in weeks.



Yeah, smell this! Woo.






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    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!












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.






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...






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.






I just can't be a party to their...

utopian dreaming.






What do you

believe in, then?



Ha ha...



ho ho...



hee hee.



This is uh, point  

north    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.






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!






Oh, oh dear!









"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




succumbing to my supressed

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     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,




Give me that old-fashioned




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...




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.






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    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




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'





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.






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 $     .



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   -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    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




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.




confuse teachers.



Patients confuse





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




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 Niwetúkame,



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.




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.




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!




Stop it!



Take that,

you bastard!



Stop! Stop! Stop!



Rotten scar. I fell on a wooden horse

when I was   .



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?






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 $    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.




I'm splitting the ranch.



Help me up.



Look, the westbound choo-choo's

out of here at  :  . 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!












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




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.




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