Coming to America (1988) is a comedy directed by John Landis, based on a story by Eddie Murphy, who also stars in the film.
11/24/10 | Film

Coming to America

by Reynard Seifert

A pair of seagulls dropped a turd into a set of wave-chops below a bunch of clouds shaped like vaginas. Bound for Ellis Island, slouching on the bow of the Queen Elizabeth, sniffing the salty air, an erect penis thought back on the slaughter of his entire family in the Irish hinterlands. Probably for the best, they were a bunch of dicks.

The penis hardened as he thought of chopping his family into bits and pieces, how he had ground them up and served them as little sausages to the village people, how he could hardly tell the bits for the pieces, how the village people had brought toothpicks to the feast, and how, over time, they became wary of our penis’s claim that the entire family was vacationing in Wales.

The village people put down their toothpicks. They had questions. First of all, vacation? You’re a potato farmer! Second of all, Wales? Seriously? Lastly, Why would anyone want to vacation in Wales? So our friend the erect penis had to slaughter the village people. He chopped them up into bits and pieces, and made a lot more sausages. But he couldn’t think of anyone to serve them to. He was a pretty lonesome penis. So he sat on a large flat rock shaped like a vagina, and thought on what to do. The year was 1938. And he was coming to America.

He came to avoid prosecution. Because he misunderstood what people said when they said persecution. The truth is the erect penis didn’t speak much English. In fact, he didn’t speak much at all. Mostly, he spat a lot. All over everything. Including the deck of the Queen Elizabeth as it came into port. Later the penis would recall that he had simply attempted to scream, Land ho! Land ho! But what came out was . . . himself.

When the Queen Elizabeth herself walked across herself to greet the Americans, she slipped and took a spill off the side of herself into the sea. Some seamen fished her out and toweled her off. It was a huge embarrassment for the Royal Navy. Our antihero was apprehended by a couple of assholes. Jerked off to a sketchy prison cell inside Queen Elizabeth, he was tortured for hours by a live baroque band, given nothing to eat all day but full English breakfasts. Animals.

As it turns out, William Randolph Hearst had a soft spot for dickheads. After photos of the affair were printed in practically every newspaper in all 48 states, the penis became a nationwide symbol of resistance. Resistance to what, exactly, remains unclear. Luckily (or unluckily (depending on how you look at these things)), the event coincided with the taking of Canton Island, a British territory, by the United States—in spite of which fact FDR was, at the time, protesting the Nazi invasion of Austria—so, as often happened with these things, the American government sided with the plight of the dicks. A deal was struck. And the penis was set free. So they sent him on a tour of America’s ample spread.

On tour he had many, many women. And one or two dudes may have slipped in there from time to time, to pass the time. You know how it is. The penis lazed about and drunk of America’s silver dollar teats for many, many months. Finally, exhausted from reenacting the affair so many times, the erect penis asked the American government for a spread of land to plow. Just a modest nook, he spat, smaller the better. Somewhere nice and cozy for me to stretch out. A place where I might make a home, he said, somewhere to drill . . . he looked around through his one moist eye . . . for oil, he whispered dramatically. They sent him to Southern California, which was (pleasantly) not yet referred to as ‘SoCal.’ Don’t do that.

In Southern California the penis found everything he had once been too embarrassed to dream of in the Irish hinterlands: a nice, narrow (but not too narrow), grassy (but not too grassy), deep (but not too deep) valley; a valley nestled below a pair of firm (but not too firm), perky (but not too perky), round (really damn round) hills; really damn round hills topped with rose-covered peaks. He referred to the hills fondly, and often, as ‘the twins.’ His face curled a little about the cheeks, as though he had dimples. A little precum rolled down his face.

He planted seeds in the valley and built his embarrassed-dream home. Unsurprisingly, it looked a little like a penis. Okay, it looked exactly like a penis. So the guy built a goddamn penis house. Whatever. He hammered every nail and screwed every screw with the tender care of—I don’t know—an erect penis. When the penis finished his house, he hung a hammock on the porch and took a nap. He awoke from the nap to find his balls had dropped. It’s time, he said. To himself. Because no one else was around.

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The penis drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and took a nap and drilled and drilled and drilled and made some nachos and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and churned some butter for a while and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and ate a banana or something and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and bought a chicken and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and choked the chicken and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and bought a goat and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and choked the goat and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drank sarsaparilla from a homemade crazy straw and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled some more and drilled and drilled and drilled and went night fishing on the beach with no water socks and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and took boxing lessons from a cad and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and drilled and finally found some goddamn oil and boy did he find it it came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and came and then it seemed like it might stop but then it just kept coming and it came and came and came and sputtered and came and came and sputtered and came and came and came some more and finally it stopped.

He dreamed the dreams of giants.

It’s not important how the erect penis met his wife (plus it’s not hard to imagine). Also, she’s not important . . . to the story . . . But let’s just say she was quite fond of giving the slip to his slide. And so she squeezed out a few tikes, all girls of course—the bitch—and somehow the bitch convinced the erect penis to buy a weenie dog. A damn weenie dog. For a goddamn erect penis. Ridiculous.

Although the penis didn’t want the damn weenie dog, he did want to keep his slip satisfied. And so he bought the damn weenie dog. And then of course he grew quite fond of the damn weenie dog. And so while the women were inside doing something or other the penis spent his evenings in his hammock on his porch below ‘the twins’ with his damn weenie dog, both of them nodding out, watching the oil rig drill and drill and drip and drip and bleed along the rim of the valley as the deep orange sun dipped from sight like a glazed donut beyond the edge of his Irish coffee. It was all his: the coffee, the whiskey, the valley, the rig, the metaphorical donut, even the goddamn sun; he claimed it all for himself. He was very happy. He even smiled a little as the moon rose. Even then.

When his baby boy was born there began a change in the erect penis. Most notably, he was getting a little soft. And smiling more. Bad news for a dick. The slip to his slide was not quite as pleasant as it once was. And yet here he was, smiling. When the erect penis gazed at himself in the mirror he didn’t know who was gazing back anymore. Who the hell is that? he asked the reflection. Who is that smiling dickhead gazing back at me? He bought the fastest car he could find: a Silver Arrow. He raced it up and down and all around ‘the twins.’ But it didn’t make him any harder.

He stopped at the edge of an ocean cliff with his damn weenie dog in his lap, his wrinkly old sack. Dust blew into the car like pieces of smoke. The damn weenie dog coughed and coughed and pulled off his goggles and got out of the car and slammed the door. The damn weenie dog turned to the penis and said, Got too much to live for, dog. He cried a little and said, Goin on home now. Don’t try to follow me. The damn weenie dog began burrowing in the dirt. He made it a foot or so, then fell fast asleep.

A single tear rolled down the now-semisoft penis as he glided out of sight below the steering wheel. I’m melting, he said. And he was. As his foreskin slapped the floorboard, he stopped shrinking. In his final moments he thought about his oil rig and the valley and ‘the twins’ and his damn weenie dog and even his wife. Even her. Unfortunately (or fortunately (depending on how you feel about dicks)) the semisoft penis got a little excited. His smile disappeared. And he flew headlong into the gas pedal.