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Establishing shot shows the rolling green valleys of Virginia, the time is the early 1960's captured on grainy film. A "down home" Furry Lewis blues song plays, capturing the sleepiness and down-home pathos of Southern life as the camera cuts to shots of crew-cut children in old home movies playing "cowboys and Indians". Hunting squirrels with b.b. guns. Playing on a tire swing. Fishin' down by the lazy river, the sun hanging low in the sky like a fat orange, the string tied around their toe as they lean back and nap against a tree. Making a raft out of orange crates and inner tubes. Reading comic books in a kindly old man's country store, eating "moon pies". A dog panting on the porch. Scenes of domestic bliss, mixed with more Tom Sawyer mischief. Teenagers shining their automobiles, backing them out of the garage. A shot of the local gas station as the attendant waves. A lazy music video of peaceful times, of idyllic nostalgia, before the country went haywire with modern, bug-eyed decline.

Voice Over: "My name is Fred, and I'm the last angry man"

Cut to shot of rioting kids at "Woodstock '99" Raping, pillaging, scenes of bonfires, and screaming girls as wire towers are knocked over by the young, shirtless, unsupervised hordes of suburbanoid America. Tearful interviews with kids rolled up in a "fetal" position, unable to cope. Chaos, pandemonium-- like the shrieking hordes from the Middle Ages.

Fred is sitting in a bar in Thailand, surrounded by sour expatriates and beautiful Asian bar girls, nursing a beer. He gives the camera a lingering look of disdain as a collegiate blockhead-- the kind of ineffectual young man who would have his nose stuck in Alexis de Toqueville while having no idea what is going on around him-- inquires off-camera in a dorky voice,

"But aren't they angry, Fred?"

"No, no. . . . . you dumb literalist. Those kids riot because they're stupid. I'm angry because I watch my nation fade away by the day"

Fred eyes a bar girl's butt.

The kid tries another track, "But, but--" the camera capturing an intent young man with tacky clothes and unruly hair (-- long on ideas, short on the concept of personal appearance; how others would appraise him) but "The Last Angry Man" cuts him off brusquely with a wave of his hand.

"I've been around the block, boy-- and have seen politically-incorrect things since you've been crawlin' on all fours and shittin' yellow. Way before, in fact. . . . ."

He chews on tobacco and squirts one between his teeth into a spittoon shaped like a Buddha. Camera shot-- his face, and then the stained spittoon lit by guttering candles. Bar girls wander about in Eastern submission, "walking on eggshells".

"What you and America and the elites and the press suffer from today is a gelatinous adolescent philosophy that can't see things for what they are, like you're a bunch of kids bopping around inside a giant clown-house at the carnival and don't want to fall in the slop of puke where somebody threw up"

Cut to shot of giant bouncing clown-house on carnival grounds where kids are running around and bouncing inside

Cut to shot of patch of puke rolling around in nasty slop, wet and gleaming

"You don't even wanna clean it up, but go on bouncing anyway like it ain't even there. Shit. . . . .what we're lacking these days is that southern, hard-headed practicality"

Sudden contrast:

Grainy film

Cut to shot of thirteen and fourteen year-olds sitting in the dirt playing "mumbly peg", a game where you take a Barlow pocket knife, half open it, and toss it a yard away with the hope of the blade sticking into the earth with a satisfying "pat". Low-fi entertainment, for sure.

The next shot shows the kids putting a fish-hook through a wallet and holding up a fishing rod with fishing line. They lay out the wallet on the sidewalk with a dollar bill tucked inside, and hide in the bushes. When a respectable citizen comes by and bends over to pick it up out of curiosity, they drag it off into the bushes with the fishing pole and snicker.

"That world is gone now. . . . . . the streets today oftentimes don't even have sidewalks. The only "green" kids know is the color of their artificially-flavored 'Gatorade'. Hell, it looks like the results of a liver biopsy gone bad!"

Dawn in Thailand, Modern Day

The marketplace. Pots begin to clatter and red charcoal dims in brightening courtyards. A bony dog sniffs in a ditch. A motor-scooter drifts by, in search of fares. Then all of a sudden swarms of children erupt out the doors. Now, tons of motor-scooters. Cries of women selling soup. Dirty buses roaring by and filling the air with choking exhaust. Toilets flushing onto sidewalks, washing orange peels and rotted vegetables into the gutters where dead rats float like detritus. Children knocking sticks together with a "toc, toc, toc" sound to bring attention to their parents' wares. Merchants watching from the sidelines with crossed arms. This is how it is in foreign lands.

A grizzled expatriate sleeps late in the equivalent of a "bed and breakfast". He wakes up with a hang-over, and hangs his feet down over the bed on the roach-infested floor. He winces, and holds his head, then staggers out of the room in shorts and an undershirt. A Thai family kneels around the dining area eating rice at the equivalent of 11 'o clock in the morning. A little girl about seven smiles at him, her eyes flattening into slits, and asks if "Murphy-san have candy?". He shakes her off and goes outside to pay "the rent". An old man sits in a chair, and Murphy counts out the money. He halfway loses track, and the old man is sly-- cadging an extra dollar and smiling a secret smile like an old Asian fox.

The camera tracks Murphy as he walks down the Thai streets, then settles on two other grizzled expatriates sitting around a table in an outdoor cafe, drinking beer and not saying much in the dingy, festering, tropical heat. We'll call them "Chuck" and "Larry".

The feeling you get about Chuck is that he's ex-military and somewhat eccentric, but they would take a lot of people during the Vietnam "Beetle Bailey" days providing that they weren't trouble-makers. Camouflage hat, fishing jacket, mutton-chop whiskers, he has a way of engaging in an intense burst of gnarled conversation "on his own wavelength" before he'll decide it's "your turn" with an incongruous stare.

Larry on the other hand, strikes you more like a double-chinned high school football coach from Texas who got "tired of the grind", the endless potato salad picnics, and wants to recapture something of his youth with all the lithe, available women. He doesn't say much, and just lets Chuck talk.

Chuck: (Looking around kinda squirrelly) "Yeah, I might put up a hotel around here someday. Biiiiggggg money in it. Me and some buddies back in the states might cash out on the chain of convenience stores. Something to do on the side,. . . . . you get tired of the same 'ol profitable niche business in Alaska"

Cut to shot of lone convenience store up in the howling North, something to the effect of this:

(Clearly, Chuck is "bullshitting")

Larry: "Suppose?"

Chuck: "You know it ain't the money. As much money as I've had, I don't like to bother with it anymore"

Larry: "Yep"

Chuck: "Of course, it all depends on the overland Burmese shipping interests"

Larry: (Sipping his warm beer) "Reckon?"

Chuck: (Raising his voice in frustration, like a man wounded in pride) "We got the debenture collateral and our management associates-- between you and me, now--" (Staring him in the eyes agog) "and they're gonna drop the TWA contract and work with us. That's how big it is. But it's the fealty assiduities you know. GOD, DAMNIT!" (Turning away with a sour expression, as if he had been slapped by the world)

Larry: (Not quite understanding what all this financial jargon is, but commiserating mellowly as guys do when trading "hard luck" stories) "Yeah. . . . . those financial assiduities will get you"

Cut to shot of Fred sitting back at the bar, nursing a beer

"Men who have been jerked around by the world have to manufacture their self-respect. Sure, those guys you see out there have made and lost millions. Hobnobbed with Tibetan royalty. Thing is, you never question the other man. You let him be a millionaire down on his luck, and he'll let you be a top secret CIA agent. Dregs of the city, law of the world"

Fred drags from a cigarette, and closes his eyes as if reflecting on that immutable law. Then he opens them.

"But I'd rather be out here than back in America. Last time I was in a supermarket, they had the men wearing pink shirts to raise awareness (-- curdling his words) for 'Breast Cancer Awareness Month'"

Cut to shot of geeky men employees, sure enough, wearing pink shirts beneath their blue aprons, going about their business with this insult imposed down from on high

"The women are taking over, 'yakity-yak'. Always (-- curdling his voice) "raising awareness" like a nagging wife. 'Breast Cancer'. 'Spinal Meningitis'. 'Race for the Cure'. FUCK YOU, I want to be left alone. It's like we're a nation of invalids hugging each other all the time, scared of death, like a bunch of fat fucking female seals congregating on a beach. Safety in numbers, so the Kodiak brown bear won't pick you out. 'ROAAAOOORORR!' (Swiping his hand like claws). I'd throw the bear Oprah. Know what I want to do? Put Oprah and all those other talk show hosts in a catapult over a gator swamp and call out all the target shooters. What the shotguns miss, the gators will get. Oprah looks like 500 pounds of bear liver stuffed in a plastic bag!"

The dorky kid from the beginning shifts around, looking uncomfortable. He starts in by saying:

"There's more sexism and misogyny today than ever--"

"How would you know? This would be you at a beach party--"

Cut to shot of "The Cindy Margolis Show", a live syndicated Miami beach party that parades around a bunch of women in bikinis on a lit stage, strutting out on a runway as the crowd undulates forward in the dark like the permissive legions of Sodom & Gomorrah. A wily, pint-sized Cuban announcer darts around the periphery and backstage waiting area, slithering suggestive comments like a horny sailor.

The kid is walking around with his hands in his pockets, not paying attention to what's going on up on stage, or at the people, but preoccupied at the soundboard with gadgetry and blinking lights as sleazy women shake their tits.

"And what about the women around here? Don't you want to get some poontang?"

The kid rises up in liberal ideological rectitude

"That would be racist and colonialist. . . . ."

Fred shakes his head

"GAWWWD" (Fred slaps his palm on the bar) "Get me a whiskey"