MONDO EXTRAS

The Magic of Me!

by Omar G April 16, 2001
Copperfield! Tornado Of Fire

The trick proper begins with a mirror placed behind a big steel platform to make sure no funny stuff is going on. Mike and I stand together on the platform, but not in a gay way. David is all man. ALL man. Now, Mike, I don't know about. He may be "experimenting." Mike and I take the photo, and Dreadlock Boy sticks the Polaroid in his pocket. I pass a drape around Mike and me on the platform. A light inside shines. I scream, the curtain draws away, smoke rises, and poof! We're gone. So gone, baby. Good God, I frighten myself sometimes with the sheer ferocity of my talent. Next we look at the big TV monitor, live from Hawaii. The lackeys raise a sheet, and BOOM! Mike and I are in Hawaii now! Mike runs to the water and goes in knee-high. When he returns, I show off my "TS" tattoo. So. Fucking. Brilliant. If I were British I'd be knighted by now. I then present the photo with "Amber's" name on it. I shove it into the camera. I tell Mike to take a camera to "that guy standing over there." Hey, it's Big Daddy! Mike and Daddy hug. So heartwarming. Ladies. Love me. I go back into the canvas platform, and as the audience applauds wildly and lightning crashes, I COME BACK! Jesus! Look at me! And it's raining! I brought rain with me back from Hawaii! Can I be any cooler? Tell me one thing that God can do that I can't. The lights flash brightly. I take a big bow. Jacob comes up and gives me some mad high-fives on stage. All must fear me.

Oh, Carson Daly says some stuff in between these segments, but since he's only there to attract some young college-aged poontang, I'll just ignore him.

Okay, now. Here it is. The live portion. The part where I make Carson Daly piss his little plastic pants. Carson shows the warehouse on "Pier 94" where I will face a tornado of fire. Carson talks about my safety team. "So here we go. The time has come," he says. Carson also mentions that this may be the hardest thing I've ever done. No, the hardest thing I've ever done is allow a jackass like him to host my special. He's like the guy who hangs out in teen nightclubs when he's 32 years old. After showing shots of my massive fire tornado, all he can say is, "I can tell you, I was in there earlier, and that is one hot fire." As opposed to the frigid, chilly fires that you'd find elsewhere, Carson? Putz. God forgive me for inflicting him on my fans. While I joke around with my Reynolds Wrap-wearing assistants, Carson continues to talk. He makes me want to go ahead and kill myself in the tornado. We show the folks at home the massive turbines creating this F2-size tornado. It's huge, guys. And not at all cheap. I had to sell my vital, fantastic David Copperfield blood to fund some of this. I start putting on my fire-resistant gear, including a white hood, fire gel for my eyelashes and eyebrows (I have to keep my eyes out to "locate the core," as Carson says), fire-resistant straps to hold me in place against the wind. Two guys on the side, looking like Dr. Evil in their foil wrap, are to hold me in place. "This is real fire," Carson says. Good God, Carson. Are you still here? The gas pilots are lit. A bunch of witnesses stand around to make sure I'm going to be nice and crispy. More test shots are shown. A blast of cold smoke is thrown up as a test. I'm holding a remote to control the fire. I stare into the camera as Carson says, "I can't imagine what he's thinking right now." I'm thinking, "CLAUDIA!" Yes, it's true. Every waking moment is that singular thought. I place my hood back on. I nod my head. The smoke begins to rise as a tornado. I push the button and two quick blasts of fire erupt. "Ohhhh!" I moan. The fire suddenly stops, and I fall to my knees. "I'm hot!" I yell, as my slow-ass jerk union assholes take forever to spray me with the extinguisher. As soon as I cool down, my fiery foot is going to be up someone's ass. "Just give me a minute," I say, more calmly, as a tiny window with Carson's ugly mug appears. "I have one word: Unbelievable." Well, I have one word for Carson: "Herpes." Yeah, that's right, Carson. I've been talking to Tara, and that's why she postponed the wedding. We go to a blank screen suddenly as I stumble to my feet, looking very shaken. Oh, don't worry. I'm just a little fried, is all.

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The Magic of Me!

by Omar G April 16, 2001
Copperfield! Tornado Of Fire The next naughty bit is called "Voyeur." It's me walking down the street doing what I always do: Trying to peek into windows in hopes of seeing a naked woman. This time, I totally score: Two attractive ladies are doing the Dance of Lesbonics as I watch through stage windows. Sexy music plays. My rampaging erection has returned two-fold. Boy, is this hot. The two ethnic ladies are wrapped in silk sheets, and writhing around and touching the other as if trying to extract Tom Cruise's home phone number from an orifice. CBS sure liked this one. They wanted to have me go in there and get it on with them, so they could call it "Touched by an A-Hole." But I vetoed that one. I come center stage, and it is they who touch me. Because that is the natural order of things in the world of David. My name is David, and I am the best; all the pretty women wanna feel my chest. See? I rap, too. The sexy women hit a platform on the right side of the stage. They raise a satin sheet, are silhouetted for a moment, and as I pull the sheet, they are gone. Think I'm going to tell you how I did that? Yeah, right. So you can go making attractive women disappear all the time and reappear in your bed? Back off, buddy. These girls are mine, all mine. And it has nothing to do with the floor platform that's moving on stage. Nothing at all. I move to another platform on the left and hold up the sheet, which has a rounded, bulky top (pay no attention to that). I hold it up and it stays there. The shape of two women appears. I pull the sheet, and there they are: Two hotties ready to tear my clothes off. God, I love myself. In moments like this, I couldn't give a damn where Claudia is and which tennis instructor she's boffing. The scene ends with me staring through the windowpane and looking awfully spent. The next amazing illusion brings back Jacob the cherub and a new guy, "Big Daddy," a man who wrote to me telling a sob story about his estranged son. It's fake as all get out (as is the "photo" of the middle-aged man), but it works as the sad violin plays. Big Daddy, who looks like a retired running back, tells the story of how he abandoned his wife and son, Mike, and how now he wants to get closer to the boy, who is now grown. Big Daddy was in the military and spent two months in Hawaii, which he says was "paradise." Now he wants his son to go to Hawaii and see what it's like, maybe even get lei'd. (My joke, not his.) I introduce Mike, a dreadlock-wearing young man in the audience who doesn't seem too thrilled to be onstage talking about his estranged dad. Don't worry, folks. This trick totally pays off. I end up looking like Mama Love, and the women just eat that up. I go back via satellite to "Brett," my point man in Hawaii (and a fantastic coke dealer on the weekends), who has set up a little platform amid all the sand and surf. "There are no trapdoors in Hawaii," I announce, which is complete and utter bullshit, but hey, we're in Memphis. Who's gonna know? These people are just happy to be in any city that doesn't specifically require that you marry your cousin by law. Two lackeys fold out a piece of canvas on the sand while I tell the audience that it's been raining all morning and that it might cause problems. Yeah, problems with me blowing their little minds! All part of the trick, folks, all part of the trick. I then lambaste the cynics who say that this might not be real. It's an illusion. And illusions are real! So bite me. I whip out a steel ball and threaten to throw it into the audience to select my next victims. The audience laughs. Yeah, cracking people in the head with steel is funny. Or so my Mafia-affiliated friends tell me. I throw the near-weightless ball to the audience, and then let the person who caught it throw the ball to select someone else. I have a guy in a striped shirt write his initials, "TS," on my arm with a Sharpie. I ask Jacob to write a big "J," which he does in reverse, on the big postcard. Then I have everybody stand in front of the postcard, take a Polaroid, and then have somebody write on the bottom of the photo. Long set-up, I know, but it's brilliant, I promise. Just stay with me.

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