The Ballad of Will Ferrell finished

The lights in the trailer were turned off save for a handful of the high wattage bulbs framing the mirror Will stared into. The disparity in lighting between the blacked out trailer interior and the mirror lights reflecting off Will’s makeup created a soft glow outlining his face. Will stared indifferently at the mirror, looking into his own eyes: beyond the sagging afro and smeared face paint, his skin feeling taut after his outburst, catching glimpses of something, but what exactly?

Will!

The director had entered the trailer without Will noticing, and before he could respond all the lights were turned on; forcing him to lower his head, and chasing any immediate response from his mind.

Will, that was great. I’m not exactly sure what you were going for, but it was hilarious. I really think you’re onto something.

It wasn’t a joke.

You’re goddamn right it wasn’t a joke, it was fucking hilarious. Fortunately someone on set was recording with their phone, so we don’t have to wait for the dailies to come back.

What do you mean someone was recording?

One of the lighting guys had his phone out and was recording you improv. He got pretty much all of it. He already put it on YouTube and the thing has taken off; it’s gotten close to half a million views in a little over an hour. #FerrellFreakout is trending in North America across Twitter and Facebook, on Instagram people are posting pictures of themselves yelling and tagging them #FridayFreakout. Let me read you some of these tweets.

I wasn’t joking, Adam.

“All I asked for was ‘no pickles,’ is that so hard to underst…IHATEYOUIDONTWANTTHISCHICKENSANDWICH! #FerrellFreakout”

“Such a beautiful day outside, glad I’m stuck in rush hour traffic. IHATEYOUIDONTWANTTHISTRAFFIC #FerrellFreakout #sarcasim”

This one is just a GIF of a raccoon trying to cross the street with its head stuck inside a can of ravioli. All it says is “IHATEYOURAVIOLIIDIDNTWANTTHIS #FerrellFreakout #FeralFreakout?”

I wasn’t joking Adam. I mean, I don’t hate you, but I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to do something important. I want to have a message, a real message that’s carried throughout the movie. I want that video taken down. This isn't a joke. That guy shouldn’t have been recording me, that’s not right.

Will, I totally understand, we’re on the same page, but we have to jump on this. It could be great marketing for Funny or Die, or the movie; maybe even a quick spot on SNL when it's released, the monologue practically writes itself. You don’t have to be involved with every aspect, but if we could get another video out by the end of the day, something “candid,” no more than thirty seconds long, we could have a marketing juggernaut on our hands. Just hang out in your trailer for a little bit, start thinking about another freak out, a quick sketch that we could knock out before or after a scene from the movie, we’ll keep the cell phone camera to add to the authenticity; I'll get the writers to knock out a few ideas. We could be looking at five million views by the end of the day easily, fifteen to twenty million by the end of the week. That’s powerful stuff, Will. I’m going to send Maria back in here so she can get your makeup and wardrobe ready. Maybe an hour, hour and a half and we can get back to it; only when you’re ready though, take your time.

Adam didn’t wait for a response from Will before exiting; he swung the trailer door open and stepped out as giddy as a student on the last day of school. Before the door had closed a hand slid in and drew it open gently. Maria approached Will from behind, avoiding his eye contact in the mirror.

Are you ready Mr. Ferrell?

Yeah.

EPILOGUE

Mark was sitting in the back of the classroom. He always sat in the back, but unlike most other times, today he was early; fifteen minutes early to be exact, and no one else had arrived to the lecture hall yet, so he sat in the back row and stared out at the empty expanse. At least one hundred empty seats, probably empty since last night's class over twelve hours ago. Mark wasn't sure of the numbers, but he certainly had never experienced a classroom like this before. The experience quickly became unnerving, escalating rather quickly from curiosity to creepy. Mark suddenly felt like an unsuspecting college student in a horror movie, or an unknowing contestant on a hidden camera prank show. To take his mind off the paranoia he took his phone out and started browsing Facebook.

His News Feed was filled with standard fare for a Tuesday morning, which is to say, not much. He scrolled through what seemed like an endless stream of posts about traffic, waking up early, or pictures of food, the last making him regret skipping the cafeteria and heading straight for class. He switched to YouTube and scrolled through the front page, which was full of videos vaguely related to his search history; he eventually chose a video titled “twirl-a-squirrel.” As he tapped on the video an ad began to load. His eyes went immediately to the bottom right corner to look for the “Skip this ad” banner, but instead saw a countdown timer indicating the ad was unskippable.

The American Cancer Society insignia faded in from black followed by the text “The American Cancer Society has an important message…” Mark understood that these ads were usually contextual and was curious who thought an ad about cancer would be good before a video of a squirrel spinning itself off a bird feeder, but as the introductory text faded out a new sentence faded in providing some clarification: “brought to you by Will Ferrell.” Mark was no longer watching the seconds tick away from the banner timer. As the last sentence faded away, Will Ferrell faded in, looking directly into the camera, wearing a rumpled button-up shirt and jeans, and standing against an all-black background.

Hello, I’m Will Ferrell. Every year there are over half a million deaths caused by cancer in the United States, and more than one and a half million Americans are diagnosed with cancer. Together we can make a difference. Please visit the American Cancer Society’s website at www.cancer.org, and look for the link at the top that says “How Can I Make A Difference.” By clicking on that lin…IHATECANCERWHYDOESITEXISTPLEASEHELPYOUREATERRIBLEPERSONIFYOUDONTHELP.

The video ended with Ferrell wild-eyed, panting, and fading to black as the American Cancer Society’s web address appeared, followed by #IHATECANCER. Eventually the professor walked in, and not long after that a throng of students who all took seats in the first two rows, leaving Mark still unacknowledged at the back of the room. His stomach continued to growl, reminding him of his poor decision to skip breakfast. Before the professor began his lecture, Mark opened Twitter and posted, “why am i up so early. uggghhhhh. so hungry. im about to #FerrellFreakout if i don’t get some waffles. #IHATETHISCLASSWHYDIDNTIGOTOBREAKFAST"

The Ballad of Will Ferrell

He sat in a collapsible director’s chair; hunched over a dog-eared copy of some unjacketed hardback, his elbows balanced on the chair’s armrests, his fingers were knotted, while his thumbs fashioned a platform for his chin. His eyes darted back and forth across the pages, he was reading at a rate he didn’t know he was capable of while his stylist continued to poke and prod at his head. Why can’t I do something like this? I can do something like this, I’m not just a clown, I can be subtle, I will do something like this, what’s stopping me?, I don’t care what people expect, I’m going to do it; the more he read the more critical he became; his thoughts slowly pooling into a lake of indignation.

Ok, Mr. Ferrell, how does this look?

Will hesitated, read to a natural stopping point, and looked up. The mirror was framed by forty high wattage light bulbs that focused all attention in the trailer on him, irradiating every aspect of his face and hair, while seeming to dim his surroundings. His hair had been teased out into a six inch afro: a perfectly shaped crescent; the kind of hairdo only obtained through high paid stylists on movie sets.

I can be subtle, Maria, and poignant, and affecting. I don’t need to yell. I can write stuff. I don’t just make up everything on the spot. I have things to say, important things, funny things, important-funny things, funny-important things. I’m not a clown Maria. I have a voice.

Of course, Mr. Ferrell.

He stood up and walked to the full length mirror hanging on the outside of his closet door, his afro falling right in line with his face paint, blousy, bold-striped, top, red suspenders, and matching parachute pants.

I’m going to show them, Maria, I’m going to show them that I can make sense; I’m going to give them something to think about. I’m not just a fool here to say the first random, or dirty, or randomly dirty, or incredibly, uncomfortably, inappropriately, unpleasantly, nauseatingly dirty thing that comes to mind.

Good luck, Mr. Ferrell.

Before exiting the trailer, Will slipped on the size twenty red pleather shoes lying next to the mirror; as he applied pressure to the heels, he noticed a dog-toy like squeak.

Hey Maria, looks like Fred got the squeakers to work.

---

Will was in the middle of shooting a film called The Ballad of Randy Gunthrie, the story of America’s first homosexual rodeo clown trying to make his way to the top of the rodeo clown circuit. The movie was going to be a scathing attack on right wing conservatives and tea partiers, exploding their conservative social values and exposing their hypocrisies. The scene Will was headed to the set for now involved the first major confrontation between Randy and the movie’s villain, Texas Ted Texas, otherwise known as T, the top ranked bareback horse rider in the nation. The scene involved the oversized and awkwardly shaped Randy executing a series of precision ballet moves after T had been thrown from a disreputable bronco he was unfamiliar with. Embarrassed by the dumping, T disgustedly watches Randy while lying on the ground. After the bronco is penned T is helped up by his cronies, and they confront Randy with a suggestion for a different approach to rodeo clowning:

What’s with the dancing Gayndy? You know this is a rodeo, right, not some public rest stop?

These are very complex ballet moves, T, requiring the utmost concentration, I’m not just dancing all willy-nilly, besides, with the amount of room needed, I highly doubt you’d be able to execute these moves in a public restroom.

Yeah, well, I’m sure you know more about that than me. People come here to see riders, not some fat ass clown doing ballet; all you need to concern yourself with is getting that stud’s attention, jumping in one of those barrels, and staying the hell out of my way.

Stud huh? Didn’t realize you had such affection for the horses T.

Good one gayboy, now you want to be a clown. Hey, I got a better idea of how to make people laugh.

With a jerk of his head T signaled his back up to approach Randy. They grabbed him by the shoulders, wrapped their arms underneath his, and planted their feet in the manure riddled dirt. As Randy struggled to break free from the comically small restrictors T advanced slowly, and with a lightning quick swiftness struck Randy on the testicles.

Ow, my nuts!

The scene ends with T’s buddies dumping a hunched over Randy to the ground, his face landing next to a pile of horse muck, and strutting back to the locker room. After the director yelled cut, Will stood up and beat the dirt off of his billowing costume.

That’s good. Will, we’re going to do the “nuts” line again. I need something a little funnier than just “nuts.”

Ok.

Action.

Ow, my beans!

That’s good, let’s roll with the bean theme, just as many as you can think of.

Ok, sure.

Action.

Ow, my pinto beans! Ow, my black beans! Ow, my baked beans! Ow, my cannellini beans! Ow, my lima beans! Ow, my low sodium beans! Ow, my kidney beans!

Good. Let’s go in a different direction, whatever comes to mind, just a couple more. Action.

Ow, my dick spurs! Ow, my danglers! Ow, my truck nuts!

Ok, that’s good Will, let’s take a break.

The director stepped away from the camera and approached a group of writers who were watching from behind a lighting rig; they all held heavily worn and marked scripts in their hands. The committee formed a circle and began conferencing. Will was left standing in front of the camera, the surrounding lights slowly raising his temperature, beads of sweat forming at the base of his perfectly coiffed afro. He looked around at the rest of the crew, most of which were checking their phones or examining their nails; nobody seemed particularly interested in the spontaneous meeting, and after a few postural adjustments and head nods the whispering stopped and the director returned to his position next to the camera.

Will, we’re going to keep rolling, I want you to spit out as many as you can and we’ll find the best one in post.

Ok.

Action.

Ow, my bits! Ow, my buttons! Ow, my knobs! Ow, my jollies! Ow, my tallboys! Ow, my smallboys! Ow, my Munchkins! Ow, my hedgehogs! Ow, my nuggets! Ow, my berries! Ow, my kernels! Ow, my blinkers! Ow, my pellets! Ow, my BBs! Ow, my Black Eyed Peas! Ow, my apps! Ow, my truffles! Ow, my Cocoa Puffs! Ow, my cashews! Ow, my Jelly Bellies! Ow, my unsalted almonds! Ow, my Milk Duds! Ow, my Tootsie Pops!

That's enough food ones. Try to stay away from name brands, we don't want to have to pay licensing fees for a nut joke. Try to think hillbilly, but liberal-equality-hillbilly. You're from the country, but you're different from all the others, if there was such a thing as a blue state hillbilly that's what you'd be.

Ow, my…..Ow, my…male…vaginas...

Ow, my repressors!

Ow, my...gender pay gaps!

Ow, my…..danglers!

You said that one already.

Ow…..my beans!

We’ve got beans covered, Will.

FUCK YOU HOW MANY WORDS FOR BALLS DO YOU THINK I KNOW IHATEYOUDON’TIWANTDON’TIDON’TWANTTODOTHISANYMORE

The declaration spilled out of Will’s mouth like a torrent of water breaking through a shoddily constructed dam: words jumping in front of one another, jockeying for position, trying to be the first one out, racing to beat the oncoming sobs. Will didn’t stick around to see the crew’s reaction; he didn’t want them to see his frustration, to have to deal with their platitudes of compassion. He ran back to his trailer, using the excess fabric wafting from his forearms to wipe away his tears, unintentionally smudging the face paint he sat in make up for three hours to have applied, his shoes squeaking in stride.