THE STORY OF G.I. JIM. Air Raid Marshal Lileks, treating the pop culture industry as his personal Target, demands a 9/11 movie. Not the crappy TV movie he already got -- a big budget production like Wake Island or The Passion of the Christ.

Of course Hollywood is too evil and traitorous to make such a film, so maybe Jimbo and a couple of his buddies should do it in the backyard with some of that technology he's always creaming over. I can see it now:

The door swings open like at the beginning of The Searchers, revealing an idyll of well-fertilized lawns, gas grills, and Volvos. But something is amiss. In the distance, a column of smoke rises.

JAMES strides into frame and silently surveys the column. In the background his entertainment center is tuned to seventeen news feeds and an old episode of Hoppity Hooper. All but the latter show talking heads, each telling Americans that the attack they have just witnessed is "America's fault," and that, in protest of our even existing as a free society, all network anchorpersons would start wearing Soviet flag pins.

JAMES' fist clenches; his rock-hard abs quiver. Wiping the Bisquick from her hands with her apron, WHATSHERNAME rushes to his side.

WHATSHERNAME: James, you're only one man! What can you do about it?

JAMES: What can any man do who cares about his country? I'ma write me a column!

He strides with grim determination to the staircase. Little GNAT looks up at him.

GNAT: Daddy, I made potty.

JAMES freezes, smiles, ruffles her hair.

JAMES: That's my girl. (quietly, to WHATSHERNAME) Hide her in the tool shed till I get back.

And wait'll you see when the posse catches up with Michael Moore!