Mike is a nerdy intellectual kid, who is working on a science project at home while being menaced by his older brother who is just back from the marines and hates … people by way of self-loathing. Trying to harness the power of cold fusion he accidentally spills some gunk on his shoes rendering them invisible. Mike drinks gunk and is gifted with mad psionic powers. Scott Baio and Mike use his new powers to:

• spy on …’s locker room
• seduce M, the French teacher
• win the all-important football/lacrosse/sculling/basketball match/game
• get rich
• take a road trip to Mexico
• build a robotic … (obligatory sequence of Mike and Scott deciding how big … must be)
• give the evil principal/head of security what for
• form a rock band of ‘cool’ nerds

After the final rock concert denouement where super-Mike shows all the jocks up, he discovers that Jenny his next door neighbour and best friend is who he wanted all along, even though she kind of looks like a string bean and has braces. Final sequence has satellite that’s been reprogrammed by Scott Baio lasering the evil principal’s house (which they’ve filled with popcorn). Mike hugs Jenny; Baio walks off into the sunset with robotic … to the tune of Styx’s Mr. Roboto. “Now if you could only …” he says while the screen freezes on his face doing a Magnum PI-esque eyebrow raise, smiling.

Fade to brown.

In my possession I have the skeledon of a fairy,
I’d say it’s quite small, and a little bit scary.
Every so often it twitches I think,
Whining and moaning and crying for drink.

That bone can be loud with all of its needs,
Singing me songs of my long past misdeeds.
I try not listen but it’s whinging so loud,
I even can hear it wrapped up in its shroud.

Today I did try to wring its damn neck,
And lay it down low amongst refuse and dreck.
In that moment I saw on it’s head with a frown,
A tarnished and crapulent small gold crown.

Then from one of its sockets there appeared a small tear,
for even fey skeletons do have something to fear.
Being discarded o’way in big piles o’ junks,
Or locked down forever in big o’range trunks.

Those bones and I, we are something akin,
Drinking down pints in our well-soiled-skins.
Dead and gone is no worry, getting old is a jest,
But you gone forever a huge weight on my chest.

I think like those bones I could use a good cry,
Wailing and tearing with you in mind’s eye.
Instead I’ll just settle for this small crummy crown,
And go trade it for scratch at a pawnshop downtown.

How about that skeledon, you like a cold head?
Even wrapped in your shroud for a bed.
But really there’s only one thing I want to be true,
Let dem bones be de ones to be thinking of you.