Sight Unseen: An Ignorant Plot Synopsis of Amsterdam

Amsterdam Movie News & Updates: Everything We Know – Bobby 24

 DISCLAIMER: I have not seen the film.  This synopsis is merely my best guess, based off of the trailer and my flabbergasted intellect.  Also, the author is in the throes of a fever and would apologize for the incomprehensible stupidity of this synopsis if only he really was apologetic.  He isn't.

The year is much earlier than this year, and a whole crapload of people are dressing according to the times.  Their times, not our modern times.  This is key.  Intrigue begins when an old white fart is found dead inside some sort of package.  Remember, since this is their time and not ours there is no electronic tracking of packages.  Even Bezos was calling people on the roto-dial to inform them of delivery times.  Bezos is old, so this works.

A very upset Milton is beyond upset.  As an importer/exporter/mortician this is bad for business.  Old timey business, not out modern timey business.  "Darned if I know what to do with an old white fart in a box," he speaks.  He's tipsy.  Happy hour at Double Fisters was just a few unhappy hours before this, and Milton likes his four fingers in both hands.

Just then a one-eyed doctory white guy, a black guy, and a brunette walk into the bar, and the bartender doesn't know the punchline to this joke, so they are kicked out.  On their dismal walk away from Double Fisters, they hear the commotion of the fart in the package, and think that perhaps there could be some sort of financial opportunity to be had with all of this.

Feigning disinterest, they then appear partially interested before reverting back to standard disinterest.  This roller coaster of curiosity or whatever throws Milton off guard, and they know they have him where they want him.  Coming up with a story about a sick aunt in Australia and needing to catch the bus before five so they can wire her money before the pharmacy closes so she can get what she needs from a disgraced Egyptian pharmacist before her cough returns and she has to let the cat back in before it forgets it's got the microfilm with the password in its tag and then they are all locked out of the account and need to call in the dodgy theatre producer who is just super into cuckoo clocks and has to sanitize the green room because those darned teenagers threw a party in there and one of them even got sick and spat up sick all over the Persian rug that had once been deemed to hold some investment value but then that deal soured and it turns out it wasn't Persian at all and some goof in Kentucky made it on a dare from a friend who bet him a pint that he couldn't loom a facsimile of upscale floor decor and all of this leads us to why they were even in this in the first place.

Milton thinks about their story, and he gets it.  He's been there before, and boy is it all a headache. "Take the package, dude," he speaks.  Dude, who is the one eyed guy, knows that this body will really tie the room together if they can get it in the right house.

Then the police show up, and want to know who just got killed, because apparently a murdery event happened and darned it if nobody hasn't even not heard about it just yet.  After they are asked a bunch of questions by the fuzz they say that the packing slip confirming them as the package’s rightful owners of the package is headed this way on a train leaving Boston and 4:35pm, travelling at a rate of fifty miles an hour while a plane leaves Huston at 5:87 travelling at a hefty bit more hours per mile and that Jacob can hold five apples in one hand, eight apples in his bag, and one duck in his hat and how many lingonberries could he pick an hour if he was only fed eighteen calories the day before and his tasks eat an average of 0.6 kilojoules of human energy-par-equity per hour by metric standards by Eastern Standard standards before averaging for EASL (Excitement Above Sea Level) in imperial standards, so how many duck halves does Jacob own?

Traumatic memories of grade seven mathematics flood through the detective's head, and he doesn't remember BEDMAS or even how to solve for y.  "Good question," he speaks.  He motions that he can then let them go on the merry way, and heads to Double Fisters.  The only math he wants to do at this point is how many fingers of whiskey can he hold in each fist.