Factual inconsistencies in the 1988 Yahoo Serious Film “Young Einstein”

Albert Einstein was from Germany, not Australia.

A Special Time and Place Called Outside Bobby's Tap

It’s one in the AM after a most successful Thursday evening at the old Bobby’s Tap.
Some son of a bitch turned the fucking lights on about a day ago, time to go. "Suck em up, we got to blow." says the Bobby-Man, the first thing he’s done all night in any manor that resembles timely.
Chairs start hopping up on their respective tables, some odd and empty bar grows closer to your party.
Looking down, there’s just a lonely lime looking back up from a glass that was full just a moment ago, or was it half full?
One more dollar into the juke box to hear one more tune. Sorry bro, 'Thunder Road" one more time.
"Next time...", "Tomorrow..." "Later today..." Let’s affirm the plans you made tonight, that end at morning’s light. "Don’t worry, we’re going somewhere next, right?"
You do your best Dean Martin walking out the door, the cold air hits you as the asphalt changes from floor.
Oh, there’s Sandy, pukin’ off of Denis’s car. Time to fire up the old Oldsmobuick.
You don’t close the door, cause your not going anywhere. Annie just left out the ally, turned the wrong way, she’ll be at the Lincoln St. light for a while. It's on a timer you know.
You make your way over to that special place round back. The place you make it to at one AM every Thursday night. It’s Friday morning somewhere, not here. You can lean against the dumpster and wiz upon the bricks.
I sure hope all the cardboard is folded. I wonder how many BTU's I'm losing, you think in total seclusion.
It’s one AM and gone are all the jerk-offs. Now they wander round the parking lots of their apartments, prodding the skies for reception. Welcome to the "in crowd" you fuck. Don’t catch pneumonia.
The sound of that Olds rocket singing to the tune of forty-five hundred RPM’s says it’s time to shake the drops off your boots.
With a flick of the ankle you rock to the right, the high idle cam has set the mood for tonight. Wait a second...
Fuel fuel fuel, ignition, rumble rumble, roar, slow down, putter around, next instruction please.
Jim’s got a dead battery, roll him over to me. Cables are in the back. Hey, Annie just drove past.
Then there’s Raymond, asking around for a penny to set the choke on his bike. Look at him sifting through ashtrays and seatbelt nooks, like some Turtle Wax beaner. What the hell?
I mean, the guy should have a washer or something tied to his fuel line or somewhere. Fucking space cadet. In deep retrospect, should I judge? You bet your balls.
Sandy appears in the back seat, taking up its entirety. She bothers not with closing the door, her presumed entrance.
"You’re a son of a bitch." she yells. I do hate Sandy.
Jim’s movin’ now. Movin’ towards me. "Sorry man, the hand break is broke. You aren’t gonna use your brights tonight, right? Chill." Yeah, that’s just what I planed to do.
PD rolls in. We must look like some freakish midnight car show with all our hood at attention. Only a second last call could keep us here, less a shot comes from the motel next door.
Nothing excites the blood of a drunk man like the spilt blood of a dead man. Who done it? Elementary my dear Watson, or are we gonna have to call in the Jr. High?
That was funny. That was funny five miles ago, now we’re crossing the centerline. Man everything’s closed.
I’ll stop at White Castle, but only if the chicken rings burn the fuck out of my mouth. Must keep eating.
Oh shit where’d that cop come from? Close an eye and pick a lane. Or is that just Allen in his Impalla?
Frontage road, should I take it? Wait, where are we going? Hell, time for the home. If we’re going there, I’ll be waiting, just you wake me up.