A play in two acts by Vincent Brown
ACT ONE
JIM and TOM are somewhere. TOM wants JIM to write about two things: either carrots, or BEES.
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You are a bunch of cunts. You can’t have fun without getting drunk, you can’t get drunk without breaking shit, and you can’t break shit without the same horrible repetitive techno loop stuck on repeat one. Sure, I’m unable to think of a clever way to eviscerate you with words, but that’s because the extent to which you are all dumbasses exceeds my ability to describe. I’m very drunk, and I just watched an episode of “Lil’ Bush”. It was still terrible. How could a show suck so hard that even an intoxicated person wouldn’t be amused by it? Seriously. In fact, I spent some of that time thinking about how funny a name “Gareth Gobulcoque” would be, and I laughed waaaay more at that. I had kind of a bad day for fucking things up. I ate a third of someone else’s bag of popcorn because I thought it was public. I ended a party by comparing the party to a prematurely-born baby that never made it off life support. My comment about how my comment had “finally pulled the plug” did not help.
Barnes and Noble sends me promotional emails, because they know that a) I buy all kinds of crap online and b) I love books. So when a buy two get one free offer came up, I decided to check out the books included in the offer. Unfortunately, it was mostly a blinding array of “chick lit” books, which, if you are unfamiliar with the genre, are targeted at women and contain no plot, vapid characters, poor writing, and open brand-name advertising for things like Coach bags and Maybelline makeup. They are also visibly recognizable by some consistent patterns. Back when I still lived in a dorm room, one of the loser freshmen living in my building decided he could artificially inflate his self-perceived social standing by joining a fraternity. Later on, he proceeded to let a bunch of his “brothers” into our building and the lot of them went about systematically trashing the communal lounge on the first floor as part of their mindless drunken carryings-on (not to mention the obvious noise issue). So, if any readers out there are indignantly asking “what does this guy have against fraternities?”, there’s your answer.
Lots of holidays are retarded. Groundhog Day is the worst. I don’t just hate it because it’s superstitious. Plenty of holidays are superstitious and founded on baseless idiocy. Halloween, Christmas, Easter… But I don’t hate those as much as I hate Groundhog Day, because Groundhog Day is superstitious and boring. All the evil spirits of hell coming to the earth to haunt and torture humans—interesting and awesome. Big guy in red has an unsustainable business plan—interesting and unrealistically generous. Guy gets nailed to a cross and poked with a spear for being abnormally nice—gruesome, but interesting. Groundhog Day is none of those.
As all of us know, the holiday season is a time for stress and violence. Going in for that perfect gift requires a sharp wit, the willingness to do harm, and shoddy, Batman-inspired weaponry. That’s why for Secret Santa this year, I opted to get (read: drunkenly stumbled upon) the perfect gift: a bat-a-rang. Some of you may remember Batman’s all-purpose throwing-dealy in the shape of a bat, others may be Canadian. In any event, an internet Boolean search for ‘generic novelty gift + super hero – gay porn’ yielded that admirable result. I quickly ordered my bat-a-rang from Blade Empire. With over twelve years in the business, surely they could suit my novelty weapon needs. But three days after ordering, this was what I received: Your order is cancelled. We can’t ship to someone else’s house. |
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