Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Absentee Fairy Godmother

A Scene in Few to Several Minutes 

(open on a woman on the ground staring up at the barrel of a crackwhore’s gun. She is being robbed and fears for her life. Crackwhore has a rough cockney accent)


I said gimme all your money!


I swear to God I don’t have money, please don’t kill me!

(magical fairy music plays, a Fairy Godmother appears)


 Hello dear! I am your Fairy Godmother and I am here to make all your dreams come tr…oh my what are you doing to that poor young maiden?


I’m getting me livin wage, mind your own business freak!


Oh…perhaps I have the wrong…aren’t you Cinderella?


I used to be called Cinderella, now I go by Weasel, if you don’t mind. Now BUGGER OFF!


Oh dear I must be much later than I thought, you see I was to prepare you for the Prince’s Ball, but the Wizard Pass was jammed, there was an accident off of Fruitridge and I was wand to wand in traffic, you know how it goes.


Get to the point or I’ll paint a new smile on you!


The ball, dear girl! We must get you to the ball, we’ve not a second to lose!


There was a ball, some 20 odd years ago. Changed me life forever. Made me Weasel.


Oh right, I always forget about that human to fairy time ratio. Blergh. But what about your animal friends, didn’t they help you realize your royal worth?


If you’re makin gums about those mice and birds I heard talkin all the bloody time, they landed me in the psychiatric ward if you must know. Turns out hearing animals talk isn’t the best way to seem sane.
(Animals talking is primarily the result of tripping serious balls. See your local apothecary for treatment options.)


Oh no, I am so sorry I wasn’t there to help you. I was going to conjure beautiful glass slippers for you to wear to the ball.


Ah yeah? Maybe then I wouldn’t have walked barefoot to the ball and gotten me some wicked acute cellulitis. Thanks for nothing, now if you please I got some stabbing to tend to.


No! Please!


Wait! You didn’t even get the blueprints for the gown I designed for you? I faxed it to your father’s estate before I left!


Seeing as my evil stepsister’s used the office to fax their buttcheeks to every duke in the kingdom, no I was never allowed in there after me father died. Never saw no gown. Fact, I walked to the ball in my rags and was immediately sent down to the servants quarters and sold into prostitution. That’s where I got me new name, Weasel.
                                                      (Yes. Yes you iz.)


Well I was assigned to help you…become the princess of the kingdom.


Let me get this right, I could’ve been princess of the kingdom, but because you got caught in traffic I’m here murderin for a pence?


Seriously, you are terrible at your job.


Hey hey hey! Let’s not point fingers here! I did my best! There was a sale at Wargstrom’s! Was I just supposed to pass up 50% on conjurer’s robes? That stuff is expensive! So I’m sorry that your life took a turn for the worse because of one little hiccup, but maybe that’s on you. Look at your life, look at your choices.


Nah…I don’t think I buy that. I was your responsibility and you went and pulled a Gus Gus.


Oh my gooood! Gus Gus, how is he?


I ate him! Because he kept talking to me, making me seem crazy! Now, I think you two should reunite, seeing as how now you can fudge things up together.


Now Cinderella, don’t do anything you’ll regret.


Do it. Do it for both of us…or don’t you remember me, Fairy Godmother?



Red. Rose Red. Snow White to some. Infamous in the kingdom as being a total slut
bag because I lived with seven dudes. Maybe if my FAIRY GODMOTHER had shown up I never would have had to find safety in the arms of seven tiny men!
            (Snow White basically sucked at coping P.S.)

You’ve been letting women down all over the kingdom for years.
Now it’s high time for payback. Cinderella, is it? Let’s give this twinkly bitch what’s coming to her.
(they go after Fairy Godmother with a war cry and run her off. Lights Out.)

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Tinkerbell Asshole Toothfairy: A Scene

This is a sketch I wrote. Stage directions are in italics. Hopes and dreams are everywhere else on the page. Also, unicorn semen. There's quite a bit of that, too. Enjoy!

Tinkerbell Asshole Toothfairy

(lights up on a little girl with hideous mouth gear asleep in her bed. Tinkerbell comes in, clearly drunk and really pissed that this is her life now.)


Ok, let’s get this bullshit over with.

(gets out her $ bag, starts rummaging under the girl's pillow, the girl turns over with a sleepy groan right on Tink’s arm, she’s stuck)

You have got to kidding me.

(Tink yanks her arm 1,2, 333333 times. This fatty is not going anywhere, snoring like there’s no goddamn tomorrow. Tink has been through this before. She uses various methods to get the girl to turn over i.e. tickles resulting in the girl slapping Tink in the face. 

She grabs the teddy from under the girl and tries to lead her sleepingly away with it. The girl grabs it from Tink’s grasp and starts humping it. Tink is horrified. 

She realizes she’s gonna have to wake this kid up, takes a swig of the flask attached to her belt and grabs the glass of water by the bed and douses the girl with it. The girls wakes choking and gasping. Tink is nursing her crushed hand.)



Hoo boy here we go. (tries her best fairy voice) Well hello little princess! I am the toothfairy, Tinkerbell! Here to take your molar the Great Tooth Wizard Beyond the Wall!


Toofberry, why does your breath smell like mommy’s when she’s sad?


Oh man, this is bleak. Ok I’m gonna level with you Clearly A Mistake. Can I call you Mistake?
My name is Judy.

Wow, couldn’t care if I tried. You seem like you’ve seen the darker side of things so I’m not gonna bullshit you. Here’s the deal, Mistake, I AM in fact the toothfairy and I’m kind of on a schedule so can we bypass this whole you’re a magical princess that is very special whatnot and get right to the exchange of goods and I’ll be on my glittery fuckin way.

Toofberry, you seem sad. Whenever I’m sad my mind doctor says I should voice my concerns to my best friend Mr. Bear. (she shows Tink Mr. Bear the same toy she has very recently sleep masturbated with)


Yikes. Ok you wanna def jam poetry slam this nonsense? Fine. You ever been in love, Mistake?

Well, I love my mommy and my daddy even though they make mad sounds at each other most times. And my stupid brother, even though he does weird things to my Barbies while he calls himself Dexter.


Soooo are we talking about you or are we talking about me, Mistake? Jesus, selfish much?


Sorry, go ahead.


Ok, so there was this guy, Peter. And I should have known better, everyone was always sayin “Tink, what are you doing, ditch this guy, he’s clearly never going to grow up” and I was like “but you don’t KNOW him. And all my cd’s are in his treehouse, so it’s complicated.” But long story short he leaves me for this superslut named Wendy who only wears nighties!


She sounds mean.


She WAS mean! You have no idea, Mistake. The shit I put up with. I mean I crossed shanks with pirates for that d-bag Peter. And what’s the thanks I get? Fucker can’t even clap his hands to keep me alive at the end. I mean granted that’s something I made up to feel validated, but still!


My mind doctor says the only strength you need is the strength you find within yourself.

GAAAAYYYYY. Seriously? That is such epic crap. If  I had been smart I would’ve helped Hook take over Neverland. I coulda been something. Instead I’m here scraping for incisors trying to get a decent commission. Speaking of which let’s get this deal done with. Where’s the goods?


Oh my mom took my teef and flushed them down the toilet. She said that’s where fairies live. It’s funny because her name is Wendy too!


Wait, her name is Wendy. Mistake, tell me, do you ever hear WHY your parents are fighting?

Oh I don’t really know, sometimes I hear them yell about thimbles and lost boys. But I think they’re just talking about my brother. He might be gay.


Well…that is interesting. You know, Mistake…I like you. I’m gonna give you something to put in your mommy’s drink and once she drinks it you’ll be a fairy too and you can be glamorous like me and come live with the fairies. Would you like that?


Live in the toilet?


NO WE DON’T LIVE IN THE TOI…ok no, nooooo, Mommy got that part wrong. We live in a palace where no mommies or daddies can tell you what to do and everyone makes beautiful dresses for your Barbies. Doesn’t that sound nice? Now take this and put in your mommy’s juice in the morning, ok?


OKAY! I know that juice because it says Vodka on the side!


Dear God, ok never say I didn’t do you a favor Mistake. Now sleep well, I’ll see you in the palace tomorrow.


You got it Toofberry! This is my dream come true!


Mine too, Mistake. Mine too. (takes a swig of her flask)

(Lights out. Yikes guys.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Know Name Love

The general whatnot of this post is as follows:

Knowledge shmoledge, just fucking DO something (constructive though, don't be a dick).

You need not read further.

But by chance you do, I have reasons. I've been learning a lot about improvisation, that "least respected, but by far hardest-to-do-really-well" forms of theater. See, while this form of theater prides itself on "not having rules," one will surely fail without some asshole-proof guidelines. One guideline of which is "Know. Name. Love"

              (Oh shit. Know Name Love? I think I saw them at Burning Man.)

It's useful but not as simple as you think. The premise is as such: Whatever improvisational game you enter you establish by knowing (family, friend, coach, doctor, etc) your partner, naming (Jim, Joe, Beth, Normal Name McGoo) them, and loving (not necessarily in the biblical sense, but maybe sometimes if it's apro-status) them.

Mr. Rogers (yeah, I'm bringing up Mr. Rogers. DEAL. WITH. THAT.) said the reason he went into television was because whenever he turned on the TV as a child it was filled with angry people that were mean to each other and he wanted to provide an alternative. In essence, Mr. Rogers wanted to Know Name Love the pants off of the television watching masses. And I like that.

Keep in mind this was when TV was almost just invented and they just hadn't figured out The New Girl/Friends best friend-roommate-romantic interest format yet.

                (Hey, if it it again 10 years the old adage. Right?)

Arneways. Not a typo. Know Name Love. It's hard because if I can't remember someone I have just mets' (wow I am so aware that apostrophe does NOT go there but it is a mystery to me as to where it does) name 10 seconds after they tell it to me IRL, than far be it from anyone* to assume that I will remember it in a high stress situation onstage doing things that are things that lead to sometimes laughter, but most times panic attacks.

Know Name Love.

Deep, yo.

I've been using this on the day to day in non-stage relations, and the pay off is astounding. Mostly the last part, Love. Making an effort to love the people you're not necessarily attune to is that a trip. People actually respond positively to your love for them??? What sorcery is this? Not right away, but gnaw away with your love molars (and DON'T be sarcastic about it. You think you're Regina from Mean Girls? Well, YOU'RE NOT and even if you were, that bitch got hit by a bus, people tend to forget that) they'll get that sexy infection that is your friendship eventually. Guaranteed.

Know, Name, Love. I lost the original point somewhere early on, but I would hope you're used to that by now.

*yeah I thought it was "for" as well and guess what, we're both dumb. Go here

*IRL- I didn't put an asterisk next to it because I didn't want to embarrass you. IRL means In Real Life. Don't go into any other internet forum without this knowledge.

Friday, February 22, 2013

Ender Will Save Us All

Today we dabble on the subject of literary heroes. Both the writers and the heroes they create.

I'd like to focus on Orson Scott Card in this nonsense doodad I call meh blog. First off let me say I know little to nothing about anything and I only have my naysay opinions and life experiences to run off of so keep that in mind while we delve, you and I.

In light of the film coming out of Ender's Game there's been a lot of upheaval involving the gay community concerning Orson Scott Card's clearly dickish stance on gay marriage and all things not right wing (I've linked his essay here but be warned it is absolute puke status, I could barely get through it). This was a fairly recent discovery on my part, probs within the last few months that one of my literary heroes was a bigot and using the funds I had provided as a fan and follower to finance hate. By no means am I okay with this. HOWEVER. And this is a big however, so much so that I feel the need to move on to a new paragraph...

No matter how much of a shithead a person is in life, I believe everyone has something positive to offer the world. Ender's Game changed my life. It changed my perspective in a very positive and reinforcing way and made me stronger. I will never let go of that. That book and it's message was a gift to me. I had a hero, not just Ender but Bean and Petra and Nikolai and Alai and the list indeed goes on. So many characters had such vibrant redeeming characteristics all making up for each other's losses that I couldn't help but think what a brilliant piece of work it was. Like dayum.

I could metaphorically jizz all over this post with praise for that book, but I won't because it's besides the point. The point is, Card gave me a hero, NAY, several heroes I could look up to and if I had never known that their author and creator was such a dillweed, I know my reverence for that series would never have been called into question. But I do know. So what do I do. Is the question. Is the point.

I turmoil. I know that's not a verb but go ahead and deal with it. I stopped eating at Chick-Fil-A, I stopped shopping at Urban Outfitters (I've recently discovered this was a personal contribution by their CEO and was not directly affiliated with the store as interwebbed here), I stopped thrifting at Salvation Army, but this one gives me pause. This one lacerates my feeling box. Because it means more. It's like someone telling you Frank Miller is a pedophile.

That. Would. Suck.

And he's not so cool your cakes.

I don't even know how to end this post because I don't know how I feel anymore. I like to weigh my judgments cautiously in spite of my 5 year old demeanor. I don't feel like anything I have read up to this point by Card had any semblance of hate toward any group be it the majority or minority of the world. Every message has been an idea of hope, intelligence, and persistence. As one of my other positive influences would say "Ideas are bulletproof." Oh god no one ruin Alan Moore for me please.

Ideas are universal and owned by no one (thank fucking God). They live inside all of us and are bred from each other from the beginning of time, stemming from each other and growing with wild abandon. Ideas can be bad and good and as long as they affect you and make you think about your life...well then be grateful for that. I'd rather sit here and stew and contemplate my own stance on how I spend my meager time on this earth than waste it by...ya know...not doing that...or whatever.

Use your time wisely. There, that's sage. I did it. Blog over.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Webster's Dictionary defines the Manic Pixie Dream Girl as a specimen of the female genome generally ranging between the ages of 15-29, who participates in socially unique behavioral customs such as dreamy doe eyed optimism, insatiable curiosity for the absolutely banal, bouts of magical whimsy, unattainable relationship status, quirky colored hair pigment that constantly changes in design, a deep emotional attachment to bands you've never heard of, and the inability to be on time to any event ever.

 (I should clarify that "Webster's Dictionary" is a collection of legal pad pages on which I make up things about things and write them down in crayon and magazine letter cutouts and have named Webster. I also apply Lisa Frank stickers of dogs riding skateboards wearing sunglasses wherever necessary)

                                                         (They're necessary a lot.)

Manic Pixie Dream Girls are not new news, but in fact have existed for centuries in both literary, cinematic, and IRL status. Let's take a look at some of the most well known of those button nosed, batshit crazy lil buckets. I'll refer to them as MPDG's for the rest of the post.

1. Juliet (Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare)

 Arguably literature's first Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Juliet really went balls to the walls when it came to living (and dying) up to her MPDG title. Love at first sight is as common as the cold for these girls. Srsly, give her an emo'd out jobless loser (Romeo) and you might as well have hit the self destruct button in her brain. And of course she friendzones Paris, the guy that has his shit together and is actually deserving of her.

Friendzoning (see footnote) is a common phenomenon amongst the MPDG's, a weapon they use often and without pity.

2. Clarisse (Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury)

The very first time we're introduced to Clarisse in the book, Guy Montag asks her how old she is and she whimsically replies, "I'm seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane." Yeah...that's a major MPDG red flag right there.

A lot of the rhetoric that spews forth from a MPDG will cause a knee jerk "Seriously, what the fuck are you talking about" reaction. One might even think drugs had something to do with it, but don't be mistaken, these girls are just high on the dangerous amounts of quirky radness they embody.

Clarisse goes on throughout the book to babble about how good the rain tastes, and totally mind rapes Guy Montag with that most generic and ethereal of MPDG inquistions... "Are you happy?"

                            (And then she gets her capricious ass hit by a car. Typical.)

3.Bella (Twilight by Stephanie Meyer)

Ugh...the Worst. I can't even....Just...No.

4. Kirsten Dunst (Every Movie She's Been In Ever)

This is in an interesting one because not only is Kirsten Dunst consistently portraying an MPDG on film, but I'm pretty sure that's just who she is IRL. That's why she's so good at it. Let's review her rolodex shall we: friendzones Peter Parker but totally hits it when he's Spiderman as Mary Jane, the title The Virgin Suicides speaks for itself, she dances on a bed in her undies, high as pie, and also friendzones Mark Ruffalo in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Elizabethtown, Crazy/Beautiful, Marie Antoinette, MelancholiaTHEY'REALLTHESAMECHARACTER, this whimsical, unattainable, pretty creature that you're not sure if you want to make sex to or study for science!

(Don't be fooled: The clothing choices of a true MPDG are meticulous. It took hours for her to pick out which shirt to not wear a bra under, and which granny panties were weird, but not weird enough for you to lose your boner)

5. Clementine Kruczynski (Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind)

Says the following:

"Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours."

This should be the anthem of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. As rehearsed and fake as it is, it really rings true to the core of the problem.What's so very sad about this certain type of girl is that the reason she exists, in all her flawed glory, is because guys want her to. Guys want this type of girl, so that's what a faction of girls became. She's the alternative to whatever the "norm" and whatever the "abnormal" is. She's right in between, and the reason she's so messed up is because she didn't define herself for herself, she defined herself for other people, stupid adolescent guys specifically.

But there's hope...while the following girls still have a tinge of MPDG to them, there's a meatier interior that makes me think humanity might not be lost if this is the trend of what girls aspire to be.

The Anti-MPDG League

1. Katniss (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)

Badass with a bow and arrow, provides single handedly for her fam, and even though she's got a little weird MPDG love triangle goin on, she deals with cold harsh realities (fictional...realities) when it comes to love and responsibility to ones partner. Very high five.

2. Hermione (Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling)

Girl can weild a book and drop some serious knowledge like nobody's biznass. Plus, she totally could have hit it with HP, but she sidestepped that emotional landmine and married the dependable ginger. Good on ya, Herm.

3. Any Ethnic Disney Princess

If I've ever seen a case of reverse racism it's right here. Seriously? Mulan, Pocahontas, and Jasmine all get to be bad ass bitches with their military training, hunting and nature skills, and tiger wrangling abilities and the white girls get...what? singing like angels to woodland creatures?!?! Because THAT'S really gonna help us in the zombie apocalypse. Total rip off. Not to mention Lilo gets to shred some serious gnar (surfing), and Rapunzel gets to...wait, what does she do? Oh that's right BRUSH HER LONG ASS HAIR. Unbelievable.

(although I did just watch Brave, and being super pale and Irish with an affinity for archery....I'm actually pretty content Disney-wise.)

So that's where we're at. It was the not-so-best of times. It was the not-so-worst of times.


*Friendzoning- the act of metaphorically chopping a dudes wang off and keeping it in a jar on her mantle. He sticks around in the hopes that one day she'll realize what an awesome dude to her he's been. She wants him around because he does awesome stuff for her and she's pretty sure he knows it's never gonna happen between them because she's way not into it, so why broach the subject right? Neither party is honest about their feelings and both are incredibly stupid for participating in such idiotic behaviour.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

A Housewife's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse

NOTE: this might read a little weird because it's actually a sketch I wrote. For optimal effect picture it as a commercial done in a crackly sepia tone. Everything in italics is stage directions. I thought it'd be funny to contrast the horror of a zombie apocalypse with the bizarre concentration on inconsequential details that 50's housewives embodied. So that's what this is. Enjoy. Or don't. I DON'T EVEN CARE! Just kidding, I hope you like it.

                       A Housewife's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse

(Leave it to Beaver music plays and fades out as a woman dressed like a 50's housewife comes out, very over the top 50's informercialesque)

Hi there, I'm Becky Sue Turner, and I'll be giving you helpful housewife tips on surviving the impending zombie apocalypse with a style and flair that only forward thinking women like us can handle. Well, that's if our husband's will allow it (she winks)

(a screaming girl on fire runs across the stage)

Jeepers! It sure is hot out here isn't it? That's due to the city collapsing in flame and widespread panic and pandemonium (she laughs charmingly). Let's take this shindig inside, afterall, most of your housewifely apocalypse duties will take place in your home or makeshift shelter. Before you go in grab a couple of dead non zombie corpses to take in with you. They should be easy to find and believe me, you will be grateful you did it later!

(she walks in the house)

The first and most obvious thing you should be tending to is the location of your husband and child (lights up on husband and Timmy, playing chess as in a still life painting). Once you find them cut open the corpses you've found and slather that carcass all over your bodies (they do). You see, the smell of death will let those mean old zombies pass right by you (an oven ding sound) Op! But don't forget that fresh baked pie! Not only will the zombies pass right by the smell of food but your family will enjoy the hearty treat!

Next, it's time become affiliated with your weapondry. (She grabs a Marlin .44 Magnum for herself as well as a small pistol) Most ladies of the house rightly leave this job to their husband, but duty calls in dire circumstances and on this day of the living dead even little Timmy gets a weapon! (she hands Timmy the pistol)

Timmy: Gee thanks Mom!

Housewife: You're welcome Timmy!

Since you are the perfect housewife and mother, you obviously have a stocked General Electric dual doored refrigerator with the Easy Shield backup generator (an ooooh from the studio audience)I know!

There should be no need to ransack any of your neighbors houses for at least a few weeks. But since you are so well prepared be warned, this makes you a target for any underprepared neighbors who just didn't have your good sense or style (we see a woman in ragged clothes and a knife trying to sneak in) And if they do try to enter your home (sees the woman, blows her away) what a wonderful opportunity to show that bitch Tammy and her award winning garden that YOU are in fact, the perfect housewife, and she's well, zombie quiche! (the family laughs, they find this hilarious)

                                                            (Mmmmmmm! Quiche!)

Now that you're fortified in your home with plenty of food it's time to fill up that bathtub with water. This is for when the town is falling to shambles and water to everyone that is still alive gets cut off and millions suffer from dehydration. Talk about a not-so-wet blanket! (She laughs again, a little longer and more menacing this time)

(We hear a little girl zombie moan and come onstage, she starts eating what is left of Tammy, the neighbor)

(the housewife gasps as if a guest for dinner has just rang the doorbell)

What a treat! I hear our first zombie! (She goes to the door grabs her gun ready to shoot, opens it, and sees it's a little girl. If it wasn't for her rotting flesh, she'd be downright adorable.)

Awwww, it's just a wittle fing! (looks back at her son throwing a ball up and down, bored as hell, looks back at the zombie)

When the correct opportunity arises it's important to think about the other aspects of life that will keep your family healthy and happy. Like enterainment. Timmy sure would get bored after awhile without a playmate, and take note that zombie children are much more docile than their adult counterparts. (takes a severed arm and plays fetch with the girl zombie)

Go get it! See? What a little darling. Zombie children can be hours of fun for your little one if imprisoned properly.

(throughout the next set of dialogue Timmy is playing with the zombie girl who is now on a leash being held by the mother. He plays keep away with various body parts he found outside from Tammy and then "tag")

You'll need a good strong collar and leash, plenty of body parts as treats, and a firm set of ground rules for Timmy, Tommy, or Little Johnny. He needs to know that having a zombie is a huge responsibility and that if he doesn't give it constant attention and clean up after it, well then you just might loosen that leash! (She does, the zombie lunges forward at Timmy and he screams and darts away)

(mother and father laugh hysterically)

Housewife and Father: Ohhhhh Timmy.

(Timmy laughs nervously)

(they go back to playing. A 50's love song plays. Father starts teaching Timmy how to waltz with his pet zombie...he and the zombie start to make googly eyes at each other, granted that she still pulling against the leash that Father is holding, trying to bite Timmy. Nevertheless, a look of love in both their eyes)

Do remember that a zombie pet can't last forever. Eventually as he crosses into manhood, Little Timmy will get those all too natural urges, and with you and his pet zombie as the only "females" around...well, you can imagine the kind of rock and hard place that puts you in. (while Timmy is distracted she takes the pet zombie out back, puts a gun to the back of her head while the zombie is busy eating a treat)

If you have any reservations about going through with this particular extermination because you've become attached to your pet zombie, just remember, the perfect housewife is only as good as the years of denial she's trained herself to be happy in (bang).

The last and most important thing you must remember as a housewife during the zombie apocalypse is to stay calm. Nothing will kill you and your family quicker than nerves and jitters! So sit back, relax, and wait for the world to end and then start all over again. Because I can guarantee, when it's time to rebuild humanity out of the broken shambles it will become, it's going to be up to you as a woman to do all of the work, and then give all of the credit to your alcoholic husband who's been banging corpses whenever he thought you weren't looking (she looks back at her clearly intoxicated husband, who is humping Tammy's corpse and giving his wife a thumbs up. She raises her eyebrows in disdain, looks back at the audience and gives a half hearted thumbs up in response)

Happy Apocalypse! Join us next time for helpful tips in a segment called Starting Over: Life After the Apocalypse While Going through Menopause. I'm Becky Sue Turner, let's kill some bitches.

(Leave it to Beaver music fades out)

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The Anti-Writer Writer

I am not a writer. Contrary to the words you are seeing on this page, the fact of the matter is, I have no business here. Or in any literary writing circle for that matter. I hold a deep, and I mean DEEP, almost religious regard for writers and the sanctity of the written word. So why would I fuck with it so relentlessly? you may ask...and the answer is...because I need to fail. I need to write in an environment where I can truly, wholeheartedly FAIL. Because, dear reader, as I have a sneaking suspicion there's only one of you...failing is the only way you begin to get better at things, and then eventually get good at them. I truly believe this and I've come, as an adult, to relish in my failures. You have no idea how empowering failure can be. See it as stepping stones leading to that promised land of your hopes and fanboy (or fangirl, we're equal opportunity here) dreams.

I belong to a professional (meaning I get paid for it, not that I'm actually great or even good at it) sketch comedy group and something that is encouraged among us is to write sketches for which a few hundred people a week will pay to watch. Nothing introduces you to failure like the prospect of a few hundred people NOT laughing at the shit you find hilarious. Oh I'm sorry Mr. Babies Pooping on Animals Isn't Funny Enough For Me. You can just pick up your Too Good For Me Stick at the door and bid me a fuckin adieu.

                               (Hilarious Baby Poops on Hilarious Dog in 3....2....ComicGold1)

I honestly don't know what a Too Good For Me Stick entails, but it does not bode well in my mind.
(maybe a candy cane of sorts? cuz it's all into itself but it's also just a stick, ya know? and you're like god, get over yourself candy cane, we get it already.)

As I attempted the foolish endeavor of writing sketches that real live people will watch, a question entered my mind and then continued to, respectively, blow it. Truth shrapnel...just... everywhere.

How do comedy writers do it? And I mean the weekly basis wheelhouse of shows that are on such tight production schedules that those actors don't see their families for months at a time. I always hear, or read, stories about writers being at work til 4am. That's such a writer clock out time I always hear. 4am. And it strikes me as odd. Not quite midnight, not quite dawn. Just riding in between. A big middle finger to the convention of sleep cycles. Seriously, read Bossypants by Tina Fey or Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? by Mindy Kaling. Not only are those books the absolute tits to begin with, they totally back me up on the 4am thing. Anyways, seriously, how do they do it??? The sheer volume of hilarity and brilliance? I mean I know sleep deprivation goes a long way in comedy, but that can't be all. That can't be the key. These people literally have a constant set of jokes, and scenarios, and willy nilly scenes they can just pull out of their bumholes at a moments notice.

                                          (Lesson #1 in Not Being a Douche: Buy This Book)

                                                  (But seriously? Also buy this one too.)

It causes me copious amounts of chagrin (Jesus, I hate that word but whoopty friggin doo if I'm not gonna go ahead and use it anyway) to think the obvious answer: These writers spend years and years and years of their life devoted to an art form that has shaped the way they think of things and causes them to be better equipped than your dumb ass (or our dumb asses, to be more precise) to come up with jokes and interesting stories at a moments notice. But THAT...I the absolute truth. There is no magic about these writers. Yes, they all have talent, else they wouldn't be getting paid a ridick amount of money to do they job they are doing, BUT I would be willing to bet something they have a lot more of than talent is really bitchin work ethic.

I have bitchin work ethic. I do. I honestly think that's the majority of the reason I could be deemed as somewhat successful at what I do. Or I guess, what my definition of successful is. I make barely enough to get by, but I do it by doing what I absolutely love. So it's important to realize that there are straight up Choices to be made in your life (yeah, I capitalized that C, you wanna fight about it?).

There's a possibilty that I was born a shark eyed stock market broker and I could be breaking a mil this year or whatever the crap rich people say. The fact is, I chose the ideal, the dream. I'm that poor kid that's stupid excited about her mud pies and playing pretend. And you're like "damn, that kid is crazy" and maybe she is....maybe she is....but man is she happy.

Quid pro ...crow? That can't be right. Visa vie...jesus, curse Google for being unavailable in my time of need! THE POINT IS...I just need to work harder ...and writing. And then I won't suck so much at it.