Comedy Cabaret I: Awaiting Mac's Ax

Bmwhtly said:

Chernobyl's not in Russia. Ukraine.

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In 1912 it was.

***Takes Ben's bucket away and gives him tepid water in a clean glass that tastes of soap.***

My Life's Story

I was hatched out of a bad plan and too much tequila, back in the 60s. It was a dark and stormy night, combining both the best of times and the worst of times, in an age of reckoning.

They called me Ishmael, which was odd, since my name was Midnight.

Mom was a Manual by IBM, Dad was a ream of recycled white.

Those were heady days! The rum flowed as freely as the prose while polydactyl cats roamed the gardens. I remember as a kid, sitting on the beach watching this old man go out to sea. He'd come back half mad, with no fish to eat but a whopper of a tale to tell.

But finally the day came when I just couldn't bow to the Lord of the Flies. I was of age then, but I'd found this ring and wanted nothing more than to shake off the trappings of my life there on the river. I wanted a quest, and while my best friend suggested we build a raft and pretend, I figured it weren't too irregular or unreligious of me to set aside my fear of flying and visit the tropic of Cancer.

And oh, the things I saw !

Someone killed a mockingbird, and a mad clown started terrorizing the kids. Something wicked was this way coming, so I beat feet outta there riding all the pretty horses I could find.

Passing through this place called Jurrasic Park, I dialed M, for murder, but all I got was vertigo.

Through a comedy of errors that was anything but as I liked it, I landed here, at Absolute Write. In the Comedy Cabaret. Writing my life story of mice and men for a free drink.

My grandparents were having a barbeque and it smelled good. It was the fourth of July weekend and I thought the fireworks were naturally, well for me. So out I came but apparently two months early and only 2 pounds and 11 onzes.

My grandmother said to my father, having had nine children and four miscarries and one stillborn, "Oh Marty, don't get too attached." as they wheeled the isolet by, my lungs apparently pulling back to my spine.

For the next month or so, I was in ICU and doing fine except I needed a respirator. Respirators back in the mid sixties when the Irish could play football exceptionally well, were made of hard plastic and so the tubing broke one of my vocal cord bones, causing my vocal cord to sag into my airway, reducing a 2 lb 11 onz baby's airway to half its already too small size.

The anestisia person who had helped with my delivery had taken a shine to me and stopped by every day to visit. When he saw me turing blue, he knew what to do and set out to save me from an early death. He trached me. That's right, I had a tracheonomy for eight years because of him. It allowed me to breathe without worry but made me extreemly vulnerable to illness, having an opening to my inside without a filter. For the next four months, my parents struggled with coming to visit me in the hospital and phone calls that would say, "She's doing fine." followed by additional phone calls five mintutes later, "Get down here now if you ever want to see her alive."

A nun who served at the hospital saw my parents suffering and took pity. She went to the isolet and picked me up. She carried me out into the unclean germ ridden world and placed me in my mother's arms. "She's yours now. Take her home." the nun commanded. You do not cross the Sisters of the Holy Cross. They took me home. By a year, I weighed twelve pounds.

By the time I was eight, I had grown enough to get rid of the thing.

Grade school was plagued by teasing about having a voice like Darth Vader, as I took deep breaths that were loud until speech therapy helped, but I showed pluck by folding my hand into a fist and saying, "Yeah and this is the force." I even ran track and danced on point for a year.

Somehow I have managed to grow up to be a 42 year old woman with eight children, sitting here surrounded by beauty and writing pieces that make others laugh.

NOW. EVERYTHING IN THIS STORY IS TRUE EXCEPT FOR ONE THING. GUESS WHAT THE LIE IS?

There is more than one fib. I'm 41. I'm surrounded by laundry.

BRAVO!!! BRAVO!!!

Drinks all around!!!

***Snags Ben's bucket from Cindy and replaces it with a small glass of tepid tap water***

HUZZAH!!! HUZZAH!!!

Who's next?

I was born blind. Fortunately, I was well taken care of right from the beginning. Despite the darkness I was always surrounded by other warm and fuzzy people. They were great. I suspect that they were blind too since we always seemed to be in each others way. So, I bumped around with them for a few weeks; we’d wrestle around, play, and just have a gay old time. We’d eventually collapse in an exhausted pile and sleep the day away. We had a swell time. Life was grand! Or so I thought…..

On day, blinding light!!!!! Vision. My eyes were working! As things slowly came into focus I realized that I was in a familiar room but every seemed so strange, so new. Most of all, everything seemed so big! I walked over to the chair and I barley came up to the seat. I went over to the window where weeks before I’d sit sniffing the fresh air and listening to the birds sing. I couldn’t even see out – it was at least 2 feet too high! I rushed over to the door and “ack,” it was blocked with a gate. The latch was impossible to reach.

Things only got worse. My friends were disbanded and I was sent to a home to live with some very strange people indeed. The treated me ok, I guess, but something just wasn’t quite right. I needed my own life and plus the food there was horrible! I had to get out of there so after a few weeks I waited for midnight and got the hell out of there.

I wandered around and eventually spent some time south of the border working for a taco joint. The people were nice but working in front of the camera all day isn’t as glamorous as it may seem. Too many lights and the groupies, pffft, they were all bitches. That gig afforded me some FU money which was nice but it just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I moved to San Fran and became a fishmonger specializing in halibut. Well, I went on fishmongering for a number of years and was actually quite successful. Eventually, I was approached by a young company that wanted to take my fishmongering business to the next level by going “virtual.” I have no idea what that means but it sounded right.

Long story short, I must have hit the wrong button because after many hours of clicking and clicking and clicking I found myself at the door of a bar.
Exhausted, I plopped myself down and the bar.

“Whadda ya have, stranger?”

“Beer,” I replied. “and you can call me Haggis”

***Pulls out ledger book, begins revoking drinking licenses...***

Narrator?

***Yes the narrator said in that snarky manner reserved for Narrators..Oh. My . What is this? Jay picks up a barstool and....HEY......LEMME GO. NOT MY PANTS...NO!!! NOT THE BARSTOOOOOOLLLLLLLL***

Ok. Lemme see...Haggis? No he's up there, we got Muse.....

Hmmmmm...
Ron
RT.
Jeanne.
Auntie Bug.
CRAY
Ben

OH. MY.
INKED!?!?!
TSUKI!!!!???

and Weren (In the Walk in freezer hiding from Tsuki. The end.)

***Hands list to Bernie, then pulls barstool from....OH NO NOT ANOTHER ONE the narrator screamed running from the Cabaret in an unelegant manner***

Here, Bernie. These people can't be served anything other than pureed herring and tepid water until they tell their tales......

Except Del. Del may have all of the....(GAH he's a flipping gull........) Night Train we have in the bar. but it must be boiled with a clove of garlic for 30 min then served tepid.

a guy's wife dies so naturally there is a funeral for her. after the funeral the pallbearers pick up the casket and start to walk out of the church.
in the hallway they accidentally hit a wall with the casket.

they hear a moan from within the casket! the guy's wife is alive.

they get her out and she lives another ten years. she dies (again). they have a funeral for her.

the pallbearers pick up the casket and get ready to leave the church. as they get to the hallway the husband calls out, "watch out for that bloody wall."

Jaycinth said:

Here, Bernie. These people can't be served anything other than pureed herring and tepid water until they tell their tales......

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I sorta think Del would like that.

Haggis said:

I sorta think Del would like that.

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Del would like anything that didn't run away too fast, Lover Boy...

What do you get when you cross ScarletPeaches with a crowbar?





Broken knees, of course.

Jaycinth said:

***Pulls out ledger book, begins revoking drinking licenses...***


Hmmmmm...
Ron
RT.
Jeanne.
Auntie Bug.
CRAY
Ben

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this is, like, totally unfair! i wrote my tale only it turned out to be someone elses. i can't control what my fingers do when i'm working.

i'd like my drinking license back now!

The Chihuahua's Tail

You'd think that growing up without parents would have turned me into some kind of psycho or something, but as you all know, I'm about as normal as they come. It wasn't easy though

...see the blood...it pours...it pours...watch it pour...

I never knew who my father was. My mother, a Catholic priest from Chicago, left me under the care of my Uncle Cleotis, a purveyor of patent medicines and sometimes bible salesman. He didn't want me, and I didn't want him, but neither of us had much choice in the matter. We grudgingly decided to make the best of it.

Life on the road was hard, and we seldom had enough to eat. Once I began preaching the gospel though, all that quickly changed.

Little Reverend Haggis, they called me, and folks would come from miles around, just to hear me do battle with the devil. See, I'd learned the secret of successful preaching: always add an extra syllable to the word "Jesus." It comes out "Jesus-uh," and folks will fall all over themselves just to give you their hard-earned nickels and dimes. It's the truth.

Oh, how they'd fill that collection plate, mister. In every town, in every city. I tell you, we were absolutely rolling in it. Then my voice started to change, and the ride was over. Cleotis dumped me in Rat's Paw, New York, and at age 13, I was on my own.

...they're in the sewers...they're coming for you...hide the axe...

Rat's Paw is, as you know, directly across the Wankum River from Shagher Harbor. And Shagher Harbor is where I saw my first sheep. You can imagine the impact it had on me--a horny 13 year old, already well-versed in all that lamb-of-God stuff. I fell head-over-heels in love. Betty was her name, and before they led her away to slaughter, she taught me the ways of love and life. I'll always have a place in my heart for Betty. And with just a little mint jelly, her ribs were excellent too.

But life is tough. I never did achieve my dream of becoming a shepherd. So now, a bitter and broken, lonely old man, I eke out a miserable existence by collecting returnable bottles and by selling single cigarettes to small children.

...eyes...it has eyes...stick it...stick it...

...mommy...

Cyndi, cerveza, por favor.

Chernobyl's not in Russia. Ukraine.

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Let me explaine. Yes, you are right, in a sense. Chernobyle is now in Ukraine. But prior to the infamous nuclear reactor disaster, it was located, as Jaycinth remembers it, in Russia. In order to clarify this seeming paradox, we must examine the powerfully transformative processes that occur during a runaway fission reaction.
During a controlled fission reaction, the heavy atomic nucleus of an isotope of Uranium splits into fragments. This event releases 100 million to several hundred million electron volts of energy. Now, in Florida, where I live, such an energy release would (hopefully) produce air conditioning. But in Russia, it produces heat. Lots of it. This heat is used to turn water into steam which turns steam turbine generators, creating electricity. When such a system is operating properly, it is a relatively clean and efficient way of producing useable power. But when the water in the system is replaced with vodka, problems will sooner or later become manifest. Even so, this giant Oppenheimer cocktail might have done it's job, had it not been consumed by the staff. Without the cooling effect of an ambient liquid, the heat generated by the fission reaction caused the reaction to accelerate, which in turn generated more heat, and the process began to spiral out of control. It was in the throes of this violent, freight-train reaction that the process of interest to us began to occur. As I said earlier, the fuel for this reaction is an isotope of uranium. And although it is subsequently split during the reaction, it still retains its elemental integrity. But in the heat of this runaway reaction, another process began to occur. As the fission temperatures rose to extremes many times hotter than the sun, the inner concrete containment structure melted and burned away, exposing the nuclear exhaust to the now plasmatic lead that once composed the radiation barrier. When this contact occurred, the lead plasma fused with the fragmented uranium nuclei in an attempt to restore some semblance to the once stable uranium isotope. This fusion created an entirely new element...Ukrainium. Unfortunately, this element creating process, called fusion, is also called an atomic bomb.Therefore, the great quantity of newly formed Ukrainium was instantly blown into the stratosphere by the process that created it. But, being an element composed of building blocks that were once lead and uranium, it fairly quickly fell back to earth, even if it was scattered over a broad area.
When the dust settled and the Russian bureaucrats moved in to determine who to blame for this disaster, the first thing they encountered was the newly formed Ukrainium. That is when the lightbulb turned on (and lightbulbs still turn on there even when the lamps are not plugged in). They called in surveyors, established borders that contained all of the scattered Ukrainium. They then declared the land within these borders to be the State of Ukraine, granted them independence, and told the world that the Chernobyle disaster was in no way Russia's fault, but that the blame fell entirely on Ukraine.
So, you see sir: you are right, and so is Jaycinth. And I am happy to fill you in on the details.

You lost me at explaine...

Where's the funny?

I want funny.

SHOW ME THE FUNNY!

Where's the funny?

I want funny.

SHOW ME THE FUNNY!

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I can't show you that. You'll have to unzip for yourself.

Rllgthunder said:

You lost me at explaine...

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MidnightMuse said:

Where's the funny?

I want funny.

SHOW ME THE FUNNY!

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Well, I liked it. I might even move to Ukranium just to soak up some rays. But you have to remember...I'm not altogether normal, having lived in the Love Canal area prior to it being vacated...and lets not forget DDT, those cool fogging trucks I used to ride my bike behind. Yep, when you grow up contaminated there is nothing like a nuclear disaster to make you feel at home.


Cindy, give me something with a kick...

Hunh hunh hunh hunh...Del said 'love canal'.

Here is a drink with a cherry, RT. I don't know what that thing on the stick is. Toss it out if you want.

I will Survive Remix - Sing It Girls

At first I was afraid, I was petrified.
When you said you had 10 inches, Lord I almost died!
But I'd spent so many years just waiting for a man that long, that
I grew strong, and I knew that I could take you on...
But there you are, another lie,
I was ready for a Big Mac and you've brought me a French fry!
I should have known that it was bulls***t, just a sad pathetic dream
Should have known there was no Anaconda lurking in those
Jeans!

Go on now - go! , Walk out the door,
Don't you promise me 10 inches, then turn up with only 4!
Weren't you a jerk to think I wouldn't find you out!?
Don't you know we're only joking when we say size don't count??!!

[Chorus]

I will survive! I will survive!
Cuz as long as I have batteries,
My sex life's gonna thrive!
I will always have good sex,
With a handful of latex!
I will survive! I will survive! Hey! Hey!

TrainofThought said:

[Chorus]

I will survive! I will survive!
Cuz as long as I have batteries,
My sex life's gonna thrive!

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I can't wait for Cray to see this tomorrow....