We're pleased to now be able to offer free copies of the transcripts of Tri Epsilon's daily press briefing, starting today.
[beginning of transcript]
MR. ROBOT: Yeah, yes, let's get started, right. We were just talking--people come up to me, they come up to me all the time, and they say, Mr. Robot, how do you do it? [pause] How do you have America's premier blog-based fraternal organization, a blog with over 2,500 posts? People, you know, people want to know the secrets. So people ask me, how do you do it? They say, what's the trick? And then I look at them and I say to them [pause, Mr. Robot smiling to camera] I say, if you knew that, you'd be 3E, right? [laughter, cross-talk] You'd be 3E, wouldn't you? And we wouldn't be having this conversation. That's what I tell them. OK, OK, let's have some questions. Yes.
REPORTER ONE: Yes, thank you. How will the 2020 SEC Pick-off be affected if the college football season is delayed or even cancelled?
MR. ROBOT: Well, I'll tell you, Tom, that's something that we're talking about and thinking about and that we're considering very carefully. The Pick-off is the most important financial consideration for a lot of people, it keeps a lot of businesses in business, if you know what I mean. That's something you have to consider, thinking about all the, all the ramifications. And obviously it's one of 3E's most cherished traditions, and we take tradition very seriously around here. So, we're looking at it. We've got top people looking at this and it's something we're taking very seriously.
REPORTER ONE: If I can, a follow-up: Any chance that you might just have Bowl Pick Them 2020 and not the 2020 SEC Pick-off, or vice versa?
MR. ROBOT: Again, that's something we're looking at. I'd like to be able to tell you, hey, we're doing this, this, and this. But right now things are uncertain, they're uncertain and so we're just going to have to see where we are in a few months. Just saying that we're having a spring Pick Them, that's unprecedented. How would you even do the labels? But these times, we're in unprecedented times, so we're looking at things. OK, who's next, OK?
REPORTER TWO: How is 3E complying with social distancing rules and regulations?
MR. ROBOT: Well, we're doing great is how we're doing. We're following all the precautions, taking all the precautions and following all the procedures the wonderful health officials are telling us to follow. We're doing a good job, a great job with it.
REPORTER TWO: So there aren't any problems? As you may know there are some rumors online that--
MR. ROBOT: No, no, no problems. There's not--no, I am not aware of or concerned about any rumors online. Nope, nope. So, OK, what else?
REPORTER TWO: Then what do you say about the photographs that have been circulating, that--
MR. ROBOT: I don't know anything about any pictures.
REPORTER TWO: --show what people familiar with the images are describing as a quote naked tickle party unquote?
CAPTAIN WEST [stepping in front of podium]: OK, folks, that's it for questions today. We're done with questions. You can find out more information online on our website, still on blogspot, that's triepsilon.blogspot.com. Thank you, everyone.
[end of transcript]
Showing posts with label fanfic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fanfic. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tuesdays with John
John stumbles forward through the restaurant. He is walking towards a stage upon which sits a small video screen, a microphone, and a large grey box with a keyboard and speaker in the front. He ascends the stage and opens a large blue binder. He flips rapidly through the songbook. He is barefoot and wearing a University of Alaska sweatshirt over what appears to be a youth karate uniform. His eyes are red and bleary -- he has not slept in two days, in preparation for what is to come.
His eyes finally light upon the page he is searching for, and John smiles a small smile. He punches into the keyboard three numerals, and the screen above it responds. Text appears over the background image of a small stream running through an autumnal forest: "486 - ARTIST: SHANIA TWAIN - SONG SELECTION: MAN! I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN!"
The machine begins to produce synthesized, beeping sounds. John holds the microphone up to his mouth, lips parted slightly before he begins. His mouth is dry, but he knows he must only sing for a short while. Outside a dog howls, and a baby begins to cry.
His eyes finally light upon the page he is searching for, and John smiles a small smile. He punches into the keyboard three numerals, and the screen above it responds. Text appears over the background image of a small stream running through an autumnal forest: "486 - ARTIST: SHANIA TWAIN - SONG SELECTION: MAN! I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN!"
The machine begins to produce synthesized, beeping sounds. John holds the microphone up to his mouth, lips parted slightly before he begins. His mouth is dry, but he knows he must only sing for a short while. Outside a dog howls, and a baby begins to cry.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tuesdays with Charles
Charles stayed close to the door, holding his mother's hand. He could never remember being in a hospital before, and he had never been near a dead or dying person, but he could feel a palpable sense of death's approach in the crowded room, and it frightened him, especially since everyone in the room stared at him as soon as he entered. Just as terrifying was the man laying in the bed twenty feet away, breathing heavily with the aid of a machine. Everyone, including Charles, called him Big Daddy, though he was not of course Charles's actual father, but rather his great-grandfather. At only six years old, Charles had heard enough to know and to fear Big Daddy, despite having rarely seen him. He squeezed closer to his mother's leg.
Big Daddy had been only an idea, a phantom, until about a year ago, until Scott, the youngest child of Big Daddy's youngest daughter, and the only son of any of Big Daddy's four daughters, had been killed in a car accident. Scott had seemed unapproachably adult and mature to Charles, though he was in reality still only in college and mourned as the death of a child by his family. A few weeks later, Big Daddy came to visit, though Charles never saw him, being sternly instructed to stay upstairs in his room. Then there had been shouting and fights, and Charles heard about Big Daddy no more, until today.
Now the old man's glassy eyes sharpened up, looking at Charles's mother. "The boy," he wheezed, "He's here. Let me see him. Let me talk."
No one moved, and at first Charles wasn't sure he'd actually heard anything. Then he realized that his mother was unsure what to do, and her indecision scared him. Finally, she reached down and picked him up. He turned and looked back to the closed door as she carried him to the bed.
"Sit him down here, let me talk to him," Big Daddy said. His mother only complied halfway, standing Charles down on the floor two feet away from the bed. Charles turned and looked and knew he was watching a person die.
"Come here, come here son, I have to talk to you. I have to tell you something."
Charles edged closer, slowly. Suddenly a jaundiced, scabbed hand shot out, grabbing his arm and dragging him closer to the bed. Another reached out, shoving his mother away. Big Daddy leaned in close.
"You know," Big Daddy whisper so low that only Charles could hear him, and barely, "I've always done things the way I knew they needed to be done. You won't understand it now, but I've always done what I had to do, and I did it the way I wanted. I've done some things I wish I hadn't, but it made me strong. It made me powerful, and feared. You're scared now, aren't you?"
Charles nodded, tears slowly welling in his eyes.
"That's good, but you shouldn't be. You need to know, and you need to remember. You have to understand."
Suddenly Big Daddy began to cough, violently. Loud beeps and noises filled the room. The family was shoved away as nurses, and then doctors, crowded in around the bed.
Big Daddy began waving his arms wildly, shoving a nurse aside and almost falling off the bed as he reached out to grab Charles, pulling him close again.
"You have to remember this, Charles. You have to know this." Big Daddy was panting, his mouth bleeding. "Know this one thing, that my father told me, and his father told him, and now I'm telling you."
Charles looked, and the room seemed to stop all its motion.
"You've got to understand, haters gonna hate."
A doctor pulled Big Daddy back onto the bed. Charles's mother grabbed him and ran out of the room. Neither of them ever saw Big Daddy again.
Big Daddy had been only an idea, a phantom, until about a year ago, until Scott, the youngest child of Big Daddy's youngest daughter, and the only son of any of Big Daddy's four daughters, had been killed in a car accident. Scott had seemed unapproachably adult and mature to Charles, though he was in reality still only in college and mourned as the death of a child by his family. A few weeks later, Big Daddy came to visit, though Charles never saw him, being sternly instructed to stay upstairs in his room. Then there had been shouting and fights, and Charles heard about Big Daddy no more, until today.
Now the old man's glassy eyes sharpened up, looking at Charles's mother. "The boy," he wheezed, "He's here. Let me see him. Let me talk."
No one moved, and at first Charles wasn't sure he'd actually heard anything. Then he realized that his mother was unsure what to do, and her indecision scared him. Finally, she reached down and picked him up. He turned and looked back to the closed door as she carried him to the bed.
"Sit him down here, let me talk to him," Big Daddy said. His mother only complied halfway, standing Charles down on the floor two feet away from the bed. Charles turned and looked and knew he was watching a person die.
"Come here, come here son, I have to talk to you. I have to tell you something."
Charles edged closer, slowly. Suddenly a jaundiced, scabbed hand shot out, grabbing his arm and dragging him closer to the bed. Another reached out, shoving his mother away. Big Daddy leaned in close.
"You know," Big Daddy whisper so low that only Charles could hear him, and barely, "I've always done things the way I knew they needed to be done. You won't understand it now, but I've always done what I had to do, and I did it the way I wanted. I've done some things I wish I hadn't, but it made me strong. It made me powerful, and feared. You're scared now, aren't you?"
Charles nodded, tears slowly welling in his eyes.
"That's good, but you shouldn't be. You need to know, and you need to remember. You have to understand."
Suddenly Big Daddy began to cough, violently. Loud beeps and noises filled the room. The family was shoved away as nurses, and then doctors, crowded in around the bed.
Big Daddy began waving his arms wildly, shoving a nurse aside and almost falling off the bed as he reached out to grab Charles, pulling him close again.
"You have to remember this, Charles. You have to know this." Big Daddy was panting, his mouth bleeding. "Know this one thing, that my father told me, and his father told him, and now I'm telling you."
Charles looked, and the room seemed to stop all its motion.
"You've got to understand, haters gonna hate."
A doctor pulled Big Daddy back onto the bed. Charles's mother grabbed him and ran out of the room. Neither of them ever saw Big Daddy again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
this just in
Dear Friend,
With warm heart I offer my friendship, and my greetings, and I hope this letter meets you in good time. It will be surprising to you to receive this proposal from me since you do not know me personally.
I got your contact address through our mutual associate Signal NICK in my search for a reliable and trustworthy person who will assist me in a business investment venture in your country. I am Capt. WESTOPHER BROWNLY, the husband of Mrs. JUICY ROGER the former president of Tri Epsilon, fraternally located in the Central Alabama. My Wife is presently impeached from office on account of having left this country in May this year.
During my spousal regime as president of TRI EPISLON, I realized US$25.540 millions of dollars (Twenty-Five Million, Five Hundred and Forty Thousand US Dollars) from various blog projects I executed successfully via TRI EPSILON. I had planned to invest this money for heavy corn whiskey consumption.
Before my husband was accounted from office, I concretely and secretly deposited this money and declared it computer lremote cards with diplomatic security company that transports valuable goods/consignment through diplomatic . As a reward I have enormous offshore holdings of heavy corn whiskey.
I wish to discuss how much I will offer you if you will be willing to assist me claim the corn whiskey and invest it in your country. I want to assure you that all modalities are put in place and it is a risk free transaction. I'm trusting you as a God fearing person who will not sit on my lifesaving fund. This business demands absolute secrecy and confidentiality, thus all communications for now should be through e-mail because all my phone lines are connected to the TRI EPISLON telecommunication network services. I will furnish you with more details when I receive your positive response.
Execute your urgent reply, through the above email address:
wbrown@3e.org
Thanks.Best regards,
Dr (Capt.) Westopher Ingloria Brownly
With warm heart I offer my friendship, and my greetings, and I hope this letter meets you in good time. It will be surprising to you to receive this proposal from me since you do not know me personally.
I got your contact address through our mutual associate Signal NICK in my search for a reliable and trustworthy person who will assist me in a business investment venture in your country. I am Capt. WESTOPHER BROWNLY, the husband of Mrs. JUICY ROGER the former president of Tri Epsilon, fraternally located in the Central Alabama. My Wife is presently impeached from office on account of having left this country in May this year.
During my spousal regime as president of TRI EPISLON, I realized US$25.540 millions of dollars (Twenty-Five Million, Five Hundred and Forty Thousand US Dollars) from various blog projects I executed successfully via TRI EPSILON. I had planned to invest this money for heavy corn whiskey consumption.
Before my husband was accounted from office, I concretely and secretly deposited this money and declared it computer lremote cards with diplomatic security company that transports valuable goods/consignment through diplomatic . As a reward I have enormous offshore holdings of heavy corn whiskey.
I wish to discuss how much I will offer you if you will be willing to assist me claim the corn whiskey and invest it in your country. I want to assure you that all modalities are put in place and it is a risk free transaction. I'm trusting you as a God fearing person who will not sit on my lifesaving fund. This business demands absolute secrecy and confidentiality, thus all communications for now should be through e-mail because all my phone lines are connected to the TRI EPISLON telecommunication network services. I will furnish you with more details when I receive your positive response.
Execute your urgent reply, through the above email address:
wbrown@3e.org
Thanks.Best regards,
Dr (Capt.) Westopher Ingloria Brownly
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tuesdays with Ted
Ted rolled lazily across the bear skin rug, not quite awake but no longer asleep. Despite the roaring wind outside, he was warm -- hot, even. A sheen of sweat covered his bare chest. The stove burned hot and bright. Ted was alone in the tent.
He picked up one of the heavy blankets from the wooden basket and wrapped it haphazardly around his shoulders. Stepping out of the tent flap, the wind bit through it, pouring ice cold air against his skin.
But he didn't notice. Arghun sat on the log where they had cooked last night, her back to the tent. Despite the cold, she wore only her thin wool undershirt. Ted couldn't see her face, but he knew something was wrong.
"Günaydin, my love," he said, putting his left hand on her shoulder while pulling his blanket tighter with the right. "Aren't you cold?"
Arghun ignored his question. "Oh, Batachikhan," she barely whispered in an Uyghur dialect. "It's coming now. Can't you feel it?"
Ted didn't answer. He only pressed closer against Arghun's back, both looking out over the steppes. For the first time since he was awake, Ted noticed the cold, and shivered.
He picked up one of the heavy blankets from the wooden basket and wrapped it haphazardly around his shoulders. Stepping out of the tent flap, the wind bit through it, pouring ice cold air against his skin.
But he didn't notice. Arghun sat on the log where they had cooked last night, her back to the tent. Despite the cold, she wore only her thin wool undershirt. Ted couldn't see her face, but he knew something was wrong.
"Günaydin, my love," he said, putting his left hand on her shoulder while pulling his blanket tighter with the right. "Aren't you cold?"
Arghun ignored his question. "Oh, Batachikhan," she barely whispered in an Uyghur dialect. "It's coming now. Can't you feel it?"
Ted didn't answer. He only pressed closer against Arghun's back, both looking out over the steppes. For the first time since he was awake, Ted noticed the cold, and shivered.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Graduate School Pseudofiction
6:30 AM. Darkened office. Graduate Student A enters, turns on the lights. Graduate Student B sits in a swiveling office chair.
Graduate Student A: Wow. I'm not doing the shots. I told you not to show up.
Graduate Student B: I know, it's a really bad idea. Good story, though.
Graduate Student B lights a menthol cigarette, inhales, coughs.
Graduate Student A: You started smoking? When?
Graduate Student B: Last night. I'm trying to quit, though.
Graduate Student A: What?
Graduate Student B: We both know why I'm here.
Graduate Student A: No we don't. I mean, I guess we do, but it's not really worth saying so ominously.
Graduate Student B: We don't have to drink this.
Graduate Student B produces what appears to be a bottle filled with water.
Graduate Student A: What is that?
Graduate Student B: Rum. And vodka... mixed.
Graduate Student A: Did you take that from my house?
Graduate Student B: Yeah. I thought it was pretty obvious.
Graduate Student A: Not really.
Graduate Student B: Apparently not.
Graduate Student A: Okay, yeah, we definitely don't need to drink that. I have to teach in 25 minutes.
Graduate Student B: I just wanted you to know I was serious.
Graduate Student A: Yeah, I realize that. You win.
Graduate Student B: I know. And you know what else? It's up to you whether anyone else even knows I was here. We can say I didn't show and that will be that.
Graduate Student A: I don't care. I'll say you were here and I wouldn't do the shots, it actually reflects pretty well on me.
Graduate Student B: Then I guess I'll do the shots.
Graduate Student B takes a significant sip from the bottle.
Graduate Student A: Come on.
Graduate Student B: Otherwise it wouldn't reflect well on me.
Graduate Student A: You're pretty worried about what people think of you.
sip.
Graduate Student B: I'm all about appearances. So what's it gonna be? What am I going to say when people start showing up in a few hours? Your call.
Graduate Student A: Tell them the truth. Do the shots, I don't care, you called me on this. You win.
gulp.
Graduate Student B: I know.
Graduate Student A: Have you been up all night?
gulp.
Graduate Student B: Yeah, smoking. Also energy drinks. I watched The Royal Tenenbaums. Did you know that's Gene Hackman's character's name? Last chance, do you want any of this?
Graduate Student A: No, I'm okay.
extended gulp.
Graduate Student B: You are okay. You're actually alright. I thought you were a dickweed the first time I heard you talk.
Graduate Student B discards the empty bottle.
Graduate Student A: Yeah, I've heard this story. Look, there's something I have to go do.
Graduate Student B: Your morning shit. I know. I'll call you when you get in there.
Graduate Student A: Don't do that.
Graduate Student B: Then I'll just come with you.
bathroom.
Graduate Student A: This is weird.
Graduate Student B: I guess.
office. 15 minutes later.
Graduate Student A: I don't know why you're telling me this.
Graduate Student B: Probably because I just drank a water bottle filled with liquor.
Graduate Student A: Whatever, I have to teach now. Stay away from my wife.
Graduate Student B: I'm coming to your class.
Graduate Student A: Whatever.
curtains.
Graduate Student A: Wow. I'm not doing the shots. I told you not to show up.
Graduate Student B: I know, it's a really bad idea. Good story, though.
Graduate Student B lights a menthol cigarette, inhales, coughs.
Graduate Student A: You started smoking? When?
Graduate Student B: Last night. I'm trying to quit, though.
Graduate Student A: What?
Graduate Student B: We both know why I'm here.
Graduate Student A: No we don't. I mean, I guess we do, but it's not really worth saying so ominously.
Graduate Student B: We don't have to drink this.
Graduate Student B produces what appears to be a bottle filled with water.
Graduate Student A: What is that?
Graduate Student B: Rum. And vodka... mixed.
Graduate Student A: Did you take that from my house?
Graduate Student B: Yeah. I thought it was pretty obvious.
Graduate Student A: Not really.
Graduate Student B: Apparently not.
Graduate Student A: Okay, yeah, we definitely don't need to drink that. I have to teach in 25 minutes.
Graduate Student B: I just wanted you to know I was serious.
Graduate Student A: Yeah, I realize that. You win.
Graduate Student B: I know. And you know what else? It's up to you whether anyone else even knows I was here. We can say I didn't show and that will be that.
Graduate Student A: I don't care. I'll say you were here and I wouldn't do the shots, it actually reflects pretty well on me.
Graduate Student B: Then I guess I'll do the shots.
Graduate Student B takes a significant sip from the bottle.
Graduate Student A: Come on.
Graduate Student B: Otherwise it wouldn't reflect well on me.
Graduate Student A: You're pretty worried about what people think of you.
sip.
Graduate Student B: I'm all about appearances. So what's it gonna be? What am I going to say when people start showing up in a few hours? Your call.
Graduate Student A: Tell them the truth. Do the shots, I don't care, you called me on this. You win.
gulp.
Graduate Student B: I know.
Graduate Student A: Have you been up all night?
gulp.
Graduate Student B: Yeah, smoking. Also energy drinks. I watched The Royal Tenenbaums. Did you know that's Gene Hackman's character's name? Last chance, do you want any of this?
Graduate Student A: No, I'm okay.
extended gulp.
Graduate Student B: You are okay. You're actually alright. I thought you were a dickweed the first time I heard you talk.
Graduate Student B discards the empty bottle.
Graduate Student A: Yeah, I've heard this story. Look, there's something I have to go do.
Graduate Student B: Your morning shit. I know. I'll call you when you get in there.
Graduate Student A: Don't do that.
Graduate Student B: Then I'll just come with you.
bathroom.
Graduate Student A: This is weird.
Graduate Student B: I guess.
office. 15 minutes later.
Graduate Student A: I don't know why you're telling me this.
Graduate Student B: Probably because I just drank a water bottle filled with liquor.
Graduate Student A: Whatever, I have to teach now. Stay away from my wife.
Graduate Student B: I'm coming to your class.
Graduate Student A: Whatever.
curtains.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesdays with John
THE COFFEESHOP, or, JOHN THE BIGOT:
A play in one act
[SCENE: a suburban chain coffee shop, empty except for the BARISTA behind the counter - an extremely pleasant, college-aged woman wearing an apron.]
[enter: JOHN]
JOHN: I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ARE OPENING ANOTHER TACO BELL ON MY OWN STREET! HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS? THE LAST THING WE NEED IN THIS TOWN IS ANOTHER HAVEN FOR THOSE BORDER CROSSERS!
BARISTA: Welcome to The Daily Grind, America's third-fastest growing coffee chain! How can I help you?
JOHN: YOUNG LADY HELLO. I NEED SOME SUSTENANCE FOR MY WALK HOME, NOW THAT I HAVE TO GO TEN BLOCKS OUT OF THE WAY TO AVOID THAT CHINESE LAUNDRY.
BARISTA: Um, okay. Would you like something to drink? We're famous for our fresh ground coffee!
JOHN: WELL MAYBE. I TRY TO AVOID HOT, COLORED DRINKS. IS IT GOOD?
BARISTA: Absolutely! We use only the finest Arabica.
JOHN [sputtering]: ARABICA! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? ARE YOU PEOPLE TERRORIST SYMPATHIZERS?
BARISTA: No, no, sir, it's the species of coffee plant it comes from. It's not from anywhere in Arabia.
JOHN: WHEW THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE.
BARISTA: It's fair trade coffee from from Central America!
JOHN: SWEET ANGLO JESUS! I CAN'T DRINK THAT.
BARISTA: Oh, I'm sorry sir -- I guess you don't want a cappuccino then, either.
JOHN: THOSE SPAGHETTI-BENDERS ARE IN LEAGUE WITH THE COLOMBIANS? I'VE GOT TO GET THIS INTO THE NEWSLETTER! IF I EVER GET HOME, I MEAN. WHAT ELSE DO YOU HAVE TO DRINK?
BARISTA: Maybe you'd like some hot tea? Our most popular blend is English Breakfast.
JOHN: IT FIGURES THOSE LIMEY POOFS WOULD BE INVOLVED. WELL, THEY'RE MOSTLY WHITE IN ENGLAND, RIGHT? I'LL TAKE IT.
BARISTA: Great! I'll go get that started. But did you want something to eat? If so, a bagel might hit the spot, and we've got six --
JOHN: A BAGEL! DO I LOOK LIKE A BANKER TO YOU?
BARISTA: Or, uh, we've got some grilled panini sandwiches.
JOHN [looking faint, leaning against the counter for support]: MORE PAPISTS IN THIS FAIR LAND!
BARISTA: Er, it's a little late in the day, but we've got these new breakfast quesadillas --
JOHN: [vomits]
BARISTA: Oh my God! Are you alright?
JOHN: YES, YES, I'M FINE. I JUST NEED SOMETHING TO EAT. HOW ABOUT THOSE MUFFINS? GOOD OLD AMERICAN MUFFINS.
BARISTA: Yes sir! I'm afraid all we've got out right now is lemon poppy-seed.
JOHN: POPPY SEED! I WON'T SUPPORT THOSE TAFFY-PULLING TURKS!
BARISTA: Um, let me check in the back to see if we've got any blueberry.
JOHN: THAT'S MIGHTY WHITE OF YOU.
[exit: BARISTA]
JOHN: WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO, WHEN YOU CAN'T GET A GOOD, DECENT, GOD-FEARING AMERICAN BEVERAGE?
[enter: EVE MENDEZ with two BODYGUARDS]
JOHN: OH NO. KEEP IT TOGETHER JJ.
EVE MENDEZ: John, is that you?
JOHN: OH, HELLO, YES, HI EVE.
EVE MENDEZ: John, you look good! How are things going?
JOHN: OH, YOU KNOW, THE USUAL. I STARTED A MAGAZINE.
EVE MENDEZ: Oh wow, how exciting!
JOHN: WELL IT'S JUST, UH, ONLINE, BUT WE HAD 320 UNIQUE VISITORS LAST MONTH.
EVE MENDEZ: That sound fascinating! We need to get together some time so you can tell me more about it.
JOHN: OH, YEAH, NO, I DON'T KNOW, EVE, A LOT HAS CHANGED SINCE YOU LEFT ME AT THAT RESTAURANT.
EVE MENDEZ: Oh, John, I feel awful about that every day. I really believed I was just going to the restroom. You know how things are. I never meant to hurt you. I certainly didn't want you to wait all night for me.
JOHN: AND THE NEXT DAY.
EVE MENDEZ: But we had some fun, didn't we? Wait here, let me go order my coffee.
JOHN [aside, to himself]: CONCENTRATE, JJ, KEEP IT COOL. THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU. KEEP STRONG.
EVE MENDEZ [writing something on a piece of paper]: I'm shooting a Orangina ad this month in town. This is the number where I'll be staying. Give me a call! We can have dinner, drinks. Maybe even [lowering her voice and leaning toward John seductively] another night in the hot tub.
JOHN: YES I WOULD LIKE THAT VERY MUCH I -- NO! I MUST BE STRONG! YOU AND YOUR NAFTA SUPERHIGHWAY WILL BE THE END OF US ALL! AWAY FROM ME, FOUL TEMPTRESS!
[JOHN shoves EVE MENDEZ to the ground]
EVE MENDEZ: What! How dare you! Leo, Toots, show this guy some manners!
[the two BODYGUARDS begin to beat JOHN in the kidneys]
JOHN: OW!
[enter: BARISTA]
BARISTA: We were out of English Breakfast, so I made you some Indian spice chai. I hope that's alright! Sir?
[curtains]
A play in one act
[SCENE: a suburban chain coffee shop, empty except for the BARISTA behind the counter - an extremely pleasant, college-aged woman wearing an apron.]
[enter: JOHN]
JOHN: I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ARE OPENING ANOTHER TACO BELL ON MY OWN STREET! HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS? THE LAST THING WE NEED IN THIS TOWN IS ANOTHER HAVEN FOR THOSE BORDER CROSSERS!
BARISTA: Welcome to The Daily Grind, America's third-fastest growing coffee chain! How can I help you?
JOHN: YOUNG LADY HELLO. I NEED SOME SUSTENANCE FOR MY WALK HOME, NOW THAT I HAVE TO GO TEN BLOCKS OUT OF THE WAY TO AVOID THAT CHINESE LAUNDRY.
BARISTA: Um, okay. Would you like something to drink? We're famous for our fresh ground coffee!
JOHN: WELL MAYBE. I TRY TO AVOID HOT, COLORED DRINKS. IS IT GOOD?
BARISTA: Absolutely! We use only the finest Arabica.
JOHN [sputtering]: ARABICA! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? ARE YOU PEOPLE TERRORIST SYMPATHIZERS?
BARISTA: No, no, sir, it's the species of coffee plant it comes from. It's not from anywhere in Arabia.
JOHN: WHEW THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE.
BARISTA: It's fair trade coffee from from Central America!
JOHN: SWEET ANGLO JESUS! I CAN'T DRINK THAT.
BARISTA: Oh, I'm sorry sir -- I guess you don't want a cappuccino then, either.
JOHN: THOSE SPAGHETTI-BENDERS ARE IN LEAGUE WITH THE COLOMBIANS? I'VE GOT TO GET THIS INTO THE NEWSLETTER! IF I EVER GET HOME, I MEAN. WHAT ELSE DO YOU HAVE TO DRINK?
BARISTA: Maybe you'd like some hot tea? Our most popular blend is English Breakfast.
JOHN: IT FIGURES THOSE LIMEY POOFS WOULD BE INVOLVED. WELL, THEY'RE MOSTLY WHITE IN ENGLAND, RIGHT? I'LL TAKE IT.
BARISTA: Great! I'll go get that started. But did you want something to eat? If so, a bagel might hit the spot, and we've got six --
JOHN: A BAGEL! DO I LOOK LIKE A BANKER TO YOU?
BARISTA: Or, uh, we've got some grilled panini sandwiches.
JOHN [looking faint, leaning against the counter for support]: MORE PAPISTS IN THIS FAIR LAND!
BARISTA: Er, it's a little late in the day, but we've got these new breakfast quesadillas --
JOHN: [vomits]
BARISTA: Oh my God! Are you alright?
JOHN: YES, YES, I'M FINE. I JUST NEED SOMETHING TO EAT. HOW ABOUT THOSE MUFFINS? GOOD OLD AMERICAN MUFFINS.
BARISTA: Yes sir! I'm afraid all we've got out right now is lemon poppy-seed.
JOHN: POPPY SEED! I WON'T SUPPORT THOSE TAFFY-PULLING TURKS!
BARISTA: Um, let me check in the back to see if we've got any blueberry.
JOHN: THAT'S MIGHTY WHITE OF YOU.
[exit: BARISTA]
JOHN: WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO, WHEN YOU CAN'T GET A GOOD, DECENT, GOD-FEARING AMERICAN BEVERAGE?
[enter: EVE MENDEZ with two BODYGUARDS]
JOHN: OH NO. KEEP IT TOGETHER JJ.
EVE MENDEZ: John, is that you?
JOHN: OH, HELLO, YES, HI EVE.
EVE MENDEZ: John, you look good! How are things going?
JOHN: OH, YOU KNOW, THE USUAL. I STARTED A MAGAZINE.
EVE MENDEZ: Oh wow, how exciting!
JOHN: WELL IT'S JUST, UH, ONLINE, BUT WE HAD 320 UNIQUE VISITORS LAST MONTH.
EVE MENDEZ: That sound fascinating! We need to get together some time so you can tell me more about it.
JOHN: OH, YEAH, NO, I DON'T KNOW, EVE, A LOT HAS CHANGED SINCE YOU LEFT ME AT THAT RESTAURANT.
EVE MENDEZ: Oh, John, I feel awful about that every day. I really believed I was just going to the restroom. You know how things are. I never meant to hurt you. I certainly didn't want you to wait all night for me.
JOHN: AND THE NEXT DAY.
EVE MENDEZ: But we had some fun, didn't we? Wait here, let me go order my coffee.
JOHN [aside, to himself]: CONCENTRATE, JJ, KEEP IT COOL. THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU. KEEP STRONG.
EVE MENDEZ [writing something on a piece of paper]: I'm shooting a Orangina ad this month in town. This is the number where I'll be staying. Give me a call! We can have dinner, drinks. Maybe even [lowering her voice and leaning toward John seductively] another night in the hot tub.
JOHN: YES I WOULD LIKE THAT VERY MUCH I -- NO! I MUST BE STRONG! YOU AND YOUR NAFTA SUPERHIGHWAY WILL BE THE END OF US ALL! AWAY FROM ME, FOUL TEMPTRESS!
[JOHN shoves EVE MENDEZ to the ground]
EVE MENDEZ: What! How dare you! Leo, Toots, show this guy some manners!
[the two BODYGUARDS begin to beat JOHN in the kidneys]
JOHN: OW!
[enter: BARISTA]
BARISTA: We were out of English Breakfast, so I made you some Indian spice chai. I hope that's alright! Sir?
[curtains]
Saturday, March 14, 2009
3E Fan Nonfiction
Click. Click. Ted was sure that this round of attacks would critically disable his computer opponent. Fumbling blindly for another pepperoni slice, he almost cut his hand of a pair of scissors. THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! He was getting better at Command and Conquer. He had always been good at video games, whether through some latent talent or through true Tennessee grit and tireless dedication, he was not ready to admit. His phone rang. Stephanie, geez. What is it now?
Click. Click. Wes was sure that this round of tax cuts would be just what BIGDICKCITY needed to reach Metropolis status. Fumbling blindly for his bottle of Woodbridge Merlot, he almost knocked it off the desk. THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! He had always loved SimCity games... really the only games he had ever had the grit or dedication to stick with. Cheat codes? He wasn't going to admit to that so easily. His phone rang. Sarah, come on. Can't this wait?
Click. Click. Charles was sure that this latest Flash game was the coolest and funnest thing he had ever played. Note to self: show Lauren next time she visits! Fumbling blindly for his cup of hot tea, Charles almost couldn't find his cup of hot tea but then he did. THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! He had always been good at making hot tea. Although whether it was through some latent tea-making talent or sheer repetition, he would readily admit to the latter. His phone rang. Lauren! Charles's spirits soared.
Clomp. Clomp. John plodded down the hall, farting more than half the way. Half gallon of skim milk in one hand, the other scratching his belly he slammed himself down in front of the television and prepared a bowl of cereal. Failing to notice that Stacy was even in the room, John watched three consecutive episodes of Law and Order, punctuated by brief periods of napping.
Click. Click. Wes was sure that this round of tax cuts would be just what BIGDICKCITY needed to reach Metropolis status. Fumbling blindly for his bottle of Woodbridge Merlot, he almost knocked it off the desk. THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! He had always loved SimCity games... really the only games he had ever had the grit or dedication to stick with. Cheat codes? He wasn't going to admit to that so easily. His phone rang. Sarah, come on. Can't this wait?
Click. Click. Charles was sure that this latest Flash game was the coolest and funnest thing he had ever played. Note to self: show Lauren next time she visits! Fumbling blindly for his cup of hot tea, Charles almost couldn't find his cup of hot tea but then he did. THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE! He had always been good at making hot tea. Although whether it was through some latent tea-making talent or sheer repetition, he would readily admit to the latter. His phone rang. Lauren! Charles's spirits soared.
Clomp. Clomp. John plodded down the hall, farting more than half the way. Half gallon of skim milk in one hand, the other scratching his belly he slammed himself down in front of the television and prepared a bowl of cereal. Failing to notice that Stacy was even in the room, John watched three consecutive episodes of Law and Order, punctuated by brief periods of napping.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tuesdays with West
The sun landed hatefully on Wes's face, slipping like a cat burglar through the window and between the curtains. His face and eyes burned with the light. Beside him a beaked, pockmarked woman with dry, ugly hair breathed heavily. Her nipples, grotesque and mocking his poor decision-making abilities, peaked halfway out above the sheet. Wes could not immediately remember her name, nor did he ever want to. A small grey cat, curled at the foot of the bed, stared intently at Wes, who she did not know and did not like. He glared back wrathfully, certain that the cat had killed some poor small creature and temporarily stored it in his mouth, before defecating there. He was also sure, as he tried to open and close his jaw, that she had also deposited some sort of vomit-flavored spackle there as well.
Wes did his best to slip quietly out of the bed, made more difficult because he was still fully dressed and wearing both of his shoes, with the shoelaces tied together. What this suggested about last night's debauchery Wes refused to let into his mind for the time being; he was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly, and some animal instinct in him recognized that all of his feeble powers of reasoning must be concentrated on escaping wherever it was he was. He dropped to the cheap carpet floor and quickly recognized that he was about to piss himself, whether or not he found a bathroom. Gingerly, Wes made his way out the door and down a small dimly lit hallway. He finally picked a door, resolving to urinate in whatever room it was. Fortunately for himself and the owner of the house, he picked correctly.
After relieving himself, Wes looked into the small cabinet mirror above the sink. His face was as bloated and swollen as a corpse, and his eyelids provided more the suggestion that he had eyes rather than any definitive visual evidence. There was a small cut above his right eye. Suddenly wobbly, Wes had to sit. He laid down the toilet lid and sat. Neither of his nostrils worked. By closing one tightly and alternately blowing and sniffing in the other, he managed some semblance of clearing his sinuses. In triumph he stood up and blew, flinging bits of mucous all over the sink and fixtures. The exertion of doing so, however, unleashed something dark and evil inside him, something better left alone. Almost before he knew it, Wes lurched over to vomit, splattering all over the still closed toilet lid.
Although he was disgusted and hurting and even more filthy, the act of releasing this evil gave him a sudden feeling of frenzy, as though he had snorted a line of coke cut with rock salt. He had to get out of this place, immediately. The windows of the bathroom indicated he was in a basement of some sort; he stepped out, headed upstairs, and made his way to the front door. He exited as quickly and quietly as he could.
Wes had only thought that the bedroom had been bright; the full power of the sun outside was a new kind of evil. He waved his hands blindly in front of his face like a madman. He knew exactly what a vampire felt like when it died. Wes surged forward to find some sort of relief, but the steps in front of the porch had other ideas. His body, perhaps seeing its chance to avenge the agonies heaped on it in the last twelve hours, refused to do anything about his fall. He fell forward limply, as would the victim of a sudden stroke. Fortunately, or not, the concrete sidewalk turned toward the driveway, and Wes survived, cushioned by the soft grass and impossibly pointy twigs. He lifted his head up and surveyed his surroundings. He recognized the street; the bar where his car was parked was only a few blocks away.
Moving incoherently down the sidewalk, Wes realized that he was muttering curses under his breath, filthy and magnificent curses using words he had never heard and acts he did not know could be performed. His voice seemed to be operating independently of his mind, and Wes listened in awe. He then realized that he was in front of First Baptist Church, and that the morning service had ended just five minutes ago, and elderly women in hats with flowers on them stared at him with their mouths hanging open. He put his head down, willed his mouth closed, and hurried his pace.
He saw the bar, O'Darryl's, and he hated it for allowing this sort of turn of events to happen to anyone.
As he turned the corner, Wes felt a rush of emotions: confusion, anger, sorrow. His car was gone. He looked up one block and down another, hoping he was wrong about the spot, but it was pointless; his car was not in sight. His keys were in his pocket. His car must have been stolen. But impossible! This was one of the brightest and busiest intersections in town; a thief would have been seen, been stopped. He must have moved it at some point, for some reason.
Collecting his thoughts, Wes crossed the street to find a place to sit. He came to rest in the McDonald's Play Pen. He sat like a pervert, hunched alone on a playground bench surrounded by screaming children in their Sunday best. Looking at his hands, he did his best to focus his attention entirely on the events of last night, clearing his mind of any distractions. He found that when he did so, his mind remained absolutely blank, an empty void. It was an unexpected and terrifying experience for a person who prided himself on his quick thinking and powers of retention. He could remember nothing.
Finally Wes decided he must walk home, which was not far, and find his roommate, Fern. He would have Fern drive him around town, however long it took, until they found the car. Planning this in his head, Wes absentmindedly walked through the CVS parking lot almost without noticing his car parked in the corner.
He crept up to it with the caution an aborigine might show approaching a downed helicopter in the Brazilian rain forest, touching the back fender and then jerking his hand away as if in fear of some unseen danger. It was his -- the hanging exhaust pipe and Cthulhu '12 sticker proved it. Feeling immensely relieved, he got in, but before he could start the car he noticed something on the hood. He got back out of the car. Someone had spray-painted on his hood with large, yellow letters:
"PUZZY MAGNET"
Tears came to his eyes. What kind of soulless degenerate would do this? Wes slammed his fist to the hood in anger and laid his head across his arm. It was then that he noticed for the first time the telltale hint of yellow paint on his right index finger.
He climbed back into his car. Upon starting, it produced the loudest music he or anyone else had ever heard. An untrained observer might have thought it was Ghost Face Killah, correctly. Wes jabbed wildly like an ape, temporarily forgetting how to turn off the stereo. Had he a gun, he would have immediately shot the radio, then himself. He finally managed to expel the disc, which he broke to pieces and in the process cut his hand.
He drove home crying and bleeding slightly. He limped up the stairs to his apartment and opened his door. He was shocked to find Fern wearing a business suit and an apron, stirring a pan of fried eggs. "Wes," he said, "I gotta run to lunch with the Bishop, but I'm making something for Natalie since she's kind of sick. She didn't want her cinnamon French toast; do you?" Wes could not have been more grateful; unable even to speak he sat at the table and began to eat.
"Hey," Fern continued, "some guys I went to undergrad with are coming in tomorrow night and I'm thinking we might do the pub crawl. You want to go? Mondays are half-price Guinness."
Wes finished chewing his toast. "Yeah, I think so. That sounds good."
Wes did his best to slip quietly out of the bed, made more difficult because he was still fully dressed and wearing both of his shoes, with the shoelaces tied together. What this suggested about last night's debauchery Wes refused to let into his mind for the time being; he was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly, and some animal instinct in him recognized that all of his feeble powers of reasoning must be concentrated on escaping wherever it was he was. He dropped to the cheap carpet floor and quickly recognized that he was about to piss himself, whether or not he found a bathroom. Gingerly, Wes made his way out the door and down a small dimly lit hallway. He finally picked a door, resolving to urinate in whatever room it was. Fortunately for himself and the owner of the house, he picked correctly.
After relieving himself, Wes looked into the small cabinet mirror above the sink. His face was as bloated and swollen as a corpse, and his eyelids provided more the suggestion that he had eyes rather than any definitive visual evidence. There was a small cut above his right eye. Suddenly wobbly, Wes had to sit. He laid down the toilet lid and sat. Neither of his nostrils worked. By closing one tightly and alternately blowing and sniffing in the other, he managed some semblance of clearing his sinuses. In triumph he stood up and blew, flinging bits of mucous all over the sink and fixtures. The exertion of doing so, however, unleashed something dark and evil inside him, something better left alone. Almost before he knew it, Wes lurched over to vomit, splattering all over the still closed toilet lid.
Although he was disgusted and hurting and even more filthy, the act of releasing this evil gave him a sudden feeling of frenzy, as though he had snorted a line of coke cut with rock salt. He had to get out of this place, immediately. The windows of the bathroom indicated he was in a basement of some sort; he stepped out, headed upstairs, and made his way to the front door. He exited as quickly and quietly as he could.
Wes had only thought that the bedroom had been bright; the full power of the sun outside was a new kind of evil. He waved his hands blindly in front of his face like a madman. He knew exactly what a vampire felt like when it died. Wes surged forward to find some sort of relief, but the steps in front of the porch had other ideas. His body, perhaps seeing its chance to avenge the agonies heaped on it in the last twelve hours, refused to do anything about his fall. He fell forward limply, as would the victim of a sudden stroke. Fortunately, or not, the concrete sidewalk turned toward the driveway, and Wes survived, cushioned by the soft grass and impossibly pointy twigs. He lifted his head up and surveyed his surroundings. He recognized the street; the bar where his car was parked was only a few blocks away.
Moving incoherently down the sidewalk, Wes realized that he was muttering curses under his breath, filthy and magnificent curses using words he had never heard and acts he did not know could be performed. His voice seemed to be operating independently of his mind, and Wes listened in awe. He then realized that he was in front of First Baptist Church, and that the morning service had ended just five minutes ago, and elderly women in hats with flowers on them stared at him with their mouths hanging open. He put his head down, willed his mouth closed, and hurried his pace.
He saw the bar, O'Darryl's, and he hated it for allowing this sort of turn of events to happen to anyone.
As he turned the corner, Wes felt a rush of emotions: confusion, anger, sorrow. His car was gone. He looked up one block and down another, hoping he was wrong about the spot, but it was pointless; his car was not in sight. His keys were in his pocket. His car must have been stolen. But impossible! This was one of the brightest and busiest intersections in town; a thief would have been seen, been stopped. He must have moved it at some point, for some reason.
Collecting his thoughts, Wes crossed the street to find a place to sit. He came to rest in the McDonald's Play Pen. He sat like a pervert, hunched alone on a playground bench surrounded by screaming children in their Sunday best. Looking at his hands, he did his best to focus his attention entirely on the events of last night, clearing his mind of any distractions. He found that when he did so, his mind remained absolutely blank, an empty void. It was an unexpected and terrifying experience for a person who prided himself on his quick thinking and powers of retention. He could remember nothing.
Finally Wes decided he must walk home, which was not far, and find his roommate, Fern. He would have Fern drive him around town, however long it took, until they found the car. Planning this in his head, Wes absentmindedly walked through the CVS parking lot almost without noticing his car parked in the corner.
He crept up to it with the caution an aborigine might show approaching a downed helicopter in the Brazilian rain forest, touching the back fender and then jerking his hand away as if in fear of some unseen danger. It was his -- the hanging exhaust pipe and Cthulhu '12 sticker proved it. Feeling immensely relieved, he got in, but before he could start the car he noticed something on the hood. He got back out of the car. Someone had spray-painted on his hood with large, yellow letters:
"PUZZY MAGNET"
Tears came to his eyes. What kind of soulless degenerate would do this? Wes slammed his fist to the hood in anger and laid his head across his arm. It was then that he noticed for the first time the telltale hint of yellow paint on his right index finger.
He climbed back into his car. Upon starting, it produced the loudest music he or anyone else had ever heard. An untrained observer might have thought it was Ghost Face Killah, correctly. Wes jabbed wildly like an ape, temporarily forgetting how to turn off the stereo. Had he a gun, he would have immediately shot the radio, then himself. He finally managed to expel the disc, which he broke to pieces and in the process cut his hand.
He drove home crying and bleeding slightly. He limped up the stairs to his apartment and opened his door. He was shocked to find Fern wearing a business suit and an apron, stirring a pan of fried eggs. "Wes," he said, "I gotta run to lunch with the Bishop, but I'm making something for Natalie since she's kind of sick. She didn't want her cinnamon French toast; do you?" Wes could not have been more grateful; unable even to speak he sat at the table and began to eat.
"Hey," Fern continued, "some guys I went to undergrad with are coming in tomorrow night and I'm thinking we might do the pub crawl. You want to go? Mondays are half-price Guinness."
Wes finished chewing his toast. "Yeah, I think so. That sounds good."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tuesdays with Ted
This Dream Journal belongs to: Ted
Month of: January
January 2: dreamed about vultures again [note: we had pizza that night]
January 4: eating breakfast with Stephanie
January 9: working, but everyone wore Hawaiian shirts [note: it was casual Friday that day]. This was one of those dreams where I knew I was dreaming, so I left work so I could eat lunch at home and didn't come back!
January 11: eating dinner with Stephanie except it is breakfast for dinner [note: had waffles for dinner night before, which is probably why]
January 12: Stephanie and I were trapped at the elementary school, and all the doors and windows were bricked up like in the Matrix [note: we watched the Matrix that night, so that's probably why]
January 14: went shopping with William and Stephanie, to buy shirts, but everywhere we went was out of shirts
January 15: vultures [no pizza -- first time!]
January 16: William got lost at the library and we never found him [note: we went to the library to get some books on CD]
January 18: made Stephanie dinner, but burnt it [just like real life! lol]
January 19: tried to program automatic lock for the front door, but it messed up and locked us out of the house [note: I locked myself out of the house the weekend before, so that's probably why]
January 23: playing Call of Duty, but Stephanie wanted to play and she was really good and beat me every game
January 25: at work, but instead of regular chair had one of those balance balls you sit on [note: chair at work is broken]
January 27: Forgot to mail electric bill and had to go up to office to pay it [note: I forgot to mail the electric bill and had to go up to the office to pay it, which is probably what this dream was about]
January 28: Stephanie made spaghetti for dinner but for some reason I refused to eat it, and never figured out why
January 31: eating breakfast with Stephanie
Month of: January
January 2: dreamed about vultures again [note: we had pizza that night]
January 4: eating breakfast with Stephanie
January 9: working, but everyone wore Hawaiian shirts [note: it was casual Friday that day]. This was one of those dreams where I knew I was dreaming, so I left work so I could eat lunch at home and didn't come back!
January 11: eating dinner with Stephanie except it is breakfast for dinner [note: had waffles for dinner night before, which is probably why]
January 12: Stephanie and I were trapped at the elementary school, and all the doors and windows were bricked up like in the Matrix [note: we watched the Matrix that night, so that's probably why]
January 14: went shopping with William and Stephanie, to buy shirts, but everywhere we went was out of shirts
January 15: vultures [no pizza -- first time!]
January 16: William got lost at the library and we never found him [note: we went to the library to get some books on CD]
January 18: made Stephanie dinner, but burnt it [just like real life! lol]
January 19: tried to program automatic lock for the front door, but it messed up and locked us out of the house [note: I locked myself out of the house the weekend before, so that's probably why]
January 23: playing Call of Duty, but Stephanie wanted to play and she was really good and beat me every game
January 25: at work, but instead of regular chair had one of those balance balls you sit on [note: chair at work is broken]
January 27: Forgot to mail electric bill and had to go up to office to pay it [note: I forgot to mail the electric bill and had to go up to the office to pay it, which is probably what this dream was about]
January 28: Stephanie made spaghetti for dinner but for some reason I refused to eat it, and never figured out why
January 31: eating breakfast with Stephanie
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tuesdays with Scott and West
[In December 2004 a Mobile and Cellular Division of the 3E Department of Communications subcommittee approved a resolution to record all telephone conversations between Tri Epsilon members. Most of these recordings were lost in a bar bet in July 2008, but 3E still possesses six discs of call logs. One of the transcripts is reproduced here.]
SL: Hello?
WB: Scrotizzle my nizzle! What's the wizzle dizzle?
SL: What? Hello? Wes, is that you?
WB: You know it. How's it going?
SL: Good, good. We just got the bocce court leveled, so that's out of the way. Been a big pain for weeks now. You coming to Ted and Stephanie's tonight?
WB: Man, I don't know. That's not really my style. There's all those ... people. Talking. Gives me the willies. And I told some people I'd go to the women's basketball game tonight.
SL: Oh, come on. You never go to these things.
WB: Maybe that should tell you something.
SL: I heard there's gonna be Connect 4.
WB: Oh, wow, did it just get arousing in here? I might swing by. I need to be in Birmingham anyway. That's why I called -- who's that bookie you use? Fat Freddie or something like that?
SL: Big Vinnie! Great guy. Strong hands. Masculine hands. What about him?
WB: Well, it looks like my guy in town bailed or died or something, even though he owed me sixty bucks, and now I need a new bookie. Plus, after the last guy, I figure it would be good to have a guy who doesn't live near me.
SL [laughing]: Oh yeah, that was a lot of stitches. The drunkest I've ever been, I think. At least that I can remember.
WB: So you got a number for Vinnie?
SL: No, he doesn't have a number. He's always at the same booth at the Southside Ruby Tuesday's, drinking Amstel Light. I'll take you by tonight.
WB [chewing loudly]: Yeah, sounds good. Listen, I've got something else to ask you. A medical question.
SL: Hey, I told you that --
WB: Wait, now, this is --
[:26 OF CROSSTALK]
SL: -- last time I will do one! Besides, there are free clinics all over Auburn. Remember, I showed you two, and there's one like a block away from your apartment. And I'm not driving another freshman nursing major anywhere. Ever!
WB: That's not how that happened, you're misrepresenting what happened, and I don't even know that girl. But this isn't like that. I've got something on my lower back; I think it's a growth of some kind. Can you look at it?
SL: Sure, I can; I will tonight.
WB: I'm kind of worried about it now, though.
SL [sighing loudly]: Fine, Wes. It's on your lower back? Can you see it? What's it look like?
WB: Your phone can get images, right? Let me send you a picture.
SL: Okay.
WB: [hushed but audible cursing]
WB: Okay sent it. It's on its way.
SL: Alright, got it.
WB: ...
SL: Is this your anus?
WB: I don't know. Is it?
SL: Man! I fall for that every time.
WB: Yeah you do. Sucker!
SL: Uh, well, see you tonight.
WB: Unless I see you first!
[click]
SL: Hello?
WB: Scrotizzle my nizzle! What's the wizzle dizzle?
SL: What? Hello? Wes, is that you?
WB: You know it. How's it going?
SL: Good, good. We just got the bocce court leveled, so that's out of the way. Been a big pain for weeks now. You coming to Ted and Stephanie's tonight?
WB: Man, I don't know. That's not really my style. There's all those ... people. Talking. Gives me the willies. And I told some people I'd go to the women's basketball game tonight.
SL: Oh, come on. You never go to these things.
WB: Maybe that should tell you something.
SL: I heard there's gonna be Connect 4.
WB: Oh, wow, did it just get arousing in here? I might swing by. I need to be in Birmingham anyway. That's why I called -- who's that bookie you use? Fat Freddie or something like that?
SL: Big Vinnie! Great guy. Strong hands. Masculine hands. What about him?
WB: Well, it looks like my guy in town bailed or died or something, even though he owed me sixty bucks, and now I need a new bookie. Plus, after the last guy, I figure it would be good to have a guy who doesn't live near me.
SL [laughing]: Oh yeah, that was a lot of stitches. The drunkest I've ever been, I think. At least that I can remember.
WB: So you got a number for Vinnie?
SL: No, he doesn't have a number. He's always at the same booth at the Southside Ruby Tuesday's, drinking Amstel Light. I'll take you by tonight.
WB [chewing loudly]: Yeah, sounds good. Listen, I've got something else to ask you. A medical question.
SL: Hey, I told you that --
WB: Wait, now, this is --
[:26 OF CROSSTALK]
SL: -- last time I will do one! Besides, there are free clinics all over Auburn. Remember, I showed you two, and there's one like a block away from your apartment. And I'm not driving another freshman nursing major anywhere. Ever!
WB: That's not how that happened, you're misrepresenting what happened, and I don't even know that girl. But this isn't like that. I've got something on my lower back; I think it's a growth of some kind. Can you look at it?
SL: Sure, I can; I will tonight.
WB: I'm kind of worried about it now, though.
SL [sighing loudly]: Fine, Wes. It's on your lower back? Can you see it? What's it look like?
WB: Your phone can get images, right? Let me send you a picture.
SL: Okay.
WB: [hushed but audible cursing]
WB: Okay sent it. It's on its way.
SL: Alright, got it.
WB: ...
SL: Is this your anus?
WB: I don't know. Is it?
SL: Man! I fall for that every time.
WB: Yeah you do. Sucker!
SL: Uh, well, see you tonight.
WB: Unless I see you first!
[click]
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Tuesdays with West
NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION
PROPERTY OF FOX STUDIOS, INC
_HOUSE_ SEASON FINALE (EPISODE TITLE: "LOVE HURTS")
FINAL DRAFT
DIRECTOR CHANGES IN BLUE, WRITER CHANGES IN RED
FINAL SCENE
FADE IN: HOUSE walks along the beach. He is limping slightly, but carries his cane. He is talking on a cellphone. The viewers can hear the voice on the other line.
HOUSE: This was the greatest medical mystery I've ever faced. But like any puzzle I solved it, in forty-eight action-packed minutes.
VOICE: Did you, House MD?
HOUSE: Of course I did! The vice president is going to be fine, since I realized his pimaloma disease was the result of having been secretly injected with my leg muscles. Now he'll be fine, after a few more oriphorenal injections and some routine glaucomocha testing. I still have my gruff but lovable exterior, and my leg is healing.
VOICE: But there's one thing you still haven't solved.
HOUSE [taking two vicodin]: I have a pain problem, not a drug problem!
VOICE: That's not what I mean.
HOUSE: A broken heart is not a medical condition.
VOICE: And yet you could solve it, so easily.
HOUSE: How?
VOICE: Turn around.
HOUSE: Did you just hang up on me?
A VOICE FROM BEHIND: House!
HOUSE [spinning around, handsomely disheveled]: How did you get here?
WEST: I was always here, House.
HOUSE and WEST embrace, kissing passionately.
WEST: I knew I needed to be here for you, in your moment of greatest triumph.
HOUSE: And greatest defeat. How can I call myself the world's greatest medical maverick If I can't save the person I love most?
WEST: It's fine, House, my love. I just wanted to spend my last few minutes alone with you.
HOUSE: It's not fair!
WEST: Don't you always say, life isn't fair? Don't let it bother you; let's just HURGHH --
WEST collapses in the beach. Copious red fluid pours from his nostils.
HOUSE: No!
WEST: Go on, House, go without me. It ain't everything.
HOUSE: It ain't, it ain't ... taint!
HOUSE turns WEST over and pulls down WEST's speedo.
HOUSE: I have to hurry!
HOUSE lifts WEST's scrotal sac. There is a massive purplish growth. HOUSE punctures it with a ballpoint pen. Copious red fluid pours out.
WEST [weakly]: House? Is that you?
HOUSE: You're going to be fine. I should have known it was scrotal myopathic inhibition syndrome! We're going to be together a long time.
WEST: I love you.
[They kiss. SCENE].
PROPERTY OF FOX STUDIOS, INC
_HOUSE_ SEASON FINALE (EPISODE TITLE: "LOVE HURTS")
FINAL DRAFT
DIRECTOR CHANGES IN BLUE, WRITER CHANGES IN RED
FINAL SCENE
FADE IN: HOUSE walks along the beach. He is limping slightly, but carries his cane. He is talking on a cellphone. The viewers can hear the voice on the other line.
HOUSE: This was the greatest medical mystery I've ever faced. But like any puzzle I solved it, in forty-eight action-packed minutes.
VOICE: Did you, House MD?
HOUSE: Of course I did! The vice president is going to be fine, since I realized his pimaloma disease was the result of having been secretly injected with my leg muscles. Now he'll be fine, after a few more oriphorenal injections and some routine glaucomocha testing. I still have my gruff but lovable exterior, and my leg is healing.
VOICE: But there's one thing you still haven't solved.
HOUSE [taking two vicodin]: I have a pain problem, not a drug problem!
VOICE: That's not what I mean.
HOUSE: A broken heart is not a medical condition.
VOICE: And yet you could solve it, so easily.
HOUSE: How?
VOICE: Turn around.
HOUSE: Did you just hang up on me?
A VOICE FROM BEHIND: House!
HOUSE [spinning around, handsomely disheveled]: How did you get here?
WEST: I was always here, House.
HOUSE and WEST embrace, kissing passionately.
WEST: I knew I needed to be here for you, in your moment of greatest triumph.
HOUSE: And greatest defeat. How can I call myself the world's greatest medical maverick If I can't save the person I love most?
WEST: It's fine, House, my love. I just wanted to spend my last few minutes alone with you.
HOUSE: It's not fair!
WEST: Don't you always say, life isn't fair? Don't let it bother you; let's just HURGHH --
WEST collapses in the beach. Copious red fluid pours from his nostils.
HOUSE: No!
WEST: Go on, House, go without me. It ain't everything.
HOUSE: It ain't, it ain't ... taint!
HOUSE turns WEST over and pulls down WEST's speedo.
HOUSE: I have to hurry!
HOUSE lifts WEST's scrotal sac. There is a massive purplish growth. HOUSE punctures it with a ballpoint pen. Copious red fluid pours out.
WEST [weakly]: House? Is that you?
HOUSE: You're going to be fine. I should have known it was scrotal myopathic inhibition syndrome! We're going to be together a long time.
WEST: I love you.
[They kiss. SCENE].
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Tuesdays with John
John pretended to read the furniture repair how-to book, slouching down so that the men preparing the table and chairs wouldn't recognize him. He was excited and ready but also nervous, and very glad he decided to skip breakfast.
His eyes idly fell to the book in his hands. Upholstery looks so easy! His landlady had thrown out a chair that looked very much like this one, only a couple of weeks ago. Was it still in the back? It had not rained, he didn't think, and it might still be in good shape.
Concentrate! he told himself. He needed to be ready to argue. Would Gerald hit him? He might. But he was little and out of shape, and John was pretty sure he could take him. But what about the other guy? John had read all his books but had never met this Thomas Woodward, who was so special that John himself, last year's treasurer, was not allowed to attend his talk at the Books-A-Million.
He wished things had not come to this. But everyone was so unfair! Disagreements should be dealt with civilly, not with yelling and name-calling and expulsions. What really galled John was that he had been one of the six founders of the Memphis Extraterrestrial Communion Organization (MECO). Before his arrival last spring, the watcher community had been a bunch of losers on message boards. Now they had a website, a bank account, an organization, a society. Anyone would have been justifiably proud of the work he had done, and protective of the rights of all members.
Well, protective of his own rights.
The problem is that everyone automatically associates themselves with Grays. Even the poster announcing Woodward's talk this afternoon had a little drawing of a Gray (although the proportions were all askew, and John wasn't sure if the little hand-held raygun was more absurd or offensive). Just because they look so thin and elegant and have all that technology, and because so many more of the documented encounters (plus the crazies) were with Grays, and because they were in all those movies.
But you can't choose what happens to you, John told himself. You can only choose how to respond to it.
When the Reptilians had taken him eighteen months ago, the ordeal had been terrifying. The lights, the rough handling, the experiments. But there was more. He had learned so much from them! And the sexual tests -- the orgasms had been fast, furious, constant, the kind you wanted to stop but needed to keep going.
When he awoke after they returned him home, sore and scared and smelling of gin and burning plastic, John had been afraid to reach out. But he gradually began talking to others interested in the extraterrestrial phenomenon. He found what he thought was a helpful and tolerant community. He had discussed the E.T.s, their motives, their goals, and their nature. John changed people's minds and had his own conclusions challenged; for example, he was now convinced that most so-called UFOs were actually based on Earth or nearby planetary objects, and they were not all sent from other systems. John met people, joined groups, started groups, and met what he thought were friends.
But, he reflected bitterly, even these "open minded" people had their own prejudices. When he first began to talk about Reptilians he was shocked at how quickly they were dismissed as ugly or even villainous. Admitting to an interest or preference for Reptilians was met with disbelief or humor; admitting to a sexual relationship was met by stunned silence; admitting to enjoying it had resulted in his expulsion from MECO.
A group he had founded, whose idea had been his!
Well, he was not going take that. The talk had started and, and Woodward was going on about some crap about a new dawn of Earth/Extra-terran (what a silly phrase!) relations. He was nearing the end of the talk, and soon questions would follow. Yes, they were wrapping up. John stood up to his full height and began to stride forward as Gerald said, "Thank you very much, Professor Woodward! I think we've got time for a few questions. Do you-"
"I've got a question!" John bellowed. "Professor Woodward!"
"Oh, Jesus," Gerald muttered into the microphone. The crowd turned and stared as John marched forward.
"Is it not a fact," John began loudly, ignoring the stares and whispers, wildly jabbing his finger into the air to punctuate each clause, "I said, is it not a fact, that the extraterrestrial watcher community has consistently ignored the beliefs and ideas and needs of some of its most important members? For example, I -"
John had never been hit in the kidneys with a baton before, and it hurt more than he imagined anything could. Two small men in blue outfits, one of whom he thought he recognized from the Louisville UFO Meet Up group, grabbed John's arms as a third, unseen assailant hit his lower back one, two, three times. They began to drag him back.
"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," Gerald whined into the microphone, "We're almost out of time. A round of applause for Professor Thomas Woodward!"
John was being dragged toward the back of the store. He kicked his feet out, flailing, and knocked over a display of the new Harry Potter book.
"I won't be silenced!" he screamed. "I won't!"
His eyes idly fell to the book in his hands. Upholstery looks so easy! His landlady had thrown out a chair that looked very much like this one, only a couple of weeks ago. Was it still in the back? It had not rained, he didn't think, and it might still be in good shape.
Concentrate! he told himself. He needed to be ready to argue. Would Gerald hit him? He might. But he was little and out of shape, and John was pretty sure he could take him. But what about the other guy? John had read all his books but had never met this Thomas Woodward, who was so special that John himself, last year's treasurer, was not allowed to attend his talk at the Books-A-Million.
He wished things had not come to this. But everyone was so unfair! Disagreements should be dealt with civilly, not with yelling and name-calling and expulsions. What really galled John was that he had been one of the six founders of the Memphis Extraterrestrial Communion Organization (MECO). Before his arrival last spring, the watcher community had been a bunch of losers on message boards. Now they had a website, a bank account, an organization, a society. Anyone would have been justifiably proud of the work he had done, and protective of the rights of all members.
Well, protective of his own rights.
The problem is that everyone automatically associates themselves with Grays. Even the poster announcing Woodward's talk this afternoon had a little drawing of a Gray (although the proportions were all askew, and John wasn't sure if the little hand-held raygun was more absurd or offensive). Just because they look so thin and elegant and have all that technology, and because so many more of the documented encounters (plus the crazies) were with Grays, and because they were in all those movies.
But you can't choose what happens to you, John told himself. You can only choose how to respond to it.
When the Reptilians had taken him eighteen months ago, the ordeal had been terrifying. The lights, the rough handling, the experiments. But there was more. He had learned so much from them! And the sexual tests -- the orgasms had been fast, furious, constant, the kind you wanted to stop but needed to keep going.
When he awoke after they returned him home, sore and scared and smelling of gin and burning plastic, John had been afraid to reach out. But he gradually began talking to others interested in the extraterrestrial phenomenon. He found what he thought was a helpful and tolerant community. He had discussed the E.T.s, their motives, their goals, and their nature. John changed people's minds and had his own conclusions challenged; for example, he was now convinced that most so-called UFOs were actually based on Earth or nearby planetary objects, and they were not all sent from other systems. John met people, joined groups, started groups, and met what he thought were friends.
But, he reflected bitterly, even these "open minded" people had their own prejudices. When he first began to talk about Reptilians he was shocked at how quickly they were dismissed as ugly or even villainous. Admitting to an interest or preference for Reptilians was met with disbelief or humor; admitting to a sexual relationship was met by stunned silence; admitting to enjoying it had resulted in his expulsion from MECO.
A group he had founded, whose idea had been his!
Well, he was not going take that. The talk had started and, and Woodward was going on about some crap about a new dawn of Earth/Extra-terran (what a silly phrase!) relations. He was nearing the end of the talk, and soon questions would follow. Yes, they were wrapping up. John stood up to his full height and began to stride forward as Gerald said, "Thank you very much, Professor Woodward! I think we've got time for a few questions. Do you-"
"I've got a question!" John bellowed. "Professor Woodward!"
"Oh, Jesus," Gerald muttered into the microphone. The crowd turned and stared as John marched forward.
"Is it not a fact," John began loudly, ignoring the stares and whispers, wildly jabbing his finger into the air to punctuate each clause, "I said, is it not a fact, that the extraterrestrial watcher community has consistently ignored the beliefs and ideas and needs of some of its most important members? For example, I -"
John had never been hit in the kidneys with a baton before, and it hurt more than he imagined anything could. Two small men in blue outfits, one of whom he thought he recognized from the Louisville UFO Meet Up group, grabbed John's arms as a third, unseen assailant hit his lower back one, two, three times. They began to drag him back.
"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," Gerald whined into the microphone, "We're almost out of time. A round of applause for Professor Thomas Woodward!"
John was being dragged toward the back of the store. He kicked his feet out, flailing, and knocked over a display of the new Harry Potter book.
"I won't be silenced!" he screamed. "I won't!"
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tuesdays with Ted
Ted crouched in the bathroom stall, the hunter become the hunted.
In the abandoned ballroom the WB raged vainly, a creature searching for the scent too like its own to be detected.
Ted considered calling in a tactical strike. He even reached for his radio but pulled back. The WB would no doubt sense the radio signal and find him. Anyway, nuclear weapons had only a 70% success rate against even the early imperfect clones, and the strongest missiles had long since been shot. A nuclear strike at best had a 50-50 chance. Ted wouldn't risk.
Outside, a table hit the ceiling and crashed back down. It was making enough noise that Ted could safely move around the restroom, getting his thoughts in order. It would never hear him over the sounds of its own destructive impotence.
He stepped out the stall as the lights flickered. Why were the lights on? No doubt some panicked engineer -- or more, likely, some unlucky survivor impressed into plant duty -- had forgotten to properly shut everything down. No matter. This had to be the original. Its path had been more linear, its hunts more frequent, its killings more vicious, its desecration of the corpses more depraved. Ted was certain.
He stood up, looking at himself in the cracked mirror. Slim and muscular with a body any forty-year-old would be proud of, but his face, weathered by stress and hunger and losing that which you love, looked two decades older. He stood habitually with his left shoulder forward, making his missing right arm less apparent.
Ted was struck by doubts, not only about his next steps, but about his past decisions. Had he made the right ones? The doctors had insisted he apply the experimental serum. It was the only way, they told him.
Leave the past in the past, he told himself. The original was fifty feet away. His concentration had to be perfect. He would only have one shot at killing it, and he had to forget that it once was his own ...
Or was it? If it wasn't, the clones had become so close to perfect that there was no chance of survival. He pulled a small metal box out of his bag, pressed his thumb to the pad, and entered the code. It popped open, and he brought out one of only six surviving packages.
Like father, like son, he thought. Ted eased the restroom door open, peering out. The WB was on the other side of the room, but it was obvious it had caught the scent, even before the bag was open. Ted held the package in his teeth and ripped it open, freeing the decades-old flavor of Hormel Individually Sliced Pepperoni Snacks. Across the ballroom, the WB began to walk, then run toward him. Ted flung the pepperoni to his right; the WB followed as slices rolled across the floor.
The WB eyed Ted as it greedily scooped up the meat, aware in what remained of its mind that it was risking its life but unable to stop. Each bite revealed the bright pink mouth, its only weak spot. Ted carefully took aim with his pulse rifle.
"I'm sorry, William," he whispered as he pulled the trigger.
Before it even hit the ground, Ted knew it was the original. It did not begin to dissolve like the clones did; it was over, for good. The room filled with a sickening smell as its bowels evacuated in death. But Ted had to see the body. He crept forward and carefully pulled the protective carapice off the back of the WB's head. There, as he had expected, as he had found after every other quest, was the inexplicable symbol:
:-D
The prophecies were true. Seven down, five to go. But he was so exhausted! He tried to think of how he could keep going, when each test had been more difficult than the last. Almost as soon as he began to question himself, though, he pushed the worries out of his mind. He would keep going, and he would fulfill the prophecy. Some day, Tuesday would be called Tedsday. He would make sure of it.
In the abandoned ballroom the WB raged vainly, a creature searching for the scent too like its own to be detected.
Ted considered calling in a tactical strike. He even reached for his radio but pulled back. The WB would no doubt sense the radio signal and find him. Anyway, nuclear weapons had only a 70% success rate against even the early imperfect clones, and the strongest missiles had long since been shot. A nuclear strike at best had a 50-50 chance. Ted wouldn't risk.
Outside, a table hit the ceiling and crashed back down. It was making enough noise that Ted could safely move around the restroom, getting his thoughts in order. It would never hear him over the sounds of its own destructive impotence.
He stepped out the stall as the lights flickered. Why were the lights on? No doubt some panicked engineer -- or more, likely, some unlucky survivor impressed into plant duty -- had forgotten to properly shut everything down. No matter. This had to be the original. Its path had been more linear, its hunts more frequent, its killings more vicious, its desecration of the corpses more depraved. Ted was certain.
He stood up, looking at himself in the cracked mirror. Slim and muscular with a body any forty-year-old would be proud of, but his face, weathered by stress and hunger and losing that which you love, looked two decades older. He stood habitually with his left shoulder forward, making his missing right arm less apparent.
Ted was struck by doubts, not only about his next steps, but about his past decisions. Had he made the right ones? The doctors had insisted he apply the experimental serum. It was the only way, they told him.
Leave the past in the past, he told himself. The original was fifty feet away. His concentration had to be perfect. He would only have one shot at killing it, and he had to forget that it once was his own ...
Or was it? If it wasn't, the clones had become so close to perfect that there was no chance of survival. He pulled a small metal box out of his bag, pressed his thumb to the pad, and entered the code. It popped open, and he brought out one of only six surviving packages.
Like father, like son, he thought. Ted eased the restroom door open, peering out. The WB was on the other side of the room, but it was obvious it had caught the scent, even before the bag was open. Ted held the package in his teeth and ripped it open, freeing the decades-old flavor of Hormel Individually Sliced Pepperoni Snacks. Across the ballroom, the WB began to walk, then run toward him. Ted flung the pepperoni to his right; the WB followed as slices rolled across the floor.
The WB eyed Ted as it greedily scooped up the meat, aware in what remained of its mind that it was risking its life but unable to stop. Each bite revealed the bright pink mouth, its only weak spot. Ted carefully took aim with his pulse rifle.
"I'm sorry, William," he whispered as he pulled the trigger.
Before it even hit the ground, Ted knew it was the original. It did not begin to dissolve like the clones did; it was over, for good. The room filled with a sickening smell as its bowels evacuated in death. But Ted had to see the body. He crept forward and carefully pulled the protective carapice off the back of the WB's head. There, as he had expected, as he had found after every other quest, was the inexplicable symbol:
:-D
The prophecies were true. Seven down, five to go. But he was so exhausted! He tried to think of how he could keep going, when each test had been more difficult than the last. Almost as soon as he began to question himself, though, he pushed the worries out of his mind. He would keep going, and he would fulfill the prophecy. Some day, Tuesday would be called Tedsday. He would make sure of it.
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