CTRL+ALT+DEL (with photos!)

So here's the script again, now that we've wrapped our latest run of performances:

CTRL + ALT + DEL
by Andrés du Bouchet
Performed November 12 & 19 at the Kraine Theater,
and December 10, 11, 16-19 at the Red Room above KGB.

NEIL – Bryan Olsen
BARRY – Michael Reisman
TOM – Anthony Devito
OFFICER CHROPUVKA – Rusty Ward

Lights up on a suburban kitchen. Neil sits at the kitchen table center stage, speaking on the phone. He is wearing rubber gloves and a bloody shirt. A very large and lumpy looking garbage bag is downstage left. A dura-flame log and box of fireplace matches sits against the wall stage right. Against the back wall upstage right is a microwave and garbage disposal.

NEIL
Thanks for talking to me Mom. I’m sure she’s fine – you know how cell phones can be. She probably left me a message which didn’t get through. Alright, Okay, I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Sorry to wake you. Alright I’ll make sure Patty calls you in the morning Ma. Go back to sleep. ‘Night.

A thoughtful beat. Then, he begins reciting to himself:

NEIL (con.)
Hello, Ellen? Have you heard from Patty? Hello Ellen? Have you or Tom heard from Patty? She hasn’t come home from work yet and I haven’t been able to reach her on her cell phone. I’m worried...I’m very worried...I’m starting to get worried.

He gets up and begins to pace.

NEIL (con.)
Hello, Ellen? It’s Neil. Have you or Tom heard from Patty? She never came home from work and she hasn’t called. I’m starting to get worried – it isn’t like her not to call and I haven’t been able to reach her on her cell phone. Alright, good.

He goes to pick up the phone. Just as he's about to pick it up, it rings. He stares at it for several beats, his hand hovering over the receiver. He picks it up.

NEIL (con.)
Hello? Oh Hi Tom. Ellen? No, I haven’t heard from her at all. She never came home from work? Yeah, no, I know, that’s...that's not like her not to call, right? Well I’m sure she’ll call you soon. Um…listen, have you seen Patty?

There is a knock on the door.

NEIL (con.)
Hold on Tom, someone’s at the door.

He answers the door – it’s Barry, who is also wearing a bloody shirt and rubber gloves.

BARRY
Have you seen Nancy?

They stare at each other. Neil gives Barry the “just a second” sign with his finger.

NEIL
(into the phone) Yeah Tom? Barry’s here. He’s looking for Nancy…No, I’m not kidding. And I haven’t seen Patty since this morning. Yeah, yeah. Right. Maybe they’re…all together. (He look at Barry, who shrugs) Okay see you soon. Bye.

BARRY
Nancy never came home from work and she hasn’t called. I’m starting to get worried – it isn’t like her not to call and I haven’t been able to reach her on her cell phone. And you're saying you don't know where Patty is either?

NEIL
She…never came home from work either.

BARRY
Oh wow, that’s…Yeah, I was out fishing all day and I just got back and was cleaning the fish, and I cut myself a little.

NEIL
Oh yeah, yeah. I was cleaning the dishes and I accidentally cut myself on a glass. And then I got on a cleaning kick and put a bunch of normal, lumpy, heavy stuff in that garbage bag and I’ve been bleeding a lot. It’s my blood.

BARRY
Yeah…can I sit down for second?

NEIL
Yeah…I think I will too.

Stunned silence.

BARRY
So I’m sure our wives are fine and all, and they’ll be home soon.

NEIL
Sure, sure. How is Nancy doing? The pregnancy coming along nicely?

BARRY
Oh yeah, she’s healthy and the baby’s doing fine. And I was fishing all day. And Patty? How is her pregnancy?

NEIL
She’s great, great. Healthy and happy – I felt the baby kick yesterday! That garbage bag is filled with regular garbage.

More stunned silence. There is a knock on the door.

NEIL
I’ll get it.

Neil opens the door.

Tom walks in, also wearing a bloody shirt with rubber gloves on.

TOM
Hey guys, have you seen Ellen…

They all regard each other.

TOM
She never came home from work and she hasn’t called. I’m starting to get worried – it isn’t like her not to call and I haven’t been able to reach her on her cell phone. Oh, I’ve been shearing the hedges and I -

NEIL
Cut yourself? Yeah, so did we.

BARRY
Yeah.

TOM
Can I sit down?

NEIL
Sure.

All three are seated in dumbfounded silence for a looong beat.

NEIL (con.)
Tom, I thought you and Ellen seemed really happy lately I don’t-

TOM
We are! What does that have to do with anything? I can’t wait for my pregnant wife whom I love to have our baby so we can continue our lives together until we both die of natural causes. I’m upset that she hasn’t returned from work and I’ve been making a lot of very concerned phone calls to that effect. I haven’t even had time to clean myself up from the hedge trimming accident.

BARRY
Where did you cut yourself?

TOM
I love my wife! Where did you cut yourself?

Beat.

BARRY
It’s like that time I bought an SUV.



NEIL
What?

BARRY
I bought a Ford Explorer and you guys went out and copied me.

TOM
I don’t know what you’re getting at Barry, but stop right now.

NEIL
Look. I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking.

TOM
Oh no no no no…

NEIL
Yes, c’mon we’ll all feel a lot better.

TOM
No.

BARRY
No!

NEIL
Our wives are going to be just fine.

Beat.

BARRY
Yes!

TOM
Yeah?

NEIL
They’ll be home at some point. Heck, they’re all friends, maybe they all went somewhere together immediately following work and they’re somewhere where none of their cell phones work. And we all cut ourselves cleaning, fishing and hedging. The best thing we can do is make concerned phone calls to strategically targeted friends and family members tonight … due to our legitimate concern…and then call the police in the morning. After we’ve cleaned ourselves up.

BARRY
Yes, we gotta clean up.

NEIL
Sure! I’ll collect everyone’s shirts and put them in the wash.

Everyone starts taking off their shirts and piling them onto the kitchen table. They look at Neil’s back.

BARRY
Wait, what is that, a tattoo?

NEIL
Yeah.

TOM
(inspecting) What is it?

NEIL
Careful it’s still a bit tender – it’s an airplane with luggage falling out of its open cargo compartment, and the caption says “No Baggage.”



BARRY
It’s nice.

NEIL
Thanks. I got it today.

TOM
Oh – that new tattoo parlour next to the mattress store, right?

NEIL
Yep.

BARRY
You know…you’ve got a fireplace, right?

TOM
Yes! Neil, you’ve got a fireplace.

NEIL
Yes I do have a fireplace. Or rather, Patty and I have one.

BARRY
Do you think, um…we could…

NEIL
Hey, I completely understand. If it will make you guys feel better, I can burn all of our shirts.

TOM
I think that’s a good idea.

BARRY
In times of stress, when I’m concerned about my pregnant wife whom I love, I think it helps me calm down to burn things like shirts.

Neil grabs the pile of shirts and begins to head offstage to upstage right.

NEIL
Hey I'm with you, Barry. When I'm worried, I like to clean things thoroughly and meticulously, until they're spotless. I call it “CSI Clean”.

TOM
"CSI Clean". I like that.

Tom starts scrubbing a spot on the floor.

NEIL
Thanks. I came up with it today.

BARRY
I cleaned my house top to bottom all day. Because I was so worried. Waiting for my pregnant wife whom I love. And then I went fishing all day.

Neil returns to the kitchen.

NEIL
Wait a second. You cleaned your house all day and also went fishing all day because you were worried that your wife hadn’t come home from work yet…tonight?

BARRY
Well. Now that you put it that way. I, um. Can you guys help me figure out what I was…

TOM
Look. After we clean up and burn everything that needs to be burned-

NEIL
For our peace of mind.

TOM
Right, for our piece of mind, we’ll all sit down and figure out what each of us was doing today. Since we’re so worried about our wives we may have a hard time remembering.

BARRY
I can prove I went fishing. I even caught some fish after I. After I…Caught some other fish.

NEIL
Alright. Well, I think we’re all on the same page here. As long as we all stay on this page, we can get through this coincidence.

BARRY
Yes. Let’s take this page, and just fold the corner over, so we know where we are in the book that is this unfortunate situation. Hopefully this chapter ends better than –

NEIL
No need to expand the metaphor, Barry.

BARRY
Sorry. Same page.

TOM
Hey. Guys. I hope all of our wives are alright. Huh?

NEIL
That’s the spirit!

BARRY
What about the rubber gloves?

As he explains the following, Neil grabs a casserole dish and places it on the table, and then begins to remove his rubber gloves and place them in the dish. The other two follow suit.

NEIL
If we microwave all of them in a casserole dish for 10-15 minutes, they’ll actually lose their elasticity and become brittle - and then we can stick them in the garbage disposal in the sink. It’ll be indistinguishable from the rest of the muck in there.

Neil puts the glove casserole in the microwave.

BARRY
Really?

NEIL
Yep. I happened to read it on-line yesterday.

TOM
You know, I happened to read the same exact thing!

NEIL
Huh! Well, let me go burn the shirts.

Neil grabs the duraflame log and fireplace matches.

BARRY
Make sure there’s nothing left at all.

TOM
Hey Barry – don’t worry, alright?

NEIL
Tom, try to calm down our little friend here while I burn the shirts.

TOM
Hey, it’s a good thing it’s a bit nippy out. Perfectly normal to have a fire.

NEIL
Weather.com is always pretty accurate.

Neil heads offstage with the duraflame log and matches.

TOM
Yep.

BARRY
I am going to need a bookmark.

TOM
What? Just listen to me for a second. How long have we known each other?

BARRY
14 years.



TOM
And during that entire time, what is the one thing that I’ve known more about than pretty much everyone in the world, except maybe for those two fruitcakes in Vermont?

BARRY
Ice cream.

TOM
That’s right, ice cream. I have loved ice cream since I was a kid, and I’ve never stopped loving ice cream. I love ice cream so much, I’ve become the king of ice cream here in the tri-state area. Penguin Pop's ice cream shops are in over 20 locations. And do you know why I love ice cream so much?

BARRY
Everybody loves ice cream.

TOM
Variety. I love ice cream because of the variety. You’re familiar with my store’s most popular original flavor, right?

BARRY
"Chocolate Armageddon".

TOM
Yes, "Chocolate Armageddon". Chocolate ice cream. Almonds. Chocolate chunks. Malted milk balls. Milk duds. Swirls of peanut butter. Swirls of marshmallow. Toffee clusters. Crumbled Twinkies. Those are just half of the ingredients right there. Everything you could possibly want in an ice cream, right? No reason to ever try another flavor, right? Wrong. I got hooked on it once, ate it everyday for every meal for a week. Then I needed a change. Now just imagine if the ice cream wouldn’t let you change. If it was considered inappropriate to try other flavors. And if it wasn’t a week, it was 4 years. And the ice cream made it known on a daily basis that you weren’t man enough for it. Or worst case scenario, if that ice cream were to get pregnant.

BARRY
Thanks Tom, that actually helped a lot.

TOM
Anytime.

Neil reenters.

NEIL
Alright, our shirts are burning. Who wants a beer?

Neil begins opening and handing out bottles of beer.

TOM
Is that a good idea?

NEIL
We’re worried, we’re commiserating, we’re having a few cold ones while we burn some shirts and microwave some rubber gloves.

They each hold a beer. Tom raises his bottle to toast.

TOM
To our wonderful wives!

NEIL
Here here.

TOM
This is excellent.

NEIL
It’s a microbrew. That’s pumpkin you taste.

BARRY
Mmm.

TOM
Guys, it’s getting late. I think we should start helping each other try to remember what it was each of us was doing today, so that we can better help the police find our wives who we’re concerned about.

NEIL
I agree, why don’t we start by –

The phone rings. Neil answers it.

NEIL
Hello? Patty! (Tom does a magnificent spit-take) I was worried sick about you! Where are you sweetheart?

Barry and Tom are dumbstruck.

NEIL
Oh wow. Yeah. That stinks. Nah, I’m just here with Tom and Barry, having a few cold ones. Well they’re worried about Ellen and Nancy, have you seen them? Oh, okay, well get home soon. Drive safe. I love you.

Barry and Tom are baffled.

NEIL
Patty'll be home soon.

Long beat. Neil holds up a cell phone from his pocket.

NEIL
Gotcha! That was me! I called the house phone from my cell!

BARRY
What page are you on? What happened to staying on the same page? This is not the page!

TOM
Jesus Christ! Jokes are the last thing we need!

There is a knock at the door. Beat.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA (offstage)
Police.

BARRY
That’s the last thing we need.

TOM
What do we do, we can’t let him see us like this!

NEIL
Just relax, he can already see us through the window.

All three wave offstage meakly. Neil answers the door. Officer Chropuvka walks in.

NEIL
Can I help you officer?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Good evening gentlemen, I’m sorry to bother you.

NEIL
No problem.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Hey, you’re Neil Greenfellow, the songwriter!

NEIL
That’s me.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Wow. (singing) “Ain’t no woman gonna hold me back, ain’t no woman gonna drag me down…” Great stuff. I thought Rondelle did a great job with that one.

NEIL
Thanks man.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
(singing) “Bye bye ball and chain…” Willie Francis and the Charlottes recorded that one.

NEIL
Yep, you’re good.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
(singing) “Hello, I’d like to report a spouse-icide!” Jonny Sapphire.

NEIL
Amazing! Are you guys hearing this? He knows all my songs.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Big fan. Big fan.

NEIL
So, what brings you by, officer…

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Chropuvka.

NEIL
Officer Chropuvka.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Well, this neighborhood is part of my nightly route, I drive around at night looking for anything out of the ordinary and this is a nice area, so unusual things tend to stand out, like those three bloody mattresses on your curb.

NEIL
Three bloody mattresses? I mean – three bloody mattresses?

The other two look sheepish.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Yeah. Three mattresses, and they all look pretty bloody. And judging from the drag marks, at least one of them came from this house. So…hey, why aren’t you guys wearing any shirts?

TOM
Strip poker.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Strip poker. Where are the cards?

TOM
We don’t use cards. This is a game we call…Trust Strip Poker.

BARRY
Trust Strip Poker.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Trust Strip Poker?

Bing! The microwave goes off.

NEIL
I’ll get that.

Neil begins removing the gloves from the microwave and placing them in the garbage disposal. Over next few lines, the sound of the disposal can be heard in the background as Neil shoves gloves in.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
That smells awful, what is that?

NEIL
Just a pile of rubber gloves.

TOM
Yeah, Trust Strip Poker. It’s up to each person to come up with their poker hand in their head. Then, you take turns telling the rest of the table your hand, and everyone just has to trust that you’re not just making up the best possible hand.

NEIL
(over his shoulder) I have three Kings by the way.

TOM
Again with the three Kings. (takes off his belt)

BARRY
(screaming) I can’t take it anymore!

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Gentlemen, I’ve been compiling a list of questions since I arrived here. And I have to admit, the list has now gotten so long that I cannot remember what my first question was. So, let me ask the one that most recently popped into my head. (turns to Barry). What?

BARRY
Um.

TOM
Officer Corperka-

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Chropuvka.

TOM
Chropuvka, I know this whole situation must seem rather strange to you. You see a pile of bloody mattresses on this man’s curb. You come to investigate, and find three half-dressed men, half-dressed men who claim that they’re playing a game of strip poker with no cards. Then, as one of the men busily shoves a bunch of microwaved rubber gloves into a garbage disposal, one of the other men screams “I can’t take it anymore”. What are you to think? The fact is, the three of us are desperately worried about our wives. They’re all friends, you see, and none of them have come home from work today. So, after making several concerned calls which phone records will document –

BARRY
And fishing.

TOM
Right, and cleaning and trimming the hedges, we all decided to get together and support each other during this time of worry. About our wives whom we love. Sure, we’re shirtless. Sure, there’s a pile of bloody mattresses out there.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
But…?

TOM
But what?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
It sounded like you were about to add a but.

TOM
No, that’s all I wanted to say.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Fine, then I’m going to have to ask for a more detailed explanation of what’s going on here. You say all of your wives are missing?

BARRY
Here’s…here’s the receipt from where I parked when I went fishing.

Hands him receipt.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Okay.

NEIL
You’ve got quite a five-o-clock shadow going on there, officer.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
No I don’t.

NEIL
What type of razor do you use?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Oh, uh – the Mach 3.

NEIL
Right, I could’ve pegged you as a Mach 3 man.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Alright.

NEIL
Myself, I use the old fashioned kind. The kind you buy loose. You know, just blades. You need to load them into the shaver.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Those are pretty old-fashioned.

During the following exchange, Barry and Tom begin slowly, awkwardly carrying the large garbage bag offstage. Neil keeps rotating as he talks to Officer Chropuvka, so that Chropuvka's back is to Tom and Barry.

NEIL
They sure are. Well, this morning, at 7am, our alarm goes off - and my wife, who is normally pretty lucid in the morning, trips out of bed, knocks the alarm clock and lamp off the bedside table, topples over the entire dresser, walks face first into the full length mirror and then says "I don't feel so good, I think I took too many horse tranquilizers last night."



OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Horse tranquilizers?

NEIL
I know! Weird, right? I didn't even know she had them hidden in her lingerie drawer which is where the bottle still is now with only her fingerprints on it. Anyway, she apparently had an addiction to them that I didn't know about. She goes into the bathroom, pulls the shower curtains off the shower rod, and collapses on the floor. That's when I fell back asleep.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Wait, you fell back asleep? Weren't you concerned about your wife?

NEIL
I sure was, and I had some very concerned dreams for the next half hour or so. Anyway, when I finally wake up again, there she is, back in bed, shaving her legs with my old-fashioned razor! I say "honey, what are you doing?" Because she's cutting herself all over the place, bleeding everywhere, but she just keeps saying "I gotta shave my legs and get to work!" So once she went off to work I threw the mattress on the curb and went to the mattress store.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
And you bought a new mattress?

NEIL
You think I would have. But no, I just ended up getting a tattoo at the parlour next door. Anyway, I'm beginning to feel like maybe I shouldn't have let my wife leave the house in that state. She didn't even take the car. I wonder how she got to work.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
How long is her commute?

NEIL
When she drives, it's like...90 minutes.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
But she didn't drive, she just wandered off.

Barry and Tom return from offstage. They are all clustered around the officer now.

NEIL
I've been calling her cell phone all day with no success. My phone records will back that up. And cleaning. Cleaning like a madman. I clean when I'm worried. My wife's diary will back that up in handwriting that matches the rest of the diary.

BARRY
You can see on my parking slip that it's for today's date.

TOM
Alright, one of those bloody mattresses is mine as well. And yes, it's my wife's blood on there too!!

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
And?

TOM
And what?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Gentlemen, I am growing increasingly impatient here.

Neil pulls Tom away and hands him a saw. He picks up a hatchet and they head offstage. Sounds of chopping and sawing start coming from the other room and continue throughout this exchange.

BARRY
What the hell was I supposed to do? Can you tell me that? What? I'm up to my eyeballs in debt. I can't afford to have a baby. My whole life has been a sham, a lousy fake sham of a failure! My wife deserves better than me, you know? I did the only thing I could do!

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Which was what?

BARRY
To attempt to win the fishing contest today.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Fishing contest.

BARRY
I did not win.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
What fishing contest?

BARRY
The Secret Fishing Contest Of Mystery Bay.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Alright, I'll give you that. I’m from Mystery Bay, and today we held our annual Secret Fishing Contest. You were there?

BARRY
Yes.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
What was the secret fish?

BARRY
Perch.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Okay. Were you the one who dumped that large object wrapped in a tarp into the water – the one that everyone was pointing and yelling at?

BARRY
Tarp baiting is a very popular technique for priming the water for fish. I wrapped approximately 140 pounds of sardines in a tarp and dumped it in to prime...prime the water. About 140 pounds. Back in the early 90s it would've been 115 pounds, but the sardines…really let themselves go.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Is one of those mattresses yours?

BARRY
Okay.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Well?

BARRY
Are you married, officer?

During this exchange, Barry gets Chropuvka a beer and they sit at the table.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Yes, I am.

BARRY
For how long?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
We've been married for 11 years. Since, well since the end of high school.

BARRY
High school sweethearts.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Yeah.

BARRY
Married early.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Sure.

BARRY
Because you knocked her up?

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
(laughs) Yeah, pretty much. You got me.

BARRY
And since then, that feeling of regret gnaws at you. What could your life have been without those shackles you willingly put on oh those many years ago. How would your life be different now if you hadn't been such a reckless teenager, and if you hadn't then bowed down to the social pressures of a family, nay, an entire society, that expected you to throw away your freedom, your future, because of one little mistake! What if you HAD gone to the creative writing program in Iowa? What if you HADN'T just stayed in this town, toiling away as a discount tax prep accountant?

The sawing sounds stop, and Tom reappears. The chopping sounds continue.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
I love my wife.

TOM
That's what we've been saying! And that's why we're worried sick about them!

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
(to Barry) I'll get back to you. What about you?

TOM
I flail in my sleep.

The chopping sounds stop and Neil reappears. He hands the hatchet to Barry, who goes offstage. Neil follows. The chopping and sawing sounds resume.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
What?

TOM
When I sleep I flail around, waving my arms, sometimes. Sometimes I'll throw an elbow or kick, when I'm having one of my "No Father Conroy" dreams. Last night I accidentally in my sleep gave my wife a bloody nose. But she didn't even wake up when it happened, she kept sleeping. So by the time we both woke up, her blood was all over the place, soaked through the sheets and the mattress...I told her I would drag the mattress out of the house, which I did. She then walked to work high on horse tranquilizers.

NEIL
(poking his head out) Hey.

Tom shrugs apologetically.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
And did you buy a new mattress today?

TOM
You think I would have. But all I got was this tattoo.

Shows the tattoo. Neil emerges.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
What is it?

TOM
It's a half and half caricature - the face is split down the middle between Jack NIcholson from the Shining and Mel Gibson from Braveheart, and he's saying "Heeeeere's Freedom!"

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
And you got this today.

TOM
Yep.

The chopping sounds come to a complete stop - and Barry is heard yelling offstage...

BARRY (offstage)
Ow, my foot! My foot! Ah my foot!

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Alright what the hell is going on in there.

NEIL
Wait!

Officer Chropuvka rushes offstage. We hear a massive thump. A long beat. Barry comes running on, bloodier than ever.

BARRY
Alright! The cop's out of the picture.

TOM
What?

NEIL
Barry, did you just kill Officer Chropuvka?



BARRY
What else could I do, he was expertly picking apart our nefarious web of lies!

NEIL
How's your foot?

BARRY
That was nothing but a clever ruse.

NEIL
Okay. It looks like we're on a different page now.

BARRY
I'm sorry I turned the page.

TOM
What kind of a person kills a police officer? I'm disappointed in you, Barry.

BARRY
Hey, your ice cream sucks!

NEIL
Whoah, whoah. Let's not let our emotions get the better of us now. This is just another small wrinkle in -

A gunshot rings out. They all flinch. Officer Chropuvka stumbles back onto the stage, clutching his bloody neck with one hand and waving his gun back and forth at them. He leans and slumps against the wall stage right. The other three back away to stage left.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
I'm beginning...to think...you guys...are full...of shit.

TOM
So you didn't kill him. I'm disappointed in you, Barry.

NEIL
Officer Chrovupka, you really caught us at a bad time.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
It’s Chropuvka. Put your hands up, all of you. And put down the fucking axe.

They all do.

NEIL
Officer Chropuvka, I've got some rare autographed albums of my songs that are yours if you just put down the gun.

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
The classics?

NEIL
All the classics.

CHROPUVKA
Wow, that sounds-

Officer Chropuvka's gun goes off by accident, hitting Neil. He slumps down onto the floor.

NEIL
Shit…

OFFICER CHROPUVKA
Oh man, that was an accident. I totally would've taken the al...bums.

Officer Chropuvka and Neil both die. Barry and Tom take it all in for a long beat.

TOM
You don't like my ice cream?

BARRY
It's too airy. Alright, this can work to our advantage.

TOM
It can? This is ten times worse than before.

BARRY
No. Listen. Neil Greenfellow, long term drug abusing singer/songwriter, has terrible acid flashback, goes on a murdering spree. Kills our wives, and even kills a cop - who manages to get one lucky shot in before dying.

TOM
Go on.

BARRY
His two friends, concerned about their wives, arrive to confront Neil, and witness the whole horrifying scene unfold. We're in a whole new book now. I gotta..I gotta figure out whose fingerprints should be on what.

TOM
Well, yours shouldn't be on that hatchet for starters.

BARRY
Okay. You see? Now we're getting somewhere.

Barry starts to head offstage.

TOM
(calling after him) And make sure you wipe our prints off the garbage bag.

BARRY
(heading offstage) I know.

Tom grabs a cloth and begins wiping down various spots in he kitchen as he sings to himself.

TOM
(singing) Hello! I’d like to report a spouse-icide!

BARRY
(from offstage) Ow, my foot! I really hurt my foot this time! Tom, help!

TOM
(heading offstage) Barry, are you okay?

Another scream and thump. Barry re-emerges, and places the axe on the table. He picks up the phone. Puts it back down, and rehearses to himself:

BARRY
Hello, police? I'd like to report a...quint...sext...Hello police? Something's happened. Something terrible has happened. Hello police? Something terrible has happened, I walked in and they were all on the floor and Oh My God! (beat) Okay, good.

As he goes to pick up the phone, BLACKOUT.

THE END!

TWENTY-ONE DOLLAR BURGER!

Last week on Twenty-One Dollar Burger...

KYLE
You're shittin' me.

BO
No man, seriously.

AND NOW WE RETURN TO TWENTY-ONE DOLLAR BURGER!

KYLE
How was it?

BO
Awesome.

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR MORE TWENTY-ONE DOLLAR BURGER!

This tastes so good, I wanna punch somebody in the neck.

Seriously, these are some good chocolates.

Slab... Trawlmuergsen...... Southern......... Massapequa............ Community...............

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

ABC PROUDLY LAUNCHES NEW 'INTERSTITIAL DRAMA' TO TAKE PLACE ENTIRELY WITHIN THE PAUSES BETWEEN WORDS UTTERED BY LINEMEN AS THEY INTRODUCE THEMSELVES DURING MONDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL

ABC unveiled its newest show, Disparate Housewives today, in which housewives are extremely different from one another. "It may sound like a rather limiting premise," said Glenn Glenndennon, ABC's Senior Vice Producer of Interstitial Development, "but a show like Disparate Housewives is perfectly suited for our new line of interstitial programming, that is, programming which takes place entirely within the pauses between the words uttered by linemen as they introduce themselves during Monday Night Football."

In the debut episode of Disparate Housewives, Charlene and Sarah, one blonde and tall, the other brunette and short, argue briefly about their opposing viewpoints concerning couch texture. The entire episode takes place between the words "Burt" and "Farmpletog", which are, respectively, the first and last names of Minnesota's Nosetackle. ABC was kind enough to provide us with a clip (hell man, I can't be expected to maintain the press release format, I'm typing this crap at work during pauses in my secretarial day - how appropo!):

DISPARATE HOUSEWIVES EPISODE ONE

JOHN MADDEN
...which should play a big role in determining run to pass ratio.

AL MICHAELS
As they line-up, let's meet the Viking's starters.

[loud swooshing noises accompany a robo-mechanical themed computer graphic, in which the football players' heads appear one by one with their names underneath -- as each head rotates into view, it becomes live video, with the player speaking - very very slowly - into the camera]

BURT FARMPLETOG
...Burt...

[another graphic appears next to Burt's face as he pauses to recollect his own last name - in this graphic two women appear - one tall and blonde, one brunette and short]

CHARLENE
I prefer couches with a plush texture.

SARAH
I strongly disagree. I like a nice, coarse texture.

BURT FARMPLETOG
...Farmpletog...

CHARLENE
No, a plush texture, like a velour, is much more appealing.

SARAH
No it isn't, it's nicer to have something that you can idly rub while you watch tv.

BURT FARMPLETOG
...Eastern...

The other night, a fellow comic was mentioning to me that I have a tendency to abandon premises mid-post. Interesting.

New, old format.

I liked it better the old way.

New, simpler format.

What do you think? I kinda miss the links. I also removed the sound clips, since I don't want people to think that ALL I'm concerned with is porn. Puh-lease. Please? Please. Stop shaking your heads. Oh c'mon.

The Man With Snow For Dandruff And Teeny-Tiny Ski Gal In...What's All The Fuss About "Sideways"?

THE MAN WITH SNOW FOR DANDRUFF
I mean I thought it was okay. Paul Giammati was certainly excellent, but I thought the other guy, the guy from Wings...his performance seemed sort of off. Like he was in a different film. What do you think, Teeny-Tiny Ski Gal?

TEENY-TINY SKI GAL
Wee! I'm skiing down your left shoulder! Weeeee!

THE MAN WITH SNOW FOR DANDRUFF
I hate talking to you about film.

TEENY-TINY SKI GAL
Wee!

I would be an awesome judge.

Mr. Peterson. The jury has recommended that you be put to death for the murder of your pregnant wife, Laci. I would have to concur with this. However, due to the fact that this speech is taking place within a blog posting of a particularly twisted individual, it is my privilege to alter the sentence. To elaborate on it, if you will. I sentence you to death NOT by injection, NOT by electrocution, and NOT by being drawn and quartered by monster trucks, but rather thusly:

I sentence you to being cloned. Upon successful completion of the cloning, you will be put into cryogenic suspension for 32 years, during which time your clone shall be raised to be a psychopathic killer. After said 32 years, you will be revived, forced to marry your first clone, and then cloned again. This second clone will be placed inside you using an artificial womb. You will carry this second clone for approximately eight months as it gestates within you, and as you live in awkward matrimony with your first clone, who, this entire time, will be plotting your demise. Then, on Christmas Eve, your first clone will kill you and your unborn you, and dump you in the bay. Your first clone shall then be forced to undergo the exact same procedure. This shall continue ad infinitum, every 32 years, until the demise of civilization. Until Hell itself swallows the land and all creation is swept into the fiery maw of chaos. Until...okay, I'll admit, the apocalyptic talk doesn't really add much to what is already a pret-ty freaky sentence. Doctors? Take him away.

No Marbles Syndrome

That last post. That's the one the men in the white coats will point to when they whisk me away to that cell padded with Charmin and Twix wrappers. Why Twix wrappers? They'll know more about me than you'd think. At any rate, I had the interesting experience of slowly getting more and more SOBER throughout the course of my karaoke binge last night, which made my final, hoarse rendition of R.E.M.'s "Everybody Hurts" all the more hollowing (though one nice woman told me it was my song to 'represent' with). It's never fun to be the one sober person in a room full of drunks. Incidentally, that whole Alanis Morrissette experiment was an unmitigated disaster. Oh, but the ladies swooned for U2's "All I Want Is You". Now then, I actually think there are a few nuggets in that last crazy ramble which can be turned into posts in and of themselves, so over the next few posts you may see some ideas that originated there. This is, perhaps, the least humorous post I've ever slapped up here.

THE PUMPKIN DUMPLING KING AND THE GREAT FUDGE DILEMMA...and other drunken grumblings...

"I would like to dedicate this piece to all of the babies, puppies and cookies."
-- Andres Mario du Bouchet

As the Pumpkin Dumpling King reclines
on his throne of withered leaves and vines,
he sighs a sigh of discontent -
a forlorn note of wonderment:
"There is simply too much fudge,
my carriages can barely budge!
And if I ask my gnomes to trudge,
they'll scarcely nudge those mounds of...
(he pauses as if to think,
and deep in his throne does he sink,
as Mister Lemonkeet* does flit and wink
the king's sceptre taps the floor with a hollow PLINK)
...fudge."
Pardon as this poem is interrupted
to let you know that when Mt. Fudge erupted
it spewed a fair amount of the gooey stuff
from Lake Nutella to Nougat Bluff!
And now daily life throughout the land
has simply gotten out of hand.
Too much fudge slows commerce down,
and prevents folks from going town to town!
So the king must make a choice,
and with his flickering candle mouth
raise his voice! But.
No such luck.
His brain is stuck.
Heck, it's filled with savory muck -
minced meats and savory spices
can't be expected to devise devices
for fudge clean-up!
(Author's Note - I often have to pinch myself as a reminder that I have NO ACTUAL POETIC TALENT. And also I'm in the midst of drinking an entire bottle of 2001 Caymus Cabernet, given to me in the free manner by MY BUSINESS ASSOCIATES)
"Mr. Lemonkeet!" bellowed the king,
"bring me the sweetest sweet-tooths you can bring!"
So his yellow friend obliged, and

Hey - you know when, at the beginning of an NFL game, they flash that graphic which shows video of each of the linemen, and these meatslabs speak directly into the camera and announce their name and what school they went to...MAN DON'T THEY TALK SLOWLY!?!?

"Berf...Noodleman...Bama...South...Versity..."

Can't the production assistant egg them on to speak a bit quicker? BAH!

Ah crap I spilled some wine on my

flitted his quickest flit outside
and spread the word throughout the land
"DO YOU LIKE SWEETS? Is your appetite for them grand?
Then hike and climb through the fudgey grime
to the king's throne room where he reclines!
And listen to his offer.
For it could fill your coffers,
if you have the

Alright, I know I wrote a play in which three guys all murder their pregnant wives, but don't let that fool you into thinking that I am PRO murdering your pregnant wife. As always, I have NO STANCE on the issue, and do not wish to take sides. However, I think Scott Peterson should be punished thusly - FIRST develop the technology to get a man pregnant a la that Schwarzenegger movie, "Mr. Mom", then, clone Scott Peterson and get him pregnant WITH HIMSELF. Then drown the fucker(s).

um...wasn't this a poem about fudge or something?

Anyhoo, this wine is very drinkable, and almost all gone. Oh yeah, I forgots to mention, the EXTENDED DIRECTOR'S LIMITED JUBILEE EDITION of me is going to be released soon. I know that many of you have often lamented my poor picture, unbalanced sound mix and underwhelming "extras", but now, with the EDLJE version of me, you'll be able to witness NEW AND EXTENDED SCENES from...me. Um. Like:

1. When I was 9, and those two kids shoved me off of the merry-go-round thingy at that fuzzily recollected playground? In the new EXTENDED version of me, those two kids die of meningitis! And I pee on their graves.

2. When I was 21, and Priscilla whats-her-face was strolling drunkenly down the street with Chris whats-his-face even though she told me she was going to be studying that night so she couldn't see me (her BOYFRIEND at the time), instead of mopingly doing nothing, going upstairs and listening to Alice In Chains (still one of the greatest bands of all tiiiimmmeeyeyeyeyeooooooheyeaeaaaaaaaaah!!!!) I charge out, and simultaneously fuck her and kick his ass using ONLY AVAILABLE IN THE EXTENDED EDITION KUNG-FUCK SKILLS.

3. The wine is really kicking in now. Speaking of "kicked", the bottle. Is. Karaoke in two point five hours, fuckers.

4. When I was 13 or so, and that fat bellicose kid in the locker room pushed me around for no reason, he grows up to be a loser with a wife and kids who hate him, and a dead-end job! Oh wait. That's already in the theatrical release.

5. I fuck Angelina Jolie on a spaceship. A spaceship commanded by CANDY!

6. When I was um.

Oh okay I'd rather watch Monday Night Football now. Here's what I'm going to sing at karaoke...

"Uninvited" by Alanis Morrissette or however you spell her name. You see, in karaoke, you can tell the karaokestress to "take it down" a key or two, hence making some of the higher-pitched songs attainable to baritones such as myself. Loveable baritones who love love. Wink ladies.

"Where The Streets Have No Name" by a band whose name I forget. Anyway, their lead singer, "Bonko" I believe, or some such name, has a voice a wee tad slight mite bit to high for me, but AGAIN - I can take it down a notch.

"Don't Blog When You're Drunk On Expensive Yet Free Wine Oh God I'm The Loneliest" by Right Now.

Bzzzzzzt. End Transmission.

*YES, KING PUMPKIN DUMPLING'S TOP ADVISOR IS A PARAKEET MADE OUT OF LEMON CANDY!!!

Superdoodylickers.

THIS word I made up. I'm not sure why. I guess it's fun to say.

Nasalingus

I thought I made this word up. But alas, google it. ONE person beat me to it.

BJ story...commence!

It was the evening of July 8th, 2004. Using the website called ‘Fandango’, I had purchased a single ticket to the premier of “Anchorman” starring Will Ferrell. The film wouldn’t officially be opening until the following day, but avid moviegoers like myself sometimes like to catch the first, midnight screening of especially over-hyped films. In most cases, I reserve this type of geeky behavior for films such as the Lord of the Rings trilogy and similar big budget sci-fi or fantasy epics, but for some reason, on that particular night, I had an itch to see Will Ferrel say ridiculous things in a loud voice. Little did I know what kind of coming attractions this film would have. Or should I say, ejaculating attractions. Or should I say, ejaculating penis which is my penis. Take your pick.

I should take a brief moment to point out that, much as I am right now, I was quite tipsy at the outset of the encounter I am about to relate. This past summer, it seemed that tipsiness was my default setting. Much as it is now.

So. There I was. 11:30pm. Galumphing along Broadway, with absolutely no ‘free blowjob from a stranger’ expectations whatsoever running through my mind, lurching along awkwardly as I am wont to do, thanks to the combined effects of alcohol, flat feet, legs of unequal length, a disproportionately large skull, a beer gut and a weighty backpack. As I passed 83rd Street, and headed towards the entrance of the Loews theater there, you know – the one where you can usually catch movies that star a Wayans brother or Martin Lawrence, I caught a voice out of the corner of my ear. A female voice:

“Excuse me.”

I stopped, dead in my tracks, and turned to see a very ordinary looking woman. Even now, I could not begin to describe her, other than to say that she wasn’t particularly pretty or ugly, fat or thin, tall or short. She was probably a bit older than me, a bit frumpier than me, but healthy looking. She had a bit of a glow. She was dressed. Note to self: drink less.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” She said.

Normally, I would’ve brushed her off and continued lurching, but for some reason, I turned to her and said –

“Um. Sure.”

She smiled. She definitely had a very pleasant way about her.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“No.” I responded.

“Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Would you be willing to listen to an offer that will probably sound to good to be true?”

I shook my head and walked away. And that’s where my story ends. Thanks for having me Nick and Je-ust kidding.

“Okay.” I said. And she proceeded to launch into a rather elaborate explanation, which I’m not entirely confident in my ability to recollect, but this is what I can remember:

“I’m a yoga instructor from Chicago, and I’m in town visiting a friend just for tonight. I leave tomorrow morning. I’m trying to do some experiments with my energy right now, and I can’t do it alone. Here’s what I propose. We go upstairs to my friend’s apartment –“

- she gestures to the building we’re standing next to –

“you wash your cock (her choice of words). I give you head until you cum, and then you leave.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“You can understand my skepticism,” I responded.

She laughed. “Oh, sure,” she said.

I put my smart consumer mind to work, and resolved to play the part of the tough customer. I wasn’t going to be a pushover. She was going to have to provide me with a few assurances before I consented to go upstairs with her and allow her to give me head until I came.

“I’m not going to get mugged or robbed or anything?” I queried.

She laughed again – “Oh no, no.”

Alright, I thought to myself. So far so good.

“There isn’t going to be anyone else up there?”

“No, we’ll be alone.”

“It’s not going to be videotaped or anything, like with a hidden camera?”

“Oh no. I would never do that to anyone.”

Hmm, I thought to myself. Those are all of the questions I can think of, and she’s aced every one. Everything seems to be on the up-and-up.

“Alright,” I said, “I feel like I have to do this just so I can have the story.”

So we headed into the apartment building. It was a really nice doorman building, with a very large, well-lit lobby full of colorful, awful modern art. We passed the doorman, passed the mailboxes, and entered an elevator. She pressed the button for the 22nd floor. Nice. Once the elevator doors closed, she began laying the groundrules. I had to remove my shoes before we entered the apartment. I was to go into the bathroom, “wash my cock”, and then proceed to the bedroom. Silently. In fact, once we entered the apartment, there was to be no talking whatsoever. And she mentioned more than once that the building had good security, just in case I tried anything inappropriate. As we reached the 22nd floor, she must have noticed me checking my watch, because she asked me if I had anywhere I needed to be - I told her I had tickets to see the new movie Anchorman, starring Will Ferrel at midnight. “Who knows,” she said, “maybe you’ll still make the start of the movie.” These words would prove to be prophetic.

We reached the apartment door. We both took our shoes off. She led me inside. It was dark in the apartment. She put my shoes on a large shoerack to our left, on which there were many other pairs of shoes. In front of me was a coffee table with a bowl of fruit. I remember all of the fruit still having the price tags on it.

She gestured to a door down a short hallway to our right. It was the bathroom. In the elevator, I had already told her that I was going to be taking a full shower rather than just wash my cock. I hadn’t taken a shower at all that day, and due to some wiping misadventures earlier in the day, my crotchital region was particularly rancid. So I shut the bathroom door behind me, disrobed, and holy shit look at all the oils. Lotions. Potions and notions. The bathroom counter was covered in small colorful bottles. I glanced at one. Oral Pleasure Gel. Tasting A Stranger’s Boner Cream. Anonymous Cock Glaze. Penis Mustard. Alright, I made those last three up. Still, if this indeed was “her friend’s” apartment, they apparently shared similar interests. I took a shower. As I lathered up in this strange apartment, I must admit, I began to find the whole situation kind of exciting. I began to plump up a bit. Just a bit.

I toweled off. Took a deep breath, and strode out of the bathroom, stark naked. The apartment was still dark. Not a light had been turned on, and it was completely silent. I walked down the hallway to where she had told me the bedroom would be. As I rounded the corner, the first thing I noticed was the view. Floor to ceiling windows on two walls. No shades. No curtains. There were no buildings directly opposite either side, so no one could look in. Nice. The city lights stretched out below, glinting up at me.

The bed was right in front of me. A queen-size bed, I think. The bed was made, but on top of the existing bedding was a large white sheet that covered everything, including the pillows. Ah yes, I thought. The stage has been set.

The room appeared to be empty at first, but as I rounded the corner, I could see that my new acquaintance was standing at the opposite end of the room. Also nude. There we were. Two naked people, both of whom clearly needed to get to the gym, but only one of whom was claiming to be a “yoga instructor.” She gestured to the bed. I lied down on my back, putting my hands behind my head and parting my legs in order to give her ample working space. The ceiling was unremarkable. She got on the bed and sat between my legs, caressing my thighs with her hands.

Perhaps now would be a good time to say a few things about my penis:

My penis is a lot like Vincent D’Onofrio. Not huge, but putting forth excellent work in lower profile character roles throughout its career, despite a reputation for unreliability and quirkiness. Its not everyone’s cup of tea, but some people find it very compelling, and now, it stars on Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Alright, maybe I could have come up with a better comparison. But you get my point. Or maybe you don’t. How about this then – my penis is like Randy Moss during his rookie season. Capable of flashes of brilliance, but too often in its own little world, only rising to the occasion when it feels like it, en route to scoring 17 touchdowns for the Minnesota Vikings. No? Hmm. I need to work on my metaphors. Anyway…

Things got off to a promising start. Slow, gentle caresses on my legs. Moving up to my inner thighs. Very nice. She leaned down, her large breasts now dipping down below the horizon of my field of vision like the twin suns of Tattoine. She began kissing my inner thighs. My penis began to respond, and any worries I had of performance jitters soon melted away. Randy Moss had decided to bring his A game, I thought. She moved up to my love marbles, and continued gently licking. Things were moving along very nicely. Then, all too soon for my taste, she commenced the main event. The aforementioned blowjob. I’m sorry if that’s too much information, but if you’ve been paying attention so far, it should come as no surprise that this was leading up to me getting head. And at first, things were terrific. The same, slow, sensual, luxurious pace, Vincent D’Onofrio putting on a stalwart, riveting performance.

But then, she chose an ill-advised tactic. She suddenly shifted techniques, going from the slow, velvety pace that I was thoroughly enjoying, to a frantic, mechanical, unpleasantly jostling rhythm that soon threatened to send Randy Moss to the sidelines, that soon threatened to send Vincent D’onofrio back to his community theater roots. It’s a technique I refer to as the GONNA MAKE YA CUM!!! technique. Passionless and even ruthless in its goal-oriented, violent monotony. Perhaps this had worked like a charm for her before, but NOT on this guy. I enjoy the journey just as much as the destination, thank you very much. Soon, I was becoming flaccid, and she must have noticed, because she AMPED up the energy, slurping and wacking away with even more gusto, which I of course, liked even less. This dame was seriously putting the "owjob" in "blowjob". This was going to be a disaster. So I broke one of the groundrules, and I spoke.

“You need to slow down.”

This was an almost irreparable breach of etiquette. She got kind of huffy with me. “Well, technically I’m in charge here, and my friend is going to be home by midnight anyway, and well, hmm, I suppose you could help if you wanted.” She practically said “harrumph”.

So I helped. I worked the throttle as she provided, at this point what amounted to token assistance with her mouth. I was so put off by her at this point that she wasn’t really a necessary part of the equation. I just wanted to get it over with. Which I did, even though I never fully regained rigidity. I finally ejaculated a disappointing, dribbling, burble, not unlike the last gasp from an empty squeezable ketchup bottle.

Now here’s where the story gets strange. This woman who was so eager to have me remove my shoes before entering the apartment, this woman who took the care to place a sheet over her friends bed, now also took great care to make sure that she got all of my ejaculate into her mouth. She harvested it, slurping it up, gathering it into her mouth with little sweeping motions of her fingers, until it was all in there. And there it stayed. She did not swallow, she did not spit. She merely stood up. And motioned out of the room. I was to get dressed and leave now.

I got dressed, and as I was about to put my shoes on, she tapped me on the shoulder, and still with a mouth full of my cum gave a pleasant tsk tsk signal with her finger, and gestured out the door. I stepped out of the apartment with my shoes in hand, and as I turned to look at her, the last thing I saw was her smiling and waving goodbye, still puffy-cheeked with a mouthful of semen. The door clicked behind me. I put my shoes on in the hallway and headed to the theater.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Any questions? Theories?

Prelude to a BJ.

I'll be doing this at Nick & Jessi's show tomorrow night. It's all true. Anyway, this is just the overture, if you will. To find out what happens (it pretty much happens as the title says), come to the show or just read it when I post the rest of it on Friday...

Thank you Nick, thank you Jessi. Good evening, my name is Andres du Bouchet. Thank you. It is an unqualified pleasure to be here at “Welcome To Our Week” once again. Ladies and gentlemen, this is my second appearance on this show – the first time I appeared here, during the summer, I broke from my usual pattern of performing silly character monologues and utilized a true experience from my own personal life in order to produce hilarious results. Some of you may even recall – it was the bit about the e-mail thread that a woman I had hooked up with accidentally forwarded to me. I had Nick and Jessi read the e-mail exchange on stage while I shouted comments. It really was the highlight of that particular show. Thank you. At any rate, tonight, it is my intention to once again eschew my regular material – silly sketches and character monologues, in favor of sharing a 100% completely true experience from my own life. With you. The audience. The story that I am about to tell you is one that I have told to many an astounded and titillated friend, but have yet to share with an audience. It is an account of my experiences between the hours of 11:30pm and midnight on the evening of July 8th of this year, and it is, like I said, 100% completely true. The title of this I am not shitting you completely 100% true story is…

“The time I met a woman claiming to be a yoga instructor from Chicago on the corner of 83rd and Broadway at 11:30pm on a Thursday night and literally less than 10 minutes later she was giving me a blowjob for FREE, after which I still made the midnight showing of Anchorman starring Will Ferrell.”

Don’t let the title of my story fool you. It was actually quite an unusual experience.

Now, before I relay the amazing details of this 100% true story to you, I must take pause for what I must admit are my concerns that up until this point, my repeated assertions that the upcoming story is completely true might be deemed by you, the audience, as a case of “me thinks he doth protest too much.” That you’ll assume my continued claims of veracity are nothing more than a comedic device. That I am ‘winking with my words’, and acknowledging that what I am about to tell you is in fact made-up, but “hey, isn’t it funny that I keep on insisting it’s true? Har-dee-har. Har.”

Please do not doubt me for a second. If I wanted to tell you something that wasn’t 100% true, I’d be up here dressed as a vampire or a medieval warrior, or talking in a silly accent. I wouldn’t be up here dressed as a regular guy, talking in a totally normal, unremarkable voice. Alright, I take that back. My voice is pretty remarkable. Still…

When I say that my story entitled “The time I met a woman claiming to be a yoga instructor from Chicago on the corner of 83rd and Broadway at 11:30pm on a Thursday night and literally less than 10 minutes later she was giving me a blowjob for FREE, after which I still made the midnight showing of Anchorman starring Will Ferrell” is 100% true, I mean it. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Alright. I think you’re ready to hear my 100% completely true story. So, without further ado…

It was the evening of July 8th, 2004. Using the website called ‘Fandango’...

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"I could probably camp in your pants."

So true. I wear large pants.