Devil Ether --or-- How I Yet Live, Despite a Brief Disappearance and Two Hours of Sleep
John and I rented a 20-foot red convertible, filled the trunk with pills and two pints of devil ether, and drove across Iowa. We swallowed those candies like M&M's, man. John was swirling aroiund in the passenger seat, screaming at unseen Roman hordes, while I stared down the road through my two fists and swallowed 21, 22, 23 beers. We crashed through Christine's kitchen, rolled through the hallway wall, stopped after spearing the couch, and then the floor gave way and we plunged into Christine's basement bedroom, convertible and all. Her turtle did not survive.
And then we got up at six and drove back.
Dave, take comfort in this thought: we have not practiced for the Follies at all. Also, take comfort in this: Amish might not even be available until Saturday. This means I need to call Rominger.
The police reports: I like the ones you put online. I have some more in my trunk; I'll try to put them up tonight.
If everything fails, this could be the year you finally take your dump onstage.
I will spend the next few days memorizing my lines at work. Everyone: we're supposed to do this Wednesday for Pax, right? Andy, can you make it? Ryan? Ryan, do you even have Thursday night/Friday night/Saturday night off?
Fucking Follies! Next year I'm going to be out of the state, under an assumed name. I'm not even telling anyone what grad school I ship off to until after the show.
Do not forget the wisdom of Michelle's mother: the Follies are a sinful celebration of ignorance thinly disguised as wholesome community entertainment.
. . .
I have advised Wes that if anyone mocks his newly shorn skull, he should look dejectedly down and mutter something about trying to get a headstart on what the chemo will do. At which point Amish will pop around the corner, point at whoever administered the mockery, and yell, "Asshole!"
Speaking of Wes and Amish and the sweet sweet picture their intertwined and nude bodies makes: I forgot to print a script for Amish. Not that it matters, since he can't fucking be in the show until Saturday. But would you mind printing him one? Assuming you're going to see him sometime soon?
And then we got up at six and drove back.
Dave, take comfort in this thought: we have not practiced for the Follies at all. Also, take comfort in this: Amish might not even be available until Saturday. This means I need to call Rominger.
The police reports: I like the ones you put online. I have some more in my trunk; I'll try to put them up tonight.
If everything fails, this could be the year you finally take your dump onstage.
I will spend the next few days memorizing my lines at work. Everyone: we're supposed to do this Wednesday for Pax, right? Andy, can you make it? Ryan? Ryan, do you even have Thursday night/Friday night/Saturday night off?
Fucking Follies! Next year I'm going to be out of the state, under an assumed name. I'm not even telling anyone what grad school I ship off to until after the show.
Do not forget the wisdom of Michelle's mother: the Follies are a sinful celebration of ignorance thinly disguised as wholesome community entertainment.
. . .
I have advised Wes that if anyone mocks his newly shorn skull, he should look dejectedly down and mutter something about trying to get a headstart on what the chemo will do. At which point Amish will pop around the corner, point at whoever administered the mockery, and yell, "Asshole!"
Speaking of Wes and Amish and the sweet sweet picture their intertwined and nude bodies makes: I forgot to print a script for Amish. Not that it matters, since he can't fucking be in the show until Saturday. But would you mind printing him one? Assuming you're going to see him sometime soon?
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