A really dumb script
Yesterday I took out the trash. Kevin was with me, was on his way out to smoke. I hefted the trashcan from our kitchen, which was nigh to busting with salsa containers, empty sacks of chips, spent condoms, deer antlers, and other remains of the party that I missed on Saturday. Also in the trash was an old carton of cruelty-free eggs (from uncaged hens) that dated back to the morning after Heather's/ Alyssa's/ Goathead's/ my night of White Russians. So if you're one of those people, you know how old these eggs were. If you're not, they were fucking old.
"Blah blah," I said.
"Blah!" Kevin said.
"Blah blah," I agreed. Then I noticed a wetness on my shirt, and I looked down, and saw that the wetness was yellow.
"Oh," I said, and shifted to get the carton of old eggs back to the top of the pile. This resulted in a waterfall effect, and a torrent of liquid yolk streamed down onto my shirt, my pants, my shoes.
"Balls," I said.
And I wonder, now, why there was liquid in that carton. How did this happen? I thought all the eggs were intact.
. . .
You know that little MS Office paperclip? I love that little bastard. Man, I love him. I want to bend him up into the shape of a heart and give him to himself. He's annoying as hell but when I was a freshman at UNI, jockeying shitty computer lab keyboards in the dead of February—the computer lab was in a bridge between two buildings, with glass walls—he was always there to bounce around at the corner of my screen, wiggling his eyebrows. God bless you, little paperclip. You are my one true friend. Truer than these bastards.
. . .
So Dave, in case you don’t see it in the comments bar: I will have to travel to Albia the Thursday of the follies anyway, for the show. So you can ride with me from Abuso's. But I have to come back immediately after the show for work the next day, so whatever you needed Friday afternoon…you're screwed. Screwed!
. . .
Last night we left a waitress a 99 cent tip. That's probably not 15 % of our ungodly expensive meal. But she was terrible.
. . .
Anyone know what Jimmy or Garrett are up to?
. . .
Yesterday Kevin told me that someone had a fatitude problem.
. . .
Here is something fun for you to do next time your friends are close to completing a sale of illegal drugs, created by me and Kevin. Actually, this is a script idea Kevin and I came up with, except that it could never be acted out because . . . well, it's obvoius. Forgive the shitty formatting.
K: *knocking, outside the door* "Narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "Oh, fuck!"
K: "Narcotics officer, ma'am. Open the fuck up."
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . . one second."
K: *whispered, laughing* "Hey, T, I'm telling them I'm a narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What's going on? Who is that?"
T: *tromping up to door* Move aside, son. Narcotics officer.
PEOPLE INSIDE: "Now who is that?"
T: "Real narcotics officer, bitch. Open up."
PEOPLE: "Is that you?"
T: "I'm a real narcotics officer." *cracks up*
K: "Yeah."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Phone rings. People inside pick up the phone.
LITTLE OLD LADY ON PHONE: "There's a narcotics offier outside your door."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What the fuck is going on?!"
LITTLE OLD LADY: "Yeah, he . . . looks mean." *starts laughing*
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
Footsteps sound in the background of the little old lady. A new little lady gets on the line.
NEW LITTLE OLD LADY: "Ma'am, that was someone impersonating a little old lady. I'm a real little old lady. I'm also a narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
DRUNKEN YOUNG MAN SWINGS THROUGH WINDOW ON A ROPE MADE OF 10 DOG LEASHES CHAINED TOGETHER. LANDS ON FEET ON COFFEE TABLE, STAGGERS, GRINS.
DRUNKEN YOUNG MAN: Narcotics off—
COLLAPSES.
People inside look at each other, then someone else swings through the window, looking more professional.
NEW GUY: Narcotics officer.
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
NEW GUY: Just kidding. *laughs, pulls out flask, drinks*
PEOPLE: "I'm . . . lost."
TEAR GAS IS LOBBED INTO THE ROOM, END.
"Blah blah," I said.
"Blah!" Kevin said.
"Blah blah," I agreed. Then I noticed a wetness on my shirt, and I looked down, and saw that the wetness was yellow.
"Oh," I said, and shifted to get the carton of old eggs back to the top of the pile. This resulted in a waterfall effect, and a torrent of liquid yolk streamed down onto my shirt, my pants, my shoes.
"Balls," I said.
And I wonder, now, why there was liquid in that carton. How did this happen? I thought all the eggs were intact.
. . .
You know that little MS Office paperclip? I love that little bastard. Man, I love him. I want to bend him up into the shape of a heart and give him to himself. He's annoying as hell but when I was a freshman at UNI, jockeying shitty computer lab keyboards in the dead of February—the computer lab was in a bridge between two buildings, with glass walls—he was always there to bounce around at the corner of my screen, wiggling his eyebrows. God bless you, little paperclip. You are my one true friend. Truer than these bastards.
. . .
So Dave, in case you don’t see it in the comments bar: I will have to travel to Albia the Thursday of the follies anyway, for the show. So you can ride with me from Abuso's. But I have to come back immediately after the show for work the next day, so whatever you needed Friday afternoon…you're screwed. Screwed!
. . .
Last night we left a waitress a 99 cent tip. That's probably not 15 % of our ungodly expensive meal. But she was terrible.
. . .
Anyone know what Jimmy or Garrett are up to?
. . .
Yesterday Kevin told me that someone had a fatitude problem.
. . .
Here is something fun for you to do next time your friends are close to completing a sale of illegal drugs, created by me and Kevin. Actually, this is a script idea Kevin and I came up with, except that it could never be acted out because . . . well, it's obvoius. Forgive the shitty formatting.
K: *knocking, outside the door* "Narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "Oh, fuck!"
K: "Narcotics officer, ma'am. Open the fuck up."
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . . one second."
K: *whispered, laughing* "Hey, T, I'm telling them I'm a narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What's going on? Who is that?"
T: *tromping up to door* Move aside, son. Narcotics officer.
PEOPLE INSIDE: "Now who is that?"
T: "Real narcotics officer, bitch. Open up."
PEOPLE: "Is that you?"
T: "I'm a real narcotics officer." *cracks up*
K: "Yeah."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Phone rings. People inside pick up the phone.
LITTLE OLD LADY ON PHONE: "There's a narcotics offier outside your door."
PEOPLE INSIDE: "What the fuck is going on?!"
LITTLE OLD LADY: "Yeah, he . . . looks mean." *starts laughing*
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
Footsteps sound in the background of the little old lady. A new little lady gets on the line.
NEW LITTLE OLD LADY: "Ma'am, that was someone impersonating a little old lady. I'm a real little old lady. I'm also a narcotics officer."
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
DRUNKEN YOUNG MAN SWINGS THROUGH WINDOW ON A ROPE MADE OF 10 DOG LEASHES CHAINED TOGETHER. LANDS ON FEET ON COFFEE TABLE, STAGGERS, GRINS.
DRUNKEN YOUNG MAN: Narcotics off—
COLLAPSES.
People inside look at each other, then someone else swings through the window, looking more professional.
NEW GUY: Narcotics officer.
PEOPLE INSIDE: ". . ."
NEW GUY: Just kidding. *laughs, pulls out flask, drinks*
PEOPLE: "I'm . . . lost."
TEAR GAS IS LOBBED INTO THE ROOM, END.
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