Irresponsible Men Irresponsible Women Global Premier Footage and Full Text
Irresponsible Men Irresponsible Women
by
Jeremiah Liend
Introduction and Thanks
The piece certainly speaks for itself, but it is worth thanking John Blessing, Kay Robinson, Bob Scriba, and the many BSU Theater students who brought some life and humor to a state mandated function. I dedicate this piece to their honor and in their memory.
Scene 1: Ways Not To Suck
(Enter Dr. Quaddle.)
Quaddle. Hello, my name is Doctor Quaddle, and I’m in no way a “for reals” doctor. Rather, I went to pirate dentist school and can and will remove your gold teeth for free, regular teeth at cost, and other teeth on a “I needs more teeth” basis. I’m here to introduce and set the stage for our prize winning live performance of “Irresponsible Men Irresponsible Women”. It is a work devoted to education, information, and entertainment, with a specific focus on the concept of entertainment. What is entertainment, after all? Is it simply tactical deployments of F-bombs and genital humor? Must I tell you about my poops, to gain your comedic favors? What about your poops? Did you have a poop, today? Can you remember it? How it all went down? Or were you on your phone the whole time, alone in a room for perhaps the only time in the day? Welcome. Let us entertain you. Because we don’t want to bore you, here. That is not going to happen. If we have to light this entire place on fire, and kill you fine people in a horrifying sacrifice to the Old Gods, then we are going to have a good time doing it. If at any point you don’t like what’s going on, or feel offended, or marginalized, or humiliated, by epiphany, or judgment, or whatever, we’re sorry, OK. Theater is hard. Look within yourself, to find what makes you dislike brilliant comedy jokes about masturbation, artistically disguising socially just best practices.
(Quaddle takes out some candy, and throws it at the audience.)
Quaddle. There, you animals. Eat that candy. We tried to get something without nuts, but we’ve also been doing some pretty freakish things with peanut butter for a scene that was ultimately cut. So, the banana is going extinct. That’s a thing. The black rhino is virtually extinct, and the great barrier reef is mostly bleached, and bees are experiencing colony collapse. It is a sixth extinction, caused in no small part by humanity and our destructive shenanigans. Oh, I drove here. I’m not going to bicycle here, like a trained bear. But, we can all drive here in our fuel inefficient methods, and accept that our carbon footprint is just the passing of progress. The building of a brighter future. Where we only need to work 70 hours a week until 90 before we get a gold watch with optional execution. Wait. Wait NO! No. Comedy jokes. See, in a different show, we would go off on that tangent, but instead, we are going to stick to a theme, and that is, in short, please don’t suck. Try not to suck, too bad, or so hard.
(Quaddle throws some pens attached to tissues into the audience.)
Quaddle. That was a very specific neurotoxin. Keep the pen with our compliments. We’re keeping our prop department on their toes. Making sure the insurance people are paying attention. None of this will go in the final draft. Ha ha. Probably none of you suck, because you’re here, supporting fine art. But you probably know people who suck. We all know those who suck, a little to a lot more than average. A normal is someone who seeks the average. Who wallows in the faeces of their indifference. Who prefers ignorance to even a basic grasp of our world and those who inhabit it. We are not one people, but thousands. Millions, upon millions, and billions now and rising. Billions and billions of we, the hapless a-holes of time and space. From space dust miracle conceived, into space dust to return. In between existing in horrifying mortality and crippling self-knowledge. But, what about those Yankees?
(Quaddle coughs into his arm.)
Quaddle. If nothing else, if you take nothing else away from this entire weird adventure in social engineering, please, cough into your arm. Here, for this performance, and every day moving forward for the rest of your life. It was true before COVID as it is now. But, specifically, here, because I don’t want to get a cold. None of these people wants a cold, alright. You’re going to touch things with your hands, so just cough into your arms. If just a dozen more people did that, as the result of this stupid play, then it will all have been made worth it. That common cold moving forward could kill trillions. At some point the planet will just be humans consuming humans, piled on dead humans, breeding to make more food and terrain. We will consume every other living thing into our eager mouths, as we have for aeons past, in whatever incarnation our species has progressed. But,for reals about the not sucking. Coughing into your arm is one clear and easy way of sucking less.
(Quaddle pulls out his phone.)
Quaddle. The other thing is, either record this funny show until your phone dies, or turn that thing off. People. People. We will embarrass you, if your phone goes off. I promise you that. No excuses. Do it now. If you have someone ill, some emergency call you are waiting for, then by all means go out in the hall and wait for that, and when you find out how the surgery went, or if they disarmed the bomb, or if it’s a boy or a girl, then quietly come back in, OK? But otherwise, we are going to do this show, and it is hard enough, without the constant distraction of you douche canoes texting about whatever. This too, is a means by which you can suck less.
(Quaddle plays on his phone for a while, then smiles and puts it away.)
Quaddle. There, I took all your pictures, so if any of you get any funny ideas, like you want to take a swing at me, or the cast, then I will have a picture of you, and with my photographic memory? Well… let’s just say you won’t get far with whatever teeth you might be packing into that tiny head of yours. This is all for fun, you dig? We’re out to rock the boat, not capsize it. We want to show you the ways that we can all learn about our world, and how to progress through it in a respectful, honest, sustainable manner. Barring that, we can get a cheap laugh off the literary equivalent of a jump scare. Buttfucking Jesus. There. You see that? Learn to control your response to what are only funny words, smashed together like atoms, or clay, or flint and steel. Learn not to take too many things seriously, and you too may suck less. Life is too short, to spend it arguing about virtually meaningless things. It’s all meaningless. We’re all of us as good as dead. You might get out of this show alive, but it is all a matter of time and space. We’re all going to spin around this sun a number of times more and then wham. Hit by a bus. Heart clogged by cholesterol. Diabetes triggered anaphylactic shock. Suicide. Thus far nobody is getting out alive, because no one has bothered to get back to me about the immortality project. The head transplant is still only a dream and the artificial womb only theory. If we could only hold our society together a little longer, the exponential advancements in our understanding of genetics may generate an end to natural death. Think of what a terrible place it would be, if there were a trillion trillion people, piled up to our armpits in one another, wearing our dead for raincoats, driving pressed human carts, over the masses. What if all of those people sucked ass? Dirty, stinky asses? A sea of pink-eye, awash in the torn breeze of constant awful sucking.
(Quaddle swallows some pills.)
Quaddle. What a racket. Theater, you know? No one goes, anymore. Only about 8% of the population attends non-musical plays. It’s not like that number is going to improve, because there’s no infrastructure. Film killed theater, the internet will kill film, and VR will kill us all. Put our lives into goggles and glasses that obfuscate the miracle of the Gods creation for a flawed creation of man. According to the Bible, God created all good things, including but not limited to, cannabis, psilocybin, and the banana. Things God is not credited for creating; the firearm, nuclear power, and napalm. No, that stuff is on us. Sarin gas. Thermonuclear weapons. Weaponized Anthrax. Theater.
(Quaddle strikes a dramatic posture.)
Quaddle. Is not now that time to ACT!? We are actors, merely acting!!! Please don’t throw things, or spit, or chew loudly. People have conditions that make the sounds of your chewing drive them insane. Look to your left, look to your right. One of you has a gun. But who? Everyone look under your seats! Dirty, right? But maybe I just got you some used, slightly chewed gum? Maybe there’s an envelope with a $20 bill, from the last show? Who I understand was Oprah. Too soon. Not soon enough! Would everyone please stand, for the singing of our national anthem. Now, sit back down. That was a test. You all failed, in your own particular way. You want to know how not to suck? Stop judging people, you judging Judies. Stop casting down your assumptions, and expectations, and hang ups on others, you know? Just stop that shit. You know what postmodernism is? It’s a boot, licking your face, forever.
(Quaddle pulls out a gun and places it against his own head.)
Quaddle. You want to know how not to suck? Don’t kill yourself. You want to know how not to suck, for reals? Stop making people who suicide feel bad, you know? Suicide is Painless, or so the Johnny Mandel song says. Who are you to say that someone’s life has a value beyond which they themselves can see? Value? Our lives are as hummingbird farts within the churning hurricane of our cosmos. Our lives are a brief process of eating, pooping, and breeding until we die. What’s so great about that? You know? Don’t worry, this isn’t a real gun.
(Quaddle pulls the trigger to no effect several times at his head, chest, and the audience.)
Quaddle. You should have fled, just there. In a real world situation, where I wasn’t a talented actor, and instead an insane gunman, you, and you, and definitely you, would have been killed. I know what you’re going to say, how would you have survived those bullets to the head? Well, what if I was a robot insane gunman, and my processing unit was correctly placed inside a secure torso section, with the head acting as a decoy for would be attackers? What then? Well, you’d all be in a heap of trouble. Here we are. Knee deep in Robot War and you’re all just hoping to check your FB. FBing is the robot equivalent of licking dirty asshole and that’s what you do. Every day, for hours on end, instead of fighting for equality, promoting justice, or producing anything of value. Like a Pulitzer Prize winning play about being alive, for instance. No. That’s fine. You lick robot butt hole for the rest of your life. Robots don’t poop, anyhow. Everybody poops, but robots are not everyb
(Quaddle snorts something.)
Quaddle. Look, we’re going to get started any minute now, with the actual show. I just needed to make sure you’re all going to be cool, you know? This is like vetting, or hazing, or whatever you want to call it. You don’t have to drink from the toilet, or swallow goldfish, or whatever other dumb thing people do to get others to respect them. No. You’ve just got to sit there, behave yourself, and open up your brain to a world of possibilities beyond your predictable reality. Just open that rusted portcullis of childish wonder you thought forever closed to science and art. When you try to learn, you have to be willing to open up your mind to new ideas. I know ideas are scary. I wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t know all sorts of scary, terrible shit. But isn’t it better to have some sort of control over things? Some foreknowledge? Instead of leaving yourself in the constant grinding jaws of terrible hindsight? Isn’t it about time we all started making better choices?
(Quaddle pulls out a list.)
Quaddle. Number one: Cough into your arm. Number two: Become vegetarian. Number three: Use public transit. Number four: Consume less water, while drinking more. Number five: Signal while driving. Number six: Don’t text and drive. Number seven: Don’t drink and drive. Number eight: Don’t Do Bad Drugs. Number nine: Don’t lie. Number ten: Don’t steal. OK. The rest is all driving parameters. Because you’re more likely to die on your drive to and from here, than by any imagined number of terrorists. Statistically. This is sound.
(Quaddle puts back the list.)
Quaddle. I mean, this whole show is about how to suck less, you dig? But I’m just getting these broad strokes out of the way, so we can thoughtfully approach more nuanced examinations. Maybe? Poop. The people down at the lab say we need to mention poop, or some derivative, every 500 words to keep an audience engaged. But, we also sourced this information from some pretty shady researchers, so we’re not going to be hard and fast on it. If everyone seems to have Tourette’s, then that is probably why. Also, Tourette’s is a very real condition, and not to be made fun of. Only cleverly referenced for quasi-educational purposes. If you don’t know what Tourette’s Syndrome is, it’s a common neuropsychiatric disorder characterised by physical and vocal tics, up to and including yelling “buttfucker” all the time. So. There you go. Already we are learning. Well, it looks like everyone backstage is adequately panicked by my improvised opening monologue. I did this to them both in hopes of getting fired, and that you will make them all feel bad, for supporting this sort of smut. Thank you! By the way. For your support!? Let’s frontload that thanks, in the event we go one buttfucker too far, and you feel the need to beat traffic. Thanks. So much. We have your money. We’re going to be OK. Tonight, the cast will gather around the kitty and divide up the house, provided we didn’t go into the red with the venue costs. Which is obviously pretty likely. So few. So few have come. I dreamed a dream that I could save the world with theater art. It is a fool’s dream filled with holes, and failure, and loss of precious time and energy. But, what if it could work? What if you could use satire and drama to make people be better to themselves and to one another? What if it wasn’t some dry as year-old dog shit state-mandated function? But wet with pre-moistened hilarity? What if it had enough heart, and vision, and foresight to see that success is not relevance, and relevance is not value? I guess we’ll find out.
Scene 2: Mental Health
(Enter Jesse, with a small bag of pills. He tears open the bag and tries to open a bottle of pills, but it is designed in such a way that he has an incredibly hard time, and eventually opens it, only to spray pills everywhere. He cries then, quietly, and sadly, before kneeling to pick them up. Enter Hans, with a different small bag of pills.)
Hans. Oh! Oh, Jester! What happened, here, let me help you.
(Hans helps gather the pills together, blowing some hair off of the last one before handing it to Jesse.)
Jesse. Thanks, Hans.
Hans. No problem, pal. I know it isn’t my business, but what’s with all the pills?
Jesse. Well, they are steroids. For my Crohne’s disease.
Hans. Oh sure. I’m sorry. I hope they help!
Jesse. I’m going to be in rough shape, for the next couple months, friend.
Hans. Hey, we’ll get through it. Or, I’ll move out!?
Jesse. Ha ha. Well, I guess we’ll see. Say, I can’t help but notice you also have some pills?
Hans. Oh yes! I have flaming herpes.
Jesse. Yikes! Of the dick!?
Hans. It’s everywhere.
Jesse. Is ‘flaming’ a medical term?
Hans. No, it’s a descriptor.
Jesse. Sure. Well, I’m sorry. What do they have you taking for it?
Hans. Oh, I don’t know. Something that will hopefully contain it.
Jesse. Well. Looks like we’re just a couple of stereotypes.
Hans. What do you mean?
Jesse. Yes, I guess I didn’t know what I meant by that, either.
Hans. I remember the last time you were on steroids.
Jesse. Yes. Well, I’m also on those serotonin reuptake inhibitors.
Hans. The ones that make you pleasantly cold inside?
Jesse. The very same.
Hans. And then steroids?
Jesse. I guess. It’s either that, or bleed out of the butt to death. I’m already anaemic.
Hans. We should eat some liver.
Jesse. I’m not going to do that.
Hans. Well… what, beans? What’s good for when you’ve got an ulcerated digestive tract?
Jesse. Who cares?
Hans. Well, I am personally glad you are making attempts at treating your depression. You frighten me some nights, with your talk.
Jesse. Like saying I’d rather be dead?
Hans. Yes.
Jesse. And that I’d rather you were dead, too?
Hans. Yeah.
Jesse. And that really everyone could die, too?
Hans. Yes. We’ve covered those bases.
Jesse. So, who gave you herpes?
Hans. I think I got it from the toilet seat in the new Thai place.
Jesse. What, really?
Hans. Yeah. Yeah, I’d like to be able to tell you that I got it barebacking some exquisite creature, but I think it’s just that a lot of people get diarrheaat the same place, and I drew the short straw.
Jesse. I wish there were more places in town with those paper seat covers.
Hans. That isn’t very sustainable, though.
Jesse. You’re probably right.
Hans. What should we have for dinner?
Jesse. I spent my last $15 on the co-pay for these pills. So.
Hans. Yes, I have no money either.
Jesse. We could eat the window beans?
Hans. No. They aren’t ripe yet.
Jesse. Well. I guess we could shave, and eat our hair and nails?
Hans. Is that nutritive?
Jesse. No, but it’s fun.
Hans. I don’t think that sounds like fun.
Jesse. Well. Neither does hovering your ass above the toilet, but I expect that from you, now.
Hans. Oh, jeez. I hope I didn’t give you flaming ass herpes.
Jesse. They’re genital herpes, Hans. Just on the ass.
Hans. I’m not a doctor.
Jesse. We could go wandering the woods, looking for mushrooms.
Hans. It’s fifteen below zero.
Jesse. We could eat our shoes.
Hans. Are your shoes leather?
Jesse. No.
Hans. Wait. Don’t you have $1,000 in Applebee’s gift cards?
Jesse. $987. So?
Hans. Oh, nothing. We could buy drinks?
Jesse. It’s food only.
Hans. Jeez.
Jesse. I’m not into it.
Hans. But you’ll dig through hard packed snow to find edible mold?
Jesse. There’s a considerable difference between mold and mushrooms, Hans. Don’t make me tell you again.
Hans. Sorry. We could go to your parents?
Jesse. They’re in Florida.
Hans. We could go to my parents?
Jesse. Your parents are dead.
Hans. Exactly.
(Hans pulls out a pistol and starts dangerously waving it around his face while imitating the lunatic call of the whippoorwill.)
Jesse. Yikes, Hans. I really don’t like it when you wave that pistol around. It seems really dangerous?
Hans. It IS it IS dangerous! That’s why I do it!
(Eventually Hans gets bored.)
Jesse. We could sell your gun for food?
Hans. Don’t talk crazy. Besides, you and I both know it’s a fake.
Jesse. We could rob a bread store with your fake gun?
Hans. I didn’t think you could eat bread?
Jesse. We’d rob them of their money, you dunce.
Hans. Those words hurt my heart.
Jesse. I’m sorry. It’s the steroids.
Hans. I didn’t think you took them yet?
(Jesse looks at the pills in his hands.)
Jesse. Well, look at that.
(Both share an uncomfortable silence.)
Hans. You know with Applebee’s To Go, you don’t have to get out of your car?
Jesse. We don’t own cars, Hans. If we did, we would have sold them for food.
Hans. Well, maybe they’ll just bring it to the curb?
Jesse. And then what, Hans? We use it to poison ducks? It would taint the meat.
Hans. I like Applebee’s.
Jesse. Fuck you, you know? Just fuck you. You better not have given me ass herpes.
(Jesse gently scratches his ass. Soon enough, this will make the entire audience uncomfortable. Especially the ones who pooped, preshow.)
Hans. They’re genital herpes, Jesse. Just on the ass.
(Both play with their phones for a while, as if entirely done with being in this scene.)
Hans. So, what’s up? Are we going somewhere?
Jesse. With what? For what?
Hans. So we’re just going to do a tap water soup dinner, and then bed? I get to let you howl with chemical rage while I scratch away the top layer of my crotch dermis?
Jesse. Have you ever seen “The Odd Couple”?
Hans. The play, or the movie?
Jesse. Either?
Hans. No.
Jesse. Don’t.
Hans. OK.
Jesse. The television show?
Hans. No. I saw the credits once, but I was pretty shwasted.
Jesse. Well, you’re not missing anything. The whole thing relies on this forced premise.
Hans. Sure. I’ll add it to my do not watch list.
Jesse. Zing!
Hans. We’re good friends.
Jesse. Yikes. You know, these days I feel like putting a pistol in my mouth and checking out of this bummer of a reality.
Hans. If only you could afford your antidepressants?!
Jesse. If only I could afford a pistol!?
Hans. If we had a pistol, we could rob a bank?
Jesse. Wait. I thought this was supposed to be a piece about mental health?
Hans. Whatever. Man. I’m just in it for the comp tickets.
Jesse. Aren’t we all? But no, I was SAYING… sometimes I want to cut off a piece of garden hose, and use it to fill my car with exhaust, to kill me. I understand you turn pink, from carbon poisoning. Isn’t that better than blue?
Hans. Everyone turns blue, eventually.
Jesse. Cross stitch that on a pillow and see who gives two shits.
Hans. You could appear as a desperate and mad person, to the outside observer.
Jesse. Aren’t we all outside observers?
Hans. Don’t get me started, pal.
Jesse. I won’t, buddy.
Hans. Thanks, friend.
Jesse. We are special friends, and that’s more important than wanting to hang myself in the closet with my belt.
Hans. You don’t wear a belt!
Jesse. I’m wearing one now!
Hans. Are you?!
Jesse. How should I know!?
Hans. Jesus, no one is going to pay money to see this nonsense.
Jesse. We will shit down their throats, and they will eat it up. The ingrates.
Hans. You are a true artist.
Jesse. But where could we get a gun, at this hour?
Hans. Probably the pawn shop?
Jesse. I tried to buy one there, but they declined my card.
Hans. Your license?
Jesse. No, my credit card. I’m dead broke. I actually owe $200,000 in student loans due to a useless doctorate in fine arts.
Hans. I thought you were a biologist?
Jesse. That too. That’s just for fun, though. I don’t make 10 foot long lobsters, or anything.
Hans. I know this.
Jesse. The Yes And Ends.
Hans. What?
Jesse. The fourth wall is a fallacy.
Hans. Did you really mean it, about everyone being an observer?
Jesse. I thought you said that?
Hans. Well?
Jesse. You might be right?
Hans. Hey, look. I know this really nice therapist. So. We get this gun, we’ll put it on my card, and we’ll convince her to treat you at gun point.
Jesse. Surely that’s illegal?
Hans. I think they have to give you medication, in prison?
Jesse. Oh boy. Are you saying we’re going to prison?
Hans. Somebody has to!
Jesse. I could never survive in prison.
Hans. Well. Neither could I.
Jesse. I guess I’ll just die of renal failure then?
(They accept this, and the scene ends.)
Scene 3: Sexual Health
(Alex is reading when Sam comes in.)
Sam. I think Hans gave me flaming herpes.
Alex. Gross!
Sam. Don’t you have herpes?
Alex. Sure! It’s gross!
Sam. Ah poop.
Alex. It’s OK, we’re all getting it.
Sam. I suppose I should tell all of my subsequent sexual partners?
Alex. It isn’t any of my business, but how many people is that?
Sam. Well, Alex, we live together, so you tell me?
Alex. How many hands would it take?
Sam. More like both socks. But that’s because I’m an artist.
Alex. I know.
Sam. Sex drives my work.
Alex. It certainly does.
Sam. It keeps me healthy.
Alex. Sure.
Sam. Well, what about it, then?
Alex. What about what?
Sam. How do I get cured?
Alex. Oh, there is no cure. Herpes once, herpes for life. You can take a pill to lessen the likelihood of flare up, but it has been proven to cause renal failure.
Sam. My granny died of renal failure. Didn’t look fun.
Alex. Well, then, you will occasionally have a herpes flare, and it will be unpleasant, and I can recommend a nice ointment.
Sam. You know I don’t have health insurance.
Alex. It’s over the counter, you cheap bitch.
Sam. Don’t call me that. Like some of your little bitches.
Alex. Oh, listen to you. Spouting off with your herpes mouth.
Sam. Will this be a theme?
Alex. What do you mean?
Sam. Like “Sexual Health With Sam and Alex” where I get to travel back in time to when I should have walked away. We even used a condom!
Alex. Herpes is wily like that. It’s about the flare-up site and contact. Let’s not make it the theme, but rather the lesson.
Sam. But so many nice people have herpes.
Alex. It’s true. There should be no judgement.
Sam. But I feel that there is.
Alex. Are you really going to call all of those people?
Sam. Sure. Here! See!
(Sam pulls out their phone and calls someone.)
Sam. Hey! Hey, how are you? Great. No. No, thank you. No, I’m just calling to let you know that I may have given you flaming herpes? What? No. No, that’s not a medical term, more of my own clever spin on a disease. Oh, you have? You’ve had flare ups, too? No. No. Well, I don’t know if “Flaming Herpes” is Trademarked, no. No. No, I don’t want to look into it, trademarking is a very expensive process. I’ve been told. By who? Well, you know. Legal experts. Spiderman. No. No, not SpidermAn. Spiderman. No, not Spidermen, it isn’t plural. It’s just a soft a. I don’t know. No. No. No I don’t know what the international phonetic alphabet is? Really? Well. I don’t think we should talk about that, anymore. Why? Well, frankly a lot of it wouldn’t translate to a live audience. A live audience. No, we’re not live, heavens no. Oh my! Wouldn’t that be something. Like a, JUST KIDDING YOU JUST GOT PUNKED… sort of deal. No. No, it is not. No, I don’t know if “punked” is a trademark. I believe it is a prison term. Prison term?
(Sam looks at their phone.)
Sam. We got disconnected.
Alex. Doesn’t matter.
Sam. That counts, right?
Alex. For sure.
Sam. Yikes. That was hard.
Alex. For all of us.
Sam. I can’t believe you watched me, while I made that call.
Alex. Would you rather I go offstage for some reason?
Sam. No, I like you here.
Alex. I’m your friend, and I want to help you with this.
Sam. Thanks, Alex.
Alex. You’re welcome. Who’s next.
Sam. Sure.
(Sam calls the next person.)
Sam. Hello!? Hello, it’s Sam. Hey, how are you? Great. Yeah! Yeah. No. No, let’s not do that. Thank you, but no. No, I’m just calling to tell you I may have given you flaming herpes. (Long pause) Yikes. Well, first off, I don’t appreciate that language. Second thing, I don’t even think you can afford a gun. My final point, I’ve got guns all over the fucking place in here, so you bring your sad shit up in here, and get yourself shot in the face.
(Sam hangs up.)
Sam. That could have gone better. I should respect myself more.
Alex. Do you really have guns littering this place?
Sam. No. But did I sell it?
Alex. I don’t know. I would say a performance success.
Sam. No critical?
Alex. No. Because they could murder us, tonight.
Sam. That person doesn’t even know where we live!
(The doorbell rings.)
Sam. Hold very still.
(The doorbell rings again. After a long silence things continue.)
Sam. There. Look.
Alex. I think you should stop calling people.
Sam. No! No. We are going to get through this.
(Sam’s phone rings.)
Sam. It’s Hans.
Alex. Don’t answer it.
Sam. Maybe that was him?
Alex. Maybe he has a gun?
Sam. Hans can’t afford a gun!
Alex. We can’t afford a gun!
Sam. What a society. That allows these things to happen to relatively nice people?
Alex. We are victims of sexualized consumerism.
Sam. Woe.
Alex. Did you just Matrix me?
Sam. No, woe with an e.
Alex. Sure.
Sam. Yeah.
Alex. Alas.
Sam. Alack.
Alex. I should have abstained!
Sam. Oh, don’t do that bullshit.
Alex. It was a not so funny joke.
Sam. Why don’t we teach people to look closer at the crotches of people?
Alex. Truly a conundrum for the ages.
Sam. And the kids these days? They don’t know. They don’t know that isn’t how sex always used to be. That there was occasionally a quiet dignity to it all.
Alex. You should be writing this down.
Sam. I am. Somewhere.
Alex. Sure.
Sam. Listen. Are you hungry?
Alex. Because sexual health is self care?
Sam. Because I want to eat all of the donuts.
Alex. That’s so many.
Sam. So many is no many enough, for me.
Alex. You are so fat, and sassy.
Sam. Don’t shame me.
Alex. You shame yourself.
Sam. But seriously, isn’t there more to sexual health than scrutinizing groins, and wearing rubbers when you pork?
Alex. No. Of all things, this is all.
Sam. Well. I wish there was somewhere I could go, to learn more?
Alex. No. Don’t do it.
Sam. Don’t do it, what?
Alex. Don’t look up sexual health on your phone.
(Sam goes to)
Alex. NoooOoooOOOOOOO!!!!!
(Slow motion, explosion of light, characters disappear)
Scene 4: Doing Drugs
(Re-enter Dr. Quaddle)
Quaddle. People do drugs. Often, and everywhere, and during every period of development. Some people get created in the womb, taking a variety of drugs, and this has impacts. I myself was exposed to cannabis in utero, and inasmuch as anyone can say on the subject, it is perhaps worth looking into them a little further. Perhaps a tad deeper? Maybe we can explore the subject of drugs, beyond judgement, and presumptions, and just have a good time with it? Because I like to think that my foetal cannabis exposure had a number of impacts, up to and including being cool. So let us all just try to be cool as we unpack this late night time phone report.
It would be hard to get through life without any drugs and when I say drugs I should specify any biological or chemical compound that can be ingested or injected or enemaed or whatever for a positive benefit. Ibuprofen is my favourite drug. Without question I have done it the most, over my rambling, swashbuckling, pain ridden existence. After some poor adventuring choices in our early to mid 20s occasionally the damaged nerves cause a searing white hot knife of pain to drive into my back. I kick ball hitches. Once in a while something firm and fast hits me in the face. For that, I go for Ibuprofen. This isn’t an endorsement, I would much prefer other drugs.
I have smoked at least my own weight 10 times over in cannabis. I am no Willie Nelson, but who is? Who could be the living legend and modern day musical drug pioneer that was Willie Nelson? What a treasure, to be so callous eaten by a crocodile at such a young age. How delicious was that alligator, so rich with aged cannabis, and righteous my vengeance against it. I still use that luggage, what is left of it (a small rolling bag and matching shaving kit), to travel to the various state executions I am required to attend. Cannabis was made by a genius creator to inspire joy, peace, and hope. It’s not for everyone. Those who don’t like it are not required to take it. I remember living through the age of prohibition, where a large enough bag of cannabis could land you in a penitentiary, sucking nazi dick for premium toilet tissue. These days (after the US monetized and became a global producer) you can buy $10 bales of 12 logs and burn it for heat.
I have consumed some funguses. There are deadly ones out there. There are also really fun ones, as well. Ones that will make you feel a singular and terrifying joy that you ride into an understanding and perception theretofore unknown (but for those fabulous drugs). These drugs belong to a family of drugs that have been consumed over thousands of years. Tens of thousands! Poops, who knows you all!? At LEAST thousands. And for a while, there, some people waged these painful wars over them. Here are these plants and funguses, and these people trying to have a good time cultivating and consuming them, and out of the sky come shock troops armed to the tits with flashbangs and hollow points. Ready to shoot your dog and punch your children if you resist the zip ties.
Sweet Christ on a Cracker Barrel, how did we ever live through those days? The War On Drugs Vs. The Age of Guns for Everyone? Well, many of us didn’t, I guess. I guess there were millions of dead. I guess we piled the corpses up and took pictures with them. I guess we defiled the corpses. I guess we sold the corpses to some lab that then sold the body parts on the street, while they conducted fun activities like sewing a small lady head to a large man body. For the Instagram or whatever? Who knows how they monetize this sick shit anymore? To be entirely honest with you, I only send you this material back in time because I’m still waiting for a $500 trillion dollar check from google. Those fiends owe me, for what they’ve done to me. For their part in what they have allowed to happen, with the drugs.
The thing with drugs is, if you can find something that doesn’t cost you more than $100 a day and is unlikely to incur federal charges, you do that, you know? I have experimented with drugs. That is the term, as I had it explained to me by my middle school health teacher. Not to mention the DARE officers. We dare not mention. Lest they turn their dread gaze towards this inane prose. Experimenting With Drugs. There’s your chapter heading, boys. Go to town. I remember the police officer lighting some weed, so our 5th grade class could know what it smelled like. I knew there was a reason to sit in the front of the class, and there it was. That’s how you learn, kids. You sit right in the front and pay attention to everything. Ask a question as long as it doesn’t make you look like an asshole.
I am a SCIENTIST… and according to my very thorough and comprehensive experimentation over the course of several intensive decades of varying consumption. Drugs are fun and you should probably do some. BUT, and this is key. DO NOT LET IT FUCK UP YOUR LIFE. Bold. Italics. Underlined. There is a trend where once you start doing drugs (which seems like a bad choice) you are enabled to do further bad things. Thus a late night 8 ball of cocaine turns into an early AM bank robbery. Thus a bad batch of heroin leaves us dead on the floor. Thus we orphan our children to the system due to terminal irresponsibility. How do you know if your life is fucked up? Look around you. No. Look further. Further still.
What you see is the future. It calls to you from there, beckoning you onward. Look not backward, gentle drug fiend. Onward we march towards glory everlasting. For here in our future there exists a drug that lets one live forever. Here there is a drug that takes away pain. Here there is a drug to make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the crippled walk again. Here is that glorious drug, but just make sure you have good insurance. Or you die in the street like an old dog.
Scene 5: Careers, Jobs, and Gigs.
(Hans and Jesse are angry)
Jesse. We need better jobs.
Hans. Obviously!
Jesse. Ones with benefits!
Hans. Yes!
Jesse. Like health insurance!
Hans. Please!
Jesse. And dental insurance!!
Hans. Why is it even separate?!
Jesse. And vacation!!!
Hans. Two weeks minimum!
Jesse. And human dignity!!!!
Hans. Well. Let’s not go too far.
Jesse. How do you even find a job these days?
Hans. Hell if I know. Generally I just go places and people offer them to me.
Jesse. Like what sorts of jobs?
Hans. Oh lots of stuff. Bartending. Sushi chefing. Gas station clerking.
Jesse. You can just walk into a sushi chef job?
Hans. If you know how to do it.
Jesse. Do you?
Hans. Not well.
Jesse. How do you know?
Hans. I used to date a Japanese person.
Jesse. OK.
Hans. I don’t know what to tell you.
Jesse. Well, how would I find a job like that? Just wander around? Begging for goodwill?
Hans. Hell, I don’t know. Use the internet!
Jesse. They turned off the internet, we can’t afford the bill!
Hans. Well then I don’t know. Go to the workforce center.
Jesse. Seems pretty far away.
Hans. It’s two blocks.
Jesse. Seems pretty late.
Hans. It’s 10 AM.
Jesse. Seems pretty cold.
Hans. It’s 72 and sunny. Why are you afraid of the sun?
Jesse. My medication makes me allergic to the sun.
Hans. Vampire medicine. I forgot, I’m sorry.
Jesse. It’s OK.
Hans. No, it isn’t. It’s ableist bullshit and I’m just so very sorry I put you through it.
Jesse. You’re my special friend.
Hans. And you’re my partner in crime. But how do we get you a job?
Jesse. And get you some self respect?
Hans. One thing at a time and first things first. WE… need the internet.
Jesse. I don’t know which is worse, the workforce center or the library for the internet.
Hans. Can’t we just pay people to find us quality jobs?
Jesse. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Hans. It would. Aren’t there headhunters?
Jesse. Probably.
Hans. I mean people who find people jobs?
Jesse. Oh. Not people who steal people’s heads?
Hans. Well, those too. Let’s not be exclusionary. But are there those?
Jesse. I guess I’m not clear on either count.
Hans. What if we bought a paper and looked in the classifieds?
Jesse. Hey, what if we just stole a paper from a coffee shop instead and saved ourselves a dollar?
Hans. This is why print media is dead.
Jesse. Well, people still need to light fires.
Hans. And how. Here here.
(There is a knock at the door.)
Hans. Are you expecting someone?
Jesse. Of course not, are you?
(The knock again)
Jesse. Hello?!
Quaddle. Hello?!
Jesse. Yes!?
Quaddle. Can you please answer the door?
Jesse. No way! Man! We don’t want any!
Quaddle. I’m offering door to door jobs.
Hans. No way.
Jesse. What do you mean?
Quaddle. I’m not going to explain it through the door, either let me explain it or I’ll move on.
(Jesse reluctantly answers the door. Enter Quaddle.)
Quaddle. Good morning. My name is Dr. Quaddle. I’m a travelling job salesman and part time amateur dental assistant. I recently received information that this region is experiencing a market shortage for talented labour like yourselves. As such I have been sent to identify, vet, and recruit talent into our pool of available contractors. Our clients receive only the best in benefits including health, dental, retirement, vacation, and we value ourselves as being second to none in treating each person as a valuable and cherished individual. Does that sound like something you would be interested in?
Jesse. Sounds too good to be true!?!
Hans. How much money?
Quaddle. 90% of our clients are making six figures within 3 years of contracting. Our top tier producers pull in 7 figures within 5. Does making a million dollars a year sound like something you’re interested in?
Jesse. Do I have to sell stretch pants or essential oils?
Quaddle. Not specifically. But what if you did? Is that a deal breaker?
Jesse. For me it might be.
Hans. Yeah, you said we would have basic human dignity as a valued individual?!
Quaddle. Well you will be. But let me ask then, what are you capable and willing to do?
Jesse. I will suck dick and ladydick but not on film.
Hans. I’ll do it on film but only if I can wear a ski mask.
Quaddle. Wow. But no stretch pants?
Hans. OR essential oils.
Jesse. Or long distance plans.
Quaddle. Are you conscenting to moving forward?
Hans. Sure! What’s the worst that can happen?!
Scene 6: Surviving.
(The lights flicker on and off, from outside the red and blue of emergency lights flash through the window. Hans has two guns, one they train on themselves and the other is brandished at anyone and everyone else. Jesse is sitting in the fetal position, holding their knees to their chest. Alex and Sam are tying/bungee cording/duct taping Dr. Quaddle to a folding chair.)
Quaddle. THIS is why you don’t do drugs, kids.
Hans. You shut your ugly fucking mouth old man, before I stuff my poopy panties into it.
Sam. I can’t believe you gave me flaming herpes!?!
Hans. I got it from a toilet seat!!!
Alex. Don’t call me that!!!
Sam. You!?
Alex. Of course! OF COURSE!!!
Sam. What does it matter, I guess? We’re all going to get murder suicided anyhow.
Hans. I’m going over here, out of ear shot, to consider my list of demands. I am going to trust you all to ensure that Dr. Quaddle here doesn’t try anymore of that essential oil shit.
Quaddle. I told you, they aren’t essential oils, they’re essential infusions.
(Hans places a gun against Dr. Quaddle’s temple.)
Sam. Please don’t get blood and brains on me!?
Hans. Tell me again, about the difference between oils and infusions. I dare you.
Dr. Quaddle. I’ve had a lot of bad cold sales, but this takes the cake.
Hans. Just over there. Out of ear shot. You all be cool and we get out of this alive.
Jesse. I just wanted a job without having to work too hard to get it!?
Hans. You shut your pie hole too, Jester. You’re one suicide away from murder suicide.
(Hans stalks off to the corner to talk amongst himself. Sam and Alex stop trying to restrain Dr. Quaddle.)
Sam. What’s your deal?
Quaddle. Look, it’s sad and a grim testament to our failing society that this is not my first hostage situation. Not even my second. No, this happens more times that we have to go over the most important points.
Sam. Please, if we get you out of here can’t you old man ninja him?
Quaddle. I’m not that old. But no, I wouldn’t count on it. He took my gun. My shuriken game isn’t what it was in the 20s. Or in MY 20s. But, we’ll call that plan C. Loosen this a little bit, so I can get out if I need to.
(Alex loosens things up.)
Quaddle. So do everything they say, provided it does not endanger you. If you think it will endanger you, faint. Just pass right out. Especially if in transit. Statistically they are not going to waste the ammunition on you. If you get a fast break to some cover, get behind something most resistant to bullets. Brick, metal, dirt. Sheetrock and wood will not offer the same level of cover protection. Flee with your hands up screaming “Hostage! Hostage! Hostage!” at the top of your lungs, running towards whatever authority figure is surely cowering, just on the other side of that door.
(Alex and Sam stand and exit from the door.)
Quaddle. Fuck.
(Hans turns around.)
Hans. Oh no! I just lost half of the hostages!? What happened!? What did you do!?
Jesse. Stop yelling! It makes me anxious!?!?
(Dr. Quaddle frees himself from his bonds and engages Hans in Gun-Fu for what seems like too long a time. At the end of the fight both of them level pistols at one another’s faces.)
Quaddle. You dumb bitch. Your Gun-fu is weak.
Hans. YOU’RE a dumb bitch. And I do not like that word!!!
Quaddle. You probably don’t even have the real gun. In the confusion I’ve got them mixed up myself.
Hans. You want to find out?
Quaddle. Do YOU want to find out!?
Hans. So what if I do?
Quaddle. Well I think that’s great!!!
Hans. Thanks!
Quaddle. I appreciate your honesty and politeness.
Hans. I like how you dress.
Quaddle. We’re not so different, you and I.
Hans. Do you want to murder suicide?
Quaddle. No.
Hans. Do you want to mass shoot?
Quaddle. No way man. I only carry a fake gun for protection.
Hans. Wait. YOUR gun is fake?
Quaddle. Of course it’s fake. I have kids. Do you know the statistics of gun ownership in the home?
Hans. I do, but since I don’t have kids I don’t care about those factors.
Quaddle. Well, that seems like a short sighted and narrow minded perspective.
Hans. How about we both shoot on the count of 3?
Quaddle. Wait, YOUR gun is fake?
Hans. Of COURSE my gun is fake!!! LOOK at this place!? You think we could afford a real gun!?!?
Quaddle. So neither of our guns are real.
Jesse. No one can murder OR suicide!?!
Quaddle. Not with guns anyhow.
Hans. The hell you say.
(Hans unleashes some next level Gun-Fu and ends up shoving his gun down Dr. Quaddle’s throat, choking him to death.)
Jesse. Jesus Buttfucking Christ, Hans! You choke murdered him with your fake gun!?!?
Hans. I don’t know if it was his fake gun or mine. But yes. I murdered this father of three.
Jesse. But why!?!?
Hans. Because in prison I will get health care.
(Lights out. When they rise again the full cast is there.)
Quaddle. If my insides were my outsides.
Hans. People would see my fears.
Jesse. My hopes.
Sam. My dreams.
Alex. My plans.
Quaddle. If my insides were my outsides.
Sam. I wouldn’t have to hide who I was anymore.
Alex. I wouldn’t be ashamed of my scars and flaws.
Jesse. People would know that I’m very sick.
Hans. I wouldn’t have to explain the toilet seat.
Quaddle. If my insides were my outsides.
Hans. Then no one would know, in a glance,
Sam. In a first look,
Jesse. What I am,
Alex. Or more important, who I am.
Quaddle. We all know boredom happens. It builds up many walls.
Sam. It happens in plays.
Alex. In films.
Jesse. In literature.
Hans. But if my insides were my outsides we could change this paradigm…
Sam. Because you’d have to forget all the tropes.
All. And just concentrate on me.
Quaddle. If my insides were my outsides then you couldn’t;
Alex. Judge me.
Sam. Label me.
Hans. Stereotype me.
Jesse. Without first asking me questions.
Quaddle. Because it would be the only way to know.
Jesse. What I think.
Sam. What I feel.
Alex. What I love.
Hans. What I loathe.
Quaddle. If my inside were my outside.
Hans. Then I wouldn’t be afraid.
Jesse. To let you know who I am.
Sam. To go to parties where I’m uncomfortable.
Alex. To be an individual.
Quaddle. And boring.
All. Super boring.
Quaddle. We hope you’ve all learned a lot here. We certainly have.
All. No refunds.
(Bows. Lights. Fin.)
Originally published at http://www.gonzotheater.com on September 3, 2024.
