Saturday, December 26, 2009

Bathroom Monologues: My Muslim Bruthaz

[The restaurant is mostly empty. Green and red streamers are strewn about and Christmas lights are still up on the windows. SAMID sits on one side of the booth in a pink tuxedo and red Santa hat. ARYANA sits on the other side in a chainmail pantsuit and red Santa hat.]

Aryana: "Muzlims."

Samid: It’s actually moose-lahms.

Aryana: Moose-lambs?

Samid: Moose, like the animal. The second syllable is less important, but it’s kind of an ‘a’ sound, with a really soft hint of ‘h.’ Muslim. It was translated into language poorly. Muslims judge how familiar you are with their culture by how you pronounce it.

Aryana: …We spelled their name wrong?

Samid: Both syllables.

Aryana: No wonder we have bad relations with them.

Samid: And then there’s when it’s right to say Muslim or Islam…

Friday, December 25, 2009

Bathroom Monologue: A Necessary Getaway

Listen to John Wiswell's Necessary Getaway or download the MP3 here.

He moved north at the first opportunity. Way north. He cut all ties, even to his mother, which was the hardest on him. He was a mama's boy. His hair went white from all the stress, including his beard. He took that as a sign to change his appearance and began dressing in pants as soon as they were invented. He spent so long in sedentary hiding that he put on tremendous weight, face filling out, giving him rosy cheeks in the snowy environment. He stayed in doors as much as possible, but always came out around his birthday. It was too lonely, even with the elves that had found him and made camps all around his house. They fashioned him thick boots and gloves that comforted his scarred extremities so much he took up carpentry again, making little wooden toys. The gregarious wee folk did so much for his spirits that he reached out to a similar-sized people - children. He only went out on his birthday, but brought a sack of the toys with him for those boys and girls who had the right attitude. There were always more gifts to give, too, as the elves copied his work and began production for every good child. And associating with children turned out to actually help, for in his old life he had been an average-sized Jew, but to children he was a giant. So his new identity was a rosy-cheeked and plump man with gifts and white hair. Even though he only went south on his birthday, no one made the connection. He was safe. No one down there ever guessed that Santa Claus was an alias.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

The Ten Clues of Christmas

This idea was thought up in the bathroom even if I didn't write it there. The following appears on the inside of the card to my brother’s Christmas present. He loves to figure out what the present is without unwrapping it. While the clues are tailored to his tastes (he loved the book from which the first quotation comes, likes The Doors and is a stand-up comic), I think that the ten clues are so broad that a lot of people could play this guessing game. Without googling or otherwise cheating, I invite anyone to read the ten clues below and figure out what David Wiswell is getting for Christmas (or got for Christmas, depending when you’re reading).

Clue 1: Who wrote the following quote?

“The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when _ _ _ _ _ _ is no longer alive.
Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick.”

Clue 2: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 1 is an infamous name.

Clue 3: This present was written by the author of Clue 1’s quote. This is what came next.

Clue 4: The title of this present is two words long.

Clue 5: The first word of the title could describe this piece of paper, or dawn, or someone who is very sick.

Clue 6: The first word of the title is the third word in one of stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan’s albums.

Clue 7: The second word of the title is the third word in the title of a song by The Doors.

Clue 8: The Doors song referred to in Clue 7 has the following lyric:

“You know that it would be untrue,
You know that I would be a _ _ _ _.”

Clue 9: The omitted word in the quotation of Clue 8 rhymes with the second word in the title of this present.

Clue 10: The first and second words in the title of the present have the same number of letters.

Bathroom Monologue: Accident Proof

He was a truck driver because most accidents happened near home. He figured driving cross-country would make him impervious to car crashes. There were wrecks on the freeway, but maybe all those drivers had houses nearby. Like, under overpasses or something. Maybe they lived in their cars. That was a dangerous gamble to our trucker – living in your car meant spending your life near where you were likely to have an accident. He never slept in the cab, even when he was between apartments. He’d sleep on a park bench or in a rest stop stall, parking the truck eleven miles away. It was a long walk, but necessary. He couldn’t risk an accident.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Bathroom Monologue: The Case of Rock V. Scissors

What if the rock isn't big enough to break the scissors? It's hard. Probably a piece of obsidian. The scissors can make a few little scratches, but they can't cut it. Then it's a stalemate. If he throws down scissors and you throw down rock, you shouldn't automatically win. The first person to say what kind of rock you threw should qualify the contest; Mr. Scissors could claim you threw down some talc with fine lines of cleavage, at which point you're doomed.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Bathroom Monologue: Norman's Inflatable Tacos

Every look. Every lick. Every desire. We see all of it! You know you want it, so just give in. Just give us your money and we'll let you have another taste. So big it can’t be legal. So big your arteries will want better glasses. But wait, they inflate! The beef keeps rising and the cheese won’t cool down. You don’t want it to stop! You can’t take your lips off this culinary disaster, the corn meal gash with a side of Mexican flavor.

Norman's Inflatable Tacos.

You can't hide it! You can't deny it! Buy three today, or we’re coming to your house!

Monday, December 21, 2009

Bathroom Monologues: The Winning Goddess

The same woman won every year. She was a goddess, which would be an unfair advantage in a district with a lower average income. Not on Park Street, though. Here she was simply more imaginative. Being a harvest goddess, her wreath grew out of the door, alive and natural. Verdant bushes sprang up with the first snow, bearing bright red fruits to give her lawn that Christmas color decor. Her snowmen farmed their own raisins and carrots, and were such snappy dressers that they got her top points every year. Clouds of fireflies descended on her roof and windows, their glowing hinds blinking in perfect synchronicity, giving her energy-efficient Christmas lights. On Sundays, they spelled out the scores of the biggest games. Nobody could compete with her manger, either. With a snap of her fingers she had every necessary animal walking out of the bushes and taking its place. Where she got a newborn every year was up to speculation. How it survived out the cold for a week as various judges came by? Now that was a miracle.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Bathroom Monologue: Worst of Men

You say you would count me amongst the best of men and I tell you I would not. I am far from the most handsome or the smartest. Not the quickest thinking, not the wisest, and I certainly do not know the most about anything. I am of mediocre height and far from the best weight, putting me at distinctly sub-best build. If there is a best of men, then I am amongst the worst looking in a bathing suit, and must rank somewhere in the bottom ten of aptitudes for tanning. When everyone is heading in the same direction on the same sidewalk, I fall behind. I cannot lift the most weight and despite considerable exposure to pain, I am not the best at handling it. I am praised as a good listener yet spend the bulk of my time thinking about other things I’d rather be doing than listen to her cry about her boyfriend. I am a terrible boyfriend. I get bored, sex takes too long and the emotional games played at dinner should not be more complicated than chess. I am not the best at chess. I cannot think of a single thing at which I excel other than seeing that I am a pretty sub-best person.
Counter est. March 2, 2008