“Why The Hell Do I Feel Guilty?” A Play in One Act

Characters:

HOMELESS DUDE: Has been sitting outside of the same restaurant every single day for years; always asks for change in same entitled, surly tone.

JIVE TURKEY: Works close to the restaurant and sometimes stops there for lunch; often gives money to HOMELESS DUDE; once saw HOMELESS DUDE racing to catch the bus at 5pm and wondered what in hell a homeless man could be late for; notices that HOMELESS DUDE does not work this corner on the weekends; has also noticed that HOMELESS DUDE always has a warm coat and clean-looking clothes and is never carrying any of his belongings with him; has pondered the fact that if HOMELESS DUDE took 3 steps to his right and filled out a few forms, he could actually be working INSIDE the restaurant where they would provide him with money and one free meal per shift – a shift that likely doesn’t last as long as the 10 hours he spends outside on the steps each day.

Setting: Outside the restaurant, 1:15pm, two days ago.

Lights up. JIVE TURKEY exits restaurant with her usual lunch – steamed vegetables & rice – chosen for its nutritional value and the fact that it costs under $5, because JIVE TURKEY is conscientious about not squandering the money that she earns by working 40 hours in an office each goddamn week of her life. HOMELESS DUDE looks up from the paper he is reading.

HOMELESS DUDE: Have any change?

JIVE TURKEY: (Having just given HOMELESS DUDE a dollar a few days previous, but still not wanting to be rude) Uh, no, sorry – I didn’t get any.

HOMELESS DUDE: (Rolls eyes, mutters with sarcasm) Yeah, right.

JIVE TURKEY continues walking to her office, feeling guilty for not giving – GIVING – her hard-earned money to a man simply because HE ASKED FOR IT.

Lights down.

When it comes to guilt, the mothers of the world have nothing on you, sir.

Gee, This Divorce Tastes Terrific!

So, I have a very close acquaintance who is going through a divorce. She’s also Catholic, and since I know firsthand just how wacky those Catholics can be, I got curious about the Catholic divorce process (which I imagined was something akin to “God hates divorce; proceed directly to hell”), and I decided to do a little research on the Internet.

Mission accomplished. I learned all about the process (which involves TRIBUNALS, for Christ’s sake — DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED), and I also found this handy bulleted list which gives some pointers to those Catholics who have a divorced pal but just…don’t know what to do about it. Here it is, in all its un-edited glory:

Did you catch that? Sixth bullet down?

Who made this list? My Great-Aunt Mamie?

I especially like how casserole gets ranked above prayer.

Nothing a little Cheesy Chicken Bake can’t fix.

Oh Noes! My Babby Has Chicken Pots!

If I had to pick one pet peeve that really drives me crazy head-and-shoulders above the rest, something that makes me want to scream and rend my garments even more than tailgating drivers, dinner table nose-blowers, or airplane farters (people who fart on the airplane, not people who fart airplanes, although I suppose that might be annoying depending on the circumstance), it would have to be TERRIBLE SPELLERS.

Look, I understand that some words are tough to spell – I myself was disqualified from the 6th grade spelling bee for screwing up “irrelevant” – and I know everyone slips up and misspells a word from time to time, and I know there are unintentional typos, and I know – I KNOW! – that poor spelling does not necessarily mean you are uneducated or unintelligent, but HOLY SHIT, it sure makes you seem that way.

Allow me to illustrate my point.

This week, I received the email below:

Was this email written by a LOLcat?

Are you fucking kidding me? The person who sent this email was 1) a parent, and 2) someone who works at an ART AND LANGUAGE INSTITUTE. And she spelled “baby” wrong. Twice.

Now, I’m not a parent, but I have a feeling that if you have GIVEN BIRTH TO CHILDREN, you might have seen the word “baby” around. Like, ALOT. Right?

Exhibit 2: The person who found my blog entry about tainted chicken pot pie by Googling “chicken pots symptoms.” It took me a while, but after puzzling over that phrase for a minute or so, I realized that the Googler was looking up CHICKEN POX symptoms. As in, the ailment most of us get as kids. As in, this was probably another adult.

What gives, Chicken Pot Googler? You spelled “symptoms” correctly; how could you not have known it was pox? Have you really gone your whole life thinking that there was a disease named after the cooking vessels of culinarily-inclined poultry?

God forbid the kid gets pneumonia. Lord knows what kind of crazy-ass Google search that will result from that.

Pneumo’ nia, mo’ problems.

When You Read A Book, Baby Jesus Cries

So, have you heard the latest panty-bunching surrounding the release of the film “The Golden Compass?”

I just…don’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’m not a parent, maybe it’s because I’m not particularly religious, but I think it’s mostly because I have a clear understanding that works of fiction are…works of fiction. As in make-believe. As in NOT REAL.

It’s the same old shit as when the Harry Potter series became immensely popular – people swearing up and down that J.K. Rowling was really just the devil disguised as a nice British lady who was plotting every day and night to devour the tender little souls of young Christians through a story that contained magical booger-flavored jellybeans. Bitch, please.

Avert your eyes! Clearly this adorable little boy wearing a fabulous cape is the devil’s handmaiden!

I think part of the problem is that the adults who are constantly whining about these “anti-religious” stories are simply not giving the kids who read them enough credit. Kids – especially those old enough to read Harry Potter or The Golden Compass – understand that these books are fiction. They also understand that these books are captivating, well-written and tell fascinating stories. But no, let’s discourage the kids from reading because the ADULTS are interpreting the books in a way that the kids never would, because adults suck and have far too much time to get upset over shit that doesn’t mean anything.

Kind of like I’m doing here. Ahem.

Seriously, though, what is everyone so afraid of? That a kid will read a book? That a kid will become involved in an interesting and provacative story that makes him or her – gasp! – think? Look – I was a pretty naive child, but at age 11 when I secretly began reading my Dad’s copy of The Shining (which I’m pretty sure would be classified as just a smidge inappropriate for my age group), I did not start using profanity or attempting to kill my wife with an axe. I understood that it was a story – granted, a much scarier one than your run-of-the-mill Sweet Valley High adventure – and if I took away anything from the experience, it was probably a few new vocabulary words. And the inability to fall asleep for about 3 weeks in a row.

*shudder*

I don’t think there is an adult on this earth who didn’t read or watch something that wasn’t exactly “age-appropriate” during their formative years. C’mon, admit it – you know you watched movies that would have made your mother pass out when you were sleeping over with a friend who had HBO. And you still turned out OK, right? I mean, I’d be willing to bet that most necrophiliacs don’t blame their behavior on that one time they watched “Weekend at Bernie’s” in junior high, and none of my friends who passed around a well-worn copy of Flowers in the Attic ended up crushing on their brothers. I probably watched “Pretty Woman” about 15 times during 7th grade alone, and wouldn’t you know it – I still haven’t become a hooker with a heart of gold.

Although I do wear those boots to work from time to time.

I’m not saying people should let their 12-year-old girls watch “Sex & The City,” or celebrate their son’s bar mitzvah by letting him spend one [amazing] hour with a prostitute, but I do think the adults of this world need to CHILL THE FUCK OUT when it comes to stories like Harry Potter and The Golden Compass. I mean, shit, I’d rather my kid be exposed to a few little imaginary magic spells than bring that “High School Musical” horseshit into my house.

I fear that we, as a society, will not survive this.

BzzPLINK! BzzPLINK! BzzPLINK!

That’s the sound of a goddamn housefly slamming his gross little body against my bedroom window at 6:00 in the morning.

Seriously, what the fuck? It’s December. It’s snowing. It’s twelve goddamn degrees outside. What the hell is a fly doing in my house?

The weird thing is, the fly has woken me up with his little self-flagellation routine on several non-consecutive mornings – and every time I jump out of bed and try to hunt down the little fucker, he becomes totally silent. And is nowhere to be found.

I have drawn two possible conclusions:

1. I am crazy
2. Jeff Goldblum is trying to stay in my house rent-free for the winter.

Good morning, sunshine!