Spoiled Brat

Ladies and Gentlemen… 
but mostly ladies… 
BEHOLD! 
This… this… 
terrestrial… 
body 
standing 
here, 
right here, 
upon this stage, 
upon the Bard’s own boards 
(figuratively speaking), 
before you
in the flesh
albeit fully clad: 
me. 

Why? 

Because: 
I am 
a one-hundred percent, 
genuine 
Spoiled 
Brat. 

I am, 
in fact, 
SO spoiled, 
that I fully expect ALL of you to 
laugh 
uproariously 
upon the conclusion of 
each 
and every one of 
my sentences. 

[VERY BRIEF PAUSE.] 

Beginning now. 
With that one. 
Or, fine, with this one. 

[BRIEF PAUSE.] 

I SAID, 
you must laugh 
UPROARIOUSLY 
upon the conclusion… 

[BRIEF PAUSE.] 

Oh. I see. I get it. 
You believe that you’re all 
spoiled brats 
as well, 
eh? 
Hm? 
Fine. 
Shall we 
compare 
trust funds? 
Hmm? 
Pshaw! 
No one here has a trust fund. 
I am the only one. 
AH, HA-HA-HA-HAH! 

That’s right. 
Most of you… 
work. 

I’d wager a small fortune that many of you hate your work. Detest it, even. Yes, on just about every day of the week, a fair amount of you must rise long before the sun ever does. 

Whereas I 
sleep until noon. 
Every day. 
Afterall, the sun should rise
for me. 

You see, work, to me, means trimming my own fingernails, picking my own snot, squeezing my own zits. So I don’t. I don’t work. I outsource. That’s right, I outsource all of the nail-trimming, snot scooping and zit-squeezing. All of my tooth-brushing, too.

I do. 

Work, 
to me, 
means, 
with my own hand, 
raising a fork-full of tortellini to my lips. 
So I don’t. 
Again: outsourced. 

Gum chewing? No, not me — Heaven forfend! I have a team of personal assistants. One of them inserts the rectangle of Trident Wintergreen or Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit between my lips and gently massages my jaw. 

You are seeing me in rare form tonight. 
Because… 
well… 
I’m standing. 
On my own. 
This is hard work, this… 
standing thing. 
I don’t know how you do it. Though I’m not particularly fond of sitting, either. But, alas, as I’ve recently discovered, you can have your fill of lying down. No doubt few of you would actually believe that possible. 

My personal preference is to float. That’s right: I have my own space shuttle. Of course. It’s parked on the roof. And, upon the conclusion of my “set,” if any of you young ladies out there are interested, I might be… persuaded… 
to… 
show you… 
my… 
cock-pit. 
Not that I need a space shuttle to help… 
satisfy… 
my 
libido. 
But I’m willing to wager a small fortune that none of you have experienced nooky whilst floating, let alone whilst orbiting the planet. My friends, if you haven’t shot your wad in zero G, then… you’ve never really shot your wad at all. 

3 May 2005 

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