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 

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i
Read more