Hospital Thanksgiving

Something sad should be happening
With all the wires
But he won't let the sad come visit.

The night nurse, an east coast hispanic
Told him he wouldn't have to wear those Julumbo pants.
It's just as well with him.
The jokes are funnier pants-less.

That sad something should be happening
The way it smells
But farts can make a sad smell silly

The day nurse, a tall man-faced woman
Told him at 6 am to wake up and wash his groin
Apparently the way to man's heart
Is through his crotch

That sad something should be serious
Statistically speaking
But sometimes stories lighten up the numbers

He can say anything, to anyone, anytime
As long as he's in the bed
There's nothing sad about urine, stool, and sperm
Especially when he tells the part about the underwear

Shouldn't it be sad now. Seriously shouldn't it.
With all that happens next.
But only nothing happens now.

Crammed onto unfamiliar furniture with family
Gracefully God hangs from the walls' crucifix
Death has no sting, Nothing is serious
The Joy of the Lord is my strength. (Fart noise)

Ever since September 11th
Terry has tried to shy away
From his nickname
THE TERRORIST
It’s just not funny anymore.

Being known for terror
Wasn’t always so unpatriotic
The nineties were a different time
Not that there wasn’t terrorism
There just wasn’t a war on it.

Back in college
Terry liked his moniker
He had it embroidered
On the back of his Intramural
Disc golf T-shirt

He grew out his JewFro
And always sported a beard
On a dare from his roommate
He wore a real turban
For his driver’s license picture.

It is amazing how many girls
Thought Terry’s terror was sexy
His cynical detachment
And pseudo-bad boy persona
Landed him lady after lady

Being a lifelong tech guru
It only made since that in 1999
When Terrytheterrorist.com
Was available at a reasonable price
He started an Ironic political blog.

It was soon after this
He later found out during “questioning”
That the CIA opened a file
On Terry the Hebrew Terrorist
Who wore a turban while driving

In late September 2001
The terrorist bought a plane ticket
Back home to New York
He didn’t know how long he would stay
So he bought it one-way

He never made it to the funeral
The CIA met him at LAX
And put him on a private plane
Complete with complimentary
Hand cuffs and orange jump suit.

Central Intelligence in not known
For their sense of humor
In the mind of fascists
An ironic nickname becomes
A secret criminal alias

After 19 months of “questioning”
At undisclosed locations
Terry had a secret military trial
He was the only American Jew
Convicted under Patriot act.

At his 10 year college reunion
His disc golf buddies laughed
At the tale of alliteration gone wrong
But to Terry the Terrorist
It’s just not funny anymore.

Once upon a time a polar bear with an American flag tattoo came into the library looking for gold. “Bullion!” He Screamed. “Give me all your Bullion!” His voice reverberated off of the books like fingernails shot at a blackboard from a cannon. The polar bear filled the foyer of the James K. Polk Memorial Library completely. His empty stare and enormous frame made him look like a methadone addict who had a patriotic accident in a tattoo parlor that specializes in bear arms.

Uncharacteristically confused, Eliza the stereotypically mild mannered librarian with impeccable hygiene stammered something about her unfortunate lack of golden coins and seemed immediately to return to her Jane Austen. She was scared. But Jane Austen prepares one for just about anything. The clinched fist of the tattooed bear arm slammed on to the reference desk with the authority and greed of a polar politician. “I’m not kidding. Give me the freaking Bullion.”

Being quick witted and pun-happy, always in a mild mannered manner of course, Eliza asked the brazen bear if he wanted Bullion or Bouillon. Oblivious to homophones the allegiant armed gold seeker thought she was making fun of him and not the English language. He bit the monitor off the computer and spit it across the library floor. Eliza knew this bear wanted gold and not soup.

Buried deep beneath the floor of the Polk Memorial Library was the city of Gold that had escaped the quest of Coronado. The Aztec city had been underneath an Indian reservation until 1995 when in an ironic sesquicentennial nod to Polk’s Manifest Destiny New Mexico used eminent domain to seize a Pueblo burial ground for memorial and literary purposes. The bear knew this. Eliza did not. The bear did not know that Eliza did not know. If this were Jane Austen this next part would take place through a series of letters.

“Stop messing around”

“I’m not messing around. There is no Gold Bullion in the Polk Memorial Libarary Mr. Bear Sir”

“Don’t call me sir”

“What should I call you then”

“Reginald”

The bears name was not Reginald.

“Well Reginald, I’m going to have to ask you to leave unless you can use your Library voice.

He speaks in the best library voice of a polar bear “I smell Bullion”

Eliza mentally avoids several puns “ I don’t know what to tell you”

“Tell me it’s mine”

“It’s yours”

This was all the permission the bear needed to start digging. He lifted huge parts of the floor out instantaneously with his uneatable bear claws. He knew if their were still Bullion it would be buried deep. Not Reginald was a naturalized U.S. Citizen and had been working in the construction business outside Albuquerque since he came here from Antarctica during the Carter Administration. His digging skills were well honed. After less than a minute he was 40 feet beneath the books.

Shocked at this bears lack of manners Eliza did what any Jane Austen loving Librarian would do. She shot the polar bear in the face.

When the police came to clean up the bi-polar polar bear Eliza claimed self-defense. She served 30 years in the New Mexico State Penitentiary for bear-slaughter. Besides joining the Arian Nation, she writes a lot of passionate letters and serves as the prisons librarian. The bullion is still buried beneath the old reference desk of the Polk Memorial Library where there now stands a statute of the mentally ill polar bear with the American Flag tattoo with a simple inscription: Not Named Reginald.

On the corner of a daydream and when Dylan went electric
They spoke with Bertrand Russell on the heart's of modern skeptics
The newspaper he read from twinkled like an epileptic
It was boring until sunset shouted down the man’s phonetics

On the corner of a rabies shot and paranoid delusions
He skipped through the democracy and suffered deep contusions
Intermittent lawlessness; the cause of revolutions.
Born of flesh the Hero dies at hands of institutions.

On the corner of a time constraint and false sense of myself
A bartender will pour a shot and drink alone his health
Dividing out the remnants of a murder victims wealth
Two pence for the mother and the rest goes on the shelf

On the corner of a sweater vest and Marxist nation state
Many fools collect the hearts of damsels laid in wait
Distracted beyond forgiveness in their progress toward a mate
Each will count the cost and find it hard to separate

On the corner of a Tuesday and black journals without lines
She caught a bus to Petersburg and watched the New York Times
Unaware the highways are all booby trapped with mines
The writer wrote tomorrow and choked softly on the rinds

Wilbur the Combat Wombat

Punch, kick, shoulder to the face
Wilbur takes no prisoners.
Tactically trained
By Homeland Security
Wilbur fights terrorism
And he fights dirty.

Punch, kick, forearm to the groin
Wilbur hates terrorists
A congressional commission
After 9-11 authorized
Wilbur to eliminate enemies
Wombat style

Punch, kick, finger in the eye
Wilbur fights to kill
From Afghan hills to
Baghdad streets
Wilbur the Combat Wombat
Means business

Punch, kick, elbow to the spleen
Wilbur is unstoppable.
Stealth like a virus
Belly crawling into caves
Wilbur hunts Osama
Bowie Knife in his mouth

Punch, kick, boot to the throat
Wilbur is an American hero
A cross between Superman
And a Wombat
Wilbur wants justice
Wombat justice

Waiting For Godot:

A Tragicomedy in Two Acts

Hey Everyone.
If I haven't told you yet

I am in Gorilla Theater's Production of
Samuel Beckett's
Waiting For Godot.
It will be at
The Just Off Broadway Theatre
3051 Central
in Penn Valley Park
January 25th, 26th and 27th and
February 1st, 2nd and 3rd at 8:00 p.m. and
January 28th and February 4th at 2:00 p.m.

Tickets are 15$or 12$
for Students and Seniors
You can get tickets at the J.O.B Box Office
or by contacting
David Luby with Gorilla
at (816) 510-3372
or duby@kc.rr.com

Here is the whole press release if you want a professional write up of what the play is about. It is so professional they call me William. But if you just want my unprofessional take on it keep reading.

Waiting For Godot is a play about two men waiting for Godot. Two other guys come along and then leave, and then a little boy comes and leaves. Although it sounds pretty lame it is actually my favorite play of all time and really interesting. It is fun and philosophical and pretty powerful. As my wife would say it is kind of about nothing. But more so it is about what happens between birth and death. It is supposedly a pretty "important" literary work as far as I know. And now that I am trying to explain it, I see why Beckett when asked himself what it was about simply replied "It means what it says"

I play the part of Lucky. He is a slave/carrier of bags with a rope around his neck. I do a lot of standing around holding stuff. But for 3 straight pages in the middle of the show, I go on a long philosophical/nonsensical rant. It is pretty awesome.

Here is what the character looks like

I'm not quite as old as these guys but hopefully with a little bit of make-up I will look tragically/silly old-ish too. I am excited.

And for those of you who might be interested in a little more theological look at the play read this. My director gave it to us and I'm not sure I agree completely with the author but it is intriguing. It's a little long and I'm not sure anyone cares, but I read it so I’m going to link to it.

America: A Jerry Bruckheimer-ish Film
Rated R

All Politics Aside
It's time for an Assassination
No one in particular
The president comes to mind
But I would settle for a Vice
Or a Governator

If America is a Movie
And it is
We are in the long
Boring
Plot Thickening Middle
And I think it is time
For someone to get shot

Shot by some crazed
Out of work actor
Or something less cliché
Like a transvestite
Pro Wrestler
With Alzheimer's

There is too much talk
In Washington
And not enough
Getting Shot

As a citizen of this great country
I paid full price for my ticket
And I don't care who's in power
Nothing takes my mind off
The problems of the world
Like a good old
Assassination

So come on all you right wing kooks
You environmentalist whackos
You bi-polar anarchists
Bring your missile launchers
And your prison shanks
Make my popcorn
Taste of freedom.