Amazing post that deserves a re-post (or is that riposte?), that deserves thought (and consideration).
And most of all compassion.
And most of all love.
And most of all with a smile, with a clap of the hands, and a shout.
(You can shout hallelujah if you want.)
During the last election cycle, I happened to be taking a comedy sketch writing course. I know, right??
Thank you, Universe…
The satire assignment just happened to line up with Rick Santorum’s comments that sometimes God has terrible timing. He was referring, of course, to fetuses (feti?) conceived in rape.
So then I wrote a musical called “Fetus Schmetus.” A puppet musical, I should say.
As originally conceived (ha!), the puppets would be fetuses communicating with one another from the wombs of their various mothers, each with a different opinion on the matter.
But we had zero budget. Ok, we had $20. So I had to tweak the concept a bit. Ok, a lot.
A Word from The Author: I am pro-choice — a woman has dominion over the contents of her uterus. I use my uterus, mainly, for sarcasm.
What hit the stage was this:
Thank you to all the actors and writers of The Marshmallow Overthrow. Our next show should be called Toasted: The Return of The Marshmallow Overthrow.
Here they come now…
Something about her voice
She seemed amazed she lived so long,
that she made it out alive at all…
Here they come now…
I grab my boots and gloves,
The ones from 1966, black leather to my elbows.
Peel the windblown hair away from my mouth.
Chased by the ghost of her voice.
Here they come now…
Her eyes were large and round and beautiful and sad
Sad like her voice was sad. She knew too much.
Saw too much in technicolor.
Here they come now…
I grab my boots and gloves,
The ones from 1966, black leather to my elbows.
Peel the windblown hair away from my mouth.
Chased by the ghost of her voice.
The Chelsea Girl.
The Chelsea Girl Singing ‘Chelsea Girls’ at The Chelsea Hotel
The first thing you need to know about me (and especially for this story) is that I love peanut butter.
It’s creamy.
It’s delicious.
It’s American.
We can argue the virtues of crunchy vs. creamy some other time (that deserves a post of its own and probably a debate panel and maybe local news coverage). What we cannot dispute is that peanut butter is the all-American treat that has no equal.
I met a guy at a café (again).
I should probably stop meeting guys at coffee shops. You’d think I’d learn…
Nice enough guy. Cute enough. We were having a lovely conversation, actually. It was both misogyny and racism free, which is always great, always a plus.
I’m scared of ghosts. Particularly ghosts who wear disturbing pointy hats…
Your guard is lowering, I can feel it. So was mine! Finally, a date that wasn’t going to end with me trying to escape the table like Steve McQueen!
And then he said: “I hate peanut butter.”
Without provocation, mind you. You can’t just put that out there without having to explain it. It’s like saying “The moon landing never happened.”
And, being me, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him, obviously concerned for his mental health and stability. “Are you allergic?”
“No.”
“Is it the texture? I don’t like crunchy either…”
“No. I just don’t like it. I can’t have it in the house.”
“So, if you were in a relationship with a person…”
You see where I’m going, don’t you…
“… and that person loved peanut butter…”
“It wouldn’t work out. It’s the peanut butter or me.”
Silence.
“Well, that’s a dealbreaker then.”
We tried to talk around it for the next five minutes. He also stated, for the record, that he never goes north of 12th Street.
That’s ok. Everyone in Austin knows that everything north of 12th Street is PEANUT BUTTER COUNTRY.
