Temerity Theatre

The province of Moesia Inferior was in trouble.
Invaders were at the gates of Varna. These were not particularly smart invaders, because the smart invaders always sailed around to the Black Sea side of the city and walked right in. At least now, Moesia Inferior need not have that much of an inferiority complex.

Rome had tried to tell these people: You’re the Bottom, I’m the Top. Did they listen? No, they took the best of Roman culture, like mineral baths and cannoli, and lived a fun life.

One day, a watchman named Radovan was on lookout duty when he saw the barbarians set up camp on the plains outside the city. Were they invading? No, not yet, so he called his friend Dinko over to ask what to do. Just keep watching them and see if they have weapons or whatever. Radovan watched the invaders put up their gaudy tents, which seemed to have been looted from other settlements, and install what looked like a very large sun deck. Dinko suggested, these may be Northern Barbarians, the kind of people on the other side of the Danube. They live in cold places, so it’s perfectly understandable that they want to come out here and lounge around in the sun.

For several days, the invaders didn’t invade. Watchmen came and went, and once again it was Radovan’s turn. As the sun climbed in the sky, he used his spyglass to observe some migrating birds. Then, his eyes landed on the barbarians’ sun deck, and he saw something he could not unsee. A warrior man with many strange tattoos lay naked on his back. Another warrior man, also naked but wearing a collar with a chain attached knelt before the first man, and put his priapus inside his mouth. “Cannibals!!” Radko clenched and looked away. He ran to the nearby gong, which had been a gift of Caesar Augustus, and banged away as though his little heart would burst. The rest of the city looked up from doing their mosaics and pressing grapes into wine. “Did you say ‘cannibals’?” “See for yourselves!” No one could bear to keep looking too long and hard at the sausage swallowing and what was surely bloody carnage and dismemberment.

Well, after the city council had been convened, they decided to defend themselves. They lined up their cannons, all three of them, on the wall facing away from the Black Sea. That was the heavy part. They aligned the cannons. They cannonized the cannoli. And they shot their creamy missiles at the cannibals.

As expected, the naked sundeck of muscled invaders did not react well to being drenched in dripping, white, creamy liquid. They screamed, and yelled that the Wrath of Khan would be directed at the city. Some invaders then got the idea to lick the running, sweet ambrosia off of the other men’s bodies. Again, watchman Radovan had to look away in despair.

The next day the city was invaded. Not much to tell about. Once the barbarians had put on their armor and saddled their mighty Asian Steppe horses, flying pastry were not serving as a deterrent, Indeed, during the next century, cannoli were banned as per Mongol rule #438: if it doesn’t have something to do with horses, we don’t need it. Anyone who wanted to enjoy the secret local tradition, well, they did it in secret. Only with the coming of the Ottomans in 1396 was it again legal to eat cannoli on main street. Say what you want to about the Turks, if it goes with coffee it’s a gift from god.

That is why, to this day, the canonical history of Varna and Veliki Tarnovo sings of the bittersweet resistance wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a cannoli.

I only cry in my dreams. It’s called Oneiric Onion Syndrome.
You’d think I’m unhappy, or inhibited, or something. I don’t think I’m any of these things.
I go to Jets games and tailgate. I laugh and scream. Everything’s fine. I said, everything’s fine.
My doctor says she thinks I cry in my dreams because I wake up with my sheets wet.
I am a very happy woman. I solve crossword puzzles. I solve them during Jets games. Maybe I am doing this to assert my agency when my husband brings me to watch a shitty team that never wins.
My doctor has green eyes like emeralds, like Jets uniforms. I bet my husband doesn’t know what color my eyes are. I want my doctor to tackle me, pin me down and whisper OOS in my ear.
OOS may be an acronym for Oneiric Onion Syndrome, but it feels like the sweet release through breath of all the dreams I don’t remember. When I say OOS, I shudder inside and I see my body hurtling through space like a field goal kick.
I want my doctor to run her tongue through all of my ear piercings, which are like a maze. I hope her tongue, the one that gently tells me I am OK inside, becomes my prisoner.
Isn’t it onerous to keep showing up to watch a team that is less likely to win than you are likely to adopt a dog with three different eye colors?
Let’s open up all the chakras through moaning, which is what you do if you’re a soprano instead of meditative droning. Aristotle may have give us the Poetics, but Diogenes gave us the Onomatopoetics. That dude was always murmuring under his breath.

Sometimes, the scientists come clean about they wish they could have been exotic dancers. It’s hard to earn a living as a researcher, they say both in private and in public.
As if it’s easy to be a stripper? Sure, the money’s good. But how much does the laser hair removal cost? A clever, annoyingly cute junior scientist named Alistair McFuffle was thinking about this, still angry after his boss had called him “boy toy”. Alistair was 4’8” and was frequently dismissed as too good-looking to have a brain in his head. In this way, Alistair felt a deep bond with the women in the scientific community, although without exception they were still taller than he was.

Alistair knew that most transformative consumer items of the 20th century had been created, in desperation, in a lab or back room somewhere. Twinkies, they were an attempt to sell strawberry shortcakes stuffed with banana cream, when strawberries weren’t in season in Illinois but bananas were, for some reason, available. “Twink” was another thing the very butch people in town called Alistair whenever he walked around. Admittedly, the poor guy wore platform shoes, which got him as far as 4’10”. Growing a mustache didn’t help much. A school crossing guard started calling Alistair “Mini Me Freddie Mercury Cum Slut”.

He vowed revenge. But you can’t eat revenge, Alistair reasoned. What can you eat? You can eat pussy. Aiistair went back to the lab after hours to find a way to use all that extra cream to get what he wanted.

Project #1, he called “Vanquishing Cream”. Soooo tired of women saying no to dates with him. So tired of their smirks and snorts when he asked them if they’d like to come to the symphony or a museum with him. To a certain extent, he understood why women might be embarrassed unless their man was taller. Still, come to bed with me and height really doesn’t matter! The cream he concocted, all he needed to do is put some on his palm and shake hands with a woman, maybe hand her something she dropped (which was easy for him to fetch down there) and when he greased her skin, he would vanquish her heart. Was this a violation of scientific ethics? Before Alistair could decide this, he had to change his phone number and move to a gated community to avoid those he had charmed.

Project #2, this was “Vanishing Cream”. One time, Alistair walked into a fancy jeweler’s and asked to look at diamond rings. He was laughed at by all the sales staff. The next time he went to this establishment, he went straight for the most expensive gems and covered himself with vanishing cream, rendering himself invisible. After looting and selling several diamonds, rubies and opals on the black market, he had enough money to take control of the board of his company.

Project #3, “Vandalism Cream”, was something that could only be made by someone who felt he was above the law. In Alistair’s home state, the Capitol building had a big sculpture of the Ten Commandments outside. No, this was not seen as a problem in terms of separation of church and state. Alistair walked over to this gargantuan sculpture, reached as high as he could (up to the 9th commandment) and erased “Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Wife”. That night, back at home, there was a knock at the door. It was the MILF next door! She forced her way into his bedroom and got to showering him with breast milk. After he had his way with her and felt alone enough to turn on Colbert, there was another knock. It was the pedophile mom from down the block. Well, that’s why society has inhibitions baked into it.

Early the next Sunday morning, an unmarked van pulled up in front of Alistair’s condo. Tall, panting scientists in gleaming white HazMat suits plodded up the garden path. It was a little bit like a runway fashion show done by the Knights Templar. They used their secret zap frequency thingy to open the door. You couldn’t say Alistair wasn’t ready for them. At the first, he flung some Foundation Cream. This did little more than force the unlucky scientist to stop and think of which tax deductible contributions he would pledge to foundations by the end of the year. When the second suit continued to advance, Alistair threw a gob of Acne Cream. This caused part of that suit to pop, with white gooey pieces flying everywhere. But it was a multi-layered decompression suit, and this didn’t stop the advance. Alistair attacked the third suit with anti-oxidant cream and anti-aging cream, which only caused the occupant to run faster, with less wrinkles and arthritis.
Within minutes, the HazMat team had cornered Alistair and had pinned him to the ground. So what did Alistair do? He laughed. He giggled. He sighed. He moaned. This had been a big fantasy of his for a very long time.

Dear Liberals and those who like to listen to orations
Are you drinking the Kool Aid and other libations?
Are you high, or is it noon, not yet 4:20, perhaps too soon?
Wanna see what happens when you don’t vote? Go to the library.
There’s some very sad stories there, not to be a crybaby.
It may sound bizarre or unconstitutional
There are things you can’t fix with Liberty Mutual
People are losing their minds. I will put them in an album.
And I’ll bury it in North Korea, land of no cerebellum
Brains, brains, barely used
Carried by assholes somewhat confused
May we rise above such a low bar
And elect a food human if it’s not too hard

I am told that folks from Astoria are a bit salty. Can’t tell you. I haven’t licked them.

But here’s what’s really going on: the East River is no river, because it’s an estuary. This is where fresh water meets salt water. You can hear the waves smashing against the stone shore, screaming “Opa!” and possibly “Please, Sir, may I have another?”

Do you really want to get mixed up in this zone where everything mixes? There’s another name for it: an ecotone. Where else do things collide like this? Bridges and tunnels? Cult mass weddings? Hot dog eating contests? One might be forgiven for grabbing one’s genitals just to make sure that nothing had shifted into something else. I mean, what are we, gynandromorphic butterflies? Why yes, I got up on the female side of the bed this morning.

The cop had pulled my man tricyle car over [e.g. Slinghot, Raptor], but was having a hard time putting my name through the computer. It seemed to be a very hard cognitive test. I asked him if, when he left his house this morning, he had planned on staying human all day long. He asked me if I was trying to exceed the escape velocity of the Earth. Which was a fair question. I guess I learned the hard way that Queens has a higher escape velocity threshold.

What’s done is done, and cannot be effaced. What you just did, you can’t erase. You can blast the volume and listen to Erasure, singing along at the top of your lungs until you turn gay. It doesn’t mean you didn’t get that girl pregnant last week. The one who’s too good for you. It’s OK, you say, there’s no room for a pregnant girl in my Tesla, let alone a baby. You will probably not find out that the baby looks more like you than you do yourself. If you showed your face to the world instead of wearing that ridiculous bandana around your mouth that does NOT go with your sunglasses.

I put that last part into an email to my brother. Will he read it? Not unless I add pictures, or make a bullet-point list. Before email, I used to write notes to my brother, and I would make mistakes on purpose so I could whip out my strawberry-scented eraser and rub until the world exploded like a strawberry patch. That was a very long time ago. It’s OK not to be perfect. The world smells so much nicer when we see and feel what we have done.

“The Barge”

written by Roddy MacInnes, with Robert A. K. Gonyo
directed by Jesse Edward Rosbrow
featuring Kerrie Bond, Ed Malin, & Jasmine Spiess

“The Temple of Knowledge”

written by Jen Browne
directed by Urja Vyas
featuring Chris Emanuel, Shari Hazlett, & Ed Malin

Scene: a call center. Top Secret-looking, maybe soundproof or below ground. Two desks and phones. Two agents.

Both phones ring. FredRico and JahJohn pick up.

FredRico: Hello Federal Burro of Investigation do you consent to be recorded? Please hold.
Puts phone receiver on desk.

JahJohn: I’m telling you, Hoffmann is the expert witness.
Into phone.
F-B-I. Hold ya horses now.
Puts phone receiver on desk.

FredRico: Hoffmann? I knew it! What’s he coming to testify about?

JahJohn: Not my department.

FredRico: But you’re the head of the department.

JahJohn: Ah yes, still, he’s the expert, you see?
Picks up phone again. Into phone
How may I direct your call? You have an anonymous tip? I’m writing it down.
Yes…Ibn Batuta Gets The Blues.
I will pass that along.

FredRico: Thanks for your patience.
Writing
I see….The Negro Speaks of Joan Rivers.
Thank you. Have a nice day.

They both hang up.

JahJohn: Not worth our time!

FredRico: We should be preparing for Hoffmann . What’s his E.T.A.?

JahJohn: Whenever he feels like.

FredRico: You must know!

JahJohn: And I’m not telling.

FredRico: Fine, be that way. What shall we do, then?

JahJohn: You’re asking me? Don’t you have a flag to capture?

FredRico: Our only hope is a jump to a higher level of understanding.
staring at phone
Ring, phone, ring!!!

JahJohn: I need to take a pee break. By no means read the secret file from Hoffmann’s first deposition, which is on my cubicle pod desk.

JahJohn walks off. FredRico looks both ways, then opens the file. A flush is heard. FredRico quickly closes the file and acts as though he had been working.

JahJohn: I have returned.

FredRico: Fast. Taking a leak the leak-proof way.

JahJohn: The Bureau trained me well. Hey, wanna see some of the secret file on Hoffmann?

FredRico: If you think we should?

Synergistically, they put their hands on the file, reminiscent of using a Ouija board. In tandem, they open the file and “randomly” select a page.

JahJohn: Hoffmann is so deposed. “I did observe through my neighbor’s window a girl who was not a girl because she was a robot. How did I arrive at this conclusion?”

FredRico: That’s what I’m wondering.

JahJohn: “She looked like a girl. She bowed politely to visitors, and walked around the house and did some of the cleaning. And she sat at piano and played a mean Mozart.” Skip some of this part. It seems technical.
FredRico: How can you tell?
JahJohn: Because I dunno what means “pizzicato” and “sforzando”. Let’s see… “One day I observed her walking and becoming very jerky, like a clock winding down. Then I noticed the big gear sticking out of her upper back, ticking away like a metronome.”
FredRico: What do you make of this?

JahJohn: If Hoffmann didn’t exist it would be necessary to invent him.

Phone rings. FredRico picks up.
FredRico: Federales, Como puedo ayudarte mi amor? Let me write that down. The former dictator who is on the run. Yes. He is in hiding at a roadside motel called Mondo Pizarro. Yes, we will conduct a full search of South America.

Phone rings. JahJohn picks up.
JahJohn: F…. You know it! Just a moment while I write down your valuable tip-off.
Writing down, pausing to hear the caller and read back
In this day in 1799 in Upstate New York, an ecstatic group called the Movers [Ceaseless Divine Motion Society], formally split from the community of the Shakers [United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing], (just as they had in turn split from the Quakers). Fortunately, they all remained “friends”.
Hangs up

FredRico: Hoffmann’s wife also went on record as follows: “If word got out that we knew what we knew, I would also be required to testify. But if I did, well let’s just say I would refuse so as not to inseminate myself.”

JahJohn walks over to read the file, to make sure he heard correctly.

JahJohn: I’m thinkin’ we’ll be in the same boat, the more of this we ingest.

FredRico: On the other hand, what if Hoffmann invented something that would make us unremember stuff?

JahJohn: We must try to find it. I place myself in charge of the next section.

FredRico: Might as well. If there’s no E.T.A. for Hoffmann, we could be waiting a long time.

JahJohn reads from file.

JahJohn: “On a shelf there was a little guy in uniform. He was no toy but really alive in every way. The king of the mice didn’t like this. They fought. But the little guy was smarter, because he had an army and he knew how to point his phalanx in the right direction. Needless to say, this gentleman, from the School of Hard Nuts, prevailed.”

A beat. FredRico takes this opportunity to bring the file to his desk. He reads, not noticing anything else happening in the room.

FredRico: Opposable thumbs.
A beat
That’s why.

JahJohn:
Pacing
This is making me paranoid.

FredRico: Did you hear me?

JahJohn: Bro, how can you think of opposable thumbs at a time like this.
Moves rapidly around the room

FredRico:
reading
Oh, so you did hear me.

JahJohn is seen looking under tables and in hard to see spaces. He stands up, holding an open Swiss Army Knife.

FredRico: Got a funny way of showing it.

FredRico now sees JahJohn, frenzied, walking around with knife at the ready.

FredRico: I didn’t do what you think I did.

JahJohn: I don’t know what you’re thinking.

FredRico: Well at least we’re on common ground. Shall we get back to work?

They sit at their desks. Both phones ring and are answered.
JahJohn: Hello, FUBU, I mean F-B-I. Yes, about the operation we are running. I will take notes. What is the operating system? PEMDAS. Can you spell it? ThanQ. The issue is that it’s exponentially harder to use than the last one. Even on a slope intercept operation like this one.

FredRico: Federal Byu– yes, your holiness. I’m sure we can get the ingredients before your visit. I will take note of how to make a, what did you call it? A benedictus fructus margarita. Mango juice. Prickly pear. Holy water, aqua vita aged 20 years. And a little umbrella just like Saint Anthony thought he saw in the desert. Agreed, we need a substitute for the devil’s elixir. Did you just sneeze there? In any case, god bless you!

They both hang up.

FredRico: Still no Hoffmann.

JahJohn: Wait a minute.

FredRico: Been there, done that.

JahJohn: Perhaps he’s putting us on.

FredRico: As in, his file will make a clear case for why he isn’t coming.

JahJohn opens file and reads.

JahJohn: “Some things have been private and under control for the longest time. I will confide that my love of singing never leaves the shower. Can you relate? My joy in going to a casino is only diminished if I gamble. It was that way for years. Until the man with the red eyes looked at me. I tried betting on roulette once, and I won, and I won again. I started to feel compelled to keep playing. With all the money I won, I persuaded a much younger woman to be my wife. She consented, although occasionally she spoke to me about the boy next store, who joined the army and was never heard from again. We were happy for a long time, as far as I could tell.”

FredRico: Is that it?

JahJohn: Of course not. “One day, as I sat at the card table, a young man sat with me and proceeded to win hand after hand. I bet more, and lost everything. He then revealed himself to be my wife’s childhood lover, and offered one last bet. Would I wager my marriage on a game of cards? I did, and lost my wife to this phantom lover.”

FredRico: Those are some odds.

JahJohn: That reminds me of the call I got from a very happy gardener. He told me to hedge my bets.

FredRico: Is he really not coming?

JahJohn: You mean the Devil, Jesus, or Hoffmann?

FredRico: Yes.

JahJohn: We need a strategy.

FredRico: Could we call him? Go to his house?

JahJohn: He’s under our protection, though.

FredRico: Can’t we make an exception, for our own sanity?

JahJohn: But the protector of my friend might be my foe meaning he might not be for real. Know what I’m saying?

Phone rings. FredRico picks up.

FredRico: F-B- I agree, lovely weather for this time of year. An anonymous tip? Please go ahead. The buzzard is hungry. Keep calm and carrion. Oh, I see what you did there.
Click
Hello?

JahJohn: Listen, man. In this file, Hoffmann himself elaborates as follows: Mozart would write out an overture which was already in his head.

FredRico: So it was already gelled in there like the tip of the iceberg?

JahJohn: Lettuce hope so.

FredRico: I think I can dig it. Why should Hoffmann come in to testify? When is there time?

Both phones ring and are picked up.

JahJohn: Thank you for your tip. The APEX supermarket has a predator?

FredRico: Hello. I agree, whenever I’m in Zurich I simply must have the cantonese food.

JahJohn: From your breathing, you sound like an Apex predator!

FredRico: What’d you say about my momma? Zurch you!

They both hang up.

JahJohn: Back to Hoffmann’s file.
Reads
“Yet another conspicuous wierdo moved into town. College friend of my first wife, Viola da Gamba. I’m jealous, or at least I was. He makes his own violins, has dinner parties where he plays them once. Then he destroys the instruments.”

FredRico: But why?

Jah John:
Reads
“I don’t know why. What is he trying to find inside the wood? The secret origin of music? Why keep doing new things? Why can’t he constantly repeat himself, like the rest of us?

FredRico: Great question, but is that all of it?

JahJohn:
Reads
“Of course, there’s more! He has this daughter with a heart condition and he doesn’t let her sing ever. But there’s a violin he does play more than once, because it’s as good as or better than his daughter’s singing voice.”

FredRico: Anything else?

JahJohn: Yes. I predict tragedy so I’ll stop reading.

FredRico: Geez, Hoffmann. There’s a word for that, when you treat women interchangeably with musical instruments.

JahJohn: Metonymy?

FredRico: Misogyny?

Both phones ring. They pick up.

FredRico: Of course you have a tip for us. Go ahead.
Writes
What do you wake up in the morning and eat during a camping trip in the deep, dark woods? Breakfast of Champignons Aha. Thanks so much.

JahJohn: Hello. I don’t know? What’s the opposite of “out of whack”?
pause
“In fine whack.”
That describes me. Thanks for calling.

JahJohn: Well, let’s keep reading.

FredRico: My turn
Takes file

JahJohn: Think you can handle it?

FredRico:
Reads
“Memoirs of an Educated Young Man, who is an ape.”
I mean, there’s a picture here, you see.

JahJohn: How is this relevant?

FredRico: To what?

JahJohn: The big idea, which is the foundation of the case.

FredRico: Well, who knows how we’re going to comprehend the “Idea” – which I capitalized there.

JahJohn: I see what you did.

FredRico: Without supporting testimony.

JahJohn: Fine.
Reads
“I am an ape who cares, who writes letters. I am a huge nerd, very cultured, a connoisseur of good tailoring. How did I get this way? I love to tell. One day, a coconut fell and hit me on the head. The swelling! I did not enjoy this one bit! And yet…my brain commenced to grow rapidly. Soon, I could walk on two feet, speak, and compose music. If you know anything about music, then we both know the meaning of ‘primo amoroso’, ’coloratura’, ‘falsetto’, and the 7/8 time signature.”

FredRico: I am not as smart as this ape.

JahJohn: Telling you, music is serious!
reads
“The thing I have learned lately: at a party, I tell people about the opera I’m writing and everybody respects me. By the way, I’m not writing an opera.”

FredRico: How do we know, that someone who learned something we don’t know, is actually smart?

Phone rings. FredRico lets it ring.

JahJohn: Pick it up.

FredRico: If it’s genuine, they’ll call back.

JahJohn:
finally picking up the phone
Hello, Club Fed. Anyone there?

FredRico: What happened?

JahJohn: Couldn’t hear anyone on the line. Must have waited too long.

FredRico: Or we could hire dogs to listen in on the line.

JahJohn: Seriously!

FredRico; Because dogs are more sensitive.

JahJohn: I know that! And again with the animals.

FredRico: To my mind, Hoffmann is making fun of us.

JahJohn: The ape is making fun of us.

FredRico: Hoffmann wanted the ape to make fun of us, you ass!

JahJohn: Explain.

FredRico: Most people open their mouths and nothing worthwhile comes out. Just look at the calls we get here.

JahJohn: So what you’re saying is, this ape stuff is in the file to test if we’re…what’s that word?

FredRico: Philistines.

JahJohn: That you. You have a mega vocabulary.

FredRico: It’s written in the margin. Although actually I’m not sure where the word comes from.

JahJohn: I read somewhere there was this rich woman Phyllis Stein who didn’t know about art. So we call people like her “Philistines”.

FredRico: Good enough for me!

Phone rings. JahJohn picks up.

JahJohn: Thanks for calling the F.B….I’m fine, Madame Chairperson, how are you? Did you call a few minutes ago? Well, sorry for that.
Takes notes
This is a secure line. Mum’s the word.

FredRico: I thought bird was the word.

JahJohn: I will definitely let him know he is sexist. Good bye.
Hangs up. A beat.
I lied to you. We do have a phone number for Hoffmann.

FredRico: Where is this coming from?

JahJohn: I’m sensing you feel we’ve gone too far. The only chance of this world having meaning is with Hoffmann’s explanation.

FredRico: Yes, but, he is in witness protection?

JahJohn: I know where to call.

FredRico: Yes!

JahJohn: Do we agree we can’t wait for him to call us?

FredRico: Let’s do it.

Dials

JahJohn: Putting it on speaker phone.

Phone rings. Then, we hear hold music. It is Schubert’s Kreisleriana. The piece is based on a
character by Hoffmann.

FredRico: Who has elevator music on their secret bunker phone?

JahJohn: This is Schubert!

FredRico: It’s making me more anxious.

JahJohn: How long do we hold?

Sound of someone picking up on the other line.

FredRico: Hello. F.B.I. here.

Click

FredRico: One last look in the file.

JahJohn: It’s all yours.
….

FredRico:
Reads
“This is the story of a woman in Paris who knew people’s jewelry was getting stolen, especially folks on the way to meet their lovers and give them jewels. She said, ‘a lover who is afraid is not worth being a lover’. Then this lady, who was kind of a detective, realized the stolen jewels around town were made by a craftsman who was proud of his work and didn’t want people to have them. She received an invite to his studio, went to see him and found out he had just been murdered. It was the apprentice’s fiancée, the jeweler’s daughter, who told her this, because the apprentice was locked up on suspicion of the crime. Did the apprentice have a motive? Yes, the apprentice confirmed that the jeweler had always been on a quest to make better and better things. Upon his inviting the lady to his studio to give her some fine jewelry, the apprentice did not want the lady to be robbed. The apprentice knew his master was a thief, but wanted to marry his daughter so kept silent, until he knew someone he also cared about was going to be attacked. Even now, he will not confess what he knows about his late master, since the daughter would be upset. Is it OK to do something bad to stop someone from doing many bad things?”

JahJohn: Damn! Call back!

He dials. Phone rings, then click.

FredRico: I think he doesn’t want to speak to us.

JahJohn: Well, it’s a more general rejection of the F.B.I., not us per se.

FredRico: At least it answers the question, is there a Hoffmann?

JahJohn: It might.

FredRico: Hmm.

JahJohn: Maybe Hoffmann is on a transcendental idealist quest.

FredRico: By which you mean?

JahJohn: He is so busy looking for justice, and art, and stuff, that he no longer speaks our language.

A beat

FredRico: What do we do now?

JahJohn: We stay at our desks and wait for anonymous tip calls.

FredRico: I see today as an example of Romantic irony.

JahJohn: Is that like – that time you got stood up on a date?

FredRico: Hoffmann is deposed. He says, this is all the truth I feel comfortable telling right now. I acknowledge both the joys of this medium and also its limitations. If you want real joy, try art. Your vision of the universe may last a minute, but what’s wrong with that? This is my rough definition of Romantic irony.

JahJohn: They didn’t train me for things like this. Maybe he’ll call us.

FredRico: Perhaps.

Blue Flower song by Dr. Octagon

END

They are all such small fry! Or is it small fries? No time to debate. The plural of moose is moose, and fascists are on the loose. But, if fascists were on the lease, would you run and hide like meese? Even small fry are a pain in their fat, fascist ass. Into the fray! At BK, you can have it your way! you can be straight, you can be gay. This ain’t Chick Fil-A!! En garde! What am I, chopped liver? Your dad’s a hamburger! Your mom smells like a pizza. But only I stole the Mona Lisa. Some say I’m repetitive and derivative. Translation: pretty groovy. I truly think all guys are good-natured. When I rushed Omicron Mu Gamma, I had to choose a born again name, so I picked “Fratboy Slim”. I dated a girl who was 4 foot 9 and had a blacklight poster stuck to her ceiling that read ” Women who think they’re equal to men lack ambition.” I used to lie on her bed and look at it a lot, especially when we did reverse cowgirl. Her antifascist ass was definitely close by me, but hard to see compared with the poster, which shone like the Ten Commandments. How did she get that poster on the ceiling? Could she fly? Was she a witch? Peanut brittle may look frail, but it can kill you, depending, like, on what the nutty professor says. My grandma used to say, don’t judge a book by its cover, but that was in the 20th Century, and what even is a book? I hear there was even a phonebook, and before you could call you needed the number but like before that you needed to know alphabetical order. Ain’t nobody got time for that! If it was useful, like designed for real life, you and I might have asked for like a size queen phonebook. Just arrange all the entries by cock size, and it’s a buyer’s market. These are the things that keep me up all night.

Operation Canard was well underway when the press found out about it.
The Daily Beast thought perhaps Operation Canard was a decoy, which is funny sort of since it actually means “duck” in French.
But whatever was thought, it paled in comparison to the scope of incompetence. I mean, for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to lie, just lie!
For the administration to suggest that women should take Midol for headaches when they think the things their husbands say are dumb. That was updated advice instead of taking Tylenol as birth control.
The administration had banked on tricking women into getting pregnant and increasing the population. All it had to do was stay in power for the next 18 years and 9 months and those children would vote for them.
That was a big old overestimation of the administration’s popularity. Also, that assumed that any of those folks could find a voting machine unless it smelled like a McDonald’s.
There were already new medical textbooks ready to hit the shelves so that the Gen Z population didn’t get more freaked out than it already was. For the purposes of this generation, the “birth canal” would be remarketed as the “love canal”. Those in charge of this department were not aware that Love Canal was the name of a Superfund site. Gen Z was not aware of anything, it was hoped.
The President was caught escaping down the river in a canoe. It was a shame he had such tiny hands. Heading out from Watergate, it was indeed slow going. As the canoe capsized again and again, he tried to step in the same river twice, which, someone should have mentioned, is a big philosophical no-no.
To further problematize the complicated scenario, the President was rowing with his White House guard dog, whom he had affectionately named “Chickenshit”. Every time the canoe flipped, Chickenshit locked his jaws on the President’s testicles. This was the reason the President was dragged into Canine Court. The Judge noted that feeding such non-nutritious food to a dog was an example of neglect. The President vowed to appeal this matter to the Kangaroo Court. Although, when he stated this, it was in a much higher voice than usual.
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