CHRISTMAS: THE POEM

CHRISTMAS: THE POEM
By Mark J. Hansen

‘Twas the poem for Christmas and all through the stanzas
Were the megawatt charms of six billion Tony Danzas.

There were chestnuts a-roasting and fires a-open,
Santa was Clausing and the Pope was a-popin’.

The eight tiny reindeer, including Donner and Blitzen
Enjoyed dinner on Santa, no check needed splitzen.

And sugar plums danced in the heads of the young,
Rhythmic food dreams that confounded even Karl Jung.

Nice children had no fear of being inspected
But Gregor Samsa awoke to find himself insected.

An airborne sleigh was driven by old Kris Kringle
With dollies and trains and an anteater for Aram Fingle.

And snow everywhere was falling to Earth,
Except in San Tropez, Chile, Johannesburg and Perth.

Jesus returned, patting everyone’s backs
With a novelty t-shirt that said, “Frankincense Relax.”

The Nutcracker Suite employed many a ballerina,
Whilst Bea Arthur was employed by Mos Eisley Cantina.

Frosty found magic in an old silk hat,
And Louis Armstrong found magic in skibbity-scat.

And Santa spoke up, imploring all to be merry
Being nice is the nicest; it’s hip to be squarey.

And I heard him exclaim from his lips, tongue and jaw,
“Fa la la la la la la la la.”

THE GREATEST SCREENPLAY I HAVE EVER WRITTEN SO FAR!

JAMES BOND IN: JAMES BOND, SUPER-007 SPY

A screenplay by Atomic-Smash Hansen


Copyright: 2009 Atomic-Smash Hansen Starship Enterprises

James Bond Copyright: James Bond, 1960s.


PROLOGUE: Ninja-type dudes are sneaking into the White House to steal the h-bomb in the Lincoln bedroom. The first one walks like a shadow to avoid being seen as a person. The second crawls around like a kitty-cat. The third forgot to show up. Oops!
Suddenly, just as they open the door to the Oval Office, a person is heard to be clearing their throat. It is James Bond, and he has a bone to pick with these two ruffians! A gun bone!

JAMES
Stop in the name of James Bond, boys!

But the two ninjas take off their masks, to reveal they are ladies! Then they take off their clothes to reveal they are naked ladies!

JAMES
This just got very interesting. Ladies, it’s Miller time.

He shoots them. Opening credits! A lot of silhouettes jump and swim and shoot and do push ups and blend together. One is an Indian with a bow and arrow pointing at a star, if you send him in, you win! Opening theme song: James Bond, the super of spies! James Bond, the seer of eyes! James Bond eats only American pie! James Bond is tongue-kissing the sky! James Bond, he lies when cries! No, wait, that’s Joe. No, wait, that’s Jooooooooe!

FADE IN: James Bond’s house. He is just waking from his alarm clock. He shoots it off. Then he rolls over and kisses the naked girl in bed next to him. She is blonde and wears nothing!

JAMES
Morning, stranger.

LADY
Oh, James, you are such a laugh riot. And a sexual riot as well. Growl!

JAMES
I appreciate the compliment. Except that I’m serious. Who are you?

Blonde lady makes a sad face. James shrugs.

CUT TO: James Bond in his car, a spied-out El Camino flying down the interstate at top speed. He is in a tuxedo, and he is combing his hair. He checks himself out in the rearview mirror and smiles. Suddenly the car falls through the ground, and the hole it fell through closes up with the trap door. We see James and the car float safely to the floor of the secret hideout. Scientists are testing guns and flamethrowers and crossbows. M walks over to the car.

M
Confound it all, James! I hate your ways! You are such a rogue, a scoundrel and rapscallion and yet you get results! Humbug!

JAMES
You’re just jealous, M. Don’t even try to deny it, I have super-human powers of detection. I know you wanna be me.

M
You’re right you know, old bean. Quite right, pip pip. Here.

M hands James Bond a martini which James drinks.

JAMES
Ah! The freshmaker!

M
Would you cut that out???? Enough horseplay, Bond. Well more than enough. We have very important business, James Bond. The business of world domination. We have a very important assignment for you, perhaps the most important of 50 year career to date.


JAMES
Ah yes, the dastardly King Krupta of Sylvetica has a space satellite all set to beam a laser ray at the White House. If he succeeds at blowing up our nation’s capital White House, he will then proceed to take over the world… and everyone in it.

M
By jingo, how the deuce do you do it, you?

JAMES
I don’t know, either. I’m that good, you see.

M
Well, then you won’t be needing these rocket shoes Q designed for you. Or this Secret Shooter Pen. Or these bulletproof cufflinks.

JAMES
I stand corrected, M. Touché. As the mystery girl in bed would say, touché all over.

M
Oh, James, you are incorrigible. No one could corrigible you.

CUT TO: James Bond in a plane. He is tuxedoed out and seatbelted in. He’s also the only one on the plane, which is scary and mysterious, but James Bond does not care about that, he is way too cool. The Pilot puts the plane on Auto-Pilot instead of People-Pilot and approaches him.

PILOT
How would you like your martini, Mr. Bond?

JAMES
Shaken, please.

PILOT
You asked for it!

The Pilot runs to the cockpit and switches the plane back to People-Pilot- Evil People-Pilot. Laughing like a maniac, maniac on the floor, he grabs the plane’s steering wheel and flips it over and over and does an upside-down roll with the plane. James hits the ceiling.

JAMES
Nice try, villain!

James removes his shooter pen and shoots the pilot. Then he runs and takes over the plane, aiming it at a castle. He grabs a parachute and jumps out the window as the plane collides with the castle, both bursting into flames with a tremendous and flaming explosion! James floats downward.

JAMES
I guess I really gave that castle a blow job- a blow UP job!

CUT TO: An office, huge! It’s got a huge desk and super comfy desk chair and taxidermied bears and pigs and frogs and chickens and things. Also he has a huge globe which is a bar in secret. The big picture window overlooks the castle which just blew up. King Krupta is watching this in anger and amazement. Nutjob enters, a tall football playery lackey.

NUTJOB
Sir, your castle just blew up.

KRUPTA
I know that Nutjob! Only one man has the audacity of hope to do such a deed to my very own castle, and that man is Bond.

NUTJOB
James Bond?

KRUPTA
And who else then? Yes! Nutjob, you must kill him before it’s too late and we’re all dead. Do it!

Nutjob runs out of the office. Krupta shakes his fist at the window in anger and amazement. Also he has a huge globe which is a bar in secret.

KRUPTA
I will have you, James Bond. And you will die from me. And then, all the pieces will, how you say, fall into place. Ha ha ha ha! Ho! But first, the dance party in my honor.

CUT TO: James Bond at a fancy party, dancing up a sexy girl. She wears a sequin gown and hoop earrings. He’s in a new tux. Brand spanking new.

GIRL
Suave, sir, very suave.

JAMES
Suave is my middle initial.

GIRL
I have a secret to share with you.

She leans over to whisper in his ear and winks. POV: James’s ear as the girl’s eyelid winks.

JAMES
I heard that wink, sexy.

GIRL
But- you are amazing!

JAMES
You think that’s amazing? Check this out!

JAMES executes fancy footwork, sliding, flipping and somersaulting, baby-swiping and popping as well as locking. A slow-clap off-screen comes from King Krupta.

KRUPTA
So you think you can dance, Mr….

JAMES
James. Bond. James Bond.

KRUPTA
WHAT!!! KILL HIM!!

Fast fighting music! The guards whip out their guns and shoot at James. James pulls out his scat-gun! Skiddily-pow! Skiddily-blam! Skiddily-poop! Wait, not that kind of scat-gun. Nutjob pulls out a spear and flings it at James, who deftly sidesteps it. He somersaults to the wall and hits a button dramatically. The floor opens up in the middle and there’s a swimming pool underneath. The guards fall into the pool, drowning. The sexy girl does too and James jumps in after her, with a scuba mask on. Jimmy Stewart doesn’t notice until, whoops, too late. Nutjob escapes with King Krupta through the back door, the fire exit alarm goes off.

NUTJOB
I’ll get you next time, Bond! When you least expect it, I’ll snare you like a drum- a bass drum!

KRUPTA
How you say, retreat!

GIRL
What happened to my clothes?

JAMES
I did.

He reveals he has her entire dress in the palm of his hand. She gasps seductively. They kiss each other with a fierce passion. FADE TO James Bond’s hotel room. He is lounging in a robe while the girl eats a chicken breast and mashed potatoes and a biscuit with gravy.

GIRL
Thank you I was so hungry for the food. It tastes so good to eat!

JAMES
What’s your name by the way?

GIRL
Casper. Casper the Friendly Spy.

JAMES
Spy?

CASPER pulls out a laser gun and shoots at JAMES, who deflects the shots with his bulletproof cufflinks. The laser beams bounce back and blow up her corn bread. Literally!

CASPER
No!

JAMES
It appears the links have it.

He rushes to tackle her, arms outstretched like Frankenstein the Monster, but she shoots him and he is hit. James crumples to the ground in sadness and unconsciousness. Casper picks up the hotel phone and dials a phone number.

CASPER
The eagle has landed, and was shot.

CUT TO: Krupta in his office, with Nutjob. Also he has a huge globe which is a bar in secret.

KRUPTA
Good, good, how you say, good. At last, the world will all be all mine! Ha! Ho!

NUTJOB
So, James is dead?

KRUPTA
No, not yet.

NUTJOB
What? Why?

KRUPTA
Because (he shoots Nutjob.) DON’T QUESTION ME, THAT’S WHY! Now I will kill him more elaborately, in the most fitting way imaginable. Yes! Rub hands together. Oops, that’s a stage direction. Also I have a huge globe which is a bar in secret.

CUT TO: James Bond waking up, slowly, surely, and slowly. He discovers he is hanging upside down over the Grand Canyon, his legs tied by a strong rope knotted Windsor-style, and his hands are tied behind his back, Loser-style. Pause for the awesomeness of that pun.

KRUPTA
So, at last we meet, Mr. James Bond. I can see why you are so popular. All the blood, it rushes, how you say, to your head.

JAMES
I guess it’s true what they say, the head is bloody terrific!

KRUPTA
Silence!

CASPER
Even upside down, he keeps his cool. But I am the femme that fataled the great Bond.

JAMES
You were great baby, just keen. Shmoopy to the max. Except for the laser shoot-out, I rocked your spy world.

KRUPTA
SILENCE NOW! I am about to drop you to your death down your precious Grand Canyon, Mr. Bond. Then I shall rule the, how you say, world. And no one can stop me! Ha ha ha! Ho!

JAMES
You’ll never get away with it, King Krupta!

KRUPTA
A-ha, but that is where you are wrong!

JAMES
Am I? I think-

JAMES frees himself by wriggling his feet free of the rope, falling. There is a long pause where everybody thinks he is dead and splattered. Krupta and Casper look from each other to the Grand Canyon and back again like fifty times. At no point is there a huge globe which is a bar in secret. Then James Bond makes a rollicking knockout comeback, his rocket shoes make him fly back up and he punches King Krupta in the face.

JAMES
Not!

KING KRUPTA
Zut alors! The cops!

And the police arrive and handcuff King Krupta and Casper.

CASPER
Oh, James! I was only kidding before! I’m not a bad guy. Please make me orgasm in sex again. James! James! We had a good thing, James.

JAMES
Not good enough, Casper. Not good enough. Not good enough, Casper.

The police take everyone away. M walks over to the still-floating James Bond.

M
I don’t know how you do it, James, or why. But I love you for it. There. I said it. I’m not taking it back. I love you. I said it again. I love you thrice! I said it yet again.

JAMES
I wish you hadn’t. It makes me feel ooky and wrong. M, no one likes you, least of all me. But, I suppose we can get married.

They both laugh. CUT TO: the credits, showing James Bond doing all sorts of exciting stunts, like leaping head first through a flaming hoop, skiing down a gorgeous mountain, sticking his head in a lion’s mouth, and kissing a naked woman. The Love Theme plays over the credits: Oh James Bond, you are a super spy who loved me. Nobody does it better and you know I don’t mean the spy part. Hey, James Bond you’re shoelaces are untie-ed. Ha, ha, made you look I can’t believe you fell for it.

After the credits, CUT TO the lake of lava. Skeletor pops up and menacingly declares, “I’ll be back!”


THE END

WE GO TOGETHER LIKE-

Horse shoes & hand grenades
Water & hangovers
Birds & tree branches
Led Zeppelin & Lord of the Rings
Jerry Lewis & Muscular Dystrophy
Cereal & the rest of a balanced breakfast
Army men & dark green hats
This American Life & slight speech impediments
Semi-colons & run-on sentences
The internet & ladies who like to take their clothes off
Ice & rapper names
Panty hose & bank robbers
Batman & movies about Batman
Moustaches & cowboys
People & places

TWO! TWO! TWO ITEMS OF NOTE!

First, the site will be relatively quiet for some time, as I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo to those in the know) so your homework is to read and re-read the pterodactyl play and leave your positive feedback daily.
Second, we here at False Moustache have recently been made aware of a different blog, which is exceedingly similar to this one, with someone very similar to the entity of me, with a similar name, Cotton Candy Beard. The difference: this is a Wordpress blog, and it's for kids. Give it a look and see if you agree:

http://cottoncandybeard.wordpress.com/

10. THE ANCHORWOMAN SUMS IT ALL UP

(Anchorwoman once again is seated at her desk.)

Good evening, I’m Sonya Pseudonym, but not really. Now the 6:17 News Special Report. Have you noticed a calmness, a quiet, a lack of utter fear and sheer terror in your neighborhood? That’s right, those pesky pterodactyls, the sweet potatoes of the sky, have vanished mysteriously. It ended as it began, full of intrigue, uncertainty and doughnuts. The intrigue? What has happened to the pterodactyls? The uncertainty? Will they be returning anytime soon? The doughnuts? My breakfast.

The mood in our fair city is as if Paula Cole had actually asked the musical question, “Where have all the pterodactyls gone?” Dr. Freud could not be reached for comment, but one of his lab assistants, a Frank or Larry, did relay this information. If you are the residents of any neighboring city and you do come across the dinosaurs, do not provoke them, use soft, soothing tones. No name-calling. And hide any and all jam from sight. He then thanked me for the call, and promised to call later. Sources close to my heart report he has yet to do so, and cause me to question the validity of anything he says.

But such is the nature of this enigmatic experiment. Nothing is as it seems. What you think is a genuine turtleneck sweater turns out to be a mock turtleneck sweater. What you believe to be butter is in fact Butter It’s Not. That smell you notice certainly seems to be Giorgio, but then it’s revealed to be Primo. It’s much like an elaborate game of Guess Who, except the game cards do actually talk. What they say doesn’t clarify so much as not clarify, however, and we are left back at square one.

I know what’s on everyone’s mind, and that is what is it that I personally think the future holds for us. I think science will forge onward and upward, cloning and reanimating and leaving us all behind, without so much as a text message. But what will be next, you ask? Brontosaurs? Triceratopses? Canadian reggae sensation Snow? Your guess is only slightly less good as mine. But, I am certain we will not be hearing from the science world again for a very, very, very, very long time. And when we do, one hopes it will be a heartfelt apology. I’m Sonya Pseudonym, thanks for checking me out.

-fin-

9. THE PTERODACTYL LEAVES THE FOLD

(Shecky Pterosaur sits at a desk, composing a letter to his brother pterodactyls.)
Dear Stink-odactyls: Just kidding. Anyway, I’m writing this letter to inform you porcupine racetracks that, as of today I’m leaving you all in the dust! I’ve been mulling it over in my brain the size of a pea and I’ve decided that I can’t live the normal pterodactyl life anymore. I’m through with the pillaging, destroying and lifting of things in my talons. I need to pursue my lifelong dream, which we all know is to move to Vegas and become an insult comic. You googly-eyed goofballs are aware of my formidable skills at knocking folks down a few pegs verbally, and I think it’s time I shared my put-downs with the public.
Ever since I was reanimated, I’ve been studying the great insult comics, all of them. Groucho Marx, Don Rickles, Jacky Mason, they all helped me find my new purpose, and it’s opened my eyes and ears like water to a duck. And speaking of ducks (makes a fart noise with his hand/talon.) That probably doesn’t translate well to the page, but I just made a fart noise. I know Philo is cracking up at that one. See, this is how I roll, fellas. No holds barred, no bars held. I gotta be me, right? No one can stifle old Shecky Pterosaur no more. To all those folks who don’t get me, or think I’m too in your face with the put-downs and the truth bombs, just what the H-E double hockey pucks is wrong with you, ya nimrods! You gotta be duller than a marching band not to get what I’m saying, am I right? What are you, John Philip Snooze-a?
I know what some of you might be thinking. Isn’t cracking wise with the guys enough for you? But you’re thinking too small, which is admittedly understandable, considering the size of our brains, and don’t we have one in our butts, too? That’s just trouble waiting to happen right there. Wait, I just had a thought (makes another fart noise.) You’re welcome, Philo. But seriously, now and all kidding aside, I’ve got big plans for little old me. Of course I’d start small, like the Catskills, or maybe even smaller, the Kittenskills. I’d hit the late-night shows and work my way to Vegas, where my act might include a couple of songs. “I Gotta Be Me,” obviously, and maybe that pterodactyl classic, (screeches.) Though that may confuse non-Spanish speaking audiences. This will inevitably lead to my sitcom, “Winged Assault,” where I insult my family, neighbors and co-workers, and introduce the world to my infamous catchphrase, “What are you looking at, dicknose?” After a healthy ten-year run, I’ll retire the show and exit the limelight for about five years and then start my brilliant comeback with a stand-up tour, introducing newer, more conceptual insults, like the fact that a pretty penny has a different meaning for Abe Lincoln fetishists. Then I’ll retire for real, guest-hosting the occasional talk show and maybe writing my memoirs, Yes I Can… Fly. Of course, the very first step is to get married, so I can insult my wife’s cooking and shopping habits, and my mother-in-law’s cooking and shopping habits. So, if you know of anyone, hook a winged finger up, if you know what I mean.
Look fellas, this is the hardest letter I’ve had to write, and not just because my talons weren’t designed to operate a fountain pen. I’m really gonna miss you guys, no fooling. But this is something I gotta do. Not just for me, but for the good of the world. Humankind has a big hole that needs to be filled by a sarcastic dinosaur. It’s my destiny. But I’ll never forget the little lizards that were there for me in the beginning. Philo and Ralph, and of course Crow. And to you non-believers, why don’t put some skates on your face, and skate! Sincerely: Shecky Pterosaur. PS: I just have one last thought on my mind (Makes yet another fart noise.) Just needed to close with that remark. See ya, suckers!

8. THE OUTSIDERS TAKE CONTROL

(The leader of the Outsiders stands on a box and wears a Members Only jacket. He addresses his ruffian brethren.)

All right, all right, quiet down. Listen up, youse bums, I’m gonna make this short, but not sweet, cuz I ain’t no queer. The pterodactyls are takin’ over our city, bruddas, and I ain’t gonna let ‘em no more. We sat back and let the pigs and the army have their say, but they’re just all talk. I for one think it’s time somebody took some action. And that action is gonna be taken by us. Who’s with me? I said who’s with me?

All right, here’s the deal. I know we’re just a bunch of Outsiders and I know that “society” doesn’t accept us because we’re poor and rude and have colorful nicknames for each other. And I know you’re thinking right now why? Why should we, the Outsiders, step up and help the citizens of a town that don’t even want us around? Why? I’ll tell you why. Because then maybe we’ll be more accepted. Maybe after we come to this city’s rescue, people won’t walk a little faster when they see us coming. Maybe they’ll be able to see past our jean jackets with the sleeves cut off, and t-shirts and combs that flip out like switchblades and our gum chewing and outside voices and greasy hair. Maybe they’ll see past the stereotype to the caricatures we really are. I’d like to live in a town like that, ya know. And I’m willing to be my Newsies dialect any of you would like to, too.

How many crimes have we been unfairly accused of? Stealing everything from Old Man Mose’s front lawn to Cher’s last name, setting fire to Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, drug running, drug speedwalking, jaywalking, Kay walking, mail fraud, World Com, switching the public library’s card catalog to the overly complicated Louie Decimal System, the list goes on from there. Until it ends. And really, how many of those could we have done? There’s a good two or three of these things I don’t remember doing, anyway. Besides, they don’t get us. They don’t get how hard it is to be filled with teen angst, especially when you’re in your thirties. The richies don’t understand what it’s like to live in a house with ten other people and no camera crew. They don’t get the loyalty and love we have for each other is undying and not at all fruity. And they don’t get our nicknames and the importance we carry them with. The pride I feel when you guys call me Tugboat, because I earned that name. I wear it like a badge over my real name.

So, I think I pretty much sold you on why we should do this, now let me tell you what I think we should do. I was rereading Charlotte’s Web the other day, and I suddenly had this great idea. Since pterodactyls are basically like big lizardy flies, the one thing that should stop them is, what? A web, amirite? Now a real spider web won’t work unless we had a big mutated spider. That was my first big idea, but time is running out, so I had to think of something else. That’s when I remembered the World’s Largest Volleyball Net, from the World’s Largest Volleyball Net and Bottomless Cuppa Joe Café. If we can set this up and somehow coax the pterodactyls into it, they’ll be caught. So, here’s the plan: Ponytail, Bubble-Up, you two sneak into the restaurant and distract the owner. Maybe do your Morosey Medley, that’s pretty enchanting. You’re welcome, fellas. Now, while they’re doing that, TV Tag and Burger Time, you’ll be stealing the World’s Largest Volleyball Net, so be sure to wear your coats with the big pockets. Then, we’ll set it up at the Muffin Sangria Memorial Cave, where Windy Winston and Messy Tessie will be doing their best impressions of pterodactyls in heat. I know you guys have been practicing this, so it’s your time to shine. Okay, Mike’N’Ikes and Star Trek IV, you’ll be on either side of the net, and once all the pterodactyls have been snared, you’ll run as fast as you can at each other. But don’t forget to hold onto your end of the net, bruddas, so we’ll really get them tied up. Otherwise, you’ll just be running really fast at each other. Then, me and Walk-In Closet will drop them into the Great Sodium Lake, where they’ll drown to their deaths. And we’ll go back into town and collect our hero medals. For heroic behavior.

Speaking of heroes, I’m reminded two of my biggest heroes in two of their two biggest moments, and the biggest words the two of them said. First, I remember when Helen Keller won the Olympics in 1812, and she gave that speech where she said, “I have a dream that some day there won’t be anymore Nazis, and my favorite flower is the dandelion.” Rumor gots it the Berlin Wall shrunk three times that day. Morning, noon and night. The other quote I think of in this challenging time is what Grandma Moses said, ya know, when she was swallowed by the whale? Remember how she kept repeating and repeating, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” until the whale spit her out in disgust on accounta the repetition. But this city’s never gonna spit us out, right guys? Right? So, let’s show ‘em what we’re made of, in a metaphorical way. By saving this town. Are we ready? Are we ready? I think we are, youse guys! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! (Exiting.) TV Tag’s driving, and I call shotgun! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

7. THE GENERAL IS A GENIUS

(The general is seated, and is a genius. She has a stack of note cards she constantly refers to.)

I am a genius. You know how I know? Because I can intuit myself like no one… (checks note cards.) can. You see, I am a General, or used to be, and I came up with the perfect plan for world domination, and the domination of the pterodactyls. Few people realize, but we as a nation are in a constant state… (checks note cards) of war. Why, just the other day, I said to a colleague, "Chum, we are in a constant state of war." I think that proves my point.

Being a resourceful… (checks note cards.) Having a resourceful mind, I’m constantly thinking, meditating on how we can be one step of the enemy, who always seems to be one… (checks note cards.) step above of us. How can we outmaneuver the tricky lizards? (Laughs.) No need to answer yourselves, that’s what I’m here for. I have the perfect plan. Do those clowns at the head office agree? (Checks note cards.) No! And do you know why? Because my plan is so simple, so spectacles, spectacular, that they wish they had thought of it. It’s always been there, right above our nose, below our… somewhere in the nostril sector. (Checks note cards.) How do these dinosaurs attack? By land? No! By see? No! In the air? No! (Checks note cards.) Yes! That’s exactly how they do it! Flight! It’s been their secret for centuries, hundreds of hundreds. Of centuries. And here we are, without a solution. No. We have a solution. We can indeed combat flight. And I am the one who knows how (Checks note cards.) to. Here’s what I say to Newton: pbpbpbpbpb! What? Oh! (Does a raspberry.) That’s what I say to Newton! The Wright brothers? Wrong!

But how? You ask. How… (Checks note cards.) how… how do you combat flight? The answer came to me while sketching. Simply remove the ground! Let me illustrate what I mean. (Removes a tiny piece of paper.) You see here where I have an object? Hm. Rather small. I have a bigger one. (Produces a bigger one.) Notice how it’s just an object on the page. All right. Witness this (Another paper.)! See how it’s flying? Now, watch the process in reverse? (He does this.) Voi-ola! So you see, an object cannot logically fly unless there’s something below it to be flying above. And so, we eliminate the ground! The pterodactyls can no longer fly! And then where are they? (Checks note cards.) Nowhere. Right where they started! B.C.! Bitchingly… concealed. From winning! Because they lose, and so winning is concealed from them. Bitchingly.

Right now you’re thinking one of two things: I’m so envious of her, or I’m madly in love with her. Both points are valid. But let me strap… estrap… extrapolate further. As you may have already noticed, I am a woman. That in itself is a chore, what with the body image issues, uncomfortable shoes and the endless cyclical war on menses. But add to that the Boy’s Club of America that is American Politics of America and you’ve got a double-edged sword of awfulness, where no one takes you seriously as a military commander because you’ve got lady parts. So of course, the President doesn’t like my idea. Nor does the Secretary of War, or the Treasure Guy, or the one with the beard, he’s hated me all along. They don’t understand, we’re living in an age! (Checks note cards.) Of reason! And as such we must conduct ourselves accordingly as people of reason! And as such we must conduct ourselves accordingly as people of reason! And as such… (Stops. Looks at note cards, mumbles the words to herself, saying coherently the words in bold, then) They don’t understand we’re living in an age of reason! And as such we must conduct ourselves accordingly as people of dignity! It’s ontological to be afraid of fright, so don’t be! I… It’s only logical to be afraid of flight, so don’t be put off by the idea of its demise. This is what I told them, the chefs of hate, the chiefs of state I mean. (Checks note cards.) To say. Some called me mad, and others called me… mad. This is so I won’t be able to distinguish between the two. But there is a subtle difference. Tones of voice. Phones of choice. W.E.B. Dubois. (Looks.) I meant to cut that.

Anyhow, the question has frequently been posed to me of how do you remove the ground? Well… (Turns the card. There is no other card. She goes back, looks behind, searches for the missing card, and stops. Looks at the audience. Thinks about what to say. Pauses. Then, runs as fast as her legs can make her run.)

6. THE SADDEST POP STAR IN BRITAIN ASKS FOR CHANGE

(Morosey, the saddest pop star in Britain, makes his way to the stage as despondently as humanly possible.)

I acknowledge and respect your lack of applause. No, I do. I truly do. Though it can be heartwarming to receive recognition from your peers, in a world full of nothing but disappointment, it would only serve to cause more harm than good. There’s nothing more disheartening than crushed hope, or a dream deferred, dried up like some sort of fruit snack in the sun.

I, of course, am Morosey, the saddest pop star in Britain. I write the songs that make the whole world weep openly. I singlehandedly bummed out the Johnson County Fair, I brought a thirteen year-old girl overdosing on Prozac back to the brink of despair, I was once advised to cheer up by the ghost of Franz Kafka. You may be familiar with my hit songs, “Not Enough Tear Ducts in My Face,” “Everyone’s Just Not That Into You,” and “Qualified to Saddify You,” which have led me to be dubbed the Duke of Despondence, Master of Melancholia, and The Fozzie Bear of Forlorn. And I have won numerous awards, which are ultimately meaningless in the void that is existence, except that none of you have won them, so there.

But tonight is not about me. No, this evening the annual Why Don’t You Care-aoke and Cry Jag is a benefit for those misunderstood creatures, the pterodactyls. As a misunderstood creature myself, I’m filled with nothing but sympathy, aside from despair, ennui and cabernet sauvignon. In honor of these noble winged dinosaurs, I’ve composed a poem which I shall now perform for you, accompanied only by a lonely arrangement and depressingly dramatic poses. It is entitled, “Save the Pterodactyls (I’m No Longer Worth the Effort.)” (Music starts.) My face has never known the shape of a smile/ I believe I’ll wallow in that thought for a while/ I can no longer tell the difference twixt a laugh and a lie/ If my heart were not beating then surely I would die/ And be objectified by judgmental morticians./ These lines that I recite, no they’re not even mine/ I looked within my soul and I plagiarized/ If I fall in the woods then nobody cares/ They’re too busy debating the fecal habits of bears there/ The only important movements are those of the bowel./ Save the pterodactyls. Save the pterodactyls/ Please, save the pterodactyls, I’m no, no longer worth the effort./ Oh, my invisible friend, his name is Despair/ He’s a lot like me but with much worse hair/ We spend evenings together under a blanket of grief/ And Joaquin Phoenix’s name used to be Leaf/ I’ve always wondered why he changed that./ You abandoned me in a wintry hour/ My face folded in like the opposite of a flower/ You said you were looking for someone less gloomy/ Like an argyle sock, you were trying to shoe me/ Even I am unsure what I mean by that./ Save the pterodactyls. Save the pterodactyls/ Please, save the pterodactyls, I’m no longer worth the effort./ And even though I’m irredeemably sad/ You still try to find a way to redeem me/ Like an empty bottle of grape soda/ You know so well how to low self-esteem me/ Save the pterodactyls. Save the pterodactyls/ Please, save the pterodactyls, I’m no, no not no longer worth the effort./ And I would try, except that I’m just too shy. (Music ends.) Thank you, thank you. Your applause is like an auditory cocktail shaker, mixing my emotions. I must go now, but remember to think about what I’ve done, and what you haven’t done. And save the pterodactyls. Thank you.

5. THE ANCHORWOMAN CATCHES US UP WITH THE HAPS

(Anchorwoman, standing near her desk; this was a surprise for everyone.)

We interrupt your less-important programming for this breaking news breakage. The city is in a panic, an uproar and a hissy fit over the recent pterodactyl uprising. Some have fled for neighboring, less dangerous towns, others have locked themselves in their homes and boarded their windows and stockpiled all the food they can forage, and others still have taken to pretending none of this is happening and continue their Star Trek marathons and Civil War reenacting. Local law enforcement have issued a statement, which is technically a series of statements strung together to make a paragraph. It reads thusly: “Please do not panic. Do not leave your homes. Stop crying and screaming and running around like aimless, noisy, panicking triathletes. Stop calling us; we are very, very, very, very busy at the moment. If you must call us, have the courtesy to ask how we’re doing, you never do that. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t judge people. Lastly, avoid the pterodactyls; they’re dangerous to the extreme. Peace Out, The Police Department.” The Mayor, Gretchen Toledo, has declared this a state of emergency and city of dead people. She adds, “Someone long ago said a good captain goes down with the ship. Whoever said that should be tried and executed for unfairness and do-goodery. It’s every man for himself, but remember: Lady Politicos first.” A recent poll found that 88 percent of the populous is extremely frightened of the pterodactyls, 3 percent are only very, very, very frightened, and 9 percent were so stunningly sexy the pollsters forgot the question. This just in: I’m all 9 percent! But seriously, the pterodactyls are a dangerous threat, not like that rare breed of procrastinating jaguars that threatened to tear apart our city three years ago and have still yet to harm a hair on our collective skullsies, or the roving band of Outsiders with their ill-kept hair and compound word nicknames. My advice: the strong and the brave should leave town immediately, while the weak and cowardly stick around until you’re inevitably eaten. We have no use for you in our new, perfect world. As Charles Darwin said on discovering the Galapagos, “Finders keepers, losers weepers.” I’m Sonya Pseudonym, and now back to your boring old programming.

4. THE RELIGIOUS ZEALOT DENIES THEIR EXISTENCE

(Zach enters, like a preacher would. Very pompous and circumstantial.)
Brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, grandpas and grandmas, boy babies and girl babies! Let us pray. Let us pray for a return to common sensity! Let us pray for a return to common decency! Let us pray for a return to commonalability! And let us pray for an end to that heathen science! That Demon Subject! You know what I’m preaching! You know what I’m pontificating! Scientists get up, on TV, the Devil’s Bosom Tube, Satan’s Box O’ Sin! And they claim, they lie in front of God, and country musicians, and unsuspecting clergy and they blaspheme in our eardrums and on our soul patches, lying about these so-called “dinosaurs” who are so-called “roaming the earth.” Experts and politicians and nightly news trollops spreading fear and heresy and lies. Because you and I and most everyone we know is and are smart enough to know that they and them and all the others are wrong about the existence of humongous fire-breathing lizards! They are wrong about these prehistoric monsters! They are wrong about these fossilized falsies! I’m not sure about your Good Book, but my Bible doesn’t say word one about any venomous velociraptors. My Bible does not say word one about tyrannical tyrannosauruses. We all know this fact. But not scientists, no sir! They claim there were all sorts of crazy creatures at the beginning of time; they fill up our impressionable young’uns with visions of hairy elephants, visions of gigantic moths, visions of slimy, swimmy Nessie fish! And these, I remind you, are the same people who hand out abortions like sweet, delicious candy. They pass laws killing our loved ones before they can even be loved. NASA has been responsible for so many baby murders it’s practically the PEZ dispenser of abortions! Meanwhile, they tell you candy is bad for you and that candy, ha, candy will kill you. It would be funny were it not so earthquakingly sad.
Now, these scientists know nothing, and these scientists will swallow anything and these scientists will spew out those anythings all over you. The Bible, as you and I know, clearly states that man and animal don’t mix, they don’t commingle, they don’t commiserate, they don’t co-nothing! But these supposed smart people (who went to fancy colleges with leagues and ivy all over the place) take their cue from Charlton Heston movies, claiming we “evolved” from apes, claiming to have “painted” the Sistine Chapel, claiming that food is “made” from people. People! Well, I’ve got news for these smarties, these so-called Ph-doofuses. We haven’t evolved at all, thank you very much! And the only Charlton Heston movie we take our cues from is the one with all the Ten Commandments, including, “Thou Shalt Not Maketh Stuff Up.”
And now these NAStronuts want us to believe their so-called pterodactyls have returned and that we should take cover, we should run, we should stop worshipping our Lord and Savior immediately. They don’t actually say that last part, but there’s a subtexticle inference. And I ask you this, brothers and sisters, menfolk and ladyfolk, pee-pee possessors and hoo-ha havers: when will they learn? When will they learn that the only thing we have to fear is our wrathful, loving God, who will smite the nonbelieving and boil the seas and rain all manner of pestilence and grossness down on blasphemous souls, while the righteous will be risen to Heaven on a fluffy escalator and issued halos and wings for all eternity. Scientists will have reason to take cover, reason to run on the Day of Reckoning, but even that isn’t for another three weeks or so.
I say to you, brothers and sisters ignore their atheistic cries. Open your hearts to God! Embrace His Truth! Open up the Bible and just smell it; just take a big, long Christian whiff. Doesn’t it smell nice? That great Truth-Book smell! The smell of angels, the smell of newborn babes, the smell of a hint of water damage. Trust me, for I am the mouthpiece and I am the armholes of the Messiah. Jesus loves you, but only if you believe in Him, like Santa Claus or the Batman. Ignore these “ominous warning signs,” like gigantic shadows. It’s just more NASA trickery, like the moon landing or Mac and Me. Believe in the Word, and you will always be safe. Let us pray. O Lord, please help us to be strong and faithful, and please shut these wacko science nuts up for good! Also, get rid of my canker sore and heal the lame and sick and uninteresting of their holy, holy faults. Amen. Amen!

3. THE PTERODACTYL EXPERT SPEAKS

(Rachel enters, surveys the audience with a hint of smugness and dash of paprika.)

I don’t have to tell you why you’re all here… right? Um, there’s been a lot of bad press lately, surrounding the pterodactyls, what with the recent maulings and mysterious disappearances and the t.p.ings. A lot of mud has been slung at the name pterodactyl, and I’ve been asked the National Dinosaur Appreciation Group, or Ndag, to speak on their behalf. Why me, Rachel Skipjack, part-time vlogger, Secret Santa , natural blonde, Scorpio, self-proclaimed President of the DIY Proclamation Committee, be asked to lead a press conference in defense of pterodactyls? Well, according to the National Dinosaur Appreciation Group, it’s on my resume. Which it is, pterodactyl expert, right below tying cherry stems into knots with my tongue and an uncanny gaydar. So tonight, I’ve compiled a list of facts you may or may not know about the pterodactyl, in the hopes of redeeming their image. So here goes.

The most common misconception is that they are dangerous. These policemen and politicians would lead you to believe that pterodactyls will tear you to shreds if you look at them the wrong way or carry you to an active volcano and drop you in. False. There is no wrong way to look at a pterodactyl. From the front or back, with or without glasses, it literally as well as figuratively makes no difference. There are even some pterodactyls that if you unfocus your eyes and stare long enough, you’ll see a sailboat or Mickey Mouse.

One word I’ve heard thrown around in describing pterodactyls is predator. Remember, the fuzz says a pterodactyl is not your friend, it is a predator. Now, I think we are all old enough to know that the predator is a fictional creature. Plus, pterodactyls look nothing like predators. For one, they’re winged dinosaurs and predators have those kinda amphibiany faces with the cheeks that flap open and shut. And for two, predators can cloak themselves in invisibility, and pterodactyls can’t. They really can’t cloak themselves in much of anything, with their wingspan what it is. In fact, they are a little sensitive about this, especially with ponchos making a comeback, and the constant comparison just frustrates them further. So, we might want to ix-nay the omparison-cay.

Pterodactyls do have one flaw, which is a poor memory. You know how they say an elephant never forgets? Pterodactyls don’t because they have such poor memories. If I see light-bulbs popping up over your heads, I wouldn’t be surprised, though it would be unsettling and freaky. See, this unfortunate attribute explains why so many of your personal belongings have gone missing, like your cars or your loved ones, because see, pterodactyls only mean to borrow them and them completely forget to return them. I can understand being upset, but seriously, how many of us have the same problem? Show of hands, come on. I’d raise my own hand, but my memory is perfect, which is a curse of its own.

One thing many people are unaware of is that there are actually two kinds of pterodactyl. They do seem to look very much alike, but are in fact not. There are French-speaking pterodactyls from France and Spanish-speaking pterodactyls from El Salvador. Now, based upon appearance you wouldn’t know the difference, at least I don’t, but then again, I don’t see race differences. Another curse, I know. But with pterodactyls, if you have a discerning ear, two of which I just happen to possess, you can hear it in their screech. I’ll show you. (Screeches.) That was a French one. (Screeches again.) That sounds different, no? No? Very good, it was the French again. The Spanish is like this. (Screeches.) So you see, pterodactyls aren’t so different from you or from me, are they?

There was a study by NASA published online recently regarding pterodactyls that’s very revealing and dispels many of the rumors that have abounded for these many million, billion, thousand years. Congress fought longly and hardly to keep it secret, but it recently leaked on NASA’s Facebook page. Here are just a few of the highlights.

In an exhaustive study that left many brilliant scientists really, really tired, it was determined just what kind of high school student a pterodactyl would make. Most pterodactyls (72%) held a modest 3.2 grade-point average, lettered in both track and marching band, excelled in conceptual sciences and trig, and usually found time for extra-curriculars such as student council or yearbook. 13% did even better, holding 4.0 gpas and forming school committees, though a few of them became insufferable when they discovered beat poetry and film theory. And only 8% were found to have only read the Cliffs Notes versions of their AP Lit assignments.

Follicly speaking, pterodactyls have no hair to speak of. However, in another NASA study, in conjunction with Ruth’s Chris Toupee Shop it was determined that if pterodactyls were to have hair, they would part said hair in the middle. This does make sense aerodynamically, though it does call attention to the large beak, which most would think they would try to hide. This, I think, goes to show the pterodactyls are not self-conscious, which even the head of NASA agrees is pretty radicool.

Lastly, NASA scientists were pleased to discover the pterodactyl is the humblest dinosaur known to man. In a simulation that would be considered ironic were any irony involved, the moon landing was recreated. Great pains went into creating the most realistic depiction of a blast-off and landing, and the moon’s surface. What’s more, the scientists ensured the pterodactyls would feel they were the ones piloting the spacecraft to the moon. And when they first laid talon on the lunar surface, what did they say? Nothing. No, “one small step for man,” or anything. They acted as if it was business as usual. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’d be freaked out in that situation. All sorts of anti-gravity going on, and the globe getting super small, all that Tang and ice cream of the future, I’d about lose it. But the pterodactyls were cool as cucumbers. Cooler even. Cool as zucchini.

Oh! One more important NASA scientist discovery. Pterodactyls are able to tell a real diamond from a forgery, like a cubic zirconium. Many believe this is where turkeys get that selfsame trait. Others do not think turkeys have this trait. The world may never know. One scientist also thought a pterodactyl had written MacArthur Park, but could not determine if it were Spanish or French. Pterodactyls have contributed much to this society. That’s why it was deemed important that I set the record straight. And I pretty much have. Probably only 85% of what I’ve said is made up. And I’m counting the cherry stem thing. From my resume.

In conclusion, I leave you with this thought: pterodactyls may not be man’s best friend, that title still belongs to the football, but I think it’s safe to say that pterodactyls could be called man’s wacky neighbor, or roommate. I thank you.

2. THE LAB ASSISTANT IS VERY NERVOUS

(The lab assistant is hunched in the corner, though he is not a hunchback. He is speaking into a phone, glancing over his shoulder.)

Yes-yes-hello? Hello? I cannot-no, I cannot- what? What? What? What if I just- no, but if I- what about-what about- how am I- no, no, no, no- okay, but- you might- I’m thinking- okay, but how about if I talk in complete sentences, do you understand me now? Yeah, I thought maybe that’d help.

I need to speak with Dr. Floyd Freud. Yes, he does have a very funny-sounding name, and the medical condition that requires him to wear a five-foot sombrero doesn’t help matters, particularly if you are his ace lab assistant. No, you aren’t, but I am. Yes, you have no idea how serious the man is about his work. Deadly serious, that’s right. So you have an idea. Yes, I apologize for underestimating you. Listen, I’m in a bit of a rush here. I’m going to need you to run and retrieve the deadly serious Dr. Floyd Freud for me. I understand I’m interrupting The Greatest Christmas Pageant in History, that may give you a sense of the gravity of the situation. It’s regarding a super-top secret confidential matter, a project involving pterodactyls you may have seen on the 6:17 News? Yes, I’ll hold. No, I wouldn’t panic, but I am unnaturally stoic. You might panic in this situation. A genetic disorder. My maternal grandfather was unnaturally stoic as well. But at least he wasn’t bald, so I’ve a full head of hair, but none of it has any feeling. Yes, I’ll hold.

Dr. Freud? It’s your ace lab assistant. No, not Larry, Frank. Larry took the night off. I’m not sure, something about a sick kitten or basketball cards or something. Listen, Doctor, you might recall your super-top secret confidential science project, the one from the 6:17 news? No, the pterodactyl one. The other pterodactyl one. It was going great. I added the hydro-chlorophyll to the nitrate prednisone, and I saw one of the wings flutter. Exciting, yes. Then I added another ingredient for a more immediate effect, and I saw the wings flutter again. Yes, on all of them. In fact, they all began moving all at once at the same time. I’m sorry? What happened when I finally gained control? Funny you should ask that… Not funny ha-ha, Dr. Freud, no. I don’t find you amusing in the slightest. Yes, the five-foot sombrero is very handsome, I particularly like the oversize novelty squirting flower.

No, I meant funny as in coincidental. You see, I never actually so much regained control. No. Where are they now? Best guess, Doctor, not far from where you- oh. Then I was right. Yes, Doctor, I was right for once. Yes, Doctor, I do feel obliged to repeat your questions. Why do I feel obliged to repeat your questions? I guess because that’s how I was taught to converse on the phone. By Bob Newhart, that’s right. He also taught me racquetball. I don’t play anymore, no. Listen, we can’t get into this now. As you can plainly see, the city is about to be overrun by pterodactyls. I’m not sure what we should do. I tried calling the military, but their line was busy. I left a voicemail but it’s the military. They do more in the morning than I do all day, and I have trouble finding time to check my own voicemail. I’ll try again, but you know, for the time being, what should we do? I tried that. I tried that, too. Yes, I said please. I also said pretty please, and pretty, pretty please with sugar on top. Highly emasculating, yes.

What was the extra ingredient? Actually, it was Triple-Sec. Yeah, I forgot we had it, too. I believe from that fondue party from two years ago? There was a good three-quarters of the bottle left. About half. Yeah, I put it back. I tried to take control, but Doctor, they were uncontrollable. Like a group of rowdy kindergartners or a punk-pop outfit of some modest acclaim, they wreaked havoc on the lab. Tearing holes in the Van-de-Graaf generators, using Bunsen burners to make grilled cheese sandwiches, and they poured two hundred pots of jam into my baby grand piano. No, I don’t know where they got the jam. It’s an unsolved mystery. Regardless, it’s useless jam now. Not to mention the damage done to my baby grand.

I did inform the sheriff and he has his top men on the job, he assured me. A committee of six or seven guys is working to put a positive spin on the catastrophe. So far, they have educational. I thought of photo opportunities and getting rid of unwanted pests like rabbits and abandoned flip-flops but they didn’t seem to care much for those suggestions. They seemed to think it would be a PR nightmare. Public Relations. Though I’m sure it’s a nightmare for Pete Rose as well. And listen, it doesn’t look good for the other studies. There are whispers of the school shutting down all of your Steven Spielberg-inspired experiments. I know research has halted on the Amistad one. I know, and we had such a breakthrough with the Hook study. Did you not hear about the invisible food turning into paint? Oh, right, you were sick that day.

Listen, I feel I should apologize. I can’t help but think in some small way this is my fault. I don’t know, it happened on my watch, it was my repeated insistence, that the Triple-Sec be added and I did call them prehistoric horse’s asses in order to get their ire up. It worked better than I thought. Yes, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry with sugar on top. Highly emasculating, yes. I know it doesn’t bring the pterodactyls back home. I swear I won’t screw up as bad next time. But if it’s any consolation, I do have some notes on ways we might be able to stop them. My first idea was an oversize jar, and we could fill it with- oh, is intermission ending? Okay, I’ll be at this number, probably cowering at my desk. Great, talk to you then. Enjoy the show!

1. THE ANCHORWOMAN RELATES THE STORY

(Anchorwoman sits at the anchor desk, for she is an anchorwoman.)

Good evening, I’m Sonya Pseudonym, and now yours, mine and our 6:17 nightly newscast. At the tippy-top of our newsday is a special report on a super-top secret science project, headed by the super-top scientist, Dr. Floyd Freud. As the project is super-top secret, I am unable to share with you the interview that was shot earlier today with the good doctor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you all about it. And believe me; you’ll want to hear me tell you all about it.

The pterodactyl, or pterosaur as it is so rarely called, has been known to be extinct for a very, very, very, very, very long time. Just how long is exceptionally hard to research, and even harder to want to research. Dr. Freud believes they have been extinct probably roughly somewhere around the ballpark of something like a billion years or so. But, much like the poncho, candy corn, and Canadian reggae sensation Snow, they are about to make a comeback, thanks to the efforts of our local Technotronic Institute For Highly Experimental Experiments. Here, highly trained scientists and their very attractive lab assistants work diligently morning until midafternoon on reanimating these prehistoric creatures. Not unlike the science fiction classic about reanimating prehistoric creatures, Cocoon.

I spoke with Dr. Freud for a good hour and a half about his experiment, over coffee and jelly-filled doughnuts. Using his doughnut as an illustration, the doctor explained to me that genetic engineering is a fickle exercise, full of both exact calculations and on-the-fly improvisatory techniques. The doughnut was not useful in illustrating this point, but was strawberry nonetheless. Dr. Freud then showed me many charts and graphs showing his research up to that point, but had to apologize for not being able to elucidate their meaning. It would take a scientist much taller, with more experience and eye protection to adequately and fully pontificate upon the findings he had found. At that point, his hand brushed against mine, which created an awkward tension that never truly dissipated, and certainly wasn’t helped by his insistence on placing his other hand betwixt my booby cleavage.

Despite this, and despite the doctor’s shortcomings on elucidation, I am willing and overly comfortable in providing my own hypothesis. Using fossils containing pterodactyl bones, the super-top scientists were able to recreate the interior, or skeleton of these dinosaurs. Then, using a state-of-the-art fake skin, they provided an exterior, or skin for them. The problem then lies in making the pterodactyls animate and independent, or alive. This could be achieved by a lightning storm, a new-fangled wonder drug, or the setting of goals. At least two of those three have been known to spur me into animation and independence. But I’m not a scientist; my doctorate is in pretty, pretty broadcast newsism. And to that end, I bring this news story to its inevitable yet smelly purple conclusion, with but one final thought: if these top scientists do achieve the underthinkable and bring these pterodactyls back to life, will modern society accept them, and will they accept us, and vice versa or not? My opinion is that we will not in our lifetimes know nor will we need to know, but perhaps in our deathtimes we’ll find the answer, if there are science dinosaurs in the afterlife. I’m Sonya Pseudonym, and that was the shortest newscast of my life.

LOOK OUT! PTERODACTYLS!! RUN!!!: AN INTRODUCTION

Greetings, False Moustache readers! Over the next three weeks or so, I will be posting serially, in its entirety, with all the bells and whistles and stage directions, Look Out! Pterodactyls!! Run!!!, a Hilarity in Ten Monologues. I’m a big fan of this play (and myself in general) so I’m excited to present this to you via the internet, but before I do, I wanted to warn you: those déjà vu symptoms you feel, there’s a reason for those. Some of the jokes which appear in this magnum opus of mine have previously appeared right here on this very blog upon which you read right now. One of them is essentially a post repurposed for the play (which is old enough that I’m sure no one has read it, so good news for me!) I considered rewriting, but I just think they work so gosh-darned well in the context that I decided to leave them in. Hey, it worked for W.C. Fields. And everybody read his blog! So please, read on, read aloud if you must, bleep the dirty parts if you’re at work, and definitely let me know what you think. As long as you really, really like it.

THE BIG GAME

It was homecoming in Super Grover's Corners, and the local high school football team, The Crazy Cats, were taking on their big rivals, The Mighty Midgets. Dirk, Star Quarterback was filled with a mixture peppiness (from the Pep Rally) and cocksureness (from the Cockfight.) And yet there was still a sense of uncertainty, anxiety. Could he really win big for his team? His girlfriend Betty, Head Cheerleader had baked him celebratory cookies and partaken in the Annual Pre-Homecoming Dry Hump the night before, but there was still a lingering sense of dread, like a dead guy moldering in a linen closet in the wee hours of the night, or a freaky-looking ceiling fan, either or.

Reginald, the Evil Quarterback of the Mighty Midgets sneered at Dirk from across the county. "You'll never win this year, making it 12 straight years in a row!" he shouted to no one in particular, but generally to the Crazy Cats. Indeed, they had been the champions due the purity of their hearts, and the badassitude of their football skills. The townspeople generally rooted for the Crazy Cats, unless they were Midget alum, or evil or both, or new in town and didn't know better.

At last the previous paragraph ended and it was the Big Game. The Cats scored with an end-run pass and run to the end zone run pass. The Midgets diabolically scored through deceit and ten-hut touchdown passage. Then the Cats grabbed a fumble and scored a spike tackle field goal! The cheerleaders cheered! The crowd crowed! The mascot masked! It was exciting? Yes, it was exciting.

Then the score was tied suddenly and arbitrarily. Dirk was up for his big game-winning moment. He called the team in for a caucus. "Men," he said, "this is an auspicious moment. I'm about to win us the game. So just follow my lead and don't get in my way." They all magically agreed. Then they formed the football lineup thingy. The ball was snapped. Reginald went in for a tackle. Denied! He talked to the hand. Dirk kicked the ball directly through the goalpost. Swish! It was a miracle. Jesus took the wheel and carried Dirk through a series of footprints to victory for our sins. And the crowd wept and the cheerleaders almost died right there from pride. The Mighty Midgets escaped in their escape pod/school bus, vowing revenge and vengeance and to avenge this night. But Dirk knew the moment would last forever. There was no avengeance to be had. He was the greatest hero in the universe and that was all that mattered at that moment.

The years have been kind to Dirk. Every year, like a clockwork fruit, he wins the homecoming game. Betty is 95 years young and extraordinarily senile, but Dirk doesn't care, not all that much anyway. All that matters is The Big Game. The Big Game.

The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game. The Big Game.

The Big Game.

ACTION FIGURE WAREHOUSE LIQUIDATION SALE!

Everything Must Go! Many of your favorite action figures are on sale and need to be snatched up but good. But hey! Don’t forget these lesser-known-but-still-as-much-fun-and-someday-potentially-as-valuable-as-well.

-MOTORCYCLE COP: When Dane Patrick, the original Motorcycle Cop, was slain in the line of duty, his title and superpowers were passed on to Davey Datsun, a young cop who, once he dons the official helmet (included) and motorcycle (sold separately) becomes Motorcycle Cop! There can only be one (until the precinct buys another motorcycle.)

-FULLY-ARTICULATED LASS: Suzie Stormdoor fights evildoers through the use of all of your joints, including elbows, knees, shoulders, wrists, ankles, neck and knuckles. Fully-Articulated Lass can fight, dance, crouch, pivot, fold, spindle, and mutilate. And other things, too! So, so many other things. Imaginative!

-MAIL-ORDER POSTMAN: Meet Bruce, the Mail-Order Postman. He delivers himself! Convenience and excitement! Comes with other people’s mail! Illegal!

-SISTER OF FRIEND OF FLASH GORDON: Flash, Savior of the Universe! Linda Frizly is just a mild-mannered Administrative Assistant, but her brother Shane is friends with Flash Gordon! He says they went to the same technical college, and has pictures to prove it! Be two degrees from the King of the Impossible with this action figure, if you dare… to be two degrees from the King of the Impossible with this action figure.

-MOSTLY MOZART: The child prodigy has been reanimated to wreak havoc across the known universe! The evil Doctor Unibrow exhumed the corpse of the 17^th-century Austrian composer to lay siege on the universe and maybe compose some classical music and do the goofy butt thing from the movie. Alas, not all of the musician’s body could be used and the Doctor was forced to replace bits and pieces with other dead bodies. The ass is actually donated from the body of Salieri. Irony!

-CAT’S IN THE CRADLE KID: Young Harry has the amazing ability to be neglected. Order now and promise to play with him- then don’t! Repeat ad nauseam. Father figure not included.

-SK8ER BOI: An Avril Lavigne joke. Dated!

-LIFE-SIZE FRANKLIN PANGBORN: Now you can own everyone’s comedic foil, from W.C. Fields to Preston Sturges, Red Skelton to “Spanky” McFarland. Recreate your favorite moments from International House, Christmas in July and The Story of Mankind. Snooty, fussy, and just a wee bit “sissy,” the Life-Size Franklin Pangborn stands for everything good in life. But hurry and get yours today, there are only 96,000 in stock!