Don Peyote
All right, so the blogger site doesn’t really want to do business with me anymore. For some reason it likes to close the browser at random whenever I visit the site in attempts to post.
Imagine my frustration! But I press on, well aware of the fact that it is not me but you, gentle reader, who is the victim.
So here’s the real deal.
The shizz. Nitt.
Don is back.
This is great.
So, aside from the fact that I got one really psychotic E-mail and another really really psychotic voice-mail – this one’s a doozy.
Since Don’s departure, he’s apparently had time to reflect on things - Where’s my life going? – This sort of thing. Well, friend, I’m here to tell you that he has enrolled in school, and not just any school - Community College. His major? Drama.
It is absolutely all I can do to not enroll in a theatre class and drive this fucker down. Imagine one of Don’s monologues with me supporting him.
“Hey, Donnie. Do the thing where you pretend to have a panic attack!” I turn to our classmates, “You guys are gonna love this. I swear to God, you will actually think he’s having a fucking panic uh-tack! He’ll even have you call an ambulance. He’s that fucking committed, bro! Bobby DeNiro with a mother-fuckin’ hillbilly goddamn style! This here’s William the Shiz-atner! Leave a message after the beep, bitch!”
That’s when I slap a fellow student in my enthusiasm.
“Don-oh! Do that scene where you pretend you’re arm is hurt!” jabbing my classmate in the ribs with my elbow, “This mother-fucker even got a doctor to say he had surgery! A fuckin’ dock. Terr.” My head tilts back, mouth open in glee, “Classic Don!”
I begin to wash Don’s feet with oils, stroking his toes with my hair.
“Objet d' art, you magnificent sonofabitch!” weeping now, “Objet d' art!”
I kill us all.
Imagine my frustration! But I press on, well aware of the fact that it is not me but you, gentle reader, who is the victim.
So here’s the real deal.
The shizz. Nitt.
Don is back.
This is great.
So, aside from the fact that I got one really psychotic E-mail and another really really psychotic voice-mail – this one’s a doozy.
Since Don’s departure, he’s apparently had time to reflect on things - Where’s my life going? – This sort of thing. Well, friend, I’m here to tell you that he has enrolled in school, and not just any school - Community College. His major? Drama.
It is absolutely all I can do to not enroll in a theatre class and drive this fucker down. Imagine one of Don’s monologues with me supporting him.
“Hey, Donnie. Do the thing where you pretend to have a panic attack!” I turn to our classmates, “You guys are gonna love this. I swear to God, you will actually think he’s having a fucking panic uh-tack! He’ll even have you call an ambulance. He’s that fucking committed, bro! Bobby DeNiro with a mother-fuckin’ hillbilly goddamn style! This here’s William the Shiz-atner! Leave a message after the beep, bitch!”
That’s when I slap a fellow student in my enthusiasm.
“Don-oh! Do that scene where you pretend you’re arm is hurt!” jabbing my classmate in the ribs with my elbow, “This mother-fucker even got a doctor to say he had surgery! A fuckin’ dock. Terr.” My head tilts back, mouth open in glee, “Classic Don!”
I begin to wash Don’s feet with oils, stroking his toes with my hair.
“Objet d' art, you magnificent sonofabitch!” weeping now, “Objet d' art!”
I kill us all.
posted by BIG at 1:45 AM
2 Comments:
How dare you scoff! That man will reinvent dinner theater as we know it.
How? Why? At your location? Enquiring minds want to know. All I can say is that if his class puts on a play and he's in it, I am so there.
Suckabigone.
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