Anthony King’s Improv Level 401 Class Performance
Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre NY
August 11, 2008
Free Beer is: Christopher Einshtein, Justin D’Ambrosio, Anna Drezen, Mike Ross, Adam Shuty, Janet Silverman
Petit LePou is: Jason Black, Michelle Cox, Nicola Liyanage, Blake Merriman, Matt Nedostup, Emily Tarver, Marty Winslow
Watch at your own risk.
This is an oldie; I originally wrote it over a year ago for someone else’s website and linked to it here. That site seems pretty dead now, though, so I’ll post it directly. On another note, how’s everyone liking the new look? Let me know.
Robertha McTastic’s Ultimate Bathtime Guide
How to Soak in Style, Bathe in Bliss, and Wash in Wuxury, the Easy Way!
Ahoy, tublubbers! It’s your ‘Aunt’ Robertha here, back with more helpful tips to ease your slow trudge through life. Today it’s all about the rub-a-dub tub, as I tell you everything you’ll ever need to know to enjoy a relaxing bath. So turn on the tap, pop a Dramamine, and strap on your life vest: we’re going bathing!
Tip #1: Remove Your Clothing First
Do you think Mr. Sweater and Ms. Skirt like having a bath too? How about Rev. Unmentionables? Nuh-uh! I know it may seem like a great time-saver to wash your favorite outfit without taking it off, but trust me, it’s not worth it. Walking around in wet clothes is no fun, and there’s not been a pair of pumps built that can support a full-figured woman after soaking in warm water for 8 hours.
Tip #2: Make a Day of It
Whenever I try to engage one of my coworkers in bath talk, they tell me they’ve never lasted longer than an hour or so (that is, if they’re not a showerer… sacrilege!) If you ask me, you only start to appreciate a good bath around hour 3, so why not commit to it? Try to set aside a good 6-12 hours for a really relaxing power-soak. Keeping a mini-fridge stocked with snacks and cool drinks within arm’s reach will eliminate the need for kitchen runs, and if the water cools down too much, you can always drain and refill the tub (also great for ‘accidents.’)
Tip #3: “One’s Never Alone with a Rubber Duck”
Who needs a boyfriend when you can snuggle up with an adorably asexual toy in the comfort of a warm bath? Certainly not me! Me and my ducky, Orlando Bloom, are best friends, and bathe together every day. When buying your own mallard mate, make sure to get one with nontoxic dye; that’s a rash you won’t forget!
Tip #4: Double your Bubbles with a Bubble Bath
If you’re like me, you might be a little uncomfortable with the idea of spending so many straight hours in your birthday suit. Of course, nothing ruins a relaxing bath like having to stare down at your fat, disguisting, shameful, fat body (water refraction adds 30 pounds.) That’s where bubble bath comes in! Just pour in a thimbleful of this magic elixir, and you can lie back at peace, a thick layer of almond-scented suds shielding your shame from your eyes. As a fun game, you can sculpt the foam into your dream figure, and then smash it in tearful frustration (note: this will necessitate more bubble fluid.)
So there you have it, tubonauts! Aunt Robertha’s ‘no-more-tears’ formula for the perfect bath. Just follow my advice, and take these tips to your heart of hearts, and you’ll soon be soaking in a brainful of pleasure. And all I ask in return is that, while you’re enjoying the best bath of your life, think of me. But think of the young me. And maybe thinner, too.
Some of you already know that Halloween is my slayvorite holidanger; those who don’t probably didn’t understand the first part of this sentence. Anyway, I’m back at it this year, with a brand-new story that’s sure to make your day scare-ifying!
I’m sorry, that should read “terrifying.”
Enjoy!
—-
Donny got home from school on Halloween as excited as a ten-year-old boy could be. He was dressed in his normal school clothes, because the principal had decided not to allow costumes anymore, but that hadn’t made the day any less fun. His teacher, Miss Peeling, had let them each have a fun-sized candy bar in last period, and then had played them a super scary tape of Halloween sounds while they sat quietly with their hands on their desks. It had been the perfect combination to whet Donny’s appetite for tricks and treats! However, he had no idea what he was in for this Halloween!
In his bedroom, he immediately got to work on his costume. This year, he was going as a scary ghost, and he couldn’t be more excited. His Mom had even let him use one of her white sheets, the one the dog stayed on when he was sick. Donny cut holes out for his eyes, and one for his arm, so he could still hold his bag of candy. He hefted the empty bag, imagining it full to the brim. He couldn’t wait. Then he put on his completed costume and looked at himself in the mirror. Yep, he was sure to be the scariest one out this night… or was he?
That evening, after finishing his homework and eating a nutritious dinner, it was finally time to trick-or-treat. Donny was extra-excited this year, because for the first time, his parents were letting him and his best friends go out without supervision as long as they wore reflectors and didn’t leave the neighborhood. There was a knock on the door, and there were his two best friends, looking scarier than he had ever seen them. There was Jack, dressed like a brain-hungry zombie, and Stacy, dressed as a blood-thirsty vampire. Jack and Donny had made fun of her at first, because everyone knew there were no girl vampires, but now that he saw her, Donny had to admit she was pretty darn scary. Kissing his mother on the cheek and posing for a picture, he was out the door. Little did he know his evening would be… scarier than he imagined!
Once they got started, the terrifying trio really got started. They hit every house on their block within fifteen minutes, and already their bags were heavy with candy. Except for grumpy old Mr. Bodges, who gave them each a pencil and shooed them away, everyone was really nice and loved their scary costumes. Along the way, they ran into all their scary friends from school and shared tips on the houses with the best candy. It was the most fun they’d ever had. But would it last?
Soon they had visited almost every house in the neighborhood, and they were still hungry for more. Their bags weren’t quite full, but Donny’s parents had been very clear about where they could go, and before long they had been to every single house in the area, even the ones without decorations. They began to fear their fun was soon to end. Little did they know how right they were!
“Oh no!” Jack said, “If we could just go to one more house…”
“But we can’t,” Stacy insisted, being the responsible one, “Donny’s parents trusted us.”
“That’s true,” added Donny, “But I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we went to just one more house.” In truth, he wasn’t sure of this at all, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. “What about the Spoogy house?”
His friends gasped in fright. “The Spoogy house?! But that’s the scariest house in town!” they shouted in unison.
“Yeah, so?” Donny said defiantly, “I’m not scared!”
“But we promised your parents!” Stacy pleaded.
And so, instead of visiting the scary Spoogy house, the three friends went back to Donny’s house to eat their candy and watch Goosebumps on TV. Then they had a sleepover. As he drifted off in his sleeping bag that night, stuffed with candy, Donny realized it truly had been the best Halloween ever.
I went to a fantasy-themed party this weekend, and I really got into the spirit of it. I even got this sweet chest tattoo just for the occasion:
I did it myself.
I also wrote some descriptions of fantasy locales to augment the decorations. Check them out:
Mount Peryll
Visible from across the wide, flat world, this perilous peak (no pun intended) is by far the tallest of the mighty Mjontag Mountains, rising over one million gnome-heights above sea level. The mountain’s upper climbs, accessible only by dragon or helicopter, are covered year-round with rare, magical fire-snow. Here make their homes talking mountain-goats, belligerent high-altitude trolls, and gnarly talking trees. At the summit towers the legendary Lode-Spire of the mad prince Crag Loflosstraigh. Here the prince commanded his army of undead birds, and here he kept his infamous “Crag’s List” of arcane magical lore, alchemical recipes, and missed connections. It is said that someday a resurrected Crag will descend from the highest chamber of the Spire and start a successful website.
Gööe Swamp
This loathsome, wyrm-infested mire of cloying mud, deadly sinkholes, and noxious decay is not actually so bad. Indeed, the poisonous giant toads and carnivorous orchids are quite delicious once vanquished, the skull trees rattle pleasantly on a Summer afternoon, and the sinkholes, though deadly, allow for easy garbage disposal. Gööe (pronounced Gøùú-i) is also popular among history buffs and learned scribes as the site of the infamous Battle of Hlongglong between the Elvish forces of Saenel and the Human forces of Dan. The unquiet remains of the slain still inhabit the murky depths of the swamp, grabbing travelers’ legs at random and pulling them beneath to forever join them in their forgotten deathless conflict. A must-see.
The Legendary Smörgåsbord of Strang VI
King Strang’s generosity with food was as infamous as his Queen’s beauty and his skill with the head-lopper. For as long as he reigned, guests as noble as popes and as lowly as dukes sat together at his table and told tales of war, valour and gods, all the while feasting on pizza, chips, and several kinds of soda. But was there cake? The answer is lost to history now, but perhaps, if we remain patient, we will find out…
Sea of Tears
Although legend has it this sea was filled by the tears of a beautiful princess weeping for her lost love, a drowned sailor, this is most likely a simple folk tale, and not legitimate Lore. I mean, it doesn’t even make sense: how could he be lost at sea when the sea hadn’t even been created yet? And what was a princess, a beautiful princess, doing with a sailor, not to mention one incompetent enough to get himself killed? Most experts now agree her tears comprise no more than 30% of the sea’s volume. Other notable sights include R’lyeh, the sunken city of the sleeping Elder Gods, and Fire Island, a popular gay beach resort.
Dry Dry Desert
Stretching more than three thousand moons across, this arid desert is blistering and unmerciful at best, impassable except by three-humped camel. Among its dunes, however, thrive the mysterious Qarabs, a barbaric, warmongering race of dark-skinned, scimitar-weilding, beturbaned savages whose similarity to any actual peoples is entirely unintentional and definitely not racist. Another race, the Egyptoids, also once lived here, and their great pyramid-shaped tombs, called “Alxons,” still dot the landscape, enticing adventurers with the promise of eldritch treasure and delicious mummies.
The Golden City of New Ark
From the magenta-flamed New Ark Lighthouse to the marble-pillared Temple of Jod to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, New Ark is home to more glittering landmarks than you can shake a staff at. And why not? As the cultural and economic capital of this unnamed fantasy kingdom, this ancient city has always been its crown jewel. But be warned: beneath the porcelain palaces and 24-hour vomitaria, there lies a seedy underbelly of assassins, thieves, and rogues with +5 to backstab. Here the intrepid traveller can find the most raucous taverns east of Sodom, and with even more sodomy. A dragon’s scale and change will buy you a flagon of mead, or new mead lite with Splenda®, and the barman’s sure to know a few stories of the Lands Beyond, which to these people is Detroit.
_____The streets were empty as I stepped out into the dank urban night. All about me, the city lay flat against the landscape, cowering from the rain that fell in great greasy droplets on its face. It was on nights like this, when the working people of this city huddled around their TV sets, that the worms would crawl out of their subterranean hideaways and go about their dirty business. It was on nights like this when the city would need me. Me? I’m a detective. My name is Drangum Bango.
_____This particular night, I was heading to Rocco’s, a dirty rat trap on the North Side. I had to see the eponymous Rocco about some answers. I hailed a cab along Rosetta driven by a dark-skinned type who looked like he didn’t have five words of English about him. I climbed in the backseat.
_____”Where to?” he asked me.
_____”Fire burning,” I said, “Cataract elbows pass me. Mercy from pancake batter… testimony!” He gave me a look that told me I wasn’t getting through. “Are we cleave?” I asked.
_____He panicked. “I don’t know what you saying, man. I don’t know!” I didn’t have time for this.
_____”Catapult ego pellets,” I explained, slowly, “Danger briefly exacerbated nomenclature enormous. Underarm enormous?” I was losing my patience. “PANTS ON FIRE!” I guess I must’ve pushed him too far, ’cause next thing I knew he was out of the cab, running down the street and shouting something in Foreigner. Never one to turn down a free ride, I got in the driver’s seat and took off uptown. I had a man to see.
_____I pulled up outside Rocco’s two hours later and parked the car in a tree. From the outside, the place was a fortress, dark and impregnable, but through the front door, it was a palace. There was more gold than a pharaoh’s tomb, the shag was so plush you couldn’t see your shoes, and even the ashtrays looked like you could eat caviar off them. This was the finest dirty money could buy.
_____The coat-check girl was a real eighteen karat number herself, much too pretty to be working in this clip joint. Smiling appreciatively, I handed her my aviator’s cap and scarf. She passed me a small ticket, and I gave her a handful of lint from my pocket. She flashed me a confused stare that was pure sex, and I walked into the bar.
_____I quickly sized up the bartender. He was a clean-cut young gun who looked like he knew everything about women and nothing about being a man. In that moment, I knew he would be a pushover. Getting his attention, I introduced myself: “Drangum Bango, PEI.” I flashed him my Robocop badge. It seemed I made him nervous. Good.
_____”Can I help you?” he ventured.
_____I told him I was looking for Rocco.
_____”Hey, I don’t know anything about any cantaloupes, man,” he insisted, backing against the bar, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
_____Deciding to play it tough, I repeated myself deliberately, while subtly flicking cigarette butts from an ashtray at him. “I-I’m getting the boss,” he stammered, running off. Finally I was getting somewhere.
_____Left alone at the bar, I attracted the attention of one of Rocco’s “quick women.” Clutching a cocktail in her delicate, angel-white claw, she slipped into the stool next to mine like a foot in a stocking. “Hey shamus,” she began, “Is that a gun in your pocket? Although I’m sure you know that old line.” This alarmed me, as I’d lately had problems telling my gun from my banana. But how could she know that? That previous day I had even thrown out my banana as a final precaution, but the next morning, there it had been on the counter again. I felt the gun in my pocket, reassured by its weight and relative hardness. I gave the hussy my Humphrey Bogart face and asked her, “Spy lantern turns over… canoodling any frock trimester?” Realizing I wasn’t one of the regular Johns, she moved off. ‘That Rocco sure knows how to pick ‘em,’ I thought to myself, lucidly.
_____Rocco was a local slime I knew well. His racket was numbers, and on the side he liked to deflower little girls. I recognized his greasy face and flashy suit across the room, following the barman back to me. We made eye contact, and his reaction was instantaneous.
_____”Oh no!” he shouted above the room, “Not him again!” He ran for the back door, but I was fast on his heels. This trail had just gotten hot. Outside, I chased him across the parking lot, shouting a warning: “Rocco! Palimpsest cage fight sumbarine! Don’t spackle!”
_____”Leave me alone, you maniac!” he yelled over his shoulder. But it was too late. I cornered him between two dumpsters and stopped to catch my breath. I was about to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
_____Just then, two of Rocco’s thugs came up behind me. Turning on them, I took out my gun and peeled it. Ten minutes and a whole lot of biting later, Rocco and I were alone again. I held him by his his collar and smushed the barrel of my gun against his temple. Oh, he would talk alright, he just didn’t know it yet. “Puddle,” I said, “Puddly ticking toe.”
Hey guys. Today’s my birthday. That’s right: 21. Double digits. I was going to wait until afterwards and give you a recap, but I’m planning on being pretty hung over for a few days, so I thought I’d better do it in advance. Here’s what I’m going to have done for my birthday.
The night started slow: martinis with Louise at Third on Fifth. Louise is an old friend from Posture Camp, and she promised me years ago that she’d take me out on my 21st. Now, when it comes to martinis, I’m a traditionalist all of a sudden. If it doesn’t have gin in it, I say, don’t even call it a martini. Louise disagreed, so I continued ordering gin martinis on her tab as a passive-aggressive attack. She left after I ordered my 11th. Finishing it, I staggered out of the lounge, and off to the next bar. By this point, I was wasted.
Next I headed uptown, to O’Bleary’s, where I met up with my buddies Sean, Patrick, and Irish. It turned out that August 9th is St. Pancreas’ Day in Ireland, a traditional holiday commemorating the resignation of Richard Nixon. It’s normally celebrated by reciting the poetry of Yeats, binge drinking, and boxing trees. Needless to say, it was a blast. I drank 17 pints of Guinness, led the whole place in a three-part round of “The Man Who Dreamed of Faeryland,” and took down a spruce bare-knuckled. Then I blacked out. By this point, I was sloshed.
Next thing I remember, I was standing, my hands were bandaged, and I was explaining the topic of my thesis to a group of Japanese stewardesses in a hotel bar somewhere. “I believe,” I slurred, “that all baby animals are cute. Right? Except for insects. And arachnids.” Luckily, none of them spoke English. I bought us a round, and pretty soon, I was doing body shots off of their efficient Japanese breasts. I tried to get some action, but they recoiled from my still-bloody hands and fled to their rooms. Frustrated, I slipped the tongue to a vending machine on the way out, and resolved to go somewhere where I could meet some ladies. And keep in mind, I was blitzed by this point.
When it comes to finding ladies, there’s only one thing you need to remember. Ladies equals clubs. That’s a mathematical fact. So I headed downtown to Frantic, the hottest club of the summer. At the door, the bouncer wouldn’t let me through. I was on the list (the owner, Fran, is an old friend of mine) but I hadn’t counted on it being Civil War Night. Nobody was allowed in unless they wore an authentic Union or Confederate uniform. I cursed my luck, but lifted the curse when I saw a 24-hour costume shop across the street. Only in this town. I splurged on the custom-fitted General Lee c. 1865, so I was forced to buy it. When I got back, the bouncer told me they had too many rebs already, and turned me away. And I had just thrown out the receipt! Determined to have my fun, I bought a fifth of Scotch and drank it in a spot in the alley where you could hear the music coming out of the club. And it turns out that Scotch is only sweetened by tears. By this point, I was plotzed, pooped, plundered, and ready for bed.
So that’s how I woke up this morning: hung over, dressed like Robert E. Lee, my hands bandaged and covered in dried blood, and lying in the gutter outside a nightclub that was, during the day, an ice cream store. I was in bad shape. I had scars on my back from having a tattoo removed (I couldn’t even remember getting one,) my skull felt like a soccer ball with a headache, and I was covered in my own puke. In case you’re wondering, I knew it was mine based on its composition. Dusting myself off, I bought a whale-shaped ice cream cake and sat down on the stoop to eat it. All in all, I thought to myself, it was the best 21st birthday ever.
I’m having a great day at work today.
This is a cute little poem I wrote while waiting for some friends in a coffee shop the other day. I was going to add more, but I think it’s pretty done.
The Badgers and the Elephants
Had fought since Long Ago
For land, and pride, and history
On sea, and sand, and snow
They fought because their parents fought
(Their parents did the same)
And so on back through centuries
They’d fought in heaven’s Name
The problem with this story was
(Which neither would admit)
That though they fought for the great Name
No one remembered it
‘Twas written in the Ancient Tongue
Not spoke since Long Ago
And since they studied only war
No one was left to know
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always had memories. And my oldest memories, the ones from my youngest days, are of my sister. She was the light of my life, the apple of my eye, and my sister. Julia. From the moment she was born, and my mother gave birth to her, she was a baby. But not for long. I remember my mother bringing her home after giving birth to her, placing her in my arms, and letting me hold her, after she’d brought her back from the hospital, and thinking, “My god.” She wasn’t my god, but she was my sister, newly born. A baby. Julia. I held her in my arms, looked down at her little wrinkled baby face, and never wanted to let go. She had just come back from the hospital, and her little baby face, wrinkled after being born, made me think, “My god.” We were inseparable.
From that point on, we could never be separated. Every day after school, I would run home to spend time with the baby, my sister, Julia. I would run home, greet my mother, now long back from the hospital, at the door, and spend time with Julia, my baby sister. She was just a tiny baby then, so I would do the playing for both of us, waving stuffed animals at her, reading her my favorite books, and watching her stare, uncomprehending, with her wrinkled baby face. She wouldn’t participate much in the playing, being a tiny baby, but I took care of that. I would read her my favorite books sometimes, or even wave stuffed animals at her, to try and get a reaction. But she would only stare, uncomprehending.
I was there when she spoke her first word, too. How couldn’t I be? We were inseparable. We’d spend all our time together. In fact, one day, after I’d run home from school to spend time with her, she looked up at me and spoke her first word. What a pivotal moment. I had gotten so used to her as a silent figure, just a little wrinkled baby face staring uncomprehending at me from her crib as I waved my favorite books at her, that I was totally unprepared for her to speak her first word. She did, however, one day, after I’d run home from school to spend time with the baby, her. Julia. My sister. It was magical.
The magic was to last, however. As she continued to be a baby, she spoke more words, becoming, ever so slowly, a talking baby. At first I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I could hardly believe it when she spoke her first word, that fateful day I ran home from school to spend time with her, and so when she started talking all the time, ever so slowly, it was a whole shock unto itself. I was simply shocked. Before long, she started talking all the time. From her first word, that fateful day, to the point where she started talking all the time, I couldn’t believe it. She was developing a real personality; I could really get to know her; she talked all the time. She was also developing a real personality, a real vision of the woman she would become.
Before long, it was her first day of school. My 5-year-old sister, looking so grown-up despite her 5 years. That is, until she started to cry. There I was, right there, thinking she was so grown-up for a 5-year-old, and she started to cry! Right in front of me! I cleared the tears from-her-five-year-old-face and told her to cheer up. She was so grown-up, and yet she cried. I tried to cheer her up, telling her to, but I for one don’t think she ever forgave me for abandoning her. She felt that by making her go to school, my parents and I were abandoning her, and so she felt abandoned, and I didn’t think she would ever forgive me, for one. But she did.
I remember teaching her to ride a bike. It was a crisp Fall day in the Fall, and the Autumnal weather signalled to me: it is time to teach her to ride a bike. Teach who? My sister, Julia, no more a baby, but a child. On her recent birthday, my parents had recently bought her a bike as a birthday present, so it was the perfect Fall day to teach her to ride a bike. We went outside, chilled Autumnally, and she rode a bike for the first time. I taught her to. It was magical. Pretty soon she was biking everywhere, on the bike I taught her, just as before she had started talking all the time after I heard her say her first word. That fateful day.
As time went by, we grew older, and aged. I became a young man, and after some intervening years had put time in our lives, so did she. I had my first date, and caught Julia spying on us through the keyhole in my door. Boy was I mad. I mean, she knew I was on a date, my first one, and yet she still felt the need to look through the keyhole in my door during my date! I was livid. Boy was I. I got over it though, until she had her first date. I was mad again, boy. She was my little sister. A baby. Julia; and she was going on a date?! I didn’t think so. She did think so, however, and even I soon had to acknowledge my sister, Julia, was becoming a woman. I didn’t think so. But it was true.
That was when we started to drift apart at that point. We no longer had so much in common. These days we hardly ever speak, having little in common. I was there on that fateful day when she spoke her first word, and after that for the duration of her beginning and continuing to talk all the time, and now we barely ever speak at all. I guess we just don’t have that much in common anymore. Like that time I taught her to ride a bike in the Fall. Those times are over. I guess we’ve just drifted apart, my sister Julia and I. I do remember her, though.
I wrote this dialogue for a presentation I gave earlier tonight on the jargon of beekeepers, but I like it, so I’m reusing it here. The italicized words are all beekeeper terms.
“Hey, did I tell you about my nephew? He tells me he wants to start an apiary. So I tell him, I say to him, ‘Boychick, you make your uncle very proud.’ And I go out and I buy him a Langstroth super, and a smoker, books, everything. Even a virgin queen I buy for him. For him I spend all my gelt. And then his father, the putz, he buys a gantze nuc from that shmendrick Stan Greenbaum and gives it to the boy.”
“So what’re you kvetching about? The child wants a hive, his father gets it for him.”
“That farkakte nuc won’t last the winter, it’s so small. The cluster barely touches 4 frames! And what’s worse, Greenbaum used those meshugge African bees! If they do survive, they’ll swarm at the first honeyflow. And I tell you, if those workers try to rob from one of my honey supers, I’m going to plotz!”
“But your brother’s mishpoche lives across town. There’s no round dance for that kind of distance. You’re just farbissen because your brother bought it for him before you could.”
“Oy gevault. This is what I need from you, you nudnik? And you call yourself an apist.”
“At least I’m a commercial. I support my gantze mishpoche with apiculture. You’re barely a hobbyist.”
“Eh, you’re a shmuck.”