Category Archives: Humour

Reid’s first novel now available at McNally Robinson


With gratitude and love I dedicate this book to my parents, Helen and Bruce Dickie, whose gifts I used every day of my life, and to Linda, who lit my way.

Available now at McNally Robinson

Moments away from puberty, young Jim Crawford begins to discover how his newly effervescent maleness gives fresh meaning and expression to manhood in his family, friendships, community and beyond. Set in a small Canadian prairie town just as the tumultuous social and cultural changes of the 1960s begin, Play the Jukebox is a character-driven story entwining bright wholesome and dark pathological expressions of masculinity. As his own unique gifts reveal themselves, Jim learns the heights and depths to which men will go to defend family and future and how shared experience creates diverse forms of camaraderie between men and women.

Jim’s life revolves around pop music and records. The 45 – the little record with the big hole – is king; radio disc jockeys, record players and jukeboxes spin the seven-inch discs constantly. He discovers intimate links between hit songs and his own development as he travels from town to town changing the records in jukeboxes with Percy Peel, a mystery media mogul who leaves lasting impressions on Jim. As they did for millions of 1960s youth, The Beatles play a defining role as one of Jim’s change agents.

McNally Robinson: If you are coming into one of our stores, we suggest that you confirm that the book you want is in stock by emailing the location nearest you: Grant Park, Saskatoon, or by phoning the location nearest you.


Filed under 1950s, 1960s, Fiction, Friendship, grief, Hope, Humour, Love, Manitoba, Manitoba Heritage, Movies, Music, Prairie People, PRAIRIES, Radio, shaman, shamanism, Spirit, Winnipeg, Wisdom

Prisoners of Urge and Function – Script


Inspired by my friend Kevin, a few years ago I started experimenting with scripts. I searched through short stories to use as the basis for scripts. Prisoners of Urge and Function evolved out of a story called Dearie’s 55th Birthday Party, an absurd affair that plumbed the depths of my dark side. I expanded the yarn to include an unusual narrator. After several re-writes I came up with this full-length script. So far it is unproduced. I offer it as a dark comedy.

Prisoners of Urge and Function

Reid Dickie


As the family gathers to celebrate Dearie’s 55th birthday a dark comedic journey into disease culture and cruel surprises begins…but it’s still a party.


Eat to live.

© Reid Dickie 2013





Prisoners of Urge and Function


“Babies are occasionally born with gills or tails but this is not publicized, instead it is hushed up.”

– Ernest Becker


“There is still no cure for the common birthday.”

– John Glenn

Fade In:


EVANGELINE PILIPPS, 62, lies propped up in a HOSPITAL BED. She is emaciated, almost bald. Her breathing is shallow with a hint of a rattle. She appears near death. The machinery monitoring her vitals beeps softly, strangely, almost musically.

Seated in a chair on the left side of the bed is PAPPY PILIPPS, 65, Eva’s husband of 45 years. PAPPY holds his wife’s shrivelled HAND, slowly caressing it. His face is creased with sadness.

On the other side of the bed DEARIE PUNYON, 43, sits in a chair holding her mother’s other HAND. Dearie is their youngest daughter. She dabs her eyes occasionally with a bright electric BLUE HANKIE.

Both DEARIE and PAPPY wear dark colours.

EVANGELINE gives a mighty COUGH and wheeze that lifts her slightly in the bed. PAPPY and DEARIE flinch to attention. With her HAND, on the first finger of which is a clip-on pulse monitor, EVANGELINE weakly motions for Dearie to come closer. DEARIE leans close to her mother’s face as does PAPPY.


Dearie, I need to tell you something important. Come closer dear. Can you hear me?


I can hear you, mother.


Listen closely. On the day after you turn fifty-five years old, that day you will be able to see human auras, those bright lights we all keep hidden under a bushel. The day after your 55th birthday, do you understand, Dearie?


I think so. The day after I’m 55, I’ll see people’s auras. Is that right, mother?


Yes, good daughter. You now know what a little bit of your future looks like, Dearie.

EVANGELINE turns toward Pappy


Pappy, did you hear what I just told Dearie?


I heard it, Eva. I understand what you said. If I’m still kicking when that day rolls around, I’ll be sure and remind Dearie what you said.


My genius husband, will you miss me at all, you old loaf?


Of course, Eva, every day for as long as I can live. I’ll be all right, the kids will be all right. We’ll be the left-behind for a little while but we will all eventually catch up with you.


Good bye clods of clay. Hello sweet birds. Flying with you now. Flying with you now.

EVANGELINE’S head slumps to one side, her eyes close slowly and a WRY SMILE ascends onto her lips. The monitor goes FLAT LINE and a steady tone slightly out of phase with itself fills the room.

DEARIE sobs loudly. PAPPY nods and weeps silently.

OS there is the LOUD CLICKING of someone walking quickly in high heels on a hard floor along with a small irregular metallic JINGLING. As the sounds get louder they begin to MIX oddly RHYTHMICALLY with the flat line monitor and the sobbing family.

The source of the clicking, DELMA ACHENHEAD, 46, Pappy and Eva’s eldest child, a ravishing but slightly fading beauty, DRESSED to the nines in bright colours and MADE UP perfectly, strides to the bed.


Oh damn, did I miss all the fun?


She’s dead, Delma. Our mother is dead.


Long live Mother. Email me the funeral details. Adios.

DELMA turns on her heels and walks quickly toward the door as a HANDSOME YOUNG DOCTOR enters the room. DELMA STOPS in front of him, blocking his path. His NAME TAG reads “DOCTOR CELERY.” DELMA takes half a step back and lasciviously EYES him from head to toe and back again, RUNS her right index finger down his shirt front and LICKS the finger. Several metallic bangles jangle from DELMA’S right wrist.


Yum…with cheese.

A faint smile traces across the DOCTOR’S lips and his eyes brighten slightly. DELMA’S expression changes from INTEREST to DISGUST.


Too easy.

DELMA storms past HANDSOME YOUNG DOCTOR and out of the room, the LOUD CLICKING of her shoes and the JINGLING bracelets resume and fade.

HANDSOME YOUNG DOCTOR, with slight consternation, looks down and touches the front of his shirt, shakes his head slightly, walks to the bedside and turns off the flat line tone. PAPPY stands.

HANDSOME YOUNG DOCTOR places his stethoscope on Evangeline’s chest.


My condolences Mister Pilipps, Mrs. Punyon. She’s gone. Time of death: 2:34 p.m. Cause of death: general cancer. My sympathies are with you.

HANDSOME YOUNG DOCTOR writes on the patient information chart and leaves the room.

From wide shot at foot of bed of all three people, slowly PAN into EVANGELINE’s dead face set in peaceful collapse, the small smile still trickles on her lips. CU on her face and HOLD.

During the pan CANCER speaks in voiceover.

Although never seen CANCER is a character you get to know very well. Toy with many ideas on what the voice of CANCER sounds like.


Score another one for the good guys. She was an easy one. None of your techno chemical voodoo worked for her. She was mine right from the first cellular collapse which happened in her liver after she consumed something innocuously toxic – the blue dye used to colour cotton candy. I seized that unguarded moment and, with my usual tenacity, wouldn’t relinquish. Her liver was yummy, as I recall. In great debilitating gulps I drank her precious fluids which were laced with a beautiful elixir and my best friend – sugar. After that I went for her guts and bone marrow. I had her spine for dessert. “General cancer” as the punk in the white coat called me. Hey doc, salute when you say that.



black SCREEN white letterING

Twelve Years Later



A large very bright KITCHEN with BLACK AND RED CHECKERBOARD TILES, shiny hanging things, knickknacks on corner shelves. There is a 1950s feel to the room but there are several cupboards or doors or decorative items that are out of place due to their odd angles, their inability to fit where they should, odd clashing colours accentuate the incongruencies.

DEARIE, her hair in a swoopy BOUFFANT style, dressed in a 1950s chiffon over taffeta PARTY DRESS with big well-crinolined skirt, possibly polka dots but bright, that makes a swishing sound every time she moves. She busies herself at the counter.

WILF PUNYON, 57, Dearie’s husband, enters the room carrying a LARGE BAG labelled PFC in each arm and gripping a string above which floats a RED HELIUM BALLOON. On one side of it in white letters it says, “Do you have a map?” and on the other side, above a pair of crossed-eyes, it says, “Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

WILF wears a SWEATERVEST which is several sizes TOO SMALL for him and which moulds his body contours into an odd shape over a white shirt with a sensible bowtie that clashes with the sweatervest which is BLACK AND RED CHECKERBOARD just like the kitchen floor. Wilf deposits the bags on the counter.


And a simple balloon for my birthday girl.

WILF gracefully BOWS offering DEARIE the string of the balloon. DEARIE takes the balloon, surprise and delight in her eyes and mouth.


Oh Wilf, for me. You dear thing. You know I love balloons, especially red ones. (READS) “Do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.” Awww…Wilf.

DEARIE gives Wilf a PECK on the cheek.


I know just where to put it.

DEARIE walks out of the kitchen with the balloon.


There’s more. Right back.

WILF leaves by the back door. DEARIE returns balloon-less and starts opening the bags and dealing with their contents.

In the center of the room is PAPPY, now confined to a WHEELCHAIR, a small one he can manoeuvre himself. He is wearing a tattery old MAROON SMOKING JACKET with black lapels and a worn family crest over the heart and black sweatpants. PAPPY has a grey FUZZY unkempt BEARD and wild white hair.


Who’s the peckerhead in the checkerboard sweatervest? One contractive verb, two preps, one adverb, six bad sperm counts in a row, one snowman and three compound spillage nuns.


Oh, how you love those compound words. That’s Wilf, Daddy. My husband. You’ve known Wilf all his life and he’s not a peckerhead.

WILF returns with two more bags of PFC.


Who’s not a peckerhead, as if I even have to ask.


Just you, dear.


Oh good. I still hold the title then.


Yes, you do, dear.


Ah, the satisfaction! Still undefeated, the reigning World Champeen Peckerhead, it’s stil old Wilfy boy, as deemed by His Royal Highness the Compound Word King on wheels.


Birthday. Wilf. I’m using my most chipper explaining voice because it’s my birthday.


One anorexic verb, one perforated vowel, three poofs, one possessive, 17 nouns, three corpuscles and an oolong ingsoo in a ligament stew. Yes, he is a peckerhead. Adverb, noun, verb, incisor and I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard…


How hard?


I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard all your children will have cleft palates and six nipples.

DEARIE smirks. WILF hoots twice.


Good one, Paps, my old pap smear pappy-in-law.


On an unflattering three-shot of DEARIE, WILF and PAPPY.


Well, here we are again with the droopy Pilipps bunch. It’s a special day though. It’s Dearie’s 55th birthday. Her mother’s dying prophesy looms.

The partygoers have many secrets and I have many secrets, too. One of them is that Dearie, along with everybody else at this shindig, is auditioning for me tonight. Who among this sad smorg of humanity will wind up as prime rib on my menu and get to become me for the rest of their sordid lives? I’m looking for someone yummy. Personality and talent pale against good old-fashioned scrumptiousness. Yet I do crave new things, new tastes as I forage for something unique among the dross, seeking the truffle in the dreary human understory. When I have reached a decision you’ll be the first to know. As I mentioned and although not readily apparent, every person at tonight’s party has a secret, a deep dark secret which imprisons them, all of which will be revealed soon.

You have so much to look forward to. Meanwhile, let’s review my menu choices. First there is our dear birthday girl, Dearie.


Follow DEARIE as she busies herself getting the CHICKEN BUCKETS open, plates and cutlery in order and so on.


What should you know about chipper little Dearie?

Well, for one thing, Dearie believes that ginger ale cures everything. Just the other day she was telling her neighbour, Bambi Moocow…


DEARIE and BAMBI sit on a porch swing slowly swinging back and forth. BAMBI is in her 50s, highly MADE-UP with 50s style hair and clothing. She has several black MOLES on her face. Both WOMEN swig GINGER ALE out of bottles.


Do you know what I’ve discovered, Bambi?


No, what!?


Ginger ale can cure cancer. And you know how I discovered that?


No, how?!


Well, I had a dark red thingy growing on the lips of my thingy…

DEARIE fluffs her hands near her crotch.


…but it went away after two weeks of drinking ginger ale all day. I swear Bambi, it’s the cancer miracle the world’s all waiting for.


DEARIE busies herself in kitchen.


First hon, that wasn’t cancer on your thingy. I’m not a doctor so I can’t tell you what is was but I’m 100% certain it wasn’t me. Second, I’m not afraid of stinkin’ ginger ale. In fact, I thrive on its dense sugars. Drink up, girl.

What else about Dearie? Every day Dearie ingests a new wonder drug. “You’ll wonder if it’s working,” as their GP, Doctor Timothy Parthree, had framed it. The drug is called Vistagoyim, an experimental treatment for astigmatism, a condition which has plagued Dearie her entire life. Besides some serious to violent white bread cravings and a small blue rash behind both ears…

Push through her HAIRDO to CU BLUE RASH behind one of DEARIE’S ears.


…the only other side effect of Vistagoyim is occasionally seeing Jesus.

When this happens, which is slightly too often for Dearie’s comfort, Jesus never speaks to her. He just nods and smiles blissfully and silently stares at her even when she tries to start a nice conversation with him. Dearie is always surprised that Jesus can’t even talk about the weather! Recently Dearie became frustrated with the frequency of Jesus’ visits. When she mentioned to Parthree that she was thinking of renting Jesus a room, the doctor’s reply was, “He’s allergic to feathers so no down pillows or comforters, okay?” That’s not Dearie’s secret. Her secret is yet to be revealed.




Also on tonight’s menu is Dearie’s alcoholic husband of thirty years, Wilf Punyon, who has a very juicy secret but later for that.


WILF does a series of completely USELESS ACTIONS that indicate he is hapless in the kitchen but excellent at OPENING wine bottles and DRINKING their contents. He opens the FRIG DOOR and stares in, bent over with his arm across the door as if it is out a car window.


For all of his adult life Wilf has made a living as a mortuary attendant. Not a mortician, the distinction is important. A mortician does hands-on work involving solid human remains. A mortuary attendant “attends.”


An ORGAN drones a dirge as weeping MOURNERS file into church.

A COFFIN rests in front of the pulpit.

WILF stands as described, feigning sincerity.


Wilf is one of those guys in black suits that you see at funerals who stand in calm authority, hands gently clasped in front of their privates, aligned with the grievers in every empathetic way, a bastion of serenity in a roiling sea of anguish, available for any expected or unexpected work that the circumstances might arouse – from bearing the pall to buttressing the grief-stricken to simply exuding tranquility. His expression is appropriately glum so you’re not sure if he’s working or if he’s one of the begrieved.


WILF closes the frig door without doing anything in the frig, walks to the counter and swigs back most of a glass of red wine.


Another distinction between the mortician and the mortuary attendant is who drives. Only certified morticians drive the hearse, attendants are relegated to being chauffeurs in the company limos.

Despite Dearie’s occasional exhortations on how Wilf could easily become a mortician with his experience, Wilf’s aspirations extend no further than his role as attendant. Wilf prefers standing around. One man’s rut is another man’s calling.

For most people being a mortuary attendant would be easy work. But since Wilf is immature, completely self-centered and has enormous difficulty taking the role of the other, his job challenges him everyday.

Other than the painted doll-like faces of strangers he sees at open casket funerals, Wilf has never seen a dead person, nor has he ever touched a dead person. Someone else whom Wilf has never touched, not even to shake hands, is Pappy, his father-in-law.

Oh, Pappy! Though not near the top of my menu, Pappy Pilipps would do in a pinch.




Pappy Pilipps, the wily patriarch overseeing the final decline of his gene pool on which drifts the neutered flotsam and jetsam of the Pilipps family tree, wind shot and broken, boonlessly living out their doom.

Due to his age, Pappy has the largest and most diverse array of secrets of anyone here, many of which he will reveal very soon. Ever since his mind started to go, Pappy has lived with Wilf and Dearie in their roomy bungalow.


PAPPY does some absent minded GESTURES in the chair appearing to be completely out of it.


Pappy is short for Papyrus, a name chosen by his father, at one time the world’s foremost authority on ancient papers. Papyrus Cloydion Pilipps became from his teen years on simply, adequately, Pappy, his moniker shortened as was the family name from Pilippshik when his father with family in tow emigrated from Austria to escape the dirty war.

Today though, as a retired English professor, seemingly all old Pappy Pilipps retains about life, now that the Alzheimer’s is erasing him, is how to break down his own and other people’s sentences grammatically, more or less. Whenever he does this, his family members pay close attention to his words as if they were earnest students clinging to his every wise dropping.


One stifled jack-off verb when she knocked on the door, two triple shaft combos that are just a fantasy from your army days and the fourth eclipse of the moon this month spooks the dog, Badly. Who’d name a dog Badly? A correlative creepiness abounding with sugary coating that is actually chemistry gone astray, and an adverbial contruncual sumptive with a culicee on the final syllabalee.

PAPPY slumps in his chair, apparently ASLEEP, beyond grammar. Two FINGERS on his right hand TWITCH on the chrome handles of his chair making dull thuds.

There is a short knock on the backdoor. GENEVA PILIPPS and her fiancée RUFUS SWITZER arrive each carrying two bottles of wine.

GENEVA, 28, Wilf and Dearie’s only child, waddlingly overweight, has a LARGE FAT HEAD with a SMALL DOLL-LIKE FACE. On her tiny Betty Boop mouth bright RED LIPSTICK gleams which she REFURBISHES often during the party, dressed in a large loose black dress with no sleeves and flat shoes.

RUFUS, 42, BALDING, PORCINE, PALE, attempted moustache, dressed in a short sleeve pale blue shirt with large CONTINUOUS PATCHES OF SWEAT under the arms and across the shoulders and a pair of BEIGE trousers.


Hi, kids! Welcome to my birthday. Hugs, baby.

Before GENEVA is able to put the wine bottles down, DEARIE tightly EMBRACES her. DEARIE’S arms don’t even reach HALFWAY around GENEVA.


Happy birthday, mother. We brought wine.

RUFUS extends the bottles and a birthday card in an electric BLUE ENVELOPE toward his future mother-in-law.


Happy burfus, Mersus Punyoung.

RUFUS SHAKES his head and SCOWLS because he got it wrong.

DEARIE cringingly HUGS RUFUS while making a FROWNY FACE, chipper falls away for just a moment. She WIPES her hands on a dish towel as if they got wet from touching Rufus, accepts the wine and the card.


Thank you kids.


On unflattering two-shot of GENEVA and RUFUS, their eyes unlikable slits in unlikable faces.


Aha, the offspring and the unsprung have arrived to add their utter lack of vivaciousness to the proceedings – they are Wilf and Dearie’s daughter and lone issue, Geneva Pilipps, and her fiancée slash curmudgeon, Rufus Switzer. She’s twenty eight, he’s forty-two. Unmarried, Rufus and Geneva share a two-bedroom apartment overlooking The Cloisters.


GENEVA and RUFUS each GRAB a bottle of wine, screw-off caps, POUR full glasses and DRINK enthusiastically.


Geneva is in the daycare business, that’s daycare for children under six where she is a certified babysitter. She’s worked at the Stand Up Straight Or Else Daycare Complex for five years ever since graduating from an advanced course in childminding at the Institute of Bizarre, Practical and Everyday Skills.

Geneva owns a Serbian crotchhound…


A large HOUND, weirdly CLIPPED and COLOURED to resemble no other kind of dog, attentive, SLAVERING, sits obediently.


…a rare and exotic creature of which there are only nine on the entire planet.

DOG BARKS strangely.


Bred in the dark Ages, Serbian crotchhounds served an arcane but still relevant function as canine early-warning systems. The dogs were used exclusively in brothels to sniff out venereal disease in customers before they had sex.

With their highly evolved sense of smell, many dogs have been known to sniff me out in their owners though that is something your scientists and doctors refuse to believe is possible. More of your denial, more luck for me, huh?

Geneva’s dog is named Whiff.


Here boy!

WHIFF walks toward RUFUS who is seated on a sofa wearing only BRIEFS, his legs spread apart.


Here boy!

WHIFF digs his SNOUT into RUFUS’ CROTCH, vigorously sniffing and burrowing, saturating the briefs with his COPIOUS SALIVA.

RUFUS moans and sighs, CONTORTING with pleasure.


Serendipitously Rufus is just enough of a pervert to frequently satisfy his sexual urges by enjoying Whiff’s intense olfactory investigations.

Otherwise Rufus is infertile, incapable and unfecund because of a childhood accident that left him painfully shy and thoroughly neutered. He often mixes up his words and becomes the object of ridicule among his friends, family and acquaintances who go to great lengths to humiliate and degrade the poor man.


RUFUS and GENEVA drink copiously.


Rufus’ last name is Switzer so when, if, he and Geneva wed, she becomes Geneva Switzer. That and the no-babies future have got Geneva thinking of late that Rufus may not be the one. He’s kind and kind of interesting but he’s suddenly started to tell pedophile jokes.


Wilf, I got a good one. What’s the best thing about having sex with twenty-eight year olds?

WILF smiles and shrugs, intrigued.


There’s twenty of them.

RUFUS GRINS and snorts. WILF’S EXPRESSION changes from being PERPLEXED until he gets the joke then to REPULSION as he backs away from RUFUS. PULL BACK to whole room.


Plus Rufus’ daily habits sometimes appal Geneva. Rufus enjoys taking long baths in various kinds of food.


In SIDE VIEW, RUFUS is seated in the BATHTUB. Along the EDGE of the tub are at least a DOZEN cans of CREAMED CORN, opened. RUFUS takes CAN after can and pours it over his HEAD, smoothing it around his neck. CU smearing it on his hairy chest and lower. He makes deep SOUNDS of pleasure as he rubs the mixture on his body. MED CU shot we see the tub is three-quarters FULL of creamed corn.


His current favourite is creamed corn with niblets. It’s the niblets part that creeps Geneva out.

In spite of or perhaps because of Rufus’ nasty lifestyle, on-going ooziness and general raw plumpness, I find him a leading possibility for future nourishment. Geneva would be a tasty gorge but early odds are on round and highly acidic Rufus. Roof! Roof! Roof!


There are several loud intermittent clunks on the backdoor.


Come in Wayner.

WAYNER PUNYON CLUMSILY enters the room and extends an unwrapped jumbo size 24-roll package of STEM CELL TOILET TISSUE and a card in a bright RED ENVELOPE.

WAYNER, 32, nephew of Wilf, tall, toned, tanned and incredibly handsome. His black hair and dark eyes accent his strong nose and chin and his smile brightens a room. Some women call him an Adonis. Just in front of his hairline, each side of his head is a SMALL INDENT which takes nothing away from his commanding beauty. He is immaculately groomed, however he wears a bright Hawaiian shirt that is buttoned up wrong, blue jeans and loafers with no sox.


Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-happy Bir-bir-bir-bir-birty De-de-de-de-de-de-de…


Thank you Wayner. How nice. Look Wilf, 24 rolls! And a card!


Thanks Wayner. Great gift.

WAYNER BLUSHES, his face deepens to RED.


On one-shot red-faced WAYNER.


Wayner Punyon, Wilf’s 32 year old nephew, lisps, stutters and, despite his disarming good looks, is a little tetched, a tad slow. Later in the evening Wayner will reveal his secret by telling someone at the party very privately, very confidentially that he was a “fortheps baby” – the epithet whispered to lessen the shame. The problem with Wayner’s secret is everyone at the party already knows it because Wayner has told everyone at least three times before at previous parties about his early encounter with the tongs. The only time he doesn’t stutter but still lisps is when he’s sotto voce about his gruesome birth.


WAYNER stands leaning AWKWARDLY against a wall, shuffling his feet, occasionally looking up. Whenever he has direct eye contact with anyone, WAYNER makes large TOOTHY GRINS his mother called monkeyshines. WAYNER quietly watches the others until WILF HANDS him a glass of wine, WAYNER DRINKS and eventually shuffles out of the room.


Wayner’s vocal uncertainties make him easy and frequent prey for Pappy who exploits Wayner’s limitations at every opportunity. Pappy likes to toy with Wayner by getting him to talk with his mouth full.

Secretly Pappy hopes one of these times Wayner will choke to death, which has always been Pappy’s intent when badgering him. Maybe this will be the day Pappy succeeds.

Despite his obvious and debilitating impediments, Wayner is a savant.


The cocktail lounge is a little SEEDY, has several TABLES filled with an assortment of PATRONS in various stages of drunkenness. HILARITY and CHATTER dominate the aural landscape.

At one end of the room a grand piano sits on a small dais. Seated and tinkling away at the piano is WAYNER, giving big MONKEYSHINES, dressed in a tacky powder blue tuxedo with a ruffled shirt. He appears alternately comfortable and uncomfortable on stage. A large fishbowl half full of bills sits on the piano.


Unemployable otherwise, he is an exceptional piano tinkler at a cocktail lounge called Chairs, Tables and Liquor, where he rakes in over a hundred bucks a night in tips.

For the record, Wayner has terrible acid reflux. I thrive in highly-acidic environments like Wayner, making him an attractive acidic pool. I like Wayner’s beauty, too. As you know I am well-practised at stealing beauty. Wayner is a definite contender in tonight’s sweepstakes.


Suddenly DELMA FLOURISHES in the backdoor, wearing large dark SUNGLASSES with her hair piled in a dilapidated BEEHIVE. Her metal bangles JINGLE in a familiar way. She’s a little wobbly but still DRESSED expensively in a light mauve silk blouse and dark pants, carrying a stylish handbag and a WHITE BOX bound with string and a card in a bright YELLOW ENVELOPE strides quickly through the kitchen, HANDS the box to Dearie and walks out the opposite door.


Happy birthday, Dearie. Chiffy over taffy. How daring. Don’t touch me. Keep this cold. I’ll be in the can.


Thank you, Delma. I wonder what it is.


On DELMA as she turns toward camera.

No longer the ravishing beauty we saw at her mother’s deathbed, DELMA has been RAVAGED. Her figure is now a THIN frame inside expensive clothes that appear too big for her. Her FACE is SHOCKINGLY disfigured.


Delma Achenhead, one of my many works-in-progress. She’s Pappy’s eldest daughter, widow of wealthy Ballsheath Achenhead. She called him “Scrotty.” Essentially, intrinsically, Delma is a world-class cunt.

I wanted Delma from the very first moment I met her in the hospital twelve years ago. In her day, she was pulchritudinous, an irresistible goddess whom hundreds of men pursued.

Want to know Delma’s delicious secret? Three men killed themselves after unsuccessful pursuits. That’s not all. Unbeknownst to everyone at the table, including her chipper sister, Delma has three small tattoos of a cock and balls inside her right thigh…


CU of woman’s white thigh with three black tattoos as described in high contrast to her saggy skin. She is wearing white panties.


…each representing one of her lovelorn suitors who chose death over life without her. She frequently quivers at her secret tally. Sometimes it’s better than an orgasm.



DELMA walks out of frame jingling.


The bathroom is large, very BRIGHT and features a white double vanity sink set with full wall mirror and shiny chrome everywhere. The floor is tiled in checkerboard fashion, black and red like the kitchen. There is a large old fashioned clawfoot tub and a tiled shower next to it. Off to one side, the toilet stands alone. The walls are decorated with many fish, mermaid and swan plaques from the 1950s. Every available corner has a corner shelf loaded with unlikely knickknacks. The shower curtain has pictures of pink elephants on it.

DELMA closes the bathroom door and stands staring at herself in a wall of mirrors. We study her face.

Cancer has wrecked HIDEOUS HAVOC on DELMA’S face. The tumour encompasses most of her right cheek, up under her eye ending near her ear and streaking in lumpy red veins toward her mouth. It oozes slowly through the powder and paste Delma just applied in the bathroom, reddish purple reclaiming its territory on her face. The rest of her face is lumpy with gobs of goo she has applied to balance the increasing growth opposite. Her nose is starting to sink into her face, a deep crease along her cheek runs up both sides of it. She’s given up trying to rebuild her nose with cosmetic putty. Her face looks like a kindergartener made a funny face using Silly Putty.

She takes several bottles out her purse and sets them on the counter. She applies various powders, pastes and putties to her face. She takes pills when she’s done.


I found my ticket to Delma in a few broken cells that reacted badly to her hair dye. The docs called me melanoma, Delma called me a beauty mark. But that was long ago.

Since then I have stolen her beauty, transformed her pretty face into a grotesquery that in just the right light could be the work of Pablo Picasso, although I don’t claim to be a cubist, or even an artist. I’m just a workaday plague following my urges. I’m an urgist. But I can’t do it alone.

Like most humans, Delma is an excellent enabler, dousing herself with denial, awash in self-importance and vanity. Her daily unrestrained use of cosmetics to try to hide my work has backfired to my advantage. I thrive on the cosmetics she applies, gaining strength exponentially with every oil, cream, ointment, powder, salve, lotion and unguent that she applies. Had she sustained from using any cosmetics or septic camouflage, I might have gone away on my own, discouraged, starved. (THINKS) No, I would have stayed no matter what she did.

But it’s much too late for that now. Long gone are the days when Delma can call me a beauty mark. In the bathroom Delma just took three Percosets and has four Ativans dissolving under tongue. She’s feeling like things are going to be okay…for now.

And that completes the guest list for Dearie’s fifty-fifth birthday party. I have some difficult choices to make here. Don’t envy me.

Already two secrets have been revealed: Wayner and the forceps, and Delma’s three commemorative tattoos. Many more secrets unravel shortly.



Cuntlicker. Cuntlicker.

PAPPY TWITCHES in his wheelchair with every word. The chair SQUEAKS noticeably.


Oh dear, his Sleeping Tourette’s has started. I’ll be a dearie and wheel him out to the veranda for a while. Then he can cuss out the birdies to his heart’s content.


Whorebreath. Whorebreath.


DEARIE wheels PAPPY through the FRENCH DOORS onto the veranda. The wheels of the chair make a distinct SQUEAKING noise that cannot be missed. She PARKS his chair at the balustrade.


Ballcrusher. Ballcrusher.


Oh how he loves those compound words.

DEARIE turns and walks toward the French doors which she closes behind her.

PAPPY glances behind him then a WRY SMILE dances on his lips. Pappy just sits, refreshingly alone.


It’s not Sleeping Tourette’s, of course. There is no such thing. It’s just old Pappy battling his boredom by deceiving the family for his own enjoyment and distraction.

Same with the Alzheimer’s. It’s only pretend dementia. Completely fake. He’s sharp as a tack. Delma is the only one in the family who suspects the old bugger is perfectly sane and fucking with everyone’s heads. Pappy has everyone else bamboozled.

What else is old age good for except exasperating your loved ones? This is the first of many secrets Pappy will reveal to us.


WIDE SHOT of room. Kitchen door is on extreme left. Two hallways lead off the dining room, one to the left leads to the bathroom, the right hallway to the bedrooms. SIDEBOARD to right of table. A dazzlingly bright CHANDELIER hovers over the dining table like a UFO.

SLOW PAN into table, STUDY TABLE. The dining room is dominated by a long table ELEGANTLY and meticulously set with shiny white plates, glistening wine glasses and bright cutlery, all aglitter from the intense chandelier. The CENTERPIECE is a tasteful arrangement with cedar and spruce boughs in which are nestled pine cones and other bits of flora. The table looks like it belongs in a glossy lifestyle magazine.

SLOW PAN away from table to sideboard on which more plates are stacked next to more cutlery, a large FRAMED PICTURE of EVANGELINE and a substantial bouquet of unrecognizable flowers.

SLOW PAN up from sideboard to CU of PICTURE. HOLD. On the wall above the sideboard is a three foot by five foot framed blown-up photograph of a MUCH YOUNGER Wilf, Dearie and Geneva gathered around a birthday cake with seven glowing candles on it. They each have a weird inappropriate GRIN on their face. The colours in the picture resemble the garish, unappetizing pictures of food in magazine ads of the 1950s and 1960s.

Like the kitchen the dining room has several INEXPLICABLE objects and colours that feel out of place.

WAYNER sits at the table and drinks wine.

Tethered to a chair back at one end of the table is the RED BALLOON. DEARIE has tied it to her chair. The balloon is about the same size as her head and, when DEARIE sits in the chair, the balloon FLOATS just above and to the right of her head, very close to her.

WILF and DEARIE enter from the kitchen CARRYING large buckets of PFC, boxes of fries, tubs of slaw, handfuls of condiments, bottles of wine setting them on the table, COMPLETELY OBSCURING the elegantly-set dining table with trashy PFC containers.

In addition to the PFC containers, there is a small plate of CRACKERS and an electric BLUE BOWL filled with CELERY STALKS sticking up like flowers.

DELMA enters from the hallway and sits.

EVERYONE but DEARIE sits with WILF at head of the table, to his left is WAYNER, DELMA, DEARIE opposite Wilf, GENEVA to Dearie’s left then RUFUS.


I’ll get Daddy.



Wine is poured.

DEARIE holds open the kitchen door so PAPPY can wheel himself into the dining room. The chair makes the same loud distinctive SQUEAK we heard before. He parks next to Dearie’s chair. Pappy has a tray on his chair from which he eats.


Now Daddy, it’s time to say a nice grace and bless our wonderful food just like you promised you would. Okay, Daddy? Remember, my birthday, remember.

PAPPY TWITCHES with flair to get EVERYONE’S attention, clears his THROAT dramatically, swallowing the phlegm that rises into his mouth.


Rhombic splinter fuck! Rhodesian sphincter tuck! Rodak a fee paw! Rode back a free squaw! Rolling peas around my plate wishing they were cannon balls aimed at all of your eyes! Jesus Christ don’t want ya to be skinny. Dig in, assholes. Nine pointless pynouns, three acromboid pissgardens, a verb, another verb, then the verb to end all verbs, one week on penicillin because of Patti clap and a crimson wedge of syntax as thick as your dick. A fucking mensa.

EVERYONE DIGS into the various food containers except for DEARIE who POUTS a little and admonishes her father.


That wasn’t a very nice grace, Daddy. You wanted to say grace because it’s my birthday, remember? Is that all you could come up with?


Nine clean nounicals, underbuilt lexiconization with a deflated infrequent verb up the yahoo, five abjectivities and swirly girly calendars. Clownpants, cloudbats and clawscars. Triple negatives dripping with hot chocolate sauce and cum. “Come again on the sundae, child,” old Ma Fritts used to say to me on those hot summer days when she’d strip me naked in her back garden and make me feel myself til I got wet while she rode around the yard with a broom handle pressed high and firm up between her legs howling like a banshee. I was about 13 at the time. Then inside her little house she’d make a chocolate sundae…


CU a woman’s hands sets down a CHOCOLATE SUNDAE on a chequered tablecloth. It has TWO mounds of ice cream covered with dark BROWN sauce. Suddenly from off screen white CUM squirts onto the sauce, leaving glistening white PEARLS.

Young PAPPY, 13, pale skinned, tussled hair, sits at the table. Since he is SHIRTLESS we assume he is naked as described.

The woman’s FINGER mixes the chocolate and sperm together then scoops up a fingerful and puts it in young PAPPY’S mouth.


…but she wouldn’t let me eat it til I came cum juice on it. She’d mix the chocolate sauce and my cum together with the tip of her finger, swirling the colours on top of the two bulbous mounds of cold strawberry ice cream. Then she’d scoop up a fingertipful of the mixture…

Old woman’s hand puts her creamy finger in young PAPPY’S mouth and he SUCKLES it enthusiastically.



…and put it in my mouth. I would suck it off her finger as it pressed against my tongue and explored my mouth.

MED shot of MA FRITTS, 72, wrinkled face, missing teeth, crone-like, dressed in a shirt and ragged sweater. She STARES intently at Pappy.


Feed me.


… she’d say which meant I did the same thing.

PAPPY takes a FINGERFUL of the mixture and puts it in MA FRITT’S MOUTH. She lasciviously sucks his finger for a while. When a drop of ice cream lands on PAPPY’S CHEST near his nipple, MA FRITTS leaps with surprising agility to lick it off the boy’s skin, lingering at his nipple. PAPPY obviously enjoys this.


The runny mixture went in her mouth and she sucked my finger. I can still easily recall the specific sensation of her tongue as it swathed and massaged my finger. And that’s how we’d eat the sundae, one finger at a time. I wasn’t allowed to put my clothes back on until the dish was empty. Sometimes that took an hour. When ice cream dripped onto my naked body, she’d deftly lick it off. Feistycunts. Feistycunts. Who in the world buys feisty…”


Loudly WILF interrupts, with his FORK and his EYEBROWS raised.


I’m so glad we’re not eating.


Well, dear, he is rather lucid today, don’t you think?


You thought he was lucid yesterday when he was talking about racing his sewage to the basement from the second floor bathroom in the middle of the night and none of us noticing because we all had TVs up our asses. We don’t have a second floor.


Birthday, nice birthday. My nice birthday.


Abjunctive spinster with hung umbrella twat. Cowpuncture! Cowpuncture!


So much for lucid.

EVERYONE nods as they gnaw, nibble, devour or ignore the PFC.

RUFUS refills his long stemmed glass with white wine for the fourth time since he arrived; GENEVA motions to refill hers as well.

Using only their HANDS, RUFUS and GENEVA are voraciously consuming the food, their plates piled high with chicken, fries and slaw. They keep adding more SALT and even BICKER over the salt shaker at one point.

After gnawing a leg down to the bone, RUFUS makes a MOTION as if he about to THROW the bone over his shoulder, STOPS, LOOKS around the table sheepishly and gently SETS the bone next to his plate.

RUFUS and GENEVA both make loud satisfying mumbles and snorts accompanied by much head nodding.

GENEVA accidentally DROPS a chicken bone onto the floor, looks down at it and ignores it.


Chicken bone next to GENEVA’S thick leg. PUCE MOMENT, the household cat, walks cautiously up to the bone, sniffs once, pulls back in disgust and horror, hisses loudly at the bone, while backing away quickly.

DEARIE pecks at a wan piece of chicken like a bird.

WAYNER eats slowly but enthusiastically, nodding happily.


How’s everyone enjoying the feast? It’s my treat, just so’s you know. The meal is from Percy’s Flutter and Cluck, the best fried chicken in these parts.


It’s very nice of you Wilf. The chicken from Percy’s is always welcome at our table. Thank you for the delicious treat.


Th-th-th-th-thanks, Unc-unc-unc-uncle W-w-w-w-w-wilf.


Flutter and cluck, clutter and fuck, been down that dark hallway many times.

Like you, the food is special, Wilf, it’s special.

Your usual vainglorious generosity has supplied us with sagging golden chickeny parts, some apparently pre-gnawed, sterile limp French fries purged of nutrition that languish in clots of chemical catsup next to pallid wilted slaw. It’s a still life watercolour of foodity, beyond damaged, a food placebo complemented by oily patches of unknown gagibles. Reminds me of a certain family photograph.

DELMA indicates the wall picture behind her with her thumb and grimaces away from it.

Full shot of the gruesome family portrait on the wall.

PAPPY pushes uneaten chicken, fries and slaw around his plate with his finger, a look of disgust on his face.


This isn’t food. It’s already shit. It couldn’t nourish a wooden leg, a wooden nose or a wooden penis. It’s fruitless and neutered excrement, like the world, unbecomingly succumbing to the slumber and the dive demanded by daily comfort and hourly forgetting. Intentional stupidity squared, cubed, drawn and quartered. Things go butter with fucks is what I say. Butter with fucks!

We HEAR three high-pitched beeps then a long solid tone.

It’s the ALARM on DELMA’S WATCH which she wears on her left wrist. She shuts it off.


I’ll be in the can.

DELMA stands, elegantly ARMS her handbag and, A-JINGLE, strides out of the room. HEAR the sound of Pappy’s wheelchair squeaking.


Hey, you in the creased stanky anti-lock brakepad underwear pants.

EVERYONE looks at Wayner whose MOUTH is full. PAPPY wheels up next to Wayner.


M-m-m-m-m-m-me? W-w-w-w-w-wha

WAYNER coughs a little, gags, something snagged in his throat. Pappy’s eyes brighten. EVERYONE is watching Wayner who gags more intensely. PAPPY’S eyes light up.


Wayner, would you like a glass of ginger ale?

Unable to answer and starting to REDDEN significantly, WAYNER stands, arches his back and with a mighty heave forces a spray of semi-chewed “chicken” chunks out of his mouth, SPATTERING WILF’S sweatervest.

WILF’S expression changes from CONCERNED to MURDEROUS in a matter of seconds.


This is my favourite sweatervest!

PAPPY starts to laugh.

Scowling at Wayner, WILF brushes away FOOD PARTICLES that look like mutant chessmen on his sweatervest’s black and red checkerboard pattern. Wilf’s indignity and seared, quivering ego are obvious.


My mother made this sweatervest for me. Now she and it are besmirched forever.


As WILF tells the story in voiceover, filling the frame an old fashioned radiator peeling silver paint steams and clunks away rhythmically. A red and black chequered SWEATERVEST is carefully draped over the radiator. The sweatervest is quickly unravelled as a strand of wool is pulled from it by a WOMAN’S HANDS and wound into a ball by a YOUNG BOY’S HANDS. We do not see their faces, just their hands.

CU of WOMAN’S HANDS using metal knitting needles creating a new sweatervest as a YOUNG BOY’S HANDS feed the wool to the needles. The needles CLICK and scrape in a rhythmic manner which weaves in and out of rhythm with the radiator sounds.


My mother knitted this sweatervest for me when I was just a boy. She used the unravelled wool from the sweatervest my father wore. I remember pulling father’s sweatervest apart, dividing the wool into black and red skeins. My mother told me that my dad’s mother used this same wool, newly shorn and dyed the only two colours available, to make a gift to the man who became my grandfather. I remember watching my mother’s fleet fingers as they recreated the sweatervest, colours mingling, needles clicking. This time it was for me! She had me try it on and it fit like a glove. Now I only wear it on extra special occasions.


PAPPY howls uncontrollably.

EVERYONE is watching Pappy.

PAPPY’S LAUGH is bizarrely raspy from the emphysema, his LAUGH combines several unattractive wailing tones that ascend and descend.

He WAVES his hands in the air, slapping his knee and howling with ripples of laughter. Tears stream away from his eyes into his coarse white beard. He shakes his head in disbelief that he can laugh at all but the proof rocks him in his wheelchair which squeaks. Something akin to HAPPINESS washes through the septuagenarian. He feels alive.


Would you like a glass of ginger ale, Daddy?


Gingerquail! Gingerquail! Brakepad underwear pants, hey baby underpants. Seven subtilising syntactical retractions under the rollaway holiday cotton osterizer, where’s the verb, baby? and a coon skin cowboy bereft of a balcony, a baloney and an able-bodied abominizer, isn’t that right baby sticky palms?

EVERYONE looks at WAYNER who chews slowly and deliberately, REDDENING noticeably but not to the point where Dearie needs to offer him ginger ale. He never got any ginger ale the first time she offered.


What does PFC mean, underpads? Huh? Huh? P as in pagoda, F as in faxtrout, C as in Chuckster. PFC? Huh? P as in philosophy, F as in fluxthought, C as in cranberry salmon pomade? Huh? I’ve forgot. Huh? Huh? P as in psalm, F as in phantom, C as in seizure? What does PFC mean? If you don’t tell me, I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard…

PAPPY WAITS for the rote response from his family. Only ONE person musters a response.


How hard?


I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard all your children will be left-footed and have birthmarks that look like me.

A few snorts around the table.

Always plucking at his sweatervest, WILF makes small grieving animal sounds which continue OS.

PAPPY drops off to SLEEP with a sudden, unusually loud SNORT, his chin falls onto his chest. A tendril of SALIVA forms at the edge of his lips and, driven by his breathing, CASCADES incredibly slowly, haltingly, barely missing the frazzle of grey beard, finally finding footing and dissolution on the black lapel of the tattery old burgundy smoking jacket Pappy wears.


Pappy wears this same smoking jacket to all family occasions, and has for decades. The jacket was originally worn by Count Rogainov, a dark and hairy – I mean ape suit hairy! – figure in Pappy’s Old Country family. The Count carries an unsubstantiated legend involving cannibalism, impaling and inventing golf.

PAPPY snorts and WILTS into softness after two abrupt spasms.

DELMA SHAMBLES back into the dining room, small jingles.


I hope to Christ he’s dead.

HOLD ON TWO SHOT. PAPPY revives from his fake stupor, sees Delma.


Buck, boy, you’ve come back to me. Holy fuck, Buck, you weren’t hit by a truck after all. Oh Buck, it’s good to see you. Come here, boy, come here, let me scratch behind your ears.


Woof you, Daddy. I’m not your fucking dog. That ugly old mongrel exploded under the wheels of a big rig out on the highway decades ago. Remember how happy you were after Buck died because you wouldn’t have to scoop up all his shit from the lawn anymore.


One bedevilled humus human, three nounic skirls adrift in garlicky humidity mixed with seven de-accented garrulous nematodes who have free reign over the left-handed bread and ocean pickles plus one rare debunked uncle.


I don’t think Pappy’s dead, Delma. You were gone a long time.


I just had to touch up my makeup. I’m moving further away from pretty every day.


Soupladle! Soupladle! Touch up with her tomato soupladle, Crimbles has the cow, Symbols has the coward.

DELMA takes her seat.




Birthday. My birthday.


Three juvenile participles, a brief demonized scowl, liquid verbs, melanoma without stint, quicksand adverbs with tiny feet like dear birdies.

DELMA lights up one of her doctor-prescribed JOINTS of government issue marijuana.


Jesus, Auntie Delma, that stuff reeks!


Girl, I’ve caught the gee dee cancer, okay. I need this. It helps me get through the horror I am becoming.


Well, if that’s the deal, we should all have some. Pass that thing around then Delma.


They only give me enough for me, Wilf. Elsewise I’d be happy to get you all high as kites with tails made of sugar bowties and string made of tautly stretched zebra gut that, when plucked by archangels, twangs so sweetly your tears are unable to contain themselves and gush away from you like…

DELMA takes a LONG TOKE from her joint, holds it inside her skinny body and RELEASES a pale white cloud in the direction of DEARIE who breathes deeply.


…like Niagara Falls.


That’s beautiful, Delma. (SIGHS DEEPLY) Just beautiful. Ooow, I feel all floaty inside. Would anyone like a swelled hand serving of my pumpkin yam potlatch before the wagerers get more than they deserve?

DEARIE smiles and looks around the table for reaction.

GENEVA is re-applying her red lipstick on her tiny mouth using a small round mirror and a tiny tube of lipstick.

Suddenly, at the top of his lungs, PAPPY yells.

PAPPY (yells)


PAPPY cries out so sudden and loud, EVERYONE jumps.

GENEVA jumps and makes a long red LINE of lipstick down her chin from the corner of her mouth. With her hand she SMEARS the lipstick leaving a garish red hue on her chin. GENEVA wipes away at her chin with a white napkin.

RUFUS drops his WINE GLASS, which we HEAR shatter on the hardwood, startling PUCE MOMENT, the household cat, who LEAPS onto the table landing in front of DELMA, its rear paws on her dinner plate.




This is Wilf and Dearie’s cat Puce Moment, named after a 1949 experimental film by avant-garde filmmaker Kenneth Anger. On every family occasion, Puce Moment endeavours to have at least one strange encounter with Delma, the only true cat-abhorrer in the group, besides myself, of course. Never cared for cats much, their taste, I mean. Too brackish. And all their dander bungs me up something awful. That’s not to say I’m not occasionally attracted to a morbidly obese 30 pounder. I just pretend it’s turkey.


Unphased DELMA calmly BLOWS a lungful of used marijuana smoke into PUCE MOMENT’S FACE. The cat BLINKS its eyes several times, TILTS its head to one side, CROUCHES, LAYS its ears back, FARTS delicately and dispenses one brand-new shiny brown TURD onto Delma’s plate next to a small pile of broken chicken bones and wilted slaw.

PAPPY yells again.

PAPPY (yells)


EVERYONE jumps again.

WILF tips over his glass of red wine.

EVERYONE watches it DEVOUR a large section of the white table cloth.

PUCE MOMENT reacts to Pappy’s shout and the red STAIN COMING TOWARD HER by leaping three feet into the air, diving to the hardwood…


…and vanishing within seconds.

PUCE MOMENT darts out of the room.


DEARIE has a small WHISK and an antique DUSTPAN with decals of elephants being ridden by small dark children along the upper edge and she’s carefully sweeping up the broken shards of Rufus’ wine glass. RUFUS leans in from the top of the frame.


Tho thorry Mussus Ponygard. Thorry thorry thorry.


It’s quite all right Rufus. Don’t you fret your impediments about it. Accidents will, do, can and must happen.


What do you think Daddy means?

Expressed by unknowing glances and shrugs, EVERYONE but DELMA is flummoxed.


PFC. Plato Fucking Cares. P as in Plato, F as in Fucking, C as in Cares. PFC. PFC.

DELMA makes a GESTURE with her left hand.

Suddenly standing next to her chair and a little to her left is PLATO, bearded, balding and dressed in bright robes.


Plato, Greek philosopher. This guy!


Thank you for this opportunity to validate Pappy’s assertion. I do, indeed, fucking care!


Enough small talk. Say something profound.


Okay Delma, how about: Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools speak because they have to say something.


Very good. One more…


Writing is the geometry of the soul.


Say that one again.


Writing is the geometry of the soul.

DELMA gives Plato THUMBS UP and a wave of her hand.


Bam and bye-bye, wise guy.

PLATO dissolves away.



Delma succeeds in eliciting more blank stares at one time than she ever has in her life though neither she nor anyone in the room knows this, just you and me.


Merciful Christ munchers, what a sad patch of saggers, lowballs and droopers you people are. I can hardly believe I am genetically related to any of you.


“M-m-m-m-m-m-my b-b-b-b-b-b-ballth d-d-d-d-d-d-don’t-t-t-t-t th-th-th-th-th-th-th…”


There is no God.



Even with EVERYONE watching him and his face DEEPENING to the colour of Wilf’s merlot, WAYNER manages to get his point across. EVERYONE chuckles a little and gives Wayner thumbs up and shy smiles that say, “Good on ya, Gomer.”


Would you like a glass of ginger ale, Wayner?



EVERYONE is slightly startled but nothing spills or falls.


See. PFC, like I said.


Three sycamore owls, a dozen treble clefs, a sounding noun and a fixer-upper in a ten-gallon hutch.

We hear DELMA’s WRISTWATCH ALARM sound again, three beeps then a solid tone which she shuts off. She JINGLES out of the room.


I’ll be in the can touching up. (TO PAPPY AS SHE LEAVES) Asshole.

DEARIE busily clears away everyone’s plate. With SPECIAL DISGUST she removes Delma’s plate with the old chicken bones and new turd on it. DEARIE dispenses new plates all around the table while EVERYONE drinks.


I get such a kick out of all the run for the cure, walk for the cure, skydive, garage sale, sword fight and fuck for the cure that goes on. Note how you are after THE cure, as if there is one thing that mysteriously has plumb eluded you thus far, even after the full out efforts of your top scientists and billions and billions and billions of dollars spent on “research” over the decades. And another thing, settle on my ribbon colour for chrissake! Better yet let me select the only colour that truly signifies me, that references at least one element of my nature. I arbitrarily yet, under these circumstances, appropriately select puce as my ribbon colour of preference. If you’re not sure what colour puce is, Delma’s face has lots of purply red splotches, that’s puce.

Now that’s settled, I’ll let you in on another one of my secrets. Fact is, I have no cure. I’m not incurable, I’m beyond a cure, the cure, any cure. Curing cancer is like curing air or curing water or curing sunshine or curing volcanoes. It’s a fantasy. It doesn’t exist and no amount of money or wishing or ribbons or running or science can change that. The cancer industry knows a cure is a pipedream but right now it’s a vastly profitable pipedream, a huge bubble of denial in which everyone must remain suspended. Trust me. I will always be with you. But keep running and walking and donating and all the other shit you do for your own ego dressed up as the cure but leave me out of it. I will not indulge your fantasy, and frankly, don’t need to. Just keep the sugar coming, babies.

RUFUS stands and catches DEARIE’s eye.


Dilemma, er Delumina is in the big bathroom. May I use yours?

He points down the other HALL.


Yes, you may, Rufus. Aim carefully please.

RUFUS nods in thanks and disappears down the hall.


Who’s ready for dessert?


I’ll have a stack of soggy toast that a cow and a cowboy just shat on pretty please. Whole wheat, not buttered.


Oh Daddy, you’re such a joker. Wouldn’t you rather have the dessert Delma brought? It’s delicious!


Did she shit on it?


No Daddy, she didn’t. I hope not, anyways. Can anybody guess what it is?”

DEARIE’S voice rises an octave during the question.


I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. (SHE’S SQUEALING NOW) It’s…it’s…it’s…


Cheddar ice cream with dark chocolate shavings, apple-glazed sparrow droppings and crumbled spice cake. She always brings the same ice cream-cake dreck from Ida’s Ice Creamery down on Lonesome Street.


He’s right!


DEARIE PITCHES the two words so high that PUCE MOMENT, licking herself three rooms away, is so startled by the sound that she NIPS one of her NIPPLES with her front teeth. The cat dumbly watches a bead of BLOOD form on the tip of her bright pink nipple, licks the blood away and stares at the wound which beads with blood.


Right now, Puce Moment is savouring the deep-down sacredness of her own flesh…or cat equivalent.


RUFUS returns to his seat at the table. There is a dark round PEE SPOT on the crotch of his beige trousers.


Second call: who wants dessert?

Her question elicits wary headshakes, mutterings of ‘no thanks.’ There are no takers.


Well, it’s my birthday and I’m going to have some. See how I just set a wonderful example for all of you to follow. You only turn 55 once, you know. All of you did or will, just once, you know, so live a little.


Live a little! Yes!

WILF raises his glass, stands to propose a toast.


I propose a toast.


Are you going to shit on it, cowboy? Two run-down interlopers, three quick change barrelheads, a verb, the verb, every verb, and a subtractive adverbage hod.


First I propose the respite mouth gag for Pappy for ten minutes, just ten minutes, please, oh please, oh please.

Sensing the futility of his request, WILF continues.


I know…in my dreams. Anyway, I propose a toast to my stunningly efficient, immaculately compassionate, unwittingly brilliant, incomprehensibly sensible whore angel of a wife, darlingly dear, dearly darling Dearie. To you my love bug, my love plug, I plunge and pledge it all. Every breath is yours my dear one, my only one, to you, the…ummmm…to Dearie.

Glasses clink, EVERYONE chimes in, “To Dearie” who blushes and sheds four tears, three from her right eye, one from her left. DEARIE CURTSIES in a little girl fashion holding out the skirt of her dress with two fingers.


Thank you my beautiful family. Last call for dessert.

No one responds. DEARIE tippy toes to kitchen holding the skirt of her dress with two fingers.


DEARIE gets DELMA’S white BOX out of the freezer, opens it and stares at the unappetizing FROZEN MOUNDS. She takes a SPOON, dips it slightly into the dessert and puts it in her MOUTH. Immediately she SPITS the sample into the sink, making a sound of disgust and wiping her mouth with a dishcloth. She places the dessert BACK in the freezer, takes a full BOTTLE of wine and empty wine GLASS from the counter and returns to the dining room.


DEARIE enters from kitchen.


I think I’ll have wine instead of dessert.

EVERYONE turns toward Dearie with looks of surprise on their faces.


You don’t drink anymore, Dearie.



I do today, Wilfy, Pilfy.

DEARIE puts her FINGERS over her mouth and her EYEBROWS go up as if she has just let one her sex names for WILF slip out of the bedroom, which she has.


Under the tablecloth, Wilf vigorously touches himself on the crotch over his pants.


Starting an exchange brimming with SEXUALITY WILF smiles a lop-sided half-moon of teeth at DEARIE, who squints and blinks her eyes twice quickly, one of her bedroom coquette gestures, further exciting Wilf. DEARIE unscrews the white wine, fills her glass to the brim and moves the stemware in a slow ARC around the table, honouring each of her guests.


To me, five five today. To me, to tomorrow.

EVERYONE agrees, glasses chime again, DEARIE weeps four more TEARS, one from her right eye, three from her left. DEARIE sips the dry wine, scrunches up her nose and swallows deeply.


Is it better than ginger ale?


Is it better than pickle juice and piss?


Ish sh it better than a day in traction? I mean a day at the turk, a day at the track?


Is it better than, ummm, gypsy blood…Lord, where did that come from? I have nothing more.

Emboldened by the wine and the fake family feeling, RUFUS suddenly becomes ANIMATED and RELATES a family story. Just as he starts the story, DELMA, no jingling, comes and STANDS quietly in the hall doorway behind RUFUS listening to his tale. RUFUS doesn’t know she is there.


So, my brother Croy, acthually his name ish Croydon Bituminous Switzer.


T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-that r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rollth o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ff t-t-t-t-t-t–t-the t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-tongue.

WAYNER CHUCKLES and, wearing a smile that attempts slyness but fails, SEEKS fellow conspirators in his joke around the table. Finding none, Wayner is CRESTFALLEN and SHAKEN, turns inward.


Poor Wayner. He’s crestfallen and shaken because nobody laughed at his joke. Now he’s retreated into the helmet he often pretends he is wearing. I’ve never been in Wayner’s pretend helmet, have you? I hear it’s safe there. Let’s check it out.


Standing at the EDGE of a windy rock promontory is WAYNER, wearing the SAME CLOTHES as at the party but also a bejewelled gold and velvet CROWN and full length purple velvet ROBE with fur collar buttoned-up wrong – the classic royal monarch look. WAYNER holds a long bejewelled SCEPTRE which he waves in front of him as if addressing a crowd.


My loyal and humble subjects I command thee, with all my power as your king, monarch and sovereign being, to laugh at my jokes. Every one of them. I am funny. I have a sense of humour. I am funny.

A pirate walks into a bar…

WAYNER is DROWNED OUT by raucous OS laughter which fades after a few seconds. WAYNER smiles.


Did you hear the one about…

Again WAYNER is DROWNED OUT by raucous OS laughter. He smiles and waves the sceptre.


My wife is so…

Again he is DROWNED OUT by loud OS laughter. He smiles.


RUFUS gives WAYNER, who wears his helmet smile, a dramatic brow-clenching GLARE. RUFUS has a tic where he does a quick SHAKE of his head every time he gets a word wrong, as if he is spazzing the language out of himself.


Anywayth, Croy went to twain ingineer school for shix months and learnt how to drive big lurchamervins (HEAD SHAKE), motolocives, (HEAD SHAKE) locomotives that pull heavy things long ways. He was tap of his closs(HEAD SHAKE), tip of his clyss(HEAD SHAKE), top of his class, and the day he started on the reels(HEAD SHAKE), the rools(HEAD SHAKE), the rails he was earning eighty thousand a year.

On Croy’s very first run as an ingineer a guy committed suckersnide(HEAD SHAKE), supperglide(HEAD SHAKE), suicide by jumping in front of Croy’s lurchamootown(HEAD SHAKE), loochachovery(HEAD SHAKE), locomotive. My brother saw the guy’th face and looked him right in the eye a moment before his head exploited(HEAD SHAKE), expiddled(HEAD SHAKE), exploded, crushed under tons of moving steam(HEAD SHAKE), style(HEAD SHAKE), steel. Bam! Ouch! Stomach! Bone shards!


Looking down toward the track from the engineer’s window, an ARM wearing a silver WATCH which flashes occasionally is caught in the screeching wheels, FLAPPING again and again, slower and slower until it stops with the palm up and the fingers twitching slower and slower until they stop.


Croy looked down as he braked the huge ingrain (HEAD SHAKE), angina (HEAD SHAKE), the huge engine and saw one of the guy’th arm stuck in the worksh and flapping against the red road (HEAD SHAKE), royal reef (HEAD SHAKE), railroad ties. The company put him on streaked-out(HEAD SHAKE), trussed-over(HEAD SHAKE), stressed-out leave with full pay immediately and found a phiscolonist(HEAD SHAKE), pikesolidaire(HEAD SHAKE), psychologist to help him. That was months ago. Croy still has serious neuterstreams(HEAD SHAKE), newscovers(HEAD SHAKE), nightmares. He still sees the guy’th face in the faces of people he meets, hears the sickening thud as mooking mealtime(HEAD SHAKE), movering mental(HEAD SHAKE), moving metal encountered flesh and the vision of the severed arm attached to the metal machine…vivid, lawful, awful.


RUFUS is enjoying the attention he is being given.


Croy wants to go back to work but the dupper(HEAD SHAKE), diaper(HEAD SHAKE), doctor won’t let him. He just sits at home all day…”



Loud and with startling suddenness, DELMA needs to quiz the room.

RUFUS is so startled his red wine goes swirling out of his glass in slow motion and lands in lurid SPATTERS on the gleaming hardwood floor.

Standing at the entry to the dining room behind Rufus and Geneva, DELMA repeats. RUFUS turns awkwardly to see Delma.



She gets her wish as the room falls silent.


Wait! Your brother is named after coal? Bituminous, right? Am I receiving that loud and clear…bituminous coal?


Both my parenth love coal. Coal is very important to them.

RUFUS NODS and smiles around the table.


And what’s your middle name, Anthracite?

DELMA CHUCKLES at her own joke since no one else does as she returns to the table.


You guessed it, Auntie Delma! Rufus Anthracite Switzer. Rufus Anthracite Switzer.

DELMA, her grotesque cobbled visage stern and sneering as possible, GLARES at RUFUS who SHRINKS AWAY from her. She points a long fake be-nailed finger at RUFUS, her bangles jangle.


Two things, pig man. One:

DELMA points one finger in the air, jangling.


Naming your children, or anything for that matter, after fucking coal indicates serious low brain function, bordering on retardation, as in kissin’ too many cousins.


DELMA points two fingers in the air, jangling.


If you ever call me Auntie Delma again I will poison your well so deep that your personal baptisms a million years ago and a million years hence will be instantly fatal. Capeesh?

RUFUS’ complexion CROSSFADES from his normal ashen hue to a dustier, more dire shade of grey like storm-bringing skies. He believes Delma thoroughly and NODS his understanding to his future aunt-in-law.


And how do you feel about coal, Rufus?


I am ambient(HEAD SHAKE), amblevented(HEAD SHAKE), ambivalent about coal. My father disowned my other brother, Clench, because he abhors coal, will not have it in his house, on his table, in his cupboards, under his bed, no way, absolutely no coal. Clench even changed his middle name from Lignite to Kevin.

After a pause that is six-months pregnant, RUFUS reaches into his pocket, produces a small piece of walnut-size COAL and sets it in the centre of his dessert plate. AROUND the TABLE everyone STARES at the black object as if it is about to do something significant or at all. When nothing happens, EVERYONE moves their gaze to RUFUS.


I have a little piece of coal in every room of our apartment that Geneva doesn’t know about.

GENEVA NODS to the room with a pensive look.


That’s right. I don’t know about the little pieces of coal, just like I didn’t know your middle name is Anthracite. I’m not sure why I never wondered what your middle name… (PAUSE) Little pieces of coal? All around the apartment? Our apartment? Really? Where?


I’ll show you when we get home.


Yes, you will! And Anthracite? Truly?




I’m curious. Is Clench short for something?


Ah…no, jush Clench.


So Clench Lignite Switzer is your younger brother’s name, your name is Rufus Anthracite Switzer and your older brother is Croydon Bituminous Switzer, just so we get it correct in the family tree and everyone’s obituaries.


Clench’th middle name is now Kevin but elsewise, you are right. Are you the familyth generalogicalist?

RUFUS doesn’t even try to correct himself and does the HEAD SHAKE several times silently.


Yes, me and my handy pruning shears. We tend the delicate limbs and branches of the over ripe Pilipps family tree, trimming where necessary, lopping off testicular acorns when unsavoury gene pools lurk in the relevant present and threaten our future with even more idiot winds. You have an entertaining name, filled with punic possibilities and anagrammistic extenuations. I’ll let you live…for now.


We’re DIP and DAP, aren’t we, Delma?


Oh, no. How I wish you hadn’t brought that up, you silly birthday twat.


It’s true. Delma’s DIP and I’m DAP. She’s Delma Inez Punyon…D-I-P…and I’m Dearie Arnez Punyon…D-A-P…DIP and DAP. Daddy used to call us that all the time. Isn’t that right, Daddy?


Like two dollops in a diaper, dear goose. Clown cunts with indents that tab and tab and tab until there is nothing but tab remaining, three incongruent plucknouns, a dozen scorched shebangs and a glue gun in a boaboa tree.


Wake up Daddy. Wake up. It’s time for birthday cake. Remember? My 55th birthday happening right now all around you and me and everybody here.

PAPPY looks around the room, recognizing everyone badly and enjoying every precious moment of it, especially when he gets to name Wayner.


Oh Bertha (GENEVA) and Morey (RUFUS), and Kenny (WILF) and Thelma (DEARIE), and Buck (DELMA), come here good old dog.

PAPPY claps his hands at DELMA who scowls.


Of course, all of you have come to celebrate the fall of Rome with us tonight at The Forum. All the decorum, all the gore, all the viscera, all the soreness! The Forum awaits its first encounter with the beasts…and even cute little Suckjob Abeebop has attended.

EVERYONE looks at Wayner.


Hopefully a lion will chew off his head tonight.

I was just dreaming about all of you, every blessed one of you was in my dream. It was a beautiful dream! I dreamed I drowned all of you like you were kittens in a sack. I gave you to the water, to death without remorse, without condition, with love and a tackaberry full of Swanson’s hawks smoked and cured with dried Priscilla and prunella parts. Pitiful, perfectly pitiful. Seventeen consommé switcheroos with addendum and dummer ‘an fuck saunterkrauts, dildos awash with cruel brown anal pudding and me without a deepdish spoon…

WILF loudly interrupts, POUNDS his fist on the table getting EVERYONE’S attention. He tries to stand up.



WILF is taking a stand even though he’s having TROUBLE standing. This realization PUSHES him back down into his chair, deflated. He TILTS his head to one side and makes a small noise like a chicken. WILF and DEARIE exchange a knowing glance.


Is there cake?


Oh yes, cake. There is cake. I’ll get it.

DEARIE exits pertly to kitchen.


We fought those fuckin’ Lujacks in the blue canyons of Wisconsin, on the blistered plains of south Siberia and in the simmering rain forests of Haziota. We were outarmed, outmanned and outhoused under sacks of slippery but elegant edible ovaries, clutching onto each other as if every twat t’was a life raft saving us each from a life of rafting and rerafting, riffing and reriffing, servoiring and reservoiring. We fought them with our teeth and with our nails, clawed at their enormous throats and watched as they sped blood-like into the deep throws and breaks of the Burst Muddy River, to die tended only by the cresting sun.


You never set foot on a battlefield in your entire pathetic life Daddy, and everyone here knows it but you, apparently.

DEARIE returns with her CAKE which is a layer cake iced in bright electric BLUE with several lit sparklers poked in the top. The ASSEMBLY sings Happy Birthday in a ragged off-key fashion. DEARIE sheds four more tears, three from her left eye, one from her right, and starts to ceremoniously cut the cake, delicately placing each piece on a dessert plate as the guests hand them to her.


None for me, DAP face.


A large piece for me please mother.

DEARIE cuts and distributes her cake. EVERYONE eats.


More sugar! Yum, double yum with a canoeful of sugar cane on top. I am blessed to be enabled so fully by people. Insatiable craving for sweetness is our common trait. Sugar brings me up while it brings you down. The real zingers for me are artificial sweeteners. Even in my most evil moments I could not have imagined a more facilitating concoction than artificial sweeteners. Hundreds of times sweeter than actual sugar and used in place of or in addition to real sugar, they are like money from home! Extra bonus is they not only sustain me but, due to their chemical composition which is incongruent with human health, they also incite me. Ha!

In addition to the sweeteners, another example of humans effectively aiding and abetting me – cell phones. Glory be to the inventor of these little brain fryers. Over the millennia I have acquired a taste for sweetly sautéed slightly mushy human brain. Microwave ovens were helpful but cell phones answer my most erstwhile prayers. Billions of little transmitters held next to billions of little heads, dicking with the brain synapses and grey matter of everyone who uses one or is near one. Human brain is delectable when lightly phone-fried with a dash of DNA damage! Sweeeeeeeeeeet!!

EVERYONE eats their cake fully enjoying the richness and the air-filled texture. EVERYONE washes it down with large gulps of wine.


Why don’t you open your birthday cards, mother? Oh, before you do, cut me another slice of that yummy cake about the same size.

DEARIE takes Geneva’s plate. All the remaining CAKE goes to Geneva who SALIVATES eagerly and digs into the frothy cake with a very fast fork.


Yes! My birthday cards! Thank you all my dears. Let’s see now…

DEARIE arranges the three CARDS in front of her. They are the envelopes are the primary colours. DEARIE deftly slits open the BLUE envelope using a table knife.


She pulls card out. On the front is a photograph of an elegantly wrapped box with a bouquet of red flowers next to it. She reads the card.


“Don’t worry about the future, you will have a bright one. Don’t worry about the past, you can’t change it. Don’t worry about the present…”

DEARIE opens the card and reads.


“We didn’t get you one! With love and faith, Gen and Roof.” Awww, how sweet, kids! Thank you.

RUFUS beams. GENEVA ignores the comment as she touches up her lipstick as before.

DEARIE hands the card to Delma to read and pass around.

DEARIE slickly opens the RED envelope using the table knife and extracts the card.


The cover of the card is a happy colourful drawing of a smiling diapered baby with a pink ribbon in her hair with the words “It’s a Girl!” emblazoned across the top in red.


It’s a girl!


Opens the card. Wayner has filled in the birth information randomly. It reads “Deery came into our world on 55 days weighing 93 pounds 112 ounces, measuring 3 inches with a smile on her flack. Habbit Birt, Wayner.”


Deery came into our world on 55 days weighing 93 pounds 112 ounces, measuring 3 inches with a smile on her face. Habbit Birt, Wayner. Awww Wayner that’s so…ummm…nice. You got the girl part right anyway.

DEARIE stands and CURTSIES girlishly to WAYNER who blushes and smiles coyly. DEARIE hands the card to Delma.


This is a fucking birth announcement card, not a birthday card. You’re a douche but you come by it honestly!

DELMA SCOWLS at WAYNER, a-jingle tosses the card at him. WAYNER TRIES to catch the card, FAILS and fetches it from the floor. WAYNER makes a pouty lip at DELMA and hands the card to Wilf.


Never you mind, Delma. It’s the thought that counts. Your card is next.

DEARIE takes the yellow envelop, slits it open and pulls out the card.


The card cover reads “I Wish You A Happy Birthday” arranged like a pyramidal eye exam chart in black and white.


I wish you a happy birthday.

DEARIE opens the card and a small SNAPSHOT slides out. DEARIE catches the picture. Inside the card reads “Enjoy your complimentary eye exam card. Next year’s birthday gift: a colonoscopy. With inner love, Delma.”


Enjoy your complimentary eye exam card. Next year’s birthday gift: a colonoscopy. With inner love, Delma. Awww, thank you Delma. And there is a snapshot.




DEARIE turns the SNAPSHOT in her fingers and it REVEALS three people standing in a row: Evangeline, stern faced and straight-lipped flanked by her two smiling daughters, aged 12 and 14, in little bouffant hairdos and fluffy dresses.


Remember that day?

DEARIE hums slightly, brow wrinkled in recall. We HEAR the wheelchair squeaking OS.


Ummm, that’s you, me and mother. We’re all dolled up but I don’t recall the day, no. A birthday? What happened, Delma?

Curious, PAPPY wheels over to Dearie and leans in to see the snapshot.


That’s us all right. And it was a birthday, my fourteenth birthday which was also the day I went to my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I have dear old Pappy and the family binges to thank for that.

DELMA LIFTS her wine glass toward Pappy as a small mocking gesture.


That’s right! You were the first one in the family to join AA. I had forgotten that. I try to remember things that keep me chipper.

PAPPY’S CAKE sits untouched on his chair tray. Suddenly PAPPY RAISES his arms and makes a descending WHISTLE like a falling bomb. With both hands he PUMMELS his cake into flattened pieces and makes explosion sounds.


But the war’s worst day, the omega, the unclustered funk that shattered against a full August moon unbegating unsung songbirds, mute against the descending rupture of the vaginal sun as it penetrated the darkness once more, stretching as far inward as it can before ejaculating another dawn in our faces, that time was the worst. We men, brave and unbrave, peopled the trenches day and night, the sky flared and flashed, the air went stale and lethal, our skin crawled. We waited in the dirt, wondering when the gas would start to roll toward us on the heels of a small breeze, sucked into our lungs before we can grab a mask or leap away. Those moments you could look up and down the trenches…


Deep trenches that curve away are peopled by battle-weary UNIFORMED SOLDIERS, guns at hand, with their COCKS in their hands jerking off. OS explosions are synced up with ejaculations. It’s a quick but provocative scene.


…and see nothing but soldiers jerking off, maybe for the last time, the little death that fends off the big death, hot white cum on itchy wool, and me too with my hand around my hot firm dick, maybe for the last time. Miles and miles of hard-ons.


There is a long silence in the room. You can hear a pine droop.

PAPPY smiles as he surveys the rapt faces of his unbecoming family.

Out of the sombre silence, jangles jingle.


That’s dog shit!


DELMA points a long fake FINGERNAIL decorated with tiny dancing figures at Pappy, her voice the quaver of a chisel eating rust, bangles a-jangle.


Piles of it all over the yard. Now get out there with your anvil and your chimes and clean it off the lawn. Until you do that, no allowance and no masturbation for you, young man, none. Hands behind your back at all times. Remember how that feels? Remember?


This resonates deeply and painfully for me. I am wincing on the inside like I was taught at Calamity School. I reverberate with the Bellows from Hell, otherwise known as My Father’s Voice as it flows with earnest anger and honest stupidity from the mouth of his spry and feisty first born, Diluth, Downer or whatever her fucking name turned out to be. Also as taught, I proceed with the intentional emotion-wrecking manoeuvre of suddenly changing the subject.

Oh look, Winifred has laid an egg.

PAPPY POINTS under Wilf’s chair.


There is a round white ORB. In fact, it’s a golf ball that psychotically-bored Puce Moment very occasionally bats about for diversion but to Pappy, it is an EGG. As if to support his claim an EGG TOOTH appears from inside the golf ball, the shell CRACKS and quakes and SHATTERS. A small FEATHERY HEAD the colours of fresh green broccoli and stale brown broccoli appears. Its eyes open revealing small BLUE EDDIES that swirl clockwise back into the critter’s head. It awkwardly SHAKES off the shell that is gooey inside, STRETCHES to its full height of an inch and five-eighths and CROWS several phlegmy eerie GREETINGS to the world.


The eerie CROW of the newly hatched critter makes a row of PUCE MOMENT’S spine hairs stand straight up causing the cat to have a small orgasm denoted by a sudden intake of breath and a sound like squeaky hinges.


The newborn CRITTER wobbles out from under WILF’S the chair shaking its wet head.

EVERYONE is looking under Wilf’s chair, even WILF who eventually, inevitably FALLS with a clatter flat on his face, CRUSHING the newborn to death. DEARIE rushes, somewhat wobbly, to WILF’S aid and helps him regain his seat. WILF, wild-eyed, grinning and horny from just killing something, PICKS critter bits (or maybe even the entire crushed critter) off his beleaguered sweatervest with one hand and FONDLES his crotch with the other.

With Wilf vertical, DEARIE returns to her end of the table and fills her glass from a new bottle of wine. She smiles Grand Canyon style at the assembly of sodden souls before her.


I’d like to propose another toast. I am fifty five years old today. Twelve years ago moments before Mother died she told me something that has clung to me like plastic cherries on Granny’s Easter bonnet ever since. It was a prediction of what happens on a very specific day, a promise, maybe. That day is…

DEARIE takes a long pregnant pause for dramatic effect.


That day is…tomorrow.


W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-hat-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-thup-thup-thupposed t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-…


Suckling Samaritans, Wanker, you can never remember what happens tomorrow, or yesterday or today for that matter.


…t-t-t-t-t-t-t-to ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…

DEARIE cuts Wayner off to EVERYONE’S relief.


Thanks for asking Wayner. Well, let me tell you what’s supposed to happen tomorrow. On her deathbed Mother said that the day after I turn 55 years old, which would be first today and then tomorrow…

DEARIE makes a small curtsy and smiles demurely.


WILF is FONDLING himself under the tablecloth again.

DEARIE smiles and curtsies twice more.


Mother said that the day after that, such as would be tomorrow, I will be able to see auras, our bright glows that we all keep hidden. Now I know no one is surprised by this as it has been an endlessly fascinating topic of family discussion for the last twelve years. My toast has a double purpose. First I salute Mother who, despite her preference for budgie birds, managed to raise a couple of fine children.


Really? Who?


Why Delma, you and me, of course! Who else could it be?


The fucking budgie fucking birds, she was always with the fucking birds. Remember the time we cut one’s head off with the big scissors from the junk drawer, plucked it, cooked it and ate it? It tasted like chicken.

DEARIE admonishes her sister as chipper as chipper can chip.


Delma, that never happened. It happened only in your mind. It never happened anywhere else but there. You know that Delma.


God, what a bitter cunt she was! I used to feed the fucking budgies beebees and watch them try to shit them out. God, how they squawked! Like chickens on a hot tin roof. One time Mom found a beebee inside a budgie bird egg.


Delma, none of that ever happened either. You are very creative tonight, aren’t you? Anyway, my first toast is to Mother. She got us through.

DEARIE lifts her GLASS high, and, with eyebrows as raised as possible to encourage everyone, manages to honour her mother. There is a heartless CLINKING of glasses followed by a robust quaff from everyone’s respective receptacles. DELMA spills some down the front of her blouse, most everyone else manages some in their mouth. DEARIE, least drunk, has some catching up to do so DOUBLE QUAFFS twice before the next phase of her toast begins in earnest. PAPPY snorts and jerks in his chair. His eyes pop open.


You know, kids, your mother got me so hard one time I burst a blood vessel in my cock. I surely did. Your momma was a hot babe under the sheets; she could dance like a dainty ballerina one minute and grind you through the seven fucking wonders of the fucking world like a milkmaid the next.


WILF, RUFUS and WAYNER are FONDLING themselves over their pants.

PAPPY wheels himself over to the sideboard near Evangeline’s PICTURE, rapt in her image, PULLS at his crotch.


She was the Moaning fucking Lisa in bed, coy and bitchy, fiery and sporting, ever sporting. We did threesomes with my brother Ethan a few times. She liked both of us alone or together…

DEARIE makes a motion to stop Daddy but instead she quaffs her glass dry and refills it to the brim.

With wistful remembrance PAPPY recalls his first meeting with Evangeline.


The first time I laid eyes on your mother was in a dive called Crunchy’s Broken Teeth Grill.


A lurid sign reads Crunchy’s Broken Teeth Grill over an alcove doorway. FOLLOW through the door inside.


BOOTHS line a wall painted to LOOK LIKE a window overlooking a street in a small town. Tables and a bar complete the room. The decor is a bizarre combination of incongruent styles and objects.

The JUKEBOX plays an old country song (try for Sea of Heartbreak by Don Gibson) and there is an ambience of baby talk, intermittent roars and screeches and the usual sounds of a cafe but heightened, highly lucid and near.

In one corner standing around a table are four middle-aged, slightly overweight, pale skinned, hairy-bodied MEN wearing only large baby DIAPERS and baby BONNETS, sucking on baby BOTTLES. One of the babies is filling his baby bottle with WHISKY from a bottle on the table. They ga ga and goo goo like babies.


Crunchy’s attracted small bands of alcoholic babies…

CU of GLASS of dark liquor held by hand with ARM extending back toward a skinny body and a gaunt face. The hand begins to SHAKE, the glasses clicks against the table. The shaking becomes more violent, the glass shakes wildly and the booze FLIES all around. The face in the background becomes increasingly MANIC. The sound of the glass against the table is a certain rhythm against the anguished howls of the drinker.


…post-electroshock patients…

In a booth alone is a SALESMAN, 30s, wearing a white shirt and a wide tie with SOUP STAINS on it. He eats soup and SPILLS more on his tie. His hair is a mess, a sea of out-of-control cowlicks which he seeks to smooth with frequent self-conscious hand motions. It becomes obvious he can’t eat soup and pat his hair at the same time.


…and pink slime salesmen with stains on their neckties and unmooed cowlicks. Crunchy’s was at the corner of Sawbuck and Bucksaw. It’s gone now. There’s a nuclear power plantation on that corner today and tomorrow…and forever.

At one end of Crunchy’s, under bright spotlights in the shape of an arc, are five stone PEDESTALS, about six feet high. The only one occupied is the CENTRE one on which young EVANGELINE sits, dressed in a 1950s party dress a la Dearie, her feet crossed and swinging.

Next to the pedestal is MOJOKER, 30s, a handsome, dark-skinned man from INDIA, wearing a garish suit and sunglasses that flash on and off is making outlandish MOTIONS of presentation with his arms and body toward EVANGELINE on the pedestal. PAN to hold shot of MOJOKER’S crotch.


Your mother was seated high atop one of the pedestals. I was introduced to her by a tall brown man who was a friend of hers named Mojoker, so named because he had a large mojo which barely fit inside your mother and didn’t fit inside me at all.


DEARIE stares at her father.


Birthday! Daddy, still my birthday!

PAPPY smiles. He’s having a great time.


Crunchy’s was about a hundred yards from the Suez Canal, not the whorehouse on 17th but the real Suez Canal…in Egypt. Oh, the smell! Pee-hew!! I still get nasal memory whiffs of it when the grime reaper reaches down with his scouring pad and Comet Cleanser to try to expunge me again once and for all. I hate the look on his face. If that look had a smell, it would be the Suez Canal. Take a deep breath. Can you smell it?

EVERYONE around the table takes a DEEP BREATH of air to try to smell the Suez Canal.

DEARIE closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.


A slowly flashing sign says SUEZ MOTEL.


A small seedy MOTEL LOBBY that is shoulder to shoulder with SIMILAR-LOOKING men: all handsome, swarthy, black-haired, their sweat-stained white shirts open, their brown chests thick with black hair. In among the tightly-packed group of men is DEARIE, wearing a bright 1950s party dress, being jostled by the crowd. She looks confused, but not unpleasantly so. Some of the men drink beer, some chew on chicken legs, some pay attention to DEARIE, touching her hair, her dress, expressing amorous intentions, slavering over her, opening their shirts for her to touch their hairy chests. DEARIE touches several chests.


Besides Pappy the only person able to smell the Suez Canal is our dear Dearie who is having a sense-memory of something that may never have happened.

In the lobby of the Suez Motel she rather enjoys the warm crush of male bodies whose sweat smells acrid, zesty, like lemons. Their earthy aroma mixes with the exotic fumes from the food and beer, making Dearie feel a little woozy. Look at her face.


DEARIE, still breathing deeply, is LOST in memory, her face a mask of daring pleasures, desire burns in her eyes. DEARIE shakes her head.


The room SPINS once then stops full and sudden.

DEARIE is a little jolted by the moment’s events.


The second part of my toast is to tomorrow. I’ve studied up on auras for years yet have no idea what life will be like at dawn tomorrow. Tomorrow and tom…


Three incontinent consonants abridged with scrotum hung along wires picked clean by the birds, red-winged blackbirds, the fiddle part in a skiffle shuffle that Lonnie Donegan originated back in the late 1950s in some sleepy sooted-up coal city in the north of fucking England and the dancers are all left-footed, a clumsy julep and…and…Speese. Speese. (WISTFUL) God how I loved that guy.

DEARIE’S toast is suddenly on hold as she stands with her glass still raised.


Suddenly Dearie’s toast is on hold as the subject of Pappy’s new rant grabs all the available attention the cast can muster. Speese, long a curiosity in the family and cause of enormous denial, was an “uncle,” the kind who fucks everybody in the household over and over again.

I thoroughly devoured Speece a few years back. He was very acidic with yummy spinal fluids, not too medicinal with a nice apple-pear aftertaste. Since Speece was such an inspiration to Pappy, I have a feeling Pappy’s about to give an award-winning performance.


Torpor. Torpor. I’m full of Torpor!

Whenever he says torpor or any variation on it PAPPY moves his wheelchair slightly back and forth, just enough to create the SQUEAK to which he times his words. He stops and grasps the air in front of him with gnarled fingers, his face a mask of knuckles.


Oh, Torpor.

PAPPY speaks in an EFFEMINATE voice, imitating some ancient, famous movie actress.


W-w-w-w-w-w-w-hat-th-th-th-th-th-th t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-orp-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-por?


Heavenly horse halitosis! Suddenly I’m not quite stoned enough. Wanker, to answer your eloquent quizitation, it means Daddy’s full of shit.


Still my birthday. Still my fucking birthday. Five five, only once so drink up you mothers!

DEARIE reacts to her own words with surprise and sly delight.


Torpid, so torpid, so very torpid, so very very torpid now, torpider and torpider, nearing torpidest.

PAPPY pauses to see if anyone will stop him but no one does or, frankly, can. He has the whole stage to himself thus becoming DOUBLY effeminate. Though the level of attention left among the assembled guests is low, Pappy steals 100% of it, thoroughly enjoying his moment. His eyes are wide and he leans out of his wheelchair gesturing to the heavens, his face a gnarl of coy dentures.


Speece! I loved that man! He could fly, fish and fly fish and we both loved it when I went fishing in his fly. His smegma tasted like chicken. Whenever I told him that and he’d laugh, his frolicky blond curls bouncing against the canyon wall in the sunshine. He smelled like old dog and new piss.


Med CU of man’s tanned muscular back with described hairs, visible off and on as he flexes his muscles.


His broad back had a fine covering of pale blond hairs that only made themselves known to certain people in certain shadow and certain light situations. Like waves of the heart, those little blond hairs rippled back and forth across his muscular cinnamon back.


PAPPY’S voice becomes shrill and his gestures adopt extremely exaggerated FEMININE qualities.


When he entered me, I always knew it, not like some men. They are barely in you, barely there, barely anywhere but when Speece and I joined in fleshy union there was never any doubt for either of us. He felt endless sometimes. I’d clench, grab and hold him inside me. He’d pivot 360 degrees on my clench as if to say ‘Hello, you have an international phone call from an Eskimo.’

PAPPY lapses into peals of screechy girlish LAUGHTER, fluttering his eyelashes, touching his face and neck, imitating a young girl.

It’s a horrid display that horrifies no one at the table, truly ghastly and not entirely lost on the room. The cast reacts befuddled yet fascinated.


When we were out in public, Speece would suddenly say very loud, ‘It drives me crazy that you are naked under those clothes!’ People around us reacted as need be and he’d laugh slyly, rolling his brownest bedroom eyes and getting me thinking about his ten uncut inches. He was an expert at that, getting people to think of his ten uncut inches. Speece liked to use Crisco, it was his favourite.


W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-hat d-d-d-d-d-d-d-id h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-he n-n-n-n-n-neeeed cr-cr-cr-cr-cr-cr-isco f-f-f-f-f-or?


Fo’ makin’ dem sho’breads, hon, fo’ makin’ dem old sho’breads.


EVERYONE but Delma is now TOUCHING themselves under the table.

DELMA starts searching and jingling in her handbag for another pill, DOWNS two of something. Three shrill BEEPS and the long tone occur again. DELMA turns off her wristwatch alarm, stands and shambles off to the bathroom for repairs. As she passes by Pappy she speaks to him.


All we ever wanted or cared to know is did Speese fuck you up the ass, Daddy?

Her pronunciation of the word Daddy brims with week-old goulash left out in the rain.


On behalf of all of us, thanks for clearing that up on this extra extra extra special day! You’ve given us all the perfect gift.

DELMA doesn’t even pause to hear a response. She walks down the hall to the bathroom. The door SLAMS heavily.


DELMA mutters to herself in the bathroom mirror.


What a coarse and sordid evening. Dearie’s fifty-fifth birthday, who the fuck cares? Not even Plato cares! (SHE CHUCKLES) Dearie and her fucked up family. Ugh. And Wilf. I fucked him once and he was swell for two minutes and a dishrag thereafter but, of course, I’d never say that out loud, let alone think that to myself. (SHE CHUCKLES)

Accompanied by her jingly bangles, DELMA inspects her falling FACE in great detail as do we in CU. MOIST PATCHES soak through previous applications of powder and paste. She gently pushes some of the lumps back into their place as gravity has caused them to sag horrifically. Her eyes peer out from her misshapen face. She DUSTS her face with a white powder that is soaked up by the oozing. Once there is a thin sheen of white covering the wetness, she nods and smiles grotesquely.



Three intersubjective balfs, a half-belf with a fly-cut sweehaw and the burgeoning barf from the furthest reaches of space landing with nounic phlegm, cunt juicery, count floozier and the madicinal effects of stun glasses.

PAPPY pauses in his rant to see if anyone will interlope into his madness and no one does.


I have seen the panthers and they are not friendly today. I have seen the panthers and they are not friendly today.

WILF makes a loud sudden agonized YELP, as if he’s been wounded.


Not the fucking panthers again! No, no! No! Not the fucking panthers. Not today! Not now!

Utterly bemoaned, holding his head in his hands, shaking, WILF can barely keep from crying, PAPPY from laughing.

PAPPY sings in his most mischievous “daddy” voice as if everyone else is five years old.



Lowly, growly, slowly, wholly,

Slick and slim, slink and blim

Dark as shadow inside shadow

Panthers mime a spicy hymn.


Everybody now!

WAVING his arms rhythmically as if he’s at a rock concert, PAPPY repeats his quartet of silliness endlessly.

EVERYONE but WILF sings and waves along creating a non-melodic choir. The waves are not in sync and they keep hitting each others’ raised arms. It’s just sad.


Isn’t that a sad choir? They are singing the Pilipps family mantra. Pappy made it up when the kids were still spongy mouths and drainy assholes in the crib. He has sung it religiously and incessantly at every family gathering since. Wilf is distraught because he doesn’t have the protective family gene, the psychic armour and numb familiarity that makes the ditty less than insanity inducing. Dearie has forgotten the second part of her toast and smiles, curtsying inside to herself at her own party. She is having a wonderful time. She curtseys inside to herself again and smiles harder. Suddenly Dearie has an idea.


Let’s strip Daddy naked, cook him and eat him.

As we see the assorted reactions around the table, CANCER speaks.


While the wine thinks that’s all right, there is just enough of Dearie left to sense the performative contradiction of her idea. Maybe she’ll reconsider.

DEARIE crooks her head, pondering as a bird ponders when it’s standing on one leg.





Or we could stripalo a piccolo, expunge a repugnantcy and clownclunk the beefalo castrato, all in a day’s work for an Excessive Recessive Obsessive Frontender like me. My fee is freedom from you, my ticket to ride sidesaddle comes enwrapped in plastic fantastic lovers piled dense to hide the sound, high to discourage the bottom feeders and thick to confuse the sniffer dogs. Right now in the world there is a sniffer dog pensively thinking, “What’s that smell?”


At least he stopped with the fucking panthers.

WILF still holds his head but has trouble configuring from his drunken confusion. He scowls and peers at the world.

WAYNER is smiling and DROOLING slowly but profusely. When Wayner gets to the drooling stage, he’s easy pickins for PAPPY who sees his chance.

WAYNER reaches for a little round CRACKER, pops it in his mouth and munches three times before the first gag.

PAPPY’S EYES brighten.

Another two chews, small gag and the cracker seems to be fine now, at least Wayner’s mouth is sending him that message. A few seconds later his larynx starts to retract from the cleave of cracker caught there. PAPPY seizes the moment and wheels up beside Wayner.


Hey, hairy hands from jerking off six times a day.

EVERYONE looks at WAYNER who begins BLUSHING uncontrollably, his guilt a sale bill pasted across his hoarding face. WAYNER takes a DEEP BREATH and his profuse saliva, quickened by the still-stuck cracker, sprays into his larynx, bringing forth fresh gagging and a growing look of fear along with a few pints of extra blood to rouge Wayner’s pale complexion.


Had they not had the Huddnuts hidden heinously hunder the he-bed, the spoon and spore-fed Zealot of Zygote zoitenly…

PAPPY’S rant is cut off by a roar of COUGHING from WAYNER who’s bent over in his chair, horking unproductively at the floor. WAYNER sits up and his face GLOWS neon-red.

EVERYONE feels a tiny blast of heat from WAYNER’S face. DEARIE fans herself with her hand. WAYNER clutches his throat, thin wisps of air sieve through the blockage making a small high-pitched wheezing sound.


WAYNER’S stridor AWAKENS PUCE MOMENT who cocks her head, stares, listens, blinks, LICKS her wounded nipple three times then returns to CAT SLUMBER and her nightmare about casters which we see very briefly.


In a bright shaft of sunlight on the floor, PUCE MOMENT’S tail is run over by something heavy on CASTERS, cutting off HALF the tail which spasmodically flops around like the severed tail of a skink. We HEAR the loud painful YOWL of a cat and see the mad flip-flopping piece of tail CLUNKING.

PUCE MOMENT awakens shaking, looks at her tail, flicks it a couple of times and relaxes back into sleep.



Would you like a glass of ginger ale, Wayner?

WAYNER makes CROAKING sounds as the other guests watch with contracted interest, unable to move, utterly unmotivated to assist, pretending this might not actually be happening. WAYNER is a dire study in BLOOD. His FACE is infused and approaching scarlet, his HANDS are shaking and ripping at his throat as he broadcasts loud and forceful gibberish that seems to beg for assistance. His audience is bewildered.

DELMA totters back into the room.



For chrissake, somebody Heimlich the fucking guy before he chokes to death.

No one moves.



DELMA’S words spur WILF into action. He stands with enormous uncertainty takes four baby steps toward Wayner and attempts to grasp WAYNER to pull him upright. WAYNER stands, his redness is turning to a slight shade of purple as his body cries out for oxygen. WILF, unsteady but determined, grips WAYNER from behind, clasps his hands together under his sternum and gives WAYNER a mighty yank. Nothing.

DEARIE shouts mainly incoherent words of encouragement.


C’mon Wilfy boy, dunk that sucker in shellac. Spook the gook mook. Oh look, there’s Jesus standing in the corner by the knickknack nook.

The KNICKKNACK NOOK is in an oddly shaped corner of the room. A strange assortment of knickknacks fills a floor to ceiling set of shelves that fit into the corner.

EVERYONE looks but only Dearie and the camera see JESUS who fades in superimposed in the corner. He is the classic handsome Jesus: shoulder-length blondish hair, strong aquiline nose, firm chin, clean shaven, wearing a white robe with a faint halo hovering over his head. JESUS nods and smiles wanly at DEARIE. He does a small WAVE with his hand next to his face. DEARIE waves back.

WAYNER’S red face is smeared with TEARS of fear as WILF gives the manoeuvre another try, both men now swaying under their combined alcoholic imbalance. WILF yanks WAYNER again. An apocalyptic spastic GESTURE arches WAYNER’S body which then freezes, somewhere between air and the choke. The two men are suspended together in a brief still life watercolour, a tableau that dissolves when WAYNER frees his passages of the debris, spraying it and most of the contents of his stomach up and out into the open air. Arcing and fluttering above the proceedings like gastro-fireworks, WAYNER’S productive regurg splatters to the floor in large globular dots. The alcohol takes charge and both men topple into a small pile on top of each other and Wayner’s upchuck.


Grunting and groaning in disgust, WILF and WAYNER with great difficulty try to extricate themselves from the sickening pile. WILF inspects his SWEATERVEST.


Now you’ve completely ruined my sweatervest.

WILF wails as he finally disentangles himself from wheezing WAYNER whose face is now the colour of five fire engines. Covered in his nephew’s vomit and drowning in his own drunken disgust, WILF tries without initial success to stand up. Instead he merely rolls back down in alky slo-mo, rejoining WAYNER who is on hands and knees, rasping and wheezing, stuttering and lisping, trying to communicate something his clogged and ruined voicebox can’t accomplish.

Through all this, PAPPY is having the time of his life. Surprised amusement at the beginning turns to uncontrollable howling laughter. His chair SQUEAKS as he rocks back and forth in glee.


Pappy’s having the time of his life. Although his face is red from the hilarity, it’s getting redder because of the little stroke the mirth just caused in Pappy’s old brain. He has peed his Depends to overflowing and a small trickle of pale urine drips from the rear of the seat.

PAN to leaky DEPENDS.

DELMA lights another JOINT and puffs dreamily.

GENEVA flails her fat arms at the smoke.

DEARIE, GENEVA and RUFUS have remained vigilant but detached during the manoeuvre, leaving the heavy work to Wilf.

WILF and WAYNER try to ascend out of their wet chaos.

DEARIE stands and walks over to WAYNER, bending over him.


Oh, Jesus just reminded me. Wayner, would you like a glass of Vistagoyim, I mean, ginger ale?

The word yes has never been pronounced so strangely or adamantly as it is in WAYNER’S reply.



WILF has regained verticality and his chair and wipes Wayner’s sick off his sweatervest.


I cherish this sweatervest. Good old sweatervest.

WILF mourns to himself, patting his chest, his FINGERS sticky and smelling of Wayner’s inner juices that have mixed with Wilf’s generous gift of PFC-for-all. The material dripping from Wilf’s fingers looks nothing like chicken.


WAYNER remains on ALL FOURS making pathetic whinnying sounds and wiping away the dregs that still sporadically emerge from his more productive heaving coughs.

DEARIE, still standing over WAYNER, hasn’t actually moved to get the ginger ale.

WAYNER looks up at her with red-rimmed and bulging EYES and rasps out the words ginger ale.

DEARIE remembers her mission and totters to the kitchen, returning almost immediately with an unopened CAN of Crimble’s Cream of Bologna and Spinach soup.


Remember that Crimble’s soup commercial on TV where they had the little dogs eating the little babies?

Dearie rocks slowly holding the soup trying to focus her attention on something.


No, not eating the babies, eating beside the babies and then the babies and puppies get colic and puke into the doggie dishes and the puppies, or maybe the babies, one of them eats the puke. No, I’m confused.

DEARIE hiccups as if she is in a cartoon, surprised that she isn’t. She smiles, giggles, curtseys, giggles and curtseys again.


I’m such a reindork.


Yes, you are. And, while we’re at it, fuck your birthday, raindog. I was thinking that to myself during my brief safari to your reasonably clean toilet room. I was thinking I’d redust my visage and return to the birthday repast with renewed vigour and my usual sweet sanctimonious self at least for a few minutes but fuck your birthday party.

DELMA raises her wine GLASS slightly to Dearie and drinks copiously, jingle a little. Ignoring her sister, DEARIE retreats into her kitchen.

WAYNER regains his seat, still red-faced but the liquids seem to be finished. He DRY HEAVES now and then. With a shaky hand he fills his wine glass and takes a small sip which goes down easy. He takes a larger sip, swallows and smiles. WAYNER dry heaves, waits, nothing, smiles. He lifts his glass and drinks heartily.

DEARIE emerges from the kitchen holding an empty glass and a bottle of MOP AND GLO. She sets them down in front of WAYNER who stares at them bewildered.

DEARIE takes her three-quarter full wine glass, drains it in one gulp and fills it once more.

WAYNER catches DEARIE’S eye who stares at the bottle of Mop and Glo then looks at WAYNER’S rougy visage. She is smiling like a little girl.



Wayner has just realized Dearie can’t accomplish ginger ale right now. Ginger ale is beyond her.

The six drinking people at Dearie’s party have consumed nine bottles of wine in under 90 minutes. Though impressive, it is not a record for Philipps family gatherings. Pappy could drink every other member of his family under the table and he held regular competitions with his kin to maintain his supremacy. Years before his daughters attained drinking age, he and they had drinking competitions which Pappy usually won. Everyone in the family has attended AA at some point, none of them successfully.

Pappy’s drinking days were curtailed when Dearie and Wilf forbade him to drink because booze interacts with the medication Pappy pretends to take. It’s the one turd in Pappy’s otherwise master plan. Not to say Pappy doesn’t knock back a few JBs when he’s home alone. And, by the way, all the sugar in all that booze is exactly the kind of nectar that sparks me into action. When I know there is an endless stream of sugar flowing through a body, I feel nurtured, right at home.

PAPPY tosses something else into the proceedings.


I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard…

This time no one asks the required question but Pappy doesn’t care. It’s a special occasion.


I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard all your children will be corporate lawyers.


Good one, Daddykins. By the way, here’s something even your best friends won’t tell you. You have about half a cabbage of snot hanging from your nose.

PAPPY puts his hand to his nose. There is no cabbage hanging from Pappy’s nose except inside Delma’s sensual world.


Go get your leash, Buck. C’mon boy, get your leash.

Ignoring Pappy, DELMA SNIFFS until she goes cross-eyed which makes her face even more horrifying.


It smells like knockoff Ralph Lauren #2 and puke in here. I didn’t know Purina made sweatervests, Wilfy.


It’s ruined, completely ruined.

His chin on his chest, a pout on his lips and his fingers still sticky, WILF tugs gently at the wretched garment.




Runed finery, swooned binary, suckled by the night, instant gravy on your stickinesses, stinkimesses, slinkidresses, humbled, unmumbled, spoken around and round, encumbered, cucumbered unslumbered, two tired boys, two tired old boys.


If youse all, the assembled multitude, would do and be so gracious as to excuse me, I’m going to change my clothings.

WILF’S first attempt at standing is unsuccessful as are the next seven. Eventually he manages verticality and does a chair back to chair back WOBBLE to the wall then into the master bedroom of their bungalow. The bedroom door closes heavily.

In a small child’s voice, his EYES large and questioning under his bushy grey eyebrows, appearing to be all of seven years old, PAPPY asks.


Winnifred gone bye-bye?

PAPPY’S face is still red from the recent merriment but he seems a little glazed, hazy, doughy. PAPPY ROCKS as if he’s holding a baby, smiles down at the child and sings.


I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard…, yes I’m going to kick you in the nuts so hard, how hard you might ask? I’m gonna kick you in the nuts so hard all your children will be pigeon toed, knock kneed, anorexic, dyslexic, dyspeptic, birdlike, turdlike and absurdlike. Coo coo, coo coo. Peace love dove little egg, little monster. (WISTFUL) I wish I’d had children.

PAPPY rocks the imaginary baby and SIGHS heavily. A long dramatic pause ensues so all may inhabit the life of Pappy’s latest words.

Suddenly DEARIE is revived and indignant.


You have childrens! I’m your childrens! I’m your childereens! I’m your childerettas! Me and her. Us.

DEARIE’S exclamations bring a rude SMILE to PAPPY’S hairy gob as he wheels over to Dearie and stares into his daughter’s face.


Oh, hi Squirt. Your egg was named Kissandra and your sister’s egg was named Sucksandra. Gosh, you were good eggs, easy to penetrate, quickly started your cellular division without being prompted much and hatched at the right moment when there was just enough insects to feed you! Isn’t Nature a marvel of Nature? Naturally, lain out and spread-eagled across a chasm filled with bubbling unknowns, you and your sister started life as lovely larvae, metamorphosed into beautiful armchairs and desired nothing in the world but scones without shit in them, saskatoons, fridges in a pile and a little bit of sour milk from Sheila the old dying Guernsey on Wednesdays. The first born came along naturally. Her name was Rosalita and she turned into a cancerous butterfly who smokes weeds and imagines that death is a bill you pay every month for eternity.


Was she pretty?


Pretty? Pretty? Oh God, no, neither inside or out. Hands up how many here have heard the word harridan? Anyone?

GENEVA has, DEARIE has, DELMA has.


How many have heard the word salt shaker?


Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-at’s t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-two w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-wordth.


One corn starched henpecked peckerhead, one bean sprouted curry-breathing intellipoop with italics for brains, a creeping jupiter stew of crushed shedadoh with proferesque provisioning, a link or three of greeking and reeking sausage marginalated in hammock-slung grecoaid, basted with gooseturd blasé and cooked to perfection in a convection by a chef with an infection, two erections and a bi-sectioned bowel. Oh, and a twinkle in daddy’s eye as worms crawl out of The Jerk Off King’s ears.

EVERYONE looks at WAYNER who has recovered from his coughing and heaving and breathes heavily, awaiting the long promised ginger ale. WAYNER shrugs.

RUFUS makes his first ever attempt at conversing with Pappy.


I hope I’m able to upsweep the coins of my schoildhood like you, Pappy Pillhopper, when I gets to become your elderly agent (HEAD SHAKE), ager(HEAD SHAKE), age.

PAPPY’S SNEERS hatefully at Rufus, wheeling toward him.


Who are you? Fuckin’ Popeye? One uncuffed diddler, three bass fiddlers, a doorstep full of eighth notes and a shot of lemon expresso jism, UNBEGUN, UNBECOME AND UNDUN!!

RUFUS visibly WANES under PAPPY’S villainous glare and lurid words.


I-I-I-I-I’d l-l-l-l-l-like t-t-t-t-to pr-pr-pr-pr-propose a-a-a-a t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-toast.

A pause while EVERYONE except DELMA makes sure they have a full glass, shrugging, smiling, bemused by Wayner’s offering.


T-t-t-t-t-t-t-to fr-fr-fr-fr-fr-free-free-free-dom!


To freedom!

EVERYONE clinks the handiest glasses and drinks.

DELMA has adopted the SMILE of a little girl whose face is ruined by cancer. The delight in her eyes shines as she watches something invisible happen on her unused dessert plate.

OS we HEAR several loud crashes during Cancer’s speech.


DTs and denied pain are standards in Delma’s present world. The sugar in all Delma’s booze and pills nourishes me. The little pills, codycontin and the pure unadulterated codeine she scarfs all day long, are quickly ruining her liver but I’ll get her first. Right now, although we can’t see them, Delma is highly amused by a traveling troupe of miniature circus people performing on her dessert plate, leaping acrobatically back and forth over her prettily placed dessert fork. Two tiny green iridescent elephants make tiny elephant roars and dance around with the troupe. Delma feels like a little girl again and looks down…

DELMA looks down at her SHOES with hopeful eyes.


…to see if she is wearing her going-to-church shoes – black patent, shiny with strap and gold buckle across the front? Heavenly feet? Alas. Not today. Isn’t it Sunday yet? When will it be Sunday yet?

Despite several loud crashes from Wilf and Dearie’s bedroom signifying God knows what sort of drunken mayhem Wilf has accidentally wrought upon the room, no one moves to investigate, least of all DEARIE who has warmed to an empty wine bottle and holds it incautiously between her BREASTS which fascinates WAYNER.


PUCE MOMENT dances a cat DANCE between table legs and people legs, pausing to leave a stain of cat’s ass highlighter on both WHEELS of Pappy’s chair and the sole of Rufus’s left SHOE. As we watch the cat, CANCER speaks voiceover.


There is no love lost between Pappy and Puce Moment. When left alone in the house with the cat, Pappy has often entertained himself with a round or three of Run over the gee dee Cat’s Tail with My Wheels. The one sensual kink in the beast’s tail is testimony to Pappy’s only success at the game.


PAPPY’S head ASLEEP on a pillow, a shaft of silver moonlight illumines his face. He snores gently but raggedly. PULL BACK to reveal PUCE MOMENT PERCHED, like a vulture, on the edge of the night stand right next to Pappy’s head. The cat hovers over the sleeping man, weaving slightly, TOUCHING his beard with her paw.



In those occasional unguarded moments when he forgets to close his bedroom door, Puce Moment will creep warily into his room and sit next to Pappy’s head all night staring at the old man wishing she had venom but settling for counting cat coup, meaning she could have killed him but chose not to. That is Puce Moment’s secret – wishing she had venom.

CU from below of PUCE MOMENT unlocking her JAW and exposing her shiny white TEETH as she bears down on sleeping Pappy’s throat. The cat STOPS mid motion and resumes perching quietly.


Good decision, Pucey. The hand that feeds you and all that. Cats are lazy so life’s good for Pucey, despite not having poisonous fangs. And her kitty psychosis: how much she beats herself up because she hasn’t the courage to shit in Pappy’s open mouth while he’s sleeping.


PAPPY gives Puce Moment the evil eye.


PUCE MOMENT scampers off down the hall just as the bedroom door opens and WILF emerges, sporting a whole new wardrobe. WILF and PUCE MOMENT hiss at each other.

HALLWAY ENTRANCE as WILF emerges from the bedroom. He is wearing a large untucked t-shirt that says “I’M WITH STUPID” with a big black ARROW pointing DOWN and baggy pajama bottoms – orange background with a recurring pattern of blue guitars wearing large plaid bowties.

WILF is also wearing an imaginary moustache that is long and pointy. We only ever know about his imaginary moustache because he frequently makes the gesture as if twirling the ends of a long moustache.

Leaning his shoulder against the hallway wall to steady himself, WILF slowly, crudely, slides into the dining room. All three dimensions plus alcohol cahoot cosmically and somehow WILF regains his seat at the head of the table, relieved not to be moving.

WILF sits with his PALMS flat on the table on either side of his plate, fingers spread, weaving, swoony, teetering slightly. With a slight shake of his head, WILF becomes present with the party.


There! I’m back! All of me!

WILF looks around the table for recognition.

DEARIE smiles at him.


Yes, it is me! Tis I! I know you might not recognize me because I’m not covered in vomit but it is definitely good old Wilfy boy, peckerhead in the checkerboard sweatervest.

Would anyone like to puke on me? This is your next big chance…anyone? No takers. Well, maybe I’ll just puke on myself, that way everyone will feel at home.

PAPPY’S wheelchair SQUEAKS OS.

WILF scowls around the table having formed this brilliant tirade in his mind while changing his clothes. Other than the distracted smile from DEARIE, Wilf gets one response. PAPPY wheels up next to him.


Welcome home, Winnifred, welcome home from your abortion. How many’s that now…eleven? twelve? fifty? Who was the daddy this time, missy? Who had the pudding this time? Was it the hefty barrel hawker that come through here and come through you and fled the scene of the grime? Was it the carnival dwarf with fists of steel? The street waif with the curly hair and goat beard? The crusty writer on mended crutches? Nobody will ever know whose smear your twat found delectable and divine enough to pursue into something resembling a steamed prawn.

With a look of hatred in his eyes, WILF GLARES at PAPPY.


Something else nobody will ever know, in addition to the multiple abortions, Winnifred has been circumcised three times! Three times! It keeps growing back!!

PAPPY lapses into contorted, wheezy laughter, twisting himself around in the chair, causing the wheels to squeak a little.

WILF POURS himself more wine and socks back half of it.


Okay, truth time, fuck dare, truth and only truth and nothing but the truth.

In the eon I have known him, Pappy has been correct once or twice before. Today, an ox specious day, I avow that all, under the spell of this hexed and deindexed table of goofs and goofettes, know I have, indeed, been circumcised three times and it has grown back each time. First cutting: I was three weeks old. It grew back by the time I was seven. Second cutting: I was eight – snip snip – but the cap came back. Third harvest: I was thirty four, Geneva was three, and it’s growing back again, slower this time but gradual, unstoppable. I’ve read that it’s a sign of evolution.

WAYNER quips as quippingly quippible as possible.


I-I-I-I-In wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-which d-d-d-d-d-d-direction?

DEARIE SNORTS loudly and wrinkles her nose at Wayner, even GENEVA and RUFUS SMIRK a little.


I’ve kept careful track of the comings and goings of my husband’s penis, including with or without some or any foreskin. He’s right. Wilf’s foreskin does grow back. I’m going to start calling him Shaggy soon if he doesn’t head down to Spuzzum Meat Market and have three-fingered Fritz lop off a pound or two. We could cook it up and have everyone over to feast on Wilf’s recurring foreskin. Red wine or white? I wonder…

At the other end of the table WILF drains his glass, twirling his imaginary moustache.


All this foreskin talk has DEARIE holding the warm empty wine BOTTLE between her legs right up tight there you know under the tablecloth so no one can see her doing it.

DEARIE gets flushed, smiles, the calligraphy of orgasm wrinkles her forehead. GENEVA watches her mother.


Mother, are you having a stroke?

DEARIE responds with a satisfied smile on her face.


No, daughter of mine, of ours, daughter of the hours and hours we spent trying to teach you the times tables. Remember, Wilfy? The fucking times tables?

WILF half smiles and feigns awareness of what DEARIE means by nodding balefully.


C’mon Wilf! You remember trying to teach Bo Peep what four times four is, what three times fucking eight is, what six times twelve is and so fucking on and on? So, what’s seven times fucking nine, Miss Peep?


Seven times nine is…ummm…fifty four.


Wrong. Sixty-three. See Wilf. I knew we wasted all those hours!

So no Geneva, I am not stroking, I mean, having a stroke.

There is a sodden lull.

EVERYONE is getting lost in his or her own stony drunken haze.

Seated on the edge of her chair, DEARIE TWITTERS softly, becoming birdlike despite herself.

GENEVA has dozed off, her head lolled to one side, a little DROOL seeps from between her red lipstick.

RUFUS hazily, lazily, dazedly watches the tiny trickle coming out Geneva’s mouth, transfixed by its perfection though Rufus is alcoholically beyond saying that, he can still think it, he thinks.

WILF is swaying to his own private music, CUPPING an empty wine glass in his hands as if it were a small bird, occasionally twirling his imaginary moustache.


Wayner is wondering what Mop and Glo tastes like. Delma has the German shepherd that barks until two in the morning while its owners have noisy sex with their windows open, by the mouth and she is violently throttling the rancid beast by ripping its jaws apart…

CU DELMA’S painted fake-nailed right hand tapping lightly next to a BLUE BIC and an exquisitely rolled dovetail joint.


… though her fingers barely move away from her next joint and the lighter they both need to acquire fire.

PAPPY, head tilted, DROOLS in slow motion from the corner of his mouth.


Pappy slobbers copiously at will, a talent he has acquired over recent months. Another new talent is his laboured breathing and occasional fake death rattles. In fact, right now Pappy is achieving death rattle nirvana, one of his ten best performances. Let’s listen in a little.

PAPPY’S death RATTLES dominate. It is a magnificent performance.


A magnificent achievement but, alas, lost on everyone in the room. What a shame! Since there is no cure for me, your treatments are a joke, so after-the-fact. Bring on your cutters, your death rays and your toxic chemicals. I am not afraid. Cutters can be effective if they are thorough and present with me. Death ray radiation kills everything in its path and toxic chemicals – you can’t even call them chemicals, they are chemo – poison the whole organism, most often ineffectively. The last two frequently leave the body so debilitated that I can easily find some place else to reassert myself.

Always sudden, always adroit, Pappy launches into one of his English lesson classroom flashbacks. Watch and learn from a master.

Next to PAPPY is a large portable double-sided blackboard that rotates. On the blackboard, in a childish scrawl, is written Blue Luke puked a cuke into Blintoo’s clitoo


Today, after we ignore the filth some non-erstwhile individuidiot has scrawled like graphite on the scum brown basin of life, after that we’ll continue with the lesson: leveling linguistic volcanoes and switching a few tornadoes into coffee clouds. I warn you here and now: If I hear one more screechy screw-headed balloon recite Bob Dylan biliously and with the aplomb of, well, a plum in this classroom, there will be a harsh flogging followed by a public hanging from these very same light fixtures that have satisfied the teachery aimlessness of previous lame brains who circumvened the zizzasection and Rimbeau’d the syntax until they constipated the throw-hues, the colours that belie the belittler and scruff up the scruffiness of the unscruffables who…

PAPPY pauses and looks around his class.

DEARIE, the girl in the pink chiffy over taffy party dress with vomit down the front at the end of the table, SLIDES slowly down her chair, disappearing behind her dishes and the tablecloth, sinking lower and lower like a ship going down in the North Atlantic, her party dress BILLOWING up around her cheeks making her appear to be inflating like a slow motion airbag. DEARIE is consumed by her dress and vanishes from sight beneath the table. In a few seconds the delicate cadence of DEARIE snoring arises from beneath the table, further arousing Wilf.


Drunk girl, no snoring in my classroom!

PAPPY searches around the table for someone to make contact with, to pierce with his absurd flow of guff.

WILF is aroused and can’t stop touching himself so PAPPY passes on pooch-in-law.

GENEVA awakens from her wine slumber and starts to sway to an unheard melody as RUFUS touches her breast and himself. Pappy grimaces and moves on.


Set and reset. Set and reset. It was the immaculately clean – he bathed twice a year – and inimically numbskulled English hysteric and grammatador Sir Witless Emptyshirt who, in 1751, said, ‘When you can’t think of the word, make one up.’ That sage barnacle has clung to my tender undercarriage without comfort or abrasion for lo, these many millennia. Cast that wisdom in stone and make everyone peer at it instead of going to church and school. It is all any of us ever need to know. ‘Make one up.’ Brilliant and crazy! Hey, you! No masturbating in my class!”

WILF and WAYNER suddenly look up with startled guilty “Me?” faces.

PAPPY SHAKES a finger at them. He rotates the blackboard and on the other side is written the first line of Pappy’s speech: “Mistooken, mistackled, misamused, that is the redactive, performative and kindless silk our lives are swaddled in.” He uses a red laser light to point to each word.


Mistooken, mistackled, misamused, that is the redactive, performative and kindless silk our lives are swaddled in. The poet and gout-inhabitor William Wordhenge said that profound thing. Now my classless class, let us analyze this bit of prose for its consternation and its replenitude.

I am aided and abetted in its interpretation by Marshall McLuhan. Marshall, are you back there?

MARSHALL McLUHAN, grey haired, 60s, distinguished, grey suit, steps from behind the portable blackboard.


Hiya, Papyrus.


There he is. Marshall, what would you like to say about Wordhenge’s hounded bit of doggerel? Preferably, something incomprehensible.


Sure thing, Paps. (CLEARS HIS THROAT, PAUSES DRAMATICALLY, CLEARS HIS THROAT AGAIN) There is absolutely no inevitability as long as there is a willingness to contemplate what is happening.


I don’t get it so…very good. A plus, Marshall!

PAPPY applauds ludicrously. MARSHALL McLUHAN smiles bashfully.


Thanks Paps. I enjoyed sitting in on your class. See ya.


See ya.

PAPPY waves as MARSHALL McLUHAN walks behind the blackboard. PAPPY carries on as if this didn’t happen. Turning back to the phrase on the blackboard and the laser pointer.


From the Joycean, to swivel, comes the mist, mist and misa of the world,

PAPPY points to the mist, mist and misa parts of the words with the laser.


No less separated from the ooken, ackled and the mused.

PAPPY underlines those parts of the words with the laser.


Thusly performing the same grammatic dance that the impossibles do when they cohort with the possibles, attractors outside the realm of moo, moose, milk, milch, mulch…

On the word mulch, several loud ecstatic stuttering GASPS and SQUEALS explode out of WAYNER, his eyes pressed shut in bliss. EVERYONE looks at Wayner who comes mightily in his blue jeans. Great and satisfying QUAVERS repeatedly lurch up and down his body all the while he produces a weird stuttery groan.


WAYNER’S blue jeans are developing a large dark wet SPOT at the crotch.

WAYNER GROANS a few more times. He floats on the warm sweet wetness that changes into a cool blue skydive later.


Would you like a glass of ginger ale, Wayner?

WAYNER’S face is contorted into yawning pleasure. In a too-loud whisper, shielding the WRONG SIDE of his mouth with his hand, WILF leans toward Wayner.


Did you just blow your load in your pants at my dinner table on my wife’s fifty five hundredth birthday?

WAYNER is turning RED again.

PAPPY, hoping Wayner will choke on something else, WRINGS his hands in expectation, the old dry skin SOUNDS like a warm summer breeze sieving through pasture grass.

Suddenly defiant, WAYNER takes a DEEP BREATH and GLARES half-convincingly at Wilf.


A-a-a-a-a-a-at l-l-l-l-l-l-e-e-east I-I-I-I d-d-d-d-d-d-d-didn’t c-c-c-c-c-c-cum o-o-o-on y-y-y-yer f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fucking th-th-th-th-th-thweat-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-ter v-v-v-v-v-v-v-vest!

From below the table at DEARIE’S end comes a loud shrill LAUGH at Wayner’s comeback. The laugh turns into a TWITTER then back to a gutsy LAUGH full of real joy.

Slowly, like a time lapse flower opening, Dearie EMERGES from under the table, leveraging herself back up onto her chair, her red gleeful face rises like a spring moon.


You are sooo funny, Wayner. You should be a comedian!


He was born with a tail! He was!

Fiery-eyed and vengeful WILF looks around the table for reaction, finding little.


It’s true. Wayner was born with a tail!


Oh he was not, Wilf. You weren’t born with a tail, were you Wayner? If you were, where did it go?


They cut it off when he was a baby. Wayner keeps it in a jar of formindable, fortidybull, formongoloid…

WILF, DEARIE and WAYNER join in trying to PRONOUNCE formaldehyde – not succeeding. Finally…


Formaldehyde! Formaldehyde! My kingdom for formaldehyde! Hi Ho Formaldehyde!


Anyway he keeps his tail in a jar by the door. I’ve seen it. Try and deny that Wayner.


T-t-t-true. S-s-s-s-o w-w-w-w-what!




A-a-a-a-t l-l-l-l-least i-i-i-it d-d-d-d-didn’t g-g-g-g-grow b-b-b-b-back.

WILF is crestfallen and stung by Wayner’s retort.

PAPPY laughs.

DEARIE, leaning her head on her hand, smiles benignly at Wayner as if he’d just graduated from Grade Three.

DELMA LAYS her head down on the dessert plate.

DELMA’S face fills the screen horizontally. Her head, cancer side up, rests gently and squarely on the clean round plate Dearie set before her. DELMA’S swept-up hair DROOPS over the edge of the plate. Her eyes are squeezed shut tight. The hideous contours of her face sink with gravity.

Slowly in a slightly pulsing flow a yellow LIQUID with the viscosity and shine of diluted lemon pudding starts to drain from between DELMA’S LIPS. The yellow liquid POOLS ominously on the shiny white plate. The yellow fluid is FLECKED with bright dabs of blood.

PAPPY, the first to notice the yellow goo, WHEELS up next to Delma for a better view. PAPPY WATCHES the slow pulsing flow. Slowly, almost involuntarily, PAPPY REACHES out his hand as if to touch the yellow fluid. His hand pauses in mid-air, suddenly draws back. A look of horror washes over PAPPY’S FACE, appalled he even entertained the thought.


There I am! Pure and simple, in one of my many guises, fluidly traveling on my journey from Delma’s sparse and shrivelling frame, having gorged myself on her flesh and marrow, her beauty and her pride, leaving behind a crumpled shell, a pill haven, shucked.

Now I range for a new body, a new home, someone at this table, the table Evangeline set and reset thousands of times in their lives.

DELMA’S head, still resting on the plate, is now SURROUNDED by the foul yellow fluid that keeps OOZING out of her mouth. The plate fills and the fluid OVERFLOWS the edge onto the white tablecloth. DELMA makes a loud snort spraying some yellow stuff onto the tablecloth. Slowly she RAISES her head off the plate. The downside of her face is plastered with the yellow stuff which DRIPS off her hair, ears, earrings and chin, leaving lurid STAINS on her light blouse and spatters on Dearie’s tablecloth.


What’s that smell?

DELMA queries the assembly without response although their increasingly horrified LOOKS attest to something dreadful. NOSES are touched to indicate foul odour.

In slow motion DELMA looks at the plate full of cancer, PULLS a slow finger down her cheek then INSPECTS the yellowness that covers it, sniffs it. OS the haunting VOICE of EVANGELINE with the twittering of birds in the background dominates DELMA’S awareness.


Oh Delma, your dessert has melted. Would you like me to feed it to the budgie birds? Would you like me to feed it to the budgie birds?

DELMA smiles and nods, still in slow motion.


Yes, mama. Feed it to the budgie birds.

DEARIE staring at Delma’s plate.


Oh Delma, your dessert has melted. Would you like…

DEARIE can’t take her EYES off the dessert plate filled with red-flecked yellow.


It’s not just Pappy who’s tempted to taste me. Dearie is suppressing a powerful urge at this moment. Wayner found release with his orgasm which blunted whatever need he had to be with me. Wilf, obliviously self-absorbed, is still twirling his imaginary moustache attempting thought. Geneva and Rufus seem contented, propped up against each other like two clods of dirt, missing out on my grand appearance, unaware that my decision is imminent.

DELMA stands, dreamily takes her purse with one hand while holding her face in place with the other, small SPURTS of yellow bubble from her mouth now and then. Her blouse is covered with lurid yellow STAINS.


You know where I’ll be.

DELMA shambles off down the hall.

DEARIE, drunk, sits at her end of the table, weaving slightly.


Well, now that you’ve gotten to know and, I’m sure, love everyone on my menu, let’s go through the dishes one by one and then I’ll tell you who gets to be my entree. First, the guest of honour, our dear Dearie.

DEARIE’S EXPRESSIONS change very slowly as she goes through a series of GESTURES, all seemingly meaningless to everyone but Dearie. Her gestures include a sitting curtsy and a puffing of her bouffant hairdo. Out of focus next to her is EVANGELINE’S picture on the sideboard.


Yes, our birthday girl who, like everyone else at her party, won’t remember much of what happened after the third glass of wine. In the morning, though remarkably hungover, Dearie will still recall that, according to her mother’s portend, she’ll be seeing auras, auras everywhere she goes.

Extreme CU of DEARIE’S face, pore tight. Slow PAN around her face.


After a brief stumble to the bathroom and refreshing vomit, she’ll totter back to bed and observe still-sleeping Wilf, expecting to see his shining aura. No aura will be available to Dearie which, at first, she’ll think is because she is still drunk. A small taste of water sends her back to the john and another productive session draped over the bowl. Still no aura when she returns to bed to sleep it off. There never will be auras for Dearie.

What Dearie failed to notice at her mother’s dying side was the firm and knowing wink her mother gave Pappy, indicating she’s having her youngest daughter on, one final bit of dark humour at which Evangeline was a master.


Same as opening scene.


I think so. The day after I’m 55, I’ll see people’s auras. Is that right, mother?


Yes, good daughter. You now know what a little bit of your future looks like, Dearie.

EVANGELINE turns toward Pappy, winks.


Pappy, did you hear what I just told Dearie?


I heard it, Eva. I understand what you said. If I’m still kicking when that day rolls around, I’ll be sure and remind Dearie what you said.


Focus on picture of Evangeline on sideboard.


Over the years Pappy has been enjoying Evangeline’s joke every time Dearie brings up her expectations of seeing auras.

So Evangeline’s secret has now become Dearie’s secret in reverse.

Focus back on DEARIE extreme CU.


And that’s Dearie’s secret – that she has a secret she doesn’t even know she has. The whole situation is so rich with ditzyness, irony and generational darkness that I’m going to let Dearie wallow in it for a few years. On to Pappy.

PAPPY sits slumped softly snoring in his wheelchair.


Pappy! Pappy! I know you’re not asleep, you old faker. Open your eyes.

Extreme CU of PAPPY’S face. PAPPY opens his eyes. Slow PAN around his face.


Huh? Huh? What’s…


Hey old Pappy. You can fool the family every moment of every day but you can’t fool me…ever. See, there isn’t much that’s real about Pappy anymore.


Three kleptonouns, one clip-on verb henge…


No Pappy.

PAPPY silences and sits quietly in the wheelchair.


Pappy is lost in his own fantasy world of simulated dementia and mock degeneration. What once he faked is gradually becoming real. Though he still gets a serious kick out of his life, Pappy is bored with the repetition and predictability of his family life and relishes the infrequent times he can entertain visitors like at Dearie’s party.

Though banned from two local malls for his loud and outlandish behaviour, Pappy still has one mall, Squash Squander Heights Condomall, that allows him to be wheeled about.


Wearing dark glasses, hat and funeral SUIT, WILF is wheeling PAPPY around the mall in the wheelchair.

PAPPY wears a bright green Robin Hood HAT with a long feather in it that occasionally tickles WILF’S face and which he bats away.


This mall activity will continue as will Wilf’s inability to handle the embarrassment Pappy’s public words and deeds cause. Pappy has only begun to invent ways to torment Wilf. For that reason, and the fact he’s a scrawny wizened sour old devil with not a lot of meat on him, I’ll pass on Pappy. The emphysema can have him.

As WILF pushes him around, PAPPY sings ragged, raspy but loudly to the tune of Favourite Things.


Bee stings and coil kings

And spaniels in tartans

Claptraps with dewlaps

Bingos and cartons

Glimpses of turtles,

Myrtles and woe

This is the way

We all need to go.


Clown pants and romance

And bright shiny kittens

Eagles in snowsuits

Mufflers and mittens

Porridge with tycoons,

Shamblers and foes

These are the ways of the world

I suppose.


When the ghee stings

And the bee sings

Chain chain chain


Flapjacks and backpacks

And spurs without shingles

Eggplants in ski pants

And cheese sliced by singles

Moonbeams in jars

Space without stars

There won’t be much left

Except for the scars.


Card sharks and pee parks

Glimmer’s glance glistens

Barn doors and oak floors

Speak but nobody listens

Who do you trust?

Cuz trust is a must.

Barn doors and oak floors

They both gather dust.


When the ghee stings

And the bee sings

Chain chain chain.


Clown towns and sea gowns

The spokes twang benignly

Burgy the dog smiles

As the pizza comes finally

Goose eggs and harps

Life’s flat without sharps

This isn’t something

To keep under tarps.


Back hoes in slo mo

With commas and comas

Glistering blisters

Deflecting diplomas

Bliss without gout

Kiss without doubt

Is this really what

The world is about?


When the ghee stings

And the bee sings

Chain chain chain.


Extreme CU of WILF, drunk, leans on the table with both elbows, his hands under his chin supporting his head. He sleeps and snores raggedly which partially arouses himself but doesn’t bring him back to the room.


What about Wilf the Pilf? Is he delectable enough to be my entree? Though I am attracted to Wilf’s recurring foreskin secret, an extremely rare, extremely funny condition, the guy leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ll let Pappy maul him for awhile longer. Besides, the world needs Wilf standing by. Leave it at that.

WAYNER, drunk, lolls in his chair, his hands plopped and limp on either side of his dessert plate, the front of his shirt still wet and lumpy from his bouts of vomiting, his mouth wide open broadcasting his laboured breathing and a deep and dark stridor-like wheeze that bespeaks something dreadful.


And then there’s Wayner, poor afflicted Wayner.

Extreme CU of WAYNER’S face. Slow PAN around his face.


What else can possibly befall the boy? I have a few ideas but in his case I’m leaving him for heart disease and stroke to catch up with. Luckily there are plenty of juicy humans to go around.

GENEVA, drunk, imitates Wayner’s wide mouthed, lolling pose except her fat arms hang by her side, fingers twitching slightly.


All round, puffy and innocent, Geneva doesn’t look like she has the most heinous secret of the bunch, does she? But she has a dark, dark secret.

Emerging a little from her stupor, by rote GENEVA fumbles for her little mirror and lipstick which she applies very badly creating a large red clown mouth. She returns to the lolling pose.

Extreme CU of GENEVA’S face. Slow PAN around her face.


It happened at her work. Geneva once killed a kid. She didn’t mean to, it was an accident she keeps telling herself. Two years ago Geneva was minding the red alert allergy brood who are kids with severe and life-threatening allergies. Allergies like Turks, not a turkey allergy but an allergy to people from Turkey, Turks. Allergies to pictures of cheese, not actual cheese which they can eat with impunity but show them a picture of mozzarella and their throats start to constrict followed by a quick trip to the ER.

This makes peanut allergy seem prosaic but, in Geneva’s case, still fatal. In the class was a boy so sensitive to peanuts that not only could he not eat or be near peanuts, he couldn’t be in the same room or building where peanuts had ever been. He couldn’t hear the word spoken or even be in a room where the word peanut had ever been spoken aloud without dire consequences.

To pass the time in the class, Geneva was making out her grocery list, absent-mindedly thinking out loud, she said, “Peanuts” quietly to herself. Not quietly enough.


SHOT of floor with legs of metal desk under which we watch the legs and feet of the boy thrash and clang against the legs of the desk. We HEAR the gagging of the young boy. Quick cuts to faces of other students, an assortment of expressions. The horrifying movement and sound gradually slow down as the boy dies.


The boy overheard the word, keeled over and died under his desk after a brief but horrifying display of thrashing and gasping. None of the other children heard Geneva say peanuts, which supported the deniability factor she used to escape blame. Dark secret, huh?


Extreme CU of GENEVA’S face.


Look at her, so doughy, so evil. Even though she’d be a juicy, sumptuous romp, Geneva needs to marinate in her guilt for a few more years to attract me. But I may not get the chance. Sometimes I can work successfully with diabetes sharing the same body with the same intent. Other times there are some folks that the ‘betes wants all to itself. In the case of Geneva, I acquiesce to my fellow sweet sucker.

RUFUS, drunk, is folded over the table, his face buried in his crossed arms. He looks up and surveys the room giving a couple of dry heaves, covering his mouth with his hand. He looks over at Delma’s plate and sees the yellow fluid.

He sniffs tentatively then touches his nose indicating the foul odour. Extreme CU of his face as he dry heaves again and again.


And then there was one. Rufus. Let’s see how he does with the skill-testing question. Roof, tell me something about yourself no one should ever know.


I was raped by a fireman three times when I was six years old.


Great answer, Roof. That seals it! The early odds were right on. Rufus is my new entree! Give the boy a kewpie doll!

Rufus, as corpulent and pale as a doughboy, betrayed by his own brain nearly every time he speaks, a classic end-of-the-liner sexually truncated early to ensure no future genetic influence ensues from his pud. There is some mighty fine eatin’ on this kinky acidic boy. So my decision has been made. I’ll have the Repugnant Eunuch marinated overnight in high glucose fructose pancake syrup and a slurry of seven of my favourite artificial sweeteners.

Besides providing me with a tasty treat, Rufus’ demise will solve so many problems, not just for others, but alas, also and mainly for Rufus. What! You don’t think problem solving is part of my job description? It’s right up there with culling the herd.

Wide shot of the gathering.


Speaking of which, back when humans were feral, running wild and naked in the world, you were much harder for me to catch, much more of a challenge. However you abandoned personal health to expediency and ease which plays right into my game. No longer the hard bodies from the wild, humans are soft, vulnerable and acidic, in a word, civilized, making my job so much easier. Since you breed like rats, there are many more of you to feast upon these days. Plus your enabling ways make my job easy. In fact, too easy, which is why I must resort to extreme tactics like haunting birthday parties for special sustenance.

To reiterate, Rufus is my undeniable choice. It’s been a night of revelations so let’s review everyone’s secret.

Person to person around the table. PUCE MOMENT is sitting on Delma’s empty chair.


Let’s see…Puce Moment’s secret is she yearns to be poisonous. Evangeline’s secret is the aura trick on Dearie. Wayner has a choice of secrets: the open secret of his hapless forceps birth or, his new secret, that he arrived sporting a tail. One of Pappy’s secrets is he’s faking the ‘zheimer’s and most everything else these days, just for fun. Wilf has the recurring foreskin blues. Rufus has this unattractive family coal fetish. Geneva killed a peanut boy. Dearie has a backwards secret she doesn’t even know she has. Delma’s secret is the three testicle tattoos and why she has them. Where is she anyway? Oh…right. The last detail.


Gleaming white porcelain around the sink which is suddenly SPLOTCHED with lurid drops of yellow fluid, the same fluid that has poured from Delma’s mouth. Many drops besmirch the clean white sink; some have traces of red blood in them.

DELMA looks at her ravaged, dripping VISAGE in the mirror. Her blouse is dark with the wetness from the yellow fluid. She moves her right hand around in front of her face as if she is trying to see it. Her bangles jangle sharply in the tiled room.

DELMA falls. Making a loud slapping sound, in extreme CU, her face smacks down hard on the red tile, cancer side up. Her right ARM is pitched so the bangles jangle to a halt in front of her hair. Parts of her face POP AWAY spattering the floor toward the camera. DELMA BLINKS twice, smiles wanly.



DELMA closes her eyes. Her face settles into a hideous pile of infection and disease as her nose and other pieces fall off. The oozing flesh on the red tile PULSES ever so slightly. Five seconds later her wristwatch alarm sounds: three beeps and a steady tone which persists.

DELMA is dead.

Hold for a few more convincing seconds.





SLOW PAN around the ruins of the party. Seemingly EVERYONE has deserted the room.

Study the TABLE which hasn’t been cleared so it is littered with grossness: vomit stains, wine stains, yellow cancer stains, miscellaneous cutlery and plates, food remnants, Delma’s roaches, tipped wine glasses, empty wine bottles.

Dearie’s BALLOON now hangs deflated from the back of her chair. PUCE MOMENT cautiously approaches the sagging balloon and bats it once with her paw.

We HEAR the SQUEAK of Pappy’s wheelchair. He wheels quickly toward the CAT who leaps away at the last moment, giving a blood-curdling yelp.

PAPPY laughs, STANDS up easily, pushes the wheelchair away with his foot and walks to the dimmer on the wall, turning down the intensity of the chandelier.


That’s better.

PAPPY stretches his arms and back, walks to the table, hands on his hips, ponders its ruins, settling on a half full bottle of red wine.

PAPPY grabs the bottle, takes a long swig as he walks toward EVANGELINE’S picture on the sideboard. He takes the picture and KISSES her face right on the lips.


Ahhh, you could fuck like a mink but you still kiss like a drugged sheep. Some things never change.

PAPPY replaces the picture, kicks back a chair, sits down and puts his feet up on another chair. He guzzles from the bottle, smiles happily, contentedly chuckling to himself.

PAPPY raises the bottle.


To freedom!

PAPPY chuckles and takes a long swig.


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12 Days of Christmas 2015 – Day Nine DTC Art


Dick Tool Co Art

Reid Dickie

DickToolCo Art page offers detailed glimpses into the collaborative art Linda Tooley and I created between 1977 and 1983. Our approach was relentlessly genre-busting combining film, video, photography, environmental art, abstract, collage, mail art, performance art and on and on. Dozens of examples abound on the page.

For an example of our video art click the pic above to view Kangaroo Birth Cycle Coat, a commercial parody of furriers from 1981.

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Filed under 12 days of christmas 2015, Art, Art Actions, Humour

Penis Fun #6 Willie on His Willie


A couple of years ago when he turned 80, iconic country and western singer/songwriter Willie Nelson waxed poetic about his feelings at this turning point in his life by sharing a short poem he called I’ve Outlived My Dick.

My nookie days are over,

My pilot light is out.

What used to be my pride and joy

Is now my water spout.

Time was when, on its own accord,

From my trousers it would spring.

But now I’ve got a full time job

To find the friggin thing.

It used to be embarrassing,

How it would behave.

For every single morning

It would stand and watch me shave.

Now as old age approaches

It sure gives me the blues

To see it hang its little head

And watch me tie my shoes!

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Winnipeg’s Slam Poetry Team 2015

SLAM 026

Left to right: Julia Florek (alternate), Amber O’Reilly, Larysa Musick, Tharuna Abbu, Mike Johnston

Reid Dickie

Competition was stiff and the scores were incredibly close at the Park Theatre tonight as Winnipeg’s 2015 Slam Poetry team was distilled from the eight finalists. Slam poetry is a growing subculture of modern expression that Winnipeggers are embracing. A large crowd nearly filled the theatre which surprised the organizers and elicited much gratitude.

SLAM 017 - CopyThe three poets who didn’t make the team – Kortnee Stevens, Rob Malo and Shelly Genthon  – gave admirable performances. The winner of the shiny satirical belt for the highest score was Mike Johnston.

Calgary slam poet Andre Prefontaine brought his bitter life truths to the stage with refined humour and compelling presence as the half-time show. Charming, erudite and highly tolerant Bruce Symaka (left) MC’ed the evening and rolled with the frequent audience jibes.

The four finalists will represent Winnipeg at the Canadian Festival of Spoken Word in Saskatoon October 18 to 25, 2015.

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Filed under Festivals, Humour, Slam Poetry, Winnipeg

Winnipeg Poetry Slam 2015

rob malo

Reid Dickie

Last Wednesday night I attended the first round of semi finals in the 2015 Winnipeg Poetry Slam at The Handsome Daughter on Sherbrook Street. Seven poets competed for four spots in the final with the last semi final round coming up on Wednesday May 20 at the same fine venue.

I was one of the randomly chosen judges and dutifully received the derision of the crowd when I scored a poet too low. In my role as judge I used Andrea Gibson as top of the class, Carlos Andres Gomez a notch down. Very high standards, indeed.

The event is held under specific rules with each poet performing twice in random order. My two favourite poets of the evening were Julia Florek and Rob Malo (above), neither of whom needed cheat sheets for their powerful, emotional performances. Their poems, in word and performance, stood above the competition in my humble aesthetic. Rob’s poem It’s Quiet on Langside at Midnight is particularly memorable.

slam2Mike Johnston (left), a Winnipeg middle school teacher who is currently the Winnipeg Poetry Slam Champion, brought excellent levity to the proceedings as the evening’s host.

Mike along with seven other poets will be performing on May 20 for a spot in the finals. Admission is just $8. The Handsome Daughter, 61 Sherbrook has a bar and a restaurant for munchies. The final eight will compete to be among the four poets to represent Winnipeg at the Park Theatre, June 3, 2015. Admission $10.

I plan to attend the next semi final and will have a follow-up report.

Read my post on the results of the finals.


Filed under Humour, Language, Slam Poetry

Shirty in Phoenix Mode

Gracious Greetings Gaggle,

Yer old pal Shirty here, conspicuous by my presence.

Back from my near-dearth experience when all my bands suddenly folded back into The Matrix and left me high and…well, just high. I should have recognized the symptoms of holograms: stiff little fingers, inability to pronounce “bilious” and total lack of spontaneous intelligence.

Never fear. My phoenix instinct has kicked in and I have a back-up!

I’ve just signed to Turd Polishers International (TPI) a new sensation from Jolly Old England called The Brittles. Four personable fellows – Johann, Paolo, Jorge and Romulus – from the port city of Livermouth who are real flesh and blood (tested them all myself) and who eat actual food. That alone should make them world giants against the dazed ditzy din of zeros and ones pretending to be human and music.

I have some PR tricks ready so you might as well start saying next month’s new household words now: The Brittles and Brittlemania. Their sudden fan base will lovingly label them The Flab Four. Why? Because all four Brittles are morbidly obese, that’s why.

Fat is the new black – you heard it here first!

Rotund rules!

My first PR stunt is an all-day, all-night eat-in for peace. The slogan is War is over if you eat it. brittles The Brittles left to right: Paolo, Johann, Jorge, Romulus. The short one is the Fifth Brittle, Riggles who is the group’s manager and pecker checker. This is an early picture from when they performed under bridges in Livermouth and area. I’ve toned them down a bit but still leave nothing to the imagination because imagination is passe.

Now that dadbods are hot news at the checkouts, I’m trying to convince a popular magazine to name Paolo as The Sexiest Man in the World. All they need is one shot with his shirt off and this 423 pound boy is centerfold bound. Careful where you put those staples!

The video for The Brittles first smash hit Lunch is still in production. The boys keep eating the scenery! Those nutty Flabs! Snort! But you can be among the first and trendiest people in the world to hear Lunch on the player below.

Are you hungry for more? That’s a symptom of Brittlemania! Play it again. Satisfy yourself.

Another new act I have in the wings is the duo Sperk and Ank. Sperk is an obsolete, deregulated robot doorstop from Japan who sounds a lot like a young Smokey Robinson but even smokier. Ank is “a loose bone collection (19% flesh, 12% water) that escaped from a lab where horrible experiments took place,” according to its bio. Ank plays ganip ganop and trills like a Siamese cat.

As an aside: ganip ganops are now the trendiest musical instruments in the music business. Even Bjork has a matching pair!

Sperk and Ank are recording their first single as we speak. Release date pending the ultrasound results.

That’s my teaser for the new TPI acts. Many more to come as I keep turning over rocks to see who’s under there.

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine.

Surrey on down,


Shirty’s previous email

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Masonic At Last!

REID masonsscan0001


Finally! After multiple tries I’ve Gone Masonic as you can tell by the hat. What a proud expression I wear. It’s not the Freemasons. I’ve been accepted into the Affordable Masons, we’re different. No conspiracy theories here. We’re affordable. No Masonic temple. We meet in Tony’s garage and knock back a few. No blood rituals or aprons. Just the hat.

The hat BTW has been handed down in my family since the Dark and Scary Ages when Coke came in glass bottles with caps that had little round corks inside them. That’s what the hat is made of – the corks. They’re shellacked and the tassel, made of sheared Aumlomian yak tail, added. If you are lucky enough to find one of these in a thrift store these days I’d wager you’ll pay upwards of 85 cents to a dollar for it.


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As Large As We Get – Fiction

Reid Dickie

I anticipate these family gatherings with a mixture of dread, curiosity and fascination. My parents are both dead and my wife rarely accompanies me (she’s developed a strong “distaste” for my side of the family) so I am left to fend for myself against the wall of mirrors my relatives have become, mirrors that reflect back parts of me I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of, parts that they still cling to dearly but I’ve let go of years before. I feel like I’m inviting a series of ghosts into my life, each one representing some family aspect or trait, each phantom wearing some undeniable characteristic.

Yet here I am, stepping up to my cousin’s doorbell, pausing before I press the button. I’m filled with a powerful urge to walk away, climb into my car and spend the rest of the weekend under a tree in a park away from here. Somewhere away from the memories and the pettiness, the hostile relationships between the cousins and the continuous need to be victims, always victims. If there isn’t an obvious form of hurt available, each family member goes out of his or her way to manufacture something/anything to be hard done by. That is how they operate, their method of being in the world. Not all my family is like this but the ones who aren’t no longer attend these gatherings. They have learned their lesson and grown away from the clan.

My finger hovers in the air in front of the doorbell button. I push it and a muffled chime sounds inside the house. Welcome to the world of victims. The door opens and cousin Reggie greets me.

“Will. Great to see you. Come on in.” It’s Reggie’s usual shallow, insincere greeting that he will extend to every one of the relatives that arrives.

“Hi Reggie.” I shake my cousin’s cold calloused hand and step into the foyer. Reggie’s wife Jilleen comes toward me smiling and gives me a big hug which goes on a little too long as it usually does with all of Reggie’s male cousins.

“Williston. When was the last we had you in our house?” she says taking my arm and leading me toward the living room which is lively with conversation.

“I think it was about six years ago,” I say. “After Uncle Steppie’s funeral.

“Poor old Steppie,” says Jilleen. “Poor old Steppie.”

Occupying one of the gigantic sofas in the sumptuous living room are my cousins Laurel and Lynton, between them Lynton’s boyfriend Carl. Laurel rises with difficulty due to her arthritis and gives me a short cold embrace. Lynton and Carl both hug me, Carl longer than appropriate, runs his hand over my ass as he breaks the hug.

It’s been about five years since Lynton came out of the closet to the rest of the family. I’ve known for thirty years that Lynt is gay and dutifully kept it from everyone else in the clan. I remember vividly Lynt introducing Carl as his “lover.” Aunt Frannie fainted, Uncle Frank turned away from them both and never spoke to Lynton again though before they had been close. Lynt’s acceptance by the rest of the cousin’s was mixed; about half of them didn’t care who he slept with, the other half used it as more evidence of their victimization. When invited to family get-togethers, several ask if Lynton will be there before committing to attend.

On the other sofa sits Uncle Treat and Aunt Claudia, my last remaining aunt and uncle. Both smile warmly though neither rise to hug me. Instead, I sit between them and put my big arms around their scrawny shoulders. There’s a flash and the whirr of Reggie’s camera.

“How are you dear?” asks Claudia. Not waiting for a reply, she continues, “I’m not well, you know. The operation was only partly successful and I have pain everyday. See this.” She holds her thin arm out to reveal large bruises. “I don’t know how I get bruised so badly. Treat takes care of me as well as he can but with his bum leg and shakes, he’s not much good either. Don’t get old, dear.”

I can hear a small high-pitched beeping sound I recognize as Uncle Treat’s hearing aids. Treat holds a black and white snapshot of two people standing next to an old car. He turns to me and points at the picture.

“They are all eating spaghetti,” he says. No one in the picture is eating anything.

“Never mind him,” says Claudia. “His mind is going bananas. Some days he just sits and stares out of the window all day, never moves. That’s not healthy. Did you hear that Raywall has prostrate cancer?”

She can never pronounce that word correctly. I’m the only person in the whole family who actually says ‘prostate.’ It’s one of many idiosyncrasies that once were cute and endearing but now simply annoy me. I have to restrain myself from correcting everyone, resisting writer’s prerogative.

“I hadn’t heard that. Is it serious?” I say humouring her. Raywall died in a car accident the year before.

“Very bad. He’s not going to make it.”

The doorbell rings. More victims arrive.

It’s the first of Treat and Claudia’s three children. Croot – his real name is Virgil – and his latest girlfriend Vicki receive the same phony welcome from Reggie. Croot is the oldest and most favoured child of Claudia and Treat. He seldom visits family but keeps in touch via email. Intermittently successful Croot works with computers. He was a corpulent child. Now he is an obese man who rasps with every breath. His parents rise to hug Croot and Vicki, whom none of us have ever met before. She seems to tolerate everyone, including Croot, the rest of the visit.

The doorbell chimes again. Paul, Treat and Claudia’s youngest, ten years Croot’s junior, arrives alone. Paul embraces his parents who both demonstrate indifference toward him. Tension begins to build.

As I survey the room that contains the better part of my living relatives, I wonder how I’ve become the exception to these people and their ways. Instead of sharing my wisdom that “there’s enough” these people dwell on lack and scarcity. They wallow in their suffering, spraying it forcefully, without qualms, at anyone within earshot, a continuous litany of smallness made even more pathetic due to my personal knowledge and experience of the true hugeness of our beings. Each family member leads a constant charge against any intrusion of positive energy into the fortress they’ve built to defend and replicate their suffering. Inside each fortress the glass is always half empty and someone else is at fault. Blame is always necessary and meted out even on the flimsiest of pretext. Maybe it is the utter refusal of any of them to take responsibility for their lives that bothers me the most. Or maybe it’s just the relentless familiarity of the people, their stunted evolutions worn with pride like medals after some pointless battle.

I don’t know how long I’ll be able to bear the family whine this afternoon.

Next to arrive is Sylvia and Boxer. She’s Treat and Claudia’s second born, has been married to Boxer for fifteen years and not a speck of offspring sprung from their loins. Today Boxer has his left arm in a sling and sports a shiny purple left eye. He’s a big bruiser of a man so we are all surprised by his condition.

“Did you get hit by a truck?” I ask.

“He just found a bigger bully, is all,” says Sylvia who sneers at him. Boxer nods in resignation. “You know Indians, can’t hold their booze.”

Boxer isn’t Indian, he’s from Turkey. Is my whole family getting senile?

“How are you, dear?” Claudia asks her daughter.

“Still not pregnant, if that’s what you mean.”

“But we keep trying, Mama Claudia,” says Boxer grinning and nodding his head. Claudia and Sylvia roll their eyes in unison.

Neither Croot nor Paul greet their sister.

“Gang’s all here then?” asks Lynton.

“Kaiser and his new girlfriend Quim are coming,” says Croot. Door chimes. “That’s them.”

Kaiser isn’t as obese as his father but will be someday. Quim is a petite little thing that Kaiser could break in half bare-handed. She hangs off his fat arm like a bangle. I can’t take my eyes off her. She smiles coyly at me. Kaiser could break me in half just as easily I remind myself as does Kaiser’s glare.

I’m still sitting between Treat and Claudia who tells me to move. Off the sofa I stand by the window looking out at the enormous patch of rhubarb that covers most of the side yard.

“Jilleen and me welcome everyone to our home today,” says Reggie. “What can I get youse to drink?”

Between us we list eight different beverages we’d like, none of which is tea.

“How about a lovely pot of tea instead?” suggests Jilleen sternly. Everyone nods.

“I’d still like a beer,” says Croot.

“Me, too,” I say, just to be a dink.

“Tea all around then,” says Reggie. He gestures to Lynt and Carl to help him. The pair giggles like girls and baby step their way to the kitchen.

“Are they queers?” Quim whispers to Kaiser who nods quickly. “Ugh,” she says.

“Quim. That’s an unusual name. What nationality is it?” asks Claudia.

Though for a moment it appears as if Quim is flummoxed she musters, “Um…white.”

“I thought so,” says Claudia smiling at the girl.

“I got a letter from my brother in Australia this week,” says Treat. “Where’s that letter from Martin, Mother? I want to read it out.”

Claudia rustles in a small stack of paper on the end table and draws out an envelop, hands it to Treat. He carefully pulls the letter out and unfolds it, digging his glasses from his breast pocket.

“It’s not a long letter,” Treat says.

We all know what happens next. Treat stares at the letter for an extended moment, moving his head and the letter to find focus on the words. He clears his throat.

“Dear brother Treat, I hope this missive finds you well and happy and the same for your beloved Claudia. It’s our winter now which is good because it keeps the snakes in their dens, especially the poison ones that eat children and pets. All fine here except for the scoliosis. Brotherly love, Marty. That’s his letter so he’s doing fine down under.”

We all nod and mutter how good that is knowing that Martin has been “down under” aka dead for over ten years and that Treat has slipped beyond language where words don’t make sense anymore and that he’s making up the letter like he has every time before.

What amazes me is nobody among this batch of eternal sourpusses has ever called Treat on this. It’s our family’s one gleaming illustration of grace: tolerating Treat’s dementia. Aren’t we good people, huh? It’s just temporary anyway. Be patient.

That’s as large as we get.


Filed under Family, Fiction, Humour

What We Do in the Shadows


Reid Dickie

After years of negotiations the New Zealand Documentary Board was granted safe access to the secretive world of modern-day vampires. What We Do in the Shadows follows the daily lives of four vampires who live together in a ramshackle old house and confront the realities of 21st century life: paying the rent, keeping peace among roomies, getting into nightclubs and doing five years worth of dishes while maintaining the sanguine requirements of being a vampire. It’s one of the funniest movies I’ve seen in years.

This fresh take on vampires is the creation of Jemaine Clement and Taika Waititi (Eagle whatvs. Shark, Boy), two young New Zealand filmmakers. Clement and Waititi play Viago and Valdislav to the hilt as older vampires while Jonathan Brugh is Deacon, a younger less responsible vampire. In a vault in the catacombs of the house lives Peter who is thousands of years old and represents a traditional view of vampires as simply bloodthirsty. Add in all the classic abilities of vampires – flying, hypnotism, silver allergy, etc – and the result is tumultuous fun.

Of course it’s not a documentary; it’s a full-blown comedy, one of the best indies in recent years and a darling at recent film festivals. The screenplay is wonderful, keenly written with a natural comic eye as the men try to explain their lives and deal with each other, various undead and humanity. The lead actors construct characters who are consistently absurd yet possess enough human qualities to create empathy for their modern dilemmas which aren’t that different from us non-vampires. Their encounter with the werewolves made me howl – “We’re werewolves, not swearwolves.”

Watch the trailer and decide if What We Do in the Shadows appeals to you. I found the movie on Thanks to my friend Kevin for making me aware of it.

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Filed under Ancient Wisdom, Film, Humour

Church of Kicking Tires – Fiction

Reid Dickie

Ever since Aunt Ether, Uncle William’s wife of 32 years (yes, her name was Ether and she was named after the chemical used to put her mother under during childbirth), died of multiple beestings on her 53rd birthday, Uncle William found life full of new challenges. Many of them made him angry. One of them was churches.

Uncle William, who never allowed anyone to call him Bill or Will, didn’t like the insides of churches or their outsides either, for that matter. Nonetheless, Uncle William was a religious man who observed the Sabbath and believed he could petition the Lord with prayer. Uncle William solved his spiritual dilemma in his own unique way.

The “church thing,” as he called it, came on with sudden fury. Every day on his way to work, Uncle William drove past St. Victor’s Shallow Waters Evangelical Home of the Brave which the family attended and where Ether’s funeral was held. One day, as he looked at the tacky fake stained glass windows that littered the front of the metal-roofed building, Uncle William was immersed in The Lord’s Own Fry Pit. He suddenly felt like he was being deep-fried. It was not pleasant. It felt endless. It occurred every time he was near a church of any stripe eventually eroding Uncle William’s ability to be near a church, any church lest the deep-fried feeling returned full-blown which it had on the two occasions when Uncle William tested it on a Ukrainian Orthodox Church and a synagogue.

Yet Uncle William needed the solace of The Word, to feel like one of His flock. Sunday mornings, rain or shine, winter or summer, feast or famine, Uncle William got in his Ford Focus, drove to Tim Horton’s and bought 64 ounces of coffee in a mug he found in Texas where everything is jumbo. Sixty-four ounces is eight small cups of coffee so the ESL kids at the counter did some confused math and arrived at a figure usually between three and nine dollars. Uncle William added ten sweeteners and eight 18 percent butterfat creams, secured the lid and shook it well. After the first few satisfying sips gave his tongue that pleasant burning sensation, Uncle William put the jumbo cup into his jumbo cup holder and tuned in his preacher, his Man, his Chosen One to deliver the very words of God, The Reverend Bob Clutterbuck. Reverend Bob’s radio show The Undamnable Light of God began at 9:05 every Sunday morning on CXXX Radio, “The Song of the Prairies.”

In Reverend Bob Clutterbuck’s greedy world, there was little difference between hellfire and brimstone, the two pillars of his Sunday morning yokel yodels. Damnation and donations, these were the twin tenets of Reverend Bob’s gleaning of the flock. One week, his broken leg needed extra splints which were surprisingly expensive; the next week the spill the family vehicle took running into a Baptist who was suing him plus the extra body work and insurance and “that cavalcade of decadence we call governance needs to have its pound of flesh, its ripple of rubles, its anointed entitlement.” Reverend Bob had an endless stream of misfortune which could only and merely be repaired by cold hard cash in envelopes still delivered more or less faithfully by Canada Post but he had Pay Pal for those who seek redemption from using the internet too frequently for guilty pleasures and overt physical release. Bob had all the bases covered. You could even transfer directly into his bank account from any ATM machine!

Uncle William turned up the radio and Reverend Bob blared into the little car. Every amen, of which there were many, was accompanied by a slug from the eight cupper in the centre sling. Then, with Satan on the run from Reverend Bob, Uncle William began his tour of every new car dealership in Brandon. There were just nine, the usual culprits: General Motors, Ford, Jeep Chrysler Dodge, Toyota, Nissan, Kia, Hyundai, Honda and Mazda. Uncle William had a specific route he followed every Sunday that ensured he got to every dealership without passing by a single church. He worked for a week figuring this out until the route became clear.

“My friends,” you could see the moisture glistening on Reverend Bob’s forehead and palate, “My friends, let me remind you what Hell is like. Hell is like being deep-fried twenty-four hours of every day for eternity. Hot oil on every inch of your skin, filling every pore, every hole, every orifice, every orifice,” Bob liked that word. It was one of his favourite words, “Every orifice forever. Like ol’ taters in boiling oil, Hell is you being boiled in oil forever. Forever. FOR EVER!!”

Forever was Reverend Bob’s trademark word because, at his third sounding of it, his voice created its own echo that reverberated throughout the room and even through the airwaves and into the lives of his listeners, like Uncle William who could relate to deep-fried Hell. He shuddered a little.

“You never get out of the oil. You never get dumped into the stainless steel bin, ladled into paper bags, salted, vinegared and downed by hungry overweight people sustaining their diabetes. You never get eaten, only continuously deep-fried and you already know how long that lasts. It lasts FOREVER!!”

The word echoed through the psyches of all Reverend Bob’s audience, causing Uncle William to have a peak experience where he realized he had been given a taste of Hell and redemption was essential to his salvation but let’s have a look at those new Kia Triages that came in this week first.

Uncle William got out of his car to look at a couple of sticker prices and peer hands cupped through windshields at the interiors of the Kia’s. He left his car door open so he could still hear the revelations Reverend Bob was sharing. The Reverend’s ludicrously exaggerated tones and phrasing boomed across the car lot of Kevin’s Kia as Uncle William prowled the shiny new cars.

“Jeeeeeeee sus must be in your mind and your heart at all times if you want to say you have given yourself to Him, to Jeeeeee sus.” Little rivulets of sweat started running down Reverend Bob’s cheeks and converged on the apex of his chin, hanging, glistening then falling falling falling. They looked like a waterfall of tears, the effect heightened by Reverend Bob’s frequent sobbing, great gasps of air filled his lungs as he wept, the moisture trickled away from him.

“The Word of GAAWWWDDD,” – it’s a three-syllable word when Reverend Bob said it – “is clear and concise. Jeeeeee sus must be like a bee in your head, a buzzing that never ends…”

Reverend Bob began frothing at the mouth, not just at the corners but producing a generous spray of foam overall.

“Children, ma children, ma little flock, we needn’t fear the world because we have weapons that will make the rest of the world change its mind. We can recreate The Stone Age anywhere we want in the world!”

The microphone was so covered with foamy spittle a technician wiped it off with a blue linen tea towel that had full colour images of seven varieties of birds found in New Zealand on it.

Uncle William pulled across the street to Todd’s Toyota to check out the unconventional colours of the hot-off-the-delivery-truck Toyota Maimer. Specifically the colours Maimers came in were oxblood, houndsblood, horseblood, tigerblood, bearblood and salmonblood.

Uncle William saw and disdained the Maimer colours and drove the three blocks to Mort’s Mazda. The TV commercials had caught Uncle William eye and he was very curious about the new Mazda Pillager, “perfect for around town” its ads said.

Mort’s lot became an echo chamber for Reverend Bob as Uncle William was out of his car immediately and visually mauling the Pillagers, his car door wide open to the all glass façade of Mort’s.

“Deep in the realms of Hell you cannot find one scrap of cash. Money is meaningless in Hell. That is how terrible Hell is. Let me say it again: Money is meaningless in Hell. How much horror can you bear?”

The Mazda Pillagers were giving Uncle William a hard-on, not literally but they were getting him excited, stimulated as only he could get by an automobile still aglister with morning dew. The three cups of Timmy’s coffee he’d drank were starting to seriously grab him behind his knees. He ran his fingers across the sensual rear fenders of the Pillagers, their shape reminded him of a woman. Unconsciously Uncle William pinched his left nipple through his shirt.

“The sins of the flesh are endless and uncontrollable; they haunt every ounce of flesh, every sinew, every corpuscle, every organ and every bone in every human body. The sins of the flesh…” Reverend Bob was having difficulty not touching himself during this part of his sermon.

Startled into the present by the Reverend’s words as they echoed around the car lot canyon, Uncle William walked briskly away from the Pillagers, got in his Focus and drove halfway across the city to Hugh’s Hyundai where “the most curious new car you will see this year, possibly any year” said Drive Drove Driven magazine was on display. The car was the Hyundai Quiz Show, so named because at the flip of a switch the car would begin asking you trivia questions. Voice recognition picked up your answers and if you were right, the car applauded briefly; if you were wrong the car taunted you mercilessly for one mile and there was no way to stop it, even turning the car off wouldn’t shut the damn thing up. This was what Uncle William was thinking as he cruised slowly past the line of TV shaped cars and out of the lot toward Freddy’s Ford to check out their new half-ton The Ford Exploiter. Its slogan was “Won’t eat your young.”

William remembered what his father said Ford stood for: Fix Or Repair Daily or Found On Road Dead. He also said Pontiac stood for Poor Old Nigger Thinks It’s A Cadillac and Fiat was Fix It Again Tony.

“Just as the bush never stopped burning for Moses, Hell never stops burning for those cast into it for not seeking redemption in the Word of GAAWWWDDD and Heart of GAAWWWDDD. For sinners like you, Hell never lets up. You are consumed but not consumed by flames forever! Eaten and uneaten forever! Forever! FOREVER!!”

Uncle William felt diminished and insignificant in the presence of the gargantuan and overwhelming Ford Exploiters. He felt dominated by the trucks and, in his true heart, not unpleasantly so. He caressed the huge tires, rubber and skin commingled and set off brief explosions of desire in Uncle William. While Truck and Man communed on the asphalt, Reverend Bob, looking like a dog in the final stages of hydrophobia, his jaw a hive of wet white bubbles, expounded rabidly.

“…the Dark Passageway to Damnation and the Bright Passageway to GAAWWWDDDD. Only you can choose your path. It cannot be chosen for you, only you can decide your fate. This is what you were born to decide. It is the only decision you ever really need to make in your life.”

So enraptured by his own speechifying was Reverend Bob that he hadn’t noticed his extremely moist state. Though his words were a little bubble-muffled, his message still got through to the flock.

Uncle William’s heart pounded as he walked away from the row of shining Exploiters in Freddy’s lot. Though he didn’t know it, Uncle William would have his first wet dream in 31 years that night involving several Pillagers and Exploiters. Sometimes when Uncle William made love to Aunt Ether, he could only maintain his erection if he thought vividly of the Thunderbird he owned when he was eighteen. The T-bird’s leather bucket seats, the way they pressed against his young body, the feel of the leather steering wheel, the willing stick shift, the G-force and the speed were the genesis of most of Ether’s orgasms as William held the car and its parts deeply within his being.

Reluctantly Uncle William drove out of the Ford lot and headed toward Jerry’s Jeep to get a glimpse of the new SUV, the Jeep Jivaro. There was a huge banner stretching the full length of Jerry’s building that said “Jeep Jivaro. You will understand.” A smaller white banner said, “Sold out already. More on the way.” Uncle William kept driving as Reverend Bob broke down into all-out weeping. His incomprehensible words were wet thought bubbles exploding in mangled syllables that gurgled and drowned in the preacher’s moist abandon. Uncle William was getting a little misty-eyed himself as he pointed his car toward Nestor’s Nissan.

A few more draws from the jumbo travel mug put six cups of coffee into Uncle William in slightly less than 40 minutes. He wished Reverend Bob would stop sobbing and let his choir sing a hymn, something bouncy he could drum along to on the steering wheel. But they didn’t.  Instead, there was a general mopping up of the Reverend and his excretions to the point where he began his plea for cash, his voice drenched with the sorrow of every tear shed today.

“Friends, friends, friends, there is no greater way to worship GAAWWWDDDD than by being generous. It’s in the BIIIIIII BULL. Generosity GEN ER AWE SIT EE is the key that unlocks every heart. How deep can you dig in your heart today to share your GEN ER AWE SIT EE with me, your limitless GEN ER AWE SIT EE which places you immediately in Heaven, dodging the fires of Hell? How much is it worth to you to avoid Eternal Torture and to find Eternal Bliss? I want YOU to find out the answer to that question RAT NOW! LOOK!” Reverend Bob is screeching now. “LOOOOK INTO YOUR HEART – DEEPER THAN YOU HAVE EVER LOOOOOKED…” Bob was falling to pieces and only cash could put him back together again.

The force of the Reverend’s words weighed on Uncle William as he pulled into the newly paved and yellow-lined lot of Nestor’s Nissan in search of the brand new Nissan Nuisance whose tagline in the ads was “You’ll want to spank it.” Uncle William didn’t even get out of his car to look at the Nuisance. Resembling a plastic box on go-kart wheels, very toy-like and cute in an I’m-not-quite-garbage-yet way, he thought its slogan should be, “You’ll want to get a shovel and bury it far far away.”

Just as he pulled out of Nestor’s lot, Reverend Bob’s 24-voice (actually three voices looped eight times), all female (except for Oscar who has a high voice that sounds feminine) choir, The Clutterbuckers, started a rousing version of Shepherds in the Pie which got Uncle William tapping happily along on the wheel. Behind the choir, Reverend Bob exhorted the flock to give til it hurts.

As Uncle William drained the last few ounces from his coffee mug on the way to his final destination, the song ended. Reverend Bob went insane or rabid or whatever it is, ranting about how expensive it is to get pigeons out of the studio.

“Do you know how much money it costs to erase their cooing from all the tapes we make here in the dangerous dungeons of Rory Calhoun and Clint Walker? Do you remember how tall and hairy Clint Walker was as Cheyenne? They don’t have the spoonfuls yet. The snapshots have arrived in dinkeyfuls. I’m feeling very transparent now. Did you just put your hand right through me? Did you?”

Uncle William snapped off the radio and drove in silence.

As it was every Sunday morning, Uncle William’s last stop was Chris’ Chevrolet, this week to seek out the new Bronto. Cars and Crap magazine said the name was short for brontosaurus and derided the vehicle in every way possible claiming “GM still doesn’t get this whole green thing. The Bronto handles like its namesake; it looks like its namesake and even has an unusual exhaust odour that likely resembles its namesake. It’s a dinosaur on the road. Avoid. Stop. Do not Merge with or Yield to this dumb thing. It should be extinct.”  Uncle William concurred with the review when he saw the thing itself and added in the disparaging comments of his morning coffee buddies.

The next Sunday during his tour, a Bronto ran a red light, crushed the Focus and killed William. His death was deemed tragic, ironic and appropriate.


Filed under Fiction, Humour

Coming Soon to a Canada Near You


If Harper gets his way…

 Click the pic

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Fake Winnipeg Nostalgia – Char Broiler Commercial


You don’t actually remember this Char Broiler commercial but after you watch it you’ll think you do.

False memories are hidden in the food.

Can you decode this order?


Watch Char Broiler commercial parody 1:30

Click a pic


Filed under Humour, Winnipeg

Tim Horton’s Beans in Our Ears

Snapshot 1 (29-01-2015 4-38 PM)

Reid Dickie

Just for fun I’m weighing in on the changes afoot at defining Canadian icon, Tim Horton’s. Snapshot 4 (29-01-2015 4-40 PM)Former defining icon is better now that it’s owned by Brazilian mega-corporation 3G Capital. Tim Horton’s came as part of the 3G deal to buy Burger King which was blessed by the Ref-Con trained seals in Ottawa.

My fake backstory regarding Tim Horton’s revolves mainly around a little brown brick building near Pembina and Grant in Winnipeg. I have habituated this building for centuries. Before it was Tim’s, Robin’s Donuts operated from it as did Loopins and Snapshot 3 (29-01-2015 4-39 PM)Standards. In the 1950s it was The Sassafras, a coffee and malt shop that catered to teens and adults and maintained an uneasy detente between them. During The War, it was Stookie’s, a smoky diner at an important bus stop that led into new suburbs in south and west Winnipeg. During the Dust Bowl days three sisters, all named Thelma, ran it. Of course it was called Betty’s Place so as not to Snapshot 6 (29-01-2015 4-41 PM)confuse people. Just after the First Big War when it was Mike’s you could buy coffee and pie over the counter, booze, hookers and reefer under the counter. Even before the new century began, on this spot Pounder’s Stopping Off was a widening of the Pembina Trail where you stocked up on supplies coming and going. Porridge Pounder always had plenty of guns and ammunition to sell. Before anything took root at the meeting of the rivers, Cree and Saulteaux sometimes used thisSnapshot 7 (29-01-2015 4-41 PM) place as a campsite due to its closeness to the Red River. For thousands of years before that, it was just me and the woolly mammoths drinking from the river with the wind whistling through the willows.

Most of the above paragraph is not true; it is fiction, historical riffing, guff. In that spirit I created a short video to commemorate the assimilation of Tim Horton’s into its new Snapshot 2 (29-01-2015 4-39 PM)corporate maw. I scrounged around on and found some vintage footage of Brazilian coffee growers and refiners, added Soul Coughing’s The Coffee Song and uploaded it to YouTube. Fellini would appreciate the final few scenes. Click any picture to watch the 2:30 video.

For clarity I have been a long-time customer of Tim Horton’s and witnessed their inevitable decline. Of late, I frequent other coffee shops, local and much more interesting. Comments sections online are filled with people vowing to boycott Tim Horton’s for their recent actions. In my case, the Horts just ran its course after lo, these many thousands of years.


Filed under Guff, Humour, video art

Inside the Mind of a 15-Year-Old Beatlemaniac

REID ages 14 to 17 1963 to 1967

Reid Dickie

That would be me (1964 school picture above).

To establish my credibility as a Beatlemaniac I offer as evidence this envelop from 1965.

Ringo Dickie0001

In the summer of 1964, to appeal to the newly-defined generation who were becoming eager, horny teenagers, CBC-TV ran a summer music series called Let’s Go. Produced in Vancouver, the show featured a variety of good local musicians. In the fall it was added to the CBC CHADschedule as a daily after-school show called Music Hop. The novelty was the half-hour show came from a different city every day: Monday from Vancouver, Tuesday Winnipeg, Wednesday Toronto, Thursday Montreal and Friday Halifax. A house band and other local musicians performed hits of the day along with some original material. The Guess Who were the Winnipeg house band here, the host was Chad Allen (above).

In the fall of 1964 Let’s Go from Vancouver (the west coast show kept the original series name) ran a Flip Your Wig contest. Beatlemania was still growing daily so the audience was asked to draw a Beatles wig on a famous person, add a caption and send it in. Being a little overachiever, I thought why stop at just one picture, why not make a book!  Thus was born, perhaps rendered would be better, My Sick Beatle Book. In this case, please use the Mad Magazine definition of sick.

I clipped 20 pictures from the newspaper, added crude Beatles wigs with a thick black felt marker, pasted them in a twenty page booklet I made, thought up witty (for a 15-year-old) captions for each picture and submitted it.

I bound the book with a glue that still holds it firmly together 50 years later easily surviving the scanning process. I jotted the captions in pen dispatching with Elvis immediately and giving the centre spread to the Dave Clark Five since they were The Beatles main “rivals” at the time. The rest are assorted politicians, sports figures and so on. This is from the time when the politically-correct nanny state was newly under construction. My captions and picture choice reflect the era.

Since The Beatles and their fans were the brunt of continuous jokes from adults, my book had a bit of a revenge aspect. Beatlizing these old people was very satisfying for me, doubly CBC REDso when, despite the crudeness of the book, the judges saw my intent and were amused.

Imagine my delight when Red Robinson (right) announced I’d won the contest and would receive a complete Beatles library. Happy prairie boy! A few days later I received the package via Air Mail. There were, in fact, five albums, not four as the transfer slip says: Beatlemania: With the Beatles, Twist & Shout, Long Tall Sally, Hard Day’s Night and Something New along with ten Beatles 45s.

In 1964 Capitol Records played catch-up with the British releases which began in early 1963. The North American permutations of Beatles albums haphazardly chopped up the track lists, added a B-side or two resulting in “new” Beatles product. Six albums, including The Beatles Story, were released here in 1964.

With slight embarrassment for my 15-year-old self, I offer, in its entirety, My Sick Beatle Book followed by the letter and the transfer slip from CBC. Some pictures are at odd angles. I’m still not much of a book designer.














Thank you and good night.


Filed under 1960s, Humour, Music

Penis Fun #5

From The Meaning of Life, Eric Idle performs his tribute to custard launchers the world over. Click the pic for The Penis Song.


Previous Penis Fun One  Two  Three  Four

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Happy Birthday John Cleese

cleeseOn this day in 1939 John Cleese was born in Weston-super-Mare, England and the futures in absurdity went through the roof. John had a few witty things to say over the years including  “He who laughs most, learns best” and “I think that the real religion is about the understanding that if we can only still our egos for a few seconds, we might have a chance of experiencing something that is divine in nature. But in order to do that, we have to slice away at our egos and try to get them down to a manageable size, and then still work some practiced light meditation. So real religion is about reducing our egos, whereas all the churches are interested in is egotistical activities, like getting as many members and raising as much money and becoming as important and high-profile and influential as possible. All of which are egotistical attitudes. So how can you have an egotistical organization trying to teach a non-egotistical ideal? It makes no sense, unless you regard religion as crowd control. What I think most organized religion—simply crowd control.” and  “I find it rather cleese wareasy to portray a businessman. Being bland, rather cruel and incompetent comes naturally to me. ” and “I can do anything I want, I’m eccentric!” and “I think the problem with people like this is that they are so stupid that they have no idea how stupid they are.” and “Creativity is not a talent. It is a way of operating.” and “This is the extraordinary thing about creativity: If just you keep your mind resting against the subject in a friendly but persistent way, sooner or later you will get a reward from your unconscious.” Dead/Not Dead John celebrates his 75th birthday today. One final word: “We don’t know where we get our ideas from. What we do know is that we do not get them from our laptops.” Oh I almost forgot,  “Your Mother was A Hamster and your Father Smelled of elder berries”

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Filed under birthday, Humour, Life and Life Only, Old Souls

Shirty’s Ether World Report

Greetings Fandoolants and Fandoolettas,

Your bud Shirty checking in wit cha from the ether world of sub-moronic fail music and custodial wincing which will blow your hair back if you got any left anywhere on your body. Custodial wincing is the latest health rage out here on the launching pad, Brutish Churlumpia. Listening to dumb music to feel smart is only the beginning. This billion dollar baby is waiting to be delivered, long overdue, angry and punching from the inside. Hand me the scalpel.

Speaking of that I have developed a burping disorder that, after arduous medical and semi-medical testing using needles, electrodes and penal insertions, turns out to be caused by an excess amount of hummus in my diet. (If you’re wearing a cap right now, hummus is like dog food for people.) I’ve joined HA (Hummus Anonymous) hoping to kick the habit and the burping. I’ll keep you apprised.

My shrink, Doctor Unequipped, says all is well and being beaten on my testicles is an important part of my cure. I’m beginning to have my doubts. I think he jumped on the S&M bandwagon too soon and is regretting it now. He can regret it more though.

Career-wise my new company, Chump Change for Judy, is growing like mad. I’ve hired six new debriefers to keep the underwear flowing in a downward direction. The only other position open right now is Smelling Organizer. If you like feces, go for it.

Six new bands that sound exactly the same have joined my talent roster at Turd Polishing International. TPI is overflowing with effulgent these days and the charts are reflecting it. Three of my acts have Top Ten hits on three diverse music charts:

  • The Litter Box Lions are Number Four on the Petulant Pet Top Ten with Fancy Feast Fiesta, a jolly instrumental with plenty of scratching, yowling and burying;
  • Poon Tang Lagoon are Number Two this week on the Nudists Who Eat Beef at the Beach Top Ten with I’m Itchy, You’re Itchy, Live With It, a ska romp that will be still be played a hundred years from now;
  • Dave Clark Five tribute band, the Dave Clark Fivish are Number One on the Worst Tribute Bands Ever Top Ten with their version of Bites and Polices. 

Bulletin! Bulletin! Just signed last night after sufficient coaxing and cajoling, the Tar Paper Wrappers are now part of the TPI herd! Their first release, Sandra Has Lice, I Feel Bilious will be out next week. Download with the upcode and thou shalt be wrapped! Click the pic for a TPW teaser.Snapshot 1 (23-09-2014 10-17 PM)

Been doing some goose hunting. Only been goosed twice so slow season so far.

Check out custodial wincing for sure!

Keep your plunder dry.



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Smoking The Good Old Days Part 15

Snapshot 1 (10-09-2014 1-51 AM)

Sunlight soap and cigarette smoke – click the pic for a whiff

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Filed under 1950s, Guff, Humour

Every Problem Available The Good Old Days Part 14

Snapshot 1 (10-09-2014 1-45 AM)

“Don’t they know it’s the end of the world…” Skeeter Davis 1962

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