Theater Farts

Theater in Times of Cholera or the Beastly Baby and a Chainsaw

Now now, My Dear Darlings, Muffin Tops of mine, I don’t know if you are aware but we are living dead. (Pff, first sentence and I’m already using “The Living Dead” reference. Whatever!) Dead or alive we all suffer from lactose induced farts, so who cares? Cholera!! Cholera is everywhere! – somebody screams. It’s here and there are mere times when I ask – do I care? In times like these we’re all better off… oh, that’s right, I said that already. Must be the cheep Port I am drinking now that affects my d(r)eadliness.

What is all this nonsense? – you ask.  Well, my Dearests, since we are still alive and kicking (so cliche of me, even the spell check doesn’t want to put the “`” above the “e”), why don’t  we discuss the pointlessness of theater? See, I am confused and perplexed again. Do you spell “theater” or “theatre?” Oh so Russian of me, I know, but it seems like my spell check is all disoriented about it too. Whoever decided to play with my emotions changing that last letter and the “`” (whatever that called is), is going to get my word. What word, I haven’t decided yet, but, I believe, it will be a word that describes that beastly (sorry for my French) baby outside my window. Yep, there is a baby and it is screaming, if you haven’t understood it yet.

See these “lovely” babies sometimes grow into, well, let’s just say, into somebodies like me, artists, who write about things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever (I just wanted to use “whatsoever” in this sentence, forgive me my abundance). One of them is now exercising his vocal cords (oh, how lovely!) and do I hear the sound of a chainsaw accompanying the high G? No, I am not going to give it up to hate, but I am going to say this, we all were babies, at one time (or another), I should add, some of us still are, but that’s not the point. The point is that that time was lost long ago (À la recherche du temps perdu, Le Proust and la croissant (see I speak French too), by the way he started writing those “temps” in 1913) now its 2013, if you didn’t know that already. So here we are, all bitter and full of lactating gas, still spending our hard earned money for those coffee lattes, sitting in some God forgotten offices and waiting, because there is nothing more satisfying than a fart after being yelled at by (insert a name), but I digress. I will be doing that a lot, as you can see or rather read already (smiley face).

Okay, what was it I was going to talk about with you today? Oh right, theater. I don’t know if it is ever a good idea to start a theater business anywhere in the world, but from the looks of it, we decided to do it. Oh duck it, one day we’ll all die anyway, so why not. Reading books about successful theater companies doesn’t help, because, first, you don’t know if you are going to be successful and second, well I haven’t thought about the second yet. At the end of the day we all need to pay rent and make sure that we put chairs in front of our doors for them to make some noise when our crazy roommates decide to kill us (oh, how I feel like reading some Agatha C. right about now). I am not sure if I should be discussing this with you here, but since I am hearing some strange noises my roommate is making at the moment, I say, why not? You will be my witnesses (of course, if this blog has more than one reader, that is, otherwise I will disappear with other written mumbo-jumbo in the digital oblivion).

Oh no, one might say, another blog about starving theater artists, paranoiac roommates and hard times living in Nueva Jerk. And I say, have you heard the baby outside my window, the saw and the hammer at seven o’clock in the morning? Ha, the sun is still shinning (even though it seems quite cloudy today) and I am still breathing. So go and grow your own veggies  somewhere in the country (hmm, I actually though about doing just that) and leave me and my hungry city rats (oh no, not rats again!) alone. If the rats can survive in the city, so can I. If not, there is always a public library somewhere. Why the public library, you ask. I don’t know, maybe that’s the last place hungry rats go to feed themselves?

Damn, what an uplifting first entry on this fabulous Monday morning (even though I am writing this on Sunday, but who cares). I don’t even remember (again!) what I was going to tell you here, my beastiful and chic readers, but one thing I am sure about: at this very moment, this baby outside is going to start screaming again as soon as it hears that saw and the hammer, but I am going to forgive it all. It is rehearsing  something, mind you. What is it preparing for us, I’m not sure yet. The saw is still running but the baby (for some reason) is quiet. Everybody expects some kind of disaster anyway, but, I guess, anything can become entertaining in these times of… ah, forget about it…

So, Darlings, My Muffins and Stuff, who can tell you what you should and shouldn’t do? Pursue whatever duck you want, just ducking do it, because who else is there left when everyone’s running with diarrhea? You! You, who, against all odds, uses their diarrhea to entertain others (definitely somebody had way too much Port or was it coffee?). I have to use my bathroom now. Ta-ta and read you next time.

Your Splastikoff or is it?

P.S. Oh my goodness, so many words and comas. I am getting dizzy!!

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