Help Wanted

I have ideas for plays that I come up with and evolve to an extent but don't have time, or probably the skill, to write up for presentation, way off-Broadway. Like, Carrboro off-Broadway. So, if you know anyone with the time and the skill, send them my way.

The first is DAMN YANKEES, on the new dawn of the South. It has a chorus of Southern White Boys (SWBs), in hula skirts and drag, and a hit song, Yankees is So Stupid.

This one is more presentation than plot, with a SOUTH PACIFIC feel, and is an evocation of how great it is to see the plantation economy reborn and to have all the black guys in jail. There's a black guy in the wings, of course, with a wang that makes the white boys wince. A mechanical phallus is employed. He makes out and makes off with Fannie Mae, the wife of a member of the chorus.

On balance, though, the SWBs are feeling triumphant. We're torturing people, the USA, a great sign. And there's so much else to celebrate. The unprecedented concentration of wealth, the attack on anything that helps anybody. Anybody that needs help, that is.

But there's an irresolvable tension. I mean, really a sea of the shit. And it's structural. Ain't going nowhere. When you buy your mojo at gun shows, well, the cool thing is you can buy more mojo. The problem is that somebody could possibly take it away.

Woe to them that try.

Yankee scum probably never even read Sir Walter Scott. Don't understand Southern Culture. No sense of honor. And they're so fucking sentimental. Damn Yankees! Who cares some turd in Bangladesh dies making my bermuda shorts. They're turds, really. Sorry, got to go to church. Pray to Jesus. No darkies there. And not in my schools. And not in my pools.

Then there's another play, DOG EAT DOG. That's the name of a PAC, man. Who knows where the money came from--the Koch cloud financing program, probably--but the lawyers are the best out there. The SWBs are thrilled. Gonna sue. Ain't nothing in the Constitution says you can't fight dogs. That's in the articles, in the brief, that exact language. Powerful stuff. Convincing on the face for those that knows, the Real Americans.

And it goes to the Supreme Court--of the US--and they're hung, four to four. Clarence is on medical leave. But--lo--he's lowered, slowly, magisterially, down in his chair, from above, center stage, his crotch bandaged. Clarence will decide. He will even speak. And he does. Dog fighting is legal, he decrees.

And, as the patriotic music wells up, he orates: dog fighting is the most American of sports, the real national pastime, the sport that embodies the real ethos of America, the Randian competition that makes us great. Do or die--in the ditch. Makers and takers. The strong and the weak. Supermen and scum. And the dogs? They're valuable assets, Clarence points out, and therefore very well treated.

Like to see you make this into a Capra movie. There's a chorus, of course, with sound-effects (lots of growls), and various subplots. Butch in the chorus is gay, it turns out. And the others are all having anal sex with someone, mostly their wives.

Clarence, by the way, if you were concerned, has had plastic surgery. To shorten his dick. A mechanical phallus is employed. Okay, I like them. Saw one used in a presentation of Aristophanes' THE CLOUDS, at UD (Dayton), back in the day. Great production. And we think "the cloud" is new. The Greeks discovered it all.