Category: writing

With apologies to Rogers and Hammerstein…

Ripping up roses and stomping on kittens

Sporks made of metal and earning a pittance

Brown soggy sandwiches crawling with things

This is what happens when EOL sings.

[A hotel room in a state of disarray. An agitated woman in her fifties, MRS. HOGSWORTH, hobbles from the bathroom to a table next to the window. She is dressed very conservatively, and her right sleeve and front appear to be soaked with something. From a handbag on the table, she extracts a cell phone, dials three digits, then waits anxiously, checking over her shoulder frequently.]

MRS. HOGSWORTH: [into phone] Pardon me? Oh, um… ambulance please. No, police. NO! Ambulance. Yes. Definitely ambulance. Can I order both? I’m really not an expert on the subject. I’ve never called 911 before so I don’t really know the routine. I mean I’ve seen it on tv and stuff but–

[short pause]

Where’s the what? Oh! I’m in Winnipeg.

[short pause]

Okay, don’t get snippy. I didn’t know how much detail you wanted. You have to be specific, okay?

Okay. Um… I’m at the hotel… um… I can’t remember the name. Some hotel. At the corner of [peering out the window] the street with the Dairy Queen on it and the other street, you know the one that crosses it, the one with the big… flashing thing… I don’t know the name. You know, the big, flashing… It’s all… flashing and big.

[short pause]

No, I don’t know the street names. How am I supposed to know the street names? I’m from Vancouver for chrissake! I just flew in this morning and I’ve been travelling all day and I really haven’t had time to memorize all the street names just yet–

[short pause]

Landmarks? Landmarks… um… ok. I mentioned the big flashing thing that’s all big and–

[short pause]

Don’t get snippy! Don’t… get… snippy!

I mean I’m trying here. I mean I just came into town and I’m expected to know all the street names and landmarks and what kind of two-bit operation are you running here? Can’t you just trace the call and we can skip the sight seeing tour of Winnipeg and get to the point? This is an emergency, or did they leave that detail out of your training?

[short pause]

What?

[short pause]

Yes it’s a cell phone.

[pause]

Oh. Okay, well I didn’t know you can’t trace cell phone calls.

[She peers out the window at her surroundings.]

Fine. I’m on the second floor… I can see… that Dairy Queen… and a mailbox at the corner… and… there’s a Bank of Montreal… and a Petrocan station… Oh! And look for the crowd of people and the bleeding guy on the sidewalk. You can’t miss it.

[pause]

Yes. Bleeding guy. [enunciating exaggeratedly] The buh-leed-ding guy.

[pause]

I don’t know, it’s not like I’m a doctor or anything. He’s just bleeding. From his head I think. It’s hard to tell how bad because he’s wearing a red shirt. No, hold on… it’s a white shirt with blood on it.

[pause]

What do you mean an ambulance is already on its way? How could an ambulance possibly be on its way? You don’t know where I am and for crying out loud we just wasted precious minutes gabbing about the big, flashing thing, and the Dairy Queen, and the bleeding guy, and you didn’t even bother asking me what the fucking problem is!

[short pause]

FUCK THE BLEEDING GUY! What is your fucking obsession with bleeding guys?! You are one sadistic fuck, do you know that?

I’ve got an emergency situation here. Someone broke into my hotel room and all you want to do is gossip about bleeding guys and… and the Dairy Queen and… fucking landmarks.

[short pause]

What?

[short pause]

Yes! Broke into my room! I was at the market — you know the Forks Market — down by the river, and I buying all kinds of–

[menacing voice] Didn’t I tell you not to get snippy? I don’t want to warn you again.

Fine. So I got back to my room and the door was kicked in and my bags were open and all my stuff was all over and the fucker was still here.

[short pause]

Yes! He was still here!

[short pause, confused.]

Am I okay? No I’m not okay.

[short pause]

Well I was going to tell you why I need an ambulance, if you’d let me get to that.

Okay, so I smashed a bottle of whiskey over his head. It was definitely single malt scotch. Dammit, it was the good stuff too. Well after that, he kind of stumbled out the door, and anyway I twisted my ankle running to the bathroom to wash the whiskey off me and I don’t think I want to walk to the hospital myself, especially smelling like some kind of booze-fiend, so could you please hurry up and send an ambulance? Oh and the police too, because–

[pause]

The police are on their way too? How did you know where to send–

[peering carefully out the window towards the bleeding guy]

Do, um… do people bleed… a lot… from um… say… whiskey-related… wounds?

[pause]

Uh-huh.

[pause]

[hurried] Okay. Um… I’ve got to go now. Bye.

[She hangs up and skulks out the door.]

It seems I have a request for an epic poem about dirty socks. I can’t remember the correct rhyming scheme for epic poetry, so I’ll just use rhyming couplets instead. Here goes…

The Rime of the Ancient Martinizer

I’ll tell you now of times long past

When men did eat the gooey brie.

On splendid ships both strong and fast,

They plied the oceans and the sea.

I’ll speak of socks which might be shunned

For fear our wits might just be stunned;

I will now speak upon the Spot:

That dreadful yellow forget-me-not.

The Spot of Dread arrives unseen

From filthy sport socks from Chuck Sheen.

From there the Spot will try to grow

To epic sizes — heel and toe.

One evening, I had cause to sigh

(If I can have an alibi),

For Spot spread out to shirts and pants

To breed anew through random chance.

I felt I ought to try and seek

A martinizer, not the meek.

I searched one high, I searched one not,

I even searched beneath the cot.

The one I found was after doughnuts,

Coffee, and some tasty… um… go-nuts. (?)

Creeping in the darkened corners,

Belching at the passing mourners.

As fearful as I felt that night,

I spoke aloud despite my fright:

“Dear sir,” said I with trembling lip,

Afraid he might request a tip.

“The Spot! The Spot! The Spot!” cried he.

“The Spot! The Spot!” He giggled with glee.

The ancient martinizer had

A mind of rot and temper bad.

“This Spot,” said he, “its colour’s strange.

How did it get the rotting mange?

It must be but a figment of

An ill that fits me hand–in–glove!”

“I have a problem you might fix

While choking down those pizza sticks.

If you would waddle over here

I know of trouble with a beer.”

“A beer?” asked he of Mister Parker,

“Would it be Lite or something darker?”

“Just that,” said I, the name not known,

But happy getting more than moan.

“Now look,” said I, “I need your help.

It’s not at all to do with kelp.”

“With kelp?” he frowned, now in a dither.

“Why would kelp be here or thither?”

“Please,” I prodded for attention.

“This I say is much worth mention.”

“Fine,” said he, “but be you wrong,

I’ll smack you down like big King Kong.”

“Sure, sure,” said I, and showed the way

Back to the Spot I’m sure was fey.

“And here it is!” I yelled aloud,

The Spot was looking like a crowd.

The martinizer waddled faster,

Eating like a Jedi Master.

“Use the Fork,” old Ben had taught

When fighting with a Sock of Spot.

And now, this bit will end the verse

Before I exit in a hearse.

I hate to write without much sense,

And do not want a recompense.

So now I must be on my way.

“Good day,” is what I have to say

To all my guests of this, my blog,

Feel free to browse and pat the dog.

There once was a penguin named Fred

Who drank quite a bit, it is said.

He spent every night

Drinking pissy Coors Lite

By morning he looked like the dead.

There once was a penguin named Pete

Who never made use of his feet.

It did slow him down

When he went into town

‘Cause he shuffled around on his seat.