The Magnum Opus

(1994)

from highschool Writers' Craft class...

 

 

Little Red Riding Hoodlum

 

"Miss Riding Hood, could you please tell the court where were you were on the night of July 26th?"

"I was delivering wine and cake in a basket to my grandmother's house. She was very ill."

"I see, and how were you travelling to your grandmother's house?"

" I was travelling through the woods. And I was skipping and jumping and singing."

"And is that when you ran into my client?"

"Yes, it was."

"Can you explain to the court your encounter with my client?"

"He tried to convince me to show him what I had in my basket. I told him I don't show that to strangers."

"But you did show him eventually didn't you?"

"I didn't want to. He convinced me to go into the forest and pick flowers for my grandmother. And then he went and jumped into my grandmother's bed and waited for me."

"And you strayed from the path to pick your flowers, I presume."

"Yes, I had to, wildflowers only grow in the forest!"

"It seems to me that you defied your mother's orders not to leave the path in your travels, is that true?"

"I..I.. didn't mean..."

"Just answer the question, miss Riding Hood."

"Yes."

"What was that? Please speak up, so the rest of the court can hear you."

"Yes goddamn it, I left the path to go pick flowers for my sick grandmother!"

"This, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, should indicate to you that our witness here, is of questionable moral and character! Now, Little Red Riding Hoodlum, what exactly was it that you were wearing on the afternoon of July 26th?"

"A hood. A red hood."

"Was that all you were wearing?"

"I don't remember."

"Why red? Why not blue?"

"I don't know. My grandmother gave it to me. She said that it brought out the green in my eyes."

"Miss Riding Hood, we all know that red is the colour of passion, lust and raging anger! You wore that hood knowing full well the impression it would give a lonely wolf. You tempted him, and now you're trying to make him pay for what you asked for!"

"That's not true at all!"

"Come now, we all know how low-cut those hoods tend to be. Any wolf in his right mind would have known what you wanted."

"I can't believe you're saying this. He's the one who attacked me!"

"Another question, you were carrying wine and cake in your basket, is this true?"

"Yes."

"The bottle of wine, was it full when you left your house?"

"Um.. yes."

"Was it full when you finally reached your grandmother's house?"

"Ah.. no.. um.. it wasn't."

"Did you drink some of the wine, miss Riding Hood?"

Silence.

"Miss?"

"Yes." A shocked murmur spreads across the courtroom. "He convinced me to! It was the Wolf's idea. He said that to be polite you had to share a drink with strangers. I didn't want to be impolite."

"Is it fair to assume that you maybe became a little flirtatious in your tipsy state?"

"Absolutely not!"

"But obviously the wine must have affected your behaviour, somewhat. This, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, was the behaviour that caused Mr. Wolf to believe that Little Red Riding Hood wanted to be attacked! It was her fault, and now this little hoodlum is trying to ruin a good wolf's life by accusing him of such indecent things! Women should know that wolves can't control themselves when provoked. Miss Riding Hood, we're sorry about the violation of your body, the bruises and scratches that adorn your fair complexion, your mangled fingers, broken ribs, black eyes, bleeding lips and broken spirit, but can't you see it was your fault?"

Silence.

"No further questions your honor."

 

 

Jack and Jill have a domestic argument

(the bottom of the hill)

Jill: Jack, Do you mind that I'm carrying the bucket of water?

Jack: No.

Jill: Because if you want to, I don't mind. I wouldn't want you to think that you weren't contributing anything to this water bucket fetching escapade.

Jack: Listen Jill, I don't care. Why are you always so nice to me?

Jill: I guess that's just one of my inherent personality traits.

Jack: Well stop it, it makes me feel like we're equal in this relationship, and I'm used to women being dominating over me. Although I do like to be extremely cynical and critical with them at times just to show them that I actually have a personality.

Jill: Oh, ok.

(the middle of the hill)

Jack: So, you're an artist eh?

Jill: Please don't be critical of my paintings, it really makes me feel inferior and self conscious when you criticize me.

Jack: So, I guess you don't like it very much when people analyze your work.

Jill: No

Jack: I didn't think so.

Jill: This bucket's getting heavy.

Jack: You complain too much.

(almost the top of the hill)

Jill: So do you want to come with me?

Jack: (Shrug.) I probably would, but I have a trombone lesson this afternoon.

Jill: Maybe next time...

Jack: I'll pencil you in.

Jill: Fuck you, Jack. I am not obsessed with Northern Exposure. I don't understand why you have to always be so critical of me. And even if I was, why does it have to be a bad thing?

Jack: (Shrug.) It just is.

Jill: You don't know anything about me.

Jack: I know that I love you, but I would never tell you that because it would make me feel vulnerable. That's why I keep pushing you away.

Jill: Thanks a hell of a lot.

Jack: (Shrug.) By the way, I actually think I like you more than you like me, even though you're the only one of us who expresses things like that.

Jill: I can't stop thinking about you.

Jack: And I actually really feel intimidated by you, because you have so many friends, and you have so much confidence.
Jill: Jack. will you carry the bucket for a while?

Jack: I subconsciously think that I am dragging you down, I never talk and I'm rude frequently. Why do you love me?

Jill: I think about you so much that I even have dreams about your friends writing me Shakesperean poetry.

Jack: I don't have dreams. At least not out loud.

(the crown crisis)

Jill: Jack! You fell down, are you ok?

Jack: (Shrug.)

Jill: I would give my life to make sure you were alright.

Jack: Stop being so nice to me. I don't understand why you're trying to make me accept the fact that I like you. What can you do with a guy with a broken crown?

Jill: Fuck you Jack. I like you so much that I hate you. You're so goddamn cynical. But you're beautiful. Crown and all. It should be the crown of a king.

Jack: I won't touch you. Because, you might touch me back. And then I would be forced to confront myself with feelings that make me feel out of control.

Jill: I'll always come tumbling after you.

Jack: When I get down to the bottom of the hill, I'm leaving, without saying good-bye, just so you don't think I care about you, of that I have any feelings at all. I hate you.

Jill: I feel the same.

Jack: I'm leaving.

Jill: Don't go.

Jack: Pardon?

Jill: Never mind.

 

The Three Little Feminist Pigs

Once upon a time there lived three female pigs. They all wanted to build houses, and since the majority of the construction business is dominated by men, they decided they would do it themselves, because they felt superior to - and more knowledgeable than- all the other pigs in town.

The first pig was somewhat of a lazy pig, and she went down the road to visit some of her friends who work in the town stables. There, she traded them about fifteen bails of hay for some free yoga lessons, and she carried the hay home in her pickup truck. Then she built her home out of the hay, it took her a total of about ten minutes, and then she retreated inside to read Gloria Steinam and drink chamomile tea in a mug she made herself.

The second pig, despite her conscience, stole a pile of twigs from the area surrounding the Big Bad Wolf's house. She did this with the rationalization that the Wolf didn't deserve the twigs, and with the assumption that all he would do with them would be roast marshmallows and sharpen the ends into pointy arrows so he could shoot them in a violent male rage at unsuspecting civilians. So, the second little pig built her house out of twigs, and when she was smug, and proud of her efforts, she returned inside to her weight lifting and her autographed hardcover copy of Backlash.

The third little pig built her house of bricks, and took time in the construction of a perfect architectural work of art. She carried all the bricks to her home by herself, withholding from the offers of help from the men at the mason's shop. She dragged the bricks home with the belief that she was recreating the work of the ancient Egyptians at Giza. She put up for display a black and yellow sign that said "Women at Work", and spent day and night brick laying with steel toed boots and a hard hat. (It takes time and effort to create a masterpiece.) Her house was thus successfully, and independently constructed, and she lived there for the next few days in relative happiness.

Once the Big Bad Wolf got wind of the news about the three pigs houses, he automatically became excited with the challenge of destroying their tiring efforts. They had never been nice to him, and had often accused him of sexual discrimination because up until then, he had only been eating, and killing male pigs. This, consequently, was not because the Wolf didn't like to eat and kill female pigs, it has just coincidentally worked out that way. So this was the Big Bad Wolf's chance to prove them wrong, and avenge the feminist pigs' harmful words that had kept him awake in tears all those long nights.

He ventured to the first little pig's house of hay.

The first little pig didn't even bother responding to the wolf's huffing and puffing threats. "Yeah? Blow this!" she mumbled to herself, laughing, and returned to Gloria Steinam.

The Big Bad Wolf blew her house down.

He then travelled to the second little pig's house of twigs. Upon recognizing the twigs he became even more enraged.
"Come out little girl pig, or I'll huff and I'll puff!" he warned.

The second little pig didn't even hear him. She was too busy pumping iron. He blew her house down.

The third little pig was a problem She was tough as nails, and was ready to put up a fight.

"Listen little pig," said the Big Bad Wolf, "come out of your house, or I'll huff and I'll puff, and it'll be history!"
"History?" came the enraged voice from inside. "Have you ever stopped to think about that word?" The third little pig came stomping out of her house with a sledgehammer. "Would you have ever said that to Catherine the Great, or Empress Theodora?"

"Who?" asked a confused Big Bad Wolf.

"Empress Theodora? She ruled Asia minor!" The third little pig was anything but impressed with the Wolf's historical ignorance.

"All that men seem to remember about Catherine the Great is that she had a thing for horses!"
The Wolf was speechless.

"If it's her story it's not history," the third little pig tangented. "So I'd like it if you took your ignorant male mind and got off my property... Now!!"

The third little pig slammed the door of her house in the Big Bad Wolf's face, and banged her sledge hammer incessantly, and destructively against the insides of her walls. The wolf began to huff and puff. He huffed and puffed, and huffed and puffed. Nothing worked. He couldn't blow the house down. The third little pig watched him from the window, and as soon as he passed out from exhaustion she dragged him into her house by the ear. She tied him down and made him to listen to Joan Baez. Then she put on a big pot of water to make tea.

Now, as the story goes, the third little pig pushed the Big Bad Wolf into the boiling water. The truth is. He threw himself in. He just couldn't take it any more.

 

Rapunzel Speaks Freely about her Controversial Hairdo

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb without a stair."

You don't understand how many times I heard this line. And, after I heard it, I would have to go to the window, throw my golden locks out of the tower, and sit there in agonizing pain while people would use my hair as a rope, grasping it with their dirty, old gnarled fingers. It was not a pleasant experience. So one day, I decided to shave it all off. What's the purpose of hair anyway? Either you have it or you don't. All it is, is bodily waste. Bodily waste that you have to wash, and brush and take care of just to feed you outer beauty, and the happiness of those who have to look at you. I didn't want to have anything to do with it.

` So, I buzzed it. And I laughed while I was doing it. In the storybooks, they say that the witch cut off my hair when she found out that the prince had been climbing up here for clandestine liaisons-- that was a lie. The truth is, we both shaved it, the prince and I. Hair only got in the way of our fun.

Were people ever talking about me! I could hear the buzzing and murmuring of the kingdom's gossiping lips and tongues all the way up here the tower. I thought it was pretty hilarious, and I was getting a kick out of unwittingly becoming controversial.

The other day, I met a nice old man on the King's highway. He said "thanks, son" when I helped him dismount his horse onto the cobblestone. I said nothing, but it made me a little bit concerned about people's extreme ignorance. He just looked at my shaved head and paid no attention to the tight leather bustier I was wearing. I don't think I look like a "son", no one ever calls the prince "ma'am" or "girl", and his hair is longer than a sheepdog's.

When the witch saw what I had none she was enraged. She said "You weren't named after German lettuce so could you look like a cabbage!" Then, she accused me of trying to make a statement against society. I just said "I'm not trying to make a statement, I just don't feel like having hair." This didn't sit too well, and she locked me back up in the tower. The prince can't come and visit me any more because he has nothing to climb up. So, he ran off with a permed redhead from Scotland. She looks like a poodle. And now here I am, all alone, with my controversial hairdo.

 

Confessions of a Delusional Gingerbread Witch

You don't understand how good I feel. I thought it was all over when that little twerp Gretel pushed me into the fire, but I realize that it was only the beginning. At least that's what my psychiatrist told me. Actually, I suppose it's not constructive to call Gretel a twerp. We simply had a difference of opinion regarding her brother's potential to make a good dinner. How was I supposed to know she was one of those counterculture vegetarians?

"Agitations and aggressive impulses, delusions of grandeur, and general poor contact with reality." That's how they define me. I am no longer the wicked witch in the gingerbread house, I have a dictionary definition. I have to go to Occupational therapy, twice a week to learn communication skills and anger management. The other witches have been egging my house like crazy, but I accept the fact that they are angry, and I understand their reasoning. They say that I have become a disgrace to the entire witch race, and I constantly hear them making fun of the fact that I mistook a bone for Hansel's finger for all those weeks. My psychiatrist said that I built that gingerbread house to try and hold onto my inner child. He doesn't know how badly I wanted to rip the flesh of tiny children from their bones and devour their tasty meat between my teeth. Oh how scrumptious they were! Their little wrists and fingers, and toes and eyes, how my stomach is craving! But I understand that this is just a manifestation of the need to take into me the qualities of childlike innocence.

They put me on Chlorpromazine. It's supposed to reduce the incidences of my aggressive impulses. I think that's pretty tactful considering the circumstances.

I accept that I am angry, it's ok to feel hurt. I am a good person. Today I bought a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie. Maybe it will do me some good considering that the other witches won't even talk to me any more. Some real friends would be nice. Or maybe I can just lure them to me with promises of sweets and goodies. And if I bake up some pheromone injected cookies for some outside wall decorations maybe some tasty men will come my way! It's been so long since I tasted men! I mean that in the figurative sense obviously, because it would be defeating the purpose of my rehabilitation into society if I were to give into my primeval impulses.
But I just want one taste, what would that hurt? I deserve it. Maybe my urges are irrational, and delusional. But I'm under control. I feel much better. I really do deserve it. You don't even know how good I feel.

 

 

Sandy and Biff -- the thirty year date

 

(This play is 30 years long)

Sandy: Boy, Biff, I sure am glad we got a chance to see each other this nice evening.

Biff: Gee, Sandy, me too. Gosh, you sure look pretty.

Sandy: Thanks Biff. (Giggle)

Biff: So, Sandy, may I kiss you now on the cheek?

Sandy: Sure Biff, I would like that very much. It would be acceptable.

(Kiss)

Biff: That was sure nice, Sandy. Yum, you smell good.

Sandy: Thank you.

Biff: Now that I have kissed you on the cheek and complemented you, may I now kiss you on the lips, and maybe put my tongue into your mouth?

Sandy: Biff, I will allow you to put your tongue in my mouth as you kiss me on the lips, a long as you try to leave as little saliva as possible on the area surrounding my mouth.

(Slobbery kiss with tongue)

Sandy: Whoa, Biff you sure haven't had a lot of girlfriends, have you?

Biff: No, I am ignorant about girls.

Sandy: Well it's nice to see that you're finally talking again. All those years they had you locked up in the loony bin, thinking you would remain mute forever because of that terrible explosion.

Biff: Yes, I sure am lucky.

Sandy: Hmmmmn

Biff: (Cough, shrug, cough)

Sandy: La la la (Looks around)

Biff: Well, now that we have engaged in a short conversation, and have kissed on the mouth with tongue, can we now have sexual intercourse?

Sandy: Yes Biff, Sexual intercourse is ok with me. Now that we have sat through the Vietnam war, countless prime ministers, the death of Elvis, the invention of the remote control, the birth of silicone implants, the death of silicone implants, Wounded Knee, The Gulf War, Recombinant DNA, the female condom and the achievement of world peace, I feel we are allowed to express the fact that we have feelings for one another.

Biff: I agree with you Sandy.

Sandy: May I now put my hand on your thigh?

Biff: Can I now unbutton your shirt?

Together: That would be ok with me!