Huff ‘n’ Puff
Characters
• Narrator
• Big Bad Wolf
• Little Pig #1
• Little Pig #2
• Little Pig #3
• Television Announcer
Narrator: One day, while the Big Bad Wolf was watching TV and smoking cigarettes, both things that he loved, the announcer broke in with a news flash…
Television Announcer: The Three Little Pigs Have Just Built A House Of straw On Mistake Street!
Big Bad Wolf :I can’t believe my ears! A house of straw? The three Little pigs?
Ha!
Ha ha ha…
On Mistake street, eh? I’ll say it’s a mistake.
Narrator : He leaped out of his chair and began pacing the room. His mouth began to water.
Big bad Wolf : The thing I love the most in the world-even more than watching TV, even more than smoking cigarettes,- I LOVE the taste of freshly roasted pig. I’m going to get some. I’m going to get some right now.
HA
HA HA HA
HA HA (cough)
Ha (cough) (cough)
(Cough) (Cough) (Cough)
Narrator : A little while later, the Big Bad Wolf was on his way towards Mistake street. He moved quickly, nervously, along the shady side of the street, dodging behind trees and fences. He wanted to surprise the Three Little Pigs. So he was very quiet, except for a few coughs here and there, which he couldn’t help. And he was almost invisible sneaking through the shadows-except for the telltale smoke from his cigarette that floated behind him.
Pig 1: Oh!
Pig 2 : My!
Pig 3 : The Wolf!
Pig 1 : Look at all that smoke…it must be the wolf!
Narrator: Squealing with fright, the pigs fled into the house, slammed the door, and locked it, with two locks. A few seconds later, the wolf pounded on the door.
Big Bad Wolf: Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!
Pigs : Not by the hair of our chinny chin chins.
Narrator: The pigs were squealing in terror, and just then the wolf appeared at the pig’s window, scowling.
Wolf: Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.
Narrator: So the Big Bad Wolf stepped back, stamped out his cigarette, and took a DEEP breath.
Pig #1: I’m scared.
Pig #2: You too?
Pig #3: doesn’t his breath sound a little rattly and wheezy?
Pig #2: I don’t care, I’m terrified anyway.
Narrator: Then the big bad wolf b-l-e-w out. The three little pigs braced themselves for a big wind. There was nothing, not even a little breeze.
Wolf : (cough) (hack) (gasp) come out you little pipsqueaks. Or I’ll (cough, cough) blow that house to the moon!
Narrator: The wolf took another deep breath. He couldn’t hold onto it, so it came right back as a weak little sputter.
Wolf: pshew!…..oh my, not a straw moved.
Pigs: (giggle, giggle, giggle)
Narrator: Again the Big Bad Wolf huffs and puffs, and tries to suck air into his sickly lungs.
Wolf : (cough, cough, wheeze, rattle)…I am furious!
Narrator: Suddenly the wolf is dizzy and has no breath – from all that smoking. He falls – splat!- right on his long, mean-looking snout. He doesn’t get up. Poor wolf…he’s ruined for blowing houses down. Inside the house, the three little pigs dance to an old favorite.
Pigs: Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
ALL: NOBODY!
July 8, 2009
Polish Roulette
John Edgar Mihelic Presents:
Polish Roulette
in response to:
E. Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms
I awoke at eight. The hotel’s main support staff was absent. There were not many guests. In the off-season, there never is. I got breakfast at Denny’s. I ordered a Moon over My Hammy. I enjoy the pun, but the breakfast was over done. I had a malcontent feeling of malaise. At eleven, the bar opened up. I went in and ordered a drink. It was gin, and it soaked my beard. Going to the washroom, I ran into an old friend, Reginald McHammet.
In the bathroom, I talked to Reginald. He produced a bottle of Brandy. Thankfully, there was a Dixie Cup dispenser. We sat down on the porcelain chairs and caught up.
“You enjoying Myrtle Beach?”
“No less than I do every year.”
“Want to go sunbathing sometime?”
“I’d say yes, but I was planning to spend most of the week in an alcoholic haze.”
We both laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh. We both knew, as we sat there in the bar’s toilet, drinking warm brandy and lounging on toilet seats that an alcoholic haze would be de rigueur for the week. You know, par for the course. I’d been at the beach for four days and I had yet to see the ocean. I had played a round of miniature golf. More correctly, I had played part of a round of miniature golf. My friends had to drag me away from a fight with a laughing animatronics pirate. I had vowed to never go back there.
“Reginald how is Texas these days?”
“Pretty much the same, flat, and a lot of people who speak English with an accent”
“Don’t all Texans have some sort of accent?”
“You’re not getting me. I was making a joke about the influx of immigrants that makes Texas one of the most polylingual states in the union.”
“I suppose something was lost in translation. I didn’t know that you were talking about the dirty browner peoples of the world.”
“Shit Howie, I don’t think that’s politically correct.”
“Well, neither is drinking brandy on a Monday in the bathroom of a hotel bar.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Our generation was never one to ask too many questions, especially if they brought up answers that we did not want to think of the possible implications of. All these superficial friendships were trash too. It made me want to vomit. It may also have been the mixing gin, warm brandy, and a Denny’s breakfast. I like to think it was the implications.
“Hey, Reginald, what are you doing right now? I have a hankering to go and do something hyper-masculine. Are there any wars going on? Let’s go fight a war.”
“Um, Howie, I don’t think I want to do that.”
“OK, I understand. I think I’m just going to go up to my hotel room and play Polish roulette.”
“Execuse me?”
“You know, its like Russian roulette, but with only one empty chamber.”
“Well, um, I guess good luck with that. It was nice seeing you.”
“Same to you, you have a good week.”
Polish Roulette
in response to:
E. Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms
I awoke at eight. The hotel’s main support staff was absent. There were not many guests. In the off-season, there never is. I got breakfast at Denny’s. I ordered a Moon over My Hammy. I enjoy the pun, but the breakfast was over done. I had a malcontent feeling of malaise. At eleven, the bar opened up. I went in and ordered a drink. It was gin, and it soaked my beard. Going to the washroom, I ran into an old friend, Reginald McHammet.
In the bathroom, I talked to Reginald. He produced a bottle of Brandy. Thankfully, there was a Dixie Cup dispenser. We sat down on the porcelain chairs and caught up.
“You enjoying Myrtle Beach?”
“No less than I do every year.”
“Want to go sunbathing sometime?”
“I’d say yes, but I was planning to spend most of the week in an alcoholic haze.”
We both laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh. We both knew, as we sat there in the bar’s toilet, drinking warm brandy and lounging on toilet seats that an alcoholic haze would be de rigueur for the week. You know, par for the course. I’d been at the beach for four days and I had yet to see the ocean. I had played a round of miniature golf. More correctly, I had played part of a round of miniature golf. My friends had to drag me away from a fight with a laughing animatronics pirate. I had vowed to never go back there.
“Reginald how is Texas these days?”
“Pretty much the same, flat, and a lot of people who speak English with an accent”
“Don’t all Texans have some sort of accent?”
“You’re not getting me. I was making a joke about the influx of immigrants that makes Texas one of the most polylingual states in the union.”
“I suppose something was lost in translation. I didn’t know that you were talking about the dirty browner peoples of the world.”
“Shit Howie, I don’t think that’s politically correct.”
“Well, neither is drinking brandy on a Monday in the bathroom of a hotel bar.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Our generation was never one to ask too many questions, especially if they brought up answers that we did not want to think of the possible implications of. All these superficial friendships were trash too. It made me want to vomit. It may also have been the mixing gin, warm brandy, and a Denny’s breakfast. I like to think it was the implications.
“Hey, Reginald, what are you doing right now? I have a hankering to go and do something hyper-masculine. Are there any wars going on? Let’s go fight a war.”
“Um, Howie, I don’t think I want to do that.”
“OK, I understand. I think I’m just going to go up to my hotel room and play Polish roulette.”
“Execuse me?”
“You know, its like Russian roulette, but with only one empty chamber.”
“Well, um, I guess good luck with that. It was nice seeing you.”
“Same to you, you have a good week.”
Heaney "Act of Union"
Heaney
Act of Union
I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A gash breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independant shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.
II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignmorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
Act of Union
I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A gash breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independant shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.
II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignmorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)