Monthly Archives: July 2012


I need you to leave.


I’m going to hurt you.


You don’t need to find out.

Where shall I go?

Anywhere but here.

What if I get lost?

You won’t get lost. There’s a fence.

This place is huge.

I’ll find you.

What should I do?

I don’t know.

When do you want me back?

Take your time.

Did I do something wrong?

Not really.

Are you sure?

You’re stifling me.

What do you mean?

I can’t get through a single page when you’re looking over my shoulder.

But I want to watch and serve and please you.

I’ve had enough.

I’m scared to leave.

I swear, if you don’t leave—

Fine. I’ll leave.

Thank you.

I’m leaving.



Turn the page.


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Faster! Faster! Harder!

I’m going!

Go faster!

Where are they?

They’re catching up!

How close?

Only two legs behind. Try hard!

I’m trying!

Try harder!

I can’t…

You can!

They’re going to catch me…

If they catch you, it’s all over!

It’s almost over anyway…

It’s not over yet!

They’re gaining on me…

Push! Push!

It’s over now.

I know.

They beat me.

They almost didn’t.

What a shame.

What a pretty shape…



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Dear Woody / To Whom It May Concern:

Is it who or whom? It is I, or is it me? Shall I or will I get the job? These are the things about which I am concerned. I am a perfectionist: I seek out the undotted, uncrossed, uncomma’d, unimportant imperfections that could perfect a manuscript or land a major publisher.

My last job was ghostwriting a ghost story, which truly characterizes my career ambition. I aspire not to be a writer, but a ghostwriter. The fact that my employer, the author of the ghost story, was my father, does not mean I was hired due to nepotism. I did a good job, though the story was never finished.

You consider yourself a comedian, and I agree. You can be very funny, in a way, at times. I have not seen many of your films, but I have heard all about them from my father. Comedy ghostwriting is not my forte, but I am willing to try new things. The idea you have for this particular manuscript needs some tweaking, in my opinion. You have a doctor, a lawyer, and a writer sitting around a table at a kosher diner, sharing their wildest sexcapades, romances and existential crises. My question is, does the diner have to be kosher? You may risk deterring your gentile (myself included) readership.

I want this job, because I love city culture—the food, the smells, the people, the languages. I speak roughly four languages, in other words, I speak four languages very roughly, but if you ever need a letter written in German, I am an experienced Google Translator. I live on Long Island, so I speak Yiddish as well as anybody else would a dying language.

I am very excited to hear back from you. I check my email about fifty times a day. Please don’t leave me hanging.



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I can’t talk about it.

You can’t or you won’t?

You know what I mean.

How is this going to work?

I don’t know.

How can you say that?

I don’t know.

Well, I have something to say, and I wasn’t going to say it.

Why not?

I don’t want to hurt you.

You can’t hurt me.

Yes I can.

I dare you.

I don’t want to.

Yes you do.

You don’t even care.

No, I really don’t.

Maybe that’s it then.

What’s it?

It’s over.


Aren’t you going to fight for me?

What for? I’m a pacifist. You call yourself a fighter?

Don’t you think I can fight for you?

I don’t think so. Also, I don’t care.

I’m seeing George.



George is a guy.

I know.



I saw George last week.

Not the way I saw him.

That’s debatable.

Let’s ask him.


George, do you see her the same way you see me?

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Dawn of Crack

I’m not going.

Go get it already. I need it.

I’m sick of this.

My class starts in five minutes. I don’t have time.

It’s hot and I’m sick of running around for you.

But I’m tired.

No, you’re not.

Go get my whip!

I’m not waking up at the a**crack of dawn every week if you’re going to treat me like s**t.


Now get your a** out there and beat that little girl with the ponytails.

But I’m too tired.

You’re not tired.

I need you to get my whip.

I need you to win.

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Club Feline

You don’t care.

Yes I do.

About what?

I care about hella stuff.


What should we do now?

I don’t care. I’m hella relaxed.

It’s wicked sunny.

Yeah, dude.

We should chill.

Chill hella hard.

Then do something.


You want a sip?

What is that?

I don’t know. It’s wicked good.

It’s hella good. Honey blossom milk or whatever.

They brought it out for us.

I didn’t even notice.

I fell asleep for a second.

Great service.

They probably want us to “like” them or whatever.

I don’t care.

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Required Reading

I’m so glad I found this on the shelf. I’ve been wondering…

…Jem broke his arm at age thirteen and we had a neighbor who never came out of his house.

Who is this girl? Or boy, or whatever.

…Jem and I befriended a boy named Dill who visited Maycomb to stay with his aunt each summer.

Great, a story about children.

…We were all really scared of our reclusive neighbor.

This is so creepy. I like it.

…Nobody in Maycomb would talk about our neighbor, and we children would fantasize about him and try to lure him out of his house.

This is making me uncomfortable. Why do they have to be children?

…The neighbor started leaving us little presents in a tree outside his house.

He’s luring them into his house. I get it.

…The neighbor made gestures of affection toward us children, but never appeared in person.

Whoa—I may need to cough up a hairball.

…Our dad was a lawyer, and he defended an African American man falsely accused of raping a young Caucasian American woman.

I see where this is going, I guess. Oh—the Great Depression—right.

…The father of the woman was racist and evil. The woman evidently made sexual advances toward the falsely accused rapist and lied about it. But the court still convicted the African American man. He was shot.

Ugh—the south.

…The racist father attacked Jem and me. That’s when Jem broke his arm. Our reclusive neighbor came to the rescue, took care of the racist father and carried us home.

I did not see that coming. Maybe I did.

…The neighbor disappeared again. I wondered what life would be like from his perspective. We should have repaid him for all the gifts.

Enough about the gifts. What about the bird killing instructions?

…The End.

Wait, so, when were you going to explain how to kill birds? Seriously?


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Having Said That…

…you’ve come a long way since your freak boating incident.

…maybe you don’t need Al-Anon this week.

…you’re going to need a lawyer for this one.

…maybe you should see a doctor too.

…we’re all winners, in a way.

…there’s always next time.

…you might want start looking for a new job.

…being in debt can be constructive.

…I’m going to need you to pay this time.

…you look great tonight.

…you do look good in baggy jeans.

…you don’t sound like you’re from Newark.

…Newark can be nice in the fall.

…you might make it in Hollywood, but—

…I also think you’d do well in the Midwest.

…you should totally move back in with your parents.

…I still like your parents.

…I’m not trying to embarrass you or your parents.

…I really don’t like your siblings.

…I just can’t afford to be seen with your family anymore.

…it’s fine if you need more time to heal or breathe or whatever.

…you’re probably still feeling symptoms from the freak boating incident.

…we can still be friends.

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I’m not trying to be critical.

You’re being very critical.

It’s my job.

It’s your job to be constructive.

This isn’t art class, pal.

What am I doing wrong?

You did the whole thing wrong.

Are you serious?

Look at Tommy’s. Look at the angle.

What’s wrong with Tommy’s?

Nothing’s wrong. I want you to angle it like Tommy’s.

Well, I’m sorry I’m not perfect like Tommy.

Are you kidding? It has to be perfect.

Alright. I’ll try again.

You’d better.

I just think you’re being overly critical.

This isn’t about being critical.

Yes it is.

No. It’s about life and death.

What are you saying?

I’m saying, if you don’t do it like Tommy, we could die.

Alright. I’ll get it perfect this time.

Yes. You will. Otherwise we’re all going to die.

Fine. Relax.

I’m totally relaxed.

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No way! I can’t believe you got out! Listen to this one, seriously. This guy comes in dressed in a gorgeous Prada suit, comes over to look at us and he’s all, “Oh-my-gosh I can’t decide,” and we’re all, “We’re not just a bunch of hallmark cards or made-in-china toys. I mean, you don’t just choose one. You’re supposed to have a connection with one of us, like one-true-love or whatever.” So he’s getting all touchy-feely and oochy-goochy-goo with Georgie Boy, and all of a sudden, Georgie Boy wets himself. He sprays it all over the guy, who proceeds to freak out like my ex-trainer—oh-my-gosh—do not let me forget to tell you another crazy story about my ex before you go. I used to be nothing but trouble. Anyway, the guy’s spazzing out, yelling at the staff, yelling at Rhoda, giving Gonzo dirty looks. And we’re all standing around like, “Haven’t you ever picked up a nervous dog before?” Poor Georgie Boy knows he’s just ruined his last chance of getting out of this place—we all know what they do with the unfavorable ones. The guy storms off, comes back after twenty minutes—or like three hours—new suit—Giorgio—fresh smile, apologies all around. Everybody’s all forgiveness and cheerful and hopeful and Obama and everything’s cool. The guy comes by, looks us over, reaches down and picks up Fred! He’s all, “Come here, cutie-pie, you are just a cute little puppy and I forgive you.” We’re all barking and barking and pointing our paws at Georgie Boy, who’s howling and whining in the corner. The guy pays for Fred and walks out. Georgie Boy’s destroyed. He’s crushed. But, you know, there’s a lesson here.

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