From Horse Trade’s “Ha!” Series
And Save The Town Productions
A SAVE THE TOWN CHRISTMASTIME
One-Act Comedies about Comas, Killers, Lies, and Darkness
from Andres du Bouchet and Bob Powers
written and directed by Bob Powers
starring Jonny Fido, Erin Foley, Jamie Greenberg and Deb Rabbai
written by Andres du Bouchet (pssst…that’s me!)
directed by Michael Reisman (he’s better at that sort of thing than I am)
starring Anthony DeVito, Bryan Olsen, Michael Reisman (double threat!) and Rusty Ward
December 10, 11, 16-19 @ 8pm
at the RED ROOM THEATER
85 East 4th St., between 2nd and 3rd Aves.
Tickets are 10 bucks for both plays, 7 bucks for students
Anyhoo, this is the great one-act Bob debuted earlier this year at one of our midnight shows, and I’m sticking with the recent murderous romp that did so well at our shows in November. Please support the arts! And also, see our plays.
My Dearest Woman I Haven’t Met Yet,
I am puzzled. Late these many intervening nights, I have stalked the shadow-latticed halls of my keep, my brow furrowed in deep concentration. With each echoing step of my tap shoes (ask not!) down the arched marble corridors of the wing designated for late-night sorrowful prowling, I’ve conjured up a different theory as to why you have not yet answered my flawlessly written invitation to lustful entwinement with yours most truly. Is it because we have not yet met, and therefore, you have not yet had an opportunity to read my note? I smirk as I write this, for it sounds (I mean reads haha!) so simple. PLEASE do not let the fact that we have not yet met dissuade you from beginning your pre-coitus rituals of stretching and shaving. I myself, throughout the course of typing this latest e-come-hither, have been taking frequent breaks in order to strengthen my lovethighs by squatting a taxidermized wildebeast with the aid of my three mute-yet-nimble miniature sherpas. Ah yes, the mute-yet-nimble miniature sherpas are affable and easy to please. Just ask my Pez deliveryman! On second thought, ASK NOT! If a member of SherpaCare happens to come across this, please be assured that I have, of late, given each of my MYNMS their own drawer in the armoire, replete with L.L. Bean cedar-filled small dog cushionettes! I’VE SAID I MEAN WRITTEN TOO MUCH HA! Now then. I have also begun a shaving ritual, which, at the risk of sounding hyperbolic, is simply the best shaving ritual that anyone in the history of everything has ever tried ever. I cannot divulge the specifics, other than to say that it involves several candles, a bowl of icewater, an aboriginal bolo, a handful of Brazil nuts, and an Amazonian Flying Squirrel. As an aside, I should mention that the MYNMS and the AFS have begun their own Sunday afternoon D-Day reenactments. Delightful! Each time I complete this ritual, my face is so smooth as to be, for all intents and purposes, frictionless. Were you to, in your moistful excitement, thrust forward groinally with too much force across my eager triumvirate of lips and tongue, you might find yourself suddenly airborne, sailing out through my open arched bedroom window and into the lily pond below! At least you’d have a nice moonlight swim, despite the disappointment of your lick-awaiting bits. A very tiny person (smaller even than a MYNMS) would need cleats to walk on my face. A baby’s bottom would feel like an emery board compared to my mu-less face. Mu is the Greek letter used to denote “friction” in physics, my love. Shhh. Shhh hush and shhh I say. Mwah. Coo and caress and mwah, I say. Nibble. Now then, I believe I have laid my soul to you even barer than before. My Love Who I Haven’t Met Yet. Please, come to me. I await, candles and squirrel at the ready. Please allow me three to four hours to shave, otherwise, we shall have to rely purely on crotch-to-crotch related shenanigans. Which shall be thunderous nonetheless.
In full knowledge of my resistlessness,
Yours yet to be loved,
P.S. Boner twice!
My Dearest Woman I Haven’t Met Yet,
I do not think that any words exist which are sufficient to convey the enormity of the conflagration which you have set ablaze within my immensity, but I shall attempt to wrangle but a few that I imagine may hope to possibly hint at the maelstrom surging within my heart: “love”, “awesome”, “touch”, and “harness”.
There. Do you see now what you have done to me? Oh Woman I Haven’t Met Yet, consent to be the object of my emulsions, subject yourself to my infinite thrusts and occasional swizzle-type gyrations! Brace yourself for my huskiness!
But lest you think my enthusiasm is solely of a physical nature, allow me to also mention that that thing you said yester-eve about that particular book or film still has me enthralled.
Now succumb to my oral gymnastics!
As I sit here typing my very soul to you, I cannot help but think that I have not yet adequately expressed my intentions. That upon reading this you may still be confused as to how I wish our relationship to progress. Then be confused no more: I am talking about SEX IN THE NUDE.
To be sure, the nude me as varied greatly in its appeal throughout the course of my life. There have been times, yes, when the nude me was a chiseled demi-God, as if hewn from pale marble and sculpted by a Marvel comics artist. Also, sadly, there have been times when the nude me resembled a sickly, gelatinous creature from the ocean depths, quivering folds upon quivering folds upon quivering nubbins and sacs. Today, I am pleased to say, I am somewhere in between, and swiftly moving towards the former.
Join me on this journey! Subscribe to my frictions now, my love, and delight with wonderment as my nude me transforms before your very thighs! Week after week, month after sweaty, neighbor-waking month.
I do not see how you can resist this entreaty. I have read and then re-read this letter to myself, and do not see how it can fail to entice you. Satisfied in the wooing properties of this missive, I prepare to hit “send”, and eagerly await your eager wetness.
In the nude, of course.
All my love,
Arise, Riders of Theoden! Spear shall be shaken! Shield shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride! Ride! Ride now! Ride to ruin, and the world’s ending! Death!
If you need further proof, you can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org
Damn. I look good. Who knew I had such an awesome skull? I didn’t. But now I do, and so do you, Mr. Mirror. Except to you, my skull is reverse-awesome. But awesome nonetheless. Ah yes, the sense of exhilaration when I realized that I had found THE haircut I would be sticking with for the rest of my life. Nice. So simple. So friggin’ bad-ass. Here’s the recipe for my bad-ass haircut:
1. Set clippers on #2.
2. Buzz my whole head.
3. Stand back and whistle at the bad-ass results.
Seriously. Feel my head. Feel that texture? In the past, you might have been compelled to call that texture “astro-turfy” or “brushy” or “short hairy”, but now you will know what to call it: bad-ass.
How bad-ass is my new haircut? Well, no one has tried to mug me since I’ve gotten it. I attribute this directly to my haircut, and choose to ignore the fact that I am 6’1″ and 230 pounds, and walk with a menacing lurch that can only be described as “sort of crazy-looking”. I also choose to ignore the fact that no one has ever tried to mug me. Not even when I had long hair and an earring in college, and carried around a sign that said My Giant Wallet Full Of Cash And Pot Dares You To Mug Me.
This haircut makes me want to get trapped in a building full of Euro-trash terrorists led by Alan Rickman. Why? So that I can kill them one by one. I bet I could, with this haircut.
This haircut makes me want to shoot Vincent D’Onofrio’s character from Full Metal Jacket in the mouth before he does it himself.
This haircut makes me want to slowly sink into molten lead while Edward Furlong weeps.
This haircut makes me want to HANDLE THE TRUTH.
I am so bad-ass. I have typed all of this with my fists. The keyboard is almost