Hey, Everybody, Let's Put On An Avant-Garde Show!

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Vol 38 Issue 11

Man Hopes Hot Woman In Next Apartment Can Hear How Well He's Fucking His Girlfriend

MIRAMAR, FL—During sexual intercourse Monday, Curtis Davie, 23, hoped that his attractive neighbor could hear the pleasured moans of his girlfriend through his apartment wall. "Don't get me wrong, things are going great with Amy," Davie said. "But it certainly never hurts to have a hot chick next door who secretly knows you're a sexual dynamo." To increase his chances of being heard, Davie is considering moving his bed to the wall between his apartment and the neighbor's, or at least closer to the shared air duct.

E.T. Toys Forced On Uninterested Children

CHERRY HILL, NJ—Across the nation, toys and other merchandise produced for the 20th-anniversary rerelease of E.T. are being foisted upon uninterested children. "This is the alien spaceship, but it doesn't even have any guns or anything," said Robbie Guyton, 6, attempting to make sense of toys bought for him by his mother, who fell in love with the heartwarming Steven Spielberg classic two decades ago as a 10-year-old girl. "The E.T. monster is ever weirder: It's, like, all naked and shriveled, and it doesn't have any battle armor. It's not scary at all." Guyton tried to figure out how to activate the death laser on the E.T. doll's finger, but was unable.

Man Bitten By Radioactive Sloth Does The Lying-Around-All-Day Of 10 Normal Men

CENTRAL CITY—Laboratory assistant Brent Barker, bitten by a radioactive sloth last week in a freak lab accident, now possesses the relative loafing powers of 10 men. "Could someone pass me some more crackers?" asked the media-dubbed "Crimson Lump," speaking from his titanium sofa, the only known object that can withstand his superhuman lethargy. "I can't reach them from here." Scientists are likewise baffled at Barker's uncanny ability to remain motionless while watching amounts of television that would kill an ordinary mortal.

Now, There's A Stranger Who Could Use Some Of My Child-Rearing Advice

All too often in this world, we turn a blind eye to those who could use a helping hand. Now, I'm no saint, but I just can't look away when I see people who need help. Like, if a couple on the street is having an argument, I'll step in and try to help them resolve their issues. More often than not, the couple is so stunned by the caring and concern shown by a total stranger that they completely forget whatever it was they were fighting about.

Drugs Now Legal If User Is Employed

WASHINGTON, DC—Seeking to "narrow the focus of the drug war to the true enemy," Congress passed a bill legalizing drug use for the gainfully employed Monday.

Gay Adoption

Rosie O'Donnell, an adoptive parent and newly out lesbian, called Florida's and President Bush's opposition to gay adoption "wrong." What do you think?

Colombian Rebel 25 Years Younger Than Colombian Civil War

MITÚ, COLOMBIA—Alberto Diaz, 14, a Marxist guerrilla fighter in the Colombian civil war, is 25 years younger than the war itself. "President Arango and his corrupt right-wing regime must fall," said the pubescent Diaz, whose rebel group, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, has been trying to topple the government since the early 1960s. "This has been my dream ever since 1999, when I was just an 11-year-old child." Diaz then popped a pimple on his chin and wiped the pus on the barrel of his AK-47.
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Hey, Everybody, Let's Put On An Avant-Garde Show!

Say, gang, did you hear the news? Rotten old Banker Mudge wants to tear down our clubhouse and put up a big office building in its place. Can you believe it? Us kids will have no place to go! Well, doggone it, I won't stand for it, and neither should any of the other kids here in Gurdeyville! I just know if we put our thinking caps on, we can figure a way out of this jam.

Wait... I got it! We'll raise the money to stop Banker Mudge by putting on a show! An avant-garde show!

I know what you're thinking: "Jeez, Mickey, we only know about stickball and skipping rope, not avant-garde dramatics!" But I tell you, gang, absurdist theater is in my blood! My pop used to be the artistic director of an experimental playhouse in Greenwich Village during the heyday of the Fluxus movement, and my great-grandmaw served drinks at the Cabaret Voltaire, which was just about the most important Dadaist theater in WWI Zurich. Even though I'm only 13, I've picked up enough from them to direct us a swell show.

Besides, we've got a whole mess of talent to work with here! Little Gracie tap-dances with pep aplenty, and Bucky's lasso tricks never fail to wow. Why, with just a little practice, they could be transformed into a chorus of shrouded, shrieking wraiths in no time! And who else but sweet Rosemarie, the golden-haired darling of our gang, should play the part of the slovenly mother-whore who's constantly giving birth to fist-sized maggots?

Now, don't get sore if you don't land one of the lead roles. There's work for everybody on this avant-garde production! Virginia's a demon with a needle and thread; she'll be just the gal to stitch together the blood-red cloth backdrop with the vagina-shaped opening through which the giant fetus enters in the first act. Jackie, the junkman's son, is a born prop man—he could dig up enough rusted urinals and soiled dolls' heads for a dozen plays! Sissy Chester can compose the dissonant, aleatoric score. And Spud never goes anywhere without his hammer and nails; he can build the stage and the sets, as well as the huge wooden letter M that drops to the floor and crushes the proletarian rioters at the end of Act II! The rest of you can sell tickets, paste playbills on the fence outside Schwoegler's Field, or hitch Nanny Goat to her cart and haul a giant papier-mâché phallus up and down Gurdeyville Town Square. Yep, we're gonna need all the help we can get!

If we're gonna put on a proper avant-garde show, it oughta be some kind of surrealist drama heavy on symbolism. Who will write this play, you ask? None other than yours truly, Mickey McCune, natch! Aw, don't worry, I've seen lots of these kind of shows—cabaret, poetry recitals, performance art, you name it. It'll be a cinch! I think I'll call my work Meat Play. It will be the story of the aforementioned fetus, who survives a premature birth and eventually ascends to the throne of an obscure Eastern European kingdom. There will be a waltzing skeleton, a murderous clown, an enormously fat industrialist who sits atop a large glass toilet and defecates money, and a lecherous bishop who covets his own sister but can't act on his impulses because he's buried up to his chest in dirt. Ain't that a peach?

By thunder, we'll do things up on that stage that'll have everybody talking here in Gurdeyville! Instead of stagehands, the actors will move the scenery right in front of the audience. Without warning or explanation, human actors will be replaced by marionettes... right smack in the middle of scenes! And, of course, there will be heaps and heaps of overlapping dialogue. This play will not only savagely attack the class system, organized religion, and sexual mores, but also, by subverting the conventions of mainstream theater, it will draw attention to its stale artificiality! Yesiree, this Meat Play is gonna be a pip!

What's that you say, Hamhock? "Nudity"? Jumping Jehosophat, you're right! How silly I was to forget the nudity! It's just the thing every avant-garde play needs. We'll paint our naked bodies all the colors of the rainbow, and the boys' penises will be gaily striped like barbershop poles! Golly, I can hardly wait for opening night!

We'll charge 10 cents a seat and invite everyone in town, from the ragpicker to the mayor himself. We'll even invite old Banker Mudge, just to show him he can't boss us kids around! When everybody sees our nifty avant-garde show, they'll be clamoring for more. The dimes will pour in, and not only will we have enough money to save the clubhouse, but we'll also have enough left over for ice-cream sundaes!

What's that, Bucky? You say the clubhouse already has the money to pay off Banker Mudge and stop his plan? Some other neighborhood kids raised the funds by performing a play of their own? A dialogue-free version of Uncle Tom's Cabin in which all the players lie onstage tightly swaddled in gauze? Gee, Bucky, why didn't you say something before I got on a roll? Well, I guess I oughta get back to working on my soap-box racer for the big derby!

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