Last Supper Humor

After some strange anti-Jewish sentiment in the USA, I thought it would be helpful to explain what really happened during the Last Supper….

 

Jesus: Dearly Beloved, thank you for joining me in this olive garden.

 

Matthew: Oh yeah, man, no sweat. I love the unlimited crackers. I’m trying to see if it’s true you can’t eat five in a row without your mouth drying up.

 

Andrew: Philip, should we tell him it’s called matzah?

 

Philip: Andrew, he’s a tax collector in the springtime, let him be happy he came to this lovely dinner in the first place.

 

Jesus: As I was saying. Well, you know me, let’s do this through a parable. Judas, since it is Passover, would you please recite the Four Questions?

Judas I.: Who me?

 

Jesus: Is there anyone else here named Judas?

 

Everyone: YES!

 

Judas I.: Fabulous. Here we go. (clears throat) Why is this night different from all other nights?

 

Jesus: Because, by the end of this night, one of you will betray me one time and one of you will deny me three times..

 

Didymus: I doubt this very much.

 

Bartholemew: Didymus, all you ever do is doubt things. It’s probably you.

 

Didymus: Oh, I don’t know.

 

Bartholemew: Tell him, James son of Zebedee!

 

James: Zebedee Zebedee that’s all folks!

 

John: Excuse me, I just have to go to the John for a moment.

 

Philip: Don’t leave, man. If you miss something, your version of this story might somewhat diverge from other retellings.

 

Jesus: I won’t keep you in suspense. One of the guys who I said would do one of the things is…the Apostle Formerly Known As Simon.

 

Peter: You can call me Peter, you know.

 

Jesus: Listen, Apostle Formerly Known As Simon, you are already showing the proof that you shall cock-block me before dawn.

 

Peter: I’m here to help.

 

Jesus: Maybe. But who will betray me, I wonder?

 

Andrew: It’s probably Thaddeus. He never says anything anyway, just listens. How annoying is that?

 

Jesus: I will think that over.

 

Judas I.: In the mean time, will you excuse me? I just have to go put money in the parking meter for the donkey that you rode into Jerusalem.

Jesus: Man, if that’s what you gotta do.

Judas I.: (as he steps over and around other participants) Pardon me. Excuse me. Sorry. A thousand pardons. (He exits.)

Jesus: Does anyone else know any of the Four Questions?

 

Simon the Zealot: Where’s the wine?

 

Jesus: That is an excellent question!

Grateful to announce, “Huma Nism” is an O’Neill Center NPC Semifinalist

Literary Office<litoffice@theoneill.org>
You
Wed 4/24/2024 12:29 PM

Dear Ed,

Thank you for sharing HUMA NISM with the 2024 National Playwrights Conference at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center—and our congratulations, again, on reaching the Semifinalist round this season.

After considering it with care and appreciation, we ultimately feel that the National Playwrights Conference is not the right developmental home for your work at this time. We are saddened to share that it is no longer a candidate for inclusion in our upcoming summer season.

We were humbled to welcome 1,500 applications to the National Playwrights Conference this year, and we recognize the energy, imagination, and ingenuity that went into the making of each and every one of them. Please know that as a Semifinalist, your work was championed by our staff and reading teams alike. We hope that you’ll consider this a full-throated affirmation of your artistry, your acumen, and the powerful impact of your craftsmanship. It was a privilege to spend this time with your work, and we sincerely hope that you will continue to keep us in mind as you write.

Our thanks again for the opportunity to spend time with your work. We wish you a joyful, rejuvenating year ahead.

All our best,

Muscle Museum

In the muscle museum, everyone makes a big issue over a little tissue.

It’s not just what you got, it’s what you do with it to get what you want from it.

Sometimes, it is said, humans have within their bodies, divine power.

Come to the second floor and see: the Deltoids of Venus

There is a weight room where you can pull Lats.  Yours or someone else’s.

You can roll your neck, probably one of the biggest muscles you have if we’re being honest.  When counting neck rolls, don’t say 1 Missississppi.  Say 1 Sternocleidomastoidius, 2 Sternocleidomastoidius, 3 Sternocleidomatodius.  It’s just longer, you see.

Go on, you’ve worked hard.  Flex your Trapezius!

 

Now you may ask, why come to the Muscle Museum?

Why not stay home and recite poetry, like a little wuss?

Wait, you say, it is actually possible to convince women to go to bed with you, willingly?

Like, based on poetry?  Sappho was very good at that, we hear.

Oh no, I can’t speak that nicely, you say.

Have no fear!  For you, music was invented.

You don’t need to say it sweetly.  You don’t need to say anything.  How about a waltz in 6/8 time?

Maybe you’ll get dizzy while you play it.

Imagine the happiness of having more than you know what to do with!

 

And, if you’re human, how do you even have the ability to know about what’s good, what’s beautiful, what’s bangin’, what’s bussin’?

There are 9 Chicks on a Yacht in the Mediterranean.  Trust me, there are, I read it somewhere.  And their names are the Muses.  They are born of Thunder and of Memory, and they know all about these things and when you know about them, you can’t forget, either.  You want to spend your whole life telling jokes, or reaching for the stars?  Tell your mom you are inspired by the Muse of Comedy, or the Muse of Astronomy.

 

So, why be so highly strung?  Let your soul sing, or enjoy someone else’s hamstring, today!

Savor Savior

Omicron licked his lips.  That human had been delicious.
He asked himself why the human had been so tasty.  Probably because of the depth of his thoughts and convictions.

That must be why.  Omicron didn’t always have such nice meals.  But every once in a while, he went all out and ate someone’s savior.

He had to admit, it was a crapshoot.  Some humans may seem to care about others, but when you get down to eating them, they’re rather scrawny and unfulfilling.

Whereas some, the ones with big bellies and Rubenesque physiques, they can keep you busy for a while but you may end up spitting them out.

What Omicron wanted was a savior whom he could savor.

But where to look?  For a while, Omicron had gotten very skilled at impressions of dog voices.  He could make such sounds outside of a firehouse, wake up the firefighters, get them to open the door, and then eat them.  Again, it was great at first.  You could tell when someone really cared.  And all that sliding down poles and carrying ladders builds real muscles.  But by his fourth scarfing down of a fire brigade, Omicron was tasting all the smoke inhalation.  And so he vowed to go on a purification diet.

For three months, he ate only Community College Professors.

Then, he devoured Theological Seminary Doctoral Candidates.  Nothing against their goals, which he admitted were very noble, but he could just smell the frustration of trying so hard to change the world.  That, and with one dude who was wearing this priest collar that just wouldn’t come off.  So he missed out on all that neck and elbow feasting.

Finally, when he turned his back on the above, Omicron knew he had saved the best for last.  He would go to the biggest Cosplay gathering in Savannah, Georgia.  There were many good reasons behind this savvy decision.  For starters, he could walk just in as he was, looking like a vicious, hungry alien, and people would compliment him on his costume.  Which he wasn’t wearing, but cool.  Several participants asked to take their photo with him.  Some were confused why his image didn’t show up in any of the photos.  Ah, the benefits of alien technology.  Some folks invited him into a geodesic dome for a cuddle session.  They did not come back out again.  But for Omicron, these were mere hors-d’oeuvres.  When he heard it was time for the local manifestation of the Billion Bunny March, he salivated.  And he took the safety catch off his big jaws and opened wide.  There was much screaming.  And eating.  And then, he felt a pain in the depth of his being.  His stomach was full of metal.  This was not supposed to happen.  And yet, when you eat dozens of humans wearing cheap bunny ears with hidden wiring, this can happen.
As he felt his life leaving his body, Omicron wondered if he would go to heaven.  He started to ask his savior for help.  And then everything went dark.

JUNE NEW RADIO PLAYS WITH LIVING RADIO

It was an honor and a pleasure to work with Living Radio again at Under St Marks this month.  I was one of the writers who created a new radio play based on a current news article.  My director was Roddy MacInnes and my talented actresses were Mila Besson, Tiffany Renelle, Olivia Webb and Sabrina Gomez. The June plays were performed live and can be streamed here (along with previous wonderful pieces by myself and other writers throughout this year):

Welcome to Living Radio.

The Story of Lennox LaZuli

by Ed Malin

Lennox LaZuli had a problem with his temper.  That was what adults kept telling him.

The trouble was, things were seldom black and blue because they tended to be white and black.

Lennox’s family travelled a lot.  His father, who was of Cuban-Chinese origin, was Vice-President of Sales for a company that kept buying up all its competitors and was therefore constantly changing names and hard to keep track of unless one really cared about mergers.  His mother, of Iraqi, Polish and Alabama origins, sometimes referred to herself as an I.P.A.  In addition to these multicultural underpinnings, Lennox was told following an emergency appendectomy that his blood type was O negative, i.e. the universal donor.  For those who really cared about blood donation, this meant Lennox could easily and without harming anyone give his blood to those of types A+, A-, B+, B-, AB+, AB-, O+ and O-

Lennox did not have strong altruistic tendencies.  Lennox was angry at the human race.  This may have been because whenever his family moved due to his father’s job, he ended up in a new school with people who were not aware how thin the coat of social varnish on their prejudices really was.

At his last school, in a part of the South where the one thing they had going for them was their ability to detect and make fun of Alabama accents, one youth had guessed part of Lennox’s genetic makeup and decided to nickname him “the bitin’ chigger”.  Lennox promptly broke the youth’s nose, which at least fixed the poor ignoramus’s drawl for a few weeks.  In the Principal’s office, Lennox accepted his upcoming detentions as a good place to work on his calculus homework “so I can practice differentiating for constructive reasons”.  By which he meant that racism served no function, was pointless and was less than tangential.  Such students often had more fun with numbers than with people.

In his school after this one, Lennox would meet a girl.  Everything would go fine until she would ask him to the Prom.  Actually, on Prom night a slight problem would manifest in that someone (the girl’s brothers) would slash the tires on Lennox’s car.  Fortunately, no one would think to slash the tires on the girl’s motorcycle, which she then would use to drive them both to the event.  They would arrive with identical blow-outs, and proceed to have a great time dancing.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  If some folks hate what they fear and fear what they don’t know, and some dude diverse enough to sing the whole “We Are The World” song by himself shows up, man that’s a lot of fear for those cats.  Scared like cats, indeed.

 

When he looked in the mirror, Lennox just didn’t want to be so blue.  Could it be fixed?  Do we dare to consult conventional wisdom?   A little conventional wisdom is a dangerous thing, as some writer quipped in 1709.  It might as well have been the Pope for all the power it had to influence earthly events.  Anyway, it was only Alexander Pope and Lennox Lazuli had at his disposal many sources of cultural wisdom.  It was at this time that his father, on a sales trip that aimed to help destroy the rain forests faster, had taken the whole family along on a voyage to South America.  Did Lennox really believe in herbal medicines that purge bad intentions?  We don’t know this.  We do know that he was already sick of the petty people who could not digest rainbows.  By which, Lennox meant that if he could just make himself a little more simple, then life among simple people would be more simple and feel less like a war zone.  In Latin, this might be construed as Simplicius Simplicissimus, StupidusAnd how would the healers found in the rain forest approach this situation?  They would try, per Lennox’s request, to tone down his spectrum, to remove all the blonde, canary, and related hues.
There is a ceremony for this.  There is an herb.  And then, during the trance state, it’s kind of like cutting one of the wires on the ticking explosive device.  Lennox, who was entranced, did not realize that his healers were a few degrees out of rotation.  When he woke up, he was missing all the blue in his life.  And really, either way, that meant no green, folks.  Green is what you get when you mix yellow and blue.

What was life back in school like, then.  Was it any better?  Without green, it wasn’t as full of growth.  He could see the forest, but not the trees.  There was no color of money.

Meanwhile, Lennox’s mind jumped back into his skin.  He was sitting with his date, on her couch, the evening of the Prom.  He had met her parents, who were nice to him, except that they kept asking who he wanted to win the ball game.  This was not on his radar, so he said he was a winner-picker and winked so they could make their own assumptions.  The parents went into the kitchen, and his date excused herself to powder her nose.  All this stuff happening (and about to happen, though he didn’t know about the car tires yet) and, yes, he was wearing a bowtie.  It was then, when he was actively withdrawing into himself, that he felt a tug at his pant leg.  A voice, low to the ground, was saying “Hey, hey can you answer this for me?”

Not sure if there were gnomes walking around this house, Lennox was afraid to investigate. But, when he opened his eyes and looked down, he saw a mini, oh what do you call it, you know, that really small dog, which had his cuff in its mouth.  Lennox breathed a sigh of relief.  Dogs can’t talk with their mouths full.
“I’m a ventriloquist,” said the dog.
Lennox tried to stand up, but suddenly became worried about tearing the rented tux.
“You’re a dog,” he sneezed.

“Listen, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Uhhhh.”
“Relax.  I’m just a dog.  OK, do you know what parishioners are?”
Lennox thought about it.  “You mean, Frenchmen?”
“That’s a good one.  You must be the king of sit-down comedy.  Oh snap, she’s coming back.”

“Church.  You’re talking about church.”
“Maybe for you.  The dog is the most faithful of animals.”  And with that, the dog winked and bolted out of the room.

His date had returned.  She extended to him a hand on which was a satin glove.  Was it blue?  It was off-blue, a little out of focus.  Definitely some kind of fairly normal color which he felt like he hadn’t seen in so long that it was brand new.

He could see again.  Though, riding on the back of the motorcycle, he occasionally closed his eyes.  His date gunned the motor, refusing to lose any more time by stopping at changing traffic lights.  During one speed-up, Lennox felt the flower pinned to his tux spring loose and arc through the air.  As he turned his head to the side, the flower flew like a wedding bouquet.  Did he really see a flying squirrel jump up and grab that boutonniere in its mouth?  If so, there would be wedding bells sounding throughout the rodent world.

It seemed they arrived at the Prom practically before they had left the house.  Striding in with hair completely unpermed, their futures were by no means charted.

He thought to himself, is she really the one?  She cared enough to let nothing stop us from coming to this date.  She may or may not know that I can’t see certain colors.  Is she out to get me like everyone else, but better at hiding it?  Even if she loves me, I am in fact the universal donor so doesn’t that mean I should dance with anyone I want?

It was a night of balloons, as are all Proms.  The room was just dark enough that no one could stereotype anyone else.  Lennox LaZuli felt he could finally breathe.

Norman’s Submissive Gameplan

“You better come into my dungeon

Because outside you got to have free will.”

 

Norman could hear her singing from all the way down the cell block.  He knew he should object.  After all, Mistress Bouzouki was flat.  Not flat-chested, no, certainly not that, merely a few intervals short of natural.  But, then Norman remembered the money.  If he could last 2 months on this submissives reality show, then he could collect the jackpot.  And it would be in Bitcoin, because fuck the Euro.  Yes, he knew he had a duty to his wife and their three children, who were approaching college age.  Well, she was actually his sister, not his wife, but no one knew this, and no one was going to find out!!

 

Norman arched his back.  Doing this was equivalent to jerking his own chain, so he had to make sure the camera crew wasn’t about. If he shuffled ball heel toe toe, then he could move the chain without making any jingling noise.  Norman wanted to be submissive so bad, he was willing to be assertive to get there.

 

Then, a great fanfare was heard.  They tell you they add that in post, but it just wasn’t true.

 

Norman kept his eyes down as a tremendous stiletto thrust up in his personal space.  “Oh Norrman!” boomed the voice of Mistress.

 

“Yes, Mistress Bouzouki?”

 

“Lick my booty!”  He knew what she meant, and went to town on that shoe.   When it was super shiny, he could get a glimpse of his own reflection.

 

“Norrman, you are such a good slave.” (pause) “I know that’s an oxymoron, like Chinese Democracy.”

 

Norman held his tongue.  But he needn’t have bothered, since Mistress liked to hold onto his tongue for him.  When she finally let go, he knew he was allowed to look upwards, to see the two heavenly orbs, and above them them, her face, and above that, the boom crane which recorded their words for the video on demand audience.

 

“Norrman, it is so nice of you to stay in my dungeon all through the American Erections!”

 

“Yes, Mistress, I have no need to vote.”

 

“And why is that,” she asked.

 

“Because, Mistress, the two party system is a duality, a mere illusion.”

 

“Good boy,” she mewed.  “You have dumbed down and lost your will completely to me!”

 

“And cut!” came a voice from behind the camera.  The Vancouver camera crew applauded.  They knew this was Norman’s last appearance, that all the other scenes were in the can.

 

The guy with the boom crane came over to ask Norman, “Did you really agree to stay in here and not vote, eh?  What about your country, eh?”

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll fix it in post.”

 

Tours of Tours

Hello, my name is Michel.  I am a man.  I am from France.  I give Tours of Tours.

Yes.  The city is called Tours.  And the word “tours” is the same in French.
It is, as we say, cheesy.  My English is pretty good.  I lived in Indiana for 15 years before my family moved back.  So it’s not the best English, but I can explain France to visitors.

Civitas Turones was the Latin name of the city.  It’s named after the Gauls.  That stuff is on the tour.  Of Tours.  It’s not like it’s the ultimate tour or anything.  There are older cathedrals.  Our wine is shit.  I’m kidding.  Mostly it’s the desperation of these tourists that gets to me, these folks who think love is in the air just because it’s France.  They come here of all places looking for joy.  One of them told me “I just wanna be loved.”  And I told her “You’re going to need a lot of plastic surgery for that, babe.”

But let’s talk about the famous people from Tours.
We have Gregory of Tours and we have St. Martin of Tours.  Balzac was from here.  I take the tourists to our restaurants and ask them, with a straight face, if they are hungry for a Balzac sandwich?  This, of course, my cousin the boulanger has invented for shits and giggles.  Wrap your mouth around a bulging Balzac.
Tours used to be the capital of France for 88 years.  Did you know that?  Wish anything was left that I could take people to see.
And for the medievals, our most famous celebrity is Chrétien de Troyes, whom a lot of Americans think is from Tours.  They can pronounce nothing, these Americans.  I got asked by so many foreigners, on my tour of Tours, to tell them about Chrétien de Troyes, that I became an expert on that bastard.

I hate to be the bearer of bad cholesterol but…

What I mean is, in French we have this word “poseur”.  And because we made the word, it stands to reason we have a lot of actual poseurs in our history already thank you very much.
Chrétien is supposedly the guy who wrote all the King Arthur stories.  He did this in France, which is ridiculous.  Hundreds of years after any of the battles took place.  There would have to have been some stories already written about these hero guys in England, no?

The answer is, yes, the original inhabitants wrote down these stories and you can read them in a collection called Mabinogion.  But this is actually not as old as the poems of Chrétien de Troyes, because they cannot find the original stories they are all based on.  This was something I could not tolerate.  So I started telling my curious American tourists a certain something.

OK you guys, you live where, Con-nect-i-cut?  But you sometimes spend part of the winter in Florida.  Yes, when I was there, I knew people who had the same illness.  So, imagine you live somewhere but you have close cultural links with another place.  In the Middle Ages, Celtic people in Britain had relatives in Ireland, Scotland, and Brittany.  Brittany is the place on the edge of France where Bretons live, and Bretons are like Britons.  Are you following me so far?
Great, so in Brittany the people got stories about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, straight from travelers from the land where these things occurred.  After the people in Brittany wrote down these tales, the French stole them.  Well, it wasn’t really stealing because these French dudes had guys called Troubadours who were able to sing stories and they rhymed.  And people liked those stories a lot.  The end.

No no no, wait just one cotton-picking minute, Michel.  How can you say those uncivilized French people stole those stories and said Chrétien de Troyes wrote them.  After all, he isn’t even the most famous person from Troyes, which is Rashi, the great medieval Jewish Biblical commentator.  But the French can’t be bothered with that kind of stuff, and that kind of proves that they couldn’t have originated the Arthurian romances.

Still, Michel, how do you know?  All right, I’ll tell you.  There are several dwarves in the romances of Chrétien de Troyes, that’s how I know he didn’t write them, OK?

Not OK.  What’s wrong with dwarfs?

There is nothing wrong with a dwarf being a dwarf.  It is a perfectly good literary character for the land of fairies and inexplicable natural forces.  You look at Irish and Welsh stories and there are plenty of dwarves.

Right, so how can you say Chrétien didn’t make these guys up?

Ah, that is because, in his most famous poem, the most powerful dwarf—if you have to pick just one dwarf—is called The Little King, or Gwiffert Petit.

Gwiffert is a very strange name for a Frenchman, perhaps?

Well, yes, that’s because it is a Celtic name, either from the Britons or the Bretons.

So when you read these supposedly pure French tales, you are seeing many names that show how Brythonic everything is.  And all the magic, too.

But what about the chivalry?

Fine, Chrétien made that up.

And what about all the stuff with incest, and stealing girlfriends, and jousting?

He was just adding that like icing on the cake.

Well, isn’t that going to make your Tours of Tours a little less spectacular?

No, I am going to start offering tours of Brittany!

Or maybe I will stay in Tours.  It’s surprising what I could get away with.  The Council of Trent?  I’ll make that the Council of Tours.  The ruined Castle of Limours?  I will put it somewhere in Tours.  And anything that’s really in Belgium but too far for tourists to get to, and various places from Corsica, I will pretend those things are also in Tours.  The Battle of Poitiers has recently been renamed The Battle of Tours, and I had nothing to do with that.
The whole thing about us once being the capital.  I just can’t let go of the completely irrelevant past.  Just like people in Indiana.  We are very much like them, except we don’t eat corn products.  We are so scared of the consequences of our actions.  And when the most horrible, deadly things confront us, we can never admit that these things happened because we fucked our sisters.  No, we can’t.  instead, we go on vacation, and we can’t wait for someone to tell us some cock and bull story.  Well, you came to listen, and have I got a story for you!