Harry Hooper Quits the 2nd Grade Production of 'Robin Hood'

Dear Mrs. Tanacki,

Thank you for offering me the role of 'serf' in Robin Hood.

Although I do not know what a 'serf' is, I'm sure you had the best intentions when giving me this part.

I am, of course, overlooking the shabby and haphazard way you ran the auditions.  Not a single one of us performed a comedic monologue or sang sixteen bars of a song from the Disney canon.

Why did I bother learning 'Oo De Lally?'  Why did I bother having my older brother Tony coach me to the point where I could cry on cue?  Why did I skip snack time today so that you could feel comfortable putting me on a poster?

All a waste.

You know, Mrs. Tanacki, there's word going around that Donny, your Robin Hood, is also your second cousin's son.  I don't like to spread rumors, but I do see a family resemblance.

And let's be honest, how else could somebody get a lead role with a lisp that strong and a talent that weak?  Would you follow Donny out of Sherwood Forest, Mrs. Tanacki?  I wouldn't even follow him off the swing set.

The chemistry between Donny and Natalie Nickleton was like the chemistry between my parents on Valentine's Day.  Oh sure, you believe them as a couple, but you're hardly rooting for them.

Between the poor casting, the unprofessional behavior of the kids who were eating their own eyelashes and still got cast in sizable supporting roles, and the fact that set designer is also the school janitor--I feel I have to move on to other projects.

Instead, I'll be advancing to the next level by taking the lead role in Mrs. Brugel's third grade production of Atonement the Musical:  Junior Edition.

I'll see you at the school theater awards in May...and every day in your classroom.

Respectfully,
Harry Hooper

PS.  If you would like to respond to this letter, please e-mail my agent.

The Wedding Invitation

You are hereby invited to the wedding of our son, Gino Giaranno, at the Skainhabie Event Hall off Gnonophyllis Street in my new daughter-in-law's hometown of Hoslut.

That's pronounced Hoe as in 'She's a ho' and Slut as in 'She's also a slut.'

We are so thrilled to have Marie become a part of our happy family the same way we'd be thrilled to contract some sort of skin affliction.  It wasn't expected, but we're certainly going to try to live with it.

Gino and Marie have known each other such a short time, but she has already added years to both his life and my face.  Just planning this wedding has turned me into a chain-smoking, vodka guzzling, pastry-inhaling lunatic.  By the time the happy day actually arrives, I expect to be wheeled into the church like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.

Oh, that reminds me.  The wedding will not occur in a traditional 'church' because Marie is not Catholic, but a Wicci.  Wicker.  Something like that.  So instead, the wedding will be held in her 'church' located in her basement where she does all her Wickford magic.  If any of you have a chicken she can sacrifice, please bring it along.

My husband, Sal, fully approves of Marie, because her father works for the Red Sox and has promised him season tickets.  That's right.  My husband sold my son to a black magic basement prostitute with crooked teeth for baseball tickets.  What did I get out of the deal?  A nervous tic and five anxiety attacks, that's what I got.

Marie's mother is a lovely woman, who has not gotten off her couch in fifteen years.  At this point, we're going to have to helivac her to the reception.  Meeting her reminded me of the scene in Return of the Jedi where Luke is brought before Jabba the Hutt.  I tried to hug her, but I couldn't figure out where her arm was, so instead, I high fived the footrest and called it a day.  I knew that I wouldn't have perfect in-laws, but I never thought that one day I'd related to furniture.

I so look forward to Thanksgiving.

Finally, in lieu of gifts, we would ask you to send condoms to horny Italian boys so they don't get gold-digging whores pregnant and then have to marry them.  It's a charity we really believe in.

Please RSVP, and if you're not coming--

Lucky you.

King Henry VIII's Missed Connection

Me:  King of England.  Attractive middle-aged man, about three hundred pounds, tiny nose, British accent wearing a floppy hat, pantaloons, and a sizable codpiece.  Chewing on a turkey bone and whipping my manservant Freddy, who happens to be a midget.

You:  Milkmaid, on the road to Devonshire, bent over a goat, coaxing its udders with the tenderness one might expect from a midwife or a leeching specialist.

I rode by you on my horse, my codpiece becoming more and more confining as I watched your heaving bosom go up and down due to your coughing fits.  I assume you have some sort of wasting disease as you are very skinny, and this appeals to me.  I should like to fornicate with you before you drop dead or become healed and gain back any weight.

If you are interested in producing a male heir for me, you could become the Queen of England, and provided you continue to satisfy me sexually for the rest of my life, I will not have you murdered in the town square for all to see.

I bet you don't get that offer every day, am I correct?

If you think I'm turned off by the fact that you seem to have only one working leg, on the contrary...I'm intrigued.  Was there some sort of farm accident?  Perhaps a donkey attacked you?  Or were you just born that way because your father insulted a gypsy?

There is no better aphrodisiac than a good mangled leg story.

If you'd like to reach me, I can be found in the giant castle right next to the spot where the pig butcher used to live, but if you reach the sheep bleeder's shop, you've gone too far.

I'll be waiting for you, my little hobbling milk maid.

Oh, and one more thing--

Bring the goat.

If You Don't Get Into Harvard

Honey, your father and I just want you to know
That if you don't get into Harvard
We will still love you

We didn't want you to think that we will be disappointed
Or distraught
Or want to cry
Or throw things
Or lie and tell people you got in
But that you decided to join a cult instead
Because ultimately that would be less humiliating
Than not getting into the school of our--your--dreams

None of that will be the case

We will just as happy if you get into Br...Br...Brrrrrooo...

That other school

Or Yale!  Yale would be fine
Just because it's not Harvard
Doesn't mean it isn't...fine

Education is not about where you go
But how hard you work
Once you get there

And you can work hard anywhere
Even at places where you don't have to work so hard
Because nobody else is
Because the school isn't Harvard
And so why bother trying
Or...wait, where was I going with this?

Right

Harvard

Don't worry about it

It's not like your father and I have already told people
That you've gotten in
And that you got a full ride
And that you were selected for a special program
Where they allow you to study neuroscience
And foreign policy

We may have insinuated something like that
To a...few...of our friends
But that's not your problem

So when the letter comes in
Whether it's an acceptance letter
Or a letter covered in shame

Haha--little joke there

Whatever it is
We'll be happy

Because we have a wonderful child
Who makes us so proud
Just for trying

Now, go get ready for church
Mommy wants to go light a few candles

Matt and Linda's Failed Easter Egg Hunt

I told you not to let me have that third drink
I told you that was a bad idea
Didn't I tell you?

Jesus, Matt
Now what the hell are we supposed to do?

I don't remember where we hid
A single one of those eggs

I think we put one behind the fridge

I'm not going behind there
And neither are the kids

I think I heard something giving birth behind there yesterday

Think, Matt, think
Where did you hide those eggs?

If we can't find them, how the hell are the kids going to find them?

Stephen can't even put his backpack on without an instruction manual
Like father like--

Let's just focus!

What about my azalea bush outside?
Did you hide any in my bush?

Matt, stop laughing
That is not funny!

Are you still drunk?

Jesus Christ, you're drunk on Easter
If I were a nun, I'd knee you right in the crotch

Now, let's see
I remember you dancing around with a pot on your head
Pretending to be your mother
At our wedding

Did you put any eggs in the pot?

The dishwasher?

Why would we put eggs in the dishwasher?

Easter Bunnies don't leave things in dishwashers!
Bunnies are filthy creatures
Why would they go near anything
That could cleanse them?

Well, go get them out of the dishwasher
And hide them somewhere sensible
Before the kids wake up

Do you know Stephen doesn't believe in Santa anymore
But he still believes in the Easter Bunny?

A guy coming down a chimney isn't plausible to him
But a giant bunny who goes around hiding eggs in his mother's bush
Makes all the sense in the world

Matt, why are you laughing?

Well go ahead
Laugh it up
But guess who's doing all the Christmas wrapping this year?

That's right, Pothead
Mama's taking the rest of the year off

Now if you'll excuse me
I'm going to go have myself
A little holiday coctail

When the Idiots Fall in Love

When the idiots fall in love
They dance around
As if they've just been born
And things like oceans are skies
Are now being revealed to them
For the very first time

When the idiots fall in love
They find high places to dance

Treetops
Cliffs
On top of malls next to parked cars
On floats on parades in big cities

They tell their friends via status updates
And their friends like their statuses
And their friends comment on their statuses
And their friends friend the idiots their friends are now dating
And the idiots accept and create a loving circle of morons
Who all love each other
Until the relationship goes from whole heart to severed heart
Perfectly cracked down the middle
And then it's decided
That the idiots are idiots
And nothing is ever said
Of the fact that idiots are often idiots to begin with

When the idiots fall in love
They have conversations
That consist of 'Right?'

'That's fucked up, right?'
'That's so messed up, right?'
'That's cool, right?'

They're not sure they can trust this love
They think perhaps they're being fooled
Because they're aware that intelligence is not a friend of love
But then again, nothing is truly a friend of love
Except maybe poetry and alcohol

So when they talk, they check
They check each other
They check each other all the time
To see if they can catch the shine flying off
And when it does, they'll fly too
And although being heartbroken would make them feel special
If they can avoid it, they will
They'll fly off past the shine
And hopefully into a new shine
On someone else's face

I Am Trying to Help You

He locks her in the closet

For six hours

Until she stops screaming

There are marks in the door

From where she teared

And clawed

And punched

And kicked

Until she settled down

The website said this would happen

That she would get bad

And that the best thing to do was leave her in the bedroom

But in the bedroom she took one of her shoes

And broke a window

She picked up the broken glass

And put a piece of it to her throat

The only thing that got her to put it down

Was the promise of another relapse

After nine hours of detox

The website said he should bring her to a hospital

But try getting her in the car

It was like trying to get a cat in the bathtub

And she might have killed him in the process

So he cleared out the closet

Threw a few bottles of water in there

Carried her in while she was calm

Right after her fix

And set her down nicely

Shutting the door quietly behind him

Then up went the chair against the knob

And down he sat

To wait

The website said this was a bad idea

But the website was vague

It said 'maybe'

What good were 'maybe's in a situation like this?

This could happen

That could happen

Things could happen

Anything could happen

Everything could happen

Maybe

Maybe

Maybe

He thought about praying

But he couldn't remember a single prayer

Except for 'Please'

She sounded like something was attacking her

Like she was possessed, damaged

Dying, being destroyed

Slowly and painfully

He felt like a parent

Listening to its child cry

Knowing it was better

To leave her alone

Except in this case it might not be

But what was the alternative?

Therapy had failed

Threats had failed

Begging had failed

He had failed

He had failed most of all

She called him names

She cried

She pushed her sickness under the door

For him to look at

And asked how he could leave her alone with it

Because it beat me, he thought

It beat me and got to you

No matter how tall I made yourself

No matter how steadfastly I stood in its way

It beat me

The door pushed up against the back of the chair

Again and again and again

And then stopped

It stopped

It stopped

And was it over?

He stood up

He put the chair back

He knocked lightly on the door

And waited for her to come out

He could hear her crying

Slapping the floor lightly

Drinking the salt

Coming down from her eyes

He imagined, he imagined

He put his head against the door

And imagined he'd never see her again

He imagined proms and birthday parties

And weddings and grandchildren

And a four pound lightly dusted angel

Arriving two days before Christmas

Nineteen years ago

From there to here, he thought

From there to here

And quietly, but enough so that she could hear

He said--

'I am trying to help you'

Trying

I am

To help

You

Like the words could go in any order

And still mean nothing

'I'm trying' he said

'I'm trying'