The speaker takes his place behind a podium and addresses the audience.
UNGODLY ASSHOLE: Let me tell you all what I see. I’m gazing out on an ocean of dumpy, depressed, sheepish faces. I’m looking at people who have lost the way, who have lost even the confidence required to have a simple chat with a co-worker over coffee, or ask a member of the opposite sex out on a date. I would punch each and every one of you in the face if I wasn’t so utterly repulsed by your mere presence.
UA: Any questions?
A woman raises her hand.
UA: Yes, you there. The ugly one.
The woman withdraws her hand.
WOMAN: I—I think you answered my question.
UA: Well, good then. The grating sound of your voice was beginning to drive me insane. Next?
A man raises his hand.
UA: No, I can already tell, you’re too stupid to have a question. Why is your hand raised? Are you struggling to hold in your own waste? Is that it? Are you so mentally handicapped that you can’t grasp the concept of modern plumbing? Can someone take this retard to the bathroom, please, so we can continue the meeting?
MAN: But I don’t have to—
Someone grabs the man and pulls him to the bathroom.
UA: Thank you sir. Or..Ma’am, is it? Your flat, saggy breasts and androgynous mode of dress are confusing the issue. If you’d be so kind as to get out of my sight…thank you. Any more questions?
Another man raises his hand.
UA: You seem adequate. What’s your question?
MAN #2: I have trouble approaching salesmen at department stores. Are there any techniques you could recommend to—
UA: Brushing your teeth once in a while, for starters. My God, it’s like someone just set an abortion clinic on fire. Do you understand the implication? Burning fetuses, sir. And I’m ten feet away from you, behind a podium no less. Sit down and shut your mouth. Okay, next?
No one raises a hand. The speaker glances at his watch.
UA: No one? You know, I don’t have to be here. This is a treat for you. I could be banging one of my hot girlfriends or teaching my son how to point at homeless people in the park. No? No questions? Doesn’t matter to me. I get paid either way. You guys want to sit in awkward silence for the rest of the meeting, that’s fine. Tell you what, I’ll just turn around and face the wall; that way I don’t have to look at you. Cool?
The man returns from the bathroom.
UA: Oh, hey, it’s retard! How’d your poop go, retard? Good? Good poop?
The man glares.
UA: Poop, sir. It’s a bodily function.
MAN: I know what it is. I told you, I didn’t have to go.
UA: A complete sentence, ladies and gentleman! That’s quite the accomplishment, sir, for someone such as yourself. By which I mean someone whose mental handicap renders him capable of only the most rudimentary thoughts and feelings, of course.
The man returns to his seat.
UA: Great, great. Well, I think this has gone really well. I’m going to head out…I’ve got a tee time with Dustin Diamond in forty minutes. Yes, that’s right, TV’s Screech. Okay, well, you all just keep sucking, and I’ll see you around.
The speaker gathers his things.
UA: They asked me to turn the lights off after the meeting, and seeing as I wouldn’t trust any of you to operate a cup, let alone a light switch, I’m going to go ahead and shut them off now. We’ll call it a visualization exercise: you can all reflect on the darkness, and how it mirrors the crushing judgement that others level against you on a daily basis. “Failure.” Almost rhymes with “Inevitable,” doesn’t it? Oh and say, if you guys want to cut yourselves or something, I just want to let you know it’s cool with me. See you next week!
- ► 2009 (76)
- ► 2008 (85)
- ► 2007 (90)
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- ▼ June (7)
2009 Those Aren't Muskets!