SFX. Fade Title Theme. Fade in Of Cursed Womb by Behold…the Arctopus.

DSNT. You’re listening to 91.5 WOBC, this is Twyzzlers for Everyone Forever, the show where we play only music that no one wants to hear. This song, for example, is Of Cursed Womb by Behold…The Arctopus.

Fluid. For Want of a Fail, our weekly advice show, will return next semester.

DSNT. Upon Vera’s return from Siberian Dental College.

Fluid. I thought she was vacationing in Amsterdam…

DSNT. Well, that’s what everyone actually does for Winter Term, except for us, apparently. I guess they’re just afraid of money and success, so they bum around Europe instead of learning things.

Fluid. What were you doing, again?

DSNT. Bumming around…Oberlin…

Fluid. Uh huh…

DSNT. And…video games…

Fluid. No seriously, what are you doing?

DSNT. A study in the different colors of molds you can get with different foods.

Fluid. I see…

DSNT. What are you doing?

Fluid. Well, I’m training imaginary friends to jump through hoops.

DSNT. And how’s that going?

Fluid. I’m done.

DSNT. It’s the first day of Winter Term.

Fluid. I have a better imagination than you do.

SFX. Door opens, footsteps.

DSNT. Not true! Just this morning, I used MS Paint to alter pictures of Emma Watson to look like–

Station Manager. TWYZZZLEEEEEEEEERRRRRRSSSS!

Fluid. DSNT, quick! Use the anti-censorship smoke bomb!

DSNT. I don’t know what that is? How do I do that?

Fluid. With this smoke bomb! Ha ha HA!

SFX. Smoke bomb.

DSNT. (Coughs.)

Station Manager. That’s not going to work, I’ve built up an immunity.

SFX. Evil sorceress powers.

Fluid. Where did the smoke go?!

DSNT. Maybe it’s in her bosom. I volunteer to lead the first expedition.

Station Manager. I hope this isn’t going to be that whole “my hands are sherpas” thing you tried on our date, because this time I’ll just melt your eyes with my EVIL SATANIC POWERS.

Fluid. What’s up with those? I think I missed a memo.

DSNT. No one cares about your life, Fluid.

Fluid. While I was imprisoned alone in a restaurant for a month and none of you helped me.

DSNT. Stop talking down to the listeners, Fluid, I’m sure all of them have been to our Livejournal, twyzzlers.com to catch up on all of our life stories. IN AUDIO FORM.

Fluid. I think what you just did to the fourth wall is technically considered statutory rape.

Station Manager. Stop saying these things on the radio! We’re not even allowed to be transmitting right now!

SFX. Click.

Fluid. Hey! I was enjoying that.

Station Manager. Yes, but no one else was.

DSNT. We do a prog-rock show. That’s the point. The music causes them pain and makes the listener reflect in staunch Catholic-like contrition.

Fluid. So why can’t we broadcast?

Station Manager. Because our FCC certificate expired in 1953. I have to go renew it.

DSNT. And you’re discovering this now because…

Station Manager. I found it under a pile of PBR cans and discarded ‘90s music CDs. Also, we need someone to have an Operator license, and ours was issued in 1901 with Oberlin’s purchase of the world’s first radio.

DSNT. Those things sound distinctly like your problems; not ours.

Station Manager. Fluid, I’d like you to pick up the Operator’s license. You’re the most responsible member of the station.

DSNT. Hey!

Fluid. I am most definitely not the responsiblest member of this station. Well, I mean, at least I’m not…(Rambles under the next few lines.)

Station Manager. DSNT, I’d like you to pick up my taxidermy license.

DSNT. A. Why would I do that for you? And 2. Why do we need a taxidermy license?

Station Manager. I need it for a secret meeting this afternoon. Besides, I–

DSNT. I am wearing a red lace–

Both. Bra under…this shirt…

(Pause.)

Station Manager. Wait…that’s what I was going to say…

DSNT. Just thought I’d share.

(Beat.)

Station Manager. Umm…ok. But I am wearing a red lace bra under this shirt.

DSNT. As am I.

Station Manager. I’m glad we got that out of the way.

DSNT. I’d like to get your clothes out of the way.

SFX. Taser.

DSNT. That’s not going to work! I’ve built up a taser immunity.

Station Manager. What about this breast bomb, ha ha HA!

SFX. Clothing rip.

DSNT. Hell yeah! Can I pick up a license to kill while I’m there?

Station Manager. No.

Fluid. Did you just use your evil sorceress powers again? You showed him a rubber ducky that appears to be smeared with some kind of blood, and then he changed his mind.

Station Manager. Just go get the licenses.

Both. Yes sir!

SFX. Evil sorceress noise.

Both. Yes, mistress!

SFX. Pitter pattering footsteps running away.

Station Manager. Excellent. Now off to…uh…the FCC. La Guardia, here I come!

SFX. Incidental music.

Station Manager. And that’s how it all started. After having to deal with those two numbskulls, to stem the tide of my wrath I had to go out to Tappan Square and kill an entire brood of albino squirrels.

SFX. Cast mimics squirrel genocide.

Station Manager. And, then I used their blood to gas up my biplane. Maybe this is laying it on a little thick. Let’s just go to the part where I went to the airfield.

SFX. Airfield.

Station Manager. But, first, the part where I had lunch in the airport’s VIP lounge. Well, that was incidental, I was actually going there to ask about the weather. But they all just looked so delicious!

Stewardess. So, I can’t help but notice you just slaughtered and ate everyone else here.

Station Manager. Sorry about that, miss stewardess. It’s a reflex.

Stewardess. Reflex?!

Station Manager. Er…reflux. I have acid reflux.

Stewardess. Oh! I completely understand. That happens to even the best of us.

Station Manager. The important thing is that I haven’t gotten caught yet.

(Beat.)

Station Manager. HAHAHAHAHAHA ONLY KIDDING!!! But seriously, I’m wanted for murder in a number of states and principalities.

Stewardess. Should I be–

Station Manager. Including but not limited to Alaska, The Virgin Islands, St. Thomas…

Stewardess. (Under her.) Aquinas?

Station Manager. …Washington D.C., Hawaii, both Dakotas, Vermont, Orange County, California, Indianapolis, Kalamazoo–

Stewardess. What’s the total number of places?

Station Manager. Twenty and three halves.

Stewardess. Why three halves and not just 21.5?

Station Manager. Well, I personally count South Carolina, North Carolina, and Georgia in my total but apparently it’s not a felony to kill black people there.

(Beat.)

Station Manager. HAHAHAHAHAHA ONLY KIDDING!!!

(Beat.)

Station Manager. Actually, I’m not, you should read their laws sometime. Kind of disturbing.

(Beat.)

Stewardess. I’m going to leave now.

Station Manager. No, wait! Do you know what the weather is like? I’m flying from here directly to FCC Skullmurder Island.

Stewardess. You shouldn’t go out for at least another hour. The winds are ridiculous.

Station Manager. Well, damn. What am I going to do for an hour? I’m full.

Stewardess. We could always tell crazy stories.

Station Manager. I don’t really find that inter–

Stewardess. There was this one time I was stewardessing for the Cyrus family, that’s Miley Cyrus and Billy Ray Cyrus, and the craziest thing happened…

SFX. Flashback. Airplane.

Miller. (Over intercom.) Hello, uh…I’m David Miller, uh…your pilot for, uh…today. And, uh…I’d just like to say, miss, uh…Montana, that I’m really, uh…grateful you’ve chosen to fly Miller Airlines today.

Miley. People think I’m the famous pop star Hannah Montana. But, boy do I have a surprise for them!

Miller. We have one entire convenient location worldwide, in Mediocre Rapids, Michigan.

Billy. You know, my daddy always said the more you step in poop…uh…

(Beat.)

Billy. The more you…uh…wanna get busy with the stewardess?

Stewardess. Oh, my! Did I hear a hot famous country star just come on to me?

Miley. You sure did, bub. Howsabout we go into the lavatory?

Stewardess. That’s nice, Miley, but I was talking about your father.

Miley. What if I offer ya fifteen dollars and a jawbreaker?

Stewardess. Sold.

Miller. If you, uh…haven’t met my wife, Shirley B. Stewardess, please take the chance. To meet her. But, no sexy lavatory time!

Miley. That was oddly specific.

Miller. It’s been a problem in the past!

Stewardess. Oh, David, you’re embarrassing me!

Miley. Well, it looks like it’s time to claim my territory. Miley Cyrus style.

SFX. Door, cockpit.

Miley. Why, hello Mr. Miller.

Miller. Miss Cyrus! I’m a huge fan.

Miley. I know, I know, we all are.

Miller. Your voice is even more soothing and hypnotic in real life.

Miley. Modern recording equipment hasn’t advanced enough to capture the dulcetest of my tones.

Miller. Well, would you like a tour of the cockpit, Miss Cyrus?

Miley. I’d actually like a tour of your wife.

Miller. What?

SFX. Book.

Miley. Nothing. So, I was reading this Bible here the other day…

Miller. That appears to be the plane’s safety literature.

Miley. Same difference. It says here that if you wanna have optimal flying conditions, you need to depressurize the cabin at least twice per hour. By jumping out of it.

Miller. But, isn’t that dangerous?

Miley. Well, of course you’ll have a life vest and a tether.

Miller. Well, that sounds perfectly reasonable! I’ll go do it right now, Miss Cyrus. Then maybe I can get your autograph?

Miley. Woah, woah, woah. First things first, jump outta the plane.

SFX. Door, cabin, loud wind, jump.

Miller. Okay, great! Can you pull me up, now?

Miley. It also says you have to stay there for the duration of the flight.

Miller. But there’s not that much oxy–

SFX. Slam.

Miley. Just as planned. Now nothing can go wrong! Hey, daddy!

Billy. Yes, sweet pea?

Miley. You know how to fly a plane, right?

Billy. Well, you know, it’s like my daddy always said.

(Beat.)

Miley. What’d he say?

Billy. That I could fly a plane.

(Beat.)

Billy. I’ll go do that, now, then.

SFX. Door.

Miley. Oh, stewardess!

Stewardess. Yes, Miss Cyrus?

Miley. It’s off to the lavatory with you!

Stewardess. Oh, right. Did you take care of David?

Miley. Mr. Miller is hanging out of the plane by a tether attached to a life jacket if you know what I mean.

(Beat.)

Miley/Stewardess. Well, let’s go to the lavatory.

SFX. Footsteps, door. Cockpit.

Billy. Gee, there sure are a lot of buttons here. Well, it’s like my daddy always said, if you don’t press a button you’re just as bad as a termite.

SFX. Buttons. Lots of buttons. Lavatory.

Miley. You think I have a three, but boy do I have a surprise for you! Go fish!

Stewardess. Damn. Gee, Miley, this isn’t what I thought you had in mind.

Miley. Oh, no, the sex comes later.

SFX. Knock.

Miley. Come in!

SFX. Door.

Billy. Well, we’re all gonna die.

Stewardess/Miley. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Billy. But, I have good news!

Stewardess. What, Mr. Cyrus?

Billy. Like my daddy always said, if you fly yourself you’ll save a lot of money on a pilot, and if that flight results in a crash, you won’t have to deal with the numerous lawsuits for child exploitation later in your career.

Miley. What–

SFX. Plane crash, explosion. De-flashback.

Stewardess. And, that’s the Miller’s Tale!

(pause)

Station Manager. That…that wasn’t…how are you alive?

Stewardess. People think I’m a living stewardess, but boy…

SFX. Gunshot.

Station Manager. I had a surprise for you. It was a shotgun. That joke was getting old.

SFX. Door.

Miley. People think I’m alive. But, boy do I have a surprise for them! I’m actually ten eighths robot.

Station Manager. Miley Cyrus! I thought you died in a horrible plane crash!

Miley. Oh, I did. But the folks at Disney rebuilt me. They had the technology. And, now my voice is twenty three point forty six percent more soothing!

SFX. Gunshot.

Station Manager. And, that’s that storyline resolved. To the biplane!

SFX. Batman transition.

Station Manager. So I flew from the Oberlin airfield–

SFX. Biplane noise.

Station Manager. –to the FCC central office to renew our license. After determining that they didn’t have a reliable landing strip, helipad or even simply a long stretch of grass, I carefully chose–

SFX. Tremendous crashes and explosions.

Station Manager. –to land my biplane in an unoccupied office.

SFX. Horrible screaming.

Station Manager. Ahem…an unoccupied office.

Man. IT BURNS!!!

Station Manager. I said an unoccupied office!

Man. I CAN’T DIE! I NEVER SAW TAHITI!

Station Manager. Oh shut up. Tahiti is very overrated and the people aren’t nearly as delicious as you might expect. I’d recommend American Samoa.

Man. (Gurgles.)

Station Manager. Ah…music to my ears. Anyway, so as I was saying, I carefully landed my biplane in an unoccupied office and set about my business of finding the license-renewal desk. When I arrived, however, I was met with a number of odd characters: some sort of salesman, a rather conspicuous Russian, and a person of indeterminate origin.

SFX. Muzak (likely a version of Killing Me Softly).

Lyz. Things sure were better back in the perkier days of my youth.

Station Manager. I don’t recall asking to hear a story about how you used to wash rodeo ponies for money.

Lyz. Oh, but that’s most interesting part of it. I wasn’t paid in money. I was actually being paid in White Castle hamburgers. Speaking of which, would you like some White Castle hamburgers?

Station Manager. Don’t care. Want to kill you.

Lyz. Well that’s fine, all the more White Castle frozen hamburgers for me.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. How can you say no? They’re so tiny!

Station Manager. But see, I crave human flesh.

(Beat.)

Not a Spy. That sounds like some kind of treason.

Lyz. What?

Station Manager. I’m not giving up my people-eating habits for any god or government.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. What makes you say that’s treason?

Station Manager. It’s not treason. It’s just very, very illegal.

(Pause.)

Station Manager. Which reminds me, I may have to kill and eat all of you now.

Not a Spy. YOU CAN KILL ME. BUT ANOTHER WILL TAKE MY PLACE. AND IF YOU KILL HIM, ANOTHER WILL TAKE HIS PLACE. AND SO ON. AND SO ON. AND SO ON UNTIL WE TAKE OVER THE WORLD.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. What?

Lyz. That sounds like a personal problem. Can I interest you in one of these delicious White Castle frozen hamburgers?

Not a Spy. MOTHERLAND!!!!!!!

Station Manager. Well…that was horrific. But I still don’t want one.

PIO. How can you say no? They’re so tiny!

Station Manager. But see, I crave human flesh.

(Beat.)

Not a Spy. Before we get caught in some kind of loop, I think we should all share government secrets I mean life stories.

Station Manager. Who wants to go first?

Lyz. I do! I do!

Station Manager. Oh god…

Lyz. See, back in ‘Nam, in the perkier days of my youth, I was what was referred to as a natural salespanda.

Station Manager. Panda?

Lyz. Shush, I’m telling a story. So back in Nam, New York, I was highly regarded as the greatest salespanda to ever live. I could sell anything to anyone. I could sell water to a drowning man. I could sell shoes to a man with no legs. I could sell a whale tank to a Japanese person.

Station Manager. That’s kind of racist.

Lyz. I’M TELLING A STORY. So I could sell anything and did. I even once sold our town. That’s what this story is about. So one day, I was approached by our mayor.

Mayor. Hello Lyz.

Lyz. (Still narrating.) I was shocked, since even as a great salespanda, I was only a little person on the social scene. I didn’t know what the mayor would want with me.

Mayor. Lyz, I want to come at this honestly. I need you.

Lyz. (Still narrating.) The mayor? Need me? Naturally, I wondered why. (In scene.) For what, your majesty?

Mayor. Your majesty? I’m not royalty.

Lyz. But you passed out those fliers that said-

Mayor. Right those. Anyway, I need you to sell something for me.

Lyz. What an honor! I’ll sell anything for you. What is it?

Mayor. Our town.

Lyz. Our town? No problem! I can sell anything. I even was the original salesperson for ShamWow.

Lyz. I sold the crap out of those little towels, until I was replaced by Vince. What a little bastard. I made that job for him. I made those towels profitable. Did you know that their original target market was mobsters? They were actually supposed to be towels with ammonia embedded in the fabric so you could mop up blood and dispose of them with ease. Of course, the towels didn’t actually have ammonia in them, to save money, you understand. The mobsters were really mad about that, but then we had a phony address as our mailing address and customer service center and we only sold them through radio ads and the packages had no return addresses so it worked out ok, although they did almost catch us one time when we were trying to sell them as a way to wipe the sweat off of racing horses.

Mayor. Yes, we know your credentials. I saw your commercials every day.

Lyz. You sure did. Remember our slogan? “Shamwow, for-”

Mayor. “For sticky situations,” yeah, I remember that. I actually was the head of the mob before we got busted by a load of murder cases riding primarily on the evidence from your towels.

Lyz. Sorry about that.

Mayor. It’s ok. I gave myself over to Christ.

(Beat.)

Lyz. I can sell this town no problem!

Mayor. I hope you can. You know… we built this city on rock and roll.

Lyz. Marconi didn’t actually play the mamba.

Mayor. Do you want me to kill your dog?

Lyz. No…

Mayor. Good, I like that song. Don’t make fun of it.

Lyz. Right…right… anyway, who am I selling it to?

Mayor. I love the Starship, man.

Lyz. Sir, can I get your attention, please?

Mayor. FEED YOUR HEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAD!!!

Lyz. Not to criticize, sir, but those are very different bands.

Mayor. Sorry, LSD flashback.

Lyz. You see, Jefferson Starship and Jefferson Airplane are not the same band.

Mayor. Back when I was in prison, I was the head of the LSD trade. The warden caught me, and I was sentenced to at least 20 lashings and another five years in prison. Fortunately I broke out and fled to this small city in New York of which I am now the mayor. Which brings me back to the point of this conversation: I need you to sell this city for massive personal profit.

Lyz. May I ask why?

Mayor. No.

Lyz. Oh…who am I selling it to?

Mayor. Our target demographic is Rudy Giuliani.

Lyz. Do you have his phone number or anything?

Mayor. I have the number of a woman who was once his housecleaner slash mistress.

Lyz. Will that help us?

Mayor. It’s in God’s hands now, isn’t it?

Lyz. Actually it’s in my hands.

Mayor. Just get it done if you don’t want to find yourself wearing a pair of concrete galoshes.

Lyz. Excuse me?

Mayor. Report back to me on the status of this sale in exactly one week. If it’s not complete, your fish gets it.

Lyz. I don’t own…you know what, nevermind. Ok.

SFX. We Built This City

Lyz. (Narrating.) I had to make this sale. My life probably depended on it. I wasn’t quite sure, though, since the mayor was obviously an insane drug addict. But, my pride was also on the line. Also, the fate of a poor little unfortunately-named city in New York. I called Mayor Giuliani’s office directly.

SFX. Phone dialing.

Lyz. (In scene.) Hello, can I speak to Mr. Giuliani, please?

Secretary. No.

(Pause.)

SFX. Dial tone.

Lyz. (Narrating.) I had to resort to more drastic measures, clearly. I went to his office. (In scene.) Hello, can I speak to Mr. Giuliani, please?

(Pause.)

SFX. Gunshots.

Lyz. (Screams. Switches back to narration.) Sadly, New York City was harder to navigate than I thought.

SFX. Phone dialing.

Lyz. Hello, is this the mayor’s office? I represent…uh…the radio.

Secretary. Oh, fantastic! How can I help you, Miss Radio?

Lyz. I’d like to know what Mayor Giuliani’s favorite radio show is.

Secretary. Oh, well that’d be Car Talk on NPR! He listens to it every day. I’m not sure why, though, it’s mostly just gasping laughter.

Lyz. Thank you very mu–

Secretary. I LOVE YOU!!!

(Beat.)

Lyz. What?

Secretary. Okay, maybe not love, but can I stay at your house for a few days? Please get me out of this godforsaken office! Please! All Mr. Giuliani talks about is his numerous affairs and car maintenance. AND I HATE CAR MAINTENANCE!!!

Lyz. Here’s what I’ll do for you. You help me infiltrate NPR and I’ll make Mr. Giuliani love MUCH MORE than just car maintenance.

Secretary. What’s that supposed to mean?

Lyz. Prepare yourself for a sticky situation.

(Pause.)

Secretary. Are you coming on to me?

Lyz. Meet me at NPR!

SFX. Phone hangs up.

Lyz. (Narrating.) I had hatched a brilliant plan: take over the Car Talk radio show and advertise Nam City, New York as the most fabulous vacation retreat for car enthusiasts named Rudy Giuliani. He could never refuse!

Secretary. All right, why am I here and why are we infiltrating NPR?

Lyz. (In scene.) Oh, you’ll see.

Secretary. Well, since you’ve given me a machine gun, I guess I just expected you’d tell me a little more about–

Lyz. THERE’S NO TIME FOR THAT!!! WE GO IN, GUNS BLAZING!!!

Secretary. Wait! I’m not going any further unless you–

Lyz. (Narrating.) And then I took Giuliani’s secretary into a romantic embrace, quenching her trepidation and curiosity with a wet kiss.

Secretary. I am confused and aroused.

Station Manager. This is starting to read like a bad romance novel.

Lyz. Shut up! As I was saying, the Car Talk guys never knew what hit them.

(Ben and Donnie improvise part of a Car Talk episode. Lyz and the Secretary interject, with:)

Lyz. (In scene.) Stop right there, criminal scum!

Ben. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Donnie. This here is the classic radio scenario: someone breaks into your radio station with guns and–

SFX. Gunshots.

Donnie. I appear to have been shot multiple times in my chest! That’s a problem you’ll wanna take to a mechanic.

SFX. He falls over dead.

Ben. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…HA…HO…UGH…

SFX. He falls over dead.

Secretary. Okay, so we’ve committed double murder. Now what?

Lyz. Well, actually, just single. The second guy laughed himself to death. We didn’t even shoot him. Let me just put some music on…

SFX. Tico Tico.

Lyz. Hello, there, NPR listeners, especially Rudy Giuliani! We interrupt your regular episode of Car Talk to bring you a special message about Nam City, New York! In Nam City we have the finest auto mechanics, including the Car Talk guys!

Ben. AHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Lyz. I think that was just air escaping from his fat folds…and, Mr. Giuliani, you can purchase Nam, New York for the paltry price of one billion dollars! So, check it out today. Call 1-800-WE-NO-MOB to find out more.

Secretary. That was your brilliant plan to woo Rudy Giuliani? What the hell?!

Lyz. Shh! We’re still broadcasting!

Secretary. What, I just said he–

SFX. Explosion, helicopter. People run in and guns cock.

Police. Stop right there, criminal scum! This is the FCC police! It is illegal to sell goods on the radio, especially on NPR, and the fact that you said “hell” won’t help you either.

Secretary. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I can’t go to prison!

Police. Oh, you’re not going to prison. You’re going to pay a much heavier price.

Lyz. (Back in the FCC offices.) And thus, we were charged with a hefty four thousand dollar fine by the FCC.

Station. Manager. Is that why you’re here?

Lyz. Yeah, I’m appealing it.

Station Manager. You weren’t charged for murder?

Lyz. Nope. The FCC’s rulings take precedence over most murder charges.

Station Manager. And what happened to your lesbian lover?

Lyz. She died of Chlamydia.

(Beat.)

Not a Spy. May I tell my story now?

Station Manager. I don’t see a problem with that.

Not a Spy. So one time, back in Soviet Russia…

SFX. Flashback. Moskau by Dchingis Khan.

Not a Spy. I was hired to steal the secrets of your government by infiltrating the radio.

(Pause.)

Station Manager. Weren’t you going to tell us a story?

Not a Spy. In Soviet Russia, story tells you!

(Pause.)

Not a Spy. That is the story.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. I have a story, it’s all about how I grew up.

Station Manager. You don’t seem very interesting.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. Just bear with me on this. I had a fairly ordinary childhood. My parents both had bachelor’s degrees and married soon out of college. I was born when they were in their mid-twenties and ready to settle down. My dad had gotten a long-term job at a large insurance firm and since my mother hadn’t found a job yet, they decided that she would stay home with me so that she could concentrate on raising me. So my childhood was spent in suburban Chicago. I was an only child because my mom ended up having to get a hysterectomy after I was born. I don’t think she blamed me, per se, for that, but I think she had always wanted to have two or three kids. My dad quietly got a few promotions and ended up with a fairly high-paying job but hit his talent ceiling somewhere in upper-middle management when he was in his early thirties. Unfortunately, because my mother wanted to have more kids but was unable, I think they stopped attending to each other’s needs and while my mother gradually became more withdrawn from the two of us and more involved in her gardening, my father developed a somewhat dangerous gambling problem and an unhealthy interest in Hustler magazine. Things came to a head one night when I was in the 10th grade and my parents sat me down and told me that they had received a call from my principal. I had been acting out, I think, to get my parents’ attention, but they weren’t really interested in giving it. They seemed more intent on trying to forget their own dreams, which they had had to abandon upon entering the adult world. They didn’t so much lose their ambitions but they had let them gradually slip away against the opiate-like tide of diversions my parents invested their time in instead of the lives of the people in their family. Anyway, my parents told me that my habit of getting into fights meant that I would have to change schools and they needed me to move in with relatives in another city. They arranged for me to fly out that Sunday. I remember that day vividly: it was a Thursday night and I remember the magnification of my mother’s lips off of her wineglass. Mom had taken to two or three glasses a night starting at 5:00 sharply. It’s curious, the things you remember. I remember watching her lips through the glass as she talked. It was so exaggerated. I realized…maybe if I ever talked to you guys…maybe if I realized that you loved me I wouldn’t be so angry. But I didn’t say anything. My father sat uncomfortably in his chair and drank his watery gin. His eyes would shift around when he talked. He would never look at me when talking to me. As if he didn’t know how to do it. I don’t think he was ever ready or prepared to raise a kid. (Beat.) So they sent me on a plane to my relatives’ house to finish high school. It was the first time I’d ever flown and I wished that they could have been with me. Parents are a weird thing, aren’t they? They showed up for my little league games and everything, but I never actually had a meaningful experience with them after I was able to walk around on my own. They seemed too set in having their own lives to share mine with me. Well, when I got to the airport I got off the plane and I saw my uncle waiting for me. I couldn’t stand to have the uncomfortable “so how’s your life going?” talk with him on the way back from the airport. So I walked to the front of the airport to hail a cab. I whistled for one and when it came near, I saw that the license plate said “Fresh” and it had dice in the mirror. I don’t think I should waste your time with further description of the cab, so I remember thinking that the cab with that much personalization in it was a rarity at this point, but I put the thought out of my mind and said “Yo homes to Bel Air”. I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie “yo homes smell ya later’. I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel Air.

(Silence.)

Station Manager. Did you really…did that really…? Did you…

Lyz. That was pretty epic.

Person of Indeterminate Origin. Thank you!

Station Manager. I can’t believe you just…

Person of Indeterminate Origin. Yeah, I’m actually in here because the FCC is suing me for copyright violations.

SFX. Gunshots. Gunshots. Gunshots.

Station Manager. It’s at this point that I’m going to kill you all.

SFX. Footsteps.

Secretary. You appear to have already killed them.

Station Manager. I thought you died of Chlamydia?

Secretary. That’s neither here nor there. And since the rest of the people in the lobby have mysteriously died of gunshot wounds to the face, I notice that you’re next in line! The pope of the FCC will see you now.

Station Manager. Do you work here?! I didn’t know they let lesbians work at the FCC.

Secretary. Why would you think that?

Station Manager. I don’t know…umm…well it’s clear that I’ll have to kill you as well.

Secretary. That’s fair, I guess.

SFX. Neck crack. Footsteps. Door. Footsteps.

Julia Child. GOOD EVENING. I’M JULIA CHILD, POPE OF THE FCC, AND TONIGHT WE WILL BE MAKING COPYRIGHT LAWS OUT OF CONSTITUTIONAL EGG SOUFFLÉ!

Station Manager. But most copyright laws are constitutionally unsound and made of fondue. Also I thought you were dead.

Julia. IT’S AMAZING WHAT SUNTANNING CAN DO FOR A WOMAN.

Station Manager. I’m just here to renew my FCC license.

Julia. Well I think I should tell you an overly long story before I let you do that! Once upon a time, there were three sisters. Irena, Olga and Masha. They were walking along in imperial Russia when they discovered a treasure trove of floppy disks. These floppy disks contained many pirated songs. Unfortunately, since there were so many floppy disks, they were unable to carry the stash by themselves. So they drew straws with husbands instead of the straws to determine who would go to Moscow to get help. Since Masha was the only one who was married, it was determined that she should go. However, after she left, the other two sisters became greedy, as pirated music and gambling which is evil makes people. Olga wanted to start a school with the money she could make from the pirated floppy disks.

Olga. I don’t want to start a school.

Irena. No one else will do it.

Olga. I want to play the Soviet lottery.

Irena. I want to go to Moscow.

Olga. You can go when Masha gets back.

Irena. I want a romance.

Olga. Shut the fuck up.

Irena. We should kill Archduke Ferdinand.

Olga. I think we should kill Masha, and that’s completely outside the period of this play.

Irena. Just think, if we kill Archduke Ferdinand, we could take his share of the floppy disk trove. And then Poppa Stalin could come into power.

Olga. YOU ARE…IDIOT!!!

Irena. So what we’ll do is poison her vodka, and then we can split the floppy disks 50-50.

SFX. Footsteps.

Masha. I’m back from Moscow, they apparently don’t think floppy disks have been invented yet. So they’re worthless.

Olga. What a shame, have some vodka.

Julia. AND THAT’S WHY NOT TO DRINK, GAMBLE, OR STEAL MUSIC FROM THE INTERNET. THE END.

Station Manager. Can I have the station license now?

Julia. Did you fill out any of the paperwork?

Station Manager. Yes…it’s in my gun. Would you like to be an organ donor? To my stomach?

Julia. Today on Julia Child. We’re making Julia’s liver!

SFX. Gunshot.

Station Manager. Having renewed our station license, I went back to my biplane and began the trip back to WOBC, where I had serious business waiting for me. Join us again next Thursday from 8 to 10 a.m. for another episode of Now Are The Twyzzlers Of Our Discontent!

All. RANDOM QUOTE SAID SIMULTANEOUSLY!