ET Phone High School Girlfriend

by Kate Villa

CLAIRE: “Hello, this is Claire.”

ET: “Claire? Is ET. From high school. We go to prom together senior time.”

CLAIRE: “OhMyGod. ET? Is it really you? I can’t believe this. How long has it been?”

ET: “12 human year. 40,000 year for ET. Feel like a million.”

CLAIRE: “Why didn’t you come to the reunion 2 years ago? I looked for you. I was hoping I might see you again…”

ET: “This ET first trip to earth since high school. Is long way just to come for reunion. Is 40 million km to travel thru space time black hole and star must spontaneous combust for ET to make into this universe. Also ET have work that weekend.”

CLAIRE: “I know it’s a long trip but I would have loved to see you. Our special prom night together is still the most romantic night of my life. We were so young then.”

ET: “Jesus, Claire. Lay. Off. ET not call to relive puberty. Is full of slime. ET never want to be reminded about mathlete years. Dark. Math only good on earth. Outer solar systems no use metric system.”

CLAIRE: “No no, I’m so sorry. Look, it’s really great to talk to you, ET.”

ET: “ET like phone Claire too. ET never forget how hot Claire look in dad ford pickup.”

CLAIRE: “I’ve thought about you for so long and I’ve always hoped you would call. I guess I gave up. I’m married now.”

ET: “Claire marry? But Why? He knock Claire up. ET know.”

CLAIRE: “No, and please don't be bitter - I actually married Jeffrey. From the swimteam? Do you remember him? We re-met as adults at the reunion. And… well, now we live in Plainsville. It’s actually so romantic.”

ET: “ET have hot girlfriend too. She literally gaseous star. She on fire all time.”

CLAIRE: “Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad, ET! You’re still, and will always be, so special to me.”

ET: “Oh but now Claire eat-hole attach to Jeffrey appendage? Right. ET still special.”

CLAIRE: “Don’t take it that way. That’s so like you.”

ET: “Claire know ET after 40,000 year apart? No!”

CLAIRE: “Jeffrey has been so good to me. He’s an electrical engineer and we have a wonderful life together. I never thought I’d like the suburbs. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

ET: “ET happy. Whatever.”

CLAIRE: “Please don’t be like that. I loved you so much. You know that. If you hadn’t gone back to your planet there could have been a future there.”

ET: “Oh! Is ET fault? Blame ET! Always space intruder fault.... ET go back to industrial design school on home planet. Get in-state.”

CLAIRE: “I know you were saving up. Look, ET. I’m sorry. I have to go. But please take care of yourself.”

ET: “Fine Claire have good life too. ET no cry blood tears now. … ET phone Claire? Just to see Claire up to?”

CLAIRE: “I don’t think that's a good idea. Goodbye, ET.”

ET: “ET say goodbye, Claire.”

Kate is a comedy writer. She has worked in some of the most fun places (The President Show, UCBComedy, Pig Apple) and her work has been featured in some of the most fun publications (Hellogiggles, Domino, Bossladies, Higgsweldon, MuseumHack). She is the most fun.

Roger Ebert Reviews a Second Grade Production of Peter Pan From Beyond The Grave

by Tess Tabak

I was astonished when P.S. 210 asked me to review this production. First, because it is so far beneath my acumen as a critic. Second, because I am dead.

I’ve seen child stars before. The lead in Broadway’s 1984 revival of Oliver, for example, was a delightful imp. But Timmy Longwood, lead in this production, is no child star. I question this school’s decision to utilize a child actor for the role of Peter Pan, traditionally played by an adult woman. Peter Pan requires grace, a broad vocal range, and comic timing, something a 6-year-old boy is hardly capable of. Timmy Longwood is no Mary Martin. He does not even measure up to the pitiful performance of Allison Williams in NBC’s Peter Pan Live! Sorry, Timmy. Next time, try to bring a little more to the part. 

Please help me. I can hear the cries of the dead, begging for relief from this eternal misery.

In a similar vein, there are good shows with child-heavy casts. Were I still alive, I wouldn’t mind seeing Annie one more time. However, P.S. 210’s choice to use an all-child cast, while daring, was ill-advised. On average, the talent level of the children in this performance bordered on dirt. As in, dirt would have been more interesting to watch. At one point Tiger Lilly tripped on her shoelaces and danced into the scenery, knocking the whole thing down. You’d think it would have been funny in a mean-spirited way, but no, it just filled the room with a sense of ennui. You could tell everyone was thinking it. This girl could have taken these fifteen minutes to dazzle us, to take us away from our lives for a second, but she was just a disappointment. She always will be a disappointment until she’s 40 and working as a checkout clerk in some gas station in Nowheresville, Nebraska. What a waste of human potential.

The fire burns it burns it burns...

This was without a doubt the worst play I’ve ever seen. I hated this play. Hated hated hated hated hated it. I don’t think that anyone other than the parents of the children involved could possibly be entertained by it. Even then, I caught a few of them dozing off when they thought no one was watching.

I didn’t understand, I didn’t understand what really mattered in life and now it’s too late. It’s not about mocking children and actors. Tell your wife you love her, before she’s gone.

On the whole, this was a miserable production. I would give it two thumbs down if I had any. 

And by the way, J.M. Barrie hated it too.

Tess Tabak currently works as a ghost writer (boo!) and co-edits The Furious Gazelle, an online literary magazine devoted to art and fury. Her publishing credits include Athena's Daughter's II and Narrative Northeast Magazine. For more information visit tesstabak.weebly.com

HEY YOU KIDS IN THE FUTURE, GET OFF MY LAWN!

by Bryce Hooton

As I enter the twilight of my life, now an old man, I think about the lessons I could bestow to future generations. I think of the wisdom I’ve gained and the heartache I’ve suffered. If I could say just one thing to the children of the future, it would have to be this:

GET THE HELL OFF MY LAWN!

I've raked it, fertilized it, mowed it and decorated it with an elegant flamboyance of lawn flamingos for over 40 years. Then, to ruin it all, I just know that a bunch of kids in the future, after I'm dead and gone will go tear-assing through the neighborhood and run across my flocculent, manicured lawn with careless abandon. No respect, I tell ya. 

Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, my lawn is the lush, verdant hairpiece to my neighborhood’s otherwise rapidly aging visage. It’s the last bastion of suburban dignity within at least 2 blocks and it simply must be preserved for all time. But that's just it. I don't have much time left and I doubt if there's anyone who will watch over it as well as I have. Not the way this world’s going, heh!

Does preservation mean anything to kids in the future? Apparently not, judging by the way they will no doubt carelessly trample upon my precious sod that I toiled over for so long. They'll probably be too busy playing with their robots and raising hell in the neighborhood with their laser guns or what have you. Damn reckless kids. 

I really don’t think I’m making a big deal here regarding my future anxiety. I mean, according to Einstein’s theory of relativity, the future and the past are happening simultaneously, so as far as I can tell, I’m just being a responsible citizen. Just doing my bit to prolong this little parcel of paradise during my humble blip of space-time existence.

And another thing; those kids in the future better think twice about stepping on my grass to retrieve their supersonic anti-gravity balls or whatever it is they play with in the future. You gotta respect people's boundaries, daggum it. 

If only those whelps-to-be could know whose lawn they’re messing with. I was a pretty awesome guy way before they were born. I had friends. I drove a used Dodge Neon. People knew me. Good luck telling them that. Future kids won’t give a lick about history.

Oh, now what in tarnation is this? It just occurred to me that those impending degenerates will probably taunt my lawn on their hover boards by not technically touching it, but still hovering over the property line. Damned hellions! This used to be a decent neighborhood until those kids in the future start ruining everything. 

I know what I’ll do. I’m gonna write a complaint and put it in a time capsule, not to be opened until after I'm dead. Then, whoever opens it can take the issue to the Neighborhood Watch committee that gathers twice a year at Maggie’s house two doors down. That should fix ‘em. In fact, I'm laying a rake down, teeth up in my lawn right now. Once that future delinquent steps on it, they won't know what hit 'em! Future vengeance is mine. Long live my lawn!

Bryce is a writer of humor and a writer of ads. On a good day he'll do both at the same time. When he's not slinging words, he's planning out his next culinary conquest for www.expensiveturds.wordpress.com. He lives in NYC.

A Guide to Having a Civil Lunch with Your Boyfriend’s Ex

by Marissa Macy

When your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend arrives at your restaurant of choice, you must make appropriate eye contact and wave. It is not acceptable, as you have done in the past, to run into the bathroom and hide for forty-five minutes. And while it is not necessary to pull out a chair for her, you should, at the very least, sit at the same table. 

Once seated, engage in friendly small talk. The following things are NOT considered small talk: reminding her that she retains no visiting rights for your boyfriend’s cat, telling her that it’s inappropriate to ask your boyfriend for rides to the airport, or insisting that it really is kind of weird that she still hangs out with your boyfriend’s mom.

When the waiter arrives, order food. Something light is a good choice: a salad or wrap is ideal. A heavy meal may cause indigestion in this situation. Ordering an appetizer to share is an excellent way to diffuse the tension.

The period in between receiving your beverages and when your lunch is served is the best time to broach any uncomfortable topics. Nobody wants to eat their Waldorf salad while discussing touchy feelings about your boyfriend and his ex going to a friend’s wedding together! Ease into these topics, and maintain decorum as much as possible. There is no need to bring up that one time they slept together when you and your boyfriend were on break. It’s best to discuss softer, broader subjects: boundaries, want for respect, Freudian theory on the male psyche.

Around the time your food arrives, she may get defensive. Go ahead and enjoy your lightly spritzed salad and let her explain her inappropriate affections towards your boyfriend. She may assure you that despite understanding your concern, they are merely old pals.

At this point, it may be your instinct to do one of the following:

1) Flip the table, jettisoning her untouched soup-of-the day onto her face. While smoothing out your skirt, adopt a smirk and make an impassioned threat that uses the phrases: “I meant what I said at that birthday party four years ago,” “I’m the new sheriff in town,” and “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

2) Fall into a trap of niceties. When she tells you that she would never sleep with your boyfriend, you nod along. You become convinced that communication is just the right medicine! The three of you will get along very nicely now that you’ve heard her side of the story! What a whacky situation!

Please avoid these instincts. When she has finished what she has to say, perform a two-minute long rebuttal. It is permissible to mention that she perhaps texts your boyfriend too often, but do try to keep it pleasant. Do not mention the arts and crafts she makes him.

It is now time to conclude your lunch. While it is frowned upon to order dessert, it is admissible if you are taking it to-go. After paying the bill (it is best to make her pay), the two of you will be tempted to go your separate ways and never make eye contact again. Instead, you two should walk silently to the nearest office supply store. Buy a poster board. Draw a venn diagram. On the left of the venn diagram, write all the ways your boyfriend has emotionally let you down. On the right, have her do the same. Analyze the data and write the results in the almond-shaped part in the middle.

Now, you must find a very dark, rarely used conference room that can be rented for a small fee. It should have no windows whatsoever, but do feel free to put out some old fruit salad or instant coffee for refreshments.

You will now need to trap your boyfriend and bring him to the conference room. Depending on how well the team-building has gone, this may be an activity you and his ex can do together. 

Once there, please use mild restraints to attach your boyfriend to an office chair in the dark conference room. Using the projector that came with the room rental, you and his ex-girlfriend must show him a powerpoint presentation transcribed from your venn diagram. You and her should alternate presenting the powerpoint slides. A laser pointer is recommended, but not required. Please remember that it is no longer the time to mention how she slept in his bed while you were studying abroad. Focus on synergy.

When the powerpoint concludes, your boyfriend will try to defend himself by saying: “We’re just friends,” “ I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” and “Untie me!”. Neither of you should engage with him. Instead, feed him a spoonful of fruit salad or give him a few sour cream and onion chips. Then, turn off all the lights in the conference room and lock the door.

Leave him there forever. 

Marissa Macy is a comedian, filmmaker and writer based in Austin, TX. In reality, she's an eager youngster with her fingers in a lot of overly ambitious pies. For more of Marissa, find her on marissamacy.com or on her satirical food Instagram, @bed_eater.

Welcome To Monday Night Funeral!

by Ben Hargrave

As the eldest child and head anchor of the Sports Sports Sports Network, it behooves me to be the first to speak, and I have to say – it’s an absolutely gorgeous start to the evening here in San Diego, California. By golly would a night like tonight make for some fun football – 88 degrees, a light breeze rolling through, and the last light of the sunset shining on us in an orange-red glow – wow! You couldn’t ask for more perfect circumstances to watch elite athletes play classic American gridiron, but that’s not what tonight’s about. Folks, we’re here to honor the life of my father – Buster Puviano – who died last week.

Despite the somber mood, it’s really great to see everyone. The crowd here is nuts! This funeral must be sold out! Dad would’ve loved that. To see everyone on the family team here together – despite some bitter rivalries – it’s a breathtaking sight. You all were his biggest fans and if there ever was a man who was inspired by his supporters – it was Dad. I knew if he were here right now he’d tackle each and everyone one of you, then ask for your autograph. That’s the kind of person – I mean – coach, Coach Buster was.

To paint a true picture of the man, I think it’s important we mention Dad’s stats: he spent most of his life as a 6’1”, 223lb human male with the physique of a silver-back gorilla and the mind of an aerospace engineer. In his 86 years Dad experienced or obtained 37 individual sexual encounters (34 female, 3 male), 2 Master’s Degrees, 1 marriage to our loving mother, 3 kidney stones, 8 children, 1 1973 Corvette, 9 Steely Dan studio albums, 4 Weber grills, 109 prostate exams, 3 Golden Retrievers, and about a million High Lifes! Boy, did the man love to drink – in moderation – and only on Sundays.

With those kinds of numbers, it’s a surprise to no one that Dad flourished in his younger years. His brain held no equal while attending both Champaign High and later, the University of Michigan, where he performed extraordinary feats of the mind: he could square root any number in 4.23 seconds, his brain easily bench-pressed the heavy philosophical works of Hume and Kant, and he consistently caused the demons of poverty and hunger to fumble through a lifelong commitment to community service. Dad had made a pact with himself to always be there to stiff-arm the needs of the needy, right in the face.

When mom passed away, her departure as head coach of the family left a hole right in the defensive lines of our hearts. And what did Dad do? He kept his assistant coach hat on, and plopped hers right on top, assumed both roles and inadvertently started a fashion trend that lasted four years. He taught us that to be an productive member in this the sport we call existence is to be a utility player – a quarterback of caring, a referee against the off-sides and face-masks of evil, and a wide receiver of the accolades that only you yourself can earn through blood, sweat, tears, beers, nachos, hamburgers, hot dogs, and determination.

Coach Buster’s philosophy was that we each were the head coach of our own lives. Ha! We all knew that at the end of the day it was his call to put us in the time-out bench if we were being unruly. He was the real owner of Team Puviano – a Bob Kraft of crafting us into intelligent, empathetic, and goal-oriented individuals. To Coach, we were on a contract – and you bet your butts he threatened to terminate it every time one of us forgot to do our chores! He severed mine once when I forgot to take out the trash on Sunday and I then lived with Nana for three weeks. Lesson learned.

You see, Dad knew that manual labor would instill in us the appreciation of hard work. It’s also statistically known that children who perform household duties end up being more emotionally stable, successful, and super jacked with eight-pack abs, delts for days, and glutes you could bounce a quarter off of. So he made sure the chores we did around the house as youths combined intense physical and mental stimulation, which is why we’ve always been in amazing shape, graduated from Ivy League schools, and was a large motivating factor for holding this funeral on Coronado Beach. To not glaze these bods with would be a sin.

Simply said: Coach was an amazing father who raised us right, and I frankly don’t have the words or the time to say everything there is to say about him. Seriously, I have to peace out soon – the co-ed beach football tournament starts in 12 minutes.

Before I go, I do have time for one more story. After my first high school breakup, I was a wreck. Sensing this, Dad said, “Son, dating someone and being there for them means that your heart must drop deep in the pocket of love. When that happens, you’re at your most vulnerable, and the only way you can succeed is by throwing a Hail Mary of the heart. Well, Brooke caught it, and you two scored a soul-touchdown together. Now, you both didn’t end up winning, but you did discover what it means to be a player in this game of life. And that often entails feeling like shit.” He was an eloquent man.

Well, I’m gonna pass the mic over to Joel now, though there’s something Dad told me to ask everyone in the event that he died because – as we all know – he wanted his passing to be a celebration:

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FUNERAL?!

A MONDAY NIGHT PARTY!

Ben Hargrave is a comedian, writer, and videographer living in New York who makes his own peanut butter (is so good). Check out his tweets @HarHarHargrave – it would mean a lot to him.