by Laura Eppinger
Laura Eppinger is a Pushcart-nominated writer of fiction, poetry and essay. Her work has appeared at the Rumpus, the Toast, and elsewhere. She’s the blog editor at Newfound Journal. Find her here: https://lauraeppinger.blog/
A Review of GONADS: Off-Off Broadway's Newest Smash Hit
by Bryce Hooton
As I breathe in the stuffy air of the small, dingy, off-off-Broadway theater, my nostrils are filled with decades of crushed dreams, misguided passion and at least 2 instances of un-simulated, onstage sexual intercourse. I then settle into my rigid, painfully straight-backed table chair that has no business being in a theater with its deflated, lumpy cushion and wobbly legs. It’s fine though. I’ll only be stuck here for 3 hours. Nothing my chiropractor can’t fix tomorrow when I can barely get out of bed.
Finally. The audience hushes. The lights dim to inky blackness. The theater becomes a silent womb for a new story to begin anew. In this mute, impenetrable darkness of anticipation, someone begins to snore.
Behold. The lights slowly brighten to reveal two thespians, a man and woman, sitting cross-legged onstage, bathed in the too-intense beam of a low hanging spotlight. They play two strangers—soon to be lovers, no doubt—talking on a beach. I know they’re on a beach because of the lapping wave soundtrack playing on the dusty old CD player in the back corner. Unfortunately, I am no longer listening to the surely well-crafted dialogue as my eyes have locked onto something unsettling. Something distended. Something peeking out at me from within the dark forbidding opening of the actor’s short shorts. I squint my eyes to focus. I am staring at his nut sack.
The first act passes almost too quickly. I have a loose grasp on the realistically awkward and idealistic beginnings of the characters’ budding relationship, but the damage is done. From this point on, I’m attending a completely different play. A deeper play. A play where I have become an unwilling character, caught in a perverse, meta performance set within the second stage of the actor’s short shorts.
The third scene in the second act throws me back into this sinister sex organ subplot as the actor once again waltzes onstage in his short shorts. Now, regarding these shorts, I forgot to mention that this play takes place in the 70s, so one must understand the importance of wearing the authentic garb of the era. I cannot fault him for this, but he really should wear some underwear.
He arrives in what is supposed to be a living room, sadly played by a broken, crusty couch that looks like it reeks of stale beer and possibly urine. He sits down in a huff, legs closed, thank the Lord. The girlfriend, now fiancé, storms in yelling at him. He yells back, slightly spreading his legs in consternation. It is just enough. A pink oval gonad slowly creeps out, eyeless, yet staring into my soul. ‘Where is this foul story going?’ I quietly whisper to myself.
With utmost subtlety, I glance at nearby audience members. No one returns my questioning gaze. Do they not see this sneaky sack? Are they not privy to this strange and perverse b-story unraveling in which the “b” stands for balls? If so, I cannot tell.
At long last, I’ve reached the final act. My lower back screams in hellish torment from spending hours in this infernal chair. My mind is scarred from several more impromptu scrotal sneak attacks. The gentle droning from the mysterious snorer in the audience indicates that he has finally reached REM sleep. Lucky fool. What fresh hell will these final lights reveal upon this cursed stage?
With a dangerously loud ‘ka-chunk’, the lights go up revealing a lone folding chair amidst the stark floorboards. The actor morosely shuffles onstage—oh Jesus God, he’s back in his short shorts again—and defeatedly plops down upon the ill-fated seat. Without fail, his flaccid nards make their final, dastardly appearance, peeking at me just past the polyester cuff of his shorts. Meanwhile, the actor recites a gut wrenching final monologue, but I am too distracted to hear. The snoring man in the back reaches a triumphant crescendo. The lights fade to black. At least 3 people clap with vigorous enthusiasm. I rub my temples in the darkness.
As I depart the filthy little theater in a woeful daze, I try to replay the events of the play in my head—sans scrotum—to make sense of it all. What did it mean? What was the point of it? And come to think of it, what was the name of it? It seems my mind is already beginning the process of blocking traumatic memories. Then I stop and slowly look up at the flickering, unevenly lettered marquee to read the title. It is a title that will surely haunt me for the rest of my days. It read simply:
"GONADS"
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.
Excerpts from Virginia Woolf’s Unpublished Manuscript “Miss Vanjie”
by Michael Rodriguez
“Miss Vanjie. Miss Vanjie. Miss Vaaaanjie.” Those words have been echoing through the internet since Vanessa Vanjie Mateo’s now-iconic exit from RuPaul’s Drag Race on March 22.” - Vulture
Miss Vanjie said she would buy the flowers herself.
For Kalorie Karbdashian-Williams had her werq cut out for her. The weaves would have to be snatched from their edges; the All-Star judges were coming. And then, thought Ms. Vanessa Vanjie, what a morning—on fleek, as if gifted to twinks on the Fire Island shores.
How fresh, how sickening, how yas-slay-mama-slay, the air was in the early morning; like the slap of a Strawberry-Daiquiri to the face; the kiss of a wave; chilled and flying high as a receding hairline and yet (for a qween of twenty-six as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there on the catwalk, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the fish in the audience, at the hunties and hennies with concealer winding off them and the shade rising, falling; standing and looking until Pearl serving her best Stepford-Wife-Robot-Bitch said, "Is there something on my face?"
***
She felt somehow very like her—the boss diva who had eliminated herself in All-Stars 3. She felt glad that she had done it; sashayed away.
The clock was gagging.
The foundation contour dissolved in the air. BenDeLaCreme made her feel the beauty; made her feel slayed; concussed. But she must go back. She knew from her death-drop she must assemble.
***
Ms. Vanjie had a theory in those days . . . that since our drag personas, the butch or femme bad-bitch in us which walks, are so momentary compared with the other, the tucked part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might come thru, be recovered somehow attached to this fierce legend or that. And could she sell her sex on the floor if, say, the category is...realness with a twist?
Yas, Gawd Honey!
Perhaps—perhaps.
***
She had a perpetual sense, as she side-eyed the gurls lipsyncing for their lives, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the faux queen feeling that it was very, very dangerous to vogue even one day in herstory.
This late age of the season’s run had bred in them all, every Glamazon for the Gods, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. To which Miss Vanjie could only surmise a “Bye felicia!”
***
Did it matter then, Miss Vanjie asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? If this Kiki must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?
She thought there were no Gods; no one was to read her; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of slaying for the sake of slaying.
Okurr?
***
He thought her resting on body, but believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in highlight gloss.
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and no tea, no shade, but what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference to padding.
What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this elegancia extravagancia?
It is Miss Vanjie, he said.
For there she was.
Michael Rodriguez is a Dominican American writer whose work has appeared on Funny Or Die, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Thought Catalog, The Annual Varsity Show, and more. He is a member of the BMI Musical Theatre Program and is one half of the digital sketch team MellowDramatic. For more visit his website.
Boy Crazy, Or Sex and Death from Kindergarten to Grade Eight
by Lori Jakiela
1.
Subject: Dale Miller, Kindergarten
Attributes: Blonde. Built like a pork chop. Proximity a plus – mat next to mine at nap time. Comes complete with new box of crayons (the big box with built-in sharpener and four shades of green – e.g. worldly).
Love Story: Shares his Snack Pack pudding (double chocolate) and gives me the pull top as a ring and stows away on my bus the first day of school because he says I am beautiful like a bride and we are married by Snack Pack forever and ever amen.
Feeling: I do not agree or disagree to the marriage thing. The Snack Pack pull-top cuts my pinkie finger. First understanding of romantic ambivalence.
Outcome: Dale’s mother calls the police because she thinks he’s been kidnapped. First lesson about white vans.
2.
Subject: Mark Sundberg, First Grade
Attributes: Blonde. Very pale. Possibly borderline albino. No eyelashes. Has to stay inside during recess because of sun = sensitive/exotic. Built like a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man (the kind found outside used car dealerships and Wal-Mart grand openings. See footnote.*).
Love Story: Gives me spoon ring he wins from gumball machine. Win = lucky, but then realize machine is full of spoon rings. The ring turns my finger green and I think my finger will fall off and I’ll be four-fingered forever and no one will ever love me again because I won’t have a finger to put a ring on and I will die alone or become a nun like Sister Lucilla, aka Sister Lucifer, evil incarnate in a frayed yellow girdle, but even Sister Lucilla wears a ring on her ring finger because she’s married to Jesus and has all ten craggy fingers, so help me.
Feeling: Rings = love, no matter how green a finger turns. (See Snack Pack pull tab, etc.)
Outcome: Finger does not fall off. My mother paints the ring with clear nail polish and I continue wearing it. First lesson in devotion. Also, first lesson in gangrene and the power of precious metals to stave off death. Also first lesson in using a calculator to swear. Punch in 1134, turn the calculator upside down and it does your swearing for you. As in, Sister Lucifer, go to hell and take your Jesus ring with you.
3.
Subject: RIP Mark Sundberg, Second Grade
Attributes: Mark’s parents split up and he moves away. Absent, he becomes muscular and tan. He becomes more handsome than any of the Tiger Beat posters on my wall. He is a Tiger Beat poster. He is a Disney hero. He is more handsome than the doctors on TV. He is more handsome than my doctors. He is more handsome than my dad. He is more handsome than Sister Lucifer’s Jesus. I will never love anyone else ever again.
Love Story: Before he moves, he gives me another ring he took from his mother’s jewelry box. It does not turn my finger green, but I have to give it back when his mother calls my mother and threatens to press charges.
Feeling: I want to keep the ring. I want to keep the ring. I should be allowed to keep the ring. See note about devotion above.
Outcome: First lesson in nostalgia and the power of distance. Also, some rings are worth more than other rings.
4.
Subject: Joey Paola, Third Grade
Attributes: Partner for square dancing class. Almost my height. Red haired. Possibly permed. People call him Measle because he has so many freckles, but I think of him more as a connect-the-dots game. I like Word Search puzzles more, but connect-the-dots are o.k. on placemats and pass the time when you’re waiting for your food at Kings Family Restaurant.
Love Story: He isn’t afraid to hold my hand in health class when we watch movies about cartoon sperms and eggs. He has sweaty palms. I will forever think palm-sweat = romantic. Also, hay bales and fiddles and anything coming round the mountain.
Feeling: Hand holding is sexy, except when Sister Lucilla catches you and smacks your hands with her ruler and calls you little horn-toad cabbage heads.
Outcome: Joey P. sends me a note where I have to say whether or not I am officailly his girlfriend – pick one: yes, no, maybe. I check maybe. He dumps me for Gigi Eathorne, who can’t square dance but has great pigtails and a red-checked snappy shirt and will grow up to be a biker.
5.
Subject: Kenny O’Hara, Fifth Grade
Attributes: My first drummer. Red haired. Short with teeth that look like they’ve been hit with a hammer. Hamster-esque personality. Always moving, legs twitching, air drumming, like he’s licked a taser. Never dull!
Love Story: We start a band in my parents’ basement. Kenny O. is in my parents’ basement when I get my period. I don’t know it’s my period. I think I’ve crapped myself. I call my mother into the bathroom and show her my underwear and she hands me a pink booklet titled “So You’re a Woman Now.”
Feeling: Oh dear god no. Just no.
Outcome: I break up with Kenny later that week. I figure he must know about the period. I’m not ready for that.
6.
Subject: Ronnie Peduzzi, Sixth Grade
Attributes: Nickname Toofy. The Big PeDu. Athlete. Chews tobacco (e.g. worldly). Swears (e.g. worldly). Missing front tooth. Lost front tooth when it was embedded in Rocky Minoccucci’s head during a pick-up game of basketball.
Love Story: Play Spin the Bottle at a party. When he kisses me, The Big PeDu slips what I think is his tongue but then realize is his fake tooth into my mouth.
Feeling: This is not romantic. This is not even French.
Outcome: There is not enough Scope mouthwash in my parents’ bathroom to erase the taste of fake tooth and tobacco spit and shame.
7.
Subject: Randy Blakemore, Seventh Grade
Attributes: My second drummer. Long hair. Three years older. Smells like burnt licorice, though it is probably pot and sweat but I don’t know that yet.
Love Story: Write rhyming love poems to Randy, who never notices me except for the one time he tells me I’d be o.k. if I wore more flannel and Love’s Baby Soft. I buy flannel. Lots of flannel. I douse myself in Love’s Baby Soft and break out in a rash. I write more poems. Randy falls for Lisa DiGiambattista when she wears a flannel shirt and plays guitar barefoot in the school talent show.
Feeling: First lesson in pining and loving from afar. Also, the power of barefoot guitar-playing. Also, what’s in Love’s Baby Soft that makes it so itchy?
Outcome: Abundance of flannel and cortisone cream.
8.
Subject: Ronnie Peduzzi, Eighth Grade
Attributes: See above.
Love Story: I am preparing for my move to all-girls school because my parents have decided I’m boy crazy. Have second Spin-the-Bottle encounter with Ronnie Peduzzi, aka Toofy, aka The Big PeDu, who swears this time to keep his tooth in his mouth.
Feeling: It’s important to trust in the power of love. It’s important to believe in people. Romance = risk.
Outcome: Toofy lied about the tooth.
Footnote
*
Lori Jakiela is the author of five books, most recently Portrait of the Artist as a Bingo Worker (Bottom Dog Press, 2017). She lives in Trafford, Pa. and her author website is http://lorijakiela.net.
Thomas Jefferson; "The Bill of Rights Shouldst Have an Amendment that Requires Every American to See my Two Man Improv Show"
by Clayon Moore
Dearest James Madison,
It has come to my attention that you are working on a set of ten amendments to our new constitution. I’d like to request, that as a personal favor, you include one that requires all civilians of the new republic to come see my two man improv show, Turtle Holster. I mean, the document already contains ten amendments. Who shall truly notice one more? Plus the show is good. Like, quite good.
Turtle Holster is myself and my best friend from high school, Stuart, and it’s easily the highlight of my month. It’s the only place in my life where I can verily kick back and be myself. The rest of my day is “Sign this, Mr. Jefferson.” and “Recite the declaration, Thomas.” but on stage I become any being I desire. Stuart and I have received nothing but positive feedback. A couple of my co-workers saw the show and told me they find us funnier than Saturday Night Live Pig Wrestling Matches and my wife said it was “Really cute.” I feel that if everyone in the colonies wouldst come watch, they’d really dig it, and wouldn’t it be nice for a new nation to have a shared fandom to unite its populous? That could be Turtle Holster.
Frankly speaking, Madison, we could use the help. We’re trying to get a permanent slot at our theatre and if we don’t bring in the ticket sales they won’t give it to us. In fact, if you could include some suggestions in the amendment to encourage people to cheer and laugh with greater gusto for Turtle Holster than the group we open for, that’d be great. I think we’re far superior anyway. They’re called Ribbit (Ugh, what a imbecilic name) and they only have a slot because the daughter of the theatre’s owner is on the team. Verily, ‘tis BS! Also, the amendment could suggest that if a citizen sees Toby, the theatre director, they tell him how great they think Turtle Holster is. Wouldst mean the world to me and Stu.
Madison, this is the only request I’ll make of my nation. I’ve done so much for it, and I feel as though it owes me at least a chance to show my prowess on stage. I know you need my signature to ratify this new form of government, and I will not back any institution that refuses to promote my improv show. So be a pal. Yes and my idea and throw in the 11th amendment for ole Tommy Jeffs.
Also, come see the show yourself. I know you were planning to come last month, but then you messaged me about how you weren’t “feeling it tonight.” and how you were “gonna stay in and hang with the wife.” I believe you should really try to make it this month, though. And no offense, but one should not RSVP to stuff and then bail. ‘Tis flakey AF (And Foul).
Anyway, I’ve included a pamphlet about our show with this letter. Let me know about the amendment thing, and look forward to seeing you at our next show.
-Thomas Jefferson
P.S.
If you could post Turtle Holster’s page onto your garden wall, wouldst be quite rad.
Clayton is a misguided high schooler who occasionally takes breaks from watching reruns of Star Trek: TNG to write for the internet.