Greetings, fellow RTHers!
Seeing as how my last attempt to bring a little fun and games to the hallowed halls was such a dismal failure…I’m trying again!
This time, I’m looking for a little creativity from you. Assisted creativity, that is. Following is a list of words and/or phrases. Your job is to produce a brief writing sample using the stipulated number of words and/or phrases, in all required categories. Format is unimportant — free verse, drama/play, haiku, essay, satire, whatever — but you must use the required words as indicated below! As always, the “winner” — determined by our Moderator — receives a prize and a virtual raspberry from all assembled.
I look forward to your responses.
Category A — Look (choose two)
Weatherbeaten leather jacket
“Aviator”-style sunglasses
Chuck Taylors
David Lee Roth “full bug” cowboy boots
Steve Vai Hair
Bill Cosby sweater
Mr. Moderator’s coiffure
Tom Petty’s teeth
Keef’s false teef
Kneepads
Y-front underpants
One sparkly glove
Walter Becker’s beard
Bob Seger’s grandpa glasses
Category B — Music (choose up to two)
Hip-hop
Power pop
Death metal
Classic rock
Disco
Oom-pah
Polka
Field hollers
Category C — Key Personalities (choose one or two)
Bill Wyman
Lou Reed
Billy Barty
Seth Dick III
Sib Hashian
The Prince Of Wales
Alex Van Halen
Joe Tex
Jeff Lynne
Jim Dandy
Waddy Wachtel
Lee Sklar
Ray Cooper
Paul McCartney
Bob Seger
Category D — Catch Phrases (choose no more than three)
“That’s gotta hurt!”
“Look at the size of that thing!”
“Shut up and scrape the bowl.”
“Ever since Nicholson won his Oscar, it’s been like this.”
“Does that thing have peanuts in it?”
“Now that’s what I call an ass-whuppin’!”
“I… I am filled with shame.”
“Ride ’em, cowboy!”
“Never mind all that. Have you seen Soul Plane yet?”
“GOD, that stinks!”
“Matt Damon!”
“That’s what SHE said!”
“Like a rock!”
Category E — Lyric Snippets (choose at least one)
“Come about hard, and join the young and often spring you gave”
“Mama say, mama sah, mama-ku-sah”
“I started a joke, which started the whole world laughing”
“My best friend, he shoots water rats and feeds hem to his geese”
“78 revolutions a minute, now!”
“There was nothing in my life bigger than beer”
“Juicy fruit… juicy!”
“Let me tell you how it will be”
“Wang dang, what a sweet poontang… she got a thang like a rang-a-dang-a-dang!”
“You keep scraping away”
“Her mommy was Mex’can, and her daddy was the ace of spades”
“Just get an electric guitar, and take some time, and learn how to play”
Category F — Food (choose no more than two)
Dr. Brown’s Celery Soda
Zagnut
Burgers ‘n beer
One hot kielbasa
Jack Daniel’s
The bearded clam
One pinched loaf
Chicken legs
Dinty Moore Beef Stew
Vienna sausages
Melons
I went for minimalism, choosing only one item from each category:
Jim Dandy thought that wearing a Bill Cosby sweater would ease his transition from cock-rock has-been to polka journeyman. He forced the words “I … I am filled with shame” to the back of what was left of his mind, as he unsuccessfully tried to find a way to marry the lyrics such as “Wang dang, what a sweet poontang… she got a thang like a rang-a-dang-a-dang!” to the strains of the accordion. Eventually the audience of sexagenarians stood up and threw Vienna sausages at him, which he foolishly assumed was a sign of artistic and personal triumph, because he was confused about what the word ‘sexagenarian’ actually means.
Here is a haiku…
—————————-
Y-front underpants
Polka by The Prince of Wales
One hot kielbasa
BigSteve, MrClean: You guys ROCK, with authority! Dang! Fellow Townsmen and womyn – these two have set the bar *high*.
Incidentally, I should point out that haikus are exempt from the category minimums imposed otherwise by the rules. So MrClean’s entry stands.
Thank you for that clarification regarding haikus (and thanks for these first two entries – a valuable prize looms!), Hrrundi. I feared my inbox would explode with complaints. Keep ’em coming!
The wind that blew through the set didn’t so much blow as it coughed, sending up dense, dust-filled clouds with each gust. Ray Cooper shifted from one foot to the other, pushed his aviator-style sunglasses back up on his nose, and spat. Off in the distance, the extras were practicing their field hollers, and the Texas air just got hotter and hotter.
It seemed silly to put the whole shoot on hold just for a pair of David Lee Roth “full bug” cowboy boots. Lee Sklar let out a puff of air through his beard and said, “ever since Nicholson won his Oscar, it’s been like this. Now, everything’s gotta be fucking *perfect* before they’ll roll film. It wasn’t like this when I worked with Phil on that ‘Sussudio’ video. Back then, it was, point the cameras, get the black guy swinging, cue soundtrack, and roll.” He paused, then added, “… and I feel ridiculous in this cowboy hat.”
Ray took a sip of his Dr. Brown’s Celery Soda — now warm — and, eyeing Lee’s granola bar jealously, asked, “does that thing have peanuts in it? I’m allergic to peanuts.” Sklar replied, “I don’t think so,” then looked at the ingredients list to make sure. Nope, there it was: ingredient six — peanuts.
Peanuts. Now it was peanuts. It was always something with this guy. How much of Ray’s life was left, after the allergies and the phobias and the ever-lengthening list of people with whom he “simply would not work with again… ever.” Even Clapton was on the list now. It was like he had decided to set upon his life with one of those paint scrapers — scrape, scrape, scrape… well, at some point, you keep scraping away, and there’ll be nothing left. No, enough was enough. He tossed the granola bar at Ray.
“No peanuts. You’re safe.”
I think originally I heard Charles Emerson Winchester from MASH saying this in my head, and I thought it was pretty dumb. I changed my inner brain narration to Radar O’Reilly (I suppose you could use Bill O’Reilly to the same effect), and it worked better for me.
Oh, weaterbeaten leatherjacket of Oom-pah
I…I am filled with shame.
My one sparkly glove
Is shamed by Walter Becker’s beard
Alex Van Halen!
Hear my field hollers!
Your Y-front underpants!
GOD, that stinks!
You keep scraping away
At the bearded clam
I told you once and I told you twice
There’s no Zagnut in there
Hey, Globes — another winning post. Great free-form poetry. Where are all the “professional” writers in this thread?
There was nothing in my life bigger than beer, well, unless it was Jack Daniel’s. One night I was hanging with Billy Barty (that clown prince of wee comedy) in a Soho club called Tom Petty’s Teeth. Barty took a little shine to a one-legged working girl at the bar, but a wine-spattered Paul McCartney interrupted him in mid-grope, said “Those are MY melons!”, and spun his pint-sized torso about 78 revolutions a minute. Now, that’s gotta hurt! But Barty slid to halt on his kneepads in classic rock fashion and merrily spat “That’s what SHE said!”
Brrrravolingus, Mockcarr! Again, I taunt the “professional” writers among us to pony up. More balls and less bluster, guys!
“I don’t care what you say,” Lou Reed exclaimed, “this is not hip-hop.” Looking at his Steve Vai hair and borrowed Bob Seger grandpa glasses, it was hard to disagree.
But there was no time to argue about it.
There was an entire converted church full of people waiting to hear the last remaining 1960s New York icon (besides Lou himself, of course) memorialized, and you know how the converted-church/Lou Reed crowd can be. A stylistic fuck-you, they’re OK with. But if they can’t get home in time for Grey’s Anatomy, there’s hell to pay.
Naturally, Lou had decided he was going to pull out his Grandmaster Flash finery, to make some sort of “the scene is dead” statement only he was fully aware of. I think it was something like “no one but me really cared about this guy since Grandmaster Flash put out ‘The Message.’” But I wouldn’t bet on it.
And now, sitting on a couch in front of what was left of the spread – a little hummus and one loaf of bread; there had been two but one must’ve gotten pinched – I wasn’t sure he really knew what he was doing.
That made at least two of us. And, as has happened so many times before, Lou was projecting. He’d already fired DJ Waddy Wachtel (though not before Waddy had eaten most of the hummus)(THAT FUCKER probably took the other loaf of bread).
Now he was threatening to find some reason to pull the plug on the whole show and make it some sort of Sopranos-style statement on the unpredictability of life. Or the suckiness of death. Or something. He was clearly making shit up at this point.
I held my tongue from pointing out that this whole hip-hop thing was that fucker’s idea. Not that there’s any love lost between Lou and me after the time he got totally fucked up and smashed a heavy piece of sheetrock of over Sib Hashian’s shoulder, spraining it and derailing the Boston reunion, but what the hell. Who hasn’t done that? Or wanted to, anyway?
Just as I started feeling bad for Lou, he started looking for a stylistic way out. He started mumbling, “Her mommy was Mex’can, and her daddy was the ace of spades …”
“Lou,” I said, “you started this; you have to see it through.”
“No, man. Just back me up. Just get an electric guitar, and take some time and learn how to play.”
“Fucking hell, Lou. This is your show. I tried to tell you, but no. ‘Coney Island Baby,’ I said. But no. So here you are. Deal with it. Besides, it’s not 1974 anymore. You can’t just recite a bunch of different ethnicities any more than you can just mumble your way through a bunch of New York street names and call it lyrics.”
Lou glared. He does that when he’s busted. We go back.
Aw, hell. I figured I’d help him look on the bright side. The show must go on, after all.
“OK, Lou, maybe it’s not contemporary hip-hop. But think old-school rap – it’s closer to disco than you might think. The gold lame jacket fits in a 1978 kind of way.”
“I got it from Sib.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. I saw him last week; we patched everything up.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“Yeah. I was standing on 44th Street …”
“Lou.”
“Sorry.”
He gathered himself together to face the inevitable and took a step toward the stage door.
I couldn’t help it. I’m a showbiz kinda guy. And he did apologize to Sib ….
“Do you want me to save you some hummus?” I said, holding the nearly-empty bowl out. “There’s just a little left.”
Lou looked back, sighed and headed for the stage. “Shut up and scrape the bowl.”
DAG, homes! Townsman Rick, that was *fine*, and a serious candidate for the no-prize. Major props, too, for standing up to my hectoring. I only wish that more of the talented, creative, funny, brainy, insightful writers we have ’round these parts would pony up with such distinction.
The judges will be making their decision n the next 24 hours. I’m calling on any final entries. I’d love to contribute one myself, but I never dislodged the 4×4 stuck up my butt enough to be good at Mad Libs as a kid. I’m afraid I’m still too uptight to tackle this wonderful challenge. I sense not all of you suffer from my problem in this matter. Go for it!
Don’t think I’ve forgotten about this competition – and don’t think I’m copping out by awarding the contestants with a hard-earned “Quaker Victory!” That’s right: the judges have determined a tie, so everyone’s a winner. Really nice work. I’m in the process of burning your reward, which you can feel free to share with other RTHers who did not participate in this contest. I’m sure Townsman Hrrundi will approve of the reward. It’s one of Prock’s finest achievements, I might argue its finest! Some of you will likely hate it, but at least you will likely hate it passionately. Stay tuned!