Monday, March 9, 2009

Press Conference

A crowded room of press members, photographers and interested parties all sit or stand waiting for the press conference to begin. They all stare towards the front of the room where a stage has been set up. The stage holds an empty podium with a large microphone sticking from the top of it. Behind the podium on the stage is a wildly decorated pink and purple background. There are no chairs on the stage. Just then, from the left side of the room, the loud bang of a slammed door is heard, followed by the quick footsteps of someone running. A man leaps onto the stage and runs to the podium; stopping behind it out of breath. He is wearing a black velvet running suit, and his bushy hairdo appears to be uncombed. His glasses are askew and he is sweating profusely. He takes at least 5 minutes to catch his breath, all the while glaring out at the crowd of people who by now have stopped their murmured conversations and are now looking towards him waiting for him to say something. He closes his eyes, gathers his thoughts, and leans towards the microphone.

You sons of bitches.

*Stunned silence followed by the sound of one reporter coughing nervously and a brief squeal of feedback from the microphone causing everyone in the room to briefly cover their ears*

You thought you knew me? You thought you knew my family? I will smack your faces. I will smash my head on top of your cars! I will open up hellfire and let it rain down on your farting heads! Only I know the story. Only I know what happened! Holy Mary Mother of God! You balloon-headed puppet painters! *A reporter stands to ask what a ‘puppet painter’ is and is told to sit down by the ranting gentleman* When I open the morning paper and see my own face staring back at me, I want to eat the entire paper out of pure ANGER! You will know this anger when I take each of you into a bear hug and bite your faces off! Each of you! Even now as I stand before you enraged, I have shat my own pants due to uncontrollable fury! I wish this on all of you: Uncontrollable bowels and needles in your eyes! I know how to slap the taste out of people’s mouths, and I will do this to every one of you! You, in the corner! *pointing at a photographer who has just finished taking a picture of the man at the podium* Take a picture of this! *the man steps from behind the podium, drops his pants, and turns around while bending over, showing his backside to the photographer. The crowd gasps in astonishment and revulsion*

*The man pulls his pants back up and moves behind the podium to continue* You think I do not know you, but I do know you! You cannot ignore my story! Write this down: ‘I hate you and I hate your ass faces!’ You are like crap in my sneakers! The government is a stain on my buttocks! What you, and they, have done to me will haunt you for the rest of your lives! I…I…

*The man abruptly stops speaking and wrestles with the podium, trying to rip the microphone from its bracket. A reporter in the front row briefly stands up in an effort to stop the man and then sits down again in confusion. This continues for 45 seconds of muffled sounds and feedback from the jostled microphone. With one final smack, he halts his assault on the podium and continues with the microphone still firmly lodged in place*

I am not even finished fighting. I will get what I deserve, and you will all thank me for doing so. Injustice in America should not be TOLERATED! Stinking balls! Fifteen thousand horses pulling my hair will not keep me from pushing forward into the homes of your mothers and crapping on their doorsteps! You will…I…

*The man again briefly wrestles with the microphone and again fails to dislodge it from its housing. He then turns to the draped background fabric and attempts a karate-style side-kick at nothing in particular. The fabric balloons inward and ripples cascade outward from the location where the man’s foot silently struck. He takes a wild roundhouse swing at the fabric missing completely. The momentum of his swing causes him to spin on one foot and lose his balance; falling down on his back with his legs sticking straight up in the air. A hushed gasp is heard from the crowd of reporters who are still stunned by this turn of events. The man picks himself back up and begins speaking again.*

Know this, my antagonistic ball blasters: You have not seen the last of me. I will hide in your garbage and assault your families! I will chase you through crowded shopping malls and tackle you into fountains! I will slap your buttocks with large paddles! I will open your mail and piss on your bills! I will climb your trees and throw dead squirrel balls into your gutters! I will paint the windows of your houses with feces from zoo monkeys! I will shoot arrows through your kneecaps as you walk your children to school! I will rent an ice cream truck and fill its bins with my own excrement and serve it to your families! I will stand outside your places of business and chase you down the street after you are done working for the day, throwing small darts at your Achilles’ Tendons! I will write threatening letters to the governors of your states and sign your names! I will drop kick large watermelons into your swimming pools and then urinate on the remains of the previously mentioned watermelons! I will…

*As the man continues to assault the media from his podium, Reporter 1 leans over to whisper to Reporter 2 sitting next to him*

Reporter 1: *whispering* Why does this guy look familiar?
Reporter 2: *whispering in response* He’s the nut job that applied for stimulus package money for him and his family. He’s a millionaire, but he felt like he deserved ‘a little extra for the trouble’.
Reporter 1: Trouble? What trouble?
Reporter 2: Who knows; the trouble of being certifiably insane maybe? He was supposed to have a press conference today in Building B.
Reporter 1: Why is he here? This is Building A.
Reporter 2: He probably got lost, but I’m not saying a word. This is way more interesting than another stupid Miley Cyrus press conference.

*As Reporter 2 gestures to his right, Reporter 1 looks over and sees a frightened Miley Cyrus huddled off in the wings speaking in hushed tones on a cell phone while the raving lunatic at the podium kicks it with his bare foot (after throwing his shoes at a photographer) and begins to urinate on the pink and purple ‘Miley Cyrus 2009!’ fabric background behind him.*

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