Snifflepus

October 5th, 2006

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Charlie-

So I’m not into zombies. I’m sure there’s stuff I’m into that you’re totally meh about. Like writing well. Snap! Here, let me pass you the ointment… SIZZLE. Oh put away the gun, I’m just playing. No seriously, put it away, I love your writing. You know that. Charlie? Just put it—AHHHHHH! You fucking shot me! YOU FUCKING SHOT ME YOU SON A BITCH! Why are you laughing? Call an ambulance, I- I- can’t feel my arm, aw fuck, Charlie. What have you done!?!

And curtain! Well played, old boy, your hesitation created the tastiest morsel of suspense this theatre has seen since last week’s quickly mocked up stage version of 13 Tzameti. Kudos to Clift the squib man as well, his timing and gore were flawless as always.

So we wrote a hit play and directed it… whatever. I’m still sick as a dog, waking up in the middle of the night with a fine membrane of mucus in the moustache province, reclaiming my covers from Dominique, who is yet again playing my wife for a week. (Don’t know if I ever mentioned this but our old pal Dominique, like all your friends, is making the inevitable transition to New York City and uses my house as hostel… which is totally cool, I support her fully. She’s French Canadian.) Anyway, if you, or any of our readers (ha!), know of any effective cold medicines that relieve these symptoms - sinus pressure, a somehow runny and stuffy nose, headache, sore throat, bleeding ears, hallucinations, arthritis, dry heaves, wet heaves, heart palpitations, death, and a general lacklusterness – please, let me know, I’ll buy some and take twice the recommended usage at twice the frequency. I feel like shit. I feel like any of the talented filmmakers nominated for Best Picture felt when Crash won. Well, maybe not that bad, but still, I’ve used up almost every tissue at work and can’t take the embarrassment of running into the bathroom, hands and face covered in snot, every fifteen minutes. People are starting to wonder.

-Shababo

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