Hacks

Characters:

Dr. Joshua Killjoy

Dr. Morgan

Richard Blamsby

Dr. Jackson

Dr. Watts

A large reception is going on; people in white lab coats stand behind a banner reading:

64th Annual Scientific Symposium

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Very astute Dr. Morgan. I’ve been researching how our subconscious affects our conscious so I think I would very interested in reading your thesis.

Dr. Morgan: You’re just saying that. Flattery, I’ll have you know, won’t get you anywhere tonight.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: But I mean it. With all my heart… or compassion center of my brain I should say.

Both laugh

Dr. Morgan: I know exactly which part of your brain’s really at work, but for the sake of some of the older doctors here I won’t dare mention it.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: I’ll get us some punch. Perhaps you’ll see my good intentions have merit after a drink or two.

Dr. Morgan: You, my colleague are among the dirtiest of dogs.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: With a PhD to match.

Killjoy cracks a smile and walks toward the punch; a man is standing in front of it blocking the ladle

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: I say, sir, would you mind taking a step to the left?

Richard Blamsby: Of course, no problem at all.

Blamsby takes a small step to the left but the punch ladle is still unreachable

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: I meant, with all due respect, for you to move out from the vicinity of the bowl so that I may get a glass.

Richard Blamsby: You look familiar. Did I see you on The View?

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: No, I am a professional researcher with little time to muck about the entertainment industry. Now, if you please, I would rather enjoy some punch.

Richard Blamsby: That can wait. I know I know you from somewhere. Did we graduate together?

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: I am sure I would not so much as think to trespass on any alma mater you chose to frequent. That is indeed if you meant college, and not High School, which in the current light, I’m beginning to believe you may have not finished.

Richard Blamsby: Chill out, man. I went to college. Princeton, class of ’84.

Killjoy looks stunned as if he’s seen a ghost but falls back to shaking his head repeatedly

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: That is simply impossible.

Richard Blamsby: So, what did you end up doing with your education?

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: If you must know, I am a professional researcher of the subconscious, namely dreams.

Richard Blamsby: Wow, I study dreams too!

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: How would you like to join my colleagues and I in an intellectual discussion then?

Richard Blamsby: It would be my pleasure.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: First, just let me get my punch.

Killjoy gets his punch and brings Blamsby over to his colleagues

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Hello, fellow scientists, I found this individual over by the punch bowl. He claims to be in on dream research as are most of you. Strangely, I’ve never heard of him before this day, however.

Dr. Morgan: What is your name good sir?

Richard Blamsby: It’s Blamsby, Richard Blamsby.

Dr. Jackson: Would you mind describing some of your methods to us Richard?

Richard Blamsby: Generally, I sit around or go for walks for a good hour or two to get the creative juices flowing. Then, I sit at my computer desk and write.

Dr. Watts: Write?

Richard Blamsby: Yes, I write about dreams; what they are, what they mean.

Dr. Morgan: And, do you do any sort of testing?

Richard Blamsby: Well, I think it over in my head. That usually works out pretty well.

Dr. Watts: We see.

Dr. Jackson: What kind of doctor are you, anyway?

Richard Blamsby: I earned my PhD in English.

Laughter breaks out

Dr. Morgan: Dr. Killjoy, simply how did you find this sort?

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Some might call it talent.

Richard Blamsby: Hey, now, my field is just as important as any of yours. I help people understand themselves and dreams in a different way.

Dr. Jackson: Of course you do, lad, in the way a kindergartner may explain their days work to a parent.

Dr. Morgan: Did you color anything today Dr. Blamsby?

More laughter

Richard Blamsby: You are all very obsessed with your importance.

Dr. Watts: Perhaps because what we do actually makes a difference in the world.

Richard Blamsby: I’m going back to the punch bowl.

Dr. Morgan: Don’t drink too much, you may get a twummy ache.

Blamsby walks away

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Perhaps we were too hard.

Dr. Morgan: I wouldn’t say that if you still want a chance with me.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Oh, I do.

Blamsby watches from the punch bowl as Killjoy and Morgan kiss

Richard Blamsby: The scientist always gets the girl.

Blamsby pulls out his invitation

Must have gotten it by mistake. Oh, well.

He throws the invitation in the trash bin

Guess it’s time I leave.

Blamsby heads for the door

Goodbye party.

As Blamsby’s hand touches the knob a commotion begins; someone has fallen ill

Dr. Watts: Is there a doctor in the house?

All: Yes!

Dr. Watts: That’s not a PhD!

All: No.

Blamsby runs toward the woman, Dr. Morgan, who has fallen ill

Richard Blamsby: I can help.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: How, you’ve studied English!

Richard Blamsby: I did critical research of medicine for my last novel. Elevate her head with the pillow from the sofa. Someone get sheets or blankets.

Dr. Jackson: What’s going on?

Richard Blamsby: Her contractions are two minutes apart.

Dr. Jackson: That means…

Richard Blamsby: She’s having a baby.

Dr. Watts: That’s absurd, we would have noticed her being pregnant.

Richard Blamsby: Not always, in rare cases woman are not aware of pregnancy. Nor are those close to them.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Oh, my! She’s crowning! I might be sick.

Richard Blamsby: You were just kissing her a minute ago.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Yes, but…

Richard Blamsby: Remember to push between contractions Dr. Morgan.

Blamsby supports the baby’s head as it emerges

Dr. Watts: It’s a boy!

Richard Blamsby: It’s obvious you are not aware what a penis looks like Dr. Watts. It’s a girl.

Dr. Morgan: A girl!

Blamsby covers the baby and puts it on the mother’s chest

Richard Blamsby: All in a day’s work for a doctor of English.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: That was heroic! Let me buy you a drink.

Richard Blamsby: The punch is free though.

Dr. Joshua Killjoy: Then I’ll pay you for it Doctor.

Curtains close on everyone cheering for Dr. Richard Blamsby
The end yo

The Story for America's Greatness: No Apologies

The Story for America's Greatness: No Apologies, was the title of politician Mitt Romney's latest book. In it he delves into why America is just so amazingly great, and why there are no problems to be fixed. In fact, everything is so skippy the government should stop paving roads. The free market can handle that. Competition will give us better roads to drive on... or none at all. Either way, we won't be terrorists like those Europeans are with their fancy streets and elitist high qualities of life.

Romney then goes on to boast of America's proud achievements. The U.S. has more prisoners than China, a nation with a billion more people; First in car theft; 4th in murders with firearms; 1st in total crimes; 3rd in robberies; 1st in rape, almost double the next closest country.

Yep, things go best when capitalism is let free. No meddlesome murder-stopping initiatives need be.
Douche, he is.

Dreams

DREAMS ARE
A capsule of reality, just add water

DREAMS ARE
A song waiting to be sung

DREAMS ARE
A light that needs switched on

DREAMS ARE
A car without a road

DREAMS ARE
Phones with no reception

DREAMS ARE
Elements without electrons

DREAMS ARE
Big without the Bang.

DREAMS ARE
Day and night
And all that’s in between.

Sigh.

Inane Musings

I’d love to write a real poem
About real things

To have a feeling that
I’ve changed the world.

But, what do I have to offer
That nobody’s said a million times?

I never studied much philosophy
Or slept the streets of Harlem.

The people that don’t write it seems
Should be working out these stanzas.

But they’re collecting cans
And starving for a buck.

I can’t speak for them
No more than they can speak for me.

This poem will pass them by
As the millions on their way to work

Who swat the poor much like a fly
That’s crawled to settle on their nose.

                     Ah, the smell of garbage in the air…

                     Politicians call it progress.

I need rum. Rummy, rummy, rum.

For Bo

There’s love that seems to come and go
And perhaps that’s just the natural flow.

There’s rare, true love that few will see
And it is grand, we can agree.

But of all the love, that’s ever been
Or graced a soul, from out, within

Only one stands out so pure,
So true, so great, demurred -

And that is puppy love.
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Metrophobia

I have metrophobia
I can’t stand poetry.

When birds sing
Or the sun shines

I cover my eyes
To live in fear.

I have metrophobia
Your verses plague me.

When I hear rhythm
I get ear plugs

But silence, damn it
Is still too poetic.

I have metrophobia
Perhaps this is hell?

The breeze blows
Like pitchforks

Jabbing with
Iambic meter.

And all that's best
of dark and bright

Burns, burns, burns
The senses in my brain.

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Phobias

I was born with apeirophobia, to fear the infinite –
When lightening strikes I feel an astrophobia
Mix with my bathophobia
To become a sort of chronophobia
That heightens gerascophobia.

With my chionophobia, seasons move me
Though the flakes bring on Symmetrophobia
And their glisten chromophobia
With simultaneous Hyelophobia
Morphing in their vastness to Numerophobia.

Hypnophobia is what I am
It lets me have selenophobia
As I gaze with choraphobia
Into chasms with Eosophobia –
So sweet is my epistemophobia!

************************

Apeirophobia – fear of infinity
Astrophobia – fear of thunder and lightening
Bathophobia – fear of depth
Chionophobia – fear of snow
Choraphobia – fear of dancing
Chromaphobia – fear of colors
Chronophobia – fear of time
Eosophobia – fear of daylight
Epistemophobia – fear of knowledge
Gerascophobia – fear of getting old
Hyelophobia – fear of glass
Hypnophobia – fear of sleep
Numerophobia – fear of numbers
Selenophobia – fear of the moon
Symmetrophobia- fear of symmetry

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Translation Gap

There is a breaking news application for Facebook, with a wide variety of different stories. Today's topic happened to fall on the primary race in Georgia, spawning this comment from a well-informed individual:

yuh but i voted for mcain and llok wat we got for president the worst one of them all hes a clown dosent now wat hes doing when u vote for the right guy and someone else wins why bother

Instead, of just insulting the poor bloke's grammar, and flimsy argument, I thought I'd provide a translation so you, the viewer, may better understand:

I voted for McCain and we got a jigaboo in office. He's too black to know what he's doing. Why should I vote, when the white guy doesn't win?
Translation provided by Angryredneck.com

Sell Your Years

In a strip mall set between a clothing store and Sears
I saw a sign that read out “Sell your Years”

The windows were both black, and boarded
As if to label the entirety of the business sordid.

No one seemed to enter or depart
Nor a clue to those outside impart.

I might have simply strolled on by
Had the owner not been spry.

“Come inside and shop around,”
“We have things that will astound!”

I heard him say as he stepped out
A lively man, quite short and stout.

With hesitation, I agreed
Fulfilling some psychotic need.

Inside were rows of crystal spheres
Picking up on ancient fears.

Spyglass moved in my direction
Gaining insights from reflection.

“Sit, good sir, while I prepare”
The owner said with certain flare.

With ease he shot right down the aisle
And mixed things in a smoky vial.

Herbs, and mist, composed its form
As did cloud, and lightening storm.

“Drink, drink” implored the clerk,
Rubbing hands together with a smirk.

“What does it do,” I asked of him,
My clairvoyance growing rather grim.

“Time separates your love and you
But it shall not, with taste of brew!”

I was shocked to see he knew my life
But took the chance to end my strife.

Years were nothing with her gone,
I’d trade a million nights for just one dawn!

I made a toast and gulped it down –
The hair receded from my crown.

My neck and back
Both needed cracked.

Wrinkles, crowfeet
Weren’t discreet.

But, the shop keep had grown young
And skipped, and walked about high sprung.

With laughter, he danced,
A strong-boned dance

And did a jig outside the door
To see the sights he long abhorred.

As for me, I went to kiss
That whom I so sorely missed.

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I Frighten People, I Frighten You

I frighten people;
I frighten you.

My skull's a casket
My brain the corpse.

If you feel me
If you touch me

Then you're one of us
Then you're one of us.

Undead unknown, unsought -
Undead, unborn, unloved.
Just a general poem about rejection, ya know.

Lagers & Gnomes

I think I am beginning to wind down in the writing of my gnome novel. But, don't feel bad for me. I just feel I've tied up the remaining lose ends and plot holes that can befall even the best written works. If it manages to get published all my loyal readers can certainly bet on a free signed copy.

With that said, I wrote a poem on Landshark Lager's Facebook page. Apparently they're putting peoples' comments on scrolls inside of their bottles. It's a promotion for a contest where the prize is a trip to Key West. Anyway the topic was why do you need an escape:

I need an escape.
A lovely view to gape
Upon and see the shape
Of ladies in the cape
That feed me grapes.
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Old House

My brother used to play a melody
That travelled through the house.

You could hear it from the kitchen
To the basement to the garage.

No matter where you were
It seemed to find you.

And, on the darkest days
It was a light for me.

The rhythm was a path to follow
Toward something less surreal.

His six strings were defibrillators
Shocking life into my heart.

In that way, my brother, having never took a course
Had certified himself in CPR.

He healed with music
And his guitar case was an ambulance.

I’m not sure, today, if he ever meant it
To be more than practice for a show

Or, if he truly saw a need for song
In the eyes of those around him.

But, I know now, the emptiness
That condemns a silent house.

And I recollect the somber day
I buried him with his guitar.

.

The Fire's Burning

The fire’s burning
Old tin cans
And plastic jugs
That melt themselves
On printed words
Of magazines
To speak a tale
And light the mood.

The fire’s burning
Ancient wood
And dried-up leaves
That crackle whispers
Of the mysteries that
Darkness holds
But won’t reveal.

The fire’s burning
Dead possessions,
Toys and dolls
Crying for lost owners
Through their blackened,
Muffled, voice boxes.

The fire’s burning
Down the house
Through the walls
And onto beds…

But no one’s there.

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Private

Hello, all, I'm considering making this blog private BUT I want to know what you, the viewers think first.

If I decide to go that route I will surely add you if you send me an email.

Thank you for reading,

Ben.

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We Are All Witnesses

We Are All Witnesses
The mural says.

Witnesses, to burning hope
And effigies.

Witnesses, to airborne rage
With flying rocks.

Witnesses, to cries
Heard in the night.

Witnesses, to dreams
That slowly die.

Witnesses, to greed
Swallowing the world.

Witnesses, to power
Overcoming love.

Witnesses, to dog-eat-dog
And dog-eat-self.

Witnesses, to Satan
Living in our hearts.

Witnesses, to day
Becoming night.

Witnesses, to stars
Exploding in our sorrow.

Witnesses, to nothing
And to everything.

We Are All Witnesses
The mural says.
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In Defense of Pride

Men have killed
And children suffered
In defense of pride,
Their noble honor.

Hate has spread
With genocide
To distant lands
For sake of valor.

Trees are cut
And forests burned
So that man,
May thrive and conquer.

Yet, the ability
To persevere
Will always be
Our core.

We can’t exclude
The heinousness
From benevolence
In whom we are.

"I would like to think/ Mankind a perfect beast/ On the day pride dies." - Me

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Fireflies

It’s nighttime in the countryside
And stars are glittering the sky.

The sun is fading, swiftly fading
As the moon becomes more dominant.

I soon see nothing but pitch dark
And streams of lit-up fireflies.

I’m reminded of my younger years
When I used to think them fairies.

In innocence I never thought of mating
Nor the male’s need to impress.

I guess, they still hold awe for me
As my mind drifts toward old fantasies.

Deep into the sleeping grass
I fly away with one.

A castle looms up
Made of mossy rocks.

Pillars stand of pixie dust
With dandelion drawbridge.

We fly through in waves of
Yellow, green, pale red

To see a courtyard
With its lovers dancing.

Music plays out in a buzz
With strobe lights from their abdomens.

The King waits for us inside
His behind glowing as a supernova.

There, he knights me
Honorary Firefly.

But as I step upon one lost in reverie
And its guts pour out so luminous

I realize youth has all but faded
While the pieces slowly dim.
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Ode to Shortcake (Queen of Cars)

She was red
And she was mine
Shortcake was invincible.

She went fast
And she went slow –
Across the sleet,
the winter snow.

She ate the air
And shunned the gas
So debonair
A sexy lass.

She got old
But kept her pace
Not quite as bold
Yet still had grace.

And when she drove
A road one day
The engine dove
And all went grey.

She was red
And she was mine
Shortcake was invincible.

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