let not the wrath of god strike me down

lots of folks want my agency's representation. and lots of folks are going to have to keep that wanting alive. i've never seen such hilarious "promotional" materials as the shit that keeps flying in this place from multiple people who really think they are marketable. who must be getting some kind of tiny gigs somewhere, or they wouldn't be shilling our way. i'm never surprised at what the masses will enjoy, but if you can't think of one potential buyer for an act, that ain't a good sign.

i recently received an e-mail from an older man who i will not name (don't need no karma nipping my ass as i make fun of him, but as long as it's anonymous, there's no shame in my game.) we keep a file of the most outrageous promo we receive and if he'd sent me a kit, i'm willing to bet he would have made the cut.

he said:

Please take 322 seconds to read a representative excerpt below from my one-hour standup routine I call NOAH AND METHUSELAH.

PICTURE THIS:

I am NOAH: Shaking nervously I saunter center stage, grab the microphone in my left hand, and, looking stage left nervously scanning the sky for signs of RAIN, step obliquely back with my right foot and speak in a crackly tenor's voice to a person stage left. Suddenly

I am METHUSELAH: I switch the mike to my right hand, pivot stage right, step back with my right foot looking open-mouthed stage right, and speak in a bent-out-of-shape old man's voice to a MORON.

I want to perform my act.>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

N: Oh, it's a big hassle: 3 different species of owls on our Eretz, 2 pairs each, 1 mouse a day for each owl. That's 6 mice. And of course owls like mice ALIVE. Then there's the vultures. 2 endemic species, 2 pairs each, that's 4 mice a day. And of course vultures like their roadkill DEAD.

M: Dead roadkill. Go figure. It's almost an oxymoron, moron.

N: We don't like high-pitched mouse squeals, so the mice for the vultures will be gassed to death in a small airtight chamber Shem built into the second floor poop room. Because, as I said, H2S hydrogen sulfide gas wafting up from new-fallen poop is lethal at 600 parts per million. Put the poop in, put the mice in. Virtually painless. I'm a pacifist, you know.

M: Got it.

N: GOD tasked me with gathering enough food to feed each pair of endemic species in our ecoregion for all 370 days that we're going to be in the Ark. It would be okay IF all the species liked the same food. But they don't. The major poopers on the bottom floor will pass on a mouse every time. They like herb and leaves and grass. And each major pooper is very particular about his herb. They're not BIG on TWIG. Twigs get stuck in their teeth. They prefer leaves and buds. You don't want 7 cranky cows and 7 belligerent bulls rocking the Giant KAYAK on account of too many twigs in the herb. And I'm not going to FLOSS a bull. He sees you walking toward him with a LONG WHITE STRING, he thinks you're going to turn him into a STEER. Can't afford to have 7 belligerent bulls with hypertension goring holes in the side of the Giant KAYAK.

M: So who's in charge of making sure that all the twigs are removed from the leaves and the bud?

N: Ham.

M: Only makes sense. And the food stalls are located where?

N: Center, right across the aisle from the poop room (except for the mice which we keep downwind far away from the owls).

M: Across the aisle except for the mice? Family Geek eats?

N: Well, we can't eat mice. You have to gas them then you have to cook them. And my personal favorite, barbequed bull, is out of the question. Can't have a stove fire. Any combustion of organic matter automatically increases the concentration of CO2 carbon dioxide in the Ark. Increased carbon dioxide may markedly INCREASE plant growth rates, but it markedly DECREASES Noah's lifespan. I'm figuring on 370 days of ox jerky and salted fish. It's going to be PITCH-BLACK in that Ark. No opening the window for the first 40 days, unless Mama sneaks a sweet potato, breaks wind, then we'll have to take our chances.

M: PITCH-BLACK. So how will the Family Geek see their way down to the second floor poop room?

N: You don't want to be feeling your way around in the poop room! Mama had been mulling this around--how to light the Ark without KILLING EVERYBODY with carbon dioxide. And one day while Mama had a goat IMPALED on a spit--Woof!--she noted that goat fat dripping into the fire caused the fire to burn brighter. At the same time, Ham was busy separating the twigs from the bud and the leaves and tying up bags of the primo stuff with the bull's dental floss. She said, "Ham, give me some of that bull's dental floss." So he did. She took one of her tiny clay pots, partially filled it with potpourri, stuck the bull's dental floss in the center and poured in hot dripping goat fat. She called it a "NIYR" because now she could see NEAR or far. She also calls them "CAN-DELL" because she likens the Ark to a SMALL SECLUDED WOODED VALLEY and now she CAN see her way to the secluded valley poop room. She put seven of them side by side in mine and the boys' bathrooms. She calls them a "MEN-orah" because she says MEN need more light than women.

M: I bet bulls would appreciate one of those potpourried flaming lumps of animal lard in the food stall since it is across from the poop room.

N: Probably so, but you don't dare let the bulls see them. Just give them their BUD and let them CHILL.

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when i first read this, i honestly thought it was one of those spam e-mails that i see occasionally with a short medieval theme going. you know, there'll be this nonsensey story where some dragon gets slayed or one about the man of la mancha in this weird text, like you know you're holding some kind of death spam if you keep the document open too long. but i goggled this performer's name and he is a real man, talking real smack about old skool religious themes.

he ain't no "tatiana and her amazing one woman show" or anything, but i ain't picky.

these are the things that break up a monotonous day at the office.