Monologue
You Suck!
In fact I don't. Peck on the cheek, quick cuddle, more of a candlelight and wine sort o' person, really, draw the line at sucking, just seems too familiar. I am a married man after all. In fact, me and the wife just went down south to Punta Cana. Lovely place, lovely. Drove the car to the airport. Been driving it for ever. Should have traded the old girl in years ago but she still starts most mornings. Like a part of the family really. We'll most likely drive it into the ground then get a new one.
They never say that about airplanes, have you noticed? You never get on board and then the captain comes on the speaker and says, 'Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I've been driving this airplane for ever. Should have traded the old girl in years ago but she still starts most mornings. Like a part of the family really. We'll most likely drive it into the ground and then get a new one.' Never happens.
So the pilot didn't drive us into the ground and we got to Punta Cana quite fine. Lovely, big hotel. Right on the beach. Big pool. The pools there have a shallow kind of a ridge thingy on the side so you can pull your sun bathers out into the pool and it's still shallow, right? So there's this lady sunbathing there; well, I say sunbathing, she was lying face down in the water, could have been drowning, really, I'm no doctor. But there she was, in about an inch of water, on her belly, all 14 stone of her, looking very much like a beached killer whale. So I run over to her, and I yelled at her Lady! Oh my God you're stranded! You hang tight, I'll get some help and we'll try to flip you back into the pool. And I swear to God she thought I was taking a drink order. So I took her order and then buggered off. She seemed fine, but then again, I am no doctor.
Of course the lady in question didn't speak English. Some sort of language we're often at war with. Lots of backwards letters, numbers instead of letters, letters that look like mutant bugs, that sort of thing. Most people down there, tourists, speak English. Most people who actually live there speak Spanish. And they're always after getting the tourists to learn Spanish. Why I can't fathom. Only ever comes up when you're on vacation in some warm place. Ever notice that? Warm places speak Spanish. Cold places speak some kind of cold language. Involving mutant bugs. In between they speak English. So here I am taking unnecessary Spanish lessons every time I want a drink or some food. Words in Spanish have genders. Binary genders. Assigned arbitrarily at birth, near as I can tell. So someone comes up with a new word. No Spanish word for shart, so let's make one up right now. A shart is a kind of chunky fart, don't you think? Spanish for fart is venty-arsey. I shit you not. Chunk is pedazo. So let's call a shart a pedazoventearse. Now as the originators of this word we have to assign it a gender. Is a chunky fart male or female? I say it transcends gender. Like mesa. Spanish for table. If you call it el mesa you mean a male table, someone will correct you, la mesa. Tables are female. But what if your mesa is currently transitioning and at the moment identifies as male? I put this very question to one of the servers at the pool. The staff down there speak a specific English according to their function. So the restaurant staff speak foodish. The cleaning staff speak dirtish. Pool staff speak drinkish. Everything in their world is, by definition, a drink. So I posed this server a very profound philosophical question knocking at the very foundations of their world view and they went and got me a drink. Notice what I did there? They. No way of knowing whether the server was male or female. Many layers to this bit. Makes you think.
I must confess to a certain level of gender confusion myself. When I was growing up it was simple. Gender was called Sex on any form you were filling out, and there were two of them. Worked out quite well. Except for my friend's little brother. When he was born the doctors weren't sure, so it was decided to do the kid a favour and make him a he. That worked out quite well too until they started having periods with no place to put them. Back to the hospital for a bit of a rethink. That aside, the thing that confuses me, I'm sorry to say, is the whole LGBTQIA2S+ thing. An inclusive term to welcome people no matter how they identify or express their sexuality. Like I say, when I was growing up it was quite simple. Then they added Gay. Right, that explained a few of my friends. Lesbian. That explained my love life. So far so good. Bisexual, Transgender; I quite liked Rocky Horror. Still OK. Now there was an acronym: LGBT. But wait, there's more. Questioning? fine. Just part of growing up. Intersex - well I knew one. Fine person. Asexual? many of my good friends are aces. Two spirited? If you like. I'm sure we're all a little bit two-spirited if truth be told. The acronym kept getting longer as they included more and more groups, to make it more inclusive. Went to a sensitivity training session many years ago, when the acronym was getting fairly long. One of the participants felt his particular group was not represented. Raised his hand and said I like to fuck chickens. What does that make me? Bit of an insensitive oaf said the leader. Kind of an asshole really. But still. You take the essence of the oaf's comment. Quick rewrite, editorial changes, peer review, final draft, and what you come out with is, right, if you try to include everyone you will inevitably exclude someone. Nowadays there is a plus sign on the acronym. To cover off people who want to be part of the LGBTQIA2S+ community but don't fit neatly into any of the existing slots. And that's what confuses me. I seem to be lumped in with the gentleman who is into poultry in a really big way.
There were many such binary choices when I was growing up. Like one's belief system. It was was called religion, and was at one time collected on various forms. For tax purposes they said. Said that in Nazi Germany too I expect. Your choices were Protestant or Catholic. Ethnicity was called colour. It was black or white. Political affiliation was conservative or liberal. Ancestry was Anglo Saxon or French. Social standing was middle class or poor. There were no rich people where I grew up. So I grew up as a white anglo-saxon protestant middle class male. That was another binary box. If you weren't such a person then you were 'other' when you went looking for a job. A lot of these previously binary choices have now branched out to be more inclusive but not with the rigour applied to gender. I think they should apply the gender thinking to all of these other choices. So for instance religion which originally assumed you were one of two flavours of Christianity, could now have gay. That means you only like people in your place of worship. Or lesbian, same thing really, only somehow more socially acceptable. Bisexual means you occasionally go the place across town. Transexual. Always wanted to be Jewish. Let's give that a go. I hear there's a bit of an operation involved though. Questioning? Well if you're not questioning then you're not really religious are you. Intersex - probably someone who has been circumcised but also has stigmata. Asexual? Agnostic. Possibly atheist. Two spirited. Probably the United Church. And then plus of course, for those who don't totally agree with their religion and maybe do their own thing.
I think that on any forms you're filling out they should just have a box for Gender and Beliefs and Politics and Ethnicity and Ancestry and any other slot all combined into one. And you can draw a smiley face in there if that's how you identify. I didn't always think this way though. When I grew up I was very much a product of my times. I was homophobic, racist, mysogonist, bigotted, right wingnut and any other way of saying narrow minded that you can come up with. So when I get to the pearly gates to tell St. Peter what a good guy I was and he should let me in but he's having a smoke because the union gives him a fifteen minute break every two hours and it's Buddha minding the store and he says have I reached enlightenment I'll tell him not by half in fact I'm generally quite mean to fat people but overall I'm not a total wanker. What do I get for that? And he'll say you gotta problem with fat people then? And I'll say oh bloody hell...
You Suck!
Well fuck you very much, Richard! Everyone look, it's Mr. Head! I see you've come back. Me and Mr. Head are mates, we are. Known each other for years. He comes to every show. Since we're mates I can call him Richard. But he prefers Dick. Look at him ladies and gentlemen, you can tell just by looking at him that he's more of a Dick. Been a Dick his whole life I shouldn't wonder. Dick Head. Kind of rolls off the tongue, don't it? Not mine, of course... we've already established I don't suck...
OK, look, Dick Head, a lot of people paid really good money to hear my funny stories. Well, stories at any rate. And they didn't pay anything to hear you. Hang on a minute. Jerry, you there mate? Jerry's my light and sound guy. Jerry ? Jerry can we get a spot on Mr. Dick Head? I make him about seat 24C, though I can't see a bloody thing off the stage with these wash lights...
...
Well that was unexpected. Sold out venue. Being heckled by an empty seat. I'm guessing there's a Dick Head hanging out in the loo even as we speak. Enjoy your piss, Dick Head!
So anyway, here's me and the wife down in the sun and the surf. Not our first time. We went there all those years ago for a destination wedding cum honeymoon. Same hotel in fact. Cum means, of course, something having a dual nature or function. Wedding cum honeymoon. Cum itself has a sort of a dual nature or function, sort of dual nature or function cum orgasm. So when you're with that special someone, and they say, 'I'm about to cum' you're correct response would be, 'Or what?' Be that as it may. We're down south all those years ago for a destination wedding. Not really a legit thing, more for show, so we wrote our own vows. My vow was perpetual poverty; hers was perpetual chastity. I'm just kidding. We've been married now for many years, never happier. Never happier...
...
Where was I. Ah yes, the vows. So I wrote mine with all that 'till death do us part' stuff and she said no luv, it's 'for all eternity'. Well it's the same thing innit I said. She said no, you keep coming back. Well that's not protestant philosophy is it, I said. Some Catholic thing is it then? No luv, it's an eastern thing. So I'm writing you an emotional cheque here I said, and you don't want me to fill in an amount, just leave it blank. She said yes luv, if it doesn't work out we'll talk about it in the next life.
Next life. When I come back I want to have an enormous dingus. A massive willie. I want my nickname to be Hung Dong. Not Shrinky Dink like they used to call me in gym class. No one ever says 'a monstrous weenie'. But that's what I want. Unless I come back as a woman. I think that would limit my wardrobe options. I mean a miniskirt would be right out, woodnit? Of course I've got a contract, don't I. Says for all eternity. So my wife's got to take me back as I am, even if I look a fright in a mini skirt. We're star crossed lovers we are. Everytime we meet it was meant to be, because it has always been. I suppose. The weenie stays.
So if you're coming back, right, does your life still flash before your eyes when you're sort of in between engagements? I mean what would be the point? And does it have to be like a movie, or can you say, I've seen the movie thanks. How about a stage production? A dinner theater would be awesome.
So we wrote our marriage vows with 'for all eternity'. They say that when you're first married, for that first year of eternity, every time you make love put a dollar in a jar. Then, for the rest of your marriage, you'll have a pot of money your wife doesn't know about. Maybe take your mates out to the peelers from time to time. We made love all the time; wanted children dint we. Couldn't have them. Tried and tried. Oh, how we tried. Had to get a new jar for the dollar bills. First one got full. Nothing.
Ever notice, sex is the one sport where the more you practise the worse you get? Imagine if football were like that. Soccer the uninformed call it. So all the star player would have to do, right, would be to hang up his cleats for a year. Then, on the day of the big game, he'd score his first goal in seconds. Then he'd take a bit of a breather and score again. Maybe a quick smoke and then he'd have another go. Game would be over pretty much before it began. Other team would be like Wot? That's it then? We're done already?
So it seemed we couldn't have kids, even though we were practising so much I could only find the goal best two out of three. Went to the doctor about it. He said it was trouble with her woman bits. Now here's a guy, years and years of schooling to become a doctor. And he never once learned what to call the parts of female reproductive anatomy. Woman bits. I asked him how my man bits were and he said adequate to the task. Fuckin A. Woman bits. The guy's a specialist too. Or at least I presume he was. Wore a white coat, had a stethoscope. Found him at a hospital. Maybe he was just some guy. But he seemed pretty sure it was woman bits and that we should come back next year.
We'd both kind of pinned our entire happiness on having kids. So instead we threw ourselves into our work. Years and years of just work. Not even travel. Always wanted to go the the Azores; just never seemed to make the time. We'd always say, next year we'll go to the Azores. Can't help but be happy in the Azores. Now the thing about next year is there's only the one, and it's always next year. Next year never did come. So we only ever traveled the once, just that one, where we read our vows for all eternity.
And then after a time the pain did start, so back to the doctor. He said it didn't look good, that we should have had it checked out years ago even when I explained about next year. He'd start us on aggresive treatments as soon as we were ready. They wouldn't be pleasant, and there was no real hope. He said if there was anything we had ever wanted to do then now would be the time. Because once the treatments started then that would be about it. There was no next year. I said how about one last trip? Always wanted to go to the Azores, me and the wife. He said that was too long in the plane, that would kill her. Then how about the Caribbean. He didn't recommend it. We had one of those silent conversations, me and the wife, the kind that people who have been married a long time can have, and we told him we're going. One last fling. He said if we were serious then he'd better write us a prescription for the pain which was about to get much worse. And it's vitally important to only ever take one at a time he said. As few as four in any one go and she would drift off into a peaceful sleep and never wake up.
So there we were in Punta Cana at the very same hotel we had our destination wedding at. Same location anyway. Hotels come and go. But now instead of a destination wedding I'm not sure what you'd call it. So I wheel my wife down to the beach. They have these great huge wheelchairs for the beach, if you ask. Giant wheels for the sand. I tried to wheel her to the buffet, get something to eat. She hadn't eaten for a few days. Hurts too much to eat, luv. I want to go home. Well they're not going to let you on the plane looking like that are they. Thanks, I love you too she said. I'll get you a doctor tomorrow, maybe he can help. Could be a woman. Huh? Doctor could just as easy be a woman she said. Not in this country she wouldn't. Genders get assigned here. A doctor's going to be male. Well no matter; I don't want a doctor, luv she said. I just want peace. So we went down to the beach. And we're looking out into the Atlantic and my wife says, the Azores are just over the horizon. You could swim there. Don't be daft, they're thousands of miles. You'd drown and the currents would wash you back here. But you could try, she said. We'd be happy in the Azores.
That night the pain was bad so she took a pill. She said it was really bad so she took a few more. Luv, if you're ever looking for me I'll be in the Azores she said as she drifted off to sleep. Well she looked so peaceful I decided I'd leave her sleeping and just go for a wander. To the beach. To the ocean. To the Azores, which were just over the horizon.
You Suck!
Right, I've about had it with you, arsehole. This is the emotional interlude leading into the final joke that ties up all the loose elements in the narrative and you've spoiled my intro. Jerry, wide spot on that fucker's seat...
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All empty seats? Jerry, let's find that prick. House lights if you please...
...
...
Right, that's a bit odd. Jerry, you seeing this mate? An empty theater? Jerry? You there mate?
...
There is no Jerry, luv. That was you. There's only just you and me.
... You're...looking well, I must say...all things considered...
Never felt better, luv. And you look a bit wet.
Well I went for a bit of a swim dint I.
Yes, luv. And that was daft. You can't swim to the Azores. It's thousands of miles. And anyway they're simply a state of mind. We can be happy anywhere we are. If we choose to be.
But I did try.
That you surely did, luv. But come. It's the end of this show; there's another starting soon and we can just make it.
Wait a minute. If Jerry is me, and there's only me and you, then that means the heckler is...
That's right, luv.
You always were my harshest critic.
Comes with the job, luv. And let's face it; you're not very funny.
Right. That's fair I suppose.
You know, luv, I do believe that this time we'll have all the children we want. If you're still adequate to the task.
Hang on, I'll check... my word, would you look at that.
Don't wear spandex, luv. And I do believe you're putting on weight. Time to put you on a bit of a diet.