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Issue 5 Fall 2011
Periodically a fish will yank on one of those lines and depress a key on the typewriter. And gradually, over the course of weeks and months and years, the fish have wound up writing things. —Diminished Capacity by Sherwood Kiraly, ‘72 Diminished Capacity, Knox College’s humor webzine Email: email@example.com
The Almighty Table of Contents
“Passions” by Ben Lee, 2012 “I am not technology savvy” by Nicole Baldino, 2015 “Fortuitous” by Rika Stoller, 2014 “Llama!” by Honor Beeler, 2014 “The Redhead: An Introduction” by Emma Gingold, 2012 “McBlues, a conversation” by Tom Courtright, 2014 “Cows” by Honor Beeler, 2014 “Fear In Reverse: The Ending” by Rachel Fisher, 2013 “What a Miracle!” by Ben Lee, 2012 pg. 3 pg. 8 pg. 9 pg. 10 pg. 11 pg. 16 pg. 17 pg. 18 pg. 19
*Cover illustrations by Elizabeth Schult, 2013
Passions/ Lee 1
Passions By Ben Lee
passion |ˈpa sh ən| noun • strong and barely controllable emotion • a state or outburst of such emotion • intense sexual love • an intense desire or enthusiasm for something • a thing arousing enthusiasm It happens when things are going well, no, splendidly—no, scratch that, wonderfully, maybe even once-in-a-lifetimishly. And then, out of the pink abyss, in a moment quiet intimate and subtle, she —and not just she but, each of the many many she’s who’ve come before in my romantic career, and the many who will come after— asks me (and not just some similar formulation, but verbatim) this question: What is your passion? Passion? What is my passion? Yes, what is your passion? I first associate the word “passion” with, well, Passions the soap opera they canceled several years ago—it was the one with a witch. Next I associate it with stock artist statements on programs and placards: “Painting/Sculpting/ Dancing/Singing/Acting/Directing/Making Art (with capital ‘A’) is my passion…” Then there’s insincere advertisements “Here at _____________ we’re passionate about your ______________”. Then after a while I get passion fruit, passion flower, passion dance, Passion of the Christ. And underneath all of this is undeniable association with hot, sultry, animalistic lovemaking, and I always wonder if this might be the subtext, but it never is. What do mean passion? Your passion. It’s like your life’s purpose. Oh. Yeah. that.
Passions/ Lee 2
I had no idea people were allowed to seriously ask people questions like this and expect serious answers. Minutes ago we were having a good time, chit-chat, and now we’re playing some sort of lifeor-death icebreaker? “What are you interests?” is a question I can answer like a pro: this, this, this, this, and this. What are your hobbies? That, that, that, that, that, and that. The slightly more difficult “What your favorite such and such?” used to give me troubles (I mean, I’ve seen a lot of movies, how am I supposed to know which one I enjoyed the most?) but I’ve found that the problem can be overcome just by saying anything —really, anything— and sticking to it. But now she wants me to tell her not just plural things which it could be said (though I usually wouldn’t say it because it’s awfully saccharine) I am “passionate” about, but my one singular, sum-it-all-up, existential purpose for being alive. You know, what makes you want to get out of bed in the morning. Let’s see, I pause. I think but don’t say: turning off my alarm clock? Chris Attwood and Janet Bray Attwood, two very passionate people by the looks of it, have written a New York Times Bestseller called The Passion Test designed to test its readers passion, then help those poor passionless readers to become more, well, impassioned. This is what the passion test told me:
Life has been rough for you. You have denied the things that matter most to you in order to please others, or because you've been taught you can't have everything. You feel like a victim of the situations and circumstances in your life. You may feel bitter, angry, or just depressed. You experience life as difficult and you are waiting for others to change. The path you are on will never lead to fulfillment. You have the power to change the direction of your life and it will take a commitment to changing the beliefs that have led you to where you are today.
So, about five minutes later, I changed the beliefs that had led me down this life path and retook the test, this time with more passionate answers:
You have learned one of the most important lessons of life: When you choose in favor of your passions, life becomes an ongoing miracle. Congratulations for making decisions that allow you to give your special and unique gifts.
Perhaps my passion is how-to and self-help books. Where some may become remorsefully hooked on trashy romance novels, I am instantly suckered by a book claiming it can make me into a
Passions/ Lee 3 better person. For instance: Dale Carnegie’s 1936 How to Win Friends and Influence People which I found yellowing in a Kansas garage sale (advice I remember most (and hate to admit, still practice from time to time) is that the overall best way to make friends is to embody the characteristics of a dog); Seven Habits of Highly Effective People by Steven Covey (which taught me how to synergize my abundance into an upward spiral); and William Dufty’s The Sugars Blues which I found in a friend’s basement and convinced me to go four years without eating sugar. The Art of Conversation, The Comedy Bible: Buy This Book and People Will Laugh at You, The Idiot’s Guide to Chess, The Idiot’s Guide to Creative Writing, The Idiot’s Guide to Teen Relationships, and, (found in a friend’s bookshelf) The Passion Test. I suppose I am transfixed by the sheer charisma it takes to break life into such neat cubbies and corners, to make it look easy. Or maybe it’s the promise of a tomorrow-y betterness, and unboxable self-improving selfless selfness, or perhaps just the fear that if I don’t read this book I’ll never get the information that everybody else knows already. I always think I am reading from a safe distance, that is to say, with enough irony. I’ll say to one of my friends, “Hey look at this line, isn’t that funny?” They’ll laugh and say “That’s great”, but underneath that is the question: Why are you still reading that book when we’re at a party? My Passion is People, one of the she’s said. People, huh. In what way? I just love people. Sometimes when I’m having a bad day, I just remember: People are so great. I guess that makes sense. I mean, really, what else is there to love? We’re social animals. Haha, you’re funny. Ok, I told you my Passion. Come on, what’s yours? The she’s must live in a parallel universe in which each citizen’s own essential story/motivation/soul, is known fully, completely, and without error or confusion by each corresponding citizen. Not only that, they know it in words. And not in French words, or even in hard to pronounce words. In words like “people” and “passion.” I surmise this because the way the she’s pester me makes it seem that they’re sure I have a definite passion—maybe even a big one—but I’m just too bashful to say it out loud. Passion comes from pei- (to hurt) which became pati (to suffer) which became passio (to endure). Hence “The Passion of the Christ” doesn’t refer to his great enthusiasm or emotion, but rather the all that pain he dealt with while being crucified. The word came to refer to the suffering of any martyr in the thirteenth century, and in the fourteenth century it made the leap into “strong emotion.” This is the leap that interests me most: to feel a deep and genuine emotion is apparently equivalent to being persecuted and killed.
Passions/ Lee 4
My passion used be God, said another she. But I don’t know about that anymore. What’s your passion now? Music. Realizing that activities were acceptable passions, I said: I think my passion is comedy. My delivery wasn’t altogether convincing, so I added: I love to make people laugh. Have you ever listened to an audience’s laughter from, say, three hundred feet? It sounds so canned. The same thing happens in close quarters when I see a group of friends (who are strangers to me) guffawing at each other’s lame jokes. What could they possibly be laughing at? After studying beauty, Da Vinci wanted to study ugliness. To do so, he invited the ugliest denizens of Rome to dinner, where he told them jokes so he could draw their faces contorted with laughter. But what strikes me isn’t just the ugliness of the laugher but also the ugliness of the joke-teller. I mean the egotism, and pathetic need for attention of everyone who ever tried to be funny. I also mean Bill, Dave, Dick, and Peter, some of them married with children, some of them un-marriageable, talking to crowded drunk and smoke-filled rooms about vaginas, about drugs, and about wanting to have sex with sixteen-year-old girls. I also mean myself, who, as my passion would have it, became acquainted with these gentlemen at The Comedy Works’ open mic night, and who listened to them critique my three minutes. The trick to stand-up comedy, as well as most things worth doing, is, no matter how hard you try, never seem like you’re trying. Despite the hype, all passion does is show you’re an amateur. I was once in a job interview in which the interviewer asked why I wanted the job. Unprepared, I responded that having this job like this one was a childhood dream of mine. I didn’t get the job. To one she I said: You are my passion. To another she I said, copying a previous she: People are my passion. To a third she I said: I guess I don’t really have a passion.
Passions/ Lee 5 This made me seem sad and pathetic so she comforted me. A week or so later though, she had moved on. Who wants to be around somebody who doesn’t have a passion?
Tech saavy/ Baldino 1
I am not technology saavy By Nicole Baldino
Fortuitous/ Stoller 1
Fortuitous By Rika Stoller
I was lucky that day, Lucky that the wind blew up my skirt, exposing my spotted bloomers. Lucky that the man in the Mercedes looked up at that exact moment, captivated by my perfectly sculpted bum. He crashed into a diner and I saved him by calling for help. We are married now, And live in the country. We sip tea and reminisce, Laughing because our fortuitous introduction was driven by a pair of knickers. Sip, sip, Snicker, snicker.
Fortuitous/ Stoller 2
Llama!/ Beeler 1
Llama! By Honor Beeler
The Redhead/ Gingold 1
The Redhead: An Introduction By Emma Gingold
There are many truths that cannot be contested. The Earth revolves around the Sun, for instance. The presence of gravity causes apples to fall out of trees. Pop-Tarts are greatly improved by toasting. But by far the most inarguable truth of all is this: Redheads are attractive. Why do you think every heroine of a smutty romance novel is endowed with shimmering copper locks to match her smoldering eyes and her fiery temper? How do you think Elizabeth I defeated the Spanish Armada? Why do you think Bozo the Clown was such a hit? Easy: Everyone loves redheads. Have you ever looked at a redhead and just longed to make babies with him or her? Do not be ashamed—it’s a common reaction. There’s something alluring about that exotic hair color. Everywhere you go, you see brunettes and blondes, people with black hair and blue hair and pink hair and no hair. But then, every so often, you catch a glimpse of a redhead and your heart just stops. Somebody had His thinking cap on when He created gingers. I mean, think of Jessica Rabbit, the wife of the outrageously fortunate Roger Rabbit. Or Kate Winslet. Conan O’Brian. Dana Scully. Vivaldi. Lucille Ball. Horatio from CSI: Miami. And even if she’s too young for you, you’ve got to admit that the Little Mermaid is pretty cute. In a sea of people, a single redhead stands out like a flame in the dark, no pun intended. Of course, in a sea of redheads, a black-haired person might stand out—but you’ll have to find me a sea of redheads before we can prove that theory. There’s a sort of mystery surrounding gingers. They’re unique. They’re gorgeous. You look at them and can’t help but wonder, Where do you come from? Maybe a parallel dimension, or another planet. Or Norway. Statistically speaking, you, dear Reader, are not a redhead. Gingers make up only four percent of the population, which I take to mean that there are only about seventeen of us in the entire world. This number was researched and nearly proven by one Joe Clark, a Canadian homosexual who has spent the better part of his life sitting in cafés recording how many redheaded males walk by, and who seems to be incredibly well versed in whether, on average, the carpet matches the drapes. His research has been compiled on the Internet at www.Fawny.org, where one can peruse his study of the Redhead Cluster Phenomenon and his—ahem—colorful history with redheaded male test subjects. (Joe Clark is also not a redhead.) Redheads, like brunettes and even blondes, progress through a series of stages during their lifetime. They begin, as most do, as a fetus developing in the womb—the only difference, of course,
The Redhead/ Gingold 2 being that the fetus of a redheaded child already has hair. Upon delivery, it can be remarked that the baby has enough hair to fit in comfortably at Woodstock and enough blood near the surface of the skin alone to supply the entire Red Cross. Before long, the baby gains weight and learns to walk. This is potentially the most beloved variety of redhead: the child, especially if it has bouncing curls and rosy cheeks. As if children weren’t endearing in and of themselves, somebody decided to give red hair to a couple of them in order to momentarily stop the rotation of the earth every few minutes. No one can resist the allure of a little girl with glowing curls and peaches-and-cream skin wearing pearls and a green flower girl dress at her cousin’s wedding. She is so adorable that the six-year-old ring bearer will ask her to dance a number of times, but she, being above him, will refuse, stating that she only dances the fast dances. Her parents and the other grown-ups in earshot will laugh good-naturedly and comment on her cuteness. The number of pictures taken of me that day could fill several albums. Eventually the red-haired child starts attending grade school with the other children. The redhead’s innate intelligence and wisdom set her apart, and despite the occasional name-calling (“carrottop” being the most common insult, quite clever for seven-year-olds), she tends to come out ahead, supported by her unfailing charisma. In middle school and high school, gingers go through an Awkward Teenage Stage characterized by, in both sexes, near-fatal cases of acne (made more prominent by their porcelain skin), and in the males, unfortunate attempts at mustaches. This is rather detrimental to the redhead’s self-esteem, and when soliciting the support of their parents, they find they are not calmed by reminders of how cute they were when they once refused to dance with the ring bearer at their cousin’s wedding. However, Nature is kind to the redhead, and once the acne clears up (though the mustache will never appear), redheads—all three of them!—are among the most popular kids in school. Because everyone loves redheads. And I mean everyone. Even redheads love redheads. In fact, I might venture to say that especially redheads love redheads. I propose that redheads platonically and romantically pursue other redheads simply because they can’t be with themselves, and the next best thing is another redhead. There is an inherent trust when encountering another redhead: “I’m awesome,” the redhead thinks, “so you must be awesome too.” This is a flawless basis for a friendship, and often their innate sex appeal causes these friendships to proceed to the next level. For example, a redhead attending college for the first time may run into a new acquaintance eating lunch with another redhead in the cafeteria, and, her eye having been caught by the top of his head more than anything else, she may ask to sit with them and will strike up a conversation. Within hours she will become intimately acquainted with the inside of his dorm room and the color of his sheets.
The Redhead/ Gingold 3 As the redhead’s life progresses, her hair will remain her most conspicuous characteristic. She will undoubtedly have no trouble picking up guys in bars (note: the non-ginger’s need to sleep with redheads will be further discussed below). Because her hair will symbolize sensuality and label her as one-of-a-kind, she will rapidly ascend the corporate ladder. As she ages, her hair will turn pure white, thanks to her light pigmentation, and she will be the cutest old lady in any nursing home. For these reasons, one should consider herself extremely fortunate to have been born with red hair. There are some downsides, of course, though you might be shocked to hear it. Redheads are forced to endure ignorant remarks about how all gingers must be related. God forbid you should ever be a redhead dating a redhead—people get very uncomfortable when they see “siblings” holding hands. For reasons unknown, the average passerby cannot take facial structure, eye color, or physical build into account when summing up two redheads on the street: As long as two people are pale and blessed with auburn locks, they can easily be mistaken for twins. What is true of passersby is also true of the cashier at the grocery store who starts to swipe your items onto the receipt of the redhead in front of you because she assumes you’re to be rung up together. Yes, redheads share a special bond with fellow gingers, but let’s face it—there are some people you just don’t want to be associated with, especially ones that are about five years older than you and are buying Mountain Dew and economy-size bottles of hand lotion and are still trying really, really hard to grow that elusive mustache. Those same ignorant people who chat with two redheads at a party and use the plural “you” when asking what part of the country they’re from are also guilty of making jokes about sunburn and tempers. While being confused for siblings is merely irritating, such jokes are wholly offensive, not to mention incredibly unoriginal. For this reason, and for your protection, I have compiled a list of suggestions for your next ginger encounter: 1. Avoid puns on the word “fire.” 2. Do not assume that all redheads are as obnoxious as Carrot Top. 3. Do not ask whether a ginger is “the kind that has a soul” (see the animated series South Park). 4. Do not make jokes about sun-related skin diseases. Melanoma is a very serious condition, often fatal, that redheads struggle against every day. 5. Do not ask if the carpets match the drapes. If you’re curious, check yours and then extrapolate. 6. Do not assume that a redhead (known for passion that matches the red of her hair) will easily fly off the handle.
The Redhead/ Gingold 4 Should you follow these guidelines, your redhead interaction will be successful. If you happen to commit one of the aforementioned faux pas, it would be wise to apologize rather quickly, as redheads tend to fly off the handle. After a successful encounter, you will be given the chance to continue your relationship. Perhaps it will stop at mere friendship, but if you ever get the chance to fall in love with a redhead, I strongly encourage it. Be forewarned: It’s a doozy. They’ll seem all perfect and endearing at the beginning. They’ll give great hugs and offer to pay for your chicken nuggets and sing you Irish folk songs. All your friends will condone it, especially since you’re all coworkers and “how great is it that two of us are finally hooking up?” Your redhead will count down the days until you turn eighteen, which isn’t creepy because they’re only a couple years older than you, and then the closer it gets to your birthday the more they’ll start talking about marriage and forever and the kind of siding they want on the house and you’ll think, What the hell have I gotten myself into? and you’ll very subtly stop hanging out with them until you’re not talking at all anymore and they’ll go off and marry some other redhead a few years later. On your birthday. You’ll regret the whole thing and probably hate yourself forever, but trust me, it’s worth it. If you do happen to make it work, and you might, because you’re not a redhead and, well, opposites attract, so much the better for you. You’ll be able to spend the rest of your life gazing into her eyes and telling her how great she is. It’s true: this is nearly a direct quote taken from a first-hand testimonial, given by the long-term, incredibly adorable boyfriend of a redhead. For these reasons, I urge you to consider a relationship with a redhead. Or at least sleep with one. It will be one thing checked off your bucket list. Now, you may think that this is a persuasive essay and that I’m trying to make you recognize your latent desire for the redheaded among us. I apologize if I got a little carried away; I meant to simply highlight the characteristics of the common ginger for education’s sake. In reality, I strongly discourage the intermingling of hair colors. As the red hair gene is recessive, gingers are, quite literally, becoming extinct. If you recall your 10th grade biology class, you will know that a redheaded child can only be born if both parents carry the gene, and that the probability of that even happening is slim. If two parents fail to produce a redheaded child, there is absolutely no way for the gene to appear in the non-redheaded child, and the gene will die out, because everyone knows that’s how genetics work. Remember, there are only seventeen of us left (approximately). In a hundred years, you may never see a redhead, never feel the wrenching of your heart as you spot one from across the room, nor have the opportunity to ask one out for coffee. It is up to the remaining redheads of the world to rectify this problem. Though redheads are attracted to other redheads, they don’t marry each other as often as you might think. It could be the temper. Nevertheless, gingers must endeavor to breed more red-haired babies. And let’s face it—is there such a thing as too many red-haired babies?
The Redhead/ Gingold 5 These babies then must grow up strong and proud of their redheadedness. Redheaddom. Redheadicity. Sure, they might decide at age fourteen to die their hair raven black like the heroine of their favorite novel and it might turn out kind of green, but these setbacks are necessary for learning who they are and why being a ginger is so important. They’ll come to realize that the world needs their mysterious sexiness, and that they shouldn’t hide their flame under a bushel basket.
McBlues/ Courtright 1
McBlues, a conversation By Tom Courtright
Last night I went to sleep questing for the sodium-saturated American McDream Flashy speedboats and McLight beams And I realized… we’re no longer surprised at the McExtremes It’s as American as collagen to pull these McSchemes But they pay us McNothing! Officer I’m the victim of a McMugging! I swear, I was just trying to get my household McFunding, When MBAs in suits got greedy with the needy while money was McGushing I’ve taken a real McRubbing So please, be the McRed White and Blue Do that Kung Fu, don’t let them McEschew Don’t let this turn into a corporate McCoup
What’s that, McCitizen? You say there’s McDysfunction? You need a McInjunction? Are you just causing a McDisruption?
No sir they are trying to hand me a McEviction Even threatened to imprison me unless I followed their McRestrictions Told me it was a tough McDecision But I know it was an excuse for my McExtinction
It’s not good enough to have McReformation Senators debate neutered McLegislation Lobby’s addicted to McStimulation It’s all McMolestation!
That’s quite a McAccusation We all submit to our McTaxation We all love our McNation Don’t you love McInnovation?
You would say that McOfficer Blaming it on the McForeigners Slaves to rhetoric-dripping McOrators Up and down the power McCorridors Caught up in stupid McBickers I won’t bow to your McVicar While we all get a little McSicker So cover me in a coffin to get me in the dirt quicker!
I’ve heard just McEnough Now I don’t want to get McRough But someone’s sold you a lot of McBluff And if you don’t shut it my baton will get McTough
McBlues/ Courtright 2
Cows/ Beeler 1
Cows By Honor Beeler
Fear in Reverse/ Fisher 1
Fear in Reverse: The Ending By Rachel Fisher
This short film is available for viewing at quiver.knox.edu.
Miracle/ Lee 1
What a Miracle! By Ben Lee
CAST Mr. Goodwhite—20s Mrs. Goodwhite—20s (MR. and MRS. GOODWHITE sit in bed.) MR. GOODWHITE Goodnight, my beautiful wife Mrs. Goodwhite. MRS. GOODWHITE Goodnight, my handsome, strong husband, Mr. Goodwhite. MR. GOODWHITE Of course, our wedding day wouldn’t be complete if we didn’t consummate the marriage. MRS. GOODWHITE Oh my! MR. GOODWHITE It’s my first time. MRS. GOODWHITE Mine too! MR. GOODWHITE I’m a little nervous. How about on the count of three. One... two... three... (On three MR. GOODWHITE lurchingly kisses MRS. GOOWWHITE on the mouth. Just as suddenly, he releases her) Wow. That was even better than I expected. Well... (He yawns) I’m exhausted. Sleep tight, we have a big day tomorrow. (Nonplussed, MRS. GOODWHITE sits up in bed while MR. GOODWHITE immediately falls asleep. For a few moments she waits for MR. GOODWHITE to pounce on her. He doesn’t.) MRS. GOODWHITE Night.
Miracle/ Lee 2
(MRS. GOODWHITE pretends to sleep. Silence. She sighs coyly. Silence. She sighs again, seductively.) MR. GOODWHITE Jane? Are you all right? MRS. GOODWHITE What? MR. GOODWHITE You were snoring. MRS. GOODWHITE I was? MR. GOODWHITE And quite a snore it was. Very... guttural. But guess what? MRS. GOODWHITE What? MR. GOODWHITE I’m going to love you anyway (he chuckles). MRS. GOODWHITE Thank you, hun. MR. GOODWHITE Night, night, sweetie. (They return to sleeping positions. MRS. GOODWHITE spoons MR. GOODWHITE. She begins to fondle him, then grope. She groans erotically.) Jane! Jane! Wake up! You were having a nightmare. MRS. GOODWHITE I was? MR. GOODWHITE Ha, ha, you sure were, and you were touching me where... you don’t even want to know where... MRS. GOODWHITE
Miracle/ Lee 3 (Flirtatiously) I don’t want to know where? MR. GOODWHITE It’s very inappropriate. MRS. GOODWHITE (Excited) Oh! Inappropriate. MR. GOODWHITE Well, if you insist on knowing, it was near my pee pee hole. MRS. GOODWHITE Your pee pee hole. Oh no! MR. GOODWHITE You might want to wash your hand, it might be dirty now. MRS. GOODWHITE Dirty. Pee pee holes are dirty aren’t they? Dirty. Dirty. MR. GOODWHITE Well, not “dirty” necessarily, but they are where your pee comes out. MRS. GOODWHITE And you know what else comes out. MR. GOODWHITE Oh you mean... (he thinks about it) Well, no... but there is… I’ve heard of... but that’s just... Well, I have to say, no, I don’t know. MRS. GOODWHITE (Perplexed) No, hun. You know. I’m sure you know. MR. GOODWHITE This is marriage for you, hun. Sooner or later you’ll find out that I don’t know everything. I’m a preacher’s son, not a doctor, after all. MRS. GOODWHITE But everyone knows. Your teachers never...? MR. GOODWHITE
Miracle/ Lee 4 I was home-schooled, remember. MRS. GOODWHITE. Your parents never...? MR. GOODWHITE Never what? Told me medical horror stories about what might come out of people’s pee-pee holes if they stop going to church? Of course not. MRS. GOODWHITE How do you think babies are made? MR. GOODWHITE Babies aren’t made, sweetie. When a man and a woman love Jesus very much, he chooses a baby angel up in heaven that he thinks looks most like them, plucks the baby down, and asks the woman to get a big belly so, you know, when the other women see that she’s getting a baby from Jesus, they don’t get jealous. Then, after a waiting period of about nine months, the woman is allowed to lose her weight. She usually does this by doing a lot of sit ups. After the labor, Jesus gives the baby to the doctor and the doctor gives it to the nurse and the nurse gives it to the father and once the woman is a little cleaned up from her work-out, she gets to hold the baby too. What a miracle! Maybe one day it will happen to us. (Brief silence. MRS. GOODWHITE laughs) Don’t laugh, Jane. I know it sounds a little silly. I mean, I laughed when I found out about it too, but I was sixteen. MRS. GOODWHITE You can’t be serious. MR. GOODWHITE Of course I’m serious. MRS. GOODWHITE Oh God. MR. GOODWHITE I know, it’s a lot to take in all at once. I’m surprised nobody ever told you. MRS. GOODWHITE You mean you’ve never heard about... MR. GOODWHITE About what, sweetie?
Miracle/ Lee 5 MRS. GOODWHITE About sex. (MR. GOODWHITE screams involuntarily. He then acts as though he didn’t notice himself scream.) MR. GOODWHITE What was that you said, dear? MRS. GOODWHITE You know: Sex. (He screams again) MR. GOODWHITE I’m sorry, I’m having trouble making out exactly what you’re saying. MRS. GOODWHITE Well, when a married couple such as us love each other very much, the man, that’s you, puts his penis (MR. GOODWHITE screams) into, into well, the woman’s, well, vagina. (MR. GOOWHITE screams again) MR. GOODWHITE I’m sorry, one more time? It’s just that you’re mumbling. MRS. GOODWHITE I will, but please don’t scream. MR. GOODWHITE Scream? I’m hardly one to scream… MRS. GOODWHITE Right. MR. GOODWHITE Just make sure to enunciate. MRS. GOODWHITE (over-enunciating) O-kay. MR. GOODWHITE See, that’s good. MRS. GOODWHITE
Miracle/ Lee 6 Alright. So. Your penis... (He screams.) MRS. GOODWHITE Your “pee-pee hole.” MR. GOODWHITE My pee-pee hole. MRS. GOODWHITE Can fit into my “pee-pee hole”. MR. GOODWHITE Can fit into... oh... MRS. GOODWHITE And, it feels, well, it feels good.
(Silence. MR. GOODWHITE soaks it in. Then it hits him.) MR. GOODWHITE God. Oh, God. (He screams a long hard scream that peters out into sobs) MRS. GOODWHITE Honey? Honey? What’s the matter? MR. GOODWHITE (fighting back tears) Once... I had a dream... where my pee-pee hole... was dancing... with another pee-pee hole... and when I woke up... I peed my pants a little. MRS. GOODWHITE Don’t worry, honey, everybody has dreams like that. MR. GOODWHITE Really? MRS. GOODWHITE Really. MR. GOODWHITE
Miracle/ Lee 7 But my Mama... she said... she said... it was because I had the devil inside me. MRS. GOODWHITE Well, honey, we all have a little bit of lust in us. I wouldn’t call it the “devil” necessarily. MR. GOODWHITE But mama says that’s just what the devil wants you to think. MRS. GOODWHITE Honey, I promise you, everybody has sex. (He screams quietly) Christians like us have sex. (He screams even more quietly) Husbands and wives have sex. (He screams even more quietly) We, maybe even tonight, can have sex. MR. GOODWHITE (Slowly) Oh my God, you’re right. I mean, if God didn’t want us to have (as if he isn’t sure whether he’s saying it right) “sex”, then why would he make us want to have it so much? And why would he make our pee-pee holes dancing partners? Man. This is going to be great... I mean... Sex is going to be great... I mean... I’m going to have so much sex! MRS. GOODWHITE Thank God! MR. GOODWHITE Thank God is right, honey! Thank God for sex! MRS. GOODWHITE Thank God for sex! MR. GOODWHITE Let’s thank him right now! Our Father who art in Heaven, MRS. GOODWHITE Our Father who art in Heaven, MR. GOODWHITE Hallowed be thy name. MRS. GOODWHITE
Miracle/ Lee 8 Hallowed be thy name. MR. GOODWHITE And thank you, thank you, thank you. MRS. GOODWHITE Thank you, thank you, thank you. MR. GOODWHITE For sex! MRS. GOODWHITE Sex! MR. GOODWHITE Seeeeeeeeeeeex! (A beat.) MRS. GOODWHITE (quietly) Let’s do it. MR. GOODWHITE Let’s do what? MRS. GOODWHITE Have sex. MR. GOODWHITE Now? MRS. GOODWHITE Right now. MR. GOODWHITE Sex? MRS. GOODWHITE Yes, sex, right now. MR. GOODWHITE You mean... you mean... with each other?
Miracle/ Lee 9 MRS. GOODWHITE Of course with each other. (They crawl under covers. They scream “Sex! Sex! Sex!” Lights back up. Mr. Goodwhite has stopped the foreplay.) MR. GOODWHITE (confused) Honey I don’t understand. MRS. GOODWHITE What don’t you understand, sweetheart? MR. GOODWHITE What happened to your penis? (BLACKOUT.)
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