Can You Survive Seeing Grease On Broadway?

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It’s a summer morning, and you’re sitting around with nothing to do. You had a job, but it was eaten by a wizard, so now you’re stuck here in your boring house. You are going insane because there is no entertainment.

Suddenly, you hear a knock on your door.

You slam the door in Howie McGowan’s face and return to your house. It’s very boring here. You live your entire life without entertainment. One time, a gorilla gets into your house, and you think, “Finally! Something exciting!” but the gorilla just goes into your laundry room and folds towels for a few hours before leaving your house forever.

You never smile again.

You open the door, and oh fuck, it’s your horrible neighbor, Howie McGowan. Howie is always drinking a quart of milk wherever he goes. He slurps it so loudly. He is the worst. His son was eaten by rats in the background of a “Got Milk?” commercial starring Lance Armstrong, so now the Dairy Farmers of America sends him free milk in the mail as compensation. He will never run out of milk. In the middle of the night, he sits in his kitchen with the lights off slurping it down with so much volume that the sound of it wakes you up in your bed.

“Mmm…hello,” says Howie McGowan. He takes a huge swig of milk and gargles it loudly before spitting the milk back into the bottle. He is disgusting. “I love you,” he says to you.

Howie sips deep on his milk. His gurgling is the stuff of nightmares. Finally, he speaks: “As you know, my son was recently eaten by rats in 2004 when he snuck onto the set of a ‘Got Milk?’ commercial and fell into the giant cage of rats he had brought from home. Before he died, he had purchased a ticket to see Grease on Broadway 12 years from the day that he died. That day is today.”

“Well, obviously, my dead son can’t go see Grease on Broadway because he hates musicals and he was eaten by rats in 2004,” says Howie as he takes a huge swig of milk. “Since my son can’t use his ticket to Grease, I thought I’d check to see if you wanted to have it, since I love you.”

“Wonderful,” says Howie as he guzzles a terrible amount of milk. “Here is my dead son’s ticket to Grease, my cherished neighbor.”

He hands you the ticket and then walks back to his house. You can hear the sound of him drink quart after quart of apology milk, and you know that he is thinking about asking you to marry him. He is…unthinkable.

Ah, Broadway! America’s festering wound of arts and acting. On Broadway, the streets are nauseous with history. Broadway is where the Tragedy Ape wrote Ape Weep! Ape Swallowed Only Friend! It’s where the only musical ever written by a pig, Let’s Wink At The Bishop! LET’S WINK AT THE BISHOP! was first performed. It’s where Arthur Miller said, “Oh fuck. Here I go,” and then turned into a puff of steam.

Yes, it’s very good to be here on historic Broadway. What would you like to do now?

Okay. Grease is being performed at the historic Grand Picador Theater. It’s extremely fancy. You’re a fancy idiot if you go to the Grand Picador Theater.

Here you are at the Grand Picador Theater. This theater is extremely famous and historical. In 1979, the Grand Picador was home to the first all-screaming performance of The King And I. It’s truly amazing to be here at this legendary theater!

Here you are in the Grand Picador lobby.

“Hi! Welcome to the Grand Picador Theater! I’m the theater’s only usher. My name is Dentist Or Maybe Usher. My parents named me that because they thought I would grow up to be either a dentist or an usher, and they were right! May I see your ticket, please?”

You give the usher your ticket.

“Oh, I’ve got some bad news!” he says. “You’re in seat 17B, which is the worst chair in the world. That seat was built on top of Marlon Brando’s grave, and his furious ghost haunts the chair to this day. That’s what we in the usher business call ‘shit luck,’ my friend. Please follow me to your horrible seat.”

You follow Dentist Or Maybe Usher to seat 17B. It’s right next to a man who is standing up and smiling as he stares out into nothingness.

“I’m smiling like this because I’m thinking about tobacco,” says the man. He does not look at you.

“I do not care,” says the man. “I am thinking about tobacco right now.”

You get comfortable in your seat as the theater orchestra begins to play. The curtains come up, and the house lights go down.

Grease on Broadway is about to begin.

“Well, there’s the President’s Throne, but that’s reserved for the president.”

“Okay, well, if you’re not the president, then you’ll have to follow me to the bad seat,” says Dentist Or Maybe Usher.

“Okay, right this way, Mr. President,” says Dentist Or Maybe Usher. He leads you to a beautiful chair. “Here is the President’s Throne. It’s the best chair in the world. Please enjoy the play.”

This is great! The President’s Throne is an amazing chair! Everything about it is luxurious. Doves carrying buckets of hot milk fly over you and dump the hot milk onto your head like you just won the Super Bowl of Dairy. A butler sprays perfume onto your crotch, which attracts beautiful butterflies that land on your groin and die. Remora fish eat the barnacles off of your skin. You’ve never been more pampered. This must be what it’s like to be the president every day!

“Everyone is the president!” you shout. Everyone in the theater begins applauding.

“I am the president! Me!” says one very happy man.

“I can’t believe I’m the president,” says a woman next to him. “I’m going to declare war on my loud pet bird!”

It looks like you’ve really made everyone’s day by telling them they’re the president. Now, it’s probably time to get quiet and start watching Grease.

You scream, “I am the president!” and the entire theater turns around and shushes you in unison. “Shut the fuck up, my gorgeous president!” screams a man in the front row.

“My president, it’s an honor to be at the theater with you, but if you do not become silent, I will walk into the street and start screaming national security secrets,” says a woman way at the back. Everyone in the theater starts chanting, “Shut up, president! Shut up, president!” over and over.

It sounds like everyone wants you to get quiet.

You are about to start watching the play when, all of a sudden, a member of the Secret Service shows up. “My president, it’s me, your main bodyguard,” he says. “As I’m sure you’re aware, half of all presidential assassinations take place inside theaters. As the president, you are incredibly likely to be killed here on Broadway, so we’re going to have to take insane security precautions in order to keep you safe during the play.”

“Okay, suit yourself, my president,” says your Secret Service bodyguard. “It’s your fucking funeral, you idiot. Goodbye, my sweet president of U.S.A.”

The Secret Service agent leaves. Looks like you can finally get started watching the play. The curtains rise, and the play begins.

Narrator: It’s Grease.

(The play begins on the Galapagos Islands in the summer of the 1950s. Enter Mark Zuckerberg, a man who wears a leather jacket and is handsome. He is joined by the beautiful woman named Saltine.)

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! I know you could do it!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without opening his lips, like a ventriloquist): Here we are, baby—the most expensive restaurant in town!

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! Promise me you’ll never turn me into a bug using magic!

Mark Zuckerberg: No.

(They kiss as the waves explode all around them, on account of here we are at the ocean.)

There’s a tremendous crash as a 100-ton anvil falls from the ceiling and flattens you to death. You’ve been assassinated! It turns out that your assassin was none other than John Wilkes Booth Jr., the twin brother of famous theater assassin John Wilkes Booth. You should have listened to your Secret Service agent and taken security precautions, but now you’re completely dead and assassinated.

If there’s anything we can learn from this, it’s that presidents should never go to a theater alone, or else an assassin will drop a giant anvil on them.

The End.

In order to keep you safe, your Secret Service detail encases your body inside of a concrete block for the entirety of Grease on Broadway. The play starts, but you can’t really see or hear anything.

Deep within your concrete block, you can faintly hear the music from Grease. You wonder what part of the play they’re up to.

Every so often, you hear gunshots and somebody yelling, “Let me kill him! Let me kill the president!” and you hear your bodyguard yelling, “No! That would be wrong!” Fortunately, you are safe inside of your concrete block.

Well, Grease is over. You missed the entire thing, but at least you didn’t get assassinated. You are never freed from the concrete block, thus making you the safest person in the world for the next 200 years, which is how long the rest of your life lasts inside the concrete block.

If there’s anything we’ve learned from this, it’s that you shouldn’t go around telling people that you’re the president, or else you won’t get to watch musical theater.

The End.

Narrator: It’s Grease.

“Hmm…very fascinating,” says the guy next to you. “I didn’t notice that it was Grease because I was too busy focusing on what it would be like if tobacco were a type of meat, and if you had to kill an animal to get your hands on that sweet tobacco for smoking and chewing. I think I would definitely still kill that animal to get the tobacco, even if it screamed when you harvested its tobacco flesh or could plead for its life in English. That’s how much I loooove tobacco.”

Sounds like this guy is a huge fan of tobacco.

(The play begins on the Galapagos Islands in the summer of the 1950s. Enter Mark Zuckerberg, a man who wears a leather jacket and is handsome. He is joined by the beautiful woman named Saltine.)

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! I know you could do it!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without opening his lips, like a ventriloquist): Here we are, baby—the most expensive restaurant in town!

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! Promise me you’ll never turn me into a bug using magic!

Mark Zuckerberg: No.

(They kiss as the waves explode all around them, on account of here we are at the ocean.)

You decide to close your eyes and sleep through the rest of the first act of the play.

You have a dream that your horrible neighbor, Howie McGowan, is drinking milk on your doorstep while he explains that while you were at work, he snuck into your house and had sex with your parents. You can’t remember the specifics because it’s all hazy dream logic, but basically, in your dream, Howie takes enormous gulps of milk as he describes to you how he and your parents got mega-carnal all over your house and how their asses became best friends with each other. He says that the sex he had with your parents was so goddamn vigorous and rude that it basically ruined your house. Like, when they were done having sex in your house, the mayor of your town had to come put a big black towel over your house as a way to say “Everyone…steer clear…this…this is not an okay place anymore.”

It’s basically the worst dream you’ve ever had. You’ve got to wake up!

(It’s now several months later, and the summer is over. It is the 1950s school year, and we’re at Rydell High School, home of the musical Grease. Mark Zuckerberg is standing around, slowly turning into shit with his friends Dandruff, Zig-Zag, Yogurt Sr., and False Jermaine.)

Dandruff: Hey, Mark Zuckerberg, are you ready for this year’s high school Hot Rod Contest? The Pharaoh says that He’s going to let the winner give Him a hickey!

Zig-Zag: Yeah, Zuckerberg, you’ve got the hottest Hot Rod around! The Pharaoh is going to love your car the most for sure!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without moving his lips): This cannot be denied, my friends. My Hot Rod is truly the Lamborghini of jalopies. I seek desperately to please the Pharaoh in all ways, and so I will enter my car in this year’s Hot Rod Contest.

Yogurt Sr.: Attaboy, Zuck my baby!

Dandruff: I worship the Pharaoh. I respect His omnipotence over all things.

Mark Zuckerberg: Yes. The Pharaoh is everything, and I’m the cool cat who’s gonna give Him a hickey.

All (in unison): When best friends enter their car into a contest, you know that it’s going to be springtime forever.

(The friends high-five each other. They’re excited to win the Hot Rod Contest.)

(We are now in the main office of Rydell High, where the school’s principal, a wraithlike woman known only as Steam, is reading the morning announcements to the students.)

Steam: Good morning, children. I am Steam. Welcome to Rydell High. I have the following announcements: Due to a national initiative to improve the scientific minds of American students, you will be dissecting frogs in every class. English, math, home ec.—it doesn’t fucking matter. Time will be set aside in all of them to slice open a frog. In this way, we will produce scientists powerful enough to destroy the Soviet Union.

Steam: Furthermore, in compliance with recent animal cruelty laws, we are forbidden from killing the frogs before we dissect them, so the frogs will be shrieking as you rip open their bellies to explore their organs. Children, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a frog shriek, but it’s…in your sleep, you will have nightmares devoid of images and filled only with the sound of a shrieking frog. Just blackness and shrieking.

Steam: Finally, as part of a nationwide initiative to boost efficiency in the American education system, lunch will no longer be served in the cafeteria. The entire faculty is now staffed exclusively by lactating women, so if you get hungry, silently walk to the front of the classroom, and your teacher will breastfeed you while continuing her lesson plan without pause. The increased productivity among our students will aid us in our quest to strangle the Soviet Union. This concludes the morning announcements! Good luck this year at Rydell High, and I hope that the Pharaoh does not destroy you. Never forget that I am Steam.

(All the students applaud. They are ready for another year at Rydell High.)

(Saltine enters the office. She is joined by Amelia Earhart, the worst pilot in the whole school.)

Amelia Earhart: Howdy, Saltine! How was your summer?

Saltine: Oh, Amelia, it was wonderful! I met a boy, and we yelled romance at each other on the beach!

Amelia Earhart: Ooooooo la la! Tell me all the details!

(Music begins to play. A single upright bass plays a jazzy phrase, repeated endlessly. A Broadway song is starting.)

Saltine: Amelia, I am going to tell you all about it.

(Saltine begins to sing the famous song from Grease known as “Summer Lovin’.”)

Saltine (coughing and shrieking in a musical way): Summer lovin’! Shit! Whatever! I let a boy touch my shin! Then the boy stood 30 feet away from me and revealed his butt to me! I looked at the butt for 15 minutes and then he put the butt back in his pants! That’s sexual intercourse, baby!

Amelia Earhart (singing horribly): Tell me more! Tell me more! Did the boy have a gentleman’s penis?

Saltine (singing like a foghorn starring in an opera): It’s impossible to say! He pulled his pants down, but his groin was covered by clouds! I asked him, “Sir, do you have got yourself a penis?” and the boy said, “I have no idea what the hell that is, you bimbo!”

Amelia Earhart (in a full-on musical bellow): Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing like a seagull having night terrors): I will tell you more! The boy’s name was Mark Zuckerberg!

Amelia Earhart (singing with all of her lungs): Christ! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing with all of her lungs): I will tell you more! He took me to his car, where he was fermenting jars of grape juice into vinegar in the backseat. He told me, “Baby, no matter how deeply I fall in love with you, I will always love my vinegar more!” I said, “I’d expect nothing less, you motherfucker!” He said, “If I had to kill you to save the homemade vinegar I cooked up in my car, I would do it,” and I said, “I admire a man with convictions!” Then we kissed!

Amelia Earhart (singing beautifully): Tell me more!

Saltine (singing even more beautifully): And then I said, “I love you!” and he said, “I have to go home to use the toilet in a way it’s not usually used,” so he left, and the summer romance was over!

Amelia Earhart (doing a musical screech): Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing): No! I won’t tell you anything else, you fucking harpy! You’ve sucked me dry of information!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

You look over at the man sitting next to you. He is standing up but looking very angry.

“I’m furious because I’m thinking about what it would be like if the soccer player Pele kicked a bag of cigarettes with his golden foot. Pele should not kick the tobacco. Pele should marry the tobacco, or transform into more tobacco. This is my opinion.”

from Things For The Kitchen And Home
via Home And Kitchen Guru

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