Massive, Turgid Man Meat

The actresses of Eclect-a-Fest, the one-act play festival in which I star. The ladies of the respective casts have all inevitably fallen in love with me and I found myself holding court in the green room of the theatre (which in this case is the parking lot behind the stage door where some folding chairs have been set up) with each of them vying for my attention. The conversation ultimately came around to the ongoing staggering popularity of this blog and my ability to sustain its high quality week after week. I finally admitted (after much flirtatious prodding) that my secret is writing each entry stark naked, or as I explicitly phrased it, with my "massive, turgid man meat scraping against my desk." This admission caused the women to squeal with delight like scandalized schoolgirls, and one of the more assertive of them immediately began to strategize a plan to insert the phrase "massive turgid man meat"into every presentation at some point during the evening. Sanity finally prevailed (a rare thing indeed among this collection of cackling yentas) and all of the plays were performed as written, with the only reference to my quivering genitalia showing up in the subtext of each actresses' depiction of their various roles. At least that's how I remember the evening taking place; when I woke up this morning with my usual hangover I found stuffed in my pocket a petition signed by all the actresses demanding my removal from the show along with a strongly-worded letter from the producers promising stern action against me if I continued to harass the ladies of the casts. That was clearly a practical joke played against me that I'm sure we'll all have a good laugh about when I'm holding court in the green room at the next performance. As a treat to them, I'll be hanging out stark naked with my man meat in full view. It may not be as massive as I originally promised but if the air pump I ordered online does what it claims to do, at least it will be turgid.

Jessicah Neufeld, who I introduced to you last week when I mistook her as my dresser/maidservant after encountering her in my star dressing room. Things were straightened out when it was explained to me that the dressing room was intended for the entire company and Ms. Neufeld was supporting me in another role in a different play (I was operating under the misconception until that point that my 20 minute presentation made up the entire evening). At least I assumed it was straightened out until Wednesday night's benefit performance for a nearby leper colony when I was changing out of my costume and into my gold lammé banana hammock for the ride home when Ms. Neufeld sharply ordered me to get out of her way if I could "move (my) pathetic excuse for a body" so that should could get to her own furs and finery. It turns out that I could move my pathetic excuse for a body; I moved it over to where Ms. Neufeld had hung her mink coat and sequined cocktail dress and stood there until she proffered a humble apology. Unfortunately, just as I made the final move to stand my ground I heard something snap in my groin area and keeled over in agonizing pain from what turned out to be a relapse of an old masturbation injury. She tossed a sadistic laugh in my direction and passed me to retrieve her mink, making sure to grind a stiletto heel in my thigh as she stepped over me to meet that night's Stage Door Jonny who was waiting for her with roses and an idling limousine. Just before I passed out from pain, the last thing I saw was the poor sap desperately falling all over himself for a whiff of Ms. Neufeld's Chanel #5 and a patronizing smile from her ruby-painted lips. I wish I could report more to you, but by then my pathetic excuse for a body was convulsed in an epileptic fit. But I got the last laugh since the violent seizures I was going through proved that I was capable of moving it.

Susan Priver, who also supports me in Eclect-a-Fest. The festival is broken up into two programs; and since the producers didn't want my star power overwhelming the event, I am only in one. Ms. Priver appears in both programs, Tartine in my group and the evocatively named Frankenstud in the other; the latter providing her perks like drinking a refreshing Margarita onstage and having a handsome man dressed as a cupcake sexually gratify her in a fantasy sequence. I saw Program B last week and was thoroughly enchanted by Frankenstud even when Ms. Priver accidentally knocked the table with her knee, sending the entire content of her Margarita glass into her lap at the beginning of a long scene. Things got even wilder at the following performance when an understudy who was unfamiliar with the projectile capacity of the frosting dispenser that was standing in for his penis in the fantasy sequence dispensed his load directly into Ms. Priver's face, which is a given in my own fantasy sequences but it does present unexpected challenges when you have to play another scene immediately afterwards. As fate would have it, the next scene was the Margarita scene and when the understudy came out to serve the drinks to Ms. Priver and her acting partner, he accidentally dropped both Margaritas into Ms. Priver's lap (leaving the acting partner bone dry and presumably laughing her ass off). The point is that Ms. Priver was completely unphased by any of these mishaps and gave her usual delightful performance despite her hair dripping with faux-spooge and her nether regions dripping with faux- Margarita. It is a valuable lesson for any would-be actress to follow Ms. Priver's poise and professionalism in such an awkward situation. Not to mention any of the chicks who appear in one of my sexual fantasies.

Paul Messinger and Kerr Lordygan who support me as George Washington and John Adams when I star as Thomas Jefferson in the featured presentation of the evening, Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers. Each play that makes up the evening is fairly short, running about fifteen minutes to maybe half an hour. But it's been pointed out to me that as my cohorts and I milk our various sight gags and pregnant pauses that serve as masterful brush strokes to our performances, our piece gets longer and longer as the run progresses. Far from finding any fault with that, it is my goal to make the 13-page script that serves as the foundation for our antics be a full two-hour full-length play by the end of the run. Not by adding any dialogue, to be sure (the play's author, Steve B. Green, has already received far too much credit for its success), but by padding my role as Thomas Jefferson with as many pratfalls and lecherous leers as possible. Unfortunately, this will also mean more stage time for Messrs. Messinger and Lordygan since Mr. Green made the rookie mistake of including them in all of my scenes when he wrote the script. If he does a rewrite, I'll try to talk him into including a brief paragraph where Jefferson is alone onstage. That should add 45 minutes to the running time alone.

Cleveland was the audience of last night's performance, which is only a slight exaggeration. I know it's shocking to my readers that a one-act play festival performed in theatre-obsessed Los Angeles on a Thursday night would be sparsely attended, especially one starring a proven box office draw like myself. But apparently there's some influenza epidemic I'm unaware of taking place in the city because I found myself playing a madcap farce to a bunch of empty seats last night, the image of which was only given variety by Mr. Cleveland's unsmiling face in the middle seat of the first row. And since Mr. Cleveland is well over seven feet tall, I was unable to block out the sight of him (especially when he hurled rotting cabbage at me during the curtain call that was peculiarly supplied to him by the actresses in the cast). We shared a bite to eat afterwards and he admitted that he enjoyed the performance and was scandalized that it wasn't better attended. He said it was a rare treat to be able to enjoy a fine show and be able to hurl decomposing vegetables at me all in one evening.Tickets can be ordered here.