HOBBITS AT HOME

(Hobbit women sit around sewing or embroidering or something domestic.)

DOBBO: Hey, Schlumey, I haven’t seen your boyfriend around recently.

SCHLUMEY: Oh, Frodo, he’s away on a quest.

BLINK: A quest? What sort of a quest?

SCHLUMEY: I don’t know, but… (she gets a big grin on her face and holds out her left hand, ring finger extended) … it has something to do with a ring!

DOBBO & BLINK: Oh My God!

BLACK OUT
End of Sketch

Ode to NyQuil
by Carolyn West

Engulf me in your warm embrace,
You syrupy elixir of unconsciousness.
Lift me up so my lips touch your lips,
And my tongue can lick your numbing oblivion.

Ahh, NyQuil,
Heroine for the congested.

Take me away from the snot and the phlegm and the mucus.
Make me forget my upper respiratory system for just one night.

With you I am sluggish and disoriented,
In the mood for love.

I feel the penetration of your Doxylomine Succinate.
The Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide caresses me from the inside.
Yes, yes, Acetaminophen.
Pseudo - eph - edrine Hy - dro - chlor - ide
Don’t stop, don’t stop.
Until...

Don’t take it personally if I doze off.

So much more than a coughing, achy, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine,
You are a gift from a higher power.
Thank you Procter and Gamble.

by Carolyn West

Step one: Walk through the door, look Trevor straight in the eyes and say, “We are so done. I never want to see you again.”
For this you will need:
a.) A good pair of shoes. Trevor lives on the sixth floor of a building that has no elevator, so the shoes have to be comfortable. And good looking. You want to look your best when dumping the man who's screwed with your heart for the past seven years. Pick a pair that show off your curvaceous calves at the same time slimming your ankles.
They should be new shoes. Although Trevor won’t notice them per se, he will sense there’s something different about you. He’ll see a woman ready to move on with her life.
b.) The key to Trevor’s apartment. He’d never let you in after the restaurant debacle.

Maybe that should be the first step.

Step one (revised): Get a copy of Trevor’s key.
For this you will need:
A prostitute, preferably a convincing transvestite. Hire the transvestite prostitute to seduce Trevor in a bar and suggest they go back to his place. There the chick with a dick will drug Trevor. (Note: Talk to Barb’s doctor friend about what drug to use.) Once Trevor is comatose the prostitute will make a wax mold of his key. Take mold to place that can make keys from wax. I can’t think of any places off the top of my head.

So perhaps that should be the first step, find a hardware store that can make keys from wax molds. No, the first step should really be to find out where Trevor lives since the hardware store you choose will depend on the area of the country you find yourself in. So...

Step one (revised, again): Find out where Trevor lives.
For this you will need:
A detective, a discrete one. The last few have been too obvious and Trevor’s been able to run before you could get to him. So spend the extra money and choose a quality detective this time.

Step two: Find a hardware store in Trevor’s town that can make keys from wax molds, no questions asked. (Check Yellow Pages for listings.)

Step three: Hire he-whore to seduce and drug Trevor.

Step four: Buy new shoes. Two pairs. Now that you know where Trevor lives you know how much mountain hiking you have to do to get to his apartment building. You will have to buy a pair of all terrain shoes, and they don’t look sexy at all. Buy another pair of shoes that show off your legs. Get some foundation and loose powder. You’re sure to bang up your legs climbing the mountain. Bruises and scrapes will counteract the curvy calves and slim ankles. Oh, and while you’re out, pick up a water proof sun block. You’ll be sweating a lot and it’d be a shame to have sun damage just because you want to dump this jerk.

Step five: Keep a low profile. Trevor’s almost definitely informed the local police of his restraining order. If they’re anything like the police department in the last town, they have orders to arrest you on sight, using deadly force if necessary.
Going back to step three, get the prostitute to check out Trevor’s place for booby-traps and hidden weapons. It might be a good idea if you packed your tazer just in case Trevor decides to “defend” himself.

Step six: Go to Trevor’s building, climb six floors to his apartment. In hallway change clothes and shoes. Wash off camouflage paint and put on make-up. Do hair. Unlock the door to Trevor’s apartment.

Step seven: Walk through the door, look Trevor straight in his comatose eyes and say, “We are so done. I never want to see you again.”

There, you’ve done it. You are a single woman. Now go out there and find a man.

by Carolyn West

This is a true story about my great grandfather Jones. I know it’s a true story because my mother told me it was true. And why would she lie? Especially to a child, which was what I was when she told it to me. So it’s a true story, or most of it is, anyway. I’m going to embellish it some, because, like most family legends, only the beginning and end are interesting.
In the 1880s my great grandfather Jones lived in Waitsfield Vermont. Of course, he wasn’t Great Grandfather Jones back then. He wasn’t even Grandfather Jones. He was just a little boy of ten. He was little boy Jones. They called him by his first name, as was the custom of the time. It distinguished him from the rest of the little boy Joneses in town, one of whom was his brother. His first name was Matt.
One of Great Grandfather, Little Boy, Matt Jones’ favorite things to do was go fishing. Waitsfield has a pretty creek. Its waters are clear, swift and deep. Over the creek is a lovely, old covered bridge. The bridge was old even in the 1880s. It was so old, in fact, it had a hole between two floor boards.
Whenever he got the chance, Matt would take his fishing tackle and pail and sit by the hole and fish through it. He caught all kinds of fish. He usually took them home and his mother, Great-great Grandmother Jones, would cook them up for supper.
One day Matt caught a rainbow trout. It was too small to eat for supper, but too pretty to throw back into the creek. As the fish dangled on the end of the line Matt considered his options. Just then the fish made eye contact with the boy. They looked into each other’s souls and a bond was formed. So Matt filled his pail with water, put the trout in it to swim around, and took it home.
Matt named the fish Mort, because he was reading Le Mort D’Arthur at the time. He kept the pail by his bed, feeding Mort scraps from the dinner table and reading him stories at night.
Mort was happy most of the time. He didn’t mind his confinement as long as he was near Matt. He loved that boy the way only a fish can. But Matt couldn’t stay in his room all day, and sometimes Mort was lonely.
Matt was a sensitive boy and wanted Mort to be happy, but he couldn’t carry the pail with him all the time. He had an idea. Every day he took a thimble full of water out of the pail, until one day there was no water left and Mort had learned to breathe air.
Matt let Mort out of the pail and Mort flapped around on the ground happily. Using his tail to push him forward, Mort followed Matt wherever he went. He followed him to school and to church on Sunday. He followed him into the fields and waited patiently as Matt helped out on the family farm.
At meal times Mort would hide under the table and gobble up any scraps Matt might pass him. At night they lay in bed together, Mort snuggling in Matt’s chest, Matt reading aloud from his favorite adventure books.
Mort would even accompany Matt fishing on the old covered bridge. He sat across the hole from him and flapped eagerly whenever Matt hooked a big one.
It was on the bridge that the story comes to its tragic conclusion. Matt had caught three big fish (enough for his family with a little left over for his best buddy) and was packing up to leave. He packed his pail, the tackle, and the fish for supper and was walking off the bridge when he heard a splash.
Mort had fallen through the hole.
Matt rushed down to the banks of the creek. He wanted desperately to save his friend, but all he could see of Mort was an occasional tail or fin.
Mort tried to swim, but the current was too strong and, alas, he had forgotten how to breathe water. Finally the only thing to break the surface was air bubbles. Mort had drowned.
That’s it, the end. There is no moral. True stories rarely have one. My great grandfather lost his best friend. He lived his life crushed and defeated. Well, for a little while anyway. Eventually he got over it.

THE END