Friday, May 16, 2014

The School For Exes, A Drama In Rhyming Verse


Chevalier Gregoire de Jackass
Monsieur Christien, his brother
Madame Cee, his sister-in-law
Madame Jonsonne, his mother
Princess Taylorienne, his niece, age 11

The scene is Chez Bonnie Brae, a bistro with framed portraits of Marquise Dire and Family. 

GREGOIRE.  (setting down his menu)
  Just recently I wished my ex Happy Birthday--
  I hope this doesn't make me sound too awful gay?

MADAME JONSONNE.  Horreurs! How could you, son?

MONSIEUR CHRISTIEN.                                Have you lost your mind?!

MADAME CEE.  You are too kind to that slutty nympho, I find.

GREGOIRE.  What's the problem?

MADAME JONSONNE.                 Oh!

MONSIEUR CHRISTIEN.                         So blind!

MADAME CEE.                                                           The man is pussy!

MADAME JONSONNE.  Don't you see? It is tragic! You are just like me!
  The world treats you, my sad son, like a door mat.
  I recommend that you always give tit for tat--
  Mostly when it comes to that succubus, Sara,
  Who emanates pure black brimstone in her aura.

GREGOIRE.  But, Mother dearest, whatever would Jesus do?
  Surely he'd say treat your ex as more than doo doo?

MADAME JONSONNE.  This is not a subject to so parable-ize
  Or parse the niceties to get out of me rise.
  Indeed Our Savior would say turn the other cheek--
  But in this case he'd add your dick was too weak.

GREGOIRE. (aside)  Methinks Mom is off her rocker.

MADAME JONSONNE.                               You should mock her
  And instead you run after her like toast of milque,
  And your will is no starcher than a length of silk!
  But what makes me saddest of all is the drear fact
  That you are overmuch like moi, when you should act
  More like your awful, awful Dad--twirl your mustache
  And hawk loogs at your faux-paramour with panache!

GREGOIRE. Mother, your rhyme is all out of tune, and nonsense
  Of the worst sort. Please stuff a stocking in it hence-

MADAME JONSONNE.  Listen, we all enjoy the warbler's rich croon
  About cradled cats and little boy lunar spoons.
  But you did not become just like him, sad to say--
  You perverted the schlockmeister's great roundelay!
  So you grow up soft and sad, son, with tears of mist,
  And wind up with nothing but a face full of piss.

MONSIEUR CHRISTIEN.  Hsst! The princess! Can we not ruin this soiree?
  The tone nearly borders on Fifty Shades of Grey!

GREGOIRE.   To continue... I remembered so suddenly
  Her birthday--a welcome shift in my psychology.
  As I pondered if I should pay to her homage
  And felt myself besieged by memory's barrage,
  I looked up Sara M Bruce on the internet
  And perchance found her brother-in-law nature's debt
  Had paid. Tiptoeing on keys, I wrote a plain note
  Electronically, a feeble antidote
  That expressed for Rick a note of condolence
  And a wish for her birthday in all my innocence.
  I feel sorry for Rick...

ALL.                       Boo! Hiss! He was a cad!

MADAME JONSONNE.  He stole away your wife!

GREGOIRE.                                                    No, he was just sad.

MONSIEUR CHRISTIEN.  He clad himself in shape of sheep--

GREGOIRE.                                                        Not on your life.

MADAME CEE.  He was slut!

GREGOIRE.                                  Tut, he was just dealing with his grief
  And making the best of bad cards Destiny dealt.
  You make him sound like he brutally stabbed a pup,
  But I know the details, and you not. So, shut up.

MADAME JONSONNE. So like his mom!

GREGOIRE.                         Your point? I was once you inside!
  While my message is equated to genocide
  I feel constrained to more seriously opine--

MADAME JONSONNE.  The man acts like his fancy words are a fine wine!

GREGOIRE.  Humanity paints the cosmos in black and white,
  In order to sharpen our lives for a good fight.
  Otherwise, to force out of bed ourselves weary
  Would not be worth at all battling gravity.  
  We hold our image as great hero, we confess,
  The rest can to--

MADAME JONSONNE.  Well! I like him the outside less!

MONSIEUR CHRISTIEN.  That did it. Here comes the manager, Monsieur Dire,
  And his look matches his name, if I'm no liar.

MONSIEUR DIRE.  Get thee gone, you absurd family, I'm not shy!
  Or I'll bake you in a new type of pizza pie!

PRINCESS TAYLORIENNE.  (stabs Gregoire in neck with fork) 
  I want iced cream!

GREGOIRE. (clutches spewing throat)  Arrrrgh, you make a very good point!

ALL.  Iced cream will remedy the time that's out of joint!

Flourish. All bow. Exeunt omnes.

1 comment:

  1. Hi Greg!
    U really have a odd way of seing things!
    Funny though!