Few things are more painful to sit through than bad theatre. And the show I saw last night was, without question, the lamest production I’ve ever seen. Not that I’m a theatre junkie, but I’ve seen some bad ones. And this was even worse than that neo-Nazi reimagining of Fiddler on the Roof a blind date once invited me to. The playbill for last night’s show promised blood, gore, and a terrifying monster lurking beneath the stairs. Fifteen minutes in, I realized that I was watching the re-enactment of some Kafka groupie, hack-of-a-playwright’s pointless acid-trip, and decided to do myself a favor by falling asleep.
Somewhere between Act I and oblivion, I was awakened from drooling on my shirt by the sound of screams. Had someone mercifully pulled a fire alarm? Had the crowd finally had enough of this dumbfuckery and decided to revolt? Not quite. People around me were standing and pointing to the stage, where the ravenous plant monster had finally emerged from its lair below the stairs and began attacking audience members. The tiny auditorium was a mess of green tentacles and swinging bodies, turned into a scene from King Kong’s wettest dream. Minus any she-apes. The plaid swathed hipster-ette in front of me shrieked as a long, thorny arm snatched her from her seat. Finally, some action!
The bass player swung his oversized violin at the monster, severing one of its arms, but was dragged from his stand anyway. The enormous Venus flytrap spat out the musician’s bow with a belch and reached for the lead actor, who was cowering beneath the covers of the stage bed. A professional to the bitter end, he recited his terribly written lines right up to the point when he was chomped to Miracle-Gro. His two co-stars, undoubtedly fertilizing their own pants at the sight, quickly joined him inside the beast’s belly. The crowd continued to trample itself in escape panic, creating a human buffet line for the quick moving vines. Some people have no taste. My fiancée and I, however, were unable to look away. Maybe I had judged the quality of this performance too soon…
Everything was going great until one of those green bastards had the balls to rope the gin and tonic out of my drink holder. Bad theatre is one thing. But I draw the line at drink thievery. They cut your hands off for such an offense in Saudi Arabia or something, right? Blind rage stole over me as I dug the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and dove for the stage. Everything after that was a blur, but my fiancée later said that the venue temporarily transformed into a giant salad shooter.
When I came to in the lobby, I only had one hand left, but dammit if it wasn’t holding the chipped remains of my glass. I slammed it down on the counter and glared at the bartender.
"That was the worst fucking show I've ever seen. I demand a refill."
Music: The Smashing Pumpkins
Beer: 3 Floyd’s Gumballhead