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...over-educated and under-experienced, or so they say...

Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Lunch Room

(Misanthrope sits at the back table by the window eating his sandwich. Pandora sets her soup and salad on the table and sits across from him)

Pandora: What’s up, Misanthrope? Been playing Warcraft lately? Up to level 80 yet?

Misanthrope: Eh, my play time has gone down a bit since the semester began and I started getting a bit o’ exercise again, so no, not 80 yet. 72 though!

Pandora: A bit o’exercise? Running again?

Misanthrope: (chuckles) No, better! P90X!

Pandora: P90 what? Never heard of it. Educate me.

Misanthrope: Oh…? Well, it’s a kickass, adrenaline pumped, muscle maximizing, home work out system. A series of DVD’s for working out. From what I hear, it’s actually a legit system with potential for real results, unlike the “Hip Hop Abs” or the “Rosie O’Donnell Diet” series… And from what the last 10 days has told me, it FEELS legit. (looks over his lanky physique) oh so sore…

Pandora: Dude… You’re gonna be RIPPED!!!

Misanthrope: (laughs a bit) I hope so!

Pandora: Totally. Then you could go out back and pull those weeds with one arm, like the true Death Knight you are!

Misanthrope: (thinks about his Warcraft Death Knight for a moment) So you think I could really look like that?!

Pandora: Well, sure… minus the pointy ears, horns, and the cloven hooves. Biceps, tricepss, and power quads… sure. (she winks)

Misanthrope: …I’ve got hooves…

Pandora: What? You’ve worked out with that thing for ten days and it gave you hooves? (she takes a bite of salad and starts pointing with her fork as she talks) You may want to return that equipment. I think it came from some twisted Disney studio artist. The more you use the machine the more you’re going to turn into some kind of Beast. I mean, you already have the set up for it. You’re pretty much a Hermit, with a creepy garden of death in the back. All you really need now is to become The Beast….maybe some talking utensils and singing candlesticks… and that’s that. Plus, there’s no way you’d ever find a Beauty to come save you because… well… you never leave your house, and there’s no reason for Beauty to go investigate a mysterious tract home because… well… it’s just one more pink house on the block sitting next to another pink house on the block – there’s nothing mysterious about a tract home. (she takes another bite of salad) Your parents might bring a good church going girl over to try to save you, but chances are, given your cloven hooves, she’d think you were demon spawn and run. And, unfortunately for your parents, this would do nothing but make you laugh because I think you think your transformation is just proof of Darwinian Theory. (she points her fork at him again) But you’re wrong. All you really are is some victim of a magical Disney writer who hates his job because the bad economy forced Disney to lay off 300 writers and he now sits in a cubicle writing advertisements for workout equipment. He totally hates his life. And you, my friend, are doomed because of it.

Misanthrope: Hmm… This could be bad. What if I put up an ad on Craigslist? “Looking for a Beauty to complete my fairy tale” Many women would apply because they’d think it’s some cute, sweet, prince charming type request, right?

Pandora: Oh sure. They’d respond to it, but they’d run away screaming right after they saw you, just like the poor little church girl. And, the only reason you would do that is to keep yourself entertained. You know, watching women run from you. It would get old though. And all of those ladies would report you to the police who would come and investigate, which may then lead to a few science experiments -- you being the test subject of course. And now that I think about it, that’s how you’ll meet Beauty. There’ll be some crazy female scientist that works the night shift in the observation room and you’ll start telling her all about your addiction to Warcraft and the weeds you never pull and your random trips to the middle of nowhere in search of radioactive materials… It wouldn’t take long. She’ll start looking up from her clip board more and more and eventually you’ll be saved: true love’s kiss (via Science) will bring you back to normal.

Misanthrope: I like where this is going! What kind of timeline am I looking at here? I AM an impatient hooved-foot hermit, you know…

Pandora: Well, given the fact we still have to fill in the details of your development, the time it takes for the whole Craigslist fiasco, and the transfer from Police custody to Science project… not to mention the whole falling in-love issue… I’d say about six months, which is great, quite honestly! I mean, in six months time you’ll no longer be a menace to society? How lucky is that?

Misanthrope: 6 months?! But I’m so impatient! (despondently sits back in his chair) Well, I better resign myself to the opposite then. I’m going to sell my Disney workout equipment, plump up to grandiose roundy proportions, and find God. (sighs) I’m going to miss these hooves...

Pandora: What?!!! No! You’re ruining my story! And what’s this plump up and find God stuff?! You’ve been the Chaos Theory Guy as long as I’ve known you. You’re the Chaos Theory Big Bang Man Of Science and I’m The Lady Of Providence; there’s no changing your archetype in the middle of the story!

Misanthrope: You’re right. I’m sorry. Guess I’m just in a slump.

Pandora: Well snap out of it. I can’t take it. You can’t be stuck in a slump. Who’s going to lead the rebellion if you grow plump and roundy?! That can’t happen. (takes a sip of water) Okay. How about this: the timeline is a six month span but the story runs like a feature film and you really reach the happy ending in two hours

Misanthrope: Ok. I’m sorry. No more slump, but this two hour deal does have me intrigued. So, can you make it so I’m able to fast forward through the boring, monotonous parts of life? …like in that movie Click? I like where you’re going with this. Continue…

Pandora: Fast forward? Boring and monotonous? I happen to believe that were I to actually pull a story like this off it would be far from boring and monotonous.

Misanthrope: I like your spirit. It’s definitely encouraging. But, I dunno… Could you maybe shorten it to commercial length? You know, run like one of those black and white, romantic perfume commercials? With me, the hooved-beast, frolicking on the beach next to the beautiful Ms. Science?

Pandora: …a perfume commercial? You’re killing me.

Misanthrope: And at the very end of the segment, the backdrop of myself and Ms. Science blurs and in the foreground, a hideous looking cologne bottle appears to the side. And a low, sexy woman voice whispers, “The Beast. For Men.” And then a normal voice chimes in on fade away, “Gift packages available at Macy’s and Dillards.”

Pandora: So… basically you want to remain the musky smelling hooved creature with a hot scientist standing beside you?

Misanthrope: And in the gift package? A half gallon bottle of The Beast, in the form of a mini fire extinguisher, a heavy duty file for hoof maintenance, and a mini pick for getting the rocks out of your horseshoes.

Pandora: (stares at him) I can’t believe you. I wrote this great love story to transform you back into a human but what you’re telling me is that you want to be this half horse half man thing, you don’t want to go back to normal, and you want to keep the girl. …and you want me to write it as a commercial for men’s cologne. What are you doing to me?! You’ve basically just turned me into the Disney writer who cursed you in the first place! I’ve gone from writing screenplays to writing crappy cologne commercials?!

Ok. I’ll write your crummy commercials, and your science girl can create the cologne -- she’s going to need to because you’ll probably smell bad anyway. But you better prepare yourself, because I’m going to hook myself up with the bitter Disney writer and have him teach me the ways of dark writing magic. Yes, heed my warning, Misanthrope. All those men who use your cologne will turn into Little Mermaids and attract nothing to themselves but a bunch of singing crabs and flounders. Then, I’ll take my bitter Disney writer man and we’ll go on strike.

Misanthrope: Ah, I’m so sorry! Don’t do that. You’re right, you’re right… this is your tale. I won’t try to take control again, I swear! No more cologne or commercialized beach frolicking…

So going back… I have 6 months then, right?

Pandora: What? Feeling bad for the transgendered mermen surrounded by singing crabs?

Misanthrope: Yeah, you’re very quick to toss the curses about… I need to watch my words carefully, me thinks…

Pandora: (sits back with a smirk) Yes, six months. But, because you’ve seen the light, I’ll write your beach frolicking commercials, after the film is released, and I promise not to curse the cologne.

Misanthrope: No. No cologne necessary. Let’s just see this love story out…

Pandora: Love story it is. I’ll let you know when it’s ready for production.

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