A Lot Can Happen In 24 Hours - part 8

Once again, this year, I signed on to be part of the something-like-annual 24-hour theater event known as Slapdash Flimflammery. By 24-hour, I mean that a series of short plays are written, rehearsed, and staged for an audience inside that amount of time. This is the 8th year that Loaded Gun Theory Productions has put this on, and if memory serves, I've participated in all but one, maybe two, of them in some capacity - usually writing, sometimes acting, and a couple of times, both.

Yeah, those days of "both" are long over.

This year, the theme of the event was Time. When I got to the theater Friday night, the following things happened:

1. I wrote down a line of dialogue on a note card. This was to be the last line of my play. The other six writers did the same and we threw them all in a hat. 
2. We passed the hat around and drew. Whatever line you drew was your first line. 
3. We threw twenty-one note cards into yet another hat (or was it the same hat?), one card for each actor with only their gender written on it. Each writer then drew three cards to know what they had to work with sex-wise, though since we're all adults, that's really the kind of thing we should know already. 
4. Since the theme was Time, there was yet another collection of notecards on which the members of Loaded Gun Theory had written various dates, some future, some past, one present. Each of us drew one. This date was to be used somehow in the play we wrote. 
5. We all sat down around the table and made with the playwrightering. Our deadline? 6:00 AM.

Coffee station

I don't think we quite killed the coffeepot, but we definitely made a dent.

I'm 35 years old, so staying up all night is not the cakewalk that it once was. I had taken the day off from work and attempted a nap, but I've never been able to sleep during the day. I yawned on my way to the theater, then yelled at myself. "There'll be none'o that, Holmes!"

By the time the directors arrived at 7:00 AM, we were all plenty zombiefied. After conversing  briefly with the director that drew my script, I went home to make a futile attempt at a nap while she went off to rehearse with her actors. They had just under half a day to get the thing on its feet.

As always, it was a great time, the plays all came off really well, and everybody - as far as I could tell - had a blast, made all the more blasteriffic by the keg that followed the show. Have you ever stayed up all night and then the whole next day and then downed a beer? Your shit gets loopy, my friends. No joke.

This year's crew of writers

Anyway, below is the script that I came up with over the course of Friday night - Saturday morning. The date I drew was October 31st, 2364. I could have kicked myself for the last line that I came up with, but it worked out, I guess. Your brain goes weird places in the middle of the night.

Hollow Steve

Melba is seated cross-legged on the ground picking her nose. Downstage from her, off to one side, is a gargoyle up on a pedestal of some kind. Gozz enters from behind her. She is carrying a large futuristic-looking gun. She stands behind Melba and points the gun at the back of her head.

GOZZ

What about the pterodactyl?

Melba looks up at the gargoyle.

MELBA

That’s a gargoyle, gorgeous.

GOZZ

No, stupid. I mean for Hollow Steve.

MELBA

Oh. A pterodactyl? Like a flying dinosaur?

GOZZ

Yeah!

Gozz shrieks and flaps her arms in flying dinosaur fashion. She’s very into it. No really, don’t puss out. Get Mesozoic on this shit.

MELBA

That’s impressive.

GOZZ

Fucking ptero-ma-dactyl, bitch! Great idea, huh?  

MELBA

I don’t know.

GOZZ

What’s not to know? Need me to do it again?

MELBA

No. I mean, you can if you want. I just mean, dinosaurs? What are we, five?

GOZZ

No. I’m eleven.

MELBA

Yeah, and I’m going to be twelve next month.

GOZZ

So?

MELBA

So, don’t you think maybe we’re getting to be too old for this Hollow Steve stuff?

GOZZ

What? No way.

MELBA

Look, Gozz, gorgeous, I’m not saying we can’t mutate this year. I’m just saying, let’s be cool about it.

GOZZ

Pterodactyls are cool.

MELBA

No. They’re not. They’re really not. They put dinosaurs on little kid tee-shirts and in little kid read-books and on little kid table-mats for gross little kids to spill their dinosaur-shaped mac-and-cheese product all over. Face it. Dinosaur equals little kid equals not cool.

GOZZ

A dinosaur would tear your head off.

MELBA

Maybe if they didn’t go extinct thousands of years ago.

GOZZ

Millions.

MELBA

What?  

GOZZ

Dinosaurs went extinct millions of years ago, not thousands.

MELBA

Congratulations.

GOZZ

A pterodactyl’s wingspan could reach up to twelve meters. Or as my great great great

Counts the “greats” on her fingers

great great grandpa would say, forty feet.

MELBA

Look, if you’re so hung up on going out for Hollow Steve mutated like a pre-schooler, be my guest.

GOZZ

But the three of us always mutate as the same thing.

MELBA

Well maybe things change this year.

GOZZ

Well, what do you think we should go as?  

Before Melba can answer, Comet streaks in with all the energy of a preteen who has downed five too many energy drinks.

COMET

AH MAH GAW! AH MAH GAW! AH MAH GAW! AH MAH GAW! AH MAH GAW!

And so on and so forth as you see fit.

MELBA

Comet!

GOZZ

Comet!

Melba and Gozz both yell at Comet, trying to catch her attention while she runs around screaming in full-on freakout mode, seemingly unable to control herself. When shouting at her fails, they resort to physical restraint.

MELBA

Comet, gorgeous. Use your words.

COMET

You’ll never guess what Ethyl and them are going as for Hollow Steve.

GOZZ

What?

COMET

Robots.

GOZZ

Robots?!

COMET

Fifteen meter robots.

GOZZ

What?! That’s like fifty feet!

MELBA

Rolling eyes

Ahm gaw.

COMET

With flames.

GOZZ

Flames?!

COMET

And lasers.

GOZZ

Lasers?!?!!

COMET

I know, right!?

MELBA

What the ever.

GOZZ

Examining gun

I don’t even think my mutator does robots. Oh yeah it does. But they’re only six meters. No flames or lasers either.

COMET

Takes gun from Gozz and examines it

I think you have to pop in a Moleculo upgrade clip.

GOZZ

Ahm gaw. Those are like three-million dollars.

COMET

I already spent my allowance.

GOZZ

Okay, you know what? That’s fine, because I know what we’re going to mutate as this year and it’s going to fly circles around Ethyl and her stupid robots. Li-tuh-ruh-lee.

COMET

What what what? Tell me tell me tell me.

MELBA

Dinosaurs.

COMETS

Dinosaurs?

GOZZ

Hey, I wanted to say it!

MELBA

Flying dinosaurs.

COMET

Flying dinosaurs?! YOU MEAN PTERODACTYLS?!?!!

GOZZ

I KNOW, RIGHT!!!

Gozz and Comet both do the shrieking arm-flapping routine that Gozz did earlier. Seriously, go nuts, y’all. They take to snapping at each other, as one could imagine real pterodactyls might do with those long sharp beaks of theirs. Comet makes the mistake of snapping at Melba.

MELBA

Would you two stop it?

COMET

You don’t want to be a pterodactyl, Melby?

GOZZ

Melba thinks flying dinosaurs with wingspans of up to twelve meters and talons that could slice through steel are lame.

COMET

They could slice through steel?

GOZZ

Probably, sure, yeah, totally.

MELBA

They are lame. This whole Hollow Steve thing is lame. Who was this Hollow Steve guy anyway? And why do we mutate into things because of him?

COMET

I think Steve was the name of the guy that invented the mutator gun. I don’t know why they call him hollow, though.

GOZZ

My great great great great

counts on her fingers

great great grandma said it used to be called something else. Like Hollow Eve or something.

MELBA

So who was Eve?

GOZZ

I don’t know. But supposedly, the way it used to work was, kids would go around to people’s houses and knock on their doors and ask for stuff.

COMET

Like money?

GOZZ

Yeah! Or food.

MELBA

Wow, that actually sounds kind of fun.

COMET

I want to go to people’s houses and ask for food and money.

GOZZ

But how would you do that if you were a pterodactyl? Or a fifteen meter robot?

COMET

Or even last year when we all went as horses. I guess you could put the money in your saddlebags.

GOZZ

But pterodactyls don’t wear saddlebags.

COMET

But they could. We could make special pterodactyl bags. OH! Or we could carry baskets in our steel-shredding talons!

GOZZ

Totally!

They do the pterodactyl routine again, this time holding bags and baskets.

COMET

I’m a pterodactyl! Give me your fucking money!

GOZZ

Or I’ll tear the roof off of your car!

COMET

And give me some ice cream while you’re at it!

GOZZ

Or I’ll stab you with my beak!

Beak-stabbing motions!

COMET

Chocolate ice cream!

GOZZ

Chocolate, bitches!

More pterodactylling.

MELBA

STOP IIIIIIIIIT!

Silence. Comet and Gozz freeze mid-flap and look at Melba in shock. Comet lets out an inquisitive pterodactyl caw.

MELBA (cont’d)

I don’t want to be a pterodactyl.

GOZZ

I think you’re outvoted.

MELBA

But I, I...

She breaks down sobbing.

GOZZ

You’re still outvoted.

COMET

Hey, Melby, don’t cry. It’s okay.

Comet puts her finger in Melba’s nose in a gesture that is meant to be comforting.

Are you crying because you don’t want to mutate as a pterodactyl for Hollow Steve?  

Melba nods.

GOZZ

Picking her own nose

This from the person who was going on about maturity.

COMET

Melba, is there something else you want to be for Hollow Steve?

Melba nods again.

COMET (cont’d)

Yeah? What is it?

GOZZ

If it’s anything less than a pterodactyl, you can forget it.

COMET

What is it, Melby?

MELBA

Through the sniffles

A unicorn.

COMET

A unicorn?

GOZZ

No. We went as horses last year.

MELBA

They’re not horses, they’re unicorns.

GOZZ

Whatever. I’m not going as one.

COMET

But we always go together. As the same thing.

GOZZ

And she always picks it! Every year! Who decided we should be horses last year? Melba. Who decided we should be giant balls of yarn the year before that? Melba. And when we were in kindergarten, who decided that we should be giant hamsters in giant hamster wheels.  

MELBA

Hey, we won the school mutation contest, didn’t we?

GOZZ

I’m not going as a stupid unicorn.

MELBA

Unicorns and beautiful and magical.

COMET

Puts her finger in both of their noses

Okay, you guys, wait, hold on. Maybe we don’t have to go as the same thing this year. Maybe we could just do like, you know, a theme.

MELBA

What do you mean?

COMET

Well like, we could all go as things that fly. Gozz, you could be a pterodactyl. Melba, you could -- wait, unicorns have wings, right?

MELBA

No.

COMET

Oh. Well, could yours have wings?

MELBA

Uh --

COMET

And I could be, uh, uh, a comet! Since that’s my name!

MELBA

Unicorns don’t have wings.

COMET

Could you just work with me here, Melba? I’m just trying to--

Gozz grabs the mutator gun and points it at them both. During this exchange, Melba backs away while Comet inches, er, centimeters closer to Gozz.

GOZZ

No. No unicorns. No comets. No real comets I mean. People named Comet are okay.

COMET

Gozz, what are you doing?

GOZZ

Get away from me. Put your finger in your own nose.

COMET

Gozz--

GOZZ

I’m setting the mutator gun to pterodactyl--

COMET

Gozz, put it down.

GOZZ

And I’m turning all three of us into motherfucking pterodactyls.

Aims at Melba

COMET

Gozz!

Comet jumps, but she is too late. The mutator fires and Melba is hit. The force of the blast knocks her back. Offstage, in fact. From backstage, there is a furious roar. The walls shake with terrifying violence. Melba emerges back on stage in the process of mutating into a pterodactyl. She flaps her mighty wings and advances on Gozz and Comet, who are both now screaming their fool heads off.

COMET

You turned her into an angry pterodactyl!

GOZZ

This thing doesn’t specify emotional state!

COMET

Hurry! Change her back before she takes flight!

Gozz fiddles with the dial and fires again. Melba stops shrieking, drops her wings, halts her advance, and speaks in an even, if not somewhat condescending tone.

MELBA

So you admit that you have sexual feelings for your mother?

COMET

Gah wha?!

GOZZ

Dammit! I set it to psychoanalyst.

COMET

What?

GOZZ

It’s the next thing down from pterodactyl in alphabetical order!

MELBA

How does that make you feel?

COMET

Yanking the mutator away

Give me that! You have to set it to undo.

Comet fiddles with the mutator and fires at Melba again. Melba reverts back into dinosaur rage, picks up her wings, etc.

GOZZ

Undo it again! Undo it again!

Comet fires again. This time, Melba’s transformation back into herself is slower, as if she is resisting it. Comet keeps hitting her though. At the end of it, Melba is down on the floor, motionless. Gozz and Comet look at Melba’s prone form in shock for a moment, then snap out of it and run to her side.

GOZZ

Melba!

Gozz and Comet kneel next to their friend and roll her onto her back. They help her sit up, but her head dangles. Gozz is crying.  

GOZZ (cont’d)

This is all my fault! I’m so sorry! We can be unicorns for Hollow Steve, Melba, I don’t care!

Melba looks up at Gozz.  

MELBA

No. We will be pterodactyls.

GOZZ

We will?

MELBA

Yes. We will all be pterodactyls.

COMET

Oh good! I’m glad that’s settled.

MELBA

I can’t even describe to you...I’ve never felt anything like it. The cells of my body weren’t simply jostled into the form of some other creature. I was taken somewhere, somewhen. I became something else. I saw the world through whole new eyes. I felt so much power...the power to fly, to rip, tear, destroy, kill. I didn’t want to come back.

COMET

So you don’t want to be a unicorn anymore?

GOZZ

Because we can if you want. I’m so sorry.

MELBA

No. I don’t want to be some stupid unicorn. I want to find a unicorn, swoop down on it from on high, grab it in my talons, and tear its magical hide to shreds.  

GOZZ

But there’s no such thing as unicorns.

MELBA

A horse will work. The point is, we’ll all do it together.

COMET

Together! Yay!

MELBA

And then, we’ll set our sights on Ethyl and her stupid giant robots.

COMET

Robots are made of steel.

GOZZ

So you’re not mad at me?

MELBA

Mad?

Laughs, puts her finger in Gozz’s nose.

Go ahead, gorgeous. Stick your finger up my nose. See what happens.

The Clock Goes Tock-Tick-Tock-Tick

Here's a skill I admire in a person: the ability to take a normal situation and add a creepy twist to it. I think my five-year-old made his first attempt at this the other night. And he did a pretty nice job of it.

In the ongoing battle to get our three-year-old to eat (see, perfectly normal situation, right?), we have of course resorted to the age-old strategy of pointing out to him that if he doesn't eat, he won't get bigger, stronger, faster, smarter i.e. he'll never become the Six Million Dollar Man. However, as social scientists have proven time and time again, the simple presentation of facts does little to sway most people or cause them to change their behavior. As such, it becomes necessary to employ a measure of propaganda.

"If you don't eat, you're going to start getting smaller."

I don't remember who said it first, me or my wife, but big brother totally ran with it. Every meal, if little brother wasn't eating, big brother was there to remind him that it was his very size, strength, and speed that he was putting at risk. And then he added another element to it: age. If he didn't eat the food that had been placed in front of him, not only would he get smaller, but he would start to age backwards.

Then the other night at dinner, he put this all together in a way that I can only describe as masterful. We were all eating, all of us but youngest, who sat just picking at his food and babbling.

"You're never gonna turn four if you don't eat," said eldest.

"But my birthday's coming!" said his brother. It's true, but then again, when isn't a person's birthday coming?

"That's right," said big brother, eyes growing wide. "And we're gonna have a party-"

"A party!?"

"Yeah. And there's gonna be a cake-"

"A cake!"

"Mmm-hmmm." He spoke in a low voice now. "And mama's gonna bring it out, and everybody's gonna sing 'Happy Birthday' and on top of the cake, there's gonna be a candle on it for how many you're gonna be, and it's gonna be a two."

Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo....

And Then One Day I Killed A Chicken

The little boy peered into the bucket. Above it, a chicken hung by its feet, bleeding out from the openings in its neck.

“That is so cool.”

I had driven about an hour to be here, the last two miles of it unpaved, making only one wrong turn the whole way. I was greeted by a friendly woman named Joanne and a big black dog whose name I didn’t catch. With me, I’d brought a cooler with ice, some plastic freezer bags, and a cardboard box with holes cut in it to allow the chicken inside to get some air.

The place was Eden’s Cove Farm, a family-owned joint down in Cedar Creek, Texas, about an hour Southeast of Austin.

“Eden’s Cove, huh?” said a friend of mine. “Sounds like a, like a -”

“Like a place you’d go for a pretty righteous orgy, huh?”

There were no orgies in process when I rolled through the gate, though given the place’s remote location, you could probably get downright Roman with it were you so inclined.

But folks weren’t here for bacchanalia. My wife and I have been raising chickens in our backyard for about a year now, and it’s mostly been a success. Yes, they made the backyard look like a dustbowl and we ended up replacing all our grass, but we also have more eggs than we know what to do with, and it gives us a way to show the boys that food, you know, comes from somewhere, not just the grocery store. And that was really as far as we ever thought we would take it.

Except we would occasionally titter around the subject - that’s right, I said titter - the subject of turning our birds into meat. Where does one learn such a skill? Would we even be able to do it? Personally, I’ve never had much doubt about the latter concern. The thought of actually doing it myself just never made me all that squeamish. Make of that what you will. But the how? That was a different mater. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you want to learn from a book or off the internet. Imagine trying to scroll down a webpage with your hands covered in chicken insides.

And that’s where the good people at Eden’s Cove came in. They offer these processing days where you can bring out your birds and they let you use their facilities, and if you’ve never done it before, they’ll teach you how.

“You wanna do it?” asked my wife.

"Sign me up.”

Aside from the people that worked at the farm, I think just about everybody there was from Austin. Some were there just to use the equipment, others, like me, were there to learn, while some were there just to observe, to see if it looked like a task to which they might be up. And then, of course, some of them were kids whose parents dragged them along. Some of the kids seemed interested in the proceedings, others seemed more interested in following around the flock of turkeys that was hanging out nearby.

You’ll notice this post isn’t heavy on the pictures. I had intended to snap a few, but once they started in on the demo, it seemed like the kind of thing that I should pay real attention to rather than watching it through the screen of my phone. And then once I started in on my own bird, my hands got kinda gunky, and who needs gunk on their phone? The only pictures I snapped were of that dog that greeted me.

And this old rusty tractor that I passed by on the dirt road on the way to the farm that caught my eye. Look, see? This should provide you with a bit of what they call “a sense of place.” 

The processing area was covered by a roof and open on three sides. There was equipment storage in the back, a counter with a sink, and a series of tables. It was all immaculately clean. Off to one side, strung between two of the wooden support beams was a thick clothesline, from which hung several thin ropes with loops at their ends.

A guy named Kevin did the demo. He had long red hair pulled into a pony tail and looked like he could be an extra on Game of Thrones or the like. He started with a hen so massive, it reminds you that, yes, indeed, these squawking clucking creatures are descended from dinosaurs, and who are we to say they’ve forgotten their lineage? He put her legs in one of the loops and pulled it tight, then placed a bucket beneath her. Us cityfolk circled in close, kids up front, as he showed us where to make the cut, then proceeded to place knife to neck. 

Kevin held her still while she shook through a few death throes. Once she settled, he did a couple more the same way, then took them all down and plunged them, one by one, into large pots of hot water to loosen up the feathers. Then it was time for the plucker. No, the plucker is not a person who sits in the corner pulling feathers and moaning “aw, why do I always gotta pluck the chickens?” It’s a big metal cylinder that’s lined on the inside with what can only be described as rubber fingers. You toss the birds in, flip a switch, and it swirls them around like a washing machine. A minute later, plucked birds come out. Efficiency. 

“I got chicken blood on my finger!” It was the same kid from earlier. He was holding up his finger for me to see.

After observing a bit longer, I decided I was ready. I got my bird out of her traveling box. I put her feet through the loops of one of the lines and tightened it, at which point she stopped squawking and hung still. Most of the birds did that. Kevin showed me one more time where to make the cut...and then I did.

I only got a drop or two of blood on my hands, just enough to bring some Macbeth jokes to mind, though I kept them to myself. The bird’s flapping lasted a few seconds before she settled and I took her down. Water, plucker, then over to the processing table where Joanne walked me through it. No need to go into the details, but to sum it up, it’s basically, “cut here and here, reach in, pull this stuff out, don’t break that green thing.”

“Are those lungs?”

“Those are lungs. Good job.”

While I was pulling out the guts, I noticed something that looked egg yolk mixed in. I felt around and, sure enough, there was an egg, along with a couple of yolks that were going to be eggs. Giving right up until the end.

Following the removal of the legs and a bit of clean-up, I bagged up the bird and put her on ice. I cleaned up my utensils and my work area and washed up. I was done.

That wasn’t so hard.

And it really wasn’t, which is one of the things that struck me most, that when it was all said and done, the whole experience both was and wasn’t that big of a deal. On the one hand, the process was pretty simple and straightforward, I didn’t have a problem with any of it, and I would definitely do it again. On the other hand, I took a being’s life, and even if that being was just a chicken, such a thing should not be taken lightly. Of course, I’ve done just that millions of times over the course of my life, horking down food with barely a thought to where it came from and all the things that had to happen for it to reach me. Putting myself right there at the start of the process and doing the work on my own made it impossible to do that.

Now then, who’s hungry?

The Berserker Squirrel Rap Which Was Requested Via Social Media Commentary

First, there was this: 

Which was followed by this:

Which brings us to this:

Other night, bedtime for the shorties
I’m in my boy’s room reading up some stories.
Sitting on the bed with the Spiderman steelo. 
With a libro ‘bout wizarding heroes
When my wife runs in with a scream and a shout
Babbling something about rodents falling down from the clouds
“What’s up, lady? We’re tryna read Harry P here”
But she was trembling all kinds of afeared
“It came from the sky! A squirrel on the attack!”
“Where was it?” I asked, she said “Out in the back!”
“It plopped just a few feet away on the deck
Now it’s twitching all over like it’s almost dead.
You gotta go out there, put it out of its misery”
I’m all, “I gotta kill a squirrel? Are you seriously?
Fine, just don’t let the boys be spectators.
They don’t need to see Daddy doin’ squirrel euthanasia.”
Stepped out the back door and sure as hell
It was like somebody’d hooked a car battery to his tail.
Picked up a shovel feelin’ murder in my veins
Said, “I don’t wanna do this, but it looks like you’re in pain.
I’m sorry, furry friend, this sucks for us both.”
I stepped to him, ready to make a ghost.
Gave him a poke, and oh! What a relief!
That squirrel stopped twitching and jumped to his feet.
He ran across the yard and bolted up a tree.
In two seconds flat, he’d departed the scene. 
No blood on my hands, nope, not today. 
No murder for me. I call that a good day. 

The Ideas of Forgotten Meaning: A Writing Challenge

So you remember how I told you a while back about how I'm writing a book?

“Oh my GAWD, Holmes, is this the post where you tearfully admit that you’ve given up on your novel and then offer up a series of lame excuses for your lameness?”

Hell naw. The book’s still bumping along, slower’n I’d like, but steady, punctuated by just a few creative freak-outs, a few moments of lost perspective, of feeling like I’ve trapped myself in a maze from which there is no escape. But it’s going, and for the most part I’m finding it...not enjoyable, exactly. Let’s go with rewarding. In summary, It Will Happen.

But this post isn’t about the novel. This is about competing creative interests that emerge while in the midst of such a long-term project. And in the end, it’s a challenge for any of you who care to take it.

You see, just because I’ve got my creative energies focused on one thing doesn’t mean that the ideas stop coming. If anything, they come faster and in greater number. Where once I might find just a few mushrooms rising up out of the soil, I now find a whole freaking village of them bursting from the earth’s surface.

Of course, they don’t all taste so great, no matter how you saute ‘em. Most of them wither and die and fall right out of memory. But some capture my notice so well that I actually pluck them up and place them in my basket to be put to use later. That is, I write them down in a list. Ideas for later.

One such idea occurred to me the other day, so I pulled up the list and added it. I realized that it had been a while since I’d read through my past ideas, so I took a few minutes to scroll through it, and I found...

“What the ffff...?”

Most of the items in the list contained enough description to make sense. In some cases, I’d even added some notes to remind my future self what past self had meant. But there were a few where I had absolutely no idea what I was thinking. Was I drunk at the time? Sleepwriting? No idea. But just because their original meaning is lost, it doesn’t mean they’re useless.

So this is the challenge part of the post. I’m going to list several of these ideas below. The challenge is to pick one or two, or hell, pick all of them, whatever you like. Take it and run with it. Write something with it. A story, a poem, a script, a comic, a Grammy-winning country song, the next club hit. When it’s done, put it out there somewhere. And if you happen to think about it, hit me with a link to it in the comments section so I can go check it out.

And now, what you’ve all been waiting for: The Ideas of Forgotten Meaning:

1. Beer: put a crazy straw in it.
2. Strawberry: you wouldn't eat a head.
3. The view out the window during some afternoon doggy-style.
4. The Fat Fuck and his sidekick Stab Face.