Jolly the Leprechaun

Jolly

I take the box with me with my eyes set on the rainbow above. I smile gleefully as I travel through the woods, swinging the box at my side. The painstaking hike lasts hours – my sneakers are muddy, my back hurts, and my stomach gurgles. I stop in my tracks – I’ve reached the end of the rainbow.

“Eric,” says Jolly the Leprechaun, eyes at a squint. “I think you’ve gone the wrong way.”

“I want to make a deal,” I tell him. I walk holding my hands up, showing him I’ve got nothing on me besides the power-reversal box. I set it down on the tree stump between us. Jolly shakes as he tries to hide his glimmering gold coins behind his two-foot-eight frame.

“No deal,” he says. Jolly nervously waves a bloody, sharpened stick. I notice the body on the ground next to him. The young man’s mouth is open with eyes on me. He blinks and his chest rises.

Jolly shoves the wooden dagger down into his heart, then twists it. The man on the ground screams in agony until becoming completely motionless.

“You’ll never get me pot of gold, Eric,” says Jolly.

“I’ve actually got something to offer you this time.”

A sharp smile rises from his lip corners. “Do you remember the last time you saw me?”

I scratch my cheek and look away. Jolly continues.

“You told you me it wasn’t right, the way humans treated me. You said you wanted to help me.”

“I did want to help-”

I shake your hand and you grabbed me by the arm, threw me into a tree, then ran off with me pot o’ gold screaming nobody will ever love me.”

“I don’t remember that last part but I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“Oh you don’t remember the last part?” says Jolly, tugging his make-shift spear out from the corpse beside him. He carries it with the sharpened end aimed at me as he approaches. “Do you remember why you never escaped with me pot of gold, eh?”

“Vaguely,” I tell him. “From what I remember, I didn’t have the heart to leave you stuck in the tree. So I stopped running, set your pot of gold down, then returned to make sure you were ok.”

“Oh that’s interesting,” says Jolly. “Because I remember you stopped running when you saw a dead squirrel, picked it up, then returned to find me in the tree just so you could pretend it was making fun of me, using your fingers to move its jaw while you did all the speaking.”

“That was wrong of me,” I say, with sincerity. “But I’m here today with something to offer you. Something that will help you from ever having to deal with people like me again.”

Jolly begins studying me with his hands on his hips.

“Listen!” I say, shaking the box in front of his face. “See this red button? One push, and I can make you tall, human… maybe even… generous,” I tell him.

“I don’t believe you,” says Jolly. “How tall?”

“You don’t have to! I just need you to agree. I’ll push the button. And if it doesn’t work, then fine! We won’t have a deal.”

“And you want what for it, eh? me pot o’ gold?”

“Yes, that’s all I want.”

“That’s all you want, you sniveling animal,” he says with a sneer. “That pot’s got ten million dollars worth of gold and you have the nerve to say it’s all you want.”

Jolly points his stabbing stick at me as he speaks. He lunges for the box in my hand, but I tug it away like I’m keeping candy from a child.

“Just tell me it’s a deal,” I say, softly. I hold the box out with both hands. “One press, and you can be tall. That’s all it takes Jolly.”

His face burst with redness as his wrinkles contort with anger. The way he glares back makes me certain he dislikes me.

“Please, Jolly,” I say. “This is a win-win for both of us.”

“We’ll try it,” He blurts out, waving his stick ferociously. “But if your button doesn’t work than this stupid deal is off. I am more than willing to kill you for attempting any -”

I push the button on the box and suddenly Jolly shrinks into half his previous size, until he might as well be a leprechaun action figure.

“Oh shit,” I say.

Jolly looks at each of his hands with profound sadness. His defeated gaze slowly tilts up to me.

I hop with my left foot then punt Jolly off into the leaves with my right. I grab the pot of gold sturdy with both hands and begin sprinting away, tongue hanging out my mouth. That’s when I see it.

I stop in my tracks – a skunk, moseying around some leaves all alone. I could easily tape Jolly’s little legs to the skunk and watch him get tossed around like a miniature horse jockey. It will only take a minute, no more than ten. I set down my newfound riches and approach the skunk cautiously.

  • Thomas M. Watt

Stand up comedy – 12/30

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In a previous post, I mentioned how the 2 girls who pushed me to write a sitcom episode hadn’t been getting back to me. Yesterday my worst fears were confirmed when Catrina called and informed me they were opting out of the project. This really bothered me, but I got back on the horse today.

While driving to get a cup of coffee and planning to look for new ways to break into the screenwriting community, I decided to take a giant leap out of my comfort zone. I looked up “Stand up comedy open mic” on my smartphone and found a bar offering just that not too far away.

I drove over and took the initiative to meet a few of the stand-up comics before they performed their sets.

The main person I talked to was a comic by the name of Brian Mathews. I asked him a variety of questions, and as I had hoped, he led me in the right direction.

I learned that it is typical for a new stand-up comic to bomb during their first 6 months of performances (a lesson I would confirm a short while later). More importantly, he informed me that it takes, on average, about 2 years before you start getting paid to perform.

Even then, the pay is not great – 25 bucks for a set is the standard rate, while a full 45 minutes of material may net you $75. While this may sound like a great hourly rate, it’s easy to overlook the fact that such a long set would take hours and hours to prepare.

Nevertheless, I’m happy I got to talking with him. One of my biggest goals for the new year is to meet more people with similar aspirations to my own. Networking has always been an area I’ve avoided, but I’m convinced it is necessary if I’m going to make any sort of career in the entertainment industry.

Posted below is a short clip from Titus Jones’ set. He was hilarious and kept the crowd laughing the entire time he had the mic. Check him out and tell your friends.

  • Thomas M. Watt

 

Craig and the BK Lounge – Part 2 – Finale!

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If you missed Part 1, start here.

“Dear… God,” said Craig.

Buford and Marlon came sprinting from the Burger King across the street. They had decided to chase after Craig, who apparently had ‘desecrated’ the restaurant they worked at when he spilled the french fries he had ordered after passing through the drive thru. Still soaking wet from the coca-cola the two had poured on him, Craig had no choice but to rush inside the auditorium and begin the conference.

This was Craig’s last real shot to turn things around, and he knew it. The last few months had been difficult – one odd-job after another was no way to pay the bills. Not long ago Craig was one of Forbes top 10 motivational speakers, and now he found it difficult just to get himself out of bed every morning. With an imminent foreclosure in the works, everything was riding on this conference – after all, fifteen of the country’s richest CEOs had come to hear him speak.

Craig entered the auditorium, where he estimated five to ten thousand business professionals sat waiting for his talk.

“Where have you been?” said Darcy, his assistant. “You’re late!” She reached out to straighten his tie, then noticed the coca-cola drenching his suit. “Oh my God-”

“Just work with me, okay? Where’s my mic?”

“You look like shit.”

Craig stared back at her.

“Here,” said Darcy. She held out the microphone, and he grabbed it from her.

Craig turned it on, then secretly wished he could somehow fast-forward the next five hours. He opened while walking up the center aisle toward the stage.

“The key to success,” he began. There must have been at least a thousand murmurs about the dark soft drink dripping from his suit. He climbed on stage, then walked toward the podium. Every step he took was accompanied by a rubbery ‘squeak.’ Craig adjusted his collar.

“You see the key  to success is-” A sharp ringing from the microphone interrupted Craig and caused many in the audience to cover their ears. Craig lowered his head and sighed, then began to turn and twist his ear, a nervous habit he hadn’t been able to break since he was a child.

The hushed voices surrounding him quickly turned to full-blown conversations, and Craig didn’t have to be telepathic to know they were talking about him. This was it for Craig – his career as a motivational speaker was finished. He’d be lucky to ever work a decent-paying job again.

The doors to the auditorium flew open. The two Burger King employees, who were now wearing the plastic ‘King’ crowns the fast-food chain is notorious for, stormed in.

“Oh shit,” Craig said, into the microphone.

“Oh shit is right!” Shouted Buford, before flipping his mullet.

The audience turned around to face the men when they stood at the back. It was not uncommon for motivational speakers to use guest speakers as gimmicks to keep their audience engaged – unfortunately for Craig, this was not part of his act.

“Tell these fools why you better than us!” Said Marlon, who was Asian.

The audience laughed.

“Yeah!” Said Buford. “Tell ’em all about how crappy the BK lounge is these days.”

“Or how you hate black people,” added Marlon.

The audience gasped, then turned to Craig.

“Or!” said Buford. The audience returned their attention to him. “You can tell them the same thing you told us.”

“Yeah!” said Marlon. “Tell ’em Buford!”

Buford did:

“Tell him about how you went out of your way, came over to our place of work, and told us how to do our jobs better!”

“Yeah!” said Marlon.

Buford went on. “Tell ’em how, when I asked if I could take your order, you tried to get me to do my job better. Crappy service! That’s what this man said to me!”

Buford shook his mop at Craig. The audience started laughing. “This guy comes to me, wearing his freshly pressed suit, driving his Mercedez Benz, and tries telling me how I can be more like him!”

The audience cheered Buford on. He broke into a run, then climbed on stage. Marlon followed after him, but tripped and fell his first eight attempts. Buford paced around the stage as he continued. “Just cause I work at Burger King, that don’t mean you can come here and tell me how to do my job! That don’t give you no right to insult my service, say you’re gonna eat somewhere else if I don’t pull it together!’ He pointed at Craig. “But this man did.”

The audience cheered.

“Only rich dude I ever known in my whole life, who feels compelled to come to the BK Lounge, demand I wait on his order, then create a huge mess, just to make sure I would actually clean it up!”

Craig took a good view of the audience – they were grinning, nodding even.

“And it’s because of this man, ladies gentlemen, that I am here today.”

Everybody stood up – a standing ovation!

“Thank you,” said Craig, reaching out to Buford’s shoulder.

“I’m not finished!” he said, then swatted his hand away. “You think I’m finished talking about you, let me tell ya! I’m just getting started. Earlier today, he comes and says…”

For the next five hours, Buford repeatedly rallied the audience to their feet and convinced several of the country’s most powerful figures that even a Burger King drive-thru worker could learn to be as motivated as someone like Craig. After the seminar, all anyone could talk about was how remarkable Craig was for having such a tremendous influence on Buford’s life. Craig left the auditorium hanging his head, however, for he knew as soon as he got home he’d be back to dealing with the foreclosure of his home.

“Craig!” Yelled one of the country’s elite CEOs.

He turned around. “Yes?”

“That was some impact you had on that young man who spoke today!”

Craig scratched his neck, then turn to look at Buford and Marlon as they crossed the street. The men were at least ten years older than Craig. He returned to the CEO. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome! How would you like to come work for me?”

Craig tried to smile, then walked closer and let out a breath. “To be honest with you sir, I’m dealing with piles of unpaid bills and a soon-to-be auctioned home.”

“Then I assume you’ll take it?”

“I don’t mean to be frank, but unless the starting figure is six figures and starts tomorrow, I’m going to have to busy myself with lawyers and bank meetings for the next few months.”

The CEO looked both ways, then began walking toward a white van and waved for Craig to follow. Craig did, but stayed a few paces back out off caution.

“My company doesn’t believe in the green,” said the CEO, as he unlocked the door to his white van.

“The green? Sorry sir, I don’t follow.”

He opened the door, and outpoured gold coins, diamonds, and jewlery. It was as if the CEO had just driven from robbing a pharoahs tomb in Egypt.

“Dear God!” shouted Craig. “Where did you get all this?” he stopped, checked over his shoulder, then whispered to the CEO again. “I must be staring at a hundred million dollars right now.”

The CEO picked up a gold coin, rubbed it with his fingers, then flipped it over to Craig. “You’ll take the job then?”

“Absolutely!” said Craig.

The CEO smiled again, then reached inside the van. This time he retrieved a robe and crown, both of which he put on to wear.

“I just have one question, if you don’t mind,” said Craig.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Who… are you?

“I am,” began the CEO, before grabbing hold of Craig’s shoulder. “The Burger King.”

Burger-King-the-king

  • Thomas M. Watt

White Knights of the Round Table

white knights of the round table

INT. UNDERGROUND ROUNDTABLE – NIGHT

A dozen of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet surround the long, marble table. At the head sits JUDGE MCELROY (65), who strikes his gavel three times.

The white knights quiet down, with some of them even ‘shhhing’ one another.

JUDGE MCELROY

Welcome, white knights.

WHITE KNIGHTS (IN UNISON)

Thank you for having us here, Judge McElroy.

JUDGE MCELROY

Now, as some of you may know, the matter we have come to discuss today plays a serious role in our personal lives. We are here to discuss women, and more importantly, their failure to find themselves attracted to the good guys, meaning us, and their terrible inklings toward bad guys –

Judge McElroy lets out a breath, pulls up a poster of Chris Brown, then points at it in disgust.

JUDGE MCELROY (cont.’)

Like him.

The white knights stick their tongues out, some even shake their heads angrily in disapproval. HAROLD (42), bald and grumpy looking, bangs his fist against the table.

HAROLD

That guy’s a jerk!

Judge McElroy puts the poster on the table. One of the white knights, JERRY (20), picks it up and tries to tear it in two. After failing he crumples it instead.

JUDGE MCELROY

Now, now, gentlemen. Let us not behave as these, quote on quote, ‘bad boys’. We all know that it is not his superior dancing skills that land him the women, nor is it his incredible good looks, as everyone in here is ravishingly handsome, and more than a few of us have achieved high scores on dance dance revolution.

Jerry smacks the table with both hands.

JERRY

What is it then, your honor? Why do women fall for low-lifes like him? I mean, should we really blame everything on the inferior intellect of females?

The room is quiet for a moment, and Judge McElroy appears deep in thought as he slowly spins his gavel on the table.

JUDGE MCELROY (sighing)

No, no. I’m afraid we can’t blame their brains entirely.

HAROLD (35), who is built like an average person, with a decent smile and a half-decent beard, speaks up with the confidence of a math teacher armed with a calculator. He wears a plaid button down and his hair is combed modestly.

HAROLD

I know what it is.

The surrounding knights look at Harold in bewilderment, as though he is about to tell them the secret they have been waiting their entire lives to hear. PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE, who has a button pinned to his suspender that says ‘feminist supremacist’, jumps in.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

You do?

HAROLD

Yes.

Every knight at the table waits on edge.

HAROLD

Subliminal messages.

The white knights are confused. Judge McElroy sits well over the table.

JUDGE MCELROY

Do elaborate on your theory, sir Harold.

HAROLD

Haven’t any of you ever noticed how he slides his feet, points at his junk, and moves his hips like he’s penetrating one of our females?

The white knights take time to reflect on Chris Brown music videos.

JERRY

He’s does do a lot of that.

HAROLD

Those are all subliminal messages, geared toward sex!

The white knights gasp.

HAROLD

He’s tricking our women into sleeping with him by his overtly sexual dance moves!

The white knights seem so angry they could do something about it. Professor Super Douche throws his glasses at the table. They bounce once then his FRED, who sits across from him.

FRED

Ow.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Sorry.

JERRY

Let me get this straight.

(beat)

Are you saying that, theoretically, if we were to perfect Chris Brown dance moves… women would sleep with us?

The white knights turn their heads to Harold in a flash.

HAROLD

I would never lower myself to that level.

The white knights are discouraged, but politely nod in agreement anyway.

HAROLD

I’ll tell what we should do, though.

(beat)

Training school for ladies.

The white knights are attentive once more.

HAROLD

It’s not going to be like any ordinary school, though. It’s more like a boot camp… No, no, not a boot camp…

Harold stands up. He begins to walk in circles around the room, staring at nothing as he speaks. Inspiration has struck this man! An idea from the heavens, and every white knight is on the edge of their seat, eager to hear it.

HAROLD

Yeah, a training school! Judge McElroy, where did you send your puppy to get properly trained?

JUDGE MCELROY

Dog training.

HAROLD

Yeah, yeah! Like dog training… only, for women. Human women!

Some of the white knights are smiling, laughing even.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Harold, you must be joking.

HAROLD

I’m not though! I’ve never thought so clearly in my entire life…

Harold gets up on the marble table. He paces hurriedly as he speaks, raising his arms even. His smile reaches from ear to ear.

HAROLD

There the women will be taught properly. Every time they look at a man with tattoos and a hairstyle, they will be shocked!

JERRY

With a shock collar?

HAROLD

Exactly! And every time they are complemented politely, or have the door held open for them, or find a man willing to listen, they will be taught to…

Professor Super Douche stands up with vigor.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Give them a blowjob!

The white knights glance disapprovingly at Professor Super Douche, who slowly sits back down.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Sorry.

HAROLD

Every time a good guy does something good for a women, they will be taught to… to tickle his pickle!

The white knights cheer.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

How is that different than what I said?

JERRY

Shut up, douche.

JUDGE MCELROY

Say another word I’ll spill your brains on the floor with my gavel, maggot.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Sorry.

JUDGE MCELROY (to Harold)

It’s settled then. Tomorrow night, we begins plans to build this ‘Lady Training School’. The only question left in my mind, Sir Harold, is what shall we call it?

Harold puts his hands to his hips and stares up to the ceiling. He is deep in thought, and clearly on the verge of one last act of genius.

HAROLD

We shall call it…

(beat)

Pickle ticklers.

The white knights nod in agreement. At first only smiles are the only sign of approval, but gradually, and one by one, they begin a slow clap. Harold modestly accepts by smiling and laughing like Paul Rudd.

PROFESSOR SUPER DOUCHE

Great idea, Sir Harold!

Jerry jumps across the table and tackles Professor Super Douche. He beats his ass to the cheerful amusement of everyone.

Fade out.

  • Thomas M. Watt

Let me Explain…

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Ok. After surgery yesterday all was well. In fact, thanks to my prescription of Oxycontin and a number of other drugs, life couldn’t have been better. I just finished typing up a rambling blog post and was sitting back to enjoy, “Now you see me,” when I realized something –

I couldn’t move my left hand. It was dead to the touch hours after surgery. I tried to wiggle my fingers, but none would budge.

After dialing several random numbers of friends who couldn’t help even if they wanted, I tore outside, wearing half-a-shirt and some pajama pants.

To put it simply, I was freaking out. Man.

I pounded on my neighbor’s door, continuing well after he’d spotted me through the window and was fast already approaching. I told him about my hand, asking if it was normal (Don’t you love asking questions when you’re panicking?).

He got his shoes on and we were readying to go to the E.R. when I was reminded there was an on-call number to dial. I called it, and shortly discovered that my symptoms were completely normal. I had received a nerve block, which apparently blocks your nerves from working… for a temporary amount of time.

I spent the next ten minutes sitting on my couch sweating profusely and breathing heavily. Hysteria is not so fun when you are high on drugs.

The Taste of Tainted Lips

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“Oh, Big Steve! Keep bouncin’ that ass Big Steve! Oh- Greg? Is that you? SHIT!”

The pan was already searing hot by the time Greg cracked his first egg and dropped it on. Almost instantaneously, the egg sizzled from translucent to white. Eyes weary, he used a fork to scramble it as he cracked then added a second. He thought back to the afternoon before, and let out a breath.

Darlene entered the kitchen. She caught his eyes and buttoned her lips, then shifted her weight to one side and shook her head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” said Greg.

Darlene sighed. “Babe if you just let me-”

“I said I don’t wanna fucking talk about it!” Said Greg, zinging the fork into the white plaster wall.

“But babe.” Darlene moved to his side. “We need to discuss it, that’s all.”

Greg returned his attention to the eggs, fuming through his nostrils as he stared bleakly into them.

“Babe?”

Picking up the iron pan by the handle, Greg lifted it high overhead before slamming it back down into the stove top. “Dammit Darlene, what do you want from me? What do you want me to say?” His chest heaved up and down for five heavy breaths, but she issued no response. “I mean, c’mon babe! How the fuck is talkin’ about it gonna make things better? Let’s be real here, you and me-”

“What about you and me?”

Greg shook his head. He picked up some of the scrambled egg remnants, turned his back to Darlene then flicked them into the sink. He turned the faucet on and ran his hands underneath the water stream. “We’re fuckin’ over. I mean, shit.” He gulped. “You know it, I know it. I ain’t gonna heal from this sort’a thing.”

“Well you could if you try! It was a mistake, I admit it-”

“I DON’T CARE!” Greg was surprised to find himself on the verge of laughter, even as his heart sank into his stomach. “Baby, put yourself in my shoes for a second. I come home, from a hard days work, lookin’ a grab a cold beer, maybe sit on the couch, watch the game for a little bit.” Flapping his arms up into the air and gazing towards the ceiling, Greg continued. “Lo and behold, I walk in on my girl messin’ around with Big Steve the professional fly-swatter-guy. I mean shit, Darlene! What the fuck kinda job is that, even? FLY SWATTER? You know you could just buy the equipment for about four bucks or something.”

“It was a big fly, babe, and  I already told you, I made a mistake.”

Greg put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “A mistake would’a been kissin’ him. Maybe even sleepin’ with him. But dammit babe, I walk in to see the guy sittin’ on your face in my bedroom, shit! I don’t know whether I should be more mortified, repulsed, angry or just weirded out! I’m out their bustin’ my tail everyday, and for what? To come home and see Big Steve over here gettin’ rim-jobs about two feet from my pillow?”

Darlene sighed, then came closer. “You know that I love you, Greg,”

Greg shrugged. “I mean, not exactly.”

“Aren’t you gonna say it back?”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I don’t feel like sayin’ it back.”

“You’re really going to hold this little tiny mistake against me?”

“Babe,” Greg shook his head, threw a dish-towel down, then started away. “Just think about what’s gonna run through my head every time I gotta kiss you, and there’s your answer.”

THE END

– Thomas M. Watt

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!

The crack in the cracked glass vial in the alleyway was seeping out a strange green ooze. There was nothing natural about it.

Hamato Yoshi slid his finger along the vial and sniffed it. “Hmm.”

“Whachu got there?” Said Shredder.

“I don’t know.” Hamato shrugged. “It’s like slime.”

“I hate turtles and ninjas,” said Shredder. “And my karate master Oroku Saki wants to kill you, by the way.”

“Good to know,” responded Hamato.

The two continued on together, whistling as they walked. As they did, Tom noticed his hand began to pulsate, rhythmically at first, before soon his hand was swelling up to the size of a pillow.

“Whoa,” said Shredder, “Cowabunga dude, your hand is getting gi-normous!”

Hamato was not sharing in Shredder’s enthusiasm. “This isn’t funny, Shredder. What the heck is-” Before he could even finish what he was saying, his forearm enlarged, followed shortly afterward by a rapid growth in the rest of his body.

Moments later, Himato was literally a walking giant.

“Man!” Yelled Shredder. “I hate the artists of the renaissance, maybe that’s why my name is shredder, so I can ruin masterful paintings. Do you think?”

Hamato Yoshi set his hands on his hips and bellowed out a laughter of hilarity. “You know what I’m going to do, shredder?”

“What?” replied Shredder.

Hamato Yoshi, pinched a cheese grader between his thumb and forefinger. He slammed it into Shredder’s face, and it stuck for good. Hamato laughed all the louder. “I’m going to train my rat splinter on how to do karate, and then I’m gonna feed him that green shit, and then he’s gonna train a bunch of turtles, and then they’re all going to kick your ass. HAHAHA!”

Shredder shook his head and cried. “I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life and I’ll do whatever it takes to disrupt those turtles in their mission to do good.”

“Well they’re going to be teenagers, also.”

“So?”

“So suck-it, shredder.”

THE END!

– Thomas M. Watt