So this is fun. I hope you don’t mind if I take a moment to memorize what life was like before I alienated everyone in the room.
Of course, now that I look out upon all the faces I’ll be denigrating with the acid jizz of truth, I realize: you’re all pretty fucking worthless to me, so fuck you.
I mean, Martin Buchanan. I don’t know that guy very well, but I know that if Richard Simmons managed to stick his dick inside Jason Alexander’s dick and squeeze his ballbag just right to create suction so he could steal Jason’s seed and gestate an unholy scrotum child, then something like Martin Buchanan is what would burst forth.
I also don’t know much about this Ron Megee character, though from what bits and pieces I’ve heard around town, he’s basically a much, much less interesting Andy Dick? My main worry is that I’m not sure if Ron knows how to be funny if there isn’t a 4th wall to break. People seem to have an inordinate amount of joy for him, but I’m pretty sure we could have a second Ron McGee if we just gave Steven Eubank enough LSD and a touch of encephalitis. Just something to think about if you really love him so much.
The last of the mostly strangers to me is Eric Rosen, who I suppose is the Ron McGee of legitimate theater. I’m actually not sure who I’m insulting with that one. I suppose it’s a bit of a mystery, like what the hell Eric actually does on a day to day basis at the Rep. Eric, has KCI just installed a gate in your office by now or what? Well, whatever he’s pretending to do, it must be exhausting because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him stay awake for an entire TLR show, even the ones that weren’t directed by Katie Gilchrist.
But then, Katie isn’t a director, she’s apparently an actress and a singer. I suspect that has less to do with any talent and more to do with the fact that if you change your hair style, length and color every 3 months, I guess everyone forgets that in the last show you were in, you treated the stage like an uber driver treats a girl booking a ride by herself.
Of course, some creepy guys ask for rides instead of offer them. So if you say yes to Brad Thomas, rest easy: there’s at least a 60% chance you’re safe. There is, however, a 100% chance that you’re gonna hear some sad bastard shit and several unnecessarily aggressive compliments.
I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the incessant banter of Bryan Huther, who apparently doesn’t need food or water to survive. As long as at least one person per day thinks he’s clever and quirky, his internal organs continue to function, converting praise into crushing self-doubt. I bet if we could convince him to give Brad a ride home and could somehow harness the energy of the perpetual motion of aggressive compliment and self-pitying refusal, we’d have moon bases and space whores for everyone.
Speaking of space whores… I’m just kidding, Vanessa has never been to space. Now, Vanessa is often labeled crazy because she has a huge personality and seemingly boundless energy. That needs to stop. Calling Vanessa crazy is not the clinical term for what’s wrong with her. Psychopathy is a real and troubling disease, and I know some of you will remind us that it’s difficult to diagnose. What other possible explanation is there for why she STILL hasn’t shown me her tits.
It’s good to see Forrest Attaway here. I think most of us know Forrest, but for those of you who don’t, just picture Bubbles from The Wire. The only difference is that Forrest cleans up his used needles less often and his business ideas are even shittier. For some strange reason Forrest wrote the description and run order for tonight’s festivities. Unfortunately, his command of the written word is roughly equal to a heroin addict dropout. So like his scripts, I’m sure it was compelling and coherent in his mind while the rest of us were left wondering why he sent us an email that could only have been written by rubbing his dick on a keyboard until his blood sugar and blood alcohol content both dropped low enough for him to accidentally pass out on the “send” button.
Sadly, now the easy shit is over. Unlike most of the people in this room, I haven’t had to pretend to like Rusty so that he’ll cast me. So, like anyone who has the choice, Rusty and I haven’t gotten to know each other very well. Pretty much all I know about him is that he’s basically a Kristen Wiig sketch with a beard and a last name that sounds like a Dr. Seuss villain.
And one other thing.
I think first and foremost, we must roast the toasts of this hirsute windbag. So for the remainder of my allotted time, if you have a drink and you are Rusty Sneary, raise your glass.
Now keep it raised until I finish, you pompous cunt.
For years, we’ve waited backstage or in the audience holding aloft at your behest the only thing that makes your fucking curtain speeches bearable while you pontificate for a solid quarter hour.
How many times have I watched as the elderly and infirm begin to quiver with fatigue, while you start your third overwrought, fawning repetition of gratitude for their attendance that you still somehow seem to make sound like an obligation.
Around minute 11 or 12, you finally get to deliver that ridiculous and combative line that you’ve mistaken for devastatingly clever. Your beady little eyes begin to twinkle and with a shit-eating grin, you ask everyone to play your little game called DON’T RUIN THE SHOW.
News flash, motherfucker, that speech just ruined the show. Who do you even think you’re educating? You know as well as we all do that there isn’t anyone in the audience that isn’t attending just to avoid being tagged in your passive-aggressive Facebook pity-posts.
Thankfully, those curtain speeches are infrequent, since Rusty so often casts himself in the best roles in the plays he’s selected. Maybe it’s just me, but i find it inspiring to see Rusty carrying the torch that Nick Padgett left behind.
It’s almost impressive how good Rusty is at casting himself. I once watched him talk someone else out of casting themselves so he could take their place. I mean, if I could talk prostitutes into paying me instead, I wouldn’t be here at this low budget Unicorn. I’d be with Rusty’s mother, making just enough money to pay for the penicillin.
To be fair, Rusty’s mother is a lovely woman and a medical marvel. Before her, no one knew that in some cases, you can cure cancer by C-section. And we all know the metaphorical prostitute I was actually talking about is the artistic prostitute Kyle Hatley, the only man who might be more self-indulgent than Rusty. Right? “Is there a world in which” those two aren’t gay incest twins? Just this one, apparently.
Kyle, as most of us know, now lives in Chicago. You know the old adage: you gotta go where your wife’s money is. Rusty, I hope you remember to write a nice thank you note to Emily for giving Kyle enough allowance to come all the way to Kansas City for so long.
Later this evening, I think Kyle will be roasting Rusty, right? Well, if it’s anything like what Kyle usually writes, it’ll just be someone else’s roast, but he’ll just dumb it down and call it “breaking an icon.” Might be a good time for a bathroom break.
Rusty and Kyle have a unique friendship since the Menendez brothers were sent to different prisons. I wonder how these two will fare now that they’re separated. I suppose they’ll have to make masks of each other for their partners to wear during sex.
But we were speaking about the women in Rusty’s life. I mean, the man has both come from and into vaginas that are way out of his league. Now I won’t speculate on how a guy like him lands even a girl like Shawnna, but it probably doesn’t hurt to trap them into a long-term, high cost lease and a business venture that entwines every social and professional contact you both have.
Now we know Shawnna has consciously chosen to stay with Rusty because no one can be black-out drunk without reprieve for this long, and she hasn’t had a major stroke and probably hasn’t suffered from a developmental disability. So is it masochism? Is she atoning for a terrible crime by suffering a fate worse than ritual suicide? Does she just like that his hands make her tits look HUGE? We probably won’t ever know.
So all that remains is to show Rusty how a toast should actually go. So let’s do that by raising our glasses and toast not to Rusty, but to all of us because the only thing worse than being Rusty Sneary, is being around the motherfucker.