Suicide Therapy

(I wrote this for a kid who was suicidal who thought he wanted to be a comedian. He was always repeating long bits verbatim from comedians who cuss a lot. Well... he repeated those bits kind of in the fashion that Dustin Hoffman's autistic character in "Rain Man" repeated Abbot & Costello's "Who's on first" bit. The kid looked at the bit I wrote for him and he shucksed away from actually trying it out... BUT. He was doing fine last I saw him; he'd decided to go to diesel mechanic school instead, seemed pretty happy about it.

Maybe some budding yet depressive young comedian out there would like to try this? If so, copyright Tom Dark, y'know.)

Props:

Real gun, real bullets in a box with powder and caps REMOVED. Bowie knife, hidden. Notebook, hidden. Hunter's jacket with lots of pockets to fumble around in.

Bit: attempted suicide onstage.

Ladies and gentlemen let me get right to the point. I'm a jerk. An idiot. I'm a creep. A fool. A doofus. I'm goofy. A shit-head. A fifth wheel. A total failure. A big fat prick. Also a shitty little prick. An arrogant nobody. A loudmouth know-it-all. I'm living a lie. Guilty as sin. It's my mother's fault. But she couldn't help it. I was an ugly baby. She was an ugly mother.

(Pull out gun, put to to temple). People don't like me. Nobody should. I don't deserve it. They were right. I'm an asshole. I'm glad they laughed at me. I deserve to be laughed at. Go ahead and laugh now. That's what I'm here for. Ready? Here goes.

Grimace. Squint. Tremble chin. Look emotionally convincing. Pull trigger, nothing. Oh yeh. Heh heh. Forgot. Bullets. They're around here somewhere.

Guess I was just nervous... I forgot to load up, folks! Just a sec. Fumble around in pockets. Pull out various memorabilia, like maybe a "dear John" letter from girlfriend, etc. Pull out ammo box. Take out a bullet. Show audience. Explain why this is the best brand of bullet to use for close range. Be technical. Load gun while chattering apologetically. Show audience loaded chamber. All set? Ready? Good. Point to temple. Grimace. Tremble. Grit teeth. Pull trigger.

(Nothing). Woops. Check chamber. I know what it is. These bullets have been sitting under the counter at the Army-Navy surplus store for a long time. They've been improperly stored (give a little lecture on how to properly store ammunition)So maybe the powder's wet or something. (Move chamber. Click smartly back into place. Grimace. Pull trigger again. Nothing. Pull trigger rapidly, repeatedly, grimacing while working into a fury like you get when your computer keeps crashing. Mumble goddamfuckingetcetc, incoherently.)

Throw gun to floor (have somebody take it for safekeeping). That's just another example of what a loser I am! And what a loser I am for putting up with myself! (wait 4 slow beats)

I guess you're wondering why I decided to commit suicide on stage here tonight.

This is a college town. There's a lotta smart people in this town. I wanted to be a smart guy. Smart people sit in coffee houses and write depressing stuff in their journals. You can't sound smart in your journal unless you write depressing stuff. So when you die, somebody will read your journal and feel sorry for all the bullshit you had to put up with. "Awww, jeeze... we... we didn't know... if only we could apologize for being such... (both fists clenched in the air)... assholes!"

So I decided to keep a journal and write depressing stuff. What could be more depressing than riding on the city bus? Here's what I saw on the bus this week (read from notebook):

"Monday. There's a guy with no legs. It took 5 minutes to load his wheelchair onto the ramp. That's depressing. I'm depressed"

"Tuesday. A guy sitting in front of me is chewing some brown stuff and then spitting the brown stuff into a jar. Chewing on this weird brown stuff and he's spitting it into a jar. Once he spits this brown stuff into a jar he stares at the brown stuff he spit into the jar. Every time he spits into the jar, he stares into it. The jar's half full. Getting nice and gooey in there. I can't stop watching this. I'm gonna be sick. I'm gonna get some brown stuff and spit into a jar.

"Wednesday: A completely tattooed stripper. Completely. She gets off at one of those buildings on the main drag that looks like it came in a plain brown wrapper. She's going to wiggle her tattoos in front of a bunch of high school principals who come in wearing hats on their laps. She's going to take off her clothes and wiggle those tattoos and she'll look like the Night of the Living Dead with a pussy.

(To audience. I think that's depressing. Do you think that's depressing? No? How about you? Yeah, it's really depressing. I don't know what's wrong with that jerk. This is depressing stuff.)

"Thursday: A crazy guy sitting in front of me looks like he just came out of a Popeye cartoon. He's having a boxing match with the air. Every ten seconds he jumps out of his seat and starts punching the air. Then he sits down like nothing ever happened. Maybe he just got back from Guyana. Damn big mosquitos down there in Guyana. He's got no teeth. Maybe they sucked out his teeth, too.

"Friday: A guy with no face and no hands gets on the bus. No cheeks, no lips, no nose, just eyes and a hole [note: all this is true material. But we're not making fun of disabled people here.] So what did his ma tell him before dinner? 'Wash your face and ha -- er... wash out your straw, hon... '"

You know why there are disabled people on this planet? God put them here to remind the rest of us what assholes we truly are. We're a species of asshole from the dirt in the Garden of Eden. Of the genus dinkus assholius. Subgenus Biggus assholatua largae.

We are complete, total, universal, whining, whimpering, squealing, complaining, simpering, sniveling, bitching, complaining, self-loathing, no holds barred, instructions on rear panel, batteries included, self-contained, all-repelling ASSHOLES.

Here's John. He's got the use of a few fingers and he can talk and that's all. That's it. No legs, no arms, can't even move his head. He asks people to move his head for him when it gets stuck looking up at the ceiling. They move his head back down for him. He gets through life like that every day. I like John. I go, "how ya doing, John?" and we'd slap hands if he had a whole one.

"Fine," he says. "How about you?"

I'm doing lousy. Lousy. Phhhhhhhht... I broke a lace on my sneaker. I've got a zit. My girlfriend left me and I'm not rich enough and I want a new car and I hate my job and I haven't been laid in three months.

So John looks at me like "So that's what happens when you have legs and arms that actually work?

" This guy's just fine and I'm an ASSHOLE with arms and legs that work. A complete, total, universal, whining, squealing, complaining, bitching, simpering, sniveling, complaining, self-loathing, no holds barred, instructions on rear panel, batteries included, self-contained, all-repelling ASSHOLE.

AAAAAAAASSHOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLE. AND I'M SORRY.

(check the time)

Shoot, I'm late. Okay, I'll do it just like the japanese do it. Hari-Kari. Maybe talk about hari-kari and the tradition. Pull out the great big knife.

Then stab yourself -- make it plain you didn't do it very hard, just enough to prick your belly. Spend the denouement bobbing back and forth going "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" like you're surprised just a little pinprick hurt this much. Leave stage going "Ow! Ow!"