German Expressionist Theatre Presents: A 5.54 Mile Run in Savage Humidity: Botendaddy on Trial for {CENSORED}

[Opens to a stage in a smoke-filled Deutsche film-noir 1920’s style theater.]

502px-GuyFawkesMask

Guy Fawkes Mask by Kigsz Wikimedia Commons

NARRATOR: [In Weimar-Era top hat and tails] ‘Obviously in every German Expressionist play is the existential-oppositional-nihilist anarchist-deontological-neo-structuralism between Totalitarian Fascism and Extreme Socialism presented in incomprehensible 1920’s dialectic.’ [bows low, curtain opens]

Botendaddy stands before the tribunal. The Chief Judge is 16 feet above the prisoner in a grey, black and white Film-Noir, 1930’s, Socialist-New-Deal-Art-Deco, Fritz-Lang-Metropolis, Twilight-Zone-Imagined-Fascist Courtroom.

Hardekopf_-Portrait_von_John_Höxter_aus_Schall_und_Rauch,_Heft_Sept._1920

Hoxter Portrait – work of Meidner

Everyone is wearing gray National Socialist-style uniforms.

The judge is hidden behind blinding arc-lights.

The audience/chorus is on either side of the prisoner in the dark and they chant and repeat accusatory words of the judge.

JUDGE: ‘Yon so-called Botendaddy, you are on trial under the University Code of Social Correct Behavior for the crimes of {CENSORED PA DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE pursuant to Public Law no 36.1 of 1937 Pa. Cons. Stat. No 8,032,236,909 of 1936, by per curiam order of the Court of Quarter Sessions of 31 October 1938 for excessive prurient behavior.} committed against every single member of the Writer’s Workshop. Your depravity is a threat to the State!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your Honor.’

JUDGE: How do you plead for your crimes against the security of the state?

CHORUS: ‘Serve the state! Serve the state! Serve the state!

Botendaddy lapses into a Burgess Meredith voice.

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your honor… I am but a simple scientist.’

LIBRARIAN: ‘I’m a Librarian’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Hey! Shut up Librarian! This is my f&%$ing episode, damnit!’

JUDGE: ‘TREASON! FILTHY TRAITOR!’

[The judge shrieks like a Valkyrie (pronounced While-Kye-Rhee), standing and gesturing wildly like the glorious Fuehrer.]

CHORUS: ‘Sterilize! Sterilize!’

JUDGE: ‘You fornicated, drooled on and contaminated every single member of the Writer’s workshop, even the male and elderly in every possible orifice in every conceivable position with your sticky, slimy, del.ici.io.us precious bodily fluids! Ah the smell of it! Confess!’

CHORUS: ‘Confess! Confess!’

The prisoner, Botendaddy, stands, arms at his sides, looking up at the judge.  Faceless security force members stand guard on either side of the prisoner, each of whom wear identical ‘Und Du?’ 1920’s propaganda-poster-style helmets.

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your honor… I may have possibly enticed some or all members of the Writer’s Workshop with Espresso, Latte, Coffee, Covfefe, but I did what I did in the name of that most basic human urge of the industrial, heraldic, machine-aged-styled-new-deal-cast-bronze-epic-socialist-art-worker, the desire for freedom! Freedom from want, freedom from fear, freedom from hunger, yea, freedom of expression…’

CHORUS: ‘Bullshit! Bullshit!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘OK, I lied, I f%$ked them. I f%$ked every last one of them in every way imaginable. And I spanked them, humiliated them, left them dirty, sticky and shamed. Ah del.ic.io.us! AND THEY LOVED IT! There are you happy now? I f%$ked them… Ah the taste of it!’

JUDGE: ‘So you confess to all charges! TRAITOR!’

CHORUS: ‘Cleanse the impurity!’

JUDGE: ‘I sentence you to… to… keep running!… in HUMIDITY!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Noooooo!’ ‘

[The prisoner is led away by security to the chants of the chorus.]

CHORUS: ‘HUMIDITY! HUMIDITY! HUMIDITY!’

NARRATOR: ‘My dearest audience, I thank you, for your attendance. This was a presentation of Brechtian-Kaiser-Kirchner-Paula-Modersöhn-Becker Deutsche Ausdrückkunst Théatre (pronounced Tay-ott-tchray)’.

[Actors appears in a line on the stage bowing low to raucous, extended applause.]

And so, my dear readers and only friends, I found myself alone on the desolate trail. It was 79 degrees, but 80% humidity and I ran a ten minute first mile, then by the second mile, twenty-two minutes. But was I ever really alone?

‘You’re a f*&$ing idiot.’ Said the Caribbean Queen as we ran in Indian (pronounced Revolutionary Oppressed Native American) file on the thin gravel path next to the asphalt surface. ‘Humid weather is awesome don’t you know mon.’ Barked the CQ

The downtown end of the trail

We hit the 2.77 mile turnaround point downtown. We turned to go back. Our three-mile time was horrific but under thirty-five minutes. Our four mile time was worse. We ended up at 5.54 miles. My longest run of the year.

Machine-Age expressionist vista

‘I admit, it’s a little oppressive out here, how do you run in that gargantuan, aromatic adult diaper, O’ Botendaddy? Oh the hell with it. Let’s go your penthouse downtown and f&%k wildly in the hot tub.’ Said the CQ.

‘Vanilla cold brew with half and half?’

Peace be the Botendaddy

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About Botendaddy

Three times voted extreme sexiest man alive...by acclamation. I run because I must...I must!
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