IF MEN GOT PERIOD​S
INT: MEN’S BATHROOM STALLS, ONE MAN IS ALREADY IN A STALL, ANOTHER MAN ENTERS THE SECOND STALL. YOU CAN HEAR THE FIRST MAN GETTING AN INSANE AMOUNT OF TOILET PAPER FROM THE ROLL.
 
Dylan: Everything okay in there?
 
Jack: Yeah. (More toilet paper unrolling). Fuck.
 
Dylan: You sure?
 
Jack: (Thick Southern accent.) I- uh… I just got my period. Do you have a tampon on you?
 
Dylan: Oh, bro, I got you! (reaches into the pocket of his Carhartt overalls and pulls out a mini tampon and passes it under the stall divider.)
 
Jack: (exhales thankfully) Dude, you rock! Thank you!
 
Dylan: No worries, Bro. It happens.
 
Jack: Can I buy you a beer or some nachos?
 
Dylan: Yeah, let’s get some nachos! But, only after you wash your hands! You fuckin’ bleeder.

Jack: I really dig your boots.
 
Dylan: Yeah, thanks… (dialogue trails out as they leave the bathroom)
 
FADE TO BLACK

INTERIOR: STUDIO, DAY 
​​CAMERA COMES INTO FOCUS ON A REGULAR LOOKING MALE CENTAUR WEARING A HEMP NECKLACE AND NOTHING ELSE.
 
BILL: You’ll tell me when it’s on?
 
CAMERA GUY: It’s on.
 
BILL: But, you’ll tell me when to start?
 
CAMERA GUY: I mean, you can start whenever you want. Do you want me to ask you questions?
 
BILL: No, I prepared something.
 
CAMERA GUY: Okay, whenever you’re ready.
 
BILL: (Nervously runs fingers through his hair, smiles nervously into the camera). Hello. I’m Bill. I’ve been in recovery for anorexia for three years now, and I just wanted to film this PSA to let anyone out there that might be struggling know that they’re not alone. Like, Lots of people have been where you are. You are not alone. I know how lonely it can feel sometimes, I was under 600 lbs, eating a quarter bale of hay a day, and running sixty miles. I mean, looked amazing, like an Aronofsky heroine, just a gorgeous neckline and huge eyes. But, if a guy like me can get caught up, then anyone can…
 
CAMERA GUY: Wait, aren’t you a centaur?
 
BILL: (Gestures to his very obviously nude, centaur body). Yeah, dude, I mean, you can SEE me, right?
 
CAMERA GUY: Yeah, but…
 
BILL: What else could I be?
 
CAMERA GUY: But, like… how many stomachs do you have?
 
BILL: Shut up, my dude. I’m trying to get through this.
 
CAMERA GUY: Are there a lot of centaurs that struggle with their body image?
 
BILL: I don’t know, but if I can help just ONE, that would be worth it.
 
CAMERA GUY: And, that is noble, but… you’re the only centaur I’ve ever seen.
 
BILL: (Exasperated) Is that a question?
 
CAMERA GUY: Have you ever seen another centaur?
 
BILL: No. But, that’s no reason not to be in peak condition when I do meet them! :::flexes totally average biceps:::
 
CAMERA GUY: Wait… What?!?
 
BILL: Yeah, it’s a lot of pressure. You’ve always got to be ready to save the species.
 
CAMERA GUY: I thought we were doing a piece on you being an actual centaur. I guess I’d never really thought about your body image.
 
BILL: Yeah, but, that’s a position of privilege, right there. I’m always worried when the time comes to save the species, I’ll be too heavy.
 
CAMERA GUY: Does a female centaur have a human pussy or a horse pussy?
 
BILL: :::scornfully::: You’re nasty.
 
CAMERA GUY: Does that mean you don’t know?
 
BILL: She has a horse pussy, dude. Duh.
 
CAMERA GUY: Duh? How do you know if you’ve never seen another centaur?
 
BILL: BECAUSE I HAVE A HORSE COCK, DUDE. :::Rubs temples::: Fuck. Whatever. I can’t do this now.
 
CAMERA GUY: I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I just got caught up in the moment.
 
BILL: Fine.
 
CAMERA GUY: It’s not often you meet a virgin centaur.
 
BILL: FUCK YOU, DUDE. FUCK YOU. I’m trying to do something nice here.
 
CAMERA GUY: Yeah, I have no idea what you're doing. This is a dating service.

BILL: Oh.
 

​INT: CASTLE TOWER, RAPUNZEL AT HER VANITY, OBVIOUSLY COMBING HER HAIR
 
FROM OUTSIDE THE WINDOW: Rapunzel, beautiful Rapunzel, let down your hair so that I might requite our love and ascend to thine lair.
 
Rapunzel runs to the window.
(Downwards, out window).
 
Rapunzel: Oh, brave knight! I will let down my hares for your pleasure. :::Throws rabbits out window:::
 
ON THE GROUND
Prince, looking up: What the hell?
:::Rabbits fall on his head:::
Beautiful Rapunzel? Let down your gorgeous mane, that I might conquer the distance between our beating veins!
 
IN THE CASTLE TOWER
Rapunzel: Goes to map, takes down glitter cutout of ‘Maine.’ Tosses it out the window with a baffled look on her face.
 
ON THE GROUND
Prince (dodging flying cardboard ‘Maine’ cutout):
 
Dearest Rapunzel, cast down thine wig, for my love is impatient, and and hard… and so… big (looks at his crotch, then deadpans the camera).
 
IN THE CASTLE TOWER
Rapunzel (to stage right): You heard him boys! (half a dozen WHIG members in full 19th century regalia run and jump out the window).
 
OFF STAGE: Screaming is heard, moaning, various cries of anguish as the WHIG party hits the ground.
 
ON THE GROUND
Prince (among the dead and dying):
Darling Rapunzel, do you not understand? I need you to lower your locks so I can take thine hand!
 
IN THE CASTLE TOWER
Rapunzel throws down master locks, a Club, some bike chains, and a small safe.
 
ON THE GROUND
Prince, looking much battered and bruised, looks at the camera:
You know, I hear Snow White is in this forest.
​

​Hey, all you fabulous Gen X-ers! Get a load of this! 

Hyper-Masculine Announcer:
Do you fondly remember all the fun of the 90’s sitcom, “The Nanny,” starring cultural touchstone, Fran Drescher?!?! She’s that lovable, shrieking siren infamously fired from a dress shop, only to become the live-in love and muse of the incredibly wealthy - and totally gorgeous - Mr. Sheffield! Well, now, you can relive all that nostalgic fun in a totally awesome, new way!
Introducing: “The Nanny: The Video Game!
​
(Shots of people playing on Xbox, their phone, an iPhone on the bus).
 
Little Kid:
“Look out for that slut, Cei Cie!”
 
Teenager:
“Thwart all of Niles’ bullshit mischief! Why is he such a cock-blocker?”
 
Noise from the TV:
Fran Drescher’s bleating laugh, repeated three times.
 
Winking Mom Haircut:
“Seduce Mr. Sheffield while making sure that Maggie gets to the school formal!”
 
Androgynous Dads:
”Aaannnd, super, extra bonus points if she’s not wearing tan!”
“Get her into something RED!”
:::90’s arched-eyebrow, eye-contact maneuver.:::
 
Hyper-Masculine Announcer:
Sure to be an instant family classic!
The flashy girl from Flushing, now fun for the family!
 
Fran Drescher: Bleating. 

​I miss those old Time Life infomercials for mix tapes of songs from yester-year.

Announcer Voice: DON’T MISS YOUR CHANCE TO OWN A PIECE OF MUSICAL HISTORY! THIS EPIC, 9-DISC COLLECTION INCLUDES SMASH HITS SUCH AS:

(40s Ladie's Vocals):
A kiss on the clit can be quite continental,
But, dildos are a girl’s best friend.
Some head would be grand, but it can’t pay the rental on your porn hub fee-
Why do you like to see girls pee?
 
Announcer: AND!!! DON’T FORGET ABOUT THIS TIMELESS CLASSIC:

(Haunting):
Wheeeere the boys are,
I’ll be on my knees-
Wet lips apart,
Gag reflex off,
Dying to blow you, tenderly…
 
Announcer: ALL YOUR FAMILY FAVORITES! HITS ENJOYED ACROSS THE GENERATIONS, LIKE THE ALWAYS BELOVED:

​(Lightly, longingly):
I’ll be touching you in all the moist, familiar places,
That this cunt of mine embraces,
Fuck me, too…
 
Annnouncer: ALL THIS AND MORE CAN BE YOURS FOR JUST 16 EASY PAYMENTS OF $39.95 PER MONTH PLUS SHIPPING AND HANDLING! ORDER NOW!!! 

​The day I got banned from Tinder began as any other day.
I woke up, masturbated in a futile attempt at serotonin production, made my bed, checked my messages:
 
Random white guy in my inbox.
We flirt.
He names a date, time, and location for us to "meet up to see if there’s chemistry, WINK."
 
So, I said, “sounds fun... But, just to make sure, you are politically left, of course? My profile does specify that, and I always have to check.”

He says, “I don’t see why that matters, we’re just talking about a hook up here.”
 
“Yeah, but I can’t blow a Trumper, I’m half Mexican, it’s a whole thing.”
 
“That’s so fucked up that you'd say that! I’m going to report you for hate speech.”
 
“It’s not hate speech not to fuck you.”

No reply.

I went about my life for a while, and the next time I tried to log into Tinder, it told me I was banned.
That’s it. The whole thing.

I mean, it was bound to happen, at some point, I’m genuinely antagonistic of the politically right. The only issue I really take is that it’s NOT hate speech to refuse to fuck someone who won’t vote for your basic rights. It’s actually an act of self-preservation to only copulate with people who back your personhood. It’s survival of the fittest, really; the free market has spoken, and it’s said, ‘no,’ and also, ‘go fuck yourself.’  

I don’t mind so much, really. I’m getting too old for Tinder, anyhow, and I’m kinda’ relieved to shuffle off and take my sad, gray vagina elsewhere. It’s not the end of my pathetic carousing, I promise, but… it IS the end of an era. And, it would be remiss not to pay homage to a platform which has given me so much entertainment, even if the orgasms were few and far between.

So, it is with great sadness that I bid adieu to the “men” of Tinder.
You weren’t sexually satisfying, but you were absolutely hysterical. 
​

​I’m on the balcony of our small home. It’s nearly midnight, and the lights of Los Angeles are splayed out before me, serene and tense all at once; the gorgeous pulse of humanity lies there twinkling, grinding, dragged endlessly forward by the constant turning of the world. I have a tumbler of whiskey next to me, and I’m smoking a bowl of mid-shelf pot, while my gorgeous dogs laze across the outdoor rug, wound around my feet. Their soft snoring adds to the sound of my beloveds low chuckle as he reads from one of his books, a perpetual sight in our home. He looks up, sees me watching, and reads aloud three or four witty sentences, his rich voice melting into the perfect night. The air is warm and salty, like our love, like California. 

​​I afraid that my house might be haunted… and, that’s not the creepy part.
I think my poltergeist is hitting on me.
It was little stuff at first, like just randomly phallic objects levitating.
But, now, my walls are running with lube,
And I wake up to the strangest moaning every night.
Booooooo-bies!!! Booooooooooo-bies!!! 

​Everyone wants their resume to stand head and shoulders above the crowd, but that’s not always an easily accomplished feat! There are several crucial things you should take into consideration when building an impressive resume, including; legibility, relevance, and concise content, to name a few! It’s also important to take the Works Wizard Paperclip into account, as his ruthlessly violent side-quests have felled many a brave slob. No, you do NOT need help. Do NOT take his favors, as the payment on them is steep, and his vengeance merciless. This will be your only warning.
 
Here are some helpful tips to help make your resume shine brighter than the rest!
 
1. Pick a clear, legible font in a reasonable size. Decorative is fun, but this is not the place to show off your deep devotion to Curls MT or Papyrus.
2. Just pick one font, Gabby. You don’t need a new one for each line. That’s nauseating, and you’re gross.
3. Use exciting language! You didn’t ‘do the inventory’ you ‘captained a fleet of office supplies.’   
4. Bullet points are key! Quite a few hiring managers are afraid of long sentences, especially from women.
5. The longer the word, the more it belongs in your resume, so crack open that thesaurus and start bedazzling!
6. Make sure the information you present is relevant. Your prospective employer doesn’t need to know about your severe alcoholism… yet.
7. Be extremely cautious when padding your resume, often it’s like adding a sock to your crotch. In the long run, it’s embarrassing for everyone.
8. Use spellcheck. Your spelling is an abomination.
9. Do NOT make eye contact with the Works Wizard Paperclip. I cannot stress this strongly enough. He is a treacherous villain, and you want nothing to do with him.
10. Pick a nice paper to print out your resume. Remember, just like when interviewing for the job, the whiter it appears, the better!
 
Now that you’ve crafted the perfect resume, all that’s left is to apply to numerous soul-crushing corporate entities that will steal the profits of your labor and render you near-penniless for the privilege of slaving for an old white man and his favorite logo. Good luck getting health-care!
 
Next time on 10 Tips: The Best Places to Sleep While Waiting for Government Aid

​

​
​Luke Maurer was born in 1987, to a loving set of parents. His mum, a gleaming bottle of anxiety pills, and his doting dad, an entire loaf of Wonder-brand white milk bread, have always been extremely proud of their little Snowflake.
 
I don’t call Luke a Snowflake because he’s particularly left, I say it because he’s nearly translucent in complexion.
 
He was raised as a Quaker, on a farm (I assume). He met his first girlfriend at a barn-raising when he was 14. (And, boy, could she raise more than a barn! Am I right?!?! Wink, wink… Why did I write this part?!?)
 
Annnnywhhoooo - One day, as he was rolling his hula-hoop down the dirt road near his farm he thought, “There must be more to life than this!” So, he put on his best Sunday clothes, packed up his good handkerchief and scythe and marched himself to the ‘big city;’ Eugene, Oregon.
 
Dream big, kiddo.
 
Luke gets his name from the Biblical historian, the one who authored the life of Christ in a dickens-esque tedium of detail. Which is EXACTLY what they say about Maurer’s dissertation.
 
Luke Maurer is so white… That he looks like he’s been freshly carved out of Styrofoam.
 
If you ever get tired of Comedy, you can always parley that look into 1/4 of a decently accurate Barbershop Quartet.
 
Luke has been an incredible friend, and a constant regular in the Eugene scene, which is odd, since he’s best known for looking like an extra off the set of West Side Story.
When you’re a jet, you’re a jet all the way?
 
Luke is so anal… He’s so anal, I’d think that were his sexual fetish, if I didn’t know FOR SURE that his sexual fetish is really going to be over-analyzing everything said here tonight. Over and over and over and over…
 
Luke almost always has a look of horror and confusion on his face, as though his soul is the reincarnated violinist from the Titanic.
 
Luke is always a bit uptight, a bit reserved… let’s call him ‘Socially British.’ I want to tell him to ‘throw caution to the wind,’ but I know that’s just going to lead to a million questions about the direction and strength of the wind, the current temperature and atmospheric pressure and overall climate patterns… :::Blow Out Brains:::
 
I love you dearly. SO much, in fact, that I forgive you for asking me if fucking a fat girl is like fucking a normal girl. And, for anyone that is wondering, the answer is, “No. Fucking a fat girl is MUCH better than fucking a normal girl. You know we swallow, ‘cause PROTEIN, duh. AND you know we’re getting breakfast after.
 
So, please join me in wishing Dr. Luke Maurer all the luck, adventure, pleasure, nonsense, and general debauchery he can stand. Never look back. 
​