Post by Lawnmower Jones on Jan 11, 2007 14:09:44 GMT -5
(The scene opens inside of an old shack. The room has bright lights and old tile floors that make the room cool. An old green coach, that is torn, is against a wall, where Lawnmower Jones lay.)
LJ: So that's when I got herpes the second time.
(Above Jones hangs a picture of dogs playing poker. Next to the couch is an old, shaky wooden desk with a lamp on it. A name plaque rests atop the old wood reading "Dr. Marty Collins". Hanging near the desk is a framed diploma reading "Marty Collins, Therapist, Universityofskrinkageacadeny.net". Nobody sits at the desk, and Jones is the only person in the room.)
LJ: I couldn't believe it either. I tried the stuff on the commercials, but I dunno. I think it's a scam. When I was alergic to it, I decided to try and get my money back but they were "out of business". Doesn't seem to professional to me. And trust me, I know professional.
(Marty Collins, the man from Wal-Mart, is seen walking into the room. He has on a white suit and green tie. In his right hand is a McDonald's cup. He takes a seat at the desk and leans back, smiling.)
MC: Well, the world is everchanging, my friend. But unfortunately, this is all the time we have. I'll pencil you in for next Thursday.
(LJ sits up.)
LJ: Don't you have to give me some kind of analysis?
MC: (Groaning) Fine. Jones, my notes indicate you might have a disease called...
(Collins thinks.)
MC: Nuclepolaromonity.
LJ: I knew it!
MC: Sure you did. I won't know if it's official until I can see you on a regular basis, but right now, I think it's safe to give you a treatment, just to see how you react.
LJ: Will this make me loopy?
MC: No more than you already are.
LJ: OK, because I have a tag team match this week. I face Chris Avery and a wear wolf.
MC: Sure you do. Olga!
LJ: It could be a tough match, but I'm not scared. My partner is David Alastair. Do you think it would be good for my psyche if he's my partner? Especially since we have to fight one another at One. I really can't have any distractions.
MC: Yea, sure. Olga! I call you, you come! Do you like the negative degrees of the communist cold? If not, then you answer when I call, or else I'll revoke your blue card faster than cancer did Lance Armstrong's hair!
(A fat, old Russian lady wearing a red flower dress walks into the room. She has gray hair and has a tingle of facial hair. She barely fits into the entrance way.)
LJ:Hello Olga. This is kind of a personal session, so I'm asking you step away.
MC: (whispering) Olga, get me some ugar-s ills-p. This guy is razy-c.
(Olga says something in Russian and spits. She comes back momentarily with a small container. Collins writes something on it, then hands it to Jones.)
LJ: How many times do I have to take these?
MC: Whenever you feel blue. They're your own special happy pills.
LJ: Do they count as steroids?
MC: No.
LJ: So I won't test postive?
MC: No.
LJ: You sure.
MC: No...wait yes.
LJ: Tricked you.
(MC hands the container to Jones, who puts them in his overall pocket. Jones stands up.)
LJ: Any last advice before the big match?
MC: No, but if you want to make it there, you'd better get out of my office.
LJ: OK.
(Jones runs out of the room and the scene fades to black.)
LJ: So that's when I got herpes the second time.
(Above Jones hangs a picture of dogs playing poker. Next to the couch is an old, shaky wooden desk with a lamp on it. A name plaque rests atop the old wood reading "Dr. Marty Collins". Hanging near the desk is a framed diploma reading "Marty Collins, Therapist, Universityofskrinkageacadeny.net". Nobody sits at the desk, and Jones is the only person in the room.)
LJ: I couldn't believe it either. I tried the stuff on the commercials, but I dunno. I think it's a scam. When I was alergic to it, I decided to try and get my money back but they were "out of business". Doesn't seem to professional to me. And trust me, I know professional.
(Marty Collins, the man from Wal-Mart, is seen walking into the room. He has on a white suit and green tie. In his right hand is a McDonald's cup. He takes a seat at the desk and leans back, smiling.)
MC: Well, the world is everchanging, my friend. But unfortunately, this is all the time we have. I'll pencil you in for next Thursday.
(LJ sits up.)
LJ: Don't you have to give me some kind of analysis?
MC: (Groaning) Fine. Jones, my notes indicate you might have a disease called...
(Collins thinks.)
MC: Nuclepolaromonity.
LJ: I knew it!
MC: Sure you did. I won't know if it's official until I can see you on a regular basis, but right now, I think it's safe to give you a treatment, just to see how you react.
LJ: Will this make me loopy?
MC: No more than you already are.
LJ: OK, because I have a tag team match this week. I face Chris Avery and a wear wolf.
MC: Sure you do. Olga!
LJ: It could be a tough match, but I'm not scared. My partner is David Alastair. Do you think it would be good for my psyche if he's my partner? Especially since we have to fight one another at One. I really can't have any distractions.
MC: Yea, sure. Olga! I call you, you come! Do you like the negative degrees of the communist cold? If not, then you answer when I call, or else I'll revoke your blue card faster than cancer did Lance Armstrong's hair!
(A fat, old Russian lady wearing a red flower dress walks into the room. She has gray hair and has a tingle of facial hair. She barely fits into the entrance way.)
LJ:Hello Olga. This is kind of a personal session, so I'm asking you step away.
MC: (whispering) Olga, get me some ugar-s ills-p. This guy is razy-c.
(Olga says something in Russian and spits. She comes back momentarily with a small container. Collins writes something on it, then hands it to Jones.)
LJ: How many times do I have to take these?
MC: Whenever you feel blue. They're your own special happy pills.
LJ: Do they count as steroids?
MC: No.
LJ: So I won't test postive?
MC: No.
LJ: You sure.
MC: No...wait yes.
LJ: Tricked you.
(MC hands the container to Jones, who puts them in his overall pocket. Jones stands up.)
LJ: Any last advice before the big match?
MC: No, but if you want to make it there, you'd better get out of my office.
LJ: OK.
(Jones runs out of the room and the scene fades to black.)
