Humor for Adults
Who Can Handle
Adult Humor

 — by Len Kennedy, Esq.

Quirky Colloquy:
A Play in One Act

by Len Kennedy, Esq.




At the twenty-four-hour Café Dada, in Cassandra, Iowa, a little after midnight, on a cool night in early November, Shandra and Cassandra — a pair of beautiful brunettes wearing assless chaps — drunkenly stumble in and amble over to the table closest to the exit.

Waitress: What’ll ya have, Shandra?

Shandra: A gaggle of your finest chickens, with a pair of handcuffs on the side.

Waitress: (turning to the other girl, nonchalantly — as though the preceding order wasn’t the least bit unusual) How ’bout you, Cassandra?

Cassandra: A nice, tall glass of autoerotic asphyxiation, with a dash of sadomasochism.

(The blasé Waitress brings each of them a black coffee, gets down on her hands and knees, and then crawls under their table.)

Shandra: (not speaking to Cassandra so much as at her) Last night, my mother came to me, crying, and said, “XQZ-7, there’s something I hafta tell you — I’m your father.”

Cassandra: My father was born with a genetic mutation that caused his foreskin to grow as fast as his fingernails, so he hasta get recircumcised at least once a month.

Shandra: My little sister’s trying to genetically engineer a self-lubricating, hairless gerbil with no claws and a really long tail.  She thinks they’ll be a big hit in San Francisco pet stores.

Cassandra: My little sister has her father’s eyes — but she has her mother’s big, fat ass.

Shandra: You put the bitch in habitual liar.

Cassandra: The only time I tell the truth is when I’m lying.

Shandra: Does your family know you’re always talkin’ smack about ’em behind their backs?

Cassandra: Oh, c’mon — everybody talks about everybody behind everybody’s back . . . because everybody deserves it.

     And as my gramma used to say: “Sticks ’n’ stones may break my bones, but — ouch!  What the hell?  Stop that!”

Shandra: Speaking of Jews . . . my boyfriend drinks so much coffee, he has the caffeine equivalent of three cups of coffee in each ejaculate.

Cassandra: Well, that explains why you’re always so hyperactive.

Shandra: My boyfriend puts the penis in happiness.

Cassandra: But from what I hear, he also puts the homo in homeowner.

Shandra: (furrows brow)

Cassandra: He puts the cock in caca?

Shandra: (reluctantly) He puts the butt in butter — and vice versa.

Cassandra: Ew.

Shandra: But sometimes he puts the gin in vagina — and laps it outta there like a dog, baby.

Cassandra: You put the whore in horizontal.

Shandra: Your boyfriend put the cock in Cocker Spaniel.

Cassandra: He was young.  He needed the money.

Shandra: Hey, I’m young . . . I could use some money.

Cassandra: You could also use a new boyfriend.  Pardon my honesty, but I just can’t stand the Neanderthal.  Hell, the only time the cretin ever laughs is when some poor dope gets kicked in the nuts or somethin’.

Shandra: Oh, c’mon, Sven doesn’t even know the meaning of the word schadenfreude.

Cassandra: Oh, I don’t doubt that.  You’re lucky stupidity isn’t a sexually transmitted disease.

Shandra: Hmm?  What?  Huh?

Cassandra: I don’t mean to be mean, but you’re also lucky ugliness isn’t a sexually transmitted disease.

Shandra: Oh, sure, he’s no Brad Pitt — but he’s no armpit either.

Cassandra: Maybe I’m just a superficial bitch.

Shandra: You put the ass in Cassandra.

Cassandra: And if you don’t find yourself a new boyfriend pretty soon, the next time you wanna make love, you’re gonna hafta put the hand in Shandra, if you know what I mean.

Shandra: (coyly) I have no idea what you mean.

Cassandra: As they say, you can’t pleasure everyone, so you gotta pleasure yourself.

Shandra: Hey, isn’t that “Garden Party” by Ricky Nelson?  I love that song.  That reminds me, I gotta get some new batteries.

Cassandra: Wait a minute.  What were we just talkin’ about?  Goddamn, I have the attention span of a — hey, I just remembered . . . on the news, this morning, they said the Cockburn Sperm Bank got robbed by a fat, black man disguised as a skinny, white girl.

Shandra: I keep forgetting I have a bad —

Cassandra: Memory?

Shandra: I hate it when people finish my —

Cassandra: Sentences?

Shandra: Ha ha, very —

Cassandra: Funny?

Shandra: Anyway, as I was saying, I forgot my —

Cassandra: Vagina?

Shandra: I forgot to take my Tempo to Dick Witham Ford today.  I think the blower motor’s on the fritz.

Cassandra: (snickering) Dick Witham.

Shandra: What?  What’s so funny?

Cassandra: What’s so funny?  I’ll tell you what’s so funny: Shandra’s boyfriend would’ve had a lot more fun at the bathhouse if he’d remembered to take his Dick Witham.

(The Waitress slips out from underneath the table and refills their coffees.  She has a shiny chin.  She surreptitiously slithers back under the table.)

Shandra: Hey, what was the name of that local band that played in Cockburn National Bank’s parking lot last weekend?

Cassandra: Norman Newman and the Nipple Nibblers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Molly Miller and the Muff Munchers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Squirrelly Shirley and the Schlong Slingers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Squamous Seamus and the Sploodge Slurpers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Skanky Spanky and the Crack Spacklers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Campy Colin and the Colon Cloggers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Curly Cockburn and the Cock Chuggers?

Shandra: No.

Cassanda: Pokey Pete and the Pudding Peckers?

Shandra: No.

Cassandra: Freddy Fister and the Fingerfucking Felchmeisters?

Shandra: Oh, fuck off.

Cassandra: Hey, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you less than twice: You shouldn’t tell other people what to do.

Shandra: Well, isn’t telling me not to tell other people what to do telling someone what to do?

Cassandra: Oh, why doncha go suck on a skunk’s stink-sac?

Shandra: How come you’re always such a rag-ass bitch?

Cassandra: That’s just my way of showing affection — well, that and rubbing up against strangers in crowded elevators.

Shandra: And you always get a little belligerent when you drink Scotch.

Cassandra: Yeah, maybe I should quit drinking the hard stuff.

Shandra: You should probably just quit drinking, period.

Cassandra: Yucky.

Shandra: Oh, you know what I mean.

Cassandra: As a wise woman once said — when her mother was raggin’ on her, sayin’ things like “You know, one of these days, you’re gonna hafta go out and get a job so you can move outta the house already” — “Bitch, I ain’t gotta do shit!”

     And though this really has nothing to do with anything, a few days later, that wise woman’s less-than-wise mother came home, after a long night at work — a long night of sellin’ her ass on the streets of London, Kentucky — and said to the wise chick’s wise brother, “I thought I told you to do your laundry,” to which he wisely replied, “Oh, I’m sorry — I thought by do you meant have sex with . . . which reminds me, I’m gonna need some new socks.”

Shandra: You are so nasty!

Cassandra: I was a born pervert — the very first word outta my mouth was goo.

Shandra: I think the first word outta my mouth was weltschmerz.

Cassandra: You’re yankin’ my wanker.

Shandra: You don’t have a wanker to yank.

Cassandra: I might as well have one — hell, I’ve been eatin’ steroids like candy for so many years now, I can’t even walk around naked anymore without trippin’ over my clitoris.

Shandra: Do these panties make my labia look fat?

Cassandra: I think those collagen injections make your labia look fat.

Shandra: Hey, do they sell tuna sandwiches here?

Cassandra: Have you ever gone twenty-four hours without eating tuna?

Shandra: I doubt it.  Hell, I eat so much tuna, my boyfriend thinks I’m a lesbian.

Cassandra: You lick my pussy so often, I think you’re a lesbian.

Shandra: Oh, c’mon — how could anyone think I’m a lesbian?  I literally ooze femininity . . . at least, I hope that’s what that discharge is.

Cassandra: You give new meaning to the expression “dishonorable discharge.”

Shandra: Cassie, why does your butt taste like cheese?

Cassandra: I disagree.

Shandra: Are you sure?

Cassandra: I don’t know about you, but if I could be any monkey with a Spanish wombat named Guillermo, I’d eat bologna straight of the bottle.

Shandra: That doesn’t make any sense.

Cassandra: Or maybe it makes so much sense that it just blows your fuckin’ mind!

Shandra: (purses lips, raises left eyebrow, and scratches chin thoughtfully)

(The Waitress rematerializes from underneath the table and refills their coffees.  Her face is slathered in vaginal drippings.  She goes to the bathroom to wash up.)

Cassandra: Wow . . . this week has been so hectic: My father’s awaiting a heart transplant, my mother’s awaiting a new husband, and my twelve-year-old brother’s awaiting trial for first-degree murder, burglary, rape, arson, vandalism, libel, slander, plagiarism, and allegedly stealing a pack of Chiclets from Hy-Vee.

Shandra: Well, as they say, things always get worse before they get better — and they never really get any better.

Cassandra: It takes way too long to eat, shower, get dressed, and pee before goin’ to work, so I think I’m just gonna start doin’ ’em all at the same time.

Shandra: (gazing out the window at nothing in particular) Well, it won’t be long now.

Cassandra: Isn’t that what Ron Jeremy said when he got his wang caught in a weed whacker?

Shandra: It won’t be long before winter bends us over and schtups us in the tuckus again.  Goddamn, I hate winter!

Cassandra: Yeah, it’s already startin’ to get kinda chilly outside.  It’s nights like this that make me glad I have pubic hair to keep my vulva warm.

Shandra: I had a pubic hair once.

Cassandra: You know, it’s kinda weird: As much as I enjoy life — as much as I enjoy living — it just feels as though there’s something missing in my life.  I feel somehow incomplete . . . like an abortion clinic without a wet/dry vac.

Shandra: Well, I think that’s something everyone can relate to.  Hey, Cassie, is there something you’re not telling me?

Cassandra: Like what?

Shandra: How would I know, if you’re not telling me?

Cassandra: We’d better go.  I think I hear Ms. Olympia’s distended clitoris ringing.

Shandra: Hey, wait a minute.  When you called me earlier, you said you had something important you wanted to tell me over coffee.

Cassandra: Didn’t I?

Shandra: Well, we both said lots of things — but there’s really no point to any of it . . . no point at all.

Cassandra: My point exactly.

(The women sashay up to the register and pay for their coffees.  Shandra pays with a fistful of nothingness, and Cassandra with a sackful of Sisyphean futility.)

(Exit Shandra and Cassandra.)

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Home | LenKen Photo Essay | Part I: Quips & Squibs | Part II: Intermezzo: Bad Poetry for Bad People | Part III: Weird Stories for Weird People | Addendum: The Slapdash Mishmash: A Legacy | Appendage: Short Essays on Long Topics | Preamble: A Brief History of Me | Preface: Freedom of Speech versus Freedom from Speech | Prelude: Maturity versus Immaturity | Prologue: Strength versus Weakness | Prolusion: The Period: Dickens Redux | Quips & Squibs | Universal Rules of Etiquette | A Writer and His Hookers | The Sadistic News Network | Books That Cause a Tingling Sensation in My Left Testicle | Alternative Uses for a Brick | A Calm and Rational Analyis of Winter | Odium | Drivel, Blather, Prattle, and Twaddle | Bad Pick-Up Lines | Bilge, Dreck, Tripe, and Schlock for Schlemiels, Schlimazels, Schmucks, and Schmegegges | Arizona | Chickens | If You Make a Girl Snicker, She May Let You Lick Her | A Lesbian’s Lament | THC | Ode to the Paperboy | Sesquipedalian Love Song | Interview with a Petulant Old Shrew | Interview with a Persnickety, Pugnacious Pedant | A Freak Like Me | I Have Weird Dreams | A Long, Hard Look at Gun Control | Readings in the Cassandra Times | The Infamous Stickflipper | Keeping a Kennedy Tradition Alive | The Stalker | Lucy in the Sky with Dysentery | Beyond God & Devil | Pile of Nothing | How to Quit Smoking and Die Anyway | Epilogue: Quirky Colloquy: A Play in One Act | An Introduction to the Slapdash Mishmash | Poppycock? | Der Klusturfuk der Katzenjammer | The Cowardice of One’s Convictions: Cognitive Dissonance Theory in a Nutshell | Controlling Your Emotions before They Control You: Rational-Emotive Behavior Therapy in a Nutshell | Why We Should Be Dying to Live Rather than Living to Die | About the Author | Sign My Guestbook