Denver’s Birthday [short film script]

The following is a birthday present for my buddy, Denver. But you can enjoy it too if you want.

Denver’s Birthday


A birthday cake with unlit candles is sitting on a surface in the foreground. The background is a blank wall. Denver walks in from left of screen. He’s wearing some sort of formal wear. He lights the candles on the cake and stands center on the screen. He clears his throat, addresses the camera. The whole scene is one continuous shot.

I’ve prepared a statement.

He pulls a folded up piece of paper from his right suit coat inner pocket. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads.

Now that the Communist revolution is nigh at hand, it seems prudent to look back at how we got hereā€¦

He looks at the paper curiously. Addresses the camera again.

Wrong statement. This is for another occasion.

He folds the paper back up and places it back in his right pocket. Now he reaches into his left inner suit coat pocket and pulls out a different folded up piece of paper. Clear his throat again.

According to a Facebook meme I saw once, the ceremony of the birthday cake is an old pagan ritual. The candles are the light of life, and the smoke of the snuffed light carries our prayers to the gods. This is why we make the prayer of the wish before we blow out the candles.

Denver hands the paper left offscreen and exits to the right side of the screen. A new reader enters from the left.

We always feel the need to inoculate ourselves from cultural and historical context. History now only extends to the loudest living person’s lifetime.

This reader hands the paper left offscreen and exits to the right side of the screen. A new reader enters from the left.

Some historians and alchemists can see the holy interplay of billions of people over millennia interacting and grinding the grist of history, bringing forward the new, and leaving the unmovable by the side of the road.

The second NotDenver hands the paper offscreen and exits as before. Entering from the left once more is Denver.

So this year, my birthday wish is to see the dialectical interplay of all of time and space. I now send this wish to the gods.

Denver blows out the candles and walks offscreen.




Baroness Jasmine Hovel, in more than a few ways, resembled a hot bag of mayonnaise left out in the sun. Her scent, her personality, her general demeanor, and excretions all bore a vile resemblance to the sweltering condiment.

She spent her days investing heavily in housing derivatives, according to what the tarot cards read, watching old reruns of surgery footage, and smoking about 10 packs of Benson & Hedges a day.

The Baron Anthony Hovel of Bologna resembled a skeleton stricken with rickets, with the dermis of a patchwork quilt made of discarded foreskins.

They were cousins of some remove and neither changed their names in the marriage. Both of them bore the pustules all over their body which had been the trademark of the Hovels for three generations.

He hated her smoking. And what’s worse, she insisted on smoking indoors.

“Darling,” he timidly began, “It says in the Bible that it’s a sin to smoke.” He pulled a bible from behind his back and began to read. “‘For thy lungs are my lungs. And thou artest not to inhaleth thine smoking sticks. For it createth a great mustard in my lungs which is super gross. And people have been talkingeth, sayingeth that they don’t wanteth to hangeth outeth with thou anymore. Because thy acrid smoke which billows from thine mouth is unappealing.’ Ablutions 420:69.”

The baroness didn’t look up from the television, which was displaying a surgeon hacking away at a gallbladder. “When did we become religious?” She exhaled smoke and hot mayonnaise scent into the atmosphere.

The baron, defeated, quietly stomped off. In his spoiled, anemic, inbred heart he was stomping. But he didn’t want to disturb anyone. So he was quiet about it.

The greasy egg yolk of the sun slipped down the skypan, giving way to a bacon splatter of stars.

The great dining hall was illuminated by fireplaces on either end of the hall, and several candelabra. The portraits of inbred relatives lined the walls, with eyes that flitted around the room according to the whims of the flames. The heads of two-headed bucks and super-rhinoceroses loomed.

On either side of an absurdly long dinner table, the baron and baroness were dressed in their dinner attire. The servants dart about without names or faces, trying their best to be non-entities.

“I was examining,” began the baron, “the skulls of Greek Orthodox cretins today, and found a new devious ridge with my calipers.” He had a sip of orphans’ tears, which was his usual before-dinner beverage. “I will present my findings to the Gentlemen’s League of Phrenological Discovery next month.”

The baroness had filled halfway the dinner ashtray. She picked at some fresh pustules on her arm. The ooze of the pustules looked like cold mayonnaise. “That’s lovely dear,” she mumbled, eyes downcast.

“When do you,” queried the baron, “think we may have sexual coitus again? We did it that one time, before the war, and I thought it was really great.”

The question lingered in the air just long enough for social discomfort to set in. Then the main course arrived to the dining hall. A 5 foot long roast centipede was for dinner again. The baron’s favorite.

“Centipede again,” said the baroness. “How original.”

A nameless, faceless servant cut into the great beast, revealing the gooey, gelatinous inner parts. The baron always claimed the head for its delicious brain meat.

The baroness lit another cigarette while the last one still burned in the tray.

“Must you smoke at dinner, my love?”

“I’m clear across the room. I doubt you can tell the difference.” She popped another pustule and smeared the mayonnaise on her newly-arrived bug meat.

“I can barely see you; there’s so much smoke.”

The baroness’s eyes narrowed, and said through gritted teeth, “I will have sex with you right now on this table if you will never mention my smoking again.”

The baron was torn. He hated the smoking, but his balls were so backed up from 25 years without sexual congress. He agreed to the arrangement.

The baroness was so out of breath from hoisting herself onto the table she popped a lung pustule and coughed up some mayo. “Alright, let’s get this done.”

When the servants registered what was happening they all ran to their quarters. Nobody wants to see that.

The baron eventually reached the other side of the table. He was going to kiss her, but she lit another cigarette and thought better of it. He lifted her skirts and pulled down her bloomers to reveal her pustuled underparts. Then he pulled down his own pants.

The baron had two penises. One was 3 feet long. The other was 3 inches long. Both were covered in pustules. The longer one was more for show. It had never had an erection. The shorter one was the business end.

He tried to put his little pecker in her hole, but it wouldn’t go. The baroness rolled her eyes. “You have to lube it up, dummy.” She stuck her fist into the centipede steak and pulled out a fist of goo. She rubbed her cunt fiercely with the goo.

Still he couldn’t get his pecker in. He tried t vigorously that he popped a pustule. This allowed him to get the head inside. Then a realization came to him. He slowly ran his hand down his bigger cock, popping every pustule along the way. He applied a fist of mayo to her vagina, which allowed smooth entry.

He pumped three times and that was enough for him. As he came, the baroness blew smoke in his face. His little cock did a little spurt and he thought that was the end of it. But then he felt a great rumbling in the big cock.

Suddenly a great spray came from the monster cock, which splattered everything in the vicinity. Then an even greater spray came with such force that it rocketed the baron’s frail frame around the dining hall. He broke bones and damaged organs as he hit the ceiling, then the wall, then the floor. Then he was projected to the far end of the hall, where he was impaled from the back by the horn of a super-rhinoceros.

The baron slowly died in agony; his giant floppy cock still spraying cum all over, like a firehose without a fireman.

The baroness wiped herself off with the table cloth. She pulled up her bloomers and had a seat. Thankfully, the cum hadn’t ruined he cigarettes. She pulled out a new Benson & Hedges and lit it. She took a long, luxuriant drag.

a poem about boiled eggs

A poem about boiled eggs

What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly?
Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist.
The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding.
If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane.
I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process.
That way the eggs feel at home.
It’s like they never left the shell.
I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell.
I incubate my dreams in the shell.
That’s where I live.

Direct Address [monologue]

Direct Address

//Lights Up. A single Spotlight illuminates an empty stage, which is framed by ornate red and gold curtains. M L Woldman is Down Center stage, wearing pajama pants, a T-shirt, and a top hat. He addresses the audience.//

Welcome to the Quarantine Theatre, located in your mind. It’s very conveniently located, surrounded by great restaurants you can go to without fear of infection. Around the corner is your favorite bar where you can grab some drinks with your friends after the show.

There are all sorts of things that I didn’t do before the quarantine that I wish I could do now. Going to the theatre is one of them. So I thought, as a public service, I could bring the theatre to you.

At first blush, this may seem like a compromise. But the imaginary theatre has benefits the real theatre doesn’t have. For example, look over here to your right. It’s your favorite painting by your favorite artist.

//Your favorite painting materializes Stage Right from thin air.//

And over to your left, your favorite musician is playing your favorite song.

//Your favorite musician materializes Stage Left from thin air.//

You can’t get this in the real theatre.

//The painting and the musician disappear.//

Your mind can fill in the gaps where reality fails. And right now there are a lot of gaps. The quarantine is a gap. The future is a gap. How humanity interacts from here on out is a gap.

And that last gap is partly why I wanted to build this theatre in your head. Because this weird little blog I’m making here is getting more attention lately, and I wanted to talk to you directly.

I really appreciate you being here. It means a lot to me. I’ve been writing poetry and plays for 20 years now, with very limited success. And suddenly I show up to WordPress and you all accepted me with open arms. It feels like I have a home now.

I started this blog because there are things I want to see in the world that don’t exist yet. I want to bring those things into being. This is why I make art. This is why I exist. I may not succeed all the time. But what I’m finding is that as a community we can find resonance even where this aim fails.

Community is powerful. And now that the entire world is sharing a single plight, it’s time to connect to each other and care for each other.

I didn’t mean for this to be so sappy. But I feel a love for the world and my fellow humans that I didn’t feel before the pandemic.

And so maybe I should end on that note. A note of harmony and solidarity with all humans. Seems like a good closer.

Thanks for coming out to the Quarantine Theatre. Please be safe on your way home.

//Lights down.