Carolyn Cohagan » Comedy Essays/ Short Fiction http://carolyncohagan.com Books, Blogs and Blather Thu, 12 Apr 2012 19:58:42 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 Jerry Bruckheimer presents “The Catcher in the Rye” http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/24/jerry-bruckheimer-presents-the-catcher-in-the-rye/ http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/24/jerry-bruckheimer-presents-the-catcher-in-the-rye/#comments Thu, 24 Nov 2011 20:41:38 +0000 admin http://02e7cba.netsolhost.com/wordpress1/?p=141 #followform { padding-top:5px; text-align:left; } by Carolyn Cohagan   INT. OLD SPENCER’S BEDROOM, DAY   OLD SPENCER sits covered in a blanket in a large, cracked leather chair, while HOLDEN CAULFIELD, tall, ruggedly handsome, and wearing a red hunting cap, sits uncomfortably on a hard bed. OLD SPENCER So you’re leaving us, eh?   HOLDEN Yes, sir. I guess I [...]]]> #followform { padding-top:5px; text-align:left; }
by Carolyn Cohagan

 

INT. OLD SPENCER’S BEDROOM, DAY

 

OLD SPENCER sits covered in a blanket in a large, cracked leather chair, while HOLDEN CAULFIELD, tall, ruggedly handsome, and wearing a red hunting cap, sits uncomfortably on a hard bed.

OLD SPENCER

So you’re leaving us, eh?

 

HOLDEN

Yes, sir. I guess I am.

 

OLD SPENCER

Your, ah, exam paper is over there on top

of my chest of drawers. Bring it here, please.

 

Holden stands, reluctantly gets the paper from a stack, and hands it to Old Spencer,

who handles it carefully. Holden sits back down.

 

OLD SPENCER

We only studied the Egyptians from

November 4th to December 2nd.

You chose to write about them.

May I read what you wrote?

 

HOLDEN

I wish you wouldn’t –

 

OLD SPENCER

The Egyptians were an ancient race

of Caucasians residing in one of the

northern sections of Africa. The Egyptians

are extremely interesting to us today for

various reasons. One of which is their

sophisticated use of technology, such as

water ducts, written language, and a

primitive form of acupuncture known

as hilopathologism-

 

HOLDEN

Yeah, I’m a real moron.

 

OLD SPENCER

That is precisely my point, boy.

I don’t think you’re a moron at all.

In fact, I question whether anyone

at Pencey Prep, student or professor,

could have told me about

hilopathologism.

 

HOLDEN

I must have learned it at

Whooton or that goddam Elkton Hills–

 

OLD SPENCER

No, no I don’t think you did. In fact,

I don’t think you learned it at all.

I think you remembered it.

 

HOLDEN

I don’t see what you mean.

 

OLD SPENCER

It’s time someone told you who you

really are. I believe you are the last

remaining descendent of Khepri,

the Egyptian God of Creation.

 

HOLDEN

For Chrissake, what a bunch of malarkey!

You been sniffing too many Vicks Nose

Drops, sir?

 

OLD SPENCER

No, Holden. It’s true. I noticed the first time

I met you that you bear the sacred mark of

Ra upon your head. Please remove

your hunting cap, young man.

 

Holden cautiously removes his cap and we see a birthmark that looks like a sun on his right upper forehead. Old Spencer starts to nod emphatically.

 

OLD SPENCER

Tremendous! Have a look here at this

hieroglyphic.

 

He grabs a book from the nearby bookshelf and shows Holden a picture. Holden smiles in amazement.

 

HOLDEN

Boy! I can’t wait to tell Phoebe.

It’ll kill her!

 

OLD SPENCER

There’s no time for her now, son.

You’ve got to get going before it’s too late!

 

HOLDEN

Get going where? Too late for what?

 

OLD SPENCER

Someone, or something, has been

breaking into museums around the

world and stealing the gold rings

of Isis. It’s up to you to stop

this person, grab the gold rings, and

restore Atum to his rightful throne.

 

HOLDEN

I don’t know, Mr. Spencer, my parents

will be sorry as hell if I’m not home

for Christmas –

 

OLD SPENCER

There’s more. I didn’t want to

mention it . . . but whoever is

gathering these rings, he’s taking them,

harnessing their powers and he’s

turning innocent people . . .

 

HOLDEN

Just say it, sir –

 

OLD SPENCER

. . . into phonies.

 

Holden stands and grasps his head in despair.

 

HOLDEN

Not that! GODDAMN IT.

 

OLD SPENCER

I know. It’s an abomination.

 

Holden bangs his fist on the chest of drawers.

 

HOLDEN

Where do I start?

 

OLD SPENCER

I want you to say hello to an old friend . . .

 

The closet door opens and out walks a stunning young woman, wearing glasses and a lab coat.

 

HOLDEN

Sally Hayes?!

 

OLD SPENCER

Yes, Holden. Sally works for me.

She specializes in organic chemistry,

pyramid engineering and Kung Fu.

She’ll fill you in on the situation.

Now get out there, and do your

country proud!

 

HOLDEN

Yes, sir, Mr. Spencer.

 

Holden raises an eyebrow at Sally, as he approaches her slowly.

 

HOLDEN

Would you happen to know where the ducks

in Central Park go in the winter time, Sally?

 

SALLY

(sassily) Depends. Are you referring to

the white Aylesbury or the common Mallard?

 

Holden grabs her around the waist and kisses her passionately, just as a massive fireball comes crashing through the wall, propelling him and Sally through the bedroom window and out onto the lawn. Covered in sexy burn smudges, they look back at the raging inferno of Spencer’s house in which no one could have possibly survived.

 

HOLDEN

Goddamn it, Sally. GODDAMN IT.
 

END SCENE

]]> http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/24/jerry-bruckheimer-presents-the-catcher-in-the-rye/feed/ 1 FAN FICTION: Letter from an Oompa Loompa http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/08/from-the-desk-of-jupudah-loompa/ http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/08/from-the-desk-of-jupudah-loompa/#comments Wed, 09 Nov 2011 05:46:47 +0000 admin http://02e7cba.netsolhost.com/wordpress1/?p=10 #followform { padding-top:5px; text-align:left; } by Carolyn Cohagan   Dearest Chumbudu,   I hope this letter finds you well.  Indeed, I hope it is able to find you at all. Since you returned to the island, we have heard not a peep from you, and we can only pray to the Gods for your safety. Mother cannot sleep, she is [...]]]> #followform { padding-top:5px; text-align:left; }

by Carolyn Cohagan

 

Dearest Chumbudu,

 

I hope this letter finds you well.  Indeed, I hope it is able to find you at all. Since you returned to the island, we have heard not a peep from you, and we can only pray to the Gods for your safety. Mother cannot sleep, she is so distraught with the idea of you falling prey to a Whangdoodle or Vermicious Knid, so please write to her as soon as possible, and put her mind at ease.

Although I did not understand your decision to return to our homeland last year, I must confess that now your departure seems like a wise and prescient move. The chocolate factory has not been the same since the retirement of Mr. Wonka. Our benevolent employer did his best to leave us in good hands, but I am sad to report that chaos reigns in our candy kingdom.

“The boy wonder,” as Mr. Wonka called him (although downstairs we prefer “boy blunder”) made his first order of business to cut our daily teatime, and suggested that room and board at the factory did not mean “all you can eat.” He then proceeded to initiate a ration system. Well, I thought there would be a riot! But you know us, Chumbudu. There was a lot of passionate singing and fervent rhyming, but not a fist was thrown.

Next thing you know the boy removed all the nuts from the factory. That’s right! All of them! Pistachios, almonds, coconuts . . . Just because he doesn’t like them. In one misguided decree he has removed all texture and nuance from our art. I’m glad you left the country before you had to see a brittle without a peanut. You would have wept.

And then came the worst offense.  He slashed our pension plans! Just like that. This time I wasn’t having it. No amount of dancing could placate me. And so I marched into his office and demanded justice. And you just won’t believe what the insipid little urchin said. He told me in no uncertain terms that Mr. Wonka had smuggled us into the EU illegally, that we were undocumented workers with no rights, and that we were getting an excellent deal that we should be very happy with. He said if I wanted to leave I was happy to go out and join the unemployed Jamaicans hanging out by the hardware shop!

I tell you, it’s a dreadful time to be orange in Britain. There are no jobs, and people are losing their homes, and this is when society looks to blame anyone who is different. There has been a bout of depression among the workers. Last month sweet Hulanadee drowned himself in a vat of marshmallow.

Not only was it tragic, but it was a hard, hard funeral. No one could think of anything that rhymed with marshmallow. Of course since that day, it’s all I can think of: harsh & shallow, dark gallows, face so sallow, oh I could go on for days . . .

But enough of my complaining! Things aren’t all bad.  Sidaaraha had her baby, a gorgeous little girl, called Neepee. And Tondaroo and Shaylandoo finally got married (between you and me, I heard Shaylandoo is already licking someone else’s gobstopper, but that’s another story). And soon it will be time to celebrate Hodidake, my favorite holiday, but it won’t be the same drinking pig fat from our shoes without you, my dear cousin.

All I ask is this, if you should ever decide to return to this cold land of fog and tall man odour, please bring with you some sort of weapon. We did not have the foresight to arm ourselves when we embarked upon our long journey so many years ago. We were blinded by the charm and kindness of Mr. Wonka, but now the veil has been lifted, we have plummeted from our sugar high, and we could greatly use any sort of axe, hatchet, or machete that you are able to smuggle in on your person. Just one should do.

 

With deepest affection,

 

Jupudah Loompa

 

]]> http://carolyncohagan.com/2011/11/08/from-the-desk-of-jupudah-loompa/feed/ 0