MR. PENIS, YOU CAN’T TALK!

SCENE: AN AUDITORIUM. TWO GENTLEMAN SIT ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STAGE. A THIRD MAN SITS AT A DESK, BELOW THE STAGE AND FACING IT, WITH A CAMERA TRAINED ON HIM.

Tom Brokaw: “Good evening, and welcome again to the 2004 Congress of American Authors. This evening, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway will engage in the Emeritus Debate On Diction. The topic: which word is better to describe a man wearing pants but not undergarments, ‘free ball’ or ‘commando?’ They’re ready to begin.”

William Faulkner: rising “A man wakes in the morning and slips on his pants. He sits on the edge of his cot, clearing his head of remaining exhaustion, but not the thoughts of the screams from last night from Iraqis in the night, nor today’s inevitable screams from dying buddies, charred by a roadside bomb. The manhood between his legs hung like ripe fruit on the walk from the recruiter’s office to graduation practice of Theodore Roosevelt High School. Upon reflection, the man knew he was just a boy then, and barely a man now. So, then, green fruit precipitated his mess, and now, a little red, it was the only thing that might get him out.

Diesel fumes mix with rank boots and potatoes from the chow hall. ‘At least its not an MRE.’” sits

Brokaw: “Mr. Hemingway’s opening statement.”

Ernest Hemingway: rising “No drawers? Balls bouncing around? What the hell are we even here for?” sits

Brokaw: “Mr. Faulkner, you have two minutes to respond.”

Faulkner: rises “What the hell are we here for? This is an issue that plagues American today, particularly the south. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, coworkers, milling about, confused and in agitation over their inability to pick the precise word that will both illustrate and confuse their conversational partners at the same time. This style is commando, commando style.” sits

Hemingway: stands “The pants are pants, the balls are balls, and the penis is a penis, you long-winded jackass.”

Faulkner: springs up “Jackass?! You’re the jackass, you allusive, allegorical, absinthe-indulging clown.”

Hemingway: a measured pause, then walks to Faulkner and points a finger in his chest “Tool.”

Brokaw: "Gentl--"

Faulkner: “You’re a shotgun-sucking, safari-enjoying excuse for a bad fisherman!”

Hemingway: “You” such-and-such.

Faulkner: “You” so-and-so.

THE DOORS AT THE REAR OF THE AUDITORIUM FLYING OPEN, REVEALING A TALL, BARREL-CHESTED FIGURE AND POSSIBLY CONJOINED TWINS. THE AUDIENCE GASPS AS THEY EXIT THE SHADOWS: A GIANT, SIX-FOOT PENIS AND A PAIR OF TESTICLES HOP INTO THE AUDITORIUM.

Faulkner: “Mr. Penis!”

Hemingway: “The twins, Bill and Bob!”

Mr. Penis: “Gentleman, gentleman, we must unite, not divide on this raging issue. Outside this hall, the topic cannot even be discussed. We must be a united front, embrace both words, and let every one know that free-balling, going commando, is o-kay.”

Bill and Bob: nodding “Uh-huh.”

A MODERN AUTHOR RISES FROM THE CROWD

Modern Author: “A giant penis! You can’t talk."

Hemingway: “John.”

Faulkner: “Gisham.”

Hemingway: “Grish-hack.” Faulkner nods

Hemingway and Faulkner: “SHUT UP”

FADE TO BLACK