Writings from the graves of Randal

Randal Graves that esteemed ( or not so) member of the Peonage with a burning desire to produce that one and ultimate literary masterpiece not seen since the days of the Bard sets out with quill pen to paper (er. hadn't done that since he dipped little Susie's pigtails in the ink well in grade school) on the quest for fame and fortune. Well, fortune anyway cause fame ain't all it's cracked up to be.

His first attempt "closed" drew far less than the adoring fans he had hoped for and the reviewers were less than kind relegating not a word to the local tabloids. Perhaps the PR guy should have been fired for adding such a crude comment to the marquee, but hey he came highly recommended and worked for peanuts. At least that's what his handler at the circus said.



His next attempt "One way ticket to hell" might have drawn hordes of younger fans had there not been a battle of the heavy metal bands in Columbus that opening weekend. After all who wants Memorex when they can have the real thing? Dejected and depressed our snarky playwright skulked back to his cubicle and 8 tracks of the sex pistols for inspiration. He thought and pondered for days. Navel staring and shattered eardrums can do a body good sometimes. If only one last smidgeon a faint ember of motivation sought amongst the ivory towers to be had. The old college try. The long bomb. The impossible of impossibles. He'd pulled all nighters before but everything was on the line now. Inspiration came and with fleet of foot and nimble of fingers set out for the masterpiece among masterpieces. A concept so alluring so rapturous so devilishly tempting that no one could resist. And so it was to be. Live birth would have been a kinder gentler process. So without further ado he presented the world with:


(two can snark at this game)