The postcard

The postcard-

The setting


A gymnasium with a wood floor which is covered by rows of wooden chairs occupied by a beatnik looking crowd of people. The air is hazy with second hand smoke, the smell of it is mixed with the tang of bad institutional coffee. At the front of the room there is a raised podium with a speakers box and a microphone.

Several people are gathered around the coffee machine sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups while others talk in small groups on chairs pulled into a circle for intimacy. Several people are sitting alone and they all appear to be reading the same blue hardcovered book.

act 1 scene 1

A man with a grey ponytail steps to the Mic. and calls the meeting to order.“ok everyone, it’s time to get started”. No one pays attention so he taps the Mic. Briskly causing feed back squelch, which turns heads throughout the room.

“That’s better- everyone please take your seats we have a busy night ahead of us and...” he trails off a moment “we have a very special guest with us this evening” this last caused a small murmur to roll through the crowd.. Now for the first order of business-last week someone accidently made off with someone else’s copy of  “Ogreatbaldone’s complete collected works” and they would like it back as they use it to keep their couch level on one end”.

“Now on to business- Hi, my name is Doc and I am a Galcoholic”.

To a man the crowd replied “ Hi Doc.”

Doc. nods to the crowd. “ Have been in Galcoholic’s anonymous for 5 years now and I have never laughed harder”- A light smattering of applause from the crowd– “But lately I have struggled, I go the Galfalfa’s page every day to stay current with her works, but I never find anything to read that I have not read before-time and time again. Like all of you I have suffered the lack of Gal. We all keep saying the same old catch phrases- “one poem at a time”-“ keep it funny” and the like, but it does no good- I feel lost, that’s why I come to meetings to share my feelings with you my co-sufferers. That’s what GA is all about, helping each other newcomer or lifer. So I got to thinking about our suffering without new Galfalfa pieces to read and I thought what is the best way to get new Galfalfa material- sadly I couldn’t think of anything so I decided to stop trying. Instead I made a phone call...so without further ado I would like to introduce our guest speaker. She hails from Ontario”(boo’s and hisses follow) “I said Ontario not Toronto you morons! She is the reason we are all here this evening and every other evening lets give a big GA welcome to the ever funny, the lovely, Miss GALFALFA!!!

Stunned silence follows as no one ascends the stage, and the crowd begins to murmur.

“Do you see her?”
“Did she leave?”
“Maybe she is taking a crap”said a voice in an Australian accent- this last statement gets a chuckle out of the crowd

Meanwhile Doc. Is standing at the Mic. Staring down a mousy little lady in the front row. He beckons her forward with a quick flip of his wrist, looking quite shy she ascends the podium, stands at the Mic for a moment, looking unsure, then begins to speak.

“Hi, my name is Wil.. . I mean Galfalfa- my friends call me gal,”

“Hi gal”.  Chants the crowd.

I have been writing funny, off color poetry for many years now and I have been very happy with that, but lately I have become discontent for one major reason”- long pause- “I have lost my muse”.

A sympathetic “aaaaaaahhh” rises from the crowd.

“I woke up one day and it was gone-just gone. The day before was all rubber chickens and bathroom humor- then- Wham!- nothing.”

“I checked in the liquor cabinet(because that’s where he usually hangs out) and found booze, but no muse. I checked the closet, I found shoes but no muse. I even checked the mirror and all I saw was a shirtless flooze, but no muse. I went to my home page on allpoetry and all I found were cruel reminders of better days, but yet again no muse-then I became desperate...I...I even tried finding it at-um”..(she looked very abashed and color rose in her cheeks) “I even tried finding it at..at...poetry.com”.

Gasps of disbelief filled the room and some yahoo in the back row yelled out in a gravelly voice “Del Livingston would be ashamed”. He was quickly quieted by several dirty looks from his neighbors.

She continued.
“I know it was wrong but I was so desperate for my muse I would have taken it from anywhere. I even started going to public washrooms to read poetic graffiti,  but things like

Here I sit broken hearted
spent a dime and only farted
next time I think I may take a chance
save a dime and shit my pants
just don’t cut it for me, so I went elsewhere looking for it. I checked out some work by Edna sweetlove, but he left me with a bad taste in my mouth and oddly a sharp pain in my ass” (this brought a few hearty chuckles from those in the crowd who were familiar with Ednas work).
I read some works by touch of wonder but it left me wanting more More MORE and a strong urge to smoke. I even read Emo poetry by teenagers.

(at this she breaks down, covers her face with her hands and sobs openly for a moment. She waves Doc off as he comes to comfort her. Blowing her nose, then wiping her forehead with the handkerchief, she regains her composure.

“I know it will return someday, but the waiting is killing me. I am fidgety and nervous.
I Can’t sleep, I can’t eat
my brain hurts, I got sore feet
my hubby’s wondering what’s up with his wife
and I can’t rhyme two words to save my life.”

I have gone over the steps start to finish-yet nothing helps. Step one says to admit your problem-I got that covered. I have admitted my problem to others. I have taken steps to overcome it, but every day is the same.
My pen is the enemy
the paper a cage
when I cant write
I fly into a rage.

I can’t get even one line down no matter how hard I try. Every morning I recite the prayer

God grant me the comedy
to affect the world with humorous change
the courage to write the puns I can
and the wisdom to show indifference.

I am at the end of my rope here People( screaming now) AND IF I DON’T GET RELIEF SOON I AM GONNA SNAP! AND START READING ROMANCE NOVELS”.

A shocked gasp from the crowd

“Don’t do it gal”
“Don’t say such things”
“Hack!”- this last from a bald man smoking a silver pipe.

“I just cant handle it anymore. I try to be funny and I come off as morose, witty becomes shitty, a light heart fart poem comes out all soggy and soft. I have sunk so low that I have stopped wearing shirts for goodness sake- I walk around the house in just a bra and my husband is scared to come near me. What is a gal to do?”




A lady in the front row stood and turned to the crowd.” HI I am Ann and I am a Galcoholic.” she said in a lovely, soft British accent”

“Hi Ann”

“ I have known gal for many years now and I have always found her to be funny, but as of late she has not been funny at all. When I go to her page there is nothing new that is funny to read and it is depressing me greatly. We all need to pull together and help this lady, for her sake as well as ours. For all that is goofy and inane we must all pitch in and help her out-Are you with me?”

‘YEAH-RIGHT ON!”
“LET’S DO IT”
“WE’RE WITH YOU GAL”

Ann continued “what we need to do is find some way we can inspire her to write her humorous poetry again so she can be happy and in return she can give joy to us who read her work- any ideas?”

“We could get her to watch the royal Canadian air farce”

“I could lend her the complete Monty python”

“We could get her to watch any news conference with George bush”

“How about a contest?” -this silenced the crowd and they all turned to the man who said it. He looked to be about 200 years old and had a comical baby like face with big bulging eyes.

“ Um... a poetry contest I mean- we could all write something funny and amusing for her to read- maybe it would help her muse again”


And so it was that the members of Ga banded together and started a contest for gal to help her get her muse back. There were entries from all walks of life, about all sorts of things. Gal read all these entries with glee, soaking up the humor, the light hearted fun poking and the down right insane. All of these made her feel better, but sadly her muse did not return.


Some time after the contest gal was out collecting her mail( in her bra, some neighbors noted) when she came across a postcard in amongst her mail. On the front was a picture of a shapely female behind clad in the scantiest of thongs. The caption read. The weather is great, wish you were her. Gal flipped over the card to see if there was a note and all it said was “I forgot to tell you- I went on vacation to Hawaii- back in a few weeks- all my love- your muse.

A few weeks ( and several mutilated rubber chickens) later gals muse returned- heavily tanned and very refreshed, at first their relationship was strained, but quickly gal got her groove( and her muse) back and she went back to her  normal ( for her) writing routine and all was right with the world.

The end.