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A monologue from the play by Frederick Stroppel
Shep
I had a very bad experience with a wolf. I was up in the Catskills. It was one of those “relive Woodstock” festivals.
Except the bands sucked. Anyway, I was in this tent, with this fat chick, and she was snoring like a bull.
I couldn’t get to sleep, but it was her tent so I couldn’t make an issue of it.
So it’s the middle of the night, and I hear something sniffing around outside, and I try to ignore it, I’m thinking
it’s just a raccoon or something, but then I hear this water trickling, and I realize it’s pissing right on the tent!
And I guess she didn’t set it up right because it’s leaking right through.
So I jump out, ready to chase the little b*stard off, and right there in front of me is the biggest f**king wolf I ever saw.
We’re like eye to eye. And it starts showing its teeth. And I’m like, “This is it. I’m dead.” Plus I’m totally naked, so he’s got, you know, the whole smorgasborg to pick from.
Anyway, the fat chick— her name was Patsy, as I recall—she leaps out of the tent with this crossbow—
I don’t know where the f**k she got that—and she screams, “Yaaagh!” and fires an arrow, totally misses the wolf—
I think she hit somebody’s car— but the wolf gets spooked and runs off. So I survived. But that was it for me with all the outdoor festivals and being-one-with-nature sh*t.
You know, give me suburbia or give me death.
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