Your Responsibility for Sex Failure in the MN Fringe Festival!

I am creating a fringe show. Mark your calendars now for Aug 4-14. It is going to be amazing. Seriously, I am so excited for this show that I can't control it. I get sweaty excited about it. Which is better than sweaty nervous. Maybe it is a little sweaty nervous. But mainly excited nervous because look:

Yeah, that is real. That is so real. That is so real that I get sweaty excited about it. This magazine is the show. Or a part of the show, we have like 30 of the magazines. So much raw material that we are going to melt faces so off that they will reform and look like regular faces again, only awesome-er. Your Responsibility for Sex Failure (playing at the Minneapolis Theatre Garage Aug 4-14), is a hilarious romp through the melodramatic articles of a 1960's women's magazine, including the print ad and letters to the editor. It is going to be so great. Stay tuned in the next few weeks for more news! But I will leave you with this:

Quiz!!! Just like a women's magazine!

I recently attended one of Lizz Winstead's Political Satire Writing workshops. Here's the magic that came out of it. I co-wrote it with three other women that I only remember one of. Her name was Jessica. 

Find Out if You Were Raped? A Quiz. 

Piece #2 MN writers workshop.

20 




MAR 2011

PUBLISHED IN 

• Steaming News Pile

Under the “No Federal Taxpayer Dollars For Abortion Bill” House Republicans suggested narrowing the exception for federal subsidies for abortions to include only those instances where a woman was “forcibly” raped. If this became law, Women’s Magazines will have to help women figure out who's really at fault for the rape (because if it wasn't forcible rape, it's consensual rape, am I right ridiculous law-makers?)* with this quiz.

*Clearly I am a woman that should take her shoes off and get back in the kitchen.

I’VE BEEN RAPED! DID I CONSENT?
Take this quiz!

1. MY RAPIST WAS:

a. A stranger
b. A relative or authority figure or lesser known professional athlete
c. Someone I didn’t know was going to rape me

2. DURING YOUR ATTACK YOU SAW:

a. A visible weapon
b. A penis
c. A promise of Internet stardom

3. YOUR ATTACK OCCURRED:

a. In a dark alley in/or a war zone
b. At Home
c. Somewhere you didn’t want it to

4. THE EVENTS SURROUNDING YOUR ATTACK YOU WERE:

a. Walking down the street
b. Walking down the street alone
c. Walking down the street wearing something rapey

5. JUST PRIOR TO YOUR ATTACK YOU WERE:

a. Sober but thinking about a drink
b. Tipsy
c. I stopped counting after 12

6. YOUR SEXUAL HISTORY:

a. I was a virgin
b. I had only been with my husband
c. I stopped counting after 12

7. WHO DID YOU REPORT YOUR ATTACK TO?

a. No one
b. The police
c. I posted it on Facebook

8. WERE YOU ASKING FOR IT?

a. Never
b. I’m not sure
c. I have a vagina don’t I?

YOUR RESULTS:

Mostly A’s – You’re still a dirty whore

Mostly B’s- You liked it a little, didn’t you?

Mostly C’s- Good luck, Mommy!

Theatre Unbound 24hr Play Project

In January, I was a playwright for Theatre Unbound's 24hr Play Project. It was my second year participating in the project and I always forget my brain shuts off at 10:30. I met my writing partner for the first time at 9pm that night and we had until 5am to write a ten minute play utilizing five secret ingredients chosen by the audience of the Internet.

The ingredients were:

A fanny pack
A murderess or a virgin
A character that speaks only in Casablanca quotes
the phrase "Why does everyone always hate me on Wednesdays?"

And something else that I can't remember.

And out of a hat we drew a cast of 1 man and 1 woman.

Here it is.

Does this count as my Christmas Letter?

Hello, Culture of Doing Things.

Many thing are being done.

On Monday Dec 13, the play I wrote Santa Claus-tatrophe is being performed by the nufan ensemble in Chicago, IL.

Sweet right?

And the monologue Being Reasonable is being performed in Madison, WI with Forward Theatre at teh Overture Center for the Arts. This is cool because Christopher Durang and Beth Henley also submitted to this and got it. They only choose 12 entries.

It's like I am a famous playwright too.

word.

Accidents

So yesterday I ended up naming a holiday Rollergirl team, here are their names:

Mrs. Claws

Holi-dazed

Silver Hells and her twin sister Jingle Hells

Missle Toe

Christmas Carol?

If you got here from my Tweet about Fellatio, you're going to be disappointed.

The Infamous Turkey Sandwich Story

-Because not all of you are lucky enough to see it performed. And this is only entertaining when it is performed (like fellatio) not so much when it is read (also like fellatio). So sucks to be you (is that also a fellatio joke?)

In 3^rd grade the coolest thing to do was to hate school lunch. And in 3^rd grade almost all of my class ate school lunch. So our lunchtime was filled with complaints about the food and nibbling at the side dishes. One day lunch was turkey sandwiches. Just turkey, hanging out inside a hamburger bun: turkey sandwich. The sandwich also came with a personal size packet to mayo, for your mayonais-ing pleasure.

The turkey sandwich was the most evil of all the lunches. Everyone hated the turkey sandwiches. It was as if turkey sandwich was the reason the Challenger blew up [out dated reference]. Turkey sandwich was the oppressor of the 3^rd graders. My classmates hated turkey sandwich. Stupid turkey sandwich and its diabolical sidekick mayo. Mayo: don’t even get the 3^rd graders of Lincoln elementary school started on the dastardly deeds of mayonnaise. Turkey sandwich and evil sidekick mayo.  Combined, those two were mastervillians in crime, terror and general awfulness.  The turkey sandwich deserves so much hate, because it knows what it did.

I love turkey sandwiches.  I love turkey sandwiches with mayo. Turkey sandwiches might be my reason for living. I love turkey sandwiches.

But I also love not being the target of my much cooler classmates’ rage.

But I couldn’t not eat turkey sandwich. Here was dilemma.  I remember it was like having two Heathers on my shoulder Cool Heather who says, “Everyone hates this turkey sandwich, and I shall not eat it and be a part of everyone.” And then Turkey Sandwich Heather who says, “These are delicious turkey sandwiches and even more divine if you crack open that personal-sized packet of mayo, Heather you cannot let this sandwich go to waste.”

“Heather!” Cool Heather says to Turkey Sandwich Heather, “You cannot eat this sandwich, you will be outcast, and they will know you are different. And how dare you even entertain the thought of releasing mayo in to this equation. Mayo will seal the deal of your complete uncoolness.”

“I can’t not do it.” Turkey Sandwich Heather says back to Cool Heather. “I have to eat this sandwich; it is too good, to delicious, too fleeting. I must eat”

“Nooo!” wailed my cooler side as it was shoved aside by my lust for turkey sandwich.

I reached for the sandwich. I knew it was risky, but the danger made this turkey sandwich all the better. I ripped open the mayo dispensed its fatty, whiteness upon my already very pale turkey sandwich. And I ate.

And it was awesome.

I tired to hide from my classmates, the fact I was eating the turkey sandwich, by hunching over my lunch tray, but there was no hiding such lust and passion.

I knew they were watching me. I knew it was coming One of them said, “Gross, Heather is eating it!” I was ready for this. “Yeah, I know, it’s only because I am hungry it is really gross.” I said taking more bites of the sandwich in my mouth. “It is so gross, so gross” I emphasis, putting more mayo on my sandwich, “Yeah, if I wasn’t so hungry, I wouldn’t have to eat this gross thing.”

My classmates could see right through my lie. They swiftly inched as far away from me as possible on a crowed lunch table and continued their rants on the evils of turkey sandwich and the evil that now lived in me after I indulged in such a devilish nosh, my classmates abandoned me leaving me in my own personal leper colony of turkey sandwich lovers.

I do not regret my love of turkey sandwich. I only regret not taking the uneaten sandwiches off my classmates' plates, because I was most horrified that so many delicious turkey sandwiches would go uneaten. Like music unplayed or a prayer unprayed.

I love you turkey sandwich. And now you are all this 3^rd grader has. Turkey sandwich, will you play with me a recess?

It didn’t play with me at recess that day because it was a sandwich and I had eaten it.

Damn it. 

Evil Stepmother: Because rewriting fairy tales is cliche and fun.

Stop calling me evil stepmother. That’s not my name. My name is Dorothy and the reason I don’t like Cinderella is because she is the constant whiny reminder of my husband’s infidelity. She’s his lovechild, with my sister, who’s dead from a heroin overdose that she purchased with my college fund. Yeah, I can’t say she’s my favorite thing to look at. Since it’s looking at suck.  My husband thought since it was with my sister that I would love her like one of my own since my sister and I share the same DNA. Well, thank you science, once again you’ve proven love is less smart than math.

Yes, I make her do work. She needs to learn discipline. She’s already milking the ‘half-orphan’ title she keeps calling herself. To me half orphan doesn’t seem too bad. If I were half lesbian people would just say I was drunk. Half orphan, well, I’d put her in a half-orphanage if that existed. I’m half Dutch and that’s ironic.

The Prince’s ball, the big fucking ball, No I didn’t want her to go. She’s a slut. No stepmother of a fake half-orphan is going to let her loose labia-ed daughter near an available prince. And Prince Charming? What kind of moniker is that? He is just looking for more bitches to dance behind him in a music video. Letting your slutty daughter near a man named Prince Charming is like telling her to be an intern during the Clinton Administration. (Old joke, I know but I am a frazzled mother of a half-orphan here and accurate is accurate. Fuck off.)

Oh, my daughters, yes, my husband’s other children. I love them. They were begot within the bonds of marriage and all was correct and moral and good. Until the lovechild showed up. How do you tell two little girls that they have a new sister because Aunt Mindy and Daddy shot up an eggshell full of crack and played cave waterfalls of milk. And how do you explain that yes, you are related to this girl and no not normally do families share daddies and no, I’m sorry my lesbian daughter it is not healthy to have a crush on someone that shares the same DNA as you, no matter how much science says you can’t make to four ovaries into one baby.

So Cinderella conjures up the soul of her limbo laden dead mother, puts her glass water pipes on her big toes and crashes the ball. Seduces the prince by fellating his thumb during the counter dance and then running away to meet her dealer and losing a shoe.  

Next thing I know, Prince “Wanna writhe on top of my BMW while I rap about tits?” shows up at our door with her fucking glass pipe shoe. My daughters and I make a show about trying them on and making them not fit so he will leave and never come back to make our little half-orphan slut-bag a video vixen. Well, little grunge goddess herself stumbles out of her hangover nap to jam her big toe in the top of pipe and proclaim that it fits.

Prince Charming is so distracted by her open bathrobe and roughly shaven pussy that he agrees and marries her.  Cinderella doesn’t move out of the house in to the castle because Prince Charming and Prince Charming’s Ex are still ‘figuring things out.”

If that makes me evil, then fuck it.

I think this is the first short story I've written since high school.

I think this is a short story. I don't remember, I haven't been in high school English class in a while. 

Lather, Rinse, Umbrella Drinks.

By

Heather Meyer

            He turns to me and asks,” Have you seen this one Family Guy…”

            “I hate it when you start sentences like that.” I interrupt. No, I wasn’t supposed to fall for an improv actor. Especially not an improv actor on a cruise ship. 

            I had seen him perform. The show was fun because jokes about seasickness and buffets are always topical; at least they were topical on a cruise. Later, he was teaching an intro to improv class in the Stardream Lounge.

             To the class, I deliberately wore a bright sundress to distract from the minefield of inflamed acne that had erupted on my back. He was friendly, funny and fleshy. He had an unparalleled smile, meaning his teeth were not parallel, that they were a bit askew. As the class finished and the ships’ elders dispersed, he said to me, “You look young and fun.”             “And you are husky and observant,” I answer back baiting him with a smile. He returned the grin with his lips stretching around his two rows of linearly challenged teeth.

             In lounge chairs on the Lido deck, we exchanged the predictable autobiographical details. Then we found ourselves, correction, found myself whipping out my ship card to purchase two rum concoctions in bright pink cups festooned with umbrellas and pineapples. My bacne was starting to itch from the sun, but I refused to scratch it to avoid an incident with pus and blood so soon in a date.

            One fruit-lined rum drink lead to another and then to five, now that I was ambitious, I leaned forward to kiss him but ended up grazing his cheek in a drive-by snogging.  “Follow me,” he said so clichéd-ly with a wink that almost distracted me from his rickety pirate teeth. He walked toward the elevators. “Not in the elevators!” I whisper in a sudden display of conservatism. “We’ll take the stairs,” he answered again with that wink that I was starting to think might be a facial tick.

            In the movies, we would have slid laughingly down the banisters together. In reality, my fruity rum buzz and lust for mediocre comedy were waning with every series of endless stairs. So many staircases, I regretted my prudishness towards the elevators, at least then the zits on my back wouldn’t have been flaring up from the sweat. We finally reached the last stair, the last stair on the ship; there was no further down we could go.  I felt like I was on the bottom of the ocean, and yet I was still somehow on a cruise ship. We had reached his cabin. Yes, cabins on cruise ships are small, but this was a water closet. There were four beds, two on the floor, two lofted and eight inches separating them.

            “Are we at camp?” I ask.           

            “If by camp you mean Poseidon’s sex dungeon,” He improvises so wittily. Then, his distorted dentals were at me. Soon my lips grew tired of dodging Stonehenge and since I was already on the bed and my sundress was on floor we move toward deeper waters. He explored my coastline and I discovered his mast was just as crooked as his smile.

            Afterwards and after-glowing he rubs his hand on my back as if to read the Braille that was my bacne asked what my sign was. It was such a retro question, I wondered if the tidal pool betwixt my legs had become a time warp. I looked over at him and he just smiled his imprecise, boulder toothed smile and replied, “Have you seen this one Family Guy…?”

Who's on the table? The Cast of Condiments.

Salt and Pepper: Super gay

Sugar: Girl next door

Sweet and Lo: Slut!

Equal: Lesbian

Ketchup: It's not a party with out Ketchup!

Splenda: Porn Star hot, created in a lab or on an operating table. Incredibly attractive. Hates

A-1: Super man (not like the hero, just really manly)

Tabasco: depressed, like that blue mule from Winne-the-Pooh

Mustard: Who invited Mustard? He never showers.

Coffee Creamers: That annoying clique of unattractive yet really made-up girls

Purity Rings, Class Rings, Engagement Rings, Wedding Rings...now Single Rings?

Here's I what I have to say about that.

The 'est' in the room.

I hate the 'est' in the room. The smartest, the shortest, the tallest, the whitest, the blackest, the clumsiest, the fattest, the thinnest, the youngest, the oldest, the dumbest, the girliest, the manliest, the meanest,the most average-est, the richest, the poorest, the honest(est), the funniest, the serious-est and forever.

Why? Why do I hate them?

Well, look.

Welcome to the Party

A short play.

By Heather Meyer

The Most Average-est:
Hi Bingo, how are you? This birthday party smells weird.

The Shortest:
Oh, I know I can barely see over everyone's crotch so imagine the smell I am smelling. I wish I could blow my nose but I can't reach the tissues.

Smartest Person:
The reason the smell is so thick in this room is because the cake has been baked with feces folded in to the frosting, I can tell because I had a book published about my hometown once.

Girliest Person:
It smells like sparkles. I like sparkles. Oh pink. I am such a girl.

Fattest Person:
Hey, here I am, tons of fun is here!

The Honest(est):
You're obese and you are making the smell worse. I am just being honest.

(The Fattest punches the Honest(est))

The Manliest:
Oh! Right cross, nice do you work out? What about the MMA fight last night? I kept thinking about it as I was parking my monster truck on top of some pussies(men not cats or lady bits) outside the fighting cage this morning.

The Fattest:
I would but I am too fat to ride horses so I can't work out.

The Most Average-est:
(to The Honest(est) who is still on the floor bleeding)
Are you alright?

(The Clumsiest trips over the fallen The Honest(est))

The Honest(est):
Ouch! I am already bleeding and I don't have health insurance.

The Smartest:
According to the new health care reform you will get fined for that, I know because I had a paperback book about my hometown published ten years ago.

The Clumsiest:
Oops! My bad! I am so clumsy! That is why I can't have nice things.

The Honest(est):
Or nice friends.

The Meanest:
(Pointing at The Honest(est))
Bitch!
(Pointing at The Clumsiest)
Stumpy whore leg!

The End.

Your future

The time:
Tomorrow May 25th 2010 8:00pm.

The where:
Donny Dirk's Zombie Den

The what:
Zombie Sweater Screening.

Go see the film that is even better on the biggish screen.

And it is better than the version on the internet. Because Avenue Q had it right "everyone is a little bit racist". (you thought I was going to do the internet for porn joke, didn't you? Yeah, you thought that and I tricked you, suckers)


A photo to tease you (because it is too short for a trailer)

Amazing, I know and there is life outside your apartment (more Avenue Q insight, still not internet for porn though).


Now read aloud in a friendly generic Southern accent:

"Come on down to Donny Dirk's Zombie Den, we'll be have a grand ole time and sure would love to see your pretty little sunshine face. Especially since if you didn't have come you would be sitting at home worshipping the AC and looking at internet porn. Actually I'm surprised that you even took the time away from your surfing to glance at this porn-free blog. Hell, I don't even know what we have a blog since we all 'round her know the internet is for porn"(there's your Avenue Q porn quote, geeks)


Stop watching porn for an hour and come an talk to really people. Real people who talk. And watch a ridiculous little zombie film and then later you can watch a bunch of porn.

Cease and Desist Letter from United States Bread Council

May 24th, 2010
Re: The Culture of Doing Things Blog 
Confession: Double Down Sandwich

Dear Ms. Meyer:

Pursuant to my rights under federal culinary identification  laws, I am requesting that you cease and desist referring to the chicken/bacon/sauce/cheese/chicken entree as a sandwich. A sandwich is defined as the marriage between bread surrounding a filling. Bread must be included in any description of a sandwich and the Double Down Entree at KFC does not include any bread, therefore it is illegal to be referred to as a sandwich as you so carelessly did in your recent blog entitled Confession: Double Down Sandwich.

You are hereby notified that if you do not comply with this request, I will immediately file a complaint with the Federal Culinary Commission and the Minnesota Attorney General’s office. Civil and criminal claims will be pursued.

Sincerely,

M. Rye Bread
Commissioner of United States Bread Council

Suck it, 1, 2, 3

I hate 1,2,3.

They think they are so cool, being at the front of the line up and all. Everyone has to use 1,2,3.

Person: On three! One, Two, Three!

Person 2: On three? or wait for three?

Person: On three, always on three.

(yeah, on three people, waiting for after three is unnesscary, you could have just gone until two then, boneheads.)

Winners of first place are always the best. Third place gets a bronze medal.

Bronze is special, you know the only other time bronze is used is to immortalize baby shoes, the most special shoes in the world. Stupid number 3 and its friends 1 and 2.

And we are always ranking things. Name you first choice, and second choice, oh hell, give us your top three favorite. No one ever wants to know my 8th favorite of anything, only my top three.

1,2,3 it's always 1, 2, 3. Or uno, dos, tres or any other translation. What about 17, 18, 19? Or 78, 79, 80. or 134, 73, 990?

One, two, three, they think they are so cool.

1, 2, 3 someday your fifteen minutes will be up, but first we have to get past three.

Flirt!!!!!!!

The internet let me do it again!

This time I tell you how to translate fishing strategies into flirting strategies!

GO here!

M. Night Shamalyan of the Living dead or Heather has a film screening

Last night,  my first film Zombie Sweater had its public premeier as one of the top ten finalist in the Women's Stand Up and Shoot comedic film competition.

I was pretty excited.

When I got the program and began reading all the bios of the other finalists I began to think, "Wow, Minnesota is filled with a lot of established female filmmakers, I don't recgonize anyone's name." There are Sundance awards winners listed there, Script comepetiion winners and all sorts of awesome and me, who in my bio wrote "This is Heather's first film."

Then I saw the films. They were all amazing. I was so impressed, I wished anyone of them were mine.
I thought again, "Wow, I didn't realize that there is so much great female filmmaking talent in MInnesota, where did she find a palm tree and a beach?"

Then I learned that this was not a Minnesota only film contest, it was a national film contest. NATIONAL. As in other states and places where there are filmmakers entered. And my silly film about sweaters is in the top ten!

For real?

Yes!!!!

My first film was fun enough to be in the top ten? That make me feel awesome! I tell people when they see it that it is obvious it is my first film but I say, if it was a school project you know it would have gotten me an A+ right?

Right!

So even though I didn't take home any Oscars (gold or flesh, sorry Oscar.) I feel really great about being in the top ten, hey it's my first film! I was so pleased to be included in the amazingly talent group of women of last night. Again, the films were so good.

So good in fact, you will be able to see them all on rooftopcomedy.com. I don't know if the films are up there yet, but they will be.


Meanwhile.........watch Zombie Sweater! Right now!!!!!!