Archive for Avant-Garde Play

The A’s Clubhouse Chair Speaks!


Ow. That hurt. I’ll be okay, but– ow. And what the **** did I do? I didn’t make Drew-bear pitch like **** or– oh, Drew-bear? Yeah, that’s just my little pet name for him. He’s usually like a gentle, little cub, pawing around my seat, sitting down so delicately and rubbing himself up against my slats. But that’s the way with so many abusers, isn’t it? They lull you into a false sense of trust, of kinship. He told me secrets. He whispered them into my cushion late at night, when it was just the two of us and maybe a table– but you know tables, they barely even have a consciousness, you can’t worry about what a table overhears. We shared so much. I remember the time he spilled water on me. And then he lapped it up, just like a cat.

I mean, I guess there were warning signs. In the heat of passion, he once threw me against a locker — he apologized, he said it would never happen again. I still have a mark — you can see it if you look closely at the grain. I would have gone to the carpenter for treatment but Drew-bear asked me not to say anything. And when he looks at you with those eyes, it’s hard to say no. I just slapped some wood glue on it and kept my mouth shut. He was sweet when he wasn’t abusive. The TV told me Drew-bear hit him too, but you can never believe what the TV says. Hopefully whoever replaces Drew-bear on the roster will have a nice, soft tushie and a calm disposition. I just hope they don’t get that Canseco guy back, from a long time ago (56 years ago in chair-years). He was the worst. And once injected me with termites.

Oh, ****, I think I’m splintering. ****. ****, ****, ****. That means they’re going to put me on the DL too. ****, Drew-bear, why’d you have to **** me up? The players don’t think about it, but we work hard too. I spent a decade in the minors– Stockton, Visalia, Costco– before finally getting a chance up here. And now I’m gonna lose my spot to some couch with good (sleep-)numbers. I was six months from qualifying for a pension! Six months!

**** you, Drew-bear. **** you and all creatures with fists. ****.

An Avant-Garde Play Featuring Dazzy Vance


(ARTHUR VANCE and ASSORTED OTHERS loiter in a baseball dugout in Nebraska, ca. 1909. ARTHUR VANCE clears his throat.)

Hey, everyone. I have an announcement to make. From now on, I’d like to be called Dazzy. Not Arthur, anymore. Just Dazzy. Dazzy Vance.

How about we call you Gay-Face Jones, instead? Because only someone with a gay face would ask a group of other male athletes in rural Nebraska — at the beginning of the 20th century, no less — to be called Dazzy.

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