{The Novety of Having A Treadmill}

KEENAN is the head of the league's research and development team. KEENAN WELL, Ya'll sho' chose the wrong girl to fuck wit! Why do you say that? KEENAN Well, i'mon just let ya'll figure that out on ya own. [KEENEN exits shaking his head solemnly, and begins singing ‘Amazing Grace' , first humming.] Hmmmmm—hmmm—how sweet the sound— Wait! Keenan! Who is this girl?! Who is she?! —hmmm—hmmm—hmmm—hmmmmmmmm LIKE MEEEEEEE! What are we up against Oh. you'll see. I woooonceeee was lost— Wait! SEEYA! [out of nowhere he has pulled out an old style stick bundle and throws it over his shoulder, continuing to hum while chewing on a long stick of straw.] —-hmmmm—-hmmmm. …where is he going!? (Meta) Seems like he's going somewhere with that thing hanging over his back! What are those things even called, anyway? Who knows? I think I know, but it might be racist. [suddenly, offstage/camera a bell begins to ring— One— Two— Three chimes.] That seems odd. Yes, very strange. [Suddenly, all the NBC pages at once upend their nests,] what the— Why are there so many of them. I don't know. Did their skirts get shorter? Hush. So many pages. MEANWHILR, unst 30 Rock. Hold on, pause. These weirdo cops have reverb on their whoop whoops. Facts. Are you sure this is still the 10th dimension. I'm positive. Really! You're sure! Couldn't possibly be lower. Maybe. What about higher. Higher!? Since when. WHAT'S YOUR NAME. Uh-FRANKLIN. Don't lie to me. How would you pronounce this name? I wouldn't. Hm. Excuse me. What. How would you say this? Like, out loud— Uh huh. Pass. Dammit! Hey—uh— RACHEL DRATCH What, dammit; what?! I just sat down with my bagel! I know but— I need your help— interpreting something? What is it? Gibberish? Not really, it's— I'm an expert in Gibberish— I know; but— Classical and neo-modern. Yeah, it's not that. What is it. Alien, I think. Which species. Species. WHICH— ugh— give me that! [she snatches the paper and produces a monocle for further inspection.] Since when did you get a monacle? since when changed insurance companies which supplies said ‘monocologists' and covers such expenses sans-coh-pay. You mean copay? Shut up. Hm. Looks to be Unrealian in orgim but I could be mistaking this dialect. What. Could also possibly be AAHHMEK. Ahmek? Ano, AAAAH— nevermind. Is this an actual apostrophe? Beg your pardon. The apostrophe— is it human derived, or the human pseudo translation replacement for a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? Say again. Is it an actual apostrophe, or is the mark mean to insinuate the commonly used extraterrestrial character afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh? …I don't know. WELL, then—I'm afraid I can't help you until you forgive that out— What. Depending on what the mark is, those could be two veerrrrry different things. Would you just, Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to presume the consumption of my RAISINBagel. You know what. -_- -_- -_- …fine. [he snatches the paper and walks away angry—RATCHEL DRATCH begins to shmear her bagel, mumbling] —wants me to translate, but doesn't know the difference between an apostrophe, and a afahmblunsenphOuallentprprh. Please! {Enter The Multiverse} Unlike the girl next door, my lawsuit was legitimate. I strolled passed the usual subjects on my way back to the apartment from my begrudged outings; I had left with the intention of putting my money into a cheap record player, but had after all decided against it—I was saving for a new computer so that I could actually record vocals for my music, which would deplete my budget after living expenses for the month into nothing, and though I knew it would be something like next-to-nothing for the next little while anyway, it wouldn't matter. Now that I knew I was right, I continued compiling the evidence against these motorized terrorists—I didn't actually want to sue, but at this point it seemed it was my only choice— my lowly “status” should not mean that I was allowed to be tortured continually—and, unlike the girl next door, I was not seeking damages for something I had asked for, or brought onto myself; the horrendous sound in the apartment seemed as if it was aimed directly toward me with my synesthesia in mind, and with some amount of pride I refused outright to go the way I was expected to and file a disability claim. I wasn't disabled— I was, however, unable to preform my full work duties as a recording artist without being interrupted by motorcycles, project cars, and otherwise, all of which I suspected were operated by the same group of people— some ugly little brown lackeys who felt entitled in one way or another, and paraded around as if they owned the neighborhood. Benefiting from American business, but anti-American; the opposite of peaceful and respectful—not that America had made its name on the basis of respect, and so it seemed that something, out of balance and off kilter for hundreds of years iknretropect, was bound to change. They were rude, arrogant, and loud—bringing al of the 3rd-world mindset and none of the humility or charm of the actual 3rd world with them; as arrogant as one might think, a gross reflection of the toxic masculine as a whole. They might not have been ugly at all if they were respectful or decent—but they ran about acting like terrorists, revving their engines, and banging, and clashing, and being ugly—employing young boys to stand on the corner and sell their off market drugs after having one of their smoke shops closed down. The more time I spent outside dealing with people at all, the more ill I felt. I craved more time offline and off the grid, and though the general disenchantment of New York would continue pouring through the cheaply made windows, I realized that I would be more well-to-do with a typewriter (so that I could continue to write for long periods of time offline and without my phone) and a record player (to drown out the noise and play along to on my drum machine, and still— there were more things to do, always drowning in bills and often wondering how long I'd have to forfeight health in exchange for the decency of what some might cal luxury, but others foundational. As for myself, these things, simple staples to health and wellness, were beginning to be foundational. {Enter The Multiverse} “As Seen on TV” She doesn't even have a name My pussy is cleaner than a motherfucker This ain't no community like Donald Glover Ya'll niggas actin childish, Gambino— If you wanna turn it on, Then send a c-note (I'm in south side) What she want Peloton What she on peloton What she got peloton What she on Peloton I FOUND KIT! I found KIT. Great, now did you burn that letter? What. Burn it. [does] Oh, that is such a relief. Jesus. Okay. This shit does get weird and deep. —so that's why we're going offline… You wouldn't believe this, I found the kid swinging from a tree. Ridiculous. And if you tie it like this— Ah. Look, it won't slip. So…this is your hobby, huh. One of many. They don't call you the Ace for nothin, do they. (Innocently, with curiosity) “Of Granduer” —Do they? The sound of a chandelier sparkles as the giant lamp swings back and forth, as if an earthquake has just happened. You wouldn't believe this. What. On the television. Okay, so I found this “Kit” guy— Twice. Twice you asked, and twice I told you. Well, I didn't think to look directly at Johnny Carson, exactly. But here— And this: You actually were. Tell me again what your name is. Just sign me an autograph: What. Me? Sure, why not? I want your autograph! Do people still ask for autographs? Often enough. Remarkably, even, at airports, and of course, unexpectedly at— GODDAMMIT, we're back at the rock! GODDAMMIT. Well. Well what! Somebody check what year it is. FUCK. [super long censored beep.] [The Festival Project ™] It was the first time since my childhood I felt like something was too long away—but finally, I was in the final stretch. The Peloton would be delivered sometime in the morning, and now that my internet had shut itself off— I'd refused to pay the bill and opted for getting a new computer so that I could record, rather it— Give me a second, I'm fucking obsessed with these curtains. Bro but second to the curtains is the fucking grass. No, its—tuft. Turf, huh? Interesting… I told you she was some sort of a spy. Whatever. I had long considered turning my living room into a media center, and had thought to reinvent my entire space in fungshuei, but now more than anything I just wanted it to look like that. {Enter The Multiverse} Something is wrong with her . She sits by her door ALL DAY and just fucking talks. And I know she's by her door Because she's RIGHT AT THE DOOR I hear this crystal clear Anytime I go near my door And she's like BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH BITCH GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR somewhere in a parallel of time Your ancestors Are beating the hell Out of my ancestors And your other ancestors Are stealing my other ancestors land You're on borrowed time And in borrowed space GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR. Man, Living sandwhiched between two Karen's Is like the equivalent Of having two demon fucking little sisters That hate you And tell on your for everything. Slamming doors and shit just to fuckin Throwing shit around Bitch. You are crazy. And that's the thing about white girls Their crazy is socially acceptable As normal behavior I guess when you just have the best things in life thrown at you forever— When things the rest of us consider luxury and opulence is just “regular” to you, You get a little set in your ways. My neighbor is infuriating. I'm like WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BY THE DOOR SHES LIKE SNARFSNRFSNARF I'm like goddamn, Somebody send like a Camden or a fuckin “Chase” Over this way. Somebody take this bitch on a date And away from the door. Whole two bedroom apartment This bitch is glued to her door. She a robot. The door is metal. She just enters the apartment and gets glued stuck to the door “I guess I will have to snarf snarf from here. “She's a smart one” I don't believe in smart white girls. There's regular white girls And fucking serial killers. The serial killers are considered “the smart ones” I guess it does take a considerable amount of intelligence to just exist to catch bodies That's what they call the smart ones The ones who level up by just Mowing everyone else down. Gotta give them that. White girls will ruin your whole life Blink two little blue-green eyes twice— And if they're big and round enough The brown eyed white girls can get away with the shit, too— But they're fucking murderers. It's okay. I lived with white people long enough in my life to love them. But in living with and around them— I notice they all say the same thing which indicates to me that racial injustice might not actually be their fault— They might be killing niggas on accident. Just complete accidents White people say shit like “I can't feel” What. “How does it feel—to feel.” WHAT?! “Explain to me the concept of ‘emotions'” Ah hell nah— And these people have all the disposable income? It's not their fault. They just— are like that. They're wired different. They can't feel, And their first instinct is to kill everything different or perceivably deadly. It's not their fault It's intrinsically They have extremely fragile genes Very weak gene pools. Have you ever noticed how white people are always sick? Always?! Weak gene pools. Years of breeding narcisistically. Traits that are reminders of themselves, or people they grew up around. This is not racism, it's just science. “Oh, I love blue eyes because my grandmother has blue eyes” White men commonly marry women who remind them of their mothers and sisters. If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is. Then I realized that incest porn and teeny porn are amongst the highest watched types of porn. Hmm. Gee. I wonder why. Men are gross. But white moms need to start being more like black and Hispanic moms if they want to ensure the continuance of their genetics into evolution. You need to give your kids some mommy issues. That way, when they grow up, they feel the need to add variation to the gene pool in order to strengthen it, and move towards evolution. It's true. I lived with maybe the whitest man I ever knew for almost 6 months; I don't think he was specifically intentionally trying to kill me— But everything he did— And I mean everything, up to a certain point was like …I don't know, man. It really seems like this dude is trying to like exterminate me in some sort of way. It was bad. The energy was weird. He was like dirty, Fucking lazy, He was a lot. I was like, “Damn what the fuck it's like the longer I stay around the worse it is” But the weirdest part, was that he didn't seem to be aware that he was doing it Either that or he was a really good actor… “What do you mean?” Had me confused. But that's the thing about the whites. They do the whole thing with mind games They fuck with your mind. It's the most powerful weapon, actually— Because if you continually attack a person's mind, The rest crumbles around them without you even touching them. I'm sure this is what my neighbor is trying to do. It's a mind thing I get near the door, she just hurries up and opens her door, opens the door real wide, big apartment, everything's white, big ass fucking place But she's always by the door; Mind games. —Tales of a Superstar DJ. I wasn't really interesting in meeting someone seriously— in fact. As it turned out, I still had a little more muse to milk out of the last one, but even the tarot was being a stickler— I could risk ending it all and putting a nail in the coffin by actually watching The Tonight Show—but there would be a possibility it all would backfire and it would just reignite that spark, or worse—I'd become fully engulfed in flames by whatever it was that seemed to appear—and it seemed to appear so vividly and with rapid strength that it couldn't be stopped or controlled. A serious amount of money had to have been implemented to my paying attention to this, and beyond that— it all had to have been carefully premeditated. While at least now at the bookshop I was drawn to books from Oprah's book club, what had occurred couldn't possibly be ignored—actually, it couldn't be, at all— but instead of eating at me in its usual way, I had more just began to realize that there must have been in play some purpose. Feeling faraway from my actual creative self, there seemed to be something missing at all generating even a general sense of understanding of what normalcy was— when had actually been the last time I had been touched at all in a way that might make me feel as if I was still human— as if I was normal— but I knew I wasn't. It's time for a change. The thought of being with someone, especially just anyone, was bizzare. I gave up on love a lot of times; But this is when it became official. I was listening to a rap album I had never heard before And in this rap song, he said “This hoe got a 7 year degree and still selling pussy” What in the fuck. One way one way ticket Why bother getting a 7 year degree If your value as a black woman Is so low You can get a 7 year degree And still have to be a prostitute? What the fuck is the point. It goes the other way, too. What is the point of selling pussy without a 7 year degree!? She's gonna make more than me in ALL the professions. I gave up on love at all. That right there is how low value we are, not just to the black man, but any man. 7 year degree and you can charge more an hour, but you're still a technical hoe. I want to fucking die. When I married my ex I was pregnant with twins; When i got pregnant with the twins I was about 350 pounds. So by the time we got married, I was 6 months pregnant with twins. He had a right to cheat! I forgave him. But the first time he hit me Like really hit me Not just like A heavy shoving or ike A lil— You know Choke out– Like the real deal Like knocked me the fuck Almost all the way out Saw the white light and everything By the time that all went down I'm like 170-180 He's still, mind you, like 300 I lost weight He lost his mind; so i'm— — lets round up— Like 180 pounds But in my mind i must be thinking somewhere i'm still 300 He came at me with a running start, I put my hands up like: I must have thought i actually had a chance I took a fighting stance like: He said Fphew! PULL A RABBIT OUT A HAT damn . what year is this really? You just got sampled . Say, what's his job? Well, that's an informer. Chris Rock forsure some kind of genius I saw him do GIlbert Godfried And Sam Kinison In the same show. The show was dated, though; He literally said, “I'm married: I don't cheat.” I knew it must have been a joke. I knew it had to be a joke, or it had to be dated, Cause being real, I listen to too much kanye To even believe that Or even laugh at that: Not “too much” kanye— 'Just enough' Kanye, He said, “If I pull up with Kerri washington, That's gon' be an enormous scandal” I might have Niomi Campbell, Still might want me a stormy daniels And ya'll tried to get trumps supporters to turn against him By exposing that he fucked this bitch? That's like an achivement. That's like a status symbol. I'm sure these idiots praise him for that. He might have even gotten more popular! That's not a scandal That's PR. On that note, I think Chris Rock was the very guy Who made me decide to stay single forever: He talked about the way, apparently, men want to kill their wives; The way they fantasise killing us When we're in the relationship: Now, ill say— I never once thought about killing my ex husband During the relationship Even after he hit me. Never once. The only time i started wishing a karmic death upon this person was when I left the relationship And he stopped fantasizing about it And actually tried to fucking kill me. Once I realized this was happening Only then did I start to think “Oh damn, i hope that motherfucker just drops the fuck dead.” This motherfucker beat me, AND tried to kill me, Only then was i like, damn “Return to sender” I hope you die too, You fat piece of shit wifebeater motherfucker I hope you die too. Only after he tried to kill me. After I left. Had to hire a fucking voodoo fucking sorceress and shit “yo , take this curse off me, This motherfucker tried to kill me” Fuck that motherfucker. Apparently though they fantasisze it all the time, I'm thinking about all the times he would play this song iroinically enough, By kanye west So maybe too much Kanye West Or just enough, Kanye said “I thought about killing you today.” He used to play this song, And beat my ass, And I never once thought “I hope he dies” Shit, After the first time he really beat my ass, He ran away. He got scared; He had to run. My face was all hanging off my head and shit Blood all over the place My lip is disconnected from my whole jaw and shit He ran away; He darted out the front door He said “I'm gonna kill myself!” And he rain away– Even then even just after he beat my ass I never thought about killing him Or wanting him to die He just fresh beat my ass; He just straight up finished whooping my whole ass and he said “I'm gonna kill myself” He realized what he did “I'm gonna kill myself”, he said And he ran out the door And here I am With my lip hanging off my whole face Blood all on the walls Pool of blood on the floor, the whole thing babies crying; The whole The whole fucking HBO special The whole nine yards And he said “I'm gonna kill myself” And my dumb ass said “NO! Don't!” He ran out the door, I'm freaking out Blood everywhere Babies crying and shit “Come back! Think about the kids! Don't kill yourself” Like a dumbass. Turns out that was just a tactic, He broke me down good, I was like “Don't kill yourself” He said “...you gonna call the cops.” He said “...alright, I won't kill myself.” Boom. That's a real killer. Looking back on all this, I can't help but think to myself, What i would have done differently Not the whole “I should have left before any of that happened” I was the mother of two young children; I wanted to try after the cheating to make things work, Fast forward after that Turns out he was fantasizing about killing me the whole time He beat mya ass, ran away, Left me in a pool of blood with my two kids He said I'm gonna kill myself Looking back at that momet, The thing I wish I could change is this If i had to do it over again And he beat me like that In front of my kids And then said “I'm gonna kill myself” I would have said “do that shit.” Lock the door behind his ass, Change the lock, Pick my face up off the floor, call an ambulance And the polce, change names Pick up my life And leave forever. “Nigga–who?” “Momma who was our daddy? What was he like?” “Ya'll ain't got a daddy. I made ya'll myself” End of story. Whatever. Everything happens for a reason though. I learned my lesson. Now i don't argue with anyone at all Men, women–nobody If i even sense that same shit That psycho killer shit– I become as silent and invisible as possible And simply Disappear. “Disappear.” I had a migraine and I knew it was from pressure buildup and stress, so I thought to get rid of it I ought to make one of those hot-compresses with rice. But the only rice I had was jambalaya flavored— But the headache was obviously really bad, So I was like, “fuck it.” Poured it into a gym sock And popped it in the microwave, Put it on my neck— My neck smelled like a pot roast, But it worked. {Enter The Multiverse} There was something in my lungs, forcing me to breathe deeply, with a raspy wheezing wind out of my lungs, and with a steady cough, I was able to offload whatever it was waiting in my chest to be released, along with it, at least part of the pressure that was making even just sitting and reading nearly unbearable, collecting into a harsh migraine paralyzing each and every other breath with a sharp pain underneath the back of what seemed to be somewhere below my ear canal and somehow, a pressure somewhere behind my eye, probably a result of the excruciating process of shoving earplugs into my ears in order to drown out the outside noise, which paired with that of my seemingly devoid neighbors, often became wildly unsettling, and while lately the clamoring had created not only an uneasy tremor in my left hand, but also apparently a sudden onset of occasional vruxism, the anxiety overall seemed to be surmounting into what could only be described as something trying to kill me, for which I could no longer ignore not as delusions or paranoia, but absolute fact. As I had learned, modern psychology might have been the equivalent of what one could even be certain to be the devil itself, unable to distinguish patterns often associated with creative genius, self manifestation, and psychic abilities and intuition, as delusions of grandeur, paranoid thinking, or worse— diagnoses as psychotic. However, my grandiosity was neither imagined nor delusional—my podcast series alone had been read and listened to all over the world, translated into foreign languages and transcribed, and had been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times since its publishing; though not a technically recognizable figure, I had realized that I had in my own right become somewhat famous, if even off of the back or even under the umbrella of another famous individual, to whom the series itself had been entrusted. Receiving though not by mainstream media standards upwards of at least 10 downloads per episode, the series had no actual gauge or marker for its actual success and polularity—without being able to see information from a major streaming platform—Spotify, and without being able to measure the amount of downloads which had then been duplicated and shared otherwise, I started to recognize with a certain understanding what a cult following was, and the minimal phenomenon that even at this level, fame started to become apparent. It had also become apparent that science itself had yet to truly understand the phenomenon of creative energy as a whole, and that many with these capabilities and gifts were considered to have a plethora of mental health disorders and medicated with what one would consider targeted attacks on the psyche, the illusion of mental illness often standing as the actual delusion in itself! Creating, and then medicating these intrinsic abilities ass illnesses whereby the “neurotypical” individual might only be considered as such due to ability to adapt, confirm, or follow diections in a systematic manner, and furthermore, that the misdiagnoses of such misunderstoodconditions often even relied on bias, poor judgement, racism, social class, and economics had certainly deconstructed any faith or belief formerly held in the modern state of psychology, and most of the articles or public medical journals read more like science fiction and fantasy rather than cold hard facts; indicating a moral and ethical flaw within the entirety of the human species—man's own inability to understand God, and therefore himself, in any creative process. Diety and creativity combined were simply a mystery, and had plagued entire generations of the human spieces as a whole. Blū runs at top speed through the streets of Brooklyn New York on a cold and windy October night. V.O. The ironic thing is, I'm running to go get ice cream. I hate my life, I hate this place, I hate my life— I fucking hate this shit. I'm trying really hard not to kill myself. Like really, really hard. Sudden onset bruxism and hand tremors and I can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the constant mottoeycle traffic or sleeping in a sea of vehicles which at any given moment could sound off, start up or honk the horn alarm over the last 9 months. I'm fucking exhausted all the time and everything around me just fucking draining. Just fucking draining. https://www.tracklib.com/pricing Yo, you know how I know I'm aging? I hated Dora The Explora when I was a kid— You know why? “That's for babies!” I was too old for Dora the explorer. Mi was a tv snob. I'm like “I hate Dora!” No teletubbies for me. No sir. I'm distinguished now. But get this, As I get older, different renditions of Dora Have grown on me To the point where I actually like the bitch I got older, And there was this girl, Who would show up at raves Dressed like Dora And shuffle, And dance around— Looking like Dora The Explorer Kind of creepy, now that I think about it As an actual adult, Like this, Fully grown woman, Dressed as a fucking 5 year old Dancing around at raves Being Dora. Weird. But I liked it. I loved it. She was a hit; Everybody was like “RAVE DORA! RAVE DORA!” She blew up on Instagram, She had a following— It was like Where will she be next?! RAVE DORA! Had the backpack and everything— Everything! Rave Dora! But now I know I'm getting old, Because I'm fuckin around online, And I see in the advertising little sidebar video Like, a new version of Dora The Explorer, And I'm like “DORAAAAAAAA!!!” —the fuck! I just realized my best friend from 3rd and 7th grade looked just like Dora the explorer. Facts. She became literally the most successful stripper I've ever met. Ahem. Dancer. Right. Dancer. Ahem. Dudes are gross. Doods r gross. Welcome to Doods R Gross; What can I help you find today? Uh, hi. I'm looking for a guy— Uh huh— Possibly one who looks like this: Ah shit, this is how I got playing the Wikipedia game and went on a tirade Facts. Ended up here Unicameralism (from uni- "one" + Latin camera "chamber") is a type of legislatureconsisting of one house or assembly that legislates and votes as one.[1] Unicameralism has become an increasingly common type of legislature, making up nearly 60% of all national legislatures[2] and an even greater share of subnational legislatures. Interesting Started Here: The Fallen Angel (French: L'Ange déchu) is a painting by French artist Alexandre Cabanel. You were saying? Preferably this. Ah huh. Not the face, but— the body— you know. Like this. Okay. Who will let me do everything. Everything as in? Everything. Well, as you know, dudes are gross… Hence the name of this store, good sir. I am in no way good, nor am I a “sir”, and for all intensive purposes, my employment at this store signals my deep indirection in life and may also be an indication of more serious issues. Maintained. Alright, so I'll show you what we got. No promises; The type of model you want is popular, Might be out of stock. Considerable. What's your price range? This credit card has no limit. Credit, or debit? My debit card is also linked to a plethora of infinite wealth. Right this way. Do you think I deserved for him to hit me like that? I don't know. Maybe. I mean—the cheating is a given; I was really really fat..:but do you think like, him getting violent was some kind of karma for something? Maybe. Like maybe I had it coming for whatever reason— and just didn't know it. Maybe. Suddenly I was in the residual memory of a dream. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©