By Philip Carroll
Wow. I can’t believe it. I’ve only been sitting here for 30 minutes and Adelaide has not stopped talking about cast albums. We don’t care that the Broadway cast album of Assassins is criminally underrated. We don’t care about Aaron Tveit. We don’t care that Bonnie and Clyde only ran for 36 performances. It was a bad show, Adelaide. The best song is about driving cars.
It is times like these in which I regret deciding to be a theater major. Why does it always have to be like this? Why can’t we just talk about things that aren’t theater, or (even better) just not talk at all. It can be nice to enjoy a meal in silence, Adelaide. I wonder if you have ever tried it.
I’m sorry my anger manifests so pointedly. It is not just you, Adelaide. It is all of us. I know that. I worry that it can even be myself sometimes. Perhaps my incessant discussion of the rules of longform improv and their implementation have ruined many Kline lunches. But goddamn, Adelaide––can you please shut your fucking mouth for ten seconds? Please. How do you have the energy for all this? Please eat your food, Adelaide; it’s getting cold. Oh God, no, please chew with your mouth closed! I can see your uvula from across the table. This is a long table, Adelaide. Everyone is looking at you. You always complain you’re tired but you always act like this maybe this is the problem. I don’t want to talk about the 2011 Tony performances, Adelaide. I don’t care that you memorized all of Phantom of the Opera. How long did that take you? How could you not have had nothing else to do? Oh yes, you have to leave, I know it is a long walk to Fisher. Yep, good luck. Don’t forget your umbrella. It’s too bad about the shuttle, yeah. Ok, goodbye Adelaide. Yep, I know. Sure. Ok. Got it. Sure thing. Sure. Ok. Yes. Alright. Sure. Ok. See you. Bye now.
Goodbye, Adelaide.