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Can You Survive Seeing ‘Grease’ On Broadway?

It’s a summer morning, and you’re sitting around with nothing to do. You had a job, but it was eaten by a wizard, so now you’re stuck here in your boring house. You are going insane because there is no entertainment.

Suddenly, you hear a knock on your door.

You slam the door in Howie McGowan’s face and return to your house. It’s very boring here. You live your entire life without entertainment. One time, a gorilla gets into your house, and you think, “Finally! Something exciting!” but the gorilla just goes into your laundry room and folds towels for a few hours before leaving your house forever.

You never smile again.

You open the door, and oh fuck, it’s your horrible neighbor, Howie McGowan. Howie is always drinking a quart of milk wherever he goes. He slurps it so loudly. He is the worst. His son was eaten by rats in the background of a “Got Milk?” commercial starring Lance Armstrong, so now the Dairy Farmers of America sends him free milk in the mail as compensation. He will never run out of milk. In the middle of the night, he sits in his kitchen with the lights off slurping it down with so much volume that the sound of it wakes you up in your bed.

“Mmm...hello,” says Howie McGowan. He takes a huge swig of milk and gargles it loudly before spitting the milk back into the bottle. He is disgusting. “I love you,” he says to you.

Howie sips deep on his milk. His gurgling is the stuff of nightmares. Finally, he speaks: “As you know, my son was recently eaten by rats in 2004 when he snuck onto the set of a ‘Got Milk?’ commercial and fell into the giant cage of rats he had brought from home. Before he died, he had purchased a ticket to see Grease on Broadway 12 years from the day that he died. That day is today.”

“Well, obviously, my dead son can’t go see Grease on Broadway because he hates musicals and he was eaten by rats in 2004,” says Howie as he takes a huge swig of milk. “Since my son can’t use his ticket to Grease, I thought I’d check to see if you wanted to have it, since I love you.”

“Wonderful,” says Howie as he guzzles a terrible amount of milk. “Here is my dead son’s ticket to Grease, my cherished neighbor.”

He hands you the ticket and then walks back to his house. You can hear the sound of him drink quart after quart of apology milk, and you know that he is thinking about asking you to marry him. He is...unthinkable.

Ah, Broadway! America’s festering wound of arts and acting. On Broadway, the streets are nauseous with history. Broadway is where the Tragedy Ape wrote Ape Weep! Ape Swallowed Only Friend! It’s where the only musical ever written by a pig, Let’s Wink At The Bishop! LET’S WINK AT THE BISHOP! was first performed. It’s where Arthur Miller said, “Oh fuck. Here I go,” and then turned into a puff of steam.

Yes, it’s very good to be here on historic Broadway. What would you like to do now?

Okay. Grease is being performed at the historic Grand Picador Theater. It’s extremely fancy. You’re a fancy idiot if you go to the Grand Picador Theater.

Here you are at the Grand Picador Theater. This theater is extremely famous and historical. In 1979, the Grand Picador was home to the first all-screaming performance of The King And I. It’s truly amazing to be here at this legendary theater!

Here you are in the Grand Picador lobby.

“Hi! Welcome to the Grand Picador Theater! I’m the theater’s only usher. My name is Dentist Or Maybe Usher. My parents named me that because they thought I would grow up to be either a dentist or an usher, and they were right! May I see your ticket, please?”

You give the usher your ticket.

“Oh, I’ve got some bad news!” he says. “You’re in seat 17B, which is the worst chair in the world. That seat was built on top of Marlon Brando’s grave, and his furious ghost haunts the chair to this day. That’s what we in the usher business call ‘shit luck,’ my friend. Please follow me to your horrible seat.”

You follow Dentist Or Maybe Usher to seat 17B. It’s right next to a man who is standing up and smiling as he stares out into nothingness.

“I’m smiling like this because I’m thinking about tobacco,” says the man. He does not look at you.

“I do not care,” says the man. “I am thinking about tobacco right now.”

You get comfortable in your seat as the theater orchestra begins to play. The curtains come up, and the house lights go down.

Grease on Broadway is about to begin.

“Well, there’s the President’s Throne, but that’s reserved for the president.”

“Okay, well, if you’re not the president, then you’ll have to follow me to the bad seat,” says Dentist Or Maybe Usher.

“Okay, right this way, Mr. President,” says Dentist Or Maybe Usher. He leads you to a beautiful chair. “Here is the President’s Throne. It’s the best chair in the world. Please enjoy the play.”

This is great! The President’s Throne is an amazing chair! Everything about it is luxurious. Doves carrying buckets of hot milk fly over you and dump the hot milk onto your head like you just won the Super Bowl of Dairy. A butler sprays perfume onto your crotch, which attracts beautiful butterflies that land on your groin and die. Remora fish eat the barnacles off of your skin. You’ve never been more pampered. This must be what it’s like to be the president every day!

“Everyone is the president!” you shout. Everyone in the theater begins applauding.

“I am the president! Me!” says one very happy man.

“I can’t believe I’m the president,” says a woman next to him. “I’m going to declare war on my loud pet bird!”

It looks like you’ve really made everyone’s day by telling them they’re the president. Now, it’s probably time to get quiet and start watching Grease.

You scream, “I am the president!” and the entire theater turns around and shushes you in unison. “Shut the fuck up, my gorgeous president!” screams a man in the front row.

“My president, it’s an honor to be at the theater with you, but if you do not become silent, I will walk into the street and start screaming national security secrets,” says a woman way at the back. Everyone in the theater starts chanting, “Shut up, president! Shut up, president!” over and over.

It sounds like everyone wants you to get quiet.

You are about to start watching the play when, all of a sudden, a member of the Secret Service shows up. “My president, it’s me, your main bodyguard,” he says. “As I’m sure you’re aware, half of all presidential assassinations take place inside theaters. As the president, you are incredibly likely to be killed here on Broadway, so we’re going to have to take insane security precautions in order to keep you safe during the play.”

“Okay, suit yourself, my president,” says your Secret Service bodyguard. “It’s your fucking funeral, you idiot. Goodbye, my sweet president of U.S.A.”

The Secret Service agent leaves. Looks like you can finally get started watching the play. The curtains rise, and the play begins.

Narrator: It’s Grease.

(The play begins on the Galapagos Islands in the summer of the 1950s. Enter Mark Zuckerberg, a man who wears a leather jacket and is handsome. He is joined by the beautiful woman named Saltine.)

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! I know you could do it!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without opening his lips, like a ventriloquist): Here we are, baby—the most expensive restaurant in town!

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! Promise me you’ll never turn me into a bug using magic!

Mark Zuckerberg: No.

(They kiss as the waves explode all around them, on account of here we are at the ocean.)

There’s a tremendous crash as a 100-ton anvil falls from the ceiling and flattens you to death. You’ve been assassinated! It turns out that your assassin was none other than John Wilkes Booth Jr., the twin brother of famous theater assassin John Wilkes Booth. You should have listened to your Secret Service agent and taken security precautions, but now you’re completely dead and assassinated.

If there’s anything we can learn from this, it’s that presidents should never go to a theater alone, or else an assassin will drop a giant anvil on them.

The End.

In order to keep you safe, your Secret Service detail encases your body inside of a concrete block for the entirety of Grease on Broadway. The play starts, but you can’t really see or hear anything.

Deep within your concrete block, you can faintly hear the music from Grease. You wonder what part of the play they’re up to.

Every so often, you hear gunshots and somebody yelling, “Let me kill him! Let me kill the president!” and you hear your bodyguard yelling, “No! That would be wrong!” Fortunately, you are safe inside of your concrete block.

Well, Grease is over. You missed the entire thing, but at least you didn’t get assassinated. You are never freed from the concrete block, thus making you the safest person in the world for the next 200 years, which is how long the rest of your life lasts inside the concrete block.

If there’s anything we’ve learned from this, it’s that you shouldn’t go around telling people that you’re the president, or else you won’t get to watch musical theater.

The End.

Narrator: It’s Grease.

“Hmm...very fascinating,” says the guy next to you. “I didn’t notice that it was Grease because I was too busy focusing on what it would be like if tobacco were a type of meat, and if you had to kill an animal to get your hands on that sweet tobacco for smoking and chewing. I think I would definitely still kill that animal to get the tobacco, even if it screamed when you harvested its tobacco flesh or could plead for its life in English. That’s how much I loooove tobacco.”

Sounds like this guy is a huge fan of tobacco.

(The play begins on the Galapagos Islands in the summer of the 1950s. Enter Mark Zuckerberg, a man who wears a leather jacket and is handsome. He is joined by the beautiful woman named Saltine.)

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! I know you could do it!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without opening his lips, like a ventriloquist): Here we are, baby—the most expensive restaurant in town!

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! Promise me you’ll never turn me into a bug using magic!

Mark Zuckerberg: No.

(They kiss as the waves explode all around them, on account of here we are at the ocean.)

You decide to close your eyes and sleep through the rest of the first act of the play.

You have a dream that your horrible neighbor, Howie McGowan, is drinking milk on your doorstep while he explains that while you were at work, he snuck into your house and had sex with your parents. You can’t remember the specifics because it’s all hazy dream logic, but basically, in your dream, Howie takes enormous gulps of milk as he describes to you how he and your parents got mega-carnal all over your house and how their asses became best friends with each other. He says that the sex he had with your parents was so goddamn vigorous and rude that it basically ruined your house. Like, when they were done having sex in your house, the mayor of your town had to come put a big black towel over your house as a way to say “Everyone...steer clear...this...this is not an okay place anymore.”

It’s basically the worst dream you’ve ever had. You’ve got to wake up!

(It’s now several months later, and the summer is over. It is the 1950s school year, and we’re at Rydell High School, home of the musical Grease. Mark Zuckerberg is standing around, slowly turning into shit with his friends Dandruff, Zig-Zag, Yogurt Sr., and False Jermaine.)

Dandruff: Hey, Mark Zuckerberg, are you ready for this year’s high school Hot Rod Contest? The Pharaoh says that He’s going to let the winner give Him a hickey!

Zig-Zag: Yeah, Zuckerberg, you’ve got the hottest Hot Rod around! The Pharaoh is going to love your car the most for sure!

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without moving his lips): This cannot be denied, my friends. My Hot Rod is truly the Lamborghini of jalopies. I seek desperately to please the Pharaoh in all ways, and so I will enter my car in this year’s Hot Rod Contest.

Yogurt Sr.: Attaboy, Zuck my baby!

Dandruff: I worship the Pharaoh. I respect His omnipotence over all things.

Mark Zuckerberg: Yes. The Pharaoh is everything, and I’m the cool cat who’s gonna give Him a hickey.

All (in unison): When best friends enter their car into a contest, you know that it’s going to be springtime forever.

(The friends high-five each other. They’re excited to win the Hot Rod Contest.)

(We are now in the main office of Rydell High, where the school’s principal, a wraithlike woman known only as Steam, is reading the morning announcements to the students.)

Steam: Good morning, children. I am Steam. Welcome to Rydell High. I have the following announcements: Due to a national initiative to improve the scientific minds of American students, you will be dissecting frogs in every class. English, math, home ec.—it doesn’t fucking matter. Time will be set aside in all of them to slice open a frog. In this way, we will produce scientists powerful enough to destroy the Soviet Union.

Steam: Furthermore, in compliance with recent animal cruelty laws, we are forbidden from killing the frogs before we dissect them, so the frogs will be shrieking as you rip open their bellies to explore their organs. Children, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a frog shriek, but it’s...in your sleep, you will have nightmares devoid of images and filled only with the sound of a shrieking frog. Just blackness and shrieking.

Steam: Finally, as part of a nationwide initiative to boost efficiency in the American education system, lunch will no longer be served in the cafeteria. The entire faculty is now staffed exclusively by lactating women, so if you get hungry, silently walk to the front of the classroom, and your teacher will breastfeed you while continuing her lesson plan without pause. The increased productivity among our students will aid us in our quest to strangle the Soviet Union. This concludes the morning announcements! Good luck this year at Rydell High, and I hope that the Pharaoh does not destroy you. Never forget that I am Steam.

(All the students applaud. They are ready for another year at Rydell High.)

(Saltine enters the office. She is joined by Amelia Earhart, the worst pilot in the whole school.)

Amelia Earhart: Howdy, Saltine! How was your summer?

Saltine: Oh, Amelia, it was wonderful! I met a boy, and we yelled romance at each other on the beach!

Amelia Earhart: Ooooooo la la! Tell me all the details!

(Music begins to play. A single upright bass plays a jazzy phrase, repeated endlessly. A Broadway song is starting.)

Saltine: Amelia, I am going to tell you all about it.

(Saltine begins to sing the famous song from Grease known as “Summer Lovin’.”)

Saltine (coughing and shrieking in a musical way): Summer lovin’! Shit! Whatever! I let a boy touch my shin! Then the boy stood 30 feet away from me and revealed his butt to me! I looked at the butt for 15 minutes and then he put the butt back in his pants! That’s sexual intercourse, baby!

Amelia Earhart (singing horribly): Tell me more! Tell me more! Did the boy have a gentleman’s penis?

Saltine (singing like a foghorn starring in an opera): It’s impossible to say! He pulled his pants down, but his groin was covered by clouds! I asked him, “Sir, do you have got yourself a penis?” and the boy said, “I have no idea what the hell that is, you bimbo!”

Amelia Earhart (in a full-on musical bellow): Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing like a seagull having night terrors): I will tell you more! The boy’s name was Mark Zuckerberg!

Amelia Earhart (singing with all of her lungs): Christ! Tell me more! Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing with all of her lungs): I will tell you more! He took me to his car, where he was fermenting jars of grape juice into vinegar in the backseat. He told me, “Baby, no matter how deeply I fall in love with you, I will always love my vinegar more!” I said, “I’d expect nothing less, you motherfucker!” He said, “If I had to kill you to save the homemade vinegar I cooked up in my car, I would do it,” and I said, “I admire a man with convictions!” Then we kissed!

Amelia Earhart (singing beautifully): Tell me more!

Saltine (singing even more beautifully): And then I said, “I love you!” and he said, “I have to go home to use the toilet in a way it’s not usually used,” so he left, and the summer romance was over!

Amelia Earhart (doing a musical screech): Tell me more! Tell me more!

Saltine (singing): No! I won’t tell you anything else, you fucking harpy! You’ve sucked me dry of information!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

You look over at the man sitting next to you. He is standing up but looking very angry.

“I’m furious because I’m thinking about what it would be like if the soccer player Pele kicked a bag of cigarettes with his golden foot. Pele should not kick the tobacco. Pele should marry the tobacco, or transform into more tobacco. This is my opinion.”

Amelia Earhart: Well, Saltine, it sounds like you’ve got boy terrors. Go work them out at a slumber party with your best gal friends.

Saltine: Okay, I’ll do that.

(Amelia Earhart exits.)

Saltine (conjuring up an image of Mark Zuckerberg in her mind): Oh! Zuckerberg! You are a gallant sack of dreams! My heart is the main rabbi in the synagogue of your groin! Someday, I will make you mine.

(Saltine exits.)

(Meanwhile, later that night at a different time, Saltine is having a slumber’s party with her friends, the most popular girls in school. Their names are Endless Jeremy, Flutes Trombone, Aunt Prison, and, of course, Juniper Highdive.)

Saltine: Comrades, can I tell you a secret about my romance?

Flutes Trombone: Confess it into my ear.

Saltine: I am in love with our high school’s main bad boy, Mark Zuckerberg.

Flutes Trombone: Oh, sweet Saltine, that’s great! You should invite him to dance with you at this year’s Death Waltz!

Saltine: Oh, Flutes Trombone, that’s such a romantic scheme! The Rydell High School Death Waltz is the perfect time for kissing the boy you love! I’ll ask Zuckerberg to go with me tomorrow at school.

Flutes Trombone: That’s a great idea, as long as the Pharaoh allows us all to live until the morning!

Aunt Prison: How fucking ironic, ladies. The Pharaoh could kill us all at any moment, and yet He is the only reason we breathe.

Saltine: I’m just so nervous to ask Mark Zuckerberg to the Death Waltz! What if he hates me so much that he stuffs me into my own purse and then mails the purse to a college in the Soviet Union?

Aunt Prison: Be quiet, Saltine. It’s so easy to ask a boy out on a date. It’s so simple that even the apes of the jungle do it on the regular.

Juniper Highdive: Yes, frequently we have noticed a boy is missing from our school, and when we ask, “Where is the boy?” invariably somebody says, “Didn’t you hear? He is in the jungle dating an ape. We will not see him again.”

Saltine: But how do I ask a boy out on a date?

(Music begins to play. A herd of trumpets begin tooting the same note over and over at irregular intervals. A Broadway song is starting.)

Aunt Prison (shouting and struggling to be heard over the very loud trumpets): Oh, Saltine, it’s so easy! Just follow these simple steps:

(Aunt Prison begins to sing the famous song from Grease known as “The Secret To Love.”)

Aunt Prison (screaming musically): Boys love eels! Eels are the main treasure of men!

All (in unison, shrieking and barely audible over the trumpets): Yes! It’s so obvious!

Aunt Prison (screaming musically): Oh, my Christ! Eels are the thing boys desire constantly!

All (in unison, shouting so loud): Even an insane infant can understand this!

Flutes Trombone (singing in a high-pitched vibrato that shatters glass): When a boy smells an eel, he becomes a slave to the odor, and puberty swallows his mind!

All (in unison, singing at such a high pitch that only bats can hear it): Oh! Now I understand it at last! If you want a boy to date you, simply pickle your body in the juices of an eel! You will carry the sexual aroma of the wet snake of eel, and the boy of your dreams will lift you up over his head and carry you into the desert to give you a hickey!

Flutes Trombone (screaming so hard her nose starts to bleed): The secret to love is to smell like an eel!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

Saltine: Oh, thank you, my friends! Thank you for explaining romance to me! I will find a way to make myself smell like an eel to make Mark Zuckerberg love me!

Juniper Highdive: Good luck, Saltine!

Flutes Trombone: We’re all rooting for you!

Saltine: You’re so nice! You’re the second-most important people in my life, after the Pharaoh. Goodbye!

(They all exit together.)

(Rydell High, the next morning. Mark Zuckerberg is standing around, putrefying in the morning air. Dandruff, Zig-Zag, Yogurt Sr., and False Jermaine are with him.)

False Jermaine: I don’t get it, fellas...it’s 10:30 in the morning, but the sky is pitch-black. What gives?

Dandruff: Didn’t you hear? The Pharaoh canceled the sun.

Mark Zuckerberg: Hush now, my boys. We need to focus on winning the Hot Rod Contest. If I’m not the one who wins and gets to give the Pharaoh a hickey, my dad says he’s gonna sacrifice me to Zeus.

Zig-Zag: What is it about dads that always makes them want to sacrifice things to Zeus? Yesterday, my dad sacrificed a coyote to Zeus because he caught the coyote facing east and thought that it was trying to look at the Soviet Union. Zeus has grown obese on the burnt offerings our dads have sent up to Mt. Olympus.

Mark Zuckerberg (sniffing the air): Wait a second.... Something smells like...(he smells the air again)...yes, my boys...something smells like the wet serpent of lust.... Something smells...like eels.

(Mark Zuckerberg turns and sees Saltine standing right behind him.)

Saltine: Hello, Zuckerberg. Now is the era of history in which I smell like an eel. I bathed myself in Eel Lotion to seduce your nostril. Will you go to the Death Waltz with me?

Mark Zuckerberg: Saltine, from this day forward, my nostril is your servant forever. I would love to go to the Death Waltz with you. When is it?

Saltine: It’s the same date and time as the Hot Rod Contest.

Mark Zuckerberg: The same date and time as the Hot Rod Contest?! But that’s when the Hot Rod Contest is! Oh, Saltine, I can’t miss the Hot Rod Contest! It’s way more important than going to the Death Waltz with you. If I win, I’m going to get to give the Pharaoh a hickey. The Rydell High School motto is “The Pharaoh is more important than love,” and I live by those words at all times.

Saltine (bursting into tears): Mark Zuckerberg, you’ve broken my heart! Did our time on the Galapagos Islands mean nothing to you? What about that night we walked together on the beach, and a corpse washed up on the sand, and you took out your sword and cut open the corpse’s stomach, and there was a huge pile of trail mix in there, and you said, “Baby, allow me to introduce you to free trail mix!” and we ate the trail mix out of the corpse’s stomach in the piss-frail light of the Galapagos sunset? Was that all just a lie? I never want to see you again! I’m going to the sewers, and I’m never coming back!

(Saltine starts to sob and runs away to the sewers, which are full of warthogs who walk on two legs like men.)

Dandruff: Forget her, Zuckerberg. The Hot Rod Contest is the only thing that matters. Let’s go down to the barbershop and watch our dads get haircuts.

Mark Zuckerberg: Yeah, watching our dads get haircuts always helps me forget about my troubles. It will help me get my mind off of Saltine. I love her and her smell of eel, but I’ve got to let her go. What a goddamn bummer. You go on ahead; I’ll catch up to you. Tell your dad that I can’t wait to sit really far away from him and watch him get a haircut through my opera glasses.

Dandruff: Sure thing, Zuckerberg. See you there.

(Dandruff exits.)

(Mark Zuckerberg stands alone in the 1950s night. In the orchestra pit, a harp is placed in front of an orangutan, who begins screaming and ripping the harp to shreds. The music that results from this horrific act shortens the lifespan of everyone in the theater by a month. A Broadway song is starting. Mark Zuckerberg begins to sing the famous song from Grease known as “Teenager Problems.”)

Mark Zuckerberg (screaming over the sound of the orangutan trying to destroy a harp): I’ve got teenager problems! I’ve got classic puberty riddles turning my life into ripe shit! On the one hand, I want to be in love with Saltine! She’s so beautiful, and her mouth doesn’t have any bugs in it! She is the perfect girl! However, fuck! On the other hand, I love and fear the Pharaoh above all else!

Mark Zuckerberg (continuing to scream while the orangutan, who is now wearing a little orangutan-sized wedding dress, continues to smash the harp in the orchestra pit): Should I choose the sweet embrace of Saltine or the unstoppable chrome majesty of the Pharaoh? These pituitary mysteries have transformed my life into a labyrinth of sexual nonsense! I wish an honest jaguar would swallow my throat so that I didn’t have to deal with these teenager problems that I’ve got!

Mark Zuckerberg (shrieking while the orangutan smashes the harp with such enthusiasm that the resulting friction causes both the harp and the orangutan to catch on fire): Fate is a warthog that eats teenagers legs-first! And another thing: The blackhearted she-walrus named Puberty is causing my body to change in a baffling manner! My armpits smell like an ashtray’s funeral, and when I see a beautiful woman, my penis whispers the Nicene Creed! My teenager problems are driving me crazy! But I’ll find a way out of this! I will solve my teenager problems, or I will die trying!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

You look over at the man sitting next to you. He is laughing and applauding.

“I wasn’t listening to the song,” says the man. “I am laughing and clapping because I’m thinking about looking out my window and seeing a billboard that says the words ‘Any Amount Of Tobacco’ on it.”

You look over at the man sitting next to you. He has gotten out of his chair and is loudly listing the names of cigarette brands to a bunch of empty chairs.

You wake up from your terrible dream, and the first act of the play is basically over. You’ll have to piece together the plot on your own. Anyway, it looks like they’re in the middle of a song. There’s an ape smashing a harp in the orchestra pit, and here’s what’s happening onstage:

Mark Zuckerberg (shrieking while the orangutan smashes the harp with such enthusiasm that the resulting friction causes both the harp and the orangutan to catch on fire): Fate is a warthog that eats teenagers legs-first! And another thing: The blackhearted she-walrus named Puberty is causing my body to change in a baffling manner! The pimples on my face spell out the Nicene Creed in Braille, and my armpits smell like an ashtray’s funeral. My teenager problems are driving me crazy! But I’ll find a way out of this! I will solve my teenager problems, or I will die trying!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

(Mark Zuckerberg exits, and the curtain falls. Act One of Grease has come to an end.)

Everyone in the theater is on their feet and applauding. It’s time for intermission. You’ve got 15 minutes to do whatever you want. What would you like to do?

You shuffle out into the lobby of the Grand Picador Theater with the rest of the Grease audience. Nobody can keep quiet about their admiration for this landmark work of musical theater.

How would you like to spend your intermission time?

All right, you’re back in the lobby. What would you like to do now?

Here’s the door to the toilet.

You walk through the door and enter the Realm Of Toilet. This is where the toilet dwells.

You discover the toilet dwelling in the middle of a beautiful meadow. “Greetings, theater-goer,” says the toilet. “I was once human like you, but then I landed my helicopter on top of a witch, thus killing her. Her vengeful spirit cast a spell upon my body and cursed me to become a toilet. I had a wife and children once. I lived, and I loved.”

You deposit your body’s noxious riffraff into the toilet who was once a man. “At night, I still dream,” says the toilet as you load him up with your natural filth.

All right, you’ve finished. Your body is empty and ready to watch the second act of Grease.

You head over to the merchandise table. “Hello,” says the salesman. “Welcome to Grease The Store. What kind of souvenir would you like to remember your trip to Broadway by?”

What else would you like to buy?

“An excellent choice!” says the merch man. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Excellent choice!” says the merchandise man. “Here is a dog that frequently says the word ‘grease.’”

The dog looks at you. “Grease,” says the dog.

“You see?” says the merchandise man.

“Pump me full of helium and let my spherical, inflated body float away over the ocean,” says the dog.

“Oh yeah,” says the merchandise man. “This dog wants to be inflated with helium for some reason. It’s going to ask you to do that every now and then. But it mostly just says the word ‘grease.’”

“Grease,” says the dog. You stare at the dog. The dog stares back. “I command you to turn my body into the ocean’s main balloon,” says the dog.

Cool. This is a good souvenir. What would you like to do now?

“We’ve got two shirts for sale,” says the merch man. “We’ve got a ‘Teenager Problems’ shirt and a Pharaoh shirt. Which one would you like?”

You purchase some official Grease lamb. It’s one of the hottest Broadway items there is. The Grease logo was tattooed onto the lamb by ink masters who cut themselves in half with a sword when the deed was complete in order to keep the art of tattooing the word Grease onto raw lamb a secret forever. When people see you eating this lamb on the sidewalk, they will think, “That person must be very highbrow because they went to see Grease on Broadway.”

You are now the one who has got the lamb.

You decide to sleep through intermission so that the play will start faster. While you are asleep, you have a dream that you’re a student at Rydell High School. In your dream, Saltine and Mark Zuckerberg team up to chop off the head of your horrible neighbor, Howie McGowan. It’s the best dream you’ve ever had.

Suddenly, you hear Dentist Or Maybe Usher call out, “Ladies and gentlemen, intermission is now over. Act Two of Grease is beginning!”

You return to your seat and await the second act of the play. Suddenly, you hear Dentist Or Maybe Usher call out, “Ladies and gentlemen, intermission is now over. Act Two of Grease is beginning!”

A hush falls over the crowd as the curtains rise. Act Two of Grease is beginning.

(It’s the day of the big Hot Rod Contest. Zig-Zag and False Jermaine are breathing on Mark Zuckerberg’s Hot Rod to get it nice and warm for the contest.)

Zig-Zag: Hey, the Pharaoh brought the sun back!

False Jermaine: No, the sun is gone forever. The sky is bright right now because the Pharaoh decided to set the moon on fire. The Pharaoh said He wanted to punish the moon for not having a lunar mouth that could scream baseball scores down to Earth when you miss the game on TV. The whole thing was on the news.

Zig-Zag: I would kill and die for the Pharaoh.

False Jermaine: Yeah.

(Mark Zuckerberg and Dandruff speak privately.)

Dandruff: Well, Zuckerberg, the day of the Hot Rod Contest is upon us. Do you feel ready to win?

Mark Zuckerberg: I do believe that I can do it. My Hot Rod will do so many incredible tricks that the Pharaoh will have to declare me the winner.


Dandruff: Zuckerberg, we’ve been friends a long time, right? Well, so, just in case you die during the Hot Rod Contest, there’s something I need you to know.

Mark Zuckerberg: Of course, Dandruff. You can tell me anything.

Dandruff: Whenever I lose one of my baby teeth, it regrows in my father’s mouth, and now my father’s gums are lined with the small teeth I once had as a child.

Mark Zuckerberg: Thank you for telling this to me, Dandruff. You are my best friend.

(Over the hill comes the faint sound of a distant engine. It’s getting closer. The gang turns in the direction of the noise.)

Dandruff: Oh shit, everyone, here comes the enemy Hot Rod!

Mark Zuckerberg: Who’s driving it?

(The gang squints their eyes to catch a glimpse of the enemy Hot Rod coming toward them.)

(The enemy Hot Rod comes racing over the hill.)

Mark Zuckerberg: Mother of Shit! It’s the goddamn Soviet Union!

The Soviet Union (in unison): Here we come, you motherfuckers!

(The enemy Hot Rod skids to a halt, and Jawbreaker, the leader of the whole Soviet Union, hops out of the driver’s seat.)

Jawbreaker: That’s right, you idiots! It’s us! The goddamn Soviet Union! We’re here to win the Hot Rod Contest! The Soviet Union is the one that’s going to get to give the Pharaoh a hickey, and He’ll like it better than the piss-frail American hickey you’d give Him! Because in the Soviet Union, we give better hickeys, we have louder bugs, and we get spanked by angrier dads!

Mark Zuckerberg (charging at Jawbreaker with his grade-A American fist locked and loaded): You take that back! I’ll kill your bones, Jawbreaker! I hate the Soviet Union!

Dandruff (holding him back): Calm your blood into a placid soup, Zuckerberg!

Jawbreaker: Hahaha! Now, we will sing the Soviet Union National Anthem!

(The orchestra plays a solemn tune as Jawbreaker sings the famous song from Grease called “The State Hymn Of The USSR.”)

Jawbreaker: Союз нерушимый республик свободных
Сплотила навеки Великая Русь.
Да здравствует созданный волей народов
Единый, могучий Советский Союз!

All (in unison): Honk honk! Beep beep! Vroom vroom vroom! Here comes the Soviet Union!

Jawbreaker: Сквозь грозы сияло нам солнце свободы,
И Ленин великий нам путь озарил:
Нас вырастил Сталин — на верность народу,
На труд и на подвиги нас вдохновил!

All (in unison): Honk honk! Beep beep! Vroom vroom vroom! Here comes the Soviet Union!

Jawbreaker: Мы армию нашу растили в сраженьях.
Захватчиков подлых с дороги сметём!
Мы в битвах решаем судьбу поколений,
Мы к славе Отчизну свою поведём!

All (in unison): Honk honk! Beep beep! Vroom vroom vroom! Here comes the Soviet Union!

(The music stops, and there is silence. The song is over. Everyone in the theater begins to applaud.)

You look over at the man next to you. His face is completely blank.

“I cannot emphasize to you enough how little attention I was paying to the song,” says the man. “I am feeling very neutral right now because I’m thinking about looking at a pile of loose tobacco, which is amazing, but then I’m thinking about closing my eyes so that I won’t be able to see the tobacco anymore, which is horrible. But then I think about opening my eyes, and I can see the tobacco again, which is amazing. It all evens out, and so I feel completely neutral.”

Mark Zuckerberg (still trying to punch Jawbreaker): Jawbreaker, I hate that song! So help me, I will make you the Main Fish of Injury Lake.

Jawbreaker: I’d like to see you try!

A Booming Voice: ENOUGH.

(Everyone turns to look in the direction of the voice.)

Yogurt Sr.: Everyone look to the sea!

Zig-Zag: It’s the Pharaoh!

(The Pharaoh rises slowly out of the sea. Nature itself shudders in the presence of His chrome majesty.)

The Pharaoh: I. AM. EVERYTHING.

Mark Zuckerberg: My Pharaoh, you honor us with your presence. Welcome to Rydell High School.

The Pharaoh: I. AM. THE. CREATION. AND. THE. OBLITERATION. OF. ALL. THINGS.

Jawbreaker: My Pharaoh, look at my Hot Rod! Is it not to your liking?

The Pharaoh (bursting into flames of rage): THE. CAR. IS. BAD.

Jawbreaker: No!!!

Mark Zuckerberg: Well, my Pharaoh, what about my Hot Rod? Surely you like this American slab of car better than that Soviet jalopy!

The Pharaoh (once again becoming engulfed in flames of rage): THIS. CAR. IS. ALSO. BAD. EVERY. CAR. IS. BAD. THERE. IS. NO. WINNER. ONLY. LOSERS. I. EXTEND. FOREVER. IN. EVERY. DIRECTION.

Mark Zuckerberg: But my Pharaoh! If there are no winners, who will give you a hickey?

The Pharaoh: I. WILL. GIVE. MYSELF. A. HICKEY. MY. LIPS. SPAN. ONE. THOUSAND. HORIZONS. I. SHALL. SUCK. MY. OWN. NECK. MY. FORM. PREDATES. EXISTENCE.

(The sky grows dark, and the earth begins to shake.)

The Pharaoh: AS. PUNISHMENT. FOR. YOUR. TERRIBLE. CARS. I. SHALL. DESTROY. THE. UNIVERSE. AND. ERASE. YOU. ALL. FROM. TIME.

Jawbreaker: My Pharaoh, don’t do it!

Mark Zuckerberg: Please forgive us!

The Pharaoh: THERE. CAN. BE. NO. FORGIVENESS. ONLY. DESTRUCTION. GOODBYE. TO. RYDELL. HIGH. SCHOOL. GOODBYE. TO. EVERYTHING.

(The fabric of existence begins to fray. The Pharaoh is dissolving the universe.)

(Just as the Pharaoh is about to destroy the universe, He is devoured by the Omega Locust, a cosmic being far older and more powerful than the Pharaoh.)

Omega Locust: I AM YOUR GOD NOW.

All (in unison): The Pharaoh is dead! All hail the Omega Locust!

(It’s later that same day, and we are at the annual Rydell High School Death Waltz. Students are dying left and right, as is traditional. Mark Zuckerberg is dancing with the beautiful Saltine.)

Saltine: Oh, Zuckerberg! I thought you had abandoned me for the Hot Rod Contest! What made you change your mind?

Mark Zuckerberg (speaking without moving his lips): The Hot Rod Contest was canceled because the Omega Locust ate the Pharaoh. It’s the fucking height of irony, babe: The Pharaoh wanted to destroy everything, but in the end, HE was the only thing that got destroyed.

(Everyone nods solemnly as they contemplate the irony of this.)

Saltine: Well, Zuckerberg. I guess that’s just the way it goes in the goddamn Cosmic Food Chain!

Mark Zuckerberg: You’re absolutely right, Saltine.

(An army of cornets begin blasting climactic fanfare. The final song of the evening is beginning. Everyone onstage begins to sing the famous song from Grease known as “The Cosmic Food Chain.”)

Mark Zuckerberg (bellowing in the extremely deep, wet voice a cave would have if caves could scream): We thought the Pharaoh was the oldest and most powerful thing in the universe, but we were wrong! This sort of thing has been happening forever!

Saltine (shrieking tunelessly): Our first God was Father Eclipse! But then the Solar Warlock ate Father Eclipse, so then the Solar Warlock was our God!

Aunt Prison (screaming over the sound of the cornets): But then the Immortal Mrs. Ragnarock ate the Solar Warlock, and so the Immortal Mrs. Ragnarock was our God!

Dandruff (deeply bellowing): But then the Pharaoh ate the Immortal Mrs. Ragnarock, so we worshipped the Pharaoh!

Flutes Trombone (yelling musically): But then along came the Omega Locust and He ate the Pharaoh! Now the Omega Locust is our God!

All (in unison, singing out of key with one another): It all goes ’round and ’round in the Cosmic Food Chain! Who knows what will eat the Omega Locust? Probably some fucked-up giant baby from a forgotten corner of the universe! For every God that terrifies us today, there is a larger God to devour Them tomorrow, but the greatest God of all is Death, the inescapable tyrant among tyrants who devours us all, big or small!

(There’s a single honk on a single tuba.)

All (in unison, striking a pose): Grease!

(The music stops, and the actors take a bow. Grease has come to an end.)

The curtains come down, and the house lights come up. The happy audience gives a standing ovation for Grease for the next 15 minutes. Congratulations! You survived seeing Grease on Broadway! You made it to the end of the play and didn’t die!

This is a tremendous achievement, and you should reward yourself by closing your internet browser, going out to buy three helpings of a dessert you like, and eating the whole thing of all of them. When someone says to you, “That doesn’t seem very healthy,” you can just say, “Stuff it, motherfucker! Do not make me kill you. I deserve all of this dessert and more because I just made it all the way through Grease on Broadway.” Then the person who bothered you will feel bad, and they’ll probably have to give you their dessert as well, and so you’ll have even more dessert. It’s a good time to be you.

The End.

Oh man! Sorry you didn’t like Grease! The actors all hear you booing, and they slice themselves in half onstage out of shame and in order to appease your fury.

The curtains come down, and the house lights come up. Everyone else in the theater loved the play and give a standing ovation for Grease for the next 15 minutes. You might not have liked it, but you survived seeing Grease on Broadway. You made it to the end of the play and didn’t die.

This is a tremendous achievement, and you should reward yourself by closing your internet browser, going out to buy three helpings of a dessert you like, and eating the whole thing of all of them. When someone says to you, “That doesn’t seem very healthy,” you can just say, “Stuff it, motherfucker! Do not make me kill you. I deserve all of this dessert and more because I just made it all the way through Grease on Broadway, and I didn’t even like it.” Then the person who bothered you will feel bad, and they’ll probably have to give you their dessert as well, and so you’ll have even more dessert. It’s a good time to be you. Sorry the play was bad.

The End.

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