Mr. Wimbledy Available in Book Form ...NOW!

Click here to GET YOURS

1300 Viewer Party Celebration

Dearer Reads,

Many balls 'pon the page
in spheric splendor they dance with my words.
Thirteen hundred tremulous slips into my trou but once
but once a day
a day

is all.

Once a glance an ounce but once--

is all
is all I need.

Binkers

Like a shining moon her forehead swelled, as all the beetles screamed in the pastoral night.

"My love is a twinkling baby," she croons. "For ye."

We are crouched under a cold burrito, its clammy texture lined in silver under the moon.

"I wish I could feel," I whisper. 

She takes my legs

and then our chins

touched.

Soon

Soonsoon, my dinglers,

Mr. Wimbledy will be available as a book this summer. The full text will also be available here on Hotshot.

Sing the song of suspense,

Y.B.

Thinks

Boys have secrets, just like us

Dads

Now that I've completed Mr. Wimbledy, I've decided to exercise some other faculties.

Mr. Wimbledy - Act XI, the Final Act

ACT XI

 ...

(The audience should now be brought back from Rome to the theater. Do not feed them.) In the rec room at Mr. Wimbledy's mansion. The tigers and butlers from Act V are lying dead about the room - reminiscent of the locker room full of cats from Act I. Mr. Wimbledy is sitting in his special daddy chair (made of dad-leather and clown hands), reading the paper. He is eating a radish, and there on the floor Son Boy silently manipulates the legs and arms of a toy doll version of Mr. Wimbledy. He burps but does not giggle afterward. Mr. Wimbledy puts his paper down.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Son.

SON

Yes?

MR. WIMBLEDY

  You haven't spoken in two months. Just checking in. Are you alright?

SON

Yes.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Alright.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Hmmrphmm.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Son Boy.

SON

Yes?

MR. WIMBLEDY

Are you sure?

SON
Yes.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Oh. Alright.

MR. WIMBLEDY

(Coughs)

MR. WIMBLEDY

You don't seem alright, Son Boy. Tell me, what is wrong?

Son Boy briefly glares at Mr. Wimbledy and continues to move the toy back and forth.

SON

I'm bored playing with this.

Son Boy throws the toy across the room. It knocks the head of a dead butler laying on top of a chandelier.

MR. WIMBLEDY

That's alright. What would you like to play with instead?

Mr. Wimbledy takes a bite of his radish. Son Boy stares at it.

SON

I don't want to play anymore.

MR. WIMBLEDY

I suppose that is good. You are growing older. You are a man now, after all - my Son Man.

Mr. Wimbledy gives his wizardly wink.

 SON

I don't like it.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Don't like what, my boy? Er, my manboy?

SON

I don't like any of it. I don't want to be a man.

MR. WIMBLEDY

What ever do you mean?

SON

I miss being a boy.

MR. WIMBLEDY 

But you did so well at the Games! Look!

Mr. Wimbledy points to the remains of the Big Squeeze, which are smartly piled on top of a pedestal in the corner of the room.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Mmm. Grace. That's what you call that. How could you ever want anything else?

SON

I don't like it. Ever since the Games I've just wanted to kill.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Oh. Yes. (Silent for a moment, thinking.) But, certainly not your father, right?

Son Boy just looks at Mr. Wimbledy. Mr. Wimbledy pooples, but conceals it by screaming.

MR. WIMBLEDY

Well, perhaps we should find something for you, Son Boy. Killing is very important, yes, but you should, well, perhaps focus your time on something else.

SON
I don't want to do anything. I'm bored here. I'm going out to kill something.

Son Boy gets up and begins to walk out of the room.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Come back here, Son!

Son Boy continues to walk. Mr. Wimbledy runs after him. He grips Son Boy's hams. Son Boy stops.

MR. WIMBLEDY
I said come here!

Son Boy turns and pinches Mr. Wimbledy in the chin. It is bleeding. Mr. Wimbledy squees.

  MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy...

Son Boy looks regretful.

SON
Pipipsy, I didn't--

MR. WIMBLEDY
(Sobbing and throbbing, like a bloated mouse full of seltzer water)  Get out! Now! just get out! I need my space!

 Exit Son Boy, stage floor.

 MR. WIMBLEDY

(Crying, burping) I can't do it, I just can't do it! He's a rotten manboy. I ruined him! Oh...like I haven't done this before...I've never been a good father to any of my boys!.... Who can? It's not possible! It just isn't possible! Where did our idea of a good diddy come from? - I've never seen one! The "good diddy" is nothing but an idea! Wah! We-woeh-wah! (Hissing and sobbing.) What to do with him? If only his mother was here...but, oh, she left with the others, didn't she? Just like the others, to leave me here helpless and with soaked breeches!

Mr. Wimbledy falls to the floor, curling up and weeping. His burps are rapturous, violent, fragrant.

MR. WIMBLEDY
"Son, you must be strong boy...fortuitous boy...."

Lights fade.  

Six hours later, Son Boy returns to the room. Mr. Wimbledy has cried himself to sleep. Son Boy drags a wagon of meat in with him, and a grizzly bear pelt is folded under his arm. He sees the sleeping diddy. He unfolds the pelt and lays it across Mr. Wimbledy. 

He looks to the audience, steps offstage, and walks from the isle to the front door of the theater. He spits up a bit. He steps outside.

Thunderburps burble. Unflinching, Son Boy becomes a radish.

End of Act XI.

.....................

End of Mr. Wimbledy, a Paternal Odyssey in 10 Acts. 
As people filter out of the auditorium, have the ushers tickle remaining audience members for being such good sports about the whole thing. Send in cleaning crew immediately to collect trash and audience corpses.

Mr. Wimbledy - Act X

ACT X

...

(Note: the audience and actors will be transported to Rome, Italy, via sack, for this scene to be performed on location at the Colosseum. )

Son Boy is pitted in the center of a large arena, which bears identical semblance to the Roman Colosseum, but it is coated in the royal colors of glittery teal and orange. Seats are populated by sons and dads, all voraciously hooting and burping. Everyone dons silk loin cloths and corduroy shoulder pads in spirit of the games. The sons periodically spit up, and their dads dab at their chin dribble with satin kerchiefs. Son Boy, still in his jumpsuit, in the center of it all, looks around. Bill Dung, a man in a toga and fedora, steps up to a microphone in the center of the stage.

 BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Oh hello, my friends! 

CROWD
(Burps)

BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Today is the day. The annual match that our dearest Mr. Wimbledy throws every Sprung - The Hotshot Boy-Man Games! 

CROWD
(Tangos, and eeps)

BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
For those that are new to this delightfully egregious sport, I will go over the rules.

MAN IN CROWD
Mmm!

BILL DUNG, the EXPLAINER
Our subject, (turns to Son Boy) this delightfully shiny lad, must defeat in battle the three Insurmountables: Pubert, the Dazzler, and the Big Squeeze.

CROWD
Oh! Oh wowee!

Bill Dung pulls strawberries from under his toga and eats them.

BILL DUNG, the MORE EXPLAINER
(Mouth full of strawberries) Thuh gemmes wullbeginne shune ahftuh the intoduckory kwayur. 

SON
Um, will I have anything to fight with? 

BILL DUNG, the ANSWERER
Ohgh, yesh. (Swallows strawberry) The boy will have but one weapon! A butler of fine pedigree, one of Mr. Wimbledy's choosing.

SON
Oh. Okay.

BILL DUNG, the LEAVER
But, for now, we must let the choir take the stage!

Bill Dung leaps on his motorcycle and does a killer burn out, spitting dirt in Son Boy's face. He wheelies away, into the large gate at the rim of the arena. Son Boy remains standing there, confused as to where he should go. 

MAN IN CROWD
Hey! Boy!

Son Boy looks in the direction of the man in the crowd.

MAN IN CROWD
Hey!

  Son Boy turns away and then turns again and looks in the direction of the man in the crowd.


MAN IN CROWD
I have a puzzle for you to solve.

The man pulls out a melon and a protractor.

MAN IN CROWD
Oh you will have a merry time with this one, boy. Just give me a second to get things set up.

The man begins to set up the puzzle. He winks at Son Boy.

MAN IN CROWD
Hold on to something! It is a zesty puzzle.

A crow flies down and tries to take the melon.

MAN IN CROWD
God please, NO! Not now! Please!

The man struggles with the crow and the puzzle and soon a swarm of crows have overtaken him, squawking and pecking and fluttering. After a minute the crows clear and the man is gone.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Tragedy befalls us all in these trying times. Son Boy, you must not be scared.

SON
Okay.

The choir rides into the center of the arena on a butler. They are dressed in silk onesies and sailor hats.

CHOIR
(All sopranos and falsettos, accompanied by kazoo and drums) Boy! Boy to man! Hotshot hotshot boy man man! What does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean mean mean mean mean mean mean mean? B-b-b-b-bingbong zippy dingberplebim! Zeepeeepeeepeeeepepepep MANMANMAN MAAAAAA -

The choir dies and stops being there. The sky becomes a face.

SKY FACE
Ohoho! The games are at starting for us now, friends!

Turn on industrial tanning lights in the auditorium so the audience begins to sweat. The sky implodes and the force burns off everyone's hair. On stage, the big gates on the edge of the arena open. Bill Dung, the Roman, comes out with a butler under his arm. He hands it to Son Boy. Son Boy looks at Bill and the butler incredulously, and with just a little bit of crippling despair.

BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Mr. Wimbledy has ordered you to use this butler in battle, Son Boy. It is not much, but Mr. Wimbledy has given specific instructions that you are given no advantage over the Insurmountables.

BIBBY BUTLER
(Chungles)

Son Boy takes the butler. The butler is pleased in Son Boy's hands.

BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Nice. Now, Son Boy, the test will begin!

Bill Dung hides behind Son Boy for the rest of Act X. The big gates at the edge of the arena close. The gates open again. They close again. They open partially, then close. The gates close twice without opening, then open doubly, tripply, and close half way and open and then close again and then open and close, and open a crack and then a smidgen and then a hair, and then close and then slam, and a little baby peaks out, and then the gates open somewhat and then shut and open again. Out comes Pubert, a sentient pile of grease, puss, and hair with tentacle arms and four eyes.

PUBERT
Blarghghgle! Where's the boy!?

SON
Yip!

In a quick panic, Son Boy throws the bibby butler at Pubert and it is immediately absorbed in the folds of his sludge.

SON
Yipip!

 PUBERT
Imma swallow you anyo bitty bebeh bodeh!

Pubert lunges like a hungry burrito at Son Boy. Son Boy gets absorbed into Pubert.

SON
Eeee, yuck!

Son Boy coughs, for all the grime and putrid matter fills his lungs and makes him angsty. He swims about, trying not to breathe, and eventually finds the butler, who has started to decompose but is still handsome enough to court, there in the depths of Pubert. Using the butler, Son Boy bursts out of Pubert's head.

PUBERT
My head is gone!

Pubert's face splatters the audience as well as the sons and dads in the Colosseum, leaving everyone coated in clammy green and white paste. Everyone cheers.  


MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!

 Pubert grows a new face.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!

SON
No!

PUBERT
You thought you could get ridda me?! Burhurhurhur! I'm not goin' anywhar till your a MAN!

Pubert slithers over to Son Boy and tries to eat him again. Son Boy evades him best he can by leaping and running about, but the constant pursuit wears him out.  

SON
(Aside, to self and to Bill Dung, who, need I remind you, has been hiding behind Son Boy this whole time) I gotta find a way to kill Pubert! But how?

Son Boy spots a discarded gorilla near the edge of the arena. He runs over and picks it up. Pubert rushes after him, like a slug on amphetamines. Son Boy takes the gorilla and holds it up in front of him.

SON
Look! It is I, Son Boy!

PUBERT
Phlerbblebrb! What?

SON
Yes! Look how my body as come of age! Look at my hairs and wrinkles! Oh how age has ravaged me!

PUBERT
But if you are a man, then I am useless!

SON
Mmm!  

Pubert bursts like a swollen man-pimple. The crowd erupts in cheers.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING BEHIND MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!

 The gate opens again, revealing a fantastic glow, with iridescent lights and fluttering bursts of glitter. Son Boy is in awe. A figure emerges from the glow - a figure that is thin and has long copper hair. It is the Dazzler, dressed in red tights and a golden fleece vest.

THE DAZZLER
Son Boy, dear boy! Watch my tricks!

The Dazzler begins to juggle infants and sing and spin. Son Boy begins to watch, falling in a trance. As he is dazzled, mesmerized, the Dazzler approaches with a sinister grin on his face.

THE DAZZLER
Now is the time I will kick you!

Son Boy is unaltered by the threat. He remains hypnotized. The Dazzler begins to kick Son Boy in the shins. Son Boy's shins squeak.

THE DAZZLER
Oh yes!

Son Boy, shins pummeled, does not react emotionally, but he begins to bleed and fall to the ground. The Dazzler's juggle tricks are too dazzling.

THE DAZZLER 
Oh yes! Looks like I've got you now, Son Boy!

The Dazzler, having snacked on a hot pepper before the show, burps a zesty burp. Disoriented by the zest, he drops one of his infants (it is ~okay). The breach in pageantry snaps Son Boy out of his spell.

 SON
Gee!

THE DAZZLER
No! My pageantry!

Son Boy, quickly realizing his advantage, kicks the Dazzler in the knee. The Dazzler bursts in a billow of glitter.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!

A great booming sounds. Son Boy, sweating like a bee, turns and looks toward the gate. He is exhausted, his butler is dried up, but he braces himself and stands up straight. The Big Squeeze stomps out of the gate. The Big Squeeze is burly, with two monstrously sized hands - each about the size of seventy thousand bees taped together. He has a long hair and crunkled knees. He is bald, and his thumblike head seamlessly decends into his sausage neck, which descends seamlessly into his tubular body. 

THE BIG SQUEEZE
Are you ready to be SQUEEZY?

The Big Squeeze skillfully toddles over to Son Boy, his hands widespread and ready for a squeezing. He tries to squeeze Son Boy, but Son Boy swiftly dodges him.

THE BIG SQUEEZE
Come here, boy!

 SON
No!

THE BIG SQUEEZE
Don't run!

SON
No!

THE BIG SQUEEZE
I need to squeeze ya!

SON
No!

The Big Squeeze catches Son Boy and begins to strangle him. His laughs are intermittent with burps and phlegm-coated coughs. Son Boy's face begins to purplen.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Son Boy! Use the butler!

Son Boy uses the butler.

SON
I did it!

 Son Boy, now broken free from the Big Squeeze's clutches, begins an excellent interpretation of the Nutcracker ballet. 

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Look out, Son Boy!

Son Boy looks out.

THE BIG SQUEEZE
I gotcha now, boy!

The Big Squeeze got him now, boy. Son Boy, in his clutches, squirms like a worm, and begins to cry.

MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
You need to get angry, Son Boy!

Son Boy looks at the Big Squeeze, sees all of the hate in his eyes, and he himself fills with rage. He slithers between the Big Squeeze's big, squeezy fingers. He climbs up the Big Squeeze's arm to his shoulder. He clutches the Big Squeeze's head as the giant swings around in confusion.

 THE BIG SQUEEZE
(In extravagant song) I am confused!

SON
(Throbbing) Kill!

Son Boy, like a ravenous warthog, squeals and shoves his fingers into the Big Squeeze's eyes. They pop like plump blueberries, and as he screams Son Boy grabs his open jaw and rips it out of his face. Blood spattering everywhere, the faceless Big Squeeze falls to the ground and Son Boy leaps off and stands up. He reaches into the Big Squeeze's throat and pulls out his spine as though he were picking out bones from a salmon dinner, and plays jump rope with it like a furiously frivolous school girl. The sons and dads in the audience are aghast. For a moment there is a hush, and then the crowd cheers. Son Boy, covered in blood and victory, pants and scans the fans.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Very, very good, my boy!

Mr. Wimbledy descends into the arena from a butler in the sky.

MR. WIMBLEDY
You have passed all of the tests! 

Mr. Wimbledy lands next to Son Boy and hugs him. Son Boy says nothing.

MR. WIMBLEDY
You may now be my son!

Son Boy is silent. The crowd roars.

MR. WIMBLEDY
What is wrong, my boy? You have won! You have won your Pipipsy. Here, you are exhausted. Let us return home so you can rest.

Taking Son Boy's hand, Mr. Wimbledy leads them both onto the butler. Bill Dung, of course, follows closely behind. They ascend over the arena, the crowd below belching and cheering. Son Boy closes his eyes and the sound makes him imagine a roaring river of blood and burps. 

End of Act X.

(Act XI coming soon.)