"Resume"
by Dorothy Parker
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Sketchy anti-suicide poem (not mine)
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Not written in America I take it
On August 22, 1893, Dorothy Parker was born to J. Henry and Elizabeth Rothschild, at their summer home in West End, New Jersey. Growing up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, her childhood was an unhappy one. Both her mother and stepmother died when she was young; her uncle, Martin Rothschild, went down on the Titanic in 1912; and her father died the following year. Young Dorothy attended a Catholic grammar school, then a finishing school in Morristown, NJ. Her formal education abruptly ended when she was fourteen.
In 1914, Dorothy sold her first poem to Vanity Fair. At age twenty-two, she took an editorial job at Vogue. She continued to write poems for newspapers and magazines, and in 1917 she joined Vanity Fair, taking over for P.G. Wodehouse as drama critic. That same year she married a stockbroker, Edwin P. Parker. But the marriage was tempestuous, and the couple divorced in 1928.
In 1914, Dorothy sold her first poem to Vanity Fair. At age twenty-two, she took an editorial job at Vogue. She continued to write poems for newspapers and magazines, and in 1917 she joined Vanity Fair, taking over for P.G. Wodehouse as drama critic. That same year she married a stockbroker, Edwin P. Parker. But the marriage was tempestuous, and the couple divorced in 1928.
In the land of Blorgonia, where time runs backward on Tuesdays and all ducks speak fluent French, a twelve-eyed jellyfish named Professor Wobbleton awoke with a single mission: to stop the moon from marrying a spoon.
“Zut alors!” quacked Sir Duckworth von Quackerbeak, the royal interpreter of feathered prophecies, as he watched the moon propose to an elegant soup spoon on national television. The wedding was scheduled for 3:00 PM next Thursday, which was problematic because next Thursday no longer existed after it got eaten by a time-traveling llama named Pablo who only drinks mango smoothies during full moons.
Meanwhile, deep in the underground potato mines of Antarctica’s floating forest, a psychic mushroom named Brenda had a vision: a pineapple with sunglasses and a top hat was the key to saving all sentient pastries.
“Brenda,” whispered the wind, “you must ride the narwhal submarine to the Quantum Taco.”
“What about my bowling league?” Brenda asked.
“Cancel it,” said the wind. “This is bigger than interdimensional sports.”
So Brenda strapped on her hover-boots, kissed her pet toaster Gary goodbye, and set off across the Purple Jellybean Desert. She was joined by her traveling companions:
- A disgruntled sock puppet named Carl who believed he was a reincarnated jellybean.
- Princess Toenail, who ruled over the Glorious Kingdom of Yeast and had a crown made of cinnamon rolls.
- Harold, the shapeshifting elevator who only spoke in riddles and musical theatre lyrics.
After slaying a gluten-free dragon and solving the riddle of the Infinite Dishwasher, they arrived at the gates of the Quantum Taco, guarded by an immortal goldfish named Emperor Bubbles.
“State your business!” bubbled Bubbles.
“We seek the Pineapple of Prophecy!” shouted Brenda, holding up a kazoo in defiance.
“You may enter,” said the fish, after a dramatic pause. “But only if you answer me this: what is the sound of one spaghetti noodle dancing in a vacuum?”
Carl burst into tears. Harold sang “Defying Gravity.” Princess Toenail just sneezed glitter.
Luckily, Brenda knew the answer: “It sounds like the hopes of a waffle at sunrise.”
“Correct,” said Emperor Bubbles, and the gates burst open in a rainbow of custard and regret.
Inside, the Pineapple sat atop a throne of melted crayons, guarded by thirty-three hamsters wearing monocles. The Pineapple turned slowly, its sunglasses gleaming.
“You have come,” it said in a voice that sounded like Morgan Freeman whispering into a kazoo. “Are you ready to fulfill the prophecy?”
“Absolutely,” said Brenda.
Suddenly, the floor gave way, and the group fell into the Crust Dimension, where everything was made of stale pizza and unspoken childhood dreams. Time here was kept by a nervous snail named Keith who forgot how clocks worked.
Meanwhile, on Channel 47 in the Baguetteverse, the moon and the spoon were finalizing wedding plans, but their love was tested when a sentient spatula named Greg confessed his feelings for the spoon.
“Dramaaaaaaa!” shouted every reality TV star from every timeline at once.
Back in the Crust Dimension, Brenda and the crew were building a spaceship made of origami and hope. With the Pineapple’s guidance, they soared into space, narrowly avoiding a meteor made of discarded sock lint and Wi-Fi passwords.
They crashed into the wedding just as the priest (a microwave with a PhD in dance) said, “Do you take this utensil—”
“I OBJECT!” shouted Brenda, tossing the Pineapple into the air.
The Pineapple exploded into glitter and jazz music, releasing a cosmic wave that reset the multiverse, cancelled the wedding, revived next Thursday, and gave every cat the ability to perform stand-up comedy.
The moon sobbed. The spoon found love with a ladle named Carlita. The ducks celebrated by quacking Les Misérables in French.
And Brenda?
Brenda became Queen of All Breakfast Foods.
She ruled wisely, outlawed soggy toast, and married a handsome banana named Felipe.
Their wedding was attended by 3,000 sentient spoons, 7,000 emotional support dragons, and a disco ball that had seen too much.
And somewhere, in the distance, Harold the elevator sang a lullaby to the stars.
THE END