KILLING MIMES: SALACIOUSLY SILENT

For those of you who were concerned that my radio silence indicated that one of the millions of readers whom I have offended may have killed me, such worries are ill-founded.

For those of you praying that I had died, “Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing [which is the KJV’s polite term for “bowel movement”], or he is in a journey, or peradventure, he sleepeth and must be awaked” (I Kings 18: 26), I am still here.  I guess moving mountains is easier than getting rid of heretical bloggers.

No, I was so depressed by the failure of my riddle in the last post, that I figured I needed to take out my aggressions. So, when all else fails, kill someone.

Now since my lack of wit was the source of my anxiety, I figured I should kill a comedian, but that seemed cliché and predictable. Alas, that led to more depression, so I gave in a killed closer to home than I would recommend, but still far enough away that no one will find me out.

As chance would have it, I was out driving looking for something enticing, when what should I happen upon but a mime school. That was my epiphany, my Road to Damascus moment. I went to the nearest Target (which does not endorse or even acknowledge this site) and bought a pair of black pants, a black and white, horizontally striped shirt, a red bandana, and a black beret, et voilá! I zipped back to the studio, slipped my favorite stiletto in my sock, and enrolled for Beginning Mime: Fermez la bouche!

After about five minutes struggling to get out of my box, I realized I had a key in my pocket and proceeded to walk out of my box, to the gesticulated horror of the rest of the class, who had no idea the boxes even had doors. I strode to each box, opened it, and slit the neck of each mime, who, alas, was forced to scream in utter silence, as if lost in the vacuum of space. Have you ever seen a mime on a cell phone, talk about worth the five minutes in the box. As the first mime died, the rest, stuck in their boxes, dialed on their cells, but could say nothing. And then, one by one, the entire class was reduced to a carpet of black, white, and red. And oh, such beautiful silence.

Feeling much better, but not wanting to pass up such an perfect opportunity, I continued down the hall to the more advanced classes, Advanced Mime: Annoying in Public, and Graduate Mime: Welcome to Poverty and Scorn. But could any of these figure out the Mime-Cellphone conundrum, no, not even the professors, who too fell quietly into that silent night.

So, if you call your local mime studio, looking to take a class, and find that it has been closed, or that no one answers the phone (as if a mime studio should have a phone anyway), you know at least what has happened.

The moral of this story, when you get down, kill a mime, when you get really down, take out the whole damn mime studio.

The other moral, if you keep praying for god to kill me or get me to stop writing, clearly your god sucks and you should find a new one. Or maybe your god is a mime and is stuck in a box or simply can’t talk. Who knows? Maybe I’ll discuss deicide on a later post.