“I know it means something!”Seymour shouts to the rest of the gang, “I just don’t know what!”
We see Seymour sitting at the dinner table in a classic 80’s home, with his friends around the room, waiting for him to finish.
They turn away, facepalming and showing signs of disgust as they collectively groan. Seymour sits, troubled over the scrap sheet of paper, inspecting it thoroughly, turning it over and over several times.
“Give it up Seymour”, snaps Martha, “It’s obviously nothing special.” She takes out a compact and starts working on her make-up, “We have a lot more important things to care about.” Light chuckles emerge from the audience.
Skip stops pacing and spreads and slams his hands on the table, emanating a no-nonsense attitude, “Guys, we need to focus on the soapbox derby race if we want to beat those smug Robinsons!” Everyone minus Seymour cheers and shouts crude vulgarities at the name of the rich kids down the street.
Always the joker, Boris speaks up, “Hey guys! But this could be the ULTIMATE RECIPE Seymour always talks about!” The audience laughs uproariously, with a wheezing old laugh piercing the din, slowly dying out with each wheeze sounding more and more sick, while the crowd’s laughter dies to nothing more than a couple of “hoo-hoo-hoo”s.
Martha replies without looking up from her compact, “Oh grow up Boris, you can’t even say anything. Your parents are dead!” The crowd responds with cackles and jeers, deep, raspy and throaty, there are claps and kneeslaps. Saliva flies through the air with such mass that it is audible as it whizzes around the studio. One man kneels, screaming primitive guttural cries until he collapses of exhaustion. Soon after a minute of collecting themselves, the laughter dies down to wheezes.
Seymour suddenly stands up, holding the sheet in his hand, “I know what it means guys!” Everyone, even Martha, pauses to look up. Some in the audience guffaw, in preparation for the next line. “It says that we have a blog entry due Friday and no one has any clue what it means!” The audience starts slowly, with childlike giggles, growing with each second, as more people join, increasing the volume. It passes the decibel levels of an Usher concert, then a jet, then an Usher concert if the audience was nothing but jets, and Usher himself was Jetsher. Some audience members crumple to the floor from the force and start spasming, while others begin to vomit. They cannot stop. There is no end. The cacophony rings throughout the tri-state area, igniting forest fires, and the cries of the forest animals in pain mix with the continuous laughter. It continues until the end of time, creating an area that has to be quarantined. No one dares to step in it. In the future there are legends of the pain if one would step into the area. There are always a couple fools that do not believe the stories that are lost every year. All because of a blog entry.
This is what it means.
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