#Sketch comedy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itscontinental · 21 days ago

Text

Originally these pages were taped to the walls of a tool-shed and photographed in response to an anonymous ask--the first we'd ever received.

Just as everything we are belongs to you, these belong to them--and, understanding this concept, they proceeded to not only reveal their identity to be @tired-but-aw4ke, but also provided us with their name, address, credit card information, and social security number (the only proper thing to do).

So before we use this information solely to mail them these pages that are rightfully theirs, we would like to use a scanner (failed to be sent to us by YOU--but newly purchased for us by The Lord-God [American] at The Good-Will [American] for Four [American] Dollars and Ninety-Nine cents) to re-upload, remaster, unfaithfully transcribe, superfluously tag and EVEN BLAZE what we believe to be a pivotal moment for Continental Breakfast , @tired-but-aw4ke , Tumblr, and Sketch-Comedy-Fan-Fiction as a whole.

Thank you for calling us beautiful

when it mattered most

you will always be the first.

Q #328

TRANSCRIBED:

Wake up. this is not a drill. someone has sent us a MESSAGE Yes, right here, see? A person- al one. An ANONYMOUS one: That's the best kind. And you know what that means, don't you? That's right: your entire identity as an artist has officially been validat- ed. And you have no other iden- tity, do you? No you know the answer to that question; you checked out years ago, after the thing happened and the other thing and all the things that followed... All those things, subtrac- ting from you, growing, metastasizing into us... and here you are, hardly able to comprehend where we end and you beg- in. It's even worse than it was in the woods, isn't it? Yes... yes, you know the answer to that question. These pages (this page) these were never meant for you out there in the woods-- where we had some peace, you and I. These pages were meant for "them" and there really was no "them", Not really. That was the trick, wasn- 't it? And it worked so well that way. Now look at us; look at you: torn from the woods, where we were at peace, and surrounded by the ACTUAL THEM: the "everybody", all around you: flesh and blood brain and Bone They have no concept of the options you've been feeding them-- that you'd been feeding "THEM" over these years. They invalidate the options, muddl- ling our "thems" Invalidating our work with their tangibility. They can no longer hear you and your barking options: "a"s & "b"'s into the void incorporeal "these" & "c"s into the void. our options and responses and opt- ion and our response, all of them: invalid, Unheard. and they were ours, yes, the options, yes, but we only provided them, getting lost in the tangle of our paths and knowing ourselves the better for it; we weren't choosing the way--we WERE the way; and the choosing was "they" "they" were opting option "a."s we were listing option "b."s we were listening to hear what they'd say: whispering across the creek; running water and even in summer the freezing creek; even in winter it wouldn't freeze wading and adjusting to the cold and your feet adjusting to the water and the water now just to your knees.

"ANONYMOUS": that's a "they", you know? our kind of they-- and called us "eloquent"--you--eloquent; you lived in squalor then, never in your life had cleaner feet. where you were happy there where you were at peace, where the raccoon would steal your chicken, absconding into your walls with your meat where you could feel its weight abov- ve you, navigating the tunnels of insulation--or lack threreof--by mice and ni- bbling teeth. watching the footsteps above you make their weighty way above you where the rotting wood above you would rot and move and sink. and you were never quite sure just what it really was. It made no noise, you ne- ver saw a raccoon, not even outside. it was large and slow--this you know. there were no cracks in the walls th- at large, and no rodents that could fit or holes and cracks that could handle that kind of weight--the meat and in the blink of an eye the cut would be gone, soundlessly. Damn the thing. you couldn't be sure what it was you didn't like to think about it about the ceiling collapsing om and all the others cascading--less onto--but into your home. and their corpses, stinking, stenches rising all the time with you below them--a blessing lest the ceiling sink.... and the thing... so quiet, unlike the others: the cr- ittters all growing in numbers and their occupation about your home-- and having only your se- lf to blame-- having broken your covenant in Jesus' name. having trapped the two enormous rats and waking to their awful scr- eams--never again. The glue traps, the stick, the wak- ing to their awful screams-- louder than ever and out in the open --than when they'd eat each other or fight each other or occasionally the "thing" (they would cry, the thing would shuffle---not a peep). them so desperately screaming and wanting to flee, and you wanted to but the glue was too good and could only whip them ab- out in failing to free. and you wanting to crush them but you just couldn't and tossing them, far out into the creek the sound of their voices growing distant, so quickly their fleeting cries over the plants to suddenly cease and you with only the single candle crying with just the candle crying sorry I'm so sorry saying tin- ny prayers for the tiny things. nor was it quiet, your crying and sobbing your sorries so sorries to their paws above you so frantic and crying in pain and below their little little paws by the dozen and God forgive me God oh please. and the traps were covered in tails all torn away as well and... and.. Is that you? up here?

with me? hesitating? No?

at least two to a trap, remember? No less than three.

They tore their fucking tails off for you, remember? thrashing about with their screaming and bleeding and into your ceiling with parts in the creek--freezing, even in the summertime-- freezing, where you were so happy even with the screaming where you lived in squalor, so grateful to have escaped yourself, and with your tail intact; adjusting, wading up to your knees.

your whole body smelled better, reme- mber? of course you remember, all you do is remember: the woods, the girl the girl the tree you always seemed to smell just fine out there washing in the creek now you're bathing all the time and somehow seem to fucking stink.

you were so happy there, any given day with the rats or the "thing" were better days than any day down here you think. where all you did was starve and write out there. Where all you did was write and read.

and they called you "eloquent", isnt that something? the things you made out there, the things WE made out there: eloquent? hm. Perhaps that's all we need, Just the one, and perhaps we could....

hm,

"a visceral response": isn't that the coolest thing? You should lo- ok up "visceral" just for the hell of it, get one extra str- oke in. you know what it means, but maybe you can milk just one more drop of serotonin out of the specificity.

...

you have been using the word "Visce- eral" wrong your entire life.

jesus...

should you look up "beautiful" too? we believe it has something to do with beauty but having spent the entirety of our life conferring with you.... well...

listen, they called you "beautiful". They called us beautiful, and for what? It's no trick question. for being ourselves, silly. just loosen up and pretend like this has happened before. tell a joke. do a bit. Lean into it and tell them your so trapped and unhappy. remind them that the entirety of your work is a bit. that Continental Breakfast is a thousand pages of Sketch-comedy fan- fiction; that you cry until your cheekbones bleed. that Continental Breakfast is a gag gone far out of your control, that you believe in faeries, that you're bursting at the seams.

or.

you could be humble. do none of that. say thank you, don't make a product- tion out of the whole thing. not sob into your proverbial beer and bleat your whole life story out to anybody who'll listen. Not draw attention to yourself ... whore

No, no, you're right, completely out of the question. What the fuck were we even thinking, of course that's what we are going to do; at least on that we can agree.

but you've got to say something. You're running out of time and this is getting pathetic.

you should tell them you're sleeping in a tool-shed on the floor. that's a good idea. "eloquent" succinct lets call it "visceral" ; lets call anything "visceral" at this point; the damage is done. You should totally tell them you're li- ving in a tool-shed. and talk about your body odor-- tell them you stink.

something.

come on then, you've got to say something, they're ANONYMOUS--just like the old days, come on, think-- a genuine "them" , cant you feel them they called you "eloquent", couldn't you hear it? something familiar carrying across the creek...

I cant do this all on my own, you know. its so lonely up here. without you... and watching you down there, in the OPTIONS?? It makes me sad.... You're killing yourself down there...

we never used to talk like this, you and I... Not here. not on the option pages. we were a team back then, it was us and "them" and all in good fun, wasn't it? save Elijah.... but we don't need to talk about him. and we still talked like this, rememeber? On other pages--often, on our own little pages, where there were no options. no "them" ... Me: always talking you off the rope or out the rope or up the tree.... when you were alone, remember? when you needed me...

I was your friend, we were partners out there in the dark we were CONTINENTAL in our tangled little world; Breakfast: not rockets-- always for the bit, endless for the bit, the two of us and the gag together, forever--mother birds belching Breakfast and only phantom mouths to feed... Now look at you. Look at these options. All of them: they're all YOU now we were feeding "them" options, and now? You're cannibalizing yourself, eating your options, and how long until there's nothing left of you? have you considered that? Considering where you end, where I begin? Considering what you cannot see? What happens when you reach the end of your tail? What will happen to me?

Let's just give them some options, Huh? the two of us, they called us "ELOQUENT" "BEAUTIFUL" "VISCERAL" (whatever the fuck that's mea- ns) And its "them" not an actual THEM We love "them" and I love you and you love me come now, just the two of us: an option "a." for "them" an option "b." for "them" something, anything that isn't YOU down there... come on, let's have a go, up here, together, on the count of three:

a. No

b. No, I don't even feel like rhyming. Can you just take the wheel on this one-- the rhyming--the answer... I don't know what to say Except that we're sleeping in a toolshed. You could tell them that. Why don't you just say that, I don't know. And talk about the woods or something. Be long-winded, trail off, the standard gimmick... I know we've beaten that horse to death but... I don't know... We've beaten the bodies to death as well and it's gener- ally one or the other; we're sort of a one trick pony. those were jokes. that can be my contribution, dead horse joke about the bodies, making light of the bodies always always lets not talk about the bodies this time around. We co- vered the bodied--I did, right above us... another contribution on my part: Two horses. ... I don't know... Make it absurdly long or something, ramble about the woods. repeat yourself. Maybe they'll li- ke that. Maybe. I'm so tired, please, here, if I give you one single rhyme will you just let me go to sleep? And tell them thank you, and that i'm sorry.

c. Incidentally I choose option "b"

d. Kill yourself on live TV

(Original post here)

52 notes · View notes