Pay no attention to the parody behind the curtain.
I have to post my creative writing parody here (as a public post) so I can print it out from school. If you're not in my Creative Writing class, feel free to disregard it. But it does feature Sam, Benet, Annie, myself, and, of course, the ever-pimpin' B-Unit.
Creative Writing: Parody Assignment
** Names have been changed to prevent legal issues. All characters are easily identifiable.
It was a dark and dreary day in Creative Writing class. The windows were open and a deep, wet pine scent pervaded the classroom. Thick, heavy, pendulous clouds hung low in the vast dark expanse of sky. There was a certain electricity in the outside air, sparking and crackling with the unmistakeable aura of mystery and intrigue.
Inside, the ceiling lights burned with an avid fluorescence. The pale, sickly walls of the classroom seemed especially white against the blackness outside. Students at their desks slumped over at various degrees, as if demonstrating man's evolution into the mighty homo sapien.
Mr. Cambridge ran a hand through his thick, slightly graying hair. It looked as though only about half the students were paying attention to his daily lecture. "So, that pretty much concludes my feeling on the Brady Bunch. Next, we'll address another great Satan: Dr. Phil and family."
Ben glanced nervously across the room at his friend Samet. He knew Dr. Phil had been instrumental in Samet's recovery from a recent break-up. I may have to punch some sense into him again, he worried. Luckily, Samet was engrossed in drawing out a storyboard for his next independant film. Although his last work, Benet's House of Pain, had been largely denounced by major film critics as a "gore-fest", it had developed enough of a cult following among skanky sophomore girls that a sequel was in high demand.
Behind Ben, Penny was watching Mr. Cambridge intently, waiting for a chance to jump in with her next cry of "Submit to Sequel!" As editor of the school's literary magazine, she was always hounding the class for submissions. It was only the second quarter, and already they were three outbursts away from beating her to death with Sequel's plaque from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.
Anna, who sat next to Ben, grinned at the thought. Her life was sorely lacking in senseless violence. President of the senior class, as well as three international charity organizations, she was a model to potential do-gooders the world over. She had a binder stuffed with the name, contact information, medical history, and favorite color of every teacher in the school in case they were ever looking gloomy and she wanted to send them a pot roast. Her backpack was stuffed with gifts for the less fortunate: soup for the canned food drive, sympathy cards for the school's lonely outcasts, and a bar of soap for that smelly kid in her English class. Little did they know--little did anyone know--that deep down in her soul, she hated them all with a violent passion that might one day emerge, Nicholson-style, at a snowed-in mountain resort. If only everyone would shut up and die, she thought, giving Mr. Cambridge a sweet smile as she jotted down the last lines of her parody assignment: All work and no play makes Anna a dull philanthropist.
"Alternatively, but equally as acceptable, Dr. Phil could be burned at the stake," Mr. Cambridge concluded with an evil twitch of his moustache. "But that's enough fun for one day. Everyone take out your parody assignments. Can we have a volunteer to read first?"
As usual, Penny practically jumped out of her chair, straining and waving her hand in a way she hoped wasn't too conspicuous.
"Okay, Penny."
The whole class groaned. Penny was known for starting pretentious, long-winded pieces, getting bored, then ending them in some abrupt way she felt was clever.
"Okay, so this is my piece . . . I started it during class the other day and just finished it last period." This was also normal. Penny cleared her throat. "It was a dark and dreary day in Creative Writing class . . ."
* * *
". . . and with one more flicker of pale orange light, the last candle went out." Penny grinned expectantly. "The end."
No one spoke for several minutes. Mr. Cambridge sat, tears flowing down his cheeks, obviously moved by the piece and already planning to give it an A. Ben was glaring, having been misaccurately represented as someone who cared about his friend. Samet was just glad that Penny's piece hadn't questioned his sexuality, or the integrity of his filmmaking.
Bethel, who could always be counted upon to comment, raised her hand. "It was funny, but I don't think it had universal appeal. No one who wasn't in our Creative Writing class would get it."
Penny's face fell, and with one more flicker of pale orange light, the last candle went out.
The End
Creative Writing: Parody Assignment
** Names have been changed to prevent legal issues. All characters are easily identifiable.
It was a dark and dreary day in Creative Writing class. The windows were open and a deep, wet pine scent pervaded the classroom. Thick, heavy, pendulous clouds hung low in the vast dark expanse of sky. There was a certain electricity in the outside air, sparking and crackling with the unmistakeable aura of mystery and intrigue.
Inside, the ceiling lights burned with an avid fluorescence. The pale, sickly walls of the classroom seemed especially white against the blackness outside. Students at their desks slumped over at various degrees, as if demonstrating man's evolution into the mighty homo sapien.
Mr. Cambridge ran a hand through his thick, slightly graying hair. It looked as though only about half the students were paying attention to his daily lecture. "So, that pretty much concludes my feeling on the Brady Bunch. Next, we'll address another great Satan: Dr. Phil and family."
Ben glanced nervously across the room at his friend Samet. He knew Dr. Phil had been instrumental in Samet's recovery from a recent break-up. I may have to punch some sense into him again, he worried. Luckily, Samet was engrossed in drawing out a storyboard for his next independant film. Although his last work, Benet's House of Pain, had been largely denounced by major film critics as a "gore-fest", it had developed enough of a cult following among skanky sophomore girls that a sequel was in high demand.
Behind Ben, Penny was watching Mr. Cambridge intently, waiting for a chance to jump in with her next cry of "Submit to Sequel!" As editor of the school's literary magazine, she was always hounding the class for submissions. It was only the second quarter, and already they were three outbursts away from beating her to death with Sequel's plaque from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.
Anna, who sat next to Ben, grinned at the thought. Her life was sorely lacking in senseless violence. President of the senior class, as well as three international charity organizations, she was a model to potential do-gooders the world over. She had a binder stuffed with the name, contact information, medical history, and favorite color of every teacher in the school in case they were ever looking gloomy and she wanted to send them a pot roast. Her backpack was stuffed with gifts for the less fortunate: soup for the canned food drive, sympathy cards for the school's lonely outcasts, and a bar of soap for that smelly kid in her English class. Little did they know--little did anyone know--that deep down in her soul, she hated them all with a violent passion that might one day emerge, Nicholson-style, at a snowed-in mountain resort. If only everyone would shut up and die, she thought, giving Mr. Cambridge a sweet smile as she jotted down the last lines of her parody assignment: All work and no play makes Anna a dull philanthropist.
"Alternatively, but equally as acceptable, Dr. Phil could be burned at the stake," Mr. Cambridge concluded with an evil twitch of his moustache. "But that's enough fun for one day. Everyone take out your parody assignments. Can we have a volunteer to read first?"
As usual, Penny practically jumped out of her chair, straining and waving her hand in a way she hoped wasn't too conspicuous.
"Okay, Penny."
The whole class groaned. Penny was known for starting pretentious, long-winded pieces, getting bored, then ending them in some abrupt way she felt was clever.
"Okay, so this is my piece . . . I started it during class the other day and just finished it last period." This was also normal. Penny cleared her throat. "It was a dark and dreary day in Creative Writing class . . ."
* * *
". . . and with one more flicker of pale orange light, the last candle went out." Penny grinned expectantly. "The end."
No one spoke for several minutes. Mr. Cambridge sat, tears flowing down his cheeks, obviously moved by the piece and already planning to give it an A. Ben was glaring, having been misaccurately represented as someone who cared about his friend. Samet was just glad that Penny's piece hadn't questioned his sexuality, or the integrity of his filmmaking.
Bethel, who could always be counted upon to comment, raised her hand. "It was funny, but I don't think it had universal appeal. No one who wasn't in our Creative Writing class would get it."
Penny's face fell, and with one more flicker of pale orange light, the last candle went out.
The End