“Look,” Leon lifts his puss covered leg up. High. “I can almost put my ankle behind my head. I’ve been doing this new Toga Yoga.”

            Leisa (aka fandoria) looks over at Leon Lipton, the host of Inside the Writer’s Studio. With his Richard Simmons’ shorts on and his leg cocked up so high, she can see more than most proctologists.

            “Ew!” Leisa swivels away.

            “Two minutes, Leon!” a voice office stage announces. The sounds of vomiting right after.

            Leisa regrets the Ramon Noodles with Mountain Dew she had for breakfast, her stomach churns like an over-caffeinated Amish woman making butter.

            Leon lowers his leg, his purple Keds are untied. “And look at this.” He raises his arm. He’s wearing a pink and green tank top. With frilly lacy around the collar.

            Cringing, Leisa glances over at the host of this strangely successful show and his arm pits are scabbing and red… but hairless. “Yuck!”

            “I shaved them with this aloe cream I found on the black market. Illegal in Rhode Island, or so I’ve been told.” Leon dabs his finger on his pit, then smells it. “Mm,” he holds it out to Leisa, “It still smells minty.”

            Leisa holds up her hands. “No. I believe you.” She glances out at the empty auditorium. For as much press as the show gets, she’s wondering why no one shows up. But a glance at Leon, a crusted something dangling on one of his nose hairs, she knows why.

            “One minute, Mr. Lipton,” a voice says.

            Leon crosses his smooth legs, rubbing them with his hands as though trying to ignite his flesh. “Chilly in here.”

            Leisa glances at Leon’s tank top and regrets it. Leon’s got the high beams on and they poke at the fabric in a very disgusting way.

            Movement down one of the isles catches her attention. Two older folks have entered, coming toward the front.

            “Hi, Leon,” the older woman says, her voice like broken glass.

            “Mom? Dad?” Leon slips off his stool, the vinyl squeals against his bare legs.

            “Those can’t be James Lipton’s parents?” Leisa says before she can stop herself.

            Leon’s whole body stiffens.

            “Twenty seconds, Leon,” the off-stage voice says, then a bit quieter, “she brought up his brother. God help us!”

            As the older couple sits in the front row, dirt billowing around them like that filthy kid on the Charlie Brown cartoons, Leon begins to cry. Sob. Mostly through his nose.

            “What!” Leon turns to Leisa, “Not good enough to be the parents of James?” He turns his brother’s name into a sixteen syllable word. “Huh?”

            “I’m sorry, James… er, Leon,” Leisa tries to shrivel away and disappear.

            Crying even more, droplets of snot splattering the stage, Leon crumples to the floor.

            “And we go on in five…”

            “I was adopted by these fine folks. My real parents gave me away when I was sixteen.” Leon continues to bawl.

            “Three… two… and we’re on.”

            Leisa stares from Leon, to the older couple, to the camera with the red light.

            “What should I do?” She asks the man working the camera. He offers up a nice shrug of the shoulders.

            “Get up, Leon,” the older woman says, eating a rotted apple covered with fur. “Make us proud.”

            “Okay, Mama. Okay,” Leon crawls back to his stool and climbs it as though he were reaching the top of Mount Everest. He wipes his nose with his wrist, the hard, crusty thing is still there, and says, “So… you’re a writer, Leisa?”

            “Yes.” Leisa sits prim and proper, but is unconsciously tilted away from Leon.

            “Well… would you mind doing my rapid fire ten question interview.”

            Leisa looks over at the exit. Ten questions and she can leave. “Yeah… let’s get it over… er, let’s do it.”

            Leon reaches behind his stool and pulls something off the floor. A carton of something to drink. It’s this…

  

 

            After a few slugs, he wipes his chin and begins.

 

1. Is there ever a day that mattresses are NOT on sale? Why or Why not?

 

 

2. Why do people keep running over a string with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance? 

 

 

3. How much can I get away with and still go to heaven?

 

 

4. You open a can of dog food… you open a can of Chunky Soup. You pore them both into similar bowls then forget which is which. How do you check?

 

 

5. Why can't we tickle ourselves?

 

 

6. Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?

 

 

7. Why is yawning contagious?

 

 

8. Using the weird symbols on the keyboard, how do you spell your favorite curse word? Now use it in a sentence.

 

 

9. If Jimmy cracks corn… and no one cares, why'd they write a song about it?

 

 

10: Trademark question: What if the hokey pokey really is what it's all about?

 

 

Leon takes another drink. He looks into the camera and belches.

“Uh! That is disgusting.” Leisa edges off the stool.

“What!” Leon stands as well, holding his carton. “Not as good as James. Huh? Is that it?” He drinks more than tosses the carton on the floor by his parent’s feet. The yellow beverage spills out. Leon’s father gets on the floor and begins to lap it up.

“I’m leaving. This was a huge mistake!” Leisa runs for the door.

“Fine! But it was a PRIZE. You guessed the right number! If you didn’t want it… you shouldn’t have played!” Leon burps again, smacks his lips. “Mm.”

He drops off the stage and joins his parents, now both on the floor, cleaning up the mess with their tongues.