Copyright & Permission to Reproduce
Frankenstein, Errr
written by the company
assisted and directed by the Directing Staff
under the influence of Lee Breuer
I’m sorry. Did the image of my discolored, disporportioned, lopsided face scare you? A blinding sensation? Loss of breath? I get it. I am unique. I feel large and I certainly look mortifying. I am under the impression that I am fairly unrelatable to average guys. Please don't shoot at me. It makes things difficult.
My story makes me look at things differently. It is the story of a man made human disliked by all. But, I’ve proven adept at adaptation in the past. It is much like how I learned about fire. Trial and error. My brain, tangled and slimy, has infiltrated my heart and my soul. Everything is topsy turvy. I wreak havoc, or don’t, depending on the situation.
In my defense. I had no gestation, no education.
First memories. Spring scenery in the forest. Leaves floating on a river. Creatures creating sounds in different ways. I create my own sound. Heavy. HEAVY. H E A V Y. U-G-L-Y. I curl into a quivering ball.
By the time I uncurl the sun has been replced by a thin sliver of moon. The villagers become aware of my wretchedness. They shriek at my approach. They throw things. It hurts.
A reflective surface. I avoid those now, but then, the longest moment of my life. A terrible sensation. A reaction very similar to that of the villagers. The sight in the water all the more revolting. Tipping the scales of self reflection. Thunder and lightning. I think so hard I expereince fusion. Something totally extraordinary. An ah-ha moment. It’s ALIVE!
Better living through chemistry? Face like a meat blender. Sigh. I don’t anticipate a happy ending.
My creator really should have hired an artist to assist in my creation. My creator. That’s it! I dash off a letter.
Dear Creator,
I am presently wondering about a great many things. Why did you make me like this? I do not fully blame you for my appearance, but what is the good in neck bolts? I’m a hot mess. I need to know my identity. I feel I’m here to be judged. I’m fairly unrelatable to the average guy. Seeing as I have had no parental upbringing I must make these inquiries to you. Also, Is this much body odor normal? My social life is in distress. Should I use stick or spray deodorant?
Yours. Frankenstein. Err. Frankenstein’s monster. Err. The demon creature of your creation? P.S. Today I discovered, much to my distress, my back will no longer bend. Please send replacement parts A.S.A.P.
Wait for an answer. Turn on the radio.
I AM a man of constant sorrows.
Wait for an answer. Turn on the TV.
I enjoy Mr. Munster’s dialect and cheerful disposition but I Dream of Jeanie. Now THAT’S television at it’s finest. Frankenwenie. I wish I had a dog like that. Van Helsing? W.T.F.? What do vampires have to do with me? Screw you Hollywood! I put my foot where my screen is and K.O. Knock Out!
I need to relax. Chill out. The shiny pool? I avoid that. Reflective surfaces.
I turn on the radio. I AM the walrus.
I place an ad. In the personals.
Ugly, deformed creature seeks a soul mate. I’m a monster for classical music. A monster of exquisite tastes. And green to boot.
No. Try not to be cocky. What would Herman Munster do?
Seeking. A Friend. Companion. Partner. Lover? Smiles shared across the dance floor. Must be intellectually gifted. Handsome. Kind-hearted. A rabbit in bed. Not afraid of large objects. I am pro-creation.
I understand that some parts of my body may suprise people. But what can I do?
I know!
Dear Oprah, I feel as if I am ugly, ill spoken, and generally unworthy. If only I could make myself more like you. Peel my skin. Like a clementine. Expose my sweet side. Would I then be loved?
Yours. Truly. The Monster.
