Episode 34 Well Versed

Thanks for Hitting Play and then listening to Hit Play. This episode: sheep stories, rhyming raps, bedtime bummers!

Some of the plays in this episode may contain sensitive topics. For more specific content warnings, check out the timecodes below.

If you like what you hear and want to support the New York Neo-Futurists, subscribe to the show, consider making a donation at nynf.org, and join our Patreon. Patreon membership gives you access to bonus content like video plays! We’d really appreciate any support in these difficult times. Contributing to our Patreon helps us continue to pay our artists. 

Take care of yourself, do a dance for a friend outside their window, and share it with us on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook.

1:40 [CW: gun violence, capitalism, allusions to slavery] - A not quite children's tale about America by Michael John Improta

6:21 - Sir Gregolas Radio: Chopped Cheese by Greg Lakhan

8:41 [CW: descriptions of meat manufacturing] - Too Much Cute Makes Your Baby an Idiot by Katy-May Hudson featuring Mike Puckett, recorded in 2016

Our logo was designed by Shelton Lindsay

Our sound is designed by Anthony Sertel Dean

Joey Rizzolo designed and mixed the audio for Katy-May's play. Thanks, Joey!

Hit Play is produced by Anthony Sertel Dean, Julia Melfi, and Léah Miller

Take Care!

Transcript 

Episode 34 Well Versed

Show Intro

Groovy electronic instrumental music plays underneath.

Julia: 34. Well Versed. Hi, I’m Julia—a New York Neo-Futurist. While our on-going, ever-changing, late-night show, The Infinite Wrench, is on hold for the foreseeable future, we wanted a place to keep making art for you and so we made this podcast. 

If you’re already a fan of The New York Neo-Futurists, or any of our sibling companies, hi! We can’t wait to be in the theatre with you. That's just the dang truth. If this is totally new to you—welcome to it!

We play by four rules: We are who we are, we’re doing what we’re doing, we are where we are, and the time is now. Simply put: we tell stories, and those stories are our own. Everything that you hear is actually happening. So if we tell you we’re about to say the next part of this sentence backwards, backwards sentence the of this saying we're… oh… backwards sentence the of this saying really We’re.

Just a heads up that some of the plays in this episode may contain sensitive topics. For more specific content warnings, check the timecodes in the show notes.

Julia: And now, Michael will Run the Numbers!

Michael: Hey, I’m Mike. Thanks, Julia.

I’m a New York Neo-Futurist, and, in this episode, we’re bringing you three plays. The first one is by me, Michael John Improta. The second one is by Greg Lakhan. And the last play is from our vault of plays, recorded back in 2016. Ah, 2016. It’s by Katy-May Hudson, and it features another Mike, Mike Puckett. 

That brings us to 134 audio experiments on Hit Play. Enjoy!

Music winds down.

Play 1: A not quite children's tale about America (1:40)

Michael: A not quite children's tale about America. GO!

Peaceful chiming music plays underneath.

Michael: Frankincense and Muriel went walking in the morn.

Sheep bleat faintly.

They found escape from where they were surely to be shorn.

Sound of scissors snipping.

The farmer called his son and asked him “check out by the gate,”

But the sheep had fled; the farmer's son had looked there far too late. 

Frankincense and Muriel were walking by the stream .

Water burbles.

They could not believe how brightly that the waters edge could gleam.

Sparkling sound.

And for a day and to the next they frolicked on the hill

Overlooking water and they’d surely have their fill.

The farmers son felt shame for losing two of daddy’s flock.

He walked each night a’hunting holding tight to daddy’s glock.

Owl hoots.

He swore on gods and wealth and self; he swore on daddy, too.

He swore to catch those runaways and wear them on his shoe.

Underbrush rustles.

For a farmer’s son holds value in the sheep he will inherit,

And this boy was not the type to smile and grin and bear it.

He needed what was owed to him; it’s what would make him whole.

He needed all his wealth at hand to complete his hungry soul.

Now deep the weekend following the day of liberation

The sheeps did find an empty house to sit for a libation.

They ransacked food and drink and more, forgot to close and lock the door,
Door creaks.

And down the road a-whistling came walking daddy’s son 

They sat in ignorance for hours and whistled happy tunes

And danced to songs of freedom they had writ that afternoon.

The sheep had triumphed so they drank until they could not see.

“Jubilation” they had named the house for at last they would be free. 

A shot rang out and caught dear Muriel in her side.

Gunshot, followed by a crash.

And Frankincense fell next to bullets lodged in both his eyes

Hooray! Hoorah! The son had won! The sheeps were caught and bagged and done, 

And on a-walkin’ back towards home he whistled full of pride. 

The son trekked home victorious; his honor had been cleared,

And now his father must relinquish praise to fill his ears.

He saved the family flock, surely father’s wrath would be abated

But what waited back at home was, well, unanticipated.

When finally the son laid down the corpses at Daddy’s feet,

He scowled and chastised him for being wholly indiscreet.

“What good’s a flock that’s full and dead? The value’s tanked for just their head.

The product gives forever if you keep them safe and fed.

Your insolence my son has brought me this decision.

You’re not allowed to run the farm and ruin it with imprecision.
I hate to punish you for what you surely cannot help,

But you’re not my heir, you’re not my son, you’re a dumb and careless whelp.”

What became of daddy’s son we’ll never know.

But the corpses of our sheepish friends were buried with songs of woe.

For the other sheep were watching and saw daddy’s tears as signs of love,

And daddy grinned for peace and order grasped in his white glove.

“Jubilation” stands off in the woods empty to this day,

Awaiting passerby who have escaped to hide away.

When all us sheep are freed, then this house will be our homes.

But daddy’s sons are endless, and the same down to their bones.

Music winds down.

Play 2: Sir Gregolas Radio: Chopped Cheese (6:21)

Radio static.

Greg: Sir Gregolas Radio: Chopped Cheese. GO!

Hip-hop music begins.

Shit go dummy

Back on my sus shit

Spit so bummy 

Rap Game Knight and the princess love me

Cuz I’m introspective I’m woke and I’m funny

So sick I’m coughing and my nose is runny

Need vitamin C, ginger, clove, and honey 

Do this shit for my health sometimes for the money

Need compensation or I’ll go hungry

Hard like R at the end of nigger

Said your music slaps but I beg to differ 

Found  your tracks inside a box of kitty litter

I’m the Allied forces and you niggas Hitler 

Niggas dirt and I’m a fuckin swiffer

Y’all projecting outward I’m reflecting inward

My Ambition bigger than that nigga Clifford 

Shit go stupid like white boys that say the n-word

Fuckin racist I’m a wicked sinner

Waitin at the gates of hell for you to enter 

You revolve around me I’m the fuckin center

People know that you’re trash and they say that I’m better 

Grinding for days just to buy me a sweater

No faith in these bitches they switch like the weather

No faith in these niggas they crack under pressure 

Raising the bar and these lackies will fester

Niggas whack simply put I am better

I’m Living like AJ you more of a Chester

Bitch I’m a knight but I’m also a jester 

They fuck with ya boy more than child molesters 

Niggas mad

Bitches grab my dick

They ain’t never met a nigga that could rap like this

GT tha gang nigga pass that piff 

Light a doink with with my words cuz ya man so lit

Macho pricks 

Way too cocky

Always talk about the same shit

With the same flows over stock beats

Jedi in the clone wars 

Amongst the carbon copies

Fuck violence let’s squash beef

Get some bread and lettuce 

make a chopped cheese

Call niggas joe cuz they sloppy

Heard the first bar and you lost me

Wanna keep it clean like Oxy 

But it’s on and poppin 

Like hot grease

Break naysayers like Pocky

Don’t try to tell me this isn’t it

You are most certainly not chief 

There’s one solution, it’s not peace 

Everybody going kamikaze

When the situation gets sloppy

Drop bombs on Nagasaki

There’s nothing you can do to stop me

From out spitting niggas on your top 3

Don’t believe me then just watch me

Leave you in the dust at my top speed

Do I look like the fucking number 5?

You’ll regret the days that you mocked me.

You labeled me and then boxed me

Folding like origami 

You’ll end up deader than zombies

I’m counting up these dead bodies

Straight chillin sippin my coffee

With peanut butter and toffee

There’s no need for an autopsy

Rap game night, nigga

Swag

Here

Greg’s voice continues to go up in pitch on the word “here” until the music cuts out.

Play 3: Too Much Cute Makes Your Baby an Idiot (8:41)

Julia: And now from the vault, a play by Katy-May Hudson, featuring Mike Puckett, recorded back in 2016. Too Much Cute Makes Your Baby an Idiot. GO!

Mike: This little piggy went to market.

Katy-May: As a dead butchered carcass.

Mike: No, no, no. It went to the market shopping.

Katy-May: Mmm, that’s not really what pigs do. It was most probably there as produce in the form of a dead butchered carcass.

Mike: Um… This little piggy stayed home.

Katy-May: In a gestational crate. That’s its home. That’s where most pigs live.

Mike: Or on a lovely farm.

Katy-May: Nope, probably in a pig factory. A narrow gestational crate at a meat manufacturing facility.

Mike: Okay.

Katy-May: Yep.

Mike: This little piggy had roast beef.

Katy-May: More likely it had corn meal with just enough vitamins and antibiotics to keep it from keeling over.

Mike: This little piggy had none.

Katy-May: Of the normal comforts that even a tortured and enslaved animal should have.

Mike: And this little piggy cried wee wee wee wee-

Katy-May screams like a pig being killed.

Katy-May: wee wee wee weeeeeeeeeee weeeeeeeeeee wee wee wee wee wee wee wee weeeeeeeeaaaeeeeaaaaeeeeee eeeh eeeh eehhhhh weeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh 

Katy-May returns to a neutral voice.

Katy-May: All the way to the slaughter house. Where it squealed and squealed and heard the last squeals of thousands of other highly intelligent, inhumanely slaughtered, sentient beings.

Mike: All the way home. All the way to its little home. To its tiny little brick house with a fireplace and a big hot pot of roast beef cooking on the oven.

Show Outro

Groovy electronic instrumental music plays underneath.

Julia: Thanks for hitting play and then listening to Hit Play. If you liked what you heard, subscribe to the show and tell a friend! If you want to support the New York Neo-Futurists in other ways, consider making a donation at nynf.org, or by joining our Patreon, Patreon.com/NYNF. Patreon membership gives you access to bonus content like video plays and livestreams. And if this episode gets over 1,000 downloads, we'll order one of our Patreon supporters a pizza on us. That could be you if you’re a Patreon supporter getting a pizza. We’d really appreciate any support in these difficult times. Contributing to our Patreon helps us continue to pay our artists. 

Take care of yourself, do a dance for a friend outside of their window, and share it with us on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook.

This episode featured work by: Michael John Improta, Greg Lakhan, and Katy-May Hudson, featuring Mike Puckett. And thanks Joey Rizzolo for providing this play from the vault.

Our logo was designed by Shelton Lindsay. And our sound is designed by Anthony Sertel Dean. Hit Play is produced by Anthony Sertel Dean, Léah Miller, and me, Julia Melfi. Take Care!

Music swells then fades out.