Saturday, April 30, 2011

National Poetry Month 2011, Day #30: The Confessions of Colonel Mustard

Blogger's Note: I read the following piece at the Encyclopedia Show in Tempe, Arizona tonight, in character as Colonel Mustard. The theme was the spectrum of color, and I was assigned mustard. This was the best I could do!

An Open Letter from Colonel Mustard to His Father

Dear Father, Commodore Mustard,

I'm sorry. No, I'm not sorry I was born a ginger; I had no control over that. It was you who impregnated mother with your mustard seed, Father, and I will no longer wear this blonde wig to look like the son you wish you had. I'm not like other Mustards; I can't bottle this up any longer. I will not keep a lip on it, or “packet” in. In this day and age, one should not be judged on the color of his hair, but on the content of his character.

I know you're too yellow-bellied to consider a worldview other than your own, and that my being different makes you blue. I've read the expression in your eyes when you look at other fathers and sons, and they're green with envy. Hue are you to judge me, with your tinted love? Can't you see that things aren't black and white anymore? Society is full of varying shades of gray . . .

Poop on this notion is you must, but the world is changing, and it's time a seasoned veteran like you catch up to everyone else. Today, people relish in the differences of others. People earn their salt by what they do, not how they look! I know you think I'm just full of piss and vinegar, but I hope one day we'll look back and laugh at this, because Heinz-sight is 20/20. It's just a matter of taste. I can't butter you up anymore. I will not cry over you anymore, I figure, why sob – be happy, instead. I will be your golden child no longer, your “Barbie.”

Cue this revelation I have for you, Father: I'm dropping out of the military. The things I've seen in the battlefield shake me, and they shake well, and I’ve been pouring out my heart over them. I know it sounds cheesy and corny to you, but I need to travel, meet saucy women, feel like I'm on top. I know this confession is putting a lot on your plate, giving you plenty of food for thought, but I just had to dish out my feelings. You raised me with a silver spoon, but I'm through with that lifestyle. That's right, stick a fork in me. I'm done.

Now, I've been trying to speak in a language you might understand. I only hope you'll show me the same courtesy. Hell, by now you may regret I was even born; you may wish you used protection with Mom, but even if you had, my path was already written, that condom meant for something else. Either way, I love you, and know that this letter was the most difficult thing I've ever mustered.


Your Son, Former Colonel Mustard
Current Private Citizen Ketchup Top

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