Dirty Peanut Butter Knives (8.19.12)

Prompt: Write a dead-serious drama about a non-serious subject, like puppets, or cheese.

Even though I didn't choose puppets or cheese, when I'm home and I make PB & J's and don't clean off my dirty peanut butter knives before my mom puts them in the dishwasher, she gets super pissed. To me it's always been a really trite and non-serious matter because isn't the point of a dishwasher to clean off dirty dishes and utensils? I digress. However I figured it would make a fun heart-wrenching feminist melodrama.

#19: DIRTY PEANUT BUTTER KNIVES

Written

by

Sean Pollock

(Lights up on Mom and Son. Note, whenever Mom speaks in capital letters—those words should be loud, punctual screams. Screams that could shatter the ear drums of a newborn baby all across the world)

MOM: Son, we need to talk.

SON: What’s wrong mom?

MOM: I think you know what’s wrong.

SON: No I don’t. What’s wrong?

MOM: Ok, let’s back track. What did you have for lunch today?

SON: Ok, um…a Coke…

MOM: Yes.

SON: An apple…chips…

MOM: Alright, and?

SON: A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich.

MOM: Ok. Stop right there. At the sandwich. You know what happens every time you make one of those INFERNAL HELL-SENT SANDWICHES?!

SON: No! What?

MOM: YOU LEAVE THE DIRTY PEANUT BUTTER KNIVES IN THE SINK! DIRTY. PEANUT. BUTTER. KNIVES!

SON: I’m sorry, I—

MOM: Son, I have told you TIME and TIME again ALWAYS to clean your dirty peanut butter knives and you NEVER do. How do you think that makes me feel? It makes me feel INSULTED. It makes me feel WORTHLESS. It makes me feel like…YOU’RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME! Like…you hate me. Like you have no respect for me. Your own mother. When you do that it’s a death wish to me, each and every peanut butter knives. Do you want to kill me? DO YOU WANT TO KILL YOUR OWN MOTHER? DO YOU REALLY HATE ME THAT MUCH?!?!?!?!

SON: I don’t hate you, Mom—

MOM: Every time I see one of those dirty, filthy peanut butter knives it makes me want to just hurl my sack, you know that? Those gross, disgusting grungy knives covered in a syrupy peanut glaze! And that’s not all…all that peanut butter is also mixed in with jelly! Big globs of putrid revolting artificially gelatinous jelly! And every time I see those knives I can just feel this anger erupt within me. I’ve been cleaning off the peanut butter from those knives EVERY TIME before they go in the diswasher. And I’ve had it. I can’t do it. It hurts my soul, Son. It does. So now, I am going to give you a taste of your own medicine. See how much you like dirty peanut butter knives! SEE HOW MUCH YOU LIKE THEM!?!?!

(She pulls a fistful of dirty peanut butter knives from her bra and stabs her Son with them. Her raging screams ring out fill the theatre space and send a shiver up the audience’s spine. A final image of  Mom, covered in her Son’s blood while holding his bleeding corpse. The stage is a glowing red)

MOM: (in a whisper) no more dirty peanut butter knives…never again…

(Lights fade)