Open Mic Night at the IHOP on East Beltline Pt. 1


Is this on? Is it? Anyone? Okay. Great. Welcome to our first Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your IHOP. But before that I need to remind you that in honor of this new endeavor, you can get our Poet Stack of Pancakes. That’s four pancakes and you dress it the way you like it—or heck. Leave ‘em naked. Anywho. Welcome to our first Open Mic Night. The Senior Women’s Writing Group that meets here asked if we’d set up a mic and such and we agreed. So, you’ve got half an hour or so here to be all poetical, and then we’ve got to shut it down to get ready for the bar rush. Allrighty then. Remember to tip your servers!


(Bud turns the mic over to Connie, a four-foot tall woman in her late sixties wearing a tie-dyed shirt and a long flowing skirt. It is not evident if she’s wearing shoes, or even has any feet, as the skirt glides over the carpet.)



Thank you, Bud. Our first reader tonight is Mable VanderSteen. She’s seventy-five, has four grandchildren…what’s that? Okay…five grandchildren and believes that through writing world peace is possible.

(Long transition as Mable is wheeled up to the microphone and the microphone is adjusted.)



My poem. It’s an Ode.

Ode To The O

by Mabel VanderSteen. That's me. Okay then.


(MABEL raises her hand dramatically and makes her voice sound all poet-like)



I thought I knew what you were, oh mighty O.

I’d read about you

and in the 60s I told everyone I knew

how to find you

but I lied.

I lied like the demon spawn I am.

(Demon Spawn--

a shadow shivering behind the outhouse.)

I lied because fear clutched my heart,

but it never clutched my clitoris.


Now I’m seventy-five and I found you,

my love,

and I thank those late night TV commercials

and their sweet spring promise

of a package sent in plain paper

so that the eyes at Whispering Pines wouldn’t know.


But now, now, Oh, sweet music,

sweet dancer on a silvery lake of passion,

I know you, Orgasm. You shiver my soul.

And now I can read my erotica fiction

and I can understand

truly understand

what it means

to be complete.


The end.

Thank you.

That’s the end of my ode. If anyone wants a coupon for the Mighty Tingler, I have…


(Sound of applause and then strangely, the fire alarm is set and the IHOP on East Beltline erupts in chaos.)


Stay tuned for more scenes from "Open Mic Night at the iHop on East Beltline".