This was written as a big joke about all the Dramatic Interpretation pieces I've seen in Speech Competitions. If you don't do those, you may not find this funny at all. Some of the jokes are just speech kid things, sorry to all the people on my Alert list about to be very confused. Also, not edited well, due to time constraints.

And as a disclaimer, I don't own any of the lyrics, borrowed lines, or implied plotlines. This is all an act of Parody, not intended for profit.

Enough stalling, I think.

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My DI: A Humorous Interp.

My mother died when I was eighteen. She was killed by a drunk driver, who happened to be my best friend…

Ex-best friend.

They were both killed on impact so I guess it should be of some consolation that they didn't suffer. Unfortunately, they died the week of prom, so I had to skip the dance to go to their funerals. Which for some reason were at the same time. I received weird looks as I left one funeral for the other. Apparently leaving during the middle of a eulogy is some sort of social faux pas.

My father was so distraught at my mother's death that he decided to off himself, his best friend, and the neighbor's cat as I received my diploma. The blood spattered my gown as I walked across the stage.

Don't even ask about the dry cleaning bills on that.

I was left alone at eighteen and more than a little traumatized after so much tragedy. But the good news is, I just saved fifteen percent or more by switching my car insurance to Gieco.

I was still shocked at my parents' death so I took the money I saved and did what any rational person would do. I turned to smoking crack.

I met up with a friend of mine from middle school. He dropped out a few years ago, I don't know why, such a nice kid. He handed me a mirror and a bag of white powder and said, " Have fun man." And boy did I have fun!

Of course, that was until the hallucinations started. I started seeing my mother and father. It was almost as if they were really there. My mother waved at me, and I leaned to try to hug her and-- " Kill your mother!" … then the voices started, "Did you hear me?"

"She's already dead!"

"So kill your father!"

"He's dead too!"

"Damn your life sucks…"

"Pretty much."

"Sorry, dude. I didn't mean to bring up hard memories."

"No hard feelings."

I thought that they were just a side effect of the drugs, so I stopped taking them. The hallucinations stopped-- which was a shame, really-- but the voices persisted.

And they weren't very nice at all. If that toaster insults me one more time I swear I'll-- I'll go see a doctor, because you know you've crossed a line when you're threatening household appliances.

I waited for what seemed like hours on a cold hard bed until the doctor came in. "I'm sorry sir, it appears you've died yesterday afternoon. I know this must come as quite a shock."

"I can't be dead! This isn't the sixth sense, I am talking to you!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, wrong sheet. You have cancer. Let's see if its, erm, spread."

That was the most awkward and invasive doctor's visit I have ever been through. I don't see how some of the tests could find cancer, but what do I know? I'm not the doctor, he is. It says so on the wall… "Real Medikal Doctor." …is that how you spell medical? But there is his name, right there on the diploma--of course, he is a balding, middle-aged white man and doesn't look like a Rahid Shabib, but what do I know? I've never been good with names.

I couldn't help but feel used and dirty after the visit. I sat at home, alone and cried. I was afraid to take more drugs because, honestly, being alone was better than being with them.

So, I did what anyone would do in this situation. I bought a dog.

I went to the pound and chose a dog. I started petting it and it was so soft. Then I looked at it and I saw it was missing an ear and was a bit yippy. But beggars can't be choosers… Except that I did choose the dog… It reminded me of my mother. She was a bit yippy.

After I brought the dog home, I started to think it may not be the brightest. It ran from room to room, jumping up and down and barking. I tried to calm it down using toys, but it just brought them back.

A man can only play fetch so long before he snaps.

I took the little squeaky ball and shook it around to get his attention, "Come on, boy!" Then I tossed it down the stairs. I figure the ball'd get lost down there and I could buy myself a few minutes of quiet.

I didn't expect the dog to hurl itself down the stairs. "Oh God!"

There it lay at the bottom of the stairs, twitching pitifully.

I ran down the stairs and knelt next to my beloved pet, "I'm never going to give you up," I declared, "I'm never going to let you down!" It yipped weakly. "I'm never going to run around and desert you."

I brought it to the local veterinarian's clinic-- feeling worse than I had at the fifteen minutes I had heard of my mother's eulogy. I left him there and drove home.

Sitting down, feel guilty happy about the silence, I turned on the TV. "…There were no survivors… Next on American Idol: Simon is a jerk, Paula is a pushover, and Randy calls a contestant 'Dawg'." I had to tivo it back to see what happened. "This just in: A group of terrorist, socialist, communist, feminist, nazi wizards have hijacked a passenger bus and crashed it into a local vet's clinic as an Anti-war protest. There were no survivors. Next on Ameri—" SCRUFFY!

I needed to find something to take the edge off. My father drank when he was upset-- not that it'd worked so well for him, but I was desperate! So I decided to… Of course, I was eighteen and I threw out all the alcohol when he died, so I didn't have any on hand.

So I went to the next best thing… Rubbing alcohol. It has alcohol in the name. I don't know about the rubbing bit, but that doesn't sound too bad. Then I drank it. GOD THAT'S AWFUL! But it does take the edge off.

And the rest of my vision with it... wow.

I don't think that was my best idea ever. I grabbed the bottle-- or tried to at least, it kept slipping away and I mixed it up with the two identical bottles on either side. I finally got the number for the poison control line and dialed it up.

"Poison control, how may I help you," said a pretty, female voice.

I giggled stupidly, "You're pretty."

"Sir?"

I tried to answer, but all I could do was laugh.

"I'm calling an ambulance, sir."

"Don't you wanna talk to me?"

"Sir..."

I passed out and woke up in a hospital bed. There was a lady sitting next to me in an uncomfortable hospital chair. She smiled at me and I smiled back. Then the doctor pushed in—into the room, that is. It was Mr. Shabib and he looked really happy to see me.

"Ma'am, if you'll leave, we need to run a few… tests."

The exams weren't that bad this time… kind of tingly, almost nice.

Oh no. I think I might be gay.

That's wrong, God says so! I ran out of the room and into the lady I'd been sitting with. She introduced herself as Mary and said she'd been the woman on the Poison Control line.

I wasn't gay, really. I even asked her to dinner.

She said yes and bam, five years later we're married with a house, 2.5 kids, and a little miniature schnauzer.

Things weren't perfect of course. Sometimes we fight. All couples do. "You're just like your mother!"

"Well, you're like your father!"

"He's dead. Don't go blaming me, I can't stand all the parties you throw at our place, Mary."

"Too bad." I do something unforgivable, I slap her.

She stares at me blankly and then bites out, "If I wanted this sort of treatment I would've just married F Scott Fitzgerald!"

"Maybe you should've."

Our little girl wanders in, sniffling. "Mama? I don't feel so good."

She throws up on my shoes.

We take her to the hospital—not to Dr. Shabib, Mary doesn't like him for some reason, but we get just his sort of diagnosis. "I'm afraid your daughter has cancer."

I run away, because it's what I do best. I get into the car and just drive and drive—oh dear lord, RACOON! I slam on the breaks, but it's too late.

I pull the animal into my arms. The black blood is foaming from it's mouth and it's crapping everywhere. I pull it closer and it bites me.

Turns out it was rabid.

I get taken back to the hospital and… tested by Mr. Shabib again.

I'm really starting to like that…

My wife burst in just after the give me all the shots for Rabies.

"She died," My wife tells me. "And you weren't there."

"Holy Fiddlesticks, Batman!"

"I'm not Batman, I'm your wife."

"And I'm not F Scott Fitzgerald, too bad."

"I'm leaving you," she tells me. I wait for the punch line, but it doesn't come.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

The divorce is quick and nearly painless, the first thing in my life to be so. I get to feeling lonely again pretty quick, though. I get in the car and drive by my old house, where my ex-wife and child still live. Not in a creepy, stalker way… honestly.

It's on fire.

I try to rush into the house, but it's too far gone. I could use a towel right now, it'd work great as a gas mask, or to put out the flames, but I don't know where I put it!

The firefighters arrive and ask me some questions, "I didn't start the fire," I tell them, "It was always burning since the world's been turning."

They don't seem satisfied with this answer.

"I didn't light it, but I tried to fight it!"

I can't make them understand, no one does! And I'm alone again, all alone in the world. I drive back to the hotel room I've been staying in. So, I ran to the cabinet and pulled out the razor blades and cyanide and, well, I guess you know what happened next.