There are so many different ways in which we can create radical theatre. Whether we want to look at how we treat our bodies or how we use language or humor or space or our relationship with the audience or gender or ethnicity or sexuality or narrative, etc.
So let’s do that today. Pick something you want to be radical about – and go wild!
Anyone that knows me is aware that I am probably the least radical person out there, so I had no f**king idea what to write for this one. Part of the challenge from Sebastian was to maybe steal or plagiarise someone elses work. My original idea was to essentially plagerise No Exit and just replace the main characters with Politicians, however I could not find a copy on my laptop and like hell was I going to write out the whole play from my hard copy. So I looked online for a script that I could “radicalize” whilst still thinking of going down the “replace characters with politicians” angle. Then it hit me. The Vagina Monologues but spoken by Donald Trump
Gasp! Shock! Horror!
You can’t do that. Oh yes I can. I mean how much more “radical” can you get then by having the actual Vagina Monologues as performed by Donald Trump! What am I thinking? What does it say about the world, about politics, about gender, about women?
What does it mean?
Probably that I’m out of ideas.
(Apologies to everyone for this)
The Vagina Trumpologues
Lights up on Donald Trump at a Podium, during a campaign rally.
Trump: You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair. Many people do not love hair. My first and only husband hated hair.
Enter Putin who starts to comb Trumps hair toupee
He said it was cluttered and dirty. He made me shave my vagina. It looked puffy and exposed and like a little girl. This excited him. When he made love to me my vagina felt the way a beard must feel. It felt good to rub it and painful. Like scratching a mosquito bite. It felt like it was on fire. There were screaming red bumps. I refused to shave it again. Then my husband had an affair.
Putin drops the comb and takes off his shirt.
When we went to marital therapy, he said he screwed around because I wouldn’t please him sexually. I wouldn’t shave my vagina. The therapist had a German accent and gasped (Gasp) between sentences (gasp) to show her empathy. She asked me why I didn’t want to please my husband. I told her I thought it was weird. I felt little when my hair was gone down there and I couldn’t help talking in a baby voice and the skin got irritated and even calamine lotion wouldn’t help it. She told me marriage was a compromise. I asked her if shaving my vagina would stop him from screwing around. I asked her if she had many cases like this before. She said that questions diluted the process. I needed to jump in. She was sure it was a good beginning.
Putin pulls out a pair of scizzors and starts snipping away at Trumps hair toupee
This time, when we got home, he got to shave my vagina. It was like a therapy bonus prize. He clipped it a few times and there was a little blood in the bathtub. He didn’t even notice it ’cause he was so happy shaving me. Then, later, when my husband was pressing against me, I could feel his spiky sharpness sticking into me, my naked puffy vagina. There was no protection. There was no fluff. I realized then that hair is there for a reason — it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house.
Putin stops cutting and places the scissors on the podium
You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides, my husband never stopped screwing around.
Outside the White House, it’s Inauguration day. Trump is being sworn in. Putin holds out a Bible for Trump to rest his tiny baby hand on. He holds the other baby hand up in the air. (Putin can be shirtless for this scene, it is up to the director)
Trump: Down there? I haven’t been down there since 1953. No, it had nothing to do with Eisenhower. No, no, it’s a cellar down there. It’s very damp, clammy. You don’t want to go down there. Trust me. You’d get sick. Suffocating. Very nauseating. The smell of the clamminess and the mildew and everything. Whew! Smells unbearable. Gets in your clothes. No, there was no accident down there. It didn’t blow up or catch on fire or anything. It wasn’t so dramatic. I mean…well, never mind. No. Nevermind. I can’t talk to you about this. What’s a smart girl like you going around talking to old ladies about their down-theres for. We didn’t do this kind of a thing when I was a girl. What? Jesus, OK. There was this boy, Mike Pence. He was cute — well I thought so. And tall, like me, and I really liked him. He asked me out for a date in his car…I can’t tell you this. I can’t do this, talk about down there. You just know it’s there. Like the cellar. There’s rumbles down there sometimes. You can hear the pipes and things get caught there, little animals and things, and it gets wet, and sometimes people have to plug up the leaks. Otherwise the door stays closed.
He drops his arm and Putin removes the bible. Trump kisses his wife, kisses Putin and then stands at the Podium.
You forget about it. I mean, it’s part of the house, but you don’t see it or think about it. It has to be there, though, ’cause every house needs a cellar otherwise the bedroom would be in the basement. Oh Mike, Mike Pence.
Mike Pence is stood in the crowd behind him, he takes a small step forward. Putin gives him angry eyes.
Right. Mike was very good looking. He was a catch. That’s what we called it in my day. We were in his car, a new white Chevy Bel air. I remember thinking that my legs were too long for the seat. I have long legs. They were shmushed up against the dashboard. I was looking at my big kneecaps when he just kissed me in this surprisingly “Take me by control like they do in the movies” kind of way. And I got excited, so excited and well, there was a flood down there. I couldn’t control it. It was like this force of passion, this river of life just flooded out of me, right through my panties, right onto the car seat of his new white Chevy Belair. It wasn’t pee and it was smelly — well, frankly I didn’t really smell anything at all, but he said, Mike said that it smelled like sour milk and it was staining his car seat. I was “a stinky weird girl,” he said. I wanted to explain that his kiss had caught me off guard, that I wasn’t normally like this. I tried to wipe the flood up with my dress. It was a new yellow primrose dress and it looked so ugly with the flood on it. Mike drove me home without saying another word and when I got out and closed his car door, I closed the whole store. Locked it, never opened for business again. I dated some after that, but the idea of flooding made me too nervous. I never even got close again.
Mike turns and exits into the crowd of people. Trump never once looks at him.
I used to have dreams, crazy dreams. Oh they’re dopey. Why? Jon Voight. I don’t know why. He never did much for me in life, but in my dreams…it was always Jon and I, Jon and I, Jon and I. It was always the same general dream. We’d be out. Jon and I. It was some restaurant like the kind you see in Atlantic City, all big with chandeliers and stuff and thousands of waiters with the vests. Burt would give me this orchid corsage. I’d pin it on my blazer. We’d laugh. We were always laughing Burt and I, laughing, laughing. We’d eat shrimp cocktail. Huge shrimp, fabulous shrimp. We’d laugh more. We were very happy together. Then he’d look into my eyes and pull me to him in the middle of the restaurant — and just as he was about to kiss me, the whole restaurant would start to shake, pigeons would fly out from under the table — I don’t know what those pigeons were doing there — and the flood would come straight from down there. It would pour out of me. It would pour and pour. There would be fish inside it and little boats and the whole restaurant would fill with my flood and Burt would be standing waist deep in it, looking horribly disappointed in me that I’d done it again, horrified as he watched his friends, Dean Martin and the like, swim past us in their tuxedos and evening gowns. I don’t have those dreams anymore. Not since they took away just about everything connected with down there. Moved out the uterus, the tubes, the whole works. The doctor thought he was being funny. He told me if you don’t use it, you lose it. But really I found out it was cancer. Everything around it had to go. Who needs it anyway. Highly overrated. I’ve done other things. I love the dog shows. I sell antiques. You ask me what would it wear? What kind of question is that? What would it wear? It would wear a big sign: CLOSED DUE TO FLOODING. What would it say? I told you. It’s not like that. It’s not like a person who speaks. It stopped being a thing that talked a long time ago. It’s a place. A place you don’t go. It’s closed up, under the house. It’s down there.
You happy? You made me talk — you got it out of me. You got an old lady to talk about her down-there. You feel better now? (She takes a moment,) You know, actually, you’re the first person I ever told about this, and I feel a little better.
Trump is sat in the Oval Office at his big fancy desk, surrounded by old White People, with Steve Bannon and Putin (Let’s have him shirtless for this scene) stood over him.
As the scene progresses, one-by-one the other old White Men exit, until just Bannon and Putin are left stood towering behind Trump.
Trump: This is how I came to love my vagina. It’s embarrassing because it’s not politically correct. I mean I know it should have happened in a bath with salt grains from the Dead Sea, Enya playing, me loving my woman self. I know the story. Vaginas are beautiful. Our self-hatred is only the internalized repression and hatred of the patriarchal culture. It isn’t real. Pussies Unite. I know all of it. Like if we’d grown up in a culture where we were taught fat thighs were beautiful, we’d all be pounding down milkshakes and Krispy Kremes, lying on our backs, spending our days thigh-expanding. But, we didn’t grow up in that culture. I hated my thighs and I hated my vagina even more. I thought it was incredibly ugly. I was one of those women who had looked at it and from that moment on I wished I hadn’t. It made me sick. I pitied anyone who had to go down there.
In order to survive, I began to pretend there was something else between my legs. I imagined furniture — cosy futons with light cotton comforters, little velvet settees, leopard rugs, or pretty things — silk handkerchiefs, quilted pot holders, or place settings. I got so accustomed to this that I lost all memory of having a vagina. Whenever a man was inside me, I pictured him inside a mink-lined muffler, or a Chinese bowl. Then I met Steve.
Steve puts a hand on Trump’s shoulder
Steve was the most ordinary man I ever met. He was thin and tall and nondescript and wore khaki tan clothes. Bob did not like spicy foods or listen to Prince. He had no interest in sexy lingerie. In the summer he spent time in the shade. He did not share his inner feelings. He did not have any problems or issues and was not even an alcoholic. He wasn’t very funny or articulate or mysterious. He wasn’t mean or unavailable. He wasn’t self-involved or charismatic. He didn’t drive fast. I didn’t particularly like Bob. I would have missed him altogether if he hadn’t picked up my change that I dropped on the deli floor. When he handed me back my quarters and pennies and his hand accidentally touched mine, something happened. I went to bed with him. That’s when the miracle occurred. Turned out that Steve loved vaginas.
Steve moves his hand into Trump’s hair.
He was a connoisseur. He loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, the way they smelled, but most importantly he loved the way they looked. He had to look at them. The first time we had sex, he told me he had to see me. “I’m right here,” I said.
Steve: “No, you I have to see you.”
Trump: “Turn on the light,” I said, thinking he was a weirdo and freaking out in the dark. He turned on the light. Then he said
Steve: OK, I’m ready, ready to see you.
Steve starts to grip Trumps hair.
Trump: “Right here,” I waved, “I’m right here.” Then he began to undress me.
Steve’s grip begins to tighten
“What are you doing Steve?” I said.
Steve: I need to see you.
Trump: “No need,” I said. “Just do it.”
Steve: “I need to see what you look like.”
Trump: “But you’ve seen a red leather couch before,” I said. Steve continued. He would not stop. I wanted to throw up and die. “This is awfully intimate,” I said. “Can’t you just do it.”
Steve’s grip tightens even more
Steve: No, it’s who you are. I need to look.
Trump: I held my breath. He looked and looked. He got breathy and his face changed. He didn’t look ordinary anymore. He looked like a hungry beast. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “You’re elegant and deep and innocent and wild.” “You saw that there?” I said. It was like he read my palm.
Steve: “I saw that, and more, much much more.”
Trump: He stayed looking for almost an hour as if he were studying a map, observing the moon, staring into my eyes, but it was my vagina. In the light I watched him looking at me and he was so genuinely excited, so peaceful and euphoric, I began to get wet and turned on. I began to see myself the way he saw me. I began to feel beautiful and delicious — like a great painting, or a waterfall. Steve wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t grossed out. I began to swell, began to feel proud. Began to love my vagina. And Steve, lost himself there, and I was there with him, in my vagina, and we were gone.
Putin slowly puts his hand on Trump’s shoulder
Grabbing my by the pussy.