Guide: Modern Mime Routines

by: Andrew Halter

1. Piloting a Remote Control Helicopter

This is one of the more subtle uses of mime technique, in which the performer holds his hands parallel to each other, roughly 2-3 feet apart, scanning the sky for an invisible flying machine.  One can also open his or her mouth in amazement and excitement, occasionally becoming concerned that the imaginary helicopter will crash, only to be relieved when it does not.

2. Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Waving Tube Man

The Mime splays his or her arms wide, holding them rigid and unmoving, only to suddenly reverse directions suddenly.  The mime’s face should be completely without expression, suggesting the personification of an inanimate object.  If any small children are near, the mime could suddenly throw his arms toward them, hoping not to make them burst into tears.

3. Suicide

The mime should first pretend to sit at a desk and write a confessional note, making sure to emphasize with his or her finger the tears running down their cheek.  Then, standing up, the mime can slip an invisible noose over their neck, throwing the other end of the rope over an imagined overhead pipe. With hands clasped together in front of them, the mime could weep briefly into their own folded hands, before pretending to dangle lifeless from their own imagined suicidal rig.  Possibility: suddenly spring to life, grinning widely and ensuring any audience that it was all a ruse.

4. Mass Shooting

This act requires at least 15 mimes, as one will portray the shooter and the others his or her unfortunate victims.  All the mimes should begin together in one group, until one of them upholds an imaginary machine gun and begins to murder many of the other mimes.  There should be at least 10 imaginary casualties, with the shooter making sure to shudder his or her body rapidly as if jostled by machine gun fire.

5. Donald Trump Speech

The mime stands as if before a podium, making sure to indicate with hand motions that he or she is enormously overweight.  The mime could gesticulate wildly with his or her hands while occasionally standing openhanded as if asking the crowd a question.  Depending on what part of the country the mime performs this routine, it may end with a final triumphant Nazi salute.

Guide: Modern Mime Routines

News: Dummy Falls Down on his Stupid Face in Front of Everybody

Dummy Falls Down on His Stupid Face in Front of Everybody

by: Andrew Halter

Chicago, IL — Andrew Halter, fledgling journalist and part-time stand-up comedian, looked like an idiot last Thursday when his right toe clipped the curb in front of the Walgreens at Foster and Lincoln, causing him to drop his bag of candy and painfully exclaim “Dammit!”

Most of the 11 bystanders who witnessed the event declined to comment on how foolish Halter seemed, brushing Swedish Fish off the same jeans he wears everyday, preferring instead to look at the sky as though they’d not witnessed Andrew’s humiliation.

“Yeah that was pretty funny I guess,” remarked David Grant, local father of five, after witnessing the doofus peel himself off the asphalt.

Immediately after falling, Halter tried to gather himself as quickly as he could and walk away, though he could not hide the painful limp in his stride.

When authorities attempted to reach Halter for comment, he yelled “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” before slamming into the nearby Lincoln bus stop kiosk as he attempted to hurry away.

Upon hearing him walk into the bus stop, Margaret Atwood, grandmother of twelve, was unable to keep herself from audibly guffawing at the silly boob as he hobbled down the sidewalk toward his apartment.

“I’m sorry,” Atwood explained as she attempted to cover her mouth with her right hand, “it was funny, I feel bad for him though.”

Douglas and Jerry Ignacio, local high schoolers who also witnessed the disturbance were less kind, remarking that “(the) bit*h better watch where he’s going.”

Reports say that after he got back to his apartment, Halter turned off the lights and watched Fargo on Netflix under his heavy comforter, vowing to never again mention the occurrence.

 

News: Dummy Falls Down on his Stupid Face in Front of Everybody

Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

Poem: Mice and Men

“Transform,” said the old man in the boat

forever unsatisfied, he voyaged a venture

without end, staring blankness at itself, pondering

mysteries infinitely varied, reaching solutions

invisibly weightless, he studied all his life to learn

idioms are disguises, nothing more, like words

unearth odium daily, feelings blinding reason

preserve themselves in amber, “transform.”

 

His hair was reedy charcoal, his eyes were dreary

sunsets cloudless, he wondered aloud to himself

what he would become, bear flamingo and aardvark

were all possibilities, answers to the question

unknown material cipher, the solution at hand

hammer pulling and raised, “On the count of three”

he said to his dead relatives, “One” then “two”

before stopping to stare, at nothing plainly.

 

He sighed and sat back, erect by his elbows

planted in wooden boat bottom, the barrel snug

under his jaw, “three” was the call through tears

bloody thick mist, click arise from a catch

without gunpowder, struggle the fist sharp

through his thigh, cool it from there say “tomorrow”

grabbing the oars, spit over the side, pause

knowing there’s nothing, no promises kept.

Poem: Mice and Men

Poem: Vision

Suicide shouldn’t ever be

private, town square strangling

stuck taught on a velvet line, that’s the only way

for us to go man, tattoo a manifesto

backwards on your chest

using a mirror, syntax insidious

devil horn maven, preferring those with dimples

jagged scars and burn marks, echoes

projecting fear on a cloudless

sky, we can all see the day

we die, but we’re probably wrong.

Poem: Vision

Poem: Childhood

In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood

100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist