Bri Griffith
My New TV Show
My new TV show is like PUNK’d but no Ashton Kutcher
all Frankie Muniz called “PRANK”ie Muniz’d & basically
people wait in line to meet & greet Frankie but he never comes.
The last person waiting in line will win 1 million dollars
but no one will know it’s a prank so determining who the last
person is if everyone leaves in mobs may require behind-the-scenes
slow motion replays. I don’t know where we’re getting the money yet.
I think that’s the least important part of the show because we
already have 830,000 followers and everyone thinks we’re funny.
If you’ve ever been scammed, please sign here: _______________.
Now you're obligated to watch every episode
of “PRANK”ie Muniz’d I have it in writing.
My new TV show is a prank show to remind you
of all the $$$ you spend on shit that doesn’t work like iPhones
& dryer sheets & gel manicures & weddings & cable boxes
to watch House Hunters International & Gatorade &
Frankie Muniz probably feels pranked by the world because
he can barely remember filming his other hit show
Malcolm in the Middle. With mini-strokes &
nine concussions, it’s like it never even happened.
My new TV show is like PUNK’d but no Ashton Kutcher
all Frankie Muniz called “PRANK”ie Muniz’d & basically
people wait in line to meet & greet Frankie but he never comes.
The last person waiting in line will win 1 million dollars
but no one will know it’s a prank so determining who the last
person is if everyone leaves in mobs may require behind-the-scenes
slow motion replays. I don’t know where we’re getting the money yet.
I think that’s the least important part of the show because we
already have 830,000 followers and everyone thinks we’re funny.
If you’ve ever been scammed, please sign here: _______________.
Now you're obligated to watch every episode
of “PRANK”ie Muniz’d I have it in writing.
My new TV show is a prank show to remind you
of all the $$$ you spend on shit that doesn’t work like iPhones
& dryer sheets & gel manicures & weddings & cable boxes
to watch House Hunters International & Gatorade &
Frankie Muniz probably feels pranked by the world because
he can barely remember filming his other hit show
Malcolm in the Middle. With mini-strokes &
nine concussions, it’s like it never even happened.
Comet
It’s Thanksgiving—Terin & I are watching the episode of Flavor of Love
where Hottie tries to cook a whole chicken in the microwave--
we’re laughing at the unpeeled/uncooked carrots jutting
out from the raw chicken’s body,
& Hottie’s confidence in just pressing the “chicken” button.
She’s serving the raw chicken—smeared in jelly
& chow mein noodles—to Flav’s mom, whose audible gasp
sends Terin & I laughing into an alternate reality,
one where we’re contestants on the show,
my nickname: Yinzer, Terin’s: New Jersey--
except we’re miniature & sitting
inside the microwave, & Hottie’s opening the door,
& we’re yelling with our mini voices:
Hottie! Not the chicken button--
but it’s too late: we’re spinning/cooking alongside
the chicken, which looks like a jack-o-lantern
until the microwave plate starts
spinning like a clock hand outta whack, so fast
in fact, that the entire microwave starts spinning
until it eventually sparks/blasts off the counter,
breaks through the kitchen window, & soars
across Flav’s Vegas lawn like a comet--
we haven’t stopped moving since.
It’s Thanksgiving—Terin & I are watching the episode of Flavor of Love
where Hottie tries to cook a whole chicken in the microwave--
we’re laughing at the unpeeled/uncooked carrots jutting
out from the raw chicken’s body,
& Hottie’s confidence in just pressing the “chicken” button.
She’s serving the raw chicken—smeared in jelly
& chow mein noodles—to Flav’s mom, whose audible gasp
sends Terin & I laughing into an alternate reality,
one where we’re contestants on the show,
my nickname: Yinzer, Terin’s: New Jersey--
except we’re miniature & sitting
inside the microwave, & Hottie’s opening the door,
& we’re yelling with our mini voices:
Hottie! Not the chicken button--
but it’s too late: we’re spinning/cooking alongside
the chicken, which looks like a jack-o-lantern
until the microwave plate starts
spinning like a clock hand outta whack, so fast
in fact, that the entire microwave starts spinning
until it eventually sparks/blasts off the counter,
breaks through the kitchen window, & soars
across Flav’s Vegas lawn like a comet--
we haven’t stopped moving since.
Brad Pitt Can Shove It
I think happiness is overrated. Satisfied, at peace—those would be more realistic goals.
- Brad Pitt
I want to fight Brad Pitt. I want to grab Brad Pitt by the ankle, flip him upside down, & shake
him for his lunch money. Brad Pitt’s in the millions, a real money ball—I want to give him a
wedgie in front of all his exes. I know Brad Pitt’s a fighter but I’m the whole damn fight club.
I’m that scene in Meet Joe Black where Brad Pitt gets hit by two cars & his briefcases fly up &
away from him like little blue jays. What’s he keep in those briefcases? Peace? Practicality? Brad
Pitt can shove it. I don’t want freedom from disturbance, I want to disturb—I want the
Halloween soundtrack on repeat while I slash Brad Pitt’s tires.
You can be at peace & not be happy. You can be satisfied & not be happy. Fuck it: look at me,
I’m so happy I’m astral projecting. Look at my dream body floating through the walls at Party
City. Look at me blending in with the thin green streamers & birthday candles. Now I’m
shrunken & jumping into the Mona Lisa. Now her face looks like mine--
I want happiness that vibrates my body like an electric toothbrush. I want so much joy in my
body that my ass explodes. I’m happy & I’m bursting. I’m a blimp, popped & plummeting to
Earth & I’m happy & there’s nothing left to say in this moment except
fuck you, Brad Pitt.
I think happiness is overrated. Satisfied, at peace—those would be more realistic goals.
- Brad Pitt
I want to fight Brad Pitt. I want to grab Brad Pitt by the ankle, flip him upside down, & shake
him for his lunch money. Brad Pitt’s in the millions, a real money ball—I want to give him a
wedgie in front of all his exes. I know Brad Pitt’s a fighter but I’m the whole damn fight club.
I’m that scene in Meet Joe Black where Brad Pitt gets hit by two cars & his briefcases fly up &
away from him like little blue jays. What’s he keep in those briefcases? Peace? Practicality? Brad
Pitt can shove it. I don’t want freedom from disturbance, I want to disturb—I want the
Halloween soundtrack on repeat while I slash Brad Pitt’s tires.
You can be at peace & not be happy. You can be satisfied & not be happy. Fuck it: look at me,
I’m so happy I’m astral projecting. Look at my dream body floating through the walls at Party
City. Look at me blending in with the thin green streamers & birthday candles. Now I’m
shrunken & jumping into the Mona Lisa. Now her face looks like mine--
I want happiness that vibrates my body like an electric toothbrush. I want so much joy in my
body that my ass explodes. I’m happy & I’m bursting. I’m a blimp, popped & plummeting to
Earth & I’m happy & there’s nothing left to say in this moment except
fuck you, Brad Pitt.
Open Text to Michael Cera
Two weeks since we shared an Applebee’s 2 for $20 deal &
you might be wondering why I haven’t texted you about a second date.
First of all, you said, I like your hat, but since you’re an actor, I was
expecting something grand-piano big, like: look at that hat glowing
on your head like a taillight, or wow a hat, I’ve never seen one in the wild, or
I’d leave my track meet & rush to the hospital to witness
the birth of that hat. I just think, maybe, if the 2 for $20 deal
comes with an appetizer we should order one, like chips & salsa, but no--
you pulled a mix CD you made for your ex out of your pocket,
cracked the case in half & gave me a sharp piece of plastic.
Cheers, you said sticking your tongue through the CD hole,
don’t you realize we could’ve had both?
The final straw was when I somehow wobbled & broke
through my chair scooting out to go to the bathroom. There I was,
ass on the ground, & there you were, looking at me from the other side
of the table. You said: you can’t trust chairs & yes that’s true, but I was
waiting for something epic--grab my hand let’s body slam this table
kinda bullshit. So if you’re wondering why I haven’t reached out,
it’s because I want someone who’s gonna give me more
than I’ve ever had before, more than I ever knew I could have:
I want to see you fight my Hollywood actor & skateboarder ex
in the Applebees parking lot, I want kissing on the escalator
at Penn Station while the sun rises over New York City,
back-flipping, appetizers, wrestling—let’s break shit.
Two weeks since we shared an Applebee’s 2 for $20 deal &
you might be wondering why I haven’t texted you about a second date.
First of all, you said, I like your hat, but since you’re an actor, I was
expecting something grand-piano big, like: look at that hat glowing
on your head like a taillight, or wow a hat, I’ve never seen one in the wild, or
I’d leave my track meet & rush to the hospital to witness
the birth of that hat. I just think, maybe, if the 2 for $20 deal
comes with an appetizer we should order one, like chips & salsa, but no--
you pulled a mix CD you made for your ex out of your pocket,
cracked the case in half & gave me a sharp piece of plastic.
Cheers, you said sticking your tongue through the CD hole,
don’t you realize we could’ve had both?
The final straw was when I somehow wobbled & broke
through my chair scooting out to go to the bathroom. There I was,
ass on the ground, & there you were, looking at me from the other side
of the table. You said: you can’t trust chairs & yes that’s true, but I was
waiting for something epic--grab my hand let’s body slam this table
kinda bullshit. So if you’re wondering why I haven’t reached out,
it’s because I want someone who’s gonna give me more
than I’ve ever had before, more than I ever knew I could have:
I want to see you fight my Hollywood actor & skateboarder ex
in the Applebees parking lot, I want kissing on the escalator
at Penn Station while the sun rises over New York City,
back-flipping, appetizers, wrestling—let’s break shit.
Bri Griffith earned her MFA in poetry from Florida International University in 2021. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Glass Mountain, Columbia Poetry Review, Small Orange, Alien Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Griffith teaches creative writing and composition; she's a proud member of the Madwomen in the Attic.