One evening I ventured down to the Minnesota Garage Theater to see The Irresistible Rise of Big Daddy Ubu. I walked in expecting to experience several moments of laughter as I watched this comedy about gangs in Chicago, but instead of laughing I felt like crying because I wasted two hours of my life watching a senseless play involving an evil man and his ugly wife and their plan to conquer the world of vegetables.

I used to love topping pasta, salad, chicken and pizza with artichokes, I used love the sights of Chicago, Wrigley Field, the Sears Tower and Lake Michigan, and I used to love attending plays, anything from high school productions to Broadway musicals, until the evening when I saw this monstrosity.

Watching the horrifying monster of Big Daddy Ubu kill and torture anyone that stood in his way of total control of the Artichoke Alliance, a vegetable company based in Chicago, I quickly began to despise these things I once admired.

Thanks to its hundreds of pathetic attempts at humor and dozens of despicable characters, I am currently listing artichoke allergy on any medical forms, vowing to stay out of a 100 mile radius of Chicago and planning on never entering a theater again. Considering I should probably be suing the playwright and demanding on refund for the ticket cost from the theater, this is by no means an overreaction.

Seriously, if McDonald’s is sued when someone burns his or her tongue on a hot cup of coffee, I should be able to sue the theater company for making my head throb in pain as I tried to make some sense out the characters’ endless ramblings and the plot’s pointless violence. Unfortunately the play proved to be completely meaningless, dooming my earnest attempts at grasping its meaning to failure and leaving me with an incurable headache.

While the play lacked a meaning, the theater lacked an audience. Including myself, four people watched as the dozen or so actors and actresses performed. I foolishly decided to sit in the middle of the second row. Each actor and actress gazed directly at me, forcing me to hide my true feelings of disgust and boredom and plaster a smile to my face.

Truthfully, they deserved to be pelted with tomatoes and booed off the stage, but out of pity, I clapped for their disgraceful work and laughed at their awful jokes.

Adding to my misfortune, there was no intermission, no break in the performance to allow me to sneak out of the theater, sprint to my car and speed away from my bad dream. Actually, it was my worst nightmare, but there was no chance of drifting back into consciousness. Only the cast’s final bow ended my discomfort, but my memory of that night never faded.