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An odoriferous whiff of burnt chicken permeated the air. Honestly, I hate pretentious polysyllabic words. I'm all for honest writing.

So an "honester" wording of the above would be: the stench of rotting ham invaded the room. I'm alluding to our senior center's Christmas production, a series of skits.

Held on a pseudo-stage in the center's cafeteria, 'twas impossible to avoid the perennial whiff of burnt chicken, but that rotting ham slam I just made was in reference to the oldsters' hammy performances. Thanks to the evil twin who thrives inside my brain, the show closed after one night. You're welcome.

Before I became an infamous New York critic, I was building up my acting resumé, mastering such demanding roles as the Third Guard in Othello, the water boy in Carousel and Mr. Three in The Adding Machine. When I decided to audition for the Christmas skits, I knew I would be the obvious candidate to play the lead. In every skit. After all, I was an experienced thespian. Also, I had checked out the senior "talent" pool. Bah humbug? Nah, more like Boooo! Ham-bug!

Having almost played the part of Scrooge in my high school's production of A Christmas Carol, I would surely be a shoo-in to play Dickens' most coveted role in a parody of that story. I was hoping the director would, you know, "cast against type." But, naturally, politics reared its ugly, toothy head. Yup, the part went to "Studly Dowell," a no-talent, long-of-tooth, ne'er-do-well who claims to be in his sixties. His sixties, my foot. Like the Dickens' character itself, Studly was reportedly conceived in 1843.

But seriously, a vicious rumor really does have it that the director, Ms. Myrtle Loons, cast him only after she and Studly spent a lot of time together on the senior center's casting couch. Mostly snoring, no doubt.

Miss Loons not only rejected the genius of my acting audition, she resented my advising her on what would have been brilliant directorial choices. Ya see, I'm a little psychic and I predicted that, without my expertise, the program would surely flop. She snidely said I should stick to writing.

So, surprise! Here's a quick-and-dirty review of the program. And remaining professional to the core, I shall be objective to the utmost vendetta, and I shan't be scant with including behind-the-scenes scandals. Here goes:

Turns out, Studly Dowell didn't do-well as Scrooge. The night the program was performed he became rattled right before he went onstage and flubbed most of his lines. Apparently, some lovable rascal had slipped into the cafeteria and made toast. Studly freaked because everyone over 50 knows that the smell of toast can be a prelude to a stoke. (What diabolical mind would play a priceless prank like that?). T'was pity Miss Loons had steadfastly rejected my suggestion for Studly to have an understudy. Moi.

During dress rehearsal for the nativity vignette, Bill Bungle almost played Joseph. Too bad he drank too much "courage," fell asleep, missed his entrance cue and ultimately began reciting several of his lines from the next skit in which he played Santa.

That threw everyone off the script. Director Loons all but swooned when Bessie Botcher, playing an angel, sputtered: "I bring good joy. I mean tidings of a Savior. Uh Mary birthed a swaddling baby? Or something like that."

In a skit titled "Treasure Island Christmas," Harvey Haymaker, playing a pirate, was fumbling with his eyepatch and dropped his cane onstage. This terrified the parrot on his shoulder, prompting it to take an unscheduled flight down the corridor. Playing a buccaneer, Leroy Runnington fell completely out of character and began screaming at Harvey: "You idiot. That's my pet bird," whereupon Leroy swiftly exited stage left, chasing after the bird who was screaming "Oy vey!"

Christened "The Senior Center's Christmas Fiasco," I guess if there's one good thing about the program, it would be that, by gum, the acting was honest. Or something like that.

What a shame Studly had whistled in the dressing room. I hear that's bad luck. Indeed, the show flopped. Just as this psychic critic had predicted.

Being psychic is a burden. Being psychotic is a blessing.

- Steve Eskew

Retired businessman Steve Eskew received master's degrees in dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. After one of his professors asked him to write a theater column, he began a career as a journalist at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa. This led to hundreds of publications in a number of newspapers, most of which appear on his website, eskewtotherescue.com.