Sheepdip? Does it come in ranch?

While digging through bookcases tonight, I came across a script from my 11th grade play, The Curious Savage. My character was Mrs. Paddy, a harmlessly insane woman who won't speak except to list the things that she hates, apropos of nothing.

Do you think, in retrospect, that I should have been insulted by the character's description? Did I get the part because Mr. Q knew I wouldn't be as pissed off as the other girls? You be the judge. The script says, upon Mrs. Paddy's first appearance onstage:

...Mrs. Paddy enters and stands at doorway R. She is a dumpy, middle-aged woman of awesome ferocity. Her close-cropped hair bristles from her head with aggressive hostility.

I was told it was my ability to clearly deliver long and complicated lines, but I have to wonder if it was instead because I either fit the description, or wouldn't be upset about it.

To be fair, though, the few lines I had were rather lengthy and complex. My first line was:

"I hate everything in the world, but most of all, I hate cold cream, hot dogs, codfish, crawfish, catfish, catnip, sheepdip, sawdust, subways, sewers, skewers, buttermilk, caterpillars, frictions, fractions, pins, puns, pens, policemen and electricity."

And also, to be even more fair, there was no casting me in anything but a terribly odd character role - I finally was able to admit to myself, years later, that I have all the acting ability and brilliant delivery of a snail on downers.

For the record, I do not hate crawfish.

Where am I going with this? Fuck if I know. Maybe there's been a little too much tequila in the mix lately.

Here. Have a drink. Then I'll make perfect sense to you.