NEW YORK — In playwright James Ijames’ eye-popping “Fat Ham,” a malcontent named Juicy, kinda like Hamlet, is chilling in his North Carolina backyard when his recently deceased dad exits the presumptive fires of hell and pops up out of his patio grill.
His message? Put down your books from that correspondence course at University of Phoenix, you lazy kid, and avenge my prison shanking at the hands of my brother. You know, the guy now married to your wild momma and a pit master about to barbecue some ribs right here, maybe even the ones left over from my recent funeral.
Juicy, who has no clue what to do with this information, is dressed like a moody Dane but he’s hardly a carbon copy. Beyond still living at home, at least.
