30 Sketches in 30 Days: Camp Jazz Hands (Part 1)

(The interior of a camp office. The camera zooms in and out to check focus, framing, etc.)

NARRATOR: Okay. Go ahead. Same question.

(A young woman sits facing the camera, making eye contact with the narrator right off screen. She is in her early 20s, slighly naive and filled with a deep unspeakable fear that makes her a bit timid. Her name is Melanie Browning, as the titles tell us. They also tell us she is a camp counselor. The camera remains fixed on her for the whole scene.)

MELANIE: Ready? Okay. Well, let’s see. I started off as just a normal camper here one summer. I’m a counselor now, though. I guess I just never left.

NARRATOR: So this is your world. Your people. Where you can be yourself. You must really love it here.

MELANIE: No, you misunderstood. I literally have never left the camp.

NARRATOR: What?

MELANIE: I’ve never been allowed to. After my second summer, Mr. Steve wouldn’t let me go home.

NARRATOR: Why not?

MELANIE: He said my skills were too disgusting for the world and that I needed to be punished. So he locked me in my cabin and put a shock collar on me that delivered a terrible jolt if I ever stopped practicing for more than an hour and a half.

NARRATOR: And you stayed here to work for this monster?

MELANIE: Well, I don’t get paid. He’s had me classified as an intern so he doesn’t have to pay me while avoiding prosecution for kidnapping and false imprisonment charges. But it’s pretty much the same thing as working.

NARRATOR: That’s horrible.

MELANIE: Actually, it’s rather nice. I never really fit in with the world outside of camp. The skills we learn here are largely misunderstood. And because I didn’t get to eat for three months, I finally lost some weight. My doctor was really happy about that. Well, he would be if Mr. Steve let me go to one.

NARRATOR: Haven’t your parents come to look for you?

MELANIE: They know where I am. They told me not to come home until I’d mastered jazz hands to their liking.

NARRATOR: When do you think you’ll be ready?

MELANIE: Mr. Steve stresses how important it is not to rush things. When I’m ready to finally try some actual jazz hands, he’ll tell me.

NARRATOR: And how long have you been here?

MELANIE: Nine years next week.

NARRATOR: But this is only a summer camp. Does everyone go home in the fall?

MELANIE: Yep. Everyone except me?

NARRATOR: So what do you do?

MELANIE: When I’m not practicing jazz hands? Foraging for food.

NARRATOR: But there’s a town less than a quarter of a mile…

MELANIE: Do you want to see me do some jazz hands?

NARRATOR: Sure.

MELANIE: Okay. (She steels herself, taking a deep breath, and shakes her hands to get loose. She steps into a “ready” pose, extends her arms out, and just as she’s about to do jazz hands, her hands start wildly slapping her in the face.) Aaaah! Aaaah! Aaaah, dammit!

(New scene. A kid sits on the ground rocking back and forth, softly whimpering. The camera zooms in on his hands: they are horribly bloody and disfigured.)

NARRATOR: Excuse me, young man, are you alright?

KID: Yeah, I’m fine. Really.

NARRATOR: Are you sure? What happened to your hands.

KID: They’re fine. Mr. Steve just poured some lye on them is all.

NARRATOR: Oh my God. We need to get you to a hospital.

KID: NO! (more calmly) No, no. It’s fine. Mr. Steve had no choice. He had to pour lye on my hands to get rid of the fat horrible beastly cow anti-jazz hands monster that lived inside of my hands. I was bad. Very, very bad.

NARRATOR: But you’ll never do jazz hands again.

KID: Then that’s for the best.

(Cut to Mr. Steve. Contrary to the swishing gay icon we would expect, he’s a tiny brute. Very short, but compact and muscular. He has a few days of beard growth and wears a T-shirt decorated with black handprints. He sits in a high backed chair, drinking a cup of coffee. He’s intense, focused, and unapologetic. Only when he gets really angry is a swishing gay icon.)

MR. STEVE: Look. Their parents pay a lot of money to make sure I teach their kids to be the best jazzhandsists in the world. Some might say my methods are cruel, sure.

NARRATOR: And how would you respond to that?

MR. STEVE: I might call these people nasty little whores who don’t understand and who hate artistic achievement and lack any fucking shred of integrity. But will that kid out there be whining about his bloody stumps, or will Melanie be foraging in the forest for winter berries, thinking about what a mean man Mr. Steve is when they’re co-headlining a sold out one night only jazz hands performance at Carnegie Hall?

NARRATOR: I don’t really see how they’re going to be able to do much of anything. She’s lost all motor skills and that kid probably won’t have fingerprints ever again…

MR. STEVE: You know who’s the victim here? Me.

NARRATOR: How do you figure?

MR. STEVE: If I had to pour lye on his hands, then he didn’t have it in him in the first place.

NARRATOR: Have what?

MR. STEVE: It. That which is undefined. The ability to jazzhand. I did him a favor and he was wasting my time. If he can’t cut it, or just plain couldn’t cut it, he can go back to his shitty little hometown in Fuckrag, Virginia, and work at the Dairy Queen like his useless God intended instead of permanently and irrevocably tainting the art and science of jazz hands.

(Cut to black screen. Subtitle: Talent, Oregon. Spring.)

(A succession of shots of city signs and street signs. One says "Welcome to Talent." There is an exclamation point crudely spraypainted on so it reads "Welcome to Talent!" Another reads "Talent!, Oregon. Founded 1911." Again, the exclamation point is spraypainted on. The third reads "Talent! Home of Camp Jazz Hands." Several more signs point to the direction of Camp Jazz Hands. It’s three small decrepit shacks with some trees around it.)

(New scene: orientation. With subtitle: Day 1. About twelve campers sit in a semi-circle in a dance studio. The walls are decorated with handprints affixed to the wall with sparkly paint. On other walls, if one looks closely, are torn up and decopaged posters of Bob Fossee Broadway shows, such as Chicago and Cabaret. Suddenly, Mr. Steve bursts through the doors, wearing the same outfit as in previous scene, but with the addition of a black velvet cape.)

MR. STEVE: Good morning, whores. Welcome to Camp Jazz Hands. (pause) I will be blunt. This is the finest jazz hands training institution in the western world. If there is another jazz hands facility even 15 percent as good as this one, it’s as imaginary as a fucking unicorn lactating chocolate fucking milkshakes.

(A fat kid raises his hand. Mr. Steve rapidly walks over to him and bends the hand back, snapping many bones. The kid screams in agony and runs out of the building.)

MR. STEVE: Thirty seconds in and you’ve broken the first rule. Do not use hands if not necessary so as to save them for the jazz hands. (pause) Anybody else?

(A girl, thinking fast, raises her foot up in the air.)

MR. STEVE: No questions. (pause, as he paces) This is no cake walk. You will work. And you will work some more. Then you will take a break, during which you will do some work that’s even harder than the worker you’re supposedly taking a break from. Then, once that work is over, you will get back to work and work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life, even if you’ve spent your whole life working hard. Do you understand? I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

CAMPERS: Yes.

MR. STEVE: QUIET! (pause. Paces.) Some of you may not be able to take the pressure, be it the psychological pressure, pressure to succeed, or merely the pressure to survive, or the pressure of the constant threat of me, lurking in the shadows, waiting to break your hands or worse. But you will take the pressure and you will learn to enjoy it some strange way. It happened to me. And if you’re lucky, it will happen to you. You may even cry. (pause) No. Strike that. (to no one in particular) I SAID STRIKE THAT! CROSS IT OUT! (to the camera) ERASE THAT FUCKING FOOTAGE! (he screams in a kid’s face) YOU…WILL…CRY! I, or one of my counselors, or possibly our cook, Michael…

(Quick cut to Michael, wearing an apron, drying a pan with a towel.)

MR. STEVE: …will see to it that you cry.

(Quick cut to Michael, who shakes his head “no.”)

(Mr. Steve glares at the campers.)

MR. STEVE: WON'T WE? WON'T WE CRY?

CAMPERS: Yes!

MR. STEVE: Well then. I hope all of you are ready because this is going to be the most intense 17-week course of your life. You. What?

CAMPER #1: Well -

MR. STEVE: WAIT! (silence) Okay. Now. What?

CAMPER #1: The brochure said it was 13-weeks.

MR. STEVE: (spits on the ground, and then the camper, in disgust) What in this world of any worth or lasting importance can you learn in a puny 13 weeks? All achievement and accomplishment in the history of the world takes 16 weeks to learn properly.

CAMPER #2: So, it’s 16 weeks?

MR. STEVE: NO! Sixteen weeks may have been enough time to build the Great Wall of China or for man to colonize the moon, but this is Camp Jazz Hands. We take 17 weeks. (pause) But after a look at you scrawny, weak-phalangeed creamatoriums who know nothing about the preciseness or history or breathtaking natural beauty of jazz hands to which you all show no respect, compassion, or understanding, it’s probably going to take 17 and a half weeks. Your parents have been notified. And they all told me that they were all just as disgusted. Especially (points to a kid at random)…your parents.

CAMPER #3: My parents said that?

MR. STEVE: Verbatim.

(Cut to black.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: More Quickies

Vegas Court

(Courtroom. A young man, about 25, approaches the bench. He is in handcuffs and an askew suit with purple shirt underneath.)

JUDGE: (reading dossier) Mr. Jackson, you are charged with three counts of rape, one count of sodomy, and two of sexual assault. How do you plead?

JACKSON: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?

JUDGE: Case dismissed!

(The courtroom parties.)


Duel

(A field at dawn. Two Civil War-era Confederate soldiers stand back to back. They take twenty paces in opposite directions. The camera gives a closeup of each of them. Suddenly, they wheel around and face each other, and as they are about to draw their guns, the film goes to slo-mo and the two run to each other like lovers in a dream. Romantic music plays.)


Hot Dog
(A woman is buying a hot dog from a big city street vendor cart. The vendor is putting the hot dog together and applying condiments.)

VENDOR: You want that with relish?

WOMAN: Please.

(The vendor makes a grand show, falling over himself, dropping to a knee, making sweeping gestures with his arms as he presents the hot dog, placing it delicately in the woman’s hands.)

VENDOR: (in a British theatrical accent) Here…is…your…HOT DOG!

(End.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Key Party

(A bunch of adults-30s to 50s-sit around on chairs and couches. They drink cocktails, flirt, and wear tight-fitting clothing. Slow funk music plays. This is a 1970s neighborhood swingers party.)

MARIO: Okay, everybody, I hope you’re all feeling good. Nice and relaxed. Chilled out. Groooovy. Because it’s time to bring out the bowl…of keys.

(Cheers, hoots and hollers. Many exchange furtive glances.)

(Mario’s sexy, feathered-hair wife brings out a big bowl of keys. Closeup shot of hands grabbing keys. Everybody makes pleased sounds, various conversation snippets.)

MARIO: Everybody got a key. Then let’s close up this party and get the show on the road.

(Each picks up a different toddler from an enclosed play area not yet seen in the room. Suddenly each parent changes from creepy and hypersexual to cute, doting parent. They slowly leave the house as we hear various snippets of cute parental interaction, such as:

“I’m gonna take you home and just spoil you with candy!”

“Who wants to go to the zoo?”

“I’m gonna buy you a puppy!”

“Piggy-back rides for everybody!”

“Let’s go to McDonalds!”

“It’s free toy today for you, mister!”

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Makeup For Dudes

Evidently, Saturday Night Live did a fake ad for something called Makeup for Men a few weeks ago. The idea for mine predates it. Also, it's a different idea - there's was about sight gags, mine is about wordplay. Still, I'm no Fred Armisen.

(A frat-type guy – A - sits at a table with a mirror putting on makeup. Another frat guy – B - comes up to him.)

A: Dude, what are you putting on your face, dude?

B: Makeup, dude.

A: (concerned, homophobic, does the limp wrist gesture) Dude?

A: Yeah, makeup, dude.

B: Why are you wearing makeup, dude?

A: Because, dude. It’s new Makeup for Dudes, dude.

B: (puzzled) Dude?

A: It’s a brand new high quality line of makeup specially formulated…for dudes!

B: (impressed) Dude!

(Shots of makeup products all emblazoned with a picture of a slack-jawed, mouth-breathing frat boy doing the hang loose gesture with one hand and holding a beer with the other.)

A: Dude, there’s all sorts of stuff, dude. There’s foundation dude, lipstick dude, eyeliner dude, concealer dude. Even rogue, dude.

(Back to the dudes, dude.)

B: Dude, do you think Makeup for Dudes would look good on me, dude?

A: Totally, dude.

B: I’ve got a secret dude.

A: What’s that, dude?

B: I’ve been wearing Makeup for Dudes for a month dude and you didn’t even notice dude.

A: (mystified) Dude!

B: Frankly, I’m a little hurt, dude.

A: (sorry) Dude.

(Shot of the whole product line.)

Announcer: New Makeup for Dudes. It’s the makeup for dudes!

(Fade to black.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Mark Trail, Party Killer

(Scene: a party in a chic Manhattan loft.)

FRIEND: Wow, great party.

HOST: Thanks, you mingling?

FRIEND: Yeah, I am. I think I want to go talk to that brunette over there.

HOST: She’s in my book group. Go for it, dude. Nice girl. Ask her about --- aw, crap.

FRIEND: (looks around) What? What’s going on.

HOST: Mark’s here.

FRIEND: Mark?

HOST: Yeah, Mark Trail.

FRIEND: The famous naturalist? That’s pretty cool. A celebrity in our midst, you know. Nice.

HOST: No, it’s not like that.

FRIEND: What?

HOST: Shit! I don’t how the hell he found out about this. Nobody was supposed to tell him I was having a party. It was that fucking Mary Worth bitch. Never keeps her mouth shut.

FRIEND: What’s the big deal? Why don’t you want Mark Trail here?

HOST: Because Mark Trail is the world’s biggest party killer.

(Mark Trail, rugged, dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis and carrying a book, comes over.)

MARK: Greetings, fellows!

HOST: Hi Mark.

FRIEND: Hi.

MARK: (to the party at large) Say, I was reading in my almanac about weather patterns caused by worldwide deforestation that might prove troublesome for the sea turtles of the Galapagos Islands. Who would like to help me write some polite but sternly worded letters to the leaders of several major land development companies.

FRIEND: Wow.

HOST: Yeah. It’s always like this.

(Same scene. Subtitle: 2006)

MARK: Hello, fellows. (He’s carrying two komodo dragons and an electric prod.)

HOST: Hi Mark.

MARK: Who would like to learn about the mating habits of the komodo dragon?

(Same scene. Subtitle: 2005)

(Mark carries a baby seal.)

MARK: Gather round, fellows.

CUTE GIRL: What a cute little guy. (she pets the seal)

MARK: Indeed he is cute, miss. But the tragedy is that due to the greedy zeal of land developers, this seal, and a million others just like him, has incurable AIDS.

(The girl freaks out and runs away.)

GIRL: AAAAGH!

HOST: Seriously, Mark, who brings a seal with AIDS to a party?

(Same scene. Subtitle: 2004)

(Mark carries a record album.)

MARK: Hello, fellows.

HOST: Hi Mark.

MARK: Who would like to listen to my Jackson Browne LP?

GIRL: AAAAGH! (She runs away, screaming.)

HOST: Seriously, Mark, who brings Jackson Browne to a party?

MARK: But there’s a song on here about the evils of land development all you fellows should here.

(Same scene. Subtitle: 2003)

(Mark runs in, holding an injured bird.)

MARK: Quick! This sparrow is hurt and needs medical attention! (Shakes his fist at the sky) CURSE YOU, LAND DEVELOPERS!

(Same scene. Subtitle: 2002)

MARK: Hey guys, which one you would like to help me cure this injured sparrow?

HOST: Gee, thanks, Mark Trail. It just wouldn’t be a party without some injured sparrows.

(Same scene. Subtitle: The present. 20 minutes later.)

(Mark is drunk, lovingly clutching a bearskin rug and a bottle of gin, ranting into a microphone as karaoke backing music plays.)

MARK: And the land developers, they don’t even care. They’re all like whatever! Animals with oil all over them and they’re dying and stuff. Pssh! Whatever! We’re LAND DEVELOPERS. Blah blah blah. I’m so sorry what they did to you, Mr. Bear. I’m so sorry. (He collapses into a heap on the ground.)

HOST: Come on, let’s go dump his body in the woods.

(The friend nods. They go to pick up Mark.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Short stuff

Captain Meteorite
(Black screen.)

MANLY ANNOUNCER: And now, the adventures of (with titles in sweeping comic book font): CAPTAIN METEORITE!

(A young man walks down a crowded city street. He glances at his watch and takes a sip of coffee. Suddenly, a large hissing, red-glowing rock falls out of the sky and hits him. He falls to the ground and squeals in pain.)

(Freeze frame. Sweeping comic book font returns)

MANLY ANNOUNCER: CAPTAIN METEORITE! (Pause) Next time…on CAPTAIN METEORITE!

(Captain Meteorite sleeps soundly in bed, laying on his side. Through an open window flies another hissing, red-glowing rock. It hits him and he awakes upon impact.)

MANLY ANNOUNCER: CAPTAIN METEORITE!



The Guy Who Causes Severe Bleeding at Major Tender Moments in His Life

(Guy, as girl cutely laughs, pins a corsage on his immaculately dressed prom date. She screams in agony and blood gushes out.)

(Guy, at his wedding, places a ring on the finger of his bride. She screams in agony and blood gushes out.)

(Guy looks on as his young daughter opens a Christmas gift. The box has holes. The lid comes off and out jumps a puppy. It licks the girls face. She screams in agony and blood gushes out.)

(Guy gets a letter in the mail. He tells his wife that after so many years of trying and working off their debt, they were finally approved for the house. They hug. He screams in agony and blood gushes out.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Breakfast and Lunch

(A neighborhood diner. A man sits at a semi-private booth in the corner. His back to the door, he casually keeps glancing over his shoulder - but it's subtle. Otherwise, he's enjoying his lunch, a chicken caesar salad and a sandwich. He's also talking to it - we come in at the middle of the conversation. He says not quite audible, flirtatious sounding things under his breath up close to the salad and sandwich, evidently whispering to it. The salad and sandwich giggles back, and says equally flirtatious things like "stop it," "Roger, not here," "you're so bad," "I'm not going to that to you here," "later," etc., interspersed with Roger's low-register mumbling. The lovely proceedings come to a dead halt - and everyone else in the restaurant uncomfortably quiets up as well - when the door slams.)

VOICE: (following a high-pitched, feminine screech. She speaks in a heartbroken, plaintive whine) Roger...?

(Roger whips around in his chair.)

ROGER: Breakfast?

(We see who came in the door. It's breakfast: a plate of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, toast, and two strips of bacon. It's rendered as a puppet.)

ROGER: What are you doing here?

BREAKFAST: What are YOU doing here?

ROGER: It's not what it looks like! I swear!

BREAKFAST: Doesn't this morning mean anything to you?

ROGER: Baby, of course, I --

BREAKFAST: You told me...you told me I was delicious.

ROGER: You were, you were!

BREAKFAST: You told me I was the most important meal of the day.

ROGER: You are! You always are!

BREAKFAST: And now I see you were with this, this...

LUNCH: (sassy-voicd. Also now rendered as a puppet.) Excuse me, girl, but I am lunch and don't you forget it. I'm more of a meal than you'll ever be and that's why he's with me, you skinny little continental bitch.

BREAKFAST: Shut up bitch!

(A lump of hashbrowns lands on the salad. The breakfast and lunch begin to fight, but Roger breaks it up. He gets slapped in the face with a piece of bacon.)

ROGER: Stop it! Stop it! Both of you.

BREAKFAST: YOU BASTARD!

(Breakfast sobs and slaps Roger with bacon as he tries to subdue her.)

ROGER: Look, I'm sorry you had to find out like this, I am, but this is all your fault.

BREAKFAST: (horrified and offended) Excuse me?

ROGER: You're not the breakfast I ate at 6:30 this morning.

BREAKFAST: Yes I am.

ROGER: No, you're not. You've changed breakfast. I don't even know you anymore. Those aren't even eggs.

BREAKFAST: (the jig is up) Um, what are you talking about? Of course these are eggs.

ROGER: No, breakfast. That's quiche. Quiche isn't a part of breakfast. You're...you're...brunch.

(Everyone in the restaurant gasps.)

ROGER: You're brunch and EVERYONE knows it. You're brunch. I see your little friends roast ham and shrimp cocktail and fruit cup over there.

(The roast ham, shrimp cocktail, and fruit cup cower under their menus.)

ROGER: I wanted breakfast. Not brunch. What was I supposed to do? Hang around and wait for you to dump me? No way.

(Breakfast starts sobbing. Hashbrowns fly all over the place. Roger sits down.)

ROGER: Now then. Why don't you leave me alone so I can have some lunch. In peace. (to lunch) I'm so sorry about all this.

LUNCH: Roger?

ROGER: Yes lunch?

LUNCH: Is the same thing going to happen to me?

ROGER: Is what going to happen to you?

LUNCH: Are you going to get tired of me and just move on to something new at the drop of a hat?

ROGER: No, of course not.

BREAKFAST: (storming its way back to the table) He will! He did it to me and he'll do it to you, too. Get out now lunch! Don't let him treat you like a snack!

ROGER: Stay out of this!

BREAKFAST: I've seen her, you know?

LUNCH: What's she talking about, Roger?

BREAKFAST: That frozen thing. In the box. In the freezer. (Lunch softly sobs.) It's dinner.

LUNCH: NOOOOO!

BREAKFAST: Yep. He's got dinner waiting. He even left it in the oven before he went to work today so it'll be ready for him when he gets home.

LUNCH: YOU BASTARD! IT'S NOT EVEN FRESH!

BREAKFAST: He'll cheat on you like he cheated on me, and with something frozen and heated up in an oven.

LUNCH: You're disgusting.

(Lunch slaps Roger with a salad leaf.)

BREAKFAST: Come on, lunch. Let's get out of here.

LUNCH: You wanna go to a movie or something, girl?

BREAKFAST: Yeah...I'd like that.

LUNCH We don't need no man. We are two strong meals!

(They walk out the door to a smattering of applause. The brunch items follow them out, hand in hand in hand.)

(Roger sits alone at his table with no food. A waitress approaches and gives him his check.)

WAITRESS: You want dessert?

ROGER: No, I don't think I could...

(His train of thought is broken. He sees half a cake on a stand across the diner on the counter. He starts licking his lips. The cake, now a puppet, starts licking its lips.)