Unfilmed and Unperformed Sketches I Wrote That I Think Are Pretty Funny

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

2007-11-15T15:40:00.000-08:00

(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

2007-11-14T20:37:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T20:36:00.001-08:00

(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

2007-11-12T22:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-11T10:45:00.001-08:00

(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

2007-11-10T23:14:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-09T17:48:00.000-08:00

(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.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Arturo's Cape Store

2007-11-08T21:04:00.000-08:00

(Poor film quality, as this is a local TV commercial. In front of racks full of capes, a very tall, very fat man in a cowboy hat and a Dracula costume stands facing the camera, towering over the racks. He speaks in a Texas drawl. There’s lots of video hum.)

ARTURO: Are you an opera singer, superhero, magician, or Dracula monster? Are you also a freakishly tall or morbidly obese gentleman? Are you tired of searching all over town and even the city’s cape district or Internet websites for capes, only to get them home and to find out that they don’t fit properly or suitably cover your ample figure? I feel your pain. As an incredibly tall and very fat man, I had the same problem, so that’s why I opened Arturo’s Big and Tall Cape Store. We have the capes you need, the capes you want, the capes you deserve, at prices that anyone can afford, from the lowliest Dracula monster on a budget to the wealthiest trust fund baby superhero. At Arturo’s we believe that just because you’re grotesquely tall or jaw-droppingly fat, and are also a magician, opera singer, superhero, or Dracula monster, you shouldn’t have to suffer lookswise.

(Cut to a scene of a Dracula monster. He’s laying in his coffin – of which his feet stick out of specially cut holes at the end because he’s so tall - but sits up, with a struggle because he’s very fat, and turns to the camera. Subtitle: Local Dracula monster.)

DRACULA MONSTER: Before I discovered Arturo’s Big and Tall Cape Store, I wore a cape that was not only too small, but also stained with blood because it was so old and ratty. And as a Dracula monster, it doesn’t make a good impression to show up a bloodsucking with an old cape. But look at the cape I’m wearing. Arturo’s turned me from (said in a vampire voice) “blah” to “yaw!”

(Cut back to Arturo. Subtitle: Arturo.)

ARTURO: Thanks Dracula monster! What about you, famous magician?

(Cut to a scene of a very fat magician towering over his lovely assistant. He’s using a fork and eating a bloody dead white rabbit out of his magician’s hat. Subtitle: Famous Magician.)

FAMOUS MAGICIAN: About a year ago, I was looking in all of the bars in the city’s magician district for a new lovely assistant. But once they saw my ill-fitting cape that was ripped, battered, and made of an inferior poly-cotton blend and which only came down to the middle of my back, any potential lovely assistant scoffed at me and ran the other way. Then another famous magician told me about Arturo’s, where I purchased seven delightful velvet capes in various colors, because their selection can’t be beat. The first day I wore it, I found Sheila, my lovely assistant, whom I also am sleeping with.

ARTURO: Shazamacadabra! We’ve got capes in every color in every fabric. We’ve got (with each fabric he names, a picture of a cape in that material comes up on the screen, framed by a star and accompanied by a subtitle announcing what kind of fabric it is.) Cotton capes. Polyester capes. Velvet capes. Velveteen capes. Lace capes. Silk capes. Leather capes. Pleather capes. Rubber capes. Wooden capes! Metal capes! Hemp capes. 24 karat gold capes! Lobster shell capes! Bear capes! And introducing…(voice sound effects give him a booming voice momentarily) The spaaaaaace cape. Made of a space age polymer, it’s inspired by the cape designed by NASA for Liberace’s historic 1971 fabulous moon concert held shortly after the pianist gained 90 pounds and grew a foot after a minor illness was improperly treated with steroids and hormone shots. Sequins not included in price. Please order in advance.

(As he describes it, we see Giant Liberace performing on the moon hulking over a tiny toy piano. He wears a glass dome over his head, as do his dozens of screaming middle aged lady fans. Cut back to Arturo, fondling the racks of capes.)

ARTURO: All capes are handmade on the premises by me and are tailored to fit your freakishly large and disproportionate body, be you superhero, magician, opera singer or Dracula monster.

VOICEOVER: (low voice) Non-superheros, non-magicians, non-opera singers, and non Dracula monsters are not welcome in Arturo’s Big and Tall Cape Shop.

(Cut to a giant opera singer.)

OPERA SINGER: (singing in a tremendous tenor) I LOVE ARTURO…AND HIG BIG AND TALL CAPE SHOP FOR BIG AND TALL MAGICIANS, OPERA SINGERS, SUPERHEROS, AND DRACULA MONSTERS!

(Cut back to Arturo, dressed like a superhero.)

ARTURO: Where the capes, and the quality, and the savings, are freakishly huge, just like you.

(Cut to a still shot of a nondescript, Jersey-style brick building.)

VOICEOVER: Arturo’s Big and Tall Cape Store. In the Pleasatview Strip Mall next to Arthur’s Tiny Coat Warehouse.

30 Sketches in 30 Days: The 3-Second Play Festival

2007-11-07T20:58:00.000-08:00

(An obese, bearded man in a turtleneck sweater and scarf sits on a stool at the far end of a stage. The curtain is closed.)

KENT BARBER: Good evening. My name is Kent Barber. By nature, I am a man. By profession, I am a dramatic artist. For eleven years, I’ve been the artistic director, creative consultant, and unpaid intern for the Tantamount Theatre of Western Tacoma. Let me tell you about our latest show. This is something different. Something for people who really want to like theatre, but find it overwrought, pretentious, and performed by people who are only intelligent enough to read scripts. These people are mostly correct. Unfortunately, we rely on these people to buy tickets for our shows. Scarves don’t come cheap, you know. Our latest is new, but builds on previous successes. We did the wacky, 2-hour comic run through of all of Shakespeare’s plays, “The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Abridged.” Perhaps your son was in it in high school. You didn’t get the jokes, but you laughed anyway. Perhaps you even sat through an endless string of first date comedies at this very theatre’s Ten Minute Play Festival. Maybe you even took a flyer for our One Page Play Contest, but didn’t bother to see it, because let’s face it, that’s really a stupid idea. I didn’t even go see it. But, if like me, you hate theatre, but want to like theatre so people think you’re smart, we have the event for you. The Tantamount Theatre of Western Tacoma proudly presents…the Tantamount Theatre of Western Tacoma’s 3 Second Play Series. We’ve packed literally six centuries of American theatre into one night of non-stop entertainment and high culture. We guarantee you won’t get bored, and you’ll never miss the meaning of the play. Places! (rustling backstage) There’s Lorraine Hansberry’s classic drama of urban plight, Raisin in the Sun.

(Curtain up.)

WALTER LEE YOUNGER: (on his knees) I may be poor, but dammit, I have dignity!

(Mama sobs.)

(Curtain down.)

KENT: Classic American play Death of a Salesman.

(An old white man hangs from a noose, near death.)

WILLY LOMAN: The American Dream is dead!

BIFF: And so it seems is Willy Loman.

(Curtain down.)

KENT: The most important theatrical work of the 20th century, Waiting for Godot.

(Curtain up.)

VLADIMIR: Blather blather blather!

ESTRAGON: Nothing to be done.

(Curtain down.)

KENT: A selection by Eugene O’Neill.

(Curtain up.)

YOUNG MAN: (sits in a chair) I’m drunk.

(Curtain down.)

KENT: A little something for the ladies with Night, Mother.

(Curtain up.)

WOMAN: I'm a woman! And I'm coming to terms with things! (She shoots herself and flops.)

(curtain down)

KENT: Another selection by Eugene O’Neill.

(Curtain up.)

OLD MAN: (sits in a chair) I’m drunk.

(Curtain down.)

KENT: The complete works of Henrik Ibsen.

(Curtain up.)

WOMAN: I’m a woman. I ought to have rights of some sort.

DOCTOR: I’m boring, yet astonishingly realistic!

(Curtain down.)

KENT: Powerful modern epic Angels in America.

(Curtain up.)

PRIOR: I'm gay!

LOUIS: I'm didactic!

TOGETHER: Reagan sucks!

ROY COHN: (as Al Pacino) Hoo-ah!

(Curtain down.)

KENT: And coming in March…...musicals! Including the all-time #1 musical about cats, Cats!

(Curtain up.)

CAT: (doing jazz hands) Me-YOW!

(Curtain down.)

KENT: The hip. The vital. Rent.

(Curtain up.)

ROCKER: (holding a guitar that doesn’t sync up with the notes being played by an off-stage guitarist) (sings) AIDS totally doesn't rock!

(Curtain down.)

KENT: And, for one night only, Miss Saigon.

(Curtain up.)

SOLDIER #1: Hey look, a helicopter! On stage!

SOLDIER #2: What a watershed moment!

(Curtain down.)

KENT: And literally hundreds more. Tickets on sale now. (He bows and falls off his stool. He remains out of frame.) Oh, my. My tremendous girth seems to prevent me from being able to stand upright. Good lord, but I am fat. I see someone has left some licorice whips under a seat. If I can just… (tremendous crash. Still out of frame.) It is highly likely I have shattered my poor tailbone. But, oh the things I would do for a licorice whip.

(End.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Three Stories from the Cliche Averted Players

2007-11-06T22:12:00.000-08:00

(Fat husband sits on couch watching TV. Hot skinny wife enters through front door. House is a mess.)

WIFE: Hey, what the hell are you doing? You said you were gonna clean up the house.

HUSBAND: You're right, I did say that.

WIFE: Also, since we've gotten married, you've really let yourself go.

HUSBAND: What do you mean?

WIFE: I don't want to be cruel, but you've gained quite a bit of weight.

HUSBAND: Indeed I have. I have grown in girth at the same rate with which you have become spiteful and unnecessarily mean.

WIFE: That is also true. I will work on that.

HUSBAND: Maybe you have gotten mean because you resent me for growing so fat while you continue to take pride in your appearance and are quite thin and attractive.

WIFE: I have never thought of that.

HUSBAND: I will pick up this room, then I'm going to go work out.

WIFE: That's very nice of you.

HUSBAND: I just want to look good for you.

WIFE: Are the kids in bed?

HUSBAND: Yes.

WIFE: That is pleasing.

(Two guys are playing football in a yard.)

GUY #1: I better wrap this up. My mother in law is coming for a visist.

GUY #2: Uh oh! Mother in law. Doomsday approaches!

GUY #1: Actually, she's quite nice. She's always been very accepting of me. She's been like a second mother to me.

(She enters.)

MIL: Hello, Steven!

GUY #1: Doris! It's wonderful to see you! This is my friend, THomas.

GUY #2: It's nice to meet you, Doris. You don't look anything like Marion Ross.

MIL: What a nice thing to say.

(Two teenage boys stand at lockers.)

TEEN #1: What's up, dude?

TEEN #2: Bad news, dude. I've made a date with the prettiest girl in school, but I've already agreed to go out that night with my pretty but tomboyish platonic friend. And both dates have foolishly scheduled at the same restaurant. What am I going to do?

TEEN #1: You're going to have to choose.

TEEN #2: You're right. But which girl?

TEEN #1: Well, between your platonic friend...or the hottest girl in school? The choice is obvious.

TEEN #2: You're right. She's a very dear friend. And besides I made plans with her first. I will call the hottest girl in school and tell her our date is off.

(They walk off in separate directions.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Stop, Drop, and Roll

2007-11-05T12:35:00.001-08:00

A kindergarten classroom with lots of brightly colored letters and educational posters on the wall. A lady teacher stands at the front in front of a chalkboard. Written on it are the words “stop, drop, and roll.”

TEACHER: Settle down, children. Today we’re going to learn about something very, very important. Stop, drop, and roll. Let’s all say it together.

CLASS: Stop, drop, and roll.

TEACHER: Very good. Now, should you ever find yourself –

LITTLE GIRL: What’s stop, drop, and roll?

TEACHER: That’s a very good question, Melissa, although I was about to tell you and you interrupted me, so if you’d just hold your horses you’d find out.

LITTLE GIRL: Sorry.

TEACHER: Stop, drop, and roll is a very important and powerful thing to know. Stop, drop, and roll is what you do when your clothes catch fire.

(A palpable, confused silence. The kids look around silently to each other, and then all to Kevin, who’s something of a class spokesman. He raises his hand.)

TEACHER: Yes Kevin?

KEVIN: Um, excuse me, but what?

TEACHER: Stop, drop, and roll. Those are the things you do when your clothes catch fire.

(Now, the kids panic and start muttering anxiously to one another)

KEVIN: Whoa, whoa. Okay. Everybody calm down. Surely she’s not serious.

TEACHER: Oh, but I am Kevin. It’s very important that you know what to do when your clothes catch fire, and stop, drop, and roll is effective, fast, and easy to remember.

KEVIN: No, no. That’s…that’s not what I meant. I think I speak for everyone when I say this is the first I’ve ever heard about clothes catching fire.

(The class speaks in agreement.)

KEVIN: I mean, up until now I didn’t know clothes could catch fire. Frankly, the thought had never occurred to me.

TEACHER: It can happen, Kevin. It can.

KEVIN: Huh. Well. That’s a shocker. I mean, my parents love me very much and I presume that they would dress me in clothing that wouldn’t burst into flames at any given time. That’s kind of their thing, my parents. They keep me safe so the possibility of danger doesn’t even occur to me. They’re nice like that. But evidently, either they don’t care or are powerless to the onslaught of all of our clothes eventually catching fire at some point.

TEACHER: Now, there’s no need to be alarmed, Kevin.

KEVIN: Well, see, if you don’t want us to get alarmed, you probably shouldn’t start, just randomly about of the blue, start talking about what to do when our clothes catch fire when most of us didn’t even know that was a possibility. We kind of have to play mental catch-up here. I need to deal, nay accept, the fact that clothes can catch fire, then accept the fact that clothes will catch fire. Once I’m there, I’ll let you know, because I will be more than ready to find out about what to freakin’ do when my clothes are on fire. I will want to know. But not know. Right now, I’m a little freaked out, to be honest, as are my esteemed classmates.

(They murmur in agreement.)

LITTLE GIRL: (she’s a little slow) Our clothes are going to catch fire?

TEACHER: No, no. Your clothes aren’t necessarily going to catch fire. But if they do, then you’ll be prepared.

KEVIN: See, I think that’s where you’re approaching this wrong. The implication – not inasmuch as the lesson itself, but rather the idea of there even needing to be a lesson is that they do. If it’s important enough to spend a day –

TEACHER: Week. We’re going to be studying this for a week.

KEVIN: A week? We’re going to be going over this for a week?

TEACHER: Yes, this is kindergarten. We go over everything for a week. We need to reinforce the learning so your spongey little minds sop up every little detail.

KEVIN: Don’t try to change the subject. This just illustrates my point and validates my concerns even more. If we’re going to spend a week talking and learning about what to do when our clothes catch fire, that suggests a very strong likliehood that our clothes are absolutely going to catch fire at some point. You wouldn’t spend all that time, all that precious budget-crunched class time competing for the attention of 35 meandering and possibly ADD-addled minds, on something that just “might” happen.

LITTLE GIRL: We spent a week learning our home phone numbers and addresses in case we ever get lost.

TEACHER: Yes we did.

KEVIN: Yes, we did, but the logic is flawed. There are numerous reasons for why somebody should know their own phone number and address. Besides it being something only a mentally retarded person wouldn’t know about themselves, it’s just a helpful bit of knowledge in everyday life.

TEACHER: Fine, Kevin. But if your opinion is correct – that your clothes will indeed catch fire – my need to spend a week of class time teaching you the proper course of action for when your clothes catch fire is all that much more important.

KEVIN: Hey, look lady, don’t misread me. I’m not questioning the importance of it. If my clothes are going to catch fire, or there’s a substantial chance of my clothes catching fire before I can grow up, get rich, and buy the flame-retardant clothes which evidently my parents did not buy, I am all for knowing what to do to take care of that fire right away. I’m just looking for a little honesty from you. I don’t work well with abstract threats, you know what I mean?

TEACHER: Yes, Kevin. You’re right. I’m sorry. But it’s very important to pay attention.

KEVIN: Fine, fine. The floor is yours. I apologize. Go ahead.

(He sits down. The teacher turns to the board and begins her lecture.)

TEACHER: Should you be walking down the street one day and you find that your clothes are on fire, here is what you do. First (she underlines “stop”) stop. Stop where you are. Don’t run around or panic. Remain calm. Next, (underlines “drop”) fall to the ground. To repeat: stop, and then drop. Next, (underlines “roll”) roll on the ground. That’s stop, drop, and roll. Fire needs air and space to burn, and if you roll around on the ground quickly, there won’t be any air or space for the fire to burn, and the rolling smothers the flames until they are out. After this, tell a parent or a teacher or another trusted grownup what happened.

(Kevin has been nervously tapping his fingers on his desk. It has grown distracting. He raises his hand.)

KEVIN: Excuse me?

TEACHER: (sighs) What?

KEVIN: No respect to you, ma’am. But let me see if I get this. Can I run something buy you?

TEACHER: (sighs) Fine.

KEVIN: If our clothes are on fire – spontaneously, evidently – we are supposed to remain calm, and not, say, panic, completely freak out, or contemplate the cause of why the clothes are on fire, say, due to a gas leak, sibling act of sabotage, or the breakdown of an invisible force-field left over from and earlier playground encounter. We are merely just to, in a split second mind you, accept our possibly fatal situation and calmly remember the three-tiered and curiously easy plan of attack.

TEACHER: Yes, Kevin.

KEVIN: No way.

TEACHER: And let’s go over this plan. First of all, “stop.” Well, obviously. I mean, come on. I’m pretty sure I’m going to stop what I’m doing and focus all my attention on putting out the fire that’s engulfing my clothes. Whatever I’m doing can certainly wait. The fact that that’s a step, nay, a third of the entire plan of action, is, frankly, insulting to my intelligence. As is “drop.” Like, hey! Drop on the ground. That one’s not really a choice. If I’m on fire, I’m probably not going to be standing up straight or looking around for a bench. I’m pretty sure it’s human instinct to drop down low when there’s something massively hurtful and disturbing on your back, especially something as hot and overpowering as fire. So, needless to say, I am absolutely going to drop. So, out of three steps, two are completely idiotic, obvious, and indicative of human nature in a crisis mode. The third, is “roll.” You know what? Good advice. If you don’t know how to put out a fire, it’s good to know that smothering is the way to do. Rolling is good because you don’t want to use your hands and make them all hot and burned up. Roll to smother them out. Good.

TEACHER: Thank you. May I continue.

KEVIN: No. Why do we need to spend a week on this? You could have just said one day, as we’re going out the door at the end of a regular old school, maybe even one during the peak of the early fall wildfire season so at least the topic of fire is on the fringes of our minds, “Hey, kids? If your clothes ever catch on fire, and it probably won’t, but if it does, roll around on the ground.” There. I just saved the school district $300,000. Boom. Done. This lesson is over. Let’s all have a snack and go to recess.

(Kevin grabs his jacket off the back of his desk and heads out the door. The other kids follow him, except for the slow little girl.)

LITTLE GIRL: (raises hand but speaks anyway) Why are our clothes flammable?

KEVIN: Good point, Melissa. Instead of addressing the symptoms of the problem, i.e., the clothes catching on fire, why don’t we use the same resources to go after clothing manufacturers who are making clothing for children that easily catches fire? Or, we could educate our parents about spending a little bit more on clothes that don’t catch fire. I’ll catch up to the rest of you. I’m going to go call my mom and give her a piece of my mind.

(The kids have all left.)

TEACHER: I hate children.

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Fantasies

2007-11-04T10:51:00.001-08:00

(Darkness. A lamp turns on. A couple is in bed, late at night. He’s laying down, asleep. She’s sitting up, fidgety.)

WIFE: Hey.

HUSBAND: What?

WIFE: Are you sleeping?

HUSBAND: Not anymore.

WIFE: Sorry.

HUSBAND: It's okay. What's up.

WIFE: I'm awake.

HUSBAND: Clearly.

WIFE: (flirtatious) Do you want to...

HUSBAND: Seriously?

WIFE: Yeah.

HUSBAND: Absolutely. (He springs up and mounts her.)

WIFE: Whoa, wait, wait.

(He gets halfway off her, although mutual foreplay continues.)

HUSBAND: Why? I thought you wanted to...

WIFE: I do. I just...had an idea.

HUSBAND: An idea?

WIFE: Yeah.

HUSBAND: I'm intrigued.

WIFE: Well, remember last month when you kindly indulged me in my little, um, fantasy?

HUSBAND: Mmm. You just absolutely had to get an A on that term paper and were willing to do anything to get it. Fortunately, I'm a very understanding professor. Good times. You want to do that again?

WIFE: No. I have another idea.

HUSBAND: (flirtatious) Uh oh.

WIFE: Don’t laugh, okay. It’s kind of weird.

HUSBAND: Are you a naïve young actress willing to anything to get a part in my movie?

WIFE: No…

HUSBAND: Are you a sexually experienced bikini beach babe seeking to indoctrinate the hot by virginal male lifeguard into the ways of love?

WIFE: (laughs) No…

HUSBAND: Are you a lady who wants to let her husband put it in her pooper?

WIFE: (horrified) Oh! Good God, no!

HUSBAND: Uh, yeah. I was kidding. (He wasn’t really.) What is it?

WIFE: (sigh) I want to pretend that we’re…(quickly) brother and sister.

(The foreplay ends. The husband gets off his wife and sits on the edge of the bed, looking down.)

WIFE: Honey?

HUSBAND: Yes?

WIFE: Are you weirded out?

HUSBAND: Nope.

WIFE: Really?

HUSBAND: Nope! (He smiles, laughs, and mounts his wife anew. She reaches over and turns off the lamp. Ten hot seconds of lovemaking noises follow, interspersed with lines such as:

WIFE: Do me like we’re in the backseat of the station wagon on a family vacation!

HUSBAND: You better not be too loud or mom’s going to find out!

WIFE: My dad’s gonna be so mad!

HUSBAND: No he’s not. He likes me! Because he’s my dad, too!

WIFE: Do me under the Christmas tree!

HUSBAND: Diddle me during church!

(Both climax. She turns on the lamp and goes to rest her head on his chest.)

HUSBAND: A fantasy in which we pretend to be husband and wife pretending to be brother and sister and getting weirded out and sickened to a point in which we feel so dirty we need to be taken care of sexually was a good idea.

WIFE: I’m so glad you’re my brother.

HUSBAND: Me, too, sis. Me, too.

WIFE: (pause) You’ve never called me sis before.

HUSBAND: Do you like it?

WIFE: No. That’s what you call Susan.

HUSBAND: Well, she’s my sister, too.

WIFE: (sits up) Are you cheating on me with her?

HUSBAND: What? No! That’s sick!

WIFE: You’re damn right it is.

HUSBAND: Unless you want to, you know…

(She glares at him, which melts into a smile and a laugh, showing the fight was all a joke. She picks up the phone and starts dialing.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Rick Nielsen's Der Burgermeister

2007-11-03T21:35:00.000-07:00

(Dressed in a sparkly, buttoned red blazer, baseball cap, sunglasses, and apron with a picture of a hamburger on it, is Cheap Trick guitarist Rick Nielsen. He stands behind a large grill with dozens of hamburger patties on it.)

[Note: all of the dialogue spoken by Rick Nielsen is in German. The English translation is given via subtitles. Robin Zander’s singing interludes are done in English, with subtitles in German.]

RICK: Hallo, bin ich Rick Nielsen, der bunte gitarrist vom felsenband Cheap Trick. Lassen sie mich schätzen: an etwas punkt in der neuen vergangenheit, gingen Sie dumm zu einer anderen Schnellimbißhamburgergaststätte und wurden hungrig verlassen und gemacht mit ihren teilgrößen unzufrieden. [Hi, I’m Rick Nielsen, the colorful guitarist from the rock band Cheap Trick. Let me guess: at some point in the recent past, you foolishly went to another fast food hamburger restaurant and were left hungry and dissatisfied with their portion sizes.]

(Robin Zander, the long blond-haired lead singer of Cheap Trick, jumps into frame and begins crooning.)

ROBIN: (to the tune of Cheap Trick’s version of “Ain’t That a Shame”) Ain’t that a shame. Their burgers are lame. Ain’t that a shame. You’re the one to blame. [Nicht daß ist eine Schande. Ihre Burger sind lahm. Nicht daß ist eine Schande. Sie sind zu tadeln das.]

RICK: Ich garantiere, daß sie nie mit teilgröße überhaupt wieder unzufrieden gemacht werden. Rick Nielsen's Der Burgermeister, die der vereinigten staaten einzige schnellimbißhamburgergaststätte, in denen Deutscher die bevorzugte sprache und ist die pastetchen auf den burgern stark entsprechend der Laune von mir, gestapelt werden mehrfacher necked guitarre enthusiast und Cheap Trick gitarristen einführen, Rick Nielsen. Rufen sie die traumpolizei an, weil der traum der füllenden hamburger gekommenes zutreffendes hat. [I guarantee that you will never be dissatisfied with portion size ever again. Introducing Rick Nielsen’s Der Burgermeister, the United States’s only fast food hamburger restaurant in which German is the preferred language and the patties on the burgers are stacked high according to the whim of me, multiple necked guitar enthusiast and Cheap Trick guitarist, Rick Nielsen. Call the dream police, because the dream of filling hamburgers has come true.]

ROBIN: (to the tune of “Dream Police”) Der Burgermeister, you’ll be properly fed. Der Burgermeister you’ll sleep snug in your bed. Der Burgermeister the meat is quite red. Der Burgermeister you’ll be properly fed. [Der Burgermeister, werden Sie richtig eingezogen. Der Burgermeister schlafen Sie gemütlich in Ihrem Bett. Der Burgermeister das Fleisch ist ziemlich rot. Der Burgermeister werden Sie richtig eingezogen.]

RICK: Während ich für meine fast komisch zahlreichen mehrfachen necked Guitarren weithin bekannt bin, bin ich tatsächlich nie hinter vier gegangen. Aber für viele Jahre war er drei, und vorher schien die, zwei Ansätze, die Begrenzung, sowie die Spitze der Absurdität zu sein. Gleichzeitig wuchs stapelnde Technologie des Cheeseburgerpastetchens mit einer gleichmäßig langsamen und vorsichtigen Rate. Doppelte Cheeseburger wurden eine Möglichkeit, verdreifachen dann, und in einigen auserwählten Regionen, wurden vierfache Cheeseburger sehr real. Ein Tag, während ich eine Guitarre 7-necked konstruierte, wurde ich sehr hungrig: sehr hungrig für Cheeseburger. Sie trat zu mir, daß ich die gleichen Grundregeln anwenden sollte, die ich für das Bilden der absurd mehrfachen necked Guitarren verwende auf und wendet sie an der Wissenschaft des Cheeseburgerpastetchenstapelns an. Und dann entschied ich, eine Gaststätte zu öffnen, um meine sehr groß Staplungscheeseburger mit dem grösseren Rockford Bereich zu teilen und es eine Deutsche-nur Einrichtung zu bilden. Sie sehen, respektiere ich die Tatsache, daß Hamburger in Hamburg, Deutschland erfunden wurden, und wenn Sie Rick Nielsen kennen, wissen Sie, daß Rick Nielsen kulturelle Genauigkeit respektiert und verlangt, besonders wenn sie zur kulinarischen Linguistik kommt. [While I am well known for my almost comically numerous multiple necked guitars, I have in fact never gone past four. But for many years it was three, and before that, two necks seemed to be the limit, as well as the peak of absurdity. Simultaneously, cheeseburger patty stacking technology was growing at an equally slow and cautious rate. Double cheeseburgers became a possibility, then triple, and in some select regions, quadruple cheeseburgers became very real. One day, while I was constructing a 7-necked guitar, I became very hungry: very hungry for cheeseburgers. It occurred to me that I should apply the same principles I use for making absurdly multiple necked guitars and apply them to the science of cheeseburger patty stacking. And then I decided to open a restaurant to share my hugely stacked cheeseburgers with the greater Rockford area and make it a German-only establishment. You see, I respect the fact that hamburgers were invented in Hamburg, Germany, and if you know Rick Nielsen, you know that Rick Nielsen respects and demands cultural accuracy, especially when it comes to culinary linguistics.]

ROBIN: (to the tune of “I Want You to Want Me”) Nacht ich, nacht ich, nicht sah ich sie zu schreien? Oh, nacht ich, nacht ich, nicht sah ich sie zu schreien? Das glauben ganz alleine ohne einen freund sie kennen sie gefühl wie das sterben. Oh, nacht ich, nacht ich, nicht sah ich sie zu schreien? [while the lyrics are a literal translation of the bridge of “I Want You to Want Me,” the subtitles read “I know Rick Nielsen, and I know that he respects and demands cultural accuracy, especially when it comes to culinary linguistics, and in regards to his comically stacked multiple beef patty cheeseburgers.”]

RICK: Wie stark gehen die Pastetchen bei Rick Nielsens Der Burgermeister? So stark wie 75 Pastetchen. Die ist unsere Garantie. Unsere Brötchen sind besonders mit einem eßbaren kalfatern, um das Gewicht von bis 75 Viertel auszuhalten zerstoßen Rindfleischpastetchen, sowie Käse und allen Kopfsalat, Tomaten, Essiggurken und andere Spitzen, die behandelt worden Sie vom Budokon Fixins Stab wünschen, vorbei auf Lager und von 45.000 schreienden japanischen Schoolgirls umgeben, garantiert. Sie kommen zu Rick Nielsens Der hungriges Burgermeister, aber Sie gehen angefüllt mit Cheeseburgern zu einem widerlichen Niveau. [How high do the patties go at Rick Nielsen’s Der Burgermeister? As high as 75 patties. That’s our guarantee. Our buns have been specially treated with an edible caulk to endure the weight of up to 75 quarter pound beef patties, as well as cheese and all the lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and other toppings you want from the Budokon Fixins Bar, stocked by and surrounded by 45,000 screaming Japanese schoolgirls, guaranteed. You will come to Rick Nielsen’s Der Burgermeister hungry, but you will leave stuffed with cheeseburgers to a sickening level.]

ROBIN: (to the tune of “The Flame”) If patties you want, we’ll give you up to seventy. Whenever you need someone to give you up to 75 slabs of beef. Remember: all the fixings and lots of cheese, cooked on an open flame! [Wenn Pastetchen, die Sie wünschen, geben wir Ihnen bis siebzig. Wann immer Sie jemand benötigen, Ihnen bis 75 Platten Rindfleisch zu geben. Erinnern Sie sich: alle fixings und Lose des Käses, gekocht auf einem offenen Feuer!]

RICK: So unten angegangen zu Rick Nielsens Der Burgermeister, besonders wenn Sie Deutsches sprechen und bis 18.75 essen möchten, zerstößt vom Rindfleisch in sitzendem einem. Auch Robin ist dort der viele ganzer Zeitsingenhamburger themed Lyriken bis alle fünf denkwürdigsten Liede des preiswerten Tricks der hübsch. [So come on down to Rick Nielsen’s Der Burgermeister, especially if you speak German and want to eat up to 18.75 pounds of beef in one sitting. Also, Robin is there pretty much all the time singing hamburger themed lyrics to all five of Cheap Trick’s most memorable songs.]

ROBIN: (to the tune of “Surrender”) Mommy’s alright, Daddy’s alright. They like to eat cheeseburgers. Surrender…to hunger…we’re giving fries away today. Ayyy… ayyyy. AAAAAAAY! [Mammas gut, Vatis gut. Sie mögen Cheeseburger essen. Auslieferung... zum Hunger... geben wir Fischrogen weg heute.]

RICK: Rick Nielsens Burgermeister. In Rockford, in Peoria, in Joliet und in Rockford. [Rick Nielsen’s Burgermeister. In Rockford, Peoria, Joliet, and Rockford.] (he points a double-necked spatula at the camera) Schnell! [Schnell!]

30 Sketches in 30 Days: The Taco

2007-11-02T16:19:00.000-07:00

A vast and shiny research facility. In the background, people in white hazmat suits conduct experiments. On closer examination, they’re also cooking, dressing, testing, and eating tacos.

Two people enter the high-security facility: Chris, a young man in a rumpled pair of pants and rumpled shirt and tie, and the General, overweight, middle-aged, and a highly decorated soldier.

GENERAL: And this is the facility. This is where we make the tacos.

CHRIS: It’s exquisite. I would kill to have a workspace like this for my tacos.

GENERAL: Maybe you don’t have to, Chris. Maybe you don’t have to. Have a seat.

Randomly, as they walk, a metal chair sits in their path. Chris sits. He and the General stare at each other. Chris looks confused. The General glares with disdain and strength. Without breaking the gaze, the General pulls an immaculately dressed taco from his pocket and gently places it in Chris’s hands.

GENERAL: Recognize this, Chris?

CHRIS: Looks like a 2002 45X weapons-grade taco.

GENERAL: Look closer.

(Chris inspects it closer.)

CHRIS: Yeah, well, I mean, you’ve got the corn shell over here with the grilled beef, so clearly it’s a 45X…oh. Wow.

(The General smiles knowingly)

GENERAL: Yes.

CHRIS: This is the…

GENERAL: Indeed.

CHRIS: This is. (sighs to regain his composure) This is the taco that if you eat it you harness the power to become a mayor.

GENERAL: Precisely.

CHRIS: I thought it was a myth. I mean, it was always an inspiration to me. But just the idea of it made me want to invent real life power-wielding Tex-Mex food. I never thought it was…real.

GENERAL: It’s real, Chris. Ed Koch ate this taco. Rudy Giuliani ate this taco. Ray Nagin ate this taco. (pause) Dennis Kucinich ate this taco.

(They get up and keep walking, ending up in front of a high metal counter covered in hundreds of tacos in metallic sheaths. A Green Beret checks them by taking them out of the sheaths, inspecting them, and reinserting them in the sheaths in a gun-cocking manner. He remains silent, focused on the task at hand.

GENERAL: The taco is very real, Chris. The government spent twenty years and $385 billion to develop a taco that when eaten makes a person so powerful that they come to possess a marginally powerful leadership position in local government. When we developed it back in the early 1980s, we thought that, and this is even if it worked, it would get out operatives elected to various city councils.

CHRIS: City councils?

GENERAL: City councils are what change zoning laws, Chris. And that’s what they did. This taco got our men on city councils from Anchorage to Kansas City, from St. Louis to Milwaukee and several points in between and outside of that range. The end result: zoning laws got changed, increasing the number of locations available to build Taco Bells by a staggering 6 percent.

CHRIS: You mean…

GENERAL: Yes, Chris. The U.S. government is a division of Taco Bell, which itself is an incredibly sophisticated, undetectable puppet government controlled by the president of Mexico.

CHRIS: I know, General. You see, the president of Mexico is my father.

GENERAL: Really?

CHRIS: No.

GENERAL. Oh. Then why did you say that?

CHRIS: I thought it would be funny.

GENERAL: But it wasn’t.

CHRIS. I know, General. I know.

GENERAL: Anyway. We did this for city council power. But the tacos had an unexpected effect: mayoral power. We intended for these to make someone have city council power. Mayoral power was a nice surprise. A surprise that made us hungry for more. Not to say that a 6 percent increase in Taco Bell zoning wasn’t a fascinating achievement.

CHRIS: I don’t think it’s even remotely possible for numbers to be bigger than six.

(Suddenly, Chris gets smashed in the face with a fist and a cell phone.)

CHRIS: OOOOOOWWWWW! What the hell! That hurt really bad! I didn’t even…(he opens his eyes and takes his hands off his face) Hey, you’re Kiefer Sutherland.

(Kiefer Sutherland stands there, dressed in a black T-shirt, scowling, holding a cell phone)

KIEFER: (who always speaks in a whispery hiss, and always through his cell phone) Yes.

GENERAL: Chris, this is Colonel Kiefer Sutherland, taco division.

CHRIS: So you really are a government operative? Isn’t that just a part you play on TV?

KIEFER: No.

CHRIS: Really?

KIEFER: Yes.

CHRIS: (emphatically) Really?

(Kiefer punches Chris in the face with his cell phone again.)

CHRIS: Owwww! Jeeze, Kiefer Sutherland!

KIEFER: DO YOU WANT TO BE PART OF THIS OR NOT?

CHRIS: Well, nobody’s really asked me to be a part of anything yet, actually, so…

KIEFER: Dammit, I don’t have time to explain it to you. Cut the red wire! CUT THE RED WIRE!

CHRIS: I don’t know what that means, but I’m in! I’m in! Just don’t punch me in the face with your cell phone anymore.

(Kiefer punches him in the face with his cell phone, then wanders off.)

CHRIS: (nursing his massive facial bruises and cuts) Why’s he here?

GENERAL: People tend to do what we want them to do when Kiefer Sutherland punches them in the face with a cell phone.

KIEFER: (in the distance) I’m drunk.

CHRIS: So why exactly am I here? I don’t know anything about tacos. Or Taco bell. Or the government. I’m just one amateur political food engineer.

GENERAL: Because, Chris. You’re the best.

CHRIS: The best?

GENERAL: The best amateur political food engineer there is. The stuff you’ve done, by yourself, in your basement, with everyday objects, and on just 10 percent of our budget – it blows our minds. You’ve created a Mexican pizza that can detect troop movement, a seven layer dip that discourages illegal immigration, and the fabled nachos that made 40 percent of American read more about the possibility of maybe privatizing Social Security one day.

CHRIS: All true, General. But why should I share my developments with you?
GENERAL: Because, Chris. We want to improve the mayoral taco.

CHRIS: But what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with a taco that provides the ability to become mayor?

GENERAL: We want more, Chris. We want more power. We know what you’re working on right now, Chris. It’s the answer we’ve been looking for.

CHRIS: My Machiavellian quesadilla filling.

GENERAL: Yes.

CHRIS: But that…that’s not ready.

GENERAL: Yes it is, Chris. It’s ready, and it’s spectacular.

CHRIS: NO! (he turns away and seems liable to cry)

GENERAL: Chris, we’ve seen the prototype. It’s huge. Your quesadilla technology combined with our pre-existing mayoral taco could allow regular men to not only become mayor, but become two-term mayors. Chris, we think we can use your quesadilla to turn someone into a…

CHRIS: Don’t say it. DON’T EVEN SAY IT.

GENERAL:…a lieutenant governor.

CHRIS: It’s not ready! People could die! People could die, or it could backfire and the quesadilla makes you into a third party candidate!

GENERAL: You must give it to us. When someone has a gift this powerful, he was no right to keep it to himself.

CHRIS: General, look. This is above and beyond anything ever concocted by scientists. This isn’t merely just some taco that lets you become mayor. This is a quesadilla that makes you become lieutenant governor or two-term mayor. This is way bigger, way more dangerous.

GENERAL: We’ll test it Chris. We’ll test it as much as you want us to.

CHRIS: You do tacos. I do quesadillas. It’s completely different.

GENERAL: We think that with some minor adjustments, including a $1 trillion study, which would include a handsome $2,000 payday for you, Chris (Chris gulps at the idea of all that money), we can harness the Machiavellian quesadilla’s powers and alter it to fit the unique demands of the mayoral taco. The result Chris would be the most powerful tool ever to hit state-level politics: the Gubernatorial Double Decker Supreme Tacodilla. With chicken and chipotle sauce.

CHRIS: You’ll kill us all!

(Kiefer Sutherland punches him in the face.)

CHRIS: Damnit, Kiefer Sutherland! Stop punching me in the face.

GENERAL: Come on Chris. You’re really going to walk away from seeing your creations change the world? Not to mention a tax-free $2,000 payday? You’re only human, Chris. Take the money. Be part of something bigger than yourself.

CHRIS: What if this gets out of hand? What if someone uses this quesadilla to become governor and then they become…president? Or even…vice-president.

GENERAL: Or Speaker of the House?

(Kiefer smashes the General in the face, who seems unfazed.)

GENERAL: Oh, well. It’s impossible.

CHRIS: BUT HOW DO WE KNOW?

GENERAL: Because a Machiavellian quesadilla only makes you governor. Not president. We’re at least 20 years away from the presidential chimichanga.

CHRIS: Oh. Good.

GENERAL: But when we get there…may God help us all.

(Meanwhile, in a forest at dusk. A hobo sits in front of a campfire, eating a can of beans. Sitting next to him on a tree stump: a chimichanga.)

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Can I Freshen You Up?

2007-11-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

A party. A nice, cosmopolitan apartment. Good music is playing, people are standing around, chatting it up, having a good time. We don’t hear his words, but Mark, a man of about 30, stands between three women dressed in pioneer garb, chatting it up. Joseph, also about 30, wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and black tie, drinking a bottle of water, approaches. Mark stops talking to the girls, who talk amongst themselves. They are all in front of a large sofa.

JOSEPH: Well if it isn’t Mark from work! How’s it going Mark from work!

MARK: Great, Joseph. Thanks. Hey, great party!

JOSEPH: Hey, thanks. Are you having a good time or are you having a good time?

MARK: You know, I really am. And to be honest with you, I was dreading this party.

JOSEPH: You were? Come on now…

MARK: Well, you know, I didn’t know how much fun I’d have at a party thrown by a, you know…

JOSEPH: Hey, we Mormons can party it up, fool! Hey, can I get you another wife?

MARK: Sure!

(Picks up another pioneer woman from the other side of the couch, gives her to Mark.)

JOSEPH: There you go, buddy. Come find me if you need another.

MARK: Will do.

30 Sketches in 30 Days: Introduction

2007-11-01T21:02:00.000-07:00

Thus begins the Project.

November is National Writing Month. Seeing as how I am unwilling (lazy, hate writing) and unable (lazy, have toddler and job and side business and a very demanding cat) to actually do what they're encouraging and write a complete novel in a month, doing something just as large (sort of) but broken down into finite, manageable chunks seems more my speed.

So, despite updating this blog sporadically over the past four months, I'm embarking on 30 Sketches in 30 Days. A new sketch, every day in November. I sometimes think the one thing holding me back from fame and fortune as a writer is my utter lack of discipline. I'm hoping to break bad habits and form some good ones: I will be the kind of person who sits down at a computer every day and writes something doable. If an unfunny tool like Seth Rogan can do it (read in an interview), so can I.

And now, comedy jokes.

Brigadoon

2007-10-14T22:57:00.001-07:00

(Scene: the Scottish countryside. An old man in a kilt with a walking stick slowly hikes. It's foggy.
A young, clean cut American man, very 1950s looking and attractive, approaches in a hurry. Musical theatrical musical flourishes play underneath.)

AMERICAN: Kind Scotsman! Kind Scotman!

SCOT: Och! Whot is ta ya wee git?

AMERICAN: Did you...did you just see the loveliest orange haired lass in Scotland just wander through here?

SCOT: (knowingly) Och! Aye, that be miss Annie Elizabeth, and indeed she be the loveliest girl in all the lochs.

AMERICAN: You saw her! You know her! Huzzah! Well, then tell he kind Scotsman, where can I find her! For how I want to see her again.

SCOT: Och?

AMERICAN: I want to be with her. I...I love her.

SCOT: Och, boy, miss Annie Elizabeth be from the wee town o' Brigadoon. She's gone.

AMERICAN: But, I, I don't understand.

SCOT: Miss Annie Elizabeth be thousands of years old. The town of Brigadoon appears out of the mystical fog only but once every nine thousand years, and when it does, it's only for fifteen seconds. And (we hear a large whooshing sound)...aye it be gone.

(The musical undertones end.)

AMERICAN: Oh.

SCOT: Och.

AMERICAN: I guess, uh, I guess I'll be going then.

SCOT: Och.

(The American walks off. End of scene.)

No Miners

2007-07-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

(A grizzled old prospector from the 1880s - big hat, dirty shirt and overalls, beard, hobo knapsack - wanders a huge, modern city. He goes up to an office building and sees a sign that reads "Help Wanted: No Miners." Dejected, he hangs his head and goes back to walking. He approaches a tavern. He excitedly rushes up to it until he sees the sign that says "Dollar Beer Night: No Miners." Again, dejection and he continues his journey. He sees a rock and roll club. The marquee says "Afghan Whigs: One Night Only. Absolutely No Miners." He hangs his head, walks a bit, and sits down on the curb. He breathes a deep sigh, pulls a gun out of his hobo knapsack, and sticks the barrel in his mouth until something across the street attracts his attention. It's a decrepit shack with a giant sign that reads "Big Suzy's Opium and Prostitutes. Miners Welcome!" The prospector runs over.)

PROSPECTOR: Yahooooo!

(But when he gets there, he reads the fine print on the sign: "no checks accepted.")

PROSPECTOR: Aw, shoot!

(He throws his hat on the ground and stomps on it.)

PROSPECTOR: Alls I gots are these nergin' fergin' money orders! Aw, hooey! Why did I trade in all my gold for money orders? Tarnation!

Cliche Averted #2

2007-07-01T20:51:00.000-07:00

(The family room of a suburban set. A vase sits precariously on a narrow stool. Two boys are throwing a football. A pass goes long and the ball hits the vase. It hits the ground and shatters.)

BOY #1: Oh no! You broke Grandma’s priceless antique vase!

BOY #2: I better apologize and offer to replace it!

BOY #1: Good idea.

(Boy #2 picks up a phone and dials.)

BOY #2: Hello…grandma? I have some bad news.

Cliche Averted #1

2007-07-01T20:45:00.000-07:00

(Family room of a typical sitcom set. Mom and Dad are talking.)

DAD: ...so, to repeat, my boss is coming over to the house for dinner tonight. If all goes well, I bet I’ll be in line for that promotion. If things don’t go so well, there’s a strong likliehood that I’ll be fired.

(Steven, nine years old, enters, carrying a small animal cage)

STEVEN: Hey mom! Hey dad! Look at this! I get to babysit the class pet for the weekend! It’s a rat!

MOM: Oh my! A rodent!

STEVEN: But I heard what you were saying about dad’s boss coming over for dinner tonight, so I will do my best to ensure that the rat’s cage is locked, and I will keep the cage in a room in which it is quite difficult to escape from, thus preventing any terrible situations at dinner – i.e. the rat escaping, frightening the boss, and food being thown all over and dad getting fired.

DAD: Thank you, Steven. That is most considerate.

STEVEN: You’re welcome.

Church of the Agnostic

2007-06-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

(The exterior of a church. The sign reads: Bethleton First Church of the Agnostic. Inside, several pews full of people (20 or 30 of them, various ages), all wearing their Sunday best, holding prayer books and looking forward.)

ALL: (In unison) I mean, I believe in a higher spiritual being. The world is too complicated for things to have just happened because of an accident of science. There probably is a God, but I’m just not sure, you know what I mean? Well, of course, there’s some kind of spiritual entity overseeing the earth, but as far as something that intercedes in our daily lives and directs fate, that I’m just not sure of. And if there is, I’m not sure it’s something that I would call “God” (all do air quotes in unison) per say. I believe more in an indefinable energy, if that’s what you would call it. I don’t know. It’s just such a complicated issue and I’m definitely spiritual. I’m just not sure what I believe yet. (sung, Catholic mass style) A-men.

You've Changed, Mr. Wizard

2007-06-22T10:17:00.000-07:00

(In a garage, with various beakers bubbling funny colored liquid and emitting steam, Mr. Wizard and an 11-year-old boy stand behind a table behind a saw and what appears to be a tall glass of blood. Jimmy has a large, blood-soaked bandage on his arm, which is missing a hand. Mr. Wizard's eye sockets are recessed and bits of skin are flapping off off his purplish face.)

MR. WIZARD: Now, the first thing we're going to do Jimmy is use this bone saw to cut open your head so we can get to that juicy brain of yours.

JIMMY: You know, Mr. Wizard, ever since you died and came back as a zombie all of your experiments have somehow involved brains.

MR. WIZARD: Now, Jimmy. Do you care about science or not?

JIMMY: Yes, sir.

(Jimmy fearfully but resignfully lays down on the table. Mr. Wizard turns on the saw and prepares to cut him open.)

Sequel Meeting

2007-05-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

(Mark, a mildly geeky type, about 30, enters the office of Robert, a Hollywood film producer. Mark taps on Robert’s open door as Robert busies himself with some paperwork. Mark is a nonconfrontational doormat. Robert is gregarious and aggressive. It's a relationship that clearly works between the two, and is well-established in this fashion.)

MARK: Hey, Bob?

ROBERT: (Stands up, shakes his hand nervously, ushers him in) Hey, Mark, come on in. Have a seat. Thanks for coming on such short notice.

MARK: Oh, no big deal. I’m on the lot today for some meetings. (pause) So what’s up?

ROBERT: I have some bad news.

MARK: What’s going on? Is something wrong with the film?

ROBERT: No, no, no. It’s not that. It's just that we’ve kind of got our backs against the wall here and some things are going to have to change.

MARK: What's going to have to change? What's going on?

ROBERT: Due to unforeseen circumstances, we’re going to have to retool the project, Mark.

MARK: Retool?

ROBERT: Yes. We’re taking it in a new direction.

MARK: But I wrote this movie. You can't just go in a new direction. That script is a part of me. And you want to just up and change it?

ROBERT: (pause) Yes.

MARK: But this movie is my soul. The audience sees my very core when they see Alien Vs. Predator II.

ROBERT: Okay, see. Mark, I’m gonna stop you right there. This is pretty embarrassing, but I only found out about an hour and a half ago that the movie I’m producing is actually titled Alien Vs. Predator II.

MARK: What do you mean "actually titled." (pause. Anger. Fear.) What did you think the movie was?

ROBERT: (quietly) I thought it said "Allen."

MARK: You thought it said...Allen? Like the first name Allen?

ROBERT: Yes.

MARK: Really? Allen?

ROBERT: Yes, yes.

MARK: Oh my GOD! You thought you were working on a movie called Allen Vs. Predator II? What about the lack of existence of Allen Vs. Predator I?

ROBERT: Not exactly. I thought it was Allen Vs. Predator exclamation point exclamation point. Like Allen Vs. Predator!! Yay!!!!! In fact, the enthusiastic title is what drew me to the project and led me to greenlight it in the first place.

MARK: But...Allen Vs. Predator doesn’t make any sense. Some guy named Allen fights the predator? Didn’t the plot and your obvious misreading of the title becoming evident when you read the script?

ROBERT: I didn’t read the script.

MARK: Oh. I see. Wait. What? You didn’t read the script? Your studio is financing the movie. You have a producer credit. And you didn’t read the script.

ROBERT: I never read the scripts. You see, I’m a studio executive. There’s no science in determining what’s going to make a great movie or even a blockbuster. Everybody in my line of work uses a system to predict what’s going to work. Me? I go with my gut. I go with the feeling I get in my gut when I read the name of the movie on the title page that’s stapled on top of the script. Sometimes I don’t even read that. Once in a while, I hear a title in a voice mail. Sometimes a title will hit me in the middle of the night and I’ll write it down, bring it to work in the morning, and make Hollywood magic. That’s what happened with Jumanji, Jurassic Park 3, and the remake of Planet of the Apes. To get to the point, Mark, I liked your title. I liked the sound of Allen Vs. Predator!! It excited me to my very core. So I greenlighted it and approved a $135 million budget and a starting shoot date of two weeks from now.

MARK: But Allen Vs. Predator!!? That doesn’t mean anything!

ROBERT: I thought it said Allen, alright? Now MAYBE that has something to do with the fact that, up until an hour and a half ago, I was unfamiliar with the word “alien.” I had never heard it before in my life. But Allen? That’s a word I know. It’s a name. A famous name. Ever hear of Allen Einstein? Allen and the Chipmunks?

MARK: Well, um, yeah. Sort of. You’re got it kind of mixed up, but I get it, yes. Okay. What?

ROBERT: Alien. Who uses that word? It’s completely archaic and totally disused in our vernacular. Frankly, it’s ridiculous to use it as a word in the title of a major Hollywood film. Especially as the first word of the title. Audiences hate huge, obscure words. In fact, it’s such a rancid word that I had to look the word alien up. In a dictionary. A dictionary of words.

MARK: Great.

ROBERT: You know what it means? It means “immigrant.” And that’s why I didn’t know it. Because I’m not a racist. Apparently, in some cultures, it could also mean space aliens. I don’t believe in space aliens. Do you?

MARK: Yeah, but --

ROBERT: I don’t. I’m a Christian. I don’t believe anything else exists except for Jesus and the moon. That’s where Jesus lives. On the moon. So I guess, in a way, Jesus is an alien. HAHAHAHA. Weird. Go Jesus. You a Christian?

MARK: Well, I’m Jewish.

ROBERT: That’s cool. Jewish is a kind of Christianity.

MARK: No it isn’t. And stop trying to change the subject. I find it appalling, yet somehow unsurprising that you base your decision to produce movies based solely on the title, with even that being difficult for you to do correctly.

ROBERT: Psh. Correctly. Difficult. Movies. You think you’re so smart because you lots of big words? How far in life does that get you, huh?

MARK: Well, I write professionally.

ROBERT: (sarcastically) Yeah. For a movie called Allen Vs. Predator.

MARK: Aaah!

ROBERT: Oh, oh, excuse me. I’m WRONG. It’s Allen Vs. Predator!! That sounds ridiculous. It’ll never be a hit and it’ll never get made!

MARK: That’s not what it’s called! You’re the one who thinks that! It’s your fault it’s a bust!

ROBERT: Hey buddy, I didn’t write it. If it were up to me, I’d write a move where a monster from space or something fights another monster from space or something, not a movie where some invisible monster from space or whatever fights some guy named Allen. My movie? Way better. In fact (picks up his phone) I’m going to ahead and greenlight that right now. (into phone) Sally? Bob. Greenlight and provide $135 million in funding for the movie Monster From Space or Something Vs. That Other Monster From Space or Something From That Other Movie or Whatever. Written by...me.

MARK: I can’t believe this.

ROBERT: Hey, don’t worry. We’re still doing your movie. But, since I’ve just approved $135 million for this other movie I’m working on, and a movie called Allen Vs. Predator!! just doesn’t need a big budget, I’m going to have to ask you to completely rewrite the script so we can film this whole thing for under ten grand.

MARK: Fine.

ROBERT: You know who should play Allen?

MARK: Who?

ROBERT: (pause) A really, really good actor.

Scientists #3

2007-05-14T11:57:00.001-07:00

The scientists, in their lab coats, stand around a sterile-looking white table. In the middle are various test tubes, papers, and a glistening, fresh-baked loaf of bread. The scientists murmur happily.

SCIENTIST #1: That's it! We've done it! Finally, we've invented bread! Hot, fresh, delicious bread sure to be a staple food of cultures around the world.

SCIENTIST #2: Truly, this unsliced bread is the greatest thing ever invented.

(Silence.)

SCIENTIST #1: Wait a minute, just wait...a minute. What if...stay with me now. PLEASE. Just. Hear me out. What if...we sliced the bread.

(Silence. Then uproarious cheers, then rioting, fromt he scientists.)

SCIENTIST #2: Now THAT'S the greatest thing ever!

(Scientist #1 grabs a knife, cuts the bread, and tosses slices out into the crowd of scientists, who feverishly grab for them and bust up the place. They chant "bread! bread! bread! bread!")

Hug Club

2007-05-02T12:43:00.000-07:00

(Bunch of guys in their 20s-30s, shirtless, in a dingy basement warehouse type room. A single bare bulb swings back and forth. One menacing guy emerges from the mob to address it. He stands directly under the bulb. The mob is nervous, but eager. They form a circle around the leader.)

VOICEOVER: Every week, Tyler gave the rules that he and I decided.

LEADER: Gentlemen. Welcome to Hug Club.

(A twittering of happy giggles. Some jump up and down and wiggle their fingers in front of their faces as they squeal with happiness.)

LEADER: The first rule of hug club is: tell EVERYBODY about hug club! The second rule of hug club is: tell ABSOLUTELY EVERYBODY about hug club. Everybody! The third rule of hug club is, someone goes limp, taps out, the hug is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a hug. Fifth rule: I’m just kidding about the fourth rule!

(Another twittering of happy giggles.)

LEADER: Hugs will go on as long as they have to. And if this your first night at hug club, you have to hug….me!

(A brief pause. Silence. Then everybody starts to massively group hug and giggle.)

RANDOM HUGGER: I love to hug!

Pepsi Challenge

2007-04-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

(A man in a white lab coat sits at a table in a crowded, turn-of-the-century outdoor cobblestone shopping promenade. Maybe a horse drawn carriage trots by. An old-timey gent in a top hat, handlebar mustache, and a cane approaches, on board a giant old-timey tricycle from which he deboards. He speaks in an old-timey way. The lab coat guy speaks like a modern person. On the table are two Styrofoam cups with paper tabs on them reading “A” and “B.”)

GENT: Young boy, what’s the manner of all of this then?

LAB COAT: Ah, yes. Sir?

GENT: Are you referring to yours truly?

LAB COAT: Yes, yes! Would you like to take the Pepsi Challenge.?

GENT: (horribly offended) I declare. I most certainly would not. Good day! (He turns on his heel to leave.)

LAB COAT: Please sir. It’s free. And you get to drink up to three whole ounces of cola beverages for free.

GENT: Three ounces of cola beverage? Bully. I imagine you require a farthing or two.

LAB COAT: No, it’s completely free. No catch. You just sit down right here and tell me and the camera which of these two unmarked cola beverages tastes better to you.

GENT: Tastes better in what manner?

LAB COAT: Just better. Tell us which one you like more.

GENT: I don’t believe I understand the question but proceed with the noble experiment!

LAB COAT: (holds out the first cup) Okay. This is sample A.

GENT: My, what a ridiculous name for a cola beverage!

LAB COAT: Sir, that’s not the brand of cola beverage. That’s just what we’re calling it because this is a blind taste test and you’re not supposed to be swayed by brand loyalty. The whole point of this exercise is to get an honest opinion of which cola beverage people prefer, regardless of their perceived brand loyalty.

GENT: Indeed! (tastes) I find this particular sample of cola beverage to be quite sweet!

LAB COAT: Good. Okay, now try sample B.

GENT: Why, that’s an even more preposterous name for a cola beverage!

LAB COAT: Sir…

GENT: (tastes) That beverage is also very sweet. I believe sugar has been added to at least one of these cola beverages in the production stage.

LAB COAT: Yes, well, they’re cola beverages. In fact, one of them is Pepsi-Cola and one of them is Coca-Cola.

GENT: Indeed! Which one is it that I drank?

LAB COAT: You drank both, sir.

GENT: I demand you tell me in what order they were imbibed and enjoyed!

LAB COAT: Well, that’s sort of part of the challenge sir. You’re supposed to tell me which one you liked based on taste, without knowing whether it was the Pepsi-Cola or the Coca-Cola you preferred.

GENT: Pish posh! I prefer Coca-Cola brand beverage!

LAB COAT: Right, ordinarily. The point of the Pepsi Challenge is to show that people like Pepsi better than Coke in a blind taste test.

GENT: But I prefer the Coca-Cola!

LAB COAT: But you don’t know which one is the Coca-Cola.

GENT: Bully! The first cola beverage I drank was superior. Therefore, that one was Coca-Cola.

LAB COAT: Actually sir…(he takes the tabs off of the drinks) that one was actually Pepsi Cola. You failed the Pepsi Challenge. You prefer Pepsi to Coke.

GENT: But I’m a Coke man, through and through!

LAB COAT: Not today you’re not.

GENT: Then…who am I?

(Cut to: outside of a dingy motel. Then inside the motel. We hear water running and sobbing. Then we see the old timey gent in the shower, keeled over in the fetal position, water running over him. There’s also a bit of blood mixed in with the water – evidently he’s slit his wrists too. He’s sobbing and weeping and coughing and choking on his sobs. Fade to black. Titles: three weeks later. Fade back in to the motel, then the inside of the motel, then the man in the shower. He’s still sobbing in the shower and his beard is several feet long.)

Sports Drink

2007-04-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

(A grocery store. Two guys wander around the aisles with a cart. They come across the soft drinks and see a new product on the shelf.)

ERIC: Oh hey, it’s that new sports drink flavor.

MATTHEW: Oh yeah. We should check it out.

(Matthew grabs a personal-sized bottle off the shelf, uncaps it, and starts chugging it like an athlete would. After about five seconds, he abruptly stops, pulls the drink away from his face and spits out the contents.)

MATTHEW: Oh my God! That’s disgusting! That stuff tastes like spooge!

ERIC: What? That’s gross dude.

MATTHEW: I’m serious! It totally tastes like spooge!

ERIC: Gimme that. (He takes the bottle and chugs it hardcore athlete style. Again, he spits it out abruptly.) Dude! You’re right! That does taste like spooge.

MATTHEW: (He takes the bottle back and caps it.) That is just so disgust—(reads the label) Oh, dude. It’s spooge flavor.

ERIC: Spooge flavor?

MATTHEW: Yeah. See? "Spooge Explosion. It’s like an explosion of spooge in your mouth."

ERIC: Oh. Well. There you go.

(Matthew shakes his head in a grossed-out, “whatever” gesture and puts the sampled bottle back on the shelf. Then he grabs a fresh bottle and puts it in his basket.)

ERIC: Dude…?

(Matthew gives a knowing head bob and puts a big multi-pack in the cart.)

Mimes PSA

2007-04-15T23:11:00.000-07:00

(An attractive young lady sits on a stool.)

KYLIE: Hi. My name’s Kylie. I'm sexually active. And I’m here to tell you something very important. About mimes. Mimes lie. Mimes pretend to do things that they don’t really do. That’s why you should never have sex with a mime. A mime will say he’s wearing a condom, when he really isn’t. A mime will just pretend to open one up and roll it out and put it on his mime penis. Fact: an imaginary condom isn’t the same as a real condom. Then the mime will give you AIDS or get you pregnant with his mime baby. Because All mimes have AIDS. Stay aware, stay alive.

Fenton and Pelt in...Appendix (Act 3)

2007-04-10T21:16:00.000-07:00

FADE IN:

EXT. PELT’S HOUSE

(Amber-Marie sits on the trash-littered lawn playing with horse dolls. Sonic sits in a lawn chair talking on a cellular phone.)

SONIC: (To phone) Did you write the note yet? Good. No, call Randy. He’s really good at faking the handwriting. (She hangs up.)

(Pelt stumbles up to the house. He is shaking, twitching, doing the pee-pee dance, and squirming in his pants.)

PELT: (Crying a little) I FEEL SO PURE!

SONIC: Pelt, I’m proud of you. I didn’t think you’d make it.

PELT: I never thought feeling so wonderful would feel so awful. I thought it would feel more wonderful.

AMBER-MARIE: You’re shaking!

PELT: Oh, sweetie, I’m shaking with happiness! And just a wee bit of dysentery.

SONIC: So what does utter purity feel like?

PELT: Like being stabbed in the stomach. By Jesus.

(He falls down and passes out.)

SONIC: Pelt?

(Sonic and Amber-Marie are slightly concerned. Amber-Marie checks Pelt’s heartbeat.)

SONIC: Does he have one?

AMBER-MARIE: Yes, it’s irregular and unpredictable, but challenging. Like Coltrane.

(Sonic puts her ear up to his heart. We hear what she hears: dissonant free form jazz.)

CUT TO:

INT. EMERGENCY ROOM RECEPTION

(Fenton emits a steady plume of smoke.)

FENTON: Okay, fire makes smoke. And if smoke is coming out of my body, something in there is on fire. And I’m pretty sure it’s my appendix!

CLERK: Gosh. Let’s get you checked out right away.

FENTON: (Vastly relieved) Thank you!

CLERK: Because if your appendix is on fire, that’s going to make treating the appendicitis very tricky.

CUT TO:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

(Pelt lays on the kitchen table, passed out. Amber-Marie looks very worried. She looks up to Sonic for comfort and advice.)

SONIC: Come on, this isn’t a big deal. When you’re the mayor people accidentally pass out all the time.

(Montage: Sonic and Amber-Marie try to revive Pelt. Music is cheerful and inappropriate. They poke him with a stick, throw a bucket of water on him, no response. Amber-Marie throws the contents of a bucket marked “Hydrochloric Acid” on him. He doesn’t react. They stick him with a stun gun. That doesn’t work. So they keep doing it. He twitches in an electrified shock, but doesn’t wake up.)

AMBER-MARIE: This is fun!

CUT TO:

INT. EMERGENCY ROOM RECEPTION

(With a pointer, Fenton points to the appendix on a diagram of the human body propped up on the Clerk’s counter.)

FENTON: The appendix! Another match, please.

(Clerk gives him another match. Fenton lights the chart’s appendix on fire.)

FENTON: This is what’s happening.

CLERK: I know it’s a useless organ, but why would you light it on fire?

FENTON: I didn’t –

CLERK: We’re not here to judge. What kind of insurance do you have?

FENTON: (nervous) Uh, well, actually...

CLERK: Thank you, come again.

(Fenton’s appendix flares up. It nearly cripples him as he straggles away but then he immediately returns.)

FENTON: Hi, I have appendicitis.

CLERK: Right this way, please.

CUT TO:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

SONIC: I hope this works.

(They place a basket of brightly colored candy and golden retriever puppies next to Pelt. The puppies have shiny medallions around their necks. Pelt doesn’t wake up.)

AMBER-MARIE: I’ll get the van.

CUT TO:

INT. EXAM ROOM

(Fenton sits on an exam table in a hospital gown and socks. His left foot catches fire.)

FENTON: My painting foot! Help!

(A doctor bursts in (played by the actor who plays Pelt, in a cheap bald wig and cheaper fake beard). As he enters, the fire stops.)

FENTON: Doctor! I’ve had these stupid body fires all day.

DOCTOR: (Patronizing) Is anybody else ever around when this happens?

FENTON: Are you calling me a liar?

(The Doctor turns around to look at Fenton’s chart.)

DOCTOR: Is this all just to get a little attention? Hmm?

(While the Doctor isn’t looking, Fenton’s knee lights up.)

FENTON: My knee is on fire!

(The Doctor turns around, and the fire goes out. He sits next to Fenton and puts his hand on Fenton’s knee. It’s hot to the touch.)

DOCTOR: Remember those cartoons with the frog that would only sing when it’s owner was around? And nobody else saw the frog sing, so they thought the guy was crazy? I never saw those cartoons. But clearly that guy was nuts. And so are you.

FENTON: You’re not going to do anything for me, are you?

DOCTOR: The brain is a mysterious jungle of synapses that behave mysteriously and confuse and annoy scientists. So, we’ll set you up for some shock treatments, Benzedrine, group therapy, scream therapy, and aromatherapy. Then we’ll give you a partial lobotomy. And no fatty foods for a week.

(Fenton is finally defeated. His eyes mist and he looks angelically upward.)

FENTON: Why do bad things happen to good people?

DOCTOR: Why do bad things happen to good people? I assume you mean why do bad things happen to you?

(Fenton nods.)

DOCTOR: Bad things happen to you because you’re a bad person.

FENTON: I want a new doctor.

DOCTOR: I’m not a doctor.

CUT TO:

INT. HOSPITAL HALLWAY

(A large explosion inside Fenton’s room blows the Doctor out of the room.)

FADE TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

INT. INTENSIVE CARE UNIT

(Fenton lies on a stretcher. He emanates faint plumes and his eyes are covered in bloody gauze. He’s wheeled into the ICU, right next to Pelt. Pelt is delirious and barely conscious. There’s nobody there, but he’s still talking.)

PELT: ...So as you can clearly see, the mysterious hijacker D.B. Cooper was in actuality, none other than former senator and boner-pill pitchman, Bob Dole!

FENTON: Pelt?

PELT: (To his imaginary friend) We’re not finished, here. (To Fenton) Fenton!

FENTON: I assume the purification didn’t take?

PELT: Not really.

FENTON: I told you it wouldn’t work! I win! I’m the best person in the world!

PELT: What happened to your eyes?

FENTON: More flammable than baby clothes.

PELT: Did they cure your body fires?

FENTON: Nope. But I got these sweet pills.

(He fumbles for them on his side table, knocking over many things.)

PELT: Side effects?

FENTON: Mm-hmm. Minor body fires. (pause) And my liver will be completely gone in eight years.

PELT: Yeah, but that was gonna happen anyway.

FENTON: It’s actually very liberating to know exactly when you’re going to die. So how badly did you damage your body in your attempt to improve it?

PELT: Well, I’m severely dehydrated, one of my kidneys turned black and fell out my pooper, and my colon is as densely packed as a white dwarf star. Oh, and I caught myself some diabetes.

FENTON: Which was gonna happen anyway.

PELT: But still, I feel like I’ve reached this brand new, ethereal plane of existence. But that could be excess body waste backing into my bloodstream and brain.

FENTON: That’s usually what that is.

(A brief pause while they reflect and rest.)

PELT: So, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be a better person, will I?

FENTON: Nope.

PELT: (Overdone) Now that’s what I call enlightenment!

(They laugh uproariously, as if just before the final freeze frame on an episode of ChiPS. Then Fenton has a minor fire, and Pelt a seizure.)

FADE TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

(The set is empty. Fenton and Pelt come out in white bathrobes. They address the audience as “the actors” who play the roles. This runs under the end credits.)

FENTON: Hi. I’m Quinn Alex Hunt.

PELT: (in a British accent) And I’m Jean-Paul Hewlitt.

FENTON: We sure had a lot of laughs tonight.

PELT: But there’s one thing that isn’t funny.

BOTH: Body fires.

FENTON: If you’d like to learn more about body fires, your local library has many books on the subject.

PELT: (To Fenton) Not really. Have you been to a library lately?

FENTON: (To Pelt) No, books piss me off. Why?

PELT: Libraries don’t really have books anymore.

FENTON: Then what do they have?

PELT: CDs, videos, books on tape. Internet terminals.

FENTON: Internet? Is it censored or anything?

PELT: Barely.

FENTON: So I can wander into any library in the country and just look at pornography?

PELT: Absolutely.

FENTON: Well! Okay. (To the camera) If you’d like to learn more about pornography, please visit your local library.

PELT: And don’t drink and drive.

FENTON: Unless you know you can totally make it home.

PELT: Goodnight!

(They wave to the camera.)

FADE TO BLACK.

Fenton and Pelt in...Appendix (Act 2)

2007-04-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

FADE IN.

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

(Cockroaches climb the walls. Trash is everywhere. If you could smell it, it would smell like cat urine. Pelt’s 12-year-old sister, Sonic, dressed in a trendy pantsuit, sits at the kitchen table, eating cereal and fiddling with a Palm Pilot. Fenton and Pelt enter through the rickety screen door, which falls off.)

PELT: Hey Sonic. What are you up to today?

SONIC: The chief of police accidentally shot another pizza delivery boy. They thought he was carrying a gun, but it turns out it was actually, you know, a pizza. I gotta go do some damage control.

PELT: (Bemused) Oh, Sonic!

FENTON: It’s so cute how you think you’re the mayor.

SONIC: (sighs) You were in one of my campaign ads.

CUT TO:

EXT. FOREST CLEARING - COMMERCIAL

(Fenton is dressed in a denim shirt, jeans, and boots. He pets a golden retriever.)

FENTON: …and that’s why I’m voting for Sonic. Because even though she’s too young to legally be the mayor, she’s still the smartest person in town.

(The dog barks.)

FENTON: That’s right, Rex. Even if she is a goddamn woman.

CUT TO:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

PELT: (Bemused) Kids!

FENTON: Hey, Amber-Marie!

There’s another kid at the table. Amber-Marie, six years old, eats from a comically large bowl of cereal with a comically large spoon. She is played by a pudgy, balding, 70-year-old man with a thick New Jersey accent. Nobody ever notices this.

FENTON: Well, aren’t you getting big! How old are you now, 15? 16?

AMBER-MARIE: I’m only six. You’re silly!

(Fenton playfully musses her hair.)

AMBER-MARIE: (Giggling) Quit it!

PELT: Who made you guys breakfast?

SONIC: Meredith.

(Fenton’s hair flames up. He slaps it out. Pelt gets visibly nervous at the idea of Meredith. He has a crush, but he’s also afraid of her. Meredith and Fenton hate each other. (And they’re never in the same room at the same time because they’re played by the same actor.))

FENTON: All right, where is she?

(Fenton goes down the stairs to the basement. The second he does so, Meredith the social worker, about 30, enters from another part of the house. She carries a clipboard and looks “official.” Pelt twitches a little and he’s uneasy. He tries to keep his medical situation under control to flirt with Meredith, but it doesn’t really work.)

MEREDITH: Good morning, Pelt.

PELT: (Trying to be suave, and failing) Why, hello, Meredith. Can I get you a cocktail?

MEREDITH: It’s nine in the morning. Are you shaking?

PELT: (Still trying to be suave) Oh. You see, I haven’t slept or peed in days.

CUT TO:

INT. BOMB SHELTER

(Fenton hangs out in Pelt’s room, which is half bedroom, half bomb shelter. There’s a fallout shelter sign, metal shelves, and lots of canned goods, along with Pelt’s laundry and other bedroom stuff. There are candy wrappers everywhere. Fenton sits there doing nothing. His foot lights on fire. He beats the fire out with his arm. Then he realizes that that lit his arm on fire. This just annoys him and he slaps it out.)

CUT TO:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

MEREDITH: …the bottom line is that if you don’t make some changes, I’m putting your sisters in foster care.

PELT: Changes! Yes! I am all about the change.

FENTON (O.S.): You say that every week, and yet, you do nothing! (Pause) Ahhh! Fire!

MEREDITH: Look, I’d love nothing more than to help these defenseless little girls.

AMBER-MARIE: I’m gonna go outside and play with my dollies.

SONIC: (On her Palm Pilot) The budget is balanced. I don’t know why that’s supposed to be so hard.

(Both of the children exit.)

CUT TO:

INT. BOMB SHELTER

(Fenton channel-surfs. His ear lights on fire. He tries to sneak up on it: looking out of the corner of his eye, he reaches to snatch it. It goes out before he can. This happens several times, the fire switching ears each time. Fenton gets frustrated, shrugs, gives a “what can you do” look, and just lets the fire burn.)

CUT TO:

INT. PELT’S KITCHEN

MEREDITH: Our foster homes are just so overcrowded with orphans.

PELT: True, but it does prepare them for the prisons they’ll inevitably inhabit one day.

MEREDITH: If only more people would adopt.

PELT: You know, I was thinking about getting some orphans. Do you have any Thai orphans? They could teach me to cook or something. (Seductively) Do you like...Thai food?

FENTON (O.S.): He hasn’t got the balls to raise orphans!

PELT: You’re not helping!

FENTON (O.S.): And she hasn’t got the balls to take your sisters away forever!

MEREDITH: I’m a girl! I don’t have balls!

FENTON (O.S.): She admits it! (pause) Ah! Fire!

PELT: Please don’t take them away, Meredith. Let’s make a deal.

MEREDITH: Well, it conflicts with the law as well as my personal system of ethics, but okay.

PELT: You won’t take Sonic and Amber-Marie away...if you agree to go out with me.

(The haunting laugh track is distantly heard.)

MEREDITH: That doesn’t make any sense. Both things benefit you.

PELT: How about this then: you won’t take the girls away...if I agree to go out with you.

MEREDITH: That’s the same thing.

PELT: It is?

FENTON (O.S.): This TV isn’t going to watch itself!

PELT: I should go.

MEREDITH: You’re still in the bomb shelter?

PELT: I just got so comfy during Y2K.

MEREDITH: Man, what a crash.

(Pelt’s lower lip quivers. He starts to cry and hyperventilate.)

MEREDITH: Oh, sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!

PELT: Of (sob) all (sob) the (sob) days (sob) for (sob) mom (sob) to (sob) take (sob) her (sob) first (sob) airplane trip! (Torrent of sobs.)

FENTON (O.S.): Way to remind him his mom’s dead, Meredith! (Pause for fire) OOOWWWWW!

CUT TO:

INT. BOMB SHELTER

(Fenton is watching television and lands on Fenton and Pelt. (They frequently watch this show, never connecting that it’s their own lives.))

PELT: What’s on?

FENTON: "Fenton and Pelt." Fenton’s body parts keep lighting on fire and Pelt’s trying to purify himself by not sleeping, eating, or pooping.

PELT: I hate that show.

Fenton turns the TV off. Pelt settles down on the couch and stares ahead, drooling a little.

FENTON: Are you okay?

PELT: I MUST go TO work...WORK!

(Pelt no longer has control of the volume of his voice. He gets up, walks in a zombie-like trance, and falls down. He gets back up and leaves.)

PELT (O.S.): The next time you see me, I’ll either be pure, or dead. Or pure! (pause) Or dead.

FENTON: Either way, you win.

(Pelt leaves. There’s a knock on the wall. Fenton doesn’t move.)

MAILMAN (O.S.): Mailman.

(A small window near the ceiling opens and a package falls through the slot. It hits Fenton in the head. He opens the package and reads the typed letter on top. The first line reads “Enclosed is your free trial in the Curse of the Month Club.”)

(Fenton lunges for the phone and dials a number.)

CUT TO:

INT. EVIL PELT’S OFFICE

(Evil Pelt sits at his desk typing. The same actor that plays Pelt plays him. Evil Pelt is clearly evil, as he has a goatee and pointy eyebrows.)

EVIL PELT: Evil Pelt. The beard makes me extra evil!

CUT TO:

INT. BOMB SHELTER

FENTON: Damn you, Evil Pelt!

CUT TO:

INT. EVIL PELT’S OFFICE

EVIL PELT: Hey, I can only kill your dog so many times.

(He hangs up.)

CUT TO:

INT. BOMB SHELTER

(Another body fire erupts.)

FENTON: You give beards a bad name! Kenny Rogers will get you for this!

(He slams the phone down.)

FENTON: Oh, he’s so evil!

(Something is very, very wrong. Fenton hears and feels a grumbling in his stomach, smells something burning, and then suddenly a good portion of his lower body bursts into flames. He falls to the ground, flailing and writhing in pain.)

FENTON: My appendix! My favorite remnant of a vestigial organ! My small, worm-shaped tube approximately 7.5 cm in length and 2.1 cm in width projecting from the large intestine on the right side of the lower abdominal cavity! How I know so much about you by reading the Encyclopedia Brittanica! How it burns! How it burns with fire!

CUT TO:

INT. FAN STORE

(Pelt works in a store that sells electric fans. (Pelt has a different job every week. The same set is used every episode and the actors who play Pelt’s co-worker and customer are always the same.) Pelt barely holds himself together as he pours himself a cup of coffee from an empty pot. He’s doing the pee-pee dance and speaks with his teeth mostly clenched. A customer, played by the actor who portrays Amber-Marie, wanders in.)

CUSTOMER: Yeah, I’ve got a big machine shop. I need to see your biggest fan.

PELT: Michelle? Can you come over here for a second?

(A female coworker, Michelle, approaches. She’s calm and collected (and played by the actor who portrays Fenton). Pelt gestures to the customer to repeat himself.)

CUSTOMER: I’d like to see your biggest fan.

MICHELLE: Certainly. (She erupts into a star-struck teenybopper) Ohmygod! You’re Pelt! Wow! It’s such an honor to meet you. You are just the best, like totally the most talented. Oh. I mean, I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done, and I have all your albums, even the early stuff! Oh! I’m babbling like an idiot! Can I have your autograph?

(Pelt has disappeared.)

MICHELLE: Pelt?

(He pops up into frame.)

PELT: Just a brief blackout. That will be all, Michelle.

(Michelle leaves.)

PELT: That was my biggest fan.

(The Customer stares blankly.)

PELT: It’s a little joke we have around here.

CUSTOMER: I don’t get it.

PELT: (Pause. Pelt weeps.) Why won’t you laugh?

(Pelt braces himself against a shelf, loses his balance, and falls to the floor, taking the shelf with him.)

CUT TO:

INT. CITY BUS

(Fenton sits on the bus, his abdomen visibly on fire. He sits between an old woman and a little boy. The little boy rudely stares.)

FENTON: (to the boy) My appendix is on fire.

CUT TO:

INT. FAN STORE

(Michelle helps some customers as Pelt ducks into the stock room.)

CUT TO:

INT. STOCK ROOM

(Pelt kneels before a candlelit shrine.)

PELT: I know I don’t often come to you, but I need your help. I want to be a better person, but I have the sinking feeling that it’s just no possible to be any good. It was you who helped me realize that. But I know that I can get through this. I have to. What’s more important than purity? Don’t I deserve that? But I know if I can get through this, it’ll be worth it. You’ve also taught me that. In your name, Amen.

(He leaves. We see his shrine: it’s a picture of an Eastern god with multiple heads, all of them David Schwimmer.)

CUT TO:

INT. EMERGENCY ROOM RECEPTION

(Fenton runs down the hospital corridor. He stops at a counter. His hand lights up and he quickly slaps it out. A female clerk works the counter, portrayed by the actor who plays Pelt.)

FENTON: Is this the emergency department?

CLERK: Well, we have two emergency departments. One for the big emergencies, like getting stung by 500 killer bees. And then there’s the no-big-rush emergencies, like getting stung by 500 regular bees. Is your life in jeopardy?

FENTON: It might be.

CLERK: If you’re not sure, then it’s probably a non-emergency emergency. Go sit over there with the hemophiliac rugby team.

CUT TO:

EXT. STREET - DAY

(Pelt ambles mindlessly down the street.)

VOICE (O.S.): Pelt!

(Pelt turns around. It’s The Cool Kids. There are three guys and one girl, all of them generically beautiful and wearing high school letterman jackets despite the fact that they’re all about 35 years old.)

PELT: The Cool Kids!

COOL KID #1: We were wondering if you wanted to hang out with us.

(Pelt is speechless and elated.)

COOL KID #2: We’re gonna take a nap and then drink some water!

COOL KID #3: Yeah, and after that we’re all gonna go poop!

PELT : In the special, private. reserved platinum-titanium Cool Kids-only toilets?

ALL THE COOL KIDS: Duh!

(Pelt has waited his whole life for this moment, but he must not budge.)

PELT: Oh. No. I can’t.

COOL KID #2: But this is your only chance to be cool!

PELT: (Sigh) I know.

COOL KID #1: Pfft. Let’s get out of here!

COOL KID #2: Yeah! Let’s go eat candy and pee!

(Pelt whimpers. The cool boys leave, but the cool girl stays back.)

COOL GIRL: (Flirty) Gosh, Pelt, it’s too bad you can’t come… because I heard you were a really, really good...(whispers in his ear)...pooper.

(She turns on her heel and leaves.)

PELT: (groans) No! It’s worth it! I’ll be purer longer than they’re cool!

COOL KID #3 (O.S.): No you won’t!

PELT: Yeah, I know.

CUT TO:

INT. EMERGENCY ROOM RECEPTION

(The Clerk works on a crossword puzzle. Fenton tries to approach again.)

CLERK: (To herself) What’s a five letter word for “health care provider”? N-U-blank-blank-E...

FENTON: Hi, my appendix burst into flames.

CLERK: Fantastic! But a burst appendix is quite common. Fill out these forms please.

FENTON: Not burst, burst into flames.

CLERK: A burning sensation is normal.

FENTON: Do you have a cigarette?

CLERK: Sir, this is a hospital. We don’t allow smoking.

FENTON: A match then?

(The Clerk hands Fenton a match. Fenton lights it. A tiny flame burns.)

FENTON: What do you see?

CLERK: (Entranced) The demon is angry, and he dances…

FENTON: I beg your pardon?

CLERK: (Back to reality) Fire. I see fire.

FENTON: Right. And what’s coming from the fire?

CLERK: Uh...

(She needs a clue and looks to Fenton, who mouths “smoke.”)

CLERK: Smoke?

FENTON: Very good. Look at my ears. What’s coming out of them?

CLERK: Smoke.

FENTON: Now, applying what we’ve just learned, what must logically be producing the smoke coming out my ears?

CLERK: Appendicitis?

(FADE TO BLACK. End of Act 2)

Fenton and Pelt in...Appendix (Act 1)

2007-04-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

[This is the pilot episode of a TV series that's been stewing in my brain for about ten years. This here pilot script has been rejected by every possible outlet for such a thing, so at this point it's pretty much dead to me. Enjoy.]

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY

(Fenton, a man in his early 20s, walks down the street. It’s early morning, the sun is shining, everything is very quiet. He’s very groggy and walks slowly. He stops for a second, stretches, and yawns. He then notices that his right arm is on fire.)

FENTON: Huh. Well, would you look at that.

(It takes a moment for this knowledge, and pain, to sink in. Once it does, he runs around, flailing and screaming.)

FENTON: Aaaah! Aaaah! Make it stop! Please God! Make it stop!

(It stops. Fenton is impressed.)

FENTON: (During this line anytime he says “start” or “stop” the fire behaves accordingly.) Wow! Please God, let the fire...start? Okay, stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stopstart stopstart stopstart stopstart stop!

(It stops briefly, then his whole body flames up.)

FENTON: Okay! Sorry! Turn it of! Please?

(It goes out.)

FENTON: (Sarcastically) Thanks!

(As Fenton resumes walking, his friend Pelt, roughly the same age, trots in to catch up with him. They pass a sign that reads "Glen Oak: As Heard in Billy Joel's 'Gotta Get the Hell out of Glen Oak.'")

PELT: Painful burning sensation?

FENTON: Your mom has a painful burning sensation.

(Pelt’s eyes get misty.)

PELT: My mom’s dead.

(He weeps uncontrollably.)

FENTON: (Sighs) I’m sorry.

(Pelt instantly stops crying.)

PELT: For what?

(Pelt mimes digging out a bag of candy from a pocket. He then eats “imaginary candy.” Even though it’s invisible, crinkling wrappers can be heard.)

FENTON: Hey, gimme some of your invisible candy.

(He tries to grab some but Pelt jerks away.)

PELT: It’s imaginary, not invisible, and you can’t have any!

FENTON: No real candy?

PELT: Yeah, I’m making some changes.

FENTON: Good idea. The best way to exact revenge on the world is to start with yourself.

PELT: (Dreamy) I want to find the very essence of life.

FENTON: You’re not going to drink your urine, are you?

PELT: No. I’m not interested in any new age philosophy that just dispenses easy answers. I’m after tangible spiritual enlightenment. And easy answers. So not only will I not drink pee, I won’t even create it. (Shouts) I will abstain from all biological needs!

FENTON: What?

PELT: (still shouting) I haven’t eaten in three days and I haven’t slept in four!

(Pelt’s head drops and he starts snoring. He’s technically asleep, but he’s still walking and his eyes stay open. He wakes up.)

PELT: (shouts) I haven’t eaten in three days and I haven’t slept in four!

FENTON: Wow.

PELT: Personal sacrifice has been a part of every holy person’s quest for truth and purity. If being like the Buddha means never getting to sleep, eat, drink, and yes, pee, ever again, that’s fine. Even if it takes me as long as a week to unlock the meaning of life, I’m halfway there because I know that going “number one” is my number two roadblock.

FENTON: Then what’s roadblock number one?

PELT: Number two.

FENTON: Look. I don’t think this will work. And I don’t stay that because I lack faith in you. I’ve known you for 15 years and as each day passes my respect for you withers away like Mary Tyler Moore. Yet, here I am, by your side.

PELT: Aw, shucks.

FENTON: That’s not what I meant. Whatever kind of life you try to lead, it really doesn’t matter. There’s no point. Changing yourself is a waste of time because it’s too late to change. Every pattern, behavior, and bad habit is firmly
entrenched. All you can do now is give up and let life wash over you. Sure, you’ll never be happy, but at least you won’t care.

(From Pelt’s P.O.V., we see Fenton talking, but all Pelt hears is Christmas music.)

PELT: Hmm. So you don’t think I’ll make it, huh? Care to place a wager?

FENTON: Gee, Pelt. What would you like to bet on? Shall the loser do the other person’s chores for a week?

(Even though they’re outside, a mysterious laugh track plays. It’s dissonant and haunting. It plays whenever Fenton and Pelt embody a sitcom cliché. The sky goes dark.)

PELT: This is where that live studio audience was tragically killed. On prom night.

FENTON: They say that on a clear night you can still hear them go "oooooooo!" when you go in for a kiss.

(Fenton and Pelt lean in for a kiss. The ghosts howl with delight, but Fenton and Pelt don’t kiss because Fenton’s hair lights on fire. Pelt jumps away. Fenton starts to put it out, but stops, takes out a cigarette, lights it from his head, and takes a drag. The fire goes out.)

PELT: So, what’s the deal with the fire?

FENTON: Pelt, did you have "Ask-Fenton-Too-Many-Questions-Bitch" cereal for breakfast?

PELT: No, I had imaginary Pop Tarts!

FENTON: That’s funny. Because you ask Fenton too many questions, bitch!

PELT: Don’t you dare speak to me in the third person!

FENTON: Fenton will do as he wishes!

(The fire erupts on his back. It’s an especially large one.)

PELT: Stop drop and roll! Stop drop and roll!

FENTON: That’s just an urban legend.

PELT: Do it!

(Deliberately and individually, he does each step of stop-drop-roll. It doesn’t work. The fire still burns.)

PELT: Keep doing it!

FENTON: All of it, or just the rolling?

PELT: Roll!

(He keeps rolling. It stops. Fenton is exhausted. Pelt eats imaginary candy with trepidation. Fenton gets back up and they keep walking.)

PELT: So are you going to do anything about that?

FENTON: Why, do you think I should?

(Fenton and Pelt pass Chairman Mao’s house. Dressed in a red velour running suit, he’s a sunny, elderly man who is seen once per episode watering his plants. He always invites the guys in for lemonade, they decline, and then he gives them an incendiary quote from his "Little Red Book.")

MAO: Hi boys!

FENTON & PELT: Hi, Chairman Mao.

MAO: You want to come in for some lemonade?

FENTON & PELT: No thanks, Chairman Mao.

MAO: Okay, next time then! Oh, and don’t forget boys: "political power grows out of the barrel of a gun!"

FENTON: (To Mao) Yeah, we’ll keep that in mind. (To Pelt) So you think this might be more serious? Pelt?

(Pelt writhes on the ground, having a seizure.)

(Fade to black. End of Act 1.)

Bad Clone Dad

2007-04-03T10:43:00.000-07:00

(Dad, dressed in a white lab coat and goggles fiddles around in his laboratory, which also is a garage. There are lots of tables, beakers, samples in mason jars, a periodic table, and other scientific things. Dad’s young son, Johnny, enters, dressed in a striped shirt, shorts and sideways baseball cap. He tosses a hockey puck into the air and catches it with his lacrosse stick.)

JOHNNY: Hey Dad, whatcha doing?

DAD: I’m a scientist, Johnny. I’m doing important scientific experiments.

JOHNNY: Really? About what?

DAD: (pauses at such a stupid question) About science.

JOHNNY: You wouldn’t maybe be able to take a break and play catch with me, could you?

DAD: Oh, dear sweet Johnny boy. For you? Of course not.

JOHNNY: Oh. (He bows his head in shame and starts to leave.)

DAD: Sure I’d take a break from the science if you were a pretty girl in a sundress or the man from the science place that wanted to give me an award for science. But to take a break to play catch with my one and only son that is growing up so fast I barely recognize him anymore? No. (chuckles) That would just be stupid. (patronizing) And you’re stupid for asking. Now go away. Your stupid could threaten all of this important scientific stuff.

JOHNNY: (starting to cry) Ever since you got your degree in nanomicrophysiobiology and became a nanomicrophysiobiologist you haven’t had any time for me!

DAD: Now Johnny…

JOHNNY: Because you’re too busy with your nanomicrophysiobiology!

DAD: (tenderly) Johnny. Come here.

JOHNNY: (crosses his arms and turns away) I don’t wanna.

DAD: Come on, champ. Come here.

(He begrudgingly goes to his father. Dad sits down and Johnny sits on his knee and nuzzles him a bit.)

DAD: Oh, Johnny. Sweet, sweet Johnny boy.

(Dad smacks Johnny across the face really, really hard, knocking him to the ground. Johnny immediately starts sobbing and screaming. Dad grabs him and shakes him as he screams at him.)

DAD: (furiously screaming) I am a scientist! I have important science to do! If I choose to come down to your level to do something stupid like play catch, we will do it later! Do you understand me? We will play later! You do what I say because I am a man and you’re just a little boy! A little boy who’s doesn’t know any science! I am a scientist and I can yell at my kid and say that we’ll play later because I said so!

(He shoves Johnny to the ground.)

JOHNNY: You always say we’ll play later! You said we’d play when you finished your undergraduate degree. And then you said we’d play when you picked up your second major in organic chemistry. And then you said we’d play when you picked up your third major in organic chemistry! Then we’d play when you got your masters. And your first, second, and third doctorates. Then we had to wait until you got an honorary degree from Ball State because you thought that school had a funny name.

DAD: (vicious) Ball State is a funny name! (to himself, amused) Ball State. That is rich.

JOHNNY: When is it going to be time to play, father? When is it going to be time to play?

DAD: I said later.

JOHNNY: When’s later, Dad? When I’m all grown up and you’re a lonely old man with no one to talk to? When I’m away in a foreign land beating savages with a freedom stick?

DAD: I require silence and respect when you are in the presence of my important science work, you stupid baby!

JOHNNY: Daddy, please. Just play catch with me.

DAD: (calming down) Okay, Johnny. Okay. We’ll play. After I finish this experiment.

JOHNNY: Re-really? (sniffles) What is it?

DAD: A fifteen year study on microbiotics! HAHAHAHA! You’re stupid!

JOHNNY: (starts crying again) You’re the worst Dad ever, Dad! You’re like that song, the one about the cat being in the cradle. I can’t thing of the exact song, but you know which one I’m talking about. The one where the cat’s in the cradle! Which I am to understand is very, very bad and also sad! And if you’re not careful the same thing is going to happen to you!

DAD: You listen to me, right now. (He grabs Johnny and shakes him.) I will not become a folk singer and die freebasing cocaine in a fiery plane crash. Not ever!

JOHNNY: Like Ricky Nelson?

DAD: Like Ricky Nelson!

JOHNNY: Ricky Nelson didn’t sing that song. Harry Chapin did. Or was it Harry Nillson?

DAD: Really? You sure? Hmm. I could’ve sworn Ricky Nelson did that song. No, no…wait. I’m thinking of “Garden Party.” That’s right. Please. Go on.

JOHNNY: I meant that I’ll grow up and ignore you the way you ignored me.

DAD: (pauses as he processes this) That sounds pretty good! I can’t seem to get you to leave me alone now, but you’re saying if I continue in this fashion, I’ll finally get what I want and you’ll go away? Bring it on!

JOHNNY: Cat’s in the cradle, dad! (screams) Cat’s in the cradle!

(Johnny runs out crying.)

DAD: Hmmm…as he is a stupid little boy with no command of science, he fails to make a valid argument. But, oh, how I hate being compared to Harry Nillson. I hate it so much. If I have a weakness, other than my almost criminal grasp of science, it’s that I accept any challenge if someone dares call me…Nillson. If only there was a way that I could use science to make my son happy. A way to use science to make my son happy enough to stop bugging me, but in such a manner that I would still be able to ignore him so that I could do more science. (pause) Of course…it’s so obvious. I’ll use science!

(Blackout.)

VOICE: A moderate amount of time later…

(Lights up. Back in the lab. Dad is toiling away on his projects. His assistant enters and leaves a trail of syringes on the ground. He coughs. Syringes spill out of his lab coat.)

ASSISTANT: Hey, boss. Sorry I’m late. I had to stop off at the science place.

DAD: Was the man who gives away the science awards at the science place?

ASSISTANT: Um. No. He wasn’t…there yet.

DAD: Wait until he sees my latest project. He’ll give me one of those prestigious science awards for science for sure!

ASSISTANT: (excited) You mean you finished building the magical flying unicorn that has udders and delicious chocolate milk comes out of his udders?

DAD: No, Todd. I’m afraid Project Unicorns are Totally Awesome is on hold. You see, we have tamed another frontier of science.

ASSISTANT: You discovered the female orgasm?

DAD: Please, Todd. We all know that’s an urban legend. What I have done, Todd, is I have cloned myself, Todd. This way I’ll have to time to work on my science and spend enough time with Johnny so he’ll shut up about me not spending enough time with him, Todd.

ASSISTANT: You cloned yourself? Wow. A human clone. That is just…amazing. (looks at his shoes) Whoa. My shoes are totally black. Black things are amazing.

DAD: Yeah. But I’ve only been working on cloning technology for about three hours, Todd, so I haven’t really perfected it yet, Todd.

ASSISTANT: And you’re also not that good of a scientist.

(Clone enters. He wears a lab coat but that’s where the similarities end between himself and Dad. He’s a highly mutated genetic freak. Extra limbs. Constant drooling. Glowing orange skin. Pulsing boils all over his skin. Three eyes. He’s a different race entirely. And there’s other differences that further mark his general appearance. He lumbers, limps and has a hard time staying upright. He also can’t really talk or control the volume of his voice, just kind of grunting and moaning and screaming.)

CLONE: Blaaaar!

(The Clone bangs his head on a table and keeps yelling “blaaaar!”)

ASSISTANT: Oh. That’s pretty cool I guess.

DAD: What? What’s wrong?

ASSISTANT: No, no. It’s fine. But, you know, I figured if you needed a companion for Johnny, you’d just clone your wife.

DAD: That’s dumb. Why would I clone the person I murdered?

ASSISTANT: You murdered her?

(At this point the clone is drinking test tubes.)

DAD: Oh. Uh, no. No. That, uh, wasn’t me. It was my, uh, my clone. Yes. My crazy, wife-killing clone.

ASSISTANT: But she’s been dead for three years and you just made this clone today.

DAD: No I didn't.

ASSISTANT: Yes. You did!

DAD: How do you know I'm not the clone? Huh? Because I am! I'm the clone and it's the original, meaning, not me, that killed my wife. I mean, his wife.

ASSISTANT: But you just said you cloned yourself.

DAD: Oh, I did not. But still, for good measure, I'm gonna run away now.

ASSISTANT: What?

(Dad runs away.)

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Bye!] (He tries to wave and knocks something off a shelf.)

(A very awkward pause between the assistant and the clone.)

ASSISTANT: So. You’re the world’s first human clone, huh?

CLONE: Blaaaar. [Yep.]

ASSISTANT: How’s that working out for you?

CLONE: Blaaaar. [It’s pretty cool, I guess.]

(Johnny runs in tossing a can of corn in the air.)

ASSISTANT: Oh thank God.

JOHNNY: Hey, Todd, is my Dad here…(turns around) Oh, hey Dad!

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Hi, Johnny!]

(He picks up Johnny and spins him around and around, much to his delight!)

JOHNNY: Hee hee! Hee hee! Put me down! Put me down!

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Hee hee!]

(He keeps spinning him around, then sets him down and gives him a noogie.)

JOHNNY: Dad? Are you alright?

CLONE: Blaaar! [Never better, my son.]

ASSISTANT: Wait, Johnny, that’s not---

JOHNNY: What?

(Clone gives Johnny a big hug.)

CLONE: Blaaaar! [I love you, Johnny.]

JOHNNY: I love you too, dad!

(The big hug resumes.)

ASSISTANT: Never mind.

(The scene changes to a montage. Lights down on all the laboratory stuff and the assistant leaves. We’re outside now. The Clone, however awkwardly, ineptly and violently, plays catch with an elated Johnny. They roll around affectionately on the ground together. Things of that nature. Meanwhile, the Bad Clone Dad theme song plays:)

SONG: Me and my bad clone dad. Having adventures we’re two of a kind. Running and jumping. Laughing and such. We’re always together. It’s never too much. And even though he’s not a good clone. And I think they filled in the holes with some horse DNA. I don’t care cause I love my bad clone dad. That’s my bad clone dad. Stop drooling, bad clone dad. He’s my bad clone daaaaad. (spoken) I love you, bad clone dad. (spoken by clone) Blaaar! [I love you too.]

(Blackout. Lights come back up. The lab is empty. Dad comes in.)

DAD: Ah….such wonderful peace and quiet. I can finally get some work done without having to worry about my son. Or worry about me getting bugged by my son. But enough interior monologue…on to the science!

(He toils away on some science. From offstage, we hear Johnny and the clone playing.)

JOHNNY: (os) Ha ha ha! You’re it!

CLONE: (os) Blaaaar! [I’m gonna catch you!]

JOHNNY: (os) You’ll never catch me!

CLONE: (os) Blaaaar! [Blaaaar!]

DAD: Oh, the delightful laughter of a child. When it belongs it somebody else’s child and it’s far, far away.

(He goes back to work and Johnny and the clone come in. Before they see him, Dad ducks beneath a table and peaks out to watch them. Johnny and the clone are dressed up as superheroes with blankets as capes and Batman masks on. Johnny hides under another table.)

JOHNNY: Hide and seek! Try and find me!

(Clone looks around in a panic for Johnny. He throws over the table he’s hiding under and picks up Johnny.)

CLONE: Blaaaar! [I found you!]

JOHNNY: Now I’m Superman again! I’m flying away!

(He runs out. Clone goes after him. Dad emerges, emotionally torn.)

DAD: They seem to have really hit it off. Hmm. True, it’s fantastic that Johnny isn’t bugging me anymore. But how strange that Johnny can’t seem to tell that the clone I made of myself doesn’t resemble me in the slightest. Am I that out of touch with my child that he doesn’t even recognize an inferior, rushed, barely adequate clone of his own father? As a scientist, I hypothesize two theories. First, Johnny is so stupid and unobservant that he might as well be retarded or at the very least autistic. Or, second, (shouts) I am the greatest scientist in the history of the world!

(Blackout. Lights back up on the lab. The Clone, clad in a white lab coat and glasses, is hard at work on some science. Near him are a mountain of charts and a mound covered in a white sheet.)

DAD: (os) Mmm…that sure was a good science walk! It really put me in the mood to do some science. Now here I go into my laboratory. (enters and sees the clone) Hey, what are you doing in here?

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Quiet! I’m busy with an important experiment!]

DAD: No, get away from that equipment! You’ll ruin all of my precious science I’ve worked so hard on! (He tries to get him away from his beakers and specimens but notices the paperwork.) Be careful around my…did you just…my God, if these figures are correct…you’ve built the world’s first flying unicorn with udders that make chocolate milk!

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Eureka!]

(The clone pulls a white sheet off the mound and there it is: it’s a unicorn puppet with udders on its front that immediately starts shooting chocolate milk everywhere.)

DAD: My God…

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Fly!]

(The unicorn stops shooting chocolate milk and briefly flies around on some visible wires. He then returns to his perch on the table. Dad lunges at the clone, who defends himself against the attack.)

DAD: Damn you, inferior clone version of me! You were unfortunate not to gain my kickass handsomeness, but fortunate to gain my science prowess. And by fortunate, I mean unfortunate. For me! Except for the handsomeness part. That’s unfortunate for you that you aren’t as handsome as me. But the science. Oh the science!

(The Assistant bursts in.)

ASSISTANT: Boss! Boss! The man from the science place is here! And he’s giving out awards!

DAD: At long last! Redemption and legitimacy in the form of awards!

(The Man from the Science Place comes in, pulling a red wagon of assorted second-hand trophies. He wears a crown and a long purple velvet cape.)

SCIENCE MAN: Behold! I am the man from the science place! I, and only I, control who receives prestigious awards in the field of science.

DAD: Good, good afternoon! (He curtsies with his lab coat. The Assistant curtsies, too. The Clone continues working.)

SCIENCE MAN: It is my understanding that you have been working on cloning, perhaps science’s greatest breakthrough. Because of you, cloning is a reality and not just a conceit for cheap science fiction films and sub-par short plays.

DAD: Yes, I have done that. I cloned myself, actually.

(About this time, the unicorn starts sporadically shooting out streams of chocolate milk.)

SCIENCE MAN: Hmm. Yes. Well. If you like that sort of thing. I suppose it’s impressive to some people. Me, I’d be much more impressed by a flying unicorn that shot chocolate milk out of its udders. But cloning will do. It’s a slow science week. You shall receive the science award!

(Dad and the assistant hold hands and jump up and down together.)

DAD: At long last!

ASSISTANT: A prestigious science award.

DAD: For science!

(Science Man is about to hand Dad a trophy. Suddenly he notices the clone and chocolate milk-spewing unicorn on the counter.)

SCIENCE MAN: But wait…what’s this?

DAD: Th-that’s my clone, your majesty.

SCIENCE MAN: Yes, yes. But what science is he working on?

CLONE: Blaaaar! [Behold, Mr. Science, for I have created a flying unicorn that spews chocolate milk from its magical udders.]

SCIENCE MAN: By jove, you did make a chocolate milk producing unicorn! Well, what a remarkable discovery and amazing coincidence!

DAD: Nooooo!

SCIENCE MAN: For producing a flying chocolate-milk spewing unicorn, I award YOU the prestigious science award for science!

CLONE: Blaaaar! [What a delicious triumph!]

SCIENCE MAN: As is customary, the science hookers will be over at about 4.

(He exits, followed by the assistant, his head hung low.)

DAD: But I love hookers!

(Johnny bursts in.)

JOHNNY: Hey Dad! I’m ready to learn about science! I can’t believe you’re finally going to teach me, I’m --- (notices the clone and his Dad.) What’s going on?

DAD: Johnny, I can explain. Even though I don’t really have to justify anything I do to you. I still will though.

JOHNNY: I don’t understand. Why are there two of you?

DAD: Johnny, I cloned myself so you’d have a playmate.

JOHNNY: But why?

DAD: I did it for you. I didn’t want you to be without a father.

JOHNNY: You did that for me?

DAD: Let me finish. I didn’t want you to be without a father, but I didn’t really want to be that father. So I cloned myself. So if I did it for anyone, I did it for me.

(A long pause as Johnny renders judgment.)

JOHNNY: Come on, Dad, let’s get out of here.

DAD: Not now, son, I’m busy.

JOHNNY: I wasn’t talking to you.

CLONE: Blaaar! [See you later, you despicable man.]

(Johnny and the clone exit.)

DAD: Not only have I lost my precious science, in so much as its capacity to win me awards, but I’ve also lost my son. It hurts so much, not because I loved him, because I didn’t, but because we always want what we can’t have. It’s scientific fact. Sure, if I got him back I wouldn’t want him anymore. Because he’s so, so, very stupid. And annoying. That’s truly the worst part is that my son and his stupidity defeated me, my complete awesomeness, and, alas, my science.

(Despondant, he stumbles over to the unicorn and shoots chocolate milk into his mouth. Almost immediately, he chokes on it and falls to the floor dead. Blackout. Lights back up. A bedroom. Dad lies in bed in his sleeping cap and striped pajamas. He wakes up with a start.)

DAD: AAAAH! (He comes to and realizes where he is.) Oh. Oh. Oh my. It’s not real. I’m alive. I’m alive! It was all just a dream. (He finds a giant glass of chocolate milk in his bed.) Or was it…?

(Blackout.)

Smoking Porch

2007-03-26T16:28:00.001-07:00

(Outside of an office building. There are two metal, standup ashtrays bookending a picnic table. Eight people sit, stand, hunch, all of them smoking. Nobody talks to each other or stands too close. A new smoker, male, 25, approaches, in a rush, lighting his cigarette as he runs up.)

NEW GUY: Hey. How’s it going? (no response) Fate of the smoker, huh? Exiled to the cold winter air. (still no response) Hmm. (takes a long drag and looks at his cigarette) God, I really ought to quit. Seems like there aren’t any other smokers these days.

(The group reacts with various minor indignation. “Excuse me?” “What do you mean?” “What are you talking about?” “No smokers here.” “I’m not a smoker!”)

NEW GUY: Excuse me?

FIRST SMOKER: We are not smokers.

SECOND SMOKER: Smoking is a filthy, dirty disgusting habit of people who have no respect for themselves or their bodies.

THIRD SMOKER: Smokers carelessly and selflessly kill themselves and those around them.

FOURTH SMOKER: Smokers waste their money on these corporate-pushed cancer sticks.

NEW GUY: All true, but aren’t you guys smokers?

FIRST SMOKER: No way.

SECOND SMOKER: I’m a stress smoker. I’ve got this big report due to management at four and it’s completely frying my brain. So here I am. (puff) But I only smoke when I’m stressed. I wouldn’t call myself a “smoker.”

FIRST SMOKER: Right. Like me, I’m just a social smoker.

NEW GUY: Oh yeah?

FIRST SMOKER: If I’m in a group of people that are smoking, I might have a ciggy or two. (coughs) See how I called them ciggies and coughed? Clearly I’m not a “smoker.” I’m just around other smokers, so it’s not me.

NEW GUY: But didn’t you have to come down here on your own? And isn’t this a specified, dedicated smoking area?

FIRST SMOKER: I don’t see your point.

NEW GUY: What about you?

THIRD SMOKER: I only smoke when I’m drunk.

NEW GUY: Are you drunk?

THIRD SMOKER: Working on it. (Lights up.)

NEW GUY: Hmm. What about you guys?

FOURTH SMOKER: I play bass for the Strokes.

FIFTH SMOKER: (through traech hole) I always finish what I start.

SIXTH SMOKER: Je suis francais.

SEVENETH SMOKER: I smoke to look cool.

(Various comments of “damn, he is cool.” “God, I want to hit that.” “Look how cool.” “Ooooh….”)

NEW GUY: Well. You’ve opened my eyes. Wait, who’s that guy?

FIRST SMOKER: Emphasis smoker.

NEW GUY: Emphasis smoker?

EIGHTH SMOKER: That’s right. (puffs) I’m an emphasis smoker. (puffs)

NEW GUY: What’s that mean?

EIGHTH SMOKER: I smoke (puffs)…for emphasis. (puffs)

(End.)

Jeremy Ray For President

2007-03-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

(Two old ladies sip coffee in a well-lit, heavily floral kitchen nook.)

BEVERLY: I'm glad we could get together, Doris. I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?

DORIS: Well, things have been tough. It's just not the same since the zombies got to George.

BEVERLY: Oh, heavens! I wish those fatcats in Washington would do something about the zombies.

DORIS: Well, Beverly, somebody does have a plan. When he's elected president, Jeremy Ray promises he has a plan to get rid of all the awful zombies, once and for all.

BEVERLY: Yeah, right. Along with a huge tax hike, I bet.

DORIS: Maybe the other guy, but not Jeremy Ray. Jeremy Ray promises to create a task force to kill all the zombies before they can kill again. And it won't cost taxpayers a cent because he's going to use dark magic to summon an army of mystical mercenaries that will kill the zombies.

(A zombie lurches against the window and flops to the ground.)

BEVERLY: Finally, a president who's not afraid to use the deadly black arts.

DORIS: Now, Beverly, just because Jeremy Ray is black doesn't mean you shouldn't vote for him.

BEVERLY: Hahahahaha! Oh, Doris, that's not what I meant! He is black though. And that makes me worried and afraid.

DORIS: Wrong again, Beverly. Jeremy Ray promises to cure African-Americanness in both himself and America.

(Another zombie flops against the window.)

BEVERLY: An America free of zombies and Negros? I'm voting for Jeremy Ray.

DORIS: Me too.

(Pause)

BEVERLY: I pooped myself.

DORIS: Me too.

BEVERLY: We're so very old. How the spectre of death haunts us and clouds our judgment. We probably shouldn't vote.

DORIS: Where am I? Who are you? George? Where's George?

(The ladies look around, confused and smelly.)

ANNOUNCER: Jeremy Ray. He hates the zombies and blacks, even though he's black, but not a zombie.

(A six-year-old boy, Jeremy Ray, appears on screen, in front of the old ladies, waving a giant flag and wearing an ill-fitting suit several sizes too big.)

JEREMY RAY: I'm Jeremy Ray and my mommy approved this message. Hi, Mommy! I'm on the TV!

Dumblycrumbly Zombies

2007-03-20T12:34:00.001-07:00

(Titles on screen: The Kent Barber Show. Like Charlie Rose, it’s a black room with a table. Two men in suits sit across from each other.)

BARBER: Good evening, this is the Kent Barber Show and tonight’s guest is Keller Barker, chairman of the anti zombie defamation league, the Anti Zombie Defamation League. Thanks for being with us tonight, Keller.

KELLER: Ugh…BRAINS!

BARBER: Keller, In your many years with the AZDL, what is it you find to be the biggest desire among zombies today?

KELLER: (pause. He thinks.) Ungh…BRAINS! BRAINS! BRAINS!

(He viciously attacks Kent Barber and eats his brain. Kent Barber screams until he is dead. Keller finishes eating, pushes Kent’s remains to the table and takes Kent’s chair, shuffles some papers and puts on his reading glasses. Titles: Tonight – BRAAAAAINS!)

KELLER: BRAINS!

(Another zombie in a suit stumbles in and takes the guest chair.)

ZOMBIE: BRAINS! (Subtitle: Thanks for having me on the show.)

KELLER: BRAINS! (Subtitle: My pleasure.) (pause) BRAINS?

ZOMBIE: BRAINS!!!

(Keller and the zombie feast further on the bloody remains of Kent Barber. Soon, a girl zombie in a sundress stumbles in. For no reason, her clothes are sucked off her body, leaving her in just her underwear, bra, stockings, and garters. The male zombies groan and leer in appreciation. The three zombies then chase each other in and out of the frame, lumbering and extremely slowly, as they are zombies. “Yakety Sax” plays.)

(Pledge Drive cuts in. We’re in a generic TV studio. A chipper female pledge drive host grates on us already.)

PLEDGE HOST: Ahahaha! Once again, those loveable zombies from the hit Britcom Roger and the Dumblycrumbly Zombie Gang have killed and devoured another one of our public television favorites, late night talk show host and respected journalist Kent Barber.

(Guy in sweater walks on screen.)

SWEATER MAN: They sure have, Mary. And if you love hard hitting interviews, nonsensical British sitcoms, and zombies, please make a contribution to keep this kind of top-notch programming on the air.

PLEDGE HOST: If you call now and pledge just $50, about the price of a night out at the movies, we’ll send you…brains!

(Shot of brains presented attractively with titles “$50 Pledge.”)

SWEATER MAN (os): Now these aren’t any brains. These are fresh brains, just like the one in the program that Roger and the other Dumblycrumbly zombies hilariously just can’t ever seem to get enough of.

ZOMBIE: (os) BRAINS!

(As the “pledge and get a gift” graphic stays up, we hear a zombie kill and eat the pledge host and the sweater man.)

ZOMBIE: Money…brains…commercial free….unnghgh….

(End.)

Puppy News Network

2007-03-12T15:42:00.000-07:00

(Fade in to anchor at a newsdesk. The wall indicates he works for PNN. The news image is of a diamond.)

CHET:...with the final results meeting scientific predictions that the Kruppe Diamond is the approximate size of a golden retriever, like the one pictured here. (Picture of the diamond side by side with a golden retriever) His name is Rex. (starts talking baby talk, to the dog) And he’s a good boy, isn’t he? Yes he is!

(The dog on video barks.)

CHET: That’s a good boy! (Chet clutches his ear piece. He is suddenly serious.) What’s that? (The video dog cocks his head in a concerned fashion.) People, we’ve got breaking news here. We now go live to field reporter Kevin Riley. Kevin, just what’s going on?

(Cut to Kevin Riley, the reporter in a field, literally, while a dog and little boy frolic in the background. Bystanders watch with mouths agape.)

KEVIN: Thanks, Chet. Kevin Riley, field reporter coming to you live from, well, a field. And we have big, big news, ladies and gentleman, something we’ve been all sort of been suspecting for a long time. There’s a little boy here in a striped shirt and a sideways baseball cap, and yes, yes, it appears early eyewitness accounts were correct in that the boy does have a puppy. And it, oh, it seems to be unfolding before our eyes here. (to the cameraman) Are you getting all of this? Okay, good. The puppy is quizically cocking his head and, there it goes. The little boy and the puppy are frolicking through the meadow. There they are laughing and playing without a care in the world other than to chase down that rubber ball. Oh, and the boy is down, I repeat, THE BOY IS DOWN! The puppy is going over to him and…yes. The puppy is licking the little boy’s face. The little boy is giggling and now rolling around on the ground with the puppy (barks) and the puppy has just let out a precocious, baby-sized bark. This looks to continue indefinitely, Chet. But if events continue in this direction, the early news appears that current trends indicate that puppies are the cutest little things you’ve ever seen.

CHET: Rest assured, we will continue the story as it develops. For those of you just joining us: reports indicate that puppies are cute. For all the latest breaking news, keep it tuned here to The Puppy News Network.

(Fade to PNN logo filling screen.)

JAMES EARL JONES: This…is PNN. (baby talk) Yes it is! Yes it is!

(Standby screen.)

VOICEOVER: We now return you to the exciting conclusion of Puppy Court.

(Cut to jury in the jury box. The foreman stands to read the verdict.)

FOREMAN: We, the jury, find the defendant guilty…of being adorable!

(Cut to the defense table. A lawyer pumps his fist in victory. An adorable puppy sitting on the table happily barks over and over.)

(Fade out.)

Waffles: The Savory Epidemic

2007-03-03T19:16:00.000-08:00

(Breakfast. Dad sits at the table reading the newspaper. Headline reads “Everything Super Says Mayor.” Smaller headline reads “Negro Youths Badly Beaten.” Mom, happily high-strung and very, very fragile, flips pancakes on the stove. Easy listening music plays. Mom hums along as she puts about 10 pancakes on Dad’s plate.)

(Dad notices from behind his paper, looks up at his wife, smiles, takes off his glasses and puts the paper down.)

DAD: Mmm-MMM. I love pancakes.

MOM: Don’t we all! Don’t all of us in our perfect, lucky, happy family just love pancakes so very, very much.

DAD: I guess you could say we’re a pancake family.

MOM: Just like Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

DAD: Yep. Just the three of us. A pancake loving trio we are.

MOM: Yep. What a happy little threesome.

(Both stare remorsefully at a framed photo labeled “Frank.” The photo is of a baby in his official Marine headshot. They each sigh.)

MOM: (shrieking, sobbing at the drop of a hat) I’M A HORRIBLE MOTHER! AAAAAHHHHHH!

DAD: (writing her off) Now honey…

(Their teenage son, Kevin, enters. Kevin is surly and poorly groomed. Typical teen, really. He comes in, makes a beeline for the coffeemaker, pours a cup, goes to the table, sits, and sulks, the coffee untouched. He ignores both, but says good morning to his father, sort of.)

KEVIN: (mumbles) Morning.

DAD: Kevin, say good morning to your mother.

KEVIN: (mumbles) Morning, Mom.

MOM: Mmph! (She makes a semi-happy noise through her muffled sobs.)

(Awkward silence. Dad reads. Kevin sulks.)

DAD: Hmm. It seems our local sports team had quite the game last night. Eh, Kevin?

KEVIN: Whatever.

MOM: Pancakes!

(She puts a few more on Dad’s plate. Kevin stares at them, turns up his nose in deep, deep scorn, picks at them with his fork.)

DAD: (os) Okay, but no more for me after this.

(She grabs a huge stack with a spatula and is about to put it on Kevin’s plate.)

KEVIN: No thanks.

(Mom gasps. Dad drops his fork. Mom drops the plate and everything on it. It shatters.)

DAD: What did you say?

KEVIN: (calmly) I said no thanks. I don’t want any pancakes.

MOM: (shrieking) I’M A HORRIBLE MOTHER! AAAAAHHHHHH! (She sinks to the floor, sobbing, crawling underneath the many pancakes.)

DAD: Is this some kind of joke, young man?

KEVIN: No, I just don’t want any pancakes, alright? JEEZ.

DAD: What’s this all about? Just what is going on?

MOM: I know what’s going on here. I’M A HORRIBLE MOTHER! AAAAAHHHH!

(They ignore her as always.)

DAD: Huh? What is all this?

KEVIN: Pancakes are stupid! They’re stupid floppy discs that nobody likes unless they’re stupid!

DAD: I beg your pardon! Pancakes are delicious! Your mother likes them. I like them. Are we stupid?

KEVIN: Yes.

DAD: What about Steve? Steve likes them. Or rather. Steve did like them…

MOM: Steve!

(He stares longingly at the portrait.)

DAD: Steve was proud of pancakes. And he was proud to be part of a pancake family. What would Steve say if he could hear you talking like this?

KEVIN: I don’t know what Steve would say Dad! Probably not a whole lot because if you haven’t noticed, Steve’s dead!

MOM: Steve!

KEVIN: I can’t change the fact that Steve died of a rare infant disease while fighting for freedom overseas!

MOM: Steve!

DAD: How dare you dishonor his memory! Steve loved pancakes!

MOM: Steve!

KEVIN: I’m not Steve, Dad! I’m my own person!

DAD: We are a pancake family, and as long as you live under this roof, you will eat pancakes!

KEVIN: I don’t want your life, Dad.

DAD: (pause) I know what this is all about. (pause) It’s waffles, isn’t it. You’re into waffles. I can see it on your face.

MOM: W-w-what? W-w-waffles? OH GOD! (weeps)

DAD: Answer me! Are you doing waffles, young man?

KEVIN: I refuse to sit here and try to get through to a couple of squares. (turns to leave, turns back). No, I take that back. You pancake lovers are a couple of rounds. See you later…ROUNDIES!

(He pulls a red and white bandana out of his pocket, puts it on his head and quickly smears a bunch of blackface makeup onto his face. He looks just like Aunt Jemima. His parents gasp.)

KEVIN: I am GONE.

(He slams the door and leaves. Silence as the parents reel.)

MOM: Oh, honey. Our son thinks we’re roundies.

DAD: I’m sorry, honey, but we eat pancakes. It’s just what we do. And I guess if that makes us roundies, then I guess we’re roundies.

MOM: (sobs) I don’t want to be a roundie!

DAD: I know, honey, I know.

MOM: He used to love pancakes. What happened?

DAD: Waffles. That’s what happened.

MOM: I’M A HORRIBLE MOTHER!

DAD: I know, honey, I know.

(They sink to the floor, sobbing. End of scene.)

(Kevin at his locker. A friend in a long trenchcoat approaches.)

KEVIN: Hey. Do you have ‘em?

FRIEND: Sssssh!

(The friend looks both ways and when the coast is clear, pulls a full plate out of his coat: two gigantic Belgian waffles, each with a perfect pat of butter and drizzled in dark syrup. There’s also bacon.)

KEVIN: Oh my god…

FRIEND: I scored some bacon, too.

KEVIN: Thanks man. You’re the best.

(Kevin hands him a huge wad of cash then carefully stashes the plate of waffles in his locker. He looks down the hall absent mindedly and something catches his eye. Soft romantic music and soft focus lenses swirling about tell us what it is: a foxy girl.)

KEVIN: Hey. Who’s that?

FRIEND: Her? I dunno man. I think she’s new. But I bet she’s cool, if you know what I mean?

KEVIN: How can you tell?

FRIEND: I have a sixth sense.

(Closeup of Kevin looking dewey-eyed. Closeup of the girl looking dewey eyed. Or rather, a closeup of the face on a Mrs. Butterworth bottle sitting in the hall. Kevin’s friend shakes him out of it.)

FRIEND: Come on man. Let’s bolt?

KEVIN: Huh? What? Okay…

(Brief shot of the bottle sitting in the hallway amidst the bustle of students between classes. Brief shot of Kevin walking away, but then he looks back…but she’s gone.)

KEVIN: Damn.

(Later that day, Mom, still somewhat emotionally scarred but better, is in Kevin’s room with a laundry basket full of freshly folded clothes. She opens the top dresser drawer and starts putting clothes in until she notices something. She looks puzzled until she starts pulling things out. She cares not about the giant bag of cocaine, the pornographic magazine with Kevin’s picture on the cover, or the well-worn copy of Dianetics. She gasps, puts her hand to her mouth and starts to quietly weep when she discovers three bottles. The first two are butter nut syrup and strawberry syrup.)

MOM: But…these aren’t maple…

(And, oh no, the third bottle couldn’t possibly be, but, yes, it is: boysenberry. The last causes her to shriek and drop the bottle which shatters. She sinks to the floor, sobbing.)

MOM: I’M A HORRIBLE MOTHER! AAAAAHHHH!

(Dad bursts in.)

DAD: Just what on earth is ---

(Mom, frantically crying and trembling, holdings up the bottles of syrup, which drip down her arms, which makes her scream in little fits.)

DAD: --oh, oh God…

(He goes to her to put his arms around her, but as she tries to grab him he pulls her down, literally and figureatively. They sink to the ground, a depressed, devastated, syrupy mess. They continue to weep and call themselves horrible people, horrible parents while pouring syrup on each other, themselves, and down their throats. They weep and scream and snivel. It’s utterly unwatchable. So it goes on for quite some time. Fade to black.)

(Titles: 1. Later. 2. That evening. 3. The same night. 4. Later. 5. That day. 6. In the night time. 7. When it’s dark. 8. But within the same moon cycle. 9. That night.)

(The scene is a huge housewrecker party. Black lights and red lights illuminate teenagers dancing, listening to music, frolicking in hot tubs and having a good time. Kevin is chilling, taking in every detail and bobbing his head to the rock music (which is all about waffles, syrup and how breakfast is deliciously evil), following his friend from earlier down a hallway full of teens making out and rubbing waffles on their lovers’ faces, crotches, and necks.)

FRIEND: In here.

(They duck in to the room. A bunch of hippie types with waffle patterns tye-dyed on their shirts sit around on beanbags. It’s a very chill atmosphere. Some Nick Drake-ish stuff plays on the stereo.)

HIPPIE GIRL: Hey. Glad you could make it.

FRIEND: I told you we’d be here.

(The friend and hippie chick start making out and rubbing waffles and pouring syrup all over each other. But very casually, but affectionately.)

HIPPIE GIRL: Travis! Stop it! Kevin! Um. There’s somebody I wanted to introduce you to. This is Shelly.

(Kevin looks over and sees Shelly: it’s the bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. Their eyes meet again in that true love lock.)

KEVIN: Oh, um, uh, hi.

(Shot of bottle.)

KEVIN: Yeah. That’s right. I saw you too.

(Shot of bottle.)

KEVIN: It’s just, um, you’re so beautiful I couldn’t look away.

(Shot of bottle.)

KEVIN: Pssh. Of course I meant it.

FIRST HIPPIE GUY: (as if holding his breath) Here man…

(He passes Kevin a plate.)

KEVIN: Um, what is this?

SECOND HIPPIE GUY: French toast, man.

HIPPIE GIRL: It’ll blow those waffles you’ve been doing out of the water, man.

KEVIN: Um, no thanks.

FRIEND: WHAT?!

HIPPIE GIRL: Come on, Kevin. It’s really good, man.

(Shot of Mrs. Butterworth.)

KEVIN: Well, um, okay.

(He takes a few bites and gets a euphoric expression on his face. A psychedelic sequence. Colors blur and swirl, the faces of his parents and friends and Mrs. Butterworth drift in and out, smiling laughing, being rubbed with waffles. It eventually fades in to a shot of Kevin and Shelly making out while sitting on the hood of Kevin’s 1976 Gremlin near dawn over a makeout point.)

(Back at school, the parents speak with a counselor.)

COUNSELOR: Mr. Everyparent. Mrs. Everyparent. Thank you for meeting me today.

DAD: Thank you for fitting us in.

MOM: (now calm, as if introducing herself) I’m a horrible mother!

COUNSELOR: Absolutely. Now then. Let’s cut to the chase. Nobody knows a teen better than his high school guidance counselor. And I must say. I think Kevin is doing waffles.

MOM: I’m a horrible mother!

DAD: Yes. We, um, got that impression, too.

COUNSELOR: And you didn’t do anything about it? You are some horrible, horrible parents. And people.

MOM: I’m a horrible mother!

DAD: But, is it too late? Is there nothing I can do, an ordinary citizen like me? I mean, how do I get through to my son? I’m not a famous athlete or rock and roll Led Zeppeliner.

MOM: The waffles! The waffles! My baby is on waffles! How! Why?

COUNSELOR: Settle down, Mr. And Mrs. Everyparent. It’s not too late. And it may not be as serious as we think.

DAD: You shut your mouth.

COUNSELOR: Now, now. Waffles are definitely a dangerous concern in their own right.

MOM: I’m A HORRIBLE MOTHER.

COUNSELOR: Certainly. But what’s more alarming is that waffles are often a gateway breakfast pastry. Sure, today Kevin might enjoy waffles with his friends, perhaps he’ll nibble on a few at a party. Maybe he’ll get in his car and drive home and he’ll get lucky and make it home okay. But that will only make him feel invincible. Soon, the waffles won’t cut it anymore and Kevin will move on to other, harder, entrees. French toast. Crepes.

MOM: B-b-belgian waffles?

COUNSELOR: I’m afraid so, Mrs. Everyman.

MOM: Oh, my poor little baby!

DAD: No, honey. It’s not too late. We’ve got to get through to him. Some way.

(The parents and counselor freeze. A guy in a suit and a crown walks in. He is Prince Charles.)

PRINCE CHARLES: Hello. I’m Prince Charles. What the kindly counselor said was wrong. It is too late to get through to your kids, parents. For statistics prove that you can discipline and monitor your teenage children all you want, but it has been predetermined by the age of 4 what kind of life they will lead. 98 percent of all parental damage is ingrained by the age of 4. And there’s pretty much nothing you can do about that either. So it is too late. You screwed up. It’s all your fault. What, did you think we’d tell you it wasn’t? Wanna see what happened to Kevin:

(Shot of Kevin. The narration describes him accurately.)

PRINCE CHARLES: (os) Kevin becomes homeless and dirty. He becomes a bum on a street corner picking out rotten bits of frozen off-brand waffles right out of the box with his dirty, grime-infested fingers.

(Back to Prince Charles)

PRINCE CHARLES: And that’s why if you eat breakfast, you’re a dumb motherfucker.

(Blackout.)

Le Francophone Funtime Hour for Children

2007-02-27T11:47:00.000-08:00

(Cold opening. Video hum. Black and white. Silence. Titles: Le Francophone Funtime Hour for Children. Quebecois Televis’. The set looks something like a nursery, except all the toys are broken and giant blocks spell out the words “remorse,” “regret,” and “and “gout.” Hercule and Pierre sit atop two stools, smoking. The entire thing is done with lots of weird camera tricks like ultra close-ups, repeats, and split screens of Hercule and Pierre looking in opposite directions. They drink tiny little cups of coffee and smoke. Constantly.)

HERCULE: Good morning.

PIERRE: Yes, the morning. It is. Nothing to be done.

HERCULE: You have tuned your television boxes to the Francophone Funtime Hour.

PIERRE: A place where a child can act immature and childish, as he is prone to do so, but in an environment free of judgment or consequence.

HERCULE: We will have very much fun today. Yes.

PIERRE: Or we shall try. Oh, how we shall try for merriment. But…

HERCULE: It is comforting to my brittle heart to see you today Pierre.

PIERRE: And I you, Hercule. And I you.

HERCULE: How did you spend your evening time away from your obligation of work?

PIERRE: Again, I did not sleep. I dreamt of my beloved Cecille. How I miss her so.

HERCULE: Yes. Though she was not my lover for many years, I miss her as well also.

PIERRE: I miss most of all her brown locks and how beautiful she looked when she wept over the death of a long since departed childhood pet.

HERCULE: Shall we look at the newspaper to know what tragedies and miseries have occurred that we can do nothing of?

(They each take out a newspaper and read it silently as they loudly slurp coffee.)

HERCULE: Cruelty.

PIERRE: Misery.

HERCULE: Pain.

PIERRE: All of it. So exquisite.

HERCULE: The soldiers of the west have released magnificent bombs of fire upon the once majestic city of Baghdad. Many of the residents are dead.

PIERRE: But is it not they who are lucky?

HERCULE: The once mighty city, it lies in ruins.

PIERRE: Not unlike the barren ashes of my once lively heart. Now my only mistress is the cruel sting of memory.

HERCULE: Still, the fire is beautiful, no?

PIERRE: Yes. There is beauty in this sadness. But I weep not for these people of distant kingdoms, I weep only for my beloved Camille.

(Brutally sad accordion music plays. Neither man reacts.)

HERCULE: That happy fun noise can mean but une chose [one thing].

PIERRE: Alas, it is the time for the Haunting Look of Sorrowful Longing Contest.

HERCULE: The child with the heart most withered that can display a haunting look of sorrowful longing on their still young, not weary face, shall win a prize.

PIERRE: Monsieur Olyphant, what is the prize?

(Cut to Monsieur Olyphant, a rumpled middle aged man who is smoking and whittling.)

OLYPHANT: The prize, she is wine.

ALL THREE: Because children love wine.

OLYPHANT: Now go away. I am sad.

HERCULE: Please children. Show us how the cruel world has bruised and soured vos jeunes coeurs [your young hearts].

(Music: “Baby Elephant Walk.” Camera cuts to the children in the audience, about 10 of them. The camera does a very long closeup on each of them. Each look of haunting sorrow is even more hauntingly sorrowful than the last.)

HERCULE: The winner is clear.

PIERRE: Yes. The little girl has made me cry on the inside. But not on the outside for I can no longer feel.

HERCULE: What is your name, little girl?

GIRL: It matters not.

(They give her the bottle of wine and she leaves.)

HERCULE: Perhaps the guest will make you happy.

PIERRE: No simple man or thing can make me happy, for my beloved Cecille is dead.

HERCULE: Ah yes, Cecille.

PIERRE: But still, life, it continues.

HERCULE: Yes. And our guests. Still, they come.

PIERRE: Who is this guest of which you speak?

HERCULE: Our next guest, Whimsy, he is a clown.

PIERRE: A clown? Though I cry, this clown, he laughs?

HERCULE: Yes.

PIERRE: What a delicious irony.

HERCULE: From Cirque du Tristesse, please say bonjour to Whimsy the Clown.

(Whimsy the Clown comes on and does his fuckass Cirque du Soleil routine. When he finishes there is no applause. The studio is silent. Pierre and Hercule do not react. Neither does the audience. After some time, sad accordion music plays.)

PIERRE: That sound can mean but only a single thing.

HERCULE: Yes. It is time for a cartoon from Tin Tin.

AUDIENCE: (flatly) Viva le Tin Tin.

PIERRE: No, Hercule. We have not a cartoon from Tin Tin.

HERCULE: But why, Pierre? Why do we not have the delightful Tin Tin cartoon?

PIERRE: Tin Tin. He is...dead.

AUDIENCE: (a collective sigh)

HERCULE: Ah yes. Sweet death.

PIERRE: So. In lieu of a cartoon from Tin Tin, we have...ennui.

(Wacky music plays. A single teardrop falls on Pierre's cheeek. A single teardrop falls down Hercule's cheek. Then a single teardrop falls down both their cheeks.)

TOGETHER: Ennui. Yes.

HERCULE: What did you think of during the ennui, Pierre?

PIERRE: I longed to be enveloped in the loving arms of Camille as before.

HERCULE: Yes. Camille was very sweet.

PIERRE: Ah, Camille. Sweet, lovely, pale Camille. She was but my lover of many years. But such creatures are not of our time, this wretched place, these silly mortal things.

HERCULE: Why did she pass?

PIERRE: Her heart, Hercule. It had the disease.

HERCULE: And she proceeded on to the exquisite haunt of the moribund beyond.

PIERRE: Death, oh sweet death, touch me with your breath so that I might be with Camille again.

HERCULE: Was she the blond?

PIERRE: Yes.

HERCULE: With the green eyes?

PIERRE: Yes.

HERCULE: And she lived in the duplex in Toronto with the adorable little dog?

PIERRE: Yes. The name of the dog was Mini.

HERCULE: Mon cher ami, that woman, that is not Camille. You are thinking of Dominique!

PIERRE: (long pause) Oh. Yes. Dominique. I wonder then...who is this Camille, and why does her name haunt me so?

HERCULE: Sit and think of your beloved, Pierre. For it is time we have our final segment of the program. Monsieur Olyphant, bring out the Wheel of French Stereotypes.

(Monsieur Olyphant, smoking and openly wheeping, wheels out a big game show style wheel painted various shades of grey.)

OLYPHANT: Here is your wheel, you bourgeois pigs.

(He leaves.)

HERCULE: Would it bring your heart solace to spin the Wheel of French Stereotypes?

PIERRE: No. I must sit and think of my beloved Dominique. Or possibly Cecille. I have already begun to forget her face.

HERCULE: Very well. I shall spin.

(He spins the wheel.)

HERCULE: Bon. Today’s French stereotype is “surrender.”

AUDIENCE: Hooray. We surrender to you.

HERCULE: Please welcome the French Stereotype Players.

(Some guys in striped shirts, and berets come out. They wear Hitler mustaches and have on long Nazi coats.)

STEREOTYPE PLAYER: Hello. We are the Germans. You have to surrender to us now.

HERCULE: Very well.

PIERRE: (Sighs.)

HERCULE: That is the end of the program, children.

(The children all come up on stage and vaguely sway to the sad accordion music. Whimsy the Clown comes out and does some more of his fuckass routine. Monsieur Olyphant continues to whittle, smoke, and cry. Everyone else just stands around looking sad.)

Sweepstakes

2007-02-26T17:18:00.000-08:00

(Front door of a suburban home. Sounds of a van pulling up and it’s sliding door opening. A reporter runs up, clutching a giant novelty check for $10 million. He is flanked by a sound man and a camera man. There are lots of balloons and a bouquet of flowers too. He excitedly rings the doorbell. After about a minute, a little girl answers the door.)

GIRL: Hi. Can I help you?

REPORTER: Hello there. Are you Dotty Woltrip?

GIRL: No, I’m Samantha. Dotty Woltrip is my mom.

REPORTER: Well, is your mother at home?

GIRL: She had to run an errand. She’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.

REPORTER: She’s not home?

GIRL: No. What do you guys want?

REPORTER: Well, we’re here to surprise her with a check for $10 million. She’s won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes!

GIRL: Oh, that’s good. She’ll want to know about that.

REPORTER: She’s really not home?

GIRL: No. You can wait if you want.

(They confer.)

REPORTER: Uh, I guess we’ll have to do that.

(They kind of hem and haw, like they’re going to sit on the lawn or the steps.)

REPORTER: Oh, hey guys, the lawn is wet.

GIRL: Yeah, it was just watered.

REPORTER: I guess we’ll just stand then.

GIRL: Do you want to come in or something?

REPORTER: No, no, that’s okay. We’ll want to surprise your mother.

GIRL: You’re not supposed to come in if mom’s not home.

REPORTER: Right.

GIRL: I’m going to go back inside.

REPORTER: Uh, okay.

GIRL: My cereal is getting cold.

REPORTER: Sure.

GIRL: You can sit down if you want.

REPORTER: We can’t. The ground is, you know, wet.

GIRL: Oh, right.

REPORTER: Yep.

GIRL: Hey, you could circle around the block or something until she comes back.

REPORTER: Well, the van is kind of uncomfortable with all of us riding around.

GIRL: How far did you come?

REPORTER: Well, we all drove to the Oakway Mall and met there. We all got in the van there and came here.

GIRL: That’s funny because that’s where mom went. You probably even saw her there. Where did you park?

REPORTER: In front of the Kinkos.

GIRL: Yeah, that’s where she was going.

REPORTER: How do you like that?

GIRL: Do you have anything else you could do while you wait?

REPORTER: No, this is pretty much the only thing we had scheduled for today.

GIRL: You don’t have a book or anything?

REPORTER: No, we thought this would just take a minute or two.

GIRL: Newspaper?

REPORTER: Nope.

GIRL: You want ours? You could do the jumble.

REPORTER: No thanks. The jumble’s usually so easy.

GIRL: Are you sure you don’t want the paper? It’s useless to me. I don’t know how to read.

REPORTER: Me neither.

GIRL: You want to come inside and have a cup of coffee with me?

REPORTER: Nah.

GIRL: Okay, then. Well, I’m just going to go inside now.

REPORTER: Hey, look, I’m sorry.

GIRL: No, it’s fine. It’s totally fine.

REPORTER: Hey, here comes a car.

GIRL: That’s not hers. It’s the neighbors.

REPORTER: Huh. Well, I guess we’ll wait then.

GIRL: Okay.

(Girl goes inside. Reporter and others stand around.)

REPORTER: (pause) So. (pause) You guys see The View this morning? John Travolta. Very likeable guy. (pause) Real family man, you know. (pause) Sigh…

Scientists #2

2007-02-21T14:39:00.001-08:00

(The identical scientists are again in the lab, but all stand milling around a giant keyboard, similar to the one in Big. There are various dogs roaming around, too, playing and smelling each others' butts.)

SCIENTIST #1: After thousands of years of domestication, this doggie language translator and matching giant keyboard built for doggies, will finally unlock the secrets of what dogs think and want. Bring out the first dog.

(A cute large dog is picked up and placed on the keyboard. He walks around on it, turns around, sits down, and barks. Scientists write down his every action.)

COMPUTER VOICE: (like Stephen Hawking's modulator) I want to eat the cat poop.

SCIENTISTS: Fascinating! Brilliant! Science is incredible! (etc.)

COMPUTER VOICE: My genitals taste fantastic.

(More superlatives and the scientists frantically scribble it all down.)

COMPUTER VOICE: Where we going? Are we going in the car? Huh? Huh? Are we?

SCIENTIST #1: Wherever you want!

(The scientists pick up the dog and carry him out on their shoulders.)

Scientists #1

2007-02-21T14:37:00.000-08:00

(In a sedate research/classroom facility, a bunch of scientists in white lab coats with identical horn-rimmed glasses and crew cuts write equations on a chalkboard and scribble in notebooks, tearing off pages, and tossing them away in frustration. It's bustling with a constant hum of activity. The scientists work in small groups. The camera suddenly cuts to a single scientist working on his own who was heretofore unseen.)

SCIENTIST #1: Okay. (mass silence) Okay. Now. Stay with me now. What if...we put...the penis...in the vagina?

(Pause)

ALL THE OTHER SCIENTISTS: (various superlatives such as:) Brilliant! That's it! Eureka! Of course! The Nobel is ours! (etc.)

Kathy Takes Jeremy to the Vet

2007-02-20T14:30:00.000-08:00

(A doctor’s office. Kathy leads in Jeremy, who is blindfolded. She guides him to an exam table.)

KATHY: Okay, hop up and sit. We’re here.

JEREMY: Can I take the blindfold off?

KATHY: No.

JEREMY: (sighs) Okay. Hey, why am I blindfolded anyway? (pause) Oh, God, you’re finally going to kill me! Well, I’ve had a good run.

KATHY: If you thought I was going to kill you, why didn’t you ask about the blindfold during the 20 minute ride over here?

JEREMY: Because I thought you were going to kill me.

(She takes the blindfold off.)

JEREMY: Where are we? Are we at a doctor’s?

KATHY: Happy birthday, sweetie.

JEREMY: Health care? You got me health care?

KATHY: Yep.

JEREMY: It’s what I’ve always wanted! (They embrace.) Wait, I can’t afford health care. Health care is only for the wealthy and the elderly who feel entitled for not dying.

KATHY: I found a loophole. You’re covered under my health plan.

JEREMY: No, partners are only eligible if we’re married or gay. (pause) Oh God. You’re gonna have my penis cut off and a vagina installed! Oh well. I’ve had a good run. Can I put the blindfold back on?

KATHY: Please. All reproductive health needs are performed in back alleys now. It’s the law. Like I said, I found a loophole. I have pet insurance.

JEREMY: Such a thing exists?

KATHY: It exists and I apparently pay $23 per paycheck for it. So basically, if you want to see a doctor, albeit a veterinarian, you’ll have to pretend to be a dog. And only allow the exam to cover the parts of your body that are indistinguishable from that of a dog.

JEREMY: Would this be a good time for a dog penis joke?

(The Veterinarian enters. Throughout the scene, she is not able to see that Jeremy is a human being. She also interprets all his dialogue as barks.)

KATHY: Follow my lead.

JEREMY: Damn.

VET: Hi, Kathy. I’m Dr. Couldntakealltheschooltobecomearealdoctor.

KATHY: Hi, Dr. Couldntakealltheschooltobecomearealdoctor. This is my dog, Jeremy.

VET: Well, he’s a big puppy isn’t he? (Reaches up and pats Jeremy on the head.) What breed is he?

KATHY: Hon, what’s your racial background again?

JEREMY: Mostly English.

KATHY: (she fingers his curly hair) He’s an English…curlhound.

VET: Of course. I had one of these when I was a kid. Or rather, my mom did. Kept her a lot of company after Dad left. They would just disappear into the bedroom for hours. One time for an entire weekend. Anyway. This breed is highly suspectible to mange. Have you had him checked recently?

JEREMY: Excuse me. I am in a commited relationship. What are you implying exactly?

VET: Calm down, boy. Do you want to go ahead and get the ID chip implanted today as well?

JEREMY: (whisper) No! They’re trying to control my brain!

KATHY: Jeremy. Hush. Good boy.

VET: So. Why’d we bring in Jeremy today?

KATHY: Just a general checkup.

JEREMY: And the other thing.

KATHY: Oh, right. He’s sort of been paranoid and listless lately. Or rather more so.

VET: I see. Mood swings? Crabby moods? Things of that nature? (Kathy nods.) Does he still do normal dog things? If you can show me a trick he knows well, that means we can rule out any kind of brain parasite.

JEREMY: Brain parasites? I am so not paying attention anymore. (He picks up a magazine.)

KATHY: Just any trick?

VET: Yes. I need to see if he’s able to recall commands and execute them. It indicates a healthy cerebellum.

KATHY: Alright then. Jeremy?

JEREMY: (reading, crabby) What?

KATHY: Fetch!

(Jeremy casually gets down off the table and leaves. He comes back and whispers something to Kathy. She reaches in her purse and gives him some money. Jeremy leaves, then comes back and kisses her on the cheek. Kathy and the Vet sit in awkward silence.)

VET: So. Dog owner, huh?

KATHY: Yep.

VET: Yeah, yeah. Dogs are good. I like dogs, too.

KATHY: Really.

VET: Uh-huh. I’m a vet actually.

KATHY: Right.

(Finally, Jeremy returns with a six pack of beer and a bag of greasy fried chicken. He puts them on the table.)

KATHY: Good boy! Who wants a treat?

(Kathy pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and takes one out of the pack. She balances the cigarette on Jeremy’s nose.)

KATHY: Get it boy!

(Jeremy casually reaches up and grabs the cigarette. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and lights it.)

KATHY: Who’s in flavor country? Who’s in flavor country?

JEREMY: I am?

KATHY: Yes you are! That’s a good boy!

VET: Hmm. His brain seems to be functioning correctly, so it’s not canine meningitis. I would however recommend you cut back on his cigarettes. Still, I’m flummoxed. We might have to run some tests.

(Jeremy starts scratching all over. He smells his fingers, then goes back to his magazine. Before scratching and sniffing again.)

VET: How long has he been scratching like that?

KATHY: I don’t know. I haven’t really noticed. Jeremy, why are you scratching?

JEREMY: Because I itch, dammit.

(The Vet examines Jeremy closely. She looks in his air, under his arms, and on his torso. She scratches his back and his leg starts thumping like a dog’s.)

VET: Well, in my expert opinion, I have determined two things.

KATHY: What is it? What is it?

VET: First, this is unequivocally and unquestionably a dog. Second, this dog has seven different kinds of body lice.

KATHY: Body lice?

JEREMY: What was a waste of $23. I already knew that.

KATHY: Are you sure he’s not just disgusting and unkempt?

VET: No, this is definitely body lice. To confirm this, I’m going to use this sophisticated lice test.

(She gets a black matte object out of a drawer. It looks like an Ipod. She points it at Jeremy. It screams out: “LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE!”)

VET: I was right. (She turns her back to them to prepare some paperwork.)

KATHY: Why didn’t you tell me you had seven different kinds of body lice?

JEREMY: It’s kind of embarrassing. And also, what if I’d gotten it from you? That would have made things a little awkward around the house.

VET: The constant scratching and biting often makes a dog incredibly irritable. I’m going to prescribe some medication. And we’ll have to fit him with one of these.

(She holds out a giant dog cone collar, the kind they use so dogs won’t bite their stitches.)

KATHY: This is so embarrassing.

(The Vet quickly puts the collar on Jeremy. As soon as it’s on, he starts dancing around the room.)

JEREMY: Look at me! I’m Queen Elizabeth!

(End.)

Hungry Children are Funny

2007-02-19T10:32:00.000-08:00

(Two boys rollerblade in. They wear neon clothes, fanny packs and lots of padding.)

Boy #1: Wow! Awesome ollie back there!

Boy #2: Yeah! It was way radical how you 720ed that rail!

(They screech & stop. They high-five, bump chests, etc. Boy #1’s digital watch alarm sounds.)

Boy #1: Sorry, I have to be home for dinner. Mom’s making my favorite! Fried chicken and stuffing!

Boy #2: What time are you eating?

Boy #1: 6:30. Hey…I think I’ve got an idea here. What time are you eating?

Boy #2: Um, I’m not really sure…but I really like fried chicken.

Boy #1: Are you thinking what I’m thinking? We could eat at my house at 6:30, and then go eat at your house! Getting twice as much chicken and stuffing in the process!

Boy #2: Look, I didn’t want to get in to this right now, but…

Boy #1: Hey, what’s going on?

Boy #2: We haven’t had a proper dinner in months, okay? Not since Mom got so…sad.

Boy #1: Oh. Uh. Sorry.

Boy #2: So as you can imagine the chicken and stuffing aren’t exactly filling the fridge with leftovers.

Boy #1: Sure. Yeah, you know, that’s cool…

Boy #2: Can I come to your house for dinner? I’m so hungry.

Boy #1: Um, I don’t know, it’s kind of short notice.

Boy #2: Oh. Oh. Okay. I understand.

Boy #1: Yeah?

Boy #2: No, no, it’s totally fine.

Boy #1: Okay, well, then, I guess I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.

Boy #2: Sure, sure.

Boy #1: Well, see ya.

Boy #2: Yeah! See you later.

(They each walk off in separate directions.)

B.S.C.O.O.T.B.

2007-02-19T10:31:00.001-08:00

(Black and white. Medium range shot of a 1950s-era doctor reading a chart. He smokes a cigarette and wears one of those head-lamp things.)

DOCTOR: Hello, I'm Dr. Hawkins. I want to tell you about a very serious medical condition that's affecting more and more Americans at an alarming rate. (Switches to camera 2, looks into it) Brown stuff coming out of the butt.

(Montage of stock footage of people going about their daily lives - working, playing, dancing, getting routine checkups)

DOCTOR: Rich and poor, young and old, male, female, black, white, or other, hundreds of thousands of hard working Americans are faced with this puzzling medical crisis. They’ll be going about their regular, wholesome, American activities when suddenly without warning or prejudice…

(Shot of a little boy in a striped shirt sitting on the toilet, holding his stomach. Cut to his mother and father standing in the doorway looking concerned, horrified, and alarmed.)

(Back to Doctor)

DOCTOR: The urge for brown stuff to come out of the butt strikes! And before long, brown stuff coming out of the butt. (As he says the words “brown stuff coming out of the butt, the first letter of each word appears on the screen, spelling out BSCOOTB.) What is BSCOOTB? It's simple.

(Cut to educational animations of a butt with a big brown log coming out of it. Lots of motion arrows.)

DOCTOR: Large cylinders, or sometimes small pieces, none no longer than an inch and a half in width, of a spongey, dark brown, emerge from the patient's anus at a rate of once to twice per day.

(Back to Doctor)

DOCTOR: Nobody knows what causes this, why it happens, why it chooses certain people over others, how long it lasts or what this mysterious brown substance might be. But you're probably wondering "but doctor, do I have brown stuff coming out of the butt?" Let's take this simple test and find out.

(Cut to text screen. Each of the questions appear as they’re asked.)

DOCTOR: Question 1: Do you occasionally get a strange senstation in your abdomen that suggets you need to inexplicable expel matter? Question 2: After that, does brown stuff come out of your butt? If you answered yes, then you have brown stuff coming out of your butt. (Titles: BSCOOTB)

(Back to Doctor)

DOCTOR: See your family physican or "doctor" immediately to formally diagnose BSCOOTB so as to get your affairs in order. Because while we don't know what BSCOOTB is or what causes it, we do know this: it's fatal. (Switches to other camera) Several theories exist as to what BSCOOTB might be. It could be (bulleted list appears on screen) dark matter. Or plutonium. Or an as yet undiscovered element. (Listed on the screen as ?????) Other theories strongly suggest the influence of communists (On screen it’s a sickle) or the devil (picture of a little man with horns and a tail. Take down when next thought begins.). One former doctor from the second rate Johns Hopkins Medical School looked at us incredulously when we asked him what the brown stuff coming out of the butt might be. After asking several times if we were "kidding" - as if we'd be joking about brown stuff coming out of the butt - this so-called medical expert suggested brown stuff coming out of the butt was the body's waste material left over from digesting food. Sure, doctor. Sure.

(The doctor walks over to an open window. It’s a sunny day. Children play baseball.)

DOCTOR: But don't despair. There is hope. While treatments as of yet are unproven, your doctor can do many things for you. (Cut to a shot of a little girl peering into a toilet at a massive turd.) If brown stuff comes out of your butt, don't touch it. (Titles: DON’T TOUCH IT! The following is acted out as the Doctor suggests it.) Using a pair of tongs, place it into a paper bag and bring to your doctor for further study. After, get plenty of bed rest and eat lots of healthy foods known to combat brown stuff coming out of the butt, including leafy greens, beans, cabbage, and lots and lots of black coffee.

(Back to Doctor)

DOCTOR: Together, we can put an end to brown stuff coming out of the butt.

(He smiles at the camera as majestic filmstrip music plays, but it’s drowned out by deep, disgusting gutteral noises and stomach cramp sounds.)

The President is a Decent Man

2007-02-16T14:59:00.000-08:00

(The middle of a White House press briefing. The president is at the podium answering questions.)

PRESIDENT:…and as stated, our thoughts and prayers are with the pope’s family, and we know his foot will be found shortly. Further, next time we will try extra hard to capture the right bad guys. (pause) So what else you got. You?

REPORTER #1: Mr. President, the Senate has begun the process of approving your legislation to revamp the Social Security system.

PRESIDENT: Yep. I heard this morning they're gonna be voting on that by the end of the week. What's your question?

REPORTER #1: Sir, don't you think it's an alarmingly reckless move to stake the nation's future by putting the $5 trillion Social Security fund on 31 black?

PRESIDENT: Now, look at that there. You're just exagerating. You make me laugh. You're funnier than Whimsy the Clown! I’m not just going to take all this money from Social Security and put it willy-nilly on 31 black. I’m a Republican. That means I am a fiscal conservative. And the Republican party never has and never will put any money or anything black. Next question.

REPORTER #2: Mr. President, Randolph Keys, National Public Radio...

PRESIDENT: Alright, here we go...which endangered ass spider did we kill now, you fucking hippie?

REPORTER #2: (sighs) Well, that’s sort of my question. Some have accused your administration of insensitivity, if not outright racism.

PRESIDENT: They did? Who? Who said I'm racist?

REPORTER #2: Well, it's not any one person sir...

PRESIDENT: Come on, tell me! Which one of you fucking wetback hymies said I'm a racist?

(A very, very British reporter, dressed in a beefeater and monocole, stands up.)

REPORTER #3: Mr. president! No one need speculate on your racist tendencies when you spout them off at any opportunity!

PRESIDENT: Now, come on, that racism stuff is just not true. What did I say that you Jew monsters in the media could twist around until it was racist? You Jew reporters are so good at that. I bet you Jews can’t give me one example.

REPORTER #2: Well, you just called all of us Jews.

PRESIDENT: I did not.

REPORTER #2: Yes, you did.

PRESIDENT: Yeah I did, but just calling someone a Jew isn’t racist.

REPORTER #1: You also called us wetbacks.

PRESIDENT: No, see, again, you’re twisting my words to make me look bad. What I said was “which fucking wetback said I was racist.” I could have been talking about anybody. So long as it was a wetback. End of story.

REPORTER #3: Mr. President, must I remind you of the state visit by the premiere of China in which you rang a gong whenever he spoke?

PRESIDENT: That wasn't racist. That was funny! I was just trying to make the premiere feel more at home. They ring gongs for everything over there: when the fortune cookies are read, when the rice is done, when they’re about to murder and eat another girl baby. Sure, you wrote all about the gong, but did you write anything about me awarding the National Medal of Freedom to Louis Farrakhan? Nope.

REPORTER #1: Louis Farrakhan hates Jews!

PRESIDENT: But he loooooves black people. Just like me. I love niggers. So I’m not a racist. Questions? You, the gook in front.

ASIAN REPORTER: I’m sorry, what did you say?

PRESIDENT: I'm sorry, chinky. Jappy? You all look alike to me when I’m not in a rickshaw. What's your question?

ASIAN REPORTER: Um, uh, well, uh…

PRESIDENT: This guy stutters worse than a drunken Indian. Am I right or am I right?

(A Native American reporter, stumbles drunkenly, stands up. We can hear a bottle break.)

NATIVE REPORTER: You have angered the earth spirits. There shall be no ceremonial gifts of maize. (He sits.)

PRESIDENT: Okay, look, I’ll prove it to you. Let me introduce you to one of my many non-racist associates and friends. Jim, come out here. Y'all are gonna meet my friend Jim. We were in Skull and Bones together. (A guy in a KKK hood and robe comes out.) Jim Harbrook, everybody. You're gonna love this...if I was a racist, would I be friends with Jim Harbrook, the grand wizard of the ACLU? (Klan guy whispers in his ear) You're not? (whispers) Right, ACLU. (whispers) KKK? (whispers) Yeah, they're the same thing. (whispers) Oh. Well. Mr. Harbrook says that he's actually head of a…similar human rights organization. Mr. Harbrook, I salute you. How about a government grant? God knows the Urban League will just waste it on sneakers, tire rims, and lapdances. (Klan guy whispers again.) Right. And crack also.

ASIAN REPORTER: Mr. President, another indication of your racism would be the role minorities play in your administration, or some would say, the lack of roles. How do you respond?

PRESIDENT: To say that minorities fill meaningless, token roles in my administration is beyond false. It is falsosity in its purest form. This administration would not have the strength and confidence to make important decisions about our nation's security without the sustenance provided by Secretary of State Latrell Jackson's delicious fried chicken and waffles. And where would the DEA know where to find drug dealers without the assistance of drug czar Lopez, who time and again has led anti-drug officials to his cousins' homes?

REPORTER #5: Sir, I'm Mike Williams from ---

PRESIDENT: Wait, don't tell me, UPN right? I hear that stands for “unpaid Negroes”!

REPORTER #5: Good God, I'm from the New York Times.

PRESIDENT: I feel you, gangsta. (Flashes a gang sign)

REPORTER #5: Some allege that you in fact are racist but are too ignorant as to be aware of your own racism. How do you respond?

PRESIDENT: (pause) Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Wesley Snipes?

REPORTER #3: Mr. President that is appalling.

PRESIDENT: Come on, lighten up, Uncle Tom. I'm only kidding. You guys put on more pressure than a Moroccan shopkeeper. Security!

(Skinheads escort out Reporters #3 and #5.)

PRESIDENT: Next question. No Irish reporters...you.

NATIVE REPORTER: Leader of nation, my people wish to know how you will help with the Indian Rights movement. How?

PRESIDENT: Hmm. Feather or dot?

NATIVE REPORTER: (pause. He points to the feather in his headdress) Feather.

PRESIDENT: And will I what to the movement?

NATIVE REPORTER: Help it?

PRESIDENT: More specific.

NATIVE REPORTER: How?

(The president collapses to the floor with laughter having gotten the Indian to say how.)

PRESIDENT: HAHAHAH! Oh! That’s rich! My son bet me $20 I wouldn’t be able to get you to do that!

NATIVE REPORTER: Again you have angered the ancients and trodden upon our way of life with your racist ways. The tree god wishes me to drink this bottle of gin to atone. (He chugs a bottle of gin, then collapses.)

PRESIDENT: Look, I’m clearly not winning you over, so maybe I can get some support from the person who knows me even better than Jesus. Honey, come out here place. My fellow Americans, this is my wife, Ursula.

(Ursula comes out. She’s totally Aryan. She’s wearing a “Hitler was my homeboy” T-shirt.)

PRESIDENT: Tell them about the day we met.

URSULA: (robotic if not Teutonic) My husband likes to say that I permanently stole his heart and won his love like a gypsy that would steal a baby and sell it to a Thai whorehouse. Which is also where we met. (She exits.)

PRESIDENT: See? My heart is full of love. Not just for baby-sealing gypsies and underage girl-whoring Thais, but for everyone: Chinks, Gooks, Wops, Spics, Frogs, Wetbacks…even faggots. No, not faggots. Red states, red states.

REPORTER #2: Mr. President, why do you say such stupid things?

PRESIDENT: (A pause. He sighs. Time to put it all on the line.) Isn't it obvious? I'm trying to get fired! What's it going to take? I don't want to be president. Not again! I've only been in government for nine years. Before that I managed a Starbucks! I mean, what's it going to take for you guys to kick me out! Are the Democrats so ineffectual and misguided that you want to stick with me? I mean, look at this prison scandal people! Federal prisoners of color were released from their cells, ridden like ponies and forced to kiss each other, photos of which were found on my digital camera and weblog! And what happened? My approval rating went up! Or what about the time I tried to play basketball with the dignitaries from Africa and body-checked Winnie Mandela. What happens? Re-election in a landslide? I guess the point is, it does no good trying to be a racist president when the rest of the country it probably even more racist than you are. I curse the day I ever applied to be on Who Wants to Be the President! I CURSE YOU ORIGINAL CONCEIT IN REALITY TELEVISION!

REPORTER #1: Who don't you just resign?

PRESIDENT: And give the Democrats the satisfaction? Never! You make less sense than a drunken Indian…?

REPORTER #2: It's not working anymore.

PRESIDENT: Then what am I gonna do, huh? If being a balls-out racist means I'm re-elected, I guess I'll just have to rise to the job and govern fairly and effectively. I don't know how to do that.

(Late Reporter comes bustling into scene. He’s out of breath. He’s a scrappy, 1930s movie-style reporter. The little tag on his hat that should say “press” actually says “Deus ex machina.”)

30S REPORTER: Whew! Sorry I’m late, but boy oh boy, gee whiz, have I got a scoop! Wait til chief hears about this! Mr. President, did a certain truck stop waitress, who may or may not have been a man, give you a handjob?

PRESIDENT: What...did you say?

30S REPORTER: The American people have a right to know if you got a stroke job from a transexual truckstop hooker.

PRESIDENT: Wait...this is it. Ask me again! ASK ME AGAIN!

30S REPORTER: DID YOU ENGAGE IN A MINOR SEX ACT THAT HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING?

PRESIDENT: Yes! Yes I did! I GOT A HANDJOB FROM A TRUCKSTOP SHEMALE WHORE! WOO-HOO!

(Outrage and hysteria. The reporters begin throwing stones. They stone the president to death. The lights go out and from above, in a spotlight beam, a small, shiny object, it doesn’t matter what, floats down to sit on the podium amidst a chorus of angels.)

VOICE: BEHOLD...THE NEW PRESIDENT.

REPORTER #1: Ooo...it's beautiful!

REPORTER #2: It's shiny!

30S REPORTER: So charismatic and winning!

ASIAN REPORTER: It offers something for everyone!

REPORTER #1: It's the best president we ever had!

REPORTER #2: It makes me hate Russia again, like when America was totally awesome!

ASIAN REPORTER: Someone feed it jelly beans!

ALL: Four more years! Four more years!

(The reporters carry the shiny object out on their shoulders.)

Los Matadors

2007-02-16T14:55:00.001-08:00

(POV of a driver, through a windshield. Driving along, she comes to a construction zone. There is a large orange diamond sign up indicating a flagger. Curiously, there is no flagger. There are no other workers. Only several abandoned construction vehicles. Suddenly, out pops a matador. He strikes the same pose as the sillouhette on the sign indicates. The sign was not warning of flaggers, but a matador. He bows in four directions and gives a special sexy look at the driver/POV/camera. He suddenly whips out a large red sheet and unfurls it and begins his fighting. From the side comes a small red compact car. It stops, starts, stops, then charges for the matador. It speeds past him, through the red sheet. The driver applauds. Roses fly from the sky onto the matador. Suddenly, a dozen matadors jump into frame and begin kicking their feet and flashing their red sheets. They jump onto the car and curse in Spanish. The driver screams.)

Ted

2007-02-16T14:53:00.000-08:00

(Scene is a computer dating service. The year: 1985. The woman on the computer wears large Sally Jesse Raphael glasses and is overweight and friendly. A handsome young man wears a Member's Only jacket.)

WOMAN: So what is it, Ted? What's wrong? Why can't you get a date?

TED: I don't know. It's not like I'm trying. I just don't get it. I exercise and am in perfect physical health, I'm physically attractive with an 11 inch penis. In my free time, I read to the elderly and teach immigrant orphans how to read. I cook at a homeless shelter. I'm a doctor, I make $400,000 a year, In college, I minored in women's studies. I swear suits and train guide dogs. I write songs, poems, and am not afraid to share my emotions, but not nearly as fearless as I am about commitment. (Pulls up his shirt) Look at these abs! They're killer! I'm even studying Buddhism! I'm literally nearly everything a woman could possibly want, and if not, am willing to change myself. I would love nothing more than to be somebody's project! I want to snuggle at night, and give foot rubs and cunlingus and expect nothing in return. But still. I just can't find a woman who's interested in me.

WOMAN: You know what we're going to do? We're going to find you a date. Now let's get you into the computer. First name!

TED: (Triumphant) Ted!

WOMAN: (Stirring) Middle name!

TED: (Triumphant) Michael!

WOMAN: (Stirring) Last name?

TED: (half pause) Rape!

(She rudely but tersely gets up and leaves in offended silence. The scene dissolves into a montage of a small town's city streets, parks, and children petting dogs. Ted steps forward and takes off his Member's Only jacket to reveal a boring but tasteful polo shirt.)

TED: I am so tired and saddened by people who are unwilling to look past my unfortunate last name. The name Rape seems to really scare them off. I try to pass it off like's it no big deal, but it always gets a reaction. People seem to really, really hate rape. Hi, I'm Ted Rape. I'm running for city council. I paid for this ad with my own money, which means I can deliver any message I want. Namely, when you're stuck all alone in that ballot box next week, check the yes box, the one right next to rape. Tell those fatcats down at city hall that their reckless policies need to be brutally "Raped!" (He makes the air quotes. Title on screen says "Let's Brutally Rape City Council"). Furthermore, I'm tough on crime. Specifically, rape. I'm the only candidate named Rape who supports increased penalties for convicted, suspected, formerly convicted, or implied rapists. (Pause, as he squints wisely.) Also, I want to say that the whole difficulty dating part is, sadly, quite true. (Sigh) But that litany of my qualities is true, too. As true and undeniable as my crippling loneliness and fear of dying alone. (Title: "I Will Die Alone and Childless") I am unable to find any romance in the tri-county area due to the simple, superficial fact that my last name is Rape. The money, the looks, the compassion, the giant heart bursting love (Title: "I Am Exploding With Love"). Those things don't matter. Rape really puts a woman off. But anyway, my cousin has it worse. The name "Gaylord Manlove" implies many things about my cousin that aren't true, namely that he is a homosexual. What Gaylord Manlove, my cousin, does in the privacy of his own home with his own lovemaking partners, as personally painful emotionally as it may me, is his own business. Unfortunately, Gaylord Manlove's other business: rampant corruption. Gaylord Manlove, my oponent is just...plain...bad...news. (Title: "My Cousin, Gaylord Manlove, Is a Homosexual Crook") He is also unfortunately named, like me. Yet Gaylord Manlove does not support increased penalities for rape. Not like me, Ted Rape. The anti-rape candidate. Now. When you go to the ballot, remeber, that when you say no to rape, say Yes. To Rape. And if you want to go out on a date with me, say yes to Rape who says no to rape. Because no...means...yes!

(Cuts to black and a still shot of Ted.)

Juan Valdez and Kevin

2007-02-16T14:52:00.001-08:00

(Empty stage. There is a coffee tree and a large flat rock. We are in the mountains of Colombia. A wanderer type with a mustache and large hat enters. It is Juan Valdez, the mythical bringer of coffee.)

VALDEZ: (to offstage friend) Come, companion. Let us rest a while.

(The mule saunters in. He has two saddlebags on. Juan takes off his hat, fans himself with it and sits on the rock, relaxing.)

KEVIN: Okay.

VALDEZ: Are you hungry?

KEVIN: No thanks. I had a big lunch at Denny’s.

VALDEZ: Denny’s? Out here?

KEVIN: My friend, Denny. He had an old feedbag full of delicious corn.

VALDEZ: Suit yourself.

(He goes up to the tree and pulls off a handful of coffee beans.)

VALDEZ: Ah, coffee. (He eats the handful, straight.) That is a satisfying crunch.

KEVIN: The hills sure are beautiful today.

VALDEZ: Indeed, they are. For it is in these hills that I, Juan Valdez, and his trusty mule, Kevin, gather the finest in Colombian coffee. And it makes a terrific snack. (He procures and eats another handful) But alas, for now I am thirsty.

(He takes yet another handful of beans off the tree and places them in a small burlap sack he gets out the satchel on the mule. He also removes a coffee mug and a boombox. He jumps up and down on the bean sack repeatedly, smashing them to little bits. As he does so, the boombox plays a crude recording: it’s clearly Juan Valdez mindlessly playing an electric guitar singing “Smashing beans! Smashing beans! Jumping up and down on the bean sack! Smashing beans! Smashing beans! Jumping up and down on the bean sack.” When he’s done smashing beans, he turns the song off.)

VALDEZ: That ought to do it. Are you ready, Kevin?

KEVIN: Bring it on.

VALDEZ: Don’t I always bring it?

KEVIN: Indeed. “It” has been brought by you on quite a number of occasions.

VALDEZ: Then are you prepared for it to be brung?

KEVIN: If “it” is what must be brought, then I highly suggest you take this “it” and bring it in an “on” fashion.

VALDEZ: Okay!

(Valdez pours the beans into the mug and places the mug under one of Kevin's udders.)

KEVIN: Oh, my milk sack is no full of delicious mule milk!

VALDEZ: Mules are mammals right?

KEVIN: Probably. But I am a dude, if that makes any difference.

VALDEZ: Just relax.

(He turns the boombox on again. It’s the same song, but the lyrics are “Milking mules! Milking mules! Taking all the milk in the mule’s milk sack!” He milks Kevin until the mug is full of piping hot milk.)

KEVIN: UGH! UGH! Oh man, that feels so wrong and so good all at the same time.

VALDEZ: That's a very good mule, Kevin! Come on, come on, you can do it!

KEVIN: Oh, oh, I'm gonna do it, OOOOOHHHHH!

(He bucks and Valdez goes flying, but he doesn't spill a drop. The song ends.)

KEVIN: Damn, Juan. Whoever said you were never good at jerking off a mule was most definitely not a mule with a penis.

VALDEZ: Now that's what I call Cafe au lait! Thank you Kevin.

KEVIN: (panting) No, thank you.

(Valdez turns off the music.)

VALDEZ: Cigarette?

KEVIN: Sure.

(Valdez gives him a cigarette. They take turns taking drags. Valdez sits on a rock to relax. They take turns taking drags off the cigarette and swigs of coffee.)

VALDEZ: Care for a sip of your own tasty mule juice?

KEVIN: You know it.

(He sips. There's a brief silence.)

VALDEZ: Kevin, can I ask you something?

KEVIN: What's up?

VALDEZ: Is this how you imagined your life? Trudging through the hills picking coffee beans day after day?

KEVIN: Pretty much. Except for I imagined hiking through jelly bean hills. But when I thought about that I was five and being hospitalized for diabetes. But apparently there is no such thing as jelly bean hills.

VALDEZ: Only in your fruitful donkey imagination, my trusted companion.

KEVIN: Actually, I'm a mule.

VALDEZ: What's the difference?

KEVIN: A donkey is a pure bred species. A mule is a cross between a horse and a donkey.

VALDEZ: So you're a half breed?

KEVIN: That’s correct. The word mule can refer to any thing that is a cross between two species. My mother, for instance, was herself a mule and my father, is, well, my father is five-time Emmy Award winner Kelsey Grammar.

VALDEZ: TV’s “Frasier”? Why didn't you ever say anything?

KEVIN: You never asked. And I didn't want to scare you off with my bastard lineage.

VALDEZ: Oh come on. Why would I do that? I'm a bastard myself.

KEVIN: Really? I thought your parents were happily married?

VALDEZ: They were, but Pierre and Cecille, my beloved parents, were bitchy Quebecois, which pretty makes the whole lot of us bastards.

KEVIN: So what's with the Latino accent?

VALDEZ: Ah, sweet, stupid, innocent donkey man. It is the language of the beans. They have taught me their native Chicano tongue.

KEVIN: Well, I didn't know the beans could talk.

VALDEZ: Of course they can talk, you silly ass face. You just have to be willing to listen. When I was a young boy in Quebec, I could hear the voices calling me. I thought I had the schizophrenia, but after a thorough exorcism, the voices continued and became most strong and loud when I drank my first pot of coffee to finish writing a term paper when I was at the Quebecois community college. I realized that the beans were calling me. Jean, they called me, for that was my name in Quebec. Jean, they said, come, come to the hills of Colombia and pick us. Pick us and harvest us and make wonderful, complete cups of coffee out of us. It is our destiny and yours as well. Like Andy Dick and the Son of Sam before me, I had no choice but to follow the voices and do what they requested of me.

KEVIN: You’re lucky then. A man is blessed when his life work is revealed to him at such an early age. Before I answered your man-seeks-trusty-mule ad I had been working in middle management for the tea company for 26 years.

VALDEZ: Ah yes. You were a not so proud part of the Lipton Tea family. Damn you tea, enemy of coffee! I hate you and everything you stand for!

KEVIN: Dios mio! Why so glum?

VALDEZ: Oh, I don’t know. But I do know. Yes. Sometimes I wonder if I followed the right path. Should I really have trusted, let alone followed, the tiny voices of the little, distant magic beans? I just feel like I’ve wasted my life sometimes.

KEVIN: How can you say that? You do such a noble thing: you bring the finest coffee in the world to those who are willing and able to pay a lot of money for it.

VALDEZ: Precisely. Have you been to Starbucks lately? Who would have thought people would gladly pay four dollars for a cup of coffee?

KEVIN: Oh, Juan. There are few professions more important than bringing coffee to the masses.

VALDEZ: But it’s just a drink. A bitter brown stinky hot drink.

KEVIN: It’s much more than that! It’s a stimulant! It’s one of the most potent and more importantly, universally legal drugs! It makes people alive and alert! It makes stockbrokers more able to screw people over! It prevents carnies from falling asleep while operating woefully under-regulated carnival rides! Nothing’s more important than coffee. Well, maybe one thing.

VALDEZ: Huh? (He pulls out a switchblade and points it at Kevin.) Nothing’s more important than coffee, you sweet son of a bitch!

KEVIN: What’s more important than coffee? Cocaine! Why do you think I’ve followed you around all these years? It is not the coffee that I seek. It is the cocaine.

VALDEZ: Blow?

KEVIN: Snow.

VALDEZ: Coke?

KEVIN: Flake.

VALDEZ: The Len Bias Special?

KEVIN: The presidential nose trumpet.

VALDEZ: (pause) Cocaine?

KEVIN: The sweet, sweet powder that makes men feel like men, only with more nosebleeds. It gives you the rush, the nosebleed and sticker shock as if God himself has just punched you in the face and stolen your pension check.

VALDEZ: Oh, right. I knew that about you.

KEVIN: You did?

VALDEZ: Uh huh.

(Menacing music plays. Black out. Lights come back up. Now standing with Valdez and Kevin are an ornately dressed Roman, Caligulia, and his ornately dressed horse, Senator Horse.)

CALIGULA: At long last, Juan Valdez and Kevin! I know your horrible secret!

VALDEZ: Caligula!

KEVIN: Senator Horse!

(Senator Horse whinnies snidely.)

VALDEZ: You’ll never get away with this!

CALIGULA: Try and catch me! Away, Senator Horse!

(They run off. Black out.)

Poison Bagels

2007-02-16T12:02:00.000-08:00

(A guy walks into a bagel shop. There’s a long line, but it winds down a display case of different flavored bagels. The young man peruses the contents.)

GUY: Cheddar…oat and honey…whole wheat…Jalapeno swiss…poison?

CLERK: Mmm-hmm. How many?

GUY: Just one. Wait, I mean, none. Those are poison bagels?

CLERK: Yep.

GUY: So they’ve got poison in them?

CLERK: Well, they’re poison flavored. The poison is baked on the outside, then sprinkled with a little extra poison to give it an extra poisony zest.

ANOTHER GUY: Excuse me, I’m in a hurry. Can I go next?

GUY: Uh, sure.

ANOTHER GUY: Thanks…let’s see. Oh, good. There’s some poison ones left. Give me one of those. And can I get that with extra poison?

CLERK: It’s 25 cents extra.

ANOTHER GUY: Just for some poison? Nah, never mind that.

CLERK: Here you go.

GUY: You’re not really going to eat that are you?

ANOTHER GUY: Sure. It’s really good.

GUY: But won’t it kill you?

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah, well, everything is bad for you these days, if you know what I mean! Am I right or am I right?

(He walks out the store and eats his bagel while reading a newspaper he had in his coat pocket.)

GUY: People actually come in here and buy poison bagels!

CLERK: My two kids in college will attest to that.

(Outside, the customer drops dead.)

GUY: But why?

CLERK: Because those kids didn’t want to run a poison bagel shop like their old man and grandfather.
(GRANDPA pokes his head out of the back.)

GRANDPA: I’m ooooooollllddd!

(Under the next few lines, Grandpa goes on and on about how old he is and how everything hurts.)

GUY: No, I meant why do people buy poison bagels?

CLERK: I don’t know exactly. We don’t get too many repeat customers or I’d ask them. I figure it’s on account of the poisoning. But if you ask me, I think people’s bodies have just gotten too used to all the caffeine in all those fancy fro-frou coffee espresso mocha lattes. They need something with an extra kick. So they come here.

GUY: For poison bagels?

CLERK: We like to think they come for the poison bagels...but they come back for the poison bagels. Or they would. (to Grandpa) Dad, would you stuff something in that bagel hole of yours!

GRANDPA: Like a bagel?

CLERK: Sure. Whatever.

(Grandpa stuffs a bagel in his mouth.)

GRANDPA: Oh no…it was a POISON bagel! I’ll haunt you in death with my passive aggressive complaining! (He goes in the back and we hear a thump. He’s dead.)

CLERK: So. What’s it gonna be?

GUY: How are the banana nut bagels?

CLERK: Not very poisonous.

GUY: Okay, give me a poison one then.

CLERK: Very good choice.

GUY: Wait, how much poison is in these exactly?

(He starts eating.)

CLERK: The most in town! It’s more poisonous than the air, and we all know how delicious that is. Not as delicious as the poison water, but still delicious.

GUY: We’ll see. (He continues to eat. Puzzled by the lack of adverse effects, he keeps eating. Even more puzzled, he ravenously finishes the bagel.) Hey…I didn’t die! I ate the poison bagel but I didn’t die?

CLERK: Are you sure that was poison?

GUY: Well it tasted like poison.

CLERK: Oh gee, I’m sorry. I gave you an imitation poison one by mistake.

GUY: So that’s why I didn’t die.

CLERK: Yeah.

(The clerk takes out a gun and shoots him. Grandpa’s Ghost comes out. He wears a sheet with his face poking through.)

GRANDPA: Ooooo….I told you all the time that if you keep shooting customers they’re not gonna come back and get our poison bagels! I’m wise because I’m OOOOOLLLLLLLDDDD! And I’m a ghost….spoooooky….

CLERK: Don’t tell me what to do, Dad! I’m a man, do you hear me? I am a MAN!

(Clerk shoots grandpa, but grandpa is a ghost. Both men give up and sit down on their stools.)