Sports Chat

I wrote this one for a class I took at Chicago's Second City.

“SPORTS CHAT”
9/12/08

CAST
Roy Plonske - 40s, Radio Show Host
Lane Vundervetti – 20s, NFL kicker

(Radio Booth)
(Two men sit facing each other.
The older one mimes pressing dials on a switchboard.)

ROY PLONSKE
Hello and welcome to “Sports Chat” on AM 820, the Chicago area’s number one source for all you Sports fanatics. My guest today is Lane Vundervetti, who I believe is a kicker in the National Football League. Is that correct, Lane?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Um, yes. I’m a kicker for the Jaguars.

ROY PLONSKE
Fantastic. But more important than your career is the fact that you love Sports. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks: Which three words come to your mind when I say “Sports”?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Hmmm. Interesting question. Off the top of my head, I’d have to say, “Thrilling,” “triumphant,” and “competitive.”

ROY PLONSKE
Uh-huh. I agree with the first two words whole-heartedly, but “competitive” is a bit of a head-scratcher to me. Unless you mean to suggest that each note of Sports is competing to out-rock the previous note. In which case, one could hardly disagree.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(confused)
Competing to out-rock the previous note...

ROY PLONSKE
Right. That’s what I thought you meant. Here’s a doozey of a question: which do you prefer, the A-side or the B-side?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
The A-side or the B-side of what?

ROY PLONSKE
Why, Sports, of course. The topic of this radio show.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Well...by A-side or B-side, do you mean, like, pros vs. cons? 'Cause I’d have to say the pros, such as being paid a great deal of money to play sports...

ROY PLONSKE
Whoa! There’s a company that’ll pay you to play Sports? I’d quit this radio gig in a second if I could snag a job like that. At least five times a day I play Sports.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Really? I didn’t realize you were so athletic.

ROY PLONSKE
I didn’t mention athletics. I’m talking about Sports, a musical achievement you agreed was both thrilling and triumphant.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
I’m lost. What exactly are you talking about?

ROY PLONSKE
Sports, you meat-head! The chart-topping album by Huey Lewis and the News.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Wait. Let me get this straight. You’ve devoted a weekly half-hour radio program to an album from—what—1984?

ROY PLONSKE
1983, stupid. God. What kind of a stooge assumes sports-athletics instead of Sports-Huey Lewis when he’s asked to give an interview on “Sports Chat”?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(sarcastic)
Right. How silly of me.

ROY PLONSKE
Well, for the seventh-straight week, “Sports Chat” is going to call it quits prematurely due to miscommunication with a dumb jock. But before you get the hell out of here, Lane, answer my question: the A-side or B-side?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(beat, followed by dry delivery)
The A-side.

ROY PLONSKE
The man’s got a soft spot for the “Heart of Rock and Roll,” “Heart and Soul” opening salvo. And who could blame him? Don’t touch that dial because “World News Tonight” is up next. The News is gonna share tales of all the wild parties they had on their '86 World Tour.

Hey God, Are You Out There?

Originally printed in The Advance-Titan, in October of 2006.

Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?

Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.

“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.

Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.

Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.

Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.

Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.

“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)

Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.

Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”

God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.

Friends of Bigots

On orientation day of my class at the Second City, the instructor informed us that using a spotlight to accentuate your action descriptions is a heavy-handed and hackneyed practice. As no changes have been made in light of this tip, consider this the behemoth slob in boxer shorts from a weight loss commercial, the word "Before" appearing just below his flab-squeezed belly-button. If, someday, I'm able to produce a sculpted "After" model , you'll be the first to know.

This is satire, by the way, not to be confused with actual bigotry because I typed it with the fingers crossed on my right hand. I am far too accustomed to one-handed typing. (Wink...Sigh.)

INT. LAW OFFICE

Three men pose statuesquely around a polished wooden table, consulting leather-bound books between steep shelves. Outside of the setting, starkly spotlighted, stands a dashing yet disheveled actor named IKE WINSTON.

DISEMBODIED VOICE: You’re watching the Celebrity Channel: Entertainment for Entertainers. This is a paid program.

IKE WINSTON: Hello, I’m Ike Winston. Until recently, my life was a flourishing joyride of
pleasure and success. Then I was fired unjustly from my job, playing Dr. Randy Mansom on TV’s “Open Heart-Throb Surgery.” The termination put me in a financial crunch; I had to sell my favorite Jaguar, several assault rifles, and half of my indoor hockey arena. My plight got worse
when my former employer and co-workers publicly besmirched my good name, making it hard to find work elsewhere.
(beat)
And it was all because I spoke out against those damn sodomizing fairies.

The spotlight shifts to the three men in the law office: a homosexual, a Jew, and an African-American. KEN KENDAL, the homosexual, steps forward. His hair is gel-spiked and he wears a turquoise business suit.

KEN KENDAL: Are you a celebrity whose bold remarks have been misconstrued by the media? If so, Friends of Bigots want to help. My name is Ken Kendal, and for a reasonable rate, I offered Mr. Winston the service of my friendship. There’s no better way to prove you don’t really hate gay folks than being seen in public with a gay man like me. Ike, tell our celebrity viewers how fabulous I am.

IKE WINSTON: “Fabulous” isn’t my kind of word, Ken, but...you’re okay, I guess. Being photographed with Ken while browsing for scented candles at Bed Bath & Beyond helped to convince the public I was only kidding when I said: “Those damn sodomizing fairies seriously make bestiality seem like one of the sacraments.” Thanks, Friends of Bigots!

Another celebrity, GIL CARLSON, replaces Ike in the spotlight. Gil wears a black cowboy hat and long-sleeved blue denim. He preens arrogantly and broadens his shoulders as if daring someone to punch him in the sternum.

GIL CARLSON: Howdy. Name’s Gil Carlson, country music sensation. You prob’ly recall the
hullabaloo stirred up by the left-wing yahoos following the release of my concept album, “Peace on Earth, Jew Colony on the Moon.” There was protests, boycotts, and CD bull-dozin’—come on, it ain’t like I killed nobody.

DAVID KLEINMAN, a man of Jewish faith with dark curly hair and glasses, introduces himself.

DAVID KLEINMAN: My client’s poor grammar and double-negative notwithstanding, let me assure you that he most certainly has never killed anybody.

GIL CARLSON: (seething) You fancy yourself a book-reader, don’t ya, Kleinman?

DAVID KLEINMAN: Indeed, Mr. Carlson. Reading books has taught me a thing or two about freedom of expression. I don’t own a copy of “Jew Colony on the Moon,” but that didn’t stop me from inviting my client to my nephew Jeffrey’s Bar mitzvah. Once Entertainment Weekly printed a photo of my client dancing the Hora amongst dozens of my people, America became willing to give him a second chance.

GIL CARLSON: And sure as hell, I benefited from that second chance...for two whole weeks, ‘til I slipped up again just before an interview with one of them late-night fellers. The gap-toothed Yankee announced that I was the next guest and I made a grand entrance, sittin’ on a rocking chair hoisted by two of my finest slaves.

Cue the third member of Friends of Bigots—a black man with a stern countenance named Darren Hodges.

DARREN HODGES: And that’s where I came in. The rented friendship offered by my gay and Jewish colleagues may not convince the public you’re really a tolerant person. Sometimes it takes a black man like me, Darren Hodges, to pose with you waiting in line outside of a Public Enemy reunion concert.

GIL CARLSON: (proudly) Damn right. I was kicked in the ribs countless times outside of the Pubic Alimony show, and not once did I retaliate.

DARREN HODGES: That’s because you got hog-tied with that silly-ass Hulkamania doo-rag you
had on.

Gil jerks his focus to the side and frowns peevishly at Hodges. As a quick gesture of diplomacy, Kleinman puts a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.

KLEINMAN: Keep in mind, celebs, if your behavior incites the ire of not one but two minority groups, Friends of Bigots will offer a half-price bargain on the rental fee for the second friend. Insult a minority group once, shame on the public for misinterpreting what you said. Insult a minority group twice, shame on us for letting you save so much cash!

KEN KENDAL: A black man, a Jew, and a homosexual are more than just three guys who walk into a bar at the start of a joke. For an hourly rate of an itty-bitty ten-thousand dollars, Friends of Bigots can save your career!

DARREN HODGES: Call within the next hour and I promise not to make a pass at your wife.

GIL CARLSON: Hodges, you take back what you said about Hulkamania!

As Carlson huffs and stomps in place, the three members of Friends of Bigots smile straight ahead, unperturbed.

DISEMBODIED VOICE: Call Friends of Bigots at 773-###-5309. Remember: the pound signs represent three explicit epithets...

GIL CARLSON: Your kind is even lousier than the Mexicans, you know that?

DISEMBODIED VOICE: Friends of Bigots is now looking to hire a Mexican.