Tony and Tina's Wedding: Interrupted

*This is another sketch I wrote for the Second City. Prose will be secondary for a few more weeks on fistpumps, until the completion of the class. Feel free to stage sock-puppet productions of any of the sketches you read here this summer.

CAST
Tony- Played by an actor named Frank. Co-star of the show whose performance is interrupted by real life girlfriend with special needs.
Tina- Played by an actress named Meadow. She’s upset by the intrusion of Sophie.
Michael- Tony’s best man in the performance, played by an actor named Bobby.
Sophie- Frank’s girlfriend who can’t discern between environmental theatre and reality. She is mentally challenged.

(Behind an elongated table draped in frilly white
cloth sit two men and a woman—the men in
dapper suits and ties, the woman in a wedding
dress. Each has a glass of champagne within reach.)

MICHAEL
(standing, glass in hand)
All right, pipe down, everybody. I’m trying to make a speech here.
(beat)
Tony, you’re the best Paison a guy could ask for. From my very first chubby to lap-dance number one, years later, to yakking-up a calzone and two bottles of red wine at the high-heeled shoes of Triple-Cici, I owe all these fine memories to you and the gentleman’s club owned by the Nunzio family. And as for you, Tina, I wish someone was here to say some complimentary things on your behalf, but unfortunately, your Maid of Honor Maddy is in the can doin’ God knows what. Thank you.

(As Michael reclaims his seat, Tina stands up.)

TINA
Don’t overstrain yourself with the sweet talk, Mikey. For crying out loud, Tony, your best man has about as much class as a two-Euro Vatican who-ore. And as for you, mi amore, I just want to say that loving you ain’t always easy, but every time we make love, I sure feel greasy.

(She sits down as Tony rises to his feet.)

TONY
Well, for the love of the Pope, we got a couple-a regular sentimentalists up here, don’t we? This one’s got his mind in the gutter and this one’s breakin’ my balls about the proud Nunzio family tradition of sweating like Rocky Balboa in the last round of a prize fight. Well, I ain’t gonna say nothin’ dirty ‘cause I ain’t out to spit on this special occasion. Tina, I know things between you and me ain’t always been perfect, but you always make me strive to become a better man. I love you with every drip of my body sweat. You’re the best thing that every happened to me, and I want to be wit’choo the rest of my life.


(From stage-left, a distraught and hysterical SOPHIE
enters the scene.)

SOPHIE
Oh, Frank, how could you do this? You married someone else when my back wasn’t looking? You make my heart hurt a big owie!

TONY/ FRANK
(breaking character)
Sophie? Sweetheart, I told you never to come to one of my performances. What are you doing here?

SOPHIE
(thrusting a pack of Big League Chew)
You forgot your bubble-gum at home, silly!

MICHAEL
(laughing uneasily, maintaining character)
Performance? What are you talking about, Tony? This ain’t no performance; it’s a friggin’ wedding. And furthermore, who the hell is this broad?

SOPHIE
You didn’t want me to come here ‘cause you’re getting married to another girl. I thought your heart sang happy songs for me, Franky-Wanky.

TINA
Security!

TONY/ FRANK
(to Tina/ Meadow)
I don’t want security strong-arming my girlfriend. Put a lid on it. I can handle this myself, Meadow.


MICHAEL
OOOHHH! Franky-Wanky? Meadow? Who are these people? Are the both of ya spies leadin’ double lives or somethin’? And Tony, if that is your real name, I always knew it’d be tough for you to become a one-woman man, but what gives? You’re already cheating on Tina with this retarded chick?

TONY/ FRANK
Bobby, you ignorant prick, you call my girlfriend retarded again and I’ll punch your teeth down your throat. She’s just…special.



MICHAEL/ BOBBY
Potato/ Potat-oh. And who the hell is “Bobby”? I ain’t no top-secret spy.

TONY/FRANK
Just stop calling her retarded. You hear me?

SOPHIE
Stop defending me! You don’t love me anymore. You’re married to an ugly meanie with chunky flab-arms.

TONY/FRANK
(to audience)
Listen folks, I gotta tell ya: Anything can happen during Tony & Tina’s Wedding, but these shenanigans will be all over in a second.
(to Sophie)
I will never stop defending you, Sophie! Just wait outside for half-an-hour and I’ll try to explain—

TINA/MEADOW
Chunky flab-arms?! Listen bitch, I don’t know who you are, but this is my wedding, and you’re a big nuisance right now. And if Tony is going to defend anyone, it’s going to be me: Tina, his wife!

SOPHIE
Oh, my used-to-be sweetie, you’ve changed. I don’t even know your name anymore!

TONY/FRANK
Sure you do, Sophie. Look, it’s very simple: I’m Frank.
(to his co-stars, then to the audience)
Keep your pants on, folks; old Tony’s just got some dirty laundry to air. It’s all part of the show—er, all part of the wedding bash we got goin’ on here.
(eying Sophie, demonstratively crossing fingers)
Nothin’ to worry about; I’m Tony, everybody!

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(quietly)
Jesus, Frank, is it contagious? Have you gone retarded, too?

TONY/FRANK
Bobby…er, Michael, I already told you, you keep sayin' that word, best man or no best man, I'll bust you one right in the jaw. That is a very hateful, ignorant word.

SOPHIE
I don’t need your sympathy!
(She turns to leave, weeping)
Tony, I never want to see Frank’s dumb face again forever and ever plus one.

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(to Tina, whispering)
What the hell? Were there some rewrites nobody told me about?

TONY/FRANK
No! Don’t go, Sophie.

(Sophie stops in her tracks, back facing
the mock wedding party.)

TINA/MEADOW
No. There weren’t any rewrites, Michael, because this isn’t some play with actors and a script. This is reality. And Tony, if you’ve been fooling around on me with this…handicapped girl Sophie, well, I’m quite disappointed. This is all very, very unexpected. But I still think we can work it out. We have to work it out…as soon as that dopey broad gets out of here. Then everything will be back to normal between you and me.

(Sophie does an about-face and stares at her
beau in desperate confusion.)

TONY/FRANK
Look. This is a really hard predicament for the Tone-Bone. For now, how ‘bout this: can I just say that I love both of you’s equally and have that be cool?

TINA/MEADOW and SOPHIE
(in unison)
No!

TONY/FRANK
Okay, okay. My balls are getting’ shattered into smithereens here.
(sighs)
Tina, thank you for forgiving me. I’ve been acting like a bed-hopping pig lately, and you’re an incredible woman for taking me back. I messed-up big-time, going around with this…Sophie girl…

(Crestfallen, Sophie turns to leave.)

TONY/FRANK
Oh, the hell with it. Sophie, listen! This is all just make-believe. I’m not really going to marry Tina. Tina’s not even her real name; it’s Meadow. We’re just actors in what’s called an environmental theatre production. I’m just pretending that I’m the groom in a wedding.

TINA/MEADOW
God-dammit. You’ve officially ruined the show, Frank.

SOPHIE
(brightening up)
Why didn’t you say so before? I love make-believe. Like when I pretend to be a mommy- bird and you lay underneath me and pretend to be one of the eggs I have to keep warm!

TONY/FRANK
Exactly, sweetheart! Now, I won’t lie to you, I’m probably going to get fired soon. But that’s okay. I hate playing a stereotypical grease-ball for low-brow tourists, anyway. So until I land my next job waiting tables or whatever, we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.

SOPHIE
Wanna go feed animal crackers to the geese by the pond?

TONY/FRANK
You read my mind, sweetheart.

(He gets up from behind the table and escorts
his girlfriend off-stage.)

SOPHIE
Here’s you Big League chew, Frank.

(Tina and Michael look somberly at each other.
Finally, Michael nods gravely.)


MICHAEL/BOBBY
Ladies and gentlemen, due in large part to tonight’s bizarre interruption, the broken down fourth wall that is the essence of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding” has been re-constructed, re-separating fiction and reality. We’ve all been dreading the day this would happen. Now that the show’s gimmicky appeal has been sullied, the cast and crew can no longer go on doing this pitiful shtick. This is the final performance of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding.”

TINA/MEADOW
And there will be no refunds!

(Blackout.)

Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention

^A Sarlacc pit from Return of the Jedi.^

*This is a sketch I wrote recently for the Second City. Be warned: It's quite crude, even for me, and it's times like this I'm relieved my parents have no interest in reading my writing. Thanks go out to Billy Squier for offering the inspiration behind this one.

“Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention”
6/14/09

Characters:
Jester Staggs- Glam rocker who rose to prominence in the late 70s with raucous odes to the hand-job.
Venus Staggs- Dissatisfied wife of Jester who is fed-up with her husband’s bizarre fetish.
Dr. Danny Porter- Resident therapist of the VH1 network with a thoughtful and compassionate drive.
Molly Staggs- Daughter of Jester and Venus who is embarrassed by her father’s lewd legacy.
“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom- Former lead guitarist of Jester’s band who shares concern for the singer’s obsession.
“Tom-drum” Tommy Blain- Disgruntled drummer who merely wants royalties owed to him.

(Six chairs form a U-shape on the stage.
The arrangement is typical of any daytime talk-
show in which the host is surrounded by
several people united by a common crisis
that needs to be discussed. Dr. Danny
and Jester Staggs occupy the middle seats.)

DR. DANNY
Hello and welcome to a VH1 retrospective called Jester Staggs: The Past Is in the Palm of Your Hand, a tribute of sorts to rocker Jester Staggs. I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Joining me today for this gathering are Jester’s family—daughter Molly and wife Venus--as well as two of the founding members of the Four Fingers—“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom and “Tom-drum” Tommy Blain--and of course...

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t forget the star of the show! It is I, the man who belted out all your favorite hand-job anthems, including: “I Demand the Hand,” “Beast in Blue Jeans,” “Sausage Stroke on the Sly,” “Nothing Left to Ooze,” and 93 others that rock almost as hard!

DR. DANNY
Indeed, Jester. I was just getting to that, but I see you’ve provided your own introduction quite ably.


JESTER STAGGS
Damn, I almost forgot about “She’s So Handsome” and “Your Curled Fingers Linger.” Those tunes also rocked your grandma into a coma!

VENUS STAGGS
Jester, please. Stop interrupting Dr. Danny.

DR. DANNY
Thank you, Venus. Now, Jester, your record sales in the late-70s notwithstanding, you have the reputation of being somewhat of a one-trick-pony.

JESTER STAGGS
I don’t know about one-trick-pony, but you can ask my baby Venus about my One-eyed-pony. Damn...that could be a song title right there...

MOLLY STAGGS
Jesus, dad, would you cut it out for a second? This is important.

DR. DANNY
I must ask you, Jester, on behalf of your fans, and to a greater extent, your friends and family that have gathered with us today, what is behind your single-minded obsession with hand-jobs? You have written nearly a hundred songs to date, and every last one is about receiving a hand-job.

TOMMY BLAIN
Don’t forget about the songs he didn’t write.

DR. DANNY
We’ll touch on that later, Tommy. But remember, we’re here for Jester and his family.

JESTER STAGGS
Well, the way I’ve always seen it, I was born with two reasons to be very happy. First, the Good Lord blessed the lady-creatures with fingers and opposable thumbs. Secondly, He gave me a wiener. Those two blessings united when I was 17, and ever since, I’ve been in paradise. And the only thing better than living in paradise is singing about it. That’s what inspired me to create “Elaiza and the Cream Geyser,” and dozens more in that same hand-job vein.

MOLLY STAGGS
Dad, you’re so disgusting.

JESTER STAGGS
Relax, Molly. I met Elaiza years before I became acquainted with your mother’s hand.

VENUS STAGGS
(to Dr. Danny)
Sometimes I think the only reason he married me is because my name rhymes with “Penis.”

JESTER STAGGS
Now, you know that ain’t the truth, baby. I married you for that reason and because you give the best H-Js in the world!

DR. DANNY
Jester, stop it. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing your daughter?

JESTER STAGGS
Hey, what’s with all this flack I’m getting here? Ain’t this supposed to be a tribute or something?

DR. DANNY
(sighs)
As much as everyone on this panel appreciates you, Jester, no, it’s not. We attracted you here under the guise that this is a glowing retrospective, but in reality, it’s an intervention.

JESTER STAGGS
Intervention? What for? I don’t need no intervention.

VENUS
(to Dr. Danny)
You see? Denial! Jester, we’ve been married for 30 years and Molly is the only evidence that we’ve ever made love. You have refused my longing body thousands of times, consistently turned-down oral pleasure, and completely ignored my sexual needs. I can’t take it anymore!

JESTER STAGGS
Ignored your sexual needs? Baby, that’s ludicrous. Why, just last night you were hardly crying at all when you agreed to pump my one-eyed—

DIRK SANDSTROM
Oh, enough about the hand-jobs, already! For God’s sake, Jester, you’re in your fifties and you’re still hung-up on this juvenile thrill from sophomore year of high school. How can you live with yourself for turning down all the groupie-sex a man could ask for?

JESTER STAGGS
I was too busy getting wicked hand-jobs to give a damn about—what do you call it—intercourse! All I’ve ever wanted from a lady is to get it jacked by a co-pilot. What’s wrong with that?

MOLLY STAGGS
I’ve never choked down so much vomit in my life...

DIRK SANDSTROM
Vaginas are awesome, Jester. For straight men, and especially macho rock singers, they provide the ultimate groove, the spot where the pleasure-amp gets cranked up the loudest. For you to be married 30 years and shun your wife’s vagina, dude, that’s pretty creepy.

DR. DANNY
Dirk makes a valid point, albeit in a slightly crude manner. What we’re trying to say, as adults, is that the hand-job ranks very low in the scope of sexual intimacy. Relationships are founded on reciprocation. As Venus’ husband, it is your duty to likewise satisfy her sexually, and when you refrain from intercourse—

JESTER STAGGS
(erupting with tears)
Vaginas remind me of that man-eating sandpit from Return of the Jedi! Swallowing Boba Fett in one gulp. They’re terrifying! I survived one encounter with it, and the Good Lord offered us sweet Molly. But never again will I chance it.

MOLLY STAGGS
(walking off-stage)
I can’t take this anymore.


DR. DANNY
Ah-ha. Well, at long last we reach the crux of the matter. How interesting. Jester, for the benefit of your wife, can you try replacing that unpleasant image with that of something more appealing--say--a damp flower in bloom?

JESTER STAGGS
No. Vaginas are like Sarlacc pits!

VENUS STAGGS
He has the most hideous things to say about my womanhood.

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t blow this out of proportion, baby. It’s not just your womanhood; it’s all womanhood.

TOMMY BLAIN
If I may interject here, might I remind you that this man’s odd obsession with handies has paid for your luxurious home, the Vera Wang dress you’re wearing, and your daughter’s Ivy League education.

JESTER STAGGS
Thank you, Tommy.

TOMMY BLAIN
Which brings me to the only reason I came here: Royalties. Jester, you know damn well I was the one who came up with the title track from our last album, “Nothing Left to Ooze.” My God, your best idea was calling it “See You Ejaculator.”

JESTER STAGGS
That was pretty clever...

TOMMY BLAIN
No, it wasn’t! You never paid me the royalties I was owed for that song. For the last six years I’ve been subsisting on Saltine crackers, living in a canoe beside my friend’s houseboat. Pay up, you greedy son-of-a-bitch!

VENUS STAGGS
I can’t believe people are talking about song royalties when my marriage is in serious trouble. Jester, I still have faith in you, but I need to lay down some ground rules. First off, no more you-know-what’s until you’ve undergone 40 more hours of psychoanalysis from Dr. Danny. Or else. That's all I have to say.

(With that she storms off the stage,
in step with her daughter’s inconsolable rage.)

JESTER STAGGS
No! You can’t leave me. I wrote “Venus Strokes My Penis” for you, baby. That ballad was playing when we took our first dance as husband and wife.
(beat)
Aw, shucks. Now who’s gonna give me hand-jobs? Good God, maybe I have taken my little H-J fetish a bit too far. I’ve known this for far too long. When I wrote “Monster in My Pocket,” the Monster I was referring to wasn’t my one-eyed-pony...it was me.
(standing resolutely)
Well, that’s all gotta change. If my baby Venus won’t satisfy me anymore, something must be seriously wrong with old Jester. From this day forward, I’m a changed man.

TOMMY BLAIN
I’ll give you a hand-job if you sign away the rights to “Nothing Left to Ooze.”

JESTER STAGGS
(revitalized)
It’s a deal!

(The pair busily rush offstage to the
nearest bathroom.)

DR. DANNY
Hmm. It’s important to remember that acceptance is the first step in the rehabilitation process, and in most cases, relapses are inevitable. Usually the relapse takes longer to occur than five seconds, but we must not be quick to judge Jester, for inside of all addicts lurks the evil referenced in “Beast in Blue Jeans.” It waits for the slightest window of opportunity to rear its ugly head. No pun intended.
(beat)

Join us next time for Rock Star Retrospectives and Interventions, when our guest will be the Red Rocker Sammy Haggar, who continues to create music despite the sincere pleas of his friends and family urging him to call it quits. Until then, I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Goodbye.

END SCENE.

The Bee Sting

A couple years ago, just before the dawn of the school year, I went to get a haircut at a barbershop. I entered the place through a back alley, strolling past a fetid dumpster that simmered in the late August sun.

It should be noted that I was wearing blue jeans and sandals at the time. Triple-digit heat be damned; pants are the norm for me year-round. The reason being my superhumanly hairy legs, which I regard as Twilight Zone compensation for the good old receding hairline.

You see, sometimes the man upstairs likes to balance things out for his noblest creations. The people most likely to be ranked a “10” on the attractiveness scale oftentimes have vapid personalities (ex: Paris Hilton, Tommy Lee, and the late Mother Teresa). Steven Hawking was born physically handicapped, but in order to counteract that, God blessed Hawking with a brilliant mind that permitted him to write a revolutionary book on Nintendo cheats and codes…or something impressive like that; I’m not overly familiar with the man’s work and this article is due in fifteen minutes, so we’ll just go with the Nintendo cheats and codes thing.

In my case, God realized that a receding hairline early on might cause me some problems, so, in his infinite wisdom, He compensated that genetic mishap with some kick-ass Sasquatch legs. When I’m feeling especially creative, I coil clumps of hair up and down my calf and imagine I’ve created a twisted teepee reservation for a tribe of fleas. When plucked, one of my leg hairs is long enough to wrap around John Madden’s waist three-and-a-half times. But enough about pants and the secret hideousness they conceal, let’s talk about my footwear on this particular day.

I very seldom wear sandals. They hamper your mobility, click annoyingly with every stride, and, as I was soon to learn, they provide insufficient protection for your feet. You know what kinds of people regularly wear sandals? Off-duty guidance counselors with graying ponytails that browse the self-help section at Walden Books every other Saturday and lethargic burnouts that play in a String Cheese Incident cover band and empty their hash-pipes underneath the rug when the ashtray is a daunting eight feet away.

Sandals are made by aspiring shoe manufacturers that just lost their motivation halfway through the process and said, “To hell with it; here’s the finished product.” (In fact, I’m willing to bet that a surprising number of the people that work at sandal factories play in a String Cheese Incident cover band.) Prior to my haircut, I was apparently too impatient to bother tying shoelaces, and, struck by an ominous whim, I fatefully opted for flip-flops.

On my way out the barbershop, walking past the fetid dumpster, my exposed foot was targeted by a sadistic bee, and before I could scream for mommy, the pest stung me just below the ankle. And for the love of Plinco, it hurt like the dickens! To put this pain into perspective, in comic books, when a superhero is overwhelmed with agony inflicted by a surge of electrocution or a parking meter flogging to the skull, the exclamation “Yaarrgghh!” appears in a word bubble attached to his or her mouth. Were a comic book depiction to be made of this incident, let’s just say the word “Yaarrgghh!” emanating from my mouth would be followed by a minimum of sixteen exclamation marks in order to vaguely capture the torment I was feeling.

After every bee sting, I take marginal consolation in the knowledge that they can’t live without their stingers; every act of aggression is kamikaze for them. But on this occasion, my blood was boiling unabatedly as I hobbled through the parking lot. 364 days out of the year, I fumed, when that fiendish be attacks my foot, I’m protected by a two millimeter fortress of shoe fabric. Had I been wearing shoes like any decent, God-fearing man would do (Jesus excluded), I’d have walked away unscathed, scoffing at my arthropod assailant. That bee was malicious, yet cerebral. He knew he could’ve stung my forearm, neck, or better yet, eyeball, but that wouldn’t have the same quasi-ironic flare of needling an area that is rarely vulnerable. The bee is a cunning, quasi-ironic species.


On the drive home, I fantasized in depth about that bee’s widow and thirteen children living inside the dumpster, gathered around a half-eaten Honey Bun, awaiting the arrival of their father, who was uncharacteristically late for the evening meal. At last the landlord of the dumpster would visit and deliver the somber news. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this, but...your husband died today after gallantly stinging a twelve-year-old boy with thinning hair. We’re assuming the boy is receiving chemotherapy for cancer, and if it’s any consolation to you, it doesn’t appear he’ll be around for much longer, either.” As the devastation and grief set in, the landlord would add, “Oh, and P.S., rent is due tomorrow and I don’t tolerate truancy. Blah, blah, blah, sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

While speeding through a red light and almost crippling the cuter half of a Girl Scout Troop, I further indulged my spiteful daydream. The death of the family’s sole provider, coupled with the excessive cost of his funeral, spelled eviction for his surviving kin. They were forced out of their spacious dumpster into a cramped 20 oz. Mountain Dew bottle. A day later, at the funeral wake, a bereaved millipede accidentally knocked over the Cool Mint Listerine PocketPak that served as my attacker’s coffin, and as his stinger-less corpse crashed against the concrete, the thorax severed from the antennae and all the onlookers shrieked in horror. Even in the twilight of the children’s lives, some fifteen days later, considering the average lifespan of a bee, this traumatic memory would haunt them in their sleep.

As I parked the car in my driveway, dragging behind a kiddy pool that was inexplicably snared onto the back bumper, the agony had worn off a tad, and I had my morbid delusions to thank. It was a short-lived reprieve, because a moment later I realized I had yet to suck out the venom.