Originally printed in the Advance-Titan, this is an oldie, as evidenced by the reference to Donald Rumsfeld as the current Secretary of Defense. Do I need to get with the times? No, I simply need to write more original material.
Halloween season is upon us, which means spooky tales of apparitions and bloodsuckers will be told with greater regularity and deeper resonance. As far as I’m concerned, the prospect of spending a night in a haunted house is about one-hundredth as terrifying as never obtaining Social Security—living until the age of 110 and working fulltime until 108.
Ghosts don’t scare me and I’ll tell you why: you never read about a ghost hijacking a plane and crashing it into a building. Ghosts are melodramatic and harmless. When’s the last time you heard of a ghost bombing an abortion clinic or kidnapping a local girl?
While visiting the supposedly haunted house of a friend a few years back, I wandered from room to room belligerently taunting the ghosts, trying to ferret out the elusive spirits with insults. For twenty minutes or so, I walked around talking shit to thin air, but my teasing didn’t cause any paranormal retaliation. Finally, while pacing back and forth in the laundry room, obnoxiously muttering about how much it must suck to be trapped in limbo between mortality and the afterlife, my shoelaces were somehow untied with a forceful tug.
Did that instance frighten me into feeling stern reverence for ghosts? Hell no! Having untied shoelaces is a minor inconvenience; it’s not scary in the slightest. I can just picture that rascally ghoul rubbing his hands diabolically, sneering and, saying to himself, “Heh. That ought to show him.” What’s next? Is this sissified spirit going to flick my ear or steal one of my chocolate chip cookies? (Sarcastic shudder.)
Those of you who are deathly terrified of ghosts can’t deny that actual LIVING people are responsible for an overwhelming majority of the world’s wars, genocides, murders, rapes, stabbings, suicide bombings, hate crimes, thefts, child molestations, vicious beatings, vehicular manslaughters, arsons, callous insults, tittie twisters, closing-elevator-door snubs, vandalisms, plagiarisms, jay-walkings and “Now That’s What I Call Music!” It’s the living that freak me out. If you’re looking for a horrifying Halloween outfit, leave your Casper sheet at home and dress up like North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il or Ryan Seacrest.
Enough about ghosts; they don’t deserve an entire column’s worth of material. Let’s move on to vampires. Something about vampires just doesn’t add up to me. Given the fact that they don’t appear in reflective surfaces, isn’t it strange that they’re all so primly groomed and presentable? Without a mirror to use for reference, you’d think they’d all be slovenly doofs with boogers in their noses and bits of jugular stuck between their teeth. Instead of handsome men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, contemporary depictions of vampires should resemble bedraggled misfits like Tim Burton and mug shot Nick Nolte—people who obviously haven’t dared to look at their reflection in years. Self-reflection is at the core of vanity, and vampires completely defy that.
A brief overview of ghouls just wouldn’t be complete without mentioning zombies. The living dead rank as my favorite breed of supernatural monsters, due in large part to my affinity with the film “Shaun of the Dead,” the video game “Resident Evil,” and my radiantly pale bare chest. (As a cost-effective alternative to lighthouses, my blindingly pallid pectorals could serve as a luminous beacon to ships gone astray on the high seas.)
To disrupt the stifling tedium of everyday life, I would heartily welcome a zombie infestation. True, destruction and casualties would be unavoidable, but let’s be realistic, when has humanity avoided destruction and casualties for longer than eight seconds?
I am neither exceptionally brave nor patriotic, but I’d sign up for the Army if the U.S. were involved in a war with a nation of zombies. Because in that unlikely scenario, you know you’re fighting for the right side. Murdering a sleuth of foreign people believed to be a threat to our ideals and lifestyles is likely to cause some nagging moral confliction, maybe even a hint of remorse. But there’s none of that limp-wristed, theatre-major ambivalence when it comes to zombies! They are intellectually stagnant, ghastly carnivores with no capacity for morality.
Suppose someone dear to you, such as your sibling, significant other or drug dealer, abruptly converted from Christianity to Islam, or perhaps decided to reject democracy in favor of communism. You’d probably feel bamboozled and disquieted, possibly even hostile, but would you resort to homicide? I doubt it. If, on the other hand, a loved one, such as your sibling, significant other, or drug dealer, converted from humanity to zombiehood, you’d be a cowardly fool not to bash their skull with the nearest dough roller you can find.
A crusade against a throng of staggering zombies is just what this nation needs to soothe the dissention that threatens to divides us. It would also mark the first time since World War II that we’ve engaged in warfare with beings even whiter than us.
For once, I’d love to be a part of the widespread jingoism that grips America in times of war. Think of the possibilities. Country singer Toby Keith would top the charts for twelve weeks with his infectious ditty, “Only Good Zombie is a Decapitated One.” FOX News would air crudely superimposed photos of zombies burning American flags and effigies of Bill O’Reilly, Colonel Sanders and Mr. T. and Conservatives and liberals alike would malign Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for evoking Benedict Arnold and switching his allegiance to the side of the undead. In this strange, hypothetical scenario, we’d tell ourselves we should’ve known something was amiss when he started devouring Chris Matthews at a press conference. But considering the pundit had just rudely pointed that the majority of our troops are being armed with cracked Wiffle-ball bats, we just smiled and mused, “Same Old Rummy.”
Oh, and speaking of certain members of the administration, they are also much scarier than ghosts.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Blue Tooth Confusion
*This one goes out to my pals in the Intro to Comedy Writing Class at the Second City in Chicago. Lisa, Phillip, Grant, Natasha, John, Scott, Mike, Chad, Courtney, Aaron, Kelly, Rebecca, and the elusive Elliot. Fate worse than death awaits me if I forgot anyone. Hope to return to Chicago, with the court case settled and my brain chemicals re-balanced. Someday, I can only hope, my level of appreciation will not be the most profound in hindsight.
“BLUE TOOTH CONFUSION”
10/4/08
CAST
John – 30s, Graphics Designer
Drake – 30s, Stockbroker
Dolores – 50s, Homeless Woman
10/4/08
CAST
John – 30s, Graphics Designer
Drake – 30s, Stockbroker
Dolores – 50s, Homeless Woman
(Two men face the crowd. Drake is
a smug yuppie clad in a suit and
tie. John is dressed casually. He
stares forward with an expression
of aloof dread.)
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a purple line train to Linden.
DRAKE
Hey, do you know who won the Cubs game?
JOHN
No clue. I’m sorry, but I don’t follow baseball.
DRAKE
I wasn’t talking to you, bro.
JOHN
Oh. My mistake.
DRAKE
Yeah.
(Beat.)
DRAKE
Hey, what’s the forecast for tonight? The crew and I want to grill some dogs on the roof and I gotta know if Old Man God is gonna piss on the party...
Hello?
JOHN
It’s supposed to rain—yeah. I tuned into the Weather Channel this morning and apparently there’s, like, a seventy-percent chance—
DRAKE
Hold on a second, babe. Some guy at the train stop is squawking in my ear.
(He glowers at John.)
JOHN
...I’m confused. You keep saying you’re not talking to me, but there’s nobody else around, and you don’t have a cell phone, either.
a smug yuppie clad in a suit and
tie. John is dressed casually. He
stares forward with an expression
of aloof dread.)
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a purple line train to Linden.
DRAKE
Hey, do you know who won the Cubs game?
JOHN
No clue. I’m sorry, but I don’t follow baseball.
DRAKE
I wasn’t talking to you, bro.
JOHN
Oh. My mistake.
DRAKE
Yeah.
(Beat.)
DRAKE
Hey, what’s the forecast for tonight? The crew and I want to grill some dogs on the roof and I gotta know if Old Man God is gonna piss on the party...
Hello?
JOHN
It’s supposed to rain—yeah. I tuned into the Weather Channel this morning and apparently there’s, like, a seventy-percent chance—
DRAKE
Hold on a second, babe. Some guy at the train stop is squawking in my ear.
(He glowers at John.)
JOHN
...I’m confused. You keep saying you’re not talking to me, but there’s nobody else around, and you don’t have a cell phone, either.
(Drake turns his head and points.)
DRAKE
I’m fitted with a Bluetooth, Einstein. My woman is at home surfing the Net. I get constant news updates thanks to this gadget.
JOHN
What gadget? I don’t see anything in your ear.
DRAKE
That’s because it’s a Camo-tooth.
JOHN
Camo-tooth?
DRAKE
That’s what I said. Camo-tooth is the latest upgrade in high-dollar-comm. Blends in perfectly with the color of your inner ear so you look like a normal person, not some dumb-ass listening to a piece of shrapnel. You should buy one if you’re not too poor.
JOHN
Hmmm. It seems like a neat device, but I try to be careful about splurging on luxury items. They don’t always bring people happiness, you know. Plus, and no offense, but I think Bluetooths are kind of silly.
DRAKE
Blow me.
JOHN
What? How dare you talk to me that way!
DRAKE
Chill. I was talking to my girlfriend. She finished giving me all the updates I asked for and then she asked if there was anything else she could do. I tuned you out after you said, “Hmmm.” What were you saying?
JOHN
Never mind.
(Dolores, a bedraggled homeless
woman, enters the scene and
flanks John. She is wearing a
newspaper diaper.)
DOLORES
That shifty doctor stole all my estrogen!
DRAKE
What does that matter?
DOLORES
Why, because it’s the most precious of all the lady juices; that’s why it matters!
DRAKE
Huh? This doesn’t concern you, lady. My woman said she has a headache. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for b.j. denial.
(Beat.)
DOLORES
JOHN
What gadget? I don’t see anything in your ear.
DRAKE
That’s because it’s a Camo-tooth.
JOHN
Camo-tooth?
DRAKE
That’s what I said. Camo-tooth is the latest upgrade in high-dollar-comm. Blends in perfectly with the color of your inner ear so you look like a normal person, not some dumb-ass listening to a piece of shrapnel. You should buy one if you’re not too poor.
JOHN
Hmmm. It seems like a neat device, but I try to be careful about splurging on luxury items. They don’t always bring people happiness, you know. Plus, and no offense, but I think Bluetooths are kind of silly.
DRAKE
Blow me.
JOHN
What? How dare you talk to me that way!
DRAKE
Chill. I was talking to my girlfriend. She finished giving me all the updates I asked for and then she asked if there was anything else she could do. I tuned you out after you said, “Hmmm.” What were you saying?
JOHN
Never mind.
(Dolores, a bedraggled homeless
woman, enters the scene and
flanks John. She is wearing a
newspaper diaper.)
DOLORES
That shifty doctor stole all my estrogen!
DRAKE
What does that matter?
DOLORES
Why, because it’s the most precious of all the lady juices; that’s why it matters!
DRAKE
Huh? This doesn’t concern you, lady. My woman said she has a headache. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for b.j. denial.
(Beat.)
DOLORES
Rats are stubborn about accepting direction. The stupid varmints ruined my production of The Nutcratcker.
JOHN
JOHN
Clever title.
DOLORES
Nobody asked you. I’ve got a blue tooth in my ear.
(She removes a tooth from her
ear; it is colored blue.)
It ripped out of my mouth while I was trying to bite through a bike lock. The filament in there keeps me connected to my Blog on the information speedway.
JOHN
Good God. How did you get a blue tooth?
DRAKE
Scamming gullible investors has afforded me lots of cool stuff.
JOHN
Not you. Her.
DOLORES
For the last eight months I’ve subsisted on blueberry Pixie sticks.
DRAKE
Hey toots, I need to know how my stocks are doing.
DOLORES
Well, lucky for you, I got access to all the latest stock market updates.
JOHN
He was talking to his girlfriend.
DRAKE
The hell I was. This homeless woman is wearing a copy of today’s edition of the Tribune.
DOLORES
Stocks are printed on my right buttock.
(Drake nods and leans in to
inspect her backside.)
DRAKE
All right! Micronetics rose 28% today.
(He gives Dolores a high-five.)
JOHN
Why didn’t you ask your girlfriend for that information?
DRAKE
We broke up. I guess she dumped me. Said some nonsense about psychological abuse. Life moves fast. I’m a free man now. It’s time to play the field. You bring good luck, homeless woman, and I dig the way you talk.
DOLORES
Nobody asked you. I’ve got a blue tooth in my ear.
(She removes a tooth from her
ear; it is colored blue.)
It ripped out of my mouth while I was trying to bite through a bike lock. The filament in there keeps me connected to my Blog on the information speedway.
JOHN
Good God. How did you get a blue tooth?
DRAKE
Scamming gullible investors has afforded me lots of cool stuff.
JOHN
Not you. Her.
DOLORES
For the last eight months I’ve subsisted on blueberry Pixie sticks.
DRAKE
Hey toots, I need to know how my stocks are doing.
DOLORES
Well, lucky for you, I got access to all the latest stock market updates.
JOHN
He was talking to his girlfriend.
DRAKE
The hell I was. This homeless woman is wearing a copy of today’s edition of the Tribune.
DOLORES
Stocks are printed on my right buttock.
(Drake nods and leans in to
inspect her backside.)
DRAKE
All right! Micronetics rose 28% today.
(He gives Dolores a high-five.)
JOHN
Why didn’t you ask your girlfriend for that information?
DRAKE
We broke up. I guess she dumped me. Said some nonsense about psychological abuse. Life moves fast. I’m a free man now. It’s time to play the field. You bring good luck, homeless woman, and I dig the way you talk.
(Overcome with emotion,
Dolores begins sniffling
with joy.)
DOLORES
It’s been so long since a man has given me a compliment. Thank you.
DRAKE
Stop crying!
DOLORES
(offended)
What?!
DRAKE
Oh, not you, baby. My ex-girlfriend is still on the line. She’s crying, saying she wants to get back together, but she’s just a part of my past—I swear.
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a brown line train to Kimball.
JOHN
I’ll see you two later. The train is calling me.
(He exits the scene.)
DOLORES
Who needs the brown line when we can take the blue line together?
(She produces a blue Pixie
Stick and empties it out
above their frantically
probing tongues and lips.)
DRAKE
Delicious. Hey, did that guy really think the train was calling him?
DOLORES
I think so. What a nut-job!
(Blackout.)
with joy.)
DOLORES
It’s been so long since a man has given me a compliment. Thank you.
DRAKE
Stop crying!
DOLORES
(offended)
What?!
DRAKE
Oh, not you, baby. My ex-girlfriend is still on the line. She’s crying, saying she wants to get back together, but she’s just a part of my past—I swear.
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a brown line train to Kimball.
JOHN
I’ll see you two later. The train is calling me.
(He exits the scene.)
DOLORES
Who needs the brown line when we can take the blue line together?
(She produces a blue Pixie
Stick and empties it out
above their frantically
probing tongues and lips.)
DRAKE
Delicious. Hey, did that guy really think the train was calling him?
DOLORES
I think so. What a nut-job!
(Blackout.)
Friday, October 3, 2008
Nightmare on Elm Street Rock Opera
It's October, the month of Halloween and Chicago Cubs playoff meltdowns, and to commemorate the former (the latter merits no swooning tribute), I have to offer the track listing of Freddy Krueger's rock opera. Consider this a sticky globule of Worther's Original that I'm dumping into your bag of treats in lieu of the Twix bars you were hoping for.
*All songs written and performed by Freddy Krueger
1. The Raped Nun Overture
2. Daddy Dearest Murder Victim (Guest vocals: Alice Cooper)
3. Put Sawdust on Your Own Damn Vomit
4. Pedophile with Style
5. Boiler Room Barbeque
6. Satan Claws are Coming to Town
7. Water Bed Bloodshed (with Johnny Depp on guitar)
8. Motley Crucifix
9. Slayed by Some Bitch
10. Dream Infection Resurrection
11. Poolside Genocide
12. Grab Your Crucifix and I'll Grab Your Jugular...Bitch
13. The Old Man and the Sequels
14. Stab-Happy Grand-papi
15. Slayed by Some Bitch (reprise)
16. Jason Is a Total Pussy
*All songs written and performed by Freddy Krueger
1. The Raped Nun Overture
2. Daddy Dearest Murder Victim (Guest vocals: Alice Cooper)
3. Put Sawdust on Your Own Damn Vomit
4. Pedophile with Style
5. Boiler Room Barbeque
6. Satan Claws are Coming to Town
7. Water Bed Bloodshed (with Johnny Depp on guitar)
8. Motley Crucifix
9. Slayed by Some Bitch
10. Dream Infection Resurrection
11. Poolside Genocide
12. Grab Your Crucifix and I'll Grab Your Jugular...Bitch
13. The Old Man and the Sequels
14. Stab-Happy Grand-papi
15. Slayed by Some Bitch (reprise)
16. Jason Is a Total Pussy
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Lemonade Stand
INT. KITCHEN – MORNING
A highly strung workaholic named ERNIE crumbles a handful of Tums antacids onto a bowl of cereal. Dressed in a suit and tie, he hunches over the kitchen table like a surly Gargoyle. His wife MAUDE, a pleasant and dopey woman, tends to the breakfast being made on the stovetop.
ERNIE: (sardonic) All the colors of the rainbow. Yippie.
MAUDE: Ernie, I made you some of my trademark “Bacombos.” You’re running late, so you can eat in the car if you like.
ERNIE: Again with the bacon and Combos, Maude? My cholesterol is going through the roof and your lousy food experiments are gonna send me to an early grave. And I’m not running late. I don’t punch in at the migraine factory ‘til 9 a.m., so quit rushing me out the door, will ya?
MAUDE: Oh, but it’s already 9:30, sweetie. Today is National Clock Tinkering Day.
Ernie lurches forward and spits his Tums-speckled cereal back into the bowl.
ERNIE: Freakin’ daylight savings time! Curse you, Cronus, you damned Greek god of time. I can never hit your biannual curveball!
He snags his briefcase and rushes for the door. Maude picks up a plastic baby resting on the stove.
MAUDE: Kiss Ernie Junior goodbye.
In his haste, Ernie leans in close to the doll but catches himself.
ERNIE: That’s not a real baby! Dammit, Maude, stop dropping these hints. I’m too busy to juggle a career and a family.
MAUDE: Okay. Maybe we’ll visit you at work later today; you can kiss him then.
Ernie groans in exasperation, turns, and stomps toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he berates his watch.
ERNIE: You just had to spring forward this time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!
EXT. SIDEWALK – MORNING
ROSCO stands behind the counter of a lemonade stand crafted out of wood. A cardboard signs reads: “Round the Corner Lemonade, $.50/ cup.” Like his coworker, Rosco is cranky and unable to cope with stress. He pours a cup of lemonade and disdainfully surveys the long line of customers. Among them is a conspicuous man with a puffy red beard contrasted by blonde hair.
ROSCO: Where the HELL is he?
A FEMALE PATRON is first in line, cradling what looks like a bundled baby. She clears her throat, hinting agitation.
FEMALE PATRON: I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child, sir.
ROSCO: (sighs) Okay, okay. My mistake, ma’am. Here, this cup is half-off.
A shoebox rests on the counter. Rosco removes the lid and hands her back a quarter.
FEMALE PATRON: I would accept no less.
She walks away as Ernie rushes toward the lemonade stand, swinging his briefcase wildly. He stops suddenly and squints at the woman and her bundled baby.
ROSCO: Hey, there you are. It’s about damn time.
FEMALE PATRON: You’re swearing again.
ROSCO: Full refund!
With that he throws a quarter at the woman. Ernie intercepts it.
ERNIE: Wait!
He swats the plastic baby onto the ground and the other customers gasp in horror.
ERNIE (CONT’D): That’s not a real baby!
He drops the quarter back in the shoebox as the customers exert a collective sigh. Ernie empties his briefcase on the countertop and out come its contents: several lemons, a box of sugar, and a hammer.
ROSCO: I don’t want to hear your bogus excuse for being late until after this ungodly rush is over. We’re low on the sun-juice, so get to hammering.
Ernie smashes fitfully at the lemons. Meanwhile, a MALE PATRON approaches the lemonade stand.
MALE PATRON: Uh, hi. I’d like a cup of lemonade, please.
ROSCO: Well, aren’t you Mr. Originality? One cup of lemonade!
Ernie grabs a sleeve of paper cups and yanks at the one on top. It won’t give; the cup is stuck.
ERNIE: Lousy paper jam!
With a vicious yank, he separates the cup from its sleeve. A wad of gum is stuck to the bottom.
ERNIE: Which one of you hell-raisers stuck a wad of gum in here? I want answers!
ROSCO: To hell with your investigation, Ernie. We’ll file a police report later.
A bullish snort of air escapes from Ernie’s nostrils. He fills a cup of lemonade and hands it to the male patron. The man drops some change into the box and darts away.
A TIMID PATRON approaches, drink in hand.
TIMID PATRON: Yeah, I bought a cup not too long ago and I found a fingernail embedded in a cigarette butt at the bottom of my drink. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, but…I’d like a refund.
ROSCO: Well, goodbye profit-margins!
Furious, he steals the hammer from Ernie and slams it down on a very juicy lemon. Citric acid sprays from the fruit into the Timid Patron’s eyes. The man reels backward and rubs his stinging peepers. Ernie shoves his coworker.
ERNIE: And hello lawsuit. Now there’s a fair trade.
The Timid Patron pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on the counter.
TIMID PATRON: Guys, just calm down…
ERNIE: (to Rosco) Who’s the cross-eyed Janitard that taught you how to make lemonade? Your technique’s all wrong. LOOK.
Ernie reclaims the hammer. Aiming to crush the lemon properly, he misses by inches and hammers the Timid Patron’s finger. The man howls and nurses his finger.
ROSCO: Bravo, Professor Lemonade. Now we gotta offer him a bribe.
He dumps out the contents of the shoebox and shovels dozens of coins across the counter to the Timid Patron.
ROSCO: Don’t sue us, you rotten bastard!
The conspicuous man in line rips off his fake red beard and reveals his true identity.
DISTRICT MANAGER: All right, I’ve seen enough, gentlemen.
ERNIE: The District Manager?
DISTRICT MANAGER: That’s right, Ernie. I dropped by for a surprise inspection, incognito, and what I’ve seen has been disgraceful. The tardiness, the cuss words, citric acid in the customer’s eyes—and Ernie, what you did to that baby was sickening.
ERNIE: That wasn’t a real baby!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Really? Well, nevertheless, you’re both canned. We’re bringing in some new blood to replace the two of you. (Calls offstage) Timmy! Trisha!
Two adorable children enter the scene and establish themselves behind the counter of the lemonade stand.
ROSCO: What a load of crap. Selling lemonade is a MAN’S job.
ERNIE: Freakin’ scabs!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Settle down, gentlemen. As a key part of your severance package I am offering to drive you to the unemployment office.
ROSCO: (considering) Hmmm. What do you think?
ERNIE: I think gas costs too much to turn down a ride from this scumbag.
With that, the disgruntled workers trail behind the man who fired them, exiting the scene. After a beat, a FAT PATRON steps toward the lemonade stand, indulging the children with a pleasant grin and a melodic tone in his voice.
FAT PATRON: I’ve got two quarters for two special little persons if you’ll kindly pour me a cup of lemonade.
TRISHA: We’re on our break, fat-ass!
The customer recoils, more shocked than offended. He slinks away, forever terrified of the future.
Timmy produces a small rectangular box from his pocket and extracts two candy cigarettes.
TIMMY: Candy cancer stick?
TRISHA: (nods) Fat-ass didn’t even say “please.”
A highly strung workaholic named ERNIE crumbles a handful of Tums antacids onto a bowl of cereal. Dressed in a suit and tie, he hunches over the kitchen table like a surly Gargoyle. His wife MAUDE, a pleasant and dopey woman, tends to the breakfast being made on the stovetop.
ERNIE: (sardonic) All the colors of the rainbow. Yippie.
MAUDE: Ernie, I made you some of my trademark “Bacombos.” You’re running late, so you can eat in the car if you like.
ERNIE: Again with the bacon and Combos, Maude? My cholesterol is going through the roof and your lousy food experiments are gonna send me to an early grave. And I’m not running late. I don’t punch in at the migraine factory ‘til 9 a.m., so quit rushing me out the door, will ya?
MAUDE: Oh, but it’s already 9:30, sweetie. Today is National Clock Tinkering Day.
Ernie lurches forward and spits his Tums-speckled cereal back into the bowl.
ERNIE: Freakin’ daylight savings time! Curse you, Cronus, you damned Greek god of time. I can never hit your biannual curveball!
He snags his briefcase and rushes for the door. Maude picks up a plastic baby resting on the stove.
MAUDE: Kiss Ernie Junior goodbye.
In his haste, Ernie leans in close to the doll but catches himself.
ERNIE: That’s not a real baby! Dammit, Maude, stop dropping these hints. I’m too busy to juggle a career and a family.
MAUDE: Okay. Maybe we’ll visit you at work later today; you can kiss him then.
Ernie groans in exasperation, turns, and stomps toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he berates his watch.
ERNIE: You just had to spring forward this time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!
EXT. SIDEWALK – MORNING
ROSCO stands behind the counter of a lemonade stand crafted out of wood. A cardboard signs reads: “Round the Corner Lemonade, $.50/ cup.” Like his coworker, Rosco is cranky and unable to cope with stress. He pours a cup of lemonade and disdainfully surveys the long line of customers. Among them is a conspicuous man with a puffy red beard contrasted by blonde hair.
ROSCO: Where the HELL is he?
A FEMALE PATRON is first in line, cradling what looks like a bundled baby. She clears her throat, hinting agitation.
FEMALE PATRON: I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child, sir.
ROSCO: (sighs) Okay, okay. My mistake, ma’am. Here, this cup is half-off.
A shoebox rests on the counter. Rosco removes the lid and hands her back a quarter.
FEMALE PATRON: I would accept no less.
She walks away as Ernie rushes toward the lemonade stand, swinging his briefcase wildly. He stops suddenly and squints at the woman and her bundled baby.
ROSCO: Hey, there you are. It’s about damn time.
FEMALE PATRON: You’re swearing again.
ROSCO: Full refund!
With that he throws a quarter at the woman. Ernie intercepts it.
ERNIE: Wait!
He swats the plastic baby onto the ground and the other customers gasp in horror.
ERNIE (CONT’D): That’s not a real baby!
He drops the quarter back in the shoebox as the customers exert a collective sigh. Ernie empties his briefcase on the countertop and out come its contents: several lemons, a box of sugar, and a hammer.
ROSCO: I don’t want to hear your bogus excuse for being late until after this ungodly rush is over. We’re low on the sun-juice, so get to hammering.
Ernie smashes fitfully at the lemons. Meanwhile, a MALE PATRON approaches the lemonade stand.
MALE PATRON: Uh, hi. I’d like a cup of lemonade, please.
ROSCO: Well, aren’t you Mr. Originality? One cup of lemonade!
Ernie grabs a sleeve of paper cups and yanks at the one on top. It won’t give; the cup is stuck.
ERNIE: Lousy paper jam!
With a vicious yank, he separates the cup from its sleeve. A wad of gum is stuck to the bottom.
ERNIE: Which one of you hell-raisers stuck a wad of gum in here? I want answers!
ROSCO: To hell with your investigation, Ernie. We’ll file a police report later.
A bullish snort of air escapes from Ernie’s nostrils. He fills a cup of lemonade and hands it to the male patron. The man drops some change into the box and darts away.
A TIMID PATRON approaches, drink in hand.
TIMID PATRON: Yeah, I bought a cup not too long ago and I found a fingernail embedded in a cigarette butt at the bottom of my drink. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, but…I’d like a refund.
ROSCO: Well, goodbye profit-margins!
Furious, he steals the hammer from Ernie and slams it down on a very juicy lemon. Citric acid sprays from the fruit into the Timid Patron’s eyes. The man reels backward and rubs his stinging peepers. Ernie shoves his coworker.
ERNIE: And hello lawsuit. Now there’s a fair trade.
The Timid Patron pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on the counter.
TIMID PATRON: Guys, just calm down…
ERNIE: (to Rosco) Who’s the cross-eyed Janitard that taught you how to make lemonade? Your technique’s all wrong. LOOK.
Ernie reclaims the hammer. Aiming to crush the lemon properly, he misses by inches and hammers the Timid Patron’s finger. The man howls and nurses his finger.
ROSCO: Bravo, Professor Lemonade. Now we gotta offer him a bribe.
He dumps out the contents of the shoebox and shovels dozens of coins across the counter to the Timid Patron.
ROSCO: Don’t sue us, you rotten bastard!
The conspicuous man in line rips off his fake red beard and reveals his true identity.
DISTRICT MANAGER: All right, I’ve seen enough, gentlemen.
ERNIE: The District Manager?
DISTRICT MANAGER: That’s right, Ernie. I dropped by for a surprise inspection, incognito, and what I’ve seen has been disgraceful. The tardiness, the cuss words, citric acid in the customer’s eyes—and Ernie, what you did to that baby was sickening.
ERNIE: That wasn’t a real baby!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Really? Well, nevertheless, you’re both canned. We’re bringing in some new blood to replace the two of you. (Calls offstage) Timmy! Trisha!
Two adorable children enter the scene and establish themselves behind the counter of the lemonade stand.
ROSCO: What a load of crap. Selling lemonade is a MAN’S job.
ERNIE: Freakin’ scabs!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Settle down, gentlemen. As a key part of your severance package I am offering to drive you to the unemployment office.
ROSCO: (considering) Hmmm. What do you think?
ERNIE: I think gas costs too much to turn down a ride from this scumbag.
With that, the disgruntled workers trail behind the man who fired them, exiting the scene. After a beat, a FAT PATRON steps toward the lemonade stand, indulging the children with a pleasant grin and a melodic tone in his voice.
FAT PATRON: I’ve got two quarters for two special little persons if you’ll kindly pour me a cup of lemonade.
TRISHA: We’re on our break, fat-ass!
The customer recoils, more shocked than offended. He slinks away, forever terrified of the future.
Timmy produces a small rectangular box from his pocket and extracts two candy cigarettes.
TIMMY: Candy cancer stick?
TRISHA: (nods) Fat-ass didn’t even say “please.”
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