Tipsy

AT RISE:

MIKE and SANDY sit at a bar, nursing beers.

MIKE:
She said I looked like John Ochenbach.

SANDY:
Who's John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
You didn't let me finish. She said I looked like John Ochenbach...but "super hot".

SANDY:
What does that even mean?

MIKE:
How should I know?

SANDY:
Well, you were there.

MIKE:
WEll yeah, but that makes it more confusing.

SANDY:
Who's John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
I have no idea. But apparently he has a great personality.

SANDY:
Well, thank goodness for small favors.

MIKE:
It's your support during these trying times that really cements our friendship.

SANDY:
Who needs support, when you're the hot John Ochenbach?

MIKE:
Super-hot.

SANDY:
My mistake.

They each take a long sip of beer.

MIKE:
Someday, I shall meet this Ochenbach.

SANDY:
And then what?

MIKE:
I shall figure that out when the time comes. Sufficeth to say, he shall know himself as the inferior man.

SANDY:
You're going tos how him your penis, aren't you?

MIKE:
The future is yet unwritten!

He takes another sip.

MIKE:
But yeah, probably.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Creative Process

AT RISE:

A WRITER sits at a computer.

WRITER:
Oh man, do I have some ennui.

A jar of peanut butter floats down from on high! A chorus of angels sings at this culinary miracle!

WRITER:
Oh, man do I have some ennui and peanut butter.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Hippocratic

AT RISE:

A DOCTOR and a PATIENT.

PATIENT:
So, what's the prognosis, Doc?

DOCTOR:
Honestly? I don't really have an opinion either way.

PATIENT:
What?

DOCTOR:
I guess I'm just having a hard time mustering up enthusiasm.

PATIENT:
I see. I guess it's time to make some serious life changes.

DOCTOR:
Same here!

A mear kiss, which turns into an embarassed low-five.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

True West

AT RISE:

Two GUYS stand in a vacuum.

GUY 1:
Define for me the spirit of the American Frontier!

GUY 2:
Peer inside my mind!

Suddenly we are at the bottom of the sea. A MAN in 19th century diving gear stands upon the ocean floor. He waves at the audience, then whistles sharply. A seahorse wearing an ornate saddle appears. The man clambers atop the great beast and rides off into the tide, pumping his fist excitedly!

And just as suddenly we are back with the two GUYS.

GUY 1:
Was that accurate?

GUY 2:
Prove me wrong!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Battle of Wills

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN glare at each other from across a table. For a while. A long while.
I mean, the audience should be really uncomfortable about now. Once the tension is truly unbearable, the woman sticks a Cheeto in the man's ear.

WOMAN:
Checkmate!

The man slumps over in defeat.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Kitchen Time

AT RISE:

STEVE sits on a kitchen floor, hitting keys on a laptop.

STEVE:
At rise: Mike sits on a kitchen floor with a laptop, typing.

LIGHTS UP on MIKE, sitting on a kitchen floor with a laptop, typing.

MIKE:
At rise: Doug sits on the floor of a kitchen with a portable computer in his lap, his fingers move quickly across the keys.

LIGHTS UP on DOUG, who sits on the floor of a kitchen with a portable computer in his lap, his fingers moving quickly across the keys.

DOUG:
At rise: Some guy hangs out in a kitchen, writing something on some kind of laptop or something.

LIGHTS UP on SOME GUY. He hangs out in a kitchen, writing something on some kind of laptop or something. He looks bewildered and somewhat sheepish.

SOME GUY:
At rise: …Uh…Hmm.

Steve, Mike and Doug look at him expectantly.

SOME GUY:
At rise: There’s a person….maybe. It might be a …. no, it’s a person. And they’re thinking really hard about something. Because it’s Christmas, and uh… there’s a bidet. But he’s not using it, because he’s in a kitchen. He’s just uh…thinking really hard about something. Really hard.

Steve stands up indignantly, and is about to say something, when:

SOME GUY:
Uh… The End.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Eco-Friendly

AT RISE:

A STYROFOAM DINOSAUR stands next to a MODERN GUY.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
You know, I'm going to be sixty-six million years old next Tuesday.

MODERN GUY:
You don't say.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
Yup. Go evolution, huh?

MODERN GUY:
I guess.

A beat.

STYROFOAM DINOSAUR:
I miss Pterodactyls.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Deadly Rays

AT RISE:

A CITY BOY enters, chased by something the audience cannot see.

CITY BOY:
Being as I am not in the city, I find this influx of fresh air and sunshine to be most upsetting to my obviously fragile disposition! Fragile, you see because I am a stereotype of the laziest sort! Aieee!

The SUN enters and punches the boy in the face. The Sun addresses the audience.

SUN:
Remember folks, your eyes need U.V. protection year round, not just in the summer!

The Sun picks up the City Boy and body-slams him. And a couple more times for good measure. The audience finds nothing objectionable because the victim is obviously some kind of "hipster", and thus annoying on principle.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

PRODUCTION NOTE:
The SUN should be at full scale, or the play will fail utterly. UTTERLY.

Kitchen Sink

AT RISE:

A working class couple, JACK and OZZIE. They sit at a small kitchen table.

JACK:
I feel oppressed.

OZZIE:
By society?

JACK:
Sure.

OZZIE:
Ah, the toil of the Irish Laborer at this particular period in American History!

JACK:
I'm not Irish.

OZZIE:
You're not?

JACK:
Not even a little. My family is straight Scandanavian.

OZZIE:
Well that's not nearly as interesting.

JACK:
I can't believe you didn't know that! I mean, my last name is Fjord.

OZZIE:
I thought it was a quaint town in the heath!

JACK:
Quaint town in the heath? It refers to jagged rocky crags abutting the vast and merciless sea!

OZZIE:
If you say so.

JACK:
I do.

OZZIE:
(sighing)
You know, your problems don't seem nearly as interesting anymore.

A beat.

OZZIE:
You couldn't just speak in a light brogue, could you?

JACK:
Never!

OZZIE:
Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to end this marraige. Good day to you.

She walks out.

JACK:
Ah well, at least I'll get a memoir out of this.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Play Number 50, or: Re-occuring Themes, or: Hubris

AT RISE:

A GUY and a GIRL are onstage. Also, some more GUYS. And some PEOPLE. Some of the people have names, but they will be forgotten momentarily. Some of them, it should be noted, are LIBRARIANS.

One of the GUYS is nude. Rock and Roll!

Also hanging about the increasingly cluttered stage: a NUDE MAN, GIANT SQUID, A MAN who apears to have a sperm whale for a head, a POTTED PLANT, Two TURTLES, one named FRANK, some CATS and other ASSORTED OBJECTS BOTH ANIMATE AND INANIMATE. At some point in the evening, they will all talk. Or not.

Suddenly: The stage directions take a marked turn into metatexual self-reference! The Audience SWOONS, the actors LAUGH! Everyone has a TERRIFIC TIME!

Oh, wait. Neither the audience nor (perhaps) the actors have read the stage directions, and thus this turn into self-aware comedy is only noticed by the select few who actually READ PLAYS. These people are widely regarded to be extremely silly, but well meaning over all.

The nude man wiggles his buttocks, and everything onstage disappears into a cloud of stardust.

Because to the audience this has all taken place in a matter of seconds, they are perhaps confused as to the point of it all. Thus the AUTHOR feels the need to indert himself into the action. As is usual in these situations, he arrives in a shower of sweet-smelling rose petals and a burst of lyrical song.

AUTHOR:
When I say: "Random statement, either philosophical, nonsensical, or extremely literal!", You say:

AUDIENCE:
Encouragement of original statement via reciprocation or question! Elements of whimsy! A structure based on light deconstruction of the mechanisms of dramatic storytelling!

AUTHOR:
Yes!

The lights dim, until there is only a spot on the Author.

AUTHOR:
If I can be serious for just a moment, I'd like to insert one of my patented pleas for audience support for a product I feel is somewhat lacking in quality!

AUDIENCE:
These are the things we have come to expect from our internet-based theatrical entertainments!

AUTHOR:
Huzzah!

He runs through the Audience, high-fiving every single one of them. This can take upwards of 20 minutes if performed properly. And it should always be performed properly.

BLACKOUT.

EPILOGUE:

A YOUNG MAN sits at a desk, typing at a computer. After a few seconds of concentration, he gives a small chortle. He makes a final keystrokem and leans back in his chair.

YOUNG MAN:
They will absolutely hate this one.

He laughs, then turns to the audience>

YOUNG MAN:
Thanks for reading!

He does some sign language. You are VERY IMPRESSED by his senstivity.

YOUNG MAN:
I'll see you next time!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Modern Times

AT RISE:

KEN and DON attack each other with tiny sticks.

KEN:
This would be far more satisfying in a more rural environment!

DON:
Agreed! The lack of true foliage in this urban sprawl is making our intetntions, i.e. violence, rather difficult to act out!

KEN:
Perhaps we could switch to somewhat more deadly materials?

DON:
But then we will lose the advantages garnered by our somewhat childlike behavior, and perhaps go from charming eccentrics to violent criminals in the eyes of passersby!

KEN:
Oh, the myriad difficulties of city life!

DON:
Indeed!

They continue to attack each other.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Alpaca Alpaca Alpaca

AT RISE:

An alpaca chews some grass. Two GUYS walk by.

GUY 1:
So the thing about the thing is...

He trails off, captivated by the alpaca.

GUY 2:
Guy? You okay?

GUY 1:
Sorry, I just got lost in that alpaca's eyes. Is that weird?

GUY 2:
The eyes of the alpaca are widely regarded to be extremely soulful. I can't think of one person on earth who would judge you.

GUY 1:
Ah, cool.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ripped From the Headlines

AT RISE:

A FELLA and a DAME enjoy a relaxing warm beverage. It could be any beverage really, it just doesn't matter. But man, you just know they'll be one guy in the audience who spends the entire performance wondering what's in the cups. The author now chooses to dedicate this play to him. Here's to you, Minutiae Guy! Keep the fire burning! As for the beverage? HE'LL NEVER KNOW. Unless there's a talkback.

FELLA:
So, naked Harry Potter on Broadway.

DAME:
I know! I am terribly excited.

FELLA:
You're not at all disconcerted that you'll soon be seeing the package of a kid we've been watching in family-friendly fantasy adventure films since he was ten years old?

DAME:
Are you kidding me? That simply adds to the mystique. And for the record, I would prefer if you did not referr to his genetalia as his package.

FELLA:
Fine.

DAME:
Call it his "wand".

FELLA:
No. I draw the line at overly obvious wordplay.

DAME:
Fine. Man, speaking of wands, wouldn't wizard porn be great?

FELLA:
Why? All the flying and unicorns and stuff?

DAME:
No, that would be weird. I just mean like, I bet they'd have books where like you'd open them up, and they'd have these magic pictures inside them that moved, and-

FELLA:
You mean like the internet.

DAME:
What, no-

FELLA:
Hey, you know you're right. Magical moving images would be a great venue for porn! I think you should make a movie about it. Oh, wait.

A harsh silence.

DAME:
Having re-evaluated our friendship in the previous five seconds, I have determined that it will only take one more ill-timed word for me to storm out of this room. Choose carefully.

The Fella thinks for a good long moment.

FELLA:
Package.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Angry Young Man

AT RISE:

A FURIOUS DUDE enters.

FURIOUS DUDE:
Hey, have you ever had a really shitty job? I mean like super-shitty, no room for creativity, independent thought or meaningful advancement? And the have you ever been almost completely classified as the guy who "works at that shitty job, huh that's weird"? Now has this ever happened to you while you work your ass off at what you consider your real job, even though you get no payment or recognition for it? All in the hope that one day you can tell your shitty job to stuff it and do what you've always wanted to on your own terms?

(Beat)

No?

(Beat)

Then shut the hell up already.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Growing Up

AT RISE:

A MAN sits with a turtle.

MAN:
A turtle's never really alone when he has a man, right Frank?

The turtle looks at the man for a moment, then goes back to thinking about lettuce.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

JCVD

AT RISE:

Two PEOPLE (Yah! Gender neutral casting) sits around, having a grand old time.

PERSON 1:
How long can you love something ironically before the love stops being ironic?

PERSON 2:
Are we talking single digits or decades?

PERSON 1:
I think I just slipped into year ten recently.

PERSON 2:
Then I'm afraid it's not ironic anymore. What're we talking about, anyway?

PERSON 1:
Jean-Claude Van Damme.

PERSON 2:
Ah.

PERSON 1:
From Bloodpsort to The Quest, I just can help lovng the wooden acting, absurd catchphrases, and overly ballectic fight coreography of the Muscles from Brussells. I even love his bizzare penchant for slightly homoerotic posturing. I have a sickness.

PERSON 2:
That's as may be, but why let it bother you so?

PERSON 1:
Well I mean, aside from the slef loathing normally associated with a connection to such a silly person, there's also the fact that there are people who genuinely think his ouvere is composed of quality pieces of action filmmaking! Sometimes I worry that my own love of those films for their terriblility somehow diminishes the joy in those poor, simple hearts.

PERSON 2:
Well, I don't think it really matters why you love something, as long as you do. I mean, are you genuinely entertained by the movies?

PERSON 1:
Well, yeah.

PERSON 2:
Would you, say, rate those movies in terms of pure enjoyment above other films widely regarded to be of much higher quality?

PERSON 1:
Yes, I suppose I would.

PERSON 2:
Then your love is valid. Cherish it!

PERSON 1:
I will! I will cherish it even as I wonder at the world that would engender such a bizzare mixture of pity and elation in response to a piece of media! I mean seriously, think of the reprocussions of a culture that can create genuine emotion from abject mockery!

PERSON 2:
This has been a truly philosophical conversation.

PERSON 1:
I too, am overly proud of myself.

They bask in their own smugnes. But who can blame em', really.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ramen

AT RISE:

Nothing. It's an empty stage. A STAGEHAND enters, and places a steaming bowl of RAMEN on the floor stage center. The stagehand exits.

Suddenly, the audience gets really hungry. The DIRECTOR runs onstage as soon as he senses that this is the case.

DIRECTOR:
A-hah! Hungry, aren't you!

He bows deeply.

DIRECTOR:
And with that, I have proven that theatre still has the power to compel audiences!

The stagehand re-enters.

STAGEHAND:
No, you proved that looking at food can make people hungry.

DIRECTOR:
Hunger is compelling.

STAGEHAND:
So is the desire to pee, yet no-one has ever claimed victory when an audience member gets up to use the restroom.

DIRECTOR:
Not yet.

STAGEHAND:
Touche.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Science Fiction

AT RISE:

A ROBOT and a WAITRESS stand on the bridge of a fantastical space ship.

ROBOT:
We have much in common, hu-man waitress.

WAITRESS:
Do we?

ROBOT:
Yes. Yes we do. For one, we are both in space.

WAITRESS:
While that is true on a basic level, I'm afraid your use of pure logic as a basis for personal connection will seriously stunt any prospects of a positive long-term relationship.

ROBOT:
If that is the case, however will we fight space-crime?

WAITRESS:
I don't know, robot. I wish to Space-God that I did.

ROBOT:
Truly the future has a host of unique, yet relatable problems.

WAITRESS:
I guess it isn't so different from the early part of the 21st century after all, huh? Because obviously the early 21st century, and to a lesser extent the end of the twentieth, will be the sole model from which the future, our present, will draw inspiration.

ROBOT:
Yes, we are very specific.

WAITRESS:
Very.

They look awkward for a bit. In the robot's case this is a very impressive accomplishment.

ROBOT:
I can think of another way in which we are-

WAITRESS:
Shut up.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Regrettable

AT RISE:

A MAN stretches languidly. He is having a great time, and feels no need to rush, audience be damned. After a good minute or so of this, a DUDE enters.

DUDE:
Hey, man.

MAN:
(continuing to strecth)
Hey, dude.

DUDE:
Stretching?

MAN:
You know it, brother.

DUDE:
Hell yeah I do.

The Dude begins to stretch, but somehow manages to be completely terrible at it.
Suddenly, the PLAYWRIGHT loses track of his work, and some PIRATES appear.

PIRATE 1:
We are pirates, for those uninitiated in the ways of seafaring rogues such as we.

DUDE:
Watch out, Man! Pirates!

MAN:
I see em', Dude.

He continues to stretch.

MAN:
So, is there anything in particular you guys wanted?

PIRATE 2:
Nah, just putting our names out there, you know.

MAN:
I can accept that.

PIRATE 1:
Cool.

Everyone just kind of STANDS AROUND.

DUDE:
So-

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Timeless

AT RISE:

TWO LADIES sit across the room from each other. They each have a laptop balanced on their (well I suppose it's obvious, really) laps. Who'd a thunk. I should probably give them names or risk the ire of the obviously socially conscious audience, who would insist that the lack of names for female characters, far from being a result of lack of nominal inspiration, was in fact, a sign of deep-rooted patriarchy in the author. Patriarchy being a somewhat strange choice in term, perhaps for what father would decide not to give his daughter name? But I guess the term doesn't really refer to it's direct meaning per se, and is just a snazzy buzzword generated by extremely angry people. You know, upon further reflection, the author is starting to realize that this entire set of stage directions itself will probably raise it's fair share of ire and is now wishing that he (or she!) should have just made the protagonists some sort of asexual single-celled organism regardless of the needs of the plot (such as it is).

Anyway, their names are Doris and Cloris.

DORIS:
Hey Cloris?

CLORIS:
Yes Doris?

DORIS:
What's the deal with the internet, anyway?

CLORIS:
It's a bunch of computers.

DORIS:
Well, yeah. But, I mean, what'll we do with it when we're done?

CLORIS:
Done?

DORIS:
Finished. You know, ready to move on.

CLORIS:
I honestly do not know.

DORIS:
Yeah, weird, isn't it? Nobody ever seems to talk about what happens after the internet. I mean what if it doesn't just sort of evolve into something new, what if we end up completely destroying it for the sake of something else.

CLORIS:
Well, it's not like the internet was just turned on one day, out of the blue. It gradually developed into what it is now. I really don't think there's just a big switch out there marked "emergency internet off switch" or something.

DORIS:
But what if there is? That's like, my entire point.

CLORIS:
Then we all learn the dewey decimal system again until "Internet 2" is up an running.

DORIS:
And what about all the porn?

CLORIS:
Porn will take care of itself.

DORIS:
I guess they could just print all the porn out and hire someone to retype it or whatever.

CLORIS:
I'm sure that's exactly what's going to happen.

DORIS:
Yeah. The porn will take care of itself.

CLORIS:
It always has.

DORIS:
There's something comforting about that, isn't there.

A moment's thought.

CLORIS:
You know, there kinda is.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Possibly Morbid

AT RISE:

A dank, smoky room. DOUG, KYLE and RALPHIE sit around a table. A dead body sits slumped in a fourth seat and a gun lies on the table.

DOUG:
You know what would make Russian Roulette more fun?

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Nerf weapons.

RALPHIE:
Just take your damn turn, Doug.

DOUG:
...Pass.

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Pass. I pass. I uh... forfeit my turn.

KYLE:
You can't forfeit your turn.

DOUG:
Says who?

RALPHIE:
Says the rules.

DOUG sighs.

DOUG:
Fine.

He takes a playing card out of his pocket, and throws it one the table.

DOUG:
Reverse!

KYLE:
You have got to be kidding me.

Ralphie examines the card.

RALPHIE:
It's an "Uno" card.

KYLE:
What?

DOUG:
Uno? You know, only the best party game ever. Now if you don't mind, I believe it's your turn.

KYLE:
Pick up the damn gun, Doug.

Doug gulps audibly and picks up the gun. He presses it to his temple.

DOUG:
(out of the corner of his mouth)
...Click. Oh man, close call. Whew. Well, it's been a pleasure guys, but I should really go home and feed the cats, right? Right. Again, awesome time, really. Uh...later.

He turns to leave, still holding the gun.

RALPHIE:
Aren't you forgetting something there, Doug?

DOUG:
Hmm? Oh yeah, of course.
(beat)
Uh... Good game. Thanks?
(beat)
No?

KYLE:
No.

DOUG:
Fine. I'll just, uh, leave it here then.

He gingerly places the gun on the floor, and makes to leave.

DOUG:
Again guys, thanks a bunch. And uh, great seeing you guys again. Bye!

He bolts off stage. Ralphie and Kyle consider the gun for a moment, then look at each other.

RALPHIE:
This is why I never invite guys from the office.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Squid

AT RISE:

A DUDE and a LADY.

DUDE:
Hey, did you know that it's National Cephalopod Awareness Day?

LADY:
Indeed I did! You could say that I was "aware" of that!

DUDE:
This relationship is over.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Logic Loop

AT RISE:

Two GUYS eat at a table.

GUY A:
Being as I am the first one to talk, I am assuming dominance over this conversation.

GUY B:
C'mon guy, enough with the metatexuality.

GUY A:
What do you mean?

GUY B:
You know exactly what I mean.

GUY A:
No, really. What're you getting at?

GUY B:
Look, I'm not going to get into it.

GUY A:
Why not?

GUY B:
Because it's virtually impossible for me to critique your habit of pointing out our nature as dramatic constructs without myself pointing out our nature as fictional entites. And once that's happened, there's nowhere for the story to go without becoming overly clever and thus unsatisfying.
(A beat)
Shit.

They stare at their food.

GUY A:
Does this mean the play's over?

GUY B:
Of course not.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Economy

AT RISE:

A huge EXPLOSION!!

AUDIENCE:
WOW!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY. THE AUDIENCE FREAKS OUT FOR A WHILE IN THEIR SEATS, DUE TO THEIR MINDS BEING SHATTERED BY THE SHEER SPECTACLE AND SHORTNESS OF IT ALL.

--------------

EPILOGUE:

PLAYWRIGHT:
Why didn't I think of this 37 days ago?

He eats a Victory Sandwich.

THE END...?

Unavoidable

AT RISE:

A HOBO WIZARD stands before a garbage can, filthy, yet resplendant in once-colorful robes. He speaks to a piece of cheese.

HOBO WIZARD:
I wasn't always like this, you know. I was like you, once.

CHEESE:
I know, old friend. I know.

Silent tears course down the Hobo Wizard's cheeks.

CHEESE:
No regrets, chum. There's no time left for regret.

The Hobo Wizard nods. Then, he takes a thoughful bite out of the cheese.

HOBO WIZARD:
Give my regards to Valhalla.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

La Mer

AT RISE:

A SAILOR stands under a street light. He is an UNDERCOVER COP, but this absolutely no bearing on the play. Just thought I'd mention it, because it is very DEEP. He smokes a cigarette thoughtfully.

SAILOR:
I'd better go home before I'm mistaken for a prostitue.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Change of Pace

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN sit on top of some monkey bars. They stare at the sky on a moonlit night.

WOMAN:
Are you a dog person?

MAN:
Not really.

She thinks.

WOMAN:
Then we'll buy a dolphin.

He looks at her, and sees an entire life in the space of a moment.

MAN:
Dolphin it is.

A smile. A kiss. A happy ending.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Prove Me Wrong

AT RISE:

A DOCTOR is in the midst of a surgical operation on a prone patient. After he completes an official-looking task, he reaches below the operating table and produces a large TUNA FISH. He quickly looks around to see if anyone is watching. Satisfied, he raises the tuna...

DOCTOR:
Science, you are a cruel mistress.

...And proceeds to place the large fish into the patient's chest cavity. The doctor begins to weep.

DOCTOR:
Scieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnncee!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Apolitical

AT RISE:

Two MEN sit on a couch. There is an UNDENIABLE SEXUAL TENSION in the air, though this is never acknowledged, nor must it ever be to maintain the fragile grip these two poor souls have on their notions of sexuality. One imagines that they spend abnormal amounts of time wrestling.

MAN A:
Maybe we should get another piece of furniture.

MAN B:
Why?

MAN A:
So we wouldn't be forced to share a couch all the time.

A beat.

MAN B:
Could we just get a comfier couch instead?

Man A looks at Man B with a look that would convey long-hidden passions and lust if he were even a little bit self-aware. As it is, he just looks kind of sleepy.

MAN A:
Yes. Yes we can.

MAN B:
Awesome.

They shake hands, lingering just a little too long. In self-defense their minds seize up, and start churning out the names of star running backs from the 1960's.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Virtual 2-D Cyber Actors!

What intruigingly familiar witchcraft is this??

http://awesomeroxor.blogspot.com/2008/10/few.html

And don't forget to read today's play!

A Thousand Times Yes

AT RISE:

A TELEVISION WRITER and a PLAYWRIGHT stand side by side.

TV WRITER:
Hi, I write for television!

PLAYWRIGHT:
And I write plays!

TV WRITER:
I write commercial, accessible pieces of dramatic literature.

PLAYWRIGHT:
I write semi-commercial, occasionally unrelatable pieces of dramatic literature, but do so out of reverence to the higher calling of True Art!

TV WRITER:
I get paid!

A pause.

PLAYWRIGHT:
Hi, I write for television!

A GIRL runs in.

GIRL:
Emmys!

WRITERS:
YAH!

She throws Emmy Awards at them and they all have an awesome party with a really cool DJ. I think his name was Jeff, but I might be thinking of Will Smith's sidekick! It's a great ending!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

2008

AT RISE:

A darkened apartment, with a couch and all sorts of good stuff like that. The sound of a key in the door, and a YOUNG PROFESSIONAL enters, wearing a suit and holding a briefcase.

He turns on the lights, and throws the briefcase down on the couch with a sigh. He turns to face the audience, and loosens his tie. His right foot begins to tap rythmically. The motion is soon joined by a slight bobbing of the head. A song begins to play, softly at first and slowly, very slowly building in volume. The song is different for everybody and should be chosen with great care, for it is more important to the character than any line of dialogue.

The man's movements increase in intensity and largeness with the volume of the song, and he visibly relaxes as the music fills the room. He never quite dances, and remains rooted to the same spot, always facing the audience, but in his mind he is whirling around the room. A smile spreads across his face as the song reaches it's conclusion, and when it ends, he finds himself as he started, completely still.

After a moment of stillness, he removes his jacket.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.