Something Different

AT RISE:

A MAN stares into the eyes of a CAT. The CAT stares back.

MAN:
This is quickly turning into an example of "cat humor" isn't it.

The Cat shrugs, and transforms into a wildebeast.

MAN:
Much better.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Daily

AT RISE:

A MAN rides the subway, bored in a commuterly kind of way. That is to say his eyes are as vacant as death's and he avoid eye contact with fellwo travellers who show even the most minor signs of wear and tear, for fear of donation requests.

Suddenly, RASTAFARIAN JAMES VAN DER BEEK appears! Holy shit!

MAN:
R-Rasta!?

RJVDB:
Yes my friend, it is I. Similar in many ways to the former teen star of Dawson's Creek, yet my own man in so many others.

MAN:
But why? Why now?

RJVDB:
Because I just finished my reggae album, and I would like for you to buy it. Here, on this silver chariot of hope, as it races through the bowels of the greatest city on Earth.

MAN:
Uh.. no change, sorry.

RJVDB:
...Fine.

The heavens open up and take RJVDB back to his celestial throne. The MAN looks at the floor, and hope noone thinks he's a dick.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Rivalry

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR sits in a chair, a pained looked playing across his face. The AUTHOR's BROTHER paces around him, animated.

AUTHOR'S BRO:
What's so hard about this, anyway? Huh? Huh? Here I've got one. Check this shit out.

"AT RISE:

A CHICKEN watches a Cary Grant movie. The Chicken rises."

CHICKEN:
Man, that is one dapper man.

BLACKOUT. FIN."

AUTHOR'S BRO:
See? The thing is you're just lazy. Here watch this, I'm gonna write a sequel. It will make me one billion dollars when it goes global. Bam.

AUTHOR:
Why do my rage daggers lack the dealy precision of their real-world counterparts?

AUTHOR'S BRO:
Probably because you're gay. BAM!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Themed

AT RISE:

A Turkey.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

It Could Happen

AT RISE:

A stuffed SHARK is launched out of a pneumatic tube at the audience! They are startled and titiliated! Just as it seems that said shark with crash into the fragile laps of the ticketholders, however, it explodes, igniting a carfeully laid out series of firecrackers that have been glued to the ceiling. The resulting firestorm seems set to engulf the entire theatre when....the audience all wakes up! It was just a dream Whew! Close call. The audience, a little cranky from being woken up so abruptly, will then notice on stage a single red rose. All is forgiven.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Notes From Underground

AT RISE:

A Lenscrafters lab. GEORGE, a dude in a labcoat, stands in front of a table, fiddling with a pair of glasses. MARK, another dude, also in a labcoat enters. As a note, George is incapable of both irony and of lowering his voice. Also, over a small speaker setup, Beyonce is playing. Beyonce is always playing.

MARK:
Hey man, what's up?

GEORGE:
What! Hey player, you been chillin'?

MARK:
Yeah, pretty much.

GEORGE:
Cool, cool. Listen man, what'd you have for dinner last night?

MARK:
Uh, lasagna. I think.

GEORGE:
What!? Listen man, did it have chicken in it?

MARK:
Nope.

GEORGE:
That's crazy, son.

MARK:
Not really.

GEORGE:
Word.

MARK:
...What?

GEORGE:
Later, player!

George takes two steps to the left and stares at the table.

MARK:
What?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

In Joke

AT RISE:

TED and TERRY drink root beers. They are in their mid-40's.

TED:
Hey, Terry?

TERRY:
Yes, Ted?

TED:
Did you ever watch "Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman?

TERRY:
No.

TED:
LIAR!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Musings

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR sits on a see-saw. There is a beat before the speaking commences.

AUTHOR:
Here's a question. Was this play depressing before I started talking? The imagery evocative of being alone? Or was it hopeful, as if I were waiting for someone? Funny, because of the somewhat unexpected starting image? Maybe you were comepletly unfazed, and thought it was trite, or even satisfied because you were convinced that I was actually participating in an activity with an imaginary being from beyond the stars. Though what beyond the stars implies, I have no idea. More stars? Right about now you're probably annoyed that I've been babbling on in this mildly pretentious way, and wish that you could go back to the first impression, whatever that was for you. Unless you just really enjoy hearing people talk. Well, read people talk for those of you out there on the ol' interwebs. Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. Later.

The lights starts to fade.

AUTHOR:
Oh, and in case you were wondering, it's the invisible being from beyond the stars one.

INVISIBLE BEING FROM BEYOND THE STARS:
Drive safe!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Cold War

AT RISE:

Two groups of serious-looking soldiers in contrasting uniforms enjoy a hearty snowball fight. Off on the corner sits a dejected PRIVATE, shivering.

PRIVATE:
I hate puns.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pastry

AT RISE:

A MAN lies atop an enormous pile of Pop-Tarts.

MAN:
Maybe I should have wished for world peace.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tough Call.

AT RISE:

A movie theatre. DALE and AMELIA sit in the front row as the lights of a film play across their faces.

DALE:
Do you ever wonder if the constant move of entertainment toward a safe, undemanding mediocrity is indicictive of the increasing shallowness of our culture, or the effect of the culture of fear that has permeated our shared culture for the past decade or so, leading toward a demand for mindless escapism rather than a studied look at the effects of our modern perspective on our future? Bonus question: Do you want more popcorn?

Amelia thinks for a moment.

AMELIA:
I would love more popcorn.

DALE:
Right-o.

He exists, holding a popcorn bucket.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Higher Learning

AT RISE:

A YOUNG WOMAN stands before a complicated flow-chart, holding a pointer. She is just finishing up what seems to be a very complicated presentation to an audience of one: a nine-year old BOY.

YOUNG WOMAN:
...And in conclusion, I feel that your assertion is incorrect, and professional wrestling is, in fact, completely stupid. Any questions?

The Boy raises his hand.

YOUNG WOMAN:
Yes?

BOY:
Can we get juice now?

YOUNG WOMAN:
Yes. But you're buying.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The More You Know

AT RISE:

A man wearing a beret, GERARD, flies a kite. Gentle French accordion music drifts throught the theatre.

GERARD:
Truly, it is the simple things that make life worthwhile.

He takes a long drag from a cigarette.

GERARD:
Flying a kite, smoking a cigarette, fulfilling ethnic sterotypes in a way that will offend virtually no-one.

Another drag.

GERARD:
I worry for the day that racism against a Frenchman will no longer seem funny compared to the other, obstensibly more serious forms.

He picks up a passing frog and licks it.

GERARD:
Which is not to claim that the great civil rights struggles have been over nothing. Au contraire, mon frere.

He glares at a passing tourist.

GERARD:
The degree of hatred and violence based on such prejudices are no laughing matter. But it never hurts to remember that racism applies to everyone.

He takes a bite of cheese, swills some wine, swears beautifully and seduces at least fourteen women, all without bathing.

GERARD:
Except those dirty, socialist Canadians.

He shrugs, and mimes being in a box. Also: Jerry Lewis.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Discourse

AT RISE:

BEN and LISA share a bowl of pudding.

BEN:
Pudding.

LISA:
Yeah.

BEN:
So you feeling better?

LISA:
Not particularly.

BEN:
Hmm.

LISA:
What?

BEN:
I dunno, I really thought the pudding would do it.

LISA:
It's not the pudding, Ben.

BEN:
I know but... I mean, it's chocolate and everything.

LISA:
I know Ben, really. Great pudding.

BEN:
Fantastic?

LISA:
Yes Ben, this pudding is fantastic. If it had a saddle, I would ride this pudding into the sunset.

BEN:
But you don't feel any better.

LISA:
No.
(beat)
Well, less hungry.

BEN:
See? You do feel better.

LISA:
Not the time to be grasping at straws, my friend.

BEN:
I beg to differ.

LISA:
Look, you've got to accept that I'm just going to be mad for a little while, okay?

BEN:
No.

LISA:
No?

BEN:
I refuse to accept that you're just going to be mad for a litle while. Now eat your pudding.

LISA:
I'm starting to wish I had never sold myself into white slavery.

SURPRISE ENDING!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Huh?

AT RISE:

A MAN with a birdcage.

MAN:
You know, of the modern sportsman's many pursuits, urban falconry is by far the fastest growing in terms of popularity. Of course, being in a metropolitain area necessitates certain compromises. For example, this is a common finch.

He revals the finch in the cage.

MAN:
But it's commonality and household pet status in no way negates it's potency as a predator!

Another man enters. The first Man releases the bird, who proceeds to fly straight through the new man, cutting a hole clean through him before returning to the cage.

MAN:
Next up: Bath Sloths.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Stranger than Fiction

AT RISE:

Bleary-eyed NERDS toil on computers in a dank room. Another NERD, only slightly less bedraggled rushes into the room.

NERD:
Guys! There appears to be a large burning ball of gas in the sky, what gives?

No response.

NERD:
See, it was a joke. Get it? I meant the sun.

Nothing.

NERD:
I wish I could say we were purposefully acting out stereotypes. It would be less sad, somehow.

Nuttin'.

NERD:
Alright, fine. Make room.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

(And special thanks to Emily for the guest strip!)

Extra Special Guest Author Post Featuring: Emily B.!

(Author's note: I haven't written a play in two years, but Mark is trapped somewhere and I was told not to let his dream die. And also to send him some pizza and a change of pants, but I ignored that part.)

LIGHTS UP

DREW
Look, I can see you're upset with the direction of the piece.

LIAM
I wrote a lovely, atmospheric play about a plucky young bulimic who makes a lot of mix tapes in Ireland and sends them to people on the internet who desperately need human connection in a sterile information age, some of whom have cancer and some of whom have wacky dogs and some of whom had fathers who never understood their dreams. And then they all learned something about life and wrote letters about it that their children read later.

DREW
Yes.

LIAM
It was lyric!

DREW
Yes.

LIAM
And what you've just shown me is two men dressed like robots jousting.

DREW
On miniature ponies. It's edgy.

LIAM
With their cocks.
(beat)
Actually, they're just kind of...fucking.

DREW
I might add some puppets later. Those wacky Japanese-y ones with the chalk faces.

LIAM
I just feel that gay porn is a little too intense for what I'm trying to convey.

DREW
You do get a lot in a small package.

LIAM
So to speak.

DREW
Indeed.

LIAM and DREW stare off into the middle distance. A CLARINET plays "Love for Sale".

LIAM
I don't know what Tom Stoppard's got that I don't.

LIGHTS DOWN

END PLAY

Sleep

AT RISE:

A BED looks out a window, sadly. A Pillow falls from the sky, then sits upright.

PILLOW:
What's wrong, Bed?

BED:
Well Pillow, I just don't think people appreciate me anymore. I think they're just using me for sex.

PILLOW:
This conversation just got weird.

The Pillow jumps out the window.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY

Three Words

AT RISE:

BEN and BOB drive in a car.

BEN:
So hey, Bob.

BOB:
Yes, Ben?

BEN:
I think we should go see that new thing.

BOB:
What new thing?

BEN:
You know, those new red stairs downtown.

BOB:
I'm going to need more descriptive language than that.

BEN:
You know, those new things. C'mon, man. They're like red stairs.

BOB:
And?

BEN:
And they're new.

BOB:
Give me three good reasons.

BEN:
One: They're new. Two: They're red.

BOB:
And three?

BEN:
...Stairs.

BOB:
Stairs.

BEN:
Yeah.

BOB:
No.

BEN:
I will buy you a candy bar.

BOB:
...Fine.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dear Pen Pal

AT RISE:

DAN sits at a desk, preparing to write a letter. A middle-aged British WOMAN stands slightly behind him, with a sweet smile. As Dan begins to write, the woman speaks.

WOMAN:
Dear Pen Pal, you'll neer believe what happened to me today. In fact, I hardly believe it myself!

Dan looks off into space for a second, biting the end of his pen. A thought strikes him and he resumes.

WOMAN:
I guess it all started when I got home...from...

The Woman's speech slows along with Dan's pen. He now seems concerned.

WOMAN:
From...work. It was just like any other..

Dan stops writing, and listens intently. Carefully, he puts pen to paper.

WOMAN:
...Afternoon.

Dan whirls around, and spots the Woman.

DAN:
AHHHHHHHHHH!

WOMAN:
Damn it!

She turns to run as Dan lunges to his desk and removes a gun.

DAN:
Never again!!

He FIRES! The Woman goes down in a pool of blood. She raises a hand weakly toward Dan.

WOMAN:
Dear..Pen..

He FIRES again and again, until the chamber clicks empty. The Woman is silent at last. He drops to his knees.

DAN:
Is it...is it finally over?

Sirens wail in the distance, as Dan puts his head in his hands, and weeps.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Blocked

AT RISE:

An empty stage. A minute passes. Then another minute. The voice of the AUTHOR can be heard from offstage.

AUTHOR:
Damn it!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Possible

AT RISE:

A party. A YOUNG MAN stands in the center without a shirt.

YOUNG MAN:
Wow. You know what's fun?

PARTY:
What?

YOUNG MAN:
Alcohol, apparently.

PARTY:
An interesting theory!

A chicken is placed on his head, and the party continues. Shit, as they say, get crazy.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Shakira Shakira

AT RISE:

A DUDE eats a Twinkie.

DUDE:
I have nothing relevant to say at this juncture.

We linger with the Dude for a long while, but he really doesn't have anything else to say. Somewhere, a creative writing teacher is weeping.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Not Me

AT RISE:

STEVE and STEVE stand in line at the post office.

STEVE:
Hey, Steve?

STEVE:
Yes, Steve?

STEVE:
Do you remember that song: "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

STEVE:
No.

STEVE:
Oh. Just as well, really.

He buys some stamps.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pilot Season

AT RISE:

A WOMAN wheels around the stage on a rolly-chair. Her look is pensive.

WOMAN:
Sometimes I feel like I'm being introduced to the world every day for the first time. And it gets me anxious, because I'm never sure if new viewers will catch on to the patchwork quilt of quirks, mannerisms and deep-rooted emotional problems that make me who I am within a reasonable space of five to ten minutes. And once I've lost these metaphorical viewers, I'm worried they'll never tune back in, forcing me to toil in obscurity until my premature cancellation. So I constantly feel this pressure to find some kind of hyper-efficent method of characterization that'll get me noticed, remembered, and possibly adored.

She spins in place on the chair.

WOMAN:
And that's why man invented rolly-chairs.

She zips offstage, laughing.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Nov. 4th

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR relaxes amongst heaping piles of money. He is eating a sandwich, perhaps the best in the world.

AUTHOR:
This... is a really good sandwich.

He takes a bite and sighs, completely relaxed. From outside a gilded window comes the sound of cheering. There seems to be some kind of celebration going on.

AUTHOR:
I'm just going to asssume that's for me.

THE CROWD:
It's not!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Chronological

AT RISE:

A MAN and a LADY relax at home. Through the window, we can see that it is night-time.

MAN:
(yawning)
What times is it?

LADY:
Five.

The man looks out the window, alarmed.

MAN:
In the morning?

LADY:
No, in the afternoon, you cantankerous boob.

MAN:
That was unexpectedly articulate of you.

LADY:
It's my "lady time".

MAN:
Say no more.

He looks out the window again.

MAN:
Pitch black at five o'clock in the pm. What ever happened to daylight savings time?

LADY:
It was last Sunday.

MAN:
What!?

He tears open the window and shouts to the heavens.

MAN:
WHO ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE, DAYLIGHT? WHO ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE IF YOU CAN'T EVEN SAVE YOURSELF?

LADY:
That's my fella!

Cue theme music.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Bitter

AT RISE:

A MAN does laundry. For an hour. Most of the hour is spent sitting around waiting for the washer and dryer. The rest is spent readinga succession of take-out menus. The audience is enraptured because this is EXPERIMENTAL and BORING, and thus must be ART. To re-enforce this, and to make the audience feel better about spending fifty bucks, there is music by PHILLIP GLASS.

Between wshing and drying, the MAN should doff all his clothes. The house lights then come up as he does nude jumping jacks while asking the audience pointed questions about their lifestyle choices. He may or may not "tea-bag" an unwilling spectator.

And finally, the laundry is done, the man exits and the audience goes home, poorer, but a little wiser.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Crime Drama

AT RISE:

A plate of cookies. A MAN walks in, stops when he sees the cookies. His face contorts in a mask of rage as he pulls a handgun, storms over to the cookies, and holds the gun an inch from their collective, delicious faces.

MAN:
You know what this is about.

A heartbeat of silence. Then, a bag of cocaine shoots out of the middle of the cookies. The Man catches the bag.

MAN:
Amatuer.

He runs off, cackling. The cookies remain impassive.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Porcine Puncher

AT RISE:

GLENN and TOMAS relax in their living room. GLENN is at a computer.

GLENN:
Oh my God!

He turns from the computer in horror.

TOMAS:
What?

GLENN:
I just saw something horrible.

TOMAS:
Like what?

GLENN:
Well, I was googling "ham fist"-

TOMAS:
Wait, what?

GLENN:
Uh, "ham fist".

TOMAS:
Why the Hell would you do a search on "ham fist"?

GLENN:
I was bored.

TOMAS:
You were bored. And your mind immediately jumped to "ham fist"?

GLENN:
Look, I don't judge your lifestyle choices.

TOMAS:
Fine, whatever.

A beat.

TOMAS:
What came up on your search, anyway?

GLENN:
Take a look for yourself.

Tomas gingerly gets up and looks at the computer. His face becomes as white as a sheet.

TOMAS:
Mankind is a plague that must be cleansed from this Earth.

GLENN:
That's all I'm saying.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.