The Curve

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR pushes mightly against a large wall of crap. Behind the crap is a glowing, golden light that promises all good things in this world!

AUTHOR:
This is a metaphor for battling against mediocrity for inspiration! It's very direct!

The wall falls on the Author's head.

AUTHOR:
At least I have an abrupt ending to shield me from further humiliation!

There is a long, long pause.

AUTHOR:
Oh, come on!

More pausing. A small kitty walks by, unnoticed.

AUTHOR:
Hello?

A long, long, long beat. The audience checks their timepieces anxiously.

AUTHOR:
Point proven! I now know what i have to do with my

BLACKOUT. END PLAY. THANK GOD.

Gibberish

AT RISE:

JEFF and TERRY.

JEFF:
Hmm.

TERRY:
What?

JEFF:
I was going to say something.

TERRY:
Lies.

JEFF:
You know, you're right. There is a logical fallacy in the statement "I was going to say something", due to the fact that you did not actually say it. Thus in a purely literal sense, you were not "going to say" that at all! This is a deep conversation!

TERRY:
Lies.

JEFF:
You cut to the heart of me, friend.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Stream of Consciousness

AT RISE:

PHIL stands expectantly, waiting for the audience to settle down.

PHIL:
Alright gang, get ready for the wackiest night of theatre ever! I'm gonna list ten things, completely at random that I will then fit together completely randomly to form, Voltron-like, a whole new experience in live entertainment! Are you ready?

AUDIENCE:
No!

PHIL:
Oh. Sorry.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tried and True

AT RISE:

A ZOMBIE and FRANK.

FRANK:
You know, to be honest, Zombie Guy, there is literally no interaction that we could have here that would not be, on some level, a cliche. If you were a smart zonbie, say. Or a normal brain-eating one. Pr some weird combination of random memes. Zombie pirate, zombie ninja. Zombie librarian, even. Fast zombie, slow zombie. It's all been done. So you can understand why I'm a little bit frustrated right now, I hope.

ZOMBIE:
...

FRANK:
Oh thank God. I was worried you were going to say "brains" or-

And the zombie bites him in the head or something. I mean, it had to happen at some point, right? That's what makes cliches cliches. On some level, the audience is very satosfied, despite themseleves.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

On Romance

AT RISE:

PHIL and JILL walk through the park on a beautiful snowy day. There is magic in the air, possibly due to fairies.

PHIL:
Have you ever noticed Hollywood's tendency to take shortcuts with love stories merely by implying that the two romantic leads have a sexy "history" together? I mean it's one of those things that's easy to overlook, but if you actually think about it, it's an incredibly lazy screenwriting tool. It's like going up to a girl you want to sleep with and being like "Hey, we slept together in the past, so there's gonna be some intense chemistry going on in the following exchange. In fact, it's more than likely that no matter how big an asshole I am, we will in fact fall in love and bump uglies in the next twenty-four hours. Just a heads up." It's ludicrous, and completely flies in the face of every rule about good character development, but we just accept it! I dunno, maybe deep down we don't care, we just want to cut to the chase and watch the sexy people have sexy times, living vicariously through their sexy antics, but I like to think we all would like a slightly more satisfying view of romance.

JILL:
You're just saying that because of our sexy history, aren't you?

PHIL:
You're damn right, baby.

They make out.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Leather and Lace

AT RISE:

A BARBARIAN. He's wearing a rather tiny LOINCLOTH.

BARBARIAN:
I find my lifestyle fuflling.

LOINCLOTH:
I, on the other hand, do not!

BARBARIAN:
How could that be, tiny friend? You have a purpose in life, clear as the new dawn!

LOINCLOTH:
True, but this purpose is one that I find disdainful!

BARBARIAN:
There are those that would find your disdain confusing.

LOINCLOTH:
These people are most likely ones that do not wish to view your junk.

BARBARIAN:
Then we are agreed! We both find our lifestyles fulfilling!

LOINCLOTH:
What, no-

BARBARIAN:
Stealing this enchanted loincloth was truly a wise decision! Now I shall never be alone!

LOINCLOTH:
You're not listening!

BARBARIAN:
You're right, I would like a sandwich!

And he trundles off. Majestically!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Making Up for Lost Time

Hey gang,

It's my very special priviledge to be returning to my blogging duties after my brief-ish hiatus. And to get back in the swing of things, I decided to solicit titles from my friends/enemies on the ol' Facebook, and then write a play for each title within 24 hours. I recieved 14 titles, so here are 14 new plays for your reading pleasure, all written on a rainy Monday, in a caffeiene induced hysteria. Enjoy!

P.S.- They're better if you read them in order, plus they go back a ways, what with there being so many, so just keep clicking "older posts" or just click on the button to the right that says "April 2009")


- The Management

Israel and Palestine

AT RISE:

A precinct in the Big City! Specifically, the office of DETECTIVE JOHN PALESTINE. He’s a grizzled badass on the verge of retirement. Don’t believe me? Check it out for yourself as this macho man’s intercom buzzes.

PALESTINE:
(pounding a button on the intercom)
What is it, sweetheart? I’m a grizzled badass with just two days til I retire and I’m not in the mood for any guff!

INTERCOM:
It’s your new partner, Detective Palestine!

PALESTINE:
Partner? I hate partners! Send him away. FOREVER!

The door busts open and in saunters PHIL ISRAEL. Streetwise and cool, but still a little green around the ears.

ISRAEL:
What’s up, pops? I’m Phil Israel. You supposed to be my partner or something!

PALESTINE:
Pops! I hate slick slicksters who think they’re so slick! You maybe be streetwise kid, but you’re green around the gills, and it’s gonna get you killed! On my watch!

ISRAEL:
I will never believe that to be true! You’re just senile, and out of touch!

PALESTINE:
Grrr!

SUDDENLY! An assassin jumps in through the window!

ASSASSIN:
I hate cops!

He pulls a gun! Israel ducks as Palestine kicks the assassin in the head knocking him down in one shot!

PALESTINE:
Looks like you could learn a thing or two, rookie.

ISRAEL:
Watch out!

The assassin gets back up and fires a shot at Palestine, as Israel jumps in the way and takes a slug in the shoulder! Ouch!

PALESTINE:
Or maybe I have a few things I could learn from you.

ISRAEL:
Maybe we both have learning to do.

PALESTINE:
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that there’s always more learning to learn.

ISRAEL:
Can I call you dad?

PALESTINE:
Sure thing…kid.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

A Diner a Day

AT RISE:

PHIL and LARRY sit at a diner booth. There is absolutely nothing to distinguish the two in terms of immediate demeanor, thus Larry has a sinister scar running down his left cheek. Or a hat, whichever is easier to come by.

PHIL:
Phil.

LARRY:
Larry.

PHIL:
Man, it’s a good thing that we’re not in some sort of dramatic work, or people might now be convinced that my name is Larry and your name is Phil, they of course being unaware of our quirky habit of occasionally stating our own names without adequate reason.

LARRY:
Wait, that means I’m Larry?

PHIL:
Well, yeah.

LARRY:
And you’re Phil?

PHIL:
By process of elimination.

LARRY:
Oh.
(beat)
That does shed some light on the mysteries of my day-to-day life.

PHIL:
Glad to be of service. Now who wants pie?

LARRY:
Well, I thought I did, but I also thought my name was Phil, so it might be better if the decision as taken out of my hands.

PHIL:
How does your name in any way effect your desire for baked goods?

LARRY:
It doesn’t directly. But now I’m finding myself ensconced in a fog of uncertainty.

PHIL:
That’s very poetic, Larry.

LARRY:
Phil.

PHIL:
What?

LARRY:
Oh, nothing. I was just- Could you just call me Phil? If you don’t mind.

PHIL:
But I’m Phil.

LARRY:
Well yeah. Technically. I mean. Forget it. It would just be a bit…easier. For me.

PHIL:
Would it now.

LARRY:
Well yeah. For now. You know, because of the fog.

PHIL:
The fog of uncertainty.

LARRY:
That’s the one.

PHIL:
Fine. Now do you want some pie…Phil?

LARRY:
I would love some pie, Phil.

PHIL:
Fan-freaking-tastic.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Illicit Desires

AT RISE:

JANICE and LARRY in a passionate embrace.

JANICE:
How much longer can we keep this up, Larry?

LARRY:
As long as we can, damn it!

JANICE:
That’s not really an answer.

LARRY:
Sorry, you caught me off guard. I figure we’ve got a couple more weeks before we get bored.

JANICE:
What do you mean “bored”? Our love is forbidden and dangerous!

LARRY:
I dunno. I mean, our love could technically be classified as “forbidden”, I guess. But it’s kind of stretching the intention of the phrase.

JANICE:
Stretching the intention of the phrase!? You’re my brother!

LARRY:
No I’m not.

JANICE:
Well you’re his identical twin!

LARRY:
No, that would still make me your brother. I’m your brother’s barber.

JANICE:
Well, you have the same haircut! That’s pretty weird!

LARRY:
Not really, it’s popular.

JANICE:
Only amongst men! Oh forget it.

LARRY:
Wanna go get some ice cream?

JANICE:
Illicit ice cream?

LARRY:
Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Belligerent Moustache

AT RISE:

WENDY reclines on a sofa, reading the paper. She has a full, magnificent moustache. I mean, it’s really something and should immediately make every clean-shaven member of the audience feel uncomfortable and shamed by their lack of facial convicition.

WENDY:
What a relaxing day for a moustache!

KEN enters. He too has a moustache, pencil thin, yet dignified.

KEN:
Every day is relaxing… with a moustache!

WENDY:
Isn’t it, though!

They chortle merrily. Ken sits beside Wendy on the sofa. BETH runs into the room! She is entirely clean-shaven!

BETH:
Guys! You know those moustaches everyone has been growing lately! You know, the ones that make you instantly suave and super-popular?

WENDY:
I’ve heard some things, yes.

BETH:
Well it turns out that they’re secretly evil aliens intent on controlling our minds and ruling the earth! I hear tell that they’ll stop at nothing, and allow no interference in their plan to harvest the planet’s natural resources for their own diabolical ends! To that end, I burned mine off this morning using a curling iron!

KEN:
Now Beth, that’s just ridiculous.

BETH:
Is it, Ken? IS IT?

An awkward pause.

WENDY:
Yes?

BETH:
Oh, okay the-

Suddenly Wendy and Ken’s moustaches fly towards Beth, assaulting her precious, precious face! Beth stumbles out of the room, flailing wildly! Wow!

WENDY:
Well, I’ll be.

KEN:
Indeed. What should we do now?

WENDY:
Well first, you should get your fine ass of this couch and get me a sandwich.

KEN:
Oh, Wendy!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Israel and Palestine vs. Australia

AT RISE:

JIMMY AUSTRALIA stands on a high platform overlooking DETECTIVE JOHN PALESTINE. He holds a gun, but more importantly he holds on to rookie DETECTIVE PHIL ISRAEL.

PALESTINE:
I’m too old for crap like this!

AUSTRALIA:
Too bad, Palestine! Because I have diplomatic immunity! I can kill whoever I want! And right now I want to kill……your partner!

ISRAEL:
That’s me, Palestine!

PALESTINE:
Don’t you think I know that?

ISRAEL:
Of course not! I’m impudent!

AUSTRALIA:
What’s it going to be, Palestine? Your partner, or me being a diplomat, which has foiled you time and time again in this particular caper?

PALESTINE:
I choose option 3, Dickmouth! Hot lead!

AUSTRALIA:
WHAAAAAAAAAAT!

Palestine shoots him right in the head! The good guys win!

ISRAEL:
How’d you know you’d make the shot, partner?

PALESTINE:
I didn’t, kid!

ISRAEL:
Somehow, I always knew…old man!

They laugh!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Cheeseburger Bonanza

AT RISE:

GLENN and BECK.

GLENN:
Hey, Beck.

BECK:
Hey, Glenn.

GLENN:
So I can’t help but notice this play is entitled “Cheeseburger Bonanza”

BECK:
Yup. That seems to be the case.

GLENN:
You know, by the literal definition, that would mean a rich vein of cheeseburger, similar to a gold deposit in a mine.

BECK:
True, but it could also be referring to some sort of cheeseburger related windfall. For instance, you might have won many pounds of cheeseburger in a contest.

GLENN:
I can’t help but notice that both of those premises are a little bit gross, Beck.

BECK:
True. The first one especially would entail that within the Earth’s crust is a layer of meat patties covered with cheese.

GLENN:
That would lead to a lot of problems, in terms of topographic stability.

BECK:
I can imagine it now…..

GLENN:
Me too….

They trail off and look into the distance. A beat.

BECK:
Nope, I was right.

GLENN:
Yeah, that’s just gross.

SUDDENLY! An earthquake! The ground opens up, and our heroes plunge into a huge fissure in the very surface of the Earth! Cheeseburgers fly out of the fissure and into the audience! It’s awesome!

BECK:
(from the fissure)
Hmm, this appears to be…

GLENN:
A CHEESEBURGER BONANZA!

A beat.

BECK:
Was it obvious that we didn’t have a punchline?

GLENN:
Nah, we’re cool.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

My Tummy Hurts, and So Do My Buns!

AT RISE:

DAVE and PHYLLIS hang out. You know, chillaxin’.

DAVE:
Phyllis, I need a new catchphrase.

PHYLLIS:
What was your old catchphrase, Dave?

DAVE:
You’ve gotta be kidding me.

PHYLLIS:
What?

DAVE:
How could you not remember?

PHYLLIS:
Easily?

DAVE:
Geez. How could you forget “More Yams, Baby!”

PHYLLIS:
You never said that.

DAVE:
Yes I did.

PHYLLIS:
When?

DAVE:
Thanksgiving. I wanted more yams, and I was all like-

PHYLLIS:
More yams, baby?

DAVE:
Exactly! I knew you’d remember.

PHYLLIS:
Did you even say it after that?

DAVE:
What possible context would I have to say “More Yams, Baby!” outside of Thanksgiving?

PHYLLIS:
This conversation is terminated.

DAVE:
But I don’t have a new catchphrase!

PHYLLIS:
You don’t have an old catchphrase!

DAVE:
Untrue!

PHYLLIS:
I don’t care! Conversation terminated!

DAVE:
But-!

PHYLLIS:
Berserker rage!

Phyllis explodes with anger, punching Dave in the belly, then kicking him square in the bottom! Unexpected! Startled at her own animosity, Phyllis darts out of the room as sirens wail in the background!

DAVE:
You’ll never get away from this…Phyllis! Never!

He leans back, in pain.

DAVE:
My tummy hurts…and so do my buns!

A beat, as a lightbulb goes off over Dave’s head!

DAVE:
That’s it!

He laughs happily as the sirens draw nearer.

PolterChrist (Our Invisible Savior Who Communicates by Smashing and Turning on Televisions and Old Timey Radios)

AT RISE:

LITTLE JIMMY beams as some Keystone-y Cops lead of a group of masked and hooded men. He holds a large, old-timey radio.

LITTLE JIMMY:
Wow, PolterChrist! Looks like those pagans sure got what was coming to em’, huh?

The lights flicker on and off, and a knob on the radio turns of it’s own accord!

RADIO:
Bzzzzzt…Home Run!…cracklecrackle…

LITTLE JIMMY:
I love you, PolterChrist!

He hugs the radio.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Eat a Bag of Dicks, and Other Tales of Romance

PART 1: Eat a Bag of Dicks

SUE and RALPH walk down the street, arm in arm.

SUE:
What a wonderful evening!

RALPH:
I love you so, darling.

Sue notices a brown paper bag on the ground.

SUE:
What’s that, darling?

RALPH:
Seems to be a bag, my sweet! Let’s have a look.

He jauntily picks up the bag, and takes a look inside. His face immediately goes ashen.

SUE:
What is it, my sweet dearest darling?

RALPH:
Never mind.

BLACKOUT.

Part 2: Other Tales of Romance

ELSA and AARON.

ELSA:
How’s our love doing?

AARON:
A’ight.

ELSA:
Sweet.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Illicit Cheeseburgers

AT RISE:

Two cheeseburgers, BRAD and PITT in a car. BRAD looks nervous.

PITT:
What’s the matter, Brad?

BRAD:
I dunno, Pitt. I’ve just got a bad feeling.

PITT:
You think someone narc’d us out?

BRAD:
Naw, man. Nothing like that. It was just… that girl at the grocery store looked at us funny on our way out. You think she knows?

PITT:
Of course not, man. You’re just being paranoid. There’s no way she could tell our secret. The secret that makes us so very illicit.

BRAD:
But the way she was looking at us..

PITT:
I don’t care if she was looking at us through a pair of magnifying monocles! There’s no way she could tell just by looking at us that we’re…..CLONES!!!!!

Music plays a big old DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM!

PITT:
Get it? Because cloning’s illegal?

BRAD:
Yeah, I get it man.

PITT:
I know you get it, I was talking to, you know, some kind of…everyone.. Just shut up, okay?

They drive on in silence. After a moment, Brad turns on the radio. Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” plays. Pitt sighs.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

My Tummy Hurts and So Do My Buns!! 2: Israel and Palestine

AT RISE:

PHYLLIS hides behind a crate in an abandoned warehouse. Flashlight beams shine through the dark, searching for their prey. DETECTIVES ISRAEL and PALESTINE enter, with DAVE in tow.

DAVE:
Phyllis? Phyllis, come out before things get any worse!

PHYLLIS:
How could things get any worse, Dave? I punched you in the stomach and kicked you in the buns! There’s no coming back from that!

ISRAEL:
Look ma’am, just come out with your hands up, and everything’s gonna be fine!

PALESTINE:
What in the hell are you talking about, Rookie? We’re dealing with a madwoman here! And since I’m only two days away from retirement, I have a limited capacity for bullshit!

ISRAEL:
I thought you were two days from retirement yesterday?

PALESTINE:
Shut up.

DAVE:
She’s not a madwoman… she just… she just has a temper, that’s all, I swear!

PALESTINE:
Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to back the hell up.

PHYLLIS:
This joke is getting old fast! I’m sorry Dave, but there’s no choice!

She rushes the cops, her foot held in kicking position! The cops shoot her a lot, because its just that kind of play, you know? Dave rushes to her prone body.

DAVE:
More violence! And what did it solve, huh? Tell me that! Now this lady I know is dead. Dead! And do I feel better? No. And you know why? Because MY TUMMY STILLS HURTS! And…and so do my buns!

He weeps and weeps.

DAVE:
(a whisper)
..and so do my buns.

The saddest viola solo of all plays. Everyone thinks hard about stuff. It’s a beautiful ending.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Turquoise is the New Black

AT RISE:

DAN sits at a computer. STU lounges, because he’s just a loungin’ type of guy. The audience immediately hates him, but hopes for some sort of noble action on Stu’s part to turn their expectations on their ear. (SPOILER: This won’t happen. (SPOILER SPOILER: Or will it?))

DAN:
Hey Stu?

STU:
Yeah, Dan?

DAN:
I need a racial epithet.

STU:
…What?

DAN:
You know, an epithet. A word, phrase, or expression used invectively as a term of abuse or contempt, to express hostility.

STU:
Yes, I know what a racial epithet is, Daniel. I’m simply wondering why you need one.

DAN:
I just do.

STU:
Fair enough. Who for?

DAN:
Turquoise people.

STU:
What, like people from Arizona?

DAN:
Don’t be stupid. I mean like people that are turquoise.

STU:
There are no turquoise people.

DAN:
There could be.

STU:
No, there couldn’t.

DAN:
Well maybe there should be.

STU:
But there’s not.

DAN:
But if there were, wouldn’t you like to get in on the ground floor?

STU:
The ground floor of racism?

DAN:
Sure.

STU:
When did you become Hitler?

DAN:
Meh.

STU:
That’s not an answer.

DAN:
Sure it is. Just not a good one.

The two men stare at each other for a long, long beat.

STU:
Turquoise people?

DAN:
I was thinking something along the lines of “Turq-wads”

Stu opens his mouth to say something, catches himself, and instead turns on his heel and exits the room. Dan turns to the audience.

DAN:
Everybody’s a critic!

TREMENDOUS APPLAUSE AND LAUGHTER!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Punctuation Polly and her Illicit Exclamation Point!

AT RISE:

PUNCTUATION POLLY, a hot little number in a sexy teacher ensemble sits down with a MOM and a DAD.

POLLY:
(in a throaty whisper)
Look, Mr.and Mrs. Anderson, if you can think of a better way to teach ten years olds about the proper use of exclamation points, I’d love to hear it.

MOM:
Rather than explicitly describe the event that my child was subjected to, I’m going to leave it intentionally vague for the lurid enjoyment of the audience!

POLLY:
I put it in my hoo-hah!

There’s an awkward silence.

DAD:
Well I think-

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Israel and Palestine 2: Illicit Desires

AT RISE:

DETECTIVES JOHN PALESTINE and PHIL ISRAEL sit in a hot tub.

PALESTINE:
You ever wonder what it would be like to grow cauliflower in a woman’s armpit, Israel?

ISRAEL:
Only every day, Palestine!

SUDDENLY! JIMMY AUSTRALIA, long thought dead, leaps straight up from under the water, holding a machine gun!

AUSTRALIA:
I still hate cops!

Before he can fire, however, he is riddled with bullets, and falls down, dead!

PALESTINE:
Who?

Enter HELEN JORDAN, in a bathing suit cut down to…. You get the idea.

HELEN:
Sorry boys, couldn’t let you have all the fun, now could I?

ISRAEL:
I guess not, foreign policewoman Helen Jordan!

She tosses a small packet to Palestine.

PALESTINE:
What are these?

JORDAN:
Cauliflower seeds, boys.

PALESTINE:
Retirement can wait!

ISRAEL:
You said it, pops!

Sexy music plays as we…

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Brief Delay

Hey interent, sorry for the sporadicism (is that a word?) somehwat crazy times lately, but I'll be back on track soon with updates, I promise. Also, i apologize to anyone who thought, based on the titles, that this would be a play about late underwear.

Old Timey Times

AT RISE:

SIR EDMUND WIGGLEBOTTOM and his most favored SCRIBE!

SEW:
I demand of you a play of true substance!

SCRIBE:
Would that be substance in a more metaphorical sense, or substance in terms of mass of the contents?

SEW:
I do not require a heavy play, my young scribbler. Seek not to pad the page length for mere weight considerations.

SCRIBE:
I shall jot that down, m'lord. Now in terms of metaphorical substance are we talking depth of meaning, or rather weight of the personnages contained therein?

A beat.

SEW:
Are you insulting my weight?

SCRIBE:
Never.

SEW:
I should hope not. Furthermore, if no insults are to be forthcoming, I should think it obvious the type of substance I was referring to.

SCRIBE:
Of course m'lord.

SEW:
Excellent. Have you a title in mind?

SCRIBE:
Of course.

SEW:
And what would that be?

SCRIBE:
"Donuts".

Rim shot!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Instant Re-play

AT RISE:

Two GAWKERS:

GAWKER 1:
Wow! That thing we just saw was truly a singular display of originality and creativity!

GAWKER 2:
I'll say! It opened my mind to hertofore unrealized levels of bliss and enlightenment! All within the veneer of extreme hilarity and accesibility!

GAWKER 1:
Truly this is the dawning of a new age in creative expression in the field of comedy! And all thanks to that one guy, who will be famous for that thing alone!

GAWKER 2:
Yes that moment that just happened, that is to say the momement immediately preceeding this exchange, was truly the high point of my very life, and the lives of everyone who witnessed it's genius!

GAWKER 1:
But however can we follow up such a happening? What do we do now?

GAWKER 2:
I'm gonna poop!

GAWKER 1:
...

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dudes

AT RISE:

DUDES.

DUDE 1:
Dude, make a cat noise!

DUDE 2:
Meow!

DUDE 1:
AWESOME!

DUDE 2:
That was truly awesome! And it contained everything that creative writing classes teach us that we need from a well constructed story!

DUDE 1:
This was a far deeper experience than I expected from the inciting incident.

DUDE:
Truly the world is a magical place.

Hugs abound!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Space Giraffe

AT RISE:

Two GUYS.

GUY 1:
The world is running out of stories!

GUY 2:
Elucidate that point.

GUY 1:
Everything has been told already! All that's left is refinement of currently existing tall tales!

GUY 2:
That can't be true.

GUY 1:
I beg to differ.

GUY 2:
Then we have a challenge upon us!

GUY 1:
That's one way of looking at it.

GUY 2:
I'll start. Space Giraffe.

GUY 1:
Why would there be a giraffe in space?

GUY 2:
Exactly. Expand!

GUY 1:
Space Giraffe and his friend Gary escape from the diner where Space Giraffe works and fly into space using Gary's front lawn as a flying machine.

GUY 2:
Why are they going to space?

GUY 1:
Space Giraffe wants a roast beef sandwich.

GUY 2:
Where are they going to find it?

GUY 1:
Nowhere. There are no cows in space nor bread. So they fly to Mars and use genetic material found at the polar ice caps to engineer a bush that grows roast beef sandwiches, and then use that technology as the vanguard for an invasion of the Moon, easily accomplished to its lack of population.

GUY 2:
How does it end?

GUY 1:
Gary and Space Giraffe fly Gary's Lawn into the Sun, to live forever in peace at its core.

GUY 2:
The end.

GUY 1:
Okay, that was a little original.

GUY 2:
Yet still a pastiche of common story elements thrown together randomly.

GUY 1:
See?

GUY 2:
Point proven! All that is left is trued and true stories told well!

GUY 1:
And explosions!

GUY 2:
Of-

EXPLOSIONS!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Meeting

AT RISE:

DAN and PHYLLIS.

DAN:
Are we at a party?

PHYLLIS:
Nope.

DAN:
Restaurant?

PHYLLIS:
Nope.

DAN:
Public park?

PHYLLIS:
Nah.

DAN:
Are we at any sort of place where people gather socially to faciliate random meet-ups?

PHYLLIS:
'Fraid not.

DAN:
Alright, so how are we currently meeting? I mean like, now. As in right now. What we're, at this moment, doing.

PHYLLIS:
No idea. I guess it just kind of... happened. "Is happening"?

DAN:
Guess so.
(beat)
This is going to be a terrible story to tell our kids.

PHYLLIS:
We're having kids now?

DAN:
You never know.

PHYLLIS:
Ah. Some might accuse you of coming on a bit strong.

DAN:
Probably.
(beat)
I just thought it seemed like a thing to say.

PHYLLIS:
It certainly was that.

DAN:
Besides. I think this means something.

PHYLLIS:
This?

DAN:
All this. This... nothing. And then you. And me. Everything.

PHYLLIS:
Everything.
(beat)
Me too.

DAN:
All right.

PHYLLIS:
All right.

DAN:
So what's next?

Phyllis shrugs.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Objects

AT RISE:

A PERSON.

PERSON:
Hello!

A WHALE.

WHALE:
Wow! Hello!

A CHAIR.

CHAIR:
Hey, who wants a sit?

An IRONING BOARD.

IRONING BOARD:
Who wants dip?

And a WINDOW.

WINDOW:
Howdy! Jump out of me for a swift egress from this miserable plane of existence!

MAN:
Oh, Window!

Everyone laughs!

WHALE:
I can't even jump! I'm a whaaaaale!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Intro

AT RISE:

BEN and PHIL.

BEN:
Hey Phil?

PHIL:
Yes, Ben?

BEN:
What do you think is the pinnacle of human achievement?

PHIL:
What, seriously?

BEN:
Of course.

PHIL:
No, I mean, who's really going to believe that, appropos of nothing, you would turn to me and ask such a profound question?

BEN:
It happens.

PHIL:
Well yeah, it happens, but it's not exactly the most elegant way to introduce some characters no, is it?

BEN:
I thought it would shed light on our mental processes, that's all.

PHIL:
Well of course, but it's such an obvious attempt to do so, the audience will be immediately turned off, losing any immediate connection to what they at first hoped would be realistic characters.

BEN:
We could be philosophers?

PHIL:
Oh yeah? And how do they know that?

BEN:
Um...

OH YEAH! I forgot to mention. BEN and PHIL are philosophers. Togas and everything. it's crazy really, how philosophically disposed they are.

PHIL:
Well now I don't know what to think.

BEN:
Well, uh.. what do you think is the most profound-

PHIL:
Shut up.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Michael MacDonald

AT RISE:

A MAN and a COMPADRE.

MAN:
Compadre?

COMPADRE:
Yes, Man?

MAN:
I have decided to take it to the streets.

COMPADRE:
Are you sure that's wise?

MAN:
No. But I've been painted into a corner here. if I don't take it to the streets now, I might spend the rest of my life wondering whether the streets would have been better off it I had taken it to them, and what path my life might have taken on the streets. Or rather, to them.

COMPADRE:
I see. So when are you planning on starting this latest chapter in your life?

MAN:
Why, I started yesterday, my good man. You see.... I've been taking it to the streets THIS WHOLE TIME!

COMPADRE:
Holy shit! Twist Ending!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Patent Leather Pumps

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR sits at a computer. He looks stricken. A NONDESCIPT, POSSIBLY IMAGINARY FIGURE lounges around in the background.

AUTHOR:
Argh!

N,PI,F:
What?

AUTHOR:
I'm out of words.

N,PI,F:
What, like writer's block?

AUTHOR:
No, much more interesting.

N,PI,F:
Ah, of course. Any possible solutions?

AUTHOR:
Negative.

N,PI,F:
Then I shall try a vocabulary infusion.

AUTHOR:
This is going to get silly, isn't it.

N,PI,F:
No.
(beat)
Rutagbega, participle, box, muffin, digiridoo, steam engine, inert, curtains, panel, eskimo, Lake Victoria, mattress pad, spinal column, halberd, icebreaker, sourgum, cotton, Eli Whitney, porpoise, mastodon.

AUTHOR:
Eli Whitney is a proper noun.

N,PI,F:
Then all is for naught!

The room explodes!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Too Soon?

AT RISE:

A DUDE and a FELLA.

DUDE:
Hey, Fella?

FELLA:
Yes, Dude?

DUDE:
Do you ever wonder why so many "serious plays" contain child molestation?

FELLA:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Problem Solving

AT RISE:

DAN and STEVE.

STEVE:
So what's it been? A week?

DAN:
A little less.

STEVE:
A little less than a week.
(beat)
You should call her.

DAN:
You know it's really quite extraordinary, the degree to which I disagree with you.

STEVE:
I can tell I'm right. You're over-speaking.

DAN:
I'm afraid I haven't the slightest notion of what you're....Oh. That.

STEVE:
Yes.

DAN:
Well, I still think you're wrong.

STEVE:
No you don't.

DAN:
No I don't.

STEVE:
So why not call?

DAN:
Couldn't say. Suppose I'm not in the mood for pity.

STEVE:
She doesn't pity you.

DAN:
Great. Fantastic. That leaves a wide array of other negative feelings for me to worry about.

STEVE:
Oh shut up.

DAN:
No.

STEVE:
Yes.

DAN:
No?

STEVE:
Yes. Besides, the world's a crazy place. Maybe things will turn out okay. Or at least less crappy.

DAN:
Hrmm. I hope not.

STEVE:
Why.

DAN:
Well if that's the case, what would I complain about?

A long beat.

STEVE:
Give me your phone.

Dan hands Steve his phone. Steve dials. After a moment, the sound of a woman answering. He tosses the phone to Dan.

DAN:
(not unkind)
I hate you.

STEVE:
(nodding)
I know.

Steve exits. Dan takes a deep breath, and puts the phone to his ear.

STEVE:
Hi.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Literalalary

AT RISE:

MAX arriveth!

MAX:
I sure wish I had an incredibly pretentious metaphor for the state of the world's economy!

Suddenly! A bottomless pit opens up under Max's feet! He plummets! And how, you may ask? Through the magic of STAGECRAFT!

MAX:
Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! It's all I ever wanted!

Whee indeed, Max. Whee indeed!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Excitable

AT RISE:

A PANICKED MOB! Holy shit! What the fuck could be so terrifying, so panic-inducing that a mob such as this would be running around willy-nilly! If only there were someone around to ask this teeming mass of humanity the questions nescessary for the audience to have a glimpse into the gaping maw of madness that these helpless few have plummeted into!

Holy crap-balls, are we in luck! Looks like a mother-flipping REPORTER has just come on the scene!

REPORTER:
Hey guys, what's up?

At this, the most penis-twistingly sharp question of all goddamn time, the Mob sinks to their knees, happy to finally be able to share their torment!

PANICKED MOB:
Jesus Christ! Thanks for that, we were getting tired. I mean...fuck!

REPORTER:
Cool. So, what's up with all...this?

PANICKED MOB:
Nothing really, we all just ran out of milk or something.

REPORTER:
Oh. Okay.

HOLY BALLS!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

It's Cold Outside

AT RISE:

A MAN in long underwear.

LONG UNDERWEAR MAN:
Behold! Man's ost daring achievement! Long underwear! By donning this form-fitting and wooly garment, I do no less than stare into the face of God himself and declare his greatest creation unfinished! For how else should one feel when they take it upon themselves to improve upon the human machine, adding an extra layer of wool and warmth that our Creator deemed unescesssary? This simple truth is enough to shake even the most devout of men to their very core! So let us celebrate those who do what we perhaps cannot. Let us sing praise to those souls brave enough to incur divine wrath in the pursuit of but ten extra degrees of warmth! Let us salute those who have chosen what can only be called the continuatuion of the Prime Mover's work!

(beat)

So yeah, long underwear is awesome.

BLACKOUT, END PLAY.

Valentine's

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR eats a sandwich. He occasionally takes a sip from a glass of milk. And, once in a while, he throws a bit of his sandwich to a duck-billed platypus that sits, begging, at his feet.

After some long moments in this peaceful domestic scene, the Author is struck by a thought.

AUTHOR:
You know, I just realized I could have written a woman into this scene.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Round and Round

AT RISE:

Some PERSON. Somewhere. Or not.

PERSON:
I sense a certain lack of enthusiams for this dramatic effort.

The PERSON does something.

PERSON:
Seriously? That's all you've got? Something? I don't even know what I did, and I'm right here.

It's open-ended. Experimental.

PERSON:
Lies. All lies. It's just lazy is what it is. I mean, this setup isn't even original. Just look back through the archives.

Now you're just causing trouble.

PERSON:
Yeah, I guess. I blame it on gender issues. As in I don't even know what freakig gender I am.

You know, you're making this unproducable, as any of the questions you're bringing up would necessarily be fixed in production.

PERSON:
Unless it was a particularly literal theatre troupe.

Hmm, that could be a problem.

PERSON:
You think?

No.

PERSON:
Jerk.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Fashion Week

AT RISE:

A MAN and a DUDE:

MAN:
Quickly! Describe your fashion style in two words for this corporate-mandated survey!

DUDE:
Budget hobo.

MAN:
Does this make you a trendsetter?

DUDE:
Indeed!

MAN:
Then truly we have reached the apex of human civilization.

DUDE:
I shall now put my head in the Oven of Triumph.

MAN:
A good day for all!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Drama

AT RISE:

PETE drinks iced tea with SUSAN.

PETE:
You know, when I woke up this morning, I found I just couldn't think of anything interesting to say about modern dramatic writing.

SUSAN:
Really? Did you try masturbating?

PETE:
Of course! But still, nothing!

SUSAN:
Then the end times are upon us.

PETE:
It certainly seems so.

Suddenly! The skies turn red as blood! Sheep run across stage, gouts of flaming streaming from their nostrils! And, of course, Pete and Susan totally start making out! What a satisfying conclusion!

BLACKOUT THE END.

Odds and Ends

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN stand around. You know how it is.

MAN:
Are we in line or something?

WOMAN:
Yes?

MAN:
Was that sarcasm, or honest confusion?

WOMAN:
Honest confusion. Sorry, you know how hard it is to imply inflection in text.

MAN:
Do I ever. Wait.

WOMAN:
What?

MAN:
That wasn't text.

WOMAN:
Then what am I reading?

MAN:
Nothing!

WOMAN:
Well that can't be true. How else would I know what you're saying?

MAN:
Because we're having a conversation. With our mouths.

WOMAN:
Yuck. That sounds disgusting.

MAN:
I guess I could have phrased it better.

WOMAN:
Yes.
(beat)
So I guess we settled that mystery, huh?

MAN:
Uh.. no?

WOMAN:
Great! Talk to you later!

MAN:
What?

She is unresponsive, staring off into space.

MAN:
What?

A long-ass beat.

MAN:
Closure?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Abandoment of Commerciality

AT RISE:

A black and white dream world! A GENTLEMAN in whiteface wears a black turtleneck, and clutches a white balloon. His vacant gaze allows no easy point of entry for the frustrated audience.

GENTLEMAN:
What a nice day for a balloon.

A DOG enters, wearing a baby mask. That is a mask that looks liek a bay's face, rather than the flesh of an infant. Or, you know, whatever.

GENTLEMAN:
Would you like a turn with the balloon, Frederick?

DOG:
Dur dur d'être bébé!

GENTLEMAN:
And how!

The balloon floats away.

GENTLEMAN:/DOG:
Fin!

BLACKOUT. THE END.

Bagel Humor

AT RISE:

A MAN stares up.

MAN:
How the hell am I ever going to live up to that title? I don't even have a bagel.

A bagel falls from the sky.

MAN:
Oh.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Endorsement

AT RISE:

A MAN and a DUDE.

MAN:
Dude, if you like watching Liam Neeson karate chop people in the neck (and you know I do), then "Taken" is the movie for you!

DUDE:
And what if I don't?

MAN:
...

The Man gives the Dude a swift neck-chopping. The Dude crumples!

MAN:
Everybody wins!

BLACKOUT. THE END.

Smooth

AT RISE:

A RELAXED MAN.

RELAXED MAN:
And now some soothing words....
(beat)
Cocoa butter.
(beat)
Spoon.
(beat)
Luge.
(beat)
Jamiroquai.
(beat)
Queequeg.
(beat)
Platypus.
(beat)
Plaaaaaaaaaaaaatypussssssssssssssss.

A long pause.

RELAXED MAN:
Thank you. And goodnight.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Prose-y

AT RISE:

A MAN lies on his bed. Of course we have no way of knowing it's his bed,
other than the manner in which he treats it.

Come to think of it,we have no real way of knowing if he is his own man,
as such definitions are hard to come by, harder to prove.
Maybe science is working on it.

His hands are crossed behind his head and his thoughts are elsewhere. There are blankets. Oh yes, there are blankets. But not where you'd expect.

MAN:
After that intro, anything I say will seem incredibly pretentious.

Sorry.

MAN:
No worries.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

SciFi

AT RISE:

SPACE! Vast and infinite, it stretches beyond the puny perceptions of the audience, dleievering to them both the thrill of adventure and the soul-chilling emptyness at the heart of the cosmos! Through this inky void spirals an ASTRONAUT, flailing wildly against the far-reaching gravitational pull of a dying star!

ASTRONAUT:
I wish I hadn't spent the past three months peeing into a specially designed tube!

And with that, he is gone into the abyss. Before the audience has a chance to get too depressed, however, a waky alien show up and space-juggles!

Thanks, Gleekglop!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Bootsy

AT RISE:

MIKE and MIKE.

MIKE:
Hey Mike?

MIKE:
Yes, Mike?

MIKE:
Do you ever just spontaneously get the overwhelming urge to start up some diatribe or pithy, humourous discussion about the state of modern american theatre and the fundamental strangeness of the theatrical experience itself?

MIKE:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Poetry

AT RISE:

Two roomates, ZACK and STEVE.

ZACK:
Haiku battle, go!

STEVE:
Challenge accepted! Begin!

ZACK:
I wear leopard print
My cherry pie is the best
I'm your drunk mother

STEVE:
Samuel L. Jackson
Sitting in a field, alone
Dreams of destruction

ZACK:
If norse myth cycles
Are to be believed at all
Sex with wolves is great

STEVE:
Damn it.

ZACK:
Forfeit?

STEVE:
Never!

ZACK:
Continue, then!

STEVE:
I've no idea
What I am going to say...
Aretha Franklin?

ZACK:
If five-seven-five
Is the sole criteria
This poem is great

STEVE:
Uh....
Sweet googly moogly
Ran out of material
But must keep talking

ZACK:
That was terrible.

STEVE:
That's for history to decide.

ZACK:
I'll show you history.

STEVE:
You can't! It's already happened!

The squabbling is interrupted by the entrance of GEORGE, the third, irate roomate.

GEORGE:
This contest is dumb
Your lives are slipping away
Go clean the bathroom.

He exits.

STEVE:
That was impressive.

ZACK:
Yeah, if this was a play, that would be a great ending.

STEVE:
Definitely.

They stand around for a second, at a loss.

STEVE:
Hey, do you wanna-

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ka-Blammo

AT RISE:

A DUDE with a sledgehammer stands before a watermelon.

DUDE:
I wonder if Gallagher ever realized that part of the weird thrill of this was the similarity to smashing a guy's head in?

AUDIENCE:
OH GOD, I DID NOT NEED TO HEAR THAT.

DUDE:
Sorry! I guess a man with a sledgehammer truly should not fall prey to introspection!

AUDIENCE:
Perhaps it is for the best! For how else can we truly come to grips with our animal natures than by confronting the origins of our simplest entertainments?

DUDE:
I think there is a lesson here for us all!

AUDIENCE:
Huzzah!

DUDE:
Raincoats on, everyone!

And with a mighty swing, he gives that watermelon a good smashing! What a messy good time!

WATERMELON:
BLORCH!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Oh Boy

AT RISE:

MAN and MAAAAAAAN.

MAN:
Authenticity is the new Irony!

MAAAAAAAN:
How Ironic!

MAN:
DAMN IT.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Multi-media

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a couch, watching a television. He's really enjoying it!

MAN:
Oh man.
(to the audience)
This is a really good movie, guys.
(beat)
Of course, for all you know I could be lying my sweet patoot off. And trust me, this is one sweet patoot. The perils of the fourth wall!
(he looks around for a second)
You know what? Just this once, let's forget about the whole illusion of reality thing. 'Cause seriously, this is a really good movie. Hold on a second.

He pulls the TV over to face the audience, then hops off stage to join them.

MAN:
Much better, huh? I mean, as a sophistcated theatre-going audience I'm sure you'd rather just watch me watch the movie like a good bunch of polite voyuers, but in a weird way, thsi feels a but more theatreical to me. I mean, why should I be having all the fun? Anyway, back to the movie, am I right?

He presses play. They have a great time together,with plenty of back and forth regarding the quality of the film, and background details about the production, and a true bond of friendship is formed!

There is one downer, however, but he can just go backstage with the other actors, still waiting on a cue that shall never come, and commiserate about the downfall of theatre and ways in which a more complete theatrical experience can perhaps only be achieved via a more direct link with the audience but then HOLY SHIT, THAT JUST HAPPENED! He will then return to his seat, mind blown, and enjoy the rest of the play.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Chums

AT RISE:

A MAN and a DOG.

MAN:
Dog!

DOG:
Yes, Man?

MAN:
You are my best friend!

DOG:
Intriguing! Is this a literal interpretation of an old adage?

MAN:
Not intentionally!

DOG:
I wonder if intention makes a difference in this medium.

MAN:
That is a question rife with debate!

DOG:
True. Let's not get into it.

MAN:
Agreed. I shall draw us a bath!

DOG:
Delightful.

They trot off.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Disjointed

AT RISE:

One million Dollars. That is, one million men and women, all with the surname Dollar. They will stand in front of the baffled audience, relishing the cleverness of the pun. For them, the experience will be sublime.

Of course the audience, not being privy to the naming scheme of this particular cast of characters, will simply be worried about things such as stampedes and fire exits. A night of extreme discomfort and confusion awaits these poor souls.

SUGGESTION: Have the cast hand out free popcorn during intermission!

BLACKOUT, END PLAY.

Etc.

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR stumbles, exhausted, into his apartment holding a suitcase, which he promptly drops on the floor.

AUTHOR:
Planes...air trams...monorails...subways.....

A beat.

AUTHOR:
NO MORE METAL TUBES!

...and promptly collapses, snoring, onto his bed.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Family

AT RISE:

Two BROTHERS. This relationship will be obvious to the entire audience by way of the following dialogue.

BROTHER 1:
Hi, younger brother.

BROTHER 2:
Hi older brother.

A long, long silence. Then, Brother 1 slowly reaches over and pokes Brother 2 very deliberately on the nose.

BROTHER 2:
I WILL EAT YOUR EYE RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Friendly Skies

AT RISE:

STEVE and WANDA on board a commercial jet liner. A STEWARDESS hands Steve a can of soda and a small plastic cup filled with ice. The Stewardess exits. Steve regards his new acquisitions before pouring some soda into the cup.

STEVE:
Wow.

WANDA:
What?

STEVE:
This tiny cup...

WANDA:
What about it?

STEVE:
This tiny cup makes even a simple can of soda a meal fit for a king!

WANDA:
No it doesn't, Steve.

STEVE:
I beg to differ, my dear woman! Behold this glass-

WANDA:
It's plastic.

STEVE:
This plastic...goblet filled to overflowing with bubbling brown crude!

WANDA:
Would you stop?

STEVE:
And yet, dear woman, the can.. the CAN remains nearly three-quarters filled! What sorcery is this that gives me so much from so small a thing?

WANDA:
Fluid dynamics.

STEVE:
Pish posh and poppycock! Surely this must the work of a benevolent god, strolling down the street of miracles, doling out... doling out...

WANDA:
Soda?

STEVE:
And how!

He takes a hearty sip!

WANDA:
What the hell is wrong with you?

STEVE:
I don't even know anymore.

A long beat. Steve sips his soda quietly. Wanda sighs.

WANDA:
Okay, fine. It's magic.

STEVE:
Huzzah!

WANDA:
But next time, you have to be the straight man.

STEVE:
Deal.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Word Play

AT RISE:

A MAN.

MAN:
Words.

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
Words.

MAN:
More words.

WOMAN:
More words.

MAN:
Endless stream of words.

WOMAN:
Words considered to be clever when put in a particular order to satisfy the author's intent to prove to the audience that he is a very clever monkey.

MAN:
Words to create a sense of deliberate wit and whimsy, similarly impressing the audience with the author's capacity for humorous thought, without actually making them laugh in the slightest.

WOMAN:
Words that crudely insert a political metaphor into these otherwise straightforward conversational proceedings.

MAN:
Words to draw the attention to said metaphor, again showcasing the author's vast and discerning talent.

A heart plops down from above.

WOMAN:
Well that was overly literal.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Long-Term Absurdism

AT RISE:

A POP TART talks to a DUCK!

POP TART:
Have we done Pop Tarts yet?

DUCK:
I dunno. Ther've been toasters at least. Can't remember if their contents were adequately explored. I know ducks are old hat at this point.

A BEAR enters.

BEAR:
You guys need me for anything?

POP TART:
Nah, we're cool. Thanks though.

BEAR:
Anytime.

DUCK:
Bears have definitely made a few appearances.

POP TART:
Oh yeah. Par for the course.

DUCK:
A bit sad really. Shows a distinct lack of imagination.

A TOASTER STRUDEL and a GOOSE enter. There is a long pause.

TOASTER STRUDEL:
This is awkward.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Element of Surprise

AT RISE:

BEN and ELLEN at a diner.

ELLEN:
So the guy asked me why I broke up with my last boyfriend, and I was all like "Well, I'm like a line segment, and he was a ray, you know? There was no point of intersection for congruent angles." Do you think I came on too strong?

BEN:
Wait, that was supposed to be flirting?

ELLEN:
Yeah.

BEN:
Was the guy a mathematician or something?

ELLEN:
No.

BEN:
Huh. Well then, I think you're in the clear.

ELLEN:
Really?

BEN:
Yeah, but I'm fairly sure he had no idea what you were talking about.

ELLEN:
Oh.
(beat)
I can't talk to boys.

BEN:
Thank you.

ELLEN:
You don't count.

BEN:
Wow, thanks. Now I feel even better.

ELLEN:
Shut up.

BEN:
Hmm, now that I think about it, you are proving your point admirably. Offense negated.

ELLEN:
Thank you.

BEN:
You're welcome.

ELLEN:
I just don't understand why you're supposed to be all flirty or whatever. Why can't talking to guys just be funny?

BEN:
So just having a laid-back, fun conversation, and then...BLAM, romance?

ELLEN:
Exactly.

BEN:
So that'd be what? Like a guy coming up to you and being like: "So two guys walk into a bar, right? And there's this duck sitting there. Also, I love you?"

ELLEN:
Kind of. I guess. But like, with more of a "what the hell?" factor maybe. Like, I want to be blindsided.

BEN:
Ah. Blindsided.

He thinks for a minute.

BEN:
Okay, how's this? A man in a dolphin suit parachutes in through the window of one of your classes, tells a dirty limerick, asks you the time, then jumps back out the window while throwing a frog at your teacher. And when you look back to your textbook, you see that he replaced it with a "Hang In There, Kitty!" motivational poster with the word "Coffee?" scrawled in egg yolk next to his phone number?

ELLEN:
Yeah.
(beat)
This might explain why my previous relationships were so screwed up.

BEN:
Nah. I think it was probably more of a lack of that kind of spontaneity than anything.

ELLEN:
Maybe.

She looks at her watch.

ELLEN:
Bleh, I've gotta go. Don't want to be late for class.

BEN:
Fair enough.

Ellen throws some money on the table.

ELLEN:
I'll give you a call later. We can figure out my new plan of attack.

BEN:
Right. Yeah. Sure thing.

ELLEN:
Bye.

BEN:
Later.

She exits. Ben pokes at his breakfast for a second, then picks up an egg from his plate. He regards it for a second, then takes a cellphone from his pocket and dials.

BEN:
Yes, hello? Who do I speak to about dolphin suit rentals?

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Daily Bread

AT RISE:

The eyeglass lab of a Lenscrafters. It is empty and dark. A small, electronic kitchen timer beeps gently from a tabletop.

The lights flicker on and MARK enters, holding a labcoat draped over one arm. His expression is ambiguous. In no apparent hurry, he dons the labcoat, one arm at a time. The buttons are buttoned with precision and purpose, and not a one is missed. From his front pocket he takes a shiny metal name tag, and places it over his heart.

When the outfit is complete, he gently smooths a stray wrinkle on the front of the coat. He sighs a small sigh, and then, almost dreamlike, he walks over to the kitchen timer, gently picks it up, and hurls it against a wall as hard as he can. The beeping stops.

Mark gets on with his work. After a moment, the phone begins to ring. He ignores it.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Two A.M.

AT RISE:

DOUG and ELENA sit outside a party. There are a few empty cups spread around.

DOUG:
So I was kind of planning on saying something philisophical. You know, about the human condition or something like that.

ELENA:
Oh?

DOUG:
Yeah, it was going to be pretty half-baked. Also rambling.

ELENA:
That does sound like you.

DOUG:
Unfortunately. So, uh... I was wondering if you could find some way to stop me before I make a complete ass out of myself.

ELENA:
Any suggestions?

DOUG:
Not as such. But you had better make it fast, I just thought of something rather banal to say about the Middle East, and-

Elena gently takes his hand.

DOUG:
Yeah. That'll do.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Positive Thinking

AT RISE:

A DUDE at a computer!

DUDE:
"You know what I'm sick of?" he asks himself, being as there is no-one else around that he could be communicating with. And the "I" in that previously sentence is referring of course to me, which might be confusing for anyone who thought I was referring either to an anecdote I was in the middle of when they (whoever "they" might be) first became aware of my current thought process (through what means I could not begin to guess). This clarification is doubly necessary due to my proximity to this computer, which might render statements, such as my first, confusing in terms of their origins, as I might be speaking aloud those words which I am, or have been in the process of typing. I also might be reading something off of its impressively shiny monitor. But none of these are the case, I assert to thin air, perhaps in the hope of nosy neighbors or some sort of "big brother" (the Orwellian nightmare, rather than the all too familiar familial one) type who might be listening to my every word for purposes I have no ability to fathom, perhaps to record them for posterity, more than likely to masturbate to in either a physical or intellectual capacity. But enough of that particular tangentm as I am afraid it is a bit too carefully worn for my personal taste. Innuendo unintentioanl, a point that I feel necessary to make though I am, again, by myself. Perhaps it is the same impulse that causes us to excuse ourselves when we burp alone, or perhaps it is simply a sign of swiftly approaching dementia. But I digress. Do you know what I'm sick of? (Knowing full well that the question is somewhat rhetorical due to his own knowledge of his current thought process).

A beat.

DUDE:
I'm sorry, I was fully intending to continue with the original thesis of my soon-to-be diatribe, but I just realized that the thing I was planning on caomplining about was the amount of complaining and negativity present on the internet, thus unintentionally adding to it. Not that I feel I am on the internet right now, being as I am a person speaking aloud, apparently to himself in a small, enclosed room with four (count em' FOUR) good walls, but I believe the intention still stands and thus I will conclude this, whatever-it-is, with a simple good night, and enjoy your weekends. Thank you.

A beat.

DUDE:
You're welcome?

He sits at the computer.

BLACKOUT. THE END.

The Return

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN.

MAN:
When one returns to a work in progress after a hiatus, would you say that the expectations for the immediate continuation of said work in progress would be, for the short term at least, higher than normal?

WOMAN:
I would argue that is a valid estimate of human behavior, yes.

MAN:
And yet, very rarely does this expectation seem to be met. I mean, look at Guns N' Roses. 15 years for an album that nobody ended up caring too much about.

WOMAN:
True, almost regardless of its objective quality, the hiatus creates an expectation of quality that is virtually impossible to live up to.

MAN:
And thus, one could argue that there's no point in trying to outdo oneself in these situations.

WOMAN:
That's one way of looking at it. Why?

MAN:
No reason.

They stare at each other deeply for fifteen minutes. And then... clowns!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Excuses!

Hey internet,

Sorry I've been shirking my duties the past few days. Lack of proper internet and so forth are my excuses of choice! But I'll be making it up with some extra plays this week, so look forward to that! And no, this one doesn't count.

Homecoming, or: Dial Up

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR chips letters into a small piece of bark.

AUTHOR:
...Blackout. The end.

He leans back, smiling the smiley smile of one who has finished a great work.

AUTHOR:
At last! The day's update is complete!

He gives an elaborate whistle, and a messenger bird soars gracefully to his outstretched arm.

AUTHOR:
Well met Bartholomew, my old avian companion. I've a task for you!

The bird chirps happily, as the AUTHOR affixes the bark to its leg with a bit of twine.

AUTHOR:
Now go, Bartholomew, fly! Straight through the night! The update must get through!

The bird takes off in a flash.

AUTHOR:
To the internet with you, my friend! And may the north wind carry you swiftly!

He laughs joyfully. A WOMAN calls from offstage.

WOMAN:
Dinner!

AUTHOR:
Coming, mom!

He exits.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Yes?

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR types furiously!

AUTHOR:
I am writing, fluidly and with great easy! The ideas are fantastic! Everything is fantastic!

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
You've just typed "and" 400 times!

AUTHOR:
It's true! I am a fraud!

WOMAN:
And we all learn a lesson about heroes!

BLACKOUT. THE END.

Fuzzy

AT RISE:

A FROG and a DUCK. Since they have no physical method of anthropomorphic speech, having never mosied down the very specific evolutionary track that led to our development of vocal chords and a nervous system capable of developing language, this play turns out to be very quite.

The Frog shimmies. The Duck makes a half-quack.

Short, too.


BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

News Flash

Using the extremely odd tools available at Xtranormal, I've been diligently animating a few of my favorite short plays. Here's my favorite by far. Check it out! And don't forget to read today's play directly below this post!

Strange Bedfellows

AT RISE:

ALEXANDER THE GREAT stands before a toaster.

ATG:
Toaster! I have ripped apart the very fabric of time and space to withdraw the crispy treasure that resides in your fertile aluminum womb! Do not disappoint!

A ding, and some toast pops up. ALEXANDER THE GREAT takes a hearty bite from the nearest piece. A single tear runs down his mighty cheek.

ATG:
Oh toaster. I love you so bad.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Interweb

AT RISE:

ARTHUR and FRED.

ARTHUR:
The internet is for porn!

FRED:
No, the internet is for navel-gazing!

ARTHUR:
Porn!

FRED:
Navel-gazing!

JILL runs in, as the two men prepare to come to blows.

JILL:
Wait!

They pause.

JILL:
Aren't porn and navel-gazing just tool for masturbation, physical and mental?

ARTHUR:
By God....

FRED:
She's right. The internet...

ARTHUR:
Is for masturbating!

JILL:
Huzzah! The truth revealed!

ALL:
Yah!!

They do a happy little dance, then immediately look guilty and embarassed.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

First Date

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a swing. A WOMAN sits opposite him, reclining on a see-saw.

MAN:
Hey.

WOMAN:
Hey.

MAN:
You know, this swing is a metaphor.

WOMAN:
It is.

MAN:
Yes.

A beat.

WOMAN:
For your penis?

MAN:
Oh yeah.
(beat)
Big time.

WOMAN:
Really.

MAN:
No.

WOMAN:
Oh.

MAN:
Sorry.

WOMAN:
It's okay.

MAN:
No really, I'm sorry. I mean... I had a metaphor, but that wasn't it. It was about childhood or something. I promise. But then you went off on your little "penis" tirade, and I was just... you know, "going with the flow".

WOMAN:
The penis flow.

MAN:
No, that's just digusting. I'm... you might not be able to tell, but I am appalled right now. Truly appalled.

WOMAN:
Really.

MAN:
No.
(beat)
Can we... start over?

The woman appraises him for a long, long moment. He smiles wanly.

WOMAN:
All right.

MAN:
Yes!

WOMAN:
But I get the swing.

MAN:
Deal!

They switch places.

MAN:
So, this...uh... seeesaw is a metaphor-

WOMAN:
Let's just get some coffee.

MAN:
Right-o.

They exit; awkwardly, but together.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Personal Connection

AT RISE:

The AUTHOR. He's...hangliding, why not. Soaring through the upper stratus on a chute of para. No wait, that's parachuting. He's actually strapped into a harness attached to a metal frame covered in fabric to keep him from plummeting to certain doom. So yeah, hangliding.

AUTHOR:
You done?

Sure.

AUTHOR:
You sure have been chatty lately for what is supposed to be an impersonal device used for description. Cold, cold, emotionless description. Without an opinion or point of view. A tool, serving only the will of the author.

There's no rule that says stage directions can't have personality.

AUTHOR:
Look, forget it, we've already done this joke. But seriously, you didn't even descrive anything in that last sentence. You're just confusing people.

Anyway.

AUTHOR:
Yeah, anyway.
(beat)
Hello world!

A beat, as he takes in the unadulterated love of the world.

AUTHOR:
Ahh. Well, anyway I don't really have much to contribute to the field of electronic dramatic literature today, so i figured I'd just see how y'all were doing. Good?

Beat.

AUTHOR:
Oh, really. I'm sorry to hear that.
(beat)
A goiter, really? Man, that's...
(beat)
Okay, that's just disgusting.
(beat)
No, enough! Enough! I...Ijust can't believe you people! I'm out here every day, working my...No, no I won't let you do this to me, I won't...

He sits.

Still sitting.

You okay?

AUTHOR:
Don't you start up.

Sorry.

AUTHOR:
I was going to tell a story about a kitty. You guys like kitties, right? Or are they not covered in enough festering sores to slake your bloodlust! I mean seriously! Wow. I am never asking you guys how're you're doing again. Keeping this purely professional.

He moves to exit.

AUTHOR:
Alright, Blackout, end play. All that good stuff.

He's now at the end of the stage.

AUTHOR:
It was a really good story, too.
(beat)
Had german potato salad and everything.

He exits.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tasty

AT RISE:

A MAN wearing sandwiches for gloves. He raises his cursed hands to the heavens and releases a soul-piercing howl.

MAN:
WHAT HATH SCIENCE WROUGHT!?

He ceases his lamentations, out of breath. Quietly, he begins to nibble on the sandwiches.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Domestic

AT RISE:

A MAN sits on a couch. He pets a cat.

MAN:
Kitty! What is best in life?

The cat promptly spits a hairball into the man's lap. They stare at each other for a moment.

MAN:
I would also have accepted: "hugs".

He goes back to petting the cat.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Ensemble

AT RISE:

DOUG, PENNY, GEORGE, MANNY, CECILIA, JOHN, HOPE, GARY, LIZ, BENNY, FELICIA, LAUREN, KELLY, PHIL, and JACOB stand around.

DOUG:
Penny, I love you.

PENNY:
I know Doug. George, I'm pregnant.

GEORGE:
I know, Penny. With my baby! Sorry, Doug.

DOUG:
S'cool. I did, after all, share an elicit cinnamon bun with Cecilia.

CECILIA:
I only agrred to that bun as revenge on Manny for spending every Sunday with Hope!

MANNY:
I was reading her the paper!

HOPE:
I'm blind! Blind because of John!

JOHN:
But it wasn't I who was driving the car that blinded you, Hope! It was Gary!

GARY:
Only because I was drugged...by Liz!

LIZ:
Those drugs were meant for Benny, and you know it!

BENNY:
Thank god I didn't want any iced tea that afternoon.

LIZ:
Of course not, you had spent all morning drinking mojitos with Felicia!

FELICIA:
Only because he happened to walk by my house as I was mixing them on the front porch.

LAUREN:
In the middle of the morning?

FELICIA:
Don't dare judge me, Lauren, not after you drowned my baby!

LAUREN:
That baby was an asshole!

PHIL:
Yes, but it was my asshole baby!

KELLY:
Shut up Phil, we all knew you wanted that baby dead. Then you would have its fortune all to yourself!

PHIL:
Kelly! How could you!

JACOB:
My name is Jacob and I have nothing to add to this conversation!

And they all died.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dream Ballet

AT RISE:

A MAN draped in a "2008" embroidered toga battles a similarly clad "2009" MAN. It is a totally awesome fight with like, throwing stars, and...and hammers! Throwing hammers! Really a lot of this conflict is acted out vis a vis thrown implements. Also jump kicks. It's quite epic all around.

Finally, 2009 gets the jump on 2008, with a totally sweet sleeper hold. 2008 is down for the count, and 2009 celebrates by tooting gently across his fallen foe's face.

Champgne is uncorked, maidens fair flock the stage and everyone and their mother breathes a sigh of relief that that stupid year has passed.

BLACKOUT. END YEAR.