Sketch: Campaign Trail

CAST

CATHY: a hard-working mother and Democrat candidate for the Kansas state legislature

FREDDIE: a 10-year-old boy who’s gotta poop

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON: a crotchety old buzzard and right-wing paranoiac

SETTING: On the doorstep of a house in suburban Kansas.

CATHY and her son FREDDIE are out door-to-door campaigning, cradling pamphlets and yard signs. FREDDIE fidgets, with a pained look on his face, while CATHY rings the doorbell beside a sign that says “NO SOLICITING.”

Old Man MacNaughton comes to the door.

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

Can’t you see the sign says “No Soliciting” ?

CATHY

I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but could my son use your bathroom? We’re out canvassing, and I’m afraid he’s in dire need.

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

Nice try, lady. You think I’m fallin for that old Trojan Horse? You’ll have to get up a lot earlier than that to fool me.

CATHY

I’m not trying to fool you, sir. He really has to go. Don’t you, Freddie?

FREDDIE nods his head, embarrassed.

FREDDIE

Real bad!

CATHY

Please, sir. It’s urgent.

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

Listen, toots, I know your game: I let in your little agent provocateur here under the pretenses of a weakening sphincter, meanwhile you stand here brainwashing me with your communist propaganda. By the time junior here lightens his load (that is, if there even is one), I’ve signed up for a yard sign and joined the Kansas Feminist party. That sound about right?

CATHY

What?? No, not at all!

FREDDIE

            (straining)

Mommy, I can’t hold it much longer!

CATHY

            (to Freddie)

Just breathe, baby.

            (to Old Man MacNaughton)

Are you really going to stand here and make a 10-year-old boy poop his pants?

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

That’s a bluff I’m prepared to call.

            (bends down squinting at Freddie)

Did your mom put you up to this kid? Huh? (Beat.) Say, how do I know you’re even a boy, and not an undercover dwarf? One of them deep government dwarves that they sent to bug my house and record me in the nude to blackmail me into voting Dem? Well, nice try, little fella, but no cigar.

FREDDIE

Oh god, mom, it’s coming out!

CATHY

No, no, darling, just hold it a few--

FREDDIE

I can’t hold, I can’t…. Aaaah...oooooh.

           

Freddie shits his pants.  He starts to cry.

CATHY

Oh no, baby, it’s ok, it’s ok...

(glaring at Old Man MacNaughton)

Well, do you believe me now, you friggin psycho?

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

            (to Freddie)

What kinda rig you workin with, sonny? A packet of chocolate cake batter squeezed between your hams?

CATHY

Oh my god! You’re insane! Who would crap their pants as a decoy?

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

It’s the oldest play in the book, sister.

CATHY

What book?? There is no book--

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

Your feeble-minded boy fills his britches, then you ask me to let you inside to clean him up, taking advantage of the guilt I now supposedly feel for denying a child the basic human dignity of not soiling himself.

CATHY

Well, that’s what any halfway decent person would--

OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON

Meanwhile, you’re going through my medicine cabinets, replacing my heartburn pills with zombie mind control drugs, so that I start believin all the phony lies of the liberal media, and then come election day, I cast my ballot for Karl Marx in a skirt. Is that about the size of it?

FREDDIE

Mom, it smells. And it’s running down my legs!

            CATHY looks and sees the shit running down Freddie’s legs.

CATHY

Oh god! Alright, c’mon, sweetie-- we’re leaving!

CATHY takes FREDDIE by the hand and shouts at OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON as they

leave.

           

You should be ashamed of yourself, you crazy old man! You’re the reason our country’s so broken!

           

            OLD MAN MACNAUGHTON waves them away dismissively and shuts the door.

Once out of sight from the front door, CATHY turns to FREDDIE.

CATHY

Goddammit, you pulled the trigger to soon! I was starting to wear him down.

FREDDIE

            (in the deep voice of a grown man)

Sorry, boss. The cake-batter packet was startin’ to slip, and I panicked.

           

            (FREDDIE runs his finger along his beshatten leg, holds it up to his face, and licks it.)

But we’ll get the next one.

            Blackout.

Sketch: Grown-up Birthday Party

CAST

TERRY: very special birthday girl, turning the big three eight.

HUNTER: Terry’s aggrieved friend who is sick of celebrating her birthday.

LOLO: Terry’s other aggrieved friend who is really sick of celebrating her birthday and angrier about it.

CHEF K: an elderly chef at Benihana.

Lolo, Hunter, and Terry are seated around the chef’s table at Benihana, while Chef K prepares the meal. Terry wears a conical birthday hat.

LOLO/HUNTER/CHEF K

(singing with weak enthusiasm) “Happy birthday dear Terry, Happy birthday to you.”

TERRY

Yay! Wow, I can’t believe I’ve hit the big three eight! This day feels so special!

HUNTER

Really? ‘Cause it feels a lot like last year’s celebration for the big three seven.

LOLO

Yeah, and the year before that, for the big three six. Same restaurant, same people, same inconsequential milestone.

TERRY

Oh, you guys…. You know I always celebrate my birthdays at Benihana. Ever since I was a kid, when Chef K first threw hot shrimp in my mouth.

Chef K bangs his knife and metal spatula together, signaling it’s time for a shrimp.

TERRY

Oh, here comes one!

Chef K lobs a shrimp into Terry’s mouth. She catches it like a pro, then looks to her friends for adulation.

LOLO

(unimpressed) That happens every year too.

TERRY

Here comes one for you, Hunter!

HUNTER

(waves his hand to decline) That’s okay, I’m good.

Chef K flings a shrimp that hits Hunter in the face and bounces onto his plate.

HUNTER

Goddammit!

TERRY

Your turn, Lolo!

LOLO

Oh fuck here we go…

            Lolo tries to react in time, but Chef K fires a line drive that gets her square in the eye.

TERRY

Yay! You guys are the best!

LOLO

(in pain) Ah, I think the tail scratched my retina.

HUNTER

Look, Terry, this is getting ridiculous. It has to stop.

TERRY

Stop what? The shrimp-tossing? ‘Cause that’s Chef K’s signature move.

HUNTER

It’s not just the shrimp-tossing, though toss is hardly the right word. Lolo and I were thinking…

LOLO

Stop all of it! No more shrimp! No more Benihana! No more stupid birthday celebrations!

TERRY

Wait, is this a joke?

LOLO

(displaying his swollen eye) Does this look like a fucking joke? I’m gonna have to go to urgent care.

TERRY

Ok, you guys got me. You two got together to plan this elaborate prank, right?

HUNTER

Terry, we don’t even know each other. The only time we see each other is every March 3 at Benihana, when you force us to buy you dinner and have Chef K assault us with shrimp.

LOLO

You’re an adult, Terry. A thirty-eight-year-old insurance executive, to be exact. Grow the fuck up!

HUNTER

I think what Lolo means is you can’t expect people to be excited about your birthday anymore.

TERRY

But it’s my special day. My own very special day.

            Hunter and Lolo look to each other and exchange eye rolls.

HUNTER

Yeah, we know, Terry.

TERRY

I’m not sure you do, Hunter! On this exact day, exactly thirty-eight years ago, a miracle occurred. From nothing came something as I fell steaming from my mother’s vagina…

LOLO

We get it, dude. You were born. Like literally everything that’s alive. Big whoop.

TERRY

Big whoop?!

HUNTER

Look, Terry, let’s just take next year off, recharge a bit, and then maybe we can do something fun for your 40^th.

TERRY

(trembling, on the verge of tears) So… let me get this right. You guys are saying… I’m… not special.

            Lolo and Hunter exchange uncomfortable looks.

HUNTER

Terry…

TERRY

(sniveling and muttering) Not special, huh? I’ll show you...

Terry wipes the tears from her face, with a new sense of resolve.

TERRY

Chef K! Give me the sea urchin…spines on this time!

            Chef K looks at Terry questioningly.

TERRY

You heard me right. Now hit me!

            Chef K flings the spiny sea urchin directly into Terry’s mouth.

Lolo and Hunter look on in horror as she works it down, horrible choking and gurgling sounds coming from her throat. She gives one last heroic swallow.

TERRY

Who’s special now, motherfuckers?!

            As she speaks, blood pours from Terry’s mouth.

            Blackout.

Sketch: Insult Doctor

CAST:

DR. GROSSMAN-- a gross doctor.

MR. LERMAN-- a bewildered patient.

SETTING:

Examining room in a doctor’s office.

DR. GROSSMAN is examining his patient with the stethoscope, listening to his chest.

DR. GROSSMAN

Uh-huh… I see. Well, this confirms what the x-rays showed.

MR. LERMAN

Please don’t keep my in suspense, Dr. Grossman. Is it bad?

Doctor grossman takes the stethoscope out of his ears.

DR. GROSSMAN

I’m gonna be honest with you, Mr Lerman. Your immune system is a real pussy.

            MR. LERMAN is taken aback by the colloquial language.

MR. LERMAN

Okay, very funny. Wasn’t expecting the locker room talk, but, seriously, Doc, what’s going on with me? I keep catching colds, and then it takes forever to get rid of them.

DR. GROSSMAN

That’s because your immune system is quite the pussy. Nothing funny about it, in my opinion.

MR. LERMAN

            (rolls his eyes)

Look, I get it. My immune system’s weak. That’s why I’m here.

DR. GROSSMAN

It’s not weak at all. In fact, it appears to be a very strong pussy.

MR. LERMAN

Can you please just use medical terms?

DR. GROSSMAN

Mr. Lerman, the white and red blood cells in your immune system have undergone a process of transformation, wherein they have recombined to form a fully functional, finely-trimmed, and all-around attractive pussy.

MR. LERMAN

What? No, that can’t be true.

DR. GROSSMAN

Granted, I’m no gynecologist, but it really is one of the best I’ve seen. Truly stunning.

MR LERMAN

This makes no sense. I want to see the x-rays for myself.

DR. GROSSMAN

I’m sorry, I’m afraid those aren’t available right now.

MR. LERMAN

What do you mean? You said you had looked at them.

DR. GROSSMAN

I have. But they’re not here at the office.

MR. LERMAN

Well, then where are they?

DR. GROSSMAN

They’re, um, at my home office.

MR. LERMAN

Your home office? Wait a minute, what’s going on here?!

DR. GROSSMAN

Mr. Lerman, you need to face the facts. You no longer have an immune system. Instead, you have a beautiful, pink, pouty-lipped pussy. One that makes me dream of being on the nude beaches of the Cape d’Agde in the heat of July. 

MR. LERMAN

I knew it! You took home those x-rays of my immune system so you could masturbate to them, didn’t you?

DR. GROSSMAN

Mr. Lerman, when people undergo a health event, it’s normal to feel confused, even angry. But it’s important to manage expectations.

MR. LERMAN

You’re telling me this is my fault?!

DR. GROSSMAN

It’s nobody’s fault. That’s precisely my point. It’s just a matter of perspective. Sure, you no longer have the ability to fight off disease on your own. But look on the bright side: you’re walking around with a Danish porn-grade pussy rattling around inside you, one that would be the toast of every swingers’ circle on the Cape.

MR. LERMAN

You’re a filthy pervert! It’s doctors like you who give medicine a bad reputation!

Spotlight on DR. GROSSMAN.

DR. GROSSMAN

And its patients like you who make me realize why I got into medicine in the first place. The wonder of nature. The marvel of the human body. The fundamental mystery of life. It all comes from the pussy.

            Dr. Grossman gently touches Mr. Lerman’s chest.

DR. GROSSMAN

You now hold that mystery inside you, Mr. Lerman.

            Spotlight shifts to Mr. Lerman.

MR. LERMAN

            (suddenly awestruck)

I… I… guess I never thought of it that way before, doctor. I hold the mystery of nature inside me.

DR. GROSSMAN

Yes, and thanks to modern medicine, I now hold a picture of that mystery at home in my sock drawer next to a tube of Astro-glide.

            Blackout.

Sketch: Robotic Arm Cafe

CAST:

ERNEST: An over-eager employee with forced enthusiasm

SUSAN: A customer who just wants a cup of coffee

ROBOTIC ARM: A robotic arm that makes coffee and sounds like the apocalypse

A cafe in San Francisco.

ERNEST stands beside the electronic kiosk at the front. Behind the counter, a robotic arm is busy making coffee drinks.

SUSAN enters.

ERNEST

Welcome in, m’am! Would you like to try our matcha cashew latte?

SUSAN

Nope, just looking for a cup of coffee. So, how’s this work? I’ve never had my drink made by a robotic arm before. Do I order with you?

ERNEST

No, m’am! You order right here at this electronic kiosk and then your order is instantly sent to the robotic arm. The robotic arm then makes your beverage (guaranteed in under 90 seconds or it’s free), and calls your name as soon as it’s ready.

SUSAN

Wow. The robotic arm does all that, huh?

ERNEST

Yes, m’am! It’s incredibly talented, the robotic arm.

ROBOTIC ARM (V.O.)

(in ominous and grating robot voice)

Matilda, you’re soy latte is ready!

SUSAN

Jesus, that’s quite a voice. I think I felt it in my ovaries.

ERNEST

(laughing disingenuously)

Yes, it takes a second to get used to. But, I assure you, m’am, you quickly come to appreciate the sonorous qualities of the robotic arm’s voice.

SUSAN

Really? I find that hard to believe.

ERNEST

Well, the robotic arm is capable of a whole host of feats that beggar belief. You’d never guess its many talents-- its velvety smooth baritone voice being one, as well as its knowledge of human pressure points and orifices.

ROBOTIC ARM (V.O.)

Vijoy, your iced vanilla macchiato is ready!

SUSAN

Holy christ! That thing’s voice sounds like someone dropped their retainer in the garbage disposal while riding through a tunnel on BART.  How can you stand it?

           

ERNEST laughs nervously.

ERNEST

Ohhhh, it doesn’t sound like that at all! Unless, of course, a retainer, upon falling into the whirling blades of a garbage disposal, resonates like the spring melody piped on a wood nymph’s pan flute. For that is precisely how sweet the voice of the robotic arm is!

SUSAN

Dude, are you okay?

ERNEST

I’m wonderful, m’am! Why would you ask that? You’re acting as if I’m being held here against my will by the robotic arm…

(Discreetly nods)

… which I most certainly am not.

SUSAN

Wait, what?

ERNEST

I mean, it’s not like the robotic arm has burned my passport, frozen my bank account, and is leaving me threatening voicemails. That would be a truly ludicrous thing to allege about a robotic arm!

SUSAN

Uh…. yes. That would be… totally ludicrous.

ERNEST

What were you thinking, m’am? That the robotic arm has a massive inferiority complex about its voice?

(Vigorously nods)

And that the only reason the robotic arm employs me is to countermand the endless stream of wildly offbase remarks about its vocal stylings, which are, to tell the truth, (shouting for all to hear) OF SUCH A CRYSTALLINE TAMBOR AS TO MAKE AN ANGEL WEEP?!

SUSAN

I… I guess...

ERNEST vigorously shakes his head.

SUSAN

I mean, no. Of course not.

            (whispering)

What the hell’s going on here?

ERNEST nervously looks over his shoulder.

ERNEST

(with hollow and desperate cheeriness)

So that was a small coffee you wanted, right, m’am?

SUSAN

You know, on second thought, I’m thinking maybe I’ve maxed out on caffeine today. I think I’ll just--

ERNEST

You’re in luck! The robotic arm make a delicious cup of decaf through its own patented steam-filtration system!

Ernest mouths “Please help me!”

ROBOTIC ARM (V.O.)

Ernest, your brown eye depth charge is ready!

SUSAN

Mother of god, that sounds like the apocalypse! Wait, did it just say ‘brown eye depth charge’?

            ERNEST has an ashen look. His fake smile has vanished. He nods.

            SUSAN notices Ernest’s nametag.

SUSAN

Say, is that your name the robotic arm just called?

            ERNEST nods gravely.

SUSAN

Did you order a brown eye depth charge?

            ERNEST shakes his head gravely.

SUSAN

‘Cause I don’t even see it on the menu…. I mean, it sounds more like an enema….

            (horrified)

Oh god!! I’m so sorry.

            Blackout.