(Two actors are on stage, holding legal pads. Actor 1 is pacing.)
Actor 1: There is no way. There is no way to squeeze a meaningful plot into this short amount of time. I refuse.
Actor 2: What are you talking about?
Actor 1: It would have to be an allegory. Something that looks at society as a whole through the life of one individual. Something very now.
Actor 2: What about a character study?
Actor 1: Are you kidding? This isn't the nineteenth century. No, fiction has to tell us where we are, and where we're going. Fiction has to mean something.
Actor 2: What about entertainment?
Actor 1: Look, we don't have time. This is a ten second play. It has to be short.
Actor 2: A ten second play?
Actor 1: A ten second play.
(They think.)
Actor 2: We could just cop out, take the easy way.
Actor 1: How?
Actor 2: Do metafiction. Write a ten second play about two people writing a one second play. (Laughs) Most of it would be exposition anyway.
Actor 1: That's a wretched idea. (Beat) Let's begin.
(They scribble furiously, then both look up.)
Actor 2: What's the message?
Actor 1: (Slightly defeated.) We don't know where we're going.
THE END
A boy and a girl are sitting at a table in a cafe. He is staring at her, moon-eyed and obviously in love. She's less interested, staring into the middle distance. GIRL Have you ever had that feeling when you realise that that old friend of yours may actually be your one true love? How do you going about telling them? How can you look them in the eye and tell them that you ache for them, that all you want in the whole world is to be with them? BOY Just do it. Just say the words. GIRL But I'm so scared. What if he rejects me? I'd die, I'd just die. BOY He won't. He couldn't possibly, not with someone like you. GIRL Well then, old friend, this may come as a bit of a shock, but I'm in love with -- BOY (interrupting) I love you too! GIRL What? I was talking about your brother! BOY? Huh? Oh, I was talking about... Bono. Isn't The Joshua Tree great? They both look away, embarrassed.
A little girl (DAUGHTER) in bed. An older man (BOYFRIEND) sitting beside her in a chair. BOYFRIEND (very uncomfortable) So, uh, okay, I guess -- DAUGHTER You have to say "once upon a time" BOYFRIEND What? Oh yeah. So, once upon a time, there was this cowboy -- DAUGHTER -- Princess -- BOYFRIEND -- Princess, right. So, one day she found this magic sword -- DAUGHTER Princesses don't have swords, they have ponies! BOYFRIEND Look, I've never been any good at this. I never really told bedtime stories to my own kids. I just really like your mother a lot and I guess I was trying to make her like me too. I'm just going to go. DAUGHTER Wait, tell you what. Gimme twenty bucks and I'll tell mom you told me the best story ever BOYFRIEND Twenty bucks! You hustle all your mom's boyfriends like this? Shaking his head, he pays the $20 and goes to leave. DAUGHTER (quietly) Hey, it's fifty for the ones I don't like
Scene: The stage is split between a young female telephonist and an old bearded man. The woman is dressed in a suit, whereas the man wears black with a white ruff, (Think "Blackadder II"; tights and codpiece optional). Direction: The man is talking animatedly into a mobile phone whilst waving an AOL bill theatrically in one fist. The woman sits motionless unaffected throughout, back permanently turned to the old man, maybe she drinks some coffee. Motivation: The man is torn between righteous fury and the will to remain intellectually superior (as though talking to a child who has just used sandpaper to wash his car). The woman cannot be bothered to help and is relaxed to the point of distraction. She holds all the power.Style: Shakespearean.
... O.M. And so now, when I most need to access information of direst urgency and import, thou art broken; and cause my mind distress, waiting on hold for technical support! Tele. Upon thine internet provider's bill - it saith, I cite: "For connectivity issues see our homepage -" O.M. Thou gleeky shill! Thou knowest, maddam; that thou mockest me, as thine own webpage, is beyond contact! Accursed fool! Thy logic is corrupt! If I had your head and a gun, I should act! Beg for thy life's end to be so abrupt! Confound your technology, it shall sit, in the Halls of Abaddon; copper wire, circuit boards, aye and plastic casing, split! Oh would Beelzebub's powerful ire tear thee from thine idiotic keyboard - and cast thee also onto that same sword!
Apologies to The Bard
Dramatis Personae: PROFESSOR: dressed in an academic gown. ACTOR: prepared to play the part of a philosophy student. Scene: Classroom or lecture theatre. Perhaps a chalkboard could be used. Style: Gentle satire and cynical meta-fiction. ... PROFESSOR (aloof) And so I put it to you that it is morally wrong for a non-smoker to receive treatment for cancer through the NHS. ACTOR (urgently consulting a script) Err - What now? PROFESSOR Allow me to explain, if taxes collected from buying cigarettes fund the NHS; then British tobacco users are already paying for more than their fair share of cancer treatment. Therefore those people who contract cancer without smoking are benefiting from the care that has been paid for by hard-working smokers. Ergo cancer patients who don't smoke are thieving scumbags. ACTOR (trying to stop the play) Hold on wait, Frank, Frank this is completely different to rehearsal... PROFESSOR Keep going. It's too late - improvise something. ACTOR But what you just said was seriously fucked up... that play about [insert a brief plot outline of your most crazy performance so-far here (i.e.: marrying an alien chicken from a time-reversed dimension.)] made more sense! PROFESSOR Ah, sounds like you need to calm down, here, have a cigarette. Did I mention that Hitler was a non-smoker? ACTOR (shouting) Oh my God! You're not Frank; you're that guy from Marlboro! PROFESSOR (Laughs manically; tears off mask/beard/ costume; puts on cowboy hat) Bwa Ha Ha Ha! It's too late fool the entire audience has seen this little "play" of mine! They'll be on 50 a day by the end of the week and there's nothing you and your liberal friends can do about it! Ha Ha Ha PROFESSOR exits stage persued by ACTOR Apollyon; Huddersfield. A big thanks to Albert Herring who very kindly helped me with some of the Shakespearean grammar; tifrap for making some suggestions; and Chainstore for helping me with the layout.
Dramatis Personae: PROFESSOR: dressed in an academic gown. ACTOR: prepared to play the part of a philosophy student.
Scene: Classroom or lecture theatre. Perhaps a chalkboard could be used. Style: Gentle satire and cynical meta-fiction. ... PROFESSOR (aloof) And so I put it to you that it is morally wrong for a non-smoker to receive treatment for cancer through the NHS. ACTOR (urgently consulting a script) Err - What now? PROFESSOR Allow me to explain, if taxes collected from buying cigarettes fund the NHS; then British tobacco users are already paying for more than their fair share of cancer treatment. Therefore those people who contract cancer without smoking are benefiting from the care that has been paid for by hard-working smokers. Ergo cancer patients who don't smoke are thieving scumbags. ACTOR (trying to stop the play) Hold on wait, Frank, Frank this is completely different to rehearsal... PROFESSOR Keep going. It's too late - improvise something. ACTOR But what you just said was seriously fucked up... that play about [insert a brief plot outline of your most crazy performance so-far here (i.e.: marrying an alien chicken from a time-reversed dimension.)] made more sense! PROFESSOR Ah, sounds like you need to calm down, here, have a cigarette. Did I mention that Hitler was a non-smoker? ACTOR (shouting) Oh my God! You're not Frank; you're that guy from Marlboro! PROFESSOR (Laughs manically; tears off mask/beard/ costume; puts on cowboy hat) Bwa Ha Ha Ha! It's too late fool the entire audience has seen this little "play" of mine! They'll be on 50 a day by the end of the week and there's nothing you and your liberal friends can do about it! Ha Ha Ha PROFESSOR exits stage persued by ACTOR Apollyon; Huddersfield. A big thanks to Albert Herring who very kindly helped me with some of the Shakespearean grammar; tifrap for making some suggestions; and Chainstore for helping me with the layout.
Scene: Classroom or lecture theatre. Perhaps a chalkboard could be used.
Style: Gentle satire and cynical meta-fiction.
... PROFESSOR (aloof) And so I put it to you that it is morally wrong for a non-smoker to receive treatment for cancer through the NHS. ACTOR (urgently consulting a script) Err - What now? PROFESSOR Allow me to explain, if taxes collected from buying cigarettes fund the NHS; then British tobacco users are already paying for more than their fair share of cancer treatment. Therefore those people who contract cancer without smoking are benefiting from the care that has been paid for by hard-working smokers. Ergo cancer patients who don't smoke are thieving scumbags. ACTOR (trying to stop the play) Hold on wait, Frank, Frank this is completely different to rehearsal... PROFESSOR Keep going. It's too late - improvise something. ACTOR But what you just said was seriously fucked up... that play about [insert a brief plot outline of your most crazy performance so-far here (i.e.: marrying an alien chicken from a time-reversed dimension.)] made more sense! PROFESSOR Ah, sounds like you need to calm down, here, have a cigarette. Did I mention that Hitler was a non-smoker? ACTOR (shouting) Oh my God! You're not Frank; you're that guy from Marlboro! PROFESSOR (Laughs manically; tears off mask/beard/ costume; puts on cowboy hat) Bwa Ha Ha Ha! It's too late fool the entire audience has seen this little "play" of mine! They'll be on 50 a day by the end of the week and there's nothing you and your liberal friends can do about it! Ha Ha Ha PROFESSOR exits stage persued by ACTOR
... PROFESSOR (aloof) And so I put it to you that it is morally wrong for a non-smoker to receive treatment for cancer through the NHS.
ACTOR (urgently consulting a script) Err - What now?
PROFESSOR Allow me to explain, if taxes collected from buying cigarettes fund the NHS; then British tobacco users are already paying for more than their fair share of cancer treatment. Therefore those people who contract cancer without smoking are benefiting from the care that has been paid for by hard-working smokers. Ergo cancer patients who don't smoke are thieving scumbags.
ACTOR (trying to stop the play) Hold on wait, Frank, Frank this is completely different to rehearsal...
PROFESSOR Keep going. It's too late - improvise something.
ACTOR But what you just said was seriously fucked up... that play about [insert a brief plot outline of your most crazy performance so-far here (i.e.: marrying an alien chicken from a time-reversed dimension.)] made more sense!
PROFESSOR Ah, sounds like you need to calm down, here, have a cigarette. Did I mention that Hitler was a non-smoker?
ACTOR (shouting) Oh my God! You're not Frank; you're that guy from Marlboro!
PROFESSOR (Laughs manically; tears off mask/beard/ costume; puts on cowboy hat) Bwa Ha Ha Ha! It's too late fool the entire audience has seen this little "play" of mine! They'll be on 50 a day by the end of the week and there's nothing you and your liberal friends can do about it! Ha Ha Ha PROFESSOR exits stage persued by ACTOR
PROFESSOR (Laughs manically; tears off mask/beard/ costume; puts on cowboy hat) Bwa Ha Ha Ha! It's too late fool the entire audience has seen this little "play" of mine! They'll be on 50 a day by the end of the week and there's nothing you and your liberal friends can do about it! Ha Ha Ha
PROFESSOR exits stage persued by ACTOR
Apollyon; Huddersfield.
A big thanks to Albert Herring who very kindly helped me with some of the Shakespearean grammar; tifrap for making some suggestions; and Chainstore for helping me with the layout.
Ask for a Refund
Cast (gender non-specific). Thespian: Voice tends towards a parody of Noel Coward, dressed casually. Bypasser: Wearing long overalls (brown prefered). set: bare stage
Thespian stands centre stage, hands in pockets, leaning forward slightly, looking intently directly into audience; an attitude that is kept for the entirety of the production.
Bypasser walks up to Thespian from stage right. turns to profile, facing thespian, faces are close together.
Bypasser: gestures to speak - opens mouth but is interupted...
Thespian: Sssssssssh! Thespian: Theres an exchange going on here! Bypasser: (suprised): Eh? Thespian: An exchange. You see all those people. (nods toward audience) They've paid good money for this. Bypasser: What you talking about? Thats just a wall. (loosely gestures to count the four walls) Thespian: Thats part of the exchange too. The fourth wall, its a kind of bonus, makes them feel they are seeing something they shouldn't. Bypasser: I wondered why you had your hands in your pockets. Thespian (quickly withdraws hands from pockets): Tut. I Meean... they get to see ME being someone that I'm not. (strikes a more heroic pose fists clenched) Bypasser: Really? Who aren't you today then? Thespian: puffing up chest: Today I'm not a famous celebrity... I mean I am. (said boldly with increasing doubt towards the end). Bypasser: And I thought you were Napoleon, at least thats what you said yesterday. (Thespian glances briefly at Bypasser frowning...
a short pause...
then resumes looking intently into audience). Bypasser: So this exchange thing, am I part of it too? Thespian: Nope, Just me. Bypasser: Aha.. I get it, the gate wasn't very good was it? Thespian: Have you read the reviews?
an awkward pause..
Bypasser: You finished? Its nearly dinner time. Thespian: Just the denouement to go and Its a done deal. Bypasser: Come on then. (Thespian relaxes and follows Bypasser as they both amble off toward stage left).
half way to offstage
Bypasser shouts: I'm going to tell the Warden you've sold that wall. Bypasser runs offstage persued by Thespian (who roars like a bear).
End
Tifrap - Brighton, England
Dramatis Personae: Arthur Deveraux, a dapper young bon vivant. Fred Wabinsky, a surly, unkempt Tabloid Editor.
(SCENE.--FRED and ARTHUR are sitting at a table staring at each other adversarially. There is a coffee pot, two cups and a bowl of sugar cubes between them. ARTHUR is holding a sheaf of paper tightly with both hands. The two speak rapidly and heatedly, overlapping at points.)
Arthur (thrusts the papers heatedly at FRED who glances at them): This can't go to print.
Fred (brusquely): Dunno how you got this. Don't care. If that's what you brought me here for, you're wasting your time.
Arthur (charming. Pours coffee into cups while talking): I invited you here for an exclusive interview to correct the things you've got wrong. Coffee?
(ARTHUR rapidly drops three sugar cubes into a cup)
Fred (overlapping on "wrong"): Truth don't move my papers. I'll take--
Arthur (interrupting, bored):Black with three sugars
(ARTHUR pushes the cup with the sugar at Fred)
Fred(surprised): You know my poison.(Fred slurps) Ain't gonna stop the presses. Anyone know your history?
Arthur: No. It would complicate things--
Fred (greedily): How you gonna sweeten the pot if I bury this?
Arthur: Have you ever heard of the Gros Michel?
Fred: No. What's--
Arthur ( rapidly and clearly, as if reciting from a book): The Gros Michel is a species of banana. It was the commercial banana for the first half of the twentieth century. It was tasty, durable, and shipped well. The Gros Michel is now all but extinct because of one glaring vulnerability; A susceptibility to blight. Despite its value it was weak.
Fred:You tryin' to say this story's your weakness? 'Cause --(FRED trails off and grabs his throat, his eyes widening in surprise. He falls forward onto the table then slumps to the floor. )
Arthur (Calmly, as FRED begins to clutch his throat): No, Mr. Wabinsky, you are the Gros Michel. I am the blight.
The Service Industry
A MAN and a WOMAN, waiting for a bus. It's dark, and it's damn cold. There could be a bench, or not, but neither one would use it. You know LeRoy Jones' "Dutchman"? Like that. Their conversation should be relatively flat and...bored. Not like 'bored socialite at the dance' bored, more like 'Sigourney Weaver in "The Ice Storm"' bored. It's important that both of the performers look absolutely like normal people, not sick or odd or addled in any way.
MAN (looking at her, maybe a bit too eagerly): Can I light your cigarette? (He fishes for a cigarette lighter) WOMAN: I'm not smoking a cigarette. MAN: Oh. Would you like a cigarette? (he fumbles around again) WOMAN: I don't smoke cigarettes. MAN: (after a brief pause): Would you like to learn? It's quite easy. WOMAN: This is very strange. MAN: I'm sorry? WOMAN: This conversation is very strange. MAN: It'll be good for you to unwind a little. WOMAN: With a blast of Kool Menthol Flavor? Man (eager again): If you like, sure. WOMAN: I'm sorry, but no. Man: Oh. (pause) Well. Can I shine your shoes? (he pulls a rag from his back pocket and holds it out to her)
Scene Out
The Earthling is dressed and acts like a typical inhabitant of planet Earth.
The four aliens: If there's some fancy way for them to enter - in puff of smoke, from above, from behind a pillar, tree etc. then do it. Otherwise, just have them enter stage right. If you can get alien costumes or weird-looking space-suits, good. Otherwise something as simple as a pair of deely-boppers and/or tinfoil will do. And if they all did different funny voices or accents, that would be good too. If the alien cop has a official-looking hat, a megaphone and/or something that looks vaguely like a weapon that would be good too. A super-soaker or baseball bat would be a cheap way of lending the right air of authority.
All roles are gender-neutral.
Scene: somewhere on planet Earth. Exterior, day. Modern times.
The Earthling is hanging about. Suddenly the Humidorean alien enters. Humidorean: Hail! Earthling: What on Earth? Humidorean: (pacing) We Humidoreans come in peace. We have much to discuss. We must forge an alliance to defeat the Zarkwad menace! With great sacrifice we can prevail!! Earthling: Zark-what? Enter Zarkwad alien from another direction. Sees only Earthling. Zarkwad: (to Earthling) Greetings. The vile Humidoreans will soon be upon you! Join with us to defeat them!! Earthling (gestures at Humidorean) You mean him? Zarkwad: Drat! Humidorean: Quick. We must not- Enter Alien cop Alien cop: Lawbreakers! You are under arrest for interfering with an isolated planet under false pretences. Raise your appendages and cease all activity. You will not be harmed if you comply. (all freeze) Humidorean: Shit! (beat) Enter Alien Dee. Dee sees Earthling. Dee: I come from a distant star to offer your proud people the riches of the galaxy. Wonders undreamed of in ... (trails off since Earthling is looking far less impressed than expected. Looks around. beat.) Uh-oh. Zarkwad: Scarper! Exeunt Zarkwad, Humidorean, Dee left, pursued by the alien cop. (double beat) Earthling's phone rings. He/she takes it out and begins to walk while speaking to it. Earthling: Hi honey. (beat) Oh, you know. Some days are just one damn thing after another. How was yours? (exits right while continuing conversation e.g. uh-huh, yes.)
Roles are a male and female, though you could perhaps do it as two persons of the same gender if you tried. They are both seated, initially not looking directly at each other.
He: (exhales. It might be a sigh. Or it might not) She: (looking at him) What? He: Hm? She: (repeating herself) What? He: Why what? She: Never mind. He: Never mind what? (beat) She: It doesn't matter. He: Yeah, it does. What are you on about? She: Why did you sigh like that? He: I didn't. I was breathing. She: Something's on your mind. He: No, Nothing. I was just exhaling. She: Fine. When you exhale like that, something's bothering you. He: It's nothing. She: What's nothing? He: Just leave it. She: Something is upsetting you. (beat) He: Are we ready to go now? She: (exhales. It might be a sigh.) I suppose so. (He get up and takes a step. She hasn't moved.) He: What? She: Nothing. (Exeunt together).
Two people are stood at a bar, drinking. The second is a little drunk. Dialogue can be altered to suit the actors' accents if neccessary. PERSON ONE ...and my mum's watch had stopped at exactly 2:30! PERSON TWO Bollocks. PERSON ONE What? It's true. PERSON TWO No offence, mate - I'm sure you're a nice bloke - but it's just coincidence. All ghost stories are. Just coincidence and superstition. PERSON ONE (quietly) That's ironic. PERSON TWO (cont'd; oblivious) --I mean, no offence to your mum or anything, but I'd like to imagine your grandad's ghost had something better to do with his afterlife than make her late for work, you know what I'm saying? He suddenly realises what Person One said. PERSON TWO (cont'd) Hang on, "ironic"? Did you die ten years ago on this very day or something? PERSON ONE No. PERSON TWO Too right. PERSON ONE You did. Person Two looks around sharply in surprise. Person One is not kidding. END
MAN sits at an empty desk. As he speaks, MARY unpacks things from a box and places them on the desk (a telephone, a laptop, a photograph, stationery) ignoring what he is saying.
Man: Ah Mary, there's nothing like the promise of a brand new office... A man's haven from the incessant pesterings of home life... A place to think... To dream! Think how many grand ideas were born in offices just like this. How many plots were hatched? How many defining moments in history came about because a man such as I in an office such as this sat down at his desk and had an idea - nay, a vision - to change the world? A new beginning... A clean slate!
She puts an unopened parcel on the desk.
Man: (curtly) Where did that come from?
Mary: It was in the box.
Man: Well, what is it?
Mary: My money's on a small nuclear device from the future.
They freeze, staring at the package, as the lights intensify momentarily.
Blackout
Enter entire cast, each with one chair. Actor 1 has a stop-watch. They seat themselves in 2 rows, facing the audience. They proceed to watch the audience as if they are the audience and the audience is the actors.
Actor 1: (Stands up) Hi. So this is basically YOUR (gestures to show he means the audience) play. WE (gestures to show he means the actors) are going to be the audience, and YOU (once again gestures to show he means the audience) are going to be the actors. So it's your show. You have 60 seconds. Go. (Starts the stop-watch and sits down)
The cast waits 10 seconds, watching the audience.
Actor 1: Seriously. We're not going to do anything.
The cast waits 10 more seconds, watching the audience.
Actor 1: Come on, do something. It's YOUR play. You still have about 35 seconds.
The cast watches the audience until the minute has elapsed.
Actor 1: And... time. Stops the stop-watch
The cast claps.
Exeunt
Don't expect applause from the audience, but this is the one everybody will be talking about afterwards.
The End
*This written with the very end of the show in mind. It's also pretty free form as many changes can be made to add to the overall effect.*
*scene- one man on stage. As many people as you want off stage.*
Man: Well folks I'm sorry to say this is the end of the show. The cast for the final play are late so this is where we leave you. Goodbye.
*He walks off. There is a five second pause (or longer if the audience applaud) then the sound of stamping and running feet is heard. This entire section can be removed or added to depending on how you think the audience will react. My recommendation is to leave it- the surprise will work better.*
Actor 1 (behind scenes): SHIT! We're gonna be late! 2nd Actor: I told you we shouldn't have left to go drinking! Actor: It's ok I think we've got enough time to reach the stage.
*Whatever is said as the time approaches the last few seconds the actors burst out on stage.*
Actor 1: We're just in- *lights go out and there is a slight pause* Actor 1: Shit.
--End--
NARRATOR: The year is 1991. Twenty-eight years after its inception, the famous Moscow-Washington telephone line remains an important diplomatic tool for preventing a global nuclear war. However, on Christmas Eve, Soviet Premier Mikhail Gorbachev would discover that phone could be far more sinister than thermonuclear holocaust.
PHONE: Thank you for calling the White House automated switchboard. If you know the name of the person or office you'd like to call, say it now.
GORBACHEV: Merry Crees-mass, Preh-see-dent Boosh!
PHONE: I'm sorry. I did not understand (Pause. PHONE repeats GORBACHEV as though his response was recorded.) Merry Crees-mass, Preh-see-dent Boosh. (Pause.) When you hear the choice you'd like, say it. Economical Voodoo. How to Read Lips. When one point of light went out, they all went out!. Operation Just Because. Nuclear Vessels.
GORBACHEV: (Exasperated.) Nuclear Wessels?!
PHONE: All right. Nuclear Vessels. We notice you're not calling from your home phone number.
GORBACHEV: I am calling from the Kremlin, Preh-see-dent Boosh! You joke! I get it!
PHONE: For security purposes, please say your spouse's maiden name...
(Pause. GORBACHEV is beginning to realise that PHONE is not joking.)
GORBACHEV: Maksimovna?
PHONE: ...after the tone. Beep.
GORBACHEV: Maksimovna!
(The questions begin to come in rapid succession, each quicker than before, bringing GORBACHEV closer to the breaking point. PHONE begins to speak as though an interrogation was taking place)
PHONE: Your first pet's name.
GORBACHEV: Boris the Bear!
PHONE: Your high school mascot.
GORBACHEV: The ice weasel!
PHONE: Your favorite color. The town of your birthplace. Your favorite food...
GORBACHEV: Red! Stavropol! Borscht!
(Gorbachev screams in frustration and begins to pantomime pressing the touchpad on the phone.)
NARRATOR: Intelligence reports state that thirty six minutes later, after pressing the 'zero' button to speak with a human a desperate 9,437 times, Mikhail Gorbachev finally broke down in tears. The next mornining, the Soviet Premier delivered his farewell address to the Politburo and the Russian people. The Soviet Union was no more.
(Lights fade to black.)
Stage: A couch semi-facing the audience. A television set with its back to the audience. A man, sitting on the couch, remote in hand. He is sitting legs crossed, arms hugging himself as if he's scared or sad. Now and then he clicks a button on the remote, obviously flipping through different news broadcasts. The TV speakers' commentary is supposed to be fired off rather rapidly, each "click" of the remote sending us on to the next speaker. If there could be a flickering light as from the tv screen, that would be a nice touch.
Click.
Speaker's voice: "The tsunami has caused major power outages, and thousands have been forced to leave their homes. Hundreds are missing, twelve have been verified dead, but the death toll is likely to rise...."
A different speaker's voice: "... and AIDS has claimed the lives of these children's families. Mtubi is eight years old, but is the sole provider and caretaker of his two younger siblings. Finding food is..."
Different speaker's voice: "Six teenaged scoolgirls were shot dead by one of their classmates earlier today. No explanation..."
Click
Different speaker's voice: " ...businessman's family was kidnapped two months ago. The five bodies discovered are almost certainly those of his wife and four children, and investigations..."
Different speaker's voice: "... as the mine collapsed and trapped fifty two workers inside. None have yet been rescued, and the freezing temperatures make rescue work... "
While the last news spot is on, a woman comes hurriedly on stage behind the man, one stiletto in hand, the other one on her foot. She is nicely dressed, maybe for an evening out. Stops abruptly when she sees the man sitting there.
(Woman, exasperated, drowning out the speaker): "Oh, John, please! I told you how important this dinner is. The least you could do is get ready on time. Please?! For me. Prioritize. Please!"
She hurries off stage again, hopping on one foot while trying to get her other shoe on.
(Man, quietly): "...prioritize, yes. Sorry darling... "
Gets to his feet, surreptitiously wipes away a tear*. Turns off tv. Exits, following the woman.
The end.
WORLDS COLLIDE by Don Red, Queens, NY Three men, LEFT, RIGHT and MIDDLE, dressed in Business Casual clothing, face the audience. They are urinating. Their heads are slightly bowed as they converse. LEFT So I know it's coming, right, but she won't actually ask. It's all, "Where do you think we're going?" "Would you ever get married?" And every time we see a kid it's all, "Ohmigod what a cute kid!" Yeah, thanks bitch, I can already identify a kid at 50 paces. Don't need your help. RIGHT, holding up one splayed hand Yeah bro, but you know she's all "Where's the ring, asshole?" LEFT Exaaactly. So the new game is I bring up getting married at least once a week, like sometimes as much as four or five times a week, and then I immediately change the subject. Like talk about getting dinner or the car or golf or whatever. And let me be the first to say it is fucking her up. RIGHT That is sooooo badass, bro. MIDDLE, a little too excited Hey, you guys should check out my blog! It's all about guys getting married. But it's funny, y'know? Like with pictures and comments. LEFT and RIGHT shake off, zip up and exit. MIDDLE, calling after them It's iGroomster.com! MIDDLE, turning back, dejected With a podcast.
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