Day 27: Halfway done and four days to go!

OK. So it's looking like I am not going to make my 30 sketches for this month. As of this morning, I'm at 15 sketches, and I only have four days left. I'll give it the old college try — really I will! — but I have a CCL show upstate tonight, a dinner tomorrow night, and work on Monday, so even if I could wring 15 more ideas out of my tired brain, I'm just not going to have time to write them all. (Unless I just write 15 two-line sketches.)

Still, I'm pretty happy with what I've accomplished so far. There are some good sketches in there, and some good ideas in the sketches that didn't quite work out, and if nothing else I'll probably have doubled my sketch output for the year — in the same month where I spent almost every weekend out of the city, did a showcase at Comix, auditioned for and got into a new comedy troupe, and survived another month as the de facto head of our understaffed department at work.

I haven't been keeping up this blog very well in the past week, but I've written three sketches, I think, since the last entry: "When Are You Getting Married," "Make It Look Like a Suicide" and "Upstairs, Downstairs." Here are two of the three. (Rachel gave me the beginning of the idea for "Married.")

WHEN ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED?

RACHEL and DAN are having lunch.

DAN
It was a great vacation. If you and Jeff want to get away some time, I highly recommend it.

RACHEL
That sounds lovely. So when are you and Sarah getting married?

DAN
Oh! What?

RACHEL
Oh, come on. You two are great together.

DAN
Well yeah, it's just — we're not there, I mean, we've talked about it, but —

RACHEL
You need to get on that! She's a keeper.

DAN
You're right. You're right.

RACHEL
I know I'm right. So? When?

DAN
Uh... some day?

RACHEL
(sighs)
I'm at least going to need a ballpark estimate.

DAN
Uh...

RACHEL
Come on. Just name a date.

DAN
I guess...

RACHEL
One year? Two years?

DAN
I just don't...

RACHEL
DAN!

DAN
I don't know! Two years!

RACHEL
All right.

DAN
(dazed)
Two... years...

RACHEL
See? That wasn't so hard, was it?

DAN
You know, I should probably be... where's that waiter?

RACHEL
Now. When are you going to have a baby?

DAN
What?!?

RACHEL
You two aren't getting any younger! Wait too long and your baby might be (whispers) retarded.

DAN
How am I supposed to know—

RACHEL
Well, let's think about it. (She starts writing in a small notebook.) Married in two years, you'll probably get started... right away?

DAN
Well... we'd want a house first...

RACHEL
OK. Good. Let's assume you're saving now. You'll need a year to recover financially from the wedding, but no reason not to start trying while you're doing that, am I right? So! Pregnant within the first year... baby... in three and a half.

DAN
I don't understand. Do you represent some sort of busybody consortium? What makes you think—

RACHEL
First affair?

DAN
ExCUSE ME?

RACHEL
First affair. When? Four years?

DAN
You're unbelievable!

RACHEL
What?

DAN
You're asking me when I'm going to cheat on my wife? A) Never, and B) Fuck you!

RACHEL
Oh, don't be so defensive. Look. Sarah will be tired. She won't feel sexy, she'll be cranky from lack of sleep, as will you, she'll be stir crazy and her nipples will be sore. And you, you'll react instinctively against all that responsibility, yearn for the youthful exuberance of those days just after college when you were earning your first real paychecks and you could finally drink legally in bars. You'll start hanging out with your co-workers more, and some young, marginally pretty assistant who's attracted to you because you seem like such a good husband and father —ironic, really, considering her unspoken desire to corrupt you — and who you're attracted to mostly because she's the physical opposite, for better and for worse, of what you've got now — will find a reason to work with you on a project after hours just so she can give you a blowjob in the office supply room. And for ten seconds or so, you'll forget that you've been marching somberly towards middle age, senility, incontinence and death, having never taken that backpacking trip across India you'd always assumed you'd get to one day. (pause) I'll put down four years.

DAN
You're a monster.

RACHEL
Hey. I'm not the one who left my wife and child for an office BJ.

They sit in silence. Dan is too shaken up to even think about escaping anymore.

RACHEL
So. When are you going to get remarried?

Copyright © 2008 Jeff S.

This next one is a nice short little sketch with minimal dialogue I wrote on the back of a couple of envelopes on my way to work. I'm fond of it, and would like to dedicate it to my friend Sarah Tebbe.

UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS

A COUPLE on a couch. They are staring at the ceiling, listening to the MOST RIDICULOUS CACOPHONY OF NOISES from upstairs.

WOMAN
Should we say something?

MAN
It's only a little after midnight. I'm sure they'll stop soon.

WOMAN
It sounds like they're doing whip-its while trying to catch a greased pig. And speaking in tongues.

MAN
I'll get the earmuffs.

The man goes to get off the couch. He lowers himself to the floor ever so carefully and tiptoes across the floor. One part of the floor CREAKS. Immediately, there is the sound of someone STOMPING UP THE STAIRS and BANGING AT THEIR DOOR. The man answers it. The crotchetiest OLD MAN is at the door, seething.

OLD MAN
What in hell are you doing stomping around the apartment like a goddamned giant elephant? It's past midnight! Some of us have work in the morning! Did you think of that before you started stomping! Did you?!?

COUPLE
(throughout his speech)
Sorry. We're sorry. We're so sorry. It will never happen again. Sorry, etc.

The old man stands there, panting with rage, fists clenched at his side, as the man closes the door slowly, saying sorry constantly. The sound of the OLD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS walking back down to his apartment. The man picks up earmuffs and heads back to the couch as the NOISE FROM ABOVE starts again.The couple watch the ceiling, clamping their earmuffs on to their ears.

WOMAN
It's so loud.

MAN
Like we can talk. We've already had one noise complaint against us tonight.

WOMAN
It sounds like a cougar trying to drag a panicked walrus across a chalkboard.

MAN
There's nothing we can do.

WOMAN
Maybe we could ask nicely...

The neighbor STOMPING UPSTAIRS and BANGING ON THE DOOR. The couple are apologizing before they even get the door open.

OLD MAN
It's after midnight, for Cripe's sake!!! What the hell are you doing yelling at the top of your lungs?!? What is this, a rock concert?!? It's like you're in my bed, yelling directly into my ears!!!

COUPLE
Sorry. We're sorry, etc.

OLD MAN
GAHHHH!!!

Same thing: the man closes the door. RECEDING FOOTSTEPS. The couple returns to the couch, miserably uncomfortable. The NOISE UPSTAIRS is insane. The warning alarm of a truck reversing. A kookaburra laughing. The sounds of a 19th-century whaling ship being torn apart by a storm.

WOMAN
(whispering)
Maybe we should—

The man shakes his head and puts his finger to his mouth. He points at the floor. She nods. She reaches for a cup of tea and takes a sip.

BAM BAM BAM! The downstairs neighbor. The man opens the door and the old man is shrieking on the floor in rage and angry. The couple apologizes profusely. The noise upstairs continues.

Copyright © 2008 Jeff S.

Day 18: Pantscakes

This sketch was inspired by a strange smell at the Broadway Comedy Club on Wednesday night. Rachel wrote the little mini-monologue by the mother.

Pantscakes (commercial parody)

A kitchen. A FATHER is dressed to run a race. His KIDS are tugging at his pants legs.

FATHER: Daddy has to run a race!

KID #1: But you said you'd make us pancakes!

FATHER (panicked): THERE'S NO TIME!

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): There's always time for breakfast with Pantscakes™!

FATHER & KIDS: Pantscakes?

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): Pantscakes is the revolutionary way to make breakfast on the go! Throw away all those pots, pans...even your stove!

GRAPHIC: Pots and pans and a stove being Xed out.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): With the Pantscakes patented Biothermal Cooking System™, you can cook breakfast on the run, using the heat from your own crotch!

GRAPHIC: A silhouette of a man in the Da Vinci pose. A pair of cinched underpants, like a child's training pants, appear over his pelvis. His pelvis grows red and emits wavy red lines.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): Before you head out for a jog or a busy morning of errands, simply pour Pantscakes batter into our patented Pantscakes Wonderpants™. In under 30 minutes of light to moderate exercise, your pants will be full of warm, fluffy pancakes, enough for a mid-morning snack for yourself or a full meal for the whole family!

Kids pull pancakes out of the father's pants.

KIDS: Mmmmm! Warm!

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): And don't forget the Syrup Sack, for an endless supply of body-warmed syrup and melted butter for those pancakes!

Medium shot of mother talking to camera.

MOTHER: But you can't have pancakes... I mean Pantscakes... every day!

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): Guess what? You can cook so much more using the Pantscakes Wonderpants!

We see each food in succession, being pulled out of someone's pants.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): Try scrambled eggs! Breakfast meats! Home fries! Even oatmeal!

Medium shot of mother talking to camera.

MOTHER: Between managing my clients at work; keeping up with my composting; shuttling the kids to power pilates; freecycling; fighting human rights violations; making sure my pets are eating organically; helping my community find shelter for orphaned calves, and volunteering my pre-used oils for biodiesel production, who has the time to make fluffy rich pancakes for a family of six (or an extended a foster family of eight)?

Product shot.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.): For such a futuristic time saver as this, you might expect to pay upwards of $450,000, roughly the gross national product of Guinea-Bissau! But for this limited time offer, you'll get the Pantscakes Wonderpants, the Syrup Sack, ten gallons of Pantscakes batter and a trial vat of Pantscakes Eggs-traordinary Egg-flavored Scramble Mix... all for the low, low price of $79.99! And you'll never run out of batter, because we'll send you ten gallons of Pantscakes batter every month, for only $19.99!

The father finishes his race and is surrounded by his adoring family.

FATHER: I took third place in my age division! How should we celebrate?

WHOLE FAMILY: PANTSCAKES!

LEGAL ANNOUNCER (V.O.): Pantscakes are a novelty item, and are not recommended for human consumption. Consult your doctor if you are considering eating anything out of someone else's pants.

Copyright ©2008 Jeff S.

Day 16: Vito & Carmella at the Beach

At our rehearsal for our benefit show on Sunday, in which we are going to be lucky enough to play with the hilarious Stephen Guarino and Kate McKinnon of Logo's The Big Gay Sketch Show, I was complaining to my prolific teammate Michael about how I'm falling behind on this project. I had figured out on the way there that I would need to write a sketch a day for eight days and two sketches a day for seven days.

He reminded me that they didn't all have to be long sketches, and that I had at least one blackout sketch (more of a filmed sketchlet) that I'd been telling him for months about but had yet to write down. So I wrote this one down last night just before falling asleep.

Vito & Carmella at the Beach

A low-rent Mafia couple at the beach in beach chairs. He's reading a copy of Breaking Fingers for Them What's Dumb. She's watching a young, fresh-faced couple not far from them. The boy has buried the girl in the sand. She's smiling and giggling. He gives her a sip of wine, and kisses her.

CARMELLA
How come we ain't never done nothin' like that?

VITO
Hm?

CARMELLA
Them two over there. They're being all romantical. How come we don't do that?

VITO
What the fuck are you talking about?

CARMELLA
I want you to bury me in the sand.

VITO
Come on! I'm readin' over here!

CARMELLA
Vito!

VITO
All right! All right! Madonn'!

He gets up and picks up a nearby shovel. He proceeds to dig a deep hole, until he is up to his neck in sand. Finally, he's done. She stands by the hole, clapping her hands excitedly. He swings the shovel at the back of her head. She falls in, and he starts filling up the hole.

Monty Python stock footage of old ladies clapping.

Copyright ©2008 Jeff S.

Day 13: The Greatest and Most Ancient Evil That Has Ever Been, Ever

I wrote this on Saturday, on the plane down to Conyers, GA. I had a Chicago City Limits show at Heritage High School, the same high school that my friend Ashley Ward and her buddy Jack McBrayer (of 30 Rock fame) went to. It was neat to see pictures of the two of them in high school productions of whatever those were productions of. It was also my public debut of the Sarah Palin song I wrote last week. I was worried that it might be a little too risque for a conservative-ish crowd in a high school, but the racy parts at the end seemed to be their favorite parts.

I chose to write a sketch I've tried to write before, with no success. This time I jettisoned the other characters and wrote it as a monologue. Enjoy!

The Greatest and Most Ancient Evil That Has Ever Been, Ever

MWO-O-O-O-O-OH!!! YA-A-A-A-A-AHH!!! HO-WO-O-O-O-O-OH!!! You are in for it now, Bucko! You are in some serious hot water. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you have any idea what you have summoned with that trade paperback copy of the Necronomicon? Of course you don't, with your tiny, mortal brain, any more than an earthworm understands what it sees when — well, earthworms don't actually see. But that... that's actually a good analogy, right? Because your view of the world can't compare to my all-knowing, all-powerful... uh... power. You know what I mean. Or rather, you have no idea what I mean, because, like I said... you know... (trails off) MWO-O-O-O-O-OH!!!

I see what you're thinking now. Literally, I might add. Grey skin, horns, eyes in a circle on my chest. You're thinking, "Oh, no! I've summoned a demon! What should I do?" Well, guess what? A demon? Would be like a trip to the ice cream store compared to what you have now, buster. Demons?Are you kidding me? They're like puppies to me. No, more like Sea Monkeys. That's how PUNY they are, compared to me. I don't even care about them, in case you were wondering. I might check out a demon for a second and then I'm all, NEXT! Because it's pathetic how much they, how much they just SUCK. As far as I'm concerned. (makes weird, pathetic magician gesture and half-hearted explosion sound)

That is to say, not a demon. They're like a fad to me, is how much more ancient and evil I am than them. And please DO NOT say I am like Satan. POSEUR! I HATE that guy! King of Hell... what has he done that's so great? I was around WAY before him, which you would know if you knew anything. If he hadn't been besties with God at one point, no one would even know who he was. Coattails much? And then they get into a fight and he pretends he's too cool for God, which, you know, "Go Evil" and everything but still.

God, by the way? Johnny-come-lately. Acts like he was the first guy to create a universe... uh, excuse me! I'm sorry, are you checking your email? Could you not? You're in the presence of a being older than your God... how about focusing for at least a second? Evil monologue over here! Thank you.

Don't give me that look! Seriously... do you know what I'm capable of? WHA-YO-KA-CHA! Ahem. So, pretty much everything old and evil and powerful you can think of, to me? Is like some piece of Chinese novelty crap you buy at your "Spencer Gifts." Cthuhlu monster? A coffee mug with boobs on it. Galactus, devourer of worlds? Who, by the way is real? Met him once? Not sure how Marvel Comics managed to get that right? Fart machine. After a couple of weeks, they break, or the batteries run out, or you just think why would I ever want to see this fart machine again, and you throw them away. That's what I think of your worst nightmares. Only my couple of weeks is millions of eons... do you get what I am saying to you? I WILL fuck YOU UP!!! So that's... you know... what you get... for...

(Trails off, looks around the room.)

Is that a Boris Vallejo poster? Cool. I knew it. That warrior girl is HOT.

Copyright © 2008 Jeff S.

Day 12: The Subway Pitch

This idea came from our Secret Hospital rehearsal for tonight's show at Comix. Yet another sketch that comes from me laughing at Michael making faces.

This one's kind of obscene. Don't let your kids read it.

The Subway Pitch

IN BLACK, A VIDEO PROJECTION

Michael, masturbating, his crotch off-camera. He keeps gagging and almost vomiting. This continues for an interminable 15-30 seconds. Then a Subway logo appears on the screen.

LIGHTS UP. DAN, JEFF and RACHEL in business attire. Dan looks at the other two anxiously as they think about what they've just seen.

RACHEL
So...that's...our new pitch to Subway.

DAN
Forget "pitch." This is ready to go. They give this the greenlight, we don't have to cast it, we don't have to shoot it. It's on the air tomorrow as is.

JEFF
I don't know...

DAN
I know what you're thinking. It's a little risque.

RACHEL
I'll say.

JEFF
I'd go so far as to say it is a lot risque. Can I see the remote?

They watch some of it again. He pauses it in a particularly funny place.

JEFF
I'm not completely sold.

RACHEL
It does speak directly to their target. Males 18-35 will relate to this.

DAN
(excitedly)
Right? I mean, think about it....what do all 18-35 year-old guys like?

RACHEL JEFF
Football! Masturbation!

JEFF (cont'd)
I'm just not quite convinced that the whole vomit thing is optimal for selling sandwiches.

DAN
See, though... this isn't about food.

JEFF
It isn't?

RACHEL
(pretending she knows what she's talking about)
No, it's not...

Through the following speech, Rachel sort of repeats the important words of Dan's sentences in a diffident murmur.

DAN
It's about attitude. People don't pay attention to commercials anymore. They fast-forward through them. They leave the room. This commercial reaches a generation that has been sold to 24 hours a day for their whole lives. If they sense they're being sold to... EHHH! The alarm goes off.

RACHEL
They will not be fast-forwarding through this commercial.

DAN
Or if they do, it will only be because it's funny to watch him masturbate fast. Check this out.

They fast-forward through it. Through much of the rest of the scene, Rachel is rewinding, fast-forwarding, playing and pausing the commerical.

DAN (cont'd)
See... when you see this, you don't know what's going on. You search for meaning and the commercial tells you to fuck off. It's the commercial equivalent of those guys who are dicks to girls they want to hook up with. This commercials all, "You should use conditioner. Your hair looks like straw." And the next thing you know, you want to make out with it. By buying a 12-inch Italian sub with a combo.

RACHEL
He's sold me...I'll say that. Dan, what are you doing tonight?

JEFF
It's an intriguing argument. Here's the thing, though. From what I've heard from the other account managers, you've submitted this same clip for the last five commercial pitches, and no one has ever approved it. In fact, we've lost every single account, probably forever. FedEx. Mrs. Fields. Citibank. BMW. And... there was one more....

DAN
The March of Dimes.

JEFF
Right. The March of Dimes. Don't get me wrong.... now that I've finally seen it, I see its genius, but—

DAN
This commercial will be the best thing that ever happened to whatever company has the balls to run it. I'm not shooting a new commercial until I sell this one.

JEFF
All right. We'll pitch it.

DAN
Yes!

JEFF
WHOO! This is scary.

DAN
You won't regret it.

JEFF
This is why we pay you the big bucks, right?

RACHEL
(looking at screen)
Where did you find this guy?

DAN
Oh, that's just my roommate. He was really hungover. He didn't know I was taping.

LIGHTS OUT. A video montage of various trade magazines trumpeting the success of the new Subway campaign and a new trend in marketing.

Copyright © 2008 Jeff S.

Day 11: Falling Behind, and Godspeed, Abner Blackstone!

It should have come as no surprise to me that once my nights started to fill up again with rehearsals and other obligations, I would start falling behind on my schedule. I basically missed having sketches done for Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and if I want to catch up I should start writing two sketches a day whenever I can.

This morning, I got up early to at least finish the monologue I started at the park on Sunday, on an evening that was too distractingly beautiful to get any work done. Here's a first draft, too long, but basically what I was going for.

God Speed, Abner Blackstone!

1908. A small town in Missouri. The Mayor addresses his constituents on a festive day.

THE MAYOR
Thank you. Thank you. You are too kind. Citizens of Squaw Valley! I am overjoyed to preside over this ceremony as we bid farewell and bon voyage to our own Abner Blackstone, as he prepares to undertake his historic voyage...to the moon!

Now, as your mayor, I have spoken to each of our esteemed townspeople in regards to this historic day. And I know that when you cogitate on Abner's "undertaking," as some of you so practically put it, that your breasts teem with all manner of hopes and fears. Is it even possible, most of you wonder, for man to loose himself from his earthly shackles and swim in the distant, grey seas of the moon? I can only answer this question with another question: It is 1908...why are we not standing on the moon this very moment?

Why is Squaw Valley not already celebrating its first year as the moon's first colony, learning how to plant moon corn from its crafty, heathen natives while making plans to steal away their fair-skinned brides for our pleasure? We've already conquered this continent by means of locomotive—why have we not already brought the moon under our yoke with Abner's majestic cannon schooner?

I am convinced that even our newest and most stubbornly illiterate townspeople know the story of Abner Blackstone's struggles over the past decade. One could imagine it was only yesterday that Abner abandoned his lucrative position as the town's Indian killer so that he might build the world's first flying machine. We told him he was insane! We told him he was foolish! We told him that a bath once in a while might be a good idea. All true. But this same man had his eyes fixed firmly on the future, and however insane, foolish and pungently perfumed he might have been, he was also a visionary, like Eli Whitney, or the founders of the Ku Klux Klan. He had no time for our eartly concerns when he preparing to be our very own Daedalus.

Well we all remember his long nights stubbornly affixing feathers to the flapping steel wings of his air machines with great slatherings of glue. Clearly we can picture his giant Indian rubber sling shot up at Hendricks' field, high above the town. "It won't work," people shouted! "The metal is too heavy! No matter how many chicken feathers you glue to it, your machine will sink like a stone." Do you remember saying that, Silas? And you, Mildred?

And right you were. One after the other, as we all pick-nicked in the grass in anticipation of being a witness to history, one after the other his machines barely stayed airborne an inch or two past the edge of the cliff before plummeting to the Earth. And the men would wipe their hands off on their trousers and take the long path down to the bottom of the valley to extract Abner from his rapidly growing pile of twisted metal and feathers. As he recuperated, and tried to become accustomed to his new prosthetic limbs, he would read news-paper accounts of his rivals, the demonic Wright boys of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, and he would roundly curse them.

What a dark day it was when the news-papers announced that some weeks before, the Wright Brothers had achieved their goal, and snatched Abner's dream away from him. Abner went into a sort of retirement for the past three years, secluding himself in the bell tower of First Presbyterian Church and throwing feces at anyone who tried to get him to come down. I gave the order that the stair-way to the tower be boarded up, and as far as we can tell, Abner survived on a diet of raw pigeon and rainwater. More feathers for his flying machines, some of us mused.

Little did we know that Abner was plotting his next move. Up in that tower, he was reading and re-reading a book by Jules Verne, From the Earth to the Moon. Before I knew what was happening, our Abner had thrown himself from the bell tower, and, after he had been forceably hosed down, but before his newest leg fracture had even healed, he was busy building this masterpiece you see before me now: the largest cannon in the world, and inside it, the decommisioned whaling schooner The Merry Gentleman.

Minutes from now, once I am finished my long-winded speech—you know me, Roscoe! It's my nature!—our Abner will climb up the cannon, strap himself to the helm of The Merry Gentleman, after which Doris Montague of the Social Club for Ladies of High Birth will have the pleasure of lighting the fuse that will ignite the 400 pounds of gunpowder at thebase of the cannon.

There are those of you who will say—pessimistically, by my reckoning—that Abner's wooden cannon-schooner will simply blow into a thousand pieces, driving shards of wooden splinters and Abner's bones through the bodies of us, the rapt spectators. Some of you will say, while we're in the habit of such negative imagining, that, for that matter, four hundred pounds of gunpowder will blow apart the cannon itself, and maybe that it wasn't such a good idea to let all the children sit at the front to get a good view.

To those people, those who would hunt down dreams and shoot them in their sleep like so many Cherokees, I say "Poppycock!" Because I can clearly see in my mind's eye Abner Blackstone, of Squaw Valley, Missouri riding his cannon-schooner through the trade winds of space, harpoon at the ready in case of star-monsters, singing a merry song. I see him landing on the surface of the moon, and after stopping to wave to those of us who are watching with our telescopes, proceeding with his mission of subjugating the heathen Moonmen and putting them to work. I know that I'm not the only one who has paid in advance for my very own perfectly legal moon-slave! Doris here has already fashioned a wardrobe for hers, made of red velvet to cover his godless nakedness.

So, for those of you who scoff at dreams, take a step back and unfurl your umbrellas, while those of us armed with hope gather round to wish Abner adieu on his historic mission. On behalf of the town of Squaw Valley, I wish you Godspeed, Abner Blackstone! When you get back we will enjoy your moon cheese with wine and crackers!

Copyright ©2008 Jeff S.

Day 6: Who says sketches can't be musical?

I didn't write any sketches yesterday...went to the Boat Basin after work to watch my co-workers drink margaritas while I drank stupid water. I figured I would have plenty of time this rainy weekend to catch up and maybe even stock up on sketches for the busy month to come.

I decided I would like to try two things this weekend. First of all, I would really like to write more monologues. Or any monologues. I was inspired by Rue Brutalia, when they played with Secret Hospital, by a sketch Will Hines did for National Sketch Writing Month, and by Charlie Sanders' recently posted FunnyOrDie short. It would be nice to be a little more selfish in my writing, even if I'm not considered the character player of the group.

The other challenge I planned on giving myself was to write a song or two. Chicago City Limits is doing a political show now, and I thought it would be nice to write an original song to go with the usual roster of song parodies. I told Rachel about this idea on the way to brunch, and by the time we got to the restaurant, we had my song and an idea of hers both halfway written.

I rushed home afterwards and got out the guitar, nailed down the lyrics and chords, and recorded it on one track of GarageBand. (I was surprised that the pickup on my acoustic guitar picked up my voice so well.)

So here you have it, my sketch #5 for your listening pleasure: Sarah Palin.

EDIT: I re-recorded the song to change a mistake in the lyrics.

Day 4: The Johnny_7482 Program

I had a lot of trouble starting tonight. Maybe it's not a good sign that I'm already feeling tired of writing sketches, or that I'm already cranky about not drinking for three whole days. So it's probably not surprising that after jotting down a few ideas, the only thing that tickled my fancy was a short little sketch that is more than a little cynical about the process of creating comedy.

The Johnny_7482 Program

The set of a late-night talk show. Everyone in this sketch talks in an inhuman parody of the cadences of a typical late-night talk show.

ANNOUNCER (VO)
End mandatory product specifications download! Scheduled viewing of program = JOHNNY_7482 PROGRAM!

KRAFTWERK MUSIC plays. Sound of clattering metal and old modem noises.

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Where program = JOHNNY_7482 PROGRAM; host = Johnny_7482!

JOHNNY_7482 enters. He just might look like Andy Kaufman in Heartbeeps.

JOHNNY
Reactions as follows: Gratitude! Acknowledgment plus gratitude! Gratitude! Gratitude! Plea for silence. REQUESTING COMPLIANCE.

Audience settles down.

JOHNNY
Mood scan commencing: mood = content. Introduction module commencing: Generator of sequential tone strings plus reflexive acknowledgments = Mr. Microsoft Utah 7!

Mr. Microsoft Utah 7 is in the corner smiling creepily and standing upright.

MMU7
Acknowledgment! (Opens mouth, music comes out, closes mouth.)

JOHNNY
Where status open parenthesis Mr. Microsoft Utah 7 close parenthesis = x;
x+1;
test humor content;
if humorous end;
otherwise, repeat!

MMU7
Acknowledgment.

JOHNNY
Has current event 08B72Z9 been previously downloaded? If false, request download.
Comic timing pause...
Current event 08B72Z9 substitute location non-current event X96L12!

"Applause."

JOHNNY (cont'd)
Acknowledgment.

MMU7
Assessment of non-logical substitution -> does not compute = HUMOROUS

JOHNNY
Has current event 6F272RQ been previously downloaded? If false, request download.
Comic timing pause...
Current event 6F272RQ compares to non-current event LY864T: Semantic similarity = 38.6%

MMU7
Acknowledgment of similarity. Search for meaning -> results negative.
Does not compute = HUMOROUS

JOHNNY
Gratitude! Plea for silence. REQUESTING COMPLIANCE.
Has current event HG387O been previously downloaded? If false, request download.
Comic timing pause...
Current event HG387O concatenated with string...FART

MMU7
Fart = "Expulsion of gaseous by-product from anterior section of animal digestion system" (opens mouth, music)

JOHNNY
Gratitude. Show quality scan -> 6.74 out of 10. Listing of models and programs scheduled for future attendance! Preparation for mandatory product specification download period, followed by resumption of current program. Request for non-termination of observation. DEMAND COMPLIANCE.

FIN

Copyright © 2008 Jeff S.

I'm sure those of you who are coders are going to have a problem with this sketch.

Day 3: The Only Erotic Baker in Town, or Painting Myself Into a Corner

One of my first experiences being in a good improv group was taking Billy Merritt's class in "The Documentary" at the UCB. This eventually culminated in a group called The Locals, and we had a run at the UCB for several months. One of our better shows, which I have on tape, was a documentary about an erotic bakery. Federico and I played the owners of the bakery: he striving to be ever more transgressive, by making things like "Holocaust cakes," and I bemoaning the fact that as a chef who had studied in France, I had sunk to these depths.

That may have been in the back of mind during my brainstorm on Monday, when I thought of the simple idea of a woman ordering an erotic cake from her ex-husband. The sketch is interesting, but the woman became sort of an villain, and a very efficient one at that, and by the time she walks out of the scene, the humiliation of the baker seemed both inescapable and unsatisfying. I couldn't for the life of me think of an ending.

I should mention that I've been writing everything out by hand in a notebook, because I cant be trusted at a computer anymore. So I have to type up the sketches if I want to show them to you, the imaginary reader.

And, uh... I think I'll skip this one.

POSTSCRIPT: I did think of an end the next day. It involves a customer recognizing the picture of the woman's boyfriend's penis from a hookup in the gym locker room. Waka waka!

Day 2: The Incredibly Silly Raised By Eagles Sketch

Secret Hospital had a meeting last week in a charming little bistro called Subway in the neighborhood just south of Port Authority. (The Vicious Circle had the Algonquin; we have chain restaurants in close proximity to porn stores.) We were trying to figure out our next steps after a busy summer in which we basically put up three different shows: Live from Budapest (two different versions, thanks to some cast shuffling), This One's for the Gays, and our most ambitious work yet, The Dinner Table. We may not have another full show of new material* this year, with our schedules such as they are, but Michael and I both agreed to do this National Sketch Writing Month thing, to generate as much material as we possibly can.

Anyway, our meeting, as usual, was punctuated with us making faces at each other, often to punctuate borderline bad jokes or bits. Michael is one of those people who can heighten a face to crazy extremes. (Which you know if you've ever seen Skeeger's Sneezing Retard Sketch.) He made some hilarious face and screeched loudly, thus hatching the idea for today's sketch: an infant snatched out of his mother's arms and raised by eagles.

I planned on making the sketch about someone from "the government" letting this older couple know that after 27 years, their son had been found. I spent too much time thinking of their names, and had the ridiculous idea to call the government guy Mr. Mailman (pronounced mail-mun). Breaking every rule about getting right to the game of the sketch, I ended up meandering along, exploring all sorts of silly games and almost treating the main theme of the sketch as an afterthought. I'm not sure if it works, and it will no doubt have to be edited, but it made me laugh, and breaking the rules is fun.

For the hell of it, I'll post this whole sketch.

Raised By Eagles

MR. and MRS. CONROY show MR. MAILMAN into their living room. Mr. Mailman is dressed like an official for the government, which, in fact, he is. Mr. and Mrs. Conroy are polite but wary.

MRS. C
Please... have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?

MR. M
A glass of water would be lovely, Mrs. Conroy.

MRS. C
OK. I'll be right back.

She leaves, humming "Genie in a Bottle." Mr. Mailman and Mr. Conroy look at each other awkwardly.

MR. C
So, Mr. ... Merman is it?

MR. M
Um, Mailman.

MR. C
Mayomun?

MR. M
Mailman. Like mail man. The guy... who brings your mail.

MR. C
Oh! Mailman! Huh! That's unusual.

MR. M
It's...really not. There are people named Baker, and Chaplin–

MR. C
Well, there really wasn't mail–

MR. M
–um, Carpenter, Smith, Bootblack–

MR. C
–back when people made those names, most of them weren't literate–

MR. M
IT'S A TOTALLY NORMAL NAME.

All this time there gas been an increasingly louder cacophony of appliances in the kitchen.

MR. C
(coldly)
Well. Mr. MAILMUN. Perhaps you can tell me why you're here.

MR. M
I'd rather wait for your wife. What exactly is she–

Mrs. Conroy enters suddenly.

MRS. C
Here we are!

She gives everyone plain glasses of water, still humming "Genie in a Bottle." Mr. Mailman takes a sip.

MR. M
Wow.

MR. C
Right?

MR. M
That's...wow.

MR. M
My wife makes a mean water.

MRS. C
Oh, stop.

MR. M
So. Anyway. I came here because... I'm sorry! I can't get over how good that water is. And it's not from a mix?

MRS. C
Made it from scratch.

MR. M
Huh! So. I'm from the government.

MR. AND MRS. C
Oh!

MR. M
The U.S. government.

MR. AND MRS. C
Ah!

MR. M
Yes. And, well... do you remember, back in 1981, when you were leaving the hospital with your newborn son Michael (for some reason, he is miming everything in an exaggerated fashion) and an eagle swooped out of the sky and carried him away?

Mr. and Mrs. Conroy don't seem to remember. They make a series of more exaggerated "searching their memories" faces.

MR. M (cont'd)
No? Doesn't ring a bell? Big eagle? Swooped out of the sky? Took your only child? Flew off into the distance? There was a big documentary about it? Won the Oscar? Rock and roll fundraiser? TV movie starring Lindsay Wagner? You started the Michael We Will Never Forget You Fund for Infants Who Have Been Snatched Away by Eagles?

Still nothing. Their faces are ridiculous now.

MR. M (cont'd)
You were wearing a sort of powder blue bathrobe?

MRS. C
Oh, yes! Michael!

MR. C
I remember him.

MR. M
Well...we found him.

MRS. C
What?

MR. C
Great Scott!

MR. M
Or rather, a professional eagle hunter found him. Man by the name of Abner Policeman. Turns out the eagles didn't eat your baby. They raised him as one of their own.

MRS. C
Oh, my Lord!

MR. C
Jeepers Crum!

MR. M
And. AND. We have him right outside. I'll go get him.

He exits, but within earshot.

MRS. C
He's here? Oh my!

MR. C
Unbelievable!

MRS. C
How do I look?

MR. C
How should I know how you look?

MR. M (offstage)
Uh-oh! Looks like someone didn't want to wait for his lunch. You don't own a dog, do you?

MR. C
Why, yes we do! Our prize-winning Pomeranian Prizzi's Honor!

Mr. Mailman enters with Michael "on his arm." He's walking, but he's pretending to perch on Mr. M's forearm with one hand-claw and tearing into a bloody half dog with the other. He lifts his chin up, bolting down chunks of meat.

MR. C
(horrified)
Prizzi!

MRS. C
(joyous)
My baby!

She runs to hug her boy and Michael screeches, flapping his arm-wings before settling down and letting his hands be claws again.

MR. M
Whoah, whoah! Easy there.

MRS. C
(distraught)
What's wrong with him?

MR. M
He was raised by eagles, ma'am. Reacting to a perceived attack is about the only "etiquette" this beast knows.

MR. C
He ate my dog!

MR. M
Look at it this way. He'll keep all the rats out of your barn.

MR. C
We don't own a barn!

Mrs. M keeps trying to pet Michael, who nips at her hand.

MR. M
Well, you'll have to keep him busy somehow. Otherwise he's going to make a mess of your furniture.

MR. C
We? We can't keep him!

MRS. C
George! He's our son!

MR. C
He's a retard!

MRS. C
He's majestic! He's the symbol of our country!

MR. M
He seems to really like Pomeranians. You might want to stock up on those bad boys. Look...I know this comes as a shock. And normally, I'd love to take him off your hands, perform some military experiments on him. But this is a bad time for the U.S. Government. We decided to take a year off, backpack around Southeast Asia...maybe work on that novel we always meant to write. The road's a-callin', my man. And we're going to answer before the road hangs up. Because the road doesn't bother leaving messages on your voicemail. Know what I'm sayin'?

Mr. Mailman gives them both frat-boy handshake hugs. Then he ruffles the back of Michael's neck.

MR. M (cont'd)
I'm going to miss you most of all, retarded eagle man. Peace out, bitches.

Mr. Mailman leaves. He pokes his head back in.

MR. M (cont'd)
Oh! And always remember. Never turn off the lights. He's afraid of the dark. He will freak. the fuck. out. if you turn off the lights.

He leaves. The flabbergasted couple and the eagle boy, now perched on the back of a chair, sit on stage for an uncomfortable period of time. Michael shifts back and forth on his perch, squawking gently.

BLACK OUT. SQUAWKS, SCREAMS AND CRASHES.

Copyright © 2008 by Jeff S.

So weird. I call dibs on playing Mr. Mailman.

*We will, however, have an industry showcase at Comix next Friday, September 12, which we would love for you to attend! Seriously, it's a bringer show. I know. But you would like us to go to Montreal, non?

Day 1: Brainstorm and The Genie Sketch

We went to Cold Spring yesterday for a hike and a bed & breakfast stay, and on the way home this afternoon, I didn't quite get to writing a sketch. I did however brainstorm some ideas. These ranged from a column of specific sketch ideas to a column I called "non-ideas." The non-ideas were mostly free form thoughts of settings or characters, and nothing more. Here's the list...you have my permission to sip freely from this well of genius and inspiration.

NON-IDEAS
Front porch
Hunting, around campfire
Death row
Musclemen
Train (Old West? Robbery?)
Doorman
Magician
Amputee

Can't wait for that amputee sketch, right?

After getting home and watching the pilot episode of Twin Peaks and the end of the first Charlie's Angels movie, I made myself go into the bedroom and write a sketch.

My seedling of an idea from the train was a man and his genie. The genie is annoyed because the man refuses to make his third wish, instead just keeping the genie around to have someone to talk to. It morphed a little from the original conception, as they usually do. This excerpt contains a fun little thing I stumbled on which cracked me up.

Excerpt of The Genie Sketch

GENIE
Four and a half years you've kept me trapped in this crappy little bottle in your crappy little apartment, waiting for you to make your third wish so I can finally be free!

MAN
It's an important decision!

GENIE
Just wish for a billion dollars or something!

MAN
What about taxes?

GENIE
A billion dollars after taxes, then!

MAN
Oh sure! Don't you think the government will want to know where the money came from?

GENIE
It's cash. Untraceable.

MAN
How's that? Are you going to invent a billion new serial numbers?

GENIE
They're not going to be a billion one-dollar bills, you idiot!

MAN
I'm the idiot? Look, by definition, this magical cash you give me is either going to be stolen or counterfeit. I don't want to go to jail and be candy for freaks!

GENIE
Look. I promise I'm not going to trick you. I just want out of this.

MAN
Why would I trust you? My second wish was that my high school crush were here with me. You teleported here and she wouldn't stop screaming! I had to beat the love of my life to death with a toaster before the neighbors called the cops!

I kind of like that originally, it was going to just be about the man being a lonely loser, but in the end I spent enough effort seeing his side that you almost don't mind seeing the genie suffer.

I can't decide if I want Dan to play the genie or the dude. Sometimes it's a shame there's only one Dan. One constantly busy Dan.