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?