I’m
Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, having
survived our unwelcome rerun of a summertime, lo, these hubbub dog days of
September, I decided I ought to do some exercising of what-you-call First
Amendment rights and free speechifying (although I’d rather get paid); and so I
wrote a play, what the fock.
And what I wrote is not your usual theater play with a gang of thespians crying up a forsoothing storm for a couple, three hours ’til the crows come home to roast, no sir. It’s not one of those plays where the actors, when they hit the stage, instead of wondering “To be, or not to be?” ought to wonder “Where the fock is everybody?” And that’s a question I can answer: Everybody is elsewhere ’cause all these plays charge too focking much to see, last too focking long and never have as many laughs and gorgeous focking dames as they ought to, so’s to keep those turnstiles humming a $nappy tune.
My play runs about a good 10 minutes, so you’re in and out of the theater before you even know it. And if you have kids, you wouldn’t have to add the expense of a babysitter—you could easily be back home before the katzenjammers had a chance to be abducted or light the house on fire and still have had an enjoyable theatrical experience, no focking sweat.
What follows is my play on the page for you’s to take a gander at, and yes, Pulitzer Prizes welcome. Break a leg.
The Focking Playboy of the Western (and Eastern) World, Waiting for Deliverance
(Setting: Art Kumbalek’s penthouse living room with fully stocked bar—and none of that fake stage-prop crap neither, capiche? Art’s reclined on battleship-sized sofa, having a cocktail, smoking a cigarette, talking on the phone. Art K. must appear as himself—no focking actors, please.)>
Art: Yeah, large, everything on it ’cept nothing that’s even close to being a vegetable. The only vegetable I want connected to this pizza is the guy who delivers it, and if there’s even so much as one anchovy, I’ll come down there and personally focking kill you myself. You got that?
And what I wrote is not your usual theater play with a gang of thespians crying up a forsoothing storm for a couple, three hours ’til the crows come home to roast, no sir. It’s not one of those plays where the actors, when they hit the stage, instead of wondering “To be, or not to be?” ought to wonder “Where the fock is everybody?” And that’s a question I can answer: Everybody is elsewhere ’cause all these plays charge too focking much to see, last too focking long and never have as many laughs and gorgeous focking dames as they ought to, so’s to keep those turnstiles humming a $nappy tune.
My play runs about a good 10 minutes, so you’re in and out of the theater before you even know it. And if you have kids, you wouldn’t have to add the expense of a babysitter—you could easily be back home before the katzenjammers had a chance to be abducted or light the house on fire and still have had an enjoyable theatrical experience, no focking sweat.
What follows is my play on the page for you’s to take a gander at, and yes, Pulitzer Prizes welcome. Break a leg.
The Focking Playboy of the Western (and Eastern) World, Waiting for Deliverance
(Setting: Art Kumbalek’s penthouse living room with fully stocked bar—and none of that fake stage-prop crap neither, capiche? Art’s reclined on battleship-sized sofa, having a cocktail, smoking a cigarette, talking on the phone. Art K. must appear as himself—no focking actors, please.)>
Art: Yeah, large, everything on it ’cept nothing that’s even close to being a vegetable. The only vegetable I want connected to this pizza is the guy who delivers it, and if there’s even so much as one anchovy, I’ll come down there and personally focking kill you myself. You got that?
(Enter
Lola, abso-focking-lutely knockout swanky gorgeous dame. She sits on the sofa
and plants one heck of a juicy smacker on Art’s lips that lasts for about 10%
of the show’s running time)
Art: (Rising) Holy moley, you busy after the
show?
Lola: I just don’t
know, Artie. There’s so much trouble in the world today. Everywhere I go,
there’s people with no money, full of hopelessness, full of hate…
Art: Sounds like
you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.
Lola: You know what
I mean, Artie. (Lola rises, puts her arms
around Art and draws him close) I see people homeless, hungry…
Art: (Shakes cocktail glass) And thirsty.
Lola: (Whispering into Art’s ear) What’ll it
be?
Art: I was having
Manhattans, but now I’m thinking Sloe Screw.
Lola: (Draws Art even closer) Can I make it
straight up?
Art: You always do,
baby.
Lola: (Goes to bar to fix drink) So Artie,
what do you want to do for dinner tonight?
Art: (Reclines on sofa) I thought we’d hang
around here tonight, have some drinks, a few laughs; so I called for a pizza.
Lola: (Returns with drink, and plants juicy
smacker on Art—even longer than the first one) When’s it coming?
Art: Any second,
and if it doesn’t, no tip, or maybe I’ll kill him. What time does your husband
need you back?
Lola: Soon. The
nurse called in sick, so I’ve got to give him his medication. (Phone rings) I’ll get it. Hello? What?
Who is this? (Hangs up)
Art: Who was that?
Lola: (Hysterical) I don’t know. They just
said they were coming right over. And they were going to kill you.
Art: (Grabs Lola) Don’t sweat it, baby. The
play’s almost over, then we can be alone. (Banging
at door, Art rises)
Lola: Don’t get it,
darling.
Art: Why the fock
not?
Lola: That knock
symbolizes one of two things: Our pizza or your death. If it’s our pizza, OK,
I’ll only have one slice. I’m watching my figure.
Art: So am I, doll.
Believe me you.
Lola: But if that
knocker means your death, it’s my death, too, for I could never live without
you, or without me. Behind the door, noisy but unknown, that knowledge must
always remain so, noisy but unknown, for us to exist, ignorant angels bathed in
bliss we are.
Art: Whatever you
say, baby. Let’s fool around. (More
knocking. Lola pushes Art down on sofa. And Art and the free-spirited gal Art
chose to cast for the role of Lola get down to some really serious focking
business, I kid you not, as lights fade)
There you go, 10 minutes or so of show, about as much
time as it took to write, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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