Much as the baseball world was stunned when Cal Ripkin’s streak ended, the sketch world has been in turmoil for the last two weeks as I’ve been absent. At least that’s what my mom would tell me if I asked her about it. It had been over a year and a half straight without a single skipped week; I needed the break.
But I’m back and – as you’ll see from this sketch – as adequate as ever.
So sit back, pour yourself a martini, and click on through for RA’s take on “Bad Manners”.
INT. FAMILY ROOM – NIGHT
MARCY (30s and stylin’ in a miniskirt and carefully coordinated top) sips a martini and circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. RON (30s and even chicer than his wife) gestures with a cigarette to PAULA (late 40s, dressed professor-hippy) and STEVEN (late 40s, mismatched socks and bedhead), all bedrinked.
That’s when I told him he the mayo was the least he could hold.
Laughter from the group. Paula eyes Ron like a jaguar ready to pounce.
Marcy, your husband is incorrigible!
That waiter had it coming.
I don’t follow. What else did you want him to hold?
Paula shrugs at her friends at Steve’s obliviousness.
Marcy, this cosmo is spectacular.
You like it? I added a little extra--
The front door flies open and DOUCHE (30s, rockin’ a mesh shirt and fedora) and DOUCHIER (30s with Kangol cap and leather vest) blow in. All eyes turn.
Can we help you?
Heard there was a shindig. Where’s the booze, daddio?
Douche saunters into the kitchen and comes out bearing two bottles of beer. He shudders dramatically.
Ron, do something!
I’m going to--
I’m going to have to ask you two to leave. This is a private gathering.
Douchier investigates the bottles at the bar.
Hey man, that’s cool. We won’t, like, intrude on your deep philosophical convo.
Chillax, mama. We can take a hint.
Their booze sucks, anyway. Let’s hit up that kegger at your cousin’s house.
Douche and Douchier grab handfuls of crab puffs and strut out in a huff.
That was awkward.
The nerve of some people.
An awkward silence settles over the group for a moment.
Here, let me freshen everyone’s drinks.
The front door opens again and JARED (30s, weary in t-shirt and jeans) and ALICIA (20s, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, wrap over bikini) trudge through the door dragging wheeled suitcases.
Who the hell are you? What are you doing in our house?
We, uh, we were just having a little, uh--
--Having a little what?
We saw on your Twitter timeline that you were on vacation and we thought it wouldn’t hurt anyone if--
--If you broke into our house and drank our liquor?
No, no! We brought our own. Well, except the gin. But the vodka is ours, see?
And who are you?
(To Steven) Let’s get out of here.
Paula and Steven hie out of Dodge.
I uh, follow your wife on Twitter and--
--So you’re stalking my wife as well as breaking into my house? Get the hell out of here before I call the cops!
Ron and Marcy run out the door, slamming it shut behind them.
Can you believe those people? They think because they know someone online they’re best friends or something.
Jared shakes his head in disgust and pops a crab puff.
Alright, I’ll take upstairs. You take down here. In her last status update she complained about the cab ride to the airport so we’ve got at least four hours.
They don ski masks and get to work.