Sketch War

Author: mbrownlee

  • FSW: Disney Edition

    “Disney” was the theme tossed out by Richard this week in honor of his applying for the Disney-ABC Television Writing Fellowship. Here’s hoping it was just the push he needed to get accepted.

    His sketch this week brings us the Walt-cicle taking in the Olympics.

    Dave jumped in last week after getting a reaming from the creator of Wall-E. Nothing from him yet, but the theme is in his hands should he choose to join us.

    I think it’s interesting that I chose to deal with Walt as well. Not sure what that says about Richard and I. Aside from the “great minds think alike” stuff.

    Origin of Species.

    (A dark and dingy basement/laboratory. A young man is standing over an operating table working on a body. We can’t really see what’s on the table. He is whistling while he works. Suddenly a light is turned on and we hear footsteps coming into the basement.)

    Dad: What are you doing down here, Walt?

    Walt: Knock! I asked you to knock before coming down here!

    (Walt frantically throws a sheet over the body. His Dad enters.)

    Dad: I’m sorry, son, but something’s happened.

    (He notices Walt’s apron is covered with splattered blood.)

    Dad: What are you working on?

    Walt: Nothing. Science experiment. Nothing.

    (The body under the sheets twitches. Dad looks around Walt at the figure on the table.)

    Dad: Is it alive? You’re not torturing one of Mrs. DeVille’s cats again are you?

    Walt: No, Dad.

    Dad: We talked about that, remember?

    Walt: I remember, Dad. Now, what did you want to talk to me about? I have work to do.

    Dad: There’s no easy way of saying this. It’s your mother.

    Walt: What about her?

    Dad: Well, she was out picking berries and some hunters mistook her for a deer…

    (There is a sound from under the sheet. A strange guffawing, laugh-like sound.)

    Dad: What the hell do you have under there?

    (Dad whips away the sheet to reveal a strange humanoid looking dog. Dad recoils with disgust.)

    Dad: Sweet Jesus! What have you done?

    Walt: It’s not finished yet!

    Dad: Is that Pluto?

    Walt: No, dad. I would never hurt our dog.

    Dad: Then?

    Walt: It’s the Darling’s goofy-looking mutt.

    (The “dog-man” twitches and guffaws again.)

    Walt: He is going to be able to walk and talk, just like we do.

    Dad: Oh son. Son, this is wrong. You have to stop this.

    Walt: Why can’t you believe in me? My work.

    Dad: Walt, trying to make animals behave like us isn’t work, it’s….it’s immoral.

    Walt: You just wait and see. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone!

    (Walt bolts up the stairs.)

    Dad: Son wait! Come back!

    (We hear a door slam in another part of the house. Dad takes a look around the basement. The “dog-man” twitches and guffaws.)

    Dad: Jesus. This is worse than those damn mice he kept putting short pants on.

    (He picks up a shovel and bashes the “dog-man” with it. There are a couple of yelps and then it is still. He wipes his hands and heads for the stairs.)

    Dad: He’s gotta cut this shit out. A thing like this can stick with a man forever. After all, it’s a small world out there.

    (He climbs the stairs. A cricket in a top hat and coat leaps onto the table. It takes one look at the “dog-man” and vomits.)

    BLACKOUT

  • FSW: Procrastination Edition

    The third week of our themed entries. And, true to the theme, I waited until the last minute to start working on it. Not that I haven’t been mulling the idea over in my head all week. But still…

    Next week’s theme is “Disney” for those of you playing along at home.

    Richard is already up with a scene from the historical moon mission.

    Mine doesn’t have nearly the honorable lineage.

    Procrastination

    (We see a television screen. A talking head news anchor.)

    ANCHOR: And today is the 75th Anniversay of the passing of James McAveney. Mr. McAveney’s passing is notable primarily because he was the last person known to have died in the past 75 years.

    (The channel changes. We see a reporter standing in the middle of a massive crowd of people.)

    REPORTER: Things have only gotten worse. With death rates still at zero, the planet’s resources have been pushed to the brink. And with land becoming a scarce commodity as well, desperate people are looking to man-made islands to save the ever increasing population.

    (The channel changes. A Reporter is talking to a distraught businessman.)

    BUSINESSMAN: We thought it was a fluke at first. But it’s been really hard to run a funeral home when there are no funerals.

    REPORTER: I understand this has been particularly trying on your wife.

    BUSINESSMAN: Yeah, well, she tried to commit suicide a while back, but it didn’t work. I came home and she was just hanging from banister, frustrated that she had failed. Guess it was her third attempt that day too.

    (We cut to a lavishly decorated office lobby. A beautiful woman sits behind the desk. The door opens and an incredible, white light fills the room. A voice emanates from the light and seems to be coming from everywhere at once.)

    GOD: Is he in?

    RECEPTIONIST: One moment, please. (Into intercom) Sir, the Great I Am is here to see you.

    DEATH: (On speakerphone) Sweet! Send him in.

    (We’re in the Death’s office. It looks like something from Edward Gorrey’s nightmares. God enters.)

    GOD: We need to talk. You’ve fallen behind on your quotas.

    (We see a hooded figure standing in front of a large screen TV. A large sickle leans against one wall. He holds a Wii remote in his bony hand which he swings like a tennis racket.)

    DEATH: Have you played this thing? It’s like you’re actually playing tennis. But without all the wear and tear on your joints. Amazing.

    (Death continues to play. God just shakes his head and sighs.)

    BLACKOUT

  • FSW: Cross Dress Edition

    Richard tossed this one out last week. And, like him, I’ve waited until the last minute to crank it out.


    Not to self: Start tossing out ideas earlier in the week.

    Next week theme: Procrastination. 

    All right. This here’s what we call a “blackout”. A quickie that, hopefully, ends with a laugh. Much like my sex life.
    Party Pops
    (A team of ad execs are sitting around a table. There are take out contains littered everywhere. Everyone is fried.)
    James: We’ve been at this all night. Let’s just call it and get some sleep.
    Peter: No. We have (looking at watch) four hours until deadline. Come guys, we can do this.
    (David hops to his feet and starts doing jumping jacks.)
    David: We just need a little energy. We’ve got some decent ideas here. We just need that one killer idea to push us over the top.
    Martin: All right, if no one else is going to say it, I’ll point out the huge elephant in the room. This product is  just not marketable.
    James: Every product is marketable, Martin. We just have to find the right angle.
    Martin: We’ve come at this thing from every angle imaginable. There’s just no way we’re going to make Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public race out the grocery store and buy a pack of Boy George’s new “Party in Your Mouth Popsicles.” I mean, for god’s sake, they’re even ribbed.
    Blackout

  • FSW: Workaholic Edition

    It’s not bad enough that I’ve been trying to cram a little writing in this week, but now I have theme. Sheesh. I don’t work well with guidlines and structure. I’m more or a free range animal.

    At any rate, Richard thought this might be a fun way to spice things up. He also thinks that going to the dentist is better than a day at Disney World. Sick twist. You can peep his hard work here.

    For myself, well, somehow once I got this idea in my head, I couldn’t shake it. I’m also counting this as my make-up “founding fathers” sketch from the 4th.

    Enjoy. And remember, you’re more than welcome to become more than just a spectator. Next week’s theme is “cross dressing“. So get to work.

    (An old farm house in Virginia, 1776. Martha is in the bustling kitchen giving orders to servants.)

    Martha: Doris, go out to the coup and fetch me a dozen eggs. Abligale, make sure there’s plenty of mint for the tea. Who’s supposed to be churning butter?

    Bea: I am, ma’am.

    Martha: Well get to it. It’s not going to churn itself.

    (Thomas enters with a flourish and sets down his valice.)

    Thomas: Honey, I’m home.

    Martha: That’s great dear, but the Adamses are coming over for dinner and I still have to get this pie dough rolled out.

    Thomas: I thought we were going to have a nice, quiet dinner.

    (He slides up behind her and puts his arms around her waist.)

    Thomas: Just the two of us?

    (She smacks his hands away and moves to another counter.)

    Martha: TJ, please. Not in front of the servants.

    Thomas: But dear, I’ve been gone for over a month.

    Martha: Do you think that when you leave this place just shuts down? No. I’ve got an entire house to run here. It’s been even worse since you started on this Declaration of Independence business. Every Tom, Dick and Benedict Arnold in the state wants to stop by and give you their two farthings.

    Thomas: Martha, please. Let’s just slip off into the larder. Just for a minute or two. I’ve missed you so much.

    Martha: I’m sorry, dear, but you’ll have to wait.

    Thomas: But I have important household business I want to conduct with you.

    (He tries to take her in his arms again. She smacks him with a towel.)

    Martha: If you’re not going to roll up your sleeves and help me with this meal, I would appreciate it if you would just remove yourself from my kitchen.

    Thomas: Some welcome home this is.

    Martha: (Softening some) Oh, don’t sulk like a little child. Go get your things unpacked. I’ll send Sally up to the room with a glass of tea and some biscuits.

    Thomas: Oh, Sally, yes, of course. That sounds just fine dear.

    (He kisses her on the cheek, grabs his bag and exits. She begins rolling out dough.)

    Martha: If it wasn’t for that woman’s vagina I would never get any work done around here.

    Blackout

  • FSW: Radio Show Edition

    Another Friday and another sketch that I’m pulling out of my filing cabinet. Being tech week for Metaluna, I just haven’t had a free moment to write, let alone think of anything other than my lines for the show.

    Richard’s all new this week, though, and not messing around. People have gotten hurt.

    Dave’s been AWOL for a couple of weeks. But don’t give up on him. He’s out there watching from the tree line.

    So this piece is on the long side. I wrote it for WNEP’s “Armageddon Radio Hour New Year’s Eve” show a couple of years ago. There aren’t a lot of stage directions because, well, it’s radio. Think 30s/40s.

    “Helen on Wheels”

    ANNOUNCER: Grinkleman’s Prosthetic Limbs is proud to bring you another exciting evening of mystery and mischief with everyone’s favorite wheelchair-bound detective, Helen Slater. Grinkleman’s Prosthetic Limbs; When you need a helping hand, or hook, you need Grinkleman’s.

    SXF: Noir-ish music.

    HELEN: (Voice over) Father McDougan was in quite a state. Some creeps had bagged the baby Jesus from the Nativity Scene in front of City Hall.

    MCDOUGAN: It’s not just any baby doll, Helen. It was hand crafted in Rome, out of 24 carat gold and blessed by the Pope himself.

    HELEN: (V.O.) I’d never seen him so upset. He had the look of man who had seen Lucifer himself poking around his back door. He wanted the baby Jesus back and he didn’t want to wait for the Second Coming to see him again.

    MCDOUGAN: Do whatever you have to do, my child, just short of breaking a commandment. Unless it’s murdering the thieving son of a bitch that stole our baby Jesus.

    HELEN: (V.O.) Keeping the commandments in tact was no small feat in my line of work. But if someone was going to get plugged over this doll, it sure wasn’t going to be me or Franny, God bless her heart. I felt bad making her work on the day after Christmas, but I knew this case wouldn’t wait. McDougan didn’t give us much to go on, so we started at the only place I could think of.

    SFX: Door chimes. Squeaky wheels.

    MOSHE: (Heavy Jewish accent) Welcome to Moshe’s Jewelry & Deli, how can I help you?

    HELEN: We’re looking for baby Jesus, you seen him?

    MOSHE: What are you, pulling my leg or something?

    HELEN: I’m not pulling nothing. Has anybody been in here lately trying to push baby Jesus on you?

    MOSHE: Do you know what part of town you’re in?

    FRANNY: It’s a solid gold, baby Jesus.

    HELEN: That ring any bells for you?

    MOSHE: A baby made out of gold. Sheesh, who could afford such a thing?

    HELEN: So nobody’s come in trying to sell one off fast and cheap?

    MOSHE: What are implying?

    HELEN: I know the type of clientele you deal with here, so don’t try and play all kosher with me.

    MOSHE: I haven’t heard of this baby Jesus, but if it’s gold I know someone who might be able to help you.

    HELEN: Spill. And fix us a couple of ham sandwiches while you’re talking.

    FRANNY: Um, Helen.

    SFX: Driving car and windshield wipers.

    HELEN: (V.O.) After we got our order straight, Moshe told us where we might find our Jesus thief. I don’t know why the crooks and scum of this city always have to pick the day with the worst weather to be up to no good in, but it hasn’t stopped raining since we got this job. Don’t they know that rain plays the devil on a woman’s hair?

    FRANNY: What kind of a twisted soul steals the baby Jesus right out from under his mother’s nose?

    HELEN: I think we’re about to find out, Franny.

    SFX: A car’s brakes squeal to a stop. Car doors slam and men’s voices mumble.

    HELEN: Come on, let’s make tracks.

    SFX: Car door opening and closing. Footsteps on gravel. Trunk being opened and wheelchair being pulled out. Squeaky wheels. Another car door opening.

    HELEN: Turn the chair around.

    FRANNY: Let me help you.

    HELEN: I can do it myself. Ouch, you’re pinching my –

    FRANNY: I’m sorry, I don’t want you –

    HELEN: Just hold the damn chair still!

    SFX: Body sitting down hard. Car door closing.

    HELEN: Umbrella!

    SFX: Umbrella opening. Raining, hitting umbrella.

    FRANNY: Are you sure you want to go in there?

    HELEN: We don’t have any choice. Let’s make tracks.

    SFX: Squeaky wheels. Door opening and Jazz music.

    HELENThe place was jumping. Nothing but sad sacks spending their Christmas bonuses on booze and loose women as far as the eye could see.

    BARTENDER: Welcome to Dashiell’s Hamlet, ma’am, what can I get you?

    HELEN: Did you see two men just come in here?

    BARTENDER: Who said that?

    HELEN: I did. Down here.

    BARTENDER: Sorry, didn’t see you.

    HELEN: Two men just came in here a minute ago.

    BARTENDER: You should put a tall flag on your chair or wear a bell or something.

    FRANNY: Helen, over there. That’s him.

    BARTENDER: That’s Biggie Beahaul and his head goon, Felsch.

    HELEN: Let’s go introduce ourselves, Franny.

    SFX: Squeaky wheels. Two loud thuds.

    FRANNY: Helen, are you all right?

    HELEN: Who puts steps in a bar? Lord. Excuse me, Mr. Beahaul?

    SFX: Ice being stirred in a glass.

    BEAHAUL: Sorry, lady, I don’t work with charity cases.

    HELEN: I’m not here for a handout Mr. Beahaul, I’m looking for something.

    BEAHAUL: This look like the lost and found?

    HELEN: I’m not talking about lost mittens here, this “something” is worth a lot of scratch.

    BEAHAUL: What makes you think I’d know anything about it?

    HELEN: Call it woman’s intuition.

    BEAHAUL: How’s about you call it a day and get lost before I lose my temper and flatten your tires. Felsch, see these dames to the door.

    FELSCH: Yes, sir, Mr. Beahaul, sir.

    HELEN: Not so fast, Felsch. I think we might have something that interests you. Franny, show him.

    SFX: Cat call whistle.

    BEAHAUL: Nice melons.

    HELEN: Honeydew. Moshe said they were your favorite.

    BEAHAUL: Out of season too. You ladies went through a lot of trouble to get my attention.

    HELEN: Now that we’ve got it, I wonder if we might have a moment of your time.

    BEAHAUL: Sure, why not. Let’s go back to my office.

    SFX: Squeaky wheels and footsteps. A door opens and closes.

    BEAHAUL: You can set the melons down over there.

    SFX: Two melons being set down.

    BEAHAUL: Start talking.

    HELEN: We’re looking for a doll.

    BEAHAUL: Try the toy store.

    HELEN: A Jesus doll.

    BEAHAUL: Try the church.

    HELEN: A Jesus doll made out of solid gold. (Pause) What’s the matter Mr. Beahaul, cat got your tongue?

    BEAHAUL: I’m not in the solid gold, baby Jesus sales market.

    HELEN: Oh no? What exactly does it say on your business cards?

    BEAHAUL: It says “Be wary of strange women in wheelchairs who come baring melons”.

    HELEN: I hope you didn’t have to pay by the letter.

    BEAHAUL: Wait a minute. You’re that broad that thinks she’s a detective, ain’t ya?

    HELEN: How do you know that?

    BEAHAUL: It says so right there on the engraved plaque on your chair.

    HELEN: That was a gift from Franny.

    BEAHAUL: I’m afraid it’s time for you to go.

    HELEN: No
    t until we get what we came for.

    BEAHAUL: If you came for a fat lip, then you might be in luck.

    HELENL: You wouldn’t dare hit a defenseless, crippled woman in a wheelchair, would you?

    SFX: Slap!

    HELEN: You could have just said “yes” or “no”.

    BEAHAUL: Actions speak louder than words.

    HELEN: Yes they do. And your actions tell me you’re one rotten bastard. Franny, the melons.

    BEAHAUL: Oh, so you’re an Indian giver too.

    SFX: A melon being smashed on the ground.

    BEAHAUL: Hey! Don’t waste those!

    SFX: A gun being cocked.

    BEAHAUL: What the devil!

    FRANNY: Keep your hands where I can see them or I’ll plug ya. You too Felsch.

    BEAHAUL: The ol’ .45 in the melon trick. I shoulda known.

    HELEN: Mr. Beahaul, would you come here for a second?

    SFX: A step.

    HELEN: Closer.

    SFX: A step.

    HELEN: Bend down here, I want to tell you something.

    BEAHAUL: Nuh-uh, you’re just going to hit me.

    HELEN: I’m not, I just want to whisper something in your ear.

    BEAHAUL: You can tell me from there.

    HELEN: Just come here.

    BEAHAUL: No.

    SFX: Squeaky wheels.

    BEAHAUL: Ow! My foot.

    SFX: The door bursts open.

    MCDOUGAN: Helen!

    SFX: Gun shot.

    FRANNY: Oops.

    HELEN: Franny, what did you do?

    FRANNY: He startled me!

    BEAHAUL: You just shot Father McDougan!

    HELEN: Father McDougan, can you hear me? Are you all right? Franny call an ambulance.

    SFX: Footsteps running off.

    MCDOUGAN: (Labored breathing) I was just comin’ to tell ya.

    HELEN: What? Tell me what?

    MCDOUGAN: The baby Jesus.

    HELEN: We were just about to get it for you, Father.

    MCDOUGAN: Sister Mary Catherine put it in the wrong closet. It was in the church all along.

    SFX: Running footsteps.

    FRANNY: They’re on their way. How is he?

    BEAHAUL: You shot him, how do you think he is?

    HELEN: Hang on, Father, help is on the way.

    FELSH: I haven’t been to church in a while, but I’m pretty sure that’s a sin.

    SFX: Faint sound of a siren.

    ANNOUNCER: Will Father McDougan finally meet his maker? Will Franny go to prison for killing a priest? Will Helen give up detective work forever? Tune in next week when Grinkleman’s Prosthetic Limbs brings you another exiting chapter in the ongoing saga of everyone’s favorite wheelchair-bound detective, Helen Slater. And remember, at Grinkleman’s the pant leg is always half full.

    SFX: Dramatic music out.

  • FSW: Reaction Edition

    The gauntlet was thrown down and I tripped over it, but never picked it up. It’s been a long week and I thought I was being good by getting this sketch written the other day. I just couldn’t shift gears to the 4th mode fast enough. Maybe next week.

    However, if you want to read about our zombie forefathers, Richard’s got you covered.

    If you want to read about the tragic consequences of choosing the wrong lip gloss, I’m all over that this week.

    Enjoy. And Happy Birthday Nation o’ mine.
    Pants on Fire

    AT RISE: In total darkness we hear giggling and keys rattling. A door opens and we see the silhouettes of Sarah and Mark stumble through in mid make out. They might fall or stumble over some furniture.

    MARK: (Laughing) Let me turn on a light.

    SARAH: No. Not yet.

    (Things get quiet. We hear a Zipper going down.)

    MARK: (Taking a breath) Oh wow. Sarah…

    SARAH: Shhhh. Just enjoy the ride.

    (We hear the sounds of pleasure coming from both of them. More from Mark. Mark’s moans of pleasure start to turn to moans of discomfort.)

    MARK: Ow. Ow! Sarah wait.

    SARAH: Are you all right?

    MARK: Something’s not right.

    SARAH: Too much teeth?

    (Mark fumbles for the lamp. The lights come on and we see that they are both dressed nicely, for a night out. Mark is zipping up his pants. His pain and her panic will increase throughout the following.)

    MARK: No, my face. It feels like it’s on fire. And itching.

    (He is scratching.)

    SARAH: Oh yeah, it looks like you’ve got some red blotches on your neck.

    MARK: Oh no.

    SARAH: What? What is it?

    MARK: I think I’m having an allergic reaction.

    SARAH: To what? To me?

    MARK: Maybe. Maybe something I ate.

    SARAH: Is this bad? Do you need to go to the hospital?

    MARK: Depends on what it isth. Oh sthit. My tongue’s stharting to swell.

    SARAH: All right. What do I need to do?

    (Mark is now beginning to feel it in his crotch.)

    MARK: Oh! Oh wow. Thisth can’t be good.

    SARAH: What now?

    (Mark turns his back and unzips his pants.)

    MARK: I think it’s swelling.

    SARAH: Well, couldn’t that be because I was…

    MARK: Not that kind of swelling. Oh no! More red blotches! Did you useth hand crème today?

    SARAH: Yeah. Earlier.

    MARK: What kind?

    SARAH: Ponds.

    MARK: Was it sthented with anything? Vanilla? Peacheth?

    SARAH: No. No, I always use the unscented kind.

    MARK: Your lip gloss.

    SARAH: What about it?

    MARK: What kind?

    SARAH: Lip Venom.

    MARK: What’s it made of?

    SARAH: It’s cinnamon and ginger spices…

    MARK: Thinnamon! It’s the thinnamon! I’m fucking allergic to thinnamon!

    SARAH: How was I supposed to know? This is only our third date! I don’t even know what your favorite movie is or if you had any pets when you were a kid.

    (Mark’s is having trouble breathing.)

    MARK: I think my throat is closthing up.

    SARAH: I’m calling 911.

    MARK: I can’t go to the hosthpital becausth of swelling in my dick.

    SARAH: But if you’re going to die…

    MARK: I justht need sthome benedryll.

    SARAH: Do you have a bee sting kit?

    MARK: I’m not allergic to beesth!

    SARAH: Well, do you have a…cinnamon…sting kit?

    MARK: What?

    SARAH: What do you normally do when you have an allergic reaction to cinnamon?

    MARK: It’th never been this bad before.

    (She goes into the kitchen and comes back out with a wet dish towel.)

    MARK: You can’t justht wash it off.

    SARAH: I don’t know what else to do.

    (His breathing is becoming more labored.)

    MARK: I justht need to sthit down for a minute.

    (He sits on the couch, wheezing.)

    SARAH: I think we need to get you to a hospital.

    MARK: (Getting woozy)No, no, no. No hosthpitalsth. Maybe thisth will passth.

    (With that he passes out.)

    SARAH: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

    (She lightly taps his face, trying to rouse him.)

    SARAH: Mark! Wake up! Please!

    (She freezes.)

    SARAH: What if dies? Killed by a blow job. I’ll never live it down.

    (She begins to frantically shake him, slapping him harder on the face.)

    SARAH: Wake up! Wake up, you allergenic pussy!

    (She crams the wet towel onto his face, pushing into his mouth.)

    SARAH: I am not a murderess!!!

    (The thrashing rolls them off onto the floor. The jolt brings Sarah to her senses.)

    SARAH: Oh, God. I’m sorry.

    (She cradles his head and wipes him with the towel. Mark starts to come around.)

    SARAH: Yeah, that’s it. Come back to me. Come back.

    MARK: (Weakly) Stharah? Isth that you?

    SARAH: I’m right here, Mark.

    MARK: I think I’m stharting to feel sthlightly better. Maybe the towel wasth the way to go.

    SARAH:You’re alive. I’m so happy you’re alive!

    (Sarah, in her excitement, bends over and kisses Mark on the lips.)

    MARK: Noooo!

    BLACKOUT OUT

  • FSW: The Loan’s the Thing Edition

    Hey, hey! It’s still daylight out and I’m posting my sketch! Huzzah.

    Richard is already in the mix and should probably watch out for stray bolts of lightening this weekend.

    No word from Dave yet, but keep your eyes peeled because he could strike at any moment.

    Here’s my attempt to get back into the swing of things. A little dark, but, well, sometimes I enjoy that. I hope you do as well.

    And, as always, feel free to join in on the action. Just post your link in the comments section.

    A Bank office. Jane Gorman is sitting behind her desk looking over papers. Marty Bellows is seated across from her.

    JANE: Well, Mr. Bellows, everything looks in order here.

    MARTY: Oh, wow. This is fantastic. I can’t tell you how excited I am.

    JANE: Do you know what you’re going to do with the place?

    MARTY: It’s been a dream of mine to buy a building and open up a little sandwich shop.

    JANE: Well, Marty, the people here are American National like to think we’re in the making-dreams-come-true business.

    MARTY: Thank you, so much. And any time you need lunch, stop in and it’s on the house.

    JANE: You’ll never get the loan paid off that way.

    (They share a laugh. The phone rings.)

    JANE: Look these over and start initialing by the X’s.

    (She hands Marty the papers and answers the phone.)

    JANE: Jane Gorman, talk to me.

    (Marty is reading an initially. Jane is listening on the phone her face growing more concerned.)

    JANE: (On phone) I see. Thank you for calling. (She hangs up.)

    MARTY: Do you need me to sign all three pages here? Or just this one?

    JANE: Let me see.

    (Marty hands her the papers and she tears them up.)

    MARTY: What are you doing?

    JANE: I’m sorry Mr. Bellows, but I’m afraid the loan has been rejected.

    MARTY: What? Why?

    JANE: I’d rather not say.

    MARTY: But I was signing the papers. We were talking about dreams coming true. (beat) Who was on the phone?

    JANE: No one.

    MARTY: Before the phone call I was signing papers. Afterwards you were tearing them up. Ms. Gorman, please.

    JANE: Mr. Bellows. Marty. (beat) You’re dying.

    MARTY: What?

    JANE: I’m sorry you have to find out this way.

    (He stands up and looks around.)

    MARTY: Am I on one of those hidden camera shows? Okay. You got me. Very funny.

    JANE: That was your doctor. The results just came back from your colonoscopy.

    MARTY: And he called you?

    JANE: We have a mutual back scratching policy between banks and hospitals. We let them know if a patient can pay their bills and they inform us when…well, a loan applicant is a bad bet. I’m sorry.

    (He sits.)

    MARTY: I’m going to die?

    JANE: Well, you should probably consult with your doctor, but he said he’d be hesitant to okay you for a five year loan.

    MARTY: There is so much I still want to do.

    JANE: (Looking over papers) Judging from your portfolio here, I’d say you could take a nice trip to Europe. Maybe even a cruise around the world. Of course, that isn’t taking into account the medical bills you’re sure to accumulate or the ever weakening dollar.

    (Marty stands and begins to leave, dejected.)

    MARTY: Uh. Thanks. I guess.

    JANE: Good luck, Mr. Bellows. And if you need anything, well…I hope you have some close friends.

    (Marty exits. Jane sits on the edge of her desk and looks at the audience.)

    JANE: What’s your dream? You living it or still planning? Better get cracking. You never know when your loan will get rejected.

    (She moves back to her chair as angelic, orchestral music begins.)

    DEEP BOOMING VOICE OVER: American National. Reminding you that life is short, but loans are forever.

    BLACKOUT

  • FSW: Short & Sweet Edition

    Dave was out of the gate early today rewriting classic movies.

    Richard is up and at ’em having some trouble with the law.
    I’m still on Pacific time, which is why mine seems late, but really isn’t. 
    It’s also why mine doesn’t seem funny, but really is.
    (Paul sits in a kayak, bobbing in the water. He is staring off into the distance, a serene smile on his face. A moment later Derek paddles up to him.)
    Derek: Hey.
    (Paul nods in acknowledgement) 
    Derek: The sunset is amazing out here, huh?
    (Paul nods again.)
    Derek: Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you’ll see a minke whale or some dolphins swim by. Just takes your breath away.
    (Paul nods again.)
    Derek: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here before. You on vacation?
    Paul: Honeymoon.
    Derek: The new Mrs. didn’t want to venture out on the water?
    Paul: She loves outdoor activities.
    (Derek looks around.)
    Derek: The currents can get pretty strong out here. Which way was she paddling?
    Paul: Oh, she wasn’t in a kayak.
    Derek: She must be a pretty strong swimmer to make it out this far.
    (Paul nods.)
    Derek: And back. I don’t know too many people who could do that.
    Paul: I don’t know anyone who could do it.
    Derek: Wait. Did she swim out here or not?
    Paul: She did.
    Derek: And you let her…I mean, I don’t see anyone out here. Look, buddy, I don’t know what your deal is, but…
    (The cover flips back on Paul’s kayak and Marissa pokes her head out.)
    Marissa: Hey, Chatty-Charlie, why don’t you move along? You’re sorta breaking his concentration here and there’s only so much oxygen in here once this cover is closed.
    Derek: Oh. I thought…I mean, it seemed like…
    Marissa: Move it Nanook before I cram this oar up your b-hole.
    Derek: Sorry.
    (Derek paddles off.)
    Marissa: It had better be this biggest goddamn diamond…
    (Paul puts his hand on Marissa’s head and nudges her back down into the kayak.)
    Paul: Shhh. My concentration, remember?
    (She disappears out of site. Paul returns the cover of the kayak. He smiles serenely.)
    Blackout

  • FSW: Man Down Edition

    The day got away from me. End of the month is always hectic at work. Add in a little rehearsal, a lot of wedding stuff and you’ve got yourself a Sketch War without the “war”.

    Richard, The Universal Soldier, comes through as always with a topical sketch about the sleeper cell that is Rachel Ray.

    I haven’t heard from Dave since RAW closed. Hopefully he didn’t go overboard on the wine and end up in the Lake.

    I’m afraid the next couple weeks could be more of the same. I’ll try and get some things together so you won’t miss me while I’m off on the honeymoon.

  • Sketch War Salute

    We don’t have 21 guns or anything fancy like that. Just heaps of respect for a fine sketch comedy actor who has left us.

    Harvey Korman passed away last night. Probably best known for his stint on the Carol Burnett Show and his role as Hedley Lamarr in Blazing Saddles.

    I think part of the reason he was so well loved was all the times he cracked up because of something Tim Conway had done. Here’s one of my favorite moments.

    The planet just got a little less funny today.