That’s Mine (Sketch Comedy Script)

Feb 3, 2013

Lights up in an alleyway. A nicely dressed couple enters.

RITA: Are you sure this is where you parked, Michael?

MICHAEL: Positive. I always park in the alley next to the pawn shop when we go to the theater. It’s tradition.

RITA: Michael, the pawn shop is a block over.

MICHAEL: What? Are you sure?

RITA: I’m absolutely sure. I saw it after we passed the guy peeing on the “No Parking” sign.

MICHAEL: Oh. That explains it. For a second, I thought someone stole the car.

RITA: Let’s go. This alley’s giving me the creeps.

MICHAEL: Yeah, let’s—

(A MUGGER with a gun steps in front of them.)

MUGGER: Hold it! Hands up! This is a stick-up!

RITA: Oh my God!

MICHAEL: Whoa, whoa! Look, take whatever you want. No need for violence!

MUGGER: (ignoring him) You! Hand over your purse!

RITA: (hands it over) Here.

MUGGER: Good. (looks inside) Now, you—

RITA: Wait!

MUGGER: What?

RITA: Can I take a couple of photos out of there?

MUGGER: Photos?

MICHAEL: Rita, not the time—

RITA: It’s Becca and Tippy. He doesn’t need pictures of Becca and Tippy.

MUGGER: (sighs) Fine. Take the pictures of Becca and Tippy. Just hurry it up!

RITA: (takes out photos) Thank you. Oh! And these tampons. You definitely don’t need these. (removes two tampons and hands the purse back.)

MUGGER: Now you! Wallet! (MICHAEL hands it over. The MUGGER tosses the photos at RITA.) Jewelry, too. Let’s go!

MICHAEL: We’re not really “jewelry people.”

(A cell phone rings.)

MUGGER: What the hell is that?

RITA: (points to her purse) I think it’s mine. May I?

MUGGER: Make it quick!

RITA: (answers) Hello? Rachel! Hi! … No, this is fine.

MICHAEL: (to MUGGER) It’s Rachel.

RITA: Oh, we loved the show! I cried all through Act III. … No, Jim’s wrong—it’s way better than Wicked!

MUGGER: Lady!

RITA: Hold on. Rachel, I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of something. … Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye. (hangs up, puts the phone back in the purse, and hands it back to the MUGGER) Sorry. Where were we?

MUGGER: Where were we?! I have a gun, lady! I was saying jewelry! Watches! Now!

(Another phone rings. The MUGGER’s patience wears thin.)

MUGGER: Oh, for the love of—whose phone is it this time?

RITA: I’ll bet it’s Jim.

MUGGER: (snaps) I don’t care if it’s Jim, Rachel, or freakin’ Tippy! Nobody’s answering that phone!

(The ringing continues. The MUGGER suddenly realizes it’s his own phone. He answers.)

MUGGER: Yo, Beanie! What’s up, Dogg? … Nah, just working. … Yeah, right now! A couple in an alley. … (looks at RITA) She’s alright. AAAAAAAAAA! … Okay, Tuesday. I’m there. Later. (hangs up) Sorry about that. Beanie. He’s a trip.

MICHAEL: Wait. Did you just say Beanie? As in Beanie McDougall?

MUGGER: Yeah.

MICHAEL: That’s my cousin!

MUGGER: Get outta here!

MICHAEL: No, seriously! Beanie and I practically grew up together!

MUGGER: Damn, small world!

MICHAEL: So, you can’t rob Beanie’s cousin, right?

MUGGER: Oh, I totally can. Beanie’s an asshole. Now give me those car keys.

(MICHAEL reluctantly reaches into his pocket. A phone rings again, and everyone freezes, unsure where it’s coming from.)

MICHAEL: Wait. That’s mine.

(He pulls out a small pistol from his jacket and shoots the MUGGER. The phone keeps ringing.)

MICHAEL: Dumbass. It was his phone.

(They start to leave, but RITA stops, picks up her purse, the wallet, and the jewelry. She eyes the MUGGER’s phone, picks it up, and answers.)

RITA: Beanie? Hey, it’s Rita. Want to talk to Michael?

(They exit. Blackout.)

Why I Cannot Wear A Dress

Oct 4, 2008

Late August of 1972, my entire family was brutally tortured, then slaughtered by a teal and beige casual sport dress. It was a thigh-length, sleeveless with round neckline and princess seams on the front and reverse. Authorities said the dress buttoned all the way down the back. To make matters worse, it was a size 8.

By all accounts, a very high-end, quality garment.

Before 1980, crimes by dresses were rarely reported in this country. Most victims of dress crimes were too embarrassed or intimidated to come forward. I had no choice. My entire family laid scattered throughout our modest ranch home in pools of their own blood, victims of outer-wear violence.

I alone was spared that brutal day. I had spent the summer at a special camp for children who couldn’t tan. Little did I know, before that summer was over, I would be orphaned, severely depressed, and gain an intense distrust of women’s clothing.

The investigation of the crime took almost three years but eventually the perpetrator was discovered on a rack at a consignment store in Shreveport. The dress was tried, convicted and given the death sentence.

In April of 1986, after serving almost ten years on death row, the dress was cut up into hand towels and various scraps. Even though I know justice was done in this case, you now know the reason why, to this day, I can not wear a dress.

I Love You, You Freak.

May 7, 2007

There’s a scene in the 1993 film Untamed Heart where Christian Slater’s character, Adam, casually admits to Marisa Tomei’s Caroline that he’s been sneaking into her bedroom to watch her sleep.

Pause a moment to picture wild-haired, socially-awkward Adam perched on her nightstand, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as sweet, vulnerable Marisa Tomei snoozes, blissfully unaware. Now try not to let your skin crawl completely off your skeleton.

For most of us, this behavior screams “restraining order,” but when Adam drops this creepy confession, Caroline reacts like she’s just been told she looks mighty cute in them jeans.

“You watch me sleep? Why?” she asks sheepishly, piano music tinkling softly in the background.

“You… have a peace. I don’t have peace,” Adam replies, gazing at her like a lovesick serial killer. Well, thank you, Mr. Bundy, for openly admitting you are, in fact, an unzipped nut bag.

One might expect Caroline to respond with pepper spray or a swift kick to the shins, but no. Instead, she looks intrigued—charmed, even. Maybe a little turned on.

Adam goes on, revealing that his dreams are all suffocation and despair, and Caroline is his only source of peace. Tender tears well up in her eyes. She tenderly touches his tender, scarred chest and they immediately, and with tremendous tenderness, make out on the porch swing.

Now, before I go further, let me say this: I like this film. I own a copy of this film. I’ve watched it more than once, and I’ll watch it again. I’d kill for Christian Slater’s hair and overcoat and, given the chance, I’d happily sit for hours watching Marisa Tomei sleep. I wouldn’t even care if she drools. Seriously, Marisa, if you’re reading this—I’m quiet, I won’t touch your stuff, and I’ll let myself out around 3:30 a.m.. Maybe 4:00.

But that’s beside the point.

What really skarks my skivvies is Hollywood’s tradition of making creepy, dysfunctional leading men irresistibly romantic. These dudes pull off antics that would get the rest of us tasered.

Case in point: socially stunted weirdos with minimum-wage jobs, driving beat-up cars, somehow win over stunning women simply by quoting Pablo Neruda, finding Cassiopeia in the stars, and pissing their names in the snow in a quaint Edwardian Script—all set to a John Mayer soundtrack.

In reality, dorks like Will Ferrell or Jack Black would need a Lord of the Rings-level special effects budget to score women like Maggie Gyllenhaal or Kate Winslet. Yet in Hollyworld, no problem. John Cusack could roll up to Rachel McAdams slathered in hog bile, spouting halitosis, and still get her number before sundown. Even Forrest Gump got laid by Robin Wright, for crap’s sake.

I guess this grates on me because I desperately wanted to be one of those quirky, sensitive, outsider guys. I gave it my all—left my hair unkempt for days, mismatched my Chuck Taylors, rode a bike around delivering roses to strangers, held boomboxes aloft outside bedroom windows. I even worked menial jobs where I pretty much kept to myself except when I saw a friendly Golden Retriever that I just seemed to understand on a level where language was unnecessary.

Not once did I attract a leading lady, prom queen, or girl-next-door sweetheart. The closest I came was when Hollywood legend Patricia Neal smiled at me once in JC Penney. I’m pretty sure it was just because she thought I was the person coming to take her to go pee pee.

So here I am: a single, outcast, artsy geek in a musty apartment with a thrift-store wardrobe and a dog who’s a little too friendly. I clearly have no idea what the hell women are looking for.

Anyone wanna buy a book of poetry and a ’79 Chevy Malibu? Cheap.