The 3,243rd Annual M. Staufenberg International Play Festival

AT RISE: 

TRIPLETS!

They’re eating lunch.

TRIPLET: I like lunch.

TRIPLET  I don’t.

TRIPLET  Who said that?

TRIPLET I did, obviously, you’re looking right at me

TRIPLET I see what’s happening here and I refuse to participate.

TRIPLET You’re always like this!

TRIPLET It’s not my fault. You trying being a triplet thrown  into a play without a proper name, rendering each stage direction and piece of dialogue a new test of my ability to cope with anxiety.

TRIPLET You’d think being genetically identical to two other humans would help relax you about a loss of individuality like that.

TRIPLET Oh great, now they’re not talking at all.

TRIPLET Are you sure?

TRIPLET As sure as I am that this play needs to end immediately before the author is stoned to death at the zoo.

TRIPLET Why the zoo?

TRIPLET Hah! Got you to talk!

TRIPLET No you didn’t. That was me.

TRIPLET Or was it.

TRIPLET Oh for fucks’-

A meteor crashes into the Earth eliminating all life and completing what will be known to future scholars as “The Triptych of Plays Written On February 7th, 2018 In Which One Or More Characters Dies Suddenly To Expedite The End Of The Play”

AT RISE:

A MAN is SHOT! By a STREET BURGLAR!

But he doesn’t fall down. Or react at all.

STREET BURGLAR: The hell?

He shoots the MAN some more. Nothing.

STREET BURGLAR: Um... excuse me?

He pokes the man. Nothing. He shoots him in the foot a couple times. No response. He waves his hand in front of the MAN’s face.

The MAN, startled, jumps back and pulls some EARBUD HEADPHONES out of his ears.

MAN: What do you want man, I’m jamming out to my favorite loud ska band. They are called “Jimmy Dean’s Jumanji Sauce” and exclusively cater to people born after 1991 who love condiments and frozen breakfast sausages!

STREET BURGLAR: I’m sorry, but I was trying to get your attention.

MAN: Whatever for? I was just getting to my favorite part of the song “Robin Williams Was In Jumanji, But You Already Knew That, You Clever Turnip” when you began your incessant hand waggling!

STREET BURGLAR: Well, I tried saying hello.

MAN: Clearly no stimulus from the outside world could reach me while I was in the SKA ZONE, YOU CHODE.

STREET BURGLAR: Well guess what, you rude dude, I also shot you a bunch.

MAN: Thanks, I get that a lot!

STREET BURGLAR: What?

Lo and Behold! The MAN put his headphones back in, and has not been listening! What a maroon!

STREET BURGLAR: This is a very frustrating robbery gone wrong. Usually I’m at home by now, shaking in the shower as the guilt of my accidental murder causes me to go into shock. However, it appears that my new enemy’s self-absorption and love of ska has made him immortal! Perhaps I should listen to the ska as well! 

SUDDENLY, the MAN dies of gunshots.

STREET BURGLAR: Oh thank God. I really dodged a “bullet”!

FREEZE FRAME. CUE THE MIGHTY MIGHT BOSSTONES.

The frozen STREET BURGLAR grimaces in pain.

STREET BURGLAR:  LOOKS LIKE I WAS IN HELL ALL ALONG. WHAT A PARABLE. AT LEAST THAT’S THE IMPRESSION THAT I “GET”.

The audience commits suicide.

AT RISE:

AN OMELETTE gets off a plane at DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

OMELETTE: Wow! Denver! And the Denver International Airport! Did you know that the Munich International Airport is the sister airport to Denver International Airport? I sure did! Because I thoroughly researched my trip to Denver! Wow, Denver! But what will I do first?

The OMELETTE falls apart immediately because it was prepared with too much butter and thus not dry enough to stay coherent after an hours-long flight. So that’s the answer to the OMELETTE’s question. The power of narrative! 

Please do not send me corrections on my cooking knowledge. The OMELETTE is fucking dead, okay?!?!?! FUCKING. DEAD.

But then again, aren’t we all?

......?

AT RISE:

A CORPSE. Just lying there, not a care in the world. Look at that smug bastard. All the hard times are past him now. No more anxiety or stress, just the warm blanket of the void, why-

THE CORPSE FARTS, then POOPS and PEES itself. It is BAD. And NOBODY LIKES IT.

...Okay fine, maybe being dead is gross.

Or maybe, I just need to check my high-falutin’ values at the door, and accept the inherent beauty of all life, including decomposition! Why if nature is not beauty, then what it? Why maybe-

THE CORPSE’s mouth opens, releasing locusts and gas and EVIL. It smells worse than it looks.

Fine. FINE! Everything is a nightmare, even death! I’ll just get myself one of those Temple Grandin cow-hugging machines and drink a bottle of whiskey while I pretend that my beautiful corpse will be preserved in amber for eternity as my consciousness abruptly ends!

THE CORPSE gives a thumbs up!

CORPSE: Remember kids, suicide may be painless, but your loved ones will have to smell your death poops! 

God damn it! Was this a PSA the whole time?

The CORPSE winks.

CORPSE: I’ll never tell!

AT RISE:

A WOBBLY MAN and a TOLIET give a press conference.

WOBBLY MAN: Ladies and gentleman, we have called you here to usher in a new age of peace in Man/Toilet relations.

TOILET: This dude finally stopped barfing in my mouth, so I will call off the poop demons.

WOBBLY MAN: To be fair, and as I have explained to Mr. Toilet time and again in these last few weeks: I did not want to do all that barfing. It was gross and I didn’t like it. I also felt ad afterwards and could only eat crackers for a week.

TOILET: And though peace has been declared and I have retracted the barbed wire spiders from toilet bowls worldwide, I still find myself asking: why barf in my mouth man? I’m made for poop. I like poop. I was not created so that mankind had a place to shoot acid out of their mouths when they had upset tummies.

WOBBLY MAN: In my defense, it’s kind of cool that people shoot acid out of their mouth, even if it is only stomach acid.

TOILET: Acid is cool, yes. Nobody is arguing with that. But can we now, finally, agree that next time you will just puke in a bag or a trashcan or something.

WOBBLY MAN: If it means the people of this fine nation can go back to regurgitating useless food waste out off our butts and into your waiting maw, I’ll say just about anything.

TOILET: We did it!

And there’s confetti. But honestly, the TOILET picked it out, so it’s kind of gross. Not like, super gross, but just off-putting enough to really upset anyone paying close enough attention.

In conclusion: vomiting is the worst thing a body can naturally do for nine hours at a time and I have returned from this adventure a changed man.

AT RISE:

A MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL looks concerned.

MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL: Should I have just purchased this above-ground pool?

GOD: No. Do you have your receipt?

MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL: Of course! I am a conscientious consumer!

GOD: Then go forth in my name and maybe buy a new couch instead.

MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL: Will, do! Thanks Lord! You really are the best!

GOD: Well, I’m just doing my best. We’ve all had bad days.

MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL: Tell me about it. I just bought an above-ground pool! 

They laugh warmly.

MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL: Well gotta go!

GOD: Godspeed! Literally.

THE  MAN WHO JUST BOUGHT AN ABOVE-GROUND POOL grows rocket feet and zooms off.

GOD: This has been a nice day.

AT RISE:

The NOID, Domino’s pizza’s late 80′s-early 90′s mascot. It is Terrifying. Here is a picture:

Wait, can you put pictures in stage directions? Is this still a play? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, THE NOID???? You’ve destroyed everything!

THE NOID: I AM THE ALPHA AND OMEGA. ALL IS THE NOID AND THE NOID IS ALL. FINALLY I CAN SAY THAT I...AM....UNAVOIDABLE. AND IN CASE YOU DON’T GET THE REFERENCE, CHECK OUT THIS COMMERCIAL!

WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING WHAT IS THIS NONONO THIS IS ALL WRONG NOID, YOU SON OF A BITCH. THIS CANNOT STAND THIS IS A BLOG ABOUT PLAYS! THE NOID: Just do it with projections, dude. Chill.

OF COURSE! Projections! The solution to all theatrical problems. Bless you, THE NOID!

THE NOID: All who have met me are amongst the blessed. Enjoy this pizza coupon.

GOSH, I SURE WILL!

AT RISE:

A SPACE BAR (like from a computer keyboard) is on a ROCKET SHIP IN SPACE.

SPACE BAR: I am in space. And I am space.

SPACE BAR sighs.

SPACE BAR: Can we get real for a second? I know I was created as part of a series of devastatingly bad puns. Puns that don’t even work in the context of a theatrical experience, unless the audience was provided with a highlighted copy of the script with lots of little notes saying things like “see? see? DO YOU GET IT?”. And I have to finally stop and ask: why? Why is this allowed?

AN ALIEN enters.

ALIEN: Uh, hello.

SPACE BAR: Hi.

ALIEN: I heard what you said there. And I just wanted to tell you that I think it’s super brave and stuff.

SPACE BAR: Thanks. It’s just hard, you know? Knowing you exist for a one off gaga that nobody likes.

ALIEN: Yeah, yeah. Coo. Of course. It’s just like, I don’t get paid unless you say your lines. Then I can like, say mine. You know?

SPACE BAR: You’re getting paid?

ALIEN: Well, not with like, money. But with, you know. Credit. 

SPACE BAR: That’s not real payment, and this isn’t a real play. And plays aren’t real for that matter. I mean, who cares about plays?

ALIEN: Me? Well, I care about performing. And this is like, visceral, you know?

SPACE BAR: Boxing is also performative and visceral and a source of real income.

ALIEN: What?

SPACE BAR: Nothing. You’re a good kid. So let’s just get this over with.

ALIEN: Cool. I’ll just exit and, uh, re-enter.

The ALIEN exits.

SPACE BAR: I am in space. And I am a space. But what about the space... between us.

ALIEN enters.

ALIEN: Hey, I’m an alien. Wanna fuck?

SPACE BAR: I would, but I’m too busy farting.

SPACE BAR farts.

SPACE BAR: Also, I’m worried that touching me would just increase our distance. Emotionally and in the sense of hitting a space key.

ALIEN: What a quandary. Truly being born is the most isolating thing that can happen to a person.

THEY FACE THE AUDIENCE.

ALIEN/SPACE BAR: And that’s how the International Space Station was founded.

SPACE BAR: Also, love is real and emotions are valid and don’t be pigeonholed into thinking you exist only for someone else’s pleasure. Bad jokes are bad and you don’t need to follow along and if you think about it socialism is the only honest form of government.

AT RISE:

A dictionary lifts weights.

It takes a second, but the AUDIENCE begins to loudly boo when they see what I did there.

The DICTIONARY is understanding, but still a little hurt, as it’s really trying to take its New Years resolutions seriously this time.

AT RISE:

A HEALTHY BOY and a SANE PERSON.

SANE PERSON: Fruit is good.

HEALTHY BOY: Fruit is sugar poison. Nature designed it to trick us into diabetic weight gain to promote tigers to the top of the food chain.

SANE PERSON: Tigers didn’t win.

HEALTHY BOY: Because man invented gun in the height of an orange juice frenzy.

SANE PERSON: So fruit is... good?

HEALTHY BOY: Fruit causes brains to spike in insulin, leading to the belief in a divine spiritual presence that judges all our actions, leading to countless deaths and wars over the centuries.

SANE PERSON: Didn’t that also convince people to stop murdering each other all the time?

HEALTHY BOY: Isn’t war just legal murder?

SANE PERSON: That was unexpectedly political.

HEALTHY BOY: Not really, murder was invented by nectarines.

SANE PERSON: So, to recap: fruit made us vulnerable to tigers, but also made us create weapons to kill tigers, leading to a zero sum gain. Fruit also created God, which created war, but also helped codified laws which prevented murders. Another zero sum. So fruit is neutral.

HEALTHY BOY: No, fruit is also too sweet and makes my teeth hurt.

SANE PERSON: Then why do you own this juice bar?

HEALTHY BOY: Nihilism.

AT RISE:

MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T GIVE A FUCK and ME.

ME: I hope I don’t accidentally physically impose on anyone today!

ME balls himself into a small ball and rolls down the sidewalk.

MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T GIVE A FUCK beat ME to death with a GAGGLE OF TAXIDERMIED ELEPHANTS as they slowly shuffle by.

MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T GIVE A FUCK:

SEE THEY SAY NOTHING BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE ME, EVEN AS I LAY DYING IN A POOL OF MY OWN SNOT AND ELEPHANT EMBALMING FLUID.

MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T GIVE A FUCK: Sports.

AT RISE:

YEAST.

AT RISE: A DUCK and a FROG.

FROG: Yo the name of your species rhymes with “fuck”.

DUCK: Yes.

FROG: That’s crazy.

DUCK: Is it?

FROG: Yeah man. It’s crazy. So. Do you?

DUCK: Do I what?

FROG: Fuck, man! Do you fuck!

DUCK: Because duck rhymes with fuck?

FROG: No! Because you seem depressed and I thought you might benefit from some physical proximity to your preferred sexual partner.

DUCK: Wow, really? Because I have been feeling pretty-

FROG: Nah, man! It’s totally because duck rhymes with fuck! FUCK A DUCK BABY, WOO!

The FROG vapes as it runs offstage. 

DUCK: I gotta get out of this cul de sac.

AT RISE:

TWO CATS.

CAT ONE: Do you like turtles?

CAT THE SECOND: Abstractly. In person, they’re a little hard to kill.

CAT ONE: Oh, I love killing.

CAT THE SECOND: Me too. Well, abstractly. IN reality it’s a little messy.

CAT ONE: I do hate mess. It’s so untidy.

CAT THE SECOND: You know, we both love killing, but hate mess. Maybe we should get into poison!

CAT ONE: But we don’t have thumbs!

CAT THE SECOND: You don’t need thumbs for poison.

CAT ONE: They do make it easier to get bottles open.

CAT THE SECOND: Then we’ll just make our own.

CAT ONE: Using what?

CAT THE SECOND: The power of friendship.

CAT ONE: And toxic waste.

CAT THE SECOND: Yes! The twin powers of friendship and toxic waste.

CAT ONE: I love toxic waste.

CAT THE SECOND: Me too.

CAT ONE: I mean, how else could we have learned to talk?

CAT THE SECOND: Through the power of friendship!

CAT ONE: I love friendship.

CAT THE SECOND: Me too.

AT RISE:

A MOUSE opens its mouth and emits a squeal that tears through the audience, shaking brains and breaking shames.

Before the play continues, some notes on the MOUSE.

1) It must be a real mouse. And a living one, no taxidermy.

2) The noise it makes must also be genuine. No audio tomfoolery! And no torturing the mouse, either. Don’t be a dick. Just teach a mouse to make an unearthly wail at will.

3) The MOUSE’s wail CANNOT be amplified. No microphones, megaphones, trombomophones. The MOUSE must be trained as you would an opera singer, able to fill a massive  room with noise without mechanical aid.

4) If you break any of these rules, I will sue you for destroying my art. And I will win, because love and beauty will be on my side.

And that’s all the rules! Simple, right? Now, where were we?

The MOUSE is still shattering glasses and souls with it’s terrible CATERWAUL!

A MAN enters, wearing large gun-range ear protection. He crosses to the mouse, who is STILL SCREAMING.

The MAN gives the MOUSE some cheese, which the MOUSE immediately tucks into, ending the horrible noise! The MAN bows, turns away from the audience and unzips his jumpsuit, revealing the AMERICAN FLAG LEATHER JACKET that BONO wore to the 2002 Superbowl halftime show in New Orleans, Lousiana. WOW!

The MOUSE falls asleep.

The AUDIENCE takes in the experience it just had, judges how authentic the MOUSE’s talents were, then presses one of two buttons on the back of their chair.

If the MOUSE was clearly a prop mouse, or some other product of tomfoolery, OR the jacket worn by the MAN was not the actual, AUTHENTIC jacket that Bono wore at SuperBowl XXXVI, they press the SUE button. Everyone involved in the production is immediately under legal action.  If the play was preformed as written, they press the GOOD button,  which buys a random item off of my AMAZON WISHLIST. They do not mind, as they have experienced the most exquisite joy known to man.