(Jonesing for some mid-week science? Well, if you missed the latest Secondhand SCIENCE word on Sunday, then it’s your lucky hump day! Hop on over and check out a bunch of dubious facts, odd analogies and Andre the Giant references about exoplanets. It’ll send you to the moon.
“Hello? These are Topsiders, man. Top. Siders.”
Or some other lifeless hunk of rock. Any old planetoid will do.)
The Summer of Sketch — ideally followed by the Autumn of Sketch, the Winter of our Sketch-content and a Very Sketchy Holiday Season — is in full swing. Or swelter. However a summer rolls, exactly, that’s what it’s doing now. Fully.
(We’re currently billed as “TBA”, which clearly stands for “Tasty, Bronzed and Awesome”.
Hey, there are, like, eight of us in this thing. Surely collectively we tick one or two of those boxes. Shaddup.)
Anyway, the theme for this particular night of nonsense is “lovable loser” — where, if I understand correctly, the “lovable” part is highly negotiable.
With that in mind, I’ve put together a quick piece that maybe we’ll do. Or we won’t. There are a lot of good skits clamoring for a spot, and we can’t accommodate them all. This group has standards, man. What are we, “TBD”? No. And screw those guys.
We’ll figure out the details soon. In the meantime, hoop it up, ballas. And rest assured, “mipples” is not a typo. Swish.
[JOE and BRAD stand on one side of the stage. On the other stands MORTIMER, awkward but scrappy.]
JOE: (to BRAD) All right, man, let’s ball. You pick first.
[MORTIMER shoots his arm up. BRAD ignores him and points offstage.]
BRAD: I’ll take the tall dude.
MORTIMER: Him? Man, come on! I’m better than that guy.
JOE: Dude with the Chucks.
MORTIMER: Are you kidding? Hello? These are Topsiders, man. Top. Siders. Brand new. Pick me up.
BRAD: Red sweatbands.
MORTIMER: What?! With those socks?
JOE: Lakers jersey.
MORTIMER: Nick Young? Seriously. Yo, right here. I’m a “buh-LAH”.
[BRAD looks at him for the first time.]
BRAD: You’re a what?
MORTIMER: A “buh-LAH”, brother. I ball!
[BRAD looks at JOE, confused. JOE sighs.]
JOE: He means “balla”.
MORTIMER: I’ve heard it both ways.
BRAD: Blue shorts.
MORTIMER: Guy’s got no arms!
JOE: Chick with the vest.
MORTIMER: That’s a Girl Scout!
BRAD: Kid in the bubble.
MORTIMER: Why are these people even playing pickup ball? Who understands this?
[JOE looks around frantically.]
JOE: I’ll take…uh…
MORTIMER: There’s nobody left! Come on, dude.
[JOE politely addresses someone offstage.]
JOE: Oh – ma’am? You wanna play? I think you’re allowed through the second trimester. …No?
MORTIMER: I’m the man, bro. Hook me up. I’ll dribble out a four-pointer.
[MORTIMER awkwardly mimes terrible basketball moves. JOE groans.]
JOE: Fine. You’re in.
[MORTIMER celebrates doofishly and runs over to JOE, taunting BRAD.]
MORTIMER: Yes! I’m gonna send these fools into a classroom. Like, at a community college or vocational school. Maybe on a scholarship, or a need-based aid program!
BRAD: Whatever. You guys are skins.
[BRAD walks off, shaking his head.]
MORTIMER: Skins? Like, shirtless? Oh… no, no, no. These mipples don’t see the light of day. I’ll go get that pregnant lady.
[MORTIMER runs off. JOE shakes his head.]
JOE: Man. We have got to stop ballin’ at MIT.Permalink | No Comments