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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I found four reasons to try writing a comedy sketch today. First, I didn’t write much of anything for four days over the weekend, so I’m due. Second and third, today is July 4th, which double-duties as a ‘holiday reason’ and ‘numerical reason’. And because of the holiday, we had no sketch class this week, so I missed out writing one for that venue.
“Because when I “get back on the horse”, that filthy nag needs a cigarette afterward.”
But this is me, here. Nothing ever happens quite so easily as that. So instead of writing a sketch with four reasons, I decided to write four sketches for four reasons, and post them all below. To decrease the degree of difficulty just a tad, I’m going to use the same premise for all four. But otherwise, four sketches coming right up. I’ve got some catching up to do.
Because when I “get back on the horse”, that filthy nag needs a cigarette afterward. You know what I’m sayin’.
THE INSURANCE SHOP QUARTET
INTRO (SHARED)
[A spotlight illuminates a lonely spot in an otherwise dark stage. Slow footsteps approach, and as a serious-looking man in a suit steps into the light, he speaks.]
SPOKESMAN: Can switching to Geico save you fifteen percent or more on your car insurance?
[The spokesman looks earnestly and confidently into the camera.]
TAKE ONE: GOLDBACH
SPOKESMAN: Is Goldbach’s Conjecture, which says that every even integer greater than two can be expressed by the sum of two prime numbers, provable?
[Cut to room with several mathematicians gathered around a chalkboard filled with equations. One is nodding vigorously and arguing ‘yes’, pointing at a spot near the end of the equations.
Several others are on the ‘no’ side, arguing against. At the height of the disagreement, another mathematician stands and points to the middle of the board, showing the face of his calculator to the ‘yes’ arguer, who immediately stops talking. The calculator-holder picks up a piece of chalk and writes a ‘minus’ sign behind a factor in one of the equations. Everyone stands or leans back, looking thoughtfully at the board in silence.
As the commercial ends, an overlay appears reading:
“Geico Insurance
The average user saves (in equation form) pi cubed times the square root of x minus one, over 2 factorial raised to theta power times y.”]
TAKE TWO: GECKO
SPOKESMAN: Is ‘gecko’ the ten thousandth word in the dictionary?
[Cut to a man hunched over a large dictionary on a table, counting silently on his fingers as he trails down the page with his other hand. He reaches the end of his count, looks carefully at the page, looks up and shakes his head ‘no’.
Cut back to spokesman, still looking and sounding confident.]
SPOKESMAN: Webster’s dictionary?
[Cut back to dictionary man, now with a second dictionary opened inside the first. He looks more haggard, and is now counting with a hand-held ‘clicker’. He reaches the end again, looks up and shakes ‘no’.
Cut back to spokesman, coolly confident but slightly impatient now.]
SPOKESMAN: The unabridged version?
[Cut back to man, with mussed hair and rumpled clothes, an enormous dictionary now splayed across the table and an abacus in hand. He checks the open page, slides a bead and wearily shakes his head ‘no’ and slumps in his chair.
Cut back to spokesman, who rolls his eyes and offers matter-of-factly:]
SPOKESMAN: The 2008 volume? North American version? The third edition?
[Cut to man, now completely ragged and with dictionaries strewn everywhere in sight. He’s counting by scratching tick marks into the wall nearby, like a prisoner. He makes a final slash by a large series of hash marks, checks the book, and with exhausted relief, nods ‘yes’. And then collapses face-first into the open book.
As the commercial ends, the overlay reads:
“Geico Insurance
We’re right. You should probably just trust us.”]
TAKE THREE: GAZONGAS
SPOKESMAN: Are porn star Wendy Whopper’s breasts too large?
[Cut to room with several men sitting on couches, gesturing as they debate. Most seem inclined to say ‘yes’, with a shrug, but one man in the middle vehemently shakes his head ‘no’, holding up his hands for the others to stop.
They eventually do, and the man produces a TV remote, points it at an unseen television offscreen, and presses a button. The men all look in that direction for a few seconds, then startle backward in their seats. The man with the remote, with arms folded and an ‘I told you so’ look, gestures toward the camera. With widened eyes and frightened expressions, the other men look into the camera and slowly and earnestly shake their heads ‘no’.
An overlay appears, reading:
“Geico Insurance
If we can’t save you money, we’ll still show you porn.”]
TAKE FOUR: GOLDSCHLAGER
SPOKESMAN: Is Goldschlager the nastiest liquor around?
[Cut to laboratory with several scientists in lab coats. Several are carrying notebooks, and beakers with liquid of various colors litter the lab benches. The scientists appear to be running through a series of tests in a well-ordered manner.
Cut back to spokesman, who looks at the camera with an expectant look for the answer.
Cut back to lab, where all scientists but one are huddled around a microscope. The lone remaining scientist is a few feet away, tentatively sniffing a beaker of blue liquid. He glances to make sure no one is watching, then furtively takes a sip — and does an immediate loud spit-take, attracting the shocked attention of the other scientists.
Cut to spokesman, now frowning at the camera disappointedly.
Cut back to lab, where all hell has broken loose. Most of the scientists have a beaker in hand, while a few are double-fisting. One giggles as he tries to use the microscope to look down the back of another’s pants. A third is passed out on the bench, spilled beakers all around him. Chaos is everywhere.
Some of the soberer scientists seem to realize that the camera is on. The head scientist shushes the others, tries to compose himself as he holds a clipboard upside-down, clears his throat and slurs:
“Wait… wha wazz the quesshen again?”
As they burst into giggles and drunken revelry, the overlay reads:
“Geico Insshuransh
Hey… we lovssssh you, man.”]
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s been a scandalous four days since I’ve posted here. That feels like far too long, but I do have a good reason — or rather, a set of reasons, some better (and more painful) than others — for the negligence. I’ll explain myself and ask for the mercy of the court, in the form of a short day-by-day update and exciting weekend recap. Starting with:
Wednesday: The first excuse is always the best, and on the first day I actually wrote something. The owner of a new story collection website contacted me — and several hundred thousand of his closest friends and random internet strangers, no doubt — to have a look at his site. I did, and decided to submit a reworking of an old tale I posted here a while back. As I explained to him, it’s:
“…an experience that had a profound and lasting experience on me — a tale of intrigue, deception and betrayal. And graphite.”
“The weekend has been a different animal altogether. “
If he’s good enough to include it in the collection, I’ll have proof of my not-slacking off on Wednesday soon enough. Stay tuned, pencil fans.
Thursday: On Thursday, I did no writing. But I did talk comedy shop for a few hours with my friend Jenn. Who apparently has something against garden gnomes, which is understandable. They look like little shrunken Santa Clauses, without the presents, or the reindeer. Or the cold-weather gear. Kind of creepy in my book, too.
Jenn also reported that the hilarious Mug of Woe book will be hitting stores soon. There’s a release party scheduled for us in a couple of weeks, and an actual, honest-to-god physical copy of the book that exists now.
I have to say, if this is all a devious and elaborate ruse just to make me think I’ve had a story accepted in a printed book, Jenn’s really gone all-out for the gag. It’s just possible that the thing’s really going to press. And Amazon. And from what I learned on Friday, Kindle. Good stuff.
By the end of the evening, we’d moved on from discussing practical matters concerning viable and current projects, and devolved into some kind of threat involving a transvestite pig wearing fishnet stockings. And possibly singing numbers from the Rocky Horror soundtrack. This is not especially unusual.
Highly disturbing. But not unusual.
Friday: The weekend has been a different animal altogether.
(And thank goodness, if we’re still talking about the cross-dressing pork chop.)
On Friday, the missus and I slipped out of work a bit early and headed south to Cape Cod. Some friends of ours have a house down Cape way, and we decided to get away for a “relaxing weekend”. Lounging. Eating. Couple of beers. Maybe some light walking. Relaxing.
So naturally, the host and I find ourselves sitting on his deck at 4:30 in the morning, drinking beer and debating nothing in particular for the five-and-a-half hours since the sane people have gone to bed. And I find him saying:
“Hey, the sun’s coming up. Let’s get another beer, and go fishing.”
And he finds me saying, inexplicably: “Sure. Why not?”
Now, I’ll be honest. I’m not a complete stranger to the region of three or fourish in the morning, and staying up for one dubious reason or another from the night before. And I’ve occasionally had some sort of conversation at that time of day with whoever had been caught in the maelstrom with me. But those discussions are usually along the lines of:
“I’ve got to get some sleep.”
Or: “Man, this is going to hurt tomorrow.”
Or possibly: “Hey, whose pants are these, anyway?”
But never: “If you grab the rods, I’ll go find the waders.”
Never before Saturday morning around sunrise, anyway. And if I’m lucky? Never again.
(Predictably, we didn’t catch anything. I haven’t fished in probably twenty years, and lost a lure to the ocean on a spectacularly bad cast.
So while no fishes were harmed during this wacky episode, we did manage to litter up their habitat a little. I’d call that a ‘draw’.)
Saturday: I got to bed a few minutes before seven am. We missed by mere minutes the early-to-bed crew getting up for breakfast and biking and backstroking around the Cape — or whatever the hell it is morning people on vacation do. I slept until maybe two in the afternoon, and was in no shape, mood or position to write anything for the rest of the day. Or speak or communicate in much of any way, come to think of it
(I did use something that could be considered ‘sign language’ around noon, when my wife came into the bedroom and gave me the “Wake up, sleepyhead!” routine. But I only used one hand — and just the one finger — so I’m not sure it counts.
It’ll probably cost me. But I’m not sure it counts.)
On the bright side, I managed to play bocce on the lawn later in the evening, so some of the old motor skills had apparently returned. Unless you ask the deck table I knocked over, or the fence slat I need to repair before I leave, or the squirrel minding his own business behind an azalea bush when I nearly bowled him into the street.
Things will hopefully return to some level of normalcy soon. In the meantime, in case you were wondering if I’d died, I just wanted you to know:
No.
Almost, from laughing.
Nearly, from sleep deprivation and stupidity.
And no, but I wished for death for most of the day.
So there you go. Update complete. I’m going back to bed. Ciao.
Permalink | 1 CommentThe missus and I had a couple over for dinner tonight. They’re a nice enough husband and wife, we get along well, there are no dramas or finger pointing or hair pulling when we get together. There’s just one thing:
They’re cat people.
Me, I’m not cat people. I don’t mind most cats — or most cat people, for that matter. I’m just not a particular fan of the feline milieu.
(It doesn’t help especially that I’m also mildly allergic to cats, so once their milieu gets snurfed up my honker, I tend to water and sniffle and puff up in uncomfortable places. This makes it rather challenging to spend a lot of ‘quality time’ with citizens of the cat world.
To be clear, I don’t blame the cats for this. It’s simple biology; exposure to antigens later in life, rather than early, can often lead to allergic reactions. Maybe if my mother had fed me more suburban takeout Chinese food when I was younger, I wouldn’t have this particular issue.
Don’t overthink that one. As a cat fan or a General Tso’s orderer, you’re probably not going to like it.)
Now, these folks are not craaaaazy cat people. They have two cats, which seems to me a relatively sane number to wrangle. I tend to view cat ownership in much the same way as child rearing — I certainly don’t want to be responsible for feeding or clothing or declawing one of the things, and I’d greatly prefer that they didn’t hork up hairballs or baby teeth or half-digested Cheerios anywhere on my person. But if somebody really wants to take on that responsibility, for some odd reason, I’m not prepared to judge them. So long as it’s just one. Or two, so they can keep each other — and their hairballs — company.
Three is pushing it. Four is bordering on cuckoo. I could understand, maybe, back in the old days when life was so much more uncertain. In feudal times or amid cholera outbreaks, sure — you had to squeeze out six or fourteen kids, just to have a fighting chance of one living long enough to swim upstream and spawn themselves. Or whatever the hell it is children do when they grow up.
Same with cats, I guess. If the grim kitty reaper is knocking on the litter box every other day because we haven’t invented rabies vaccines yet or saber-toothed marmosets are carrying your Mr. Fluffers back to their lair, then fine. You’re allowed to keep a dozen cats on hand. But ten of them are strictly replacements. Don’t even give them names or show them the scratching post until the old ones are toast, and they’re next on the scything block.
Anyway, this couple is in no current danger of overcatting. They just have the two, with no immediate plans that I know of to go on some adoption shelter shopping binge and gorge themselves on tabbies and minxii. If I ever visit their place and they’re naked in the bathtub soaking in cat, then we’ll revisit the status. Rather quickly, and preferably on camera. But until then — they’re good.
Still, they are cat people, and fairly exclusive ones at that. So they’re pretty unfamiliar with the behavior of your average household dog. Or worse, our household dog.
“I don’t know what sort of dog ‘business’ you do, but I can tell you that ninety percent of the really important stuff is delivered out of one of the rear exits.”
(Let’s just pause here to note that we have exactly the one dog. Just to be clear. We’re not craaaaazy dog people, either. If you ever find us doing backstrokes in an indoor pool filled with poodles, then we’ll talk. But I don’t plan on keeping that much kibble in the house. There’s got to be some sort of horsemeat-per-square-foot-of-living-space quota that we shouldn’t go over. And my threshold’s pretty damned low.
So just the one dog. Now you’re caught up.)
To her credit, “Princess Paws” (we call her ‘Susie’, for short) was on her best behavior throughout the evening. Where ‘best behavior’ mostly involves slumping awkwardly on the floor and snoring, or lapping water all over the kitchen floor — and walls, and fridge, and stove, and ceiling — with the ostensible purpose of drinking some portion of it.
(Hey, I never said it was the best behavior. Just her best behavior. So far as I’ve ever seen.)
After we finished eating, we adjourned to the living room for a sit. The dog schalumphed in, and plopped in the middle of the floor with her “business end” facing our guests.
(And no, that’s not the nose. I don’t know what sort of dog ‘business’ you do, but I can tell you that ninety percent of the really important stuff is delivered out of one of the rear exits. Toxic waste, mostly. The occasional shoestring or unfortunate blade of grass. Nothing good. But all business.)
She then proceeded to slowly roll, ever so gently, onto her back, with her paws gently lolling in the air. It’s the international canine sign for “HEY, SPARKY — RUB MAH BELLY!”
I’m not sure that’s what it actually means in dog-speak. But that’s what happens every time she does this, and she hasn’t stopped rolling on her back for twelve years, so we seem to be understanding each other. Maybe it originally meant “Feed me peeled grapes while I sun myself on the veranda, plebe“. But we’re not doing that — and we don’t even have a veranda — so presumably she got over her disappointment quickly and moved on. To upside-down stomach massage.
Now, I didn’t particularly expect the cat-couple to do anything about this. Maybe cats have the same behavior, and maybe they don’t. Cats are conniving little bitches, so maybe they splay themselves out like that to draw you in close for a good scratching. Or so one of their accomplices can lift your wallet. I wouldn’t put anything past those felonious felines. So I figured our guests would be wary, and maybe ignore the dog altogether.
Instead, the woman scrunched up her forehead, made a little clucking noise and exclaimed:
‘Well, what a little slut!‘
That threw me off. Now it was my turn to react, but I couldn’t quite figure out how. At first consideration, I rejected the idea on its face. Little slut? Little slut?
(Well, yeah, to be fair, fine — little slut. But that was then. Not now. And I don’t even know where that mousepad is any more, since the move. Point of order!)
Look, I’ve seen dogs going at it. And at no point that I’m aware of does any canine find itself, in the middle of the nasty-making, lying face-up on the carpet and wiggling its little paws in the air. I’m not saying it’s not possible. I’m just saying I haven’t seen it. Also, it’s called “doggy-style” for a reason. And it doesn’t look like that.
(Or so I’m told. My wife won’t let me unscramble the giggity channels to confirm. But I’ve seen stick figure drawings, and I’m pretty positive on this one.)
I thought maybe I’d misheard — ‘little nut?‘ ‘Little butt,’ maybe, if she was jealous of the mutt’s svelte ass? But the prim look of distaste told me I had it right. ‘Little slut‘ it was, at least as far as Kitty McJudgenheim there was concerned.
I didn’t want to make a scene or upset our guests — or the dog — so I slipped into the floor, gave the puppy’s tummy a nice rub and replied, “Yep. She’s a real stinkin’ whore, all right.”
I’m gonna pay for that one later, I have a feeling. Whether for being salty in front of company or badmouthing our pooch, or both, I can’t say. But I’m sure the missus will have something to say about my shocking and inappropriate behavior. Again.
My only hope is to catch her in bed reading, right before she goes to sleep. If I time it just right, I can go in and try to rub her stomach, and maybe soothe her right to sleep. She can’t possibly be mad at me then. It’s the perfect plan.
Or would be, if I’d ever had her declawed. I’m guessing I won’t get within ten feet before the talons come out, and I’m in a world of slice and swipe and pain. Because did I mention that before we got the dog, my wife was a cat person?
Yeah. That’s right. And those people are craaaaaazy.
Permalink | No CommentsThe title referring to, of course, a sketch about a class that I wrote for this week’s sketch class. Ergo, sketch class class sketch.
Got it? Good. I’m pasting this in and taking the rest of the weekend off. Bon class-etit, amigos.
REMEDIAL LIT.
[ Interior of a classroom. The students are in their seats, most with heads down or swaying sleepily. A bell rings and the teacher, Mr. Paulson, walks in, full of enthusiasm. He tosses a briefcase on the desk and stands in front, facing the students.]
PAULSON: Good morning, class! I hope everyone had a good weekend.
[ Paulson looks around the room, hoping for a response. Silence. ]
“Come on, now. We’re all in this together. Who asked us to call him Ishmael?”
PAULSON: Super, super. Okay. This is our last week discussing Moby Dick, so let’s pick up where we left off on Friday. Anyone remember what we were chewing on?
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: Anyone? Anyone at all? Don’t be shy.
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: Okay, super. Awesome. Well, I think we were in Chapter One. And we were discussing… any ideas? … Anybody? … Shout it out.
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: No? That’s super. No problem. Let’s just review, then. Start with the first line. First line of Moby Dick — very famous. Any takers? … First line?
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: All right, I’ll just throw it out there, then. Get us started right off. The first line of Moby Dick is: “Call me Ishmael.” Remember that, guys? Ishmael? From last week? In Moby Dick. Very first line.
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: Right on. Super. So. Can anyone tell me who spoke that line? The very first one. “Call me Ishmael.” Who said it?
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: Come on, now. We’re all in this together. Who asked us to call him Ishmael? You can get this.
[ A low moan emanates from a student near the front of the class. ]
PAULSON: What’s that, Susie? You have an answer? Super! Tell us who spoke that first line.
SUSIE: Braaainssss….
[ The rest of the class chimes in by moaning ‘Braaaaainsss’ and swaying in their chairs. It becomes clear (hopefully) that the class is entirely composed of zombies. ]
PAULSON: Okay, settle down, class. Susie, that’s super, really. You really kicked us off here. But I’m afraid “brains” isn’t quite what we’re looking for. But great try. Really super. Solid effort. Anyone else? Anyone know who wants us to call him Ishmael?
ROBERT (and others): Braaainsss….?
SUSIE: Queeeeeequeeeeeg…?
TINA: Aaaaaahaaaaaab….?
HOWARD: Rooooooosebuuuuud….
PAULSON: Okay, that’s super. Lots of energy there. And that’s great. But I think maybe we’re just _guessing_ now. Maybe if we just think of this in a different–
[ Robert, at the front of the room, has begun shuffling toward the door, dragging his chair along with him. ]
PAULSON: Uh, Robert? What’s, uh… whatcha need, buddy?
ROBERT: Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
PAULSON: Ah. Okay, no problem. Here, just take the hall pass.
[ Paulson retrieves a key with a wooden block attached from his desk. As he approaches, Robert slowly and tentatively attempts to bite toward Paulson’s head.
Paulson gingerly places the wooden block in Robert’s mouth. Robert looks confused for a second, then resumes shuffling out the door.]
PAULSON: Okay, let’s try a different tack. Moby Dick. Who can tell me what Moby Dick is? Moby Dick himself — what is he? Give it a go… Tina!
TINA: Bruuu…. Uh, braaaains?
PAULSON: Very close, Tina. That’s super. Howard?
HOWARD: [ excited ] Braaaaaainssss!
PAULSON: Ooh — again, close. Super try, Howard. Love the energy. But no. Susie!
[ Susie is gnawing on her neighbor’s forearm. At the sound of her name, she looks up momentarily, then goes back to chewing. ]
PAULSON: Super. Really, really super.
[ The class bell rings again. The zombies stand up, but don’t bother to extricate themselves from their chairs. ]
PAULSON: Okay, that’s it for today. For your homework, I want you to read Chapter One — or let’s say *page* one, for now. Yes. Read _page_ one, and the title, and study the picture on the cover to see what Moby Dick is. We’ll pick up here tomorrow. Any questions?
[ Silence. ]
PAULSON: Super! All right, have a great lunch, everyone. Super work today!
[ The zombies shuffle toward the door, dragging their chairs behind. ]
ZOMBIES: (Braaaaainssss. Braaaaains.) Slooooopy Joooooooes.
[ As the zombies exit, Paulson sits at his desk, taking a bottle of booze and shot glass from a drawer. He sets the shot glass aside and takes a long pull from the bottle as the scene ends. ]
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