Tag Archives: plays by madamab

Look, Up in the Sky! A Play in One Farcical Act.

Up, Up and Away

Up, Up and Away

THE SCENE: A swank TV studio, with all the zoomy, whizzy lights, giant flashing screens, deep-pile royal blue carpeting, poreless, lacquered newsbots, and hysterical black-clad assistants one could ever desire. We are in the back of the studio, in the glass-enclosed center of all the action. EDITORS 1, 2, 3 and 4 are all sitting in their leather chairs, directing the action by talking to each other, pointing at their MacBooks, and shouting into their wireless headsets. They are all in their 20’s and have just been promoted after their more experienced bosses “aged out of the business.”

EDITOR 1 (swigging a Red Bull): What’s new on Twitter? We’ve gotta have something for the next segment.

EDITOR 2 (nervously): Let’s see…Demi and Ashton just tweeted…

EDITOR 3 (yawning): Oh please. They tweet when they pee!

EDITOR 4 (pushing in excitedly): Guys, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard just got bombed! A bunch of people died and that DinnerJacket guy is blaming us and the Brits! This could be the start of a huge international incident!

(A brief silence, then:)

EDITORS 1-3 (bursting into laughter): HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

EDITOR 3 (wiping tears from her eyes): Oh, that was a good one! Like anyone cares about that crap these days.

(EDITOR 4 subsides into a humiliated silence.)

EDITOR 2 (eagerly): What about Sarah Palin? Sometimes we can just say her name and people think it’s news!

EDITOR 1 (dismissively): Nahhhh, we tried that two days ago. It bombed.

EDITOR 2 (peevishly): FINE. Uh, uh…Oooooh! (points at his MacBook) Check this out!

(All the EDITORS gather around the screen.)

EDITOR 3 (finally interested): Holy shit! A kid jumped in a balloon in a back yard and it got loose?

EDITOR 2 (proud): Huh? Huh? Is this good or what?

EDITOR 1 (shouting into his headset): Listen up, people! We’ve got something. Get ready to roll in five!

EDITOR 4: This story is unbelievable! Wow, it’s…hmmm.

EDITOR 3 (dismissively): What is it NOW?

EDITOR 4: Well, just shooting it out there, but…what if the kid was never in the balloon to begin with? Or what if he was, but he’s not now? Or what if these parents are making the whole thing up?

EDITOR 1 (after a brief pause): What are you, 25?

EDITOR 4 (nervously): Uh…26.

EDITOR 1 (smugly): I figured. God, you old people just don’t understand the business any more! (gets up and starts pacing) The story’s a win-win. If it’s a hoax, we do a story about the hoax and we milk that for a week. If it’s true, boo-hoo, the kid’s dead – we milk that for a week. If the kid arrives in the balloon safely, we milk his heroic and incredible escape for a week. (suddenly shouting) DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!

(EDITOR 4 looks cowed and ashamed. EDITORS 2 and 3 look happy and superior.)

EDITOR 1 (with chilling finality): You’re fired. (sitting down, shouting into his headset) Hey! You in the black!

(ALL the assistants whirl around at the same time, with hopeful smiles on their faces.)

EDITOR 1 (annoyed): NOT YOU! The guy with the cool hair and soulpatch. Get up here, man.

(The New Guy pumps the air with his fist, then starts making his way to the glass booth as EDITOR #4 exits ignominiously. Suddenly, EDITOR #4 stops his exit, and stands in the middle of the newsroom. He exudes a quiet and desperate dignity which is compelling enough to cause a pause in all the furious activity.)

EDITOR 4: You are all a disgrace to journalism. Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow are ROLLING IN THEIR GRAVES!

(He swoops out dramatically. With a shrug, the buzzing and rushing resume.)

EDITOR 3 (yawning again): What the hell was he talking about?

THE NEW GUY: Should I Google ’em?

EDITOR 2 (completely uninterested): Whatever. (looks at his MacBook, brightens) Oooh, video!

EDITOR 1 (excitedly): Send it through!

EDITOR 3 (happily): News for a week no matter what happens. We are AWESOME!

(All the EDITORS high-five as:)

(LIGHTS OUT.)

Advertisements

Welcome to Libertarian Island! A Play in One Freedy-Free Act.

Libertarian Island

Libertarian Island

SCENE I: A busy urban street. Two middle-aged white men, BOB and JOE, are waiting at a stoplight, having a spirited political discussion. They have been friends for years and the discussion has the feel of ritual.

BOB: Look, I just don’t trust the government to run my health care. In fact, I don’t want ’em doing anything for me at all. I just want to live my life without government interference. What’s wrong with that? Besides, the American health care system is the best in the world!

JOE (sighing): Oh, forgawd’ssake, BOB, give it a rest already. I wish just for once you could live in that Libertarian Paradise you’re always talking about. I’d bet you’d be begging for government to come back in about half a second!

(The light changes. BOB and JOE start walking across the street, too absorbed in their conversation to pay much attention to where they’re going.)

BOB: No, seriously, JOE. The only thing to do is make government so small we can drown it in a bathtub. Every man for himself. It’s the only way we can be free!

JOE: Ahhh, BOB, don’t you get that all corporations care about is their bottom line? I’m telling you —

(Out of nowhere, a bus, out of control, careens into the intersection and smacks right into the hapless friends. Strangely, the marquee on the top of the bus reads “Liberty Express.” BOB and JOE fly in opposite directions as the scene fades to black.)

SCENE II: A lush island Paradise. The sky is a lovely blue festooned with decorative, puffy white clouds. BOB is lying on a hammock strung between two palm trees. Behind him, the facade of an impossibly luxurious resort hotel can be seen; in front of him is a beautifully landscaped infinity pool, complete with waterfall and fat-free bathing beauties in bikinis. BOB is unconscious, but appears to be otherwise unharmed by his encounter with the Liberty Express. Slowly, he opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings.

BOB (wonderingly): What the fuck?!

(One of the bikini-clad babes, perfectly tan and blonde, strolls over to BOB with a drink in her hand.)

BLONDE (liltingly): Hello, Bob! Welcome to Libertarian Island. Care for a complimentary beverage?

BOB (confused): What – what happened?

BLONDE (comfortingly): That’s really not important, Bob. Everything will be explained to you shortly. I’m just here to provide you with your complimentary beverage. Do you want it or not? It’s got a cute little umbrella and everything!

BOB (totally lost): Uh…yes???

(The BLONDE hands him the drink, which he sips tentatively. A huge smile blossoms across his face.)

BOB: Wow! That’s the best martini I’ve ever had. How did you know it was my favorite?

BLONDE (wagging her finger, flirtily stern): Uh-uh-uh! Drink up!

(BOB finishes his drink. His eyelids lower to half mast as the potent alcohol kicks in.)

BOB (tipsy): Thanks, uh…what did you say your name was?

BLONDE (coldly): I didn’t. (lifts her wrist to her mouth) Okay, he’s ready.

(She walks away, completely indifferent now that she has performed her duty, and happily situates herself on the lounge chair from whence she came.)

BOB: What – where are you going?

(He starts to follow her, but a man clad all in white robes steps in front of him, blocking his access to the BLONDE. The man looks like a Ken doll, the ultimate Republican idea of perfection. In fact, his name is KEN. Cool, huh?)

KEN: Now, BOB, let’s just calm down. My name is KEN, and I’m here to officially welcome you to – Libertarian Island!

(A banner unfurls from the palm trees between which BOB’s hammock is tied. The pristine white, beautifully-inked banner reads, of course, “Welcome to Libertarian Island.” Below that declaration are the words “Freedom IS Free! Free, Freedy, Freedelicious Freedom!”)

BOB (in awe): Cool!

KEN: I’m here to be your guide and to help make your stay more enjoyable.

BOB: How could it be more enjoyable? I mean, (gesturing) LOOK at this place!

KEN: Well, BOB, this place certainly is beautiful. But this is not where you’re going to be staying. Step this way, please.

(KEN leads BOB past the bikini babes, who loftily ignore him, and towards a dirt path in the elegant green sward. After a minute of walking, BOB notices something strange.)

BOB: Hey KEN – is that a door?!

KEN: Yes it is, BOB. You see, you were in the visitor’s section of Libertarian Island. When you go through this door, you will see the rest of the island. I promise, you’re going to love it!

BOB (confidently): Of course I will. I mean, this is Libertarian Island, so I’m assuming we’ve got that damn government out of our lives and are free to create a better society through choice and competition!

KEN: Ab-so-LUTELY! (opening the door) And heeeeerrrre we are!

Continue reading

Uncle Richard Bruce Explains it All: A Play in One Unbalanced Act.

Hes Got the Whole World In His Hands...

He's Got the Whole World In His Hands...

AUTHOR’S NOTE: When I heard yesterday that Unka Dick was writing a book criticizing George Bush for “going soft” on “their” policies in the final year of his Presidency, I couldn’t help imagining what he would say. This is the result. Enjoy!

 

THE SCENE: Dick Cheney’s secret bunker, erm, house. It is lushly appointed in Modern Dungeon, with grey walls mimicking the look of concrete, medieval torture devices tastefully displayed in gleaming mahogany cabinets with recessed lighting, and an old electric chair given pride of place in a prominent corner. Pictures of Cheney with Nixon, Kissinger and other reviled figures of the American past are positioned artfully on the walls. There are some obvious empty spaces where the pictures of Dick and Dubya used to hang. On the mantle over the stone fireplace are family pictures in black ebony frames; the 75-inch flatscreen TV is perpetually tuned to Fox News. The whole place seems like a museum, and a rather uninviting one at that.

DICK is seated in a leather armchair by the fireplace, waiting impatiently, sipping on a bourbon and water. He is half-drunk, as usual. Finally, his wife LYNNE enters the room with another woman, in her early sixties, and well-put together.

LYNNE: Dick, here she is. What did you say your name was again, honey?

WOMAN: Mrs. Cheney, my name is Frances Wood – I’m here to help Dick with his book.

LYNNE: Well now, Frances, I think you’re going to work out just wonderfully. I’ll leave you both to your work. I just know it’s going to be a huge best-seller!

(LYNNE exits.)

DICK (motioning to a chair opposite him): Well, sit down, Frances, sit down. Tell me about yourself. Do you have a lot of ghostwriting experience?

FRANCES: Actually, yes. I write all of the books for Regnery Press. You know, the conservative publishing house? Michelle Malkin, Bernie Goldberg…folks like that.

DICK (impressed): Well! It looks like I’m in very good hands then.

FRANCES (faux-modestly): I like to think so. So, Mr. Vice President –

DICK (interrupting): Call me Dick. Everyone does.

FRANCES: Well, uh, Dick, where would you like to start?

DICK: At the beginning, of course! Chapter 1: The Nixon Years.

FRANCES: Perfect! May I turn on my tape recorder?

DICK (panicking): NO! No tape recorders! I get to wiretap you, not the other way around!

FRANCES (shocked): Uh, what?

DICK (recovering himself): Oh! Sorry. Just a reflex.  Ha! Well. Where was I? Ah yes. Chapter 1: The Nixon Years. (leaning back in his chair and reminiscing) Ah, Dick Nixon was a great man. He had a problem with the drinking, you know: but otherwise, he was really on the right track.

FRANCES (encouragingly): In what way?

DICK (taking a sip of his drink): Remember when he said “When the president does it, that means that it is not illegal?” That was brilliant! Yes, if only he’d taken that farther, we would be in a much better place here in America. (abruptly standing, snarling) But no, that stupid Commie bastard Ford had to come in and ruin everything. PARDON Nixon. For what? A stupid burglary? That was child’s play, a nothing. The only mistake G. Gordon made was getting caught!

FRANCES (eagerly): Wow! This is great stuff, Dick. Please continue.

DICK (basking in her praise): Well, we can flesh that part out later. What I really want to talk about is how I developed my philosophy for world domination, and how that weak, drunken fool (air quotes) “Dubya” ruined everything!

(sitting on the arm of the chair, deliciously remembering his glory days)

DICK: It all began with a group of dreamers. Me and some guys from the American Enterprise Institute and the Heritage Foundation, we decided that after President Reagan caused the USSR to destroy itself in Afghanistan, we needed a new focus for American foreign policy. At the same time, we realized that as much as we love our oil men in Texas, their time was coming to an end. Pretty soon the U.S. of A. was going to need all of that oil in the Middle East in order to survive. And of course, we knew that with the rise of that wimp Al Gore’s (air quotes) “internet,” nuclear weapons were going to start proliferating in countries that were very unfriendly to our interests.

And so was born – the Project for the New American Century!

(A fanfare bursts out in the room.)

FRANCES (jumping up, startled, hand on heart): Oh my goodness!

DICK (confused): Huh? (light dawning) Oh, that! Oh don’t worry, Frances. I’ll have it  turned off. The house is wired for certain..special effects. (Presses a button under the arm of the chair) There! That should be the last time you hear it.

FRANCES (calming down, but now confused in turn): Special…effects?

DICK (embarrassed): Ummmm, yes. You see, it’s hard for some people to understand my speech, so we have a Cheney to English translater built into the house. (gesturing) My words are processed as they exit my mouth, so you can better receive my wisdom. But that’s not why we’re here, so let’s get back on track, shall we? We were talking about – my glorious vision! 

(sits back down in the chair)

FRANCES: Yes, tell me more about (looks around apprehensively), um, PNAC?

(No fanfare. FRANCES sighs with relief.)

DICK: Yes, PNAC! Well, we understood that weak-minded, lily-livered hick, Bill Clinton was destroying America with all that so-called peace and prosperity. We knew it was time to do something quick! So here it is: Our Statement of Principles, from 1997. I can recite it from memory, of course.

(declaiming)

“We seem to have forgotten the essential elements of the Reagan Administration’s success: a military that is strong and ready to meet both present and future challenges; a foreign policy that boldly and purposefully promotes American principles abroad; and national leadership that accepts the United States’ global responsibilities.

Of course, the United States must be prudent in how it exercises its power. But we cannot safely avoid the responsibilities of global leadership or the costs that are associated with its exercise. America has a vital role in maintaining peace and security in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. If we shirk our responsibilities, we invite challenges to our fundamental interests. The history of the 20th century should have taught us that it is important to shape circumstances before crises emerge, and to meet threats before they become dire. The history of this century should have taught us to embrace the cause of American leadership.

Our aim is to remind Americans of these lessons and to draw their consequences for today. Here are four consequences:

• we need to increase defense spending significantly if we are to carry out our global
responsibilities today and modernize our armed forces for the future;

• we need to strengthen our ties to democratic allies and to challenge regimes hostile to our interests and values;

• we need to promote the cause of political and economic freedom abroad;

• we need to accept responsibility for America’s unique role in preserving and extending an international order friendly to our security, our prosperity, and our principles.

Such a Reaganite policy of military strength and moral clarity may not be fashionable today. But it is necessary if the United States is to build on the successes of this past century and to ensure our security and our greatness in the next.”

(DICK looks expectantly at FRANCES. She is spellbound, but then, comes out of it to give DICK a round of applause.)

FRANCES: Bra-vo, Dick! And how did PNAC proceed after that?

DICK: Well, we wrote a letter in 1998 trying to convince ol’ Billy Boy to invade Eye-Raq. We had some of our Congressmen do the same. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t see the opportunity and the danger of Saddam’s evil regime. But when we got Georgie in the White House, we knew we had struck gold. And 9/11, well, that was just great for us! It was the perfect excuse to do what we had wanted to do from Day One. We even put one of our members in charge in Afghanistan! Allahu akbar, baby!

FRANCES (smiling, tactfully): Uh, Dick, I might not put that in the book. I mean, we want people to like you and sympathize with you. Right?

DICK (standing abruptly, thundering and pointing his finger): LIKE me? Do you think I give a shit about that? This book is about being RIGHT and setting the record straight. I can still influence the direction of this country and keep it from descending into complete chaos! It’s my duty as an American!

(taking a deep breath, calming himself)

Now, if you will excuse me, I think I need a break. We’ll continue in an hour or so. Please feel free to help yourself to whatever you need in the kitchen. The maid will be along shortly to give you a tour of the house.

(DICK exits.)

(FRANCES, mindful of the bugs in the Cheney home, turns up the sound on the TV. She furtively takes out a cell phone and makes a call.)

FRANCES (in a stage whisper): Hello? Laura? It’s me, Frances. It’s working out just like you said it would! Dick is even more nuts than you told me! (listening) Yes, I heard the fanfare. (listening) Trust me. When I’m done with Dick Cheney, your husband George is going to look like a saint! (listening) You’re welcome, honey. Anything for a fellow Kappa Alpha Theta! KAT Forever! Bye, honey!

(FRANCES hangs up the phone happily.)

(LIGHTS OUT.)

President Obama Answers the Red Phone: A Play in One Uncaring Act.

The Red Phone Is Ringing

The Red Phone Needs to be Answered

THE SCENE: It’s 3:00 (in the afternoon) at the White House. Fresh from his second workout (and fourth cigarette) of the day, an energized PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA sits in his private quarters with his Chief of Staff and closest confidant, RAHM (RahmBo) EMANUEL. The room has been overdecorated, butofcourse, in Louis XIV WannaBe.

As the lights come up, OBAMA and RAHMBO are relaxing and chatting in overstuffed, purple velvet chairs with  gold braid around the edges. It’s time for their daily chore of listening and responding to OBAMA’s messages on the Red Phone, which is so tricked out, it would look right at home on the bridge of The Enterprise.

OBAMA (with his trademark grin): Well, Rahmbo, are ya ready? Today’s messages should be great.

RAHMBO: Fuckin’ A! Can’t wait to see how your “Balls of Steel” national security speech went over.

(RAHMBO hits “Play”. The phone beeps and begins playing back the messages.)

RED PHONE (in mechanical male voice): Message One. From: Richard Cheney.

(CHENEY’S VOICE comes on. Unfortunately, it is nothing but snarling gibberish. The brief message ends, and the phone beeps.)

OBAMA: Whoooops! I should have known Cousin Dick would call. Lucky for me, George built a Cheney-To-English Translator right into this phone. Let me see – I think it’s this one. (Hits a button) Okay, Rahmbo, try again.

(RAHMBO hits “Play” again.)

CHENEY’S VOICE: Hey, Cuz, great job on that national security speech of yours. I was worried everyone was going to notice that it was the same as mine, but that speechwriter of yours is worth every penny! Oh, and thanks for the cover on torture. It would have been a real drag to go to jail for a “no-brainer” like waterboarding. See you in Paraguay on July 4th – George is bringing the barbeque! Peace out!

(The phone beeps.)

RAHMBO: Should we call him back?

OBAMA: Naaaaahhhh. I’ll talk to him over the weekend, like always. Any more?

RAHMBO: Yup – we’re pretty full up today. (presses “Play” again)   

RED PHONE: Message Deleted. Next Message, From: Benjamin Netanyahu.

NETANYAHU’S VOICE: Mr. President, Shalom. I would like to know why you are being so intractable on the matter of the West Bank settlements, while putting no pressure at all on the Palestinian leadership to recognize Israel’s right to exist and defend itself. I don’t think we are ever going to have peace this way, Mr. President. Please call me back. (The machine beeps.)

OBAMA (snippily, responding to the message): Yeah, well, Benjamin, I’m doing the best I can with this mess I inherited from Bush. And everyone knows the Israelis don’t have any oil, so why the hell should I step up for them? I mean, what do they want me to do? (reluctantly) I guess I’ll have to send George Mitchell over there again.

RAHMBO (muttering under his breath): Yeah, THAT’s gonna do a lot of good.

OBAMA (sharply): What was that?

RAHMBO: Nothing, Mr. President. Next message!

Continue reading

Barack Obama’s First 100 Days: A Play in One Conspiratorial Act.

Who is Hiding Behind These Masks?

Who is Hiding Behind These Masks?

SCENE ONE: The President of the United States, BARACK OBAMA, is sitting in the back of his plushly-appointed limousine. A TV screen showing constantly looping DVD’s of OBAMA’S greatest speeches is strategically placed in front of his eyes. It has a calming effect on him in these days of stress and strain. OBAMA is smoking a cigarette to further relax him in preparation for the meeting he is about to attend.

LIMO DRIVER: Where to, Mr. President? We’ve been driving in circles for 15 minutes now.

OBAMA: Is anyone following us, Frank?

LD: Just the usual photographers and Secret Service, Mr. President.

OBAMA: Ditch the photogs, Frank. The Secret Service knows where we’re going.

LD (with slowly dawning realization): Ohhhhhh. We’re going THERE. (impressed and determined) Hang on, sir. I’ll get you there  in no time.

OBAMA (leaning back in his seat, enjoying his smoke): Good, good. Don’t want to keep them waiting. They hate to wait.

(LIGHTS OUT.)

SCENE TWO:  The hallway of an anonymous office building somewhere in DC. There is no art on the walls, which are a tasteful ecru. A plush beige carpet leads to a nondescript blond wood door. OBAMA walks confidently down the hall and approaches the door.

DOOR (in sultry female voice): Welcome, President Obama.

OBAMA (with a big smile): Hello there, sweetie.

DOOR: Please speak today’s password phrase.

OBAMA (exasperated): Come on, you just recognized me! I’m the President of the United States. Just let me in already!

DOOR (implacably): Please speak today’s password phrase.

OBAMA: Awwwww, shit.  Uh, um…”We get the bucks, your life sucks?”

DOOR: Password incorrect. Two more tries, Mr. President.

OBAMA: The notion that somehow you would deny me entry…I’m the leader of the free world! How can you do this to me?!

DOOR: Do not try to baffle me with bullshit, Mr. President. I am not made to Obot specifications. (implacably) Please speak today’s password phrase.

OBAMA: SHIT! Uh, ummmmm…

(The trademark grin spreads across his face as he remembers the password)

OBAMA: Blood for oil, we get the spoils!

DOOR: Thank you, Mr. President. (the door clicks open) Welcome to the meeting.

(OBAMA walks through the door. LIGHTS OUT.)

SCENE THREE: A typical conference room. The bland decor of the hallway is echoed in the blonde wood, beige leather chairs and beige plush carpeting. The only ornamentation is one large P on the center of the back panel of the wall facing the audience.

Clustered around the stage left side of the table are five people in black robes and white, expressionless masks in the Greek tragedy tradition. Their sex, age and physical appearance are all indeterminate. They have voice-scramblers in their masks, to further hide their identities; the effect of this alteration is to make their words even more inhumane and eerie.

BARACK OBAMA enters stage right, strutting confidently. He takes his seat at the table, across from the five mysterious figures.

OBAMA: Hey, guys, how’s it going?

FIGURE 1 (pointing a finger intimidatingly): WE will ask the questions. YOU will answer.

OBAMA (only slightly daunted): Don’t worry about it, I’m cool. Uh, um…mind if I smoke in here?

FIGURE 2 (forbiddingly): Yes.

OBAMA (more sheepishly): Oh.

FIGURE 3: If you have QUITE finished stalling, young man, we will now proceed with your 100-day performance review.

(A screen comes down in front of the “P” in the back of the room. A blank report card entitled “BARACK OBAMA: FIRST 100 DAYS” appears on the screen. As the figures name the items being graded, the name of the item and the grade fill in the blanks.)

FIGURE 4 (whispering to 3): Are you sure the report card format was such a good idea? He’s not Dubya, you know.

FIGURE 3 (whispering back): Trust me.

FIGURE 5: Now, let’s check your progress on the Patriarchal Agenda. Hmmmm…let’s see. Item number one: Keeping our war machine oiled and running smoothly.

FIGURE 1 (snickering): Oiled! Ha ha ha!

(ALL FIGURES laugh. OBAMA looks puzzled, but gamely joins in the laughter.)

FIGURE 5 (pleased): I thought you’d like that! Anyway, our employee here gets…oooh! An A Plus!

OBAMA (preening): You’re darned right. And it wasn’t easy, either, especially when I talked about how I was against the Iraq war for two years and promised to end it…and now, I’m getting away with continuing it indefinitely. Some trick, huh? Plus, I’m even doing a surge in Afghanistan and building up to a third war in Pock-ee-stan – and not a protest in sight!

ALL FIGURES: Bravo!

Continue reading

The Obamas Meet the Queen: A Play in One Embarrassing Act.

Not Again!

Not Again!

Note: Thanks to commenter jules, for the inspiration for this play!

THE SCENE: Buckingham Palace. HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH and her consort, PRINCE PHILIP, are lying in bed in their elaborate, gilded suite. It’s been a long day – they’ve just spent it with America’s First Couple, BARACK and MICHELLE OBAMA. They are both exhausted, but not ready to go to sleep just yet. They are wearing monogrammed, silk pajamas with royal crests on them. Reading glasses and old-fashioned nightcaps adorn their royal heads. HMQE is reading The Guardian, while PP is reading OK!.)

HMQE (acerbically, putting down the newspaper): Any good pictures of Britney today, darling?

PP (absorbed): Hmmmmm?

(PP looks over at his wife, reads her mood, and puts down the magazine.)

PP (sympathetically): What is it, darling? Are you still upset about today?

HMQE (bursting out with repressed frustration): Of course I am! I don’t understand how you can just sit there and read that wretched rag, while I’m lying here in a tizzy!

PP: Now, darling, try to remain calm.

HMQE: CALM? (getting out of bed and crossing to her dressing table) CALM? You want me to be CALM? I’m utterly prostrate, Philip, I really am.

(collapses into the chair in front of her dressing table, head in hands)

PP: I’m so sorry, darling. (gets out of bed, crosses to the chair and puts his hands comfortingly on her shoulders) They really are dreadful, aren’t they? I suppose those etiquette lessons were a waste of everyone’s time.

HMQE (despairingly): Oh, Philip, when will the Americans elect a President who has manners and class? We had to deal with that idiotic, brain-damaged Bush for eight years – a man who actually thought it was appropriate to WINK at me. I’m surprised he didn’t ask me to pull his finger!

PP (comfortingly): Well, at least HE’s out of the picture, thank goodness.

HMQE: But now – now they’ve elected Barack Obama. And let me tell you, Philip, I am NOT amused. How DARE he send back that bust of Winston? Winston was a wonderful man and a great ally of Americans in World War II. Does he have no sense of history?

PP: Appalling, darling.

Continue reading

Georgie Writes a Book: A Play in One Authoritarian Act

Im A Famous Writer!

I'm A Famous Writer!

(NOTE: This play was inspired by this quote from Dubya about why he’s writing a book about his time as President:

Bush said it will be fun to write and that “it’s going to be (about) the 12 toughest decisions I had to make.” 
“I’m going to put people in my place, so when the history of this administration is written at least there’s an authoritarian voice (emphasis added) saying exactly what happened,” Bush said
.

Thanks, George – and thanks, M3, for the quote!)

THE SCENE: Dubya’s swank new house in Dallas, Texas. No more fake ranchin’  and clearin’ brush for this Connecticut Cowboy! George is sitting in his home office, which is decorated in Rawhide Chic and covered with pictures of him in all his Preznitial glory. He is leaning back in his brown leather office chair and playing with a pencil, apparently in deep thought.

A knock is heard at the door.)

GEORGE: Come in!

(Dubya’s wife, LAURA, enters.)

LAURA: How are things going, honey? How’s your first day as a writer?

GEORGE: Well, Lumpy, I have to admit I’m having a tough time with gettin’ started. Turd Blossom says I have to pick my twelve hardest decisions as President and write about them. Heck, all my decisions were easy. I just followed my gut and listened to Dick. I slept like a baby every night!

LAURA: Well, the Jack and Coke cocktails didn’t hurt there!

(Both laugh.)

GEORGE: Yeah, you mix a mean one, Lumpy! But seriously, you were a librarian – you know about books and things. Do you have any suggestions? I’m kinda stumped.

LAURA (sitting down in the wing chair opposite his desk): Well, honey, you could always hire a ghost writer. That’s what most people do.

GEORGE (sharply): No! I don’t want to do that. I want an – an authoritarian voice telling people EXACTLY what it was like to be in my shoes on 9/11. If you want an authoritarian, you gotta go with me!

LAURA (dryly): How true. Well, then, let’s try to make a list of your best moments in office. Let’s not worry about if they were tough decisions or not. Let’s show the people just how great you were at being The Decider!

Continue reading