10 Short Skits by
Edward Crosby Wells

2W/2M Minimum, No Set, Each Skit approx. 3 to 5 Minutes Each.

Comic highlights from each decade of the Twentieth Century are captured in this series. These work best when produced along with song and dance from each decade. Included are:


NOTE: These skits are NOT to be performed outside the context of this play.   20th Century Sketches MUST be performed with all 10 skits and no individual skit will be licensed.

 (Circa: 1903)

MOTHER, FATHER, DAUGHTER and SON are seated in theatre seats facing the audience waiting for the first “movie” to be shown. They are sharing a bucket of hard-boiled eggs and are obviously excited about this historical event.

DAUGHTER: Well, what exactly is it? What are we waiting for?

SON: I hear it’s like looking at a huge photograph that moves on that big sheet up there. They call it moving pictures. It gives some people motion picture sickness.

DAUGHTER: Gee Whiz, I hope it doesn’t make me sick. How does the picture get up there?

SON: Yeah, and what makes it move?

FATHER: Well, it’s all done with mirrors, children. It’s very complicated. When you’re older maybe I’ll explain it to you.

SON: Explain it to us now.

DAUGHTER: Yes, father. Explain it to us now.

FATHER: Not now, children.

SON: Why not now?

FATHER: Because.

DAUGHTER: Because why?

FATHER: Just because!

MOTHER: Listen to your father, children. Father knows best.

DAUGHTER: Well, I wish it would hurry up and start. What’s it called again?

SON: “The Great Train Robbery.” Pass the eggs, please.

MOTHER: Now, don’t eat too many, son . . . just in case you get motion picture sickness. (Passing the bucket.) The nerve of those people! Charging five cents for one little bucket of hard-boiled eggs . . . highway robbery.

SON: No. “The Great Train Robbery.”

FATHER: Now, mother . . . it is called a concession stand, isn’t it?

MOTHER: Why is that, I wonder?

FATHER: Because you have to stand and concede that they make more money selling eggs than they do from the price of admission. This moving picture thing will never be a moneymaker.  Tom Edison can sit over there in Jersey and pump them out till the cows come home, but he won’t see a penny on the dollar. Yep, there’s much more money to be had in the egg business.

MOTHER: Oh, I don’t know. There’s been a lot of hoopla in the papers about the moving picture business. They say it’s the future. Might be a good thing to invest in, dear. Pass the eggs, please.

FATHER: It will never catch on.

MOTHER: Why is that, dear?

FATHER: Because.

MOTHER: Because why?

SON: Because father knows best.

FATHER: (Slapping SON on the head.) Don’t you get smart with me! (The LIGHTS dim.) Oh, it’s starting. Quick! Pass the eggs!

ALL: Shhhhh . . .

The LIGHTS flicker and ALL react with exaggerated animation at what is being projected on the screen. They cover their eyes and scream until the LIGHTING returns to normal signifying the end of the movie.

FATHER: (Suddenly, the “critic!”) On a scale of one to four stars I would give this first effort by Mr. Edison three, possibly three and one half stars. Although the approaching train did seem realistic, the camera photographing the steaming locomotive never moved causing the audience to fear for its life. One must be careful about thrilling an audience unnecessarily with oncoming trains, chases, too much action, and robbers rushing towards you. It will never be accepted by the masses and will lead to untimely deaths from moving picture fright. If this new entertainment form is to survive, a more sedate route must be taken. (They ALL begin to move toward exit.) Furthermore, the New Jersey scenery was both recognizable and adequate. I wish I could say more for the actors who were stiff and wooden. The eggs, however, get a big thumb's up! Perhaps, the next time I will sample the pickled pigs’ feet . . (Exit.)


(Circa: 1912)

BASIL and NIGEL, two men of flamboyant character, are leaning over the railing of the Titanic and sipping champagne. It is night.

BASIL: (Raises glass to make a toast.) April 14, 1912 – our first anniversary.

NIGEL: Chin-chin, darling. (They drink.) I say, who would ever have imagined we’d be celebrating our first anniversary on this really big boat, the Titanic? I feel like the queen of the world!

BASIL: Careful, love. Somebody will hear you.

NIGEL: Oh, bother! As a member of the Oscar Wilde Society, I am coming out of the armoire! Hear me, world! Hear me roar! Grrrr . . .

BASIL: Oh, dear! That champagne is going directly to your head, Nigel.

NIGEL: I feel like the queen of the world! Out of the armoire, boys, and into the streets!

BASIL: (Spots something off in the distance.) Oh, I say, what is that, dear chap?

NIGEL: What is what, Basil?

BASIL: (Pointing.) That. Out there, darling. It looks like . . . Oh, Zeus on Olympus! It looks like a giant penis!

NIGEL: Oh, I say! It is a giant penis, what? Pray tell, however do you suppose a giant penis floated out into the middle of the north Atlantic?

BASIL: And whose penis do you suppose it is? I mean, that ought to be the really big question.

NIGEL: No one I know, darling. It must be fifty feet tall. Quick, Basil! Get those really big oars out of that really big lifeboat over there.

BASIL: (Retrieving oars.) Whatever do you plan to do with these?

NIGEL: We’re going to row, darling. We’re going to row this really big boat over to where we can get a really good look at that really big penis.

(They put the oars in water and row.)

BASIL: Oh, Mary Queen of Scots, this is exhausting!

NIGEL: We’re almost there. Row, darling, row! Row your little, round, firm tushy off! Look at that! (They stop rowing.) It . . . it’s . . . it’s an iceberg.

BASIL: Still . . . it looks like a penis.

NIGEL: Kind of . . . I mean, if you squint.


NIGEL: Really big.

BASIL: Nigel.

NIGEL: Basil?

BASIL: I think it is going to hit this boat, what?

NIGEL: I think you’re right.

The SOUND of the iceberg hitting the Titanic. BASIL and NIGEL hold on to the railing for dear life.

BOTH: OOPS . . .

NIGEL: Quick! Get rid of the evidence. Throw the oars overboard.

BASIL: NO. We’ll need them for the lifeboat. (Spots someone he recognizes on the deck.) I say, there’s that busybody American woman over there.


BASIL: Molly somebody. Ah yes! Brown . . . Molly Brown from Denver, Colorado. Very rich. Loves the royals.

NIGEL: Then she'll love us! BASIL: (Calling out to her.) Hello, Molly! Over here! Care to share a lifeboat?

NIGEL: We’ll save you, Miss Brown! You’ll be safe with us!

BASIL: What’s that, dear? Queer? The nerve of that woman!

NIGEL: We are not queer, dear. We’re British! Ah, you mean the accident. Ah yes, very queer . . . a very queer accident indeed. Inexplicably queer, what?

(Circa: 1929)

HE is out on the ledge of a building. SHE is in the window and is wearing several long strands of pearls.

HE: I’ve nothing to live for. Don’t try and talk me out of it. I’m a loser. I’ve lost everything. I’m going to jump. There’s nothing you could say that could change my mind.

SHE: (Fingering her pearls.) All right.

HE: My entire life’s savings are wiped out. All my stocks and bonds, worthless. I’m destroyed. I’m nothing. I’m useless. I’m going to jump.

SHE: All right.

HE: There are no more tomorrows. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is only . . . What do you mean “all right?”

SHE: You’re making a spectacle of yourself, dear. If you’re going to jump . . . jump. I’m sick to death of your whining. You get hysterical over every little thing.

HE: We’re poor! We’re destitute! The stock market has crashed! Stocks are worthless. Or, haven’t you heard?

SHE: So? What has that got to do with us?

HE: All our money was tied up in the stock market. Every last penny! Today my company closed its doors. I’ve been let go. I don’t have a job to go to anymore. Next thing you know, we’ll be on the bread line, eating our meals in soup kitchens, living in cardboard boxes under a bridge somewhere. No, not me! I’d rather be dead. Boy, am I depressed! I’m going to jump.

SHE: All right.

HE: All right, all right? Would you stop saying all right!

SHE: Okay.

HE: Okay?

SHE: Okay, all right?

HE: All right, okay! Aren’t you at least going to try and stop me?

SHE: Okay.

HE: Is that okay yes or okay go ahead and jump?

SHE: All right.

HE: All right?

SHE: Okay.

HE: You're not going to try to stop me, are you?

SHE: Nope.

HE: Nope?

SHE: Nope. I know you. Once you make up your mind there’s no changing it. Besides, we live on the second floor. The awning over the window below would break your fall.

HE: Well . . . I could jump headfirst. Maybe, I’ll break my neck.

SHE: (Fingering her pearls.) All right. But first you ought to know that you didn’t lose anything in the stock market crash.

HE: Of course I did. The stocks in all the companies we invested in are worthless. Not only that, there was a run on the bank last Tuesday and now we can’t even get to our savings.

SHE: Well . . . that’s true. But, I sold all those stocks nearly a month ago . . . just after I withdrew all our savings.

HE: What?

SHE: That’s right. I had a hunch something terrible was about to happen so I got all the cash I could get my hands on and invested in something that will never lose its value.

HE: Really? What did you do with it?

SHE: (Showing-off her pearls.) Pearls.

HE: Pearls?

SHE: Faux pearls . . . better than the real thing.

HE: You spent all our money on pearls?

SHE: Faux pearls. (After a pause.) And beans.

HE: Beans?

SHE: Magic beans. For the cow.

HE: (Yelling to those who may be on the sidewalk below.) Heads up! (Takes a diving position.) Here I come!


(Circa: 1933)

GEORGE is seated in his comfy chair reading the newspaper while GRACIE is busy with her feather duster.

GEORGE: Gracie, it says here that Prohibition is being repealed.

GRACIE: Thank goodness! I never thought I’d live to see the day.

GEORGE: But you don’t drink.

GRACIE: Well, that’s right, George . . . but poor old Aunt Pansy does.

GEORGE: I didn’t know you had an Aunt Pansy.

GRACIE: We don’t like to talk about her. For thirteen years she’s been a tippler . . . ever since Prohibition began. Before that she wouldn’t touch a drop. Well, maybe now she’ll be able to get back on the apple cart.

GEORGE: You mean, get back on the wagon?

GRACIE: Nope. I mean get back on the apple cart. Her drinking almost ruined Uncle Arnold’s cider business. She went astray with quite a few of Uncle Arnold’s apple pickers, if you know what I mean. Well, you get boozified and you get loose.

GEORGE: She was a bad apple, huh?

GRACIE: George, you shouldn’t make jokes about people’s weaknesses. Besides, if she hadn’t been such a good church-going Christian, she may never have fallen by the wayside.

GEORGE: Off the apple cart?

GRACIE: And right into the gutter.

GEORGE: But what has the church got to do with her falling by the wayside?

GRACIE: She fell in with the preacher’s wife – another tea-total-Tess until Prohibition began.

GEORGE: One would think that falling in with a preacher’s wife would be a good thing.
GRACIE: Oh no, George. There’s nothing more tempting to a good Christian soul than prohibiting something. You can be sure it’s going to make that something that’s prohibited very popular. About the time poor Aunt Pansy fell off the apple cart, Tess – the preacher’s wife – ran off to Chicago, bobbed her hair, and started hanging out in speakeasies. The last time Aunt Pansy heard from her she had gotten a tattoo and was doing the striptease.

GEORGE: In a Burlesque house?

GRACIE: In a parking lot!

GEORGE: Poor Tess.

GRACIE: And all because of Prohibition.

GEORGE: Well, maybe things will change now that it’s being repealed.

GRACIE: Won’t do Cousin Herbie any good.

GEORGE: It won’t?

GRACIE: Nope. Dead as a doornail.

GEORGE: Too much alcohol killed him, huh?

GRACIE: Prohibition is what killed him. He never touched a drop of alcohol.

GEORGE: How’s that, Gracie?

GRACIE: Well, George, Cousin Herbie was murdered in Chicago during the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

GEORGE: He was a gangster?

GRACIE: A mechanic. He was working on a faulty distributor when Capone and his boys came in and gunned down the Bugs Moran gang. Prohibition was a terrible thing, George. I say, thank goodness it’s finally being repealed!

GEORGE: I see your point, Gracie. But I’m sure those people who pushed for Prohibition were good, upstanding, and righteous in their beliefs.

GRACIE: You may be right, George, but sometimes the righteous are more dangerous than the sinners.

GEORGE: Out of the mouth of babes . . . Say goodnight, Gracie.

GRACIE: Goodnight, Gracie.


(Circa: 1945)
SENATOR FOGHORN: (Speaking into telephone.) Hello, hello! Ah say, ah say this is Senator Foghorn here. Put me through to the President. Ah say the President of these here United States of America!

Harry, ah say Harry, is that you, Harry? I just got a bill for two billion dollars from General Blowhard to pay for somethin’ called The Manhattan Project. As Chairman of the Appropriations Committee, Harry, I’m required, ah say I’m required by law to investigate all requests for taxpayer funds. Unless, of course, it’s money for the great state of South Carolina.

What do you mean it’s a WPA project to develop musical plays? I hear that Al Einstein and Dr. Oppenheimer are workin’ on it. Somethin’ to do with, ah say somethin’ to do with a bomb. What? You say you plan on sendin’ a bomb to Broadway? Are you crazy, Harry? Haven’t they had enough already? Well, yes. That’s a big one and I’m sure the great state of Oklahoma is very proud of it, but that don’t put tobacco in your pouch in South Carolina . . . if you know what I mean.

I want to know why in Sam Hill do we need taxpayer money to send a bomb to Broadway? Hitler? What are you talkin’ ‘bout, Harry? Ain’t nobody gonna pay a dollar fifty to see a Broadway musical about Adolph, ah say Adolph Hitler!

I think somebody’s tryin’ to hoodwink somebody, Mr. President. I heard somethin’ ‘bout radium and rockets. Now, what in tarnation are you talkin’ ‘bout? Rockettes? What do Einstein and Oppenheimer have to do with the Radio City Rockettes?

I think, ah say I think you’re trying to pull the whole sheep over my eyes, Mr. President. The whole, ah say the whole stinky sheep, sir. I heard it had somethin’ to do with atomic fission. Atomic, Harry, Atomic. Who? Tom Mix? Course I remember Tom Mix. What’s he got to do with any of this? Starring in it? Now, let me see if I got this right. Stop me, ah say stop me when you think I’ve gone astray. The Manhattan Project is a musical play on its way to Broadway about Adolph Hitler and starring Tom Mix and the Radio City Rockettes. And written by, ah say written by Einstein and Oppenheimer. And it is designed to be a bomb. Why is that, Harry? Why is it designed to be a bomb? I see. A tax write-off for who, Harry? We’re talkin’ two billion smackers, Mr. President. War cost overruns? Top secret?

Well, I’ll tell you, Harry. If, ah say if I’m gonna sign over a check for two billion dollars to General Blowhard, then I want, ah say I want a front row seat on opening night. Better yet, if, ah say if it’s as big a bomb as all that ah want, ah says ah want to see it during the out-of-town tryouts just in case it never makes it to Broadway. Can you promise me that, Mr. President? Where? New Mexico? Isn’t that a bit out of the way for a Broadway musical? You’ll actually have a special seat for me right on the stage? Really? That close, huh? Thank you, ah say thank you, Mr. President. I’m sure the wife and kids will get a big bang out of it. All that what F.D.R. said about you just ain’t true, sir. You are a gentleman, sir. The check, ah say the check is in the mail!


(Circa: 1959)

HONK is a spoof of the beatnik poetry of the 1950s and should incorporate finger snapping, bongo drums, black berets and smoking cigarettes in long cigarette holders. The ACTORS sit on stools in individual spotlights. Each actor should have some kind of horn, each distinctive from the other, to accompany the word “honk” with. This is written for four actors but can be done by any number, including one.

ONE: I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by plastic sticking to their buttocks, by Playboy, by runaway slinkies, TV dinners & Howdy Doody . . . Honk.

TWO: I saw the best and brightest of my generation go dim from Colliers, Look & the Saturday Evening Post . . . Honk.

THREE: I saw them up there on the screen: Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando and James Dean . . . Honk.

FOUR: I read sharp like razorblade minds till I nearly went blind: Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg and Genet . . . Honk.

ONE: Honk on Eisenhower & honk on Nixon. Honk on the Mickey Mouse Club & Donner & Blitzen.

TWO: Honk on my hairy palms from reading Peyton Place & Lady Chatterly’s Lover . . . Unexpurgated!

THREE: Honk on the bomb & the underground shelter where I first showed Betty Lou Solomon from Sheepshead Bay to duck & cover.

FOUR: Honk on the Cold War & the Bamboo & Iron Curtains.

ONE: Honk on. Honk on. Honk me baby till the cows come home. Yeah.

TWO: Listen to the McCarthy Hearings sizzling like pig rump on a hot black & white Dumont or Emerson . . . Honk.

THREE: Watch the latest episode of I Love Lucy . . . Honk.

FOUR: Get hip. Get slick. Get bent. Buy an Edsel . . . Honk, honk. Get off the road.

ONE: See the USA in your Chevrolet. See all the tacky little houses all in a row . . . Honk.

TWO: Tail fins & T-Birds & Dyna-Flo transmissions . . . Honk.

THREE: Blackboard Jungle. Poodle skirts. Duck Tails. Flat tops . . . Honk.

FOUR: Honk if you are now or if you have ever been.

ONE: Honk on Rock & Roll & all that jazz.

TWO: Honk on switchblades, zip guns, gravity-knives & exactly how much is that doggy in the window?

THREE: I saw the best minds of my generation end up on the floor of the Café Wha, the Café Bizarre & and the Café Chino . . . Honk.

FOUR: Wow, man. Lay another espresso on me . . . Honk.

ONE: I saw the best & the brightest minds of my generation dancing in lemon sky hula hoops and black leather jackets . . . Honk.

TWO: I saw you out there on the couch where you bring the hookers to watch Ed Sullivan, Steve Allen, Arthur Godfrey & Jack Parr . . . Honk.

THREE: It’s real cool to be beat, daddy-o . . . Honk.

FOUR: Real cool.

ALL: Honk.



(Circa: July, 1969)

Two women, GLORIA and BETTY, are seated at a table tallying the check from their luncheon.

GLORIA: Did you watch the moon landing the other day, Betty?

BETTY: No, Gloria. I didn’t care to see a man lay claim to yet one more piece of real estate. You had the fruit salad. Men already think they own the world . . . and now they’ve got to have the moon, too. I had the three-bean soup. “One small step for man; one giant leap for Mankind.” Give me a break! I wonder who wrote that bit of misogyny? Sixty cents for the soup. That’s mine. Do you know why they didn’t send a woman to the moon? Seventy-five cents for the fruit salad. That’s yours.

GLORIA: No, why is that?

BETTY: Imagine how those men in Washington would react to hearing, “One small step for woman . . .?”

GLORIA: They’d freak.

BETTY: You bet they’d freak. Egg salad sandwich, ninety-cents. That’s mine. One day it will be our turn. Fried bologna on rye, seventy-five cents. That’s yours. One day there will be a woman on the moon. That will be a day to celebrate!

GLORIA: I’d be happy to get to Las Vegas one day. Too many seeds in the rye and he never did bring the horseradish. My bra is killing me. I think I’m going to buy one of those living bras.

BETTY: What?

GLORIA: Yeah, it’s called a living bra and it’s supposed to hold your breasts gently but firmly – like it had a mind of its own.

BETTY: Now, isn’t that just what I need – something with a mind of its own holding up my . . . euphemisms. The side order of slaw was forty cents. That’s yours.

GLORIA: But you ate it.

BETTY: Okay, we’ll split it. Twenty cents you owe and twenty cents I owe. One hot tea with lemon, a quarter. That’s mine. One day I’d like to burn mine.

GLORIA: Burn your what, your tea?

BETTY: My bra, Betty. One day I’d like to burn my bra.


BETTY: Gloria, do men wear bras?

GLORIA: No, not even when they obviously need them.

BETTY: Well, that’s my point! One coffee, black. That’s yours. Twenty-five cents. So, what’s in Las Vegas?


BETTY: You said you wanted to go to Las Vegas. You do know that women are enslaved in Las Vegas, don’t you? The fruit cup was mine – forty cents. Haven’t you ever heard of showgirls?

GLORIA: Sure. I wanted to be a showgirl when I was a little girl.

BETTY: That’s like wanting to be a performing dog!

GLORIA: It’s not the same thing!

BETTY: It certainly is! Miss Gloria Steinem, the show dog!

GLORIA: Don’t call me that! I hate it! Miss implies that there is a man lacking in my life. How much was the rice pudding, Miss Friedan?

BETTY: Sixty cents! Don’t change the subject!

GLORIA: How about Mizz? Not Miss or Missus. That way you’re not being defined as being manned or manless. You ate some of my rice pudding.

BETTY: Ten cents! I didn’t eat more than ten cents worth! Mizz: M-I-Z-Z. I like the sound of that. All right. Rice pudding – you – sixty cents. Rice pudding – me – ten cents. Let’s see. That comes to one dollar and fifty-five cents each.

GLORIA: That’s not right! You charged me more somewhere. Give me that check. (Grabbing check.) Now, let’s see. You had the three-bean soup – sixty cents. We split the slaw fifty-fifty, which means you owe twenty cents and I owe twenty cents, right?

BETTY: Right . . .


(Circa: 1974)
Two plumbers, BUD and LOU, complete with tool belts and plungers, are fixing a leak in the basement of The Watergate.

BUD: (Tossing duct tape to AL.) Hey, LOU! Heads up! Here’s your duct tape. That basement door won’t be locking up behind us no more.

LOU: Aren’t you worried that somebody who don’t belong here will get in?

BUD: Naah. I do it all the time. I’ve been doing the night shift here at The Watergate since it opened.

LOU: What about that lady?

BUD: What lady?

LOU: The short dumpy one with the funny accent and the ugly wig lurking around Party Headquarters.

BUD: That was no lady . . . that was Henry Kissinger. The regulars around here call him Deep Throat.

LOU: Oh . . . (Working on plumbing.) Does this place have a lot of leaks, or what?

BUD: You bet your bippy! And it ain’t all H2O!

LOU: (Pulling out tape recorder from behind pipes.) Hey, Lou! Look what we’ve got here!

BUD: What is it? A big leak?

LOU: Nope. It’s a tape recorder and it’s recording everything we’re saying.

BUD: Shhhh! Put it back! It belongs to Tricky Dick. They’re all over Washington. I bet he’d bug his own brother. Did you find that leak yet?

LOU: Yeah. It’s on this here pipe tagged . . .(Leans in to read tag on pipe.) Nat Demo Head, head, head something.

BUD: Headquarters. National Democratic Headquarters.

LOU: That’s it. It’s a little leak coming from the National Democratic Headquarters.

BUD: Fix it and let’s get out of here.

LOU: It just needs a few good turns of the wrench. (Takes and wrench.) There. Done. (Obviously speaking into tape recorder.) I have fixed the leak to the Nat Demo Headquarters. Wow, was that hard work. But I never complain. I enjoy being a plumber. Plumbers love their work. (Holds out recorder for BUD to speak into.) Ain’t that right, Bud?

BUD: (Speaking into recorder.) Yup, that’s right, Lou. And I vote republican in every election. (Hand signals to LOU that he’s lying for the sake of the tape recorder.)

LOU: And so do I. (Sticking a “gag me” finger in his mouth.)

BUD: And there ain’t no commies in the plumbers’ union.

LOU: And that wasn’t Henry Kissinger lurking about.

BUD: That’s right. That was somebody else.

LOU: Definitely not Henry Kissinger! It was some other short, fat man with a funny accent.

BUD: Okay, Lou, put the recorder back where you found it. Be careful you don’t delete anything.

LOU: I’m putting it back. Watch me. I’m putting it back. (For the benefit of the recorder.) It’s good to be a plumber in America. (Puts recorder back in place.) And it wasn’t Henry Kissinger. It was a Democratic hooker named Deep Throat.

They BOTH tip-toe toward exit.

BUD: And I never saw her before in my life.


(Circa: January, 1981)

NANCY and RONNIE are at a department store counter. A SALESMAN (or WOMAN) is behind the counter.

NANCY: (Pointing.) I’ll take that scarf.

SALESMAN: Which one, madam?

RONNIE: Nancy, tell him you’re not a madam.

NANCY: The red one, of course. And, I’m not a madam. I’m the soon to be Queen.

RONNIE: (Correcting her.) The First Lady. You’re the soon to be First Lady, Nancy.

NANCY: Whatever! (To SALESMAN.) And gift-wrap it, please. It’s a coronation present to myself.

RONNIE: You mean inauguration.

NANCY: Right. Whatever, Ronnie!

SALESMAN: Will that be all, Mrs. Reagan?

NANCY: Call me “Your Highness” and, yes, that will be all.

SALESMAN: That will be one hundred and sixty dollars plus tax.

NANCY: We don’t pay tax. Do we, Ronnie?

RONNIE: Whatever you say, Nancy.

NANCY: No. I say just say no to taxes. Give me some money, dear.

RONNIE: (Removes a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet.) Here’s a two hundred-dollar bill, Nancy. Make sure he gives you the proper change.

NANCY: (Handing twenty-dollar bill to SALESMAN.) Here you go. And, mind you, we don’t pay taxes. It’s only a big waste of paperwork anyway, isn’t it? It only comes right back to us in the end anyway, doesn’t it?

SALESMAN: (Very nervous.) But, madam . . . I mean, Your Highness, this is only a twenty-dollar bill.

NANCY: My dear young person, when the President-elect of these United States tells you that you have a two-hundred dollar bill in your hand – you had better believe it.

SALESMAN: Yes . . . Your Holiness.

NANCY: Now, kindly give me my change of forty dollars. I will take one twenty, one ten, one five, and five singles.

SALESMAN: (Counts out the change.) Thank you for shopping with us, Your Ladyship.

NANCY: You are quite welcome. (Handing SALESMAN a dollar bill.) And this, my dear boy, is a one-dollar bill for your efforts. It is, after all, the moral thing to do. Morality . . . (The Washing Post quotes Nancy Reagan.) “ . . . it kind of filters down from the top somehow.”

SALESMAN: Oh, Thank you, Your Grace.

RONNIE: Spend that wisely, son. You’ve just had your first lesson in trickle-down-Reaganomics. And remember: (The following is an actual and often used quote by the former President.) “There is nothing so good for the inside of a man as the outside of a horse.)


(Circa: Dec. 31, 1999)

MOTHER, FATHER, DAUGHATER and SON are seated in front of the television. They are wearing New Year’s Eve party hats and have an assortment of noisemakers that they use from time to time.

DAUGHTER: Well, what exactly is it? What are we waiting for?

SON: Don’t you know anything, dweeb? The world is going to end.

DAUGHTER: Chill out, butt wipe! It’s not going to end.

SON: It could if all the computers in the world shut down.

FATHER: If you ask me, this Y2K thing has been grossly over-exaggerated. I remember when they said computers were going to take over the world. But did they?

SON: No, but Bill Gates did.

DAUGHTER: Bill Gates didn’t take over the world.

MOTHER: Andrew Lloyd Weber did.

SON: Well . . . we’ll find out in two minutes.

FATHER: I’m telling you the world isn’t going to end. Did it end when Elvis died?

MOTHER: Oh, Father . . . Elvis never died. He was seen at a Las Vegas gas station just last week.

FATHER: Listen to your mother. Mother knows best.

DAUGHTER: Elvis wasn’t seen at any gas station. That was an impersonator.

SON: You mean imposter.

DAUGHTER: No, dick head, I mean impersonator.

SON: Vagina fingers!

DAUGHTER: Penis breath!

MOTHER: Children, behave yourselves.

FATHER: Listen to your mother, children. Mother knows best.

MOTHER: All I’ve got to say is that if the world is going to end I’ve done my last load of laundry. Pass me the tofu, please.

SON: (Passing the tofu.) Well, when there’s no power, no food, no water, no nothing – you’ll all wish you’d paid attention to me.

MOTHER: That would be too much of a departure from custom, son.

DAUGHTER: (To SON.) Get a life, bozo! Nobody’s ever gonna pay attention to you. You’re a geek!

SON: And you’re twat mold! I am not a geek. Mother, please you tell her that I am not a geek.

MOTHER: Well . . . Son . . . it’s like this . . . sometimes . . . not all the time . . . but once in a very great while . . .

FATHER: Listen to your mother, son. Mother knows best.

DAUGHTER: There it goes! There goes the ball! It’s coming down!

SON: The world is coming to an end!

MOTHER: Isn’t this exciting? I’m about to pee my pants.

SON: Could you wait till after the world ends, Mother?

FATHER: Stop frightening your mother, Son.

ALL stare in suspense at the Television.

SON: Five . . . four . . . three . . . (The TV screen goes black.) What happened?

MOTHER: The television went out.

FATHER: Did you pay the cable company, Mother?

MOTHER: I think I did. Well . . . maybe . . .

SON: That’s just great, isn’t it?

DAUGHTER: Shut up, scrambled scrotum for brains.

SON: You shut up, bean pods for tits.

MOTHER: Now, children . . .

SON: The world could have come to an end and we don’t even know it.

MOTHER: Oh, I’m sure somebody will tell us in due time, dear.

FATHER: Listen to your mother, Son. Mother knows best. Mother, did you take your Prozac?

MOTHER: Oh, yes. I couldn't face the end of the world without it. Did you take your Viagra, dear?

FATHER: I certainly did. Just in case the world didn't end.

MOTHER: Oh, goody. It doesn't look like the world's going to end tonight, dear. (Extending the plate of tofu.) Tofu, anyone?