XL cover story

XL Funnywriter Contest finalists

See video of our six sketch-comedy finalists

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

If we retained any doubt that last year's XL Funnywriter Contest was worth sorting through all the entries, picking the most worthy scripts and rehearsing and performing the best comedy sketches, all it took was one look at the faces of the six finalists on contest night.

Central Texans Allen Marcus, Wendi Aarons, Cy Young, Gary Miller, Brady Sylvester and Paul Scott Mitchell positively glowed as the practiced performers of Esther's Follies enacted their three-minute playlets for a laugh-primed house on East Sixth Street.

This time, the folks at the Hideout and the Velveeta Room have joined XL and Esther's Follies for two weekends of sketch comedy in a festival format. Local and out-of-town troupes began performing at the three downtown clubs last week. Friday at Esther's, six spanking new finalists, culled from dozens of reader entries submitted on Austin360.com since late last year, are waiting for their time in the limelight.

The judges this year: Adrian Villegas (Latino Comedy Project), Les McGehee (National Comedy Company), Neil Edwards (writer for "That '70s Show"), Spike Gillespie (author) and Latifah Taormina (Austin Circle of Theaters).

Decide on your favorites and cheer the winners at Esther's, or view recordings of the six sketches at Austin360.com.

Fair warning: Although we scrubbed the naughtier bits from these sketches for a family publication, there's no accounting for a taste in comedic subject matter.

— Michael Barnes

'Blind Lemon Jefferson'

By Mike Rothschild

Lights up. BRIAN and ERIC are on stage. ERIC is reading.

BRIAN: I wish I was an old-time blues singer.

ERIC: (Barely paying attention) Uh huh.

BRIAN: I've been depressed for weeks. If I was an old-time bluesman, I'd be able to express my anguish in a healthier way.

ERIC: Healthy? Those guys lived in misery and died young, from things that nobody dies of. Like whooping cough or the flu. Or they got shot or poisoned by evil women and jealous men.

BRIAN: That'd be the ticket for what ails me. Hitchin' rides across the South, just me and my old git-ar. Playing juke joints and parties, anywhere they'd have me. Always wearing a three-piece suit and a hat, even in the summer. Gettin' chased out of town by stuffy church folks and jealous husbands.

ERIC: Or having the white music industry rape your legacy so you can die in the gutter and be buried in an unmarked grave.

BRIAN: Aw, don't blame whitey. It was just the times.

Eric gets serious.

ERIC: Look, you can't be a bluesman. You don't sing, you can't play guitar, you don't own a three-piece suit OR a hat and you're not, you know, black.

BRIAN: The blues aren't about color or talent. They're about soul.

ERIC: And your soul is that of a dorky white guy.

BRIAN: First, I'd need a cool name. Every good bluesman's name has three things in it: a physical malady, a fruit and the name of a president. For example, Blind Lemon Jefferson. I'd call myself "Deaf Orange Jackson."

ERIC: If you were deaf, how could you hear yourself play?

BRIAN: Good point. OK, then say hello to "Mute Apple Washington."

ERIC: Yeah, but then you couldn't sing. You'd be mute.

BRIAN: That's no good. How about? "Lame Banana Hayes?"

ERIC: You don't want "lame" in your name. Think of the reviews: "Lame Banana Hayes: the name says it all."

BRIAN: Being a bluesman is harder than I thought. What about "Diabetic Cucumber Truman?"

ERIC: Cucumber is a vegetable. You're breaking your own rules.

BRIAN: "Retarded Kumquat . . ."

ERIC: OK, stop. It's just not gonna work. You can't be an old-time bluesman, and that's just the end of it.

BRIAN: Could I at least be a blues shouter?

ERIC: No.

BRIAN: How about a crooner? A belter? Oooh, I've got it! A jazz scatter! Skiddly-diddly-biddly-boodly-biddly-BOP!

ERIC: Never do that again.

BRIAN is crushed. ERIC goes back to reading. PAUSE. ERIC looks back at him.

ERIC: Sorry. I didn't mean to crush your dreams. But being a bluesman is a hard life, and you're not exactly a hard guy. I wouldn't want to see you get hurt, that's all.

BRIAN: I understand. Who am I kidding? Just because I have the blues doesn't mean I can sing them. I'll just deal with my sadness the white people usually do, through drinking and self-loathing.

Pause. ERIC looks up from his reading.

ERIC: "Fat Mango Roosevelt."

BRIAN cheers up.

BRIAN: Hey, that's not bad. I can dig it, honky cat.

BRIAN snaps his fingers, beatnik style. ERIC shakes his head slowly. Blackout.

---

'Int. Office'

By Chris Trew

A man shuffles papers.

BOSS: Send him on in.

He is talking to nobody.

KEN appears.

KEN: Hello, sir. It's nice to meet you.

BOSS: Have a seat.

KEN sits down. They stare.

BOSS: Ken, your résumé is impressive.

KEN: Thank you, sir, I work very, very hard.

The BOSS just stares at him, annoyed that he interrupted. He continues.

BOSS: Ken, your résumé is impressive, there is no doubt about that. I can tell you work very, very hard. But I want to get to know Ken as a person.

KEN: OK. What do you want to know?

BOSS: Let's start with college. It says here that you went to Oberlin.

KEN: Yes! I sure did.

BOSS: I hated that college.

KEN: OK.

BOSS: Does that make you feel like I hate you? Can you handle that? Will you be able to perform your job duties knowing that when I start hating I don't stop?

KEN: I certainly could try, sir . . . it wouldn't be ideal, though.

BOSS: Ken, I'm kidding!

KEN: OK.

BOSS: You're going to need to loosen up if you're going to last around here, champ! All right, Ken. You graduated near the top of your class. That's good. Got plenty of leadership experience here....

[Editor's note: Hey, now. This is a family newspaper! We can't put this joke here. You'll have to go to see the show for the naughty bits.]

The BOSS picks up a glass of water and does a spit take, for the sole purpose of doing a spit take.

BOSS: That's disgusting. You've done some traveling, I see. That's always good for character.

KEN: Definitely. I actually just got back from Israel visiting family.

BOSS: Ken, are you Jewish?

KEN: Yes sir.

BOSS: Well I'm a Christian. How does that make you feel?

KEN: I don't think that's a problem.

BOSS: I'll be honest, Ken, I don't know if I can hire you after hearing that ... story.

KEN: Sir, you said that it wouldn't have any effect on my application.

BOSS: Ken, I'm kidding. Now, let's see here. . .

KEN: No! YOU see HERE!

The BOSS stops and looks up at KEN.

KEN: Just because you're a cripple doesn't give you the right to treat me like this!

The BOSS wheels from behind his desk in front of KEN. He slowly stands up.

BOSS: If I can do this, then you can work for me. The job is yours, son.

KEN: I quit, dad. And I'm taking mom's wheelchair home.

BOSS: She's a fake!

KEN: Dad, you're the fake.

---

'24'

By Mike Rothschild

Lights up on a table where KAREN is sitting. JACK BAUER stands in front of the table and speaks to the audience.

JACK BAUER: The following takes place between 11 and 11:03 in the city of Los Angeles. My name is Federal Agent Jack Bauer, and tonight is the longest night of my life.

"24" clock sound plays. BAUER runs to the table, looks around and sits with great intensity.

JACK BAUER: Let me tell you how this is going to work. You tell me everything I need to know, and you do it right now. If you're lying, this night is going to end badly for both of us.

KAREN: Well, what do you want to know?

JACK BAUER: I'm the one asking the questions. What's your name?

KAREN: I'm Karen. And you are . . .?

JACK BAUER: Who I am isn't important right now. Where do you live?

KAREN: Culver City. My roommate found the place really cheap . . .

JACK BAUER: Who are you working for?

KAREN: Well, I moved out here to get into the industry . . .

JACK BAUER: WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?

KAREN: I'm an assistant at an agency.

JACK BAUER: What agency? FBI? CIA?

KAREN: CAA.

JACK BAUER: I've never heard of them.

KAREN: You've never heard of CAA?

JACK BAUER: Who's asking the questions, me or you?

KAREN: Look, I'm just saying, you're not going to get very far in the industry . . .

JACK BAUER: SHUT UP! Where are you originally from?

KAREN: Don't tell me to shut up.

JACK BAUER: We don't have a lot of time!

KAREN: I realize that. But you need to relax. Are you always this intense?

JACK BAUER: You have no idea.

KAREN: Well, tell me something about yourself.

JACK BAUER: You don't want to know about me.

KAREN: I asked, didn't I? Come on, tell me about you.

JACK BAUER: My pregnant wife was murdered and I found her body. Most of my friends have been brutally killed; I was addicted to heroin but kicked it in 20 minutes; I had to execute my boss; and my daughter is a lost soul.

KAREN: Oh. You have a daughter?

JACK BAUER: Leave her out of this. She's suffered enough. Now tell me what I want to know!

KAREN: Denver. I'm from Denver.

JACK BAUER: What's your favorite restaurant?

KAREN: There's this Japanese place in Hollywood I really like . . .

JACK BAUER: STOP WASTING MY TIME AND GIVE ME A NAME!

VOICE: OK, speed daters! Your three minutes are up! Time to move to the next table.

JACK BAUER: I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow night.

KAREN: What? You haven't even asked me out.

JACK BAUER: You have no idea how far I'm willing to go to acquire your cooperation.

KAREN: And you have no idea how creepy that sounds.

Karen gets up like a shot and leaves.

JACK BAUER: I'll see you tomorrow night.

Jack gets up and whips out his cell phone.

JACK BAUER: Chloe, I need a map of Culver City and the closest place to buy flowers! There's no time! Just download the map to my phone and tell CTU to cordon off a four-block radius around the restaurant. JUST GET IT DONE!

BETH enters.

BETH: Um, hi, I'm Beth . . .

JACK BAUER: WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?

Blackout. "24" clock sound plays in darkness.

---

'Spellin' Bee'

By Kristin McCollum

Lights up on a typical spelling bee stage. Podium with mike stage left; microphone on stand stage right with chairs behind. There are four "kids" in the chairs; President Bush is at the podium.

BUSH: Good afternoon, and welcome to the first annual George Bush Spellin' Bee. I decided to hold my own official spellin' bee to prove to you, the American spellin' public, that I am interested in the education of our youth and I will leave no child left behind. 'Cept of course the poor youths that don't win. May I have the first contestant, please?

Kid No. 1 goes to the mike.

BUSH: Your word is "nucular."

KID NO. 1: Nucular?

BUSH: Yes. Nucular.

KID NO. 1: May I have it used in a sentence, please?

BUSH: Those Iranites most definitely have nucular weapons.

KID NO. 1: Um . . . nucular. N-U-C-L-E-A-R. Nucular.

BUSH: Incorrect.

Kid No. 1: Leaves dejectedly. Kid No. 2 takes the stage. He is dressed very similarly to Bush.

BUSH: Nucular

KID NO. 2: May I have the definition, please?

BUSH: Nucular. What the Iranites have. Nucular.

KID NO. 2: Nucular. N-U-C-U-L-A-R. Nucular.

BUSH: Correct! Your American tax dollars at work, America.

Kid No. 2: goes back to seat. Kid No. 3 goes to mike.

BUSH: Your word is "suiciders."

KID NO. 3: Suiciders??

BUSH: You heard me.

KID NO. 3: May I have the derivation, please?

BUSH: The what?

KID NO. 3: The derivation? Where the word comes from?

BUSH: I know what derivation means. I was just testing the tax dollars. It's from the Bible. Which is inerrant. Can you spell that?

Kid No. 3 starts crying and runs offstage.

BUSH: Can't take the heat. Must be a Democrat.

Kid No. 4 goes to the mike.

BUSH: Your word is "hypnotheretical."

KID NO. 4: Hypnotheretical?

BUSH: Did I stutter?

KID NO. 4: Can I have the derivation, please?

BUSH: Hypnotheretical. You know. Hypno. From the . . . British word. Like hypnotize. And theretical. From the Romans. To make stuff up.

KID NO. 4: Can I have it used in a sentence?

BUSH: (Sighs.) Hypnotheretically speaking, if those Iranites have nucular weapons, which they do, we're gonna kick their butts. Hypnotheretical.

KID NO. 4: Hypnotheretical. H-Y-P-N-O . . . I can't do this. That's a made-up word.

BUSH: What are you talking about?

KID NO. 4: I haven't been studying night and day just for you to make a mockery of the English language.

BUSH: I don't know what you just said, but you're disqualified.

KID NO. 4: I'm reporting you to the National Spelling Bee Board.

BUSH: Go ahead, you little leaker.

KID NO. 4: That's not even a word, either!!! I am out of here.

Kid No. 4 storms off the stage, leaving Kid No. 2 at the mike.

KID NO. 2: Hypnotheretical. H-Y-P-N-O-T-H-E-R-E-T-I-C-A-L. Hypnotheretical.

BUSH: Correct. Looks like we have a new George Bush Spellin' Bee champion!! Tell the American public where you learned all your wonderful spellin', young man.

KID NO. 2: Crawford Elementary!

BUSH: Aw . . . looks like the liberals misunderestimated the Texas education system yet again! The winner!!

Blackout

---

'Existential Piñata'

By Jill Morris

Onstage stands an existential piñata holding a bottle of tequila. It wears a cardboard box covered in streamers for its shirt and a festive party hat. There are two young children taking a siesta back to back and wearing sombreros. Also, someone is standing onstage awkwardly reading the stage directions for the PIÑATA. They will read out everything that is written. Including what I just said right then. And then. And . . . OK I'm going to stop now . . . Seriously. I'm stopping.

PIÑATA: It is not easy to be an existential piñata. I have no candy in me. My very existence is pointless. Es horrible!

PIÑATA looks up toward sky.

PIÑATA: I am nada. Nada. Nada. Nada. Just like the meaning of life.

Piñata glances at tequila bottle.

PIÑATA: Did God abandon me, just like mi alcoholic father?

Melodramatic pause.

PIÑATA: Dónde esta God?

Swig.

PIÑATA: God es muerto!

The sleeping children awake. They see the PIÑATA and eagerly grab the sticks that are conveniently by their sides. I am currently placing sticks conveniently by their sides.

PIÑATA: Love is dead, too. Just like my first love: Carmen.

(Quickly, to children: Get ready.)

PIÑATA: We had hours of meaningless sex underneath the Tijuana sun until we both climaxed into a mutual existential crisis.

The children brutally swing at the piñata to shut him up.

PIÑATA: Bring it on, niño. Swing away, sweet niña. I am as empty as the promise of religion.

At this point, the piñata falls to the ground.

PIÑATA: (to narrator) Hey! You!

Realizing I am being addressed, I look away.

PIÑATA: Don't you pretend like you don't see me.

I don't.

PIÑATA: Hey, that wasn't a stage direction!

Yes. It was.

PIÑATA: No, it wasn't.

Yes, it was.

PIÑATA: No, it wasn't!

PIÑATA says "Yes, it was" while trying to touch his nose with his tongue.

PIÑATA: (While trying to touch his nose) Yes it was. (To himself) Damn it!

The PIÑATA now realizes he's a (expletive).

PIÑATA: You can't make me do that!. . . . Wow, I guess I kind of (expletive) sometimes.

The PIÑATA now gives me a hundred bucks.

PIÑATA: I don't even have a hundred . . .

Heavy sigh.

PIÑATA: Here you go.

Cool. Thanks. I'm gonna go get a hooker.

PIÑATA: What? A hooker? You can't leave me here all alone. I won't know what to do!

The children, realizing they haven't had a stage direction in awhile, hit the (expletive) once more, and the piñata dies crying like a little girl.

PIÑATA: Waaaaah! I'm crying like a little girl! Waaaah!

Dance for me children or I'll make you steal something and get arrested.

A song comes on as the children dance while Stage Directions clap. This line is to be read by another narrator who has just appeared around the corner . . . He is very sexy.

Blackout.

---

'The Greeting'

By Steve Uzzell

The stage is empty of furniture. SHE is a June Cleaver housewife: dress, apron, glasses, duster. HE is an office clone: coat, tie, glasses, briefcase. SHE dusts as HE enters. Both are disgustingly lovey-dovey.

HE: Hi . . .

SHE: Hi . . .

BOTH: . . . Honey!

HE: I'm . . .

SHE: You're . . .

BOTH: . . . Home.

SHE: I missed you.

HE: And I missed you.

SHE: Oh, how I . . .

HE: . . . missed you.

BOTH: Missed you, missed you, missed you, missed you . . .

SHE: . . . Mister.

HE: . . . Missus.

BOTH: Mate.

HE: Darling.

SHE: Boo Boo.

HE: Honey bunny.

SHE: Love monkey.

HE: Sweet slot.

SHE: Bat boy.

BOTH: Schnoogie-Ooogie-Woogie Buns!

He throws down his briefcase. She drops her duster. They go from silliness to breathy, building passion.

HE: Touch me? Hug me? Hold me?

SHE: Tease me? Squeeze me? Please me?

BOTH: KISS ME!!!!

HE: Ready, Magma Mouth?

SHE: Lay it on me, Lava Lips.

They whip off their glasses. He pulls out a Chap Stick and wipes his lips. At the same time, she pulls out breath spray and uses it. They toss the lipbalm and spray to each other, apply and toss the over their shoulders. They slowly advance on each other, loosening up their lips as they go. The give each other a tiny, loud peck, then break apart with a huge reaction to the kiss.

SHE: I am soaked in sensuality!

HE: Etched with ecstasy!

BOTH: Drenched in desire! Bloated with bliss!

They grab each other and kiss, noisly, sloppily. They start sniffing: Kiss kiss, sniff, kiss, sniff, sniff, sniff. They pull apart, growing angry.

SHE: Wait a sec.

HE: Hold on here.

BOTH: What's that smell?

HE: Cigar smoke?

SHE: Cheap perfume?

HE: In your hair?

SHE: On your collar?

HE: I don't smoke cigars.

SHE: I don't wear cheap perfume.

HE: YOU don't smoke cigars.

SHE: YOU don't wear cheap perfume.

They are ready to go at each other when the hard looks melt away.

SHE: I must be mistaken.

HE: Guess that makes me Mr. Taken.

They laugh.

HE: What could I have been thinking?

SHE: Forgive me?

HE: Forgive you? Forgive me.

They hug and take one big sniff and scream simultaneously.

BOTH: CIGAR SMOKE! CHEAP PERFUME!

They circle each other as they hurl insults.

SHE: TWO TIMER!

HE: TRAMP!

SHE: GIGOLO!

HE: (EXPLETIVE)!

SHE: CASANOVA!

HE: JEZEBEL!

They jump on each other, flail around in a phony wresting bit with dopey holds and lost of grunting. They end up falling on the floor, entangled, panting.

SHE: That . . . was . . . amazing!

HE: Incredible! The best yet.

They help each other up, dust each other off.

HE: Cheap perfume, huh? I dropped a hundred bucks on that stuff.

SHE: I thought I was gonna urp after smoking that stinky cigar all day.

The laugh.

HE: So, what's for . . .

BOTH: Dinner . . .

SHE: . . . is ready.

BOTH: (To audience.) Let's eat.

Blackout.