Crazy Heads!

(Scene opens on Bill and Hillary sitting on a couch in a waiting room. Bill is reading a paper and Hillary is sitting rocking side to side with a magazine in her lap and her eyes closed.)

Hillary: (Stops rocking and humming) I love classical music, don’t you?

(Pause as BILL looks up from his paper to realize she is addressing him.)

Bill: Yes, it has its moments.

Hillary: (Hums to herself then stops again) I love cats myself.

Bill: (Humoring her) That’s nice. I had a cat once.

(Hillary ignores Bill and goes back to humming. Bill waits for a response and then goes back to his paper. After a moment, Hillary stops humming and turns her head slowly to Bill, then looks him up and down. Bill looks uneasy.)

Hillary: I like your underwear. Very much.

Bill: They’re silk.

Hillary: Ohh… (tapping her finger to the side of her nose) I could tell. Are you waiting?

Bill: It would seem so.

Hillary: So am I! And don’t call me Shirley! HAHAHAHAHA! That’s from a movie. Can I call you Tigger?

Bill: I’d prefer Bill.

Hillary: Sorry Tigger. Do you know the bride?

Bill: Can’t say that I do. I’m actually here for the job interview.

Hillary: Well that’s too bad. (She pauses to think) What kind of bait you usin’?

Bill: For what?

Hillary: For the interview?

Bill: I can’t say that I remembered to bring mine.

Hillary: I brought some right nice nightcrawlers, sure to impress the higher ups, show ‘em I know who’s boss.

Bill: Oh… (He smiles awkwardly and tries to go back to reading)

Hillary: The pink ones taste like strawberry.

Bill: That I didn’t know.

Hillary: When you go in, just remember. Hakuna Matata! (whispering to Bill) That means no worries.

Bill: So… You a big fan of Disney?

Hillary: Who’s he?

(Awkward pause as they stare into each others eyes)

Hillary: You have eyes like Steve Buscemi.

Bill: Thanks?

Hillary: That’s not a compliment.

(They stare for a moment longer and the Hillary immediately goes back to humming and rocking with her eyes closed.)

Receptionist: Hillary, Mr. Mills will see you now.

Bill: Good luck, you certainly have a lot of… personalities.

Hillary: (Whispers confidentially to BILL) Can you feel it tingling? That means it’s working!

(Hillary sets her magazine on the coffee table, stands up and walks into the office. After a moment, Bill picks up the magazine that Hillary was reading and a close up shot shows that it was either "Crazy People Monthly" or a random kids magazine. After he sets it back on the coffee table Hillary walks out of the interviewers office.)

Bill: How did it go?

Hillary: They said that they weren’t hiring crazy people, but that they’d keep me in mind if they should ever need one.

(Hillary exits the waiting room)

Receptionist: Bill? Mr. Mills will see you now.

(Bill folds up his paper and walks into the office.)

Bill: Hello Sir, it’s a pleasure to…

Robert: I’m sorry, we don’t have any positions open for Crazy people at the moment, but we’ll keep you in mind if we should ever need one.

Bill: Excuse me Sir but, I’m not…

Robert: Crazy? That’s what they all say.

Bill: But I’m not, if you’ll just take a look at my portfolio you’ll see that…

Robert: I’m sorry Mr. Crazy person but I don’t have time for you’re insane ramblings at the moment, and there are other people I have to interview this afternoon, so if you could just…

Bill: But there’s no one else in the waiting room…

Robert: Mr. Crazyman, I’m afraid that in light of the insane banter you would have me join in with you at the moment, I will have to place my fingers in my ears and say "la-la-la" until you have left. (He puts his fingers in his ears, then takes them out for a second) Good day, it’s been a pleasure. (He places them back in his ears and say’s "La-la-la".)

Bill: Sir, if you could be rational here for just a…

(Robert responds by saying "la-la-la" louder)

Bill: (Holding out his portfolio.) I have my papers, if I could leave them with you maybe…

Robert: (Unplugging his ears for a moment) Sorry, I have no time in my schedule to read the insane scribblings of a mad man. (He put his fingers in his ears and says "la-la-la" louder.)

Bill: Sir If I could…

(Robert begins to smash his head on his desk, emphasizing each pound with a "LA!" and keeping his fingers in ears. Bill exits. Roberts says "la-la-la" and hits his head for a moment longer, then stops and composes himself. A mans head pops out from between the cushions of his couch.)

Crazy-Head: How do you do it sir?

Robert: To deal with the insane, you must think like the insane. It’s just that simple. Now, BACK IN THE COUCH Crazy-HEAD!



(Scene opens on a courtroom. A woman, Mrs. Archer, is on the stand, while the prosecutor questions her. Everyone but the two of them look bored and tired as if this has gone on for quite some time and they have long since lost interest; even the judge. The entire time the judge is sitting resting his chin on his hand, dozing off. He never moves from this position.)

P: Mrs. Archer. Is it not true that your husband was a jealous man?

M A: (pause) I'm not sure I understand. Is it true that he wasn't a...

P: Is it NOT true that he WAS a jealous...

M A: NOT true that he Was okay, I'm sorry, no, YES, no... No he, he wasn't. WAS! so yes.

P: Yes?

M A: He WAS a jealous...

p: (Helping her along) Jealous man.

M A: Yes.

P: Okay.

M A: Okay.

P: Did your husband express any of these jealous tendencies towards anyone you associated with, Any persons you kept in touch with, ANY... gardeners you spoke with on a daily basis perhaps?

M A: (Ashamedly) Yes. Yes he did.

P: And this gardener, we'll call him MR. Gardener, was he well liked in the gardening community?

M A: I can't say that he wasn't.

P: (lifting his ear) I'm sorry?

M A: I say I can't say that he wasn't.

P: (Slightly under his breath) So your saying that he wasn't or he...

M A: He WAS. He was.

P: Okay he was.

M A: He was.

P: Okay. (Beat) Do you happen to know WHO, in the gardening community, Liked, or should I say respected, or should I say made love to, or DARE I say... kissed Mr. Gardener, on a bi-weekly basis?

M A: (Searching for a moment), yes?

P: Then you know who?

M A: No, I don't know who.

P: But you said yes.

M A: (Getting angry)Yes, I did not know who Mr. Gardener was associated with.

P: Who?

M A: No, I said I didn't know.

P: I'll rephrase the question. Did Mr. Gardener ever mention a lesbian tennis instructor who once introduced his mothers' brother, formerly his uncle before his tragic disownment, to a well respected advice columnist who we shall simply refer to as Dear X?

M A: No.

P: Really? He should have it's a great story. But enough of your misleading topics of testification. Let's get down to the real story Mrs. Archer. The one everyone in this room came here to place their judgement upon today.

M A: I wish we could.

P: Objection your honor, she used fascist doublespeak in regards towards me!

J: No she didn't.

P: Alright then overruled. Do you know, or did you ever know of an associate of Mr. Gardener that might have reason to BRUTALLY MANGLE AN EGRET on his front porch, Mrs. Archer? AN EGRET, Mrs. Archer. Previously belonging to a well known local eccentric millionaire? Need I not mention his name?

M A: No you need nottent.

P: Needent I not?

M A: You need nottent no, and I knew nothing of that egret.

P: What about the egret Mrs. Archer? Why all this fuss over an egret? How did you know, Mrs. Archer, that the egret in question liked to take long strolls with it's eccentric, if not to say often "kinky" owner, along the banks of the local sewage facility at first sign of dusk. How he loved cradling in his arms after a nice Swedish rub down, how he tickled his toes from time to time. (Looks to jury exasperatedly as if to say "can you believe this woman?" to no response. One man in front lifts his hands and shrugs nonchalantly. P sighs loudly and turns back to the stand.)

M A: I didn't know.

P: Didn't know WHAT Mrs. Archer?

M A: I didn't know THAT.

P: Oh. Well do you now?

M A: Yes, I suppose.

P: Then why do you INSIST on DENYING it!


P: You did.


P: You do.

M A: I never.

P: (insidiously) You will.

M A: (Beat. Honestly confused) Will what?

P: (Patronizingly) Oh, Mrs. Archer. Not back to this old run-around again.

M A: I am NOT running around anything. Especially not you!

P: Mrs. Archer, if you continue to waste the courts time with your nazi-backtalk-doublespeak...

M A: I object! I think I am being badgered…and badly to boot.

P: MRS. ARCHER! Seriously Your Honor, how can you let this blabbering continue? (No answer, as judge is staring off into space.) I say "Seriously Your Honor how can you... (P looks around at the jury, who are all also staring into space, some are leaning their heads on their hands, all look bored and lost.)

M A: Since it would seem that we're alone now Mr. Prosecutor, would you like to know what this is all about? Off the record of course. (She motions towards the court reporter who is smoking a cigarette and appreciating a painting a few feet away from the typewriter.)

P: Sure what the hell. (walks closer and leans in casually.)

M A: Well...(deep breath, then says entire story in nearly one breath) the whole thing started when my husband began working on our aforementioned eccentric millionaires' estate, caring for the egret in question. My husband was associated with an associate of the gardeners' whom I never met and was only mentioned by my husband in passing, but I got the feeling from the conversations my husband had with this man that the gardener was something of a collector, rare antiquities, you see, and as you know my husband was as well. It got around that the gardener had purchased a rare book at an auction which my husband desperately wanted, but the gardener had somehow outbid him. As you know a mere gardener could never make enough green to warrant such a lofty bid, so my husband looked into it. It seemed that the gardener was the son in law of the very wealthy eccentric who my husband worked for and had purchased the book for the old man. So my husband, clever dog that he was, got it in his head that he would simply ask to buy the book off the eccentric. Needless to say the man wasn't having it, and passionate for the book of his dreams my husband, clever dog THAT he was, got it in his head to simply take the book. But the old man had it under lock and key, and had even hired a man to guard it. So my husband, in an impassioned moment, took the precious egret, thinking to hold it ransom for the book. Well, my husband, being an only recent bird-handler, had no idea the fuss and ruckus an anxious bird with a nervous pecking disorder could stir. He had hoped to take it to the gardeners’ house to bargain, but by the time he got it to the door my poor husbands hands were sliced and bleeding and the bird was in a bad way. Guilty for the birds condition and not wanting to arouse anymore anxiety, my husband panicked and left the mangled bird on the gardeners front porch, and after some time the poor creature must've wrung it's own neck trying to escape the rope my husband had lead it with. So you see, my husband never killed anybody, he is only guilty of bird-napping gone horribly awry. That’s why the bird was on the porch, that's why my husbands blood was there, and that is why my husband is completely and unquestionably innocent. (Breath.)

P: Well that explains everything.

M A: It most certainly does.

P: I didn't even know about the whole book thing.

M A: Yes, it's quite vital to the story.

P: Say, now that we've got all this nonsense out of the way... What I've really been meaning to ask is are you free on Thursday, for coffee, a movie, and possible intercourse afterwards?

M A: Though I despise your cantankerous black heart, and I would think coffee with you would mean hours of unending torture and exposition. The sex would undoubtedly be angry and spastic and that would certainly take my mind off this whole mess with my husband.

P: 8 o’clock sound good to you.

M A: No, but I don't feel like arguing about it.

P: Good, I'll be by around half past ten.

(He grabs his coat and hat and exits. There is a long pause as Mrs. Archer looks around at the roomful of snoring or distracted jurors. She turns to the judge.)

M A: May I be excused from the stand?

J: (Bored.) No. (Someone in the front row of the court audience falls over in their chair.)

(Fade out)


By Donovan Dutro and Whoever Can Write The F*cking Middle


Doctor: Hi. I’m a doctor, and this is my doctor’s office. You are a patient here for the results of your weekly checkup.

Patient: I know that.

Doctor: Don’t be snotty Patient, I just want things established; Make sure we’re on the same page. But it’s your yearly checkup, not mine. So, slapdash it is. Doh-dee-doh, test results, la la. (reads file) Well! Patient. It would seem your brass tacks approach to life serves you well. BP normal, cholesterol down, white blood cells fine, ass amazing— (skimming) Yes yes…good. Good. (cheerfully) You’re firing on all cylinders, and you’re in the final stages of a rare and terminal disease. Good gravy. My delivery was all wrong there. Normally, I read ahead.

(Pause—patient dumbfounded, in shock)

Doctor: But you pressured me, and I skimmed. (pause) I’m such an ass. (flip, like before)"You have a rare and incurable"—no, it’s (gravely) "you have a rare and incurable"—I KNOW that. Well, I’m tired of beating myself up. You win.

Patient: How…how long do I have?

Doctor: Well, let’s find out. But this time, MY WAY. If you know what’s best for you you’ll indulge me as I glance down at your file, visibly register fear as my hands seemingly unconsciously reach out to yours and my eyes lock into yours, because that is THE ONLY WAY TO GIVE YOU THE COMPASSION THAT YOU NEED. (looks down) Yikes! OK, no time for that.

Patient: Why? How long?

Doctor: 94 seconds.


Doctor: 89.

Patient: What? How—

Doctor: 87.

Patient: That’s—

Doctor: 86.

Patient: What kind of—

Doctor: Patient, listen to me! You’ve got 84 seconds to live, I’m not going to see you squander it on fruitless exposition; it’s a nowhere road. Get out there and live! Live well! You’ve got carte blanche! Take part in life’s rich pageant and drink sweetly from life’s sweet drinkable thing. You’ve got 84 seconds. I suggest you live them well. Actually, 71. Sorry, that was bad.

(Timer appears in bottom left hand corner)

 *EXTRA FOR EXPERTS: WRITE THIS PART: Patient indulges on a series of 5 second bacchanals and—you know that kind of thing. It would be good if it was funny. That would be the funniest part, if it was funny. Random wacky pathological uninhibited whatever. By the ending bit, he should be satiated and, in 71 seconds, have lived a full, if craven, life.

?After a beat, the patient bursts out the door and the timer begins counting down. He runs up to a whore on the street yells "Lets go!" and grabs her. Cut to them running through a motel door. Door closes, five seconds pass, and the man bursts out the door, somewhat disheveled, and continues running. He runs past a hot dog cart, grabs a huge polish sausage out of some guys’ hand and shoves it whole into his mouth. (The guy previously holding the hot dog says, "Hey…" after the patient.) He runs past a pretty young woman, takes her in his arms and says, dramatically (as the music soars) "Victoria, I’ve always loved you." And kisses her deeply. Just as she reacts with "My God, I never knew…" he runs on. He runs past two older folks on a bench and yells "Mom, Dad, sorry about the teen years…" they smile and wave after him incoherently. Then he turns and socks some guy in the face really hard and yells "Sorry ‘bout that." as he runs off. He grabs Tolstoys’ War and Peace from a bookstand, reads the last pages (never stops running) closes the book and says "Finally!" He runs past a group of people, points to each one as he runs by them and tells each exactly how he feels about them ("You’re ugly! That shirt is so unflattering! Is that your real hair? Nice ass!" etc.) Runs by a big café window, moons the patrons, laughs and runs off?


Patient rushing through the cemetery like a marathon runner. Doctor, along with everyone else he’s interacted with in the last 71 seconds, cheering him on. As seconds crawl toward zero in slow motion (like Chariots Of Fire, which I’ve never actually seen, but you know, that one part) Patient races toward finish. Inexplicably, triathlete shows up in a neck and neck race, but Patient wins, arms raised as he crosses line and leaps into awaiting open grave, exalted. Much celebration as man emerges from crowd, pours Gatorade cooler on him while he celebrates, ecstatic in open grave until the timer reaches zero, when he abruptly dies. The mood turns solemn for a beat. Then, from back of crowd, an ecstatic guy pours Gatorade on Patient’s corpse.

DOCTOR: Ooh, that was wrong.


GIRL TALK                      by Melissa Gordon


MAN from Keeper of the Cheese sketch enters the kitchen, where his wife, ANN and two other neatly dressed women are sitting around the table. All women have thick New Yorker accents.

MAN: Hi honey, I brought you that cheese you wanted.

ANN smiles and gives him the thumbs up. MAN raises an eyebrow, then walks offscreen. The second he leaves all three women exhale mouthfuls of smoke. ANN brings a bong she has been holding out from under the table and sets it atop the table.

ANGIE: Whew. That was close. Think he smelled it?

ANN: No, he never notices anything.

CARRIE: Yeah. Not too many of us girls could sneak another man into bed while our husband was sleeping without him noticing, let alone three Puerto Rican dancers. Charlies’ really out to lunch.

ANN: You’re telling me. The other day I was dividing up that big brick of cocaine on the bathroom counter, and he walked in.

ANGIE: Oh my god! What did you do?

CARRIE: Did you die?

ANN: I told him that Martha Stewart said you should portion your laundry detergent out into grams and freeze it to get your whites whiter. And he bought it! (All laugh wildly.) It’s sitting next to the waffles as we speak! (Roar of laughter.)

CHARLIE walks into kitchen. ANN stashes the bong and the other girls fan the air.

CHARLIE: Honey, you left your medicine on the coffee table again. (Holds up a syringe.) Oh, and this spoon was out there too. (Examines a blackened spoon.) I think our silver needs a good polish. I’ll get right to it. (He hums and grabs the plastic silverware holder out of a drawer and exits. The girls burst out laughing.)

ANN: Okay, okay, so who wants to tell prison stories?

(All girls laugh as scene fades out.)