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Dress for Duress

27 Feb

“Tip No. 781: There is no such thing as being overdressed. In 2003, maybe, in the Bad Old Casual Friday days, it   was possible. But in 2013? Today? Impossible. The three-piece knows no boundaries.” – Esquire, 3/13

SCENE: A dinner party. A large crowd is milling about in nice, but casual, dress. One man is in a sharp three-piece suit. The host is making his way toward the man in the suit.

HOST: Hey, glad you could make it.
SUIT: Hey, happy to be here. This is a heck of party!
HOST: Well, what’s up? I’m assuming you got the invitation…
SUIT (unaware): Yeah, I got it. How would I have known about the party if I didn’t get an invitation? (laughs)
HOST (nervous but indignant) Did you happen to see the dress code on it?
SUIT (confused): Hmm, I don’t think I noticed it. Did I dress wrong or something? I mean, I put on a suit and everything to look nice. It’s a party at my best friend’s house for Pete’s sake.
HOST: Oh, come on. Don’t play me like a fool.
SUIT: What? I came to your party. I wore my best suit! What gives?
HOST: It’s just- It’s just that you didn’t really follow the dress code. The invitation said upscale yet down-played. You’re here in a three-piece suit and it’s killing the whole vibe! You’re overdressed!
SUIT: What do you mean, overdressed? Sorry to insult you with my choice of clothing, Calvin Klein.
HOST: Hey- read a magazine once in a while, would you? This is 2003 for God’s sake. You can’t just wear a three-piece suit willy nilly. There’s a time and a place for a suit like that and this isn’t yet.
SUIT: Look, I’ll just leave. I don’t want to take you away from your party any longer. I’m sorry.
HOST: No, no. Just go home, change, and come back. I actually do want you here, after all.
SUIT: Well, what should I put on? I don’t know what upscale yet down-played looks like.
HOST: I don’t know… Like what everyone else here is wearing. Whatever you’d wear on a casual Friday.
SUIT (exasperated): But I don’t even know what to wear on a casual Friday!
HOST: Hey, I’m your friend, not your stylist. A man your age should be able to dress himself.

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Puppy Love

6 Jan

(A first-time pet owner walks into the vet with a puppy to get its shots. She goes up to the counter to check in.)

CLIENT: Hello, I’m here for the two o’clock appointment

RECEPTIONIST: Hi, your name?

CLIENT: Hopkins. Laura Hopk-

RECEPTIONIST: No, ma’am. Your dog’s name, please. The puppies come first in this office, Laura.

LAURA: Um, ok. This is Sugarplum.

RECEPTIONIST: What a cute name. And how old is Sugarplum?

LAURA: I think around, like, two months. My friend’s dog had puppies and she gave me one.

RECEPTIONIST: So is that like two months? Or two months exactly?

LAURA: Around two months, I don’t know.

RECEPTIONIST (condescending): Ok. Can you tell us anything more about Sugarplum? Any prior medications or treatments? Temperament? Allergies? Fecal texture? Sexual orientation? Anything else we should know?

LAURA: Nope. Just a normal dog.

RECEPTIONIST: Great. The vet will see you in just a minute if you’d like to wait over there. Would you like anything to drink while you wait?

LAURA: No, I’m fine, tha-

RECEPTIONIST (matter-of-factly): I was asking the dog!

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Espionage is a Dirty Business

3 Dec

(A spy in a suit is tailing a foreign diplomat through Washington. The spy follows the diplomat into one of the Smithsonian’s bathrooms.)

SPY (into earpiece): The subject has entered the bathroom. I’m in the adjacent stall.

(through earpiece): Roger. Keep us updated.

(Minutes pass. The diplomat shrugs off the garbled conversation emanating from the toilet next to him as someone talking to himself. In any country, asking people you’re pooping next to what they’re talking about is generally frowned upon.)

(through earpiece): How’s it going, Agent? Any movements?

SPY: Gross. Oh, wait, he’s about to move!

(through earpiece): Stay with him. Do exactly as he does.

SPY: Gotcha.

(The diplomat exits the stall, stops by the sink, and turns for the door without turning on the faucet.)

SPY: Woah, wait. We’ve got a problem.

(through earpiece): What is it? Did you lose him?

SPY: No, I got him.

(through earpiece): Then what’s the issue?

SPY (hesitate): He didn’t wash his hands?

(through earpiece): So? Just follow him! Who cares?!

SPY: I can’t just leave without washing. That’s nasty!

(through earpiece): Agent, if you lose your target, you can kiss your security clearance goodbye. Now go catch up!

SPY: I don’t even want to be near him! That guy has no hygiene! I don’t know how it works in Azerbaijan, but you’ve got to clean up after yourself here in the states!

(through earpiece): I don’t care! Go catch up before you blow this entire mission. And he’s from Turkmenistan! Do you even read the briefs we send you?

SPY: Fine, I’ll go, but don’t come crying to me if this is the worst flu season the history’s seen in years. I’m leaving the bathroom now.

(from off-camera) Excuse me sir?

(The spy turns, surprised, and finds the diplomat waiting in the corner.)

DIPLOMAT (with accent): Excuse me, sir? I’m not from this country. Do you know who I can tell to replace the soap?

 

 

 

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Cacciatore in the Rye

11 Nov

(In a dimly lit New York Italian restaurant/bar, the two crotchetiest characters of the Western canon have met for drinks and dinner. Holden Caulfield and Larry David find their seats at a table near the back. They are flanked on the left by a table of elegantly-dressed female flibbertigibbets, whose loud conversation echoes across the dining room.)

LARRY: Oy gevalt. Who comes to a classy place like this and shouts across the dining room? The rest of us can hear you, you know!

HOLDEN: Easy, Larry. Let the people act young. The world turns around them, and they’re locked in a state of perpetual aging. They try to break free and be young, but they can’t. They’re getting old. They’re not locked in glass.

LARRY: Speaking of old, this guy at the movie theater added a senior discount to my ticket price.

HOLDEN: So? You qualify and you’re old enough. It saves you money.

LARRY: Yeah, but he didn’t even have to ask how old he was. He could probably tell by looking, but it seemed a little rude to just assume. The kid should have a little decency and ask how old I am. Not even enough manners to ask my age.

(Holden rolls his eyes and the two immerse themselves in the menu.)

HOLDEN: I want the veal cacciatore. What are you having?

LARRY: Uh, such a big menu. I can’t decide. We’ll just share the veal.

HOLDEN: Fine, I’ll let you share with me.

LARRY: Are you getting wine? I’m not, but if you do, do us a favor and remember the price. You have to split the check, and nobody ever agrees, it’s just bad. So, veal cacciatore it is.

(A waiter has just overheard the conversation, and arrives to confirm the order.)

WAITER: Sharing the veal cacciatore, are we? It’s great, it really is.

LARRY: Yes, we’ll have that. And two waters.

HOLDEN: These restaurants are all so phony. The smoke, the jazz, the clinking of glasses. None of it means anything. That’s all it is, ambience.

LARRY: Speaking of phony, looks at that lady over there. She can barely move her forehead!

HOLDEN: Oh Larry,the things we’ll do to feel young.

(Fast-forwarding a little, the veal has arrived, split between two plates. Holden rests his head on a hand planted on the table and wistfully pushes the meat around his plate. Larry eats a morsel, but promptly spits it out.)

LARRY: Dear God, that’s appalling!

HOLDEN: What, Larry, is it bad?

LARRY: It’s past bad, it’s raw! It’s plain and simple raw! We could’ve caught food poisoning! One more bite and I’d have been in the hospital!

HOLDEN: No one ever cooks the veal right these days. There’s no care in the food. No love. Just some guy putting meat on a fire, collecting a paycheck, and leaving. It’s just veal. It’s not molded, and it’s not prepared. It just comes out pure. Unadulterated. Raw.

LARRY: Sure, real poetic. Meanwhile, I might be coming down with something! Feel my head, that’s a fever!

HOLDEN: I wish I could do something about it. All these people, they come for Italian food, but they have no idea. It’s just cacciatore in the rye. They’re all waiting to get sick with the bad veal, but I stop it every time. I send the food back to the kitchen. None of the customers ever get sick. I could do that all day, then I’d be happy.

(Lights fade. The soft, metallic bang of utensils, the contrived chit-chat, and the soft tunes of the band all crescendo as Holden drifts back into his daydreaming, and Larry grabs his abdomen and runs for the bathroom. Curtains close.)

END SCENE

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Three Pounds of “A” Cut

21 Sep

(An elderly woman marches into her supermarket holding a brisket. She makes a beeline for the meat counter and plunks her tray down.)

WOMAN: Does this look like A-grade brisket? Does it?

BUTCHER: Brisket? How much?

WOMAN: This brisket. I ordered A-grade brisket and this is tough. It’s way too tough to be A-grade.

BUTCHER: No English. See manager. No English. Just cut brisket for gringos.

(The woman finds the meat manager at the front of the store.)

WOMAN: Last week, I bought three pounds of “A” brisket. I cooked it and it came out gray and tough. That sounds more like “B” to me.

MANAGER: I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you. You cooked the brisket and it didn’t turn out great. It’s unfortunate.

WOMAN: Do you mean to insinuate that I botched this brisket? I think that illegal behind the counter did when he gave me the B-grade cut.

MANAGER: Oh no, it’s not a problem with your cooking, it’s just that I can’t accept a gray brisket for a return.

WOMAN: So you see it, too. It’s a gray, tough brisket. Not the A-cut. Do you think, that with my recipe, a nice cut of beef would turn out like this? Frankly, it’s an insult to my honor.

MANAGER (irritated): Well, how’d you cook it? Because my mom always used to simmer it with gravy, trim the fat, and then use the fat to make the gravy.

WOMAN (appalled): Amateur. You leave the fat in the sauce, it’s what softens up the meat. Everyone knows that.

MANAGER (sarcastically): If it does such a good job softening the meat then, why does your brisket look like this?

WOMAN (angered): Don’t get fresh with me. I’ve been coming to this butcher for years now, and I know for a fact the old management would never have made such a debacle with their brisket. What you’re doing is unprofessional.

MANAGER (defeated): Fine, I can give you half off your next purchase, but that’s all-

WOMAN (with attitude): It’s un-pro-fessional. Wait until the girls in my bridge group hear about this.

MANAGER (manipulated): Fine. You can have three pounds of brisket on the house. Will that shut you up?

WOMAN: That’ll do. And I want the gravy, too. And have him wash his hands. He looked dingy.

MANAGER (exhausted): I’ll make sure he’s sanitary. I’ll bring you your order in fifteen minutes.

(Manager leaves.)

WOMAN (calling after him): Make sure it’s the “A” cut!

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The Waiting Game

4 Jun

(A girl named Millicent, and her mother, Blythe, who lives vicariously through her child, are at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Being the DMV, they are waiting at the back of an extremely long line.)

MILLICENT: Oh my god! This line is ridiculous! Everywhere we go, we have to wait in line!

BLYTHE (looking up from her bedazzled iPhone): Right? You’d think this DMV could at least try to be somewhat organized!

MILLICENT: Here, I’ll ask this guy in front of us to let us move up.

(Millicent taps him on the shoulder. He turns.)

MILLICENT: Sir, we’re really in a rush to go to my equestrian meet, and I was wondering if you would let us move in front of you in line?

MAN 1: Excuse me? No. You may not cut me.

MILLICENT: But my equestrian meet!

MAN 1: Oh wow. That really makes me reconsider your predicament. With all the pain and suffering around the world, your equestrian meet is really a top priority.

MILLICENT: So we can pass you?

MAN 1: Hell no! And screw your horses!

(Millicent turns, indignant and hurt. Minutes pass as the two wait in line, missing time to catch up on each other’s life as they waste away on their cell phones. Blythe takes occasional swigs from the Bloody Mary in her coffee cup.)

BLYTHE: Oh my god. Oh. My. God! We haven’t moved in literally hours! (gesturing toward a man walking by) Do you know when the lines might start moving again?

MAN 2: Sorry, I don’t work here.

BLYTHE: In the meantime, where can we find the registration forms?

MAN 2: What? I said I don’t work here. Is something wrong with you?

BLYTHE (to Millicent): Well, the staff is so unhelpful around here.

(Man 2 walks away, bewildered. Blythe and Millicent inch closer to the counter.)

CLERK: Next! Next!

BLYTHE: Oh wow! We were waiting so long I forgot what the sound of a clerk sounded like!

CLERK (angrily): What do you want?

BLYTHE: Millicent, would you like to talk to this lady?

MILLICENT (curtly): No.

BLYTHE: Ok, so the reason we’re here is that last week my daughter got her driver’s license. And she was driving around in the Wrangler when a lamp pole came out of nowhere and hit her car. So we got it fixed, but I saw her license and,

CLERK: Hurry up. Do you see this line?

BLYTHE: Well, I was just wondering if we could retake the picture for her driver’s license.

CLERK: Next!

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What Are You Reading?

28 May

(Two people are seated across from each other on the subway. Both are reading on e-readers. The male addresses the female and catches her attention.)

PETER: Say, what are you reading on that Nook?

MARGE: Oh, this is Kafka. Don’t you just love his use of symbolism?

PETER: Very much, very much indeed. At the moment I’m reading Thoreau’s poetry from the 1830’s. It really moves beyond the quotidian nature scenes of the era. Do you enjoy transcendentalism? Have you read Ralph Waldo Emerson?

MARGE: Transcendenta-what? Oh, transcendentalentalentalism. I know that rather well. He’s the guy that wears a red striped sweater in that kids search-and-find book, yes?

PETER: I was flipping through The New Yorker this morning and I saw a review of a new play coming out this week. It’s a four hour dialogue between pieces of hair on the head of a Pakistani orphan. Care to join me?

MARGE: Sure. Sounds great.

PETER: Ah, it’s a frisson getting to know such a literary bon vivant as yourself. It is so taxing, listening to the endless droll of these  uneducated louts, don’t you agree?

MARGE: I have a confession to make. This isn’t Kafka. It’s 50 Shades of Grey. I said it was Kafka to impress you.

PETER: I also have a confession to make. I don’t read the New Yorker; my niece did that play with her drama club last winter. And this isn’t Thoreau, either. It’s a novelization of the second Transformers movie.

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The Garage Sale Snafu

12 May

Garage sales are great. It’s amazing how one person’s trash becomes another man’s trash in six months. However, it’s important to make sure that underneath the great prices and permanent mustiness, you actually understand what product you’re getting.

KATE: Wow…these self-help tapes were so cheap at that garage sale. I think I’ll finish this one…

TAPE: Who’s powerful?

KATE: I am!

TAPE: Who’s confident?

KATE: I am!

TAPE: Who’s ready to take on the world?

KATE: I am!

TAPE: This is the first tape in my new audio diary. Obviously, I decided to use some old self-help cassettes instead of buying new, blank sets. If you’re hearing this, please turn it off immediately/

KATE: Wait, what?

TAPE: October 7, 1985 – Today, I didn’t leave the house. I still haven’t exactly come to terms with the death of my goldfish, so I sit laid on the couch in my underwear and cried.

KATE: Maybe I should turn this off…

TAPE: Thankfully, nobody will ever get to know that I, Ken Jacobs, mourned the death of my goldfish for three weeks. My therapist says an excess of attachment has caused my difficulties in letting go, and has recommended I move out of my mother’s house. I’m almost packed, but I don’t think I can bring my whole seashell collection.

KATE: This is so … horrifying.

TAPE: Well, I think today’s entry is over. I need to file my toenails. The fungus came back.

KATE: Please tell me I bought the next tape…

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Mind Your P’s and Q’s

6 May

Parents who want the best for their children go to great lengths to teach their children proper manners. However, I’m forced to wonder if kids actually get the message beyond the importance of not picking your nose when others are looking.

WILL: MOM! MOM! Make me a sandwich! MOM!

MOM: Will, what do we say?

WILL: Mom, you fat slob! Hurry up with my sandwich!

MOM: What do we say when we want a favor?

WILL: Hurry up you fat slob, please?

MOM: Good boy. And what do we say after someone gives you something?

WILL: Maybe you could have done it faster if you took your fat rolls out of your ears, but thank you.

MOM: That’s right, we say thank you. And how was school today?

WILL: Pretty good. We made sand art, but you’re probably not familiar with that. You don’t have very much time outside of the kitchen.

MOM: WILL! You’re being very rude!

WILL: Thank you?

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The Ocean Room on the Royal Ferdinand

30 Apr

(On a high-end cruise in the Mediterranean, three aged women, Agnes, Dorothea, and Minnie, are enjoying lunch.)

MINNIE: (to waiter): I’ll have the tuna club.

WAITER: Ok.

MINNIE: But can we lose the onions and mayonnaise, and get tomato and lettuce? Also, I’m going to need turkey instead of tuna on the sandwich.

THEODORA: Don’t forget the bread!

MINNIE: Ah yes. I want that on rosemary focaccia instead of rye.

WAITER: So, a turkey club on focaccia?

MINNIE: Are you acting fresh? Can I please speak to a manager?

WAITER: I’m sorry. And you two ladies?

AGNES: We’ll share a side salad.

WAITER: Any dressing? We have ranch, bleu, vinaigrette, Caesar, creamy asiago, butternut squash, spicy jalapeño…

AGNES: What was the first one?

WAITER: Ranch.

AGNES: We’ll share that on the side.

WAITER: You can’t share dressing.

MINNIE: May I please speak to the maitre d’?

 

(The threesome spies their waiter tending to another party in the restaurant.)

 

AGNES: Do you have any idea when our food will come out?

WAITER: Any second now. I just saw it in the kitchen.

THEODORA: Well, that group over there arrived seven minutes later than we did. And they’re being served now.

WAITER: Your food will be here shortly. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.

MINNIE: I’m frankly appalled with the treatment we’ve received today. We paid good money for a luxury cruise experience!

WAITER: I’m very sorry. Is there anything I can do until the food comes?

MINNIE: I’d like to see the owner, please.

WAITER: Well, the captain is steering the ship. He can’t come to the dining rooms.

MINNIE: I said, get me the captain!

 

(A manager arrives at the table, with the waiter nipping at his heels, head held shamefully low.)

 

MANAGER: I hear there have been some miscommunications. Would you care to air your grievances?

MINNIE: We have been waiting literally hours to receive our food. That table came after us, and they’ve already eaten.

MANAGER: Well, that group only ordered soup, and they are the owners of the cruise line.

AGNES: Why should they get special treatment? We’re paying good money for this meal.

MANAGER: I understand. Dessert is on me.

MINNIE: YOU CAN”T BRIBE US WITH YOUR LADY FINGERS! They’re so dry!

MANAGER: Please don’t raise your voice. Look, here comes the food. Is there anything else I can do?

THEODORA: Forget the food. We’ve lost our appetite.

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