While you are sleeping
they are sharpening the guillotine
loading their guns
sheathing knives at their thighs.
Tiptoeing while you snore
they tie the noose,
deliver the poison,
and plant mines beneath your feet.
In your dream state,
They write the nightmares.
You have no idea
what awaits.
Good afternoon, Debbie.
Pay attention, because I’m about to order the greatest goddamn sandwich you’ve ever made in your short career at the Subway Corporation. How long you been here, baby? Three months? That’s adorable. You wake up inspired every day to craft better sandwiches? I hope so, Debbie, because I’m about to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build the most incredible motherfucking Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich anyone has ever tasted. You feel me?
Debbie, today is not just another day of slapping cold cuts and lettuce on bread like some goddamn assembly-line worker. No ma’am. Today, you’re going to transcend. Take your round little ass over to that oven and pull me out a warm 12-inch Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf. Not just any loaf, Debbie. I’m talking about the cheesiest, herbiest, most Italian-ass bread you’ve got back there. Grab that loaf like it’s a feisty colt and you’re ready for some bedroom bareback rodeo.
Now let’s get surgical. Slice that bad boy open, smooth as a hot knife through sweet cream butter. Split it delicately, like you’re opening the legs of a young virgin on a warm wedding night. That’s it. You’re doing great. Now hit me with some thick mayonnaise— and let me stop you right there— you do not wait until the end to squirt mayo on a sandwich. Who the fuck taught you that porn-scene nonsense? This is America, Debbie. Mayonnaise goes on the bread, not on top of the goddamn ingredients. Slather that shit on thick.
Beautiful.
Now we come to a very important moment. Pay attention, Debbie. I’m only going to say this once.
No. White. Motherfucking. Cheese. Repeat that shit back to me. Good girl.
Lay some sharp cheddar on there. That’s the color of cheese we’re talking about. Golden. Bold. Unapologetic. Just like me.
Now for the the star of the show: the chicken. Chicken is the most versatile meat in the world. Fried chicken. BBQ chicken. Chicken soup. Chicken and waffles. Chicken and dumplings. Hell, chicken can be anything. It’s super meat.
You see that piece of chicken right there? Third one down from the top? That’s the one. Put that glorious hunk of bird on my sandwich. Gently now, like you’re tucking a preemie into a blanket.
Next we turn up the heat.
Crank that toaster to 475 degrees and toast this motherfucker like it owes us royalty money.
While that’s cooking, let me ask you something, Debbie—are you familiar with Henry V? No? Let me enlighten you: “It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”
That’s Shakespeare, Debbie. Cultured as shit.
All right, pull that masterpiece out and let’s cool it down with some lettuce. You know how every movie gets better when Samuel L. Jackson shows up? Same deal with lettuce on a sandwich. Lettuce is the Samuel L. Jackson of sandwich toppings. Pile that shit on.
Now here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna say some words, and you’re gonna add the ingredients.
Ready?
Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Black olives.
Red onions.
STOP.
You didn’t hear me say pickles, Debbie. DID I SAY MOTHERFUCKING PICKLES? No, I did not. So why in the holy hell are you reaching for pickles like they belong here? Did Jared himself rise from his dank prison cellblock to whisper, “Add pickles to Samuel L. Jackson’s sandwich”? No? Then back the fuck off with those pickles, Debbie. I didn’t ask for them and I sure as hell don’t want them.
Let’s move on.
To make things right, add two or three slices of crispy bacon.
That’s it, Debbie. You’re killing it now.
But we’re not done yet. You see that shaker of seasoning over there? Pick it up and shake it so hard I can hear your titties clapping together. Don’t be shy. That’s the sound of culinary excellence and it’ll also garner you an Oscar nomination. I know what I’m talking about.
All right, here comes the grand finale. Take that magnificent creation and cut it—not in half—but into four motherfucking pieces. Yes, I know it’s unorthodox, but trust me. It’s the way this sandwich was meant to be enjoyed.
Now wrap it up.
Let me tell you something—I’ve been in over 100 films, Debbie. More than any other goddamn actor in history. But do I know how to wrap a sandwich? Hell no. That’s your department. Just make it tight enough to keep it from leaking on my lap but loose enough so I don’t have to hack it open like a cockpit full of snakes.
Perfect.
Now stick some extra napkins in the bag, grab me a bag of BBQ Sun Chips, and tell me how much I owe you.
What the hell do you mean you don’t accept Apple Pay?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, August 18, 2015.]
I wish to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. If I had been aware of what death would feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?
First and foremost, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who conceived the notion of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me assure you, it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since 1929! The reality is, you’re buried in a pine box, and that’s the end of it. No music, no clouds, no angels. Just you and the darkness. And let me emphasize: this darkness is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You could light a torch, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.
I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. This place is too quiet, too dark, and the smell… Good God, the smell! I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was much worse those first few years, especially with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.
Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” But let me stop you right there. Sure, it might feel like a twelve-year nap at first. However, you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. It’s absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are even worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. In the first 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.
Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t communicate, hold hands, or even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Despite this, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now — no wrinkles, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.
Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my happier days. For instance, there was this time in Budapest when I shared a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. An actress with a doll-like face and a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I couldn’t resist kissing her. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her, then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious! But then, she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See? For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot about the family of millipedes living in my skull.
Here’s the kicker of being dead: you can hear everything. It’s as if my hearing has become superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe — I can hear them all. Last week, I had to endure an Alabama farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four excruciating hours. I’ve never been so close to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because — you guessed it — I’m dead.
I try not to complain, but honestly, what’s worse than death? I think about all the moments I squandered while alive. Night after night, I passed out in a scotch coma, while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. I wish I could relive those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career aspirations. I aspired to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.
Anyway, I should return to lying still and rotting. I’m not even sure if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is permitted. The rules here are quite straightforward: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I must admit, I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits, and it makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.
But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]
Morning wood! So awesome! I still got it! I could change a tire with this thing!
This hot water feels good. Should have showered earlier. If I masturbate right now I won’t be able to stop at Panera Bread on the way to work. Scew that, I need my Cinnamon Crunch bagel! Maybe I could skip shaving. Even better, I’ll just stand here in the hot water.
Julie in accounting is wearing that outfit. I think I’ll go by and see how her weekend was. I’m pretty sure she has a thing for me. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Did girls have asses like that when I was in college? She smells like cookies. I’d never fool around on Sarah. Look but don’t touch, right?
Sarah just texted me ❤️❤️❤️. I texted 👉🏼👌🏼 three times in a row, Ha ha!
Sleepy. I can tell it’s gonna be an early one. Hope Sarah doesn’t want to have sex tonight.
Sarah wants to have sex tonight. She just texted me 👅👅👅👅. I’m going to have to start working on a plan to get out of this. I’ll tell her I have an early meeting. Better text her now.
Lunch with Clark, Telly, Mary Ann and Julie. Didn’t realize I could see so much of Julie’s cleavage. Does she have a tattoo on her boob? Why would she want that? I think Mary Ann has a thing for me. Need sleep. Why does Telly keep looking at Julie’s boobs? So obvious. He’s old enough to be her father.
Went to the restroom and thought about masturbating but I need to print some stuff out.
So, incredibly sleepy. Shouldn’t have had that beer at lunch. Might take a nap as soon as I get home. Maybe Sarah will order something. She’s going to want sex. Christ.
Sarah just texted 💋. She wants sex. I can’t do this tonight. So tired. Tomorrow. I’ll promise sex tomorrow. I’ll feel more rested tomorrow.
Working on a report and my penis fell asleep! When did this start happening?? Also I think it’s shrinking. Can that be true? I need to walk around a few minutes. I wonder what Julie is doing…
Why am I so tired? I couldn’t have sex right now if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
Home. Sarah just kissed me and grabbed my crotch. Oh, come on! There is no way possible I can have sex tonight! I’m going to start talking a lot about how tired I am. She’ll get the clue.
Every time I say I’m tired Sarah says “Then maybe we should take off our clothes and go to bed.” No! So sleepy! I don’t want to upset her but this is not going to happen tonight. She’s mentioned sex six times since we’ve been home. I keep changing the subject to Telly’s new car. Not sure how long I can keep this up. She hates Telly.
Sarah keeps staring at me during dinner. It’s her sex stare. I need more garlic bread. I could go to sleep right here in this chair.
Told Sarah I was too tired for sex. That didn’t go over well but I feel relieved. Went to the bathroom and masturbated. What the hell is wrong with me?
Bed feels so good. Amazing. So much better than an orgasm. I’ll be unconscious in 5 minutes. Sarah has forgiven me. She scooted over so our asses are touching. Wait, I hope she’s not still trying. I just pretended to snore. I don’t think that sounded fake. I can hear her breathing heavy now. She’s out. Whew! Danger has past. I can relax now. Why does Julie have a boob tattoo?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, June 22, 2015.]
I immediately joked, “Oh, look! A killer came to visit!” Then a darker thought struck: what if someone had broken in and harmed my pets? I rushed inside, heart pounding, but found my cats and dog peacefully napping, blissfully unaware of my panic. Relieved, I checked the floors and carpets for more blood. Nothing. The blood seemed to be confined to the outdoors.
Returning to the porch, I inspected the blood drops and noticed a massive splash on the white porch post above the handrail. It looked like someone had flung a blood-soaked sponge at the wall. This was no minor mess. Then, in the corner, I saw it: my wicker chair, its seat smeared with blood. It looked as though someone with very bloody pants had sat there for a while. Drops of blood pooled beneath the chair and splattered across the front window. My porch was starting to look alarmingly like a crime scene.
I tried to make sense of it. Could an injured animal have sought refuge on my porch? It would need to be something agile enough to perch on the handrail, but there were no bloody paw prints. Maybe it was a bird? But do birds even have that much blood? Perhaps two birds had an MMA-style showdown right on my porch. Still, there were no feathers, no tracks, no signs of a struggle. Just blood. Lots of blood.
Feeling increasingly uneasy, I decided to call the police. Maybe there’d been a nearby incident, and this could help them track the killer’s movements. Perhaps the culprit had considered knocking on my door to borrow some Lava soap and a Tide Stick but thought better of it. I’m no expert on how criminals think, sane or otherwise.
The dispatcher seemed moderately concerned, which I took as a good sign. I emphasized the blood in my explanation, wanting to sound credible and not like a neighborhood crackpot. Dispatchers are hard to impress, but I think I managed. She assured me an officer would be out soon.
Now I faced a dilemma. Should I wait inside or meet the officer outside? How would “a bloody porch” sound over the radio? Would they send two cars? Three? When the squad car finally appeared, I stepped onto the porch and waved him in.
In hindsight, there’s probably nothing more suspicious than a 6’5″ hairy man in a kilt standing on a bloody porch waving at the police. It’s likely the exact scenario they use in Police Academy training videos to demonstrate when it’s acceptable to fire without warning. The officer cautiously approached as I explained the situation, pointing out the blood pools and splatters. I even shared my amateur detective work: no bloody fingerprints on the doors or windows. I might have even used the word “perpetrator” a couple of times. Meanwhile, I cleared junk off the porch, making space for the mobile crime lab and its fancy equipment.
The officer didn’t seem impressed. If anything, he looked more exasperated than concerned. “It was probably some animal,” he said with a sigh that practically added, ‘you dumbass.’ “Maybe a fox or coyote dragged something up here.”
“Like what, a roadrunner?” I wanted to ask but held back. As his interest visibly waned, I started feeling sorry for the imaginary family who’d been gruesomely murdered the night before, their crime forever unsolved. I wondered which house they lived in and if their lawn looked better than mine.
That’s when it hit me: I’d just become this officer’s story at the station. “Did I tell you about the guy in the skirt who called in because a sparrow cut itself shaving on his porch?” he’d say, igniting uproarious laughter. “Maybe it was just ‘his time of the month!”’ Cue the holster-gripping belly laughs and cigarette tosses. Some might even Google my website for a visual to match the story. Police bullying at its finest.
Early this morning, I awoke with a phrase ringing in my head: “a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.” Quietly, I crept to the living room window overlooking the porch. There, on the stained wicker chair, sat a big orange cat, staring hungrily at the bird feeder. His eyes darted with every fat morsel that flitted by. He was clean. No blood. Perhaps he’d been unlucky in the hunt. I opened the door, and he bolted, pausing behind a tree to peek at me before disappearing into the dawn.
“Mystery solved,” I thought.
Then, in a flash, a hooded man leapt from the bushes and plunged a knife into my chest 37 times. Blood splattered across the porch, the walls, the windows, and the stupid wicker chair. My lifeless body collapsed as the man fled into the night.
Of course, that last part didn’t happen. But it’s the story I’m telling next time I call the police dispatcher.
These sketch comedy scripts are available for free readings and performances, royalty-free. Please credit the author, Rick Baldwin, in any program, announcement, or recording. Scripts may not be altered, adapted, or edited without prior written permission from the author. Public reprinting (in print or online) also requires permission.
[Content Warning: Mild adult situations]
Lights up in a restaurant. A couple, ANDREA and STEVEN, sit at a table reviewing menus.
ANDREA: Have you decided what you’re having?
STEVEN: It all looks great. Ooo, how about this—“Pan-Seared Filet Mignon with Garlic Mashed Potatoes…”
ANDREA: Where’s that?
STEVEN: (pointing at her menu) Right… here.
ANDREA: Mmmm, yum! I think I’ll have that!
STEVEN: (playfully) You’re just copying me.
ANDREA: Or I have great taste.
They share a smile.
STEVEN: Don said he’d be here at 7:45. What’s keeping him?
ANDREA: I can’t wait to meet his new girlfriend!
STEVEN: I know, right? I’m just glad he’s finally moved on from Cindy. I swear, if I got one more midnight “I can’t live without her” call, I was gonna block his number.
DON enters, carrying a road cone under his arm.
ANDREA: Here he comes!
DON: Hey, guys!
STEVEN: (eyeing the cone) Uh… hey, Don. Is… everything okay?
DON: Great! Never better!
DON sits, setting the cone on a chair.
DON: Sorry we’re late. Steven, Andrea, I’d like you to meet… Jennifer!
STEVEN and ANDREA exchange stunned glances.
DON: (grinning) We took a little detour. (to the cone) Didn’t we, babe? Had to stop at the old ball field—things got… spicy. (giggles, kisses the cone)
ANDREA: (frozen smile) Oh. Wow. How… romantic.
WAITER enters.
WAITER: Good evening! Have you decided?
STEVEN: Yes, we’ll each have the filet mignon with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. And a bottle of your ‘86 Cabernet Sauvignon.
WAITER: Excellent. And for you, sir?
DON: (to the cone) What do you think, honey? Jambalaya? Yeah, we’ll share one big plate of jambalaya. And extra cayenne—Jennifer likes it spicy. (pause) Oh, and water for us both.
The WAITER stares, nods slowly, and exits.
DON leans over to whisper to the cone, then starts passionately “kissing” it, licking the hole on top.
ANDREA: (horrified) Don? Maybe… don’t do that here.
DON: What? Come on, guys, we’re all adults! You’ve never seen PDA before?
STEVEN: Not like this.
DON sighs and reluctantly pulls back. Silence follows.
ANDREA: So… Don. How did you and… Jennifer meet?
DON: Oh, it was fate! You know that construction site on the interstate? Traffic was crawling. I looked out my window and bam—there she was. Just standing there, glowing in the sun. I knew right then she was the one.
STEVEN: (muttering) Love at first cone…
DON kisses the cone again, oblivious to STEVEN and ANDREA’s discomfort.
ANDREA: (rising) If you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen up.
DON: Oh no, here we go!
ANDREA: What?
DON: (to the cone) She’s going to drag you off to the bathroom for some girl talk. Go on, Jennifer. (hands the cone to ANDREA) But don’t gossip about us too much!
ANDREA, holding the cone awkwardly, exits. DON turns to STEVEN.
DON: Isn’t she amazing? I mean, I’ve been so lonely since Cindy left. Jennifer makes me feel alive again.
STEVEN: Don, she’s a road cone.
DON: (offended) That’s shallow, Steven.
STEVEN: Shallow? She’s literally made of plastic!
DON: That’s offensive! Thermoplastic PVC.
STEVEN: Whatever.
DON: Look, you don’t know what it’s like out there, Steven. Modern dating is brutal! Jennifer doesn’t judge me. She doesn’t swipe left. She just… accepts me.
ANDREA returns with the cone. It now has a face painted on it, complete with lipstick and blush.
STEVEN: (grinning) Hey, Andrea, you look stunning. And Jennifer? Wow. That’s a face that would stop traffic!
DON: (horrified) Honey, you know I hate when you wear so much makeup. (grabs a napkin) Let’s wipe this off.
DON smears the makeup, leaving streaks of color dripping down the cone. They all stare at the mess.
DON: (to the cone) Oh, so now I’m the bad guy? I was just trying to help! And don’t think I didn’t notice you flirting with the waiter. Show a little respect for our relationship!
DON stands, grabs the cone, and storms off.
DON: (to STEVEN and ANDREA) Sorry. Cancel our order.
He exits. Silence.
ANDREA: We need new friends.
BLACKOUT.