You Must Be Jerking My Beefaroni
Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, during the
heinous referee debacle that passed into history last Monday night as an
official National Football League game, I chose to put my time to good use
during the endless TV timeouts plus work stoppages on the field and write a
play, what the fock.
What I wrote is
not your usual theater play with a gang of thespians crying up a forsoothing
storm for a couple, three hours ’til the crows come home to roast, no sir. It’s
not one of those plays where the actors, when they hit the stage, instead of
wondering, “To be, or not to be?,” ought to wonder, “Where the fock is
everybody?” And that’s a question I can answer: Everybody is elsewhere ’cause all
these plays cost too focking much, last too focking long, and never have as
many laughs and gorgeous focking dames as they ought to, so’s to keep those
turnstiles humming a $nappy tune.
My play runs
about a good 10 minutes, so you’re in and out of the theater before you even
know it. And if you have kids, you wouldn’t have to add the expense of a
babysitter—you could easily be back home before the katzenjammers had a chance
to be abducted or light the house on fire and still have had an enjoyable
theatrical experience, no focking sweat.
What follows is
my play on the page for you’s to take a gander at, and maybe get your steamed
mind off how the Packers got jobbed up the butt sideways by a bunch of
incompetents. Break a leg.
Focking Playboy of the Western (and Eastern) World, Waiting for Deliverance
(Setting: Art Kumbalek’s penthouse living room
with fully stocked bar—and none of that fake stage-prop crap neither, capiche?
Art’s reclined on battleship-sized sofa, having a cocktail, smoking a
cigarette, talking on the phone. Art K. must appear as himself—no focking
Art: Yeah, large, everything on it ’cept
nothing that’s even close to being a vegetable. The only vegetable I want
connected to this pizza is the guy who delivers it, and if there’s even so much
as one anchovy, I’ll come down there and personally focking kill you myself.
You got that?
(Enter Lola, abso-focking-lutely knockout swanky
gorgeous dame. She sits on the sofa and plants one heck of a juicy smacker on
Art that lasts for about 10% of the show’s running time)
Holy moley, you busy after the show?
Lola: I just don’t know, Artie. There’s so
much trouble in the world today. Everywhere I go, there’s people with no money,
full of hopelessness, full of hate…
Art: Sounds like you’re hanging with the
Lola: You know what I mean, Artie. (Lola rises, puts her arms around Art and
draws him close) I see people homeless, hungry…
cocktail glass) And thirsty.
into Art’s ear) What’ll it be?
Art: I was having Manhattans, but now I’m
thinking Sloe Screw.
Art even closer) Can I make it straight up?
Art: You always do, baby.
to bar to fix drink) So Artie, what do you want to do for dinner tonight?
on sofa) I thought we’d hang around here tonight, have some drinks, a few
laughs; so I called for a pizza.
with drink, and plants juicy smacker on Art—even longer than the first one)
When’s it coming?
Art: Any second, and if it doesn’t, no tip,
or maybe I’ll kill him. What time does your husband need you back?
Lola: Soon. The nurse called in sick, so I’ve
got to give him his medication. (Phone
rings) I’ll get it. Hello? What? Who is this? (Hangs up)
Art: Who was that?
I don’t know. They just said they were coming right over. And they were going
to kill you.
Lola) Don’t sweat it, baby. The play’s almost over, then we can be alone. (Banging at door, Art rises)
Lola: Don’t get it, darling.
Art: Why the fock not?
Lola: That knock symbolizes one of two things:
Our pizza or your death. If it’s our pizza, OK, I’ll only have one slice. I’m
watching my figure.
Art: So am I, doll. Believe me you.
Lola: But if that knocker means your death,
it’s my death, too, for I could never live without you, or without me. Behind
the door, noisy but unknown, that knowledge must always remain so, noisy but
unknown, for us to exist, ignorant angels bathed in bliss we are.
Art: Whatever you say, baby. Let’s fool
around. (More knocking. Lola pushes Art
down on sofa. And Art and the free-spirited gal Art chose to cast for the role
of Lola get down to some really serious focking business, I kid you not, as
There you go, 10 minutes or so of show, about as much time as it took to write, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.