Famous Last Words

Browning: Good afternoon and welcome to Famous Last Words. I'm Samuel Browning. Today we'll be discussing the last poem left behind by the immortal Scotty McKippers, written on toilet paper and smuggled out of his prison cell by his loyal wife Bonnie. It has become widely accepted as one of the darkest reflections ever shared on the brutality of the police state, though my guest Felix Brommwell disagrees with this consensus. Why do you disagree, sir? Brommwell: I don't see anything in his last poem to set it apart from his earlier lamentations. Browning: You can't? What about The blowtorch flame was the last thing I saw As my balls imploded in a metal jaw? Brommwell: It sounds like he's just using new metaphors for old complaints. Browning: Metaphors? Mister Brommwell, this man was tortured. Brommwell: You can say that about any poet. Browning: You don't think it sets him apart a little to have been tortured to death in a state institution? Brommwell: Who says he was tortured to death? Browning: He does! What do you think he meant when he wrote 'Tis better to by reckless driving expire Than to hang by your ankles on electrified wire? Brommwell: I can't imagine what he meant by that, but he shouldn't encourage reckless drivers. At least his torture offered the hope of staying alive. Browning: But he's dead! He died in captivity! They had to recover his scattered remains from the four corners of the Earth for his funeral!
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Pomp and Sneak Advance

This comes from watching a lot of History Channel documentaries. What a fine day for a parade. This year we have more intercontinental ballistic missiles than ever to show off. Our wise leader has ordered that every ICBM in the country be taken out of their silos and added to this parade so that the enemy can count them all up and see that he has no chance of defeating us. Just look at that awesome display. 4375 ICBM's! We have achieved total superiority in the arms race. (A fiery explosion.) Make that 4374. (Another explosion.) 4373. (Another explosion.) 4372... Someone better hurry down to the war museum and grab a surface-to-air missile while we're still ahead.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Pet the Foreigner

Good afternoon, and welcome to Pet the Foreigner, the show-and-tell children's show about geography. And look what our missionaries brought back with them from their last expedition: a real live savage from Timbuktu! (In a plastic pen with a screen door in front, a small, exotically dressed boy sits impatiently.) Of course, he has no name. He has no language except for some kind of gibberish he was yelling in the trunk of the car. But we gave him a shot and he seems to have calmed right down. Would any of the children in our studio audience like to feed the wild boy? How about you? (A girl accepts the invitation.) What's your name? Monica. Well, Monica, here's some carrot sticks and lettuce leaves. I bet our guest is hungry. (The girl sticks her finger through a slot in the screen and pulls it out with a yelp.) He bit me! He bit you? Oh, oh! I guess it's time for another lesson in manners from our friend, Mister Cattle Prod. Would you like to do the honors, Monica? (He hands Monica the prod and she stings the boy with it.) Very good! You should be a paramedic when you grow up. How can I pet him? Do you want to pet him? If you just flip open that hatch on top of his pen, it will activate his head brace. (She swings the hatch open, immobilizing the boy's head against the ceiling of his pen. Children line up behind Monica to have their turn petting the boy as he curses them in his native language.)
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Insidious

Subdued in the afternoon What to do takes little surmising A contest upon me soon Worries grow, needs arising Without exertion find the drive to exist The list of the missing has risen too high to resist Shapely contours seize my glance Sprawling in directions wild Too much riding on the chance Intentions far from mild Self regulation harder than it would seem Hit by euphoria, drowning in peaches and cream Teased by the urge of insidious nature About all the details I don't want to say I think they would only get in the way Better oblivious, heading directly away Through the long eroding rain Upright and in stable condition Count the seconds to remain Until the intermission In isolation easy to fall out of place Certain imperilment wisely unable to face Focus on plans of celestial potential
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© 2007, 2015. Words and music by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Palumbo

Homicide detective Paul Palumbo always knew from the outset of his investigation who the culprit was. All that was left for him to do was to intimidate his suspects until they incriminated themselves. (Doctor Spock's office.) Palumbo: Doctor Spock? Spock: Yes, Detective, what can I do for you? Palumbo: Oh, I thought you might like to know about our progress in the case of your late nurse. Spock: Nurse Radcliffe? Yes, I already heard that it was an accident. Poor dear. Strangled herself on a hose. Palumbo: Yes, that's what we thought at first. But one of the other nurses said she heard a man's voice uttering death threats as she passed by the supply room at the victim's time of death. Spock: Oh? Which nurse is that? Palumbo: Nurse Graham. Spock: Well, you better look into that, Detective. Palumbo: Yes, Doctor. That's what I'm going to do right now. (The doorstep of Spock's home, the next morning. Palumbo is about to knock as the door swings open.) Spock: (startled) Detective! I didn't expect to find you out here. Palumbo: I thought you'd like to know what we learned from Nurse Graham last night. Spock: Yes, do fill me in. Palumbo: Well you see, I can't do that, sir. Nurse Graham is dead. Spock: Good heavens! How did it happen? Palumbo: It looks like she fell down the wrong way with a scalpel in her hand. Spock: How horrible. If only I hadn't gone golfing, maybe I could have prevented it. Palumbo: You were golfing at the time? Spock: Yes, here is my scorecard right here. Palumbo: (scratching his head) Then I guess Nurse Ryan was wrong. Spock: Nurse Ryan? Palumbo: Yes, Doctor. Nurse Ryan said she saw you with blood all over your golf shirt, running for your car, as she pulled into the hospital parking lot at around the time of the accident. Spock: Are you trying to insinuate something, Detective? Palumbo: No, no, sir! I would never do that! Spock: Then if you're through hassling me, I have work to do. Palumbo: And so do I. Sorry if I've disturbed you, Doctor. (The hospital crematorium. The Doctor is about to dispose of a deceased patient.) Palumbo: Doc? Spock: Yes, what is it now, Detective. Palumbo: Have you seen Nurse Ryan anywhere? Spock: No, I haven't, Detective. Palumbo: What about that corpse you're about to push into that oven? Spock: Who? This? Detective, you just do your job and I'll do mine.
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The Black Market

Are you tired of giant department store chains boasting of offering you the lowest prices? Here at the Black Market we pride ourselves on undercutting the competition, such as with this excellent switchblade. Canadian Tire might charge you fifty dollars for it, but I'll sell it to you right now for ten dollars. And who says cigarettes are expensive? Our truck driver delivers our cigarette cartons directly from the airport, allowing us to slash our cigarette prices from the twenty-four dollars a pack imposed by those government health fanatics all the way down to ten dollars. Are you looking for cheaper transportation? We sell new and used bicycles for ten dollars each. So go as low as you can go at the Black Market, open from sunset to dawn in the parking lot behind the pool hall, in the heart of the red light district.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Canon Law

First of all, let me repeat that I have no interest in being a comedian. I am simply an author, though I will be trying myself out as a performing musician in the days ahead. Authors own their original work and anyone who wants to use it must have their written permission. This is to prevent such ugly situations as when a crowd of the author's fans mistake him for a fraud because they received his work from an unauthorized source. It is also meant to assure payment for the author's efforts. After all, if he is to be judged by how much money he has in his pockets, the least we can do is pay him for his work. Are you following this, CBC? I don't want to be funny, I just want to be good. It's your witless, insecure friends who wanted to be funny when they had nothing of their own to offer the world. All I have done is to show how rare talent truly is, in direct contradiction to what you and your corrupt, greedy broadcasting comrades would have us all believe. Last night, as I fell asleep, I stumbled on a few more recollections of past posts which may have been stolen and turned into stand-up comedy. I'd like to address them all within this statement and save myself the time of rewriting them from scratch. The first is a statement I shared about Pachelbel's Canon. I said that it annoyed me to find its chord progression in so many pop songs. I think I may have even illustrated it by listing song titles and lyrics that used these chords, such as Green Day's Basket Case, and following each one with da da-na-na da-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na to show how easily they fit on top of Pachelbel's Canon. When did I share that, CBC? Was it as early as 2005? Anyway, I erased it soon after I shared it, out of respect for Green Day, whose music I did not want bashed. Sorry, Green Day. Those jerky comedy frauds only care about themselves. And here's a statement leftover from my 2002-2007 protest of the Iraq War: I'm tired of hearing about how these developing countries are such a massive threat. If Iraq was such a threat, how did US forces take over the whole fucking country in two weeks? Sound familiar? Oh, and here's some good sound psychology for you young couples out there about how to communicate within a relationship... I caught this last violation on a DVD I recently borrowed from the library about the JFK assassination. I can't recall the precise date, but I do recall saying, tongue in cheek, while insisting that there was a second shooter in the Kennedy slaying, that I knew there was a second shooter because I was the second shooter. It was quite spontaneous and I didn't think it was that funny, especially since I wasn't even born yet when Kennedy was assassinated, and that's why I erased it soon after I posted it. But it looks like dozens of TV celebrities thought that it was just hilarious. Apparently when I share these thoughts in my own words and they turn out to amuse large numbers of people, the broadcasters are still not amused until all these people are laughing at me as a wrongly accused fraud on top of laughing right along with me, in agreement with every word I ever shared online. I expect it will be much harder for broadcasters to distract them now from their righteous indignation without the resource of thousands of my own works of humor and scores of my own songs. It might also serve me now to remind my readers that I was a CBC fan. Back when I still watched television, I mostly watched CBC Newsworld, and back when I still listened to the radio, I mostly listened to CBC-FM. That's how I can recall all the veiled putdowns directed against me from their on-air conversations, such as when their science guy, doubtless after reading a rather lackluster effort of mine at science fiction writing in which I referred to an object as being 'about the size of a bread box', phrased his reply to a question in the words 'about the size of a wastepaper basket', and such as when their late night radio host thanked her listeners for their 'letters of support for her saliva'. Yuck. I can't believe I was so naive as to think that these heartless people would ever reciprocate my fondness for them. And I feel the same pain of betrayal by all those comedy shows I once stated as being among my favorites and by all those damned bands I once stated as being among my idols. It is clear to me now that these broadcasters and their stars hate their viewers and fans. The only love that multitudes of trusting people received from their TV's and radios the whole time I was hated came from me.
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Patience Causes Old Age

Of all my leftover gripes, I think the most persistent one is over being forced to wait. Does anyone like to wait? Isn't it stressful? Doesn't it wear on your mood? I'm sure I reach the vast majority of my readers when I say that waiting sucks. Having to wait for anything is an ordeal, but imagine having to wait for any one of the thousands of people involved in a crime that was committed against you behind your back to admit any fault or to offer any kind of compensation. Imagine having to wait for ten years, from the day the Georgia Straight first published your cartoon without including your name as its author, just for broadcasters to turn around and let every untalented, prematurely ejaculating social climber on the planet have all the rewards and all the LOVE for yet thousands more of your highly original, deeply intimate works of music and literature. Imagine having to wait through the added years of grief caused by this act of extreme cruelty, as your fans are tricked into hating you more than they hate serial killers, and without even knowing why your phone won't stop ringing with crank calls or why you can't go out in public without enduring jibes and putdowns and dirty looks. Then when you inadvertently expose one of these frauds and there is a sudden break in the inexplicable torrent of hate, imagine waiting to know what had happened in your favor. Imagine having inadvertently rewritten a hit song and then having to wait for others to tell you which song it was. Imagine them leaving you to figure it out for yourself on almost no information. Imagine uncovering more and more popular songs in this way over a five year period without anyone supporting you or telling you anything. Imagine waiting in a flophouse room that overheats in the summertime with nothing to think about but the riches that were showered upon others as a reward for stealing your work and lying to the world with it. Imagine having to wait for eight years and counting to be recognized for authoring a song that made it onto the rock radio as fraud within hours of your sharing it on the web (Beguiled, Virtue, etc.). Clearly the broadcasters didn't want the Shards to have to wait even a minute to cheat me out of my profits and lie to the world with my popular music. And CBC's comedy friend didn't have to wait even twenty-four hours from the date I erased my 1999-2007 Blogger account to go on a stage and have himself videotaped 'performing' my words for YouTube. From there, he didn't have to wait to get himself a prominent place in the cast of Saturday Night Live. And yet all this happened while I waited for a single person out of the millions who favored my music and writing to offer me the slightest encouragement. So if you're a greasy criminal who just wants to use stolen music or comedy to rise above your peers and show off, you don't have to wait at all. The business practically comes running to your doorstep to get you out making money. But if you are a legitimate author, especially one who has been targeted by this sort of crime, all you ever seem to do is wait and wait and wait. And the waiting is made that much more stressful by the knowledge that the creeps who stole from you didn't have to wait at all. I talked about waiting in a statement from my erased Blogger account in 2007. I talked about how much I hate it. I talked about how it drives me fucking crazy. And these broadcasting assholes have made fine use of the information I shared so honestly with the world. I'm quite sure they don't believe in God but I wouldn't be surprised if they worshiped the Devil. Don't bother waiting to ever learn one scrap of truth about them from their own lips. They're totally unlike me in that respect.
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The Right Republican

The effect of mass electronic communications on the public mind may be most apparent in the example of the former Soviet Union's adoption of a 'glasnost' or 'openness' policy to enable the transition of Soviet citizens into a free society. Up until then, Soviet citizens were so brainwashed by mass electronic communications that many of them were incapable of independent thinking. The option had to first be made available to them and then a certain amount of time was required for them to undergo the change. Gorbachev left the satellite countries of eastern Europe to decide their own fate. When East Germans wanted to move to the west, he let East German officials decide for themselves how to handle it. When East Germans were permitted to cross the border, he complimented East German officials for independently arriving at the right conclusion, for it would have been wrong to shoot Germans for simply wanting to travel into the west and associate with other Germans. Do you see how effective mass electronic communications can be in intellectually crippling its dependents? East Germans needed extra time to arrive at a simple, obvious, common sense solution. While the Soviet Union was restructuring its economy, citizens of these countries suffered terrible economic hardships, the likes of which no living memory exists of being suffered in this part of the world. They ran out of food and no one would offer any financial aid to encourage their progressive reforms. Some of the Communist hardliners took advantage of this by placing Gorbachev under house arrest and mobilizing tanks to try to restore the old system. But it was too late. The people had had enough time to learn how to think for themselves and decided to stand up to this brutal threat. In the old days, I gather, once the tanks hit the streets, people just automatically surrendered, with half the battle already having been fought and won by the constant government propaganda broadcasts. And just like an East German border guard had been conditioned by mass communications to shoot at his fellow citizens if they tried to cross into West Germany, which is not a crime, many people under the influence of capitalist propaganda were conditioned to hate an artist for disagreeing with the some of the policies of the U.S. government. It wasn't a crime for me to criticize the aerial bombardment of innocent civilians in a developing country, but I was singled out as a fucking subversive by what turned out to be a mainstream party ruled by its fringe elements and they made the whole population hate my guts. And what really won the people over to their side was my honest music and poetry and humor in the hands of their frauds, which gave them the false appearance of being right when they were fucking totally WRONG the whole miserable time. I don't think a real Republican administration would have supported such a dirty scheme. The U.S. administration of that time was the Christian Fascists, led by George W. Bush. They couldn't afford to campaign under their real name or no one would have voted for them. When are the mainstream parties going to expel these fringe elements? I think voters deserve to know what kind of government they are really voting for. The source of my long dispute with power is my intuitive grasp of the true disposition of the people. I know that Americans are, for the most part, a pretty nice bunch. Then I see their warplanes bombing the fuck out of helpless civilians on the ground and I know that American power is acting unilaterally. Americans don't want to bomb poor people who already have next to nothing. And Americans don't want to gang up on a poor artist and turn all his music and writing into crime. This is power acting unilaterally, on its own behalf, and maybe the only reason I am alone in criticizing it is because our own corrupt mass media has done such a thorough job of crippling our intellectual freedom, in an attempt to make us yield to the financial elite, in the absence of any remaining Commissars.
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Pink Marx

The world knew Pink Marx as a great rock star. Few would have guessed that he was a KGB agent, whose mission was to brainwash American youths into rejecting capitalism. (A Pink Marx concert.) Marx: We don't need no planned inflation... we don't need no wage control... (Suddenly the concert is stormed by armed troopers. They seize Marx as the crowd of fans roars their disapproval. Shots are fired to silence them.) Trooper: On behalf of your government, we arrest this man for sneakiness and outright treachery. As for the rest of you, you're all going to the front!
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Head Case Files: Stephen's Snow, Stupid Snow

Stephen lived in a secret snow kingdom. It was silent, but it wasn't cold. (Stephen stumbles upon two of his classmates in their secret hideout.) Stephen: Hey, guys! What are you doing? Boy #1: None of your bees wax! Stephen: Is that a Cosmopolitan Magazine? Can I see? Boy #2: Stay right where you are. What are you doing out here? Stephen: I was building an imaginary snowman! Would you like to join me? Boy #1: Let's get him! (They pounce on the unwelcome visitor.) Stephen's vivid inner world even isolated him from his father. (A living room. Stephen's father watches a baseball game. Enter Stephen, interfering with the broadcast signal.) Father: Stephen! How many times have I told you to leave your walkie talkie in your room! Look at that snow! That's your snow, Stephen. That's your stupid snow! But Stephen's disability came to a disturbing light during an ice fishing trip across the border to Canada. (A hospital room. Stephen lies incapacitated while his mother speaks to a physician.) Mother: I don't understand it, Doctor. One minute he was sitting in the back seat, behaving himself, then as soon as the car slowed down, he had jumped out, stripped down to his briefs, and started dancing about on the top of a snowbank until he collapsed from the exposure...
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

False Appearances Cause Blindness

Back when my original songs like Virtue, Beguiled, This Fool's Paradise, Under My Umbrella, Nothing but Ashes, Canopy, Arise, Nonplussed, Size, and Spoils, to name a few, played on the commercial radio with the names of plagiarizing, fraud committing assholes attached to them, I was treated as the lowest of the low. I was treated as someone who lagged behind and still supported the classic rock station by all the supporters of the new rock station. I was made to feel like the lowest person in the world by all the millions of fans of my songs on the radio. And this happened while George Carlin was making audiences laugh by telling them to keep their children away from Weird Uncle Dave, the only fragment of his entire routine that wasn't plagiarized from Weird Uncle Dave's erased blogs. Meanwhile, Tina Fey was telling everyone that the author of every decent sketch she had broadcasted as her own work in the last three years was a 'sock'. And Jon Stewart was devoting whole portions of his show to bashing the internet cartoon created by the author of his show's funniest content from the last three years. And everyone just thought it was right and acceptable to treat me like vermin. And now that all this crime has been exposed and the author is still unpaid, as if by some terrible fault of his own, I must ask how he would be expected to survive with no money? It would seem that vast sums of money were invested in his destruction which have now turned his survival into a cause for grief! What plan did they have in the event that I would rewrite all the work they stole from me? Obviously they had none. I'm supposed to be dead and I'm still alive. Boo hoo. Broadcasters can't get away with murder. Boo hoo. Oh, I hear that they are hurt. After they stole every word of every creation that it took me all my life to reach the level of being able to produce, they're hurt? Where are they as they are hurt? Are they sitting on a yacht in the Mediterranean or are they hanging out on a beach in Rio or are they enjoying some private sex party while their fans are being told by the corporate media that they're out campaigning for charity? A lot of these pricks were already rich before they stole my work and cashed it in for themselves, turning it into fucking standup routines and blockbuster movies and new commercial radio station chains and now they leave me on the fucking street in east Vancouver without a fucking penny out of all the billions of fucking dollars they made and they're hurt? Poor them, they're hurt. Poor fucking them.
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Head Case Files: Little Brenda

Little Brenda needed a friend. In the summertime, when all the other children were playing tag, her father would take her out to a remote cottage and ignore her. Whenever she tried to make friends with other little girls by decapitating their dollies or kicking their soccer balls into the lake, they told her to go away. Then Brenda met Lumpy, a nice, quiet, attentive pile of mossy stones in the woods. Brenda: Lumpy! Great to see you! Are you all ready for the summer? Hey Lumpy, look at me! I'm starting to get a little lumpy myself. I'm starting to become a woman, Lumpy. I bet you're going to enjoy that. Lumpy, have you been working out? (She runs her index finger along one of the stones.) You look more bumpy than lumpy this year. Do you want to see what I learned in gymnastics class? Okay, close your eyes while I take off my clothes. I just know this is going to be the best summer of all for you and me, Lumpy!
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Head Case Files: Jerome Adirondack

Today on Head Case Files, the dark source of Jerome Adirondack's irrational hate of adorable fuzzy playthings comes to light under hypnosis. Psychotherapist: I need you to go back in your memory, all the way back to the first time you saw the kind of hand puppet your wife caught you trying to dice with a cleaver. Adirondack: (semiconscious) All the way back? Psychotherapist: Yes, all the way back. Adirondack: (Murmuring) I'm in a hospital examination room with my mother and a nurse. I'm sitting on the edge of a table with my pants removed, eating a plastic block. Then the nurse approaches me, holding up a brightly colored hand pupper and making it twist and careen in a most amusing fashion. Suddenly her other hand lunges forward with something shiny and - NO! How could you do that to me? How could you betray me like that? I hate you! (He succumbs to bitter sobs.) Psychotherapist: Calm down, Jerome. You're going to be all right. Sit up, open your eyes and look at me. (Jerome complies with the request, squinting as the doctor's face has changed into a lovable muppet's.) Let's count to three! Will you count with me? Adirondack: I'LL KILL YOU! (He seizes the doctor by the throat and shakes him violently.) See modern psychotherapy unleash the demons of childhood trauma with a fury on Head Case Files.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

The Cynical Priest

It took me over a year, but I finally corrected the typo in this poem: 'voice' to 'choice'. At a charming cathedral in the fair month of May Had a couple decided to wedding vows say, In the spirit of two who were fully aware Of the life they would have as a permanent pair The cynical priest was persuaded to bend To the terms of an ever more popular trend And to join them with words not from regular choice, But from too much experience, in his own voice: 'Do you take this woman to have and to hold When her breasts start to sag and her lips have gone cold, When her track suit inflates with developing pounds, And when with her browbeating your poor head resounds? 'To absorb every jibe from her friends and her kin, To with household anxieties cordon you in, And to aim to content you with leftover stew?' Said the smitten young bridegroom sincerely, 'I do' The priest rolled his eyes at the eager assent, Which the future would prove as mistakenly meant, But proceeded respectfully on to the next, Straying further and further from orthodox text: 'Do you take this fellow, for better or worse, To hear him persistently grumble and curse About how his boss heaps upon him demands Far exceeding the means of his only two hands? 'To watch him eat roughly and discharge foul gas, To stare at the tube and let whole ages pass, And to cleanse all his skivvies of fungus and goo?' Said the beautiful bride without flinching, 'I do' 'Then,' said the priest, 'with these rings' pressing weight, Now imprison yourselves to your harrowing fate, As the tears of this gathering rightly are shed, By the power of love, I pronounce you both dead'
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Mountain Jack Cush

(Walton's Mountain. A bearded hermit, holding a shotgun, stands with his back to the camera, taking in the sweeping majesty of the rich landscape. He turns to face the camera with a broad smile and red rimmed eyes.) Hermit: Howdy! I'm Mountain Jack. Twenty years ago, I left my job as a strip club bouncer and came up here to the mountain to start living right. I didn't know how to build a log cabin and had to spend my first year in a tent. One morning I awoke to see a gigantic grizzly bear standing over me. I couldn't reach my shotgun and I thought I was a goner. But the bear only wanted one dance and then he left. Turned out he had eaten some of these here plants and they made him extra friendly. I tried some in my salad and they had the same effect on me. They made sleeping on bedrock so cushy that I decided to call the plants 'Cush'. Been cultivating them ever since. Every month, I drop off a bale at Jeb's Convenience Store, located 46 miles outside of Sticksville, Oblivion, to help the world overcome its differences for the bargain price of ten dollars a gram. Whether you chew it or smoke it or grind it up and snort it or even use it as a suppository, Mountain Jack Cush is guaranteed to put you in a right neighborly frame of mind. Hell, it even lets me get along with hippies! Enjoy the mountain beauty of Mountain Jack Cush, and start getting friendly - before we blow ourselves all to Kingdom Come with thermonuclear weapons. (He turns and sees that a bear is eating his crop.) Stop! Thief! (He raises his shotgun and fells the animal, then approaches and kills it with an execution style blast to the head.)
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

The Songwriter

Voice: Everyone could tell that Barney Bobkins was sweet by listening to his music. (A basement apartment. Barney sings and plays his guitar for his friend Jade.) Bobkins: (singing) ...and that's why I love you. Jade: That was so sweet. Bobkins: Thanks. Jade: Can I have it? Bobkins: Gee, I don't know, Jade. We've been together for four months now and I still haven't made it past first base. Jade: Aw, come on. That doesn't sound like the sweet guy who wrote those words. Bobkins: Oh, all right. Jade: Oh, thank you, thank you! (She kisses him and immediately exits.) Bobkins: Hey, where are you going? Voice: But when Jade made it big with his song, she kept her success to herself. (A huge concert. Jade has just finished successfully performing the love song when Bobkins approaches her from the crowd.) Bobkins: Hi, Jade! Jade: Who are you? Bobkins: Barney! The guy who wrote that song you just performed! I heard it on the radio and it's doing great! Can have my royalties? (Arms akimbo, Jade tilts her head back in arrogance and thrusts out her leg from the stage above him.) Jade: You may have my foot. Bobkins: Your foot? Why would I want that? (Security men seize him.) Unhand me, you brutes! (They drag him off.) Voice: Sweet guys finish last on The Songwriter.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Enemies of Freedom

Steinway: Good afternoon and welcome to another informative broadcast of Enemies of Freedom, where the world's top intellectuals are invited to share their concerns on the creeping totalitarianism of the modern age. I'm Immanuel Steinway. With me today is Professor Solomon Greenberg of the Institute for Human Advancement, who sees oppressive regimes and mad billionaires as falling shy of the tyranny imposed by a much higher power. Professor, with that much power, this monster must be out of control. Greenberg: Indeed, he is. He is not content with merely spying on us for information but must know our innermost secrets before we do. Steinway: How on Earth is that possible? Greenberg: It might be more apt to ask how in Heaven it's possible. Steinway: You mean... Greenberg: That's right. God is the ultimate tyrant. Steinway: Good God! Greenberg: Says you. Steinway: But God is said to have given us free will! Greenberg: Oh yeah? If we're so free, why do we need God to give us our freedom? Steinway: Hmm, well I never thought of that. So do you oppose religion? Greenberg: I don't know. Why don't you ask God? Do you see my point? Everything in our world has been put there by God. Every moment of our existence is controlled by God. What is left for us to do but fall to our knees in abject servitude? Steinway: I'm surprised at you, Professor. I would have thought that a man of your sophistication might be an atheist. Greenberg: I am too terrorized by the possibility of God's existence to reject God. Steinway: I'm an atheist. Greenberg: Are you sure about that? Steinway: Certainly. Greenberg: (pulling a Bible out of his coat) Then you wouldn't be afraid to put your hand on this Bible and declare your atheism once and for all. Steinway: Of course, not. (He puts his hand on the book as Greenberg holds it up.) Greenberg: Do you have children, Mister Steinway? Steinway: Yes. Greenberg: Then you're not afraid that something horrible might happen to them as a consequence of this affront to the power of God. Steinway: Now hold on, there. I'm a good father. Greenberg: Just checking. Are you ready? Steinway: Yes. Greenberg: When was the last time you took your car in for inspection? Are you sure your brakes are in good working order? Steinway: Actually I am due for a tuneup, now that you mention it. Greenberg: If that vehicle goes off the road after you swear against God on this Bible and you die, it might only be the beginning of your troubles. All right then, Mister Steinway, please proceed with your spiritual damnation. (Steinway's face perspires as he hesitates. After a moment, he withdraws his hand in silence.) Steinway: (sheepishly) Perhaps I'm being a little rash. Greenberg: (putting the book back in his coat) Don't be embarrassed, Mister Steinway. We're all in this together.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Safer Sex with Polly Foolscap

First up on Safer Sex, all of the men, women and children involved in the latest big scandal have testified that no oral favors were performed - even if they were deserved. Now that this has been established, the court will hear charges of treason and crimes against humanity. One way to make sex safer is by eliminating partners. Auto-erotic stimulants have an ancient history. Roman women of high position, who drained athletes of sweat for cosmetic use, are credited with having fashioned the earliest pleasure sticks from the dislocated organs of fallen gladiators. However, the church blamed the empire's fall on the lowered birth rate, which had apparently been caused by the tools, and banned them for thirteen centuries. It wasn't until the scientific advances that enabled taxidermists to stuff the heads and other parts of ferocious beasts in the eighteenth century that wild Quaker women would pick up the torch for modern sexual enlightenment and lead us into a bold new age - perhaps on horseback. New plastic compounds finally produced the modern propylene phallus, whose artificial composition simulates organic tactility with astonishing precision. On the other hand, those of you who practice outdoor group sex should be on the lookout for aphids. The creatures are small and undetectable and may take advantage of the disturbance caused by your orgy to escape the tyranny of their ant overlords by stowing away somewhere on your person. They prefer to graze on armpits and other hairy regions and can only be killed by herbal essence shampoo. That's our show for today. For Safer Sex, I'm Polly Foolscap reminding everyone: let's be careful down there.
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© 2007, 2015. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.