Pinkos.

Did you know that in the early 20th Century three states passed laws that margarine had to be pink?

Margarine is an artificial butter substitute and it is white when extruded from the factory. It is dyed yellow to more closely resemble butter (which itself is often dyed yellow to more closely resemble what you think butter looks like).

The milk and butter lobby (“BIG BUTTER”, as I and I alone refer to them) got laws passed in 32 states that regulated and restricted the dying of margarine (read: not yellow). Only South Dakota, Vermont, and New Hampshire required that it be pink because obviously their state legislatures were filled with old timey Tammany Hall types who were as hilarious as they were sadistic.

Eventually the Supreme Court got involved and in their famous case, “I Can’t Believe It’s a Supreme Court Caliber Case v. Can You Even Fucking Believe This Is a Supreme Court Case” ruled that BIG BUTTER needed to stop wasting the Supreme Court’s MFing time.

Despite the SCOTUS ruling, the state of Wisconsin kept its anti-margarine dying laws on the books until 1967 because … let me check my notes. Oh yes .... because no one actually gives a shit what color the margarine is in Wisconsin. Like literally, I bet that after the Supreme Court ruling there was a meeting at the FBI that went something like this:

INT. J EDGAR HOOVER’S OFFICE. DAY.

FBI AGENT

So we have been hearing rumors that Wisconsin still doesn’t have yellow margarine, despite the Supreme Court ruling. Should we send some people up there to …

J. EDGAR HOOVER

Get the fuck out of my office.

FBI AGENT

But I just …

J. EDGAR HOOVER

No, seriously. Fuck you.

FBI AGENT

But the Supreme Court …

J. EDGAR HOOVER

My next meeting after this is about actual fucking Soviet spies. KGB assassins and shit. And you’re bringing me this broke ass, weak tea non-yellow margarine bullshit? And anyway, isn’t Wisconsin in Canada? How gives a seagull’s fuck in winter about Canadian butter. Are you embarrassed right now you asshole? Because you should be.

FBI AGENT

I’m … going to go now.

J. EDGAR HOOVER

Goddam right you are! Jerk.

END SCENE

I don’t have transcripts to prove any of that is true, but I have put in a FOIA request, just in case.

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A Wildly Unsuccessful Playwright.

I am slowly and painfully editing my way through the rather uneven novel I wrote last year and below is a section that I think is kind of interesting. All you really need to know here is that Viv is a wildly unsuccessful playwright and that she’s having a bad day.

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Viv's Ten Second One-Act.

Viv's Ten Second One-Act
by james bezerra

The story Viv is telling me started out as a story about a play that she’d written:

I wrote a play once about these people who only felt things for ten seconds. They could only feel their own feelings for ten seconds and then the feelings went away. They could still remember that they had felt them, but they couldn’t really feel them anymore, you know? Well it was just a one-act play, one little set that was just supposed to be a living room and the characters were a family, a husband and a wife and a teenage son and a little daughter. The play was about how great and how terrible it would be if you only felt things for ten seconds at a time. At the beginning of the play the FATHER comes home and he’s holding a dead cat and he says, Everyone I just ran over our cat and I feel terrible about it.

And the DAUGHTER says, Oh no my cat Schrodinger is dead and my father killed him! I hate my father! I hate him!

The FATHER says, I am so ashamed and I feel so guilty.

The DAUGHTER takes the body of the cat and starts to cry with it on the floor.

Then the MOTHER comes in and she says, What is going on in here?! Why is my daughter sobbing on the floor with her cat, which is dead?

But the FATHER, his ten seconds are up and he doesn’t feel bad anymore.

The FATHER says, I ran over the cat with my car just now.

The MOTHER is angry and pounds on his chest: Why? Why? did you run over that cat? You know it is the only thing that makes her happy!

But now the DAUGHTER’s ten seconds are up. The DAUGHTER says: I did love my cat but he is dead now and there is nothing that anyone can do about it. I will go back to watching TV.

Then the SON comes downstairs: Why is everyone being so loud down here? Can’t a teenage boy quietly masterbate in his room in peace?

The MOTHER screams: Your father killed the cat!

FATHER: That is a true statement; I did.

The SON is upset now: But I loved that cat! Why are you trying to hurt me?!

The MOTHER, her ten seconds are up now: Do not yell at your father. It was clearly an accident.

FATHER: Yes, you are not allowed to yell at me and must be punished. Go get a switch from the willow tree.

SON: I hate you!

The FATHER and MOTHER and DAUGHTER all sit on the couch watching TV and with the dead cat still on the floor.

The SON returns with a switch but his ten seconds are up now too: Here father, I have brought a switch so that you can punish me appropriately.

The SON pulls his pants down and bends down to stick his ass in the air and the FATHER begins to beat him with it.

The FATHER actually hates doing this and starts to cry and so does the SON because his ass is flaming red now.

Then the doorbell rings and the MAIL MAN is standing there: I brought your mail because that is my job.

The MOTHER rushes to the door, she is blushing and it is obvious that she has been having an affair with the MAIL MAN. The MOTHER is overwhelmed with lust and kisses the MAIL MAN and he starts groping her in the doorway.

By now the SON has stopped crying and pulled his pants up.

The FATHER drops the switch and rushes to the doorway: Hold on there now, that is my wife and you can’t touch her like that!

MAIL MAN: Yes but I love her and I hate you!

The MOTHER: It is true, we are in love with each other and you never understood me!

The HUSBAND is so angry that he punches the MAIL MAN in the face, but the MAIL MAN’s ten seconds are up and so he just cups his nose, which is bleeding.

The MAIL MAN says: You had every right to do that and I apologize for being inappropriate. Here, please take your mail. There are some bills in there.

The MOTHER’s time is up too and she buttons her blouse and says: Yes, I was wrong to fall in love with him.

But the FATHER is still fuming and says: I hate that in a few seconds I won’t be angry anymore!

But then the FATHER’s ten seconds are up and he glances down at the mail and says: The electric bill has come.

And that’s when the lights fade to black.  

Viv and I just keep on walking for awhile until she says, “I guess it’s all in the delivery, but I think that it is supposed to be about how the stuff that makes life unbearable might actually be the stuff that makes it worth living. I don’t know. I think that’s what it was about.”

We walk some more.

I don’t know what to say, so I just say, “I would have gone to see that play.”

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Disclaimers, Caveats, and Provisos.

Below is a short play that I have written. You’re welcome America!

A milion years ago I used to write a lot of plays and I always find that it is a fun medium to slip back into. I like it because I think that the largely dialogue-driven nature of playwriting lends itself toward experiments in absurdity. Because it is more like life, which is pretty absurd.

This short play happened because: 1) the other day I read that most people can’t tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi in blind taste tests, and 2) because I was in the mood to write a short play.

Disclaimers, caveats, and provisos:

- I don’t mean to pick on punk rock, it is just an easy target.

- I do mean to pick on Metalica because I’m still pissed about Napster.

- If, as Arthur C. Clarke said, there is a point when technology becomes indistinguishable from magic, I think that there is also a point when Capitalism will become indistinguishable from religion.

- If you need to buy a car, just get a Subaru.

- Also, this play is not very good.

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How to Buy a Car.

How to Buy a Car

a short play

by james bezerra

LIGHTS FADE UP from black. VINCE and STAN are sitting in two folding chairs on an otherwise bare black stage. They are successful but aging musicians. STAN is wearing a denim vest with metal and patches on it. VINCE is wearing black leather driving gloves. It would be great if they have mohawks, but that’s really not required.

There are some musical instruments. There is pushbroom on the floor.

STAN: I know that we’re a famous punk rock band but now that I have kids I am seriously considering buying a Volvo and a house with a two-car garage.

VINCE: I don’t know man, a Volvo doesn’t sound very Punk Rock.

STAN: You drive a BMW.

VINCE: What’s wrong with a BMW? It has heated seats.

STAN: I’m just saying that a BMW doesn’t seem terribly Punk Rock.

DELBERT (enters): Hey guys, sorry I’m late. What did I miss?

VINCE: Well Stan here is thinking about selling out.

STAN: That’s not cool!

DELBERT: Selling out? How much are they offering you?

STAN: I said that I was thinking about buying a Volvo because I have kids now and it just doesn’t feel right to drive them around in the back of a windowless van with no seats in it, you know? It doesn’t seem safe.

DELBERT: Oh, sure, well I understand that.

VINCE: No! No! That is selling out to The Man.

STAN: Dude, you have a house with a swimming pool and a jacuzzi. You have a guy who works for you whose only job is to clean the pool and the jacuzzi.

VINCE: What’s your point?

DELBERT: Oh wait! I think I get it! See Vince, the point that Stan is trying to make is that we have all gotten rich and famous by embracing a certain amount of discontent, aggression and social non-conformity, but that by simply becoming rich and famous we have engaged in the same social power structure and economic ladder-climbing that we got famous by being opposed to. And, as an example, Stan is pointing out that while you still write songs about rebelling against the class system, you seem to be hypocritically enjoying the benefits of being at the top of it.

STAN: Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant. What he said.

VINCE: Well that’s not true at all. In fact, I think I know what this is REALLY about; you guys are both just jealous that I got invited to P. Diddy’s place in the Hamptons for New Years.

STAN: No. No, that is not what this is about.

DELBERT: Yeah, I think you have basically misunderstood everything I said.

VINCE: You know what, I don’t have time for this. I have a tee time at the club. I’m playing with some movie stars and investment bankers. At least those guys are Punk Rock. They don’t give a fuck about anything. Or anybody. Not even their own kids, or puppies, and certainly not humanity in general. Yeah, so fucking Punk Rock.

STAN: No. No. Look, there isn’t any way that investment bankers can be Punk Rock. It is antithetical to the fundamental ideology of Punk Rock.

VINCE: No, these guys are pretty cool.

DELBERT: You know Stan, it is possible that Vince makes a good point. If the real nature of Punk Rock is simply nihilism, then it would be possible for investment bankers to be Punk Rock. In fact, by holding onto an outdated idea of what Punk Rock is, it would then be you who is not being Punk Rock.

STAN: What?!

VINCE: See? What he said.

STAN: No, that is ridiculous. I am wearing a jacket with a bunch of metal stuff on it and patches safety pinned to it; I am clearly the Punk Rock one.

DELBERT: Oh, I don’t know. That seems like a pretty superficial way to define what something is.

VINCE: Yeah! See Stan? The new Punk Rock is driving a BMW to my private club and playing golf with bankers before going into the studio and recording a song about being anti-establishment. What about that is so difficult to grasp?

DELBERT: Actually, I’m pretty sure that isn’t Punk Rock either ...

STAN: Wait, if both of us are wrong then how do I prove that I am more Punk Rock than Vince is?

VINCE: Not by buying a Volvo …

DELBERT: Well, you know, it might be possible that this entire conversation is pointless because the very soul of Punk Rock has been dead for decades, seeing as how it was really just a teenage social and musical movement in parts of Great Britain after World War II. And maybe what we all think of as “Punk Rock” is really just an aesthetic that has been packaged and marketed to us over the years; almost as though the entire anti-establishment philosophy has been commoditized and sold to us like any other kind of branded product.

VINCE: That is a really interesting idea, but all of this talking has made me really thirsty. Stan do you have any Coca-Cola?

STAN: I only have Pepsi. Is Pepsi okay?

VINCE: No. I only drink Coca-Cola.

DELBERT: Guys, they’re both just syrupy carbonated beverages. Most people can’t actually even tell them apart.

Both VINCE and STAN: BULLSHIT!

DELBERT: Its true. In blind taste tests most of the population can’t tell the difference. The brand loyalty you feel is just because of a hundred years of marketing.

VINCE: Do you think I’m stupid? Is that what you’re saying? That I can’t make my own decisions?

DELBERT: No, but I think that the people who are trying to sell you things think that you’re stupid.

VINCE: See? You just called me stupid again. Questioning any of the things I believe in is the same as calling me stupid. I’m not a status-symbol whore! And you’re lucky that I’m really looking forward to playing twelve holes with my new Titleist clubs today, because if I wasn’t in such a hurry I would take off one of these new leather BMW driving gloves that I am wearing and smack you across your lying face.

STAN: Wait, wait! Don’t get violent. Maybe he is just saying that most of the things in our lives that we think we need, we only think we need because we have been convinced by advertising and society that need them!

VINCE: That’s ridiculous.

DELBERT: I think that maybe we would all be a little bit happier if we stopped buying things in order to define ourselves.

STAN: That is a very interesting philosophy and I will pay you to tell me more about it.

DELBERT: I think you’re missing the point …

STAN: Well now I’m just confused; should I buy a Volvo or not?

VINCE: Don’t buy it unless you can put rims on it and a tow package for your boat.

STAN: I don’t have a boat.

VINCE: You can borrow one of mine.

DELBERT: No, look, guys, I’m just saying … Stan you should buy a Volvo if you think that is the car that is best and safest for your family … and Vince I think that you might need to deal with the fact that you really like buying shit. And that’s okay, if that’s what makes you happy, but perhaps you should really look inside yourself to figure out why that is so important to you.

All are quiet for a beat; thinking.

VINCE: Did I mention that one of my boats has a pirate flag on it?

STAN: Ooooooh, well that IS totally Punk Rock!

VINCE: I know, right?!

STAN: You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to buy the Volvo, but I’m going to put a Black Flag bumper sticker on it.

VINCE: Yes!

DELBERT: Guys …

STAN: And one for The Locust, if I can find one.

VINCE: Even better!

DELBERT: Guys …

VINCE: And instead of a Volvo, you should get a Ferrari.

STAN: That just makes sense to me!

DELBERT: Guys …

VINCE: You know what? Why don’t you come golfing with me? I’m playing with these multi-millionaire businessmen who used to be a band called Metallica.

STAN: Sounds good.

STAN and VINCE exit.

DELBERT: Guys … GUYS! … (Turns to the audience) They don’t ever listen to me because I’m not in the band. I’m just in charge of finding all of the six thousand dollar guitars that they break onstage during the shows. I’m also the janitor because that’s the only way I could get good health insurance (picks up the broom and begins sweeping the stage). We’re all done here ... the play is over ... I have to finish working though. (After a beat he turns back, sticks his tongue out, hisses and throws the devil-horned rock-out hand gesture.)

BLACKOUT

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A Short Play!

Some of you may know that I have a background as a playwright and that from time to time I like to dash off short plays for fun. Well, here is a short play re-imagining a conversation/lame publicity stunt which recently took place between Sarah Palin and Donald Trump.

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Scenes From an Italian Restaurant
a short play
by james bezerra

ACT I SCENE I A man and a woman and the man’s disastrously bad “hair” sit at a table in a pizzeria. The woman is former Alaska Governor and current media-whore Sarah Palin. The man is former and current and perpetual media-whore Donald Trump. The hair is of an unknown composition. The three quietly eat their pizza slices.

TRUMP: Hey Sarah, remember when we were politically relevant?
PALIN: I don’t know what that word means.

CURTAIN.



Fin!


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Fuhrerbunker.

So a number of years ago the History Channel or something got a hold of a bunch of Hitler’s home movies. They were just regular boring home movies, Hitler and others hanging out at The Eagles Nest or whatever. Having a BBQ, that sort of thing. The movies didn’t have any sound, obviously. Well, The History Channel hired lip readers to figure out what people were saying. I remember watching the show about this and being fascinated. My girlfriend at the time did not like this program at all and we got into something of an argument about whether or not it was inadvertently humanizing Hitler. I was all for the humanization of Hitler because I feel that pretending he was some kind of demon hell-spawn allowed people to forget that the horrors of World War II were entirely man-made. I do still feel that way. I think that by acting as though this guy was made of some special kind of evil lets every run-of-the-mill prick and/or hateful bastard off the hook.

I was just thinking about that because the Military Channel – which I watch sometimes (when it is about history and not about machine guns or samurai swords) – seems to be having an all-Hitler-all-the-time day today (because they just can’t help themselves).

This whole Hitler-centric evening that I’m having prompted me to write a very-not-very-good one act play about Hitler. The intent here is to humanize Hitler enough so that we can mock the living hell out of him. Think of it as Will & Grace meets some-boring-thing-you-had-to-watch-in-a-high-school-history-class.

See Below.

Enjoy!





(BTW, I’m not using the proper and technical stage direction, because I’m too lazy to remember how to do it right right now. But at least I know I’m doing it wrong. It is like I’m EECUMMINGS or something.)


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Fuhrerbunker.

Fuhrerbunker
(a one act play)
by james bezerra

Cast of Characters
KLIEG – A Nazi Guard
JOSEPH GOEBBELS – Nazi Minister of Propaganda
KLINK – A not very good Nazi guard
EVA BRAUN – Hitler’s girlfriend
ADOLF HITLER – Adolf Hitler
HEINRICH the COOK - Does not appear in this play

An underground Nazi bunker. Berlin. April 30, 1945.

The Bunker is vacant. The Bunker is lit by a dim yellow bulb hanging from a cord CENTER, casting a sallow light over the whole stage. Below the bulb there is a heavy wooden table covered with maps, papers, communiqués, dirty dishes, etc. Against the UpStage wall there is a desk with radio and telegraph equipment, it glows very pretty but will not be used in this play. StageRight there is a sitting area, a davenport, a coffee table on a very nice rug, an arm chair, etc. StageLeft there is a doorway leading to the private quarters of Adolf Hitler. UpStage there is another doorway and a hallway passing by. The hallway is dimly lit by the same sallow light.

The low and muffled, but still heavy, droning sound of airplanes overhead. Distant.

BEAT.

The sound of explosions. CLOSE. The Bunker shakes and quakes. Dust falls from the walls and ceiling. The light bulb at CENTER swings back and forth.

From OffStage, screaming. SCREAMING! Terrified, hysterical - but somehow funny - shrieking. As if a cat or small child is looking for attention.

The shrieking continues . . .

The Bunker has stopped shaking by now, but the shrieking/screaming/crying continues. It is now punctuated by sobbing. And sniffling. It has been going on long enough now that it has almost become funny on its own. It has now been localized to the UpStage Hall.

KLIEG (Offstage, in the U.S. Hallway): Oh for the love of all things holy! Get up! Get up off the floor Doctor Goebbels! Get up!

KLIEG a young guard in an immaculate Nazi uniform, with a rifle over his shoulder, drags the diminutive JOSEPH GOEBBELS through the U.S. doorway and pushes him toward the table at CENTER.

KLIEG: Please Doctor Goebbels! We’re under the ground! Under eight meters of concrete. We are perfectly safe. Relatively. I don’t want to mop up your mess again. It is undignified. For both of us.

GOEBBELS: Yes. Right. Sorry.

KLIEG: I mean, seriously . . .

GOEBBELS: Yes. Yes. I know.

ENTER through U.S. doorway KLINK, he is also s Nazi guard, but his uniform is untucked and in disarray, he has a broom on a rifle strap over his shoulder and he meanders into the room mostly because he is curious and has nothing better to do.

KLIEG: (Bucking up Goebbels.) You are the Reich Minister of Propaganda!

GOEBBELS: Yes . . .

KLIEG: You are one of the architects of the Final Solution!

GOEBBELS: Yes . . .

KLIEG: You engineered the Kristallnacht attack on the Jewish Menace!

GOEBBELS: Yes . . .

KLINK: You have a Ph.D in 18th century romantic drama!

Goebbels and Klieg look at him.

KLINK (Shrugs): True story.

Klieg grabs Goebbels by the arms and looks at him, pure genuineness.

KLIEG: We need you to be strong right now … HE needs to to be strong.

GOEBBELS: Yes, of course.

KLINK: I think you pissed yourself.

KLIEG (Shouting): NOT. HELPFULL.

KLINK: Sorry.

ENTER StageLeft from the private quarters of Hitler, EVA BRAUN. She is plain but pretty, with curly blonde hair, wearing a dress. She is Hitler’s girlfriend. She is completely off limits and as such, all three men watch her intently as she crosses DownStage to the Davenport, humming quietly and post-coital to herself.

KLINK: Isn’t it weird that the more time we spend down here getting bombed all to hell, the more and more I want to have sex with The Fuhrer’s girlfriend?

KLIEG: Sssh!

GOEBBELS: No, I kinda feel that way too.

KLINK: Seriously, I mean, even Hitler has a girlfriend.

KLIEG: Ssssh!

KLINK: Don’t be such a eunuch.

KLIEG: I’m not a eunuch. You’re a eunuch.

KLINK: Your mom’s a eunuch.

KLEIG: That doesn’t even make any sense.

KLINK: Think about it for a minute . . .

Klieg thinks it over while Klink and Goebbels watch Eva slip on a pair of nylons.

KLINK: Where did she get nylons?

GOEBBELS: We have a room full of them. We were collecting them for years. From the Jews.

KLINK: You took their nylons?

GOEBBELS: Sure.

KLINK: That’s just mean.

GOEBBELS: It was in the service of the Fatherland.

KLINK: I’m Austrian.

GOEBBELS (Aghast): What?! What are you doing here then?

KLINK: It’s a long story, and anyway, you guys were hiring.

KLIEG: Okay, I thought about it. It still doesn’t make any sense.

KLINK: Well then just think about it some more.

KLIEG: Okay.

GOEBBELS (To Klink): Will it ever make sense?

KLIEG: No.

ENTER StageLeft from his private quarters, Adolf Hitler, in full regalia.

KLIEG and GOEBBELS: Heil Hitler!

HITLER: Thanks, I really appreciate that.

KLIEG elbows KLINK.

KLINK (Nods to Hitler): Hey.

HILTER (To Goebbels): Who is he?

KLIEG: He’s Austrian.

HITLER: Oh. (To Klink) Why do you have a broom?

KLIEG: We had to take away his rifle.

HILTER: Why?

KLIEG: He’s bad with it.

KLINK: That’s crap.

KLIEG: He shot a couple of people.

KLINK: It just went off!

GOEBBELS: Were they Jews?

KLINK: You’re craven, do you know that? You need help.

KLIEG: He shot Heinrich.

GOEBBELS: The cook?

KLIEG: Yes.

GOEBBELS: He was our best cook!

KLINK: It was a a bad rifle! It went off by itself.

GOEBBELS: That’s because it was made by Jews. Starving Jews.

KLINK: Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?

HITLER: Heinrich made the best flautas.

KLINK: What’s a flauta?

HITLER: Oh they’re so good! It’s a corn tortilla filled with chicken – or beef – and then fried. It’s to die for.

KLINK: Isn’t that a taquito?

HITLER: Do I look like a Mexican to you?

GOEBBELS: No Fuhrer! You have showered!

KLINK: What the hell is wrong with you, you racist prick?

ALL shout at Klink: WE’RE NAZIS!

KLINK: Right! Fair enough.

GOEBBELS (To Hitler): Fuhrer, the plan to sneak you out of Germany through Finland and then onto a U-boat to Argentina has fallen through.

HITLER: Why? What happened?

GOEBBELS: Juan Peron refused to provide you with safe haven. He is worried that it would look bad, aiding and abetting Hitler. You know.

HITLER: Juan Peron? The coffee guy?

KLINK: That’s Juan Valdez.

HITLER: Who’s Juan Peron?

GOEBBELS: He’s the president of Argentina. He has already let Eichmann and Borman in.

KLINK: A fact that will certainly be completely glossed over if anyone ever chooses to write a musical about his wife.

KLIEG: What does that even mean?

KLINK: Think about it.

HITLER: Well, I guess we’re going to have to go with Plan B then.

GOEBBELS: What’s Plan B Fuhrer?

HITLER: Pissing ourselves in the hallway! (Laughs.) No, I kid because I care. Let’s go to the radio room and make some calls.

GOEBBELS: That’s very funny Fuhrer.

EXIT Hitler U.S. followed by Goebbels and Klieg. Klink pantomimes following and then swings back on his heel and crosses StageRight and sits next to Eva on the davenport.

KLINK: So Eva . . .

EVA: Why do you have a broom?

KLINK: The better to sweep you off your feet with.

EVA: That’s really lame.

KLINK: Whatever . . . you’re dating Hitler.

EVA: He’s so dreamy.

KLINK: Really? What do you see in him?

EVA: Well, he has a moustache. Sort of.

KLINK: Wow, that’s really dumb.

EVA: I’m dating Hitler, did you think I was going to be in Mensa?

KLINK: Meee-ow! Kitten has claws.

EVA: Look, Hitler’s Girlfriend was a pretty good job three years ago . . .

KLINK: Yeah, well now your severance package is gonna be a fist full of cyanide.

EVA: What do you want from me? Do you have a plan to get out of here, broom boy?

KLINK: I do, but I have to know that I can trust you . . .

EVA: How do I prove it?

KLINK: I will whisper the plan to you . . . while we’re making sweet, sweet love.

EVA: Ick. Did you see how I actually said that? I actually said ‘ick’?

KLINK: Yeah, that nuance was not lost on me.

EVA: Do you really have a plan?

KLINK: Yeah, Juan Valdez is going to give us asylum. But only if we have carnal knowledge of one another first.

EVA: That’s a very strange requirement for asylum.

KLINK: Well, it’s Germany in 1945, it's a seller's market.

EVA: Okay, fine.

Eva starts to pull down her nylons and unbutton her dress while Klink tosses away his broom and starts to strip out of his uniform.

KLINK: I should tell you now – it’s a secret - I’m a bit Jewish.

EVA: How Jewish?

KLINK: Here, I’ll show you . . .

There are voices from the U.S. hallway, the group coming back. Eva and Klink try to pull their clothes back on. The voices get louder. Klink dives under the table at CENTER.


ENTER Hitler, followed by Goebbels and Klieg. Hitler sees Eva, half undressed.

HITLER: My love! My darling! What happened?!

EVA: That terrible – possibly Jewish, sadly I’ll never know – guard tried to take advantage of me!

HITLER: What! The temerity!

KLIEG: I’ll gut him! Where did he go!

EVA: He’s under that table right there.

KLINK: FUCK!

KLIEG (With rifle): Come out of there, you!

KLINK: Fine. (Klink crawls out from under the table on the SL side.) But don’t forget, I have a broom!

EVA: You left the broom over here jackass.

KLINK: FUCK!

HITLER: Yeah, I don’t really like swearing so much . . .

KLINK: You’re god damn HITLER for fuck’s sake!

GOEBBELS: Watch your fucking language around the Fuhrer!

KLINK: Fuck you! You rodent! You helped engineer the deaths of six million people in five years!

GOEBBELS: Yeah! I’m efficient!

KLIEG: (Laughing.) Hey, I just got that thing about eunuchs. That’s funny.

KLINK: What? That wasn’t even a joke.

HITLER: What? What are we talking about? Don’t leave A.H. out of the loop.

GOEBBELS: Fuhrer, that’s really beside the point right now.

HITLER: Right! (To Klieg.) Go ahead and kill him.

KLIEG: Right!

Klieg aims the rifle at Klink and pulls the trigger. There is a hollow snap and nothing happens.

KLIEG: Well shit.

HITLER: Language!

KLIEG: Sorry Fuhrer.

KLINK: See! That’s what happened to me and Heinrich! Shitty rifles! You have to clear the barrel.

KLIEG: Oh, right. Thanks.

Klieg turns the rifle around and looks down the barrel. The rifle goes off; the bullet blows through Klieg’s face and an inordinate amount of flesh and blood and brain spray all over the others and the U.S. wall. Klieg’s body collapses to the floor - onto knees, pausing, waivering, the flopping forward - geysers of blood spurting out of it like a sprinkler. Blood will continue to spray from it – at varying intensity – throughout the remainder of the play.

HITLER (Covered in blood): Well that’s just a ridiculous amount of blood. It’s . . . it’s almost as if this amount of blood was calibrated just to be funny. I mean, it’s totally unrealistic.

GOEBBELS: And we should know.

Suddenly the sound of explosions. CLOSE. The Bunker shakes, but more this time. More dust and dirt from the ceiling. Klieg spurts so much more blood. Then some more blood.

EVA: What was that?

GOEBBELS: I’m no expert, but that sounded like a Soviet 82 millimeter mortar shell, also known as an M1937. Probably fired from about 500 meters away.

KLINK: Well look at you knowing stuff!

HITLER: Does that mean that the Russians are here?

GOEBBELS: Yes, Fuhrer. I’m sorry.

HITLER: Then you should be with your family.

GOEBBELS: Don’t worry about it Fuhrer, I’ve already killed my six kids and my wife. True story.

HITLER: Oh . . . well cool then.

EVA: What?!

HITLER: Eva, darling, what’s wrong?

EVA: Is that the PLAN? We’re just going to kill ourselves and each other?

GOEBBELS: Well, if you don’t want to I’m sure that the Soviet army wouldn’t mind raping you to death. That’s kinda their thing.

HITLER: Oh, that’s just impolite.

KLINK: Fuck! War is fucking awful. (To Hitler.) Why the hell did you do this to all of us?

HITLER (Shrugs, crosses toward CENTER.): Well, this really wasn’t my plan. You know, dying in a bunker and all.

KLINK: Right, sure, but what was the point?

HITLER: Oh . . . you’re asking . . . well, um, Germany was weak . . . um, not your fault, not mine. It was that whole World War I thing. Um, I needed to restore nationalism and a sense of pride. Best way to do that is to create a nebulous enemy that can never be defeated, and then make a public showing of beating the living hell out of them. This is Machiavelli 101, you know? Everybody knows this. That’s why nobody cared until we started attacking Britain, which is filled with the only people more pale than Germans. And that was my fault, that was hubris.

KLINK: That sounds really stupid.

HITLER: Yeah, well, you know . . . I’m a man of my times. It worked pretty well for awhile. I was TIME magazine’s man of the year, 1938.

They stare across the table at each other as Klieg’s body loudly spurts out more and more and more blood.

EVA: So anyway . . . about the eminent raping . . .

KLINK: Hold on. (To Hitler.) One other thing . . .

HITLER: Sure.

KLINK: You were under the impression that Jews controlled banking, media and industry?

GOEBBELS: Jews . . .

KLINK: Shut the fuck up.

HITLER: Yes.

KLINK: And yet, you decided to pick a fight with them anyway?

HITLER: Yeah. That was short sighted on my part. Instead, I should have blamed the Armenians.

GOEBBELS: Nobody likes them!

Klink crosses D.S. around the table, picks up Klieg’s rifle, chambers a round and shoots Goebbels in the head. Goebbels collapses U.S. with no ceremony. Klink puts the rifle back on the floor and walks back around to the S.L. side of the table. Klieg continues to spurt fountain-amounts of blood . . .

KLINK: Sorry, that just needed to be done.

EVA: So anyway . . . the raping . . ?

KLINK: Hold on, I have a plan.

Klink dashes out U.S. to the hallway. Klieg gushes blood in spurts. Hitler crosses S.R. and sits on the davenport next to Eva.

EVA: You know, I always liked the bad boys . . . I knew it was a problem, subconsciously, but I never dealt with it. It had something to do with my father . . .

More explosions. CLOSE. The Bunker shakes. Klieg spittles blood into the air.

EVA (To Hitler.): Why are you such an asshole? 'Cause you didn't get into art school?

HITLER: That’s not the real question.

EVA: What’s the real question?

HITLER: Why would people listen to such an asshole? Follow him? Love him? Murder for him? Or - in your case - fuck him so good? Do you think Germany has daddy issues? Or do you think everybody does? Do you think I'm an asshole? Or do you think I'm an asshole because I lost? What would you think of me if I'd won? I bet you'd fuck me really good then. You and all of Europe. I could have settleed with them and kept the whole continent, no body would have had a problem.
BEAT
We just happened to lose.

EVA: I’m a German girl of a very specific time, and not a correlative to anything else at all, but, I hate you so much as an abstraction and somehow I still love you as a man.

HITLER: Yeah, I’m complicated.

More explosions. CLOSER. The bunker shakes and quakes. Klieg spouts extra-dramatic founts of blood.

ENTER Klink from the hallway, dangerously balancing three white Nazi plates.

KLINK: Here ya go.

EVA: What is this?

KLINK: Last supper.

HITLER: Flautas! I love flautas!

KLINK: Before his sudden, untimely death, Heinrich taunt me his secret recipe.

HITLER (Eating ravenously.) You know, mostly I’m a vegetarian . . .

HITLER pauses, seizes, jerks, looks up at Klink.

HITLER: You poisoned the flautas, didn’t you? That’s so predictable.

KLINK: Little bit.

Hitler seizes up into convulsions, shakes and flops over onto the floor and on top of Klieg, who is still bleeding profusely.

KLINK (To Eva.) Yeah, so this one time, I killed Hitler! No big. Come on, let’s go . . .

Eva pauses, holds up a half-eaten flauta at Klink.

KLINK: NO! What the hell! Did you not see that coming the way that the entire audience did!

Eva shakes and shivers and contracts onto the floor and Klink gathers her in his arms as Klieg sprays off more blood into the air.

EVA: Um . . . guard guy . . .

KLINK: Yes Eva, sweet? I’m here . . .

EVA: Please just tell them . . . tell history that I was dumb, an idiot . . . not just some power slut . . . tell them that I was stupid, not ambitious.

KLINK: I will. I will tell them that you were just a moron and that your father was a great guy.

EVA (Sputtering with death.): Thank . . . thank . . . thank . . .

KLINK: (Frustrated.) Just die already.

EVA: Thank you!

Eva dies in Klnk’s arms.

More explosions. EVEN CLOSER.

Offstage in the Hallway, there is an explosion as the Bunker door is blown in. The explosion and fire and smoke sweep across the stage. Soviet soldiers swarm down the hallway and onto the stage. They surround Klink as the smoke begins to clear. They poke Klink with their bayonets.

KLINK: Comrades! What the hell took you so long! I'm an Austrian!


BLACKOUT.

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