Waiting For Righty

 

WAITING FOR RIGHTY

A CHRISTMAS PLAYLET

(WITH A TIP OF THE MAGA CAP TO CLIFFORD ODETS)

 

SCENE: The sweatshop of one Santa J. Trump, maker of fine toys and keepsakes for the discerning simpleton at The North Pole Towers, New York, NY. Time, the night before Christmas.

              At rise eight little hobgoblins, Eric, Garrick, Derrick, Barrack, Ferric, Xeric, Merrick, and Don Jr. are slaving away at various lathes, table saws, sewing machines and what-have-yous. A fine Craftsman What-Have-You available at the Sears On-Line Catalog. The fruits of their labors pile up on stage right. The air is filled with the hum of productivity, because, unfortunately, productivity has forgotten the words. Note: The parts of Eric, Garrick, Derrick, Barrack, Ferric, Xeric, Merrick, and Don Jr. are interchangeable and can be played by non-union labor, available in front of most any Home Depot or anywhere fine non-union labor is sold.

 

GARRICK: (shaving a steak extra thin with a band saw) Bourgeoisie dialectic spewing swine. Making us work on Christmas Eve while he’s nowhere to be seen.

DERRICK: (bitterly) Save it for Twitter, commie. We’ve got work to do.

GARRICK: (winterly) I can’t. They blocked my account for retweeting an Elon Musk tweet. Apparently, that counts as hate speech.

DERRICK: (inertly) Nerts to you, Karl Marx. You should have known better. (They square off and break into a sissy boy slap flight, with shades of a gang war from the Perkins School for the Blind Production of West Wide Story. Quickly exhausted, the two hobgoblins take a knee)

XERIC: (libertly) The National Anthem better not be playing, or I’ll lay barehands on the two of you!

ERIC: (inwardly, with a touch of the extortive) I have it! The perfect stocking stuffer!

FERRIC: Trump Bath Bombs? I came up with that last year.

ERIC: No.

BARRACK: Trump All-Day-Sucker? So, six years ago.

ERIC: No.

DON JR.: Trump Vodka? We already tried that. It failed in 2011.

ERIC: No.

DON JR.: Trump Mortgage, LLC? Did it ’06. Shut down a year later.

ERIC: No.

GARRICK: Trump Airlines?

DERRICK: Trump Water?

BARRACK: Trump The Board Game?

FERRIC: Trump Fire Sports Drink?

XERIC: Trump Magazine?

MERRICK: Trump University?

ERIC: No, no, no, no, no, and no.

DON JR: GoTrump.Com, the travel website? Old news. That failed in 2007.

ERIC: No! This isn’t any of those silly fly-by-night scams. This is pure brilliance!

DON JR.: OK, Wilhelm Rontgen, what have you come up with this time?

ERIC: Pfffft. This will make German mechanical engineer and Nobel Prize winning physicist Rontgen’s discovery of electromagnetic radiation in a wavelength range known as the X-Ray look like a booger.

GARRICK: Ixnay on the Obnel Prize-ay. You know how the Old Man gets when you mention that word.

ERIC: Pashaw! This idea will even put a smile on his rotted Jack o lantern-like puss.

DON JR.: Well, what is it?

ERIC: Santa J. Trump Virtual Trading Cards! Each card will feature Santa Trump in a different tableau. Like hunting a lion or stripped to waste ready to take on the terrorist.

BARRACK: I like it! He could be dressed up like a cowboy!

XERIC: Or a policeman!

DERRICK: Or an Indian Chief!

ERIC: Hell yeah, he could be all the Village People rolled up into one.

BARRACK: How about shirtless, riding a bear?

ERIC: Na, too Putin.

BARRACK: Yeah, I guess… but I’d love to see it though…

DON JR.: OK, it’s a good idea, but how are you going to get them made before the Old Man takes off tonight?

ERIC: That’s the beautiful part, we don’t actually make them. They’re virtual. People give us money and we send them a link to a picture.

DON JR.: Come on, no one is dumb enough to fall for that.

ERIC: Donny, this family made it’s fortune by never underestimating the gullibility of a Trump Rube.

DON JR.: You’ve got a point. (The jingle of sleigh bells is heard off stage followed by a manly voice yelling out, ‘Whoa Dasher, whoa Rudy, Whoa Lindsey’ and the sound of hoof beats coming to a stop. A door opens and Santa J. Trump enters in a puff of white asbestos retrieved from the Trump Tower’s ceiling that passes for snow.)

SANTA J. TRUMP: Ho, ho, ho… (he runs out of breath by the last ho).

DON JR.: What’s a’matter, Santa? You look a little pale.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Really?

DON JR.: You’re just not your regular, glowing, ruddy orange self.

SANTA J. CLAUS: Sez you.

ERIC: He’s right, you have more of a cantaloupe hue.

SANTA J. TRUMP: What!

GARRICK: No, I’d say, kind of an apricot.

DERRICK: Or peach.

BARRACK: Maybe tangerine?

FERRIC: I’m saying carrot.

XERIC: Or even salmon.

MERRICK: I’ll have the turkey club.

ERIC: What?

MERRICK: Aren’t we ordering lunch?

SANTA J. TRUMP: (angrily tossing a plate of katsup against the wall) All you all, shut up! I’ve got an important announcement to make. I’ve seen my doctor and –

DON JR.: (cutting him off) Type 2 Diabetes, right? I knew it.

ERIC: Or maybe High LDL cholesterol, isn’t it?

GARRICK: Hypertension?

DERRICK: Coronary Heart Disease?

BARRACK: Stroke?

FERRIC: Gallbladder Disease?

XERIC: Sleep apnea?

MERRICK: So, we’re not ordering lunch?

SANTA J. TRUMP: No, the doctor said I’m the healthiest jolly fat man that ever lived, but I need to get out and play more golf.

DON JR.: How is that even possible for you to play more golf? There aren’t enough hours in the day.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Exactly! So, after I’m reelected President, day one, we add four more hours to the clock so I can sneak another 18 holes in every day. Simple.

ERIC: Good thinking!

DON JR.: But won’t adding four more hours to the clock mean there will be eight more hours in every day?

SANTA J. TRUMP: You ever tried to play 18 at one of my dog ass courses? You’ll need the extra 8 hours to get a round in. But my point is, I need to focus on my reelection so I’m going to need one of you kids to take over my Christmas Eve duties.

DON JR.: Oh dad, that’s so cool! I haven’t been this happy since our first trip to Epstein Island.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Shut up, you knob. I’m not picking you.

ERIC: Shot score! Thanks pops. I’ll be sure to take good care of the sleigh.

SANTA J. TRUMP: Not you either, numb nuts. I’m giving the last line of defense against the War on Christmas to Byron or Barron or whatever his name is. He’s the only one of my kids I haven’t spent any time with, so I don’t hate him yet.

DON JR.: Awww, what a gyp!

ERIC: I don’t even think Barron is yours.

SANTA J. TRUMP: It doesn’t matter now. It’s a done deal. Now the two of you get outside and feed the reindeer. You know how Christie gets when his blood sugar gets low.

BOTH: Yes sir…(exit)

SANTA J. TRUMP: And the rest of you get back to work, or you’ll get one of these… (Santa backhands Merrick across the face and then blows a whistle. The exertion causes him to bend over and try to catch his breath. Responding to the whistle, several Brown Shirted Trump Rubes storm the stage and feverishly start trolling the Hobgoblins on-line as they get back to work. A beloved Christmas Carol, in the public domain so we don’t have to pay royalties, comes up as the lights fade.)

 

CURTAIN