BOB

Happy Saturday! You cannot beat the weather in NYC this weekend. It kicks it. Unfortunately, I was in the theatre all day. I had Playwright's Group from 10-1 and then was Audience Services Associate from 1-3, where I schmooze my buttcheeks off. Then I had to nap. Here is the opening of my new play, entitled, you guessed it..."BOB" and here he is, folks!................

BOB
My name is Bob. I sell happiness. As you can imagine, I am a very rich man. To clarify, I am in the business of instant gratification, not the long term consistent type of happiness and/or contentment that you might achieve, well; say if you were Paris Hilton. I think I read that she owns 633 pairs of shoes. I own these.

HE plops his worn-out Reebok Hi-Tops on top of the bar.

You might say that these are “like way 80s man.” And you’d be right. But the sneakers nowadays scare me.

HE is having trouble getting HIS foot off the top of the bar

Ow. Actually, stores scare me. I’m okay in the grocery store, except in the frozen food section where I am racked with chills which leads to my seizures. But apparel type stores? No. No way. Any clothing that has ever been on my body someone else has picked out. Hence this Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt. Do I look like I should be wearing this Abercrombie and Fitch shirt?

SHE shakes HER head slightly

No. Which leads to something that kills me: people who buy things for you that are the exact opposite of what you’d buy for yourself. Like this t-shirt. This t-shirt is gay. I am not some 18 year old pansy college frat boy who pretends to like those girls who they run through the sprinklers with in that catalog. And you have to buy their catalog. Catalogs fall under the title of “junk mail.” You don’t pay for junk mail. Name-brands are a crock of shit. Please let me pay you an insanely high price so you can have free advertisement so other people can buy your crappy clothes. My sister, Sissy is a label whore and she’s fat, so she tries to squeeze her fat ass into the miniskirts of all these hoochy designers. I keep telling her that there is a reason certain designers don’t make sizes above a 6. Now you might ask, why don’t I sell my fat sister a bit of happiness? That’s very presumptuous of you, isn’t it? Because she is fat means she is a sad, horrific human being, right? Nope. She’s “cheerful” 24/7. Not happy, mind you, happy I can deal with, happy, I like, but cheerful? No. Because it’s that fake kind of cheerful i.e. jolly, “I’m 400 pounds, but I am “fat and jolly” kind of cheerful. That’s why I can’t be around her…ever. If she comes within a 15 mile radius, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up. And then, yep, you guessed it-the seizures.

Very loudly:

SO.

HE chugs the rest of HIS beer. And then normal voice:

My prices obviously vary according to the categories of happiness. And I will stress again that this is instant happiness. I will not be responsible for the long-term effects that the said-happiness may or may not have. For example, if you decide to go home afterwards and drunk dial your fiancée and tell him you like to dress in baby clothes and suck on giant lollipops and play doctor with your step brother; I will feel nothing. And if you call me telling me something other than you want to place another order, I will hang up. There is also no whining or crying. If this is done, I will call the authorities and they'll arrest your ass for harassment. Here's the questionnaire...

HE takes a waded piece of paper out of HIS pocket, unfolds it and places it on the bar

The questions you need to answer are as follows: Nickname. I don’t want your real name. Ever. What is your happiest memory to date? “First lay” is the number one answer here, and since we are not playing Family Feud, if you could provide another answer besides that one I could really appreciate it. I really get fuckin’ sick of reading the same answers time and time again. I mean where the hell is the variety, the eccentricity, the abnormality? I do hope you will learn from the mistakes of the past. Orgasm, shmorgasm. Blah blah blah. Next is what kind of car you drive. Now unfortunately too many of my lower class clients, they either have no car, or they have what I call a white-trash hunk of junk crackmobile. I will not ride in said vehicle nor associate with anyone riding in said vehicle.

AMY
That won’t be necess---

BOB
Excuse me. So if you need to save me, and yourself the embarrassment, I will write down a place where my clients get a pretty good deal and you can rent a Beamer or a Jag for a day. Those are both very acceptable and don’t even go there with me on the label whore thing. Cars are completely different. I think we both know that.

To be continued...