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                 WHO WANTS TO ACCUSE MY PARENTS?
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       a one-act play by Joe Blevins (joeblev@concentric.net)
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             based on the movie "I Accuse My Parents"
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[Lights up.  Curtain rises.  The setting is a typical drab office in
a typical drab building.  There's a desk, some filing cabinets, and a
fern in desperate need of water.  A sign on the wall reads: "STIBLING
AND GLOVER, LTD: We Make Shoehorns.  And Nothing Else."  There's
a discouraging-looking sales chart on the wall, showing the decline in
shoehorn sales over the last six months.  There's a clock on the
wall, and at the beginning of the play, it's so quiet we can actually
hear the clock ticking.]

[Corporate drone JIMMY WILSON is sitting at his desk, goofing off.
He stares dreamily at a framed photo on his desk.  It's a picture of
a pretty blonde, whom MST3K viewers will remember as nightclub warbler
KITTY REED.  Jimmy starts absentmindedly humming the melody to "Love
Came Between Us."  This is interrupted by a knock at the door.]

JIMMY: Uh... come in.

[The door opens.  A big pink-faced Mr. Dithers-type guy, MR. GLOVER,
walks in.  Jimmy shuffles the papers on his desk in a rather
transparent attempt to look like he's working.  Glover clutches a
manilla folder.]

MR. GLOVER: Good afternoon, Jimmy.
JIMMY: Oh, hello, Mr. Glover.  What can I do for you today?
MR. GLOVER: Well, Jimmy, I wanted to discuss this report with you.
JIMMY: Is there a problem?
MR. GLOVER: Well, I do have a few concerns.  There are numerous
            spelling and grammatical errors.  You spelled the word
            "shoehorn"  with three e's, seven h's and an ampersand.
            And there's  no "z" in the word "business," but you
            consistently spelled it with six of them.  The word 
            "ain't" appears in nearly every sentence, and there are
            several paragraphs which contain no punctuation at all.
            How do you explain all this?
JIMMY: Gee, Mr. Glover, I know I shouldn't say it, but... I accuse my
       parents.
MR. GLOVER: [disbelieving] Your... parents...?
JIMMY: Yes, Mr. Glover.  You see, my parents never had time to instill
       the value of using the English language properly.  They were
       too busy drinking, partying, and gambling to teach their own
       son the rules of grammar and syntax.  Why, I learned to
       proofread my own essays when I was three years old.  Under the
       circumstances, I think I did okay.
MR. GLOVER: Yes, but even that doesn't explain ALL of the problems
            with this report.  You stop talking about shoehorns after
            the first three pages.  The last 17 pages are about how
            you singlehandedly won the Spanish-American war.
JIMMY: Oh, that.  I blame my parents for that, too.
MR. GLOVER: Be serious, Jimmy.
JIMMY: I am being serious, Mr. Glover.  As a child, I was so ashamed
       of my home life that I started telling fibs as a cover up.
       It wasn't long before I was telling my school chums that I'd
       invented the cotton gin, founded the Jamestown colony, and
       revolutionized the world of tap dancing.
MR. GLOVER: [baffled] How did a person as screwed up as you are ever
            land a job like this?  You're completely unqualified.
JIMMY: You can blame my parents for that, too, sir.  My father is one
       of Mr. Stibling's poker buddies, and he won this job for me
       on a bet.  This is about the only job I could get after all my
       troubles with the law.
MR. GLOVER: I see.  Well, uh, that'll be all, Jimmy.  You just go back
            to doing whatever it is you do.
JIMMY: All right, Mr. Glover.

[Mr. Glover slowly backs away from Jimmy and exits.  Jimmy looks around
to make sure he's alone.  He walks over to the door and locks it.  He
then goes back to his desk, opens a bottom drawer, and takes out a
blonde wig and a microphone.]

JIMMY: [into mike] And now, ladies and gentleman, the Stibling and
       Murtaugh Shoehorn Company proudly presents the latest singing
       sensation, Jimmy Wilson!

[Jimmy puts the blonde wig on and faces the audience.  We hear an
orchestra -- no doubt the product of Jimmy's fevered imagination.]

JIMMY: [sings] He's not happy with my work.
               He thinks I'm a useless jerk.
               No one here's exactly clear
               Just what it is I do.
               They don't have a clue.
               They leave me alone to talk on the phone
               And sing these showtunes to you.
               I'm not fit to do my job.
               I'm a maladjusted slob.
               Living with psychosis since my day of birth,
               I'm the most neurotic ne'er-do-well on earth!

[A blinding spotlight hits Jimmy.  We hear the sound of helicopter
blades revolving.  A wind machine blows all the paper off Jimmy's
desk.  A voice comes through a police BULLHORN.]

BULLHORN: All right, Wilson!  We've got you surrounded.  Drop the
          wig and step AWAY from the Mister Microphone.
JIMMY: [maniacal] You'll never take me alive!  You hear me?  Never!
BULLHORN: Okay, men.  Open fire!

[We hear machine gun fire.  Jimmy is gunned down.  This requires
squibs, blasting caps, etc.]

JIMMY: [dying] I accuse my parents!

[He collapses and dies.]

[Lights dim.  Curtain falls.]

                           [THE END]