I'm currently in the process of writing a collection of one-act plays based on the video "MST3K: Shorts, Vol 3." The collection's about half-finished and should be posted in a few days. In the meantime, here is a complete REJECTED play based on "Out of This World." (You know, the movie about an angel and a devil fighting over a bread salesman.) This play will not be included in the upcoming collection. An entirely different "Out of This World" play baked from scratch will appear instead. Meanwhile, enjoy this day-old loaf of fun! Or don't. ===================================================================== BREAD'S GREATEST HITS ===================================================================== based on the short "Out of This World" ===================================================================== [Lights up. Curtain rises to reveal near-perfect replica of the original set from "Out of This World." There are two trapezoidal filing cabinets -- one reddish-pink, one light blue -- each behind a desk. The desks are separated by narrow sidewalk. There are big fluffy clouds made of plywood hanging down overhead. At stage left is RED, a foppish man with a beard, horns, and a floppy black costume. At stage right is WHITEY, an uninteresting brunette dressed in an equally baggy white robe. They are the guardian devil and guardian angel who watch over wholesale bread salesmen and keep meticulous records of their "selling ways."] [Red and Whitey are sitting at their desks. Red's chair is designed to look like a fireball, while Whitey's chair looks like a giant harp. Do you get the point already? Are the stage directions too subtle? Neither Red nor Whitey seem to be working. Red is sharpening the points on his pitchfork with a nail file, while Whitey is plucking out a tune on the harp without great success.] WHITEY: [sings] Guanta... [hits a wrong note, stops] No, that's not right. [sings] Guantana... [stops] Damn it! [sings again] Guantanamera! [stops, frustrated] DAMN IT! RED: You still haven't figured out "Guantanamera" yet? You've been practicing it all week. [Whitey angrily tosses her harp at Red's head. He ducks just in time to miss it.] RED: Tut, tut, tut, Whitey. We mustn't lose our tempers now. WHITEY: Oh, cram it up your horns, Red! [Pause.] I want to make another bet. RED: Another bet, eh? What sort of bet? WHITEY: What do you mean, "what sort of bet?" You know damned well! A bet about wholesale bread salesmen! That's all we do up here in Heaven all day -- watch over wholesale bread sales- men! What else is there to bet on? RED: You must not have seen "Seinfeld" then. WHITEY: Get your mind out of the gutter, Red. This is business! Now, do you want to bet or not? RED: In that case... uh, no. WHITEY: What are you, chicken? RED: No, it's just... WHITEY: Just what? Spit it out! RED: It's just that ever since you won the Bill Dudley bet, all you've wanted to do is make bets. WHITEY: So? RED: So... I think you might have... a problem. WHITEY: A problem? What sort of problem? RED: A gambling problem. WHITEY: [scoffs] Gambling problem! That's ridiculous! I can quit any time I want! RED: Want to make a bet on that? WHITEY: Yes, I want to make a... [stops in mid-sentence] Oh, God, Red! You're right! I do have a problem. RED: Well, you've just taken the first step towards recovery! WHITEY: I thought that was the first stage of grief. RED: No, that's denial. WHITEY: Oh. So what's the second step? RED: The second what now? WHITEY: The second step towards recovery from gambling addiction. RED: Uh, there isn't one. WHITEY: Wait a minute. Don't these programs usually have twelve steps? What happened to the other eleven? RED: I don't know. I used to have a book about it, but I traded it. WHITEY: Traded it? For what? RED: For... bread. WHITEY: Bread?!? RED: But not just any bread, Whitey! Specialty bread! It lights up so you can make sandwiches in the dark. WHITEY: You traded a book about gambling addiction for glow-in- the-dark specialty bread? RED: Yes. WHITEY: Why don't YOU admit YOU have a problem? RED: What problem? What are you talking about? WHITEY: You might as well face it, you're addicted to bread. [Music begins. We hear the familiar strains of Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love." Pasty-looking WAIF MODELS in black dresses walk in, holding guitars. They wear bright red lipstick and have their dark hair pulled back into ponytails. They look identical. They sway in time to the music in a zombie-like trance.] RED: Yuck! Girls! Get them out of here! [Whitey snaps her fingers, the music dies down, and the waif models exit.] WHITEY: So what do we do now? RED: Hmmm? WHITEY: What do we do now? I'm addicted to gambling. You're addicted to bread. I tried to get a musical number going. Now what? RED: Well, I suppose the playwright could just have the lights dim and the curtain close. WHITEY: And end the play just like that? RED: I don't see why not? WHITEY: But nothing HAPPENED in this play. There was no clearly-defined beginning, middle, and end. Where's the punchline? RED: There isn't one. WHITEY: No punchline? RED: No punchline. WHITEY: Ironic twist? RED: 'Fraid not. WHITEY: Was there a moral to the story? RED: Nope. WHITEY: Was it an allegory? RED: Eh... not really. WHITEY: Cautionary tale? RED: Nope. WHITEY: Was it surrealism? RED: Er... sort of, but not really. WHITEY: Was it... [sighs] all a dream? RED: Yes. It was all a dream. A horrible, horrible dream. [Lights dim to black. When they come back up again, we are in the bedroom of DR. ROBERT HARTLEY, Chicago-based shrink. Hartley sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. There is someone in bed with him.] HARTLEY: Honey, you'll never believe the dream I just had. [The other person in bed sits up. It is BILL DUDLEY, wholesale bread kingpin. He's wearing his tan uniform and cap.] DUDLEY: Wait! Let me write this in my notebook! [Hartley is horrified. And understandably so.] [Lights slowly dim to black. Curtain falls.] [THE END]