Jelly's Last Preserves:  A Play in Four Dimensions
                       by Paul Bond and Tom Beerley


CHARACTERS

     Bong Highwater
     Betsy Himmelburger, the transvestite
     Karl Marx
     Audience Heckler
     10 Little Gregorians
     Gigi, the alliterative pimp
     Andrew Lloyd Weber
     Officer Tom
     Voice of God
     Nora Helmer
     Narrator (optional.  If used, the narrator will read select stage 
              directions out loud.)

SETTING

     Anywhere, USA, circa now.  This is truly the middle of Bumblefuck.
     There's, like, no one around for miles.  'Cause, like when you get 
     right down to it, we're all alone, man, we're all fucking alone.

SETTING (THIS TIME WE MEAN IT)

     A room, 14'2" x 25'6", a broken landscape of interior design.  There 
     is a 15-foot couch in the foreground, and there are chains, lava lamps, 
     a resin spit-sink, and a small shrine to Ayn Rand in the background.  
     There are several mannequins with cow bells hanging (lifelessly) from 
     the arms.


  SCENE ONE

     (The lights come up on BONG HIGHWATER.  He is wearing pants, a shirt,
     socks, shoes and UnderRoos, in the conventional manner.  He loves his
     mother, perhaps too much.  He is beating himself against the couch.)


                                   BONG

     (singing)

Take me home (beats himself against the couch)
Country road (beats himself against the couch)
To the place (beats himself against the couch)
I belong (beats himself against the couch)
West Virginia (beats the couch against himself)
Back to Mama (beats the couch against himself)
Take me home (beats himself against the couch)
Country road (beats himself against the couch)

     (BETSY HIMMELBURGER enters, miming the finding, enjoyment of finding,
     relief at finding, and opening of a door.  The door looks relieved as well.
     BETSY is shockingly dressed in men's clothing; jeans, Converse All-Stars
     a blue button-down shirt, and a tie, specifically.)

                                   BETSY

     (reciting poetry, ever solemnly.  She does not notice BONG, who continues
     to abase himself to the sofa.)

My love is like a dead, dead rose
That's withered up and does not grows
It stinks and reeks
I cut myself
I cry into the night
Wondering
Hoping
Spiraling down into the clutches of sweet despair
Oh, God
Oh, God
Oh, God
Shoop-doobie-wop
Do-wop
Do-wop

                                   BONG

     (stops his rite of purification, stares, incredulously, at BETSY)

Fuck you, Betsy! You never cared about me!

     (BONG goes back to beating himself against the couch.  BETSY stares,
     uncaring, vacant.)

     (After 15 short seconds, enter KARL MARX, miming the finding and opening
     of the door.  He is dressed anachronistically in the attire of the 
     1880s.  He is carrying a bowl of Jell-O.)

                                 KARL MARX

     (in a Dr. Strangelove-esque accent)

Hey guys, do you vant some Jell-O?

                                   BONG

     (angrily and rhythmically, while still beating himself against the couch)

Fuck you, Karl!  You never cared about me!

     (All characters freeze.  Strobelight.  Gunshot.  Pots and pans falling 
     to the cold, hard floor.  Phone rings.  And from the AUDIENCE HECKLER, 
     in a slow, lamenting dirge, "Miiiiiilllllkkkkkkmmmmmaaaaaannnn.")

     (enter 10 GREGORIANS, with the first one miming the finding and opening
     of the door.  They are dressed all in black, with faces painted white.  
     Expect huge audience reaction for innovative theater approach.  Keep 
     tear-gas on hand.)

                                GREGORIANS

     (chanting)

Jell-O is nice
And Jell-O can stop you
>From doing all the things in life you'd like to.

     (blackout, another gunshot, cat shrieks.  One of the GREGORIANS chants
     "Ouch.")


SCENE TWO

     (just after scene one, but a bit before the next play)

SETTING:  same as in scene one.

     (BONG is sitting on the couch, reading the latest copy of Forbes magazine.
     BETSY is standing in the middle of the room.)

                                   BETSY

I need to say something.  Fucking shit fucking shit hell, this is hard to say.

                                   BONG

     (looks up from his reading, lost, lonely, bewildered, but with an 
     aristocratic look.)

You don't NEED to shout.

                                   BETSY

Yes I do!

                                   BONG

No you don't!

                                   BETSY

Yes I do!

                                   BONG

No you don't!

                                   BETSY

Yes I do!

                                   BONG

No you FUCKING don't!

                                   BETSY

Yes I FUCKING do!

                                   BONG

I SEVEN the sandbox!

                                   BETSY

I fucking EIGHT the sandbox!

                                   BONG

You piggy.

                                   BETSY

I'm sick of you!  I wish Gigi were here!

                                   BONG

     (terrified, trembling)

You mean Gigi the Alliterative Pimp?

     (Oom-pah music begins to blare, and GIGI flips in, but not through the door
     that isn't there.  He is leaping and bounding, like a deer on amphetamines.
     He parades to the Ayn Rand shrine and gives her picture a big, wet sloppy
     kiss.)

                                   GIGI

     (alliteratively)

Did someone sing my surname, Betsy Betsy?  I always aim to assist my allies, 
which is why I wandered here.  For though I find you fully faceless, I cannot 
help but harken to your yelping yodels.

     (Stands on his one leg.  Executes pirouette.)

     (Gunshot.  Angst.)


                                   BETSY

Oh, Gigi, thank goodness you're here!  I'm here too!

                                   GIGI

I am also, my angel!  Now, what could possibly be perturbing your pretty yet 
peculiar psyche?

                                   BETSY

Well, I'll tell you.

                                   BONG

Yippie-fucking-kai-fucking-yay.  Little Miss Bitch will tell us all about what 
ails her!  I'll try to scrape up the cash to buy a tin shit.


     (enter KARL MARX, who mimes running into the closed door.  He suddenly
     remembers the nominal existence of the door, and mimes the opening of
     it.  He steps through, shamefully, with the realization that he has a 
     lot of growing up to do.)

Oh, hi Karl.

                              BETSY and GIGI

     (sing-song)

Hello there, Karl Marx!  We love you, Karl Marx!

                                 KARL MARX

In communist society, accumulated labor is but a means to enwiden, to enrich, to
promote the existence of the laborer.

                             EVERYONE BUT KARL

Mmmm.




                                   BETSY

     (soliloquizing dramatically, gesticulating wildly, con alegre, legato, 
     staccato, etc., et al.  ALL OTHERS contemplate, and do not gesticulate 
     wildly.  Especially MARX.)

Is it so wrong to want love?  Is it so wrong to abuse the whole gamut of 
illicit drugs?  Is it so wrong to treat sexuality like a ten-cent game?  Is 
it so wrong to mutilate yourself within the confines of artistic expression?  
Is it?  Is it!?

                                GREGORIANS

     (chanting from offstage)

Of course not.

                                   BETSY

Then why is it wrong for me to want to dress.....LIKE A MAN?

                                GREGORIANS

     (chanting from offstage)

Transvestic fetishisms are not hip, bitch.

                                   BETSY

Does it make me inhuman that I need trousers and a tie to feel like a real 
woman?  Oh, it's CUTE when little boys dress up like Ayn Rand (points to shrine
contemptuously), its OK when men wear pump heels and fishnet stockings and 
black rubber skirts -- but let a woman wear jeans?  Never!

                                GREGORIANS

(singing from Fiddler on the Roof)

Tra-di-tion!  Tradition!  Tradition!

                                   BETSY

I wanna be free!  To do what I wanna do!


                                   BONG

     (at GIGI)

He's not afraid of losing!  He's afraid of losing your love!

                                   MARX

The proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, 
cannot raise itself up, without the whole super-incumbent strata of official 
society being flung into the air.

                               BONG AND GIGI

(nodding at each other)

Mmmmm... Like, true, man.

                                   BETSY

Well, society, I rebel!  I will wear Dockers and ties and loafers!  I will 
wear plaid and denim!  I will be invited to black-tie dinners!

Women of the world, unite!

                                   MARX

Say, that's good...can I borrow that?  Does someone have a pen?

     (majestically, arms outstretched)

Women of the world, unite!

                         EVERYONE BUT EDWARD ALBEE

Mmmmm....

     (blackout)


SCENE THREE

SETTING:  same as scene one and two.

     (MARX is the only one on stage.  He is repeating, "Women of the world,
     unite!" over and over, trying to get it to sound right.  He tries putting
     emphasis on each of the syllables.  In his hands is a copy of Betty
     Friedan's The Feminine Mystique [or the Koran.  Doesn't matter.])

     (Enter the nine remaining GREGORIANS, in a bad mood.  They mime
     kicking in the door, and the door mimes being smashed to bits.)

                                GREGORIANS

     (chanting)

We challenge you to a duel.

                                   MARX

Eh, wot?

                                GREGORIANS

A duel to the death.

                                   MARX

Death, eh?

                                GREGORIANS

Yes, death.  Death to end all life.  Death, death, death, death.

                                   MARX

Fair enough.

                                GREGORIANS

Choose your weapon.



                                   MARX

Oh, with weapons, is it?  Well, then, I choose mordant and exhaustive social 
criticism.

                                GREGORIANS

Social criticism, eh?

                                   MARX

I'll go first.

     (assumes a majestic air)

Modern bourgeoisie private property is the final and most complete expression 
of the system of producing and appropriating products that is based on class 
antagonisms, on the exploitation of the many by the few.

     (catcalls and boos from the GREGORIANS.  One GREGORIAN chants,
     "You're talking shit, man.")

To be a capitalist, is to have not only a personal, but a social status in 
production. Capital is a collective product, and only by the united actions of 
many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the action of all society, can 
it be set in motion. Capitalism is, therefore, not a personal but a social 
power.

                                GREGORIANS

Eeeep.  We should have insisted on whips.

                                   MARX

     (singing from Annie Get Your Gun, exuberant at having won the contest)

Anything you can do I can do better!
I can do anything better than you!

                                GREGORIANS

     (chanting)

No, you can't.


                                   MARX

Yes, I can.

                                GREGORIANS

No, you can't.

                                   MARX

Yes, I can.

     (this continues until MARX and the GREGORIANS become synchronized.
     Suddenly, the audience heckler screams, "Look, up in the rigging!  It's
     Andrew Lloyd Weber!")

     (ANDREW LLOYD WEBER drops from above, crushing KARL MARX.  The
     GREGORIANS stop chanting, and the score from Phantom of the Opera
     plays loudly.  Blackout.)


SCENE FOUR

SETTING:  same old same old.

     (Enter BONG)

                                   BONG

     (In a ringmaster's voice)

And now, for your viewing pleasure, an interpretive dance, entitled "Seven Dead
Gregorians!"

     (Tchaichovsky's Nutcracker Suite begins playing.  Enter GREGORIANS,
     single file, from stage left.  Each is spinning slowly, with arms 
     outstretched.  As each approaches center stage, he is shot dead by BONG.  
     Their bodies accumulate in a pile.)

     (A phone rings ominously in the distance.  Is it for you?)

     (blackout)


SCENE FIVE

SETTING:  Guess.

     (The pile of dead GREGORIANS remains.  The corpses of Andrew Lloyd
     Weber and Karl Marx are propped on the couch, each with an arm around
     the other's shoulders.)

     (Enter OFFICER TOM.  His fairly large name tag reads, "Officer Tom."  He
     pulls out his gun and scratches his head with the barrel, looking puzzled.)

                                OFFICER TOM

     (to MARX and ANDREW LLOYD WEBER)

Say, what's this pile of dead Gregorians doing here?

     (no response.  OFFICER TOM pokes MARX with the barrel of his gun.)

Hey, you.  You!  You with the ears!  I said, what's this pile of dead 
Gregorians doing here!?

(still no response.  He turns the gun on WEBER.)

And you!  Do you know how fast you were falling from that rigging?  Do you!?  
I clocked you at 68 miles per hour, pal!  That's considered reckless in this 
state, if not downright ornery!  Let me see your license and registration.

     (no response)

Here, hold this.

     (puts the barrel of his gun in MARX's mouth.  He fishes for WEBER's wallet
     and finds it.  He finds his license.)

Alright, Mr. (looks at license) Weber, I'll run this through the system, and 
if you're lucky, I'll see if I can't cut you a break.

     (exit OFFICER TOM.  Wait 10 seconds.)





                                GREGORIANS

       (mumbling, not chanting)
       (not moving, either)

Hey, what about us?
Yeah, we're dead here!

     (more general angry grumbling)
     (Fade to black.  Or green, if you can manage it.)


SCENE SIX

SETTING:  Man, if you don't know by now, no one's going to tell you.

     (No one is in the room, except, perhaps, GOD.  Enter BONG and BETSY.)

                                   BETSY

     (looking around, curiously)

Say, where'd the Gregorians go?

                               VOICE OF GOD

     (over the speaker system, loudly)

NEVER YOU MIND!

                              BETSY and BONG

Mmmmm.

                               VOICE OF GOD

DON'T YOU "mmmmm" ME!  I KNOW WHAT YOU CRETINS ARE USING RESIN
FOR!

                                   BONG

Sorry to steal your thunder, man, but I'm an athie-fucking-ist.

     (KARL MARX and ANDREW LLOYD WEBER fall from the rigging onto
     BONG, killing him.)

                                   BETSY

(looking up)

Oh, dear.  Not me.  I wrote the Baltimore Catechism.  And the Gospel of John.
Really, Lord.

(HECKLER stands up from audience)


                                  HECKLER

     (Mad as all get out!)

Stop!  That's enough!

     (HECKLER storms to center stage, pushing aside a startled BETSY and
     flouting an even more surprised VOICE OF GOD.)

This is not a play!  I don't mean that it's revolutionary, or avante-garde, or 
some form of drama beyond a play.  It is not performance art.  It is not even 
a work in progress.

I have sat up in that audience, and I have sludged through this entire 
psychodrama of death, depression, and melodrama.  I have yet to identify a 
PLOT, I have yet to identify with a single CHARACTER, I have yet to see the 
relevance of most of the SET.  This is nothing more than a politically correct 
amalgamation of modern-day aphorisms, platitudes for the feel-good age upon us!

This...is not....art!

     (OFFICER TOM comes in from stage left, shoots HECKLER dead.)

     (OFFICER TOM takes center stage.  Bows.  Blackout.)


SCENE SEVEN

SETTING:  Inside Edward R. Murrow's stomach.  No, not really.  Ibid.

MOOD:     Kind of upbeat.  Sort of happy.  Very post-modern hip-ish.  Do
          you dig?

     (The lights come up.  OFFICER TOM, BETSY, GIGI, and the VOICE OF
     GOD are sitting on the couch.)

                                  BETSY

You know, maybe he's right.  Maybe this isn't quite...how shall we say...art.

                               OFFICER TOM

It does lack a certain...je ne sais quoi.

                              VOICE OF GOD

Je ne regrette rein.

                                  GIGI

I wonder where Nora is.

                               OFFICER TOM

That wasn't particularly alliterative.

                              VOICE OF GOD

Not much of a pimp, either.

                                  BETSY

Anyway, she said that she had to practice her lines a bit before she tried 
them out on her husband, and I think that we should respect that enough to not 
leave when she really needs us most don't you guys agree, huh?

(pause)

                              VOICE OF GOD

No.  I'm missing 90210.  Hah!

     (Enter NORA HELMER, stage right.  She walks straight up to OFFICER
     TOM, who is combing his hair with his pistol.)

                                   NORA

     (screaming at OFFICER TOM)

I don't know you!  I'm not married to you!  I can't raise your children!  
I can't really dance the Tarantella!  My real name is John!

You can't eat the orange and throw away the peel!  A woman is not a piece of 
fruit!

YOU DON'T FUCKING OWN ME, SHITHEAD!

                                OFFICER TOM
     (serenely)

Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

     (NORA storms out, mimes getting hit by the door.  Blackout.)

                                  THE END