Killing Your Better Half

A man's secret desire to off his wife

“Killing Your Better Half”

By Brock Lincoln Taffy

The New One-Man Play Starring 4 People

 

“Here it is; the script of the play that has people talking, and what they’re saying is,

“Dude, I won’t be able to get out of prison to see it, but I sure want to feel like I’m there.  I sure do wish there was a way, but there isn’t, is there?”

Well now there is!  We’ve printed genuine facsimiles of the same script the actors use, and now you can feel like you’re there, at the performance.  Of course, when was the last time you went to a play in your underwear?  If you want to, feel free!  And, you won’t have to spend a fortune buying snacks, because you’ll be at home in the comfort of your own living room.  This is the new one-man play starring four people.  Hopefully, after reading this awesome script, you’ll get dressed and buy a ticket to the play, which is now playing at a theater near you!”

 

Cast: Harold Spite: Don Seawald

Harriet Spite: Amber Waves

Jim Wuss: Carl Ambiance

Agnes Wuss: Cristy Creamer

 

Act One:

 

Curtain rises; as the play opens, Mr. and Mrs. Spite are impatiently waiting for their supposedly-good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Wuss.  The Spite’s have been drinking all day and are in a foul mood.

 

Mr. Spite: “Harriet, you sure are ugly!”

 

Mrs. Spite: “Well, you lazy eunuch; you’re one to talk; lazing around and doing nothing except guzzling beer.  Speaking of beer, get me another.”

 

Mr. Spite: “Try to haul your ugly butt up and get it yourself!”

 

Mrs. Spite: “I hate you, you b*****d!”

 

Mr. Spite: “You’re hacking me off royal; if the Wuss’s weren’t due to arrive any second, I’d...”

 

Mrs. Spite, cutting him off: “You’d what?  Chop me up into tiny pieces and put them in a garbage bag?”

 

Before Mr. Spite can answer, there comes a knock at the door.

 

Mr. Spite: “They’re here, sea-hag.  Now, don’t let them know we’ve been fighting.  I’ll show you ‘what’ later!”

 

Answering the door, Mr. and Mrs. Spite are all smiles.  All traces of hatred and contempt for each other are cleverly hidden.

 

Mr. Spite: “Well, if it isn’t our cherished friends, Jim and Agnes Wuss.  Thanks for coming.  Please, make yourselves at home.”

 

Mr. Wuss: “Thanks, Harold.  Are you two up for a daring game of chance, because I brought along our game of ‘Realtor’.”

 

Mrs. Wuss: “Oh Jim, the last time we all played, you ended up getting severely beaten up.  You men treat it as life itself instead of a meaningless game.  I thought we could look at slides of my knitting class triumph, instead.”

 

Mr. Spite: “Gee, Agnes, those sure sound exciting, but how about just a quick game first?  Jim and I promise we won’t get carried away this time.  I can’t wait to see your slides, though!”

 

Mrs. Spite: “While my dear husband sets up the card table so we can play, I’ll hop into the kitchen and make us all drinks and see how the party mush is turning out.”

 

Mrs. Wuss: “Can I do anything to help, Harriet?”

 

Mrs. Spite: “No, no Agnes, just relax in the gaming room.  What would you like to drink?”

 

Mrs. Wuss: “Thank you, but nothing for either of us.  Jim has a big day tomorrow at the coloring-book shop.  I know it sounds like an excuse, but dealing with four-year-olds is very tiring for Jim, and he needs to be sharp tomorrow.”

 

Mr. Spite: “Please, have one little drink!  It’ll make you more bara--err--it’ll relax you so you can concentrate on the ‘Realtor’ action.”

 

Mr. Wuss: “Oh, one little drink won’t do any harm.  Be a sweetheart, Agnes, and show Harriet how to make a ‘Liver Demon’, won’t you, dear?”

 

Mrs. Wuss: “I don’t remember what’s in it.  I remember about the two shots of scotch, but the rest is gone.”

 

Mr. Wuss:  “Oh, for the love of crap, can’t you remember anything?  It’s two shots of scotch, one shot of 151, and fill the rest of the glass with vodka; no ice please.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “One ‘Liver Demon’, coming up.  I’ll just run to the kitchen with Agnes and we can keep each other company.  Come on, Agnes.”

 

Mr. Wuss: “Can you please hurry?  I’m extremely thirsty over here.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “What to drink for you, Harold?”

 

Mr. Spite: “Oh, I think that ‘Liver Demon’ sounds pretty good.  Please make it two, dear.  We’ll set up for a quick game of ‘Realtor’, and then we’ll watch your fascinating slides, Agnes.”

 

Curtain falls; end of Act One

 

Act Two:

 

Curtain rises; it’s four hours later, and the ‘quick’ game of ‘Realtor’ has just been completed.  After several more drinks, Mr. Wuss has passed out, and Mrs. Wuss is making lame excuses for her husband.

 

Mrs. Wuss: “I’m so sorry Jim has passed out, he’s been under a lot of pressure at work and today was so darned hot.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “Please Agnes, don’t be embarrassed.  Sometimes my Harold has a little too much to drink and can’t get up, too.  I think it happens to every guy, sometimes.”

 

At this point, Mr. Spite, who lost his butt to his wife Harriet in ‘Realtor’, is happy Mr. Wuss has passed out, so he doesn’t have to listen to him flap his face; and who has had a lot himself, goes to the utensil drawer in the kitchen and slips a butcher knife inside his belt, along with a garbage bag.

 

Hearing the end of the conversation, Mr. Spite, coming back from the kitchen, says: “Well, I’m just sorry for Jim being so exhausted, he pass--err--fell asleep.  Poor Jim!  He’s always keeping his nose to the grindstone.”

Mrs. Wuss: “Oh, who am I kidding?  Too much sun, too much alcohol, consumed much too quickly, and you end up like this.  I, at least, had a wonderful time.  Now Jim will have a big hangover tomorrow at the coloring book store.  I doubt he’ll remember much about this evening.  Will you please help me get his limp, unconscious body out to the car?”

 

Mr. Spite, feeling relieved they are finally leaving: “I’m sorry you guys have to go, that was a blast.  We’ll have to get together again, and soon.  You’ll be sure to show me those slides next time?  I’m real sorry I didn’t get to see them this time. They would have been fascinating!”

 

Mrs. Wuss: “Well, if you’d really like to see them, stop by the house sometime and I’d be happy to show them to you.  Goodnight to you both, and thanks again for having us over.”

 

Mr. Spite, impatiently: “The pleasure was all ours, believe you me.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “Goodnight Agnes, we’ll have to get together and you can show me your new knitting technique.  Now drive carefully.”

 

The Spite’s watch as the Wuss’s drive away.

 

Curtain falls; end of Act Two

 

Act Three:

 

Curtain rises; the Spite’s are talking on their front porch.

 

Mrs. Spite: “Gee, that was actually fun.  We’ll have to have them over more often.”

 

Mr. Spite:“ Shut your pie-hole, Harriet!  I cannot stand the Wuss’s, and you’re not much better.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “I see we’re still fighting.  You’re not thinking too clearly after your drinks.  Why don’t I just hop into the kitchen and I’ll make us a good, strong pot of coffee.”

 

Mr. Spite: “I don’t want any coffee, I’m not drunk enough!  Your sea-hag-ugly face, and the whiny screech that you call your voice are both way too much for me to take one more minute.  I’m going back inside and fix myself another drink.”

 

They then return to the house, where Mr. Spite will mix himself another drink.  Mrs. Spite hotly walks right behind her husband:

 

Mrs. Spite: “While you make yourself another reality hammer, there’s something I just made up my mind about and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

 

Mr. Spite: “Oh joy!”

 

Mrs. Spite: “I’ve found someone else.  I haven’t been satisfied as a woman for years and I’ve found a caring man who caters to my every whim.  I’m sorry to lay this on you suddenly, but I just can’t stand one more day with your a**.  I can see from the pained expression and tears that you’re terribly hurt and I’m sorry.”

 

Mr. Spite, letting go of the knife he had been thinking of taking out of his waistband: “Well, he must be quite a man to put up with you!  These aren’t tears of pain, they’re tears of relief.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “At least you could act a little bit upset; after all, we’ve been married for over twenty years.”

 

Mr. Spite: “Is that all?  It feels like forever.  Why should I be upset?  This solves my problem without me having to resort to, (stroking the knife-handle) err-shall we say, more drastic measures?”

 

Mrs. Spite: “What could possibly be more ‘drastic’ than the end of our marriage?”

 

Mr. Spite: “You call a divorce ‘drastic’?  You don’t know how close you came to finding out the true meaning of the word.”

 

Mrs. Spite: “I’m not following you at all, you ugly b*****d!  You’re making absolutely no sense.  Those drinks you’ve had have gone straight to your head.  Goodbye and good luck, you’re going to need it, you drunk jerk!”

 

Mr. Spite: “I’ve already had my good luck, you’re leaving.  I won’t have to try not to vomit gazing upon your disfigured form!”

 

Mrs. Spite: “See you in court, you sexless moron!”

 

Mr. Spite: “You’re so funny; too bad it’s ‘looking’!  It’ll be worth any price just to get rid of your carcass.”

 

Curtain falls; the stage darkens and a voice says, “The moral of this story, ladies and gentlemen, is, ‘Marriage is a disaster, just waiting to trap you.  Whatever you do, heed this warning.’  On behalf of the cast and crew, this is your announcer, Rory Hamper, saying a heart-felt thank you, and goodnight!”

 

The End