Round Robin


Act 1: Tom, Dick, and Harry.


Scene 1: Tom's yard; Tom's pulling crabgrass. (enter Dick)



Tom: What an eyesore!




Dick: Well, we've had a drought.



Tom: Not my lawn. I mean Harry's garage door. Must have been 20 years I've been looking at that damned cracked window pane, with that cruddy plank of plywood shoved over it. What a crummy camo job -- it's like putting a guerrilla in pink-and-purple polka dots. He should've at least used saran wrap and scotch tape if he's too lazy to fix it.



Dick: Tom, surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Tom: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Dick: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that man. He fusses and frets over pruning those damned bushes right and left of that window, but God forbid he take a break and replace the glass.



Tom: You got that right. And those bushes. I don't get why he has to sculpt them so symmetrically, like a pair of marble statues. These here rounded ones look like emasculated, pre-electric Afros. And then you have those there army-issue flat-tops. They're living trees, for Chrissake -- not a petrified forest -- let 'em blow in the breeze once in a while.



Dick: And what's with the water-logged lawn? He must be drowning that poor grass to death -- else why all the bald spots? He does the twice-a-week, doesn't-miss-a-spot, every-blade-exactly-perfect buzz-cut, but leaves foot-long, scraggly side-whiskers. God forbid he be bothered to take an extra ten minutes to use an edge trimmer.









Scene 2: Dick's yard; Dick's just finished mowing. (enter Harry)



Dick: What an eyesore!



Harry: Well, we've had a drought.



Dick: Not my lawn. I mean Tom's garage door. Must have been 20 years I've been looking at that damned what-color-was-it winner in the Pittsburgh Paint Peel-Off.



Harry: Dick, surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Dick: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Harry: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that man. He fusses and frets over his crummy crabgrass, but God forbid he take a break and paint the garage.



Dick: You got that right. And those bushes. I don't get why he has to let them grow wild like a tribe of scary-spiky electrified Mohawks, or Acid-era frizz-balls out to the O-zone. The ones he hasn't managed to kill yet, God-only-knows-how. Wouldn't pass military muster, no way. They're trees, for Chrissake -- treat 'em with respect. Don't let them grow all willy-nilly.



Harry: And what's with the crabgrass? It's an annual, for Chrissake -- it will croak in a month anyway. Besides, why in the world would you yank out the one-and-only so-to-speak greenery in that nuclear-winter nightmare of a lawn-scape? Everything else is double-dead brown-and-out. I'll bet the man has never watered the lawn in his life. I've sure never caught him, and dead lawns tell no tales.









Scene 3: Harry's yard; Harry's been watering for hours. (enter Tom)



Harry: What an eyesore!



Tom: Well, we've had a drought.



Harry: Not my lawn. I mean Dick's garage door. Must have been 20 years I've been looking at that damned rotted-out rats' paradise. Perfect place for a garage band -- a band of raccoons.



Tom: Harry, surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Harry: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Tom: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that man. He fusses and frets over his damned store-bought, short-cut-to-perfection sod job, but God forbid he take a break and replace those boards.



Harry: You got that right. And those bushes. I don't get why he has to whack half the life out of them. Look at that lopsided monstrosity -- what a hack job amputation. They're trees, for Chrissake -- you don't go lopping off their left arms just for the heck of it.



Tom: And what's with the burnt-out crop circle smack in the center of his otherwise golf-worthy green. You'd think that after all he's spent on that stupid sod he'd just go out and buy another sheet for Chrissake -- shove that sucker in there and be done with it. How lazy can you be -- on top of being too damned lazy to grow his own lawn to begin with.















Act 2: Mary, Jane, and Sue.





Scene 1: Mary's kitchen; Mary, Jane, Sue having coffee. (exit Mary)



Jane: What an eyesore!



Sue: Is that general soreness, or something specific?



Jane: Look at that sink. Like an over-run orphanage, chock full of abandoned dishes. Meantime, as always, nary a knickknack out of alignment -- God forbid you even think of touching one of her precious ceramic chickens, much less moving it half-a-half an inch off its mark. But the dishes! Must have been 20 years since these poor plates spent the night in their rightful home. All these deserted cabinets -- looks like a celluloid Ghost Town.



Sue: Jane , surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Jane: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Sue: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that woman. She fusses and frets over dusting those ridiculous roosters, but God forbid she take a break and get those dishes properly bathed and put to bed.



Jane: You got that right. And those clunky cluckers. I don't get why she has to set them so symmetrically, like a regiment of soldiers. They're birds, for Chrissake -- let 'em fly out of formation once in a while.



Sue: And what's with the put-me-out-of-my-misery-already vacuum? She must be inhaling that poor rug to death -- else why all the bald spots? She does the twice-a-week, doesn't-miss-a-spot suck job, but leaves all the crud behind. God forbid she be bothered to take an extra ten minutes to change the way-way-past-burst-point bag and Heimlich the hose first.







Scene 2: Jane's kitchen; Mary, Jane, Sue having coffee. (exit Jane)



Sue: What an eyesore!



Mary: Is that general soreness, or something specific?



Sue: Look at that sink. Not so much as a spoon to be found, but God forbid she deigns to dusts her filthy figurines. Must have been 20 years since those suckers last got the brush-off.



Mary: Sue , surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Sue: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Mary: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that woman. She fusses and frets over doing every last dish and its side-kicks, but God forbid she take a break and hose down those hideous Hummels.



Sue: You got that right. And those Hummels. I don't get why she has to let them go wild like an unruly pack of hoodlums. They're statuettes, for Chrissake -- treat 'em with respect. Don't let them go all willy-nilly.



Mary: And what's with the IN-YOUR-FACE vacuum? She doesn't dust so much as half a Hummel, but somehow she's suddenly become obsessed with sucking up every last invisible particle in the rug? Something smells fishy to me. Actually, smells like Pinesol -- reeks! -- as if the toilet bowl had drunk the whole bottle and OD'd on the stuff. Besides, do you notice how that vacuum is always ostentatiously greeting you -- and tripping you -- when you walk in the door? Seems suspiciously like a What-A-Good-Housekeeper-I-Am stage job to me. I'll bet the woman has never vacuumed the rug in her life. I've sure never caught her, and dirty rugs tell no tales.







Scene 3: Sue's kitchen; Mary, Jane, Sue having coffee. (exit Sue)



Mary: What an eyesore!



Jane: Is that general soreness, or something specific?



Mary: Look at that sink. Scum city all around. Not a single dirty dish, but God forbid she bother to scrub out the sink after she's evacuated its immaculate denizens. Must have been 20 years since that sucker last got de-slimed.



Jane: Mary, surely you exaggerate. I'd say it's been 19 years, tops.



Mary: Doesn't bother you, having to look at that?



Jane: Hell, yes. Something's wrong with that woman. She fusses and frets over her pretentious collection of ersatz-Asian Geisha-Girlie VAHses but God forbid she take a break and scour that filthy sink.

Mary: You got that right. And those dreadful, made-only-in-America, patronizing imposters with their chop-sticked hair-styles and slits-for-eyes. I don't get why she has to crowd them all to the right side of the mantel like that. I realize that Orient means east means right, but really! Can't we let half the harem migrate west already? They're citizens, for Chrissake -- born right here in Cheaptown, USA.



Jane: And what's with the AWOL vacuum? She doesn't so much as pretend to need it. You'd think that after all she's spent on that stupid pseudo-Oriental rug to match her phony VAHses she'd at least put on a solicitous show of vacuuming the thing. How lazy can you be -- on top of being too damned lazy to look for a decent rug to begin with.