Category Archives: Scripts


(Based on “Yma Dream” by Thomas Meehan)

(SCENE: A psychiatrist’s office. A couch, desk, etc. The DOCTOR is sitting in a chair. The PATIENT enters.)

Doctor:    Welcome, Mr. Murgatroyd. Please, come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable.

Patient:    Thank you, Doctor, good to see you. (The PATIENT sits.)

Doctor:    So, Mr. Murgatroyd – you look a bit tired – have you been sleeping well?

Patient:    Well, no, Doctor – I haven’t. My dreams…

Doctor:    Ach, yes, the anxiety dreams are back, eh? I remember last time, you were telling me about a dream you were having, about college…?

Patient:    Yes, Doctor – I dreamt I was a college professor, and I was giving a final exam, but no one in the room had actually taken my course…

Doctor:    And has that dream recurred?

Patient:      No, Doctor – this is a different one I’ve been having lately. (takes out notebook)

Doctor:    Ach, I see you have been keeping a dream journal! Excellent idea!

Patient:    Yes, Doctor – as you will see, this is a very confusing dream, so I had to write down what I could…

Doctor:    Of course. So, please proceed….

Patient:    Well, Doctor, in this dream, I am hosting a dinner party in my apartment.

Doctor:    Ah, good! Continue! (to himself, pleased) Subject is working on his social anxiety…

Patient:     This is a dinner party for the famous singer, Lady Gaga.

Doctor:    Gaga?

Patient:    Gaga.

Doctor:     I see. (to himself, slightly more concerned) Subject is working on childhood anxiety, possibly repressed infantile trauma…

Patient:    No, Doctor, that really is her name, her stage name, that is. But that’s the strange thing about this dream, I don’t know Lady Gaga, and my apartment is certainly no place for a dinner party. But there we are, and she seems very comfortable there. In the dream, apparently, she knows me well, as does everyone else.

So I am putting out the snacks – Fritos, Cheetos, and Ho-Hos…

Doctor:    Ho-Hos? Where did you get those?

Patient:    The Ho-Hos? From Wawa’s.

Doctor:    I see. Go on. What did you have to drink?

Patient:    Among other things, iced tea, Pepsi, and Hi-C.

Doctor:    Of course.

Patient:     So as I am setting out the Fritos, Cheetos and Ho-Hos, the doorbell rings. I open the door, and I see two people there. It is Viggo Mortensen, the handsome star of “Lord of the Rings,” escorting the pop star Amethyst Amelia Kelly, better known as Iggy Azalea.

I bring them inside. “Lady Gaga,” I say, “I am pleased to present Mr. Viggo Mortensen and Ms. Iggy Azalea.”

“Oh, please, let’s not be so formal,” says Lady Gaga. “First names only. And do please always call me Gaga.”

“Okay,” I say. “Gaga, Viggo. Gaga, Iggy. Iggy, Viggo – Gaga.” Iggy and Gaga immediately launch into an animated conversation about Liza Minelli and Milli Vanilli.

The doorbell rings. The next guests have arrived.  The actress Uma Thurman enters, dressed in her yellow jumpsuit from her amazing performance in the “Kill Bill” movies. Her date is the former NFL quarterback Norman Esaison – or as he is better known, “Boomer.”

I bring them into the living room, where Viggo is talking to Gaga about the record she made with Tony Bennett, where they covered “Mony Mony” and “Boney Maroney.”

“Gaga!” I say. “Here’s Uma and Boomer. Gaga, Uma – Gaga, Boomer. Uma, Boomer, Viggo, Iggy!” I chuckle when I say this, but no one seems to see any humor in what I have said. But it’s only a brief moment of awkwardness, which I defuse by deftly passing around some Ho-Hos.

The doorbell rings.  Two distinguished elder gentlemen are at the door – but they are dressed in bowler hats and shabby coats. I suddenly realize that I am looking at two of the most accomplished actors of our time, Sir Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen, and they are in costume from their recent Broadway stint in Samuel Beckett’s classic “Waiting for Godot,” where they played the tramps Vladimir and Estragon – or as they call each other… (pause)

Doctor:    Yes?

Patient:    “Didi” and “Gogo.”  “We’re in character,” Sir Ian whispers to me as we walk in. “Please introduce us as such.”

So – I do so. “Gaga – Didi, Gogo. Didi, Gogo, Uma, Boomer, Iggy, Viggo.” Viggo, of course, gives Sir Ian a big hug, and everyone gives Sir Patrick the Vulcan salute. But since they’re in character, they pretend to not understand.  This makes for some uneasiness.  “Ho-Hos, Gogo?” I say. “Iced tea, Didi?”

Fortunately, the bell rings.

Standing before me is the Prime Minister of the State of Israel – Mr. Binyamin Netanyahu himself. He has two bodyguards. The other man also has two bodyguards. I realize that this is none other than hip-hop mogul Sean Combs…

Doctor:    You don’t mean…

Patient:    Yes, Doctor, it was – Bibi and Diddy.

Both men try to enter the door first. They collide, then step back and glare at each other, and the bodyguards snap into position. But Gaga saves the day. “Diddy!” she shouts, and Netanyahu has the grace to yield. Gaga gives him a big hug too, and she leads them into the living room, one arm over each one’s shoulder.

“Well, Gaga, I see you know — “ I start to say, but she interrupts me.

“Now don’t be silly, please, do your hostly duties!”

“Gaga, Bibi – Gaga, Diddy… Bibi, Diddy, Gogo, Didi, Uma, Viggo, Boomer, Iggy…” I am not sure how many more people are coming or how many more will fit into my living room.  I see Cheeto dust everywhere, and I step on a Ho-Ho. I realize at that moment that I am for some reason wearing the flimsiest of flip-flops. “Would anyone like some Hi-C?” I ask, as the doorbell rings.

In the hallway, all the bodyguards are slumped unconscious against the wall. In their midst is a skinny gentleman of South Asian heritage. It is Bobby Jindal, the Governor of Louisiana and a Republican candidate for President. He is carrying a ventriloquist’s dummy. With horror, I realize that the dummy is none other than Dobby the house-elf from the Harry Potter movies. Dobby’s head turns towards me and says in a strangely accented voice, “No one touches the dummy.”

I escort him – them – to the living room. “Look, everyone, it’s Bobby and Dobby!” All those faces turn to me at once, and I stagger from the force of their glare. There is nothing to be done.

“Gaga, Bobby – Gaga, Dobby. Bobby, Dobby, Bibi, Diddy, Gogo, Didi, Uma, Boomer, Viggo, Iggy…”

Gaga hits on Dobby immediately. It occurs to me that the party is suffering from serious gender imbalance.

The doorbell rings. I turn towards the door, but it seems to be receding away from me, and it takes me forever to reach it. This may be because my flip-flops are sticking to the shag carpet.  I open the door to greet Kofi Annan, the former Secretary General of the United Nations, and veteran NPR reporter Cokie Roberts.

As I bring them in to meet the others, I ask them what they would like to drink. “Coffee,” says Cokie. “Cocoa,” says Kofi.

But first I must make the introductions. “Gaga, Cokie, Kofi – Kofi, Cokie, Diddy, Bibi, Didi, Gogo, Uma, Boomer, Iggy, Viggo, Bobby, Dobby…” (cries)

Doctor:    Here, would you like some water?

Patient:    (recovering, but bewildered) No, no, I’m OK… but in the dream, things are getting out of control. Didi – Sir Patrick – and Viggo are arguing with Bobby and Dobby about someone called Jar-Jar. Gaga and Iggy are singing “Gimme Dat Ding” with Diddy sitting in on didjeridoo.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. There in the hallway is a short Japanese woman, and a tall Korean man. He is carrying a cello. She is carrying bagpipes.

The guests fall silent, and all step back respectfully as Yoko Ono enters the room, silent and regal, accompanied by Yo-Yo Ma.

Gaga steps forward, wordlessly, her eyes full of tears, and embraces them both.

Then everyone turns to me.

“Gaga – Yoko.” I stammer.

“Gaga – Yo-Yo.”

My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. I fear I may have eaten one Ho-Ho too many. My stomach churns. My knees buckle. But then, I lock eyes with Dobby – and something about those sad, fake eyes gives me courage. I take a deep breath:

“Yo-Yo, Yoko, Didi, Gogo, Uma, Boomer, Iggy, Viggo, Diddy, Bibi, Bobby, DOBBY!”

The room erupts in applause – just as the bell rings again. I am exhausted. I stagger to the door. With my last ounce of strength, I open the door –

Doctor:    Yes? Who is it? Who could it be?  Oprah Winfrey? Margaux Hemingway? Marco Polo? ELMO?

Patient:    No Doctor – It’s YOU – Doctor Helmut Siegfried Messerschmidt von Zittlefritz – and I have never been so happy to see anyone in my – entire – life.

And then I wake up. Thank you Doctor, see you next week! (Exits)