CHOKE UP ON THE BAT

Choke Up On The Bat
A playscript by Ben Ferrari


CAST

Martin........................A humble guy / mid-30's / temperate / undergoing serious life changes
Mr. Chestankle.......Rotund / authoritative boss / jolly when things are running smoothly / fond of fruit
God...........................Creator of man / often shrugging shoulders and going "Oops!"
Vanessa...................Bitch co-worker who always butts in on Martin's problems


{ A stroke of violins.... A French horn bumbling...
}

Martin adjusted his pants and stumbled down Sycamore street. He was bow-legged and looked like an impeccably-well-taken-care-of kite flapping in the morning wind.

His elastrator arrived via U.S. Postal District J-9 several days ago. It came in a discrete white box with no mention of castration and certainly no pictures of swollen, purple testicles on the exterior packaging for wandering eyes to catch and judge the recipient of. He almost would've preferred the embarrassment of one or two postal workers knowing his secret, for the benefit of being warned about the excruciating, terrible pain.

Over the past few months, Martin considered several methods of removing his nuts. There was the Burdizzo, a stainless steel clamp that snaps down on the scrotum with a birthright to sever its vessels in a single deft slice. It's considered safe by most barons of castration, but generally requires a second set of prints. Martin didn't want anyone to know. The elastrator was a better choice. It's like a rubber band that gradually tightens and cuts off blood to the scrotum until it falls off cleanly. He put it on, but he never imagined pain like this. Terrible.

{ Broadening cellos.... light staccato woodwind...}

Still hobbling down Sycamore street, almost at the steps of his office, wondering why he didn't call in sick or emasculated, and waiting for his nuts to fall off, Martin entered his workplace and scuttled quickly to a cubicle where stacks of paper were accumulating. He was falling behind. He placed his patent leather executive-stylized attache on the corner of a brown chipped laminate wood desk and fired up his computer. He sat down ever so gingerly. But the elastrator was tight around his scrotum and the pain was incredible.

Martin knew he was a woman stuck in a man's body. He believed in God, but he didn't resent God. He felt that his soul was accidentally placed in the wrong vessel. It was a clerical error. Billions of people are born every day. Think of all the mistakes walking around China, or a dense American city such as Huckborg, Alabama. Martin came to peace with it. He decided to personally modify his genitalia. To undo what God messed up without complaining or blaming anybody. Eventually he'd try to sculpt his cock into a serviceable vagina, but first came the scrotum, to answer the age old question of chickens and eggs.

Martin was called into Mr. Chestankle's office to account for all the slack building up around him.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Chestankle?"
"Martin I'm concerned. Please sit down."

There was a heavy oak bench that served as Mr. Chestankle's seat for guests. Martin gave it a nervous glance and sat down. Gingerly. Terribly.

"The Johnson account is getting blown because of your flaccid performance lately. I've handed the job to Vanessa."

Every other word that Mr. Chestankle said seemed pointy. Martin felt a twist and then finally sweet, blessed relief in his nether-regions. His scrotum dropped from his pant leg and rolled under Mister Chestankle's desk.

"What's this at my foot?" asked Mr. Chestankle, "...It appears to be a plum."

He picked it up.

"What good fortune. I'll simply polish it on my sleeve and have a bite, allowing the juices to trickle down my chin."

{ Timpani thunder.... Metal percussion chirping like frogs....}

----------------------

Casting Suggestions:

Martin - James Spader / Kirk Cameron / Fred Savage
Mr. Chestankle - Wilford Brimley / James Cahn / Robert Wagner
God - Pauly Shore / David Lee Roth / Steve Bucemi
Vanessa - Annie Potts

Home - Music - Prank Calls - Archives - Contact