User:Spuds1/UnScripts:When A Moron Calls

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“I heartily endorse this event or product”
~ Krusty The Clown on When A Moron Calls

An UnScript by Spuds1 writing as Einstein Q. Knickerbocker Jr Now ith Commentary

edit The Script

edit ACT I: The Prelude


A lounge room. A man (Simon) sits on the couch watching TV. The phone rings.

SIMON: (Picking up the phone) Hello

This plot is based on a true story. True story.

The caller's voice is deep and guttural.

CALLER: H-Hello.

SIMON: Who is this?

CALLER: Wouldn't you like to know?

SIMON: Well...Yes. Yes I would.

A painfully long pause.

This long pause was actually ad-libbed.

CALLER: Well, um, i'd rather not say.

SIMON: Why not?

CALLER: Well, um, you see, it', I kind of, want to , you know, kill you, i mean, if that's alright.

SIMON: Well, to be honest, this really isn't a good time for me. I've got friends coming around soon for a bit of a dinner party.

Simon is actually lying about a dinner party here, he's actually hosting an orgy.

CALLER: Oh. Oh dear. Not going my way at all is it?

SIMON: No, quite.

CALLER: I couldn't just kill you a little bit could I?

SIMON: I don't think that would work. I mean i'd still be dead wouldn't I?

CALLER: Yes, I, uh, suppose you would. Would it be that bad though?

SIMON: Indeed it would. What kind of host would I be if I was dead when my guests turned up? That would be the height of rudeness.

CALLER: Couldn't you cancel?

SIMON: Well, it'd be a bit late notice, but I suppose I could do that.

CALLER: Good, that's settled then.

SIMON: Okay then. Well, how do envisage killing me?

CALLER: Stabbing.

SIMON: Stabbing? That's a bit cliched isn't it? Couldn't you try something more creative?

CALLER: Yes, I suppose so, it's just bought this new knife and, well...

SIMON: Oh, well in that case, stabbing by all means.

CALLER: Good. I'm glad we've got that settled. I'll be around soon.

SIMON: Okay then, bye.

edit ACT II: The Beginning Of The End

SIMON: (On phone) ...and so I'm going to have to cancel tonight's soiree. Very sorry about that, but it couldn't be helped, bloody pyscho killers, they're worse than telemarketers. Anyway, I have to go now, call wating. Okay. See you in the afterlife.

haha! worse than telemarketers! Thats a good one!

Simon switches to the other line.

SIMON: Hello? Oh it's you. Are you at the house yet?

CALLER: Actually, I'm at the gate. I can't seem to get it open.

SIMON: Yes, trickly little bugger, that gate. You have to lift then push.

CALLER: (Grunting) Okay...nearly...not it! Okay I'm heading to the front door now.

SIMON: Front door's locked. Try the back.

CALLER: Thanks.

This act is short because I felt like it.

edit ACT III: Death Wears A Bedsheet

The Caller, wearing a bedsheet over his head, enters the lounge room.

CALLER: Okay, ready?

SIMON: Yes, yes.

CALLER: Do you want to say any final words?

SIMON: Um, oh, ah, I'm not really good at speeches, maybe just forget about it.

The caller raises his knife.

CALLER: Here I go.

SIMON: Okay (inhales deeply) go.

The caller stabs Simon.

SIMON: Oh, oh my that stings. That's gonna hurt tomorrow...(slaps himself on the forehead) Oh, idiot.

CALLER: I did it. I actually did it! Thank you Mr Jones.

SIMON: (In great pain) What? Mr Jones? My name isn't Mr Jones.

CALLER: It isn't? (Examines mobile phone) Oh my good lord! I dialled the wrong number.

Boom Boom Tish

SIMON: (Struggling to speak) Oh...that's...just...hil...ari...ous.

CALLER: I'm most dreadfully sorry.

SIMON: (Dying) (Slumps forward, dead)

CALLER: Fucking cell phones.

What I was trying to say here is that we will all eventually be killed by the continuous evolution of technology. Or some shit.



Originally I was going to put FIN instead of THE END but that seemed kinda wanky.
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