The Missing Keys comedywriting

It’s time to go to work, but where are my keys? Oh no. They’re missing. Where, oh where, can they possibly be? I should know, because they were placed by me, but still, they elude me.

The clock is ticking, the clock is ticking, and if I don’t find them I’ll be late. They’ll dock my pay. I’ll get written up. I’ll get fired and live under an overpass. There I’ll eat roast rats and have smelly homeless friends. I’ll have to prostitute myself to stay alive. I’ll steal a gas station’s squeegee and offer to clean windshields. People will tell me to get a job and I’ll tell them I had one up until the point I lost my keys. No. It will not come to that. I won’t let it.

I ransack my own house. It starts with me tossing blankets off my bed. Why? Maybe I decided to sleep with my dirty keys. I’ve never done that before, but maybe this time I did. Finding no keys in my sheets I turn my attention to my messy desk. I throw all its contents onto the floor and then I’m on the floor grabbing and tossing most of it into the trash can. When I determine that no keys are amongst this debris, I then leap into my closet to sift through my hamper. I toss aside damp towels and then I pat down my odorous clothes and pull out all their pockets in desperate search. All I find is lent. Next I visit my coat closet and check their pockets too. There are no keys in them, just old gas station receipts and movie tickets.

Then I lose my mind: I run up and down the stairs. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. All I’m doing is re-checking everything I already checked. Then it gets crazier as I start checking completely illogical places: Every single drawer, behind my computer, under the bed, behind the curtains, and even in the shower. Nowhere is off limits, not even the microwave. Yes, maybe I put the keys in the microwave. Everything is possible in this messed up and crazy world. Yes, maybe it’s in the microwave or the refrigerator. I thoroughly check both, and I’m positively shocked that the keys aren’t there. Then I consider that maybe they are there and I’m not looking hard enough. I break down and cry. This is all my failure. I’m a failure. I don’t deserve a job if I can’t keep track of my keys.

I glance at the clock. The time is ticking. It’s now or never. I slam open all the shelves and I dig through them. Might it be in here with the forks and spoons? Nope. How about in here with the rubber bands and the tiny screw drivers? No luck. Then I check the drawer I always put them in, and where I looked first, they aren’t there. Wait. I move a business card and there they are. They are right where I always put them. A single little piece of paper concealed them expertly. A wave of relief washes over my entire body, but there is no time to relax, because I am running late. I rush out to my car and shove the damn keys into the ignition. Then I slam it into drive and rocket off to work.

At the first stop sign a thought slugs me in the face: In my haste I forgot to grab my lunch box. Why, cruel world? Why? There is no time to turn back. I drive onwards towards a day of suffering and starvation.

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Submitted May 06, 2017 at 07:10AM by midnightclownfun http://ift.tt/2pf3qzv comedywriting