Bathroom Monologue: Smaller than Our Fathers

“You’ve got to stop, man. This is the only reason you smoke.”

“It’s not. I like the flavor.”

“I have never seen you reach for a pack when we weren’t writing skits about parents”

“My father built homes, okay? It throws me sometimes. He did his work. His work, when he died, that’s all anyone said.”

“You’re doing your work. You do it better than half that room.”

“He hated what I’m doing, never mentioned watching a single episode right up to the day he died. He’d still hate it.”

“He wouldn’t. Swear to God, he’d be proud. I bet you he watched and didn’t say.”

“No, you didn’t know him. This guy was midnight runs and baseball and carpentry, everything with his hands. He was intense before I knew the word. There was no better man.”

“There’s at least one. He’s standing in front of me, trying to give himself lung cancer.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“Then teach me about him. Teach the audience – we’re writing about parents, so channel him. Dads who drive their sons crazy make great drama anyway.”

“You’re weird, you know that? Even for this town.”

“At least I keep my shit together! Maybe because I had two moms.”

“Can we write about them?”

“Them meeting your workman dad?”

“Oh, God.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“No. It’s too funny. Now I have to write it.”

“Oh, well then you’re welcome. Now give me your lighter.”