Title: The Costanzas at the Woke Hipster Talent Show
Setting: The same gentrified warehouse as before, but now with a folding table and three mismatched chairs hastily set up for the Costanzas: Frank, Estelle, and George. They sit slightly apart from the hipster crowd, each reacting in their own uniquely chaotic way.
Characters:
Frank Costanza: Loud, opinionated, and armed with his legendary creative insults.
Estelle Costanza: Whiny, perpetually disapproving, and oblivious to the absurdity of the situation.
George Costanza: Uncomfortable, embarrassed, and constantly trying to disappear.
Host: The same over-enthusiastic hipster.
Contestants: As woke and earnest as ever.
Host: (grinning ear to ear) “Welcome, everyone, to another evening of intersectional inspiration and kaleidoscopic creativity! Let’s give a warm, organic welcome to our esteemed guests: The Costanza family!”
Frank: (leaning into the mic) “Esteemed?! We’re not the Rockefellers, buddy. I had to bribe a guy with a muffin to park my car outside this kale farm!”
Estelle: (to Frank) “Why do you always have to yell?! You embarrassed us before the show even started!”
George: (cringing) “Can we just get this over with? I feel like I’m about to be lectured by a tofu salesman.”
Host: (awkwardly) “Okay… uh, our first act is Jasmine Stardust, with a spoken word piece titled My Pronouns Are Freedom.”
(Jasmine steps forward in a flowing cape made of recycled newspaper. The audience snaps their fingers in encouragement.)
Jasmine Stardust: “I am a galaxy of identities… a nebula of non-binary truths…”
Frank: (interrupting) “Galaxy?! You’re one person in a cape! I’ve seen more convincing constellations in a bowl of matzo ball soup!”
Estelle: “Frank, stop it! They’re expressing themselves!”
George: “We’re going to get kicked out. Again.”
Host: (quickly moving on) “Thank you, Jasmine. What a… transcendent performance. Next up, Willow Moonchild with an interpretive dance exploring the oppression of artisanal breadmakers.”
(Willow twirls onto the stage, clutching a baguette wrapped in hemp cloth. The music is a haunting mix of whale calls and distant thunderstorms.)
Frank: “What am I looking at?! Is this supposed to be a protest or an ad for gluten-free bread?”
Estelle: (tearing up) “She’s suffering, Frank. Can’t you see? That baguette is a metaphor!”
Frank: “Metaphor?! It’s a loaf of bread doing the cha-cha! I’ve seen better performances from the pigeons in Central Park!”
(George covers his face with both hands as the audience gasps in collective outrage.)
Host: (forcing a smile) “Right! Let’s hear it for… uh… the spirit of expression. Moving on, our next performer, Indigo Rain, will share a decolonised folk song played on the handpan.”
(Indigo sits cross-legged on the stage, playing hypnotic notes on the handpan while crooning indecipherable lyrics.)
Frank: (leaning forward) “What is that thing? A UFO? Did he steal it from Area 51?”
George: “It’s a handpan, Dad. Just… just let it go.”
Frank: “I’ll tell you what needs to go: this whole show! I came here expecting talent, and all I’ve gotten is musical mumbo jumbo and interpretive carb therapy!”
(The audience starts to boo, but Frank stands up, undeterred.)
Frank: (yelling) “Oh, boo all you want! You’re the ones paying $12 for oat milk lattes and clapping like trained seals!”
Estelle: “Sit down, Frank! You’re ruining everything!”
Frank: “Ruining? This show was ruined the moment that guy walked out with a didgeridoo and a ukulele!”
Host: (clearly panicking) “Let’s, uh, take a brief intermission to… regroup.”
(The curtain falls as Frank continues to rant, Estelle screeches at him to shut up, and George silently prays for a sinkhole to open beneath him.)
The End.
