Scene: The Costanza Household – Chaos Meets Composure
Setting: A modest Queens apartment, where Frank and Estelle Costanza sit in their living room, staring in bewilderment at their newly acquired butler, Jeeves, who stands with the unruffled grace of a man who has spent a lifetime extricating clueless aristocrats from self-inflicted calamities. George, sensing disaster, lurks near the door, ready to flee.
ESTELLE: Frank, explain to me why we have a butler!
FRANK: I didn’t order a butler! I ordered a recliner! But noooo, some genius over at Costanza Industries checked the wrong box, and now we got this guy!
JEEVES: If I might interject, sir, my purpose is not to provide lumbar support but rather to bring order and refinement to this establishment.
FRANK: Refinement?! This is Queens! Nobody refines anything in Queens!
JEEVES: Indeed, sir. The challenges are considerable, but not, I believe, insurmountable. Might I offer you a restorative brandy?
ESTELLE: No booze! Frank can’t handle his liquor. Last time he drank brandy, he challenged a parking meter to a fistfight!
JEEVES: Most regrettable. I shall instead prepare an infusion of chamomile tea.
FRANK: CHAMOMILE?! This is a household built on rage! You wanna fix this place? You get in the kitchen and make me a plate of kasha varnishkes!
JEEVES: Ah, a culinary preference. I shall attend to it forthwith. Might I also suggest a modest adjustment to the domestic volume?
ESTELLE: Are you saying I’m LOUD?!
JEEVES: Perish the thought, madam. Merely that the current acoustics might be more suited to, say, a harbour at low tide, where seagulls dispute a bread crust.
FRANK: That’s it! I want him outta here!
GEORGE: Finally! Someone in this apartment who gets it! You see what I deal with, Jeeves?!
JEEVES: Indeed, sir. A most Sisyphean ordeal.
ESTELLE: What did he call you?!
FRANK: Sisyphus! I knew a Sisyphus Goldstein! He ran a bakery on Flatbush! He tried to charge me fifteen dollars for a babka!
JEEVES: Most unconscionable. If I might make a modest proposal, perhaps a structured schedule might bring harmony. Shall we say breakfast at eight, luncheon at noon, and dinner at six?
ESTELLE: Dinner at six?! What is this, a retirement home?! We eat when we’re hungry!
JEEVES: Ah. A rather more Bohemian approach to repast. I shall adjust accordingly.
FRANK: Enough! YOU'RE FIRED!
JEEVES: Very good, sir. I shall have my things packed within the hour.
GEORGE: He just accepts it?! That’s it?! No shouting? No guilt?
JEEVES: Sir, I have spent a lifetime being dismissed by men far wealthier but no less unhinged. Your father, while spirited, is not wholly without precedent.
ESTELLE: You know, I like him.
FRANK: … What?
ESTELLE: He’s the only person who hasn’t given me a migraine today!
FRANK: Unbelievable! First I gotta deal with Lloyd Braun, now this guy!
JEEVES: If I might be so bold, sir, a brisk constitutional might clear the mind.
FRANK: A what?!
JEEVES: A walk, sir. Preferably without engaging in combat with inanimate objects.
FRANK: That’s it, I’m walking to Queens Boulevard, and if I see a single pedestrian cross before the light, I’m starting a riot!
(Frank storms out, Estelle follows, George shakes his head, and Jeeves calmly straightens his cuffs before pouring himself a brandy.)
JEEVES: I have served earls, viscounts, and the occasional absinthe-addled baron, but this… this may be my magnum opus.
FADE TO BLACK.