[Setting: A crowded deli in New York. Groucho Marx is seated at the counter, twirling his cigar, while Frank Costanza storms in, red-faced and holding an overstuffed pastrami sandwich.]
Frank: (yelling) Who made this sandwich?! This is an insult to pastrami and to me personally!
Groucho: (without missing a beat) I see we’ve found the only man in New York who takes a sandwich more seriously than his dignity.
Frank: Dignity? What’s dignified about sitting there like you own the place? You look like a poorly-dressed scarecrow!
Groucho: And you look like a man auditioning for the role of “irate customer” in a low-budget sitcom. Congratulations, you’ve nailed it.
Frank: (getting closer) You want to talk about low budget? That greasepaint moustache of yours looks like it was drawn on with a broken crayon!
Groucho: Oh, this moustache? It’s the only thing I own that gets more attention than you at an anger management meeting.
Frank: At least I don’t hide behind cheap jokes and a cigar! You think you’re so clever, don’t you?
Groucho: Well, I’ve been called clever, witty, even charming. You, on the other hand, have been called—well, I’d rather not repeat it in polite company.
Frank: (flustered) Polite company? You’re sitting in a deli yelling louder than the meat slicer!
Groucho: Ah, but unlike you, my yelling comes with a side of humour. Yours comes with a coronary waiting to happen.
Frank: That’s it! You want to step outside?!
Groucho: Why? Are they giving out free samples out there? Or is this just your way of proving you’re as loud in the street as you are in here?
Frank: (furious, pointing) You better watch yourself, buddy, or I’ll give you something to joke about!
Groucho: I’d love that. My material’s a little stale—unlike your sandwich, which seems to be all stale.
Frank: (throwing up his arms) You know what? I’m done here. I’m going to find someone who knows how to treat a paying customer!
Groucho: Good luck with that, Mr. Costanza! If you find someone, let me know—I’ve been waiting for good service since the Great Depression.
Enter Estelle Costanza, purse in hand and her voice already at full volume.]
Estelle: (yelling from the door) Frank! What are you doing here? You were supposed to pick up the dry cleaning an hour ago!
Frank: (spinning around) Estelle! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something important here?!
Estelle: Important?! Yelling at a stranger about a sandwich? Is this why I married you? To be embarrassed in public every day of my life?
Groucho: (leaning back in his seat) Ah, the dulcet tones of marital bliss. Please, don’t stop on my account—I haven’t seen a performance this raw since I left vaudeville.
Estelle: (to Groucho) And who are you supposed to be? Some kind of wise guy?
Groucho: Madam, I am not “some kind of wise guy.” I am the wise guy. But don’t let me distract you—your husband seems to be doing an excellent job of embarrassing himself without my help.
Frank: Hey! Don’t gang up on me! I came in here for a decent sandwich, and now I’m getting attacked from all sides!
Estelle: A decent sandwich? You don’t even know what a decent sandwich looks like! All you ever order is “extra mustard” and “hold the flavour”!
Groucho: It’s no wonder, Estelle. With a man like Frank, mustard’s the only thing spicy in his life.
Estelle: (cackling) Ha! He got you there, Frank!
Frank: (indignant) Whose side are you on, Estelle? You’re supposed to support me!
Estelle: Support you?! Frank, you’re a walking disaster! The other day, you backed the car into a tree—on purpose!
Groucho: On purpose? Frank, I had no idea you were an artist. You’ve brought surrealism to parking accidents!
Frank: That tree came out of nowhere! And don’t call me an artist—I’m a man of action!
Groucho: If you’re a man of action, then I’m the Queen of England. And even she wouldn’t be caught dead eating that sandwich.
Estelle: (pointing at Frank) He’s right, Frank! That sandwich looks like it’s been through a war!
Frank: (grabbing the sandwich defensively) I don’t need this! I’ve got enough grief at home without you two piling on!
Groucho: Grief? You call this grief? Stick around, Frank—by the end of this, you’ll be ready for sainthood.
Estelle: Sainthood? Him? The only thing he’s a saint of is ruining my life!
Frank: (yelling back) Oh, ruin your life? I should’ve left you at that singles mixer in ’58!
Estelle: Well, I wish you had! I could’ve ended up with Harold Greenblatt instead!
Frank: (outraged) Greenblatt? That guy couldn’t tell his left foot from his right!
Groucho: (jumping in) Well, Frank, neither can you—but at least Harold wouldn’t have driven it into a tree.
Estelle: (laughing) He’s got you there, Frank! Maybe I should’ve married this guy instead!
Groucho: Madam, I’m flattered, but I already have my hands full dodging Frank’s insults and dodgy parking habits.
Frank: (throwing up his hands) That’s it! I’m outta here!
Estelle: Fine! But don’t think you’re getting out of picking up the dry cleaning!
Frank: (storming out) I’ll get the dry cleaning when I’m good and ready!
Groucho: If that’s the case, Estelle, you might want to start shopping for new clothes now.
Estelle: (grinning) Finally, someone who gets it! You know, you’re not so bad, Groucho.
Groucho: And you, Estelle, are a delight. Now, how about a sandwich? But no mustard—I don’t want Frank’s influence rubbing off on me.
Frank slams the door on his way out as Estelle sits down with Groucho, the deli crowd in stitches.
