[Scene: The Costanza living room. Frank is pacing, mumbling to himself as George lounges on the couch, half-listening and half-regretting his existence.]
Frank: Coffee with Groucho Marx! The nerve! She thinks she can just waltz off with some wisecracking lunatic while I’m stuck here with you? No offence.
George: None taken. I checked out emotionally 20 minutes ago.
Frank: I’ll show her. I’ll show them both. Nobody humiliates Frank Costanza! I’m going to make them pay!
George: Oh, great. What are you going to do, Dad? Challenge Groucho to a duel? Insult him with louder yelling?
Frank: (snapping his fingers) That’s it! I’ll outwit him at his own game!
George: Dad, you don’t have wit. You have volume. There’s a difference.
Frank: (ignoring George) I need props. A plan. A disguise! George, where’s my trench coat?
George: You don’t own a trench coat.
Frank: Then get me a rain poncho! It’s close enough!
[Scene: The coffee shop. Groucho and Estelle are now sharing a slice of pie and laughing loudly. Frank bursts in, wearing a bright yellow rain poncho and a pair of oversized sunglasses, holding a large rolled-up newspaper like a weapon. Everyone in the café stares.]
Frank: (yelling) Alright, Groucho! Your reign of terror ends here!
Groucho: (calmly taking a bite of pie) Reign of terror? Frank, I’m just trying to finish my dessert. Or do you consider cherry pie an act of war?
Estelle: Frank, what are you doing? You’re embarrassing yourself!
Frank: Embarrassing myself?! You’re the one cavorting with this… this mustachioed menace!
Groucho: Mustachioed menace? I like that. Mind if I put it on my business card?
Frank: (waving the newspaper) Enough of your jokes! I’m here to take you down!
Groucho: Take me down? Frank, this isn’t a boxing ring. Though judging by that poncho, you’ve already thrown in the towel.
Frank: You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, let’s see how clever you are when you’re covered in… (he dramatically unfurls the newspaper, revealing… a cream pie.)
Estelle: Frank, no!
Groucho: (leaning back casually) Ah, a pie. The weapon of choice for intellectuals everywhere.
Frank: Say goodbye to your smug little face, Marx!
[Frank lunges forward, but trips over his own feet. The pie goes flying into the air and lands squarely on George, who has just walked in, clutching a to-go cup.]
George: WHY?! Why is it always me?!
Estelle: Oh, Frank! You’ve ruined George’s day again!
Frank: He’ll survive! I’m going after Groucho!
Groucho: (standing up and wiping his hands) Frank, my good man, as much as I enjoy watching your family implode, I must take my leave. The universe can only handle so much Costanza chaos in one day.
Frank: Don’t you dare walk out on me, Marx!
Groucho: (grabbing his hat) Walk? Frank, I’m not walking—I’m escaping. And if you’re smart, you’ll escape too. From yourself.
[Groucho tips his hat to Estelle and makes his exit, leaving Frank fuming, George covered in pie, and Estelle shaking her head in defeat.]
[Later, back at the Costanza home. Frank is sitting in his recliner, sulking. Estelle is standing over him, arms crossed.]
Estelle: Was it worth it, Frank?
Frank: No. I got cream pie all over my shoes. These are my good shoes!
Estelle: Maybe next time, think before you charge into a coffee shop with a rain poncho and a grudge.
George: (walking by, still cleaning pie out of his hair) Next time? Oh, no. There won’t be a next time. I’m moving. I don’t know where, but somewhere far, far away.
[Cut to Groucho strolling down the street, humming to himself.]
Groucho: Another day, another Costanza. They’re exhausting, but I’ll say one thing for them—they’re never boring.
[Scene: Frank’s living room, the next morning. Frank is pacing in his pyjamas, holding a notepad filled with barely legible scribbles. Estelle is in the kitchen, buttering toast. George is slumped at the dining table, barely awake.]
Frank: Alright, listen up! I’ve got a new plan, and this time, it’s foolproof!
George: (groaning) Your last foolproof plan ended with me wearing a pie.
Frank: You deserved that pie, George! This plan is different. I’m going to hit Groucho where it hurts—the stage!
Estelle: (yelling from the kitchen) What are you talking about, Frank? You don’t have a stage!
Frank: I’m not using my stage, Estelle! Groucho is performing at a comedy club tonight. I’m going down there to publicly humiliate him!
George: You? Humiliate Groucho Marx? The man’s made a career out of insulting people. You’re bringing a squirt gun to a flamethrower fight.
Frank: Squirt gun? I’ll have you know I’m bringing the bazooka of insults! I’ve been up all night preparing zingers, comebacks, and takedowns. I’ve even got props!
George: Props? What props?
Frank: (holding up a banana and a giant novelty rubber chicken) These!
George: I don’t know what’s sadder—the fact that you think this is a good idea or the fact that I know you’re serious.
Estelle: (walking in with her toast) Frank, you’re going to embarrass yourself. Just let it go.
Frank: Let it go?! Never! Nobody gets the last word on Frank Costanza except Frank Costanza!
[Scene: The comedy club. It’s a packed house. Groucho is on stage, delighting the crowd with rapid-fire one-liners. Frank lurks in the back, clutching his props like a man on a mission.]
Groucho: I tell you, folks, my family tree is so crooked, it looks like it was drawn by Picasso. Speaking of which, I once dated a woman who said I was abstract, and I said, “That’s because I’m hard to figure out and impossible to hang up!”
[The audience laughs. Frank grits his teeth and stands up, interrupting the set.]
Frank: Alright, Marx! Your jokes are as old as your suit! Let’s see how funny you are when I take the stage!
Groucho: (smirking) Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a heckler! Either that, or someone just escaped from a banana farm.
Frank: That’s it! I challenge you to a duel—a battle of wits! Right here, right now!
Groucho: (leaning on his cane) Frank, I never duel with an unarmed opponent, but for you, I’ll make an exception. Go ahead, take your best shot.
Frank: (holding up the banana) What’s yellow, overrated, and full of hot air? YOU!
[The audience chuckles politely. Groucho raises an eyebrow.]
Groucho: Yellow, overrated, and full of hot air? Frank, you’ve just described yourself on a sunny day.
Frank: Oh yeah? Well, what do you call a man with a fake moustache, a bad attitude, and no friends? Groucho Marx!
Groucho: Frank, I have plenty of friends. They’re all in this audience. You, on the other hand, seem to have brought… a chicken?
Frank: (holding up the rubber chicken triumphantly) That’s right! And this chicken’s got more charisma than you!
[Frank tosses the chicken toward Groucho, but it misses entirely and lands on a woman’s table, knocking over her drink.]
Woman: Hey! What’s the big idea?!
Frank: Uh… sorry! That was meant for him!
Groucho: (to the woman) Madam, don’t be offended. Frank here is just practicing his audition for America’s Worst Decisions. So far, he’s a shoo-in for first place.
[The crowd roars with laughter. Frank is fuming but undeterred.]
Frank: Laugh all you want, Marx! But I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve!
[Frank pulls out a cream pie, aiming to throw it at Groucho. But as he winds up, his arm cramps, and the pie ends up flying backward, splattering all over himself.]
Groucho: (deadpan) Bravo, Frank. You’ve just given us all a front-row seat to slapstick history. Take a bow, if you can still see where the floor is.
[The audience gives Groucho a standing ovation as Frank, covered in pie, stumbles off stage, muttering under his breath.]
[Back at the Costanza house later that night. Frank walks in, dishevelled and defeated. Estelle and George are waiting in the living room.]
Estelle: Well? How did it go, Mr Big Shot?
Frank: Don’t start with me, Estelle.
George: Let me guess—pie in the face?
Frank: (glaring at George) You think you’re so smart, don’t you?
George: Compared to you? Yes.
Estelle: (shaking her head) Frank, maybe next time you’ll listen to me and stay out of trouble.
Frank: Next time? There won’t be a next time. Groucho Marx may have won the battle… but I’ll win the war!
George: (throwing his hands up) I’m moving to Alaska.
[Scene: Frank's basement, now transformed into what he proudly calls “The War Room.” It's cluttered with a chalkboard covered in nonsensical diagrams, a pile of rubber chickens, and a mannequin wearing a Groucho moustache and glasses. George and Estelle stand at the doorway, staring in disbelief.]
Frank: (gesturing dramatically at the board) Welcome to Operation: Marxist Meltdown!
George: This isn’t a war room—it’s an insane asylum! You’ve got a diagram of a banana chasing a moustache!
Frank: It’s a metaphor, George! The banana represents me—sleek, yellow, and ready to peel back Groucho’s façade. The moustache is him—a hairy cover for his mediocrity!
Estelle: You’ve officially lost your mind. What’s all this junk for?
Frank: (pointing to the pile of chickens) Phase one: humiliation. I’m sneaking into his next performance with these rubber chickens filled with whipped cream. When he starts his act, BAM! Cream-chickened!
George: That’s not a thing. Nobody gets “cream-chickened.”
Frank: Oh, it’ll be a thing! By the time I’m done, people will say, “There goes Groucho Marx—the man who was cream-chickened into retirement!”
Estelle: (crossing her arms) And phase two?
Frank: Glad you asked! Phase two involves… (pausing for effect)… the mother of all zingers!
George: Let me guess. You’ve been writing insults all night again?
Frank: (holding up a notebook) And they’re golden! Listen to this: “Groucho Marx is so outdated, even his jokes have an expiration date!” Huh? Huh?
George: That’s… awful.
Frank: What do you know, George? You wouldn’t recognise comedy if it hit you in the face with a cream chicken!
[Scene: The comedy club, two nights later. Groucho is on stage, dazzling the audience. Frank sneaks in through a side door, dragging a suspiciously large duffel bag. He sets up a small catapult loaded with rubber chickens filled with whipped cream, trying to remain inconspicuous.]
Groucho: So, the other day, someone asked me if I’d ever retire. I said, “Retire? Why, I haven’t even started working yet!”
[The audience laughs. Frank furiously scribbles a note in his notebook, muttering to himself.]
Frank: Retire, my foot. You’re about to be “retired” by the Chicken Commander!
[Frank pulls the catapult’s lever. A rubber chicken sails through the air—straight into the spotlight. Groucho catches it mid-joke, raising an eyebrow.]
Groucho: (holding up the chicken) Well, well, it seems my act is now appealing to poultry enthusiasts. I always suspected I was big on the barnyard circuit.
[The audience roars with laughter as Groucho throws the chicken back toward Frank, hitting him squarely in the forehead. The whipped cream splatters everywhere.]
Frank: (stumbling out from the shadows) That was supposed to be my moment! You’ve ruined it!
Groucho: Ruined it? My dear Frank, you’ve made my night. Who else could deliver a punchline and provide the props?
[The crowd cheers as Frank stands there, covered in cream, clutching his duffel bag in defeat. Groucho bows and exits the stage, victorious yet again.]
[Back at the Costanza house, later that night. Frank sits in his recliner, eating a bowl of ice cream, still wearing bits of whipped cream in his hair. Estelle is knitting while George watches TV.]
George: So, Dad, how did Operation… whatever it was go?
Frank: Don’t ask, George. The man’s an evil genius. He caught the chicken mid-air like he was Babe Ruth catching a fly ball!
Estelle: I told you not to go through with it. But did you listen?
Frank: (grumbling) One of these days, Estelle. One of these days, I’ll get my revenge. Until then… I’m regrouping.
George: Oh, great. I’ll call the fire department now to be on standby for whatever hare-brained scheme you cook up next.
Frank: (ignoring him, smirking to himself) Cream-chickened into retirement… It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
[Scene: Frank’s living room, one week later. Frank is once again in his “War Room” mode, but this time, the space has been upgraded with blueprints, a dartboard featuring Groucho’s face, and a megaphone. Estelle is sitting on the couch, reading a magazine, while George looks on with a mix of horror and resignation.]
Frank: Alright, the time has come. No more rubber chickens, no more pies. We’re taking this to the next level!
George: Next level? Dad, you’ve already reached a level that nobody asked for.
Frank: This isn’t just about me anymore, George! This is about principles! About justice! About making sure that Groucho Marx never gets the last laugh again!
Estelle: Oh, for heaven’s sake, Frank. You’ve been on this revenge kick for weeks. It’s exhausting!
Frank: It’s not revenge, Estelle. It’s… well, okay, maybe it’s a little revenge. But mostly, it’s about setting the record straight!
George: And how do you plan on doing that? Another chicken assault? Or maybe this time you’ll use… I don’t know, a giant inflatable banana?
Frank: (grinning) Funny you should say that.
[He pulls out a sketch of a giant inflatable banana with the words “Frank’s Comedy Comeback Tour” emblazoned on the side.]
George: (facepalming) Oh no. Please tell me this isn’t real.
Frank: It’s real, alright. I’ve rented a blimp. I’m flying it over Groucho’s next performance with a loudspeaker that’ll blast my greatest insults from above!
Estelle: A blimp? Frank, have you lost your marbles?
Frank: I haven’t lost them, Estelle—I’ve upgraded them! This is big! This is bold! This is the Costanza way!
George: The Costanza way is embarrassing yourself in public, and somehow you’re about to do it at 5,000 feet.
[Scene: A comedy club parking lot. The blimp is tethered nearby, and Frank is inside, testing the loudspeaker. Groucho is performing inside the club, completely unaware of what’s coming.]
Frank: (through the loudspeaker) Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Prepare to witness the downfall of Groucho Marx! The king of comedy is about to be dethroned!
[Inside the club, the audience hears the commotion. Groucho pauses mid-joke, raising an eyebrow.]
Groucho: What’s this? A rival comedian? Or perhaps just a passing lunatic with access to aerial vehicles?
[The audience laughs. Meanwhile, Frank continues his tirade from above.]
Frank: Hey, Groucho! Why don’t you come out here and face me like a man? Or are you too busy polishing your old, tired jokes?
Groucho: (to the audience) Well, folks, it seems the Costanza Air Force is making its debut. Let’s see if we can’t shoot it down with a well-aimed quip or two.
[Groucho walks outside, waving to the blimp.]
Groucho: Frank! I didn’t know you had a pilot’s license. Or did you just bribe a pigeon to carry you up there?
Frank: Laugh all you want, Marx! But this is the day you’ll remember as the beginning of the end!
[Frank presses a button, and the blimp’s loudspeaker starts blaring a series of pre-recorded insults. However, the volume is far too high, and the sound system short-circuits, sending smoke pouring out of the control panel.]
Frank: No! No, no, no! Not now!
[The blimp begins to wobble, spinning slightly in the air. Frank tries to regain control, but the mechanism jams. The blimp’s inflatable banana exterior starts deflating, slowly descending toward the parking lot.]
Groucho: (to the audience gathering outside) Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big hand to Frank Costanza for providing tonight’s entertainment. Who knew revenge could be so… deflating?
[The crowd erupts in laughter as the blimp lands gently in the middle of the lot. Frank climbs out, covered in soot and utterly defeated.]
[Back at the Costanza house later that evening. Frank sits in silence, nursing a glass of wine. Estelle and George are at the table, trying not to laugh.]
George: So… how’d it go, Dad? Did the blimp get the last laugh?
Frank: (sighing) Alright, fine. Maybe Groucho’s too much for me. The man’s a comedy juggernaut.
Estelle: Finally, some sense!
Frank: But don’t think this is over! I just need a new strategy.
George: (sarcastic) Maybe you can rent a submarine next time.
Frank: That’s it! A surprise attack from below! Estelle, where’s my snorkel?
Estelle and George: FRANK!
