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An American Turkey
by David Mamet
(Bill enters a room with a table and three chairs. Ronnie is
sleeping in one of the chairs, his head on the table.)
BILL: It's Thursday.
(Ronnie continues to sleep. Bill kicks the table and Ronnie wakes up.)
BILL: It's Thursday.
RONNIE: What are you, a fuckin' calendar?
BILL: Where's the cranberry sauce?
RONNIE: What cranberry sauce?
BILL: It's fuckin' Thursday! Where's the fuckin' cranberry sauce?
RONNIE: Jesus Christ, Bill, it's not even noon yet! I haven't been
to the store! Can you relax for a change?
BILL: You're the only idiot in this whole fuckin' town that hasn't
been to the store yet. We'll be lucky if the store has cranberry
sauce left on the shelves. Shit, we'll be lucky if they still have
shelves. You know how important this is to me! For all I know, you
don't even really have a bird!
(Ronnie gets up and grabs one of the chairs, throwing it at Bill and
narrowly missing.)
RONNIE: Here's your fuckin' bird!
BILL: (laughing) Who the hell are you, Burt Young?
RONNIE: Who the fuck is Burt Young?
BILL: At least Paulie had the sense to go to the store on Thanksgiving.
(Bill picks up the chair, snaps a leg off of it, and throws the rest
back at Ronnie.)
BILL: Here's your fuckin' bird, Adrian!
(Bill munches on the chair leg exaggeratedly.)
RONNIE: You're fuckin' possessed, you know that?
BILL: Ronnie, go to the fuckin' STORE!
(RONNIE: exits. Bill throws the leg down.)
BILL: I've always been a breast man, anyway.
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(Thanks to Jeffrey Anbinder)
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