I’ve got a ridiculous notion for a grand inside joke turned into musical theater.

Imagine, if you dare…

A man in soiled restuarant clothes, wearing a red bandana on his head, stands in front of a monstrous mound of dishes heaped over an industrial sink. He is beaten, desolate.

The stage is dark and quiet except for a harsh light directly above the sink.

Slowly the music builds while the man pokes at the dishes, maybe some fall to the ground, he can’t believe what he’s seeing. The music is quiet, sullen, gentle.

“Dishes. Always dishes,” he speaks. And with that he starts to clean them. Reluctant and slow.

He begins to sing…

“Washing the dishes
Why should I care
Day after day
Wet underwear…”

Building his speed with the music that becomes frenetic and angry as it moves, perhaps the orchestral sound morphs into hard driving guitars, pounding rythms, perhaps the sounds of banging pots and clanging dishes incorporated into the mix.

[For staging it might be cool to have people take the clean dishes and move them to the dirty pile. A continuous sysiphian loop.]

“Someone has to do these dishes
Someone has to clean these dishes
Someone has to do these dishes
Someone has to clean these dishes”

The dishes clang, water sprays, the music is incorporates the banging, the anger and despair the man feels is inherent in the sound.

“Washing these dishes and washing these dishes………..”

[more words happen here…I don’t have them yet…sorry]

Water splashes high in the air, the pile of dishes barely touched, the music speeding and angry.

Suddenly the music is slow and quiet again. He stands at the neverending pile of dishes calm and resigned. He sings slow and sweet.

“Someone has to clean these dishes
Why does that someone have to be me?!”

The lights go black. Nothing. No sound. It stays that way until everyone is uncomfortable, is it over?, is there something wrong?

A spotlight comes on focused on a man’s crotchal area. It’s wet in a perfect V shape from the water running down his front while he was doing the dishes.

“I’m wet right here.” He moves is arms to point out that his crotch is wet. “I’m wet right HERE!”

The lights come on full and the stage is filled with kitchen workers who all have wet crotches and they’re all pointing that out while they sing, that classic showtune, “I’m wet right here.”

More stuff happens although I’m not quite sure yet. Maybe some women in Las Vegas style head dresses. Maybe an elephant or a few dogs that jump through fiery hoops.

This is what I do at work when I’m pretending to care about making food for fat healthcare workers who couldn’t care less about the shit they eat. You would think health care workers would know better.