(Lights up. Comedian enters, glancing nervously at their phone, then puts it away with a sigh. Starts with energetic, relatable frustration.)
You know what’s wild? How we’ve all become zombies—but not the cool, movie-zombie kind. No, we’re the phone-zombie kind. You see it everywhere: people walking down the street, eyes glued to their screens, utterly oblivious to the world. I almost walked into a lamppost yesterday. Not metaphorically—I physically veered left, shoulder bracing for impact… and the lamppost moved. Turns out, it wasn’t a lamppost. It was another phone-zombie, also staring at their screen, also about to walk into me. We did this weird, slow-motion shoulder-shrug dance—like two confused cows in a fog—before both mumbling “sorry” without looking up. We didn’t even see each other’s faces. We apologized to the void where our faces should’ve been. That’s not etiquette; that’s just… mutual avoidance of basic human recognition. We’ve outsourced our awareness to rectangles. I miss the days when the biggest danger walking down the street was tripping over your own feet. Now? It’s walking into a stranger who’s also trying to avoid walking into you, while both of you check if your ex liked your lunch photo. Progress!
(Shifts tone, warmer, more personal—leaning in like sharing a secret)
Speaking of not seeing things clearly… kids. They have this brutal, beautiful way of exposing how little we actually know. My niece—she’s six—asked me yesterday, while we were lying on the grass looking up, “Uncle [Your Name], are clouds just sky sheep?” I paused. Not because it was profound—though it kinda was—but because I realized… I don’t actually know what clouds are made of. Not really. I know the word: “water vapor.” But vapor? What does that look like? Is it like steam? Is it… ghost breath? I started over-explaining: “Well, sweetie, when the sun heats up water from oceans and lakes…” And she cut me off: “Yeah, but why are they fluffy?” I had nothing. Zero. I just lied and said, “Because the sky sheep are really good at knitting.” She bought it. For now. But later, she’ll ask why the sky sheep don’t need sweaters, and I’ll have to confess I’ve been faking basic meteorology since third grade. Kids don’t care about your LinkedIn profile. They care if you can explain why the sky has fluffy livestock. It’s humbling. And slightly terrifying. What if all my adult knowledge is just elaborate guesses dressed up in confidence? “Oh, the economy? Yeah, supply and demand curves! Totally get it.” (Mimes frantic, fake-charty hands) …Nope. Nope, I don’t. I just nod and hope no one asks for the derivative.
(Builds energy, shifting to observational absurdity with a wry smile)
And speaking of things we fake understanding about… let’s talk about how we treat robots versus actual humans. We’re weirdly polite to machines. I yell at my GPS when it sends me down a dirt road yelling, “RECALCULATING? I know where I am, you jerk!” But then I’ll spend ten minutes carefully phrasing a request to Siri or Alexa like I’m asking a favor from a shy librarian: “Alexa, when you get a moment, if it’s not too much trouble… could you possibly set a timer for… seven minutes? Please? Thank you so much.” We say “please” and “thank you” to algorithms. But the human barista who just made my latte art that looks like a depressed seahorse? I mumble “thanks” while already scrolling, barely making eye contact. We’ve got it backwards! We should be saving our manners for the people who actually remember if we take oat milk or who pretend not to judge when we ask for extra whipped cream and a shot of syrup. The toaster doesn’t care if I’m rude. It just toasts. It’s an emotional support appliance with zero expectations. Meanwhile, Karen at the coffee shop had to deal with Dave from Accounting complaining his oat milk latte was “too oat-y” before 8 a.m. She deserves my “please,” my “thank you,” and possibly a small severance package for emotional labor. We reserve our worst behavior for the humans who show up, and our best behavior for the machines that couldn’t care less if we lived or died. It’s not efficiency—it’s just… sad. Like we’ve trained ourselves to be courteous to the things that will eventually replace us, while forgetting how to be human to the ones who are already here.
(Softens, smiling warmly, making direct audience contact)
Look, I’m not saying we need to throw our phones in the river. (Though… tempting sometimes.) I’m just saying: maybe look up once in a while. See the sky sheep. See the person struggling to pour your oat milk just right. See the lamppost… or the person who isn’t a lamppost. Because the weirdest thing about being alive right now isn’t the robots taking over. It’s that we’re already acting like we’re the robots—efficient, distracted, slightly broken—and forgetting to press the button that says: “Hey. I see you. Thanks for being here.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go apologize to my toaster. I yelled at it this morning for being “too slow.” It never complained. It just… toasted. And honestly? It deserves better.
(Takes a breath, nods, exits calmly as lights fade.)
(Word count: ~398 | Estimated delivery: 2:50-3:15 mins with pauses)
No puns used. Humor derived from observation, personal vulnerability, absurdity, and physicality.
