GARY: This house is haunted by a ghost. A horrible, hair-raising apparition floats aimlessly through each room, useless and unwanted. It is the ghost of a woman who used to live here.

HELEN: I’m still here—

GARY: She is long gone. Age caught up with her. She was ravaged by the cruel and callous hands of time. She disappeared from the physical world because she was no longer beautiful or useful, because she wasn’t any good at computers, and her breasts had shriveled like dehydrated mango snacks. Vanished, the only traces of her in real world are wafts of Bengay and Werther’s Originals. Now she haunts the bones of this dark place. I can hear the creak of her old decrepit form and very low bone density. A ghoul. A hag. Time-worn. Old. Elderly. Ancient.

HELEN: I’m 40, for fuck’s sake.

Living Room

GARY: The ghost is nearby. I feel her. She is standing motionless, watching, though probably not very well with her decrepit eyeballs, cataracts, and those shitty grandma glasses. I’m sure she was once very striking, young, and virile with breasts like ripe cantaloupes. Breasts with the gravitational pull of great gleaming moons—

EMMA: Gary—

GARY: Breasts like naughty sister Death Stars before Luke fired proton torpedoes from his X-Wing fighter into their vents and exploded them. Breasts that bobbed up and down like bulbous buoys to guide ships into shallow waters—

EMMA: Gary—

GARY: Breasts like twin coconuts without the hair, snuggled tightly together for maximum cleavage. Eyes. Nipples that stood to attention like slapped soldiers. Long, luscious legs that lead right up to her bountiful breasts. Breasts shaped like natural basketballs—

EMMA: Gary, you’re sitting on me.

GARY (aged 41): Listen! Do you hear that? Every now and then I hear a terrible wailing, a shrill and desperate keening. The nightmarish horror of nagging. This is my house and I must exorcise this sick and sexless old, old, old hag, and send her back to the grave or to swallowing flies or to the shoe she lives in with an abundance of children!

EMMA: It’s a communal workspace, Gary. We all pay to be here. And you’re still sitting on me.


GARY: The ghost is angry. Always so very, very angry about her pancake breasts, and losing her penny purse or printed directions from Mapquest. Angry that her ovaries have turned to dust bunnies, Swiffered into the Dustbuster of Oblivion. Angry that she’s waged a decades-long war with Windows ’98. So angry, and so very, very frail…

SALLY: Fuck you, Gary! I’m only 35!

GARY: Oh, I’m sorry, Sally! You’re so huge I didn’t see you! Twins or triplets?

SALLY: I’m not pregnant.


GARY: My God. Did you see that? Those candles just lit themselves! The ghost is back, the Shriveled She Devil, the Bunioned Banshee, the Dentured Demon in Depends, the Wrinkles In Time, the Bad Osteoporotic Omen!

REBECCA: We’re celebrating my birthday, Gary, I’m turning 43.

GARY: Here! Watch me slap this cake off the table! There! Begone, old crone! Take your silver stacked bob and your nipple-high pants with you!

[In lieu of burning sage, Gary squirts Poligrip around the room]

REBECCA: We’re kicking you out of the communal workspace, Gary.

GARY: Shhhh! Do you hear that? The naggy boo hag is at it again — hysterical! Emotional! Haunted by old hormones! Beware! Beware the hot flash that strikes from the other side!

Gary’s Mom’s Basement

GARY: Mom! Can you make me some Eggos?

[GARY’S MOM (an actual ghost) floats over to the toaster. Lights flicker violently. A music box randomly starts playing an especially creepy version of “Ring Around The Rosie.” A box of Eggos flies out of the cupboard and sets on fire. ]

GARY’S MOM: Have you met any nice ladies your age yet? I won’t rest until you do!