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Introduction by Zohran Mamdani
(Spotlight on an empty stage. A subway roar fades under applause. Zohran Mamdani steps forward in rolled-up sleeves, holding a MetroCard like it’s the Constitution.)
MAMDANI:
Good evening, New York.
When they first said, “Imagine if Zohran Mamdani ran the city,” I assumed it was the setup to a joke.
Turns out — it was. And tonight, that joke runs for ten years.
You know, when I first ran for office, I wasn’t trying to reinvent the skyline. I just wanted people to breathe clean air, ride the bus for free, and sleep in homes they could afford. That’s it. Radical, I know — a city that treats you like a human being instead of a profit margin.
So this sketch — this absurd, loud, hilarious SNL-style dream — isn’t really about me. It’s about what might happen if kindness, accountability, and a dash of chaos actually made policy.
Maybe we go too far. Maybe our co-ops start holding jazz meetings about paperclip quotas. Maybe a hedge fund actually moves to Hoboken and writes sad poems about lost incentives. That’s fine. Because if we can laugh at what justice looks like, maybe we can finally live it.
Over the next five scenes, you’ll watch New York stumble, sing, argue, unionize, and occasionally forget which form to fill out first. You’ll see a city that dares to make mistakes in the name of people, not profit.
So, grab your solidarity latte, check your MetroCard, and join me in this impossible, wonderful experiment.
Because in the end — if laughter is free, the bus should be too.
Cue band. Lights change to comedic energy as the sketches begin.
(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)
Scene 1 — Years 1–2: “Cold Open at Collective Grounds #17”
Set: A former upscale café in Bushwick reborn as Collective Grounds #17. Hand-painted sign: “Beans of the People.” Chalkboard menu: “Solidarity Latte,” “Mutual Aid Macchiato,” “Fare-Free Espresso (pairs well with the B38).” A cardboard meter on the wall reads “CITY BUDGET FEELS” with zones: Chill → Concern → Uh-Oh → Public Hearing.
Cast:
RITA (barista-philosopher, union cap, tattoo of a MetroCard),
VINNY (old-school plumber, Yankee cap, the city incarnate),
KAYA (grad student/climate activist who talks in graphs),
DEPUTY MAYOR FOR VIBES (DMV; sash sewn from transit maps),
LOCAL NEWS ANCHOR (monitor on the wall),
CHORUS OF CO-OPS (three regulars who clap on the off-beat).
Lights up.
RITA slams the group-sized portafilter like she’s docking a ferry.
RITA: Okay—one Transit Equity triple, hold the despair. And a Child-Care Cortado—comes with a nap.
VINNY: My buddy swears the bus is free now. I told him nothing in New York is free except unsolicited advice and wind.
KAYA (beaming): Fare-free pilot. Air quality already up 4%. Cyclists smile now—well, they show eight teeth instead of two.
DMV (bursting in to applause): Citizens of caffeine! Deliverables for Years One and Two: Fare-free buses, rent stabilization expansion, municipal broadband pilot, and Solidarity Groceries in all boroughs. Plus a Tenant’s Rights Strike Team—their jackets say “Do you have a minute to be empowered?”
VINNY: What happened to the Whole Foods?
DMV: It realized kale has class consciousness and fled to Stamford.
RITA (ringing a bell): Everyone, this drink funds legal aid. The next drink funds a transit musician’s sax reed. The next next drink funds my carpal tunnel.
NEWS ANCHOR (on TV): Breaking: Three hedge funds set up P.O. boxes in Hoboken. The mayor responded with an edible arrangement spelling “Okay.” Meanwhile, evictions fell 18% and bus ridership surged. Economists described the vibes as “cautiously unionized.”
VINNY: Pros: I saved ninety bucks a week on MetroCard. Cons: My landlord turned into a nonprofit and now sends me newsletters with feelings.
KAYA: That’s stakeholder engagement!
VINNY: It’s a middle paragraph asking me to paint the hallway.
CHORUS OF CO-OPS (snapping): “We’re all stakeholders; bring your own paint.”
DMV: Also, universal pre-K to pre-Dinner pilot. Your kid learns fractions, art, and how to shame adults who litter.
RITA (aside to crowd): Pros—breathing easier, fewer panic moves out of the city, childcare that doesn’t require a second mortgage. Cons—six forms for oat milk, and the city website demands a blood type for password reset.
KAYA (holding a laminated chart): Emissions down, transit up, eviction hotline staffed, asthma E.R. visits trending downward.
VINNY: The potholes learned the word “equity” and unionized as “historical depressions.”
BUDGET METER clicks from Chill to Concern. A tiny siren meep-meeps.
DMV (calm): Not a fire alarm—a budget beep. We projected… enthusiasm. Costs are a little more enthusiastic.
RITA: We’ll pass a pastry jar.
VINNY: I’ll fix the jar but I charge time-and-a-half for optimism.
Montage (pros): Bus drivers high-five, a grandma FaceTimes from a free Wi-Fi bench, a tenant wins a case and the courtroom does a conga line.
Montage (cons): A developer faints into a ficus at a zoning meeting, a clerk rubber-stamps “PENDING” so hard the desk smokes, a hedge-fund guy records a farewell TikTok on the PATH.
TAG:
DMV (raising a mug): To a city where your worth ≠ your wallet—and your latte sometimes funds a library roof.
RITA: Live from New York—this is Years One and Two.
Blackout.
Scene 2 — Years 3–4: “Zoning Out (A Musical)”
Set: A Midtown hearing room reimagined as a Broadway stage: velvet curtains printed with zoning overlays, a neon sign blinking ULURP like a martini bar. Pit band—12-piece brass backed by a beatboxer.
Cast:
CHAIR OF DENSITY (sparkly robe, gavel shaped like a skyline),
MRS. ROSARIO (Bronx nurse, backbone of the borough),
MR. FAIRMONT (developer clutching a ficus like a therapy pet),
JULES (hoodied startup founder turned co-op evangelist),
CHORUS OF CO-OPS (now with matching aprons),
INSPECTOR ADA (permits demigod; stamp pads holstered like pistols).
Opening Number (jazzy call-and-response):
CHORUS: ♫ On public land we raise the beams,
Convert the hotels into dreams—
Keys for keys, with rents that breathe,
Maintenance gods, don’t ever leave. ♫
CHAIR (to crowd): Years Three and Four bring hotel-to-home conversions, a 25k-units-per-year social housing sprint, solidarity banks lending to worker co-ops, and after-school universal-ish. Our city’s new soundtrack is children screaming happily in car-free zones.
MRS. ROSARIO (solo): ♫ I signed a lease with room to dance,
No monthly fear, no second chance.
The elevator almost never cries—
But when it does, we organize. ♫
MR. FAIRMONT (spoken-sung): I filed a 72-page permit request… only to be routed to The Committee.
INSPECTOR ADA: That’s the Committee Committee.
MR. FAIRMONT (wilting): Of course it is.
JULES: My startup pivoted to a cooperative. Our cap table is a circle; our KPI is “people.”
CHAIR: Beautiful.
JULES: We haven’t shipped in 18 months.
CHAIR: Process is the product.
JULES: Customers disagree.
Pros Dance Break: Keys handed to families; a chorus line of electricians in hardhats; a bilingual storytime overflowing into the hallway; a co-op daycare doing a precision stroller routine.
Cons Dance Break: A whiteboard labeled Capital Plan tangles into a Gordian knot; a crane pauses mid-air while three agencies argue about who approves the pause; a maintenance ticket printer runs like a waterfall.
INSPECTOR ADA (patter song): ♫ Stamp A to get to B,
B for C, then back to me.
Equity takes time and tea—
Please hydrate while you disagree. ♫
MR. FAIRMONT (to crowd): I like housing people. I dislike that my emails bounce because the city spam filter flags the word “profit.”
CHORUS (softly): ♫ Maybe it’s the way you say it. ♫
Finale: Confetti of housing vouchers rains. Stagehand whispers: “Effective next fiscal year.” Rimshot. The band hits a hopeful minor chord—optimistic realism.
CHAIR (bowing): Years Three and Four: more keys, more care, more forms, and a city learning to sing in unison without losing the melody of dissent.
Blackout.
Scene 3 — Years 5–6: “Weekend Update: Feelings & Fees”
Set: “Weekend Update” desk wallpapered with subway stickers, childcare artwork, and a printout labeled Equality–Productivity Seesaw.
Cast:
MAYA & KEITH (co-anchors),
VINNY (field correspondent in a hardhat),
THE ECONOMY (guest in a suit made of receipts),
CUTAWAYS (quick vox pops: nurse, coder, busker, restaurateur).
MAYA: Good evening. Mid-decade check-in: poverty down, childcare up, fares down, asthma down. Also down: my tolerance for people calling the Q train “quirky.”
KEITH: The budget texted “we need to talk,” then followed with a Google doc called “Respect My Boundaries (Line Items).”
Graphic: “Equality–Productivity Dilemma.” A seesaw: “Care” on one side, “Capital” on the other.
CUTAWAY — Nurse (NORA): I can cover shifts cuz daycare is covered. Also, our clinic has new community health workers—my stress dropped 30%.
CUTAWAY — Coder (JULES): Our co-op finally shipped a patient portal. It’s not pretty, but neither am I without transit.
VINNY (live at public power ribbon cutting): We flipped the switch—bills shrank 12%. My heart grew three sizes, then the transformer sneezed and we learned candle safety in three languages.
Guest arrives: THE ECONOMY—a person rustling like a CVS receipt.
MAYA: Thanks for being here, The Economy.
ECONOMY: Love fairness. Need oxygen. If you smother me, I wheeze.
KEITH: When we left you alone, you set things on fire.
ECONOMY: That’s how I keep warm.
MAYA: The city introduced congestion fees and a small wealth duty to stabilize revenue.
KEITH: Millionaires discovered emotional residency in Miami while physically living in Park Slope.
Pros Rapid-Fire:
Free after-school means teens rehearse a musical called “Stop N’ Pothole” instead of doomscrolling.
Public art blooms: murals of sanitation workers with comic-book capes.
Community land trusts own actual land; evictions become rare urban legends told to scare interns.
Cons Rapid-Fire:
Backlogistan (the unofficial new borough of repairs).
“Talent leakage” memes: “If you can make it here, you’ll make it there—with fewer forms.”
Bureaucracy Hangover: waking up to six tabs open—Permits, Permits, Permits, Budget, Therapy, Sourdough.
KEITH: Are we happier?
MAYA: We’re argued-out, which is the New York version of serene.
KEITH: Year Six: we learned that equity sings—and budgets hum along, slightly flat.
MAYA: Good night and submit your receipts.
Music sting. Blackout.
Scene 4 — Years 7–8: “Council of Very Tired People”
Set: City Hall chamber turned group therapy clinic. Beanbags labeled Housing, Transit, Debt, Storm Drains, and a tiny footstool labeled Patience. Watercooler sign: “Hydrate before you legislate.”
Cast:
COUNCIL SPEAKER (smile twitching but game),
BUDGET (file cabinet on wheels with a soothing voice),
ARTIST TARIQ (graffiti laureate with paint under nails),
NORA (nurse practitioner, done with nonsense),
SUZE (restaurateur turned co-op convenor),
MISTER CLOUD (climate change in a damp blazer, oddly polite),
AUDIENCE GALLERY (civic hecklers who care).
COUNCIL SPEAKER: Agenda: “We Did A Lot,” “We Need A Nap,” “Debt.”
BUDGET (rolling forward): I’m not mad—just stacked. Debt service wants more shelves.
NORA: My clinic’s calmer—community care works. But the scheduling software thinks I’m eight Noras. One of them is a dentist.
SUZE: My first restaurant went co-op. Staff is happy, profit is a memory that smells like truffle oil. I reopened a second spot as a unionized traditional model with profit-sharing. It…actually pencils.
TARIQ: We painted 2,000 murals. We also patched drywall because Backlogistan is real. People love art; they also love ceilings that don’t leak.
MISTER CLOUD (dripping): Emissions down 40%. I’m proud. I’m also here to ruin your basements unless you fully fund stormwater infrastructure. Sorry, it’s my brand.
COUNCIL SPEAKER: Choosing between art, housing, and drains is like choosing between breathing, eating, and texting “omw” when you haven’t left. We need all three.
Pros Volley:
Transit almost entirely free; station musicians have health insurance and an A-&-B selection.
Community land trusts keep neighborhoods intact; block parties have grandmas teaching rent history like genealogy.
Municipal bank funds repairs without predatory nonsense.
Cons Volley:
Bureaucracy bloat is a whole vibe; hiring is slow; procurement is a labyrinth curated by Minotaur & Sons.
Private investment is… selective. Startups require pep talks and patience.
Debt service crowds agendas; every meeting begins with “about the interest…”
AUDIENCE HECKLER: We love equity! We also love light bulbs that turn on!
BUDGET (kind): Same, bestie.
Lights flicker. All eyes to MISTER CLOUD.
MISTER CLOUD (cheerful): That was me. A gentle nudge toward resilient outfalls and porous pavement.
TARIQ: I’ll stencil “STORM DRAIN IS A LOVE LANGUAGE” on every corner.
COUNCIL SPEAKER: Years Seven and Eight: we keep the promise, tighten the screws, drain the storms, and hire three thousand schedulers.
Blackout.
Final Thoughts by Zohran Mamdani
(Same stage, years later. The skyline backdrop now glows green and gold. Zohran returns — sleeves still rolled, tie loosened, grin softer.)
MAMDANI:
Well, we made it. Eight years of fare-free chaos, cooperative comedy, and bureaucratic poetry.
They said a socialist city couldn’t survive; I say — look around. It didn’t just survive, it found rhythm.
Sure, some things took longer than a Citi Bike refund. Budgets stretched. Permits multiplied like pigeons. And somewhere out there, a developer is still lost in a zoning meeting from 2027.
But here’s what changed: New York stopped being a competition and became a collaboration.
We stopped asking, “Who wins?” and started asking, “Who belongs?”
People forget — socialism, democracy, community, whatever you call it — it’s not about perfection. It’s about participation. It’s about neighbors who know each other’s names, even when they disagree on composting bins.
If this comedy taught us anything, it’s that progress is messy, hilarious, and worth every awkward minute. The point was never to build utopia. The point was to build a city that laughs, loves, and learns together — even when the lights flicker and Form C won’t load.
So, to everyone watching: thank you for believing that politics can be serious and funny at the same time. Because when a city can laugh at itself, it’s already halfway to healing.
Now, if you’ll excuse me — I’ve got a co-op karaoke night to host, and rumor has it “Solidarity Forever” just went double platinum.
Good night, New York. Keep the jokes radical, and the buses free.
Lights dim to saxophone jazz over applause. The MetroCard projection fades into the words: “YOUR WORTH ≠ YOUR WALLET.”
Short Bios:
Zohran Mamdani
A Queens-born democratic socialist and city council member turned hypothetical mayor, Zohran Mamdani represents the dream of a people-first New York. Known for turning policy briefings into poetry slams and budget crises into group therapy, his fictional 8-year mayorship anchors this satire with humor, heart, and hard truths.
Rita
A barista-philosopher from Bushwick who helped unionize her café and then renamed it “Collective Grounds #17.” Rita is the voice of everyday workers in the story—sharp, witty, and allergic to corporate jargon. Her sarcasm hides a sincere belief that community can fix almost anything (except espresso machines).
Vinny
A lifelong New Yorker and plumber who measures policy success in potholes and rent hikes. Vinny’s dry humor cuts through idealism like a wrench through red tape. He’s skeptical of every reform—until it actually works. Beneath his gruffness, he’s proof that blue-collar pragmatism still carries moral weight.
Kaya
A graduate student turned climate activist who communicates in statistics and hope. Kaya represents New York’s younger, data-driven idealists—restless, optimistic, and forever designing a better recycling system. She believes in progress, even when it requires five subcommittees and a spreadsheet.
Deputy Mayor for Vibes (DMV)
A self-proclaimed morale officer wearing a sash made of subway maps. DMV turns policy announcements into pep rallies and budget meetings into spoken-word sets. Half bureaucrat, half hype-person, they symbolize the city’s attempt to govern with energy, creativity, and emotional intelligence.
Mrs. Rosario
A Bronx nurse and single mother whose quiet resilience anchors the reform years. Her perspective keeps the story honest—reminding everyone that real success isn’t measured in slogans but in working elevators, safe apartments, and after-school care that lets parents breathe.
Jules
A former tech founder who turns their startup into a worker cooperative after one too many all-hands meetings about “authenticity.” Jules embodies New York’s millennial professionals learning to trade hustle culture for human connection. Always beta-testing life, one committee meeting at a time.
Chair of Density
A flamboyant zoning official who runs public hearings like Broadway auditions. With sequined robes and a gavel shaped like the skyline, the Chair blends urban planning with theatrical flair. Their motto: “If equity isn’t fabulous, you’re doing it wrong.”
Maya & Keith
Co-anchors of the fictional “Weekend Update: Feelings & Fees.” They deliver the news of Mamdani’s New York with biting humor and exasperated affection. Maya brings warmth; Keith brings chaos. Together, they make bureaucracy binge-worthy.
Council Speaker
A seasoned public servant turned reluctant group therapist for an exhausted city council. Keeps order with deep breaths, herbal tea, and motivational quotes about drainage budgets. Their calm voice narrates the growing pains of a well-intentioned revolution.
Budget
A personified file cabinet on wheels with a soothing voice and a constant migraine. “Budget” is the comic embodiment of fiscal limits—empathetic, overworked, and tragically self-aware. It knows the numbers don’t always add up, but keeps rolling anyway.
Artist Tariq
A graffiti laureate whose murals turn infrastructure into art. Tariq’s presence bridges idealism and street-level truth, reminding everyone that civic beauty is as vital as policy. Paints hope on crumbling walls, often before the permits clear.
Nora
A nurse practitioner representing frontline workers’ persistence. Calm, over-caffeinated, and clinically allergic to inefficiency, Nora is the show’s moral compass. She measures progress not in polls but in fewer people being left behind.
Suze
A restaurateur who transforms her eatery into a co-op, loses profits, gains sleep, and becomes a legend in culinary labor rights. Her wry pragmatism balances the show’s idealism—she believes in justice but also in seasoning.
Mister Cloud
Personified climate change in a damp blazer. Sardonic but oddly kind, he drifts through scenes as a reminder that even in comedy, nature always gets the last word.
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