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Robin:
Ahhh, souls! Welcome! Welcome to the Pre-Birth Planning Room — the only place where you voluntarily sign up for acne, heartbreak, and taxes in exchange for “character development.”
You’ve just arrived from eternity, and before we ship you off to Earth — where nobody reads the manual — we thought you deserved a behind-the-scenes look at how this whole glorious mess gets decided.
Yes, my shimmering cherubs…
You actually chose your parents.
You requested that heartbreak.
You even circled Toledo on the reincarnation map and said:
“Yeah. That’s where I’ll awaken.”
And the guides — oh, the guides — they just smiled and said:
“Are you sure?”
And you said,
“I’ll be fine. I’ve read Eckhart Tolle.”
Tonight, we lift the veil.
We peek behind the clouds.
We sit in the sacred room where angels argue, scrolls fly, and one poor soul keeps trying to cancel her incarnation like it’s a bad hotel booking.
So grab your memory-wipe smoothie.
Loosen your cosmic waistband.
And remember:
If it gets too real...
It’s probably exactly what you ordered.
(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)
Act 1: “The Pre-Birth Lobby”
Scene One: Check-In Counter of Destiny
Setting:
A luminous, half-bureaucratic, half-heavenly waiting room. Think DMV meets Mount Olympus. Floating number tickets hover. A glowing neon sign reads:
“WELCOME, INCARNATING SOULS – TAKE A NUMBER. NO REFUNDS.”
Soft harp elevator music plays… badly.
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as "The Soul" – just arrived, a bit dazed, dressed in a shimmering robe over cosmic pajamas.
Gilda Radner as “Soul Contract Clerk” – bubbly but disorganized, shuffling stacks of glowing scrolls, accidentally filing things under “Oops.”
Robin Williams as “Chief Planning Guide” – zipping in and out of view, doing impressions of Buddha, Elvis, and Einstein simultaneously.
George Carlin as “Karmic Compliance Officer” – lounging at a cluttered desk with a ‘Don’t Ask, Just Regret’ mug.
Scene Opens
(Lucille stumbles in, carrying a glittery suitcase labeled “ME”)
Lucille (The Soul):
(excited, looking around)
Oooooh, this must be the spa. I knew dying young last time would get me the VIP suite!
Gilda Radner (clerk):
(beaming)
Welcome back! Name?
Lucille:
(incredulous)
You don’t remember me?! I was the guy in 1723 who tried to hug a volcano! That has to be on file.
Gilda:
(checks scrolls, frowns)
Hmm… “Hugged a volcano”… oh yeah! You were also the jazz singer who couldn’t sing, and the monk who broke his vow by yelling at a squirrel.
Lucille:
(defensively)
The squirrel started it.
Robin Williams zips in wearing wings, a clipboard, and somehow a referee whistle.
Robin (Guide):
(in rapid-fire voices)
Ahhh, our little cosmic daredevil is back! Ready to jump back into Earth? Spin the reincarnation wheel? We’ve got openings in influencer culture, minor royalty, and… oof… insurance sales in Akron.
Lucille:
(freezes)
Wait—what happened to “a poet in Tuscany with a perfectly healed inner child”?
George Carlin (Compliance Officer):
(leans over from behind the desk)
Denied. They already filled that slot with a golden retriever.
Gilda hands Lucille a floating clipboard labeled “Soul Contract — SIGN IN BLOOD (metaphorically... we think).”
Lucille:
(reading)
“Lifelong themes: Abandonment, taxes, chronic lower back tension, and spiritual enlightenment by age 62.”
(frantically flipping pages)
Where’s the section on cake?
Gilda:
(cheerfully)
Oh, cake was replaced with “emotional growth.”
Lucille:
(groans)
I hate when they do that.
Robin blows his whistle. The scene dims, spotlight on Lucille.
Robin:
(softly, now sincere)
Look, Lucy. You know how this goes. You pick the pain. You pick the people. You even pick the awkward puberty timeline.
Lucille:
(sighs)
Can I at least skip middle school?
George:
(sternly)
That’s karmically non-negotiable. No soul escapes seventh-grade gym class.
Suddenly, alarms blare. A neon sign flashes: “REINCARNATION DEPARTURE IN 10 MINUTES.”
Gilda:
(cheerfully panicked)
Oh! You’re almost late! Pick your parents, pick your childhood trauma, and grab your “Forget Everything” smoothie on the way out!
Lucille:
(horrified)
Smoothie?!
Robin:
(grinning)
Memory-erasing mango-pineapple. Limited regrets, maximum mystery. Delicious with a side of self-discovery.
Lucille backs toward the giant glowing tunnel labeled EARTH ENTRY PORTAL, suitcase clutched. She freezes.
Lucille:
(nervous)
Wait… can I… change my mind?
George:
(smiling for once)
Sure.
Robin:
(chiming in)
But then you’ll remember everything… and what’s the fun in that?
Lights dim as Lucille sighs, steps toward the portal, then turns dramatically and shouts:
Lucille:
I swear, if I end up in Ohio again, I’m staging a cosmic lawsuit!
(Blackout. End Scene.)
Scene Two: Life Preview Theater – 7 Possible Lives, One Disappointment
Setting:
A grand celestial movie theater. Golden velvet seats float mid-air. A giant silver screen hovers in front, glowing with potential timelines. The lobby outside is labeled:
“MULTIVERSE PLEX – NOW PLAYING: Your Possible Lives (And Regrets)”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – wide-eyed, dramatic, always interrupting.
Robin Williams as “Chief Planning Guide” – hosting the life previews like a game show host, switching voices at random.
Joan Rivers as “Trauma Consultant” – pops in with commentary from the back row, heckling lives that aren’t dramatic enough.
George Carlin as “Karmic Compliance Officer” – seated with popcorn, judging the life options with dry sarcasm.
Charlie Chaplin as “Exit Coordinator” – silently managing the remote, hitting “pause” whenever things get awkward.
Lights Up
Lucille (The Soul) sits in a floating seat, popcorn in hand, labeled “LIFE SELECTION SCREENING.”
Lucille:
(grinning)
This is more exciting than Netflix. Please tell me I get to be a ballerina in Paris with perfect ankles.
Robin Williams (Guide):
(bursting in, game-show voice)
Welcome to “Wheel of Incarnation!” Where the lifetimes are long, the karma’s deep, and the learning never ends! Let’s spin the projection crystal!
(He slaps a glowing remote. The screen bursts to life with a booming VOICEOVER.)
LIFE OPTION #1
“Cowboy Poet With Seasonal Allergies”
Scene: A dusty desert town. Lucille sneezes dramatically into a bandana while composing a haiku.
Lucille:
(offended)
Poetry and pollen? No thanks.
LIFE OPTION #2
“Duchess of an Imaginary Country That Goes Bankrupt”
Scene: Lavish palace crumbles while Lucille waves dramatically in a tiara made of unpaid taxes.
George Carlin:
(snorts)
Looks like capitalism and monarchy failed you at once. A two-for-one karmic punch.
LIFE OPTION #3
“YouTube Star With a Spiritual Crisis at 17”
Scene: Lucille dances with crystals, then sobs while being canceled on social media.
Joan Rivers (from back row):
(shouts)
Honey, if I wanted to cry that much, I’d just scroll my ex’s Instagram.
Lucille:
(confused)
Are there… any options that don’t involve public humiliation?
Robin:
(checks clipboard)
Not really. Earth is a performance planet.
LIFE OPTION #4
“Small Town Librarian Who Solves Interdimensional Crimes”
*Scene: Lucille shushes someone while pulling out a glowing quantum scroll labeled “Do Not Open Until Enlightened.”
Lucille (on screen):
(shouting)
I told you — the Dewey Decimal System doesn’t cover portals!
Charlie Chaplin mimes applause.
Lucille (real):
(excited)
Ooooh! That one’s weird. I like weird.
Joan Rivers:
(grumbling)
Too safe. Needs a scandal. At least one betrayal and a midlife clairvoyance meltdown.
LIFE OPTION #5
“Fortune Cookie Writer With Terrible Intuition”
Scene: Lucille types, “Your destiny is...try again later.”
George Carlin:
(flat)
Accurate.
LIFE OPTION #6
“Child Prodigy Who Peaked at 12”
Scene: Lucille wins the Nobel Prize, then works at a salad bar.
Robin (singing):
“Don’t cry for me, middle school valedictorian…”
LIFE OPTION #7
“Just... Ohio. Again.”
Scene: Lucille mows a lawn in suburban silence while a baby cries in the background and the mail gets wet.
Lucille:
(horrified)
No. NO. Is this a joke?
George Carlin:
(deadpan)
Statistically, it's where most people end up. It’s karmic beige.
Robin (suddenly sincere):
Look, Lucy. You can choose safety, drama, joy, or all three. But ask yourself:
What’s the story only you can live?
Lucille stares at the screen. A faint image appears — a montage of all seven lives merging. Each one has moments of joy, despair, and wonder.
Joan Rivers (quiet for once):
(softly)
The trick is, darling… no matter which one you pick, you’re going to feel everything.
Lucille stands.
Lucille:
(sighs)
Okay. Let’s keep the librarian thing, throw in some betrayal, and no allergies.
(beat)
And for the love of all that is sacred… not Ohio.
(Charlie Chaplin nods solemnly, writes “Boulder, Colorado” on a clipboard.)
Robin (grinning):
Coming up next — “Pick Your Parents: The Divine Swipe Game.”
(Spotlight narrows on Lucille. She eyes the screen nervously. Harp elevator music returns… slightly more distorted.)
Lucille (muttering):
I better get good hair this time.
Lights fade. End Scene.
Scene Three: Council of Confusion
Setting:
A majestic, floating tribunal chamber in the clouds — part opera house, part DMV hearing room. Seven throne-like chairs arranged in a half circle. A large glowing screen hovers above the center labeled:
“LIFE BLUEPRINT PROPOSAL — Soul ID: 000LU-C1LL3”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – earnest and dramatic, now trying to fake spiritual maturity.
Robin Williams as “Chief Planning Guide” – bouncing between celestial languages and impersonating ascended masters.
Joan Rivers as “Trauma Specialist” – judging life proposals like a spiritual Simon Cowell.
George Carlin as “Karmic Compliance Officer” – sipping cosmic espresso, eye-rolling at the inefficiency of soul development.
Gilda Radner as “Soul Contract Clerk” – appearing randomly, usually late, usually panicking.
Charlie Chaplin as “Exit Coordinator” – silently drawing potential death scenes on a glowing easel.
Mel Brooks as “God” (voice only) – occasionally interrupting from a cosmic intercom with unsolicited commentary.
Lights Up
Lucille stands at the center of the Council Circle, wearing a sash labeled “Incoming Soul — Grade: Incomplete.”
Lucille:
(straightening up, overly sweet)
Thank you for having me. I’ve really grown since the last incarnation. I only ghosted two people and cried under the moonlight with intention.
Joan Rivers:
(squinting)
Let’s see... last life you bailed on your soulmate at the airport and joined a kombucha cult.
(beat)
Growth?
George Carlin spins in his chair, bored.
George:
Let’s cut the incense. You’re here to pitch a new lifetime, we’re here to poke holes in it. Let’s go.
Robin Williams (pacing)
(voice shifting from monk to therapist to cowboy)
Alright! This soul is proposing a life as:
Gender: Female
Location: Earth (again)
Core Themes: "Trust, Creativity, and Avoiding Gluten"
Joan:
(furious)
Where’s the suffering? Where’s the grit? “Avoiding gluten” is not trauma, it’s brunch.
Lucille:
(defensively)
Okay fine! Throw in some betrayal. A cheating boyfriend, or maybe a best friend who starts a podcast without me.
Charlie Chaplin flips his easel: a cartoon shows Lucille being dumped in a Whole Foods parking lot.
Robin (laughing):
Mwah! Tragic and organic.
Gilda Radner bursts in, scrolls flying everywhere.
Gilda:
Okay, okay! I accidentally switched her soul contract with a Siberian monk who requested silence and manual labor!
Lucille (panicked):
WHAT!?
George:
(chuckling)
Honestly, could be an upgrade.
The LIFE BLUEPRINT screen flickers. One section reads:
“KEY RELATIONSHIPS: Emotionally distant mother, seductive poet, unpaid internship boss.”
Lucille:
Wait, who’s the poet?
Robin:
Oh! He breaks your heart in your 20s but inspires your bestselling memoir.
Joan:
That’s the spirit! A little trauma, a book deal, and bam — Oprah cries. We’ve got a winner!
Mel Brooks (voice of God, booming):
(cheerfully sarcastic)
Oy, are we still talking? Pick a life already — I’ve got a harp recital at six.
Lucille:
(shouting upward)
You’re not helping!
Mel Brooks:
(shrugs audibly)
I’m God, not Amazon Prime. You want a perfect life, get reincarnated as a house cat.
Robin steps in front of the group, suddenly tender.
Robin:
Look, Lucille. We joke, but you know this isn’t random.
The parents, the love, the losses…
You planned this not to be punished — but to become radiant.
Lucille:
(quietly)
I just don’t want to mess it up again.
George:
(flatly)
You will.
Joan:
We all do. That’s the fun part.
The Council members slowly rise. The blueprint glows gold.
Robin (gentle):
One more choice before we seal the contract:
“Do you want to remember… or forget?”
Lucille (after a long pause):
Forget.
(beat)
But leave me hints. Synchronicities. Weird dreams.
And like… a discount on therapy?
Charlie Chaplin solemnly mimes “Maybe.”
Spotlight narrows on Lucille as the council chants (absurdly melodic):
Council (singing): “You’ll remember when you laugh…
and forget just enough to grow…
Earth is weird but worth it — go on now… enjoy the show!”
Lucille bows deeply. The lights shift, signaling the start of the final scene in Act One.
End Scene.
Scene Four: The Soul Contract Signing Fiasco
Setting:
A surreal celestial office that looks like a cross between a law firm, a bakery, and a Burning Man art tent. The desk floats. The chairs float. The pens float. The consequences? Not so much.
The glowing sign above reads:
“SOUL CONTRACTS – SIGN WITH INTENTION (Or at least a decent pen).”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – tired, dramatic, spiraling between excitement and full panic.
Gilda Radner as “Soul Contract Clerk” – completely overwhelmed by scrolls, keeps losing the pen.
Robin Williams as “Chief Planning Guide” – acting now as a wedding officiant crossed with a game show host.
George Carlin as “Karmic Compliance Officer” – behind a massive scroll shredder labeled “NO TAKEBACKS.”
Joan Rivers as “Trauma Consultant” – now in full glam, sipping a celestial cocktail and judging the font choices on the contract.
Charlie Chaplin as “Exit Coordinator” – painting mysterious symbols on the corners of Lucille’s scroll while whistling silently.
Mel Brooks as “God” (voice only) – periodically making “helpful” corrections from the heavens, mostly annoying everyone.
Lights Up
Lucille sits at a floating desk, staring down at a glowing, foot-long scroll labeled:
“LIFE AGREEMENT: EARTH – Version 9.7.3, Now With Free Will.”
Gilda Radner hurries in, wearing a glowing visor and carrying a coffee mug that says “I 
Karma But Karma Hates Me.”
Gilda:
Alright! You’re here for final signing. Just a few quick acknowledgments.
(checks clipboard)
You understand that by signing this you are consenting to:
Partial memory loss,
Emotional triggers from birthday clowns,
And a complete inability to interpret red flags in your twenties?
Lucille:
(glaring)
Why is that clause in bold?
Robin Williams appears in a poof of glitter.
Robin (as preacher):
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the sacred union between… this slightly confused soul, and a life filled with unpredictable beauty, complicated family systems, and at least three mismatched soulmates.
George Carlin throws down a stack of addendums.
George:
New updates since yesterday:
We’ve added Instagram comparison syndrome.
Climate change anxiety at age 13.
And “spiritual awakening via breakup in a Himalayan salt room.”
Congratulations.
Lucille:
(reading, nervous)
“Clause 12B: You agree to forget everything you just agreed to until your second divorce or major Saturn return…”
(blinks)
...what’s a Saturn return?
Joan Rivers:
(smiling wickedly)
Darling, it's when the universe throws a shoe at your head and calls it enlightenment.
Gilda pulls out a glowing feather pen.
Gilda:
Please sign here in stardust. Or blood of past-life ex. Either works.
Lucille hesitates.
Lucille:
I just… this is a lot. Can I renegotiate?
Robin:
Of course! Let me call Legal...
(he yells offstage)
HEY, IS NEPTUNE LAW FIRM STILL OPEN?
George:
(cutting in)
They merged with Pluto. Took a dark turn.
Charlie Chaplin silently unrolls a blank scroll that says: “LIFE WILL MAKE MORE SENSE IN RETROSPECT.”
Lucille:
Okay. But can I just change one thing?
Mel Brooks (voice of God):
No.
Lucille:
You didn’t even let me finish!
Mel Brooks:
Still no.
Joan Rivers:
Listen, kid. Everyone signs scared. If you weren’t nervous, we’d assume you were reincarnating as a mushroom.
Lucille slowly signs the scroll. It glows brightly, then folds itself into a tiny origami bird and flies into Charlie Chaplin’s coat pocket.
Robin:
Beautiful. You’re officially… under contract.
George presses a button. A slot machine rolls. The result reads:
“Emotional Lessons: Extended Edition”
“Romance: Limited Time Offer”
“Wisdom: Delivery Delayed Until 40s”
Gilda hands Lucille a smoothie cup labeled: “MEMORY WIPE – Mango Stardust Edition.”
Lucille (resigned):
Bottoms up.
(She drinks. Her eyes glow. Her posture changes. Her suitcase appears, now labeled “EARTH – Fragile, Handle With Awe.”)
Robin (softly):
You’re not going alone.
We’ll be whispering.
You just… might call it coincidence.
George (grumbling):
Or gut instinct. Or deja vu. Or crying for no reason at Trader Joe’s.
The lights shift. The stage begins to glow as Lucille walks slowly toward the edge, where a portal pulses with light. The Council gathers behind her.
Joan (calling out):
Remember, darling — suffer fabulously.
Charlie Chaplin silently waves a feather goodbye.
Lucille (turning back one last time):
Don’t forget me.
Mel Brooks (God, one last time):
How could we? You’re the one who asked for the deluxe emotional package.
Lucille steps through the portal. The light explodes. Silence. Curtain drops.
END OF ACT ONE.
Act 2: “Earth Prep Is Hell”
Scene One: Choosing Your Parents: Swipe Left, Swipe Right
Setting:
A glowing celestial app lounge called “GENETIX™” — the soul's pre-birth parent-selection platform. Imagine Tinder meets ancestry.com meets IKEA… but for reincarnation.
A massive holographic screen flashes:
“WELCOME TO GENETIX™ – BUILD-A-LIFE EXPERIENCE”
Underneath it:
“Step 1: Choose Your Parents (No Pressure, Just Your Entire Childhood at Stake)”
Ambient harp music plays, with random angelic “ding!” sounds every time someone swipes.
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – dazed, caffeinated from cosmic smoothie hangover, and already regretting everything.
Robin Williams as “Chief Guide” – now dressed as a tech bro, holding an iPad and wearing ironic wings.
Gilda Radner as “Soul Algorithm Curator” – frantic, accidentally swiping on behalf of others.
Joan Rivers as “Ancestral Pattern Specialist” – judging every parent profile as if it were a red carpet disaster.
George Carlin as “Free Will Ethics Monitor” – sitting in a recliner labeled “Don’t Blame Me Later.”
Charlie Chaplin as “Silent Parental Red Flag Detector” – silently flagging toxic patterns with giant blinking signs.
Lights Up
Lucille stares at the massive holographic screen, which says:
“SWIPE TO SELECT: Choose Your Parents”
Options begin to roll…
Robin Williams (as startup exec):
(in tech voice)
Welcome to GenetiX™ — the future of soul incarnation pairing! Let’s find your ideal parental configuration based on karmic history, spiritual GPS, and your tolerance for awkward hugs.
Lucille:
(confused)
This looks like a dating app made by angels and designed by committee.
Robin:
Exactly! Now, your past-life feedback report says you’re working on “Trust Issues and Unmet Expectations,” so we’ve filtered out functional households.
First pair flashes across the screen.
Candidate 1: Vegan Tai Chi Instructors with a Rescue Ferret
Pros: Emotionally available
Cons: Believe sarcasm causes soul decay
Joan Rivers:
(eye roll)
Hard pass. You’ll spend your twenties making pottery and crying in circles.
Lucille:
(sarcastically)
Sounds like spiritual Whole Foods.
Swipe!
Candidate 2: DJ Dad, Tarot Mom, Family Band in Sedona
Pros: Creative freedom
Cons: No structure, everyone's birth chart tattooed on their backs
Lucille:
Yikes. Can I choose parents that don’t use crystals as currency?
Gilda Radner (accidentally swipes right):
Oops! Wait — no! That was meant for someone learning delusion!
George Carlin sighs and sips his espresso.
George:
Look, just pick a set. You’ll complain about them anyway by age ten.
Swipe!
Candidate 3: Suburban Accountants With Repressed Emotions
Pros: Financial stability
Cons: Silent dinners, annual family photos in beige
Lucille:
(frantically)
I don’t want to be haunted by matching khakis!
Charlie Chaplin waves a red flag sign that says: “BUT GREAT MATERIAL FOR THERAPY.”
Joan Rivers:
Just pick the ones who mess you up just enough to give you a personality. Trauma is the new charisma.
Swipe!
Candidate 4: TikTok Evangelist + Former DJ Turned Life Coach
Pros: Charisma
Cons: You’ll be named “Krystyll with two Ys”
Lucille:
I am not spiritually strong enough for that.
Robin (gleeful):
Oh! They live in Ohio!
Lucille:
NOOOOOO!
Lucille panics and hits “Randomize.” The screen freezes. All the previous pairs vanish. One new option appears:
FINAL CANDIDATES: Single Mom. Hardworking. Emotional rollercoaster. Dad’s in the picture… but blurry.
Pros: Deep soul contract. Big lessons. Love that scars and shapes.
Cons: It’s going to hurt. But it will open your heart.
The room falls quiet. Even Joan puts her drink down.
Lucille (whispers):
I know them. I… I felt them in a dream once.
Robin:
Sometimes, you don’t choose them. You just recognize them.
Charlie Chaplin draws a heart in the air. It flickers, then cracks a little, then glows brighter.
Lucille:
Okay… I choose them.
(softly)
Just… give me some good hugs somewhere down the line, okay?
Gilda (smiling, wiping away a tear):
There’s a grandmother in that line who bakes love into cookies. You’ll feel it at age five. That memory alone will carry you through.
George (muttering):
Congratulations. You’ve selected your pain vehicle. Enjoy the ride.
Joan (to Lucille):
Honey, this is going to age you beautifully. And by your third heartbreak — you’ll write poetry that makes angels weep.
Lucille exhales deeply. A giant “CONFIRM PARENTS?” button flashes. She taps it. A light beam seals the choice. The screen explodes into stars.
Robin (softly):
Next stop: childhood amnesia and playground politics.
Lucille (smiling nervously):
God help me.
Mel Brooks (Voice of God, from above):
I’m booked. But I’ll send a cat.
Lights dim. Lucille steps into a glowing tunnel labeled:
“EARTH ENTRY — INFANCY INITIATED.”
End Scene.
Scene Two: Past-Life Debrief with Chaplin’s Mime Map
Setting:
A soft-lit, surreal “soul classroom” with floating chalkboards, cosmic maps, and vintage film reels spinning silently. It feels part silent movie theater, part Akashic Records, part spiritual detention hall.
A glowing sign on the wall reads:
“PAST-LIFE REVIEW – NO POPCORN, NO JUDGMENT, NO ESCAPE.”
Beneath it in smaller font:
“Presented in Black & White (For Dramatic Effect).”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – slouched in a cosmic school desk, mid-regret, sipping a celestial juice box labeled “Clarity.”
Charlie Chaplin as “Mime Guide & Exit Strategist” – dressed in classic bowler hat and suspenders, armed with oversized visual props.
Joan Rivers as “Fashionable Past-Life Consultant” – lounging with a clipboard and glitter monocle, roasting Lucille’s old choices.
George Carlin as “Historical Irony Monitor” – here to call out recurring dumb patterns.
Robin Williams as “Narrator (In Many Voices)” – supplying humorous commentary over Chaplin’s mimed flashbacks.
Lights Up
Lucille sits at a glowing school desk. The room dims. A giant scroll labeled “LIFETIME HIGHLIGHTS (THE TRAGICOMEDY EDITION)” unrolls before her.
Charlie Chaplin tiptoes in, bows deeply, and begins silently setting up a Past-Life Projector made of stardust, old crank wheels, and… possibly parts from a tricycle.
Robin Williams (as Narrator):
(in a Shakespeare-meets-Johnny Carson voice)
Ladies and gentlemen, please silence your inner critics and fasten your karmic seatbelts.
Now presenting:
“The Life & Times of Lucille, a Soul Who Tried.”
Vignette #1: “The Jealous Alchemist – 1347”
Chaplin mimes Lucille poisoning a rival over a glowing elixir, then accidentally drinking it herself.
Joan Rivers (shouting):
You wore that robe to a revenge ceremony? Honey, no wonder you reincarnated allergic to eye shadow.
George Carlin:
(first sarcastic comment)
Alchemy? That was the crypto of the Middle Ages. You were trying to turn lead into ego.
Vignette #2: “The Goat Farmer Who Invented Bureaucracy – 1723”
Chaplin portrays Lucille lovingly naming goats, then tragically creating the first “Permit to Graze” office. Lines form. Chaos ensues.
Lucille (groaning):
Nooo… I created paperwork.
George:
And now it follows you every life. That’s why your modern self keeps forgetting passwords.
Vignette #3: “Silent Film Star Who Feared Intimacy – 1920s”
Chaplin mimes a glamorous Lucille signing autographs, dodging love letters like dodgeballs, and dying alone with 17 poodles.
Robin:
(in dramatic tone)
She could light up a room…
But never her own heart.
(stops suddenly)
But hey, the poodles got matching hats!
Lucille:
Can we skip to the lives where I was kind and fulfilled?
Charlie Chaplin mimes “very short reel.”
(3 seconds: Lucille handing a flower to a monk, then being hit by a cart.)
Joan:
That was sweet.
And tragically brief.
Vignette #4: “The Warrior Who Forgot Why She Was Fighting – Ancient Rome”
Chaplin mimes Lucille in full armor charging into battle, then stopping mid-charge, looking confused, and using the sword as a mirror.
George:
Another classic: spiritual purpose drowned in people-pleasing and eyeliner.
Lucille:
(defensive)
So… I’ve made a few mistakes.
Robin:
Mistakes? Sweetheart, you’ve got style. You failed with flair.
Joan:
And look at the arcs! From killer to goat lover to hermit to influencer material. That’s range, baby.
**Charlie Chaplin walks over and gently hands Lucille a scroll. It says:
“EVERY MISTAKE WAS A DOORWAY.”
She looks at it. For the first time, she stops trying to be funny.**
Lucille (quietly):
Did I learn anything?
Robin (gently):
You learned to laugh.
You learned to try.
And maybe this time — you’ll learn to stay open when it counts.
Charlie Chaplin mimes “placing a lantern” inside Lucille’s chest. It glows.
Lucille:
I don’t remember them all…
But I feel them…
Every time I react before I understand.
Every time I push love away, then cry because no one stays.
Joan (suddenly soft):
Then maybe this time… stay.
A new map appears behind them — glowing, pulsing, waiting. It reads:
“THE NOW-LIFE — Your Last Best Try (So Far).”
Robin (narrator voice):
The past does not define you.
But it can inform you.
Especially if you laugh while you learn.
Lights dim. Charlie Chaplin tips his bowler hat. The projector quietly hums into silence.
End Scene.
Scene Three: The Trauma Menu
Setting:
A cosmic bistro-style restaurant called “KARMA CAFÉ – Where You’re Served Exactly What You Ordered (Whether You Remember or Not)”
A glowing chalkboard reads:
TODAY’S SPECIALS: Heartbreak au Gratin, Betrayal Tapas, Financial Ruin Soufflé
Underneath, in sparkly letters:
“No substitutions. Gluten-free illusion available upon request.”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – now jittery with spiritual heartburn, hoping to skip straight to dessert.
Joan Rivers as “Trauma Sommelier” – sharply dressed in black and gold, with a wine list of emotional collapse.
Robin Williams as “Waiter of Wounds” – flamboyant, shifting personalities based on the flavor of suffering.
George Carlin as “Health Inspector of Karma” – begrudgingly inspecting everyone’s life choices with disdain.
Charlie Chaplin as “Busboy of Destiny” – silently carrying trays of spilled lessons and balancing stacks of broken dreams.
Lights Up
Lucille sits at a white-clothed table, nervous, holding a glowing spoon labeled “Courage.”
Joan Rivers (gliding over):
Welcome, darling, to Karma Café. Table for one very confused soul? Excellent.
Here’s the menu: You may choose up to three signature traumas and one optional existential identity crisis.
Robin Williams appears in a flash, dressed half as a French waiter, half as a monk.
Robin (French accent):
Ahhh, mademoiselle Soul. May I recommend the Abandonment Casserole? It pairs beautifully with spiritual codependency and makes for an excellent memoir.
Lucille:
(panicking)
Do I have to? Can’t I just get the “mild heartbreak with a side of artistic growth”?
Joan:
Sorry, sweetheart, that’s off the menu. It’s too popular with Pinterest yogis.
Robin flips a glowing menu in the air.
TRAUMA MENU:
Unrequited Love Tacos – crunchy, messy, and you always want more
Public Humiliation Pudding – soft on the outside, devastating within
Chronic Self-Doubt Skewers – served cold and looping
Loss of a Loved One Lasagna – layered, heavy, and unforgettable
Betrayal Fondue – comes with multiple dips: family, romance, or friend
Failure Tapenade – looks like success at first, then... nope
Shattered Dream Soufflé – rises beautifully, collapses mid-bite
Lucille flips the menu over and finds the disclaimer:
“ALL ITEMS MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF GROWTH.
Consumption may result in purpose, poetry, or prolonged crying in stairwells.”
Lucille:
Okay, I’ll take… um… small betrayal, medium-sized self-doubt, and just a nibble of dream collapse.
Joan:
(chuckling)
Darling, that’s the emotional equivalent of a sampler platter at a breakup retreat.
George Carlin walks in with a clipboard.
George:
Health inspection.
Lucille, last life you picked “blissful ignorance” with a side of spiritual bypass.
This time? You’re due for actual growth.
Robin (in therapist voice):
Would you like your trauma with conscious awareness or delayed processing until age 45?
Lucille:
(whimpering)
What’s the side dish?
Charlie Chaplin slides in with a tray that says “Therapy & Netflix.”
Lucille sighs, signs the order sheet glowing: “I Consent to Learn the Hard Way.”
Joan:
Brava. Now, would you like us to sprinkle in a few false twin flames?
Lucille:
Only if I eventually write a song about them.
Robin:
That’s a yes.
Robin claps. Suddenly a tray drops from the heavens with dramatic flair:
One karmic heartbreak, extra irony
One ambition that almost works
One mother wound with artistic potential
And a bonus: occasional flashbacks to forgotten spiritual truths
Charlie Chaplin walks by with a dessert labeled “Hope.” He trips slightly. It jiggles, but doesn’t fall.
Lucille (watching):
That’s… me, isn’t it?
Joan (smiling softly):
Of course. Messy, a little cracked, but still warm. And honestly? A fan favorite.
Lucille lifts her fork. Takes a bite. Winces. Then… smiles.
Lucille:
It’s… awful.
(pause)
But weirdly… delicious?
George Carlin (walking out):
Welcome to Earth, kid.
Lights dim. The Karma Café sign flickers:
“Now Serving: You.”
End Scene.
Scene Four: Pre-Launch Panic Attack
Setting:
A glowing soul runway labeled “INCARNATION DEPARTURE ZONE” — part airport gate, part ancient temple, part backstage chaos.
Countdown clock overhead reads:
“00:09:59 UNTIL EARTH ENTRY”
Beneath it:
“NO BOARDING WITHOUT FORGETTING.”
Suitcases labeled “Beliefs,” “Fears,” and “Weird Past-Life Phobias” are stacked in glowing security trays.
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Soul” – fully spiraling into a hilarious cosmic meltdown.
Robin Williams as “Chief Launch Officer” – now dressed like a mix between a TSA agent and Merlin.
Joan Rivers as “Last-Minute Stylist” – touching up Lucille’s aura with a glowing lint roller.
George Carlin as “Security Check Cynic” – manning the “Baggage Scan” booth, unimpressed.
Gilda Radner as “Departure Agent” – scanning scrolls and handing out blindfolds and memory wipes.
Charlie Chaplin as “Gate Attendant” – silently waving boarding signs with cheeky expressions.
Mel Brooks as “Voice of God (PA system)” – unhelpfully cheerful.
Lights Up
Lucille stands on a levitating departure platform, staring at the portal labeled EARTH ENTRY.
Countdown:
9 minutes.
Lucille:
(panicking)
Okay. Okay. It’s fine. I’m just about to forget everything I’ve ever known, throw myself into chaos, and maybe poop in a diaper again. No big deal.
Robin Williams wheels over a glowing cart of memory-erasing smoothies.
Robin (in mock BBC voice):
Today’s special is “Mystical Mango Oblivion” with notes of confusion and just a hint of soul nudges.
Joan Rivers runs in holding a cosmic aura steamer.
Joan:
Darling, stand still! Your energy’s frizzing from fear. You want your inner child to recognize you, don’t you?
Lucille:
(screaming)
I CAN’T DO THIS!
George Carlin checks her bags through an X-ray scanner.
George:
Hmm. Let’s see. You’re bringing:
Four unresolved karmic contracts
A vague fear of intimacy
And a recurring dream about showing up naked in a math test.
Looks like a standard starter pack.
**Lucille tries to run. Charlie Chaplin blocks her, silently pointing at a sign that reads:
“REINCARNATION NON-REFUNDABLE.”
Gilda Radner hands Lucille a boarding halo and blindfold.
Gilda:
Here’s your veil of forgetting, your parental entry coordinates, and this adorable token of inner guidance you’ll only notice after three breakdowns and a hiking trip in your 30s.
Countdown:
5 minutes.
Robin (now whispering):
Hey… you don’t have to be ready.
Just willing.
Lucille starts pacing.
Lucille:
I don’t know how to be human again. I was terrible at it last time. I joined a pyramid scheme AND a Renaissance fair. At the same time!
Joan:
That’s why you’ve got charm, honey. Life isn’t about perfection. It’s about the mess.
And you? You’ve got mess and comedic timing.
Countdown:
3 minutes.
Mel Brooks (PA system):
Paging one reluctant soul: You’ve got a date with confusion, heartbreak, and several surprisingly good sandwiches.
Lucille:
Okay. Okay, breathe. You can do this. You're a soul. You’ve survived Atlantis, tax season, and that brief life as a dentist who feared mouths.
Robin (hands on her shoulders):
This life you’re about to live?
It won’t be clean.
It won’t be easy.
But it will be yours.
Lucille finally stops shaking.
Lucille:
Just tell me one thing.
Will I laugh again?
Joan (tearing up):
Oh, darling… you’ll laugh so hard, it’ll shake your entire ancestry.
Gilda hands her the final smoothie. Charlie Chaplin presses the “BOARD NOW” bell.
Lucille drinks. Her eyes widen. Her aura flickers. She steps to the edge.
Robin (softly):
We’ll be with you…
Every time you remember you’re more than what you see.
Every time you pause… and feel wonder.
Lucille (half-dazed):
Okay…
I’m ready to forget.
But promise me…
Everyone (together):
You’ll remember — eventually.
Lucille steps forward. Light swallows her whole.
The screen above flickers and changes to:
“NOW ARRIVING: Earth, Screaming Baby Gate”
George (to audience):
Welp. She’s off.
Cue the diaper, the destiny, and the terrible haircut at age seven.
Lights dim. Curtain closes.
Act 3: “Oops... We Sent Them!”
Scene One: Earth Entry Error
Setting:
An interdimensional logistics terminal — part delivery hub, part womb-shaped transit gate, part IT Help Desk from hell.
A large screen above flashes:
“WELCOME TO EARTH DROPPOINT 674-B — PLEASE STAY IN YOUR LANE.”
Beneath it, a glitchy ticker reads:
“Processing souls: Astral Artists, Feral Toddlers, Accidental Prophets, and Ohio-bound.”
The air smells like ozone and melted dreams.
Characters on Stage:
- Lucille Ball as “The Newborn Soul” – dazed, bundled in cosmic confusion and emotional static.
- Robin Williams as “Entry Technician” – now in a jumpsuit with wires, buttons, and WAY too much enthusiasm for reincarnation logistics.
- Gilda Radner as “Rebirth Receptionist” – over-caffeinated, multitasking with soul GPS trackers and reincarnation inventory scrolls.
- George Carlin as “Misdelivery Auditor” – frustrated, arms crossed, watching things fall apart in real time.
- Charlie Chaplin as “Dimensional Janitor” – silently sweeping spilled karma into a glowing dustbin.
- Joan Rivers (voice only) – on the intercom as “Fashion Director of First Impressions.”
Lights Up
Lucille floats gently through the Reincarnation Slide, swaddled in glitter, confusion, and 17 different spiritual intentions.
She’s softly humming… and then BAM! — her soul crashes into a blinking terminal marked:
“WELCOME TO TOLEDO.”
Lucille (groggy):
...No... NO… not again…
Robin Williams skates in on celestial rollerblades.
Robin:
Oh hey! Welcome back! You’re arriving… hmmm…
(checks clipboard)
Oh dear. You were supposed to be born in Kyoto to a peaceful flute-maker.
But uh… there was a “portal rerouting error.”
Lucille:
(crying)
I had a flute. I had cherry blossoms! I had balance!
George Carlin (deadpan):
Now you’ve got snow tires, strip malls, and a father who believes feelings are a sign of government surveillance.
Gilda Radner frantically types on a glowing keyboard.
Gilda:
I think we accidentally merged your soul drop with a beta test for Midwestern resilience and mild lactose intolerance.
Lucille:
You mean I’m going to suffer… with dairy?
Charlie Chaplin points to a crate labeled “BACKUP DESTINY” — which is currently on fire.
Robin:
No worries! We can still make this work. You’re being born to a single mom who’s trying her best, a school with underfunded music programs, and a hamster named Kevin.
Lucille:
(sobbing)
Why Kevin?
George (shrugging):
Because Pluto’s in retrograde and our karmic warehouse is understaffed.
Joan Rivers comes through the intercom.
Joan (voice only):
Darling, relax. You’re arriving with strong cheekbones, a latent gift for sarcasm, and a perfect meltdown-to-glow-up ratio. You’ll be fine.
Lucille looks at the glowing checklist:
Aligned family
Unspoken childhood trauma- Musical talent no one notices
- That one teacher who believes in you
- Existential dread by age 11
- A future spiritual awakening after eating cheese alone on a Tuesday
Lucille:
Can’t I… go back?
Pick again?
Reset?
Robin (kindly):
No resets. But… we can install a few internal apps to help.
He waves his hand and a beam of light installs:
-
“Whispers from Your Higher Self” (in dream mode only)
“Sudden Compassion for Strangers” update
“Unexplainable Pull Toward Mountains, Poetry, or People Who Smell Like Lemons”
“Eventually Gets the Joke” – Soul Expansion Version 3.1
George stamps a big red label:
“LAUNCHED: WITH DELAYED CLARITY.”
Lucille slowly stands up in her sparkly hospital gown of destiny.
Lucille:
I don’t know if I’m ready.
Gilda:
That’s part of the package, sweetie. Earth doesn’t wait for confidence.
Charlie Chaplin gently places a teddy bear on the platform. It has a heart sewn with gold thread. A tag reads: “TRUST – Grows Back After Use.”
Lucille takes one step forward. The lights glow around her.
Mel Brooks (PA voice):
Bon voyage, darling. Don’t forget to laugh before the first tax season.
Robin (smiling):
Now boarding: Soul ID 000LU-C1LL3, destiny class… uncertain, but promising.
Lights dim as Lucille descends into Earth’s flickering, imperfect light.
END SCENE.
Scene Two: Cosmic Tech Support
Setting:
A disorganized, interdimensional IT department called “Spirit Systems Support.”
The walls are lined with tangled light cords, blinking soul monitors, and filing cabinets that groan when opened. A cosmic printer spits out birth charts, then catches fire. There's a glowing complaint box labeled “Good Luck” and a blinking sign:
“TECH SUPPORT FOR MISALIGNED DESTINIES — TAKE A BREATH, THEN A NUMBER.”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “The Earth-Born Soul (Glitching)” – stuck mid-integration, half-human, half-sparkle, fully panicking.
Robin Williams as “Head Tech Mystic” – now wearing lab goggles over wizard robes, wildly over-caffeinated.
Gilda Radner as “System Analyst” – holding too many tablets, accidentally logging out souls mid-reincarnation.
George Carlin as “Quality Control Specialist” – holding a broken prophecy reader, muttering insults at fate.
Charlie Chaplin as “Field Repair Angel” – carrying a glowing wrench and a soft-eyed look of cosmic pity.
Mel Brooks as “God (on hold)” – being transferred between departments.
Lights Up
Lucille is now partially on Earth. She twitches in and out of human form — her arms flicker between baby chub and teenage anxiety.
Lucille (panicked):
Hello?! Excuse me? I think something’s wrong! I was supposed to be intuitive, talented, and mildly enlightened by now. Instead, I’m stuck in someone’s garage in Ohio with a dad who’s emotionally fluent in only lawn care metaphors.
Robin Williams skates in, juggling glowing cables.
Robin:
Welcome to Spirit Systems Support — where glitches in your soul plan are addressed within seven to eleven lifetimes!
What seems to be the issue?
Lucille:
Everything! I forgot my purpose, my inner voice keeps buffering, and I just emotionally overreacted to someone eating the last waffle.
Gilda Radner runs in holding a clipboard labeled “UNRESOLVED STUFF.”
Gilda:
Oops! Looks like your pre-birth blueprint uploaded with corrupted files. Let's see… aha! Your intuition module installed upside-down. And your self-worth calibration got swapped with people-pleasing.
Lucille:
That explains the dating history.
George Carlin strolls in holding a smoking prophecy printer.
George:
Yeah, we’ve got incoming reports that your spiritual GPS keeps rerouting you to “Lessons in Humility: The Extended Remix.”
Lucille:
Can you just reboot me?
George:
What is this, a soul Starbucks? No. You reflect, you journal, and maybe — maybe — you get a vision during a walk in the rain.
Charlie Chaplin silently rolls in with a glowing tuning fork. He taps Lucille gently on the head. A faint “ping” sound. She blinks.
Lucille:
What was that?
Robin:
That’s your higher self trying to reestablish contact. Happens once you start actually listening instead of pretending to be okay all the time.
Lucille sits down, exhausted.
Lucille:
I’m broken.
Gilda:
Nope. Just... buffering. Growth comes in patches.
George:
You’re not broken. You’re just early. Earth is a slow download.
Mel Brooks’ voice crackles over the intercom.
Mel:
Hello? Hello? I’ve been on hold for 7,000 years. Can someone please transfer me out of this job? I told you people not to install ego in 3D form!
Robin gently kneels by Lucille.
Robin:
Look, kid. You're exactly where you need to be — disoriented, lost, vulnerable. That’s the launchpad for most awakenings.
Lucille:
I just thought I’d be further along by now.
George:
Congratulations. That thought means you’re human.
Charlie Chaplin silently rolls over a glowing sticky note. Lucille picks it up. It says:
“You’re not late. You’re right on divine time — even if you’re early to your own panic.”
Lucille breathes.
Lucille:
Okay. I’ll try again. Just… don’t let me miss the signs this time.
Robin:
We won’t. You just have to stop pretending you don’t see them.
Gilda hands her a glowing emergency kit labeled: “Intuition. Synchronicity. Grace.”
Lucille:
Thank you.
George:
Don’t thank us yet. You’ve got a breakthrough scheduled right after your next failure.
The lights flicker, signaling Lucille’s soul is stabilizing. She stands, centered but still curious.
Lucille:
Alright. Send me back in.
Robin (to audience):
Back into the mess. Back into the beauty. Back into a body she’ll complain about… and eventually learn to love.
Lights dim. A sign appears behind Lucille:
“RE-INTEGRATION SUCCESSFUL: Now Loading... Wonder.”
End Scene.
Scene Three: Council Debrief: What Did We Do?
Setting:
The divine conference room. Think Apple HQ meets Mount Sinai meets a sarcastic TED Talk greenroom.
A curved glowing table sits center stage with levitating chairs. Floating soul monitors hover in the air, glitching with real-time Earth footage.
A large sign above the room reads:
“POST-INSTALLATION REVIEW — Please Remember: Earth Is a Free-Will Zone”
And in smaller print:
“No refunds. No take-backs. No yelling at interns.”
Characters on Stage:
Robin Williams as “Chief Planning Guide” – frazzled and trying to look professional.
Joan Rivers as “Spiritual PR Advisor” – armed with soul statistics and fashionably annoyed.
George Carlin as “Outcome Skeptic” – snacking on expired prophecies, fully unimpressed.
Gilda Radner as “Accidental Manifestation Intern” – holding a clipboard that keeps deleting itself.
Charlie Chaplin as “Sentimental Analyst” – silently carrying emotional highlight reels.
Lucille Ball as “Earth-Self (via Monitor)” – visible only on screen, currently crying over spilled oat milk in a coffee shop.
Mel Brooks as “God (voice only)” – still stuck in Upper Management and offering unhelpful encouragement.
Lights Up
The Council members gather around the table. Lucille’s Earth life plays on a screen behind them, flickering with her recent emotional breakdown and oddly soulful playlist.
Robin (checking charts):
Okay team, we’re here to review Soul 000LU-C1LL3’s early progress on Earth. Let’s start with the basics: She’s been dropped, bonded, confused, and has now begun asking, “Is this it?”
So… good news. Existential despair is right on schedule.
Joan Rivers flips through glowing papers.
Joan:
Alright, let’s talk aesthetics. She’s picking emotionally unavailable love interests, expressing through finger painting, and just got bangs during a quarter-life crisis.
I give it a B+ for style, C- for discernment.
George Carlin leans back, chewing a glowing caramel of “delayed insight.”
George:
She tried gratitude journaling for 2.5 days, posted about shadow work, then spiraled because her spiritual meme only got seven likes.
She’s fully Earthbound. No celestial intervention needed.
Gilda Radner flips her clipboard.
Gilda:
Um… I may have accidentally swapped her “Steady Confidence” module with “Imposter Syndrome… in HD.”
Robin (groaning):
Gilda!
Gilda:
But look! It’s making her way funnier!
Charlie Chaplin floats to center stage and flips through memory reels:
Lucille sharing snacks with a stranger.
Laughing after falling off a bike.
Singing off-key in the car with no one watching.
The moments are small. But warm.
Joan watches silently. Then clears her throat.
Joan:
You know what? She’s starting to feel things deeper.
She’s growing. The tragic haircut might’ve helped.
The monitor flashes a live feed: Lucille is staring at a sunset, eyes red from crying, but soft with presence.
Robin (softly):
Look at that.
She’s suffering.
She’s resisting.
And yet... she’s still open.
That’s the rare kind of courage Earth was built for.
George (muttering):
You sure we didn’t overdo it on the self-doubt?
Joan:
Oh, definitely. But that’s where the poetry comes from.
Mel Brooks’ voice booms through the speaker.
Mel:
Can we just be honest? She’s doing better than most souls who arrive thinking Mercury retrograde is a personality.
Gilda raises her hand.
Gilda:
Do we need to activate her mid-life awakening?
Robin:
Not yet. She’s not desperate enough to hike a volcano and call it clarity.
Charlie Chaplin holds up a glowing balloon that says: “Wonder, Still Possible.”
George:
Well, what now?
Robin:
Now we watch. We whisper.
We drop breadcrumbs:
an overheard lyric, a dream of a past life, a person she just knows from somewhere.
Joan:
And when she thinks she’s totally alone?
Robin:
That’s when she’s closest to remembering.
Lucille’s monitor flickers again. She’s writing something. The words slowly scroll behind them:
“I don’t know where I’m going.
But maybe I’m not supposed to.
Maybe I’m just supposed to keep walking —
and laughing whenever I trip.”
Everyone falls silent. Even George nods, just slightly.
Mel Brooks (quietly):
She’s gonna be okay.
Not perfect. But okay.
Robin:
Exactly.
Perfect souls don’t grow.
But cracked ones —
They bloom.
The room dims. The screen fades. One last phrase hovers in the air:
“Keep watching. She’s not done.”
Scene Four: Closing Monologue – Earthself on a Barstool
Setting:
A quiet, dimly lit bar at the edge of a city. It’s late. Music hums low.
One spotlight. One barstool.
Lucille sits alone, older now. Wiser? Maybe. Still confused? Definitely.
A dusty mirror behind her reflects a thousand lives.
On the wall, a flickering sign reads:
“Open Mic Night – Tell Your Truth (No Heckling from the Spirit Realm)”
Characters on Stage:
Lucille Ball as “Earthself (Older)” – speaking directly to the audience, her voice balancing humor, exhaustion, and accidental wisdom.
Everyone else (Robin, Joan, George, Gilda, Charlie, Mel) – watching from the shadows or audience, invisible to her, but deeply present.
Lights Up
Lucille takes a sip of water. Looks out. Exhales. Then speaks.
You know… I thought life would feel more like a movie.
Some big score swelling in the background…
Important conversations at sunset.
Some divine whisper telling me,
“Yes. You’re doing it right.”
But mostly?
It’s been burnt toast.
Awkward text messages.
Crying in grocery store parking lots for reasons I still can't name.
I had plans.
I was gonna be this awake,
spiritual, emotionally evolved Earth goddess.
But instead…
I get annoyed at people who chew too loud.
I still scroll for too long.
And I still forget why I walked into most rooms — literally and cosmically.
And yet…
There’ve been moments.
Small ones.
Laughing so hard I forgot to be afraid.
Holding someone’s hand as they left this world.
Telling the truth — even when my voice shook and my mascara ran.
Moments when I thought,
“Maybe… just maybe… this is the point.”
I’ve made a mess of love.
I’ve run from it.
Chased it.
Texted it too many times at 2 a.m.
Then blamed Mercury.
But every heartbreak carved out more room.
And one day, I realized…
The ache I kept calling failure
was just a doorway I hadn’t walked through yet.
I don’t remember what I planned before I got here.
I forgot the council.
The guides.
The hilarious, chaotic cosmic clipboard full of spiritual objectives.
But I do remember this:
I’ve never been truly alone.
Even in my loneliest hour, something in me —
a flicker,
a whisper,
a stubborn ember —
has kept saying:
“Get up. Try again. Laugh anyway.”
And maybe that’s what it means to be human.
To forget…
but still return.
To lose…
but still open.
To fall…
and find the grace in how you land.
So here I am.
On this barstool, in this weird little world,
with callouses and regrets and a wallet full of therapy co-pays…
Still soft.
Still searching.
Still here.
And for the first time?
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Lucille raises her glass to the audience.
To the souls who said yes.
To the mess we picked.
To the love we’ll never stop learning how to hold.
And to the guides?
Wherever you are —
you were right.
Even this life…
especially this life…
was worth it.
Lights slowly dim.
The mirror behind her shows a flicker: all her past lives watching, smiling, nodding.
One by one, the Council appears in soft light — not to intervene, but to witness.
Lucille closes her eyes.
And laughs.
Curtain falls.
End of play.
Epilogue – Robin Williams
(Lights fade back in. A quiet spotlight. Robin returns, slower now, hands in pockets, eyes kind.)
Robin:
Well…
You did it.
You laughed.
You cried.
You maybe even recognized something you forgot you knew.
And isn’t that what life is?
A hilarious, heartbreaking, holy stumble
through a world where no one remembers why they came…
but everyone’s hoping for snacks and love along the way.
You saw a soul make a mess of her life plan.
She got it wrong.
She got it really wrong.
And then… she got up.
She kept going.
She made it into art.
And that — that’s divinity with a punchline.
So next time you feel lost down there —
wondering if you picked the wrong timeline or missed your big assignment...
Just remember:
You’re exactly where your soul thought it would be hilarious — and healing — to land.
Even Earth, my friends…
Is a joke God’s still laughing at.
And you?
You’re the punchline —
and the poetry.
Thanks for showing up.
Now go live it like you meant to.
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