(It is 500 years in the future. MOTHER, FATHER, SPACE DOCTOR, and FUTURE GAL sit around a typical American family table 2460 AD. It is the interior of a spaceship, not in flight, but looks like just like a typical American family home 2460 AD. Perhaps a typical space cat or future dog wanders the room if the stagehands can keep it under control. The sounds of lazer jazz or galactic lounge music can be faintly heard playing on an extremely advanced looking hi-fi. Each member of the family is dressed in matching silver outfits made from asbestos to keep the family safe from future heat. The planet has heated up because the sun is being drawn in by its gravity. Everyone appears sweaty, even the pet, should it be there. The doctor holds a device about the size of an adding machine.)

Space Doctor: I have finished scanning you all for parasites. Unfortunately, I have found none, and so we will all starve.
Father: Woe is me. Simply dreadful.
Mother: Check the fridge. I’m sure we’ve some leftovers.
Future Gal: (Opening the refrigerator door and poking her head inside) We’ve a whole can of worms here. Shall I open it?
Space Doctor: Heavens, no. If we eat it all now we’ll have nothing for when we get hungry later.
Mother: Is that all there is?
Future Gal: There is also the corpse of my brother Thomas.
Father: Thomas?
Future Gal: He was your son.
Father: Yes, I thought the name rang a bell.
Space Doctor: I believe we were saving that for a special occasion.
Mother: His funeral, if I’m not mistaken. We were waiting for the ground to cool down enough to dig a grave.
Space Doctor: (Rising, taking his device with him) Then I shall go and take the ground’s temperature.
Father: Tell me, Space Doctor, is this fever contagious?
Space Doctor: Only for the incredibly obese. I should think. (Exits stage left)
Future Gal: (Grabs a CorningWare container from refrigerator and returns to table)
Father: Hullo! What on earth is this?
Future Gal: Auld lasagne.
Mother: I wonder if it hasn’t gone bad.
Future Gal: (Removes lid and gazes into the dish) It certainly hasn’t gone well.
Mother: That bad?
Future Gal: Neutral, perhaps.
Father: Perhaps we should feed a bit to our pet, should we have one on set, to see if it is safe to eat.
Future Gal: Oh, I’m mistaken. This isn’t lasagne at all.
Father: Then what on earth is it?
Space Doctor: (Rushing back in in a panic) It’s a phone call from Ionesco! Auld lasagne is a PHONE CALL FROM IONESCO!!!!
Father: Rather dramatic, what?
Space Doctor: (Collecting himself) I was alarmed by the readings. They are off the charts.
Mother: (Stands and walks to window, pulls apart draperies) Ah, yes. I see now. That’s the Statue of Liberty. We’ve been on Earth the whole time.
Father: (To Future Gal) Honey, tell Ionesco we’ve been on Earth this whole time.
Future Gal: (Grabs megaphone and puts it to mouth, pointed at the casserole dish) Mister Ionesco! Can you hear me?
(All wait, placing hands to ear as if listening extra-attentively. There is no audible reply.)
Father: I’m rather sure he’s hung up by now.
Mother: Why does he toy with our emotions so?
Space Doctor: He’s a genius, and all genii are cruel. That’s why we keep them in lamps and bottles and CorningWare.
Mother: Maybe one of them will put aside their sadistic tendencies and figure out how to blow up this bloody sun to save the world.
Space Doctor: Not likely. They are far too keen on human suffering. Last things they’d want to be are heroes. They quite likely have already deliberately not blown up the sun, just to spite us.
Future Gal: All this grim talk is bringing me down. I’m going to put on the new album by Space Herb Alpert and the Jupiter Brass to brighten up the mood, you silly-billies. (Changes record)
Mother: Oh, darling? Why so blue? I thought you knew our purpose here was to blow up the sun.
Father: Maybe we can heat up Thomas early to cheer my little gal up, what? (Father begins dragging Thomas’s corpse from the refrigerator to the science oven.)
Future Gal: No, Father. Let’s dance instead. (Does a hip dance in the style of the futuristic 1960s.)
Father: (Drops Thomas and immediately space Watusis.) Yes, I’ve forgotten all about our troubles already. Come dance, Mother.

(The CorningWare casserole dish begins to ring. The whole scene fades out of reality.)