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New York Stories
LTK91018699134X
Voice - -10-13 year old very sharp and witty New York Male.
Working tittle - New York Stories - is a book targeted at 10-14 year olds 60% male. It's sometimes gross, sometimes action oriented but always funny.
The first story in the book titled, The Pizza Incident, is a gag that a group of the kids play on the neighborhood bully. It's a twist on the traditional, age old "Order the Old Crab Some Pizzas".
New York Stories is like The Sand Lot or The Little Rascals, the major departure being geography. Instead of "surburbia" or "Any Town USA" these stories have a distinct New York City flavor, which should be taken into account in the voice.
The ideal actor will be or sound 11-13 years old, and from NYC but without a heavy faked accent. These kids pull some well thought out and very intelligent pranks. They're smart and should sound as such. They would be at most in 9th grade.
Please note -The worst auditions that we get are faked heavy new york accents. Please don't send heavy, exaggerated "Saturday Night Fever" reads.
Be exciting, read it like you're telling the story off the top of your head. The right person for this job will be a good voice actor, but a great story teller.
The full script is included here. Please read the entire story so you can get a good feel for it, and then read at least 2 paragraphs as the audition. 4 word pages, Arial 12.
We will cast this job in the next 24 hours.
New York Stories is written by award winning writer director John Taddeo, registered with IMDB.
If the voice track is used by John in an animated short you will also receive a credit in the short film.
Payment is 150 flat fee for all uses and unlimted use. Payment will be immediate / same day via paypal or if your prefer we can mail a check - your choice. Jul 18, 2007 11:57:14 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Jul 25, 2007 08:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Yes (click here to learn more about
)
Closed
6
0
0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 40 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Working tittle - New York Stories - is a book targeted at 10-14 year olds 60% male. It's sometimes gross, sometimes action oriented but always funny.
The first story in the book titled, The Pizza Incident, is a gag that a group of the kids play on the neighborhood bully. It's a twist on the traditional, age old "Order the Old Crab Some Pizzas".
New York Stories is like The Sand Lot or The Little Rascals, the major departure being geography. Instead of "surburbia" or "Any Town USA" these stories have a distinct New York City flavor, which should be taken into account in the voice.
The ideal actor will be or sound 11-13 years old, and from NYC but without a heavy faked accent. These kids pull some well thought out and very intelligent pranks. They're smart and should sound as such. They would be at most in 9th grade.
Please note -The worst auditions that we get are faked heavy new york accents. Please don't send heavy, exaggerated "Saturday Night Fever" reads.
Be exciting, read it like you're telling the story off the top of your head. The right person for this job will be a good voice actor, but a great story teller.
The full script is included here. Please read the entire story so you can get a good feel for it, and then read at least 2 paragraphs as the audition. 4 word pages, Arial 12.
We will cast this job in the next 24 hours.
New York Stories is written by award winning writer director John Taddeo, registered with IMDB.
If the voice track is used by John in an animated short you will also receive a credit in the short film.
Payment is 150 flat fee for all uses and unlimted use. Payment will be immediate / same day via paypal or if your prefer we can mail a check - your choice. Jul 18, 2007 11:57:14 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Jul 25, 2007 08:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Yes (click here to learn more about
)
Closed
6
0
0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 40 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Project Parameters
None
Fixed - USD 150.00
Promos
English - North American
Not defined
Teenage Boy
Not defined
There are no special pre-, post-, or production requirements for this project.
Not defined
Not defined
No
Not defined
Script Details
Yes
N/A
And with the crack of a broomstick whacking a Spalding, Joe Wrigley is looking at a two-telephone-pole home run, but if you know anything about New York City stickball rules all’s fair after two phone poles. Catching off cars, catching off houses, . . .I once caught a ball that bounced right off Mr. Salerno’s bald head, and it’s all totally legal. The rule breaks down like this: After Two telephone poles, if you catch that ball in any manner possible before it hits the ground - he’s out, but once it hits Earth it’s a home run.
I’m chasing down that ball at top speed. Then a strange thing happens. Time begins to move in slow-motion, and for this moment it’s just me and the ball. I can hear my heart beating and I feel like I’m moving much faster than I ever have. I close in on it and dive head-first. Reaching out with one hand toward the ball, less than two feet from the ground… gotcha! A diving stab! The greatest catch of my life. He’s out! The boys go wild. Wrigley does a Bo Jackson, snapping the broomstick in disgust, and I hold the ball above my head like Daniel-san having just won the All Valley Tournament. The team rushes me with cheers and smiles as I wait to be carried off the field, well the lawn, actually.
Oh my God. The lawn.
I realize where I am. I’m in no man’s land. No Baloney land. The middle of the lawn belonging to the craziest man in the world – at least as far as we’re concerned. I see the blood drain from my friends faces. It must be him. Tony No Baloney must be right behind me! I am a dead man. My life is over as Fat ladies everywhere would break into song.
Suddenly I’m swept off my feet as my shirt is bundled up from the back and used as a handle. Next I get a kick in the ass so hard that it feels like it comes from a guy wearing one of those giant clown shoes. I don’t know exactly what hits me next, but it hurts a lot, and I get a full body slam as I’m thrown to the street. I turn and look up at this nutcase as his cold shadow envelopes me. I lay battered and bruised in the gutter as Tony grabs me by my shirt collar, so tightly that I can’t breathe. He points in my face and screams in a deep, echoing roar, “Don’t play here!”
And then everything went black.
It must have taken a while for me to come to, because when I did a few of the guys are eating ice cream, and I don’t remember any truck coming by. It took a few minutes to get my bearings back, and I realized that not only did this tool completely steal the thunder of my spectacular catch, but the douchebag also took my ball, and made me miss the ice cream man.
To summarize, that’s stolen thunder, an ass kicking, a ripped shirt, a body slam to the street, a choking, theft of my ball and a missed ice cream truck.
This isn’t the type of thing I can let go, because I really like ice cream, plus all that other stuff pisses me off quite a bit as well.
So I do what any red-blooded American kid would do. I sent him pizzas.
I phone Village Maria Pizzeria and order up Asparagus, pineapple, Canadian bacon and all manner of fish such as anchovy, shrimp and tuna that have absolutely no place upon a pizza. We ask if they have any warm Mello Yello – so it would look and taste like piss — but they don’t so we settle for hot Mountain Dew (which is kind of like piss if you eat a dozen Flintstones Chewable Vitamins first. I figured -close enough). We give No Baloney’s name and address and run outside to wait for the delivery.
About a half hour later the driver shows up. An annoyed No Baloney answers the door.
“$44.50,” the driver says.
“I didn’t order no pizza,” Tony answers, with his psycho-twitching eyebrows and tough guy attitude.
“Is this number thirty —”
“Oh!” Tony screams. “Did I stutter? I didn’t order no pizza! Now get off my property before I shove those pizzas up your ass!”
Tony is shaking and twitching like a nut, and looks like Jose Canseco with a nervous tick as the completely bewildered delivery guy turns and walks back to the car. As he heads down the walkway he turns and glances at Tony who immediately screams, “And don’t turn around again or I’ll come down there and break your freaking head!”
Are you seeing a pattern here yet? Tony is a guy just aching for an ass kicking. So I set off to give him just that.
Scrambling back to Joe Wrigley’s house I dial Tony’s home phone number.
“Yeah, go,” He answers. The guy even answers the phone like a dick.
“You son of a bitch!” I scream in my meanest tough-guy voice. “You make me send my guy out there and then turn down these pizzas? I’m coming back there myself to break these pies over your melon head!”
“Come now! Come now!” he roars.
“I’m coming myself! Right now. You better come down and deal with me. I don’t want you hiding in your house like a little girl. I want your ass outside facing me. You hear me coward? Outside!”
We hear the phone banging and Tony losing his mind. His heavy pacing footsteps, glass breaking. The guy is having a complete fit. I yell again, “Outside! You hear me you sissy! Outside!”
“Come now! Come right now!”
And he’s growling and screaming like a nut. He is legitimately crazy. People like this should be put away. They really have no place in decent society.
I yell back, “I’m coming! I’m coming right now! You’re going to deal with me, dirtbag! I’m taking this $44.50 out of your ass!”
And I slam down the phone.
The boys go wild. The sidesplitting laughter lasts a full five minutes. Our friend Brian had just eaten two Choco Tacos and throws up in his mouth from the combination of delicious chocolatey goodness and laughing. It’s a very good laugh, the long-lasting type that really charges you up. But the fun has just started.
This is a ripe situation. I have a waiting lunatic and a phone book brimming with potential pizza delivery candidates. So I call up Pizza Kingdom, a whole different operation, and order up some new pies.
As the boys realize the brilliance of my plan a respectful silence overcomes them. I move up two or three full ranks in their eyes. With this single stroke of genius I am no longer little Johnny, I can now officially drop the “little” part. You can see their awe. Between the earlier catch and this prank it’s clear that I own the day. As they looked upon me with a new respect I could swear I heard the angels sing.
Now Pizza Kingdom is a very special place. The food is absolutely great. The pizza is crisp and delicious, with the perfect amount of oil running down your slice, like the relaxing flow of the sweet serene chocolate rivers in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. This pizza is so good that people try to get on death row so they can request it as a last meal. It’s so good that the delivery driver that works there gets paid in pizza. I kid you not, he gets no money from the place. His name is Roland and he actually accepts free food all day in lieu of shift pay.
As you can imagine, Roland is not a small boy. In fact, he’s huge. He can hear the ice cream truck coming before the dogs. He’s so big that he drives a convertible Mustang with the front seats removed. The dude weighs every single bit of four hundred pounds or I’ll eat a pineapple and anchovy pizza… with dog on top! I’m positive that on his lightest day, holding helium balloons, this guy is still way over four hundred pounds. Roland is so fat he’s even beyond losing weight. Unless someone puts his fat ass on the moon, he’ll never see four hundred pounds again for the rest of his life. There just isn’t that much Dexatrim in the world.
We never knew his last name, but always imagined it was “Around.”
Roland Around. How funny would that be?
Roland pulls up to Tony’s house with four large pies. Cue the action music.
From across the street we stare in silence. This is to be the greatest moment of our lives.
Tony comes flying out of the front door and charges Roland. Tony No Baloney swings as he lunges, but he’s swatted by the giant pork-chop hand of Roland Around. Tony hits the floor but bounces back. At considerable risk to himself, a confused yet now angry Roland turns his back on Tony to carefully set down the precious pies on the trunk of the Mustang.
Tony uses Roland’s respect for pizza to his advantage and attacks again! I have to hand it to the guy, as far as psychos go he’s the real deal. Only a complete loon would fight a 6’5”, four-hundred pound guy, but for ten seconds Tony gives it his best shot. In the end, though, it’s like a ham sandwich trying to fight a hungry giant. Tony’s blows have no effect on the mass of fat and Big Mac that is Roland. It’s a good thing Roland’s IQ is inversely proportionate to his pants size or he might take the time to ask the meaning of this clash of the titans. Luckily, that never happens. What does happen is a glorious ass kicking of the neighborhood psycho by the neighborhood Jell-O.
As our rotund savior heads back to the modified seat of his Mustang, he looks back at Tony lying on his front lawn like a beat down garden gnome. We pray for a finishing move. We are hoping Roland will go back and pull out Tony’s spine like Sub-Zero, but it doesn’t happen. Instead he walks over to the car breathing as if he just ran the NYC Marathon. He opens a pizza box and grabs two slices.
“Hungrality!” growls Joe Wrigley in his best Mortal Kombat voice.
Much like Tony, the pizza never has a chance. Roland reaches for two more slices as he starts the car. He reloads his catcher’s mitt-sized hand with mouth-watering Pizza Kingdom slices and drives off, . . .But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of site, “Gotta get home, Mom’s making meatloaf tonight!”
We turn our attention back to the battered No Baloney. I have to admit I’m hoping for a trademark, “Don’t play here!” but it never comes. He disappears inside, signaling the battle is mine. If I die that night, I do so with the satisfaction of having beaten Baloney.
The second his door closes we start laughing uncontrollably, which ensues for a full twenty minutes. I’m laughing so hard I have stomach pains. Richard Apollo, the kid that lived two doors down from me, actually peed himself, two guys threw up and Mike Cuevas claims to have crapped his pants “a little” from laughing so hard.
To this day that still bothers me. What does that mean, he crapped his pants, “A little”?
Call me crazy, but I feel that pants crapping is either a do or don’t situation. What I’m saying here is that the quantity of crap that actually comes out of your ass is meaningless, inconsequential to the overall act. In other words, if any crap – even the slightest, smallest amount of crap leaves your ass and winds up in your trousers, - -even a tiny little chip of crap - at that moment you have officially crapped your pants. If more comes out from that point is just extra. Call it bonus crap if you like.
Which actually reminds me of a funny story. Now on my street we have one hundred and ten boys and only seven girls . . .
I’m chasing down that ball at top speed. Then a strange thing happens. Time begins to move in slow-motion, and for this moment it’s just me and the ball. I can hear my heart beating and I feel like I’m moving much faster than I ever have. I close in on it and dive head-first. Reaching out with one hand toward the ball, less than two feet from the ground… gotcha! A diving stab! The greatest catch of my life. He’s out! The boys go wild. Wrigley does a Bo Jackson, snapping the broomstick in disgust, and I hold the ball above my head like Daniel-san having just won the All Valley Tournament. The team rushes me with cheers and smiles as I wait to be carried off the field, well the lawn, actually.
Oh my God. The lawn.
I realize where I am. I’m in no man’s land. No Baloney land. The middle of the lawn belonging to the craziest man in the world – at least as far as we’re concerned. I see the blood drain from my friends faces. It must be him. Tony No Baloney must be right behind me! I am a dead man. My life is over as Fat ladies everywhere would break into song.
Suddenly I’m swept off my feet as my shirt is bundled up from the back and used as a handle. Next I get a kick in the ass so hard that it feels like it comes from a guy wearing one of those giant clown shoes. I don’t know exactly what hits me next, but it hurts a lot, and I get a full body slam as I’m thrown to the street. I turn and look up at this nutcase as his cold shadow envelopes me. I lay battered and bruised in the gutter as Tony grabs me by my shirt collar, so tightly that I can’t breathe. He points in my face and screams in a deep, echoing roar, “Don’t play here!”
And then everything went black.
It must have taken a while for me to come to, because when I did a few of the guys are eating ice cream, and I don’t remember any truck coming by. It took a few minutes to get my bearings back, and I realized that not only did this tool completely steal the thunder of my spectacular catch, but the douchebag also took my ball, and made me miss the ice cream man.
To summarize, that’s stolen thunder, an ass kicking, a ripped shirt, a body slam to the street, a choking, theft of my ball and a missed ice cream truck.
This isn’t the type of thing I can let go, because I really like ice cream, plus all that other stuff pisses me off quite a bit as well.
So I do what any red-blooded American kid would do. I sent him pizzas.
I phone Village Maria Pizzeria and order up Asparagus, pineapple, Canadian bacon and all manner of fish such as anchovy, shrimp and tuna that have absolutely no place upon a pizza. We ask if they have any warm Mello Yello – so it would look and taste like piss — but they don’t so we settle for hot Mountain Dew (which is kind of like piss if you eat a dozen Flintstones Chewable Vitamins first. I figured -close enough). We give No Baloney’s name and address and run outside to wait for the delivery.
About a half hour later the driver shows up. An annoyed No Baloney answers the door.
“$44.50,” the driver says.
“I didn’t order no pizza,” Tony answers, with his psycho-twitching eyebrows and tough guy attitude.
“Is this number thirty —”
“Oh!” Tony screams. “Did I stutter? I didn’t order no pizza! Now get off my property before I shove those pizzas up your ass!”
Tony is shaking and twitching like a nut, and looks like Jose Canseco with a nervous tick as the completely bewildered delivery guy turns and walks back to the car. As he heads down the walkway he turns and glances at Tony who immediately screams, “And don’t turn around again or I’ll come down there and break your freaking head!”
Are you seeing a pattern here yet? Tony is a guy just aching for an ass kicking. So I set off to give him just that.
Scrambling back to Joe Wrigley’s house I dial Tony’s home phone number.
“Yeah, go,” He answers. The guy even answers the phone like a dick.
“You son of a bitch!” I scream in my meanest tough-guy voice. “You make me send my guy out there and then turn down these pizzas? I’m coming back there myself to break these pies over your melon head!”
“Come now! Come now!” he roars.
“I’m coming myself! Right now. You better come down and deal with me. I don’t want you hiding in your house like a little girl. I want your ass outside facing me. You hear me coward? Outside!”
We hear the phone banging and Tony losing his mind. His heavy pacing footsteps, glass breaking. The guy is having a complete fit. I yell again, “Outside! You hear me you sissy! Outside!”
“Come now! Come right now!”
And he’s growling and screaming like a nut. He is legitimately crazy. People like this should be put away. They really have no place in decent society.
I yell back, “I’m coming! I’m coming right now! You’re going to deal with me, dirtbag! I’m taking this $44.50 out of your ass!”
And I slam down the phone.
The boys go wild. The sidesplitting laughter lasts a full five minutes. Our friend Brian had just eaten two Choco Tacos and throws up in his mouth from the combination of delicious chocolatey goodness and laughing. It’s a very good laugh, the long-lasting type that really charges you up. But the fun has just started.
This is a ripe situation. I have a waiting lunatic and a phone book brimming with potential pizza delivery candidates. So I call up Pizza Kingdom, a whole different operation, and order up some new pies.
As the boys realize the brilliance of my plan a respectful silence overcomes them. I move up two or three full ranks in their eyes. With this single stroke of genius I am no longer little Johnny, I can now officially drop the “little” part. You can see their awe. Between the earlier catch and this prank it’s clear that I own the day. As they looked upon me with a new respect I could swear I heard the angels sing.
Now Pizza Kingdom is a very special place. The food is absolutely great. The pizza is crisp and delicious, with the perfect amount of oil running down your slice, like the relaxing flow of the sweet serene chocolate rivers in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. This pizza is so good that people try to get on death row so they can request it as a last meal. It’s so good that the delivery driver that works there gets paid in pizza. I kid you not, he gets no money from the place. His name is Roland and he actually accepts free food all day in lieu of shift pay.
As you can imagine, Roland is not a small boy. In fact, he’s huge. He can hear the ice cream truck coming before the dogs. He’s so big that he drives a convertible Mustang with the front seats removed. The dude weighs every single bit of four hundred pounds or I’ll eat a pineapple and anchovy pizza… with dog on top! I’m positive that on his lightest day, holding helium balloons, this guy is still way over four hundred pounds. Roland is so fat he’s even beyond losing weight. Unless someone puts his fat ass on the moon, he’ll never see four hundred pounds again for the rest of his life. There just isn’t that much Dexatrim in the world.
We never knew his last name, but always imagined it was “Around.”
Roland Around. How funny would that be?
Roland pulls up to Tony’s house with four large pies. Cue the action music.
From across the street we stare in silence. This is to be the greatest moment of our lives.
Tony comes flying out of the front door and charges Roland. Tony No Baloney swings as he lunges, but he’s swatted by the giant pork-chop hand of Roland Around. Tony hits the floor but bounces back. At considerable risk to himself, a confused yet now angry Roland turns his back on Tony to carefully set down the precious pies on the trunk of the Mustang.
Tony uses Roland’s respect for pizza to his advantage and attacks again! I have to hand it to the guy, as far as psychos go he’s the real deal. Only a complete loon would fight a 6’5”, four-hundred pound guy, but for ten seconds Tony gives it his best shot. In the end, though, it’s like a ham sandwich trying to fight a hungry giant. Tony’s blows have no effect on the mass of fat and Big Mac that is Roland. It’s a good thing Roland’s IQ is inversely proportionate to his pants size or he might take the time to ask the meaning of this clash of the titans. Luckily, that never happens. What does happen is a glorious ass kicking of the neighborhood psycho by the neighborhood Jell-O.
As our rotund savior heads back to the modified seat of his Mustang, he looks back at Tony lying on his front lawn like a beat down garden gnome. We pray for a finishing move. We are hoping Roland will go back and pull out Tony’s spine like Sub-Zero, but it doesn’t happen. Instead he walks over to the car breathing as if he just ran the NYC Marathon. He opens a pizza box and grabs two slices.
“Hungrality!” growls Joe Wrigley in his best Mortal Kombat voice.
Much like Tony, the pizza never has a chance. Roland reaches for two more slices as he starts the car. He reloads his catcher’s mitt-sized hand with mouth-watering Pizza Kingdom slices and drives off, . . .But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of site, “Gotta get home, Mom’s making meatloaf tonight!”
We turn our attention back to the battered No Baloney. I have to admit I’m hoping for a trademark, “Don’t play here!” but it never comes. He disappears inside, signaling the battle is mine. If I die that night, I do so with the satisfaction of having beaten Baloney.
The second his door closes we start laughing uncontrollably, which ensues for a full twenty minutes. I’m laughing so hard I have stomach pains. Richard Apollo, the kid that lived two doors down from me, actually peed himself, two guys threw up and Mike Cuevas claims to have crapped his pants “a little” from laughing so hard.
To this day that still bothers me. What does that mean, he crapped his pants, “A little”?
Call me crazy, but I feel that pants crapping is either a do or don’t situation. What I’m saying here is that the quantity of crap that actually comes out of your ass is meaningless, inconsequential to the overall act. In other words, if any crap – even the slightest, smallest amount of crap leaves your ass and winds up in your trousers, - -even a tiny little chip of crap - at that moment you have officially crapped your pants. If more comes out from that point is just extra. Call it bonus crap if you like.
Which actually reminds me of a funny story. Now on my street we have one hundred and ten boys and only seven girls . . .
Please note that you should only use the script or your recording of it for auditioning purposes. The script is property, unless otherwise specified, of the voice seeker and it is protected by international copyright laws.
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