I’m playing Monopoly with a friend who just returned from overseas. He’s so jet-lagged that he falls asleep during the game. After he nods off, I steal a bunch of real estate. My friend awakens, sees my shiny new hotel on Park Place, and looks at me with a dazed expression.
I’m the new celebrity personal trainer on an NBC reboot of The Biggest Loser, supporting The Blue Team. One of my contestants, David, is so gung-ho that he’s been staying up until 1 AM to get extra hours on the StairMaster. In an emotional scene where David and I both cry, I explain that he’s making a fatal mistake: a full night’s sleep is essential for fat loss.
I’m a 1920s boxcar-hopping hobo who’s riding the rails from Toledo to Indianapolis. I know that, on this route, if you jump off the train at exactly 3:35 AM, you’ll find a trail that leads to an unguarded pie factory where you can eat all the delicious pies you want. I’m trying to explain this to a stubborn hobo buddy of mine who loves his beauty sleep.
I’m the host of a YouTube stunt-game show that’s sponsored by Walgreens. I’m introducing the segment where contestants must take a dose of Walgreens-branded Benadryl equivalent and stand on a platform surrounded by gross green goop without dosing off and falling into the goop pit. The camera zooms in on my face as I shout the rules in my most dramatic voice.
I’m a driver's ed instructor trying to impress upon my students the dangers of driving while drowsy.
I’m a deranged villain who gets off on elaborate acts of psychological terror. I’ve hidden a bomb somewhere in the city and rigged it to detonate from the alarm clock snooze button of the unsuspecting police commissioner. I’m talking on a payphone to a reporter at the city’s biggest newspaper, warning her of my diabolical scheme in the most cryptic way I can.
I’m a door-to-door salesman of extremely rare samurai swords. I’m talking to a suburban dad who wants a sword as a decorative piece for his home bar, but he’s worried his wife will get mad about such an expensive purchase. I’m mentally searching for a one-liner this dad will get on a primal level, something to convince him that once these swords are gone, they’re gone for good. Suddenly, I remember reading a psychology book that claims people are more easily persuaded by a statement that rhymes, even though this makes no logical sense. Then the dad says he “needs to sleep on the decision.” I arch my eyebrows and fire away.
I’m a notorious 1850s Vaudeville impresario known as “The Dean of Mean.” My top rule for performers is “don’t be a snooze,” i.e. “never do a dull juggling or clowning routine that bores the audience.” In my infamous pre-show pep talk, I twirl my mustache and tell my troupe that if they fail tonight, I will unceremoniously yank them off the stage with a wooden hook.
I’m a star-faring astronaut who gets sucked through a wormhole and spit out into an alternate universe where English exists, but the words “snooze” and “bruise” have switched meanings. I end up on alternate Earth, and the only job I can secure is one as the manager of a group of catwalk models. One of the models, Zoey, moonlights as an MMA cage fighter, and the owners of the fashion show have complained that Zoey is showing up to work with “visible snoozes.” Because these owners are heartless and only care about beauty and perfection, they tell me to fire Zoey. But we’re on a tight schedule today, so I have to do it using just four words.
I’m the owner of two Corgis: a lazy one that falls asleep when he eats, and a hungry one that devours the other’s kibble whenever this happens. I’m telling the lazy one that I can’t help him.