'A Tuna Christmas' is the second in a series of plays created by

Host: The neon lights of the small-town diner hummed softly against the winter dusk. A paper Christmas wreath hung crooked on the glass door, swaying each time the wind pushed against it. The air inside smelled of coffee, bacon grease, and a faint trace of pine from the tree in the corner — a tree too small for its own decorations.
Outside, snowflakes — rare in Texas — spiraled lazily, dissolving before they touched the ground.

Jack sat at a booth, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug. His grey eyes stared out through the window, lost in the reflection of twinkling lights. Jeeny slid into the seat across from him, her cheeks flushed from the cold, a smile lingering as she took in the quiet charm of the place.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack,” she began, her voice soft but bright, “Lori Wilde once said, ‘A Tuna Christmas is the second in a series of plays created by Joe Sears and Jaston Williams featuring the fictional town of Greater Tuna, the third-smallest town in Texas. What makes these plays so hysterically funny is the accurate portrayal of small-town life in the Lone Star State.’”

Host: Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the lights that blinked along the counter. There was something tender in her tone, as if she carried a secret affection for such places, such people.

Jack: He gave a short laugh, the sound low, edged with irony. “Funny how people romanticize small towns. They talk about them like they’re pockets of innocence. I grew up in one — I know better. Under the laughter, there’s gossip, hypocrisy, and small dreams strangled by small minds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what makes it so human? Wilde didn’t say it was perfect. She said it was accurate. There’s a difference. ‘A Tuna Christmas’ isn’t just comedy — it’s a mirror. And the best mirrors don’t flatter; they reflect truth, flaws and all.”

Host: The jukebox in the corner began to play an old country song, a melody that carried a faint echo of nostalgia, like a postcard from a time that never really existed.

Jack: “Truth? You think a couple of guys in wigs playing twenty characters is truth?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. Comedy can be truer than drama. Think of Mark Twain or Chaplin — they laughed at us to make us see ourselves. A Tuna Christmas does the same. It’s not mocking small-town life; it’s celebrating its absurd beauty.”

Host: The rain began to tap against the window, a quiet percussion that blended with the hum of conversation. The waitress passed by, refilling Jack’s coffee and smiling without really looking.

Jack: “Absurd beauty? Try claustrophobic routine. Everyone knowing everyone’s business. The same faces in the same diner every morning, the same gossip over the same pancakes. It’s not charming; it’s a loop that never ends.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what gives it soul! Those loops — those routines — they anchor people. In a world where everything moves too fast, a small town stays the same. That constancy is its poetry.”

Jack: “Or its prison.”

Host: The lights flickered, and the diner seemed to shrink for a moment — the world outside dissolving into dark and drizzle, leaving only this small, glowing room of two opposing hearts.

Jeeny: “You always see the bars, Jack, never the warmth. Don’t you remember Christmas festivals when you were a kid? The way the whole town came alive — neighbors decorating store windows, kids caroling off-key, everyone laughing? That’s Tuna. That’s small-town life. It’s ridiculous, yes, but it’s real.”

Jack: “I remember. I also remember old man Peters getting drunk at the parade every year, the mayor’s son wrecking the float, and people pretending not to notice. It’s always the same story — people hiding their cracks under tinsel.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it’s funny. Because we recognize ourselves in it. Those cracks are what make us human. Wilde and the Tuna plays capture that — the way people stumble through life pretending to be better than they are, and somehow, it’s still endearing.”

Host: A silence settled, punctuated only by the sound of the coffee machine sputtering. Outside, the snow turned to rain, washing away what little had gathered. The neon sign flickered again, its red letters spelling out OPEN like a stubborn heartbeat in the night.

Jack: “You talk about endearing, but it’s just familiarity. People laugh because they see themselves and feel relieved — relieved someone else is just as flawed. But nothing changes. That’s the tragedy of small-town comedy — it’s catharsis without consequence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe laughter is the consequence, Jack. Maybe laughter is how people survive monotony, judgment, and the smallness you despise. When you can laugh at your own absurdity, you own it.”

Host: The conversation deepened, the air heavy with meaning. Jack’s eyes softened, the sharpness fading into contemplation. He took a slow sip of coffee, staring at the rising steam as if it were a ghost from his past.

Jack: “You know, my mother loved plays like that. She’d watch them on VHS every Christmas. Said it made her miss home, even though she never really left it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe people laugh not because it’s funny, but because it’s familiar — and familiarity feels safe.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Comedy is comfort disguised as chaos. It tells us we can still love each other even when we’re ridiculous. Greater Tuna might be a joke, but it’s also a love letter — to Texas, to eccentricity, to being unapologetically human.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glowed, the light catching in their brown depths like a warm flame. Jack watched her, the corners of his mouth turning upward almost involuntarily — a smile born of recognition more than joy.

Jack: “So you think Wilde’s right? That the humor lies in the accuracy — not the exaggeration?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The exaggeration is the accuracy. Every small town is full of characters who are larger than life precisely because their world is small. The less room they have, the more their personalities expand to fill it. It’s human nature.”

Jack: “And we, the audience, are voyeurs — watching them to feel better about ourselves.”

Jeeny: “No. We’re participants. We laugh because we know them. Because we are them — the gossip, the dreamer, the cynic, the believer. Greater Tuna isn’t a parody of them. It’s a confession of us.”

Host: The diner door opened, letting in a burst of cold wind and the sound of distant bells from the town square. The waitress turned up the radio — static, then a faint broadcast of a local Christmas pageant, voices off-key but joyous.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “In its own way, it is. Every laugh shared over imperfection is a kind of prayer.”

Host: Jack’s smile lingered, small but real. He looked around the diner — the chipped plates, the cracked vinyl seats, the neon glow reflecting off rain-slick glass — and for a moment, it all seemed... beautiful. Not because it was perfect, but because it was alive.

Jack: “Maybe Wilde saw that too — the holiness in imperfection. The humor in honesty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Comedy that tells the truth is never cruel. It reminds us we’re all ridiculous, but that we still belong.”

Host: The rain slowed, and outside, the Christmas lights blinked stubbornly against the night — small, imperfect stars refusing to go out.

Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing Jack’s hand.

Jeeny: “So, maybe next time you watch A Tuna Christmas, don’t just laugh at the characters. Laugh with them. That’s the difference between cynicism and compassion.”

Jack: “You’re saying laughter can be an act of empathy.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The camera would slowly pull back now — two figures framed in the glow of diner lights, their laughter mingling with the hum of Texas rain. The town beyond slept in quiet irony, its stories small yet infinite.

And in that tender quiet, one truth lingered like the final note of a country song —
that comedy, like small towns and Christmas lights, is not about perfection.
It’s about recognizing ourselves, and forgiving what we see.