The following play has everything: suspense, casual racism, and jokes that Americans won't get. It's a squeeze, but you could cut the minicab gag and the admittedly hackneyed 'commercial break/repeated line' gag.
Untitled (Sci-fi)
THE PLAYERS: CAPTAIN, NAVIGATOR, SCIENCE OFFICER, TACTICAL OFFICER
THE SCENE: The bridge of a spaceship, such as those seen in popular serialised television shows. CAPTAIN is seated centre-stage. TACTICAL OFFICER and NAVIGATOR are seated in front. SCIENCE OFFICER is stands at off to one side at the back.
CAPTAIN: (to NAVIGATOR) Mister Crabs, lay in a course for Omega Persei.
NAVIGATOR: Yes sir.
SCIENCE: Sir, I'm picking something up on the long range scanner.
CAPTAIN: Is it a minicab company?
SCIENCE: What?
CAPTAIN: I mean, on screen.
SCIENCE: Main screen turn on, sir.
(The crew react to the big, alarming thing on screen.)
CAPTAIN: What is it, number one?
SCIENCE: Fascinating. According to my readings, it's a Stu Francis Anomaly.
CAPTAIN: You mean, (pause) a rip in the tissue of the space-time continuum?
SCIENCE: That's right sir.
CAPTAIN: (dramatically, a la Zap Brannigan) My god, we'll be crushed like grapes!
(dramatic chords denoting cliffhanger, commercial break)
CAPTAIN: (as before) My god, we'll be crushed like grapes!
CAPTAIN: (regains composure) Tactical guy, how are we going to get out of this one?
TACTICAL: (outrageously Italian) I say we turn around and-a go really fast the other way.
CAPTAIN: (snorts dismissively) Maybe that's how they do things on your vaguely allegorical planet, Giuseppe. (to NAVIGATOR) Crabsy?
NAVIGATOR: Sir, if we expediently orient the foremost protuberance of the vessel at an angle diametrically opposed to the nexus of the African American cavity and inducing maximum motive force -
SCIENCE: Of course!
CAPTAIN: Make it happen!
TACTICAL: (aside) Ahh, this is-a bullshit!