From _Monty Python Live At The Hollywood Bowl_. Michaelangelo (played by Eric Idle) has been granted an audience to see the Pope (played by John Cleese). A papal assistant (played by Graham Chapman) announces him. A: Michaelangelo to see you, Your Holiness. P: Who? A: Michaelangelo, the famous Renaissance artist whose best known works include the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel and the celebrated statue of David. P: Very well. A: In 1514 he returned to Florence... P: Alright, that's enough, that's enough, they've got it now. A: Oh. [leaves] M: Good evening, Your 'Oliness. P: Evening, Michaelangelo. I want to have a word with you about this painting of yours, The Last Supper. M: Oh, yeah? P: I'm not happy about it. M: Oh, dear. It took me hours. P: I'm not happy at all. M: Is it the Jello you don't like? P: No. M: Oh, no, they do add a bit of color, don't they? Oh, I know, you don't like the kangaroo. P: What kangaroo? M: No problem. I'll paint him out. P: I never saw a kangaroo. M: Uh, he's right at the back. I'll paint him out, no sweat -- I'll make him into a disciple. P: Ah. M: Alright? P: That's the problem. M: What is? P: The disciples. M: Are they too Jewish? I made Judas the most Jewish. P: No, it's just that there are twenty-eight of them. M: Oh, well, another one will never matter -- I'll make the kangaroo into another one. P: No, that's not the point. M: Alright, we'll lose the kangaroo. Be honest, I was never perfectly 'appy with it. P: That's not the point. There are twenty-eight disciples. M: Too many? P: Well of course it's too many! M: Yeah, I know that, but I wanted to give the impression of a real last supper, you know, not just any ol' last supper. Not like a last meal or a final snack. But, you know, I wanted to give the impression of a real mother of a blow out, you know. P: There were only twelve disciples at the last supper. M: Well, maybe some of the other ones came along afterwards. P: There were only twelve altogether. M: Well, maybe some of their friends came by, you know. P: Look, there were just twelve disciples and our Lord at the last supper. The Bible clearly says so. M: No friends? P: No friends. M: Waiters. P: No. M: Cabaret. P: No! M: See, I like them, they help flesh out the scene. I could lose a few... P: Look, THERE WERE ONLY TWELVE DISCIPLES... M: I've got it. I've got it. We'll call it The Last-But-One Supper. P: What? M: Well, there must have been one. If there was a last one, there must have been a one before that. So this is The Penultimate Supper. The Bible doesn't say how many people were there, now, does it? P: Well, no, but... M: Well, there you are. P: Well, look. The last supper was a significant event in the life of our Lord. The penultimate supper was not. Even if they had a conjurer and a mariarchi band. A last supper I commissioned from you and a last supper I want, with twelve disciples and one Christ. M: One?! P: Yes, one! Now will you please tell me what in God's name possessed you to paint it with three Christs in it? M: It works, mate. P: Works?! M: Yeah! It looks great! The fat one balances the two skinny ones. P: There was only one Redeemer! M: I know that, we all know that. What about a bit of artistic license? P: Well, one messiah is what I want. M: I'll tell you what you want, mate. You want a bloody photographer, that's what you want. Not a bloody creative artist who... P: [hopping down from his throne] I'll tell you what I want! I want a last supper with one Christ, twelve disciples, no kangaroos, no trampoline acts, by Thursday lunch or you don't get paid!! M: Bloody fascist! [runs away] P: Look, I'm the bloody Pope, I am! I may not know much about art, but I know what I like! Another one from _Monty Python Live At The Hollywood Bowl_. Mr. Hilton: Terry Jones Police Inspector: Graham Chapman Police Constable Parrot: Terry Gilliam Mr. Hilton is seated at a desk; behind him is a huge picture of Queen Elizabeth holding a box of Whizzo Chocolates. I: Mr. 'Ilton? H: Ah, yes? I: You are sole proprietor and owner of the Whizzo Chocolate Company? H: I am. I: Constable Parrot and I are from the 'ygiene squad. H: Oh, yes? I: And we'd like to have a word with you about your box of chocolates entitled the Whizzo Quality Assortment. H: Ah, good, yes. I: If I may begin at the beginning? First, there is the cherry fondue. Now, this is extremely nasty, but we can't prosecute you for that. H: Agreed. I: Next, we have number four, crunchy frog. H: Yes? I: Am I right in thinking there's a real frog in 'ere? H: Yes, sir, a little one. I: Is it cooked? H: No. I: What, a raw frog?! H: We use only the finest baby frogs, dew picked and flown in from Iraq, cleansed in the finest quality spring water, lightly killed and sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth full cream treble milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose. I: That's as may be, but it's still a frog. H: But what else would it be? I: Well, don't you even take the bones out? H: If we took the bones out it wouldn't be crunchy, would it? I: Constable Parrot 'et one of those. P: [looking very sick] Would you excuse me for a moment, sir? I: Yes. [Parrot goes off-stage] H: Well, it says "crunchy frog" quite clearly. I: Well, never mind that. We have to protect the public. People aren't going to think there's a real frog in chocolate. The superintendent thought it was an almond whirl. They're bound to think it's some kind of mock frog. H: [indignant] Mock frog?! We use no artificial preservatives or additives of any kind. I: Nevertheless, I advise you in future to replace the words "crunchy frog" with the legend "crunchy raw unboned real dead frog" if you want to avoid prosecution. H: What about our sales? I: I don't give a damn about your sales. We have to protect the public. Now what was this one, number five? It was number five, wasn't it? [Constable Parrot returns from off-stage, still looking rather sick] Number five: ram's bladder cup. [Constable Parrot covers his mouth and runs off-stage again] Now what kind of confection is this? H: We use choicest juicy chunks of fresh Cornish ram's bladder, emptied, steamed, flavored with sesame seeds, whipped into a fondue, and garnished with lark's vomit. I: Lark's vomit?! H: Correct. I: It doesn't say anything down 'ere about lark's vomit. H: Oh, yes it does, on the bottom of the box, after monosodium glutamate. I: I 'ardly think this is good enough. It would be more appropriate if the box bore a big red label, "Warning: lark's vomit". H: Our sales would plummet! I: Well, why don't you move into more conventional areas of confectionaries, like praline, or lime cream, a very popular flavor, I'm led to understand, or strawberry delight. I mean what's this one: cockroach cluster. [Constable Parrot, who has returned, is visibly sick] And this: anthrax ripple. [Constable Parrot takes off his helmet and throws up into it] And what's this one: spring surprise. [Glares at Constable Parrot] H: Ah, that's our speciality. Covered in darkest, velvety smooth chocolate, when you pop it into your mouth, stainless steel bolts spring out and plunge through both cheeks. [Under the watchful eye of the Inspector, Constable Parrot puts his helmet, still filled with vomit, back on his head] I: If people pop a nice choccie in their mouths they don't expect to get their cheecks pierced. In any case, it's an inadequate description of the sweetmeat. I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the station. H: It's a fair cop. I: And don't talk to the audience. What's on the television Looks like a Penguin no, no, what PROGRAMME is on the television I'll have a look......what do you suppose that penguin's doin' there STANDIN! I can see that if he lays an egg, it will fall back down behind the television set Yes, unless he's a male Mmmmm, looks fairly butch Where do you suppose he came from Perhaps he's from next door NEXT DOOR, PENGUINS DON'T COME FROM NEXT DOOR, THEY COME FROM THE ANTARCTIC! Burma! Why did you say Burma? I paniced oh Perhaps he's from the zoo? which zoo? How should I know which zoo, I'm not Dr. bloody Bernofski How should Dr. Bernofski know which zoo he came from? He know everything Oh, Anyway, if he came from the zoo he would have PROPERTY OF THE ZOO stamped on him. No he wouldn't, they don't stamp the animals property of the ZOO, you can't stamp a huge lion! They stamp them when they're small. What happens when they molt? Lions don't molt. No, but Penguins do. There, I've run rings around you logically. Oh, intercourse the penguin! Announcer: Now its time for the penguin on top of your television set to explode [penguin explodes] How did he know that? Announcer: it was an inspired guess. ======================================= (Penguin on the telly sketch note 26...) I just got back from a trip to New York City. I was at South Street market (their copy of Faneuil Hall). Not worth the visit EXCEPT there is a Penguin store! They even have t-shirt, buttons, etc about the penguin on the Tele. It's great! ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Galaxy Song Monty Python Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown, And things seem hard or tough, And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft, And you feel that you've had quite enou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ough... Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving, Revolving at nine hundred miles an hour; That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned, A sun that is the source of all our power. The sun, and you and me, and all the stars that we can see, Are moving at a million miles a day, In an outward spiral arm at forty thousand miles an hour Of a galaxy we call the Milky Way. The galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars, It's a hundred thousand lightyears side to side; It bulges in the middle sixteen thousand lightyears thick, But out by us it's just three thousand lightyears wide. We're thirty thousand lightyears from Galactic Central Point, We go 'round ev'ry two hundred million years, And our galaxy is only one of millions and billions In this amazing and expanding universe. (Here there is a short waltz with Eric Idle as the singer and Terry Jones as the frumpy housewife.) The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding, In all of the directions it can whiz; As fast as it can go, the speed of light, you know, Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is. So remember when you're feeling very small and insecure, How amazingly unlikely is your birth, And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space, 'Cause there's buggerall down here on Earth! His whole song, in case you don't remember, is part of an effort on John Cleese's part to get Terry to give up his/her liver for an organ donation. The dialogue after the song goes something like this: Terry: It all makes you seem so . . . insignificant. John: Yeah...so...can we have your liver out? Terry: Yeah, all right. The Knights of Camelot Song Knights We're Knights of the Round Table We dance Wene'er we're able We do routines and chorus scenes With footwork impeccable We dine well here in Camelot We eat ham and jam and Spam a lot. We're Knights of the Round Table Our shows are formidable But many times We're given rhymes That are quite unsingable We're opera mad in Camelot We sing from the diaphragm a lot. In war we're tough and able, Quite indefatigable Between our quests We sequin vests And impersonate Clark Gable It's a busy life in Camelot. Single Man I have to push the pram a lot. Man: Evening, squire... Uh, are you married? Other: Yes. M: I'm a bachelor, myself! (ha, ha) Is your wife a goer? Eh? Know what I mean, know what I mean... nudge, nudge, know what I mean? Say no more. O: I beg your pardon. M: Your wife, does she go? Eh? Know what I mean, eh? Know what I mean? Does she go? Eh? O: Uh, she somtines goes... M: I'll bet she does, eh, I'll bet she does. Say no more, Say no more. Know what I mean, nudge, nudge. O: I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. M: Follow me... follow me, that's good, that's good. A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat. O: Look, are you selling something? M: Selling? Selling? VERY good, very good. Know what I mean? Oh, wicked, you're wicked, eh, you're wicked. A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat... but, uh.. your wife a sport? Eh? O: She likes sports. Yes. M: I'll bet she does, I'll bet she does. O: Yes, she's very fond of cricket. M: Who isn't, eh? Who isn't? Likes games, then... knew she would, knew she would. Who doesn't, eh? She's been around a bit, eh? Been around? O: Yes, she's travelled. She's from Purly. M: OH! Say no more, say no more, say no more. Purly! Say no more. Know what I mean? Say no more. Uh, your wife interested in photography? Eh? Photography, eh... he asked him knowingly. O: Photography? M: Yes. Snap, snap, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more. O: Oh, holiday snaps? M: Yes, could be on holiday... could be taken on holiday, could be. Filmy costimes, nudge, nudge. Candid... Candid photography? O: No, I'm afraid we don't have a camera. M: Oh, Still ooooh... eh... oooooohhh! O: Look, are you trying to insinuate something? M: NO, No, no, no, no, no... Yes. O: Well? M: Well, I mean, uh... You're a man of the world, aren't you? You've, uh, been around, you know? You've been there? O: What do you mean? M: Well, I mean, like you've, uh, done it... uh, with a lady. You've slept with a lady? O: Yes! M: What's it like? (I rented "Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl" over a year ago, and with liberal use of the rewind button I came up with most accurate version of this sketch that I could.) Michael Palin, Eric Idle, Graham Chapman and Terry Jones (in that order) are sitting around in bamboo chairs at a tropical resort, drinking wine, smoking cigars, and reminiscing about the good old days. Idle: Who would have thought, thirty years ago, we'd all be sitting here drinking Chateau de Chatterly, eh? Palin: Them days, we'd be glad to have the price of a cup of tea. Chapman: A cup of cold tea. Idle: Without milk or sugar. Jones: Or tea. Palin: In a cracked cup and all. Idle: Oh, we never used to have a cup. We'd have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper. Chapman: The best we could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth. Jones: But you know, we were happy in those days, although we were poor. Palin: Be God we were poor. My old dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't bring you happiness, son". Idle: He was right. I was happier then and I had nothing. We used to live in this tiny old tumbled down house with great big holes in the roof. Chapman: House. You were lucky to live in a house. We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, half the floor was missing, we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of falling. Jones: You were lucky to have a room. We used to have to live in the corridor. Palin: Oh, we used to dream of living in the corridor. It would have been a palace to us. We used to live on an old water tank in a rubbish dump. We used to wake up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us. House, humph. Idle: Well, when I say "house", it was just a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpaulin. But it was a house to us. Chapman: We were evicted from our hole in the ground. We had to go and live in a lake. Jones: You were lucky to have a lake. There were a hundred and fifty of us living in a shoe box in the middle of the road. Palin: Cardboard box? Jones: Aye. Palin: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a rolled up newspaper in a septic tank. We used to have to get up every morning at six o'clock and clean the newspaper, go to work down at the mill fourteen hours a day, week in, week out for sixpence a week and when we got home, our dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt. Chapman: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, work twenty hours a day at the mill for tuppence a month, come home and our dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle if we were lucky. Jones: Well of course, we had it tough. We used to have to get out of the shoe box in the middle of the night and lick the road clean with our tongues. We had to eat half a handful of freezing cold gravel whilst working all day in that mill for fourpence every six years and when we got home our dad would slice us in two with a bread knife. Idle: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill and pay the mill owner for permission to come to work and when we got home, our dad would kill us and dance about on our graves singing halleluja. Palin: And you try and tell the young people of today that, and they won't believe you. Idle, Chapman and Jones: No, no they won't. -- Bob ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ **** The Dead Bishop on the Landing sketch **** **** from Monty Python's Flying Circus. **** **** Transcribed from tape by **** **** Malcolm Dickinson ( CLARINET@YALEVMX.BITNET ) 4/3/86 **** Mother: (turning off radio) liberal rubbish! Klaus! Klaus: Yeah? M: Whaddaya want with yer jugged fish? K: 'Alibut. M: The jugged fish IS 'alibut! K: Well, what fish 'ave you got that isn't jugged? M: Rabbit. K: What, rabbit fish? M: Uuh, yes...it's got fins.... K: Is it dead? M: Well, it was coughin' up blood last night. K: All right, I'll have the dead unjugged rabbit fish. voice over: one dead unjugged rabbit fish later: K: (putting down his knife and fork) Well, that was really 'orrible. M: Aaw, you're always complainin'! K: Wha's for afters? M: Rat cake, rat sorbet, rat pudding, or strawberry tart. K: (eyes lighting up) Strawberry tart? M: Well, it's got *some* rat in it. K: 'Ow much? M: Three. A lot, really. K: Well, I'll have a slice without so much rat in it. voice over: One slice of strawberry tart without so much rat in it later: K: (putting down fork and knife) Appalling. M: Naw, naw, naw! Son: (coming in the door) 'Ello Mum. 'Ello Dad. K: 'Ello son. S: There's a dead bishop on the landing, dad! K: Really? M: Where's it from? S: Waddya mean? M: What's its diocese? S: Well, it looked a bit Bath and Wells-ish to me... K: (getting up and going out the door) I'll go and have a look. M: I don't know...kids bringin' 'em in here.... S: It's not me! M: I've got three of 'em down by the bin, and the dustmen won't touch 'em! K: (coming back in) Leicester. M: 'Ow d'you know? K: Tattooed on the back o' the neck. I'll call the police. M: Shouldn't you call the church? S: Call the church police! K: All right. (shouting) The Church Police! (sirens racing up, followed by a tremendous crash) (the church police burst in the door) Detective What's all this then, Amen! M: Are you the church police? All the police officers: (in unison) Ho, Yes! M: There's another dead bishop on the landing, vicar sargeant! Detective: Uh, Detective Parson, madam. I see... suffrican, or diocisian? M: 'Ow should I know? D: It's tatooed on the back o' their neck. (spying the tart) 'Ere, is that rat tart? M: Yes. D: Disgusting! Right! Men, the chase is on! Now we should all kneel! (they all kneel) All: O Lord, we beseech thee, tell us 'oo croaked Leicester! (thunder) Voice of the Lord: The one in the braces, 'e done it! Klaus: It's a fair cop, but society's to blame. Detective: Agreed. We'll be charging them too. K: I'd like you to take the three by the bin into consideration. D: Right. I'll now ask you all to conclude this harrest with a hymn. All: All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The church has nigged them all. Amen. THE PHILOSOPHERS SONG Immanuel Kant was a real pissant who very rarely stable Haidegger, Haiddegger was a boozy begger who could think you under the table David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel Wittgenstain was a beery swine who was just as schloshed as Schiegel There's nothing Nieizcche couldn't teach ya 'bout the rasing of the wrist Socrates himself was permanently pissed John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, and a half a pint of shanty was particularly ill Plato they say, could stick it away, a half a crate of whiskey every day Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle Hobbes was fond of his dram And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart "I drink therefore I am" Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed **** The Opening Scene Song from "Monty Python's Life of Brian" **** **** Transcribed by Dwayne A. X. E. E. ( CS107124@YUSOL.BITNET ) 4/27/86 **** Brian ... the babe they called Brian Grew ... grew grew and grew, grew up to be A boy called Brian A boy called Brian He had arms and legs and hands and feet This boy whose name was Brian And he grew, grew, grew and grew Grew up to be Yes he grew up to be A teenager called Brian A teenager called Brian And his face became spotty Yes his face became spotty And his voice dropped down low And things started to grow On young Brian and show He was certainly no No girl named Brian Not a girl named Brian And he started to shave And have one off the wrist And want to see girls And go out and get pissed This man called Brian This man called Brian ***** Please send your comments, praise, or complaints to: ***** ***** Dwayne A. X. E. E. () ***** From: markj@sunybcs.BITNET (Mark Johnson) the "Always Look On The Bright Side of Life" song from "Life of Brian" Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say. Some things in life are bad, They can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, Don't grumble, give a whistle! And this'll help things turn out for the best... And... (the music fades into the song) ..always look on the bright side of life! (whistle) Always look on the bright side of life... If life seems jolly rotten, There's something you've forgotten! And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing, When you're feeling in the dumps, Don't be silly chumps, Just purse your lips and whistle -- that's the thing! And... always look on the bright side of life... (whistle) Come on! (other start to join in) Always look on the bright side of life... (whistle) For life is quite absurd, And death's the final word. You must always face the curtain with a bow! Forget about your sin -- give the audience a grin, Enjoy it -- it's the last chance anyhow! So always look on the bright side of death! Just before you draw your terminal breath. Life's a piece of shit, When you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true, You'll see it's all a show, Keep 'em laughing as you go. Just remember that the last laugh is on you! And always look on the bright side of life... (whistle) Always look on the bright side of life (whistle) The "Australian Table Wines" Sketch --- ----------- ----- ------ ------ A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian Table Wines. This is a pity, as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palate, but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain. Blackstone Bordeaux is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured Burgundy, whilst a good Sydney Syrup can rank with and of the world's best sugary wines. Chateau Bleu, too, has won many prizes, not least for its lingering afterburn. Old Smokey 1968 has been compared favourably to a Welsh Claret, whilst the Australian Wino Society thoroughly recommend a 1970 Cotes du Rod Laver which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule. Eight bottles of this and you're REALLY finished. At the opening of the Sydney Bridge Club they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an hour. Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is Perth Pink. This is a bottle with a message in, and the message is: "BEWARE". This is not a wine for drinking. This is a wine for laying down and avoiding. Another good fighting wine is Melbourne Alben Yellow, which is particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat. Quite the reverse is true of Chateau Chunder, which is a appellation controlee specially grown for those keen on regurgitation; a fine wine which really opens up the sluices at both ends. Real emetic fans will also go for a Hobart Muddy and a prize-winning Cuvee Reserve chateau-bottled Nuits san Wogga-Wogga, which has a bouquet like an Aborigine's armpit. "Penguins are clever little sods" Neville Shunt's latest West End Success- "It All Happened on the 11:20 from Hainault to Redhill via Horsham and Reigate, Calling at Carshalton Beeches, Malmesbury, Tooting Bec, and Croydon West" is currently appearing at the Limp Theatre, Piccadilly. What Shunt is doing in this, as in his earlier nine plays, is to express the human condition in terms of British Rail. Some people have made the mistake of seeing Shunt's work as a load of rubbish about railway timetables, but clever people like me who talk loudly in restaurants see this as deliberate ambiguity, a plea for understanding in a mechanised mansion. The points are frozen, the beast is dead. What is the differ- ence? What indeed is the point? The point is frozen, the beast is late out of Paddington. The point is taken. If LaFontaine's elk would spurn Tom Jones the engine must be our head, the dining car our oesophagus, the guards van our left lung, the cattle truck our shins, the first class compartment the piece of skin at the nape of the neck and the level crossing an electric elk named Simon. The clarity is devestating. But where is the ambiguity? Over there in a box. Shunt is saying the 8:15 from Gillingham when in reality he means the 8:13 from Gillingham. The train is the same, only the time is altered. Ecce homo, ergo elk. LaFontaine knew it's sister and knew her bloody well. The point is taken, the beast is moulting, the fluff gets up your nose. The illusion is complete; it is reality, the reality is illusion and the ambiguity is the only truth. But is the truth, as Hitchcock observes, in the box? No, there isn't room, the ambiguity has put on weight. The point is taken, the elk is dead, the beast stops at Swindon, Chabrol stops at nothing, I'm having treatment and LaFontaine can get knotted. Gavin Millarrrrrrrrrrrrr wrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrote **** The string sketch **** from Monty Python's Instant Record Collection **** Transcribed from tape by Malcolm Dickinson , 4/5/86. Adrian Wapcaplet: Aah, come in, come in, Mr....Simpson. Aaah, welcome to Mousebat, Follicle, Goosecreature, Ampersand, Spong, Wapcaplet, Looseliver, Vendetta and Prang! Mr. Simpson: Thank you. Wapcaplet: Do sit down--my name's Wapcaplet, Adrian Wapcaplet... Mr. Simpson: how'd'y'do. Wapcaplet: Now, Mr. Simpson... Simpson, Simpson... French, is it? S: No. W: Aah. Now, I understand you want us to advertise your washing powder. S: String. W: String, washing powder, what's the difference. We can sell *anything*. S: Good. Well I have this large quantity of string, a hundred and twenty-two thousand *miles* of it to be exact, which I inherited, and I thought if I advertised it-- W: Of course! A national campaign. Useful stuff, string, no trouble there. S: Ah, but there's a snag, you see. Due to bad planning, the hundred and twenty-two thousand miles is in three inch lengths. So it's not very useful. W: Well, that's our selling point! "SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL STRINGETTES!" S: What? W: "THE NOW STRING! READY CUT, EASY TO HANDLE, SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL EMPEROR STRINGETTES - JUST THE RIGHT LENGTH!" S: For what? W: "A MILLION HOUSEHOLD USES!" S: Such as? W: Uhmm...Tying up very small parcels, attatching notes to pigeons' legs, uh, destroying household pests... S: Destroying household pests?! How? W: Well, if they're bigger than a mouse, you can strangle them with it, and if they're smaller than, you flog them to death with it! S: Well *surely*!.... W: "DESTROY NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF KNOWN HOUSEHOLD PESTS WITH PRE-SLICED, RUSTPROOF, EASY-TO-HANDLE, LOW CALORIE SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL EMPEROR STRINGETTES, FREE FROM ARTIFICIAL COLORING, AS USED IN HOSPITALS!" S: 'Ospitals!?!?!?!!? W: Have you ever in a Hospital where they didn't have string? S: No, but it's only *string*! W: ONLY STRING?! It's everything! It's...it's waterproof! S: No it isn't! W: All right, it's water resistant then! S: It isn't! W: All right, it's water absorbent! It's...Super Absorbent String! "ABSORB WATER TODAY WITH SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL WATER ABSORB-A-TEX STRINGETTES! AWAY WITH FLOODS!" S: You just said it was waterproof! W: "AWAY WITH THE DULL DRUDGERY OF WORKADAY TIDAL WAVES! USE SIMPSON'S INDIVIDUAL FLOOD PREVENTERS!" S: You're mad! W: Shut up, shut up, shut up! Sex, sex sex, must get sex into it. Wait, I see a television commercial- There's this nude woman in a bath holding a bit of your string. That's great, great, but we need a doctor, got to have a medical opinion. There's a nude woman in a bath with a doctor--that's too sexy. Put an archbishop there watching them, that'll take the curse off it. Now, we need children and animals. There's two kids admiring the string, and a dog admiring the archbishop who's blessing the string. Uhh...international flavor's missing...make the archbishop Greek Orthodox. Why not Archbishop Macarios? No, no, he's dead... nevermind, we'll get his brother, it'll be cheaper... So, there's this nude woman....