Myself: We've been doing a lot of comedy in the last few shows, so tonight I thought we'd take a turn and discuss a question that might appeal to our more serious viewers: how to become a star.
Smuthers: Ha! That's a laugh!
Myself: What's so funny about it?
Smuthers: If you were a star, we wouldn't be in an alleyway.
Myself: You don't have to be a star to talk about it.
Smuthers: Are you sure you're not jeopardizing my safety by taking me to a place like this?
Myself: What do you mean? Look around you. We have it all to ourselves.
Smuthers: I see it. It's unsightly. Look at that cardboard box on the ground.
Myself: That? You just kick it out of the way. (I kick the box and it gives out a muffled cry of pain. A hobo emerges from it with his hands behind his head in surrender as Smuthers recoils.)
Hobo: Take me to my bed, officers.
Myself: We're not cops.
Hobo: You're not? Damn!
Smuthers: See that? And it's smelly.
Myself: (finding a spray-can) That must be what this is for. I'll just give it a spray. (I release a jet of the compound into the air, causing the hobo to pounce on me.)
Hobo: Hey, what are you doing! (He tears the can from my grasp.)
(Commercial.)
(Smuthers and I on makeshift chairs.)
Myself: Now not all stars are musicians or actors. Some of them are athletes. And here's a gal who takes the show biz expression 'Break a leg!' literally, figure skating champ, Sonya Hardy!
(In glides Hardy, building to a double lutz before taking her seat on a milk carton.)
Myself: I bet you're not afraid of being in an alley.
Hardy: If anyone tries anything funny, I'll give em a taste of this. (She brandishes brass knuckles.)
Myself: Nice.
Hardy: Wanna see 'em up close?
Myself: No, thank you. We just want to talk. Do you have any advice for people like yourself out there who are trying to make it?
Hardy: If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Someone's in your way, you take care of them at night, attacking from the rear. Make sure no one sees you. (Smuthers reaches for a piece of scrap metal.) What 'cha got your hand on there, Missy?
Smuthers: (gripping the object firmly) This? This is just to club the rats with.
Myself: Miss Hardy, don't you think the competition is getting out of hand when people are carried off to the hospital in stretchers?
Hardy: It happens in football.
Myself: (confounded) I guess you're right.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: The School of the Deforming Arts
(Postcard image of the campus with its sign in the foreground.)
Announcer: Looking to beef up your arts eduction? Put that high kick to use in the School of the Deforming Arts.
(An auditorium. A dance instructor in top hat and cane delivers her lecture.)
Instructor: If you want to make it to the top of the dance profession, you need the right hardware. (She slides the stem of the cane off to expose a deadly knife.)
Announcer: Cut down the competition.
(A classroom. Wires run out of a piano for a physics lesson by a lab-coated science professor with a German accent.)
Professor: And so the charge will only be detonated on the last note of the melody he will play - as long as he doesn't make a mistake and end it on the wrong note
Announcer: Give explosive performances.
(An outdoor concert. All goes up in flames as jet engines roar overhead. Switch to a group of students in combat fatigues. One of them peers through binoculars and taps the other on the shoulder. The other pulls out a walkie-talkie.)
Student: (into walkie-talkie) Roger that. We have just received visual confirmation that the payload has reached its target.
Announcer: Learn the hottest new techniques in the business.
(Target practice with assault rifles.)
Announcer: Enlist in the School of the Deforming Arts. And don't just aim for stardom, shoot for it.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
(The improvised guest chair lies open.)
Smuthers: That was tense. I hope your next guest is a little less physically threatening.
Myself: You've got to expect that from ambitious athletes, but our next guest is just an actress.
Smuthers: That's a relief.
Myself: Here to tell us how to be a star, teen idol, Loni Lonnigan!
(In struts Lonnigan. She pulls the milk carton in and straddles it.)
Myself: Miss Lonnigan, do let me apologize for the humble accommodations. I know you're used to a lot better.
Lonnigan: Who's the bimbo?
Myself: Are you referring to my assistant, Janie Smuthers?
Lonnigan: I don't like the way she's looking at me.
Myself: Janie, stop looking at her like that.
Smuthers: I'm not doing anything!
Lonnigan: Tell her to stop squealing or I'll have to do a number on her.
Myself: A musical number?
Smuthers: You and whose army?
Lonnigan: That does it! We're in an alley, eh? How convenient. (She rolls up her sleeves.)
Smuthers: (tapping her free hand with her rat club) Oh yeah? Well I don't need to hide in alleyways, but if you went down in public, the people would cheer. (The girls get up from their chairs, forcing me to stand between them.)
Myself: Ladies! Ladies! Control yourselves!
Smuthers: If she makes a move, she's getting it with this.
Lonnigan: Fuck you, bitch! (She lunges for Smuthers. Smuthers raises her weapon.)
Myself: No! (The girls push me out of the way, drop their arms and embrace in a warm hug.) What in the world?
Smuthers: You were always such a kidder!
Lonnigan: I think about you every day.
(Commercial.)
Myself: If I were to gather anything from our show so far, it's that you have to be tough to survive in show business. Doesn't it make you wonder, Janie?
Smuthers: Wonder about what?
Myself: About whether it's fair to the talent. You can be talented without being tough.
Smuthers: I don't pity them.
Myself: Why not?
Smuthers: They have too much talent.
Myself: Right. Well, Wailin' Will is a popular independent artist who says that he sometimes fears for his life because of his talent. And here he is to tell us more!
(Enter an impostor.)
Myself: You're not Wailin' Will.
Impostor: Yes, I am.
Myself: You don't look anything like him.
Impostor: Plastic surgery. This is my new look.
Myself: You're three inches shorter.
Impostor: I'm just not in my platforms.
Myself: Your voice is different.
Impostor: I had laryngitis before, but it's all cleared up now.
Myself: You're not Wailin' Will. I went to school with Wailin' Will.
Impostor: Sure I am. (to Smuthers:) Don't you recognize me, baby?
Smuthers: Keep away from me!
(A sawed off shotgun falls out of the impostor's pocket.)
Impostor: (putting the weapon back in his coat) Go ahead. Ask me a question.
Myself: All right. What have you done with the body?
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