This will be my last post in a while. I just wanted my fans to know I love them.
Myself: In keeping with this Valentine's Day, I thought we should talk about relationships. In spite of countless possibilities for each of us, the search for the ideal companion typically ends in disaster. Our guests today have agreed to share their experiences of romantic failure, whose bitter lessons will hopefully help us improve our chances of finding happiness.
Smuthers: Wouldn't it be more positive to look for insights from people in successful relationships?
Myself: They've made no mistakes we can learn from. Besides, a lot of them are secretly unhappy.
Smuthers: Well, if I would have known I'd be meeting single men on the rebound, I wouldn't have worn this skirt.
Myself: You look fine. What, are you afraid they're going to lose control and slobber all over you or something?
Smuthers: No, but-
Myself: Why do you only want to look sexy for the taken men? Maybe it's women like you who are at the root of this problem. Well, let me assure you that we bachelors are fully capable of exercising calm and grace in the presence of attractive women in short skirts.
Smuthers: (Upon reflection) I guess you're right. Sorry.
Myself: That's all right. Just don't let it happen again. And by the way, what sort of hose is that? Is that sheer? Joe, could we get a closeup on Janie's hose? (Zoom in on Smuthers legs from front. Whistles and catcalls.)
Smuthers: Hey!
Myself: Very nice. Do feel free to uncross them if it makes you more comfortable. Now, our first guest is in such a hurry to get over his breakup that he's already started up a brand new romance. That should leave my cohost safely in the clear. Ladies and gentlemen, Felix Horner! (Applause. Enter Horner.) Thanks for coming. Great to hear you're keeping active.
Horner: I don't want my last breakup to be the end of everything.
Myself: You're lucky to find someone new so fast.
Horner: I keep my eyes open.
Myself: Any places in particular?
Horner: Not really. Corner stores are good. Or pharmacies sometimes.
Myself: Pharmacies? I never thought of that. I suppose they come in to buy cosmetics.
Horner: I met April in a pharmacy.
Myself: That's your ex, right?
Horner: Yes.
Myself: Tell us about her.
Horner: She's twenty-two, five-seven, 35-23-34, and likes dancing and water skiing.
Myself: Why did you break up with her?
Horner: My mom threw her out.
Myself: You live with your mother?
Horner: No.
Myself: You mean, your mother threw April out of your own home?
Horner: With one hand.
Myself: She must be tough.
Horner: She never likes my girlfriends. I should have tried to hide April better. I won't let that happen with June.
Myself: Is that your new girlfriend?
Horner: Since I lost May. She was Japanese.
Myself: My, you have been busy.
Smuthers: Mister Horner, what sort of work do you do?
Horner: I'm unemployable.
Smuthers: Are you wealthy?
Horner: No.
Smuthers: No future, no money, a tyrannical mother, and you expect me to believe that you're having all these relationships?
Horner: But I can afford June. She only cost fifteen dollars plus tax.
Smuthers: She'd charge more than that for you. I bet you're making her up.
Myself: What's her last name?
Horner: 2017.
Myself: June 2017? That's not a name, that's a date.
Horner: She's my date! I keep her hidden where my mom won't find her.
Myself: Where's that?
Horner: Right here, in my pants. (He stands up, untucks his shirt, and starts to pull a magazine out from under his pants.) Wanna see?
Myself: No, put it back please. (Horner puts back the magazine and pulls a camera out of his pocket.)
Horner: (aiming at Smuthers) Click! Click! Now you're my girlfriend! (She whips out a canister, gets up, and sprays him in the eyes, sending him into howling spasms on the floor, then picks up his camera to delete its content.)
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Our next guest is a researcher. I hope that meets with your standards, Janie. He says his life has turned upside down since he ended his relationship with a nurse. Let's have a nice show of support for Edgar Morgan! (Applause. Enter Morgan.) How long have you been on your own?
Morgan: Two weeks.
Myself: And you were together for how long?
Morgan: Four years.
Myself: Where did you meet her?
Morgan: At work.
Myself: I see, a workplace romance. Those can be tricky. What kind of nurse is she?
Morgan: Psychiatric, at a research facility for violent sex offenders.
Myself: Very impressive! And why did you break up with her?
Morgan: I just had to get out of there.
Myself: You didn't like the work?
Morgan: I hated it. Question after question. Test after test. And she did everything wrong.
Myself: Everything? Are you sure that's fair?
Morgan: I'm telling you: she kept the temperature too warm, she turned the lights out too early, she didn't give enough medication... and I told her over and over again but she wouldn't listen.
Myself: So you quit your job.
Morgan: You could call it that. One night I just got so sick and tired of lying on a cold table with wires running out of me that I jumped up and overpowered the guard. I seized his gun and used it to hold her hostage until I was safely through the gate.
Myself: (Tentatively) Overpowered the guard. Right. And where is she now?
Morgan: I don't know. I let her go outside the gate. You should have seen her run! But I didn't know how much I'd miss her. It just doesn't feel right, going to the bathroom without her permission.
Smuthers: (Nervously) What about the gun?
Morgan: I threw it in the river.
Myself: Well then, someone should be along to pick you up soon. So, you're not a researcher but an escaped sex offender! I guess that's as far as we can take this discussion.
Morgan: (to Smuthers) Nice panties. (She pulls out an electric stun gun and touches Morgan on the neck with it, zapping him to unconsciousness.)
COMMERCIAL: The Dream Weaver Alpha-Wave Generator
(A boarding house. A matron serves breakfast.)
Matron: Where's Mr Jones? He'll miss his breakfast.
Lodger: In bed.
Matron: In the middle of the day?
Lodger: He's breaking in his new Dream Weaver.
(Closeup of sleeper's rapid eye movement. Pan out to show Jones in bed, dreaming.)
Announcer: Up to five years of the average human life is spent in REM sleep. At last, the technology has arrived to furnish sleepers with the means to control their dreams. Just plug it in, close your eyes, and ride a smooth current of alpha waves to a subconscious paradise of your own design. Are you a total failure in the real world? You can still enjoy all of the rewards without doing any of the work, as long as you can afford the Dream Weaver Alpha-Wave Generator.
(Breakfast a year later.)
Matron: Is Mr Jones ever coming down for breakfast?
Lodger: I'm not sure he can even make it to the bathroom anymore.
(Cut to an emaciated and scraggly bearded Jones, paralyzed by REM sleep, in ragged sheets and pyjamas.)
Announcer: Get what you want with the Dream Weaver!
Smuthers: I hope the next guest is a woman.
Myself: He isn't, but his trainer is. Directly from the three-ring circus, please join me in welcoming Karen Bunsen and Goliath! (Applause. Enter Bunsen, with a lion on a leash. She sits in the guest chair while the lion rubs his sides against Smuthers' legs.)
Bunsen: He must like you.
Smuthers: (Petrified) He feels very muscular.
Myself: That's how they scent mark their mates isn't it? (Smuthers passes me a bitter look.)
Bunsen: Goliath doesn't distinguish much between men and women, he just likes power. (The animal buries his head in Smuthers' lap, takes a deep whiff, emerges and releases a fierce roar directly into her face, drowning out her visible scream of terror.) Don't be afraid, that's just how he says hello. (The animal returns to Bunsen and crouches at her feet.)
Smuthers: Shouldn't he be in a cage?
Bunsen: He's perfectly harmless.
Smuthers: Well, why do we need to interview a lion?
Myself: Because Goliath has experienced some relationship problems, isn't that so?
Bunsen: Yes, being the only lion in town caused him to develop some abnormal attractions.
Smuthers: Say no more. Good night, Goliath! (Against Bunsen's protest, she rises and puts the lion to sleep with a dart from a tranquilizer gun.) Dave, as to the risk of serious physical injuries on this set, there can be no denial.
Myself: In an increasingly automated world, more and more stumbling blocks appear for people in the form of technical challenges, some of which may threaten their very survival. Today we'll be talking to a few of these victims of our growing technocracy.
Smuthers: That's a little dramatic, isn't it?
Myself: I think it's a serious problem.
Smuthers: You think it's the end of the world just because a few slowpokes out there can't figure out their ipods?
Myself: Slowpoke, am I? Well, while you take your familiarity for granted, others may be crippled by such fundamental changes.
Smuthers: Oh please!
Myself: Maybe one day when the ipod is made obsolete by some strange new device, you'll be more sympathetic. And what about workplace victims like my first guest, who lost his job as a cashier to a self-serve checkout machine? Do you dismiss them, as well?
Smuthers: I don't know, I'd have to hear from him first.
Myself: Very well, let's bring him out here. Please join me in welcoming Perry Slight! (Applause. Enter Slight.) Glad you could make it.
Slight: Oh, I have plenty of free time these days.
Myself: I'm sorry to hear that. How is your job search coming along?
Slight: Not good. Machines have cut down a lot of the positions in my field.
Myself: Maybe it's time to explore a new field.
Slight: Cashiering is more than wide enough.
Myself: It is? Then perhaps your job skills are transferrable to a more available position.
Slight: Like what?
Myself: I don't know, anything to do with serving customers, I guess. Have you thought about maybe working in a restaurant?
Slight: Does it have a checkout?
Myself: There are better jobs out there.
Slight: Not for me, I'm happy as a cashier. Each customer presents a fascinating new mystery.
Myself: Did you really enjoy serving customers?
Slight: Sure, they gave me a sense of purpose. My goal was not only to identify their needs without them having to tell me, but to remember all of their names.
Myself: That was certainly above and beyond the call.
Slight: I also drew a map of the store, and I wrote a training pamphlet for the new employees.
Myself: Exceptional.
Slight: And I programmed an online database of all their products.
Myself: Wow, it's hard to believe they'd turn around and replace you with a machine after all that.
Slight: What do you mean? I wasn't replaced by the new machine, I built it.
Myself: You built their self serve checkout machine?
Slight: Yes, on my spare time.
Myself: I don't understand then, if you were so indispensable, why did you have to leave?
Slight: Because there was nothing left to do.
COMMERCIAL
Smuthers: I hope you don't expect me to pity that last guest.
Myself: Forget about him, up next is a woman who says her health and safety has been jeopardized by faults in her home alarm system - a perfect example of what I'm talking about. Ladies and gentlemen, Susan Maelstrum! (Applause. Enter Maelstrum, puffing profusely on a long cigarette.) Now, you say that your situation has reached life-or-death proportions. How long have you had this alarming problem?
Maelstrum: Since I moved in a year ago. It seems like eternity.
Myself: What kind of alarm is it?
Maelstrum: A smoke alarm. I had to tear it out of the ceiling because it kept going off for no reason. Now I'm afraid to sleep, in case my home catches fire in the middle of the night.
Myself: You must be exhausted. And I understand you've suffered some injuries, as well.
Maelstrum: That's right, from waking up so abruptly that I fell out of bed and hurt my hip!
Myself: You poor thing.
Maelstrum: Last time it kept ringing so long I almost had to take an aspirin!
Myself: You poor dear.
Maelstrum: (Between puffs) And if it keeps interfering with my sleep, I'm going to miss my appointment for chest x-rays. (She extinguishes her cigarette and lights another one.)
Smuthers: (Choking on secondhand smoke) How tragic.
Myself: (Eyes watering) Has the inspector had a look at it?
Maelstrum: He says it's not broken, but I know better. The one in my last home never used to go off all the time like that. I could chain-smoke and burn incense and fry smokies all at once, all night long, with no interruption. This one goes off before I'm even into my second pack.
Myself: Why did you move from your last home?
Maelstrum: It burned down.
Myself: (Obscured by smoke, hand sweeping a clear patch for my head) Do you think your real problem might be that you smoke too much?
Maelstrum: Impossible. (The onstage fire alarm sounds.)
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Okay, I know those last two guests were a little disappointing, but our next guest says that advanced technology has turned his car into a death trap. This is the kind of discussion I've been trying to get into here. Please welcome Wendal Pitts! (Applause. Enter Pitts.) Glad you're still with us.
Pitts: And still in one piece, unlike my car.
Myself: Yes, I understand you narrowly escaped an explosion.
Pitts: It was a close one, all right. It would have never happened in my old car.
Myself: Did you have to abandon it while you were driving?
Pitts: No, it was parked.
Myself: Have they figured out what went wrong?
Pitts: It was the locking system.
Myself: What, a wiring problem?
Pitts: No, it wouldn't let me break in. You see, I locked my keys inside. I used to be able to break into my old car with a good spatula, but the new ones have a better locking system.
Myself: Oh, so you were trying to break into your car and it exploded? That'll slow down auto crime.
Pitts: No, no, I work as a demolition man. I had just finished rigging a site and I was parked in the blast zone.
Myself: (After a moment) I see, so you want to complain about your car's improved security because you needed to break into it?
Pitts: Yes.
Myself: Mr Pitts, could you do me a favour?
Pitts: What's that?
Myself: Don't think and drive. Hey, everyone, we'll be right back without Wendall Pitts! (Applause.)
Myself: Where did we come from? How did we end up so far ahead of the animals? Are we an experiment? While I can only guess the answers to such questions, Dr Constance Stonewell has been rigorously researching the origin of our species. And here she is! (Applause. Enter Stonewell, holding hands with a small chimp. I show them to their seats.) Tell us a little about your work.
Stonewell: We're trying to communicate with our simian cousins directly through sign language.
Myself: You mean, you can converse with chimps?
Stonewell: In a manner of speaking.
Myself: Brilliant. I've often wondered what a chimp would have to tell me if he only could. And this must be one of your contacts.
Stonewell: That's right. Plato has so far learned over a hundred words.
Myself: Amazing! What does he know how to say?
Stonewell: He knows how to ask for a banana.
Myself: That's great! What else?
Stonewell: He knows how to ask for a watermelon.
Myself: Yes, but what else can he talk about besides food?
Stonewell: He knows how to say he's hungry.
Myself: I see. Well, it sounds like he's off to a practical start. Nice work, Plato. May I shake his hand, Doctor?
Stonewell: Certainly. (I extend my hand and the chimp bites it.)
Myself: Ow! Doctor, you said it was safe!
Smuthers: You can get infected with HIV like that.
Myself: Oh, dear God!
Stonewell: Relax! I've been bitten before. It's nothing. You must have scared him.
Myself: I just smiled and held out my hand.
Stonewell: Chimps can be unpredictable.
Myself: And irrational.
Stonewell: I wouldn't call Plato that.
Myself: Well, I would. Ask him why he bit me.
Stonewell: Chimps don't understand the question, why.
Myself: How convenient.
Stonewell: But I can answer your question. Plato bit you because he doesn't like you.
Myself: And you don't think that's irrational?
Stonewell: No.
Myself: Why?
Stonewell: Because I don't like you.
COMMERCIAL: The Muffler Sinus Filter
(A bedroom. Desperate to silence her snoring husband, a woman presses her pillow over his face and tries to smother him. His snoring wakes her up for real, and she shudders from the memory of her violent dream.)
Are you afraid your spouse's blood curdling snore will drive you to homicide? Nine out of ten instances of nocturnal domestic violence arise involuntarily, as an act of sleepwalking. That's why you need the Muffler sinus filter.
(She fastens a plastic cone over her snoring husband's nose. Silence ensues.)
Just pop it on, close your eyes, and forget he's even there!
(She removes the filter in the morning and sees that his nose has been pinched into a cone. He awakens, draws a tissue, and blows his nose into it, muffling the surprise blast of a police whistle from his nostrils.)
You'll soon think you're living with a whole new person. Hey, it's better than waking up behind bars! The Muffler: Join the Quiet Revolution.
Myself: He has stumbled on the ruins of a mysterious civilization which dates all the way back to the Ice Age. Would you kindly welcome Cecil Quinn! (Applause. Enter Quinn. I greet him awkwardly with a bandaged hand.) So this city is more than ten thousand years old?
Quinn: With a mysteriously advanced level of technology for the period.
Myself: Astounding. Perhaps it will prove the existence of Atlantis.
Quinn: That's out of the question.
Myself: Oh? Wrong time?
Quinn: Wrong location. Yet they could quarry enormous granite blocks and stack them with precision.
Myself: They must have had some kind of forgotten technology.
Quinn: Preposterous.
Myself: You think so?
Quinn: The closer I examine these ruins, the less they appear to be the work of humans.
Myself: Parallel hominids?
Quinn: Don't be silly.
Myself: Who do you think built it?
Quinn: Well, it's looking more and more to us like the work of cyclopses. (Silence.)
Smuthers: You mean those one eyed giants from the Sinbad movies? I thought they were only a myth!
Quinn: All myths are based in truth.
Myself: Cyclopses! And you think I'm preposterous?
Quinn: I understand your hesitation in believing me. I, too, was skeptical at first. Then I saw the giant petrified hoof prints. They were definitely bipedal. And murals from the site clearly depict cyclopses collaborating in the construction of a wall.
Myself: But there's no fossil record of such a creature.
Quinn: Didn't you hear? We've recently unearthed a huge skull, dating to the period, which has only one central eye socket. It's skeleton is as tall as a dinosaur and conforms to the basic frame of a cyclops.
Myself: I didn't know you had so much evidence.
Quinn: It's all rather new.
Smuthers: Wow. I wonder if they built the pyramids, too.
Quinn: Actually, that was the sphinxes.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: From his mountaintop observatory, he possesses a commanding view of the universe. Please join me in welcoming astronomer Irwin Winthrop! (Applause. Enter Winthrop in blazer and turtleneck.)
Smuthers: I'm a Pisces.
Myself: No, Janie, you're confusing astronomy with astrology. It's a common mistake. This man is a serious scientist.
Winthrop: Thank you.
Myself: You're welcome, sir. And as a serious scientist, do you think aliens played a role in our evolution?
Winthrop: I think it's a compelling theory.
Myself: What do your observations tell you?
Winthrop: My study of the planets supports it.
Myself: That sounds like solid evidence.
Winthrop: It is.
Myself: What planets are you studying?
Winthrop: Mars and Jupiter.
Myself: And do you think we may have somehow originated on one of these worlds?
Winthrop: How did you get that idea?
Myself: You said your study supports it.
Winthrop: Supports the theory of extraterrestrial involvement in our evolution, yes.
Myself: Well, what did Mars and Jupiter have to do with it?
Winthrop: They indicated visitors from faraway.
Myself: Incredible! Were they marked by landings?
Winthrop: No, they were in a very unusual alignment in the fourth house.
Myself: An idol mind is the devil's workshop, warns the proverb, and much of the random violence we've been seeing in news reports lately could simply be the tragic cost of excessive inactivity. In the absence of a bloody war, perhaps we need more camping organizations to keep potential mass murderers safely preoccupied through their sensitive years, while at the same time teaching them valuable survival skills.
Smuthers: I was a Tour Guide.
Myself: Bravo, my dear. However, such traditional clubs as the Tour Guides and the Eagle Cubs might not be everyone's cup of tea. Some may want more exotic skills.
Smuthers: Such as?
Myself: Such as those acquired by training in the desert rather than the forest. The Divine Caravan offers young outdoorsmen looking for adventure the rare opportunity to pitch their tents in the Middle Eastern desert. And if it prevents violence, I'm all for it. And now would you please welcome the Commander in Chief of the Divine Caravan, Achmed L. Kebbab. (Applause. Enter Kebbab in army fatigues with Arab headwear and sunglasses. We exchange greetings.) Glad you could make it.
Kebbab: We are pleased for any attention to our righteous cause.
Myself: You deserve it. I hear that one of the skills you teach is mining. That's very practical. And good exercise, all that digging.
Kebbab: There is only a little digging, just enough to bury the explosives.
Myself: And let the dynamite do the digging! I should have guessed. Why bother with a pick and shovel? I understand you also provide some good old fashioned religious instruction.
Kebbab: The disciple must be prepared to lay down his life for the holy cause.
Myself: Beautiful. Isn't that what faith boils down to in the end, self sacrifice?
Kebbab: To sacrifice one's life in the destruction of a thousand enemies brings greater glory to the lamb.
Myself: (After silent consideration) I suppose one wants to be prepared for the worst. And as a bonus you teach a course in knife safety. Very useful.
Kebbab: Bayonet safety.
Myself: Bayonets? Are they better for the snakes?
Smuthers: Sir, upon casual examination, your camping association strikes me as a rather transparent front for some kind of radical paramilitary group.
Kebbab: Must I answer to this woman?
Smuthers: (To me) Nice guests you invite here.
Myself: Well, you asked for it with your absurd accusation! There's nothing radical about camping in the desert. It's perfectly innocent. (To Kebbab) By the way, where is your camp?
Kebbab: Armageddon.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: He leads an environmental group called the Green Militia, whose highly trained members are charged with protecting our forests. Let's hear it for Milton Filby! (Cheers. Filby in green coveralls descends slowly from the high ceiling with a jet pack and lands upright. We exchange greetings and take our seats.) Nice landing.
Filby: Thank you. We find our jet packs indispensable in the woods.
Myself: I bet. Your community must be grateful for the efforts of your volunteer fire brigade.
Filby: We're just happy to help the trees.
Myself: Very noble of you.
Filby: Our patrols keep their torches burning around the clock, on the lookout for firebugs.
Myself: Torches? No flashlights? Aren't torches a bit of a fire hazard?
Filby: In a survival situation, you might not have a flashlight.
Myself: (Abject) True.
Filby: And when we spot a firebug, we send a smoke signal to mark the location.
Myself: Smoke signal? You start a fire in the woods to report a firebug?
Filby: What have we got to lose?
Myself: Don't you have telephones?
Filby: In a survival situation, you might not have a telephone.
Myself: (Sighing) Perhaps.
Filby: To perform our duty we need only our bare hands.
Myself: Commendable.
Filby: And our flame throwers.
Smuthers: I was waiting for that.
Myself: Let me guess, in a survival situation, you might not have a tank, right?
Filby: We need to accommodate the dual purpose functionality of our equipment. (Demonstrating) You plug a hose in this jet pack and it converts directly to a flame thrower.
Myself: (Aghast) Why do you need that?
Filby: To flush out the firebugs who lurk in the brushwood.
Myself: For God's sake! Doesn't that start forest fires?
Filby: Not at all.
Myself: I don't believe you. And I'm beginning to have grave doubts about the ultimate reliability of your fire brigade.
Filby: Hey, we're just trying to fight fire with fire.
COMMERCIAL: Neuro-Blitz Chewables
(A small child takes her first baby steps towards her mother.)
Narrator: It's a small step from walking to shooting an assault rifle.
(The child runs amok, making a mess.)
Narrator: Try to see the warning signs.
(The mother apprehends the child, pulls out her pacifier, and pops in a gummy.)
Narrator: The sooner the treatment, the more complete the recovery.
(The child is returned unconscious to her crib. The mother starts tidying up.)
Narrator: Curb childhood aggression with Neuro-Blitz Chewables.
Myself: As the Grand Guardian of the Maidens of the Dawn, she leads a club that introduces girls to the challenges of outdoor life. Please welcome Valerie Frieze! (Enter Frieze, in the armour of a hoplite. I lead her to the guest chair.) So you train in the rainforest. That's quite a commitment.
Frieze: We take our vow seriously.
Myself: What vow is that?
Frieze: To protect the Amazon.
Myself: I should have guessed. What outdoor skills do you teach?
Frieze: Our hunting program is comprehensive. We start by showing the girls how to carve their own bows.
Myself: You can make a deadly weapon out of a harmless branch?
Frieze: A harmless branch and a sharp knife.
Myself: Oh, right.
Frieze: We're thinking of combining hunting with horseback riding. We can always use more mounted archers.
Myself: Well, it's better than leaving restless girls on the street to get into mischief on their summer vacations.
Frieze: I agree.
Myself: What other programs do you offer?
Frieze: Too many to name. Rowing, longboat construction, astrology, rocketry...
Myself: Rocketry?
Frieze: Yes, we have a launch site in the Andes.
Smuthers: Rocketry? That's not an outdoors activity.
Myself: Where do you practice it? In the basement?
Smuthers: I mean it's kind of technical for the forest.
Frieze: We must attend to the Lance of Minerva.
Smuthers: Lance of Nirvana?
Frieze: The mighty Lance of Minerva stands ready to smite the intruders on the day of reckoning.
Smuthers: As in Doomsday?
Myself: Miss Frieze, just how mighty is this lance?
Frieze: It can strike across the heavens on a pedestal of fire.
Myself: I see. And does it roar with the thunder of supreme authority?
Frieze: Why, yes! That is precisely how it roars!
Myself: And does it impact with the blinding fury of a hundred suns?
Frieze: You know the hidden words! (Smuthers groans.)
Myself: The specially gifted. Are they the next step in our evolution or abominable freaks of nature?
Smuthers: Or a hoax?
Myself: Not these freaks.
Smuthers: Are you sure?
Myself: Sure I'm sure. I tested them.
Smuthers: How?
Myself: I asked them to guess the number of hairs on a cat.
Smuthers: (Laughing) And how could you know the answer, yourself?
Myself: It wasn't easy. I had to shear the cat, gather the trimmings into a bag, and use a super sensitive scale to compute its number of hairs by weight.
Smuthers: And your guests guessed it?
Myself: No, but they were only off by a hair. Speaking of whom, our first possesses a most uncanny talent; the supermarket can't pull anything on this guy. And yet you can tell by his laces that he still hasn't learned to tie a knot. We've put Janie on a checkout machine to test his accuracy. Would you kindly join me in welcoming Arnold Baker, Barcode Breaker! (I rise and lightly applaud with the audience. Enter a conservatively dressed Baker, wearing a gas mask. He pulls off the mask and we shake hands.) Thanks for coming. Hope you don't mind our smog.
Baker: (As we sit) I had to remove my gas mask so you could hear my voice.
Myself: Indeed. Most gracious of you. Now to demonstrate your outstanding gift, I've compiled a short list of household items for you to convert into barcodes on the spot. My delightful assistant will check your answers as we go along. Are you ready, Janie?
Smuthers: (Standing at machine) I don't know. Orange sparks were flying out of this thing when it powered up. Are you sure it's safe?
Myself: I'm sure you have nothing to worry about on such an ordinary device. All right, Mr Baker, the first household item on my list is 'lotion.'
Baker: 0-56594-00305-7.
Myself: Is that right, Janie?
Smuthers: (Typing the number) Hold on. (Reading result) It spells Aloe Body Rub.
Myself: That sounds like two for two! (Cheers.) A wig.
Baker: 0-60100-03615-6.
Smuthers: (After typing) Ash Blond Hairpiece Number Five-Eight. What the hell kind of products are those?
Myself: I got them out of a catalog.
Smuthers: Do you smell something burning? Oh no! (The checkout machine erupts in a small fire. Smuthers must act quickly to drown the flames with a beverage.)
Myself: Perfect score! Great job! (I take his hand and shake it profusely. Loud cheers.) We've finally had a flawless segment on this show!
Smuthers: This death trap almost started a fire!
Myself: You must be very successful.
Baker: No, not really.
Myself: No?
Baker: That's why I was glad to read in our agreement that this show would pay six figures. (Smuthers bursts into hysterical laughter.)
Myself: Have you read the fine print? Use this. (I give Baker a magnifying glass. He plucks a document from his breast pocket and examines it through the glass.)
Baker: (Reading) 000,000.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Up next is a man whose conversations with birds have furnished him with inexplicable knowledge. We'll just have to take his word for it. Mr Martin Finch! (Applause. Enter Finch. I rise to shake his hand. An occupied birdcage sits on my desk. We take our seats.) Thanks for coming. I bet you could get this parrot to talk. It only wants to squawk and whistle for me.
Finch: In fact it is repeating the phrase, 'talk is cheap.' (Smothers scowls in skepticism.)
Myself: It is? (Examining bird) It must be smarter than it looks.
Finch: Yes, but that's all it seems to know. I'm afraid you can't learn much from pet parrots. They seldom have anything original to say. I find pigeons far more enlightening.
Smuthers: Do any pay for your act?
Myself: For your information, Mr Finch is a forensic specialist. Tell us how you help the police, sir.
Finch: I just tell the police what the birds tell me.
Myself: Sounds innocent enough. (Smuthers rolls her eyes.) What do the birds tell you?
Finch: Well, last week the ravens told me about the freshly slain corpse of a young lady in the woods. I passed the details on to the police, which led them straight to just such a body. No one had noticed her absence yet. We were the only ones who knew about it. (To Smuthers) She was about your age.
Myself: Incredible. The ravens must have communicated with you. There's no other explanation.
Smuthers: Did they catch the killer?
Finch: Not yet, they're working on it.
Smuthers: And you're the only one who knew about it?
Finch: Just me and the ravens. I'm good at helping police find the slain bodies of young women who look like you. The geese helped me to locate another one on the beach. And the pigeons found one in an alley. They were all about your age and weight and height, with roughly your hairstyle. And they'd all been killed the same way. Nobody else knew where the bodies were but us.
Smuthers: (Dismayed) You and the birds.
Finch: Yes.
Smuthers: (Trembling) How were they killed?
Finch: Smothered. (Smuthers gulps.) Gloved hands. No prints. No murder weapon. Very tidy. There's supposed to be one more in the desert. The starlings heard it from a buzzard. Would you like to ride out there with me on the back of my motorcycle? We can see if it's true. It'll give me a chance to break in my new riding gloves. (He dons black leather gloves.)
Myself: Go for it, Janie! Sounds like fun! (Enter police abruptly.)
Police: (Seizing and cuffing the guest) Martin Finch, you are under arrest for four counts of girlslaughter. Sorry, folks, we just missed him at his home and had to track him down here. Are you all right, Miss? You look like you're just his type. (Smuthers feints.)
Myself: And now for a timely distraction...
COMMERCIAL: Pseudo-Gin Non-Alcoholic Cocktail
(An afternoon get-together. A seated guest has just been served a drink.)
Guest: Lemonade? Good thing I brought my Pseudo-Gin. (He pulls out a mickey, unscrews the cap, and takes a long gulp from the bottle.) Ah! Now we're getting somewhere.
Disappointed by healthy refreshments? Pseudo-Gin offers the hard kick of a dry martini without getting you plastered.
(An hour later. A waitress, standing with a tray, taps the guest on the shoulder from behind. He yelps and ducks under the table.)
Succumb to the grip of Pseudo-Gin Non-Alcoholic Cocktail.
Myself: With a brief glimpse, she can detect the exact velocity of an object in motion! (Rising) May I present the remarkable Janet Claire! (Applause. Enter Claire in a lab coat. I lead her to the guest chair.) So you work at NASA?
Claire: I do.
Myself: You must have been a whiz at math.
Claire: No, I'm bad at counting.
Myself: Did you say accounting?
Claire: No, counting. I can't make it past two. After that, I'm only guessing.
Myself: What about the speed of light?
Claire: It appears to me as a vision.
Myself: You really can't count? (Holding up three fingers) How many fingers?
Claire: Ten?
Myself: Good heavens! How did you get into NASA?
Claire: (Beaming) Through the universal business of catering.
Myself: I see. Well, rather than asking you to serve this egg salad sandwich, I'm going to do it myself with this tennis racket, driving it past that radar post, which has been turned around to hide its readout. I will ask you first to guess its speed and my charming assistant will tell us what the radar says. Are you in position back there, Janie?
Voice of Smuthers: (From behind the radar post) Yes, I'm here. Can't you see me?
Myself: Are you ready, Miss Claire?
Claire: Fire away.
Myself: Okay, oh, and please round off your figures to the nearest whole number. (Drum roll. I squish the bread into a solid dough ball and belt it with the racket.)
Claire: One hundred and two miles per hour.
Myself: Is that all?
Voice of Smuthers: One zero two miles per hour. (Cheers.)
Myself: Very good, Miss Claire!
Claire: Thank you.
Myself: Janie, please keep your head out of sight. It's dangerous.
Voice of Smuthers: But I want to see.
Myself: Stay in position. Now let's see how our guest performs with this crossbow. (Drum roll. I aim and shoot into the centre of an archery target.)
Claire: Five hundred and twelve miles per hour.
Voice of Smuthers: Five hundred and twelve miles per hour. (Cheers.)
Myself: Janie, you exposed your head again. You're taking a grave risk.
Voice of Smuthers: I wanted to see the arrow.
Myself: You'll see it sticking out between your eyes if you keep taking chances like that. Good work, Miss Claire. Still time for one more. Let's use the bazooka.
Voice of Smuthers: Bazooka? Isn't that a little dangerous?
Myself: (Shouldering the barrel) Don't worry, I unscrewed the warhead. This'll be great. (I crouch, aim, and fire. A blinding flash is followed by a thundering blast.)
Claire: Zero to eight hundred and thirty-five miles per hour. (A small mushroom cloud hovers above a blackened void where radar post formerly stood.)
Myself: Oh no, a live round! How did that get in there? Janie! Are you still with us? Janie! Answer me! I can't see anything but smoke!
Voice of Smuthers: (Offstage) I'm over here. I dropped my lip balm and it rolled away on me. Chasing after it led me out of the blast zone.
Myself: Thank goodness!
Smuthers: (Approaching) I've just met a nice lawyer in the audience with some questions for you about workplace safety. (I vanish.) Hey, where'd you go?
