Happy Easter, everyone, especially atheists. Please don't get the wrong idea about my little imaginary war here. It's strictly for amusement. Relax and enjoy. War is absurd, so I think it makes for excellent comedy.
Myself: Good day from Freedom Central, as the fate of civilization hangs in the balance of a raging global contest between the forces of good - us - and the agents of unspeakable evil. Today we're going to get the discussion started with a couple of weapons experts.
Smuthers: Which weapons?
Myself: The brilliant new super-duper gun, for starters.
Smuthers: What's so brilliant and new about that? It's just another big, stupid cannon.
Myself: Don't you think it took some brilliant thinking to build an operational gun on that scale?
Smuthers: Looks pretty straightforward to me.
Myself: There's a lot more to it than meets the eye.
Smuthers: That's because they can't fit the whole thing into a camera lens.
Myself: Okay, hotshot, my first guest is the ballistics genius who developed the super-duper gun. You can ask him personally about it. I'm sure he knows what he's doing. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Distinguished Professor of Destruction at Boomtown University, Drummond Skewer! (Applause. Enter Skewer.) Sir, it's an honour to meet you.
Skewer: Thank you. I take it the lieutenant is rather less impressed.
Myself: She wants to talk shop.
Smuthers: I just wondered why we still rely on such an antique technology.
Skewer: Antique! My dear, the super-duper gun makes even our mightiest naval guns look like firecrackers.
Myself: Awesome.
Smuthers: But wasn't its concept just a matter of simple enlargement?
Skewer: No, it was an extremely challenging problem. For example, once you're blasting shells into low earth orbit, you have to think of a way to make them fall back down onto your target. And with barrels beyond a certain length, drooping becomes a real problem.
Smuthers: I didn't think of that.
Myself: How did you overcome the drooping with this gun?
Skewer: By letting Almighty God provide the superstructure. The super-duper gun is actually a converted volcano.
Myself: A volcano? Is that safe?
Skewer: Of course. It's dormant, if that's what you mean. And it's a very strategic location. We were lucky to find one with a fifty-degree inclination.
Myself: Where is it?
Skewer: A small island in the Hawaiian chain.
Myself: Isn't that a bit out of the way for artillery?
Skewer: Not for this gun. It can cover both the Asian and American coasts.
Myself: Are you saying that it can fire shells halfway across the Pacific Ocean?
Skewer: Shells the size of opera houses. (Enthusiastic cheers.)
Myself: Looks like your peacemaker's a crowd pleaser, professor. Let's hope it never falls into enemy hands.
Skewer: Oh, I'm sure it's safe in Hawaii. No one would ever attack there.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: As a researcher for the military/industrial giant, POW Chemical, he stumbled on a controversial new agent of phenomenal killing power. Let's hear it for Stanley Dystilski! (Applause. Enter Dystilski.) Sir, tell us how you made this astonishing discovery. What's it called again?
Dystilski: Bananite.
Myself: Bananite. Is it related to dynamite?
Dystilski: No, it's a toxin extracted from banana skins.
Myself: No kidding! That must be why they're so bitter tasting. Has it been field tested?
Dystilski: Only on tsetse flies.
Myself: Tsetse's? Aren't they extinct?
Dystilski: Not when we started on them.
Myself: Oh, right. Well done.
Smuthers: Why did you have to kill the whole species?
Myself: Good riddance! Blood sucking devils, send them to hell! (I cover my ears with my hands.) No, the terrible buzzing! (Noticing that I've alarmed the other two with my strange outburst, I pull myself together.) On the other hand, some are saying that to kill in such a vicious way would be a crime against humanity.
Dystilski: On the contrary, I think it may be more humane, in some respects, to guarantee a man death with poison gas than to maim him for life with conventional weapons.
Myself: You know, that's actually a pretty nice way to look at it.
Smuthers: I heard that bananite poisons the groundwater for ten thousand years.
Dystilski: That's not true, it's perfectly organic and fully biodegradable. Just a trace of cyanide to help it along. Plus it's delivered by a much quieter explosion, not nearly as offensive to the birds.
Smuthers: Yeah, I'm sure they don't make a peep about it.
Myself: How does it work?
Dystilski: By interfering with brain function.
Myself: How so?
Dystilski: It makes you forget how to breathe.
Smuthers: Charming.
Myself: But you still remember how to have a stroke, right?
Distilski: Look, I know what you're thinking, but it's essentially just another exploding shell. Only, instead of being limited by the puny blast radius of TNT, it can spread across a whole region and get the job done.
Myself: What if the wind changes? Will our troops be safe?
Distilski: Yes, they just need to sniff fresh orange peelings until the fog lifts and they should come out of it with nothing worse than a little minor bleeding through the eyes.
Myself: The enemy has oranges, too.
Distilski: Not Sunkist.
Smuthers: What if they retaliate?
Distilski: (Perplexed) I don't know. Do you think they would? (Smuthers and I exchange looks of bitter incredulity.)
Myself: Stanley Distilski, folks, thinking clear ahead to doomsday. (Applause.)
COMMERCIAL: Target for Today
(An air force colonel dines on bacon and eggs in his busy office. Enter a bomber crew, saluting.)
Colonel: Oh, back already? Would any of you care for some bacon and eggs?
Pilot: Not just now, thank you, sir.
Colonel: (Wiping his face with a napkin) Freddy can only dream of meals like this.
Pilot: Why do we call the enemy Freddy, sir?
Colonel: After Frederick Nietzsche probably.
Crewman: Who's that?
Colonel: You've not heard of him? German chap? Atheist philosopher? It doesn't matter, how did the mission go? Did your bombs reach their target?
Bombardier: Yes, sir! There's nothing left of that golf course.
Colonel: What did you see in the explosion? (The men look at each other nervously.)
Pilot: Yes, I almost hit one of the bleeding things on the way out. Pardon my English, sir.
Colonel: (Writing into a ledger) That sounds like a golf course, all right. And I hear you shot down an enemy fighter that was chasing you. Did you see it get hit?
Bombardier: Yes, we all saw it. Got it in the fuel tank. Went off like the Hindenburg right next to us.
Colonel: And then you shot the wings off of one our own fighters that was sent to escort you home.
Pilot: We didn't see that.
Colonel: Did you shoot down any other fighters today? (Answering in unison, half say yes and half say no.) I see. (Patriotic music starts up.) Right! Good shooting, old boys. Fighter Command can kiss my bottom. It's about time those prima donnas learned to respect our bombers. The pilot bailed out and landed safe. If he wants to complain, let him a write a letter to his mother. Now off you go to get drunk and have casual sex, and don't forget to save some mescaline for your morning coffee.
Crew: (In unison, saluting) Yes, sir! (Conclusive horn blasts.)
Myself: We do apologize to Samuel Blake, who was going to fill us in on the latest killer satellites in this spot, because we got a call from the super-duper gun's operator in Hawaii and have linked up with him by satellite. Hello, sergeant, and thank you for allowing us this exciting closeup.
Soldier in Monitor: (Blinking in Morse code) Oh, my pleasure. Once you gave away our position to the enemy on your show, we had nothing to lose by ringing you up.
Myself: Why are you wincing like that? Do you have a headache or something?
Soldier: (Blinking) No, I probably just need more sleep. Or maybe I need more sun. (With this clue, Smuthers gathers the soldier's intent. She picks up a small notepad and pencil and takes down his blinked message.)
Myself: Maybe you've had a little too much sun.
Soldier: (Blinking) You know what? I'm strictly forbidden from leaving my post to come up here in the light. It's something I would only do at gunpoint.
Myself: It doesn't seem to be helping you much. Can we see the controls?
Soldier: (Blinking) Not right now, no, I got locked out by the cleaning lady.
Myself: You did? It must be very clean down there.
Smuthers: Dave, break the connection now!
Myself: I beg your pardon? (A loud bang is heard through the monitor.) What was that?
Soldier: (Blinking and holding his hands over his ears) I'm sorry, I think I've suffered a hearing loss. The gun just discharged. (Smuthers runs over to the monitor and pulls the plug.)
Myself: What are you doing! I wanted to find out what happened!
Smuthers: He was blinking in code, you idiot.
Myself: Careful, lieutenant.
Smuthers: The super-duper gun's been seized by a special team of atheist commandos. They were using the linkup to zero in on this location.
Myself: And it just fired. That means we still have a few minutes. Where's my orange? Oh, there it is. (I pull a plump orange out of a brown paper bag and start peeling.) Okay, let's get the hell out of here in a calm, orderly fashion. (The crowd rushes madly for the exit as I take a last forlorn look at my soon to be demolished studio.) I hope my insurance will cover this.
No comments:
Post a Comment