(Seated on lawn chairs, we proceed outdoors, on the grounds of an army field hospital.)
Myself: Good day, fellow freedom fighters. We've been forced to take up residence here at the 4078 Medically Assisted Recovery Unit, or MAR unit, after the untimely destruction of my studio in my last broadcast. It's a little rugged, but nothing we haven't faced before, eh, lieutenant?
Smuthers: Yes, sir, captain, and it sure let's us know how far we've come.
Myself: Be thankful you have a tent. There's a war on, you know. People are sleeping in haystacks, getting stabbed by pitchforks.
Smuthers: Where? Who?
Myself: Out in the country, political fugitives and stranded pilots, relentlessly hunted down by sadistic mercenaries.
Smuthers: Show me.
Myself: I can't, I'd give them away.
Smuthers: How do you know about them?
Myself: Classified. Sorry. And now that that's settled, let me introduce my first guest. She's a nurse who works right here at the 4078th, Lieutenant Constance Martindale, RN! (Enthusiastic cheers. Enter Martindale, uniformed and fit. She stops to salute, which I immediately return, on my way to ushering her to her seat.) Listen to that crowd! They love you.
Martindale: Aw, they're just trying to embarrass me.
Myself: I'm sure they're grateful for a good nurse. Tell us about your job here.
Martindale: Well, I work in the outpatient tent, providing extra healing to the special cases.
Myself: Who are the special cases? Burn victims?
Martindale: Anyone who might be taking too long to recover, or with mysterious aches and pains.
Myself: Fakers? Why waste any more time on them?
Martindale: On the contrary, captain, these soldiers are legitimate casualties of war, and it is our obligation to do all we can to get them back on their feet after the sacrifices they've made.
Myself: You're quite right. Forgive my crass question. They say you have a very high rate of success with your patients. What are you giving them that they didn't get from the other doctors and nurses?
Martindale: (After a thought) I suppose you could call it tough love.
Myself: Tough love? Please explain.
Martindale: I take a fly-or-fall approach to healing with my patients. By the time they get to me, they've had enough coddling and they need the firm hand of discipline. If a patient won't get out of his wheelchair, I dump him out. If he won't go to the bathroom unassisted, I let him crawl there, after tying a power cord around his ankle with a microwave attached to make it harder for him.
Myself: What about when he won't eat?
Martindale: That's when I really get tough.
Myself: What do you do? Hit him on the head with his food tray?
Martindale: No, I make him smoke a big fat joint.
Myself: Well, I must say, I like your style. Whip 'em into shape, that's what I always say. But are these simple methods always enough? How do you handle the holdouts?
Martindale: I don't like to use the machine on them if I can avoid it, but it is the most effective way to treat a patient who insists on lagging behind in his healing.
Myself: The machine, eh? So that's what they get. Heh heh. Sounds pretty heavy. What does it do?
Martindale: You're better off not knowing.
Myself: No, I want to know. And I'm sure these people want to know. (I hold my arm out to the audience, which draws Martindale's eye to a corporal near the front.) So?
Martindale: Corporal Prewitt? Is that you? I thought you wanted to sleep!
Prewitt: (Paralyzed by fear) I know that's what I said, lieutenant, and I know I shouldn't be here, but I just thought if I could just come out for a second, it wouldn't make a difference. It's a lovely day.
Martindale: (Smiling warmly) Yes, it is.
Prewitt: (Succumbing to tears and whimpering) Oh God, I couldn't help it! I just changed my mind, is all. Please don't punish me. I'll be good.
Martindale: Why would I do that? (MP's move in on Prewitt.)
Prewitt: (Shakily raising his voice) Sure, that's what you said last time, just before you put me on the machine! NO! DON'T PUT ME ON THE MACHINE! I WON'T LET YOU! (The MP's seize him and start to drag him off.) Let go of me! I'm a patient in this country's armed forces! (Exit Prewitt in custody.)
Martindale: You were saying, before we got sidetracked?
Myself: I don't recall. Probably not important. Let's hear it one more time for Lieutenant Constance Martindale, RN, for showing us that fear is sometimes the best medicine. (Big cheers.)
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Chopper pilot, Captain Fred Fanbelt, risks his neck every day to rescue our wounded from the frontline fighting. Let's give him a hero's welcome. (Solid cheers. Enter Fanbelt.) Captain, I think I speak for us all when I say that I'm glad you could make it here. You're a brave man. (Applause.)
Fanbelt: Thanks, but I seem to be safer than the men on the ground.
Myself: No, you're not! You're a sitting duck up there, especially when you sit still in the sky. They have these new bazooka launched SAM's that could easily home in on you and blast you to pieces.
Smuthers: Dave!
Myself: But they jam a lot, I hear. Sorry. It must be hard on you to descend into that hell every day and look upon so much pain and misery. How do you cope with it?
Fanbelt: Well, you learn to see what you want to see.
Myself: I'm not sure I follow you.
Fanbelt: It's a simple matter of mind over matter. If I don't like what I see, I make it invisible.
Myself: What do you mean? How do you do that?
Fanbelt: I just close my eyes and think hard.
Myself: You mean, for a solution?
Fanbelt: No, for a disappearance. When I open my eyes again, it's gone.
Myself: Well, what are you, a genie or something? You can't just make things vanish.
Fanbelt: Sometimes our brains do things that are over our heads.
Myself: Give me an example.
Fanbelt: Okay, the wounded.
Myself: What about them?
Fanbelt: I don't see them anymore.
Myself: Are you mad? You can't miss them. There's an army hospital right there.
Fanbelt: Where?
Myself: (Pointing) Right there! The tent with the big red cross on a white field!
Fanbelt: Yes?
Myself: Can you see it?
Fanbelt: No.
Smuthers: It does look a little cluttered over there.
Myself: I wouldn't joke about this. Our boys are depending on this man. We can't have a chopper pilot flying around in an unbalanced state. Have you visited the psychiatrist yet, captain?
Fanbelt: I went down to his office.
Myself: And what happened?
Fanbelt: He couldn't see me.
COMMERCIAL: Hate Camp
(Uniformed youth march in step to a menacing drumbeat.) Keep an eye on this bunch: enemy youth. There's nothing cute about these children. Weaned on lies and hate. Trained to win by cheating. Sneaky little fuckers. Sure, they're small, but they fight like hyenas, and are a lot harder to shoot. Look at them. The only thing they've learned from their schoolbooks is how to feed a fire. They've read no free speech. Hell, they're illiterate. All they have are pictures, violent pictures: boots stepping on heads, bullets driving into stomachs, boulders falling on coyotes... What little else they might need to know awaits them at hate camp.
(A boy walks through the woods, carrying a small sack. Disturbing music.) Here's the new recruit, a boy of ten. He came to them for fun and friendship. He wanted to play baseball. They tied him up and blindfolded him and pelted him with uncooked lentils until he realized his error. (He comes to the front gate of a camp, fenced with barbed wire and watchtowers, and is met by a guard.) Now he keeps his mouth shut through a gauntlet of wedgies and finger pokes, all designed to crush his humanity and reduce him to the primitive condition of a senseless, rabid predator. (He holds up his sack to be examined, but the guard is so repulsed by its smell that he flings open the gate and rushes the boy through.) Only after he has brought them a strangled puppy will they give him back his pyjamas and allow him to use a spoon for his oatmeal. The next day, he'll be conscripted into the army and shipped off to the front.
(The front. Patriotic music.) But this hate will ultimately betray him. Out of ammunition and surrounded by flame throwing tanks, he will follow a puppy into the centre of their kill zone, hoping to club the animal with his spent panzerfaust. So he must advance to his doom, he and all boys like him, for only in an eradicating burst of righteous combustion, fuelled by 100 octane American gasoline, can such deeply rooted evil surely be purged. (The boy dies in a roaring inferno. Pan out to a burning torch of liberty. Conclude music on a happy high note.)
Myself: It's long been said that an army marches on its stomach, and no one probably knows it better than Sergeant Morty Stockwell, the camp cook! (Mixed boos and laughs. Enter Stockwell, tough and thickset. He lumbers to his flimsy seat, which struggles to support him.) Sorry about that. I forgot how unpopular army food is. Don't listen to them. I enjoyed the stew very much.
Stockwell: Thanks.
Myself: Where'd you learn to cook?
Stockwell: Prison.
Myself: They teach that in there?
Stockwell: They teach everything.
Myself: Why'd you get into it?
Stockwell: To get my hands on a cleaver. I didn't trust the other inmates.
Myself: Right. Good thinking. And how do you like your job here? Do they send you enough supplies?
Stockwell: They send enough, but the eggs are powdered and you get tired of the menu after a while. That's when I take my gun for a stroll in the bush.
Myself: Is there game out there?
Stockwell: Big game, if you know where to look. I use my heat sensitive visor and stalk them at night.
Myself: Did you spot one yet?
Stockwell: I trapped one. That's what I used for the stew.
Myself: I thought that tasted like real moose. I haven't had that in ages. It must have been hard to haul back here.
Stockwell: Not really. The trap I used made a light job of it.
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.
(Smuthers and I in dress uniform. I'm a captain, and Smuthers, wearing glasses, is an uncomfortable lieutenant.)
Announcer: Live until recorded, it's the New Don't Steal Show! (Cheers)
Myself: Good day, fellow citizens of the free world. We here at the New Don't Steal Show are pleased to be able to continue bringing you this quality program through the current war. Let me also say that I am fully behind our infallible government.
Smuthers: You think we should bomb the atheists? My cousin's an atheist.
Myself: Yes, but your cousin is atheist by free choice and never had to worry about getting shot for praying out loud.
Smuthers: Aw, that's just propaganda.
Myself: I believe it. Besides, they started it.
Smuthers: Don't tell me you fell for that missionary monk massacre story in the news.
Myself: Their mangled corpses looked authentic enough to me.
Smuthers: I think it's just an invention to whip us into a war fever.
Myself: Where did you get that idea? Have you been watching conspiracy videos on the internet? If so, please keep it to yourself. I got labeled as some kind of subversive in the last war and I don't want that to ever happen again.
Smuthers: But it makes sense.
Myself: I said that's enough! Don't make me call the MP's. (She backs down.) Folks, please don't get the wrong idea about this show by the idealistic young lieutenant. (Patriotic music.) I assure you that we are both devoted patriots and loyal servants of Her Majesty, Elizabeth ... Regina! (Crescendo.)
Smuthers: We are?
Myself: She's on our currency, isn't she?
Smuthers: I thought Mackenzie was the King.
Myself: No, we're Canadians. We're only allowed to be counts. Keep it straight. And until this war has ended in victory for us, I've promised our new sponsor that we will do everything we can to toe the line here on the home front. Of course, an effective strategy demands detailed knowledge of the enemy, about which I have selected today's guests with the hope that they might enlighten us. So, joining us from the Ministry of Enlightenment, kindly welcome our first guest, Doctor Carl Gall. (Applause. Enter Gall.) Doctor Gall, I hope you don't mind if I ask you directly, what kind of an enemy are we up against here?
Gall: (After a thought) I suppose it could best be summed up as a plague.
Myself: You think so? What kind, bubonic, or...
Smuthers: Don't you think that's going a little overboard?
Gall: Who's this?
Myself: Oh, don't pay any attention to her. She spends too much time on the internet. Please, tell us more about this enemy plague.
Gall: It advances in stages. First you lose control of your tongue. You can't stop it from sticking out at people and insulting them. Before long, everyone hates you. Then your eyes disappear, but you can still see in black and white. Then you develop scales. That's the last stage before regressing into a grotesque, bile secreting reptile, with an unholy appetite for the flesh of slain missionaries.
Myself: How awful!
Gall: You don't have to pity them, they enjoy the transformation. It gives them a sick high to turn into rampaging reptilian cannibals. They probably invented the germ in one of their labs, looking for a new biological weapon to use against us.
Myself: It certainly explains the monk massacre.
Gall: Indeed.
Smuthers: Oh, come on!
Gall: I'm afraid it's true, lieutenant. And what's more, they're spreading the disease to our youth.
Myself: They are? How?
Gall: By infecting popular websites.
Myself: You mean, like Google?
Gall: That's on the list. (I look at Smuthers.)
Myself: Lieutenant Smuthers, I couldn't help but notice that you're sporting a somewhat studious look today. That's a little out of character for you, isn't it? You wouldn't have anything to hide, would you? (Smuthers takes off her glasses and gives me a withering look, eyeballs clearly present and accounted for. I pull a pair of sunglasses out of my breast pocket.) Okay, now, put these on. (She passionately refuses, and we quarrel into the commercial break.)
COMMERCIAL
Myself: One of the recently released hostages from the famous church that was seized by atheist terrorists is a young woman by the name of Ann Lily. Please join me in welcoming her. (Applause. Enter a pretty, shapely brunette. My jaw drops and Smuthers notices.) Thanks for being here. I hope it won't be too hard on you, having to recall such a terrible experience.
Lily: I guess the sooner I face it, the better.
Myself: Tell us about your close encounter with the enemy.
Lily: Oh, it was close, all right.
Myself: Do you mean intimate?
Lily: I'm afraid so.
Myself: Those monsters!
Lily: (Whimpering) They couldn't keep their filthy hands off of us. They locked us in rooms and took turns.
Myself: How horrible.
Lily: They kept going until we were pregnant. And then... Oh, it's too awful to say!
Myself: What did they do? Be strong, the world must know.
Lily: They raped the newborn babies! (She bursts into tears.)
Myself: Did you hear that, everyone? Did you hear what kind of filthy degenerates we're dealing with here, violating women and babies? What an atrocity! I hope the government is watching. There, there, now, don't cry. (I offer her a handkerchief and a lengthy hug.) But things are turning around for you now, aren't they? Tell us about your upcoming tour.
Lily: (Instantly snapping out of her melancholy) The tour? Well, myself and the other two survivors have formed a musical group to tour the globe, singing harmony with a backing swing orchestra. It will help to raise money for the Red Cross Rape Relief Fund. We're very excited about it.
Myself: Terrific. What are you called?
Lily: The Sabine Sisters.
Myself: Clever. We'll be looking out for you.
Smuthers: Uh, can I ask one question?
Myself: If you must.
Smuthers: How could she get pregnant and have a baby in a captivity that only lasted five months? And how could she have sprung back to such a tight figure so fast?
Myself: That's two questions.
Smuthers: But you said-
Myself: Sorry, you blew it. Ann Lily, everyone! (Applause.)
COMMERCIAL: Target for Today
(An air force colonel sits behind a table loaded with ledgers. Enter a bomber crew, saluting casually.)
Colonel: (Returning salute) Ah, marvellous! All back in one piece, eh what?
Pilot: Everyone seems to be whole, sir. I gave the tracking missiles the slip.
Colonel: I should hope so. Else, we'd all be right now burning to death in a ghastly inferno! (Laughter all around.) Now then, how did you do over the aquarium gravel factory?
Colonel: (Entering in a ledger) That sounds like aquarium gravel, all right. (Looking back at them) I say, what about the first three?
Bombardier: They might have hit a school.
Colonel: Can't you tell?
Bombardier: No, sir, it's been completely flattened.
Colonel: I see. (Patriotic music kicking in) Right! No use crying over spilled milk, eh what? Good show, old boys. Why not stop by the brothel on the way home from the pub tonight? You might as well live it up. You never know when you'll be shot out of the sky by some bloodthirsty atheist parent.
Crew: (in unison, saluting) Yes, sir! (End music on triumphant high note.)
Myself: Sometimes the enemy is indistinguishable from a human. It is then that we need one of their own to identify them. As the young daughter of a persecuted worshiper in her native Aetheia, Doris Lavoris, whose father defected to our side along with his family, promises to be very informative in this area. Let's give her a nice, warm welcome. (Applause. Enter an imp of about eleven. I rise and gently usher her to the guest chair.) So glad you could join us! Tell us how much better your life is over here than it was in your country.
Lavoris: Actually, it wasn't so great when I first got here. My teacher used to single me out.
Myself: That's too bad. But she doesn't do it anymore, right?
Lavoris: She can't do it anymore. They took her away for questioning. I recognized her from the parades in Aetheia. She was a majorette in the armed forces.
Myself: Yikes! If she was an enemy agent, she'd sure have it in for you.
Lavoris: Yes, and then I recognized the principal when he threatened to suspend me from school. He was a mailman in my country. After he finished reading our letters, he passed them to us.
Myself: Have they been arrested?
Lavoris: Yes.
Myself: Interrogated?
Lavoris: Probably. I haven't seen them since.
Myself: Good work. People don't realize that we are surrounded by spies! I'm sure your life improved a lot after that.
Lavoris: A little. Then Megan Fillet accused me of cheating on a test.
Myself: Enemy agent?
Lavoris: Courier. Used to operate a paper route back home.
Myself: It's always the last ones you'd suspect. Has she been arrested?
Lavoris: They took her away right after I fingered her.
Myself: (Tensely) Lucky for us all.
Smuthers: And certainly convenient for you, in particular.
Lavoris: Who's this?
Myself: (Loudly whispering to Smuthers) Are you crazy! This girl can get us arrested! (I turn back to my guest.) Never mind her, she's just jealous. Not everyone can be a national hero.
Lavoris: Was she insinuating something?
Myself: No, no! Perish the thought! She's not wearing her muzzle today. I do apologize.
Smuthers: (Baring her teeth) Grrrrr!
Lavoris: Because I'm starting to wonder why your face looks so familiar.
Myself: (Aside to Smuthers) There, you see what you've gotten me into? Are you happy?
Lavoris: Do you play the trombone?
Myself: Doris Lavoris, ladies and gentlemen, stretching out her wings in the free world! (Confused clapping and patriotic music drowns out Lavoris's next question.) Stay tuned for a tune.
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.)
