A W H I T M A N S A M P L E R --------------------------------- A MiSTing by Jim Gadfly gadfly@angelfire.com Published April 24,1999 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 [Roll opening images and play theme, season 10.] ...o...2...3...4...5...6...* [Satellite of Love. Bridge. Tom and Crow are standing behind the console. Each is holding an open book. Crow is wearing a large pair of "granny-style" reading glasses on the tip of his beak, and Tom has a pair of thick-framed brown plastic glasses attached to his head bubble. There is a third book, rather thick, sitting on the console off to the side. Crow is in the midst of reading aloud.] CROW: "...All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells..." [As Crow reads, Mike wanders into the picture. His steps are tentative, and he keeps looking around suspiciously.] CROW: [Continues] "...From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells--" MIKE: Hey, guys. CROW: Oh, hey Mike! TOM: Hey, what's up? MIKE: Oh, just wondering what you guys were up to. CROW: Well, Mike, you do know today's date, and the significance of it? MIKE: Today's date? April 1st? Yeah, I sure do. [Continues to look around suspiciously.] TOM: That's right, it's the first day of National Poetry Month! MIKE: Yeah, it's the -- huh? TOM: The first day of National Poetry Month! CROW: What else were you thinking, Mike? MIKE: Well, it's also April Fool's Day, you know. TOM: April Fool's Day? CROW: Oh, come on, Mike, haven't you out-grown that childish little tradition? MIKE: ME? What about you guys? I'm still remembering last year -- and the jello. [Crow and Tom snicker for a moment, then quickly force themselves back to seriousness.] TOM: Oh, yeah, we're sorry about that, Mike. CROW: Besides, it all came out eventually. TOM: Is *that* why you've been on edge all day? MIKE: Well, yeah, you've got to admit -- CROW: Look, Mike, we're sorry about that horribly juvenile prank we played on you last year. TOM: And the year before that. CROW: Yeah, and -- well, heck, for *all* those years. TOM: But we've matured in all that time, Mike. CROW: That's right, we've come to appreciate more sophisticated pursuits. Such as great poetry. TOM: Which is why we thought we'd commemorate the first evening of National Poetry Month with readings from the masters. CROW: Yeah. Like this one from Poe. [Resumes reading] "From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells--" MIKE: [Still suspicious] So you're not planning any kind of joke? [He glances down at the book sitting by itself on the console.] CROW: No, of course not. Now, where was I? [Resumes reading] "From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells--" MIKE: What are you reading, Crow? CROW: [Stares at Mike for a moment, then] "The Bells." MIKE: No, I mean -- [Looks over so he can see the book's title] Ah, _Poe's Poetry_. Very nice. And you, Tom -- [Looks at his book's cover] _A Treasury of Dickinson_. Good. TOM: Yes, she's a wonderful writer. And we pulled out a book for you, too, Mike. CROW: Yeah, it's sitting there on the console. Why don't you pick it up and join us? MIKE: [Nodding knowingly and grinning in self-satisfaction, he looks down at the book on the console, but does not touch it.] Yeah, right. Uh, guys, I couldn't help but notice that this book doesn't have a title on its cover. TOM: So? A lot of old books were like that. You know what they say about judging books by their covers -- MIKE: Or its side? That's blank, too. CROW: Well, it, uh, probably wore off over the years. TOM: Yeah, it's a very old and rare volume, you should feel lucky to be able to read from it. CROW: Just what are you trying to insinuate, anyway, Mike? MIKE: [Suppressing a smile] Oh, nothing, but you know, guys, I've always preferred Dickinson myself, so if Tom wouldn't mind using this book while I read his -- TOM: I don't know if that's such a good idea, Mike. MIKE: Oh, come on, Servo. [Slides the book from Tom's hands.] Surely you don't mind sharing -- [Mike turns a page over, triggering the door to a hidden compartment which flies open and sends a spring-loaded "snake" leaping out of the book at him. Mike gasps in shock and surprise and drops the book. It apparently lands on his foot since Mike utters a grunt of pain, grabs one of his feet and begins hopping around on the other. Tom and Crow laugh hysterically as the commercial light begins flashing.] TOM and CROW: [Chanting between laughter] April Fool! April Fool! April Fool! MIKE: We'll be right back -- as soon as I get back from the infirmary. [Exits -- limping -- from picture.] [Tom and Crow's laughter dies down to a dwindling chuckle as they watch Mike leave.] TOM: [Quietly] You think that Mike suspects what we've prepared for him in the infirmary? CROW: [Quietly] Naah, the poor sot hasn't a clue. [Tom and Crow giggle knowingly.] [Break for commercials.] [When we return from commercials, Mike, Tom and Crow are all back behind the bridge console. Mike is no longer hopping or limping. But he is now wet, as if a bucket of water has been dumped over his head. He looks annoyed. Crow and Tom are in the last dregs of another laughing spree. They are no longer wearing their glasses or holding books, although the lone book on the console is still there.] MIKE: [Dryly] Gee, I'm glad I was able to provide you all with an evening's amusement. TOM: [Cheerily] Hey, Mike, you know you should always be careful when entering a room on April 1st when the door is already partially open. You never know *what* might be propped on top of it! CROW: Yeah, you should feel lucky that that bedpan only had *water* in it! [Crow and Tom burst out laughing again as Mike purses his lips and nods.] MIKE: Yes, very cute, guys. And nice misdirection on that book thing. I thought for sure when I opened *this* book-- [Mike looks down at and opens the cover to the book on the console. When he does so, a small pie flies upward, striking Mike in the face and leaving it spattered with whipped cream. Tom and Crow burst out in yet another torrent of laughter.] CROW: [Gasping between laughs] If there's one thing we learned from _The Princess Bride_, it's to keep all the possibilities covered! TOM: Kinda like Mike's face! [Tom and Crow continue laughing as Mike slowly clears whipped cream from his eyes with his fingers and reluctantly nods his acknowledgment of being had. The mads light begins flashing.] MIKE: [Sighs] This should just about round out a perfect night. [He hits the light.] TOM: Aren't you going to clean up first, Mike? CROW: You're not afraid of being embarrassed? MIKE: [Suddenly tranquil] I'm beyond that now. [Castle Forrester. In the background we see a dining hall, with a long rectangular table in the center of it. To either side of the table are seated some 40 or so men and women in a variety of formal and semi-formal outfits from various times in history over the past 400 years. Everyone is holding wine glasses, some partially filled, some fully filled. There are several conversations taking place around the table, at the far end of which sits a man with white hair and beard, dressed in a brown, late 19th century suit. Not far behind him, along the back wall, are the double-doors to the kitchen.] [Pearl steps into the foreground and faces us. She is wearing a formal evening gown and heavy but not overly gaudy makeup, and her hair has been styled into a respectable updo.] PEARL: [Speaking softly] Hey, guys -- [Notices Mike's face] Oh, cute Bill Gates impression, Nelson. Anyway, it seems that I've discovered another little idiosyncrasy about living in Castle Forrester. It appears that each seventh year, during the first night of National Poetry Month, this is the meeting place of the Dead Poets Society. I mean the REAL Dead poets Society -- [Pearl stops talking as there is the sound of a glass being tapped followed by a general "shushing" from around the table. When things quiet down, one of the guests stands up and lifts his glass toward the man at the far end and speaks.] SPEAKER: I give you Walt Whitman. He is America. His crudity is an exceeding great stench but it is America. He is a hollow place in the rock that echoes with his time. He does "chant the crucial stage" and he is the "voice triumphant." He is disgusting. He is an exceedingly nauseating pill, but he accomplishes his mission. [The various guests laugh, raise their glasses and drink, including the man at the far end, who apparently *is* Walt Whitman.] WALT: [Holding his own glass up toward the speaker] Ah, Ezra Pound, a man who was always full of wit. Or at least something that rhymes with it. [There is even more laughter as Pearl turns back towards us with a look of irritation and shakes her head.] [SoL. Mike is just finishing wiping the pie off his face with a rag.] CROW: Wow! Look at that! I see Shakespeare, and Coleridge, and Emerson -- TOM: And over there's Byron and the Shelleys sitting together! MIKE: Man, Mrs. Krautmeyer would love this! CROW: Yeah, Mrs. Kr-- huh? TOM: Who the blazes is Mrs. Krautmeyer? MIKE: She was my tenth grade English teacher. Older lady, kind of scrawny, gray hair up in a bun, but boy did she love poetry! What an inspiration! She really turned us on to some of the classic transcendentalists and especially the romantics and -- [Notices Tom and Crow looking at him oddly] What? TOM: Oh, nothing, Mike, nothing. CROW: We're glad this triggered such a -- happy memory for you. MIKE: Yeah, well, anyway, you sure are lucky, Mrs. Forrester! [CF] PEARL: Lucky, hell! It turns out, to make a long story short, that there's some weird Forrester family curse where the castle's residents have to play host to these dead-beats' get-togethers. Tonight they've decided to do a roast-and-toast honoring Walt Whitman -- [Bobo steps into the picture beside Pearl. He is wearing a floppy chef's hat and apron, and carrying a large platter.] BOBO: How does this look, Lawgiver? [He raises the platter lid to reveal a large beef roast with several slices of toasted bread laid around its base.] PEARL: You idiot! It's not that kind of "roast-and-toast!" We're roasting Walt Whitman tonight! BOBO: [Aghast] Roasting WHITMAN?! [Looks at the platter] We're going to need a bigger plate! PEARL: No, no, no! I don't mean literally -- [Pearl is cut short by another round of glass-tapping and "shushing." Another man rises and offers a toast.] SPEAKER: To Walt. He is neither afraid of being slangy nor of being dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous. The result is the most surprising compound of plain grandeur, sentimental affection, and downright nonsense. [More laughter from around the table.] WALT: Good old Bob Stevenson, a fellow not afraid to speak his mind, a man who indeed has nothing to ... hide. [Some more laughter -- most of it forced now, with a few groans -- is heard as Pearl rolls her eyes and turns back to Bobo.] PEARL: Just carve and serve the roast beast you have there. BOBO: Yes, ma'am! [Exits to the side of picture.] PEARL: [Turning toward other side of picture and calling] Hey, Brain Guy! I think they're starting to need refills for their champagne. But first I -- [Pearl stops short as Observer enters the picture. He is dressed as a waiter except for his purple cowl, which is tucked neatly beneath his collar. He is holding his brain tray in one hand with a bottle of champagne tucked under the same arm. His face is a mask of barely restrained aggravation. Atop his pallid head sits a raven.] PEARL: Just what the hell do you think you're doing with that bird? OBSERVER: Nothing, Madam. This -- creature -- arrived with that odd looking gentleman with the mustache. For some inexplicable reason it has chosen the top of my head as a perch. PEARL: Well, get rid of it! OBSERVER: I've *tried*, Madam, but -- here, let me show you. [Waves his free hand at the raven] Begone, foul fowl! Shoo! Fly! RAVEN: Bwaaak! Nevermore! [Bites one of Observer's fingers.] OBSERVER: Ouch! Agh! [Shrugs toward Pearl in gesture of futility.] PEARL: Well -- why don't you just use your brain-power-thingy against it? OBSERVER: I've tried that, too, Madam. Unfortunately, it seems my powers don't work against netherworld denizens such as this. PEARL: What a pity. Anyway, I've still got some use for you besides being a dumb waiter. [She turns to us] Oh, Mike, lest you and your R2D2 wannabes feel excluded, I'm going to send you a couple of Mr. Whitman's poems from _Leaves of Grass_, one a racy little number called "A Woman Waits for Me" where he mixes sex with some sorta national symbolism, and the other a social rant entitled "Respondez!" Brain Guy? OBSERVER: Yes, Madam? PEARL: Roast 'em. OBSERVER: Yes, Madam. [Observer looks at us and jerks his head about as "brain noise" plays. Upset by the sudden motion, the raven begins skwaking.] RAVEN: Bwaaaaaak! Nevermore! [Whistles.] OBSERVER: [To raven] Oh, shut up! [SoL] [Alarms blare and lights flash.] ALL: Ahhhh! WE'VE GOT POETRY SIIIIIIIIIGN!!! *...6...5...4...3...2...o... [Theater. Mike enters, carrying Tom, followed by Crow. Mike sits and places Tom in the seat to his left as Crow sits to Mike's right.] MIKE: I don't know, fellas. I kinda liked Whitman, I don't know if I can riff the guy. CROW: Well, don't worry about it, Mike. TOM: Yeah, we'll get started and you can jump in when you feel comfortable. MIKE: Okay, but remember, be kind. And don't take *everything* literally. As I recall, Walt could be -- candid -- about sexual expression, but he also used a lot of symbology. Especially in regards to America and democracy. TOM: Okay, Mike, we'll keep that in mind. CROW: Yeah, you can trust us. The background of the screen turns dark blue and soft, relaxing music starts playing -- the type you might hear at a Borders or Barnes and Noble bookstore. Text starts scrolling up the screen in white, elegant, cursive letters.] >A Woman Waits for Me CROW: Yep, she's standing there waiting, watching the clock, tapping her foot, and holding a rolling pin. > > A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking, TOM: She's a complete set unto herself. > Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, CROW: Whoa! Walt gets right to the point, doesn't he? TOM: Man, when it comes to fooling around, he doesn't fool around. > or if the moisture of the > right man were lacking. TOM: Yep, that Old Spice does it every time. > > Sex contains all, CROW: Gee, that's kind of a broad statement. > Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, TOM: But here's an itemization for the anal retentive types. > purities, delicacies, CROW: I prefer the creamy and chewy types myself. > results, > promulgations, TOM: Pomegranates -- > Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, CROW: Hey, there's an idea -- Maternal Mystery Theater 4000, a spin-off for the fairer sex. > the seminal > milk; TOM: Is that whole or two percent? > All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, CROW: Oh, no, Walt's into bestowality! > All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth, TOM: What delights? CROW: [With Brooklyn accent] De ones you turn on at night in decar. > All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth, CROW: "follow'd persons of the earth"? TOM: They must be those leaders who don't qualify in the government, judge, or god categories. > These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of > itself. > CROW: [As Walt] There. Did I miss anything? No? Good. TOM: I'd wager this is one of President Clinton's favorite poems. Walt gives a laundry list to rival the State of the Union, and everything revolves around sex with de facto self justification. MIKE: Okay, fun's fun, fellas, but did you understand what Walt was trying to say? CROW: Yeah. He likes sex. TOM: Right. MIKE: Oh, come on, you guys aren't getting into the proper spirit of this thing! You're acting like a couple of ten-year olds. CROW: Well, Mike, if you count from the year we were created until this year, then we *are* ten years old. TOM: Or, if you count the time we spent at the edge of the universe, we're over 500, which makes us dirty old men. CROW: Either way, we're entitled! MIKE: But it doesn't seem right -- Walt deserves better than -- TOM: Mike, Walt's DEAD, his troubles are OVER. Lighten up! MIKE: Well -- I don't know -- CROW: Mike, we *know* Whitman's a great poet and all that. Think of what we're doing as a weird sort of tribute -- kinda like a roast, like they're doing at the castle. TOM: Yeah, Mike, just because you like the Rutles doesn't mean you're being disloyal to the Beatles. You should really just relax and give it a shot! MIKE: Well -- okay -- I'll try -- > Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his > sex, 10 > Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers. TOM: Why, those shameless hussies and -- Mike, what's a male "hussy"? MIKE: Uhhh -- a politician? CROW: That's more like it, Mike! Not great, and a little sexist, but not totally bad. TOM: Now, didn't that feel good? MIKE: Well -- yes it did, actually. > > Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women, MIKE: And they probably won't say anything -- being impassive and all -- TOM: At-a-boy, Mike! Now you're warming up! MIKE: Say, this is kinda fun. > I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that > are warm-blooded and sufficient for me; MIKE: So I'll stay away from the _Lair of the White Worm_. Get it? 'Cause that was a movie about snake women and stuff -- you know, cold-blooded? TOM: Oh, ah, yeah, I see -- CROW: Uh, Mike, take it easy and try not to reach quite so far next time. We've still got a ways to go. MIKE: [Sarcastically] Oh, thanks a lot, guys. TOM: It's called "tough love", my friend. > I see that they understand me, and do not deny me; > I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of > those women. CROW: Ah, Walt the Mormon. TOM: No, the Mormons don't do polygamy any more. CROW: They don't? Rats! And I was gonna convert. > > They are not one jot less than I am, TOM: Yeah, not one whit, man. > They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds, MIKE: These must be California girls. TOM: There you go, Mike! That's better! CROW: Now you're getting your grove back! MIKE: [Shyly] Gee, thanks. > Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength, CROW: They undergo epidermal workouts. > They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, > retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves, > They are ultimate in their own right-- TOM: They must belong to the Xena fan club! CROW: Or Buffy. > they are calm, clear, well- > possess'd of themselves. 20 MIKE: As opposed to Linda Blair -- > > I draw you close to me, you women! CROW: I am a magnet, and you are steel. > I cannot let you go, TOM: I spilt Krazy Glue on my hands. > I would do you good, MIKE: I am full of vitamins and minerals. > I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for > others' sakes; CROW: Yes, we *must* think of the others. > Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards, > They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me. TOM: [Yawns, then groggily] Hey, is that Whitman? I ain't talkin' to nobody but Whitman -- > > It is I, you women--I make my way, MIKE: [Bad Sinatra impression] I make myyyyyy wayyyyyyyyyy -- TOM: [Whispering] Mike -- Mike, please -- don't sing. > I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you, CROW: Ah, Rush Limbaugh's pick-up line. > I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you, TOM: Whoa! I think Walt's starting to work on 5 to 10 here -- CROW: You know, that disclaimer didn't work for Marv Albert. TOM: Hey, Albert categorically denied those charges. MIKE: Yeah, he -- huh? TOM: Well, that's what he *said*. > I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I > press with slow rude muscle, MIKE: Uhhh -- Does it seem to anybody else like it's starting to get warm in here? CROW: Kinda reminds you of Mrs. Krumpmeyer, eh Mike? MIKE: Oh, God -- Crow, that's SICK! > I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties, 30 CROW: So to Walt, "No" means "Yes." > I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated > within me. TOM: So -- uh -- I guess it's been a while since Walt's got any? > > Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself, CROW: Uh, yeah, Tom, I get that feeling too. > In you I wrap a thousand onward years, > On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America, MIKE: See! I told you, this is part allegory for America and democracy! TOM: [Humoring him] Sure, Mike, sure. CROW: Whatever you say. MIKE: [Sullenly] Well it is. > The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, TOM: Who'll get their own TV shows on independent networks -- > new > artists, musicians, and singers, CROW: My God, Walt's spawning the whole Lilith tour! > The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, MIKE: Until we eventually get to the babes of _Baywatch_. > I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings, TOM: Well, if he *is* talking about America, would *he* be disappointed. > I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you > interpenetrate now, CROW: Wait a minute -- INTERpenetrate? But how would a woman -- I mean, the anatomy -- MIKE: I think this is one stanza we'd best just leave alone. > I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I > count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now, TOM: I can't tell if Walt needs a gardener or a plumber. > I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, > immortality, I plant so lovingly now. 40 MIKE: Awww, that's sweet. See, now aren't you sorry we made fun of the poem? CROW: Hummmmm -- nope. TOM: Me neither. MIKE: Philistines. > > > >Whitman, Walt. TOM: [As Alan Arkin from _The Russians Are Coming_] Whitman Walt? Any relation to Whittaker Walt? > 1900. Leaves of Grass. CROW: 1900 leaves of grass? They had to count them all? TOM: Now they know how many leaves it takes to fill the Albert Hall. MIKE: Come on, fellas, it's obviously time to take a break. [Mike Picks up Tom and they and Crow exit the theater.] [Break for commercials.] [SoL. Bridge. Crow is standing alone behind the console. He is speaking toward us (to the Castle interface).] CROW: Yeah, that's it -- no a little more to the right -- now slide it back a tad -- [CF. Kitchen. Bobo is positioning a bucket on a small shelf above the double-doors. A string connects the handle of the bucket to the top of one of the doors. Bobo is suspended a couple of feet above the ground as he does it, and Observer is standing beside him, watching him, and we hear the continuous "brain noise" as Observer is apparently using his mind to keep Bobo levitated. Both are still dressed as earlier, and the raven is still atop Observer's head. It has now built a small nest, and there are two eggs in it.] BOBO: Okay, how's that? [SoL] CROW: Perfect. That should do it. [CF] OBSERVER: Good. ["Brain noise" stops.] BOBO: AHH! [He falls the two feet to the ground, slips, and lands on his behind.] OBSERVER: Oh, I'm terribly sorry about that, Bobo. BOBO: [Standing up] Be more careful next time! I could have damaged something! OBSERVER: You're quite correct. Such a landing might cause you brain injury. BOBO: [Observer's comment flying over his head] Absolutely! [To us] Are you sure Lawgiver won't get upset over this? OBSERVER: Yes, my first inclination is to believe that this will result in some ... unpleasant repercussions. [SoL] CROW: Don't worry, guys! If there's one thing that 20th century humans appreciate it's a good April Fool's joke. Hey, I've lived with 'em for years! Trust me! [CF] OBSERVER: I don't know, Michael didn't seem particularly amused by your earlier bit of trickery. BOBO: Yeah, he looked kinda peeved to me. [SoL] CROW: Ahhh, that's just part of playing along. Believe me, inside -- deep inside, maybe -- he was laughing! Just wait for Pearl to come through those doors, and then do what I told ya. You'll be on her good side for months! [CF] OBSERVER: Still, I -- [Stops as they hear footsteps approaching.] BOBO: Here she comes! Quick, hide! [Bobo and Observer take positions against the wall on either side of the double doors. A moment later, Pearl comes through the doors, pushing them so far open as she does so that they smash against Observer and Bobo.] PEARL: [Oblivious to the "oofs" from her servants and a muted "caw!" from the raven] Well, so far things are going well -- [The bucket of water falls, soaking Pearl's head and dress. The bucket itself lands upside-down on her head, covering it. She stands perfectly still as Bobo and Observer jump out from behind the doors.] BOBO & OBSERVER: [Merrily] April Fool! April Fool! April Fool! [They stop their chant as steam starts to rise from Pearl's shoulders and from beneath the bucket.] BOBO: [Sounding afraid] Oh-oh. I think this is bad. OBSERVER: [Also frightened] I must concur. [SoL] CROW: Oops. [Mike enters picture and stands beside Crow.] MIKE: Hey, Crow, what's happening? CROW: Oh, uh, Bobo and Brain Guy just played an April Fool's joke on Pearl. MIKE: Really? My gosh, that was pretty stupid. CROW: Uh, yeah, I think you're right. MIKE: What happened to them? CROW: Look -- it's happening right now. [Nods toward us.] MIKE: [Looking at us] Oh, wow! They're in for it now! [As Mike becomes riveted on watching the occurrences at the Castle, Crow quietly slips out of the picture.] [CF] [Pearl slowly removes the bucket from her head, the last wisps of steam drifting up from it and her shoulders. She is no longer wet. Her mascara and other makeup has run partially down her face and then dried in place, giving it an appearance not unlike Gene Simmons of Kiss. Her hair is now molded in the shape of the bottom of the bucket.] PEARL: AND JUST WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWO THINK YOU WERE DOING? BOBO: We -- ah -- we were just trying to help you celebrate April Fool's Day, Lawgiver! You know, some good-natured pranks and ribbing and -- [He stops as Pearl glares at him] You -- uh -- didn't enjoy our little prank? PEARL: AND JUST WHY DID YOU THINK I WOULD, YOU IMBECILES? [Pearl shifts her glare between Bobo and Observer. They stammer incoherent for a few seconds, and glance aimlessly around, and then Observer's glance falls on us.] OBSERVER: [Pointing at us] Because Michael told us you would! BOBO: [Looking at us] He did? [Turns and notices Observer sneak him a pleading look] Oh, yes he did! [Pearl turns her glare toward us.] [SoL] MIKE: Who, me? Crow, why would -- [Looks around and realizes that he's alone.] [CF] OBSERVER: Yes, he told us how humans enjoyed these practical jokes, and *assured* us that *you* would, too. [Pearl shoots him a glance] I mean, err, you *being* human, and a superior specimen, too, I might add. BOBO: Yeah, he told us how to set the bucket up and everything! PEARL: [Returning her glare at us] So, Nelson, thought you'd play a little prank on me, eh? Thought you'd have a little fun at the expense of the old Pearlster, eh? [SoL] MIKE: [Pleadingly] Honest, Mrs. F, I didn't have anything to do with -- [CF] PEARL: Come on, you don't think these two morons would have the backbone to try something like this on their own, do you? OBSERVER: Certainly not! BOBO: Impossible! [Bobo and Observer's faces take on contemplative looks as they consider what they have just said as Pearl continues.] PEARL: Well, Nelson, if you think you had it bad before, just wait! I'll send you cheese so rancid it would make a rat barf! But for now, GET BACK IN THAT THEATER AND FINISH YOUR POETRY ASSIGNMENT! [SoL] [Alarms blare and lights flash.] MIKE: YES MA'AM! AHHHHHHHH! *...6...5...4...3...2...o... [Theater. Crow is already in his seat. Mike enters, carrying Tom.] MIKE: Oh, man, would you believe that Pearl's goons tried to blame *me* for putting them up to that prank? CROW: [Uneasily] Really? MIKE: [Placing Tom in his seat and resuming his own] Yeah, they said I talked them into it and even told them how to set the whole thing up. TOM: Man, it really burns me up how some jerks won't accept responsibility for their own stupidity. MIKE: Amen to that. CROW: [Unenthusiastically] Yeah ... absolutely. MIKE: Crow, you're acting weird, what's -- CROW: Oh, look! The poem's starting! Thank God! MIKE & TOM: Huh? CROW: Uh, hey, what can I say, I'm really starting to develop an appreciation for Whitman! [Under his breath] A very sudden and deep appreciation. [The poem begins, but the layout is now different. The background music has changed to Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain." The screen background is now scarlet. The letters that begin to creep up the screen are in bright yellow, the font more sharp and harsh.] MIKE: Oh-oh, here comes that rant that Pearl told us about. TOM: I never read a rant by a great poet. How does it differ from the usual Internet rant? MIKE: Well, for one thing, it doesn't look like it was written by a monkey trying to type King Lear. > > > Respondez! TOM: What, have we slipped into a foreign language here? CROW: If so, I hope the poem will be close-captioned. > > > RESPONDEZ! Respondez! MIKE: LE QUESTION? Le question? CROW: Zee plane! Zee plane! > (The war is completed--the price is paid--the title is settled beyond > recall;) TOM: But as *I* recall, the title was "Respondez!" > Let every one answer! MIKE: Ah, Walt's never met Susan McDougal. > let those who sleep be waked! CROW: Or President Reagan. > let none evade! TOM: Or President Clinton. > Must we still go on with our affectations and sneaking? CROW: [As Clinton] I don't know, Monica, should I come clean? TOM: [As Monica] It's up to you, Bill. You're the Head of State. Tee-hee. > Let me bring this to a close-- CROW: Wow, short poem! > I pronounce openly for a new > distribution of roles; TOM: Oh, neat! Let's make Pearl and her goons sit in the theater while we send *them* bad movies! MIKE: Works for me, although I doubt they'd agree to it. TOM: Well, does it ever hurt to ask? MIKE: With Pearl? Sure! > Let that which stood in front go behind! and let that which was > behind advance to the front and speak; CROW: Hey! No butting in line! > Let murderers, bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new > propositions! TOM: [As Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_] I still say WHO, I still say WHEN -- > Let the old propositions be postponed! CROW: Like when Monica told Bill she'd get back to him? > Let faces and theories be turn'd inside out! MIKE: As per the laundering instructions. > let meanings be freely > criminal, as well as results! TOM: [As announcer] And here are the results from last night's hockey games -- CROW: Don't you DARE read those results, you criminal! > Let there be no suggestion above the suggestion of drudgery! 10 MIKE: Hello, I'm Mike Nelson, and I'll be your waiter tonight. Might I suggest this evening's special, drudgery, lightly seasoned and baked, with a side order of either sautéed desperation or creamed disgust. > Let none be pointed toward his destination! (Say! TOM: Hey! > do you know your > destination?) CROW: Do *you* know the way to San Jose? > Let men and women be mock'd with bodies and mock'd with Souls! MIKE: [As Buzz Lightyear] You're mocking me, aren't you? > Let the love that waits in them, wait! TOM: Ah, I see Walt anticipated the DMV. > let it die, or pass stillborn > to other spheres! MIKE: Along with Dustin Hoffman, Sharon Stone, and Samuel L. Jackson. > Let the sympathy that waits in every man, wait! or let it also pass, > a dwarf, to other spheres! CROW: What, Hervé Villechaize was in there, too? > Let contradictions prevail! let one thing contradict another! and let > one line of my poems contradict another! TOM: Sounds like Walt could be a speechwriter for Clinton. > Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands! MIKE: Oh my God, Walt's met Torgo! > let their tongues > be broken! CROW: Uhhh -- wouldn't you have to freeze them first? > let their eyes be discouraged! TOM: Oh, that's simple. Make them watch _Manos_. > let none descend into > their hearts with the fresh lusciousness of love! CROW: Not even to get to the soft, gooey center? > (Stifled, O days! O lands! MIKE: Wait a minute, are we talking America or Ireland? > in every public and private corruption! TOM: Either way, it doesn't matter -- Ken Starr will get to the bottom of it. > Smother'd in thievery, impotence, shamelessness, mountain-high; CROW: [Sings falsetto] Ain't no mountain high enough, Ain't no shame that's low enough, Ain't no thief deprived enough To keep me from YOUUU -- > Brazen effrontery, scheming, rolling like ocean's waves around and > upon you, O my days! my lands! MIKE: Man, I wish I'd brought some Dramamine. > For not even those thunderstorms, nor fiercest lightnings of the war, > have purified the atmosphere;) 20 TOM: Looks like they even had problems with CFC's back then. > --Let the theory of America still be management, caste, comparison! > (Say! CROW: What? > what other theory would you?) MIKE: Relativity? TOM: Evolution? CROW: Domino? > Let them that distrust birth and death still lead the rest! (Say! why > shall they not lead you?) TOM: Well, because I don't feel one's stand on abortion rights or right-to-die should be a litmus test for leadership? > Let the crust of hell be neared and trod on! let the days be darker > than the nights! CROW: Ah, Los Angeles in summertime. > let slumber bring less slumber than waking > time brings! MIKE: I've actually had a few boring temp jobs where that was the case. > Let the world never appear to him or her for whom it was all made! TOM: Well, doesn't that spoil the entire purpose of Creation? CROW: Yeah, and a Creation's a terrible thing to waste! > Let the heart of the young man still exile itself from the heart of > the old man! and let the heart of the old man be exiled from > that of the young man! MIKE: Fortunately, they've come a long way in combating organ rejection since Walt's time. > Let the sun and moon go! TOM: I don't think Walt realizes the gravity of that statement. > let scenery take the applause of the > audience! CROW: Ha! Obviously, Walt's never seen *our* scenery! > let there be apathy under the stars! MIKE: Our high school once held an "Apathy Under the Stars" dance. But nobody bothered to show up. > Let freedom prove no man's inalienable right! every one who can > tyrannize, let him tyrannize to his satisfaction! TOM: I just got a weird mental image of Saddam Hussein performing "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." > Let none but infidels be countenanced! CROW: Is that like a census? MIKE: Uhhh -- no. > Let the eminence of meanness, treachery, sarcasm, hate, greed, > indecency, impotence, lust, be taken for granted above all! MIKE: Hey, I was always taught it wasn't nice to take people for granted. TOM: But you know, "Eminence of Meanness" -- wouldn't that be a good title for Pearl? CROW: Yeah, Tom, why don't you suggest that to her? TOM: Oh, yeah, right. MIKE: She might take it as a compliment. TOM: Or she might use me to test her new trash compactor. Hell, she might turn me *into* a trash compactor! CROW: Hey, quit talkin' trash. TOM: D'ohhh! > let > writers, judges, governments, households, religions, > philosophies, take such for granted above all! TOM: After all, where would Captain Ahab be without Moby Dick? MIKE: Or Peter Pan without Captain Hook? CROW: Or Mr. Green Jeans without Captain Kangaroo? MIKE & TOM: [Look oddly at Crow, then] HUH? CROW: Uhhh -- or not! > Let the worst men beget children out of the worst women! 30 CROW: Why do I have this sudden urge to visit a deli? > Let the priest still play at immortality! MIKE: [Announcer's voice] Welcome to Immortality! Join host Father O'Hara and these three lucky contestants to find out which one will win an all-penance paid trip direct to the Pearly Gates! [Tom and Crow make "audience cheering" sounds.] > Let death be inaugurated! TOM: But I didn't even know death was on the ballot! MIKE: Oh, yeah, he's heading a new party, "The Ultimate Reform Party." CROW: Well, if he wins, does he have to give up his job on _Touched by an Angel_? > Let nothing remain but the ashes of teachers, CROW: Ah, now we know who inspired Alice Cooper. > artists, moralists, > lawyers, and learn'd and polite persons! MIKE: Seems Walt was deep into cremation. > Let him who is without my poems be assassinated! TOM: AHA! Now we know Walt's REAL agenda here! > Let the cow, the horse, the camel, the garden-bee--let the mudfish, > the lobster, the mussel, eel, the sting-ray, and the grunting > pig-fish-- CROW: Hey, it sounds like the layout at my favorite all-you-can-eat buffet! > let these, and the like of these, be put on a perfect > equality with man and woman! TOM: What, make them sink to man's level? > Let churches accommodate serpents, vermin, and the corpses of those > who have died of the most filthy of diseases! MIKE: No more _Mass for Shut-ins_! > Let marriage slip down among fools, and be for none but fools! TOM: So now they'll let fools get married, but still not gays. CROW: But what about gay fools? TOM: Well, maybe -- MIKE: But what if a guy who's a gay fool wants to marry another guy who's *not* a fool? TOM: Ummm -- naah. Those mixed marriages are too hard to make work. CROW: You mean between fools and non-fools? TOM: Right. CROW: Well, so far it's worked for the Quayles. > Let men among themselves talk and think forever obscenely of women! > and let women among themselves talk and think obscenely of men! MIKE: CROW! CROW: WHAT?! I didn't SAY anything! MIKE: Yeah, I know, but with an opening like that I thought I'd better preempt before you said something so off-color we couldn't find it in the spectrum. > Let us all, without missing one, be exposed in public, naked, > monthly, at the peril of our lives! let our bodies be freely > handled and examined by whoever chooses! TOM: Oh, great, I just had a flashback to the movie _Showgirls_. > Let nothing but copies at second hand be permitted to exist upon the > earth! 40 CROW: Ah, Walt must have inspired Xerox, too! > Let the earth desert God, nor let there ever henceforth be mention'd > the name of God! > Let there be no God! MIKE: I, uh, don't think God would agree to put it up for a vote. > Let there be money, business, imports, exports, custom, authority, > precedents, pallor, dyspepsia, smut, ignorance, unbelief! CROW: Hey, Walt predicted the Internet! The man was a *genius*! > Let judges and criminals be transposed! let the prison-keepers be put > in prison! let those that were prisoners take the keys! TOM: Ha! I'd swear Walt had been listening to Ollie and G. Gordon. > Say! MIKE: --you, say me. Say it for always. That's the way it should be. > why might they not just as well be transposed?) > Let the slaves be masters! let the masters become slaves! CROW: Hummmm -- let the machines run the Earth and keep mankind in a subservient position. Hey, works for me! > Let the reformers descend from the stands where they are forever > bawling! let an idiot or insane person appear on each of the > stands! TOM: Sounds like the turnover in the '94 Congressional elections. > Let the Asiatic, the African, the European, the American, and the > Australian, go armed against the murderous stealthiness of each > other! let them sleep armed! let none believe in good will! CROW: An idea that was later promoted by the NRA. > Let there be no unfashionable wisdom! let such be scorn'd and derided > off from the earth! MIKE: Which is why it's important to dress your wisdom in the latest from Saks Fifth Avenue. > Let a floating cloud in the sky--let a wave of the sea--let growing > mint, spinach, onions, tomatoes--let these be exhibited as > shows, at a great price for admission! CROW: Wow, Walt foresaw modern art shows, too! He was a regular Notre Damas! TOM: That's "Nostradamus." CROW: Hey, you root for the schools that you like, and I'll root for the ones that I like. > Let all the men of These States stand aside for a few smouchers! [All three have to choke back guffaws.] MIKE: But if you wanna know if he loves you so, what else can you do? TOM: "He", Mike? MIKE: Well, yeah. I mean, that's the way the song went. I guess you could say "he or she" but -- ah, come on, you know what I mean. TOM: Yes, Mike, I, uh, think we do. CROW: [Liltingly] Um - hummmm. [Mike sighs resignedly.] > let > the few seize on what they choose! let the rest gawk, giggle, > starve, obey! 50 TOM: Not necessarily in that order. > Let shadows be furnish'd with genitals! let substances be deprived of > their genitals! CROW: Come on, even *I* think that's taking those diamond commercials a bit too far! > Let there be wealthy and immense cities--but still through any of > them, not a single poet, savior, knower, lover! MIKE: Or at least banish them to the "artsy" district. > Let the infidels of These States laugh all faith away! > If one man be found who has faith, let the rest set upon him! TOM: Wow, there's a statement Pat Robertson can relate to! Pat once complained about being oppressed by "drunkards, drug dealers, communists, atheists, New Age, worshippers of Satan, secular humanists, oppressive dictators, greedy moneychangers, revolutionary assassins, adulterers, and homosexuals." MIKE: Actually, despite sentiments like from the first poem we read, a lot of scholars think Walt *was* homosexual, or at least bi. TOM: Really? Well, scratch Robertson. MIKE: I would, but I'm afraid he'd take it the wrong way. > Let them affright faith! let them destroy the power of breeding > faith! CROW: Hey, it wasn't *us* who told priests they had to stay celibate. > Let the she-harlots and the he-harlots be prudent! MIKE: [As George Bush] No, no, wouldn't be prudent -- > let them dance on, > while seeming lasts! (O seeming! seeming! seeming!) TOM: Sounds like a disco star afraid his white pants'll split. > Let the preachers recite creeds! let them still teach only what they > have been taught! CROW: Naaah, make 'em teach what they don't know. > Let insanity still have charge of sanity! MIKE: Since when did it ever not? > Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds! TOM: Ah, sounds like Rush Limbaugh talking about _The Way Things Ought to Be_. > Let the daub'd portraits of heroes supersede heroes! 60 > Let the manhood of man never take steps after itself! CROW: Or else it'll end up like in that Winnie-the-Pooh cartoon where Pooh and Piglet keep following their own tracks around a tree. > Let it take steps after eunuchs, and after consumptive and genteel > persons! MIKE: You know, I always *did* like Mr. Rogers. > Let the white person again tread the black person under his heel! TOM: I think that's a new proposition on the California ballot. > (Say! which is trodden under heel, after all?) CROW: A question later to be repeated by such intellectual giants as Jesse Helms. > Let the reflections of the things of the world be studied in mirrors! ALL: [Singing] Reflections of -- The way life used to be -- > let the things themselves still continue unstudied! MIKE: You know, that statement sounds somehow Platonic. I can really relate to it. > Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself! > Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself! CROW: Lest they grow hair on their palms. > (What real happiness have you had one single hour through your whole > life?) TOM: [Starting to sob] He's right -- he's RIGHT! My whole life has been one big, futile MESS! [Begins crying loudly.] MIKE: [Patting Tom's back gently] There, there, now, Tom. Here, have a Ram Chip. [Mike places a chip in Tom's mouth. Tom makes chewing then lip-smacking sounds.] MIKE: There. Feel better now? TOM: Oh boy, you bet! CROW: [Tentatively] You know, Mike, I'm getting kinda depressed, too. MIKE: Oh, here. [Feeds Crow a chip.] CROW: Hummm, yeah, that hit the spot! I'm feeling much chipper now! TOM: I love these things -- combination Frito and Ginkoba, all in one! But these do taste slightly different than normal. MIKE: Oh, these have been specially formulated to give you more get-up-and-go. TOM: They have? Oh, neat. CROW: Yeah, my energy level has needed a little boost recently. > Let the limited years of life do nothing for the limitless years of > death! (What do you suppose death will do, then?) MIKE: I would say it just about brings everything to a close. TOM: Like this poem. > > > > Whitman, Walt. 1900. Leaves of Grass. CROW: Hey, wait a minute, I just realized -- grass doesn't *have* any leaves! TOM: Depends on what type of "grass" you're talking about, heh-heh. MIKE: [Standing and picking up Tom] Oh, criminy, let's just get out of here. CROW: Yeah, let's make like the grass and leave. [Crow exits theater followed shortly by Mike and Tom, both still moaning from Crow's joke.] ...o...2...3...4...5...6...* [SoL. Bridge. Mike, Crow and Tom enter.] CROW: Man, Mike, what was with Walt and that last poem? TOM: Yeah, what burr got up his behind, anyway? MIKE: Well, maybe we can ask him. [Looks at us and hits the mads light] Pearl? You there? [CF. Close-up on the end of the dining table where Pearl, her makeup and hair back in place, stands beside Walt Whitman, who is still seated.] PEARL: Yeah, we're here, Nelson. I was just showing Walt here the end of your experiment. WALT: Yes, and I must say, you three automatons make the wind-up marvels of my day look like toys! PEARL: Uh, Walt, the one in the jumpsuit is human. WALT: He is? Ah, my apologies -- I just expected the late 20th century American man to look -- different. [SoL] MIKE: Uh, okay -- anyway, we're please to meet you, Mr. Whitman. I hope you're not too upset by how we treated your poems. [CF] WALT: [Good-naturedly] Ah, think nothing of it. I heard *much* worse in my own day, I assure you! For instance, in 1860 the "Saturday Review" wrote that I was "one of the most indecent writers who ever raked out filth into sentences." [SoL] MIKE: Well, that's kind of you, sir. [As Mike speaks, the 'bots start squirming about slightly as if they were uncomfortable] Anyhow, we were just wondering what inspired you to write "Respondez!" the way you did? TOM: [Quietly] I'm starting to feel funny. CROW: [Quietly] Yeah, me too. [CF] WALT: Oh, I did get a bit carried away with that poem, didn't I? I'm afraid I was just so fed up with government corruption, rampant demoralization of our society, crime, pornography, infidelity to both God and spouse -- but forgive me, you don't want me to get started on that again. Besides, I'm sure you've all advanced passed all that by now. [SoL] MIKE: Actually, Mr. Whitman, the types of things you ranted about then would probably make a successful radio show today. [The 'bots are somewhat more agitated.] [CF] WALT: Er -- rant? Radio? I'm afraid I don't understand. [SoL] MIKE: Well, it's a long story -- TOM: [Finding it very hard to stay still] What the hell's going on? MIKE: [Too innocently] Whatever do you mean, Tom? TOM: I feel like I've got to -- OH, BOY! [Rushes out of picture.] CROW: [Also very fidgety] Mike -- Mike, what did you put in those Ram Chips? MIKE: Put *in* them? Why, nothing! Of course, I did *soak* them overnight in a fine broth of castor oil, Metamucil, dehydrocholic acid, and a concentrated mixture of liquified Dulcolax and Ex-Lax -- for that "get-up-and-go" I told you about. CROW: [Obviously very uncomfortable] Ohhhh -- curse, you, Nelson! [Calls] LOOK OUT, SERVO, I'M RIGHT BEHIND YOU! [Exits quickly, following the route Tom took.] MIKE: [Unsuccessfully attempting to suppress a self-satisfied smile] Back to you, Mrs. Forrester. [CF] PEARL: [Raising an eyebrow and nodding in a mock salute] Not bad, Nelson, not bad. You may have potential yet. [To Walt] But tell me, Walt. You mentioned pornography. But what about your works like that "Waiting Woman" thing? Didn't they regard *that* as pornographic? WALT: Well, actually, many did. But that was not my intent. You see, I regarded sex as a sacred act, fully natural and the absolute center of existence. PEARL: Really? Tell me more -- [Observer enters picture and stands beside Pearl. He is holding his brain tray. The eggs in the nest on his head have hatched, and the raven is feeding its two hatchlings.] OBSERVER: Will there be anything more, Madam? [Pearl looks at him, somewhat irritated by the interruption, but Whitman laughs good-naturedly.] WALT: Say, what is your manservant's pet feeding its young? *Conqueror* worms? [There is a mixture of laughter and moans from around the table. Pearl joins the laughter as Observer pastes on an obviously forced smile.] PEARL: [Her laughter subsiding] Yes, Bird-Brain Guy, there *is* something you can do. I've got a bottle of vintage 1947 champagne chilling in a bucket on the kitchen counter. Go fetch it for us, won't you? OBSERVER: Yes, Madam. [Starts to leave.] PEARL: [Stopping him] But here, let me hold this. [Takes his brain tray] That way you can use both hands to serve. OBSERVER: [Uneasily] But I -- PEARL: Don't worry, you'll be within 50 feet of it. You won't go any more brain-dead than normal. OBSERVER: [Sighs resignedly] Very well, Madam. [He exits through the kitchen doors behind Walt as Pearl places the tray on the table.] WALT: I say, what *is* that thing? PEARL: You'll see in a moment; it's a surprise. [Calls] OH, BOBO! COME OUT HERE, AND BRING A CLEAN KNIFE! [To us, quietly] Like I said, you weren't bad, Nelson, but here's how we Forresters do April Fool's Day. [Bobo appears through the Kitchen doors, carrying a carving knife, and stands beside Pearl.] BOBO: Yes, Lawgiver? PEARL: [Gesturing to the brain tray] It's time to serve this plum pudding I made for Mr. Whitman's dessert. Slice it up for everyone, won't you? BOBO: [Looking down at tray] But Lawgiver, isn't that -- PEARL: Yes, it *does* bear a remarkable resemblance, doesn't it? But you'll see the difference when you slice in. BOBO: Very well, Lawgiver. [Observer comes out of the kitchen, carrying the bottle of champagne, and sees Bobo about to cut into his brain.] OBSERVER: BOBO, NO! [Without thinking, Observer quickly raises and smashes the bottle over Bobo's head. Everyone at the table gasps as Bobo suddenly snaps to a straight standing position.] BOBO: [Woozily] I think -- the champagne -- has gone to my head -- [Collapses like a chopped tree.] [Observer covers his mouth with his fingertips and, with a shocked expression, looks down at Bobo while Pearl looks at us and laughs.] PEARL: Now *that's* how a *Forrester* celebrates April Fool's! [Fade out. Roll credits and play closing theme.] SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For those interested (for those not, skip to the end) I wish to acknowledge the following useful resources: _Walt Whitman's America_ by David S. Reynolds For some insight into Mr. Whitman's mindset. Walt's description of sex to Pearl is a paraphrase of a description on page 210 of this book. _Fighting Words_ by James Charlton Contains actual comments, mostly derogatory but usually literate and often witty, that famed writers have made about other writers. The comments about Walt Whitman made by Ezra Pound and Robert Louis Stevenson were lifted from this book, pp. 34-35. (I made up Walt's replies -- but you've probably guessed that.) http://www.columbia.edu/acis/bartleby/whitman Project Bartleby's online copy of _Leaves of Grass_. This was the source for the text of the two poems used in this MiSTing. http://thehamptons.com/words/reynolds/politics_and_poetry.html Discusses the political background of Mr. Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/whitman/works/leaves/1860/reviews/index.html Contains actual 1860 reviews of _Leaves of Grass_ from several publications. This is where I got the quote from the "Saturday Review" that Mr. Whitman cites in the MiSTing. I'd also like to thank my teachers, and the authors of the 1st Amendment. 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 | | | Mystery Science Theater 3000 and its associated characters | | and situations are the property of and trademarks of Best | | Brains, Inc. In no way should this MiSTing be construed to | | be an infringement on those rights. All rights reserved. | | Use of copyrighted and trademarked material is for entertainment | | purposes only; no infringement on the original copyrights or trade- | | marks held by Best Brains, Inc. is intended or should be inferred. | | This post is a satire and not intended as a personal attack upon | | the original advertisers or other persons or characters presented, | | and is meant only as entertainment and commentary. | | | 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 > Let him who is without my poems be assassinated!