The intrepid man in the long black trench coat walks against the flow of pedestrian traffic on the crowded street, occasionally puffing on his Cuban cigar. Without warning, he begins walking alongside the attractive young lady in the too-large sweater and fashionable sunglasses. Taking his hand from his pocket, he sticks a microphone in her face.“Pardon me, Miss. Could you possibly tell me where I could find an honest man?”
Pushing his hand away, the girl begins to trot. “Bugger off, creep!”
Undaunted, the man grabs a large black man by the arm, walking briskly to keep pace. “Excuse me, Sir,” he continues, extending the microphone upwards towards the man’s face, “do you have any opinions regarding the sanctification of nightshade in religious ceremonies?”
“I got your nightshade right here, asshole, if you don’t let go of me!” Shoving Trench Coat hard against a bus-stop bench, the man walks away, looking back every other step or so, making sure he isn’t being followed.
Brushing himself off, Trench Coat once again joins the throng of humanity, merely one more wildebeest among the stampeding herd. Crossing 45th street, he stops and sits down on the bench next to the older, totally bald gentleman reading a folded-up copy of Variety. Pushing the microphone under the man’s chin, Trench Coat inquires, “Are you really reading that or is it just a prop to help you pick up chicks?”
Baldy glances over his trendy, horn-rimmed spectacles, then turns a page, pretending not to pay attention. “Some of us actually can read, my friend… and we already have plenty of female attention, thank you very much.”
“Oh, yea? How many words a minute do you read?”
Without looking up, the man replies, “Oh, about fifteen hundred, I’d guess...”
“Do not.”
“Do, too.”
“Do not.”
“Do, too.”
Bringing the microphone even closer and waving his hand toward the crowd, “Prove it to all those across America who’re watching us right now...”
Still not looking up, “No. I don’t feel like it. Go away.”
“Well, tell me this, then... have you ever had the shingles?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Okay, one more question and I’ll leave you to your fantasies of me… When you were on Survivor, did you ever see or pet a monkey?” Satisfied with himself, Trench Coat pushes his rimless glasses a little farther up on his nose and once again takes a puff off his cigar, a devilish grin exposing the distinctive gap between his two front teeth.
The bald man stares at Trench Coat, a bewildered look suddenly broadcasting across the prominence of his face. “Lucille... honey, is that you? Have you, at long last, come back to me?” Standing up suddenly, he grabs Trench Coat by the ears and kisses him broadly on the lips. “Oh, my darling... I knew you’d come to your senses and return eventually!”
“I’m not Lucille!”
“Yes, you are!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are!”
“No, honest... I’m not!”
Backing off to arm’s length, the bald man cocks his head to one side and scrunches his eyebrows, the lines on his face becoming even more pronounced. Letting go gently, a disconsolate look on his face, Baldy confides, “No, I suppose you’re not… Lucille is much taller and has fuller lips. It was too much to hope for.”
“I’m six-four, you know…”
“No you’re not.”
“Am, too…”
“Are not… five-eleven, tops…”
Craning his neck, Trench Coat stretches his arms and puts the microphone back in Baldy’s face. “Hey, pal, you really should see someone about those delusions.”
“I’m not delusional.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. And get that damn microphone out of my face! Besides, it’s not really a microphone, anyway.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
Stopping to look, Trench Coat holds it up to his face and stares for a few seconds. “By God, I believe you’re right!”
Grabbing the microphone, Baldy takes a bite and spits it in Trench Coat’s face, before taking another and chewing it. “I love raw carrots.”
“Do you hate Saturday as much as I do?”
“Yes, I’d have to say I do.”
Tapping Baldy on the knee briskly, Trench Coat rises off the seat. “See you Monday, Paul… give the band my best.”
“Yes, you are!”
“No, honest... I’m not!”
Backing off to arm’s length, the bald man cocks his head to one side and scrunches his eyebrows, the lines on his face becoming even more pronounced. Letting go gently, a disconsolate look on his face, Baldy confides, “No, I suppose you’re not… Lucille is much taller and has fuller lips. It was too much to hope for.”
“I’m six-four, you know…”
“No you’re not.”
“Am, too…”
“Are not… five-eleven, tops…”
Craning his neck, Trench Coat stretches his arms and puts the microphone back in Baldy’s face. “Hey, pal, you really should see someone about those delusions.”
“I’m not delusional.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. And get that damn microphone out of my face! Besides, it’s not really a microphone, anyway.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it’s not.”
Stopping to look, Trench Coat holds it up to his face and stares for a few seconds. “By God, I believe you’re right!”
Grabbing the microphone, Baldy takes a bite and spits it in Trench Coat’s face, before taking another and chewing it. “I love raw carrots.”
“Do you hate Saturday as much as I do?”
“Yes, I’d have to say I do.”
Tapping Baldy on the knee briskly, Trench Coat rises off the seat. “See you Monday, Paul… give the band my best.”
“Okay… see you later, David...”
10 comments:
ok... who the hell are paul and david,,, i love the story...but got to the end and got lost....
I think I owe you an apology, Paisley... I forgot there are people who don't watch David Letterman. Dave is a smartass's smartass, so The Late Show with David Letterman is required watching for me. It can be stupid, infantile... everything I hold sacred.
Reminded me of Dylan in his surrealist phase. "you see something happening here, but you don't understand, do you mr jones..." trenchcoat, microphone you're a cow, give me some milk or else go home,
ie, different and cool, rage on, big fella,
HAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA
That's funny.
Great stuff. I knew it was Letterman, but Paul went right over my head, but that's just me. You know. It's too bad the writer's strike is over. I think you could have scabbed in and written for Letterman.
Thanks, everyone, I used to wonder whether Letterman's appeal revolved around the great writing or his delivery, but I don't think it matters. He could get laughs reading the phone book. Honestly, I'm glad that he didn't get The Tonight Show when Carson retired. It's so tough to replace a master, that the pressure might have been too much... plus, I think he's better in New York than he ever would have been in L.A.
I like Leno, but David is the king of Late Night.
Cool beans
love the silly-ness
of it,
can we all say Monty
Python????
klk
******
are you a member of the Silly
Walks Ministery?
and do you have a dead
parrot nailed to a
perch?
Hi, Kaylee... while it would have pleased me beyond words to even once claim membership in the Ministery of Silly Walks, I am but a humble servant... and I don't like SPAM! May Eric, John, Graham and all the Python boys live forever...
Well, I didn't get it either but with my mentality it was funny on its own! I got the point, just didn't connect it with Letterman.
You are far too kind, Shirley... this piece just missed. I indulged my 'hero worship' (I guess... I can't think of anything else to explain it) of Letterman to cloud my appraisal of what might hold the promise of universal appeal. Maybe I'm giving Letterman a little more credit than he deserves.
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