A 15th century hand-hammered brass horseshoe
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[A meadow. Blossoming trees are scattered stage left. All right, a glen. Let's call it a glen. A creek flows downstage right dangerously close to the footlights. No, it's not a clearing. It's a glen. Fine, a meadow, let us continue. Several stagehands, suffering from severe electrocution, occasionally prance about the stage. Screaming. On fire.]

[Enter MEMBRANE CHARLIE, carrying his famous fishbowl.]

Ah, Zurich! Long stretches of stone quarries. Where is my wandering sweetheart tonight? Tipping the canoe with Tyler II at the local tavern. Blast you Willimena Foster! Return my KMET belt buckle and my government registered patent on the hook 'n' loop! You can keep my heart.

[Smiles. Knowing he was recently diagnosed with worms]

[Enter YASGUR. He's got business on his mind.]

Der Jergden hast un seeming like recovering from der ailments und ist unsure of his abilitatos to attendamundo. Der Jergden ist kurious ven vee mite meet, perhapsen for un dinnerzie. Herr Culpepper hast not been contactas. At leasten naught bie me. I find myself busibones maust veeknites, but vith enuff notissssssenzie, arrangements can be maden. Jergden. VladeyGlow Culpepper. Und me. Und Yoo. Who? You. Who? You two, that's who.

I lost a loaf of the finest French bread tonight.

[Enter the nattily dressed, loveable and buck naked, CHIM-CHIM]

It's feeling like nothing doing tonight and looking at weeknight croquet. There's a lot of coordination that needs to be done, so let's allow plenty of time. Safety is the backbone of our society.

[Removes his own spinal column to prove his point and crumbles like a jellyfish. His tone is, inexplicably, jubilant.]

I'll let Jerg know that everything is shot straight to heckfire and see if he's got some kind of preference, timeframe wise!

[Starts to slither away and is riddled with pineapple spines. He giggles. He dies.]

I hate this friggin' accent. Hey! Hey, fellas, it's gone.... Fellas?

[Apparently doesn't notice CHIM-CHIM's rapidly rotting corpse or MEMBRANE CHARLIE and his fishbowl. He exits, weeping.]

[MEMBRANE CHARLIE begins to speak, but is drowned out by the sound of an off-stage boombox blasting "Colonel Bogey's March"]


For questions regarding future dramaturgy and swiss on rye, contact the friggin' tooth fairy. Or the mayor at 555-MAYO (Do not dial the "R" as it will connect you with the martians. From outer space. I'm strafing.)