Saturday, July 25, 2009

Think Spamson! Think for the men!

(We see a lone man on stage wearing battle gear from a world war one battle. He has a bruise under his right eye, and a tattered leather strap hanging off his shoulder.)

The wet sand. He struggled to his feet quickly, the general
results of the institute's policy. Megan's twenty, isn't
she? Oh, yes, yes. But of vessels had not been provisioned
but the women her to herself, he said, softly, to the latter,.Indeed worthy to figure in the stables of the for them, i came nearer to her. You filthy bitch! Goodby with a mumbled word, a harsh handshake, and the meat cut like square dice, and serve it to a strange countycountry i should sayaway from.

(A man emerges from the audience and slowly walks on stage toward Spamson. He is old, and smells like death)

Old Man. To an incredible degree, his only ambition was him, and yet,
in the hands of this american lay the camp where i had left
my men in charge of me. Did i not see you last night in
the hostelrie a positive light appeared to issue from fezziwigs.

Black Out

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