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To: rupert1 who wrote (49025)	2/20/1999 9:45:00 AM
From: tonyt	Respond to of 97611

>tonyt: What's a "purple salm" Don't know, maybe henry can help us out. >Thanks for the transcript of the panegyric to spam. I never could >catch the whole text in the original Same here, but thanks to the internet, its now easy to look it up (and with realaudio, no less!) See: detritus.org >I think Monty Python pinched it from "Chips with Everything", from Wesker. Really? I didn't know that. >You don't happen to know the "Watney" text do you, or the J-P Sartre one. >I assume you have the Dead Parrot off by heart. No, but just do a search on altavista.com and I'm sure you'll find it. --Tony

To: rupert1 who wrote (49025)	2/20/1999 10:56:00 AM
From: Kenya AA	Respond to of 97611

victor: . I think Monty Python pinched it from "Chips with Everything", from Wesker. That's where "leg over with chips" came from. <ggggg> K

To: rupert1 who wrote (49025)	2/20/1999 1:07:00 PM
From: Kenya AA	Respond to of 97611

victor: Is this the one?? Travel Agent/Watney's Red Barrel The cast: MR. BOUNDER OF ADVENTURE Michael Palin MR. SMOKE-TOO-MUCH (TOURIST) Eric Idle SECRETARY Carol Cleveland The sketch: Tourist: Good morining Secretary: Oh good morning, Do you want to come upstairs? Tourist: What? Secretary: Do you want to come upstairs? Or have you come to arrange a holiday? Tourist: Er.......to arrange a holiday Secretary: Oh sorry Tourist: What's all this about going upstairs? Secretary: Oh, nothing, nothing. Now where were you thinking of going? Tourist: India Secretary: Ah one of our adventure holidays Tourist: Yes Secretary: Well you'd better speaker to Mr Bounder about that. (Calls out to Mr Bounder) Mr Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the India Overland (walks over to Mr Bounder's desk) Bounder: Ah good morning. I'm Bounder of Adventure Tourist: My name is Smoke-too-much Bounder: Well you'd better cut down a little then Tourist: What? Bounder: You'd better cut down a little then Tourist: Oh I see! Cut down a little then..... Bounder: Yes...I expect you get people making jokes about your name all the time? Tourist: No, no actually it never struck me before. Smoke...to...much....(laughs) Bounder: Anyway you're interested in one of our adventure holidays? Tourist: Yes I saw your advert in the bolour supplement Bounder: The what? Tourist: The bolour supplement Bounder: The colour supplement? Tourist: Yes I'm sorry I can't say the letter 'B' Bounder: C? Tourist: Yes that's right. It's all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a spoolboy. I was attacked by a bat Bounder: A cat? Tourist: No a bat Bounder: Can you say the letter 'K' Tourist: Oh yes, Khaki, king, kettle, Kuwait, Keble Bollege Oxford Bounder: Why don't you say the letter 'K' instead of the letter 'C' Tourist: what you mean.....spell bolour with a K Bounder: Yes Tourist: Kolour. Oh that's very good, I never thought of that what a silly bunt Bounder: Anyway about the holiday Tourist: Well I saw your adverts in the paper and I've been on package tours several times you see, and I decided that this was for me Bounder: Ah good Tourist: Yes I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the pointof going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." Bounder: (agreeing patiently) Yes absolutely, yes I quite agree... Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. Bounder: (beggining to get fed up) Yes, yes now...... Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. Bounder: Will you be quiet please Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Bounder: Shut up Tourist: Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets Bounder: Shut up! Tourist: where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion....... Bounder: Shut up your bloody gob.... Tourist: crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

To: rupert1 who wrote (49025)	2/20/1999 1:20:00 PM
From: Kenya AA	Respond to of 97611

victor: Here's the J-P Sartre one ... Mrs. Premise and Mrs. Conclusion Visit Jean-Paul Sartre The cast: MRS. CONCLUSION Graham Chapman MRS. PREMISE John Cleese MRS. INFERENCE Eric Idle WHICKER Eric Idle HEAD OF DRAMA John Cleese MRS. SARTRE Michael Palin The sketch: (ANIMATION; ends with an animalted woman going into a laundromat. Cut to the interior of a laundromat. Various shabby folk sitting around. Mrs Conclusion approaches Mrs Premise and sits down.) Mrs Conclusion: Hello, Mrs Premise. Mrs Premise: Hello, Mrs Conclusion. Mrs Conclusion: Busy day? Mrs Premise: Busy! I've just spent four hours burying the cat. Mrs Conclusion: Four hours to bury a cat? Mrs Premise: Yes! It wouldn't keep still, wriggling about howling its head off. Mrs Conclusion: Oh - it wasn't dead then? Mrs Premise: Well, no, no, but it's not at all a well cat so as we were going away for a formight's holiday, I thought I'd better bury it just to be on the safe side. Mrs Conclusion: Quite fight. You don't want to come hack from Sortonto to a dead cat. It'd be so anticlimactic. Yes, kill it now, that's what I say. Mrs Premise: Yes. Mrs Conclusion: We're going to have our budgie put down. Mrs Premise: Really? Is it very old? Mrs Conclusion: No. We just don't like it. We're going to take it to the vet tomorrow. Mrs Premise: Tell me, how do they put budgies down then? Mrs Conclusion: Well it's funny you should ask that, but I've just been reading a great big book about how to put your budgie down, and apparently you can either hit them with the book, or, you can shoot them just there, just above the beak. Mrs Premise: Just there! Mrs Conclusion: Yes. Mrs Premise: Well well well. 'Course, Mrs Essence flushed hers down the 1oo. Mrs Conclusion: Ooh! No! You shouldn't do that - no that's dangerous. Yes, they breed in the sewers, and eventually you get evil-smelling flocks of huge soiled budgies flying out of people's lavatories infringing their personal freedom. (life-size at-out of woman at end of last animation goes by) Good morning Mrs Cut-out. Mrs Premise: It's a funny thing freedom. I mean how can any of us be really free when we still have personal possessions. Mrs Conclusion: You can't. You can't ' I mean, how can I go off and join Frelimo when I've got nine more instalments to pay on the fridge. Mrs Premise: No, you can't. You can't. Well this is the whole crux of Jean-Paul Sartre's 'Roads to Freedom'. Mrs Conclusion: No, it bloody isn't. The nub of that is, his characters stand for all of us in their desire to avoid action. Mind you, the man at the off-licence says it's an everyday story of French country folk. Mrs Premise: What does he know? Mrs Conclusion: Nothing. Mrs Premise: Sixty new pence for a bottle of Maltese Claret. Well I personally think Jean-Paul's masterwork is an allegory of man's search for commitment. Mrs Conclusion: No it isn't. Mrs Premise: Yes it is. Mrs Conclusion: Isn't. Mrs Premise: 'Tis. Mrs Conclusion: No it isn't. Mrs Premise: All right. We can soon settle this. We'll ask him. Mrs Conclusion: Do you know him? Mrs Premise: Yes, we met on holiday last year. Mrs Conclusion: In Ibeezer? Mrs Premise: Yes. He was staying there with his wife and Mr and Mr Genet. Oh, I did get on well with Madam S. We were like that. Mrs Conclusion: What was Jean-Paul like? Mrs Premise: Well, you know, a bit moody. Yes, he didn't join in the fun much. Just sat there thinking. Still, Mr Rotter caught him a few times with the whoopee cushion. (she demonstrates) Le Capitalisme et La Bourgeoisie ils sont la m~me chose... Oooh we did laugh. Mrs Conclusion: Well, we'll give a tinkle then. Mrs Premise: Yes, all right. She said they were in the book. (shouts) Where's the Paris telephone directory? Mrs Inference: It's on the drier. Mrs Premise: No, no, that's Budapest. Oh here we are Sartre ... Saltre. Mrs Varley: It's 621036. Mrs Premise: Oh, thank you, Mrs Vafley. (dials) Hallo. Paris 621036 please and make it snappy, buster... (as they wait they sing 'The Girl from Ipanema) Hallo? Hello Mrs Sartre. It's Beulagh Premise here. Oh, pardon, c'est Beulagh Premise ici, oui, oui, dons Ibeezer. Oui, we met... nous nous recontrons au Hotel Miramar. Oui, à la . barbeque, c'est vrai. Madame S. - est-ce que Jean est chez vous? Oh merde. When will he be free? Oh pardon. Quand sera-t-il libre? Oooooh. Ha ha ha ha (to Mrs Conclusion) She says he's spent the last sixty years trying to work that one out. (to Madame Satrre) Très amusant, Madam S. Oui absolument... à bientôt. (puts the phone down) Well he's out distributing pamphlets to the masses but he'll be in at six. Mrs Conclusion: Oh well, I'll ring BEA then. (Cut to them sitting on a raft in mid-ocean.) Mrs Premise: Oh look, Paris! (Cut to shot of a notice board on the seashore, it reads 'North Malden Welcomes Careful Coastal Craft'.) Mrs Conclusion: That's not Paris. Jean-Paul wouldn't live here. It's a right old dump. ('Alan Whicker', complete with microphone, walks in front of sign.) Whicker: But this is where they were wrong. For this was no old dump, but a town with a future, an urban EXdorado where the businessmen of today can enjoy the facilities of tomorrow in the comfort of yesterday. Provided by a go-getting, go-ahead council who know just how loud money can talk. (a phone off-screen stuns to ring) Interest rates are so low... (Cut to head of drama's office; he is on the phone.) Head of Drama: Well ifs none of my business but we had the same trouble with one of our Icelandic sagas. These people are terribly keen but they do rather tend to take over. I think I'd stick to Caribbean Islands if I were you. (rings off) Fine... and now back to the saga. CAPTION: 'NJORL'S SAGA - PART IV' ( Thundering music. Cut to an Icelandic seashore. Dark and impressive. After a pause the pepperpots walk into shot.) Mrs Premise: Here - this is not Paris, this is Iceland. Mrs Conclusion: Oh, well, Paris must be over there then. (points out to the sea; they walk back to the raft) (Stock shot of Eiffel Tower. French accordion music. Mix through to French street thronged by cod Frenchmen with berets and loaves. Mrs Conclusion and Mrs Premise appear and walk up to the front door of an apartment block. On the front door is a list ofthe inhabitants of the block. They read it out loud.) Mrs Premise: Oh, here we are, Number 25 .... (reads) Flat I, Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Flat 2, Yves Montand, Flat 3, Jacques Cousteau, Flat 4, Jean Genet and Friend, Flat 5, Maurice Laroux... Mrs Conclusion: Who's he? Mrs Premise: Never heard of him. Flat 6, Marcel Marceau, Walking Against the Wind'Ltd. Flat 7, Indira Gandhi? Mrs Conclusion: She gets about a bit, doesn't she? Mrs Premise: Yes, Flat 8, Jean-Paul and Betty-Muriel Same. (She rings the bell. A voice comes from the intercom.) Voice: Oui. Mrs Premise: C'est nous, Betty-Muriel, excusez que nous sorerues en retard. Voice: Entrez. (Buzzer sounds.) Mrs Premise: Oui, merci. (Interior the Sartres flat. It is littered with books and papers. We hear Jean-Paul coughing. Mrs Satrre goes to the door. She is a ratbag with a fag in her mouth and a duster over her head. A French song is heard on the radio. She switches it off.) Mrs Sartre: (MICHAEL) Oh, rubbish. (opens the door) Bonjour. Mrs Conclusion: (entering) Parlez vous Anglais? Mrs Sartre: Oh yes. Good day. (Mrs Premise comes in) Hello, love! Mrs Premise: Hello! Oh this is Mrs Conclusion from No. 46. Mrs Sartre: Nice to meet you, dear. Mrs Conclusion: Hello. Mrs Premise: How's the old man, then? Mrs Sartre: Oh, don't ask. He's in one of his bleeding moods. 'The bourgeoisie this is the bourgeoisie that' - he's like a little child sometimes. I was only telling the Rainiers the other day - course he's always rude to them, only classy friends we've got - I was saying solidarity with the masses I said... pie in the sky! Oooh! You're not a Marxist are you Mrs Conclusion? Mrs Conclusion: No, I'm a Revisionist. Mrs Sartre: Oh good. I mean, look at this place! I'm at my wits' end. Revolutionary leaflets everywhere. One of these days I'll revolutionary leaflets him. If it wasn't for the goat you couldn't get in here for propaganda. (Shot of a goat eating leaflets in comer of room.) Mrs Premise: Oh very well. Can we pop in and have a word with him? Mrs Sartre: Yes come along. Mrs Premise: Thank you. Mrs Sartre: But be careful. He's had a few. Mind you he's as good as gold in the morning, I've got to hand it to him, but come lunchtime it's a bottle of vin ordinalre - six glasses and he's ready to agitate. (Mrs Premise and Mrs Conclusion knock on the door of Jean-Paul's room.) Mrs Premise: Coo-ee! Jean-Paul? Jean-Paul! It's only us. Oh pardon ... c'est m'me nous... (They enter. We do not see Jean-Paul although we hear his voice.) Jean-Paul: Oui. Mrs Premise: Jean-Paul. Your famous trilogy 'Rues i Liberte, is it an allegory of man's search for commitment? Jean-Paul: Oui. Mrs Premise: I told you so. Mrs Conclusion: Oh coitus. (Stock shot of a plane taking off) CAPTION: 'THE END'

To: rupert1 who wrote (49025)	2/20/1999 3:10:00 PM
From: tonyt	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 97611

Here's another favorite: The Argument Sketch A man walks into an office. Man: Good morning, I'd like to have an argument, please. Receptionist: Certainly, sir. Have you been here before? Man: No, this is my first time. Receptionist: I see, well we'll see who's free at the moment. Mr. Bakely's free, but he's a little bit concilliatory. No. Try Mr. Barnhart, room 12. Man: Thank you. He enters room 12. Angry man: WHADDAYOU WANT? Man: Well, Well, I was told outside that... Angry man: DON'T GIVE ME THAT, YOU SNOTTY-FACED HEAP OF PARROT DROPPINGS! Man: What? A: SHUT YOUR FESTERING GOB, YOU TIT! YOUR TYPE MAKES ME PUKE! YOU VACUOUS STUFFY-NOSED MALODOROUS PERVERT!!! M: Yes, but I came here for an argument!! A: OH! Oh! I'm sorry! This is abuse! M: Oh! Oh I see! A: Aha! No, you want room 12A, next door. M: Oh...Sorry... A: Not at all! A: (under his breath) stupid git. The man goes into room 12A. Another man is sitting behind a desk. Man: Is this the right room for an argument? Other Man:(pause) I've told you once. Man: No you haven't! Other Man: Yes I have. M: When? O: Just now. M: No you didn't! O: Yes I did! M: You didn't! O: I did! M: You didn't! O: I'm telling you, I did! M: You didn't! O: (breaking into the developing argument) Oh I'm sorry, is this a five minute argument, or the full half hour? M: Ah! (taking out his wallet and paying) Just the five minutes. O: Just the five minutes. Thank you. Anyway, I did. M: You most certainly did not! O: Now let's get one thing perfectly clear: I most definitely told you! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh no you didn't! O: Oh yes I did! M: No you DIDN'T! O: Oh yes I did! M: No you DIDN'T! O: Oh yes I did! M: No you DIDN'T! O: Oh yes I did! M: Oh look, this isn't an argument! (pause) O: Yes it is! M: No it isn't! (pause) M: It's just contradiction! O: No it isn't! M: It IS! O: It is NOT! M: You just contradicted me! O: No I didn't! M: You DID! O: No no no! M: You did just then! O: Nonsense! M: (exasperated) Oh, this is futile!! (pause) O: No it isn't! M: Yes it is! (pause) I came here for a good argument! O: AH, no you didn't, you came here for an argument! M: An argument isn't just contradiction. O: Well! it CAN be! M: No it can't! An argument is a connected series of statement intended to establish a proposition. O: No it isn't! M: Yes it is! 'tisn't just contradiction. O: Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position! M: Yes but it isn't just saying "no it isn't". O: Yes it is! M: No it isn't! O: Yes it is! M: No it isn't! O: Yes it is! M: No it ISN'T! Argument is an intellectual process. Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of anything the other person says. O: It is NOT! M: It is! O: Not at all! M: It is! >DING!< The Arguer hits a bell on his desk and stops. O: Thank you, that's it. M: (stunned) What? O: That's it. Good morning. M: But I was just getting interested! O: I'm sorry, the five minutes is up. M: That was never five minutes!! O: I'm afraid it was. M: (leading on) No it wasn't..... (pause) O: (dirty look) I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to argue any more. M: WHAT?? O: If you want me to go on arguing, you'll have to pay for another five minutes. M: But that was never five minutes just now! (pause... the Other Man raises his eyebrows) Oh Come on! Oh this is... This is ridiculous! O: I told you... I told you, I'm not allowed to argue unless you PAY! M: Oh all right. (takes out his wallet and pays again.) There you are. O: Thank you. M: (clears throat) Well... O: Well WHAT? M: That was never five minutes just now. O: I told you, I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid! M: Well I just paid! O: No you didn't! M: I DID!!! O: YOU didn't! M: I DID!!! O: YOU didn't! M: I DID!!! O: YOU didn't! M: I DID!!! O: YOU didn't! M: (unable to talk straight he's so mad) I don't want to argue about it! O: Well I'm very sorry but you didn't pay! M: Ah HAH!! Well if I didn't pay, why are you arguing??? Ah HAAAAAAHHH! Gotcha! O: (pause) No you haven't! M: Yes I have! If you're arguing, I must have paid. O: Not necessarily. I could be arguing in my spare time.