[Please enjoy this video of Cohen laughing merrily, perhaps out of pleasure at Bhamba's enthusiasm, or perhaps because the old artist's sense of schadenfreude is as strong as ever.]
And what do you plan to do with the beast now you've caught it?
[His voice is full of amusement; he's basically egging the guy on.]
[Allow me to reward you with this video of Bhamba being chased around the lab by his crocodile, stopping bravely to answer the feed, hurriedly yet at his utmost matter-of-fact-est]
I won't try to have sex with it again, that's for sure.
[Bhamba is at the other end of the room now, standing on a metal table, the crocodile directly under him.]
A sword? I haven't been to Medieval Fight Club in years!
[Sensible as Cohen's advice may be, he is reluctant to take it. At first, at least, but new developments soon prompt him to reconsider. New developments being the crocodile pushing itself upwards, knocking over Bhamba's table, trapping him between the closet and the reptile
( ... )
[...that's honestly the best show Cohen's seen in a while not counting any by himself, of course, and it thoroughly deserves the round of applause he's now giving it.]
Bravo, sir! Bravo! What should I call you~?
[Because watching a guy almost get eaten is never not entertaining, I guess.]
[This is Bhamba's favorite part of the dream so far. Granted, Cohen loses points for not knowing his name and not being a sexy lady stripper in the first place, but hey, who is the good doctor to say no to a talking mime giving him standing ovations? He gives Cohen a little salute and cheerfully proclaims:]
The name is Bhamba. And you must be...
[He is straining to recall, obviously this is his dream, so the man HAS to be connected to somebody he knows, right?]
[It's okay, you haven't been in the same building as Sander long enough to have heard his illustrious name. He's quite happy to remedy that with a grand-sounding announcement!]
Sander Cohen, the artist. A pleasure, Mr. Bhamba.
[He doesn't extrapolate on whose the pleasure must be.]
[Oh, so there's an artist in his dream now. Of course. That also makes perfect sense and goes just swimmingly with everything else that's been happening so far.
In this particular situation it doesn't occur to him to correct Cohen that it's really Doctor Bhamba, because, well, quite frankly now that the crocodile is actually out of the way he isn't quite sure what he's supposed to be doing here, so there's a long silence during which Bhamba just smiles nervously, waiting for something to happen]
This... is usually the point where I either wake up or appear naked in front of a large audience.
[He sees the white coat, he sees the lab, but somehow he's still not convinced. Bhamba reads as though he'd be more likely to hold a doctorate in parody than in any kind of science. Maybe Cohen just doesn't appreciate brains in jars.
Now let's pause for a moment to appreciate the hypocrisy of Sander Cohen considering someone a parody of their chosen profession.]
You might be waiting a while then, good sir ~ unless you plan on performing a striptease for the cameras.
[There is a sudden spark of realization in Bhamba's eyes. No, bear with me, this one is going somewhere, honestly!
You see, just as Bhamba was about to loosen his lab coat it occured to him that this is exactly the kind of prank he would play on his colleagues. You know, hiding a crocodile in their laboratory, faking a weird accent over the PA and dressing up as a mime - stuff like that.
And well, his colleagues can fake the voice of God, so whatever they did here, it looks like a piece of cake in comparison. And here, believe it or not, comes serious Bhamba with an important announcement that is kind of but really not really directed at Cohen.]
Lem? I told you when you switched my abietic acid with acetylsalicylic acid and I will tell you again now; Your childish pranks will not make me stop dating your mother, so call off your mime and tell me how to get back to the real lab.
[It takes Bhamba a moment to catch on to the fact that Cohen is talking to him again, after all he was really hoping for Lem to reply and end this charade.
But oh well, attention back to the artist it is, this time with an edge of annoyance in his voice because Bhamba hasn't quite abandoned the notion of this being an elaborate prank yet.]
Oh, a talking mime then. That just about puts you somewhere between blind helicopter pilot and legless ballerina.
What do you think it is I've been trying to figure out? I don't even know if this is real, for all I know I could be floating in room 909 in the middle of nowhere and I wouldn't even...
[Aaaand Cohen has lost him to more rambling and pacing around the room.]
And what do you plan to do with the beast now you've caught it?
[His voice is full of amusement; he's basically egging the guy on.]
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I won't try to have sex with it again, that's for sure.
[Aaaaand he's running again.]
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[Because the duelling channel is one Cohen would totally subscribe to. Man vs crocodile, locked in climatic battle!]
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A sword? I haven't been to Medieval Fight Club in years!
[Sensible as Cohen's advice may be, he is reluctant to take it. At first, at least, but new developments soon prompt him to reconsider. New developments being the crocodile pushing itself upwards, knocking over Bhamba's table, trapping him between the closet and the reptile ( ... )
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Bravo, sir! Bravo! What should I call you~?
[Because watching a guy almost get eaten is never not entertaining, I guess.]
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The name is Bhamba. And you must be...
[He is straining to recall, obviously this is his dream, so the man HAS to be connected to somebody he knows, right?]
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Sander Cohen, the artist. A pleasure, Mr. Bhamba.
[He doesn't extrapolate on whose the pleasure must be.]
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In this particular situation it doesn't occur to him to correct Cohen that it's really Doctor Bhamba, because, well, quite frankly now that the crocodile is actually out of the way he isn't quite sure what he's supposed to be doing here, so there's a long silence during which Bhamba just smiles nervously, waiting for something to happen]
This... is usually the point where I either wake up or appear naked in front of a large audience.
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Now let's pause for a moment to appreciate the hypocrisy of Sander Cohen considering someone a parody of their chosen profession.]
You might be waiting a while then, good sir ~ unless you plan on performing a striptease for the cameras.
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You see, just as Bhamba was about to loosen his lab coat it occured to him that this is exactly the kind of prank he would play on his colleagues. You know, hiding a crocodile in their laboratory, faking a weird accent over the PA and dressing up as a mime - stuff like that.
And well, his colleagues can fake the voice of God, so whatever they did here, it looks like a piece of cake in comparison. And here, believe it or not, comes serious Bhamba with an important announcement that is kind of but really not really directed at Cohen.]
Lem? I told you when you switched my abietic acid with acetylsalicylic acid and I will tell you again now; Your childish pranks will not make me stop dating your mother, so call off your mime and tell me how to get back to the real lab.
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Mime?! [that voice is offended, with a side-order of being a warning.] I am much more than a mime, I assure you.
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But oh well, attention back to the artist it is, this time with an edge of annoyance in his voice because Bhamba hasn't quite abandoned the notion of this being an elaborate prank yet.]
Oh, a talking mime then. That just about puts you somewhere between blind helicopter pilot and legless ballerina.
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Be more careful about the way you address your betters, sir!
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May I ask where your room is?
[Just because he's angry doesn't mean he'll stop being longwinded.]
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What do you think it is I've been trying to figure out? I don't even know if this is real, for all I know I could be floating in room 909 in the middle of nowhere and I wouldn't even...
[Aaaand Cohen has lost him to more rambling and pacing around the room.]
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