(no subject)
A Memorable Fancy
A small room, sparsely furnished. On the table lies a large sprig of parsley and a bottle of ouzo.
Enter GREGOR SAMSA and SAMUEL BECKETT
BECKETT: Good afternoon.
Silence.
BECKETT: Good afternoon?
Silence.
BECKETT: Pozzo? Lucky? Pause. Estragon? Vladimir? Longer pause. Godot?
SAMSA cannot talk, as he is a gigantic insect.
BECKETT gives up and sits down on a low mound with the ouzo.
KAFKA: How amusing.
BECKETT: What? How did you get here? Who are you?
KAFKA sitting down: I'm writing this story. I can do whatever I want, go wherever I please - in effect, here I am God.
KAFKA after a pause: Pass the ouzo.
MILTON languidly replaces the ouzo with a large bowl of petunias.
KAFKA and BECKETT: What?
MILTON: Thou knowest that I am the author of this diatribe and henceforth have caused thee, Kafka, to believe that thou mistakenly art.
KAFKA shrugging: Oh, right. Poetic justice.
SAMSA having been de-metamorphosed by Milton: Actually, speaking from experience I'd call it more a manifestation of the disinterest of the Fates rather than a vicious attempt to disparage you particularly.
RUMFOORD: He's right, you know.
BECKETT: I'm very confused.
RUMFOORD to the speechless Milton: Terribly sorry, old chap, but I seem to have superseded you as the author of this here manuscript. Excelsior!
MILTON proceeds to disembowel Kafka.
OOLON follows suit.
BLAKE: That's plagiarism, that is. And I don't like it.
HAMLET: The readiness is all.
ALL CAST vanishes into the ether.
Enter PUCK.
PUCK nursing a hangover: You were all dreaming, okay? This never happened.
CURTAIN.
A small room, sparsely furnished. On the table lies a large sprig of parsley and a bottle of ouzo.
Enter GREGOR SAMSA and SAMUEL BECKETT
BECKETT: Good afternoon.
Silence.
BECKETT: Good afternoon?
Silence.
BECKETT: Pozzo? Lucky? Pause. Estragon? Vladimir? Longer pause. Godot?
SAMSA cannot talk, as he is a gigantic insect.
BECKETT gives up and sits down on a low mound with the ouzo.
KAFKA: How amusing.
BECKETT: What? How did you get here? Who are you?
KAFKA sitting down: I'm writing this story. I can do whatever I want, go wherever I please - in effect, here I am God.
KAFKA after a pause: Pass the ouzo.
MILTON languidly replaces the ouzo with a large bowl of petunias.
KAFKA and BECKETT: What?
MILTON: Thou knowest that I am the author of this diatribe and henceforth have caused thee, Kafka, to believe that thou mistakenly art.
KAFKA shrugging: Oh, right. Poetic justice.
SAMSA having been de-metamorphosed by Milton: Actually, speaking from experience I'd call it more a manifestation of the disinterest of the Fates rather than a vicious attempt to disparage you particularly.
RUMFOORD: He's right, you know.
BECKETT: I'm very confused.
RUMFOORD to the speechless Milton: Terribly sorry, old chap, but I seem to have superseded you as the author of this here manuscript. Excelsior!
MILTON proceeds to disembowel Kafka.
OOLON follows suit.
BLAKE: That's plagiarism, that is. And I don't like it.
HAMLET: The readiness is all.
ALL CAST vanishes into the ether.
Enter PUCK.
PUCK nursing a hangover: You were all dreaming, okay? This never happened.
CURTAIN.