Life Needs A Laughtrack

A long time ago I was in therapy.  My shrink bore an uncanny resemblance to Frank Sinatra, the singer. (Disco is dead, Frank!)  I asked him his advice about whether or not I should stick it out with my girlfriend.  I still cared deeply about her, and I knew she loved me, but our sex life was on the fritz, proving that history does indeed repeat itself.

He looked at me over his clipboard of notes and said–no, sang:

“It’s up to you, you dork, you dork!” 


Have you ever seen that movie Alive!, about the Peruvian soccer team whose plane crashed in the Andes and they had to resort to eating their dead comrades?  According to one of the survivors, during one day of their desperate struggle to hang on, they were approached by a leprechaun.  He danced a merry jig and led them to a burst compartment near the rear of the plane’s fuselage, pointing out a bunch of severed arms among the scattered suitcases and duffel bags.

“What the hell do you expect us to do with those?”  one of the starving men asked.

“Why don’t you eat ’em, you silly bugger?”

They set about doing so, at first recoiling from the frozen meat before them.  But after awhile they found the morsels of human flesh downright savory.

“What can we do to repay you, sir?”

“Nothing a’tall!”  The leprechaun then sang a familiar tune from an old childhood TV commercial:

“Frosted luggage arms–they’re tragically nutritious!”


Jesus came to me in a dream.

I said, “Jesus?  Is that you?  You look just like Robert DeNiro.””

“Of course it’s me.  And if you don’t pay your monthly tithe when you get up, I’ll break your fucking legs.  Understand?”


When I was in college, I had a roommate who avoided cursing out of politeness.  It would have been endearing if he’d been five years old, but I decided to make the most of the situation.

“Gosh, man,” he said, “I had an exam this afternoon and had to miss lunch!”

“How dare you use the Lord’s nickname in vain!”


You can’t believe everything you read in the papers, can you?  For example, this morning I read the first line of a news story that read:  “Yesterday in the United States a black man was not shot by the police.”


U.S. Ambassador to Korea Mark Lippert, recovering from his knife wounds at Seoul’s Severance Hospital (actual name–no pun intended), was visited by a Korean man who wanted to aid in his healing with a gift of dog meat.  Lippert, a dog-lover who intrepidly walks his beagle up and down the anarchic streets of Seoul, was magnanimous enough to accept the offer and reciprocated with a roll of Psy toilet paper, along with a Kim Yuna voodoo doll.



In Memory of Kurt Cobain

You paid a man to rub me out

and said it was a suicide.

Enough people believed your take–

the press, police, your growing

avalanche of fans–that you could

get away with murder,

along with millions of dollars

I didn’t care for anyway

and the rights to all my songs.

No surprise that you should

share a birthday with O.J.

You said later in an interview

you wished you’d never married me.

I’d say the feeling was mutual

if I weren’t speechless

from twenty years of being dead.

I guess my understated revenge,

a grudging substitute for justice,

is that you’re already a has-been;

losing all that glamor must feel

worse than life in the slammer.

No wonder you chose to call

your first album with Hole

Live Through This.

At least one of us did.

Memoirs of a Dangerous Beverage

In case you think this post is going to be about alcohol, brace yourself for a surprise.  It’s not.  It’s about coffee–or the effects thereof.

And before you arrange your arms before you and stand ready to engage in fisticuffs, let me say that I’m not about to slag java as something that’s bad for your health.  I happen to agree with those who say it’s good for you.  But if you like to drink the strong stuff, as I do, proceed with caution.

Yesterday morning as I was finishing up my last blog entry, I noticed I was running later than usual, and would have to take a quicker-than-thou shower and dive into my clothes if I was going to make it to work on time.  Luckily, I had enough coffee left over in the pot I’d brewed the day before to fill a small thermos.  I didn’t bother to heat it up and topped it off with enough milk to give it a nice tan.  

My wife Jina woke up and asked me, “Are you late?”  I didn’t need her to interfere with my concentration.  I had no time for breakfast, which I knew she’d insist on preparing, and didn’t even have time to brush my teeth (something I never do on an empty stomach anyway).  She heated up a slice of leftover pizza for me and put it in a plastic container for me to bring along.  I thanked her and split without a further word.

It was the last day of the two-week teaching session, and also a Friday, which meant the traffic might be worse than usual.  I grabbed a cab outside my favorite restaurant, which the owner had to close without explanation earlier this week.  It’s been like a death in the family; I’ll tell you more about it later.  

Despite being a middle-aged Korean man with a mustache (a rarity), the driver had photos of his favorite female K-pop stars adorning his dashboard, and was singing along to an insipid jingle fortified with a soul-deadening drum machine and/or synthesizer.  The “girl” who sang the song sounded as if she were just going through the usual meretricious motions in order to sustain her tenuous celebrity in the world of the short attention span and desperately competing specimens of mainly interchangeable semi-entertainment.  I was worried the song might get stuck in my head like a brain tumor, but fortunately it was vapid enough to evaporate shortly after I paid the driver and disembarked at my stop outside the subway station (although it did have the gall to re-emerge later in the day, to remind me that mediocrity almost always triumphs in popular pseudo-culture).

On the train I had to shed my coat and sweater, tossing them on the stainless steel pipes of the overhead rack and wedging them underneath my backpack so they wouldn’t go sliding back and forth and fly into somebody’s horrified lap.  I fitted my special symbiotic reading glasses behind the regular ones so I could proceed down the home stretch of Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons.  The memory emerged that I still had to write brief evaluations for each of my seven main students (in this instance, seven turns out not to be such a lucky number), but I didn’t want to risk writing on the train as the movements of the conveyance threatened to jeopardize my already impenetrable handwriting.

I downed the cool thermos of Colombian coffee in one gulp, put away the reading doodads, took down the sweater and coat, put them back on, strapped on the backpack, and got off at my stop.  I noticed Jina had called, so I called her back and told her I’d made it all right and wasn’t going to be late after all.

At the bus stop I only had to wait a couple of minutes as female university students streamed past, pursuing their respective heroic academic destinies.  I got a seat on the bus and reassembled my reading gear, then hopped off the vehicle at my stop.  One five-minute stroll across a tree-lined path, then into a building and up three flights of stairs later I was in the teachers’ room.  Cheryl, the head teacher, was there to say hello and announce that she needed the student evaluations as soon as possible.  (Grace, the other teacher, didn’t go out of her way to greet me, as is her custom, riveted as she was to the contents of her computer screen.)

I said that would mean I’d have to do them during class time, which would probably fuck up my student survey results.  Mind you, Korean students are usually a dream to teach, at least in some ways.  The culture values education, and teachers are generally treated by their students (at least the adults) with respect.  A few weeks ago, however, one of my students volunteered that a lot of Koreans (he bravely included himself) are xenophobic, and that it takes them awhile for them to get used to the presence of us freaky foreigners.  I thanked him for his honesty, then ordered him to leave the classroom and never come back again (just kidding about the second clause).

All this is by way of saying that the group I was in charge of over the last two weeks was in some ways an exception.  Their counterparts in the other group were a wonderful bunch–always enthusiastic and willing to speak. They even sang along to Tom Lehrer’s “Pollution.”  But my class was, for the most part, a pain in the ass.  Even though at one point I was paranoid enough to flatter myself with the self-loathing suspicion that their passive-aggressive attitude was directed at me in particular, the other two teachers had the same problem with them.  Individually they were fine, more or less.  Collectively, they sucked.  (The other class, meanwhile, had almost miraculous chemistry.  Maybe that’s why they enjoyed Tom Lehrer’s song about the elements so much.)

So I was in no mood to make nice with them when I entered the room.  I also felt damned if I did, damned if I didn’t, since if I kissed their asses on the day of the survey, it might appear too obvious.  But I didn’t know what else to do besides tell them I had some important paperwork to take care of.  I thought they might even have the decency to cut me some slack.  I also had to excuse myself to go and brush my teeth (several years ago a Japanese student I’d taught back in the U. S. had asked me, “Teacher, did you brush teeth?”  “No, I didn’t.  Why?”  “Smell.”).

I was officially fucked, and of course it was my own stupid fault for blowing off the evaluations until the last minute.  You can accuse me of unprofessionalism, or being jaded from having done this shit for over twenty years, but after awhile you run out of euphemisms when you’re writing watered-down comments about students who are not exactly going out of their way to distinguish themselves as intrepid explorers of the English language frontier, and certainly not pioneers.  For all the popularity of English words such as “creativity” and “imagination” in Korea today, the culture worships conformity more thoroughly than originality, which is one thing it has in common with the United States, I suppose (although I’d like to think my own culture does a bit more to nurture individual innovation, at least on paper). 

Besides, most of them don’t even want to be there anyway.  They’re there because their bosses forced them to sign up for the program.  It might not even be an exaggeration that the whole experience doesn’t mean shit to them (again, I’m referring only to the group I just taught; to leaven the attack slightly, they weren’t really all that bad; I’m just a crank who tends to slag people when I’m pissed off–unless it was just the coffee, and I haven’t had any yet today, so I guess it’s safe to say that my wife’s diagnosis is accurate and deep down I’m an absolute heartless prick).

When I got back from brushing my teeth, the students were all still sitting there, not saying a word to one another.  I needed to activate them.  So, even though I’d already distributed the sheets of questions on the topic (“Men, Women, and Relationships”), I added a few more questions to the board, modeled an answer to one of the questions for them, apologized again for having to resort to bureaucratic grunt work, and marveled as their jaws actually started moving and English words proceeded from their mouths in exotic and unorthodox displays.

I hadn’t specified that the paperwork I’d referred to consisted of my evaluations of them, the students, although I’d considered saying something nasty like, “If you guys don’t start talking to each other, it’s going to be hard for me to praise your efforts in these evaluations.”  I also didn’t want to give them any advantage over me; if they knew I was writing the evaluations (and I think my sole female student was perceptive enough to figure it out as I was trying to define the word “flirt” for her, as it appeared in one of the questions on the sheet from the legally photocopiable book Conversation Inspirations; I noticed her glancing at the documents in my lap, and as she’s no dummy, I think she was able to put two and two together; whether she shared her observation with her classmates is another matter), then it would mean they’d be home free to write whatever they wanted in their surveys of me and the other teachers (which they wouldn’t be receiving until later in the day from the human resources guy who works for the company that recruited me).

(While I was writing the questions on the board, I grumbled about the student who was absent, then snapped at him when he got to class, asking why he’d missed so many hours yesterday.  He reminded me that he’d been sick, then I apologized for forgetting, pausing to remove my foot from my mouth.  The only reason I’d asked him was that Cheryl had asked me which classes he’d missed and what his excuse had been.  I’d been too numb to remember either piece of information.  The excuse may well have been bullshit, as his attendance had been appalling, even though–or because–he was one of the better students in the group.)

This entry has already gone much longer than I’d planned it to, so I’ll wrap it up by saying that the worst is yet to come.  If I’m not too traumatized when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll let you know what else happened there and then.

Thanks for your patience.

Aqua Man Vs. The Human Torch

Q) What did Aqua Man say to him when she saw him digesting the fish he’d eaten for dinner in his transparent abdomen?

A) “Ahm, sorry but that’s just a little bit too much information for me, honey.”

Q) Why couldn’t the Human Torch find a job in his hometown?

A) They already had enough firemen.

Q) What did the Human Torch say when a self-immolating Vietnamese Buddhist monk claimed he was cramping his style?

A) “Hey, just trying to help out.”

Q) What were the names of the twin superheroes who sprang into being when Aqua Man gave the Human Torch a hug?

A) Steam Boy and Smoke Girl.

Q) Why did Aqua Man lose his summer job working at the beach as a life guard?

A) The swimmers thought he was trying to drown them.

Q) Why does Aqua Man always remember to bring an umbrella when it calls for rain?

A) He doesn’t want to put on weight.

Q) What did Aqua Man’s mother say when he said he was going for a swim in their neighbors’ pool?

A) “Careful not to lose yourself in the water.”

Q) What did the Human Torch’s boss at the library say to him after he accidentally incinerated the place?

A) “Not to sound redundant, but you’re fired.”

Q) Why did the Human Torch spend so much time sitting and drinking by himself at his favorite bar?

A) He missed his old flame.

Q) What did the Human Torch’s friend say to him after the incendiary superhero bummed a cigarette?

A) “Thanks for melting my lighter.”

Q) Why doesn’t the Human Torch like to eat Thai curries?

A) They’re too hot for him to handle.

Q) Why is it always such an ordeal for Aqua Man to take a piss?

A) He never knows when to stop.

Q) What did the Human Torch say when he read an article about children being kidnapped and trafficked in the global slave trade?

A) “That kind of thing just burns me up.”

Q) Why did the Human Torch want to get a closer look at what the Statue of Liberty was holding above her head?

A) He thought they might be related.

Q) Why did the Human Torch’s sister accuse him of being a narcissist?

A) Because he said he could never find a woman who was as hot as he was.

Q) What did Aqua Man say when a friend asked him why he was so upset about having been dumped?

A) “You don’t miss your water till your well runs dry.”

Q) Why did the Human Torch’s girlfriend decide to break up with him?

A) She didn’t approve of his dry sense of humor.

Q) What did the Human Torch’s dad say as the boy prepared to take an indoor group photo of the rest of the family?

A) “You don’t need to use the flash.”

Q) What did Zeus say to the Flash when he met him?

A) “I’m suing you for intellectual property theft.”

(or:  “Thanks for stealing my thunder.”--Your choice of punch lines!)

Q) Why don’t Batman and Robin ever eat out together?

A) They can’t find a place that serves both worms and mosquitoes.

Q) Why did the Air Cop force Wonder Woman to land her see-through jet and write her a ticket?

A) She wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Q) Why does Aqua Man always wear a life jacket when he goes swimming?

A) He has a tenuous hold on his identity.

Q) What did the Human Torch say to Aqua Man when the latter said he was sure that 9/11 was an inside job?

A) “You’re all wet.”

Q) What did Aqua Man say to the Human Torch when Superman accused their fiery friend of being uncool and made him lose his temper?

A) “Oh, don’t be such a hot-head.”

Q) Why is it so hard for Spider-Man to get through a Russian novel?

A) He always loses the thread.

Q) What did James Bond say to Bruce Wayne when the multi-billionaire invited him over for a cocktail party?

A) “Nice pad, mate.  I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

Q) What did Commissioner Gordon reply when Batman told him over the phone that he wanted to retire?

A) “You and me both, kid.”

Q) What did Batgirl say to Robin when he asked her on a date?

A) “Wouldn’t Batman get jealous?”

Q) What did Alan Napier, the actor who portrayed Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s butler, on the original Batman TV series, say when he met Michael Caine in heaven a few years from now?

A) “Nice work if you can get it, eh?”

Q) What did Desmond Llewelyn, the original Q, master inventor of deadly weapons, gadgets, and all-purpose vehicular death machines in the first string of James Bond films, say when he met John Cleese in heaven, also a few years from now?

A) “So I gather Monty Python wasn’t good enough for the likes of you?  Thanks for making me look good, you bloody wanker.”

Q) And how did Cleese reply?

A) “Well, that’s the kind of pig ignorance I’d expect from you, you non-creative garbage. . .”

(Note:  The above quote comes from the immortal Freemason-architect-abattoir sketch, which contains one of the most celebrated and articulate rants in Python history, right up there with Eric Idle’s interminable monologue at the travel agency.)

Well, I guess that’s enough jokes for now.  Please let me know if any of them are funny.


Jokes Only a Mother Could Love

Q) What did Mohammed Atta announce to the passengers as he prepared to fly into the World Trade Center?

A)  “You may be feeling a little turbulence for a moment.”

B)  “We’ll be using the drive-thru at Windows on the World for breakfast.”

C)  “Does anyone know how to get to JFK from here?”

D)  “That Statue of Liberty broad sure gives lousy directions.”

E)  “I’m sorry you’re all going to miss the War on Terror.”

F)  “I hope Mayor Giuliani has equipped the Manhattan fire department with decent radios.”

G)  “I can almost see myself reflected in the window of the building ahead!  I appear to be screaming!”

H)  “Please make sure that your seat belts are securely fastened and your belongings in the overhead compartments are safely stowed.”

Q)  Why did Mr. Spock’s girlfriend finally decide to dump him?

A)  He had too much unemotional baggage.

Q)  What thought did the dog try to express through his eyes when his human companion kept heckling him to fetch the stick?

A)  “I’m sorry, but it’s not my response ability.”

Q)  What did Hitler say to Goebbels as they sat having their nails done by Goering?

A)  “That Eva can be such a fascist sometimes.”

Q)  What did Mark the Shark say on the night the Titanic hit an iceberg and sank?

A)  “Woo-hoo!  Thank Poseidon the famine is finally over!”

Q)  What did Jane say when Tarzan introduced himself to her (“Me Tarzan, you Jane!”)?

A)  “No–‘I’m Tarzan, you’re Jane.’  Try not to sound like such a troglodyte, okay?  And here’s a book on etiquette you might want to read while you’re at it.”

Q)  What did Hank Aaron’s father say when his son cried out, “Hey, Dad!  I caught a fish”?

A)  “Nice work, son.  Now try catching a baseball for a change.”

Q)  What did former Nike CEO Phil Knight say when Tiger Woods expressed reservations about promoting a shoe manufacturer that made unabashed use of Asian sweatshop labor?

A)  “Just do it.”

Q)  What did Buddha do when an apple from the tree he was sitting under fell on his head?

A)  He looked up and said, “My name’s Siddhartha Gautama, not Isaac Newton.”

Q)  What did Benjamin Netanyahu suggest when Stephen Hawking announced his plan to boycott Israel?

A)  “Put him in the electric chair.”

Q)  What did Charles Manson say in his defense when prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi asked him why he’d brainwashed a bunch of acid-addled hippies and incited them to commit murder?

A)  “I wanted to get back at the establishment, man!”

Q)  What did John Major say when Joe Strummer of the Clash asked him for his autograph?

A)  “Certainly.  By the way, what’s my name?”

Q)  What did former Enron executive Jeffrey Skilling say when he received word he’d be getting out of prison ten years early?

A)  “It’s only right.  The economy needs my help.”

Q)  What did Winston Churchill say to Margaret Thatcher when she asked him a question in heaven?

A)  “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, madame, but this is my last cigar.”

Q)  What did Moby-Dick say when Jesus stepped on his back while walking on the water?

A)  “Don’t tread on me, bro!”

Q)  What did O. J. Simpson and Monica Lewinsky say to each other when they met by chance at L.A.X.?

A)  “I am so sick of hearing about you!”

Q)  What did Clint Eastwood say when he met Barack Obama on a golf course in Bethesda?

A)  “Well, if it isn’t the invisible man!”

Q)  What did George W. Bush say to his buddy Barack Obama when they visited Arlington National Cemetery together to pay their respects to the American war dead?

A)  “This is the greatest miniature golf course in the world, ain’t it, Rocky?”

Q) What did Bush ask while having dinner with the Obama family at the White House?

A)  “Y’all got ranch dressing?”

Q) What did Obama reply to Dr. Martin Luther King’s ghost when asked why he’d been the first president in the history of the United States to cut Social Security?

A)  “Get a job, preacher!”



The Looney’s Tune

Molested by cholesterol, Sylvester requested a better test from his doctor, but Daffy Duck just cachinnated wackily and sang the same looney tune as usual, laughing like a lunatic leaping on the moon.

Governor Bugs Bunny deemed it unfunny that Tweety wasn’t such a sweety, while Elmer Fudd, whose name was mud, suggested Sylvester resist eating the Road Runner’s eggs, and Woody Woodpecker popped in from another cartoon community, apologizing to Popeye for pecking out his eye.

Meanwhile, Olive Oyl recoiled in horror, surrendering to sorrow, but Bluto consoled her with a stolen can of spinach he’d lifted from a health food shop in Greenwich Village while visiting New York, a port he supported with the authority of Professor Porky Pig, a retired police officer dedicated to overcoming his stutter, but Foghorn Leghorn buttered him up in order to get a better grade, unbeknownst to Scooby Doo, a clueless buckaroo for whom study was taboo–a fine how do you do!

Wile E. Coyote met an old woman who lived in a shoe and talked like Truman Capote.  He offered to sell her a colossal sock to help keep warm with her animated family in the wincing winter.  She rejected his offer with chattering teeth and painted an unflattering picture of the scrofulous huckster for the pusillanimous newspaper she wrote a column for.

Wile didn’t have time to shed tears over her shenanigans.  He needed to buy some dynamite for his wannigan and paddle his canoe down the Colorado River before it ran dry so he could track down his nemesis, whose premise was to grimace between supersonic trips down the highway, unpursued by semis or any manner of traffic whatsoever, to make the cartoonists’ lives easier so they could put down their pens and rest, while Sylvester resisted the Easter egg festival and a chance to murder Tweety in favor of convalescence at the unsuccessful hospital, whose patients always ended up in the cemetery next door because they had too much patience and not enough money, but that was the way the world worked when the voice actors went on strike and the artists tipped over their paint boxes, refusing to work because the fat cats who’d hired them were too busy grooming themselves in their own litter boxes, impressed by their sleek, gleaming coats and restlessly flickering tails.

We Can’t Work It Out

(Scene:  Twickenham Film Studio, London.  The Beatles are sitting around, taking a smoke break in the course of making both the album and the film Let It Be.  Mrs. John Lennon, alias Yoko Ono, is also present.)


Hey listen, fellas.  How do you like this one:  “And in the end, the drugs you take/Are equal to the drugs you bake”?


Since when do you bake acid?


No need to with mushrooms.  Saves energy.


I think we should break up.


Who asked your opinion?  What are you, Phil Collins all of a sudden?


More like Keith Moon.


For fuck’s sake, Ringo.  You don’t even write any songs.


But I’ve sung a couple.


Well, so have I, in case you haven’t noticed, you bloody wanker.  If you’d like I can even list them in reverse-alphabetical order for you, beginning with “Yesterday.”


“All our troubles were so far away.”  Ringo’s right, mates.  All things must past.  Besides, Paul, you and John can be such prima donnas.  The reason we all have to wear shades is the sun shines out of your arse-holes.  


Shouldn’t it be “primas donna”?


I don’t know; I flunked Italian.  I’m getting a mite sick of seeing the phrase “Lennon/McCartney” after every song listed on our albums.  I’m just as talented as you blokes.


In your dreams, mate.  As for you, Ringo, you might want to live in a yellow submarine, but the rest of us would prefer to abide in the real world.


Provided the grass there remains greener.


(to Paul)  I’ve since moved on.  Now I’d just like to be in an octopus’s garden, but not with you.


Ringo, you have so many fans.  Everyone will pin the blame on me!


Nonsense, Yoko.  They’ll blame John for everything.  They always do, right?


John, why does she have to sit in on all our recording sessions?  She’s not even in the group.


She’s my spiritual advisor.


Cut the shite, John.  Damage control–that’s why Yoko’s here, right?


What are you talking about, George?  Bakayaro!


You know, John.  “I Want You–She’s So Heavy.”


Yeah, what about it?  


You wrote it for Mama Cass.


Ballocks!  The title refers to Yoko, who’s heavy in the sense of being deep.  I mean, even I couldn’t make head or tail out of “Revolution Number 9,” and I was tripping me arse off when we recorded it.


As I recall, Yoko was stone-cold sober at the time.


Of course.  I have no need to contaminate my crystalline consciousness with illicit intoxicants or artificial additives of any kind.


That’s got to be the worst song we’ve ever released–hands down.  We should have issued a set of ear plugs with every copy of the White Album.


You know, getting back to the original point, I still can’t understand why everyone’s pointing the finger at me for splitting up the band.  It’s all Paul’s fault for being such a control freak.


Sod off, Ringo!  Who needs you?  I’m going to go on to do greater things than the Beatles have ever done together–just you wait.


(closing her eyes) I have a vision of you collaborating with an African-American popular music legend.  The name of the song you record together is. . . “Ebony and Ivory.”


What a load of rubbish!  No one can predict the future in that much detail.


No, wait.  The song is called “The Girl Is Mine,” and the man you sing it with sounds like a girl himself.


(chortling)  Next you’ll say I’m on the verge of discovering Jesus.


(gravely)  No, but you will see how it felt to be him.


“The way things are going, they’re going to crucify me.”

(George Martin, the Beatles’ producer, appears.)


Since we’re coming up to the end of the decade, the press has asked me if you could sum up your positions–or philosophies, as it were, preferably using lyrics your die-hard fans can recognize and get excited about to increase record sales.


(whispering to John)  You should inhale through your nose when you meditate.  It makes it easier to do lines of blow afterwards. (To Martin)  Sorry, what was that, George?  Oh, right:  “So go away, leave me alone, don’t bother me.”


“Now it’s time to say, ‘Good night.'”


“Live and let die.”

(The rest of the band members stare at him.)


Just something I’m working on.


“Limitless undying love that shines around me like a million suns; they travel on and on across the universe.”


That’s too long.  You know how short kids’ attention spans are these days.  Can you come up with something more succinct?


Speaking of control freaks.  Hey, John.  How about “I’m a Loser”?


Speak for your bloody self, Paul.  All right, Mr. Smarty-Pants Martin.  Write this down:  “Love is all, and love is everyone.”


That’s much better.  Thank you, gentlemen.  I’ll inform the media.


Excuse me, but there’s a lady present.

(Martin bows to Yoko.)


I wish you’d all stop looking at me.  I’m not about to burn my bra over such a petty paternalistic oversight.


That’s my Yoko.


(groaning)  Bring me a bucket!

(Here’s the correct version of Paul’s quote at the beginning:  “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”  

Words both heavy and deep.)