Thursday, June 7, 2012
A freeform Relax Max stream of consciousness follows for your reading pleasure. It would be best if you try not to think beyond this point. The pathetic American blogger is home alone, staring vacantly at the JOOObilly on the TV, lapsing in and out of consciousness from the overdose of European splendor....
"Jubilee," not Jubalee. Jubilee. Jew Billy. Chew biLEE.
A shindig. A hoedown.
Hootenanny, by God.
All decked out
in your finest gilded
18th century carriage
Is that the QUEEN papa? Oh, Papa! It is! It IS the queen!
[exit stage right...in stuporous state, knees buckled, half carried, half dragged by her father...]
[Unknown male voice, singing, clear yet aged: perhaps it is Elton John]
Bimbo! Bimbo! Whatcher gonna doeeyoh?
Bimbo, Bimbo, Whereya gonna goeo?
Bimbo! Bimbo! Does yer mama know...
Yer goin' downtown to see yer little girlio?
[The word "girlio" brings hushed exclamations of shock from entire third row, right]
"Can you see properly, Mildred?"
[Enter Camilla the Chameleon stage left, three sheets to the wind. Or more. Bright -blinding- red baby spot. She can't see a thing. She puts up one hand, as if to shield her eyes from the glaring light. The audience is unsure of how to react. She begins to sing.]
"What's new, pussycat? Wo-oh-wo-oh-ohhhWhat's new pussycat?.....
**startled by the sudden shrieking, the Archbishop falls from the narrow catwalk above and lands with a loud hollow THUD on the stage, face down. He is dressed as a Jesuit. A curtain-weight sandbag quickly follows his descent, striking the poor shocked and winded man on the back of his head. The audience collectively sucks in air, holds it in, then exhales slowly in unison. The queen is beside herself. No, that's her husband beside her.**
The commotion is too much for Camilla Chameleon and she crumples to the stage in slow motion, as if someone had suddenly pulled the plug on an airhole in her left leg. She eases lower and lower, the light-shielding hand flailing uselessly. Now she is awkwardly prone on the stage, save for her head which is held up several inches off the floor by her large hat, one foot under her bum. Both eyes are open, however, and the baby spot reflects eerily off them.
The audience is uneasy, unsure. Is this all part of the play? The Archbishop seems to be having a convulsion. Still, he may just be unable to control his laughter, they reason. What to do? Call a medic or applaud loudly? The Prince elbows his son next to him, smiling and nodding his head at the unexpected burst of pleasure.
In the end, they do nothing.
The Prince and his son rise and begin clapping and singing with the chorus.
Chorus, very low and slow, barely audible, clapping in unison:
"Oh well I'm uh
Sitting here la la
Waiting for my Ya Ya a hm ahm.
Oh sitting here la la
Waiting for my Ya Ya uh
It may sound funny
But I don't think she's comin' home."
The Archbishop has stopped shaking, save for an occasional twitch.
"I know, I know," she whispers to her consort. "But do you LIKE it? Truly?"
"I can't abide idiots. You know that. Can't suffer the blighters."
Clears his throat loudly, attracting the attention of his neighbors. The clearing is only partially successful and his breathing becomes a rhythmic mucous-snapping rasp. He tries again and this time he is more than successful, hawking up a viscous hunk that lands atop the brim of a regal matron's hat two rows in front of him. All is well. Blessed sleep comes.