2.
(In this excerpt from the farce Shake and Be Saved!, Lloyd has ingested his son Benson's new miracle drug with disastrous results, interrupting a product launch only to have a thundering orgasm and expire in front of a nationally broadcast audience. After apologizing to his father, Benson prepares to bury him, only to be interrupted by another visit from the police.)
BENSON: I'm sorry, dad. I may have bungled everything, but I can
still give you the best burial you ever had.
(He slings LLOYD over his shoulder and heads for the door.)
I have a shovel out back. Hope you don’t mind having a view of the neighbor’s pool.
(TWIG bursts in, wearing a new hat, in the persona of SHRUB. Southern.
Evangelist.)
SHRUB: God Bless America!
BENSON: God Bless America!
SHRUB: (Drawing his gun.) Yer under arrest!
BENSON: Me?
SHRUB: (Gesturing at LLOYD.) Him.
BENSON: Him!? You’re kidding.
SHRUB: No. I have no sense of humor.
BENSON: But ... who are you? Under what authority could you possibly —?
SHRUB: Agent Shrub, FCC.
BENSON: Shrub? Since when do you need a gun to protect our nation’s airwaves?
SHRUB: Enforcing community standards is a violent business these days. Now
step aside.
BENSON: The absurdity of that statement sounds familiar. You aren’t related to
Inspector Twig, are you? From Homeland Security?
SHRUB: The government’s full of people who say absurd things and look alike.
Now quit stalling and put him down, or I’ll book ya as an accessory to
smut.
(BENSON sits LLOYD down on the stairs, where he leans stiffly against the
railing. SHRUB paces in front of him.)
Lloyd Wainwright, yer recent escapades over the airwaves traumatized
an entire group of home-schooled girls in Tulsa. And their mamas.
Whatcha got to say for yourself? (No response.) I see. Imagine a tranquil night in the Stibble household, on 23 Cherry Lane.
Imagine Mary, twelve years old, finishing her homework, helping mama
with the dishes, then with a letter writing campaign threatening to
blow up abortionists if they don’t start to value life. Tonight she
puts the letters away early, and she and her mama gather by the Early
Warning System to hear the words of our dear Secretary on the safety
of the nation. You imagining? Good. Now imagine Mary pointing at the monitor and shrieking, “Mama,
what’s that big knobby thing in the man’s pants!?” Imagine her mama
stammering, horrified, and having no home school books on the subject,
informing her daughter that this is the man’s “Clinton.” Yes, Mary,
there’s a misshapen diseased president in there, and you’ll stay away
from it or risk eternal damnation. Imagine her shock when Mary looks a
second time and says this Clinton doesn’t look so bad after all. This
Clinton seems kinda funny, and makes you sing and dance in all sorts
of ways. Oh yes, mama, I want a Clinton for my birthday, and if I
don’t get one I’ll save my allowance and go out and grab one myself!
At which point mama hyperventilates and is rushed to the hospital.
(He studies LLOYD.)
He looks proud of himself!
BENSON: He’s not.
SHRUB: He’s smirking.
BENSON: That’s not possible.
SHRUB: You shoulda fallen to your knees and begged forgiveness! Oh what a
cruel, heartless world! There’s no respect anymore for the American
family.
(SHRUB takes out his handcuffs.)
BENSON: What are you doing!? He hasn’t committed a crime.
SHRUB: (Pulling out a warrant.) One count of throwing a family into moral crisis. Making a good
Christian say the word “Clinton.” Plus, his – (Making a sound for “orgasm.”) – was entirely too loud. Almost looked like he enjoyed himself, which
is against all sex education in this country.
BENSON: Those are crimes?
SHRUB: For months now. Yer responsible as a citizen for at least reading the
laws of the land.
BENSON: Why? Congress doesn’t do that before passing them. I may not know the intricacies of FCC regulations, but I do know you
can’t charge a dead man with a crime. He’s dead, Shrub. He ate some of my Patriotic Salt and died a few
hours ago.
SHRUB: He didn’t look dead when he was singing. (BENSON hits LLOYD on the cheek.) He’s worn out.
BENSON: He’s not worn out! Smack him yourself, if you want! (He smacks LLOYD again.) He’s not moving!
SHRUB: He’s dehydrated.
BENSON: He’s not!
SHRUB: He’s resting.
BENSON: No! He’s not pausing in thought or taking a power nap! There’s no
shred of life in his body! Nothing at all! And dear god, I’m the one
responsible! (He weeps.) Go away. Can’t you leave a man alone in his grief?
SHRUB: Well ... I ain’t a doctor, but I’m not sure how eating salt can kill a
man.
(He cuffs LLOYD to the railing.)
BENSON: What are you doing?
SHRUB: I can’t take your word for it. I’ll take him to the station, insert a
feeding tube, and see what happens. We may be able to salvage enough
of his brain stem to punish him.
BENSON: That’s obscene. This culture of life will stop at nothing, not even
rigor mortis.
SHRUB: Who do you think you are? Life doesn’t end just cause you say it does.
You gotta leave that decision to a higher authority.
BENSON: Talk show hosts?
SHRUB: No, God. As interpreted by talk show hosts.
BENSON: Agent Shrub, please. My pills are gone. My girlfriend left me. I don’t
know how many hours I have left. If you had any decency you’d help
bury my father and pay him the respect he deserves.
SHRUB: I’m sorry, but respect is outside my jurisdiction. I enforce community
standards. They’re very different things.
BENSON: Try talking as a person, not a bureaucrat! Can’t you be reasonable?
SHRUB: Reasonable!? Name a morning you woke up recently, looked out the window, and thought that word applied to anything you saw. Now guard the prisoner while I fetch the “smutlet.”
BENSON: What?
SHRUB: It’s an ankle bracelet that beeps when a Christian comes near the accused to warn them they’re on the verge of lewdness.
