Story 20: Vive L’Opera, Act I

At the local opera house, it was the third of the six-performance run of Il Mascalzone (aka: The Scoundrel), the second of “The Dastardly Man” cycle by the great Immortale.  Any kinks that had revealed themselves the first time around had been ironed out by now: after all, even though this was a new production, The Scoundrel had been performed 2,337,678 times worldwide so that even the rankest amateur knew at least some of the lyrics.

The issue with this production, as with any of similar scope and ambition, was that there was too much set with too many performers and not enough stage to hold them all.  The hydraulic system and electronics worked perfectly, but the question on every audience member’s mind was this: were there  really motorized cars and automatic doors in 19^th-century Florence?  The program indicated that this was not an updated version either, which would have been sneered at but then ironically forgiven.  The audience overlooked these anachronisms, but they felt taken out of the moment each time the machines whirred.

Then, there were the puppets, which were so realistic as to be almost creepy.  Everyone thought some children had wandered onto the stage, until realizing that these figures constantly were surrounded by three people wearing black, one of whom would whip the character’s head around on cue.  The alternative would have been to pay children to consistently obey stage directions and say nothing, and good luck with that.

And, in the grand tradition of the art form, many of the performers did not quite fit the ethnicity they were portraying – best to ignore it.

As the plot went into full swing, each featured singer got an aria or two, and a number of opera glasses were shattered as a result.  Audience members were able to follow along with the foreign lyrics by having translations appear on computer screens installed on the seat in front of them – another advantage over the past – and shot dirty looks to those who muttered “That’s not what he said!”  An appreciative, barely audible sigh would ripple throughout the theater as familiar tunes popped up throughout the score: one was recognizable now as a jingle for ice cream.

The three intermissions were an hour long each for the prime donne and primi uomini to rest their throats and for the stage crew to disassemble one set and build the next from scratch.  The conductor entered at the beginning of the show and after each break to take his bows, while the orchestra remembered his many abuses and refused to call him “Maestro”.

The grand finale was a resounding success, with every character on stage dead, dying, or vowing revenge as their portrayers visualized their after-performance naps.  The audience section resounded with sobs; the singers revived themselves to take their restrained bows; and flowers rained upon them from all directions.  The audience left the opera house that day with a new appreciation for art, theater, and culture, along with gratitude for not having to live in the time period they just witnessed wipe out 9/10ths of the dramatis personae.

The Scoundrel: three performances down, three to go.

THE CURTAIN OPENS….

Story 19: To the Talent Show

[Disclaimer: The following is not a true story, nor inspired by one]

              (In the corner of the cubicle warren, the upper manager confronts an office drone)

            Manager: Not only was your report on time instead of early, it was barely edited and the graphics were poor.  No wonder you shlump in here day after day, wishing someone would put you out of your misery – I feel the same way about you…. You’re going to cry, aren’t you; that just makes you weak and vulnerable.  Oh, now you are crying.  If you tattle to H.R., I’ll destroy you.  (Cell phone rings; he looks at the caller I.D.) I have to take this.  Disappear.

            (The drone sobs off; the manager answers the phone while entering an inner office)

            Manager: How did you get this number?!

         Voice: I’m your mother – I will always find you.  You may have turned your back on this family, Jeremiah, but this family will never leave you alone.

            Jeremiah: It’s “Jeremy” – I’m hanging up now.

          Mother: Fine, hang up, walk away again!  Claire is performing in the school talent show and just wants her only uncle to be there for her.

            Jeremiah: What?  Why?

            Mother: Jeremiah, you promised!

            Jeremiah: When?

          Mother: When she was born!  You said at the hospital, if she somehow managed to ever get into a talent show, then you’d be there in the front row.

            Jeremiah: That’s a lie!  `Sides, the commute’s too far.

            Mother: Nonsense, you’re only an hour and a half away and the show doesn’t start until 7.

            Jeremiah: I’m busy.

            Mother: I’m busy!  Everyone’s busy!  But we’re all still going, and you should, too.

            Jeremiah: I don’t want to!

            Mother: Jeremiah Benjamin Smith – you will go to your niece’s talent show.

         Jeremiah: We’ll see about that.  (Disconnects.  He looks up and sees that he is in one of the conference rooms while a meeting is in progress)

            Chairman: Do you need some PTO, Jeremy?

            Jeremiah: No, sir, thank you.  (Runs out)

            (At 7:30 p.m., the family is seated in the front row of the auditorium and the show has gone through several acts)

            Mother: Ach, look who made it.

          Jeremiah: (In his suit and on his phone, he climbs over fold-out chairs and people to reach the front row, even though there is plenty of room in the aisles) Sell!  I said “Sell”, not “Hell”!

            Audience Members: Sshhhh!!!

            Jeremiah: (Sits and disconnects) So how long do I have to stay for this thing?

            Family and Audience Members: Ssshhh!!!!! (Programs are thrown at him)

            Jeremiah: (Grabs a program) She’s on last?!!!!!! (Mother stuffs a program into his mouth)

          (The show proceeds with the usual singers, dancers, ventriloquists, and fire breathers.  Claire’s act consists of her playing the guitar and singing, but not at the same time.  She bows to the confused applause)

           Jeremiah: (Slow clap) That’s it?  I could’ve been at the bar!  (He tosses a carnation with a “Love you” to his niece on the stage and climbs over people and chairs to leave)

            Mother: Jeremiah!  You are not my son!

            Jeremiah: I certainly hope not!

Audience Member: This has been the least boring talent show I’ve ever been to, I must say.

Story 18: Those in Peril on the Trail

            The best temperature to go on a walk in the park is 30°F.  It’s not so cold that you shiver and shake as you shimmy and shuffle, and it’s not so hot that you sweat out your bodily fluids and collapse.  Head’s up: don’t forget to bring tissues, even if you have no pockets.

            This particular mid-winter day was perfect – no pesky leaves on the trees to block the view; hard ground that discouraged ankle-twisting; no recent rain or snow to leave behind muddy footprints; and the occasional between-hibernation squirrel to keep up the appearance that wildlife still lived there.

           The hiker prepared supplies for her journey: sneakers, cell phone for emergencies, hat, trail map (snicker), water bottle, gloves.  She set out on her trek with a spring in her step and a song in her heart, confident that she would conquer the most difficult trail in the park: the Grandiose Circuit.  If she did nothing else in her life, she was determined to die knowing that she could walk 5 km (3.1 miles) of rocky pre-cleared terrain.

            The parking lot was a bit crowded, so she knew it wouldn’t be as peaceful a stroll as she had hoped.  No matter: as long as the walkers behind her kept up their speed and passed her, and those coming from the opposite direction kept on going, that would do.  She could offer up a smile and a “Morning”, then escape back to her internal world of pondering.

            On the first leg, there were the ominous sounds of voices and whistles shooting back and forth to each other across the woods.  They seemed as if they were coming from all directions, and she began to feel hunted.  She slowly turned in a circle as the trees spun around her, the sweat broke out on her forehead, and the noises approached closer and closer.  Then, the swarm hit: six bicycle riders crested the hill behind her and swooped past her crouching form with “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry”.  Etiquette dictated that she should have scurried off the trail in advance, but panic freezes us all.

            Recovering, she soldiered on through the branches that partially covered the trail, regretting that she had left behind her machete.  Onward, upward, downward, sideward: the map was not exaggerating in marking this path “Difficult”.  It even disappeared at one point, only to turn up again at the top of a steep hill; that called for another water sip and re-tying of shoelaces.

            Through some trees to her right, she thought she could see a house.  Some roads cut into the park grounds, and it matched that point in her map.  She parted branches to reveal HOWARD’S RESORT AND CASINO: the pool party was in full swing and people on the balconies were shooting confetti into the air.  She gently put the branches back, patting them in place before returning to her life from a minute earlier.  The woods resumed their silence.

            As she entered the home stretch, some leashless dogs accosted her with love taps and licks to the face.  The owner caught up and abashedly re-attached the leashes, running for his life.  She continued, grateful they were friendly and not feisty. 

            The last section of the trail was uneventful and unceremoniously dumped her into the parking lot, shaking the dust of her off its feet.  Feeling a bit of “That’s it?”, she got into her car and drove back home.  Nonetheless, the faux sense of accomplishment was akin to having reached the summit of Mount Everest, with a fraction of the danger and none of the expense.

Story 17: Trapped at the Reception

            Of course it was beautiful: no one spends that much money so people later would say it was an ugly wedding.  Everything was perfect, from the flower arrangements to the flower girl.  The priest put no one to sleep, the vows the couple had written did not make anyone cringe, the limos were on time, and the photographer/videographer discreetly worked from the rafters.  The marriage ceremony was a success, and all was well.

            Then came the reception.

         Survivors later reported bleeding ears, exhaustion, and being afraid for their lives.  Most do not remember how they got home, and that was even after the liquor had worn off.

            The cocktail hour had started out well, up until the guests realized it was an actual hour of standing around waiting for the wedding party to finish their individual photo sessions.  There are only so many pigs-in-a-blanket and actual roast pig one can scarf down while still maintaining your dignity and catching up with relatives whose names you can never remember.  When the primary couple arrived, the champagne already was almost gone and more was added to the bill.  The party finally moved upstairs and was allowed into the main room so everyone could sit for hours while staring at the china.

            The D.J. made the usual introductions of bridesmaids, ushers, parents, various relatives, and anyone else who had lined up in the waiting area, before finally bringing out the bride and groom and forcing them to slow dance with everyone.  This took 45 minutes, with the antipasto platters only just being distributed at the end of it.

            The couple had to make the circuit of the room to say “Hi” to everyone and collect their entrance fees, so while that went on the D.J. invited children up to the dance floor and set them loose to torment the rest of the guests.  The appropriate parents corralled them and many used them as an excuse to leave before the pasta: “The baby’s tired” is an escape clause that will never fail you.

            Hour 3 – the salad course – had a scavenger hunt commence before the D.J. took a break to smoke and stop his hands from shaking.  Hour 4.5 – the main course – turned into Hour 6.5 as meals were swapped and it was revealed that not enough fish had been made in spite of everyone supposedly filling out the response card and later repeating what they had earlier written.  There was a bit of a delay while the kitchen staff talked the chef down from the second-floor balcony.

            Hour 8 – sherbet – featured line dancing.  Everyone booed, then did all the steps by heart.  After the D.J. released them, one of the bridesmaids made a break for it only to find that the doors were to be locked until after the remnants of the last course had been collected.  She spent the rest of the night holding onto the doorknob and sobbing.

            Dessert began with the wedding cake being smushed into the couple’s faces and ended with the bride chucking her bouquet and garter at unfortunates who took the items as tokens of doom.  Then, the Viennese Hour (aka Hour 10) began – guests looked at the tables groaning with pastries and inwardly wept for humanity before forcing themselves up there out of obligation.  A cousin nobody speaks to asked for a doggy bag.

            The D.J., running out of new songs and slipping in some repeats, discreetly indicated that the party was ending by dragging the bride and groom up to his sound system and forcing them to slow dance again on their bleeding feet.  He then killed the music, asked the staff to turn on the house lights, and requested his payment before allowing the couple to leave the floor.

            The doors finally were opened and everyone ran to the couple to say what a great time they had while planning what they would later complain to all their friends before dashing out to their cars and driving into the rising sun.  The catering hall staff faced the carnage left behind – their work would continue until the end of days.

Story 16: Dust to Dust

            The armory was opened in preparation for the battle: gloves lined up, static cling cloths prepped, polish and rags at the ready, vacuum cleaners on stand-by.

            This was not spring-cleaning.  This was war, a war that no human being can ever win, for dust is ever-triumphant.

            In spite of this truth, the battle is waged regularly.  The fortunate armies feature child dust soldiers who take on the bulk of the fight; intense supervision to ensure thoroughness is the trade-off.  Others must enlist the four-legged comfort-givers living in their homes by strapping cloths to each of their paws and sending them off on their day.  This is an act of desperation, but those leeches really should earn their keep.

           Other generals must be hands-on and do all the work themselves: spraying, wiping, swishing, banging, blowing, shaking, reaching, falling, crawling, lifting, dropping, sweating.  The hair, lint, and skin gradually, inexorably are corralled into bags of all shapes and sizes, and victory seems inevitable.

            Then, when all appears to be vanquished, it’s spotted: a cobweb in the corner.

            A hair on the wall.

            Dirt on top of the door?!

           Dust knows no boundaries: it lives on the walls; it lives on the ceiling; it defies gravity; it defies the laws of nature.

            The sun sets on the battlefield as the infantry surrenders yet again, regrouping to fight another day.

            The dust bunnies under the bed sleep on.

Story 15: The Realization

            There comes a time in everyone’s life when this happens: you're having a conversation with someone about a topic that you're interested in, and minutes into it you suddenly are aware that everything coming out of your mouth is completely and utterly INANE.

            Usually, the realization is triggered by the person you are speaking with – or, rather, to.  You have been going on and on expounding on a topic you are enthusiastic about, and the other person interjects with: “Really?”  Or: “Interesting.”  Or, the killer: “I hear you.”  All of which is code for: “Please stop talking, and set me free.”

            People trapped in those conversations mostly are too polite to tell you to shut up or to turn their back on you and walk away.  So, they suffer in silence and fill any gaps in your monologue with a variant of the sayings above.  Life for them has come to a grinding halt as they uncomfortably search for escape, praying that someone rescues them or that the floor would open up and swallow them whole – it does not matter where that hole may lead.  Once you release them and life resumes, they feel drained, spiritless, and want to go home.

            For you, the captor, the ignorance of the torture you are inflicting only amplifies your humiliation when the epiphany hits.  You had believed you were discoursing knowledgeably and entertainingly when, without warning, the metaphorical rug is pulled out from under your feet and your heart literally stops beating.  Everything you had said before actually was stupid and boring, and now there is no way to gracefully backtrack without embarrassing yourself more than you already have.  Should you abruptly change the subject?  Mumble something incoherently as you gulp the drink you hopefully are holding?  Pretend your phone is ringing, silently thanking modern technology for its ability to interrupt everything?  Ask the other person’s opinion, dragging out the experience even longer?

            The best course probably is to cover up the strangled look on your face with a violent coughing fit, both effectively ending the conversation and going out with the listener’s sympathy rather than the resentment they were steadily brewing.

Story 14: LEAF WARS: Rakes! Vs.! Blowers!

               It was a balmy December 22 – the final leaves that had been clutching to their branches had been ripped off by high winds at last, and the bodies now blanketed the lawns, getting tracked in everywhere as they simultaneously smothered the hibernating grass.  These were almost-perfect conditions for the neighborhood’s annual LEAF WARS.

            As the contestants emerged from their home bases, they already were armed in their hats, coats, jeans, and special sneakers.  The coats were doffed later on as it became too unseasonably hot, but no one wanted be seen as the first weakling to do so.

            The gloves were selected and put on carefully by the amateurs – the serious players went sans.  The same applied for sunglasses and lip balm, all of which were potential impediments.

            Next was the selection of weaponry, wherein the true contest lay.  The unspoken debate raged over which was superior in efficiency, the rake or the blower.  Some argued that each item actually complimented the other – those some never won.  These were the same people who were satisfied with their scoopers, mini-rakes, dustpans, and a job well done.

            A hush fell over the street as each person sized up the enemies who lived closest to them.  Already, points were being added and deducted for leaves winding up lawns not featuring the originating tree; the number of trees on the property divided by the wind’s velocity times the amount of fencing; and how many children (their own and borrowed) enlisted to assist.  Those who used lawn service were disqualified.

            At the sound of a paper bag snapping open, they were off.  Blowers roared to life and rakes scraped the very skin off the ground.  The winner would be determined not by the number of bags filled (which could be fudged by not packing each to its utmost potential), but by whichever first had its lawn picked clean and the participants inside drinking hot cocoa or cider, after factoring in the aforementioned handicaps.

            Some devious blowers could offload a bit of their quantity by forcing leaves onto a neighbor’s property under the guise of a passing wind: this was extremely risky and rarely worked, as the referees were the neighborhood porch sitters and they see everything.

            The competition heats up when more bags are needed and a time-out is called while trips to the local home improvement store are made.  The remaining contestants spend this lost time glaring at each other and calculating whether there are any possible benefits to pile diving.

            Usually, the contest boils down to two sets of players of any combination (rake-rake, rake-blower, blower-blower).  As the calluses get the better of them, they frantically cut corners in removing each leaf and instead aim for 95% lawn greenage.  The winner signifies triumph by stapling the last bag shut, throwing the tool of choice into the air, and dashing inside to soak their hands in ice.  The second-place teams stops wherever it is and leaves (pun intended) the rest to Nature, since there is no point in continuing.

            The denuded trees continue to brew their next batch of colorful garbage, and the town prepares to implement curbside leaf vacuuming the following year.

Story 13: The Chef

Propping the cookbook open, the pages kept flopping over – she had to use the salt and pepper shakers as a paperweights.  She rummaged through the cabinets for the right pots, she took out all the measuring cups and spoons, she got out all the cutting boards, and she cleared the rest of the countertop – this meal had to be perfect.

The kitchen door opened.  “Hey, hon, about how long do you think –?”

“Patience, my love.”

“Right.”  He left.

She began the endless chopping, slicing, mincing, and dicing, all of which generated pretty much the same results.  With the sweat getting into her eyes and mixing with her onion-induced tears, she took a break to wash the mounting pile of dishes.

The kitchen door opened.  “So, what can we call this dish again?”

“A surprise.”

“OK.  I’ll go back to –”

“Please do.”  He left.

She was only on the first paragraph of the recipe and already was behind schedule.  How long does it take to boil a pot of water, anyway?  And then, would she have enough time to create the sauce before the potatoes were done cooking?  She had not mentally prepped enough and was paying for it in spades.

“I took out the salted butter?!  Son of a –”

“Hon, do you need any help?”

“Yes – could you parboil an egg and make a roux?”

“Uh….”

“Don’t make offers you don’t mean.”

The oven had been pre-heating for the past 30 minutes and the fresh herbs still had not been thoroughly plucked.  Why did human beings only have two hands and 10 fingers?  She took another break to sob in the corner while watching the soufflé to make sure it didn’t run over.  Then, she had to re-arrange bowls for the third time to make room to knead dough for the bread.

The kitchen door opened.  “Hon, I just wanted to let you know that it’s almost midnight –”

“GET OUT!”  A jar of pimientos sailed past his head and crashed in the dining room.  He went to clean it up as he breathed “Oh my God.”

The timer went off, the meat was ready, the vegetables were steamed.

“That’s it?  It’s all done?  It’s all done, ahahahahaha!”

From inside the kitchen: “Hope you’re all ready for gourmet cuisine!”  She came in carrying a tray full of bowls and casserole dishes, placed it in the middle of the table, and sat down heavily in her chair.  “Whoo!  ‘No Fuss Meals’, my foot!”

“Hon, this looks delicious.”  He ate a few bites.  “Can I make a suggestion?”

She froze in mid-garnish.

“Seeing as it’s just the two of us, it’s OK to just order a pizza once in awhile.  You don’t need to cook all this every night.”

She considered this for a moment.

           “Where’s the fun in that?”

Story 12: Sinister

I was driving to the store on a Sunday when I saw a postal service truck turn down a street.  It didn’t register until I observed again that it was a Sunday when I saw a postal service truck turn down a street.

The whole thing struck me as disproportionately ominous.  There probably was a above-board reason why there was a postal service truck driving around on a day when there is no mail delivery – I just couldn’t think of any.

Mail trucks need gas, too: was it looking for a gas station in a residential area?

Was it making an extra-special delivery that just could not wait another day?

Was one of the employees bringing the truck to another post office?

Did someone steal it?

I decided, against all reason, morals, and mores, to follow that truck, wherever it might lead.  If it led to a warehouse full of drug dealers and dead bodies, at least my curiosity would have been satisfied before I was horribly murdered.

As I stalkerishly drove after it, I thought of other humdrum things that are really disturbing when pondered over longer than the 0.5 seconds they take to cross through my mind.  For instance:

The sound of birds chirping long after the sun has set.  Shouldn’t they be sleeping?  The same applies to the sounds of geese honking as they migrate in the middle of the night.

The sight of children walking the roads during a school day.

Road kill that remains in the same spot for days.

E-mail error messages from accounts where the original message had not been sent.  If it failed to be delivered to those non-intended recipients, where else is this message going?

A phone calling you back to finish the message you had cut yourself off leaving.

When your pets memorize your schedule and know when to wait in the window, then scream at you when you come home late.

Left-handed people suddenly using their right hand for no good reason – ironically, even if only to not be thought of as sinistra.

The list goes on.

We traveled down street after street, with no end in sight.  I hung back a little so as not to make the tail too obvious, so I almost lost the truck when we came to a traffic light.  At that point, another car that had been hovering in our wake tried to get into the same lane where I was: all eight of our tires screeched on braking.

I got out of the car at the same time as the other driver and did a quick scan.  “No damage!”  I hurriedly ducked back in.

The other driver said, “It’s OK, I’m in a hurry, please let me go first and I’ll be out of your way!”

Panic made me blurt out the truth.  “You don’t understand – I’ve been following that truck and I can’t lose it!”

The other driver froze.  “I’ve been following it too, for an hour.  It hasn’t stopped yet.  I have to know –”

“Why is it out on a Sunday?!!” We both had the same thought.  At long last, I had found a kindred spirit.

As I settled back in my car, I said, “You’ve invested more time in this – go after it, and post somewhere online what the answer is!”

He got back into his car and yelled through an open window.  “I will!  I promise!  If I don’t make it, let the world know my story!”  He sped away on bald tires.

“Godspeed!”  I shouted after him.  I never saw him again. 

I drove back to the main road under a metaphorical cloud – I may never know where that truck was going, what it was doing, or why I cared so much when I had grocery shopping to do.

Some time later, I found this message posted online:

           “Just got out of jail for harassment of a postal employee.  Turns out the truck was making Sunday deliveries now that it’s the Christmas/Hanukkah season.  Well played, USPS – well played.”

Story 11: Walk for Life

            The feature story cut to the reporter on the scene, the only person at the event who is dressed in a suit.  He speaks with an English accent, which underscores his authority.

            Reporter: I am standing here in Seaview Towne, surrounded by, literally, tens of thousands of people, all gathered together for one purpose: the 757^th Walk to Kill Breast Cancer.  I cover this event multiple times each month, and I am always amazed at the dedication and support that this cause consistently generates.  The time, effort, and funds entailed truly are admirable.

            (He brings the cameraman to the registration booth)

Registrar: (To a Registrant) Good morning, thank you for supporting the Walk to Kill Breast Cancer.

            Registrant: (Pauses in handing over a check) Hold on – I thought this was the Walk to Kill Juvenile Diabetes?

            Registrar: I think that got moved to next week.

            Registrant: (Turns away muttering) Again with the stupid breast cancer, thinks it’s better than everybody else.

            Reporter: At the stage, we have the party D.J.s from a local radio station here to warm everyone up for the grand event.

            (The camera swings over to show the dancers exercising, then starting to strip; the image cuts to the Reporter, standing next to a Walker whose shirt is covered in decals)

            Reporter: I am standing here with a local resident who has broken all sorts of records with the staggering amount of money she has raised for this event: over $300,000 from 52 different sponsors.  Tell me, miss, how did you manage to raise so much money, virtually single-handedly?

            Walker: Well, my employer (Points to the top center decal on her shirt) wanted me to walk, so I said, “Sure”, and I kept telling people I was walking, and people kept asking me to walk for them for their jobs, so I said I’d walk for whoever’d give me money.  Woo-hoo!

            Reporter: I think it is fantastic that you were able to raise all that money to donate to such a worthy cause.

            Walker: (Blinks) Yes.  Donate.  All that money.  All that money….

            (Cut to a dog wearing a T-shirt and riding in a cart)

            Reporter: (Squatting for the interview) Tell me, Rover, how did you score such a sweet gig while everyone else here has to slog through the trenches, hm?

            Rover: Huff.

            (Starting pistol)

            Reporter: (Suddenly standing at the top of a fire engine’s ladder) And they’re off! (Watches for a few moments) Getting 20,000 people to fit through one entrance is a bit slowgoing, so let’s come back when they actually start walking, shall we?

            (Commercial break)

            Reporter: (On the ground) Hello, welcome back to our coverage of the Walk to Kill Breast Cancer.  The initial bottleneck at the start of the Walk has eased up, so the participants’ speed has advanced to zombie as they wind through the town.  They must traverse 5 km of the pre-established route, else the whole thing is meaningless.  I am now trespassing through private property to get a view of the front of the mob. 

(Cut to a boardwalk)

Reporter: As you can see behind me, some intrepid participants are utilizing the now-free beach to ease their claustrophobia, and one forward-thinking lad brought his own surfboard to advance in the event.  (Looks out at the ocean – the camera follows his gaze) Those waves may appear calm now, but I wouldn’t want to be here come winter, if you take my meaning. 

(He is overrun by walkers-turned-joggers; cut to the middle of the town)

Reporter: I am standing here at the last leg (Winks) of the Walk, and we seem to be missing half of our participants.  However, their donations have already been submitted, so the only thing lost is their own personal pride.  (Goes to a water station) The kind folks at a local supermarket have generously been supplying free water bottles to the walkers, and – ooh!  Lawn decorations at half off!  Johnny, quick, give me my wallet.

(Cut to the Finish Line)

Reporter: (With a garden gnome tucked under his arm) Ending where it all began, the Walk finishes in the same gathering place as where it commenced.  There are several hundred stragglers remaining who are now dodging traffic as we speak, since the roads have finally re-opened to automobiles.  Well, that concludes our coverage of the 757^th Walk to Kill Breast Cancer, and it appears to have been another smashing success.  I will sign off this report with one final shot of the many, many, many cars all struggling to leave town at the exact same time.  (He hops onto a helicopter)

(Cut to an aerial view of the lines of cars inching towards the town’s lone exit)

Reporter: This is Channel 12,345, reporting live, from the only way to travel.