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Woman : So what's in
store for us in tomorrow's column ?
Ike : I don't know yet. I'm, uh, kind of a
last-minute man. You know, until an hour or two
before deadline, I don't get any ideas.
Woman : So you get your ideas for your column from
life. Start up a conversation with a woman in a bar.
Attack her dart playing and try to
get a rise out of
her while you contemplate whether or not she's worth
hitting on.
Ike : No, I can't hit on you till I get an idea.
Woman : Wh -- That's flattering.
Ike : No, you don't understand.
Woman : I understand. See, my not responding to you
baiting me will inspire one of those bitter
diatribes you like to write about women.
Ike : I don't write bitter diatribes about women.
Oh-ho. Very often. I could.
Woman : Only when the ideas aren't flowing, huh ? It's
so nice to meet you, one-minute man.
Ike : It's last-minute man.
Woman : Whatever.
Kevin : Want to hear something funny ? For a
good-looking guy, you strike
out a lot. You noticed that ? I
bet it's your ex-wife.
Man : Excuse me. I've seen much worse.
Kevin : No, Ike's not here.
Man : I say, I've seen much worse.
Kevin : I'll tell him when he comes in.
Ike : Excuse me ?
Man : The brush-off. I've witnessed far more
treacherous and nefarious exits than that. At least
she castigated you in private.
Ike : Not as private as I thought. Kevin, you got
some napkins there?
Kevin : Wiping or writing?
Ike : I'll let you know.
Man : They love you. They hate you. They're hot.
They're cold. They're high. They're-
Ike : -up. They're down. You know, this is really fun
making a list with you, but I do have a column to
write here.
Kevin : Ike.
Man : But you have yet to find a really superb idea.
There's a girl from my hometown that you could write
about.
Kevin : Excuse me, but we don't need any ideas.
Man : She likes to dump grooms right at the altar.
They call her the "Runaway Bride." She's performed
the travesty seven or eight times. Turns around,
runs like hell. Bolts.
Adios.
Plows down the aisle, knocking old
ladies out of her way. Like the Running of the Bulls
in Pamplona. And guess what! She's got the next
victim all lined up. She's,
she’s turning another body on
the spit.
Ike : Okay, Italics, here we go. |
