"Get to the point!", ordered the game show host as he raised the knife to the politician's wife's elegant throat. The Right Honourable Gent suddenly changed his tune, abandoning his meaningless formulaic legalese waffle and stammering into a blubbering plea for his family.
"ANSWER THE QUESTION: _______________________________?" the host replied, pressing cold steel up against warm flesh. Lady ____ promptly fainted, slumping limp in her harness, evoking a frenzied reaction from her husband who, fearing the worst, lunged forward, forgetting that the chains that restrained him on three sides (to prevent spinning) were tethered to the long blonde locks of his three charming daughters who were themselves chained up just metres away, causing them great discomfort at Daddy's every move. Their cries quickly calmed their father into a resigned response:
"We in the Layabout Party propose an increase in..."
One of the panellists buzzed to interrupt: "Deviation!...from manifesto promises last election." The chairman nodded and a bucket of water was emptied over the Right Hon. Gent. "Over to you, Ms. _______..."
"It has long been Conserve-A-Tory Party policy to..."
There was a sudden stirring in the audience. "You never honoured this pledge while you were in power either!" shouted a heckler. Lord Chumphley piped in to drown out the oik who was challenging his fellow Party member: "Ah, yes, well we do strive to overcome these issues to empower businesses to operate at the cutting edge of new emerging markets, utilising blue sky thinking to envisage new ways to address critical needs in the service industry sector so vital to a growing economy in times of economic downturn post 9/11..."
His words were thankfully cut short by a custard pie launched by The Phantom Flan Flinger, catching him clean in the face with a satisfying slap/thud, you know: the kind of sound that really makes ratings soar. The audience cheered as once again the bumpkin got his just desserts, and another panellist jumped in with "Hesitation" as he wiped his mutton-chop whiskers clean.
"So Mr. _____, we turn to you", resumed the smiling host, "You have just sixty seconds to try and answer a very simple question. Can you do so without resorting to repetition or ridiculous rhetoric?"
"Well that quite depends on whether or not my esteemed colleague will care to step outside and say that..."
"I must warn you," piped up the host, "and explain for our listeners at home, that you are in serious danger of incurring your last and final penalty point, and since we are about to cross the 9pm watershed, things could start to get nasty..."
© copyright Malcolm Smith 2005-05-03 - last updated 2006-05-07 - links verified 2006-05-07 - This page is under construction