No-one (no body?) expects the Spanish Inquisition.
Go on, you know the next line.
What line? You mean “What’s my Line?” or What’s my line anyway?” which was the American version of another British version. Did you know Colin Mochrie is Canadian?
Stop it. I’ll have to go get the comfy chair.
We have a comfy chair? This one isn’t comfortable at all.
No, not our comfy chair, the comfy chair. Pillows with soft corners. Prisoner is tortured with comfort.
Sounds like a ticklish situation. Is it being investigated?
No, it’s Monty Python’s Flying Circus!
I didn’t know a circus could fly. Pink Floyd’s pig could fly. Wish you were here. Oh, I see – comfortably numb! When I was a child . .
Stand-up routine in the formerly smoky bar? Audience sees the performers’ nervous gesticulations; bored faces of their audience revealed. Lungs healthier; egos not.
Neville turns Lit/Culture 521 into improv. His nasally “Nobody expects . . .” from farthest, darkest corner turns smothered snickers into audible guffaws. His riff becomes rap, becomes rapid, becomes rapt.
My brain attempting to engage my mind in conversation. Expect to make those connections. One smooth segue on public transportation to the next. Heck, known each other all our lives. Unexpected fracture, fissure, flaw. Grows like blobs in b grade ‘50s horror flix. Just add . . .
Wait. What was the inquisition?
A meandering SoSC bamble for October 3rd.