“Get The Point”
By Ron Knight
The velvet curtains open to spot light a well lit wood planed floor, white oak glazed in a golden pecan finish, with a central high podium centered just stage right, its iridescent lime green paint job screaming of a carnival bark show. A bench of panel guests sits at a well finished show desk, the highly audacious curved angles and engraved scroll work mirroring the angles in the highly stylized podium. Seated with high plumed pink and purple high back chairs with equitably ridiculous and audacious curved angles, the entire set seems comprised by a Lewis Carroll opiate stoned designer, none of the stage furnishings which have been measured with any sense of plumb or level balance.
An amazed audience sits in awe as the announcer cries out, “Ladies and Gentlemen; it’s time to play Get The Point! The game where everyone Sharpens their Thinking! And now here’s your host, Ned Powell, your bright eyed, brilliant piece of work!”
The audience goes wild upon the electronic sign cue, and out steps Ned Powell, the consummate Game Show Host extraordinaire, who claps his hands and thanks everyone for being here tonight. And of course, now he goes on to introduce Larry Pitts, and the In the Pits Time Game Show Band!
Pa da! Da Rump ba Bump ba bump!
Pa da da Rump ba Bump ba Bump! Ba Bump ba bump, pa Da!
Which sounds a lot like Pop Goes the Weasel, only backwards. Which sounds like the George Martin Horn Band Section to Yellow Submarine, only backwards. Which sounds like Over Under Sideways Down, only backwards.
Today our panel of judges is a goggle of Psycho-Analysts, who have finished their visits with their goggle of Psychotherapy residents recently holed up in an old Chateau just outside of Paris, a gaudy restored power house which used to belong to the Rothschilds. All in the entire cast were deported from Brazil, that is, all of the residents as well as the psychoanalysts themselves. It’s also only kind to note, that none of these people who sleep on cots, have ever been to Disneyland Paris. Not only have they all been deported from Brazil, they had made it to New York City, where they thought they could live the American Dream, until they in turn were deported from the USA.
Ooooohhh, the audience whinnies, and all wait with baited breath.
After an extreme and incessant “needling” in the Group, where questions and answers between the therapists and “therapeers” have amounted to pin-pointing, cutting, tearing and slicing each other apart, standing in the sideline I could see this all looked a fairly family good game, which then summated to Ned’s steady game show hand rising to punch his buzzer and asking the by now Royalty Rich game show query line, heading to ask: “Do you GET THE POINT?”
A few of the goggle of gang of “therapeers” in the center of the stage stand, thinking about it, as they circle the newbie, as Special Guest. Ned then says,” Ah, think carefully. We have plenty of sharp objects in order to help you Get the Point!” The newbie rolls what he is thinking over the knuckles in his mind. But for now, he keeps it under wraps.
The Game Show Judges’ panel splits open in the middle to separate on motorized platforms to reveal a show girl stepping out from between the now separated two part judges’ panel desk. Her significant chest is covered by the two cantaloupes she is holding that feature ice cream sundaes and mounted nipple cherries as their heads.
With this quite orderly distraction, the sudden sound of switchblades ratchet in the studio. The audience gawks wide eyed at the gangliest set of hose mounted knives and cleavers launched forward from the rear of the stage set rigging box, vaulting out to circle and strike the game show player, just missing by inches from his sweating head.
“NOW do you get the Point?” Ask the panel of Psycho Analysts, using their well proven and very analytical theories. The ones based in Catholicism that has met Communism. Now a singular salty drop of gelatinous sweat trickles down from my brow, the suspense heightening as the sting in my eye times well with Larry Pitts and the In the Pits Game Show band, who now begins to play a dark, but campy melodic refrain of “The Fire Down Below.”
Dr. Dorothea, the judge in the center who was once a glamorous fashion model says she doesn’t think he gets the point. To which Dr. Claudia, who wishes that she was once as beautiful as Dr. Dorothea, says, “Well, I don’t think he will ever get the point. So we must climb down every Saturday morning into his marital bed, and see if we can operate the puppetry of his wife, so they both see how inverted they are.
To Which His Highness, the Master Psycho-analyst Dr. Head, the Master Head, says. “No, that will not be enough. We need to climb into his marital bed, into his and her head, and then we need to climb into their family agenda, their inheritances, and as quickly as possible we need to also climb into their businesses to make sure the enterprises are all being very well served.” This of course is also very well analyzed by the analytical theories. The ones based in Catholicism that has met Communism.
“And please,” Ned the host cries out before we go to Commercial break, “No one leave the room. We have these commercial messages for you. Nobody go away, and don’t go anywhere where the analysis says you should not go. We’ll be back right after this.” The In the Pits Band plays us out as the stage fades away.
When we return, the judgment is in, and they tell our special guest that he must peddle his way on a bicycle, endlessly. As he mounts the bike and peddles, the stage revolves beneath his touching tires. The faster he peddles, the faster the revolution of the stage so everyone on the stage spins round and round, faster and faster, as Larry Pitts and In The Pits plays Pop Goes the Weasel, only backwards.
And since the Buzzer and Horn have farted the failing X of a gong off, it’s deemed our guest does not Get the Point, as so often many guests will not, and so the stage spins round and round, to his endless cycling.
And last, as a grand game prize, it’s decided our lucky non-winner will have to GIVE to the Psychotherapy fund pool basket, and come back again next week, and the next, and the next, as for this the judges decide the player must pay to play, and rather than win the cash prize, he must pay the cash price, for this and every session; as the Psychotherapy judges have mortgages to pay, and bills to pay, and taxes to pay, specialty car payments to pay, and deferments and other judgments to pay, and meals to enjoy.
And so, Larry Pitts signs us off with our by now enjoyable exit theme song as Ned Powell calls out “That’s our Game, Ladies and Gentlemen! Come back and join us again next time” and wishes everyone a good, but worrisome night.
The ”therapeers” and audience have just loved it… and can’t wait to return and see who will then be NEXT, and may never well Get the Point.