Boy, I feel like an idiot. All week I’ve been hounding the staff to get Sir Lancelot on tonight’s show; and my producer kept saying, “he doesn’t really exist.” And I said, “That’s what you said about Merlin the Wizard, the magician I hired for my kid’s birthday party.”
I even offered our booking agent a five-chicken bonus if he could get Lancelot on our show – and I normally never pay him more than three chickens.
Guess what? They were right. He is a fictional character, and I feel like an idiot. This is more embarrassing than when I booked the guy who claimed he’d invented a catapult that could safely heave a family of six to Spain.
It also explains why King Arthur, Queen Guinevere and Sir Galahad have yet to return any of my messages – and why they won’t be joining me in my round table discussion.
I’m disappointed. I really wanted to ask Lancelot about the stories of him slaying dragons and giants. Were they true or was it just the ale talking?
Fortunately, we have an excellent guest who will be filling in for Lancelot tonight. She’s written an interesting and informative book called “I Was Married to Robin Hood’s Merriest Man.”
The Statue of Liberty, a massive sculpture of a lady in a robe holding a torch and a tablet inscribed with the date of our Declaration of Independence, was dedicated today in New York Harbor. The statue’s message of freedom is so powerful twelve other statues have already demanded their emancipation.
The 151-foot-tall figure is a gift from the people of France. It was built there, shipped overseas and assembled here. It would have taken less time to put together had our engineer reading their instructions been fluent in more than French fries.
The statue was designed by sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi. He said the hardest part was finding her a pair or size 750 extra-wide shoes.
Only dignitaries were permitted on the island during the ceremonies. Even sea gulls had to know somebody.
President Grover Cleveland presided over the dedication ceremony and was quite the gentlemen. He delivered his entire speech without once looking up Lady Liberty’s big skirt.
The event was also was marked by New York’s first ticker-tape parade. And if we learned one thing: Cascading bits of paper are a happier alternative to leaping stockbrokers after a financial crash.
I’m guessing a simple thank you note to France isn’t going to be enough. How about a throw blanket big enough to enrobe the Palace of Versailles?
I asked my staff to come up with a statue that best represents me. So far, the only design they have is of me shirtless after a card game.
Tonight’s guest is Elisha Otis who’s invented a contraption called the elevator. It’s a tiny room that moves people up and down in buildings. Do you know what this means? We can now experience what it’s like to be a plate of baked potatoes riding in a dumbwaiter.
Can you imagine experiencing the feeling of a room rising and lowering without having one drink?
The elevator is pulled up and down with a thin metal cable strong enough to support at least three pianos or six overweight relatives.
Imagine the interesting conversations you’ll have riding down from the fourth floor: “How are you?”, “Nice hat”, “Do you think we’ll crash?”
Here’s a thought: How about putting a small band in the elevator for background music – or at the very least, a guy who can whistle a lot of tunes.
I’d install one, if only to lower me into the pit where my writers work.
According to Mr. Otis, orders for his elevator have been flying in – including many from short men who’ve only dreamed of kissing a tall woman.
Here’s a bit of juicy gossip: Remember Catherine the Great, the last reigning Empress Regnant of Russia, our fair and just leader who would have you beheaded for calling her “Catherine the Conventional”?
She’s been dead for a number of years, and some folks who will remain anonymous are implying she didn’t actually die of natural causes. She died of – how can I put this gently –while doing the dirty deed with a male member of the equine persuasion.
Is it fair to accuse someone of such a scandalous act when they’re not here to defend themselves? I mean, for all we know she and the horse were just friends.
It is true Catherine had between 12 and 22 male lovers throughout her life, but who among us hasn’t gone on a date where the first thing we’re told is get in line and take a number?
Quite honestly, if my name ended with “the Great,” you better believe I might use it to get my Debauchery Card punched.
The one I feel sorry for is the guy she might have dumped before the horse. How do you compete with that?
We’ll never know what really happened. I’d hate, however, to see a reputation she worked so long and hard to create and maintain be destroyed by one tiny impulsive act of being accidentally crushed while having relations with a farm animal.