quarta-feira, fevereiro 23, 2005

Um alce é sempre preferível ao Sócras

Um interregno prolongado exige regresso capaz. Infelizmente, passei os últimos vinte dias a escrever sobre a campanha e a conviver (salvo seja) com os respectivos protagonistas. Logo, não me sinto à altura de coisa nenhuma. Fiquem, pois, com o melhor que se pode arranjar. E o melhor que se pode arranjar, como toda a gente devia saber, é isto:

The Moose*

I shot a moose once. I was hunting in upstate New York, and I shot a moose.
And I strap him onto the fender of my car, and I'm driving along the West Side Highway. But what I didn't realize was that the bullet did not penetrate the moose. It just creased his scalp, knocking him unconscious. And I'm driving through the Holland Tunnel and the moose wakes up.
So I'm driving with a live moose on my fender and the moose is signaling for a turn. And there's a law in New York State against driving with a conscious moose on your fender, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. And I'm very panicky. And then it hits me—some friends of mine are having a costume party. I'll go. I'll take the moose. I'll ditch him at the party. It won't be my responsibility. So I drive up to the party and I knock on the door, and the moose is next to me. My host comes to the door. I say, "Hello, you know the Solomons." We enter. The moose mingles. Did very well. Scored. Some guy was trying to sell him insurance for an hour and a half.
Twelve o'clock comes; they give out prizes for the best costume of the night. First prize goes to the Berkowitzes, a married couple dressed as a moose. The moose comes in second. The moose is furious. He and the Berkowitzes lock antlers in the living room. They knock each other unconscious. Now, I figure, here's my chance. I grab the moose, strap him on my fender, and shoot back to the woods. But I've got the Berkowitzes. So I'm driving along with two Jewish people on my fender. And there's a law in New York State, Tuesday, Thursday, and especially Saturday....
The following morning, the Berkowitzes wake up in the woods in a moose suit. Mr. Berkowitz is shot, stuffed, and mounted at the New York Athletic Club. And the joke is on them, 'cause it's restricted.

Woody Allen, Stand Up Comic