Susan Sarandon takes a quick sip of her morning coffee, plunks down in her chair, dons her headset and fields her first call of the day.
"Emergency 911," she chirps.
"Help!" cries the female caller. "The guy across the street just stabbed his neighbors to death!"
"What do you want from me?" asks Sarandon.
"I want you to send the police!" wails the caller.
"Why would I do that?" says Sarandon. "He hasn't done anything to me or the police."
"But he's got a knife and he -"
"You're assuming that he still has the knife," interrupts Sarandon. "And I'm afraid that I'll need a little more than mere assumptions on your part, before taking so drastic a measure as to risk our department's good name by harassing one of its innocent citizenry based upon nothing other than the frantic hearsay of a reactionary warmonger."
"Warmonger?" mumbles the baffled caller.
"Yes, for what's done is done," says Sarandon. "And for us to go rushing headlong over there right now with guns drawn and badges waving, would only run the unwarranted risk of escalating an already highly unpleasant situation into a possible conflagration. This, my dear, is a time for reflection, not blind retaliation. This, In short, is a time to ask ourselves, did we, his neighbors, inadvertently bring this upon ourselves by never having once commented in the affirmative upon his hedge trimming capabilities? For example."'
A long pause follows as the caller, obviously stricken dumb at this point, fumbles for words. Sarandon immediately takes advantage of the pause in order to greet her newly arrived colleague and longtime friend, Richard Gere.
"Good morning," she says. "How was your dinner party last night?"
"Terrible," replies Gere, as he busily begins about situating his workstation. "Al Sharpton spent the entire evening accusing Tom Hanks of being a racist, due to the fact that there wasn't a single Afro-American actor in the last hour and fifteen minutes of Castaway,"
"I know, I know," sighs Gere. "I tried explaining that to him, but he just kept stomping around the room screaming absurdities like, 'Even Wilson was white!"'
"I'm sorry you had such a bad night," says Sarandon.
"It wasn't all bad," shrugs Gere. "The worst of the ranting all ended around midnight, after Spike Lee stabbed him in the shoulder with a butcher knife."
With this remark Sarandon is suddenly reminded of her caller and immediately returns to the phones.
"Are you still there, caller?" she queries.
"Yes," whimpers the now browbeaten woman.
"Before I can, with a clear conscience, send the police," says Sarandon. "I'll need something a little more concrete from you. I'll need you to go across the street, knock on the gentleman's door, and then ask him to take you by the hand and lead you to the murder weapon in question. I'd recommend bringing along a nice casserole as enticement. Once he's handed it over to you, as I'm sure he will, especially if your casseroles are as good as mine. You'll need to photograph it, have him sign it, get it notarized, and then send it to me along with a check for seventy-five dollars."
"And then you'll send the police?" asks the caller.
"No," replies Sarandon. "But I will send Sean Penn over in an effort to make an absurd mockery of your neighbor's deaths by walking bowlegged across the killer's lawn while handing out candy to his children. And afterwards, I'll apply your seventy-five dollars towards a fund for the preservation of The North American Spotted Owl."
"911 emergency," says Gere, in response to his first call of the day.
"Please save me!" cries the caller. "My husband is trying to kill me!"
"Are you Tibetan?" asks Gere.
"No," says the woman. " I'm Italian, and I live at 119, South-"
"Oh I'm sorry," interrupts Gere. "But I'm terribly busy with trying to save the people of Tibet at the moment, and I really don't have the quality time for properly dallying with the ongoing survival of domestically abused American females."
"Let me talk to your supervisor!" screams the woman.
"Oops," replies Gere. "I think someone needs to assume the lotus position, and regain her center."
"You're insane!" shouts the caller.
"It's my hostility response," says Gere. "Ohm."
"My husband is breaking through the bathroom door now!" shrieks the woman.
"Repeat after me," instructs Gere. "Ohm."
"Let me speak to your supervisor!" repeats the woman.
Several tense moments pass before her prayers are finally answered.
"Sup," says Sean Penn, who as usual, arrived late due to a thesaurus scanning and subsequent Internet search to come up with his big word for the day.
"Please send the police!" shouts the woman.
"Sentient," says Penn.
"I said sentient," boasts Penn. "It's so way cool, don't you think? Words are our lifeblood, and I'm a self-made bloodhound."
"He's in the bathroom now," shouts the woman.
"Would you like me to go and visit your relatives? Sentient," says Penn.
"I'm going to hang up and call another police department now!" bellows the woman.
"Wait!" shouts Penn. "Please don't hang up on me. My hair is in my eyes and I'm assuming a brooding posture, as if to bespeak of an entity in deep thought over the many and varied woes heaped upon the downtrodden have-nots of humanity."
"That's very noble of you," says the woman. "You should be very proud of yourself. My husband just shot me in my left ankle."
"Thank you," replies Penn. "Most people never take the time to look beyond the celebrity and see the man. You're obviously a very sentient girl being."
"Grammatically speaking," moans the woman. "Oh never mind," she gasps, as a second shot shatters her right collarbone.
"It hurts sometimes," whimpers Penn.
"Stay on the line," groans the woman, while making feeble attempts to stem the blood-flow. "I'll send someone."
"You'd do that for me?" says Penn, as tears stream along the pompous parapets of his narcissistic cheeks. "Thank you, and please hurry."
"911 emergency," chirps Sarandon.
"Hi honey," says Sarandon's common-law husband, Tim Robbins. "Just calling to tell you that the meeting ran late and I couldn't get the Beluga caviar you wanted for tonight's Save The Hungry soiree."
"Where are you?" hisses Sarandon.
"I'm in the den," whimpers Robbins, as his knees begin to tremble. "I'm sorry," he gurgles. "Please don't do this again," he implores.
"Stay on the line," croaks Sarandon. "I'm sending the military."
Robbins immediately drops the telephone's receiver to the den's floor and dashes headlong through the nearby sliding glass doors and out into its adjacent pasture.
"...Tyranny is not a matter of minor theft and violence, but of wholesale plunder, sacred and profane, private or public. If you are caught committing such crimes in detail you are punished and disgraced; sacrilege, kidnapping, burglary, fraud, theft are the names we give to such petty forms of wrongdoing. But when a man succeeds in robbing the whole body of citizens and reducing them to slavery, they forget these ugly names and call him happy and fortunate, as do all others who hear of his unmitigated wrongdoing." -- Plato
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02-04-2003, 03:09 AM #1
- Join Date
- Apr 2000
If the pacifists were 911 operators
02-04-2003, 04:33 PM #2
- Join Date
- Nov 2001
That was brilliant CB, god help us if it ever came to pass!!!
02-04-2003, 05:51 PM #3
More fun than studying for EMT class.Why do I *always* have to be the calm one?
Note to self: first spell check then post.
02-04-2003, 07:55 PM #4
- Join Date
- Apr 2000
Sorry LadyCpn, should've mentioned that I WISH I could write like that! I'm pretty good when I'm good, but I can't take credit for that masterpiece!!!
02-05-2003, 10:35 AM #5
- Join Date
- Jun 2000
- 911 N. Sycamore St. Yep, that's really our address.
I love Hollywood-types. Good enough reason to endure 8* in the morning. Cold weather keeps all the kooks away......Omnis Cedo Domus
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