A Night At The Opera [FICTOID]

“If I had a machete, I’d placate you,” Groucho said to Chico.

“Atsa no good,” said Chico.  “Imma too old for a placate.”

“You mean a play date?”

“No.  Placate.  You know, one of those girls with a staple in her navel.”

“You mean a playmate,” said Groucho.  “I’m afraid they don’t publish that magazine anymore.  All the playmates are too old now.”

With a loud honking, Harpo scooted by on s skateboard, doing a pivot in front of them then zipping off again.

“I may be mistaken,” said Groucho, “but I think a mop just rolled by.”

“You should get a picture of that, sell it for a million bucks.”

“A million bucks, you say?  I’ll sell it to you for five dollars.”

“It ain’t worth that much.”

A young woman in a leotard screamed and ran by, chased by Harpo with an electric hair clipper.  Behind him came Margaret Dumont, the top of her head reduced to stubble.  They disappeared on the other side of the curtain with a loud crash.

“They fell in the orchestra pit,” said Groucho.

“I thought young girls fall for Brad Pitt.”

“Only if they’re from Georgia,” said Groucho.  

“Right.  Peach pits,” said Chico.

The curtain parted and Harpo, now wearing a full dress Air Force uniform, swung by on a crane.

“Well, let’s get the opera started,” Groucho said.

“What’s tonight’s piece?” Chico asked, sitting at the piano.

“John Cage’s ‘Organ2/ASLSP.”

“I don’t know that one,” said Chico, “but if you hum a few bars I’ll try to fake it.”

“Orchestrate it,” said Groucho.

“Why would I want to castrate it?” said Chico.  “That’s just nuts.”

© Buzz Dixon