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The Weekly Review - Edition 33
7 years ago
Commended by JJJ-thebanisher on 2/12/2017 1:57:30 AM
THE WEEKLY REVIEW - EDITION 33
Featuring
- What is New Section giving the latest info on the Forums
- The intriguing Article: The Weekly Review by Will11
- An Interview with the great site member MinnieKing
- A Review of Briar_Rose’s The Price of Freedom: Innocence Lost by Will11
- This fantastic Short Story: The Magician’s House by Will11
- Finally, Special Section: Movie Comedy by Will11
What is New
- In Newbie Central Vulcanos introduces his awesome self to the site!
- In the Lounge Steve24833 triggers a lively discussion about the news Orders feature!
- In News and Updates JJJ-thebanisher seems never to sleep as he works tirelessly to improve the site!
- In the Parlour Room Steve24833 introduces his genuinely brilliant new game Prophecy!
- In the Creative Corner Ford draws an electric boogaloo!
- In the Writing Workshop FaithRomeyer discusses the use of End Game links!
- In the Reading Corner StrykerL looks for stories told from a parental perspective!
- In the Advanced Editor’s Forum Crescentstar wonders how to “reform” items!
- In the Feature Well MinnieKing prays for more Advanced Editor options!
- In the Bugs and Problems section TharaApples points out a commendations bug!
Article: The Weekly Review
The Weekly Review has been around for about two years, on and off, and has gone through a lot of changes. I put together all the contributions that get sent to me and write in the sections where there are no contributions (like this one…) but the more Articles, Interviews, Reviews, Short Stories and Special Sections that get sent in the more varied and interesting the Review will be. Contributions are important to any writing site newsletter and this one is no exception.
Steve has done an exceptional job in not only sending in great short stories or articles every week but editing the newsletter in my absences with his own unique and occasionally terrifying style, Mizal sends in countless great stories, Bucky contributes fantastic articles, Seto often helps out and everyone who has been interviewed so far have provided great answers. I’m very grateful for all this assistance and I’d encourage them and other members to keep writing in the future.
I am wondering if people think it is a good idea to keep the Short Story Section or get rid of it (or get rid of it and replace it with something else)? Now that we have the Creative Corner which is perfect for Short Stories should I keep the Short Story Section in the Review? Please give me feedback in the comments after the Review and I’ll count the for’s and against to make the decision. If the poll works well maybe the Review will do more in the future :D
Finally thank you to the people who read and comment on these Reviews, the whole thing wouldn’t exist without you.
Interview: Introducing MinnieKing
MinnieKing is a new member but a fantastically prolific writer with the courage to write and publish his stories and accept the inevitable mix of praise and criticism that invariably follows publishing (sometimes at the hands of critics who have never published a story themselves). I think these are on average the shortest interview responses I’ve ever received :D
1: How did you first find this site and what made you want to join?
I've always loved reading, and I was looking for Choose your Adventure books online. I found this site thinking it was for advertising or something, and after reading a few stories, I made an account.
2: How have you found this site since you have joined?
I find the site amazing. It has awesome content, and it's really fun to be here as both a reader and a writer.
3: What are your favourite aspects or members of the site?
My favorite aspect would have to be the advanced editor, since it's really cool to use and learn about. My favorite members... well, i'd have to say Seto as a friend, BerkaZerka as a writer, and you as a member of the community and the forums.
4: What are your least favourite aspects of the site?
My least favorite aspects... I guess if I had to pick something, it would be the Reading Corner I guess since it's very inactive usually.
5: You have written a large number of stories, what inspires your writing?
What normally inspires my writing is contests, or if i'm just feeling creative.
6: What writing plans do you have for the future?
Well, I've been working on quite a few projects. I'd like to begin trying my hand at Mystery and Puzzle stories, since I've never tried them before :)
7: I see you have a number of goals on your profile, what inspired you to select these particular goals?
I guess they're there to inspire me. I want to inspire myself to get better, and I know that every time I complete one of my goals, I'm getting a little better at writing one step at a time.
8: Do you think you will achieve all these goals in the future?
Definitely. I know i'm gonna be staying on this site for a long time, and I'm gonna work as hard as I can towards my goals.
9: Any funny stories to relate?
Well... once I slipped on a banana peel...
10: Finally, any last words, possibly to new site members?
Be the best you can be. This site is amazing for getting better as a writer. Remember, any good story takes time, and you've got one hell of a community to help you.
Review: The Price of Freedom: Innocence Lost, an Everything Else Story by Briar Rose (2014) by Will11
I really like Briar’s fun-filled writing style but in the Price of Freedom she shows she can write seriously and dramatically to. This story is all about your relationships and friendships with other people and your actions towards one person often affect your relationship with another person, usually with interesting benefits or consequences. The story is neither overly-difficult or over-long but interesting and Briar casts her characters against a very well presented historical backdrop that feels almost natural.
For me what makes the story interesting is that the characters are in a hopeless, desperate position and it seems the only possibility for a better future they can derive at times is from the individuals around them, who come from a range of backgrounds and countries with a mix of personalities – it is a very powerful (albeit probably unintended) metaphor. The story writing is powerful throughout, a hard thing to maintain over a story of that length and a sign of a great writer. I would recommend this story to everyone, particularly writers struggling to develop their characters.
Occasionally rumours are heard of a sequel, like many others when it is finished I would be very glad to read it.
Short Story: The Magician’s House – A Victorian Horror Story by Will11
Part 1 of 2
The oak front door swung open with a mighty creaking and my guide stepped back to allow me to enter first. His lantern light cast dancing shadows on the dusty floor before criss-crossing across the life-sized portraits of a man and a woman. The floor groaned under my feet and the stale air pouring out of the house was over a distinctly unpleasant odour. The lantern light flickered and danced but stayed lit. The dim evening sun cast a feeble square of light on the floor before us. There were no windows but between the portraits was a door and twin flights of wooden stairs ascended into darkness on either side of the portraits.
I waited patiently while my companion lit a cigarette from his lantern flame with trembling hands and used my leisure time to examine the two portraits before me. The man was dark-haired with a touch of greyness, his lined face and narrow eyes suggested experience and cunning. All of his clothes were black and he stared out at the viewer with defiance. The lady appeared to be dressed in mourning clothes and had the thinnest mouth I ever saw. My first thought was “This is a woman I would not want to upset.”
“Did they always dress like that?” I asked examining the portraits closely. “They look like preachers.“ My comrade nodded.
“Yes. You sometimes meet strange folk but I never met two as odd as this. They did not care for company, she especially did not. For the first six months they were here they couldn’t have received more than a handful of visitors and it was just them all alone out here - them and their servant Hutchings, that’s the Sam Hutchings incidentally whose testimony to the police you’ll find quoted in the papers.”
I moved slowly towards the portraits, my feet kicking up little clouds of dust which floated lazily across the floor. The house moaned and the floor sank slightly beneath my feet giving one the eeirie impression of walking across a ship. A shiver went through me as I recalled the part a ship played later in this mystery that had first caught my interest.
“How old is this house?” I asked my companion.
“Harrigan Hall is three centuries old sir” my comrade replied proudly. “In its day it hosted parties to the Georgian Gentry but after a fire several years ago gutted the interior my family left it unoccupied until I sold it to John Marvolo and his wife Mary moved here.”
The Great Marvolo: the wonder of two continents and the creator of the greatest mystery in modern times. They said the man did things on stage that no man had ever done before. I saw him myself in Paris in my student days, how I remember him pacing up and down the boards impassively with music blaring and crowds roaring, levitating, producing smoke and making people disappear and re-appear at will. Described as brilliant but troubled in Chicago he decapitated a goat on stage only for it to disappear and re-appear whole and well moments later. After the tragedy police found syringes and numerous “Satanical verses and texts” in his living quarters.
This was the place where it all happened: one year ago today. Harrigan Hall had just opened as the Great Marvolo’s Stagehouse. Despite its rural location and small size such was Marvolo’s fame that the opening night was packed with an audience several hundred strong, including it is alleged the Prince of Wales and Marvolo’s fellow performer Mr Houdini. What happened during that performance has become legendary.
“Mr Wells, would you be able to guide me through that night as you remember it?” I asked. Mr Wells hesitated a moment but when a man is facing financial ruin and another man, even an author of such small merit such as myself, offers you a cash sum in exchange for a guided tour the first man tends to find the resolve to carry it through.
“Alright” he muttered and approaching the right hand staircase he slowly ascended.
The stairs creaked angrily and sunk as though about to give way beneath our feet and from the way the lantern light shook I could tell my guide’s hands were still shaking. Surmounting the stairs we found ourselves in the highest row of a spacious auditorium, stretching all the way to a band pit before rising again onto a sweeping stage. Dust and sawdust covered the stage and a circular hole had been sawn slightly to the right of the centre. In the band pit chairs lay scattered and fallen as if the inhabitants had stampeded out of them in terror, which incidentally was exactly what had happened.
“The stage was brightly lit by more than twenty light bulbs and spotlights, all hidden around the room and controlled from the wings” Wells told me. He did not seem inclined to go any nearer to the stage than our present position but even from where I stood I could smell the lingering odour of tobacco. The room’s air was heavy and it felt as though the walls were crushing down on you. I had the odd sensation of being underground.
“It was the highlight of the act” Wells said, staring at the stage thoughtfully, smoke from his cigarette trailing up into the air. “I had been sent a complimentary ticket in the front row between a Duchess and a MP by Marvolo. His letter promised me a show that would stupefy the world. His closing trick was to step into a square box, about three feet by three feet. As the band played the ride of the Valkyries he wife helped bundle him in. The audience gasped as more and more of the great magician vanished into this tiny box scarcely big enough to hide a toddler. The last the audience saw of the Great Marvolo was a final wave of his hand.”
With a deafening bang that shook the whole house the heavy oak front door we had left open slammed.
Mr Wells turned pale and twisted around in fright as if expecting the great magician himself to appear ascending the stairs. I pride myself that I am as brave as the next man (or in this case braver) but I confess I was shook by the violence of the sound.
“And… what happened then?” I asked.
Mr Wells stared at me. “You know as well as I. Mary Marvolo sprang up and with a wild cry tipped her husband’s severed head out of the box and onto the stage.”
Mr Wells stared motionless at a specific spot on the stage and there was nothing there now: the dusty curtains were motionless and the air still.
“It caused pandemonium of course. I was knocked down by the band members stampeding up to the gallery. I read in the papers that five people had to be hospitalised with broken bones and bruises. The most chilling thing of all was Mary Marvolo. She just stood there on the stage and laughed, her husband’s head lying at her feet. It was a high cruel sound, rising even above the cries of the crowd.”
In my head I framed a very clear idea of what that laugh must have sounded like and goose pimples broke out on my arms.
“Say can we go downstairs now?” Mr Wells asked. His cigarette had burnt out and he cast it to the ground. “I don’t mind admitting this place makes me nervous and if you don’t mind I’d like to get those doors open again. I couldn’t think of anything more foolish than being shut in here overnight.” This last was my exact intention and as we creaked our way down the stairs Mr Wells shook his head.
“I do not hold with this newfangled interest in the occult sir, séances and such things. The dead are dead and it is best to let them be, not go ghost-hunting in the country and torturing poor bereaved mothers with poppycock about messages from the beyond and spirits. That Britten woman was a perfect ghoul.”
“You will be glad to hear that I don’t believe in the occult either Mr Wells” I reassured my guide. “I am here solely from a Journalistic point of view to write a series of articles or perhaps a small essay on the Marvolo Case. Staying the night in their house is necessary so that I may give the writing the proper atmosphere. After all books are either well written or badly written, that is all.”
Well’s face darkened. “Don’t quote that man Wilde to me” he said and growled something about “a damn disgrace” and I fell silent as Wells forced the front doors opened. It made little difference to me if the doors were open or not: the light was fading outside and little permeated into the stuffy lobby.
“Lets move on to the living quarters” Wells suggested. “I don’t want to be here after dark.”
I followed him through the door between the two grim portraits. The door opened into a short corridor lined with closed doors and Wells ticked them off as we walked by.
“The servant Hutching’s bedroom. The Marvolo’s parlour. The Marvolo’s bedroom, a linen cupboard, aha!” He led me through to the last room which was divided into two parts. Half of it was a kitchen, the other half was bare wooden flooring. A secure looking stepladder stretched right up to a circular hole in the ceiling. The whole floor was carpeted in sawdust, even the walls contained a thick layer. I pointed at the ladder.
“Did the police leave that there?” I asked.
Wells shook his head. “No, the Marvolo’s placed it down here. After the police arrived Mrs Marvolo insisted it was here so that any audience members who suspected a trapdoor in the stage could examine either the floor of the stage or the ceiling of the room below at their leisure.”
I laughed at the simplicity of it. “Why surely the trapdoor was simply well-hidden. Marvolo slipped through it, down this ladder and sealed it up behind him.”
Wells nodded. “That’s what the police thought and that’s why they cut the hole. They cut through three feet of wood to the stage above in a wide circle around the area where Marvolo disappeared into the box. They went up through the ceiling and down through the floor. They found nothing but the oak wooden boards of the ceiling and floor and the thick third wood pine wood that runs wedged solidly between them throughout the whole house as insulation. There was no gap, no seam but between the oak and the pine, nothing but wood and the metal nails that held it together. The Great Marvolo had vanished literally straight through the floor, three feet of solid wood with no opening, leaving his head behind him.”
A cold breeze filtered down through the hole above us revealing the slight colour changes of the oak and pine but I could see for myself that there wasn’t a millimetre of space between them.
“Well what happened to him after vanishing into his box?” I wandered aloud.
Mr Wells smiled. “That’s the big question isn’t it?” he asked. “Mrs Marvolo always insisted that no murder had been committed. Her husband had vanished, leaving his head behind and both Mrs Marvolo and the Hutchings boy kept insisting he would reappear soon after in a public place (they hinted Parliament) to complete his greatest trick.”
I had a strong image in my mind of a news article with a photograph I had in my pocket, Mrs Marvolo wreathed in black and the shorter Hutchings youth next to her talking to two policemen and a detective, the round hole in the ceiling visible above them. I pulled out the crumpled clipping, stepped back and held it up squinting. It was right here that the photograph had been taken just a few days after the event.
The headline read MAGIC OR MURDER?
Suddenly I gasped and dropped the photo. For a moment it was as if Marvolo and Hutchings were standing before me, their heads bowed as they listened. Hutchings was a blond pale boy and Mrs Marvolo wore so much black, including a hat that only her strangely unreal face could be seen. She wasn’t looking at me but her eyes were dark and unfriendly and her thin mouth (the thinnest of mouths!) was cast down in a frown. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine and a cold wave go through my body as she stared at me with unmistakable hatred.
Then they were gone.
Mr Wells had been looking up at the ceiling and he broke of mid-sentence to look at me in alarm.
“Is everything alright Mr Botham?”
“Yes” I replied, my eyes scanned the spot where I’d seen the vision but nothing but a saw-dust coated room stood there. Flushing I stopped to retrieve the photo. “Sorry” I muttered. “Something startled me.”
Mr Wells nodded as if he understood. “Lets return to the entrance hall.” he said.
We stepped out of the kitchen, swung shut the squeakily protesting door behind us and walked down the corridor.
“The police were as baffled as everyone else,” Mr Wells declared. “The head was conclusively identified as that of Tom Marvolo and the police brought murder charges against Mary Marvolo with Sam Hutchings as an accomplice. As well as Mrs Marvolo’s behaviour on the night, which I can tell you as one who was there was nothing short of deranged, Hutchings was also seen to have behaved suspiciously.”
We were back in the entrance hall and I specifically avoided looking at the portraits, which out of the corner of my eye seemed dark and foreboding.
“What was Mr Hutchings’s role again?” I asked, not because I didn’t know but because I was starting to dread the heavy silences of the house.
“Hutchings was on the door accepting tickets and hanging up cloaks and hats” Mr Wells said. He indicated a dozen stands along one wall that I had not previously noticed in the dim light. I was surprised to see most of them were still hung with coats and hats.
“Didn’t the owners want their things back?” I asked.
Mr Wells shrugged. “Given what happened here I don’t think the owners of those things would want back anything that reminded them of that night. Anyway Hutching’s locked the doors at 8pm sharp and refused to admit at least a dozen latecomers, many of them were sufficiently piqued to insist on testifying at the coroner and had to be calmed down by a number of police officers who reminded them that they did not actually have anything relevant to say.”
Mr Wells thought for a moment. “Mr Hutchings also categorically insisted that two women return to their seats when they wanted to step outside for some air, being first obstinate and then downright insulting according to their testimony. When the show reached its climax a short time later the ladies companions were on the verge of coming downstairs to have the matter out with Hutchings. Generally the characters of Hutching and Mrs Marvolo did not shine in a very positive light.”
The last rays of sunlight were fading outside. Mr Wells glanced at them and I could tell he was itching to go but I insisted. “Tell me about what happened after. The Campania Tragedy.”
Mr Wells hesitated but he was enjoying his role as story teller so of course he must stay and deliver the full tale. He deliberately kept me in suspense by drawing and lighting another cigarette, the smoke curling around the lantern flame, before continuing in a leisurely manner. He seems more at ease with the house now.
“Well there wasn’t enough evidence to hold Marvolo and Hutchings. No body had been found, apart from the head, and the floor that Marvolo vanished through was found to contain nothing but nails and wood. Another mystery was that the box that Marvolo made his final exit through itself had disappeared, though no one positively remembered seeing it after Mrs Marvolo tipped her husband’s head out of it. Mrs Marvolo insists that she had pursued her terrified audience members right away to remind them it was all a magic trick. The most damning evidence against the pair of course is that the Great Marvolo has failed to reappear and so his head was been sent to be buried in the family vault in Connecticut.
Of motive the police could only guess. The Marvolo’s married nine years ago and few could be said to be on intimate terms with them. Mrs Marvolo was cold, practical and unfathomable and Mr Marvolo, while a genius in his art, suffered from violent mood swings, though he could be charming when he wanted to be. The youth Hutchings was considered a tad slow, a decent enough sort but impressionable. He’d been with the Marvolo’s for the last six months.
After Mrs Marvolo and Hutchings were released on bail they of course stunned the country. They were told not to leave the country but they booked passage on the RMS Campania to New York, ostensibly to return her husband’s head (which was placed in the cargo hold) to the tombs of his ancestors. The clerk who took the booking did not initially recognise the notorious couple but on the ship their identities were swiftly discovered.
The Campania’s telegraph equipment had broken down and the Captain decided to take the couple to New York and detain them there while he contacted the authorities. On the first day the couple approached him with a remarkable request: they wished to wed. Many saw this as confirmation of their guilt (Mrs Marvolo was many years older than the boy and was seen as leading him) and the Captain refused to perform the service. The pair found a Baptist Minister called Yates among the passengers who did consent to perform the service, allegedly for a large fee. Yates vanished after the ship’s arrival in America and all efforts by the authorities to locate him have proven futile.
After the marriage, which occurred with great solemnity Mrs Marvollo in a mood of black humour suggested a game of hide and seek. All were disgusted but Marvollo insisted and went off to hide, last seen in the passenger corridors below decks. The Captain was in ill humour when Hutchinson approached him on the bridge in a state of considerable alarm and declared he had lost his new wife. For many hours the Captain refused to help, perceiving himself as the butt of a joke, until realising that Hutchinson was genuinely in great distress and enlisting fellow passengers in his search efforts, finally the Captain did alert the crew.
The Campania, which is a sizable ship that can hold over two thousand people, was searched from keel to stern and not a trace of Mrs Marvolo was found. Hutchinson, who had by now earned some measure of sympathy for his simple nature, went to bed exhausted only to bolt into the doctor’s cabin to scream that the ghost of his wife had appeared before him shrieking that her death was all his fault. The doctor took this as a confession of sorts of ill play and gave Hutchinson a sedative from which the youth again awoke to scream that the Marvolo’s would have their revenge. According to later reports it took four men to restrain him.
Later, seeing his patient was sleeping fitfully the doctor departed his cabin to use the water closet. Moments later seamen report that Hutchins bolted out of the doctor’s cabin, bare-footed and still wearing a bathrobe, screaming at the top of his lungs words to the effect of “SHE’S THERE! SHE’S BACK THERE IN THE CABIN!” Running straight to the ship’s edge he jumped the rail as cleanly as an athlete jumps a hurdle. The Campania was at that time making 22 knots and though she did turn back no trace of the unfortunate boy was found. He was lost at sea.”
I looked thoughtfully at the doors at which this boy who died of madness in the middle of the North Atlantic collected tickets and greeted some of the finest in the land on that fateful night a year ago today. If I looked closely I could almost see the outlines of a short young man in profile sketched into the weathered wood of the door but I blinked and the trick of my imagination disappeared. I was about to speak when a fearful clanging made me spring into the air with a cry.
Mr Wells had not started as I had but he did drop his burnt-out cigarette and utter an exclamation that would not look well in print.
“That ******* clock” he exclaimed over the insistent peals of a grandfather clock. “I had meant to get rid of it after the police finished here but I never found the time.”
Glancing at the clock you see it has just struck six o’clock. “What time did the show start here a year ago?” I inquired.
Mr Wells frowned. “I entered at around half past seven. The show began at eight. Mr Marvolo vanished from this world at half past eight.”
I suddenly frowned. “You were telling me of that voyage on the Campania. You had not reached the end.”
Mr Wells moaned aloud. “Why do you make me repeat the worst when you know full well the ending of this tale? Mrs Marvolo and her new husband were both reported as lost at sea and the ship duly docked in New York. The crate containing the head of the Great Marvolo was dispatched to his next of kin, a Mr Pitts of New Boston, Massachussetts, who took the head back to the family home in Connecticut.
During the journey those handling the crate had complained of its weight and that a disgusting smell was arising from the box, though Marvolo’s head had been preserved in spices before the journey. Overpowered by a morbid curiosity to look on their kinsman’s features one last time Mr Pitts was surprised to find the crate was improperly sealed and lifted the lid. The sight that met their eyes was accompanied by the aroma of rotting flesh (which one newspaper account claimed was like eggs gone bad).
The skeleton of Mrs Marvolo lay clad in the tatters of her wedding dress and clutched in her hands was a piece of mistletoe.
It was later ascertained that during searches of the ship the crate containing the head of Mr Marvolo was not searched as its contents were known (or thought to be) and it lay under another larger crate containing pickled herring. To get into her husband’s crate Mrs Marvolo would have had to have moved the crate of herring, climbed in and closed the lid on herself. It is not know how the herring crate was replaced, trapping her in the crate that should have contained her first husband’s remains. Mr Hutchings may have put it there or it might have been placed there during the search. Rough seas on the day of Mrs Marvolo’s disappearence also led to the theory it may have been put on a higher place and become dislodged, though this would seem unlikely. There also remains the mystery of why Mrs Marvolo would climb into the crate containing her late husband’s remains in the first place.
The crate only contained the late Mrs Marvolo’s remains, the Great Marvolo’s head has disappeared like the rest of him and as it was loaded aboard the RMS Campania by two deckhands who sneaked a glimpse of the famous man it was definitely present at the start of the voyage. It’s whereabouts are completely unknown. On catching sight of Mrs Marvolo‘s remains Mr Pitt suffered a stroke. The Pitts arranged for the remains of Mrs Marvolo to be cremated and scattered in an unknown location.”
Mr Wells paused.
“Thus ends the most incredible story to occur in Great Britain this year, triggering debates and theories on both sides of the Atlantic and throughout Europe.”
Mr Wells fell silent and I found myself basking in amazement, as I often am, when I reflected on the story of The Marvolo Mystery as a whole. Macabre to the extreme and unbelievable were it not that the drama occurred in front of hundreds of witnesses both in this house and aboard the Campania. Explanations range from the logical to the scientific to the magical to the occult and even dark powers. That is why I have come to this house to discover the answer.
This is where my story moves beyond what I hope you will agree was the credible and shared experience of myself and Mr Wells and into my own personal experiences. Were it not for the terrible physical evidence I uncovered I would have been thought delusional and clapped in Bedlam but as it was I was diagnosed with nervous exhaustion and sent on a six month journey through Europe to recover. It was believed by my doctors that writing this account of my experience would prove therapeutic and I pray it will be so. Even now in the dead of night they still come to me… I should scratch out that line. It would not help my claims of sanity.
Then again, none of the story that follows does…
Special Section: Movie Comedy
In my free time when I am not reading or writing, like most of you, I enjoy watching movies. Movies, like stories, can of course be fantastically funny or clever – here are some funny quotes from various moves:
“During one of my treks through Afghanistan, we lost our corkscrew. We were compelled to live on food and water for several days.” – My little Chickadee (1940)
"A jester unemployed is nobody's fool."? - The Court Jester (1955)
“Gentlemen you can’t fight in here! This is the War Room!” – Dr Strangelove (1964)
“Don’t ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind.” – Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid (1969)
“I once stole a pornographic book that was printed in Braille. I used to rub the dirty parts.”?- Bananas (1971)
“I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries. Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time."? - Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)
“We Romans are rich. We've got a lot of gods. We've got a god for everything. The only thing we don't have a god for is premature ejaculation but I hear that's coming quickly.”? - History of the World Part I (1981)
“I have an interesting case. I'm treating two sets of Siamese twins with split personalities. I'm getting paid by eight people.”? - Zelig (1983)
“What did one shepherd say to the other shepherd? Let’s get the flock out of here.” – Lethal Weapon (1987)
“Some people play hard to get. I play hard to want.”? - The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (1990)
“I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” – So I married an Axe Murderer (1993)
“Like a midget at a urinal, I was going to have to stay on my toes.”?- Naked Gun 33 and a third: The Final Insult (1994)
As Always, Thank You for taking the time to read this Review.
