Y'know, I thought that meeting this morning would NEVER END!
Zorak:
Tell me about it.
Ghost:
Why do they bother creative types like us with all that gobbledygook?
Zorak:
Marketing, schmarketing.
Ghost:
On and on, bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla, bla bla bla bla bla bla,
bla bla bla bla bla. Bla. Blblblbla.
Zorak:
Yeah, I asked the guy beside me to kill me, but he was dead already!
Ghost:
I mean, just slap a Space Ghost logo on it and it'll sell like hotcakes!
Zorak:
Exactly!
Ghost:
Slap it on a drum of toxic waste! Watch them boys fly out the door.
Zorak:
Yep! It'll make millions!
Ghost:
Case closed. Here's a letter from Nat Whitehill, age eleven, from Gig Harbor,
Washington.
"Dear Space Ghost, I'm a huge fan. You have the funniest show on any planet
in the whole universe. How did you get so funny?"
You know, when I was a little bitty tiny little ghostling, a magic fairy
appeared-
Zorak:
Liar!
Ghost:
-and asked me if I would like to be a funny guy.
Zorak:
You big fat LIAR!
Ghost:
Here's a joke. A guy walks into a restaurant. A horse. A horse walks into
an ice cream parlor. And he sees a talking dog. No wait, wrong joke. He sees
a horse with a really long face. No, this guy is the horse, and he asks the
pizza man, who says "What's that?" No, "Why do you have such a big face?"
"a long face." To the horse. In the barber shop. Ha ha, get it? Ha ha ha
ha ha ha, eh heh heh heh heh heh, a-ha.
(The background music, which had been slowing as Space Ghost was trying to
tell the joke, stops, leaving the sound of the wind blowing and crickets
chirping.)