What Piffle.

    In the third row of the small theatre, the man wearing the coonskin hat stood up so quickly that the ringed tail of his headgear flopped up and over, dangling before his eyes as he yelled for the lights.

    “S’matter, Mr. Benson-Smythe?” asked the thin young man beside him calmly.

    “Stop the film; stop the film,” raged Benson-Smythe, brushing the tail aside. “I just don’t get it. It’s rubbish.”

    “Yes. But on another level, no. It’s bins as metaphor for the treatment of social detritus.“

    “Balderdash. Theatre-goers just won’t stand for it.”

    “Just so. They’ll be seated.”

    “But I don’t get it. I underwrote a nice little film about a couple of disc jockeys going mad, and look at this….this…..this….thing! Dead babies and joke-telling pedophiles! It’s trash.”

    “Precisely. Thank You.”

    “It’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

    “Exactly. Now you’re getting it, Hyphen Man.”

     “No, no; I’m not. Listen; we’re just spinning our wheels here.”

    “Wheelie-binnies, yes.“

    “I’m lost. Totally. Hopelessly.“

    “The bewheeled and bebinned and bewildered; that is the point we‘re not trying to make.”

    “You’re out of your mind.”

    “Speaking of which, BS, why do you carry a dead mammal on your head?”

    “It’s a hat. Like Davy Crockett used to wear. It‘s warm.”

    “No. It’s a dead animal.”

    “Fitted to my head. Which makes it a hat, dimwit.”

    “If I stuck a cow flop on your head, would that also be a hat? Or just a turd on your head?”

    “What piffle.”

    “Piffle. I like it. That’s what we’ll name this chapter.”

    “Chapter? What are you babbling about? This is real life.”

    “Which have chapters. Which are like bins.”

    Benson-Smythe sank back into his seat. He called for the lights to be dimmed.

    “Let’s just get on with it. I‘m too old for this crap,” he sighed.

     The thin young man corrected him gently. “Rubbish, “ he said. “There you go. See; you are getting it,” he smiled.

The End

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