(GK: Garrison Keillor, SS: Sue Scott, TK: Tom Keith, TR: Tim Russell, RD: Rich Dworsky)
....brought to you by Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie.
GK: You're sitting in your tiny work cubicle (KEYS CLICKING) at Amalgamated Grommet with the pictures of your kids pinned to the walls (SS: Hi Daddy) and your wife (SS SULLEN: Hi) and Elvis (TR ELVIS: Hey chief, hang in there now, okay, lookin good chief, lookin good) and you're working away like a house afire and the president of Amalgamated, Mr. Beavers, has made a habit of stopping by your cubicle and saying nice things (TK JOWLY GIBBERISH) and there's a rumor afoot that the corner office may be yours (TR: An office with an actual door! And windows!). Yes, windows. (TR: Windows!) Up out of the mineshaft at last. (TR: I could look at the sky. I could see trees. Birds. Real ones. Not just the ones on my screensaver.) and then one day you get a call from your supervisor Miss Brown, known to your co-workers as Eva Braun --- (SS: Come to my office, Bob. Now.) And you trudge (TR CHEERFUL GREETINGS TO COWORKERS ALONG THE WAY) through the rabbit warren of Division 4, Product Marketing, to her office---
SS: Sit down, Mr. Fellows.
TR: Yes, ma'am.
SS: I'll come right to the point. We've been monitoring your computer activities during work hours, Mr. Fellows. (DISASTER CHORDS)
TR (TO HIMSELF): Yikes!
SS: Look at this printout of websites, Mr. Fellows, and tell me if these are familiar to you.
TR: (GULPS) Uh. Okay.
GK: And there it is, the whole long list of your shameful sordid private obsessions. So what can you do? You decide to lie.
TR: (PERSPIRING) I don't know anything about these. There must be some mistake.
SS: This is the electronic trail left by your computer.
TR (PERSPIRING): Maybe someone else has been using it. The cleaning lady.
SS: None of these websites ring a bell? Goldilocks-dot-com devoted to pictures of women with curly hair and tiny heads?
TR: No.
SS: The website where you downloaded pictures of older women in dirndls forcing boys to shine their shoes?
TR: I don't know that one.
SS: The website where female English teachers are photographed in degrading circumstances involving large birds?
TR: Never saw that.
SS: The macrame underwear catalogue? You didn't order some things online?
TR: Never.
SS: Mr. Fellows, as near as I can figure, you haven't done more than two hours work a day since you arrived here three years ago.
TR: That's not true, Ms. Brown! I do a full day's work!
SS: But it takes you all week to do it.
TR: That's just not true! I've been a linchpin, a vital cog in the machine, pushing Amalgamated Grommet to new heights.
SS: Mr. Fellows, you're a leech on the corporation, you're a slow leak, a drag, you're a tumor with legs, and I'm going to start watching you on an hourly basis, and if I ever catch you fooling around with your computer again, I'm going to break you, Mr. Fellows. I'm going to send you down to telemarketing.
TR: No, please! No! (HORROR CHORDS)
GK: So you return to your cubicle and for several days you keep your nose to the grindstone and then, you can't help it, you're eating lunch, you spill some mayonnaise on your desk...(CHORD)
TR: I want to go look at that website where they show --- mature women --- scantily clad --- swimming in vats of mayonnaise --- and smoking cigars ---- (CLICKS) I don't know why it thrills me so but it just gets my heart to racing something fierce ---- Downloading ---- Oh boy, oh boy-----
GK: And the moment the first picture downloads, of a gal in support hose slathered with Russian dressing---- (KLAXON, RUNNING FEET, TR PANIC) ---
SS: Come with us, Mr. Fellows.
TK: Hands in the air.
SS: Leave your files here, Mr. Fellows.
GK: You're being lifted from your cubicle and carried out (TR PROTESTING) and they carry you through Division 4 and past the corner office (TR: My name? on the door?), yes, it's your name on the door, and there's Mr. Beavers (TK JOWLY GUY), you almost made it into middle management and now you're going down to the phone room (TR HORROR). Yes! You're going to be wearing a headset for years to come, Mr. Fellows.
TR: Hello, am I speaking to Miss Nelson? Good. Miss Nelson, I'm Bob, and I wonder if you'd have a moment to talk about grommets.
(THEME) Wouldn't this be a good time for a piece of rhubarb pie? Yes, nothing gets the taste of shame and embarrassment out of your mouth like a piece of rhubarb pie....Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie. .....
Where's my baby, where'd she go(c) 2000 by Garrison Keillor
I asked her friends but they don't know
So I got me a piece of rhubarb pie
And here comes my baby strollin by
I know my baby loves rhubarb, rhubarb
Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie
I see that rhubarb look in her eye
Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie.