| The Diction Lesson (my apologies to Shaw) |
[Nov. 20th, 2002|12:38 pm] |
(Professor Martins and Mary Bayfield stand in a drawing room with a gramophone.)
Martins: Very well, Mary. Your articulation is coming along quite nicely. It is your diction, however, that we need to improve.
Mary: Yes, professor.
Martins: Now. Let's try one of my favorite childhood recitations: "I am a mother pheasant plucker. I pluck mother pheasants. I am the most pleasant mother pheasant plucker to ever pluck a mother pheasant." (laughs) Delightful, isn't it? Now you try: "I am a mother pheasant plucker."
Mary (with perfect articulation): I am a pleasant motherfucker.
Martins: No, that's not quite it. "I pluck mother pheasants."
Mary: I fuck fother measants.
Martins: Ah, closer. Now. "I am the most pleasant mother pheasant plucker to ever pluck a mother pheasant."
Mary: I am the most pleasant motherfucker to ever fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Martins: Hmm. Again you're pronunciation is immaculate. Your diphthongs, clear as crystal. But I think you're having trouble distinguishing the word choice. Are you familiar with pheasants?
Mary: Yes.
Martins: And does the notion of a mother pheasant, the progenitor of other pheasants, make sense to you?
Mary: Yes.
Martins: And the feathers, you are plucking them. Understood?
Mary: Yes.
Martins: So pretend it's your job to prune the feathers of this pheasant, this mother pheasant. "I am a mother pheasant plucker."
Mary (carefully, articulate): I enjoy having sexual intercourse with fancy birds.
Martins: OK. Well. That's a start.
(Fade out)
© copyright Jeremy Richards 2002 |
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