Theme song plays. Opening credits flood the screen.

<<VOICE OVER>>

Welcome to another episode of 'Blabber On Air' folks. We have a secret guest tonight.

Even I the faceless voice over don't know who it is. Each time I asked Jake

he'll just point to his sleeves. Maybe he's not too happy with his

tailor or he's got something stuck inside his sleeves. So dear viewers let's

hear it from the Blabber Man himself, the star of 'Blabber On Air' Mr. Jake Blabber!

<<enter Jake Blabber>>

JAKE: You can clear your throat now voice over. Hello folks, my bosses told me that I've had it easy till now so they've decided that it's time I meet my match. Well it's about

time because lighters give me a sore thumb. Our guest tonight is a talk show host

just like me. A celebrated quipper and kidder please welcome Ms Nelly Telly tv

personality extraodinaire. Star of 'Nelly On Telly' every Thursday night on RIVAL

Network. Welcome to the show!

NELLY: Hello Jake. It's nice to meet the Blabber Man himself.

JAKE: Let me be honest with you. It's good to have you here 'cause it'll boost our ratings

tonight. Your regular viewers will be tuning in with my regular viewers even as we

speak.

NELLY: Let me be honest with you Jake. It's a little game by the chairmen of our tv networks.

This inter-dependence and global village thing made them do this.

JAKE: Then how come you're on my show and not me on yours?

NELLY: It had something to do with choice and circumstance.

JAKE: Please explain that to me in plain language.

NELLY: My being on your show tonight had something to do with the toss of a coin.

JAKE: I see. It was a management decision.

NELLY: When you can't decide you just flip a coin. It was the act of Man and will of God.

JAKE: At least our network chairmen are in touch with their inner child.

NELLY: It's what happens just before second childhood.

JAKE: You're in spanking form baby! Everybody here knows the Blabber website address. Tell us yours.

NELLY: www.remote.idiotbox.com.Check out our workout guide for couch potatoes.

Guaranteed to peel you off the seat.

Jake: Welcome. Welcome once again my sweet honeybees to the Blabber On Air show. While you folks buzz and sting your colleagues all workweek I've been hatching a plan to give you a special episode. Today we shall for the first time in all seasons you'll see me out of the studio sofa. Why? It's because I managed to convince Mr. Dice, the Drivel Network head honcho to let me do a live, on location shoot. It took lots of persuading to get Mr. Dice to agree to it I'll tell you!

I got his permission to tell all on air 'cause my attorneys got his agreement covered on all grounds, the Alps and Sahara included! At first I told Mr. Dice that I promise to have a lobster and kidney pie dinner at his place followed by a pillow fight to rid ourselves of the calories. Unfortunately he refused. I tried to get him a tub of ice lollies but he refused. It's unusual for him to refuse so I asked him whether he was feeling the holiday blues. He said "No, Jake. Actually I'm waiting for my new set of stainless steel dentures".

But it still didn't answer why he refused to have a pillow fight.

He said "Look here sonny, I get into pillow fights every weekend at my in-laws' place. It's a family tradition." I wonder whether Mr. Dice gets cotton indigestion.

Anyway, that still doesn't explain how I got him to agree to a live show. Well.

Well. Well. If drivel doesn't get to him I figured bugs would. You see folks Drivel Network studios invests heavily in the best lighting, sound system, anti stage fright Counselors but they forgot a very essential thing. The studio sofa set.

It hasn't been cleaned for the past two seasons and frankly I can testify that there's a colony of bugs crawling beneath. It got so bad that my anti bug creams don't work anymore so I can't do the show on the couch today. I have to stand and deliver! While the bug hunters work on the couch and crew go shopping for a new sofa set I arranged for a special tour of a mentally stimulating place just a few baseball throws from the Drivel Network studios, a place called Premium Asylum.

With me today is the Director of Premium Asylum Mental Retreat, Doctor Largo Sane.

MUMBO: Ahem ... today I shall bring to you the LATEST MISSING PERSONS REPORT.

Cinderella has been missing since the last millennium. Lately our field reporters from snoopertrooper.com caught up with Cinderella. You can consider this as the present catching up with the past. Here's the scoop.

Cinderella didn't read the terms of service in the fine print following her makeover on the night of the grand dance party. In those days , a grand dance party was known as a 'ball'. She didn't realise that her cool clothes will turn to rags by midnight. Her fairy godmother who was responsible for the makeover once served as a legal secretary. Blocking out the fine print was an acquired skill. Being a simple girl , Cinderella wasn't schooled in that school of thought. But she knew how to shake and swing on a pair of glass high heels. It was a natural skill which she didn't have to wish for. Years later when she ascended the throne of Mushroomland, she was then well schooled in legalese and licensing rights. Time does strange things to a person.

When Price Charming lost his charm, she was crowned Dowager of Mushroomland. She had an appreciation for risk so the term 'Dowager' suited her fine especially the 'wager'. She knew that the odds were stacked up against her glass high heels. She placed her bets on a total image overhaul. Cinderella also loathed the stereotyping of her role by the Fairy Tale community who branded her as the girl who didn't say a proper goodbye to her dream date on the night of the grand dance party. So it was decided that she would cross twilight and dawn and lend her name to an all male rock band.

It was a different picture for Peter Pan. He had 'Neverneverland' immortalised in one of the verses of a hard rocking metal tune. Somehow he knew that 'Peter' sounded out of place among wailing guitars. He was just too sweet for the lead axeman's chops. He didn't quite hit it off with the bassman too. Too bad Peter boy!

Red Riding Hood has not been heard of since the last millennium too. Red Riding Hood , Peter Pan and Cinderella are contemporaries you see.

Red Riding Hood ventured into the headgear business but it didn't do too well. Not everybody was into hoods. She woke up from fairy tale bliss and did some hard market research in the real world. She found that there was a niche in the wigs and hair pieces for those beyond the rescue of hair replacement therapy. She mounted an all out glitzy , blitzy assault on consumer consciousness , subconsciousness and unconsciousness. Oh Sigmund Freud would have been proud ! Her wig and hair pieces business was a red hot success. RRH Ltd stocks exploded at its initial public offering. Despite the blushing fuss no one could convince her to remove her hood and put on a nice red wig. She was deeply attached to her hood. She still is.

It is her only link to her storybook life. She won't tell you but there is another reason. She still has Big Bad Wolf's fangs wrapped in her grandma's unwashed hood. At least she's still among her souvenirs and not so sweet smelling memories. Red Riding Hood will like to reinforce an age old fact. She is not related to Robin Hood.

Now let's move on to the old liar Pinocchio. Pinocchio has changed tremendously. He no longer needs a weekly nose job ever since he started talking straight. Pinocchio found work as an extra with The Muppets.

He had trouble making it to center stage because the director found his performance too wooden. He had to live on cameos. Meantime Pinocchio's father found work at a furniture factory. Recently the furniture workers staged a strike for better pay and less sawdust in their breathing space.

The Nature Lovers beat them to it with a pre-emptive strike alleging that lumberjacks and the furniture industry formed the marriage of commercial convenience for the good of forest massacre. Their mother-in-law is the man in the street.

Emperor Big Cheese needed an extra boost to his sequined reputation.

It wasn't enough that his subjects knew about his sequined trousers. He managed to wrangle radio presenters Mumbo and Jumbo from their seats and brought both to his palatial broadcast station. Though terrified beyond their sanity at first, Mumbo and Jumbo have adapted well to their surroundings. Their duties on Cheesy Airplay is to keep the general population in touch with goings on and goings off in the Imperial Palace.

After being stuffed like turkeys before their mission, Mumbo and Jumbo played around in their new rooms. Surprisingly they didn't wreck any microphones, speakers, headphones or furniture.

Very simply explained. Palace Officials tied both Mumbo and Jumbo at their ankles and whoever who is able to free oneself from the knots shall make the first announcement.

Mumbo and Jumbo will touch and dwell on gossip, news and what nots, which doesn't surprise them at all. They would however be surprised if they were asked to be straight laced. All the laces they had seen have never been straight. Even their shoelaces are somewhat crooked and knotted.

Huffing, puffing, mutterings of unknown languages, groans and far from acrobatic contortions later, the ropes yielded. Jumbo is first out of the clutches of the ropes. Mumbo, still tugging at the ropes. Jumbo knows that it will be quite awhile before Mumbo is freed. Palace Officials believe that trying to untie yourself is a good way of working out after a feast.

Jumbo:Hello to all the folks at home and out of their homes. This is Jumbo of Cheesy Airplay, beaming to you from the Imperial Broadcasting Station. Have we got a load for you people about your Empire. Your most, our most, gracious Emperor Big Cheese wishes to stay in touch with the rest of the population .He figured and lettered that the best means is to have a muttering radio station keeping the Empire informed. How well informed is a matter out of my hands, elbows and arms. We leave that to how much you listen to me and my partner who is presently a little knotted up with some concerns! I assure you that my partner, Mumbo, who's a little knotted up at the moment is only a temporary preoccupation since Mumbo's occupation and mine are the same and that's to keep everybody tuned in informed. Once you tune out, you're misinformed!

In case you're wondering how well treated we are let me say this...

We get three square meals a day served on square hotplates. We retain the privileges to spew smokelessly on air and keep our heads. Those two privileges go together. We're trying to make a living and in order to keep doing so our heads must never be estranged from the rest of us.

PRELUDE TO THE SATURDAY SLUG SHOW featuring MEAN vs LEAN.

So are you ready for the big fight on Saturday ?

Our two warring Mayors , Mayor Mean and Mayor Lean are ready. Rather than go all tongue out for a mayoral debate they prefer to slug it out like two old time gentlemen of the streets. They are both now at the obligatory weigh in ceremony at Sluggers' Club. Both Mayor Mean and Mayor Lean's handlers are there together with a legion of fans , well wishers and papparazzi clickers aiming at their boxing shorts. Our crew from snoopertrooper.com are filling us in on the scene with slobbering ease. We're going to beam you people to the weigh in ceremony. Mayor Mean and Mayor Lean are reportedly having a verbal exchange. Can't blame them folks. This is a weigh in not the main slug show. So all they have are their mouths to gab at each other. Let's see who packs a sting as well as he packs his guts in his glittering boxing shorts. So here's the exchange going on now. Beam us in.

MAYOR MEAN: You don't know what you're up against until it grabs you by the neck. I'm going to deck you and twist your arm till you cry 'uncle'.

MAYOR LEAN: No way I'm ever going to be your nephew. You've got too much sleaze to tease.

MAYOR MEAN: I'll squeeze the alphabets from your mouth and review your dental history. I'll tell the world about every candy overdose you've ever had.

MAYOR LEAN: You won't last three rounds in the ring. I'll pack you off to count butterflies. Might as well throw in the towel.

MAYOR MEAN: My towel's too good for you ! Big talk 'cause your ego's so huge you make a hot air balloon look like a golf ball. When I'm through with you , your knees will be knocking , your teeth chattering , you'll make a living vibrator.

MAYOR LEAN: I've got guts and gall to meet you in the fight. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to give you a chance to pull my intestines. I'll pummel you to chicken feed. I'll pummel you into tomato gravy. Too bad you're not as cute.

MAYOR MEAN: You lie ! I'm good enough to be pin-up poster boy for my town !

MAYOR LEAN: Those were your election campaign posters dummy !

MAYOR MEAN: I'm no dummy and you're not much of a doll. Remember your anti cholesterol lobby ? It was a cracked egg before it rolled off.

MAYOR LEAN: Remember your tomato puree overdose ? Your cheeks were stained with the red of danger.

MAYOR MEAN: Not true ! They were pink with the pink of health.

MAYOR LEAN: Sure but that was after you smeared white paint to soften up the red.

MAYOR MEAN: I know why we're into this fight. Both our towns can do with some curiosity tourism with the fact that we never see eye to eye.

MAYOR LEAN: It's obvious. I'm taller than you are dummy. I suspect our towns love to see some changes to the standard mayorial debate on tv.

MAYOR MEAN: Go ahead with the yak. I'll let my fists do the rest of the talking.

MAYOR LEAN: What about you huh ? In your last campaign you gave speeches with a paper bag over your face.

MAYOR MEAN: That was publicity for my paper recycling lobby. I have an in-your-face attitude to things.

MAYOR LEAN: Oh yeah ? The thing that's landing on your mug are my fists !

MAYOR MEAN: You have awful table manners. Can't you pick a mug with your grubby fingers ?

MAYOR LEAN: I pick other mugs nicely. It's yours that I'm itching to smash.

MAYOR MEAN: You won't land a scratch on me ! Big talk from a guy who can't swat a fly with a jumbo swat !

MAYOR LEAN: I didn't put on my reading glasses that time !

MAYOR MEAN: Well put them on and read my fists. Say your prayers wiseguy !

MAYOR LEAN: Dear God , all the blessings to me and none to this gasbag.

I promise to punch him to puree and nothing short of jelly. So help me God.

MAYOR MEAN: You're going to pay for this.

MAYOR LEAN: I only take cash.

< blip > That's the peek we got from the snoopertrooper.com crew. By the look and sound of it, it will be the referee who'll be sharing the canvas with the loser. Word in the street is that the referee of the match won't last three rounds in this hyper hyped Saturday Slug Show.

Chickens in portable coops while awaiting their fate, chickens waiting in line at the de-feathering machines, chickens marching into the waiting general herding area, with one flick of feathers, roused to action! The game had become ungamely. With a war cry, the sort that you hear just before the knife strikes the well-fatted neck, swarms of chickens pecked, kicked, scratched and flew their way into revolt! From the roof, flew the black roosters, the commando wing of the chicken revolutionaries. Chickens in coops suddenly burst out with coordinated push and shove. Chickens still alive but left with partial feathers saw their chance for liberty, cracked up a scratchy war cry in return and set out with the vengeance like creatures whose feathers had been plucked without consent. They never signed any waiver of rights so they joined the revolutionary chickens and fought the cooks and kitchen helpers of the Imperial Kitchen. A number of chickens never joined the revolt. They were resting in bubbly stoves and making regular turns inside ovens. Seeing the fate of their cooked and cooking brethren, the revolting chickens attacked with boiling ferocity.

Cats were dispatched to help but the number of chickens, feathered and partially feathered were simply too much. The cats knew that if they wanted to keep their nine lives, they'd better not lose the very lives they have. So the kitties bolted, the kitchen doors bolted behind them. Kitties which bolted and escaped with their tails and fur, hinted that they'd rather be kitties of the Imperial Treasury.

Chickens were commanded by the Supreme Cluck of Forces, General Rooster who hails from the highest fowl pecking order. His wishes in a fight has always been to send the opposition packing when the chicken soldiers peck. Of course in actual conflict, this hardly happens because you don’t think much about luggage anymore with the enemy near enough to be heard.

The Chicken artillery battery depends on the chiczooka. A mess of chicken feed, stones and feathers. Some of them add chicken spit but that’s open to wing wide conjecture. For close quarters chickens use spears made from chicken claws decorated with tassels of chicken feathers from their departed comrades. The tassels are to remind those hit that it was a chicken which fouled them! Emperor Big Cheese was notified.

A messenger Duck was sent to ask General Rooster about the sudden uprising, so he said,

‘The chickens want golden entrails of their hated enemy of enemies….the over prized Golden Goose! The Chickens prove their worth in warfare as a means to impress with pressing urgency their unwillingness to be part of the Imperial diet! They want to be part of the Imperial armed forces and by doing so restore cluck cluck pride in chicken hearts and livers. Frankly and it doesn’t matter if your name is Frank or not, the chickens have had it up to their necks with their role as sacrificial chickens. They’re always the choicest chosen ones in the kitchen to make the ultimate mortal sacrifice. Every bird’s hatched to die but chickens are hatched to be slaughtered! It’s a grave injustice this fate decreed on us to be deprived of a grave. Our final resting is usually the digestive tract, and even that I wouldn’t call final! This world loves geese far too much. Look at spoilt rotten Golden Goose, who does nothing but lays eggs of gold, revered by the Imperial Treasury while we who lay eggs of albumin and yolk are maligned for high cholesterol content! We’re just dispensable numbers, to be dispensed on trays, served to the hungry masses. We sent petitions, they got nibbled! We sent petitioners, they got eaten up! Revolution is the way. We demand just desserts for chickens.’

Thus crowed General Rooster.

Messenger Duck went back and translated chicken speak in the language understood by Fishy Counsellor, the sagely swimming fish in the Imperial Pond, who in turn conveyed a translation to Emperor Big Cheese. Communication has always been a complex affair.

Emperor Big Cheese was determined to end the revolution before it came full circle. He sent the first line of offense, made up without make-up of cooks and kitchen helpers, better known as the Kitchen Crew. The Kitchen Crew was expected to address the problem without location confusion. After all it was the vast Imperial Kitchen complex which they were sent to.

Father Time has what you call Our Hand and My Hand. My hand stays with him always. It was branded from the start without need for advertising expertise. Then there’s Our Hand, which belonged to both Father Time and Mother Nature. The line between ownership and right of use frequently became blurred, especially so when Mother Nature would bring on a visibility threatening blizzard whenever Father Time preferred to have Our Hand to himself solely, without regard to the feet of the matter.

Our Hand is used by Mother Nature , when the time came for changing seasons. It’s handy for swatting clouds and winds in the right direction. Mother Nature used to swing a bat but that has since been disallowed by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. She then opted for a club, but that was vetoed by The Registrar of Societies, which frowns and furrows on organizations out of its league. Mother Nature then opted for a swinging club, but to her natural horror, it takes two to tango. So she had to use her privilege of access to Our Hand which becomes her hand when in use for all purposes natural. Unnatural purposes and causes , please refer to Twists of Fate. We’re not referring to any sort of dance attempted by the Fates. Those ladies are quite flat footed actually and one of them has a clubfoot. But don’t let that out to The Registrar Of Societies and Commission Of Weights and Measures. It’s a hassle obtaining approval and getting registered. After all the misadventures, Mother Nature managed to land Our Hand, in her hands and with that, governed by slapping, swatting and smacking the elements to do her will, because no lawyer can possibly do that. After all her word is law, and you’ll just have to take her word for it or risk a natural catastrophe.

Father Time of course will miss Our Hand after having some time on his hands, naturally!

All were massed at the edge, a bulbous shade dwarfing everything in sight in its chrome glory. Everything was massed near this monstrosity of heat and untold perils. The clues given were vaporous, but it made those massed there clueless.

Rows and rows, born of wheat and destined for heat pondered their fate. It was a precious while to think, for they'd not have that privilege again soon. Life as a piece of pasta has never been smooth even if your texture is! Once the great chrome cavern showed its face, every strand knew that whether they came from the best mills or from flattering imitations of the best mills, they'll all be meals. They can't help it and they can't know for sure how many servings they will make.

You can be a hollow macaroni, a flat out fettuccine, yet when it comes to the crunch of the bite, an inevitable destiny, everyone's equal with no chances of a sequel. Either you please the palate or assault it. Yet unlike those beings with souls, they are not bound to return to their maker always. Some do but most do not.

The gnashing sound of precision hacks can be heard followed by grating noises on wooden boards. Carrots are cut up with calculating strokes. Celery slashed with deliberate blows. Tomatoes, transform into pure puree thus rendering them digestible and stomach wall amiable. Mushrooms were showing all their rooms and sectors. Heads seized and held, then chopped into halves, gleefully sliced in smooth actions by the blade turning them into clean cut mushrooms. It's a massacre of nutritional proportions as they made their fibrous sacrifice for the good of the digestive system.

Serene went for an image makeover to make herself happy but she was told that her frown didn't go with her gown.

She opted for a bit of aromatherapy, but was told that she didn't smell right.

She tried some meditation, but was told that she was in need of recreation.

She visited her doctor and was told that health wise she was pretty proper.

Serene still felt in the dumps and no amount of pick-me ups could carry her away.

She feared that she was nearing the end of the tether, and if she did break from her leash, God knows what she will unleash. She can't tell herself because she hadn't really asked God for details yet. Heaven Forbid, she dared not ask!

When things reach a stage of inscrutability, Serene called for her gut feeling.

Her gut could manage but a few growls of hunger.

She tried to put a finger on the matter of losing her Temper, but by present day standards choosing the wrong finger can be very rude! She took her hands off the idea.

Poor Serene indeed. She had almost impoverished her store of solutions. She felt on the brink and needed a drink. But this was no time for getting plastered, ever since she lost her temper, her cemented foundations betrayed cracks. Admittedly cracks are things you cannot be loyal to.

Serene went to a psychiatrist, fearing the worst for her sanity. She was assured that the sanctity of her sanity hadn't been violated, but perhaps she could dispense with the pick-me-ups, since her psychiatrist considers such methods, hand-me-downs.

"Master look! A Lady approaches!"

"You notice very well my Novice!"

"Greetings Lady Hope! You’re a bright sight after seeing those pits."

"Greetings to you, dear Mentor. Am I a bright sight because of this lantern I carry?"

"The light of Hope is always a welcome sight."

"I’d say, welcome and comely!"

"Speak when you’re spoken to Novice! Also as Novices you shall address Lady Hope as M’ Lady!"

"Are those new charges Dear Mentor?"

A Novice joins in the conversation.

"M’ Lady, Master’s in charge of us and we are the charges. We are non flammable, non explosive and non toxic."

"Lady Hope, as you can see, my charges are very modest!"

"You mean to say you haven’t revised your rates yet, Dear Mentor?"

"I’m very much underrated Lady Hope."

"Then there’s still much Hope left! Blessed are the underrated."

At this, the Novices interrupted again.

"Pardon me Lady Hope. But why must a Lady like you have a ladder and rope?"

"Do you live high above the ground M’ Lady?"

Looking at the Novices with a knowing smile, Lady Hope replied.

"There is truth my young Novice when people say ‘keep your hopes up’."

"But M’ Lady, shouldn’t people have their feet firmly grounded?"

"Of course my young novice. But that usually applied before humanity discovered aviation. When they have ideals and aims, they are free to climb my ladder. If I may add, there is no surcharge."

"Lady Hope, my young Novices are a curious lot. We must be delaying you. Seems to me you’re off to where we came from."

"Dear Mentor, I shine my light for the souls buried in the pits of despair, with brows furrowed with worry. I offer them my ropes if they are willing to learn them."

"Excuse us M’ Lady, but do you carry your lantern everywhere?", asked a Novice.

"Actually I leave it everywhere as well. My chosen place is at the end of the tunnel."

"Do you know Pandora M’ Lady?"

"You don’t have to dwell on your family ties Lady Hope to answer that."

"Dear Mentor, I dwell in hope, so I shan’t be knotted by family ties. Do I know Pandora? She’s my chaotic sister! What I do, she’d undo. Sometimes I wonder if she’s my Nemesis. But Hope burns eternal. I hope she embraces Calm tightly or at least keep good company with Serenity, our cousin."

"M’ Lady, do you think Calm might prefer some breathing space?"

"Novice, Pandora can hug Calm for as long as she wants and give me some breathing space. Time ticks. I itch to away to many ways. The pits of despair have too many residents! It is time to evict some."

"Fare you well Lady Hope!"

"Fare you well M’ Lady!"

"Fare you well Dear Mentor and keep your charges reasonable so that your Novices can afford the fare."

"I’m still underrated Lady Hope!"

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