by Paul Merton
THE PLAN
Jack Handey
Jack Handey (1949–) is an American humourist, best-known for his Deep Thoughts – a large body of surreal one-liner jokes that first appeared on Saturday Night Live. Starting as a journalist, his first comic writing was with the comedian Steve Martin, who introduced him to SNL’s creator. Handey’s Deep Thoughts first appeared in a small comedy magazine, Army Man, and continued in National Lampoon, though they gained widespread popularity when they began to be featured on SNL in 1991.
The plan isn’t foolproof. For it to work, certain things must happen:
—The door to the vault must have accidentally been left open by the cleaning woman.
—The guard must bend over to tie his shoes and somehow he gets all the shoelaces tied together. He can’t get them apart, so he takes out his gun and shoots all his bullets at the knot. But he misses. Then he just lies down on the floor and goes to sleep.
—Most of the customers in the bank must happen to be wearing Nixon masks, so when we come in wearing our Nixon masks it doesn’t alarm anyone.
—There must be an empty parking space right out in front. If it has a meter, there must be time left on it, because our outfits don’t have pockets for change.
—The monkeys must grab the bags of money and not just shriek and go running all over the place, like they did in the practice run.
—The security cameras must be the early, old-timey kind that don’t actually take pictures.
—When the big clock in the lobby strikes two, everyone must stop and stare at it for at least ten minutes.
—The bank alarm must have mistakenly been set to “Quiet.” Or “Ebb tide.”
—The gold bars must be made out of a lighter kind of gold that’s just as valuable but easier to carry.
—If somebody runs out of the bank and yells, “Help! The bank is being robbed!,” he must be a neighborhood crazy person who people just laugh at.
—If the police come, they don’t notice that the historical mural on the wall is actually us, holding still.
—The bank’s lost-and-found department must have a gun that fires a suction cup with a wire attached to it. Also a chainsaw and a hang glider.
—When we spray the lobby with knockout gas, for some reason the gas doesn’t work on us.
—After the suction cup is stuck to the ceiling, it must hold long enough for Leon to pull himself up the wire while carrying the bags of money, the gold bars, and the hang glider. When he reaches the ceiling, he must be able to cut through it with the chainsaw and climb out.
—Any fingerprints we leave must be erased by the monkeys.
—Once on the roof, Leon must be able to hold on to the hang glider with one hand and the money and the gold bars with the other and launch himself off the roof. Then glide the twenty miles to the rendezvous point.
—When we exit the bank, there must be a parade going by, so our getaway car, which is decorated to look like a float, can blend right in.
—During the parade, our car must not win a prize for best float, because then we’ll have to have our picture taken with the award.
—At the rendezvous point, there must be an empty parking space with a meter that takes hundred-dollar bills.
—The robbery is blamed on the monkeys.
MY FIRST DAY IN HELL
Jack Handey
Jack Handey (1949–) is an American humourist, best-known for his Deep Thoughts – a large body of surreal one-liner jokes that first appeared on Saturday Night Live. Starting as a journalist, his first comic writing was with the comedian Steve Martin, who introduced him to SNL’s creator. Handey’s Deep Thoughts first appeared in a small comedy magazine, Army Man, and continued in National Lampoon, though they gained widespread popularity when they began to be featured on SNL in 1991.
My first day in Hell is drawing to a close. They don’t really have a sunset here, but the fires seem to dim a bit, and the screaming gets more subdued. Most of the demons are asleep now, their pointy tails curled up around them. They look so innocent, it’s hard to believe that just a few hours ago they were raping and torturing us.
The day started off at a party at the Chelsea Hotel, where some friends were daring me to do something. The next thing I knew, I was in Hell. At first, it seemed like a dream, but then I remembered that five-Martini dreams are usually a lot worse.
There’s a kind of customs station when you arrive here, where a skeleton in a black robe checks a big book to make sure your name’s there. And as he slowly scans the pages with his bony finger you can’t help thinking, Why does a skeleton need a robe? Especially since it’s so hot. That’s the first thing you notice about Hell, how hot it is. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. Fortunately, it’s a steamy, sulfury kind of hot. Like a spa or something.
You might think that people in Hell are all nude. But that’s a myth. You wear what you were last wearing on earth. For instance, I am dressed like the German U-boat captain in the movie “Das Boot,” because that’s what I wore to the party. It’s an easy costume, because all you really need is the hat. The bad part is, people are always asking you who you are, even in Hell. Come on! “Das Boot”!
The food here turns out to be surprisingly good. The trouble is, just about all of it is poisoned. So a few minutes after you finish eating you’re doubled over in agony. The weird thing is, as soon as you recover you’re ready to dig in all over again.
Despite the tasty food and warm weather, there’s a dark side to Hell. For one thing, it’s totally disorganized. That anything gets done down here is a miracle. You’ll be herded along in one big line, then it’ll separate into three lines, then the lines will all come back together again! For no apparent reason! It’s crazy. You try to ask a demon a question, but he just looks at you. I don’t mean to sound prejudiced, but you wonder if they even speak English.
To relieve the boredom, you can throw rocks at other people in line. They just think it was a demon. But I discovered the hard way that the demons don’t like it when they’re beating someone and you join in.
It’s odd, but Hell can be a lonely place, even with so many people around. They all seem caught up in their own little worlds, running to and fro, wailing and tearing at their hair. You try to make conversation, but you can tell they’re not listening.
A malaise set in within a couple hours of my arriving. I thought getting a job might help. It turns out I have a lot of relatives in Hell, and, using connections, I became the assistant to a demon who pulls people’s teeth out. It wasn’t actually a job, more of an internship. But I was eager. And at first it was kind of interesting. After a while, though, you start asking yourself: Is this what I came to Hell for, to hand different kinds of pliers to a demon? I started wondering if I should even have come to Hell at all. Maybe I should have lived my life differently and gone to Heaven instead.
I decided I had to get away—the endless lines, the senseless whipping, the forced sing-alongs. You get tired of trying to explain that you’ve already been branded, or that something that big won’t fit in your ear, even with a hammer. I wandered off. I needed some me time. I came to a cave and went inside. Maybe I would find a place to meditate, or some gold nuggets.
That’s when it happened, one of those moments which could only happen in Hell. I saw Satan. Some people have been in Hell for hundreds of years and have never seen Satan, but there he was: he was shorter than I thought he’d be, but he looked pretty good. He was standing on a big rock with his reading glasses on. I think he was practicing a speech. “Hey, Satan,” I yelled out, “how’s it going?” I was immediately set upon by demons. I can’t begin to describe the tortures they inflicted on me, because apparently they are trade secrets. Suffice it to say that, even as you endure all the pain, you find yourself thinking, Wow, how did they think of that?
My stitches are a little itchy, but at least the demons sewed most of my parts back on. More important, my faith in Hell as an exciting place where anything can happe
n has been restored.
I had better get some rest. They say the bees will be out soon and that it’s hard to sleep with the constant stinging. I lost my internship, but I was told I can reapply in a hundred years. Meanwhile, I’ve been assigned to a construction crew. Tomorrow we’re supposed to build a huge monolith, then take picks and shovels and tear it down, then beat each other to death. It sounds pointless to me, but what do I know. I’m new here.
THE USES OF ENGLISH
Akinwumi Isola
Akinwumi Isola (1939–2018) was a Nigerian playwright, novelist, actor, dramatist and scholar. He wrote almost exclusively in Yoruba, and translated many works by fellow Nigerian Wole Soyinka into the language. He was a fellow of the Nigerian Academy of Letters and received the Nigerian National Order of Merit.
It was a small village of about twenty-five houses with thatched roofs. Only the mission house, the school, and the church had corrugated iron roofs. It was a peaceful location in the middle of the agricultural belt that surrounded what was called Ibadanland.
There was a young man called Depo who had a wife called Asunle. No day passed without a noisy quarrel in their household. It was always more or less a shouting match because Depo always threatened his wife ferociously but he never really beat her. Asunle would maintain a safe distance and shout alarmingly, as if her life were in danger. Depo always looked annoyed and embarrassed. He seemed to be crying for help and salvation. His wife apparently enjoyed every bit of it; she would shout and curse to attract attention. Their neighbors would cry almost in unison: “There they go again!”
Asunle accused Depo of being obstinate and inconsiderate. Depo would insist on eating particular types of food at odd hours and always drank too much palm wine afterward. These habits were becoming intolerable to his wife, Some people thought that it was Asunle who was too defiant. She was always ready to pick a quarrel. She could, at will, turn the smallest domestic encounter into an irritating exchange. She would struggle like a wild cat as she was being restrained, and hurl invectives at her husband in an endless exasperating stream that would make the peacemakers shout, “But that is enough!”
Elders in the village started looking for a solution. They spent long hours debating all relevant points, but no one suggested a divorce. Elders never did. At last Depo’s close friends suggested what they thought was a foolproof plan: he should marry a second wife! With a co-wife in the household, they thought, Asunle would be forced to become more sensible. So, Depo and his friends began the anxious search; Asunle never seemed to worry. At last Atoke, the would-be second wife, was identified in a big village several kilometers away. Elders promptly proposed and received a favorable reply, including the consent of the girl herself. The ceremonies were performed, and even Asunle played her part as senior wife to her credit. The village heaved a sigh of relief, hoping for peace at last in Mr. Depo’s household. But if the villagers were right in expecting peace after the marriage, they were naïve in thinking that other problems would not arise. It turned out that the battle lines only shifted from between husband and wife to between wife and co-wife. In their positive estimation of the new wife’s character, villagers were grossly misled by her good looks. She was young, tall, and shapely, with a rich crop of hair, which she used to plait in beautiful, elaborate styles. There was a moderate gap between her upper front teeth and she smiled a lot. But beneath that alluring visage lay a sarcastic turbulence, amply fueled by a sharp tongue and an artful, dramatic disposition. In spite of Asunle’s notorious, wily truculence, she could not duplicate half the repertoire of Atoke’s creative acerbity. No one could tell whether Depo’s choice of Atoke as second wife was by cruel accident or a calculated search for someone who would be more than a match for Asunle.
Trouble started when Atoke refused to duly acknowledge Asunle’s superior position in the household. By tradition, it was Atoke’s duty to cook for the whole household and it was Asunle’s right to tell her what to cook, when to cook it, and how much. But Atoke refused to be ordered about by anyone. She would only cook for herself and her husband. Asunle was therefore forced to continue cooking for herself and her two children, Olu, a little boy in his third year of school, and Lara, a mere toddler. Before Asunle had realized it, Atoke’s monopoly of their joint husband was complete. Atoke cooked the tastiest of foods, which endeared her all the more to Depo, who had by now learned to tap palm wine, most of which he consumed himself. The after-supper scenes between Depo and Atoke were enviable pictures of marital happiness. But Asunle was being excluded from it all!
The children adjusted quickly to the new domestic situation. Lara, the little girl, took to Atoke instantly, like a fish to water. She would follow Atoke everywhere in spite of her mother’s attempts to restrain her. It was to Atoke’s credit that she too liked Lara. She would carry her on her back; she would play little games with her. Lara preferred to join her father, Depo, and the new wife at mealtimes. She would sit in her father’s lap and be indulged. Olu the schoolboy stuck by his mother, Asunle.
Soon Asunle could no longer endure this marginalization. She accused Depo of encouraging defiance on the part of Atoke, who was openly trampling tradition. But the gauntlet was taken up not by Depo, who was by then almost permanently inebriated, but by Atoke, who was not prepared to lose her favorable position. Rowdy quarrels quickly re-erupted in Depo’s household and eventually regained their original position as the village’s primary source of entertainment to the chagrin of elders and the delight of young ones.
Villagers were expecting Asunle to re-enact her past performances and promptly put the new wife in her place, but the very first public encounter left no doubt that Asunle was in trouble. Actually it was Asunle who fired the first salvos: three or four missiles of invective. Her style was to quickly boil over and assail her adversary with verbal abuse, gesticulating wildly. She would then refuse to go off the boil for a long time. She would make unpleasant remarks about her enemy’s looks and behavior. When the opponent was her husband, she shone like a lone star.
When Asunle started this first fight, Atoke remained very calm. She came out of the house and stood outside. Asunle followed her. A small crowd was already gathering, attracted by Asunle’s usual noise. Then Atoke asked Asunle to stop bleating like a sheep and wait for some response. At first she calmly agreed with Asunle on all the unpleasant remarks she had made about her bodily features and behavior. But she proceeded to demonstrate how all her own shortcomings would pale in comparison with the degree of ugliness of Asunle’s features and the awkwardness of her behavior. She even gave a few examples.
Atoke was more sophisticated than Asunle. To Atoke, lips were not just thin, they had to be compared with a common phenomenon that would sharply paint the picture of incongruity. For example, Asunle’s lips were as thin as a palm wine seller’s drinking calabash! Her eyes were as sunken as a brook almost obscured under an evergreen bush. In other words, whereas Asunle would stop at just ridiculing an ugly part of the body, Atoke would go further and liken the part to some funny phenomenon. In addition, while Asunle’s performances were angry and trumpet- tongued, Atoke’s were calculated, spiteful, and expressed with great fluency. The truth soon became too apparent to be ignored. Asunle was no match for the great Atoke. Overnight, a new champion had wiped out all the records of a long reigning heroine. It was too bitter a pill for Asunle to swallow. Part of Atoke’s advantage was that she came from a very big village where she had been exposed to greater variety in the art of vituperation than Asunle who had lived all her life in small villages. As the new wife’s reputation spread, gossip was making the old wife’s life unbearable. For the first time Asunle was not too keen to pick a quarrel. But these were trying times for the household as quarrels increased. One morning, Asunle discovered that there was no water in the family water pot. Normally she would have called on Atoke to go to the river and fetch some water, but she wanted to avoid any confrontation so early in the morning. So she picked a pot and ran to the river. When
she returned, she did not pour the water into the big family water pot. She gave some to Olu to wash himself and get ready for school; she was also going to give Lara her morning bath and use the remaining to prepare breakfast for herself and the children. But while she was busy washing Lara in the backyard, Atoke took the remaining water, poured it into a cooking pot, and placed it on the fire to cook her own breakfast. When Asunle came back and discovered what had happened, she was furious. She wanted to know what gave Atoke the idea that she, Asunle, the senior wife, had become her errand girl to fetch water for her to cook food. Atoke just smiled, stoked the fire, and sat calmly without making any comment. The situation boiled over! Asunle picked up a small pestle and pushed the clay pot over. It overturned and broke, emptying its contents into the fire in a whirl of smoke and ashes. Atoke shot up and grabbed Asunle’s clothes. They started a noisy struggle. Little Lara started to cry. Depo ran in from the backyard where he had gone to wash his face. He struggled to separate the fighters. Asunle pushed him off energetically and he fell. But he struggled up instantly. He forced himself between them. Atoke went out of the house followed by Asunle, and a grand performance of verbal abuse started in front of the house. The usual crowd gathered and seemed to be saying this time, “Not again!”
