Mr. Lipman: And, anyway I was just reading your final edit, um, there seems to be an inordinate number of exclamation points.
Elaine: Well, I felt that the writing lacked certain emotion and intensity.
Mr. Lipman: Oh, “It was a damp and chilly afternoon, so I decided to put on my…sweatshirt!”
Elaine: Right, well…
Mr. Lipman: You put exclamation point after sweatshirt?
That’s that’s correct, I-I felt that the character doesn’t like to be ch-ch-chilly…
Mr. Lipman: I see, “I pulled the lever on the machine, but the Clark bar…didn’t come out!” Exclamation point?
Elaine: Well, yeah, you know how frustrating that can be when you keep putting quarters and quarters in to machine and then nothing comes out…
Mr. Lipman: Get rid of the exclamation points.
Elaine: Ok, ok ok …
Mr. Lipman: I hate exclamation points.
Elaine: …ok I’ll just….
The thing about eating the Black and White cookie, Elaine, is you want to get some black and some white in each bite. Nothing mixes better than vanilla and chocolate. And yet somehow racial harmony eludes us. If people would only look to the cookie all our problems would be solved.
According to your story, Hernandez passes you and starts walking up the ramp. Then you say you were struck on the right temple. The spit then proceeds to ricochet off the temple striking Newman between the third and fourth rib. The spit then came off the rib turned and hit Newman in the right wrist causing him to drop his baseball cap. The spit then splashed off the wrist, pauses —in mid air, mind you— makes a left turn and lands on Newman’s left thigh. That is one magic loogie.”
