The Daily Show (Waiting for Wilmore)

Nothing to be done.

I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle.

So there you are again.

Am I?

I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.

Me too.

Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? Get up till I embrace you.

Not now, not now.

May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?

In a ditch.

A ditch! Where?

Over there.

And they didn’t beat you?

Beat me? Certainly they beat me.

The same lot as usual?

The same? I don’t know.

When I think of it all these years but for me… where would you be? You’d be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.

And what of it?

It’s too much for one man.

The problem with transitions like this is that one is never sure when they’ll pick up the pen again, or even if they should.  The blank page looms intimidating in it’s nakedness and covers call and naps don’t take themselves you know, you have to sieze them like Roman Herman’s Berries.

I don’t expect your praise.

And not that I’ve really napping, I’ve been erecting pyramids in honor of my escaping.  This is the land where the Pharoh died.

I tell you this- No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.

When all else fails we can whip the horse’s eyes and make them sleep.

And cry.