A Wish for Wings That Work

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(GRUNTING)

(COUGHING)

(PURRING)

OPUS:
Wings, Mr. Santy Claus,

I need new wings.

Not fancy wings,

just plain-Jane,

low-rent, barely bent,

home-grown, bare-bone,

off-the-shelf,

two-part, Kmart,

no-frills flappers.

They would be an improvement

over my own.

As your records should show,

I am a bird.

Specifically, a penguin,

an embarrassing accident

of birth

for which

I do not blame my mother.

I prefer to blame

(SWALLOWING)

Congress.

For the first time

in my life,

I have a request

for Your Plumpness.

Let me start by telling you

about my life lately.

In fact, just this morning.

OPUS:
Fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

I almost fly. I almost fly.

I almost fly. I almost did.

(CHATTERING)

(MUMBLING)

Ack!

(COUGHING)

(PURRING)

(MUMBLING)

OPUS:
No cats. No cats.

Especially no Bill the Cats!

Fly, fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

(SINGING)

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly, fly, fly.

(BIRDS CAWING)

OPUS:
And like

a thousand mornings

before this one,

it was plain that a penguin

can say the word fly,

but he simply cannot do it.

(BURPING)

Why don't penguins

have wings that work?

This! They call this a wing?

This is a bad joke.

This is built-in obsolescence.

I'm an Edsel.

I might as well

be a dung beetle.

Or a fly-infested,

worm-infused,

molded, mildewed,

scrap of rotten banana.

Or a network executive.

A bad day

for flying, anyhoo.

No lift. Heavy ozone.

Plus too many stupid cats

during the take-off roll.

Oh, got a little

perspiration on your puss

there, Billy-boy.

You also have

a rubbish can up to

your nether regions.

(EXCLAIMS)

You smell like

last week's

Brussels sprouts.

I suggested that you move

into the recyclables can,

didn't I?

OPUS:
Some years ago,

Father Christmas,

I rescued old Bill from

the University science lab.

They replaced his brains

with tater tots.

I have no need

for a sidekick, sir.

But still, he'd like

to be my best buddy.

But then, stinkbugs might

like to dance the Watusi

in my shorts, too.

I mean, you've got

to draw the line somewhere.

(CRASHING)

(WOMAN SCREAMING)

(DOG BARKING)

(PIGS SQUEALING)

(COW MOOING)

WOMAN:
(SINGING)

I woke up this morning

My wings ain't no use

My butt down on my shoes

I got those flapless,

earthbound blues

OPUS:

Lately, Father Christmas,

my social life

hasn't gotten much higher

off the ground

than my feet.

Hey, look!

I'm a bird!

Oh! I have slipped

the surly bonds of earth!

(LAUGHS)

Honey, I'll be taking lunch

on the moon today!

(LAUGHS)

What's the red thing

on the neck?

A turbo-prop?

So where's the exhaust?

(CHUCKLING)

Don't answer that.

Note the mighty wings.

I suspect they sputter

more than flutter.

(ALL LAUGHING)

They're obviously jealous

of my nose.

Anybody would be.

(HACKING)

BOTH:
Huh?

BOTH:
Hairball!

Get out

of the way.

Don't touch it!

Hey, spread out.

Get away from that.

Don't touch that thing!

(PATTERING)

OPUS:
Good morning, Truffles!

TRUFFLES:

Merry Christmas, Opus.

Always a pleasure

to run into someone

lower on the food chain.

(LAUGHS)

Did you know

you have a large rutabaga

on your nose?

This is my nose.

Excuse me, I'm late

for my support group.

Surely, you're not persisting

in your flights of fancy, huh?

(CHUCKLING)

Myself,

I am perfectly comfortable

with my self-image.

You would not see me

trying to fly.

I hope not.

You're a pig.

Rhinoceros.

Pig.

Rhinoceros.

Pig.

P-O-R-K.

You know,

the other white meat.

How about a water buffalo?

They been giving out

those lobotomy coupons

in the Little

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