Barrymore

---

Come, my friends,

there's sap in't yet.

The next time I do fight

I'll make death love me;

Come, let's have one

other gaudy night:

call to me

all my sad captains,

fill our bowls; once more

let's mock the midnight bell.

Kalamazoo, zoo, zoo,

zoo, zoo, zoo...

Yolanda in Kalamazoo

Once strolled after

dark by the zoo

She was seized by the nape

And humped by an ape,

As she sighed, What

a heavenly screw.

Just a minute.

I forgot the baby.

I'm gonna send a

wire, hoppin' on a flyer,

leavin, today.

Am I dreamin,; I can

hear her screamin'

A B C D E F G H I

got a girl in Kalamazoo...

My baby.

It goes where I go.

Its only objectionable

feature is that people are

convinced I carry

around my own ashes.

It actually contains vital,

life-sustaining potions from

my pharmacist at the Jungle

Club on Seventh Avenue.

Years have gone

by; my, my, how she grew;

I liked her looks,

when I carried

her books in Kalamazoo,

zoo, zoo, zoo...

I must be a frigging

masochist and, God knows,

an egoist - for here I

am, three months after the

attack on Pearl Harbor,

the whole world at war,

and I'm trying to

revive my puny career.

As well trying to

rejuvenate my sex life and

turn this limp noodle

into a bushwhacker.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I

cannot believe I forked

out good money to rent

this delightful dump for

one night, just to run

a few goddamned lines.

But, I'll be honest

with you, I had to.

I had to.

So do not be put off by

the disarray that you see.

All this will hopefully

be transformed into the

throne room of that

lump of foul deformity,

ruthless King Richard.

The Turd.

God he was

sh*t, wasn't he?

But I have an

affinity with shits.

You know, Richard was

my first real success.

It was a long time ago,

but it was the first time

they took me seriously.

So I've got to try to

get the old bastard up

on his feet again.

I need to be taken

seriously once more before

the man in the bright

nightgown comes for me.

That is, if my trusty

prompter ever arrives.

For the success of this

hazardous enterprise rests

not only on your approval,

but on the shaky ability

of an aging actor to

remember his lines.

Oh and if, perchance,

there are among you one or

two charitable angels, the

smallest gesture will not be

unwelcome...

Hiya, Mister Jackson...

Ev'rything's O K A L A M A

what a gal,

a real piperoo.

I'll make my bid for

that frecklefaced

kid I'm hurrying to.

I'm going to Michigan to -

Have you ever seen

delirium tremens?

Well, a colleague of mine,...

...a bibulous fellow

thespian, had the best DTs

I've ever seen.

You might say, Henry's

bladder abhorred a vacuum.

Henry Malcolm Rogers,

known in theater circles

as the world's

best worst actor.

He kicked the bucket

last week at sixty-two,

but not from liquor.

He died of what in New

York is called a natural

death-he was hit a cab.

Hank drank a quart of

whiskey a day for forty years.

They tried to cremate him,

but he blew up and wrecked

the place.

Dear Henry, the only man

I ever knew with varicose

veins in his eyeballs.

There's really nothing

funny about booze.

Oh my God, I must be a

living advertisement for

all the friggin'

liquor companies in the world.

Look at these -

Restless little

buggers, aren't they?

I'm so far gone, I

haven't left yet.

But things are beginning

to click for me -

my knees, my elbows, my neck.

When I get out of bed,

I sound like

Carmen Miranda's castanets.

But I don't feel old... yet.

They say a man isn't old

till regrets take the

place of dreams.

That's it, isn't it?

Dreams.

And then our little life

is rounded with sleep,

blood clots, gout,

arthritis, dropsy,

ulcers and - oh yes

- hemorrhoids.

They're a pain

in the neck.

Sovereign panacea

for whiskey breath.

A tippler

from Riverside Drive

Had breath you

could barely survive.

He ate a banana, Read

George Santayana,

Then farted Chanel No. 5.

Allow me to disabuse you of

the prevalent notion that

Jack Barrymore is a

tragic figure.

Get this straight:

for a man who's been

dead fifteen years,

I've had

one helluva life -

You know, one summer

holiday on Staten Island,

my brother Lionel and I staged

a furious duel with these.

I was six - I

was the baby.

Lionel was ten.

My sister Ethel,...

who was nine going on

forty, saw us showing off

and got the idea of

putting on a play in the

barn behind the

boarding house.

All thirty-seven

guests came.

Each paid a penny.

I earned six cents.

Lionel, ten.

Ethel kept the

remainin... twenty-one

cents for herself.

Star billing and

production costs.

Lionel was irate,

threatened to quit.

But I was

completely happy,

because I hadn't

learned to count yet.

Jesus Christ!

I must have the DT's.

What the hell is that?

Oh, it's just a glove.

I thought it was a dead rat -

which reminds me of my father.

Not the glove. The rat.

Maurice Barrymore.

Matinee idol, complete

with Oxford accent,

monocle and top hat.

Ah that bastard.

He used to drag me along

on his nightly binges.

I wasn't even ten yet.

He'd stumble home at dawn

without me -

forgot all about me.

Just left me in some

dingy old whorehouse.

The girls were always

telling me how cute I was,

how much I looked

like my father.

Well I was damned if I

was going to be like him.

That madman.

God what a brute -

and he got worse.

He almost killed Ethel once -

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