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(ANDY AMBLES AMIABLY INTO COURTHOUSE, TAKES DEEP BREATH AND WINCES)
ANDY: Hey, Barn, what's that rancid smell? Did that gin-soaked asshole Otis shit himself again over the weekend?
(BARNEY EMERGES FROM THE BACK ROOM WITH A BROOM)
BARNEY: Andy, I don't know what it is. I thought it was that galldurn Otis, too, and I would have shot him, but he was staggerin' around so and I only had the one bullet and...
ANDY: Now wait a minute, Barn, wait a minute! That smell just got stronger when you walked into the room, so let's us try a little, uh, experiment and see if we can reason this out the way those Yankee Jewboy scientists would. Let's see can we figure this out.
(ANDY SCRATCHES AS MUCH OF HIS HEAD AS HE CAN GET TO, WHAT WITH THOSE EARS GETTING IN THE WAY AND EVERYTHING)
Now, if the smell got stronger when you came this way, let's see what it does if you walk over to the door.
(BARNEY WALKS TOWARD DOOR)
BARNEY: Aw, Anje, I don't see what the door has to do with it. It just smells like Ernest T. Bass farted in a shit factory in here.
(ANDY TURNS RED, FLAPS HIS HANDS AROUND AND WAGGLES HIS HEAD TO AND FRO, EMPHASIZING THE EARS AGAIN IN A CHEAP BID FOR LOWBROW HUMOR)
ANDY: Barney, go stand by that door or I'll put that broomstick up your scrawny ass!
(BARNEY GLANCES FEARFULLY AT BROOM; A BRIEF FLASHBACK TO EPISODE SEVENTY-ONE, IN WHICH THE ENTIRE DARLING FAMILY MAKES BARNEY SQUEAL LIKE A PIG IS SEEN, THEN BARNEY DROPS BROOM AND QUICKLY GOES OVER TO DOOR)
ANDY: Yep, yep, that smell is without a doubt weaker when you move to the door. Hmmm ... let's us see what that smell will do if you go out the door and throw yourself under Rafe Hollister's pickup truck when he comes around the corner!
BARNEY: Now cut that out! How would you like it if a smell like this was following you around all weekend and into Monday morning? What are folks gonna say when I'm out on patrol?
ANDY: We-e-e-ell, don't you worry your measly little head too much about that, Barn. They'll just say, "There goes that goddam stinkin' motherfucker of a deputy on patrol again. Wonder who threw him in the compost heap this time."
BARNEY: Oh, you're a big help, wise guy! A real joker, that's what you are.
ANDY: Alright, Barney, just calm down, and we'll solve the problem. Who did throw you in a compost heap this time?
BARNEY: I haven't been near a compost heap in weeks, Andy, honest!
ANDY: Hey, I know what it is. I'll bet Juanita down at the diner has passed one of those wetback venereal diseases along to you and your pecker is rotting completely away.
(ANDY TAKES ANOTHER DEEP BREATH)
ANDY: Yep, that's got to be it. It's just as sensible as a boar pig ruttin' against Clara Edwards, and it's got to be the explanation. You smell terrible all of a sudden. You bury your burrito in Juanita every time Thelma Lou throws your toothbrush out of her window and tells you to go straight to hell. My guess is that you're sufferin' from some newfangled kind of spic-o spirochete-o. Now, the question is, how do we get rid of it before Thelma Lou comes back from Richmond and before you make me fuckin' puke a big stack of Aunt Bea's best flapjacks that I had for breakfast this morning right into this trashcan?
SEGUE TO COMMERCIAL BREAK
FADE BACK INTO WIDE SHOT INTERIOR, FLOYD'S HOUSE OF HAIR. ANDY, GRINNING, HANDS
IN POCKETS AND FOOT ON PAIR OF BROKEN SPECTACLES, STANDS BESIDE BARBER CHAIR,
IN WHICH SITS A LARGE CANVAS BAG, BLOODY AT CHAIR SEAT HEIGHT, TIED AT TOP AROUND
THE WAIST OF ONE SCRAWNY DEPUTY. UNIFORM TROUSERS ARE KNOTTED AT ANKLES BELOW
BLACK, SHINY
POLICE SHOES WHICH KICK FEEBLY.
FLOYD: Ooo-oo-ooh, now let's see...Where did I put those glasses? I've never cut anyone's hair without my glasses you know, Andy.
ANDY: It'll be just fine, Floyd. Now, if Barney here didn't have laryngitis, he'd be telling you that he just needs that one thick cowlick taken off before Thelma Lou gets back from Richmond. I'll guide your hand in the right direction and then those good ol' barber's instincts of yours will take right over.
MUFFLED MOANS AND INCREASED STRUGGLING ISSUE FROM BAG
FLOYD: That does sound like a bad case of laryngitis. Well, I guess it'll be fine if you say so, Andy.
FLOYD BEGINS TO EXTRACT SCISSORS FROM HIS JACKET POCKET
FLOYD: By the way, Andy, what's that shitful odor? Has Aunt Bea been experimenting with pickles again. I remember the look on the judges' faces at the last county fair competition ...
ANDY: We don't have time for that right now Floyd, just cut!
ANDY GRABS FLOYD'S HAND AND JERKS IT TOWARD BARNEY'S PRIVITIES. AT THIS MOMENT, THE FRONT WINDOW SHATTERS AND MANIACAL LAUGHTER IS HEARD IN THE STREET. ANDY RUNS TO THE WINDOW AND SPOTS ERNEST T. BASS LEAPING ABOUT IN A FRENZY.
ERNEST T. BASS: I don't chew my cabbage twice/And you can kiss the rosy inbred ass of Ernest T. Bass. I got the mostest rocks and the biggest nuts in these here hills, and I'm ready to flling whichever you prefer in your face twenty-four hours a day until Charlene Darling lets me have my way with her...
ERNEST T. BASS ROLLS EYES
...And I do mean every whichaway, too! Them sheep of mine is gettin' too quick to catch, and my parts is a-pulsating with mountain man concupiscence
FLOYD: Ooo-oo-ooh, that Ernest T. Bass is a mean one. It's a good thing I remembered where I'd put my spare glasses so I could look out for him. Say Andy, where'd Barney go and how did this bloodstained canvas bag in police shoes get in my barber chair?
ANDY THINKS QUICKLY, PERSPIRING IMPRESSIVELY AS SURE SIGN OF SAME
ANDY: It's got to be that Ernest T. Bass, Floyd. Yea-ea-ea-ea boy. Tha's it! He...he...he snuck in here right between us with his weekly marketing bag and then he accidentally carried Barney out and left the bag in the chair.
FLOYD: Ooo-oo-oo-ooh! He sure did get a nice polish on his shoes for a goddam idiot hillbilly, didn't he? Do you think that black family with the shoeshine boy son has come back to town, Andy?
ANDY: Floyd! We're still in North Carolina, and there ain't gonna be no more black folks in Mayberry until I'm gone and that Yankee sugar britches wimp boy Ken Berry has been sheriff here for nearly two years! No sirree! We politely explained to the last black family that tried to set up shop in Mayberry exactly how far they'd get. Hellfire and pigshit, Floyd, whaddaya think happened to Barney's other five bullets?
FLOYD: Ooo-oo-ooh, that's right. But don't you think Ernest T. Bass might get tired of carrying Barney around and come back for his shopping bag?
ANDY: That's a real good point. Floyd. I better take this bag right on back to him. I'm real happy you found your spare glasses. See you later.
ANDY LIFTS BAG ONTO HIS SHOULDER AND LEAVES THE BARBERSHOP SOMEWHAT HURRIEDLY, AS ANOTHER COMMERCIAL BEGINS
COMMERCIAL ENDS. INTERIOR OF WALLY'S GAS & GAS COMES INTO FOCUS. ANDY IS LEANING INTO THE DRIVER'S SIDE WINDOW OF A 1953 PLYMOUTH IN WHICH GOMER SITS, OPEN-MOUTHED.
GOMER: Yeah, boy, Andy, when I put a trailer hitch on a car, it's put on right. My pappy always used to say, "Boy, you ain't worth a good goddam for much, but you can sure put on a trailer hitch." One time, me and Lem Lee Gilbert was over in the Mount Pilot bus station men's room makin' new friends, and ...
ANDY: That's enough, Gomer! Now, if you've got that chain tied around Barney's rancid roscoe, and if you're sure that the trailer hitch is firmly attached to the car, then all you have to do is step on the accelerator before he wakes up. Now hurry, that valium I slipped into his Sun Drop will be wearing off soon!
BARNEY, TIED TO PREMIUM PUMP OUTSIDE, EMITS MILD RUMBLING SOUND AS IF AWAKENING. GOMER SHRUGS, STEPS ON ACCELERATOR AND RUNS PLYMOUTH INTO SIDE OF ANDY'S PATROL CAR. BARNEY WAKES UP.
BARNEY: Hey, what in blazes is going on around here?! Gomer, what the everliving fuck do you think you're doing, you butt burgling bumpkin? Andy, I've got him this time! It's Gomer, trying to steal somebody's car, a gas pump, and my pecker all at the same time. You're in big trouble this time, fella! Why didn't you stop him, Andy?
ANDY: We-e-e-lll, Barn, I came along and saw Gomer here fiddlin' with your bow, so to speak, and I thought you had the situation under control. I thought you were probably trying to teach him a lesson, what with your rod having gone rotten and everything. Yessirree. I said to myself, I sez, "That Barney's a slick one, and he's going to teach ol' pud pullin' Pyle a lesson about handling other men's privities that he'll never forget."
BARNEY FURROWS BROW WHILE DECIDING TO TAKE CREDIT FOR SLICK, URBANE STRATEGY. HE HOOKS HIS THUMBS IN HIS BELT LOOPS, SNORTS AND BEGINS TO SWAGGER.
BARNEY: Well, yeah, that's what I was doing. It sure is. Just hung it out there like a ribbon fly for a trout, and here came the goo gobblin' grease monkey at a lope.
PRETENDING TO LISTEN AND BE IMPRESSED, ANDY HAS FOUND A LARGE WRENCH IN THE GARAGE AND IS STEALTHILY APPROACHING BARNEY FROM THE REAR AS THE SCREEN FADES RAPIDLY INTO A COMMERCIAL FOR GYNE-O-SWINE FEMININE HYGIENE PRODUCTS ...
(CAMERA BACKS OFF WITH SOME RELIEF FROM EXTREME CLOSE UP SHOT OF AUNT BEA KNITTING
ON THE TAYLOR FRONT PORCH. THE CRICKETS ARE CHIRPING, A LIGHT BREEZE GENTLY
RUSTLES THE CHINABERRY TREE IN THE FRONT YARD, AND OUR BEATRICE IS ROCKING LIKE
SHE'S GOT A TWAT
FULL OF FRESH BAKED APPLES, PIPING HOT FROM THE OVEN. HER FACE BEAMS SERENELY
AS ANDY, HUNCHED OVER HIS GUITAR ON THE STEPS BELOW, CALLS HIS SON OVER FROM
A MUD WALLOW IN THE SIDE YARD TO BOND WITH HIM)
ANDY: Opie! Opie Taylor! Come on over here and give your Aunt Bea some sugar.
OPIE(approaching the porch with obvious trepidation): But Pa ...
ANDY: Don't gimme that "But Pa" shit. Do I look like Chuck Connors to you? This is "The Andy Griffith Show," not "The Rifleman," you little asshole!
OPIE: But Pa ...
(ANDY PUTS DOWN GUITAR, GETS TO HIS FEET, CLEVERLY DISTRACTS AUNT BEA BY TURNING HER CHAIR NINETY DEGREES AND, ADROITLY PLUCKING ONE OF HER KNITTING NEEDLES FROM HER PUDGY, FLACCID GRASP, ADVANCES ON THE BOY, WHO SCURRIES UNDER THE HOUSE)
OPIE(VOICE ECHOING A BIT AMIDST THE DRAINPIPES AND SPIDER WEBS IN THE EVENING GLOOM): Butt, Pa! My butt. Kiss it! Bathe it like an obsessive cat, you big-eared son of a bitch. Gnaw my freckled dingleberries! Butt, Pa! Butt, butt, butt! Asshole. Tastyhole for you!
(DIRT CLODS SWITCH THROUGH THE AIR TOWARD ANDY'S LEGS FROM UNDER THE HOUSE)
AUNT BEA: Let the boy sleep there if he wants to, Andy. He'll be fine. Besides, by morning he'll be so stiff with cold that he'll be easier to catch.
ANDY: You're right, Aunt Bea, but I promised the Darlings that I'd take Opie up there for their full moon picnic.
AUNT BEA: Oh, that sounds like fun. A picnic in the moonlight! Would you like to take a jar of my homemade pickles? I just put up an extra half dozen this afternoon.
ANDY: Now Aunt Bea, if I wanted to kill the goddam Darlings, I'd just act hospitable and mosey up there with some blankets out of the county hospital typhus ward ... Hey, now that I think about it ...
AUNT BEA: Well, you have to take something to a picnic. Where are your manners?
ANDY: Don't get yourself worked into a big hot ol' shorts ripper over it, Aunt Bea. I've got it all figured out. One of the boys, I think it was Smegma Darling, stopped by the courthouse yestiddy and said they shore wuz pinin' to fire up the banjos and jugs and stuff, make the boy dance with one of their goats, then get down to a game of "Find The Mustard."
AUNT BEA: Find The Mustard? What kind of a picnic game is that?
ANDY: I'll be a ringtailed son of a bitch if I know, but Smegma asked me could I bring the boy and a couple of packages of hot dog rolls, which I've got in the car. Now all I've got to do is get the boy out from under the house. Do we have ammonia and bleach in the pantry, or did you spend the week's grocery money on Manichewitz again? See, my idea is real easy. You know how the kitchen sink just empties under the house, right about a tee-nightsy bit off from smack damn dab in the center? Well, if I pour ammonia and bleach down there, it'll create a poison. If I just pour ...
These pages describe the delusions, fantasies &
perspectives of one Arthur F. Shuey, III.
The usual disclaimers about any resemblance between
the characters named herein and real persons apply.