BUFFALO: Fifi, sweetie.
FIFI: Yes, Buffo?
BUFFALO: Having trouble sleeping.
FIFI: Ah, diddums. Would you like me to read you a story?
BUFFALO: Ooh, yes, pliz!
FIFI: OK. It's called Night Nosh.
"Midnight. Drusilla, a wraith of a lass, sat picnicking upon a mossy tomb. She gnawed on a burnt chicken leg whilst dipping her spidery fingers into a platter of hors d’oevres: caviar, black truffles, and two kosher pickles blessed by the Pope. A ghoul she knew shimmered past. “Mort,” she called out, holding up a Champagne flute, “come join me for some bubbly.” “Don’t mean to nitpick your picnic,” said Mort, “but any ghoul worth his salt knows that vodka, icy as the grave, is the only proper accompaniment to caviar. Anyway, I’m on my way to a haunting at Skull and Bones. If I don’t hurry I won’t have a ghost of a chance to get there on time, and those deadbeat Yalies will dock my pay.” With that, Mort transmogrified into a moonbeam, and dazzled off. She was on her second chicken leg, this one embalmed in hot sauce (for a nightwind had kicked up and she was getting cold), when she heard the familiar clicks and clacks of Clem approaching. A lovable codger, his skull wore a broad smile (his only expression) as he gamely clicked along the cemetery path. “You look as though you could use some grub,” Drusilla shouted, since Clem had no ears and was hard of hearing. He answered in a voice that sounded like a grasshopper rubbing its hind legs together. “No thanks, Miss.” He pointed at his empty middle. “No guts. No stomach. No esophagus.” He chuckled, “Just a sarcophagus for me, Miss.” “Oh, Clem, you slay me!” Drusilla giggled as the spry oldster clacked away."
Did you like that?
FIFI: Nightie night, mon ami. Film at eleven.