Saturday Night Live Transcripts


  Season 3: Episode 8







77h: Miskel Spillman / Elvis Costello

Least-Loved Bedtime Tale: The Soiled Kimono

Written by: Michael O'Donoghue

Laraine ... Laraine Newman
Mr. Mike ... Michael O'Donoghue
"Fingers," the Pianist ... Cheryl Hardwick

[Sound of thunder crashing and rain pouring down as we open on an exterior view of a brick building framed by palm fronds. Above a broken window, a sign reads: CORAL WATERS BAR & GRILL. Through the window, we see a uniformed sailor seated at a table and a bartender standing behind the bamboo bar wiping down the countertop. As we slowly zoom forward through the window, the noises of the storm outside disappear and we hear piano music.

We slowly zoom in on the bearded, bespectacled bartender: Mr. Mike -- a thin gentleman who wears a dark suit, no necktie, a shirt open at the collar and dark eyeglasses. A lit cigarillo is clenched between his teeth as he wipes the bar with a cloth. On the wall behind him: numerous bottles of liquor, a fish net, and a huge fish, stuffed and mounted.

It's near closing time: chairs have been put up on tables and the only customer is the half-conscious sailor who hunches over his drink while smoking a cigarette. The pianist, a young woman nicknamed "Fingers," sits at a piano decorated with a plastic silver and blue Christmas tree. She plays a slow, quiet version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Laraine, a thin woman in a red evening gown enters the barroom and walks unsteadily to the bar where she sits on a stool. In the background, a glowing neon sign reads: MR. MIKE'S Coral Waters Cafe. Laraine, slurring her words, drunkenly addresses Mr. Mike who polishes a glass with his cloth.]

Laraine: M-Mr. Mike, I - I need a Least-Loved Bedtime Tale. I need one real bad.

Mr. Mike: Sure thing, Laraine, but I'm afraid you're gonna have to sing for it.

Laraine: Aw, Mr. Mike, you know I can't sing any more -- not since I started hitting the sauce.

Mr. Mike: Well, if you wanna hear a Least-Loved Bedtime Tale, I'm afraid you're gonna have to sing the aria from Madame Butterfly.

Laraine: Sing the aria from Madame Butterfly? [looks away, distressed] I can't sing that. I - I - I could sing "These Boots are Made for Walking." [thinks] Or any old Nancy Sinatra song. [desperate] Please, don't make me sing the aria from Madame Butterfly, please.

Mr. Mike: Sorry, cupcake, but - no aria, no bedtime tale. That's how it is.

Laraine: Well, in that case, I--

Mr. Mike: [abruptly, to the pianist who glances at him] Say, "Fingers," why don't you accompany the little lady on the piano while I mix her up one of my special drinks, the - the one I call - [into the camera] - the Soiled Kimono.

["Fingers" plays and a reluctant Laraine bravely struggles through the aria ("Un bel dý" a.k.a. "One Fine Day"), singing in a screechy, drunken voice. As she does, Mr. Mike casually fixes the drink on the bar beside her.]

Laraine: [sings]
One fine day, we'll notice
A tiny smoke cloud nearing
On the sea, in the far horizon,
And then his ship appearing


[During the first few lines of the aria, a superimposed text scrolls by:]


		HOW TO MAKE 
		A SOILED KIMONO

		Mix 2/3 glass costly 
		French champagne

		With 1/3 glass Japanese 
		plum wine

		And top with a
		paper butterfly.

Laraine: [sings]
Now the mighty war ship
Slowly comes to harbor
Cannons roar a welcome
See, there, how I know it!


[Over the rest of the song, another - longer - superimposed text scrolls by:]


THE STORY OF
THE DRINK

A Japanese aviator was
angry with an unfaithful
Geisha girl.
"Take this!" he said,
flinging 2/3rds of a glass
of costly French champagne
in her face.
"And this!" he said,
flinging 1/3rd of a glass
of Japanese plum wine
in her face.
"And this!" he said,
flinging a paper butterfly
in her face.
"Why this tastes delicious!"
she exclaimed, kissed him,
and then hit him
in the lungs
with a gardening tool.
The end.

Laraine: [sings]
I'm dying of rejoicing
And then, in agitation,
He will call, he will call:
"My precious little darling,
My lovely silver goddess!"
Those loving names I will always remember
All I say will come true, you must believe me!
Love cannot be mistakened
But, there, can beat unshakened
Foreverrrrrrrrrrr!


[Laraine hits some long high notes on the last few syllables just as the scrolling text ends. Simultaneously, Mr. Mike tops off the Soiled Kimono with a paper butterfly which twists and turns in the glass. Much applause. Laraine, trembling and exhausted, reaches for the drink but can barely lift it. She lowers her head. In the background, "Fingers" quietly plays "The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire)" throughout the rest of the sketch.]

Mr. Mike: [hands the glass to Laraine] Here, drink this, kid. I - I think you're gonna need it.

Laraine: Okay. [desperate] Now will you tell me a Least-Loved Bedtime Tale, please? [puts her hand on his] Y-you promised.

Mr. Mike: Well, I'm afraid not, doll face.

Laraine: [distressed] But why?

Mr. Mike: Because you sang lousy, that's why. 'Cause you don't deserve a "Least-Loved Bedtime Tale."

Laraine: [on the verge of tears] Oh, Mr. Mike, you're so cruel!

Mr. Mike: Well - [Laraine sobs] - sometimes ya - you have to be cruel, Laraine.

Laraine: [thinks she understands, looks up at him] In order to be kind, Mr. Mike?

Mr. Mike: No, in - in order to be even crueler. Now, scram. Put an egg in your shoe and beat it. It's closing time.

[Mr. Mike turns away from Laraine who looks at the paper butterfly in her drink and twirls it in her fingers. After a pause, she asks Mr. Mike:]

Laraine: Do - do you eat the butterfly?

[Mr. Mike turns to stare at Laraine for a long, long moment as the camera pulls back and away. Finally, he turns his back to her and looks around for a cloth with which to wipe down the liquor bottles behind him. Applause. We pull slowly back to reveal the now unconscious sailor slumped face down at his table. We pull all the way back through the broken window to end on the same exterior view of the building with which we began. Sounds of thunder and rain. Fade out.]


Submitted Anonymously


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