“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer began, “what you are about to witness is nothing short of supernatural. He levitated the monoliths of Easter Island, he took the ski lift up Mount Fujiyama and he tamed the Tigers of Detroit. Ready your eyes for the eighth wonder of the world— the one, the only, The Great Spamgali!”
A spotlight came up on The Great Spamgali, a stout man sporting a polka dot turban. “Can I have a victim—oops—I mean, volunteer?” he asked the audience.
It was only after a couple of groans that a man wearing overalls and a straw hat made his way up the stairs to the stage. “Do you see this pocket watch?” The Great Spamgali asked as he dangled his golden time teller from a chain.
“I rightly do,” declared the man in the overalls, “but ain’t nobody never gonna hypnotize me!”
“Oh, we’ll see about that. Just keep your eyes on the watch,” Spamgali said as he let the watch swing back and forth, to and fro. “You’re getting sleepy . . .” Spamgali whispered, “very sleepy . . .” The Great Spamgali yawned. “Really — YAWN — very — YAWN — sleepy . . . “ Spamgali’s eyes closed, his head dropped, and his turban fell to the floor.
Now, it’s a good thing that the man in the overalls had been an all-state track star, because he was able to bolt from the stage as soon as the first tomato was hurled. But poor Spamgali, who was fast asleep, snoring louder than a hurricane, was plastered with any and everything that the audience could get their hands on.
It’s been eighteen hours since the performance, and from what sources tell me, The Great Spamgali is still fast sleep, snoring on the stage of the Tobasco Theatre.