The Dick Van Dyke Show Episodes That Should Have Been
These are Dick Van Dyke Show episodes as they should have been, balls out comedy written by Dr. Seuss, Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, James Michener, John Cheever, Jack Kerouac, Franz Kafka, T.S. Eliot, William Carlos Williams, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, J.D. Salinger, David Mamet and Ed Wood
Foreword by Jeff Williams
I heard a comment on MTV’s Celebrity Deathmatch
the other day (Ok – it’s a source, no less dependable than any other…) that
Quentin Tarantino wrote an uncredited rewrite of the It’s
Pat screenplay. This fascinated me.
In case you don’t remember, It’s Pat was the Saturday Night Live
sketch turned movie starring Julia Sweeney about a person whose sex is
indiscernible, at least outwardly physically or emotionally. This movie was
pounded into the dirt by some critics and did terribly at the box office.
However, I happen to be friends with an old school chum of Sweeney’s, so I
ended up owning a videocassette copy of the movie, which I have now watched at
least five times – probably more than any other movie I’ve ever seen, with
perhaps the exception of The Good, The Bad, and The
Ugly. And I have to say in all honesty, that there is some really funny
writing and fine performances in that movie. In fact, at a few points, I
regularly laugh myself to tears (I can hardly even think of the line
"Help! I’m being chased by a crazed doppelganger!" and keep a
straight face).
You may want to dismiss me as some sort of shallow, easily-amused kook, but I’d
strongly suggest you try taking another look at this little bit of commentary
on sex roles in America. And as for Tarantino, I think I could almost believe
it – there is a certain familiar darkness to the comedy in It’s Pat –
particularly in the character of Pat’s neighbor who obsesses over discovering
the truth behind "the enigma that is Pat."
So this got me thinking about other well-known writers who might’ve contributed
to innocuous bits of pop culture, let’s say, The Dick Van Dyke Show.
I jotted down a few examples, sent it to some friends, and suddenly everybody
was Quentin – and much better. Here they are:
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Jack Kerouac
[The Man enters a fine pad he’s worked hard for, stumbling with his feet over
the ottoman built for his feet]
Laura (black turtleneck and tights): Hey Daddio – you
took a spill.
Rob: So I have.
****************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by James Mitchener
The day was clear and cloudless. But, in pre-historic
Southern France, 35,000 BC, Roborg of the shadow
people hid in darkness in his cave, working his hands into shapes and
characters, casting the moving shadows against the cave wall, he created myths
and characters and plays, and dreamed the dreams that would one day fly through
the air like a flock of swallows to untold numbers of cave people through the
magical fire-box.
Roborg rose slowly, and stepped toward the mouth of
his dwelling. Squinting against the bright sunshine, he stumbles over an
ottoman-sized stone.
Lifemate Laurga (a leopard
skin loosely covering an ample breast): "Dahngaala!
Roborg: "Da. Dahngaala."
John X. Ambrosavage
***************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Hunter S. Thompson
We were twenty feet from the couch when the drugs began to take hold. All
around me were mewling, screeching bats and a voice was screaming, "Holy
Tricia Nixon, what are these goddamned animals?" We had 20 bags of grass clippings,
forty-thousand hits of pharmaceutical grade Scope, an
assortment of Costco baked goods, pretzels, prune juice, a case of Seven Seas Italian dressing, and enough squirtgun firepower to douse a wet t-shirt contest at Russ Meyers’ house.
I turned to my wife Laura as I passed over the ottoman, 30,0000
feet below, and said "Honey maybe you should take the spill. I feel a
little lightheaded."
"You bastard," she screamed, "you took
too much."
**************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Franz Kafka:
One day, Rob and Sally and Buddy walked into the office and discovered that
they had all been turned into giant bugs. Despite their extra appendages, they
decided to go about their work writing the ultimate comedy show anyway. This
time, it actually was funny and they fell over backwards laughing and died.
***************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by the Apostle Paul
Grace to you and peace, Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ. How I long to be
back among you in
baptizing, teaching, and "Twizzle-ing"
again like we did last summer. Daily I pray that your lives will leave
monochromatic, black & white bondage to the evil one and that you will be
able to move into the Technicolor light of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Daily too I
pray for that silly man Petrie (on such a rock, dear Brothers and Sisters, no
church can be built) and his nightly Ottoman stumbling block to faith. I urge
you to pray and never cease that this man will one day set his feet onto the
correct path. Pray too, for his lovely wife Laura and the humiliation she must
regularly suffer…
***************************
Dick Van Dyke, Across the Far Caucasus – by John Cheever
His first drink, at lunch (not counting the snoot he took in the coat closet
that morning to get him out the door), did little to quell the yawning
emptiness that had lately engulfed his days. Through the long, gray afternoon,
he could think of little but the small bar he favored in Grand Central and the
hour he would reach finally it. Through the tedium of the sponsor meeting,
Rob’s thoughts returned again and again to that hallowed spot. The brass in
Sally’s hair made him pine for rail he had leaned against so many times.
Buddy’s sullen, Bronx-bred air among the smooth corporate titans reminded Rob
of the quiet, simian bartender who ungraciously refilled his glass night after
night. And sight of Mel, cringing at the side of his brother-in-law, the Star,
somehow made Rob recall the jar of hard-boiled eggs in brine at the end of the
bar.
Released from his soul-stunting occupation for the day, Manhattan offered none of the victorious air
he drew on his best days in the city. He passed a garish menagerie of humans as
he made his way to the station: livid scars, empty sockets, shrunken mouths
marked these people. Everyone he passed seemed in some way to have been
physically deformed by the moral and venereal chances they had misjudged.
Picking his way through this spiritual wreckage hardened his thirst, and when
he finally reached the bar, he ordered a double.
After a second and a third, Rob began to feel the clouds clearing. The
bartender began to seem less unfriendly than quietly elegant and unobtrusive.
The questionable couple in the booth appeared now to be a father and daughter
meeting at the beginning or end of an auspicious journey. And the brazen rump
of the laughing woman two stools down made Rob tingle with the memory of the
delightfully reciprocated grope of Pickles Sorrell in the bedroom after last
spring’s community talent show tryouts.
Uplifted by the gilding that began to appear at the edges of his world, Rob ordered one for the road and made his way to the New Rochelle train. Once
aboard, Rob quickly fell asleep, and when he awoke, the sediment of the day
thudding in his temples, he could see golden lights floating toward him,
burning beneath deep blue eaves. At the station, his wife was one of the dozens
of women, dressed in black Capri pants and cashmere sweater sets, who were
meeting their spouses. Laura Petrie could tell her husband had been drinking
when he stepped from the train, but she dared not say anything. Her efforts to
make him happy–moving to New York, ending her dancing career, giving him a
son–had recently seemed to amount to nothing, and she was frankly confused by
his moods. Another fight would not resolve anything tonight.
Normally, Rob took great interest in Laura’s driving, warning her of hazards,
cautioning her against speeding, but tonight he remained silent and simply
stared out the passenger window over the baizelike
lawns of his town. His thoughts were drawn to unkind conclusions about this
pretty, soulless community, his silly, useless wife, and his timid son,
frightened of dogs and birds. But he recognized the futility of that direction
and instead began conjuring images that might calm and cheer him: women he had
slept with before he was married; a favorite dog when he was a boy; the green
curve of a hill on his grandfather’s loamy Midwestern farm.
He pursued these images, flashing like shuffled picture postcards, as the car
pulled into the garage and he stumbled into the ranch-style house. Aegean
highlighting a white sail. The sands of the Egyptian desert blowing–Rob
stumbled, misjudging the little step that led to the sunken living room, his
momentum carrying him forward unsteadily but not stopping the flow of pictures.
A Turkish bazaar, filled with rugs and silks. A caravan of elephants (he
suddenly noticed the furniture spinning crazily about the living room, notably
the nubby ottoman that had landed directly in his path) carrying a king across
treacherous mountains into a kingdom of unimaginable . . . .
Thud.
"Rob, are you okay?"
Tom Fredrickson
****************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Ernest Hemingway
Rob stood where he was standing. He drank his drink which was a good drink. A
drink that is good and wet and cold. A drink, which when you drink it, you say
"This – is a drink." And it was.
A drink.
His wife Laura sat where she was sitting. She was a woman. A good woman in good
tight black tights that were so tight you could not call them slacks as they
were not slacks but tights. She sat where she was sitting and lighted a
cigarette, and blew smoke, long plumes of blue white smoke, and it was good.
The cigarette was good as was the drink, and the life of Rob and Laura in this
good town of New Rochelle in the good state of New York, in the country of America in the year of 1965.
Life was good.
"What is on T.V.?" asked Rob.
"There are only 3 channels Rob – you need to ask? Said Laura – suddenly
angry at Rob and New Rochelle
and the things this man and this town made her do. Things she did not want to
do. Laura angrily stubbed out her cigarette. "I am going Rob." said
Laura. "I am going next door to see Jerry – I mean Milly."
Laura left. Rob stood where he was standing and drank his drink which had been
good but now was not good.
He sat down. He put his feet on the ottoman. He watched T.V.
Little Ritchie came into the room from his room – the room that he called his
own.
"Hi Dad." said little Ritchie.
"Hi Ritchie." said Rob.
"I just need some of mom’s cigarettes."
"Okay son." said Rob, slightly distracted. There was something wrong
– he could almost feel it but not quite. It reminded of him of that time in
that conflict overseas. The conflict that was, but no longer
is.
"I wonder what Buddy is doing." said Rob. "I cannot seem to find
anything on T.V."
And he left. He left that room where he had been standing and he never went
back, and the commercial sponsors were upset.
It used to be this way but it no longer is.
Nothing is.
John Ambrosavage
*************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Monica Lewinsky
"Hi Linda, it’s me, Monica. I just can’t believe that Dick."
"You mean Robert Petrie?"
"Yes, of course. I’ve been an intern on that damn Alan Brady Show for
these three months and everything’s been so wonderful but now he’s transferred
me to Mel’s office and won’t give me the time of day."
"One second, Monica, I need to turn on the cass…oh,
nevermind. Go on."
"We had such a special relationship. Rob would have me stay late, after
Buddy and Sally had left, supposedly to help with a script. Then things would
start heating up."
"Oh really…could you describe how they heated up? And please speak
clearly"
"Oh, really (giggle) Linda, let’s just say I can identify some birth marks
that only Laura’s seen before."
"So what’s changed?"
"I dunno. But he doesn’t want me to say we ever
had sex. Especially in that upcoming trial over the rights to *Bubkus*."
"He actually told you to lie?"
"Hey, why all the questions, Linda? Are you writing a book or
something?"
"Uh, no, uh, … oh, there’s the call waiting.
I’ll be right back."
(a few seconds pass)
"I’m back – it was just Millie."
"Linda, don’t you dare tell this stuff to a soul."
"Uh, uh, sure, whatever you say "
"And especially don’t tell ‘Loose Lips’ Millie or her husband, Matt
Drudge."
"Oh, I’d never do that."
"You’re such a true friend, Linda."
"Uh, thanks, Monica."
"Hey, do you know how to get stains out of a blue dress?"
"Uh, no. Guess I’d better be going. I need to hop over my ottoman to see
Tripp…uh, I mean, I hope Rob trips over his ottoman
for giving you the shaft."
"Oh, thanks, Linda, for your support."
"What are friends for?"
-Tim Larson
*************************
"The Love Song of J. Robert Petrie" by T.S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
Alan Brady che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocce giammai di questo fondo
Non scribi televisiono torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I.
When the red light blinks above the camera eye
And the country is etherized before their sets;
Let us go, across certain half-deserted living rooms,
The stumbling entrances
Of countless nights on CBS Soundstage Three
And sawdust rehearsals with cushioned props:
Rooms that follow like a tedious slapstick
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “Are you all right, Rob?”
Let us go and visit the Helfers.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of the future Jackie O
The yellow gag that rubs its back upon Rob’s office door,
The yellow joke that rubs its muzzle on Rob’s office door
Laughed its way into the corners of prime time,
Lingered upon the fools that stand in department stores,
Let fall upon its back the snort that falls from noses,
Slipped by the TV tray, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was sweeps week,
Curled once around the toilet and took a leak.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow joke that flops across the stool,
Rubbing its back upon Rob’s office door;
There will be prime time, there will be prime time
To prepare the skits to amuse the gits that you fool;
There will be time to brainstorm and create,
And time for all the quips and gibes of Buddy,
That lift and drop a bomb on Mel’s bald pate;
Time for Rob and time for Sally,
And time yet for a hundred Pickles puns,
And for a hundred reruns and re-reruns,
Before the taking of a finger sandwich and martini.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of the future Jackie O
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Will he trip?” and “Will he trip?”
Time to watch Rob come descend and flip,
With a hint that they’re showing the same old clip–
(They will say: “How this gag is growing thin!”)
His Brooks Brothers suit, his collar mounting firmly to the chin,
His necktie rich and modest, but asserted by an Elks Lodge pin–
(They will say: “But how his skits and gags are thin!”)
Do I dare
To grab the remote?
In a minute there is time
For clicking and picking which show gets my vote.
For I have seen them all already, watched them all–
Have vegged the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with Looney Tunes;
I know the voices droning in previews for fall
Beneath the music for Your Show of Shows.
Don’t you know how it goes?
And I have drugged the eyes already, drugged them all–
The eyes that fix on the screen in mutated phase,
And when they are all mutated, sprawling with their kin,
When they are staying tuned for Lucille Ball,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the patter for Alan’s guest star?
Isn’t this week Jack Paar?
And I have known the legs already, known them well–
Legs that are black-slacked and taut and lean
(But in the twin bed, censors keep it clean!)
Is it perkiness she’s got
That makes her so damn hot?
Legs that used to dance on Broadway, they danced about so well.
And should I calm her down?
What hijink’s she begun?
– – – – –
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through New Rochelle
And watched the glow that shimmers from the sets
Of zombied folks in Ban-Lon, filtered through the windows?…
I should have been My Mother, the Car
Scuttling across the floors of Nielsen polls.
– – – – –
And the afternoon, the evening, drags so wearily!
Dulled by writer’s block,
Asleep…tired…or without a clock,
Stretched on the couch, here beside Bud and Sal
Should I, after a three-martini lunch,
Have the strength to bring the priest sketch to its big punch?
But though I have writ and rewrit, writ and thought
Though Mel would have liked my pay (and Buddy’s, Sal’s) docked for
missing the deadline,
I am not Reiner–and that’s no great headline.
I have seen the day of TV greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Network pull the plug, and snicker,
And in short, I was canceled.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the scotch, the manhattans, the gin,
Among all the boozehounds, to slip Mel a Mickey Finn,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have knocked out that blowhard with my guile,
To have squeezed this week’s script into a ball
To roll it towards some variety show hell
To say: “I am Lenny Bruce, come from the banned,
Come back to tell you all, to say “Screw you all”–
Laura, settling a pillow by her head,
Would say, “That is not like you, Rob, at all.
That is not you, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the Emmys and the clip shows and the accolades,
After the reruns, after the knockoffs, after the skirts that work the
Stork Club–
And this, and so much more?–
It is impossible to write what isn’t clean!
But as if a time travel bit threw the show in HBO onscreen:
Would it have been worthwhile
If one, telling a blue joke or showing off some tits,
And turning towards the camera, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not well-scripted, at all.”
– – – – –
No! I am not Rod Serling, nor was meant to be;
Am the assisting crew, one that will do
To sketch a pratfall, write a scene or two,
Humor the star; no doubt, he’s a tool,
I fill the bill, glad to type banter,
Good timing, well-paced, and add lots of commas;
Full of one-liners, but a real ranter;
At times, indeed, almost Danny Thomas–
Almost, at times, Too Cool.
I grow old…I grow old…
I shall star on Diagnosis: Murder, I’m told.
Shall I bleach my hair bright white? Do I dare let fans approach?
I shall see my dopey brother be a costar on Coach.
I have heard the sequels churning, just a skosh.
I do not think they will churn for me.
I have seen me riding senile to the past
Beneath the white hair of Van Dyke goes back
When the tube brought the shows white and black.
I have lingered in the pixils of the air
For bored folks watching Nick at Nite who stick
Till surfing fever wakes them, and they click.
Greg Sager
************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – In Computer Code
/* dvd.c Copyright(C) 1998 tim
larson */
main()
{
for(;0<1;) { /* send SIGCANCEL to terminate */
tripOver(rob,ottoman);
laugh(laura);
for(int minutes=1; minutes<22; minutes++) {
doInaneHumor(rob,laura,buddy,sally);
if(isBorn(richie))
doInaneChildHumor(richie);
pokeFun(millie,mel);
/* display(alan_brady); */
}
cueCredits();
}
exit(0);
}
-Tim Larson
*********************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by Dr. Suess
Of decades past, a story I’ll tell
A silly TV-man from New Rochelle
A Trippler!
A Dippler!
Each day he fell
Possessed of wit, but not the wiseness of Solomon
daily he’d trip over an over-stuffed ottoman
Till one day a new season arrived
a way around his obstacle he finally spied
A Dim-dancer!
A Trim-prancer!
A clever way to save his hide
Now he could run to his Laura’s arms
a quick two step avoided him harm
And that is the story of Van Dyke’s trip from New York
Light on his feet
Botany 500 Neat
The suavest, slickest, comedy-writing dork
**************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show, by J.D. Salinger
Okay, if you really want to know about it, I’ll tell you about that time. I
should probably tell you about where I bought the foot stool. All those phonies
in
would call it an ottoman, but it was really just a goddamned foot stool. The
foot stool was sitting in the middle of the floor of the living room. The
goddamned middle of the floor, for Crissakes!
Milly and Jerry were over visiting Laura. She was
prancing around in those tight black pants that make her butt look so good. She
knows how good they make her butt look, but you would have to admit it, they
really do make her butt look good. So there I was staring at her butt in those
black tight pants. She really looked good, I mean it. So then, I tripped over
the goddamned foot stool.
Jerry starts laughing and says, "Same old Rob."
Jerry’s a real card. A laugh a minute…
–Fred Carl III
****************************
The Red Ottoman, by William Carlos Williams
So much depends
upon
a red otto
man
covered with Hercu-
lon
in front of Rob’s
legs.
–Jennifer Grace
****************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
As he tripped over the ottoman, Dick Van Dyke Garcia Arizmendis
Hidalgo del Cid recalled the moment he boarded the train in New York City, on
his way to his home in New Rochelle, which was in Connecticut. The train
reminded him of a huge buzzing dinosaur that swallowed its victims without
mercy and dropped them by twos and threes in the towns where they lived out
their lives, towns like New Rochelle, Danbury, New Haven, Stamford, Stonington, Hartford, and Litchfield.
The train ride always alarmed Van Dyke, whom his friends called El Comico, because he suspected that one day it would deliver him to a place that bore no resemblance to the world he knew. He took the
precaution of having his fortune told by the homeless woman who haunted the
train station begging quarters from complete strangers. For fifty cents, she
guaranteed that he would arrive safely at home, but she could not predict what
would happen after that. He laughed derisively and got on the train.
As foretold by the homeless woman, he made it to his usual, familiar stop, and
he brushed away the dandruff that snowed down on his collar before taking his
anonymous walk through the poplar-lined streets toward the house where his
wife, Laura Garcia Nasar Aureliano
cooked the roast beef that would kill him one day. Laura tended to add a dash
of borax to her cooking to prevent worms, but unbeknownst to her, it was
accumulating in her husband’s spleen.
El Comico was comforted by the sight of his living
room, in which were scattered about the relics of his bourgeois lifestyle: a
piano, a dining table with a setting for four, even though there were only
three in his house, an L-shaped couch that had been a gift of his great-aunt
and her asthmatic gigolo, assorted lamps, knick-knacks that Laura bought to
discourage bats, enough alcohol to preserve a horse, even though he rarely
drank, and innumerable books by invisible novelists who wrote in small walk-ups
in the city where Van Dyke pried a living from a balding, skin-flint comedian.
For the first time in his life, Van Dyke noticed a picture on the wall in his
living room. Curious, he crossed the living room to examine it. His wife,
oblivious to the seething befuddlement that possessed El Comico,
stood to greet him. But Van Dyke was far away from her; he had been swallowed
by a whirwind that came up from the plush carpeting
and swept his feet out from under him as he plowed head first over the ottoman,
toward the infinite space that existed only in the small town called New Rochelle.
-Carlton Epson
****************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show by Ed Wood
[Rob Petrie enters. It is noon. The room is full of the lawn furniture used in
the last scene only arranged around. Rob comes in with an
sweater on.]
Laura: (in black pants) Was work good today?
Rob: This morning I had a good conversation earlier this afternoon.
(He walks across the stage and falls without even coming close to the ottoman.
The window falls shut. It is night outside. Laura rushes over in her Khaki
pants.)
Laura: I think you fell.
–Molly Fox
******************************
The Dick Van Dyke Show – by David Mamet
(Laura gazing out window. Rob enters, trips
over ottoman. He rises, and looks at his hands)
Rob (speaking to self): Oh, well, I –
Laura (softly): Yes, that’s right.
(fade to black)
-Leigh Deacon
(This page was originally created in the mid 90s.)
