Word: splatting
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Prime Minister Harold Wilson had just finished talking about how the rest of the world envied the British "for our tolerance, for our individual liberty, for our stability" when-splat!-a young Conservative hit him with an egg. At other rallies, the Prime Minister caught a soft-boiled egg on his shoulder and a hard-boiled egg on his ear, and his wife Mary was hit by a bag of talcum powder. So it went, as Britain plunged into a three-week national election campaign...
...André Malraux, all set to lay a block of rock from the Louvre in place as the cornerstone for the new $2.4 million Marc Chagall Memorial Museum in Nice. Beside him beamed Chagall. Then out of the crowd leaped a mustachioed, bald-headed fellow crying "A has Chagalir Splat! With unerring aim he squirted Malraux in the face with a syringe full of red paint. Cat-quick, Malraux grabbed the weapon and squirted the squirter back. "There are cranks everywhere," he shrugged as the flics took custody of the offender, a Riviera artist named Pierre Pinoncelli...
Wacky, rapid-fire comedy is not new to TV. Indeed, Laugh-In's attack has touches of the late Ernie Kovacs, smatterings of early Sid Caesar and Steve Allen, and a-pie-in-the-face splat or two of Soupy Sales. But on Laugh-In, the calculated aim is to create a state of sensory overload, a condition that audiences nowadays seem to want or need. Blackouts, slapstick, instant skits pinwheel before the eyes; chatter and sound effects collide in the ear. Other TV variety shows can be dropped intact onto a theater or nightclub stage, but Laugh...
...Beckett. A woman, responding to the call "Where's the Open Pit?", dashes across the lawn with a bottle of Open Pit barbecue sauce and disappears into an open pit. A baker, having carelessly forgotten his Vicks Cough Silencers, tosses pizza dough into the air, coughs and catches it splat in the face. Splat again, as the Pond's girl gets schlopped in the eye with cold cream. And whack! umph! and aaagh! as a mousy little guy, sploshed with Hai Karate after-shave lotion, brutally chops down a scent-crazed female on the make. Nothing like a little good...
During a recent reading in the Manhattan studio of Pop Artist Robert Rauschenberg, their poems competed with the sound of a speeding locomotive, hissing helium, the splat of a punctured balloon, random clickety-clacks and the unprogrammed clucks of three caged chickens who presumably work for Rauschenberg. And during a performance of Michael Benedikt's poems from his collection The Body, there was the sound of oscillating necks as the audience tried to keep up with the nudie films that were projected on opposing walls. But to savor Benedikt's laconic wit, the peace and quiet...