Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

MARTHA: Here we are, a little shaky, but on our feet.

GEORGE: Goodie.

HONEY: Thank you dear.

GEORGE: Touching. . . touching.

MARTHA: Well? Aren't you going to apologize?

GEORGE: For what, Martha?

MARTHA: For making the little lady throw up, what else?

GEORGE: I did not make her throw up.

MARTHA: You most certainly did?

GEORGE: I did not!

MARTHA: Well, who do you think did . . . sexy over there? You think he made his own little wife sick?

GEORGE: Well, you make me sick.

HONEY: No, now. I . . . I throw up . . . I mean, I get sick . . . occasionally, all by myself . . . without any reason.

GEORGE: Is that a fact?

HONEY: I've always done it.

GEORGE: Like Big Ben.

MARTHA: Get me a drink. George makes everybody sick . . . When our son was just a little boy, he used to . . .

GEORGE: Don't Martha . . .

MARTHA: . . . he used to throw up all the time, because of George . . .

GEORGE: I said don't!

MARTHA: It got so bad that whenever George came into the room he'd start right in retching and . . .

GEORGE: . . . the real reason our son . . . used to throw up all the time, wife and lover, was nothing more complicated than that he couldn't stand you fiddling at him all the time, breaking into his room with your kimono flying, fiddling at him all the time, with your alcoholic breath and your hands all over his . . .

MARTHA: Yeah? And I suppose that's why he ran away from home twice in one month, too. Twice in one month! Six times in one year!

GEORGE: Our son ran away from home all the time because Martha here used to corner him.

MARTHA: I NEVER CORNERED THE SON OF A BITCH IN MY LIFE!

GEORGE: He used to run up to me when I'd get home, and he'd say, "Mama always coming at me." That's what he'd say.

MARTHA: Liar!

GEORGE: Well, that's the way it was . . . you were always coming at him. I thought it was very embarrassing.

MARTHA: Yeah! Thanks sweetheart.

GEORGE: I didn't want to talk about him at all . . . I would have been perfectly happy not to discuss the whole subject . . . I never want to talk about it.

MARTHA: Yes you do.

GEORGE: When we're alone, maybe.

MARTHA: We're alone!

GEORGE: Uh . . . no, Love . . . we've got guests.

HONEY: Oh yes . . . yes dear.

GEORGE: Sure! Fill 'er up!

HONEY: It will steady me, dear. I feel a little unsteady.

GEORGE: Hell, you can't walk steady on half a bottle . . . got to do it right.

HONEY: Oh goodie! Thank you. Of course I do, dear.

GEORGE: I used to drink Brandy.

MARTHA: You used to drink bergin, too.

GEORGE: Shut up, Martha.

NICK: Hm?

GEORGE: Nothing . . . nothing.

NICK: Well . . . no . . .

GEORGE: No, what we did, actually, was . . . we sort of danced around.

NICK: A book? No.

GEORGE: Please, Martha.

NICK: A book? What book?

GEORGE: Please. Just a book.

MARTHA: Just a book!

GEORGE: Please, Martha!

MARTHA: Well, I guess you didn't get the whole sad story. What's the matter with you, George? You given up?

GEORGE: No . . . . no. It's just I've got to figure out some new way to fight you, Martha. Guerilla tactics, maybe . . . internal subversion . . . I don't know. Something.

MARTHA: Well, you figure it out, and you let me know when you do.

GEORGE: All right, love.

HONEY: I want some! I want some dancing!

GEORGE: All right . . . ! For Heaven's sake . . . we'll have some dancing.

NICK: Gee.

GEORGE: Gee.

MARTHA: Yeah?

GEORGE: Martha had her daguerreotype in the paper once . . . oh 'bout twenty-five years ago . . .Seems she took second prize in one o' them seven-day dancin' contest things . . . biceps all bulging, holding up her partner.

MARTHA: Will you put a record on and shut up!

GEORGE: Certainly, love. How are we going to work this? Mixed doubles?

MARTHA: Well, you certainly don't think I'm going to dance with you, do you?

GEORGE: Noooooo . . . not with him around . . . that's for sure. And not with twinkle-toes here, either.

HONEY: I dance like the wind.

GEORGE: All right, kiddies . . . choose up and hit the sack.

MARTHA: Cut it out, George!

GEORGE: What, Martha? What?

MARTHA: CUT IT OUT, GEORGE!

GEORGE: WHAT?

MARTHA: All right, you son of a bitch.

GEORGE: What did you say, love?

HONEY: Stop that!

GEORGE: I thought it was fitting, Martha.

HONEY: Stop that!

GEORGE: I thought it was fitting, Martha.

HONEY: Just . . . leave me alone!

GEORGE: Well, why don't you choose Martha? Martha's going to run things . . . the little lady's going to lead the band.

HONEY: Just . . . leave me alone.

GEORGE: Martha's going to pin on some rhythm she uderstands . . . Sacre du Printemps, maybe. Hi sexy.

HONEY: oooooohhhhhhh!

GEORGE: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Choose it, Martha . . . do your stuff!

MARTHA: You're damn right!

GEORGE: You want to dance with me, angel-tits?

NICK: What did you call my wife?

GEORGE: Oh, boy!

HONEY: We'll just sit here and watch.

GEORGE: That's right!

HONEY: They're dancing like they've danced before.

GEORGE: It's a familiar dance . . . they both know it . . .

NICK: I'm . . . not . . .

GEORGE: It's a very old ritual, monkey-nipples . . . old as they come.

NICK: I like the way you move, too.

GEORGE: They like the way they move.

MARTHA: I'm surprised George didn't give you his side of things.

GEORGE: Aren't they cute?

MARTHA: It's really a very sad story.

GEORGE: You have ugly talents, Martha.

MARTHA: It would make you weep.

GEORGE: Hideous gifts.

NICK: Is that so?

GEORGE: Don't encourage her.

NICK: Go on.

GEORGE: I warn you . . . don't encourage her.

MARTHA: Well, Georgie-boy had lots of big ambitions. In spite of something funny in his past . . .

GEORGE: Martha . . .

MARTHA: Which George-boy here turned into a novel . . . His first attempt and also his last . . . Hey I rhymed! I rhymed!

GEORGE: I warn you, Martha.

MARTHA: But daddy took a look at Georgie's novel . . .

GEORGE: You're looking for a punch in the mouth . . . You know that, Martha.

Martha: Yes . . . he was . . . A novel all about a naughty boy-child . . .

GEORGE: I will not tolerate this!

MARTHA: . . . ha, ha! naughty boychild who . . . uh . . . who killed his mother and his father dead.

GEORGE: STOP IT MARTHA!

MARTHA: And Daddy said . . . Look here, I will not let you publish such a thing . . .

GEORGE: That's it! The dancing's over. That's it. Go on now!

MARTHA: And Daddy said . . . Look here, kid, you don't think for a second I'm going to let you publish this crap, do you? Not on your life, baby . . . not while you're teaching here . . . You publish that ******* book and you're out . . . on your ass!

GEORGE: DESIST! DESIST!

MARTHA: Why, the idea! A teacher at a respected, conservative institution like this, in a town like New Carthage, publishing a book like that? If you respect your position here, young man, young . . . whippersnapper, you'll just withdraw that manuscript . . .

GEORGE: I will not be made mock of!

NICK: He will not be made mock of, Christ's sake.

GEORGE: I will not! THE GAME IS OVER!

MARTHA: And you want to know the clincher? You want to know what big brave Georgie said to Daddy?

GEORGE: NO! NO! NO! NO!

MARTHA: Georgie said . . . but Daddy . . . I mean . . . ha, ha, ha, ha . . . but Sir, it isn't a novel at all . . . Not a novel? No, sir . . . it isn't a novel at all . . .

GEORGE: You will not say this!

MARTHA: The hell I won't. Keep away from me, you bastard! No, Sir, this isn't a novel at all . . . this is the truth . . . this really happened. . . TO ME!

GEORGE: I'LL KILL YOU!

MARTHA: IT HAPPENED! TO ME! TO ME!

GEORGE: YOU SATANIC BITCH!

HONEY: Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .

GEORGE: All right . . . all right . . . very quiet now . . . we will all be . . . very quiet.

NICK: O.K. now . . . that's enough.

GEORGE: Well! That's one game. What shall we do now, hunh? Oh come on . . . let's think of something else. We've played Humiliate the Host . . . we've gone through that one . . . what shall we do now?

NICK: Aw . . . look . . .

GEORGE: AW LOOK! Awwww . . . loooook. I mean, come on! We must know other games, college-type types like us . . . that can't be the . . . limit of our vocabulary, can it?

NICK: I think maybe . . .

GEORGE: Let's see now . . . what else can we do? There are other games. How about . . . how about . . . Hump the Hostess? HUH? How about that? How about Hump the Hostess? You wanna play that one? You wanna play Hump the Hostess? Huh? Huh?

NICK: Calm down, now.

GEORGE: Or is that for later . . . mount her like a godd*mn dog?

NICK: Just shut up . . . will you?

GEORGE: You don't wanna play that now, huh? You wanna save that game till later? Well, what'll we play now? We gotta play a game.

MARTHA: Portrait of a man drowning.

GEORGE: I am not drowning.

NICK: I'm sorry.

GEORGE: I've got it! I'll tell you what game we'll play. We're done with Humiliate the Host . . . this round, anyway . . . we're done with that . . . and we don't want to play Hump the Hostess, yet . . . not yet . . . so I know what we'll play . . . We'll play a round of Get the Guests. How about that? How about a little game of Get the Guests?

NICK: Yeah . . . I think maybe we've had enough of games, now . . .

GEORGE: Oh, no . . . oh, no . . . we haven't. We've had only one game . . . Now we're going to have another. You can't fly on one game.

NICK: I think maybe . . .

GEORGE: SILENCE! Now, how are we going to play Get the Guests?

MARTHA: For God's sake, George . . .

GEORGE: You be quiet! I wonder . . . I wonder. O.K.! Well . . . Martha . . . in her indiscreet way . . . well, not really indiscreet, because Martha is a naive, at heart . . . anyway, Martha told you all about my first novel. True or false? Huh? I mean, true or false that there ever was such a thing. Ha! But, Martha told you about it . . . my first novel, my . . . memory book . . . which I'd sort of preferred she hadn't, but hell, that's blood under the bridge. BUT! What she didn't do . . . what Martha didn't tell you about is she didn't tell us all about the second novel. No, you didn't know about that., did you, Martha? About my second novel, true or false. True or false?

MARTHA: No.

GEORGE: No. Well, it's an allegory, really--probably--but it can be read as straight, cozy prose . . . and it's all about a nice young couple who come out of the middle west. It's a bucolic you see. AND, this nice young couple comes out of the middle west, and he's blond and about thirty, and he's a scientist, a teacher, a scientist . . . and his mouse is a wifey little type who gargles brandy all the time . . . and . . .

NICK: Just a minute here . . .

GEORGE: . . . and they got to know each other when they was only teensie little types, and they used to get under the vanity table and poke around, and . . .

NICK: I said JUST A MINUTE!

GEORGE: This is my game! You played yours . . . you people. This is my game!

MARTHA: George, for heaven's sake . . .

GEORGE: AND! And Mousie's father was a holy man, see, and he ran sort of a traveling clip joint, based on Christ and all those girls, and he took the faithful . . . that's all . . . just took 'em.

NICK: No kidding!

GEORGE: . . . and he died eventually, Mousie's pa, and they pried him open, and all sorts of money fell out . . . Jesus money, Mary money . . . LOOT!

NICK: Honey . . .

GEORGE: But that's in the backwash, in the early part of the book. Anyway, Blondie and his frau out of the plain states came.

MARTHA: Very funny, George . . .

GEORGE: . . . thank you . . . and settled in a town just like nouveau Carthage here . . .

NICK: I don't think you'd better go on, mister . . .

GEORGE: Do you not!

HONEY: I love familiar stories . . . they're the best.

GEORGE: How right you are. But Blondie was in disguise, really, all got up as a teacher, 'cause his baggage ticket had bigger things writ on it . . . H.I. HI! Historical inevitability.

HONEY: Let them go on.

GEORGE: We shall. And he had this baggage with him, and part of this baggage was in the form of his mouse . . .

HONEY: Why not?

GEORGE: Your bride has a point. And one of the things nobody could understand about Blondie was his baggage . . . his mouse, I mean, here he was, pan-Kansas swimming champeen, or something, and he had this mouse, of whom he was solicitous to a point that faileth human understanding . . . given that she was sort of a simp, in the long run . . .

NICK: This isn't fair of you . . .

GEORGE: Perhaps not. Like, as I said, his mouse, she tooted brandy immodestly and spent half of her time in the upchuck . . .

HONEY: I know these people . . .

GEORGE: Do you! . . . But she was a money baggage amongst other things . . . Godly money ripped from the golden teeth of the unfaithful, a pragmatic extension of the big dream . . . and she was put up with . . .

MARTHA: Maybe you better stop, George. . .

GEORGE: . . . and she was put up with . . . STOP? Ha-ha.

NICK: Please . . . please don't.

GEORGE: Beg, baby.

MARTHA: George . . .

GEORGE: . . . and . . . oh, we get a flashback here, to How They Got Married.

NICK: NO!

GEORGE: YES!

NICK: Why?

GEORGE: How They Got Married. Well, how they got married is this . . . The Mouse got all puffed up one day, and she went over to Blondie's house, and she stuck out her puff, and she said . . . look at me.

NICK: Stop it!

GEORGE: Look at me . . . I'm all puffed up. Oh my goodness, said Blondie . . .

HONEY: . . . and so they were married . . .

GEORGE: . . . and so they were married . . .

HONEY: . . . and then . . .

GEORGE: . . . and then . . .

NICK: NO! No!

GEORGE: . . . and then the puff went away . . . like magic . . . pouf!

HONEY: . . . the puff went away . . .

GEORGE: . . . pouf.