MOLLY:
McGee, would you mind telling me what you're doing with that dead fly resting on one of my best pieces of china?
FIBBER:
(LOW, FOCUSED) Easy, Molly, easy. Don't knock it off the plate. I'm not through painting it yet.
MOLLY:
Why on earth are you painting a dead fly?
FIBBER:
I'm doing a still life, Molly. Now, don't interrupt me. I still have one more feeler to paint.
MOLLY:
Well, I don't know too much about art, McGee, but I do know that a still life doesn't refer to a dead fly.
FIBBER:
(UP) I know that, but I just couldn't get a dead gnat, so I figured a dead fly would be the next best thing.
MOLLY:
McGee, a still life painting is concerned with a bowl of fruit or a vase of flowers. Believe me, it has nothing to do with dead insects. Now, do you mind if I throw your model out before his relatives come to the funeral?
FIBBER:
(WITH A SHRUG) Sure. Go right ahead, Molly. I'm just about ready for my next masterpiece anyway.
MOLLY:
Say, McGee, while you've got the brush in your hand, how about doing a quick touch-up job on the front door? It's got an awful lot of chips in the paint.
FIBBER:
(MILDLY OFFENDED) Paint the front door? Paint the front door?! Mrs. McGee, how can you ask a man of my artistic temperament and ability to lower himself by doing such a menial task?
MOLLY:
You don't have to lower yourself! Most of the scratches and nicks are near the top of the door. You have to raise yourself, if anything.
FIBBER:
Molly, asking me to paint the door is like asking Hemingway to write greeting card jingles. Or asking Stravinsky to write rock 'n' roll. It's just not within our artistic scope. Now, leave me be for a couple o' minutes, so's I can concentrate on what my next subject is going to be.
MOLLY:
Say, McGee, I forgot to ask you. What form of art expression are you using?
FIBBER:
(PUZZLED) Art expression? Whatcha mean by that?
MOLLY:
Oh, that's the form or style of your painting. For example, are you painting in the French Impressionistic style or--?
FIBBER:
(INTERRUPTS, SOLEMN) No, sir. No, sir. Just plain old middle-class American. The style that you'd expect any red-blooded American boy to use. None of that foreign stuff for me.
MOLLY:
Well, what is your next undertaking, dearie?
FIBBER:
(BRIGHTLY) Well, I may hit the ceiling.
MOLLY:
Why? Is something the matter?
FIBBER:
(CHUCKLES) No. No, nothing's the matter, Molly. In this instance, "hitting the ceiling" has nothing to do with being mad or anything. It's just how we in the artistic world refer to painting a mural on the ceiling. I'm thinking I'm just about ready for it.
MOLLY:
What are you planning on painting on the ceiling?
FIBBER:
Oh, I was thinking of maybe painting the moon and some stars.
MOLLY:
Wouldn't that look a little silly during the day?
FIBBER:
Yes, you have a point there, Molly. Maybe I'll just paint a little cloud.
MOLLY:
(MILDLY ANNOYED) Why don't you just leave it as it is, McGee, and we'll make believe it's a clear sky?
FIBBER:
Molly, I guess a compromise is the only thing left to do. I'll paint half the ceiling night and the other half day.
MOLLY:
McGee, if you insist on doing that, do you know what's gonna happen after you "hit the ceiling"?
FIBBER:
No. What, Molly?
MOLLY:
I'll hit the ceiling! And I don't mean artistically! Now, why don't you put away that paint and brush, and take a nap? Then at least I know you can't do any harm for three or four hours.