The Undertaker’s Sketch
UNDERTAKER: (Graham Chapman) Morning!
MAN: (John Cleese) Ah, good morning.
UNDERTAKER: What can I do for you, squire?
M: Um, well, I wonder if you can help me. Um, you see, my mother has just died.
U: Ah, well, we can ‘elp you. We deal with stiffs.
M: (aghast) What?
U: Well there are three things we can do with your mother. We can burn her, bury her, or dump her.
M: Dump her?
U: Dump her in the Thames.
M: (still aghast) What?
U: Oh, did you like her?
M: Yes!
U: Oh well, we won’t dump her, then. Well, what do you think: We can bury her or burn her?
M: Well, um, which would you recommend?
U: Well they’re both nasty. If we burn her, she gets stuffed in the flames, crackle, crackle, crackle, which is a bit of a shock if she’s not quite dead. But quick. And then we give you a handful of the ashes, which you can pretend were hers.
M: (timidly) Oh.
U: Or, if we bury her she gets eaten up lots of weevils and nasty maggots, which as I said before is a bit of a shock if she’s not quite dead.
M: I see. Well, she’s definitely dead.
U: Where is she?
M: She’s in this sack.
U: Let’s ‘ave a look.
(sound of bag opening)
U: She looks quite young.
M: Yes, she was.
U: (over his shoulder) Fred!
F: (Eric Idle, offstage) Yea!
U: I THINK WE’VE GOT AN EATER!
F: (offstage) I’ll get the oven on!
M: Um, er...excuse me, um, are you... are you suggesting eating my mother?
(pause)
U: Yeah. Not raw, cooked!
M: What?
U:Roasted with a few french fries, broccoli, horseradish sauce ...
M: Well, I do feel a bit peckish.
U: Great!
M: Can we have some parsnips?
U: (calling) Fred - get some parsnips.
M: I really don’t think I should.
U: Look, tell you what, we’ll eat her, if you feel a bit guilty about it afterwards, we can dig a grave and you can throw up in it.
The Negotiations
“I’ll surrender my armies and hand up my sword
depending on how you will treat me, my lord.”
The weary commander, resolve in his voice,
sized up his opponent then gave her a choice.
“Stand down your attackers, call off the strike,
and I’ll mercifully leave your head on a pike.”
“What would you do with my body below?”
the wide-eyed foreigner wanted to know.
“I’ll tie your bare limbs one each to a steed,
then drive them to gallop away at high speed.”
“And what would become of my thus quartered torso?”
“I’ll paint each limb blue then bludgeon it more so.”
“And will my piked head be looking toward home?”
the supplicant asked as the commander groaned.
“Listen, you jack-wad, you’re going to be dead.
What does it matter which way goes your head?”
With that the commander unsheathed his sword,
whacked his opponent, cut off her gourd.
The lesson, my children, to take from this bit
is get what you can; don’t sweat the small shit.