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The Monday Morning Memo

Mork: Mork calling Orson. Come in, Orson.
           Mork calling Orson. Come in, Orson.
           Mork calling Orson. Mork calling Orson.   
           Everything all right, Orson?
 
Orson:  Yes. This better be good, Mork. You got me out of the shower.
 
Mork: Oh, please don’t shake yourself dry this time, Your Immenseness. Last time, it rained for weeks.
 
Orson:  Get on with it, Mork, while I look for a towel.
 
Mork: Oh, don’t terry, sir.
 
Orson: Your report, Mork.
 
Mork: This week I discovered a terrible Earth disease called loneliness.
 
Orson: Do many people on earth suffer from this illness?
 
Mork: Oh, yes, sir, and how they suffer. One man I know suffers so much they has to take a medication called bourbon. Even that doesn’t help very much because he can hear paint dry.
 
Orson: Does bedrest help?
 
Mork: No, because I’ve heard that sleeping alone is part of the problem. You see, Orson, loneliness is a disease of the spirit and people who have it think that no one cares about them.
 
Orson: Do you have any idea why?
 
Mork: Yes, sir. You can count on me. You see, when children are young, they’re told not to talk to strangers. Then when they go to school, they’re told not to talk to the person next to them. Finally, when they get to be very old, they’re told not to talk to themselves. Who’s left?
 
Orson:  Are you saying that Earthlings make each other lonely?
 
Mork:  No, sir, I’m saying just the opposite, that they make themselves lonely. They’re so busy looking out for number one, they don’t have room for two.
 
Orson: It’s too bad everybody down there can’t get together and find a cure.
 
Mork: Well here’s the paradox, sir, because if they did get together, they wouldn’t need one. Isn’t that zen-like? One hand clapping. Until next week, nanu, nanu.

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Random Quote:

“On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed façade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went North in April.

The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple alp that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night, ch. 1

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