Runaway Bride

Man: Fisher, pick up. Fisher, it's me. Fisher, pick up.

I'm late, come on. I need to bounce some ideas off you.

- Mine are all boring, done it, been there. - Hey, lke.

When are you guys gonna stop waking me up every morning?

- When your column stops putting me to sleep. - Oh, funny, funny.

- Yo, Jonah! - Fisher, come on. Are you really not there?

All right, cool. I'll talk to you later.

Excuse me. Uh, I'm thinking of doing an article about limousines.

What do you think about people...

- Who've never been in one? - Sorry, I don't know people like that.

I just need someone to bounce some ideas off of and get the juices flowing.

I got one hour, 27 minutes, 52 seconds.

When are you gonna put me in a column?

When your t-shirts stop shrinking. Woman: Shrinks?

- Funny, funny. He's kidding. He's just kidding. - Aw, forget it.

Here, give me $5. Give me $2. Woman: No way.

Folks, I got nice shirts here. Look!

"I love everybody. You're next."

I promise you that love won't be easy

I promise you there'll be times apart

when we're apart

but I swear that it comes from my heart

so, what's in store for us in tomorrow's column?

I don't know yet.

I'm kind of a last-minute man.

You know, until an hour or two before deadline, I don't get any ideas.

Woman: So you get your ideas for your column from life.

Start up a conversation with a woman in a bar, attack her dart playing...

And try to get a rise out of her while you contemplate...

- Wwhether or not she's worth hitting on. - No, I can't hit on you until I get an idea.

Oh.

That's flattering. Ike: No, no, you don't understand.

I understand. See, my not responding to you baiting me...

Will inspire one of those bitter diatribes you like to write about women.

Ike: I don't write bitter diatribes about women.

- Oh, ho. - Very often.

- I could. - Heh. Only when the ideas aren't flowing, huh?

It's so nice to meet you, one-minute man.

It's last-minute man. “Whatever.

Wanna hear something funny? For a good-looking guy...

You strike out a lot. Have you noticed that?

Kevin: I bet it's your ex-wife. George: Excuse me.

I've seen much worse.

Kevin: No, ike's not here.

I say, I've seen much worse.

Kevin: I'll tell him when he comes in. - Excuse me?

The brush-off.

I've withessed far more.

Treacherous and nefarious exits than that.

At least she castigated you in private.

Not as private as I thought. Kevin, got some napkins there?

- Wiping or writing? - I'll let you know.

They love you. They hate you.

They're hot. They're cold.

- They're high. They're low. - They're up. They're down.

This is fun making a list with you, but I do have a column to write.

- Ike. - But you have yet to find a really superb idea.

There's a girl from my hometown that you could write about.

Excuse me, but we don't need any ideas.

George: She likes to dump grooms right at the altar.

They call her the "runaway bride."

She's performed the travesty seven or eight times.

Turns around, runs like hell. Bolts, adios.

Plows down the aisle, knocking old ladies out of her way...

Llke the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

And guess what! She's got the next victim all lined up.

She's turning another body on the spit.

Ike: Okay, italics, here we go.

Today is a day of profound introspection.

I have been accused of using this column to direct bitter diatribes at the opposite sex.

This uncomfortable accusation.

Has plunged me into at least 15 minutes of serious reflection.

From which I have emerged with the conclusion.

That, yes, I traffic in female stereotypes.

"But how can one blame me when every time I step out my front door..."

I meet fresh proof that the female archetypes are alive and well?

The mother, the virgin, the whore, the crone.

They're elbowing you in the subway, stealing your cabs...

"And overwhelming you with perfume in elevators."

"But perhaps in fairness to the fairer sex...

I do need to broaden my horizon and add some new goddesses to the pantheon."

"I would like to nominate for deity, ah, the cheerleader, the coed and the man-eater...

The last of which concerns me most today."

"In ancient Greece, this fearsome female was known as erinys..."

The devouring death goddess.

In India, she is Kali, who likes to devour her boyfriend Shiva's entrails...

While her yoni devours his... Dot, dot, dot. Never mind.

"In Indonesia, the bloody-jawed man-eater is called ragma."

You notice these are all countries without cable.

"And in hale, Maryland...

Where she helps run the family hardware store...

She is known as miss Maggie carpenter, a.K.A. The runaway bride."

"What is unusual about miss carpenter...

Is that she likes to dress her men up as grooms before she devours them."

One antique hot-water handle with the "hot" still on it.

Guaranteed to fit any American standard cast-iron tub...

With a four-inch center mount made between 1924 and 1938

in other words, Mr. Paxton, I think you are out of the doghouse with Mrs. Paxton.

- Hallelujah! - See you later. I'll put it on your charge.

You know, there's a possibility she hasn't seen this yet.

I mean, maybe she just hasn't picked up a paper. Know what I mean?

Or not. Earl: Maggie?

Earl, you don't need an air conditioner. You need an attic fan.

There's more in the back, huh?

Hey.

What?

So, mag, you've seen this, huh?

Yes, I've seen it.

And it is the rudest.

Most offensive

joke anyone has ever played on me!

You guys, how long did this take you? Where did you get it done?

You're both creeps, by the way. I should disinvite you.

Maggie, you told us no bachelorette jokes, so we didn't.

Holy moly.

Bag. Bag. Pressman: She's going. She's gonna go.

Peggy: Here's the bag. Breathe!

Man: And on the local front, our town of hale, Maryland...

Is still buzzing about the less-than-flattering article...

About their native daughter Maggie carpenter.

Her bridal exploits were taken to task by New York columnist lke Graham in usa today.

Mr Graham called her...

Maggie: Dear editor, greetings from the sticks.

Perhaps you believe that a rural education is focused mainly...

On hog calling and tractor maintenance rather than reading.

Why else would you print a piece of fiction about me and call it fact?

I suppose Mr. Graham was too busy thinking up slanderous statements...

About how I dump men for kicks to bother with something silly like accuracy in reporting.

Which is understandable, because with a man-eater like me on the loose.

Who has time to check facts?

- Frances, lunch today? - No, I'm going to the bank.

- Ike: Sure? - Sorry, lke.

All right.

- I'm gonna put in a good word for you. - No, don't mention my name.

Maggie: That's why I was surprised to find Mr. Graham's editor was a woman.

Call me a sentimental fool, but I hoped we man-eaters could stick together.

"Anyway, just dropping you big-city folk this little note

to say that I have thought of a ritual sacrifice that would satisfy my current appetite:

Ike Graham's column on a platter.

- Yours truly, Maggie carpenter. - Heh

p.s. I have enclosed a list of the gross factual misrepresentations in your article.

"There are 15."

Ike: Funny. I like her.

She's got spunk. Ellie: Ike, look.

She sent us this list. Our lawyers say it's actionable.

I left you four messages. You don't return my calls.

So? I never returned your calls, even when we were married.

What's Fisher doing here?

Oh, Ellie asked me to come down to offer moral support.

Ike: Since when does Ellie need moral support?

It's for you, lke.

What? What?

Journalism lesson number one:

If you fabricate your facts, you get fired.

Lesson number two: Never work for your former spouse.

That has nothing to do with it. You cooked this story up, and you know it!

I did not cook anything up. I had a source.

Someone reliable? Some boozehound in a bar?

In vino veritas.

Hey, hey, hey. Don't knock drunk guys in bars. It means they're not driving.

Besides, I am a columnist.

This is what columnists are supposed to do. It's what you like.

We push, we stretch, we go out on a limb. That's what makes me good.

No, that's what makes you unemployed.

All right. Let's consider that my wrist has been slapped.

There. Slap it. Go ahead, just...

Slap my wrist. That's done.

Just give me a call when you feel that I've served my time, and move on.

This is permanent, lke.

If you go quietly, I'll get you severance pay.

Elaine: I'm sorry, lke.

Maggie: Bob? Honey? Bob: In the kitchen!

Honey, she canned him! Honey?

Bob, she canned him!

- Yeah! What are you talking about? - Listen, it's in the paper.

- Try this on first. - Okay.

- I wanna read it to you, so come over this way. - Okay.

Ready? "Dear Maggie carpenter:

I apologize to you for this unfortunate matter."

Here it is. "Ike Graham's column will no longer be appearing in this paper."

Best of luck in your upcoming marriage.”

Okay, this is the weight of the pack you'll carry in the him a lay as.

- You let me know if it's too heavy. - Okay.

Whoa. Aah!

- A little, yeah. Yeah, a little heavy, baby. - Ha, ha.

Ike: Hi it's me. Leave a message after the beep.

If you want to leave a fax, buy me a fax machine.

Fisher: Ike, Fisher.

Get up. I can turn this runaway bride story around.

I'm doing a photo spread for gq today by the conveyor belt.

Meet me. I'll save your tush.

Since I do freelance stuff for gq now, I have an idea.

What are you saying?

Vindication. How would you like some?

A chance to prove that although your story wasn't entirely factual, your theory was correct.

- The real story on miss carpenter. - All the gory details.

Ike: Mm-hm, mm-hm.

Fisher: And if she runs again, you got a cover story.

Here you go. Right upstairs to the left.

Thanks. How late's the restaurant open?