XPost: alt.tv.mst3k   
   From: nebusj-@-rpi-.edu   
      
   [ SEASON SEVEN opening credits. ]   
      
   [ 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... ]   
      
   [ SATELLITE OF LOVE.  Desk.  MIKE is reading the SATELLITE NEWS;   
   	CROW and TOM carrying bags slung over their shoulders enter.   
   	The bags are full of greeting cards. ]   
      
     TOM: [ Hesitantly ] Ahem?   
    CROW: [ Coughing ] Um ... uh ...   
     TOM: [ Nervous, once MIKE, perhaps unwisely, looks up ] Ah, good day   
   	or evening sir and/or ma'am?   
    CROW: [ Also as a frightened child ] And with the upcoming seasons of   
   	seasonal greetings with calling for celebrations of seasonal   
   	greetings to be given out around the holiday seasoning ...   
     TOM: [ To CROW ] You're skipping, let me!  [ To MIKE ] And for only   
   	twenty cents per card on certain deals you can have a customized   
   	and personal message for convenient home delivery?   
    MIKE: [ Patiently putting down the newspaper ]  Oh, let's see.  Tom?   
   	Crow?  Trying to build an economy on me sending cards to you,   
   	Crow, and Gypsy for Christmas?   
     TOM: Not merely for Christmas mister and/or missus Mike but for any of   
   	the holidays you can send out cards for.   
    MIKE: So I could send my wishes to the three of you for any holiday that   
   	I felt like?   
    CROW: Our fine line of finely lined cards are open to many interpretative   
   	holiday acts.   
    MIKE: Ah-huh.  So you're actually getting me set for the New Jersey Big   
   	Sea Day, and not just, oh, running some thing where Doctor and   
   	Mrs Forrester get you to swipe my meager paycheck for a promise   
   	of delivery of cards about three months after I forget I ever   
   	wanted any at all?   
      
      
   [ DEEP 13.  DR FORRESTER and PEARL FORRESTER are squinting into the camera. ]   
      
    DR.F: Mother, they're on to us!   
   PEARL: Clayton, go deep, break left, watch for the long pass.   
   [ DR FORRESTER runs to the far end of Deep 13. ]   
   PEARL: All right, if we can't get you on cards ... [ She punches several   
   	miscellaneous buttons as DR FORRESTER prances back and forth in   
   	the background ] ... We'll get you *cookies*!   
    DR.F: I'm open!   
   [ PEARL grabs a piece of Deep 13-crusted camera gear and tosses it at   
   	DR FORRESTER, who catches it, knocking him over. ]   
      
      
   [ SATELLITE OF LOVE.  MIKE is staring at the camera while TOM and CROW   
   	bump one another's card bags. ]   
      
    MIKE: ... the heck?   
      
   [ MOVIE SIGN starts up. ]   
      
     ALL: Aaaah!  Movie sign!   
     TOM: I want cookies!   
      
      
   [ 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1.. ]   
      
      
   [ ALL enter the theater. ]   
      
   >         Imagine!   
      
     TOM: Now stop imagining!  Settle!  Now rationalize your settling!   
      
   >                   Your Christmas Greeting Inside a Chinese Fortune   
   > Cooky!   
      
    MIKE: A `cooky'?   
    CROW: What a kookie idea.   
      
   >   
   >         Your Friends will be Amazed and Delighted   
      
     TOM: You know, the way people are often amazed by fortune cookies.   
      
   >                                                   When They Open this   
   > Gay Attractive Package   
      
    CROW: What, in public?!   
      
   >                        And See Your Personalized Greeting   
      
    MIKE: Even now their eyes are rolling and they're sighing patiently   
   	at your kookieness.   
      
   >   
   >         Think of it!   
      
     TOM: Keep thinking of it, until you have a good idea instead.   
      
   >                       Just picture this scene, taking place in each of   
   > your friends' homes!   
      
    CROW: OK, we have a place, now, we need professions.   
     TOM: Dentists!   
    CROW: OK, a bunch of dentists at a friend's home and what are they   
   	there for?   
    MIKE: Elvis impersonations!   
    CROW: Elvis-impersonating dentists at a friend's home, there's our   
   	scene, let's go!   
      
   >   
   >         Approximately one or two weeks before Christmas this year,   
   > your friends' doorbell rings!   
      
     TOM: Sure, like your friends even know people who *ring* doorbells.   
    MIKE: That doesn't even mean anything, Tom.   
     TOM: Er ... hush.   
      
   >                                There, in the hands of their postman,   
      
    CROW: It's a letter in the bag for me!   
      
   > along with the usual run of ordinary Christmas cards, is something   
   > completely different   
      
     TOM: It's a Christmas Belgian Waffle!   
      
   >                      --- a small, cardboard Christmas container, with   
   > their name and address on the front, but with no other   
   > identification!   
      
    MIKE: Immediately the bomb squad is called in.   
      
   >   
   >         The ordinary cards are tossed aside!   
      
     TOM: The recipients panic, wrecking their home while fleeing!   
      
   >                                               Eyes focus on this   
   > mysterious container as your friends slip it apart!   
      
    CROW: Your cookies are detonated at a secure facility in Utah!   
      
   >                                                      And just picture   
   > the expression on their faces when they draw out of that container a   
   > lovely Christmas Ornament Box   
      
    MIKE: A Box?  Why, that's even better than being *loved*!   
      
   >                               --- with its brilliant red braided silk   
   > string to hang it on their tree   
      
     TOM: Murray, you're supposed to hang it on the Christmas tree, not   
   	the diseased elm out back.   
      
   >                                 --- with the year 1962 in blazing red   
   > numerals on its face   
      
    CROW: The moldy, rotted remains of ancient cookies on the inside.   
      
   >                      --- with its sides and bottom covered with gay   
   > white, red, yellow and brown Christmas figures   
      
     TOM: That certainly don't reflect dopey old-time casual racist   
   	stereotypes so stop bracing for that shoe to drop.   
      
   >                                                --- and with its top   
   > printed with the command, in red letters, to ``OPEN ME HERE''!   
      
    MIKE: OR SUFFER MY MIGHTY COOKIE WRATH!   
      
   >                                                                 As   
   > your friends open that top, as they peer into the inside of that   
   > beautiful little Christmas box   
      
    CROW: .. as they free the unimaginable cookie spirits within ...   
      
   >                                --- what they see is a Chinese Fortune   
   > Cooky --- the eternal symbol of good luck, good fortune and long-lived   
   > happiness!   
      
     TOM: That were invented around 1910.   
    CROW: By Japanese immigrants.   
    MIKE: To San Francisco.   
     TOM: That's kind of eternal, right?   
      
   >   
   >   
   >                 ON YOUR TREE   
      
    MIKE: ON YOUR TREES, EVERYONE!  This is *not* a cookie drill!   
      
   >                              --- a Gift for Every Friend and Neighbor!   
      
    CROW: For up to four friends or neighbors.   
      
   >                 Hang your tree with colorful ornaments that become Gay   
      
     TOM: Wouldn't a cookie drill just break?   
    MIKE: Huh?   
      
   >                 Greeting Gifts when neighbors and children drop in   
   >                 this Holiday Season.   
      
    CROW: But the holiday is Von Steuben Day.   
     TOM: I mean as soon as you tried drilling something with it.  Cookies   
   	are fragile.   
    MIKE: Thanks for being on top of that, Tom.   
      
   >   
   >         And when they break open that Fortune Cooky, there, inside,   
      
    CROW: Is the bomb!   
      
   > individually printed on colored Christmas paper, is your personal   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)