Enter Mr. Long, harried and incompetent newspaper adviser.
LONG
A scribe! A scribe! My kingdom for a scribe!
I would I had tied them to the stake that, bearlike,
They might fightst the course, and do pages.
And wherefore should this layout not make me sick?
Will editors never come with both hands full
Of copy, with words, however foul they be?
‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
Enter two co-workers, RosenSandberg and GuildenSalter.
ROSENSANDBERG
(eating an apple) Nobody here, huh? That sucks.
LONG
Will you shog off? I would not have thou solus.
And God defend but still I should stand so,
So long as out of limit and true rule
Editors stand against anointed teachers.
GUILDENSALTER
(typing on his iPhone)
You need to whip those kids into shape.
LONG
Good pub labs have oft borne bad sons.
Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.
I’ll send them straight away: tomorrow
I’ll to the lab, they to their pages of sorrow.
GUILDENSALTER
Go to your chamber yourself. I have a haircut appointment.
Exeunt.
