(Scene: The Heavenly Real Estate Office.)
The Landlord is cheerily rounding up a covey of blazing comets that have skittered under Queen Cassiopeia's chair. His business agent, Mr. Gabriel, enters, his Golden Trumpet in one hand and more reports from the tiny planet Earth in the other.)
THE Landlord: (to the comets) Come out from under there, you little scamps, before you set that whole galaxy on fire.
Gabriel: Excuse me, Sir, another batch of Prayer grams from your most devout Christians.
Landlord: (waving a hand) Whatever they want, Gabriel. Now where did those frisky little devils get to?
Gabriel: Yes, sir, they want you to evict 10 percent of your tenants down there. (raising the Golden Trumpet) I've never attempted a partial eviction. Shall I try?
Landlord: (looking up) What 10 percent, Gabriel?
Gabriel: The Gays, sir. Your devout Christians say they've done their utmost to keep them out of their schools, their offices, their churches and their lives, but without success. So their Prayer grams ask you to remove them from the face of the Earth.
The Landlord: By me, Gabriel, that doesn't sound very Christian. I thought they were supposed to love their neighbors.
Gabriel: Oh, they do, sir, if their neighbors are of the same color, economic bracket and sexual orientation.
The Landlord: But what harm do these gay people do?
Gabriel: I'm afraid your not seeing the big picture, sir. Gays simply don't fit into your grand design. You know, two by two, male and female? Generation after generation? The fact of the matter is that gays simply don't procreate.
The Landlord: I thought there was enough procreation down there already.
Gabriel: And they commit unspeakable acts.
The Landlord: Murder? Torture? Paving over my mountain meadows?
Gabriel: Unspeakable sexual acts, sir.
The Landlord: Ah, you mean they express their love for each other in different ways.
Gabriel: (annoyed) Really, sir, if these people were automobiles, they'd be recalled in at once. They're clearly defective.
The Landlord: (frowning) Defective, Gabriel?
Gabriel: Exactly, sir. Some essential part is missing, some vital drive is malfunctioning. Bungled wiring, a loose screw... who knows?
The Landlord: But clearly they are examples of shoddy workmanship?
Gabriel: Oh definitely, sir. And they certainly don't deserve to clutter up your little blue-green jewel of a planet a minute longer. (raising his trumpet again) Shall I evict them now?
The Landlord: (slowly) And who made these imperfect products, Gabriel?
Gabriel: Why, you did, of course, but... (he lowers the trumpet in sudden consternation) Good you, sir, I didn't mean to blaspheme. You will forgive them then?
The Landlord: (smiling) A wise philosopher said long ago, Gabriel, that if I made these sinners, it is not I who should forgive them, but they who should forgive me.
Gabriel: Well, I'm sure the gays will be glad to hear of your tolerance and generosity, sir.
The Landlord: The gays? I was talking about my most devout Christians.
The Landlord is cheerily rounding up a covey of blazing comets that have skittered under Queen Cassiopeia's chair. His business agent, Mr. Gabriel, enters, his Golden Trumpet in one hand and more reports from the tiny planet Earth in the other.)
THE Landlord: (to the comets) Come out from under there, you little scamps, before you set that whole galaxy on fire.
Gabriel: Excuse me, Sir, another batch of Prayer grams from your most devout Christians.
Landlord: (waving a hand) Whatever they want, Gabriel. Now where did those frisky little devils get to?
Gabriel: Yes, sir, they want you to evict 10 percent of your tenants down there. (raising the Golden Trumpet) I've never attempted a partial eviction. Shall I try?
Landlord: (looking up) What 10 percent, Gabriel?
Gabriel: The Gays, sir. Your devout Christians say they've done their utmost to keep them out of their schools, their offices, their churches and their lives, but without success. So their Prayer grams ask you to remove them from the face of the Earth.
The Landlord: By me, Gabriel, that doesn't sound very Christian. I thought they were supposed to love their neighbors.
Gabriel: Oh, they do, sir, if their neighbors are of the same color, economic bracket and sexual orientation.
The Landlord: But what harm do these gay people do?
Gabriel: I'm afraid your not seeing the big picture, sir. Gays simply don't fit into your grand design. You know, two by two, male and female? Generation after generation? The fact of the matter is that gays simply don't procreate.
The Landlord: I thought there was enough procreation down there already.
Gabriel: And they commit unspeakable acts.
The Landlord: Murder? Torture? Paving over my mountain meadows?
Gabriel: Unspeakable sexual acts, sir.
The Landlord: Ah, you mean they express their love for each other in different ways.
Gabriel: (annoyed) Really, sir, if these people were automobiles, they'd be recalled in at once. They're clearly defective.
The Landlord: (frowning) Defective, Gabriel?
Gabriel: Exactly, sir. Some essential part is missing, some vital drive is malfunctioning. Bungled wiring, a loose screw... who knows?
The Landlord: But clearly they are examples of shoddy workmanship?
Gabriel: Oh definitely, sir. And they certainly don't deserve to clutter up your little blue-green jewel of a planet a minute longer. (raising his trumpet again) Shall I evict them now?
The Landlord: (slowly) And who made these imperfect products, Gabriel?
Gabriel: Why, you did, of course, but... (he lowers the trumpet in sudden consternation) Good you, sir, I didn't mean to blaspheme. You will forgive them then?
The Landlord: (smiling) A wise philosopher said long ago, Gabriel, that if I made these sinners, it is not I who should forgive them, but they who should forgive me.
Gabriel: Well, I'm sure the gays will be glad to hear of your tolerance and generosity, sir.
The Landlord: The gays? I was talking about my most devout Christians.
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