Diamonds Are Expensive
You run out the building, flag down a taxi, go to the airport and jump on the first flight to the Bahamas that there is, all in a few seconds of good camerawork and editing.
The stewardess is running up and down the aisle serving drinks. She comes up to your seat.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asks, so sweet she could give you diabetis.
"Yes. Martini, stirred, not shaken. Uh - I mean - shaken, not stirred! Damn!" you never get that line right! Bond made it look so easy...
"I'm sorry, we only sell some domestic beers and wines." She hands you a list.
"Oh, in that case, I'll have a Guinness," you say.
She takes the list away and hurries away.
You stare out the window and think. Not thinking about anything in particular.
Just thinking...
The stewardess returns with your beer. It's in a can. You don't like cans. They're not as good as bottles. Not as good taste. It's not as fresh. Being cooped up in a shell of aluminium isn't good for beer.
You open the can anyway and take a swig, thank the stewardess, and slump down in your seat. You can hear the pilot talking over the tannoy about landing in the Bahamas, but you're not consentrating. There's something not quite right about your beer. It tastes funny. Not funny as in Homer-Simpson-Haha-look-at-that funny. Funny as in not good. Different. Sleepy...
Wait a minute... How can beer taste sleepy. Ah, it's not important. You're just sleepy back and... What? Somethings sleepy... What? Sleepy... sleepy... sleepy... sl-
The plane is coming in for the landing.
The stewardess is running up and down the aisle serving drinks. She comes up to your seat.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asks, so sweet she could give you diabetis.
"Yes. Martini, stirred, not shaken. Uh - I mean - shaken, not stirred! Damn!" you never get that line right! Bond made it look so easy...
"I'm sorry, we only sell some domestic beers and wines." She hands you a list.
"Oh, in that case, I'll have a Guinness," you say.
She takes the list away and hurries away.
You stare out the window and think. Not thinking about anything in particular.
Just thinking...
The stewardess returns with your beer. It's in a can. You don't like cans. They're not as good as bottles. Not as good taste. It's not as fresh. Being cooped up in a shell of aluminium isn't good for beer.
You open the can anyway and take a swig, thank the stewardess, and slump down in your seat. You can hear the pilot talking over the tannoy about landing in the Bahamas, but you're not consentrating. There's something not quite right about your beer. It tastes funny. Not funny as in Homer-Simpson-Haha-look-at-that funny. Funny as in not good. Different. Sleepy...
Wait a minute... How can beer taste sleepy. Ah, it's not important. You're just sleepy back and... What? Somethings sleepy... What? Sleepy... sleepy... sleepy... sl-
The plane is coming in for the landing.
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