I just saw the most horrible film short. It starts with, believe it or not, not one, but
two singing boards of directors. Both boards head waffle-iron companies, one with a young male president and one with a young female president (they're both family businesses). These two youthful waffle titans have fallen in love and plan to merge both their families and their companies.
One night, as they're canoodling by the fire, the Waffle Princess, Miss Foster, says to the Waffle Prince, Mr. Wright (ha. ha.), that she can't believe she's going to be the last Foster in waffle irons now that she's leaving the business to be a housewife. She asks him, what they should name the waffle iron their combined company will produce? "Anything you want, sweetie," of course he says. So she suggests "The Perfect Circle." He replies, "Well, it's a fine name, but it might seem kind of silly since the iron's square!"
"Square? But we produce round irons!"
"Well, you did, but the new company will make my family's irons, and they're square!"
They get in a big fight over the shape the irons should be, and she ends up leaving him, calling off both the marriage and the merger.
Now don't go getting the idea that we've gotten to the worst part of this little production. Sure, it's a ridiculous thing to fight about -- good grief, the company could just produce
both shapes. There's obviously a market for both, considering both companies have thrived until now independently.
At any rate, depressed Mr. Wright walks around town and comes across an Indian fire-eater, called throughout the short "the Hindoo." (I spell it in such a way as I know from my Asian American Lit class that that's how they would have, so let's just hammer the point of their ignorance home.) Later that night, as the stereotypical saucy diner waitress says, the "Hindoo" "must have sneezed" because he sets his little sideshow booth on fire. With all his worldly possessions turned to ash, the policeman finally has an excuse to arrest him -- for vagrancy. Nice way to kick a man while he's down.
As saucy diner waitress marvels at the "Hindoo's" ability to stand on hot coals, Mr. Wright pulls a whole dollar out of his pocket and tells the police officer, "Here, go give this to him. Now he has money so you can't arrest him!" As the policeman silently curses Mr. Wright for ruining the upcoming Fire Prevention Week (no joke), our smug Waffle Prince walks off.
Once he gets to his car, he finds the "Hindoo" has followed him. He gives Mr. Wright back his dollar and tells him in an exaggerated accent (surely doubly accented by his face paint) that he is now the Waffle Prince's slave. When asked why, he spouts some nonsense about how Mr. Wright's kindness must be repaid by him buttering the bread of his helper with the margarine of retribution or something. There was butter, bread and margarine in there somewhere. To stop the Waffle Prince from climbing into his car with a patronizing laugh, the "Hindoo" offers him a light from the end of his fire-spouting flute. "Hey, you might come in handy!" Mr. Wright says, forgetting his earlier self-righteous declaration that Lincoln freed the slaves.
Cut to Mr. Wright's bedroom, with him sprawled across a double bed in deep sleep and with the "Hindoo" sitting cross-legged on top of the dresser. Oh so cozy. The "Hindoo" toots his flute to wake Mr. Wright, and then for some reason causes a scrawny apple tree to grow out of the middle of the Waffle Prince's bed. I almost feel sorry for his feet. But I still don't believe his casual declarations of misery at the loss of his fianceé. The "Hindoo" comes up with a plan to both win back the Waffle Princess and -- here's the best part, Waffle Prince! -- send sales of square waffle irons through the roof!
The brilliant plan? TO BURY HIM ALIVE! Which boils down to putting Mr. Wright in his best tux in a glass-sided coffin so that all the ladies can walk by in the special tunnel and sigh over him. Wouldn't you know it, all those lovesick housewives go out and buy square waffle irons, sending the sales of circular irons plunging. In fact, not a single person buys a circular iron during Mr. Wright's burial, sending the line on the board's graph off the chart.
Fourteen days later, with his tux not a bit rumpled and no signs of starvation, dehydration or bed sores, he gives a live broadcast from his tomb, singing a love song to his fianceé (or perhaps more accurately, all those lonely waffle-iron buyers). Of course, instead of becoming even more righteously ticked off at her manipulative former fiancé, making her look like a shrew and ruining her business while his company reaps the benefits, she starts turning into a romantic puddle, asking her board members if she should really give up her business and being assured that a woman's place is in the home.
Fortunately, some of Miss Foster's board members aren't there simply to knock off the president of the company. These heroes rush in, having discovered an obscure law that will save the day and allow the company to survive until they can put on a big exhibit at the world's fair. They all march off to see "Romeo," as a restored Miss Foster sarcastically puts it, and declare to him that he can only remain buried if he agrees to be embalmed.
Here we get another montage of newspaper clips, showing the round waffle iron's success at the fair. Since this is an old film, and a musical no less, the requisite dance scene comes next. A couple dancing on an enormous, round waffle iron. Round waffle iron sales, naturally, are going through the roof. And into this moment of triumph who should walk but Mr. Wright, rudely heckling the M.C. through his third or fifth cigarette of this short picture.
To prove his waffle irons don't suffer from "cold corners," he has his slave walk across a row of round waffle irons without missing a beat. Then he brings out one of his trademark Foursquare waffle irons -- which, wouldn't you know it, are rectangular, having only two squares -- and askes the "Hindoo" to stand on it. Meanwhile, Miss Foster is steaming as much as the waffle irons. But back to the test. Do I have to say it? The slave won't step on the "square" iron. Too hot! he vows.
Miss Foster jumps up. "I'll give you $500 to stand on this iron!" she says. The "Hindoo" gasps and babbles about how many wives he could support with that much money in his "homeland." The Waffle Princess doubles the reward offer, and the man's eyes light up at the prospect of 20 wives. He lifts his foot, holds it over the iron ... and doesn't put it down. It is too hot! he says, his head down but his eyes glancing up knowingly at the Waffle Prince.
Mr. Wright asks the audience, "Now what waffle iron would you want? The Magic Circle?" The audience members all turn to each other and shake their heads determinedly at the prospect of buying something from the Waffle Princess. "Now what about the Foursquare?" Cheers, and Mr. Wright declares victory and walks offstage.
Does Miss Foster cry? Does she rage, does she rant? Does she slap that lowdown, cocky scoundrel?
No. No! She starts
singing the song he sang on his manipulative broadcast. Mr. Wright turns back, they kiss and the show's over. Guess women just need to be shown they're stupid and inferior a few times and then they'll give up their wonderful lives and love chauvinists forever.
I just comfort myself by thinking Mr. Wright's chain-smoking will probably cause him to contract a number of diseases and die in short order.
