THE PLOT: In a bistro in Paris a young woman (A) tells her three girlfriends (B, C, and D) about the affair she had with an American tourist, who returned home promising to write, and hasn't. It's been over two weeks; something must have happened to him. (She has just learned she is carrying his child, but she doesn't tell her friends.) B tells her to call him; C to e-mail him; D to forget all about him. Enter a fat American couple; each of them has a different speech impediment. They order food. The man chokes. A performs the Heimlich maneuver on him, and saves his life.

WOMB BLOOM
Andrew Mohel

"OH, OTTO! Otto!" Moll sobs. "Otto's lost!"

Flo: "Who's Otto?"

Roz knows: "Otto Wong from Hong Kong."

"No!" Moll sobs, "not Otto from Hong Kong. Dr. Otto O'Connor from Johnstown, CO."

Joy: "Wow. Doctor O'Connor."

"Oh!" Moll sobs. "Oh! Oh! Otto! Dr. Otto O'Connor from Johnstown, CO, golf jock, so strong, so posh! Otto, Otto, Moll's lord, Moll's groom, bloom of Moll's womb!"

"Oh, cool down, Moll," Joy snorts. "So Otto from Johnstown's lost. Tosh! Otto from Hong Kong's no ghost."

"Joy, stop," Flo growls. "Wong, world's worst snob, won't bow down to smooch Moll's foot. Moll's boys smooch bottoms too."

Moll frowns. Nor Joy nor Flo nor Roz knows how golf jocks of Dr. O'Connor's sort woo--how Johnstown Otto cooks for Moll, how Otto croons, so slow, so soft, for Moll....

"Moll," Roz snorts, "log on to post, jot down words for Otto: 'Don't prolong Moll's loss.' "

"Or go to yon T-booth," Joy snorts, "to scold doctor Otto."

"Stop!" Flo snorts. "Don't stoop so low, Moll. Drop Otto."

Bob, Jo, two gross slobs from Socorro, NM, plod to Booth No. Two. "Boy!" bold Bob booms. "Bgot bforg?"

Boy: "No frog, Bob. Go for borscht."

Bob: "Bno. Borscht's bfor bmorons. Bgot bcod?"

Boy: "No cod, Bob. Go for pork chops."

Bob: "BO.K. Bpork bchops bfor Bob; btwo bowls bof borscht bfor Bjo."

Bob's food's slow to show. Not Jo's. Ho! Ho! Jo scoops spoons of borscht. "Ohb, sob goodb," Jo coos.

Bob drools. Bob'll swoon soon. "Bjo?" coos Bob. "Bgot btwo bspoons bof borscht bfor Bob?"

"Stopb, foolb!" Jo snorts. "Bob's foodb'll showb soonb!"

Oh, now Bob's pork chops loom. "Blo!" booms Bob, "Bob's bchow!" Chop-chop Bob wolfs down both pork chops.

Jo: "Gob slowb, Bob!"

Bob: "Bno!"

Oh no: oh horror! Bob's pork chops go down Bob's wrong slot, clog Bob's gob.

"Bob!" Jo howls. "SOSb! SOSb! Boyb! Boyb! Gotb prongbs? Bob'll soonb gob coldb!"

Moll bolts forth. Strong Moll holds Bob's jowls, prods Bob's torso. Bob poops. Jo mops Bob's poop, for Jo's no slob. Moll prods, holds, prods, holds, so (oh Lord!) Bob's pork chops shoot off, plop onto Jo's two bowls of borsht.