The Real Q -- An ET Speaks Out.

CROW: (sighs)

GYPSY: (sighs)

MIKE: (sighs)

[More time passes without comment.]

MIKE: Ah, ennui.

CROW: All life is ennui.

GYPSY: All ennui is life.

[More silence, then another round of sighs. At this point, Tom Servo
enters the picture, humming a cheerful tune.]

TOM: Zippedy do dah, zippedy... hey, guys! Great day today, huh?

MIKE: (looks up at Tom and sighs).

CROW: It is not a great day. It is a day of ennui.

GYPSY: Ennui.

MIKE, CROW & GYPSY: (collective sigh).

TOM: Not at all! The Satellite just swung around to the day side of Earth!
The sun's shining on the hull of the ship! Birds are chirping!
People laughing! Bishops singing!

M.V.: Commercial sign in thirty seconds. (sighs).

MIKE: Ennui.

CROW: Ennui.

GYPSY: Ennui.

TOM: Now, I told you this would happen if you watched too many French

movies! There's only one course of action: watch Jim Varney movies
until you cheer up!

CROW: The cure's worse than the disease, isn't it?

M.V.: Commercial sign now. Ennui.

[Mike lacklusterly hits the button. Commercials happen. We return to the
SoL to find Mike, Gypsy and Crow are feeling considerably more cheerful,
and are throwing confetti about and blowing on kazoos. Tom Servo, on the
other hand, is now wearing a thin mustache and a beret, and seems to be
moping.]

MIKE: Hey, everyone, welcome back to the Satellite of Love, I'm Mike
Nelson, and these are my pals Gypsy, Crow T. Robot and Tom Servo...

TOM: Ennui.

CROW: We're over it, Tom. Why aren't you?

TOM: Well, I'm someone who likes going against trends.

MIKE: Huh? [Light starts flashing.] Uh oh, Dragos is calling.

[Mike hits the button, and the scene shifts to Deep 13, where Dr. Forrester
is working on his taxes. He looks up and frowns.]

FORRESTER: Ah, there you are, boobies. You've caught me at a bad time.
Auditors will be showing up in a few moments, and I've got to finish
this false ledger which shows how deeply in the red I'm supposed to
be, according to my recently-filed tax form.

[SoL.]

MIKE: You know, that's one of the few advantages of being stuck out here
in space -- I don't have to file taxes.

[Deep 13.]

FORRESTER: Oh, yes you do, Nelson! According to my books, I've been paying
you minimum wage ever since Frank and I shot you up there. Mind you,
it's only an expense on paper -- I actually used the money to buy this
new electron particle accelerator. [Points to particle accelerator,
which takes up most of the set behind him.] Of course, to afford it,
I had to skimp on a few things, like healthy food, a proper oxygen
supply, running water.

[SoL.]

CROW: So that's why we haven't been getting those items either.

[Deep 13.]

FORRESTER: Either? What do you mean 'either'? I'll have you know I've
been living high on the hog at your expense. And to show my

gratitude, I'm going to be sending you your latest experiment: "The
Real Q: An ET Speaks Out." It's a pain-fest of pseudo-superior-alien-
culture drivel mixed with heavy amounts of patronization and a large
dosage of implausibility. But first, more from your friend and mine,
Robert McElwaine. A little ditty entitled..."Physical FORCE: What It
REALLY IS." Have a taste of the dark side, Brian!

[Forrester pushes the button. Switch to SoL, where usenet sign goes off.]

MIKE: We've got usenet siiiiiign!

[Mike slaps the button and he and the bots head for the theater.
1...2...3...4...5...6.]

MIKE: Math works?

TOM: Not in McElwaine's case.

CROW: Hey, they're dissing Pitch!

MIKE: No, that's Patch. Completely different demon.

CROW: Really?

TOM: Yeah yeah, we know...

MIKE: And his dog Floofy!

CROW: Is it bigger than a breadbox?

TOM: Is it known for its work in the theater?

MIKE: The scary part is, this is more coherent than the body of the
message.

TOM: When do you think they'll release MIME '95?

MIKE: Does it work on Her Majesty's Secret Service?

CROW: What's its purpose? What's its function? Can I have one for my
luncheon?

TOM: It's where you hit the ball back to the pitcher so that he has to
throw to first base to get you out, while the other runners move up.

MIKE: No, that's a sacrifice bunt.

CROW: It speeds Pope John Paul II up until he sounds like Alvin the
Chipmunk.

ALL: Fffff-maaaaa. Ffffff-maaaaa. FFFMA!

TOM: Use the pseudo-force, Luke!

CROW: And the force you experience after eating five beef and bean burritos
at your local pseudo-Mexican-fast-food place.

MIKE: I motion that we stuff McElwaine in a dufflebag!

TOM: I second that!

CROW: I third that!

CROW: General Unified Theory, who once led NATO in the Cold War.

TOM: You mean Munson Honeydew, don't you?

CROW: So, in other words, you really have no idea.

MIKE: It can be all of these things and more!

TOM: Insert bawdy joke here.

MIKE: I don't know if rotational vibrators are available in the States yet.
You might have to go to the Netherlands for that.

CROW: And it has to have a Universal Translator, too... I think.

TOM: Which can be reduced in just a week, simply by enjoying two delicious
shakes a day, plus a sensible meal.

CROW: Mike, does he mean...

CROW: Oh. Guess not.

TOM: It'd certainly make Astronomy more interesting if it did.

MIKE: Its mother.

CROW: My mind is starting to melt, Mike.

TOM: I feel like I'm in a Star Trek: Voyager episode.

MIKE: Which one?

TOM: Any one.

TOM: ...ten days on the 'Small World' ride at Disney World.

MIKE: A stupid kind of motion.

CROW: And I drop acid.

TOM: Afffmmmmm.

CROW & MIKE: Afffmmmmmmmmm.

ALL: AFFFFMM!

MIKE: ...the price of eggs in China.

TOM: Make him stop, Mike! Please make him stop!

MIKE: Hang on, buddy. We're almost through it....

CROW: ...committees, led by Alphonse D'Amato.

MIKE: Kathy Ireland?

TOM: Then tell McElwaine what they mean, because he obviously has no idea.

CROW: Ah, reproduce *this.*

MIKE: Finally!

TOM: Don't talk so soon. The main feature's about to start.

CROW: Live from Times Square!

TOM: Oh, kelgar, take me away!

MIKE: Kelgar go away, you mean.

TOM: Right, right.

CROW: Okay, Mrs. Webb, we've got our lineup here. Do you recognize the
usenet group that assaulted you?

TOM (feminine voice): It was the one on the far left.

MIKE: What about the real M?

TOM: From the mind of Steve Spurrier.

MIKE: Obviously, this *is* his Forte.

CROW: A literal race? What are the odds?

TOM: I think A.J. Foyt is driving the Romulan Warbird.

ALL: (guffaws)

MIKE: An alien named Lillo?

CROW: Well, it kind of would have to, don't you think?

TOM: ...far more annoying.

MIKE: ...stop watching television.

CROW: This guy is a complete and utter looney!

TOM: Isn't that a hasty conclusion?

CROW: It's a premise.

TOM: Ah.

ALL: Boogaboogaboogaboogabooga!

MIKE: I just got the bill from the caterers.

TOM: There are a lot of things one could say in response to this line.

CROW: But we won't.

MIKE: Why not?

TOM: We're above that sort of thing.

CROW: We are?

TOM: Yes, we are.

MIKE: Okay, I'll bet you you can't get through this whole post without
making at least one risque comment. Ten bucks.

CROW: You're on, pink boy!

TOM: Bring it on! Come on! We're ready!

MIKE: Hum-de-dum-de-dum...

CROW: We've got a long, uphill battle ahead of us, don't we?

TOM: But they haven't been able to get the human population to stop

blinking "12:00" repeatedly.

CROW: Now *that's* irony.

MIKE: Almost Dickens-esque.

TOM: Except for Howard Stern. We have no idea where he came from.

CROW: But it doesn't have any salad dressing.

MIKE: He must be talking about Newt Gingrich and the Republican Congress.

TOM: Or Rupert Murdoch and his media empire.

CROW: Or Roseanne and her Hollywood empire.

MIKE: Wait! It can be all of these, and more!

TOM: Unfortunately, you goobers don't take Alien Express.

CROW: Oh, that's *really* reassuring.

MIKE: Couldn't you have just sent flowers?

TOM: Sounds like crashing UFOs is trendy.

CROW: If you wanted to do that, you could have just made them watch a
MacGyver marathon.

MIKE: Namely, "exploiting" the "natives" for "cheap labor."

TOM: Canada?

TOM: Oh.

CROW: Except last Tuesday.

MIKE: So, in other words, you're really, *really* slow.

TOM: Any more evolving and this alien is gonna croak.

CROW: What's the exchange rate for one of their space aliens and a human
equivalent space alien?

TOM: And how much can we get for Robert McElwaine?

MIKE: Remember all that 'sex is bad' crap? My fault. I had a mouthful
of crackers while I was talking, and everyone misunderstood.

CROW: His older WHAT?

TOM: Crow, sssh! The ten bucks, remember?

CROW: Oh... yeah. Heh.

MIKE: Well, there's not much you could do about it, really, seeing as they
can run rings around you, time-wise.

TOM: We...um... meant to do that! Er, yeah!

CROW: A womb with a view.

MIKE: I'm not understanding *any* of this, actually.

TOM: Do you suppose that the alien has fingers to make the little quote
mark gestures with when he's speaking?

MIKE: I have no idea, Tom.

CROW: Ow!

TOM: *Very* physical.

MIKE: *Very very* physical.

CROW: You also might use the words "goofy" and "bonkers." It's really up
to you, the reader at home.

MIKE: In other words, the metric system.

TOM: This sounds rather a lot like "Windows '95."

ALL: Ewwwww!

CROW: ...a freeloader.

TOM: Between the deviled eggs and that pan of meatloaf.

MIKE: You know, I think Kelgar, or Lillo, or both, need to experience one
of these two states. Preferably very soon.

CROW: You said it. Errrgh.

TOM: But "wait!" That's not "all!"

CROW: We'll also throw in these "power crystals" if you "order today!"

MIKE: You know, that explains why aliens are so fond of Arbor Day.

CROW: But, instead, they insist on watching sitcoms. Go figure.

TOM: ...after-dinner cocktails are served.

MIKE: I prefer the button fly body.

CROW: Well, if I were human, I'd insist on velcro.

TOM: ...only to lose in the lightning round and have to take home the
consolation prize.

CROW (sarcastic): Oh, is Lillo going to explain how much better he is?

MIKE: Or Valhalla.

TOM: Nirvana.

CROW: Hef's Mansion.

MIKE: Timothy Leary's right brain.

TOM: Lyndon LaRouche's left brain.

CROW: Wal-Mart.

TOM: We're much lamer than you made us look.

CROW: Hey, smile when you say that.

MIKE: ..."mentally disturbed."

TOM: Oh, that really zeroes in on a precision definition of the concept.

CROW: You know, you can use the cheat codes on your Sega Genesis to get
up to the Highest Kingdom Level now.

MIKE: Unless you, you know, slip us something under the table.

CROW: Be a shame if something happened to your planet.

TOM: Things break, you know.

ALL: Yay!

MIKE: I knew it! I knew the preppies had something to do with it!

TOM: ...by slipping a jelly sandwich into the video slot.

CROW: Oh, yesssss....

MIKE: Sorry, Crow, you lose.

CROW: Whaaaat?

TOM: I'm afraid I have to agree with him, pin-beak.

CROW: Damn.

MIKE: You know, dog is quite tasty.

CROW: Ew.

TOM: ...doesn't go well with red wine.

CROW: I'd make a risque statement about that if I understood what the heck
he was talking about.

MIKE: Steve Allen.

TOM: I'm sucking up on a cosmic scale!

CROW: Added some fins, and those big monster truck racing wheels.

MIKE: Chopped, dropped, and ready to rock.

TOM: And oh so much more.

MIKE: Oh, I think *somebody* has an inflated sense of their importance.

CROW: This post hasn't worked for us from the start.

TOM: ...particularly when I take off my shirt and expose my beer gut.

MIKE: Which is why you should switch to AT&T!

CROW: And released back into the wild.

MIKE: ...a tub filled with real butter.

TOM: Oh, thanks. I forgot.

CROW: Sheesh.

MIKE: I wish he'd stop saying that. I keep thinking of Harry Morgan,
naked.

TOM: You could have kept that thought to yourself, Mike.

MIKE: Sorry.

CROW: Boy, did we laugh when we realized we were trying to get into them
backwards.

TOM: That was embarrassing.

[Commercials.]

[Commercials end, and we're back on the SoL. Mike, Crow and Tom are behind
the desk.]

MIKE: Well, what do you think about the experiment so far, guys?

TOM: We're trying not to.

CROW: I mean, it was bad enough that we were given a short, sharp shock
to sensitive areas of our mind by Robert McElwaine, now we have to
listen to some supposed alien drone on about Higher Kingdoms and
deposits and human-equivalent space aliens.

MIKE: Well, cheer up, little guy. Just think, in a few years, someone will
come along and make a movie out of 'the Real Q,' starring John DeLancie
as Lillo...

TOM: Christian Slater as Kelgar.

CROW: John Saxon as the leader of the Luciferians.

MIKE: And Piper Laurie as 'the Admiral' slash 'Older Member.'

TOM: And then some geek will some along and do a Real Q/Star Trek/
Highlander/Robotech crossover fanfic and make it even worse!

CROW: Yeah. I thought you were supposed to be cheering us up!

MIKE: Hmmm... maybe this will work. Let's see if the auditors have visited
Dr. Forrester yet. [He hits the button.]

[Deep 13.]

FORRESTER: Good day, gentlemen. Won't you take a seat?

AUDITOR #1: We prefer to stand. Are these your tax records and accounting
books?

FORRESTER: Yes. I'm afraid they show my operation here barely breaking
even, which is why I filed for the refund I did.

AUDITOR #2: Let me see. [He picks up the book and examines it with a
Star Trek tricorder.] It's a phony, Fred.

FORRESTER: It is not!

AUDITOR #1: Don't bother to argue. [He takes the tricorder from #2 and
scans Deep 13.] I found 'em, Ted. [He reaches into Forrester's
green robe and pulls an accounting ledger out.]

FORRESTER: Er, yes. Can I interest you two gentlemen in dinner. Say, in
Bermuda? For a week? On me?

AUDITOR #1: We hate Bermuda.

[SoL.]

MIKE: Hey, he never offered that to *us*...

[Usenet sign goes off.]

MIKE: We've got usenet siiiiiign!

[He slaps the button, and he and the bots head into the theater.
1...2...3...4...5...6.]

MIKE: Oh, wow, dude.

CROW: Wait, wait. Didn't Lillo say that every two days for him equals
two thousand years for us?

MIKE: I think he did.

TOM: So from Lillo's point of view, the adjustment took 1.44 seconds.

CROW: I hate this alien. I really do.

TOM: Soon after this interview was transcribed, Lillo's organization was
sanctioned by the NCAA for illegal recruitment procedures.

CROW: ...you'll find a souvenir gift shop.

TOM: Like spotting the errors as L. Ron Hubbard dictates "Dianetics II."

MIKE: ...and this time, it's personal.

CROW: ...an "all-nighter."

TOM: ...on Comedy Central.

MIKE: They can go to hell.

CROW: Sit up, roll over, shake, etcetera, etcetera.

TOM: ...distributing literature in airports and bus terminals.

MIKE (mumbling): Have to take you babies by the hand... grumble grumble...

CROW: They're repeat offenders, in other words.

TOM: Hey, keep your hands to myself.

CROW: Was that a risque remark?

MIKE: No, it was a pop culture reference.

CROW: Damn.

MIKE: ...by crashing spaceships on top of them.

CROW: They can, however, sign endorsement contracts with Nike.

TOM: Huh?

CROW: Soles, get it?

MIKE: Eh.

MIKE: I'll take whatever side Ross Perot isn't on.

CROW: Buy thirteen souls for just one penny!

TOM: And buy just four more souls at regular price within the next three
years!

MIKE: If we go after it, will you stop talking?

CROW: I have to agree with the Luciferians. The end to this post is
definitely desired by me.

TOM: Hear, hear.

TOM (singing): We're justified, and we're aaaancient, I hope you
understand...

MIKE: Thank you, Tammy.

CROW: Sold separately.

MIKE: He must be talking about Newt Gingrich and the Republican Congress.

TOM: Or Rupert Murdoch and his media empire.

CROW: Or Roseanne and... hey, didn't we already do this bit?

MIKE: And it has beer.

CROW: Sounds like these aliens are the products of massive inbreeding.

TOM: ...another trophy.

MIKE: Two trophies.

CROW: ...frame the neighbors for manslaughter.

TOM: Defoliation.

MIKE: Lobotomization.

CROW: Relocation.

TOM: Defenestration.

MIKE: And so on and so on.

TOM: The tricky part is getting them into the handcuffs.

MIKE: Tom, that's a risque statement. I'm afraid you lose.

TOM: I dispute that call! Crow, you with me on this?

CROW: If I am, will you split the ten bucks with me?

TOM: Sure!

CROW: Okay!

MIKE: We'll deal with this later, guys.

CROW: And you really don't want to know what they do with the earwax.

TOM: Souls that were with the Donner Party.

MIKE: ...and their cornflakes got soggy.

CROW: ...and a whole bunch of other stuff. Just take my word for it.

MIKE: They ended up founding New Jersey.

TOM: See Rush Limbaugh.

CROW: But be sure to wash them first.

MIKE: Not *that* interesting, really.

TOM: It's also a floor wax!

CROW: Like you?

MIKE: So much for our superevolved alien rulers.

TOM: What a bunch of wimps.

CROW: And rob people named Rob.

TOM: Again, see Rush Limbaugh. And Dick Armey.

MIKE: When actually they'll be transported to galaxy M-31 and work for the
rest of eternity as parking valets.

CROW: ...resist smoking cigarettes afterwards.

TOM: First one's free, man....

MIKE: Just one baby. Come on, you know you want to...

CROW: Unless they're Northwest pilots and are carrying bottles of booze.

MIKE: Like cable television.

TOM: They are the Major League Baseball team owners.

CROW: ...nobody ever reads the instructions that come with it.

MIKE: Yogurt cultures.

TOM: Because it wasn't very well designed.

CROW: Sounds about as solid as CBS's schedule.

MIKE: And the readers pass out.

TOM: Blunt instruments, take me away!

CROW: Tom, don't do it! You've got so much to live for!

CROW: On the other hand, let me help.

MIKE: No, you guys. Just sit and watch. We're almost through it.

TOM: Dance lessons, actually.

CROW: KCCO, your Rightful Station. All right-wing talk, all the time.

MIKE: Quick, fire the weatherman.

TOM: Does he have to mention that the Chief Administrator of the project
is his Older Member *every* time he brings him up?

MIKE: Guess so.

CROW: Just hanging out in Scooter's den, watching 50's drug scare films and
drinking.

TOM: We ice brew our crew, to bring you a bolder, smoother, worse-tasting
beer.

MIKE: The next level is late!

CROW: Maybe it missed its bus.

TOM: Lower sodium, less fat, no smoking....

CROW: Hey, is that the Next Level in your pocket or are you just happy to
see me?

MIKE: Crow!

CROW: I already lost the bet, Mike. Nothing to hold *me* back!

TOM: 911! Help us, William Shatner!

CROW: One of those two, we're really not sure which.

MIKE: Just let Ollie North take care of it.

TOM: Um, Mike, that's "shed," not "shred."

MIKE: Oh.

CROW: Boy, I guess when you get to the Next Level, your descriptive
ability goes all to heck.

MIKE: Get into 'R' rated movies.

TOM: I'll have a container.

CROW: I'd like a body... but I don't know if I can afford one.

MIKE: Say.

CROW: So guzzle Downey Fabric Softner until *you* fluff off. Or die.

TOM: You know, I just don't think the Kingdom is worth all this crap.

CROW: Isn't that done at birth?

MIKE: We make them look like Jim Carrey.

TOM & CROW: Aaaah!

CROW: ...I think.

TOM: ...I drink.

MIKE: So being on the next level means you freely use phrases like
"choose to engage" when "choose" will work just as well?

TOM: Apparently so.

CROW: It also collates, staples, and prints out the envelopes.

MIKE: ...do have a thing for kneecaping ice skaters.

CROW: Hey, look, there's Tonya Harding.

TOM: This sounds even *more* like Windows '95.

CROW: Like this post?

MIKE: By shooting you into space and forcing you to watch crummy movies
and read bad fanfics.

CROW (singing): ...is on their side, yes it is!

MIKE: I, for one, am all for this alien leaving.

TOM: I'll help pack!

CROW: We'll start by giving Bill Cosby and Michael J. Fox new sitcoms.

MIKE & TOM: (gasps)

MIKE: The limited human boredom threshold, you mean.

TOM: They just don't have green thumbs.

CROW: So the alien's in the Michigan Militia?

MIKE: Should get Bill Clinton in the group -- he can compromise on
*anything.*

TOM: And often does.

CROW: Um... what?

MIKE: I think the drugs are wearing off.

TOM: Does the enemy have any distinguishing tattoos or scars?

CROW: Try an airport, buddy.

MIKE: Rebels without a deposit.

TOM: With.

MIKE: With... a deposit. Whatever.

ALL: Woooo!

CROW: And "slackers."

TOM: And "beatniks."

MIKE: And "corporate raiders."

CROW: Um, Mike, I don't think you're with the program yet....

TOM: Just follow the yellow brick road.

MIKE: F=M/A.

CROW & TOM: Fffffmaaa!

TOM: Oh, like a caterpillar has a lot of stuff he wants to keep.

CROW: Cufflinks and desires.

MIKE: A new book from Danielle Steele, soon to be an ABC miniseries.

TOM: Has a nice bit of beachfront property in Malibu.

MIKE: ...your rice krispies are trying to talk to you.

CROW: Start by sending all your money to this address. And your credit
cards, too.

MIKE: ...guest appearance slots on the X-Files.

CROW: ...with Steve Forbes trying to buy *this* election, too.

TOM: Hey, the Flat Tax is part of the Next Level, isn't it?

MIKE: And their bread is shorter.

CROW: What?

MIKE: Short bread. Get it?

TOM: We're trying not to.

TOM: And their cabinets.

CROW: Then we go over to see what Norm's doing with that quarry tile.

MIKE: Who won the English football cup in 1951?

TOM: I'm signing up with the Luciferians right now.

CROW: We can't sign up, Tom. We're in space?

TOM: Well then why'd we have to sit through this?

MIKE: Because Dr. Forrester wanted us to experience pain.

MIKE: My considered, non-hasty judgment is that this Lillo should die.
Slowly. At the hands of a Garden Weasel.

TOM: Calm down, buddy.

CROW: Yeah, let's get outta here.

(they leave the theater)

[6...5...4...3...2...1... and back on the SoL. Gypsy is wearing a judge's
wig, and Tom and Mike are standing in front of the desk, the backs of
their heads facing us. Crow is next to Gypsy, typing away.]

GYPSY: Your line.

CROW: What? Oh... this court is now in session, the Honorable Judge
Gypsy presiding.

GYPSY: You may be seated. [Mike and Crow sit down.] Plaintiff, state your
case!

TOM: Madame Judge, not more than an hour ago, I entered into a friendly
wager with the defendant over how long I could sit through the
experiment without making a comment that, by the standards of today's
permissive society, might be considered 'lewd.' I had gotten most
of the way through the experiment when the defendant, who clearly
realized he was in jeopardy of losing his ten bucks, declared that
I had lost after I made an ambiguous and not in any way risque
statement about handcuffs.

GYPSY: Do you have anything to say in your defense, Mike Nelson?

MIKE: I prefer to let the evidence speak for itself. Cambot, could you
roll the tape, please?

*****

TOM: The tricky part is getting them into the handcuffs.

MIKE: Tom, that's a risque statement. I'm afraid you lose.
*****

TOM: Objection, your honor! Those comments were taken out of context!

GYPSY: Objection overruled! I find for the defendant!

TOM: Crow! I thought you were going to help me on this.

CROW: I was! See? I've lined up F. Lee Bailey to speak on your behalf on
the appeal we're going to file....

TOM: How can we file an appeal when we're stuck in space?

CROW: Oh. Yeah. Forgot about that.

TOM: Argh!

MIKE: Well, so much for the legal system working. What you think, sir?

[Deep 13. Forrester is arguing with his auditors, who have started taking
blood draining equipment out of their bags. He gulps, turns to the
screen, and pushes the button. Closing credits.]
--
Mystery Science Theater 3000 and related characters and situations are
trademarks of and (c) 1996 by Best Brains Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Use of copyrighted or trademarked material is for entertainment purposes
only. No infringement on original copyrights or trademarks held by Best
Brains, Inc. is intended or should be inferred. This post is not meant
as a personal attack on Robert McElwaine or "Kelgar," nor should it be

interpreted as such. Society, in this case, is clearly to blame.