Alone on the stage midway through Act III, I deliver the line of lines. You know it well. Say it with me: “Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old man-trap!” I know, I can scarcely pen the words such does my body quake with laughter. They just don’t write them like that anymore, do they? I knew that moment would punch my ticket to New York and superstardom. So, naturally, I nail the line, slaying my rapturous audience (perhaps not the finest turn of phrase given the circumstances, but paper and ink are not cheap so onward) when the shot rings out from the president’s box. As you can imagine, the distraction pretty much stopped the show flow like an Edison phonograph scratch.