I am re-posting some earlier Pons and Ned scenes as I am reviewing and assembling them to edit into a flowing script. I will add continued scenes as I do to form a bridge.
The scene opens in a back corner of a Big Boy restaurant. Pons and Ned have formed a local MENSA Chapter. Their first meeting is between the two of them.
Pons: Well, Ned. Let's start a log and make a list of men and women, potential members, to contact.
Ned: Men AND women?
Pons: Well yes, Ned. We will want all who qualify.
Ned: Ain't we a 'Men's' club?
Pons: A MENSA club, Ned. Folks in the 96 percentile of intelligence quotient.
Ned: No kiddin'? Well, that's you fer sure, Pons. Why you kin quote more intelligant dudes than that bald captain on Star Track.
Pons: Intelligence quotient, Ned - I.Q.
Ned: Maybe LIKE YOU, Pons, but my parsontile's got a dot in it. A deckemal.
Pons: So you're a 9.6, Ned?
Ned: Yeah! I'd call myself a 10, but my humble-bility keeps me modest.
Pons: You have room for improvement, Ned. Let's make a list of people to call.
Ned: Donald Trump.
Pons: You have his number?
Ned: Heck no, Pons. I'll tweet 'im.
Pons: I'm calling my old high school teacher, Mrs. Nash.
Ned: Nasty Nashy!
Pons: What do mean, Ned?
Ned: Didn't she sleep with half the football team?
Pons: Where did you hear that?
Ned: It was on Twitter.
Pons: Ned, she's in her seventies.
Ned: Damn! And that ain't but half the team!?!
Pons: No, Ned. I mean it's not true.
Ned: Hey! I got a tweet back from The Donald. He says a Mensa Club with him as a member would be the greatest that anyone has ever seen.
Pons: Well, that sounds --
Ned: He also says that he knows more than all the Mensa.
Pons: Yes, well --
Ned: There'd be winnin' and winnin'.
Pons: We'll keep him in mind.
Ned: He also says that Nasty Nashy ought to be infestigated by the PDA.
Pons: The PTA?
Ned: I figured he meant Purdy Dern Awful.
Pons: Public displays of affection.
Ned: She done it in public? Wait'il I tweet Donny.
Pons: Ned. What about the club?
Ned: Okay, Pons. Once we got Trump, and Miz Nasty, we ought to call that gal what knows all the directions to turn while we's drivin'.
Pons: She is not a real person, Ned.
Ned: I thunk you said women were real people.
Pons: Ned, I mean that she --
Ned: Never mind. Mr. Trump says he has known her, in bib-lickle ways, and she was a disaster.
Pons: That makes no sense.
Ned: Bib-lickle scents, Pons. The bestest kind.
To be continued...
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