Characters:
- BOB: (The straight man, slightly bewildered)
- RAY: (The enthusiastic, slightly misinformed interviewer/host)
- MR. FENWICK: (A long-suffering Champlin resident)
(Sound of a faint, slightly off-key polka band playing in the background, very subtly)
ANNOUNCER (V.O., slightly echoey, like an old-time radio announcer): And now, “The Bob and Ray Public Service Program,” brought to you by the makers of Wobbly Widgets – “They wobble so you don’t have to!”
(Music fades slightly under)
BOB: Good evening, and welcome once again to our program, where we endeavor to bring you the lesser-known facts and peculiar personalities of America’s charming locales. Tonight, Ray, where have we landed our intrepid microphone?
RAY: Bob, tonight we are broadcasting live, or at least with a distinct feeling of being very much alive, from the thriving metropolis of Champlin, Minnesota! A truly remarkable spot, known for its… its… well, it’s known for having a rather distinct odor on Thursdays.
BOB: An odor, Ray? Is that a point of civic pride?
RAY: Oh, absolutely, Bob! We spoke to the Chamber of Commerce, and they assured us it’s a “signature aromatic experience.” Apparently, it’s related to the annual Rutabaga Festival, which, incidentally, is not actually in Champlin, but a neighboring town called “Rutabaga Falls,” which also doesn’t exist.
BOB: I see. And what else is Champlin celebrated for, besides its non-existent Rutabaga Festival’s spectral aroma?
RAY: Well, Bob, we’ve managed to corner a local, a Mr. Thaddeus Fenwick, who has graciously agreed to tell us about the heart and soul of Champlin. Mr. Fenwick, welcome to the program!
(Sound of a chair creaking, a sigh)
MR. FENWICK: ( monotone, weary) Good evening. It’s not Thaddeus, it’s just Fenwick. And I wouldn’t say “graciously agreed.” More like “was unable to escape your rather persistent intern.”
RAY: (Chuckles heartily) Ah, the Champlin wit! Sharp as a freshly planed board! Mr. Fenwick, tell our listeners, what makes Champlin, Minnesota, truly tick?
MR. FENWICK: Well, we have a Kwik Trip. And a Super Target. And the Mississippi River, I suppose. It flows by. It’s quite wet.
BOB: Fascinating. So, the Mississippi River, known for its flowing and its wetness. Are there any local traditions, Mr. Fenwick? Perhaps a unique festival or a historical reenactment?
MR. FENWICK: (Pause) We have a rather competitive annual lawn mower race. But it’s mostly just Mr. Henderson from down the street trying to get his prize-winning petunias mowed before the first frost. He’s very particular about his petunias. Last year, Mrs. Gable brought a plate of lukewarm Jell-O salad. It was quite a spectacle.
RAY: A spectacle! You hear that, Bob? The thrill of the mow, the gelatinous tension of the Jell-O! Is this race open to the public, Mr. Fenwick? Do people come from far and wide to witness this horticultural-automotive showdown?
MR. FENWICK: Usually just Mrs. Gable. And sometimes the mailman, if he’s running behind. He tends to cheer for the petunias. Says they remind him of his childhood in Saskatchewan.
BOB: Saskatchewan. A long way to come for petunia-based lawn mower racing. Mr. Fenwick, is there anything, perhaps, that Champlin isn’t known for, that you feel it should be?
MR. FENWICK: (Long pause. Sound of a distant dog barking, then a muffled “Quiet, Buster!”) Well, we have an unusually high number of left-handed librarians. Very high. We’ve got seven of them in the main branch alone. And one of them only catalogs books written by authors whose last name begins with a vowel. It’s quite a system.
RAY: Left-handed librarians! And a vowel-only cataloger! This is precisely the kind of granular, yet utterly vital, information our listeners crave, Bob! Imagine the efficiency!
BOB: Indeed, Ray. One might even call it… specialized. Mr. Fenwick, if someone were to visit Champlin, what single piece of advice would you offer them?
MR. FENWICK: (Another long sigh) Don’t come on a Thursday. Especially if you’re sensitive to rutabagas. Even the imaginary ones. And bring your own Jell-O. We’re running low on lime.
RAY: There you have it, folks! The unvarnished truth from the heart of Champlin, Minnesota! A town of mystery, mowers, and left-handed librarians who are very particular about their vowels. We thank Mr. Fenwick for his… candid observations.
MR. FENWICK: (Muttering, fading out) I just want to go home. My cat is probably wondering where I am. He hates Tuesdays.
BOB: And with that ringing endorsement, we must bid you adieu from Champlin. Join us next time, when we investigate the surprising lack of enthusiastic kazoo players in Schenectady, New York.
RAY: Good night, Bob!
BOB: Good night, Ray.
(Polka music swells briefly, then abruptly cuts out.)
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