Sketch Comedy

Man: Excuse me sir? [He is ignored.]

Man: Excuse me? Sir? Sir?

John Cleese: AAAGH!

Man: AGH!

John Cleese: Right, right. What can I do for you then?

Man: Yes, well, I was wondering if I could buy a box of cigars.

John Cleese: Cigars! Of course, of course, sir. What kind would you like?

Man: Well, I’m not sure, exactly, but I was looking for–

John Cleese: Cigars, yes! I know. But what kind, sir?

Man: I’m trying to tell you–

John Cleese: That you’d like some cigars, yes! I’m trying to help you!

Man: And I’m trying to–

John Cleese: CLOD!!!

Man: Are you calling me a clod, sir?

Will Ferrell: Hold it, hold it. I’m the manager here. What’s going on?

Man: He just called me a clod. [Chris Kattan runs through the set, climbs on the counter, flails wildly.]

Chris Kattan: EEEEEEEEK!!!

Will Ferrell: I’m sorry, that’s Clod, you see.

Man: His name is Clod?

Will Ferrell: [looks at camera, affects ironic delivery] His name is Clod?!? [Chris Kattan runs through set, bangs head on counter, attacks Will Ferrell with hideous teeth.]

Chris Kattan: EEEEEEEEEK!!!

John Cleese: Sorry about that sir.

Man: Now wait just a minute. What’s going on here?

John Cleese: I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re– [John Cleese is suddenly splattered with falling green slime.]

Man: I’ve had just about enough of this. Is this a cigar store or not?

John Cleese: Without a doubt. We’ve got red cigars, blue cigars, yellow cigars, any cigar you please. Would you like some party cigars?

Man: Come to think of it, this store is full of balloons, not cigars.

John Cleese: Quite right, sir. Cigars, not balloons.

Man: No, I said–

Will Ferrell: [clinging to counter, bleeding] CLOOOOODD!!! [Chris Kattan runs through set, flails about drooling, falls on floor and masturbates all over self.]

Chris Kattan: EEK!!

Man: I’ve had it with you people! Well, I won’t play your straight man any longer, I– [Kevin McDonald, in drag, enters the store and punches Man in the stomach, then drags him out.]

Kevin McDonald: [incoherent high-pitched mumbling]

Damon Wayans: Homey don’t play dat! [Fly girls crushed by giant foot, cast waves goodnight.]