ABSTRACT
Carol Burnett, totally exhausted and outfitted in a nightie that looks like the costume of a medieval clown, crawls into bed. Creeping backwards under the covers, she discovers that her foot is dangling twenty mattresses up in space—and she, the royal heroine of a musical version of The Princess and the Pea may be in for some foul play. Making the best of what her befogged brain suspects is an odd situation, she lies down. Abruptly, she bellies upward—feeling a lump. She turns over—this time her rear end pops up—again the lump. She crawls around, poking out her tongue in childish concentration and slaps the mattress in brisk punishment. Then she flops down—only to be immediately jerked up again—feet waving in the air and displaying scalloped bloomers. With a malevolent glare, she suffocates the lump with a pillow and curls up to sleep—until the lump twists her into a pretzel of irritation. She sinks back against the headboard, where royal, silken tassels dangle before her crossed eyes. “All right, lump,” she squawks, “look out!”
