“And a one, two, thr—hey!” Mike cried.
“What is it, Michael?” asked Peter, concerned.
“Now wait just a minute!” Mike yelled. “Where’s Micky?”
The three Monkees surveyed the pad. “He’s gone!” they cried.
“We can’t start without Micky!” Mike said.
“We-he-hell,” Davy said, strutting forward, “I always fought meself a rathah good drummah! I could fill in for ’im!”
Mike looked down at Davy skeptically and chuckled. “Well, okay, man, I guess you can give it a try”.
Davy approached the drum set but hesitated before sitting down. He looked sheepishly at the guitarist. “Uh, Mike?”
“What? …Uh, oh, sorry!” Mike said and scrambled over to adjust the drummer’s stool. “There you go!”
Davy sat down and picked up Micky’s drumsticks. “Alright, men! Get ready fo’ the greatest drummin’ you evah ’eard!”
“And a one, two, three!” Mike counted.
Suddenly, Micky burst through the door and proceeded to bounce around the pad in fast motion accompanied by silly music until he reached the bandstand.
“M-M-M-M-M-M-MI-MIKE!” he managed.
“Now hold it, Mick, just calm down! What’s happening, babe? Where’ve you been?” Mike asked.
“Yeah! We couldn’t do the song without our tambourine player, Davy!” Peter grinned at Micky.
“Petah, ah’m the tambourine playah!” Davy reminded him.
“Oh, then… who’s that?” Peter asked, staring at Micky, confused.
“That’s Micky!” Davy told him, exasperated.
“Mi-Mic… oh, Micky!” Peter grinned. “We couldn’t do the song without our tambourine player, Micky!”
“Puh-puh-puh, puh-puh-puh…” Micky sputtered.
“Well, spit it out, Mick, what’s the problem?” Mike asked.
“Puh-puh-puh-PAUL!” Micky cried.
“Puh-puh-puh-Paul?” Mike repeated. “Now, wait a second, who’s this ‘Paul’ person? I don’t remember any ‘Paul’!”
“Puh-puh-puh-PAUL MCCARTNEY!” Micky cried.
“Puh-puh-puh-PAUL MCCARTNEY?!?!” Davy and Peter screamed. The three grabbed onto each other and started to jump up and down excitedly.
“Now everybody just CALM DOWN! THERE’S NO REASON TO YE… there’s no reason to yell,” Mike said. Everyone quieted down. “Now, Mick, what about Paul McCartney?”
“Well, I was at the hospital and you’ll never guess who I saw!” Micky cried.
“Oh, wait!” said Peter, his eyes lighting up. “Lemme guess… was it Mr. Babbitt?”, he asked, sincerely.
“No! Paul McCartney!” Micky squealed.
“Now ’ang on, ’ang on!” Davy said, “Isn’t this the plot of an episode of Joanie Loves Chachi? I mean, ’oo in their right mind would want to use a plot from that ’orrible show?”
“Well, we do save money on writers by reusing the jokes from the original episode, and no one will even realize it!”
“Hey, good thinking!”
“Come on guys, what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the hospital and kidnap Paul McCartney!”