Lights rise on PROFESSOR. He is sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. The SELLER OF LAUGHTER is hammering away at the merry-go-round, trying to fix it. He is making quite a racket with his hammer, occasionally stealing a look at PROFESSOR to see whether he is irritated out of his wits. Seeing that PROFESSOR is ignoring the racket, he hammers even louder. When it gets too loud PROFESSOR stands up and takes a few steps towards a flat cardboard sign lying face down on the grass. He turns it face up and reads it. The SELLER OF LAUGHTER stops hammering and rushes to get his board.

SELLER: Hey, what do you think you're doing?

PROFESSOR [reading aloud]: ‘Are you going to spare me some coins or do you want me to reach for my dark glasses and white cane?’

SELLER: Give me my sign back, you old bastard!

PROFESSOR: Is this the Mother of All Jokes? The joke that's going to make you millions?

SELLER snatches the sign away from PROFESSOR.

SELLER: You have no right to read my private things!

PROFESSOR: The joke that you will franchise to other beggars in other parts of the city? That's going to grace traffic lights in some of the most upmarket suburbs of Johannesburg?

SELLER: There is nothing wrong with this joke. You're just jealous, that's all.

PROFESSOR: The joke that's going to kill the ngamlas with laughter even at the traffic lights of neighbouring towns – from Benoni to Boksburg?

SELLER [defiantly]: Yeah, it is the joke. So what?

PROFESSOR: There is nothing original about it. It's a take on the old standard: ‘Are you going to give me money or do you want me to fake a limp?’ I thought you were planning to come with something groundbreaking!

SELLER: Who cares for originality? I want a joke that's going to make me money, that's all. Back in the Free State we say thebe e sehelwa hodim'a engwe. We build new things from what others before us have created.