Propane

INT, downanddirty blues bar, smoke hanging in the air. CLAPTON, in black suit and dark shades, lounging at the bar, his band on stage, noodling with their instruments. Improbably, the BARTENDER is making a little crepe at a tiny gas range next to the Watney's Red Barrel. CLAPTON watches.(Quick cutaway to beautiful blue flame -- CLAPTON's p-o-v) CLAPTON nods approvingly.

CLAPTON: Now you're cooking with gas...

The BARTENDER smiles. CLAPTON smiles back at him, nodding his head up and down like Ray Charles...

CLAPTON: Now you're cooking with...

The band starts playing -- the first chords of "Cocaine" ...

CLAPTON: ..propane!

* * *

PROPANE

(to the tune of, duh, J.J. Cale's "Cocaine")

You know you got class
When you're cooking with gas...
Propane!
Cook your eggs just right...
Just watch that pilot light...
Propane! It's so clean...
It's so lean... It's so mean...
Propane!
When you're cooking slow...
Just keep the flame down low...
Propane!
Just like the Big Chill
You can get a gas grill...
Propane! (chorus)
It's an open flame
Ain't nothing the same ...
Propane!
And would you suppose
You could dry your clothes...
Propane!
You can kill your own ath...
Just like Sylvia Plath...
Propane!
It will not explode...
Unless you're dumb as a toad...
Propane!
It's so clean...
It's so lean...
It's so mean...

And the audience shouts...

AUDIENCE: (shouting in unison) Propane!

Throughout the song, CLAPTON is hopping around like the gas-evangelist equivalent of Reddy Kilowatt experiencing the wonders of propane throughout the bar. The bartender shows him the gas-fired drier; CLAPTON fries up an egg; the drummer catches on fire. It's all very nice.