Chapter 88: Fanning the Flames
“How’d that last look to you, Scooter? I’m still not sure about the parachuting scene. We don’t want the support wires to show.”[/FONT][/COLOR]
Scooter shrugged. “It looked okay to me. They don’t show in all the scenes,” he said, sighing and rubbing his eyes. “We can try to stick mostly with the scenes where they don’t show and then CG the rest of the rods.” He yawned hugely, causing Kermit to yawn, and then growl in frustration.
“No yawning!” Kermit griped. “Please, Scooter—if you start, I’m toast. I’ve barely functioning as it is.”
“Sorry, Boss,” Scooter mumbled, face red.
Kermit winced and put his hand over his gritty eyes. “Sheesh—I’m sorry, Scooter. Smack me, won’t you, when I get to be a pain?”
Scooter gave a wan imitation of his usually cheeky smile, but Kermit noticed ruefully that he didn’t denounce the suggestion. The exhausted amphibian stood, stretched mightily, and walked over and turned on the lights. Both of them squinted in the comparatively bright light, then Kermit grabbed Scooter’s elbow and tugged him after him out of the room.
The sunlight streaming through the hall windows was blinding, but both of them turned toward it anyway, like sunflowers facing the sun.
“We’ve got to do something about the schedule,” Kermit said. “If we spend hours at a time like this in that film editing room we’re going to grow mushrooms.” He examined his bright green arm. “Do I look a little sallow to you?”
“Ha ha,” grumped Scooter, glad to have his turn at being grouchy.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Kermit suggested. “C’mon—a caffeine infusion will do us good.”
Scooter nodded, hiding a yawn, and turned toward the commissary where—presumably—a coffee pot still had coffee from this morning.
“Huh uh,” said Kermit. “Let’s get some fresh stuff. There’s a Starbucks on the next block over.”
Kermit’s assistant perked up. “Isn’t there always?” he said with a grin. Starbucks had fruit and yogurt and—he thought guiltily of his walk that morning—pastry. “I am sooo in.”
The walk helped as much as the caffeine. Kermit got a hot mocha drink, a pear and a wedge of shortbread and Scooter got a Frappe, a winesap apple and a couple of steaming scones. They sat and inhaled the aroma of cocoa beans, slurping and chewing in companionable silence until there weren’t even any crumbs left.
“Boss,” Scooter said at last, his face apologetic. “There’s no way we can cut the amount of editing that we’re doing. We’ve got to tear through this film at an impossible rate to meet these new deadlines.”
Kermit frowned, resting his head on his hand, his elbow on the table. “I know,” he said. “It’s just…my mind shuts down after a while. It’s like being at the eye doctor, you know? This one or that one. The first one or the second one.”
Scooter made a rueful face, drawing designs on the table with the condensation ring left behind by his frappe. “Yeah,” he said. “It is like that.” He sighed. “And then we have to work on the soundtrack and coordinate the special effects.”
“Hmm,” agreed Kermit. “Hey—thanks for dealing with that problem the other night.”
Scooter looked up, surprised. He hadn’t mentioned it to Kermit, feeling that his boss had enough on his plate at the moment.
“Gonzo told me,” Kermit admitted, grinning.
“No secrets around here,” Scooter muttered, but he was grinning back. “So…how’s Jimmy doing?”
“Officially? He’s doing great—he can hover with the best of them.”
Scooter said nothing but seemed to be having trouble keeping his mouth from quirking.
“Hey!” said Kermit, tweaked a little in spite of himself. “It’s not our fault! We are our mother’s sons!” he defended himself, but he was smiling sheepishly.
“And unofficially?” Not much got by Scooter.
“Unofficially—he’s having a blast,” Kermit said, to his assistant’s obvious relief. “Marty planned for everything we could reasonably expect. The paparazzi are turning up a day late and a dollar short at almost every turn.”
Almost, Scooter thought. Great—just great. “How’s he doing with the photo dogs?”
Kermit grimaced. “The photographers don’t know quite what to make of Jimmy, but they’re on their P & Qs when he’s there.”
“Not as much as when you’re there….” Scooter teased.
But Kermit was unflustered. “Nope,” he said. “Not as much as when I’m there. But Jimmy’s taking this whole thing very seriously.”
Scooter looked unexpectedly grim. “Good,” he said shortly.
Kermit was not usually given to personal revelations, but something about Scooter’s fierceness must have touched him. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er, apparently, it’s been worrying my Mom a lot. I…I think he wants to be able to go home and give a good report.” Kermit was suddenly uncomfortably, and dragged the topic back to more professional matters. “When, um, are you going to do your taping for ET?”
“S’posed to be tonight,” Scooter said. “I’m going to stop off on the way home from work—assuming we get to go home.”
Kermit knew a friendly threat when he heard on. “Okay, okay—sheesh. I’m going already.” He stood up and went up to the counter to make change for a tip.
Scooter waited at the table, watching Kermit as he waited in line and exchanged pleasantries with the other patrons noncommittally. Celebrities were in and out of this Starbucks all the time—Mandy Patinkin had just come in for a cuppa a moment ago. Nobody bothered you most of the time, so they’d felt reasonably inconspicuous coming here. The line moved slowly, and Kermit reached toward the newspaper lying abandoned on the tabletop nearest him.
Like many people his age, Scooter had been brought up with comics. He knew what a Spidey-sense was and he knew what it felt like when it tingled up your spine. He was feeling it now, watching Kermit reach for that paper, but—as so often happens with disaster on the horizon—he was too far away, powerless to stop it. Kermit picked up the paper and opened it.
The day went downhill fast.
“Der noos is dumbski!” fumed the Swedish Chef irritably. He dumped his vegetable peelings onto the scurrilous rag with satisfaction.
“How come all the tabloids wanna write mean stuff about Mr. Kermit and Miss Piggy?” Beauregard asked, his expression child-like and trusting. Chef couldn’t think how to answer him, and busied his hands with the salt and pepper.
“Sensation sells, Beauregard,” said Doctor Honeydew. He pursed his lips in a disapproving grimace. “The more outlandish the story, the more likely people are to believe it.”
“Meme me meep meep mo meep!” snorted Beaker.
Bunsen Honeydew looked pensive. “Yes, of course, Beaker. Unless, you know, it’s science. Then you can’t get anyone to print it.”
“What’s sensation?” Beauregard asked. “Mean stuff?”
Chef said something that needed no translation, but Clifford waded into the discussion thoughtfully. “Sometimes,” he rumbled. “But sometimes it isn’t really meant to be mean—just interesting.” Chef turned at once and slapped a cleaver down on the table uncomfortably near Clifford’s fingers. The dreadlocked bass player sat up slowly and carefully removed his hands from range, counting digits to be sure none were missing. He swallowed and chose his next words carefully. “Um, some of the newspapers that are writing stuff about Kerm and the Mrs. are trying to be mean, but some of them are just chasing what looks like an interesting story.” Nobody threw anything at him, and after a quick check over his shoulder, Clifford continued. “So, Beau, you remember the other day when we all watched Kermit and Piggy on that morning show?”
“Yes,” Beauregard said slowly. “You mean when they talked to Regis and Kelly, only they weren’t there with them?”
“Right—good,” said Clifford. “And everybody in the audience clapped and cheered. That was good, right?”
“That was good,” said Beauregard. “Everybody was happy.”
Chef had stopped pacing but he leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. Dr. Honeydew and Beaker were listening attentively.
“Everybody was happy about the news,” said Clifford, “and Regis and Kelly were happy to announce it because it was news. People who are fans of Kermit and Piggy were excited to see them.”
Beau was processing this information slowly. “You mean news like newspapers?” he asked.
Clifford nodded and shot the Chef a look. Chef looked away, but he uncrossed his arms. “Yes—news is what newspapers are supposed to print. Some papers try to only print things that are true. Some papers…” Clifford made a face at the tabloid that held the Chef’s peelings. “…some papers don’t worry so much about whether what they print is true. They just print anything that will make someone want to buy their paper to read what’s on it.”
“And when Kermit reads us the reviews of the show,” said Dr. Beaker, picking of the thread. “When we all get together the next day to see what our fans liked about the show. That’s a kind of news, too.”
“Wordy gerdnus,” snapped the Chef, but it was generally directed instead of aimed at Clifford.
“That’s true,” said Dr. Honeydew, and Clifford nodded.
“Yeah, sometimes it’s just nonsense, but sometimes, you know, people are just interested.”
“Mee mee moo meep meep?”
Tone of voice helped carry Beaker’s point.
“Yes, actually—I do have a point,” said Clifford, with a mixture of defensiveness and relief. “I been talking to Scooter and Gonzo and some of the others. And my point is that we might be able to fight fire with fire.”
“I don’t think we should set any fires,” Beauregard said at once, his eyes opening wide in alarm. “Mr. Kermit said no more fires!”
Everyone looked at Beauregard for a moment, afraid to ask.
“Um, good idea, Beauregard,” said Clifford diplomatically. “Maybe, we should just try to fight news with news.”
Doctor Honeydew leaned forward eagerly. “I’m in,” he said at once. “And so is Beakie.”
But Beaker had already spoken a resounding affirmative on his own.
“Newsky der newsky!” echoed the Chef.
“I want to help,” said Beauregard. He put his hand out on the table.
One by one, the others put their hands on top of his.
“Great,” said Clifford. “So here’s what we were thinking.”
“No, but d’ju get a load of the piece that guy Scribbler wrote?” Johnny was saying into the phone. There was some loud invective on the other end of the phone line. “I know,” Johnny said. “I thought it stunk, too.” There was more loud talking on the other end of the phone line. Try as he might, Sal could not pick out what was being said. He leaned against Johnny’s shoulder, straining to hear. “No,” Johnny Fiama said. “I didn’t see that one. Just the one by Scribbler. Huh? No way—how could it be--”
The next word Sal heard perfectly, and he jerked a little when he did. That was not a nice word! But Sal knew better than to comment on it, or make any unnecessary noise while Johnny was on the phone. He put his ear back against Johnny’s shoulder and continued to try to listen, but the conversation seemed to be winding down.
“Yeah, okay—sure. I’m in.” Johnny looked down at Sal’s hairy ear pressed against his suit jacket. The look he gave it was both annoyed and affectionate. “We’re in,” he said, and hung up. “Hey—get off me,” he said to Sal, giving him a push. Sal scurried away, but knew from Johnny’s tone he wasn’t really mad. He turned and looked at Johnny expectantly.
“Tell me what I’m in,” Sal said, his little black eyes bright with anticipation.
“A whole lotta doggie doo if you shed on my suit,” Johnny said, but Sal just grinned. If Johnny had been really put out he’d have smacked him one up side of the head.
“Sorry, Johnny,” Sal said sheepishly. “You want I should get the lint brush?”
“Naw, naw—havva seat already. Let me tell you what’s up.”
“Sure Johnny.” Sal sat where he was, squatting down on his haunches. Johnny sighed and started to tell him to get in a chair but decided not to bother. He let Sal crouch where he was.
“Okay—so you know about this Scribbler guy—the one who was in Vegas?”
“Dirtbag,” Sal said, eyes narrowed. “Spyin’ on people.”
“Yeah—and writing ugly stuff. He wrote a snotty article today about how it was time for Piggy to ‘escape the clutches of tyranny.’ Load of crap—the Pig never had it so good.”
Sal almost smiled. Despite his bravado—and connections—Johnny would never have referred to Miss Piggy that way in her presence—or Kermit’s! “Crap,” Sal repeated. “Got it, Johnny.”
“Well, you know, I haven’t seen it yet but apparently there’s some other guy today writing the same sort of garbage—some little snot-nose who writes a gossip blog on some sort of rant site.”
“No way!” Sal’s little black eyes were wide with disbelief. If there was a better audience or sounding board on the planet, Johnny would never find it.
“Yeah. Way. So today he’s got this first-class creep article about how Piggy needs to be free to ‘enjoy the fruits of the fame she’s entitled to’—without the confines of marriage.”
“Ooh.” Sal furrowed his furry brow. “Um, he really said that? What is he—the poster boy for private school?”
“Yeah, I know. Apparently he really talks like that. And apparently, this blog was picked up and run as an opinion article in one of the local industry papers. He was pretty harsh--said it’s Kermit’s fault she’s leaving him, that he drove her away by trying to keep her from her fans.”
“Kermit doesn’t do that!” Sal said, indignant.
Johnny sighed. “I know, I know. It’s rude, but it’s not quite crude. It’s really pretty delicately done, so I’m guessing it’s some lovesick kid. He wants to come across as some sort of champion for artistic freedom, but at the heart of it, he’s just got a hackerin’ for bacon bits.”
Sal bit his lip. “She catches you sayin’ that, she’s gonna clock you,” he warned, but his mouth had quirked into a smile.
Johnny’s laugh was mirthless. “Kermit catches me sayin’ that I’m gonna be six feet under. But I don’t wanna argue about semantics.”
“Whose he?” Sal asked, confused, and Johnny sighed and smacked him lightly behind the ear.
“Will you shut up and listen already?” Johnny said.
“Sure thing,” Sal mumbled, shutting up.
“So, we been talking already about this—me and some of the guys—Scooter, Gonzo, Clifford. We been trying to think of some ways to fight this whole stupid rumor mill.”
“Uh huh?” Sal asked, then remembered he was supposed to be shut up.
“And Fozzie says, ‘We should ask the fans for help.’”
“Fozzie said that?”
“He did.”
“Huh,” said Sal. “That’s a pretty smart bear. So what are we gonna do? What are we gonna ask the fans?”
Johnny’s smile was as sincere as it was ever going to get. “Sal,” he said. “I’m glad you asked.”
They were tired, and they were miserable, but they were not—not—sleepy. Scooter had moved his ET interview bit till the next morning, and they had just managed to finish the final draft of the parachute entrance into the fortressed island. Piggy had looked amazing in every shot, but Camilla had had some trouble with the parachute hardness—not to mention the helicopter. Camilla was a notoriously bad flyer, although they had done their best to put her at ease. Janice’s only issue was the heel of her shoe, which had wedged at once into the rocky out-cropping. Although the had hoped to film the entire scene without interruption, they’d had a slight hiccup when Janice’s shoe refused to budge. They had continued to roll film, but had been forced to cover the intrusion of the props manager who’d unstuck her shoe with a quick close-up, redubbing the original sound over the lapse. Picky as Kermit was, and as exacting as Scooter could be, they had declared themselves pleased at last and put that part of the film to bed.
Sadly, they had miles to go before they could do the same with their bedraggled selves.
Finishing the editing had merely allowed the cumulative irritation from the day to re-intrude. Scooter had managed to drag Kermit out of the Starbucks before he’d had a completely un-cold-blooded reaction to the newspaper article in front of the other patrons and the staff, but Kermit had fumed and ranted the entire way back to the studio.
“I give up,” he snapped. “First I’m the bad guy for keeping her here. Then I’m the bad guy for letting her go. Now—now—it’s apparently my fault she’s leaving! And I’m supposed to be mad at her for going. Where do these…” Here, Kermit struggled to find a Sesame Street-appropriate word to use. “—these…vultures get this stuff?”
“I know, Boss,” Scooter said, more to let Kermit know he was listening that because it would truly comfort him. “I don’t know where they get any of it.”
Piggy had called. Someone had tipped her—Scooter didn’t know yet if it had been friend or foe—but she had texted and then followed up with some suitably gushy reassurances which had, at least, brought Kermit’s blood pressure back into the “about to implode” range.
Scooter had gotten several phone calls himself, and sent a number of texts, but in the end it was his unenviable job to have to drag Kermit back on task.
“Boss,” Scooter had said, trying to sound professional and aloof. “Kermit—we can’t—we can’t do this now. We can’t. I’ve gotten some balls rolling and Piggy’s on it and Marty’s on it and we can’t do anything to help it right this minute. But if we don’t get in there and edit that film and put it to bed, we’re gonna miss our deadline. If we missed our deadline, there are budget penalties, and then we’re going to have to spend even more time explaining (Kermit knew this was code for defending) our lateness to the studio. And then—“
Kermit held up a hand for silence, but it wasn’t a rude gesture. He was merely putting up a figurative wall between what he was currently feeling and what needed to be done. He managed it in a surprisingly short time, and Scooter admired him his forced calm even while he knew what it cost Kermit to bottle it up.
“I—you’re right, Scooter. We can’t do anything this minute.”
“I’m sorry,” Scooter said. “I wish—“
“No, no—don’t apologize. I—thank you for getting me out of there. The last thing I need is to come apart at the seams in front of other industry folks. They probably already think I’m a dictatorial hot-head.” He patted his assistant’s arm. “I’m glad it’s your day to be the clear-headed one.”
In spite of himself, Scooter smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but if it had been my off day—!”
That made Kermit smile, but dimly. “We need to get that segment to bed today.”
“Before we leave.”
Kermit put his left hand on his forehead and pulled it slowly down his face, using an old acting technique for instilling calm. It did not instill calm, but it helped with the appearance of it. Kermit took a deep breath.
“Fine,” he said, his voice flat. “Let’s get going.”
When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and Kermit and Scooter earned the title—in spades. Their reward was to re-emerge to the same problem they had fled from earlier in the day, but not without additional resources.
Apparently one of the texts had been for food. And food arrived in the arms of a worried and tender-hearted bear.
“I hope your like mushrooms on your pizza. I thought you might like a little fungi with your fun guy!” Fozzie said, wiggling his ears. The attempt made them smile even if the joke had not.
“Fun guy and fungi both welcome,” said Kermit. “Come on in to the party.”
Fozzie traded unhappy glances with Scooter. Kermit looked so tired and depressed. Fozzie might have commented, but one look at Scooter’s equally exhausted face made him realize that voicing it wouldn’t help. He carried the pizza and jug of fresh-squeezed limeade into the little commissary and put it on the table. They did not even bother with plates, but laid their pizza—albeit briefly—on paper towels before devouring it, but even Kermit balked at drinking straight from the jug. They poured the limeade into rinsed-out coffee mugs and toasted each other grimly.
“So, did you tell him, Scooter?” Fozzie asked around a mouthful of pizza. “What did he say?”
Kermit, too, was talking with his mouth full. “What did I say about what?” he asked, his bulbous eyes wary.
But Scooter was chewing furiously. He swallowed and held up a hand while he swigged some limeade.
“About the fans,” Scooter said. “I haven’t had a chance to explain.”
“What about the fans?” said Kermit. He did not think he could stand another hatchet strike at his foundation tonight. “What’s wrong with the fans?”
“Nothing,” said Scooter, almost absurdly grateful to be able to give good news. “Our fans are terrific.” He looked at Kermit and paused, not quite sure how to edge into what he wanted to say. “Um, you know I helped you get your Facebook site up and running a…a while back,” Scooter said. “And you’ve done a couple of posts to it.”
“Riiiight,” Kermit said cautiously.
“Well, some of the, um, fan groups—our fan groups—have their own websites, too, just like you have a Facebook page now.”
“It’s great,” Fozzie said. “Fans can LIKE you if they want.”
“I hope they like us,” Kermit said, puzzled and a little defensive. “Isn’t that what fans do?”
“No—I mean, yes—that is what fans do—like things, but Fozzie meant that fans were hitting the LIKE button.”
“If they like it, why are they hitting it?” Kermit asked.
Fozzie looked at Scooter. “I’m gonna start writing these down. I could get a whole routine out of this.”
“What routine?” Kermit asked. He could hear himself sounding irritable and grumpy and skeptical and he hated that image of himself. He tried not to remember the months that he had lived it, shutting everyone else outside while he stewed in his own frenetic creative funk. He had—he had survived that—moved beyond it with the love of his spouse and friends, but it still haunted him occasionally.
Scooter was tired too. He smacked a piece of pizza onto Kermit’s paper towel. “Have another piece of pizza, Boss,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice. “I can explain while you’re chewing.”
Kermit got the hint. He shoved the last of the first piece into his mouth and chewed, making his face as neutral and receptive as he could.
“Look, we’re drowning here in bad publicity,” Scooter said. Kermit’s eyes thanked him for the “we” and Scooter saw the look and almost smiled. “Me and some of the guys were thinking that some of the fans could help—could give us some good publicity to combat the junk that’s coming from the print media.”
“What kind of good publicity?” Kermit asked. He was already on board with Marty’s carefully planned attack, but this didn’t sound like the same type of thing.
“Well, fans are pretty good sports. A lot of them are just interested in what we’re up to.” Scooter darted a look at Kermit’s face, gauging what to say next and how to say it. “They write about stuff like what we like to read, what projects we’re thinking about doing, what we like to do in our off times.”
“What kind of underwear we prefer?” asked Kermit dryly. He’d still not gotten over sparking a huge boxers-vs.-briefs debate online, which he’d only ever heard about and never actually seen.
“But Kermit—you started that. You did that Kermit Klein ad and then everybody started speculating about, um—“
“Don’t go there,” Scooter said flatly. “Both of you.” He sighed. “Look, I know that sometimes the fan attention can be a little, um, intense, but there are some great muppet sites out there who just publish real news and positive things.”
“For instance,” said Kermit, his voice wry.
“Well, there’s this muppet blog called The Muppet Mindset,” Scooter said. “It’s run by a guy called Prawnie.”
“He’s a…prawn. Like Pepe?” Kermit asked.
Scooter looked surprised. “No. Oh—no. He’s a kid.”
“A goat?” Kermit asked. “So this goat has a—what was it? A bog?” He shook his head. “I’ve yet to see a bog on a computer screen that looked anything like—“
“So gotta write this stuff down,” muttered Fozzie.
“Not a bog, Boss. A blog. It’s…it’s like a diary on the computer, but it's for the public to see. People write blogs for all kinds of things—cooking, reading, computer games.”
“And this…goat has a…a blog about our cast and crew?”
“Yes. I mean, he’s not a goat, but yes, he has a blog about the cast and crew.”
“You said he was a kid.”
“Well, he is. Like Robin.”
“He’s a frog? Do I know him?”
“Eat your pizza!” Scooter almost shouted. “He’s not a prawn, a goat or a frog. He’s a…a guy. Like me.”
“I think he’s taller—“ Fozzie began but Scooter turned and glared at him and he fell silent.
“Look, the point it—and I did have a point!—that we might be able to combat some of this newspaper nastiness with positive messages about the things we’re doing. You know, like that line of exploding underwear Doctor Honeydew was working on with Crazy Harry?”
“Again with the underwear,” Kermit muttered, but not loud enough for Scooter to call him on it.
“Okay, maybe that’s not such a good example,” Scooter said. “But…but, look—will you trust me to deal with this? I know you’re not a technology guy—trust me, I get that. But I am and I think our fans are there for us, and wish us well and want to support us—especially now. I’d like to talk to them and see what we can do—okay?”
“Ok,” said Kermit quietly. “I trust you. If you trust them, I’m in.”
Fozzie was tugging on Scooter’s arm. “Clifford says there are some other good sites. There’s one that plays music from our shows all the time. And one called Muppet Central that has message boards and articles about our show.”
“What’s a message board?” Kermit asked. Scooter sighed, trying to think how to explain, but Fozzie jumped in and saved him the necessity.
“Do you remember when we were filming the first few movies?” Fozzie said. “No cell phones, no email?”
“I remember,” Kermit said. ‘The good old days.”
Scooter might have said something snarky, but Fozzie put a gentle hand on the young man’s arm. “Do you remember how we left notes for each other on the bulletin board—‘Fozzie, come see me in room #11—I’ve got a good joke for you.’ And, ‘If anybody finds the top to my bikini….’” Fozzie stopped, and the three men were lost in thought for a moment. Everybody remembered that note, and the person who wrote it.
“Yeah—I remember,” Kermit said.
“Well, this is just like that,” Fozzie said. “People post messages and information for each other about all sorts of things, only it’s on the computer.”
“Sounds expensive,” said Kermit, but Fozzie was shaking his head.
“It doesn’t cost anything to the people who use it.”
Kermit looked astonished. “But that—that’s amazing,” he said. “And these, um, fan sites are just for fans, right?”
“Just for fans. Just for people who like the muppets.”
Kermit was quiet for a moment. “The fans…they do all this…for us?”
“Uh huh,” Scooter said. “Neat, huh?”
“Neat,” said Kermit. And—in spite of everything the day had held—he smiled.
Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!.jpg)
Christmas Music
Macy's Thanksgiving Parade
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
Yeah! not all journalists are bad! High five to Sara!
at the miscommunications during the explanation over pizza at the end.
at the gathering at the commissary. Nice to finally have Chef put in an appearance.
Oh great, the man with the hat.
at the unintentional funniness of some typos. No worries, it happens to the best of us. (That's why I either write what I post in a separate Wordpad window or read it before posting, because I know that if I write it directly in the Reply Edit it'll get some typos for sure).