[ WP ] Write the same story twice . One as a drama and the other as a comedy .

For the benefit of others, I include a note to myself as an outline. It's two lines long. 
 
 I admit I am not convinced the second one is comedy, I tried to make it funny. 
 
 Funny is hard. 
 
 Here goes. 
 
 I fall down and hurt myself. Drama. 
 You fall down and hurt yourself. Comedy. 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 It was the last day in July when Susan got the call that Frank was dead. She put the handset down on the kitchen table and took a seat. I should feel something, she said to the Formica table top. I must be in shock, she said to the patterned linoleum tiles. A squawking from the telephone snapped her back from whatever distant wind-swept territory she had fled to and she plopped the handset into its cradle and the squawking stopped. She rubbed the sweat of her palms against her jeans. 
 
 There's a lot to do, she said to the fridge. She gripped the cold metal handle and pulled. A blast of freon-driven cold struck her in the chest, the beads of sweat that rimmed her collar tightened into tiny pellets as her pores clamped shut. Frank is dead, she said to the leftover chicken casserole. 
 
 I'm free, she said to the half eaten can of peas. 
 
 Then Susan, married, mother of two, danced in silence. Susan laughed in silence. Danced because of freedom from a rotten husband. Laughed because of freedom from a wife beater. 
 
 In silence because of the neighbours. 
 
 This was a nice neighbourhood. 
 
 After all. 
 
 COMEDY 
 
 Hotter than an armadillo's armpit stuffed with chipotles, Susan gift wrapped the phone in slobber-dash, the jig was up, the fix was in, Frankie Salami was deader than sin. He shouldn'a not done, he shouldn'a known better, than to get her in the fetter like a salty irish setter. Maybe it was him, or maybe the gin, but the Finn, went in like a fool and a babe where angels fear to wade. 
 
 Hey table, what's knocking? Hey phone, quit honkin' said Susan to the pest, then put it on its rest. The plastic fantastic bakelite fandango made Frank's last appearances all the more glam-dango. 
 
 He was a bum, he was a cad, she said to the fridge, to the dinner drumsticks he often missed, for late night office work he hissed. But the gin on his lips sang a different tune. 
 
 Jive jam, be bop be wow, Frankie's gone to Hollywood! she howled, course she did n't, it was all in her head, the hoots and the jibs. she swayed her hips and tapped her feet, her fingers flew a tippty snap snap treat. 
 
 But she kept her lips shut. The first rule: be tight as a nut. 
 
 like her gals in the factory used to say, loose lips sink ships. 
 
 No nosey noses were going to mess with her getaway. Oh no. Oh yeah!
