If you attend Monday Night Magic on West 46th Street, you will want to saw yourself in half, handcuff your top half to a concrete-filled attaché case, submerge it in a padlocked vodka-filled vessel, and quietly alcodrown without even making a cursory attempt at escape. This, while your bottom half dashes, pell mell, toward the edge of a cliff and then, due to circumstantial blindness, trips and falls headlong (or whatever passes for headlong when you’re sans head) down its ragged side until it lands in a muddy alligator-rich ditch. That, or just yell, “Rip-off!!!” every time one of the performers underperforms Peter Brady.