What's that you say?

"Sir, it has come to my attention that-"

"What has come to your attention?"

"It has come to my attention that some-"

"Don't just go on repeating yourself like a jack in the box, I don't need to hear the same information thrice-fold, just deliver it fresh."

"It has come to my attention-"

(sigh)

"It has come to my attention, Sir, that some people are saying that, and I quote, 'Your posts pretty much beg for themselves', followed by a most indelicate wink."

"Beg for themselves what?"

"Beg for, I believe, comments."

"Comments?"

"Yes Sir, comments."

"So this, this, this trollop has the effrontery to say that I beg for comments?"

"Yes Sir, that would appear to be the case."

"Sick."

"Might I also point out, Sir, that your calling her a trollop will hardly recommend you to the fairer half for a more generous treatment-"

"Well, dash it, she started it, didn't she?"

"Sir, I believe you in fact did start it, if I may use so indelicate a verbiage."

"Me? Commence such a ridiculous undertaking? Speak up now, my man, tell me when!"

"When did you commence?"

"You mark my meaning most astonishingly. Now get on with it."

"Well Sir, it appears that you started the whole thing by inquiring as to the absence of commentage."

"You mean that most innocent of verbal jousting has been hijacked to represent a most gross liberty?"

"You've smoked my drift most exactingly, Sir. As you say, what is was that you said has been taken in quite the wrong manner."

"Perverted, no doubt, by a most malicious will designed to take me down in my prime, to dissemble that which I have created so lovingly, with so much care and effort. Sick, I say, sick."

"Sir?"

"What is it now? Can't you see I'm having a most delicious huff?"

"Sir, you mistake the meaning of that word."

"Which word? 'Huff?' You don't think for a moment I refer to Aubrey, do you?"

"Not at all, Sir, your use of that word is entirely consistent with the best dictionarians in the land."

"Well then, what is it?"

"Your use of the word 'dissemble,' Sir, while sounding on the board, is actually quite fallen off it."

"You mean I used it in the wrong sense."

"Precisely."

"Dang."

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

"No profanity-laced tirades coming from your mouth, eh?"

"No, I'm too full of myself for that."

"I noticed. Regardless, enough of the chortling. There's serious issues afoot, and I want them to be solved, and solved now!"

"You mean this insidious suggestion that you pander to your audience for comments?"

"Yes. What's to be done to respond to such horrendous accusations?"

"I don't know. Perhaps your readership has a suggestion or two?"

"An excellent idea. Hopefully they can come up with something."

Free associations... (slightly expurgated for content)

April 8, 2002

I am free writing right now, isn’t that wonderful and exciting. I know that you think it is wonderful and exciting also, otherwise you would not be reading this wonderful product of not so raving insanity. Okay? Got that? Well then, that is absolutely wonderful, if you get my drift. I certainly get my drift, though that is probably to be expected as most drifts drift in and out regardless of the consequences of drifting. That is a good kind of drift. A bad kind of drift is the kind of drift that leads to any drifting that the original drifter did not intend for the drifter to get, if you get my meaning.

Life is Beautiful is a movie and I saw it with B.J. over two years ago. My feet stuck to the floor as we entered the theater and I remember thinking of a story someone once told me about rats in the Har Mar movie theaters. I used to raise rats for money when I was in junior high. The one that was my favorite smelled a bit like dry corn kernels and was able to walk a tight rope from one end of my room to the other. Nerf grew a tumor in her second year and had to be put to sleep. I wonder if the vet actually put her to sleep or if they just took her in the back and drowned her-- it would be a good way to save money, and after all, she was only a rat.

Diagonally is the way my horizontal blinds cut the light off in the living room as it shoots through the window at the end of the day. The blinds leave a diagonal shadow upon the living room wall which casts a weird dark look upon the portrait of Chuck Close that happens to be hanging there. Chuck Close was always one of my favorite artists because he was so good at those paintings and when he got sick and had to be in a wheelchair like in Six Degrees of Separation, he continued to paint brilliant cells of color, just as large as his original paintings, but sectioned into small portions that were accessible to a man who could barely control his motor skills.

scar hemoglobin hemoglobin or hemoglobin? because hemoglobin is funnier okay?! interrobang I have no idea what the heck you are talking about clueless that's me bad english heavy metal punk rocksid vicious who?! so young... too bad. so sad.not so true that surely you are insane I will return the compliment. You are nuts!!!Cashews. Peanuts are not nuts. I am allergic to peanuts-HA chew chew what sneeze Bless you church steeple fingers chicken pieces sitting in the tree. Who knows?

April 17, 2002

Noble-Nobles were French men who liked mustard, named after the noble who made it instead of the cook, which is sort of like calling a Mac a Steve Jobs as opposed to a Jonathan Ives. John is a cool guy, entirely unlike his namesake who terrorized England, and spawned Robin Hood. Monty Python is sometimes funny, though his protege, John Cleese is much funnier. Faulty towers is absolutely brilliant. The Psychiatrist one is the best. Physcho analyzers are divided into two classes, as are sports teams. There are the have and have notes. Haves would be the Packers, who are about to get rid of Antonio Freeman, a very stupid thing to do, just like Apple licensing Microsoft stuff which was very dumb. Microsoft is of course evil, stemming from its stealing of Apple.

˝Write about a Frenchman who loves mustard."

Pierre was a buffoon who loved all food, even Tortilla chips dipped in hot mozzarella with carrot sauce on top. His favorite food, though, was mustard. He consumed it though, day and night, and never let the cook who made it get him down. The cook was an evil rapscallion who stole all the food in the house and got drunk and ate baguettes all day. One day, the cook decided to commit suicide, because Pierre ate too much mustard. But there was no rope in the house, and so he got drunk, got fired, and enlisted in the Foreign Legionaries where he met Beau Geste. Beau Geste means a meaningless gesture, something like the movie by that name. It is an excellent ,movie. The carpet color orange is not very exciting. Better is white, or off white to hide the stains better. I do not know how to hide stains well, so this is an imperative. Imperatives are usually not kept anyway, so what is the point of keeping them. Who knows? I certainly do not know. More do I want to know.

April 29, 2002

Handkerchiefs are white, or at least they should be. William Brown had all white ones, until they got dirty. When things get dirty, then you need tyde. Don't ingest it though, for you will suffer massively, just like the Vikings this year. They are going to be destroyed by the Packers. Brett Favre is a brilliant genius, no matter what he says. And he is not dyslexic. This fact is proven by his brilliant speech after a brilliant performance over Baltimore when I was in Seattle. It always rains there, which means it has the highest suicide rate in the nation. Or so I have been told.

Birthday cake is usually very good. The icing isn’t, probably because it is equal amounts of sugar and food coloring. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with food coloring. Anyone who says so is itching for a fight, just like those who want the right answers on Michael Feldman's show.The name escapes my mind. Will I fall asleep tonight, sometimes I don’t fall asleep when I cant think about something. Isn’t that just so sad. It literally makes me want to bawl and cry with gusto. It is really pretty pathetic that, but I do not mind as I am a kind and compassionate soul, full of of kindness and compassion, even for those whose souls have led them on the path of wickedness which can only lead to eternal damnation. This is the path of the Democratic party.

The River

12/17/01

The boxcar rumbled slowly, having already cleared the junction, its occupant could not think of a reason why. He was a smallish man, five foot six, with blue eyes that never had the sparkle attributed to that characteristic. With him in the boxcar were two dogs, but as they do not feature in this story at all, they will no further be mentioned. Also with him was a flashlight without any batteries, and so he did not see what was obstructing his train.

It was, in fact, nothing. The track ahead was clear, and the signals were all bright green. But the engineer did not go, because of two reasons. One, was because the bridge two miles up had been hit by lightning only half an hour before, and was burning brightly in the rain soaked air. The other reason, and the more pressing of the two, was that his cup of coffee was cold. On an ordinary night, this is a calamity. However, in the rain, with your train not moving, and the ticketed passengers complaining, it is a disaster. When a man needs his caffeine, he needs his caffeine.

(She was being chased by a giant hedgehog, which was eating her money as she flung it out of her wallet. She screamed, turned around, and tried to punch it. It stopped, she ran, it ran, she flung money, it ate money, and this continued. Now back to our scheduled story, brought to you courtesy of moi.)

The coffee had spilled, and he was ineffectually trying to clean it up when the head steward brought him some paper towels, and more importantly, another cup of coffee, steaming hot, with cream. The engineer hated cream. However, as beggars can’t be choosers, he took it. The moment the steward left, he threw it out the window onto a freezing cold tabby cat, which, though appreciating the warmth, did not like cream either. He ran off screaming into the night. With the mess cleaned up, the engineer called headquarters and asked what to do. They told him to sit tight, and keep warm.

This he did, with some success, but the passengers were still annoyed, and he still needed a caffeine boost. He got out of his ivory tower, actually a plastic chair with a little Oakland Raiders sticker attached from a previous occupant, and went first to the galley and thence to the public address station in the back of the engine. While mixing his drink, he absentmindedly poured in salt, rather then sugar. Mentally composing his speech, he trotted off to the PA system microphone. While doing that, he tripped and spilled the coffee. Cursing the gods, and frightening an elderly woman in the process, he went back to the galley for yet another cup of coffee. Little did he know that he had just saved himself from drinking a disgusting drink. This time, he put on a plastic lid, and walking slowly, arrived at his destination. Taking a sip of coffee, he retched. No sugar.

Going back, he poured the coffee out the window, and made sure to do everything right. It worked, and switching on the microphone, he began with a greeting, “Good evening, this is your captain speaking,” (rather pompously, many thought) and continued, “I regret to inform you that the bridge ahead of us is out of commission.” (The head steward snorted his cup of coffee, while thinking, “Oh yes, only burned down and decimating the local deciduous forests.”) The engineer continued, “We will stay here indefinitely, at least until high command sends me orders.” He was, of course, a big fan of WWII movies.

Meanwhile, the man in the boxcar was cold, hungry, and in a MEAN MOOD! He rushed out of the car, tripped, kicked the door back into its place, and broke his legs, arms, and pinkie toe. The pinkie toe hurt the most, but he couldn’t even massage it, because his arms were broken. Moaning pitifully, the burned tabby cat rushed to him, licked the blood off his muddy face, and ran for help.

The tabby headed in the direction of the bridge, but ran back. His efforts were to no avail, but we will get to that part later. After downing his now perfect cup of coffee in a single fell swoop, the engineer considered his work with grim satisfaction. He had showed himself to be a man of action and great fortitude with his brilliant speech. Unfortunately, he had also shown himself to be a WWII movie buff, which was on the whole not a terrible thing, except that in these circumstances it was a horrible mistake. The boss of the firm had been trying to cultivate a love of Vietnam movies, and had threatened to sack any who made references to other great wars. That was another reason why the engineer was going to take as long as possible in getting back to the station. He wanted to savor his last minutes in his plastic chair with the ugly Raiders sticker on it.

Munching on the large piece of apple pie that the steward had given him, the engineer wondered why he had gotten it. “Probably because of my great speech,” he thought, “that he gave me this great piece of pie.” Actually, the steward had given him the pie in order to shut him up and not allow him to talk again.

Now to the part of the tabby. John, the name of the tabby, ran hard through the cold forest along the shining track towards the man he had sworn to save. He was gone. It hurt him, that a man with both legs and arms broken had left him. He could still see the blood, so John knew he was in the right place. In reality the as of yet nameless hobo is now in an ambulance where we join him.

“What is your name?” asked the young and suave ER dropout.

Answered the hobo, “John.” Is not this a curious coincidence that the man and his savior were both named John? But the coincidences were to get even larger, so forebear this prattle and get on with the story.

“What a curious coincidence,” said the dropout, “John is my name also!” See? I told you. By a curious chance, John was the name of every male in this story. Except for one, because his name was Joe. Joe Pinella. He played for the New York Leatherstockingtons, a team that played baseball with the name of the old Yankees. He was the center fielder. He was not very good, but he did get the job done. He was sitting in the third car, the first class one. Behind him were two cars, second and tourist classes, and then the boxcar which the unfortunate John had lived in. He had lived in there because his former home, also a boxcar, had been disengaged in the junction. And now his home in the new boxcar rumbled along, heading towards the burnt out bridge-- John, the engineer had decided to commit suicide because of his fateful WWII reference. The train slowly built up speed. The head steward, realizing what was happening, ran to stop it. Running to the door of the cockpit, he twisted the handle. It broke off. John, the steward, pushed the door. It did not budge. He pushed again. It caved, and John fell with a shock onto the linoleum floor. With a gasp, he realized it was still wet from the coffee. He tasted it. Creamer! ”So,” John thought, “he threw out the coffee that I made for him!”

Flying into the wall, he got up with an extra impetus to avenge the spilling of his handiwork. But he was too late. The train was only one hundred feet from the cliff. He mentally counted them out as he watched the terrain go by. He did not notice, however, the second track which was rapidly coming beside them. Fifty feet! Forty, thirty, twenty, ten, five! He screamed. At that same moment, by a curious chance, Jean Valjean awoke in her prison cell with a terrible fright. She had just had a terrible nightmare! It was about a hedgehog eating all her money! The fact that she had none did little to comfort Jean. She rushed to the window, and stared outside as the rain poured down and make cute little patterns in the river. An ambulance pulled up into the prison driveway, with a tabby running beside it. A train sped past her cell on the new line, which had just been finished ten minutes before. It hurtled into the distance, with one loud WooHoo! emanating from the front.

Lord Washington

3/26/03

My name is Sir George Edward Washington. I was born in London, the son of the late Sir George Herbert Washington. My life, compared to his, has been relatively tame, but still sufficiently full of interest to warrant recording it here. As my father always said, it’s not how you live, it’s whether someone will pay to read your biography. As an example, he always brought forth his two friends; Don, the infamous robber baron, and Keith, the great pastor of Nottinghampshire. Don was a very evil person. He drank excessively, played cards excessively, robbed, killed, raped, and maimed excessively, and yet his biography would be just as thrilling as a story of H.G. Welles. Keith, on the other hand, was a saint. He took care of his flock for over fifty years, never drank or played cards, and was a vegetarian. His biography would take up five non-thrilling pages.

I was not a bright child, as my nurse used to say, not a chip off the old block. When she said this, she would turn deliberately and wink at my mother, who would show her a gimlet eye and then explain that she had no idea what the nurse could possibly be talking about. The nurse knew better. Not only was I dumb, but I was also a coward as a child. My father used to joke that this ran rampant in the family, saying that after all, hadn’t my great-great-grandfather also been a coward? My father was no American, as he proudly said, but he knew that he would never live down what he perceived as his shame.

In fact, his shame was an entirely different matter from what he imagined it to be. He thought that the other people in the House of Lords laughed at him because his peerage had been a gift, and had not been earned in the conventional way. Actually, most of the other Lords predecessors also had done nothing for their rights, so it didn’t really matter. What, you don’t know what happened? Well then, I must clue you in on how my father got to become a Lord.

It all started on a wintery day at Valley Forge. General George Washington’s troops were tired, hungry, and most importantly, cold. The General decided that the only way to save his troops would be to arrange a surrender. This he did, and in exchange for his giving back the Americas to the British, he was awarded a hereditary peerage. Thus our family was reborn. My father’s shame did not lie in the fact that he had done nothing to deserve his knighthood, instead, it was over the simple matter of his butler. We had had Thomas Aldridge as our butler for as long as I could remember. He was a genius, and indispensable to the running of our household. Unfortunately, he committed suicide when he spilled some tea over the dress of the late Dowager Duchess of Davenport. When he saw what he had done, he pulled a knife out of his coat pocket and did the ancient Japanese rite of Hari-Kari. Others in the House of Lords always joked about “Washington and his Japanese butler.” He never lived down either of his shames, but he did not die penniless. He died eventually, of course, from a rare mental disease known as Disconnectidus-Brainus. I was left all his money. And am currently spending it in riotous living. In fact, that is why I have written this story. I needed more gambling money. I guess I was actually a chip off the old block.

Charlie and Karl on the course

"So," said Charlie, "what do we have here? Four murders in the last twenty minutes, and you're looking for what?"

"The murderer?" asked Karl, "isn't that who anyone would be looking for?"

Charlie answered, "Well, that's what you'd think, right? Right. But no, Doug here has to try and figure out who's gonna be the lead investigator here. Idiot."

Doug began to defend himself, saying, "Hey, look, don't blame this on me. The department mandated that I make a history type thing for them-"

"Oh come off it," said Charlie, "we all know why you're here: the department has no money, they sell the rights to any future crimes to your publishers, you write the book, we get some money."

"Yeah," Karl chimed in, "This is hardly history-you're selling us here. In fact, you'd probably like a cop to die, huh? Would make for a better story, eh?"

Doug felt that he was rapidly losing control of the situation, and he figured he'd end the conversation before anyone (himself) got hurt. "So what you're saying," he said, "is that right now there is no lead investigator here?"

Charlie and Karl pretended to ignore Doug, and as they walked downstairs, passing Doug's tastefully appointed office and pausing for a quick doughnut at the local Dunkin, they muttered to each other about the sick taxpayers, whose fault this whole thing really was. Doug followed them, a worried look on his face; you could tell he was worried because he didn't even stop for a doughnut before getting in his journalist/police car and preparing to follow Charlie's 1999 Crown Victoria as it drove to the scene of the four murders in the twenty minutes.

By the time the two cars, three people got there, the bodies had been cleared so that the foursome behind them could continue on. Charlie stepped onto the sixteenth green, just behind the tee where the foursome was preparing to launch their drives, and asked them if they had seen anything unusual. "Oh, unusual?" said one of them, "well, now that you mention it, it was quite strange to see blood all over the sixteenth green. I don't think I've ever seen blood all over there-you'd have thought that the guys ahead of us would have had the courtesy to clean up after themselves. The bunkers especially were horrendous-all that blood just clumped together with the sand and made it impossible to play the game properly. I shall have to take it up with the committee as soon as possible."

"Very good," said Charlie, "you may now carry on."

With this permission granted, the first member of the foursome hit his tee shot into a tree on the left of the fairway, and he announced to no one in particular that he'd be taking a mulligan on this one. Charlie snorted in derision (she was after all the sectional champion in regional qualifying for the Ladies USGA three years running), but Karl looked concerned for a moment, and then said, "I'm placing you under arrest." Saying this, he took out his hand cuffs and placed them around the golfer. Charlie looked confused, and Karl explained. "It's very simple," he said, "basically, he ran ahead of his group after 'losing' his ball in the trees on the sixteenth, and murdered the group ahead of his own with the rake, which, you will notice, is incorrectly placed inside the bunker!"

Charlie grasped Karl's intent immediately, and she said, "Oh, I see it. Hmm."

Doug, who had been negotiating the purchase of a hot dog from the green's attendant while all this was occurring, came up the group just as some mustard was beginning to fall onto his shirt. "So what happened?" he asked, "have you apprehended the killer? Was anyone hurt? Who is the lead investigator here?"

Karl and Charlie exchanged disgusted looks, and walked back to Charlie's 1999 Crown Victoria, dragging the golfer between them, who was crying piteously. Karl just said, "Really? They provoked you with a seven iron? Tell it to the judge." Charlie laughed a cold, dark laugh that made shivers go down everyone's spine, and made mustard go up Doug's (who had been hurrying to catch up) nose. "Really?" said Charlie, "a mashie niblick on a 3 par 218? A likely story."

The Hero Drank the Chocolate

The Hero Drank the Chocolate

April Fool's Day, 2004

In honor of Too-ticky.

Mr. Johnson stood by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil, hoping that this time at least the old maxim would not hold true. It did. Mr. Johnson sighed and walked to his living room to finish off the last of that morning’s paper. He had just got to the good part in the sports section, the part where duck hunting tactics were explained, when the kettle started to whistle. Mr. Johnson was not a duck hunter. He hated killing animals, hated eating duck, and couldn’t stand the sound of whistles. He didn’t know why he liked reading about the subject; it just seemed natural. He lifted the kettle off the stove, poured some of the boiling water into a cup, and put the kettle on a cold burner. Too late he realized that the chocolate packet said to put the ingredients into the cup first; Mr. Johnson put a tea bag into the cup and made another for the chocolate. Now he would be able to finish up the duck section in peace.

Mr. Franklin trudged through the blizzard up the hill, pausing now and then to check if the small cat wrapped securely in his inner pocket was still alive. The fifth time he checked the cat had died. Mr. Franklin knew this because he flicked the small cat’s whiskers and it didn’t bite his already bloody finger. Mr. Franklin put the cat down on top of a snow bank where he would find it the next day. Then he would eat it, for food was scarce in the valley even in spring, and if he did not eat it his neighbor Mr. Johnson would. Not that Mr. Franklin had anything against Mr. Johnson. In fact, it was toward his house that Mr. Franklin was slowly trudging. It was just that he liked to eat his own dead cats.

Mr. Franklin was a hero, and Mr. Johnson was his faithful friend. Mr. Franklin always walked into town in the hopes of being a hero. He usually succeeded, and consequently walked around town with a medal that said, “Official Hero of Fairington.” Mr. Franklin was a very humble person, but he knew that it made the locals happy to see the medal they had spent half the town’s tax money on. Mr. Johnson always knew to have a cup of hot chocolate ready for his friend at six o’clock.

Mr. Franklin came into view of Mr. Johnson’s window. Mr. Johnson hurried to open it for his shivering neighbor, who immediately shed his clothes and flung himself on a couch before the fireplace. There was no fire there now, but Mr. Franklin was a great believer in symbolism. Mr. Johnson hung up the soaked clothing and brought Mr. Franklin his chocolate. Mr. Johnson began to speak in hushed tones, fearing that his normal booming voice would cause the snow on the roof to come crashing down onto the frozen rose stems standing valiantly in the garden just beneath the window.

“I left here at half past twelve hoping to reach Fairington by sunset. The blizzard delayed long enough for me to make good time, and I had been sitting in the library for half an hour before the last red rays slipped beneath the high windows and plunged the library into darkness. I cursed the librarian for not lighting candles, and went about the room, bumping into bookshelves and tables before finding a match for the candle in my hand. I lit it, and saw a small cat staring up at me. I realized that I had not done by hero’s work for the day, and so determined to bring the cat here and nurse it back to health. The cat did not particularly want to leave its warm home, but I insisted, so it eventually agreed to come with me here. In the middle of the journey up the hill the cat died, so I left it on a snowbank to freeze for tomorrow's dinner. Now I’m here, and I must say that this chocolate is very good. Perhaps you’d like to come with me to do a hero’s work in Fairington tomorrow?”

Mr. Johnson replied that he would not, and that he was very satisfied to stay back and make hot chocolate. He then inquired as to Mr. Franklin’s choice of books for that evening’s entertainment. The two choices were Pride and Prejudice and Robinson Crusoe. Mr. Franklin chose Jane Austen’s classic work, so Mr. Johnson began to read to the great hero.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

Mr. Franklin interrupted Mr. Johnson’s reading to ask him for some more hot chocolate. Mr. Johnson got up to get him some more. Finding the kettle cold, Mr. Johnson put in fresh water and waited till it would boil again. Mr. Franklin picked up the newspaper to read in the interim. All that was left was the section on duck hunting. Mr. Franklin loved duck hunting. He found it to be one of the most exhilarating sports known to man. He loved killing animals, loved eating duck, loved the sound of whistles. Unfortunately for the paper though, he didn’t like reading about duck hunting. This was unfortunate for the paper, because they could not put an official “Approved by the Official Hero of Fairington” sticker on the duck hunting section of the paper.

Mr. Johnson returned with the hot chocolate and gave it to Mr. Franklin. He then picked up the book and read it out loud.

“Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.”

Mr. Franklin asked who the them in the beginning of the story had been referring to. Mr. Johnson answered that it meant the Gardiners. Mr. Franklin “Aah,” and then looked at the clock, saw that it was half past nine in the morning, announced his intention of going home and thence to bed, and also his intention of brushing his teeth in a particularly heroic manner. Mr. Johnson thought that all of this was a good idea, and accompanied his friend to the door. They parted ways amiably, shaking hands as Mr. Franklin said that he was sorry about the cat, but that he hoped it would be a good dinner the following day. “I’ll bring it to you before I go a’heroing tomorrow, and then you can make us a nice meal with it.” Mr. Johnson thought this fine, and asked what kind of wine he should baste the deceased in. Mr. Franklin decided on a nasty little chardonnay with hints of garlic and vinegar, and so the matter was settled.

The next day an express messenger ran to Mr. Johnson’s house with an express message. It read:

The Coroner’s Office
Today

Bad Tidings

To my dear Mr. Johnson,

I have terrible news to impart to you. I fear that it will cause you great distress, so sit down while you read this. {Mr. Johnson, being the best friend a hero had no need to sit down} [The letter continues] Your dear friend, the Official Hero of Fairington, has died being extremely heroic. He saw the ice crack beneath the feet of the post man, Mr. Billups, and ran out to help. He ran over to help, and jumping from ledge to ledge almost made it back to safety. I had just come out of my office, (I so dearly love to fish, and it’s so convenient) to applaud the valiant and heroic efforts of the great hero when he just missed clearing a gap and fell under the ice which immediately closed over his head. Mr. Billups catapulted to safety, but our great hero did not surface. After what seemed an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than 2 hours, we got an auger to investigate. His body was nowhere to be found, but we found his medal lodged in the crack. I have enclosed it here. The memorial service will be tomorrow at ten in the morning. Again, I would like to condole with you.

Mr. Johnson stood in disbelief. He could not cope with the fact that the Official Hero of Fairington had left his town without a certified icon. “No, he had been more than that,” thought Mr. Johnson, “He had been a veritable idol to which all looked up to in times of distress.” Mr. Johnson knew that his friend would have liked to have a simple memorial, but also that this would never happen. Mr. Johnson decided that there was only one way to properly remember his friend. He ate the cat, toasting the Official Hero of Fairington with the chardonnay it had been cooked in.

Joshua's call from the past

Here's a never-before published tale of Joshua. Enjoy.
---
"You know, I'm really annoyed."

"Why Joshua?"

"Because no one ever tried to get me to smoke."

"Do you want to smoke?"

"No,"

"So why should you care?"

"Because I think it reflects negatively on me, that no one cared enough about me."

"Maybe they just thought you were too strong a nut to crack."

"Maybe they just weren't interested in hanging out with me."

'Yeah, that's probably it.

"Gee, thanks."

"No problem Joshua. Anyway, now that we're on the subject, what other things bother you?"

"You know what I can't stand? I can't stand when people try to live their lives through their children."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are people in this world who for whatever reason didn't do certain things as kids, or didn't end up the right way, and now they're trying to force their kids to do those things."

"Maybe they just want their kids to have what they didn't."

"And the kids have to suffer because of it?"

"Who says the kids are suffering?"

"Wouldn't you suffer if you weren't allowed to wear baseball caps and t-shirts?"

"Well, I'm sure it would be a momentary annoyance, but there certainly are worse things out there."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"Like people who think that everything you do or say has to be funny."

"True. I can see it right now, people will be saying that I'm being existential and boring. You know what? I can't be serious once in a while?"

"Well, you do owe certain things to your readership. They are after all what has brought you to these great heights of popularity."

"So you're saying that I should quit the spewing and get on with the show?"

"Yes."

"Fine, I'll see what I can do."

"Good Joshua. Meanwhile, "I'll just potter around."

Later...

"Pottering's done, Joshua, how's by you?"

"I discovered that my feet are in fact penguins?"

"That seems like a rather cheap gag. I thought you had standards!"

"I do."

"And?"

"They're low enough to accommodate most any gag."

"That's a rather pathetic state of affairs."

"But wait, it gets worse."

"How so?"

"Not only are my feet penguins, but they burp too."

"They burp? "What in the world does that mean?"

"No, really, listen close and you'll hear them burp."

"That's weird."

"Not so weird as my feet."

"Um, Joshua, we're talking about your feet here. "So they're just as weird as themselves."

"Right, I forgot that. "Let me work on this for a second."

A second passes in the quick time for which it's renowned

"Well Joshua?"

"I've come to the realization that you are in fact correct. My penguin feet that burp are quite weird."

"What else?"

"They're talking to me."

"What are they saying?"

"They want me to take them to my leader."

"But you are their leader."

"That's hardly the point."

"Also, where's your leader?"

"Who says I have a leader?"

"Your feet seem to have a pretty clear opinion on the subject."

"My feet are burping penguins. I hardly consider them authorities on any subject."

"But you're talking to them!"

"No, just listening."

"You're obviously deranged."

"That's what the penguins told me."

"And you believed them?"

"Did I have a choice? If my burping penguin feet tell me something, what can I do but listen?"

"You could visit a psychotherapist, or barring that, you could rehire Chandler."

"What? You mean he's gone?"

"Sure, you fired him a while back."

"But that was only a gag! He was supposed to come back after all the excitement had died down!"

"Well maybe he took it last personally last time."

"I'll have to see about that-be a doll and get him in the phone."

Chandler on the phone

"Hello, Chandler? This is Joshua. Where are you?"

"In bed."

"In bed? My dear man, it's just an hour after midnight! What self-respecting man lies in bed at this hour?"

"I'm in mourning for my lost innocence."

"Innocence? You never had any innocence! After all, you agreed to work for me."

"In my innocence, I didn't think it would be such a dangerous proposition."

"And you discovered?"

"That it's quite the horrible experience."

"Oh."

Lurve Lurve Lurve!

"Jim didn't much like it when his friend Tom forgot to take out the garbage from their room in the university dorm, but he didn't like criticizing Tom even more, so he kept his mouth shut. Tom, meanwhile, couldn't stand it when Jim sang while he was getting changed, but since he was mute he couldn't really do anything about it, so that was that."

"This, class is a perfect example of one-dimensional writing that has pretensions to humor but never really takes off anywhere and instead leaves the reader feeling like a piece of idiocy wrapped in lettuce and served on goyishe rye," said the literature professor, "and yes, Johnson, do you have something to say?"

Johnson did indeed have something to say, and he said it too. "What does it mean to 'feel like a piece of idiocy?'" asked Johnson, "and would it make any difference if you wrapped it in tomato instead?"

'And that's exactly the kind of snarky self-serving statement that I'm trying to breed you people off of," countered the literature professor, "and please, Johnson, see me after class."

"See you after class?" asked another student, "what is this, kindergarten? And anyway, if you're all for intellectual honesty and all that, then what's the problem with-"

The student was cut off by the literature professor, who realizing that he was rapidly losing control of the class, said loudly, "I don't teach this class to get argued with! I thought English majors were all pansies, what are you doing speaking up?!"

His tirade over, the literature professor turned back to his chalkboard to hide the quick swig he was about to take, and a minute later (after a reviving draught) turned back to his students to continue the lesson. Little did he know that one of his students, Lynda, bored out of her boxers by his continued droning, had taken to videoing his lectures with a small video camera and then editing his face so that it appeared as if he was in fact a goat. This was generally good for a few laughs, but usually made it no farther than the student lounge.

Lynda, who generally paid less attention to class than her parents paid in tuition (she was on a full scholarship), had once again been videoing (and not paying attention), but her professor's tirade had caught the ear of a few of her devoted followers, and they congregated around her after class and asked to see the video evidence. It played in glorious if grainy color on Lynda's laptop, and she even she was impressed with what she had gotten. "Nice," she said, "it's a good thing I'm a marketing major."

Six months later...

His career in tatters, the literature professor is working for the Mississippi Department of Education as a danish boy. Johnson is still serving himself, but now it's in front of hundreds of people every night at a successful 0ff-Broadway revival of The Women. And Lynda? She's still spacing out during class. Yup. Good times.

Pithy fools

He heard a voice coming from behind him, and immediately swung around to see who it could be. Standing in back of him was a giant tortoise, but of course he didn't see this because it was standing in back of him. He turned around again when it made a noise, but it was still in back of him. This was all rather disconcerting, and he made a sudden movement-

and then silence.

It's been a long time coming, and it ain't ending too soon either

"It's a journey that may take a thousand years," said the world renowned travel show presenter, "and what could be better?" His producer wasn't too thrilled with the idea. "A thousand years? Are you nuts? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a pilot approved for one season? And you're asking a studio to give you a millennium? You're nuts in the head!" The world renowned travel presenter was not to be deterred, and he simply switched allegiance, a common enough occurrence in Hollywood, though not common enough to escape the notice of the local tabloids, which proclaimed the next morning, "I don't want to spend the next thousand years together with you!"

So there they were, setting off on what might prove to be the longest bust in television history. The execs had taken a while to warm to the idea. They has asked, "When do we get to send this baby to syndication," and, "It's like reality TV but the only prize you win at the end is that you get to go to sleep." Cooler heads prevailed, and about six months after filming began the promotional material started up. Once again some of the powers that were thought this a trifle ridiculous-after all, the life cycle on this particular product was going to exceed that of its creators, and maybe they should figure out if its any good anyway before spending millions of dollars sending kitschy shtuff to reviewers? This was taken to be a good point by the cooler heads, but they were put back into the freezer and the pr team got to work.

The public was, it turned out, intrigued by this new travel show, and they began to pester the network for information. A snag was hit when it was revealed that the premiere was shot in Lakewood, but this was soon solved by simply not showing this segment. After all, when you have a thousand years to work with, what's a half hour here or there? One critic remarked that it seemed a little ridiculous to begin a thousand year's journey by stumbling on the first step, but he also wrote that, "Lakewood is a pretty boring place, I'm not sure why anyone would want to spend any amount of time there, even if they had lots and lots of time to spend elsewhere," which seemed to solve whatever problems had come up, at least for the viewers.

Sunday night was marked off on the calendars of many Americans, who tuned in to watch the beginning of what promised to be the greatest show in the history of television and indeed in the history of humanity. The show, entitled, "It's been a long time coming, and it ain't ending too soon either," began with the world renowned travel show presenter was seen sitting in a beautifully restored early-American wood cabinet drinking a martini and smoking an expensive cigarette, while explaining to a group of rapt teenagers that sartorialism was not in fact a vapid response to capitalism, but was rather a rather well thought out response to Dan Rather's insistence on being himself. The teenagers didn't quite get what was going on, but they did understand that here was their chance to shine brightly, or at least to maybe get some of the martini.

After cutting away from this seen of parochial guidance the world renowned travel show presenter was seen hiking over the dales and through the hills to his grandma's house, proclaiming that, "Only here, in the clear blue mountains of Kansas, where time itself seems to have stopped and the green-fleckled hens of a time too far gone to make any sense of stand sentinel to the vast powers that once decided the fates of a million peasants." Not one to mince words, he also said that the best local product to be had at the time was steamed pickles, though the one shot shown of him eating them wasn't particularly revealing, though perhaps this could be blamed on the barf bag which featured prominently not being translucent. Much better looking were the french fries from McDonalds which could be seen peeking out from in between the cushions in the custom made recreational vehicle which served as both the living quarters for the presenter and his publicist, who was really the power behind the throne, even if she was only 26 and had a nose like a pig on anabolic steroids.

The grandma proved to be the first big seller on the show, providing the first controversial headlines (at least, the first controversial headlines having to actually do with the show) and having an inner reserve that belied her outer belligerence, bellicose and taciturn nature, and general air of being one of the few, the proud, the latrines. What caused all the controversy was her stating, on air, that she made the very best clam chowder in the whole wide world, a point which was hotly debated by the water heaters in thousands of homes over the following weeks. It was later pointed out that she had actually made this statement six months prior to its being said on national television, and there was really no reason to get all worked up out about it. Besides, the wags wagged, there was no reason why the people who were being paid to edit the show couldn't have just left it out. The public opined that they seemed to miss an essential part of the equation here, even if the public couldn't quite figure out what it was. It was most unfortunate when the grandma went and died while sliding into third, and there was that. Fortunately, as the show's producers said, "We've got a lot more footage," so no one seemed to mind too much. All right, maybe the grandma minded, but she didn't say anything, so everyone figured it was ok.

Bel and the detective

Jonathan was listening to some oi on his hi-fi when his mother walked in to his room. "Oy!" she said, "What is this you're listening to, and you the oe of a great civil rights leader!" Jonathan slowly turned his head to face his mother, and insolently replied, "That's none of your business, woman."

A couple of hours later Jonathan's father came home, and his wife told him all that his son had done. "Not only was the music he was listening to of a most disgusting quality," she reported, "but he said the rudest thing to me!" Jonathan's father promised to deal with the issue immediately, and following a quick gin and tonic (for courage) he retraced his wife's steps up the stairs and knocked on his son's door.

Thirty minutes later Jonathan's father was explaining to the police detective what exactly had happened.

"Well, basically, you know, he was always such a good kid. As you know, his grandfather is Carlos Frank, the great civil rights leader. But today his mother walked into the room, and what happened? He was listening to the most disgusting music and then said something terrible to her. I came in a little later from work, and after hearing what had happened I resolved to sort the situation out. Up I went to my son's room, and after there was no response to my knocking I tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge, which was odd, because there isn't a lock on the door. I shoved the door, but it seemed like there was something heavy behind it preventing it from opening, so I decided to enter through the window."

At this point the officer interjected, "And up to this point you'd heard nothing, not even when you tried to force your way in?"

"That's correct officer, I heard nothing."

"And what did you do next?"

"Well, I went to the ladder to get the garage-"

"You mean you went to the garage to get a ladder?" interjected the officer again.

"Yes, that's right, excuse me."

"And why did you decide to go through the window"

"Well, I was scared for my son-after all, maybe he was hurt or something?"

"Ok."

"Right, so I got the ladder and walked over to the ground beneath my son's window. I looked up to see if there was anything not normal visible, but it looked totally normal. After setting the ladder up against the wall I proceeded to climb up. When I got halfway I stopped, because I thought I had heard something, but it was just a passing rabbit, so I continued. When I got to the window I was surprised to see that I couldn't see inside it. I tried to pry it open, but it was latched from the inside, so I knocked on it. There was no answer, so I broke it open."

"How'd you do that?" asked the officer.

"Well, I had my cellphone on me, so I just hit the window as hard as I could and it broke."

"The window broke?"

"No, the cellphone broke."

"So what did you next?"

"I climbed down, got an axe, and climbed back down. I then swung the axe at the window and it cracked. I swung again, and it broke. I then realized that I wasn't able to see inside because there was a sheet in the window, so I pushed it aside."

"What did you see then?"

"Well, I, it was, crazy... just crazy."

"Hmm?" the officer asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, at first I didn't know what was going on. The lights were off, and there was a large golden statue on the nightstand, which had been moved to the center of the room. Jonathan was prostrated before it, and he had a knife in his hand. I jumped in through the window to the floor, and ran to my son. When I was within about three feet of him he suddenly rose up and said, 'Come no further!' I stopped in my tracks, and he said, 'Bow before the great god Bel or I shall slay you this instant!' If I hadn't thought he was serious I would have burst out laughing, it was so ridiculous."

"So then what happened?"

"Well, I said, 'Jonathan, what's going on here?' He replied, 'Will you bow or not?' Again I asked him what was happening, and he suddenly lunged at me screaming, 'Die heretic!!' with the knife pointed at my heart. I jumped to my left, and he plunged head first out the open window, screaming as he went, 'For Bellll!!!' And that was that."

"Wow, that's quite the story."

Say what?

How do you know when you've made it? When random people from Oklahoma stop you in the street and ask, "Hey, are you the real shliach?" Is that how you know you've made it?

Because it's happened. I was stopped on the street. A bochur from Oklahoma asked if I was TRS. I answered in the affirmative. Yay. Now I can die happy.
----
Meanwhile, in other news, I once wrote a story entitled "There was..." It's a little odd. Enjoy.

Many years ago, in a land far, far away, there was a very old man who had severe brain damage. The result of this was that he didn't recognize his children. It was all very sad. His children would visit him in the nursing home once a month, and they always made sure to bring flowers and chocolates, because who doesn't like flowers and chocolates?

Unfortunately, like many things in life, the assumptions of the man's children proved to be false, and in fact he couldn't stand flowers and chocolate. Every time he saw them he would get a pathological hatred for all things verdant and caffeinated, and once he got so angry he pulled the plug on his life support and thus life ended.

That is really only the beginning of this story, because later on all his children decided to go to group therapy in order to get over their collective grief. Their guilt was also terrible to behold, but as everyone knows guilt is good for people, so they weren't calling in the psychological people to solve that problem.

During the group therapy the question was broached as to what exactly the children could do to get over their collective grief. One of the grandchildren proposed that they separate the collective grief and make it more personal, as that would save them all a lot of money with the group therapy. The group therapist quickly pointed out that this course of action would result in the group therapist losing his current position, and probably end up with much death, and possibly dismemberment, for the group therapist's family members, many of whom relied on him for their daily bread and caviar. Another family member, this time a favored nephew, proposed that the group therapist's family members stop eating caviar, and instead eat sushi, which had the undoubted advantage of not only being tastier but also cheaper.

A fracas ensued as a troop of Russian and Japanese performance artists burst into the room and started to argue about the relative merits of their respective national foods. Most of the family members started to throw the complementary doughnuts, thoughtfully provided by the group therapist, at the Russians, because no one likes sturgeon anyway. Incredibly enough, no one was hurt.

The local Shliach walked in and said, "What in the world is going on?" Immediately everyone stopped what they were doing and began to explain. The Shliach was not very impressed with their explanations and decided to do something drastic. He turned off the lights, and bedlam instantly commenced. The editor being out of town on a Hawaiian vacation, grammar started to dissolve in on itself and whole sentences began to die. Lakewood itself, home of more giants in Torah per capita than any other township in New Jersey, and also one of the last remaining real tennis courts in the world. But that's another story for another day.

His fictive self

Orton didn't much like the rain. It always seemed to him that the rain was a completely unnecessary waste of water, and besides, it always seemed to him that the rain ruined his picnics. Being a good American, Orton decided to do something about this major problem.

The first person Orton approached was the head of his local meteorological society, who rejoiced in the name Robert. Robert listened to Orton's complaints with the gentle sensitivity that heads of local meteorological societies are renowned for, and then proceeded to make them both a really nice cup of properly hot tea. Orton, waiting patiently for a response, sipped his tea while Robert pondered Orton's words. After a few minutes Robert said, "You know, it's really very interesting. There's really only two ways to use the words 'love-hate relationship.' Either the person is being very serious, or they're making a joke. Think about it."

Orton thought about it for a minute, and then asked, "What the heck does that have to do with anything?"

Robert gently responded, "Oh, it's very simple. You have a love-hate relationship with rain."

Orton, having finished his tea, slammed his cup down and said, "That's so not true! I don't have a love-hate relationship with rain-it's a hate-hate relationship!"

Robert was not disturbed by this outburst, and he calmly said, "That's not possible. No one could possibly have a hate-hate relationship with rain. I mean, who doesn't love rain, at least on some level?"

"Me!", proclaimed Orton, "I do! I hate rain! Hate hate hate hate rain! Why don't you get it, you with your silly cups of tea and fancy titles and whatever-I hate the rain! Stop negating my feelings-I need to feel validated!"

Robert, still unperturbed, said, "I don't think you need a meteorologist, you need a mental therapist."

So Orton went to visit a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist had Orton wait in the waiting room for several minutes while he finished drinking a really good cup of nice hot tea, and then he called Orton in. Orton came in, and said, "Hello, my name is Orton, and I need help."

"Well, you've come to the right place then, because I can help you. Tell me, did you get a referral?"

Orton, wondering why the psychiatrist hadn't told him his name, guardedly said, "Yes, I was told to go to a therapist by the head of my local meteorological society."

The psychiatrist, whose name (if you must know) was Dr. Orange, took copious notes, and then said, "Oh, hmm. Interesting. Yes. I see. Quite. All right, what appears to be the issue that you need help with?"

Orton, still in the dark as to the identity of the doctor, suddenly had a brain wave. He recalled that their had been a name on the door of the office when he had entered, but he hadn't bothered noticing what it said. He resolved to figure it out, and to that end asked, "Actually, before we get started, could you possibly tell me where the men's is? I ate a burrito before coming here, and it's disagreeing with my stomach."

Dr. Orange took some more notes and said, "Oh, of course! Why don't you use my personal bathroom here so that you don't have to waste too much of your billable hour?" Saying this, Dr. Orange opened a door off the office and pointed Orton inside.

Orton was of course quite put out by this, and tried to think of a way to rectify the situation. With a flash of brilliance he began to unroll the toilet paper into the toilet, and when he had done that he threw all the tissues in to the bowl too. He was about to flush when he remembered that people often kept extra toilet supplies beneath the sink, and he checked. There wasn't any toilet paper there, but there were seven or eight instant noodle soups which were all, Orton noticed, empty.

After flushing the toilet a couple times (the first time it jammed a little, and he had to clear it up) Orton opened the door and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you, but there's no toilet paper or tissue in the bathroom!"

Dr. Orange took some notes, and then rising from his chair and walking to the bathroom he said, "Oh, that's very strange. I thought I told my secretary to make sure there was always a good supply of both. I suppose I'll have to fire her. Nevermind, I'll show you to the bathroom at the end of the hall."

After finishing up in the bathroom (Orton hadn't had to go, but he took the opportunity to check his email on his iPhone) Orton walked back to the office, and reading the nameplate and committing it to memory he walked into the office saying, "So where were we Dr. Franklin?"

Dr. Orange said, "I'm sorry, you have the wrong office. Dr. Franklin meets patients in office 207-this is 214. Hers is right around the corner."

Orton was (understandably) quite shocked at this reception, and he said, "Huh? You aren't Dr. Franklin?"

Dr. Orange didn't understand what all the shock was about, and he said, in an annoyed tone, "No, I'm not Dr. Franklin. I thought we already established that. This is office 207. Hers is 214. It's down the hall. Now if you'd excuse me I have to work on these patient notes. Thank you, and good day."

Now Orton was really confused. "Those are my notes you're working on," he exclaimed, "You were just seeing me!"

Dr. Orange looked at Orton for the first time since he had come back into the office, and he gave a start of recognition. "Why, so it is the man I was just seeing! Who would've thought it? I'm sorry for being so rude just now, but as I said, Dr. Franklin's office is just down the hall, number 214."

Orton, getting a bit frustrated now, testily said, "What? I'm your patient! Ok, maybe I called you by the wrong name accidentally, but why are you sending me to another doctor?"

Dr. Orange looked compassionately at Orton, and he said, "You say it was accidental, but it's what we in the business would call a 'Freudian slip.' You called me 'Dr. Franklin' because she's the doctor you really want to see."

Orton said, "What are you talking about? I've never heard of this guy Dr. Franklin before. Look here, I'm paying a lot of money for this visit, and you're wasting it on a whole load of stupidity-what is this, some new form of therapy or something?"

"Don't be ridculous," said Dr. Orange, as he wrote in big letters in his notes 'UNRESOLVED ANGER ISSUES (PROBABLY STEMMING FROM CHILD ABUSE)', "both you and I know that the only way to have a proper and therapeutical session is for both involved partners to be fully committed."

"What would make you think I'm not fully committed?" asked Orton. "Didn't I pay through the roof for this appointment? Didn't I show up on time, cancel my golf, miss my favorite tv show (Prison Break), and break my date with my wife so that I could come?This is ridiculous!"

Dr. Orange wrote in his notes 'PLAYS GOLF, WATCHES PRISON BREAK, HAS A WIFE-OBVIOUS SIGNS OF MENTAL DEFICIENCY EXPLORE EARLY CHILDHOOD AND PRENATAL CARE' and then said, "You may think you're fully committed, and I'd certainly like to think you are, but it appears that your id, ego, and superego have all spoken, and they've revealed that we're simply not on the same page. I'm sorry, but you should really go see Dr. Franklin."

At this point Orton was quite fed up, and he figured that Dr. Franklin couldn't be any worse than this guy (whoever she was), so he made his goodbyes and got the heck out of dodge. He found office 208, and continued up the hallway following the rising numbers until he came to room 214. It was the ladies bathroom. "This is ridiculous!" he thought, "sending me to a ladies bathroom? What kind of insanity is that?" Orton was by now thoroughly fed up, but he wasn't the type to just give up, so he walked back to office 207 and barged in. Dr. Orange was in the middle of arranging his collection of instant noodle soups.

"Why did you send me to a women's bathroom! Dr. Orange looked up from his arrangements and said, "Do you mind? I'm working on my prized collection here. Manners never hurt anyone, and in your case, their lack is very much felt."

Orton was in no mood for such histrionics, and he sharply said, "To hell and high water with your precious collection, give me an answer!"

Dr. Orange, no stranger to violent patients, calmly continued arranging his collection (this time by expiration date) as he said, "Even though you've been most rude I will answer your question because I think that sometimes when we deal with people we must teach and lead by example, not expecting to necessarily influence with great words nor awesome deeds but rather to affect a change with quiet assurance and measured tones."

Orton didn't even bother responding, which irked Dr. Orange, because he had rather liked his kettle speech. Realizing though that his sharp words were to meet no fellow foil he continued, "I sent you to room 214, which as you so brilliantly point out is in fact the women's
room, because that is where Dr. Franklin has her offices. Any other questions?"

Orton suddenly remembered something which had bothered him before. "Did you really fire that secretary? I'd feel really guilty if you had-I mean, she did nothing wrong."

Dr. Orange said, "My secretary? Oh yes. I was just joking. I wanted to inspire some guilt in you and see what the effects would be." After saying this he wrote in his notes 'GUILTY CONSCIENCE-PROBABLY A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR AND SERIAL MURDERER AND RAPIST OR SOMETHING'.

Meanwhile Orton walked back to the bathroom and timidly knocked on the door. After all, he wasn't the sort of man who walked unannounced into a ladies room. Nothing happened, so he knocked a little harder. Still nothing. Orton decided to give it one more try, and this time he got a response. A note was slipped under the door that said, "I'm busy right now, come back when I'm not busy."

Orton looked at this note and thought, "Wow, that's ridiculous. How should I know when she's not busy?"

Another note slipped under the door as soon as he finished thinking this that said, "If you really cared about your mental health you'd make sure to know when I'm not healthy."

This answer freaked Orton out, and he decided to drive home. It rained.

Roman à Clef

There was once, many years ago, a man who lived in Craiova and worked as a technician in the local armory. His name was Dudu. Dudu loved the various Romanian specialties, like ciorbă, shkembe chorba or iskembe, and always made sure to salute the flag when necessary. Dudu, like all men, had a major problem. He needed to find a wife. This was many years ago, when there were no blogs, and Dudu couldn't figure out what to do. None of the local Romanian women would marry him, and he didn't have the money to travel abroad.

This sad situation continued for many years. One day the military attaché of one of the consulates in Craiova came over to Dudu and asked him to pass on some secrets. Dudu was shocked. First of all, he loved Romania-how could it enter this man's head that he would betray his beloved country? Besides, this seemed to be a very pathetic way of gaining information. Dudu's superiors at the armory had often warned that he might be approached for military secrets and whatnot, but Dudu had assumed that if this were to occur it would be done with the suave and sophistication expected of one trying to turn a patriot into a traitor. Dudu figured he'd be wined and dined and offered great sums of money, and that it would take a lot of time and effort. And yet here he was just being asked point blank!

At first Dudu thought this was a test from his own government, or something similiar, and he declined. The attaché persisted, and Dudu asked him for a sign or proof that he was sincere. The attaché agreed to provide him with one, provided that he'd set a price. Dudu immediately grew wary again; after all, it was possible that the whoever was testing him simply wanted to find out how much he'd sell himself for. Dudu therefore told the attaché that he would first like to see the proof, and then they might discuss terms.

The next night the attaché met Dudu in their habitual meeting place (an old bar in a seedy part of town) and declared that he'd gotten irrefutable proof of his honorable intentions. Saying this, he pulled a pudding out of his briefcase with aplomb and placed it on the table.

Within moments a waitress came over and told them that no outside food was permitted in the establishment. The attaché apologized profusely, and put it away again. He looked at Dudu, and noticing the bemused look on the would-be spies face, he said, "I've wanted to do that for a long time now, but I never had the opportunity."

Dudu still didn't get it (he was Romanian after all), but he didn't want to let on that he wasn't the smartest knife in the kitchen, so he laughed politely and asked for some actual proof. The attaché, seeing that his little joke hadn't gone over so well (he had forgotten that he was dealing with a Romanian), put on a serious face and declared that if Dudu would like to step outside for a moment he'd see something that would knock his boxers off. Dudu immediately protested, "But I don't wear boxers anymore, only boxer briefs!" The attaché finally began to understand just what kind of person he was dealing with, but there was nothing to be done (he needed those military secrets), so he merely gritted his pearly-white teeth and stepped outside, leaving the question of underwear still floating in the hair like an unfinished sermon on Easter morning.

As both men walked outside they beheld a most wonderous sight. There, in plain view of both of them, was the most magnificent carriage that either had ever seen, with eight perfectly matched steeds and twelve footmen and runners for accompaniment. Dudu was amazed (for who would not be?) but he didn't get how this showed the attachés sincerity. The attaché was amazed too, because he hadn't expected a most magnificent carriage to be in front of his attestation.

Dudu asked, "Is this another one of your jokes?", but before the attaché had a chance to respond a great big bloodhound flew at them and proceeded to slobber uncontrollably all over Dudu's pants. A man in black flew out of the magnificent carriage and collared the dog, begging forgiveness with every twist of the collar on the mastiff's neck.

The attaché was paralyzed with fight, but before he had a chance to do anything (like put on the fake moustache he always kept in his case) the man in black got a good, hard look at his face. "Ahh," he exclaimed, "my old nemesis, the military attaché from the foreign consulate."

The attaché couldn't deny this patently true charge, and he made no response. Turning to Dudu, the man in black said, "And what do we have here? A Romanian with business with a foreign government? How interesting. I'd like to take you in for questioning."
----
Dudu never even saw the wife that was waiting for him.

Pinnie the Pooh-by M. M. Farmilnt

Pinnie the Pooh said to his friend Seymour, "Hey, Seymour, what's going on?" Seymour groaned and said, "Life is terrible. If you were a sheep you'd know life was terrible. But no, you're a Pooh, so you think life is good." Pinnie the Pooh was disconcerted for a moment, but then he thought of a sure way to cheer his friend. "Hey Seymour!" said Pinnie the Pooh, "do you want some of my delicious pot of cholent? Yum Yum!"

At that moment little Goatlet bounded onto the scene and squealed, "Oh boy, cholent!" Cower (the cow) bounced in at this point and proceeded to upset the pot of cholent all over Seymour. Goatlet wasn't very happy at this turn of events, and Seymour said, "See, I knew this wouldn't turn out well."

Chezky ambled by and cleaned up the mess that had been made. He admonished Cower for making such a tumult, and brought them all inside to have their teeth be brushed and say shema in preparation for bed.

(And that's exactly where I'm going!)

The house

You will recall (for so have I commanded) that last week one of my posts referenced the next great American novel, or something very much like it. Well, here it is. As the Magratheans would have it, "We are not proud".
-----
Chapter One:

I was helping my father, the Rabbi, put his sefarim on the bookshelf when the blue minivan pulled up in the driveway for the first time. My father was tall, with a long, black beard, hints if orange in odd places, and prematurely graying hair. I was seven years old, the firstborn, a regular-looking boy, with my mother's eyes and my father's nose.

The doorbell rang, and my father, embarrassed as always, let my mother answer it. She walked into the living room from the kitchen with a slight frown on her face. "Oh, thank you," she said, "how very kind." It was a homemade apple pie, presented by a woman, a year or two older than my mother. My mother didn't yet know how to say that she couldn't take the pie, it wasn't kosher, her family only ate kosher-thoughts tumbled through her head, and she raced to respond appropriately.

"My name is Mrs. Simons," said the woman at the door, "welcome to the neighborhood." My mother didn't yet even know how to respond to this midwestern friendliness, and she hadn't even had time to think of something to do with the pie resting in her hands. Helplessly, she invited Mrs. Simons into the house, directing her past my father and I putting books on the shelves and into the kitchen.

My mother put the pie down and offered her guest a drink. "I'm sorry we only have water and iced tea," my mother said, taking a jug out of the nearly empty fridge, "we've only just moved in." Mrs. Simons replied, "That's no problem."

I heard this exchange from the living room and wondered if I should get a glass of iced tea myself. My father had stopped putting sefarim on the shelves because he had found one that was interesting. Later that night he would read it aloud to us around the dinner table, translating the Hebrew words into English for my mother. In any case she was too preoccupied with my younger siblings to pay much attention to what my father was reading. I would listen though, not understanding everything, but feeling a bit of the awe my father felt for the words contained in the book. This was no ordinary book, it was a transcription of a farbrengen, words written down by wise men, guided by the divine and the expectations of the many.

Years later, when I too could read these farbrengens, I felt a bit of the awe my father felt. But it would never be the same. He had been by the Rebbe when these words had been spoken; actually, I had also been there sometimes, but I was too young to remember anything that had been said.

When I was in high school, writing short stories for my own enjoyment, I never wrote of the Rebbe or his farbrengens. They were holy, above fiction. There were so many stories told about him, and they all professed to be true. No one was brave enough to mention him, even in passing, without at least claiming to be true. Of course, not all the stories could be true-only a fool would believe them all, but at the same time, they could have happened.

To put this man of truth in fiction, a lie? To knowingly say or write that he did what he did not? Leave that for historians, who neither know nor care. For us the pain was too great, the knowledge too dear.

My stories instead featured a boy named Joshua who challenged all the belief's his author held. I didn't realize it at the time, but the stories were cries for what I could not allow myself to have. I wrote of a youth in turns cynical, sarcastic, and above all humorous; I strived for all three, but only managed to produce what I was, a confused mess of ideas, tangled beliefs, and teenage humor.

Laughing at jokes I could not comprehend and making light of elders who comprehended too much. Pretension I hated above all, yet no matter how hard I fought to keep it out of my stories it came through in great chunks, with little spaces in between for my laugh at society and its moors.

[the end]

The Rhythm of Feet

Despite last night's incredible feedback on the Joshua story (or maybe because of it) I think I'll publish another. That's right, I'm busy as a bee cleaning for Pesach and learning how to drive a manual, so your reading pleasure will have to consist of the following. Enjoy:

G. Mantle

60th Anniversary of American landing on Guam

Joshua 14:

 

The Rhythm of Feet

 

“(Singing) The count came down to sing a song, Doo Da, Doo Da, he threw his gauntlets on a bong, Doo Da, Doo Da, Day, The count did this, the count did that, gonna make my money on the betting tracks, He claims to have done it his way!”

“You’re very happy, Joshua.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, sort of jolly.”

“No, I’m not, really, haven’t been happy for years.”

“Oh, happy to hear it.”

“My pleasure.”

“So then why were you just singing there?”

“Well, a man’s gotta sing to get through the day, hasn’t he?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“And you heard me.”

“That’s very witty.”

“Oh, it was meant to be.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“And I’ll say it again if you don’t follow it.”

“And why should I?”

“Because I said so.”

“And why should I listen to you?”

“Because of this.”

“Oh. Interesting. Well then, mums the word and all that.”

“Good. Now listen to me, and listen close.”

“This is all rather pretentious, isn’t it?”

“Did I or did I not hear you say that you had finished speaking?”

“Carry on.”

“Whether this is pretentious or not is not the question. The point is that,”

“Actually, I find this to be quite ridiculous.”

“Do you want me to use this?”

“Quite.”

“I am prepared to let you live your wonderful little life with your wonderful little worries and your wonderful little cares and your wonderful little joys and your wonderful little sorrows and all the wonderful little things that make up a wonderful little life like yours.”

“Many thanks.”

“So glad that I could be of service.”

“And how exactly do you want me to help you?”

“Well Joshua, if you would just do me one slight favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s very simple. What I want you to do is to take this and run with it.”

“And will that benefit my wonderful little life.”

“Definitely. If you don’t take this then your wonderful little life might very possibly end prematurely. Most prematurely I might say.”

“And if I do take this the same might happen?”

“Very true, it could. But wouldn’t you rather have two birds around the bush than one in the coop?”

“I’m not sure if the saying goes quite like that;”

“I’m sure you get the point though.”

“Oh, of course.”

“So what’ll it be?”

“Doesn’t look like I have much choice, huh?”

“No, it doesn’t look like you do.”

“All right, I’ll do it.”

“Good, here it is.”

“You’ll take care of my family, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, don’t you worry about that. Uncle Sam’s got you covered there.”

“I’m sure it’s a great comfort.”

“Well, off you go, and if you do meet up with trouble, just remember that you’ve always got a friend in me.”

(1959)

“Had a good trip Joshua?”

“Yes thank you, I did. Most enjoyable.”

“And how’s your sister doing?”

“What sister?”

“You know, your sister.”

“My sister? I haven’t got a sister.”

“Sure you do. What’s come over you all of a sudden?”

“Oh, my sister. Yes, he’s doing fine.”

“Oh he is? That’s good.”

“And how’s Uncle Sam?”

“Dead.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“Did he ever say anything about me before he died?”

“Only that you were to visit his grave once you came in.”

“Did he say why?”

“I couldn’t quite say.”

“All right, I’ll do it.”

Joshua does it.

“So how did it go, Joshua?”

“Oh, all right, I guess.”

“You going to return it now?”

“Sure, here it is.”

“Thank you. You’re going to do some exercise now?”

“No, I’ve done enough running for one lifetime.”

“All right, bye.”

Joshua walks home.

“When I wake up in the morning, and I’m sitting in my bed, do I cry out for the world to hear, that really I’m not dead?

Do I come out in the evening all dressed up to the nines, do I walk into the forest, amongst the greenery of the Pines?

Oh no, of course not, that’s just not what I do, because I know the truth, about me, about you; everybody sing it, to the left and to the right, for the whole world knows the truth, that I’m in it for the fight!”

“Singing again, Joshua?”

“Hey, I thought you were dead?”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Yes, that can be, can’t they.”

“So you enjoyed your, um, running?”

“Oh yes, very much, Uncle Sam.”

“I’m your Uncle now?”

“If I have a sister, then you sure are.”

“Oh, how convenient. Well, never let it be said that I’m not a good uncle.”

“Of course not. Such an idea never crossed my mind. In fact, I would hurt anyone who could possibly consider letting the slightest doubt pass into their obviously deficient psyche that you were not in every sense of the word the greatest uncle that this great country had, has, or will ever produce. I would slug them for such an occurrence, don’t you worry about it.”

“Glad to hear that you’re so eager to please.”

“You know me, always at your service.”

“Feel like doing some more running?”

 

 

The End

The return of Joshua! (again)

I spent a lot of time today writing a very nice continuation of my impersonator series, and I'm not particularly interested in writing a whole 'nother post, particularly because I still have three kitchen drawers to clean for pesach before I go to sleep. So maybe I just take another Joshua out of the archives? Enjoy.

G. Mantle
August 6, 04
Joshua XIIIX

Of People and Golf Tees

“The connection between the two is virtually non-existent.”

“On the contrary, there is a large and ever-growing connection between the two.”

“Would you mind pointing that out?”

“Of course, I would love to.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, first of all, they are both organic.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Look, what do you make golf tees out of? Plastic, which is oil, which is a hydrocarbon, and then they make some that are biodegradable, and those are obviously carbonated.”

“I’ve seen gold golf tees.”

“It’s the exception that proves the rule.”

“All right, name me another similarity.”

“Well, both are needed to play golf.”

“That is slightly obvious, isn’t it?”

“Only to the untrained eye it is.”

“And to the trained eye?”

“Then it’s definitely not obvious.”

“Are you suggesting that training takes away from perception?”

“My, you’re quick on the uptake.”

“How does experience in a subject reduce one’s knowledge in it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Stop nitpicking.”

“No, it does matter. I never said anything about knowledge; I said that perception was lessened through training.”

“And how is that?”

“Quite simple. They stop seeing the forest for the trees.”

“Has this whole conversation been in an exercise in cliche using?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well I’m glad to hear it. Now would you kindly explain, in your own words, what you meant?”

“I can try.”

“Well, get on with it.”

“What I’m trying to say is that training builds up preconceptions which can be hard to dislodge. For example, when you train a bird to eat computer mice, it loses all its ability to kill dogs with shotguns.”

“I wasn’t aware that birds could kill dogs with shotguns.”

“But you accept that they can eat computer mice?”

“I never said that.”

“So why didn’t you mention it?”

“This is stupid. You’re just trying to trick me so that you don’t have to explain your own 

stupidity.”

“That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“To explain your own stupidity.”

“Why?”

“Because once you can explain the stupidity it ceases to be stupid.”

“That’s very deep, but I’m not sure if I understand it.”

“Oh, it’s really quite simple. To do something that is truly stupid means that it defies explanation. Once you can explain why you did it, even if it’s a stupid reason, the act ceases to be stupid. Instead it’s merely a boneheaded maneuver.”

“But the explanation can be stupid.”

“That is correct. Once you explain the explanation, of course, then that too stops being stupid.”

“This conversation could go on however.”

“I would enjoy that.”

“Why?”

“Because then I would continue getting disability insurance.”

“How would you get disability insurance from talking. I mean, what exactly is this disability.”

“As long as I keep on talking I have a disability.”

“And what’s that?”

“My stupidity.”

“Why’s that?”

“My stupidity?”

“Yes.”

"I have no idea.”

“Ah ha, it has ceased to be stupidity.”

“How?”

“Because you explained it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Sure you did.”

“No, I said that I had no idea.”

“That’s an explanation.”

“Not a very good one.”

“That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it exists.”

“So once it exists it has validity.”

“Yes.”

“Good, you’ve proved my point.”

“What’s that?”

“Another connection between golf tees and humans.”

“What’s that?”

“You sound like a parrot?”

“Get to the point.”

“The point is that both tees and humans exist.”

“That’s like saying that Beethoven and peanut butter are one and the same.”

The End

Murder in the shteeble

Once it happened several moons ago that I was a bit bored and I wrote an outline for a murder mystery. You are correct, this more properly belongs on this blog, but still, I feel the need to blog on TRS, so please, enjoy:

Guy discovered killed in mikve before yom kippur, discovered morning
of 11th.
Question number one-which city killed in? Motown, Minnesota, crown
heights?
1. When killed? On erev yom kippur, during, that night, or maybe early
that morning? Disputed evidence from pathologists, perhaps due to
presence of chlorine, or maybe not? Would that make a difference? If
it did, would the amount make a difference? Who is responsible for the
chlorine in the mikve, if that is indeed a factor?
Is possible died of natural means?
2. Who killed?
3. Why killed-motive.
4. How killed? Drowning? Or dead before ever got in the mikve?
Last person to see him alive-by last supper, walking to shul, or in
mikve?
5. Why didn't Mexican who is supposed to clean mikve report it?
Instant suspect.
6. Guy who publicly refused to forgive him erev yom kippur in 770-
suspect. Different versions, by witnesses of course, of what was
actually said.
7. Black employee who accused him of cheating him his wages, or maybe
committed adultery with the guys wife? . Suspect, possible race riots?
8. Wife? Suspect? What would she be doing near mikve? How saddened is
she by death?
Discovery- by whom? Connection to the dead dude?
How does protagonist hear about it? How does media report it differently than
happened?
If in Minnesota-does protagonist stay there, or go away to yeshiva?
Motown-smicha, zal, what? Spend most shabbosim where?
Consult with which love interest-dead dude's daughter, her friend, or
someone totally unconnected? Marry in the end?
Crown heights-spending year there, or in Motown? Plot device-can only
work on the case on the weekends.
Police-competent or not? Deal with who exactly? Take long time to gain
their trust or not? What do they think happened? Is their version of
events correct?
Community-what do they say and think about it-2 different things. Some
people happy he's dead, others happy? Was he notorious in community
for something, i.e. like fisher, or something similar?
What do with body? Inquest, autopsy, funeral-who shows up, who
doesn't, does it really matter?
How does Judaism play into all this? Shabbos in 770, rumors flying all
over, are any of them true? Is anyone maliciously spreading untruths,
and if so, for what reason?
Sidekick-good at playing crown heights, protagonist is not, how does this affect
everything?
Lawyers for prosecution-do they have a case?
Defense-who is being defended? Multiple potential defendants, do they
have lawyers before being charged?

Why does every Joshua involve death?

So remember how a couple nights ago I tried to write a couple stories without using the word "that"? Tonight I'm going to try for an original story that actually makes sense. I know what you're thinking, "Huh, once again TRS has nothing to write on a Motzei Shabbos, so he's going to create some internet filler." And of course I couldn't say that you were wrong. Still, I have as much an idea of what's going to happen as you do, and it might just turn out to be a masterpiece worthy of O'Henry or Maugham. You just never know.

Joshua woke up one morning and decided that he had to change his name. He was quite fed up with cashiers looking at the name on the credit card he handed them and saying, "Oh, you're Joshua? The guy who thinks he's a brilliant conversationalist?" Joshua really didn't feel that it was fair; no one else in the world had to explain their life-story to every single low-IQ convenience store clerk they encountered. Sure, life wasn't fair, and boy could Joshua talk about that for six and a half days, but seriously, this was getting ridiculous. Joshua understood if life would throw him a curveball once or twice, but every time he wanted to pick up some milk or mike and ikes?
After he had brushed his teeth and eaten some breakfast Joshua headed down to the local courthouse to see about getting his name changed. There was a long line of people there waiting to get married (it was a Wednesday morning), and Joshua had to wait for well over an hour. As he was about to step before the judge a large woman wearing red pushed her way beside him, trying to get ahead. Unfortunately for her, there was no where to go, and before Joshua could disengage himself the the judge said, "I pronounce you man and wife." Joshua didn't even hear him the first time, and grunted, "Huh?" The judge, none too pleased to have noise in his courtroom, said, "Didn't you hear me the first time? I said that I pronounce you man and wife. Go kiss the bride or something, and get out of my sight before I sentence you to three consecutive and possibly concurrent ten day sentences for contempt of court."
The next thirty and possibly ten days were a blur for Joshua; he had never been to jail before, and it was quite a shock to him to have to share his toothbrush with eleven other people named Bubba. At last he got out of the slammer, and his new wife was there to greet him. Joshua ignored her, chiefly because he never wanted to see her again, but also because the life of him the only thing he could remember about her was that she was wearing red on their wedding day. As it happened, on this day she was wearing green, and Joshua totally missed her.
As Joshua was hailing a cab to go home his new wife realized that he was trying to escape, and she sent her three hundred pounds flailing in his direction, and with a booming voice declared, "Joshua, your wife, it's me, come to my arms!" Miraculously a cab appeared just at that moment, and Joshua managed to get in it and close the door as she landed on the outside looking in. Joshua, wishing to distract the cabbie from the great dent which had suddenly appeared in the cab's structure, called out in his best movie actor voice, "Driver, follow that car!" The cabbie proceeded to follow the only car which was then moving on the road, which happened to be a copper bent on a mission of peace and justice. As they accelerated ever closer to the speed of sound a second member of the police began to trail the chase, and soon there was a merry threesome winding their way through the grim streets of Joshua's hometown (where else?).

Six months later Joshua was still trying to make sense of it all. The media had finally stopped hounding him. They had given the "Accidental marriage, intentional homicide" story as much run as they possibly could, but once he had been back in jail for a month, it was difficult to find anything to write about. There's only so much copy that can be written about sharing toothbrushes with multiple people named Bubba, and anyway, it's not like the public really cared anymore. Joshua was stuck in jail for thirty years minimum, and there'd be plenty of time to tell his story when he either died or was released from jail, whichever came second. "The only good thing to come out of this whole story," Joshua reflected, "is that I didn't have to change my name, rank, or serial number", not that he was given much choice in the matter. Judges don't like it when prisoners try to change their rank.