Issue
number 35 April 6, 2001
Wet humor
on the Web since 2001
Quorum of
One is intended for adult readers
This
issue:
With
a double zeugma
- I -
Figs Zeno, π
Sometimes
I wonder why I ever got out of the philosophy racket. I had a good thing going
there for a while. Scroll contracts with hefty advances, personal appearances
at archery contests and inter-species footraces, after-bacchanal
speeches... I was clearing a
million a year easy. Then one New Year's Eve I checked my bank balance and I
only had half a mill. A year later I was down to 250 grand, and the next year... Well, let's not dwell on the past. I'm in
a different line of work now. Private investigation is my game. Hunting down
missing persons, tailing unfaithful spouses, checking out the backgrounds of
quiz-show winners who marry recently bereaved royalty, that kind of thing.
A lot of people think there's something glamorous about being a private eye.
Well, I can tell you one thing about those people: none of them were in my
office at about 2:00 pm last Thursday. Let me tell you how it happened...
I was sitting at my desk
doing nothing after lunch. To tell you the truth, I had been sitting at my desk
doing nothing before lunch. And during lunch too, unless you call chomping down
a corned lamb on pita and slugging back a bolt of Retsina "doing
something".
There were seven
things on my desk. Two of them were my feet. The rest were ugly, dirty mugs. I
was drinking the rest of the Retsina out of one. The others were snapshots of a
bail jumper my bondsman friend Don Joe Warren asked me to track down.
I didn't have any idea where to look for the guy. In fact I didn't have any
ideas at all. And I needed ideas. I had less than five bucks in my wallet, less
than nothing in my bank account, no food in the icer, the rent was due
yesterday and, worst of all, my liquor dealer had threatened to cut me off if I
didn't pay my tab by the end of the week. The only idea I could come up with
right then was to give up and walk away from it all. Just say "piss on
it". But that didn't hold any water at all.
Then came this knock at the door. I hoped to Zeus it was a client and not a
bill collector. The door opened. A member of the fair sex. I guess that makes
me a member of the unfair sex. Yeah, I'm a regular philosopher all right.
She didn't wait to be asked in. Assertive. I like that in an attractive young
lady. There's another thing I like in an attractive young lady, but it was too
soon for that. Besides, I didn't want to get charged with a class-B felony:
assault with a lively weapon.
She walked halfway across the room toward my desk. I was wondering what she
wanted. I hoped it was a stakeout, a shakedown, a few candid 'roids of a
wayward husband, something simple. Once in a while I still get people coming in
here, they see the name on the door and they think they can just barge in and
start firing off a bunch of philosophical questions and get answers. Stuff
like, "If there's a benevolent, omnipotent God, why is there suffering on
Earth?" or "Does art have a moral obligation?" The old routine.
I used to know all about that stuff, but not any more. I emptied out that part
of my brain years ago to make room for more lust.
She got another quarter of the way across the room. I didn't know what it was.
Maybe it was her tumbling tawny tresses, her rakish rimless Ray-Bans, the
overripe opalescent oval of her mouth, the undulating umber-colored underthings
showing through her billowy blue blouse, her long, lithe, lissome legs or her
expensive eelskin espadrilles. Whatever it was, something about this woman spelled
"trouble".
By this time she had covered another eighth of the distance between the door
and my desk. As a professional, I had to ask myself if she'd brought anything
with her from the hardware store. I always have to be on the lookout for the
seven warning signs of Beretta's disease, or what the doctors call hypogluteal
cappitis. A lump or bulge in the jacket or pants. Perceptual anomalies,
like seeing flashes of light and/or hearing deafening blasts. Very rapid,
although slight, weight gain. A general sluggish feeling. Sudden change or
disappearance in a limb or vital organ. A tendency to lose things, like your
blood. Nagging, persistent death. You catch those symptoms early enough and it
can save your life.
Soon she'd made it fifteen-sixteenths of the way across the moth-eaten rag I
call my rug. I gave her the once over. Twice. Was that a shoulder holster?
Something definitely seemed suspicious in the area around her left breast, but
I couldn't put my finger on it.
She strode a further thirty-second of the way toward me and fixed me with a
gaze that spoke volumes. And wrote wolf tickets, for all I knew. Hooded
eyelids, sultry pout. That languorous demeanor that says, "I probably just
got out of bed and I'm dyin' to get back." Obviously someone who had a lot
of experience under her belt.
Another sixty-fourth of the...
Editor: Ahh, David? Excuse
me? Do you plan to go on like this all day?
Me:
I
was going to break for lunch.
Editor:
Well,
first I recommend that you try something that doesn't bog down. This bit isn't
getting anywhere.
Me:
That's
kind of the point. See, it's...
Editor:
I
know what your premise is -- I just don't think it's working out.
Me:
Hey,
I was digging it.
Editor:
Well,
not me.
Me:
Thanks
a lot. I was on a roll and now you've wrecked my concentration.
Editor:
Why
don't you try some poetry instead?
Me:
Poetry.
Editor: Yeah. I think it
might work better.
Me:
Oh,
so you want poetry, do you? OK, here goes:
2)
NINETY-NINE
BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
NINETY-NINE
BOTTLES OF BEEEEEER...
TAKE
HALF OF THEM DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND:
FORTYNINEANDAHALF
BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL!
FORTYNINEANDAHALF BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
FORTYNINEANDAHALF
BOTTLES OF BEEEEEER...
Editor:
Wait!
TAKE
HALF OF THEM DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND:
Editor:
Wait
a minute -- that's not really what I...
TWENTYFOURANDTHREEFOURTHS BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
TWENTYFOURANDTHREEFOURTHS
BOTTLES OF BEEEEEER...
Editor:
David!
Stop it!!
TAKE
HALF OF THEM DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND:
TWELVEANDTHREEEIGHTHS
BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL!
TWELVEANDTHREEEIGHTHS BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
TWELVEANDTHREEEIGHTHS
BOTTLES OF BEEEEEER...
Editor:
I
can't stand this.
TAKE
HALF OF THEM DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND:
SIXANDTHREESIXTEENTHS
BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL!
Editor: Just shut up, will you?!
SIXANDTHREESIXTEENTHS
BOTTLES OF BEEEEEER...
TAKE
HALF OF THEM DOWN AND PASS THEM AROUND:
Editor:
That
does it, I'm getting out of here. [slam]
THREEANDTHREETHIRTYSECONDS BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
hm-hm-hm
hm-hm-hm hmmmmmm
Take
haf half of them down and hm hmm around:
hm-hm-hm
bottles of beer in
on the
Oneandthirtyfivesixtyfourths bottles of beeeeeeer...
Whew! She's gone. Maybe now Now I can get back to that
detective story adn and skip ahead to the racy parts...
..."Oh, Figs -- hold me!" she gushed. I like itw hen
it when a woman gushes. I like it even more when I gush.
I sild
slid one hand slowly down the back of her dress. One of those long, silnky slinky
silk jobs that zip all the way to the waist. The kind that clign cling
to all the right places and feel almost too good to take off.
I
said almost. I grabbed at the tab of the zipper up at the
moist nape of her lucsius luscious neck and gingerly begna
started to pull it down.
"I
was mad for you from the first second I set eyes on you!" she gapsed
gasped.
"What
about the half-second after that?" I could'nt couldn't help but inquire.
By
this time I had the dress half unzipped.
I
wondered if the door was locked. The last thing I needed right then now
was to have her husband come bustin' through the door, eager to introduce me to
his snub-nosed, barrel-chested friend named Roscoe.
Another
quarter of the way down with that zipper and...
Hmm,
maybe I better skip this part too...
[click]
Editor:
Are
you done yet?
Me:
NINETYNINEONEHUNDREDANDTWENTYEIGHTHS
OF A BOTTLE OF BEEEEEEER...
[slam]
Sheesh. Where was I?
"Lower! LOower!" she urged.
"Tell
me about it!" I snapped. Just two millimeters to go, but it might as well
have been a mile.
All
of a sudden, As if on cue, she slipped a hand down and around to where it
counts and reached for my zipper. FOrtuneatly Fortunately
I was wearing a tunic so I didn't have one. Faster than you can say
"Victory over Persia at Marathon", she had my...
[click]
Editor:
How
about now?
Me:
NINETYNINETWOHUNDREDANDFIFTYSIXTHS
OF A BOTTLE OF BEER ON THE WALL!
[slam]
Woah, lost my place. Let's see what's at the end of this
chapter...
"Don't worry Figs, honey," she cooed. "It happens
to all guys at one time or oterh another. It's not a big deal. Besides,
you were almost there..."
[click
]
Editor:
Can
I come back now? You finished?
Me:
Aw,
what the hell -- come on back in. The site's a mess without you anyway.
Editor:
You
done dicking around?
Me: Yeah, I'm sorry.
Let's get back to work.
Editor:
All
right. Look, when I said "poetry" I didn't mean "frat song
lyrics", I meant real poetry. You got anything or not?
Me:
All
right, how 'bout this:
~ Part Three ~
We've read E. Thayer's poem and we've done the book report.
So
let's just say the game was close and thereby cut it short.
To sum
up: Flynn was safe at third and Blake was hugging second.
It
gave the hometown team a chance upon which none had reckoned.
For Mudville's greatest slugger was the next man in the game.
The
one they all called "Casey", mainly 'cause that was his name.
They
tell how proud he looked, how cocky, strutting to the plate.
He
confidently doffed his cap -- the crowd thought he was great.
But what they do not mention, in the hubbub 'bout this swinger
Was
that Dustburg, the opponent, also fielded them a ringer.
For
while this Casey postured, posed and held his fans spellbound,
It was
Zeno, wily Zeno, who was strolling to the mound.
The tunic-clad relief man was an unknown to the locals,
Who
thought he was some bearded nut in sandals and bifocals.
They
laughed when they espied him, said he looked so old and sickly.
But
little did they know how soon they'd change their tune, and quickly.
For Zeno, you must understand, was more than just a thinker.
His
fast ball neared the speed of light. His slider, curve and sinker
All
baffled his opponents. It was said that when he threw
The
catchers' mitts were worn to rags, the bats were good as new.
His repertoire was endless, but for this high-stakes endeavor
He had
a new trick up his sleeve that no one else had ever
Seen:
an exponential pitch that never reached the base.
'Twas
sure to make Sir Casey lose his cool, the game and face.
The crowd was hushed as Casey scowled and took the stance of
action,
And
Zeno lifted high his glove to give his windup traction.
He
kicked his leg out, flung his arm and let fly with the throw
The
ball flew off his fingers like an arrow from a bow.
Beside the plate, the Mudville man was tensing up his features
And
summoning the force to whack the ball back to the bleachers.
But
halfway down the line, the horsehide stalled and then went slower.
Big
Casey blinked and swallowed, gripped his bat a little lower.
Another quarter's length it went, then lagged and seemed to set
there.
The
crowd let out a gasp and murmured, "Will it ever get there?"
A
yard, one foot point five, nine inches more, but with resistance,
The
orb was on its way but wouldn't get in striking distance.
"What IS this?!" sputtered Casey as the tension
neared its peak.
"I'll
not be made a fool of by some thousand-year-old Greek!"
He
thought he must be seeing things, some weird hallucination
Induced
by all those drugs he took to heighten concentration.
He knew the ball could not remain forever on the wing,
So he
gauged its height and flight path, clenched his jaw and took a swing.
"Strike
One!" the umpire cried. Indeed, the ball was still incoming.
Infuriated,
Casey cursed, resolved to send it humming.
The ball was going sure enough, but noplace in a hurry.
It
pained poor Casey there where might an overspiced beef curry.
His
fevered brain was reeling as the ball pursued its drift.
He
took a wild swing, and then another one -- and whiffed.
Oh, somewhere in this world there's folks as bored as folks can
be.
They're
flipping through old magazines and channels on TV.
Yes,
somewhere life is drab and dull, and difficult to bear.
But
there's wonderment in Mudville: that ball's STILL up in the air.
Editor: That's better. Let's go to lunch. When we come back you
can revise that first part and wrap this thing up.
Me:
OK,
I'm getting hungry anyway.
Editor: By the way, how
much more time do you think you need for this issue?
Me:
Oh,
I figure I'm about half done.
©2001 by David Jaggard