David Jaggard's

Quorum of One

Issue number 35     April 6, 2001

 

Wet humor on the Web since 2001

Quorum of One is intended for adult readers    


 

This issue:

Three modern-day interpretations of

Zeno's Paradox


 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 ~

 

Casey at the Bat, Zeno on the Mound

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.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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©2001 by David Jaggard