This ouzel:
a. had nothing to do with the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
b. planned the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
c. is marching to Georgia.
d. is not pleased.
Charles rarely emerges from the lower pantry, and on those occasions when he does, the staff bolts pell mell in every possible direction. Charles has that sort of an effect on sentient creatures of any stripe. Stone cold fact.
Last Tuesday, so I’m told, Charles emerged, and the staff bolted, all save Buddy, the footman’s harbor dog. Time passed. The staff dared to creep back after Mills, the butler, observed through his binoculars and commented on the closing of the lower pantry door.
They buried the paws, the lone remnants of Buddy. The footman wept and vowed revenge. On the following day, they gathered most of the footman’s torso and buried it next to Buddy’s paws while Frida, the cook, worked on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. The parlor maid played the harmonium.
All right, I’ll admit it. It’s splendid to be rich and Charles. I like it in the lower pantry despite my random blackouts. It’s the anger, you see. The anger, I tell you.
In the Old West, where men were men and so were the women, Clarence Forbes shot a house. Spooked by a varmint, Clarence launched himself momentarily skyward, and when he returned to rest on solid ground, he unburdened his holster of pistol and shot a house. While his intent was to send to eternal rest the varmint that had spooked him, the lone result of his action was a shot house. The varmint skedaddled when the shot rang out, and the house harbored a grudge for the remainder of its days. As for Clarence Forbes, he ran for sheriff and was defeated by a pail of lager. Folks in those days weren’t much for having real live human beings in elected positions. Look around. Who can blame them?
In answer to Margarita’s question about the fairest of them all, the mirror says:
a. ‘You will be.’
b. ‘You’re good to go now, but wait ’til later.’
c. ‘Solomon’s got the rep, but there’s this really fair guy in Billings, Montana. So it’s a tossup.’
d. ‘I’m under contractual obligation to hype the evil queen’s beauty. Sorry.’
The Lizard of Gauze
Once upon a time a cruel carpenter and his savage beast set out to find and subsequently steal the Cube of Flavors from the Tree of Pensive Contemplation, which, according to legendary lore, grew somewhere east of the Great Chambered Mountain of Ken. Unfortunately for the evil pair, they fell into a Spanish ravine within the first half hour of their journey and were consumed by the Thunder Bull Lizard of Gauze. The Lizard, on the other hand, scuttled quite merrily across river and dale and roy and trigger, finding and subsequently consuming the Cube of Happy Flavors and the Tree of Pensive Contemplation before moseying back to live forever in the Great Chambered Mountain of Ken. Ken was quite perturbed, and rightly so.
When the itinerant peddler chanced to encounter an enchanted barrier of lavender blooms deep in the forest, he proceeded cautiously, but not cautiously enough. No trace of him remained.
The peddler’s wife, alarmed when her good husband failed to return home, searched the woods for days. At last, she stumbled into the presence of the enchanted lavender barrier. More cautious than her good husband, she paused and sat down to think.
“If, strange and beautiful barrier, you are enchanted as I believe you are, you will grant me one wish,” said the peddler’s wife.
“You are observant and thoughtful,” said the barrier. “State your desire.”
“Return to me my husband fully as merry as always he was,” said Gerda, the wife.
No sooner said than done. The barrier disappeared. The good husband stood baffled, but merry. The pair returned home and lived happily ever after.
The elephant and the tax consultant moved to the starting line and crouched low, preparing to hurl themselves down the track. The starter, a renegade lumberjack, raised her pistol. Neither elephant nor insurance adjuster spoke a word, but both peered through slit eyes of rage at the innocent sky. Insufferable insults had been exchanged days earlier at the boxcar convention, and now the result, a 100 yard race of hate, was about to play out to its inevitable forensic conclusion. Microphones were installed in the dirigible overhead just as the renegade lumberjack fired the pistol. The insurance adjuster took an early lead, but was overtaken and trampled to jelly by the elephant. The people waiting around with bread and peanut butter were beneath contempt.
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
