Unpredictable

(I've decided to take a little break from this blog. In my absence, my good friend Marty Volare has agreed to recount for you one of his many romantic misadventures. See if you can read it without choking up. In fact, choke up enough, and Marty might just respond to your comments--KJ)

My name is Martin Dangerfield Volare, and the story I'm about to tell is one of love found and love lost, of love born and love died, of love opened and love closed, of love created and love destroyed, of love bloomed and love withered, of love premiered and love canceled, of love invented and love made obsolete, and of love brand-new right out of the box and love left out on the curb to be taken away with the rest of the trash. It is an old story, as old as the sun and the moon and the sea and the ground and the redwoods and the bones of dinosaurs, but also a story of continual renewal, as new as a baby's laugh, a puppy's bark, a kitten's meow, a chick's chirp, and a lamb's baa. For this tale I tell is not meant to depress but inspire, that though love may burn to a crisp like a marshmallow left too long over a fire at a Labor Day picnic on that last sweet, sultry night of summer, its' smoke will nonetheless rise gently above the Metropark and the trees and the birds and up, up toward the clouds and the heavens and the stars and the galaxies and the extraterrestrials beyond.

Her name was Sonya, and she worked as a barmaid at the Looking-Glass Cafe, where I sometimes go to escape and evade and avoid and elude the desperation and desolation of my lonely existence. Ah, how shall I describe Sonya? She was as lovely as the dawn, as beautiful as the dusk, and as sweet as a mango. And she had a nice smile. I was smitten.

Alas, difficulties loomed! For starters, she slept with this one guy. However, she told me he meant nothing to her and would probably break up with him soon as she got the air conditioning, driver's side power window, and CD player fixed on her Buick Enclave and so wouldn't have to borrow his Mustang all the time. That filled me with hope. She then revealed that she had a two-year old daughter. I asked if the guy she slept with was the father. She said she didn't think so. I was naturally relieved to hear that. Still, if me and Sonya were to get married, it would mean I would have to raise the daughter as my own. Would I be up to the challenges of parenthood? I needed to know the answer.

I found the answer, or thought I had found the answer, or hoped with the hope that gives all sentient beings sustenance that I had found the answer when I saw this flier shoved between one of my windshield wipers while leaving the laundromat. It read as follows:

MADAME IMELDA

Forecaster of Fate, Prophetess of the Paranormal, Seer of the Supernatural, Assessor of the Astral Plane

will predict your future for

$10

Hurry! Limited time offer.

I know it now seems a bit desperate of me to go to a fortune teller to help solve a romantic dilemma, but at the time desperate blood pumped into and out of my desperate heart. I made up my mind to the see the seer.

Her simple clapboard house was located next to a payday lender in a part of town noted for its potholes, pawn shops, foreclosed property, and abandoned cars. I actually found it rather heartening that Madame Imelda should live in such a neighborhood. I like my psychics on the humble side. However, I may have overestimated her humility, for when I walked into her simple clapboard home I was greeted by a giant middle-aged lady dressed in gypsy garb and speaking in a foreign accent, mostly Hungarian, but with what sounded like a little Spanish and Scandinavian thrown in. I took her for a worldly woman.

"I am Madame Imelda" she intoned. "Mistress of Mysticism, Empress of Enchantment, and Diva of Divination! I know past, present, and future! I have access to those worlds beyond normal sight, sound, smell, touch, and thought! I speak with the spirits, hobnob with the hobgoblins, and play host to the ghosts! Now, what can I do for you?"

Awed, I lowered my head, pulled the flier out of my pocket, and handed it to her. She nodded, and led from the foyer into a room full of lit candles, burning incense, and lave lamps. Hanging on one wall was a black velvet painting of a wizard seated on a unicorn, his magic wand doubling as a riding crop. In the middle of the room was a small table with a crystal ball. I sat on one side, Madame Imelda on the other. She held out her hand, and I gave her the ten dollars. She turned away and beckoned,

"Daughter, Daughter, bring me my purse!"

From another room emerged a girl of about nine or ten wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and carrying an oversized purse. Madame Imelda deposited my ten dollars into the purse and the tyke left. Madame Imelda then got down to the business of forecasting the future.

"You shall experience great happiness and great sadness!" she intoned as she peered into the crystal ball. "You shall climb great peaks and descend into deep valleys. You shall laugh and you shall cry. You shall know joy and you shall know heartbreak. That is your destiny. Now leave and tell all your friends about me. I'm here seven days a week, half a day on holidays. I accept credit cards."

Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed at this rather vague prediction. I began to wonder if Madame Imelda was on the level.

"Couldn't you be more specific?" I asked. "I wanted to know about my soon-to-be-girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancee-soon-to-be-wife."

"Oh, it's specificity you seek? That will be $350. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"

"$350?!"

"Prophecy is not some low-hanging fruit that can be plucked from a tree. You have to go to the farmer's market and pay a little extra for it."

My anger rising, I blurted out, "A farmers market wouldn't try to cheat me like you are!"

The big woman stood up and yelled, "You dare impugn the integrity of Madame Imelda, Chief Executive of the Extrasensory?! Take leave of my prescient presence at once, you worm!"

Faced with such a torrent of sincerity, I had no choice but to apologize, yet so great was my shame, I couldn't even open my mouth. I turned and reluctantly headed toward the door.

"Wait!"

I turned away from the door!

"Madame Imelda is nothing if not fair. Knowing the past, present, and future does that to a person. Ask me a question about this lady friend of yours, and if I get it right, you pay for a full reading."

That sounded reasonable, but what could I ask? Sonya's last name? No, it had to be something I already knew the answer to, just in case Madame Imelda answered falsely. It was Sonya's baby daughter that brought me here in the first place. I could ask something along those lines. The daughter's name, maybe? No, I didn't know that either. Wait, I could just ask the psychic if she even knew Sonya had a baby daughter.

"Tell me, Madame Imelda, who is the most important female in my future girlfriend/fiancee/wife's life?"

Madame Imelda sat down and peered into the crystal ball. In less than a second, she intoned, "Her mother is the most important person in her life!"

"Wrong. Not her mother."

"Not her mother? I'd like to think I'm the most important female in my daughter's life!"

"I said it's not her mother!" I could feel my anger almost returning.

"Her sister?"

"No."

"Grandmother?"

"No."

"Best friend?"

My anger had now most assuredly returned. "Her daughter! Her baby daughter is the most important female in her life!"

"Oh, her baby daughter! You didn't tell me she had a baby daughter."

"You were already supposed to know that!"

Madame Imelda looked back into the crystal ball. "Ah, I see my mistake now. I was looking at the ball's northern hemisphere, when I really should have been looking at its' south. There's the baby, in plain sight. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"

I left in disgust.

Driving home, I was at first despondent, but it didn't last long. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. I had wanted easy assurance from a fortune teller that I wasn't making a mistake, but there are no shortcuts in romance. Love is a matter of faith. This thought put me in a good mood. The Madame Imeldas of the world weren't going to keep me from my soul mate. By the time I arrived at the Looking-Glass Cafe, I was so filled with joyful ardor I skipped right in the place. A couple guys at a pool table laughed at me, but what did I care? I was a paramour in paradise!

"Hiya, Marty," said Sonya from behind the bar. "You look like you're in a good mood."

"I am. I just exposed a fortune teller as a fake."

"Oh, yeah? What'd ya do that for?"

"I asked her a question about you, and she didn't know the answer."

"Oh, yeah? What'd ya ask?"

Smiling, I said, "Who is the most important female in your life?"

"Oh, that'd be my best friend Amy. She let me sleep on her couch this one time when I--"

Panicked, I said, "No, not your best friend Amy!"

"Well, I sometimes spend time with my kid sister."

"No, not your kid sister!"

"My grandmother? I like her. I hope you don't think it's my mother. Me and her just don't see eye to eye."

"It's you're daughter!," I blurted. "You're baby daughter should be the most important female in your life!"

"Oh, yeah. That's right. My daughter."

To make a long lament short, things never did work out between me and Sonya. She left the Looking-Glass Cafe not long after. I hear she's now at some bikers bar near Sandusky. The guy she sleeps with works grill.

And, in case you're wondering, I eventually did pay Madame Imelda her $350. It was only fair.

Pleasure Measure

I walked into the Looking-Glass Cafe Monday and saw my old friend Eddie Templeton sitting at the bar with a huge smile on his face.

"Well, Eddie," I said, as I sat down next to him. "You look happy."

"I am, Jusko. I just realized I had a wonderful weekend!"

"You just realized that? You didn't know it at the time?"

"At the time I thought it was a shitty weekend."

"Why did you think it was shitty?"

"Well, Saturday night I wanted to do something exciting, but I didn't have much money, so I just came here."

"Well, Eddie, just because you came here doesn't mean--"

"Hold it, Jusko. I'm not finished."

"Oh. Sorry. Go on."

"Well, like I said, I came here, I ordered some buffalo wings and a beer, watched some basketball game on TV, chatted with the bartender for a while, played one of those video trivia games, had another beer, watched a hockey game, chatted with the bartender some more, played a video game, had another beer, chatted with someone I know from work, and left."

"Well, Eddie, it doesn't sound all that shitty."

"Like I said, I don't think it's shitty anymore."

"What changed your mind?"

Eddie pulled out his cell phone. "For the last hour I've been calling up people I know and asking how their weekend went. You know Mycroft Ptolemy?"

"Yeah, I know him."

"Know how he spent Saturday night?"

"How?"

Eddie burst out laughing. "Reorganizing his rock collection! Oh, man, can you imagine that?!"

"Well, Eddie, if I knew exactly how one goes about reorganizing a rock collection, I could probably imagine it."

"Then I called Marty Volare. Do you know how he spent his Saturday night?"

"I don't think I want to know."

"He spent the entire night waiting for Sally Field to answer his emails. Ha! Like that's ever gonna happen."

"Actually, Eddie, I think there's a certain poignancy--"

"Poignancy or not, it's a crappy way to spend the weekend."

"Um, did you talk to anyone else?"

"Yeah. Right before you walked in, I got off the phone with Ken Speer."

"Hold it right there, Eddie. I know all about Ken Speer. He gets invited to all the best parties, goes to all the opening galas, gets his picture on the society page from time to time; there's no way he had a shitty Saturday night."

"That's where you're wrong, Jusko. Ken broke his leg a while back, and spent the entire night in his living room watching a Rocky and Bullwinkle DVD."

"Well, that show could be kind of funny some--"

"Whatever, Jusko. Anyway, I compared my weekend to Mycroft's, Marty's, and Ken's, and realized I had a great time. An absolutely fantastic time! It was maybe one of the best weekends ever!"

"Well, Eddie, I'm happy for you. Maybe next weekend--"

"Oh, next weekend's gonna suck. I'm not looking forward to it at all."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not gonna have much money again, so I'll just have to come here. I'll have a few beers and buffalo wings, chat with the bartender, watch some sport on TV, play some video, chat with someone from work, and go home."

"But, Eddie, that's what you did this past weekend, and you said it was one of your best ever. So why should next weekend be so different?"

"Ken Speer will be out of his cast by then."

Blog Noir

My friend Marty Volare almost got himself into some very big trouble the other night...

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Yeah?"

"Excuse me, but are you Bugsy Scarfather, the notorious underworld loan shark?"

"Maybe. Who the hell are you, and why the hell are you holding a palm tree?"

"Oh, well, I'm Martin Dangerfield Volare, and this isn't a palm tree. A palm tree would be much, much bigger."

"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HOLDING IT?!"

"It's a rubber tree plant."

"Why the hell are you holding a rubber tree plant?"

"Oh, it's a peace offering from Veronica Stanwyck."

"VERONICA STANWYCK!!!" Enraged, Bugsy motioned for one of his goons to come to the door.

Marty smiled. "She told me you'd be excited to hear from her."

"That dame owes me $60,000! She's past due! I was just about to send out a couple of my boys to collect."

"Oh, she told me all about it, Mr. Scarfather. You lent her money so she could start her own combination greenhouse/ice cream stand. It was a pretty good idea, and I'm sure if the economy hadn't tanked, it would have gone over big. I mean, it gets pretty hot in a greenhouse. A cone or Popsicle or maybe a bowl of orange sherbet would be just the thing to cool you off as you peruse the fauna. But, like I said, the economy. Anyway, this rubber plant is Veronica's token of appreciation."

"That's it. The broad's gonna get whacked!"

"Well, Mr. Scarfather, I think she's a little old for a spanking, and, besides, once I'm done here, me and her are off to Vegas to get married."

"Oh, you are, are you?" With that, Bugsy motioned to another one of his goons, who walked up behind Marty, and held up what is known in the gangster vernacular as a "heater" up to his head.

Marty didn't seem to notice. "You see, me and Veronica are in love."

"Just how long have you known Veronica?"

"Oh, about an hour ago. No, make that two."

"ABOUT AN HOUR AGO?!"

"I said, make that two. You see, I went to the Looking-Glass Cafe to bowl a few frames, and, while I was changing into my bowling shoes--"

"Wait a second. I've been to the Looking-Glass Cafe. You can't bowl there."

"Sure you can. Just stick in a few quarters--"

"You're talking about one of those machines? Then why the hell were you putting on bowling shoes?"

"I was hoping they might improve my game."

Bugsy let out a sigh, and then said, "Go on with your story."

"Well, I put on the shoes, and I heard this whistle. I turned, and, sitting in the corner was this beautiful woman in a white dress and big white hat and wearing an ankle bracelet. I walked over to introduce myself, and you know what she said?"

"I'm sweating with curiosity."

"She said, 'A girl like me could fall for a guy like you.'"

"And then what?"

"I fell for her. She led me to the alley in back, and, and, and--"

"AND?!"

"She gave me a peck on the cheek."

"That's some passionate love affair you two got going there."

"And tonight's the honeymoon! Lip to lip!"

"We'll see if you make it to the honeymoon. What I want to know is how you ended up on my doorstep with that palm tree."

"Rubber plant."

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HERE INSTEAD OF HER?!"

"Well, soon after we met--in fact, I was still wearing my bowling shoes--I told her I was deeply, madly in love with her, and she promised to fall deeply, madly, in love with me if I just did her this one little itty-bitty favor. That's how she put it. One little itty-bitty favor."

"I bet I can guess the little itty-bitty favor. Stall me while she blows town."

"Oh, no, she hasn't blown town yet. Not without me. Like I said, we're getting married."

"So you walked all the way over here from the Looking-Glass Cafe with that palm tree, while--"

"Oh, I didn't walk. Veronica drove me."

"Drove you? I happen to know her car was repossessed!"

"She was driving my car."

"She drove you in your own car?! Where's your car?! I know it's a foggy night, but I should at least be able to see your car."

"Oh, she dropped me off. She had some errands to run and needed my car. I figure I'll take a cab to the airport. Or maybe the bus. Is there a bus stop around here?"

"Yeah, I think there's one around the--forget about the bus stop! You mean to tell me she talked you into coming here, and then talked you out of your car?! How the hell could you let her do that?!"

"Like I said, we're in love. At least I'm in love with her. And she'll fall in love with me once this little itty-bitty favor is over with."

"Man, this is so pathetic, I'm not even going to kill you."

"Oh, good. Like I said, she's waiting for me at the airport. And, for safekeeping, she's holding all my credit cards."

He Likes Her! He Likes Her!

Stopped by The Looking-Glass Cafe, where I saw my old friend Marty Volare hunched over the bar writing something on a piece of paper, which couldn't have been easy as the beer dribbling down from his mouth caused the ink to run.

"Hiya, Marty!," I said as I walked into the place. "Whatcha' writing?"

Even though we've known each other for years, Marty looked at me quite shyly, and then cast his eyes down, muttering, "Oh, just a love letter."

"A love letter? To who?"

"Sally Field."

"You like Sally Field, huh?"

"Ever since I was a little boy plopped in front of the TV set with my tray of marshmallow pinwheel cookies and a big cup of Tang, the drink the astronauts drank, on the side."

"Can I read it?"

A frightened look appeared on Marty's face, and he clutched the letter close to his chest, not a good idea as his shirt was covered with Cheez-It crumbs.

"Aw, c'mon, Marty, you've known me for years!"

Marty shyly, reluctantly, handed over his letter. It wasn't easy to read, what with all the dribbled beer and smashed Cheez-It crumbs, but read it I did, and, man, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever read, Shakespeare and the King James Version of The Bible included. Before he sends his letter off to Sally, Marty has graciously allowed me to share it with all of you. Read it, and see if you don't get a lump in your throat.

My Dearest Darling Sally Field,

I have carried a torch for you ever since I was seven years old and the local UHF station played Gidget and The Flying Nun back to back. I first fell in love with you in that little yellow bikini, and then fell in love all over again in that white nun's habit. It might have been better for my psycho-biological development had it been the other way around, but, no matter, whether you were frolicking on the beaches of Southern California, or soaring through the skies above Puerto Rico, so, too, did my heart. Later you appeared in the TV movie, Sybil, and I fell in love with all thirteen of your personalities, though the Mike personality and the Sid personality didn't help my psycho-biological development much either. Not too long after that you appeared in Smokey and the Bandit. Oh, Sally, how I longed to be the Burt Reynolds who would rescue you from the evil clutches of Jackie Gleason, who was even meaner than when he played Ralph Kramden. No matter. He would not send you "to the moon" as long as I was there to protect you. Then there was Norma Rae. Inspired by your performance, I tried to organize a union in my place of employment. Unfortunately, I was working in my grandmother's collectibles shop at the time, and she told my parents on me. Finally, Places in the Heart, for which you won your second Academy Award. Of course, Sally, your place was in my heart all along.

Recently, I was distressed to learn that you suffer from osteoporosis. Oh, Sally, how I want to take those brittle bones of yours in my arms and make them all better. Fortunately, you've discovered Boniva, and, watching those commercials, I was thrilled to see that you're now healthy enough to go to the farmer's market and buy some ripe tomatoes (by the way, I like ketchup.) Still, I was a bit puzzled. Isn't osteoporosis a disease older women get? So I looked up your age on the Internet, and was surprised to see that you're now 63!

Sally, I swear to you from the bottom of my love-stricken heart, you don't look a day over 40.

I, on the other hand, am only 45, yet strangers always mistake me for being a couple of decades older.

Oh, Sally, don't you see? We were made for each other!!!

Lovingly yours,

Martin Dangerfield Volare

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

We'll Save The Lady From Nantucket For Some Other Time

The other day I stopped by the Looking-Glass Cafe, just in time to find Eddie Templeton attempting to tell Mycroft Ptolemy a dirty joke.

"OK, Mycroft, this guy is at the supermarket buying some stuff, and he turns into aisle 7 and sees this beautiful girl in a sexy negligee--"

"Why was she wearing a sexy negligee?"

"Why? Because she's the type of girl that likes to wear sexy negligees, that's why. Now, this guy sees her and--"

"They let her into the store like that?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Didn't the supermarket have a dress code?"

"Why would a supermarket have a dress code? It's not Cinderella's ball."

"How sexy was this negligee?"

"Oh, dude, her boobs were about to fall out, and it was so short you could see her panties, that's why when the guy turned into aisle 7 and saw her--"

"They really let her into the store dressed that way, huh?"

"Look, Mycroft, they let all types into a supermarket. I remember once I saw a woman in hair curlers."

"So?"

"So, she looked ridiculous and everybody was gawking at her."

"I bet not as much as they were gawking at the woman in the sexy negligee."

"Mycroft, if anything, they were gawking even more at the woman in hair curlers."

"Suppose the girl in the sexy negligee and woman in the hair curlers were standing right next to each other? Then who would get gawked at more? I'll bet--"

"WHO THE HELL CARES WHO WOULD GET GAWKED AT MORE?!"

At this point, Sherm, the bartender, told Eddie to keep it down. Eddie nodded, and then said to Mycroft in a low voice, "See, you got me in trouble with Sherm."

"I just want to know why the woman came to the supermarket only in her negligee? Why didn't she get dressed first?"

"Mycroft, she worked second shift, so she got up late, and wanted to get to the store and back before her favorite soap came on, and just didn't have enough time to dress however you think people should dress in supermarkets."

"She should have just Tivo'd the soap."

"Well, maybe that's why she was working second shift, so she could afford to buy a Tivo. Now, can I please finish this joke?"

"Go ahead."

"OK, she--no, the guy, turns into aisle 7 and sees this beautiful girl in a sexy negligee. He gets all excited and rips off his clothes and jumps on the girl and they start having wild sex right there on the supermarket floor--"

"So he raped her."

"No, he didn't rape her! This is a dirty joke, not a sick one. Where'd you get that idea?"

"You said he jumped her."

"Yeah, but only because she was wearing a sexy negligee."

"You shouldn't blame the victim, even if she's wearing a sexy negligee."

"No, you don't understand, Mycroft, they were in a supermarket."

"You shouldn't blame the victim, even if she's wearing a sexy negligee in a supermarket."

"What I mean, Mycroft, is people don't get raped in supermarkets. They get raped in dark alleys or some place like that."

"So it was consensual sex?"

"That's right."

"In a supermarket?"

"That's right."

"I have an easier time imagining a rape in a supermarket than consensual sex."

"Then go ahead and imagine it, Mycroft. It won't affect the joke any."

"Now, if it's rape, somebody in the store would have noticed and called the police--"

"No, Mycroft, that's not what happened at all!"

"It was one of those Kitty Genovese-like situations?"

"Kitty Geno--It was consensual, Mycroft. She asked him to rip off his clothes and jump on her so they could have sex on the supermarket floor!"

"You didn't mention she made the first move."

"That's right, I didn't. I forgot. I'm sorry I didn't mention it. I apologise. I'll regret it for the rest of my days!"

"I understand why he wanted to have sex with her, but if she made the first move, why did she want to have sex with him?"

"She saw how turned on he was by her, and was so flattered by the attention that--"

"If she walks around supermarkets in a negligee, you think she'd be used to attention."

"She had a poor self-image, OK?"

"But you said she was beautiful."

"I know she's beautiful, you know she's beautiful, the guy in the supermarket knows she beautiful, but she doesn't know she's beautiful because she's got a poor self-image! Now, they're having sex in aisle 7--"

"Well, if they both wanted to have sex, why didn't they just go to one of their homes?"

"They were both married!"

"Did her husband think she was beautiful?"

"Yes, but he didn't let her know it. He let her think she was ugly so she would have a poor self-image and have sex with with the first person she met at the supermarket."

"Why didn't they go to a motel?"

"Mycroft, they were blind with passion! Haven't you ever been so blind with passion that you wanted to have sex right then and there on the supermarket floor instead of going to a motel?"

"No."

"Well, you've lived a sheltered life. I feel sorry for you. Now, they're having sex on the supermarket floor, and--"

"Didn't anybody notice?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet? I think they'd notice right away!"

"Mycroft, I said they were in aisle 7. If you weren't in aisle 7, how would you know? And they had aisle 7 all to themselves."

"Well, aisle 7 was free the whole time? Nobody else entered it? That's hard to believe."

"Well, OK, so someone else went into the aisle. What of it?"

"Well, if someone with a cart full of groceries came into the aisle and saw them having sex on the floor--"

"Then they steered the cart around them. You can steer those carts, you know."

"So even though they were having wild sex, they weren't blocking the aisle?"

"Well, they might have been rolling back and forth, but if they rolled to the right, you steer the cart to the left, if they roll to the left, you steer to the right. Now, listen carefully, Mycroft, they finished having sex, put on their clothes, and left. But there was all this semen and sperm and--"

"Sperm and semen are synonyms."

"I don't care. They left all these bodily fluids on the floor of aisle 7, and a customer happens by, sees the mess, and gets all upset--"

"Finally, somebody gets upset."

"So this customer goes to the store manager, tells him what she saw, and the manager gets on the loudspeaker and says--"

Eddie changed his voice to sound like he was talking on a loudspeaker, and announced:

"Spill in aisle 7!"

Back to his regular voice, Eddie said, "Well, that's the joke, Mycroft. How come you're not laughing?"

"I think if a customer tells a store manager that there's bodily fluids on the floor of aisle 7, then he should immediately rush to aisle 7, and see for himself."

"Mycroft, when you're telling a joke, it's the punchline that matters. If the girl had dressed normal, I couldn't have said the punchline. If the guy hadn't jumped on her, I couldn't have said the punchline. If they didn't have wild sex on the floor, I couldn't have said the punchline. If the store manager had rushed over to aisle 7 instead of getting on the loudspeaker, I couldn't have said the punchline. If all the people in the joke had behaved the way you expected them to behave, I couldn't have said the punchline. Am I getting through to you, Mycroft? Is any of this making sense?"

Mycroft gave what Eddie said some serious thought, and asked, "So all those people knew they were in a dirty joke?"

Utterly exasperated, Eddie replied, "How could they not?!"

Obstinance

I walked into the Looking-Glass Cafe and ran into Marty Volare, whom I've known since high school. A couple of minutes later we were at the bar, watching Greta Van Susteren interview Bristol Palin on TV. Bristol, you might recall, is the teenage daughter of Sarah Palin, John McCain's running mate in the recent election. You may also recall that her boyfriend got her pregnant, causing a mild scandal. But that's all behind her now. She recently gave birth to a baby boy, Tripp. Van Susteren asked Bristol if she didn't think teens should practice abstinence. Bristol replied she didn't think it was realistic.

At this point, Marty Volare opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as he did, bit's and drops of chewed pretzels and beer poured forth.

It took about a second for Marty to compose himself, and then he said, "I agree with Bristol Palin"

"About what?" I asked.

"Abstinence IS unrealistic. It was when I was a teen,"

"What are you talking about, Marty? You were constantly shot down by girls back then. They wouldn't let you carry their books, much less do anything that would lead to a baby."

"I know," said Marty. "It was unreal!"

Sweet Charity

Me and Eddie Templeton were walking down the street, and shooting the breeze when--wait, have I introduced you to Eddie Templeton yet? You know Eddie, don't you? He just got his fifteenth ticket for parking in a handicapped space, remember? Let me quote him:

"I don't know what the hell's the matter with that cop! I told him I've got Premature Hunch Elbow!"

Anyway, me and Eddie were walking down the street, and he fell behind me for a moment.

"Hey, Jusko!"

I turned around. "Huh?"

"You dropped a quarter."

He picked it up and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said.

I continued walking.

"Say, Eddie," I said. "What say you and I go over to the Looking-Glass Cafe and see if Garret and Marty's there?"

Eddie didn't answer.

"Eddie?"

I turned back around. Eddie was way behind me, still at the spot where I dropped my quarter. His arms were folded, and he was tapping his foot. He had an expectant look on his face.

I walked back over to him.

"Eddie," I said. "What gives?"

"I'm waiting," he said.

"Waiting? Waiting for what?"

"I'm waiting for God to shower me with fame and fortune and all the sex I can handle as reward for the good, just, and selfless deed I just performed."

He looked up toward the sky and started snapping his fingers.

I handed him my quarter.

"Here," I said. "I think you need this more than I do."