Saturday, March 29, 2014

Mamie Barlowe, Episode 8


“Sit down, Mr. COB III. And when I say sit, I mean sit: don’t move, don’t talk, don’t look at me, capiche?” I’m impressed by the man’s fluid moves as he reaches the chair in record time, the kind of moves that tell me he spends most of his time on the dance floor. A white-gloved hand dusts the seat of the chair, the back, the legs, and underneath the seat. He sits his tookus down and slowly crosses one expertly creased pant leg over the other. After that, he reaches down and brushes pixie dust off the ivory spats covering his shoes. I wanna cry with happiness when he straightens up and sits still. At least the man’s respectful. 
Ok, my turn buster. I open my desk drawer. But I’m not looking for anything, see. Still, I reach in and scramble the pens and bullets lying around. I do this for a few seconds making sure I have Mr. COB III’s attention. I do. His face twitches with aggravation. I quickly plan my next move. SLAM! The drawer shuts with such force Mr. COB III practically jumps out of the chair. Good. I want him on the edge, see. He’s got major explaining to do. “Empty your pockets, Mr. COB III. I hope you included your birth certificate, or this appointment is over.” 
His eyes are a pale mixture of yellow and green slime. Not attractive. Worse, he’s staring at me bug-eyed. “What? Is that really n-n-necessary, Miss B-B-Barlowe.” He sniffs, and the tilt of his nose rises up high, so high it wouldn’t take much to shoot it down. 
           I reach into my shoulder holster. He tenses. The man’s eyes widen like he suspects he’s about to become a victim. The laugh’s on him. I pull out my wallet. “Look, Mr. COB III, I’m only gonna tell you this one more time: empty your pockets! NOW!” The dangerous glare of my eyes finally reaches the control center of his brain. He empties his pockets in record time. Then makes like he’s gone stiff, you know, the kind of stiff that says, I’m dead, send for the coroner.  “That’s better.” I rifle through the following items: birth certificate, monogrammed hanky with the initials, CB, embroidered in what looks like 18 carat gold thread, a pair of diamond-studded cufflinks, a fine leather black wallet, designer eye-glasses, car keys, matches, cigarettes and a button, smooth, the color of melt-in-my-mouth cocoa. I hold up the matches. “Not a lighter man I take it?”
“N-n-no. Hate the things. I-I kept b-b-burning the t-tip of my nose. I’m far-sighted, you see.”
“Maybe wearing your glasses would help.”
“No. I have m-more control lighting a muh-muh-muh-muh-muh-muh-match.”
I can’t explain what happens next. A dollop of empathy touches my heart. Ouch. Might as well dip my finger in acid. I mentally shake the feeling off. But what I can’t shake is the thought that Mr. COB III must be the tookus of all jokes with that speech impediment. Can’t buy his way out of that humiliation. I do something I rarely do with clients. I smile briefly. To help him relax. Then I look over his things. But in the back of my mind, I’m wondering why he had such an awful time saying “match.” The hanky has a spot of red in the upper right hand corner. I sniff at it. Lipstick. I know the brand. When I look at the man, he’s busy staring at the crease in his pant leg. “So, why did you call me last night, Mr. COB III?”
“As I t-t-told you on the phone, I simply would like to know why my wife h-h-hired you.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She’s . . . she’s out of t-t-town.”
“Call her.”
“I tried. She d-d-doesn’t pick up.”
“You mean she won’t take your calls. So, where is she?”
“Um . . . well I-I’m n-n-not sure to t-t-tell you the truth. We’ve b-b-been having a few troubles lately. N-n-nothing serious, of course.”
“Of course.” I stare hard at him. He stares hard at me. Interesting. Time to hit a nerve.     Mr. COB III, what makes you think she hired me?” 
“Well, again, as I said b-b-before on the phone, I f-f-found your card in m-my wife’s wastebasket.” He taps his foot impatiently.
I pull out my wastebasket. “Mr. COB III, what’s the first thing you see in this metal trash receptacle?”
“Uh . . . a small p-p-pizza b-b-box.”
“Who do you suppose ate the pizza that was in the box?” A long silence. He’s thinking this is a trick question.
“Uh . . . you d-d-did?”
“No. My secretary did, capiche?”
“Oh. I g-g-guess when I saw your c-c-card I automatically assumed—”
“You’re lying, Mr. COB III. You know what I think?”
His eyes widen in fear, as if I’m a dentist holding a chainsaw in front of his mouth. Then he shakes his head.
“Do you wanna know what I think?”
He has that trapped-in-a-steamer-trunk look now. He hesitantly nods his head. “B-b-but I can assure you, I’m n-not lying.”
“Did you happen to bring the card with you?”
A furrow knots his forehead, you know the kind, the kind that says no-I-didn’t-bring-the-card-with-me, but-I’ll-stall-a-little-and-make-her-think-I-had, followed closely by the checking of all pockets. I wait patiently as he goes through the standard progression of the search. First, there’s inside the coat pocket. Next, there’s the shirt pocket. Then, there’s the two back pants pockets, and finally, the coup de grace, the two front pants pockets. Confused? Take a pill. As for me, I’m more than bored by this time. I struggle to suppress a yawn. “No card, Mr. COB III?”
“I’m sorry. I thought I had brought it w-with me, b-b-but . . .”
Patience is a virtue they say. In my case, a just-this-very-minute acquired one. “Ok, Mr. COB III. Let’s lay our ‘cards’ on the table, shall we? You didn’t call me to find out why your wife hired me. How do I know that? Because you already knew she’d hired me. In my business, it’s almost a given, and let me repeat, ALMOST a given that a spouse knows when their significant other has hired a private dick, see. It starts like this: one spouse, let’s call her, Fabel Schmoe, thinks hubby, let’s call him Joe, is cheating. That starts Fabel on the road to investigation. She checks hubby’s pockets, cellphone, credit cards, cars, whatever. When that doesn’t pan out, the simple questions start, like, “Sweetie, what did you do today?” Maybe Fabel likes the answer, maybe she doesn’t. If she’s smart, she doesn’t. Then the questions become more probing, like, “Honey, I tried to call you all day yesterday. You never picked up. Where were you?” I guarantee she won’t like the answer, but, she might pretend to. Why? Simple. She’s already decided to call me. But what Fabel doesn’t know, is that Joe is a pretty smart cookie himself. He figures out ahead of time wifey won’t like his answer. So, Joe can go two ways with this: he can drop Ms. Hot Potato like a hockey puck, or, he can continue to mash her and keep a close eye on wifey’s comings and goings. That means he checks her cellphone, credit cards, etc . . . capische? So, why did you really call me? And I want a straight answer this time.” 
The man’s face has the look of somebody who opens a present and finds it empty. “I d-d-don’t understand the point you’re trying to m-m-make here. I’m not ch-cheating on Roxy! And she’s not ch-cheating on m-m-me . . . is she?”
“The point I was trying to make, badly as it turns out Mr. COB III, is that when it comes to marital relationships, it’s very rare that one spouse doesn’t know what the other is doing. So, you didn’t find my card in the trash. You searched her things.”
He slumps back in his chair, and starts to feverishly rub his forehead. That’s the look Custer might have had if he’d survived the massacre. Time for Mr. COB III to hoist the white flag. He does. “Ok, yes. B-b-by coming here, I was hoping you would eventually t-t-tell me, or, if you wouldn’t t-t-ell me, that I might then be able to p-p-ersuade you, if the price was right, of course, to t-t-tell me if m-m-my wife is cheating on me with Reggie.”
“Reggie?” For just a second there, I’m afraid there’s a triplet lurking behind door number 3.
“Reginald Othello Binghorton II. My identical twin brother. He’s younger. By ten minutes.”
“Last time I saw your twin, his body looked like a war zone.” Mr. COB III is flabbergasted. I don’t see many clients react that way in my line of work. Mostly because they tend to be manipulators. 
           “You met Reggie? How? Why?” The “why” ended on a whine.
Put his questions on ignore. I hate whiners. “So, how did your brother sustain his injuries, Mr. COB III?” 
He clears his throat trying to get back on the train. “He was sideswiped b-b-b-y an automobile. But why—”
“A car.”
“Yes. At least that’s w-what he t-t-t-told me. What did he t-tell you?”
“A lot, and you won’t like any of it. But I can’t talk about it. Client confidentiality.” 
“Client confid—you m-m-mean, Reggie h-h-h-ired you? Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
For the first time since he sat down, Mr. COB III looks visibly upset.
“It does if you want protection, see.”
Mr. COB III becomes indignant. I see a lot of clients react that way in my line of work. Mostly because they have an inflated sense of self. 
          “Protection from whom? That’s utterly ridiculous.”
No stutter. Hmm . . . I eye him with growing suspicion. I’m not sure why. “Mr. COB III, when’s the last time you saw Roxy?”
He frowns like he just discovered the moon is not made out of cheese. “N-n-not too long ago.”
“A day, a week, a month . . . more than that?”
“A couple of weeks, maybe. I’ve lost track of time. Been away on b-b-business. When I returned home, she was guh-guh-gone.”
“I see. So, a few days ago you didn’t parachute out of a plane with your wife in tow?”
“What utter nonsense is that? I d-d-don’t even like to fly, Miss B-B-Barlowe. I travel by ship or trains.”  He stares at me like I just landed a plane in the middle of his forehead. Don’t blame him. None of this is making any sense to me, either.
“When’s the last time you saw Mr. ROB III?”
“My brother? About the t-t-time I got back. Reggie always needs a hand out. Smart he isn’t.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since then?”
“N-no. Why?”

“One last thing. Do you have a picture of Roxy with you?”
“Yes. I b-b-buh-lieve I do.” He brings out the wallet and opens it up to a pic of a dame I recognize from our brief acquaintance. She’s lost in a time warp judging by her fashion sense. “B-b-b-beautiful, isn’t she?”
I sniff the air. Something smells rotten and it isn’t coming from Vera’s portable cooking apparatus she keeps in a desk drawer. The scent of lies, lies and more darn lies permeates my breathing space. It’s time to move on from this case. I got other birds to kill. I shove the contents from his pockets to his side of the desk. “You can leave now, Mr COB III. We’re done here. Stop by my secretary’s desk and leave a $1000 consultation fee.”
“B-b-but you haven’t t-t-told me what I want to know.” 
“Ok. How about this? If I see you, or your brother, or Roxy walk into this office again, I’m going to take out my Glock and fire a warning shot into the floor. I will then count to three. That means you need to be out the door before I reach three. If you aren’t, the next shot will find tookus skin . . . yours, capiche?”
The formerly stuttering, mild-mannered gentleman slams out of his chair shouting, “WHAT? HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT?” He’s blowing enough steam to power a boat up and down the Mississippi for weeks. “HOW DARE YOU! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS KIND OF SHODDY TREATMENT. I INTEND TO LEAVE THIS OFFICE AND HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE POLICE STATION TO INFORM THEM OF YOUR THREATS! YOU, MADAM, ARE A PSYCHO.”
            Sometime during his grand speech, I’ve taken out my new glock. Time to fire. I do. Straight into the floor. Before I start counting, he dashes out of my office like a mug whose tookus is on fire. Graceful though. Those dance lessons paid off pretty good!

Well, I don't know about you but I'm all confused! Identical twins + one cheating spouse + more lies than I can keep track of + Mamie suddenly dropping the entire case = wtf am I reading here?  What is this author trying to do to me? Is it worse than shingles which continues to linger on and on to the point I can't write? Will Mamie solve her cases faster than I'm recovering from shingles? Will I hire Mamie to excise my shingles with a platinum bullet and a golden smile? And will it be as painless as shooting bullets into a floor?  

Stay tuned.  In the next episode of Mamie Barlowe, we meet Mamie's Aunt Flo. What part does this fuddly duddly spicy adorable character play in this whatchmacallit piece of fiction funsy? And just where is Mother Barlowe? Up to no good if you ask me! And will Mamie ever have a come to papa meeting with Chill Tornado? And what deviously, fiendishly but not very clever plans does an impulse control challenged freak like Sable Mink have for Mamie Barlowe? (FYI, The answer to the last three questions will not be in the next episode) 

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Jumpin' Crawdads! What's happened to me?


You may wonder why I've started the day shouting.

You may wonder where all my posts have gone.

You may wonder if crab cakes are as good as country-fried crawdads.

You may wonder if I've suddenly become as sane as most people and ditching da blog.

You may wonder if I hadn't come down with flu, asthma and shingles(FAS) within a few days of each other, maybe I'd be writing again?

Well wonder no more.  The FAS practically did me in. I admit it. I'm still not up to speed, and that combined with my New Year's Resolution to keep up with all family and extended family birthdays, and teaching all family about their heritage through FB, it has left no time for youse guys at all.

Don't feel too bad, tho, I've Poirot hanging in limbo and very possibly in the clutches of some dastardly villain, or in the clutches of his out-of-control ego; I've left Mamie in the office with her Aunt Flo, and her new glock sitting there on her desk just waiting to kiss somebody's ass; I've left Lady Angela and her bff what's her name? What is her name? I've forgotten her name. Wait, it'll come to me  hmmmmmmmmmmm . . . oh yeah Lady Clementine Pumpling, (she's from the colonies . . . you know, from across the swamp) walking the moors(ok park), together hatching a scheme to decapitate(ok detach) our lovely Lady Lucretia Whetstone from the side of that villainous fortune hunter, Lord Byron Devilyn, (and yes, Lady Angela does finally know the name of that wascally man riding the blackest black of a beautiful horse! She got that from Lady Clementine.) And with the Ball coming up I see fur flying. Quite literally.  Maybe some eggs too. I'm not sure. But what I am sure is that somehow Roger will be involved.

Let's see, oh yeah, my memoir, well I'm not in the mood for that right now. As you can imagine. I need a little distance from my poor pity selfie (for now). Shingles has a way of sucking those very bad memories right out of your life, and replacing them with so very many new bad ones.

But I'm ready to get back in the bloodmobile(ok blogmobile) for my next state. And if youse guys are all kinds of intelligent and intuitive thinkers you will guess that my next state will be so far south even birds won't find it. Do the words Gulf of Mexico have any meaning? So stay tuned for that. I . . . uh . . . shall have completed mah tour of that beautiful state bah the end of next week. Ooh, I kin smell those sweet magnolia blossoms raht here and raht now.  Heavenly, just heavenly!

Now, I'm gonna giddy-up out of here before mah shingles rash (and yes it is still there) threatens to kill me. Once again. It does so on a daily basis. I kin only write about ten minutes a day, which is an improvement over none!

Friday, February 14, 2014

It's a sad state of affairs when . . .

 . . . this happens! Boy this winter just keeps getting better and better! Can u believe they suspended my pug's license? I was dumbfounded. What did he do? He's always been an excellent driver. Ask anyone in my neighborhood. I'm shocked and so so so saddened. And he's always been such a great help to me. He drove to the grocery store to fill my prescriptions and pick up some cans of soup. I don't know what I would've done without him.

It is however true that I've never been a passenger in his car because, well, I'm not as confident as I need to be when he's at the wheel. Although I did let him drive me around the neighborhood once, but I got scared and walked back home. However, he's never had an accident or a ticket in his life! I just don't understand this. Would you like to see a pic of his car? (see below) Isn't it adorable? It's like a mini Rolls Royce, only it's real name is Mitsubishi Pajero Flying Pug car.

Can you see his eyes peeking through the steering wheel? So, the day after the big blizzard he wants to drive to the store because he's feeling a bit cooped up (aren't we all?), but I had to break the bad news to him. Well, I don't want to get into the heartbreaking details of his reaction but this is what I have to live with everyday now:

Yep, squatting in the snow staring at his magnificent car. Ah life. It can be so cruel!

Good news is, it's Valentine's Day! But I'm still hunched over like I'm missing the top half of my body. It is getting better, and I'm beginning to write again, tho it is a slow go, but should have some things out soon. However, my Bath Follies is way behind schedule but I'm having hella fun writing the next scene. Shades of the Three Stooges. Would Jane Austen approve? I'll ask her when I talk shop with her in about 30 more years.

Another episode of Teenage Modern Philosopher's Club will also debut at the end of this month. And my fanfic of Hercule Poirot will continue. I do think Dame Agatha Christie would hit me over the head if she had the chance. And how's Mamie doing? Great. But she has finally run out of patience with the Binghorton clan. That spells trouble.

I'll leave you with a saying that I try to live by, but usually wind up falling on my ass lots of times.

Love One Another, As I Have Loved You!

Here's to having a great Valentine's Day!

Friday, January 31, 2014

Shingle Hells! Shingle Hells! Shingles go away!

Ok, normally I'm a very sane person, (say what?), ok, maybe more like a very patient, understanding, non-tempermental kind of gal, but I've had it! Much like January has reached it's bloody awfully cold end, I've reached the end of my rope. The human body sucks. Just sucks like one big giant pomegranate/spinach mixed vegetable fruit slushy. Ever had one of those? Don't. There aren't enough airline bags in the world to fill up the results of drinking one of dems.

What's the point of being a living breathing human being when you feel like a biological experiment gone dreadfully wrong?—when you feel like you've been shoved into a mighty test-tube of acid?—when you're being tortured by the sensation of having billions and billions of needles shoved into every nerve fiber of your waistband and half of your back?—when the word stabbing is used to describe a pain so intense you might as well call the cops and tell them a murder is being committed. On you. On your body by a virus so malicious it ought to be arrested for attempted murder!

I think I've reached the point where a nurse could give me a shot with a hella big needle and I'd never feel it—where, if someone walked up to me and stabbed me in the stomach, I'd say thank you—where, if I were walking underneath a cloud raining ice, I'd merely stop and put my suntan lotion on.

Without warning. Read these words again, people. Without warning. It strikes like that. Even the flu has the common decency to give you a warning that it's on it's way. Even nausea announces itself before your stomach rises out of your throat to hurl itself across the street before flattening itself around a telephone poll, oozing contents a passerby would not like to view on their way to work, or church or school. It's a bad omen that.

But not shingles. It strikes on an ordinary day, on a day when all is right with the world, and you feel twenty years younger. Maybe there is a vague discomfort, like . . . itching. So, you scratch a bit, but then think nothing of it. After all, scratching wherever an itch strikes is a pretty common human thing to do. But the next day, a day where you feel absolutely on top of the world, a tiny red rash breaks out . . . but you laugh it off as prickly heat from the electric blanket. Then . . .  night falls. Around 2 am, the scratching increases. Now, you don't feel so good because there's an odd muscular ache on the right side of your chest and it's beginning to radiate to the center of your back. You press down on that painful area hoping the ache is momentary and it will go away. You turn over to get more comfortable, and the pain does indeed disappear. Time to fall back into a sound sleep.

Around noon the next day, the itching becomes more intense. Observing the path of the not-going-away-rash tells you that it might be spreading to your back. And oddly enough, you begin scratching there. Oh no! Could it BE? OMG! BEDBUGS!! So you wash your bedsheets 50 times over in 1000 degree heat. That night, in the wee hours of the morning, you suddenly can't get comfortable in any sleeping position. You're really achy now. But still, you tell yourself you're a big girl and can handle the pain. So off to sleep you go. Around noon the next day, you observe blisters breaking out on top the rash! Suddenly, you no longer feel on top of the world; you, in fact, feel like the world is on top of you; now, you can't breathe because your chest is tight, the pain in your side and back are increasing, and a dreaded tingling begins!!!

Oh what to do? what to do? Take out a heating pad. Ah, there is some relief. But the next day, it all falls apart. Your body. Aches and pains on only the right side of your body take on a whole new meaning. The heating pad doesn't help anymore, baths don't help, aspirin doesn't help, the big bed buddy back wraparound sold in most grocery stores doesn't help—the time spent on the computer goes way down because anything that touches your skin, or that your skin touches, is like walking into a blazing fireplace. So, what are you gonna do now?

Go to the doctor of course. You tell him about the chest tightness and the breathing problems; then somehow manage to forget to tell him about all the other symptoms because he tells you right off the bat you have asthma. You are vastly relieved, and therefore barely flash him a bit of the rash before quickly hiding it, giving a little snicker, telling him you think you've been using the heating pad too much. He laughs, and writes out a prescription for symbicort and an anti-inflammatory. You take it home, and take the medicine . . . after all, now you're ready to conquer the world. Instead, in the coming days, your world crashes worse than a comet hitting all the toilets in the world.

Now, there's a constant burning pain on the right side of your body. Thankfully, it's -1 degree outside. So, you walk out and boldly flash the weather. Ah, that feels oddly good. But you can't stay out there more than one second, or you'll get frostbite of the navel kind. You astutely come to the conclusion that more has gone wrong than plain old asthma. So you google. You find the problem. You take a selfie of the rash, front and back. You send it to your doctor. He calls you back right away. And now you have two new prescriptions to take. One is an anti-viral. He tells you in two weeks you'll be able to leave hell. You tell him you resign from the human race. Effective immediately. He laughs and says you'll get through it. You're strong that way he says. Of course, I know what he's really thinking. He's thinking he's so very glad it isn't him.

The week after diagnosis move so slowly you wonder if time stopped. Yeah, just for little ol' you. Isolation sets in. Inactivity becomes the norm. You think, gosh I need to figure how not to breathe and stay alive at the same time.  Some nights you wonder if the apocalypse hit and left you the only person with shingles to survive. Some days you want to take off your body instead of your clothes. If you were writing a poem about the experience as you live it, it would be short and sweet, something like, "There was an old lady with shingles. She took out a hammer, by jingles. And then she was gone, by kringles." The End.

Stay tuned for part 2. The Recovery Stage. What not to do.      

Monday, January 13, 2014

TMPC, Episode 3, part 2

New chat started

Lil’Con has logged on.

Lil’Con: Hello?
*1 Minute passes*

Lil’Con: Is anyone logging on?
*1 Minute passes*

Lil’Con: Am I all alone?
. . .
Lil’Con: It’s 4:03 and we’re supposed to start at 4:00.
*2 Minutes pass*

Lil’Con: You guys where are you? Did you all die?
. . .
Lil’Con: Did the universe do something to you?
*1 minute passes*

Lil’Con: I don’t like being alone. Sometimes I think things I shouldn’t when I’m alone.

CorpusOrgan1 has logged on.

CorpusOrgan1: Confucius what are you talking about?

Lil’Con: Aristotle! Hey! I was talking about. . .nothing where have you been?

CorpusOrgan1: School bus was late. Apparently, our regular driver was “sick,” so they had to get a substitute.

Lil’Con: Why do you say it like that?

CorpusOrgan1: It’s well known that the only kind of illness he contracts is the same one my mother gets when she’s had one too many at the pub.

Lil’Con: Oh, my, was he fired?

CorpusOrgan1: No, it’s also well known that he is having relations with the principal, so she always covers for him.

Lil’Con: That’s dangerous, what if he drinks while driving next time?

CorpusOrgan1: We should be alright, he normally stays under the legal limit.

Lil’Con: Have you heard at all from Plato?

CorpusOrgan1: No, he’s sent me nothing.

Lil’Con: What’s keeping him? Why doesn’t he just make another account?

CorpusOrgan1: I believe he’s tried. I’ve been keeping record of new users for the past week, and I’ve seen PlatoTheGreat, WonderPlato, PlatoNumber1, PlatoOneRepublic, and others to that nature make an account, but they are almost immediately banned afterwords.

Lil’Con: How is Socrates doing this?

CorpusOrgan1: I honestly have no idea. I’ve notified administrators of Socrates’ behavior, but I’ve heard nothing back.

Lil’Con: I guess there’s not much we can do than.

CorpusOrgan1: No, I guess not.
. . .
Lil’Con: So...what should we talk about then?

CorpusOrgan1: We could discuss the morality of ObamaCare.

Lil’Con: I haven’t kept up with it. My parents haven’t been very affected by it.

CorpusOrgan1: It’s helped my mother. Her new medical insurance allows her to take the pills she needs without worrying about the cost of getting her stomach pumped when she takes too many. 

Lil’Con: When she takes too many? I apologize if this comes off poorly but how is your mother still alive?

CorpusOrgan1: She has one of those Medical alert wrist things you activate when you’re in trouble and can’t get to a phone. The people at the hospital don’t even confirm it anymore they just send over the ambulance.

Lil’Con: I think your mother is in great need of reevaluating her needs for self-satisfaction, or at least a good rehab.

TheGreatPlato has logged on.

TheGreatPlato: Hello all.

Lil’Con: Plato! How did you get your account back?

CorpusOrgan1: Confucius, don’t get excited. I doubt this is Plato.

TheGreatPlato: It is I, Aristotle. I was given the most recent password for this account-Platolovesdembigbootyhoes. Which is not true, by the way.

CorpusOrgan1: Who gave it to you?

TheGreatPlato: My mother. She called his mother who forced him to give it up.

Lil’Con: Wow, so is he not going to bother us anymore?

TheGreatPlato: I have no idea, but I am dubious. He tends not to give up, as you have seen.

Lil’Con: Well, at least for now we can continue with our discussions. What should be the topic for today?

CorpusOrgan1: How about the morality of deceivers?

Lil’Con: We talked about that a few months ago, remember? 

CorpusOrgan1: We did, but I believe we need a refresher course.

TheGreatPlato: Or, how about we discuss Aristotle and his current need to make unsubtle digs at me instead of speaking plainly of his feelings?

CorpusOrgan1: That’s fine with me. Socrates, you are a lying, immature, egomaniacal asshat and should take that Plato-sized bug up your butt and shove it up your nose, into the primary motor cortex of your brain, and let it eat all the neurons that control your hands so that the only way they will be useful is if you surgically amputate them and donate them to someone who will use the power of these hands to do non-destructive, half-way morally decent things!

Lil’Con: My goodness, Aristotle!

TheGreatPlato: As brutal, crass, and incorrect as Aristotle’s little tantrum was, I think there is some truth there. Socrates has some issues he needs to work on.

CorpusOrgan1: You would know, Socrates!

Lil’Con: Would you come off that? It is very apparent that this is not Socrates. He would have flown off the handle by now, if he were.

CorpusOrgan1: He’s keeping himself in line on purpose, he is trying to troll us!

TheGreatPlato: Trolling is such an uncouth word. Are we sure you are not Socrates, Aristotle?

CorpusOrgan1: How can I be Socrates when you are Socrates?

Lil’Con: Maybe we are all Socrates.

CorpusOrgan1: Don’t get in to that “we are the world” bull, Confucius.

Lil’Con: I just mean, maybe we all have the ability to be a Socrates at one time or another.

TheGreatPlato: Or is it possible, Aristotle, that you’ve been taking secret swigs from the bottles in your mother’s vast alcoholic beverage collection?
. . .
CorpusOrgan1: I’m going to say this once, and only once you son of a bitch. Do not. Speak ill. Of my mother.

TheGreatPlato: I didn’t say anything about her, I was only mentioning her admirably large interest in alcohol. I think its wonderful that she has something she obviously cares so much about.

CorpusOrgan1: Do you see this, Confucius?! He is riling me up on purpose! That is a very Socrates thing to do!

SocRocks9 has logged on.

. . .
Lil’Con: Oh, dear.

TheGreatPlato: What are you doing here?!

SocRocks9: YOUR MOM

CorpusOrgan1: Plato? Is that you?


TheGreatPlato: You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that, Socrates! You have no idea the damage it will do!



CorpusOrgan1: What is happening?

Lil’Con: Plato and Socrates are showing a gross amount of hatred for themselves. Boys, you are none of the things you are saying! You each have your. . .good. . .qualities. 

TheGreatPlato: Thank you, Confucius.

Lil’Con: I mean, you are, at least, somewhat better than what you’re saying. . .I mean, you’ve done some pretty awful things Socrates, like insulting us, threatening us, hacking into our accounts, trying to get us in trouble with our moms. . .You know what, I take it back Socrates, you’re a piece of [censored].

TheGreatPlato: HEY



SocRocks9: And pop goes the incredibly moronic weasel. 

CorpusOrgan1: I knew it!

Lil’Con: So wait, Socrates is now TheGreatPlato, and Plato is now SocRocks9?

SocRocks9: Not for long. Socrates is about to give me my screenname back, and quit blocking any new ones I make.


SocRocks9: Yes, you will. You see, I’m currently in the backroom of a computer store, where someone who is very good at computers has helped me to hack into not only your account, but your IP address. And before you go deleting your browser history, you should know that I have already made copies of it and will be mailing it to your mother.


SocRocks9: That will not work. You see, I’m having this specially mailed so that it will be required for her to sign for it.
. . .
TheGreatPlato: DAMNIT

SocRocks9: That’s right, turn to expletives. It’s what you’re best at. Now give me my screenname back!


SocRocks9: I expected nothing less.

SocRocks9 and TheGreatPlato have logged out.

Lil’Con: My head hurts.

CorpusOrgan1: Take a mixture of Ibuprofen, Advil and Aspirin my mother says it works for her all the time.

SocRocks9 and TheGreatPlato have logged in.

Lil’Con: Please tell me you are both who you should be.

TheGreatPlato: People are never and always who they should be, Confucius.





SocRocks9 has logged out.

SocRocks9 has been banned from the chatroom.

TheGreatPlato: Not until next time, Socrates.

CorpusOrgan1: And Socrates has just sent me another pleasant message.



 /     \
(   Y   )
 \  |  /

TheGreatPlato: That’s just wonderful.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

One Flu Over the Cookoo's Nest! Part 2

Pancho: NO! AND NO! AND NO! AND NO! AND NO CISCO! You have used up your last life with me. I have had it. . . . We are no longer brathers. I spit on you!  I curse you! I curse your dead familia! I curse your dog! I curse your tequila! Leave now. And don' you never come back, or I swear on my dear madre's grave that I will kill you!

Cisco:  But Pancho, I can no help it if the angels come and heal me like the miracle of St. Rosa at the Bend of the River! Please Pancho, I have no where to go. You are my only friend. Si, si, that is bery true. Mi madre, y mi padre, y mi tia, y mi abuelo and abuela . . . they are all dead! I have no dinero, Pancho. You will leave me alone on the streets to face the banditos? They will kill me, mi amigo.

Pancho:  Again I say NO, Cisco! You have laid down on your last deathbed before me. I will no be fooled with your es stupido cries of, "the angels are com in' to get me!" bullshit no more. And think of it this way, Cisco, it is better for you if the banditos kill you instead of me. Mira, I would torture you first before I should kill you.

Cisco: Hokay, mi brather. I can see you are mucho serious this time. And Pancho, . . . belief me, I should no have expected anythin' less of you. When you are right, you are right. There's no goin' back. I see that now. You have been good to me, Pancho. I will miss your songs when you are wasted, man. I will miss the days when you took me to the bars and we beat up some bad asses. And what about the senorita's? Que muy bonita, eh Pancho? Well, escept my Lucia. She was a dog. Even I know that. But she had a big heart.  Remember when she slept with the guard to get me out of jail? Or the time she cooked dinner when your madre died? Or the time she caught your Consuela goin' through my stash? She beat her up good man . . . Ay, those were the days, mi hombre. I will miss them. I will miss you my friend. Together, we are like two dolphins swimming in the ocean. Apart, we are like two chicos in a bar fight.

Pancho:  Ay ta loco, Cisco. Leave me alone. I don' want to see your ugly face ever again. We are finished. And don' try to sweet talk me man. You do that all the time. Then the frying pan hits my head and I lose consciousness. I lose my self. I lose who is me. I become like this scared little ol' man who has lost his teeth, his dignity, his everything! Now go, before I lose my mind!

Cisco: Si, I am gone. Good luck, mi amigo. I love you man. Always remember that . . . And if you need anything . . . anything like you know what man, I will be at the bar Ortega. Some nights. Other nights I don' know what I am goin' to do man. It is hard out there. Bery hard.

Pancho: Meh, why don' you jus' call up the angels? I am sure they will help you like they have helped you out how many times now, right? Even St. Francis didn' get so much help. So, what makes you so special, Cisco? I'll tell you. Nothing. 'Cos all you do is lie. And that is why I am done with you.

Cisco: Si, you are right, mi amigo. I lie too much. But I am done with lying, my brather. I will lie no more. I will turn over a new leaf. You will see, Pancho. I will make you bery proud. One of these days. Belief you me. Already I feel like a new man. Gracias, mi amigo. This is good. This is bery good what you have done for me. And you have made the angels happy, Pancho. You are building up good karma, man.

Pancho: . . . You really think so, Cisco?

Cisco: Oh yes, I am in the casa of my dog b'cos of my lies, Pancho. But you? No . . . you have given me food, shelter, good company, good women, good tequila, good smokes, everything man. You are especial that way. I should have seen this before. I should have been grateful. But I wasn't man. That is why I got so sick I almos' die. It was you who pulled me through, man. Not the angels. You. Gracias, my brather in heart and spirit. I wish I had seen that before. But now, I will do better. I will pray to the angels to protect you, to watch over you and Consuela, and the coming little one.

Pancho: . . . WHAT?! . . . WHAT?! . . . Little one? What kind of crazy talk is that? See, Cisco, you are doing it again. You can no breath one second without lying! @N@NN@@NEN@!@#$U, puto!!!

Cisco: No, Pancho, I swear to you on my madre's sainted heart that I no lie to you this time. Did no Consuela tell you—Ay Caramba! That bruja is such a bitch! . . . Oh, but what have I done to you, Pancho? What have I done? . . .  Hokay, bye now, Panchito, I'm leaving forever. You have a nice life with the little bebe. . . AYEEEEEEEEEE! . . . El Diablo, El Diablo! he is comin' to get me . . . . AYEEE—!!!

Yes, it is true, I spent most of my holiday with the flu. But guess what??? A new episode of Teenage Mutant, I mean, The Modern Teenager Philosopher's Club will be up shortly. Enjoy. Uterokid saves my butt again! AYEEEEEEE!!! In a good way.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Hercule Poirot, Episode 4

Phone rings. Miss Lemon dashes over to it. “Hello? Miss Lemon speaking. To whom am I speaking? . . . Hello, hello, is anyone there?” (Nervously twisting her pearls. Inspector Japp and Captain Hastings have been gone an hour) If you do not reply by the time I count to three, I shall hang up . . . One . . . Two . . . Two-in-a-half . . . Three!” (bangs down the receiver) How very rude!”  (Begins to pace. Then mutters), “Oh, what was I thinking? What if that call came from the kidnappers? I should have been more patient.”  (stares at phone, willing it to ring again. It does.)

“Hello, hello, hello . . . This is Miss Lemon speaking. I won’t hang up this time, I promise. Please don’t hurt Mr. Poirot. Please, please, please. We’ll do anything to get him back. Anything.”

Bonjour, Miss Lemon. This is Hercule Poirot speak—”

“Oh Mr. Poirot I am so glad to hear your voice, are you alright? did they hurt you? where are you?”

“Please listen to me very carefully, Miss Lemon, and do not reply to anything I say.”

“What? I don’t—Mr. Poirot are you—?”

“Miss Lemon. I will repeat once more, and only once more. You must not reply to anything which I may say to you . . . anything. Is that understood?”


Tres bien. The letter I received a few days ago, I must have. If not, there will be dire consequences. Very dire. The entire security of our nation rests in your hands, Miss Lemon. Now, I will tell you where to find this letter. Listen very carefully. It is in the center drawer of my desk, in a lavender envelope. Unlock the drawer with a key. The key I have taped underneath the third bookshelf.  Look to the center of the bookcase. There will be a book called, “Muses and Criminals,” by Hercule Poirot. After you have retrieved the letter, immediately, and without fail, take it to the post box.”

(Replies in a rush) “Mr. Poirot, have you been kidnapped? And for the love of all that's holy, why are you are phoning in your own ransom demand?!”

“Miss Lemon, please. Do not say another word if you value my life. I will repeat my carefully worded instruction concerning the letter: immediately, and without fail, take it to the post box. Au revoir, mademoiselle.

“Wait, wait, Mr. Poirot. Please — oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” (runs over to the bookcase. Does not see the book. Runs over to the the desk and tries the drawer. It opens immediately. She’s briefly puzzled. But then panics when she doesn’t find the letter) “This can’t be. What shall I do now? Oh, why is Inspector Japp never around when you really need him.” (She straightens up resolutely) “Well, there’s nothing for it. I shall just have to go out to Whitechapel myself and find him.” (She marches out the front door. A few seconds later, the phone rings. )


“Captain Hastings, exactly where were you and Mr. Poirot standing when he disappeared?” (Inspector Japp himself is standing on a sidewalk beside a long hedge that borders a flower garden and the courtyard of the church)

“Ah, I believe we were standing in the center of the garden looking out over the courtyard. Although . . . wait . . . now that I think more about it, maybe we were standing closer to the courtyard and away from the center of the garden. When I heard the noise, I left Poirot, for just a second mind you. I then distinctly remember leaving the courtyard, and going round to about where you’re standing now, Inspector Japp.”

“Can you show me where the noise originated from, Captain Hastings?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” (He heads toward a suspicious looking gap in the middle of the hedge).  Right here, old boy. There’s even a tell tale sign that I was here. Look how the hedge is frumpled.”

(Inspector Japp takes a gander) “Hmm . . . so Mr. Poirot was standing approximately 10 feet away at the time you had your nose in this hedge. You then left the hedge to return to his side, but he was gone.”

“Yes, I believe that’s exactly quite the way it was, Inspector Japp. Though I can’t be certain as to some of the details as the lighting was very poor.”

(Inspector Japp walks over the spot where Hastings and Poirot had stood together) “So, let’s review the circumstances, shall we? You were standing side by side with Mr. Poirot off center of the garden and near the courtyard with your backs to the hedge. You were conversing. Then you heard a noise from behind. You immediately left Mr. Poirot, and walked over to the hedge, where you thought you heard the noise, and ruffled the leaves looking for god knows what before returning to Mr. Poirot. But he’d disappeared. Are you quite sure you heard nothing else, Captain Hastings? Perhaps footsteps, or scruffling, anything to indicate that Mr. Poirot was forceably taken away only ten feet away from you? Seems hard to believe you wouldn’t hear that . . . (Japp scrunches his face) Unless . . .

“Unless what, Chief Inspector?”

“Unless . . . Mr. Poirot  wasn’t  forced.”

“What are you saying, old boy? That Poirot planned this whole charade? Why would he do that? And to me, his nearest and dearest friend?”

“Hard to say. The little Belgian is quite peculiar in his ways, brilliant though he may be. You above all should know that. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to create such theatrical goings on just to have a case to work on. Things been a bit slow lately, have they?” (Japp sneezes and pulls out a hanky)

(Dismay, then outrage crosses Hastings face) “What? I beg your pardon, Japp, but that’s going much to0 far.  Much too far! Such mindless conjecture is not only a insult to my dear friend, but an insult to me as well.”

“It’s just a theory is all, Captain Hastings. As you know, I have to consider every possibility when a crime is suspected but not proven to have been committed.”

“But the letter. He told you about the letter. How much more proof do you need?”

“I’ve seen no letter, Captain Hastings. For all I know it’s a red herring.”

“Well . . . it’s not. I happen to have it right here in my pocket.” (He turns it over) “I found it just before you walked into the apartment. I didn’t let that cat out of the bag in case . . . well . . .”

(Sternly, as stern as Hastings has ever seen Japp) “In case wot, Captain Hastings? You lied to me. By omission. I could charge you with perverting the course of justice if we find out that Mr. Poirot was kidnapped. Worse, the delay may cost him his life. What do you have to say for yourself, man?” 

“I . . . I . . . don't know really . . . I guess . . . I guess I just wasn't thinking . . . And I s'pose I wanted the challenge of solving this case myself. It was Miss Lemon who called you into it.

"I see.  Well . . . what's done is done." (glaring at Hastings) And don't you ever withhold evidence again!"

"No chance of that, old man. I quite learned my lesson. Now, where do we go from here?"

(Still glaring at Hastings)"You go home. I'll take charge of this case. I'll let you know if there are any new developments. And you will not go careening off on your own, understood?"

"Yes, of course. And I do most sincerely apologize for my foolishness. Goodnight, Chief Inspector Japp." (walks away, dejected)