Perverted Proverbs

by Marsh Cassady

  The trainer was so angry with his charges that he threatened to serve them with eggs to hotel guests the following morning. It was the old question of temperament. The boars were jealous. They confided to the trainer—this was a magical kingdom, remember, and, of course, the boars could talk—that they felt they were being slighted by not being chosen first.

  Their ringleader told the trainer: "We've never been so insulted in our lives. We think the human performers, the `girls,' should have been selected to match our talents and abilities and not vice versa. So we're simply withdrawing. We won't go on, and that's final."

  Well, Mr. Jeffrey was ruined, absolutely ruined since he'd spent so much of his own fortune on trying to mount the production. And without the final number, it was simply another Las Vegas show.

  To avoid his creditors, Mr. Jeffrey had to slink out of town in the early hours of daylight, when the high rollers are just thinking of going to sleep, and the moms and dads are just thinking of taking their kids to Boulder Dam.

  He tried to go back to Wheeling to the community theatre for more Tennessee Williams but found he still wasn't forgiven. And so he spent the rest of his days wandering from one corner of the continent to the other, telling whoever would listen what might have been. Finally, in disgrace and utter poverty, he settled in the town of Boarshead, Arkansas, not for any hidden meanings but simply because he'd come to the end of his strength, a truly pathetic man.

  Moral: Don't cast the "girls" before the swine.

  THINGS AREN'T ALWAYS

  WHAT THEY SEEM

  Once upon a time in the country of Dallas lived a handsome prince named Maynard. He was a bronzed young man with hair the color of shifting sand and eyes as green as a deep mountain well. Tales of his beauty spread far and wide. Yet he acted like a twit. It seemed that he cared about little else than preening in front of a mirror or organizing parades in which he marched in full dress regalia.

  Much to the chagrin and disappointment of his parents, King Winslow and Queen Roberta, Maynard wasn't interested in settling down and taking a life companion to rule with him when Winnie and Bob retired.

  The king and queen realized, of course, that their son was gay, but they wondered what was wrong with his libido since it simply wasn't natural for a healthy young man of twenty-four to spend his time, when he wasn't parading or preening in front of others, locked up in his royal bedroom gazing out his window.

  Alas, they simply didn't understand. Prince Maynard wasn't really a twit. Instead, he felt inadequate. So he either pretended to be stupid or over-compensated by parading his beauty.

  One day Winnie and Bob summoned Maynard to the royal gardens. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun shining through spun glass clouds, the grass and leaves deep green. Maynard had seen Queen Bob and King Winnie trying on bright Hawaiian clothes; had seen them poring over racing forms, had witnessed the royal cardsmaster teaching them the subtleties of twenty-one and poker. So he knew they'd soon be off to Tahoe or Hialeah and he would have to be king.

  And that meant he had to have a mate. What was he going to do?

  "Son," Bob said as Maynard sat on a wrought iron bench, "your father and I have served this country for many years, and we're tired."

  "What your mother means," Winnie said, "is that it's time for you to choose—"

  "I don't want to," Maynard interrupted.

  "Maybe not, young man," Winnie answered, "but—"

  "Your father is trying to tell you that you have to grow up; you have to assume responsibilities."

  "And so," Winnie continued, "we've sent announcements far and wide to summon eligible bachelors. Now we're not about to tell you who you must choose. It's up to you. All we're saying is you have to choose immediately."

  "Because," Bob said, "on Sunday morning will be the royal ceremony of unification."

  "The what?" Maynard asked.

  "Aw, hell, you know," Winnie said. "We can't call it a wedding. That's for a man and woman. We know you don't want a woman."

  Maynard blushed. "Are you ashamed of that? Ashamed of me? I didn't think in this present age of enlightenment that anyone—"

  "Of course not," Bob said. "We simply want you to be happy."

  "But we want you to be happy with another person."

  "You don't understand." He looked at his father's face and saw the frown lines deepen.

  "Just what don't we understand?" King Winnie demanded.

  "Nothing," the prince said. He couldn't tell them.

  "Look, honey," Bob said, "it's not just for us or even for our subjects." She gave him a half-smile. "We're thinking of you. We want you to be happy."

  "But Mom," he whined.

  Winnie interrupted. "It's final, Maynard. You have no choice. Starting tomorrow morning at eight, you'll interview suitors. Understood?"

  "Yes," Maynard whispered.

  "Then I suggest you get some sleep," Bob told him. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

  ****

  It was a terrible day, the worst of his life. One gorgeous hunk after another appeared before him, and he wanted them all, but he couldn't take the chance of choosing any. During lunch break he raced back to his room and threw himself on the bed.

  Bob pounded on the door. "Come on out, sweetie," she said, "you have to eat some lunch. You're going to make yourself ill."

  "Leave me alone," he yelled. She didn't answer, and a little while later he heard her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

  The afternoon was a repeat of the morning, each young man breathtakingly handsome.

  Winnie came up and whispered in his ear: "If you don't choose someone and do it soon, Bob and I will choose for you."

  As he concentrated on strong bodies and muscular arms and legs, Maynard felt stirrings he'd tried to suppress. He decided he'd simply choose a young man at random.

  "You," he said, pointing to the next in line, a slender youth, with straight black hair and teeth as white as the ice of a mountain stream.

  "Yes?" the young man said.

  "You are the one I—" The prince broke off, sick at the thought of what would happen once they went to his bedroom.

  "Come to my room," he finally continued, "and we'll get acquainted." He was nearly unaware of the disappointed looks on the faces of the hundreds of young men still in line.

  "What ... What is your name?" Maynard asked as they left the throne room.

  "Prince Billy Sam," the young man answered, "from the kingdom of Austin."

  In his royal bedroom, Maynard could hardly swallow. "Please sit d-d-d-down," he told Prince Billy Sam, "and tell me about yourself."

  "I was hoping for a little action," Billy Sam answered. "Not just some talk." His voice was almost a sneer.

  "Oh, God," Maynard muttered, sure that he'd chosen terribly wrong. He should have been more perceptive, tried to find someone sensitive.

  "But I need more information," Maynard pleaded, trying to stall, knowing he sounded like a dolt.

  "Oh, yeah?" Billy Sam said. "What kind of information?"

  "Tell me about yourself."

  At first it appeared that Billy Sam might not answer. He simply stared, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. Then he rolled his eyes. "Not much to tell. I'm the eighth son of the king of Austin."

  "The eighth son?" Maynard blurted.

  "Yeah, what about it?"

  "I was just startled, that's all, at your having such a large family."

  "Got a couple of sisters too. Are you going to make something of that?"

  "Of course not," Maynard answered. He'd wondered why a prince would want to seek his hand in unification, a prince who someday might be king of his own land. Now he knew the answer. Unless his brothers were trampled to death in a stampede of wild horses, Billy Sam could never hope to rule the country of Austin.

  "All right then, let's get to it," Billy Sam said.

  Maynard couldn't pretend not to know what he meant. "Will you please turn your back?" he asked.

  "Y
ou got to be kidding."

  "Please."

  Billy Sam rolled his eyes. "If you insist."

  Maynard threw off his clothing and scurried under the covers. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe—

  Sheet pulled up over his chest, he glanced at Billy Sam, and his breath caught. The man was beautiful, with broad chest, tapered waist, strong legs and—

  "You like what you see?"

  Maynard swallowed hard as Billy Sam threw back the covers and froze, mouth agape. Then he started to laugh, coarse guffaws, one after the other. "Your thing," he wheezed. "It looks just like a noodle, a strand of spaghetti." He laughed and laughed. His face turned red, then purple. "But ... it ... can't ... be ... a ... strand ... of ... spaghetti." He could gasp out only one word at a time. Still he laughed and pounded his knees with both fists. "It's ... much ... too ... short. Hah! Hah! Hah!" He doubled over, veins popping out in his forehead, tears streaming down his face. Suddenly, he straightened, a puzzled look on his face. Then he keeled over.

  Maynard jumped up and rushed toward him, but Billy Sam was dead.

  Later, when questioned by the royal coroner, Maynard shamefully told what had happened and why. The man, a kind soul who'd served the royal family for more than fifty years, promised not to reveal Prince Maynard's secret. As the cause of death, he simply recorded this:

  Moral: A little thing is a dangerous knowledge.

  Historical Footnote: Winnie and Bob postponed their retirement for a time so that Maynard could seek psychiatric help. Instead, he and Dr. Sigmund fell immediately and irrevocably in love. A very wise man, Dr. Sigmund taught the new king that appearances can be misleading since in a man's life, the right sort of stimulation always brings about growth and change.

  OH, WELL

  Fred and Mort were in love, more in love than they'd ever imagined it possible to be, and that was strange because all their lives they'd avoided entanglements. Fred was fifty-seven and Mortin was sixty-one, but they simply couldn't get enough of each other. There was room in Fred's world only for Mort, in Mort's world only for Fred.

  It was fortunate that they had the occupations that they did, and that they both had been successful and earned lots of money. Fred was an artist, working in oils and watercolors; Mort was a writer of novels and cookbooks.

  Each had a nest egg, money to last them, if they were careful, all the rest of their lives, so their days could be spent simply billing and cooing.

  Like the poet, they felt the world was too much with them soon and late, and so they planned their escape. A house in the mountains, a honeymoon cottage that would last till the end of eternity.

  They found their perfect mountain, a spot in the Alleghenies of Western Pennsylvania, back a twisting trail all but untraveled.

  Here they built their tiny cottage. Here they furnished it carefully and here they planned to stay, living only temporarily in a nearby motel till the project was completed. And because they wanted no intruders and planned to leave only monthly for needed provisions, they swore the contractors and builders to secrecy about the location.

  The mountain setting was exotic, tall pines surrounding a small clearing, mountain laurel blooming just down the slope. Deer and grey squirrel ventured in to explore.

  Each day Fred and Mort stood by and watched the place take shape. Each night they held each other, whispering strange nothings into each other's ears. A hundred times a day Fred, grey-haired with a white moustache and a lumberjack's build, told Mort that he loved him dearly, loved him more than a thousand love songs could tell. A hundred times a day Mort, bushy-haired with a brown van dyke and the build of a wrestler, embraced Fred and told him he loved him completely, loved him more than the whisperings of a thousand lovers could tell.

  Each could hardly wait till the cottage was done, the electrical wiring completed, the well drilled. For then they could be alone, away from the world at large, communing only with selves and nature.

  The last board nailed in place, the last strand of wiring installed, they heaved a collective sigh and gazed long and deep into each other's eyes.

  As soon as the driller finished their well, their world would be perfect. But here's where the problem arose. Each morning the driller started his drilling—bumpa, bumpa, bumpa, bumpa—he assured the two lovers it should be the last.

  But it never was. He went to a hundred feet, 150 feet, 200 feet, 210, 240, 295, and still there was no water. Mort and Fred grew impatient. "When will it end?" Fred asked Mort. "When will it be over?" Mort asked Fred.

  At first they were impatient, then slightly alarmed, then frightened, then panic-stricken. The well was costing a fortune. What were they to do? Almost faster than Fred could tell Mort: "I love you madly;" almost before Mort could tell Fred, "You mean more to me than all the seeds of a pomegranate tree," their savings were depleted.

  Finally, at 191,622 feet, the well driller struck water. By then it was almost too late. Oh, Fred and Mort moved into their cottage. But they had little time for each other. Fred painted and Mort wrote, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after year.

  Finally, they had recouped their losses. Fred was now eighty-seven, Mort ninety-one. But at last they had time for each other, time to live and love in their honeymoon cottage on the top of the Allegheny Mountains in Western Pennsylvania. So, of course, they lived happily ever after, though at their age, that didn't mean a hell of a lot.

  Moral: Drilled water runs steep.

  SELDOM IS HERD

  A DISCOURAGING WORD

  Axton and Avery were lovers; they also were entrepreneurs. As a matter of fact, they had a friendly competition going to see who could make the most money.

  More than anything ... well, almost anything, each man loved the other's cooking, so much so that Axton was always trying to get Avery to cook their meals and Avery was trying to talk Axton into the same thing.

  They even tried to bribe each other: "If you cook our dinners this month, I'll do the laundry for two months," Avery said.

  "If you cook our dinners this month," Axton replied, "I'll scrub the floors for three months."

  It was no soap, though, on either side. For both men, though they could qualify as master chefs, absolutely hated to cook. But they were competitors. And so they hit upon the scheme of matching one entrepreneurial scheme against the other. They'd each come up with a plan, set a certain time limit and see who had made the most profit from their efforts. The loser had to cook every meal for a set amount of time.

  Though the two men loved each other dearly, winning meant almost as much as did their love for each other.

  Throughout the later years of their relationship, the competition became more and more intense. Neither man seemed really to gain the edge. Just after Avery lost, he'd win. Just after Axton won, he'd lose.

  Of the same age, when they'd been together more than forty years and were nearing the age of retirement, they decided to have one last competition. The result would be that from then on when the winner so demanded, the loser would have to cook for him.

  The pact they made had no loopholes. The winner could, if he so desired, take pity on the loser and give him a night off. But that depended entirely on his mood and the goodness of his heart. Because this was to be a one-time thing, each was determined he would win.

  What would they do to raise money? they wondered. They'd started dozens of businesses. They'd backed entertainers and entertainments. They'd owned professional baseball and basketball teams. Actually, there was little they hadn't tried.

  Yet neither of them had done much work with animals, except for a trained dog act or two. Since this was a new realm of endeavor, they decided it would be fitting to end their careers and their working lives in this manner.

  But what could they do? Avery would like to have talked it over with Axton. Axton would like to have discussed it with Avery. Yet neither wanted to give anything away. They were playing for awfully high stakes.

  Avery finally hit upon the ide
a of establishing a "natural" habitat for off-world animals. Now this had never been done for the simple reason that no one had ever discovered complex life-forms on other planets.

  However, this didn't deter Avery. He took a big chunk of his savings and poured it into research and development. His scientists devised interplanetary rockets capable of finding other-world animals, and developed methods duplicating the living conditions necessary for their survival. Then he purchased a large piece of land in Nevada and divided it into sections. He planned to bring back only one herd of animals but wanted to be ready for any contingency. He hired horticulturalists and botanists to see to the planting and maintenance of off-world plants.

  He had zoologists and biologists study off-world animal behavior so the animals would be able to adapt.

  Needless to say it took years of work, but Avery's efforts paid off. His teams of scientists did discover strange animal life on dozens of planets—everything from furry-footed fishing worms to scaly-skinned behemoths. Finally, Avery decided to go with the behemoths, elephant-like creatures, green and pink in color, from a planet far from our solar system.

  Throughout all this time Axton did little. He simply sat around reading or watching TV with a smug little smile on his face.

  "Why aren't you planning something?" Avery asked. "Surely, you're not simply going to sit back and let me win."

  "Just never you mind," Axton said. And no matter how hard he tried, Avery could get nothing more out of his lover.

  It was rapidly approaching the agreed-upon deadline and still Axton did nothing till one day he announced that he'd hired a big brass band and a few animal trainers and purchased a herd of elephants.

  "For what?" Avery asked.

  "Now have I bothered you about your little venture?" Axton asked.

  "Well, no, you haven't," Avery answered.

  "But, of course," Axton continued, "everyone knows what you're planning. It's been in all the papers; written up in countless scientific journals. You've created a jungle, a bush environment with weird trees and wild plants and gathered a herd of animals from some distant planet."