It was noticed that the lights burned late at Mr. Foolfarm’s house last evening, and again today he is not in it. Reliable information has it that he is in Washington, the Seat of Government, advising the Revenue Service as to What Must Be Done. They are said to be furiously grateful. The celebrated Glossarist is urging that a Pie Chart be added to the first page of the Form, so that the joyous Ratepayer will be enabled to indicate pristinae virtutis memores how he wants his Mopus dissipated. Thus if the citizen wishes to pay less for War, for example, he will be able to skimp the War slice of the pie appropriately; and if he wishes to obtain more Booze, he will be able to sweeten the Booze slice. Mr. Foolfarm has Provided (lest he be thought a glistering Ninny) that not more than 12 percent of the people’s wishes thus expressed be heeded. The remaining 78 percent of the decision-making process is to be reserved to the Same Old Crowd. The Crowd has proposed Mr. Foolfarm for the National Medal and a bank charter.
Mr. Foolfarm, the esteemed Longhead, fled his digs in Velvet Street at near midnight last evening, so as not to be at home again today. He is in Washington, the Country’s Capital, for the purpose of declining with thanks an appointment as Attorney General. “There are my probably pressing duties in North Minerva,” he said in a prepared statement shaped very like a Waffle, “and besides, there is something yukky about that job. Do you understand me? Y*u*k*k*y.” He is expected to urge that the position be abolished and that an institutional-size can of Drāno be substituted.
Mr. Foolfarm’s health is reported to be not of the Best, and it is thought that yesterday’s Tender of the Attorney Generalship may be the Cause. Or it may be the alarming Dispatches from North Minerva, where the battle against the Eyelash Maggot is not Going Well. In any case, he is today away in Washington, where he is advising the Vice President, Mr. Ford, as to certain provisions of the Hatch Act. Mr. Foolfarm has suggested that the Vice President not count his Chickens until they are Hatched. The Vice President is alleged to have responded with Paroxysms of Geniality.
“Ich dien,” Mr. Foolfarm said simply, and turned away. With these words, the famed Moonshee once again left home and fireside for Washington to deal with the new Crisis. It appears that Occidental Petroleum’s profits have Increased 716 percent for the first Quarter, and that the other oil companies have also done Handsomely, a fact which has occasioned Concern in some Quarters. Mr. Foolfarm’s proposal is that the Government award a Bonus of 125 percent of Profits to any Company whose Gleanings have produced same in a given Time Frame. “Profit should be rewarded,” said Mr. Foolfarm, “for without profit, who would want to do all that moiling in the earth, mon cher?” Maggots chuckled dementedly in the grass at this remark (the phrase is the late Brian O’Nolan’s), but they were our maggots thanks be to the living God and not the terrible Eyelash Maggot which has wreaked such Havoc in North Minerva.
Mr. Foolfarm is today in Washington for the publication of his long-awaited Novel. It is a Very Advanced Work in which three wispy Characters, identified only as “P,” “E,” and “H,” wander about in a sort of Epistemological Hell, trying to discover what they are to Say. Sample dialogue:
P—What did I do then?
E—You understood that inaudible had unintelligible.
P—When did I understand that?
E—You understood that on the morning of the unintelligible.
P—Oh, I see. I understood that because inaudible had informed me that unintelligible.
H—Right, right. But if you understood that, at that point, then we’ll have to give them the tamale grande. There’s no other way.
P—The what?
H—The big tamale.
P—Oh, I see.
E—We could give them huevos rancheros.
H—Or maybe chicken mole.
E—I would just like to kind of throw this out, as a suggestion, but what about nopales con queso?
P—What?
E—Nopales con queso.
P—What is that in English?
E—Cactus.
H—They’d never bite. No, I think it’s going to have to be something like frijoles refritos.
P—How do we do that?
H—You mash up a lot of beans and then fry them with, you know, your various spices.
P—But won’t that look like expletive deleted?
H—It will look like you at least knew that unintelligible before inaudible and had the guts to be unintelligible.
P—I’ve never been afraid to be unintelligible.
E—We’ve never been afraid to be unintelligible.
P—That’s right. I’ve always told everyone around here to be unintelligible.
E—And we have! We have! That’s what we’ve got to put across.
H—Honesty is the best inaudible. Always.
P—When have I ever failed to be unintelligible?
E—You’ve never failed to be unintelligible.
P—What?
E—Unintelligible.
P—Oh, I see.
H—So you were inaudible then, on that date, and now you are unintelligible.
P—That’s right! That’s right! So that’s what we’ll say. And just remember one thing. What is it?
E—What is what?
P—The one thing that you’re to remember.
E—I forget. Or maybe it’s inaudible.
P—It is inaudible! The only thing we have to inaudible is inaudible itself.
H—That’s right.
P—OK, boys. Thank you and get a good night’s unintelligible.
Mr. Foolfarm was so saddened by a reading of his own Work that he called a Press Conference and declared himself Inoperative, and has been silent as a Parsnip ever since.
NATURAL HISTORY
Animalisticism, or the practice of placing too much faith in animals or in the intuitions or perceptions derived from the contemplation of same, has deviled human beings since 902 B.C., or maybe even earlier. Not to be confused with animalitarianism, the term used by Lovejoy for the belief that animals are happier than we are, animalisticism seems to have particularly plagued some of the world’s notables. Herewith, from the Disposall of history, some examples.
The original canvas of La Gioconda (1503–05?) showed, according to Cassola, an octopus hurriedly departing the picture plane, on the right side. During the Frisbian Wars (1661–70) the octopus was either scraped off, or fell off. Winckelmann asserts that the octopus, in Leonardo’s iconography, represents either virility or uncollectible debts. In either case the animal was clearly not trustworthy.
Plenus of Diphthong (536–410 B.C.) believed not that the world rested upon the back of a giant tortoise, the view held by most intelligent men of his time, but rather that the world was suspended from the jaws of an immense sea horse. “The back of the tortoise is rounded and unstable,” he argued, “whereas the form of the sea horse is mightly like a hook.” For this heresy he was condemned to drink the fatal KóKA KóLá.
Louisa M. Alcott (1832–88) was so exercised at the sight of a boa constrictor devouring a small child at the Boston Zoo that she sat down and wrote Big Women. In Big Women, Jo, Amy, and the rest eat only wheat germ and macrobiotic rice. They grow until they are eight feet tall, and take over zoo administration everywhere. The novel was, predictably, suppressed by male chauvinist publishers.
The last original idea had by Archduke Maximilian of Austria, during his brief tenure as Emperor of Mexico (1864–67), was the importation of sixty-four African rhinos, which he envisioned using, much as present-day armor is used, against the forces of Benito Juárez. The rhinos, however, almost immediately went over to the enemy and were barbecued at Querétaro, Mexico, on June 19, 1867, the same day Maximilian was executed. They were delicious.
The turbot was the immediate cause of the return from Elba. Overhearing one day a guard singing “Nobody Knows the Turbot I’ve Seen,” Napoleon at once poignantly recalled the turbot in champagne served at the palace. The Hundred Days followed swiftly. Here is a recipe for Turbot Napol
eon: Marinate fish in champagne and stock for two hours. Add two Tb finely minced shallots, dill, and a whiff of grapeshot. Simmer for eight to twelve minutes.
The explorer Sebastian Cabot (1474?—1557) brought back from America a dancing bear. This animal radically misled him when he came to write his treatise on the bears of America, which do not dance, mostly.
Robert E. Lee regarded a porcupine. “The fox knows many things, but the porcupine knows one big thing,” he reflected. Lee quickly ordered porcupine quills distributed to all of the men in his army. But the notoriously inept Confederate quartermaster department neglected to provide instructions for their use. The soldiers used the quills to write letters and clean their fingernails. The South lost the war.
The Brontë sisters, Charlotte and Emily, firmly believed that all of their books were inspired by a cat. That is, they considered that the cat, Tabitha, acted as a sort of spirit control or medium. Emily could not write when the cat was staying with Charlotte, and Charlotte could not write when the cat was staying with Emily. The death of Tabitha (1843) was followed by a period of dryness broken only when Anne Brontë appeared with a basket of clairvoyant penguins.
There are, on the other hand, many examples in our daily lives of people being bucked up or otherwise nourished by thoughts of the common rabbit. The foot of the rabbit, especially the left hind foot, has brought the promise of good fortune to thousands. The rabbit ball and the rabbit punch have enlivened the sports in which they are found and no television set is complete without a set of rabbit ears atop it. The Welsh rabbit is especially tasty although not rabbit. The timidity of the rabbit has provided a useful lesson for the overbold, and the rabbit’s enthusiasm for procreation a vivid simile for the Cassandras of Zero Population Growth. Gentlemen and ladies, the rabbit! Long may he waver!
THE JOKER’S GREATEST TRIUMPH
Fredric went over to his friend Bruce Wayne’s house about every Tuesday night. Bruce would be typically sitting in his study drinking a glass of something. Fredric would come in and sit down and look around the study in which there were many trophies of past exploits.
“Well Fredric what have you been doing? Anything?”
“No Bruce things have been just sort of rocking along.”
“Well this is Tuesday night and usually there’s some action on Tuesday night.”
“I know Bruce or otherwise I wouldn’t pick Tuesday night to come over.”
“You want me to turn on the radio Fredric? Usually there’s something interesting on the radio or maybe you’d like a little music from my hi-fi?”
Bruce Wayne’s radio was a special short-wave model with many extra features. When Bruce turned it on there was a squealing noise and then they were listening to Tokyo or somewhere. Above the radio on the wall hung a trophy from an exploit: a long African spear with a spearhead made of tin.
“Tell me Bruce what is it you’re drinking there?” Fredric asked.
“I’m sorry Fredric it’s tomato juice. Can I get you a glass?”
“Does it have anything in it or is it just plain tomato juice?”
“It’s tomato juice with a little vodka.”
“Yes I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fredric said. “Not too heavy on the vodka please.”
While Bruce went out to the kitchen to make the drink, Fredric got up and went over to examine the African spear more closely. It was he saw tipped with a rusty darkish substance, probably some rare exotic poison he thought.
“What is the stuff on the end of this African spear?” he asked when Bruce came back into the room.
“I must have left the other bottle of vodka in the Batmobile,” Bruce said. “Oh that’s curare, deadliest of the South American poisons,” he affirmed. “It attacks the motor nerves. Be careful there and don’t scratch yourself.”
“That’s okay I’ll just drink this tomato juice straight,” Fredric said settling himself in his chair and looking out of the window. “Oh-oh there’s the bat symbol spotlighted against the sky. This must mean a call from Commissioner Gordon at headquarters.”
Bruce looked out of the window. A long beam of yellowish light culminating in a perfect bat symbol lanced the evening sky.
“I told you Tuesday night was usually a good night,” Bruce Wayne said. He put his vodka-and-tomato-juice down on the piano. “Hold on a minute while I change will you?”
“Sure, take your time,” Fredric said. “By the way is Robin still at Andover?”
“Yes,” Bruce said. “He’ll be home for Thanksgiving, I think. He’s having a little trouble with his French.”
“Well I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Fredric said. “Go ahead and change. I’ll just look at this magazine.”
After Bruce had changed they both went out to the garage where the Batmobile and the Batplane waited.
Batman was humming a tune which Fredric recognized as being the Warsaw Concerto. “Which one shall we take?” he said. “It’s always hard to decide on a vague and indeterminate kind of assignment like this.”
“Let’s flip,” Fredric suggested.
“Do you have a quarter?” Batman asked.
“No but I have a dime. That should be okay,” Fredric said. They flipped, heads for the Batmobile, tails for the Batplane. The coin came up heads.
“Well,” Batman said as they climbed into the comfortable Batmobile, “at least you can have some vodka now. It’s under the seat.”
“I hate to drink it straight,” Fredric said.
“Press that button there on the dashboard,” Batman said. Fredric pressed the button and a panel on the dashboard slid back to reveal a little bar, with ice, glasses, water, soda, quinine, lemons, limes etc.
“Thanks,” Fredric said. “Can I mix you one?”
“Not while I’m working,” Batman said. “Is there enough quinine water? I forgot to get some when I went to the liquor store last night.”
“Plenty,” Fredric said. He enjoyed his vodka tonic as Batman wheeled the great Batmobile expertly through the dark streets of Gotham City.
In Commissioner Gordon’s office at Police Headquarters the Commissioner said: “Glad you finally got here Batman. Who is this with you?”
“This is my friend Fredric Brown,” Batman said. “Fredric, Commissioner Gordon.” The two men shook hands and Batman said: “Now Commissioner, what is this all about?”
“This!” Commissioner Gordon said. He placed a small ship model on the desk before him. “The package came by messenger, addressed to you, Batman! I’m afraid your old enemy, The Joker, is on the loose again!”
Batman hummed a peculiar melody which Fredric recognized as the Cornish Rhapsody which is on the other side of the Warsaw Concerto. “Hmmmmm!” Batman said. “This sounds to me like another one of The Joker’s challenges to a duel of wits!”
“Flying Dutchman!” Fredric exclaimed, reading the name painted on the bow of the model ship. “The name of a famous old ghost vessel? What can it mean!”
“A cleverly disguised clue!” Batman said. “The ‘Flying Dutchman’ meant here is probably the Dutch jewel merchant Hendrik van Voort who is flying to Gotham City tonight with a delivery of precious gems!”
“Good thinking Batman!” Commissioner Gordon said. “I probably never would have figured it out in a thousand years!”
“Well well have to hurry to get out to the airport!” Batman said. “What’s the best way to get there from here Commissioner?”
“Well if I were you I’d go out 34th Street until you hit the War Memorial, then take a right on Memorial Drive until it connects with Gotham Parkway! After you’re on the Parkway it’s clear sailing!” he indicated.
“Wait a minute!” Batman said. “Wouldn’t it be quicker to get on the Dugan Expressway where it comes in there at 11th Street and then take the North Loop out to the Richardson Freeway? Don’t you think that would save time?”
“Well I come to work that way!” the Commissioner said. “But they’re putting in another two lanes on the North Loop, so
that you have to detour down Strand, then cut over to 99th to get back on the Expressway! Takes you about two miles out of your way!” he said.
“Okay!” Batman said. “We’ll go out 34th! Thanks Commissioner and don’t worry about anything! Come on Fredric!”
“Oh by the way,” Commissioner Gordon said. “How’s Robin doing at Exeter?”
“It’s not Exeter it’s Andover,” Batman said. “He’s doing very well. Having a little trouble with his French.”
“I had a little trouble with it myself,” the Commissioner said jovially. “Où est mon livre?”
“Où est ton livre?” Batman said.
“Où est son livre?” the Commissioner said pointing at Fredric.
“Tout cela s’est passé en dix-neuf cent vingt-quatre,” Fredric said.
“Well we’d better creep Commissioner,” Batman said. “The Joker as you know is a pretty slippery customer. Come on Fredric.”
“Glad to have met you Commissioner,” Fredric said.
“Me too,” the Commissioner said, shaking Fredric’s hand. “This is a fine-appearing young man Batman. Where did you find him?”
“He’s just a friend,” Batman said smiling under his mask. “We get together usually on Tuesday nights and have a few.”
“What do you do Fredric? I mean how do you make your living?”
“I sell Grit, a newspaper which has most of its circulation concentrated in rural areas,” Fredric said. “However I sell it right here in Gotham City. Many of today’s leaders sold Grit during their boyhoods.”
“Okay,” said Commissioner Gordon, ushering them out of his office. “Good luck. Téléphonez-moi un de ces jours.”
The Teachings of Don B. Page 4