Microwaveable Short Stories

Wrathbone's Assault

Thu, 03 Nov 2005 17:04:21 GMT

I have now given up all hopes of running for public office. Mister Ashton K. Wrathbone, a man of considerable means, decided to hire some private detectives to dig up dirt on me. The detectives apparently learned much about me, including many incidents which I had forgotten until now. Mister Wrathbone wrote a mean-spirited expose about me. He had nothing good to say. He published the attack recently in the You Norker, a quarterly of Wrathbone's own founding. It is dedicated to character assassination of minor figures in the art world. (Mr. Wrathbone's publication is not to be confused with the respected literary magazine of long standing, and of coincidentally similar name.) Here is what Mr. Wrathbone wrote:

Donald Quicksoap is a cultural abomination. His recent desecration of a respected art gallery was only one of a long stream of offenses against Western Civilization. His very existence is an affront to all human societies, literate and pre-literate. He should be jailed, so that we should all be done with him, posthaste.

Quicksoap has befouled the halls of traffic court thirty-six times in the past eighteen months. He habitually drives his lurching, smoke-belching 1970 Cadillac without proper registration. His vehicle, an abominable rust-bucket blunderbuss, is eighteen feet from bumper to bumper, and backfires once for every minute it runs. Local police naturally gravitate to this spectacle, summarily ticketing Quicksoap for registration violations, and disturbance of the peace. Quicksoap once attempted to avoid a ticket by claiming he was being kidnapped. The police officer was not convinced, given that Quicksoap was alone and driving his own car at the time.

Quicksoap's miserable automotive circumstances have led him to harass producers of the Oprah Winfrey Show, hoping he could receive a new car free of charge. A restraining order is in effect against Quicksoap, barring him from further contact with the show. One producer said, "It was Quicksoap's whining, nasal, 'pleeeease' that really got on our nerves".

Quicksoap was once nearly arrested for theft. An unidentified man in a long black overcoat sold Quicksoap a small girl's bicycle in front of a public library. When the owner of the bicycle, a young girl of seven, saw Quicksoap halfway down the block on her prized pink bicycle, she shrieked, and a librarian called the police. Quicksoap was saved from arrest when he produced a handwritten receipt from the unidentified man, whose handwriting was already known to them.

At the same library as the bicycle incident, Quicksoap managed to upset an entire staff of librarians when he was researching pomposity. His choice of words was so insensitive that the librarians felt he was accusing them of being pompous. This led to a scuffle with the head librarian, a rather tall and gruff woman of Norwegian descent. Quicksoap was barred from borrowing books from the library, and was forced to falsify his writing on the subject of pomposity.

In a world of decency, common sense, and proper breeding, Quicksoap would be a pathetic and nauseating anathema. In the real world, he is simply disgusting, in all conceivable categories of merit. His example gives ammunition to philosophical misanthropes the world over.

Having read this, and copied it into this journal, I have become angry. I will be doing some research on Mister Ashton K. Wrathbone and his publication. Readers of this journal will be the first to know the true nature of Wrathbone and his attacks.

An Angry Exchange

Mon, 26 Sep 2005 10:00:48 GMT

As you may recall from my previous entry, "Reviews and Comments on the Photographs Taken While Rolling Down the Hill," one of the critics threatened to sue me, because he believed I was making fun of a much-publicized fall he had taken down into the Grand Canyon:

"Should Quicksoap have intended to parody this critic's well-known accident at the Grand Canyon, such fact was not lost upon this critic. This critic will accept a public apology from the photographer, or sue Quicksoap within thirty days of this notice."

I never intended to make fun of his upsetting experience, and I sent him a letter of apology and explanation. He took offense to something in the email, and a rather heated exchange of emails resulted. I have decided to post portions of this exchange for the public to see. The critic was none other than Ashton K. Wrathbone, the most hateful and destructive critic known to the Western World.

The exchange went as follows:

Dear Mister Wrathbone,

I apologize for any upset my photographic exhibition might have caused you. My fall down the hill was quite real, and not intended to parody your Grand Canyon experience in the least. My opportunity to show the resulting photographs publicly was due to good luck, and not any malice towards you. In fact, I had not heard of your fall down into the Grand Canyon, until you published your comment about my show. Again, I meant no offense, and I hope you accept my apology, and my warmest regards.

Sincerely,
Donald Quicksoap

Dear Mister Quicksoap,

You have veiled yet another insult in your note of "apology." You never heard of my fall down the Grand Canyin? Indeed! As ignorant as you obviously are, you can't possibly have gone without knowing about the great Wrathbone Fall. The public was held breathless for weeks, praying for my safe recovery! No, you could not possibly be so ignorant, so uninformed, so hollow-skulled as to be unaware of my spectacular plight! You have now insulted me twice, and you shall live to regret it!

Most Assuredly Yours,
Ashton K. Wrathbone

Dear Mister Wrathbone,

Once again, I meant no insult in my past letter to you. There was a period of time when I did not pay attention to the news media, as I had come to distrust them. I was unaware of your fall, as I was unaware of a great many events during that time. Once again, my statement was nothing personal against you.

I am hurt that you have decided to insult me, without considering that there might be some misunderstanding. I now see where you get your reputation for unpleasantness. I respectfully suggest you take steps to moderate you approach to people, and show more kindness.

By the way, you spelled "Grand Canyon" as "Grand Canyin". Sometimes in spelling, it is not enough to sound out the words.

Sincerely,
Don Quicksoap

Mister Quicksoap,

You impudent little snit! I am twice your age, and have ten times your education! My resume fills ten pages -- where are your accomplishments? I doubt you have the capacity to even type my resume, let alone match it with yours. "Grand Canyin" indeed! How you never heard of a typographical error? You will notice on your keyboard that the "i" is next to the 'o'. Even the greatest of intellects can make such a mistake, you insignificant blathering fool!

As for moderating my approach to people, I will do so when this world is no longer filled with such idiocy as you so shamelessly demonstrate. It is people like you who must be whipped into shape, snapped out of your sloth, and shoved into some semblance of civilization.

You have now delivered three insults to me, as of your presumption to educate me in spelling. Your name shall be prominently mentioned in my next column, and your every insult shall be avenged before the public!

Yours,
Ashton K. Wrathbone

Mister Wrathbone,

This letter is my third and final attempt to make peace with you. I have never meant to insult you, but hoped you would be amused by my "Grand Canyin" comment. I believed someone as enlightened as yourself could find some humor in the situation. For a third time, I apologize for any offense I might have caused.

I have sent you a gift, as a peace offering. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed sending it to you.

Yours Truly,
Don Quicksoap

Quicksoap,

Yes, I have a sense of humor, and yes, I received your "gift." How clever of you to call it a sculpture of me! But the joke is on you, because I happen to love fruitcake! I plan to enjoy it thoroughly over the coming week.

Yours,
Ashton K. Wrathbone

Dear Ashie,

I hope you enjoyed the fruitcake. I heard through the grapevine that you had several days of frequent visits to the bathroom. I hope you are well. I also hope we can call a truce in this feud of ours.

Yours truly,
Don

Dear Idiot,

Of course I knew that prunes are not a major ingredient in fruitcake. Did you think you could fool me? I just thought the cake was delicious, that is all! Even I can overindulge at times. Did you believe for a moment that you could harm me? I am no stranger to adversity, as my great Fall has demonstrated! Your fall was child's play, compared to mine! It was only a series of shrubs and precipices that saved me in my plunge down that shear cliff. And you! You come to rest on some trail? You pitiful little insect!

And who are you to call me Ashie? You presumptuous infant! I have more to add to my column on you, so it won't be published this week. But you can rest assured, I shall be avenged!

Yours,
Ashton K. Wrathbone

I decided not to reply to this message from Wrathbone. He seems determined to smear the Quicksoap name at all costs. Generations of Quicksoaps have maintained a reputation for tenacity, fairness, and smartness of dress. I can only hope that the public sees Mister Ashton K. Wrathbone's attack for what it is, a personal vendetta in reaction to an honest mistake.

College Ambitions

Sat, 27 Aug 2005 03:50:40 GMT

As a college student, I had great ambitions. To date, not one of those ambitions has been realized. In making these ambitions public, I hope to force myself accomplish some of them.

To win the Nobel prize twice. First for physics, then for "Best New Artist".

To learn how to properly pronounce "Cznvkvsnyck".

To recite from memory long passages from Franz Kafka in the original German, Plato in the original Greek, and Mark Twain in the original French.

To complete reading the Cliff's Notes to James Joyce's Ulysses

To make sense of any one of the uncaptioned cartoons from The New Yorker.

To prove Fermat's Last Theorem correct, then learn how to do fractions.

To become an accomplished stage actor, famous for my one-man re-enactment of the Norman Conquest.

To spell out "M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i" in perfect time with Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" [Try it! It's difficult. No fair adding the extra 's' -- now try again. Now try it using Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.]

To learn all of the dead languages of mankind, including Latin, Aramaic, proto-Indo-european, and the lesser-known dead language of common courtesy.

To learn who Cznvkvsnyck was, and determine whether he was a true existentialist.

To win a 'robot soccer' competition on my good looks alone, then win a good-looks contest with my soccer-playing robot.

To memorize and recite pi to 6,000 digits, then convincingly fake my way through another 10,000 digits.

To master the skills of rudeness and condescension, and to apply them against those I fear are superior to me.

To photograph the very souls of people, then make a fortune selling ghost pictures to the tabloids.

To learn the precise origins and basic purpose of putting lipstick on pigs.

Reviews and Comments on the Photographs Taken While Rolling Down the Hill

Wed, 24 Aug 2005 10:29:35 GMT

Just a Thought:
Too much reverence can cause one to lose his sense of humor. Too much irreverence can cause one to lose his job. Having been both unemployed and humorless, I am not sure which was the greater loss.

Reviews and Comments on the Photographs Taken While Rolling Down the Hill.

I hesitate to post the photographs from my tumble down the hill. They were introduced to the public about a year after they were taken. At that time, they were not well received. I may describe the circumstances of the public show in a later entry. For now, suffice it to say that I was confused with a local artist, Doctor Artemis Xavier Quicksand, DDS. Doctor Quicksand is a dentist and neo-impressionist who paints the various moods of undernourished house plants. In short, my photographs were unintentionally displayed in place of his paintings.

The day of the opening, I had not been told about the mix-up. I arrived early for the show, bringing home-made snacks and beverages to share with the guests. I was surprised to see how many people were present. Many local art critics were in attendance, as well as a variety of other art lovers. I walked around the gallery, taking notes of what people were saying. I also read the reviews in the Sunday papers. Below is a sampling of what was said and written.

Written by the critics:

"Shameless, unmitigated balderdash."

"This show should be canceled due to lack of talent."

"A belligerent affront to serious photographers the world over."

"If photographers required licenses, Quicksoap's would be revoked in perpetuity."

"I was tempted to blacken his right eye."

"The show aroused in this critic both fear and dread. Fear that this photographer might have another show, and dread of my being required to attend it."

"How could Quicksoap possibly name a photo of only sky and clouds, 'Careening'? "

"If these photographs are any reflection on the Quicksoap's maturity, he should be given crayons and paper, and restrained from playing with matches."

"The subtext of this work is tragedy. It is indeed tragic that these photographs survived the journey down the hill."

"There is much suffering in these photographs. Unfortunately, the guests at the show did most of the suffering."

"Quicksoap appears to have mastered nothing more than the skill of autofocus."

"Sickening. Pompous. Selfish. Pretentious. I don't mean the photographs, but the photographer. This critic can not begin to describe the disgust and aversion he experienced at this show upon meeting Quicksoap, whose only redeeming quality was a pre-existent black eye. "

"I would say this 'work' was pedestrian, but the photographer appears unable to remain on his feet."

"Clearly the photographer is a masochist and an idiot."

"It is this critic's sincere hope that Quicksoap pursue photography as a career. As a photographer, he would be certain to starve to death."

"The photographer's attempts to variously pass these images off as 'Gonzo Photojournalism,' 'Kinetic Self Portraits,' and 'Meditations on Gravity' are absurd and an insult to the viewer's intelligence. This photographer is obviously an inept, self-centered misanthrope."

"I liked the titles best. The best part was the titles. I like how he named the pictures." [paid endorsement]

"Yet another imperialist 'artist' exploiting human suffering for his own profit. Indefensible, even if it was the photographer himself who suffered."

"Call me old-fashioned, but for a photographer to bare his own ankle for the sake of such pitiable images is nothing more than shameless exploitation. Not surprising for a grown man who wears pink socks with cartoon characters on them."

"Apparently, Quicksoap tracks his undergarments by the days of the week. Did we really need to know that the photographer's underpants had inscribed on them, "Wednesday"? Shockingly, the photographer admits he shot these frames on a Saturday."

"Compared with a mountain goat, Quicksoap is less sure-footed, and less of a photographer."

"Guests at the show were tilting their heads at all different angles, trying to make some sense of the jumble. For them, this proved to be a wasted effort. "

"I was moved to tears. What a terrible waste of a perfectly good tripod."

Heard from the Guests:

Near the snack table: "These hors d'oeuvres are terrible! And besides, what kind of philistine serves canned beer at an art show?"

From a far corner of the gallery: "The guy in the conquistador helmet -- is he the photographer?"

A man arguing with his wife: "You made me come to this show, so here I am! If you call me uncultured again I am leaving without you!"

Near the snack table: "Who spilled beer on the hors d'oeuvres?"

A docent of the gallery: "These pictures might look good on velvet."

Someone on his cell phone: "Jack I'm telling you! If you could sell that strawberry-scented gasoline, you can sell this junk!"

From the center of the room, a lifelong Democrat: "If the NEA paid for this, I'm voting Republican."

Someone who appreciated the beer: "What is this guy, nuts?"

Near the exit: "That nun crying in the corner ... is that Sister Wendy?"

An agitated big sister, from the center of the room: "Where is Tommy? That little brat! Who gave him that beer? Was it that freak with the helmet?"

Heard at the exit: "Thank God that's over!"

Falling for Photography

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 07:27:12 GMT

Several years ago, I was employed. I was able to save some money, and I decided I could afford to get involved in photography. Over some months I bought several cameras and lenses, a bag to carry them, and a large, heavy tripod for scenic shots. I became very serious about photography, and thought I might make some money at it. While visions of dollar signs danced in my head, I decided it was time for a photographic expedition.

For my first major excursion, I decided to go deep into the hills of a local regional park.
Anticipating a long walk in the hills, I decided to take a friend along for company. With his wife's permission, I picked him up at their home on a Saturday morning. During the drive to the park, he agitated me with his extreme political opinions, calling my favorite political figures names like "Idiot," "Nazi," and "Visigoth". By the time we arrived at the park, I had determined to insult his political views with a surprise verbal attack. The right words delivered at the right moment might shut him up for the rest of the day.

With the car parked and my camera equipment hanging from my shoulder, we began our trek up a long steep trail. As I trudged up the hill with my camera bags and tripod, my friend stepped along easily, carrying nothing but an attitude. As I became winded, my friend continued pontificating about current events.

After about an hour, we got to the top of the hill, and took in the view. We had chosen the highest peak, and could see for miles all around. To have trudged to this height felt like a real achievement. I set down my bag and tripod, and began to catch my breath. I took one of my cameras from the bag. I stood tall and proud, with my hands on my hips, and my camera hanging from my neck. The view was magnificent, and I would capture its essence. For a moment, I thought I might soon be hailed as the new Ansel Adams.

The slope we had walked was moderately steep. We walked it while leaning forward somewhat. Where we stood, there was another slope which was very steep, such that a person could only climb it on all fours. I decided to photograph from the edge of the steep slope. I set up my tripod. My friend made another inflammatory political comment. I spun around to deliver some choice words to my arrogant friend. Before I could complete the sentence, I started to slide down the hill.

I slid with my left leg locked straight out, and my right leg bent higher up the slope. From the waist up, I was upright. At this point, I still felt I was in control. It was like surfing, but on dry ground. I was certain I would resolve my sliding predicament quickly. "This is kind of fun," I thought. I gripped my camera firmly, and even got few shots snapped. For bravado, I thought of yelling, "Yeehaw!". Then my left foot struck a large stone. I made one successful cartwheel, then I began to roll.

My involuntary downhill roll triggered memories. I thought of my high-school physics class, when we studied acceleration. I rolled faster and faster, striking elbow, head and knee on the hillside. Parts of my body impacted the ground in a rapid sequence of elbow-head-elbow-hip-hip-knee-elbow-elbow. I still had some pride at this point, and credited myself for not screaming. Still tethered around my neck, my camera slipped from my hands. It snapped more shots as it bounced off my forehead. My legs and hips struck a large bush, which spun me around. This began my backward slide down the hill.

My new backward descent allowed me to see the top of the hill, and see my friend's face. I imagine the look on my face said silently, "Do something to help me!" The look on his face seemed to answer, "I can't!". Hoping to save my camera, I grabbed it in my hand, inadvertently squeezing the shutter release. The camera took several more shots. Between me and my friend, I saw my tripod rolling end over end down the hill. This previously benign tripod now had a menacing look, like that of a giant eagle's talon swooping down to snatch its prey. Worse, it was gaining on me.

The slide on my back slowed my descent. My tripod's end-over-end motion allowed it to speed up. Small rocks gathered under my collar and pants' waist. I glimpsed the blue sky with its puffy clouds. The sound of my body scuffing down the slope had a peculiar drama about it. I looked up at my feet, and saw that my right shoe had come off, and my right sock was soon to follow. My pants were beginning to slip as well. I saw my friend at the top of the hill, with hands on his head, and his elbows pointing straight outward. The tripod drew very close, and it had bent in several places. My tripod now looked more like an octopus. I knew the tripod was about to strike me in some undignified manner. I no longer felt like yelling, "Yeehaw!".

The impact of the tripod on my left eye socket was not as painful as I anticipated. It felt like a mild punch in the eye. I was sort ofrelieved to have the tripod collision over with, as I had anticipated a worse injury. The tripod no longer seemed like an eagle's talon or an octopus, but more like a helpless bundle of bent pipes. It rolled past me to the bottom of the hill.

At the bottom of the steep slope was another trail. I came to rest on the trail with my right shoe and sock left somewhere up the slope, and my pants down around my ankles. I was glad I had followed Mom's advice about wearing clean underwear. How true it is, that one never knows how or when one's underwear might be exposed. Such is the wisdom of generations.

As I struck the bottom of the hill, a middle-aged couple was walking along the trail. I came to rest on the trail, and the couple stopped to stare at me. The woman covered her face and turned her back to me. "Are you all right?", the man asked. I waved and nodded "yes," then pulled up my pants. As I brushed off my pants legs, the man said, "I'll give you fifty bucks to do that again!" I heard a muffled laugh from the woman.

Next Post: Reviews of, and notes on the Photographs taken while rolling down the hill.

Technical Difficulties

Wed, 10 Aug 2005 10:08:09 GMT

I have been unable to post for several days, as a result of a computer crash. At this time, I can only offer the story of the disaster.

A friend of mine who believes he is a genius wanted to show me some new software he wrote. Some months ago, my friend took an interest in the Watergate scandal. He became especially interested in identifying the mysterious "Deep Throat" source upon whom Bob Woodward relied so heavily. My friend poured over countless books, magazine articles and internet resources to assemble Watergate facts into a single database. He then wrote a program which would statistically identify who "Deep Throat" was.

Anxious to demonstrate his new program, my friend came over and installed it on my computer. He started the program running, and after several minutes it showed a result. The program's conclusion was that Richard Nixon was Deep Throat. The program went on to delete 18-1/2 minutes of audio from my system, and then blamed the deletions on a Microsoft secretary. The program then displayed a pop-up message that said, "Shredding, Please Wait". I became rather nervous at this point, and asked my friend to stop the program. He did a control-alt-delete on the keyboard, after which the computer displayed a quote of the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution, and froze.

I was rather upset, and pointed out to my friend that Mark Felt, former #2 man at the FBI had recently come forward as "Deep Throat". I may have also commented on my friend's intelligence. My friend became angry and refused to fix my computer.

Another friend has helped me to re-load my computer, and get it back on the Internet. I expect to post a more uplifting story in the near future.

Thank you all for your patience.

Peace on the Cul-De-Sac

Sun, 31 Jul 2005 10:03:07 GMT

I remember an unusually peaceful Sunday evening when I was about eight years old. It was one of those rare moments when we settled into a suburban approximation of Nirvana. There was peace and quiet, the smell of our fresh-cut lawn, and a gentle breeze blowing through the trees. Dad's yard work was done, and Mom was finished preparing our spaghetti dinner. My big sister Lynn was done with her homework. My little brother Quince had suffered an upset stomach that morning, but this had passed, and was now a distant memory. My stomach was fine, too, as I had learned to stop worrying about homework.

Our Belgian-Shepherd reflected our contented spirits, twisting on her back in the fresh-cut grass and growling, perhaps imagining some life-and-death battle with some super-villain stray dog. Engaged in such combat, she would freeze momentarily with all four legs in the air, when some slight sound from reality intruded on her joyful struggle with her imagined foe. For this moment, we were all safe, sound, and relaxed.

It was in this lull that we all sat down to dinner. Our dog was still wrestling with her imagination in the backyard. The spaghetti was served and the conversation was started, and Lynn began discussing her upcoming high school play. Little Quince eventually commented on the play, in a manner which made my parents laugh, my sister blush, and me jealous of the attention he got for his naïve moment of ingenious wit.

The conversation moved on to other subjects, briefly touching on my poor performance in school, Dad's co-workers, and Mom's ideas for stories to write. I looked out the window, and watched our dog pick out a chewing stick from the woodpile. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three knocks exploded from the front door, rattling it violently. I spilled Quince's milk in his lap. Dad's fork landed on the table, bounced several times while ringing, and fell to the floor. Mom and Lynn gasped in unison, as if they had been secretly rehearsing the perfect sound of astonishment. Our brave dog dropped her new chewing stick, and ran behind the bushes. I thought it might be the police at the door.

Dad got up from the table, and walked briskly to the front door, mumbling some words that I will not repeat here. He grabbed and twisted the front door handle, and yanked the door open. He looked straight outward, then down to the level of his waist. He was greeted by a small voice asking confidently, "Can Don come out to play?".

I could only see Dad from the back, but I imagined the look on his face. The expression must have been one of transition from his special-forces half-beast-half-superhuman glare to a more paternal look of, "Hello, little fifty pound neighbor kid". I later imagined a thin wisp of steam escaping from his forehead, as he looked down at this smallish being who had just disrupted our dinner with the most innocent of intentions.

"Well, we are having dinner right now. Maybe in a half hour", was Dad's restrained response. Dad closed the door, and grumbled something about, "That wild kid". Little brother was now crying, with a milk-soaked lap. I felt assured he would offer no more witticisms at this meal. Mom was attending to the spill with a dish-towel, recounting how many times the neighbor kid's rowdy older brothers and sisters had required stitches or had broken their bones. Lynn had her stories too, of the colorful variety of injuries the family next door had demonstrated.

We finished our meal, Quince changed his pants, and I was allowed to go next door. I rang the doorbell at the rowdy-house, and "that wild kid", Gary, came out to play. We tossed a baseball back and forth as the sun went down, debating whether Spiderman could beat up the Incredible Hulk. Though his percussive visit upon our door had upset our family, Gary and I were still friends, and peace was easily restored on the cul-de-sac.

The Clogged Blogger

Wed, 27 Jul 2005 09:29:16 GMT

I had another encounter with Medusa, whose new performance art piece is very loud and confrontational. I do not want to write about it now. Here is something that came to me after the latest incident.

The Clogged Blogger

To be read in the style of the Beatniks, with bongo and flute as accompaniment.

I toggle from troglodyte to blogger
From frog to pollywog
Have I been flogged?
[trills from the flute]

I, just a cog in a blogging boggle
In a fog
[shout] ANGER! [three bongo beats]
New blog pages flushed ! [two bongo beats]

soggy blog
get pen and paper
new blog in analog
[trills from the flute]

I am a hog
I need to jog
no eggs for the nog
[four bongo beats, in agreement]

soggy foggy smoggy blog
doggie ate the blog
[shout] BAD DOG!

No blog to log
[bongo beat, and flute trills together]

[applause and bows optional, as the audience may see fit]

A Nightmare

Tue, 26 Jul 2005 13:08:20 GMT

After a full morning of deciding what to do for the day, I became rather anxious about my lack of options. I decided I should take a nap. I laid down on the couch and eventually fell asleep. Those who don't believe in afternoon naps will be pleased to know that I was punished with a distressing nightmare.

The dream began with me running down a city street, afraid for my life. It was unclear just who or what I was running from, but apparently the fear was sufficient reason to be running. To evade the unknown threat, I cut to my left into an empty alley. I kept running all the way to the end of the alley, expecting to find a running helicopter in which I could fly away. Dreams can often provide such conveniences.

At the end of the alley there was no helicopter, but my pursuer, the happy Quaker Oats Man. He had apparently found a shortcut into the alley. Dreams often give pursuers shortcuts which are unbeknownst to the dreamer. My heart was pounding. I was cornered, and the fullness of my terror was realized.

The happy Quaker Oats Man faced me with a honeydew melon in one hand, and a Frisbee in the other. It was clear that I had to choose one or the other. I somehow knew one choice meant my death, and the other meant my escape. I asked him, "Which would you recommend?" He just stood there, motionless and smiling, just like his famous picture, holding the melon and the Frisbee.

A mysterious whispering voice said, "Choose the round one ... choose the round one". I asked the whispering voice whether "the round one" meant "spherical" or "disc-shaped". The voice just repeated, "Choose the round one ... choose the round one". I cursed the voice, shouting, "Damned cheap recorded whispering voices!" I was facing was a life-threatening dilemma, and I couldn't get a live whispering voice.

I was awakened by a cat fight, by which I mean actual cats were fighting, not my female human neighbors. I got up from the couch and went outside to break up the fight. Over a cup of coffee, I analyzed the dream.

Two of the symbols of the dream were simple to interpret. I had not eaten breakfast that morning, so the happy Quaker Oats man represented the breakfast I had skipped. The Frisbee represented activity and exercise, which I had avoided all morning.

The melon represented a gap in my vocabulary, which had been filled several weeks before. I must take a moment to explain this. A friend of mine recently eloped. He did not elope by himself, but with a young woman. About a week ago, my friend introduced me to his new wife at dinner in a local restaurant. During our conversation, when my friend referred to their "elopement," I thought he was referring to some kind of melon. This made the conversation rather confused for about an hour. Hence, the melon in the nightmare referred to my failure to learn the word "elopement" earlier in life -- an academic failure.

The dilemma of spherical versus disc-shaped roundness refers to my brief membership in a flat-Earth group. In that group, I wrestled with the problem of a round versus a flat Earth. Most of the people in that group whispered a lot. Also, I had bought many of their tapes.

I learned from the dream that I need to become more active and read more books. I also learned I should have a nutritious breakfast every morning.

Readings in Pomposity

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 11:32:48 GMT

I was recently ousted from a pompous dinner party because of an innocent mistake. I had committed a basic faux pas, by using my salad fork to eat my steak. I was humiliated in front of a dozen guests. The hostess did not expressly ask me to leave, but as the evening went on, I found my self frozen out of all conversation. More painfully, no one laughed at my jokes. I was forced to make a polite excuse, and leave the party early.

From this experience, I knew I needed an education in the area of pomposity. I went to the city library to find some books on the subject. I was surprised by the number and variety of books I found.

Some of the more advanced books are large and heavy, and seem to demand much effort from the serious reader. These include Baldwin Gallstone's Pomposity: Theory and Practice, and Phineas J. Dickerson's Pomposity and Dissent. The most daunting may be Deconstructing Humility, by Werner Von Dunkelweiss, who was known for giving away paintings of himself as house-warming gifts.

Malthus D. Fink wrote several popular books which are easier to read. These include Pomposity for Numbskulls, The Salesman's Guide to Pomposity, and Pomposity for Corporate Managers. Each of these books emphasizes the difference between true Pomposity and mere pretense. Fink also wrote an article for the November 2001 issue of Pomposity Weekly, entitled "Pretense: A Short, Summary Dismissal".

An expert source has told me that several well-known works that have been recently discredited. These include Joe-Bob Bertollini's Pomposity and the Coming Macedonian Invasion, Buffy Drombeck's Pomposity on a Budget, and Artemis O' Quimby's Aztec Pomposity in Modern Times. Edward Shore's Pomposity at a Crossroads raises some important criticism of post-modern Pomposity, but it contains some rather astonishing grammatical errors.

I decided to start my reading with Pomposity for Numbskulls, which is illustrated with some helpful cartoons. I am already confident that my next pompous dinner party will go much better than the last one did.