2018-02-08 / Features

Silly Social Scenes

A Wandering Mistrel (Aye)

JAM GENIE’S SURGERY, PART THE LAST – As reported last week, the renowned veteropedist and World’s Smartest Cat, Dr. Bob, discovered Something Truly Horrifying when he went to the garage to check on Missus Chief’s condition. The patient was propped up in the back seat of her car (site of the drive-thru surgery), sobbing hysterically: “MY ARMS,” she wailed like a banshee in mating season, “MY POOR ARMS!” 
Thinking that she was merely in pain and need a shot of something, Dr. Bob attempted to calm the poor soul – until he got a good look at her arms, from which he recoiled as one bitten by a rabid wildebeest. That lumbering lummox, that asinine assistant, that failure of a factotum, Chief Nylon had REATTACHED HER ARMS BACKWARDS! Yes, it was true: the right arm was attached to the left shoulder, the left arm to the right! 
Quicker than boiled asparagus the sable surgeon sped, bounding into the house and sinking his razor-sharp teeth into Chief Nylon’s leg. When the Chief descended from the back of the Barcalounger whither he had vaulted at the impact of the fangs, Dr. Bob sketched the situation in a few well-chosen gestures, indicating also that the so-called surgical nurse had jolly well get his gluteus maximus out to the garage and help repair the damage. The color drained out of the Chief’s face, and moaning piteously as visions of descending frozen leg of lamb danced in his head, he hied himself thither, hot on Dr. Bob’s stump of a tail.
Lumbering full-speed into the garage, the Chief threw open a cabinet and drew forth a gallon of Old Duke, which he kept for social calls, medicinal purposes, and cleaning the grease off engine parts. Soaking an inflammable rag with the wine, he pressed it under his spouse’s nose, which rendered her instantly unconscious. He then strapped a scalpel to each of the furry paws (Bob’s, not his own) and disinfected his hands and the surgeon’s using more of the vile brew. 
Lifting Bob up to the patient on a cafeteria tray stolen from Horn & Hardart, the Chief worked diligently to suppress his gag reflex – but not for long, as the surgeon was swift in his work. Watching the Chief through narrowed eyes, Dr. Bob directed the re-reattaching of the limbs on the proper side; when this was accomplished, he administered a shot of absinthe, which was guaranteed to make Missus Chief forget the trauma (which also reassured her guilty spouse, whose fears about the frozen leg of lamb were calmed). Their work completed, the doctor and his clumsy assistant repaired to the house for a post-op discussion, followed by refreshments, while the patient slept the sleep of the innocent and just.

REGARDING THE DRAFORWB WINTER CARNIVAL – We had hoped (indeed, expected) to provide Our readers (all 6.804 [statistical] of you, the number having spiked sharply on the Exciting News of Missus Chief’s Surgery) about the semi-quinquennial Winter Carnival of the Dog River Academy for Wayward Boys, with the participation of the inmates of Frau Krinkheimer’s School for Obstreperous Young Ladies in Western East Roxbury, adjacent to the WER Crematorium, Water-Bottling Plant, Animal Rendering Factory and the Late-Post-Industrial School of Inter-Modal Dance (E-A. & G. MacCardunkin, Props.). Howsomever, weather conditions at the primary location, the No’field sewer plant, being what they were in the days before the planned date (temperatures in the high 70s, with the sudden appearance of tulips and Krakatoa Vultures, which usually arrive in June), the kibosh was put to the carnival. It was re-scheduled for next weekend, so be sure to look here for a Full Report on all the exciting activities!

INANE COMMENT OF THE WEEK – To the surprise of absolutely no one who has read This Column in the last nine years, the honors in this maiden appearance of a New & Exciting Irregular (Regular) Feature in This Space go to the Ex-Pet Casket King of No’field. Never one to hide his ignorance under a bushel (or even a peck, for that matter), he commits blazing indiscretion after blazing indiscretion week after weary week at the Grumpy Old Men’s Breakfast Club, calling to mind the immortal remark of a great Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Thomas Brackett Reed: “He never opens his mouth without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge.”
The inane comment in question came at the end of a long and profitless wrangle between the Worthy Editor and the Ex regarding the composition of one of this dyspeptic little burg’s churches. By sound argument, backed by a lifetime of Reading the Classics and Personal Experience, the WE easily proved the Ex not merely wrong, but wrong, Wrong, WRONG – though, of course, this made absolutely no impression on the stubby little engineer (does water roll off a duck’s back?). 
Seeing that the argument wasn’t going his way, the Ex proclaimed, “I was married in the Universalist Church; that’s why it was so easy for me to get a divorce.” 
As might be expected, this non sequitur left the rest of the GOM stupefied. We feel certain that Our few (but faithless) readers will agree that the laurels were fairly awarded.

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