Rather Sternly

 

Rather Sternly

A Few Short Works by Robert Arvay

The Triangle

A lot of people have the mistaken impression that, in an orchestra, the easiest instrument to play is the triangle.

Well, that’s just not true.  Actually, the triangle is the most difficult of all instruments to play.  That’s why I was selected to play it in the Plant City Fill Harmonica Orchestra.

You see, any other instrument you play, you hold it firmly in your hand, so that you always know where it is.  Not so with the triangle.  You hold it while it dangles from a string.  It takes years of training (if you count the day you were born) to master the art of holding that string just so.

So there I was.  My part in the whole entire evening of orchardly – or kestrally — whatever, my whole part came down to one critical moment in the entire composition, when at precisely, exactly the right instant, I was to strike that triangle with that little shiny thingy that they give you to hit it with.

The conductor (I never figured out why they called him that.  He never collected anybody’s ticket.  But I digest.)  the guy with the white stick had told me that I had the most important part of the entire piece (actually, the whole thing), even though it was only one ding in the entire evening.

So there I was, awaiting my moment of glory.  Finally, the moment drew near, and I prepared for my grand finale.  I held that string in my left hand, and the little shiny thingy in my right hand.

But wouldn’t you know, just as I started to swing that little hitter, a slight breeze of air turned that triangle ninety degrees.  Seeing that it was about to leave the strike zone, I figured I’d better hurry up and speed up my swing so that I could smack it before it got entirely out of range.  So I swung really hard.

Too late.  That sneaky little devil got plumb past my little shiny thing, and I missed.  But worst of all, I had swung so hard that in doing so, I fell off my chair.

Undaunted, I decided that after all that training and practice, I was here to play that rascal, and by golly, nothing was going to stop me.  So I grabbed it in my fist, not realizing that that would muffle its ding.  There was no time for confiscation, however, I had to act without thinking, which I am good at.

So I slammed that little three-sider up against the chair as hard as I could.  Unfortunately, this also went wrong (why do I have such bad luck), as it was the violinist’s chair, and he went flying too.

Now you may think that this was a total fiasco, but it wasn’t.

My cousin was in the audience, and he quickly noticed that not only was I in some kind of circumstance, but that I was probably going to be unfairly blamed for the whole thing, when it was all the fault of that breeze.

So my cousin came to the rescue.  He did the only thing anyone could have done.  He pulled out his pistol and fired a bullet into the ceiling.  The idea was that later on, I could say that I had seen a gun being drawn, and that I had heroically created a distraction, thereby saving many lives while the audience wrestled the gunman to the ground.

Unfortunately for my cousin, in real life, nobody rassles gunmen to the ground.  That’s just something that the anti-gun-nuts who report the news make up.

In reality, they shoot him.  And that’s what happened to my poor late cousin.  Purty much everybody in the audience was packin, and I think it was that dang fake conductor who got in the first shot.

Innyway, his death was not in vain.  Well, okay, it was, because when I tried to convince the judge that I was being heroic, he just laft at me and said I wuz skeert of my own shadow.  And then he had the poor manners to prove it.

Then, after I had finished up my three years in jail (including the two for bad behavior), I wuz not able to resume my career as a professional triangle player.

But I’m still practicing.

Biography of Robertus Arvayus

Robertus Arvayus is a world famous musician and composer, at least in Plant City, and is a member of the Plant City Fill Harmonica Orchestra and Tow Truck Service.

Arvayus plays the very difficult instrument, the Triangle, which is a metallic percussion device consisting of an equilateral triangle, unconnected at one corner.   Arvayus affectionately refers to it as the Triangle of Death.

Arvayus has composed several musical compositions which can be played on his triangle.  All of them consist of one note, and all of them are the same note.  However, each has its own separate unique inspiration which Arvayus conveys to an admiring audience in his own inimitable style.

Arvayus first became interested in the triangle at an early age while reading a magazine article about the Bermuda Triangle.  That humble beginning led to his career as the world’s foremost professional triangle player, or as he refers to himself, a triangulator.

Arvayus’s passion for the triangle soon led him to a rigorous schedule of daily practice.  Arising early each day before noon, Arvayus’s devotion compelled him to spend four seconds each day striking his triangle once with a little shiny thingy.

“One must carefully avoid overdoing the practice,” Arvayus explains.  “Too much can result in artistic staleness.”

In a recent concert attended by his many admirers (both of them), Arvayus drew a standing ovation after playing his most recent composition, “The Ding.”

Or maybe they were just getting up to leave, but all the same.

Robertus Arvayus Temporarily Readmitted to the Plant City Fill Harmonica Orchestra

I, Robertus Arvayus, the world famous (in Plant City) musical artist, recently enjoyed a brief resurgence in my symphonic career.

As my many fans (both of them) are aware, at least when they are sober, I am the most accomplished Triangle player and triangle composer ever to have mastered this most difficult and subtle of all musical instruments.

Sudden misfortune befell me recently, when I fell off my chair, at the crucial moment of my single note, during a carefully rehearsed rendition of some famous or kestrel piece.  It was only a piece, because the orchestra never got to finish the whole thing, due to some gunfire that was entirely not my own fault, and during which the conductor killed my poor cousin who was only trying to help.

Anyway, that’s all in the past now, and life goes on, except of course for my cousin.

So after I got out of jail, I resumed my daily regimen of practice on the triangle, hoping against hope that one day soon, I might be permitted a second chance at redemption to redeem myself.

The opportunity came from an unexpected quarter, which I found on the sidewalk.  I used it to buy a copy of the prestigious newspaper, The Times of London (Plant City Edition), which costs only a quarter.

There, on the front page, was an article about the world famous (in Plant City) Plant City Fill Harmonica Orchestra and Tow Truck Service.

The conductor (who also works for AmTrack) was seeking to upgrade the orchestra by attracting world class recognition for the orchestra.  However, he had failed to attract any serious attention from the snooty European Phil Harmonica orchestras, who can’t even spell Fill correctly.

I decided to write a letter to one of those whoopty doos in Europe and invite them for a listen audition.

To my amazement, one of them responded!  He was some kind of Lord or Baron or whatever, and he was interested in developing talent from what he kindly referred to as the unwashed masses.  And even though we wash every week whether we need to or not, he agreed that we were not too clean for him to deal with.

So I showed this letter to the guy who killed my cousin, and he said that I would now be readmitted on a probationary basis to the orchestra as a triangulator and tow truck assistant.

I quickly agreed, and we got this snooty European orchestra dude on Skype for a conference.

For awhile, everything was going well.  He asked us what we knew about classical music.  And since I had a cheat sheet in front of me, where he could not see it, I had him totally fooled for a few minutes.

But then misfortune struck.  The Euro dude asked me what was my favorite symphonic classical composition, and I answered truthfully.  I said, “The Lone Ranger.”

Let me tell you, those Euro dudes have no appreciation of the Wild West.

He hung up on us.

Well, wouldn’t you know, that homicidal maniac that calls hisself a conductor got all into a hissy fit, and fired me on the spot.

However, he still does let me go on towing calls as an assistant, so long as I promise to leave my Stradivarius triangle at home.

I know it’s a Stradivarius because the guy in the alley who sold it to me seemed like an honest feller.

Oops.  Gotta go now.  Tow truck just pulled up.

College Street Brawl Ensues After Physics Lecture 

A physics lecture on campus turned violent after two professors disagreed on the question of whether the universe is directionally anisotropic.

Professor Johannes declared that it is, whereupon Professor Murcheson called his colleague a big fat idiot for proposing such an absurd idea.

Johannes rebutted by saying, “No I’m not.”

But Murcheson had a ready reply.  “Yes you are,” he said.

Johannes reiterated his previous rebuttal by saying, “No, I am not.”

This exchange continued without any change in the wording of either side’s contentions until well after the lecture hall had emptied of students.

Finally, the night janitor had to tell both of them, “Get the hell out of here.”

Unfortunately, the professors decided to take the confrontation out into the parking lot, where a group of student onlookers soon gathered, and began to take sides.

When Johannes struck Murcheson with his fist, bricks began flying from the crowd.

To complicate matters, two gangs of street thugs happened along just then, and began debating the merits of quantum theory versus string theory.

The two gangs were named the “Jets” and the “Sharks.”  This was no coincidence, as they had modeled themselves after characters portrayed in the musical, West Side Story.

At first, their debate was sedate, until one of them began singing the hit song Maria, from the musical.

Having forgotten the words, and needing to make it rhyme, he made the unfortunate, but rhyming, choice of word, “diarrhea,” which so enraged the students that riot police had to be called in.

Confused, the police arrested the professors, and everyone else agreed that it was their fault, so they all went home.

LITTLE BILLY

Little Billy awoke one morning with a sense of urgency. Quickly, he got on the telephone and dialed the operator.
“Operator,” she said. She always said that.
“Quick,” Billy answered. He was ten years old, by the way. “Put me through to the president.”
“Okay,” the operator answered, sensing the urgency in Billy’s voice. “I’ll call Washington, DC right away.”
A few seconds later, a voice at the other end of the line said, “President’s office. Jake speaking. What do you want?”
Billy answered with a sense of urgency, as only a ten-year-old can. “Quick,” he said. “I need to talk to the president.”
“Sorry,” Jake said. “He’s in a meeting right now. Is it important?”
“You bet it is,” Billy answered. “Do you think I’d be calling the President of the United States if it weren’t important?”
There was a brief silence as Jake pondered the matter for a moment. Then he said, “Well, I guess you’re right. So what is it?”
“Well,” Billy answered, “last night, I had a bad dream.”
“You did?,” Jake said, “What kind of dream?”
“About flying saucers,” Billy replied. “I dreamed that we were attacked by an alien civilization from outer space. It was so real that I’m sure it’s going to happen— a week from today.”
“Hmm,” Jake said. “Hold on.” He put his hand over the phone and turned to where the president was sitting at his desk, doing president stuff. “Hey, president,” he said. “There’s a ten year old boy on the line. He says he had a dream last night about the earth being attacked by flying saucers from outer space.”
A look of concern came over the president’s face. “Sounds serious,” he said. Then, “Jake, cancel all my appointments. Send Air Force One to get that kid and bring him here. Have the Joint Chiefs of Staff ready to plan a defensive strategy.”
“Yes sir,” Jake said.
A few hours later, Air Force One Landed at Andrews Air Force Base near the White House. As Billy stepped off the plane, a crowd of news reporters pressed in on him with stupid questions. “What kind of aliens are they? What kind of weapons will they use? What do they look like? Is there any chance that they will be peaceful?”
Little Billy got scared and started to cry.
Soon, he was in the White House at the head of a conference table, facing the president, the generals and admirals, and some other people who looked important, but weren’t.
Billy described his dream in great detail.
Then one of the generals said, “According to your dream, these aliens are so incredibly advanced, so powerful, and so ruthless, that there’s nothing we can do about them. We are doomed.”
But Billy would have none of that defeatist attitude. He stood tall and proud, and made a great speech about courage, about never giving up, about fearlessness in the face of overwhelming danger.
Shamed, the generals agreed that they had to at least try.
So the president ordered a general mobilization of all the nation’s armed might. He contacted the UN and they agreed to schedule a meeting about it, as long as there was no talk about offending the aliens. Billions of dollars were spent, trillions in fact, and even whatever comes after trillions. But who cared? There was nothing to fear except the fact that Billy’s dream might not have been real after all.
And well they feared that. A week came and went and there was no alien attack.
Billy was sent home without supper.
A few days later he had another dream. In this one, there was a worldwide earthquake. The earth was covered with open fissures. Out of these, there crawled horrible goblins, which grabbed millions of people and pulled them down into the fissures to a horrible fate.
When Billy woke up, he tried to warn the White House. But they wouldn’t believe him. “Look,” Jake said. “You made fools of us the last time. We’re not going to let that happen again. Besides, we’re out of money. You made us spend it all.”
“But— you have to believe me,” Billy begged. “A week from now we could all be dead.”
But they ignored him. Another week came and went, but there was no earthquake, no goblins, and nobody died. In the following weeks, Billy continued to have more dreams, but after that, he kept them to himself.

Moral of the story: if it ever really does happen, we won’t be prepared.

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THE GENERALS

The generals stood about the table plotting strategy.
One of them said, “I say we attack. Yeah, that’s it. An all-out frontal attack on the enemy’s strongest defenses. Once we break through, they won’t have a chance.”
The other generals nodded in agreement. Then one of them said, “And after that, we attack their rear lines and wreak havoc on their logistics.”
“Yeah,” said another. “And I say we take no prisoners.”
“Right! Take no prisoners,” agreed another.
“Wait.” At this point another general was confused. “Take no prisoners?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said the other general. “Ask no quarter, give no quarter.”
“But— but I don’t understand,” the confused general stammered. “Then what are we supposed to do when enemy soldiers surrender? Just let them go?”
“No, you idiot,” the first general said. “We kill them. We annihilate the enemy. We slaughter them wherever they are to be found. Show no mercy, expect no mercy. Kill them all. That’s what I say.”
“Oh.”
“And then,” a general said, “final victory will be ours. We will have defeated the enemy once and for all.”
“Great plan!” said another general. “I say we attack at dawn. Are there any questions?”
At first there were no questions. But then one general did raise his hand.
“Yes, what is it?” another general asked. “What kind of question could you possibly have? We have planned every detail, and the plan looks perfect.”
“Well,” said the general with the question. “I was just wondering. What if we get killed?”
The other generals snorted their disgust. “What kind of stupid question is that?”
But then, after awhile, they started thinking about it. War is an inherently dangerous undertaking. Even in the rear lines, enemy missiles can reach with deadly effect. What if they indeed did get killed? What then?
So they called the whole thing off.

Moral of the story: There’s no such thing as a stupid question.

——————————————————————-

RATHER STERNLY

A man was walking down a busy city street when a woman got in his way.
“Get out of my way,” he said to her.
But the woman did not like the tone of his voice. “And what if I don’t?” she challenged.
“Why, then,” the man said, “I shall— I shall have to speak to you rather sternly.”
The woman was horrified, so much so that it attracted the attention of a nearby policeman. He walked over to the two of them and said, “Madam, is this man annoying you?”
“Worse than that,” the woman answered. “He has just threatened to speak to me rather sternly.”
The policeman now turned his attention to the man. “Is this true?” he interrogated.
“I’m afraid it is.” The man said. “You see, I was walking down this busy city street when this woman got in my way. I told her, get out of my way. But she didn’t like the tone of my voice and— well, things got a bit out of hand, and— well, I was left with no other choice.”
The policeman was visibly upset. “I’m visibly upset,” he said. “Since when do men walking down busy city streets have the temerity to threaten women (who get in their way) with speaking rather sternly to them?”
“Now just a minute,” the man said. “You’re not taking her side, are you?”
The policeman replied. “I shall have to take you to jail. Now come along peaceably, or I shall handcuff you.”
In court, the entire matter was explained to the judge. The judge was outraged. “How would you like it,” the judge demanded to know, “if I threatened to speak to you rather sternly? Huh?”
The man considered the matter, and at last he saw the light. “I guess I wouldn’t like it,” he said.
“There, then,” the judge said. “See to it that this never happens again. If I see you in court after this, then I will speak to you rather sternly about it.”

Moral of the story: Never speak to anyone rather sternly.

——————————————————————-

DETECTIVE JOE

One day Detective Joe—
Wait. Let me start over. I made it sound like Joe was a one-day detective, which he wasn’t. He was a detective most days.
One day, Detective Joe was seated at his desk, when the phone rang.
He picked it up and answered it. “Hello,” he said. “This is Detective Joe.”
“Detective Joe Friday?” the voice on the phone asked.
“No,” Detective Joe answered. “I’m a detective most days.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, that’s not what I’m calling about. The reason I’m calling is to place a bomb threat.” Suddenly the voice turned sinister. “And the bomb is going to explode in twenty-four hours.”
Joe asked, “Where is the—?”
But the caller had already hung up.
Quickly, Joe went to the captain. “Captain,” he said. “I’ve just received a bomb threat over the phone.”
A look of concern came over the captain’s face. He was visibly upset. “This sounds serious,” he said seriously. “I’m visibly upset. Where did the caller say the bomb was?”
“That’s just the problem,” Joe said. “He hung up without telling me. But he said the bomb is going to explode in twenty-four hours.”
The captain became urgent. “This is urgent,” he said. “We have to do something.”
“But what can we do?”
“What do we usually do when there’s a bomb threat?” the captain replied. “We evacuate everybody.”
“But,” Joe objected, “we don’t know where the bomb is. It could be anywhere on the face of the earth.”
“That’s exactly the point,” the captain said. “We’ll have to evacuate everybody on earth to the moon.”
“But,” Joe objected again, “that’s technologically impossible.”
The captain scowled. “Listen to you,” he said. “I’ll have none of this defeatist talk. Billions of lives could be at stake, and all you want to do is to discuss the latest technology. I say let’s get a move on and evacuate everybody from the earth to the moon before that bomb goes off.”
Within twenty-three hours, the evacuation was complete. Everybody on the earth had been moved to the moon.
An hour later, the moon exploded, killing everybody.
The plan had worked.

Moral of the story: you just never know, do you?

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TALL TALE CANYON
(A tale to be entered in the annual Liars Club Contest)

About five years ago, I visited a wilderness area in the Pacific northwest. While there, I found a footbridge across a narrow canyon. It was a tall canyon. It was very tall, It was very, very tall. As I looked down from the bridge, I was amazed at how high the canyon was, and how very, very far it seemed to the bottom of the canyon. On a whim, I pulled from my pocket a penny. Looking down toward the distant bottom of the canyon, I deliberately dropped the penny over the side of the bridge, and watched it fall… and fall… and fall. The penny seemed to fall forever… and fall… and fall.
Finally, I had to turn away and leave. I returned to my home on the east coast. But in the following five years, I often thought about that penny, and wondered what finally happened to it. I jokingly asked my self, I wonder if that penny ever did reach the bottom of that tall canyon.
Then, a few weeks ago, I paid another visit to that same wilderness area where I had dropped that penny five years before. Only this time, I did not go to the top of the canyon. Instead, I went to the bottom of the canyon. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought maybe, just maybe, I might find that penny.
Once again, I marveled at how very tall that canyon was, and I thought to myself again, only half-jokingly, what if that penny never had made it to the bottom of the canyon? It was, after all, a very tall canyon.
As I stood there musing over this, I heard a sharp thud, as something hit the ground. I looked, and there, not far from where I stood, I saw a small impact area in the ground, about the size and shape that a penny would make after a very long fall. I thought— no, it couldn’t be— not after five years. Even so, as I stepped toward that small impact area, my heart quickened. Slowly, I recognized that the object which had fallen from above was a small metal disk, brown in color. I bent over and picked it up.
Indeed, I was astonished to discover that it was, in fact, a penny! A penny had fallen from the bridge and landed near me. But there was no one on the bridge— I was the only person for miles around. But as I looked closer at the penny, I realized that it was not my penny, after all. You may wonder how I could tell, but I could. You see, this one was an Indian Head penny.

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A Mysterious Visitor, and the Mysterious Mystery

One day I was sitting at my desk pretending to work, when a mysterious visitor appeared. I knew he was mysterious, because he looked mysterious. And I knew that he was a visitor, because I had never seen him before.

Have a seat, I said to him.

He went into the next room, got a chair, brought it back and sat down.

So, after all that, I said, what can I do for you?

He said, I have come here to tell you a great secret which you must be very sure not to tell to anyone else.

Instantly, I knew this was mysterious. So, I asked, if this secret is so important not to tell anyone, then why would you tell it to me? How do you know I won’t blab it all around town?

Because, he answered, everyone knows what a big liar you are, and even if you do tell, nobody will believe you. Plus, you don’t have any friends, so you can’t blab it all around town. And you’re boring. No one listens to you. Nobody even likes you, so they won’t be interested in anything you have to say. Also….

Okay, okay, I said. I get the point.

So, then, I asked, what is this big secret?

Then he told me. I was astounded by it. This was surely the most important secret I had ever heard.

Then, as he left, he said, now be sure not to tell anyone.

I replied, don’t worry, I won’t tell.

And I won’t.

—————————————————————–

At Last, The Truth Can Be Told

Tomorrow (January 8) is the birthday of Elvis Presley.

Do you remember the few months following his death?
For months afterward, people all over the world were reporting Elvis sightings.
You see, nobody could believe that he was really dead. Elvis was just too much a part of American culture. He was full of life and music and energy.
Could he really have died?

At Last, The Truth Can Be Told
Elvis did die. Two weeks ago. Yes. He pulled it off. He fooled us all, for all these years.
You are wondering how I know this.

Elvis and I were never what you would call really close friends.
About the only things we really came together on was the fact that
he and I share the same birthday (but different years), and we both
liked rockabilly and doo-wop music.

I regret that he and I never really became much better friends, but then again,
I never actually met him, and I’m sure that had something to do with it.

So then, you must be wondering, how could I be privy to the greatest Elvis secret in all of recorded human history?

A few years after the death of Elvis, I had finally become convinced that he really and truly had died as reported. I learned to accept it, and was finally coming to grips with the awful truth, when by mere chance I happened to meet someone who told me what had really happened.

You see, Elvis had become such a great hero to the American public, that he no longer had a life that he could call his own. He would try going incognito, but no matter how cleverly disguised he was, people would always recognize him. As soon as he said, “Thank you, thank you very much,” everyone instantly knew it was him. Then, he would run away to avoid the crowds. But the crowds would stay, until someone announced, “Elvis has left the building.”

So then, Elvis finally came to me (not me, but the guy telling all this to me), because he knew that I had worked for the British secret service during World War 2, and that I had duped the Germans into thinking that the Normandy Landings would take place at the Pas de Calais. If I could pull off a deception like that, Elvis said to me (not me, but the guy telling all this to me), then surely I could find a way for him to hide from all his adoring fans.

I found the challenge very daunting (not me, but the guy telling all this to me). In order for such a deception to work, it would have to overcome the inevitable denial by everyone. Nobody, but nobody, would believe that Elvis was dead. How then, can one hide from the public when no one at all would believe he had died? To succeed in this trick, Elvis would have to hide in the very last place that anyone would ever look for him. At first, I could not imagine such a place. I thought of Antarctica, but that was too cold. I considered North Korea, but that was too evil. Then, it finally hit me (not me, but the guy telling all this to me).

All the places I had been thinking of were sure to be places that other people would think of as well, and they would be sure to go there (you may not realize how intrepid Elvis’s fans were) and find him, and then he would be more frustrated than ever.

So I had to devise the most ingenious plan that anyone has ever devised.

I told Elvis to go to Las Vegas. And get a job. As an Elvis impersonator.

And so that is what he did. At first, it was rough going. Elvis would show up to apply for the job, but time after time he got rejected. “You’ll never make it as an Elvis impersonator,” they told him. “You don’t look or sound anything like him.” You see, Elvis was still in the habit of being in disguise.

But finally he broke into the business, and from there on, it was smooth sailing all the way. The other impersonators became jealous of him, but in the end, Elvis had such a winning personality that they all liked him (except for Jerry Lee Lewis, who at the time was failing in his attempt to become a Jerry Lee Lewis impersonator).

Have you ever been to Vegas? Did you see any Elvis impersonators there? Remember that one, the one about whom you remarked, “Wow, that guy is really good at this!”

Exactly how Elvis finally did die, two weeks ago, is still a bit of a mystery. It makes me wonder (yes, me, not the guy telling all this to me). Could it be? Could it just possibly be that—? Nah. No one would ever believe that.

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Elite Society Now Accepting Donations From Riff-Raff

Hello, ordinary Americans.  Charles Evans Hughes the Fourth here.  As Head Whooptie of the ASOPTGFY (American Society of People Too Good for You), I am proud to say that our organization has never stooped to accepting contributions from nonmembers.  We are just too good to accept money from the likes of you.  

But with the recent economic downturns, and due to some unwise financial decisions on our part, we find ourselves forced to consider the unthinkable.  So, for a limited time only, we are offering a unique opportunity to riff-raff and ordinary commoners, to hand over some of their hard-earned money to help support the members of ASOPTGFY in the luxurious lifestyle to which we have become accustomed.

No doubt you feel very privileged to receive this generous offer from our treasurer, and you are probably wondering, what is the maximum amount which you will be allowed to give?

The good news is that there is no maximum.  You can give any amount you like:  a thousand, two thousand, or even ten thousand dollars would be a good start.

And that’s not all.  If you donate now, you will receive absolutely free of extra charge, a lifetime, one-year Honorary Associate Membership (HAM) in ASOPTGFY.  That’s right, folks.  As a HAM of ASOPTGFY, you will receive all of the prestige and benefits of being a maid or servant at our luxurious lifestyle resort in the Bahamas.  You will be allowed to purchase the requisite uniforms, and entitled to actually serve drinks to us, and to clean up after us.

Imagine the envy of your riff-raff neighbors as you turn up your nose at them, and condescendingly announce that you are too good for the likes of them.

And to prove it, you will receive (for a nominal extra fee) a certified certificate of certification, proclaiming that although you are not as good as we are, you are better than those who are not as good as you are.

So send in at least a thousand dollars (US) to

ASOPTGFY

One Snooty Boulevard,

Bahamas

PS:  And do not expect any thanks.  You owe us this.

Philosopher Mountain Climber Wins Prestigious Award

Philosophers are thinking people.  Mountain climbers climb mountains.  A philosopher mountain climber is a person who thinks about climbing mountains.

As a philosopher mountain climber, or PMC as we are called, I am pleased to announce that I have awarded myself this year’s annual trophy, the Prestigious Award.

I deserve this award because, over my career as a PMC (not to be confused with PMS), I have thought about climbing many mountains.  The first of my many exploits was the most dangerous of them all, the north slope of the Matterhorn.

When I first announced my intention of thinking about scaling this behemoth, many of my fellow PMCs warned me against it.  It is simply too risky, they argued.  Last year, two PMCs embarked on an ill-fated attempt to think about reaching the summit, and they thought about falling to their, well, let’s not think about it.  Let us just say that the attempts to think about rescuing them, by mountain rescue philosophers, was a failure.

But I was determined to succeed, and against all odds, I did.  It was not easy going, but then, nothing worthwhile ever is.

Next month, I shall attempt to think about scaling Mount Everest itself. I realize the risks involved.  But if not me, then who?  Don’t answer that.

In preparation for this historic event, I have carefully prepared.  I have even thought about visiting the local philosophy supply store, where one can think about purchasing cold weather gear, and masonry spikes.  I even thought about paying for them.  (Warning:  never think about stealing anything from philosophy supply stores, or else, they will think about arresting you.)

So wish me well.  If you do not hear from me after the end of next month, please think about sending the philosopher rescue teams.  I will think about thanking you.