Big Trouble in Little Chinatown
It was just another cornball, kinda average, candy coated, sugar puffy day in the big city of Little Chinatown. And the famed and thoroughly unpronouncable detective Sherlock P. Tracy-Moto-Wong-Kay-Bugger-Holmesian-McCloud was on the case. He took a cool puff from his solitary cigarette, then collapsed to the ground in veritable palpitations of nicotine-charged sickness, spewing a black mess all over his mother's favourite lamp post. He had his sickness, all right.
Evenin' sickness to be precise. And twas on this jaded evenin' that our heroic detective went to the carnival, shot some pool, checked into a sleazy nightclub, played tennis with his spy racket, and beheld the corpse of one distinctly unesteemed and throughly pronouncable Wanda J. Crudula-McSimpson. It seemed the body in question had been tossed and turned and peppered with feathers most violently as if it had been dipped in a tar bath, thrown into a small coal fire, and rotated a full 360 degrees on a spit fashioned of candy wrappers and liberally used chewing gum before being wrenched through a wrought iron fence, and had its head jammed beneath a paving stone so that a wrinkled leprecaun possessed of stagnant rum could do a little victory dance upon it set to the tune of The Andrews Sisters' latest hit. Then a bin hungry for revenge had rolled all over it. Of course Sherlock P. knew this.
For he had done the rather popular deed!
"Hullo, a clue!" said the unconvicted homicidal maniac, "It seems old Simmers McCrum has had a rather fortunate accident. We must track down the culprit ma, and nail him to a balsa wood chair beneath a 5-watt lamp. By that kooky methoid (yep, I say meth-oid), we shall extract an expert testimony. The game is afoot... ma."
Old Shirley's ma stepped forth, clad in a sheep skin, with the rest of the fiesty but certainly deceased sheep attatched. It wrought an eerie influence on the disease-ridden pensioner.
"He's dead dearie. Baaa!"
"Yep, ma, he sure is. Dead as a certain thing that can't quite decide whther it should be inanimate or otherwise wriggly with the fruits of existence. Hullo."
"Let's celebrate with one of my famous mint julep iced teas. Baa!"
"Okey-dokey. I'm buying, ma."
"Ba."
And the moral of this story is - you can milk a lobster, but a Simmers is way too stangant. To live.
Evenin' sickness to be precise. And twas on this jaded evenin' that our heroic detective went to the carnival, shot some pool, checked into a sleazy nightclub, played tennis with his spy racket, and beheld the corpse of one distinctly unesteemed and throughly pronouncable Wanda J. Crudula-McSimpson. It seemed the body in question had been tossed and turned and peppered with feathers most violently as if it had been dipped in a tar bath, thrown into a small coal fire, and rotated a full 360 degrees on a spit fashioned of candy wrappers and liberally used chewing gum before being wrenched through a wrought iron fence, and had its head jammed beneath a paving stone so that a wrinkled leprecaun possessed of stagnant rum could do a little victory dance upon it set to the tune of The Andrews Sisters' latest hit. Then a bin hungry for revenge had rolled all over it. Of course Sherlock P. knew this.
For he had done the rather popular deed!
"Hullo, a clue!" said the unconvicted homicidal maniac, "It seems old Simmers McCrum has had a rather fortunate accident. We must track down the culprit ma, and nail him to a balsa wood chair beneath a 5-watt lamp. By that kooky methoid (yep, I say meth-oid), we shall extract an expert testimony. The game is afoot... ma."
Old Shirley's ma stepped forth, clad in a sheep skin, with the rest of the fiesty but certainly deceased sheep attatched. It wrought an eerie influence on the disease-ridden pensioner.
"He's dead dearie. Baaa!"
"Yep, ma, he sure is. Dead as a certain thing that can't quite decide whther it should be inanimate or otherwise wriggly with the fruits of existence. Hullo."
"Let's celebrate with one of my famous mint julep iced teas. Baa!"
"Okey-dokey. I'm buying, ma."
"Ba."
And the moral of this story is - you can milk a lobster, but a Simmers is way too stangant. To live.
posted by James C. Swanton at 2:45 PM
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