Yesterday, after giving an emergency sermon at my church, (The pastor had come down with a nasty case of scurvy, the poor man.) I was spending a typical Sunday afternoon knitting doilies for those poor unfortunates of our State born with naked credenzas.
But before starting out on my customary visit to the frail 90 year old grandmother across the canyon (yes, it did mean a three hour hike through Sasquatch infested tarns, but she so looks forward to the brownies.), it suddenly occurred to me that I should check up on that misguided, but lovable scamp, LOBO. (Someday, maybe, my prayers will help to turn him from his desolate ways into a useful member of society. A chimney sweep perhaps; or a door stop.)
Imagine my surprise and disappointment to see that the wayward rogue was again up to his usual tricks (Shaking a weary and some say 'saintly' head at the follies of the world.)
This time the miscreant was impugning my character with regards to his scurrilous behavior in the "Comma" caper. Naturally, I believe in turning the other cheek, or as Saint Falsidicus put it so well, "Nunquam tribuo a combibo an vel effrego." (Why yes, I am an early church scholar, but only part time of course, now that I've replaced poor, misguided, Reverend Wright as Senator Obama's spiritual adviser.)
But, and I say firmly, but, I simply can't allow LOBO to disparage the good names of Brother Diesel, Sister Chelle B. and Brother uh...45(?). Further, I must address the incident at Brent and Camille's place in a truthful manner. Only by showing LOBO the error of his ways can we ever hope for his reclamation. (Or recycling if it becomes absolutely necessary.)
The whole sordid tale began last Friday. I was just finishing up a prises on Global Eating for the United Nations when I received a call from a distraught young lady. Obviously, I can't reveal her name, and a gentleman would never disclose why this lovely creature would have my private phone number; lets just call her: 'Lady S'.
"Oh Studmuffin!" (Just a pet name, it means nothing really.) she cried, "LOBOs been snorting Drano again! I found little blue crystals all over his latest issue of Cat-kicker Magazine! And I'm missing a package of moth balls!"
"Oh, and he left a note."
Naturally I had Lady S. fax me the note:
I knew there was no time to waste. Somewhere out there was a man (57 percent agree in the latest LOBO opinion poll) high on drain cleaner; sucking on white waxy balls of naphtha; and bent of destruction. I had to stop him!
Fortunately I was able to utilize the services of the IIS (Idaho Intelligence Service. Thanks Chelle!) to get the exact location of the Ominous Comma's compound. Then I called in a favor with the Secretary of State (It was nothing really, a small matter of a nuclear-tipped brassiere, a freighter full of radioactive whiffle balls and Carmen Electra. A story for another day. Nevertheless, the President thinks he owes me, so who am I to argue?)
I arrived at BrentD's (The Ominous Comma himself) fashionable fortified villa minutes after leaving the VTOL. SecDef had offered me a Special Forces unit, but I was worried that LOBO might become injured in a melee. So I went in alone. I knew that Camille and Brent were out of town for the weekend. What LOBO knew was always a matter of conjecture.
The place was trashed, especially the "workroom". Empty beer bottles, Robitussin containers, and for some strange reason, dozens of pairs of pajamas littered the place. However, the layers of dust on all of these items convinced me that this was probably just Brent's normal working conditions ("Poor Camille", I thought.)
It was in the bathroom that I made my discovery.
Passed out in a tub filled with Jello and Cheese Wiz and wearing a tin foil hat.
"Thank God." I thought to myself, "At least he hasn't done anything weird!" I turned to find a phone to call for assistance from some local "mental health restraint specialists" when I felt a tremendous blow to the back of my head, and everything went black.
When I came to, I was alone. Only the faint oder of aerosol cheese product remained to tell me of LOBO's lingering presence.
Using escape techniques I learned from the Amish Masters of West Kootenai, I was soon free.
Thats the whole story. I tried my best to straighten up the mess left by LOBO before Brent and Camille's return. (I hope you like the new wallpaper and the sun room addition Brent.) Unfortunately, cherry Jello and Cheese Wiz apparently act something like a two-part epoxy. A new tub may be called for.
By the time I returned to my mountain fastness in north-west-central Idaho, I had received word from 'Lady S' that LOBO, smelling of Vicks VapoRub and covered in picante sauce had returned home. Sadder - but unfortunately, no wiser. I vowed that the next time, the Swat team would go in first.
And I'd be around to console the widow.
The Really "Good" stuff is kept over at humor-blogs.com.
:)
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