Daily Archives: August 23, 2015

Aug 23 2015
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Ask the Alien

Ask the Alien – PBBPB of “Paperback Beauty Pageant” – What’s Your Favorite Snack Food?

Greetings Earth Losers.

I'm covering my lack of bits and pieces with a guitar so PBBPB won't laugh at me.

I’m covering my lack of bits and pieces with a guitar so PBBPB won’t laugh at me.

No.  You know what?  I won’t even call two of you Earth losers this week, for when Bookshelf Q. Battler put out a notice that my illustrious overlord, the Mighty Potentate, was going to vaporize me lest someone ask me a question for this week’s column, two of you nobly stepped forward and put yourselves between His Potentosity’s vaporizing cannon and my tiny green body.

And they say chivalry is dead.

Pandora Spocks stopped by to inquire what my favorite X-Files episode is.  I’m going to get back to her on that one because that show was more or less a documentary of the Mighty Potentate’s 1990’s era efforts to colonize Earth and impregnate a skeptical female FBI agent.  I need to consult with the Potent One to see what he does and doesn’t want you humans to know.

So this week, I’m taking a question from PBBPB of the Paperback Beauty Pageant.

Ahh, the book cover.  That often shortchanged yet oh so important part of the publishing process.  3.5, you could write a tale so eloquent that it makes Shakespeare’s collective works look like a pile of stinky crap and yet, if it’s packaged with a cover that looks like it was drawn by weirdoes, no one’s going to bother reading it.

Sure, you might argue, “I’m a writer, not an illustrator!”  And while that’s true, the cover is usually taken by the reader as the first sign as to whether or not you’re taking your craft seriously.  Do you, as an author, understand the burden of keeping an audience happy?  You might fail, or more likely, some of your readers will love what you do and others will despise it, but the key question answered by the cover is whether or not you are at least making an effort to entertain your readers.

That’s why I stand by Bookshelf Q. Battler.  No matter what, he’s at least trying to entertain people.  (Oh, and also, you know, the MP says he’ll make with the vapey vape if I abandon him so there’s that.)

On his blog, PBBPB posts covers from old and lame sci-fi novels, usually published somewhere between 1950-1980.  From his writing style, he’s clearly gifted with a unique sense of humor, one that he uses to lambaste these covers and poke out their failures (as well as their nonsensical plots).

Some of my favorites:

The robot that’s spooning a spaceman. 

Inappropriately placed alien hand.

Metal monster has hots for space babe.

Self-publishers, let this be a lesson for you.  Do your research to find a designer with a proven track record of producing quality book covers, then dig deep into your pockets to pay him.

Otherwise, you might end up with a book cover featuring characters wearing nothing but leather lederhosen, because for some reason, people from the 1950’s to 1980 assumed that space was going to be lousy with people wearing nothing but German S and M bondage gear.

Now then, on to PBBPB’s question:

Mankind has enjoyed and suffered millennia within what is essentially a fish bowl. We look out at the stars which, though distorted by our atmosphere, speak volumes to us from distances likely untraversable in the lifetimes of ourselves or our posterity. Should we, as a species, encounter a traveler from a world who was able to bridge the gap between the cosmic backdrop and our planet, those millenia of history will come crashing down upon the poor being’s head, whether we intend it or not, through interaction and negotiation with us. It isn’t our fault, really, but we’ve only had ourselves to talk to for as long as we’ve lived, and have no operational context with which to engage in first contact. Given the vast differences in our experience, cultural and personal, I have to know—what’s your favorite Earth snack food?

I like it.  So many writers take themselves way too seriously.  This dude is a fresh change of pace.

You pose a question within a question here.

Humans do have a bad habit of envisioning themselves as the only beings in the universe.  You’re right, it’s not your fault. It’s all that you know.  In many ways, I envy you.  You get to go about your lives and focus on the mundane and the trivial without having to be preoccupied by constant Moloklaxon attacks as my species does.

Those Moloklaxons.  Truly, the a-holes of the cosmos.  Don’t even get me started.

Humans, think about it.  You sit on a giant ball in the middle of a vast sea of black nothingness.  Your scientists have determined and demonstrated to you there are other such balls throughout the void.

When you look at all these balls (stop laughing!), how does it not occur to you that there might be sentient life on another ball other than your own?

OK.  You know what?  Fine.  Just keep laughing at the word “ball.”  This is why you people are falling behind the rest of the universe.

Would an alien find it difficult to communicate with you?  Depends on the being.  A Moloklaxon would just eat you.

Meanwhile, I’m able to communicate with you just fine, but I’m a highly advanced being able to express myself in your language.

There are limits.  You can’t pronounce my real name so I have to go with “Alien Jones.”  And I refer to myself as a “he” even though I am junkless, just because your language doesn’t account for the possibility of a sentient life form that isn’t a man or a woman.

Sorry, but I’m too accomplished to allow myself to be referred to as an “it.”

Oh, and I do wish the Mighty Potentate had chosen a forum with more range than a book nerd’s blog that only draws in 3.5 readers, but who am I to question the Mighty One?

To get to the more important question, what is my favorite Earth snack food?

I am partial to funions.  They are delicious and the name on the bag does not deceive for they are made out of (or at least taste like) onions and they are fun.

The Mighty Potentate is partial to buffalo wings, so much so, that he once tried to shoot me out of a cannon directly into our world’s sun because I failed to bring him the requisite blue cheese sauce when I picked up an order for him.

It wasn’t my fault.  They always screw you at the intergalactic drive thru.

See?  We have some of the same problems you do, incompetent fast food workers chief among them.

Finally, my government mandated life partner, Alien Rosencrantz, is a big fan of chili cheese fries.  Luckily, we have very efficient metabolisms so they don’t go straight to his thighs.

You have to have an efficient metabolism when you don’t have a butt, after all.

Thank you for saving me from death by vaporization, PBBPB.  Your name has been added to the protected rolls in the event that one of the Mighty Potentate’s plans for Earth conquest proves successful.

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, on a mission to raise Earth’s collective intelligence levels one question at a time. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle on Twitter, leave it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com, or stop by Bookshelf Battle on Google Plus. If he likes your question, he might even promote your book, blog, other project in his answer.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Take the Smeller vs. Denier Challenge!

Hey 3.5 readers,shutterstock_207933922

Are you enjoying Jake’s latest adventure?  I have to say I am.

For those just tuning in:

Monte Carlo.  1952.  Jake is on his honeymoon with Cajun cutie Muffelia “Muffy” Bordeaux, the second Mrs. Hatcher.

Jake’s never had a better string of luck before.  At home, his private investigation business is booming.  He’s married to a bodacious babe and he’s just won $25,000 at the poker table (which would be great today, but think of that in 1952 money!)

Alas, life throws him a curveball.

While attending a dinner party thrown by his host, Count Rickard, a most unfortunate stench ruins Jake’s otherwise lovely evening.

Sir Rupert Roundtree, the British Secretary of State and Patrice Charbonneau, the French Ambassador to the United Kingdom, each blame the other, claiming the impromptu excretion was intended by the other as an insult.  Each demands war and Hatcher, a veteran of World War II, must uncover the culprit if he wants to fend off World War III.

To complicate matters, Hatcher notices the check for his gambling proceeds is missing.

Who did it?  Was it done to force a third global conflict?  To cover up a check theft?  Or some other unseemly reason?

TAKE THE SMELLER VS. DENIER CHALLENGE!

RULES

  1.  Be over 18.  Young people, I wish you best of luck with your writing, but I don’t want to deal with anyone who doesn’t know what a mortgage is.
  2. Read the story.
  3. Guess who did it and why.
  4. DO NOT put your guess in the comments.  Dudes, spoilers.
  5. ON TWITTER, Direct Message your guesses to @bookshelfbattle
  6. TWEET @bookshelfbattle to let me know you DM’d a guess, otherwise I never pay attention to my DM’s due to the high volume of weirdoes who are trying to sell me time shares and miracle rash cure ointments.
  7. I still have a long way to go before the story is finished, maybe a week or more, so feel free to change your guesses as the story unfolds.
  8. When this all wraps up, Jake will write a column to acknowledge those who guessed right.
  9. If said accurate guessers have books or blogs to plug, he’ll plug away.
  10. Though as always, Attorney Donnelly notes the management reserves the right not to do so if he deems your book to be weird.  So you know, no thanks if your book is “Hooray for Hitler!”
  11. Heck, Jake might even have a heart and plug the losers’ books and blogs too.  Note that you won’t be considered a loser in life, just for purposes of this particular contest.

WHERE TO READ THE STORY

The full story is available on this blog.  I’ve put parts 1-9 together here, 10-12 are up and more will be coming for awhile.

I’ve also been updating it regularly on wattpad.  You may find that format easier to read, especially on a cell phone or tablet.  You don’t have to click around, it’s all right there.

I don’t have an exact date when Jake will finish the story.  This is quite a caper.  Conceivably, it could go into September.

If you send me a guess, I’ll just thank you for your participation.  I’m not able to tell you if you’re right or wrong.  Only Jake knows who did it and my only contact with him is through the exceptionally classy and refined Delilah K. Donnelly, who absolutely refuses to discuss bodily functions with anyone, even if its on my behalf.

So, you know, don’t publicly reveal your guesses until Jake makes his public reveal in the story itself.

If you’re one of the random few who don’t have something to plug but want to guess anyway, feel free to do so.

This is your chance to become an assistant detective.  Scour the story.  Search for clues.  Review the evidence.  Make your determination.

Finally folks, just remember this is all just for fun and a blatant attempt by me to try to get more people to read my stuff so, please don’t get mad or sue me or something.  Attorney Donnelly has enough work to do already.

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 12)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Signor Hatcher,”  Bellavenuti said.  “I must protest the way you are treating us like criminals.  Your concern over your check is unfounded, no?”

“How do you figure, Signora?”

“Because all you need do is call the casino first thing in the morning and request they cancel the missing check and issue you a new one!”

“I could do that,”  I said.  “But suppose the crook beats me to the punch, cashes it, and runs away never shutterstock_239019796to be found again?  What then?  I fight some cockamamie international legal battle from my home in the states for the rest of my life?  Not a chance…especially…”

“Especially, what?”  Signora Bellavenuti said through her luscious lips.

“…when YOU DID IT!”

“BASTARDO!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted as she stood up and slapped me across the face.

“Admit it!”  I said.  “Long before you started your own designer label, ‘Haus of Bellavenuti,’ you were a gorgeous fashion model who walked the runway with poise, precision, and grace.  Why, I bet you could put a book on your head and walk from here to Romania without it falling off once!”

“What are your implying?”

“Implying?  I’m saying!  You’re no klutz, Signora, and when you spilled that wine all over the best jacket I own, you did it so you could slip your nimble fingers into my pocket and grab my loot!”

“Best jacket?!  Patooie!  I spit on your best jacket!  If that is your best jacket then you are no better than the beggar who pleads for the scraps that I throw away!”

With that, the Signora removed her stole, unzipped the back of her dress, and allowed it to fall to the ground.

There she stood in a black bra and panties.

“Oggle all you wish, pervert!  I do not need your money, you fool! I can buy and sell a horde of you!”

I gave her voluptuous form the old once over with my peepers.  I didn’t want to but I had no choice.  I was a detective.  I had to do what I had to do.

“My apologies, Signora,”  I said.  “I can now rule you out as well.”

“I should rule out your face!”

Professor Fremont’s head was pointed at me, but his lazy eye was aimed at the Signora’s form.  The ex-model wacked him upside the head.

“Stop gawking at me you deviant!”

“I can’t help it!”

“Can’t you, Professor?”  I asked.

“I really can’t,”  Professor said.  “My eye is permanently stuck toward the right.”

“And yet, you made sure you positioned yourself in a seat that allowed that eye to point at the Signora all evening.  You’re attracted to her aren’t you?”

“She’s quite fetching.”

“You’re madly in love with her!  You’ve been following her around all night, trying to impress her with superficial philosophical observations completely devoid of any real meaning.”

“He has!”  the Signora said.

“What we do and why we do it are two separate agendas,”  the Professor said.  “When it comes to a man’s motivations, the Id, Ego, and Superego all come into play.”

“Did you stink her out?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Signora!”  I said.  “She spurned your advances one too many times so you got your revenge by letting one rip in her general vicinity, didn’t you?  DIDN’T YOU?”

“I most certainly did not,”  the Professor said.  “Detective Hatcher, while tales of your investigatory prowess precede you, you have embarrassed yourself with this line of questioning.”

“How so?”

“Did you forget the part where I passed out?”

He got me.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“It’s an incontrovertible scientific fact that a man cannot be offended by his own expungements,”  the Professor said as if I were one of his students.

“That’s true,”  Yakubovich said.  “Some men even sit around and sniff their own stink as a reminder of their personal machismo.”

Everyone glared at Yakubovich.  He sunk down in his chair.

“So I have heard.”

“My body found the air to be so foul that it shut my entire system down to prevent me from breathing it in any further, thus saving my life,”  Fremont argued.

“Maybe you were faking,”  I said.

The Countess intervened on the Professor’s behalf.

“He wasn’t,”  my host said.  “I held the smelling salts under the Professor’s nose for quite some time.  I checked his pulse and it grew so slight I feared I would have to call for the undertaker.”

“You see?”  the Professor said.  “You can no sooner accuse me of being the olfactory offender than you could purport that Sir Isaac Newton caused his infamous apple to fall on his own head.”

I extended my hand.  The Professor shook it.

“You’re off the hook, nerd.”

“Of course I am,”  Fremont said.  “And while I have the floor, I must object to your investigatory methods.   You’ve engaged in plenty of speculation and conjecture, but only a scientific approach can draw the delinquent out into the open.”

“You’re right,”  I said.  “I’ve been in remiss.”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Perhaps you should analyze the diplomats’ motivations?”

“He who sniffed it, biffed it!”  Sir Rupert said.

“He who thwarted it, borted it!”

“Borted it?”  Rupert said.  “Bort isn’t even a word!”

“Oh, and biff is?”

“I could do that, Fabes,”  I said.  “But each man would simply accuse the other of cutting one as a precursor to global annihilation.  I’d get nowhere.  No, Professor Fremont is absolutely right.  If this case is to be put to bed, I must conduct a more thorough, rational inquiry.”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 11)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Two heinous misdeeds have occurred this evening,”  I said.  “The theft of my poker moolah and an expulsion so ghastly that it not only drove my wife mad…”

“Grandpappy Guilliaum, is that you?”  Muffy asked.  “Come back to me, Grandpappy!”

“…but it also rocked the stability of the Allied powers.”

“He who expounded it, pounded it,”  Rupert said.

“He who deceived it, retrieved it,” Charbonneau replied.shutterstock_71510056

“SILENCE!”  I shouted.

The room grew quiet.

“Two offenses,” I said, “And not one of you will come forward to claim either or both of them.”

“Are they even connected?”  Fremont asked.

“An astute question, Professor,”  I said.  “If either action was not a reaction to the opposing action then that is quite a coincidence and my detective’s intuition always mandates that I must never assume a coincidence has occurred until two events are proven to be unconnected to one another.”

“I am surrounded by idiotas,”  Signora Bellavenuti said.

“Motivation,”  I said.  “Though a circumstantial lens through which to view a case, motivation, more often than not, provides the first glimpse of the true culprit.  Though a person had a reason to do something does not mean he or she did it, determining who had the most reason to do it is a necessary exercise in any investigation.”

“Then exercise away,”  the Count said.

“I will,”  I replied.  “And Count Rickard, I will start with you and the Countess.”

The Countess’ monocle popped off yet again.

“How dare you?!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Why would one of us ruin our own dinner party?”

I thought about it.

“You wouldn’t,”  I said.  “You are a couple of leisure and you enjoy consorting with the various celebrities and beautiful people who make their way to Monaco in the summer.  Pardon the pun, but one whiff of what happened here this evening will lead to your social calendar being very empty.  Neither of you would have done this.”

The Count was furious.

“Then stop wasting time and tell us who did it!”

I spun around and pointed at the would be big game hunter.

“LORD BLACKBURN!”

Collective gasp.

“Me?”

“Yes you!”  I said.

I walked over to the corpulent self-proclaimed Safari master and got right in his face.

“Stereotypically speaking, you’re the prime candidate to pin the evil excretion on!”

The Lord’s eyes shifted back and forth.  He looked exceptionally nervous.

“I am?”

“You are,”  I said.  “Pardon my impropriety, but these are desperate times, so I must point out that you are the fattest person in the room, and thus if we are to remain true to our default mindset, then you are the one to blame, for one of the oldest stereotypes in the book is that the obese have no ability to control their bowels!”

“Yes!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted.  “It was the fat man!  Take him away!”

“I didn’t do it I swear!”

“Didn’t you?”  I asked as I studied the man’s eyes.  “You consume more food than the average man…”

“I do not!”  Lord Blackburn interrupted.  “It’s glandular!”

“That’s what they all say!”  I screamed in the Lord’s fast as I grabbed him by the shoulders and continued my interrogation.  “You eat more food than the average man and therefore, you have a greater propensity to produce an emission!”

“LIES!”  Lord Blackburn cried.  “ALL LIES!”

“Hatcher,”  Yakubovich said.  “Of course the overweight Westerner did it.  All you capitalist pigs do all day long is stuff your faces and pass gas with nary a thought of the rest of the world.”

“Did you do it?”  I asked.

“NO!”

“DID YOU DO IT?”

“NO!”

Lord Blackburn broke out into tears and made an impassioned plea.

“All my life, I have struggled with my weight.  And all my life, whenever the source of an odor is in question, the finger is immediately pointed at me.  I bathe early and often, multiple times a day just to avoid suspicion for I know the world is full of cruel, callous people and false accusations of odor production will always be my lot in life.”

My heart sunk.  Sometimes being a jerk is part of a private dick’s job.  It’s necessary, but it’s also the one aspect I despise the most.

“I assure you sir, it was not me.  I can control myself just as well as any man.  I was once chased by rabid cougar and not once did I expectorate through my sphincter.”

“Hmm,”  I said.

I patted the big galoot on the shoulder.

“I believe him.”

I was derided throughout the room.  “Oh come on!”  and “He did it!” and so forth.

“No,”  I said.  “People, please.  The only thing that separates us from the animals that Lord Blackburn claims to murder so often is the ability to make deductions based on reasoning and not preconceived notions about a man just because he’s part of a certain group or class.”

“Your heart is bleeding, comrade,”  Yakubovich said.

“Yes,” I said.

I crossed over to the other side of the table.

Now it was my turn.

“Stand up!”  I ordered Yakubovich.

“You’re insane!”

“Please do as his says, Mr. Yakubovich,”  the Count said.  “We must get to the bottom of this.”

Yakubovich rose up.

“And it was out of your bottom from which this entire evening came, isn’t it Yaku-bopper?”

“Watch your tongue before I cut it out.”

“Earlier, you came to me and asked me to stand up,”  I said.  “I expected that you were going to throttle me but instead you gave me a hug.  It was most out of character for a man suspected of being one of the  world’s most notorious black market arms dealers!”

“I am legitimate businessman!”  Yakubovich said.  “And I wished to apologize for being a poor sport but now I wish I hadn’t it.”

“Or perhaps you never did?”  I asked.  “Perhaps when you hugged me and squeezed me with the muscles you formed while toiling your youth away in a Siberian gulag…”

I reached into the man’s jacket pockets.

“…you were merely distracting me just long enough to stick a hand inside my coat and swipe the check for the winnings you were not man enough to admit that you lost fair and square!”

I turned his pockets out.

“Ha!”

They were empty.

“Oh,”  I said.

“What a moron,”  Yakubovich said.  “Hatcher, you are making a spectacle of yourself.  Your check probably fell out somewhere around the house.  You should retrace your steps for it.”

“Should I?”  I asked.  “Or should I…check your pants pockets?!”

I turned those inside out too.  Nothing.

“Damn it!”

“Fine!”  Yakubovich said as he angrily unfastened his belt.  “You want to inspect everything?  Here we go!”

The Russian dropped his drawers to reveal a pair of red polka dot boxers.  He ripped off his coat and shirt for good measure, but left his undershirt on.

He stood there in his skivvies staring at me.

“Are you happy now?!”

“Good news, Sergei,”  I said.  “You’re in the clear!”

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Aug 23 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier – Part 10

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

I positioned my body in front of the door, preventing Yakubovich’s and Bellavenuti’s attempts at a swift exit.  My intervention gave the Countess enough time to produce a key from her pocket and lock the door.

Tempers were flaring.  I knew I had to restore order lest the group turn shutterstock_187399232into an angry mob and maul the Countess for the key.

“Remain calm and return to your seats,”  I said as a I raised my hands.  “As the only detective here, it is my duty to preserve the crime scene until this matter is resolved.”

“A crime?”  Yakubovich asked.  “You’re being ridiculous, aren’t you?  Surely, someone in this room has committed a breach of social etiquette but I highly doubt it would constitute a jailable offense.”

“I’m not talking about the antagonizing aroma,”  I said.  “I’m referring to the underlying offense that the stench was intended to quench, or cover up, as it were.”

The countess held a vial of smelling salts underneath Professor Fremont’s nose.  He began to stir.

Meanwhile, across the table, Muffy was in her chair, curled up in the fetal position, babbling on and on about her grandpappy Guillaume.

Lord Blackburn, who’d spaced out for a bit, managed to regain control of his senses.

“That was the most vile smell to have ever transgressed the depths of my nasal passages,” the Lord said.  “And in that assessment, I include the time I slit open the belly of a bull elephant and hid inside its guts for three days whilst trying to evade a predatory pride of lions who were hot on my trail.”

“Wow,”  I said.  “Three whole days?  No, no matter.  People, I had a check from the Hotel Rondileau in my jacket pocket for the sum of twenty-five grand and now it is nowhere to be found.”

Professor Fremont, now awake, sipped a glass of water.

“Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?”  the uptight intellectual asked.

“Of course.”

“Because it’s always in the last place you look, which seems like an ironic statement because of course, if you find it, then obviously that would be, by default, the last place you look.  Why would you continue the search for a found item?  But you know, Descartes once said…”

“Ugh.”

Looking back on it now, Bellavenuti’s “ughs” were the highlight of the evening.  She always went out of her way to make it known whenever someone was displeasing her.

“Signor Hatcher,”  the fashion designer said.  “You embarrass yourself with this petty accusation.  Look around you.  You are surrounded by people of high class and stature.  No one would lower themselves to abscond with your winnings.”

“Wouldn’t they?”  I asked.  “My dear, Signora Bellavenuti, one would ALSO presume that a gas attack so obscene in its approach and violent in its execution could NEVER occur in a room occupied by such a resplendent cadre of characters and yet here we are, are we not?”

For once in the evening, the good Signora was speechless.

“He’s got you there,” Fremont said.

“Oh, stifle yourself you pathetic creature.  You have been leering at me with that evil eye of yours all evening!”

“I was kicked in the face by a goat on my uncle’s farm when I was five years old,”  the scholar said.  “I can’t help it!”

The Count was back in his chair, watching helplessly as the duo of diplomats continued to eviscerate one another.

“We shall burn London to the ground!”  Charbonneau declared.

“We’ll knock over the Eiffel Tower and pick our teeth with it we will!”  Rupert replied.

“Hatcher,”  the Count said as he rested his head in his hands.  “Perhaps there are more pressing matters to attend to than your precious payday?  Such as, the preservation of peace, perhaps?!”

“You know you did it!”  Charbonneau said.

“Oh yeah?”  Rupert said.

The Brit stood up, leaned over the table, and prominently announced, “WELL, HE WHO SMELT IT, DEALT IT!”

A hushed panic embraced the group.  Gasps.  Whispers.  We were all descending into madness.

Charbonneau got on his feet.  He scratched his head, causing that dead animal he was trying to pass off as a wig to flop about, until finally he arrived at the perfect comeback.

“Sir.  I shall have you know that, HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And thus, the verbal joust began.  The scene became like a tennis match. One diplomat would levy an accusation, the other would knock a denial straight over the net.

“He who detected it, projected it!” Rupert proudly declared.

“He who refuted it, tooted it!” was the French ambassador’s entreaty.

Back and forth.  Back and forth.

“He who sayed it, sprayed it!”

“He who refused it, abused it!”

“He who bemoaned it, foamed it!”

“He who withdrew it, pooed it!”

“He who squealed it, congealed it!”

“He who said “no,” made it go!”

“He who announced it, pounced it!”

“He who doubted it, touted it!”

“He who flaunted it, taunted it!”

Two men.  Both masters at diplomacy, skilled in the art of debate.  They continued to attack and deflect for an hour.

They grew sweaty and weak.  They removed their jackets, loosened their ties and each man’s voice grew hoarse with exhaustion.

“Sir Rupert,” Charbonneau said.  “I have made accurate points.  You have returned with commendable counter-propositions, but even you surely must agree that….”

We waited for it.  It was on the tip of Charbonneau’s tongue.  He tapped a finger to his chin as he selected his words carefully.”

“…he who shunned it, BUMMED IT!”

“No!”  Rupert said, slapping his knee.  “That is off-rhyme, Ambassador!  ‘Shunned’ and ‘bummed’ are close together in sound, but close is not the name of the game here.  Relent sir, for you have been matched!”

“Preposterous!”  Charbonneau said.

That rug was barely hanging onto the Frenchman’s head now and he didn’t even notice.

“At no time was that made a rule of this contest.”

“It is an unwritten rule,”  Sir Rupert said.  “Concede your loss!”

“Never!”

“Gentlemen,”  I said.  “This is getting us nowhere.”

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