Monday, October 17, 2016

The Forbidden Shaolin Upper Cannon Punch Mobius Fold







I called up my pal Jimmy Poon to cry on his shoulder about all the stuff I have to get done.

"Hello, Jimmy Poon..."

"Royal, what's new? Ready for the trip?"

"I'm getting there but Divana has demanded a party."

"Why doesn't Lamondo do it? You're very busy."

"That's what I said. Apparently the reason is... she's busy. Anyway, she guilted me into it so now I'm screwed. Do you know anything about pulled pork?"


Jimmy emitted his trademark catchphrase high pitched elfin laugh.

"Heeee heeee heeeeeee..."

"I didn't think so. Can you help me with the planning and cooking and setup and -"

"- Royal, no. Don't you know it's the Hunter Supermoon tonight? I have moon plans."

"Like running around the woods in the buff wearing nothing but a fishing vest?"

"Royal, I run the blog for you. I get you off brand discount shady electronics. I do your stupid graphics for you, check your spelling, write content when you are hung over, and pack your underwear for you using the one-handed forbidden Shaolin upper cannon punch mobius fold. What more do you want from me?"

It was all true. When I'm on an important gambling trip, and I don't have time to waste with such snobbish finery as putting on underwear, I always appreciate Jimmy Poon's mystic gotch-folding skills. All you have to do is touch a pair of Jimmy Poon tightly folded underwear with the tip of an index finger, and like a bear trap, they snap, unflap, flip out of the suitcase and onto your body in about 3 milliseconds. Fly side forward.

"Royal, you should call Chef Ian."

This was a good idea. Chef Ian is runs the Flusherville Beanery. His place has passed most of the inspections so far this decade, so obviously he knows a lot about catering a birthday party.

Meanwhile, I swung by the Flusherville LCBO and picked up a bunch of cheap wine and beer for Divana's party. Actually, being the LCBO, it was about 20% cheap and 80% provincial taxes, and taxes on the taxes.

It felt good to knock off at least one chore well ahead of time - the most important chore. I'd now assured that the party would be some sort of a success.

Divana lives in Flushton, a small city not too far from Flusherville. It has all the things a city has, including hospitals, universities, big box stores, and a few high-rise condo buildings overlooking the waterfront. One of these condos is Divana's.

I parked and called up.

"Hey, can you come down and help me with all these bottles and cans?"

"Royal, I have a doctorate."

She was always saying that. She never explained the connection between her having this mythical doctorate and her inability to actually get off her duff and do something. Divana seems to think it is enough to just throw that out there and let you connect the dots in a way that meant it made total sense for you to be on your own with whatever task, twisting in the wind, while Divana lounged and looked sultry.

And for that matter, the subject of her PhD seemed to change and morph. For a while I was pretty sure it was vessel hydro-dynamics, and then for a while it seemed to be metallurgy. And yet none of us can remember her ever attending university.

I hauled all the stuff up to her condo. The door was propped open an inch with a bedazzled doorstop, full of rhinestones. I pushed it open and hauled the 900 pounds of liquor into her kitchen.

Divana was stretched out on a chaise longue, wearing a feather boa, as was her custom. In fact, Divana always wore feather boas, and nothing much else. And yet nothing untoward was ever revealed. I had to admit, she was at least skilled at something besides cocktail party small talk.

"You'll put those away until my party, won't you."

"Sure, Divana."

I got to work, getting the numerous bottles of wine into a lower cupboard of her wet bar. I turned to pick up some beer to put it into the fridge. When I turned back, I was startled to see Divana seated on a nearby bar stool, striking a dramatic pose. I wasn't sure how she'd got across her expansive sunken living room to here in the short moment my head was turned.

"You know, I never see you walk anywhere? How do you do that?"

"Royal, I have a doctorate."

"In teleportation?"

She snapped her fingers, eyes lit up with a sudden realization. "Cheese plate!"

"Huh???"

"You'll make a nice cheese plate for my party, won't you. And here's some of the guests I want. You'll contact them, won't you."

I am so screwed.

4 comments:

  1. Great Lakes Pompous Ass, sounds like a good vintage. :D Looks like enough booze for a good party! Aside from the "ml," that kind of looks like a Michigan receipt with the deposits, but it's not on wine here, only beer and pop.

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  2. You know, if pulled pork is too advanced, I would be able to provide you with pushed penguin, a close but slightly gamey alternative....

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    1. I think I better put an order in. If I take 20 pounds, can you throw in two dozen peng-wings? They go great with a ranch dipping sauce.

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