From: utzoo!decvax!harpo!floyd!cmcl2!philabs!sdcsvax!sdccsu3!ix222
Newsgroups: net.jokes
Title: The Saving of Howard
Article-I.D.: sdccsu3.249
Posted: Sun Jan 23 23:40:00 1983
Received: Fri Jan 28 00:55:30 1983

I'll save the flamers among you a letter by admitting
that i sacrificed story, character devlopment and such
to the cheap joke in the following story.  mea culpa.
(Lit critics please bang on your break key.)
Apologies to those of you who have seen parts of it before...

				--steve serocki
				{ucbvax philabs};sdcsvax;sdccsu3;ix222
-------------------------------

			The Saving of Howard



Riddle:  What is cheaper than being drunk and easier to get?

What Howard has.

Symptom number one.  Fixation.

	On first meeting Lisa, Howard knew directly that she 
was different; not different in the way of Cathy, who always 
wore her purple hair cut short in the mohawk fashion, or Heather,
who would pull away at the touch of men, or Jeanne, who habitually 
spat over her left shoulder after breakfast every day:  It was 
Lisa's nose that in Howard's mind set her apart from any woman 
he had ever met. This remarkable nose was sensitively 
shaped, of course, and set in the center of Lisa's
face between her eyes, where it emerged gently and then
proceeded downwards ending in a sharp curve like a baling hook.
On this was Howard snagged.

Symptom number two.  Bizarre dreams.

	One night while Howard slept, he saw Lisa's nose on the Great
Pyramid of Cheops; twenty million cubic feet of ivory white flesh
crowning the eastern wall, inhabited by fifteen thousand wall eyed
morning jacks, two thousand cave bats and himself. He dreamed of  
living there alone in halcyon rapture, until one day when two
cats moved in, and he discovered, to his doom, her allergy.
	It is interesting to note that the following morning Howard 
attributed the unusual dream to constipation.

Symptom number three.  Writing poetry.

	Howard wanted to write poetry. Oh how he wanted to.  He read
Shakespeare and Eliot; he read Keats, and Emerson -- he even
spent a dollar fifty for a schaum's outline that purported to teach
poetry but was only terribly confusing.  Then one night, after
he had stayed up past his regular bedtime, and dreamed sleeplessly,
he awoke in the cold sweat of creation and wrote this:

		On a day, Alack the day!
		Love whose month was ever May
		Spied a nostril with no hair
		Lurking in the Frigidaire.

There was something wrong with this, but exactly what
was not apparent to Howard, even after a third reading.
Figuring that no one else would notice something amiss if
he didn't, he stuffed four copies into four envelopes and
sent them off to four prominent literary magazines.  Within
four months he had accumulated four rejection slips, two
accusing him of plagiarism, and two even of writing doggerel.
Howard then continued to want to write poetry but did not
actively seek to do anything about it.  Howard was in love.

A broader perspective.

	Let us examine love from the retrospective afforded us
by the unimpeachable 1984 edition of the Encyclopedia Apocryphia.

	Love is what the hippies cried for more of 
	while sticking flowers in the National 
	Guardsmen's rifles back in the anti-Vietnam 
	riots of 1967, though it is doubtful the hippies 
	knew exactly what they were asking for. Had 
	they known, they would in all probability have 
	asked for chicken dinners instead.

	The original promulgator of love was a fat Croation
	named Pepsi the Smart.  He had come home sozzled one
	night to his wife of six months, who had thoughtfully 
	prepared a bitter oration and was waiting up with it 
	in order to reduce him to mush.  Once in earshot, however, 
	Pepsi recognized his plight and was divinely inspired:  
	He walked blithely into the storm and said,  "I love you."
	The storm instantly forgave him.

	Since its humble conception in the mind of a terrified
	Croat, the idea of love has caught on.  It has come 
	to mean to the human race what democracy means to 
	democrats.  It is now the great mythical equalizer.  
	It can transform a woman with a face turned like a 
	haddock into a ravisher stacked to please the gods 
	-- if only for a fortnight.  It becomes a president more 
	than a four-hundred dollar suit.  And it goes so 
	well with JuJubes.  But love plays no favorites:  
	For self-important men it is the banana peel on the 
	walk, and for geniuses it is the wrench in the
	works.  It is the carrot before the horse and the 
	opiate of countless godless commies who cannot afford 
	liquor.  In free countries it maintains the loft in 
	the mizzenmast and sweetens the jelly in the peanut
	butter and jelly sandwich.  Without love there would 
	be more divorce lawyers than priests, more wolves than
	puppies.  Poets would be out of work and philosophy 
	would be no consolation.  Much of Shakespeare would 
	become apocryphal.  So we need love.  But without it 
	life on earth would not lose all vitality, however.
	There would remain the Dead Sea Fruit.

What can be done.

	We turn our attention now to noted europian loveologist 
and veneral disease expert Mr. Frenk Brighten. In particular 
we turn our attention to his reply last
Wednesday night on the french tv smash hit, "Thats Uncroyable!"
when he was queried about how love for a distant beautiful woman
may be brought to an end.  Replied Mr. Brighten, "Arrange to 
meet the woman.  If at all possible, marry her."  

Howard did not see the telecast and if he had been watching would 
probably have switched it off. He did not know he was in love. In
fact, he had firmly believed for the last ten years that he was in 
Hackensack, New Jersey.  Therefore he was not drawn towards the 
object of his desire, as a particulary stupid moth might not fly 
toward a candle.  What he was drawn towards was Carl's Hamburger 
place on the corner of the block, for Howard liked junk food 
--greasy burgers, greasy shakes ; the whole bit-- and loathed 
cooking.  He was waiting at a table to order lunch there one 
greasy Thursday when the lady with the nose he loved plopped down 
on the seat beside him.  "Your order please," she said.  Howard's 
head began to  spin insanely. "How about one 
of our new Pigburgers?" she added helpfully.  "Two all pork patties 
bacon strips, pig lips, special sauce, all on a sesame seed bun."
Howard confronted the nose with his eyes.  He recognized that he
was in love, and phffut, like that, it was over.  
	"No thanks," he said, "I'll have a chilidog with cheese."
And with that Howard entered the elite circle of men who had
survived love unscathed, although not without indigestion.