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.