Relay-Version: version B 2.10 5/3/83; site utzoo.UUCP Posting-Version: version B 2.10.1 6/24/83; site ucla-cs.ARPA Path: utzoo!watmath!clyde!burl!ulysses!mhuxj!ihnp4!zehntel!dual!qantel!intelca!hplabs!hao!seismo!harvard!wjh12!genrad!decvax!ittvax!dcdwest!sdcsvax!sdcrdcf!trwrba!cepu!ucla-cs!reiher From: reiher@ucla-cs.UUCP Newsgroups: net.jokes Subject: An old joke stretched to outrageous length Message-ID: <1297@ucla-cs.ARPA> Date: Fri, 21-Sep-84 03:57:27 EDT Article-I.D.: ucla-cs.1297 Posted: Fri Sep 21 03:57:27 1984 Date-Received: Thu, 4-Oct-84 00:58:45 EDT Organization: UCLA CS Dept. Lines: 105 Not to be outdone by Mr. Gillespie in the retelling of very old jokes, I submit the following, which I'll bet most of you have heard in some form or another. Once upon a time, there was an old Chinese man who lived in an even older shop in a back alley of San Francisco's Chinatown. Mr. Chan (for that was the name by which he was known to his neighbors) ran an Oriental novelty store. He stocked all of the standard Far Eastern trinkets, such as paper kites shaped like fish, cheap imitation silk kimonos, Japanese lanterns, chopsticks, and so on, but both his heart and his profit were in his collection of wooden figurines. Fortunate contacts, mostly relatives in Taiwan, had given him access to the finest woods of the Orient, and the most skilled carvers. His greatest treasures were tiny statuettes, no bigger than your thumb, carved from teak wood. These were totally unique to his establishment, for he had a cousin who owned the finest stand of teak trees in Burma, and, his greatest secret, a distant relative by marriage was a blind sculpter who specialized in carving these miniatures. Mr. Chan's statues had made him rather well known among connoisseurs of Oriental curiosities, and provided him with a comfortable living. Mr. Chan's life had continued undisturbed for years, and all seemed most serene. Every day he would come down from his bedroom above the shop, unlock the door, and wait for business. He would sell a few cheap knicknacks to tourists, and, perhaps once a month, a buyer would arrive to look over his collection of statuettes. Such a special customer would receive Mr. Chan's full attention, and they would talk for hours about the finer points of Oriental carving. Usually the visit would end with a sale, and Mr. Chan would retire happily to his bed. On the day after Chinese New Year, though, disaster struck. Mr. Chan came downstairs, and discovered that, under the cover of the noise of all the firecrackers, his store had been vandalized! The door was ripped right off of its hinges and lay 20 feet down the street. Paper lanterns were ripped apart, coolie hats smashed to straw, and some fine, delicate Japanese screens were torn and shredded. But worst of all, the glass display case in which Mr. Chan kept his figurines had been shattered, and all of the figurines were stolen! Mr. Chan, though momentarily shocked, was made of stern stuff. He called the police at once, and consoled himself that, wise businessman that he was, he was fully insured. While this was meager compensation for the loss of his beloved statues, he hoped that the police would be able to recover them. The police, however, despite a painstaking search, could discover but one clue: tiny, muddy, childlike footprints leading from the door to the display case. The police suspected a youth gang, but could find no further evidence. Mr. Chan was forced to disappoint several of his regular customers while waiting for the next shipment of statues from Taiwan, but they finally arrived, and Mr. Chan was very excited, for these were even finer than any he had previously received. He carefully arranged them in his display case (he had, of course, replaced the broken one), looked over them with pride, and retired for the night, secure in the knowledge that his new burglar alarm system would protect them. In the middle of the night, Mr. Chan was jolted to consciousness by the sudden blare of the alarm. He wrapped a robe around himself and rushed downstairs, but too late! The display case was again smashed, the statues gone, and a set of wet. muddy, miniscule footprints lead out of the shattered door. Mr. Chan attempted to give chase, but failed to catch the culprits. The police were again unable to turn up any clues but the childlike footprints, which seemed particularly incongruous in the face of the fact that Mr. Chan's brand new steel reinforced door had been burst open seemingly without effort. Mr. Chan had lost confidence in San Francisco's finest. He replaced the security precautions, making them even stronger, but determined to take direct action. Thus, when the next shipment of statuettes arrived some months later, delayed by a blight on the Burmese teak groves and a typhoon in the China Sea, Mr. Chan had a plan of action. He placed the figurines in the new display case and concealed himself behind a curtain made of plastic beads, and waited, ancient Chinese arquebus loaded and at the ready. Any thief who dared to venture into his store tonight would be in for a nasty surprise! The hours passed. Mr. Chan, despite good intentions, dropped off to sleep and the arquebus slipped off of his lap and slid behind a large pile of Javanese sandals. Then, all of a sudden there was a tremendous ripping noise, followed closely by the high pitched scream of the burglar alarm! Mr. Chan leaped to his feet, clutching for his weapon, but he could not find it! The lights, activated by the alarm system, flashed on, revealing to Mr. Chan a sight which made his blood freeze. Running quickly towards the display case, in a crouch to get through the low door, was a tremendous grizzly bear. Saliva dripped from its yellowed fangs and Mr. Chan was almost overcome by the greasy stench of its fur. Despite its huge size, the bear moved swiftly, almost delicately...on little tiny feet no bigger than those of a ten year old child. The bear reached the display case and, with a single swipe of its fearsome paw, smashed the security glass. It reached inside and rather clumsily gathered up all of the figurines. Then, with an almost balletic move, it spun round on its tiny feet and prepared to leave the store, no more than ten seconds after it had entered. Mr. Chan was momentarily unnerved by the sudden appearence of the bear, but the courage of generations of Chinese warriors flowed in his veins, brought to the fore by the desecration and theft of his most prized possesions. Taking no head for his personal safety, caring not at all that he was frail and unarmed, he leaped out from behind the bed curtain and, in a voice so filled with outrage that it even overcame the screaming sirens of the burglar alarm system, shouted: "Stop right where you are, boyfoot bear with teak of Chan!" -- Peter Reiher reiher@ucla-cs.arpa {...ihnp4,ucbvax,sdcrdcf}!ucla-cs!reiher