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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

The other day I celebrated my 76 th. birthday and I treated my banker to a 8-course dinner- it set me back by a fortune which I shall of course recoup. It is not about my gambler’s instinct but my choice of company I woefully regret. Who but a loser will have a loan shark for company?  After stuffing tutti di mare and a night tossing around in bed  set me thinking of my family zoo.

If you choose a shark for banker it is de rigueur  to end up with a leech for physician. My ancestor Daddy Oddlegs, once, while on his grand tour was in Venice. He missed a gondola and where does he end up but in the jungles of Colombia!  After he had got back he never lost a moment to enliven his friends with his anecdotes. Crossing the Amazon with a personal physician in a dug-out canoe serenaded by a school of piranhas always had its charm.

His grand father a scapegrace for sure ran off from home and wanted to be a street Arab on the seamy side of Paris during the barricades. At the end he ended up in a leaky tub cooking for a sea dog who dubbed him sea cucumber. It is a family tradition since, no cumber is served unless it is salted. You see, he later made good as Sea biscuit and kept a healthy reverence for salt. His father was a Commodore of the Imperial Navy. When five he was taken by his father and after presenting to the old Admiral he stunned all by model behavior. At the end Admiral Pettifog pressed a bunch of flags into his hand. Pocketing them he stamped his foot and asked rather loudly, “Can I have my flagship, please?”

Benny

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(Whenever a new year is round the corner, I have been so starry eyed, as with my gambler’s optimism, to make a resolution, “I must improve my financial career”.-and come 2019 I cannot think of any better area than my finance. Two heads are better than one so I shall happily let a Canadian humorist to double for me. Happy new year to all my visitors.-Benny.Jan.1,2019)

When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.

The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot.

I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.

So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager.

I went up to a wicket marked “Accountant.” The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.

“Can I see the manager?” I said, and added solemnly, “alone.” I don’t know why I said “alone.”

“Certainly,” said the accountant, and fetched him.

The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket.

“Are you the manager?” I said. God knows I didn’t doubt it.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can I see you,” I asked, “alone?” I didn’t want to say “alone” again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident.

The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful secret to reveal.

“Come in here,” he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock.

“We are safe from interruption here,” he said; “sit down.”

We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak.

“You are one of Pinkerton’s men, I presume,” he said.

He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made me worse.

“No, not from Pinkerton’s,” I said, seeming to imply that I came from a rival agency. “To tell the truth,” I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about it, “I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank.”

The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould*.

“A large account, I suppose,” he said.

“Fairly large,” I whispered. “I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a month regularly.”

The manager got up and opened the door. He called to the accountant.

“Mr. Montgomery,” he said unkindly loud, “this gentleman is opening an account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning.”

I rose.

A big iron door stood open at the side of the room.

“Good morning,” I said, and stepped into the safe.

“Come out,” said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way.

I went up to the accountant’s wicket and poked the ball of money at him with a quick convulsive movement as if I were doing a conjuring trick.

My face was ghastly pale.

“Here,” I said, “deposit it.” The tone of the words seemed to mean, “Let us do this painful thing while the fit is on us.”

He took the money and gave it to another clerk.

He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name in a book. I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank swam before my eyes.

“Is it deposited?” I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice.

“It is,” said the accountant.

“Then I want to draw a cheque.”

My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave me a chequebook through a wicket and someone else began telling me how to write it out. The people in the bank had the impression that I was an invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque and thrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it.

“What! are you drawing it all out again?” he asked in surprise. Then I realized that I had written fifty-six instead of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me.

Reckless with misery, I made a plunge.

“Yes, the whole thing.”

“You withdraw your money from the bank?”

“Every cent of it.”

“Are you not going to deposit any more?” said the clerk, astonished.

“Never.”

An idiot hope struck me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a wretched attempt to look like a man with a fearfully quick temper.

The clerk prepared to pay the money.

“How will you have it?” he said.

“What?”

“How will you have it?”

“Oh”—I caught his meaning and answered without even trying to think—”in fifties.”

He gave me a fifty-dollar bill.

“And the six?” he asked dryly.

“In sixes,” I said.

He gave it me and I rushed out.

As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of a roar of laughter that went up to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I keep my money in cash in my trousers pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock.

*Gould Jay, a crooked American financier of the Golden Age period. He had his hand in every shady deal and made money.

The End

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Past Imperfect

A sloppy chop from a surgeon’s scalpel shall require many more stitches to set right the first mistake. Not to mention a cosmetic surgery to conceal what went before. Is not history somewhat similar to this? A war creates many ripples, and tsunami of two world wars did not occur by themselves. It is how man’s fall in disobeying God has set to write history. Instead of having one Authority man found nations and every nation many masters and the combined weight of history we see even at present. Are not the steady stream of migrants from Central America or Africa reminiscent of the great migration of our ancestors out of Africa? Such is human predicament man speaking of national identity is fooling himself. Man shall be eternal wanderers on the face of the earth given the alarming rate at which the climatic changes. The Tunguska event of 1906 owed to a celestial object hitting the Siberian woods. When the Bible records the Judgment of the Harlot of Babylon in the Book of Revelation (Ch.18) it is one event the nations so secure in their own security should be concerned about. History of mankind is past imperfect. It shall be only perfect when God determines a point of time to put a stop.(To be continued)

I shall leave with something of my past imperfect.
In popular culture have we not read how our civilization got a boost from Aliens? If with their intervention we could only produce Facebook and conspiracy theories and racial profiling as we see now, we must be the most stupid to take advice from imbeciles. It reminds me of a time in my sixth form I had the answers to arithmetic test copied from one who was by all common consent the maths whiz. My father who was a martinet for facts insisted that I had answers to the sum entered against each question. For once I thought alternates facts would let me off the hook. No At home my father after checking my paper almost was screaming,’idiot!’ Later only I realized I was the victim of a sting operation. My mistake was not to stick to my own facts. I had good marks for maths. Even so arithmetic has been my bugbear ever since.

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My Getaway Story

As soon as I learned my 3Rs I planned my escape and meticulously chose the island villa and every artifact  to make my retirement, an ultimate guide to the purveyors of Good Taste. A decade went into making an inventory of Matisse, Goya and great masters that would be catalogued and displayed in the Salon where High Art was so well represented made even a Tate feel outclassed. On the day I turned seventy it was time for the works. “Presto! Let the good times roll said, I” so did my wife and my brood.  Only snag was that my supposedly kaboodle of billions in bonds, stocks, life annuities and what have you would show to give my last phase its gloss. Ah then all I need say was, “open sesame.” But my several portfolios never got disentangled from Internal Revenue service and all bullion and precious metals did not come detached from the ground. My wealth after leapfrogging several Black Tuesdays and down turns from Macau to Wall Street developed some aneurysm. It was a bubble and  it burst. My villa with it.

Benny

 

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The Wow-Wow Tales is a collection of tales, 84 of them, quite a number of them new and never published before makes this very special for me. There are some 41 illustrations also made for this edition. Pages: 228

The paperback version is released through createspace.com.

There are two editions one is in black and white. The Plain Wow-Wow Tales is priced at $16 and the one with color and b&w illustrations at $46.

I shall give an excerpt from the Introduction:

When elephants gather it is news. That was how with Wow-Wow, the elephant.

Wherever he went he was in the news. As a baby he strayed from his herd and it made news. Now he was back some hundred years old if not more, he still wowed them.

Coming home was not so much as telling all the stories he knew.

So when the Mayor Oddlegs, after introduction cleared the field for him he began, ‘I have so much to tell but I shall begin with two friends who are not here.’

While his audience stirred he said, ‘In Bolivia, I think it was, a parrot became my boon companion. Except that he wasn’t there whenever I wanted to make a conversation.’ A hubbub. The elephants did not care much for asides. ‘Come to the point, Wow-Wow’, said they all.

‘The parrot was not seen but he heard just the same. In fact he retold all my stories verbatim. Now memory is not what it was. If it weren’t for his knack I would not have known how to amuse you.’

‘Then there was a mouse, the like of which you shall never see, and he could chew into anything or make holes. Whenever I laid my hand on my cheese I knew my friend was already at it.’ Wow-Wow chuckled at this point. ‘While I was in service of the King of Siam, the royal treasury was soon emptied. The king looked high and he looked low. What did he see? My friend the mouse had made a hole in the royal chest and decamped with the goods. Oh that was nasty! I got the blame. When the charges were read to me I went white. Literally! I lost my position but found direction in life. I am home.’

The elephants at the point trumpeted their satisfaction. The Mayor said in appreciation, ‘You came back anyway, white or not’. The herd would have tittered more but the volcano in the background belched. It didn’t do any damage except in the sound and fury of an eruption. Before the startled elephants a parrot flew in. Wow-Wow was delighted. ‘At last you are seen.’

His former companion equally delighted to add, ‘And I heard you out there.’ A squeak, and there was his other companion! The beasts looked at the sorry looking mouse. His whiskers were gone and his tail still smouldering. Oh he looked terrible! He jumped into the arms of Wow-Wow. He said, ‘Don’t speak! You are looking at a friend who made a hole through a hill with the mightiest bellyache. I walked o’er hot coals for you.’ The scamp squeaked, ‘What are friends for!’

Wow-Wow felt his life was coming to him. He had his friends back. Now he could tell all…”

Benny

 

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Mother Wimple-Head ©

 

Sorry it is removed. Continue reading it in the Wow-Wow Tales-b

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Was his encounter with the great white shark and escape by some design or by sheer luck? On such a question hangs the Horrible History of the Captain Black Hand.

It is a horrible story though. It is being published as paper back.

Description:

Young Murtius was a child of his times. At a time Old Spain and Portugal and England were plundering the Americas and called it the Great Battle of Wits he became a pirate. Awed by so much wealth he exclaimed, “I have needs therefore I exist.” Philosopher Descartes could not have summed it more succinctly. Only after he said ‘yea’ to free enterprise did he realize the Big Powers were dead earnest to string him up from the nearest yardarm.  He was a pirate with a price on his head!There was no going back. He took on the name Captain Black Hand with a ship and pirates ready to undertake any mission to stay afloat.

Eleven adventures are described with humor and verve of a pirate whose single misstep would have put an end to his game. Having made two enemies at the beginning of his career these adventures keep the reader engaged with their cat and mouse game into which a love-interest is also introduced to keep the suspense taut: does his phenomenal luck work same magic with love of his life?

The pirate makes appearance in two other books.

Q-bitz is a pen name and refers to the author’s interest in science. In the world of letters his forte is laws of levity, not related by any chance to the laws of Newton on gravity.

pages:272

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