2005-11-07 - 3:56 a.m.
Paul and Richard are in an argument over which cuppa is most fitting to the senses. As the delicious muffins and marmalade begin to take effect, the argument ends, Richard focuses in on one word in the morning news and the two begin to frollic over historic truth.
"I heard lazy was a word invented by an unfortunate fop who stumbled across one of the worlds most blistering STD's ever." One of the orginal fab four.
"I heard it was by a fop who was carefully considering the patterns in the latest line of umbrellas."
"You are both quite off course," chimes in Richards uncle, Nestor, who stumbles in to finish off the biscuit remnants. "Twas indeed by a fop, though a fallen one from Belgium in the 19th Century. He was the "can't get that sand out of my pussy variety timely named Wolfgang, Wolfgang the VII. After the waffle business went down the loo, Wolfgang sold the remaining domicile on the shire for a paltry 1500 dollars. The event was further chimney-swept in shame with Wolfgang having been the remaining heir in a long line of good kings. So he sailed toward America with two pence, one rag and a pair of hobo gloves all the while with the sweat pouring out of him from a deficiency of vitamin C."
"Tis a shame," said Richard and Paul nodded in utter agreement.
Richard had responded with the requisite amount of com(fuckin')passion that Nestor desired whose nom de plume was KITTS RATHER SEXY ESCORT BITCH. So he cautioned him or her or Pat or F150 extended king cab into the next chapter after a a brief descrption of the tempest of course !
Wolfgang was brung by a womans hips. Nipple hair and malnourished peasant face used to be the only dependable form of birth control back in the good ole days. Despite it all, Wolfgang managed to plunge into the world. Lacking bedfellows, it was his strongest desire to return the favor. He found that first things first, he must acquire a trade. On the brink of becoming a swashbuckler he left the port of New York blossomed into a seasoned fisherman born out of necessity after following the trail that Lewis and Clarke had freshly forged. On the trail he found many a kin of Pocahontus as she had been gang banged by even the lowly compass hounds. Eventually he settled near what is today known as Seattle.
Out on the streams with the most rudimentary of hooks, the salmon oft gave the bears something to look forward to, provided they chose to come back to spawn and the fishing gave Wolfgang something more filling to cook and later to dance with all that alluring energy.
Nestor continued, "There were > 26 glaciers on Mount Rainer alone. Wolfgang looked for a book he had packed to pass the time out on the streams and saw equations replacing letters. And oh, they were such delicate and translatable letters too. He was pissed without whiskey b/c he could not afford a conversion table and wouldn't know what it was even if it one looking up at him in an admiring yet nonplussed way. Then it started to pour down from the convincing clouds that some called fog and he didn't have an umbrella for he was a newly transported fop, kind of back to basics. He cursed the sky and said "Probably a fault of the glaciers for fixing the weather in this region." Then he let out a laugh, the most genuine laugh the Pacific Northwest had ever known up until then."
120 years later, this time of year in the American NorthWest the fish ladder is empty. All except for a few stragglers. Nestor tries to give the salmon voices "What do you say Chinook (said in a Sesame Street voice) should we swim out of this ocean." "Coho, if we don't start working on our networking skills, the firm will offer us a terrible position with the hagfishes. "You're right Chinny that would be a travesty!" "Yes now that would be a sprightly travesty, now wouldn't it mate?"
Richard pipes up, "So whatever happened to Wolfgang? Did he get married?" Nestor replies, "Well yes, for the rest of the worlds knowledge about Wolfgangs do's and do not's, I suggest you set out for the Bishop Hills of New Mexico where you will find his only known progeny, a man named Josh who still sports Wolfgang's hobo gloves.
