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I may eventually put something worthwhile here. Then again, perhaps I won't.


Private dick

Young Jill Pinkerton - yes, of those Pinkertons, some number of generations removed from the great Allan - sat in her car, idling in neutral to stave off some of the cold. A tap at her window caught her attention. She opened the window with a punch of the power button, only to see the quarry she was tracking, a zither-playing orc. It was one of those days. "Why you follow me?" the orc growled, smacking Jill in the head, leaving a large contusion the next day. Without another word, the orc wandered off, playing the theme from "The Third Man."

Jill's client was a foul-mouthed, blasphenous priest who had been swindled by the orc. He had peeled off a number of large-denomination bills from a huge wad, swearing the entire time. He never explained how the orc swindled him, but it was clear that he held a grudge.

As she recovered from the orc's blow, she reconsidered her career. Everyone expected a Pinkerton to go into the family business, but this day convinced her she was in the wrong profession. Maybe she'd open a small tea room. She'd ban all priests, orcs, and, yes, zithers too.




When I had a deposit to make, I always drove to the bank, waited for the guard to wave the metal-detecting wand over me, and stood in line for a teller. Today was no different. I filled out the deposit slip and handed her the slip and a piece of paper that read "The Capitals will fold in Game 7 of the second round of the playoffs again this year."

"What's this?" the teller asked.

"My great-uncle always told me that if something was invariably true you could 'take it to the bank.' Predicting another early exit for the Caps seemed like a safe bet."

The teller nodded, took both pieces of paper, and credited that advice to my account.



At the grocery

I watched the woman with the child thump on a melon again and again. It wasn't clear how much she was learning about the quality of the melon, at least until she punched a hole in the fruit. She put it back on the display and started thumping a second melon.

Later on, I saw her feeing grapes to her child. Hey, free food! In the bulk foods aisle, she let the kid run loose. He grabbed handfuls of candy from some bins, shoving food in his mouth, then grabbed nuts and trail mix, spitting out what he didn't like.

Now I knew why my grocery bill was so high and why I got sick frequently after shopping trips.



No one goes to the circus any more

The circus came to town. It was sold out. The children loved all the acts, from the trapeeze artists to jugglers to clowns, but especially tigers and elephants performing tricks. PETA organized a boycott, saying it was cruel to cage tigers.

The next year, the circus again came to town. It was well-attended, even though the circus had sold the tigers. PETA boycotted again, complaining it was demeaning to make elephants perform tricks.

The next year, the circus made its annual appearance. With no animal acts, kids didn't want to go. Attendance was poor. The circus came no longer. Children coud only dream about the joy of seeing tigers and elephants. But to PETA, a child's joy meant nothing.



The marching morons

The March for Science had the most ironic name for a protest. The distance between fantasy and reality for the marchers was a gorge. Persons of pallor pranced down the street holding signs about Commander Data and Kryptonite. One claimed that Hitler was a big supporter of science. If so, his interests were sharply limited to methods of destruction.

Although these people clearly had too much time on their hands, they had no time to spare for actual science. They tolerated no dissention, no questioning of their conclusions. Their closed minds exhibited the very opposite of the true scientific method.