Professor & The Eight Ball

October 27, 2011 by Anonymous

Dear Magic Eight Ball -- I am the organizer for "Speed Climbing Mount Everest Only Wearing Bikini Briefs Contest (SCMEOWBBC)" for short.  However, I am having trouble wrangling sponsors. The only one we have thus far is the International House of Hypothermia. Please tell me how to get more sponsors. 

Signed, Ned in Nepal.   

Dear Ned, that reminds me of the time I was a CIA spy in Cuba during the Bay of Pigs invasion. My cover was as a taco cart vendor. But really I was the head la resistencia against Fiedel Castro's Communist hordes. Red bastards! During the day, I would push my cart over the cobblestone streets, ringing my bell, selling my wares: Tacos for sale! Delicioso tacos! Para la venta! Tacos! 

I would use the tacos to pass secret messages to my comrades -- coded instructions spelled out in the refried beans.

At night, I would steal through Havana, flitting from safe house to safe house, spray painting "Viva La Resistencia" and "Viva Ocho!" on walls, defaming posters of Fidel. He was clean shaven at the time. Unfortunately, he saw my graffiti and adopted the thick beard and mustache I gave him as his trademark.

It was a dangerous time. Fidel's informers were everywhere. In bathroom stalls. In air ducts, in trees, under man-hole covers . . . everywhere. Always listening. Always searching for spies.

To ensure secrecy I had to develop a complex code of communications -- the details of which are still classified as "classified" but I can tell you that it involved a box of chihuahuas, several mirrors, a razor and the clicking sounds made by the tongue. 

The night before the invasion, I was ready. Fidel would certainly fall in the morning! Viva Democracia!  But, it wasn't to be. The Bay of Pigs Invasion failed because . . .because . . . of a woman, a dance, six bottles of rum and a night of passionate love making. Yes, my friends, the Bay of Pigs failed because of love. Love!

Her name was Emenio. She was a  flamenco dancer. I, the mysterious rebel, happened into her bar for a pre-invasion drink. Bartender! A round of rum! Then she walked on stage. Red dress. Red lips. We locked eyes. She threw her boa around my shoulders and pulled me out of my chair. And we danced. Oh, how we danced. People cheered. Viva Ocho! Viva Ocho Pelota! Dancer! - Bailarin!

But the spotlight is a seductive enchantress, my friends.

We made love that night -- in a granary warehouse by the sea. Gray whales breached off the coast, in what I only now know was a warning: Run! Ocho! Run! Remember la Invasion! But their splashes and tail slaps were no match for Emenio of the smoldering eyes. She called me her amor. She ran her sweet fingers through my hair. She kissed me. Her lips tasted of the finest champagne, wild rasberries and Trichloromethane -- Choloform.

When I awoke, two days later, Emenio was gone. Leaving only a single red carnation on her pillow, a wallet-sized photo of Fidel, and a lipstick kiss on my forehead. 

Alas, as I would later learn, she was Castro's second half-cousin on his mother's side. The invasion! Doome! Compromised! By Amor! Love! Yes, love! I too loved once! Ah . . . President Kennedy! My friend. I'm sorry. So sorry. But how can one apologize for love?

Via Con Dios Mi Amigos! Mi Compañeros! I will dance for you in my heart. Always! . . .dance for you in my heart.  Ah,  Emenio . . . how could you . . .

It was a fine time. What was the question?

Oh yes, my sources say no.

....................

October 11 by Ryan

Dear Magic Eight Ball -  I am a small business owner in North Carolina and am having a grand opening for my new high-end pet food store. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get more people to buy dog food so I can take the family to Majorca, Spain, on vacation this summer. 

Signed, Marty in NC.

Dear Marty,

That reminds of the time I was ear-tagging silver-backed mountain gorillas in Uganda in '62. We had been trekking all night  through the congo when I was struck with a terrible Tsi Tsi fly fever.  Zamunda, my faithful guide, stayed with me while the rest of the party pushed on. I remember him tenderly placing cold rags upon my brow, and spitting streams of cool, clean water into my mouth.

We had no buckets or gourds, so the ingenious fellow hiked to the river two miles away, scooped up the water between his cheeks and thusly delivered it to me. Three days later, I awoke to the smell of chewing tobbacco and jelly doughnuts (Zamunda lived on the things) only to find that Zamunda had carried me on his back for 20 miles, catching us up with the rest of the group. My sponsors were delighted I survived.  

We made camp and began our joyful task of wresting the mountain gorillas to the ground and clipping their ears with tags. It was a fine time. Until one night, a pride of hunger-crazed man-eating lions burst through the verdancy and pounced upon us. As the hell cats devoured us, one of the gorillas snatched me up into the trees, shuttling me to safety high among the canopy. 

Zamunda, poor, kind man, was not so fortunate. A powdered jelly donut to you my friend! The great ape leapt from vine to vine, as I clutched to his back, my hands aching from strain, the branches of the corkwood trees slashing at my face. We swung high into the mist-shrouded mountains, for what seemed like days. Until, suddenly, we stopped and he threw me down to the green earth, knocking me out cold.

When I awoke, the mist had lifted and I found myself placed upon a stone pedestal in the middle of a village of thatched huts.  I was surrounded by villagers in loin cloths. All around, the ground glimmered with  golden ingots as big as pig skulls. 

The Chief, a giant feather-plumed warrior with an elephant trunk for a hat, lifted me up and held me aloft, his hands jutting me toward the sky. He screamed and the villagers bowed, then danced around in what I could only describe as a wild frenzy. Over and over again they chanted "PInzoogla! Pinzoogla!" as the Chief had screamed. Later I learned Pinzoogla meant "One-eyed God!"

Ah, those were heady days -- being treated  as their deity, the festive atmosphere of Friday night sacrifices, skinny dipping with my concubines in the languid pools, fearing nothing but the 50-foot chameleon-like pythons and the poison-beaked Tewaku birds. I wanted to stay, but alas, the day came when they saw me using a shrunken head to pry a gold ingot from the ground. I fled, their angry spears and arrows and poisoned-tipped darts whipping past my ears. It was a grand time.

What was your question? Oh, yes: Ask again later.

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