Jump to new as of September 26, 1999
Posted on Monday, 24-Aug-98
Authors' Note: This one came to us in a fit of random genius. We wanted to write about Willoughby, and Meesh sang the old children's ryhme about Willaby Wallaby Woo...and well, the rest is history. We hope you like our randomness (and the narrator), and we always appreciate your comments. Thanks!
Chapter One
Willoughby Wallaby Woo
An elephant sat on you.
Well, not for quite some time, but my point is that I was unfamiliar with this rhyme at the time until I had a lime... Oh, well anyway...
One morning, Holmes and I were waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring breakfast. Holmes was looking a little haggard as he paced around the breakfast room. I finally asked him if he was feeling well.
He told me, "Watson, old chap, we've been together for eight years now, and I think it's time for a break. I just need a little space."
"You-you're leaving me?" I had asked incredulously.
"No, you're leaving me," he said matter-of-factly. "You see, it's not me, it's you."
"Don't you mean the other way around?" I was confused.
"Watson, dear, you flatter yourself. But, no." He turned to face me. "You need to get out a little. Experience life. God knows I would, if I were you."
"But...I don't want to leave."
"Well, Watson, I'll try and explain this to you. You really just can't judge a book by its cover. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, or put your cart before your horse. Never, never count your chickens before they hatch. Maybe it seems like I'm beating around the bush, but what I'm trying to say is that you always want to try to kill two birds with one stone. Above all," Holmes paused as he searched for another hackneyed cliché. "April showers bring May flowers."
Silence reigned as I thought about what Holmes had said. "Well, I just can't argue with that. But, seriously, are you sure that I'm the one who needs to get out more?"
Holmes nodded solemnly. "A watched pot never boils."
I hung my head and slowly walked out of the room to pack my things. Half an hour later, as I sadly walked out the door to start my sabbatical, I heard Holmes call after me, "Beauty is only skin deep!"
I immediately perked up. Now I had a destination. "To the powder room!" I said to myself and ordered the horses.
Little did I know the adventures that awaited me at my favorite beauty parlour, Chamberlayne's Salon. I made an appointment for a facial and wax, knowing that nothing else could restore my good humour.
I stepped in, rejoicing in familiar sights and sounds, and the smell of fresh shaving cream. My stylist, Monsieur Churchill, led me to my usual chair and began his soothing ministrations. He had just applied the cold compress when a ruckus emerged from the pedicurist's station.
"I requested not 'Debutante Pink,' but rather 'Pink Passion!' How dare you! This is the most incompetent salon I have ever patronized. And now I have to walk around with this...this...thing on my toenails! It is beyond anything!" a man yelled in outrage.
I looked up to see a man-tall, dark, handsome, and fuming-with cotton puffs between his toes. Immediately, I stood and crossed the room to his side. "What is the matter, sir?" I asked.
"These imbeciles," he said with contempt, "Have mixed up my color scheme!"
"Hmm...." I said, bending over the unfortunate man's toes. "Ah, Debutante Pink! How often have I seen that color on Holmes! But see here, if you take a coat of 'Shimmering Silver,' and apply it very thinly, you may achieve much the same effect. See here!" I exclaimed, and the man sat up and examined that which I had just applied.
The man's mouth dropped open. "Incredible..." came out in a whisper. He immediately stood up and began pumping my hand. "Thank you, sir! How can I ever repay you?"
"How about a drink?" I said after only a moment's thought.
"I know just the place, if I may but know the name of the man to whom I am indebted."
"Not at all sir, my name is Dr. Watson."
The man looked satisfied. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I am John Willoughby, of Combe Magna."
We retired to the pub across the street, enjoying round after round of ale. Mr. Willoughby and I talked animatedly together, not noticing the lateness of the hour or our increasing drunkenness. We had a rather loud discussion over the merits of Estee Lauder versus Revlon. The argument reached a nasty pitch before we decided to drown our differences in another pint of ale...
When I awoke the next afternoon, my head was pounding and I had a flying sensation that made me nauseous. As I sat up cautiously, ever mindful of the pain reverberating through my head, I looked out my window only to see miles and miles of pure blue ocean.
"Where am I?" I shouted. Partial remembrance came to me when I saw Mr. Willoughby sprawled on the floor of my compartment, cradling his aching head.
I looked out the window and to my surprise, I saw a man on a horse and a horse on a ship being rowed by several men. "Oh, I really am drunk," I moaned.
A knock came at the door, and in my confusion I was grateful to anyone who could tell me where I was. I opened the door to reveal the ship's messenger.
"Oh, thank god!" I yelled at him. "Please, sir, can you tell me where we are going?"
"Yes, sir," he nodded. "You're aboard the H.M.S. Barnes, sir. And we are headed to Constantinople."
"Constantinople!" I cried, and looked at my companion. What had I gotten myself into?
Chapter Two: Willoughby Gets His Wallaby Posted on Friday, 11-Sep-98
Due to the inefficiency of the London-Constantinople sea route, Mr. Willoughby and I were stuck together on the H.M.S. Barnes for another three weeks. Despite the crew's attempts to amuse us by acting out scenes from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, I found myself rather bored throughout the journey. Willoughby, however, found these nightly enactments intriguing, for he seemed to identify with one character particularly.
"I really like that one guy," he confided in me one night. "There's something familiar about him, but I just can't put a finger on it. I really identify with him"
I shrugged, thinking that besides a coincidence in name, there really was no similarity in mind or feature.
But somehow I could not find real enjoyment in a play which consisted of burly pirates dressing up as seventeen-year-old girls and saying, "Arrrgggggh, I be liking Shakespeare's sonnets."
Eventually we landed at Constantinople, and I was thoroughly glad to feel solid ground under my feet again. However, now Mr. Willoughby and I were total strangers in a foreign land facing the dilemma of how to get home. In low spirits, Willoughby and I found ourselves lodging in the heart of Constantinople, although two men traveling together was looked upon a little strangely by the innkeepers.
"How are on earth are we supposed to get home, Mr. Willoughby?" I inquired desperately as we unpacked our bags.
"Ferrari?" Willoughby replied unhelpfully. I thought he was still feeling the effects of the ale. Whatever was a Ferrari and how would it get us to London?
"Well," I began in jest, "maybe if we get drunk again we'll find ourselves on the road to home!"
"Fine idea!" Willoughby exclaimed as he dragged me down the stairs and across the street to a Constantinople pub (don't ask).
Several shots of tequila later, Willoughby and I found ourselves wandering the streets aimlessly. We were attracted by a noisy crowd congregating around a red-coated man who had clearly had one too many Shirley Temples.
"Go Colonel! Go Colonel!" the crowd was shouting rhythmically as the man inside danced wildly. He held a walking cane sideways in his hands and made circular gyrations with his arms, all the while singing, "We're called the Men In Re-eeddd."
"MIR?" I asked. "I thought that was a Russian space station."
"Obviously not," Willoughby condescended. "Didn't you hear the man?"
John staggered away from the Colonel, looking up and down the street. Unfortunately for Mr. Willoughby, the only sign he could see (because it was flashing neon orange) was an advertisement for the local Constantinople tattoo parlor (don't ask).
"Oh, look! Tattoos!!" Willoughby cried, sounding like a little boy in a candy store.
He dragged me towards the door, and we looked at the drawings in the window. "Ooh! I want that one," he exclaimed before walking in.
"Something tells me I'm going to regret this," I said softly as I followed him.
Several minutes later, Willoughby was ensconced in the back room, petulantly yelling, "I want a tattoo of my name!"
"Okay, then what is your name, sir?" the artist inquired, not at all unused to drunken customers.
"Walllouuughhbee," he slurred.
The tattoo artist looked at him strangely for a moment. "All right then, Wallaby it is, sir."
Meanwhile, I wasn't quite sure of my own actions, but I do remember thinking the 'Hell's Angels' tattoo quite nice. "Or should I get 'Mother'?" I mused.
The rest of the evening was a blank, but I do distinctly remember the next morning. I woke up in the inn with a humdinger of a headache.
Willoughby walked into my room with breakfast, softly mumbling, "Hum ding! Hum ding!"
Suddenly it all came into place. But occupying my attention at the moment was an unexplained white bandage high on my right thigh. I noticed an identical one on Willoughby's left bicep.
"Umm...John?" I asked tentatively, pointing to his bandage. "What is that?"
"Ahhh!" Willoughby shrieked as my breakfast tumbled to the floor. "Get it off! Get it off!"
I grabbed at his bandage, ripping it off to reveal a tattoo. "Uh oh," I said, my mind making connections to a neon orange sign.
"What does it say?" Willoughby asked, frantically picking up pieces of ham from the carpet.
"Uhhh..." I began. "I'll tell you what yours says, if you'll tell me what's on my thigh."
I slowly undid my own bandage while Willoughby looked at me oddly. "Who are Katt and Meesh?" he asked at last.
"What?" I looked down only to see a big red heart on my thigh, covered with the words, 'I love Katt and Meesh.' "Who in the world...?"
"What about me? What about mine?" Willoughby asked eagerly.
I peered at his upper arm, squinting to read the text. "Are you...Wallaby? Of...Comb Magnet?"
"What? No!" he looked down to see that his arm did indeed say 'Wallaby of Comb Magnet.' "I don't have a comb magnet!" he exclaimed in outrage. "Unless..."
He took his comb out of his pocket and tried to attach it to the fridge. "No, this is not a comb magnet," he concluded when it fell to the ground.
I decided to sit down to my breakfast, or what was left of it, and not let this new skin graft upset me. But one question still puzzled me, and I knew I would not be easy until I found the answer. Who were Katt and Meesh?
Chapter Three Posted on Saturday, 19-Sep-98
Authors' Note: Here we are again--but this time with a few notes of explanation. First off, for anyone who doesn't know, Lee Press-On Nails and Gels are both types of fake fingernails. Secondly, Colonel Sanders is the mascot of the fast-food restaurant Kentucky Fried Chicken. And lastly, for anyone who thinks we're stretching the boundaries of reality...check this out
"You're sure you don't have any flights to London?" asked Willoughby in a plaintive tone.
"I'm sorry sir, but we don't have any transportation to London for the next couple of weeks," said the travel agent. We were at the Constantinople Travel Bureau trying desperately to get home.
After last night's disaster and this morning's tattoo discovery, we had decided to pack it in. Unfortunately, we weren't getting anywhere. At least not soon.
Walking out of the building dejectedly, we were accosted by a Man in Red. "Psst! Psst!" he whispered. I whipped around and recognized him as the dancing Colonel from last night, which I would prefer to have forgotten.
Once we were within earshot, he forcefully repeated "Psst! Psst!" a few times, just to make sure we got the point.
"All right! All right!" I said impatiently, wiping the side of my face.
He opened his mouth and an out-of-place Brooklyn accent came forth. "Youse fellas lookin' for some transport?"
"Yes, yes!" my companion cried eagerly. "To London!"
The Man returned to his native British accent and replied, "Well, I can't say London exactly, but I can get you somewhere....perhaps Siberia? Timbuktu? I can't really say."
This was good enough for Mr. Willoughby, who was always ready for action, but I had no desire to see either Siberia or Timbuktu. I pulled him away, shaking my head. "No thank you, Colonel," I said.
Inevitably, we ended up back in the Constantinople pub, which had become our center of comings and goings. Mr. Willoughby, who, when drunk, tended to become loud and pugnacious, downed a few drinks and promptly started on his favourite subject: fake nails.
"Can you believe, Watson," he slurred loudly, "That some men actually wear Lee Press-On Nails?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, these fake gels from Chamberlayne's are so high class," he waved his manicured-hands elegantly.
One of the pub patrons, who incidentally was quite a large fellow, stood and began tapping his long, fuschia nails on the bar.
"You got a problem with Lee Press-Ons?" he said, waving his nails in Willoughby's face.
"As a matter of fact...I do!"
"I can prove that Lee nails are better. You see, stranger, I've got this rule. It's called Rule Five." The large man balled his fist, threatening Willoughby with a sound wallop.
I could see my companion start to quake in his boots. Literally. He was about to measure a six on the Richter scale, so scared was of he of the deadly fist of anger raised in the name of Lee Press-On Nails.
"Unfortunately," the larger man let his fist drop open, "I have my good nails on today. We'll just have to postpone this until tomorrow. I'll see you, same time. Same place."
As the man retreated, Willoughby cried after him, acting tough, "Sure thing! I'll show you-you're not the only pretty boy in town!"
With one last scathing glance at the man, Willoughby turned to me and said in a tough voice, "C'mon Watson. Let's take our Business elsewhere."
We sauntered nonchalantly out to the street, where Willoughby's tough façade dropped. "Watson!" he shrieked in a high-pitched voice. "Get me out of here!"
"But you heard the travel agent. There are no trips to London for the next two weeks..."
"Dang it! I gotta get out of here before tomorrow, otherwise that man's gonna turn me into an orange julius!"
Suddenly, a few large men appeared across the street. "Hey, tough guy!" one especially big bloke shouted at Willoughby. "I hear you don't like Lee! I'm gonna hit you so hard you'll land in London!"
Willoughby looked up, "Great! Fantastic! C'mon, Watson! We're going home!"
"That's where he wants to go," the large man's companion whispered.
"Well, in that case, I'll change my aim and you'll land in...Equatorial New Guinea!"
"Oooh, that's not good," was Willoughby's astute comment.
I thought for a moment, and then pronounced in measured tones, "Well, you know there is always that..."
"COLONEL!" Willoughby screamed as he fled the scene. I had no choice but to shrug and run after him.
It took us awhile to find the Colonel. But when we saw the sign that said, "Colonel Auditions today at 3 p.m." we knew we were on the right path.
We walked in the door to the building, and were immediately over-colonel-ed. Flagging down a passer-by, I asked, "What's going on here?"
"Are you two Colonels?" he looked askance at our plain clothes. "This is the audition for the new Colonel Sanders in the Kentucky Fried Chicken commercial!"
"Ah! That explains it!" Willoughby cried. "But where do we find our Colonel?"
A man with a clipboard and megaphone interrupted my reply. "Next up-Colonels Forster, Brandon, and...Fitzwilliam. Up on stage, men."
An old colonel, a big-nosed colonel and our colonel walked up on stage. (Gee, that sounds like the beginning of a bad Colonel joke.)
"Psst! Colonel!" Willoughby exclaimed loudly. A dozen colonels turned in our direction, including Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"Psst! Not now, fellas!" he whispered back. "Now is not the time."
So we were forced to sit and watch twelve or so colonels advertise the Colonel's New Popcorn Chicken, while swinging a black cane and chanting, "Go Colonel! Go Colonel!"
After his audition, Colonel Fitzwilliam came up to us. "So, what can I do for youse fellas?" The Brooklyn accent was back.
"Well...uh, weez a-lookin for some transport. Siberia. Timbuktu. Anyplace."
"Just get us out of here!" Willoughby added.
"I think I can arrange that," the Colonel nodded reassuringly. "The next...uh, 'transport,' leaves in half an hour."
"We'll be there with bells on," I said cheerfully, wondering if the tattoo ink had gotten to my brain. "Oh, by the way, Colonel-do you know Katt and Meesh?"
"Hmm...sounds familiar. Can't quite place it, though. Sorry, old chap."
Half an hour later, we found ourselves on the runway at the Constantinople Airport. As we walked along the concrete, I glanced around looking for the Colonel. When I spotted him, I almost dropped my suitcase when I saw what our "transport" was.
"A hot air balloon??!!" I exclaimed.
"The best in the Business," the Colonel replied proudly. "Very air-worthy is she."
Seeing no way around this odd transport, I climbed in, nonetheless dubious about the journey ahead. Mr. Willoughby however, was all eagerness.
"A hot air balloon!! The only way to fly!" he exclaimed happily.
We were soon airborne and floating over the wide expanse of ocean. I actually found myself enjoying our flight, when we came to be flying over a large body of land. "Don't you think we're flying a little close to the ground?" I asked the Colonel.
But he was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. "Hello? Yes, this is he...I got it? I'm the next Colonel Sanders?? Yee-haw! This is fantastic news!...America?? Sure! I'll be there...I'll get there!"
He looked down at the land under us, only to see kangaroos and koalas leap-frogging on the ground.
"Eventually," he finished.
Chapter Four Posted on Saturday, 31-Oct-98
We had been stuck in a holding pattern over the Wagga Wagga International Balloonport for forty-five minutes. Finally, the air-traffic controller phoned Kernel Fitzwilliam and told him he was cleared for landing.
"Number 247, you're cleared for landing," he said redundantly.
"All right, you don't have to tell me twice!" Fitzwilliam shouted into the receiver.
Gently, he released the gas from the balloon and we slowly cruised to a stop. Willoughby was about to jump out of the basket, when a tuxedo-attired man walked up carrying a bucket of chilled champagne and had a crisp, white napkin draped over one arm.
"Good e'en, sirs," he said with a cultured Australian accent.
"Who's Ian?" Willoughby asked the waiter in a whisper.
"Evening," the waiter enunciated.
"I know, but who's Ian?" Willoughby insisted.
I simply shook my head. "Margaret Thatcher?" I asked.
"No, Ian!" Willoughby corrected for the third time.
"Fwood?" Fitzwilliam put in.
"Yes," we all replied.
All of a sudden the waiter died.
"Aww, that's a shame," said Colonel Fitzwilliam without pity.
"Now I'll never know who Ian is," Willoughby mourned.
"Dr. Watson, do you know what happened?" Fitzwilliam asked.
I looked at the waiter carefully. "It...uh, it would appear that this man died fatally."
"Ahh, that explains it then." Both men looked solemn for a moment.
"In the last issue of Newsweek, they cited fatality as the leading cause of death," Willoughby explained.
"Really? Hmm, that's surprising. I would've thought arteriosclerosis of the left ventricle," Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded.
Before we could reply, the waiter stood up. "What happened?" he asked.
"You died," Willoughby told him.
"I hate it when that happens. Third time this week," he said in disgust. "Care for some champagne?"
"Don't mind if I do," Willoughby held out a glass.
An hour later I was ensconced in a dune buggy heading west to Northam. Over champagne, the fatality-inclined waiter had informed us that our best bet to get back to London was to take a shuttle from that city to the coast and catch a ship back home.
As the dune buggy bounced over the road, I began to feel queasy. "How did you talk me into this?" I wailed at Willoughby, who was at the wheel.
Soon we happened upon a large grassy knoll. In one corner, Alexander Hamilton was being shot.
"Oww!" Hamilton said.
On the opposite side, John F. Kennedy was also being shot. "Oww!" he added.
In front of us, Abraham Lincoln was being shot. "Oww! Wait, I thought I was in Ford's Theater!" he commented.
"You know," Willoughby pontificated, "it's a little known fact that two former U.S. presidents and one former secretary of the treasury were all killed in Australia in the year 1811 while I was driving a dune buggy."
"That is little known, isn't it?" I nodded.
A few minutes later, we got out to eat lunch and stretch our legs. We parked ourselves on the knoll, and proceeded to unroll a picnic blanket. Ha! Wait, that's not funny.
We glimpsed some of the local flora and fauna over escargot and peanut butter sandwiches. One of the fauna seemed very interested in Mr. Willoughby. Or maybe it was his sandwich.
"Look guys! It's a wallaby!" Willoughby observed. He turned to face the animal. "Hey," he raised a hand in greeting. The wallaby extended a paw.
Willoughby rolled up his shirtsleeve to expose his tattoo. "Hey, I'm a Wallaby, too," he said proudly. "Do you have a comb magnet?"
The wallaby rolled his eyes and promptly ate Mr. Willoughby's shoelace.
After the wallaby had finished, Willoughby said, "Hey! That wallaby ate my Willoughby! Wait, no! That willoughby ate my shoelace! No...oh, nevermind!"
The wallaby sauntered away slowly.
"Hey!" I called after it. "Do you know who Katt and Meesh are?"
Five minutes later, Mr. Willoughby finally got his sentence correct. "That wallaby ate my shoelace!" he pronounced triumphantly.
Back in its burrow, the wallaby was explaining to its family what had happened.
"That Willoughby fed me a shoelace!" it exclaimed in outrage. "And that old guy didn't even know who Katt and Meesh are!"
All the wallabies shook their heads. "Those humans never have their priorities straight," one pronounced. "For God's sake, they invented pen nibs!"
Chapter Five Posted on Saturday, 6 February 1999
We piled back into the dune buggy and headed westward (ho!).
"Watson's hitting me!" Mr. Willoughby whined from the back seat.
"I am not! You're on my side!"
"Boys, boys!" Colonel Fitzwilliam yelled from the driver's seat. "Don't make me come back there!"
"I'm hungry!"
"I've gotta go to the bathroom!"
"Are we there yet?"
"Where are we going?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.
Despite these navigational difficulties (and Willoughby's needing to go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes), we finally arrived in Northam.
As Mr. Willoughby stepped out of the buggy, he pondered, "Why is this city called Northam? I mean, it's not north, and I see very few hams. In fact, I don't see any." Then, after a few minutes, "Wait, there's one."
However, when we got nearer to the city, we spied a large, imposing statue of a very striking man. Squinting at the base, I haltingly read, "Jeremy...Northam."
"Yes, that's me," said a man from behind me. I whirled around and saw the statue's very likeness.
The Colonel asked him frankly, "What do you do, just stand around looking at yourself all day?"
Jeremy's brow wrinkled. "Do you have a better idea?" he challenged.
"Sorry, sorry," Willoughby apologized. "What we really need is some transport to London."
"Transport, eh?" Northam said Canadian-style. "How aboot a cruise liner?"
"Tom Cruise?" I asked excitedly. "I just loved him in Top Gun!"
Jeremy looked askance, saying, "Yeah, okay...anyway, you can make reservations down by the dock. Maybe I'll come with you-even I get kind of dull sometimes."
AT THE DOCK
"Well here we are at the dock," Willoughby said redundantly.
"I noticed that. Now where can weez get some transport?" Colonel Fitz felt like he had to keep up with Jeremy's Canadian accent with a little Brooklyn.
"Submarine," I said aloud.
"What?" Willoughby asked.
"As in 'We all live in a yellow...?'" the Colonel suggested.
Jeremy looked farther down the dock. "Well, there usually are a few submarines here on weekends."
"But this is Thursday," Willoughby pointed out.
"Hm. That does pose a problem," Jeremy said thoughtfully.
"Well, are there any accommodations nearby? We can wait until the weekend," I suggested.
"Certainly. You can purchase tickets on the next sub and then I'll take you the bubabubulah..." he muttered.
"The what?"
"The bubabubulah..."
"Okee... I'm sure we'll love it there!" Willoughby exclaimed.
Half an hour later, we pulled up in front of the Bubabubulah Hotel, right next door to the Huesrtekasdh Bar and Grill. Once we were checked in, we sat in the hotel room not really knowing what to do.
"What does one do in Northam?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.
"Aside from looking at the statue?" Jeremy asked. "Not much. Although I could take you to a football game-I think today's is the Bugaboos vs. the Chaswazzers."
"Oh, go Chazzz!" Willoughby screamed.
"You know them?"
"No-ooo," Willoughby said sarcastically. "I'm not from around here, remember?"
(Author's Note: Here is Katt and Meesh's Ernest Hemingway impression.)
We went to the game. Willoughby had a good time. He couldn't stop screaming "Woo." "Woo." "Woo." Because he liked the game. We decided to call him that. Willoughby, Wallaby Woo. And then he ate some cheese, drank some vermouth. And then he caught a big fish and lost his arms and fought in World War I. And the bell was tolling for someone, and we thought it was him, but apparently not. Then someone died. In the rain. The end.
(This has been a test, only a test, of the emergency Hemingway system. If this had been a real Hemingway emergency, you would now be on the floor writhing in agony. Thank you. We now return to our regularly scheduled story.)
(Cut to library where Elderly Man With British Accent is closing a thick book.) "And such is the story of how Willoughby, of the fourth order of Wallaby, and that of Comb Magnet, came by his illustrious Woo. So ends our story. Good night."
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the library. "Wait! Alistair! We're not even close to done yet!"
"We're not?" Alistair asked.
"No."
"Well, get the bloody hell on with it!" the older man screamed, and proceeded to pour himself a stiff peg.
"All right then, I will!" The Colonel grabbed the book and opened to page 247. "Where were we? Ah yes...'The next morning, we found ourselves...'"
Chapter Six Posted on Tuesday, 20 February 1999
The next morning we found ourselves at the Northam docks. Mr. Northam walked up to the ticket counter confidently.
"We would like four tickets to London on the next submarine, please."
"Will that be on white or wheat?" the ticket agent asked. "Oh, right...the boat... Oh, in that case I'm afraid we don't go to London anymore. We only go to Spain. Close enough?"
"Spain close enough?" Jeremy asked us.
I was about to protest, when Mr. Willoughby piped up, "Sure thing!"
"Four tickets to Spain then."
The ticket agent handed over the tickets, after charging them approximately $634,747,222,349.27 in processing charges. The actual tickets cost $63.50.
At any rate, our berths were comfortable and we had a relatively pleasant voyage to Spain. I engaged my time in quizzing the crewmembers about the elusive Katt and Meesh who are still indelibly carved into my right thigh. Mr. Northam occupied himself in intense physical training, for apparently when he returned to America he had some giant bugs to fend off. Mr. Willoughby and Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, were brushing up on their Spanish.
"Donde esta el bano, por favor? 'Where is the bathroom, please?'" Fitzwilliam prompted.
"Donde esta el bano, por favor?" Willoughby recited.
"Papas estan en la ensalada. 'There are potatoes in the salad.'"
"There are potatoes in the salad. 'Papas estan en la ensalada.' Next one?" Willoughby prompted.
"El paisaje esta asado," Fitzwilliam read aloud.
"'El paisaje esta asado.' What does that mean?" Willoughby asked, memorizing the phrase.
"The landscape is roasted."
"'El paisaje esta asado.' 'The landscape is roasted...' All right, I think I have that one."
While I was listening to their repartee, Jeremy came up and tapped me on the shoulder.
"Watson, play a bug," he commanded as he danced around me punching at the air.
"What?"
"You know...a bug. Bzzz, bzzz," he prompted as he showed me how to make antennas with my pointer fingers.
"Tiene pescado en el pelo. 'You have fish in your hair,'" I heard in the background.
As pleasant as the voyage was, it had to end sometime. And end it did. Trust me, it ended. Really, I'm not kidding. Anyway...
We had settled into our hotel, Mr. Willoughby usefully telling the concierge in Spanish that his pencil was in the VCR.
"Si, senor, muy bien," the concierge replied. "Here are your room keys, sirs."
The four of us decided to get settled in before we embarked on any Spanish adventures. Not surprisingly, Mr. Willoughby soon got restless and decided to go down to the bar for una cervesa.
"Una cereza, please," Mr. Willoughby asked the bartender.
"Okee...one cherry, coming up."
"No, I meant una cabeza!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve heads."
"Beer! Just gimme a beer!" Mr. Willoughby grabbed the bottle, and turned angrily from the bar.
Staring in wonder and standing not ten feet away from Willoughby was none other than Marianne Brandon, nee Dashwood.
"Hello, Willoughby," she said through clenched teeth.
Chapter Seven Posted on Tuesday, 6 July 1999
This section is largely making fun of the '80s version of Northanger Abbey, which Rachel was so kind as to send us. Therefore, this chapter is dedicated entirely to her and we hope she will appreciate it properly. And we'd also like to make it clear that we are not making fun of Henry Tilney--only his portrayer, Peter Firth. (Ick.)
Finally, we also stole a few jokes from Mike Myers' "Sprockets" sketch on Saturday Night Live, and like to give credit where credit is due.
"Heyday, Mrs. Brandon! Shall we jig it?" Willoughby blurted out, strongly influenced by John Thorpe. "Wait! Sorry, wrong novel," he finished with embarrassment.
Not two feet away, General Tilney, quite drunk at this point, closed his eyes and addressed himself to the nearest lamp. "Quite all right, Mr. Willoughby. It happens all the time."
Willoughby gave the inebriated General an odd glance before turning back to Marianne. Impulsively, he reached for her hand. "Oh, Marianne, I have missed you-"
"Willoughby!" she shrieked in alarm. "What is that stuff on your fingernails?"
Examining his gels with pride, he stated, "Chamberlayne's best, of course!" He spread his fingers for her inspection with a smug smile on his face.
Marianne struggled to replace her grimace with a smile. "Lovely, Willoughby," she said with an air of sarcasm. "I'm kicking myself for not insisting that you marry me."
"I thought as much," Willoughby smiled.
Meanwhile, I was accosted by an odd-shaped, frizzy-blond man in a striped vest, with enormous ears and a pudgy nose. He carried with him a small cage draped with a cloth and sported a walking stick topped with a silver knob. "Hello, sir, I'm Henry Tilney," the man said, bowing and tipping his hat gallantly.
I stared at the man blankly. "No, you're not," I said simply. "He's supposed to be dark, and handsome, and at least mildly amusing. You sir, resemble a monkey."
Far from finding this an insult, Tilney proceeded to explain that he was about to start a show in the hotel lobby, and invited me to join the audience.
Some morbid curiosity propelled me to accept his invitation, and I took a seat in the second row. Tilney ascended his little podium and clapped his hands for attention. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to NorthAnger Abbey, the only show where Anger is in the North! And localized entirely within an Abbey!" The audience clapped politely.
"For my first act, we will play 'What... Is This?' Now, ladies and gentlemen, can anyone tell me what...this is?" Dramatically he whipped the cloth off of the cage to reveal a yellow object that seemed to be chirping.
"It's a bird," said someone in the audience.
"No," said Henry Tilney.
"It's a plane!" I cried out, caught up in the suspense.
"No," said Henry Tilney. "Wait...it is a bird. But, in fact..." he lowered his voice dramatically. "It's a canaaaaaary."
"So?" an audience member called out.
Tilney, slightly shaken, continued, "Now onto Act Two! Now is the time on NorthAnger Abbey when we DANCE!" He moved his arms about in arcs like a ballerina while hopping in place.
"I'm leaving," a woman said and got up, and many others followed.
Over his shoulder, another man shouted, "You are a horrible, horrible actor!"
"Thank you! Thank you very much!" said Henry, bowing graciously, holding his hat out for donations. Well, not surprising, considering his father's a compulsive gambler, thanks to the Marchioness... Wait, no, that wasn't in the book...
As the last of his audience departed, Henry spied a young, dark-haired girl walk past. "Miss Morland!" he called out. Then, raising his walking stick to his mouth, he murmured, "Mmm, cane..."
Now back to Willoughby! Since we last left him, Willoughby had managed to impress Marianne so far as to take off his boots and show her his pink toenails. "It's the perfect blend of 'Debutante Pink' and 'Shimmering Silver.' I'll bet your precious colonel doesn't have that with his broken nails and ragged cuticles. Well, he might wear 'Copper Sands,' but that's hardly an accomplishment..."
Marianne had become fearful of her former suitor, as he seemed to have gone a little off the deep end, and called in a quavering voice, "Colonel...?"
Willoughby, feeling equally as alienated, called out, "Watson...?"
Now, by this time I had had quite enough of watching the pseudo-Henry dance, and was quite willing to oblige Mr. Willoughby in returning to our room. There we found Mr. Northam, who stated decisively, "This hotel has become tiresome. I found a way for us to get to London..."
Chapter Eight Posted on Monday, 26 July 1999
I forgot to mention this last chapter, but Colonel Fitzwilliam was still with us.
He did some stuff that wasn't very interesting, so we won't go into it now, but let's just say that it had to do with whipped cream. And several gerbils. Actually, it was rather interesting, but...
Anyway, back to the story at hand:
We all stared incredulously at Mr. Northam, waiting for him to elaborate on his plan to get back to London.
"We'll water ski!" he said at last.
"Good. What the hell is a water ski?" Willoughby asked.
"Let's go down to the dock, and I'll show you," Jeremy offered.
"Why are you always at the dock?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, remembering where we first met Jeremy.
We followed Mr. Northam to the pier, where he had purchased a shiny red motorboat, presumably because he was going through a mid-life crisis.
Jeremy ordered the three of us to hop into the boat, which we promptly did. Willoughby sat behind the driver's seat, and commandeered the wheel.
"*honk* *honk* Get out of the way!" he shouted at imaginary pedestrians (well, mainly Jesus). "Watch out! You're driving on the wrong side of the bay! Aaaahhhh!" He jerked back in his seat as he simulated a collision with a reckless boatist (not a word, but I like it).
"Okay, I'll drive," Jeremy offered with a side-glance at Willoughby. "Watson, you hop into the bay and I'll teach you how to ski."
I, presuming he was joking, began to laugh, but everyone else just stared at me. "What? You're not serious, are you?"
"Oh, I'm afraid weez is," Colonel Fitzwilliam offered.
"Oh, would you stop that!" I screamed at him, fed up with the accent.
"Oh, weez'll see about that. Soon youz'll be swimmin' with the fishes," he retorted.
I was soon too busy screaming at the Colonel that I did not notice Jeremy picking me up until I was thrown into the bay. He tossed a rope out at me, and I grabbed on for dear life.
"Here are your skis," Jeremy tossed two long boards in my direction. "Attach those to your feet, and we'll soon be crackin'." He paused for a moment. "Boy, that was a dumb sentence," he added as an afterthought.
I scrambled to strap the skis on my feet. Before I knew what was happening, Jeremy had revved the engine, and we were off.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Watson, you're doing it all wrong!" Willoughby shouted at me.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" was my reply.
After I had gone belly deep around the bay for some time, I began to get the hang of it as my feet finally surfaced. I looked down in disgust at the wrinkled state of my best green morning jacket that had small pieces of seaweed clinging to the buttons. I'd have to visit Churchill's Velvet Dry Cleaner when we got back to London.
"Okay, we're leaving the bay now!" Jeremy yelled at me. "London, baby, here we come!"
After we had been on the way about ten minutes, Willoughby broke the silence.
"You know," he shouted over the roar of the engine, "this brings to mind the very obvious question...why couldn't Watson just be in the boat...and we all go to London in the boat?"
"'Cause that wouldn't be as funny for the readers," Jeremy replied. He pointed at me in my sodden suit, "Now that's entertainment."
We had been traveling for some time, when Jeremy suddenly felt a crick in his neck. "Ah! I have a crick in my neck," he said.
"I already knew that," Willoughby stated, slightly bored.
"You take over for awhile, I've got to get some rest." Jeremy moved out of the driver's seat to make room for Mr. Willoughby. "And don't forget to watch the Navitron-you'll know we're near to London when the red dot lights up. Be sure to wake me, otherwise we might get lost."
"All right. Gotcha. Whatever," Willoughby waved absentmindedly, as he was absorbed in the extensive control panel. "Wait-Navi-what?" he asked.
But Jeremy was already asleep.
Several hours later, Willoughby woke up the crew of the boat by shouting, "Oh, there's the blue light! We must be close to London! Jeremy! Colonel! We're here!"
"Blue...light?" Jeremy asked in a small, foggy voice. "Willoughby, where on Earth have you taken us! I said red, you imbecile!!"
"Now calm down," Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to soothe Mr. Northam. "Why don't we just look up 'blue light' in the manual and find out where we are."
As Jeremy grabbed the manual, Willoughby anxiously shouted, "What city is blue? What city is blue?"
"Oh dear, where have we landed now?" I thought.
Chapter Nine Posted on Sunday, 22 August 1999
"How should we start this chapter?" Willoughby asked in despair.
"I don't know!"
"Neither do I! I don't even know where we're going!" Jeremy cried as he searched frantically through the manual.
"I don't think anybody knows that," I said dryly, climbing on board the boat from the water skis.
"Were you out there all night, Watson?" Colonel Fitzwilliam queried, looking oddly at my nightcap and powdering gown, which was lightly sprinkled with sea salt.
"Water skis are surprisingly comfortable," I nodded.
"Ah! I've got it!" Jeremy screamed. "We're going to the Not Inconsiderably-Sized Apple!"
"Where?" everyone asked in confusion.
"You know, New York City? It's the blue dot on the Navitron."
"That was a slight change of direction..." Willoughby said slowly.
"You eejit! You couldn't have stopped at the red light! No-ooo...!" Jeremy became hysterical.
"Youse! I'm a-gonna fix youse!" Colonel Fitzwilliam added.
"Oh, but not now. My nails are still wet," Willoughby waved a bottle of clear nail polish.
Fitzwilliam nodded, "Later then."
Jeremy took the controls once again, and he navigated us to the New York dock. We eventually found a spot among the graffiti-stained boats. We fearfully disembarked, having heard terrible stories of New York City all our lives.
A well-dressed man came up to us, and held out his hand. "Welcome to New York City! I'm the Wallet Inspector, would you kindly hand over your wallets, sirs?"
"Certainly," I smiled at the polite man. All four of us promptly handed over our wallets.
The man turned away. "Whoa, I can't believe that worked," he said under his breath.
Meanwhile, we were smiling and congratulating ourselves on finding such a polite introduction to New York society. "This city isn't so bad after all," Jeremy sighed as the man sprinted down the sidewalk.
As we walked away from the boat, we heard a muffled cry coming from the luggage compartment. "Wait! I understand muslins! Take me with you!"
I shuddered even as Willoughby said, "That sounds distressingly like Henry Tilney..."
"A stowaway!" I cried as I threw open the door to the luggage compartment. "Why did you come? We don't want you here!"
"Yes, yes...I know that! But I have something you need..."
"Please don't tell me it's a canary," I muttered.
"I know where Katt and Meesh are!" he shouted melodramatically as he pointed towards a seaside hotel. The sign above the building read: "Katt and Meesh's Hotel and Mafia Bar."
I had found them at last!
Chapter Ten Posted on Wednesday, 25 August 1999
We made our way up the street, yada, yada, yada and soon we were inside Katt and Meesh's Mafia Bar.
"Huh. Brian Truelove. I wouldn't want that name," Willoughby pondered as he examined a painting by a local artist hanging over the doorway.
"I'll have you know that Mr. Truelove is one of the most respected artistes on the Eastern seaboard," a commanding voice said from behind the bar. "He draws pictures of boats and things," the bartender added.
"Oh," Willoughby responded, properly humbled. "It's a very nice picture."
"That's better." The bartender recommenced wiping down the bard (yes, as in Shakespeare. Actually, that was meant to be "bar," but one of your authoresses cannot type. Thank you).
"Fare thee well, Maddie," Shakespeare waved as he walked out the door.
"No prob, Bill. How may I help you gentlemen?" she asked.
"Actually, we're looking for…Katt and Meesh? Are they here?" I inquired.
The bartender, Maddie, looked at us sharply. "Who wants to know?"
"We doose," Colonel Fitzwilliam asked a la Brooklyn.
Maddie paused a moment, confused. "What?"
A very striking young woman entered from a side door. It was Katt. No, it was Meesh. No, trust me, it was Katt. No, I'm quite sure it was Meesh. No, believe me… All right, all right! Two very striking young women entered from a side door, dressed in gaudy gold jewelry and Armani coats.
"Is someone out here giving our friend a hard time?" the first woman asked, challenging me.
"'Cause we don't like people who give our friends a hard time," the other put her arm around Maddie.
"These gentlemen are looking for Katt and Meesh," Maddie nodded towards us.
"Who wants to know about Katt and Meesh?" the first woman asked.
"Um, we do. She just said that," Jeremy answered slowly.
The second woman peered at me. "Oh my gawd!" she exclaimed. "Is it you, Watson?"
"Oh, Watson!" Katt screamed. "I can't believe you remembered us!"
"Um," I started. "Who are you and why are your names on my thigh?"
"Don't you remember? We're Holmes's nieces! You used to babysit us!" Meesh exclaimed.
"Before the name change of course," Katt added.
"Of course!" I said, realization dawning on me. "Lucretia and Hortense are the daughters of Holmes's brother Mycroft," I explained to my friends.
"Illegitimate daughters," Lucretia corrected.
"He was a misanthrope," Hortense added proudly.
I was carried away on a gust of nostalgia. "I remember we used to play together in the garden for hours and hours. What fun we had playing 'house'!"
"And then we grew up to be Mafia dons," Katt nodded.
"Kids these days," Willoughby muttered. "You think you understand them, you think you have them under control and the next thing you know they're wearing gold pinky rings and saying 'youse.'"
"Hey!" Colonel Fitzwilliam objected.
"Oh, please forgive our manners," Meesh gestured towards some chairs set up by the fireplace. "Have a seat and we'll get you some food and entertainment."
We all sat down and waited patiently.
"Well, I guess that explains the mystery of my tattoo," I said, relieved. "I must've heard of their name change years ago and it must have remained lodged in my subconscious. I guess that shows you what a crazy place Constantinople is!"
Musical strains were heard behind us. "If I can MAKE it there, I'll make it.. ANYwhere, it's up to you, Constantinople, Constantinople!"
"We've brought you our favorite minstrel," Meesh explained, gesturing at the man in the tights and floppy hat.
Katt sighed, "It took me a long time to admit that all I was looking for in a man was a mandolin and a really good pair of knickers."
"You don't seem much like the Mafia I've heard about," Willoughby commented. "You girls seem really nice."
Katt and Meesh laughed genteelly. "Well, there's no reason we can't be civil."
The waiter came and gave us our drinks. Meesh looked down at her glass and suddenly became enraged. "You stupid…waiter! I ordered a Manhattan not a Martini! What the !@#$ are you *!#@! you &$@*!#&!"
She snapped her fingers and two hefty-looking men came and dragged the waiter away. "Sorry about that…what was I saying?"
"Yes, we do our best to stay polite and maintain positive relations with our employees," Katt explained.
"Yeah, good luck with that," Willoughby muttered under his breath.
A man came rushing up to our hosts. Jeremy leaned over to me and whispered, "Hey, it's the Wallet Inspector!"
"Hey boss! Boss," the Wallet Inspector nodded at both girls. "You'll never believe the saps that fell for the 'Wallet Inspector' bit!" He handed over four wallets to Meesh.
Meesh opened them and looked at the ID cards. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Willoughby…" she said as she handed them to their owners. "And here you go Colonel, Mr. Northam. I didn't realize you were a member of the Cheese of the Month Club?"
"I enjoy my Gouda," Jeremy nodded as sniffed the brie-scented membership card.
Meanwhile, the two hefty men had arrived on Katt's order to drag the Wallet Inspector to a darkened room.
"Please excuse me, I'll be right back…" Katt smiled and followed the men.
We tried to maintain polite conversation with Meesh as we heard loud shouting, one brief gunshot, and then utter silence from the other room. Katt soon reappeared looking more cheerful than usual.
"Well, that's nice," she said as she picked up her drink. "How about dinner?"
Chapter Eleven Posted on Saturday, 25 September 1999
Have you ever noticed that a pillow makes an exceedingly good hat?
It does.
Mr. Willoughby, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Northam, Mr. Tilney (whom the authoresses had forgotten was still with us) and myself found ourselves seated around Katt and Meesh's dining room table.
"So, basically," Willoughby explained, "all we're really looking for is a way back to London."
"Except me," Colonel Fitzwilliam interrupted. "I'm going to LA to be the next Colonel Sanders."
"You do chicken right," Meesh complimented.
"Thank you, it's all in the seasoning."
We placed our orders, and then returned to the subject at hand.
"We should all go to LA! I've always wanted to see Universal Studios!" Willoughby exclaimed.
"Oh, wouldn't it be fun to go to Disneyland?" I commented.
"I hear they have good cheese in California…" Jeremy mused.
"They have the largest muslin emporium in the world—excellent muslins at prodigious bargains," Henry nodded.
"Okeeee, so Los Angeles it is," Katt said.
I sighed as a sudden thought struck me. "Does this mean I have to ride on water skis all the way there?"
"Afraid so, mon ami," Jeremy said. "All the way around Argentina and Chile…"
Katt waved her hand. "No, no, our limousine is at your service. It's the least we can do for our favourite baby-sitter."
"Speaking of that," I said in a serious tone, looking at my watch, "isn't it time for bed, girls?"
Meesh pouted. "Aw, Watson, can't we stay up a little longer?"
"All right," I said, my good humor restored, "But only a half hour longer."
(Camera turns away to focus on a girl with a pillow over her head, and one with a pen in her mouth. They were singing about central heating. No reason for this.)
The next morning we piled into Katt and Meesh's black stretch limo. "Champagne, boys?" Katt offered.
"Don't mind if I do," Willoughby said. He swished the beverage around in his glass, took a sip, and smacked his lips appreciatively. "Hmm… '87, I would say, from the heady aroma and mellow understated smoothness. The aftertaste has somewhat of a pecan flavor. "
"Thanks," Meesh pronounced dully. "It's champagne."
"Drive on, James. California here we come!" Henry screamed raucously.
"Shut up," Jeremy said.
"Yes, and my name is Godfrey, sir," the chauffeur added.
"Well, in any case, drive on," Henry said quietly, humbled. Then, when Jeremy's back was turned, Henry unobtrusively stuck his tongue out at him.
After a very long drive, through the whole of which Henry kept poking me in the hip, which tickled exceedingly, we found ourselves in one of those big square states (I think it was Wyoming) with an ominous ticking coming from the transmission.
Godfrey pulled aside and checked under the hood. "Wow, look at all the wires in there!" he marveled, showing off his automotive intelligence. His next comment was, "Does anyone know how to fix a car?"
Willoughby's expertise was fingernails, mine medicine, Jeremy's cheese, Colonel Fitzwilliam's fried chicken and Henry's muslin. Katt and Meesh knew many things, but most of them had to do with "whacking" people. After combining all our knowledge, we decided to give the limo a manicure, treat it with penicillin, feed it gruyere cheese and golden rotisserie chicken with a side of cole slaw and mashed potatoes, dress it in fine purple muslin, and "whack" it. When this didn't work we were completely stymied.
Finally, we knew there was only one solution. To get Colonel Fitzwilliam to LA on time, we were going to have to take the subway.
We bought tickets and boarded the next underground train to Los Angeles. After settling in, we all decided to treat ourselves to some much-deserved rest. "I'm sure we'll wake up in time to get off in LA," Willoughby said loudly to show off his foreshadowing techniques.
SLEEP
When we awoke, we predictably found ourselves not in Los Angeles, but somewhat past it in San Diego.
"Man, I knew that was going to happen!" Willoughby said proudly.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, was not so happy. "How will I ever make it to my commercial shoot on time?"
"Aw, who cares?" Willoughby shouted boisterously. "Let's go to the ZOO!"
"Actually, after comparing the average daily attendance, price, and quality of exhibits, my hypothesis is that would fare better to go to the Wild Animal Park," I said slowly.
"Oh, and we can ride the MONORAIL!" Willoughby screamed.
"Mono meaning 'one,' and rail meaning 'rail,'" I nodded, quoting my favorite TV show.
Colonel Fitzwilliam called the studio to say he would be delayed, and we found ourselves back in an automobile…this time a taxi, which is very hard to come by in San Diego.
"Hey, look an ostrich farm! Let's stop and buy one!" Willoughby suggested.
"Ostrich farm?" Jeremy asked. The rest of us chose to ignore Mr. Willoughby.
"That would impress Marianne…if I had an ostrich, I could show that smelly old Colonel… She would see that I had a…big bird…" he muttered, suddenly realizing the big, gaping hole in the middle of his plan.
We browsed around the park for awhile, enjoying the scenery and the interesting, exotic animals. "Can we ride the monorail, yet? Can we? Can we? Can we?" Willoughby pleaded.
"I guess," I sighed. "Let's go get in line."
We thoroughly enjoyed the monorail, as we had an interesting host and all the animals were out on that fine afternoon. We sat right behind the driver, and conversed with him throughout the ride.
Mr. Willoughby was very excited, and sometimes in his enthusiasm he would lean very far out the window. This made me somewhat nervous, but I did not want to dampen his spirits so I said nothing.
The host was just warning us about the dangers of sticking body parts out the window when Mr. Willoughby leaned out far to the left shouting, "Oh look, an elephant!" just as the tram swerved sharply to the right.
"AAAAHHHHH!!" Willoughby screamed.
"Please keep all arms, hands and…Willoughbys…inside the tram at all times," the driver continued smoothly.
My instinct was to jump out of the tram after my friend. And so I did. When Mr. Willoughby and I regained our senses, we saw the tram slowing to a stop and our friends gesturing towards us. We started walking in that direction, unaware of the behemoth close at hand.
"Hey, do you smell peanuts?" Willoughby said as I noticed a dark shadow overhead.
"Willoughby, look—" I screamed just as a gigantic pachyderm derriere descended upon my friend.
Everyone in the tram laughed hysterically at the sight of Mr. Willoughby's minuscule arms and legs flailing about under the massive elephant.
In unison, the members of the tram party raised their voices to sing:
Willoughby Wallaby Woo,
An elephant sat on you!
Willoughby was not amused. "It seems like the tactful thing to do would be not to draw attention to it," he screamed to the party.
Unfortunately, I did not remember the second part of that rhyme. But as another elephant descended upon me, it all came back to me:
Willoughby Wallaby Wee,
An elephant sat on me!
(Camera cuts away to two young girls staring at a computer screen.
"Don't you think we should save them?" one asked.
"Naaah, Microsoft Word will do that." So saying, she pressed the save button, and the words, "Word is saving Willoughby Wallaby Woo" appeared at the bottom of the screen.
"This is really anti-climatic, isn't it?" the first girl questioned again.
"Yeah," the other one shrugged as she stood up. "But I really want some ice cream.")
THE END