Keep trying.

“Looks like you rather fancy Anna,” I observed.

“Aye,” Gordon replied, “but she’s a wee bit too young for me.”

“I suppose so,” I replied.

I politely decided not to translate his comment into plain English: he’s much too old for her.

“Muttly looks deranged,” I commented to Fearghas.

“He always gets that way when it’s time for his visit to the psychopath,” Fearghas confirmed.

“You live near a psychopath?” I asked.

“A two minute walk, if that,” Fearghas confirmed, “it’s very convenient.”

“Sounds like an uncomfortable arrangement at best,” I replied.

“The psychopath keeps Muttly sane,” Fearghas said, “You should take him on a little visit.”

I politely declined. And that led to a discussion that cleared up a critical misunderstanding: Muttly likes to walk along the cycle path.

Lumbago!

Lumbago is one of those words I’ve heard from time to time without ever understanding what it meant. Synaesthesia, however, suggested a few possibilities, such as a tropical disease. Maybe Leslie came down with lumbago after being in Eden.

Lumbago also sound like one of those peripheral glands that one never notices, one of those organs that secretes the chemicals for growing toenails or something.

Concerned spouse: “How bad is it doctor?”

Surgeon: “The operation will be risky; the bullet is lodged next to the lumbago.”

Turns out that lumbago is something close to a pain in the derrière. I’m so relieved lumbago isn’t called by its logical synonym, Rinehart.

As a lazy person, I can appreciate why someone would want to use a contraction for a four-syllable, nine-character word like marijuana. Unfortunately, 420 is but one syllable shorter. And although 420 is only three characters long, we already have a perfectly good three-character, one-syllable word for marijuana: pot.

In addition to being almost universally understood by the relevant demographic, pot has another advantage: it will never expand to eleven characters, i.e. “four-twenty.” I suppose I could go one with this silly comparison, but it’s tedious without the benefit of pot, which itself is no longer of interest.

And so, I’m headed back to the pub for ale, a more rewarding three-character, one-syllable drug.

Of course, burying treasure begs the obvious question: why? Or, more accurately: what’s in it for me? And that’s why I decided to leave two alleged treasures.

The first treasure was of the traditional flavor. I hid a small note rolled into a tight cylinder that read, “Since you found this hidden note, I owe you a drink. Here’s how to contact me as of April, 2005,” followed by the relevant contact information. And just to make things interesting, I left a nearly identical note that read, “Since you found this hidden note, you owe me a drink.”

About the only thing I liked about this piece was that I wrote “Treasure?” on the outside of each note. Except for the odd signature, that may be the only time I’ve use a pen in the course of making purported art.

I wonder if this escapade will gain and/or lose me a drink?

As a result, all the potentially offensive expletives have been replaced by exclamations that couldn’t offend anyone. And thus I’m watching bad guys beat up, shoot up, and torture good guys and vice versa. And to express their pain and rage, the actors are screaming some quite improbable lines.

“Bull pucky!”

“Gosh darn you!”

“Oh shoot!”

“Holy smokes!”

“Jeepers creepers!”

And so on.

Although I’m generally opposed to censorship as well as pandering to the lowest common denominator, in this case the changes have transformed a mediocre drama into a something of a comedy. Nevertheless, it’s still bull pucky.

The piece really isn’t done. It wants to be on paper, but I’m not sure it’s worth it. And so, at present, it only exists as an ephemeral sketch on the Internet.