For the main course!

Seals for appetizers!

I picked up a case of Giant Malt at the liquor store; the opaque beverage appeared to be some sort of stout. But, of course, appearances can be deceiving, especially since I failed to note the nonalcoholic warning on the label. The concoction tasted horrible; damnation!

I dispatched Dr. Palmer to acquire a bottle of local rum. He returned with a bottle of clear liquid that, like many types of rum, contained forty percent alcohol. However, the bottle lacked the most important component of rum: rum itself. In fact, Dr. Palmer had returned with a bottle of almost undrinkable cane spirit.

However, I was delighted to discover that combining the unpalatable Giant Malt with the wretched cane spirit resulted in a potation that was barely tolerable, but undeniably functional if not rather efficacious. And thus, everything my mother told me notwithstanding, sometimes two wrongs really do make a right.

The visual experience compared favorably to computer simulations of marine aquaria. Having said that, I spotted my favorite fish last night at the government reception at the Brimstone Hill Fortress. As was my wish, the fish on my dish was chopped into in bite-sized pieces and served in a lovely curry sauce.

This technicality is largely irrelevant, in that I’m spending most of the day on planes and in airports en route back to San Francisco. And, as just about everyone knows, there are no seasons in jets or airports.

“What kind?” I asked.

“There are only two types of drug dealers,” she explained, “those who use forklifts and those who do not.”

“What kind were you?” I asked.

“That’s a question one doesn’t ask,” she said politely.

“Why didn’t you just say that the first time?” I inquired.

“Sorry, I just had to work in the forklift joke,” she admitted.

It seems that David Hensel submitted a sculpture of a human head, the plinth, and the aforementioned stick with which to prop up said head. The prestigious curators, however, selected the plinth and stick for the show, but rejected the head.

“The two parts were judged independently,” explained an academy representative. “The head was rejected. The base was thought to have merit and accepted ... It is accepted that works may not be displayed in the way that the artist might have intended.”

The fiasco reminded me of an idea I had years ago: why not just exhibit frames and not bother with relatively mediocre art? I shall now amend that to include plinths, with or without a little stick on top.

According to Captain William Rose, who witnessed the event in question, reported that Lance Corporal William Windsor, “was trying to headbutt the waist and nether regions of the drummers.”

It’s a sad day when one is reprimanded for headbutting drummers. After all, what other language can a simple drummer comprehend? To paraphrase Homer Banks, Carl Hampton, and Raymond Jackson, if headbutting drummers is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Poor Billy Windsor. He still gets his ration of two cigarettes a day (which he eats), but after his demotion the other soldiers no longer salute him. Conscripts—especially goats—have a miserable life in the British army. (In case you missed it, the punch line of this silly story is that the recently-demoted Billy is, in fact, a six-year old goat.)

“I grew up singing for alcoholics, and it never really seemed like alcohol fixed anything. I was afraid that it would get me. Around thirty, I kind of realized that alcohol really does solve all your problems. Whoever said drinking doesn’t help lied. You live and you learn.”