Just as there are people alive today who can’t name
the Queen of England, there are a significant number of people today
who have no idea who Lucille Ball was.
I wish I was one of them.
I never got it – in any of its forms, I
Love Lucy, The Lucy
Show, Here’s Lucy –
they were all a study in bad comedy writing – just waiting for the
big redhead to cry at the end.
I Love Lucy was the best of the three because Fred was
actually funny, though William Frawley was funnier on My Three Sons,
where they bothered to write real scripts. Sometimes Ricky was funny
too, but I’m not sure it his humor was always intentional.
Even so, each episode involved a hair-brained plot
by Lucy to do something without Ricky knowing. Ethel always had her
doubts, but went along with the scheme. Things went predictably bad,
and Ricky would eventually say, “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining
to do.” (Usually followed by the biggest laugh in that episode’s
laugh track.)
Then the big finish with Lucy crying.
By the time her third show, Here’s
Lucy, came around – they’d lost all the
funny elements of I Love Lucy
and depended on guest stars to prop up the ratings. For some reason,
she could always get A-list people.
It was like some comic con-game.
One thing I noticed about each of the series was that
the intros and closings were always instrumentals. I think that's a little odd, so I’ve written words to go with each theme.
I Love Lucy theme
Lucy’s
bawling out Wah Wah-wha
Sound
track laughs out Ha Ha-ha
While
Ricky’s congas go Bom Ba-bah
And
that
Is
all there is
To
Amer-i-ca’s-Num-ber-One show!
The Lucy Show theme
Lucy,
Lucy, Lucy Show
Why
we, watch it, I don’t know
Grandpa
controls the clicker
He
says she is a honey
Even
though
She’s
not funny
Oh
yes we know
She’s
not funny!
Here’s Lucy theme
Here’s
Lucy
Isn’t
it strange?
We
watch it
Are
we deranged?
Lame
set up and then a gaff
Is
that enough to make us laugh?
Sorry
– I can’t continue.
From the mid-fifties to the end of her life, Lucille
Ball was hailed as the Queen of Comedy. It makes me wonder what
Gracie Allen,
Lily Tomlin,
Gilda Radner,
Carol Burnett
and Madeline Kahn
thought when they heard that.
Not to mention our laugh-a-minute Queen Elizabeth.
Who sent us a special greeting yesterday for July 4.
This is the
seventh installment in a serialization of my novel, Dirk Destroyer’s
Less Destructive Brother. If you don’t understand what’s going
on, you could go back to the first posts and read them. I’m not
saying that would help so much, though. I wrote the stupid thing and
I only understand a sentence here and there.
Chapter Three
The Planet Two
This might be a good time to tell you about the planet Two.
No?
All right, whatever you say.
Chapter 3
Showr Rinn Pi
The Ministry Of Innocent Sheep Toleration headquarters was located
just five minute’s walk from where Dirk and I grew up. I always
thought that was suspicious, but it never fazed Dirk.
“Paranoia’s no help when they’re out to get you,” he told me.
Well, it keeps my story moving anyway, though I could have used more
time to get to know Ono and Mage-e-not before we arrived.
“So,” I said to Ono, “I find telekinesis challenging. It
really takes some effort. How is it for you?”
“Oh no,” said Ono, “I don’t swoosh thump telekinesis. I do
sparkle whizz magic.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well telekinesis is snarl growl whack. Magic is zip zing
kerplunk.”
“I see.”
“I don’t do telekinesis either,” said Mage-e-not.
“I see. So what can you tell me about this Light Bringer?”
Neither wizard said a word at first, then Ono said, “He’s swoosh
thwack ugh.”
“He’s pushy,” explained Mage-e-not.
“He’s a man who knows what he wants, and gets it,” said Akwar,
who I could have sworn was two paces in front of me, but now was at
my shoulder.
“I’ve met some pushy Light Bringers before,” I said.
“Not like Brachenhun,” said Akwar over her shoulder from two
paces ahead.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, “you just have to draw the
line.”
“I tried drawing the line,” said Mage-e-not, “Brachenhun just
blitzed right over it.
Ono blushed. “I usually slither whoosh.”
“That’s probably the best policy,” said Akwar from behind me.
“Be careful now,” said Mage-e-not. “We’re approaching a
Showr Rinn monastery.
I’d run across the Showr Rinn many times in the past. When I was
much younger, somewhere around three thousand, and Dirk had just been
banished to oblivion forever for the first time – before I learned
that forever in oblivion was only a couple of centuries, I made the
mistake of angering a Showr Rinn initiate. The initiate might have
killed me (assuming I’m not immortal,) but instead, I ended up
spending six weeks contemplating my navel before I could untie the
knots he’d made of my arms and legs.
That was an initiate. I have no idea the mayhem that a master could
dish out, and I don’t want to know. I’ve known every Light
Bringer there’s ever been on Two, and not a single one of them
impressed me as being formidable. I shouldn’t say that; Lenny
Bruise could throw an insult like nobodies business, but not even
Lenny could stand up to the smallest, spindliest Showr Rinn novice
that ever lived.
Not surprisingly, Showr Rinn come from Phasia, and so they are
polite, diligent, and very good at math. The can also meditate and
fight like a house on fire – assuming a burning house decided to
meditate its future and kick ass.
“There’s one!” said Mage-e-not.
“Showr Rinn loves showerin’” said Swampy, and he was right.
Whether it had always been so, or that a name has an effect on
people, the Showr Rinn were excessively clean, even among the cleaner
than normal classification of fighting monks in general.
I could tell this monk was an initiate, not just by his youth, but by
the way his braid was woven from three cords. He was sitting on the
side of his hand, and his third finger was extended down to rest on
the pedal of a spring flower. He wasn’t a small monk, and the
petal wasn’t even bent. He opened his eyes and bowed his head,
causing a tiny ripple to run through the delicate spring flower.
The four of us bent our heads in return.
“I am called, Lip Ton Tease, said the monk. I know three of you,
and I know of the destroyer’s brother, and his swamp-rat bird.”
“Pretty bird,” said Swampy, as if he was a common house mimic.
I bowed my head. “I am called Elmer.”
Lip Ton Tease pressed his thumb and forefingers to the lobes of his
ears. I’d always wondered why Showr Rinn made this gesture. Maybe
it was to get water to leave the ear canal after so many showers. I
never dared ask.
“The Showr Rinn,” said Lip Ton Tease, “are responsible for the
security of MOIST. I must ask you some questions, Elmer.”
“I understand.”
“Do you plan violence against the ministry?”
“I do not.”
“Do you recognize the futility of violence?”
I always hated that question. Of course I didn’t recognize the
futility of violence. Sometimes you meet some bone-head who just
needs a thumping, and nothing else will do, but I knew the answer I
had to provide to enter, so I changed his question in my mind to –
do you recognize the futility of violence against the Showr Rinn?
“I do,” I said with perfect conviction.
“Will you insult the ministry, or the Showr Rinn?”
“I will not.”
“Will you challenge the ministry, or the Showr Rinn?”
This was a trick question, and it got me the first time as it got
most people. The Showr Rinn, in addition to appreciating meditation,
non-violent thumping, cleanliness, and balancing on flower pedals,
really loved a challenge.
“I will challenge,” I said.
Lip Ton Tease jumped off his flower and rubbed his hands together.
“Who will you challenge, the ministry, or the Showr Rinn?”
“I will challenge the Showr Rinn.”
If Lip Ton Tease’s permanently placid monk face could smile, it
would be doing so from ear to ear. “In what category will you
challenge the Showr Rinn?”
“In meditative mathematics,” I said.
A guttural grunt, not unlike a chortle escaped the monk. “Tell me,
are you aware of the number required for finding the area of a
circle?”
“I have heard of such a number,” I said.
“The great Jus Fo Fun was once able to meditate on the number and
through the power of his meditation, find its value to fifteen
places.”
“Truly a challenge,” I said, and I sat on the ground, closed my
eyes and folded my hands.
For all the fine skills of the Showr Rinn, originality was not one of
them. They had asked me the same question for the last five
millennia, and though I know barely enough about mathematics to count
the cigars in my fanny pack, I have no problem with memorizing a
string of numbers. I hummed lightly for effect and began my
recitation.
“Three point one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three,
five, eight, nine, seven, nine, three,” I said in a droning voice.
I sat up and met the monk’s wide eyes. He stepped back and crushed
the spring flower. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, and he
bowed very low to me.
I returned a shallow bow. In a life as long as mine, very few things
never get old. Among them is the smell of a fine cigar, and seeing a
Showr Rinn monk sweat. At one point I tried to teach Swampy to
recite the circle number. Either his tiny rat-bird brain wasn’t
capable, or he just wasn’t interested.
We aren’t
through with Lip Ton Tease and his Showr Rinn, but I must pause here
for reasons that have something to do with lotus blossoms and short
attention spans. In the meantime have a nice shower, recreationally calculate PI, and return refreshed next Friday.
