An Evening with Yoda and Tonto

There is a knock at my door and I answer it.

Me: Hello, Yoda! How are you?

Yoda: Fine, I am.

Me: Great. Come on in and have a seat.

Yoda enters and takes a seat.

Me: Say, how old are you now?

Yoda: Old I am, years 878 born I was, ago.

Me: How’s that? Are you 878 years old?

Yoda: 878 am I.

Me: Okay, I think. So anyway, what brings you to this neck of the woods?

Yoda: Concerned I am. Danger there is.

Me: Danger? What kind of danger?

There is another knock on my door. I excuse myself and answer.

Me: Tonto! Hey. It’s good to see you. Come on in and cool your silverheels.

Tonto enters and sits on the floor. (Indian fashion)

Tonto: Long time no see.

Me: Yes, it has been a long time. Do you know Yoda?

Tonto: Little green man, yes.

Yoda: Welcome, you are.

Me: So, Yoda was just telling me about some trouble brewing.

Yoda: People not yet old, listen they do not.

Me: Huh?

Yoda: In great peril you are.

Tonto gets up and peeks through the blinds. He looks both ways and cautiously returns to his seat.

Me: From what?

Yoda: Lurks danger everywhere there is.

Tonto: Tonto see no danger. Green man lie.

Yoda: In wrong place does Tonto look.

Tonto: Huh?

Me: I get it. Danger lurks. We are in great peril.

Tonto: Green man strange.

There is an uncomfortable pause that hovers for a long time.

Me: Hey, let’s try this: Knock, knock!

Tonto: Tonto love Knock Knock joke. Laugh long time after.

Me: Great—Knock, knock.

Yoda: Come in.

Tonto: No. Green man say: Who there?

Yoda: Who? Me?

Me: Yes, er, you just say, who’s there.

Yoda: Again let us try. Wait—there is no try—only do.

Me: Knock, knock.

Yoda: Come in.

Tonto: No! Green man say, who there?

Me: You are not a party guy, are you, Yoda?

Yoda: Who’s there?

Me: Nobel.

Yoda: What?

Tonto: No! Green man lie! Say, Nobel who?

Yoda: Nobel who?

Me: No bell—that’s why I knocked! Aha ha ha ha! Aha ha ha ha!

Tonto: Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! Green man fall for it! Ha ha ha! Maybe him buy Brooklyn Bridge next? Ha ha.

Yoda: Go now, I must. Force be with you, may the.

Me: Sorry, I am. Bye-Good. Bed bugs bite, don’t let. Later. Uh huh.

Tonto: Green man go now.

Next Week: An Evening With Jar Jar Binks and Charlie Chan.

Copyright 2010 Tom Roy

Do I Smell a Lawyer?

Husband and wife in bedroom—husband is still in bed, wife is already dressed and perky.

HUSBAND: “Gosh, my throat is scratchy and my nose is running—what’s wrong with me?”

WIFE: “Sounds like you’re coming down with a cold! Here, try this!”

Wife gives husband a bright, glowing pink Koldtronic capsule. He takes pill and reclines with a smile. Wife looks on with pity while husband immediately falls asleep.

Begin sequence of husband enjoying life, doing household chores, laughing with wife and friends, etc., as Announcer reads disclaimer:

ANNOUNCER: Koldtronic attacks cold and flu symptoms immediately, bringing fast, fast, fast relief! For best results Koldtronic should be taken at bedtime under competent adult supervision. While Koldtronic is a highly effective remedy, it is not for everyone—do not take Koldtronic if you intend to have children within the next eighteen years, and women of child-bearing age should not take Koldtronic unless they long to have facial hair and thickened brows. Men over twenty-five may experience incontinence, severe vomiting and bleeding from the eyes and ears while men over thirty-two may also become anti-social and dangerous. Men should be strapped down in bed after taking Koldtronic with a stick jammed between their teeth to prevent severing of the tongue and cheeks from uncontrollable chewing patterns and the belief that you are a mad dog. You may experience extremely realistic visions of hell and beg for death before sunrise. Thoughts of suicide are common when taking Koldtronic. Consult a doctor before taking Koldtronic, especially if you have ever had a headache or scraped your knee as a child as blood poisoning occurs in most cases. If unusual and painful growths form on your forehead and extremities, stop taking Koldtronic and consult a tropical disease specialist or a priest. Intense joint pain and loss of limbs occurs in less than eighty percent of men under twenty years of age. Notify your nearest Hazmat Team and funeral director that you intend to ingest Koldtronic. Koldtronic has proven 2% more effective than placebos in masking cold symptoms. If your weight doubles overnight, stop taking Koldtronic as this can lead to serious side effects. After taking Koldtronic, some men believe they are destined to rule the world or take on the appearance of forest sprites.

Wife looks in on sleeping husband, smiles and turns out light.

Fade to black.

©2010 Tom Roy

1963: The Ninth Grade

Ronnie Ballard was having a lousy day. It was 1963 and Ronnie was in the Ninth Grade at Pearson Junior High School in Redford Township, Michigan. Kennedy was still President and the Beatles hadn’t made a dent over here yet. For whatever reason, the only shirt Ronnie could find that morning was one he had gotten as a Christmas gift ten months earlier. He had grown and it had shrunk a little. He could still wear it but it wouldn’t stay tucked in and it was a horrendous print and Ronnie hated it. His mother had made the mistake of complimenting him on how nice he looked that morning and Ronnie had a cow, as if his mom had told him he looked like a hideous and disgusting dweeb that deserved death just for being alive. It was a bad way to start the day.

His first class was Gym. They call it P.E. or Physical Education these days but it was Gym. Mr. Farr was the instructor. On the right day he could be a very pleasant teacher, building the leaders of tomorrow through physical training and instruction. (Right.) On the wrong day he could be a vicious bastard, screaming orders like a drill sergeant and giving out whacks for some pretty minor infractions. (Not sitting down when Farr blew his whistle.) Today was a bad day and Ronnie was the focus of Mr. Farr’s vendetta, receiving three verbal assaults, two punishing sprints around the track and one whack. After showering Ronnie couldn’t remember the combination to his damn locker. He had to knock on Mr. Farr’s office door wrapped in a wet towel and ask (for the second time that semester) for the combination. This would, of course, cost him another whack. He received both the combination and the whack and walked back to his locker. He got more than a few towel snaps to his already reddened butt on the way to his locker and his classmates laughed at him. (They really did.)

Ronnie then went to Miss Smagraskis’ Art class. She was an import from Lithuania, very nice, very pretty, and she was very hard to understand because her English was not the best. They were supposed to bring in toothpicks for some kind of project and Ronnie had brought a tube of toothpaste because that’s what he thought she had said. Once he saw that everybody else had brought toothpicks, Ronnie was smart enough to keep the toothpaste in his pants and just claim that he forgot to bring his toothpicks. (It worked.)

With nothing for Ronnie to do, Miss Smagraskis asked him to deliver an envelope to Miss Hennesy’s Home Economics class. Great. Ronnie’s butt still stung and he hated the way he looked in his rotten shirt and now he was being asked to appear in front of an all-girl class and make an ass of himself. Miss Smagraskis handed Ronnie the envelope and a hall pass and he headed down the hall.

As Ronnie approached the Home Economics room he heard delighted giggles coming from inside. He peeked through the door window before he entered. God only knows why but Bart Crandall was there, surrounded by awestruck girls. Bart was a year (or two) older than his classmates, had a big greasy pompadour hairstyle, and drove to school. He was considered a “bad boy” and dangerous and he seemed to be irresistible to the girls, like a bad narcotic or something. Marilyn Queeg, who already had an outstanding woman’s body in the Eighth Grade (which was intensified by her habit of wearing a thin pink blouse over a black bra) was hanging on every word Bart said and laughed with all the other girls as he delivered another spot-on punch-line. Ronnie entered the room and made for Miss Hennesy’s desk, hoping to sneak in and out without incident. He got about half way to Miss Hennesy’s desk when Bart Crandall caught sight of him.

“Look ladies--it must be snowing outside,” Bart waited a beat and pointed out Ronnie,

“a flake just walked in!”

This brought on a wave of laughter that included Miss Hennesy. Ronnie tossed the damn envelope onto her desk and got out as fast as he could, bumping into a desk on the way out. (It hurt like hell but Ronnie wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness.)

Ronnie booked down the hallway and was almost back to the Art Room when Mr. Siefert, the Assistant Principal, asked Ronnie why he wasn’t in class. Ronnie explained that he had delivered an envelope for Miss Smagraskis.

“Let’s see the Hall Pass,” Siefert (the Rodent) demanded.

Ronnie reached into his pocket then realized that he must have dropped the pass off with the envelope. He was busted.

“Okay,” Siefert snapped, “follow me,”

The Rodent marched Ronnie back to his office, grabbed a paddle, told Ronnie to bend over, Ronnie bent and Siefert’s plank came down with authority. Ronnie’s butt felt like it was in fire and he left the Assistant Principal’s office holding both cheeks real hard.

His next class was American History. There was a substitute in for Mr. Sweeny and the class was pretty much out of control. Joe Wrigley had just come back from two days off because of a small operation he had undergone to patch up a nasty cut he had gotten in his cheek; there were thirty-eight stitches under the big white bandage. Joe was known for his hearty laugh and because of the stitches, the doctors told him to refrain from laughing. This news circulated throughout the school in about three minutes and everyone tried to make Joe laugh (because they loved him). Randy Wilson drew a picture of two fat dogs making sweet love on the front porch and put it on Joe’s desk. Joe roared with laughter, pulling out about eight stitches in the process. Joe screamed in pain, and the room exploded with raucous laughter. The situation was so deliciously harsh that Joe actually found it funny and he laughed some more. As he laughed his mouth filled with blood and the center of his bandage was turning red.

Joe was sent back to the ER, which added some spice to the day as an ambulance was called in. (Joe’s folks were let-in on the gag when they received a bill for the ambulance for a whopping Three Hundred bucks.)

Ronnie joined Tim Lugher and Paul Zarrett for lunch, which was usually pretty good. Today it wasn’t so hot; peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. The peanut butter was extremely dry and didn’t even stick to the white bread it was spread on. Kurt Singer discovered that you could peel the peanut butter off the bread in a single piece. Within two minutes, thin brown squares filled the air of the cafeteria. A lot of the peanut butter hit the tile walls and stuck. It was just a coincidence but on that very same day new milk containers were introduced—three sided paper pyramid shapes that had a pre-punched hole for a small straw. The hole was covered with a square of gummed foil. Les Slaughter discovered that when the container was empty you could tamp down the foil square back over the hole, trapping in all the air, and then stomp on it and it popped really, really loud. It took almost fifteen seconds for the cafeteria to sound like a battle field.

Despite the rough start, the redeeming qualities of Joe Wrigley’s bleeding cheek, the ambulance, the flying peanut butter and the exploding milk cartons gave Ronnie a new perspective and renewed hope. He almost looked forward to Algebra.

©2010 Tom Roy

Passing the Berries

A list of the Grand Traditions of the World would not be complete were it not to include the ancient rite of Passing the Berries. Those unfamiliar with the subtleties and skill inherent in a successful passing cannot appreciate the grace and effortless beauty revealed in this old and noble custom.

It began, of course, in Scotland in 1687 when the second Laird of Argyle, Angus MacStewart, journeyed to Edinburgh in the middle of a thunderstorm and passed the first public berry. Since then, there has not been a day in Scotland when berries have not been passed.

Perhaps the most celebrated berry passing took place in 1888. The old Oxford and Cambridge rivalry had spilled over into Berry Passing and, as one might expect, spirits ran high in the weeks preceding the annual competition.

As the exhibition got underway, the Cambridge team raced out with a tremendous early lead, having passed an astonishing seven and two-thirds quarts in the first period! It was more than the Oxford passers could handle, and they conceded defeat before the gong rang out in the seventh period. (Controversy surrounded this decision, mainly because Archibald Swift, Oxford’s most brilliant passer, had not yet appeared in the match. It was common knowledge that Swift alone was capable of passing three and one-half quarts in less than two periods!)

Weeks later it was revealed that the tremendous upset was due in part to foul play. Although the decision was eventually reversed, the MacStewart Trophy never made it’s way to the Oxford squad, shrouding the history of the event in a certain noir light and elevating the rivalry between the two schools to heights never before imagined.

A salute, then, to berry passing—and berry passers—wherever they may be.

The End

© 2010 Tom Roy

The Translation Widget

I’ve got a widget on my Mac that translates English into a few other languages, and vice-versa. As I’m not a linguist I thought this could come in handy sometime so I tried a few lines just to see what would happen. I typed in this:

“She was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on.”

Which, in French, became this:

“Elle était la fille la plus belle que j'avais jamais étendu des yeux en fonction.”

Having no idea how successful this was—the copyright symbol in the middle of two words gave me pause--I decided to re-translate the phrase back into English. Here’s what I got:

“It était the most beautiful girl whom I never had étendu of the eyes in function.”

Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere—maybe it was just me. I decided to try German and typed in the following:

“She had fire in her eyes as she approached--I was her slave!”

It translated like this:

“Sie hatte Feuer in ihren Augen, während sie sich näherte--Ich war ihr Sklave!”

I didn’t see any copyright symbols so I figured I was on to something so I re-translated back into English and got this:

“It had fires in its eyes, während it näherte itself--I was their slave!”

I was getting angry by now. Maybe I could take out the nonsense words and try it again. I decided to do that--take it into Chinese and then back to English—here’s what I got:

“It had of Feur in a H.”

I was losing faith in the widget’s abilities, but I kind of liked what I was getting. These Chinese cats must be onto something. I poked this in:

“Her dark eyes were like daggers that saw through me--if looks could kill, I was a dead man.”

This was beyond the widget’s range—it just said UNDEFINED, so I moved on. I ran the sentence through German, into Italian, and then back to English:

“Their dark eyes were like Dolche, that it has seen from me--if the sights could finish, I was a dead man.”

Finally! Results I can live with! This was encouraging—the winning path was: English-German-Italian-English. I was in business! I decided to run the words from the cartoon (above) through my new system—I had to clean up a few spots but here’s what I got:

“He--Do they think that it is simple, good this one looking at? It is not. I have to strike far at the infant with schticken!”

“I am the subject of nine schticken for one month! I live in the forest the good thing always!”

Even with the clean-up the results are uneven, I think, but I can’t say it’s all bad. Unfortunately, the widget can’t handle large chunks of words all at once, so translating whole books would be too cumbersome to attempt. Perhaps a younger man will pick up where I’ve left off.

“Schaptzein myself is large Bingle-schtick!”

© 2010 Tom Roy

The Police

The police cars parked outside the weather-beaten old house indicated that something funny was going on in the home of Mrs. Dorothy Jansen. A pool of water had formed under her locked bathroom door and in a moment of panic, Mrs. Jansen had called in the police. The lock on the bathroom door was substantial, and the police were having a devil of a time getting it open.

"Be careful of the finish! I just had this door redone and it cost a pretty penny!" Mrs. Jansen reminded.

"Take a break, lady," said the burly officer, "I've opened better doors and locks than this,"

The police continued prodding and fiddling with the lock with no results. Mrs. Jansen had stuffed an old towel under the door to sop up the water that kept flowing. "When are you going to get that door open?" she asked with some urgency.

"Look lady, we're doing what we can. If it doesn't give pretty soon, I'm afraid we'll have to break it down,”

"Over my dead body you will!" she insisted.

The cop just grunted. He was getting nowhere with the lock; the towel was now saturated. "I think we need another towel, lady," he was pleased to announce.

She was taking the dripping towel to the kitchen sink when in walked two homicide detectives.

"What the hell are you doing with that door?" demanded Detective Steele.

"I'm trying to open it without marring the beautiful finish," the uniformed officer replied with sarcasm.

"Get out of my way," Steele replied, as he threw himself against the door. He bounced off the door like a rag doll being thrown against a bank vault. "Ow! Man that hurts!" he shouted as he fell to his knees in agony. He had dislocated his shoulder. In one moment of childish zeal, Detective Steele was reduced to a mere bystander, a taker of space, and an embarrassment.

His partner, Sgt. Jeffery Lewis, rolled his eyes, and said, "Here, let me," and raised his leg and kicked straight at the door. His foot came down like a hammer on cold steel, but the door didn't budge.

"Stop that! You'll ruin the door!" cried Mrs. Jansen.

Lewis dropped to the floor. He had broken his ankle. In a childish display of pent-up machismo (equal, if not surpassing Detective Steele’s performance) Sgt. Lewis had allowed his foot to turn slightly as it hit the door’s surface.

Something wasn’t right.

The beat cop threw down his tools, and pulled out his service revolver. "No! No!" Mrs. Jansen begged.

"Shut up, lady. We've got two men down on account of that door, and I'm gonna open it, now.” He aimed the gun directly at the lock, and fired four times. He pushed against the door but it still wouldn't budge. He aimed again and emptied the gun; the lock held tight.

He got on his police phone, explained the situation and requested assistance. Something was out of whack.

A few minutes later a SWAT team pulled up and seven riot-trained men stormed the house. They opened fire on the bathroom door. The barrage lasted three and half minutes. The door still would not open. They reloaded and continued until there was no wood left in the doorway. The lock was still intact, but the police were now able to simply walk through the jagged opening.

Mrs. Jansen had to be sedated, and was removed from the building.

Something funny was going on.

The SWAT team opened fire on the entire house. Bullets tore through walls and brick.

The load bearing walls of the structure had been riddled with bullets, and the Jansen house collapsed just as an ambulance pulled up. The situation was getting out of control.

A television news crew appeared on the scene. They raced over to the sedated Mrs. Jansen and asked her, “Mrs. Jansen, with everything you’ve worked for, now destroyed and in ruins, can you tell us how you feel?”

Before she could say “lousy,” more gunfire broke out as another SWAT team arrived along with a National Guard convoy and a fire truck.

A demolition squad was summoned to the scene. Dynamite was strategically placed around the sight, and was detonated. Windows shattered from the concussion for miles around.

Something had gone wrong.

© 2010 Tom Roy

Party Time

Like most really good stories, this one is real. I wish I could say that this happened to me, but it didn’t. It happened to a guy I used to work with at Sepety’s art studio back in 1973. His name was Rob, a nice, young guy, trying to establish himself in the competitive world of commercial design and illustration just like me and everybody else that worked there.

It was a very different world from today. There were quite a few large art studios in Detroit at that time, all geared to the promotion of the automotive industry. However, as a result of the advertising agencies’ success with car sales, other clients also sought their professional expertise and a surprisingly well-rounded collection of first-rate commercial artists thrived and prospered in the most unlikely of art colonies, Detroit, Michigan. Sepety’s studio arrived on the scene a little late in the game, but had a staff of young, enthusiastic, and talented people. None of us knew that the day of the large commercial art studio only had a few years to go and we looked forward to exciting and highly lucrative careers drawing pictures.

One night at Sepety’s we were pulling an all-nighter for a client and while waiting for photostats to be processed (or some other equally obsolete activity) we started telling stories of our misspent youth. Someone recalled a mildly humiliating incident, which was topped by the next guy and then the next guy. Rob laughed along with the rest of us and said, “When I was a Cub Scout, our troop went downtown to the “Milky’s Party Time” show,” 

In the 1950s Detroit had a handful of locally produced TV shows, the most prominent being, “Lunch with Soupy,” a pretty wild kid’s show featuring a young Soupy Sales who went on to national fame and success. “Milky’s Party Time” had been around longer than Soupy, and had been created as a way to sell Twin Pines Dairy products. They hired a local magician, Clare Cummings, to become “Milky the Clown,” the featured performer and host. No one knows how many ad executives it took to come up with the name “Milky,” but I think everyone appreciates the fact that they didn’t come up with “Cheesy.” (Had Vlasic sponsored the show he may have been called “Gherkin.”)

Milky did magic tricks and interacted with sidekicks such as “Willie Dooit,” “Gee Whizzer,” and the most uncomfortable and unfortunately named character in all of children’s programming, a hand puppet named “Creamy.” The show also presented old westerns, “Felix the Cat” and “Bozo” cartoons. They had a live audience of kids, called the Peanut Gallery (thank you Howdy Doody) and as a Detroit kid of the 50s, a visit to Milky’s television studio was about as close to a true show business experience as there was. It was as good as things were going to get and it all seemed to work, and Rob and his Cub Scout pals found themselves on a bus headed downtown one Saturday.

They got inside the TV studio and were seated and the fun began. Rob couldn’t remember if the show was good or bad—he just knew it was very cool to be in a TV studio and to watch a show play out right in front of him. During a commercial break a couple of ladies went into the Peanut Gallery and started handing out Twin Pines ice cream sundaes! Good Lord—could it get any better than this?  

Rob happened to be seated in the last chair on the left of the back row of the Peanut Gallery and patiently awaited his frozen paper cup sundae (and complimentary wooden stick-spoon) but as they had started handing out the goodies from the front row, Rob had to wait. Finally, they gave the scout sitting next to Rob the last sundae in the box—there had been a tragic miscount and Twin Pines was one cup short of a full sundae and Rob was the goat. By this time the commercial break was over and the show was about to resume. Rob was not happy and the Twin Pines staff shifted into high gear to correct the problem. A few minutes later one of the ladies returned and handed Rob a nice bowl of Twin Pines cottage cheese. Whether it was large or small curd, I really don't know.

Unfortunately, that was as good as it got for Rob that day. Every kid’s dream was his—a bowl of cottage cheese. No fruit topping, just curds and whey. As far as he was concerned, Milky, Gee Whizzer, and Creamy the hand-puppet could all go home and die, or at the very least go home and become very ill. Not that the incidents were related but Milky went off the air a few years later and Twin Pines folded. I don’t know whatever happened to their fleet of home delivery trucks.

I suppose in the grand scheme of things this incident doesn’t mean much, but it is interesting to note that twenty years after the fact it was still vivid in Rob’s mind and thirty-seven years after that, it is still painfully clear to me as well. Surely, there is a lesson here for all of us but I can’t imagine what it might be. It must mean something.

©2010 Tom Roy