Jousting is Fun, I say

Okay, so the professor was having loads and loads of thinks.

That’s never a bad thing, see. Contrary to popular belief, a thinking professor isn’t a dangerous one; a thinking professor is just lethargic.

Anyways, I was having thinks on Jousting.

Yes, Jousting.

See, here’s the thing: Why isn’t Jousting done today?

I mean, it might be a little dangerous, but every Joust I’ve seen, it seems that the chaps are having devilishly good fun, doesn’t it?

Why do you suppose it’s not a sport today? Like Football, Tennis, Soccer, Basketball, Mitt-Throwing, Sneaker Racing, and Dominoes?

This professor thought of three reasons.

(1) Probably because they don’t make armor like they used to. I mean, let’s be honest, if you don’t have good armor, you shouldn’t Joust. That’s just silly.

(2) The horses probably don’t like it, anymore. This picture told me that:

I’m sure these machines don’t work as well.

(3) Hector isn’t around to promote it.

Dadblame Achilles! If he hadn’t killed Hector, we’d still be Jousting today.

So, yeah, all bad reasons. Are you with me to start this sport up again?

*listens*

The Meeting: Blood Transfusions

My name tag said “Darnell Thomas” and I didn’t mind.

This is unusual.

Usually, this professor likes his name best.

But there was some sort of ring to Darnell Thomas. (Could also stand for Defensive Tackle.)

Mr. Vince W. DT.

Anyways and some, I had snuck into some sort of conference and I was going to make the most of it.

I found a seat and sat, quicker than melting lava.

And what luck: as soon as I had sat, the meeting began.

An old woman–with flaming green hair–she must dye it, see–stood behind the podium, and started having speaks.

“Welcome everyone,” she said.

She spoke softly, but there was a scary tone in her voice.

In other words, if this professor was down an alleyway, and she was there, I’d run.

“First order of business,” she continued, “is this: We shall find out what blood type you are, then we will effectively start the transfusions.”

She stepped down from the podium, and this professor broke out into a sweat.

Transfusions? That was ghastly, scary, and horrid.

And at that minute, the real Darnell Thomas came in. He was carrying a Chihuahua.

(Okay, time out for a minute. ‘Chihuahua’ is not worth the trouble it takes to spell it. Dadblameit!)

Now, I knew it was Darnell Thomas because he was being chased by security. As soon as he came running in, I jumped up.

The Chihuahua bounded out of his arms and jumped on me, ripping at me with his sharp teeth.

I yelled “enough!” twice, but he didn’t seem to mind. Then I found out ‘he’ was a ‘she’ and it was even worse.

Darnell Thomas–the real one–was coming for me, but the security got him, and the dog, and dragged them out.

Probably to jail.

“Sorry for that, Mr. Thomas,” said the green-haired woman, who was, the sudden, standing next to me. “Will you give your announcement now?”

So I strode up to the podium, and said:

“I don’t think we should do anymore blood transfusions. Look what happened to the Incas.”

And I left.

[NOTE: It turns out, my line of reasoning with regards to the Incas and blood transfusions is quite flawed. See, the Incas actually had great success performing blood transfusions, way before blood types were even studied. This is because the Inca population had only two different blood types: A and O. Therefore, they did rather well at the practice. Of course, I’m sure the green-haired lady, or anyone else at the meeting, didn’t catch my mistake.]

Just Walk In

So, I walked right in.

Yes, the professor does that sort of thing.

See, if I’m ever about, I might just walk right in. Right in your house; right in your car; right in your window.

That’s how I am.

It’s a bit of a fault, and could end up getting me in trouble one day.

But since the professor is always in trouble, I don’t worry about it too muchly much.

Anyways, I walked right in.

The door was open, after all. And you know the thingy: If the door is open, it’s an invite.

I probably wouldn’t walk through this door, would you?

Now, Princess Greta was in there. It was a huge palace of sorts, I should add.

And her mother was with her, or grandmother. She was old, in truth. With many creases and tarnishes.

As soon as my shoe made a clank on the floor, the grandmother called out:

“You?! Who are you?! Huh?!”

“I’m the one you rarely want to see, but that you usually do.”

I thought that was a good answer.

Greta just blushed. She does that sort of thing. Probably because the grandmother was a bit embarrassing.

Rats and a Heifer.

I walked over to them and stopped. Now was the time to say something nice. So I said:

“You two look very nice, and I only say that ’cause I’m trying to make you feel good, though why I want to do that, I’m not sure.”

The grandmother raised a finger. “I know you! Don’t I?!”

“I’m unsure, the sudden,” I answered. “But I know you… You’re Greta’s grandmother.”

I felt good; I felt righteous. After all, that shut her up, and it proved I knew her and that I belonged in the house.

She looked straight at me. “I’m her mother.”

Moral: Don’t jump to conclusions that make sense.

 

Sweet or Dill Pickles? (Off the Grid)

So, this professor went into a food store this past week.

Do you like dill or sweet pickles…or neither? That’s my question to you, I must admit.

See, while I was in the store, I picked up a jar of pickles and went to pay for them like any respectable thingy might do.

But now, the fellow at the register, said: “Sir…I just want to make sure…you know, right, that you are holding sweet pickles? I mean, you’re going to be buying sweet pickles!”

He said it as if he was shocked.

“I had no idea,” I said. “I picked up the first jar I saw. See, between me and you, they all taste the same anyway.”

“Uhh…” and he trailed off a bit. “You’re wrong. The sweet pickles…” And he paused here, ’cause he couldn’t find the word he was looking for. Or rather his tongue couldn’t.

“…Sweet pickles…”

I let him flounder for a bit, just because I’m a wicked professor, don’t you know.

Sweet, waterlogged pickles.

Dill pickles.

Then he found himself.

“Sweet pickles,” he said, “are worse for you. They’ve got…preservatives.”

“Do they? A wonder,” I said. “Now how much is this?”

The line was building, too, I should say.

“Sir,” he said, “I’m really suggesting that you get dill pickles right now.”

And that’s when the woman behind me said, “Could we move it along?”

I turned around. “We’re having a giant pickle discussion. Please hold on for a few.”

She huffed.

“No,” I said, “this professor will get these.”

“Sir, you will die in a few years if you continue to eat like this.”

And I got them.

And…this professor still hasn’t touched them.