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| The Essay | |
| Show #67 Lagomorph Jokes | |
| David Gunn |
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A guy walks into a bar, orders a rum cleaver, rummages around in his coat pocket and
pulls out a stuffed lagomorph, a big one, actually quite huge, maybe 12 meters from ears
to tail, he unrolls it, lays it on the bar, the bartender doesn't want to admit that it exists,
puts the guy's drink down right on the animal's latissimus dorsi, and suddenly the guy
starts to hop up and down, very rhythmically, up and down -- dumdum dumdum dumdum
dumdum; the bartender refuses to acknowledge the odd behavior so he goes to the other
end of the bar to see to his other patrons, and suddenly they begin to hop up and down in
rhythm with the first guy -- dumdum dumdum; soon the entire bar is hopping up and
down -- dumdum dumdum dumdum. It's utter madness, and the bartender is at his wit's
end when suddenly the lagomorph sits up, not at all representative of the work of a good
taxidermist, downs the drink and says ... well, we'll never know because just at that very
moment, a US Navy blimp tears through the fabric of the space-time continuum, crashes
into the tavern, then exits through an Algonquin Hole which has suddenly materialized in
the men's lavatory at the rear of the establishment, effectively reducing the number of
sentient patrons by 100%. This story is not the ravings of a semi-delusional composer-in-waiting with a taste for lemon. Well, it is, but that's beside the point. Rather, it's the latest in a series of space- time relationship allegories to have been visited upon our planet by paradimensional beings who communicate by imprinting rebuslike messages across large swaths of flat cultivated land. These crop circle missives -- called le flambeau oriange, or postcards from space in Gaelic -- often tell rambling, shaggy dog tales, then irritatingly omit the punch lines. The story I just related, which fills three massive contiguous beanfields in Wales, seems to be complete, however flambeau scholars have not yet been able to make sense of the blimp reference. Is it a parable for mankind to beware of strange men bearing lagomorphs?, a commentary on the cozy connection hops have with taverns?, a fragmented alien mail order request? If we know, we aren't telling. Because of paradimensional discombobulation resulting in a warping of the space-time continuum -- which is completely different from the crop circle business -- last episode's discussion of the Algonquin Hole will not have occurred, however it may soon have appeared in a parallel universe near you, so check your local radiophonic listings. If you have already heard this announcement, then the universe which you currently inhabit is of no further consequence to this station, its assigns and radiophonic representatives, i.e. us, the party of the first part, Kalvos & Damian of the New Music Bazaar, this portion of which should not be construed to be in and of itself. Time flies, at least in this universe, much the way US Navy blimps do not. Already many more moments may have elapsed while you sat idly by your radio screen than you would have liked, a consequence of this, the 67th episode of the Bazaar, now as always fronted by disputational discourses of the melodic spirit world, and by Kalvos.
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