Entering a remote inn on a cold and rainy night, I was stopped by a small man who told me he was sick, tired, and broke, and would I provide him with enough for a warm indoors room for the night?
Feeling sorry for him and having not yet exhausted my monthly tithe for charitable works, I bought him a room at the inn.
As we headed upstairs, he told me he was really a leprechaun, but a bad one, and that he had already used up the gold. What he had left was a magic talking cloth which would give good advice when asked.
He gave it to me and told me to use it wisely.
We parted ways. I got up to my room and it had two beds. I asked the cloth in which bed should I sleep — it told me to take the one away from the window.
In the middle of the night, the wind rose and a tree limb crashed through the window onto the other bed. What a miraculous instrument the fellow had given me!
The next morning I resumed my journey. And when I came to a fork in the road, I asked my newfound companion which way I should go.
“I can’t tell you now,” came the reply. “I’m a night towel.”
As Franz Kafka awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into a raging bull elephant. He charged around his room with his trunk sticking straight up making loud trumpeting noises. The picture of the lady in furs came crashing down, the vase of anemones tipped over.
Suddenly afraid that his family might discover him, Franz stuck his enormous head out of the window overlooking the courtyard.
But it was too late. His parents and sisters had already been awakened by the racket, and rushed into his room. All of them gasped simultaneously as they stared at the great bulk of Franz’s rump. Then Franz pulled his head and turned toward them, looking sheepish.
Finally, after an awkward couple of minutes, in which no one spoke, Franz’s mother went over and rested her cheek against his trunk and said, “Are you ill, dear?”
Franz let loose a bloodcurdling blast, and his mother slipped to the floor.
Franz’s father was about to help her but noticed the anemones tipped over on the table. He picked them up and threw them out the window, saying, “With Franz like this, who needs anemones?”
A neutron walked into that famous bar which attracts the strangest clientele.
.”I’d like a beer” he said. and the bartender promptly served up a beer.
“How much will that be?” asked the neutron.
“For you?” replied the bartender, “no charge”
A little later a golf club walks into a local bar and asked for a pint of beer.
“I can’t serve you,” the barman said. “You’ll be driving later,”
Just then a motorway wandered in and ordered a drink. He had just sat down when in came a strip of tarmac.
The motorway started to panic and he jumped over the bar and ducked down so it couldn’t see him.
The barman looked down at him and said, “What’s the matter with you? Why are you hiding? You’ve got six lanes and two hard shoulders. Why are you frightened of a piece of tarmac?”
The motorway replied, “You don’t know him like I do. He’s a cyclepath.”
Later a brain walked in and said, “I’ll have a pint of beer please.”
The barman apologised and said, “Sorry, I can’t serve you.”
“Why not?” asked the brain.
“You’re already out of your head.”
Two cartons of yogurt walk into the bar.
The bartender, as is his wont, said, “We don’t serve your kind in here.”
One of the yogurt cartons snapped back, “Why not? We’re cultured individuals.”
After a while, the past, present and future wandered in and things became tense.
Just before closing, two fonts walked in.
The barman turned around and shouted, “Oi, you two, get out! We don’t serve your type in here.”
People often tell me to “Go to Hell!” — but it’s actually not a bad idea.
I visit occasionally.
They have a watchdog at the entrance — kind of an ugly thing with three heads and all, but as long as you don’t try to enter uninvited, he’s actually a pretty reasonable character.
Last month I went for a visit. “Hi, Cerberus!” I called. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” he replied. (Being a mythological creature, of course he speaks English, as well as Greek and an assortment of other dialects.) “What brings you by? We don’t get many visitors out here in the Styx.”
Those of us of a certain age may remember the 1942 movie about a young fawn that makes friends with all the woodland creatures, has his mother killed tragically by a hunter, and who eventually grows up to be the Prince of the Forest.
The years of his youth were considerably more difficult than the mostly idyllic tale portrayed in the movie.
It seems that his friends Flower (the skunk), Thumper (rabbit), and Faline (eventual significant other) all wanted him to be braver and more assertive than his normal behavior.
Though the word wasn’t used in those days, they best might have described him as a wuss.
You see, they thought he was altogether too Namby Bambi