Page Three


Do you miss the old days when the fruit wagon would roll through your home range?  You'd hear the fruit man calling, “Fruit, fruit,” and you'd get so excited. You'd climb or leap or swing down to that gleaming white fruit wagon, and the fruit man would have every kind of fruit you like at every stage of ripeness.  Well, you don't have to miss those days anymore, thanks to the Ralph A. Bennett Teasdale Corporation, which is bringing a great idea back.  Soon, thousands of green and yellow electric fruit wagons will be plying the rainforests from Bali-Bali to Borneo and from Gabon to the Amazon, bringing you all the fruit you'll ever want, and a bit more.  For a map of prospective fruit wagon routes, write to the Ralph A. Bennett Teasdale Corp., 99 Corporation Plaza, Suite 1001, Cheesequake, AZ.

Don't know what to do with Junior in June?  Open up your wallet and send him to Piet's Primate Summer Camp.  Make it possible for him to spend a glorious two months swinging from tree to tree and searching for food in the challenging but protected environment of Kualakurun Primate Reserve on the strange and peculiarly-shaped SE Asian island of Borneo.  Three divisions according to canopy level.  Outdoor classes in obtaining water from leaves, knowing your toxic vegetation, fruiting patterns of common rainforest trees, predator dangers, and night nest building. Personally overseen by the tall and lanky Dutch primatologist and tarsier expert Piet Mons Apeldoorn and a thoroughly capable staff of native assistants.  Anthropoids and prosimians are welcome, but please, no tree shrews. Requests for information will be forwarded gladly if mailed to: Piet's Primate Summer Camp, c/o Primate Nooz Summer Camp Department, Hellmouth, AZ.

John Barksdale Co., Inc., owners of the Old Primate Retirement Home right here in Hellmouth, announces the opening of two new facilities, the Even Older Primates Retirement Village out by the Used Tire Reclaiming Yards, and the Practically Dead Primates Special Care Center. If either of these categories applies to you, call us quickly at 1-888-699-9999.

NOOZ:  “Hello?”
Caller:  “Hi.  I'd like to talk to the Nooz Phone.”
NOOZ:  “This is the Nooz Phone.  Go ahead.”
Caller:  “Is this the Nooz Phone?”
NOOZ:  “Yes. Who are you?”
Caller:  “Am I on the Nooz Phone?”
NOOZ:  “Are you deaf or something?  This IS the Nooz Phone.  What do you want?”
Caller:  “I'm trying to reach the Nooz Phone.”
NOOZ:  “Well, you've reached it!  What's your name?”
Caller:  “Eric.”
NOOZ:  “Eric who?”
Caller:  “Eric Scotmeister Fleiglehaus.”
NOOZ:  “Come on fella, what's your real name?”
Caller:  “That is my real name.”
NOOZ:  “OK.... (PAUSE)  So, what did you call about today, Eric?”
Caller:  “I thought the new format the Nooz tried a few issues ago was really neat, except it didn't have my feature in it.”
NOOZ:  “And what feature might that have been?”
Caller:  “Report from the Field.”
NOOZ:  “Oh, you're the one who goes all those places and whose car breaks down all the time and you never sees anything anyway?”
Caller:  “I do too.”
NOOZ:  “And didn't you get arrested or something?”
Caller:  “That wasn't my fault.”
NOOZ:  “Yeah, like trying to break into Monkey Island Prison was just an accident.”
Caller:  “I just wanted everyone to know that I'm back and I'm OK.”
NOOZ:  “We knew you were back.  We read your stupid 'Report' from Blarney-Killarney.”
Caller:  “I couldn't help it if Sir Ian left.”
NOOZ:  “How many Stouts did you have anyway?”
Caller:  “I just thought you might be interested in what I had to say about the new format.”
NOOZ:  “Well, we aren't.”
Caller:  “Alright, I won't call again.”
NOOZ:  “Good and goodbye.”

    By Eric Scotmeister Fleiglehaus
Greetings from Blarney-Killarney!  You probably don't even know where Blarney-Killarney is, but that doesn't matter since I do, and I'm here.  So sit back in your favorite chair, kick off your shoes, grab a Guinness and enjoy, because this is my.....“Report from the Field.”
I arrived here on Sunday at the beautiful Blarney-Killarney Fossil Primate Site just outside blustery Ballybunion on the salty southwest coast of Ireland and I've been hard at work writing my “Report from the Field” ever since.  In case you're wondering, I can tell you that it was no picnic getting here. One of those boxy black taxis ran into me from behind in Liverpool, and I had barely managed to get my axle repaired by a surly West Indian mechanic who overcharged me when an IRA explosive device of some sort removed my back bumper and license plate and damaged my rear axle again.  Fortunately, I was in a pub at the time.  My poor old car limped by ferry across the Irish Sea to Dublin, and then crawled the one hundred and sixty-six crooked miles to Blarney-Killarney, where I pulled up to the locked gate just as a rust-red sun was slowly sinking into the flat Atlantic like a strawberry into cold maple syrup, and Sir Ian Spotswood Allenby Crofford-Wiggles, called 'Allen' by his friends and the man I had come all this way to see, was beating the dinner gong with his shillelagh. Several burly assistants raced out singing Irish songs and let me in, grabbing my suitcases and toting them off to the wee visitor's cottage, while I was dragged into a large room with a crackling peat fire by the crusty, 73-year old paleoprimatologist who slapped me heartily on the back and encouraged me fiercely to drink a number of Stouts before he would discuss anything at all about his important finds of Western Irish primate fossils in volcanic matrix.  Somewhere outside the warm room an Irish setter howled incessantly
      When I woke up on Monday, my vision was only slightly blurred.  Sir Ian had left for Malta, where it had just been announced that a geological formation there held the possibility of containing similar fossils to those of Blarney-Killarney. Naturally I was disappointed, and even though I spent several days sitting on a rocky beach eating culcannon and blood pudding and trying to remember our conversation of that night, I was unable to do so.  My car was ready on Thursday, and I left Blarney-Killarney that afternoon with many happy memories and the ringing of the bodhrán and the tin whistle in my ears, anxious as always to file my “Report.”
      That's about it for this issue.  Don't ask me any questions about Sir Ian because I can't answer them.  And I don't know where I'll be next time, but I'll probably be somewhere.  So until then, I'll just say “So long.”
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