The man bean

The jury is back, and the vote is unanimous.  Leave the bean in peace.

If  it doesn’t mess with you, don’t mess with it.

After decades of recommending routine PSA tests for men, the entire U.S. medical community has seen the light.

Don’t fool with the bean if you don’t want to wake the Hydra.

The bean lives in a man’s Bermuda Quadrangle, an area midway between the head and the feet.  It is the most cherished, exciting, mysterious and perilous part of a man’s makeup.

Women embrace an area farther north, the pounding heart and singing soul, but for men it’s the Quadrangle.

This area consists of the man bean and three things that dangle:  two round objects and a magic tube that can morph in a heartbeat.

The only things that approach the Quadrangle in importance for a man are beer and Monday Night Football.

I am a bizarre exception, caring neither for beer nor football on any night.

Just last week, a government report made it official:  Leave the bean alone. If a man has no symptoms, it’s nuts to test the bean because it can open the proverbial can of worms, the details of which I’m too squeamish to mention.

This is wonderful news for men because we want nobody near the Quadrangle unless she is lovely, naked and carrying no sharp instruments.

The white hog

He arrived a few days ago in the bed of a pickup, standing but with his back legs strapped wide like the victim of a snuff film.

But he wasn’t going to get snuffed, at least not just yet.  It was simply moving day, his arrival next door.

I knew of his coming because of the commotion he raised.

I reckon he was perfectly content where he lived before, some hog pit somewhere, and this change of address was not his doing.

It took two men quite a spell to get him off the truck because he’s one heavy hog, and he was unhappy to boot, not cooperative at all.

But get him down they did, and now he lives under a shed with no walls, my new neighbor.  A horse occupied that shed for many months, and I liked his occasional neigh.

A big white hog sings a different tune.  But it won’t last forever because I imagine that getting snuffed is in his future.

Just a matter of time till there’s a roasted apple in his mouth.

Meanwhile, children enjoy standing on the shed’s makeshift fence of boards, and tormenting him.  Hogs have been known to eat children, you know.

Postwar Paris, 1921

Prince Gebhard von Lederhosen nibbled a triangle of brie, sipped Patoit Noof 1899 and admired a Delage coupé cruising the Avenue des Champs Élysées.

He was sitting aside a sidewalk table of iron fleurs-de-lis at Le Fouquet’s, holding hands with his handsome Émil.  Prince Gebhard admired the passing French. We Germans are like oxen in comparison, he said to himself.

The prince wore a tailored Italian suit, dark canvas spats and a pink ascot.

Émil was similarly decked out, sans ascot of any hue, dressed on the prince’s dime, of course.

Germany had lost the war, but Prince Gebhard von Lederhosen was living in Paris anyway.  He had a way of landing on top, even though he was hardly averse to being on bottom, particularly after an evening of  absinthe.

Things grew chaotic in Germany after the Armistice, so the prince came to Paris.  Most of his money, after all, had been stashed in Switzerland.

From the corner of his aging eye, Prince Gebhard noticed another handsome young man, huskier than Émil, walking unsteadily among the nearby tables.

On passing, this new fellow — clearly an American — lurched against Prince Gebhard’s chair, paused and plopped into the table’s third seat with a sigh.

Focusing with difficulty, he offered his hand and said,  Name’s Ernie, Ernie Hemingway.  Glad to meetcha.  He was quite drunk.  He had a mustache, thick, black hair, and there were two pencils in the pocket of his flannel shirt.

His fly was unzipped.

Prince Gebhard von Lederhosen was repelled and drawn in equal measure.  However, Ernie threw a long and lascivious look at Émil who smiled back.

Years later, scores of African wildlife perished by gunfire as Ernie tried to hide this side of himself.  And his wives could have told you a thing or two.

Pair held in crime of passion

DARK  CITY (Reuters) — A businessman and his foster daughter were arrested yesterday in the poison deaths of three family members.

DCPD officers say that Myron Blade, 44, and Kristanabel Wasoo, 17,  were in custody after the bodies of Blade’s wife, Hermione, 42, son Blake, 7, and daughter Janicia, 10, were found in the Blades’  tastefully furnished home in the bedroom community of  Residential Hills.

Police report that Blade phoned them early yesterday in a state of hysteria, saying that he and the girl Kristanabel had killed the three with cyanide.

On arriving at the residence, officers found Blade wandering the front yard in soiled jockey shorts, babbling incoherently.

The Wasoo girl was pulled from beneath a bed.  She fought furiously, police said, and three officers were required to hogtie her.

The three victims were lying face up on the living room floor mysteriously arranged like spokes of a wagon wheel.

A large bottle of cyanide was on the coffee table.

Police have yet to determine a motive, but one of the neighbors interviewed by The Daily Voice said,  I always thought something fishy was going on.

Another neighbor said the Blades were just a normal family till two years ago when “that Kris”  arrived.

She watered the lawn in the skimpiest swimsuit you’ve ever seen. She had trouble written all over her, way too mature for her age, said the neighbor.

And she cursed like a Bulgarian sailor, the neighbor added.  Yet another neighbor, who requested complete anonymity, responded, oh, mama mia!  when asked for a description of the girl.

Last night police gave this updated information:  Blade and the Wasoo girl were in separate cells, unable to communicate.

Blade was in a strait-jacket restraint, and the girl had leered at a male guard while demanding a rare roast beef sandwich and dark ale.

A preliminary hearing was scheduled for this morning.  And funeral arrangements for the three victims are pending.

* * * *

(One of a series titled The Marbol Hotel.)