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A Gigantic Toilet By The Riverside

         Mr. Ed Shamy, a famed newspaper columnist for the Roanoke Times,   recently paid a visit to Narrows. This young man, highly gifted in the art of penmanship, came to our area unannounced. Then, still without fanfare ( a thunderous rolling of drums, trumpets blaring, etc.) he got straight to the business at hand.
        A baffling enigma cloaked in an aura of mystery, this stranger in our midst moved about town with the stealth of a shadowy wraith. Shamy came, peered into every nook, gawked into all corners of our fair town. He made few if any statements but asked lotsa’ questions ( a covert, sneaky maneuver that enabled him to amass huge volumes of information ), then departed for a distant hinterland we know as Christiansburg.
          There he entered a modern building filled with the very latest devices of technology, gimmickry that confounds the senses of moronic laymen such as myself. Astounding apparatus that defy my limited abilities to describe. Ed seated himself comfortably before a word-processor, dispatched a janitor for a gallon of coffee and bacon rinds, then methodically plunked out a story about a “fact finding mission” to Narz. Nobody knew at the time but a gauntlet had been laid down…a raging firestorm had begun.
          Ed’s subject matter, our big old toilet ( Narrows Sewage Treatment Plant ) down yonder on the banks of New River was a most timely one. Truly appropriate for this period of uncertainty in which we live, the despicable “age of nerds.” Ed typed fast for a long time, causing a thick column of smoke to rise from the word-processor he was pounding unmercifully.His work was a thing of pure beauty!
          Mr. Shamys’ column caused mixed reactions among Narrowsonians. A large majority extended to the lad what he so richly deserved…rave reviews. These alert readers, keen individuals with penetrating insight, saw Ed for what he really is…a clever lampooner who deals in satire, spoofs and the nonsensical.
          But lo and behold and for reasons I fail to comprehend, more than a few folks gave Ed an atrocious “panning.” They didn’t like his written words pertaining to our huge outdoor Johnnyhouse ( let’s accentuate here. Ed’s every paragraph dealt only with some interesting features about our gigantic hygenic facility, a place where, by the way, I was the lone employee and chief operator. The man is not guilty, as he is being unfairly charged, of writing a derogatory story about our place of residence. Not one inflammatory word did I detect about our township itself. Quite the contrary, Ed seemed pre-occupied, enamored and totally enthralled with that damned toilet! ).
          I personally think Mr. Shamy’s work was a finely-honed and highly polished essay. It gleamed brightly!
          Yessir, a true gem, one which seems destined to earn him a niche alongside Walter Winchell and other legends in his profession…

          I’m keenly aware that a December 13 article in the Roanoke Times, featuring a grandiose “Johnnyhouse” on the banks of New River and written by Ed Shamy , brought irateness in Narrows to an unprecedented level. A defiant hue and cry went out, remains unabated, and the fallout is still raining down. Seldom in the history of this great nation has a rural citizenry risen so rapidly to cry aloud in a unified fashion: “ In the name of human decency and all that’s sacred!”
          The atmosphere is still dense with stench, and no one is quite certain what the final repercussions of that newspaper column might be. Hopefully cooler heads will prevail, committees can be formed to talk the situation over, and something salvaged from the carnage that resulted when a city-slicker came our way.
          Yeah man, the clamoring among disenchanted Narrowsonians rose to intolerable decibel units: “I’ll show ‘em a thing or two! Been readin’ it fer nigh on to 50 years, but I’ll never buy another Roanoke newspaper. I’ll see ‘em dead and in Hell first!” Blah, blah blah…
          Now listen Ed. Tell yer boss not to fret about this outcry among long-time subscribers in Narz threatening to cancel. Believe me, they won’t do anything so drastic. Idle threats these, made in heated passion and spur-of-the-moment impulses.
          Oh, I supposed a couple hotheads might carry thru with a proposed “paper boycott,” I informed Ed via telephone. But nothing would come of it. Neighbors would quickly tire of lending their newspapers to the “boycotter” next door. At which time an avalanche of renewal requests will flood the offices of the Roanoke Times.
          Let’s keep the spotlight trained on one Mr. Ed Shamy. This insolent interloper who brazenly came to shatter a peaceful calm. Why, the nerve of that obnoxious outsider! Comin’ in here and trash-mouthin’ the scum-pits of our aromatic Sewage Treatment Plant! ( I “git” madder and madder with each passing minute. Makes me wanna flush my commode over and over again.).
          The gall of this carpetbagger who came to our fair town from afar. Talkin’ garbage about our aerobic digesters! How dare that brash upstart! Invading the privacy of our big toilet, exposing it’s interior to the gawking curious in nearby hamlets ( he could’ve at least said somethin’ complimentary about our lovely Rotating Biological Contactors. But no! Not one word of homage.
          Ed the nefarious. He of cutting words clouded in murky mysticism. Chivalry is gone, a thing of yesteryear. Impudence is spreading like wildfire with alarming rapidity.
          Is there no end?…

          The deadly B-1 bomber and the equally dangerous Ed Shamy operate in much the same fashion. Both are sneaky, elusive, and strike only when the odds are stacked heavily in their favor.
          Warplane and writer use the exact same motto: “Streak in fast to utilize the element of surprise, wreak the maximum damage in the shortest possible timeframe, then git the hell outta’ there before defensive counter-measures can be brought to bear.”
          A wise tactic that has often prevented grievous wounds being inflicted on flimsy aluminum panels of plane, and mangy hide of newspaper columnist.
          The B-1, a sleek bird of prey capable of sustained supersonic speeds over long-range courses. Utilizing this awesome weapon with it’s deadly payload of “big eggs”, a single sortie can erase millions of humans from this earth in the twinkling of an eye. Now that, my friend, is efficient killing!
          Modern aircraft are expensive to operate, have an insatiable appetite for aviation fuel. One must keep this in mind while on bombing runs to slay his fellowman. Your sortie can be so much more profitable if’n ya “nuke ‘em.” A method that allows damned good “humans per mile.” Warplanes that kill only a few hundred souls per sortie oughta’ be grounded permanently. Hardly an efficient machine.
          Shamy doesn’t physically murder people. No siree, Ed does it mentally. The aftermath of his dirty handiwork is a travesty, a pitiful sight to behold. His innocent victims are left reeling with a tremendous loss of self-confidence, meandering about in a dazed state of mental anguish. Dignity and self-respect have been siphoned off, self-doubt injected into minds that can only wonder WHY! Esteem is “shot to hell.” Their ability to reason with logical thought has been dealt a crippling blow. Most rural folks don’t know what’s hit “em when a conniving city slicker smears ‘em in print. Worse still, many don’t even know they’ve been hit!
          The B-1 screams deep into an enemy homeland searching for targets. These include factories makin’ bullets and bombs, long columns of tanks rollin’ down the highway, and enemy shipping at sea. The latter might be battleships, guided-missle cruisers, sampans, canoes, kayaks, rubber innertubes, or jist plain old floating logs. If she’s flying the flag of the foe…sink ’er!
          Ed Shamy doesn’t go to foreign lands seeking targets. Very little travel is involved in Ed’s “bombing runs.” His targets are each and every sleepy town, hamlet and village in Southwest Virginia. Take heed, my fellow citizens. This sinister man has us zeroed in, and his aim is deadly. Ed Shamy, the master of denigrating comments, leaves a wide trail of outrage in his wake…swirling controversy, shock and dismay, submission, and whole centers of population cussin’ up a storm. Each governing body has tried to hide, but none have escaped the scathing wrath of his poisonous pen.
          But maybe, just maybe at long last, Ed Shamy has overplayed his hand. This fast-talking dude from the concrete canyons of Roanoke came to our town uninvited, and bad-mouthed our futuristic toilet in print. A demeaning literature that might well prove his undoing.
          The good citizens of Narz ( Narrows ) are up-in-arms, their terrible fury about to be unleashed. Ominous rumblings are rolling through these hills, and folks are demanding we resort to that most dreadful of horrors.
          A declaration of war…

          Ed Shamy came calling, and his visit acted the catalyst for some truly weird scenes in Narz. I realize this colossal toilet where I labor is the most cherished icon in town, but yet can’t help asking: “Should we indulge in fetishism of this nature? Is our rationale a sign of healthy minds, or a symptom of deranged mentalities?” Thought-provoking questions, and we should pause to give them prolonged and serious consideration.
          Much of the stuff being reported (about Shamy ) is absolutely ridiculous borders on the asinine. Lotsa’ rantings and ravings are rollin’ oer these hyar mountain crests, sounding in valleys at lower elevations, echoing across hill and dell, and are even heard along the riverfront.
          I can’t fathom these wild exhortations urging an entire population to upheaval and violence because of a newspaper column and it’s pertinent facts about our municipal toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s cease and desist for a moment, put our thinking caps on. Certainly not an expert in psychoanalysis, I nonetheless view “toilet doting” as a true aberration. Hellsfire fella,’ let’s be a bit more blunt. I believe its fair to say “toilet adoration” is bizarre and abnormal behavior!
          Some Narz citizens, “Kool Kats” who formerly acted with a meek, almost lamb-like demeanor, are now roaring like lions! Having known these individuals for eons, I’m deeply perturbed by this sudden change in their personalities. A terrifying transformation, much like that Jekyll-Hyde scene. Truly a frightening metamorphosis, supernatural in its effect.
          Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a humorous literary work pertaining to a big old toilet could stir such emotions, cause wrathful indignation of this magnitude. Even now the reverberating uproar builds to a deafening crescendo, a well-nigh intolerable din that’s forced me to make a solemn vow. Not ever will I write a story that debases another mans toilet. I might, at some time in the far distant future, demean his dogs and brats. But not his toilet!
          Supposedly we are an advanced society living in a civilized “age of human rights.” But apparently the coming of the dastardly Ed Shamy has changed all that. To mete out a deserving justice to this upstart journalist, a vast number of Narrows citizens are vehemently demanding a return to those medieval torture contraptions of the darkened Middle Ages. Such notions give me the creeps and are, I firmly believe, a cause for grave concern.
          Just yesterday I listened nervously as one enraged citizen screamed aloud: “Dig a hole in the sand. Bury Ed Shamy in that excavation, leaving only his head and scrawny neck exposed. Pour 20 gallons of honey over the hateful one, then loosen one million fire ants in the immediate vicinity!
          Now really , my fellow citizens. I believe its time we pause, sit in a circle, cross our legs…and drift away into deep transcendental meditation.
          Certainly our reactions are not compassionate ones. The feral blood of our ape ancestors still course through our veins and is taking charge of this volatile situation…

          Strange indeed is the power of one person to move so many. A newspaper columnist named Ed Shamy has amazing abilities to do this, an utterly fantastic talent unequalled by anyone else in the print media.
          This man has a chilling knack for taking control of minds and holding sway over the multitudes. As a master chessman shuffles figures on a checkerboard, so does Mr. Shamy move his human pawns. With, I might add, the greatest of ease. Apparently no effort whatever is required.
          Ed the grandmaster…a wily wit, a clever wag. This fella’ does to people what a cowpuncher does to cattle; he herds ’em. A cowpoke sits tall in the saddle, holds absolute authority over herds of moo-cows on the rangeland. A bow-legged cowboy from Texas needs only a rope,a sturdy horse, and a goodly ration of hardtack.
          Ed Shamy needs only printed words for “control purposes.” Sorta’ reminds me of Rasputin, the Mad Monk of Russia, he with wild,wild eyes. A cunning, diabolical individual with easy access to royalty, he had the Czars of that vast land eatin’ outta’ his dirty hands. Old Ras, insane beyond medical help, mesmerized them thar bigwigs with those entrancing orbs of vision.
          Shamy is likewise effective, but with cleverly worded paragraphs substituting for wild eyes. Call it the “power of suggestion.” Maybe a gifted talent…but more likely a curse!
          Yessir good buddy, Ed’s persuasiveness is somethin’ else. An imperial person having dictatorial aspirations might envy that quality.
          But not me pal, not I. Damn, I certainly don’t want my written words sending whole rafts of people to commit irrational acts from the top of skyscrapers, bridges, or high-aerial wires used by trapeze artists. I don’t want ‘em jumpin’ because of my feeble literary essays.
          If that were even a remote possibility I’d fling this cheap ballpoint in the river, and make paper airplanes outta; these scraps of paper. Albeit an invisible one, there is a fine line when fiddlin’ around with human emotions. I have no desire to step across it.
          Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow citizens of this fine community where creek and river meet. Time to stop and take stock of our senses.
          Ed Shamy came fishing, cast out a baited line…and caught us all! An entire town took the lure…hook, line and sinker.
          Narrowsonians are in a terrible emotional state. Folks are warlike on Main Street, seething on Southview, cantankerous on Center, furious on French, and madder than a wet hen on Wolf.
          Most unusual to see so many humans riled at the same time. Therefore, commencing tomorrow morning bright and early, I plan on rooting out some facts which, hopefully, can determine the exact cause of this hulabaloo.
          To accelerate this effort I’ve engaged the services of a private investigator, a man of impeccable credentials. A competent chap, well-trained in the art of snoopin.’
          The two of us will launch an all-out assault into this matter, a twin probe designed to bring even the most microscopic clues into a clear and lucid focus.
          Our findings will, of course, be made public…

       A column written by Ed Shamy, datelined Narrows and appearing in a Roanoke newspaper, proved beyond all shadow of doubt what I’ve longed believed. To wit, it really doesn’t take much to bring unbridled brutality in man boiling to the surface.
          Ed’s demise from planet Earth is being advocated, and some of the suggested methods for terminating his tenure among the livingwould bring gasps of horror to the lips of Attila the Hun.
          “Era.icate Ed from the earth” is yelled from yon ridges. The valleys far below are ringing with this cry: “Skewer Shamy on a sharpened shaft!” These, friends and neighbors, are two of the milder threats I’m hearing.
          The guillotine, a gruesome contraption created for the express purpose of decapitation, is on the tongues of many. As is the pillory, a patented punishment device that brought rapid dehydration , slow starvation, and a certain departure from third planet from the sun.
          Another devious thinguhmahjig saw heavy service during those barbaric days of yore. Not really certain of it’s official name, I’ll call it a “stretch machine.”
          Now listen here pal, findin’ yerself spread-eagled on this cutie meant trouble and woes. Created in the sadistic minds of human monsters, this damned thing tore arms from shoulder sockets, pulled legs from hip joints. One other outstanding feature…it easily caused scrawny necks to become elongated by several feet. Such physical abuse will , I believe, cause excruciating pain and probably land a fella’ in the hospital fer an extended stay.
          I thought such god-awful devices were outlawed a long, long time ago. Makes no difference, because Narrows citizens are hollerin’ for their return ( all fer the sake of a damned toilet. I hope our Board of Supervisors will exercise their good judgement, lend a deaf ear, and turn down this ridiculous request.).
          For pure savagery the most vicious predator in the animal kingdom can’t hold a candlelight when compared with homo-sapiens, a thinking bi-ped creature who walks upright and with a lineage goin’ all the way back to a fella’ named Adam.
          That ability to think is what makes him so gol-durned dangerous. Those meshing gears inside his head, in combination with the iciness of a cold, cold heart, allows man to plot, scheme, connive, manipulate and commit a whole host of other detrimental acts, most aimed at the downfall of his fellowman.
          Almost certainly the human race would have fared better if those twin pinnacles of power, thought and logic, had not been granted. This would have prevented envy and greed. Which in essence means man would have not stooped low to cheating, lying, stealing and killing.
          Oh, I suppose we wouldn’t have had the power of speech either, but what the hell?
          The entire earth would be way ahead in the game if, from the beginning of time until now, our means of communicating had been limited to gruntin.’ Just meet yer neighbor in the marketplace and give him a hearty grunt grunt.
          Just think, a melodic air of lilting grunts thru the centuries. A tuneful chorus across the millenniums. A grunt grunt here. A grunt grunt there…here grunt, there grunt,,,everywhere a grunt grunt…

          I can’t for the life of me understand this wholesale hostility toward Ed Shamy. A hard working lad who easily blends into any crowd, the newspaper columnist is an amiable man, easy to converse with, and is “common as an old shoe.”
         Ed “ain’t got no “ horns protruding from his forehead, nor long twitching tail that ends in a forked prong. Neither is he cloven-hooved, but has feet which seem perfectly normal. I’ve checked out the possibility he might have covens of witches at his beck and call; nothing of that nature was uncovered. Where that crowd who ride broomsticks are concerned, Ed Shamy is clean as a whistle.
          Only one thing from Ed’s background do I perceive as bothersome, maybe a cause for concern…the bloke is an Ivy-Leaguer! I’ll admit to being somewhat dubious of that group. However, even this shortcoming, colossal though it is, is quickly forgotten after one makes Ed’s acquaintance. Ya’ just find yerself overwhelmed by the rascal’s bubbly personality.
          Hell people, the good chap played the role of “outlet” to the world for us, publicizing the fact that our sewage-treatment works is a modern state-of-the-art facility second to none!
          Ed, in a very forceful presentation, sent a terse message to all other villages in Southwest Virginia: “That toilet in Narz is good as your’n! Maybe better!”
          Now what in tarnation is wrong with that? Damn, why the hub-bub? Surely this furor over a newspaper column is unjustified. There’s just no solid basis for the wrathful indignation being displayed. Let’s cease heaping these ugly invectives on Ed’s head. We ain’t a redneck town, thus should stop hurling vulgar obscenities at the man.
          In lieu of verbal abuse, every citizen of Narz (Narrows) owes a whopping debt of gratitude to Mr. Shamy. Perhaps unknowingly, the witty Ed has rendered a valuable service to our community.
          Ladies and gentlemen, the Roanoke Times has a humongously wide circulation area. That paper is mailed to former residents of this area now living abroad and scattered to the four far-flung corners of this earth.
          The much abused but innocent Ed , deftly using that powerful media as a tool, has said to Earth’s teeming masses: “Narz is a real place with live honest-to-goodness human beings. And…they’ve got a brand new toilet!”
          Thanks in no small measure to Ed Shamy , the rewards for our small hamlet are even now being realized. Arab oil shieks astride their stinking camels are talking: “I’m movin’ to Narz if’n they got a decent annual rainfall.”
          Eskimos sit musing in their igloos after a long day of hard harpooning: “Wonder what the whalin’ is like in Narz?”
          And the latest is just in. One Ukrainian city and another in Kazakhstan are clamoring for a “sister-city” relationship…

          No segment of Narrows society was left untouched by Ed’s venomous barrage. Not one man, woman or child escaped the rasping of his prickly barbs. Senior citizens, frail and stooped…energetic teenagers, babes in cradles…all were scratched and wounded. Some, quite naturally, bled more profusely than others.
          `The elderly showed their displeasure by lamenting in mournful cries: “What is this wicked world coming to? Surely it can’t stand much longer.” As a rule and generally speaking, wailing of this nature comes with age.
          Our teenagers did lotsa’ yappin,’ little of which made any sense. Their incoherent babblings did nothing to help in the battle against Shamy, but succeeded admirably in adding to the mass confusion: “Ed better not set foot back inside our corporate-limits! I’ll give him a piece of my mind!” Blah, blah, blah.
          Musta’ been pure instinct that triggered the uproar among them thar new-born babes. On the other hand , guess it could’ve been the child-like actions of their parents concerning a December 13 column in the Roanoke Times. Whatever, their piercing shrieks were clearly audible in Bluefield, with the resulting echoes finally subsiding at a point just west of Claypool Hill.
          The influential and the “nobodys” alike felt the full impact of those slashing slurs conceived in Ed Shamy’s deranged mind. The wealthy among us and paupers too were equally chastised. The well-fed and portly in our midst…the starving and homeless likewise, interpreted his every word as a personal insult.
          But, as has always been true, Narrowsonians were up for the occasion. Our cotton-pickin’ citizens retaliated with the quickness akin to lightning . A bunch of tomcats foolin’ around in yon alley ain’t blessed with such quickness.
          Ed’s poisonous tirade was repaid in full measure and then some, with a vehemence heretofore unknown in these parts. One rich fella,’ a really well-heeled individual who requested anonymity, donated ten-thousand dollars to engage the services of two high-octane lawyers. People in my neighborhood pitched in with nickels and dimes to aid the worthy cause against Ed Shamy. Lawsuits are forthcoming, and I predict our civil courts are in for extremely heavy caseloads.
          Dozens of straw-filled dummies, each bearing a striking resemblance to Mr. Shamy, have been hung in effigy at various locations around town. His leering likeness is seen dangling from tree limbs,ladders and overhead electrical wires. One raggedy dummy, a truly grotesque shape, swung from a flagpole at City Hall for four days and nights. The Narrows Police Dept. used it fer target practice during that period and riddled the durn thing with 2000 bullet holes…

9

          Brutal retaliations against Ed Shamy have been proposed for several weeks now. Secret plans for barbarism to be wreaked on the columnist came pouring in from every quarter. Detailed blueprints, with cruelty in it’s most pagan forms as their centerfold, are being studied behind closed doors. And even, it might be noted, discussed openly in public forums.
          A word of advice for the squeamish. Under no circumstances should you participate in these mass meetings where gore and sadism are the topics of conversation. Graphic gruesomeness will not help the meek drift away in peaceful slumber to greet the sandman.
          One Narrows businessman, famed as a weightlifter and deep into that silliest of all worlds, body-building, is particularly incensed at Ed ( body-building, the “pumping of iron.” An extravagant waste of valuable time. Who the hell cares if you have big bulging biceps or one of them abnormally muscular necks reminiscent of our cousin, the chest-thumpin’ mountain gorilla. )
          This local fella’ prides himself as a macho-man and, sporting a physique rivaling that of the Incredible Hulk, is possessed of superhuman strength. I wouldn’t wanna’ meet him in an alley during broad daylight, much less after nightfall. A unique dude in many ways, he’s airing his feelings in a novel manner: “ I hereby challenge Ed Shamy to a duel unto death!"”Allowing a brief pause for his admiring fans to swoon, the hulk then concludes that terse invitation: “With weapons of his own choosing!”
          Now really, ladies and gentlemen. Sheer insanity, utter madness. ( while all the daffy shenanigans were unfolding I was making my way wearily to the Narrows Sewage Treatment Plant each morning even before the sun had risen. And wondering what the new day might bring concerning a newspaper column, the man who wrote it, some irate Narz citizens, and a proposed duel that might escalate into some serious woundings or, heaven forbid, fatalities!) An absurd challenge had been laid down, indicating this matter had gotten completely out of hand. I mean, a humorous chiding of our toilet! Good heavens man, we’re talkin’ frivolity here!
          Not only has this local he-man gone overboard, he’s surely fallen thru a black-hole. This bloke is wandering about in a space-time continuum of an alien dimension.
          Whatever, alarm bells began a raucous ringing in my noggin. Having gotten to know Ed rather well, I immediately felt a genuine concern for his safety and well-being. Dialing a number in Roanoke, a great weight lifted from my shoulders on hearing his voice.
          Never, never waste time during those anxious moments when a crisis looms. Dammit, get straight to the point: “ Hey Ed, no time for pleasantries. We have a fella’ up here who is really mad at you fer bashin’ our toilet. He’s lost control of his mental faculties and is challenging you to a duel unto death.”
          The newspaperman sounded really terrified, his voice quivered in jerky phrases: “ I know, he’s already faxed it to me!” ( gosh darn it! Another instance of electronic gadgetry.).
          “Listen Ed, I have a plan for dealing with this dilemma. Hear me well, because your life may well depend on what I’m about to say”…

10

          Folks who find themselves nagged by worry and anxiety can expect no help from this corner, cause I ain’t never been good at consoling distraught persons. Ye humans who experience frequent periods of anguish had best look elsewhere for a source of comfort…a proper selection of calming words to sooth “the uptight” is not my cup of tea. My greatest shortcoming, of which there are many, is an inherent inability to come through with the exact right words for any and all occasions.
          Ed Shamy was in a petrified state of fear during our conversation. I found that quite understandable. Hellsfire man, a “Narz duelist,” a truly fearsome individual, had laid down a chilling challenge to the newsprint man…a duel unto death! (shades of King Arthur, Prince Valiant , and all them there other Knights gathered around the olde round table.)
What words are appropriate when trying to console a friend who has just entered into the initial stages of paranoia? Schizophrenia, a debilitating frame of mind causing a sudden disappearance of reason and logic (ya' can't’even remember if’n it’s Tuesday or Sunday ). One must tread softly to ensure an already dangerous isn’t aggravated further. Wrong words might bring on a crippling stroke, cardiac arrest, or even worse, a durn migraine headache. Talk carefully during times of duress, else a friend topples over the brink into that most dreadful of places, the abyss of insanity.
          Once again I found myself in the uncomfortable position of trying to say the right thing at a critical moment. And then, lo and behold, a miracle occurred.
          Recalling my extensive background as a Saturday matinee movie-goer, I remembered that immortal line of dialogue used in more than 7,000 cinema productions. It had been spoken way out yonder on the range by Hopalong Cassidy, Tim Holt, Gene Autry, Johnny Mack Brown and The Durango Kid ( true idenity, Charles Starrett ).
Boston Blackie uttered it to hundreds of lovely young damsels during his long and distinguished career as a two-fisted private-eye.
Sam Spade did likewise when he conversed with mysterious ladies of intrigue ( who always operated at night.).
          Sky King, a daring pilot of considerable skills in 1940’s movie serials. Ever the cool one, he vocalized the famous line to terrified passengers even as his plane spun out of control toward earth in a dizzying tailspin. An ace airman he surely was, but I wouldn’t have boarded any of his flights.
          Hell, if that line of dialogue worked fer all them there people, maybe it wuz worth a try. Having nothing to lose, I repeated it to a Roanoke newsman who was deeply concerned about a challenge from a menacing stranger in Narrows. Thus I said to him: “Don’t worry, Ed. Take it easy, everything’s gonna’ be alright”…

          “Don’t worry…take it easy! What the heck are you talkin’ about?” Ed’s voice had a raspy hoarseness that is a by-product and true indication of fear. “Man, my neck is at stake here. Not yours!”
          “Calm down, Ed. I have your best interests at heart, and am doin’ my very best to prevent a disaster.”
          That line itself was a disaster. Mr. Shamy’s tone clearly indicated that truth with a heightened note of urgency: “A disaster! Good Lord, am I really in so much peril?”
          “Possibly, but not necessarily. Let’s the two of us together, you and I, concentrate on the latter part of the big apes challenge. Certainly he’s a chivalrous sort, allowing you to select the weapons. A definite advantage, Ed me lad. A big, big edge.”
          “What are you saying?” Mr. Shamy was beginning to sound mighty interested.
          I answered his question in an honest manner: “I’m warning you not to choose karate, jujitsu or any of that silly martial-arts junk. I know your challenger well, a man of brute strength. Any type of close-in-fighting or hand-to-hand combat is signing your death warrant. I don’t wish to be a voice of doom, but you’ll be a flimsy toothpick in his grasp!”
          “You mean I might be broken into many little pieces?” Old Ed wuz gittin’ the message, and was in a mood of total dismay.
          “Worse than that, Mr. Shamy…you’ll be pulverized.” I’ve always detested passing along negative information but one should not understate the facts when a friend is in jeopardy.
          “Wish I’d never written about that damned toilet up there.” Ed sounded a beaten man, about to run up the white flag.
Nonetheless my gloomy soothsaying continued. “You certainly don’t want to choose small-calibre handguns against this gorilla. Or even weapons of a larger bore. A bullet from a .357 would merely bounce off his thick skull.
One of them there .44 Magnums used by Dirty Harry Callahan would be equally ineffective.”
          “My fate is sealed then, my cause is hopeless.” Ed’s tone of despair demanded a quick response. He might resort to an act of desperation by doin’ somethin’ stupid.
          “Hold on, Ed. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. You have the choice of weapons in this dispute. Use it wisely…select a field-howitzer.”
          “What in the world is that?” Shamy seemed a bewildered lad.
          “An artillery piece. One of them big guns.”
          Our Narz Neanderthal didn’t know it, but this time he’d gone a step too far…

          Ed Shamy didn’t seem one bit enthused about my suggestion; “Cannons are a totally unfamiliar item with me. Therefore I’m neither thrilled nor comfortable with your idea.”
          I offered assurance in the most businesslike tone I could muster: “Fret not, Ed. My plan is virtually foolproof, one in which you can have the utmost of confidence. Believe me, a cannon is your only hope against this bruising brute.”( I purposefully failed to mention that I’ve formulated 75,689,432 plans since the Great Depression ended. I didn’t want Ed knowing not one of ‘em came close to working. All the cotton-pickin’ things failed miserably.).
Believing Mr. Shamy’s morale had sank to an alarming low and in desperate need of a boost, I continued laying out my strategy. A strategy which, by the way, I considered a true stratagem. “Rest easy me lad. I’ve had previous experience with the big guns, especialy the 155mm. variety. Six years of army reserve time afforded me plenty of practice with that particular weapon. Each summer my artillery outfit motored up to Indiantown Gap where we underwent the most arduous and grueling training imaginable ( actually most of that time was spent in the “dives” of Hershey and other nearby towns, PX beer gardens, playin’ poker and cussin’ everybody in government, the Pentagon most of all, including the Joint Chiefs of Staff.).
Not wanting Ed to interrupt, I kept right on workin’ my jaws 90 miles per minute ( I’d oiled them good just prior to dialing Ed’s number.). “Yessir Mr. Shamy, I’ve helped pockmark many mountains in central Pennsylvania. That’s how I know of the awesome destructive power of the one-five-five. Surely this little play pretty with a barrel weighing 10.000 pounds, can turn the tide against your antagonist in Narz.”
          Ed finally got in a word edgewise: “Golly, I hope so. I’m extremely worried about my safety and well-being!”
          “Be of good cheer, Ed. There are no survivors following an intense artillery bombardment. That big galoot will never again issue another challenge, cause he’ll never know what hit him.” I tried very hard to lay it on real thick.
          “Such an outcome would take a load of worry from my mind,” Mr. Shamy commented. “I haven’t slept well lately.”
          “Relax, you can crawl in bed tonight and count whole flocks of sheep ( av fella’ feels real good when helping a fellowman in need.).
Ed seemed greatly pleased as our phone conversation ended. Ya’ might say the gent sounded euphoric as we bid our farewells.
          Ladies and gentlemen, it’s pure folly to build somethin’ up and tear the thing down again. One should not rip asunder the hopes and expectations of any human.
          I didn’t have the heart to tell Ed how 40 years have come and gone since last I laid eyes on a 155mm. weapon. And I certainly didn’t have access to one as maybe Ed thought…

          Ours is indeed a perilous world. This third mudball from the sun, a celestial orb called Earth, seethes with unrest and danger. A place where, if the worst can happen, it probably will.
          Trouble comes in many forms to the beleaguered and downtrodden masses of this woeful planet. Some are predictable and expected. Others drop down from the blue without any warning whatever. I believe each and every person has their own personal disaster out there, a fiasco waiting to happen…lurking just around the next bend on this bumpy road called life.
Such woes, almost without exception, are completely avoidable. The doggone things just don’t hafta’happen! All ya’ gotta’ do is follow some common-sense rules. For instance…earthquakes. Man, don’t go buildin’ a house in California! Within afew short years, possibly before sunrise tomorrow, that whole landmass is gonna’ break away from the mainland and ride a southern ocean current right on down to frigid Antarctica ( pity the poor penguins when this mess gits down yonder to the icy continent. I’m gonna’ tip ‘em off before that surfin’ crowd arrives. Surely them there hapless birds deserve better, and a timely warning will give ‘em, a chance to vamoose on outta’ there. ). Tell ya’ right now, I wouldn’t give five-cents an acre for California real-estate.
          Mud slides are a common catastrophe. Really though, it’s very hard to sympathize with victims of mudslides. Only the stupid would construct a hovel on a mountain slope where excessive amounts of rainfall are the norm. Ya’ might find yerself rudely awakened at midnight to discover a thick blanket of slimy ooze covering yer bed. A mucky mixture, gooey stuff, enough to make thousands of mud pies. Folks should seriously consider building that new home out on a level prairie, or among the cactus on an arid Arizona desert
          Forest fires rage throughout the land. Good golly people, don’t go out there and construct yer dream home in the middle of a woodland thicket. Chances are excellent that such an edifice will be consumed by hot licking flames. But if you are determined, bring in the dozers. Scrape out a mile-wide fire trail around the durn thing. Common sense, horse sense; commodities we lost along time ago.
          Lightning, floods, tornadoes…tools of mother nature and very harmful to human health ( did anyone expect a bed of roses?). Don’t stand neath a tr5ee out in a pasture field when the stuff is flashing above Head fer the high ground the very minute a cloudburst is predicted. As fer tornadoes, make a bee-line fer the nearest coal-mining shaft.
          Snakebites are now a major concern in these United States. Our native reptiles ain’t the culprits. Somehow those dreaded boomslangs, bushmasters and black mambas from Africa have made their way to our shores. Durn things are crawlin’ all over the place. Just last year more than 700,000 Americans were dispatched “across that great river” after fatal encounters with those toxic creatures who slithered into our nation from afar.
          But now, alas, the most frightening menace since time began is making itself known to the human race. I firmly believe “duelists” present the greatest threat to ever confront a bedeviled mankind. No person, male or female, can state with absolute certainty that he or she won’t be the next to be “called out” by a dueler. To a place called “the field of honor”…

          Inevitably we come to the end of this stirring saga , a daring adventure that has focused glaring attention on Ed Shamy’s journalistic trek to Narz (Narrows), Virginia. It’s simply amazing how the brevity of his visit, a few short hours, could cause the troubles it did.
          The Roanoke newsman’s calling on our humble village served many useful purposes, paramount of which is the fact that he allowed we’uns to see ourselves in a light never before available. Certainly it’s caused a “bonding” among Narrowsonians not previously known, a unity that made the world aware of our solid and impregnable oneness ( aw…phooey! I studied that last sentence carefully and see how it oozes with silliness. Actually, Ed proved how we’ve lost our sense of humor. Tis truly sad we can no longer laugh at ourselves.).
          All that aside, I must defend Ed’s right , as guaranteed by the First Amendment, to write a scathing and uncomplimentary essay about our municipal toilet facilities ( please! Scathing? Uncomplimentary? It was tongue-in-cheek. Ed’s is “diversionary” writing, a satirical style intended to let you forget for a short while the ailments of a troubled world.).
Ed and I have held numerous gabfests about the negative reaction to his masterful work concerning “The Narz Toilet.” Frank and open discussions these have been and have resulted in a concrete agreement…no person, apart from ourselves, will choose our subject material. Durn censorship ain’t gonna’ be tolerate ( only one restriction here. Me and Ed will not advocate a violent overthrow of the United States government. A federal law prohibits that unpatriotic suggestion, and will get ya’ “throwed” in the hoosegow. Other than this taboo, Ed and me can choose our subject material.).
Our nation desperately needs a change in tactics, a new sense of direction. America should return to that quaint era when every man “tended his own business,” managed his affairs and not those of his neighbors.
          Celanese workers oughta’ remain loyally by them there tow machines and concentrate their efforts on making cigarette filters. Truck drivers should keep their eyes riveted on the road. Cattlemen need to spend their energies on feeding their herds. And police dispatchers…well, they’re paid to keep tabs on the whereabouts of police cruisers, and should not be overly concerned about the Ed Shamys of this world.
          Ed and me ain’t gonna stick our noses into the methods of those good people in their workplace… Ed and me will continue choosing the material to use in our workplace! The man from Roanoke will no doubt keep calling attention in his columns to the odd caps worn by citizens of Lurich. Shamy has also let the world know about the drabness of Virginia auto license plates. He’s chided both Roanoke and Pearisburg about the dullness of neon lighted stars on mountains in their corporate limits. And perhaps, in some future time and place, he will vent his wrath on someone else’s toilet!
          I, of course, will continue delving into the mysterious realm of UFO’s, ghosts and ghouls, hauntings, and other matters relating to the supernatural.
          One final note. Ed won’t lose that duel. On his behalf I have engaged the services of Clarence “Owlhead” Robertson. Best durn artilleryman ever produced by the United States Army. Ed’s challenger is about to get a 155mm shell (weighing 96 pounds). hitting his scruffy head. From a distance of 11 miles, that ornery “duelist” won’t know WHO…or WHAT hit him…

The End

                        M.L. Wilkinson


                                                          May, 1993

Postscript:

The above will no doubt seem harsh measures, especially among the bleeding hearts of our society. However, the alarming spread of “duelists”, now a threat from the Atlantic to our Pacific shores, demand extreme and stern action. No man, woman or child in America is safe from this latest menace to confront our nation. Let us be steady in our resolve to face this danger. If 96 pound “bullets” are needed, then so be it. Even now the hour grows late…

For many years Ted Kennedy has been the official spokesman for the downtrodden. But alas, time has come for a change. We need a “pauper” to fill that position.

A sense of modesty causes hesitation at this point. Aw, what the heck? I’m far more qualified for that “spokesman” role than is the Senator from Massachusetts. He knows quite a bit about losing, but zero about being poor! Me, I’m highly qualified in both catergories!

Winners are good in all fields excepting one. Adversity…champs can’t stand to lose. A single small bump in the road is a major disaster for these shining knights. A big bump pops up and they become instant jello.

Winners can’t handle adversity…we losers pay it no mind, don’t cry and move on. Simple logic can be applied here. We losers are superior to winners…

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

December, 1994