The Mystery of the Seatless Bike
So, last night Lindell and I decided to have a séance. We lit a bunch of candles, drew a pentagram, dressed in black, and decided to call on the spirit of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. After persistently moaning OOOOOmmmmm he finally graced us with his presence and shared his latest story from beyond the grave entitled "The Mystery of the Seatless Bike". At first we thought it might be some odd gay porn...but we were wrong, very wrong.
Sir Art (we were on a first name basis by this point) cleared his throat and began his woeful tale:
One morning, quite early in the morning to be exact (or inexact), Mr. Watson stepped out of the brothel in which he had laboured all the night. Stepping into the street he noticed a discarded bicycle seat, carelessly strewn along the path. Mr. Watson glanced up and down the alley while buttoning his fly--he'd become quite lascivious in his retirement-- wondering if someone had buggered off with one of the wench's bicycles. He counted all the cycles he was satisfied that the errant seat had been placed in his path quite by accident, stepped over it, and ambled over to the pub where he met his old chum Sherlock.
Upon hearing the odd tale, Sherlock, whose most recent adventure had involved his prostate, coaxed Mr. Watson into examining the evidence further. The pair returned to the site of the crime and Sherlock quickly deduced that the errant seat actually belonged to Mr. Watson's own bicycle, which, in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten he owned. Sherlock donned his bifocals and noted that the apparatus that holds the seat in place was missing. The two friends donned their bifocals and searched near but not far, they're old, you know. Well, ten minutes of hunching over and searching the ground wrought havoc upon their lumbar region, so the two elderly sleuths gave up. Mr. Watson wanted to head over to Timmy Ho's and Sherlock heartily agreed. But as they stood by their carriage they noticed that the missing apparatus had been carefully placed by the carriage! The two old farts stared at the ground and stroked their chins thoughtfully. As Mr. Watson stroked his chin, Sherlock noted a black substance beneath his friend's fingernails and a slight tear upon his right sleeve. Sherlock launched into a montage of Mr. Watson signing various documents, opening doors, and lifting his pint to his mouth--Eureka! Sherlock stood bolt upright and declared "I have solved the mystery of the Seatless Bike!" Mr. Watson demanded to know the answer to the question that had plagued him for approximately 30 minutes. "It's elementary, my dear Watson, the apparatus is placed on the right hand side of the carriage, the seat was strewn on the right side of the path, your fingernails are dirty, and you have a tear on your right sleeve. Clearly, you stumbled down from the brothel in the night and removed your own seat, then, unable to put it back together because of the arthritis, you placed these items so that I may solve the mystery and replace the seat for you." Mr. Watson was insulted by the suggestion that he was at all arthritic and exclaimed, "It couldn't have been me as I was in the brothel all night long!" To which Sherlock replied, "Oh, don't go blaming the old wenches like you did last time! We all know it only takes you about 5 minutes-- when you're lucky-- and you spend the rest of the night fumbling around, taking things apart until your arthritis flares and then you make up some cockamamie story!" Mr. Watson blushed and kicked a pebble muttering an apology. The two smiled, locked arms, and skipped, as best they could, to the nearest Timmy Ho's where they discussed the virtues of Mylanta for several hours.
The End.
Lindell and I were so disgusted with this miserable excuse for a story that we threw rotten vegetables at Sir Art until he left our dimension in tears.
True Story.
(Well…the part about the bike anyway. This neighborhood is going to hell—accursed seat removing bastards!)
Sir Art (we were on a first name basis by this point) cleared his throat and began his woeful tale:
One morning, quite early in the morning to be exact (or inexact), Mr. Watson stepped out of the brothel in which he had laboured all the night. Stepping into the street he noticed a discarded bicycle seat, carelessly strewn along the path. Mr. Watson glanced up and down the alley while buttoning his fly--he'd become quite lascivious in his retirement-- wondering if someone had buggered off with one of the wench's bicycles. He counted all the cycles he was satisfied that the errant seat had been placed in his path quite by accident, stepped over it, and ambled over to the pub where he met his old chum Sherlock.
Upon hearing the odd tale, Sherlock, whose most recent adventure had involved his prostate, coaxed Mr. Watson into examining the evidence further. The pair returned to the site of the crime and Sherlock quickly deduced that the errant seat actually belonged to Mr. Watson's own bicycle, which, in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten he owned. Sherlock donned his bifocals and noted that the apparatus that holds the seat in place was missing. The two friends donned their bifocals and searched near but not far, they're old, you know. Well, ten minutes of hunching over and searching the ground wrought havoc upon their lumbar region, so the two elderly sleuths gave up. Mr. Watson wanted to head over to Timmy Ho's and Sherlock heartily agreed. But as they stood by their carriage they noticed that the missing apparatus had been carefully placed by the carriage! The two old farts stared at the ground and stroked their chins thoughtfully. As Mr. Watson stroked his chin, Sherlock noted a black substance beneath his friend's fingernails and a slight tear upon his right sleeve. Sherlock launched into a montage of Mr. Watson signing various documents, opening doors, and lifting his pint to his mouth--Eureka! Sherlock stood bolt upright and declared "I have solved the mystery of the Seatless Bike!" Mr. Watson demanded to know the answer to the question that had plagued him for approximately 30 minutes. "It's elementary, my dear Watson, the apparatus is placed on the right hand side of the carriage, the seat was strewn on the right side of the path, your fingernails are dirty, and you have a tear on your right sleeve. Clearly, you stumbled down from the brothel in the night and removed your own seat, then, unable to put it back together because of the arthritis, you placed these items so that I may solve the mystery and replace the seat for you." Mr. Watson was insulted by the suggestion that he was at all arthritic and exclaimed, "It couldn't have been me as I was in the brothel all night long!" To which Sherlock replied, "Oh, don't go blaming the old wenches like you did last time! We all know it only takes you about 5 minutes-- when you're lucky-- and you spend the rest of the night fumbling around, taking things apart until your arthritis flares and then you make up some cockamamie story!" Mr. Watson blushed and kicked a pebble muttering an apology. The two smiled, locked arms, and skipped, as best they could, to the nearest Timmy Ho's where they discussed the virtues of Mylanta for several hours.
The End.
Lindell and I were so disgusted with this miserable excuse for a story that we threw rotten vegetables at Sir Art until he left our dimension in tears.
True Story.
(Well…the part about the bike anyway. This neighborhood is going to hell—accursed seat removing bastards!)
posted by Daniela at
Monday, July 11, 2005
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