SERIALIZATION OF “the Zany Time Travels of Warble McGorkle” – Chapter 21 of 61
Warble Explains the True Purpose of Concentration Camps
Chapter 21
Warble Explains the True Purpose of Concentration Camps
Warble pauses, allowing the suspense and anticipation to build, and then says, “One of the greatest causes of problems throughout history has been Jews with a bad PH-balance."
"Bad balance--you mean they tended to fall off trampolines and such?" Albert inquires.
"No, silly, I’m talking about the acidic Jews."
"Acidic Jews?" Ward hears himself ask.
"Sure, I guess they’re full of you-know-what and vinegar, making them acidic, and that’s what makes them so surly."
"What do you propose to do about it, Warble?" Mary sarcastically asks.
"We’ll slip some sand and salt into their matzoh balls; that’ll straighten them up and balance them out. You’ve never heard of alkaline Jews or loamy Jews causing trouble, have you?"
"Well, no, but..." Albert reasons aloud.
"There’s no butts about it, Joad,” Warble rests his case. “I proved it to you plain and simple, and you’ve got nothing to retort in reply now, do you?"
"Well, I do have a question,” Ward says. “What made this particular brand of Jews so acidic in the first place?"
"A fine question, Robespierre. You have outdone yourself,” Warble commends. “The source of the acidity can be laid at the feet of a chemical imbalance caused by extreme frustration over their inability to ever find a beanie that fits. That unhappy state of affairs was enough to drive them crazy, or at least to distraction, which altered their chemical makeup.”
“This sort of posthumous off-the-rack psychoanalysis demeans and trivializes the absent analysands, reducing their wonderful idiosyncrasies to a list of pat psychological disorders,” Ward gives Warble to understand.
“I didn’t understand a word you just said,” Warble says, staring at the image consultant. “You must somehow learn to keep quiet if you can’t make any sense, Robespierre. Anyway,” Warble continues with a wave of his hand, “to get back to all the calamities caused by forgetfulness and failing to concentrate—the reason why people were sent off to camp in World War II in the first place, buy the whey, was to help them learn how to concentrate. If they had mastered the art beforehand—or had a PPA!” he exclaims, looking around at all to make sure they got the implication, “they wouldn’t have ended up there, as there would have been no need for the remedial training they got in the art of concentrating in those camps.”
“I don’t think that word means what you think it means, Warble,” Ward interjects.
“Which word, Robespierre?” Warble demands. “Are you—YOU of all people, with your hifalutin’, gold plated, kid glove, diamond breast pin jargon--accusing me of malapropism?”
“Not a word of it, Warble, but concentration...those camps were called ‘concentration camps’ because...”
“Oh, dry up, Robespierre,” Warble says, monopolizing the conversation again. “Now, as to other calamities caused by people having their rights taken away by that old nincompoop Washington and thus not having a PPA on hand 24/7:
1) Jim Bowie forgot to take his vitamin C and echinacea before the Alamo. If he had been well, he would have knifed all of Santa Anna’s men, it would’ve been the Mexicans who would’ve said “Remember the Alamo,” and they would’ve regained Texas at San Jacinto (which would’ve been a good thing, in the long run, for the U.S.).
2) The Captain of the Maine forgot to have the explosives removed before having the welding done.
3) Gavrilo Princip forgot it was against the law to assassinate people, even if they are "furriners" with twirly mustaches and high-toned ways.
4) Investors forgot to sell high in 1929.
5) Men in the crows nests at Pearl Harbor in 1941 infamously forgot to always expect the unexpected.
6) On 9/11, Muslim terrorists forgot that Islam is a peaceful religion.”
“It is?” inquires Ward, eyebrow raised, consternation written on his brow--after Warble quickly writes it there with a magic marker, that is—one he keeps on hand for just such occasions.
“Naturally, Robespierre. Take Muhammad Ali, for instance: When he was Cassius Clay (a Catholic, I think, and a grandson of Henry Clay, the old abolitionist), he was violent, beating people’s brains in or out at the drop of a hat or the ringing of a bell; after converting to Islam, though, the former pugilist married Jane Fonda and refused to kill Vietnamese fishermen.”
Ward slaps himself on the side of the head, as if he’s climbing out of a public swimming pool with water-clogged ears, and then vigorously rubs his temples with his index and middle fingers while wearing the expression of a sufferer of migraines, inadvertently smearing the word ‘consternation’ all over his forehead until Warble’s ‘calligraphy’ is not even legible to a journeyman pharmacist.
“Just because I mentioned the amazing factoid that Clay/Ali was a Catholic doesn’t mean you have to give us a show-and-not-tell Ash Wednesday performance, Robespierre! Get serious and show some respect!” Warble yells.
Ward sinks to his knees, sobbing in what Warble calls constration (a combination of confusion and frustration). Warble shoots him a disdainful look, and commands the others: “Don’t mind him, he’s got a weak mind. Anyway, in conclusion, I feel it necessary to mention two final occasions where the lack of PPAs caused untold misery and suffering to mankind:
7) “Curious George” Donner forgot there was a mountain range in the way when he guided the emigrants from the flatlands of the Midwest to the Golden State (or tried to, at any rate) on short rations.
8) Last but not least, old smarty-pants Washington even sabotaged himself.”
“George Washington needed a PPA?” Mary queries.
“What else? The antiquated geezer was supposed to be meeting with Benedict Arnold to give him a raise and a promotion, but was fooling around in the Green House instead, inventing peanuts. This negligence to accord honor and prestige to Arnold caused him to —understandably, I’m sure you’ll all admit—go on strike and nullify the final year of his contract. He became a free agent and signed on with his former team, who quite cleverly and somewhat cagily promised him accolades, shoulder decorations, a comfortable pension, and all the ale he could drink.”
“And?” Comfy asks, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“And the old envy-inducing peanut inventor went to live in that miserable swamp known as Washington, D.C., in a whitewashed headquarters building. What’s the name of it again--the Presidential mansion, I mean?"
"The White House, Warble," Mary answers, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. She turns to Marianne and mutters under her breath, “How can he be so full of...other information, and not know that?”
"Why Taos?” Warble says. “What kind of an answer is that? The presidential mansion isn’t even in New Mexico, is it? Isn’t it somewhere in Washington State?"
“I don’t think so, Warble, but I certainly think I know what state you’re in,” Mary complains under her breath.
But Warble doesn’t hear his wife’s uttered groanings. He’s not paying attention, but rather cogitating on the precise location of what he calls ‘the presidential palace.’ “Yes, I was right, as always!” he finally ejaculates, his index finger pointing skyward. “I’m sure the presidential pad is in Washington state—Redmond, I’m fairly certain. But that’s beside the point. The point is that the name of the joint is The White House – el casa blanca, in other words.”
“That seems a rather colorless name,” Comfy contributes.
“Yes, Comfy,” Warble admits, “but it fits the occupants to a ‘tea,’ and that’s all that really matters.”
~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^
Blackbird Crow Raven’s “the Zany Time Travels of Warble McGorkle” is being serialized in this space each Sunday and Thursday; it is also available in its entirety from here.
You can listen to the recording of this excerpt, by the author’s alter ego (or evil twin), here: