Minotaur saith: “If the globe is taken over by a race of giants, they will presumably want to feed on humans. This is why I try to stay very bony–so that I am the last steak on the rack, as it were.” Further Minotaur saith not.
Journal entry, 26 Thermidor 225 (Special Pre-Eclipse Entry): Justice Minotaur ruled on an unusual case this week in which two men sued each other under the Statute on Personal Name Conventions. Under the statute, “A man may bring criminal suit against another (and this applies to those of other genders other than the gender of ‘man’) for having a name that is misleading, wrongful, odd, or imbecilic. Any man convicted under this statute shall change his name or serve five years laying railroad track. If any two men shall sue one another under this statute in the same case, then one–and only one–must be convicted, even though both may have the most heavenly name or the most idiotic ever known in the records of man.”
The man who brought the claim was named Sweet Jackie Mango. He sued Frank Hematuria under the statute, who countersued Mango. Justice Minotaur ruled to convict Mango, on the grounds that his name “sounded like a medical condition.” When asked after the case by the bailiff to elaborate on what he meant, Minotaur stated, “I don’t know–it sounds kind of like if you ate too much mango and your insides got all jacked up.”
Minotaur saith: “My great uncle Ram Minotaur. His boy–he was the one who died when the William P. Frye sank–had a splinter of wood, and Ram took him to Doctor McTeague. The boy was afraid it would hurt to get it out. To show how to be tough, Ram asked the doctor to clip off the tip of one of his little fingers. The doctor obliged but botched the job and instead ended up cutting off Ram’s middle finger down to the second knuckle. Ram howled like a catamount in heat and then with his bloody hand threw a punch at McTeague. McTeague blocked the blow with a cast iron instrument tray, causing further screechifying. Anyway, none of this helped the boy to like doctors anymore, and the little one went home without having his splinter fixed.” Further Minotaur saith not.
For the benefit of DIYers everywhere–and you know who you are! (yeah, girlfriend!)–Justice Minotaur provides here instructions for making a sleeping mat out of rhubarb stalks.
First, in the late springtime, wait until the stalks are nice and long. This requires the patience of Job.
Second, using razor-sharp surgical shears heated to 500 degrees or hotter, remove as many stalks as are needed so that when they are laid one by the side of the next, it will provide a mat to fit the human or other creature who will be using the mat.
Third, prepare the stalks by removing the leaves and by explaining to the stalks their fate.
Fourth, line up the stalks next to one another and, using yarn or bailing wire or similar, fasten the stalks together using an under/over method, going longwise.
Fifth [step omitted after several DIYers following earlier version of instructions accidentally unlimbed themselves]
Sixth, since this mat will not provide much support to your back, cover the mat completely with a twin mattress.
Mat should last up to two weeks or until hunger sets in and the stalks are needed for cuisine.
Justice Minotaur has just completed “an exhaustive 45-minute survey” of statistical data reported in the newspapers of New Salem “from the year 1846 to the present, not counting the newspapers Gneyburhould Gnus or The International Eye Wash Update.” He has asked that Mr. Cornwall transcribe here “the most worthless statistics” found in this study, to wit:
“Of all the fruit that might have been eaten in that old Datsun while the owner was commuting or driving around or whatever, it is really hard to imagine that any more than about half of it could have been mango.”
“0 = The number of bottles of Aleve found in the excavated ruins of the ancient citadel at Hisarlik.”
“After striking the locust 860 times with a giant pan, we observed that it was in a quite liquefied state.”
“Basically any guy you meet named Brint is a total loser.”
“7 = According to Shellby, the number of times her dad told that story about Mount St. Helen’s ‘royally blowing its top.'”
“If you have less than two blades in your secateurs, they probably aren’t going to work properly.”
“The letter ‘r” appears three times–and no more than three times–in the English word ‘railroader.'”
“100 percent of cephalectomies performed by Dr. Frowg could be described as either successful or unsuccessful, depending on what you believe they were intended to accomplish.”
“If the manager is out of town, I swear it usually takes the assistant manager like eight days longer to do anything because he is such a friggin’ idiot.”
[Thinking of donating an organ today? Please click here to trigger the process.]
Journal entry, 7/7/2017 (Minotaur has temporarily reverted back to regular dating, having lost his French Republican Calendar conversion ruler). Minotaur saith: “Researchers have not been able to artificially reproduce the sound of a man lotioning his own toes with viscous, nourishing body cream.”
[If you are late for dialysis, click here for help.]
June 26, 2017
Dear Mr. Vernix,
My mediocre scribe and I visited the produce section of your market, Vernix’s Grocery Enclosure, earlier this week. Your display of edible plant material, including fruits, seeds, tubers, leaves, roots, stems, flowers, and shoots, was truly remarkable, though it fell far short of being the “8th wonderment of the world,” as your published promotional material would have us believe. I noted how the artfully arranged, crisscrossing citadel of imperator carrots seemed to envy the even more Babel-like tower of red bell peppers next to it. “What the anvil? What the hammer?” I asked myself, marveling at the talents and audacity of he who had prepared this installation–a feast for the eyes but also quite practical in taking advantage of the display area. And most important, the wares were so colorful, so plump, so ripe, so moist, so crisp, so ready for consumption. As my scribe and I studied the layout and activities in this area for several hours, we noticed how every 10 minutes, as if the spinning of this giant forsaken orb depended on it, a mist began to blast forth, like the mist that rose up in Eden, the tiny drops wetting every square inch in the display area to keep the items fresh and succulent. And then in a few moments the mist shut off without the apparent agency of any man, and so cycling again and again every 10 minutes.
This state of affairs created a firm and reasonable expectation on my part that when I purchased your produce I was also obtaining a commitment and promise from the universe that this intermittent wetness would distill upon the produce wheresoever I might take it.
Imagine, therefore, my disappointment when, after I had been home with the vegetables for several hours, I did not one time see their skins magically bedewed. Your produce–that which is so precious to you and was once precious to me–is now all in a pile in my garden compost, on the fast track to achieve that atomized state that is the ultimate leveling out of all life forms.
For my misery I seek $100,000 in damages or naming rights to your new pinto.
Justice Korbin Minotaur
by hand of Eric of Cornwall