BASICALLY LESS THAN A QUORUM

The meeting of the pipe club wa sparsely attended. One member was off exploring another part of the world, as he frequently does, because he wants to see as much as possible of the damned place before he croaks. One member had dog-sitting duty. A younger couple who both have pipes inexplicably did not show, despite saying they would be there, and will be raked over the coals for that next month. Flappy tits man probably forgot. Ioannis is in Lisbon or Athens. The music teacher may have been enjoying his last days of freedom before school starts. And Neil was being stubborn and obdurate, and energy-depleted after chemo, and just does not wish to get off his duff, which he will be spoken to about because we would rather attend his next birthday party than see him fade out and have to attend his funeral.

He started the tradition of fine pâté at meetings, in addition to other nibbly things. Pâté was indeed there today, but Neil and the bridge troll weren't.


We felt guilty eating the pâté withouth them.
Or at least some of us did.
I did.

Nevertheless.

Several of the older men I know complain about all the funerals and memorial services they've attended, because people they've known for years keep croaking and they have fewer friends. I've told them that there is an easy solution to that, they all just need a much younger crowd. Statistically those are less likely to die. Just slide up to a young man or woman in a bar and lithp at them hissily "hello human, would you like to a cocktail" or something like that. Break the ice. Flick your tail, but do NOT lick your eyeballs.

No, do not do this at grammar or high schools. Bar-going age is more likely, and provides a better range of test subjects. Also, such behaviours are standard at many drinking establishments and your targets will be less inclined to cringe.

Skittering across the walls and ceiling is right out.
Offer to show them your pipes instead.

Faculty parties are ideal.


Younger people are fascinated by pipes, as these reminds them of indiduals they used to know and museums filled with curiosities. Grampa in his rocking chair on the back porch of the cabin up in the mountains, the old fellow who used to sweep the hallways of the local funeral home where they played hide and seek among the caskets during summer breaks, dead literary men and legendary geniuses, or often in my case that dashing fellow who tutored latin and algebra when you were at college whatever happened to him?

Hi there.


The good guys in murder mysteries always smoke pipes.
Bad guys are fast-talking cigarette smokers.

Anyway, the pâté was excellent.



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