Having slipped silently into my backyard time machine, I pressed forward to the 18th Century and found myself seated at a garden table with Count von TwoThreeFour, sipping a fragrant 1745 Chateau de Pew. He wasn’t that surprised to see me. After introductions I began asking him depth defying questions, exploring the mind of this 18th Century scion.
Me, translated: Count, I am so sorry you have to employ an interpreter, but my 18th Century Hungarian is as rusty as your wife’s chastity belt.
Count: Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho. Now I shall have you dismembered with the tools of my angry blacksmith.
Guards moved smartly in my direction.
Me: I’m afraid there must be some mistake.
I begged the interpreter to rapidly translate that phrase again?
Translator: You said your Hungarian is as rusty as his wife’s chastity belt and she must be inclined to have too much whiskey!
Me: No! No! You misunderstood. Tell him, what I said was my Hungarian host is as trustworthy as a his wife’s sagacity and then I held up my glass and asked for another belt of my host’s perfectly refined libation.
After a hasty reinterpretation, the shamefaced interpreter was dragged away by two hearty guards the size of water buffalos, carrying sabers of finely honed Damascus steel.
Another, rather nervous interpreter was dragged across the lawn and plopped in a chair by the same guards, his face as sheepishly expressive as a dog being given a full syringe of wake-me-not. His breeches appeared rather damp, the dark stain dripping down into his silk stockings.
Me: What happened to the first interpreter?
New Interpreter: He has become a unicorn.
Me: You mean a eunuch?
New interpreter looks blank: Is there a differencing? I am thinking not so far.
The third interpreter looked even more sheepish.
Me: Another eunuch?
Interpreter III: Oh, no sir, only his babbling tongue was removed. He will still be permitted to do the dance of the quivering snake.
No doubt he is quivering already.
Me: I hesitate to ask, but what do you do for entertainment, Count?
Count: We have many diversions. Droshky racing is my favorite.
Me: You refer to the small carriages pulled by two stallions?
Count: You certainly know your droshkies.
He spoke with a lisp so deep it sounded as if his tongue was permanently attached to a long string of rusty S-es, unlike the unfortunate second interpreter, who now had to rely on inspiration from a chattering chambermaid.
Count: We used to race them through the fields of cabbage.
Me: Didn’t the serfs complain?
Count: Not after a few were taught a lesson which none survived.
He said it as if he’d told his gardener to mow the grass.
Count: After that, the serfs organized a cheering section, lined up, waving flags and shouting at the tops of their lungs. Oh, yes, the droshky races have become famous throughout the land!
Me: Hate to change the subject. What do you hear from Marcella, the Asiatic beauty?
Count: She left me after the accident with the donkey.
I gave him my blank stare.
He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, these things happen.
Count: Under cover of darkness, she crept into the stables during the donkey’s breeding season. A horrible accident. Apparently, it was more than she could take. (he shrugged again) I didn’t think that was possible.
Anyway, she married the Grand Duke of Russo and raises Irish Wolfhounds. Shears them like sheep and sells the wool. If she’s having one of her moods, she also sells the meat and skins.
Several of her serfs escaped and joined our enthusiastic droshky cheering section.
Me: Any other sporting events?
Count: Oh yes, of course. There’s the serf-flogging-and-quick-step wager, as well as the serf-racing-through-the-forest shooting event, and of course the divorce-or-die competition, and the race-you-to-the-guillotine-through-the-swamp competitive swim meet. Last one in each heat gets the chop. That’s one of my personal favorites, topped off with who-got-the-poisoned-cup-of-Champagne after party.
Me: Sounds like there’s the specter of death connecting these sports.
Count: Certainly not. There’s a nail-the-tail-on-the-braying donkey, drunk and blindfolded. I get a kick out of that one. Not to mention the guess-whose-daughter-I-shall- deflower-next extravaganza. Last year, the parents of Zelda-the-Double Wide’s parents stood up, did a dosie-doe and offered a toast when she won.
Me: What’s the next humorous event on the calendar?
Count: I’ll have to check, but I’m thinking about a new one. Perhaps, rope-the-nosey-interviewer-in-the-muck rodeo and accompanying tie-him-to-the-stake comedy roast.
Fortunately, my time machine was warmed up and ready.
