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Man become old when he watch food instead of waitress.
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Laurel Faye was well settled into her daily routine as head sandwich maker and
officer in charge of the bi-weekly shuffle board tourney at the Tabor Home for
the Incredibly Aged. She was quite content there since her thoughtful family
members had kindly persuaded her that "it was time" to "explore new avenues" in
her life. New avenues that did not include being forced by her employer (which
this paper will keep anonymous to respect the wishes of its CEO, Robert Milton
of Air Canada) to deal with those god-awful cretins with the utmost of care and
"Utmost care and respect," she thought to herself. "Self," she said, then forgot
what she was going to tell herself and instead took solace in the subtle
comfort that the funny little road runner wind mill thingy that old Phil
McCracken had cleverly crafted on wood carving day back in 1999 was bringing
her this very moment.
The dashing and debonair Henry "Pipes" Finklestein
She giggled to herself. "That's a cute wind mill. Hee Hee Hee." She found
herself doing that a lot lately - having what seemed to be a brilliant thought
and then being non-chalantly distracted by the simple things in life. She was
feeling a little bit self conscious about doing this but then said to herself,
"Self," then again forgot what she was thinking and again focused on that cute
little road runner spinning franticly in the front yard of the finely manicured
yard of "the Home".
"I don't think the coyote would have any trouble catching him now," she giggled
to herself in a little school girl voice. She was finaly home.
Laurel was peacefully hand-crafting her sandwiches, which had become some what
legendary aroung The Home. Why, just the other day Henry Finklestein had come
right up to her during the bi-weekly cribbage tourney and told her right to her
face that the sandwiches that she made far surpassed Wilma Heatherington's.
As it turns out, Wilma discovered that she had the hots for old Henry (after
several tests ruled out gas) and everyone knew this, including Laurel. But
Henry had the hots for our fair Laurel. Wilma had a huge grudge against Laurel
for this and was determined to win over her man.
What Laurel didn't know was that Wilma had been doing some digging into her
past. Wilma had hired the services of one of the most reputable newspapers in
town, The HillBaley Ho-Down and Extravaganza to see what they could find on
this new hussy that was muscling in on her ripened turf.
The Ho-Down didn't disappoint. It seems that Laurel had had a somewhat tainted
past before coming to the home. Wilma had found out, through the Ho-Down, that
Laurel had been employed with a reputable (though somewhat fascist) air travel
company for some fifty odd years. Laurel had always claimed that she had
retired from said company and no one had any reason to refute this...until now.
The Ho-Down had uncovered a human smuggling ring that was sure to bring down Air
Canada and, in turn, Laurel Faye. It seemed that Laurel, being employed at Air
Canada at the check-in counter, was an integral part of this scheme. The
Ho-Down discovered that the Asian mafia, known as the Triads, had been
smuggling Chinese migrants into the country via Air Canada. These migrants
would appear as tourists coming to Banff for holidays when in fact they
themselves were carrying precious cargo.
The enchanting, yet devious, would-be seductress, Wily Wilma "The Cat" Heatherington
The Triads were smuggling immigrants and the immigrants were smuggling colostomy
bags that were cheaply manufactured in Taiwan and at a fraction of the cost
that Canadians pay. Laurel was the ring leader. She intended to sell the
colostomy bags to her roommates at The Home when she retired. She had known
that her family was intending to put her in the home so she had been preparing
to turn a profit while she lived out her golden years. Because she worked at
Air Canada checking in passengers and schmoozing customs offiers and various
rampees (she schmoozed rampees just for the fun of it*), she had little trouble
carrying out her part in the scheme.
Thanks to the exhaustive reporting by the Ho-Down, Wilma was about to blow the
lid on the whole thing but was biding her time, choosing her moment. Wilma was
going to wait for the Spring Concert on Saturday night.
Laurel had the starring role in the Tabor Home's adaptation of Broadway's Cats
which was destined to be a smash hit in the Alzheimer's Circuit. Wilma would
tell the world the real story of Laurel Faye and crush her in one fell swoop,
destroying her high standing reputation at the home and winning over her man.
But Laurel was completely oblivious to this at the moment as she was partaking
in her quilting session with all the gals at Tabor. Laurel enjoyed her quilting
on Saturday mornings. "Quilting is a lot like skiing," she thought to herself.
Then she had a revelation. "No, it's not. Its nothing like skiing."
She reminisced quite freqently about her glory days as a ski bunny, gracefully
swooshing down the serene mountainside of the Canadian Rockies. "Wait a
minute," she thought to herself. "I was never a graceful skier. I usually broke
something or ripped something on my body or someone else's body."
This was a thought that she liked to repress. She firmly believed that she had
rather slyly tricked her family and friends into thinking that she was as
elegant on the slopes as a deer in the forest. (Little did she know that those
same family and friends had a different take on her athletic abilities. They
thought of her as having the gracefulness of a pregnant yak which, based on the
Ho-Down's research, is far more accurate.)
But Laurel still believed that she had pulled it off believing friends and
family when they would smile and say, "Yes, Laurel, you are a graceful swan,
the best thing to hit the slopes since Peter Podborski." "Those simple minded
heathens," she thought to herself. "All along they thought I was this upscale
jetsetter type who just oozed coordination and grace. Suckers," she thought
before again relapsing into that mesmerizing bird spinning uncontrollably in
the front yard.
"Boy the wind sure is picking up out there," she thought to herself in a rather
stating-the-obvious kind of way. Not a moment after she thought that, a large
bright light came plumetting down to the earth and landed right on the
hyperactive wood carving crushing it into a million pieces. "Good," she thought
to herself, "I never liked that f%$#ing little bird anyway."
While she was wallowing in the glory of finally being rid of the captivating but
doomed bird, she was completely unaware of what was happening in the front
yard. She snapped out of her reverie to find an old two headed, ravenous, gall
bladder beast staring her directly in the face. The ravenous gall bladder beast
said to Laurel, "I am Zaphod Beeblebroxski, an alien life form of mixed
Ukrainian-Czech heritage and I am from the planet Ukraine. I have come to take
you back to the Motherland where everyone is like you, uncoordinated and
backwards. Will you come with me?"
Zaphod Beeblebroxski's ship, the P.M.S. Benyauk
Laurel weighed her options as carefully as she could. She had always been an
extensive traveller in her youth, which was eons ago, and couldn't resist the
temptation of travel. "Sure I guess," she said to the ravenous gall bladder
Wilma, witnessing the exchange between the two, screamed "Noooo!". The
"clients" of the home, including the dashing Henry, came running. "My beautiful
little sandwich maker. Where are you going? Don't leave me."
But in classic Laurel fashion, she was totally and utterly oblivious to what was
happening around her and walked into the bright light as she had been taught by
her loving family (and bumping her head as she entered). As with countless
incidents in her long, long, long life, she was totally unaware of the mess
that she had inadvertently left behind. "Hee, hee," she thought to herself as
she boarded the craft, "that sure was a funny little bird."...
*The Ho-Down wishes to inform the reader at this point
that the rampees had absolutly nothing to do with said smuggling ring and are a
fine and reputable bunch (That last bit was a precautionary measure suggested
by Ho-Down lawyer Cleveland Steamer.
We don't need any flack from high powered unions such as theirs.)