Broken Fish

Dr. Hazel Capon was deeply concerned. The funding for project “Broken Fish” was running out, and without significant results in the next four months, it was unlikely the Flugler Foundation would continue its support of her work.

Dr. Capon was the only ichthyo-orthopod in the country specializing in rib injuries of salt-water fish. Her previous work with crustacean amputees led to the development of “Capon’s Leg,” a salt-powered prosthesis that allowed amputee crabs to sidle normally, had vaulted her to fame in the marine biology surgical world and opened the funding wallets for new research. The people at Flugler poured millions into the Broken Fish project, hoping to be associated with new, cutting-edge surgical techniques for repairing shattered fish bones. But now, two years later, the foundation trustees were rethinking their position; without the slightest hint of a breakthrough from Capon’s work, it was considering moving its funds to a group that was doing groundbreaking work on alleviating pre-menstrual stress in bison. If that happen, Hazel’s once-proud standing in the fish field would suffer considerably.

Dr. Hazel Capon faced a dilemma, a moral dilemma. She knew exactly what the problem was that was hindering her research, she knew it two months after project Broken Fish began, and she knew how to solve it. By solving it, however, she would have to cross a line she wasn’t sure she could cross.

The problem, Hazel learned early on, was that fish seldom received rib injuries. Occasionally, a high-powered speedboat piloted by a drunken fat guy from Minnesota would slam into a carp and snap a rib, but usually resulted in the quick demise of the fish. Other than that, fish just didn’t seem to break ribs…unless…unless you punched them. That was Hazel’s problem; should she start beating up fish and get more money, or admit she screwed up and slink off to obscurity? To make matters worse, Dr. Hazel Capon was born under the sign of Pisces.

Unwilling to become an ichthyo-terrorist, Dr. Capon told the Flugler Foundation her research was proving to be “going nowhere” and closed down the Broken Fish project. She has since changed her specialty to gastropod psychiatry.

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Harley Chalmers Interviews a Birdhouse

A friend of a friend’s son is attending Our Lady of the Tortilla University where he is majoring in “Communications.” His name is Harley Chalmers, and he wants to be a “television news personality.” “Communications” is the post-sanity major that has replaced “journalism” at most colleges and universities in this country, and it is a prerequisite for anyone desiring to break into the news…uh…infotainment business.
Since I worked the dark side of the news business for eight years as a television “news” producer, my friend’s friend asked my friend to ask me if I would critique Harley’s audition. Being the wonderful human mammal that I am, I agreed.

I slipped the tape into my VCR—it came with my CD player—and when the picture burst on the TV screen, Harley was seated in an Adirondack deck chair next to a dilapidated, hanging, two-story, wooden birdhouse. He was decked out in a white shirt, blue blazer, red tie, and grey pants. His light-brown hair was neatly coiffed into a hair helmet, and he had a big smile that revealed a mouthful of fluorescent teeth. He began.

“I’m here today in Sylvia Potchanu’s backyard to talk to this birdhouse,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the sorry looking structure. “Birdhouses are very common in North America, but ones made of wood are becoming a rare sight because of the popularity of less expensive, plastic models. This one has been in Sylvia’s yard for years, and I bet it has some stories to tell.” Pointing a fuzzy-covered microphone towards the birdhouse, Harley turned his head and asked. “So, you are a birdhouse, right?”

The birdhouse looked at Harley like the wanna-be TV personality was a moron (which, by the way, is a particularly favorable quality for TV personalities).

Harley didn’t let the birdhouse’s silence deter him, and he forged ahead. “I was wondering, before you took up birdhousing, what kind of work were you in?”

The little house gave an inaudible sigh and answered, “I was part of a tree.”

“That’s awesome,” beamed Harley, “Why did you decide to leave the tree and become a shelter for birds?”

“I didn’t ‘decide’ to become a birdhouse. The tree was murdered by a chainsaw-wielding psycho and butchered into boards to make birdhouses. It’s rather ironic because as a tree, we sheltered more birds than all the birdhouses built from us?”

“I’m sorry,” Harley chided, “we’re not allowed to use words like ‘ironic’ on television.” The budding TV reporter moved on. “So tell me, what do you think of the new, plastic birdhouses?”

“I think it is better than making them out of trees.”

“Ok. Uh…a final question. If you could have any other job, what would it be?”
The birdhouse quickly snapped, “I’d be a tree.”

The interview over, Harley did his on-camera summation, “Well there you have it folks, a wooden birdhouse in the age of plastics, totally cool or what? Now, back to Glen in the studio.”

I sent the tape back to my friend with this note attached: “Tell your friend that Harley is going to be a star.”

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