The Lunatic Again

I idly dropped a stone on the pond’s surface.

“Ow!” exclaimed a lunatic standing nearby, “Watch what you are doing!”

“I just thought about making a splash,” I said apologetically.

“Bring your own bathtub then,” the lunatic sniffed.

“Did I disturb you?” I asked contritely.

“You disturbed my love life,” the lunatic said indignantly.

“Your love life?”

“Yes, my love life.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed.

“I read pornography by the poolside, and I hate to be disturbed when I am going through my collection.”

“Stone the crows!” I exclaimed.

“Why should you stone the poor things?” asked the lunatic.

“So that they do not disturb you from reading pornography,” I said smiling weakly.

“They don’t do that,” the lunatic replied gruffly. “I put up a do not disturb sign on the bank when I’m reading pornography.”

“You bank too!” I exclaimed.

“I have to pay the pornography salesman, don’t I?” the lunatic questioned.

“When do they come around?” I asked.

“They come disguised as fishermen,” the nut disclosed, “And, there are some that like being a small fish in a big pond.”

“You mean insane salesmen who think they are fish?” I asked.

“We have all kinds, “ the lunatic replied, “some are as mad as wet hens, some hot under the collar and then there are the plain dyspeptics and the dipsomaniacs.”

“Do you run a clinic for them?”

“They have to be cured of all their ills and kleptomania, don’t they?” the lunatic questioned.

“You treat kleptomaniac salesmen or dipsomaniacs?” I asked.

“Both are the same kettle of fish,” he replied.

“The kettle should not call the pot black,” I said helpfully.

“The pot is an expert on baptising kettles,” the lunatic said.

“Oh!”

“And it treats salesmen with dipsomania, kleptomania and insomnia,” he said.

“Quite a practice it must have?” I asked admiringly.

“The pot also calls the kettle black, but then that’s racial discrimination,” the lunatic said disapprovingly.

“I hope that there are no race riots involving pots,” I remarked.

“That doesn’t happen because they smoke pot,” the nutcase said, “then they write songs.”

“Do they publish their songs?” I asked wonderingly.

“Yes Ariana Grande sings them frequently on Youtube,” the lunatic replied.

“Don’t the kettles feel jealous?” I asked.

“Insanely.”

“They are insane too?”

“They suffer from the delusion of grandeur,” he said, “They think they are Ariana Grande’s godfather.”

“Not the Godfathers that go, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!”

“No, only insane kettles that ran away from lunatic asylums while being washed,” he said.

“They have loony bins for kettles?” I asked surprised.

“Only kettles that think they are garden hoses,” the lunatic replied.

“How long do they lock them up?” I asked.

“Till all the loony doctors go crazy!”

“Oh!”

“They get crazy from hearing the pot calling the kettle black morning, noon and night,” the nut chuckled.

“Do they get crazier when it’s full moon?” I questioned.

“Crazy as a loon!”

“They bay at the full moon,” the lunatic said.

“Their bark must be worse than their bite,” I remarked.

“Yes the loony doctors sometimes bite the lunatics if they don’t oil the air conditioner properly,” the nutcase said.

“But the loony doctors don’t read pornography, do they?” I asked.

“Only to those in the padded cells,” he said.

“Do they have any pornography salesmen in there?” I queried.

“They do, as also those selling hosiery,” he replied.

“Quite a menagerie!” I exclaimed.

“They have room for plenty more, you can also apply when the iron is hot,” the lunatic said.

“Strike when the iron is hot, you mean?” I asked.

“That’s right, call a strike and all the lunatics will join,” he said.

“Do the lunatics strike?”

“They are always striking down the civil rights of loony doctors,” the lunatic said.

“What do the loony doctors do?” I asked.

“They strike back when the iron is hot,” he chuckled.

“You mean the loony doctors brand the lunatics?” I asked petrified.

“No, no, they ensure that the loonies are wearing branded underwear,” the lunatic said.

“What if they don’t?” I asked.

“Then the loony doctors recite Shakespeare’s sonnets to them,” the lunatic said.

“Does it calm them down?”

“Yes, it’s as effective as giving them a cold water bath and a few electric shocks below the waistline,” the lunatic said.

“Very shocking,” I said.

“Just 440 volts,” the lunatic said, “and during the full moon, they increase the voltage a bit.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” I asked.

“Just a little, if you are soft in the head,” he remarked.

“What about the hard-headed loonies?”

“They are handed over to the actual nutcases,” the lunatic said, “who brainwash them twice a week on Saturdays and Sundays and also make them wash their underwear under the supervision of the loony doctors.”

“Do the loony doctors do overtime?”

“They are always on time, making the lunatics wash behind the ears while doing situps and counting to one hundred and breathing through their left nostrils,” the nutcase said.

“That’s quite tough,” I said admiringly.

“It improves their hygiene and IQ,” the nut said.

“Do they need electric shock therapy afterwards?” I asked.

“Only if they fail the elocution test,” the lunatic said.

“Oh!”

“They must recite all the one hundred and fifty-four sonnets Shakespeare wrote,” the loony said, “without pausing for breath.”

“I doubt if Shakespeare could have recited them himself,”I said.

“If Shakespeare wrote them at all,” the lunatic drawled, “It could easily have been Sir Francis Bacon, Edward de Vere, Christopher Marlowe, William Stanley or even you.”

“I don’t write poetry,” I guffawed, “not unless I have nightmares.”

“You ride mares at night?” the nut asked amazed.

“I do that when I am suffering from somnambulism or if my metabolism gives me hiccups,” I replied nonchalantly.

“You don’t suffer from bipolar disorder do you?” he asked me suspiciously.

“I don’t, but I don’t know what will happen if I visit the Magnetic North Pole,” I admitted frankly.

“Nothing will happen to you, Santa Claus has been living there for years and he doesn’t have gout,” the lunatic said.

“What did he get you for Christmas?” I asked changing the topic.

“Nothing much, an electrode or too and a padded cell for doing yoga,” he replied modestly.

“Santa didn’t get you the water hose, did he?” I asked.

“Do you get it after breakfast or before lunch?” the nut asked.

“Neither, I get a normal bath,” I replied.

“You are normal? Ha! Ha! They all say that!”

“I have a normal temperature,” I protested, “ask any doctor.”

“I have too, except during full moon, then I run a temperature and bite,” the lunatic said.

“You mustn't bite,” I said in alarm as I saw him working his jaws.”

“It won’t hurt a bit,” he said advancing on me, “ask Dracula.”

“I don’t know him,” I replied trembling.

“Could be, he only eats at night,” he said nodding his head.

I looked on fearfully.

“I always chew my food, it helps digestion,” the lunatic said enthusiastically, “Come on just a bit then.”

 “But I might give you indigestion,” I said in desperation.

“Why? Do you have HIV?”

“I am superstitious,” I said forlornly.

“That’s all right, I’m not choosy about food,” he said licking his lips.

He thought silently awhile as I looked around for an escape route.

“Do you have false teeth?” he asked at last.

“No,” I replied shaking.

“False teeth are very hard to digest,” the lunatic replied candidly.

“You can ask the loony doctor to give you one,” I said trying to divert the topic.

“I need them as much as I need a toothpick dipped in chocolate sauce,” he said with disdain.

“But have you tried it with camel’s milk, it’s a good appetiser,” I said in a hollow voice.

“Do you think I’m a ventriloquist's dummy that needs to drink camel’s milk before breakfast?” he asked annoyed.

“Even Dracula had a dummy perhaps on which he practised blood-sucking,” I said hastily.

“Do you think I am dumb?” he demanded.

“But you are speaking to me,” I quickly pointed out.

“I also speak to myself when no one is looking,” the nut said smugly.

“You should do that and in no time you will become a ventriloquist,” I said.

“But do ventriloquist’s bite?” he asked scratching his head.

“Yes, when the audience fails to pay up,” I said soothingly.

“Then I think I need a dummy,” he said tickling his nose.

“Of course you do,” I replied relieved.

“You look like a dummy to me,” the lunatic said eyeing me with interest.

“You are mistaken,” I said in alarm, “I am not stuffed with sawdust.”

“You are stuffed and that’s all I care, it’s a pity that I can’t roast you,” the loony said his eyes gleaming hungrily.

“You can ask the warders at the lunatic asylum to serve you a la carte menu,” I said pleadingly.

“They don’t do that, they only want to put me in a straitjacket,” he said gloomily.

“But you will look very handsome in a straitjacket,” I said.

“I always knew I was a hooker,” he said dreamily.

“You mean looker?”

“No hooker, like the hook they hang the lamp from when they are putting me in a straitjacket,” he said his hackles rising.

“Does the straitjacket fit you,” I asked.

“Like a glove,” he replied, “and by the way, all the loony doctors are hand in glove.”

“But they take good care of you,” I said.

“Only during summer vacations,” he said nodding his head.

“You can go swimming during vacations,” I said.

“I try to do that, but those chaps turn on the cold water every time I do a backstroke,” the lunatic said disgustedly.

“It’s only for your benefit,” I said reassuringly.

“But I get pins and needles,” he protested.

“That certainly must be better than a hypodermic syringe meant for horses,” I said trying to remain calm.

“But horses have big backsides, I only have a shrivelled one because they ironed it once as they thought I needed iron and vitamins.”

“You certainly need iron and vitamins, we all do,” I said.

“But I’m famished with all the talking, don’t fuss and let me eat in peace,” he said fishing out a knife and fork from his pocket.

“Sure, sure,” I said hastily.

“Won’t you say your prayers, it’s bad manners not to say your prayers before meals,” the lunatic remarked.

“But I’m not hungry,” I replied.

“You don’t need to be, does grilled ham feel hungry after being shaved to the tonsils?”

“I shave daily,” I said haughtily, “And use an aftershave.”

“Just say your prayers,” he barked.

I closed my eyes in consternation.

“Where did I put the pepper and salt,” he said going through his pockets frantically.

I opened my eyes again as I saw a policeman coming up on tiptoe.

“There comes the chef,” he said pointing to the policeman, “he must have made roast potatoes and sausage for dinner.”

“Here you,” the policeman told the lunatic, “are you loitering?”

“No, Sir,” he said bending down and touching his toes.

The policeman delivered a swift kick to his pants sending the lunatic sprawling.

“Augh!” He mumbled, “I will need false teeth now.”

“Has he been bothering you?” the policeman asked.

“No, we were just chatting about the weather,” I said modestly.

“Are you related to him?” asked the policeman referring to the lunatic who had risen and was dusting his pants delicately.

“Never set eyes on him before,” I mumbled.

“When did you escape?” the policeman asked frowning.

“I did not, I only use the fire escape during emergencies and after dinner when I need some fresh air,” I informed the policeman.

 “Have you brought the water hose?” asked the lunatic intervening.

“I certainly have not, just the handcuffs, put them on immediately,” the policeman barked.

“What about the straitjacket, I’m not going to the padded cell without it,” the nutcase said firmly.

“Is he an escaped lunatic too?” the policeman asked with interest.

“He is,” I informed him and shook his hands enthusiastically.

The policeman withdrew his hands coldly.

“I’m booking you both for loitering, public nuisance, trespass and rioting,” the policeman said and marched us off to the police station.

“What have we here?” asked the police officer sitting behind a large desk at the police station twiddling his thumbs.

“Two hooligans, Sir,” he replied.

“Certainly not, I’m a certified lunatic,” the nut protested.

“And, I was only speaking to him about the weather and whether he was kept nude in his padded cell,”  I said persuasively.

The police officer turned apoplectic.

“Put a truncheon up their backsides, pinch their silly behinds till they are ready to confess that they read pornography then send the lunatic back to the asylum and this excrescence to the pound in the nude,” he ordered and went back to twiddling his thumbs.