Will you walk a little faster

“Will you walk a little faster,” said the Whiting to the Snail.

“There’s a Porpoise close behind and he is treading on my tail.”

“My speedometer is showing I’m going at full speed,” gasped the Snail.

“There must be some problem with your speedometer!” exclaimed the Whiting.

“Nothing is wrong with my speedometer,” said the Snail, “Tell the Porpoise that he will get a ticket for speeding.”

“He is a real road hog,” the Whiting said.

 “Tell him he can’t overtake here,” the Snail snapped, “He doesn’t have right of way.”

“I know,” said the fish,” “but he is a Leftist and hates driving right-hand drive cars.”

“When in Rome, do as the Roman do,” the Snail said impatiently, “and the Porpoise must listen to the Pope.”

“Do you think a Leftist believes in the opium of the masses?”

“Drink driving is a grave offence,” the Snail said, “ask Lewis Carroll.”

“The Porpoise drinks like fish,” the Whiting said, “then he hits the gas.”

“If he must have gas, he should use gasoline,” the Snail replied.

“Porpoises require a great deal of gas, they use it for propaganda among the penguins,” the Whiting said.

“Do they just hand out leaflets or use state machinery?” the Snail asked.

“Porpoises oil their own machines and that of the masses at a subsidy,” the Whiting said.

“Do they oil the Pope too?” the Snail asked.

“They did, but it was banned by a papal decree,” the Whiting said.

“They could ask the whales for blubber, the whales grease a lot of palms if they are asked to read the Psalms.”

“They also do sums and are good at mental maths and can convert knots to km in a jiffy,” the Whiting said.

“Are they have-nots or Huguenots?” asked the Snail.

“Huguenots. Porpoises are very fast when they are out on the tiles on Saturday nights,” the Whiting remarked.

“They must be painting the town red,” the Snail said.

“They don’t do it themselves, but ask their Communist comrades to do it for them,” the Whiting said.

“Division of labour?”

“Long division, some multiplication and subtraction,” the Whiting replied.

“Do they give math tuitions?” the Snail asked.

“And elocution lessons too,” the Whiting replied, “for deep sea divers.”

“They must go in the deep end sometimes,” the Snail remarked.

“Totally, the Porpoises are always poised to take deep breaths when the police test them with a breathalyser,” the Whiting replied.

“Are the police taken in?” the Snail asked.

“Sometimes for questioning when the Porpoises pick the policemen’s pockets,” the Whiting said, “and share it with the lobsters and turtles.

“Lobster mobsters?” the Snail asked.

“And, the Turtle mafia,” the Whiting replied.

“Quite an interesting underbelly,” the Snail remarked.

“Certainly, the Porpoises also sponsor belly dancers,” the Whiting remarked.

“All work and no play must make the Porpoises a dull boy,” the Snail remarked.

“That’s why they watch belly dancers and a striptease or two,” the Whiting said confidentially.

“Do they smoke weed?” the Snail questioned.

“They smoke pot and take a long shot on a belly dancer,” the Whiting said.

“Do you mean they take potshots at the belly dancers?” asked the Snail surprised.

“No, no they merely ask them out for a date,” the Whiting replied.

“What do the Lobsters and Turtles do?” questioned the Snail.

“The Lobsters are shy and only write anonymous love letters to the Turtles,” the Whiting replied.

“What good does it do the Turtles?” asked the snail.

“It helps to fertilise their eggs and save them from Cupid.”

“Cupid?”

“Yes he uses the turtle eggs for target practice with his bow and arrows,” the Whiting said.

“That is poaching!” the Snail said.

“Cupid learnt to poach eggs with a magnifying glass that he got from Venus when it transited Mars.

“You mean Venus listens to the transistor radio on Mars?” the Snail asked.

“She loves to keep up with the gossip on Mount Olympus,” the Whiting said.

“Are their scandals on Mount Olympus?” asked the Snail.

“Yes Zeus gave Danae a golden shower and made her pregnant,” the Whiting said.

“Pretty hot stuff!” exclaimed the Snail.

“Then there was Adonis and Aphrodite,” the Whiting said.

“Must have been good for the box office,” the Snail said.

“That’s exactly what happened, Aphrodite kept Adonis in a box for Boxing Day when she wanted to have a peek at him bathing with the nymphs.”

“Better than pornography!” exclaimed the Snail excitedly, “were the nymphs nymphomaniacs?”

“Just maniacs.”

“Oh! No fun then? asked the Snail.

“Not exactly,  the gods on Mount Olympus love to see games people play,” the Whiting said.

“Do they bet on the people?” asked the Snail.

“They do that in democracy,” the Whiting replied.

“What are the odds?” questioned the Snail.

“Three to one Democracy wins over autocracy, plutocracy and aristocracy,” the Whiting said.

“Great gamblers the Olympians,” the Snail remarked.

“Can’t you go a little faster?” asked the Whiting.

“I’m fast by almost three minutes,” the Snail said consulting a stopwatch.

“I thought only the March Hare carried a stopwatch,” the Whiting said.

“Yes, he keeps looking at the stopwatch to see how late Alice in Wonderland returns from dates,” the Snail said.

“It also could be that the Mad Hatter keeps looking at the stopwatch to see how long his pyjama party takes to get over,” the Whiting suggested.

“But I thought he held a tea party,” the Snail said.

“The Mad Hatter is the partying kind he loves pyjama parties, birthday parties and political parties.”

“Was he in politics too?” asked the Snail.

“It was he who said that politics is the last resort of the scoundrels,” the Whiting said, “and Bernard Shaw passed it off as his own later.”

“He wasn’t a scoundrel then?”

“Who Bernard Shaw?” asked the Whiting, “no just a bit loony who loved to play the chocolate cream soldier sometimes.”

“Did he eat chocolates when he acted loony?” asked the Snail.

“No, only when he had indigestion,” the Whiting said.

“Did he consult a doctor?” asked the snail.

“He consulted the best one, William Shakespeare,” the Whiting said, “but can’t you go faster?”

“I don’t want to be booked for speeding,” the snail said shifting gears.

“How many gears do snails have nowadays?” asked the Whiting.

“Five, not including a back gear,” the Snail replied.

“They must make state of the art snails these days!” exclaimed the Whiting.

“You mean nail art? I do that when I get snail mail.”

“What about the snail female?” asked the Whiting.

“You mean when Cupid strikes her with his arrows?” asked the Snail.

“Cupid is always striking up a relationship,” the Whiting said, “he also tried to strike up a relationship with Alice when she was in Wonderland!”

“Who stopped him?”

“The Queen of Hearts who was always saying ‘off with their heads’,” the Whiting said.

“Did she also make Cupid paint the white roses red and whitewash the fence?’ asked the Snail.

“She gave Cupid a whitener and some laxatives and that cured him from going potty,” the Whiting said.

“The Queen of Hearts must have been all heart,” the Snail said.

“She did and also had a bypass,” the Whiting said.

“Did she flunk or pass?”

“She just took a detour,” the Whiting replied, “can’t you go a bit faster, the Porpoise is peeling the paint off my tail.”

“Your behind must be facing the tailwinds,” the Snail said.

“I suffer from tailwinds only when I get dyspepsia and go into a tailspin,” the Whiting said genially.

“It might also be someone playing bagpipes in your large intestine or a blizzard in your colon,” the Snail said.

 “Can’t you go any faster?” asked the Whiting whining.

“Don’t whine, I don’t like fish that whine, they sound fishy and you are no exception,” the Snail said sternly.

“You should get a maintenance done on your gears,” the Whiting said.

“There’s nothing wrong with my gearbox, it’s fully geared to tackle somnambulism and insomnia,” the Snail replied with dignity.

“Did you change the engine oil?” the Whiting persisted.

“I also poured oil on the troubled waters and it parted the Red Sea,” The Snail said.

“It must have been an Act of God,” the Whiting said doubtfully.

“God works in mysterious ways,” the Snail said reverently.

“But not like Cupid. he shot an arrow at Isaac Newton and hit an apple instead and that’s how the chap devised his theory of gravity.”

“Cupid must have poor eyesight,” the Snail said.

“Love hurts if Cupid has bad eyesight,” the Whiting sighed, “especially in the backside.”

“Then he should have no business to go about shooting, he should use a Polaroid instead,” the Snail said.

“He wanted one, but his mother Venus gave him a wallop instead,” the Whiting said, “because he shot Zeus in the foot.”

“Zeus must have hunted Cupid with a blunderbuss for shooting him in the foot,” the Snail remarked.

“People who live by the gun get fingerprinted by the police or get shot in the foot, it’s an ancient saying,” the Whiting said.

“Will you stop sounding like an enema?” asked the Snail irritably.

“Now walk a little faster or I will ask Cupid to give you a gift-wrapped enema which will make your colon clean your large intestine and race each other to the South Pole.”

The Snail shot off at the speed of light, waltzed briefly at the North Pole and came back and kicked the Whiting in the behind.

“Ow!” exclaimed the Whiting, “what was that for?”

“Oh, that was just for kicks!” the Snail winked and sped off.