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10-27-03, for Denny
Hopi Berth Day
Well, we all know that she only shows up for Birthdays, but there's something different about this one. Our Nymph isn't alone on the stage tonight. Nor is she completely in control of her facilities. She sits, wings slightly drooping, on a tall barstool at a tall, round table. Across from her, also not quite completely in control of things, is our birthday boy. They've apparently been there for a while already, because scattered on the table between them are numerous shot glasses…all empty. And standing behind the table, tray loaded down with shots, is one of La Taverna's finest waitresses, dressed for the occasion in a birthday hat. Yes, just the hat (it is a special occasion, after all).
In an almost-steady voice, Denny fires at the Nymph, “Oh yeah! Well... well...” With one voice, the patrons begin a countdown, “Three! Two! One!”
The waitress runs a finger down his back and leans over to place a shot glass in front of him. We suspect Denny's not quite as upset about this as one might think. As she leans over she brushes his lips with the pale skin of one bare breast. “Drink up, Birthday Boy. You know the rules.”
She stands and points to a patron in the crowd. “You have another category, Sir?”
Ah, so that's the game. Puns. Of course, it would be puns...
The patron stands and shouts, “New category…The Pope!”
The nymph squares her shoulders and gives her wings a shake. “Perhaps you forget, Denny, but I recently spent some time in a convent. This one is easy. When he rides in that little Popemobile thing, is that Mass Transit?”
Denny shudders before giving it a go, “You heard about the Pope's breakfast, right? He's eating pure oats, now, no additives. They're calling it wholly fodder.”
Our nymph pales, but continues. “Denny, we should stop this now. Making church puns is habit forming.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but pauses an instant too long. The patrons begin, “Three! Two! One!”
The waitress hands him a glass, and points to another Patron. “A category, Ma'am?”
“Fish!”
The waitress nods to Our Nymph. “The category is Fish. Please begin.”
There's a pause. “Fish puns? But they're so...Done.”
The patrons begin their count, “Three! Two!”
Our nymph takes a quick drink of water then speaks, “wait - give a nymph time to do some sole-searching!”
Denny lets out a groan, “Oh, that's a kipper!”
“You think so? I'm pretty sure you cod have done better, you know.”
“Maybe, that it would shark me if I had.”
“Oh, Denny,” sighs our Nymph, “you're truly floundering now.”
“Nah, I dolphin-k so.”
“You don't? Maybe you need a moment to mullet over.”
“Mulling it over won't help. I've just figured out that punning ain't your guppie tea!”
“Stop, Denny! I won't have you carping at me!”
“You...you...”
“Three! Two! One!”
The waitress bends over, gives our Birthday Boy a quick kiss on the lips, and hands him a full shot-glass. We begin to wonder if perhaps he's not actually trying his hardest here.
She stands and indicates another patron. “New category! 'Would you say?'”
Both contestants groan, but the waitress continues. “You heard them. The category is, 'would you say...' Mr. Wheeler, we'll start with you.”
He clears his throat, “When the scholar of ancient British cultures retired, would you say he was depicted?”
Our Nymph is nervous, but she eyes the empty shot glasses in front of her, and the full ones on the waitress' tray beside her, and gives it a go. “When the draft-dodger shaves his beard, would you say that he's been deferred?”
It's getting tense in La Taverna. Patrons lean forward to see if Denny will be able to come back.
“If Della Reese sang the songs of Tori Amos, would the effect on her career be Della-Tori-ous?”
The nymph sputters. This was too much for her, and she faltered. “Three! Two! One!”
“Damn,” she mutters, rather un-Nymphlike, under her breath before tossing back the shot. But this one was too much for her, and she slumps over the table, head in her arms. The waitress snaps her fingers and two of La Taverna's bouncers come to the stage to carry her…stool and all…backstage where she can recover, safely away from the less-than-honorable patrons who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of Our Nymph in this less-than-responsible state.
“And that,” the waitress begins, “Ladies and Gentlemen, represents our final pun of the evening. After all, it's only fitting that our Nymph would be rendered unconscious where she was sitting. Wouldn't you expect a Fairy - and what is a nymph but a species of Fairy? - to sleep on a towed stool?”
“Happy Birthday, Denny! To one of the punniest people around.”
