December 11th 2006 12:24 pm
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When asked by non-dog-owning friends to describe my level of intelligence, the biped sometimes likes to refer to me as the idiot son he never had.
But he has lately had to reconsider. Not because he worries that my feelings might be hurt by such a description. Not because he’s suddenly become sensitive to the outrageous political incorrectness of such a description.
No. He has had to reconsider because he is no longer at all certain that he has not already had an idiot son. And here is why:
When the bipeds went to Mexico to visit the senior bipup, they took the junior bipup—whom we will call Ned to protect the innocent—along too. Because “Ned” lives in the far north of California, and all three of them were flying out of San Jose at 6:15 Thursday morning, the bipeds met “Ned,” who had driven all night from Arcata, at the airport. I tell you this so that you will believe that neither of the bipeds had any knowledge whatso-arfing-ever of what “Ned” might or might not have in his carry-on luggage.
Before leaving Arcata, “Ned” had stuffed most of what he wanted to take with him into a large duffle bag to be checked. He threw a book and some snacks and such into a small backpack that he uses as his school backpack on a daily basis.
So, the three of them get to airport security. The bipedess and her carry-on go through just fine. The biped, without carry-on, sails right through. But when “Ned’s” backpack gets into the x-ray machine, everything comes to a screeching halt while the x-ray flunkies call their supervisor over to have a look. Hmmm.
“Ned” and his backpack are taken aside to be gone over thoroughly. The supervisor asks “Ned” if he has anything dangerous in his backpack. “Ned” says no, just some pens and pencils and such. The supervisor reaches a rubber-gloved hand into the backpack and produces… a handful of pens and pencils and such. Whew! He reaches in again and produces… a sheathed six-inch boot dagger that “Ned” bought a couple of years ago in Prague. Oops!
“Oh. I forgot about that,” says “Ned”.
“Jesus, ‘Ned!’” says the biped.
Further inspection of “Ned’s” backpack reveals four or five spent shell casings—not illegal, but not confidence inspiring, either—and one live Mauser round.
“Ned” is taken rather further aside, and various uniformed authorities are called in.
The bipeds are expecting “Ned” to be handcuffed and frog-marched away at any moment. They are debating whether they should cancel the Guadalajara trip altogether, or whether one of them should go on and the other stay to bail “Ned” out—assuming that trying to carry a six-inch dagger onto an airliner is a bailable offense these days.
Miraculously, however, after a pretty thorough grilling, they turn him loose, sans boot dagger and ammo.
So, you can see how I may have moved up one in the subjective IQ rankings around here.
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