Subject
Dr. Soup (fwd)
Date
Body
EDITORIAL NOTE: Clarence Brown <CB@PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU>, Professor of
Comparative Literature at Princeton, has written of Nabokov with great
erudition. In a secret life, he is also famed as the author of the
newspaper column "Ink Soup"--a sample of which follows.
--------------------------------
INK SOUP
by
Clarence Brown
Chicago--The death of Dr. I. Soup, the noted world traveler and bon
vivant, now alas bon mourant, was not entirely unexpected. He had been
poorly for years.
Medical practitioners in the North, where he had been living since the
War, disguised as a columnist, were baffled by poorly, thinking it a
benign condition akin to the drawl.
Dr. Soup had come to Chicago convinced that his extraordinary powers
could locate the murder weapon. Airport authorities at O'Hare were unable
to convince him that the trash had been emptied at least twice since the
events in question.
As usual, Dr. Soup humiliated his detractors by finding no fewer than
three bloody gloves, two of them still gripping hunting knives to which
human hair, mascara, false lashes and Lee Press-On Nails were still
attached.
"What do you call this, hominy grits?" he asked each time.
"How many what?" said the Sheriff.
As luck would have it, however, the evidence uncovered by Dr. Soup
related to other murder investigations, all of them in Texas, where the
accused had already been executed while awaiting trial.
"Them Texans," said Dr. Soup, slipping into his John Wayne imitation,
"sure don't like them jails overcrowded."
Informed that one of the trial judges, standing inappropriately close
to the accused, had been mistakenly executed in the same sweep, Dr. Soup
added: "...or them benches."
Whether he would have expanded upon this typically laconic remark, or
even whether he knew that he was speaking, and about what, will never be
known, since at that moment his intracranial telephone buzzed.
"Excuse me," said Dr. Soup, with the bizarre politeness of his native
region. He closed his eyes, the better to hear what was going on in his
left hemisphere.
It was Dr. B. Showalter, youthful manager of the New York Yankees, a
baseball team, who were in town to play the White Sox, who were another.
The second game was already in progress, if that is the word.
"Shall I put Melido on the DL?" asked Showalter.
"Was he ever off?" said Soup. "But whatever you do, leave Rivera in
to pitch the ninth."
"I have to give Wettman some time on the mound," said Showalter.
The rest is history, showing that those who ignore the advice of this
genial man do so at their peril.
But back to the obituary of Dr. Soup, which seasoned readers will by
now have realized is not an obituary at all but merely one of those
hallucinated effusions brought on by summer lightning and fireflies, to
say nothing of neural dysplasia.
"Thank you for all your help," said the Sheriff.
"Dysplasia was mine," said Dr. Soup. "Which way to Comiskey Park?
Supporting a team called Yankees is a big part of my cover."
"Follow your bliss," said the Sheriff, a man with a PhD in Bill Moyers.
Law enforcement has gone to his brain, Soup silently thought to himself
as he hailed a cab. With the friendliness of all Chicagoans, the cabby
hailed him back, and drove on.
Soup decided to walk, having read in his Baedeker's United States
(1909): "The South Side of Chicago, a picturesque area of small shops,
will delight the visitor by its animated street scene, where fortunate
travelers might witness the ritual folk encounter known as mugging, an
informal commercial transaction, the popularity of which is spreading to
other portions of the city."
Unable to cease his investigations, Soup kept mechanically sorting
through all the trash bins along his route, even those for which he had to
stand in line. Gloves with six fingers, or those with product liability
statements still attached, he discarded.
Dr. Soup is 39.
Comparative Literature at Princeton, has written of Nabokov with great
erudition. In a secret life, he is also famed as the author of the
newspaper column "Ink Soup"--a sample of which follows.
--------------------------------
INK SOUP
by
Clarence Brown
Chicago--The death of Dr. I. Soup, the noted world traveler and bon
vivant, now alas bon mourant, was not entirely unexpected. He had been
poorly for years.
Medical practitioners in the North, where he had been living since the
War, disguised as a columnist, were baffled by poorly, thinking it a
benign condition akin to the drawl.
Dr. Soup had come to Chicago convinced that his extraordinary powers
could locate the murder weapon. Airport authorities at O'Hare were unable
to convince him that the trash had been emptied at least twice since the
events in question.
As usual, Dr. Soup humiliated his detractors by finding no fewer than
three bloody gloves, two of them still gripping hunting knives to which
human hair, mascara, false lashes and Lee Press-On Nails were still
attached.
"What do you call this, hominy grits?" he asked each time.
"How many what?" said the Sheriff.
As luck would have it, however, the evidence uncovered by Dr. Soup
related to other murder investigations, all of them in Texas, where the
accused had already been executed while awaiting trial.
"Them Texans," said Dr. Soup, slipping into his John Wayne imitation,
"sure don't like them jails overcrowded."
Informed that one of the trial judges, standing inappropriately close
to the accused, had been mistakenly executed in the same sweep, Dr. Soup
added: "...or them benches."
Whether he would have expanded upon this typically laconic remark, or
even whether he knew that he was speaking, and about what, will never be
known, since at that moment his intracranial telephone buzzed.
"Excuse me," said Dr. Soup, with the bizarre politeness of his native
region. He closed his eyes, the better to hear what was going on in his
left hemisphere.
It was Dr. B. Showalter, youthful manager of the New York Yankees, a
baseball team, who were in town to play the White Sox, who were another.
The second game was already in progress, if that is the word.
"Shall I put Melido on the DL?" asked Showalter.
"Was he ever off?" said Soup. "But whatever you do, leave Rivera in
to pitch the ninth."
"I have to give Wettman some time on the mound," said Showalter.
The rest is history, showing that those who ignore the advice of this
genial man do so at their peril.
But back to the obituary of Dr. Soup, which seasoned readers will by
now have realized is not an obituary at all but merely one of those
hallucinated effusions brought on by summer lightning and fireflies, to
say nothing of neural dysplasia.
"Thank you for all your help," said the Sheriff.
"Dysplasia was mine," said Dr. Soup. "Which way to Comiskey Park?
Supporting a team called Yankees is a big part of my cover."
"Follow your bliss," said the Sheriff, a man with a PhD in Bill Moyers.
Law enforcement has gone to his brain, Soup silently thought to himself
as he hailed a cab. With the friendliness of all Chicagoans, the cabby
hailed him back, and drove on.
Soup decided to walk, having read in his Baedeker's United States
(1909): "The South Side of Chicago, a picturesque area of small shops,
will delight the visitor by its animated street scene, where fortunate
travelers might witness the ritual folk encounter known as mugging, an
informal commercial transaction, the popularity of which is spreading to
other portions of the city."
Unable to cease his investigations, Soup kept mechanically sorting
through all the trash bins along his route, even those for which he had to
stand in line. Gloves with six fingers, or those with product liability
statements still attached, he discarded.
Dr. Soup is 39.