The Daily Pageant
copyright by Morgan McFinn
ur lead story in this edition is placed in the "human interest" category. So, if you're a mineral or a vegetable you might as well skip this one.
A most extraordinary phenomenon occurred today on Maenam Bay. A tourist of British extraction was engaged in a remarkable display of voluntary struggle. The object of this struggle was a wind surfer, a sea-going apparatus that is apparently now popular on most major beach resorts. However, a thorough search of the local archives has revealed no evidence of such a vessel ever traversing our placid sea before.
That fact alone would normally warrant front-page attention, but the more amazing story was, as mentioned, the man's display of voluntary struggle.
Most of our readers know that human struggle, especially of the physical variety, is not a common aspect of our daily routine here on Maenam Beach. Therefore, the sight of this young British lad falling all over himself in his desperation to master the skill of wind surfing was quite the event of the day. To realize that he was doing it of his own free will was mind boggling.
This reporter watched in awe as, time and time again, the fellow would climb upon the board, grab hold of the sail, and then tumble gracelessly into the bay.
This went on for nearly two hours, and although the spectacle provided a good deal of amusement for those of us lounging comfortably out of harm's way, it did cause some unpleasant side effects.
Several spectators passed out from exhaustion just watching the outpouring of human energy. Someone suggested that the event, however fascinating, should not be viewed for too long. He felt that the dangers were somewhat similar to those of watching a full eclipse of the sun.
The limpid bodily forms of those whose eyeballs had overindulged the scene were removed from the beach by a rescue squad consisting of three ganja-crazed Austrians—who had only recently escaped injury themselves after an errant coconut had fallen fifty feet from its nest, shattering their dearly-constructed bamboo water bong.
That catastrophe notwithstanding, the Austrians displayed admirable heroism in carting the unconscious to Laem sai Restaurant and reviving them with force-fed pineapple milkshakes.
SPORTS NEWS: BEACH “FOLLY”BALL
Volleyballwas the sports du jour earlier this afternoon. Half a dozen of the local transients congregated beside a net upon the always glorious sandy shores of our beloved Maenam Bay.
A ball of the volleying persuasion being provided, our reporter settled himself comfortably in the shade and anxiously awaited the action that he thought was sure to ensue momentarily.
The action that did ensue, however, was not, strictly speaking, on the order of a volleyball game. It could be that our sports reporter has been too long removed from the standard versions of athletic enterprise, but it was his recollection that the game of volleyball basically involved two teams on either side of a net, volleying the ball (a ball of the volleying persuasion, that is) over the said net.
What he actually observed in this rendition was all the contestants (perhaps the wrong word to describe them) on one side of the net volleying the ball randomly among themselves.
The net never came into play. In fact, it rather seemed to be in the way of things.
During a break in the action, one of the participants, a young Italian man, was duly queried about this.
“Yeah, what is with this net thing? It’s in tha way all tha time.”
When it was pointed out to him that there were several miles of net- free beach beside the bay, he said, “Yeah? Oh . . . well, we here now. Too much trouble to move. Maybe tomorrow.”
Asked what game she and her friends were playing, a nice-looking young French girl responded, “Do you mean, at the moment, or in life generally because, mon dieu, we are all playing games, are we not? You, for instance, are playing a game with me, of course . . . asking absurd question. It is obvious what game my friends and I are playing, and it is obvious what game you are trying to play with me. I am nice looking young girl as I see you write in your notebook and you are . . . (unfortunately, at this point, our reporter’s pen ran out of ink, and so the interview with the nice-looking young French girl was terminated).
(As an editorial aside, and so as not to be accused of sexism, we would like to add that the young Italian man was also nice looking. We sincerely hope that said comment will not lead our readers to suspect a homosexual attraction on our part, and, of course, by that we don’t mean to suggest that there is anything wrong with being a homosexual, nor in that do we mean to alienate the morally conservative members of our readership. Gosh, this newspaper business can be thorny.)
Anyway, the volleyball game, such as it was, resumed for another hour—and who won is anybody’s guess.
WEATHER TIS NOBLER . . .
. . . to concoct some bogus meteorological report that never actually occurred today, or to apply a policy of journalistic candor and admit that our entire weather staff has been blissfully unconscious since . . . was it Tuesday?
All events, including the weather, have slipped by unnoticed. We are reminded of the philosophical conundrum about that tree in the forest which fell down when no one was around—did it or did it not make a sound?
There is certainly no question that if it had fallen upon the thatched roof of our weatherman’s bungalow today, he would have been none the wiser.
Let’s raise our mugs for bright eyes and blue skies tomorrow.