The Hark-Aldonze ripostuary of antiphonal asininity
Episode 7: The Moroccan Garbanzo Salad Guide to Gerontocide
The "Receipts" Taos Green Chili | Chef Aldonze insists Halo Harkk! This is Aldonze! Chef Aldonze-Luiz (Loo-eeze). I must apologise for my insensivites. Of course you would be frightened by my visit! (You make with the big joke about Australia, non? You should know that Aldonze could travel anywhere with ease.) But, old friend, I have shocked you. This is painful. You sit in depressed loneliness, staring at your shabby surroundings, achieving little in life but a small following of local fans (3). You are naturally embarrassed that such a world famouse personality such as Aldonze would visit the likes of you. Do not be afraid my friend. Do you think Aldonze would think less of you because you have so completely failed at life? Aldonze does not judge! You will find this hard to believe but Aldonze has many friends who are losers like yourself. I come in friendship and to help you rise out of your drab extience. Now, I must unfold the true porpoise of my visit. This was to be a big surprise. Fame is at foot! I have chosen YOU to write my esteemed Biography! The spotlight of success is upon you! The golden thing is within your grasp! We must begin our work immediately. There are dark forces at work that would do anything to stop the writings of Aldonze's life story. In fact, we may be required to go into deep covers while I relate my life to you. At this very moment, your pathetic extience could be in danger. Have little fear mon petit frere! I have already provided security for you and your lovely family. My cracked team of bodyguards are at this very moment watching your humble abide. You are under my complete protection. Now, you must not miss this impotent opportunity. Get the King Size bed and let us begin at once on the path to the riches. Advise me if you chose to accept this adventurous task. I must leave my residence quickly. I have found myself in an embarrassed situation. My many friends have asked me to take a long vacation. I am touched by their concern for Aldonze and would do nothing to offend them. I will be arriving soon. I ask only one question. Aldonze does not understand how you know I come through Indonesia? Now to the business! This receipt brings sadness to Aldonze but it is a very good receipt. When Aldonze was young, in Paris and in love, he was filled with joy. My lovely Pauline, however, dumped me for a guide on the Tour Eiffel. I was crest felled. I joined the French Foreign Legion. To make a short story long, I found myself in a remote outpost in North Africa. It was too hot for Aldonze and my fellow legionaries looked liked filthy thugs! This was no place for Aldonze! I informed Capitain Pierre LeConte that, as I had recovered from Pauline, I would be leaving the next morning. This arrogant little man twirled his waxed moustache, smiled, and pulled his revolver on me and told me to run, with backpack, around the outpost for five hours. Everyone laugh at Aldonze as I huffed and puffed in the hot sun and sand. When I finished, Capitain LeConte informed me that I was to go without dinner and clean his quarters. Aldonze was not happy. I stuffed his bed with fresh camel dung and drank his cognac (filling the bottle with Camel pee). Armed with plenty canteens of water and disguised in a sheet, I escaped into the dark desert night. I had travelled for hours when I heard, from across the distant sand, the high pitched voice of LeConte yelling, "Tirez sur the le fat bastard!" Aldonze was pretty scared you bet! Luckily, I came upon a travelling spice caravan and presented myself to the head spice, Sahib Omar bin Mustafa. That very day a camel had sat on the head of the cook rendering him bye-bye! I was hired on the spots. I spent many pleasant nights in the tent of Sahib, cooking and eating my desert delicacies (of which I offer Moroccan garbanzo and vegetable salad), smoking Hash Shish from a water pipe and listening to legends of the sands. One night Sahib offered me his daughter, Mumtaz, to be my bride. I do not wish to be cruel but Mumtaz did not possesses the beauty. I would have been better to offered a camel. I politely rejected his kind offer but he became crazy mad. His men drew their sabres and chased me across the desert and into the city of Tangier. I ran to the French embassy but guess who was standing in front of the building? LeConte! The silly little man gave me a sly smile and blew his tiny whistle and hundreds of gendarmes, with fixed bayonets, chased me through the narrow streets of the ancient city. I turned into an alley to catch my breath and low and beheld was Sahib's gang with their sabres slashing in the air. Aldonze was in a fix! I borrowed a turban and caftan from a blind beggar and pell melled to the port where I boarded a goat boat headed for Malaga, Spain. As the boat chugged into the water, I looked back at the dock to see a riot of bayonets and sabres. I later hear this battle caused an incident of international comportions, the deaths an almighty number on both sides. LeConte was forced by his superiors to marry Mumtaz. It was a full honour guard Pied Noir wedding. I did not see the wisdom of sending a wedding gift, non? | Harold Hark resists Aldonze! Two untoward events of the past few weeks, both involving police cars and ambulances, have caused me to delay this response. For that I apologise to our reader(s), but not necessarily to you. For several days we had noticed an old Holden Torana parked in various places on our street. Once in front of our house, again in front of the next door neighbour and so on. As the sole inhabitant of the vehicle was a rather grizzled old man who appeared harmless and always seemed to be dozing, no one took particular notice. Then one evening, there came a knock at our door. When I opened it I could see the whirling red lights of what turned out to be an ambulance reflected on the windows of the house next door. Two policemen stood there and asked me if I could come outside. "There is a corpse in the car in front of your house. Can you identify it?" It was indeed the old man who, it appeared, had taken a fancy to our street. An ambulance attendant told one of the policemen that the cause of death appeared to be nothing more sinister than old age. I now know that this old fool was none other than your "cracked team of bodyguards". In short, an old man hired for pennies. You, Aldonze-Luiz, should be ashamed of yourself. But more of that later. The next tragic event was to be nothing less than a death in the family. Not, I assure you, my wife or daughter, or even the dog. No, it was my wife's aged Aunt Dottie who succumbed at our home the following week. Perhaps a little background is in order. You see my wife made a double serving of your wonderful Albondigas Aldonze, the first of which we enjoyed without incident. Indeed, we thrilled to its searing heat -- my daughter is already addicted to chili -- aided by generous glasses of Cerveza Pacifico and soft drink. We had planned to eat the remainder in two nights time. In between, Aunt Dottie came for dinner. For this occasion, my wife cooked dear Dottie's favourite dish, an Italian meatball soup, in advance. Except for an identical resemblance to Albondigas, it bore no other similarity. It was, to put it mildly, mild. Not at all life-threatening. Rather insipid, in fact. Unwisely, my wife placed the bowls of Italian soup in the refrigerator near the bowls of Albondigas, each covered with Glad Wrap. I noted this potential catastrophe, and began to separate the Mexican soup from the Italian. Alas -- it must have been the dog who diverted my attention trying to get at a piece of cold chicken -- one of the soups found its way into the wrong sector. Dear Aunt Dottie is -- or was -- nothing if not a zestful dinner companion. But her passion for food was to be her downfall. Shortly before dinner, she was rummaging through the refrigerator for a snack. There on the top shelf she spied what appeared to her to be a little container of fig jam. "Oh," she called to the rest of us, distracted by various pursuits, "I just love fig jam!" "No, don't!" my wife called out, as she spooned an ample amount directly into her mouth. Sadly, what Aunt Dottie had thought to be fig jam was in reality a green Mexican salsa with tomatillo and jalapeno peppers. It was almost too hot for our tastes. The poor woman had never before eaten Mexican food and the effect on her was devastating. She screamed and fell to the floor, face red, eyes bulging. I grabbed a bottle of mineral water and administered a glass, which, as you have guessed, made her pain all the worse. After several minutes and many glasses of tap water, the old girl appeared to be relieved of her misery. We placed her on the couch with a cold cloth for her forehead. Shaken but determined, she pronounced herself capable of eating dinner. Just when it was time to eat, my wife was called to the telephone on business. "Be careful you don't mix them up," she called from the office. For it was left to me to warm the soups, and so I did. As I had cleverly arranged the soups, the task should have been easy. And it came to pass, that for the three of us I chose the Italian meatball soup. For dear Aunt Dottie, however, I mistakenly microwaved one of the morrow's bowls of Albondigas. In her joyous desire to partake of her favourite soup, she managed to swallow two heaping spoonfuls before the fire hit her. She screamed a scream heard round the neighbourhood and ... fell dead of a heart attack. Unfortunately, her head fell into the soup, badly burning the severely aged skin on her face. An autopsy later revealed her dying breath caused her to inhale even more of the fiery liquid. Needless to say, the neighbourhood was again treated to police cars and ambulances. By this time, the policemen and ambulance drivers (one each of which remembered me from visits to the hospital) were eyeing me with suspicion. In fact the whole neighbourhood has taken to treating me as a criminal in their midst. Well, there you have it. Your botched attempt at "providing security" and yet another disaster following one of your recipes. And you want me to write your biography, let alone consent to your visit? If you persist in this folly, I shall inform the police ... no, on second thought, they might arrest me for being a nuisance. Then I shall inform the Minister of Immigration ... no, on second thought, he only hates non-whites. Steven Seagal? I know, we'll move! Somewhere to the outback where you can't find us. I now see that escape is the only solution! |