Monday, June 23, 2008

“Cah-elementary, my cah-dear Cockroach, cah-elementary”, said Professor Hoar. “Cor, I ‘ate it when ‘e calls me ‘Cockroach'”, thought Charles Ockroach, assistant to Professor Hoar. The pair were forensic detectives, or rather, Professor Hoar was the detective, while poor Ockroach was but his humble and log-suffering assistant.

They were at a crime scene, and while the police investigators had long departed, there was still work to be done. And although the Professor’s speech impediment, one which led him to involuntary add a “C” to almost every word he uttered, had brought a swft end to his formal detective career (interrogations were beyond labored), there were still plenty of opportunities left for a man with a high tolerance for what the regular detectives called “boring gay stuff”.

“Cah-you see, Cockroach, said the Professor, now shifting into a stentorial tone, “the cah-deceased, clearly cah-killed himself, contrary to what the coppers, as you so cah-quaintly call them, will cah-have us cah-believe!”

Ockroach wasn’t listening. He was thinking about better days; days spent roaming the fields of Indiana. And although he loved those endless, fallow fields, he'd arrived at this passion in a roundabout manner. He had purchased a plane ticket at Heathrow and landed in Indiana thinking it India. He had wanted to go to India in the hopes of having dirty, dirty sex with Indian girls. Sure, there were plenty of Indian girls in England, but Ockroach was a douchebag, and thus waaay out of his league with sophisticated Indian hotties. So, he wagered he'd have better luck with simpler village girls in India. The provincially-minded fuck. Now, because he was semi-literate, he had mistakenly bought the wrong ticket. And because he was a Cockney with a shaved head, and foolishly hit on the mannered, female Indian ticket-clerk, he had not been told otherwise.

Oh Indiana! The fields! Those endless, endless fields. He’d once gotten lost in those fields. That’s why they seemed endless to him. They weren’t. But because he had an inner-ear problem that caused him to occassionaly walk in circles, he’d only been “lost” in a 20 square-foot, unkempt backyard.

What had saved him that day was the most melodious voice he’d ever heard!
“Back home again in Indiana
And it seems that I can see
A gleaming candlelight
Still shining bright
Through the sycamores, for me”

He followed that voice, and he came upon a fence. Peering over, he saw the source of that life-saving paean. Strapping and resplendent in a yellow cardigan, stood Jim Nabors. The antics of that hapless halfwit, Gomer Pyle, had entertained Ockroach endlessly over the years, and every episode never failed to make him feel much better about himself and his faculties.

What happened next still felt like a blur to Ockroach, even after all these years of reflection. He scaled that fence, thanked Jim Nabors, struck up a conversation, was hired as Nabors’ landscaper, and after being introduced, was summarily fired by crypto Cockney-hater, Rock Hudson.

Editor's note: If you enjoyed this story, please visit for more.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

4:25 AM  

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home