The lost Rodham...

16-September-2007 | Ron Pickrell

[pickrell]

My name is Nathan Search, and I am a forensic panderologist. Well, that's not exactly true- in the same way that fish don't exactly harvest bananas. It is slightly closer to the truth to say that my name is, perhaps, Rodney Nerkfeltz, and that I am an aspiring panderologist. It's just that, until the entrance door was changed to say 'Nathan Search, Forensic Panderologist', the only people who ever came in, were the ones who told me they had a sick mother in the car, just needed eleven bucks to buy gas to get her to the hospital, and would be back in ten minutes.

Forty four dollars later, I'm beginning to become suspicious.

So when the stranger walked in this morning, I hid my wallet in the desk, and pulled out my stethoscope. Time to call somebody's bluff.

The man had something enclosed within a newspaper, and as he approached the desk, my interest was immediately peaked. I hadn't realized that Kroger's had large eggs on sale for seventy nine cents- offer good through Saturday.

"What?" he asked in annoyance.

"Sorry. Just reading out loud. What can I do for you?"

"Are you Nathan Search? Is this your panderologist's office?"

I glanced at the sign on the door and rolled my eyes.

"It's just that I found this a while ago," he sniffed, "... and I need your expert opinion." He opened the newspaper, and announced, "It's a lost Rodham-..."

"What, exactly," I inquired alertly, "... is a 'lost Rodham dash‘?"

He laid a label on the desk and smoothed it out. It obviously had been used hard for years before being discarded. I read.."R..O..D..H..A..M..-.."

"Oh, I see... And where did you find this?"

"That's the thing. It was just tossed onto a path, as if it was no longer of any use to someone..."

I rubbed my nose in thought, "Normally when something valuable- notice all the gold embroidery around the edges!- has been accidentally cast aside, there is some notice in the papers or on the news. Some attempt to reclaim it. I've heard not a peep from the media, lately, about a missing Rodham -. It would seem that it must have been deliberate. But, let's have a look."

I opened my desk drawer, returned the stethoscope, and pulled out my magnifying glass and my grocery list. Seventy nine cents a dozen. I then returned the grocery list, closed the drawer, and wielded the magnifying glass over the lost label.

"You did the right thing in coming to a panderologist, How did you come to choose my establishment? Was it," my eyes flickered briefly to the door, before nonchalantly returning to the label, "er, ... the name?"

"Not really," he confided. "You're the only panderologist, forensic or otherwise, in the phone book."

Ahhh. My reputation was spreading. The glass froze over the first clue. "The fine print around the edges, these phrases- 'Vagina monologues', 'All men are rapists- except Bill, of course', and ‘Who needs men?’ ," I concluded triumphantly, "This label may have been meant to pander to feminists!"

My client closed his eyes, and sighed heavily , "Ya think?"

"I'm never wrong about these things." Sudden painful memories from last week flooded back unwanted, like improperly cooked anchovies, and I quickly backpedaled, "I'm, uhhh, not always wrong about these things."

I flipped over the label and examined the sticky substance on the back, "This is not permanent adhesive! This label was designed to be used... only until it was no longer convenient!! That means that this was no accidental loss- it was always intended to be removable."

I ran to the door and looked out both ways before closing it tightly, and lowered my voice, "This was a Rodham-ectomy. I'm sure of it..."

My client bent over the desk, and ran his fingers over the label, "I've been wondering about all these indentations..."

My expert eye served me well, "They can only have been made by many sets of high heels. Obviously from a number of women who walk with a limp, who all once served in the merchant marine, smoke turkish tobacco, and have all recently been to Cancun with an elderly aunt."

Seeing the cold stare of the man, I hastily added, "Or maybe not."

He eventually returned his attention to the plastic label, "But what would induce such a number of women to walk all over, and then walk away from, a former label like this, obviously still following the original bearer of the label, even after the label was cast aside as no longer of any importance? Are they women with any pride left at all? Or do they all just want that network anchorette job that badly?"

"Well," I chanced an evaluation, "something must be more marketable to them, now, than women's issues. These deeper heel indentations- they must have been made by the original wearer! Deep as they are, we will certainly be hearing that she must have 'grown in office'. It would explain the cleavage controversy, anyway."

He fished a second and final label out of the protective newspaper, and laid it on the desk next to the first, searching for my reaction.

I read, 'Support your Marine Corps!' The same temporary adhesive was on the back, and the same indentations all over the front. If anything, a number of persons of both sexes had tread more harshly even, upon this label. Oddly, the left side of the label had been perforated, as if, uh, -as if-

"Ahah! This came out of a booklet, probably containing a number of such perforated, identical labels! The holder of such a book could tear out and apply a label temporarily, when it might prove convenient, and then throw it out, later- when it became an inconvenient truth! Safe in the knowledge that it can always be re-applied again, if necessary, like a captured enemy uniform!"

"That is truly evil," he bristled. "I don't think I want to know any more about this."

"I'm afraid," I stated gravely, "that such things come with the territory in the pandering detection business. We have to stay toughened to it. That will be forty-four dollars, uhhh," I glanced quickly at the newspaper for a second, "... and 79 cents.",

"Will you take a check? Only, I left the darned checkbook at home and I'm out of gas."

I called out the window down to him, a minute later, as he walked up the sidewalk towards the bus stop, "That's fifty five dollars, right? And 79 cents. Make it out to Rodney Nerkfeltz, right? Ten minutes, you said? Right?"

I murmured mournfully to myself, "...I'll be waiting..."

[Shimmer128]

Panderologist!! hoot!

[Shimmer128]

btw, it’s piqued, not peaked, at least, I hope his interest had not peaked.

[pickrell]

Sorry for the late reply.

Pique:

Websters, unabridged:v,i,

...Definition: 1. To cause displeasure, or offense.

2. To offend, to nettle.

Peak:

Websters, unabridged:v,i:

...Definition: 1. To raise more nearly vertical.

2. To heighten, as in to rise to a peak.

I think, in context, I should stay with the original version.

[Shimmer128]

I’m not arguing, but dictionary.com had a more comprehensive set of meanings and #3 is what fits:

3. to excite (interest, curiosity, etc.): Her curiosity was piqued by the gossip.
4. to arouse an emotion or provoke to action: to pique someone to answer a challenge.

[pickrell]

"...I’m not arguing, but dictionary.com had a more comprehensive set of meanings and #3 is what fits:

3. to excite (interest, curiosity, etc.): Her curiosity was piqued by the gossip. 4. to arouse an emotion or provoke to action: to pique someone to answer a challenge...

I see what you mean. Odd, is it not, that a word or phrase can mean very different things, depending on how you look at it. Your point is well taken.

For instance, Advocate Magazine recently had conducted an interview with Hillary Clinton concerning rumors of her Lesbianism.

Do you suppose they inquired as to whether she was 'coming out' with a definitive statement?

[Shimmer128]

I think they’d die tryin. Literally.

[Jean S]

This is funny on so many levels.
“panderologist”
LOL!