El Dupree, Selected Works, Volume 10 Alf the Poet, Editor John A. Douglas, from Bozos on Bicycles Play One-Note Samba: Say you have ten or twenty people over, and it's about eleven o'clock, and everybody's pretty wasted, they force big contracts on each other. We're talking BIG change. Good, clean business cards. Custom logos. The digitally enhanced Benny Goodman Sextet fades into Sketches of Spain. Let's zoom in. "This game will be more addictive than Mindsweeper. Here's an example: Job had seventy camels, one hundred and twenty-six goats, and nine daughters. Camels were worth 97 shekels, goats 53 shekels, and daughters 11. Job made a deal and gained 1111 shekels. How many of each did he sell?" "Huh?" At this moment, the door opens, and in shambles probably the most unsavory character anyone in the room has ever encountered. His oversize hat seems about to topple from his liquid brow; his pigtail reeks of untold unguents. He reaches into his voluminous saddlebag and produces a champagne glass, and, setting it gently on the bar, says, "Your best, please." While the bartender's back is turned, the stranger surveys the crowd in the richly framed mirror. The tourists are gawking at him. The regulars are leaning back, drinking beer or whisky, or hunched over, playing cards. A statuesque blond is descending the spiral staircase, dressed in a red low-cut gown. A brown-green lizard peers sleepily out from under the flap of the unwieldy saddlebag, awakened by a familiar popping sound. A faint mist rises from the bottle placed on the bar. As he savors the effervescence in his nostrils, he reflects on the circumstances of his arrival in paradise. He and his last remaining donkey had spent the night in the lee of the most permanent looking dune they could find, only to be aroused from a chilly sleep by a scorching sun, thoroughly lost. They wandered aimlessly for a few moments, until the donkey's nostrils twitched and it sneezed violently, throwing its rider into the scalding sand. The donkey then set off resolutely in an incomprehensible direction, with human in chase, yelling, "Stop, you ass!" They both stopped at the crest of the third dune, arrested by the sight of the most voluptuous palace ever imagined. The bottle is now empty, and his reverie is overlaid with the appearance of the hostess, who keeps a respectful distance. "Hi, Mary," he croaks. "I need a room." Her eyes widen slightly as she says, "El Dupree, how come you don't come by so often anymore." "I drop by every time I'm through these parts. With a shower." Her eyes widen further. "And a stall for my donkey," he concludes. His leathery face cracks into an impish smile as the lizard, now crimson to match her dress, laps at the spillage from the second bottle. "Well, I can fix up a stall for the two of you. But you have to leave your boots on. Last time you scared the horse," she says with an accusatory grin. He rummages in his gargantuan pack and comes up with an average size gold nugget. "Will this do the trick?" "The only shower is in my room, as you damn well know, but I want you out of there before six, lest the other tenants start to gossip." Later, nestled in the warm, fragrant hay next to his last donkey, he doesn't know whether to bless it or kick it. Johan van Zanten, from El Dupree at the Mall: El Dupree heaved his holy massivity across the plains of blazingly hot asphalt and parked cars. His delicate sense of smell, whose survival in defiance of Dupree's proclivity for cigars in itself a indisputable indication of his holiness, had been detecting the unsubtle odors of nearly inedible Mexican food for days now. And they had led him here, to this strange place. Wandering the desert for months, he'd only had the odd gila monster to eat, and his stomach was making noises which caused passing parents to tug their children closer to their sides. Eagerly anticipating the meal, he nearly yanked the smoked glass door from its hinges as he stepped into the mall. His head began to swim as the cold air rushed around him. But that disorientation was insignificant compared to what his eyes told him as they adjusted to the unnatural light. "Santa Maria!" he burped. He looked in his pants to check his supply of headsacks. He would have to contact the manufacturer about volume discounts, and return another day. El Dupree dramatically turned on a pudgy heel, reached into his pocket for the butt of an old cigar, and casually smacked someone handing out religious paraphenalia. As he lit the butt, he said, "I don' need no steenking paper," and fitted the person with a #42 headsack. "Perhaps a #42 was a bit large for that person," he thought, "But his head looked swollen." Alf the Poet, Ganesha Tynen, and Christina Hulbe, from Musings on the Master: It is said that the only true teaching is "Direct Transmission." We prefer to think of it as "Automatic Transmission," as opposed to "Manual Transmission." This in turn is based on ancient teachings of the Car-do, which can be thought of as one of the four wheels of Dharma. Car-do teaches that shifts in perception can be brought about "Automatically" or "Manually," but recent sages have all agreed that "Automatic" is better, because, well, it's automatic, isn't it? In actuality, Manuel Transmicion is an alias of one El Dupree, the Unwashed Drifter of the Western Plains, and the true short.fat.guy. Records indicate that the name was first spoken to a small boy in Mejave Mai (Prohibido Fumar, young cousin of the Juanita Garcia and her brothers). The boy was instantly enlightened, whereupon he performed the common ritual of slapping His Bulbousness in the face and running away. The master felt the sting, but remained unmoved (after all, could you move him? I ain't gonna try). Prohibido has since moved east, to Boston, MA, where he is master for two followers of the Car-do, Click & Clack, the Car Guys. His wisdom can be heard on a public radio station near you. Alf the Poet, from Musings on the Master: It has been widely rumored that El Dupree practiced Bwala-ewa-baa, or "Sheeping Meditation," but never when Juanita was around. Terry Smith, from El Dupree Returns: He moved with no grace, no swiftness, but he moved, and for one in such condition, this was a thing for which he felt blessed. The corzappa wounds on the back of his neck and across his forehead were throbbing and the swelling had prevented him from moving for more than two days now. Feeling was returning to his shooting hand. He grunted and wheezed, wheezed and grunted, and grunted some more. He was watching the approaching scraggly form of the dog -- who would be the meal?, he asked himself: the fallen El Dupree or this mongrel. The dog lifted the edge of its black lip showing yellow, rotting teeth. El Dupree lifted the edge of his own blackened lip and showed his own yellow, rotting teeth. "Come to me, muchacho," said El Dupree while reaching into his waistband for .... Jim "Bear" Huddle, from The Followers: Bear nervously got down on all fours, bowing lower and lower, his frightened eyes, never leaving sight of the fat old-timer. He had heard tales, mere rumors (whispered in hushed awe) of one named Dupree. Bear had indeed met his match that day. He shivered, involuntarily. "Man! That was close!"