Murphy on the Meaning of Belief

Murphy and Solly, Murphy’s longtime friend and pawnbroker  -- the faithful custodian of his toaster, for lo these many years -- sat at meat, in that temple of philosophical discourse,  Joe’s Bar.

            Now Solly -- a Jewish guy, and faithful to the faith of his fathers, though you’d never know it to look at him  -- he and Murphy agreed on a lot of things;  and disagreed on a lot of things;  and on some things, they agreed that they had no way to either agree or disagree -- just like there are some things that a dame knows, and a guy’s just gotta take her word for it;  and some things a joe knows, and a dame just gotta put up with it:  eternal mysteries.    Like, Murphy, who had no head for money -- no pockets for it, even -- just had to concede that Solly, who was a whiz at that stuff, was the only one who could come up with a fair loan on a pawn, and keep the total running in his head,  and adjust when an item was (finally) redeemed, and add on interest where applicable, or deduct the right discount on the Yom Kippur Day Specials:   Murphy simply held forth the teevee, or the hotplate, or his last pair of shoes, and accepted in complete confidence whatever Solly offered;  it always felt fair.    And Solly had to concede that, when it came to things like One God oh no I actually meant Three;  or water turning into wine, and wine into blood;  and things acknowledged to be completely incomprehensible even to priests, yet just as certainly true -- well, Solly would have to leave all that to Murphy;  Solly, he was out of his league.

            So they’re washing down hot-dogs with the local stuff on draft, and settling mighty questions of history and philosophy, of theology and of science, and whether dames look best in tight sweaters -- which emphasize certain features -- or in the most modest of costumes -- which emphasizes the eyes.   And then when they had come to the third round, both enjoying the combat, yet mellowed by the brew, Solly ventured onto delicate territory:  for with these two, nothing was taboo.

            “So Murphy, tell me -- tell me true.   Right:  You don’t do divorce cases.   Not saying you ought to --- Oh, don’t remind me of my own divorce!  -- Agreed agreed, they’re unpleasant:  but so is almost everything we do.    You think I like taking some dame’s wedding ring in pawn?   But she needs the money;   what can you do.   And I mean -- you do some stuff -- well I mean… Murphy…. You’re a grown man, you know about Mine and Thine, and yet -- you keep helping yourself to other people’s cars.”

            “Well, I don’t help myself when other people’s in ‘em -- I don’t jack.  Plus it’s just on a loan, Solly -- like the toaster.”

            “Yeh like that toaster;  what I got on and off in inventory these past fifteen years.   A toaster what don’t even work.”

            “Yeh okay okay;  I got a weakness for abandoned cars.   They been sitting there alone for an hour, they get to feeling lonesome, and unappreciated, so I come along and appreciate them, and speak to them, and drive them around.   Okay.  Your point.”

            “The point is, Murphy, the point is that you do a lot of sketchy stuff.  Stuff on the edge.  Stuff that wouldn’t go down so good at the Country Club.  Plus some…some really rough stuff, if what I hear around is true.”

            “Yeh well, sometimes.  This one time -- really really bad.  But I repented of that.  Never did the same thing again.”

            “So okay, with variations.   But the thing is:  What is it with you and divorce cases?   Yeh they stink, no argument;  but are they really worse than some stuff that you did -- and some stuff you did laughing -- like playing at crime boss and heisting that truck full of heroin and using it to run a patrol car into a ditch?  I mean -- Murphy!”

            Murphy was silent.  What could he say?

            “Y’see, Murphy, me,  I got this theory.   I don’t think you stay away from divorce cases just because they’re dirty.  Sure they’re dirty;  it’s a dirty world.  This part of town especially.  But you -- no.  With you it’s more than that.    You steer clear of divorce cases -- steer clear like the plague -- not for practical reasons, or aesthetic reasons, or even… even moral reasons, exactly…  With you it’s…”

            “It’s for mystical reasons.”   Without inflection.   Sipping slowly;  looking out over the rim of the glass.

            Solly waited, letting that hang in the air.  “For… mysterious -- no:  for mystical reasons.”

            “For mystical reasons.  Right.”   Murphy took a chug and swallowed hard -- for now swallowing was hard -- and looked stubbornly over at the pinball machines.

            “Okay, fine:  mystical reasons.   Only  -- help me out here, wouldja?   You don’t get all…mystical… about loving your country; or telling the truth;  or taking your lumps as they come; though you’re about all those things.   But when it comes to divorce -- you get mystical.    Is it like, some kinda childhood thing, like that thing with your Pop and your Mom?”

            “What -- you mean, that Pop skipped out?   Sure, bad move;  but me, I never even met the guy.   For all I know, they never did divorce.  Fact -- for all I know, they were never even properly married.  No, that ain’t it.    Sorry Mr. Freud -- you don’t win that kewpie doll.”

            “So what is it?”

            Murphy mumbling.  “Hard t’explain…”

            Now Solly got thoughtful.   “Y’know… Just indulge me here, okay?  Because I heard a rumor there’s this, some kind of Church doctrine, in this general area -- I won’t even try to quote it, I’d just screw it up:   but something along the lines of, like, a woman and a man, yadda yadda, and they get hitched up by God, in just the right way:  and from then on,  it’s like trying to yank a horseshoe loose from the hoof -- or no:  more like, trying to yank the blue right out of the sky.”

            Murphy raised a respectful eyebrow.  “That’s pretty much it, Solly.  That’s very well put.”   He nodded again, and savored.  The blue, right out of the sky.

            “So like -- Murphy -- that belief, I get it:  it’s a mystical belief.   My people also understand what that might mean, by the way,  believe it or not.   I mean, God spoke to Moses, right out of a burning bush.”

            “Guess you had to be there,” Murphy said.

            “Yeh -- right.”   Solly wasn’t sure if Murphy was making blasphemous fun of the Torah, or whether he meant it literally:  as a fact, or even as a wish.  Anyhow he hurried on.   “So this -- this doctrine, or this dogma, or this whatever you guys call it -- phrase it however you like, this mystical Thing:  do you -- do you believe it?   You?  Honest Injun?  For real?”

            Murphy frowned.   “Look, Solly -- I don’t want to squirrel out, here;  but it’s kind of the wrong question.   -- No I mean, it’s a perfectly okay question, just on a friendly level, like Do you think Amanda’s hot, and Whadaya think about the chances for Brooklyn this year.  But nothing eternal depends upon your fluttering, or my flickering, moods of belief or unbelief.   And thank God for that!  Plus even, let’s say, believing:   we can believe true things for wrong reasons;  or slightly off-kilter things for good reasons;  or believe true things for what passes for sound reasons, only fact is we don’t know what the heck we’re talking about.   Just like what most everybody believes and ever has believed, about stuff in science.    You may believe the planet Earth goes round and round the sun;  and that your sandwich is made up of atoms, and that  the atoms are all stuck together out of these little eentsy bits can’t nobody see ‘em;  and that might be true; but brother,  you ain’t got a clue.”

            Murphy then took a long, and slow, reflective sip, of the splendid beverage in his tall glass.    It was shaped like a long and slender cone;  and he eyed with discerning pleasure, how the level of the sparkling gold went down, with each refreshing draught. 

            “Tell you one thing, though -- I believe a lot more drunk, than I do sober.  And that doesn’t mean I’m misbelieving then, either.

            “Give you an example.  You’ve heard of Dutch Courage -- the bravery or bravado, of a man in his cups.  Well, it’s not the best kind of courage around:  but it’s better than nothing;  and it’s one helluva lot better than cowardice.

            “And when I’m in my cups -- in my shot-glasses, in my beer-mugs -- then I have a kind of courage that I might not have at other times.   And I believe things that, at other times, I…I might still believe… but am ashamed to believe.

            “Like -- You ask me if I literally believe what the Church teaches:  that he and she who are united, in the name of the Ghost, become indeed One Flesh -- yet of a flesh, a flesh more fiery and more fleshly than this sagging paunch and these dried-out wrinkles here -- a flesh such as that very bread becomes, when it ignites and catches fire -- no, catches light…”

            And then, alarmingly,  his eyes grew red, like a mean drunk.   And suddenly he lunged across the table, grabbing  Solly by his necktie.  “Yes, I believe it, dammit!  I believe it utterly, I believe it savagely.”  Stunned by his own sudden violence, he relaxed his grip, and settled back.  “But when I’m in a roomful of exquisitely educated reserved people, with their langorous manners and their tight Princetonian smiles -- well, then, it sort of sucks to sound like an idiot, or a caveman, or a…or a Christian.. so then I mumble something and make excuses and they all nod and agree and say Well-spoken (for a working man), and add On the one hand this and On the other hand that, sigh sigh, we’ll never know, but isn’t it swell that in this great country of ours, each one is free to celebrate his or her own unique and individual independent completely made-up beliefs,  all of them so delightfully quaint, which none of us should ever criticize, since after all, What is truth?  We’ll never know.”

            Again the savage growl;  Solly prudently moved his chair back, as Murphy was again looking dangerous:  though this time, for a broader and absent enemy.

            “’Cept -- guess what -- You’ll know.   You - will -  know -- we’ll all know.  You may know by Fire, or you might know by Light:   but you’ll know -- oh, trust me:  you’ll know.”
 

-->

~

For the further adventures of Solly and Murphy,  try this:

Murphy and the Magic Pawnshop

[Kindle] [Nook]

~

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A most particular mystery

A recurring theme in the Murphy stories, is that of a client who is not what he seems, getting the best of the detective.   Here we find a similar hoax being put-over on Mr Sherlock Holmes:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/2014/03/from-case-files.html

Note:  This piece will best be appreciated by those familiar with Die Traumdeutung (1900).   It is a Transference-based thriller, much like this one:

Murphy Calls-in a Specialist

Pugilist and Philologian

Now, me, in my day,  I slugged some mugs what needed slugging.  But I never knew that my old smoking-buddy Doctor J -- he’s mostly a word man -- never knew he could use his dukes when he needed to.   Check out the action from your ringside seat:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/2013/10/tales-from-my-boxing-career.html

Old Testament Detective Tale

Things have been slow around here of late.  While you’re waiting, you might check out this strange story, over at old Doctor J’s place:

The Locomotive of Doom

He starts out with a famous tale of sleuthing back in Pharaoh’s time … and segues into an unsolved case of possible sabotage and government cover-up, currently playing itself out in France:

He then serves up some speculations -- some of them true, some of them might be -- aiming to connect the whole thing to the so-called “Riemann Conspiracy” (which he probably just made it up).

So anyhow, enjoy; but, with a grain of salt (and a side of fries).

Murphy: "The Long Spoon".

[There are quite a number of unpublished Murphy stories, and even a novel.
Sales so far of the published titles, do not justify proceeding with these.
But in an effort to spark interest,  we now begin a series of teasers.
Should reader response warrant, these might be published.]

The Long Spoon

Swooning in a circle  around the groaning board,  now littered with the detritus of a feast  -- crumbs scattered like the aftermath of a bunfight, now sodden in spilt drink, and bones gnawed bloody, half draping off porcelain plates --  Mr. S. Guile, the host, and his guest, Senator Swill,  along with sundry liegemen and attendants,  sank back  in a sort of stupor of pleasure.   The conversation, which had been animated, though saltatory, subsided, as belts expanded a notch over paunch, and napkin patted pout.  The monogrammed linens were of smoothest silk, so that, rather  than abrading or absorbing the grease, they merely smeared it.  All observed a respectful silent as the guest of honor, grease purling from his fatflesh  in rich glinting globs, expanded slowly, like a meat balloon.

            The Senator at last let out a satisfied sigh.  “What’d’ye call that dish again?”

            “Long pork, ”  said Guile with a smile.

            “Long pork!  Gotta get my mistress the recipe.  What’s it made of?”

            “Long pig, spiced and sweetened, then simmered in its mother’s milk.”

            The sated Senator closed his eyes, and seemed about to drift off.

            Guile -- completely alert -- snapped his fingers, as his manservants,  Gammon and Mammon, rushed forth to clear the board.

            At length the Senator, now even more porkly-portly than before, heaved himself onto his gaitered pegs, and, puffing, signaled for his cloak:  which was swiftly and richly wrapped around his ample shoulders.  He wordlessly held out his hand; his opera hat appeared, and then his walking-stick.  Then, swaggering and staggering, he made for the butler, who bowed and swept open the door.  (It is difficult to swagger when you stagger;  but he tried.)

            “A capital chow-down, Sam old chap,” said the Senator, over his shoulder.”  I’ll remember you, at appropriations time.”

            And I… shall well remember thee… at -- appropriation time, thought Guile to himself.

-->

~

For a selection of individual detective stories,

available for your Nook or Kindle,

visit this site:

http://www.linguasacrapublishing.com/justice.html

~
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Free on Kindle for a Limited Time: I Don't Do Divorce Cases, by David Justice

Click here to download I Don't Do Divorce Cases. It's free on Kindle through Wednesday, February 27.

Michael Xavier Murphy, with his brother Joey, run Murphy Bros Private Investigators. But they won't take divorce cases, which are supposed to be the meat and potatoes of any PI firm! Find out why by reading several stories previously published in Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock, as well as several never before published stories appearing for the first time in this volume. As a special bonus, the book closes with the first chapter of Murphy on the Mount, the first novel length detective story featuring the Murphy Brothers.

The Mystery of “Memento”

Ever watch “Memento”?  Ever watch it fifteen, sixteen times -- sometimes with the sound off, searching for subtle visual clues that the noise might distract you from, like a magician’s patter?  Well, we did, me’n Joey.  Now that was one tough case to crack.

Only now, Doctor J may have a lead that could bust the thing wide open.  Check out the investigation here:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/2011/01/redismembering-memento.html

[Dr J  in statu proprio]:There is, in fact, a similarity between the Leonard of “Memento” and the Murphy of “Murphy on the Mount”.  Both are engaged in a dogged, almost frenzied quest, in a case with almost no evidence -- and with absolutely nothing in it for them personally.  Both Leonard’s wife, and Murphy’s client (who wasn’t going to pay him anyway) are dead:  but the case has its own momentum, and they pursue its improbable solution,  like a knight  the grail.

Murphy: in Memoriam

Murphy was Catholic to the very core of him;  yet this fact had somehow managed to escape his knowledge.  It was like a small bright afterimage, off-center from the fovea,  which the eyeball swivels in an attempt to catch -- but ever it flees the field of vision.  Here it was not his faith that was off-center, but his sweating, striving conscious mind.   For any time he asked himself the question point-blank:  Are you a Christian?  the answer was uncertain.   “I wish I knew. -- I’m a letch and a drunkard, more concerned about where my next beer is coming from, and what might lie under that interesting skirt, than about what our Lord might require of me.   And I am not about to change that, either!”  (Stubbornly, chin out;  insides turned to porridge.) 

            The times when it was nevertheless brought home to him, that he was indeed a Christian, was when his consciousness was caught off-guard:  an unanticipated answering smile;   an act of kindness, flowing from him or -- through him;   or, wandering down by the pond, spotting a pair of married ducks.

            And how did he wind up, finally?   Did he eventually formally return to the Church?   Was he saved?

            Fie, for even asking that.   Let us   each of us   attend to our own mission, and care for our loved-ones,  seeking to understand the Lord’s will.   As for old Murphy -- well, to be sure, I pray for his salvation;  but as you know,  I pray for the salvation of the Devil himself.

Got a Nook for Christmas?

Quick, stock it with the amazing adventures of your favorite two-fisted pistol-packing wise-cracking Private Eye -- visit our Nook nook, here:

http://murphybros.blogspot.com/p/read-murphy-on-your-nook.html

The Riemann Conspiracy: Fact or Fantasy?

Since my retirement, some of the boys down at the station-house have asked me if I ever had a case that was in any was involved with the so-called “Riemann Conspiracy”.

Nope; not.  Too deep for me.  Too rich for my blood.

‘Course, we all heard rumors, from time to time, vague hints generally met with evasion;  but the person who had last passed on whispers of the rumor  generally disappeared shortly thereafter, and that was the last you’d hear of it for quite a while.

Don’t even know if there ever was anything to it -- maybe the whole thing was a hoax.  Dr J seems to think otherwise:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/2012/03/riemann-conspiracy.html

But then, maybe he’s lying;  or maybe you need to take what he says with a grain of strychnine, and read between the lines …

Murphy monostich I

“Did I say dat? Did I say dat?   I didn’t say dat.  All I said was:  We’ve had some ups & downs.”

A Very Personal note from Murphy about his sexual orientation (X-clusively 4 U)

We happened across this in a Washington Post column today:

            “There’s much to love about this personal note from Anderson Cooper about his sexual orientation, but most of all I love his attitude  …”

What a nifty grift!  You just dish about your personal sex stuff in front of the whole world and, instead of everyone going Ewwww!  TMI!  you get applause and recognition.

So we asked our favorite two-fisted pre-Conciliar private detective, what-all gets him jazzed  in the down-there, inside-the-trou department.   “What,” we inquired in a deferential tone,  as the great shamus patiently  heard us out, “most sharpens your pencil?”  He was gracious enough to reply as follows.

~

Me?  I like dames.  Dames!  Blonde, brunette -- you name it.  Skinny ones, plump ones, the kind-you-just-gotta-jump ones.   Babes -- broads -- call ‘em what you like:  there ain’t nothin’ like a dame!

A Mystery -- the Church -- and *Murder*

-->

Now -- me?  I’ve had some pretty tough cases in my time.   But few have reached the complexity of the assassination/heist documented by my trusty drinking-buddy Dr Justice, here:

Paschal scandal!

Dr J isn’t really as dumb as he looks, but he does seem to have missed the key point here.  Why photoshop-off the picture of the wristwatch?  Obviously so that those investigating the assassination, having access only to the photoshopped version of the fatal session in the locked room, would not realize that the patriarch had been wearing a wristwatch before his demise -- and which, afterwards, was not found on the corpse.  So that the assumption would be that the motive was personal, or for religious rivalry, or perhaps just some atheist that hated the Church.  No-one would ever guess that the crime was committed to make away with the hidden contents of the watch. 

Pretty neat, in theory:  but the criminal’s failure to shop-off the tabletop reflection of the stolen item  provided the key to the whole case.

Murphy’s Dream

Once Murphy dreamt  the strangest dream.

A stranger came up to him in a bar, and said:  “You will have three daughters.”

And Murphy replied:  “That is beautiful to hear;  but how could that be?  I am not married to any wedded wife.   Nor can that ever come about;  for I am a detective, and in no wise permitted to marry.”  And Murphy went sorrowing away.

Yet the next day -- There there were!  His daughters three:  Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience.  And Murphy loved his daughters, with his whole heart.  

Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience were their names;  and they were

   => as lovely as the day is long;

    => as high as the moon in the sky;

     => as deep as the fish in the sea.

Life with them was not always easy; being a parent seldom is, and he had little enough of his own that he might share.  But he loved them, and served them, till he grew old in their service, and ancient of days.  His hair grew very white, and his mind grew very tired.

Then when his time came to depart this life, his daughters laid him tenderly in his shroud, and wrapped him with their gentle hands.

Murphy told this dream to his brother, Joey;  and Joey did not know what that dream might mean.   But he did know one thing:  “That is a very good dream, Murphy,”  Joey said.

And so they gave thanks for that nice strange dream.

They give thanks for many, many things.

Lenten reflections

Murphy is observing Lent;  and for now, has nothing to say.

For a review of last season's reflections, click here.

Murphy: On Liberty

Don’t get me wrong -- it’s not like I’m knocking freedom; in America, that’s like knocking apple pie.  But half the time it’s really a weasel word.

Look -- you got Free Will, no matter what.  Even if you’re in prison.  It’s a gift from God, flat out, and can’t be cancelled.   But half the time, if a guy or often a gal  starts using that word “free”, it’s cause there’s some responsibility they don’t want to live up to.  But they don’t got the guts or the decency to just say,  I’m too lazy, or, I’m too bored -- instead they run the old Freedom flag up the flagpole.

“I’ve got to be free -- I’ve got to me!”   No -- wrong; you don’t got to be you, whatever that means.   If you’re married, you got to be a good husband or a good wife, period.  If you’re in the Army, you got to be a good soldier.   If you’re in prison -- well, you gotta do your time.  Even if you’re a yegg -- you got to crack that safe and crack it fast and nice ‘n’ silent, you don’t got to express your very own special personality doing it.

Hey, free is okay -- not knocking it.  Sure beats the machines.  Only, free to do what.  You really are free -- free to kill, free to poison the well….  plain freedom doesn’t get you very far.  If this “free” is going to be anything better than getting comped on a room in Vegas, you better use it for something that matters.  Like, you marry a woman and get her with child, who you guard with your life, without question.   Or you work long late hours in a laboratory, doing what is needed, while people laugh at your pocket protector.  Or -- God forbid, but it happens -- you deploy, and face the bombs and the bullets, when they have to be faced.

Yeh, free.  Thank our God, I’m free not to be me -- not to be just plain small me-me-me-Murphy;  puling whining Murphy,  dreaming scheming  grinning sinning Murphy.  I’m free to try to be something more than that.  Free to stand with my comrades, blocking the pass; to stand for what our fathers knew is best about this country;  to stand with my bride at the altar;  to stand and then kneel, making offering of my will, before the gaze of our Savior -- kneeling, head bowed, like any serf or any slave -- the freedom to yield, and to accept amazing Grace.

I have free will and I am free.  But sometimes, our prayer must be:
Thy will, not my will, be done.

 

Murphy on Absolution

They sat amazed  amid the litter  left from last night’s excess.

            “Y’know Joey, it’d be really neat, you  &  me  were each priests.  Cause then, you did stuff like what you did, I could say:  Te absolvo.  And, I did stuff like what I did, then you could say:  Te absolvo.”

            And Joey, innocent of Latin, but catching the drift, said:

            “But I do, Murphy;  I already do.”

Murphy on horticulture

            “…But what baffles me is, how you can live in a place like this-- nothing but dust and desolation,  surrounded by tenements, so far from gardens.”

            Murphy is quick to react.  “Gardens what?  Gardens nothing!  Sure we got ‘em!  We got an urban garden!”

            Her reposeful face carefully registers a puzzled expression.

            “Just look outa the window!  Whaddaya see?”

            She peers.  “No gardens.  No foliage, even.  Just flat asphalt and cracked sidewalks.”

            “Egg-zack-ly!   Cracked sidewalks!  And whaddaya see growin up through the cracks?”

            “Just … weeds….”

            “’Weeds’… Look, I know, you got your garden, got your azaleas, whatever, then these uninvited guys start dropping by, crowding your ‘zaleas out, you call them ‘weeds’.  That’s fine;  I get that.  But when all you got is cracked sidewalks, and asphalt baking in the heat, then whatever can push its funky head up outa that crack, and grow green -- that’s no weed, sister, that’s a miracle.”

            Murphy glared, and stared out the window.  And the blessings he poured down upon those weeds, were like a fierce firehose of love.

In Praise of Camels

Time was, time was -- and that time is not now -- when any farmer or laborer, for less than the price of  a stack of flapjacks, could buy a deck of smokes that’d do you proud.  You plunk down your two bits, they fork over two packs.  Crisp and fresh from the fields.

And the best of them all, was original, unfiltered Camels -- a unique and brawny blend  of fine domestic and Turkish tobaccos.  You’d carry the pack in the rolled-up sleeve of your T-shirt;  and when the sun was high in the sky, and it was time for a break, you might set down the plow, or find a place to sit on the embankments flanking the tracks, and you’d mop your brow with your bandanna, and knock back a Coke --

and then pull out a smoke.

The wooden lucifer you’d light  with a flick of the fingernail,

and you’d sigh as the flame leapt to life,

then draw it in -- come to me ! --

as you inhaled through the tube of expectant tobacco,

awakening from its long slumber

now alive and alight -- :

and like a dancer   whirling   and twirling her veils,

instantly began to release (sweet relief)

the waves and wafts of sweet frankincense,

that had lain fast in their  caskets of teak,

awaiting the touch of the groom.

And you sigh and give thanks,

sweetly sucking down the golden smoke,

down deep  into the lungs  where it belongs;

then blowing it out  in wreaths of rings,

which float off, expanding, till they rise to the skies,

and delight the choirs of angels.

It doesn’t come like that anymore.

First they stuck on filters, made of, I don’t know, asbestos or something --

something God never intended to touch our lips.

So everyone sickened and died.

Next they started spritzing the growing leaves

with ever-deadlier pesticides,

till it all became a byword for death.

Roasting and toasting,

slowly turning  in Hell,

are the souls of the tobacco-magnates.

Yet sweet and pure   as on the Seventh Day

is the unspoilt blossom

of God’s green earth.

And when He on that Day

shall call Christians from the grave,

then the plowboys and gandy-dancers,
teamsters and counter-jumpers,
wainwrights and boiler-makers,

will rise from the mold,

and ascend like smoke

unto Him.

Gratias agimus tibi, Domine.

Paleo Diet: the Murphy version

Most of you mugs probly heard about old Doc Massey’s revolutionary improvement on the Paleo Diet.  Me and Joey we been paleo from way back;  but now the Doc says it’s okay to add red wine to your haunch of venison:

http://www.linguasacrapublishing.com/masseyexcerptoriginal.html

So me, Murphy, retired now, got time on my hands to get into the act;  so here’s my new and improved version of Doc Massey’s fine diet.

(1) For the meat part -- AOK as it stands.

(2)  Red wine -- You may substitute Mickey’s Big Mouth.

(3)  Finish up your dining experience with some long deep drags on original paleo unfiltered Camels -- a richly unique blend of domestic and Turkish tobaccos !